Literary Lapses (5 page)

 

GETTING THE THREAD OF IT

H
ave you ever had a man try to explain to you what happened in a book as far as he has read? It is a most instructive thing. Sinclair, the man who shares my rooms with me, made such an attempt the other night. I had come in cold and tired from a walk and found him full of excitement, with a bulky magazine in one hand and a paper-cutter gripped in the other.

“Say, here's a grand story,” he burst out as soon as I came in; “it's great! most fascinating thing I ever read. Wait till I read you some of it. I'll just tell you what has happened up to where I am–you'll easily catch the thread of it–and then we'll finish it together.”

I wasn't feeling in a very responsive mood, but I saw no way to stop him, so I merely said, “All right, throw me your thread, I'll catch it.”

“Well,” Sinclair began with great animation, “this count gets this letter…”

“Hold on,” I interrupted, “what count gets what letter?”

“Oh, the count it's about, you know. He gets this letter from this Porphirio…”

“From which Porphirio?”

“Why, Porphirio sent the letter, don't you see, he sent it,” Sinclair exclaimed a little impatiently– “sent it through Demonio and told him to watch for him with him, and kill him when he got him.”

“Oh, see here!” I broke in, “who is to meet who, and who is to get stabbed?”

“They're going to stab Demonio.”

“And who brought the letter?”

“Demonio.”

“Well, now, Demonio must be a clam! What did be bring it for?”

“Oh, but he don't know what's in it, that's just the slick part of it,” and Sinclair began to snigger to himself at the thought of it. “You see, this Carlo Carlotti the Condottiere…”

“Stop right there,” I said. “What's a Condottiere?”

“It's a sort of brigand. He, you understand, was in league with this Fra Fraliccolo…”

A suspicion flashed across my mind. “Look here,” I said firmly, “if the scene of this story is laid in the Highlands, I refuse to listen to it. Call it off.”

“No, no,” Sinclair answered quickly, “that's all right. It's laid in Italy…time of Pius the something. He comes in–say, but he's great! so darned crafty. It's him, you know, that persuades this Franciscan…”

“Pause,” I said, “what Franciscan?”

“Fra Fraliccolo, of course,” Sinclair said snappishly. “You see, Pio tries to…”

“Whoa!” I said, “who is Pio?”

“Oh, hang it all, Pio is Italian, it's short for Pius. He tries to get Fra Fraliccolo and Carlo Carlotti the Condottiere to steal the document from…let me see, what was he called? Oh,
yes…from the Dog of Venice, so that…or…no, hang it, you put me out, that's all wrong. It's the other way round. Pio wasn't clever at all; he's a regular darned fool. It's the Dog that's crafty. By Jove, he's fine,” Sinclair went on, warming up to enthusiasm again, “he just does anything he wants. He makes this Demonio (Demonio is one of those hirelings, you know, he's the tool of the Dog)…makes him steal the document off Porphirio, and…”

“But how does he get him to do that?” I asked.

“Oh, the Dog has Demonio pretty well under his thumb, so he makes Demonio scheme round till he gets old Pio–er–gets him under his thumb, and then, of course, Pio thinks that Porphirio–I mean he thinks that he has Porphirio–er–has him under his thumb.”

“Half a minute, Sinclair,” I said, “who did you say was under the Dog's thumb?”

“Demonio.”

“Thanks. I was mixed in the thumbs. Go on.”

“Well, just when things are like this…”

“Like what?”

“Like I said.”

“All right.”

“Who should turn up and thwart the whole scheme, but this Signorina Tarara in her domino…”

“Hully Gee! “I said, “you make my head ache. What the deuce does she come in her domino for?”

“Why, to thwart it.”

“To thwart what?”

“Thwart the whole darned thing,” Sinclair exclaimed emphatically.

“But can't she thwart it without her domino?”

“I should think not! You see, if it hadn't been for the
domino, the Dog would have spotted her quick as a wink. Only when he sees her in the domino with this rose in her hair, he thinks she must be Lucia dell' Esterolla.”

“Say, he fools himself, doesn't he? Who's this last girl?”

“Lucia? Oh, she's great!” Sinclair said. “She's one of those Southern natures, you know, full of–er–full of…”

“Full of fun,” I suggested.

“Oh, hang it all, don't make fun of it! Well, anyhow, she's sister, you understand, to the Contessa Carantarata, and that's why Fra Fraliccolo, or…hold on, that's not it, no, no, she's not sister to anybody. She's cousin, that's it; or, anyway, she thinks she is cousin to Fra Fraliccolo himself, and that's why Pio tries to stab Fra Fraliccolo.”

