"Hullo!" said the Idiot, as he began his breakfast. "This isn't Friday
morning, is it? I thought it was Tuesday."
"So it is Tuesday," put in the School-Master.
"Then this fish is a little extra treat, is it?" observed the Idiot,
turning with a smile to the landlady.
"Fish? That isn't fish, sir," returned the good lady. "That is liver."
"Oh, is it?" said the Idiot, apologetically. "Excuse me, my dear Mrs.
Pedagog. I thought from its resistance that it was fried sole. Have you
a hatchet handy?" he added, turning to the maid.
"My piece is tender enough. I can't see what you want," said the
School-Master, coldly.
"I'd like your piece," replied the Idiot, suavely. "That is, if it really
is tender enough."
"Don't pay any attention to him, my dear," said the School-Master to the
landlady, whose ire was so very much aroused that she was about to make
known her sentiments on certain subjects.
"No, Mrs. Pedagog," said the Idiot, "don't pay any attention to me, I
beg of you. Anything that could add to the jealousy of Mr. Pedagog would
redound to the discomfort of all of us. Besides, I really do not object
to the liver. I need not eat it. And as for staying my appetite, I always
stop on my way down-town after breakfast for a bite or two anyhow."
There was silence for a moment.
"I wonder why it is," began the Idiot, after tasting his coffee--"I
wonder why it is Friday is fish-day all over the world, anyhow? Do you
happen to be learned enough in piscatorial science to enlighten me on
that point, Doctor?"
"No," returned the physician, gruffly. "I've never looked into the
matter."
"I guess it's because Friday is an unlucky day," said the Idiot. "Just
think of all the unlucky things that may happen before and after eating
fish, as well as during the process. In the first place, before eating,
you go off and fish all day, and have no luck--don't catch a thing. You
fall in the water perhaps, and lose your watch, or your fish-hook
catches in your coat-tails, with the result that you come near casting
yourself instead of the fly into the brook or the pond, as the case may
be. Perhaps the hook doesn't stop with the coat-tails, but goes on in,
and catches you. That's awfully unlucky, especially when the hook is made
of unusually barby barbed wire.
[Illustration: "YOU FISH ALL DAY, AND HAVE NO LUCK"]
"Then, again, you may go fishing on somebody else's preserves, and get
arrested, and sent to jail overnight, and hauled up the next morning, and
have to pay ten dollars fine for poaching. Think of Mr. Pedagog being
fined ten dollars for poaching! Awfully unfortunate!"
"Kindly leave me out of your calculations," returned Mr. Pedagog, with a
flush of indignation.
"Certainly, if you wish it," said the Idiot. "We'll hand Mr. Brief over
to the police, and let _him_ be fined for poaching on somebody else's
preserves--although that's sort of impossible, too, because Mrs. Pedagog
never lets us see preserves of any kind."
"We had brandied peaches last Sunday night," said the landlady,
indignantly.
"Oh yes, so we did," returned the Idiot. "That must have been what the
Bibliomaniac had taken," he added, turning to the genial gentleman who
occasionally imbibed. "You know, we thought he'd been--ah--he'd been
absorbing."
"To what do you refer?" asked the Bibliomaniac, curtly.
"To the brandied peaches," returned the Idiot. "Do not press me further,
please, because we like you, old fellow, and I don't believe anybody
noticed it but ourselves."
"Noticed what? I want to know what you noticed and when you noticed it,"
said the Bibliomaniac, savagely. "I don't want any nonsense, either. I
just want a plain statement of facts. What did you notice?"
"Well, if you must have it," said the Idiot, slowly, "my friend who
imbibes and I were rather pained on Sunday night to observe that
you--that you had evidently taken something rather stronger than cold
water, tea, or Mr. Pedagog's opinions."
"It's a libel, sir!--a gross libel!" retorted the Bibliomaniac. "How did
I show it? That's what I want to know. How--did--I--show--it? Speak up
quick, and loud too. How did I show it?"
"Well, you went up-stairs after tea."
"Yes, sir, I did."
"And my friend who imbibes and I were left down in the front hall, and
while we were talking there you put your head over the banisters and
asked, 'Who's that down there?' Remember that?"
"Yes, sir, I do. And you replied, 'Mr. Auburnose and myself.'"
"Yes. And then you asked, 'Who are the other two?'"
"Well, I did. What of it?"
"Mr. Auburnose and I were there alone. That's what of it. Now I put a
charitable construction on the matter and say it was the peaches, when
you fly off the handle like one of Mrs. Pedagog's coffee-cups."
"Sir!" roared the Bibliomaniac, jumping from his chair. "You are the
greatest idiot I know."
"Sir!" returned the Idiot, "you flatter me."
But the Bibliomaniac was not there to hear. He had rushed from the room,
and during the deep silence that ensued he could be heard throwing things
about in the chamber overhead, and in a very few moments the banging of
the front door and scurrying down the brown-stone steps showed that he
had gone out of doors to cool off.
[Illustration: HE COULD BE HEARD THROWING THINGS ABOUT]
"It is too bad," said the Idiot, after a while, "that he has such a
quick temper. It doesn't do a bit of good to get mad that way. He'll be
uncomfortable all day long, and over what? Just because I attempted to
say a good word for him, and announce the restoration of my confidence in
his temperance qualities, he cuts up a high-jinks that makes everybody
uncomfortable.
"But to resume about this fish business," continued the Idiot. "Fish--"
"Oh, fish be hanged!" said the Doctor, impatiently. "We've had enough of
fish."
"Very well," returned the idiot; "as you wish. Hanging isn't the best
treatment for fish, but we'll let that go. I never cared for the finny
tribe myself, and if Mrs. Pedagog can be induced to do it, I for one am
in favor of keeping shad, shark, and shrimps out of the house
altogether."