The Wit and Humor of America, Volume IX
TextNATURAL PHILOSOPHY
BY WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND
Very offen I be t'inkin' of de queer folks goin' roun',
And way dey kip a-talkin' of de hard tam get along—
May have plaintee money, too, an' de healt' be good an' soun'—
But you'll fin' dere's alway somet'ing goin' wrong—
'Course dere may be many reason w'y some feller ought to fret—
But me, I'm alway singin' de only song I know—
'Tisn't long enough for music, an' so short you can't forget,
But it drive away de lonesome, an' dis is how she go,
"Jus' tak' your chance, an' try your luck."
Funny feller's w'at dey call me—"so diff'ren' from de res',"
But ev'rybody got hees fault, as far as I can see—
An' all de t'ing I'm doin', I do it for de bes',
Dough w'en I'm bettin' on a race, dat's offen loss for me—
"Oho!" I say, "Alphonse, ma frien', to-day is not your day,
For more you got your money up, de less your trotter go—
But never min' an' don't lie down," dat's w'at I alway say,
An' sing de sam' ole song some more, mebbe a leetle slow—
"Jus' tak' your chance, an' try your luck."
S'pose ma uncle die an' lef me honder dollar, mebbe two—
An' I don't tak' hees advice—me—for put heem on de bank—
'Stead o' dat, some lot'rie ticket, to see w'at I can do,
An' purty soon I'm findin' put dey're w'at you call de blank—
Wall! de bank she might bus' up dere—somet'ing might go wrong—
Dem feller, w'en dey get it, mebbe skip before de night—
Can't tell—den w'ere's your money? So I sing ma leetle song
An' don't boder wit' de w'isky, an' again I feel all right.
"Jus' tak' your chance, an' try your luck."
If you're goin' to mak' de marry, kip a look out on de eye,
But no matter how you're careful, it was risky anyhow—
An' if you're too unlucky, jus' remember how you try
For gettin' dat poor woman, dough she may have got you now—
All de sam', it sometam happen dat your wife will pass away—
No use cryin', you can't help it—dere's your duty to you'se'f—
You don't need to ax de neighbor, dey will tell you ev'ry day
Start again lak hones' feller, for dere's plaintee woman lef'—
"Jus' tak' your chance, an' try your luck."
Poor man lak me, I'm not'ing: only w'en election's dere,
An' ev'rybody's waitin' to ketch you by de t'roat—
De money I be makin' den, wall! dot was mon affaire—
An' affer all w'at diff'rence how de poor man mak' de vote?
So I do ma very bes'—me—wit' de wife an' familee—
On de church door Sunday morning, you can see us all parade—
Len' a frien' a half a dollar, an' never go on spree—
So w'en I'm comin' die—me—no use to be afraid—
"Jus' tak' your chance, an' try your luck."
HOW I SPOKE THE WORD
FRANK L. STANTON
The snow come down in sheets of white
An' made the pine trees shiver;
'Peared like the world had said good night
An' crawled beneath the kiver.
The river's shiny trail wuz gone—
The winds sung out a warnin';
The mountains put their nightcaps on
An' said: "Good-by till mornin'!"
'Twuz jest the night in fiel' an' wood
When cabin homes look cozy,
An' fine oak fires feel mighty good,
An' women's cheeks look rosy.
An' that remin's me. We wuz four,
A-settin' by the fire;
But still it 'peared ten mile or more
Betwixt me an' Maria!
"No, sir!" (I caught that eye of his,
An' then I fit and floundered!)
"The thing I want to tell you is—"
Says he: "The old mare's foundered?"
"No, sir! it ain't about no hoss!"
(My throat begin to rattle!)
"I see," he said, "another loss
In them fine Jersey cattle!"
An' then I lost my patience! Then
I hollered high and higher
(You could 'a' heard me down the glen):
"No, sir! I want Maria!"
"An' now," says I, "the shaft'll strike:
He'll let that statement stay so!"
He looked at me astonished-like,
Then yelled: "Why didn't you say so?"
