Then, suddenly, without the faintest shadow of warning, from the centre of the lake a vast geyser of water towered a hundred feet in the air. For one dreadful second I saw the raft hurled skyward, balanced on the crest of the stupendous fountain, spilling ladies, supper, guitars, and knitting in every direction. Then a horrible thing occurred; fish after fish shot up out of the storm of water and foam, seizing, as they fell, ladies, luncheon, and knitting in mid-air, falling back with a crashing shock which seemed to rock the very mountains. [Illustration: "Then a horrible thing occurred."] "Help!" I screamed. And fainted dead away. * * * * * Is it necessary to proceed? Literature nods; Science shakes her head. No, nothing but literature lies beyond the ripples which splashed musically upon the shore, terminating forever the last vibration from that immeasurable catastrophe. Why should I go on? The newspapers of the nation have recorded the last scenes of the tragedy. We know that tons of dynamite are being forwarded to that solitary lake. We know that it is the determination of the Government to rid the world of those gigantic minnows. And yet, somehow, it seems to me as I sit writing here in my office, amid the verdure of Bronx Park, that the destruction of these enormous fish is a mistake. What more splendid sarcophagus could the ladies of the lake desire than these huge, silvery, itinerant and living tombs? What reward more sumptuous could anybody wish for than to rest at last within the interior dimness of an absolutely new species of anything? For me, such a final repose as this would represent the highest pinnacle of sublimity, the uttermost zenith of mortal dignity. * * * * * So what more is there for me to say? As for Angelica--but no matter. I hope she may be comparatively happy with Kitten Brown. Yet, as I have said before, handsome men never last. But she should have thought of that in time. I absolve myself of all responsibility. She had her chance. ONE OVER I Professor Farrago had remarked to me that morning: "The city of New York always reminds me of a slovenly, fat woman with her dress unbuttoned behind." I nodded. "New York's architecture," said I, "--or what popularly passes for it--is all in front. The minute you get to the rear a pitiable condition is exposed." He said: "Professor Jane Bottomly is all facade; the remainder of her is merely an occiputal backyard full of theoretical tin cans and broken bottles. I think we all had better resign." It was a fearsome description. I trembled as I lighted an inexpensive cigar. The sentimental feminist movement in America was clearly at the bottom of the Bottomly affair.