Jack came of a family of climbers. His mother had climbed into society
and was still climbing. The funny thing about climbers is that they
never deceive anybody; every one knows just what they are up to. As Jack
had inherited the climbing passion he began without hesitation to ascend
the beanstalk, and when he reached the top he was as tired as if he had
spent the day laying bricks or selling goods behind a counter; but he
perked up when he beheld a fairy in pink tights who looked very much
like a coryphee in the first row of "The Girly Girl."
"Is this a roof garden?" asked Jack, looking about him curiously.
"No, kid," replied the Fairy, tapping him playfully with her spear. "You
are in the Land of Pleasure, and in yonder castle lives a horrid Giant
called Ennui, who bores everybody he catches to death."
Jack put on a brave face and lighted a cigarette. "Has he ever caught
you, little one?" he asked.
"No," she laughed, "but I'm knocking wood. Fairies don't get bored until
they grow old, or at least middle-aged."
"It's a wonder," said Jack, "that the Giant doesn't bore himself to
death some day."
"He might," said the Fairy, "if it were not for his wonderful talking
harp, which keeps harping upon Socialism, and the single tax, and the
rights of labor, and a lot of other mush; but you see it keeps Ennui
stirred up, so that he is never bored entirely stiff."
"Well," said Jack, "me for that harp, if I die for it!" And thanking
Polly Twinkletoes for her information, and promising to buy her a supper
when he got his next allowance, he sauntered toward the castle. As he
paused before the great gate it was opened suddenly by a most unpleasant
looking giantess.
"Ho! ho!" she cried, seizing Jack by the arm, "you're the young scamp
who sold me that lightning cleaner last week. I'll just keep you till
you take the spots out of my husband's Sunday pants. If you don't, he'll
knock the spots out of _you_!"