THE UNIVERSITY INTELLIGENCE OFFICE
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
"Mr. Brief," said the Idiot the other morning as the family of Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog gathered at the breakfast table, "don't you want to be let in on the ground floor of a sure thing?"
"I do if there's no cellar under it to fall into when the bottom drops out," smiled Mr. Brief. "What's up? You going into partnership with Mr. Rockefeller?"
"No," said the Idiot. "There isn't any money in that."
"What?" cried the Bibliomaniac. "No money in a partnership with Rockefeller?"
"Not a cent," said the Idiot. "After paying Mr. Rockefeller his dividend of 105 per cent. of the gross receipts and deducting expenses from what's left, you'd find you owed him money. My scheme is to start an entirely new business—one that's never been thought of before apparently—incorporate it at $100,000, of which I am to receive $51,000 in stock for the idea, $24,000 worth of shares to go to Mr. Brief for legal services and the balance to be put on the market at 45."
"That sounds rich," said Mr. Brief. "I might devote an hour of my time to your scheme some rainy Sunday afternoon when there is nothing else to do, for that amount of stock, provided, of course, your scheme has no State's Prison string tied to it."
"There isn't even a county jail at the end of it," observed the Idiot. "It's clean, clear and straight. It will fill a long felt want, and, as I see it, ought to pay fifty percent dividends the first year. They say figures don't lie, and I am in possession of some that tell me I've got a bonanza in my University Intelligence Office Company."
"The title sounds respectable," said Mr. Whitechoker. "What is it, Mr. Idiot—a sort of University Settlement Scheme?"
"Well—yes," said the Idiot. "It is designed to get University graduates settled, if you can call that a University Settlement Scheme. To put it briefly, it's an Intelligence Office for College graduates where they may go for the purpose of getting a job, just as our cooks, and butlers and valets and the rest do. If there's money in securing a place at good wages for the ladies who burn our steaks and promote indigestion for us, and for the gentlemen who keep our trousers pressed and wear out our linen, I don't see why there wouldn't be money in an institution which did the same thing for the struggling young bachelor of arts who is thrown out of the arms of Alma Mater on to the hands of a cold and unappreciative world."
"At last!" cried the Doctor. "At last I find sanity in one of your suggestions. That idea of yours, Mr. Idiot, is worthy of a genius. I have a nephew just out of college and what on earth to do with him nobody in the family can imagine. He doesn't seem to be good for anything except sitting around and letting his hair grow long."
"That isn't much of a profession, is it," said the Idiot. "What does he want to do?"
"That's the irritating part of it," observed the Doctor. "When I asked him the other night what he intended to do for a living he said he hadn't made up his mind yet between becoming a motor-man or the Editor of the South American Review. That's a satisfactory kind of an answer, eh? Especially when the family income is hardly big enough to keep the modern youth in neckties."
"I don't believe any Intelligence Office in creation could do anything for a man like that," sneered the Bibliomaniac. "What that young man needs is a good sound spanking, and I'd like to give it to him."
"All right," said the Doctor with a laugh. "I'll see that you have the chance. If you'll go out to my sister's with me some time next week I'll introduce you to Bill and you can begin."
"Why don't you do it yourself, Doctor?" asked the Idiot, noting the twinkle in the Doctor's eye.
"I'm too busy," laughed the Doctor. "Besides I only weigh one hundred and twenty pounds and Bill is six feet two inches high and weighs two hundred and ten pounds stripped. I think if I were armed with a telegraph pole and Bill with only a tooth-pick as a weapon of defense he could thrash me with ease. However, if Mr. Bib wants to try it—"
"Send Bill to us, Doctor," said the Idiot. "I sort of like Bill and I'll bet the University Intelligence Office will get him a job in forty-eight hours. A man who is willing to mote or Edit has an adaptability that ought to locate him permanently somewhere."
"I don't quite see," said Mr. Brief, "just how you are going to work your scheme, Mr. Idiot. I must confess I should regard Bill as a pretty tough proposition."
