The Wit and Humor of America, Volume III. (of X.)

by Ambrose Bierce

  Miss Rosa Belle Vincent, however, was quite as flustered as I was. Sheseemed ill-at-ease and anxious to get away, which I supposed was becauseshe had not often conversed with publishers who paid a thousand dollarscash in advance for a manuscript.

  She was not at all what I had thought an author would look like. Shedidn't even wear glasses. If I had met her on the street I should havesaid: "There goes a pretty flip stenographer." She was that kind--bigpicture hat and high pompadour.

  I was afraid she would try to run the talk into literary lines and Ibsenand Gorky, where I would have been swamped in a minute, but she didn't,and, although I had wondered how to break the subject of money whenconversing with one who must be thinking of nobler things, I found shewas less shy when on that subject than when talking about her book.

  "Well now," I said, as soon as I had got her seated, "we have decided tobuy this novel of yours. Can you recommend it as a thoroughlyrespectable and intellectual production?"

  She said she could.

  "Haven't you read it?" she asked in some surprise.

  "No," I stammered. "At least, not yet. I'm going to as soon as I canfind the requisite leisure. You see, we are very busy just now--verybusy. But if you can vouch for the story being a first-classarticle--something, say, like 'The Vicar of Wakefield' or 'DavidHarum'--we'll take it."

  "Now you're talking," she said. "And do I get the check now?"

  "Wait," I said; "not so fast. I have forgotten one thing," and I saw herface fall. "We want the privilege of publishing the novel under a titleof our own, and anonymously. If that is not satisfactory the deal isoff."

  She brightened in a moment.

  "It's a go, if that's all," she said. "Call it whatever you please, andthe more anonymous it is the better it will suit yours truly."

  So we settled the matter then and there, and when I gave her our checkfor a thousand she said I was all right.

  III

  Half an hour after Miss Vincent had left the office Perkins came in withhis arms full of bundles, which he opened, spreading their contents onmy desk.

  He had a pair of suspenders with nickel-silver mountings, a tie, alady's belt, a pair of low shoes, a shirt, a box of cigars, a package ofcookies, and a half-dozen other things of divers and miscellaneouscharacter. I poked them over and examined them, while he leaned againstthe desk with his legs crossed. He was beaming upon me.

  "Well," I said, "what is it--a bargain sale?"

  Perkins leaned over and tapped the pile with his long fore-finger.

  "Aftermath!" he crowed, "aftermath!"

  "The dickens it is," I exclaimed, "and what has aftermath got to do withthis truck? It looks like the aftermath of a notion store."

  He tipped his "Air-the-Hair" hat over one ear and put his thumbs in thearmholes of his "ready-tailored" vest.

  "Genius!" he announced. "Brains! Foresight! Else why Perkins the Great?Why not Perkins the Nobody?"

  He raised the suspenders tenderly from the pile and fondled them in hishands.

  "See this?" he asked, running his finger along the red corded edge ofthe elastic. He took up the tie and ran his nail along the red stripethat formed the selvedge on the back, and said: "See this?" He pointedto the red laces of the low shoes and asked, "See this?" And so throughthe whole collection.

  "What is it?" he asked. "It's genius! It's foresight."

  He waved his hand over the pile.

  "The aftermath!" he exclaimed.

  "These suspenders are the Crimson Cord suspenders. These shoes are theCrimson Cord shoes. This tie is the Crimson Cord tie. These crackers arethe Crimson Cord brand. Perkins & Co. get out a great book, 'The CrimsonCord!' Sell five million copies. Dramatized, it runs three hundrednights. Everybody talking Crimson Cord. Country goes Crimson Cord crazy.Result--up jump Crimson Cord this and Crimson Cord that. Who gets thebenefit? Perkins & Co.? No! We pay the advertising bills and the otherman sells his Crimson Cord cigars. That is usual."

  "Yes," I said, "I'm smoking a David Harum cigar this minute, and I amwearing a Carvel collar."

  "How prevent it?" asked Perkins. "One way only,--discovered by Perkins.Copyright the words 'Crimson Cord' as trade-mark for every possiblething. Sell the trade-mark on royalty; ten per cent. of all receipts for'Crimson Cord' brands comes to Perkins & Co. Get a cinch on theaftermath!"

