_My Dear Father_:
I used to think you had a strong sense of fun, but I am beginning to
fear that long connection with such essentially un-humorous animals as
hogs condemned to the guillotine, has dulled it. I say this because it
is evident that you didn't take my little joke about wanting to go to
Europe in the spirit I intended. The idea of suggesting to you, dear old
practical pig-sticker that you are, that Europe was in it for a minute
with a pork-packing house as a means of culture seemed so irresistibly
comic to me that I thought you would roar with laughter also, and
perhaps put another dollar on that eight per I am going to receive so
soon. I can catch echoes of your roar even here, but I get no suggestion
of cachinnation. Really, the laugh is on me for attempting such a
feeble joke. When I get fairly into the pork emporium, I shall confine
my witty sallies to Milligan.
On the whole, and seriously, I'm glad you drew a red line through my
scheme of letting the Old World see what a pork-packer's only looks like
after his bristles have been scraped through college. Since I've been at
the Waldorf-Astoria I've seen so many misguided results of a few days in
London that I never want to cross the duck pond. Montie Searles, who
graduated when I was a soph, was a tip-topper at Cambridge, but he
unfortunately got the ocean fever. I met him in the palm room last night
and the way he "deah boy"-ed me and worked his monocle overtime was
pitiful. He's just got back and took the fastest steamer, for fear his
British dialect would wear off before he got a chance to air it on
Broadway. If I should borrow his clothes and come home in 'em you'd swap
'em for a straight-jacket. They are so English that boys play tag with
him in the streets waiting to see the H's drop, and so loud that every
time he goes out of the hotel an auto gets frightened and runs away.
After I left him last night I had to sing myself to sleep with "Hail
Columbia."
Familiarity breeds contempt; no man is a hero to his own valet, and I'm
afraid no son is taken seriously by his own father. For instance, you
draw a pretty strong inference that I've never earned a dollar which is
hardly fair. I have earned considerable at times as a dealer in
illustrated cards, and have picked up a tenner here and there by
successfully predicting the results of various official speed tests.
These things require hard labor and mental application. But the pay is
sometimes uncertain, and on the whole I think your plan for me is
better.
I told Searles about the packing-house job, and he pooh-poohed the idea.
"Ma deah boy," he cried, "why don't you be independent? Try writing for
money, old chap. That's what you were always doing in college." I'll bet
he read that joke in Punch.
This is the greatest hotel in the world for one thing--in it you can
meet a more varied assortment of people than under any one roof on
earth. Billionaires jog elbows with impecunious upstarts who saunter
about the hotel corridors in evening clothes, and live on some cross
street in hall-rooms way up under the eaves. There is one young fellow
who haunts the hotel and looks like a swell, who is said to be only a
few dress shirts shy of being a pauper. But he actually believes he's
the real thing, and the story goes that to keep up his self-deception he
goes home every afternoon, sits on his trunk and toots a horn, after
cleaning his trousers with gasoline, and thinks he's been automobiling.
It's a long shot that you can't tell anything about a man in New York
until you find out his business. He may look like a tramp and have
curvature of the spine from carrying around certified checks, or he may
seem the real thing in lords and only have a third interest in an ash
collecting industry. I had an illustration last Sunday of how impossible
it is to judge a man's motives until you know his business. I went to
church--fact, I assure you. I saw a new style hat and followed its
wearer into the sacred edifice, as I wanted to fix its details in my
mind to tell mother. She--I mean it--was very pretty. On second thought
I guess you'd better not mention this to mother. In the course of his
sermon the minister--one of those preachers who seem to think it
necessary to shout out an occasional sentence to keep his congregation
awake--declared in stentorian tones, "Wonders will never cease." A fat,
bald-headed man in front of me nodded and murmured audibly, "Thank
Heaven!" I wondered and asked the sexton who he was. It appears that he
runs a dime museum on Sixth avenue.
Here's a straight tip for Sis. If she must marry a title let it be an
American one, a Coal or Ice Baron. Counts and earls are thicker than
sand fleas here and about as useless and annoying.
Speaking of straight tips, I've got a sure one on the horses sewed into
the lining of my vest: If you want to go to the races without losing
money don't take any money with you. The subject of money reminds me
that your old Kansas friend, "Uncle" Seth Slocum was in town a day or
two ago. With all due respect to him and his, you must admit that with
his particularly flourishing facial lawn he looks more like a hayseed
than a wheat king. At all events the head clerk tipped off a house
detective to keep an eye on him. They don't want any one robbed in the
hotel--by outsiders. Seth hadn't been in town an hour, most of which he
spent in telling me how he once got you into a corner on July wheat,
when he remembered that he had an appointment down town and started out
for the L. I went with him as far as the door, and as I stood there
waiting for a cab, I saw a burly, flashily dressed man step up and grab
Seth by the hand.