"Not at all," said the Idiot. "The only trouble with Bill is that he hasn't found himself yet. He's probably one of those easy-going, popular youngsters who've devoted their college days to growing. Just at present he's got more vitality than brains. I imagine from his answer to the Doctor that he is a good-natured hulks who could get anything he wanted in college except a scholarship. I haven't any doubt that he was beloved of all his classmates and was known to his fellows as Old Hoss, or Beefy Bill or Blue-eyed Billie and could play any game from Muggins to Pit like a hero of a Bret Harte romance."
"You've sized Bill up all right," said the Doctor. "He is just that, but he has brains. The only trouble is he's been saving them up for a rainy day and now when the showers are beginning he doesn't know how to use 'em. How would you go about getting him a job, Mr. Idiot?"
"Bill ought to go into the publishing business," said the Idiot. "He was cut out for a book-agent. He has a physique which, to begin with, would command respectful attention for anything he might have to say concerning the wares he had to sell. He seems to have, from your brief description of him, that suavity of manner which would surely secure his admittance into the houses of the elite, and his sense of humor I judge to be sufficiently highly developed to enable him to make a sale wherever he felt there was the remotest chance. Is he handsome?"
"I am told he looks like me," said the Doctor, pleasantly.
"Oh, well," rejoined the Idiot, "good looks aren't essential after all. It would be better though if he were a man of fine presence. If he's big and genial, as you suggest, he can carry off his deficiencies in personal pulchritude."
The Doctor flushed a trifle. "Oh, Bill isn't so plain," he observed airily. "There's none of your sissy beauty about Bill, I grant you, but—oh, well"—here the Doctor twirled his mustache complacently.
"I should think the place for Bill would be on the trolley," sneered the Bibliomaniac.
"No, sir," returned the Idiot. "Never. Geniality never goes on the trolley. In the first place it isn't appreciated by the Management and in the second place it is a dangerous gift for a motor-man. I had a friend once—a college graduate of very much Bill's kind—who went on the trolley as a Conductor at seven dollars a week and, by Jingo, would you believe it, all his friends waited for his car and of course he never asked any of 'em for their fare. Gentlemen, he used to say, welcome to my car. This is on me."
"Swindled the Company by letting his friends ride free, eh?" said the Bibliomaniac.
"Never," said the Idiot. "Pete was honest and he rung 'em up same as anybody and of course had to settle with the Treasurer at the end of the trip. On his first month he was nine dollars out. Then he couldn't bring himself to ask a lady for money, and if a passenger looked like a sport Pete would offer to match him for his fare—double or quits. Consequence was he lost money steadily. All the hard luck people used to ride with him, too, and one night—it was a bitter night in December and everybody in the car was pretty near frozen—Pete stopped his car in front of the Fifth Avenue Hotel and invited everybody on board to come in and have a wee nippy. All except two old ladies and a Chinaman accepted and of course the reporters got hold of it, told the story in the papers and Pete was bounced. I don't think the average college graduate is quite suited by temperament for the trolley service."
"All of which is intensely interesting," observed the Bibliomaniac, "but I don't see how it helps to make your University Intelligence Office Company convincing."
"It helps in this way," explained the Idiot. "We shall have a Board of Inspectors made up of men with some knowledge of human nature who will put these thousands of young graduates through a cross-examination to find out just what they can do. Few of 'em have the slightest idea of that and they'll gladly pay for the assistance we propose to give them when they have discovered that they have taken the first real step toward securing a useful and profitable occupation. If a Valedictorian comes into the University Intelligence Office and applies for a job we'll put him through a third degree examination and if we discover in him those restful qualities which go to the making of a good plumber, we'll set about finding him a job in a plumbing establishment. If a Greek Salutatorian in search of a position has the sweep of arm and general uplift of manner that indicates a useful career as a window-washer, we will put him in communication with those who need just such a person."
"How about the coldly supercilious young man who knows it all and wishes to lead a life of elegant leisure, yet must have wages?" asked the Bibliomaniac. "Our Colleges are turning out many such."
"He's the easiest proposition in the bunch," replied the Idiot. "If they were all like that our fortunes would be established in a week."
