-■)*>■ 
 
 
 TIMOTHY TUBBY'S 
 JOURNAL 
 
 THE AMERICAN DIARY OF 
 THE FAMOUS BRITISH NOVELIST 
 
Class 
 Book. 
 
 O •J> *300 
 
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 C.OfVRIGKT DEPOSm 
 
The American Diary of the 
 
 Famous British Novelist 
 TIMOTHY TUBBY, ESQR 
 
 P.P.C, R.S.V.P. 
 
THE BOOKMAN Classics 
 
 A series of volumes dealing with literary sub- 
 jects, sometimes grave, sometimes gay; but de- 
 signed to acquaint the reader with the current 
 tendencies of writing in America. 
 
 A PARODY OUTLINE OF HISTOEY 
 
 Donald Ogden Stewart 
 
 THE BUSINESS OF WRITING: 
 
 A Practical Guide for Authors 
 
 Robert Cortes Holliday and 
 Alexander Van Rensselaer 
 
 THE BOOKMAN ANTHOLOGY OP VEESE (1922) 
 
 Edited by John Farrar 
 
 TIMOTHY TUBBY^S JOUENAL 
 
 Anonymous 
 
 NEW YORK: GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
I WAS ATTENDING A SMALL TEA 
 
Timothy Tubby's 
 Journal 
 
 Drawings by HERB ROTH 
 
 NEW ^^SW^ YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 

 ,<,v^ 
 
 Copyright, 1922, 
 By George H. Dor an Company 
 
 
 TIMOTHY TUBBY'S JOURNAL. I 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
 NOV 16 1922 
 
 C1AG90240 
 
TO 
 
 JOHN MASEFIELD, HUGH WALPOLE, 
 
 FRANK SWINNERTON and 
 
 J. C. SQUIRE 
 
 WITH ASSURANCES OF MY HIGH ESTEEM, 
 AND A HOPE THAT SINCE I HAVE AIMED TO 
 POKE FUN AT MY RELATIVES ON BOTH 
 SIDES OF THE ATLANTIC, THIS BURLESQUE 
 MAY DO A LITTLE TO CLEAR THE ANGLO- 
 AMERICAN LITERARY ATMOSPHERE. 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 I was attending a small tea not long after my 
 arrival in America at the home of one of 
 your Wall Street magnates. (The house was 
 decorated in surprisingly good taste/) The 
 tea was well served. I noticed, particularly, 
 that the servants were English. (The livery 
 was excellently chosen.) Indeed, one of your 
 most charming American characteristics is, 
 that in spite of a certain fundamental awk- 
 wardness which is native and, I must say, 
 compelling, you learn quickly. Yes! the tea 
 made me feel as though I were in dear 
 Theresa's father's drawing room on Downing 
 Street talking to my old friend Doddy.^ 
 When I was invited to this aflFair I had, of 
 course, no intention of making a speech; 
 but Mrs. W., our hostess, pressed me so 
 
 *Poor Timothy, his aesthetic sense is lacking. It was a shock- 
 ing house. Thr. Tb. 
 *^The Rt Hon. Cecil Doddering. 
 
 [ix] 
 
Foreword 
 
 warmly to tell her guests a bit about literary 
 London, that I could not refrain, so I chatted 
 for an hour and a half on my first impressions 
 of the New York skyline. What magnificent 
 structures your skyscrapers are! How they 
 lift the heart toward Heaven — like the most 
 delicate of French pastries against a sunset 
 sky. 
 
 Speaking of skylines calls to my mind the 
 momentous day when our ship steamed into 
 New York harbor. What a harbor! An ex- 
 cellent friend of mine in your metropolis, who 
 handles my literary business for me, had ap- 
 parently let slip some slight word of my ap- 
 proach, so that several reporters met us at 
 quarantine. My wife was charmed by their 
 naivete.^ Having saved a snifter for the oc- 
 casion, we all enjoyed a quiet drink. It was 
 then during one of the intervals in Theresa's 
 conversation with these bluff but nevertheless 
 attractive gentlemen (your press has treated 
 me so well that I most certainly could say 
 
 ■ What flatterers your American young men are ! Remember, 
 my friends, that to flatter a woman over thirty is as dangerous 
 as to kiss one under twenty. Thr. Tb. 
 
 [x] 
 
Foreword 
 
 nothing against them), that a young man 
 named Broun who seemed to be a sort of ring 
 leader,^ turned to me and said, "I once read 
 a book of yours, Mr. Tubby." Think of 
 thatl This was a welcome extraordinary to 
 America. My heart was so warmed by his 
 words and by my haste to give him another 
 drink that I quite forgot to ask him which 
 book he had read or, indeed, whether or no 
 he cared for my somewhat unusual style. 
 
 It was at Mrs. W.'s tea that Angela Porter 
 (she has a lovely face and is artistic in some 
 way — I forget whether she sings or dances ^ ) 
 came to me. **Mr. Tubby," she said, "you 
 will write a book on America, won't you?" 
 Now until that moment, I confess that it had 
 never occurred to me. I hesitated. She went 
 on, "Your power of observation is so keen and 
 your books are becoming so popular, a cri- 
 tique of our manners from you would be of 
 inestimable value to so young a nation." 
 
 * We later learned that he was strangely influential in certain 
 literary circles. 
 
 'She dances. Her features are as ugly as a hedgehog; but 
 her figure is excellent. Tubby 's memory plays him tricks. A 
 man's memory is often lucky in its lapses. Thr. Tb. 
 
 [xi] 
 
Foreword 
 
 It was then that I promised to write this 
 book, feeling a certain duty in the matter. If 
 an apology is necessary, I make it now. 
 Should I seem to criticize, I know that the 
 public which has been so generous in its atten- 
 dance and applause of my lectures will for- 
 give. A strong lusty child should not mind an 
 occasional beating. Then, why should a na- 
 tion so hearty, so virile in its possibilities as 
 America, take offense at kindly criticism from 
 one who is, after all, one of the parent stock; 
 for you must never forget that you are our 
 child. So, while making no very definite 
 apologies for my criticism, I do not want, 
 for an instant, to alienate even one member 
 of my dear American public. 
 
 My wife's notebook, her knowledge of so- 
 cial usage among English peers, and her 
 great love for me and interest in my work, 
 has made her assistance desirable. It was not 
 my own wish that her biographical note on 
 me should introduce this volume ; but the club 
 women of America, who have been more than 
 appreciative of me, have, figuratively, risen 
 
 [xii] 
 
Foreword 
 
 in a body to demand some explanation of my 
 great popularity. As my wife's cousin Teddy ^ 
 might have said, "A plain statement of 
 truth about one's self should never be consid- 
 ered egotism." For this reason I now, for a 
 few pages, ask you to read what my wife has to 
 say about me. She will tell you, humbly 
 enough, of my early career, of our courtship, 
 of our marriage, and of the greatest decision 
 of our life — to make a three months' trip to 
 the United States. 
 
 Faithfully always, my American friends, 
 
 T. Tubby. 
 
 Burnhouse, Sussex, 
 January, Nineteen Hundred and 
 Twenty-Two. 
 
 ' The Hon. Theodore Cobbler of Bolgy House. 
 
 [xiii] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 FOREWORD BY TIMOTHY TUBBY . 
 
 MY husband's rise TO FAME: AN 
 DUCTION BY THERESA TUBBY . 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I THERESA WINS A HUNT . 
 
 n I SPEND THE NIGHT IN JAIL . . 
 
 in I DISCOVER THE PULLMAN CAR . 
 
 IV I MAKE CHICAGO MY OWN . 
 
 V OLD MR. TUTWHEELER OF BOSTON 
 
 VI THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY . 
 
 VII AMERICAN WOMANHOOD . 
 
 VIII I REVIEW MY AMERICAN TRIP 
 
 INTRO- 
 
 PAQB 
 
 ix 
 
 21 
 
 39 
 
 73 
 
 103 
 
 137 
 171 
 201 
 231 
 263 
 
 [XV] 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 I WAS ATTENDING A SMALL TEA . Frontispiece 
 
 PAGB 
 
 A PORTRAIT OF THERESA ON HER FATHER*S DOWNS 3 1 
 
 MR. SMIRK WAS COVERED WITH SMILES ... 45 
 
 LILY FOUND THE BOTTLE 57 
 
 IN LITERARY NEW YORK EVERYONE MUST HAVE 
 
 HIS STUNT 77 
 
 I MADE THE FATAL PLUNGE 95 
 
 PEERING AT A RED HAIRED IRISHMAN WHO WAS 
 
 FIRING INNUMERABLE SHOTS . . . . II 3 
 
 ON, ON, FOR THE "piPUELLa!" 125 
 
 LIKE A MAN, I STOOD ROOTED TO THE SPOT . . . 141 
 
 I FELT BOTH EMBARRASSED AND AT SEA . . . 1 53 
 
 WITH GREEK BOOKS RAINING ABOUT MY EARS . l8l 
 
 hey! KICK HIM out! LISTEN TO THE BULL-DOG ! 203 
 
 "OH yes!" CHIRPED THE YOUNG LADIES. "hOW 
 
 SHALL WE FIND A HANDSOME HUSBAND?" . 241 
 
 [xvii] 
 
MY HUSBAND'S RISE TO FAME 
 An Introduction by 
 
 THERESA TUBBY 
 
TIMOTHY TUBBY'S 
 JOURNAL 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 MY HUSBAND'S RISE TO FAME 
 
 I doubt if anyone but myself and the Duke 
 of Ledham has, up to this very moment, real- 
 ized that my famous novelist husband's father 
 was a blacksmith. I am proud to proclaim it. 
 I remember when I told the Duke, that irre- 
 pressible old wit. Alas! there is no one else 
 who knew the young Theresa Turbot as did 
 he! Shall I ever forget that night in the 
 arbor? 
 
 Theresa (languidly): Well, Leddy, I'm 
 marrying. 
 
 Leddy: My heart is broken, Terry. 
 
 Theresa: It's a novelist, Leddy. 
 
 [21] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 Leddy: May his career be dedicated to 
 writing of you, my dear. 
 
 Theresa (with a flick of scarlet feather 
 fan): Tush! — and his father was a black- 
 smith. 
 
 Leddy: Let him mend the broken hearts of 
 your suitors, Terry, and strengthen the wast- 
 ing physique of the Turbots. 
 
 Great Heavens 1 What impudence! I 
 slapped his cheek soundly; but being an ex- 
 ceedingly high-spirited girl, really loved him 
 all the more. He was wrong concerning the 
 Turbot family. His elaborate show of de- 
 mocracy led him into this silly error. My 
 father ^ was a tall and sturdy man, with a sweet 
 smile and a rotten temper, a cricketer, too, in 
 his time; and my brother Tom, though he has 
 none of my perseverance and only fifty per 
 cent of my charm, could scarcely be called a 
 weakling. V\\ grant Leddy this — that the in- 
 fusion of a nip of blacksmith won't hurt the 
 bluest blood. 
 
 This contretemps took place in the famous 
 
 * James, the late Earl of Turbot 
 
 [22] 
 
My Husband's Rise to Fame 
 
 arbor at Blaze, our ancestral home. How 
 well I remember those great winding stairs 
 at Blaze and how I used to scandalize the 
 archbishops and even the curate by sliding 
 down the banisters. Shall I ever forget the 
 incident of the cat? It was my first manifes- 
 tation of the famous Turbot cruelty. Of my 
 later indulgences those who can best tell you 
 are Sir Harry Bunn, Arthur Plimpty, and 
 that gouty old renegade, the Duke of Gulp. 
 
 The cat was black. I forget its sex; but 
 then I was only four. I was standing at the 
 top of the dark stairs looking down. I sup- 
 pose that my Italian governess was in the gar- 
 den, my French day nurse in the nursery, and 
 my German night tutor safely in bed. Above 
 me loomed a portrait of the first Earl of Tur- 
 bot, booted and spurred, with his hounds at 
 his heels. Along came the cat, purring con- 
 tentedly. Something possessed me. Perhaps 
 it was the old earl's spirit hovering near 
 the portrait. I do not know. At any rate, 
 I seized the poor pussy by her tummy and 
 flung her down below me. She lay very 
 
 [23] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 still. Then, like a humble little child, as in- 
 deed I was, I sat down over my handi- 
 work and wept softly at first, then more vio- 
 lently. The handsome young stable boy found 
 me there. He gave me a cheap cigarette, and 
 to comfort me showed me how to smoke. 
 This was a great day in my life. 
 
 I have forgotten Timothy, for the moment. 
 Speaking, however, of his rise to fame, the 
 following anecdote serves to show one reason 
 for his success. We had been walking down 
 Piccadilly, and over tea at Claridge's were 
 discussing Timothy's new nervous breakdown, 
 when Lilly Darnley joined us. She hates me 
 because she once copied one of my gowns and 
 knows that I saw her wearing it at that scan- 
 dalous garden party at Tip House on the 
 night of the Duke of Cadley's murder. (Be- 
 fore me now I have a letter which the world 
 has never seen: dated, signed, which the 
 world will never see. It refers to the poor 
 dear Duke's sixth love affair. Alas! One 
 may still see her selling violets on the Em- 
 bankment.) 
 
 [24] 
 
My Husband's Rise to Fame 
 
 Lilly (trenchantly): At last Tubby has a 
 successful book. 
 
 Theresa (behind her cup): We are so glad 
 that you consider it a success. 
 
 Lilly (with widening eyes): How much 
 he has learned of women! 
 
 Timothy (behind his toast): I'm so glad 
 you think so. 
 
 Lilly : And how much like you, my dear, 
 his dialog sounds. 
 
 Timothy (eagerly): You did notice it? 
 Fm so proud. I write down every single one 
 of her bons mots in my little blue notebook 
 which she gave me on my last birthday. 
 
 The other reason for Timothy's success is 
 obvious enough. You have only to turn to the 
 frontispiece to know. Unlike most novelists, 
 my Tubby is handsome. What he lacks in 
 briskness of wit, he more than makes up in fine- 
 ness of feature. Oh yes! He is far better look- 
 ing and better dressed than Hugh Walpole, 
 Arnold Bennett, or even your own Joseph 
 Hergesheimer. One of your younger writers, 
 a bubbling fellow not long left his twentieth 
 
 [25] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 year, has something of Timothy's wistful 
 beauty. I forget the young man's name. He 
 writes verses, too, if I remember correctly. I 
 met him at a ball at the Ritz. Like all Amer- 
 icans, he promptly made love to me.' 
 
 This characteristic of Timothy's called 
 forth the following pathetic epistle: 
 
 Dear, dear Mrs. Tubby : 
 
 My husband, too, as you know, is a nov- 
 elist. My life is one sadness after another; 
 not that I blame him, poor dear. He's easily 
 influenced and so attractive. It's part of his 
 living to speak at women's clubs — and that 
 explains it. 
 
 You, however, manage Mr. Tubby so well. 
 
 *In looking over ray American papers I ran across the fol- 
 lowing verse. That young man sent it to me with a bunch of 
 violets and lilies of the valley. It is curiously illiterate, yet 
 the boy is well known in America. This is one of the literary 
 phenomena of which we shall speak later. 
 
 Oncet I met a English dame 
 
 I seen her at a dance, 
 I gotta get that dame, I says, 
 
 I gotta take a chance. 
 
 I ast her fer a kiss, I did, 
 
 She gave her mit, the goose, — 
 
 // thafs a kiss in London, 
 I asks yer — Whafs the use? 
 
 [26] 
 
My Husband's Rise to Fame 
 
 He is gracious, without being flirtatious, and 
 seems never to leave your side. A word of 
 advice from you might mend a breaking heart. 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 M. 
 
 I wrote Mrs. M. My letter was twelve 
 pages in all, so I quote only a part: 
 
 "You poor dear; but I think you must re- 
 member this. If you would hold your hus- 
 band, never let him be bored. Fight with him, 
 if necessary; but don't let things drift. Now, 
 he's not particularly good-looking, and his 
 personality is anything but pleasing; there- 
 fore, the only reason that the women flock to 
 him, is because he's famous. Make him 
 realize this gradually. Push him into a vio- 
 lent attachment for some silly fool who you 
 know will throw him over as soon as he begins 
 chasing her. Most of these lion-worshiping 
 ladies simply want to ride their lion and use 
 the whip once or twice in public. After 
 they've displayed their prowess, they lose in- 
 terest in the lion. It's not difficult to make a 
 
 [27] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 fool of your husband, my dear. I could have 
 don^e it myself, only I was too fond of you. 
 Hold the mirror up to him. Show him that 
 his one asset is his writing ability, and his 
 only chance of happiness, you. 
 
 "Also, do not hesitate to create a certain 
 amount of jealousy in his own breast. You 
 probably remember seeing me at Mrs. Tommy 
 Grave Carter's studio party last December in 
 New York. I sat next Porter Trace, and he 
 kissed me quite brazenly. What a genius you 
 Americans have for public embracing. Now 
 Porter is a bore, and for some reason his wife 
 did not speak to me a week later when I met 
 her at that stupid old fool's, Mrs. Tusted- 
 eager's. However, that event served its pur- 
 pose; for Timothy was particularly tender 
 with his little attentions that evening. 
 
 "I remember the first time that I was ever 
 introduced to the Dowager Duchess of Dux. 
 It was the year I came out. I hadn't been too 
 popular. My tongue was too sharp. In later 
 years I have learned to use it only on those 
 who make worthy enemies. It is useless, my 
 
 [28] 
 
My Husband's Rise to Fame 
 
 dear, to kill mere mice, when there are rats in 
 the house. The old duchess was wearing 
 black satin. She was short and pudgy in those 
 days and the great loose folds of her many 
 chins gave her an odd look. I had just been 
 presented to her by Claxton Ewberry, whose 
 mother had forced him to attend me that day. 
 He was a stupid boy, with a chronic blush, 
 had matured early, lived late, and was much 
 the worse for wear. She sent him scurrying 
 across the room to talk with Prissy Toms.^ 
 Then she looked at me. Her eyes were cold 
 blue, beady, and piercing. 
 
 "Dux: You're unhappy, young lady, be- 
 cause you're unpopular. 
 
 "Theresa: Why — I suppose — 
 
 "Dux (irritably): Of course you are. You 
 talk too much. 
 
 "Theresa (anxiously): What shall I do? 
 
 "DuX: Talk less and use your eyes more. 
 
 "It's good advice, Mrs. M., and both you 
 and your husband would profit by it. My last 
 word to you is this. Try to dissuade him 
 
 "The eldest daughter of Lady Ardella Drear, of Drearcombe. 
 
 [29] 
 
Timothy Tubb/s Journal 
 
 from writing sex novels. There are other sub- 
 jects, if not so appealing, at least worthy of 
 his attention. The interest of the club women 
 will lag as soon as they cease trying to find 
 out whether the experiences he relates in his 
 stories arc real or imaginary. Then, too, the 
 growing eflFectiveness of prohibition (a bar- 
 barous law, isn't it?) should aid you." 
 
 A silly woman, Mrs. M., and most unap- 
 preciative. She never even thanked me for 
 my eflForts in her behalf. American women 
 will ask advice of anyone concerning their 
 husbands; but they don't like to be told the 
 truth about themselves. 
 
 I was writing, however, of my husband's 
 career. Probably the thing which contributed 
 more to its success than any one other * was the 
 fact that all the members of our family, when 
 we were young together at Blaze, used to play 
 literary games. This, you see, prepared me 
 for a literary husband. We were taught to 
 respect poets and authors of other varieties. 
 We did not class them with ordinary trades- 
 
 * Except, of course, my marriage to dear Theresa. Tim. Tb, 
 
 [30] 
 
A PORTRAIT OF THERESA ON HER FATHER'3 DOWNS 
 
My Husband's Rise to Fame 
 
 people, as do some members of your American 
 aristocracy (whatever that means!). I over- 
 heard a most interesting conversation recently 
 at an afternoon tea in a certain house on Park 
 Avenue. A rather young New York editor, 
 Mr. Smirk, whose manners sufiFer somewhat 
 from his country rearing, was being quizzed 
 by a stout society lady, Mrs. Blurr. 
 
