 Papa Need Shorts by Walton Lee Richmond, recorded for LibriVox Coffee Break Collection, Volume 1. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Patty Cunningham. Papa Need Shorts by Walton Lee Richmond. Given valid data, you can reach completely wrong conclusions, but given a wrong conclusion, you can still get a right answer. Little Oli had wandered into forbidden territory again, Big Brother Sven's Ham Shack. The glowing bottles here were an irresistible lure, and he liked to pretend that he knew all there was to know about the mysteries in this room. Of course, Sven said that not even he knew all of the mysteries, though he admitted he was one of the best ham operators extant, with QSOs from eighteen countries and thirty-eight states to his credit. At the moment, Sven was busily probing into an open chassis with a hot soldering iron. Short said, here some place, he muttered, What makes short, Sven? Oli wasn't so knowledgeable but what he would ask an occasional question. Sven turned and glared down. What are you doing in here? You know it's a federal offence for anybody to come into this room without I say so. Mama and Hilda come in all the time and you don't say so. Oli stood firm on what he figured were legal grounds. What makes shorts? Sven relented a little. This brother had been something of a surprise to him, coming along when Sven was a full ten years old. But he reflected after a few years, maybe I should get used to the idea. Actually, he sort of liked the youngster. Shorts, he said, speaking from the superior eminence of his fourteen years to the four-year-old, is when electricity finds a way to get back where it came from without doing a lot of hard work getting there. But you see, electricity like to work, so even when it has an easy way, it just works harder and uses itself up. This confused explanation of shorts was, of course, taken verbatim, despite the fact that Oli couldn't define half the words and probably couldn't even pronounce them. I don't like shorts. I don't like these pink shorts Mama put on me this morning. Is they electrics, Sven? Sven glanced around at the accidentally dyed-in-the-laundry, formerly white shorts. Hmm. Yeah, you could call him electric. With this, Oli let out a whoop and dashed out of the room, trailing a small voice behind him. Mama, Mama! Sven says my shorts is electric! All shorts, Sven's electrics for him. If he makes fun of your shorts, Oli heard his mother's comforting reply. In the adult world, days passed before Oli's accidentally acquired pattern of nubulous information on the subject of shorts was enlarged. It was only days in the adult world, but in Oli's world each day was a mountainous fraction of an entire lifetime, into which came tumbling and jumbling, or were pulled, bits, pieces, oddments, landslides, and acquisitions of information on every subject that he ran into or that ran into him. Nobody had told Oli that acquiring information was his job at the moment. The acquisition was partly accidental, mostly instinctive, and spurred by an intense curiosity and an even more intense determination to master the world as he saw it. There was the taste of the sick green flowers that Mama kept in the window-box. And just for a side-course, a little bit of the dirt, too. There were the patterns of the rain on the window, and the reactions of a cat to having its tail pulled. The fact that you touch a stove one time and it's cool and comfortable to lay your head against, and another time it hurts. Things like that. And other things. Towering adults who sometimes swoop down on you and throw you high into the air, and most times walk over you, around you, and ignore you completely. The jumble of assorted and unassorted information that is the heritage of every growing, young, inquiring brain. In terms of time, it was only a couple of weeks, if you were looking at it as an adult, until the next short incident. Oli was sitting peacefully at the breakfast table, doing his level best to control the manipulation of the huge knife, fork, and spoon, plate, bowl, and glass from which he was expected to eat a meal. Things smelled good. Mama was cooking toast, and that to Oli smelled best of all. The doaster ticked quietly to itself, then gave a loud pop, and up came two golden-brown slices of toast. Dosts? Oli wasn't sure. But he hadn't really begun paying too much attention to whether one toast was the same as two-dosts or what, though he could quite proudly tell you the difference between one and two. Out it came, and fresh butter was spread on it, and in went two shiny white beds for some more toast. Little Oli watched in fascination, and now he reached for the tremendous glass sitting on the table in front of him, but his fingers didn't quite make it. Somehow the glass was heavy and slippery, and it eluded him, rolled over on its side, and spilled the bright purple juicy contents out across the table in a huge swish. Oli wasn't dismayed, but watched with a researcher's interest as the bright purple juice swept across the table toward the busily ticking doaster. Mama, of course, wasn't