 | IV Knowledge is Power |  |
4. IV
HAROLD HUSSEY had a watery blue eye, tapering fingers, manicured nails, and a slight lisp. It was said that Mrs. Hussey had been disappointed because Harold, her only child, was not a girl. At all events, she had since done all that she could to rectify nature's unfortunate mistake. The only additional shame she could possibly have saddled upon the nineteen-year-old youth would have been to make him wear earrings.
He called his mother "mommy," and she usually referred to him as "my angel." She withheld from Harold the only possibility by which he might have gained some good repute from the rest of his fellows — she wouldn't let him learn to play ragtime on the piano.
You can't keep a scheme like that quiet in a place like Brookfield. It came to Caleb's ears that Harold Hussey was going to be used against him at the Hastings surprise party, and Mr. Coppins nearly exploded with subdued laughter.
He knew that Harold's knowledge was practically confined to one subject. Now, Mr. Coppins knew nothing about music. But he got to work under his kerosene lamp. He absorbed everything in the "Pan-Continental" that looked as if it might have the taint of harmony. He delved for dates and nourished himself on names.
He arrived at the Hastings home with a glint of vulpine shrewdness in his eyes. He was not perturbed by the surreptitious whispering that went on around him. He picked out the best chair in the crowded rooms, and threw himself into the preliminary course of ice-cream, sandwiches, and cake. Once in a while he cast a withering glance at Harold Hussey, who had been placed opposite to him, and Harold nearly choked upon a mouthful of frosted cake, Mrs. Hussey patted her pride and hope upon his back and spoke soothing words to him.
Mr. Coppins deliberately put away his dishes and drew himself into a dignified attitude of scholastic reflection. Suddenly he remarked:
"I tell you, folks, it's only when a man really begins to learn something that he realizes how much there is to learn. Now, friends, there was a time when I felt pretty sure I knew everything. But I didn't — not then!"
"I suppose you do now," retorted an untactful guest, out of his heart of writhing hate.
"Oh, no," replied Caleb complacently; "not everything. But little by little I'm accumulating a fund of knowledge. Knowledge is power! I tell you what, it makes a man feel like a real man. It's the little facts that count. How many of you here could tell me, for instance, the length, in American measure, of a Swedish mile? You ought to know, folks. It's important to know those things. How many of you could tell me what language the ancient Egyptians spoke, or who deciphered the first cuneiform inscriptions dug from the great desert near the Nile? You ought to know. Everybody ought to know. Those things are important. Now, you," concluded Caleb, pointing at the untactful young man who had opened the subject, "suppose you ask me some question — any question. Go ahead — make it a hard one!"
The untactful young man glowered at the enemy and swallowed hard. He took four reefs in his forehead, and the veins stood out on his temples in his effort to think of a poser. Finally he gasped and lay back in his chair, helpless. He couldn't think of a question to save his life!
Mr. Coppins laughed softly and stroked his chin.
"Anybody else?" he said airily.
"Wait a minute!" cried the untactful one, suddenly coming to life with a wild gleam of joy. "Tell us — tell us — who discovered the — monkey-wrench!"
A titter went around the room, and a dozen male mouths opened with cordial expectation that Caleb Coppins would be crushed to earth. For a second he looked at the ceiling. Then, in a chant that was
"Certainly! The monkey-wrench is not, as some may suppose, an instrument to monkey with; nor indeed has it any connection with the simian tribe. It should really be called a moncky-wrench, for it was invented by a Baltimore mechanic named Charles Moncky. Got any other question to ask?"
The youth who propounded the query faded into the background and deftly pulled the background over his naked shame. There was generous applause from the ladies.
"I've got one!" said another brave candidate. "Who discovered glue?"
"Glue!" repeated Mr. Coppins. "Now there's a question! Who discovered glue? I like to have questions like that thrown at me. Glue is an important substance, and everybody should know the answer to that question. Now, glue — "
Mr. Coppins stopped. Of course, he did not know who discovered glue, and he had not the wit to frame a satisfactory answer to what was in reality an unfair question. It would have been almost as reasonable to inquire who invented bread.
His only hope was a swift diversion.
"Harold," he said, pulling himself together, "you are a musician. I'll bet you anything you don't know all a musician should know about the famous author of `Parsifal.' You don't know how old he was when he died, or where he was born, or where he died, or any of those important data."
"You mean Wagner?" replied Harold.
"I mean Vogner," replied Mr. Coppins, severely precise. "Those who do not know call him Wagner. I call him Vogner, as his fellow countrymen did. The German language is not like our language, you must understand. Now I ask the question, where was that great composer born; and I answer it myself — he was born in Leipsic, Germany."
"Is that right, Harold?" asked a score of eager voices. "Do you know?"
"That'th right," was the feeble and disappointed reply. "Leipthic is right."
"You see!" said Mr. Coppins, with a broad smile at the company. "Another important question!" continued Caleb, rubbing his hands gleefully. "A very important question! Where did the great composer die? Shake off the mortal coil, as one might say? I will answer — at Baireuth. Pronounced `Byroit,' you will please observe."
"Is that right, Harold?" challenged the same palpitating voices.
"No, thir," was the reply. "It ith not!"
"What?" shouted Caleb Coppins menacingly. "Do you mean to tell me, Harold, that I am wrong? Think again, boy, think again!"
"He died in Venice," persisted Harold in feeble exultation and reaching for his mother's hand.
"He did not!" retorted Mr. Coppins.
"He did so," Harold insisted.
"The boy's got you," said Calkins, the grocer. "Give up, Caleb. You're stung!"
"He died in Byroit," said Caleb. "Mind what I tell you. I know!"
"Venice," said Harold Hussey feebly but doggedly.
Mr. Calkins, with a cunning look in his eye, took Harold by the arm and led him aside.
"Are you sure about it, son?" he asked.
"That'th what my book sayth," lisped Harold. "Besides, I know that Wagner died in an old palace on the Grand Canal in Venice."
Calkins turned swiftly upon Caleb. "The boy's got you," he laughed. "Give up; you're stung, Caleb!"
"Nonsense!" said Caleb.
I'll bet you one hundred dollars the boy's right," cried the grocer. "Put up or shut up!"
Mr. Calkins evidently had little idea that Caleb would put up. He paled visibly when Mr. Coppins replied confidently:
"I'll go you!"
"I — I haven't got that much cash with me," stammered the grocer. "But here are witnesses. I say Harold is right."
"I really hate to take your money," replied Caleb coolly. "It doesn't seem fair, honestly; but you can't blame me. One hundred dollars! I'm your man."
"Really, you mustn't bet money," interrupted Mrs. Hastings, thinking of the dignity of her position as hostess, but secretly hoping that it would be disregarded.
"Let 'em go ahead!" cried the men. "This has been coming to Caleb for a long time." — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
EDITOR'S NOTE — The erroneous statement that Richard Wagner died at Baireuth is actually to be found in a well-known and usually very accurate work of reference.
"I can prove it by my book," averred Harold. "I'll go right home and get it thith minute."
"Books talk," returned Caleb. "I'll be back in half a jiffy. Then you'll hand me a check for that hundred, Calkins!
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