“You’re a dizzard!” I retorted.  “And a noodle and a jolt-head; you’re a jobbernowl and a doodle, a maundering mooncalf and a blockheaded numps, a gaby and a loon; you’re a Hatter!” I shrieked the last epithet.

“Heavens!” he cried, “A Hatter!  Am I as bad as that?”

“Oh, come now,” I said, closing the Thesaurus with a bang.  “Have some regard for my position, won’t you?”

I had resolved to appeal to his better nature.  “I don’t know who the dickens you are.  You may be the three wise men of Gotham who went to sea in a bowl rolled into one, for all I know.  You may be any old thing.  I don’t give a tinker’s cuss what you are.  Under ordinary circumstances I’ve no doubt I should find you a very pleasant old gentleman, but under present conditions you are a blundering old bore.”

“That’s not bad—­indeed, a blundering old bore is pretty good.  Let me see,” he continued, looking up the word “bore” in the index of the Thesaurus, “What else am I?  Maybe I’m an unmitigated nuisance, an exasperating and egregious glum, a carking care, and a pestiferous pill, eh?”

“You are all of that,” I said, wearily.  “Your meanness surpasseth all things.  I’ve met a good many tough characters in my day, but you are the first I have ever encountered without a redeeming feature.  You take advantage of a mistake for which I am not at all responsible, and what do you do?”

“Tell me,” he replied.  “What do I do?  I shall be delighted to hear.  I’ve been asking myself that question for years.  What do I do?  Go on, I implore you.”

“You rub it in, that’s what,” I retorted.  “You take advantage of me.  You bait me; you incommode me.  You—­you—­”

“Here, take the Thesaurus,” he said, as I hesitated for the word.  “It will help you.  I provoke you, I irritate you, I make you mad, I sour your temper, I sicken, disgust, revolt, nauseate, repel you.  I rankle your soul.  I jar you—­is that it?”

“Give me the book,” I cried, desperately.  “Yes!” I added, referring to the page.  “You tease, irk, harry, badger, infest, persecute.  You gall, sting, and convulse me.  You are a plain old beast, that’s what you are.  You’re a conscienceless sneak and a wherret—­you mean-souled blot on the face of nature!”

Here I broke down and wept, and the old gentleman’s sides shook with laughter.  He was, without exception, the most extraordinary old person I had ever encountered, and in my tears I cursed the English language because it was inadequate properly to describe him.

For a time there was silence.  I was exhausted and my tormentor was given over to his own enjoyment of my discomfiture.  Finally, however, he spoke.

“I’m a pretty old man, my dear fellow,” he said.  “I shouldn’t like to tell you how old, because if I did you’d begin on the Thesaurus again with the word ‘liar’ for your lead.  Nevertheless, I’m pretty old; but I want to say to you that in all my experience I have never had so diverting a half-hour as you have given me.  You have been so outspoken, so frank—­”