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Don't you see Doctor Fibble and I are talking? Ahem! And is any one besides yourself going to wear this er er regalia in public?" Having no sons of his own, Mr. Pottinger naturally would be unacquainted with the aims and objects of my present activities. Therefore I could well understand his ignorance. "Oh, yes, indeed," was my answer; "all of our members are to wear it." "What will you bet?"
They responded to my cordial salutation in excellent English, Miss Canbee casually adding, as though to make conversation: "Of course you remember, Doctor Fibble, my having told you several times that my mother was French?" To this I could only reply in all sincerity that the fact of her having told me so had entirely escaped my mind, which was quite true.
Arising promptly, I went to where the instrument is affixed to the wall and responded to the call in the conventional manner by placing the receiver to my ear, applying my lips to the transmitter and uttering the word "Halloa!" twice, or possibly thrice repeated. Over the wire then a female voice spoke, enquiring if this were Doctor Fibble?
In fancy I behold myself, with the light of retrospection beaming in my eye, glancing up from the written leaf and to myself murmuring: "Fibble, upon such a date in the long ago you did thus and so, you visited this or that spot of interest, you had profitable converse with such and such a person." How inspiring the prospect; how profitable may be the outcome of the labour required!
I close with an added word of gratitude and affection for those five gallant lads, Masters Horrigan, Pope, Ferguson, E. Smith and H. Smith but particularly Master Pope, to whom I feel I indeed owe much. Being an Open Letter Addressed by Dr. Fibble to One Sitting in a High Place. Elsewhere in France
Hundreds of the vociferating citizens are there. And finally I Roscoe T. Fibble am there also, still preserving, I may fondly trust, such dignity, such poise, such an air of conscious rectitude as is possible, considering gyves on one's wrists, no covering for one's head, and a pair of embroidered bedroom slippers on one's feet.
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Though I lie weltering in my gore, my lips forever closed, my hand forever stilled, the record shall endure to show that I, the disgraced and the deceased Fibble, would, from the confines of the silent tomb, beg forgiveness for my criminal indiscretion. I shall write all!
Meditating upon the fate of this ill-starred red man, I communed with mine own inner consciousness. I asked myself the question: "Did you, Fibble, emulate the example of that despondent Indian youth and leap headlong from this peak, who in all this careless world other than your Great-Aunt Paulina would bemoan your piteous end?
I have, therefore, addressed a supplementary line to the artist, complimenting and commending him in the highest terms. Being a Series of Extracts Culled from the Diary of Dr. Fibble. Lover's Leap
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