The Idiot

V

“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.”