When Mr. Snobbe sat down after the narration of his story, there was a
thunderous outburst of applause. It was evident that the exciting
narrative had pleased his fellow-diners very much--as, indeed, it was
proper that it should, since it dealt in a veiled sort of way with
characters for whom all right-minded persons have not only a deep-seated
admiration, but a feeling of affection as well. They had, one and all,
in common with the unaffected portion of the reading community, a liking
for the wholesome and clean humor of Mr. Van Bibber, and the fact that
Snobbe's story suggested a certain original, even in a weak sort of
fashion, made them like it in spite of its shortcomings.
"Good work," cried Hudson Rivers. "Of course it's only gas in comparison
with the sun, but it gives light, and we like it."
"And it's wholly original, too, even though an imitation in manner. The
real Van Bibber never failed in anything he undertook," said Tenafly
Paterson. "I've often wished he might have, just once--it would have
made him seem more human--and for that reason I think Tom is entitled to
praise."
"I don't know about that," observed Monty St. Vincent. "Tom hadn't
anything to do with it--it was the dinner. Honor to whom honor is due,
say I. Praise the cook, or the caterer."
"That's the truth," put in Billie Jones. "Fact is, when this book of
ours comes out, I think, instead of putting our names on the title-page
as authors, the thing to do is to print the menu."
"You miss the point of this association," interjected Snobbe. "We
haven't banded ourselves together to immortalize a Welsh rabbit or a
mince-pie--nay, nor even a ruddy duck. It's our own glory we're after."
"That's it," cried Monty St. Vincent--"that's the beauty of it. The
scheme works two ways. If the stuff is good and there is glory in it,
we'll have the glory; but if it's bad, we'll blame the dinner. That's
what I like about it."
"It's a valuable plan from that point of view," said the presiding
officer. "And now, if the gentleman who secured the ball numbered two
will make himself known, we will proceed."
Hudson Rivers rose up. "I have number two," he said, "but I have nothing
to relate. The coffee I drank kept me awake all night, and when I
finally slept, along about six o'clock next morning, it was one of those
sweet, dreamless sleeps that we all love so much. I must therefore ask
to be excused."
[Illustration: "WRIT A POME ABOUT A KID"]
"But how shall you be represented in the book?" asked Mr. Harry Snobbe.
"He can do the table of contents," suggested St. Vincent.
"Or the fly-leaves," said Tenafly Paterson.
"No," said Huddy; "I shall ask that the pages I should have filled be
left blank. There is nothing helps a book so much as the leaving of
something to the reader's imagination. I heard a great critic say so
once. He said that was the strong point of the French writers, and he
added that Stockton's _Lady or the Tiger_ took hold because Stockton
didn't insist on telling everything."
"It's a good idea," said Mr. Jones. "I don't know but that if those
pages are left blank they'll be the most interesting in the book."
Mr. Rivers sat down with a smile of conscious pride, whereupon Mr.
Tenafly Paterson rose up.
"As I hold the number three ball, I will give you the fruits of my
dinner. I attribute the work which I am about to present to you to the
mince-pie. Personally, I am a great admirer of certain latter-day poets
who deal with the woes and joys of more or less commonplace persons. I
myself would rather read a sonnet to a snow-shovel than an ode to the
moon, but in my dream I seem to have conceived a violent hatred for
authors of homely verse, as you will note when I have finished reading
my dream-poem called 'Retribution.'"
"Great Scott!" murmured Billie Jones, with a deep-drawn sigh. "Poetry!
From Tenafly Paterson! Of all the afflictions of man, Job could have
known no worse."
"The poem reads as follows," continued Paterson, ignoring the chairman's
ill-timed remark:
[Illustration: "I BOUGHT A BOOK OF VERSE"]