“Oh, yes,” I assented, “naturally he would.”

“Ah,” Sinclair said hopefully, getting his paper-cutter ready to cut the next pages, “you begin to get the thread now, don't you?”

“Oh, fine!” I said. “The people in it are the Dog and Pio, and Carlo Carlotti the Condottiere, and those others that we spoke of.”

“That's right,” Sinclair said, “Of course, there are more still that I can tell you about if…”

“Oh, never mind,” I said, “I'll work along with those, they're a pretty representative crowd. Then Porphirio is under Pio's thumb, and Pio is under Demonio's thumb, and the Dog is crafty, and Lucia is full of something all the time. Oh, I've got a mighty clear idea of it,” I concluded bitterly.

“Oh, you've got it,” Sinclair said, “I knew you'd like it. Now we'll go on. I'll just finish to the bottom of my page and then I'll go on aloud.”

He ran his eyes rapidly over the lines till he came to the bottom of the page, then he cut the leaves and turned over.
I saw his eye rest on the half-dozen lines that confronted him on the next page with an expression of utter consternation.

“Well, I will be cursed!” he said at length.

“What's the matter?” I said gently, with a great joy at my heart.

“This infernal thing's a serial,” he gasped, as he pointed at the words
To be continued,
“and that's all there is in this number.”

 

TELLING HIS FAULTS

O
h, do, Mr. Sapling,” said the beautiful girl at the summer hotel, “do let me read the palm of your hand! I can tell you all your faults.”

Mr. Sapling gave an inarticulate gurgle and a roseate flush swept over his countenance as he surrendered his palm to the grasp of the fair enchantress.

“Oh, you're just full of faults, just full of them, Mr. Sapling!” she cried.

Mr. Sapling looked it.

“To begin with,” said the beautiful girl, slowly and reflectingly, “you are dreadfully cynical: you hardly believe in anything at all, and you've utterly no faith in us poor women.”

The feeble smile that had hitherto kindled the features of Mr. Sapling into a ray of chastened imbecility, was distorted in an effort at cynicism.

“Then your next fault is that you are too determined; much too determined. When once you have set your will on any object, you crush every obstacle under your feet.”

Mr. Sapling looked meekly down at his tennis shoes, but
began to feel calmer, more lifted up. Perhaps he had been all these things without knowing it.

“Then you are cold and sarcastic.”

Mr. Sapling attempted to look cold and sarcastic. He succeeded in a rude leer.

“And you're horribly world-weary, you care for nothing. You have drained philosophy to the dregs, and scoff at everything.”

Mr. Sapling's inner feeling was that from now on he would simply scoff and scoff and scoff.

“Your only redeeming quality is that you are generous. You have tried to kill even this, but cannot. Yes,” concluded the beautiful girl, “those are your faults, generous still, but cold, cynical and relentless. Good night, Mr. Sapling.”

And resisting all entreaties the beautiful girl passed from the verandah of the hotel and vanished.

And when later in the evening the brother of the beautiful girl borrowed Mr. Sapling's tennis racket, and his bicycle for a fortnight, and the father of the beautiful girl got Sapling to endorse his note for a couple of hundreds, and her uncle Zephas borrowed his bedroom candle and used his razor to cut up a plug of tobacco, Mr. Sapling felt proud to be acquainted with the family.

 

WINTER PASTIMES

I
t is in the depth of winter, when the intense cold renders it desirable to stay at home, that the really Pleasant Family is wont to serve invitations upon a few friends to spend a Quiet Evening.

It is at these gatherings that that gay thing, the indoor winter game, becomes rampant. It is there that the old euchre deck and the staring domino become fair and beautiful things; that the rattle of the Loto counter rejoices the heart, that the old riddle feels the sap stirring in its limbs again, and the amusing spilikin completes the mental ruin of the jaded guest. Then does the Jolly Maiden Aunt propound the query: What is the difference between an elephant and a silk hat? Or declare that her first is a vowel, her second a preposition, and her third an archipelago. It is to crown such a quiet evening, and to give the finishing stroke to those of the visitors who have not escaped early, with a fierce purpose of getting at the saloons before they have time to close, that the indoor game or family reservoir of fun is dragged from its long sleep. It is spread out upon the table. Its paper of directions is unfolded. Its cards, its counters, its pointers and its markers are distributed around
the table, and the visitor forces a look of reckless pleasure upon his face. Then the “few simple directions” are read aloud by the Jolly Aunt, instructing each player to challenge the player holding the golden letter corresponding to the digit next in order, to name a dead author beginning with
X
, failing which the player must declare himself in fault, and pay the forfeit of handing over to the Jolly Aunt his gold watch and all his money, or having a hot plate put down his neck.