 Mrs. Blurr: I no longer allow my daugh- 
 ter to associate with your friend Mr. Bustle. 
 
 Mr. Smirk: And why is that, Mrs. Blurr? 
 
 Mrs. BlURRS (high-toning him): She's 
 just made her debut and is so innocent and 
 you know he is occasionally seen with an ac- 
 tress and lives in Greenwich Village. Do 
 you blame me? » 
 
 Mr. Smirk (obsequiously): Of course not! 
 Do you know, though, I'm so worried about 
 my young cousin who is an actor and whose 
 mother has asked me to watch his morals. 
 
 Mrs. Blurr (amazed): Your cousin, an 
 actor! And why should you worry about his 
 morals, pray! 
 
 [33] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 Mr. Smirk (turning away): He's been 
 seen with a debutante, Mrs. Blurr. 
 
 I have never been able to understand the 
 American attitude toward the morals of ar- 
 tists. The only difference between the life of 
 an actor and the life of a millionaire is that 
 an actor parades his follies and a millionaire 
 keeps them under cover until his wife displays 
 them in the divorce courts. 
 
 Well, these literary games of ours were 
 entertaining. One we had called Tittleteetum. 
 We played it with toothpicks, which we bor- 
 rowed from the servants' quarters. I shall 
 never forget Papa's dismay when he saw me 
 using one. "I'd far rather you'd take six 
 drinks of Scotch^" he said, "than use one 
 toothpick." Each toothpick represented a 
 famous line of poetry, and the game was to 
 guess the name of the poet by the arrangement 
 of the toothpicks. You may imagine that it 
 was difficult, but that it was possible you may 
 believe from the fact that I always won ; and 
 brother Tom occasionally made a lucky 
 guess, in spite of his stupidity. 
 
 [34] 
 
My Husband* s Rise to Fame 
 
 This brings me to an account of the day 
 when I first met Tubby. He was wearing a 
 blue tie with red spots. I have always been 
 proud of his taste in neckwear. It was at a 
 dinner given by the Algeltons.^ Being mer- 
 chants of a sort, they collect the literary. I 
 knew at once that I would force him to pro- 
 pose to me, though at that time I had not de- 
 cided to accept him. However, I immedi- 
 ately bought his books, and that decided me. 
 There was a soul in them that one does not 
 see in the man himself. 
 
 To make a long story short — for it was 3. 
 long story, getting Tubby to propose — we were 
 married amid much gossip three months later. 
 To assuage your curiosity I'll tell you how I 
 did it. How curious you Americans are! 
 
 Timothy: I do so want to pay a visit to 
 America. I hear they treat the Indians badly. 
 
 Theresa: Why don't you? 
 
 Timothy: I don't like to go alone. 
 
 Theresa : Why don't you take someone? 
 
 •The Newberry Algeltons, manufacturers of the AlgeltOD 
 
 bottles. 
 
 [35] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 Timothy (embarrassed): Would you like 
 to visit America? 
 
 Theresa: Yes — but I think we'd better 
 marry first. 
 
 Now you have the true story of our trip to 
 the United States. 
 
 [36] 
 
Chapter One 
 THERESA WINS A HUNT 
 
CHAPTER ONE 
 THERESA WINS A HUNT 
 
 How weary we were after a few hours of 
 being interviewed and photographed 1 This 
 deep appreciation on the part of the American 
 people was touching, but exhausting. Yet my 
 publishers telephoned me every two or three 
 hours, to say that editions of my latest novel 
 were flying through multitudinous presses; 
 that I must bear up under the strain and give 
 the public what it demands : namely, a glimpse 
 of me and of my aristocratic wife. This, it 
 seems, is what sells a book in America. The 
 public must see an author in order to believe 
 that he can write. 
 
 When my distinguished forebear, Charles 
 Dickens,^ arrived in the town of Boston, he 
 
 * The relationship was on ray husband's father's side. The 
 Turbots were never so closely connected with the bourgeoisie. 
 Tkr, Tb. 
 
 [39] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 found his room flooded with oflFers of a pew at 
 Sunday morning church. This fashion in 
 America has apparently passed, though I was 
 taken on sightseeing expeditions to various 
 cathedrals whose architecture seemed to me 
 to be execrable (largely European copies — 
 nothing natively American). It was never 
 suggested that I attend divine service. On the 
 contrary, I had countless invitations to be pres- 
 ent at what is known as a "cocktail chase." 
 My New York literary admirers seemed 
 tumbling over one another to offer me the 
 keys to their cellars and to invite me to take 
 part in one of those strange functions. It is 
 their love of danger, rather than any particu- 
 lar passion for liquor, that has, I believe, 
 given birth to these elaborate fetes. 
 
 A cocktail chase takes place shortly before 
 dinner. It may lead you into any one of a 
 number of places, even as far as the outlying 
 districts of the Bronx. If you own a motor, 
 you may use that; if not, a taxi will do. Usu- 
 ally a large number of motors are employed. 
 Add to this pursuing motorcycle policemen, 
 
 [40] 
 
Theresa Wins a Hunt 
 
 and the sight is most impressive. The police 
 are for protection against crime waves, not for 
 the arrest of the cocktail chasers. A revenue 
 agent performs this function, when it becomes 
 necessary. However, if I tell you the story 
 of our introduction to literary New York, it 
 will include the tale of one of the most thrill- 
 ing cocktail chases in the history of Manhat- 
 tan. I shall, therefore, proceed. 
 
 The number of our invitations was so large 
 that it was hard to pick and choose. Natur- 
 ally, we did not care to risk attendance at any 
 function which might injure our reputation. 
 Usually my wife has an almost psychic sense 
 of such matters ; but the Social Register was 
 of no assistance in this case.^ Before several 
 hours had passed, however, we decided to 
 hire a social secretary. I phoned my pub- 
 lisher for a recommendation. "Dear Tubby," 
 he said, "what you need is a publicity agent 
 not a social secretary. I'll send you the best 
 New York can offer immediately. It was 
 
 "Wc, of course, had entree to all the best Fifth Avenue 
 homes, but since we have now become literary folk, we chose 
 to remain so. We therefore avoided the better classes. Thr. Tb, 
 
 [41] 
 
Timothy Tuhbys Journal 
 
 careless of me not to think of it before. You 
 seemed to have a genius for that sort of thing 
 yourself." 
 
 The publicity agent is difBcult to explain. 
 He is somehow connected with an American 
 game which originated in the great northwest, 
 and which is called log-rolling. He stands 
 between you and the public which is clamor- 
 ing for a glimpse of you. The difference be- 
 tween a social secretary and a publicity agent 
 seems to be that the former merely answers 
 invitations, while the latter makes sure that 
 you are invited. He writes your speeches for 
 you, sometimes even goes so far as to write 
 your novels, and, in a strange place, will im- 
 personate you at all public functions unless 
 your wife objects.^ 
 
 Mr. Vernay arrived, fortunately, in time to 
 sort our invitations. "First," he said, "just 
 you and Terry" (he was one of those brusque 
 new world types and Theresa rather enjoyed 
 
 •Indeed Mr. Vernay was a most accomplished gentleman, 
 and I never objected to him. I only remarked once that I was 
 glad Timothy was not so attractive to the ladies as Mr. Vernay. 
 This, I did not consider an objection. Thr. Tb. 
 
 [42] 
 
Theresa Wins a Hunt 
 
 his familiarity — "so refreshing," I remember 
 she said) "sit right down and I'll tell you all 
 about literature in this here New York." 
 
 I shall try to repeat his classification with 
 some comments of my own. It seems that 
 literary personages in New York City are di- 
 vided into two large general groups: the older 
 generation, and the younger intelligentsia. 
 This division, it seems, is a recent one, ex- 
 plained by the fact that it is only since the war 
 that youth in America has been articulate. 
 This so surprised the parental mind that every 
 attempt is being made to repress the young. 
 In fact, a special board of censorship has been 
 formed to suppress all novels by those under 
 the age of fifteen. If this were in England, 
 I should think it absurd; but you have no 
 right to judge the actions of the "elder writers" 
 until you have met what is known as a "flap- 
 per novelist." No method of suppression 
 could be too drastic. There are two main 
 flapper novelists: one male and one female; 
 and though generally frowned upon by moth- 
 ers, it is nevertheless true that their books have 
 
 [43] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 a sale which last year very nearly equaled 
 that of my own books. 
 
 The next phenomenon to be considered is 
 the "colyumnist." A colyumnist is a gentle- 
 man taken from journalistic ranks and com- 
 manded by his editor to become both literary 
 and entertaining. He should be, preferably, 
 a former prizefighter, or if he has not him- 
 self worn the gloves, he, at least, should have 
 been a sport writer. This makes it certain 
 that he will approach art with a freshness of 
 viewpoint. The American public demands a 
 complete lack of knowledge on the part of 
 its critic. "From knowledge springs preju- 
 dice," the editor of a famous American fash- 
 ion magazine told me. This gentleman, by 
 the way, is a great authority on books. He can 
 always tell the public what novel is going to 
 be popular. He does this by leaving copies 
 about slyly in millinery establishments and 
 then, after a week has passed, counting the 
 number of finger prints on the pages. It is an 
 excellent test. One of the great publishing 
 houses employs him as chief editorial adviser, 
 
 [44] 
 
MR. SMIRK WAS COVERED WITH SMILES 
 
Theresa Wins a Hunt 
 
 sending manuscripts to him for this purpose. 
 An author recently sued them for damages, 
 having found a chocolate finger print on his 
 returned manuscript. When the matter was 
 explained he was, of course, very pleased. 
 "Only fancy," he told me, "how dreadful I 
 should have felt had there been no finger print 
 at all, or if it had been found on the first page 
 instead of the last." These colyumnists have 
 great power. Most of them are chosen be- 
 cause of what Americans term a "magnetic 
 personality," which is the ability to keep one's 
 self constantly and blatantly in the public eye. 
 Having drawn to themselves, by this means, 
 what is called a "following," they become ad- 
 visers to this group of people on any one of a 
 number of topics: books, plays, baby foods, 
 race horses, politics, morality, and passion. 
 They take the place of the great spiritual men- 
 tors of old. It is well known that one of these 
 fellows is constantly protected by private de- 
 tectives, for fear of attack by irate husbands 
 whose wives have followed his moral advice. 
 A deputation of children recently petitioned 
 
 [47] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 another lest he ruin their lives by advice on 
 education. Still another was sued by a parent 
 for having driven his eighteen year old son to 
 take up life before the mast 
 
 If an American author once becomes the 
 friend of a colyumnist, he can hire a secretary 
 to write his novels. His future is secure. 
 
 Next come the "popular novelists." These 
 ladies and gentlemen are retained at huge 
 salaries by publishing houses because they once 
 wrote a book that sold several hundred thou- 
 sand copies. They dictate two books a year, 
 each of which sells, by dint of much adver- 
 tising, somewhat less than the last, until fin- 
 ally, as the prices paid them by popular maga- 
 zines rise, the sales of their books become 
 negligible. They live in the suburbs as a 
 rule, and do not mix with the other members 
 of the literary community. Their mornings 
 are spent with a secretary, their afternoons at 
 horseback, golf, and social climbing, a pas- 
 time which we will explain later. 
 
 A» Mr. Vernay tossed away one invitation 
 
 [48] 
 
Theresa Wins a Hunt 
 
 after another he made the most caustic re- 
 marks. 
 
 "From Betty Tango, the illustrator. Bah I 
 She mixes a good punch and wears interesting 
 clothes, but she insists on being the lion at all 
 her own parties. You'd get nothing there. 
 
 "From Tommy Mascot — the dramatic cri- 
 tic. You'd find an interesting crowd ; but his 
 one effort in life is to make his friends uncom- 
 fortable and his enemies miserable. Conse- 
 quently he soon makes enemies of his friends. 
 Hardly worth your while. 
 
 "From Gerald Smirk, the young editor — 
 too new to be important. A bore himself, so 
 he chooses shocking friends. His parties are 
 so mixed as to be impossible for Mrs. Tubby. 
 
 "Oh!" Mr. Vernay smiled triumphantly. 
 "Here we have it. This is an invitation for 
 you and Mrs. Tubby to be the guests of honor 
 at a salon at the favorite club of Arthur Star- 
 buckle, the editor of *The Cravat,' a maga- 
 zine *for men only.' This is the proper in- 
 troduction to literary New York. If your 
 neckwear happens to catch Art Starbuckle's 
 
 [49] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 eye, you're made. I'll send out notices to the 
 newspapers at once that youVe accepted this 
 invitation." 
 
 "But," I protested, "aren't you sending him 
 any word?" 
 
 "Oh, he'll see the papers'' replied Mr. Ver- 
 nay. And that was how I learned how invi- 
 tations are answered in America. 
 
 "This salon, as you call it, what will it be 
 like?" Theresa asked Mr. Vernay. 
 
 Vernay smiled. "Anyone may have a salon 
 in America," he replied. "A clever woman, 
 or just a woman, or a man with salonic tenden- 
 cies. All that's necessary is a good house, a 
 good bootlegger, and a good publicity agent. 
 Why, I myself have engineered twenty salons; 
 all going full blast now, and ten of the host- 
 esses were from the middle west. Think of 
 itl And with only a high school education. 
 They get away with it by studying the book 
 of famous quotations and the French phrases 
 in the back of a dictionary." * 
 
 *I met a Mrs. Margrave at one of the places. She spoke 
 constantly the most vulgar French of a cocotte, 
 
 [50] 
 
Theresa Wins a Hunt 
 
 At that very moment the telephone bell 
 rang. 
 
 Vernay leaped to his feet. 
 
 "Get over to that desk!" he commanded. 
 He seized some manuscripts from the tray 
 of my trunk, threw them before me. "Mrs. 
 Tubby," he shouted, "take the smelling salts, 
 lie down on the chaise longue, and seem ill 
 and bored. If you ever looked aristocratic 
 in your life, do it now!" 
 
 "But, my dear Mr. Vernay," Theresa 
 gasped. 
 
 "It's probably another interviewer!" Mr. 
 Vernay stammered. "It might even be a sob 
 sister.*^ At all costs we must be dramatic. 
 Drama is the soul of the American woman's 
 page. Is that gown you're wearing a Paquin? 
 
 Theresa: Where did your learn your exquisite accent, my 
 dear? 
 
 Mrs. M.: My husband taught it to me. He studied so hard 
 while he was with the army in France. 
 
 Theresa {itAckedly) : You speak what is called Parisian 
 French, my dear. 
 
 Mrs. M. {thrilled): How interesting! Jimmie told me that 
 he took lessons faithfully every evening while he was in Paris. 
 Thr. Tb. 
 
 "A sob sister is an elderly unmarried woman who writes of 
 intimate marriage problems for the American papers. Thr. Tb. 
 
 [51] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal • 
 
 Couldn't you make it a bit more negligee?" 
 
 Mr. Vernay turned, radiant, from the tele- 
 phone. 
 
 "It is, it is, I knew it was. He's come as I 
 knew he would. It's Mr. Smirk. He's the 
 Boswell of the younger intelligentsia!" 
 
 "But Tubby's not young 1" Theresa pro- 
 tested. 
 
 "Ah!" and Mr. Vernay laid his finger along 
 the side of his nose, a gesture which the Amer- 
 icans have borrowed from the pages of my 
 esteemed forebear, Mr. Dickens.^ "But he's 
 intelligent. 
 
 "You'll like Smirk," Mr. Vernay explained 
 further. "He's a perfect tuft hunter. He'll 
 do a paragraph about you both in his ^Notori- 
 ous Notes'." 
 
 "But we've just refused an invitation from 
 him." 
 
 "Oh that doesn't matter," said Mr. Vernay. 
 "It's impossible to offend him. He'll invite 
 you again." 
 
 *In spite of all I can say, my husband will mention his con- 
 nection with the vulgar old imbecile. Thr. Tb. 
 
 [52] 
 
Theresa Wins a Hunt 
 
 Mr. Smirk came in. He was covered with 
 smiles, very young, blushing. His worship of 
 our ability was nothing short of touching. 
 Vernay pushed a note toward me. Smirk saw 
 me take it, I'm sure, and turned away, blush- 
 ing again. 
 
 "He's a poet. Wrote *Sobs for Sinners.' 
 Likes flattery. Has a poem about grapejuice." 
 
 "I'm so sorry that I left my copy of *Sobs 
 for Sinners' in England. It was all because I 
 was so busy working on a new novel," I told 
 Mr. Smirk. "Theresa so enjoyed the little 
 ditty about lemonade." 
 
 "Oh, it was so nice of her to remember it — 
 only it was about limewater. What an honor 1 
 What a joyl Actually to be recognized by the 
 famous Tubby family. Are you coming to my 
 party in honor of you?" 
 
 Mr. Vernay apologized. ... 
 
 "So sorry; but I'll have to have it just the 
 same — for myself," said Mr. Smirk. "So 
 pleased to have met you at last after these years 
 of admiration" — and he bowed himself out. 
 
 "That's finel" said Vernay. "Finel A 
 
 [53] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 successful aflfair. You'll have to hand it to 
 me; it was the grapejuice did it!" 
 
 "But he did not interview us," I protested. 
 
 "Didn't you tell him that you were writing 
 a new novel? That's all he wanted to know. 
 His own enthusiasm will do the rest. He's a 
 noted enthusiasm slinger." ^ 
 
 I quote a part of the interview which ap- 
 peared a month later, as an example of the 
 splendid way in which all shades of opinion 
 received us in America. 
 
 We found them, the two delightful Tubblcs, in their 
 room at the Ritz. She (our fashion editor tells us that 
 she was probably wearing a tulle dressing gown decollete ) 
 was lying on a chaise longue upholstered in purple, her 
 aristocratic little hand holding, not a cigarette mind you, 
 but a tiny filigree bottle of smelling salts, to her nose. 
 That nose ! That famous, delicately traced nose ! No one 
 but a scion of English nobility could possess so distinctive a 
 nose ! He, the great Tubby, was busy at his desk working 
 at his new novel. How anxiously we await that novel. 
 How the American public awaits it. We are proud to 
 be the first one to announce it. Mr. Tubby told us the 
 plot; but with our usual discretion we absolutely refuse 
 to disclose it, 
 
 'An enthusiasm slinger is a member of an American society 
 called the Pollyanna Club. It is quite large and powerful, and 
 its members wear a smile button concealed somewhere on their 
 person. Thr. Tb. 
 
 [54] 
 
Theresa Wins a Hunt 
 
 "Do you like America?" we asked. 
 
 "Do ir was all the distinguished Theresa replied." 
 But how eloquent — and we shall never forget that nose 
 poised above the smelling salts. 
 
 Early the next morning while Theresa was 
 still going through the papers to see how many 
 times our names were mentioned, the tele- 
 phone began to ring. It was Tommy Mascot, 
 the famous dramatic critic. He wanted to 
 know if we wouldn't attend one of his cock- 
 tail chases before going to Art Starbuckle's 
 party at the Bevo Club. At first we pleaded 
 a busy day, but when he said, *^IVe heard what 
 a great and successful fox hunter your wife 
 is; you really can't deprive her of the unique 
 pleasure of our newest athletic entertainment." 
 — well really, we couldn't resist that. "I'll 
 call for you a trifle early," he added. "You 
 must see some of the sights of Times Square." 
 
 Soon Mr. Vernay arrived for what he 
 called a "strategic council of war." 
 