  "Perkins!" I cried, "I admire you. You _are_ a genius. And have youcontracts with all these--notions?"

  "Yes," said Perkins, "that's Perkins' method. Who originated the CrimsonCord? Perkins did. Who is entitled to the profits on the Crimson Cord?Perkins is. Perkins is wide awake _all_ the time. Perkins gets a profiton the aftermath and the math and the before the math."

  And so he did. He made his new contracts with the magazines on theexchange plan--we gave a page of advertising in the "Crimson Cord" fora page of advertising in the magazine. We guaranteed five millioncirculation. We arranged with all the manufacturers of the Crimson Cordbrands of goods to give coupons, one hundred of which entitled theholder to a copy of "The Crimson Cord." With a pair of Crimson Cordsuspenders you get five coupons; with each Crimson Cord cigar, onecoupon; and so on.

  IV

  On the first of October we announced in our advertisement that "TheCrimson Cord" was a book; the greatest novel of the century; athrilling, exciting tale of love. Miss Vincent had told me it was a lovestory. Just to make everything sure, however, I sent the manuscript toProfessor Wiggins, who is the most erudite man I ever met. He knowseighteen languages, and reads Egyptian as easily as I read English. Infact his specialty is old Egyptian ruins and so on. He has writtenseveral books on them.

  Professor said the novel seemed to him very light and trashy, butgrammatically O.K. He said he never read novels, not having time, but hethought that "The Crimson Cord" was just about the sort of thing a sillypublic that refused to buy his "Some Light on the Dynastic Proclivitiesof the Hyksos" would scramble for. On the whole I considered the reportsatisfactory.

  We found we would be unable to have Pyle illustrate the book, he beingtoo busy, so we turned it over to a young man at the Art Institute.

  That was the fifteenth of October, and we had promised the book to thepublic for the first of November, but we had it already in type and theyoung man, his name was Gilkowsky, promised to work night and day onthe illustrations.

  The next morning, almost as soon as I reached the office, Gilkowsky camein. He seemed a little hesitant, but I welcomed him warmly, and he spokeup.

  "I have a girl to go with," he said, and I wondered what I had to dowith Mr. Gilkowsky's girl, but he continued:

  "She's a nice girl and a good looker, but she's got bad taste in somethings. She's too loud in hats, and too trashy in literature. I don'tlike to say this about her, but it's true and I'm trying to educate herin good hats and good literature. So I thought it would be a good thingto take around this 'Crimson Cord' and let her read it to me."

  I nodded.

  "Did she like it?" I asked.

  Mr. Gilkowsky looked at me closely.

  "She did," he said, but not so enthusiastically as I had expected.

  "It's her favorite book. Now, I don't know what your scheme is, and Isuppose you know what you are doing better than I do; but I thoughtperhaps I had better come around before I got to work on theillustrations and see if perhaps you hadn't given me the wrongmanuscript."

  "No, that was the right manuscript," I said. "Was there anything wrongabout it?"

  Mr. Gilkowsky laughed nervously.

  "Oh, no!" he said. "But did you read it?"

  I told him I had not because I had been so rushed with details connectedwith advertising the book.

  "Well," he said, "I'll tell you. This girl of mine reads pretty trashystuff, and she knows about all the cheap novels there are. She dotes on'The Duchess,' and puts her last dime into Braddon. She knows them allby heart. Have you ever read 'Lady Audley's Secret'?"

  "I see," I said. "One is a sequel to the other."

  "No," said Mr. Gilk
owsky. "One is the other. Some one has flim-flammedyou and sold you a typewritten copy of 'Lady Audley's Secret' as a newnovel."

  V

  When I told Perkins he merely remarked that he thought every publishinghouse ought to have some one in it who knew something about books, apartfrom the advertising end, although that was, of course, the mostimportant. He said we might go ahead and publish "Lady Audley's Secret"under the title of "The Crimson Cord," as such things had been donebefore, but the best thing to do would be to charge Rosa Belle Vincent'sthousand dollars to Profit and Loss and hustle for anothernovel--something reliable and not shop-worn.

