Literary Lapses by Stephen Leacock Page B

hopefully, getting his paper-cutter ready to cut the next pages, “you begin to get the thread now, don’t you?”
    â€œOh, fine!” I said. “The people in it are the Dog and Pio, and Carlo Carlotti the Condottiere, and those others that we spoke of.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Sinclair said, “Of course, there are more still that I can tell you about if…”
    â€œOh, never mind,” I said, “I’ll work along with those, they’re a pretty representative crowd. Then Porphirio is under Pio’s thumb, and Pio is under Demonio’s thumb, and the Dog is crafty, and Lucia is full of something all the time. Oh, I’ve got a mighty clear idea of it,” I concluded bitterly.
    â€œOh, you’ve got it,” Sinclair said, “I knew you’d like it. Now we’ll go on. I’ll just finish to the bottom of my page and then I’ll go on aloud.”
    He ran his eyes rapidly over the lines till he came to the bottom of the page, then he cut the leaves and turned over.I saw his eye rest on the half-dozen lines that confronted him on the next page with an expression of utter consternation.
    â€œWell, I will be cursed!” he said at length.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” I said gently, with a great joy at my heart.
    â€œThis infernal thing’s a serial,” he gasped, as he pointed at the words To be continued, “and that’s all there is in this number.”

 
    TELLING HIS FAULTS
    O h, do, Mr. Sapling,” said the beautiful girl at the summer hotel, “do let me read the palm of your hand! I can tell you all your faults.”
    Mr. Sapling gave an inarticulate gurgle and a roseate flush swept over his countenance as he surrendered his palm to the grasp of the fair enchantress.
    â€œOh, you’re just full of faults, just full of them, Mr. Sapling!” she cried.
    Mr. Sapling looked it.
    â€œTo begin with,” said the beautiful girl, slowly and reflectingly, “you are dreadfully cynical: you hardly believe in anything at all, and you’ve utterly no faith in us poor women.”
    The feeble smile that had hitherto kindled the features of Mr. Sapling into a ray of chastened imbecility, was distorted in an effort at cynicism.
    â€œThen your next fault is that you are too determined; much too determined. When once you have set your will on any object, you crush every obstacle under your feet.”
    Mr. Sapling looked meekly down at his tennis shoes, butbegan to feel calmer, more lifted up. Perhaps he had been all these things without knowing it.
    â€œThen you are cold and sarcastic.”
    Mr. Sapling attempted to look cold and sarcastic. He succeeded in a rude leer.
    â€œAnd you’re horribly world-weary, you care for nothing. You have drained philosophy to the dregs, and scoff at everything.”
    Mr. Sapling’s inner feeling was that from now on he would simply scoff and scoff and scoff.
    â€œYour only redeeming quality is that you are generous. You have tried to kill even this, but cannot. Yes,” concluded the beautiful girl, “those are your faults, generous still, but cold, cynical and relentless. Good night, Mr. Sapling.”
    And resisting all entreaties the beautiful girl passed from the verandah of the hotel and vanished.
    And when later in the evening the brother of the beautiful girl borrowed Mr. Sapling’s tennis racket, and his bicycle for a fortnight, and the father of the beautiful girl got Sapling to endorse his note for a couple of hundreds, and her uncle Zephas borrowed his bedroom candle and used his razor to cut up a plug of tobacco, Mr. Sapling felt proud to be acquainted with the family.

 
    WINTER PASTIMES
    I t is in the depth of winter, when the intense cold renders it desirable to stay at home, that the really Pleasant Family is wont to serve invitations upon a few friends to spend a Quiet Evening.
    It is at these gatherings that that gay thing,