"Yes, thank you," says he.
"Eggleston K., I suppose?" says I.
"Oh, yes," says he.
"Here you are, then, Eggy," says I, reachin' into a pigeonhole and producin' it. "What's your instrument of torture, the xylophone?"
"I—I beg pardon?" says he.
"Come now," says I, "don't tell me you're a trombone fiend!"
"Oh, I see," says he. "No, no, I—I'm not a musician."
"Shake, Eggy!" says I, reachin' out my hand impulsive. "And I don't care how many cubist pictures you paint up there so long as you ain't noisy about it."
He fingers his soft hat nervous, smiles sort of embarrassed, and remarks, "But—but I'm not an artist either, you know."
"Well, well!" says I. "Two misses, and still in the air. Is it anything you can speak of in public?"