Frenzied Fiction

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But we thought it well to set down our interview as a
guide to others.

IX. The New Education

"So you're going back to college in a fortnight," I said
to the Bright Young Thing on the veranda of the summer
hotel. "Aren't you sorry?"

"In a way I am," she said, "but in another sense I'm glad
to go back. One can't loaf all the time."

She looked up from her rocking-chair over her Red Cross
knitting with great earnestness.

How full of purpose these modern students are, I thought
to myself. In my time we used to go back to college as
to a treadmill.

"I know that," I said, "but what I mean is that college,
after all, is a pretty hard grind. Things like mathematics
and Greek are no joke, are they? In my day, as I remember
it, we used to think spherical trigonometry about the
hardest stuff of the lot."

She looked dubious.

"I didn't _elect_ mathematics," she said.

"Oh," I said, "I see. So you don't have to take it. And
what _have_ you elected?"

"For this coming half semester--that's six weeks, you
know--I've elected Social Endeavour."

"Ah," I said, "that's since my day, what is it?"

"Oh, it's _awfully_ interesting. It's the study of
conditions."

"What kind of conditions?" I asked.

"All conditions. Perhaps I can't explain it properly.
But I have the prospectus of it indoors if you'd like to
see it. We take up Society."

"And what do you do with it?"

"Analyse it," she said.

"But it must mean reading a tremendous lot of books."

"No," she answered. "We don't use books in this course.
It's all Laboratory Work."

"Now I _am_ mystified," I said. "What do you mean by
Laboratory Work?"

"Well," answered the girl student with a thoughtful look
upon her face, "you see, we are supposed to break society
up into its elements."

"In six weeks?"

"Some of the girls do it in six weeks. Some put in a
whole semester and take twelve weeks at it."

"So as to break up pretty thoroughly?" I said.

"Yes," she assented. "But most of the girls think six
weeks is enough."

"That ought to pulverize it pretty completely. But how
do you go at it?"

"Well," the girl said, "it's all done with Laboratory
Work. We take, for instance, department stores. I think
that is the first thing we do, we take up the department
store."

"And what do you do with it?"

"We study it as a Social Germ."

"Ah," I said, "as a Social Germ."

"Yes," said the girl, delighted to see that I was beginning
to understand, "as a Germ. All the work is done in the
concrete. The class goes down with the professor to the
department store itself--"

"And then--"

"Then they walk all through it, observing."

"But have none of them ever been in a departmental store
before?"

"Oh, of course, but, you see, we go as Observers."

"Ah, now, I understand. You mean you don't buy anything
and so you are able to watch everything?"

"No," she said, "it's not that. We do buy things. That's
part of it. Most of the girls like to buy little
knick-knacks, and anyway it gives them a good chance to
do their shopping while they're there. But while they
_are_ there they are observing. Then afterwards they make
charts."

"Charts of what?" I asked.

"Charts of the employes; they're used to show the brain
movement involved."

"Do you find much?"

"Well," she said hesitatingly, "the idea is to reduce
all the employes to a Curve."

"To a Curve?" I exclaimed, "an In or an Out."

"No, no, not exactly that. Didn't you use Curves when
you were at college?"

"Never," I said.

"Oh, well, nowadays nearly everything, you know, is done
into a Curve. We put them on the board."

"And what is this particular Curve of the employe used
for?" I asked.

"Why," said the student, "the idea is that from the Curve
we can get the Norm of the employe."

"Get his Norm?" I asked.

"Yes, get the Norm. That stands for the Root Form of the
employe as a social factor."

"And what can you do with that?"

"Oh, when we have that we can tell what the employe would
do under any and every circumstance. At least that's the
idea--though I'm really only quoting," she added, breaking
off in a diffident way, "from what Miss Thinker, the
professor of Social Endeavour, says. She's really fine.
She's making a general chart of the female employes of
one of the biggest stores to show what percentage in case
of fire would jump out of the window and what percentage
would run to the fire escape."

"It's a wonderful course," I said. "We had nothing like
it when I went to college. And does it only take in
departmental stores?"

"No," said the girl, "the laboratory work includes for
this semester ice-cream parlours as well."

"What do you do with _them_?"

"We take them up as Social Cells, Nuclei, I think the
professor calls them."

"And how do you go at them?" I asked.

"Why, the girls go to them in little laboratory groups
and study them."

"They eat ice-cream in them?"

"They _have to_," she said, "to make it concrete. But
while they are doing it they are considering the ice-cream
parlour merely as a section of social protoplasm."

"Does the professor go?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, she heads each group. Professor Thinker never
spares herself from work."

