Mr. Lincoln added, “well, he wants to be consul to London. Oh,
dear!”
I will observe, in conclusion, that the William Ferguson incident
occurred, and within my personal knowledge–though I have changed the
nature of the details, to keep William from recognizing himself in it.
All the readers of this article have in some sweet and gushing hour of
their lives played the role of Magnanimous-Incident hero. I wish I knew
how many there are among them who are willing to talk about that episode
and like to be reminded of the consequences that flowed from it.
PUNCH, BROTHERS, PUNCH
Will the reader please to cast his eye over the following lines, and see
if he can discover anything harmful in them?
Conductor, when you receive a fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,
A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,
A pink trip slip for a three-cent, fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
CHORUS
Punch, brothers! punch with care!
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while ago,
and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire possession
of me. All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain; and
when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had
eaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my day’s work the day
before–thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing. I went to my
den to begin my deed of blood. I took up my pen, but all I could get it
to say was, “Punch in the presence of the passenjare.” I fought hard for
an hour, but it was useless. My head kept humming, “A blue trip slip for
an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,” and so on and
so on, without peace or respite. The day’s work was ruined–I could see
that plainly enough. I gave up and drifted down-town, and presently
discovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle.
When I could stand it no longer I altered my step. But it did no good;
those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step and went on
harassing me just as before. I returned home, and suffered all the
afternoon; suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner;
suffered, and cried, and jingled all through the evening; went to bed and
rolled, tossed, and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up at
midnight frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visible upon
the whirling page except “Punch! punch in the presence of the
passenjare.” By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and
was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings–“‘Punch! oh, punch!
punch in the presence of the passenjare!”
Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck, and went
forth to fulfil an engagement with a valued friend, the Rev. Mr.——,
to walk to the Talcott Tower, ten miles distant. He stared at me, but
asked no questions. We started. Mr.——talked, talked, talked as is
his wont. I said nothing; I heard nothing. At the end of a mile,
Mr.—— said “Mark, are you sick? I never saw a man look so haggard
and worn and absent-minded. Say something, do!”
Drearily, without enthusiasm, I said: “Punch brothers, punch with care!
Punch in the presence o the passenjare!”
My friend eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, they said:
“I do not think I get your drift, Mark. Then does not seem to be any
relevancy in what you have said, certainly nothing sad; and yet–maybe it
was the way you said the words–I never heard anything that sounded so
pathetic. What is–”
But I heard no more. I was already far away with my pitiless,
heartbreaking “blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, buff trip slip for
a six-cent fare, pink trip slip for a three-cent fare; punch in the
presence of the passenjare.” I do not know what occurred during the
other nine miles. However, all of a sudden Mr.—— laid his hand on my