Chapter 8
960 Words
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"There's a friend of mine up near Riverdale," said the i***t, as he
unfolded 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 i***t. "He
hasn't succeeded in his courtship of the Muse, and beyond himself and a
few friends his name is utterly unknown."
"What work has he tried?" queried the School-master, pouring
unadmonished two portions of skimmed milk over his oatmeal.
"A little of everything. First he wrote a novel. It had an immense
circulation, and he only lost $300 on it. All of his friends took a
copy--I've got one that he gave me--and I believe two hundred
newspapers were fortunate enough to secure the book for review. His
father bought two, and tried to obtain the balance of the edition, but
didn't have enough money. That was gratifying, but gratification is more
apt to deplete than to strengthen a bank account."
"I had not expected so extraordinarily wise an observation from one so
unusually unwise," said the School-master, coldly.
"Thank you," returned the i***t. "But I think your remark is rather
contradictory. You would naturally expect wise observations from the
unusually 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 youth
interrupted me with his flattery," continued the i***t, "gratification
is gratifying but not filling, so my friend concluded that he had better
give up novel-writing and try jokes. He kept at that a year, and managed
to clear his postage-stamps. His jokes were good, but too classic for
the tastes of the editors. Editors are peculiar. They have no respect
for age--particularly in the matter of jests. Some of my friend's
jokes had seemed good enough for Plutarch to print when he had a
publisher at his mercy, but they didn't seem to suit the high and mighty
products of this age who sit in judgment on such things in the
comic-paper offices. So he gave up jokes."
[Illustration: WOOING THE MUSE]
"Does he still know you?" asked the landlady.
"Yes, madame," observed the i***t.
"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 i***t. "That is good, and, by Jove! it differs from your
butter, Mrs. Smithers, because it's entirely fresh. It's good enough to
print, 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 obituary
verses for memorial cards."
"And was he successful?"
"For a time; but he lost his position because of an error made by a
careless 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 i***t. "But when the compositor in the
marble-yard got it engraved on the monument, my friend was away, and
when the army post that was to pay the bill received the monument, the
quatrain 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 company
failed the next week, so he couldn't make anything by suing for what
they owed him."
"Mighty hard luck," said the Bibliomaniac.
"Very; but there was one bright side to the case," observed the i***t.
"He managed to sell both versions of the quatrain afterwards for five
dollars. 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 wrote
an anecdote about the whole thing for a Sunday newspaper, and got three
dollars 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 i***t. "He is
writing now a recommendation of tooth-powder in Indian dialect."
"Why didn't he try writing an epic?" said the Bibliomaniac.
[Illustration: "'HE GAVE UP JOKES'"]
"Because," replied the i***t, "the one aim of his life has been to be
original, and he couldn't reconcile that with epic poetry."
At which remark the landlady stooped over, and recovering the i***t's
bill from under the table, called the maid, and ostentatiously requested
her to hand it to the i***t. 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 the
coffee-pot, and lighting the cigarette with it, walked nonchalantly from
the room.
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