"Dear me," I said, "you must be kept very busy. And is
Social Endeavour all that you are going to do?"

"No," she answered, "I'm electing a half-course in Nature
Work as well."

"Nature Work? Well! Well! That, I suppose, means cramming
up a lot of biology and zoology, does it not?"

"No," said the girl, "it's not exactly done with books.
I believe it is all done by Field Work."

"Field Work?"

"Yes. Field Work four times a week and an Excursion every
Saturday."

"And what do you do in the Field Work?"

"The girls," she answered, "go out in groups anywhere out
of doors, and make a Nature Study of anything they see."

"How do they do that?" I asked.

"Why, they look at it. Suppose, for example, they come
to a stream or a pond or anything--"

"Yes--"

"Well, they _look_ at it."

"Had they never done that before?" I asked.

"Ah, but they look at it as a Nature Unit. Each girl must
take forty units in the course. I think we only do one
unit each day we go out."

"It must," I said, "be pretty fatiguing work, and what
about the Excursion?"

"That's every Saturday. We go out with Miss Stalk, the
professor of Ambulation."

"And where do you go?"

"Oh, anywhere. One day we go perhaps for a trip on a
steamer and another Saturday somewhere in motors, and so
on."

"Doing what?" I asked.

"Field Work. The aim of the course--I'm afraid I'm quoting
Miss Stalk but I don't mind, she's really fine--is to
break nature into its elements--"

"I see--"

"So as to view it as the external structure of Society
and make deductions from it."

"Have you made any?" I asked.

"Oh, no"--she laughed--"I'm only starting the work this
term. But, of course, I shall have to. Each girl makes
at least one deduction at the end of the course. Some of
the seniors make two or three. But you have to make
_one_."

"It's a great course," I said. "No wonder you are going
to be busy; and, as you say, how much better than loafing
round here doing nothing."

"Isn't it?" said the girl student with enthusiasm in her
eyes. "It gives one such a sense of purpose, such a
feeling of doing something."

"It must," I answered.

"Oh, goodness," she exclaimed, "there's the lunch bell.
I must skip and get ready."

She was just vanishing from my side when the Burly Male
Student, who was also staying in the hotel, came puffing
up after his five-mile run. He was getting himself into
trim for enlistment, so he told me. He noted the retreating
form of the college girl as he sat down.

"I've just been talking to her," I said, "about her
college work. She seems to be studying a queer lot of
stuff--Social Endeavour and all that!"

"Awful piffle," said the young man. "But the girls
naturally run to all that sort of rot, you know."

"Now, your work," I went on, "is no doubt very different.
I mean what you were taking before the war came along.
I suppose you fellows have an awful dose of mathematics
and philology and so on just as I did in my college days?"

Something like a blush came across the face of the handsome
youth.

"Well, no," he said, "I didn't co-opt mathematics. At
our college, you know, we co-opt two majors and two
minors."

"I see," I said, "and what were you co-opting?"

"I co-opted Turkish, Music, and Religion," he answered.

"Oh, yes," I said with a sort of reverential respect,
"fitting yourself for a position of choir-master in a
Turkish cathedral, no doubt."

"No, no," he said, "I'm going into insurance; but, you
see, those subjects fitted in better than anything else."

"Fitted in?"

"Yes. Turkish comes at nine, music at ten and religion
at eleven. So they make a good combination; they leave
a man free to--"

"To develop his mind," I said. "We used to find in my
college days that lectures interfered with it badly. But
now, Turkish, that must be an interesting language, eh?"

"Search me!" said the student. "All you have to do is
answer the roll and go out. Forty roll-calls give you
one Turkish unit--but, say, I must get on, I've got to
change. So long."

I could not help reflecting, as the young man left me,
on the great changes that have come over our college
education. It was a relief to me later in the day to talk
with a quiet, sombre man, himself a graduate student in
philosophy, on this topic. He agreed with me that the
old strenuous studies seem to be very largely abandoned.

I looked at the sombre man with respect.

"Now your work," I said, "is very different from what
these young people are doing--hard, solid, definite
effort. What a relief it must be to you to get a brief
vacation up here. I couldn't help thinking to-day, as I
watched you moving round doing nothing, how fine it must
feel for you to come up here after your hard work and
put in a month of out-and-out loafing."

"Loafing!" he said indignantly. "I'm not loafing. I'm
putting in a half summer course in Introspection. That's
why I'm here. I get credit for two majors for my time
here."

"Ah," I said, as gently as I could, "you get credit here."

He left me. I am still pondering over our new education.
Meantime I think I shall enter my little boy's name on
the books of Tuskegee College where the education is
still old-fashioned.

