"I see the men are at work on the pavements this morning," said the
School-Master, gazing out through the window at a number of laborers at
work in the street.
"Yes," said the Idiot, calmly, "and I think Mrs. Pedagog ought to sue the
Department of Public Works for libel. If she hasn't a case no maligned
person ever had."
"What are you saying, sir?" queried the landlady, innocently.
"I say," returned the Idiot, pointing out into the street, "that you
ought to sue the Department of Public Works for libel. They've got their
sign right up against your house. _No Thorough Fare_ is what it says.
That's libel, isn't it, Mr. Brief?"
"It is certainly a fatal criticism of a boarding-house," observed Mr.
Brief, with a twinkle in his eye, "but Mrs. Pedagog could hardly secure
damages on that score."
"I don't know about that," returned the Idiot. "As I understand it, it is
an old maxim of the law that the greater the truth the greater the libel.
Mrs. Pedagog ought to receive a million----By-the-way, what have we this
morning?"
"We have steak and fried potatoes, sir," replied Mrs. Pedagog, frigidly.
"And I desire to add, that one who criticises the table as much as you do
would do well to get his meals outside."
"That, Mrs. Pedagog, is not the point. The difficulty I find here lies in
getting my meals inside," said the Idiot.
"Mary, you may bring in the mush," observed Mrs. Pedagog, pursing her
lips, as she always did when she wished to show that she was offended.
"Yes, Mary," put in the School-Master; "let us have the mush as quickly
as possible--and may it not be quite such mushy mush as the remarks we
have just been favored with by our talented friend the Idiot."
"You overwhelm me with your compliments, Mr. Pedagog," replied the Idiot,
cheerfully. "A flatterer like you should live in a flat."
"Has your friend completed his article on old jokes yet?" queried the
Bibliomaniac, with a smile and some apparent irrelevance.
[Illustration: "HAS YOUR FRIEND COMPLETED HIS ARTICLE ON OLD JOKES?"]
"Yes and no," said the Idiot. "He has completed his labors on it by
giving it up. He is a very thorough sort of a fellow, and he intended
to make the article comprehensive, but he found he couldn't, because,
judging from comments of men like you, for instance, he was forced to
conclude that there never was a _new_ joke. But, as I was saying the
other morning----"
"Do you really remember what you say?" sneered Mr. Pedagog. "You must
have a great memory for trifles."
"Sir, I shall never forget you," said the Idiot. "But to revert to what
I was saying the other morning, I'd like to begin life all over again, so
that I could prepare myself for the profession of architecture. It's the
greatest profession in the world, and one which is surest to bring
immortality to its successful follower. A man may write a splendid book,
and become a great man for a while and within certain limits, but the
chances are that some other man will come along later and supplant him.
Then the book's sale will die out after a time, and with this will come
a diminution of its author's reputation, in extent anyway. An actor or a
great preacher becomes only a name after his death, but the architect who
builds a cathedral or a fine public building really erects a monument to
his own memory."
"He does if he can build it so that it will stay up," said the
Bibliomaniac. "I think you, however, are better off as you are. If you
had a more extended reputation or a lasting name you would probably be
locked up in some retreat; or if you were not, posterity would want to
know why."
"I am locked up in a retreat of Nature's making," said the Idiot, with a
sigh. "Nature has set around me certain limitations which, while they are
not material, might as well be so as far as my ability to soar above them
is concerned--and it's well she has. If it were otherwise, my life would
not be safe or bearable in this company. As it is, I am happy and not at
all afraid of the effects your jealousy of me might entail if I were any
better than the rest of you."
"I like that," said Mr. Pedagog.
"I thought you would," said the Idiot. "That's why I said it. I aim to
please, and for once seem to have hit the bull's-eye. Mary, kindly break
open this biscuit for me."
"Have you ideas on the subject of architecture that you so desire to
become an architect?" queried Mr. Whitechoker, who was always full of
sympathy for aspiring natures.
"A few," said the Idiot.
Mr. Pedagog laughed outright.
"Let's test his ideas," he said, in an amused way. "Take a cathedral, for
instance. Suppose, Mr. Idiot, a man should come to you and say: 'Idiot,
we have a fund of $800,000 in our hands, actual cash. We think of
building a cathedral, and we think of employing you to draw up our plans.
Give us some idea of what we should do.' Do you mean to tell me that you
could say anything reasonable or intelligent to that man?"
"Well, that depends upon what you call reasonable and intelligent. I have
never been able to find out what you mean by those terms," the Idiot
answered, slowly. "But I could tell him something that I consider
reasonable and intelligent."
"From your own point of view, then, as to reasonableness and
intelligence, what should you say to him?"
"I'd make him out a plan providing for the investment of his $800,000 in
five-per-cent, gold bonds, which would bring him in an income of $40,000
a year; after which I should call his attention to the fact that $40,000
a year would enable him to take 10,000 poor children out of this
sweltering city into the country, to romp and drink fresh milk and eat
wholesome food for two weeks every summer from now until the end of time,
which would build up a human structure that might be of more benefit to
the world than any pile of bricks, marble, and wrought-iron I or any
other architect could conceive of," said the Idiot. "The structure would
stand up, too."
"You call that architecture, do you?" said Mr. Pedagog.
"Yes," said the Idiot, "of the renaissance order. But that, of course,
you term idiocy--and maybe it is. I like to be that kind of an idiot. I
do not claim to be able to build a cathedral, however. I don't suppose
I could even build a boarding-house like this, but what I should like to
do in architecture would be to put up a $5000 dwelling-house for $5000.
That's a thing that has never been done, and I think I might be able to
do it. If I did, I'd patent the plan and make a fortune. Then I should
like to know enough about the science of planning a building to find out
whether my model hotel is practicable or not."
"You have a model hotel in your mind, eh?" said the Bibliomaniac.
"It must be a very small hotel if it's in his mind," said the Doctor.
"That's tantamount to saying that it isn't anywhere," said Mr. Pedagog.
"Well, it's a great hotel just the same," said the Idiot. "Although I
presume it would be expensive to build. It would have movable rooms, in
the first place. Each room would be constructed like an elevator, with
appliances at hand for moving it up and down. The great thing about this
would be that persons could have a room on any floor they wanted it, so
long as they got the room in the beginning. A second advantage would lie
in the fact, that if you were sleeping in a room next door to another in
which there was a crying baby, you could pull the rope and go up two or
three flights until you were free from the noise. Then in case of fire
the room in which the fire started could be lowered into a sliding tank
large enough to immerse the whole thing in, which I should have
constructed in the cellar. If the whole building were to catch fire,
there would be no loss of life, because all the rooms could be lowered
to the ground-floor, and the occupants could step right out upon solid
ground. Then again, if you were down on the ground-floor, and desired to
get an extended view of the surrounding country, it would be easy to
raise your room to the desired elevation. Why, there's no end to the
advantages to be gained from such an arrangement."
"It's a fine idea," said Mr. Pedagog, "and one worthy of your mammoth
intellect. It couldn't possibly cost more than a million of dollars to
erect such a hotel, could it?"
"No," said the Idiot. "And that is cheap alongside some of the hotels
they are putting up nowadays."
"It could be built on less than four hundred acres of ground, too,
I presume?" said the Bibliomaniac, with a wink at the Doctor.
"Certainly," said the Idiot, meekly.
"And if anybody fell sick in one of the rooms," said the Doctor, "and
needed a change of air, you could have a tower over each, I suppose, so
that the room could be elevated high enough to secure the different
quality in the ether?"
"Undoubtedly," said the Idiot. "Although that would add materially to the
expense. A scarlet-fever patient, however, in a hotel like that could
very easily be isolated from the rest of the house by the maintenance of
what might be called the hospital floor."
"Superb!" said the Doctor. "I wonder you haven't spoken to some
architectural friend about it."
"I have," said the Idiot. "You must remember that young fellow with a
black mustache I had here to dinner last Saturday night."
"Yes, I remember him," said the Doctor. "Is he an architect?"
"He is--and a good one. He can take a brown-stone dwelling and turn it
into a colonial mansion with a pot of yellow paint. He's a wonder. I
submitted the idea to him."
"And what was his verdict?"
"I don't like to say," said the Idiot, blushing a little.
"Ha! ha!" laughed Mr. Pedagog. "I shouldn't think you would like to say.
I guess we know what he said."
"I doubt it," said the Idiot; "but if you guess right, I'll tell you."
"He said you had better go and live in a lunatic asylum," said Mr.
Pedagog, with a chuckle.
"Not he," returned the Idiot, nibbling at his biscuit. "On the contrary.
He advised me to stop living in one. He said contact with the rest of you
was affecting my brain."
This time Mr. Pedagog did not laugh, but mistaking his coffee-cup for a
piece of toast, bit a small section out of its rim; and in the midst of
Mrs. Pedagog's expostulation, which followed the School-Master's careless
error, the Idiot and the Genial Old Gentleman departed, with smiles on
their faces which were almost visible at the back of their respective
necks.
[Illustration: THEY DEPARTED]
V
"Hullo!" said the Idiot, as he began his breakfast. "This isn't Friday
morning, is it? I thought it was Tuesday."
"So it is Tuesday," put in the School-Master.
"Then this fish is a little extra treat, is it?" observed the Idiot,
turning with a smile to the landlady.
"Fish? That isn't fish, sir," returned the good lady. "That is liver."
"Oh, is it?" said the Idiot, apologetically. "Excuse me, my dear Mrs.
Pedagog. I thought from its resistance that it was fried sole. Have you
a hatchet handy?" he added, turning to the maid.
"My piece is tender enough. I can't see what you want," said the
School-Master, coldly.
"I'd like your piece," replied the Idiot, suavely. "That is, if it really
is tender enough."
"Don't pay any attention to him, my dear," said the School-Master to the
landlady, whose ire was so very much aroused that she was about to make
known her sentiments on certain subjects.
