Huntington's Hispano-Moresque Museum.
It was a fine, sunny morning, and the Immortals were being exercised by a
number of pretty ushers from Barnard.
I gazed upon the impressive procession with pride unutterable; very soon
I also should walk two and two in the sunshine, my dome crowned with
figurative laurels, cracking scientific witticisms with my fellow
inmates, or, perhaps, squeezing the pretty fingers of some--But let that
pass.
I was, as I say, gazing upon this inspiring scene on a beautiful morning
in February, when I became aware of a short and visibly vulgar person
beside me, plucking persistently at my elbow.
"Are you the great Academician, Perfessor Smith?" he asked, tipping his
pearl-coloured and somewhat soiled bowler.
"Yes," I said condescendingly. "Your description of me precludes further
doubt. What can I do for you, my good man?"
"Are you this here Perfessor Smith of the Department of Anthropology in
the Bronx Park Zooelogical Society?" he persisted.
"What do you desire of me?" I repeated, taking another look at him. He
was exceedingly ordinary.
"Prof, old sport," he said cordially, "I took a slant at the papers
yesterday, an' I seen all about the big time these guys had when you rode
the goat--"
"Rode--_what_?"
"When you was elected.
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