here, or she would have been gruff about it. She'd just gone into the other room. The juice spread rapidly at first, and then more and more slowly, making a huge, circuitous river spreading across the table, first towards the doaster, and then away from it towards the frayed power cord lying on the table. It touched and began to run along the cord. Not a very eventful recording so far, but Oli watched charmed. As he watched, a few bubbles began to appear near the frayed spot, a few wisps of steam, and then suddenly there was a loud snarling splat, and Mama screamed from the doorway. That juice is making a short. The information, of course, was duly recorded. Juice makes shorts. It was a minor item of information mixed into a jumble of others, and nothing else was added to this particular file for nearly another week. Oli was playing happily on the living room floor that night. Here there was much to explore, though an adult might not have thought twice about it. Back in the corner behind Mama's doughing machine, a bright, slender piece of metal caught Oli's attention. Bigger on one end than the other, but not really very big anywhere. The sewing machine needle proved fascinating. As a first experiment, Oli determined that it worked like a tooth by biting himself with it. After that he went around the room biting other things with it. Information, of course, is information, and to be obtained any way one can. The brown snakey lamp cord was the end of this experiment. Oli bit it viciously with his new tooth, and had only barely observed that it had penetrated completely through when there was a loud splat, and all the lights in the room went out. In the darkness and confusion, of course, Oli moved away, seeking other new experiences. So the cause of the short that Mama and Papa yacked so loudly about was never attributed to Oli's actions, but only to, How could a needle have gotten from your sewing machine into this lamp cord, Alice? But the sum of information had increased. Needles, stuck into lamp cords, had something to do with shorts. More time passed, and this time the file on shorts was stimulated by Papa. The big, rough, booming voice had always scared Oli a bit when it sounded mad, like now. Alice, I've just got to have some more shorts. Papa was rummaging in a drawer far above Oli's head, so he couldn't see the object under discussion. But all he already knew about shorts. The information passed in review before him. Shorts are useful. They help electrics to work harder. Shorts you wear, and they are electrics. Wires are electrics. Shorts can be made by juice. Shorts can be made by needles, that bite like teeth. Papa needs more shorts. But Oli wasn't motivated to act at the moment, just sorting out information and connecting it with other information files in the necessarily haphazard manner that might eventually result in something called intelligence, although he didn't know that yet. It was a week later in the kitchen, when Mama dropped a giant version of the needle on the floor, that his information file in this area increased again. Is that a needle? Oli asked. His mother laughed quietly and looked fondly at her son, as she put the ice-pick back on the table. I guess you could call it a needle, Oli, she told him. An ice-needle. Oli instinctively waited until Mama's back was turned before taking the nice needle to try its biting powers, and instinctively took it out of the kitchen before starting his experiments. As he passed the cellar door, he heard a soft gurgling, and promptly changed course. Pulling open the door with difficulty, he seated himself on the cellar stairs to watch a delightful new spectacle, frothing gurgling water making its way across the floor towards the stairs. It looked wonderfully dirty and brown, and to Oli it was an absorbing phenomenon. It never occurred to him to tell Mama. Suddenly above him the cellar door slammed open, and Papa came charging down the stairs, narrowly missing the small figure, straight into the rising waters. Intent, though Oli couldn't know it, on reaching the drain pipe in the far corner of the cellar, to plug it before water from the spring rains could back up farther and really flood the cellar out. Halfway across the cellar, Papa reached up and grasped the dangling overhead light to turn it on, in order to see his way to the drain, and suddenly came to a frozen, rigid, gasping stop as his hand clamped firmly over the socket. Little Oli watched. There was juice in the cellar. Papa had hold of an electric. Was Papa trying to make the shorts he needed? Oli wasn't sure. He thought it probable, and from the superior knowledge of his four years, Oli already knew a better way to make shorts. Needles make good shorts. Juice don't do so well. Suddenly Oli decided to prove his point. Nice needles probably made even better shorts than other needles. And there was a big electric running up the side of the stairs. An electric fat enough to make a real good shorts. Maybe lots of shorts. Raising his nice needle, Oli took careful aim and plunged it through the 220 volt stove feeder cable. Oli