Coffee and Repartee | Page 6

of Clink, or Burrows either, for
that matter, he made up his mind that it was best for his reputation for
him to stay out of the controversy.
"Very slight similarity, however," said the School-master, in despair.
"Where can I find Clink's books?" put in Mr. Whitechoker, very much
interested.
The Idiot conveniently had his mouth full of chicken at the moment,
and it was to the School-master who had also read him that they all--the
landlady included--looked for an answer.
"Oh, I think," returned that worthy, hesitatingly--"I think you'll find
Clink in any of the public libraries."
"What is his full name?" persisted Mr. Whitechoker, taking out a

memorandum-book.
"Horace J. Clink," said the Idiot.
"Yes; that's it--Horace J. Clink," echoed the School-master. "Very virile
writer and a clear thinker," he added, with some nervousness.
"What, if any, of his books would you specially recommend?" asked
the Minister again.
The Idiot had by this time risen from the table, and was leaving the
room with the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed.
The School-master's reply was not audible.
"I say," said the genial gentleman to the Idiot, as they passed out into
the hall, "they didn't get much the best of you in that matter. But, tell
me, who was Clink, anyhow?"
"Never heard of him before," returned the Idiot.
"And Burrows?"
"Same as Clink."
"Know anything about Elsmere?" chuckled the genial gentleman.
"Nothing--except that it and 'Pigs in Clover' came out at the same time,
and I stuck to the Pigs."
And the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed was so pleased at
the plight of the School-master and of the Bibliomaniac that he invited
the Idiot up to his room, where the private stock was kept for just such
occasions, and they put in a very pleasant morning together.

IV
The guests were assembled as usual. The oatmeal course had been

eaten in silence. In the Idiot's eye there was a cold glitter of
expectancy--a glitter that boded ill for the man who should challenge
him to controversial combat--and there seemed also to be, judging from
sundry winks passed over the table and kicks passed under it, an
understanding to which he and the genial gentleman who occasionally
imbibed were parties.
As the School-master sampled his coffee the genial gentleman who
occasionally imbibed broke the silence.
"I missed you at the concert last night, Mr. Idiot," said he.
"Yes," said the Idiot, with a caressing movement of the hand over his
upper lip; "I was very sorry, but I couldn't get around last night. I had
an engagement with a number of friends at the athletic club. I meant to
have dropped you a line in the afternoon telling you about it, but I
forgot it until it was too late. Was the concert a success?"
"Very successful indeed. The best one, in fact, we have had this season,
which makes me regret all the more deeply your absence," returned the
genial gentleman, with a suggestion of a smile playing about his lips.
"Indeed," he added, "it was the finest one I've ever seen."
"The finest one you've what?" queried the School-master, startled at the
verb.
"The finest one I've ever seen," replied the genial gentleman. "There
were only ten performers, and really, in all my experience as an
attendant at concerts, I never saw such a magnificent rendering of
Beethoven as we had last night. I wish you could have been there. It
was a sight for the gods."
"I don't believe," said the Idiot, with a slight cough that may have been
intended to conceal a laugh--and that may also have been the result of
too many cigarettes--"I don't believe it could have been any more
interesting than a game of pool I heard at the club."
"It appears to me," said the Bibliomaniac to the School-master, "that

the popping sounds we heard late last night in the Idiot's room may
have some connection with the present mode of speech these two
gentlemen affect."
"Let's hear them out," returned the School-master, "and then we'll take
them into camp, as the Idiot would say."
"I don't know about that," replied the genial gentleman. "I've seen a
great many concerts, and I've heard a great many good games of pool,
but the concert last night was simply a ravishing spectacle. We had a
Cuban pianist there who played the orchestration of the first act of
Parsifal with surprising agility. As far as I could see, he didn't miss a
note, though it was a little annoying to observe how he used the
pedals."
"Too forcibly, or how?" queried the Idiot.
"Not forcibly enough," returned the Imbiber. "He tried to work them
both with one foot. It was the only thing to mar an otherwise
marvellous performance. The idea of a man