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twenty-two.”
    “Aw,” said the fine lady, “zatso? Let me tell you something.”
    I didn’t wait to hear her tell him something, for now I was convinced that it was Forty-second or Times Square or Park Row. And it was music to me.
    I went about the job rapidly and very cunningly. That’s what I thought. But Fibby knew all the tricks. He must have been in the trade before he got into magazines. So we had a lively argument, and the lady, bored to death all day long, liked it immensely.
    Fibby got interested in the story far more than did his wife, or his lady friend, or his — well, what do I care what she means to him — they’ve got their passport in fine shape and are unmolested sharing a double stateroom. As I was saying, Fibby got interested in my story far more than his wife or his lady friend — oh, hell, what do I care? — well, more than his lady could make him interested in old Dutch shawls.
    He seemed to have a great time listening in to my story. He smiled, then he laughed, then he roared with laughter. People passing by thought another couple of Americans had gone crazy about nothing at all, as they usually do. He found no other expression to comment on my story with but “Zat so! Zat so? Gee, zat so? Man, zat so!”
    There may be stories that have no end, but mine had one. When I had finished, he was still roaring and bellowing.
    “The greatest comedy in all of this lousy Europe couldn’t have made me laugh like you did. Oh, boy; oh, boy! What a story! A whale of a story. That’s what I’ve been looking for.
    What I came over for. Man, you don’t know what you mean to me.”
    On he went, laughing and laughing.
    And I, ass that I was, I had thought he would weep about my sad tale and my hopeless fate. Of course, he only had to listen to it, not live it. He saw only the humor of it; he wasn’t hungry, and he had an elegant room in a swell hotel where no policeman would ever kick him in the ribs.
    “Listen, Flory,” he said to his lady friend. “What do you think about the story that boy just told us? Isn’t that story great? A birdy dropped out of its little nest. And says he was hungry. Imagine, Flory, here in Holland, where they throw cheese and butter in the ash-cans, and where the people have so much spare time that they haven’t got anything else to do but grow flowers instead of cotton or wheat. What a country!”
    “Oh, his story is wonderful! It’s marvelous. It’s peachy. I think it’s the greatest, cutest little story I have ever heard.” That’s what Flory, the lady friend, said. She went on: “Wonderful. Just too wonderful for words. Where are you from? From New Orleans? My, my! What a town! Still French and Blackies there? Why, isn’t that interesting? It’s really thrilling. Why, Fibby, did I ever tell you I still have an aunt living there, down in Dixie, in New Orleans, I mean? Have I ever told you about Aunt Sophronia of New Orleans? Haven’t I? Oh, I must tell you all about her. You know, the one that starts every sentence with: `When gran’pa, the colonel, you know — was still living in South Carolina.’ “
    Fibby didn’t listen to Flory. He had become accustomed to putting down the phone any time she called him up and letting her talk until he was sure it was time to hang up or to say: “Yes, honey, I am listening.”
    He fumbled about his pockets and fished out a bill. He gave it to me and said: “Here, take this. It’s not only for your story, but for your having told it so splendidly. It’s a great gift, my boy, to tell a story the way you did, a story that is not true, but that sounds true. That’s the point in story-telling. Making people believe the story is true. You are a great artist, you know. I feel it. A pity that you are bumming your way ‘through the world. But some people, I think, have to do it this way. Can’t help it. You know, my boy, you could make quite a pile of dough, the way you tell stories. You are an artist.” He turned