"In what way?" persisted the Bibliomaniac.
"In two ways," replied the Idiot. "Such persons are constantly in demand as Janitors of cheap apartment houses which are going up with marvelous rapidity on all sides of us, and as Editors of ten-cent magazines, of which on the average there are, I believe, five new ones started every day of the year, including Saturdays, Sundays and legal holidays."
"I say, Mr. Idiot," said the Doctor later. "That was a bully idea of yours about the University Intelligence Office. It would be a lot of help to the thousands of youngsters who are graduated every year—but I don't think it's practicable just yet. What I wanted to ask you is if you could help me with Bill?"
"Certainly I can," said the Idiot.
"Really?" cried the Doctor.
"Yes, indeed," said the Idiot. "I can help you a lot."
"How? What shall I do?" asked the Doctor.
"Take my advice," whispered the Idiot. "Let Bill alone. He'll find himself. You can tell that by his answer."
"Oh!" said the Doctor, lapsing into solemnity. "I thought you could give me a material suggestion as to what to do with the boy."
"Ah! You want something specific, eh?" said the Idiot.
"Yes," said the Doctor.
"Well—get him a job as a Campaign Speaker. This is a great year for the stump," said the Idiot.
"That isn't bad," said the Doctor. "Which side?"
"Either," said the Idiot. "Or both. Bill has adaptability and, between you and me, from what I hear on the street both sides are going to win this year. If they do, Bill's fortune is made."
THE COUNTRY SCHOOL
ANONYMOUS
Put to the door—the school's begun—
Stand in your places every one,—
Attend,–
Read in the Bible,—tell the place,—
Job twentieth and the seventeenth varse—
Caleb, begin. And—he—shall—suck—
Sir,—Moses got a pin and stuck—
Silence,—stop Caleb—Moses! here!
What's this complaint? I didn't, Sir,—
Hold up your hand,—What, is't a pin?
O dear, I won't do so again.
Read on. The increase of his h-h-horse—
Hold: H,O,U,S,E, spells house.
Sir, what's this word? for I can't tell it.
Can't you indeed! Why, spell it. Spell it.
Begin yourself, I say. Who, I?
Yes, try. Sure you can spell it. Try.
Go, take your seats and primers, go,
You sha'n't abuse the Bible so.
Will pray Sir Master mend my pen?
Say, Master, that's enough.—Here Ben,
Is this your copy? Can't you tell?
Set all your letters parallel.
I've done my sum—'tis just a groat—
Let's see it.—Master, m' I g' out?
Yes, bring some wood in—What's that noise?
It isn't I, Sir, it's them boys.—
Come, Billy, read—What's that? That's A—
Sir, Jim has snatch'd my rule away—
Return it, James.—Here rule with this—
Billy, read on,—That's crooked S.
Read in the spelling-book—Begin—
The boys are out—Then call them in—
My nose bleeds, mayn't I get some ice,
And hold it in my breeches?—Yes.
John, keep your seat. My sum is more—
Then do't again—Divide by four,
By twelve, and twenty—Mind the rule.
Now speak, Manasseh, and spell tool.
I can't—Well try—T,W,L.
Not wash'd your hands yet, booby, ha?
You had your orders yesterday.
Give me the ferule, hold your hand.
Oh! Oh! There,—mind my next command.
The grammar read. Tell where the place is.
C sounds like K in cat and cases.
My book is torn. The next—Here not—
E final makes it long—say note.
What are the stops and marks, Susannah?
Small points, Sir.—And how many, Hannah?
Four, Sir. How many, George? You look:
Here's more than fifty in my book.
How's this? Just come, Sam? Why, I've been—
Who knocks? I don't know, Sir. Come in.
"Your most obedient, Sir?" and yours.
Sit down, Sir. Sam, put to the doors.
What do you bring to tell that's new!
"Nothing that's either strange or true.
What a prodigious school! I'm sure
You've got a hundred here, or more.
A word, Sir, if you please." I will—
You girls, till I come in be still.
