§ 95 An Appeal to the Senses
The editor of a New York evening newspaper has a little niece who, on her sixth birthday, received as presents a wrist-watch and a large bottle of perfumery. Having strapped on the watch, and copiously scented herself, the youngster spent the entire day proudly parading the apartment directing the attention of all and sundry to her new possessions. Eventually she became somewhat of a bore. For the evening some friends of her parents were coming in.
“Honey,” said her mother, “I can understand why you should be proud of your birthday gifts, but grown people are not interested in such things. You may come to dinner to-night on condition that you do not once mention your wrist-watch or your bottle of perfumery.”
The little one promised. At the table she sat, saying not a word, but from time to time sniffing audibly, and at frequent intervals raising her left wrist to her ear to catch the sound of the ticking. These tactics failed to attract attention. Toward the end of the meal, in a lull in the conversation, little Miss Helen spoke:
“Listen, everybody,” she said. “If anybody hears anything or smells anything, it’s me.”
§ 96 The Truth from the Inside
The dining car waiter was one of those persons who feel a sense of personal proprietorship in the institutions they serve—a type not at all uncommon among members of his race. His manner, his voice, all about him, subtly conveyed the idea that here was one who took a deep pride in the undertaking of feeding people on a transcontinental train, and was determined that no blot ever should besmirch the fair name of the system.
So when the gentleman who was going to California gave a breakfast order of grapefruit, toast, coffee and soft-boiled eggs, he bent over the patron and in confidential tones whispered:
“Boss, I would not keer to reccermend the aigs this mawnin’! Naw, suh, I would suggest you tuck somethin’ else on the bill.”
“What’s the matter with the eggs—aren’t they fresh?” asked the customer.