Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 79
“Touching, isn’t it?” said the Stranger. “But I get lots of letters like that. Here’s another, also from a man, a plain man, working on his own farm. Hear what he says:
Dear Sir:
As soon as I saw your circular on HOW TO SPEED UP THE EMPLOYEE I felt that it was a big thing. I don’t have any hired help here to work with me, but only father. He cuts the wood and does odd chores about the place. So I realized that the best I could do was to try to speed up father. I started in to speed him up last Tuesday, and I wish you could see him. Before this he couldn’t split a cord of wood without cutting a slice off his boots. Now he does it in half the time.”
“But there,” the Stranger said, getting impatient even with his own reading, “I needn’t read it all. It is the same thing all along the line. I’ve got the Method introduced into the Department Stores. Before this every customer who came in wasted time trying to find the counters. Now we install a patent springboard, with a mechanism like a catapault. As soon as a customer comes in an attendant puts him on the board, blindfolds him, and says, ‘Where do you want to go?’ ‘Glove counter.’ Oh, all right.’ He’s fired at it through the air. No time lost. Same with the railways. They’re installing the Method, too. Every engineer who breaks the record from New York to Buffalo gets a glass of milk. When he gets a hundred glasses he can exchange them for a glass of beer. So with the doctors. On the new method, instead of giving a patient one pill a day for fourteen days they give him fourteen pills in one day. Doctors, lawyers, everybody, — in time, sir,” said the Stranger, in tones of rising excitement, “you’ll see even the plumbers—”
But just at this moment the door opened. A sturdy-looking man in blue entered. The Stranger’s voice was hushed at once. The excitement died out of his face. His manner all of a sudden was meekness itself.
“I was just coming,” he said.
“That’s right, sir,” said the man; “better come along and not take up the gentleman’s time.”
“Good-bye, then,” said the Stranger, with meek affability, and he went out.
The man in blue lingered behind for a moment.
“A sad case, sir,” he said, and he tapped his forehead.
“You mean—” I asked.
“Exactly. Cracked, sir. Quite cracked; but harmless. I’m engaged to look after him, but he gave me the slip downstairs.”
“He is under delusions?” we inquired.
“Yes, sir. He’s got it into his head that business in this country has all gone to pieces, — thinks it must be reorganized. He writes letters about it all day and sends them to the papers with imaginary names. You may have seen some of them. Good day, sir.”
We looked at our watch. We had lost just half an hour over the new efficiency. We turned back with a sigh to our old-fashioned task.
WHO IS ALSO WHO
A Companion Volume to Who’s Who
NOTE BY THE editor: I do not quarrel with the contents of such valuable compendiums as “Who’s Who,” “Men and Women of the Time,” etc., etc. But they leave out the really Representative People. The names that they include are so well known as to need no commentary, while those that they exclude are the very people one most wishes to read about. My new book is not arranged alphabetically, that order having given great offence in certain social circles.
Smith, J. Everyman: born Kenoka Springs; educ. Kenoka Springs; present residence, The Springs, Kenoka; address, Kenoka Springs Post-Office; after leaving school threw himself (Oct. 1881) into college study; thrown out of it (April 1882); decided to follow the law; followed it (1882); was left behind (1883); decided (1884) to abandon it; abandoned it; resolved (1885) to turn his energies to finance; turned them (1886); kept them turned (1887); unturned them (1888); was offered position (1889) as sole custodian of Mechanics’ Institute, Kenoka Springs; decided (same date) to accept it; accepted it; is there now; will be till he dies.
Flintlock, J. Percussion: aged 87; war veteran and pensioner; born, blank; educated, blank; at outbreak of Civil War sprang to arms; both sides; sprang Union first; entered beef contract department of army of U. S.; fought at Chicago, Omaha, and leading (beef) centres of operation during the thickest of the (beef) conflict; was under Hancock, Burnside, Meade, and Grant; fought with all of them; mentioned (very strongly) by all of them; entered Confederate Service (1864); attached (very much) to rum department of quarter-master’s staff; mentioned in this connection (very warmly) in despatches of General Lee; mustered out, away out, of army; lost from sight, 1865-1895; placed on pension list with rank of general, 1895; has stayed on, 1895-1915; obtained (on 6th Avenue) war medals and service clasps; publications— “My Campaigns under Grant,” “Battles I have Saved,” “Feeding an Army,” “Stuffing the Public,” etc., etc.; recreations, telling war stories; favorite amusement, showing war medals.
