"It seems to me," said the Bibliomaniac, "that that opera produced in the right place might stand a chance of a run." "Thank you," said the Idiot. "After all, Mr. Bib, you are a man of some penetration. How long a run?" "One consecutive night," said the Bibliomaniac. "Ah--and where?" demanded the Idiot, with a smile. "At Bloomingdale," answered the Bibliomaniac, severely. "That's a very good idea," said the Idiot. "When you go back there, Mr. Bib, I wish you'd suggest it to the superintendent." VI HE DISCUSSES FAME "Mr. Poet," said the Idiot, the other morning as his friend, the Rhymster, took his place beside him at the breakfast-table, "tell me: How long have you been writing poetry?" "Oh, I don't know," said the Poet, modestly. "I don't know that I've ever written any. I've turned out a lot of rhymes in my day, and have managed to make a fair living with them, but poetry is a different thing. The divine afflatus doesn't come to every one, you know; and I doubt if anybody will be able to say whether my work has shown an occasional touch of inspiration, or not until I have been dead fifty or a hundred years." "Tut!" exclaimed the Idiot. "That's all nonsense. I am able to say now whether or not your work shows the occasional touch of inspiration. It does. In fact, it shows more than that. It shows a semi-occasional touch of inspiration. How long have you been in the business?" "Eighteen years," sighed the Poet. "I began when I was twelve with a limerick. As I remember the thing, it went like this: "There was a young man of Cohasset Turned on the red-hot water-faucet. When asked: 'Is it hot?' He answered, 'Well, thot Is a pretty mild way for to class it.'" "Good!" said the Idiot. "That wasn't a bad beginning for a boy of twelve." "So my family thought," said the Poet. "My mother sent it to the Under the Evening Lamp Department of our town paper, and three weeks later I was launched. I've had the _cacoethes scribendi_ ever since--but, alas! I got more fame in that brief hour of success than I have ever been able to win since. It is a mighty hard job, Mr. Idiot, making a name for yourself these days." "That's the point I was getting at," said the Idiot, "and I wanted to have a talk with you on the subject. I've read a lot of your stuff in the past eight or ten years, and, in my humble judgment, it is better than any of that rhymed nonsense of Henry Wintergreen Boggs, whose name appears in the newspapers every day in the year; of Susan Aldershot Spinks, whose portrait is almost as common an occurrence in the papers as that of Lydia Squinkham; of Circumflex Jones, the eminent sweet-singer of Arizona; or of Henderson Hartley MacFadd, the Canadian Browning, of whom the world is constantly hearing so much. I have wondered if you were going about it in the right way. What is your plan for winning fame?"