woke up. The strange pretty lady in white was a new experience. Somebody he hadn't seen before. And there seemed to be something wrong with his hand, but Oli hadn't noticed it very much yet. Well my little heroes awake! And how are you this morning? Your Mama and Papa will be in to see you in just a minute. The pretty lady in white went away, and Oli gazed around the white room with its funny shape, happily recorded the experience, and dozed off again. Then suddenly he was awakened again. Mama was there. And Papa. And Sven. But they all seemed different somehow this morning. Mama had been crying, even though she was smiling bravely now, and Papa seemed to have a new softness that he'd seldom seen before. Sven was looking puzzled. I still say Pop that he's a genius. He must have known what he was doing. Oli, Papa's voice was husky, gruff but kinder and softer than usual. I want you to answer me carefully, but understand that it's all right either way. I just want you to tell me. Why did you put the ice pick through the stove cable? You saved my life, you know, but I'd like to know how you knew how. Little Oli grinned. His world was peaceful and wonderful now, and all the big adults were bending and leaning down and talking to him. Nice needle, he said. Big electric. Papa needed shorts. End of Papa Needs Shorts, recording by Patty Cunningham. A rash assumption from Punch December the 9th, 1914, recorded for LibriVox Coffee Break Collection Volume 1. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Ruth Golding. A rash assumption, also unknown. On the morning of November the 27th I woke to find my chest covered with a pretty pink pattern. It blended so well with the colour of my pajama jacket that for some minutes I was lost in admiration of the pleasing effect. Then it occurred to me that coming diseases cast their rashes before them, and I sprang from the bed in an agony of apprehension. I rushed to the mirror and opened my mouth to look at my tongue. There it was. I took some of it out. It looked quite healthy, so I put it back again. Then I gazed long and earnestly down my throat. It was quite hollow as usual. Next I got the clinical thermometer and sucked it for quite a long time. When I removed it I saw my temperature was about 86. Then I found I was reading it upside down and that I was only normal. I felt disappointed. After that I tried my pulse. It took me some time to locate it, but it hadn't run down. It was still going quite regularly, and dante manon troppo, two beats in the bar. I whistled tipperary to it and it kept perfect time. But still the rash remained. It would neither get out nor get under. I felt perfectly well and yet I knew I must be ill. I could not understand the complete absence of other symptoms. At last a bright idea struck me. It was just possible that I might refuse food. I knew that would be a symptom. At any rate I would go down to breakfast and see. I dressed rapidly. I simply tore my clothes on to me. I shaved hastily. I literally tore the whiskers out of me. Then I tore down the stairs. On the table was an egg. I removed the lid and looked inside. It was full of evil odours. I refused it. Then I knew for certain I was ill. I tore back to my bedroom and tore off my clothes. I unshaved. I tumbled into bed and tried hard to shiver. I tried so hard that I perspired. As I was really ill I knew that I had to get hot and cold alternately ever so many times. I did my best to live up to all the symptoms I had ever heard of. I tried to get delirious and talk nonsense, but I failed ignominiously. How I cursed my public school education. In my extremity I even endeavoured to imagine that I saw things which were not there. And then I saw something which really was there. It was my pincushion. It looked unusually crowded, even for a pincushion, and I got out of bed to investigate the matter closer. I counted forty-five, yes, forty-five little flags. And then memory came back to me. The previous day I had bought forty-five miniature Belgian flags at one time and another during the day. Each charming but inexperienced vendor had insisted on pinning my purchase wherever there happened to be an unoccupied space on my manly, thanks to my tailor, Boussin. I remembered being conscious of a prickly sensation on each occasion, but I attributed it to rapturous thrills running about the region of my heart. To make sure that my explanation was correct I went once again to the mirror and hastily counted my rash. There were forty-five of it. End of a rash assumption. Reginald in Russia by Saki. Recorded for LibriVox Coffee Break Collection, Volume 1. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Today's reading by Tom Hackett, djhackett.newgrounds.com. Reginald in Russia by Saki. Reginald sat in the corner of the Princesses' Salon and tried to forgive the furniture, which started out with an obvious intention of being Louis Kahn, but relapsed at frequent intervals until Wilheim II. He classified the Princess with that distinct type of woman that looks as if it habitually went out to feed hens in the rain. Her name was Olga. She kept what she hoped and believed to be a fox terrier and professed what she thought were socialist opinions. It is not necessary to be called Olga if you are a Russian princess. In fact, Reginald knew quite a number who were called Vera, but the fox terrier and the socialism are essential. The Countess Lumtian keeps a bulldog, said the Princess suddenly. In England, is it more chic to have a bulldog than a fox terrier? Reginald threw his mind back over the canine fashions of the last ten years and gave an evasive answer. Do you think I handsome, the Countess Lumtian? asked the Princess. Reginald thought the Countess's complexion suggested an exclusive diet of macarons and pale sherry. He said so. But that cannot be possible, said the Princess triumphantly. I've seen her eating fish soup at Donald's. The Princess always defended a friend's complexion if it was really bad. With her, as with a great many of her sex, charity began at homeliness and not generally progressed much farther. Reginald withdrew his macaroon and sherry theory and became interested in a case of miniatures. That, said the Princess, that is the old Princess Lorikov. She lived in Mileniana Street, nearly winter palace, and was one of the court ladies of the old Russian school. Her knowledge of people and events was extremely limited, but she used to patronize everyone who came in contact with her. There was a story that when she died and not the milleniaia for heaven, she addressed Saint Peter in her former staccato fridge. Je suis la Princesse Lorikov. Il me donna un grand placier affaire à votre reconnaissance. Je vous en prie mes procents à la bonne doue. Saint Peter made a desired introduction, and the Princess address la bonne doue. Je suis la Princesse Lorikov. Il me donna un grand placier affaire à votre reconnaissance. Je suis la Princesse Lorikov. Il me donna un grand placier affaire à votre reconnaissance. I work with a start and asked her whether shall I play to Diamond's partner? It didn't improve matters when the senior chaplain remarked dreamily, but with painful distinctness, double diamonds. Everyone looked at the preacher, half expecting him to redouble, but he contented himself with scoring what points he could under the circumstances. You English are always so frivolous, said the Princess. In Russia we have too many troubles to permit of our being like-hearted. Reginald gave a delicate shiver, such as an Italian greyhound might give in contemplating the approach of an Ice Age of which he personally disapproved and resigned himself to the inevitable political discussion. Nothing that you hear about us in England is true, was the Princess's hopeful beginning. I always refused to learn Russian geography at school, observed Reginald. I was certain some of the names must be wrong. Everything is wrong with our system of government, continued the Prince's placidly. The bureaucrats think only of their pockets, and the people are exploited and plundered in every direction, and everything is mismanaged. With us, said Reginald, a cabinet usually gets the credit of being depraved and worthless beyond the bounds of human conception by the time it has been in office for about four years. But if it is a bad government, you can turn it out at the elections, argued the Princess. As far as I remember, we generally do, said Reginald. But here it is dreadful, everyone goes to such extremes, and England, you never go to extremes. We go to the Albert Hall, explained Reginald. There is always a sea solace between repression and violence, continued the Princess. And the pity of it is the people are really not in the least inclined to be anything but peaceable. Nowhere will you find people more good-natured or family circles whether there is more affection. There, I agree with you, said Reginald. I know a boy who lives somewhere on the French Quay, who is a case in point. His hair curls naturally, especially on Sundays, and he plays bridgewell, even for a Russian, which he is saying much. I don't think he has any other accomplishments, but his family affection is really of a very high order. When his maternal grandmother died, he didn't go as far as to give up bridge altogether, but he declared on nothing but black suits for the next three months. That, I think, was really beautiful. The Princess was not impressed. I think you must be very self-indulgent and live only for amusement, she said. A life of pleasure-seeking and cod-playing and dissipation brings only dissatisfaction. You will find that out someday. Oh, hi now, it turns out that way sometimes, assented Reginald. A bit in fizz is often the sweetest, but the remark was wasted on the Princess, who preferred champagne that had at least a suggestion of dissolved barley sugar. I hope you will come and see me again," she said, in a tone that prevented the hope from becoming too infectious, adding as a happy afterthought, you must come to stay with us in the country. Her particular part of the country was a few hundred-verse the other side of Tambot, with some fifteen miles of agrarian disturbance between her and the nearest