Part 8 (1/2)
”No, I wouldn't have a censor; he'd only increase taxes unnecessarily,”
said the Idiot, folding up his napkin, and also rising to leave. ”I'd just let the Board of Health pa.s.s on them; it isn't a question of morals so much as of sanitation.”
IX
ON FLAT-HUNTING
”Aha!” cried the Poet, briskly rubbing his hands together, and drawing a deep breath of satisfaction, ”these be great days for people who are fond of the chase, who love the open, and who would commune with Nature in her most lovely mood. Just look out of that window, Mr. Idiot, and drink in the joyous suns.h.i.+ne. Egad! sir, even the asphalted pavement and the brick-and-mortar facade of the houses opposite, bathed in that golden light, seem glorified.”
”Thanks,” said the Idiot, wearily, ”but I guess I won't. I'm afraid that while I was drinking in those glorified flats opposite and digesting the golden-mellow asphalt, you would fasten that poetic grip of yours upon my share of the blossoming buckwheats. Furthermore, I've been enjoying the chase for two weeks now, and, to tell you the honest truth, I am long on it. There is such a thing as chasing too much, so if you don't mind I'll sublet my part of the contract for gazing out of the window at gilt-edged Nature as she appears in the city to you. Mary, move Mr.
Poet's chair over to the window so that he may drink in the suns.h.i.+ne comfortably, and pa.s.s his share of the sausages to me.”
”What have you been chasing, Mr. Idiot?” asked the Doctor. ”Birds or the fast-flitting dollar?”
”Flats,” said the Idiot.
”I didn't know you Wall Street people needed to hunt flats,” said the Bibliomaniac. ”I thought they just walked into your offices and presented themselves for skinning.”
”I don't mean the flats we live on,” explained the Idiot. ”It's the flats we live in that I have been after.”
The landlady looked up inquiringly. Mr. Idiot's announcement sounded ominous.
”To my mind, flat-hunting,” the Idiot continued, ”is one of the most interesting branches of sport. It involves quite as much uncertainty as the pursuit of the whirring partridge; your game is quite as difficult to lure as the speckled trout darting hither and yon in the gra.s.sy pool; it involves no shedding of innocent blood, as in the case of a ride across-country with a pack in full pursuit of the fox; and strikes me as possessing greater dignity than running forty miles through the cabbage-patches of Long Island in search of a bag of ainse seed.
When the sporting instinct arises in my soul and reaches that full-tide where nothing short of action will hold it in control, I never think of starting for Maine to shoot the festive moose, nor do I squander my limited resources on a foggy hunt for the elusive canvasback in the Maryland marshes. I just go to the nearest cab-stand, strike a bargain with Mr. Jehu for an afternoon's use of his hansom, and go around the town hunting flats. It requires very little previous preparation; it involves no prolonged absences from home; you do not need rubber boots unless you propose to investigate the cellars or intend to go far afield into the suburban boroughs of this great city; and is in all ways pleasant, interesting, and, I may say, educational.”
”Educational, eh?” laughed the Bibliomaniac. ”Some people have queer ideas of what is educational. I must say I fail to see anything particularly instructive in flat-hunting.”
”That's because you never approached it in a proper spirit,” said the Idiot. ”Anybody who is at all interested in sociology, however, cannot help but find instruction in a contemplation of how people are housed.
You can't get any idea of how the other halves live by reading the society news in the Sunday newspapers or peeping in at the second story of the tenement-houses as you go down-town on the elevated railroads.
You've got to go out and investigate for yourself, and that's where flat-hunting comes in as an educational diversion. Of course, all men are not interested in the same line of investigation. You, as a bibliomaniac, prefer to go hunting rare first editions; Dr. Pellet, armed to the teeth with capsules, lies in wait for a pot-shot at some new kind of human ailment, and rejoices as loudly over the discovery of a new disease as you do over finding a copy of the rare first edition of the _Telephone Book for 1899_; another man goes to Africa to investigate the condition of our gorillan cousin of the jungle; Lieutenant Peary goes and hides behind a snow-ball up North, so that his fellows of the Arctic Exploration Society may have something to look for every other summer; and I--I go hunting for flats. I don't sneer at you and the others for liking the things you do. You shouldn't sneer at me for liking the things I do. It is, after all, the diversity of our tastes that makes our human race interesting.”
”But the rest of us generally bag something,” said the Lawyer. ”What the d.i.c.kens do you get beyond sheer physical weariness for your pains?”
”The best of all the prizes of the hunt,” said the Idiot; ”the spirit of content with my lot as a boarder. I've been through twenty-eight flats in the last three weeks, and I know whereof I speak. I have seen the gorgeous apartments of the Redmere, where you can get a Louis Quinze drawing-room, a Renaissance library, a superb Grecian dining-room, and a cold-storage box to keep your high-b.a.l.l.s in for four thousand dollars per annum.”
”Weren't there any bedrooms?” asked Mr. Whitechoker.
”Oh yes,” said the Idiot. ”Three, automatically ventilated from holes in the ceiling leading to an air-shaft, size six by nine, and brilliantly lighted by electricity. There was also a small pigeon-hole in a corrugated iron shack on the roof for the cook; a laundry next to the coal-bin in the cellar; and a kitchen about four feet square connecting with the library.”
”Mercy!” cried Mrs. Pedagog. ”Do they expect children to live in such a place as that?”
”No,” said the Idiot. ”You have to give bonds as security against children of any kind at the Redmere. If you happen to have any, you are required by the terms of your lease to send them to boarding-school; and if you haven't any, the lease requires that you shall promise to have none during your tenancy. The owners of such properties have a lot of heart about them, and they take good care to protect the children against the apartments they put up.”
”And what kind of people, pray, live in such places as that?” demanded the Bibliomaniac.
”Very nice people,” said the Idiot. ”People, for the most part, who spend their winters at Palm Beach, their springs in London, their summers at Newport or on the Continent, and their autumns in the Berks.h.i.+res.”