"So he said," said I. "And he was pretty outspoken about it too. He told me his tour with you was a rank failure."

"I'd like to know his name," said the major, and I could almost hear the dear old gentleman biting into the wire.

"Well, I guess he wouldn't mind my telling," said I. "There wasn't anything particularly confidential about our talk. His name is Bangs--John Kendrick Bangs."

My name came back at me over the wire like an explosion of dynamite.

"_Bangs_!" retorted the major. "Good Lord--_Bangs_! Does he call a trip up to Albany and back a tour? _I guess he was a failure!_ I can tell you things about Bangs as a platform performer that'll show you mighty quick whose failure it was, and if you want to bring him along to hear what I have to say on that subject, _bring him_. The idea! My Heavens, old man--why, he--"

"Oh, never mind all that, Major," said I. "I'm only telling you what he said. I don't have to take it all as gospel truth, you know."

"Well I guess not!" snorted the major.

"Now I'm very busy these days," I continued, "and I really haven't got time to go to your office; but if you will take lunch with me to-morrow at the Century Club, about one o'clock, we can talk this thing over."

"I'll be there," said the major. "One o'clock sharp, and meanwhile if you run across J. K. tell him with my compliments that he can go to thunder. _Tour!_ I like that!"

"All right, Major," said I. "Don't fail me."

And there our telephone conversation closed. The following morning I arranged at the club to have the major ushered into the reception room in case he called and asked for Wilberforce Jenkins, and as the hour approached I lingered around to see the fun.

Faithful to the minute the major arrived at one o'clock, inquired for Mr. Jenkins, and was requested to wait in the reception room, since Mr.

Jenkins had not yet come in. After he had been sitting there for about five minutes I decided that the time for action had arrived; so I walked into the reception room myself.

"Why--h.e.l.lo, Major!" said I, as cordially as I really felt. "How are you these days?"

"I'm all right," he said coldly, ignoring my outstretched hand.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I don't know that that's any of your business, Bangs," said he, bridling up; "but I don't mind telling you that I've come to meet a man who when it comes to writing real humor has got you skinned eight billion miles."

"Good!" said I. "Who is this eighth wonder of the world?"

"His name," said Major Pond, "is Wilberforce Jenkins."

"Oh, Lord!" said I. "That faker? Well, I am at least glad to know what your standards of humor are."

"_Faker?_" retorted the major. "You seem to have some gift for saying nice things about your friends, Bangs," he added witheringly.

"Friends?" said I, with a laugh of scorn. "You don't call that idiot Wilberforce Jenkins a friend of mine, do you? You must think I let myself go pretty cheap."

"Well, he seemed to think you were a friend of his--at least he told me so--but of course a man may be mistaken in respect to that," he observed significantly.

"Well, don't you believe a word he says, Major," said I. "I know Wilberforce Jenkins all the way through, and he and truth aren't upon speaking terms. You say he has invited you here to meet him?"

"To take lunch with him," said the major.

"Well of all the pure unmitigated _nerve_!" said I. "That shows you what sort of fellow Jenkins is. Why, Major, _he isn't even a member here_! He has a ten-day card from me; but that doesn't ent.i.tle him to invite you or anybody else here. You'd better come upstairs and have lunch with me."

"I'll starve first!" said the major.

"Oh, all right," said I. "If you won't, you won't; but I'll bet you five dollars right now that Wilberforce Jenkins doesn't come!"

"I don't bet," said the major. "I gave up gambling after that _tour_ of yours up to Albany and back. It doesn't pay."

I retired to a writing table at one end of the room, and pretended to be busy at letter writing for some ten or fifteen minutes, keeping one sly eye on the major the while. He was visibly chafing. Now and then he would take out his watch, and gaze intently into its telltale face. Then he would rise and inspect the pictures on the walls. When half-past one came and there was no Wilberforce Jenkins in sight his patience was manifestly near its end, and regarding that as the psychological moment I again approached him.

"'_He cometh not, she said_,'" I quoted in my most plaintive tones. "And what's more, Major, he won't never be here. He never kept a promise or an engagement in his life. Come along--change your mind and take lunch with me."

"_I wouldn't lunch with you if_--" he began.

And then I burst out laughing. I could not carry the farce a bit further. "Major," said I, "the reason why I know all about this Wilberforce Jenkins and his general unreliability is very simple--_I am Wilberforce Jenkins myself_."

The old gentleman gasped. His face was a study for a moment, and then with a great laugh he sprang to his feet, and seized me by the arm.

"Here, Bangs," he said, "get your hat and come along with me! We'll eat at Delmonico's."

"But you said just now you wouldn't take lunch with me," I protested.

"Yes, but by Simeon," he retorted, "_I never said that you wouldn't take lunch with me_, and by the Eternal _you'll come or I'll carry you_!"

And the only hatchet that ever threatened our friendship was buried on the instant.

Major Pond was indeed a rare and a loyal spirit. He always credited James Redpath with being the Father of the Modern Lyceum, and perhaps he was right. The Modern Lyceum owes much to James Redpath; but as for me I prefer to award its paternal honors to Major Pond. His interest in it, and his affectionate att.i.tude toward those he helped along its sometimes rugged path, were too strictly fatherly to warrant any lesser t.i.tle at the hands of one of its most grateful sons.