Judge — August 1937 — page 19: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

GOD FORGIVE ME-— A wise man makes the biggest fool wi John Rutherford, the noted orientalist, hired Blarch as his servant he was impressed by a number of circumstances: first, that the name was distinctly un-English for an other- wise very English gentleman’s.gentle- man; that Blarch bore all the hallmarks of an excellent servant; and that there was the very faintest air of preoccupa- tion about him. Had Rutherford not been particularly taken up over something himself at the time, I think that he would have done more than he did about Blarch’s pre- occupation. Rutherford’s own concern at this period happened to be a handsome young woman who was attractive, un- predictable. Rutherford thought he wanted her favors more than anything else, could never tell from day to day when he would have them, and had a retty definite conviction that in the end Re would have to pay heavily for them. Bette D'Arney was a swell gal but un- principled, if you know what I mean. A& ‘or Blarch, he took Bette in his pace, so to speak. But Rutherford did notice, and it made him a little nervous—that Blarch was taking notes surreptitiously during Bette’s visits. He determined to investigate. He got with Blarch alone, and opened the subject in a general way. “You're a very satisfactory servant, Blarch,”’ he said. “Thank you, sir,” said Blarch. “Yes,” Rutherford followed up guick- ly, “but what makes you seem as if your mind was elsewhere all the time?” “A little game I play with myself,” readily explained the servant. “Always do it, keeps my intellectual interests up. I classify everything.” “Such as?" demanded Rutherford. “Butterflies, air routes, ways of brew- ing beer,—everything, sir. . .” “And what were you classifying on that bit of paper you stuck in your pocket when I came into the room?—Give it to me at once!”’ ON the paper were the following notations: Rhubarb Fool N. Dz. M. G.D. “Humph!” said Rutherford, a little telieved. “Dessert reci I wish you wouldn’t make notes for menus when you're in the drawingroom, Blarch.” “Very good, sir,” agreed Blarch. He took his notes, and went, apparently, to complete them in the kitchen. Rutherford’s affair with Bette was August 1937 rapidly coming to a head. She ceased all favors one day, and plainly an. nounced her intention of blackmail. Poor Rutherford almost died with cha- grin, fear and pention Bette asked a fantastic sum. He couldn't possibl; it. Then suddenly she agreed to ‘dle for $5,000, a twentieth of the sum she had asked. Rutherford’s relief was so great that he almost died from that. He paid on the spot; Bette in a graceful gesture gave him a kiss and showed him a steamship ticket to Buenos Aires. ‘THT. evening for dessert, Blarch served Rutherford stewed rhubarb. Rutherford, feeling at piece with the world, and a bit expansive over his escape from Bette, complimented Blarch. “Your recipe?” he asked. “Yes, sir.” “If your other desserts are as good, I should like to try them. Give me an. other look at that list you were writing the other day.” Blarch brought out the scrap of paper and handed it to his master. “What do those single letters mean?” Rutherford asked. “Well, you see, sir,” apologized Blarch, “they're not really desserts’ “No? What are they then?” asked Rutherford. “Actually,” explained Blarch, “to tell you the truth, sir, I've been doing some classifying of a very interesting subject.” “Really? What subject?” “Fools,” replied Blarch. “These were just some jottings on the wide variety of fools that make up mankind.” RUTHERFORD, suddenly struck by the humoi of the situation, laughed heartily. “That's very good, and I thought they were desserts! Ha! Ha! But tell me what the letters stand for?” “Well,” said Blarch, pleased with his master’s good humor. “You see, N for Nature's Fool; D, say for Dancing Fool; M for My Fool, and G.D. for goddam Fool—" “Splendid,” cried Rutherford, now thoroughly relaxed, “I suppose every one alive would fall under one or other of these classifications. How very in. teresting! Mm—But, by the way, know- ing so much about those things, Blarch, what kind of fool would you say I am?” “Oh, you, sir?” said Blarch, and added unhesitatingly, “you'd undoubted. ly come under the G.D. classification, sir.” Rutherford fired Blarch, God forgive —A. D. RoTHMAN. 6S ae comicbooks.com