For the first time, the man’s bloated lips shook. His evil pride of intellectuality was stung. “You lie!” he said hastily. “I do not make mistakes.” “No? Well, have it as you will. The point that you are to sign here a statement, which I shall read to you before these witnesses, announcing for publication the withdrawal of your contest for the Honeywell millions.” “And if I decline?” “The painful necessity will be mine of turning over these instructive documents to the United States postal authorities. But not before giving them to the newspapers. How would you look in court, in view of this attempt to murder a fellow man’s reason?” Mr. Honeywell had now gained his composure. “You are right,” he assented. “You seem to have a singular faculty for being right. Be careful it does not fail you—sometime.” “Thank you,” returned Average Jones. “Now you will listen, please, all of you.” He read the brief document, placed it before the blind man, and set a pin between his finger and thumb. “Sign there,” he said. Honeywell smiled as he pricked in his name. “For identification, I suppose,” he said. “Am I to assign no cause to the newspapers for my sudden action?” A twinkle of malice appeared in Average Jones’ eye. “I would suggest waning mental acumen,” he said. The blind man winced palpably as he rose to his feet. “That is the second time you have taunted me on that. Kindly tell me my mistake.” Average Jones led him to the door and opened it. “Your mistake,” he drawled as he sped his parting guest into the grasp of a waiting attendant, “was—er—in not remembering that—er—you mustn’t fish for bass in November.” CHAPTER VIII. BIG PRINT In the Cosmic Club Mr. Algernon Spofford was a figure of distinction. Amidst the varied, curious, eccentric, brilliant, and even slightly unbalanced minds which made the organization unique, his was the only wholly stolid and stupid one. Club tradition declared that he had been admitted solely for the beneficent purpose of keeping the more egotistic members in a permanent and pleasing glow of superiority. He was very rich, but otherwise quite harmless. In an access of unappreciated cynicism, Average Jones had once suggested to him, as a device for his newly acquired coat-of-arms, “Rocks et Praeterea Nihil.” But the “praeterea nihil” was something less than fair to Mr. Spofford, with whom it was not strictly a case of “nothing further” besides his “rocks”. Ambition, the vice of great souls, burned within Spofford’s pigeon-breast. He longed to distinguish himself in the line of endeavor of his friend Jones and was prone to proffer suggestions, hints, and even advice, to the great tribulation of the recipient. Hence it was with misgiving that the Ad-Visor opened the door of his sanctum to Mr. Spofford, on a harsh December noon. But the misgivings were supplanted by pleased surprise when the caller laid in his hand a clipping from a small country town paper, to this effect: