Pluck and Luck

by Robert Benchley

  However, one never knows about such things, or rather, if one does know, one doesn’t tell – that is, not if one happens to be Gordon Nevins and an English gentleman.

  I had met Gordon Nevins in front of the Hartford Lunch, that retreat in London where one finds men who know the ting of the hot sands of Fraja on their cheeks and who also know that the syrup should be put in between wheatcakes and not allowed to soak in through the top. If that is being a cad, then Gordon Nevins was a cad. But a glorious cad, such a cad as I should want my young son to grow up to be if I had a young son, which I have not (God help him, and us too, for that matter).

  “I thought that you were sailing tomorrow,” I said. It was always safe to say that to Gordon Nevins, for he, like most other English gentlemen one meets in front of clubs, was usually sailing tomorrow, even if it were only to Tillbury Docks.

  “Don’t be an ass,” he said. “I sailed yesterday. But before I go I have a story which I think will interest you. At any rate, it will interest me to tell it, and that is enough for any man to ask.”

  We stepped inside and I saw by his fingers that he had been crying. And when Gordon Nevins has been crying, you may be sure that God and his subsidiary angels have had a hard day at the office.

  “You have seen Eunice Lovejoy?” I asked, for I already knew that he had.

  “No,” he answered, with unaccustomed prolixity.

  “Then why have you got her dress on?” I returned. A cab drove up but we did not get in.

  Now who shall describe Eunice Lovejoy of the silky lashes, of the eyes that pouted in the sun, of the ringlets blonde one year like flax, dark the next like those great nets the fishers use to catch sunbeams with, Eunice Lovejoy of the this and that? Her eyes were thus and thus, and her hands were those and those, but the song that she sang as she sailed her little boat in her tub, was the song that men have sung to women since the first young man looked behind him and found that his heart was broken. Or was it?

  Archlake Turbot, or Gordon Nevins, or whatever it was we decided his name was at the beginning of this story, drew me down beside him onto the deck of the ocean liner.

  “I was standing in front of Eunice Lovejoy’s house only a half hour ago,” he said, lighting the doorman’s cigarette. “It was raining and I was wet. Or perhaps I should have said, I was wet and it was raining. I think that is why God makes the rain, Blashton (you are Blashton, aren’t you?), I think that is why God makes the rain, Blashton, because it is like a woman’s tears. Horrible things, Blashton, women’s tears. Horrible!” And he shuddered.

  “As I stood there I felt someone at my side. It would be more correct to say that I saw someone at my side. He was one of those men whom one instinctively feels to be fat. He was wet too, for it was still raining. ‘May I speak to you a moment?’ he said. ‘You have already,’ I replied, ‘and your, moment is almost up.’ This unnerved him and he fainted. When I came to, he was still standing there.

  “‘I think that you will be interested in what I have to tell you,’ he said. ‘I have just come from seeing Eunice Lovejoy, and she was this and that.’ “Now of men who have seen Eunice Lovejoy when she was this and that there are less than a few, and so I gave him my arm. ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘tell me what you mean, and if you mean nothing, tell me that too.’

  “‘I was in Eunice Lovejoy’s apartment at a quarter past five’ (it was then just five, so he couldn’t have done much) ‘and, as is the custom among men who are in Eunice Lovejoy’s apartment at a quarter past five, I had just told her that I loved her.’

  “‘Naturally,’ I said. ‘Go on.’

  “‘How can I go on if you keep saying “Naturally,”’ he whined. ‘I had just told her that I loved her.’

  “‘Naturally,’ I said. ‘Go on.’

  “‘Just then a man entered the room. I recognized him at once, for he was one of those men one recognizes at once no matter whether one has ever seen him before or not. But I had seen him before, God help me (and God help the sailors, too, while He is about helping people). Eunice was playing with a baby that she had just had. She did not look up.

