Page:The New Yorker 0004, 1925-03-14.pdf/10

The Tonsils of the Gift Horse

Last winter it happened that one evening both my wife and I were unable to use our box at the opera. I forget just what it was that prevented us. I think we had promised to attend a rather exclusive public auction of unredeemed pledges.

Be that as it may, we couldn't use our loge and so I arranged myself on a couch, with a flagon of prune juice, a box of cigars, an address book, a stop watch and a telephone, and undertook to treat someone to a high class evening of expensive pleasure.

If you have never tried to deal a hand of free opera tickets to a friend, you have no real conception of what selling means. My first beneficiary was Reggie van Runt. I called him before anyone else because he had just got himself engaged to be married, and you know how that is.

"Reggie, old darling," I piped, "what are you going to do to-night?"

"Why?" he answered warily.

"Well, I tell you, Reg, you see Birdie and I have made some sort of date or something-made it some time ago, you understand-and we clean forgot that to-night happens to be our night at the opera, and naturally we thought that perhaps you—"

"Perhaps not," said Reggie. "Sorry I can't oblige, but to-night happens to be the day Harold Lloyd's new one comes out around the corner and I promised Eloise ... "

I hung up and took a nip of the prune elixir and interrupted Central again. (Time, including getting telephone number, 15 minutes, 13 2/5 seconds.)

My next selection was Mrs. Ellery Bilgewater, my wife's cousin who lives in the suburbs and has five charming children. It seemed a logical choice. After interviewing each of the children, in genealogical order, I eventually got the ear of Mrs. Bilgewater herself. To her I propounded my proposition.

"It's perfectly sweet of you," chirped the little woman, "And what's the opera?"

"Crispino," I said, brightly.

"Crispino," she repeated.

"No less," said I.

"And who's to take the parts?"

"Take the parts? Ah, yes, I beg your pardon. Of course. You would want to know that, wouldn't you? Let's see. I suppose Scotti and Didur and—"

"Oh, my dear friend," she broke in, hurriedly. "I am more than sorry. I'd completely forgotten. Billy and I have a bridge party on. Isn't that stupid!"

"Yes, very," I agreed, replacing the receiver. (Time, twenty-one minutes, 7 3/5 seconds.)

After a brief interval for refreshment, I made another plunge. I have a venerable aunt who is nearly totally deaf. It seemed to me she had been specially fitted by Providence to enjoy that box.

"Hello, Aunt Lena, hello!" I shouted. "Hello, Aunt Lena, this is Jack. Can you hear me? No? Hello, this is Jack. No. No! Don't you understand? This is Jack. Yes, that's right. This is Jack. Very well, thanks. And you? Ah, that's too bad. I say that's too bad. Listen, Aunt Lena, how would you like our box at the opera to-night? No, not copra. Opera. I don't know its name. What's the difference? You think it's Crispino, do you? You won't go if it is? Wait a moment, I'll look it up. What? You'll look it up yourself? Hello! ... Oh, it is Crispino? Well, if you won't, you won't. Good bye ... Old mudhen."

"If Aunt Lena heard you," observed my wife, who had entered in time to catch my last sentence, "it'll make a difference in her will."

"Never fear," said I, mopping my forehead,

"She's sound proof. Pour me out a little of that poison, will you, dear, while I play a rubber with Central?"

When at last old Dr. Jabberwock wheezed into hearing I put it to him thus:

"Dr. Jabberwock, this is the night we usually give up to opera, but unfortunately my wife has made other plans and we shall be unable to go. The opera is Carmen, with Ponselle, Scotti, Amato, Chaliapin, Jeritza, Jolson, Joe Cook and the Duncan Sisters singing the principal roles. Could you go?"

"Just a minute, my boy—" There was a rumbling at the other end of the wire as he spoke to his wife.

He replied: "Too bad it's Carmen. If it were any other piece we'd be glad to help you out."

I am not a man easily discouraged. When I undertake to do something, I undertake it.

I leaped to my feet, and raced to the opera house. A queue of weary-looking addicts reached around the block. I sidled up to a man near the head of the line and smiled.

"What would you say to a box?" I asked him.

He drew away from me, pretending not to hear.

"No fooling," I said. "I've got a box I can't use."

He refused to give me, as the saying goes, a tumble. I went farther down the line. I tried a woman.

"Madam," I began, in an undertone, "I would be happy to give you a box for to-night."

"You're drunk," said she, in a raucous voice.

"Madam," I replied, crimson. "You wrong me. I am not drunk. I must ask you to take that back."

"Police," she roared, "police! Help! Police!"

There was a quick shuffle of steps, and something fell on the back of my neck. When the clouds finally rolled by I found myself in a cubicle dimly lighted by one small window with large iron bars on the outside. (Time one hour, 45 minutes, 15 seconds.)

{[right|—John Chapman Hilder}}