Further Foolishness, Stephen Leacock [pdf ebook reader .TXT] 📗

the orchestra's doing it with a little triangle and a stick—it's a little church up in the country—see all the people lined up—oh! there's Madeline! in a long white veil—isn't she just sweet!—and John—

Flick, flack, flick, flack.

"BULGARIAN TROOPS ON THE MARCH."

What! Isn't it over? Do they all go to Bulgaria? I don't seem to understand. Anyway, I guess it's all right to go now. Other people are going.

V. The Call of the Carburettor, or, Mr. Blinks and his Friends

"First get a motor in your own eye and then you will overlook more easily the motor in your brother's eye."—Somewhere in the Bible.

"By all means let's have a reception," said Mrs. Blinks. "It's the quickest and nicest way to meet our old friends again after all these years. And goodness knows this house is big enough for it"—she gave a glance as she spoke round the big reception-room of the Blinkses' residence—"and these servants seem to understand things so perfectly it's no trouble to us to give anything. Only don't let's ask a whole lot of chattering young people that we don't know; let's have the older people, the ones that can talk about something really worth while."

"That's just what I say," answered Mr. Blinks—he was a small man with insignificance written all over him—"let me listen to people talk; that's what I like. I'm not much on the social side myself, but I do enjoy hearing good talk. That's what I liked so much over in England. All them—all those people that we used to meet talked so well. And in France those ladies that run saloons on Sunday afternoons—"

"Sallongs," corrected Mrs. Blinks. "It's sounded like it was a G." She picked up a pencil and paper. "Well, then," she said, as she began to write down names, "we'll ask Judge Ponderus—"

"Sure!" assented Mr. Blinks, rubbing his hands. "He's a fine talker, if he'll come!"

"They'll all come," said his wife, "to a house as big as this; and we'll ask the Rev. Dr. Domb and his wife—or, no, he's Archdeacon Domb now, I hear—and he'll invite Bishop Sollem, so they can talk together."

"That'll be good," said Mr. Blinks. "I remember years and years ago hearing them two—those two, talking about religion, all about the soul and the body. Man! It was deep. It was clean beyond me. That's what I like to listen to."

"And Professor Potofax from the college," went on Mrs. Blinks. "You remember, the big stout one."

"I know," said her husband.

"And his daughter, she's musical, and Mrs. Buncomtalk, she's a great light on woman suffrage, and Miss Scragg and Mr. Underdone—they both write poetry, so they can talk about that."

"It'll be a great treat to listen to them all," said Mr. Blinks.

A week later, on the day of the Blinkses' reception, there was a string of motors three deep along a line of a hundred yards in front of the house.

Inside the reception rooms were filled.

Mr. Blinks, insignificant even in his own house, moved to and fro among his guests.

Archdeacon Domb and Dean Sollem were standing side by side with their heads gravely lowered, as they talked, over the cups of tea that they held in their hands.

Mr. Blinks edged towards them.

"This'll be something pretty good," he murmured to himself as he got within reach of their conversation.

"What do you do about your body?" the Archdeacon was asking in his deep, solemn tones.

"Practically nothing," said the Bishop. "A little rub of shellac now and then, but practically nothing."

"You wash it, of course?" asked Dr. Domb.

"Only now and again, but far less than you would think. I really take very little thought for my body."

"Ah," said Dr. Domb reflectively, "I went all over mine last summer with linseed oil."

"But didn't you find," said the Bishop, "that it got into your pipes and choked your feed?"

"It did," said Dr. Domb, munching a bit of toast as he spoke. "In fact, I have had a lot of trouble with my feed ever since."

"Try flushing your pipes out with hot steam," said the Bishop. Mr. Blinks had listened in something like dismay.

"Motor-cars!" he murmured. "Who'd have thought it?"

But at this moment a genial, hearty-looking person came pushing towards him with a cheery greeting.

"I'm afraid I'm rather late, Blinks," he said.

"Delayed in court, eh, Judge?" said Blinks as he shook hands.

"No, blew out a plug!" said the Judge. "Stalled me right up."

"Blew out a plug!" exclaimed Dr. Domb and the Bishop, deeply interested at once.

"A cracked insulator, I think," said the Judge.

"Possibly," said the Archdeacon very gravely, "the terminal nuts of your dry battery were loose."

Mr. Blinks moved slowly away.

"Dear me!" he mused, "how changed they are."

It was a relief to him to edge his way quietly into another group of guests where he felt certain that the talk would be of quite another kind.

Professor Potofax and Miss Scragg and a number of others were evidently talking about books.

"A beautiful book," the professor was saying. "One of the best things, to my mind at any rate, that has appeared for years. There's a chapter on the silencing of exhaust gas which is simply marvellous."

"Is it illustrated?" questioned one of the ladies.

"Splendidly," said the professor. "Among other things there are sectional views of check valves and flexible roller bearings—"

"Ah, do tell me about the flexible bearings," murmured Miss Scragg.

Mr. Blinks moved on.

Wherever he went among his guests, they all seemed stricken with the same mania. He caught their conversation in little scraps.

"I ran her up to forty with the greatest of ease, then threw in my high speed and got seventy out of her without any trouble."—"No, I simply used a socket wrench, it answers perfectly."—"Yes, a solution of calcium chloride is very good, but of course the hydrochloric acid in it has a powerful effect on the metal."

"Dear me," mused Mr. Blinks, "are they all mad?"

Meantime, around his wife, who stood receiving in state at one end of the room, the guests surged to and fro.

"So charmed to see you again," exclaimed one. "You've been in Europe a long time, haven't you? Oh, mostly in the south of England? Are the roads good? Last