I LIKE a rattling story of whiskered buccaneers, whose ships are black
and gory, who cut off people’s ears. A yarn of Henry Morgan warms up my
jaded heart, and makes that ancient organ feel young and brave and
smart. I like detective fiction, it always hits the spot, however poor
in diction, however punk in plot; I like the sleuth who follows a clue
o’er hill and vale, until the victim swallows his medicine in jail. I
like all stories ripping, in which some folks are killed, in which the
guns go zipping, and everyone is thrilled. But when I have some callers,
I hide those books away, those good old soul enthrallers which make my
evenings gay. I blush for them, by jingo, and all their harmless games;
I talk the highbrow lingo, and swear by Henry James. When sitting in my
shanty, to “have my picture took,” I hold a work by Dante, or other
heavy book. But when the artist’s vanished, I drop those dippy pomes,
old Dante’s stuff is banished—I reach for Sherlock Holmes.
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