The Dreamers: A Club by John Kendrick Bangs (ebook pdf reader for pc txt) 📖

[18]

Monty St. Vincent observed that he had no doubt that the Welsh-rabbit dinner would work wonders, but he confessed his inability to see any reason why the club should begin its labors by committing suicide. He added that, for his part, he would not eat six Welsh rabbits at one sitting if he was sure of Shakespeare’s immortality as his reward, because, however attractive immortality was, he preferred mortality in the flesh to the other in the abstract. If the gentlemen would begin the meal with a grilled lobster apiece, he suggested, going thence by an easy stage to a devilled bird, rounding up with a “slip-on”—which, in brief, is a piece of mince-pie smothered in a blanket of molten cheese—he was ready to take the plunge, but further than this he would not go. The other members were disposed to agree with Monty. They thought the idea of eating six Welsh rabbits in a single evening was preposterous, and that in making such a suggestion Huddy was inspired by one of but two possible motives—that he wished to leap to the foremost [19] position in imaginative literature at one bound, or else was prompted, by jealousy of what the others might do, to wish to kill the club at its very start. Huddy denied these aspersions upon his motives with vociferous indignation, and to show his sincerity readily acquiesced in the adoption of Monty St. Vincent’s menu as already outlined.

The date of the dinner was set, Billy Jones was made master of ceremonies, the dinner was ordered, and eaten amid scenes of such revelry as was possible in the presence of the Snobbe boys, to whom anything in the way of unrestrained enjoyment was a bore and bad form, and at its conclusion the revellers went straight home to bed and to dream.

Two weeks later they met again over viands of a more digestible nature than those which lent interest to the first dinner, and told the tales which follow. And I desire to add here that my report of this dinner and the literature there produced is based entirely upon the stenographer’s[20] notes, coupled with additional information of an interesting kind furnished me by my friend William Jones, Esq., Third Assistant Exchange Editor of The Weekly Oracle, a Journal of To-day, Yesterday, and To-morrow.

[21]

The second dinner of the Dreamers had been served, all but the coffee, when Mr. Billy Jones, of the Oracle, rapped upon the table with a dessert-spoon and called the members to order.

“Gentlemen,” said he, when all was quiet, “we have reached the crucial crisis of our club career. We have eaten the stuff of which our dreams were to be made, and from what I can gather from the reports of those who are now seated about this festal board—and I am delighted to note that the full membership of our organization is here represented—there is not a single one of you who is unprepared[22] for the work we have in hand, and, as master of ceremonies, it becomes my pleasant duty to inform you that the hour has arrived at which it behooveth us to begin the narration of those tales which—of those tales which I am certain—yes, gentlemen, very certain—will cause the unlaid ghosts of those masters of the story-tellers’ art—”

“Is this a continued story Billy is giving us?” observed Tenafly Paterson.

“No,” replied Bedford Parke, with a laugh; “it is only a life sentence.”

“Get him to commute it!” ejaculated Hudson Rivers.

“Order, gentlemen, order!” cried the master of ceremonies, again rapping upon the table. “The members will kindly not interrupt the speaker. As I was saying, gentlemen,” he continued, “we are now to listen to the narration of tales which I am convinced will cause the unlaid ghosts of the past grand masters of the story-tellers’ art to gnash their spirit teeth with anguish for that they in life[23] failed to realize the opportunities that were theirs in not having told the tales to which we are about to listen, and over which, when published, the leading living literary lights will writhe in jealousy.”

When the applause which greeted these remarks had subsided, Mr. Jones resumed:

“That there may be no question of precedence among the gifted persons from whom we are now to hear, I have provided myself with a small leathern bottle, such as is to be seen in most billiard-parlors, within which I have placed twelve numbered ivory balls. These I will now proceed to distribute among you. When you receive them, I request that you immediately return them to me, that I may arrange the programme according to your respective numbers.”