 "I mustn't be seen with you," he explained. 
 "Certain press circles are prejudiced against 
 
 ' Of course this was a misquotation — I never used so dreadful 
 an American colloquialism! Not on your tintype! Thr. Tb, 
 
 [55] 
 
Timothy Tubby* s Journal 
 
 me. I usually work in disguises; in fact, I 
 keep a variety of them for all occasions. To- 
 night I shall use cork and livery. As a waiter, 
 I shall be in constant attendance at your el- 
 bow. You will know me by my black and 
 white whiskers. If you can think of nothing 
 to say, talk about literature. It is a safe sub- 
 ject. None of the guests will know anything 
 about it. Above all things be on your guard 
 when T.N.T. is around." 
 
 "And who is T.N.T. ?" we, the Tubbies, 
 demanded in chorus. 
 
 **Tom Taloween," replied Vernay. "He's 
 the most powerful of the colyumnists. Why! 
 He once recommended the wearing of sus- 
 penders instead of belts, and every young man 
 on Broadway could be heard snapping his 
 shoulder straps for miles east and west. In 
 fact, I strongly advise you to wear suspenders 
 this evening. Bring up the subject, too. It's 
 his hobby. He collects suspenders and has 
 invented a musical instrument which is en- 
 tirely strung with ancient flowered trouser 
 supporters. Ask him to let you hear him play 
 
 [56] 
 
LILT FOUND THB BOTTLB 
 
Theresa Wins a Hunt 
 
 Tschaikowsky on it, sometime. He'll appre- 
 ciate that. Oh, you'll make a hit all right. 
 How can you help it, with me around to tell 
 you just what to talk to everyone about?" 
 
 About four o'clock. Tommy Mascot bustled 
 in. (I am told that he was chosen as dramatic 
 critic because of his knowledge of poker play- 
 ing.) 
 
 "We must hurry," he bubbled. "I'm sure 
 that no one has thought to show you our haber- 
 dashery shops. I feel it my duty. Gomel" 
 
 We hurried after him and soon found our- 
 selves outside a window into which we all 
 peered solemnly at a spectacular array of 
 white raiment. 
 
 "Dear, dear," sputtered Tommy Mascot, 
 "we must have new neckties. Art Starbuckle 
 will never allow us to appear as we are. Socks 
 to match, too." 
 
 "But — ^with a dinner jacket," I protested 
 — "and where will we change?" 
 
 "Oh we can put them on right in the taxi- 
 cab," he assured us. "Bright green ties are all 
 the rage with dinner jackets. They will 
 
 [59] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 realize at once that we are both members of 
 the same coterie if we wear bright green ties. 
 Besides, I am well known as the man who 
 always wants his friends to buy him a new 
 tie." 
 
 "But," I protested, "I haven't any money." 
 
 "I'll lend you some," he offered. "And 
 
 have you heard the latest?" We shook our 
 
 heads. He looked exceedingly clever, then 
 
 said: 
 
 "Poor Theresa Tubby, 
 Why didn't she marry a butter hubby?" 
 
 We had been warned by Mr. Vernay that 
 we must expect personal insults, as they are 
 not considered insults at all in these circles; 
 but this needed some explanation. It not only 
 seemed to be insulting, but also unintelligible. 
 
 "Oh, I see, slow on the uptake aren't you?" 
 he gurgled. "It's a double play on words. 
 Butter — tubby — hubby — better hubby — butter 
 tub — don't you see now?" 
 
 We didn't; but naturally we applauded his 
 cunning. Later we found that a high pre- 
 mium is placed on various forms of punning 
 
 [60] 
 
Theresa Wins a Hunt 
 
 in New York literary society. Little games 
 are devised and a prize is offered each week 
 for the best play on words. This is considered 
 the height of brilliance. The winner of each 
 week's contest is mentioned three times in 
 T.N.T.'s colyumn. It is a fascinating sight 
 to see these ladies and gentlemen and even 
 little children shouting puns at each other and 
 loudly claiming superiority for their own. 
 
 "Now for the cocktail chase," said Tommy 
 Mascot. "We must have another taxi, and yet 
 another!" He hailed them. 
 
 "Mrs. Tubby, please get into the front taxi. 
 Go to this address" — he handed her a paper 
 — "repeat these words" — he whispered in her 
 ear — "they will give you my maiden aunt." 
 
 We expressed our surprise. 
 
 "She's for purposes of camouflage, you see. 
 Who would suspect anyone of being on a cock- 
 tail chase with a maiden aunt?" 
 
 I could see the tears commencing to gather 
 in Theresa's eyes; but that dauntless huntress 
 would scarcely be swayed from her course by 
 so simple an experiment as was this. 
 
 [6i] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 "You take the second taxi," Mascot com- 
 manded me. "Ride three blocks east, half a 
 block west, break three running boards and 
 a couple of fenders and call Policeman No. 
 322. He will tell you the whereabouts of 
 my mother's sister's lady's maid. Fetch her." 
 
 "How strange," Theresa remarked in spite 
 of herself. "It is not customary in our coun- 
 try to allow lady's maids to ride to hounds." 
 
 "You see," explained Mascot, "you can't 
 be particular about the social status of your 
 pack of bootleggers. The young man who is 
 walking out with Lily knows how to stalk 
 Vermouth. We must have him. So run 
 along now, and don't be too slow about it. 
 
 "I myself am going to hunt for a revenue 
 agent to bribe. They are easier to bribe than 
 to find. Meet me in fifteen minutes at the 
 corner of Forty-Second Street and Broadway." 
 
 With that we all three hopped into our 
 taxis, the motors began to chug, and the cock- 
 tail chase was on. 
 
 "Tapl Tap!" — ^what was this aged face 
 peering in at the window as we careened 
 
 [62] 
 
Theresa Wins a Hunt 
 
 madly through the crowded streets? A mes- 
 senger lad. I helped him to crawl through 
 the window, so risking life and limb. 
 
 "How do you do?" I said. 
 
 "Mr. Tubby," he gasped. "I'm from the 
 Trout publishing house. Here are proofs of 
 our latest novel. Kindly read them at once. 
 We must have a comment from you for our 
 advertisements in the morning." 
 
 This seemed strange; but I tore open the 
 package, and after reading the first page 
 realized that it was just another of these crude 
 American attempts. I scribbled, therefore: 
 "This is horrifying. It would be tragic to 
 take time to read it." — T. Tubby. 
 
 The morning papers bore the following 
 legend : 
 
 READ MAJOR DOBBS' NEWEST NOVEL 
 
 Timothy Tubby says : 
 
 "Horrifying. . . . tragic. . . . take time to read it.*' 
 If the great English novelist spares his valuable hours 
 to digest this novel, can you afford to miss it? 
 Answer — your nearest book store! 
 
 Now my taxi was swinging along in splen- 
 
 [63] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 did fashion. Presently we hit an old lady, 
 and then a little boy. The driver turned to 
 me with a jolly grin : 
 
 "That was a good one, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Yes," I replied. "But are you following 
 the directions?" 
 
 "Sure," said he as he hit a fender just to 
 prove his point. 
 
 I gave Policeman 322 the "high sign," as 
 the Americans have it. He pointed solemnly 
 to a group of ten young ladies standing on 
 the corner. They were all dressed similarily, 
 short skirts, etc.— -the only difference that I 
 noticed was — ^well, how was I to tell which 
 was Lily? I asked No. 322. 
 
 "Go ask 'em, you boobl" he suggested. 
 
 I approached the group gingerly. I asked 
 in tentative tones which was Lily. 
 
 "You fresh guy," they shouted in unison. 
 
 No. 322 came running over. 
 
 "Hi, you English fella, waddye mean by 
 accosting those young ladies?" 
 
 I explained that I was looking for Lily. 
 
 [64] 
 
Theresa Wins a Hunt 
 
 "Oh, so y'are," he replied. "Well, here she 
 be!" 
 
 Lily greeted me cordially. "These are my 
 companions de chasse/' she explained. 
 
 "All of them?" I asked. 
 
 She replied in the affirmative. Well, the 
 long and the short of it was, we all piled into 
 two taxicabs and with much screaming and 
 shouting swept on magnificently toward Forty- 
 Second Street. 
 
 There I saw a strange sight. Theresa was 
 pacing up and down in front of a cigar store 
 with a doddering old lady on her arm. It 
 was undoubtedly the maiden aunt. She 
 looked so thoroughly respectable. 
 
 "IVe forgotten it!" she was saying in piti- 
 ful tones. "IVe forgotten the Lickertester." 
 
 "She's forgotten the Lickertester," Theresa 
 explained. "It's not safe to go on without it. 
 We might capture some wood alcohol!" 
 
 The young ladies were screaming, the taxi- 
 cab drivers shouting, a crowd was gathering, 
 Theresa was weeping, the maiden-lady aunt 
 was leaning in a state of faint against a cigar 
 
 [65] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 store window; when fortunately, Tommy 
 Mascot arrived with a red-faced gentleman 
 firmly held by the collar. 
 
 "It's a revenue agent,'' he shouted, "and 
 he refuses to be bribed. We'll have to take 
 him along, so we will!" 
 
 "Have you the Lickertester?" demanded 
 Miss Teach — for that was her name. 
 
 "Several," replied Tommy, as he jumped 
 to the lap of a taxi driver, seized the wheel 
 with one hand and the horn with another, and 
 shouted: "Followl Follow! Follow!" 
 
 I found myself alongside of Miss Teach, 
 who was clapping her hands joyfully, thrilled 
 as she was by the excitement of the chase. 
 
 "Where are we going now?" I asked her. 
 
 "We're stalking Vermouth!" she told me. 
 "Can't you hear the Vermouth note in the 
 cries of the taxi horns? It's unmistakable!" 
 
 Suddenly all the taxis stopped. 
 
 "What's happening now?" I asked Miss 
 Teach, who was sobbing quietly. 
 
 "Oh, how I hate to see any poor creature 
 suffer ! Another revenue agent gone. They're 
 
 [66] 
 
Theresa Wins a Hunt 
 
 putting him down a manhole now. Poor little 
 revenue agent 1" 
 
 "Do you mean that they murdered him?'' 
 
 "Not exactly that," she explained. "They 
 bribed him with a bottle of bad whisky. He 
 drank it. So that's that! Now we can go 
 on." 
 
 Then the motorcycle policemen joined us. 
 They ran alongside and waved their caps at 
 us, cheering us along. 
 
 "I just bet you never saw a sight like this 
 in England," said Miss Teach to me, and there 
 was only one reply. 
 
 Now we had come into the outlying dis- 
 tricts of the Bronx. We stopped in front of 
 an amusement park. Lily's young man, it 
 seems, had hidden a bottle of Vermouth under 
 the cushions of one of the cars of a ferris 
 wheel. How to find it? All of us must take 
 a ride. Alas! it was perilous, indeed, whirl- 
 ing high above New York City and hunting 
 under those cushions for the prize. Miss 
 Teach became quite ill. I carried her to a 
 
 [673 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 cab. But when Lily found the bottle it 
 cheered everyone immensely. 
 
 "On, on again," shouted the imperturbable 
 Mascot, waving the bottle above his head. 
 **Gin is the cry now! Aunt Annie! To your 
 milliner's!" 
 
 The mauve curtains of the millinery shop 
 were drawn discreetly. For the first time 
 during the chase we were quiet. The motor- 
 cycle policemen crept along like so many 
 hounds. By a back entrance we entered single 
 file. It was dark. It was mysterious. Mas- 
 cot spoke in a hoarse whisper: 
 
 "Approach the ribbon counter softly. Feel 
 with your hands among the ribbons. It is 
 there lies the quarry." 
 
 The ribbons were soft to the touch. I found 
 nothing. 
 
 A scream. A familiar scream. It was 
 Terry! 
 
 "I have it! I have it! I'm first!" She 
 was waving a bottle of gin. 
 
 "Here, let me test it." Mascot ripped out 
 the stopper and stuck in a long tube. It was 
 
 [68] 
 
Theresa Wins a Hunt 
 
 the Lickertester. He lit the end of it. "If 
 it burns red, it's good," he explained. "If it 
 burns yellow, we must destroy it. . . . Ahl 
 Fine!" 
 
 "But that looks yellow to me," I warned. 
 
 "Oh no, it's orange," contradicted Mascot; 
 "that means it's pretty good. It may blind us, 
 but it can't kill us!" 
 
 There was a shout from the front of the 
 shop. 
 
 "A crime wave is on us! Flee! Flee!" 
 
 From all directions I saw masked men with 
 guns approaching. Theresa noticed my con- 
 fusion. In the general melee she picked me 
 up in her arms and ran to a taxi. Tommy 
 Mascot was on our heels. 
 
 "To the Bevo Club," he commanded. As 
 we sank back for a well earned rest in the 
 cushions of the cab, Theresa smiled her fa- 
 mous, triumphal smile and, throwing back 
 the furs that swathed her, displayed, — ^what 
 do you think? Two bottles, one of gin and 
 one of Vermouth. She had won the day. The 
 quarry was hers. 
 
 [69] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 "Congratulations! I didn't think it pos- 
 sible. You have, you have achieved a cock- 
 tail. And what do you think of a cocktail 
 chase?" 
 
 "Very American," was my dear wife's only 
 reply. 
 
 [70] 
 
Chapter Two 
 I SPEND THE NIGHT IN JAIL 
 
CHAPTER TWO 
 
 I SPEND THE NIGHT IN JAIL 
 
 "Well! Well!" and a hovering gentleman 
 who seemed on all sides of us at once spoke 
 breathlessly. "If here isn't the great Tubby, 
 himself! Do you and Mrs. Tubby just stand 
 still a second. Only a second, and, Mrs. Tub- 
 by, look at that beautiful stuffed bird on the 
 wall. That's it, smile! It's my favorite bird, 
 the Fatu-ous-a-Bird. Its eggs are epigrams. 
 They spoil very rapidly. Sometimes they're 
 even bad when laid. Now! Oh! What a 
 beautiful smile, Mrs. Tubby, and how often 
 I've heard of that Lovely Tubby smile. We 
 must have a picture of you just as you're being 
 introduced to literary New York. There! 
 Now! That's all right! Here we are! Oh, 
 yes, so you haven't; haven't met me, I mean. 
 But that's all right, old boy. I'm Art Star- 
 
 [73] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 buckle, and what a charming green tie you arc 
 wearing. All the rage now with dinner coats, 
 and just like mine. Quite correct. How 
 easily you Englishmen do catch on! Wish 
 Americans were as quick at absorbing the cul- 
 ture of dear old England." 
 
 Here we were at last in the famous Bevo 
 Club, that pasture for patrons of pleasure, as 
 it has been so aptly called by Starbuckle, its 
 founder. 
 
 "Isn't it just like a page cut from The Cra- 
 vat'?" he asked us proudly. "The Cravat — 
 For Men Only" is the magazine that Art 
 edits. Since I naturally did not care to say 
 that I had never seen it, I nodded and smiled. 
 
 What did the Bevo Club look like? A fu- 
 turist art gallery? No. Marie Antoinette's 
 chicken coop? No. A Paris hotel? No. 
 Oh, I had it! It looked exactly like a — 
 
 But Theresa here interrupted the train of 
 my thought. She was asking Mr. Starbuckle 
 what the requirements for membership are. 
 
 "Trifling, trifling," he replied. "Each 
 member must own a shooting box, have legs 
 
 [74] 
 
/ spend the Night in Jail 
 
 that measure not less than six and more than 
 ten inches around the calf, have written at 
 least one act of a play, be able to talk in Esper- 
 anto, and to wear a pearl grey hat without 
 blushing." ^ 
 
 It seemed fair enough. We looked about 
 us. In all this array of light and beauty, is 
 it not strange that, possessing the unusually 
 psychic intuition of a true artist, I did not 
 realize what a dreadful evening was in store 
 for me, what tragedy, nay, what dual tragedy 
 was to overtake me? Alas, alack! But more 
 of that anon. 
 
 "What's this?" Theresa was pointing to a 
 most elaborate weighing machine just within 
 the door. 
 
 "Oh I" Starbuckle laughed. "Those are 
 scales for measuring cleverness. An invention 
 of Tommy Mascot's. We do not allow any- 
 one who is heavyminded to enter here. We 
 don't believe in mixing fluff with solidity. 
 Above all, we must never be bored for a sec- 
 
 ^This embarrassed poor Timothy very much. He never 
 plays golf because he can't bear to appear in knickers. Tkr. Tb. 
 
 [75] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 ond. They take it well, though, poor souls, 
 and if they find that they're growing heavy, 
 they either reduce brain power, or leave us 
 completely. Usually they are just as bored 
 as we are, so that compensates. Here's a little 
 group of 'em now; they asked to be allowed 
 to stay a few moments, just so they could speak 
 to you." 
 
 "Don't you mind a bit," Theresa soothed 
 them. "If they weighed us I've no doubt that 
 they'd find us heavy, too. Meanwhile do tell 
 us who you are, and I'm sure that Mr. Star- 
 buckle will give you each a piece of French 
 pastry to take home to the children — I'm sure 
 that you have children." 
 
 They nodded, as if they were afraid to ac- 
 knowledge such a fact in the Bevo Club. 
 
 "And who are you?" She addressed her re- 
 mark to a heavy-shouldered, grey-headed 
 gentleman with kind eyes. 
 
 "Oh, I once wrote a book that was called 
 *The American Epic' by the best critics. It is 
 known in Europe and read widely in America, 
 but though it is written in a simple, straight- 
 
 [76] 
 
IN UTERARY NEW YORK EVERYONE MUST HAVE HIS STUNT 
 
/ spend the Night in Jail 
 
 forward way, it does not please the younger 
 critics, who tell me that I am still under the veil 
 of Puritanism. You see, I have no place here." 
 
 "Of course not, old dear, now run along." 
 Mr. Starbuckle gave him a kindly shove. 
 "You should dye your hair, take an apartment 
 at the Plaza, appear intoxicated at the Palais 
 Royal, label yourself an interpreter of modern 
 life, flirt with other men's wives at country 
 clubs and make notebooks of their shocking 
 remarks, characterize with *damns,' and put 
 bright orange covers on your books. Do all 
 this, and wear a red geranium in your but- 
 tonhole; then you'll be able to come back 
 again for reweighing." 
 
 Next came a lady with brilliant hair and 
 an aristocratic manner obviously displayed. 
 She leaned forward and whispered in my ear: 
 
 "I padded myself so as to be considered 
 heavy. It's not fashionable, therefore it's 
 aristocratic. Don't tell your wife, but I'm 
 really just as superficial as she is." 
 
 Then she went on talking in high tones so 
 that everyone in the room could hear: 
 
 [79] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 "Why do the young people go on writing 
 about unpleasant things? Who wants to know 
 how a member of the other half lives? Just 
 because your shoes touch mud is no reason 
 why you should acknowledge that mud exists. 
 I and my generation had our vices, I'll admit; 
 but we didn't talk about them, and we pre- 
 ferred not to consider those who did. Well- 
 bred people are never frank; and it was only 
 well-bred people who read our novels. They 
 don't want to read about cab drivers and 
 stokers. Where is the tradition of Henry 
 Adams? What has become of delicacy and 
 taste? The literature of the drawing room 
 is coming to be the literature of the sewer. 
 Propaganda for mud I call it!" 
 
 "Make way! Make way!" An impressive 
 shout was heard. 
 
 "What shall we do?" I gasped. 
 
 "Stand perfectly still and do not be 
 alarmed," the ever watchful and thoroughly 
 impeccable and exceedingly tactful Star- 
 buckle breathed. "It's T.N.T." 
 
 [80] 
 
/ spend the Night in Jail 
 
 We saw T.N.T. at last. One could ob- 
 serve immediately that he was a shy man. He 
 had a shy walk. He did not seem to notice 
 that he was the centre of attention. At his 
 heels were two little dogs with eager eyes. 
 