"How do you do, my dear Mr. Haymaker. How are all the folks at the
Corners?" he cried.
Uncle Seth looked at him a moment and said, "Haven't you made a
mistake?"
"In the name, perhaps, in the face, no," said the big chap, suavely.
"Can it be possible that you are--"
Seth took hold of the fellow's lapel and drew him closer to him. "No, my
name's not Haymaker nor am I from the Corners. Come closer. I've heerd
tell a lot about those bunker men and I don't want any one to know my
name, except you; you're such a likely chap."
The burly man laughed and inclined his head. Then, in a stage whisper
that could be heard a block, Uncle Seth said, solemnly, "Sh, don't
breathe it. I'm Sherlock Holmes, disguised as the real thing in
gold-brick targets, but don't give me away."
Uncle Seth nearly started a riot one day at luncheon. It had been very
hot in the morning, but the wind changed and the temperature went down
rapidly. Seth saw me at a table in the palm room and came over. "Well,
Ponty," he shouted, in that grain-elevator voice of his, "quite a
tumble, wasn't it? Dropped 15 points in half an hour." You ought to have
seen 'em. It seemed as if every one in the room jumped to his feet in
wild excitement. You see they thought he was talking stocks instead of
thermometer.
By the way, Uncle Seth is infringing on your territory. He's going in
for philosophy and gave me a little advice. "If you ever want to build
up a big trade, Ponty," he said, "mix up a little soft soap with your
business life. Flattery counts. There's a man here in New York who's
made his pile as a barber because it is his invariable rule to ask every
bald-headed man that he shaves if he'll have a shampoo."
I gather from your statement that my allowance dies a violent death on
July 15, that you are very anxious to see me on or about that date. You
will. I have no desire to walk to Chicago, and my general mode of life
trends toward Pullmans rather than freight cars. _Ad interim_, as we
used to say in our debating societies, I think I shall run down to one
of those jaw-twisting lakes in Maine to get some of New York soaked out
of my system before dropping in on you. Billy Poindexter, a classmate of
mine, has a camp there, and he writes me that hornpouts are biting like
sixty, and mosquitoes like seventy. But I don't mind that, for I believe
a little blood-letting will do me good after my stay here.
I like New York, even if it is a bit commonplace and straight-laced
compared with Chicago. They are great on Sunday observance in this town,
and I find I am gathering a little of the same spirit myself. For
instance, at an auditorium called the Haymarket, there is always a
devotional service very early on Sunday mornings. I attended yesterday,
and was much attracted by the ceremonies and the music. You would be
surprised to see the number of ladies who are willing to be absent from
their comfortable homes at such an inconvenient hour.
Say what you will, father, New York is a hospitable place. Although an
utter stranger, I was invited the other night to the house of Mr.
Canfield, a very wealthy gentleman who lives in great style. Mr.
Canfield is well known as a philosopher who devotes a great deal of his
time to the working out of the laws of chance and sequence. Beautiful
experiments are made at his home every evening before a number of
invited guests, among whom are some of the most prominent men in the
city. It seems that it is the custom to have the youngest and least
known guest contribute largely for the evening's entertainment, so
naturally I went pretty deep into my available funds. I think I have
just about enough to settle my hotel bill and buy my transportation to
Lake Moose-something-or-other. It will be quite necessary that I hear
from you at that point, and to the point, if you don't want me to become
a lumberman or a Maine guide.
By the way, I've been observant and I've discovered something, though
you'll doubtless not credit it. I see at last how so many dunderheads
marry pretty girls. Two of them--pretty girls, not dunderheads--were
talking at the next table to me the other day.
"So she's going to marry Dick Rogers, is she?" said one. "Poor thing!
He's awfully flat."
"Well," replied her companion, "he's got a steam yacht, an auto, a
string of saddle horses and his own golf links."
"Ah, I see," murmured her companion, "a flat with all the modern
improvements." Not bad for a New York girl, is it?
Your affectionate son,
P.
P.S. I met Colonel Blough the other evening and he invited me to sit in
at a poker game. Of course I refused. He was surprised, said he supposed
it ran in the family, and related the details of a little business
transaction he and some other gentlemen had with you when you were last
in New York. I hope mother is well. I am very anxious to see her. I
think you'd be in line for repute as a philanthropist if you would send
me a check for a hundred.
LETTER No. V.
_Pierrepont goes fishing and writes his father some of his experiences,
not all of which, however, seem directly identified with the piscatorial
art._