With a view to bringing some relief to the guests at entertainments of this kind, I have endeavoured to construct one or two little winter pastimes of a novel character. They are quite inexpensive, and as they need no background of higher arithmetic or ancient history, they are within reach of the humblest intellect. Here is one of them. It is called Indoor Football, or Football without a Ball.

In this game any number of players, from fifteen to thirty, seat themselves in a heap on any one player, usually the player next to the dealer. They then challenge him to get up, while one player stands with a stop-watch in his hand and counts forty seconds. Should the first player fail to rise before forty seconds are counted, the player with the watch declares him suffocated. This is called a “Down” and counts one. The player who was the Down is then leant against the wall; his wind is supposed to be squeezed out. The player called the referee then blows a whistle and the players select another player and score a down off him. While the player is supposed to be down, all the rest must remain seated as before, and not rise from him until the referee by counting forty and blowing his whistle announces that in his opinion the other player is stifled. He is then leant against the wall beside the first player. When the whistle again blows the player nearest the referee strikes him behind the right ear. This is a “Touch,” and counts two.

It is impossible, of course, to give all the rules in detail. I might add, however, that while it counts
two
to strike the referee, to kick him counts
three.
To break his arm or leg counts
four,
and to kill him outright is called
Grand Slam
and counts one game.

Here is another little thing that I have worked out, which is superior to parlour games in that it combines their intense excitement with sound out-of-door exercise.

It is easily comprehended, and can be played by any number of players, old and young. It requires no other apparatus than a trolley car of the ordinary type, a mile or two of track, and a few thousand volts of electricity. It is called:

 

The Suburban Trolley Car

A Holiday Game for Old and Young

 

The chief part in the game is taken by two players who station themselves one at each end of the car, and who adopt some distinctive costumes to indicate that they are “it.” The other players occupy the body of the car, or take up their position at intervals along the track.

The object of each player should be to enter the car as stealthily as possible in such a way as to escape the notice of the players in distinctive dress. Should he fail to do this he must pay the philopena or forfeit. Of these there are two: philopena No.
1
, the payment of five cents, and philopena No.
2
, being thrown off the car by the neck. Each player may elect which philopena he will pay. Any player who escapes paying the philopena scores one.

The players who are in the car may elect to adopt a standing attitude, or to seat themselves, but no player may seat himself in the lap of another without the second player's consent. The
object of those who elect to remain standing is to place their feet upon the toes of those who sit; when they do this they score. The object of those who elect to sit is to elude the feet of the standing players. Much merriment is thus occasioned.

The player in distinctive costume at the front of the car controls a crank, by means of which he is enabled to bring the car to a sudden stop, or to cause it to plunge violently forward. His aim in so doing is to cause all the standing players to fall over backward. Every time he does this he scores. For this purpose he is generally in collusion with the other player in distinctive costume, whose business it is to let him know by a series of bells and signals when the players are not looking, and can be easily thrown down. A sharp fall of this sort gives rise to no end of banter and good-natured drollery, directed against the two players who are “it.”

Should a player who is thus thrown backward save himself from falling by sitting down in the lap of a female player, he scores one. Any player who scores in this manner is entitled to remain seated while he may count six, after which he must remove himself or pay philopena No.
2
.

Should the player who controls the crank perceive a player upon the street desirous of joining in the game by entering the car, his object should be: primo, to run over him and kill him; secundo, to kill him by any other means in his power; tertio, to let him into the car, but to exact the usual philopena.

Should a player, in thus attempting to get on the car from without, become entangled in the machinery, the player controlling the crank shouts “huff!” and the car is supposed to pass over him. All within the car score one.

A fine spice of the ludicrous may be added to the game by each player pretending that he has a destination or stopping-place, where he would wish to alight. It now
becomes the aim of the two players who are “it” to carry him past his point. A player who is thus carried beyond his imaginary stopping-place must feign a violent passion, and imitate angry gesticulations. He may, in addition, feign a great age or a painful infirmity, which will be found to occasion the most convulsive fun for the other players in the game.

These are the main outlines of this most amusing pastime. Many other agreeable features may, of course, be readily introduced by persons of humour and imagination.