"Come, we can dance to-night—so you
Dismiss your brain-distracting crew,
And come—for all the girls are there,
We'll have a fiddle and a player."
Well, mind and have the sleigh-bells sent,
I'll soon dismiss my regiment.
Silence! The second class must read.
As quick as possible—proceed.
Not found your book yet? Stand—be fix'd—
The next read, stop—the next—the next.
You need not read again, 'tis well.
Come, Tom and Dick, choose sides to spell.
Will this word do? Yes, Tom spell dunce.
Sit still there all you little ones.
"I've got a word,—Well, name it. Gizzard.
You spell it, Sampson—G,I,Z.
Spell conscience, Jack. K,O,N,
S,H,U,N,T,S.—Well done!
Put out the next—Mine is folks.
Tim, spell it—P,H,O,U,X.
O shocking. Have you all tried? No.
Say Master, but no matter, go—
Lay by your books—and you, Josiah,
Help Jed to make the morning fire.
EVAN ANDERSON'S POKER PARTY
BY BENJAMIN STEVENSON
"Evan Anderson called you up this afternoon," said Mrs. Tom Porter, laying down the evening paper. "Is his wife still away?"
"Yes, I think she is. What did he want?"
"He did not say, but he said for you to call him as soon as you came home. I forgot to tell you." Mrs. Porter paused and fingered her paper with embarrassment. "Tom," she began again, "if it is another of those men parties he has been having since his wife has been away, I wish you wouldn't go."
"Why not, dear?"
"I don't think they are very nice. Don't they drink a good deal?"
"Some men will drink a good deal any way—any time, but those that don't want to do not."
"Tom, do they"—Mrs. Porter's eyes were on the paper in her lap—"do they play—play poker?"
"Why what made you ask me that question?" Tom answered with some embarrassment.
"Mrs. Bob Miller said her husband told her they did."
"Nobody but Mrs. Miller would believe all that Bob says."
"But you know it is wicked to gamble?"
"Of course it is, to gamble for any amount, but just a little game for amusement, that's not bad."
"How much does any one win or lose?"
"Oh, just a few dollars."
"That would buy a dinner for several poor families that need it; but the worst of it is the principle; it is gambling, no matter how little is lost or won."
"But, dear, you brought home a ten-dollar plate from a card party the other afternoon."
"That is different. One is euchre, the other is poker."
"I see there is a difference; but wouldn't the plate have bought a few dinners?"
"Yes, but if I had not won it some one else would. And it was too late to spend it for charity. I don't believe it cost ten dollars anyway."
"You said then it would."
"But I have looked it over since and do not believe it is genuine. I should think any one would be ashamed to give an imitation," she added with something like a flash in her blue eyes.
"It was a shame," Tom admitted, "a ten-dollar strain for a two-dollar plate."
But Mrs. Porter merely raised her eyebrows at this rather mean remark.
"The Tad-Wallington dance is to-night, isn't it? Do you want to go to that?" Tom asked.
"No, I'm not going."
"If you do," Tom went on, "I will take you and cut out whatever Evan wants."
"No, I don't care to," she repeated. "You can go to the other if you want to. I am not going to say any more on the subject. I do not ask you to humor my little whims, but I wanted to say what I did before you telephoned."
Mrs. Porter looked at her husband with such a wistful, pathetic little smile that Tom came over and kissed her on the cheek.
"I'll not go," he exclaimed, "if that is what he wants. I'll stay at home with you."
"You are too good, Tom. I suspect I am silly, but it seems so wicked. Now you had better call him up."
When Tom got upstairs, he placed the receiver to his ear.
Telephone: ("Number?")
Tom: "Give me seven-eleven, please."
("Seven-double-one?")
"Yes, please." Tom whistled while he waited.
Telephone: ("Hello.")
"Is that you, Evan?"
("Yes. Hello, Tom. Say, Tom, I am going to have a little bunch around here after a bit to see if we can't make our books balance, and I want you to come. And say, bring around that forty-five you took away with you last time. We want it. We are after you. We are going to strip you. Perhaps you had better bring an extra suit in a case.")
"I am sorry, old man, but I can't come."
