THE punctual man is a bird; he always is true to his word; he knows that
the skate who is ten minutes late is trifling and vain and absurd. He
says, “I’ll be with you at four”; though torrents may ruthlessly pour,
you know when the clock strikes the hour he will knock with his punctual
fist at your door. And you say, “He is surely a trump! I haven’t much
use for the chump who is evermore late, making other men wait—the place
for that gent is the dump.” The punctual man is a peach; he sticks to
his dates like a leech; it’s a pity, alas, that he hasn’t a class of
boneheaded sluggards to teach. He’s welcome wherever he wends; the
country is full of his friends; he goes by the watch and he ne’er makes
a botch of his time, so he never offends. If he says he’ll get married
at nine, you can bet he’ll be standing in line, with his beautiful
bride, and the knot will be tied ere the clock is done making the sign.
If he says he’ll have cashed in at five, at that hour he will not be
alive; you can order his shroud and assemble a crowd, clear out to the
boneyard to drive. The punctual man is a jo! The biggest success that I
know! He is grand and sublime, he is always on time, not late by ten
minutes or so.
[Illustration]
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