too.”
“I suppose so,” I said, just to string him along. I was curious to see how long the idiot would keep up his infernal nonsense.
“You’re not in business you say?”
“No, I’m not.”
“On a vacation, is that it?”
“No, not precisely. I’m an ornithologist, you see.”
“A what? Well, that’s interesting.”
“Very,” I said, with great solemnity.
“Then you may be staying with us for a while, is that it?”
“That’s hard to say. I may stay a week and I may stay a year. It all depends. Depends on what specimens I find.”
“I see. Interesting work, no doubt.”
“ Very !”
“Have you ever been to California before, Mr. Miller?”
“Yes, twenty-five years ago.”
“Well, well, is that so? Twenty-five years ago! And now you’re back again.”
“Yes, back again.”
“Were you doing the same thing when you were here before?”
“You mean ornithology?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“No, I was digging ditches then.”
“Digging ditches? You mean you were —digging ditches?”
“Yes, that’s it, Mr. Harrison. It was either dig ditches or starve to death.”
“Well, I’m glad you don’t have to dig ditches any more. It’s not much fun —digging ditches, is it?”
“No, especially if the ground is hard. Or if your back is weak. Or vice versa. Or let’s say your mother has just been put in the mad house and the alarm goes off too soon.”
“I beg your pardon! What did you say?”
“If things are not just right, I said. You know what I mean— bunions, lumbago, scrofula. It’s different now, of course. I have my birds and other pets. Mornings I used to watch the sun rise. Then I would saddle the jackasses—I had two and the other fellow had three. . . .”
“This was in California, Mr. Miller?”
“Yes, twenty-five years ago. I had just done a stretch in San Quentin. . . .”
“ San Quentin ?”
“Yes, attempted suicide. I was really gaga but that didn’t make any difference to them. You see, when my father set the house afire one of the horses kicked me in the temple. I used to get fainting fits and then after a time I got homicidal spells and finally I became suicidal. Of course I didn’t know that the revolver was loaded. I took a pot shot at my sister, just for fun, and luckily I missed her. I tried to explain it to the judge but he wouldn’t listen to me. I never carry a revolver any more. If I have to defend myself I use a jack-knife. The best thing, of course, is to use your knee. . . .”
“Excuse me, Mr. Miller, I have to speak to Mrs. So-and-so a moment. Very interesting what you say. Very interesting indeed. We must talk some more. Excuse me just a moment. . . .”
I slipped out of the house unnoticed and started to walk towards the foot of the hill. The highballs, the red and the white wines, the champagne, the cognac were gurgling inside me like a sewer. I had no idea where I was, whose house I had been in or whom I had been introduced to. Perhaps the boiled thug was an ex-Governor of the State. Perhaps the hostess was an ex-movie star, a light that had gone out forever. I remembered that some one had whispered in my ear that So-and-so had made a fortune in the opium traffic in China. Lord Haw-Haw probably. The Englishwoman with the horse face may have been a prominent novelist—or just a charity worker. I thought of my friend Fred, now Private Alfred Perlès, No. 13802023 in the 137th Pioneer Corps or something like that. Fred would have sung the Lorelei at the dinner table or asked for a better brand of cognac ormade grimaces at the hostess. Or he might have gone to the telephone and called up Gloria Swanson, pretending to be Aldous Huxley or Chatto & Windus of Wimbledon. Fred would never have permitted the dinner to become a fiasco. Everything else failing he would have slipped his silky paw in some one’s bosom, saying as he always did—“The left one is better. Fish it out, won’t you please?”
I think
“I suppose so,” I said, just to string him along. I was curious to see how long the idiot would keep up his infernal nonsense.
“You’re not in business you say?”
“No, I’m not.”
“On a vacation, is that it?”
“No, not precisely. I’m an ornithologist, you see.”
“A what? Well, that’s interesting.”
“Very,” I said, with great solemnity.
“Then you may be staying with us for a while, is that it?”
“That’s hard to say. I may stay a week and I may stay a year. It all depends. Depends on what specimens I find.”
“I see. Interesting work, no doubt.”
“ Very !”
“Have you ever been to California before, Mr. Miller?”
“Yes, twenty-five years ago.”
“Well, well, is that so? Twenty-five years ago! And now you’re back again.”
“Yes, back again.”
“Were you doing the same thing when you were here before?”
“You mean ornithology?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“No, I was digging ditches then.”
“Digging ditches? You mean you were —digging ditches?”
“Yes, that’s it, Mr. Harrison. It was either dig ditches or starve to death.”
“Well, I’m glad you don’t have to dig ditches any more. It’s not much fun —digging ditches, is it?”
“No, especially if the ground is hard. Or if your back is weak. Or vice versa. Or let’s say your mother has just been put in the mad house and the alarm goes off too soon.”
“I beg your pardon! What did you say?”
“If things are not just right, I said. You know what I mean— bunions, lumbago, scrofula. It’s different now, of course. I have my birds and other pets. Mornings I used to watch the sun rise. Then I would saddle the jackasses—I had two and the other fellow had three. . . .”
“This was in California, Mr. Miller?”
“Yes, twenty-five years ago. I had just done a stretch in San Quentin. . . .”
“ San Quentin ?”
“Yes, attempted suicide. I was really gaga but that didn’t make any difference to them. You see, when my father set the house afire one of the horses kicked me in the temple. I used to get fainting fits and then after a time I got homicidal spells and finally I became suicidal. Of course I didn’t know that the revolver was loaded. I took a pot shot at my sister, just for fun, and luckily I missed her. I tried to explain it to the judge but he wouldn’t listen to me. I never carry a revolver any more. If I have to defend myself I use a jack-knife. The best thing, of course, is to use your knee. . . .”
“Excuse me, Mr. Miller, I have to speak to Mrs. So-and-so a moment. Very interesting what you say. Very interesting indeed. We must talk some more. Excuse me just a moment. . . .”
I slipped out of the house unnoticed and started to walk towards the foot of the hill. The highballs, the red and the white wines, the champagne, the cognac were gurgling inside me like a sewer. I had no idea where I was, whose house I had been in or whom I had been introduced to. Perhaps the boiled thug was an ex-Governor of the State. Perhaps the hostess was an ex-movie star, a light that had gone out forever. I remembered that some one had whispered in my ear that So-and-so had made a fortune in the opium traffic in China. Lord Haw-Haw probably. The Englishwoman with the horse face may have been a prominent novelist—or just a charity worker. I thought of my friend Fred, now Private Alfred Perlès, No. 13802023 in the 137th Pioneer Corps or something like that. Fred would have sung the Lorelei at the dinner table or asked for a better brand of cognac ormade grimaces at the hostess. Or he might have gone to the telephone and called up Gloria Swanson, pretending to be Aldous Huxley or Chatto & Windus of Wimbledon. Fred would never have permitted the dinner to become a fiasco. Everything else failing he would have slipped his silky paw in some one’s bosom, saying as he always did—“The left one is better. Fish it out, won’t you please?”
I think
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