desire that professional people should be constantly giving away their services. He objects to the Doctor’s bill and he slaps sarcastically at the Lawyer because he doesn’t give advice. That’s why I suspect the Idiot. He’s a professional Idiot, and yet he gives his idiocy away.”
“When did I ever give myself away?” demanded the Idiot. “You are talking wildly, Doctor. The idea of your trying to drag me into this thing is preposterous. Suppose you show down your valentine and see if it is in my handwriting.”
“Mine is typewritten,” said the Doctor.
“So is mine,” said the Bibliomaniac.
“Mine, too,” said the Poet.
“Same here,” said Mr. Brief.
“Well, then,” said the Idiot, “I’m willing to write a page in my own hand without any attempt to disguise it, and let any handwriting expert decide as to whether there is the slightest resemblance between my chirography and these typewritten sheets you hold in your hand.”
“That’s fair enough,” said Mr. Whitechoker.
“Besides,” persisted the Idiot, “I’ve received one of the things myself, and it’ll make your hair curl, if you’ve got any. Typewritten like the rest of ’em. Shall I read it?”
By common consent the Idiot read the following:
“Idiot, zany, brain of hare,
Dolt and noodle past compare,
Buncombe, bosh, and verbal slosh,
Mind of nothing, full of josh,
Madman, donkey, dizzard-pate,
U. S. Zero Syndicate,
Dull, depressing, lack of wit,
Incarnation of the nit.
Minus, numskull, drivelling baby,
Greenhorn, dunce, and dotard Gaby;
All the queer and loony chorus
Found in old Roget’s Thesaurus,
Flat and crazy through and through,
That, O Idiot – that is you.
Let me tell you, sir, in fine,
I won’t be your Valentine.
“What do you think of that?” asked the Idiot, when he had finished. “Wouldn’t that jar you?”
“I think it’s perfectly horrid,” said Mrs. Pedagog. “Mary, pass the pancakes to the Idiot. Mr. Idiot, let me hand you a full cup of coffee. John, hand the Idiot the syrup. Why, how a thing like that should be allowed to go through the mails passes me!”
And the others all agreed that the landlady’s indignation was justified, because they were fond of the Idiot in spite of his faults. They would not see him abused, at any rate.
“Say, old man,” said the Poet, later, “I really thought you sent those other valentines until you read yours.”
“I thought you would,” said the Idiot. “That’s the reason why I worked up that awful one on myself. That relieves me of all suspicion.”
IV
HE DISCUSSES FINANCE
A MESSENGER had just brought a “collect” telegram for the Doctor, and that gentleman, after going through all his pockets, and finding nothing but a bunch of keys and a prescription-pad, made the natural inquiry:
“Anybody got a quarter?”
“I have,” said the Idiot. “One of the rare mintage of 1903, circulated for a short time only and warranted good as new.”
“I didn’t know the 1903 quarter was rare,” said the Bibliomaniac, who prided himself on being a numismatist of rare ability. “Who told you the 1903 quarter was rare?”
“My old friend, Experience,” said the Idiot.
“What’s rare about it?” demanded the Bibliomaniac.
“Why – it’s what they call ready money, spot cash, the real thing with the water squeezed out, selling at par on sight,” explained the Idiot. “Millions of people never saw one, and under modern conditions it is very difficult to amass them in any considerable quantity. What is worse, even if you happen to get one of them it is next to impossible to hang on to it without unusual effort. If you have a 1903 quarter in your pocket, somehow or other the idea that it is in your possession seems to communicate itself to others, and every effort is made to lure it away from you on some pretext or other.”
“Excuse me for interrupting this lecture of yours, Mr. Idiot,” said the Doctor, amiably, “but would you mind lending me that quarter to pay this messenger? I’ve left my change in my other clothes.”
“What did I tell you?” cried the Idiot, triumphantly. “The words are no sooner out of my mouth than they are verified. Hardly a minute elapses from the time Doctor Capsule learns that I have that quarter before he puts in an application for it.”
“Well, I renew the application in spite of its rarity,” laughed the Doctor. “It’s even rarer with me than it is with you. Shell out – there’s a good chap.”
“I will if you’ll put up a dollar for security,” said the Idiot, extracting the coin from his pocket, “and give me a demand note at thirty days for the quarter.”
“I haven’t got a dollar,” said the Doctor.
“Well, what other collateral have you to offer?” asked the Idiot. “I won’t take buckwheat-cakes, or muffins, or your share of the sausages, mind you. They come under the head of wild-cat securities – here to-day and gone to-morrow.”
“My, but you’re a Shylock!” ejaculated Mr. Brief.
“Not a bit of it,” retorted the Idiot. “If I were Shylock I’d be willing to take a steak for security, but there’s none of the pound of flesh business about me. I simply proceed cautiously, like any modern financial institution that intends to stay in the ring more than two weeks. I’m not one of your fortnightly trust companies with an oak table, an unpaid bill for office rent, and a patent reversible disappearing president for its assets. I do business on the national-bank principle: millions for the rich, but not one cent for the man that needs the money.”
“I tell you what I’ll do,” said the Doctor. “If you’ll lend me that quarter, I won’t charge you a cent for my professional services next time you need them.”
“That’s a large offer, but I’m afraid of it,” replied the Idiot. “It partakes of the nature of a speculation. It’s dealing in futures, which is not a safe thing for a financial institution to do, I don’t care how solid it is. You don’t catch the Chemistry National Bank lending money to anybody on mere prospects, and, what is more, in my case, I’d have to get sick to win out. No, Doctor, that proposition does not appeal to me.”
“Looks hopeless, doesn’t it,” said the Doctor. “Mary, tell the boy to wait while I run up-stairs – ”
“I wouldn’t do that,” said the Idiot, interrupting. “The matter can be arranged in another way. I honestly don’t like to lend money, believing with Polonius that it’s a bad thing to do. As the Governor of North Carolina said to the Governor of South Carolina, who
