20,000 Leagues Under the Sea or David Copperfield Page 10

“Great! All right with you?”

  “You bet.”

  “That’s fine! Kind of quiet around here.”

  “That’s right! Not much like the old days.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes, sir! That’s right!”

  Perhaps it would be better if the 1931 boys came back. At least, you wouldn’t have to recall old days with them. You could start at scratch. Here comes somebody! Somebody older than you, if such a thing is possible.

  “Hello,” he says, and falls on his face against the edge of the table, cutting his forehead rather badly.

  “Up you get!” you say, suiting the action to the word.

  “A very nasty turn there,” he says, crossly. “They should have that banked.”

  “That’s right,” you agree. You remember him as a Senior who was particularly snooty to you when you were a sophomore.

  “My name is Feemer, 1911,” he says, dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief.

  “Weekins, 1914,” you say.

  “Stanpfer, 1914,” says Billigs.

  “I remember you,” says Feemer, “you were an awful pratt.”

  You give a short laugh.

  Feemer begins to sing loudly and hits his head again against the table, this time on purpose. Several of the undergraduates enter and look disapprovingly at all three of you.

  By this time Feemer, through constant hitting of his head and lurching about, is slightly ill. The general impression is that you and Stanpfer (or Billigs) are drunk too. These old grads!

  The undergraduates (of whom there are now eight or ten) move unpleasantly about the room, rearranging furniture that Feemer has upset and showing in every way at their disposal that they wish you had never come.

  “What time is the game?” you ask. You know very well what time the game is.

  Nobody answers.

  “How are the chances?” Just why you should be making all the advances you don’t know. After all, you are fourteen years out and these boys could almost be your sons.

  “I want everybody here to come to Chicago with me after the game,” says Feemer, tying his tie. “I live in Chicago and I want everybody here to come to Chicago with me after the game. I live in Chicago and I want everybody here to come to Chicago with me after the game.”

  Having made this blanket invitation, Feemer goes to sleep standing up.

  The undergraduate disapproval is manifest and includes you and Billigs (or Stanpfer) to such an extent that you might better be at the bottom of the lake.

  “How are the chances?” you ask again. “Is Derkwillig going to play?”

  “Derkwillig has left college,” says one of the undergraduates, scornfully. “He hasn’t played since the Penn State game.”

  “Too bad,” you say. “He was good, wasn’t he?”

  “Not so good.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought he was, from what I read in the papers.”

  “The papers are crazy,” says a very young man, and immediately leaves the room.

  There is a long silence, during which Feemer comes to and looks anxiously into each face as if trying to get his bearings, which is exactly what he is trying to do.

  “We might as well clear the room out,” says one of the undergraduates. “The girls will be coming pretty soon and we don’t want to have it looking messy.”

  Evidently “looking messy” means the presence of you, Feemer and Stanpfer. This is plain to be seen. So you and Stanpfer each take an arm of Feemer and leave the house. Just as you are going down the steps (a process which includes lurching with Feemer from side to side) you meet Dr. Raddiwell and his wife. There is no sign of recognition on either side.

  There is a train leaving town at 1:55. You get it and read about the game in the evening papers.

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  It Seems There Were

  a Couple of Cells

  * * *

  The scene is a plateau of primeval ooze. Things are in terrible shape. Nobody knows what to do because there is nobody. The Earth is practically new and nothing is alive except a lot of – what shall we say?

  Two of these emerge from the mud together and sit down on a dry spot. There seems to be some idea of talking things over.

  FIRST UNICELLULAR UNIT: How are you fixed for insurance?

  SECOND UNIT: I don’t know. How are you?

  FIRST UNIT: That reminds me, I saw Lilith the other day and she has put on weight.

  SECOND UNIT: Where?

  FIRST UNIT: Where has she put on weight?

  SECOND UNIT: No, no – where did you see her? I phrased my question clumsily.

  FIRST UNIT: I should say you did!

  SECOND UNIT: Oh, well, what’s the diff? Nobody is perfect.

  FIRST UNIT: Is that any reason why we shouldn’t each one of us try just as hard as we can to make this little old world a happier place to live in? I, for one, am sick and tired of living a lie.

  SECOND UNIT: I know what you mean, of course, but I really think that “lie” is a little too harsh a word.

  FIRST UNIT: You certainly are a stickler, Phil, but darned if I don’t feel better just for having talked to you. If I could only get rid of this old headache

  SECOND UNIT: Where does it ache – here in front?

  FIRST UNIT: No, right here, from the top of my head right over back.

  SECOND UNIT: I know all about that kind. Mine usually turn into a regular sick headache and I have to go to bed.

  FIRST UNIT: My, my, that’s no fun.

  SECOND UNIT: Well, I suppose it’s back to the old grind. I’d like to take the afternoon off.

  FIRST UNIT: Heigh-ho! No such luck!

  (They slip back into the ooze and disappear.)

