One pleasant morning the President of the Society for Promoting the
Importation of Scotch Merchandise awoke after a Balloon Voyage which
began 6 Feet below Sea Level in a Rathskeller and finished 2,000 feet
above the Altitude recorded by Lincoln Beachey, the Man-Bird.
When he Came To he discovered that the Pillow had climbed over on top
of him and was trying to work the Half-Nelson, while a large Pile-
Driver was beating a rhythmical Tattoo on the tender Bean.
He had a Temperature of 102 and his Ears were hanging down. Also,
during the Period of Coma some one had extracted the Eyes and
substituted two hot Door-Knobs.
After he had decanted a miniature Niagara on to the smoking Coppers
and removed his Collar, he felt his way over to the window and
denounced in unmeasured Terms an English Sparrow that had perched on
the Sill, merely to annoy him.
In a little while he remembered that he was a Resident of the Planet
known as Earth. Soon after that his Name came back to him and then he
recalled his Boyhood and the Fact that when he passed the Parsonage the
Presbyterian Minister would ask him to pick some of the Lilacs and
Snowballs and take them home to his Sister Alice.
From that Point he groped through his Life History up to the Twilight
on which the Regulars had arranged a Send-Off for Old Buck, who was
pulling out for Seattle. In order that Buck should remember them as
True Friends, they had covertly planned to get him Saturated to the
Eye-Balls and then ship him on to his new Home, spread out in
Stateroom B, with long-stemmed Roses laid across the Remains. This
form of homicidal Gayety is perpetuated under the name of American
Hospitality.
Our Hero remembered the polite Get-away on the Low Speed with
everybody Respectable, after which the Fountains started to gush and
Waiters began to come up out of the Ground bearing Fairy Gifts of a
Liquid Variety. Somewhat later in the Evening he found himself
balanced on one Toe on a swiftly-moving Cloud, announcing to the Stars
of Night that he was a True Sport.
In other words, he realized, as he sat humped over in the Morris Chair,
holding on to the Head, lest it should fall off and roll across the
floor, that he had been Snooted for Fair, Plastered, Ossified,
Benzoated, Piped, Pickled, Spifficated, Corned, Raddled, Obfuscated,
Soused and Ory-Eyed.
Six hours before, he had stood on a Table and declared for the
Brotherhood of Man, and now he craved but one Companion and that was
old Colonel R. E. Morse.
Standing over in the Sunlight by the Window, where he could see the
innocent Shop-Girls going blithely to their $6 a week, he lifted
the trembling Right Mitt clear above his Head and then and there
declared himself to be on the Cart until the great Celestial Bodies
should skid in their Orbits and the Globe itself dissolve into Vapor.
Just as he pronounced the Words, "nev-ER A-gen," he felt a great Flood
of worthy Resolutions arising in his new Moral Nature. He would buy a
Winchester Automatic and devote the remainder of his wasted Life to
shooting up Barkeeps. And when he died, the whole Estate would go to
the W. C. T. U.
Just after he had double-strapped himself to the Wagon and started up
Seltzer Avenue, he realized that an immediate Absinthe Frappe would be
worth $15,000 to him, but instead of ordering one, he resolved to
write Doc Wiley a Letter advising him that while he was putting the
Nixey Mark on that Green Magoo he should include all other Colors
bestowed upon the Essence of Tribulation.
That afternoon the Survivors of the Midnight Massacre got together at
a Club to compare Hang-Overs and find out what had happened after the
Roof fell in.
Our Hero appeared just as the Boy was getting ready to throw a Life
Line. He was greeted with a ribald Shout and told to come running and
Save Himself.
The Moment had arrived for him to be a Man. Surrounded by Ice and
Squirters and Mixing Spoons and Orange Peel and Jiggers and Jaggers,
he drew himself together and made the Announcement.
For a Moment they were stunned by the Impact and then every Son of
Peoria leaned back and let out a Yowl. To think that a real up-to-date
Fellow would pull any of that Old Stuff! A puny Mortal trying to get
a Toe-Hold on the Demon!
They told him to forget it and quit his Spoofing and remove his
Overshoes and ease a couple of Gills into his Reservoir and try to be
a Human Being, however painful the Effort.
He came back with a few Gems from the Family Medicine Book about the
Effect of the Accursed Stuff on various Organs. He did not propose to
feed himself anything that would cut the Varnish off of Wood-Work. The
Hard Stuff had passed out of his Life.
The Cackles died away and were succeeded by looks of Blank Dismay.
They saw that one whom they had long regarded as a reliable bench-
working Union Lush had turned in his Card and deliberately made himself
an Outcast.
They saw him order Vichy and go to it as if it were a Beverage, and
then they tore up his Credentials and burned his Photograph and told
him to go out to a 3-days Cure and take a Hypodermic of Hot Mush.
He sat back and pulled the Grim Smile which Savanarola wore when they
piled the Fagots around him. He was a Martyr and proud of his Job. By
the same Token there is no Brand of Rectitude that grades so pure and
spotless as that exhibited by the disinfected Dove who has not touched
a Drop for nearly 24 hours.
They saw him go home with a Magazine under his Arm, and then they sat
around until all Hours, lapping it up and progging his Finish. They
said he never would last a Week, and when the Fell it would be Some
Splash.
They began to issue daily Bulletins and watched the Case with much
Anxiety because they really liked the Old Scout in spite of his
Eccentricities. When they learned, at the End of a Week, that he had
played Buttermilk to a Standstill all up and down the Quick Lunch
Circuit and was at his Desk every Morning with his Face clean and a
Flower in his Coat, they called a Meeting of the Vigilantes and decided
that the Joke had been carried far enough.
In the meantime, Our Hero had learned two new kinds of Solitaire and
began to call around for a Dish of Tea with some distant Female
Relatives who had long supposed him Dead. Along about the Cocktail
Hour he would find himself sitting first in one Chair and then in
another, but he Cashed big every Morning when he awoke and found that
Henry Katzenjammer was not sitting on the Foot-Board making Faces at
him.
Only, sometimes he would stop on a Corner and look all about him and up
at the Buildings and wonder if the Town had always been as Quiet as at
Present.
After he had stuck for a Fortnight, the desperate Envoys from the
Indian Camp went after him for Keeps. They held it in front of him and
splashed it on his Clothes and begged him to step aboard with them and
go right up to the 18th Floor.
Probably if they had let him alone he would have come sneaking back
into the Reservation to watch the red Whirligigs and pick a few of
those Night-Blooming Martinis, but when they tried to Stampede him,
the old New England Stock asserted itself; so he substituted Rivets
for Straps.
He is now the honored Associate of those who play Cribbage in their
own Homes and eat Apples before turning in. But if you want to get a
Line on his Real Character, just ask the Wet Brothers. They will tell
you that he wasn't there with the Strength of Character, so he simply
sank out of sight.
MORAL: The Way of the Ex-Transgressor is Hard.