“I knew you’d say that, and so didn’t tell you beforehand. I’ll bet you your initiation fee and a year’s dues against a share of R. T. common that you’ll make enough out of your membership to pay you five times over.” “How can I do that?” “All the editors and publishers are members,” he replied, “and to meet them over the rum punch we serve on meeting nights is worth money to the most celebrated author living. Then you’ll have the best club library in this country at your elbow for working purposes.” “I don’t think I ought, Mr. Blodgett.” He was about to protest, when Mr. Whitely broke in upon us, saying, “Accept your membership, Dr. Hartzmann, and the paper shall pay your initiation and dues.” I do not know whether Mr. Blodgett or myself was the more surprised at this unexpected and liberal offer. Our amazement was so obvious that Mr. Whitely continued: “I think it’ll be an excellent idea for the paper to have a member of its staff in the Philomathean, and so the office shall pay for it.” “Whitely,” observed Mr. Blodgett admiringly, “you’re a good business man, whatever else you are!” “I wish, Blodgett,” inquired Mr. Whitely, “you would tell me why I have been kept waiting so long?” “Many a name’s been up longer than yours,” replied Mr. Blodgett in a comforting voice. “You don’t seem to realize that the Philomathean’s a pretty stiff club to get into.” “But I’ve been posted for over three years, while here Dr. Hartzmann is elected within four months of his proposing.” “Well, the doctor has the great advantage of being a sort of natural Philomath, you see,” Mr. Blodgett explained genially. “He was born that way, and so is ripe for membership without any closet mellowing.” “But my reputation as a writer is greater than Dr.”—began Mr. Whitely; but a laugh from Mr. Blodgett made him halt. “Oh come, now, Whitely!” “What’s the matter?” asked my employer. “Once St. Peter and St. Paul stopped at a tavern to quench their thirst,” said Mr. Blodgett, “and when the time came to pay, they tossed dice for it. Paul threw double sixes, and smiled. Peter smiled back, and threw double sevens. What do you suppose Paul said, Whitely?” “What?” “‘Oh, Peter, Peter! No miracles between friends.’” “I don’t follow you,” rejoined Mr. Whitely. Mr. Blodgett turned and said to me, “I’m going West for two months, and while I’m gone the Twelfth-night revel at the Philomathean is to come off. Will you see that the boss and Agnes get cards?” Then he faced about and remarked, “Whitely, I’d give a big gold certificate to know what nerve food you use!” and went out, laughing. When I took the invitations to Mrs. Blodgett, I found you all with your heads full of a benefit for the Guild, to be given at your home,—a musical evening, with several well-known stars as magnets, and admission by invitation as an additional attraction. Mrs. Blodgett said to me in her decisive way, “Dr. Hartzmann, the invitations are five dollars each, and you are to take one.”