Literary Lapses by Stephen Leacock (ebook reader online TXT) 📗
- Author: Stephen Leacock
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"Talk about hard food," interrupted the other, "I guess I know all about that. Many's the time I've breakfasted off a little cold porridge that somebody was going to throw away from a back-door, or that I've gone round to a livery stable and begged a little bran mash that they intended for the pigs. I'll venture to say I've eaten more hog's food—"
"Hog's food!" shouted Robinson, striking his fist savagely on the table, "I tell you hog's food suits me better than—"
He stopped speaking with a sudden grunt of surprise as the waiter appeared with the question:
"What may I bring you for dinner, gentlemen?"
"Dinner!" said Jones, after a moment of silence, "dinner! Oh, anything, nothing—I never care what I eat—give me a little cold porridge, if you've got it, or a chunk of salt pork—anything you like, it's all the same to me."
The waiter turned with an impassive face to Robinson.
"You can bring me some of that cold porridge too," he said, with a defiant look at Jones; "yesterday's, if you have it, and a few potato peelings and a glass of skim milk."
There was a pause. Jones sat back in his chair and looked hard across at Robinson. For some moments the two men gazed into each other's eyes with a stern, defiant intensity. Then Robinson turned slowly round in his seat and beckoned to the waiter, who was moving off with the muttered order on his lips.
"Here, waiter," he said with a savage scowl, "I guess I'll change that order a little. Instead of that cold porridge I'll take—um, yes—a little hot partridge. And you might as well bring me an oyster or two on the half shell, and a mouthful of soup (mock-turtle, consomme, anything), and perhaps you might fetch along a dab of fish, and a little peck of Stilton, and a grape, or a walnut."
The waiter turned to Jones.
"I guess I'll take the same," he said simply, and added; "and you might bring a quart of champagne at the same time."
And nowadays, when Jones and Robinson meet, the memory of the tar barrel and the piano box is buried as far out of sight as a home for the blind under a landslide.
A Model Dialogue
In which is shown how the drawing-room juggler may be permanently cured of his card trick.
The drawing-room juggler, having slyly got hold of the pack of cards at the end of the game of whist, says:
"Ever see any card tricks? Here's rather a good one; pick a card."
"Thank you, I don't want a card."
"No, but just pick one, any one you like, and I'll tell which one you pick."
"You'll tell who?"
"No, no; I mean, I'll know which it is don't you see? Go on now, pick a card."
"Any one I like?"
"Yes."
"Any colour at all?"
"Yes, yes."
"Any suit?"
"Oh, yes; do go on."
"Well, let me see, I'll—pick—the—ace of spades."
"Great Caesar! I mean you are to pull a card out of the pack."
"Oh, to pull it out of the pack! Now I understand. Hand me the pack. All right—I've got it."
"Have you picked one?"
"Yes, it's the three of hearts. Did you know it?"
"Hang it! Don't tell me like that. You spoil the thing. Here, try again. Pick a card."
"All right, I've got it."
"Put it back in the pack. Thanks. (Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle—flip)—There, is that it?" (triumphantly).
"I don't know. I lost sight of it."
"Lost sight of it! Confound it, you have to look at it and see what it is."
"Oh, you want me to look at the front of it!"
"Why, of course! Now then, pick a card."
"All right. I've picked it. Go ahead." (Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle—flip.)
"Say, confound you, did you put that card back in the pack?"
"Why, no. I kept it."
"Holy Moses! Listen. Pick—a—card—just one—look at it—see what it is—then put it back—do you understand?"
"Oh, perfectly. Only I don't see how you are ever going to do it. You must be awfully clever."
(Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle—flip.)
"There you are; that's your card, now, isn't it?" (This is the supreme moment.)
"NO. THAT IS NOT MY CARD." (This is a flat lie, but Heaven will pardon you for it.)
"Not that card!!!! Say—just hold on a second. Here, now, watch what you're at this time. I can do this cursed thing, mind you, every time. I've done it on father, on mother, and on every one that's ever come round our place. Pick a card. (Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle—flip, bang.) There, that's your card."
"NO. I AM SORRY. THAT IS NOT MY CARD. But won't you try it again? Please do. Perhaps you are a little excited—I'm afraid I was rather stupid. Won't you go and sit quietly by yourself on the back verandah for half an hour and then try? You have to go home? Oh, I'm so sorry. It must be such an awfully clever little trick. Good night!"
Back to the Bush
I have a friend called Billy, who has the Bush Mania. By trade he is a doctor, but I do not think that he needs to sleep out of doors. In ordinary things his mind appears sound. Over the tops of his gold-rimmed spectacles, as he bends forward to speak to you, there gleams nothing but amiability and kindliness. Like all the rest of us he is, or was until he forgot it all, an extremely well-educated man.
I am aware of no criminal strain in his blood. Yet Billy
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