Fancies and Goodnights, стр. 83
«Any mice we catch, the missus flushes 'em down the toilet,» said Mr. Hartpick, with a shrug.
«Feminine angle again,» said Davies. «Cleopatra fed her slaves to the crocodiles. Only many women haven't the levelheadedness of Mrs. Hartpick to take a mouse out of a trap and get rid of it that way.»
«Oh, I dunno,» said Mr. Hartpick in tones of complete boredom.
«In one way this is the same sort of thing,» said Davies, beginning to talk very fast. «Only more scientific and labour-saving. See — I fill the glass jar here with water, lukewarm water. It's glass in this demonstration model. In the selling product it'd be tin to keep the cost down to what I said in my letter. The frame needn't be chromium either. Well, having filled it, I place it right here in position. Kindly observe the simplicity. I take a morsel of ordinary cheese, and I bait the hook. If economy's the subject, a piece of bread rubbed in bacon fat is equally effective. Now look! Please look, Mr. Hartpick! I'll show you what the mouse does. Come on, Georgie!»
«Live mouse, eh?» observed Hartpick, with a flicker of interest.
«Mus domesticus, the domestic mouse,» said Davies. «Found in every home. Now watch him! He's found the way in. See him go along that strip in the middle! Right to the bait — see? His weight tilts the …»
«He's in!» cried Hartpick, his interest entirely regained.
«And the trap,» said Davies triumphantly, «has automatically set itself for another mouse. In the morning you just remove the dead ones.»
«Not bad! »said Hartpick. «Gosh — he's trying to swim! My friend, I think you may have something there.»
«You know the old adage, Mr. Hartpick,» said Davies, smiling. «It's the better mouse-trap!»
«Like hell it is!» said Hartpick. «Pure nut, that's what it is. But what I always say — there's a nut market for nut inventions. Play up the humane angle … get the old dames het up …»
«Gee, that's great!» said Davies. «I was beginning to … Well, never mind! Excuse me! I'll just get him out.»
«Wait a minute,» said Hartpick, putting his heavy hand on Davies' wrist.
«I think he's getting a bit tired,» said Davies.
«Now look,» said Hartpick, still watching the mouse. «We've got our standard contract for notions of this sort. Standard rate of royalties. Ask your attorney if you like; he'll tell you the same thing.»
«Oh, that'll be all right, I'm sure,» said Davies. «Just let me …»
«Hold on! Hold on!» said Hartpick. «We're talking business, ain't we?»
«Why sure,» said Davies uneasily. «But he's getting tired. You see, he's a demonstration mouse.»
Mr. Hartpick's hand seemed to grow heavier. «And what's this?» he demanded. «A demonstration — or what?»
«A demonstration? Yes,» said Davies.
«Or are you trying to put something over on me?» said Hartpick. «How do I know he won't climb out? I was going to suggest you step around to the office in the morning, and we sign. If you're interested, that is.»
«Of course, I'm interested,» said Davies, actually trembling. «But …»
«Well, if you're interested,» said Hartpick, «let him alone.»
«But, my God, he's drowning!» cried Davies, tugging to free his wrist. Mr. Hartpick turned his massive face toward Davies for a moment, and Davies stopped tugging.
«The show,» said Hartpick, «goes on. There you are! Look! Look! He's going!» His hand fell from Davies' arm. «Going! Going! Gone! Poor little bastard! Okay, Mr. Davies, let's say ten-thirty o'clock then, in the morning.»
With that he strode out. Davies stood stock-still for a little, and then moved toward the Steel Cat. He put out his hand to take up the jar, but turned abruptly away and walked up and down the room. He had been doing this for some time when there came another tap on the door. Davies must have said «come in,» though he wasn't aware of doing so. At all events the bell-hop entered, carrying a covered platter on a tray. «Excuse me,» said he, smiling all over his face. «It's on the house, sir. Buttered corn-cob for Brother George Simpson!»
SLEEPING BEAUTY
Edward Laxton had everything in the world that he wanted except a sweetheart, fiancee, or wife.
He had a very civilized little Regency house, whose ivory facade was reflected in a few acres of ornamental water. There was a small park, as green as moss, and well embowered with sober trees. Outside this, his land ran over some of the shaggiest hills in the south of England. The ploughed fields were on the small side, and lay locked in profound woods. A farmhouse and a cottage or two sent their blue smoke curling into the evening sky.
With all this, his income was very small, but he was blessed with good taste, and was therefore satisfied with simple fare. His dinner was a partridge roasted plain, a bottle of Hermitage, an apple pie, and a crumb of Stilton cheese. His picture was a tiny little Constable left to him by his great-uncle. His gun was his father's old Holland and Holland, which fitted him to a hair. His dogs were curly-coated retrievers, one liver coloured and one black. Such dogs are now considered very old-fashioned, and so, by those who knew him, was their master. He was now over thirty, and had begun to tell his tailor to make him exactly the same suits as last year, and when his friends went abroad it did not occur to him to find out others.
He turned more and more to the placid beauty of his house, and to the rich, harsh beauty of the upland farms. A man should beware of surrendering too much of himself to this sort of thing, for the beauty of a place can be as possessive as other beauties. Believe it or not, when Edward met a girl who attracted him, a certain hill would thrust its big shoulder, furred with oak woods, between them, for all the world like a jealous dog. It would at once be obvious that the girl was weak in the ankles, and wore too much make-up. The bare, prim front of a certain stock-man's cottage, like the disapproving face of an old servant, could make a merry girl seem altogether too smart, and there was a certain faded little nursery room, the memory of which could make any young woman of these days look like something out of the cinema.
Thus Edward was under the necessity of sitting alone after dinner and telling himself, firmly, that he was the most fortunate man in the world. Into this felicity came a letter: it was from his oldest friend, inviting him to spend a season on his ranch in New Mexico. Edward reflected that he had never had the pleasure of seeing his own place after a long and homesick absence. He telegraphed, packed, and set forth.
He arrived in New Mexico, and admired immensely the beautiful immensities of that state. Nevertheless, he soon began to long excruciatingly to see a certain turn in a certain lane at home; a very ordinary corner, of which he had never taken any particular notice when he was there. He said good-bye to his host, and started for New York, but, wishing to see something of the country before leaving it, he bought an old car and set out by road.
His way lay along the northern edge of what was then called the dust-bowl, a landscape from which, after a few hours of driving, the eye seems to recoil in blank disbelief. This is a very dangerous tendency, especially in one who is dreaming of a far-distant lane. Edward followed a gentle curve which happened to be some four thousand miles away, and found himself halted in a back alley, with a severe pain in his ribs, a watermelon by his side, and an impression of having driven through a small country store. «Now I am in trouble,» thought Edward. He was soon to learn that he was also in Heeber's Bluff, Arkansas, and, what with settling up for the damage and getting his car repaired, he was likely to be there some days.