Crook, W. Underhand: born, dash; parents, double dash; educated at technical school; on graduation turned his attention to the problem of mechanical timelocks and patent safes; entered Sing-Sing, 1890; resident there, 1890-1893; Auburn, 1894, three months; various state institutions, 1895-1898; worked at profession, 1898-1899; Sing-Sing, 1900; professional work, 1901; Sing-Sing, 1902; profession, 1903, Sing-Sing; profession, Sing-Sing, etc., etc.; life appointment, 1908; general favorite, musical, has never killed anybody.
Gloomie, Dreary O’Leary: Scotch dialect comedian and humorist; well known in Scotland; has standing offer from Duke of Sutherland to put foot on estate.
Muck, O. Absolute: novelist; of low German extraction; born Rotterdam; educated Muckendorf; escaped to America; long unrecognized; leaped into prominence by writing “The Social Gas-Pipe,” a powerful indictment of modern society, written in revenge for not being invited to dinner; other works— “The Sewerage of the Sea-Side,” an arraignment of Newport society, reflecting on some of his best friends; “Vice and Super-Vice,” a telling denunciation of the New York police, written after they had arrested him; “White Ravens,” an indictment of the clergy; “Black Crooks,” an indictment of the publishers, etc., etc.; has arraigned and indicted nearly everybody.
Whyner, Egbert Ethelwind: poet, at age of sixteen wrote a quatrain, “The Banquet of Nebuchadnezzar,” and at once left school; followed it up in less than two years by a poem in six lines “America”; rested a year and then produced “Babylon, A Vision of Civilization,” three lines; has written also “Herod, a Tragedy,” four lines; “Revolt of Woman, “two lines, and “The Day of Judgement,” one line. Recreation, writing poetry.
Adult, Hon. Underdone: address The Shrubbery, Hopton- under-Hyde, Rotherham-near-Pottersby, Potts, Hants, Hops, England (or words to that effect); organizer of the Boys’ League of Pathfinders, Chief Commissioner of the Infant Crusaders, Grand Master of the Young Imbeciles; Major-General of the Girl Rangers, Chief of Staff of the Matron Mountain Climbers, etc.
Zfwinski, X. Z.: Polish pianist; plays all night; address 4,570 West 457 Street, Westside, Chicago West.
PASSIONATE PARAGRAPHS
(AN EXTRACT FROM a recent (very recent) novel, illustrating the new beauties of language and ideas that are being rapidly developed by the twentieth century press.)
His voice as he turned towards her was taut as a tie-line.
“You don’t love me!” he hoarsed, thick with agony. She had angled into a seat and sat sensing-rather-than-seeing him.
For a time she silenced. Then presently as he still stood and enveloped her, —
“Don’t!” she thinned, her voice fining to a thread.
“Answer me,” he gloomed, still gazing into-and-through her.
She half-heard half-didn’t-hear him.
Night was falling about them as they sat thus beside the river. A molten afterglow of iridescent saffron shot with incandescent carmine lit up the waters of the Hudson till they glowed like electrified uranium.
For a while they both sat silent, — looming.
“It had to be,” she glumped.
“Why, why?” he barked. “Why should it have had to have been or (more hopefully) even be to be? Surely you don’t mean because of MONEY?”
She shuddered into herself.
The thing seemed to sting her (it hadn’t really).
“Money!” she almost-but-not-quite-moaned. “You might have spared me that!”
He sank down and grassed.
And after they had sat thus for another half-hour grassing and growling and angling and sensing one another, it turned out that all that he was trying to say was to ask if she would marry him.
And of course she said yes.
WEEJEE THE PET DOG
An Idyll of the Summer
WE WERE SITTING on the verandah of the Sopley’s summer cottage.
“How lovely it is here,” I said to my host and hostess, “and how still.”
