BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Must be a later edition, then. Oh, pshaw! What’s the use of waiting for that clerk? I think I have a complete set of Shooneker packed away at home. DONALD WORCESTER. That so? Well, I’ll tell the clerk you couldn’t wait. Maybe I’d like the book myself, if it’s worth anything at all. The presence in Chicago of one James Shooneker is like some fearfully disturbing shadow behind each of the five writers. Bowowski, within half an hour after the recital, has three helpers in the Public Library searching for every printed word of Shooneker. After a tasteless dinner, Ben Dullard Krupp scares three piano pupils out of their wits by an unusual amount of shouting and stamping; this, also, should be attributed to the visiting author. Worcester seeks his desk in the editorial room and crams on “Pathetic Spaces”—Shooneker’s latest book, according to the clerk. But the young critic’s attention strays from the pages of print to the lady in the green-room ... lovely person, if she can’t play the piano. Worcester has an impulse to use the telephone, and soon it masters him. He calls up Madame Bonjoline’s hotel and, as she is out, leaves a message—he will call in person at eight o’clock. Then a note is written, which he despatches to her by messenger. After that, there is time to think things over. Was there ever anyone as charming as she? And she has expressed her admiration for his frank manner and open criticism. Perhaps——Now the Madame is not willing to admit him at first; but he is insistent, and she permits him to enter. James Shooneker is seated by the window. Worcester, like a guilty boy, shakes hands with him and mumbles acknowledgement. But soon the celebrated critic has him at his ease, and the young journalist is talking with his accustomed candor. Then, continuing in the same friendly manner, JAMES SHOONEKER. Mr. Worcester, you might be interested in knowing the reason for my Chicago visit. In fact, it is only fair you should know. DONALD WORCESTER. Sure! JAMES SHOONEKER. Very well then. Your paper, the Worst Glaring Nuisance, as its catch-word has it, has sent for me to fill the vacancy created by your resignation. DONALD WORCESTER. Who’s bluff is this?