"Where's this fellow Windsor? W. Windsor. That's the man we want
to see. I've been working for this paper without a break, except
when I had the mumps, for four years, and I've reason to know that
my page was as widely read and appreciated as any in New York. And
now up comes this Windsor fellow, if you please, and tells me in so
many words the paper's got no use for me."

"These are life's tragedies," murmured Psmith.

"What's he mean by it? That's what I want to know. And that's what
these gentlemen want to know--See here--"

"I am addressing--?" said Psmith.

"Asher's my name. B. Henderson Asher. I write 'Moments of Mirth.'"

A look almost of excitement came into Psmith's face, such a look as
a visitor to a foreign land might wear when confronted with some
great national monument. That he should be privileged to look upon
the author of "Moments of Mirth" in the flesh, face to face, was
almost too much.

"Comrade Asher," he said reverently, "may I shake your hand?"

The other extended his hand with some suspicion.

"Your 'Moments of Mirth,'" said Psmith, shaking it, "have
frequently reconciled me to the toothache."