  Perkins had been studying the literature market a little and he advisedme to get something from Indiana this time, so I telegraphed anadvertisement to the Indianapolis papers and two days later we hadninety-eight historical novels by Indiana authors from which to choose.Several were of the right length, and we chose one and sent it to Mr.Gilkowsky with a request that he read it to his sweetheart. She hadnever read it before.

  We sent a detective to Dillville, Indiana, where the author lived, andthe report we received was most satisfactory.

  The author was a sober, industrious young man, just out of the highschool, and bore a first-class reputation for honesty. He had never beenin Virginia, where the scene of his story was laid, and they had nolibrary in Dillville, and our detective assured us that the young manwas in every way fitted to write a historical novel.

  "The Crimson Cord" made an immense success. You can guess how it boomedwhen I say that although it was published at a dollar and a half, it wassold by every department store for fifty-four cents, away below cost,just like sugar, or Vandeventer's Baby Food, or Q & Z Corsets, or anyother staple. We sold our first edition of five million copies inside ofthree months, and got out another edition of two million, and aspecially illustrated holiday edition and an _edition de luxe_, and "TheCrimson Cord" is still selling in paper-covered cheap edition.

  With the royalties received from the aftermath and the profit on thebook itself, we made--well, Perkins has a country place at Lakewood, andI have my cottage at Newport.

  [Footnote 1: Copyright, 1904, by Leslie's Magazine.]

  THE RHYME OF THE CHIVALROUS SHARK[2]

  BY WALLACE IRWIN

  Most chivalrous fish of the ocean, To ladies forbearing and mild, Though his record be dark, is the man-eating shark Who will eat neither woman nor child.

  He dines upon seamen and skippers, And tourists his hunger assuage, And a fresh cabin boy will inspire him with joy If he's past the maturity age.

  A doctor, a lawyer, a preacher, He'll gobble one any fine day, But the ladies, God bless 'em, he'll only address 'em Politely and go on his way.

  I can readily cite you an instance Where a lovely young lady of Breem, Who was tender and sweet and delicious to eat, Fell into the bay with a scream.

  She struggled and flounced in the water And signaled in vain for her bark, And she'd surely been drowned if she hadn't been found By a chivalrous man-eating shark.

  He bowed in a manner most polished, Thus soothing her impulses wild; "Don't be frightened," he said, "I've been properly bred And will eat neither woman nor child."

  Then he proffered his fin and she took it-- Such a gallantry none can dispute-- While the passengers cheered as the vessel they neared And a broadside was fired in salute.

  And they soon stood alongside the vessel, When a life-saving dingey was lowered With the pick of the crew, and her relatives, too, And the mate and the skipper aboard.

  So they took her aboard in a jiffy, And the shark stood attention the while, Then he raised on his flipper and ate up the skipper And went on his way with a smile.

  And this shows that the prince of the ocean, To ladies forbearing and mild, Though his record be dark, is the man-eating shark Who will eat neither woman nor child.

  [Footnote 2: From "Nautical Lays of a Landsman," by Wallace Irwin.Copyright, 1904, by Dodd, Mead & Co.]

  THE PLAINT OF JONAH

  BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

  Why should I live, when every day The wicked prospers in his way, And daily adds unto his hoard, While cutworms smite the good man's gourd?

  When I would rest beneath its shade Comes the shrill-voiced book-selling maid, And smites me with her tireless breath-- Then am I angry unto death.

  When I would slumber in my booth, Who comes with accents loud and smooth, And talks from dawn to midnight late? The honest labor candidate.

  Who pounds mine ear with noisy talk, Whose brazen gall no ire can balk And wearies me of life's short span? The accident insurance man.

  And when, all other torments flown, I think to call one hour mine own, Who takes my leisure by the throat? The villain taking up a vote.

  A DOS'T O' BLUES

  BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

  I' got no patience with blues at all! And I ust to kindo talk Aginst 'em, and claim, 'tel along last Fall, They was none in the fambly stock; But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy, That visited us last year, He kindo convinct me differunt While he was a-stayin' here.

