Mr. Denby smiled condescendingly and replied in a tone of voice that Jimmy felt to be a bit too irritatingly suave. “Mr. Kipling—the poet—you know. He says, ‘East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet.’ Well, we are meeting on a common ground in a common cause and we are—may I venture to suggest—decidedly alien to each other in our thoughts and sympathies, are we not?” Jimmy eyed him suspiciously before replying. “Listen, old dear,” he said evenly, “I can never quite figure whether you’re kiddin’ me or not and I’m going to be too busy from now on to ask for diagrams. If we’re goin’ to get together you’ve got to get out the little old parachute and jump off into space. In plain English you’ve got to dive down to earth and keep both feet on the pavement. Save the flossy stuff for your lectures. Are you on?” “Of course, of course,” stammered Mr. Denby. “I meant no offense. I have an unfortunate habit of making poetic allusions. I shall correct it. Believe me, my dear Mr. Martin, I shall correct it. I have much to say to you. Where shall we have a little—a little,—shall I say pow-wow—to talk over the—the ah—dope?” “That’s the idea,” replied Jimmy, slapping the other on the back and laughing heartily. “That’s regular language. Let’s go back to the stage manager’s office and work out a plan of attack.” The press agent led the way through a passage which ran behind the boxes to the stage and they presently found themselves dodging the canvas walls of a great Indian temple which were being deftly swung into position by a small army of stage hands and picking their steps cautiously through a cluttered array of papier-mache Buddhas, canopied thrones and other properties. Once closeted in the little office in a far corner they began a consultation which lasted for more than an hour. It was agreed that Jimmy was to travel sufficiently far enough ahead of J. Herbert Denby to arrange for and advertise his lectures and the press agent took pains to carefully instruct the latter as to the best methods of keeping his connection with “The Ganges Princess” company a remote and cherished secret. The subjects chosen by the lecturer were, to say the least, not calculated to arouse any suspicion. Jimmy sat entranced as J. Herbert read them off from a typewritten slip he took from his card-case. “I shall talk first,” he said, “upon ‘The Rig-Veda—A Primitive Folk Song Embodying the Soul of an Ancient People.’ I shall follow that with a discourse on ‘Brahma, Vishnu and Siva—The Triple Manifestation of the Hindu God’ and for my third and final lecture I have chosen perhaps a more popular theme—‘Mogul versus Mahratta—A Study in Dynastic Conflicts.’ Do you think that program will fill the bill?” Jimmy was plainly a little bit groggy and he found it difficult to articulate for a moment or two.