“You never ate one, did you, Ptolemy?” queried Bonaparte.

“Not raw,” said Ptolemy, with a chuckle.  “Though I’ve been tempted many a time to call for a second joint of the Sphinx.”

There was a laugh at this, in which all but Baron Munchausen joined.

“I think it is too bad,” said the Baron, as the laughter subsided—­“I think it is very much too bad that you shades have brought mundane prejudice with you into this sphere.  Just because some people with finite minds profess to disbelieve my stories, you think it well to be sceptical yourselves.  I don’t care, however, whether you believe me or not.  The fact remains that I have eaten one fried pyramid and countless stewed icicles, and the stewed icicles were finer than any diamond-back rat Confucius ever had served at a state banquet.”

“Where’s Shakespeare to-night?” asked Confucius, seeing that the Baron was beginning to lose his temper, and wishing to avoid trouble by changing the subject.  “Wasn’t he invited, General?”

“Yes,” said Washington, “he was invited, but he couldn’t come.  He had to go over the river to consult with an autograph syndicate they’ve formed in New York.  You know, his autographs sell for about one thousand dollars apiece, and they’re trying to get up a scheme whereby he shall contribute an autograph a week to the syndicate, to be sold to the public.  It seems like a rich scheme, but there’s one thing in the way.  Posthumous autographs haven’t very much of a market, because the mortals can’t be made to believe that they are genuine; but the syndicate has got a man at work trying to get over that.  These Yankees are a mighty inventive lot, and they think perhaps the scheme can be worked.  The Yankee is an inventive genius.”

“It was a Yankee invented that tale about your not being able to prevaricate, wasn’t it, George?” asked Diogenes.

Washington smiled acquiescence, and Doctor Johnson returned to Shakespeare.

“I’d rather have a morning-glory vine than one of Shakespeare’s autographs,” said he.  “They are far prettier, and quite as legible.”

“Mortals wouldn’t,” said Bonaparte.

“What fools they be!” chuckled Johnson.

At this point the canvas-back ducks were served, one whole shade of a bird for each guest.

“Fall to, gentlemen,” said Washington, gazing hungrily at his bird.  “When canvas-back ducks are on the table conversation is not required of any one.”

“It is fortunate for us that we have so considerate a host,” said Confucius, unfastening his robe and preparing to do justice to the fare set before him.  “I have dined often, but never before with one who was willing to let me eat a bird like this in silence.  Washington, here’s to you.  May your life be chequered with birthdays, and may ours be equally well supplied with feasts like this at your expense!”

The toast was drained, and the diners fell to as requested.