Coffee and Repartee Read online

  VIII

  "There's a friend of mine up near Riverdale," said the Idiot, as heunfolded his napkin and let his bill flutter from it to the floor,"who's tried to make a name for himself in literature."

  "What's his name?" asked the Bibliomaniac, interested at once.

  "That's just the trouble. He hasn't made it yet," replied the Idiot. "Hehasn't succeeded in his courtship of the Muse, and beyond himself and afew friends his name is utterly unknown."

  "What work has he tried?" queried the School-master, pouringunadmonished two portions of skimmed milk over his oatmeal.

  "A little of everything. First he wrote a novel. It had an immensecirculation, and he only lost $300 on it. All of his friends took acopy--I've got one that he gave me--and I believe two hundrednewspapers were fortunate enough to secure the book for review. Hisfather bought two, and tried to obtain the balance of the edition, butdidn't have enough money. That was gratifying, but gratification is moreapt to deplete than to strengthen a bank account."

  "I had not expected so extraordinarily wise an observation from one sounusually unwise," said the School-master, coldly.

  "Thank you," returned the Idiot. "But I think your remark is rathercontradictory. You would naturally expect wise observations from theunusually unwise; that is, if your teaching that the expression'unusually unwise' is but another form of the expression 'usually wise'is correct. But, as I was saying, when the genial instructor of youthinterrupted me with his flattery," continued the Idiot, "gratificationis gratifying but not filling, so my friend concluded that he had bettergive up novel-writing and try jokes. He kept at that a year, and managedto clear his postage-stamps. His jokes were good, but too classic forthe tastes of the editors. Editors are peculiar. They have no respectfor age--particularly in the matter of jests. Some of my friend'sjokes had seemed good enough for Plutarch to print when he had apublisher at his mercy, but they didn't seem to suit the high and mightyproducts of this age who sit in judgment on such things in thecomic-paper offices. So he gave up jokes."

  WOOING THE MUSE]

  "Does he still know you?" asked the landlady.

  "Yes, madame," observed the Idiot.

  "Then he hasn't given up all jokes," she retorted, with fine scorn.

  "Tee-he-hee!" laughed the School-master. "Pretty good, Mrs.Smithers--pretty good."

  "Yes," said the Idiot. "That is good, and, by Jove! it differs from yourbutter, Mrs. Smithers, because it's entirely fresh. It's good enough toprint, and I don't think the butter is."

  "What did your friend do next?" asked Mr. Whitechoker.

  "He was employed by a funeral director in Philadelphia to write obituaryverses for memorial cards."

  "And was he successful?"

  "For a time; but he lost his position because of an error made by acareless compositor in a marble-yard. He had written,

  "'Here lies the hero of a hundred fights-- Approximated he a perfect man; He fought for country and his country's rights, And in the hottest battles led the van.'"

  "Fine in sentiment and in execution!" observed Mr. Whitechoker.

  "Truly so," returned the Idiot. "But when the compositor in themarble-yard got it engraved on the monument, my friend was away, andwhen the army post that was to pay the bill received the monument, thequatrain read,

  "'Here lies the hero of a hundred flights-- Approximated he a perfect one; He fought his country and his country's rights, And in the hottest battles led the run.'"

  "Awful!" ejaculated the Minister.

  "Dreadful!" said the landlady, forgetting to be sarcastic.

  "What happened?" asked the School-master.

  "He was bounced, of course, without a cent of pay, and the companyfailed the next week, so he couldn't make anything by suing for whatthey owed him."

  "Mighty hard luck," said the Bibliomaniac.

  "Very; but there was one bright side to the case," observed the Idiot."He managed to sell both versions of the quatrain afterwards for fivedollars. He sold the original one to a religious weekly for a dollar,and got four dollars for the other one from a comic paper. Then he wrotean anecdote about the whole thing for a Sunday newspaper, and got threedollars more out of it."

  "And what is your friend doing now?" asked the Doctor.

  "Oh, he's making a mint of money now, but no name."

  "In literature?"

  "Yes. He writes advertisements on salary," returned the Idiot. "He iswriting now a recommendation of tooth-powder in Indian dialect."

  "Why didn't he try writing an epic?" said the Bibliomaniac.

  "'HE GAVE UP JOKES'"]

  "Because," replied the Idiot, "the one aim of his life has been to beoriginal, and he couldn't reconcile that with epic poetry."

  At which remark the landlady stooped over, and recovering the Idiot'sbill from under the table, called the maid, and ostentatiously requestedher to hand it to the Idiot. He, taking a cigarette from his pocket,thanked the maid for the attention, and rolling the slip into a taper,thoughtfully stuck one end of it into the alcohol light under thecoffee-pot, and lighting the cigarette with it, walked nonchalantly fromthe room.