Life — October 28, 1915 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

“LIFE- Malice in Blunderland EAR little Malice, although her father had long been a Congress- man, was an intelligent girl, so that drowsy afternoon as she sat in the rotunda of the Capitol Building criti- cally examining patriotic statuary she was a bit surprised to observe a Dove of Peace hobble by on a crutch and glare at her bitterly from his one good eye, the other being concealed by a large green patch. Little Malice had scen things equally ridiculous happen- ing right in the Senate chamber, but her curiosity was unusually piqued when the bird, fluttering its mangy wings, moaned, “By my beak and feathers! I shall be late!” and disappeared through a large trap-door under the statue of the late G. Washington. This was too much for little Malice’s feminine curiosity, so down she went after the bird, never thinking how deeply she was involving herself in in- side politics. Almosf the first thing she knew she found herself stepping into a queer ele- yator marked “ Always Going Down.” And, true to its promise, it descended so rapidly that Malice was obliged to cling to the peevish Dove who occupied the place beside her. “Why doesn’t it ever go up?” she inquired timidly. “It's the Stock Market, fool!” snapped the truculent bird, pecking a patch of court-plaster on its left wing. “That sounds a trifle like junk,” ven- tured Malice politely. “Exactly!” responded the Dove “By junk, of course, you mean the Navy. I'm on the Board, you know.” Even while they were speaking the elevator stopped in a small lobby con- fronting a tiny door labeled “Perma- nent Way Out.” The Dove with hys- terical haste bolted through the door; but Malice, being rather a stout girl, was in despair as to how to follow until plainly exhibited on a deserted Cabinet Table she observed a purple bottle labeled “Drink Me.” The stuff looked positively deadly, yet there /—Down the Elevator Shaft “ Hobble by” seemed no other way out of her em- barrassing predicament, so, with a childish cry of “ Here goes nothing!” she rashly drew the cork and allowed the mysterious fluid to trickle down her throat. “ Grape-juice!” she cried in panic, too late; for already she was shrinking to the diminutive stature of a Bryan politi- cal boom. And thus reduced, she passed boldly through the little door marked “This Way Out.” ewes “Curioser and curioser!” cried Mal- ice, for she found that she had emerged to a muddy bank overlooking the Erie Canal, and quite close to her stood a statesmanlike gentleman with a blue gingham apron over his frock coat; and his strange apparel was accounted for by the fact that he was washing a great number of sailors’ trousers and hanging them on a line “Please, sir,” inquired Malice tim- idly, “ why should a dignified statesman wash sailors’ trousers?” “Would you expect me to be wash- ing plumbers’ trousers?” he rejoined in a tone of grandeur. “No, and yet again, no! I am a Secretary of the Navy.” “Iam sorry,” replied Malice, not sure whether she was sorry he was Secretary or just merely sorry. At her words an Admiral, who had been helping with the wash, dropped two clothes-pins from his mouth, and a Mole, acting as stenographer, ticked busily at his typewriter, “Make an editorial of that, Mr. Mole,” commanded the Secretary. “ For all I know, young lady, you are a car- toonist from Lire.” “Oh, no, sir,” protested Malice. “I am just a little girl—” “You may have a vote some day,” he grunted. “Therefore it is my pub- lic duty to prove to you that we are Prepared.” “For what?” she asked meekly. “Oh, just Prepared,” he announced. He suspended more trousers on the line. “This is my First Line of Battle,” he explained. “ Alarmists say we are in danger. Impossible. Why?” Malice could make no adequate answer, “War is Hell, is it not? It is. Clean- liness is next to godliness, is it not? It is. Therefore, godliness and hellish- ness cannot exist at one and the same time. Q. E, D. Kindly typewrite my remarks, Mr, Mole.” “Tt takes iron to make a Navy,” Malice quoted from her father. “Our ironing day is Wednesday!” snapped the Secretary. He stood aside and wiped his hands, for the entire linen of the Atlantic fleet was now fluttering on the line. “In case you are a German spy,” he said, “I will give you a demonstration of my Naval Efficiency.” At his words a strange object re- sembling a bath-tub with a soda-foun- tain attachment floated in midstream, coughed desperately, sent up a distress signal and blew up with a loud report. “My submarine!” announced the Secretary proudly. “Oh! But it's sunk!" shrieked Mal- ice in alarm. “Quite naturally,” smiled the Secre- tary. “Any dictionary will tell you a comicbooks.com