  “‘“My dear sir,” I said, “I think that you ought to know that I have just told Eunice that I love her. Here in England we do things that way. You ought to be the next to know in case there is anything that you want to do about it. I have loved her for a long time, for a longer time than it has taken her brown eyes to grow sad, for a longer time than it has taken her raven hair to turn blonde, and, if I may be so bold, I think that she has loved me at least half that long.” Eunice said nothing, but looked thus and thus.

  “‘“I have known it all along,” he said quietly, “and I have already made up my mind what to do.” With that, he picked up my hat and walked out of the room. He never returned. At least I waited until half past five and he hadn’t returned then. Poor chap!’

  “It had stopped raining by this time, but I was still wet. The fat man looked at me as if he expected me to say something. So I did.

  “‘You are to be congratulated,’ I said, ‘if you have won Eunice Lovejoy away from her husband.’

  “I did not say that,’ replied the fat man. ‘I simply said that I had won Eunice Lovejoy. It was, however, her lover from whom I won her. My name is Lovejoy. I am her husband.’”

  Gordon Nevins turned and pulled in a fire alarm.

  “That was a rather silly thing to do, Nevins,” I said. “You can’t possibly have a fire big enough waiting for the firemen when they arrive to pay them for coming.”

  “Perhaps not,” he replied. “But I shall ride back with them. And I shall clang their bell as I go – Loudly,” he added.

  The rest of the story is frightfully dull. But it is related how that night in Cavendish Square an owl was heard, and whenever an owl is heard in Cavendish Square it means that Eunice Lovejoy’s eyes are wet. And, God help me, what eyes they are!

  * * *

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  On the Floor

  of the Reebis Gulf

  * * *

  Communication from the “Reasonably” Expedition

  On Board S. S. “Reasonably,”

  May 23.

  The progress of our expedition in the ship Reasonably to explore the flora and fauna of the sea-bottom of the Reebis Gulf has been quite slow, owing to the surprising amount of water we have had to drop through even to reach the bottom. This unexpected obstacle we account for in the early advent of the submarine rainy-season. The submarine rainy-season does not usually begin until late November, but this year, on account of the late Easter, it has already started in with a vengeance. This makes our nets damp and sticky and hinders our divers, who have to wear slickers over their already heavy diving suits.

  We have, however, succeeded in bringing to the surface several good hauls of whatever that terrible stuff is that grows along the sea-bottom. “Gurry,” we call it, but I don’t suppose that that is the right name for it. It is rather like a vine of some sort, except that it has a face.

  Last Thursday, for instance, our scoop brought up to the deck of the Reasonably a mess of perfectly dandy things. There were some wee pelagic anemones, all rosy from their ocean dip, little cross-stitch barnacles, several yards of an herbage without a name and which I hope never does have a name, a small male watermelon-fish (so-called because it is full of seeds similar to those of a male watermelon), and a safety-razor blade. All these were taken into the ship’s laboratory and thrown away.

  We have, however, located one species of deep-sea fauna which ought to prove of considerable value. This is the submarine robin, or flying sponge. This interesting little chap was pulled over the side of the boat on Wednesday by Dr. Atemus and has kept us in gales of laughter ever since. It is really more like a sponge except that it has wings and has the song-note of a robin. It flies through the spaces under the water looking for worms, and when it has found one it flies back to its nest, where it deposits the tasty bit in the mouths of the little robins, who tweet wi
th delight.

  The worm itself is worthy of special note. These deep-sea worms are not at all like the angle-worms which you use in the States for fishing. They are something in the nature of a button, and they walk erect. When pursued by the submarine robin they run at a great rate along the floor of the sea, scampering back and forth and dodging between rocks and bunkers until they are completely winded. Then the robin swoops down on them and carries them off, a kicking, giggling prey.