Mr. Jones thereupon distributed the ivory balls, and when the returns had been made, according to his request, he again rose to his feet and announced that to Mr. Thomas Snobbe, of Yonkers, had fallen the lot of telling the first story,[24] adding that he took great pleasure in the slightly supererogative task that devolved upon him of presenting Mr. Snobbe to his audience. Mr. Snobbe’s health was drunk vociferously, after which, the stenographer having announced himself as ready to begin, the distinguished son of Yonkers arose and told the following story, which he called

        VAN SQUIBBER’S FAILURE

[25]

THE DREAMERS DINE

[26]

You can’t always tell what kind of a day you are going to have in town in October just because you happen to have been in town on previous October days, and Van Squibber, for that reason, was not surprised when his man, on waking him, informed him that it was cold out. Even if he had been surprised he would not have shown it, for fear of demoralizing his man by setting him a bad example. “We must take things as they come,” Van Squibber had said to the fellow when he engaged him, “and I shall expect you to be ready always for any emergency that [27] may arise. If on waking in the morning I call for a camel’s-hair shawl and a bottle of Nepaul pepper, it will be your duty to see that I get them without manifesting the slightest surprise or asking any questions. Here is your next year’s salary in advance. Get my Melton overcoat and my box, and have them at the Rahway station at 7.15 to-morrow morning. If I am not there, don’t wait for me, but come back here and boil my egg at once.”

This small bit of a lecture had had its effect on the man, to whom thenceforth nothing was impossible; indeed, upon this very occasion he demonstrated to his employer his sterling worth, for when, on looking over Van Squibber’s wardrobe, he discovered that his master had no Melton overcoat, he telegraphed to his tailor’s and had one made from his previous measure in time to have it with Van Squibber’s box at the Rahway station at the stipulated hour the following morning. Of course Van Squibber was not there. He had instructed his man as he had simply[28] to test him, and, furthermore, the egg was boiled to perfection. The test cost Van Squibber about $150, but it was successful, and it was really worth the money to know that his man was all that he should be.

“He’s not half bad,” said Van Squibber, as he cracked the egg.

“It’s wintry,” said Van Squibber’s man on the morning of the 5th of October.

“Well,” Van Squibber said, sleepily, “what of that? You have your instructions as to the bodily temperature I desire to maintain. Select my clothing, as usual—and mark you, man, yesterday was springy, and you let me go to the club in summery attire. I was two and a half degrees too warm. You are getting careless. What are my engagements to-day?”

“University settlement at eleven, luncheon at the Actors’ at one, drive with the cynical Miss Netherwood at three, five-o’clock tea at four—”

“What?” cried Van Squibber, sharply.[29]

“At fuf—five, I should say, sir,” stammered the embarrassed man.

“Thought so,” said Van Squibber. “Proceed, and be more careful. The very idea of five-o’clock tea at four is shocking.”

“Dinner with the Austrian ambassador at eight, opera at eleven—”

“In October? Opera?” cried Van Squibber.

“Comic,” said the man. “It is Flopper’s last night, sir, and you are to ring down the curtain.”

“True,” said Van Squibber, meditatively—“true; I’d forgotten. And then?”

“At midnight you are to meet Red Mike at Cherry Street and Broadway to accompany him to see how he robs national banks, for the Sunday Whirald.”

“What bank is it to be?”

“The Seventeenth National.”

“Gad!” cried Van Squibber, “that’s hard luck. It’s my bank. Wire Red Mike and ask him to make it the Sixteenth National, at once. Bring me my smoking-jacket and a boiled soda mint drop. I[30] don’t care for any breakfast this morning. And, by-the-way, I feel a little chilly. Take a quinine pill for me.”

“Your egg is ready, sir,” said the man, tremulously.

“Eat it,” said Van Squibber, tersely, “and deduct the Café Savarin price of a boiled egg from your salary. How often must I tell you not to have my breakfast boiled until I am boil—I mean ready until I am ready for it?”

The man departed silently, and Van Squibber turned over and went to sleep.

An hour later, having waited for his soda mint drop as long as his dignity would permit, Van Squibber arose and dressed and went for a walk in Central Park. It was eccentric of him to do this, but he