“No, he isn’t.  No man is allowed to be disappointed here.  Whatever he wants, when he comes—­that is, any reasonable and unsacrilegious thing—­he can have.  There’s always a few millions or billions of young folks around who don’t want any better entertainment than to fill up their lungs and swarm out with their torches and have a high time over a barkeeper.  It tickles the barkeeper till he can’t rest, it makes a charming lark for the young folks, it don’t do anybody any harm, it don’t cost a rap, and it keeps up the place’s reputation for making all comers happy and content.”

“Very good.  I’ll be on hand and see them land the barkeeper.”

“It is manners to go in full dress.  You want to wear your wings, you know, and your other things.”

“Which ones?”

“Halo, and harp, and palm branch, and all that.”

“Well,” says I, “I reckon I ought to be ashamed of myself, but the fact is I left them laying around that day I resigned from the choir.  I haven’t got a rag to wear but this robe and the wings.”

“That’s all right.  You’ll find they’ve been raked up and saved for you.  Send for them.”

“I’ll do it, Sandy.  But what was it you was saying about unsacrilegious things, which people expect to get, and will be disappointed about?”

“Oh, there are a lot of such things that people expect and don’t get.  For instance, there’s a Brooklyn preacher by the name of Talmage, who is laying up a considerable disappointment for himself.  He says, every now and then in his sermons, that the first thing he does when he gets to heaven, will be to fling his arms around Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and kiss them and weep on them.  There’s millions of people down there on earth that are promising themselves the same thing.  As many as sixty thousand people arrive here every single day, that want to run straight to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and hug them and weep on them.  Now mind you, sixty thousand a day is a pretty heavy contract for those old people.  If they were a mind to allow it, they wouldn’t ever have anything to do, year in and year out, but stand up and be hugged and wept on thirty-two hours in the twenty-four.  They would be tired out and as wet as muskrats all the time.  What would heaven be, to them?  It would be a mighty good place to get out of—­you know that, yourself.  Those are kind and gentle old Jews, but they ain’t any fonder of kissing the emotional highlights of Brooklyn than you be.  You mark my words, Mr. T.’s endearments are going to be declined, with thanks.  There are limits to the privileges of the elect, even in heaven.  Why, if Adam was to show himself to every new comer that wants to call and gaze at him and strike him for his autograph, he would never have time to do anything else but just that.  Talmage has said he is going to give Adam some of his attentions, as well as A., I. and J. But he will have to change his mind about that.”