 "Those are publicity hounds," Starbuckle 
 explained in a whisper. "They are quite do- 
 cile and will hurt no one." 
 
 Just at that moment T.N.T. reached into 
 his pocket and brought forth something in 
 one of his shy hands. 
 
 "See!" hoarsed Starbuckle. "He's throw- / 
 
 ing them crumbs. What a kind man! Now, 
 he's coming to speak to you." 
 
 "Ah! Tubby!" T.N.T. pierced me with a 
 glance of his Satanic and majestic eyes. "So 
 you're Tubby! You write absurd books." 
 Then turning to Theresa, "But oh, madam, 
 how beautifully those curls lie along the back 
 of your neck!" 
 
 He looked sadly at me again. 
 
 "On the sixtieth page of your last book. 
 Tubby, there are three Verys,' and on the one 
 hundred and twentieth you have made your 
 
 [8i] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 heroine say, *I have told you whosoever I have 
 embraced.' . . . You should take to work- 
 ing out our cross-word puzzles. It would im- 
 prove your style. If you play tennis better 
 than you write, let's have a set some time." 
 
 I could not but respect his powers of ob- 
 servation. 
 
 Starbuckle now led us to the dinner table. 
 It was elaborately decorated with lemon 
 trees. Suddenly each one of us was presented 
 with a lemon. Inside my lemon was a note. 
 It said: 
 
 Tubby — 
 
 Do take lunch with me on Friday. 
 
 R. T. T. 
 
 I turned to the young gentleman at my 
 right, feeling as I did so helpless without the 
 guiding hand of Theresa, who was far away 
 from me at the other end of the table. 
 
 "What does this mean?" I asked. 
 
 "It's a bid from R.T.T.," said this young 
 fellow (for he was indubitably young, and 
 seemed always worried). "You want to be 
 careful. He's an enterprising publisher. He'll 
 
 [82] 
 
/ spend the Night in Jail 
 
 get your next book at any cost. Why, he once 
 locked me in a room, with champagne and 
 plenty of beefsteak, until I had turned out a 
 novel for him. He'll get his throat cut some 
 day. I happen to know personally that he's 
 watched constantly by private detectives hired 
 by all the other publishers in America. It's 
 a dangerous game, publishing. But have you 
 heard what Tommy Mascot said about me? 
 I haven't been able to write for a week. Why 
 doesn't he like me? You must have seen him 
 recently; has he said anything to you about 
 me?" 
 
 Suddenly I felt a tickling at the back of my 
 neck, and looking out the corner of my eye 
 I saw that it was part of a black and white 
 whisker bobbing, as it were, in signal. Ah, 
 the faithful Vernay, disguised as a negro 
 waiter. That invaluable publicity agent of 
 ours, always ready to prompt me at the slight- 
 est need. 
 
 "Tell him Mascot said he was the most 
 promising poet in America I" the whisker sig- 
 naled in the Morse code. 
 
 [83] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 I did as I was bid. 
 
 "Promising!" shrieked the young man. 
 '^Did he say that? The blackguard! As if 
 everyone didn't acknowledge that I'd passed 
 far beyond the promising stage." 
 
 For once Vernay had failed me. The 
 young gentleman would not be satisfied. 
 
 I turned to the young lady on my right. 
 
 "Who are those people?" I asked softly.^ 
 
 On a raised dais at the end of the room was 
 a group of ladies and gentlemen seated about 
 a round table. They were acting in what then 
 seemed to me a strange manner; but I after- 
 ward learned that they were simply doing 
 "stunts." In literary New York everyone must 
 have his or her stunt. These are done either 
 during or after dinner, and are heartily ap- 
 plauded by all. The same stunt may be done 
 for a year. If it is repeated for two years, the 
 applause is not so eager. This particular set 
 of persons is famous for the camaraderie its 
 
 *And Tubby pointed. I saw him point. This is a gesture 
 which is taught American children from their earliest years. I 
 have with great diflSculty broken him of the habit. Every morn- 
 ing he says five times, "I must not point." Thr. Tb. 
 
 [84] 
 
/ spend the Night in Jail 
 
 members show in appreciating one another's 
 accomplishments. At the moment, one young 
 gentleman was balancing on his head in the 
 middle of the table. 
 
 "Do the baby! Do the baby!" A general 
 shout arose. 
 
 "See, only see, Ted is going to do the baby!" 
 My dinner companion roused me by her ex- 
 cited tones. 
 
 Doing the baby, it seems, in America, is a 
 painful ordeal through which young authors 
 must pass before they are allowed to sit with 
 the gentlemen and ladies on the dais. In con- 
 sists in wailing like a baby — it may be like 
 any baby, or like one particular baby. This 
 last seems to be a matter of choice. 
 
 An embarrassed young man with glasses 
 now arose. 
 
 "But," he stammered, "IVe done the baby 
 so many times. You must be sick of it by 
 
 now." 
 
 "Oh no! Oh no!" they chorused. "Never! 
 YouVe such a beautiful baby. Go ahead, Ted 1 
 We must have the baby." 
 
 [85] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 Indeed it was a most realistic interpreta- 
 tion. He cried. He screamed. He drooled. 
 He turned somersaults up and down the table. 
 
 "Isn't he clever?" demanded Miss Shaft 
 (for I afterward learned that to be her name) . 
 "And isn't the Younger Generation wonder- 
 ful? I've tried to bring a message to them 
 in my book." 
 
 The gentleman on my left whispered in my 
 ear: 
 
 "She plays an excellent game of checkers. 
 That's her life work. Why should she write? 
 She can't." 
 
 By this time I was thoroughly bewildered. 
 
 "Oh! Oh!" Again Miss Shaft pointed. 
 "Tommy Mascot has come back from a Mrs. 
 Fiske first night, just to do his imitation of 
 a finale hopper for us. See! Seel" 
 
 All I could see was my friend Mascot 
 striding up and down the room with a table- 
 cloth wrapped about his rotundity, and with 
 unbuttoned and flopping overshoes. 
 
 "Very clever!" I took my cue from Miss 
 Shaft. "But what's a finale hopper?" 
 
 [86] 
 
/ spend the Night in Jail 
 
 "Oh Mr. Tubby, you know, something like 
 a flapper,^ feminine for a cake eater." 
 
 Near me at the table a young man was ris- 
 ii>g slowly to his feet. I remembered having 
 seen him on the boat the day of my arrival. 
 
 "Mr. Tubby," he commenced, "has come to 
 America to promote friendship between Eng- 
 land and America. Is he not much like the 
 tailor in a far country who once said to the 
 king—" 
 
 "Not that one, not that one," came shouts 
 from all about. 
 
 "Or like Nora, going out into the night 
 and slamming — " 
 
 "No! No!" the shouts came again. 
 
 "To say nothing of the bloodhounds on a 
 cake of ice — " 
 
 Again he was interrupted. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Tubby hasn't heard 'em any- 
 way. Have you, Mr. Tubby?" 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "At any rate, Mr. Tubby will cement this 
 
 •a flapper is any female over thirty who wears skirts higher 
 than the knee. Thr. Tb. 
 
 [87] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 union by writing a book about America, which 
 will be brutally frank and which will be read 
 only in America. Let me introduce Mr. 
 Tubby, who will speak to you on, on, on — 
 anything he likes." 
 
 I rose. There was tumultuous applause. I 
 could feel Vernay's whiskers tickling my el- 
 bow. It was a comfort to know that he was 
 near. I could see dear Theresa looking so 
 white and worried at the distant place along 
 the white path of the lemon strewn table. How 
 I burned to make her proud of me! I should 
 speak of ideals, of the lofty spirit of America 
 as typified by the Woolworth tower, of the 
 motherly attitude of John Bull. ... I opened 
 my mouth to speak — 
 
 "Do us a stunt! Do us a stunt!" shrieked 
 Miss Shaft. 
 
 My knees began to tremble. Obviously I 
 was not expected to speak. I was expected 
 to do a stunt. But what stunt had I ? Vernay 
 was signaling violently with his agitated 
 whiskers; but I was too nervous to decipher 
 
 [88] 
 
/ spend the Night in Jail 
 
 the code. Then Theresa's voice came, cool 
 and lovely from the distance. 
 
 "Remember the green frog, Timothy," it 
 said. 
 
 "Do the frog! Do the frog!" the shouts sur- 
 rounded me. They beat in upon my soul, as 
 I remembered that I had once amused a 
 group of children by imitating a bull frog for 
 them. Never mind, I told myself, you must 
 come up to their expectations of you. When 
 in Rome, etc. I leaped upon the table. Miss 
 Shaft reached for my hand and gave it an en- 
 couraging squeeze. 
 
 "That's the good old boy!" she egged. 
 
 I crooked my knees, and bowed my head, 
 making little hops in this direction and that. 
 
 "Garump! Garump! Rump-rump I" I 
 groaned. 
 
 "See the 'ittle froggie," came an encourag- 
 ing coo. "Nice frog," from another. "Clever 
 ladl" 
 
 All the length of the table I garumped, 
 until I was poised at the farther edge before 
 
 [89] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 Theresa herself. Art Starbuckle stretched 
 out his hand to me. 
 
 "Superb imitation, Tubby," he said; "I 
 didn't think it of you." 
 
 Sol I had proved to them that an Eng- 
 lishman really is adaptable. I was a literary 
 man among literary men. I had done my 
 stunt. 
 
 Starbuckle assisted me to my feet. 
 
 "Well, old fellow, let's go out for a bite 
 to eat. This will soon get to be a bore. We'll 
 take just a small select crowd and go to the 
 Fi-Fi Club." 
 
 "But we've just eaten," I protested. 
 
 "Oh, that doesn't matter," he assured me. 
 "We'll be eating off and on from now until 
 dawn." 
 
 We slipped quietly away, and into a wait- 
 ing cab. Just before I left Vernay cautioned 
 me. 
 
 "Don't hesitate to do anything you feel like. 
 No matter what happens, it's all good pub- 
 licity." 
 
 [90] 
 
/ spend the Night in Jail 
 
 Alas, I had a chance to remember this later 
 in the evening! 
 
 "Here's a book for you, Tubby," said Cur- 
 tis Flash, a critic from Chicago, who seems 
 still a trifle nervous in the metropolitan at- 
 mosphere and attempts to cover it by talking 
 violently and unceasingly about a variety of 
 topics. "It's by our American Rabelais," he 
 explained. "Be careful of it. Better put it in an 
 inside pocket. It's been suppressed. They were 
 afraid that school children might read it and 
 since they are becoming more precocious each 
 day, that some one of them might understand 
 it. You mustn't be caught with it on you." 
 
 I tucked the book in my back pocket. Here 
 we were at the Fi-Fi Club. I leaped out, in- 
 tending that this should be my party. A 
 noble figure of a man stopped me with a 
 haughty gesture. 
 
 "Yes?" he said icily. 
 
 "Whatl" I parried. 
 
 "Yes?" he repeated. 
 
 "A table for sixl" I adopted my customary 
 English manner toward servants. 
 
 [91] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 He looked at me slowly. I found myself 
 wondering if my shoes were properly pol- 
 ished. 
 
 "There is no more room," said the superb 
 figure of a man, and turned his broad back on 
 me. 
 
 At this moment Art Starbuckle came for- 
 ward. 
 
 "A table for six," he said ; but in what dul- 
 cet tones. The inflections of that man's voice 
 are as admirable as any I have heard in Amer- 
 ica. They command; but they also beseech. 
 It is a gift. 
 
 "This way, sir, plenty of room," said the 
 superb figure of a man. I do not understand 
 the ways of the Fi-Fi Club. 
 
 Within, all was soft lights and gaiety. We 
 sat down and ordered non-alcoholic whisky. 
 It is a curious drink, not unlike cold tea. I 
 looked about me. Everywhere were stout 
 young men, dancing affectionately with statu- 
 esque females. I was puzzled by the females. 
 Bright hair, they had, and bright complex- 
 
 [92] 
 
/ spend the Night in Jail 
 
 ions ; but on closer inspection I could see that 
 the wrinkles about the eyes betrayed advanc- 
 ing age. Art leaned toward me. 
 
 "The Fi-Fi Club," he explained, "is Dr. 
 Quill's playground. He's the famous psy- 
 choanalyst, you know. These are the women 
 he advises. Most of them are well over sixty. 
 They come to him complaining of neuroses. 
 He finds that they are simply repressing their 
 true youth. *Be young,' he commands. So 
 here they are, being young. Aren't they ad- 
 mirable? It doesn't work so well with hus- 
 bands — they're more rheumatic. Fox trot- 
 ting is inconvenient for stiff joints." 
 
 "Then who are the young men?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh, they're young bond salesmen," he re- 
 plied. "There's nothing like soft lights and 
 romance and the unloosening of repression to 
 facilitate the sale of bonds. These same young 
 men play golf in the daytime with these same 
 ladies' husbands. It's business with them; 
 but they seem to enjoy it." 
 
 "Couldn't I dance with one of the ladies?" 
 I asked under my breath, for fear Theresa 
 
 [93] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 might hear. There was no danger. Mr. Flash 
 was absorbing all her ocular senses with an 
 outpouring concerning French literature and 
 aesthetics. 
 
 "But you have no bonds to sell," Art pro- 
 tested. 
 
 "I have books!" I appealed. 
 
 "Well, well, not tonight, Tubby, not to- 
 night. I have other plans for you. We must 
 have our dip before breakfast." 
 
 "Dip? Breakfast?" I was puzzled indeed. 
 
 Starbuckle was too rushed to explain. We 
 were again on our way. Flash had not ceased 
 talking of the highest in Art. We were speed- 
 ing uptown. We stopped. Art aided us to 
 alight. 
 
 "This," he waved his hand about him, "is 
 Columbus Circle, and here is the famous 
 public fountain in which you shall now be 
 given your baptism." 
 
 This puzzled me greatly. Was it true that 
 Americans were in the habit of taking their 
 baths in public? Nevertheless, I was docile. 
 Quietly we approached the black waters of the 
 
 [94] 
 
I MADE THE FATAL PLUNOfi 
 
/ spend the Night in Jail 
 
 fountain. A crowd gathered respectfully. 
 Starbuckle, taking me by the hand, mounted 
 to its rim. 
 
 **This," he announced loudly, "is Timothy 
 Tubby, the famous English novelist. He has 
 come, as all good English novelists should, to 
 bathe in the waters of the city. This is the 
 token of true democracy." 
 
 There were loud cheers. A young man 
 leaped forward from the crowd. 
 
 "Reporter! Reporter!" he shouted. "Will 
 you give me your first impressions of how the 
 water feels? It will be either warm or cold. 
 Tell me first." 
 
 I promised. As I stepped in, the crowd 
 was hushed in awe. 
 
 "Down! Down!" commanded Starbuckle. 
 I made the fatal plunge. The water closed 
 over my ears. As I arose, a new shout was 
 mingled with the plaudits of the people: 
 "Police! Police!" 
 
 I felt immediately at home ; but at the same 
 time ill at ease. 
 
 "Get out of that there water!" came a voice. 
 
 [97] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 I rose unsteadily. A burly figure stood be- 
 fore me. 
 
 ^^I'm onta youl" said the voice. "I know 
 whatcha got in yer back pocket." 
 
 "Oh, officer," came the tactful tones of Star- 
 buckle, "he's not a bootlegger, I assure you. 
 It's only an English novelist." 
 
 "I know him," went on the policeman, for 
 it was none other than No. 322 whom I had 
 encountered earlier in the day. "Take that 
 book out of yer back pocket." 
 
 I had forgotten the fatal volume. I reached 
 for it. Dripping, I presented it to him. 
 
 Suddenly his rugged face became wet with 
 real tears. 
 
 "So!" he grunted. "I been huntin' all over 
 fer a copy of this here ^Jerkin' and now's I 
 got it, it's all spoiled with yer foolin' in the 
 f ounting. C'mon 1" 
 
 "But you're not going to take him to court?" 
 
 "Better'n that I guess," said No. 322. "He 
 sleeps tonight in jail. I guess I know none 
 of you literary guys has got enough cash to 
 bail him out." 
 
 [98] 
 
/ spend the Night in Jail 
 
 Theresa was weeping; but no one seemed 
 to offer pecuniary assistance. The reporters 
 had now taken out their pocket Coronas and 
 were waiting for a statement from me. The 
 clang of the patrol wagon was heard in the 
 distance. 
 
 "I am happy to spend a night in an Amer- 
 ican jail," I began. "My ancestor Charles 
 Dickens was interested in prison reform. Am 
 I prouder than Mr. Pickwick or Sam Weller? 
 Shall I not be delighted to see how this great 
 city treats its criminals?" 
 
 Without ceremony I was bustled into the 
 patrol wagon. But in my cell that night I 
 found the first intelligent American I had 
 met. He was a pickpocket. We discussed 
 literature until dawn. So it was I found the 
 true heart of literary America. 
 
 [99] 
 
Chapter Three 
 I DISCOVER THE PULLMAN CAR 
 
CHAPTER THREE 
 I DISCOVER THE PULLMAN CAR 
 
 New York had proved too exhausting for 
 Theresa. She can endure just so much and 
 no more, then she demands a complete mental 
 rest. We were advised to go to Chicago. 
 
 There, we were told, we would find great 
 open vistas and bright faces, bluff cordiality, 
 and that developing naive interest in litera- 
 ture which in children and primitive peoples 
 is so refreshing. However, there was the trip 
 before us, and, strange to tell, no one thought 
 of warning us of the perils and exhaustions 
 of traveling in America. 
 
 The night before we left was exceedingly 
 trying. It involved, among other things, a 
 visit to one of the meetings of the Poetry So- 
 ciety of America. There are many types of 
 meetings in America, I find, but the Poetry 
 
 [103] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 Society stands quite alone. It was founded, 
 apparently, for the purpose of allowing cer- 
 tain persons, otherwise more or less well bred, 
 to quarrel in public. Free verse has become 
 a political issue in America. The mayor of 
 a certain western town was elected on a free 
 verse platform. Another of his planks was 
 free love ; but, to quote the sheriff of the vil- 
 lage, who spoke to me in confidence, "Free 
 verse elected him, by heckl" The interest in 
 literary problems is very great in America. 
 Curiously enough, reading itself is rarely in- 
 dulged it. 
 
 We arrived late at the Poetry Society. 
 The room was crowded. A tall gentleman was 
 reading an anonymous poem. He read in an 
 academic manner, with abdominal quavers 
 that were supposed to indicate poetic feeling. 
 I found out afterward that, in his youth, he 
 had himself written poems. Later he in- 
 vented an animated hair brush, from the sales 
 of which he was able to publish (at his own 
 expense) his volume of verse, and in addition 
 to save enough money so that he might live 
 
 [104] 
 
/ Discover the Pullman Gar 
 
 up to his passions. "I express myself in liv- 
 ing now," he was heard to say, "and have no 
 further need of giving vent to my desires in 
 poetry." 
 
 He read, slowly and distinctly. The bare- 
 shouldered ladies nodded their heads to the 
 rhythm, sometimes having difficulty with their 
 nods, due to the fact that no rhythm was dis- 
 coverable. 
 
 REACH 
 
 O, Woman of the tortured heart reach up, 
 
 Strain toward the sky, 
 
 Strain toward the moon, 
 
 Draw down ecstatic moments from the peaks of stars, 
 
 You know the beauty of their rounded limbs, 
 
 You know the speech of glory, 
 
 The sound of winds along eternity's waste spaces. 
 
 Squirm through the slime of mere mortality, 
 
 Reach out! 
 
 Reach ! Reach ! 
 
 Where, in passionate accord with the clouds, 
 
 Your little soul will sink to happiness. 
 
