The Project Gutenberg EBook of 'Charge It', by Irving Bacheller This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: 'Charge It' Keeping Up With Harry Author: Irving Bacheller Release Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29568] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 'CHARGE IT' *** Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net “SHE WISHED ME TO SUGGEST SOMETHING FOR HER TO DO” [See page 56] “CHARGE IT” OR KEEPING UP WITH HARRY A story of fashionable extravagance and of the successful efforts to restrain it made by The Honorable Socrates Potter the genial friend of Lizzie BY IRVING BACHELLER ILLUSTRATED HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON MCMXII Books by IRVING BACHELLER Charge It. Ill’d. 12mo net $1.00 Keeping Up With Lizzie. Ill’d. Post 8vo net 1.00 Eben Holden. Ill’d. Post 8vo 1.50 Edition de Luxe 2.00 Eben Holden’s Last Day A-Fishing. 16mo .50 Dri and I. Ill’d. Post 8vo 1.50 Darrell of the Blessed Isles. Ill’d. Post 8vo 1.50 Vergilius. Post 8vo 1.35 Silas Strong. Post 8vo 1.50 The Hand-Made Gentleman. Post 8vo 1.50 In Various Moods. Poems. Post 8vo net 1.00 HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1912. BY HARPER & BROTHERS PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1912 K-M TO MY DEAR FRIEND L E D YA R D PA R K H A L E ANOTHER HONEST LAWYER CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. In Which Harry Swiftly Passes from One Stage of His Career to Another 1 II. Which Begins the Story of the Bishop’s Head 11 III. Which Is the Story of the Pimpled Queen and the Black Spot 33 IV. In Which Socrates Encounters “New Thought” and Psychological Hair 45 V. In Which Socrates Discusses the Over-Production of Talk 55 VI. In Which Betsey Commits an Indiscretion 69 VII. In Which Socrates Attacks the Worst Doers and Best Sellers 75 VIII. In Which Socrates Attacks the Helmet and the Battle-Ax 84 IX. In Which Socrates Increases the Supply of Splendor 91 X. In Which Socrates Breaks the Drag and Tandem Monopoly in Pointview 99 XI. In Which Sundry People Make Great Discoveries 106 XII. In Which Harry Is Forced to Abandon Swamp Fiction and Like Follies and to Study the Geography and Natives of a Land Unknown to Our Heiristocracy 118 XIII. In Which the Minister Gets Into Love and Trouble 127 XIV. In Which Socrates Discovers a New Folly 139 XV. In Which Harry Returns to Pointview and Goes to Work 148 XVI. Which Presents an Incident in Our Campaign Against New New England 171 XVII. Which Presents a Decisive Incident in Our Campaign Against Old New England 176 ILLUSTRATIONS “SHE WISHED ME TO SUGGEST SOMETHING FOR HER TO DO” Frontispiece “WHAT DIDN’T THEY SAY? THEY FLEW AT ME LIKE WILDCATS.” 60 “‘IT’S THE VAN ALSTYNE CREST,’ I SAID. ‘IT’S A PROOF OF RESPECTABILITY.’” 86 “RADIANT IN SILK, LACE, DIAMONDS, PEARLS, AND RUBIES” 94 “HARRY’S PET COLLIE HAD COME UP TO THE BACK DOOR WITH A HUMAN SKULL IN HIS MOUTH” 148 “HE LOOKED LIKE A MAN WITH A WOODEN LEG” 188 FOREWORD It may interest, if it does not comfort, the reader to know that this little story is built upon facts. The ride of Harry, the hundred-dollar pimple, the psychological hair, the downfall of Roger, all happened, while the Bishop’s Head is one of the possessions of a New England family. I. B. “CHARGE IT” I IN WHICH HARRY SWIFTLY PASSES FROM ONE STAGE OF HIS CAREER TO ANOTHER “Harry and I were waiting for his motor-car,” said the Honorable Socrates Potter. “He couldn’t stand and wait––that would be losing time––so we kept busy. Went into the stores and bought things––violets, candy, golf-balls, tennis- shoes, new gloves, and neckties. Harry didn’t need ’em, but he couldn’t waste any time and–– “‘There’s the car!’ “In each store Harry had used the magic words, ‘Charge it,’ and passed on. “We were going over to Chesterville to settle with the contractor who had built his father’s house. We had an hour and four minutes in which to do it all, and then––the 6.03 express for New York. Harry had to get it to be in time for a bridge party. “We climbed in. Harry grabbed the wheel. The gas-lever purred, the gears clicked, the car jumped into motion and rushed, screeching, up the hill ahead of us, shot between a trolley-car and a wagon, swung around a noisy runabout, scared a team into the siding, and sped away. “The town behind us! Country-houses on either side! A bulldog in the near perspective! He set himself, made a rush at us, as if trying to grab a wheel off the car, and the wheel got him. We flushed a lot of chickens. The air seemed to be full of them. Harry waved an apology to the farmer, as if to say: “‘Never mind, sir, I’m in a hurry now. Take my number and charge it.’ “‘He struck a fowl, and, turning, I saw a whirl of feathers in the air behind us and the farmer’s fist waving above the dust. “Harry would have paid for the dog and the fowl in money but not in time––not even in a second of time! Harry had an engagement for a bridge party and must catch the 6.03 express. “A man on a bicycle followed by a big greyhound was just ahead. We screeched. The man went into the ditch and took a header. The greyhound didn’t have time to turn out then. He bent to the oars until he had gained lead enough to save himself with a sidelong jump into the buttercups. “‘Charge it!’ “The needle on the speedometer wavered from fifty to fifty-five, then struck at sixty, held a second there, and passed it. Gnats and flies hit my face and stung like flying shot. The top of the road went up in a swirl of dust behind us. I hung on, with my life in my trembling hands. We zipped past teams and motor-cars. “We filled every eye with dust and every ear with screeches and every heart with a swift pang of terror. “‘Charge it!’ “A rider with a frightened horse raced on ahead of us to the next corner. We sped across the track into Chesterville and–– “‘Hold up! There’s the office ahead.’ “The levers move, down goes the brake, and we’re there. “‘Eleven miles in fourteen minutes!’ Harry exclaims, as I spring out and hurry to the door. It was really sixteen minutes, but I always allow Harry a slight discount. “‘Not in!’ I shout, in a second. 1 2 3 4 “‘Not in––heart of Allah!––where is he?’ “‘At the Wilton job on the point.’ “‘We’ll go get him.’ “‘You go; I’ll wait here.’ “Away he rushes––I thank God for the brief respite. This high power encourages great familiarity with the higher powers. But the Creator’s name is used here in no light or profane spirit, let me say. In each case it is only a brief prayer or, rather, the beginning of a prayer which one has not time to finish. It is cut short by a new adventure. “I say to myself that I shall not ride back with Harry. No, life is still dear to me. I will take the trolley. And yet––what thrilling, Jove-like, superhuman deviltry it was! I light a cigar and sit down. Harry and Wilton arrive. Fifteen minutes gone! “I get down to business. “Harry says: ‘Please cut it short.’ “I could have saved five hundred dollars if I had had time to present our side of the case with proper deliberation. But Harry keeps shouting: “‘Do cut it short. I must get there––don’t you know?’ “Wilton must have his pay, too––he needs every cent of it to-morrow. “‘You go on. I’ll stay here and settle this matter and go home by the trolley.’ “‘Let’s stick together,’ my young friend entreats. ‘Please hurry it through and come on with me. I need you.’ “Harry must have company. His time is wasted unless he has a spectator––an audience––a witness––a historian. Without that, all his hair-breadth escapes would be thrown away. His stories would hang by a thread. “‘We’ve only twenty-one minutes,’ he calls. “I say to myself: ‘Damn the man whose money is like water and whose time is more precious than the last hour of Mahomet.’ Well, of course, there was plenty of money, but the supply of time was limited. To waste a second was to lose an opportunity for self-indulgence. “I draw a check and take a hurried receipt and jump in. “Away we go. ‘Look out!’ “The brakes grind, and we rise in the air a little as a small boy crosses our bows. We just missed him––thank God! “‘Don’t be reckless, old man––go a bit slower.’ “‘It’s all right. We’ve a clear road now.’ “What a wind in our faces! There’s the track ahead. “‘Look out! The train! God Almighty!’ “I spoke too late. We were almost up to the rails when I saw it. We couldn’t stop. Cleared the track in time. Felt the wind of the engine in my back hair, and then my scalp moved. Just ahead was a light buggy in the middle of the road and a bull, frightened by the cars, galloping beside it. “In the excitement Harry hadn’t time to blow, and the roar of the train had covered our noise. The bull turned into the ditch and speeded up. We swerved between bull and buggy and grazed the side of the latter. “I jumped and landed on the bull, and that saved me. It’s the first time that I ever knocked a bull down. He got to his feet swiftly beside me, bellowed, and took the fence. He was a fat, well-fed bull with a big, round, soft side on him. I never knew that a bull was so mellow. My feet sank deep, and he gave way, and I hit him again with another part of my person. I didn’t mean it, and felt for him, although it is likely that his feelings needed no further help from me. Of course I bounded off him at last and the earth hit me a hard upper-cut, but the bull had been a highly successful shock absorber. In a second or so I was able to get up and look around. The buggy had gone over, and the horse was on his hind legs trying to climb out of the dust-cloud. “Harry stopped his car and began to back up. “‘That’ll do for me,’ I said. ‘I don’t sit in your padded cell any longer.’ “I had lived a whole three-volume novel in the last forty minutes. The Panama Canal had been finished and England had become a republic. It was too much. “We found two men––one at the head of the frightened horse, the other lying beside the wrecked buggy with a broken leg. “And Harry had an engagement to play bridge! “I took the horse’s head. The well man pulled a stake off the fence and chased Harry around the motor-car. He didn’t intend to ‘charge it.’ Wanted cash down. I got hold of his arm and succeeded in calming him. 5 6 7 8 9 “Harry apologized and assured them that he was willing to pay the damage. We picked up the injured man and took him to his home. On the way Harry explained that they should keep track of all expenses and: “‘Charge it.’ “In a few minutes Harry roared off in the direction of Pointview to get a doctor and the 6.03 express. “‘It might be a little late,’ he said, as he left us. “The next day Harry was arrested as a public enemy for criminal carelessness. He had injured three men on the highways of Connecticut, to say nothing of dogs and poultry. Almost everybody had something charged against Harry. He was highly unpopular, but a good fellow at heart. “I got the judge to release him on his promise to abandon motoring for three years. “Thus he rushed out of the motor-car stage of his career into that of the drag and tandem. “He had had more narrow escapes and suffered greater perils than Rob Roy. “Yes, bulls are a good thing––a comparatively soft thing. I recommend them to every motorist who may have to look for a place to land. Don’t ever throw yourself on the real estate of New England. It can hit harder than you can.” II WHICH BEGINS THE STORY OF THE BISHOP’S HEAD “Harry is the most modern character in my little museum,” said the Honorable Socrates Potter, as I sat with him in his cozy office. “I was really introduced to Harry by the Bishop of St. Clare, who died in 1712. I didn’t know his heart until the Bishop made us acquainted. Strange! Well, that depends on the point of view. You see, the Bishop was acquired and imported as an ancestor by one of the best families, and that’s how I happened to meet him. They would have got William the Conqueror––of England and Fifth Avenue––if he hadn’t been well hidden. “I am inclined to converse long and loudly on the reconstruction of Pointview. Of course I shall talk too much, but I am a licensed liar, and the number of my machine is 4227643720, so if I smash a dog here and there, make a note of the number and charge it. I’m going fast and shall not have time to stop for apologies. “In Pointview even Time has quickened his pace. Last year is ancient history. Lizzie has been succeeded by Miss Elizabeth, who needs a