It was at this moment that Weejee, the pet dog, took a sharp nip at the end of my tennis trousers.
“Weejee!!” exclaimed his mistress with great emphasis, “BAD dog! how dare you, sir! BAD dog!”
“I hope he hasn’t hurt you,” said my host.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I answered cheerfully. “He hardly scratched me.”
“You know I don’t think he means anything by it,” said Mrs. Sopley.
“Oh, I’m SURE he doesn’t,” I answered.
Weejee was coming nearer to me again as I spoke.
“WEEJEE!!” cried my hostess, “naughty dog, bad!”
“Funny thing about that dog,” said Sopley, “the way he KNOWS people. It’s a sort of instinct. He knew right away that you were a stranger, — now, yesterday, when the butcher came, there was a new driver on the cart and Weejee knew it right away, — grabbed the man by the leg at once, — wouldn’t let go. I called out to the man that it was all right or he might have done Weejee some harm.”
At this moment Weejee took the second nip at my other trouser leg. There was a short GUR-R-R and a slight mix-up.
“Weejee! Weejee!” called Mrs. Sopley. “How DARE you, sir! You’re just a BAD dog!! Go and lie down, sir. I’m so sorry. I think, you know, it’s your white trousers. For some reason Weejee simply HATES white trousers. I do hope he hasn’t torn them.”
“Oh, no,” I said; “it’s nothing only a slight tear.”
“Here, Weege, Weege,” said Sopley, anxious to make a diversion and picking up a little chip of wood,— “chase it, fetch it out!” and he made the motions of throwing it into the lake.
“Don’t throw it too far, Charles,” said his wife. “He doesn’t swim awfully well,” she continued, turning to me, “and I’m always afraid he might get out of his depth. Last week he was ever so nearly drowned. Mr. Van Toy was in swimming, and he had on a dark blue suit (dark blue seems simply to infuriate Weejee) and Weejee just dashed in after him. He don’t MEAN anything, you know, it was only the SUIT made him angry, — he really likes Mr. Van Toy, — but just for a minute we were quite alarmed. If Mr. Van Toy hadn’t carried Weejee in I think he might have been drowned.
“By jove!” I said in a tone to indicate how appalled I was.
“Let me throw the stick, Charles,” continued Mrs. Sopley. “Now, Weejee, look Weejee — here, good dog — look! look now (sometimes Weejee simply won’t do what one wants), here, Weejee; now, good dog!”
Weejee had his tail sideways between his legs and was moving towards me again.
“Hold on,” said Sopley in a stern tone, “let me throw him in.”
“Do be careful, Charles,” said his wife.
Sopley picked Weejee up by the collar and carried him to the edge of the water — it was about six inches deep, — and threw him in, — with much the same force as, let us say, a pen is thrown into ink or a brush dipped into a pot of varnish.
“That’s enough; that’s quite enough, Charles,” exclaimed Mrs. Sopley. “I think he’d better not swim. The water in the evening is always a little cold. Good dog, good doggie, good Weejee!”
Meantime “good Weejee” had come out of the water and was moving again towards me.
“He goes straight to you,” said my hostess. “I think he must have taken a fancy to you.”
He had.
To prove it, Weejee gave himself a rotary whirl like a twirled mop.
“Oh, I’m SO sorry,” said Mrs. Sopley. “I am. He’s wetted you. Weejee, lie down, down, sir, good dog, bad dog, lie down!”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ve another white suit in my valise.”
“But you must be wet through,” said Mrs. Sopley. “Perhaps we’d better go in. It’s getting late, anyway, isn’t it?” And then she added to her husband, “I don’t think Weejee ought to sit out here now that he’s wet.”
So we went in.
“I think you’ll find everything you need,” said Sopley, as he showed me to my room, “and, by the way, don’t mind if Weejee comes into your room at night. We like to let him run all over the house and he often sleeps on this bed.”
“All right,” I said cheerfully, “I’ll look after him.”
That night Weejee came.
And when it was far on in the dead of night — so that even the lake and the trees were hushed in sleep, I took Weejee out and — but there is no need to give the details of it.
