 | Eli Perkins (at large) |  |
ELI PERKINS IN HOT WATER.
The other day I sent this paragraph to The Herald:
“Mrs. Johnson is said to be the most beautiful woman in the
hotel.”
I didn't know what I was doing. I'm sorry I did
it. Now the ladies are all down on me, and poor
Mrs. Johnson is being persecuted on all sides. The
ladies are telling all sorts of
stories about her—how she poisoned
her first husband, threw
a baby or two down the well,
and all that.
A few moments ago a tall,
muscular gentleman entered my
room, holding a long cane in
his hand. He looked mad. I
wasn't afraid. O! no; but I was
writing, and hadn't time to talk.
“Are you Mr. Perkins?” he
commenced.
“No, sir; my name is La—”
“Did you write this article
about Mrs. Johnson being the
most beautiful woman?” he interrupted.
“Why?” I asked modestly.
“Because my wife is here, sir—Mrs. Thompson—a
very handsome woman, sir, and—”
“Ah! Thompson—yes; only the fact is I sent it
down `Thompson,' and those rascally type-setters they
made `Johnson' of it. Why, yesterday, Mr. Thompson,
I wrote about President Porter, the well-deserving
President of Yale College, and those remorseless type-setters
set it up `hell-deserving,' and President Porter
has been cutting me ever since.”
“All right, then, Mr. Perkins, if you really sent it
down, `Mrs. Thompson,' I'll put up my pistol and
we'll be friends; but if I ever hear of your writing of
any lady's being more beautiful than my wife I'll send
you to New York in a metallic case—I will, sure!”
and Mr. Thompson strode out of the room.
A few moments afterward I met
Julia, my fiancée—the one I truly
love.
“You look lovely to-day, Julia!”
I commenced as usual.
“You're a bore, Eli—you're a dreadful
person—a false, bad man. You—”
“What is it, Julia? what has displeased you now?”
I interrupted, sweetly.
“Why, you base deceiver! have n't you been calling
me beautiful all the time? Have n't you made sonnets
to my eyes, compared my cheeks to the lily, my arms
to alabaster; and now here you go and call Mrs.
Johnson the most beautiful woman in the hotel. You
mean, false, two-sided man, you!” and Julia's eyes
snapped like sparks of electricity.
“But, Julia, dear Julia, let me explain,” I pleaded.
“It was all ruse, Julia. Don't you know, newspapers
tell a good many lies—they must, you know; the
people will have them; and there is a rivalry between
them to see which shall tell the biggest and longest
ones, you know, and tell them the oftenest?”
“Yes,” she murmured sweetly.
“Well, I've been telling so much truth lately in
The Herald, folks told me to change my course a
little—to throw in a few lies, and—”
“And you did?”
“Why, yes, and this was one of them. Of course
you are the most beautiful woman in Saratoga. Of
course you are.”
This seemed to make Julia happy again, and I
thought I was all right. I went back to my room
thinking so, but I was all wrong.
In a moment, Rat! tat!! TAT!!! sounded on the
door.
“Come in,” I said, as I stood with my pantaloons off,
thinking it was the boy to take this letter to the post.
“Is it you who is making fun of
my wife—you miserable—”
“I beg pardon, sir; if you and your
wife will just step back a moment, I'll
draw on my pantaloons and try and
tell you,” I said, trembling from head
to foot.
“No, sir, we won't step back a moment, but say,
sir, did you say my wife, Mrs. Johnson, was the handsomest
woman in Saratoga; she who has been known
minister in this here circuit—say, did you?”
The woman was a fright. I could
see it from behind the sofa where I
scootched down. She wore a mobcap,
had freckles, crooked teeth and
peaked chin.
“No, sir!” I said, vehemently. “No,
sir-r-r! I never said your wife was
the most beautiful woman in Saratoga,
for she evidently is not. I meant somebody
else—another Mrs. Johnson. I
could not tell a lie about it, and she is
positively ugly—that is, she is not handsome;
she is not beautiful.
“Far different.”
“Far different! My wife not
good-looking, sir? My wife far
different? I'll teach you to attack
my wife in that way,” and
then his cane flew up and I
flew down. I don't know how
long I staid there, but I do know
that the next hour I found myself
in a strange room, and my
clothes smelt of chloroform and
camphor. The doctors say I met with an accident. I
don't know what it was, but I do know that I shall
never say anything about that handsomest woman
again. Never!
| Eli Perkins (at large) | |