maid, a chauffeur, a footman, and a house-party to maintain her spirits. Harry and his drag have taken the place of Dan and his runabout. “The enemy has arrived in force. We are surrounded by country-houses and city abdomens of appalling size and arrogance. Mansions crown the slopes and line the water-front. The dialect of the lazy Yankee and his industrious hens are heard no more in the hills of Pointview. Where the hoe and the sickle were stirred by the fear of hunger, the golf-club and the tennis-racket are moved by the fear of fat. The sweat of toil is now the perspiration of exercise. The chatter of society has succeeded that of the goose and the polliwog. Land has gone up. Rocks have become real estate even while they belonged to Christian Scientists. Ledges, smitten by the modern Moses, have gushed a stream of gold. Once the land supported its owner. Now wealth supports land and landlord and the fullness thereof. The Fifth Avenue farmer has begun to raise his own vegetables at a dollar apiece and a crop of criminals second to none. In his hands farming becomes agriculture and the farm a swarming nest of parasites. “We are in the midst of a new migration from the cities back to the land, and all are happy save the philosophers. It is a remote reaction of former migrations to the mines and the oil-fields. The descendants of these very pioneers now seek to exchange a part of their gold for the ancient sod in which are the roots of their family trees and delusions. “With these rich men came Henry Delance, who grew up with me here and went to Pittsburg in his early twenties and made a fortune in the coal and iron business. His grandfather was old Nick Delance, a blacksmith; and his father owned a farm on the hills and made a bare living for himself and a large family. They had been simple, hard-working, honest people. I helped Henry to buy the old place, and, as we stood together on the hilltop, he said to me: “‘I often think of the old days that were full of hard labor. What a woman my mother was! Did all the work of the house and raised seven boys and two girls, and every one of them has had some success in the world––except me. One built a big railroad, one was governor of a State, one a member of Congress, one a noted physician, two have made millions, and both of the girls married well. Now, my boy has had every advantage––’ “‘But poverty,’ I suggested. “‘But poverty,’ he repeated, ‘and I’m unable to give him that. It’s probably the one thing that would make a man of him, and I wouldn’t wonder if he succeeded in achieving it.’ “‘A rather large undertaking,’ I said. 10 11 12 13 14 15 “‘Yes, but he’s well qualified,’ Henry answered, with a smile. “‘What’s the matter with your boy?’ I asked. “‘So busy with tomfoolery––no time for anything else. I’ve had so much to do that I’ve rather neglected Harry, and now he’s too much for me. He knows that he’s got me beat on education, but that’s only the beginning of what he knows. Good fellow, you understand, but he’s young and thinks me old-fashioned. I wish you’d help me to make a man of him.’ “‘What can I do?’ “‘Get him interested in some kind of work. He doesn’t like my business. He hates Wall Street, and, knowing it as I do, how can I blame the boy? He doesn’t take to the law––’ “‘And, knowing it as I do, how can I blame him?’ I interrupted. “‘But, somehow, he hasn’t the spring in his bow that I had––the get-up-and-get––the disposition to move all hell if necessary.’ “‘You can’t expect it,’ I said. ‘His mainspring is broken.’ “‘What would you call his mainspring?’ he asked. “‘The desire to win money and its power. Mind you, I wouldn’t call that a high motive, but in a young man it’s a kind of a mainspring that sets him a-going and keeps the works busy until he can get better motive power. In Harry it’s broken.’ “‘You’re right––it was busted long ago,’ said Henry Delance. “‘Some one has got to contrive a new mainspring for the sons of millionaires––they’re so plenty these days.’ “‘There’s the desire to be respectable,’ he suggested. “‘But it is not nearly so universal as the love of money. If it were possible to have millionaire carpenters and shoemakers there’d be more hope! But I’ll try to invent a mainspring for Harry. If he doesn’t marry some fool woman there’s a chance for the boy––a good chance. Tell me all about him.’ “In his own way, which amused me a little, the old man sketched the character of his son, or rather confessed it. “‘A kind of Alexander the Great,’ he said. ‘We shall have to be careful or lose our heads. Surfeited with power, you know. When he wants anything he goes to a store and says, “Charge it.” That has ruined him. He’s no scale of values in his mind.’ “He told me, then, with some evidence of alarm, that Harry had become interested in a fool woman, older than he, noted for her beauty and equestrian skill––by name Mrs. Revere-Chalmers, of a well-known Southern family. I knew the woman––divorced from a rich old gentleman of great generosity, who had taken all the blame for her sake. But I happened to know that the circumstances on her side were not creditable. The truth, however, had been well concealed. “In her youth Frances Revere had two beautiful parents. In fact, they were all that any girl could desire––obedient and respectful to their youngers. She was always kind to them and kept them looking neatly and helped them in their lessons and brought them up in the fear of Tiffany and the hope of future happiness. They played most of the time, but never chased each other in and out of the bedrooms or made any noise about the house when she lay sleeping in the forenoon. Their sense of chivalry would not have permitted it. When she arose she called them to her and patted their heads and said: ‘What dear parents I have!’ It might be thought that the fair Frances led an aimless and idle life. Not so. The young lady was very busy and never forgot her aim. She was preparing herself to be a marryer of men and the leading marryer in the proud city of her birth. Every member of the household became her assistant in this noble industry. Many storekeepers had unconsciously joined her staff and ‘charged it’ until they were weary. All her papa’s money had been invested in the business, and he began to borrow for a rainy day. Then there came a long spell of wet weather. At last something had to be done. Frances began to use her talents. No prince or noble duke had come for her, so she married an old man worth ten million dollars and sent her parents to an orphan asylum with a fair allowance of spending-money. They are her only heirs, and now, at thirty, but with ample capital, she has set up again in the marrying business. “She lives in a big country-house, and has a lot of cats and dogs that are shampooed every day. Her life is pretty much devoted to the regulation of hair. Her own requires the exclusive attention of a hired girl. Its tint, luster, and general effect show excellent taste and close application. Considering its area, her scalp is the most remarkable field of industry in Connecticut. Has herself made into a kind of life-sized portrait every day and carefully framed and lighted and hung. It is a beautiful portrait, but it is not a portrait of her. “Her life is arduous. I have some reason to think that it wearies her. She rings for the masseuse at 10.30 A.M. and breakfasts in bed at twelve o’clock. Soon after that the chiropodist and the manicure and the hair-dresser begin to saw wood; then the grooms and second footmen. At two o’clock she goes out to pat the head of the ten-thousand- dollar bull and give some sugar to the horses, all of whom have been prepared for this ordeal by bathing and massage. “It’s great to be able to pat the head of a ten-thousand-dollar bull. It’s a pretty vanity. All the Fifth Avenue farmers indulge in it. Some slap them on the back and some poke them in the ribs with the point of a parasol, but the correct 16 17 18 19 20 21 thing is to pat them on the head and say: Dear old Romeo! “After a turn in the saddle Mrs. Revere-Chalmers led society until midnight. With her a new spirit had arrived in the ancient stronghold of the Yankee. “I began to learn things about Harry––a big, blond, handsome youth who had traveled much. He had been to school in New York, London, Florence, and Paris, and had graduated from Harvard. For a time he called it Hahvud, but passed that trouble without serious injury and put it behind him. In the European stage of his career he had been attacked by lions, griffins, and battle-axes and had lost some of his red blood. There he had acquired a full line of Fifth Avenue dialect and conversation with trills and grace notes from France and Italy. He had been slowly recovering from that trouble for a year or so when I met him. Now and then a good, strong, native idiom burst out in his conversation. “Harry was a man without a country, having never had a fair chance to acquire one. He had touched many high and low places––from the top of the Eiffel Tower to the lowest depths of the underworld. Also, he knew the best hotels in Europe and eastern America, and the Duke of Sutherland and the Lord Mayor of London, and Jack Johnson, the pugilist. Harry knew only the upper and lower ends of life. “He was an extremist. Also, he was a prolific and generous liar. He lied not to deceive, but to entertain. There was a kind of noble charity in his lying. He would gladly perjure his soul to speed an hour for any good friend. His was the fictional imagination largely exercised in the cause of human happiness. Now and then he became the hero of his own lies, but he was generally willing to divide the honors. His friends knew not when to believe him, and he often deceived them when he was telling the truth. “Early in April, Henry Delance came to me and said: ‘Soc, you’ve been working hard for years, and you need a rest. Let’s get aboard the next steamer and spend a fortnight in England.’ “I had little taste for foreign travel, but Betsey urged me to go, and I went with Henry and his wife, their daughter Ruth and the boy Harry, and sundry maids and valets. We had been a week in London, when Henry and the Mrs. came into my room one day, aglow with excitement. Mrs. Delance was first to address me. “‘Mr. Potter, congratulate us,’ said she. ‘We find that Henry is a lineal descendant of William the Conqueror.’ “‘Henry, it is possible that William could prove an alibi, or maybe you could,’ I suggested. “‘I’d make an effort,’ said he, with a trace of embarrassment, ‘but my wife thinks that we had better plead guilty and let it go. That kind of thing doesn’t interest me so much as it does her.’ “‘After all,’ I answered, by way of consolation, ‘if you think it’s like to do you any harm, it doesn’t need to get out. I shall respect your confidence.’ “‘Too late!’ his wife exclaimed. ‘The facts have been cabled to America.’ “I was writing letters in my room, next day, when Harry interrupted me with a hurried entrance. He locked the door inside, and in a kind of playful silence drew from under his rain-coat, and deposited on my table, a human skull. “‘The Bishop of St. Clare,’ he whispered, in that curious dialect which I shall not try to imitate. “‘He isn’t looking very well,’ I said, not knowing what he meant. “‘This is the Bishop’s head––the Bishop of St. Clare,’ Harry whispered again. ‘He was one of our ancestors––by Jove!’ “‘Is that all that was the matter with him?’ I asked. “‘No; his epitaph says that he died of a fever in 1712.’ “‘How did you get hold of his head?’ I asked. ‘Win it in a raffle?’ “‘I bribed the old verger in the crypt of St. Mary’s. Offered him two sovereigns to lift the stone lid and let me look in. He said he couldn’t do that, but discreetly withdrew when I put the money in his hand. It was up to me, don’t you know, and here is the Bishop’s head.’ “‘Going to have him photographed in a group of the family?’ I asked. “‘No, but you see Materna paid two pounds for a chunk off a tombstone, and I thought I would give her a souvenir worth having,’ said he, and blushed for the first time since our interview had begun. ‘This is unique.’ “‘And you didn’t think the Bishop would miss it?’ I suggested. “‘Not seriously,’ he answered. ‘I guess it’s a fool thing to have done, but I thought that I could have some fun with the Bishop’s head. Mother is going to round up all the Delances at Christmas for a big dinner––uncles, aunts, and cousins, you know––a celebration of our genealogical discoveries with a great family tree in the center of the table. The history of the Delances will be read, and I thought that I would spring a surprise––tell them that I had invited our old ancestor, Sir Robert Delance, Bishop of St. Clare; that, contrary to my hope, he had accepted, and that I would presently introduce him. In due time I would produce the head and read from his life and writings, which I bought in a London book-stall. Finally, I thought that I would have him tell how he happened to be present. Don’t you think he would make a hit?’ 22 23 24 25 26 27 “‘He would surely make a hit––a resounding hit,’ I said, ‘but not as a proof of respectability. Even if the Bishop is your ancestor, you have no good title to his bones. I presume that every visitor to the old church puts his name and address in a register?’ “‘Yes.’ “‘Well, suppose the theft is discovered and the verger gives you away. All the money you’ve got wouldn’t keep you out of prison.’ “Harry began to turn pale. He was a good fellow, but this genealogical frenzy had turned his head, and his head was not as old as the Bishop’s. It was unduly young. “‘Assume that you get home with your prize, the Bishop’s head would be the worst enemy that his descendants ever had. It would always accuse you and grin at your follies. And would you dare proclaim the truth over in Pointview that you really have the skull of the Bishop of St. Clare?’ “The boy was scared. He had suddenly discovered an important fact. It was the north pole of his education. “‘By Jove! I’m an ass,’ he said. ‘What shall I do with it?’ “‘Say nothing of the thing to anybody, not even to your father, and get rid of it.’ “‘That’s what I’ll do,’ he said, as he wrapped the skull in a piece of newspaper, hid it under his coat, and left me. “We sailed next afternoon, and that evening, when Harry and I sat alone in a corner of the deck, I asked him what he had done with the Bishop’s head. “‘Tried to get rid of it, but couldn’t,’ he said. ‘My conscience smote me, and I took the old bone back to St. Mary’s. Going to do my duty like a man, you see, but it wouldn’t work. New verger on the job! I weakened. Then I put it in a box and had it addressed to a fictitious man in Bristol, and sent my valet to get it off by express. It went on, and was returned for a better address. You see, my valet––officious ass!––had left his address at the express office. How gauche of him! While we were lying at the dock a messenger came to my state-room with the Bishop’s head. I had to take it and pay five shillings and a sixpence for the privilege.’ “‘The old Bishop seems to be quite attached to his new relative,’ I said. “‘Yes, but when the deck is deserted, by and by, I’m going to drop him overboard.’ “And that is what he did––dropped it, solemnly, from the ship’s side at dinnertime, and I witnessed the proceeding. “The adventure had one result that was rather curious and unexpected. It brought Harry close to me and established our relations to each other. That they admitted me to his confidence as a friend and counselor of the utmost frankness was on the whole exceedingly fortunate. From that time he began to trust me and to distrust himself. “So it happened that I was really introduced to Harry by the Bishop of St. Clare, who died in 1712, and those credentials gave me a standing which I could not otherwise have enjoyed. “Coming home, I limbered up my imagination and outlied Harry. “I was forced to invent that cheerful, handy liar the late Dr. Godfrey Vogeldam Guph, Professor of the Romance Languages in the University of Brague and the intimate friend of any great man you may be pleased to mention. With his help I have laid low even the most authoritative, learned, and precise liars in the State of Connecticut. I do it by quoting from his memoirs. “Harry’s specialty were lies of adventure in court and palace, and, as Dr. Guph had known all the crowned heads, he became an ever-present help in time of trouble. “Every lie of Harry’s I outdid with another of ampler proportions. He put on a little more steam, but I kept abreast or a length ahead of him. By and by he broke down and begged for quarter. “‘On my word as a gentleman,’ said he, ‘that last story I told was true. It really happened, don’t you know?’ “‘Well, Harry, if you will only notify me when you propose to tell the truth, I shall be glad to take your word for it,’ was my answer. “‘And keep Dr. Guph chained,’ said he. “‘Exactly, and give you like warning when I have a lie ready to launch.’ “‘That’s a fair treaty,’ he agreed. “‘And a good idea,’ I said. ‘As a liar of long experience I have found it best to notify all comers what to expect of me when I see a useful lie in the offing. That has enabled me to give my fancy full play without impairing my reputation. My noblest faculties have had ample exercise while my word has remained at par.’ “We made an agreement along that line, and Harry ceased to be a liar, and became a story-teller of much humor and ingenuity.” 28 29 30 31 32 III WHICH IS THE STORY OF THE PIMPLED QUEEN AND THE BLACK SPOT “Well, on our return, Mrs. Delance had a helmet and a battle-ax, with sundry accessories, emblazoned on her letter- heads and the doors of her limousine. Here was another case of charge it, but this time it was charged against her slender capital of good sense. Mrs. Delance was a stout lady of the Dreadnought type. Harry settled down in the home of his father and began to study the ‘middle clahsses’ with a drag and tandem and garments for every kind of leisure. The girls went to ride with him, and naturally began to smarten their dress and accents and to change their estimates. His ‘aristocratic’ friends and manners were much in their company and ever in their dreams. “Of course, all that began to react on the young men: if that was the kind of thing the girls liked, they must try to be in it. Slowly but surely a Pointview aristocracy began its line of cleavage and a process of integration. Crests appeared on the letter-heads and limousine doors of the newly rich. In a month or so people of