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  No Results Whatever

  in Our Own Straw Vote

  * * *

  In summarizing the results of our straw vote (really your straw vote, too, for what’s ours is yours and we don’t ever want you to forget that, dear) we must bear two things in mind: (1) that Hoover is the Republican candidate and Smith the Democratic, and (2) that red photographs black. Any other little things that you can remember will help, too.

  We finally covered the entire nation with our personal canvass, twenty million odd voters (some of them odder than others, but all pretty bad), and it was quite a task, you may be sure. Some nights we didn’t get home until after seven for dinner and we were so tired that we cried if anyone pointed a finger at us – especially if they added, “There is the murderer of Roger Preston!” (For, indeed, we are the murderer of Roger Preston and we don’t care who knows it. We murdered him because everywhere we went he followed us with those green eyes of his. . . those horrible green eyes. . . everywhere. . . . We had to kill him. . . . God! can’t you understand?) Results. . . Hoover. . . so many votes. . . . Smith. . . so many votes. . . . Rogers. . . so many votes, and such nice votes!

  From our conversations with voters we are able to tabulate some trends in popular sentiment and perhaps even make a graph. (O Lord! keep us from making a joke about Graph Zeppelin I) It is the result of these tabulations and graphs that we wish to bring before you tonight. . . . Go on there, get back into your seat!

  In respect of the three leading issues of the campaign, Prohibition, Farm Relief and Water Power, it was found that the average voter likes Prohibition best because he knows what the word means. He doesn’t dislike Farm Relief and Water Power, mind you, but he gets them mixed up with the Gold Standard and Nullification, which aren’t issues at all in this election. All four are more or less grouped in his mind under the general head of “The Tariff,” which makes it easier to remember.

  But he knows Prohibition means that, for every drink he buys, a certain percentage of the price must be paid to the Government for protection. And he likes the idea of this, for your American is a docile soul and craves paternalism; and the thought that a benevolent government is watching over him and prote
cting him is worth the added seventy-five cents.

  The above paragraph is a little disturbing to us, as it is the first one we have ever written about Prohibition. We wanted to be known as the only hack-writer in America who had not waxed satirical on that subject. That’s what taking a straw vote does for you.

  But, to get back to the Hoover-Smith-Rogers contest. The result of our tabulation shows that the chances favor the election of Norman Thomas, the Socialist candidate. Mr. Rogers’ promise to resign immediately if elected has made it probable that he will be offered the Honorary Presidency and that Mr. Thomas will receive the actual votes of the people. We base our conclusion on the following figures.

  Twelve million voters were found who believed that Hoover wouldn’t change things if he were elected. Twelve million five hundred voters were found who believed that Smith wouldn’t change things if he were elected. Twenty-four million five hundred voters were found who wanted things changed. Evidently the only candidate who can be counted on to change things (aside from Mr. Rogers) is the Socialist candidate. The only thing that remains now to insure his election is to find out where he is.

  This, in a way, brings to an end our canvass of voters. It is a rather sad occasion, for we have enjoyed every minute of it and feel sure that you have, too. We may have had our little differences of opinion, but it has all been good-natured and if we never see any of you again it will be all right with us.

  But before we make our final table of analysis, let us run over again, in review, each of the cases we have cited and see if there isn’t some other meaning that can be read into them.

  FINAL RESULT OF STRAW VOTE

  Number of voters in the United States Millions and millions

  Number of voters interviewed Really only about six

  Result of canvass Pains in the neck and occasional nausea

  Not voting 6

  TOTAL 6

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  Two Editorials

  for “The Nation”

  (if it doesn’t mind)

  * * *

  INDIA RESURGENT

  There seems to be some slight misapprehension in the public mind concerning the motives behind the recent anti-British revolt in India, or rather concerning the anti-British revolt which is imminent in India. This is doubtless due to the fact that the situation has been befogged by the statements issued by the British Foreign Office and by the International Wagons-Lits.

  There are three distinct parties in India: the Centrist, the Grand Centrist and the Right Wing Under. Sometimes one hears of another party the Old Party Returning Slightly the Worse for Wear from a Regimental Dinner – but that is only in Punch, and is never very funny.

  The Centrist Party, or adherents of Rahman Digg, have been in power now for six or seven years, and have ruled with an iron hand. They have suppressed free speech; they have advocated a seven-cent subway fare; they have been just as nasty as they could be to a whole lot of people. This has been due to the fact that India now functions under an obsolete law known as Ohm’s Law, whereby a falling body increases in physical attraction thirty-two feet per second per second, making it, by the time it has landed, practically irresistible.

  Against this law there has been a vast amount of agitation on the part of the people who like nice things. The Grand Centrists, or advocates of the Slightly-Ajar Door policy, have taken the middle course, as usual, and are trying to drag a fish, fowl, or good red herring across the trail in order to avoid the issue. Our correspondent, whose article on the subject appears on another page, seems to feel that the issue can not be avoided. We are inclined to agree with him.