neighbor. Reginald felt that there is some privacy which should be sacred from intrusion. End of Reginald in Russia by Saki. Narrated by Tom Hackett for LibriVox Coffee Break Collection No. 1. The Steam Roller Man's Story by Harry J. Rowland and George Hay, 1914. First performed by Bransby-Williams. Good morning, obliged with the match, sir? Thanks, one for take a few more. It's always a bit of a job, sir. To get this year back at the draw. I can tell by the smell of your pipe, sir, as you know it's the right sort of smoke. Thanks, sir. I should smoke this myself, sir, if I wasn't so horrible broke. Engineering jobs ain't what they was, sir, in the days. But I ain't going to brag. When in front of me roller, I'd always a match. I ain't going to brag. When in front of me roller, I'd always a man, sir, to carry a flag. One day the task was entrusted to a flagman, the name of Jeff. Careless bloke, sir, but hard-working. And all right, except that he was deaf. One day he was working, as usual, when I heard, sir, a sort of a grunt. I wanted to be tonight. Look, sir, but I couldn't see old Jeff in front. Then I thought of his being deaf, sir, and I trembled, just like a leaf. For I guessed, sir, he'd been extra careless. And somehow I'd got underneath. He lay in the road. I thought dead, sir. But he moved. I was thankful for that. But bless you, sir, I was staggered when I see as I'd rolled him out flat. Yes, sir, flattened him out like a pancake. All thin like, you understand, as broad as a dozen like you, sir, but only as thick as your hand. At first, sir, he seemed a bit stunned-like, and he laid in the road there and grinned. So I helped him up, then started home, sir, though I did have a job with the wind. But the breeze kept catching him broadside and taking him up like a kite. So I had to hold on like grim death, sir, to stop him from taking flight. His family at home, they was not, sir, and you should have heard his wife. Said she'd sooner go home to her mower than live with a freak all her life. But they took him, sir, into the parlour and propped him against the wall. And they wanted to put him to bed, sir, but they couldn't think out of at all. Then I thought of folding him up, sir. I had to think everything out. And the next morning we got a lot of iron, sir, and ironed his creases out. And we watched him get in there for months, sir. As he chafed in around him we sat. You see, sir, he lived on flat fish, sir, and even his vise was flat. But I worried myself what to do, sir, but it wasn't no good to talk. At last, sir, and I, there, it struck me. And next day I texted Jeff for a walk. And we walked down the road to the yard, sir. And the roller had always stood. And Jeff props himself up on his thin end, sir, and stays like it as well as he could. We knew it was kill or curse, sir, so I shakes hand, sir, and says goodbye. And as I climbed onto the engine, I wiped, sir, a tear from my eye. Then I start, sir, right over Jeff, sir. And the very next thing I see was the roller that had rolled out, Jeff, sir, to the shape as he used to be. Pleased, I should just think he was, sir, though some of our blokes was annoyed. Jeff, sir, he's carrying a flag, sir, along with the unemployed. He got the sack when they stopped our flags. But he's as well as he's ever been. You can take my word that it's true, sir. The word, sir, of truthful Jim. End of The Steamroller Man's Story. The Two Doves by Lida B. McMurray. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Two Doves by Lida B. McMurray. Two Doves, White Coat and Blue Feather, lived in a dove cot. They were brothers and were very fond of each other. White Coat was a great homebody, but Blue Feather liked to travel. One day, Blue Feather set to White Coat. I wanted to see the world. These places were tame. I have lived here all my life. He was only six months old and have seen all there is to see. I want to visit other countries. Don't go, Blue Feather, said White Coat. We have all we want to eat here. Everyone is kind. And we have a good home. I have heard that in other places men set traps for birds or shoot them and that sometimes large hawks swoop down and carry them off. You might be caught out in a storm and find no shelter. Besides, it would almost kill me to be separated from you long. You might be able to bury it, but not I. Surely it is best to stay at home. Just then a crowd called. Do you hear that crowd, brother? Asked White Coat. It seems to say you will be sorry if you go. Do not go. Take his warning. See too, it is raining. If you must go, do put it over until a better time. White Coat. Why do you make such a fuss about nothing? I shall not be gone more than three days. Then you shall hear of all the wonderful things I saw. I shall tell what happened to me from the beginning of my journey until it is close. It will be almost as good as going yourself. I do not care about the world, said White Coat. How can I let you go? You will find me watching for you at whatever time of day or night you reach home. I cannot eat, I cannot sleep with you away. At this, they said a sad