The presence in Chicago of one James Shooneker is like some fearfully disturbing shadow behind each of the five writers. Bowowski, within half an hour after the recital, has three helpers in the Public Library searching for every printed word of Shooneker. After a tasteless dinner, Ben Dullard Krupp scares three piano pupils out of their wits by an unusual amount of shouting and stamping; this, also, should be attributed to the visiting author. Worcester seeks his desk in the editorial room and crams on “Pathetic Spaces”—Shooneker’s latest book, according to the clerk. But the young critic’s attention strays from the pages of print to the lady in the green-room ... lovely person, if she can’t play the piano. Worcester has an impulse to use the telephone, and soon it masters him. He calls up Madame Bonjoline’s hotel and, as she is out, leaves a message—he will call in person at eight o’clock. Then a note is written, which he despatches to her by messenger. After that, there is time to think things over. Was there ever anyone as charming as she? And she has expressed her admiration for his frank manner and open criticism. Perhaps——Now the Madame is not willing to admit him at first; but he is insistent, and she permits him to enter. James Shooneker is seated by the window. Worcester, like a guilty boy, shakes hands with him and mumbles acknowledgement. But soon the celebrated critic has him at his ease, and the young journalist is talking with his accustomed candor. Then, continuing in the same friendly manner,
James Shooneker. Mr. Worcester, you might be interested in knowing the reason for my Chicago visit. In fact, it is only fair you should know.
Donald Worcester. Sure!
James Shooneker. Very well then. Your paper, the Worst Glaring Nuisance, as its catch-word has it, has sent for me to fill the vacancy created by your resignation.
Donald Worcester. Who’s bluff is this?
James Shooneker. It is true. I have your place offered me. Now, I don’t want to seem arbitrary, but here’s my proposition: In the first place, cut out your infatuation for Madame Bonjoline. That’s the main condition, if you want me to leave Chicago. The second thing is perhaps more important to yourself, and that is that you promise to take a long course in counterpoint and musical history under some good authority, if you can find one in the United States. Perhaps you would do well to tap the boundless information of your friend, Bowowski. These are my only demands. I don’t want your job. I’ll drop a note to your editor and tell him he doesn’t appreciate you. But you will have to forget your aspirations for the Madame, and behave yourself with a dignity becoming your position. You mustn’t make yourself ridiculous over Frizza, and for her sake—
Donald Worcester. Shooneker, you certainly are a brick! You certainly are! I can’t help being a bit dazed with Madame, but I’ll keep it all to myself. You’re a peach!
Madame Bonjoline. See, James, how perfectly American he is! I told you he would be. Isn’t he a dear boy?
James Shooneker. You like the conditions, then?
Donald Worcester. Bully! I appreciate them. And say, didn’t you write a book once called The Insane Melons?