 Be not an earth-clod, 
 
 Hear the message of the comets. 
 
 Reach to the Heavens with your delicate lovely 
 
 hands. 
 Lose yourself in the universal urge. 
 
 The reader paused. There was uncertain 
 
 [105] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 gloved applause. A stout motherly person 
 rose. She pulled her gauze scarf about her 
 with a movement of patient indignation. 
 
 "Doesn't it seem as though it were time 
 someone wrote some real poetry? Personally, 
 I don't understand a word of what Mr. 
 Grump has just read. What I do understand, 
 if I interpret rightly, doesn't seem to me to be 
 at all nice." 
 
 A young man with a mop of black hair 
 leaped to his feet. 
 
 "Nice? Nice?" he shouted. "Why should 
 poetry be nice? Is life nice? Are you nice? 
 If you are nice, it's because you're afraid not 
 to be nice. I call that a beautiful cry of ex- 
 pression. I insist that it's the outpouring of 
 a sensitive feminine soul." 
 
 A slender man with white hair rose gravely. 
 "Indeed, when I was a child," he said with 
 deliberation, "we were taught that it was im- 
 polite to reach. How our manners are chang- 
 ing. It is a great pity. The word *reach,' 
 itself impolite, was used five times in that 
 poem. What's to come of us?" 
 
 [io6] 
 
I Discover the Pullman Car 
 
 "Now, now, Mr. Sputz," soothed a gentle 
 lady with a lyric voice. "That's all in the 
 way you look at it. IVe always taught my 
 children that it's far better to reach for a thing 
 than to make someone else reach for it. This 
 is an age of reaching, and if we do not teach 
 the little ones to reach, they will soon be swal- 
 lowed in the vortex of rising commerce." 
 
 Another elderly gentleman joined the fray. 
 
 "Commerce, my dear lady, will engulf us 
 all if we do not return to the sweet clear music 
 of another day. Modern children are not 
 educated at all. They grow." 
 
 "Do you mean to say," interrupted the lady 
 who had just spoken, "that my children are 
 not educated? This is outrageous. Must I be 
 insulted from the floor of the Poetry Society? 
 Indeed I shall leave at once. And resign, I 
 am thoroughly offended." 
 
 She walked out majestically, in spite of all 
 efforts to soothe her rufHed feelings. I was 
 becoming distinctly oppressed. I could con- 
 tain myself no longer. I spoke. 
 
 "But what has all this to do with poetry?" 
 
 [107] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 I asked them, for it seemed to me a most ob- 
 vious question. 
 
 The young gentleman with the black hair 
 again leaped to his feet Further to empha- 
 size his point, he leaped to a chair. 
 
 "Another Englishman in our midst," he 
 shouted, pointing his finger at me. "What 
 do you know about it, sir; why should you 
 give an opinion in an American Poetry So- 
 ciety? Don't you know that it isn't the gen- 
 tlemanly thing to do? What has the British 
 point of view to do with poetry? Nothing 1 
 Precisely nothing!" 
 
 Hisses sounded. There were angry cries. 
 Someone shouted, "Bravo!" Someone else, 
 "Police!" The young man flung off his coat 
 and made a rush for me. Someone grabbed 
 him. There was a scuffle and a scream. The 
 lights went out. There was a police whistle. 
 
 "The place is raided!" came the familiar 
 cry. I seized Theresa's hand and we made 
 for an open window, and dropped quietly to 
 the ground two stories below. There were no 
 casualties, and we succeeded in reaching our 
 
 [io8] 
 
/ Discover the Pullman Car 
 
 hotel, peacefully. It is magnificent, is it 
 not, how seriously literature is discussed in 
 America, particularly poetry? 
 
 "I couldn't get you a drawing room," Mr. 
 Vernay explained, as he escorted us toward 
 the Grand Central Station; "but here are two 
 lowers, and I'm sure that you will find them 
 quite comfortable. At any rate," he added, 
 "you will have no one bothering you with silly 
 questions." 
 
 Alas, how little most Americans know of 
 their own America! 
 
 By daylight, a Pullman car is reasonably 
 attractive. The tortures of the night are hid- 
 den by quiet green upholstery, and a suave 
 negro servant moves hither and yon along the 
 aisle. The cars are named, so they told us, in 
 memory of the deceased wives of railway em- 
 ployees. Ours was most musically titled. 
 "Pipuella," it was called, and the name rang 
 pleasantly in our ears as we entered, and were 
 stowed away with our luggage in the green 
 seats, Theresa in one section and I in another; 
 
 [109] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 for you see, I was planning to dash off a few 
 letters. We were still lying alongside in the 
 station. 
 
 "Vite! Vitel Vitel" came strains of unmis- 
 takable French to our ears/ 
 
 ^^It's a French maid," was the very first 
 thought that came to my wearied mind. And 
 so it was. As exhausted as I had become, my 
 intuitive faculties were yet alive. Her "Vitel 
 Vite!" was simply an affectionate and throaty 
 entreaty to the porter to hurry. Now she was 
 not only a maid, she was pretty. This last fact 
 so occupying my attention that I failed to 
 notice the maid's mistress until she was almost 
 upon me. 
 
 I knew it! The first characteristic I no- 
 ticed was her eyes. Blue hawk's eyes. What 
 was it about them that seemed so familiar? It 
 was the quality of recognition! She knew me 
 for who I was. I was undone. A sweeping 
 woman, with an elderly look, clad in long 
 silks and short furs. Yet she would not have 
 
 * Tubby means that American French is sometimes very hard 
 to distinguish from several other languages. Thr, Tb, 
 
 [no] 
 
/ Discover the Pullman Car 
 
 been terrifying had it not been for that look. 
 Her eyes gleamed at me as she passed. Twice, 
 in her progress down the aisle, she turned to 
 stare again. She was, apparently, occupying 
 the little room at the end of the car. Would 
 she be discreet? Would she withstand the 
 impulse that I had seen in those eyes? Would 
 I be left in peace? I saw her turn to the 
 porter. I saw her ask him if he knew who I 
 was. My heart grew cold. He replied in 
 the negative. Another respite, and I drew a 
 relieved breath. Then she spoke to him again, 
 and I saw him approaching. Theresa, mean- 
 while, absorbed in a book, had not seen the 
 early stages of the tragedy that was about to 
 engulf me. 
 
 "The lady would like to know,'' the porter 
 commenced, "if you happen to be Mr. Tim- 
 othy Tubby." I nodded, miserably. "Well, 
 then, she says that her name is Mrs. Camberry, 
 and she's from Boston on her way to a conven- 
 tion or something, and would you be kind 
 enough to come to her drawing room." 
 
 The die was cast. I mumbled a feeble 
 
 [III] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 assent and, with scarcely a glance at Theresa, 
 moved grudgingly along the aisle. Of such 
 was fame, I pondered, remembering Caesar 
 and other celebrated gentlemen who had been 
 undone by greatness. 
 
 Mrs. Camberry rose to greet me. 
 
 "How delightful this is! For years I've 
 wanted to meet you. We are so anxious to* 
 have you come to Boston. You know Boston 
 has not quite outgrown the traditions of Long- 
 fellow and Whittier. The rest of the country 
 may think that we are asleep; but we have 
 our Irish problem and Amy Lowell. You 
 must come to Boston! However, that's quite 
 beside the point, which is, that I've seldom 
 been so intensely pleased as to find you on 
 the same train with all of us." 
 
 "All of us?" I gasped. 
 
 "Yes, didn't you know? Just a little group 
 of writing folk going to the convention of the 
 Pencilcraf t in Chicago. I'm burning with the 
 news that you are on the train, and I've sent 
 our porter through the other cars to spread it. 
 Believe me, you will not want for company — 
 
 [112] 
 
PEERING AT A RED HAIRED IRISHMAN WHO WAS FIRING INNUMERABLE SHOTS 
 
/ Discover the Pullman Car 
 
 and how does it seem to be traveling without 
 your wife?" 
 
 Indeed, I had no opportunity at all to set 
 her at rights ; for she went on talking. 
 
 "A wife is so inconvenient on trips. If I 
 were not a native of Boston, I suppose I might 
 say she ^cramps your style.' But as it is, nat- 
 urally, I leave all that to your imagination." 
 
 I did not understand either her language or 
 her meaning. She seemed to me a most per- 
 turbing woman. 
 
 *^Don't you think it would be nice if you 
 gave us just a little informal address here in 
 the car — just a gossipy talk, you know, the 
 kind you're so famous for? We'd so love it. 
 Then, of course, you'll speak at the Pencil- 
 craft dinner in Chicago. Indeed, the Pen- 
 cilcrafters would not think of letting you 
 escape them." 
 
 Just at this point an avalanche of women 
 burst into the "Pipuella." They wore smiles. 
 They gurgled. They emitted little cooing 
 sounds. In the midst of their swirling draper- 
 ies, I seemed to see Theresa, rising, like 
 
 [115] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 Aphrodite from the waves. Mrs. Camberry 
 closed the door with a bang. 
 
 "WeUl not be disturbed yet, no indeedyl 
 We'll just have a nice little talk all our own." 
 
 Mrs. Camberry settled back with those in- 
 definable motions which prophesy long and 
 flowing exercise of a vocabulary of superla- 
 tives. 
 
 **Do tell me," she began, "what you think 
 of the temperament of the American woman." 
 
 This was an extremely direct question. I 
 took council with myself. Should I be tact- 
 ful? Should I tell the truth? I cleared my 
 throat several times, as though I knew exactly 
 what I was about to say; though, to be sure, I 
 didn't know at all. ... 
 
 "Bang! Bang! Bang!" came the grateful 
 sound of someone knocking at the door. 
 
 "How stupid!" exclaimed Mrs. Camberry; 
 but before she could stay the inevitable, the 
 door swung open. I had expected to see The- 
 resa. But no, it was the conductor. He wore 
 an angry expression. 
 
 "What does all this mean?" he rumbled. 
 
 [ii6] 
 
/ Discover the Pullman Car 
 
 •*You are upsetting things considerably. Hun- 
 dreds of women are buzzing around this door. 
 They will not be quieted. They shout, *Tub- 
 byl Tubby r Is there anything you can do 
 about it?" 
 
 Mrs. Camberry smiled graciously upon 
 him. I knew that she was about to introduce 
 me to those Pencilcraf ters of her. I could see 
 them now, sitting on the seats and on top of 
 the seats and in the aisles. A poet might have 
 likened them to a sea of many-colored pop- 
 pies. As for me, there was one thing I could 
 do. I did it. Pressing my two hands vio- 
 lently against my head I shouted, "Oh my 
 head ! My poor head !" and with cries of hys- 
 terical pain I breasted that agitated mob. I 
 made for the smoker, while women fell away 
 from me like a line of falling dominoes. The 
 smoking car was crowded with men. They 
 looked at me suspiciously. But the suspicion 
 of men is far better than the admiration of the 
 ladies. For a moment I stood there breath- 
 lessly, endeavoring to regain my composure, 
 a thing which, though seldom lost, is most un- 
 
 [117] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 pleasant to lose. The men became silent as I 
 entered. They chewed the ends of long black 
 cigars. I could feel the waves of their dis- 
 pleasure sweeping over me. Still they were 
 silent. If only I could have found a place to 
 sit down. If only they had gone on talking. 
 Anything would have been better than that 
 terrible silence. Where should I go? What 
 should I do? I saw a bell. I didn't know 
 what the bell was for; but it gave me a chance 
 to move. With all the eyes in the smoking 
 room watching me suspiciously, I slowly 
 pushed the bell, then waited. 
 
 Who should appear but the suave negro. 
 
 "And what can I do for you?" he asked. 
 
 So that was it. He wanted to know what 
 he could do for me. All the men smoking 
 black cigars and eyeing me suspiciously 
 wanted to know what he could do for me. 
 What could he do for me? What did I want? 
 
 "Well?" and his tone became bitter. "What 
 do you want?" 
 
 "Nothing!" I blurted out. His scorn was 
 superb. I could hear a titter commencing to 
 
 [ii8] 
 
I Discover the Pullman Car 
 
 rise. Could I not redeem myself in some 
 manner? 
 
 "Or would you bring me a cigar?" I asked 
 timidly. 
 
 "Oh, a cigar 1" The chorus of men was ap- 
 preciative. "Here, have one of mine, old 
 top. Best brand they make." 
 
 Now I never smoked a cigar in my life. 
 However, as I looked down at the large frame 
 of the genial gentleman who was offering me 
 a huge and strange black cigar, he seemed 
 like .a very haven of refuge. He moved over 
 and made a place for me. 
 
 "Ain't women hell?" he asked. "You just 
 sit here and have your quiet little smoke. It 
 must be a horrible thing to be famous like 
 you are. Here, lemme give you a light." 
 
 The cigar was lit. I am sure that it was a 
 typically American cigar. So virile, so strong. 
 I puffed it contentedly. 
 
 "You're literary, ain't you?" said the gentle- 
 man donor of the smoke. 
 
 I nodded. Somehow I felt a storm ap- 
 proaching. Was he about to ask me what I 
 
 [119] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 thought of that strange American phenome- 
 non Harold Bell Wright? But no, it was 
 worse than that. 
 
 "Now my wife, she writes. Ain't it won- 
 derful?" 
 
 There was a chorus of "oh's" and "ah's" 
 from the men about us. They drew nearer to 
 hear of his wife's writing. Meanwhile, I was 
 not becoming accustomed to the cigar. It 
 seemed, somehow, to affect my head, and the 
 voice of the gentleman telling the story of 
 his wife's genius was far away. 
 
 "You see it was this way," he went on. 
 "When my wife was seven she went and wrote 
 a poem. Her mother sent it to a paper and 
 what do you think — they printed it! Well, 
 that sorta got the idea into my wife's head, 
 and ever since then she's writ a poem a day 
 rain or shine except when the babies was bein' 
 born and then she dictated 'em to the nurse. 
 A wonderful woman, that persistent! Now I 
 was wonderin' what with you bein' a writin' 
 man if you'd like to look at them there poems." 
 
 All eyes were looking at me, expecting the 
 
 [I20] 
 
/ Discover the Pullman Car 
 
 genial nod of pleasure. It was the effort of 
 calculating the probable number of days since 
 his wif e^s seventh birthday, and the consequent 
 number of poems I should be obliged to read, 
 combined with the disturbing effect of the 
 cigar, that did it. At any rate, I fainted away. 
 Life, becoming too complicated, kindly gave 
 me respite. 
 
 "Bang! Bang! Rattle! Bump!" I woke to 
 the most uncomfortable of situations. I seemed 
 to be lying in some sort of prison. I lifted 
 my head only to bump it soundly against 
 something above. I tried to stretch out my 
 feet. They bumped also. Suddenly a cold 
 sweat broke out upon my body. I had died 
 and was buried — buried far away from my 
 native, my own, my beloved England. Like 
 a flash, I saw the lines written to me by my 
 friend Robert Pickles, the Georgian poet: 
 
 Dear Tubby lies in foreign soil, 
 His feet upturned to stranger skies, 
 
 Alas, that England rocks him not, 
 Nor British winds sing lullabies. 
 
 Critically, I objected to these lines, for my 
 feet were not turned up. They were most 
 
 [121] 
 
Timothy Tubby's Journal 
 
 dreadfully cramped. However, I soothed my 
 tortured spirit; I could forgive poor Robert 
 almost anything for thinking of me in the 
 midst of his many engagements. 
 
 No, I couldn't be buried! Peace, at least, 
 would be found in the grave. This was tor- 
 ture. Suddenly there was a wild lurch and I 
 rolled rapidly over, felt myself falling, landed 
 with a loud cry, grabbed at something, heard 
 a feminine shriek, and felt a hand on my col- 
 lar dragging me to my feet. 
 
 ^'Haven't you caused us enough trouble 
 without trying to pull a poor lady out of her 
 berth?" It was the suave negro again, and 
 this time he appeared to be quite angry. 
 
 However, I, too, was very angry. 
 
 "Where have you hidden my wife?" I 
 shouted. 
 
 All along the dark space in which I found 
 myself I saw heads darting out. There were 
 curses and little squeals. Finally, I recog- 
 nized Theresa. 
 
 "I'll take care of him," she assured the ne- 
 gro. "Leave him to me." 
 
 [122] 
 
/ Discover the Pullman Car 
 
 She was in a negligee, lying back of one of 
 the curtained apertures. 
 
 "You see, Tubby," and she was more sooth- 
 ing than annoyed, "this is the way they do it 
 in America." 
 
 "Do what?" I sputtered. "What is it they're 
 doing?" 
 
 "Sleeping, my dear. Now be a good Tubby 
 and get into that apartment next to mine. 
 Close the curtains. Button them, and un- 
 dress." 
 
 "Undress 1" I was aghast. "What for?" 
 
 "To sleep, of course," she patienced. "Hur- 
 ry, dear." 
 
 I did as she told me. Or rather, I started 
 to do as she told me. I first tried to take off 
 my coat; but gave that up as a very difficult 
 operation. Every time I nearly got one sleeve 
 off, I bumped my head. I spent a few mo- 
 ments feeling the various sore spots and trying 
 to decide whether or not they would develop 
 into permanent disfigurations. Then, I tried 
 the trousers. Really, I have since found that 
 American men are trained as acrobats in their 
 
 [123] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 youth for this very purpose. After five sepa- 
 rate attempts I lay back and regained my 
 breath. I would not stay in that place an- 
 other moment. 
 
 I put one foot out gingerly, then the other. 
 Before long, quite to my surprise, I was stand- 
 ing alone in the aisle. Falling this way and 
 that, I was finally forced to my knees and 
 crawled along the car until I reached the end. 
 Ah, the smoking room! Everyone had prob- 
 ably gone to sleep. I could be alone. I en- 
 tered. 
 
 "Begorra and here ye are at last!" 
 
 A gruff voice greeted me. I looked and 
 there sat a tall red haired man. His eyes were 
 ominous, and resting on one knee, within 
 ready reach of his brawny hand, was a re- 
 volver. Perhaps this was the watchman of 
 the train. I had heard that mails were 
 guarded in Chicago, and that murders were 
 common in the public thoroughfares. 
 
 "Good evening," I began, pleasantly 
 enough. 
 
 [124] 
 
ON, ON, FOR THE "PIPUELLA!** 
 
I Discover the Pullman Car 
 
 He glared at me silently and his hand 
 reached for the weapon. 
 
 "It's a pleasant evening, isn't it?" 
 
 Again there was silence, as his muscular 
 hands played with the revolver. This was 
 telling on my already strained nerves. I 
 turned to go. Evidently he was not a so- 
 ciable person. Perhaps he was one of the wild 
 folk from the great western plains, where life, 
 one hears, is held lightly, and the finger sits 
 with little weight on the ready trigger. At 
 any rate, he did not appeal to my aesthetic 
 sense. 
 
 "No, ye don't," he said quietly but firmly. 
 "Ye kin sit down right here while I talk to ye. 
 Ye're English aren't ye? Well, I'm Irish, 
 that's all, and I'm a little dhrunk, maybe; but 
 that makes no diflference." 
 
 I hesitated. 
 
 "Sit down," he commanded. "Is this or is 
 this not a gun that I'd be havin' here, and I 
 kin use it, too. I'd die fer the ould counthree 
 I would, s'elp me, and" — he looked up and 
 down — "perhaps ye'd be havin' sixty-five dol- 
 
 [127] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 lars left fer a coffin. That's about yer size, 
 I'm thinkin'." 
 
 "But," I protested, "what's the matter? 
 What have I done? What are you going to 
 do? I'll ring the bell." 
 
 "No ye won't. Now ye kin go ahead and 
 explain to me, what it is yer counthree intends 
 doin' to mine." 
 
 "Now my dear sir, I'm a literary man, and 
 I know nothing of politics." 
 