goodbye to each other and the blue feather flew away. A dark cloud covered the sky. Blue feather looked about for shelter. He flew to the only tree near, but its leaves could not keep off the driving rain, so his coat was wet through and through. When the sky was clear again, blue feather left the tree and dried his plumage as he flew. On the borders of the wood, he spied some scattered grains of wheat. He was hungry and saw no reason why he should not pick them up. As he flew down, a snare was joined about him. The wheat had been put there to tempt pigeons so that they might get caught. It was well for blue feather that the snare had been in the news a long time and was rotten. By using his beak and twings, he got loose, but he lost a few feathers out of his pretty coat. A hawk saw him as heroes. Blue feather was dragging a piece of the string which he could not loosen from his leg. The hawk was about to seize him. It seemed as if there was no help for him, but just at that moment an eagle called the hawk and carried him off. Blue feather flew as far as he could to a high fence where he stopped to rest. He thought his dangers were over. He was very homesick. While blue feather was sitting on the fence, a boy saw him. He nearly killed the poor bird with a shot from his sling. Blue feather was just able to fly. His leg was lame and one wing was hurt, but he steered straight for home. Late night he arrived at his own dove coat, tired and hungry, but happy to be safe at home again. He found white coat waiting for him. White coat smoothed his poor brother's feathers, nestled close to him and soothed him with his ku, ku, ku. End of the Tudas by Lida B. McMurray Vaudeville Verses the Legitimate by Will M. Cressy A few years ago a handsome, immaculate young man came over to me as I was sitting in the office of the Adams House in Boston and said, Mr. Cressy, my name is so-and-so. I am an actor, a good actor too, and I have always been very proud of my profession. My mother is one of the most popular actresses in America today, but last summer I had an experience that sent me to thinking a little. As you were mixed up in it, I am going to tell it to you. Last season I was out with a company that made one of those artistic successes, but which did not seem to interest the public very much. As a result, when the merry springtime came around, I had a trunk full of good clothes, good press notices, high OUs from the manager, but not a dollar and money. But I was fortunate enough to receive an invitation from a luckier actor friend to spend a month at his summer home on the shores of Lake Sonopee, New Hampshire. Did I went? I did went, quick. He had a beautiful home, and I was certainly some class. I had linens, flannels, yachting clothes, tennis clothes, evening clothes. In fact, I had everything but money. One night we were sitting down on his little wharf, enjoying our, no, his, cigars, and a very pretty little lunch passed by. Whose lunch is that? I asked. Oh, it belongs to some vaudeville player by the name of Matthews, I believe. They live over on the other side of the lake. I don't know them. Pretty soon another little lunch came into the bay, cruised around the shore, and went. Whose boat is that? I inquired. That belongs to a vaudeville fellow by the name of Merritt. I don't know him. A little while after a big cabin launch came into the bay and cruised slowly around. On the deck was a party of young folks. Two of the girls were playing mandolins, and they were all singing. By Jove, I exclaimed, that's a beauty. Whose is it? Oh, that is Will Cressy's boat, replied my friend, impatiently. He is another of those vaudeville people. There are a number of them over across the lake there, but we don't know them at all. I sat for a while, thanking. Here I was, a recognized Broadway player of legitimate roles, a man who could play any juvenile Shakespearean role without a rehearsal, a member of the lambs and the players' clubs. And here I was, sitting out on the end of a wharf, because I didn't have money enough to hire even a bum-robot. And the three first launches that had passed by were all owned by vaudeville players, whom my legitimate friend did not know at all. I thought it all out, and then I turned to my friend and said, All right, Tom, but you want to make all you can out of this visit of mine, for the next time I come up here you won't be speaking to me. Why won't I? he asked in surprise. Because the next time I come up here I am going to be one of those vaudeville players. I am going to have some money in my pocket, and I am going to have a boat, and I am going to sail by here every evening and make faces at you. Logits. End of Vaudeville vs. the Legitimate. When Papa Swore in Hindustani by P. G. Woodhouse recorded for Librebox Coffee Break Collection, Vol. 1 This is a Librebox recording. All Librebox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librebox.org. Reading by Bologna Times. When Papa Swore in Hindustani by P. G. Woodhouse Soviet. Yes, Papa. That infernal dog of yours. Oh, Papa. Yes, that infernal dog of yours has been at my