Stockton sneezed so loudly and so often at his desk that morning that all his associates knew something was amiss.  The Sunday editor, who had planned to borrow fifty cents from him at lunch time, refrained from doing so, in a spirit of pure Christian brotherhood.  Even Bob Bolles, the hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-week conductor of “The Electric Chair,” the paper’s humorous column, came in to see what was up.  Bob’s “contribs” had been generous that morning, and he was in unusually good humour for a humourist.

“What’s the matter, Stock,” he inquired genially, “Got a cold?  Or has George Moore sent in a new novel?”

Stockton looked up sadly from the proofs he was correcting.  How could he confess his paltry problem to this debonair creature who wore life lightly, like a flower, and played at literature as he played tennis, with swerve and speed?  Bolles was a bachelor, the author of a successful comedy, and a member of the smart literary club which was over the reviewer’s horizon, although in the great ocean of letters the humourist was no more than a surf bather.  Stockton shook his head.  No one but a married man and an unsuccessful author could understand his trouble.

“A touch of asthma,” he fibbed shyly.  “I always have it at this time of year.”

“Come and have some lunch,” said the other.  “We’ll go up to the club and have some ale.  That’ll put you on your feet.”

“Thanks, ever so much,” said Stockton, “but I can’t do it to-day.  Got to make up my page.  I tell you what, though—­”

He hesitated, and flushed a little.

“Say it,” said Bolles kindly.

“Verne is in town to-day; the English poet, you know.  Grandson of old Jules Verne.  I’m going to put him up at my house.  I wish you’d take him around to the club for lunch some day while he’s here.  He ought to meet some of the men there.  I’ve been corresponding with him for a long time, and I—­I’m afraid I rather promised to take him round there, as though I were a member, you know.”

“Great snakes!” cried Bolles.  “Verne? the author of ‘Candle Light’?  And you’re going to put him up?  You lucky devil.  Why, the man’s bigger than Masefield.  Take him to lunch—­I should say I will; Why, I’ll put him in the colyum.  Both of you come round there to-morrow and we’ll have an orgy.  I’ll order larks’ tongues and convolvulus salad.  I didn’t know you knew him.”

“I don’t—­yet,” said Stockton.  “I’m going down to meet his steamer this afternoon.”

“Well, that’s great news,” said the volatile humourist.  And he ran downstairs to buy the book of which he had so often heard but had never read.

The sight of Bolles’ well-cut suit of tweeds had reminded Stockton that he was still wearing the threadbare serge that had done duty for three winters, and would hardly suffice for the honours to come.  Hastily he blue-pencilled his proofs, threw them into the wire basket, and hurried outdoors to seek the nearest tailor.  He stopped at the bank first, to draw out fifty dollars for emergencies.  Then he entered the first clothier’s shop he encountered on Nassau Street.