Judge, 1915-04-17 · page 5 of 26
Judge — April 17, 1915 — page 5: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This satirical story mocks wealthy New York society figures. A multimillionaire editorial writer attempts to impress his wealthy friend, a humanitarian publisher, by dining at an exclusive club. During the meal, a massive crash occurs—the writer's touring car has fallen through the street into the cellar below. The joke satirizes the pretensions of the wealthy: the writer's concern with maintaining appearances at the club, and his casual admission that he gave away his touring car to a police lieutenant whose children were starving. The irony is that his expensive car, symbol of his wealth and status, literally cannot support itself and collapses—a visual metaphor for the instability and emptiness of high-society life.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
SHOWING THAT THE HOG IS AMPHIBIOUS G H H L HE multimillionaire editorial writer failed to scrape his shoes carefully before entering his touring car. “*Drive me to 404 Ave- nue A," he haughtily commanded. The chauffeur broke the speed limit. The multimillionaire editorial writer left a couple of thousand simo- leons at 404 Avenue A, where a poor diamond merchant lay sick. “The Authors’ Club,"’ he said languidly, to the chauffeur. He put in really quite an exciting half hour at the Authors’ Club, raising a fund for an impecunious bishop. (Several of the authors wished to contribute more than their share.) The multimillionaire editorial writer dined with his wealthy friend, the humani- tarian publisher. The champagne was rather fair. A loud noise occurred during the repast; a couple of hundred tons of gold I F E D By FRED LADD in the attic crashed through into the cellar. The two gentlemen, upon being told what had happened, exclaimed, ** How racy !"" ‘What do you say,"’ suggested the pub- lisher, ‘‘to running down to see Bliffstein? The unfortunate fellow has no friends since he quit the art field and went into pig iron."’ **Poor, I suppose.’” “‘He has no clothes to go out in.’" The multimillionaire raised his eyes in pain. ‘‘I'm sorry, but I gave away my touring car to a police lieutenant whose children were starving, just before I came in. Can we use a couple of yours?"* o 6 © © «© «6 “How do you account for the enormous sales of your books?"’ inquired the multi- ionaire editorial writer, after they had relieved the sufferings of Bliffstein and were on their way back to the Authors’ Club. “TI publish nothing but clean books — books of real substance and value, sir."’ “*Excuse me,"’ said the writer, ‘I might have known."" E L U xX &E There was a hush. The city lights glit- tered as the car sped uptown. “*What's on at the club to-night?”’ the publisher queried. “A lecture on high life, by Skiddings, the billionaire humorist’ —— There was a terrific crash in the sky. “‘What was that?" asked the publisher, slightly startled. The writer took a four-hundred-thousand- dollar telescope from his pocket and scanned the heavens. “‘There’s a man on Mars, laughing at us,’’ he said. A High Flier He loved a golden butterfly, Yet could but sit and fret. He knew to net her none need try, Without a coronet. Different Crawford—Is that book of the war written by an eyewitness? Crabshaw—No; by a war correspondent. comicbooks.com