  Frum ever'-which way that blues is from, They'd tackle him ever' ways; They'd come to him in the night, and come On Sundays, and rainy days; They'd tackle him in corn-plantin' time, And in harvest, and airly Fall, But a dose't of blues in the wintertime, He 'lowed, was the worst of all!

  Said all diseases that ever he had-- The mumps, er the rheumatiz-- Er ever'-other-day-aigger's bad Purt' nigh as anything is!-- Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck, Er a felon on his thumb,-- But you keep the blues away from him, And all o' the rest could come!

  And he'd moan, "They's nary a leaf below! Ner a spear o' grass in sight! And the whole wood-pile's clean under snow! And the days is dark as night! You can't go out--ner you can't stay in-- Lay down--stand up--ner set!" And a tetch o' regular tyfoid-blues Would double him jest clean shet!

  I writ his parents a postal-kyard, He could stay 'tel Spring-time come; And Aprile first, as I rickollect, Was the day we shipped him home! Most o' his relatives, sence then, Has either give up, er quit, Er jest died off; but I understand He's the same old color yit!

  MORRIS AND THE HONORABLE TIM[3]

  BY MYRA KELLY

  On the first day of school, after the Christmas holidays, teacher foundherself surrounded by a howling mob of little savages in which she hadmuch difficulty in recognizing her cherished First-Reader Class. IsidoreBelchatosky's face was so wreathed in smiles and foreign matter as to bebeyond identification; Nathan Spiderwitz had placed all his trust in asolitary suspender and two unstable buttons; Eva Kidansky had entirelyfreed herself from restraining hooks and eyes; Isidore Applebaum haddiscarded shoe-laces; and Abie Ashnewsky had bartered his only necktiefor a yard of "shoe-string" licorice.

  Miss Bailey was greatly disheartened by this reversion to the originaltype. She delivered daily lectures on nail-brushes, hair-ribbons, shoepolish, pins, buttons, elastic, and other means to grace. Her talks onsoap and water became almost personal in tone, and her insistence on aclose union between such garments as were meant to be united, led to alively traffic in twisted and disreputable safety-pins. And yet theFirst-Reader Class, in all other branches of learning so receptive andresponsive, made but halting and uncertain progress toward that state ofvirtue which is next to godliness.

  Early in January came the report that "Gum Shoe Tim" was on thewar-path and might be expected at any time. Miss Bailey heard thetidings in calm ignorance until Miss Blake, who ruled over the adjoiningkingdom, interpreted the warning. A license to teach in the publicschools of New York is good for only one year. Its renewal depends uponthe reports of the Principal in charge of t
he school and of theAssociate Superintendent in whose district the school chances to be.After three such renewals the license becomes permanent, but Miss Baileywas, as a teacher, barely four months old. The Associate Superintendentfor her vicinity was the Honorable Timothy O'Shea, known and dreaded as"Gum Shoe Tim," owing to his engaging way of creeping softly upback-stairs and appearing, all unheralded and unwelcome, upon thethreshold of his intended victim.

  This, Miss Blake explained, was in defiance of all the rules ofetiquette governing such visits of inspection. The proper procedure hadbeen that of Mr. O'Shea's predecessor, who had always given timelynotice of his coming and a hint as to the subjects in which he intendedto examine the children. Some days later he would amble from room toroom, accompanied by the amiable Principal, and followed by thegratitude of smiling and unruffled teachers.

  This kind old gentleman was now retired and had been succeeded by Mr.O'Shea, who, in addition to his unexpectedness, was adorned by anabominable temper, an overbearing manner, and a sense of cruel humor. Hehad almost finished his examinations at the nearest school where, duringa brisk campaign of eight days, he had caused five dismissals, ninecases of nervous exhaustion, and an epidemic of hysteria.

  Day by day nerves grew more tense, tempers more unsure, sleep andappetite more fugitive. Experienced teachers went stolidly on with theordinary routine, while beginners devoted time and energy to the morespectacular portions of the curriculum. But no one knew the HonorableTimothy's pet subjects, and so no one could specialize to any greatextent.