  The time is coming when England must take India into account, just as there was a time coming when the United States had to take Nicaragua into account and didn’t, and when Italy had to take the Tyrol into account and hasn’t yet. But, sooner or later, all these things will come to pass, either through revolution or violet rays or that Divine Law which watches over children and drunkards, and when that times comes, it will be time for France to take the French peasant into account and depose that tyrant who now holds court at Versailles.

  MR. KELLOGG’S DILEMMA

  It is perhaps not too early to begin worrying about the next Nicaraguan crisis, if the present one can really be said ever to have abated. That the United States has acted in bad faith goes without saying, but even that would not seem to justify Secretary Kellogg’s arbitrary destruction of the machine-guns captured on the Austro-Hungarian border. If Mussolini wants an ally against Jugoslavia, and we have every indication that he does, he has at his disposal the counter clock-wise sections of the Treaty of the Trianon, and unless he is definitely and ruthlessly out to make an enemy of the Bratiano government, he can do better than oppose President Leguia (of Peru somewhere). We have as yet had no occasion to change our original opinion that a merger between the Seiyukai, or landed interests of Japan, and the forces of Sandino would not only prove an embarrassment to Secretary Kellogg but would bring the whole matter to a head and confuse the issue to a point where the United States would have to explain its position or “eat crow.”

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  The Four-in-hand Outrage

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  What has happened to four-in-hand ties that they refuse to slide around under the collar any more? Or am I just suffering from a persecution complex?

  For maybe ten years I have been devoted to the soft collar or sport model, the polo shirt, and other informal modes in collarings affected by the jeunesse dorée. They have not been particularly adapted to playing up my good points in personal appearance, but they are easy to slip into in the morning.

  With the approach of portly middle-age, however, and the gradual but relentless assumption of power in the financial world, it seemed to me that I ought to dress the part. When a man goes into a bank to ask to have his note extended he should at least wear a stiff collar and a four-in-hand of some rich, dark material, preferably a foulard. He owes it to himself.

  So I laid in a stock of shirts (two) which called for either stiff collars or a knotted bandana, and then set about digging up some collars to go with them. My old stock of “Graywoods 14½” which I used to wear in high-school proved useless. They were of the mode, so flashy in those days, which came close together in front, allowing just a tip of the knitted club-tie to peek out from under the corners. And, owing to a temporary increase in neck-size (I can reduce it at any time by dieting for two or three days), 14½ is no longer my number. So I bought several styles of a more modern collar and prepared to throw the world of fashion into a tumult by appearing in formal neckwear on, let us say, the following Wednesday at high noon.

  But in the ten years which have elapsed since I last tied a four-in-hand under a stiff collar something perverse has been injected into the manufacture of either the ties or the collars. My male readers will recognize a maneuver which I can best designate as the Final Tug, the last short pull-around of the tie under the collar before tightening the knot. This, under the present system, has become practically impossible. The tie refuses to budge; I pull and yank, take the collar off and rearrange the tie, try gentle tactics, followed suddenly by a deceptive upward jerk, but this gets me nothing. The knot stays loosely off-center and the tie appears to be stuck somewhere underneath the collar at a point perhaps three inches to the right. After two minutes of this mad wrenching one of three things happens – the tie rips, the collars tears, or I strangle to death in a horrid manner with eyes bulging and temples distended, a ghastly caricature of my real self.

  Now this is a very strange thing to have happened in ten years. It can’t be that I have forgotten how. It can’t be that I have lost that amount of strength through loose living. It must be that some deliberate process has been adopted by the manufacturers to prevent four-in-hands from slipping under collars. What their idea can be is a mystery. You’d think they would want to make things as easy for their patrons as
possible. But no! Modern business efficiency, I suppose! The manufacturers were in conference, I suppose! Rest-rooms for their women employees. . . oh, yes! Time clocks, charts, paper drinking-cups. . . oh, yes! But collars that hold ties immovable, and ties that stick in collars. That’s what we get. That’s what the Public gets. Prohibition was foisted on our boys while they were overseas, and while I was wearing soft collars the Powers-That-Be were putting the devil into stiff ones, so that when I come back to wearing them again I strangle myself to death. A fine civilization, I must say!

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  Significant Results

  in Second Week

  of Our Own Straw Vote

  * * *

  As explained in a recent chapter (Vol. 92. No. 2398. People vs. Luther Ferk), we are working on a straw vote covering the entire nation, or at least some of it. This is done by a person-to-person canvass and vice versa, a system which results in the canvasser’s meeting a lot of interesting people and making enemies of them. The author of this article (Robert Benchley) goes up to voters on the street or in bed or wherever they happen to be and asks them certain questions, all beginning with “W.” Most of this was explained previously and if you didn’t read the explanation you missed a very funny piece and it serves you right.

  Following are the tabulations to date, with inferences to be drawn. Everyone must draw his own inference (on one side of the paper only) and any cheating will simply be laughed at.

  RESULT OF STRAW VOTE TO DATE

  (States shown covered with fur are normally Republican)

  Interview No. 5. 41 years old. White male. Is against Hoover because he is a Negro.