“Oh, well,” said the Doctor, “perhaps it isn’t such a bad thing, after all; but I don’t think I care to go into it. I don’t want to be rich.”
“Very well,” said the Idiot. “That being the case, I will modify my suggestion somewhat and send the idea to President Taylor of Vassar and other heads of women’s colleges. As things are now they all ought to have a course of shopping for the benefit of the young women who will soon graduate into the larger institution of matrimony. That is the only way I can see for us to build up a woman of the future who will be able to cope with the strenuous life that is involved to-day in the purchase of a cake of soap to send to one’s grandmother at Christmas. I know, for I have been through it; and rather than do it again I would let the All-American eleven for 1908 land on me after a running broad jump of sixteen feet in length and four in the air.”
XVIII
FOR A HAPPY CHRISTMAS
I HAVE a request to make of you gentlemen,” observed the Idiot, as the last buckwheat-cake of his daily allotment disappeared within. “And I sincerely hope you will all grant it. It won’t cost you anything, and will save you a lot of trouble.”
“I promise beforehand under such conditions,” said the Doctor. “The promise that doesn’t cost anything and saves a lot of trouble is the kind I like to make.”
“Same here,” said Mr. Brief.
“None for me,” said the Bibliomaniac. “My confidence in the Idiot’s prophecies is about as great as a defeated statesman’s popular plurality. My experience with him teaches me that when he signals no trouble ahead then is the time to look out for squalls. Therefore, you can count me out on this promise he wants us to make.”
“All right,” said the Idiot. “To tell the truth, I didn’t think you’d come in because I didn’t believe you could qualify. You see, the promise I was going to ask you to make presupposes a certain condition which you don’t fulfil. I was going to ask you, gentlemen, when Christmas comes to give me not the rich and beautiful gifts you contemplate putting into my stocking, but their equivalent in cash. Now you, Mr. Bib, never gave me anything at Christmas but advice, and your advice has no cash equivalent that I could ever find out, and even if it had I’m long on it now. That piece of advice you gave me last March about getting my head shaved so as to give my brain a little air I’ve never been able to use, and your kind suggestion of last August, that I ought to have my head cut off as a sure cure of chronic appendicitis, which you were certain I had, doctors tell me would be conducive to heart failure, which is far more fatal than the original disease. The only use to which I can put it, on my word of honor, is to give it back to you this Christmas with my best wishes.”