“The last broker who arrived from Wall Street says that you are too full of quotations to be original,” sneered Lord Bacon. “Have you forgotten that you once said ‘a man that hath no virtue in himself ever envieth virtue in others?’ Bartlett allows you seven pages, while he gives me more than a hundred. Familiarity breeds imitators. Even in quotations, you follow after me.” “If you wear so long a face, you’ll stub your toe on your chin,” observed Anon, noting that Lord Bacon was getting the worst of his controversy with Shakespeare. “Never mind Bill’s raving. Burton tells him he larded his lean books with the fat of others’ works. Maybe that’s the reason why he gives his readers mental dyspepsia; to inwardly digest ‘Hamlet’ would disagree with the stomach of an ostrich. After all, the world knows that Shakespeare was not a man but a syndicate, to which I was the largest contributor. I’ll call the man a plagiarist who says I’m a liar.” No one cared to knock off the verbal chip which Anon had put upon his shoulders, so Paul Jones resumed: “Have I equalled Homer’s record?” “Of course,” I answered; “you, as an American, couldn’t stand being beaten by a foreigner like Homer, even though you are both dead ones. You are claimed by New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Arlington, Richmond, Fredericksburg, Annapolis, and Ocean Grove. I believe there are a few other cities whose names have escaped my memory. Have you any preference in the matter?” “It’s odd no one has thought about consulting me before. I could have settled the controversy at once. France did not treat me or my bones very well, yet I can’t say I am glad to leave there. It isn’t very pleasant to be dead, but it’s worse to have people squabble over your body. I wonder if Porter ever heard the adage ‘Let the dead rest in peace,’ and that other one ‘Cursed be he who moves my bones!’ You’ve seen two dogs fight over a bone, but you never saw the bone fight. I am nothing but bones.” “New York’s claim—” “I hope they won’t bury me in New York. I’ve heard it said that the metropolis is noisy enough to wake the dead and it is certain that my presence would make Captain Landais turn over in his grave. I always did bore Landais and so if I invaded the territory of the tired, St. Patrick’s cemetery would yawn and give up its dead.” “Had you been a politician,” observed Matt Quay, “some faction of our party would long since have unearthed one of your letters in which you had selected your burial place.” “You have not yet told me your choice,” I reiterated, remembering the city editor’s parting words.