X. The Errors of Santa Claus

It was Christmas Eve.

The Browns, who lived in the adjoining house, had been
dining with the Joneses.

Brown and Jones were sitting over wine and walnuts at
the table. The others had gone upstairs.

"What are you giving to your boy for Christmas?" asked
Brown.

"A train," said Jones, "new kind of thing--automatic."

"Let's have a look at it," said Brown.

Jones fetched a parcel from the sideboard and began
unwrapping it.

"Ingenious thing, isn't it?" he said. "Goes on its own
rails. Queer how kids love to play with trains, isn't it?"

"Yes," assented Brown. "How are the rails fixed?"

"Wait, I'll show you," said Jones. "Just help me to shove
these dinner things aside and roll back the cloth. There!
See! You lay the rails like that and fasten them at the
ends, so--"

"Oh, yes, I catch on, makes a grade, doesn't it? Just
the thing to amuse a child, isn't it? I got Willy a toy
aeroplane."

"I know, they're great. I got Edwin one on his birthday.
But I thought I'd get him a train this time. I told him
Santa Claus was going to bring him something altogether
new this time. Edwin, of course, believes in Santa Claus
absolutely. Say, look at this locomotive, would you? It
has a spring coiled up inside the fire box."

"Wind her up," said Brown with great interest. "Let's
see her go."

"All right," said Jones. "Just pile up two or three plates
or something to lean the end of the rails on. There,
notice the way it buzzes before it starts. Isn't that a
great thing for a kid, eh?"

"Yes," said Brown. "And say, see this little string to
pull the whistle! By Gad, it toots, eh? Just like real?"

"Now then, Brown," Jones went on, "you hitch on those
cars and I'll start her. I'll be engineer, eh!"

Half an hour later Brown and Jones were still playing
trains on the dining-room table.

But their wives upstairs in the drawing-room hardly
noticed their absence. They were too much interested.

"Oh, I think it's perfectly sweet," said Mrs. Brown.
"Just the loveliest doll I've seen in years. I must get
one like it for Ulvina. Won't Clarisse be perfectly
enchanted?"

"Yes," answered Mrs. Jones, "and then she'll have all
the fun of arranging the dresses. Children love that so
much. Look, there are three little dresses with the doll,
aren't they cute? All cut out and ready to stitch together."

"Oh, how perfectly lovely!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown. "I
think the mauve one would suit the doll best, don't you,
with such golden hair? Only don't you think it would make
it much nicer to turn back the collar, so, and to put a
little band--so?"

"_What_ a good idea!" said Mrs. Jones. "Do let's try it.
Just wait, I'll get a needle in a minute. I'll tell
Clarisse that Santa Claus sewed it himself. The child
believes in Santa Claus absolutely."

And half an hour later Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Brown were so
busy stitching dolls' clothes that they could not hear
the roaring of the little train up and down the dining
table, and had no idea what the four children were doing.

Nor did the children miss their mothers.

"Dandy, aren't they?" Edwin Jones was saying to little
Willie Brown, as they sat in Edwin's bedroom. "A hundred
in a box, with cork tips, and see, an amber mouthpiece
that fits into a little case at the side. Good present
for Dad, eh?"

"Fine!" said Willie appreciatively. "I'm giving Father cigars."

"I know, I thought of cigars too. Men always like cigars
and cigarettes. You can't go wrong on them. Say, would
you like to try one or two of these cigarettes? We can
take them from the bottom. You'll like them, they're
Russian--away ahead of Egyptian."

"Thanks," answered Willie. "I'd like one immensely. I
only started smoking last spring--on my twelfth birthday.
I think a feller's a fool to begin smoking cigarettes
too soon, don't you? It stunts him. I waited till I was
twelve."

"Me too," said Edwin, as they lighted their cigarettes.
"In fact, I wouldn't buy them now if it weren't for Dad.
I simply _had_ to give him something from Santa Claus.
He believes in Santa Claus absolutely, you know."

And, while this was going on, Clarisse was showing little
Ulvina the absolutely lovely little bridge set that she
got for her mother.

"Aren't these markers perfectly charming?" said Ulvina.
"And don't you love this little Dutch design--or is it
Flemish, darling?"

"Dutch," said Clarisse. "Isn't it quaint? And aren't
these the dearest little things, for putting the money
in when you play. I needn't have got them with it--they'd
have sold the rest separately--but I think it's too
utterly slow playing without money, don't you?"

"Oh, abominable," shuddered Ulvina. "But your mamma never
plays for money, does she?"

