Chapter 8

"There's a friend of mine up near Riverdale," said the Idiot, as he
unfolded his napkin and let his bill flutter from it to the floor,
"who's tried to make a name for himself in literature."

"What's his name?" asked the Bibliomaniac, interested at once.

"That's just the trouble. He hasn't made it yet," replied the Idiot. "He
hasn't succeeded in his courtship of the Muse, and beyond himself and a
few friends his name is utterly unknown."

"What work has he tried?" queried the School-master, pouring
unadmonished two portions of skimmed milk over his oatmeal.

"A little of everything. First he wrote a novel. It had an immense
circulation, and he only lost $300 on it. All of his friends took a
copy--I've got one that he gave me--and I believe two hundred
newspapers were fortunate enough to secure the book for review. His
father bought two, and tried to obtain the balance of the edition, but
didn't have enough money. That was gratifying, but gratification is more
apt to deplete than to strengthen a bank account."

"I had not expected so extraordinarily wise an observation from one so
unusually unwise," said the School-master, coldly.

"Thank you," returned the Idiot. "But I think your remark is rather
contradictory. You would naturally expect wise observations from the
unusually unwise; that is, if your teaching that the expression
'unusually unwise' is but another form of the expression 'usually wise'
is correct. But, as I was saying, when the genial instructor of youth
interrupted me with his flattery," continued the Idiot, "gratification
is gratifying but not filling, so my friend concluded that he had better
give up novel-writing and try jokes. He kept at that a year, and managed
to clear his postage-stamps. His jokes were good, but too classic for
the tastes of the editors. Editors are peculiar. They have no respect
for age--particularly in the matter of jests. Some of my friend's
jokes had seemed good enough for Plutarch to print when he had a
publisher at his mercy, but they didn't seem to suit the high and mighty
products of this age who sit in judgment on such things in the
comic-paper offices. So he gave up jokes."

[Illustration: WOOING THE MUSE]

"Does he still know you?" asked the landlady.

"Yes, madame," observed the Idiot.

"Then he hasn't given up all jokes," she retorted, with fine scorn.

"Tee-he-hee!" laughed the School-master. "Pretty good, Mrs.
Smithers--pretty good."

"Yes," said the Idiot. "That is good, and, by Jove! it differs from your
butter, Mrs. Smithers, because