must have extended twenty feet above its head."

"Oh, get out!" said Ralph Addington perfunctorily.

"As sure as I'm sitting here," Honey went on earnestly. "I heard a
woman's laugh. Any of you others get it?"

The sense of humor, it seemed, was not extinct. Honey's companions burst
into roars of laughter. For the rest of the morning, they joked Honey
about his hallucination. And Honey, who always responded in kind to any
badinage, received this in silence. In fact, wherever he could, a little
pointedly, he changed the subject.

Honey Smith was the type of man whom everybody jokes, partly because he
received it with such good humor, partly because he turned it back with
so ready and so charming a wit. Also it gave his fellow creatures a
gratifying sense of equality to pick humorous flaws in one so manifestly
a darling of the gods.

Honey Smith possessed not a trace of genius, not a suggestion of what is
popularly termed "temperament." He had no mind to speak of, and not more
than the usual amount of character. In fact, but for one thing, he was
an average person. That one thing was personality - and personality he
possessed to an extraordinary degree. Indeed, there seemed to be
something mysteriously compelling about this personality of Honey's. The
whole world of creatures felt its charm. Dumb beasts fawned on him.
Children clung to him. Old people lingered near as though they could
light dead fires in the blaze of his radiant youth. Men hob-nobbed with
him; his charm brushed off on to the dryest and dullest so that,
temporarily, they too bloomed with personality. As for women - His