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I remember once I pitched the deciding ball game for a public school league championship, and won it.
“ ‘I felt sorry for you to-day,’ says Uncle Ned.
“ ‘Because I won the pennant?’ says I.
“ ‘No ; because you gave that base on balls,’ says Uncle Ned.
“He had a horrible laugh that cut me like a knife. You know the kind of laugh I mean — it wasn’t on the level. I always had a fine company — but was rotten myself. Every flivver was a fine play which I didn’t know how to act.”
“Was your Uncle Ned always wrong?”
“No! You can forgive a man — sometimes — who’s always wrong. But he was always right. If I said a thousand dollars, he said nine hundred and eighty. If I said, ‘Some time in May,’ he said, ‘No; it was June twelfth,’ and was right. He was an encyclopaedia of useless information. He had my goat. When I’d try a new line or bit of stage business that wouldn’t get over, my wife used to say, ‘Cut it out; it’s an Uncle Ned.’ . . . It’s uncanny, your landing on him.”
“Then let’s talk of happier things. Who, in your opinion — barring nobody — is the greatest living comedian?”
“Chaplin,” said Collier, quick as a wink.
“Why?”
“Because he can do without a word what every other comedian in the world can do only with words — because he can do that and then something more. He’s a great actor, great artist, great stage director and great comedian. He’s got it here.” Mr. Collier touched his brow.
“Who’s Chaplin’s favorite comedian?”
“Well ... of course. But in fact I was waiting