“You don’t appear to be in a jovial mood,” I said to Major Peabody, “Do I note a touch of discontent?”

      The Major didn’t bother to answer. He favored me with an angry, sullen, threatening stare. We were in my apartment, waiting for the lovely Stephanie. She had invited us to an afternoon reception honoring the author of the book, “How to Live to be a Hundred and Ten”. The man, she said, was internationally recognized as an expert in matters of diet and health.

      I knew how much Peabody hated afternoon social affairs. He would rather be tortured by the Mescalero Apache and staked out over a hill of fire ants. If he dislikes anything more than cocktail parties, it is writers and their elephantine egos, but he was trapped. He would never disappoint the lovely Stephanie. Years ago she invited him to a performance of Swan Lake. Peabody seriously considered contracting anthrax or, alternatively, committing suicide. However, he went to the ballet rather than disappoint her.

      And so, to avoid disappointing her, the Major felt compelled to spend an afternoon in the presence of not only an author, but an expert, to boot. The Major’s opinion of so-called experts was lower than his opinion of politicians.

      Though Peabody detested television, while we waited for the lovely Stephanie to arrive, we watched a panel of TV newscasters interviewing an expert on military matters. “Will you listen to those fools.” Peabody exclaimed. “Experts? Hah! We are besieged and bedeviled by armies of so-called experts. I blame it on the television news programs. They have to fill their time slot with something so they hire some photogenic ex-officer who was probably cashiered for incompetence ten years ago. They call him an ‘expert’ and he proceeds to tell everyone how run the war in Timbuktu. Expert? My foot.” (The Major didn’t say “foot”. He mentioned a different part of his anatomy)

       “Hollywood types,” he continued, “are excellent examples of experts. Some high school dropout with a low pitched voice, a reasonably straight nose and an outsized bust makes a few million dollars as an actress. Then, magically, she becomes an expert on everything. She’s on the talk shows confidently telling us how to save the universe from whatever threat has most recently been imagined by other experts. Damn experts, damn television and damn me for watching it.” The Major went to the television set and punched the OFF button with such vigor. I thought he might break his trigger finger.

      “Young man,” he said to me, “I am indebted to your legal profession.” That statement came as a complete surprise to me. I know the Major’s low opinion of attorneys. I’m afraid my jaw dropped. “Yes, lawyers have properly defined the true value of an expert’s opinion.” Peabody’s explanatory statement did nothing to cause a change in my expression. Apparently, Peabody noticed my confusion and decided to offer clarification.

      “Let’s say Uncle Pete dies at the ripe old age of 85,” he said. “He wills his entire estate to the young, nicely sculptured blonde who lives next door. Uncle Pete’s only living blood relative tries to break the will. He goes to an attorney who proceeds to hire three psychiatrists who testify as expert witnesses. Each one swears that Uncle Pete must have been operating under undue influence and was incompetent when the will was signed.

      “The young, nicely sculptured blonde’s attorney promptly puts three other psychiatrists on the stand. His experts all testify that Uncle Pete’s association with the young blonde proved he was not only lucky, but unquestionably sane. Each set of expert witnesses testifies the other one doesn’t know what they’re talking about.

      “The legal profession has performed a great service to the discerning public. Lawyers - bless their souls - have shown both sets of experts are incompetent. Their cross examination of the other guy’s expert witness proves no one should believe any of them.”

      The toot-toot-toot of a horn announced the lovely Stephanie’s arrival. Peabody disguised his unhappiness and was reasonably pleasant on the trip to the country home of the hostess. She met us at the door and we were introduced to the author - the guest of honor - the expert on health and longevity. The man wore a tweedy jacket, a tattersall shirt and a bow tie - the disguise regularly worn by those trying to fool the public into believing they are intellectual.

      As usual, Major Peabody searched the room for anyone who looked like he might be a bird hunter. He was disappointed. Finding none, he stuck close to me for protection. He puppy dogged behind me with a disregarded glass of white wine in his hand. He forced smiles and occasionally used up two or three sentences before he could escape an unwanted conversation.

      The Major’s ability to be civil when under the pressure of trying circumstances is limited to, at best, no more than two hours. Two and a half hours had already passed when the hostess led the writer toward us. Five or six ready-to-gush females and an equal number of sycophant males trailed in his wake.

      “I see you are quite tanned Major,” the guest of honor observed. “Do you spend much time in the sun?”

      “As much time in the un-crowded out-of-doors as I possibly can,” was Peabody’s terse response. I believe I was the only one who understood why he emphasized the word ‘un-crowded’. He desperately wanted to get away from the cocktail party. The author was secretly hoping for the answer the Major gave. Now he had another opportunity to display his wisdom. “Oh my! The sun can be quite dangerous, Major Peabody. You do use sun screen?”

      “No. I can’t be bothered with it. I tried it once, but I sweat. The stuff ran into my eyes and I couldn’t shoot straight.”

      “You should avoid the risk of developing skin cancer, Major,” the expert seriously intoned. The retinue congregating around him quickly nodded in agreement. “It’s almost as dangerous as eating red meat,” one of them said, trying to adopt the expert’s same serious intonation. “Or any meat,” another one added.

       “Surely, you don’t eat meat, Major,” the author said, but when his eyes met Peabody’s stern and unwavering stare, he had reason to question the assumption. “You don’t. Do you?” he questioned.

      “Grouse and duck,” Peabody immediately answered. Then he paused for a moment and, for the benefit of the expert and his retinue, gave a more complete response. “Canvasback, Mallard and Teal are very good. So is pheasant. Occasionally one of my hunting companions will provide me with venison or elk or antelope. When they neglect me, I’m reduced to eating Porterhouse steak or rack of lamb. I like ham, too - and any kind of pork - roasts, chops, bacon - all very tasty.”

      Consternation! Surprise! An audible gasp came from both the author and the obsequious group surrounding him. “Major! I feel it is incumbent upon me to beg you to change your unhealthy patterns. If you will follow my wholesome dietary and hygienic rules, a long and active life lies in front of you. If not, well...”

      Again, heads nodded in agreement. They needed to wait only seconds before the Major responded.

      “I will bet one thousand dollars that I will live longer than you.” Sounds like: “Oh, come now” and “Well - well” and “I see” came