"Mamma! Oh, gracious, no. Mamma's far too slow for that.
But I shall tell her that Santa Claus insisted on putting
in the little money boxes."

"I suppose she believes in Santa Claus, just as my mamma
does."

"Oh, absolutely," said Clarisse, and added, "What if we
play a little game! With a double dummy, the French way,
or Norwegian Skat, if you like. That only needs two."

"All right," agreed Ulvina, and in a few minutes they
were deep in a game of cards with a little pile of pocket
money beside them.

About half an hour later, all the members of the two
families were again in the drawing-room. But of course
nobody said anything about the presents. In any case they
were all too busy looking at the beautiful big Bible,
with maps in it, that the Joneses had brought to give to
Grandfather. They all agreed that, with the help of it,
Grandfather could hunt up any place in Palestine in a
moment, day or night.

But upstairs, away upstairs in a sitting-room of his own
Grandfather Jones was looking with an affectionate eye
at the presents that stood beside him. There was a
beautiful whisky decanter, with silver filigree outside
(and whiskey inside) for Jones, and for the little boy
a big nickel-plated Jew's harp.

Later on, far in the night, the person, or the influence,
or whatever it is called Santa Claus, took all the presents
and placed them in the people's stockings.

And, being blind as he always has been, he gave the wrong
things to the wrong people--in fact, he gave them just
as indicated above.

But the next day, in the course of Christmas morning,
the situation straightened itself out, just as it always
does.

Indeed, by ten o'clock, Brown and Jones were playing with
the train, and Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Jones were making
dolls' clothes, and the boys were smoking cigarettes,
and Clarisse and Ulvina were playing cards for their
pocket-money.

And upstairs--away up--Grandfather was drinking whisky
and playing the Jew's harp.

And so Christmas, just as it always does, turned out all
right after all.

XI. Lost in New York

A VISITOR'S SOLILOQUY

Well! Well!

Whatever has been happening to this place, to New York?
Changed? Changed since I was here in '86? Well, I should
say so.

The hack-driver of the old days that I used to find
waiting for me at the station curb, with that impossible
horse of his--the hack-driver with his bulbous red face,
and the nice smell of rye whisky all 'round him for
yards--gone, so it seems, for ever.

And in place of him this--what is it they call it?--taxi,
with a clean-shaven cut-throat steering it. "Get in," he
says, Just that. He doesn't offer to help me or lift my
satchel. All right, young man, I'm crawling in.

That's the machine that marks it, eh? I suppose they have
them rigged up so they can punch up anything they like.
I thought so--he hits it up to fifty cents before we
start. But I saw him do it. Well, I can stand for it this
time. I'll not be caught in one of these again.

The hotel? All right, I'm getting out. My hotel? But what
is it they have done to it? They must have added ten
stories to it. It reaches to the sky. But I'll not try
to look to the top of it. Not with this satchel in my
hand: no, sir! I'll wait till I'm safe inside. In there
I'll feel all right. They'll know me in there. They'll
remember right away my visit in the fall of '86. They
won't easily have forgotten that big dinner I gave--nine
people at a dollar fifty a plate, with the cigars extra.
The clerk will remember _me_, all right.

Know me? Not they. The _clerk_ know me! How could he?
For it seems now there isn't any clerk, or not as there
used to be. They have subdivided him somehow into five
or six. There is a man behind a desk, a majestic sort of
man, waving his hand. It would be sheer madness to claim
acquaintance with him. There is another with a great book,
adjusting cards in it; and another, behind glass labelled
"Cashier," and busy as a bank; there are two with mail
and telegrams. They are all too busy to know me.

Shall I sneak up near to them, keeping my satchel in my
hand? I wonder, do they _see_ me? _Can_ they see me, a
mere thing like me? I am within ten feet of them, but I
am certain that they cannot see me. I am, and I feel it,
absolutely invisible.

Ha! One has seen me. He turns to me, or rather he rounds
upon me, with the words "Well, sir?" That, and nothing
else, sharp and hard. There is none of the ancient kindly
pretence of knowing my name, no reaching out a welcome
hand and calling me Mr. Er--Er--till he has read my name
upside down while I am writing it and can address me as
a familiar friend. No friendly questioning about the
crops in my part of the country. The crops, forsooth!
What do these young men know about crops?

A room? Had I any reservation? Any which? Any reservation.
Oh, I see, had I written down from home to say that I
was coming? No, I had not because the truth is I came at
very short notice. I didn't know till a week before that
my brother-in-law--He is not listening. He has moved
away. I will stand and wait till he comes back. I am
intruding here; I had no right to disturb these people
like this.