  In the haul last Saturday, Dr. Wrensser, while poking among the crabs and shellfish which are part of every load, discovered a man named Harris, or Harrit. The man said that he didn’t know how he came there, as he was not, and never had been, interested in shellfish and he actually hated clams (that is, to eat; he had no animus against clams). Mr. Harris, or Harrit, said that the last thing he remembers before finding himself on the deck of the Reasonably with the mess of crustaceans was walk* ing up Seventh Ave., New York City, late in March. From then on his mind is a blank. We asked him if he wanted to go back to New York again, and, as he didn’t seem to care much one way or the other, we threw him back in the ocean.

  Next week, as soon as we get rid of this deep-sea rain, we hope to send down divers to see what there is directly under the Reasonably which keeps bouncing so. It is all right during the day-time, but along about eleven o’clock at night we notice a sort of agitation which sometimes is so great as to jar the dishes in the scullery. We really haven’t any idea what it is, and I should never have mentioned it at all were it not that I thought the folks at home would be interested.

  Well, there goes six bells and I must close now. At six bells regularly each evening we have fire drill, and I am proctor for my corridor. Love to the Museum.

  * * *

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  The Musical Clubs’

  Concert

  * * *

  Enter the pianist, very nervous. Loud applause.

  Those in the audience who are seated at the sides, can see the Glee Club standing in the wings, adjusting dress-ties, making last-moment arrangements in clothing and slicking down hair.

  The pianist strikes a big chord, just a little off. Enter Glee Club in single file, taking up semi-circular formation. Hands behind backs. Right dress! Much hitching to right and left.

  The leader snaps his head up and down three times, raises his eyebrows, and the club crashes into what is described on the program as “‘Good Fellows All.’ A Winter Song by H. G. Smatterly, ’07.”

  * * *

  (Second basses) Zum-zum-zum-zum-zum-zum-zum. (All the time.)

  (First tenors) Oh, here’s a song to winter time!

  (Second tenors) To winter time, to winter time!

  (Second basses) Zum-zum-zum.

  (First tenors) Pass the pipe!

  (Second tenors) Pass the bowl!

  (First and second tenors) Pass the pipe and pass the bowl!

  (Everybody) Pass the-pass the-pass the-pass the pi-i-i-ipe! Pass the bowl, pass the bowl, pass the bowl!

  (1st tenors) And here’s to the jolly lass,

  (2nd tenors) The lass, the lass

  (1st tenors) Who greets us as we pass,

  (1st basses) The lass who greets – the lass who greets

  (Everybody) Us – as – we – pass.

  (Shouted) Heigh-ho!

  * * *

  Young ladies in the audience are frightened at the shouted “Heigh-ho!” and squeal delightedly. Loud applause, resulting in an encore, entitled “Old Man Murphey.”

  * * *

  (Basses) Oh, there was an old man named Murphey,

  (Tenors) Murphey

  (Basses) And he always wore a derby,

  (Tenors) Derby

  (All) With a hi-ho-hum, and a hi-ho-hum, and a

  (Very slow) Hee-hi-ho! (The basses take this, very low.)

  * * *

  Loud laughter at the low note and continued applause.

  The next number on the program is e selection by the Mandolin Club, entitled “The March of the Merry Grenadiers.” The Mandolin Club has a great deal of trouble getting seated and tuned up. The pianist strikes “A” for three or four minutes, while the members of the club try to tune their “E” strings to it. They never notice the difference, although several of the more musical ones in the audience do. However, they are just boys.

  “The March of the Merry Grenadiers” ends with a pistol shot from the trap-drummer, which throws the young ladies in the audience into a panic. As an encore, “The Scarf Dance,” is played, pretty badly.

  Third, we have a number by the University Quartet. The second bass is a senior, who is also very good at mathematics and looks it. He doesn’t get much fun out of singing and no one has ever been able to find out why he does it. The first bass is slightly stewed, but still game, and has light hair which is quite wavy. The ladies like him. The first tenor wears pince nez glasses, and stands up very straight. He takes singing seriously and tries to use his throat as his teacher has told him. The second tenor is a big husk who looks as if he should be singing bass.