("Can't what?")
"Can't come."
("'Y, you tight wad. You'd better come.")
"Can't do it, Andy. I'm sorry."
("Are you going to the Tad-Wallington dance?")
"No, not that. Mis'es doesn't want to go, but I simply can't come."
Sarcastically. ("I guess the Mis'es shut down on this, too.")
"No, I'm tired."
("Well, maybe we're not tired—of you taking money away from us. And now when we've all got a hunch that you are going to lose you get cold feet.")
"No, I'd like to, but I just can't."
("Well, admit, like a man, it's the Mis'es said no and I'll let you off.")
"Are you a mind-reader?"
("No, but I'm married.")
"You win."
("Well, I'm sorry you can't be with us. Christmas will be coming along bye and bye, and you will need the money.")
"I expect."
("Mis'es will want a present, and she ought to let you get a little more ahead.")
"That's true."
("Well, so long. Toast your feet before you go to bed. And you'd better put a cloth around your neck.")
"Here, don't rub it in. It hurts me worse than you."
("All right. I know you are as sorry as we are. I know how it is. My Mis'es will be at home next week and this will be the last one, so I wanted you to come. Good-by.")
"Good-by. Oh, say! Wait a minute. I've got an idea."
("Good; use it.")
"Wait now. Wait now, I am thinking." Tom was trying to recall if he had closed the parlor door when he came upstairs. "Yes, I think I did."
("Think you did what?")
"Nothing. I wasn't talking to you. I was thinking. Say, put your ear close to the telephone. I've got to talk low."
("Why, I have got the thing right against my ear anyway. What are you talking about?")
"Listen. This is the scheme. I'll come if I can," he whispered into the receiver. "I don't think the Mis'es wants to go to the Tad-Wallington dance, and I'll work it so that I shall go alone. If I succeed I'll be with you."
("What? What's that?")
"I say," he repeated more distinctly, "if Mrs. P. doesn't want to go to the dance I'll try to go by myself and shall be with you."
("You say that you and Mrs. P. are going to the dance.")
"Oh, you deaf fool! No! I say that if she doesn't go to the dance maybe I shall—be—with—you."
("Oh, I understand you. Good. If you are as clever as you are at getting every one in against a pat full-house you will succeed. Come early. Luck to you. Good-by.")
If Tom were right in thinking he had closed the parlor door he was considerably surprised and flustered to find it ajar when he came down stairs. But Mrs. Porter was still reading the evening paper and did not look as if she had been disturbed by the telephoning. There was a slight flush on her cheeks, however, that he had not noticed before, but that may have been caused by the noble sacrifice of his own wishes for hers.
"I am glad, Tom, you told him you could not come," Mrs. Porter said, looking at him affectionately. "It is so good of you to give up to my little whims."
Tom said mentally: "I guess she did not hear it all, at least."
"I know," she went on, "that I was brought up on a narrow plane, and any sort of gambling seems wicked."
"But at first you would not play cards at all, and then you learned euchre. All games of cards look alike to me."
"I suppose they do, but euchre is a simple, interesting pastime; whist is a scientific—a—a—mental—exercise, developing the mind, and so forth, while poker cheats people out of their money,—at least, they lose money they ought to use other ways,—or else they win some and then have ill-gotten gains, which is worse."
"But poker is a great nerve developer," Tom protested feebly.
"But it's gambling."
"Well, how about playing euchre for a prize?"
"Oh we settled that a while ago," Mrs. Porter exclaimed. "I showed you the difference between the two, didn't I?"
"I believe you did. But don't you want to go to the Tad-Wallington dance?"
"No." Mrs. Porter said shortly.
"Did you send cards?"
"No."
"You should have done so, shouldn't you?"
"I suppose so, but I don't care."
"Why don't you want to go?"
"I don't like Mrs. Tad-Wallington. She wears her dresses too low."
"Maybe she does, but I think we should be polite to her."
"I don't care very much whether we are or not."
"I think we ought to go. Or else," he added in an afterthought with the expression of a martyr, "or else I ought to go and take your regrets."
