"You miss the point of this association," interjected Snobbe. "We haven't banded ourselves together to immortalize a Welsh rabbit or a mince-pie--nay, nor even a ruddy duck. It's our own glory we're after." "That's it," cried Monty St. Vincent--"that's the beauty of it. The scheme works two ways. If the stuff is good and there is glory in it, we'll have the glory; but if it's bad, we'll blame the dinner. That's what I like about it." "It's a valuable plan from that point of view," said the presiding officer. "And now, if the gentleman who secured the ball numbered two will make himself known, we will proceed." Hudson Rivers rose up. "I have number two," he said, "but I have nothing to relate. The coffee I drank kept me awake all night, and when I finally slept, along about six o'clock next morning, it was one of those sweet, dreamless sleeps that we all love so much. I must therefore ask to be excused." [Illustration: "WRIT A POME ABOUT A KID"] "But how shall you be represented in the book?" asked Mr. Harry Snobbe. "He can do the table of contents," suggested St. Vincent. "Or the fly-leaves," said Tenafly Paterson. "No," said Huddy; "I shall ask that the pages I should have filled be left blank. There is nothing helps a book so much as the leaving of something to the reader's imagination. I heard a great critic say so once. He said that was the strong point of the French writers, and he added that Stockton's _Lady or the Tiger_ took hold because Stockton didn't insist on telling everything." "It's a good idea," said Mr. Jones. "I don't know but that if those pages are left blank they'll be the most interesting in the book." Mr. Rivers sat down with a smile of conscious pride, whereupon Mr. Tenafly Paterson rose up. "As I hold the number three ball, I will give you the fruits of my dinner. I attribute the work which I am about to present to you to the mince-pie. Personally, I am a great admirer of certain latter-day poets who deal with the woes and joys of more or less commonplace persons. I myself would rather read a sonnet to a snow-shovel than an ode to the moon, but in my dream I seem to have conceived a violent hatred for authors of homely verse, as you will note when I have finished reading my dream-poem called 'Retribution.'" "Great Scott!" murmured Billie Jones, with a deep-drawn sigh. "Poetry! From Tenafly Paterson! Of all the afflictions of man, Job could have known no worse." "The poem reads as follows," continued Paterson, ignoring the chairman's ill-timed remark: [Illustration: "I BOUGHT A BOOK OF VERSE"] RETRIBUTION Writ a pome about a kid. Finest one I ever did. Heaped it full o' sentiment-- Very best I could invent. Talked about his little toys; How he played with other boys; How the beasts an' birdies all Come when little Jamie'd call. 'N' 'en I took that little lad, Gave him fever, mighty bad. 'N' 'en it sorter pleased my whim To have him die and bury him.