On Saturday evening Ruth Dudley Edwards, Bill Fitzhugh, Charles Benoit, and I walked through the mean streets of Muncie, ending up in the “Backstage” bar, a friendly joint where a single is a double and a double is an express train to nirvana, where we drank gimlets and swapped P. G. Wodehouse quotations. It felt good. And as the evening wore on, it felt gooder.