And the Sopleys are still wondering where Weejee has gone to, and waiting for him to come back, because he is so clever at finding his way.
But from where Weejee is, no one finds his way back.
SIDELIGHTS ON THE SUPERMEN
An Interview with General Bernhardi
HE CAME INTO my room in that modest, Prussian way that he has, clicking his heels together, his head very erect, his neck tightly gripped in his forty-two centimeter collar. He had on a Pickelhaube, or Prussian helmet, which he removed with a sweeping gesture and laid on the sofa.
So I knew at once that it was General Bernhardi.
In spite of his age he looked — I am bound to admit it — a fine figure of a man. There was a splendid fullness about his chest and shoulders, and a suggestion of rugged power all over him. I had not heard him on the stairs. He seemed to appear suddenly beside me.
“How did you get past the janitor?” I asked. For it was late at night, and my room at college is three flights up the stairs.
“The janitor,” he answered carelessly, “I killed him.”
I gave a gasp.
“His resistance,” the general went on, “was very slight. Apparently in this country your janitors are unarmed.”
“You killed him?” I asked.
“We Prussians,” said Bernhardi, “when we wish an immediate access anywhere, always kill the janitor. It is quicker: and it makes for efficiency. It impresses them with a sense of our Furchtbarkeit. You have no word for that in English, I believe?”
“Not outside of a livery stable,” I answered.
There was a pause. I was thinking of the janitor. It seemed in a sort of way — I admit that I have a sentimental streak in me — a deplorable thing.
“Sit down,” I said presently.
“Thank you,” answered the General, but remained standing.
“All right,” I said, “do it.”
“Thank you,” he repeated, without moving.
“I forgot,” I said. “Perhaps you CAN’T sit down.”
“Not very well,” he answered; “in fact, we Prussian officers” — here he drew himself up higher still— “never sit down. Our uniforms do not permit of it. This inspires us with a kind of Rastlosigkeit.” Here his eyes glittered.
“It must,” I said.
“In fact, with an Unsittlichkeit — an Unverschamtheit — with an Ein-fur-alle-mal-un-dur-chaus—”
“Exactly,” I said, for I saw that he was getting excited, “but pray tell me, General, to what do I owe the honour of this visit?”
The General’s manner changed at once.
“Highly learned, and high-well-born-professor,” he said, “I come to you as to a fellow author, known and honoured not merely in England, for that is nothing, but in Germany herself, and in Turkey, the very home of Culture.”
I knew that it was mere flattery. I knew that in this same way Lord Haldane had been so captivated as to come out of the Emperor’s presence unable to say anything but “Sittlichkeit” for weeks; that good old John Burns had been betrayed by a single dinner at Potsdam, and that the Sultan of Turkey had been told that his Answers to Ultimatums were the wittiest things written since Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. Yet I was pleased in spite of myself.
“What!” I exclaimed, “they know my works of humour in Germany?”
“Do they know them?” said the General. “Ach! Himmel! How they laugh. That work of yours (I think I see it on the shelf behind you), The Elements of Political Science, how the Kaiser has laughed over it! And the Crown Prince! It nearly killed him!”
“I will send him the new edition,” I said. “But tell me, General, what is it that you want of me?”
“It is about my own book,” he answered. “You have read it?”
I pointed to a copy of Germany and the Next War, in its glaring yellow cover — the very hue of Furchtbarkeit — lying on the table.
“You have read it? You have really read it?” asked the General with great animation.
“No,” I said, “I won’t go so far as to say that. But I have TRIED to read it. And I talk about it as if I had read it.”
The General’s face fell.
“You are as the others,” he said, “They buy the book, they lay it on the table, they talk of it at dinner, — they say ‘Bernhardi has prophesied this, Bernhardi foresaw that,’ but read it, — nevermore.”
“Still,” I said, “you get the royalties.”
“They are cut off. The perfidious British Government will not allow the treacherous publisher to pay them. But that is not my complaint.”
“What is the matter, then?” I asked.
“My book is misunderstood. You English readers have failed to grasp its intention. It is not meant as a book of strategy. It is what you call a work of humour. The book is to laugh. It is one big joke.”