carnations again. Colonel Reynolds, V.C., glared sternly across the table at Miss Soviet Reynolds, and Miss Soviet Reynolds looked in a deprecatory manner back at Colonel Reynolds, V.C., while the dog in question, a foppish pug, happening to meet the Colonel's eye in transit, crawled unostentatiously under the sideboard and began to wrestle with a bad conscience. Oh, naughty Tommy, said Miss Reynolds mildly, in the direction of the sideboard. Yes, my dear, assented the Colonel, and if you could convey to him the information that if he does it once more, yes, just once more, I shall shoot him on the spot. You would be doing him a kindness. And the Colonel bit a large crescent out of his toast with all the energy and conviction of a man who has thoroughly made up his mind. At six o'clock this morning, continued he, in a voice of gentle melancholy, I happened to look out of my bedroom window and saw him. He had then destroyed two of my best plants, and was commencing on a third, with every appearance of self-satisfaction. I threw two large brushes and a boot at him. Oh, Papa, they didn't hit him. No, my dear, they did not. The brushes missed him by several yards. And the boot smashed a fourth carnation. However, I was so fortunate as to attract his attention, and he left off. I can't think what makes him do it. I suppose it's bones. He's got bones buried all over the garden. Well, if he does it again, you'll find that there will be a few more bones buried in the garden, said the Colonel grimly, and he subsided into his paper. Sylvia loved the dog partly for its own sake, but principally for that of the giver, one Reginald Dallas, who it had struck at an early period of their acquaintance that he and Miss Sylvia Reynolds were made for one another. On communicating this discovery to Sylvia herself he had found that her views upon the subject were identical with his own, and all would have gone well had it not been for a melancholy accident. One day, while out-shooting with the Colonel, with whom he was doing his best to ingratiate himself, with a view of obtaining his consent to the match, he had allowed his sporting instincts to carry him away to such a degree that, in sporting parlance, he wiped his eye badly. Now the Colonel prided himself with justice on his powers as a shot, but on this particular day he had a touch of liver, which resulted in his shooting over the birds, and under the birds, and on each side of the birds, but very rarely at the birds. Dallas being an especially good form, it was found, when the bag came to be counted that while he had shot seventy brace the Colonel had only managed to secure five-and-a-half. His bad marksmanship destroyed the last remnant of his temper. He swore for half an hour in Hindustani, and for another half-hour in English. After that he felt better, and when, at the end of dinner, Sylvia came to him with the absurd request that she might marry Mr. Reginald Dallas, he did not have a fit, but merely signified in fairly moderate terms his entire and absolute refusal to think of such a thing. This had happened a month before, and the pug, which had changed hands in the earlier days of the friendship, still remained at the imminent risk of its life to soothe Sylvia and madden her father. It was generally felt that the way to find favor in the eyes of Sylvia, which were a charming blue, and well worth finding favor in, was to show an intelligent and affectionate interest in her dog. This was so up to a certain point. But no farther, for the mournful recollection of Mr. Dallas prevented her from meeting their advances in quite the spirit they could have wished. However they persevered, and scarcely a week went by in which Thomas was not rescued from an artfully arranged, horrible fate by somebody. But all their energy was in reality wasted, for Sylvia remembered her faithful Reggie, who corresponded vigorously every day, and refused to be put off with worthless imitations. The love-sick swans, however, could not be expected to know of this, and the rescuing of Tommy proceeded briskly, now one, now another, playing the role of hero. The very day after the conversation above recorded had taken place a terrible tragedy occurred. The colonel, returning from a poor day's shooting, observed through the mist that was beginning to rise a small form busily engaged and excavating in the precious carnation bed. Slipping in a cartridge he fired, and the skill which had deserted him during the day came back to him. There was a yelp, then silence, and Sylvia, rushing out from the house, found luckless Thomas, breathing his last on a heap of uprooted carnations. The news was not long in spreading. The cook told the postman, and the postman thoughtfully handed it on to the servants at the rest of the houses on his round. By noon it was public property, and in the afternoon, after various times from two to five, nineteen young men were struck, quite independently of one another, with a brilliant idea. The results of this idea were apparent on the following day. Is this all, asked the colonel of the servant, as she brought