“Me?” Caleb exclaimed, in genuine astonishment, “No, indeed, ma’am. I leave dope of all sorts alone.” There was a laugh. Caleb did not quite see the point, but felt dimly that he had scored a hit. Caine came to his rescue. “What a pity the bird couldn’t have been pressed into service for the musicale,” he observed. “It would be a real comfort to hear the ‘Death of Ase’ in new form.” “Oh, he don’t sing all of it,” amended Caleb. “He just sings the first part. I forget quite how it goes. But he does it fine. Only, to my mind,” with an air of profound criticism, “he sings it kind of sprightly for such a sad piece. Still, I s’pose that’s a matter of taste.” Conover felt he was getting on finely. A most flattering attention--far different from the slight aloofness of the evening’s earlier moments--greeted his every word. Caine, however, seemed actually jealous of his friend’s popularity; for he cut in now with a complete change of subject. “I wonder,” he conjectured, addressing no one in particular, “why tenors invariably are born without intelligence. When Providence gives a man a great tenor voice, He gives him nothing else. Perhaps, though, he needs nothing else.” But an avalanche of trite sayings could not have halted Caleb. He listened with ponderous deference to Caine; then glanced about the table and cleared his voice. “Speaking of ‘needin’ nothin’ else,’” said he, “reminds me of Old Man Wetherwolks who used to live at Pompton when I was a kid. He used to get jagged as reg’lar as pay-day came ’round. Had a battin’ av’rage of seven nights a week. Then when he’d blowed his last nickel he’d make us boys pilot him home. It wasn’t any cinch, either. For his wife was always waitin’ at the door. An’ the chunks of language she’d hand out to us would a’ fried an iceberg. One night, I remember, we brought the ol’ sot home worse’n usual. She was right there with the tongue-lashin’. She told him what a swine he was to spend all his fam’ly’s cash on booze and how he was a disgrace to his town, an’ other nice comfortin’ things like that. She wound up by screechin’: ‘An’ you haven’t a single redeemin’ trait, you worthless drunkard!’ That was too much for Wetherwolks. He c’lapsed on the bottom step and began to cry. ‘You’re right, m’dear,’ he whines. ‘Ev’ry word you say is true. I _haven’t_ a single redeemin’ trait. But,’ an’ here he throws his chest out an’ looks stern an’ noble, ‘But in ev’ry _other_ respec’ I’m a dam’ fine man!’” The anecdote somehow did not “go” as well as when Conover had told it in the back room of Kerrigan’s saloon. But if there was constraint in its reception, he did not observe it. Letty, dropping her voice, to shut him out of the general talk, inquired: “Where is Pompton? I don’t think I ever heard of it. Did I? Are our Pompton Avenue and the Pompton Club named for it?”