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He thought he had been taken by the huge irony of the situation by the enlarged circumference of the joke. In its original form, as Harviss had said, the book would have addressed itself to a very limited circle: now it would include the world. The elect would understand; the crowd would not; and his work would thus serve a double purpose.
He was proud of the adroitness with which he had kept his secret from Harviss, had maintained to the last the pretense of a serious work, in order to give the keener edge to his reader's enjoyment. Not since under-graduate days had the Professor tasted such a draught of pure fun as his anticipations now poured for him. This time his card brought instant admission.
"What in heaven do you think this thing is?" And he struck his fist on the manuscript which lay between them. Harviss had recovered his optimistic creases. He rested a benevolent eye on the document. "Why, your apologia your confession of faith, I should call it. You surely must have seen which way you were going? You can't have written it in your sleep?"
"Oh, infinitely small," admitted the Professor, extending his hand toward the manuscript. Harviss appeared to be pursuing his own train of thought. "That is," he continued, "if you insist on an ironical interpretation." "If I insist on it what do you mean?" The publisher smiled faintly. "Well isn't the book susceptible of another? If I read it without seeing "
The Investigator, as Harviss phrased it, "set the pace," and the other journals followed, finding it easier to let their critical man-of-all-work play a variation on the first reviewer's theme than to secure an expert to "do" the book afresh.
His book, as Harviss had prophesied, had caught the autumn market: had caught and captured it. The publisher had conducted the campaign like an experienced strategist. He had completely surrounded the enemy. Every newspaper, every periodical, held in ambush an advertisement of "The Vital Thing." Weeks in advance the great commander had begun to form his lines of attack.
He was bowed into the office like a successful novelist, and Harviss grasped him with both hands. "Well do you mean to take it?" he asked, with a lingering coquetry. "Take it? Take it, my dear fellow? It's in press already you'll excuse my not waiting to consult you? There will be no difficulty about terms, I assure you, and we had barely time to catch the autumn market.
"My dear Linyard," he said at length, "I don't understand a word you're saying." The Professor succumbed to a fresh access, from the vortex of which he managed to fling out "But that's the very core of the joke!" Harviss looked at him resignedly. "What is?" "Why, your not seeing your not understanding " "Not understanding what?" "Why, what the book is meant to be."
Within a fortnight, a line from Harviss recalled the Professor to town. He had been looking forward with immense zest to this second meeting; Harviss's college roar was in his tympanum, and he pictured himself following up the protracted chuckle which would follow his friend's progress through the manuscript.
"Oh, Lord, oh Lord is it really as good as that?" he gasped. Harviss had glanced instinctively toward the electric bell on his desk; it was evident that he was prepared for an emergency. "My dear fellow " he began in a soothing tone. "Oh, let me have my laugh out, do," implored the Professor. "I'll I'll quiet down in a minute; you needn't ring for the young man."
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