 "Litherary man is it? Well, thin I'd best 
 be puttin' ye out of the way annyway, that's 
 what I'd best be doin'." 
 
 I thought rapidly. If I was to die, I might 
 as well die quickly as to prolong the agony. 
 I rose with dignity, turned my back to him 
 and made for the door. 
 
 "Slow down, there, I'm fer bein' afther 
 ye." I could feel him back of me. I fled 
 headlong down the aisle. He was close in 
 pursuit. Fortunately we had just drawn into 
 a station. I would get off that car as quickly 
 as possible. As I reached the platform a shot 
 whizzed by my ear. There was commotion 
 
 [128] 
 
/ Discover the Pullman Car 
 
 and the sound of a struggle. I did not turn 
 to see what was happening but rushed down 
 alongside the train. I reached a gate. 
 
 "How long does this train stop here?" I 
 asked a guard. 
 
 "One hour," was the reply. 
 
 I could take an hour's vacation then ; at the 
 end of that time perhaps the drunken man 
 would have forgotten me or gone to sleep. 
 
 Outside in the station, the first thing I saw 
 was — what do you think? A counter where 
 they sold books and candy. A sleepy boy 
 stood back of it. Always mindful of the du- 
 ties of an author, I approached him with the 
 famous Tubby smile. 
 
 "Have you a copy of ^Garden Dreams' by 
 Timothy Tubby?" I asked. 
 
 "Sure." He brought one out. "Wanta 
 buy one?" 
 
 "Oh, nol" I replied. "Fm the author of 
 the book, and I was just wondering if you 
 had one." 
 
 "So" — his lip curled in scorn. "So you're 
 
 [129] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 another one of them guys what's looking for 
 their own book." 
 
 *'Yes," I replied, pretending not to notice 
 his unpleasant glances. "And you could help 
 me a great deal if you only would. If you 
 could hide me behind your counter for just 
 a moment. There's a man with a weapon run- 
 ning after me, and I'm afraid that he might 
 take good aim, if he were to catch up with 
 me." 
 
 "I thought sol" the boy sang out, and mo- 
 tioned to a policeman standing in the corner 
 of the station. "Here Bill, here's a nut just 
 ran off a train. Better ship him up to the 
 'sylum. Says he's Timothy Tubby. Plum 
 nutty, I call him." 
 
 This was too much. I produced a wallet 
 and a card. Even then the policeman seemed 
 doubtful. 
 
 "Well, maybe you are and maybe you 
 aren't," he said musingly. "But you just bet- 
 ter hustle yourself back onto your train. You 
 seem to be crazy enough anyway." 
 
 Footsore and with fear of the Irishman in 
 
 [130] 
 
/ Discover the Pullman Car 
 
 my heart, I went back through the gate and 
 approached my car. I climbed the steps wear- 
 ily and went toward my berth. I put one foot 
 in. There was a cry of rage. A fat gentle- 
 man burst out and stood in the aisle in front 
 of me. 
 
 "What do you mean," he shouted, "stepping 
 on me that way?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon," I stammered. "Isn't 
 this the Tipuella'?" 
 
 "What do you mean, Tipullala'?" he 
 gurgled. 
 
 Then a light dawned in his eyes. 
 
 "Why," he said, "IVe seen your picture 
 somewhere. You're Fatty Arbuckle, aren't 
 you ? Pleased to meet you, and how did you 
 get away with it?" 
 
 "Oh, no," I protested. "I didn't get away 
 with anything and my name's not Arbuckle. 
 You've probably seen my picture, though ; I'm 
 Timothy Tubby, the famous British novelist, 
 and I'm apparently lost." 
 
 He looked disappointed, but nevertheless 
 I could see that he was one of these Americans 
 
 [131] 
 
Timothy Tubby's Journal 
 
 who are so easily impressed by a picture in 
 the paper. 
 
 "Sorry you're lost," he said. "Let me help 
 you find your way. Come on." 
 
 He took my arm. 
 
 "But you haven't any clothes on, or any to 
 speak of," I protested. 
 
 "Oh, so I haven't. Well you just go out- 
 side and ask anyone you see, where you'll find 
 your car. Maybe it's been put on another 
 section." 
 
 Outside I found a conductor striding man- 
 fully up and down. 
 
 "I can't find my car," I told him. "It was 
 here a while ago." 
 
 "What was the number?" he demanded. 
 
 "Number? I didn't suppose that it had a 
 number. It was called Tipuella'." 
 
 "How should I know the name?" He was 
 annoyed. "I suppose it's the one that was put 
 on another section. It's on track nineteen. 
 You'd better hurry up, it may be leaving any 
 moment now." 
 
 I hastened to follow the direction of his 
 
 [132] 
 
/ Discover the Pullman Car 
 
 waving hand. Down steps. Up steps. Over 
 tracks. There was a train before me. It was 
 moving slowly. But fortunately in America 
 they have little wheel cars on the platforms, 
 so that if a passenger is so unlucky as to miss 
 his train, he can pursue it. 
 
 "I must catch that train!" I shouted, jump- 
 ing on top of a pile of bags and boxes on the 
 truck. "Hurry! Hurry!" 
 
 The driver looked astonished; but my au- 
 thoritative air evidently impressed him. He 
 called for aid, and we were off down the path 
 at breakneck speed. Would we catch the 
 "Pipuella"? 
 
 "On, on, for the Tipuella'!" I shouted. "We 
 must make it!" How I wished that Theresa 
 could have seen me. As if in response to my 
 wish, I suddenly saw her head peering out 
 from a window. 
 
 "There we are! There we are!" I shouted. 
 
 "Faster! Faster! That's the old boy. 
 That's the old boy who knows how to ride the 
 turf. Bravo! Bravo!" screamed Theresa. 
 
 We were alongside. I took my courage in 
 
 [133] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 my hands. I rose to my full height. I made 
 a blind leap, and with unerring precision 
 landed on my stomach on the platform. 
 
 When I regained consciousness the suave 
 negro was bending over me. 
 
 "Say, I guess you caused enough trouble 
 for one night," he hissed. "Come on, I'm go- 
 ing to undress you and put you to bed myself 
 this time." He held out a glass of water. "Did 
 you ever take sleeping powders? Well, here's 
 one." 
 
 How thoughtful American servants are. I 
 took the long cool draught with a sigh of re- 
 lief. Through the gathering mists I seemed 
 to see myself, perched high in the air, peering 
 dazedly at a red haired Irishman who was fir- 
 ing innumerable shots from a blazing auto- 
 matic. So ended my memories of my first 
 night in the "Pipuella." 
 
 [134] 
 
Chapter Four 
 I MAKE CHICAGO MY OWN 
 
CHAPTER FOUR 
 I MAKE CHICAGO MY OWN 
 
 "You'll get the breeze from Lake Michigan. 
 It will be cool. Spring is perfectly lovely in 
 Chicago!" 
 
 So we were told. Naturally, we believed 
 our informant; and as we came nearer and 
 nearer the famed literary centre of the United 
 States, I was constantly putting my head out 
 of the car window to see if I could be the first 
 to feel a flutter of air. Alas, I was forced to 
 acknowledge that we had been duped again 
 by that most unreliable emotion — American 
 optimism. Chicago was hot! 
 
 The first person we saw on the station plat- 
 form was a man with a rifle on his shoulder. 
 Could he be part of a guard of honor for us? 
 At this moment up rushed Larry Lansing, tall 
 and impressive, and Punchinello Bones, short 
 
 [137] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 and jovial/ They are friends, though liter- 
 ary critics. They spoke almost in one breath. 
 "Welcome to the Queen City of the Near 
 East {not middle west) . We present you with 
 the cultural key of the city. It's the literary 
 centre of the United States, you know." They 
 bowed low. 
 
 I, however, was still wondering about the 
 man with the gun. 
 
 "He's guarding the mails," Mr. Bones ex- 
 plained. "The mail banditry is one of our 
 most prosperous groups in *Chi.' They're 
 regular guys, wear spats, use tooth brushes 
 and everything. You'd enjoy their persiflage. 
 The man with the rifle is just to show the ban- 
 dits that they can't always expect to be ig- 
 nored. In all confidence," he added, "they 
 are actually glad of a little attention, proud 
 of it; just as we, secretly, are proud of them. 
 They demonstrate the bold spirit of the place, 
 where laws are lightly looked upon, and the 
 old spirit of track and trail persists along the 
 rumbling rails of the 4oop.' " 
 
 ^ Such cordial, well meaning boys, not at all what one would 
 have expected. Thr. Tb. 
 
 [138] 
 
/ Make Chicago My Own 
 
 Mr. Lansing waved a paper in my face. 
 
 "Here's a list of your engagements while 
 you're in Chicago," he announced. "You'll 
 observe that I've given you time for every- 
 thing but sleep, and I'm sure that you don't 
 need that. Now, before ever you go to a 
 hotel, let's raise the cry, *On to the stock- 
 yards 1'" 
 
 "But—" I protested. 
 
 "Oh, it's all right," Bones assured me. 
 "You'll find it an agreeable welcome to our 
 beautiful city." 
 
 Then it was that a strange thing happened. 
 I stepped over to a news stand to ask my usual 
 question as to whether or not they had a good 
 supply of my books, when I suddenly realized 
 that I had lost the rest of the party or that they 
 had lost me, as the case may have been. What 
 should I do? Where should I turn? I rushed 
 to the street. There, riding on a violent white 
 horse, clad in leathern breeches, a bright shirt, 
 and a wide hat, I saw dashing up what was ob- 
 viously a cowboy. Of course, I had heard of 
 
 [139] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 cowboys.^ Ah, I thought immediately, he is 
 on his way to the stockyards. If I follow him, 
 I shall soon meet Lansing, Bones, and my own 
 dear wife, who must be quite frantic by now. 
 
 "Taxi!" I shouted. The words had been 
 no more than uttered, when I found myself 
 grabbed by two men, one with a black beard, 
 one with a yellow, one tugging at my right 
 arm, one at my left. 
 
 "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" I admonished 
 them. "You will tear me apart, indeed you 
 will. Whatever is the matter?" 
 
 It seems that they were members of rival 
 taxi fraternities, pledged to mortal enmity, and 
 each determined to secure at least a part of 
 me as fare. 
 
 "Police!" I called, and though no actual 
 policeman appeared, an eager crowd of citi- 
 zens accomplished my rescue and I found 
 myself seated in a cab. 
 
 "Follow that man!" I commanded, point- 
 ing to the picturesque figure of the cowboy 
 
 *A cowboy is a person stationed along the streets of Chicago 
 to apprehend animals who, having strayed from the stockyards, 
 might do harm to the populace. Thr. Tb. 
 
 [140] 
 
LIKE A MAN, I STOOD ROOTED TO THE SPOT 
 
/ Make Chicago My Own 
 
 riding fearlessly down the bandit-infested 
 streets. Safe inside, or comparatively safe at 
 any rate inside, and with all the windows 
 closed, I burst into tears. Alone — and in this 
 city of undreamed wildness. Soon I remem- 
 bered who and what I was, and composed my- 
 self as was befitting the husband of Theresa 
 Turbot and the famous British master of fic- 
 tion and opinion. For as the days went by, 
 and as questions on all manner of topics, from 
 divorce to cooking, were asked me, I slowly 
 had come to realize the great weight of my 
 own mind, the respect in which I was held, 
 and that my advice was not only asked but 
 followed. There's the rub. What a respon- 
 sibility. Under this treatment, I felt that I 
 should become old before my time. Alas 1 
 
 We had arrived. I looked about and saw no 
 huge factory buildings as I had been led to 
 expect. Instead, what seemed like a great 
 arena alongside the lake. Never hesitating, 
 I plunged through the gate, whereupon to 
 right and left of me I seemed to see many 
 people seated in rows. I kept my attention 
 
 [143] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 riveted on the cowboy, who was still riding 
 ahead of me, with no thought of possible dan- 
 ger from animals. Too late! There was a 
 roar and a rush. I seemed to hear cries of 
 surprise and pain from the crowds. I turned. 
 Bearing down on me, his magnificent horns 
 all too magnificent, was a huge steer. His 
 intention was evident. Like a man, I stood 
 rooted to the spot, intending to prove myself 
 by nature a toreador, and raised my two hands 
 to grab those approaching horns. I could feel 
 the hot breath of the angry beast, when, swish ! 
 I felt myself drawn and dragged by some 
 powerful force through the dust and away 
 from the heroic task I had been about to face. 
 Was this laughter or applause that greeted 
 my fall? I have never known. No one has 
 ever told me. As I wiped the dirt from my 
 eyes and ears I looked up at — ^whom do you 
 think? The cowboy, the boy himself. He 
 had lassoed me. Yes, I, Timothy Tubby, 
 had had a taste of the real old west; I had been 
 lassoed. The cowboy, though, seemed angry. 
 "Waddya think this is?" he said, curling 
 
 [144] 
 
/ Make Chicago My Own 
 
 his rope and his lip at the same instant. "A 
 bull fight?" 
 
 I told him that I was looking for the stock- 
 yards. 
 
 "Huh?" He turned away in disgust. 
 "This ain't no stockyards, yuh dumbbell, this 
 is ^The Greatest Wild West Show in the 
 World.' Git out!" 
 
 Much upset I found my way to the street, 
 and was standing, looking helplessly up and 
 down, when a kind lady approached me. I 
 could see at once that she had recognized me 
 from my pictures. 
 
 "Welcome to the literary centre of Amer- 
 ica," she said in sweet tones. "And what can 
 the matter be with Mr. Tubby? He looks so 
 tired and — er — just a trifle dusty. My name 
 is Dowdy." 
 
 "Thank you for your consideration, 
 Madam," I said slowly. "Indeed, the matter 
 at the moment seems to be that I am lost. It 
 seems to me that I am always lost. America 
 is so large. If you only would aid me to be- 
 come found, I should be grateful forever. I 
 
 [145] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 always autograph a book for people to whom 
 I owe gratitude." 
 
 "Fve always heard what a sweet person you 
 were — now I know," said the lady bountiful, 
 for she was bountiful as events proved. "Come 
 with me. You shall have a tub put at your 
 disposal, in fact, a shower, if you wish ; though 
 I am sure that you prefer a tub, and there are 
 several in my home. The use of imagination 
 in arranging bathing facilities is one of the 
 first duties of a good hostess. That has always 
 been my ambition — to be a good hostess. Just 
 that — no more." 
 
 I looked at my hands ruefully. 
 
 "Oh," she hastened to add, "not that you 
 need one ; but I know how much a real Eng- 
 lishman dislikes being separated from his tub. 
 This is most fortunate, I shall entertain you 
 while you are in Chicago at my own home. 
 I always entertain celebrities at my home. In 
 fact, it is the ^Home of Celebrities.' Undoubt- 
 edly when we return we shall find at least 
 two minor poets, and a minor artist or two, 
 sitting on my hospitable hearth rug." 
 
 [146] 
 
/ Make Chicago My Own 
 
 Night found us all united at Mrs. Dowdy's. 
 Theresa had seen the stockyards. She had 
 been impressed, but glad that I wasn't there, 
 for she didn't believe I could have stood it 
 without flinching. I should like to have tried, 
 anyway! All evening amid the gaiety, the 
 spirit of slaughtered flesh seemed to brood 
 over my soul. That night after it was quiet, 
 by the light of a candle so as not to awaken 
 Theresa, I wrote the first poem I had indited 
 on American soil. I quote it here : 
 
 THE STOCKYARD UNVISITED 
 
 I did not see the stockyards in Chicago. 
 Didnt you? What a pity! What a pity! 
 No, I didn't see them, but I smelled them, felt them, 
 And oh, I seemed to be that dripping flesh, 
 Blood red, scarlet, quivering like a banner 
 Boasting the mechanistic cruelty of this land, 
 Torturing my poor soul. / did not see! 
 And yet I know too well the awful sound 
 Of countless squealing pigs, of dying porkers. 
 Alas ! To think that this great stench of death 
 That broods above the literary centre, Chicago, 
 Must needs be smelled in order, oh my soul. 
 That innocent men should down a good pork pie! 
 
 I read it to them all as they came down 
 for breakfast the next morning; but, though 
 
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Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 impressed, they did not seem pleased. Mrs. 
 Dowdy assured me it was because they recog- 
 nized the stunning truth of it, that they were 
 for the moment depressed. What a wonderful 
 hostess she is, always saying the right thing 
 at the right moment, and putting a fellow 
 completely at his ease. Punchinello Bones was 
 quite tactless about it. He assured me that 
 the rhythm was faulty, and that if I should 
 study my own countryman, Walter de la Mare, 
 I might, in time, become a poet. He forgot, 
 of course, that I make no pretensions in that 
 direction. 
 
 As we were all seated in the drawing room 
 listening to a young man read his poetry, there 
 was the sound as of the clanging of a brass 
 bell. Each and every person in the room 
 stood up and ran to the door. 
 
 "It's Mrs. Gardner's signal!" shouted Mrs. 
 Dowdy. "Come on down to the lake!" 
 
 There we were, trooping toward the shore 
 of Lake Michigan, where we saw a huge plat- 
 form, about which stormed mobs of people 
 clad in bathing suits. On the platform stood 
 
 [148] 
 
/ Make Chicago My Own 
 
 a vivid figure, in an orange bathing suit and 
 a black hat with drooping feathers. She was 
 whirling a stick above her head and rapidly 
 beating the gong. 
 
 "Pardon me/' I gasped in my breathless 
 flight, "but what is she doing?" 
 
 "Collecting a crowd for you, of course 1" 
 shouted Mrs. Dowdy a trifle crossly over my 
 shoulder. "Everyone comes just as soon as 
 they hear the bell. Besides, she's probably 
 sold more of your books than any other wo- 
 man in the world. Isn't her hat lovely?" 
 
 "Literary people shouldn't wear bathing 
 suits," said a voice in my ear. It was a low 
 voice, and I turned around to see a pair of 
 deep eyes gazing at me from under a black 
 cap. "This is all bunk; come on with me to 
 the movies. Tubby. I'll show you a thing or 
 two. Have you seen 'Caligari'?" 
 
 I scarcely had a chance to nod at the gentle- 
 man, for Mrs. Dowdy had seized me and was 
 dragging me through the howling populace 
 toward the platform. It was like a strange 
 
 [149] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 dream, in which grotesque figures move. I 
 felt myself swayed here and there. 
 
 Suddenly I saw Larry Lansing stride across 
 the platform. He cleared his throat and 
 spoke lingeringly: 
 
 "It is a privilege to welcome Mr. Tubby. 
 Here we all are, all of artistic Chicago, com- 
 ing to greet you at the sound of Luella Gard- 
 ner's bell. Look at us. Are we not impres- 
 sive? And how we do appreciate one another. 
 Here we work strongly for the common good. 
 There is no backbiting, no jealousy. We are 
 out to serve the common good. Visitors to 
 America should come directly to Chicago, 
 where they would be led to understand the 
 true heart of America. Of course, they could 
 stop off a moment at New York on the way 
 back. Mr. Tubby, we salute you, about to 
 die or not!" 
 
 I went forward and spoke a few words, 
 which were completely drowned by cheers 
 when I referred to Chicago as the home of 
 the budding genius. I had meant to make it 
 plural but, not being sure of the proper plural 
 
 [150] 
 
/ Make Chicago My Own 
 
 form, I used a paltry singular. How fortu- 
 nate! For later I found that everyone there 
 considered himself or herself the bud to whom 
 I referred. It was one of those magnificent 
 strokes of accidental diplomacy for which I 
 am famous. 
 
 Luella Gardner leaned forward and gave 
 me one of her famous ravishing smiles. 
 
 "Don't tire yourself, dear old topper, but 
 mix! Mix and talk! It sells books." 
 