"No, Mrs. Pedagog," said the Idiot, "don't pay any attention to me, I
beg of you. Anything that could add to the jealousy of Mr. Pedagog would
redound to the discomfort of all of us. Besides, I really do not object
to the liver. I need not eat it. And as for staying my appetite, I always
stop on my way down-town after breakfast for a bite or two anyhow."
There was silence for a moment.
"I wonder why it is," began the Idiot, after tasting his coffee--"I
wonder why it is Friday is fish-day all over the world, anyhow? Do you
happen to be learned enough in piscatorial science to enlighten me on
that point, Doctor?"
"No," returned the physician, gruffly. "I've never looked into the
matter."
"I guess it's because Friday is an unlucky day," said the Idiot. "Just
think of all the unlucky things that may happen before and after eating
fish, as well as during the process. In the first place, before eating,
you go off and fish all day, and have no luck--don't catch a thing. You
fall in the water perhaps, and lose your watch, or your fish-hook
catches in your coat-tails, with the result that you come near casting
yourself instead of the fly into the brook or the pond, as the case may
be. Perhaps the hook doesn't stop with the coat-tails, but goes on in,
and catches you. That's awfully unlucky, especially when the hook is made
of unusually barby barbed wire.
[Illustration: "YOU FISH ALL DAY, AND HAVE NO LUCK"]
"Then, again, you may go fishing on somebody else's preserves, and get
arrested, and sent to jail overnight, and hauled up the next morning, and
have to pay ten dollars fine for poaching. Think of Mr. Pedagog being
fined ten dollars for poaching! Awfully unfortunate!"
"Kindly leave me out of your calculations," returned Mr. Pedagog, with a
flush of indignation.
"Certainly, if you wish it," said the Idiot. "We'll hand Mr. Brief over
to the police, and let _him_ be fined for poaching on somebody else's
preserves--although that's sort of impossible, too, because Mrs. Pedagog
never lets us see preserves of any kind."
"We had brandied peaches last Sunday night," said the landlady,
indignantly.
"Oh yes, so we did," returned the Idiot. "That must have been what the
Bibliomaniac had taken," he added, turning to the genial gentleman who
occasionally imbibed. "You know, we thought he'd been--ah--he'd been
absorbing."
"To what do you refer?" asked the Bibliomaniac, curtly.
"To the brandied peaches," returned the Idiot. "Do not press me further,
please, because we like you, old fellow, and I don't believe anybody
noticed it but ourselves."
"Noticed what? I want to know what you noticed and when you noticed it,"
said the Bibliomaniac, savagely. "I don't want any nonsense, either. I
just want a plain statement of facts. What did you notice?"
"Well, if you must have it," said the Idiot, slowly, "my friend who
imbibes and I were rather pained on Sunday night to observe that
you--that you had evidently taken something rather stronger than cold
water, tea, or Mr. Pedagog's opinions."
"It's a libel, sir!--a gross libel!" retorted the Bibliomaniac. "How did
I show it? That's what I want to know. How--did--I--show--it? Speak up
quick, and loud too. How did I show it?"
"Well, you went up-stairs after tea."
"Yes, sir, I did."
"And my friend who imbibes and I were left down in the front hall, and
while we were talking there you put your head over the banisters and
asked, 'Who's that down there?' Remember that?"
"Yes, sir, I do. And you replied, 'Mr. Auburnose and myself.'"
"Yes. And then you asked, 'Who are the other two?'"
"Well, I did. What of it?"
"Mr. Auburnose and I were there alone. That's what of it. Now I put a
charitable construction on the matter and say it was the peaches, when
you fly off the handle like one of Mrs. Pedagog's coffee-cups."
"Sir!" roared the Bibliomaniac, jumping from his chair. "You are the
greatest idiot I know."
"Sir!" returned the Idiot, "you flatter me."
But the Bibliomaniac was not there to hear. He had rushed from the room,
and during the deep silence that ensued he could be heard throwing things
about in the chamber overhead, and in a very few moments the banging of
the front door and scurrying down the brown-stone steps showed that he
had gone out of doors to cool off.
[Illustration: HE COULD BE HEARD THROWING THINGS ABOUT]
"It is too bad," said the Idiot, after a while, "that he has such a
quick temper. It doesn't do a bit of good to get mad that way. He'll be
uncomfortable all day long, and over what? Just because I attempted to
say a good word for him, and announce the restoration of my confidence in
his temperance qualities, he cuts up a high-jinks that makes everybody
uncomfortable.
"But to resume about this fish business," continued the Idiot. "Fish--"
"Oh, fish be hanged!" said the Doctor, impatiently. "We've had enough of
fish."
"Very well," returned the idiot; "as you wish. Hanging isn't the best
treatment for fish, but we'll let that go. I never cared for the finny
tribe myself, and if Mrs. Pedagog can be induced to do it, I for one am
in favor of keeping shad, shark, and shrimps out of the house
altogether."