To this day, Average Jones maintains that he felt a distinct thrill at first sight of the advertisement. Yet Fate might well have chosen a more appropriate ambush in any one of a hundred of the strange clippings which were grist to the Ad-Visor’s mill. Out of a bulky pile of the day’s paragraphs, however, it was this one that leaped, significant, to his eye.
WANTED—Ten thousand loathly black beetles, by A leaseholder who contracted to leave a house in the same condition as he found it. Ackroyd, 100 W. Sixteenth St. New York
“Black beetles, eh?” observed Average Jones. “This Ackroyd person seems to be a merry little jester. Well, I’m feeling rather jocular, myself, this morning. How does one collect black beetles, I wonder? When in doubt, inquire of the resourceful Simpson.”
He pressed a button and his confidential clerk entered.
“Good morning, Simpson,” said Average Jones.
“Are you acquainted with that shy but pervasive animal, the domestic black beetle?”
“Yes, sir; I board,” said Simpson simply.
“I suppose there aren’t ten thousand black beetles in your boarding-house, though?” inquired Average Jones.
Simpson took it under advisement. “Hardly,” he decided.
“I’ve got to have ’em to fill an order. At least, I’ve got to have an installment of ’em, and to-morrow.”