Life — July 4, 1907 — page 32: what you’re looking at

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

RRB S: tion. You think Mrs. Coots stupid just because she doesn’t kotow to you mentally, and because you don’t understand her. You think Mrs. Quester clever because she listens to you and has a lot of hairbrained theories. You annoy me with your lack of insight.” ‘The Professor looked at his wife in the utmost amazement. Never before had he heard her talk that way. “What on earth!” he exclaimed. “T don’t care,” snapped Mrs. Bunce. ‘It’s true.” Suddenly she pressed her hand to her side. Her eyes filled with tears “Forgive me!” she said. “I am not myself to-day. I think—there is—something— the matter with me.”” Her dazed husband looked at her hopelessly. She had always been strong and well. Even with the advent of their children, her admirable foresight had arranged everything so there never seemed anything for the Professor to do. It meant a lot for her to give in. “You'd better,” she gasped, “telephone for the doctor.” The conversation was interrupted at this point. The Professor, utterly at sea and quite helpless in such matters, blindly did as she said ‘The doctor came at once. He knew that when Mrs. Bunce asked to see him for herself, it meant business. She was too busy thinking about others to bother about her- self unless it was serious. In a few moments he had made a rapid but careful examination. In a few moments more he had telephoned for another doctor. In a rather brief interval that gentleman arrived. And to make along story short, in four short hours Mrs. Bunce was hurried off to the nearest hospital to be operated upon for appendicitis. The Professor was lost sight of in the excitement. In the pathological programme that had so suddenly been inaugurated, his name did not appear. Shielded from all that was practical for so many years it was not to be expected that now he would be considered. The doctors ad- vised him politely but sternly to wait quietly at home—that he could do no good to come with them; that all would be well; that they were doing this sort of thing all the time; that there was nothing to be anxious about, and that he could do no good anywhere else but where he was For some hours he sat mute and distracted in his study. His train of thought had been wrecked. A sort of intellectual atrophy held him spellbound He was vaguely aware at times of certain incongruous sounds: sounds different from what he was accustomed to hear. The fact was that the children, those adaptive little creatures, released suddenly from restraint, were having a real good time—in their own way. While the Professor was arousing himself to this new sensation, the door opened. A dark shadow obtruded itself upon his consciousness. An ebony face that he never remembered to have seen before gazed down calmly at him from out of the paneled perspective. The face was solemn with importunity. “What will you have for dinner, sah? ‘The Professor gazed at his interlocutor curiously. “Who are you?” he asked, with faint asperity. “The cook lady, sah.” The Professor had never seen the cook before. He knew, of course, that there was such a functionary. Every well-ordered establishment had one—or ought to. Only the other evening, with the same freshness and virility that he displayed upon one of his archsological theses, he had discussed—theoretically—the cook question with his new-found friend, Mrs. Quester. They had discussed its sociological aspect with much interest and had arrived at certain unalterable conclusions. Con- fronted, however, by an actual representative of this domain, the Pro- fessor was plainly disconcerted. He shifted in his seat uneasily. sense of his own responsibility was slowly dawning upon him. Some- thing was required. Something must plainly be done. “Ah, yes,” he muttered. “The dinner, of course. Bless me! Cer- tainly. What have we?” “Nothing, sah. The madam goes to market every day, but this morning” —— “Oh, yes, of course. Hum. How would some meat do? Yes, meat and potatoes. Potatoes are an unscientific food, I believe. Still, they are extensively used. And some codfish tongues. Yes, I think I would like them.” ited Cape Cod, he had had codfish monument of gastronomical virtue. He had never had them before or since, but he believed in them firmly. Nothing but codfish tongues seemed to satisfy him. “What kind of meat, sah?” “Why, dear me—any kind. Beefsteak, lamb, roast beef; anything you please.” “And what else did you say, sah?” “Tongues—codfish tongues. They are quite palatable. There should be a sauce with them, if I remember correctly. You can cook them, can you not?” “No, sah. I don’t believe I can.” “Bless me! Well then, omit them from the menu.” “And the children, sah?” Hopeless with anxiety, the Professor considered. What was good for children? What, taken in large doses—for he relinquished at once the vain hope of controlling their appetites—would’ do them the least harm? He remembered once having been interested in an analysis of foods—foods that contained the highest percentage of potential energy. He had it! Noodles!” he exclaimed, triumphantly. Gradually during the interview the porcelain white of the cook's eyes gleamed more and more. From her standpoint, things were everything but satisfactory. The Professor, on his part, hesitated. He remem- bered in his talk with Mrs. Quester that the question of the rights of servants had come up and been argued at length, Mrs. Quester claimed that not enough tact was used. Tact! that was it! He would try it at once, “May Lask you,” he said, “what is your name?” “Martha, sah, I don’t know nothing about noodles.” “That's all right, Martha. You don’t need to. You have your right: of course. Now, Martha, I’m going to trust you. Go ahead and cool —anything you please. You're a nice, respectable girl, aren't. you?” The Professor smiled confidentially. He felt that he must establish some kind of a bond between himself and Martha. He was respectable. Everybody knew that. By intimating that she, too, was respectable, it placed her at once in the same class with himself. There was the bond. But Martha looked at the matter differently. Her eyes gleamed whiter than ever. Some kind of an insinuation had been made against her. She never had been called respectable before. “T guess 1 is,” she replied savagely. “I guess I’s about as respectable as any one round here. I ain’t no common servant, I ain't. You give me my money an’ I'll go.” In this supreme moment, the Professor's pride did not desert him, Neither did his courage. “Very well,” he said quietly. “How much is it?” “Twenty dollars.” He handed her the moncy without a word. “Go,” he exclaimed. ‘‘Go—at once!” Five minutes later, pulling himself together, he descended the stairs to view the remnants of a well-ordered establishment. The nurse had left the week before. That was what'had pulled his wife down—her efforts to get another. The chambermaid had departed carly that morning—so the Professor learned from the children, playing blind man’s buff in the parlor. All seemed hopeless. It was, however, early as yet in the afternoon. Perhaps something could be done. The Professor stopped his ears from the din and tried to collect his thoughts. Suddenly a ray of hope came to him. ‘There was Mrs. Quester—the cleverest woman he knew. She would help. She would advise. She would save the day. Her superb mind would come to the rescue. He wasted not a moment. Stepping across the lawn, he rang the bell of the house next door. Was Mrs. Quester at home? A peculiar looking maid, wiping her hands hurriedly on her apron, informed him in very much disordered English that Mrs. Quester was just going out. Could she be seen? At this moment a charming, cultivated voice answered his question. “Why, Professor Bunce! so glad to see you. Come right in. Are you in trouble? There have been carriages” —— The Professor explained his dilemma. Mrs. Quester listened in the deepest thought, her face harrowed with the most intense sympathy. This story continued on page 34 comicbooks.com