A Fool and His Money

by George Barr McCutcheon

"Stop that!" I growled, kicking at the mop. Before I could get my foot back on the floor he skilfully swabbed the spot where it had been resting, a feat of celerity that I have never seen surpassed. "Damn it, don't!" I roared, backing away. The resolute mop followed me like the spectre of want. Fascinated, I found myself retreating to the doorway.

Britton, resourceful fellow, put an end to his endeavours by jumping upon the mop and pinning it to the floor very much as he would have stamped upon a wounded rat.

The fellow called out lustily to some one in the kitchen, at the same time giving the mop handle a mighty jerk. If you are expecting me to say that Britton came to woe, you are doomed to disappointment. It was just the other way about. Just as the prodigious yank took place, my valet hopped nimbly from the mop, and the waiter sat down with a stunning thud.

I do not know what might have ensued had not the proprietress of the place appeared at that instant, coming from the kitchen. She was the cook as well, and she was large enough to occupy the space of at least three Brittons. She was huge beyond description.

"Wass iss?" she demanded, pausing aghast. Her voice was a high, belying treble.

I shall not attempt to describe in detail all that followed. It is only necessary to state that she removed the mop from the hands of the quaking menial and fairly swabbed him out into the thick of the rainstorm.

While we were drinking our hot, steaming coffee and gorging ourselves with frankfurters, the poor wretch stood under the eaves with his face glued to the window, looking in at us with mournful eyes while the drippings from the tiles poured upon his shoulders and ran in rivulets down his neck. I felt so sorry for him that I prevailed upon the muttering, apologetic hostess to take him in again. She called him in as she might have called a dog, and he edged his way past her with the same scared, alert look in his eyes that one always sees in those of an animal that has its tail between its legs.

She explained that he was her nephew, just off the farm. Her sister's son, she said, and naturally not as intelligent as he ought to be.

While we were sitting there at the counter, a train roared past the little station. We rushed to the door in alarm. But it shot through at the rate of fifty miles an hour. I looked at my watch. It still wanted half-an-hour of train time, according to the schedule.

"It was the express, mein herr," explained the woman. "It never stops. We are too small yet. Some time we may be big enough." I noticed that her eyes were fixed in some perplexity on the old clock above the pie shelves. "Ach! But it has never been so far ahead of time as to-night. It is not due for fifteen minutes yet, and here it is gone yet."