After a silence he leaned back in his chair and bade me read the
letter to him again, and I did so with a contemptuous tolerance for
the writer, who must have been either a very innocent victim or a very
stupid swindler. I said as much to Professor Farrago, but, to my
surprise, he appeared to waver.

"I suppose," he said, with his near-sighted, embarrassed smile, "that
nine hundred and ninety-nine men in a thousand would throw that letter
aside and condemn the writer as a liar or a fool?"

"In my opinion," said I, "he's one or the other."

"He isn't--in mine," said the professor, placidly.

"What!" I exclaimed. "Here is a man living all alone on a strip of
rock and sand between the wilderness and the sea, who wants you to
send somebody to take charge of a bird that doesn't exist!"

"How do you know," asked Professor Farrago, "that the bird in question
does not exist?"

"It is generally accepted," I replied, sarcastically, "that the great
auk has been extinct for years. Therefore I may be pardoned for
doubting that our correspondent possesses a pair of them alive."

"Oh, you young fellows," said the professor, smiling wearily, "you
embark on a theory for destinations that don't exist."

He leaned back in his chair, his amused eyes searching space for the
imagery that made him smile.