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Coffee And Repartee
by
“Seeing concerts and hearing games of pool.”
“I take exception to your ruling,” returned the Imbiber. “As my friend the Idiot has frequently remarked, you have the peculiarity of a great many men in your profession, who think because they never happened to see or do or hear things as other people do, they may not be seen, done, or heard at all. I saw the concert I attended last night. Our musical club has rooms next to a hospital, and we have to give silent concerts for fear of disturbing the patients; but we are all musicians of sufficient education to understand by a glance of the eye what you would fail to comprehend with fourteen ears and a microphone.”
“Very well said,” put in the Idiot, with a scornful glance at the School-master. “And I literally heard the pool tournament. I was dining in a room off the billiard-hall, and every shot that was made, with the exception of the one I spoke of, was distinctly audible. You gentlemen, who think you know it all, wouldn’t be able to supply a bureau of information at the rate of five minutes a day for an hour on a holiday. Let’s go up-stairs,” he added, turning to the Imbiber, “where we may discuss our last night’s entertainment apart from this atmosphere of rarefied learning. It makes me faint.”
And the Imbiber, who was with difficulty keeping his lips in proper form, was glad enough to accept the invitation. “The corks popped to some purpose last night,” he said, later on.
“Yes,” said the Idiot; “for a conspiracy there’s nothing so helpful as popping corks.”
V
“When you get through with the fire, Mr. Pedagog,” observed the Idiot, one winter’s morning, noticing that the ample proportions of the School-master served as a screen to shut off the heat from himself and the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed, “I wish you would let us have a little of it. Indeed, if you could conveniently spare so little as one flame for my friend here and myself, we’d be much obliged.”
“It won’t hurt you to cool off a little, sir,” returned the School-master, without moving.
“No, I am not so much afraid of the injury that may be mine as I am concerned for you. If that fire should melt our only refrigerating material, I do not know what our good landlady would do. Is it true, as the Bibliomaniac asserts, that Mrs. Smithers leaves all her milk and butter in your room overnight, relying upon your coolness to keep them fresh?”
“I never made any such assertion,” said the Bibliomaniac, warmly.
“I am not used to having my word disputed,” returned the Idiot, with a wink at the genial old gentleman.
“But I never said it, and I defy you to prove that I said it,” returned the Bibliomaniac, hotly.
“You forget, sir,” said the Idiot, coolly, “that you are the one who disputes my assertion. That casts the burden of proof on your shoulders. Of course if you can prove that you never said anything of the sort, I withdraw; but if you cannot adduce proofs, you, having doubted my word, and publicly at that, need not feel hurt if I decline to accept all that you say as gospel.”
“You show ridiculous heat,” said the School-master.
“Thank you,” returned the Idiot, gracefully. “And that brings us back to the original proposition that you would do well to show a little yourself.”
“Good-morning, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Smithers, entering the room at this moment. “It’s a bright, fresh morning.”
“Like yourself,” said the School-master, gallantly.
“Yes,” added the Idiot, with a glance at the clock, which registered 8.45–forty-five minutes after the breakfast hour–“very like Mrs. Smithers–rather advanced.”
To this the landlady paid no attention; but the School-master could not refrain from saying,
“Advanced, and therefore not backward, like some persons I might name.”
“Very clever,” retorted the Idiot, “and really worth rewarding. Mrs. Smithers, you ought to give Mr. Pedagog a receipt in full for the past six months.”