Oh, I can have a room at eleven o'clock. When it is
which?--is vacated. Oh, yes, I see, when the man in it
gets up and goes away. I didn't for the minute catch on
to what the word--He has stopped listening.

Never mind, I can wait. From eight to eleven is only
three hours, anyway. I will move about here and look at
things. If I keep moving they will notice me less. Ha!
books and news papers and magazines--what a stack of
them! Like a regular book-store. I will stand here and
take a look at some of them. Eh! what's that? Did I want
to _buy_ anything? Well, no, I hadn't exactly--I was
just--Oh, I see, they're on _sale_. All right, yes, give
me this one--fifty cents--all right--and this and these
others. That's all right, miss, I'm not stingy. They
always say of me up in our town that when I--She has
stopped listening.

Never mind. I will walk up and down again with the
magazines under my arm. That will make people think I
live here. Better still if I could put the magazines in
my satchel. But how? There is no way to set it down and
undo the straps. I wonder if I could dare put it for a
minute on that table, the polished one--? Or no, they
wouldn't likely allow a man to put a bag _there_.

Well, I can wait. Anyway, it's eight o'clock and soon,
surely, breakfast will be ready. As soon as I hear the
gong I can go in there. I wonder if I could find out
first where the dining-room is. It used always to be
marked across the door, but I don't seem to see it. Darn
it, I'll ask that man in uniform. If I'm here prepared
to spend my good money to get breakfast I guess I'm not
scared to ask a simple question of a man in uniform. Or
no, I'll not ask _him_. I'll try this one--or no, he's
busy. I'll ask this other boy. Say, would you mind, if
you please, telling me, please, which way the dining-room
--Eh, what? Do I want which? The grill room or the palm
room? Why, I tell you, young man, I just wanted to get
some breakfast if it's--what? Do I want what? I didn't
quite get that--_a la carte_? No, thanks--and, what's
that? table de what? in the palm room? No, I just wanted
--but it doesn't matter. I'll wait 'round here and look
about till I hear the gong. Don't worry about me.

What's that? What's that boy shouting out--that boy with
the tray? A call for Mr. Something or Other--say, must
be something happened pretty serious! A call for Mr.--why,
that's for me! Hullo! _Here I am! Here, it's Me! Here I
am_--wanted at the desk? all right, I'm coming, I'm
hurrying. I guess something's wrong at home, eh! _Here
I am_. That's my name. I'm ready.

Oh, a room. You've got a room for me. All right. The
fifteenth floor! Good heavens! Away up there! Never mind,
I'll take it. Can't give me a bath? That's all right.
I had one.

Elevator over this way? All right, I'll come along.
Thanks, I can carry it. But I don't see any elevator?
Oh, this door in the wall? Well! I'm hanged. This the
elevator! It certainly has changed. The elevator that I
remember had a rope in the middle of it, and you pulled
the rope up as you went, wheezing and clanking all the
way to the fifth floor. But this looks a queer sort of
machine. How do you do--Oh, I beg your pardon. I was in
the road of the door, I guess. Excuse me, I'm afraid I
got in the way of your elbow. It's all right, you didn't
hurt--or, not bad.

Gee whiz! It goes fast. Are you sure you can stop it?
Better be careful, young man. There was an elevator once
in our town that--fifteenth floor? All right.

This room, eh! Great Scott, it's high up. Say, better
not go too near that window, boy. That would be a hell
of a drop if a feller fell out. You needn't wait. Oh, I
see. I beg your pardon. I suppose a quarter is enough, eh?

Well, it's a relief to be alone. But say, this is high
up! And what a noise! What is it they're doing out there,
away out in the air, with all that clatter--building a
steel building, I guess. Well, those fellers have their
nerve, all right. I'll sit further back from the window.

It's lonely up here. In the old days I could have rung
a bell and had a drink sent up to the room; but away up
here on the fifteenth floor! Oh, no, they'd never send
a drink clean up to the fifteenth floor. Of course, in
the old days, I could have put on my canvas slippers and
walked down to the bar and had a drink and talked to the
bar-tender.

But of course they wouldn't have a bar in a place like
this. I'd like to go down and see, but I don't know that
I'd care to ask, anyway. No, I guess I'll just sit and
wait. Some one will come for me, I guess, after a while.

If I were back right now in our town, I could walk into
Ed Clancey's restaurant and have ham and eggs, or steak
and eggs, or anything, for thirty-five cents.

Our town up home is a peach of a little town, anyway.

Say, I just feel as if I'd like to take my satchel and
jump clean out of that window. It would be a good rebuke
to them.

But, pshaw! what would _they_ care?

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