"Well, why don't you do that?" Mrs. Porter exclaimed brightly.
"All right, I will!" he almost shouted. "I'll do it. I think it's the decent thing to do. I'll get ready right away."
"Right now? Why, it's entirely too early. It's only half-past seven. You can stay here until ten, then go for a few minutes and be back by eleven."
"No, no, that would not be nice. That's not the way to treat people who have gone to the expense of giving a dance. Everybody should go early and stay late."
"Oh, absurd."
"No, it's decent. I think I had better go early anyway, and then I can get back earlier. I don't want to stay up too late."
"Well, if you insist, go on."
Tom went upstairs and began dressing hurriedly. He knew he would not feel safe until he was a square away from the house. If this was to be the last of these bully, bachelor, poker parties he did not want to miss it. His wife was the sweetest little woman on earth, and he delighted in being with her, and humoring her, but then a woman's view of life and things is often so different that there is a joyous relaxation in a man party. If he could dress and get away before his wife changed her mind all would be well. He put his clothes on feverishly, but before he had half finished he heard her running up the stairs, and his heart sank. She came with the step that indicated something important on her mind. He knew as well how she looked as if he could see her coming. She was humped over slightly, her head was down, both hands grasping her skirts in front, and her feet fairly glimmering at the speed she was coming.
She burst into the room. "Tom, I think I will go with you. It is mean of me to make you go alone."
"You think what? You can't, it's a men's party. Oh, you—'Y, no, it's not mean. I don't mind it a bit. I like to go alone—that is, I don't mind it, and I won't hear to your putting yourself out on my account. And then you know, Mrs. Tad-Wallington wears her dresses so disgustingly low."
"That's it, Tom. That's why I think I ought to go."
"Oh, pshaw. You know I despise her. I never dance with her. No, I can't think of letting you go on my account. And I don't want my wife even to be seen at the party of a woman who wears such dresses as she does. No! positively, I can't permit it."
"Well, it's as bad for you to go."
"But one of us has to go to be decent. It would be rude not to, and we can not afford to be rude even to the commonest people."
"I don't want you to go unless I go with you," she said pettishly.
"But I never dance with her."
"It is not that so much. I do not want us to recognize her at all."
"I am not going to even speak to her. I will snub her. I will walk by her and not see her. I will let her know that my little wife doesn't belong to her class. I'll show her."
"But, Tom, wouldn't that be ruder than not going at all?"
"Oh, no. I don't think so. By going and snubbing her, it shows that you are conforming to all the laws of politeness without conceding anything to wanton impropriety. Don't you see?"
"Hardly."
"Well, it does. And I have to go for business reasons. I have her husband's law business, and can't afford to lose it by not going."
"Wouldn't it make her husband angry for you to snub her?"
"Oh, no, it would rather please him. He is inclined to be jealous, and likes the men better who don't have anything to do with her. It would strengthen our business relations immensely."
"Maybe you are right," she added with resignation. "You lawyers have such peculiar arguments that I can't understand them."
"Yes, I know. Law is the science of reasoning—of getting at the fine, subtile points which other people can not see."
"Well, go, if you really think it's best," she said at last.
Tom tied a black bow around his collar and put on his tuxedo.
"Oh, Tom, what do you mean? You surely do not intend to wear your tuxedo and a black tie. I heard you say it was the worst of form at anything but a men's party."
"Oh, ah, did I? Well, maybe I did. I had forgotten. I became a little confused by our long argument. I am always confused after an argument. Would you believe it, the other day after an argument in court I put on the judge's overcoat when I came away and did not notice it until I got to the office? You think I had better wear a long coat and white tie?"
"Of course. I want you to be the best-dressed man there. I don't want you to look as if you were at a smoker."
Tom wheeled toward his wife, but she was digging in a drawer for his white tie and may not have meant anything.
"Now don't tell me you have none. Here is one fresh and crisp. You would not disgrace us by going to a dance dressed that way?" she pleaded.
"I will do whatever you say, dear," Tom answered, with a trace of suspicion still in his eye.