 It was not so much a question of mixing as 
 of being mixed. 
 
 First came a sweet and smiling figure of a 
 woman who introduced herself as the mother 
 of American poetry. She was entirely sur- 
 rounded by young ladies and young gentle- 
 men, clothed in white bathing suits, with a 
 sprig of myrtle worn on the brow. This cult 
 at first frightened me; but when I found that 
 each one had a little poem to read to me, I was 
 naturally quite touched. True, I failed to 
 understand most of the poems. One young 
 man in particular puzzled me much. 
 
 "This," and the mother patted him gently 
 
 [151] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 on the myrtle sprig, "is the newest of the neWc 
 He expresses himself in the etchiest of etched 
 words. Do listen. You know, we are what 
 makes Chicago the literary mecca!* 
 
 " Tassion,' '' announced the young poet, 
 then repeated his title: "Tassion'l" 
 
 He went on: *' Great light suddenly fluid J' 
 
 There was silence. I waited. We all 
 waited. Then seeing that we all waited, 
 the mother spoke. 
 
 "That's all. Isn't it superb?" We all mur- 
 mured. The ladies made approving sounds, 
 being careful that they should not be distin- 
 guishable, for fear that the young man's pub- 
 lishers might hear and quote them, and there 
 were few present in that assemblage whose 
 opinions would not be valuable. 
 
 At that moment there edged through the 
 crowd a stalwart gentleman. On his arm was 
 a stalwart lady. They brushed aside the 
 mother and her cult and introduced a group 
 of short-haired ladies and long-haired gentle- 
 men who carried long yellow quills behind 
 their ears. 
 
 [152] 
 
I FELT BOTH EMBARRASSED AND AT SEA 
 
/ Make Chicago My Own 
 
 "We believe in organization," the stalwart 
 gentleman shouted confidentially. "It is by 
 our earnest effort to bind together the book- 
 lovers of the land that we have created Chi- 
 cago, the literary centre. There has always 
 been something magical in the fraternal order, 
 its bonds are more binding than even those of 
 matrimony, and when the seal of the order is 
 a book, any book, many books, there exists an 
 unbreakable unity which cannot but be recog- 
 nized as a power in the world of letters. Now, 
 you see, Mr. Tubby — " 
 
 "Heah! Heah!" and a young man ran up. 
 He was a most elegant young man. He 
 brushed aside the stalwart gentleman with one 
 splendid motion of an elegant cane, a motion 
 which did not stop him from making occa- 
 sional passes with a crayon at a sketching pad 
 which he was carrying. He presented me 
 with a large violet envelope. 
 
 "An invitation," he announced, "to the real 
 literary centre of America — Evanston! We 
 boast at least two popular authors and we are 
 the seat of that noble organization, the Drama 
 
 [155] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 League; surely you have heard of the Drama 
 League." 
 
 I could but shake my head. 
 
 "Well," and the young man cleared his 
 throat, "it's an organization founded to do 
 away with entertainment in the theatre and to 
 encourage uplift. It has done wonders by 
 introducing spelling games into vaudeville 
 programs. YouVe no idea — " 
 
 Whereupon, even before I had a chance to 
 open the purple missive, a dark young man 
 with eye glasses, whose name was Will, ner- 
 vous hands, and quick speech, came rushing 
 up, followed by several young ladies and 
 gentlemen, each bearing a pile of books. Back 
 of them I could see Luella Gardner looking 
 a trifle worried. They arranged themselves 
 in a row and began throwing the books at 
 me. This was odd ; but it didn't matter much, 
 as the volumes never hit me. 
 
 "What's the matter?" I asked in surprise 
 of the dark young man. 
 
 "Why," he replied, "we're only demon- 
 strating how it is that we booksellers have 
 
 [156] 
 
/ Make Chicago My Own 
 
 made Chicago America's literary centre. We 
 literally throw the books at the public. Each 
 one of us has his or her method. It doesn't 
 much matter. I talk rapidly all the while I'm 
 throwing them. Yet somehow I succeed in 
 throwing a tremendous amount. Rose there, 
 actually reads, while those three young men 
 from three of our leading stores are masters of 
 the art of eye soulf ulness. They throw mostly 
 at flappers. Look at that young gentleman 
 who dresses like an ape. He does that to ad- 
 vertise his best seller. Clever of him, I 
 call it! Consequently their glances at you are 
 not quite so effective. Then, of course, there's 
 Fanny. She just smiles. Her smile is quite 
 different from Luella's and her taste in milli- 
 nery is not nearly so good ; nevertheless, she's 
 effective. Now I — " 
 
 Bang! Whirr! Bang! Up rode an out- 
 landish semi-naked figure on a mechanical 
 hobby horse. It wore a smock and talked 
 loudly and vehemently. 
 
 "Why haven't you been down to visit the 
 Mustard Plaster?" it shouted. "We're the 
 
 [157] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 literary centre of the world — art, religion, 
 politics, free love, and culture while you wait 
 — who dares say any of the rest of these guys 
 do anything? We don't do much and, by gol- 
 ly wompus, we shock 'em anyway 1 Come on 
 down to — " 
 
 I was commencing to feel decidedly be- 
 wildered, when I felt Larry Lansing's wel- 
 come and strong hand on my arm. 
 
 "We'll leave Theresa with Mrs. Dowdy," 
 he whispered. "My car's waiting. I'll take 
 you to lunch. You're scheduled for two lunch- 
 eons today. Have to make 'em both, too, 
 c'mon !" 
 
 He half dragged me to the waiting motor. 
 The crowd followed, waving farewells. The 
 car jerked to a swift start, then stopped. 
 There were more farewells. Again we 
 started, this time with a terrific jounce. A 
 wheel came off. We sank gracefully to one 
 side. All rushed to aid Larry, except those 
 who stayed behind to comfort me with talk of 
 the books they were planning to write. Fin- 
 ally, with renewed vigor and the restored 
 
 [158] 
 
I Make Chicago My Own 
 
 wheel, we were on our way. Larry explained 
 to me his theory of artistic driving. "Never 
 hit anything," he said, "but don't drive in a 
 straight line; parabolas are more graceful, and 
 grace is of prime importance in all things." 
 
 It was an absorbing pastime to figure just 
 how graceful Larry's curves could be without 
 hitting each passing car. However, after sev- 
 eral starts, stops, and whirls, we arrived at a 
 dingy saloon, or what used to be a saloon, on 
 a side street. 
 
 Inside, banging their fists on a round 
 wooden table in regular rhythm, sat a dozen 
 men. They were in their shirt sleeves, with 
 the exception of one gentleman who was clad 
 in a saffron shooting jacket. 
 
 "This is the bunch," Larry explained. 
 "They are the ones who really control the lit- 
 erary destinies of America." 
 
 They made a place for me. I was imme- 
 diately presented with a frankfurter on a plate 
 and one of my own books. Looking in the 
 book, I was surprised to see that it was written 
 
 [159] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 all over with pictures of me and insulting re- 
 marks about me. 
 
 "Hold your own," someone commanded. 
 "It's only a little custom. Some day these 
 autographs will be valuable, even yours!" 
 
 I wrote my chaste signature, somewhat 
 stiffly; for I was puzzled by their chaff. As I 
 wrote a little man with large eyes was whis- 
 pering. I could not hear him. He stopped. 
 There were roars of laughter. I looked up, 
 puzzled. 
 
 "It's only Keith's jokes," Larry explained. 
 "We don't dare tell you, because we don't yet 
 know your shock absorbing capacity. Now 
 everyone stop, Ben wants to talk." 
 
 A dark man with sparkling eyes began to 
 speak. 
 
 "This is real conversation," Larry assured 
 me. 
 
 I presume that he was right. In America 
 conversation means one of two things. Either 
 one man does all the talking or everyone talks 
 at once. It is stimulating though confusing. 
 I should always prefer to talk when everyone 
 
 [i6o] 
 
/ Make Chicago My Own 
 
 else was talking. After Ben had talked for 
 twenty minutes Larry rang a bell. That was 
 a signal for everyone to talk. I began to talk 
 also, but every time I started everyone else 
 stopped. This happened several times. When 
 they observed that I really had nothing to say 
 the flow of their voices commenced again. I 
 had just mentioned the revered name of our 
 late queen, when the gentleman with the black 
 cap and the deep eyes whom I had met at the 
 bathing party leaped upon the table. He 
 stamped his feet. 
 
 " Waddyamean, Queen Victoria ?" he shouted. 
 "I ask you, waddyamean? Fll fight you!'* 
 
 Now, let it not be said that Timothy Tubby 
 ever refused to fight, certainly not when the 
 name of our great queen was taken in vain. 
 Adjusting my necktie, therefore, I rose. I let 
 drive with my right; but due to a miscalcula- 
 tion arising probably from the astigmatic con- 
 dition of my eyes, I missed. I remembered the 
 accounts of the Carpentier-Dempsey fight. I 
 should emulate the gallant Georges. I braced 
 myself to receive the inevitable blow. Just 
 
 [i6i] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 then, I was lifted bodily from the floor and 
 carried oflF. 
 
 When I recovered my composure I found 
 myself again in Larry's car driving madly to 
 keep our other luncheon appointment at the 
 Tissue Paper Club. There, I immediately 
 recognized that I was in more respectable so- 
 ciety; for the table had a cloth and the ser- 
 vants wore clean aprons. On my right was a 
 veteran novelist, on my left a veteran book- 
 seller who leaned over to whisper in my ear, 
 *This is the good solid opinion that backs Chi- 
 cago as a literary centre." I nodded. This 
 nod that one cultivates in America has since 
 given me much trouble. It developed incipi- 
 ent spinal difficulties. The veteran novelist 
 rose. 
 
 "We have with us today," he began, "two 
 celebrities : Bobbie Best, the great American 
 poet, known to every home in the United 
 States, and Timothy Tubby, the famous Brit- 
 ish novelist. First, let's hear from Bobbie. 
 Who shall say that he is not a great poet, when 
 
 [162] 
 
/ Make Chicago My Own 
 
 his verses touch the heart of the American 
 busy man?" 
 
 Mr. Best arose, looked to right and left, 
 then recited a poem : 
 
 The sentiment that hurts my heart 
 
 As I stand here today, 
 Is thinking of my home and hearth, 
 
 Dear Mother's far away; 
 Dear Mother's far away, my men, 
 
 But oh how near to me I 
 Be cheerful for her sake, my men, 
 
 I know that you'll agree! 
 
 There were shouts of approval. The walls 
 were assailed with "Bravo's." 
 
 "He touches the rhythm of life itself," 
 someone whispered. Then it was my turn. 
 I arose. 
 
 "The thing that has impressed me most 
 since my arrival in Chicago," I began, "is the 
 fact that it is the literary centre of the United 
 States. {Cheers,) Why it is the centre, I do 
 not yet know; but it is the centre. {More 
 cheers.) Every young writer in America 
 should move to Chicago. {Still more cheers,) 
 Every writer in England should niove to Chi- 
 
 [163] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 cago. {More and more cheers,) I am be- 
 ginning to feel that Chicago, under the spell 
 of the stockyards, is the literary hub of the 
 world. {Deafening cheers^y* 
 
 I sat down. With one motion, they lifted 
 me to their shoulders. Down Michigan 
 Avenue they bore me, while little girls strewed 
 flowers in my path. 
 
 "He has discovered Chicago," they sang, 
 and bus drivers took up the burden of their 
 song and it echoed across the waters of the 
 lake — 
 
 '^Shee-caw-go — a hub, a literary centre/' 
 
 ''You must dress for dinner now," Larry 
 Lansing explained as I climbed down from 
 the shoulders of my admirers. "You are at- 
 tending a dance at Lake Forest this evening, 
 after which you must catch the train for New 
 York. Alas, that you cannot live and write 
 here forever." 
 
 Thus far I have not turned my attention to 
 a discussion of American society. However, 
 in passing, I should note that Chicago seems 
 to be the social centre of America, as well as 
 
 [164] 
 
/ Make Chicago My Own 
 
 the literary centre. At least, so I was told. 
 Arriving at a country club in Lake Forest, 
 which is the summer colony of many members 
 of Chicago's so called "gold coast," I found 
 it difficult to make myself known. There was 
 much noise, many lights, and an atmosphere 
 of gaiety; yet somehow I felt a distinct chill. 
 This was not, evidently, the place for litera- 
 ture. For a time Theresa and I watched. 
 
 The dancing was on a platform near the 
 golf links. Most of the people wandered off 
 across the greens. Was it because they did 
 not enjoy dancing? No; because those who 
 stayed seemed to enter into it with a superb 
 and almost Latin abandon. This was diffi- 
 cult to understand. Theresa finally discov- 
 ered the hostess, and I was left alone with noth- 
 ing at all to do but to twirl my monocle. I 
 am afraid that I was a pathetic sight, for very 
 soon I saw a young lady detach herself from 
 a group of gay youngsters and mince across 
 the floor toward me. She was dressed in 
 bright green. She must have been very young 
 indeed, for her skirts only reached to her 
 
 [165] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 knees or a little above, I forget which. From 
 her ears hung long pendants of jade. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Tubby!" she shouted. "I recog- 
 nized you from your pictures. I write, too. 
 Do you dance? I'll teach you if you don't. 
 I write epigrams. Do you ever write epi- 
 grams? And what do you think of Lake For- 
 est — ^you know, it's the literary as well as the 
 social centre of America. Well, come on old 
 boy, here we go for a fox trot I" 
 
 Now I had never attempted the modern 
 steps. It is quite true, as Theresa avers, that 
 I was only a moderately adequate dancer in 
 the days of the old-fashioned waltz ; so when 
 this alarming young creature flung herself 
 into my arms I felt both embarrassed and at 
 sea. She pressed her cheek against mine. 
 
 "Just relax," she whispered, "then do any- 
 thing you want to with your feet. You must. 
 They are all watching. Love and dancing, 
 when mixed, are the best of cpcktails. That's 
 one of my epigrams. Isn't it a peach? Ata- 
 boy — keep going — keep moving — now, dream 
 into it old dear, let'er hum, they think we're 
 
 [i66] 
 
/ Make Chicago My Own 
 
 grand. A kiss is like a soap bubble, beautiful 
 while it lasts. That's another of my epigrams. 
 How long are you staying in Chicago, and 
 isn't it a beautiful night." 
 
 Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It 
 was a nice looking young man. He smiled. 
 What was I to do? I kept on dancing. He 
 frowned. The green young lady laughed 
 and offered no advice. 
 
 "May I cut in, sir?" he thundered. 
 
 I stopped dancing to consider the meaning 
 of his request. To my surprise he danced 
 away with my partner. These things I do not 
 understand. 
 
 At this moment I saw Larry Lansing rush- 
 ing across the lawn. 
 
 "Your train!" he shouted. "You'll miss it." 
 
 At that instant, far across the dancing floor, 
 I observed a familiar figure, clad in flowered 
 satin. At the same moment she observed me. 
 I could see that she was about to speak to me ; 
 but Larry grabbed me by one hand and The- 
 resa by the other and started across the lawn. 
 
 "Mr. Tubby, Misitv Tubby 1" came agi- 
 
 [167] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 tated cries. We had just leaped into the car 
 when the elaborately gowned woman threw 
 herself upon the dashboard and clung there 
 piteously. 
 
 "Don't you know me? I'm Mrs. Camberry, 
 president of the Pencilcrafters. I'm leaving 
 for New York tonight and I almost missed 
 my train. Will you see that I make it, and we 
 can have another nice little talk. We can dis- 
 cuss Chicago as a literary centre." 
 
 They say that they helped her into the car. 
 I do not know. I had sunk into a delightful 
 state of coma, in which visions of a huge 
 wheel composed of books and having for its 
 centre the Chicago stockyards, revolved with 
 flaming colors in the dark. 
 
 [i68] 
 
Chapter Five 
 OLD MR. TUTWHEELER OF BOSTON 
 
CHAPTER FIVE 
 OLD MR. TUTWHEELER OF BOSTON 
 
 We had arrived in Boston with a keen sense 
 that relief was in sight. The old town of 
 which we had heard and read so much, would 
 prove a veritable haven after the brash trum- 
 petings of the rest of America. It was, we 
 had so often been told, a little bit of old Eng- 
 land herself, with its quiet streets, its aris- 
 tocratic populace, its literary leanings, and its 
 historical associations. Longfellow, too, had 
 lived in old Cambridge, and we could go to 
 Craigie House with a sense of actually having 
 completed a pilgrimage. That great name, 
 at least, we revered. 
 
 Just after we were settled in our rooms at 
 the Touraine, I found a note inviting me to be 
 the guest of honor that evening at the New 
 England Poetry Society. I sank into my 
 
 [171] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 chair with a groan. More poetry societies? 
 However, Terry, dear old girl, came to the 
 rescue. 
 
 "I'll go,'' she said, "and you stay at home 
 with a headache. I can read them one of your 
 juvenilia, one of those sweet little verses you 
 used to write at the age of ten or thereabouts. 
 That will please them." ^ 
 
 How much more than usual I appreciated 
 the worth and the usefulness of a truly good 
 helpmate. What better gift can be bestowed 
 upon humble man? 
 
 In the violet dusk I wandered out upon the 
 Common, the famous old Common of which 
 I had heard so much. In one corner, clus- 
 tered about a bench, was a group of little 
 boys; they wore large bone glasses and be- 
 side them lay a pile of books. I stepped over 
 quietly and carefully to look at the titles: 
 Euripides, Henry James, Plato's "Republic," 
 "Heaven's Holocaust" (by — imagine! T. 
 Tubby). Well! Well! You can just picture 
 
 * Unlike the New York meeting of the Poetry Society of 
 America, it was not raided. It should have been. Thr. Tb. 
 
 [172] 
 
Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 
 
 my surprise and delight. These were the fa- 
 mous wise youngsters of Boston of whom I 
 had reach so much. Indeed, I had seen pic- 
 tures of them in that semihumorous publica- 
 tion "Life," and in the so called "funny" pa- 
 pers. Here they were. I must speak to them! 
 
 "Tell me, good young sirs," I spoke sol- 
 emnly as I advanced toward them, "what do 
 you think of the James brothers, William and 
 Henry, and isn't it a nice evening?" 
 
 "Waddya mean, you old goofer?" sang out 
 one of them, and they turned about with one 
 accord to glare at me. It was then I noticed 
 that they had been playing with dice instead 
 of enjoying quiet conversation as I had at first 
 supposed. I was at a loss. I stood silently 
 contemplating these curious beings. 
 
 "Waddya lookin' at us like that for? We'll 
 teach you to spy on us" — and a red headed 
 young man reached quickly for a book. 
 Others followed his example. What could I 
 do with Greek books raining about my ears? 
 I fled, with the urchins, for they surely were 
 nothing better, yelling at my heels. 
 
 [173] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 "Boys I Boys 1" A reproving voice sounded. 
 The urchins ceased yelling and stopped run- 
 ning. I turned to see who had arisen to res- 
 cue me, and beheld a strange apparition. A 
 slight little old man stood near, waving a cane 
 feebly. From his top hat to his curiously 
 pointed shoes, he seemed to have jumped from 
 an old print. He was old, inexpressibly old; 
 and yet his eyes sparkled vivaciously. 
 
 "Is this what I pay you for?" he said in a 
 husky, wavering voice, turning to the boys. 
 "The next time that this happens I'll dis- 
 charge you all. Dis-missed!'* The last word 
 was thunderously pronounced. The group of 
 youngsters broke and ran. The old gentleman 
 turned to me. 
 
