Literary Lapses

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Literary Lapses, by Stephen Leacock

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Title: Literary Lapses
Author: Stephen Leacock
Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6340] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on November 29, 2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITERARY LAPSES ***

This etext was produced by Gardner Buchanan.

LITERARY LAPSES
By Stephen Leacock

CONTENTS
MY FINANCIAL CAREER LORD OXHEAD'S SECRET BOARDING-HOUSE GEOMETRY THE AWFUL FATE OF MELPOMENUS JONES A CHRISTMAS LETTER HOW TO MAKE A MILLION DOLLARS HOW TO LIVE TO BE 200 HOW TO AVOID GETTING MARRIED HOW TO BE A DOCTOR THE NEW FOOD A NEW PATHOLOGY THE POET ANSWERED THE FORCE OF STATISTICS MEN WHO HAVE SHAVED ME GETTING THE THREAD OF IT TELLING HIS FAULTS WINTER PASTIMES NUMBER FIFTY-SIX ARISTOCRATIC EDUCATION THE CONJURER'S REVENGE HINTS TO TRAVELLERS A MANUAL OF EDUCATION HOODOO MCFIGGIN'S CHRISTMAS THE LIFE OF JOHN SMITH ON COLLECTING THINGS SOCIETY CHIT-CHAT INSURANCE UP TO DATE BORROWING A MATCH A LESSON IN FICTION HELPING THE ARMENIANS A STUDY IN STILL LIFE: THE COUNTRY HOTEL AN EXPERIMENT WITH POLICEMAN HOGAN THE PASSING OF THE POET SELF-MADE MEN A MODEL DIALOGUE BACK TO THE BUSH REFLECTIONS ON RIDING SALOONIO HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS-- I. MR. WORDSWORTH AND THE LITTLE COTTAGE GIRL II. HOW TENNYSON KILLED THE MAY QUEEN III. OLD MR. LONGFELLOW ON BOARD THE "HESPERUS" A. B, AND C

LITERARY LAPSES

My Financial Career
When I go into a bank I get rattled. The clerks rattle me; the wickets rattle me; the sight of the money rattles me; everything rattles me.
The moment I cross the threshold of a bank and attempt to transact business there, I become an irresponsible idiot.
I knew this beforehand, but my salary had been raised to fifty dollars a month and I felt that the bank was the only place for it.
So I shambled in and looked timidly round at the clerks. I had an idea that a person about to open an account must needs consult the manager. I went up to a wicket marked "Accountant." The accountant was a tall, cool devil. The very sight of him rattled me. My voice was sepulchral.
"Can I see the manager?" I said, and added solemnly, "alone." I don't know why I said "alone."
"Certainly," said the accountant, and fetched him.
The manager was a grave, calm man. I held my fifty-six dollars clutched in a crumpled ball in my pocket.
"Are you the manager?" I said. God knows I didn't doubt it.
"Yes," he said.
"Can I see you," I asked, "alone?" I didn't want to say "alone" again, but without it the thing seemed self-evident.
The manager looked at me in some alarm. He felt that I had an awful secret to reveal.
"Come in here," he said, and led the way to a private room. He turned the key in the lock.
"We are safe from interruption here," he said; "sit down."
We both sat down and looked at each other. I found no voice to speak.
"You are one of Pinkerton's men, I presume," he said.
He had gathered from my mysterious manner that I was a detective. I knew what he was thinking, and it made me worse.
"No, not from Pinkerton's," I said, seeming to imply that I came from a rival agency.
"To tell the truth," I went on, as if I had been prompted to lie about it," I am not a detective at all. I have come to open an account. I intend to keep all my money in this bank."
The manager looked relieved but still serious; he concluded now that I was a son of Baron Rothschild or a young Gould.
"A large account, I suppose," he said.
"Fairly large," I whispered. "I propose to deposit fifty-six dollars now and fifty dollars a month regularly."
The manager got up and opened the door. He called to the accountant.
"Mr. Montgomery," he said unkindly loud, "this gentleman is opening an account, he will deposit fifty-six dollars. Good morning."
I rose.
A big