brain and substance degenerated into a condition of hardened shameless idiocy. “Some of our best citizens went abroad, each to find his place among the descendants of William the Conqueror. Suddenly I discovered that the clerk in my office was ashamed to be seen on the street with a package in his hands. “Our young men began to long for wealth and leisure. They grew impatient of the old process of thrift and industry. It was too slow. Many of them opened accounts in Wall Street. “Young Roger Daniels had some luck there and began to advertise the fact with a small steam-yacht and a cruise. We were going as hard as ever to keep up, but on higher levels of aspiration. The girls were engaged in a strenuous contest for the prize of Harry’s favor, with that handsome young divorcée well in the lead. “Roger and his party were about to return from their cruise, and Harry was to give them a ball at the Yacht Club. “The day before the ball our best known physician came to see Mrs. Potter, who was ill, and cheered us up with a story. The Doctor was young, attractive, and able. He had threatened every appendix in Pointview, and had a lot of inside information about our men and women––especially the latter. He looked weary. “‘Yesterday was a little hard on me,’ he said. ‘It began at four in the morning with a confinement case and ended at one A.M. There were two operations at the hospital, a steady stream at the office, and a twenty-mile ride over the hills. Got back in the evening pretty well worn out. Tumbled into bed at two minutes of eleven, and was asleep before the clock struck. The ’phone-bell at my bedside awoke me. I let it go on for a minute. Hadn’t energy enough to get up. It rang and rang. Out I tumbled. “‘Hello!’ I said. “‘A voice answered. “I am Mrs. So-and-So’s butler,” it said. “She wishes to see you as soon as you can get here. It’s very urgent.” “‘“What’s the matter?” “‘“Don’t know, sir, but it is serious.” “‘“All right,” I said. “‘My chauffeur was off for the night, so I ’phoned to the stable and got Patrick and told him to hitch up the black mare at once, dressed, and took everything that I was likely to need in an emergency, got into the wagon, and hurried away in the darkness. After all, I thought, it is something to have one’s skill so much in request by the rich and the powerful. It was a long ride with one horse-power, but we got there. “‘Many windows of the great house were aglow. The first butler met me in the hall and took me to my lady’s chamber––an immense room finished in the style of the First Empire. She was half reclining and playing solitaire as she smoked a cigarette on a divan that occupied a dais overhung with rare tapestries on a side of the room. The effect of the whole thing was queenly––à la Récamier. She greeted me wearily and without rising. “‘“Sit down,” said she, and I did so. “‘She turned to a good-looking maid who timidly stood near the divan. “‘“My dear little woman, you weary me––please go,” she said. “‘The maid went. “‘“Dawctah,” the lady said to me, “I have a nahsty little pimple on my right cheek, and I really cahn’t go to the ball, you know, unless it is cuahed. Won’t you kindly––ah––see what can be done?” “‘“A pimple! God prosper it!” I said to myself. “Has the great M.D. become a P.D.––a mere doctor of pimples?” “‘I inspected the pimple––a very slight affair. “‘“Why, if I were you, I’d just cover the pimple with a little square of court-plaster,” I said. “It would become you.” 33 34 35 36 37 38 “‘“What a pretty idea! That’s just what I will do,” she exclaimed. “‘“Please charge it, Dawctah,” she said, wearily, as she resumed her solitaire. “‘I charged a hundred dollars, but nothing could pay me for the humiliation I suffered. Going home, I pounded the mare shamefully.’ “‘You charged a good price,’ I said. “‘Yes; but it’s like pulling teeth to get any money out of her. One has to earn it twice. Worth a million, and hangs everybody up. Some have to sue.’ “‘Does nothing to-day that can be done to-morrow,’ I said. “‘True,’ said he; ‘she don’t look after her business, and thinks that every one is trying to cheat her.’ “‘Same old story,’ was my remark. I was her husband’s lawyer. ‘Well, dear, how much do you suppose McCrory’s bill is for the last month?’ he would ask her. She would look thoughtful and say: ‘Oh, about fifteen hundred dollars.’ ‘My dear,’ he would go on, ‘it is ten thousand six hundred and forty-three dollars and twenty-four cents.’ ‘Oh, that’s impossible,’ she would answer. ‘There’s some mistake about it. I’ll never O.K. such a bill. It’s an outrage!’ But the bill was always right. “‘I didn’t suppose you would know the lady––I haven’t mentioned her name,’ said the Doctor. “‘I know her, but don’t worry––I shall not betray your confidence. I knew her husband. It wore him out looking after the charge-it department. Now she’s trying to get Harry Delance for his job.’ “‘She’s badly in need of a clerk,’ said the Doctor, ‘and I hope she gets one. He could look after the pimples as well as I can.’ “Many were getting ready for the ball, but this lady was the only one I knew of who had spent a hundred dollars for facial improvement. Harry, however, was about to spend a thousand dollars for the improvement of his conscience. It was one of the necessary expenses and it came about in this way: “The day of the ball had arrived. Harry came to see me about noon. He said that he had been busy all the morning with preparations for the ball, but–– “He showed me a telegram. It was from Roger Daniels, and it said: “‘The recent slump in the market has put me in hell’s hole. Please wire one thousand dollars to Bridgeport, where I am hung up. If you do, I shall give you good collateral and eternal gratitude. If you don’t, we shall have to miss the ball. Please remember that I am waiting at the other end of the wire like a hungry cat at a mouse-hole.’ “Harry looked worried. The ball must come off, and, without Roger, it would be like Hamlet minus the melancholy Dane. It was a special compliment to Roger. “‘What do you advise me to do?’ he asked. “‘Pay it.’ “‘It will probably be a dead loss.’ “‘Probably, but it’s plainly up to you. He’s got in trouble keeping your pace. To tell the honest truth, you’re responsible for it, and the public will charge it to your account. You must pay the bill or suffer moral bankruptcy.’ “Harry was taken by surprise. “‘But I can pay for my folly,’ he said. “‘Yes; but when it becomes another man’s folly it’s stolen property, and as much yours as ever. The goods have your mark on ’em, and, by and by, they’re dumped at your door. They may be damaged by dirt and vermin, but you’ve got to take ’em. “‘After all, Harry, why should a young man whose education has cost a hundred thousand dollars, if a cent, be giving up his life to folly? You’re too smart to spend the most of your time looking beautiful––trying to excite the admiration of women and the envy of men. That might do in some of the old countries where the people are as dumb as cattle and are capable only of the emotion of awe and need professional gentlemen to excite it, and to feed upon their substance. Here the people have their moments of weakness, but mostly they are pretty level-headed. They judge men by what they do, not by what they look like. The professional gentleman is first an object of curiosity and then an object of scorn. He’s not for us. Young man, I knew your father and your grandfather. I like you and want you to know that I am speaking kindly, but you ought to go to work.’ “‘Mr. Potter, he said, ‘upon my word, sir, I’m going to work one of these days––at something––I don’t know what.’ “‘The sooner the better,’ I said. ‘Work is the thing that makes men––nothing else. In Pointview everybody used to work. Now here are some facts for your genealogy that you haven’t discovered. Your grandfather and grandmother raised a family of nine children and never had a servant––think of that. Your grandmother made clothes for the family and did all the work of the house. She was a doctor, a nurse, a teacher, a spinner, a weaver, a knitter, a sewer, a cook, a washerwoman, a gentle and tender mother. Now we are beginning to rot with idleness. “‘Let me tell you a story of a modern lady of Pointview.’ 39 40 41 42 43 “Then I told him of the Doctor’s call on the pimpled queen at midnight, and added: “‘Think of that! Think of the fathomless depths of vanity and selfishness that lie under that pimple. It’s a monument more sublime than the Matterhorn. Think of the poor fellow that has to marry that human millstone, and be the clerk of her charge-it department.’ “‘I can think of no worse luck, really,’ said he. ‘I wonder who it is!’ “‘Doctors never give names,’ I said. ‘But you might look for the little black square of court-plaster.” “‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed. ‘I shall look with interest.’ “The ball came off, and Roger got there, and so did the lady and the square of black court-plaster; and that night Harry began a new stage in his career. “After all, Harry was no dunce, but he was not yet convinced.” IV IN WHICH SOCRATES ENCOUNTERS “NEW THOUGHT” AND PSYCHOLOGICAL HAIR “When people have little to do they go back to childishness. They long for novelty––new playthings, new adventures, new sensations, new friends. So our upper classes are utterly restless. Every old pleasure is a slough of despond. The ladies have tried jewels, laces, crests, titled husbands, divorces, gambling, cocktails, cigarettes, and other branches of exhilaration. They have passed through the slums of literature and of the East Side of Gotham. The gentlemen have shown them the way and smiled with amusement and gone on to greater triumphs. To these people every old idea is ‘bromide.’ It bores them. They scoff at men ‘who take themselves seriously.’ In a word, Moses and the Prophets are so much ‘dope.’ And they are excellent people who really want to make the world better, but the childish craze for novelty is upon them. Mrs. Revere-Chalmers was one of this kind. Harry came to me next day at my house and said: “‘By Jove! you know, it was my friend Mrs. R.-C. who wore the black square. But she is really a charming woman–– not at all a bad sort. I want you to know her better. She made me promise to bring you over to-morrow afternoon if you would come.’ “We went. It was a ‘new-thought’ tea––a deep, brain-racking, forefinger-on-the-brow function. You could see the thoughts of the ladies and sometimes hear them as a ‘professor’ with long hair and smiles of fathomless inspiration wrapped himself in obscurity and called unto them out of the depths. He was all depth. They gazed at his soulful eyes and plunged into deep thought, catching at straws, and he returned to New York by the next train and probably made another payment, on account, to his landlady. Tea and conversation followed his departure. “I had observed that Mrs. Revere-Chalmers had undergone a singular change of aspect, but failed to locate the point of difference until a sister had said to her in a tone of honeyed deviltry: “‘My dear, you are growing younger––quite surely younger, and your hair is so lovely and so––different! You know what I mean––it has the luster of youth, and the shade is adorable without a trace of gray in it.’ “This last phrase was the point of the dagger, and Mrs. Chalmers felt it. Sure enough, her hair had changed its hue, and was undeniably fuller and younger. “Then our hostess gave out a confession which has made some history and is fully qualified to make more. It is a curious fact that one who is abnormal enough to commit a crime is apt to have poor caution. “‘I have been taking lessons of the Professor, and have produced this hair by concentration,’ said she. ‘It is a creation of the new thought and so wonderful I could almost forgive one for not believing me.’ “‘A gem of thought––a hair poem!’ I could not help exclaiming. ‘Did it come all at once, in a flood of inspiration, or hair by hair?’ “‘All at once,’ she answered. “I charged it and went on as if nothing great had happened. “‘Considered as a work of the imagination, it is wonderful, and should rank with the best of Shakespeare’s,’ I assured her. ‘But it will subject you to unsuspected perils, for your footstool will be the shrine of the hairless and you shall see the top of every bald head in America.’ “Another lady sprang to her assistance by telling how she had extracted a pearl necklace from an unwilling husband who had said that he couldn’t afford it, by concentration. The new thought had fetched him. “The noble unselfishness with which they had used this miraculous gift of the spirit appealed to Harry and to me. 44 45 46 47 48 49 “In that brilliant company was a slim woman of the armored cruiser type, who had come to Betsey one day and said: “‘You’re spoiling your husband. You make too much of him. You don’t seem to know how to manage a husband, and the husbands of Pointview are being ruined by your example. They expect too much of us. We women have got to stand together. Don’t you read the Female Gazette?’ “‘No––I have been waiting till I could get a rubber-plant and other accessories,’ said Betsey. “‘Well, it may not be en règle, but it is full of good sense,’ said the lady. ‘I’ve brought an article with me that I wish you would read.’ “She left the article, and its title was ‘How to Manage a Husband.’ It averred that too much petting, too much indulgence, made a man selfish and conceited; that affection should be administered with scientific reserve. Men should be taught to wait on themselves, and all that. “They called on me for remarks, and I said: “‘I am glad to have become acquainted with the power of concentration. I propose that we all quit work and begin to concentrate. Matter is only a creation of spirit. Let us exercise our several sovereign spirits and try to turn out a better line of matter. Let us have fewer rocks and stones and more comforts. Sweat and toil are a great mistake. Let us turn Delance’s Hill into plum-pudding and the stones thereof into caramels and its pond into tomato-soup. Why not? They have no reality, no substance. They are nothing but thoughts––and our thoughts, at that––and why shouldn’t we change ’em? But somehow we can’t fetch it. According to the Professor, we have got into the habit of thinking in terms of rock, soil, and water, and we can’t get over it. There are some few of us who stand for better things; but the majority keep thinking in the old rut, and we can’t sway them. The Professor says that all we need is to get together and agree and then concentrate. But agreement doesn’t seem to be necessary. You know that there was a time when everybody, after much concentration, agreed that the world was flat––everybody but one man. Now the world was stubborn. It wouldn’t give up. It hung on to its roundness, and let the people think what they pleased. They tried to flatten it with countless tons of concentration, but it held its shape. The one man had his way about it. So don’t be discouraged by an adverse majority on this plum-pudding project. One lady has shown us a sample of concentrated hair, and it looks good to me. Why all this striving, all this trouble about the problems of life and death, when the straight, broad way of concentration is open to us? Why shouldn’t we have concentrated bread and meat and shoes and socks and silks. “‘Now the subject of concentration is by no means new. It has been a success for centuries. The late Dr. Guph tells in his memoirs of a singular race of people known as the Flub Dubs who once dwelt on the lost isle of Atlantis. They were the greatest concentrators that ever lived. Every one thought that he was the greatest man in the world, and thought it so hard and so persistently that it came true––in a way. Naturally they aimed high, and every man thought himself the rightful king, and a strife arose over the crown, so that no one could wear it and many were slain in a great tussle. And when they were resting from their struggles one rose and said: “Kings of the realm, you are as the dust under my feet. I scorn you. A few minutes ago I decided to reverse my concentrator and aim at a higher goal. It was easy of attainment. I have suddenly become the biggest fool on this island and the humblest of all men.” “‘The announcement was greeted with great applause, and within three minutes his popularity had so enhanced that they put him on the throne. Such was the power of truth. And all confessed and joined his party, and he was known as the wisest king of the Flub Dubs. “‘The moral that Dr. Guph adduces is this: You cannot make figs out of thistles, and unregulated concentration leads to trouble.’ “Harry and I started for home in a deep silence. “‘Hell!’ I exclaimed, presently. “‘And that reminds me that I feel like the king of the Flub Dubs,’ said Harry. “‘Which indicates that you are likely to decline the office,’ I remarked. “‘It’s serious business––this matter of finding a wife,’ he declared. “‘What’s the matter with Marie Benson?’ I asked. ‘There’s a real woman and the best-looking girl in Connecticut.’ “‘Charming girl!’ he exclaimed. ‘But, dear boy! she talks too much.’ “‘That is a fault that could be remedied; and, after all, it’s a kind of generosity. It’s the very opposite of concentration.’ “‘Ah––if she would only reform!’ he said. “‘Leave that to me,’ I answered, as he dropped me at my door.” V 50 51 52 53 54 55 IN WHICH SOCRATES DISCUSSES THE OVER-PRODUCTION OF TALK “Marie was my ward, and as pretty a girl as ever led a bulldog or ate a box of chocolates at a sitting. She was a charming fish-hook, baited with beauty and wealth and culture and remarkable innocence. She had dangled about on mama’s rod and line for a year or so, but the fish wouldn’t bite. For that reason I grabbed the rod from the old lady and put on a bait of silence and a sinker, and moved to deep water and began to do business. “Marie had a failing, for which, I am sorry to say, she was in no way distinguished. She talked too much, as Harry had said. There are too many American women who talk too much. Marie’s mother used to talk about six-thirds of the time. You had to hear it, and then you had to get over it. She had a way of spiking the shoes of Time so that every hour felt like a month while it was running over you. You ought to have seen her climb the family tree or the sturdy old chestnut of her own experience and shake down the fruit! Marie had one more tree in her orchard. She had added the spreading peach of a liberal education to the deadly upas of...