Literary Lapses

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
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*** 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.