in a couple of letters at breakfast time? There's a hamper for Miss Sylvia, sir. A hamper is there. Well, bring it in. If you please, sir, there's several of them. Several? How many are there? Nineteen, sir, said Mary, restraining with some difficulty in inclination to giggle. What? Nineteen? Nonsense! Where are they? We've put them in the coach house for the presence, sir, and if you please, sir, Cook says she thinks there's something alive in them. Something alive? Yes, sir, and John says he thinks it's dogs, sir. The colonel uttered a sound that was almost a bark, and followed by Sylvia rushed to the coach house. There, sure enough, as far as the eye could reach, were the hampers, and as they looked, a sound proceeded from one of them that was unmistakably the plaintive note of a dog that had been shut up and is getting tired of it. Instantly the other eighteen hampers joined in until the whole coach house rang with a noise. The colonel subsided against a wall and began to express himself softly in Hindustani. Poor tears, said Sylvia, how stuffy they must be feeling. She ran to the house and returned with a basin of water. Dears, she said again, you'll soon have something to drink. She knelt down by the nearest hamper and cut the cord that fastened it. A pug jumped out like a jack in the box and rushed to the water. Sylvia continued her work of mercy, and by the time the colonel had recovered sufficiently to be able to express his views in English, eighteen more pugs had joined their companion. Get out, you brute, shouted the colonel, as a dog insinuated itself between his legs. Sylvia, put them back again this minute. You had no business to let them out. Put them back. But I can't, Papa. I can't catch them. She looked helplessly from him to the seething mass of dogs and back again. Where's my gun? began the colonel. Papa, don't. You couldn't be so cruel. They aren't doing any harm. Poor things. If I knew who sent them, perhaps there's something to show. Yes, here's a visiting card in this hamper. Whose is it? bellowed the colonel through the den. Jay Darcy Henderson, the furs, read Sylvia at the top of her voice. Young black-eyed bawled the colonel. I expect there's one in each of the hampers. Yes, here's another. W. K. Ross, the Elms. The colonel came across and began to examine the hampers with his own hand. Each hamper contained a visiting card and each card bore the name of a neighbor. The colonel returned to the breakfast room and laid the nineteen cards out in a row on the table. Hmm! he said at last. Mr. Reginald Dallas does not seem to be represented. Sylvia said nothing. No! he seems not to be represented. I did not give him credit for so much sense. Then he dropped the subject and breakfast proceeded in silence. A young gentleman met the colonel on his walk that morning. Morning, colonel! said he. Good morning! said the colonel grimly. Er, colonel, I suppose Miss Reynolds got that dog all right. To which dog do you refer? It was a pug, you know. It ought to have arrived by this time. Yes, I am inclined to think it has. Had it any special characteristics? No, I don't think so. Just an ordinary pug. Well, young man, if you will go to my coach-house you will find nineteen ordinary pugs, and if you would kindly select your beast and shoot it I should be much obliged. Nineteen, said the other, an astonishment. Why, are you setting up as a dog fancier and your old age, colonel? This was too much for the colonel. He exploded. Old age confound your impudence, dog fancier. No, sir, I have not become a dog fancier and what you are pleased to call my old age. But while there is no law to prevent a lot of dashed young puppies like yourself, sir, like yourself, sending your confounded pug-dogs to my daughter, who ought to have known better than to let them out of their dashed hampers, I have no defense. Dog fancier, gad! Unless those dogs are removed by this time tomorrow, sir, they will go straight to the Battersea home, where I devoutly trust they will poison them. Here are the cards of the other gentlemen, who were kind enough to think that I might wish to set up for a dog fancier in my old age. Perhaps you will kindly return them to their owners and tell them what I have just said. And he strode off, leaving the young man in a species of trance. Sylvia! said the colonel, on arriving home. Yes, papa? Do you still want to marry that Dallas fellow? Now, for heaven's sake, don't start crying. Goodness knows I've been worried enough this morning without that. Please answer a plain question in a fairly sane manner. Do you or do you not? Of course I do, papa. Then you may. He's the furthest from being a fool of any of the young puppies who live about here, and he knows one end of a gun from the other. I'll write to him now. Dear Dallas, wrote the colonel, I find on consideration that you are the only sensible person in the neighborhood. I hope you will come to lunch today, and if you still want to marry my daughter you may. To which Dallas replied, by return of messenger, Thanks for both invitations. I will. An hour later he arrived in person.