"
"Oh, yes, indeed!" I exclaimed. "And I shall never forget
your `Conundrum of the Anvil' which appeared in it. How often
have I laughed at that most wonderful conceit, and how often have
I put it to my friends!"
Barbel gazed at me silently for a moment, and then he pointed
to the frame. "That printed page," he said solemnly, "contains
the `Conundrum of the Anvil.' I hang it there so that I can see
it while I work. That conundrum ruined me. It was the last
thing I wrote for the `Grasshopper.' How I ever came to imagine
it, I cannot tell. It is one of those things which occur to
a man but once in a lifetime. After the wild shout of delight
with which the public greeted that conundrum, my subsequent
efforts met with hoots of derision. The `Grasshopper' turned its
hind legs upon me. I sank from bad to worse,--much worse,--until
at last I found myself reduced to my present occupation, which is
that of grinding points on pins. By this I procure my bread,
coffee, and tobacco, and sometimes potatoes and meat. One day
while I was hard at work, an organ-grinder came into the street
below. He played the serenade from `Trovatore' and the familiar
notes brought back visions of old days and old delights, when the
successful writer wore good clothes and sat at operas, when he
looked into sweet eyes and talked of Italian airs, when his
future appeared all a succession of bright scenery and joyous
acts, without any provision for a drop-curtain.
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