  The quartet selection is entitled “Sleep, Ma Honey.”

  * * *

  (1st tenor) Doan yer want to sleep, ma honey?

  (2nd bass) Doan yer want to sleep

  (All) Down in de old corn pone?

  (1st tenor) Lazy as a sheep, ma honey,

  (2nd bass) Lazy as a sheep.

  (All) Waitin’ for de moon to rise. (Not bad, tenors!)

  (All hum) M-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m. (Imitation of sheep.)

  * * *

  There is a pause of half a minute indicating that “Sleep, Ma Honey” (billed as “a” in a bracket with “b”) is over, and that if the audience will be very quiet they will hear “b” or “Here’s to Old Rasher.”

  * * *

  Here’s to Old Rasher,

  Drink her down, drink her down!

  The finest college in the land

  Drink her down, drink her down.

  No matter where the contest be

  On diamond or on track,

  We haven’t the slightest doubt

  that we’ll put them all to rout.

  Old Rasher, here’s to you! – WOW!

  * * *

  The young ladies in the audience, who seem never to tire of being frightened, squeal prettily, and there is general laughter and applause.

  In order to give them time to recover, the Banjo Club comes on and spends fifteen minutes tuning up. The weather being damp, the banjo strings are very temperamental, and some of them are never brought around to the right key. The fact that the left side of the club begins two beats ahead of the right side and adds another two beats to its lead during the selection, gives the unique effect of two distinct organizations each playing a different tune. The inclusive title for both sides, however, is “The Darktown Polka Parade,” and it is in the nature of a patrol, beginning very softly, growing louder and louder until the parade is supposed to be right under your very window. Then it dies away again in the distance. The effect is stupendous and the audience is thrown into a fever of excitement necessitating an encore, the title to which is never divulged but which seems to be, every once in a while, “Old Black Joe,” with variations. The variations win by a big margin.

  The first half of the program ends with a rousing selection by the entire Glee Club, called “The Bedouin’s Desert Song.” The audience does not quite catch all of the words.

  (This should be sung very loud – and is.)

  * * *

  The sands of the desert are red with the glow

  Of ages and ages and ranhahy,

  But my love sings low and the jna glee bo

  Of the washna-a- the desert is calling.

  (Very soft)

  Then come fneelybo le laroly

  To the tents of Araby,

  Where my love will sing to the loshy

  And the king hikokishny melafney.

  * * *

  End of Part One.

  The second p
art begins with a recitation or pianologue by the club’s funny man. He is generally considered the wit of the college and it is rumored that he has already had offers from Ziegfeld to write and act in next year’s Follies.

  He seats himself at the piano and plays with one hand, turning his body to face the audience as he sings, or rather talks, to his running accompaniment.

  * * *

  Oh, Mazie was a very fine girl

  And she had a lot of beaux,

  But you never could tell little Mazie to go to – well,

  Or to take the powder off – her – nose.

  * * *

  This is considered dangerously off-color by the audience and is greeted with repressed giggles and high approval. But they haven’t heard anything yet.

  * * *

  Oh, one day little Mazie went walking

  With a Theta Beta Phi,

  When she got back, one eye was black,

  (Spoken) Not her eye, I mean to say, but the Theta Beta’s eye.

  * * *

  For the encore, which is demanded, the funny man recites “Mrs. O’Tool Listens to the Radio,” a monologue in Irish brogue, which is so terrible that we will make no attempt to reproduce it here. It goes very big.

  The Mandolin Club appears next and plays a long concert waltz number, “The Skaters,” if you must know. Each movement is played with repeats, the first time through very softly, the repeat very loudly. Just as you think they are nearing the end, they go back to the beginning and work gradually into the coda, with an ending containing eight up and down strokes on the same chord. The second mandolin, seated third from the left, makes it nine strokes for good measure. The club is too exhausted to give an encore, and the audience to call for one.