 "I arrange to have them here," he ex* 
 plained, "for appearances, you understand, 
 keeping up traditions and all that. I suppose 
 you might call me an antiquarian, sir, and 
 there are those," he put one finger to the side 
 of his nose and winked, "who might consider 
 me antiquated " 
 
 [174] 
 
Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 
 
 "My name is Tubby," I commenced, 
 "and " 
 
 "Oh yes I" said the old gentleman, "I know. 
 I came here to meet you and to fetch you. 
 Come on." He pointed ahead of him with 
 his stick. 
 
 "But, my dear sir — ," I protested. 
 
 "We are, I trust, Mr. Tubby, gentlemen; 
 in fact, I presume, distinguished gentlemen. 
 I prefer persuasion to force, but'' — and with 
 that he whipped out a huge revolver of an- 
 tique pattern, with silver mountings. "Kindly 
 walk ahead of me." 
 
 Naturally, I did as I was bid. He marched 
 me to a street close by where a cab stood wait- 
 ing. It was drawn by an old white horse, and 
 the coachman, attired in dark green, had a 
 beard which blew about him like mist in the 
 evening air. 
 
 "Kindly step in," said my friend with the 
 revolver; and I obliged. We seated ourselves 
 and he drew the shutters. The vehicle started 
 jerkily. After a silence of a few moments, 
 
 [175] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 during which time he kept his pistol across his 
 knees, he turned to me. 
 
 "Your wife will not worry," he explained. 
 "I have left a satisfactory explanation at your 
 hotel. Meanwhile you are, my dear sir, being 
 abducted by none other than Mr. Tutwheeler, 
 the Mr. Tutwheeler, of Boston, of the Cam- 
 bridge literary group. Few mortal men have 
 seen me. I am a survival of a grand epoch, 
 anomalous, if you wish ; but a survival. My 
 methods of prolonging life are no concern of 
 yours. Here I am, a friend of Longfellow, 
 Whittier, Lowell, Hawthorne, Emerson, 
 Howells, the Jameses, the Adamses — a gentle- 
 man of the old school, and I am stealing you 
 away from the moderns. Indeed all my life 
 and fortune are being dedicated to keeping the 
 old atmosphere and destroying the new. 
 That's why I hire the boys to look wise on the 
 Common, that's why I've spent a fortune at- 
 tempting to suppress Amy Lowell, that's why 
 I am stealing you away. I shall not allow so 
 great an Englishman to come in contact with 
 the fearful spirit of modernity that is destroy- 
 
 [176] 
 
Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 
 
 ing this beautiful town and the literature of 
 the land." 
 
 "Presumably," I ventured, "you are well 
 acquainted with monkey glands." 
 
 He turned on me such a look of malevo- 
 lence that I shrank back into the corner of 
 the cab. 
 
 "Sir," he bellowed, "monkey glands as ap- 
 plied to the prolongation of human life are a 
 modern contraption. I have no modern con- 
 tacts. In the future, kindly have a care when 
 addressing me. I admire your high station; 
 but my temper is not so good as it was once 
 and it was never very good. I remember well 
 the day I became angry with dear Mr. Whit- 
 tier. He resented my chiding him for his 
 radical tendencies. Shocking I call it (revo- 
 lutionary. Do you not consider such senti- 
 ments dangerous when placed in the hands of 
 the masses?" 
 
 I murmured an apology and avoided the 
 reference to Mr. Whittier. 
 
 "Ah, here we are, at last, in Cambridge," 
 said Mr. Tutwheeler. I soon found myself 
 
 [177] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 walking through the gloom toward a colonial 
 house, forbiddingly dark, flanked by rows of 
 huge elm trees. As I heard heavy bolts flung 
 back, and the door was opened stealthily, I 
 suddenly felt like a character in a Sherlock 
 Holmes story. I was, truly, frightened out 
 of my wits. There was an air of funereal sol- 
 emnity in the hallway. The tall, spare butler 
 looked like a ghost, and his livery of black 
 and white gave him an almost skeleton-like 
 appearance. 
 
 "Bones!" said Mr. Tutwheeler, and I shud- 
 dered at the name, "show Mr. Tubby to the 
 George Washington bedroom.'' He then 
 turned to me. "You will find a wardrobe* 
 awaiting you. I trust that the accommoda- 
 tions are perfectly satisfactory." 
 
 With a stiff bow, he whisked away into the 
 dark. 
 
 My room smelled of lavender. For one in- 
 stant, I had a horrible thought. Did plumb- 
 ing come under the head of Mr. Tutwheeler's 
 "modern contraptions"? With a sigh of ex- 
 treme relief I saw my hot bath, drawn doubt- 
 
 [178] 
 
Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 
 
 less by the faithful Bones, awaiting me. For 
 a few moments I forgot my troubles as I sank 
 into its deliciously scented warmth. 
 
 My situation was serious. In the hands of 
 a madman completely at his mercy, in a 
 strange land and a new town. Occasionally 
 even the spirit of adventure for which I have 
 always been famous fails me, and I find my- 
 self face to face with the most distressing of 
 all human emotions — fearl 
 
 The long rooms, opening in a grandiose 
 vista, were lighted by occasional candles, as I 
 came down to dinner. Mr. Tutwheeler, a 
 neat, brisk figure, stood awaiting me. 
 
 "Before going in to dinner, I must explain 
 the test." He smiled and bowed. "One little 
 thing I have been planning for years. You 
 are to be the Bassanio. You have, perhaps, 
 read *The Merchant of Venice'?" I nodded. 
 He sighed. "In these days, one never knows. 
 I am happy to see that Shakespeare is not 
 entirely forgotten in his native land." 
 
 He had led me by now to one end of a room 
 
 [179] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 that was evidently a library, completely sur- 
 rounded as it was by well filled cases. 
 
 "Here is my five foot shelf !" and he pointed 
 to a single row of books which lay along an 
 exquisitely carved mahogany rack, hung 
 against a huge tapestry depicting the landing 
 of the Pilgrims. I started to take out a vol- 
 ume. It was, if I remember correctly, 
 "Brass," by Charles Norris. "Not yet," 
 screamed Mr. Tutwheeler in alarm. "The 
 time is not ripe. Let me explain. This is 
 my dynamite test. I have been preparing it 
 for years. Each season, I choose a new set 
 of books — my pet abominations. To one of 
 these books is attached an electrical appliance. 
 When that particular volume is drawn forth 
 a charge of dynamite is exploded, and with it 
 goes this house and all that is in it. With such 
 seriousness do I regard literature, that I am 
 willing to meet death in this manner. I must 
 die some time and anything is better than the 
 knowledge that such books as these are being 
 written. You are the man who must make 
 the choice. Come, we shall go in to dinner 
 
 [i8o] 
 
WITH GREEK BOOKS RAINING ABOUT MY EA&S 
 
Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 
 
 now. Before you make your decision I must 
 send all of the servants away, except Bones, of 
 course. Bones feels exactly as I do and is 
 willing to do with me." 
 
 Imagine my terror. Cold chills swept my 
 backbone. Cold shivers shook my knees. 
 Cold drops of perspiration rolled from my 
 forehead. And as if to make the situation 
 even more grotesque, the eerie little man 
 smiled at me benignly. 
 
 "Do you not consider it a great honor that 
 you out of all living men have been chosen?" 
 
 "But, my dear sir," I protested, "you do not 
 seem to consider the fact that I do not want to 
 diel" 
 
 He looked at me with manifest surprise. 
 
 "Are you not modern enough to think of 
 the publicity?" He spoke the word hissingly 
 and with scorn. "Think of the publicity. 
 Mysterious old Cambridge house explodes. 
 Famous British author disappears from Bos- 
 ton. Were the twain connected? It will sell 
 thousands of your books. It will make your 
 wife a fortune." 
 
 [183] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 "A widow's legacy, sir, never compensates 
 for her husband's death ; at least, in the mind 
 of the husband. I beg of you, let me examine 
 the fateful books. I may not have read some 
 of them." 
 
 "Oh, that doesn't matter," he assured me, 
 pushing on impatiently toward the dining 
 room, where Bones stood, an impressively 
 ghoul-like figure, holding back black velvet 
 curtains which revealed candle light reflected 
 from much fine old silver. "Now, don't men- 
 tion it again. Let's have a pleasant dinner. 
 I've always heard that Englishmen were such 
 good sports. Please don't mention it again. 
 I have many things about which I wish to talk 
 with you." 
 
 We had scarcely taken our seats at a glis- 
 tening table, when Mr. Tutwheeler started 
 talking abruptly. 
 
 "What do you think of Boston?" he de- 
 manded. 
 
 "You haven't given me a chance to see it," 
 I protested. 
 
 [184] 
 
Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 
 
 "What do you think of Amy Lowell?" he 
 pursued relentlessly. 
 
 *^An able poet," I began. 
 
 "Stop!" He raised his hand in a gesture 
 of dismay. "I have spent millions in an at- 
 tempt to counteract her influence on young 
 American writers. If she had not been a 
 woman, if she had not been a Lowell" — he 
 paused for a moment, overcome by great emo- 
 tion. "Do you realize that she has disrupted 
 the good old methods of Longfellow, that she 
 has trampled upon tradition, that she is a 
 veritable Medusa turning to stone all beauties 
 of rhythm and all harmonies of form? The 
 fact that she is of the Massachusetts tradi- 
 tion itself, that she is the inheritor of ages of 
 conservatism — ah, it is too much to bear. 
 Katharine Lee Bates, too; doesn't it seem to 
 you as though a woman of her experience, a 
 teacher in Wellesley College itself, whose own 
 work has fine conception and spirit, should 
 adopt a policy of disdain for the young up- 
 starts? But no — she countenances them, she 
 helps them, she invites them to speak in her 
 
 [185] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 courses. Hideous, I call it. The Brown sis- 
 ters are not so incorrigible, though I must 
 say that I have occasionally been shocked by 
 Miss Alice's short stories. Dear Miss Abbie 
 Farwell Brown — her poetry does appeal to 
 me. As for George Edward Woodberry, he's 
 what I call thoroughly modern. What can I 
 do but die, as I sit faced by all these facts, 
 mindful that I alone remain to fight for the 
 ideals of Emerson and of Longfellow!" 
 
 During this incoherent tirade and between 
 mouthfuls of duck, I was looking about me 
 for a means of escape. The windows were 
 shrouded with black velvet. I had consid- 
 ered for a moment making a dash for one of 
 them and leaping out no matter what the con- 
 sequences; but as Bones drew back one of the 
 curtains to peer out, I saw heavy bars. There 
 seemed little hope. Perhaps if I could cheer 
 up the old gentleman, I should be able to 
 wheedle him into letting me go. 
 
 "I quite agree with you about the Younger 
 Generation," I began in an attempt to humor 
 him. "Their minds run too much in sex chan- 
 
 [i86] 
 
Old Mr. Tutw heeler of Boston 
 
 nels, and as for these young ladies called *flap- 
 pers,' I—" 
 
 "Flappers!" His thin old voice quavered 
 high in an agonized shriek. "Bones, bring me 
 some brandy, quickly, or I shall faint, or die, 
 or something of the sort. Flappers! Sex! 
 Oh, my dear Mr. Tubby! . . . 
 
 "Don't be sorry; it's a foolish virtue. I'll 
 tell you what I think of them, that is, just as 
 soon as I've had a bit of brandy 1" 
 
 Bones poured a liberal portion of brandy 
 down his throat. 
 
 "You see, my good Tubby," Mr. Tutwheeler 
 began slowly, "they have no taste, no taste 
 whatsoever. Let them have love affairs, who 
 cares, we've all had 'em in our time; but why 
 should they want everyone else to see them 
 making love? What's more foolish than a 
 loving couple? Who wants to read about sex 
 and dish water? Part of life? Yes! But the 
 part we like to forget! Kisses? Very good, 
 very good indeed, sir, in a darkened parlor; 
 but in the sunlight? They don't belong, sir, 
 they don't belong. Nothing is sacred to these 
 
 [187] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 young people. They make novels of their 
 own troubles. I'm told that it is even possible 
 to recognize their own sweethearts and wives 
 in the pages of their fiction. Is this breeding, 
 is this taste? Men ask me, what is this that 
 you are fighting? I reply, ^Decadence! Dis- 
 integration of the mental forces that bind our 
 government and forge our culture.' Alas! 
 There are times when I become a veritable 
 Tory in my sentiments, when I wish that we 
 had never broken away from dear Mother 
 England. The British nation is inherently 
 well bred. You do not find these strange phe- 
 nomena in England, do you?" 
 
 I hesitated a moment, feeling, in a sense, 
 that my life depended on the reply. Yet 
 somehow the Tubby love of truth would not 
 let me lie. 
 
 "Of course, my honored sir," I began ten- 
 tatively, "we are much better off than you 
 are in this country, that goes without say- 
 
 ing— " 
 "I suspected as much, I suspected as much," 
 
 [i88] 
 
Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 
 
 grumbled the old gentleman, shaking his head 
 and rubbing his hands. 
 
 "But," I added, and his eyes glared appre- 
 hensively and, I feared, menacingly, "we, too, 
 have our troubles. The Younger Generation 
 is not without its wantonness, both in life and 
 in print." 
 
 "That isn't the question, that isn't the ques- 
 tion," shouted the irate little gentleman, and 
 as he became more angry he seemed to shrivel 
 up and to take on the aspect of some other 
 world demon. "Wantonness isn't anything 
 new. I don't expect young people to be an- 
 gels. I wasn't and I'm glad of it. The ques- 
 tion is. Tubby, do they talk about themselves?^' 
 
 "Oh Lord yes!" I blurted out. 
 
 For a moment I thought that the old man 
 had expired. But he sipped from his glass 
 of port, and looked at me with a tragic ex- 
 pression in his eyes. 
 
 "Alas! Tubby, I fear it was all the doing 
 of those atrocious creatures, Shaw and Wells. 
 Once bad manners have been introduced, they 
 spread. Gentility is no longer genteel, and 
 
 [189] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 impoliteness is coming to be the only sign of so- 
 called aristocracy. It is time, I fear, for the 
 test. Come, sir, prepare your mind to con- 
 sider the tremendous problem before you." 
 
 I arose shakily. Once again I looked long- 
 ingly at the barred windows ; but they seemed 
 to oflfer no solution. Bones stood, silent and 
 mummified, near the door. Firearms, no 
 doubt, were at hand, should I attempt to make 
 my escape. 
 
 "I have invited a few guests to witness the 
 ceremony," Mr. Tutwheeler announced, and 
 by now I had come to realize that his eyes 
 were shining with a glee so malicious as to be 
 absolutely devilish. "Show them in. Bones." 
 
 They came, elaborately gowned and fault- 
 lessly tailored. He had evidently invited 
 them from far and near to enjoy Death's feast. 
 Bones, in tones like the hollow rumbling of an 
 Indian gong, announced the entrance of each 
 guest. 
 
 "Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald"— and a slim 
 youth with light hair rushed nervously and 
 unsteadily in. 
 
 [190] 
 
Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 
 
 "Miss Dorothy Speare" — there was a vision 
 of white spangles and waving fan, and the 
 sound of shrill song. 
 
 "Mr. Heywood Broun" — the room seemed 
 suddenly darkened by a huge shadow; 
 
 "Miss Willa Cathej" — straight and martial 
 in her manner this lady entered. 
 
 "Mr. John V. A. Weaver" — carrying five 
 autographed copies of his latest book and a 
 worried expression. 
 
 "Mr. Sherwood Anderson" — dark and 
 dreamy eyed, he wandered toward us. 
 
 "Mr. Floyd Dell" — going directly toward 
 the hangings, he hid himself in their black 
 folds. 
 
 "Mr. Sinclair Lewis" — fiery, alert, eager, 
 leaping like a faun, he started a rapid con- 
 versation immediately. 
 
 "Mr. Ben Hecht" — carrying a huge dic- 
 tionary of phalic symbols. 
 
 "Mr. John Dos Passos" — with an easel, a 
 paint brush, and a German helmet. 
 
 "Mr. Robert Benchley" — the perfect diplo- 
 mat, he smiled in all directions. 
 
 [191] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 "Mr. Gilbert Seldes" — looking as though 
 he would like at any moment to put on boxing 
 gloves. 
 
 ^^Mr. Stephen Benet"— he joined Mr. Dell 
 behind the curtains. 
 
 "Mr. John Farrar" — revolving in a circle 
 he spoke to everyone in the room at least 
 once. 
 
 "Mr. Waldo Frank" — walking as if at his 
 own funeral. 
 
 "Mr. Maxwell Bodenheim" — triumphantly 
 late, aching for someone to annoy him. 
 
 "Mr. Thomas Beer" — shyly and apparently 
 having come only after the greatest persuasion. 
 
 "Mr. Herbert Gorman" — hiding as far as 
 possible behind Mr. Beer. 
 
 "Mr. Burton Rascoe" — ten volumes of 
 French poetry tucked under his arms. 
 
 "Mr. Donald Ogden Stewart" — attempting 
 to look serious, while his clown-like antics be- 
 trayed him. 
 
 "Mr. Robert Nathan" — ^with a cynic's pa- 
 tient glance at the few ladies in the room. 
 
 So they came, more and more. Here, cer- 
 
 [192] 
 
Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 
 
 tainly, was my chance to escape; but no, Mr. 
 Tutwheeler kept me at his side. 
 
 "Do you realize," I started to explain to 
 Mr. Broun, whom I remembered so well from 
 early days in New York; but Mr. Tutwheeler 
 interrupted. 
 
 "Mr. Broun," questioned the old man, "do 
 you think that Mr. Tubby will choose one of 
 your books?" 
 
 Mr. Broun smiled in an embarrassed way, 
 and murmured some polite denial. At once, 
 each member of the group became self-con- 
 scious in expressions of assurance that his at 
 least would not be the book chosen. It seemed 
 to matter very little to them that I had not 
 read most of their output. 
 
 "The hour has come," announced Mr. Tut- 
 wheeler solemnly. 
 
 The gay company formed in a circle about 
 the shelf. 
 
 "To the author of the book chosen, I ofiFer a 
 prize of twenty thousand dollars." 
 
 There was a shriek of delighted expectancy. 
 
 "I am so interested in the work of the 
 
 [193] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 Younger Generation — in the new writers/" 
 and he turned his back on them all and winked 
 at me. Once more I cleared my throat to 
 scream. It seemed a hateful thing to do; but, 
 after all, it was not as though the loss of these 
 authors would mean much to the world. Of 
 course, I could not help but remember my 
 own unwritten masterpieces that might have 
 spread joy and wisdom to far lands. Still, 
 there was only one chante of setting off the 
 dynamite. On the other hanrd, there was the 
 twenty thousand dollar reward. Before me, 
 tlien, was a nice problem in psychology. To 
 what sort of book would the wily Tutwheeler 
 have been likely to attach the trigger of the in- 
 fernal machine? 
 
 Here were the titles. I gasped. It was 
 hopeless. There were a dozen books, as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 To the Last Man Zane Grey 
 
 Slabs of the Sunburnt West Carl Sandburg 
 
 Brass Charles G. Norris 
 
 Rahab Waldo Frank 
 
 The Beautiful and Damned F. Scott Fitzgerald 
 
 Jurgen James Branch Cabell 
 
 Three Soldiers John Dos Passos 
 
 [194] 
 
Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 
 
 Legends Amy Lowell 
 
 The Mirrors of Washington Anonymous 
 
 A Parody Outline of Hw/ory ... Donald Ogden Stewart 
 
 The American Language H. L. Mencken 
 
 The Head of the House of Coombe, 
 
 Frances Hodgson Burnett 
 
 What was I to do? Few of these books I 
 had read. Mrs. Burnett, I knew, and Zane 
 Grey, who is popular in England ; but of the 
 others, with the exception of Amy Lowell, I 
 had scarcely even heard. She, I knew, was 
 his pet abomination. Could it be that ^'Leg- 
 ends" was the fatal book? Then, with a sud- 
 den flash of intuition, I decided. Mrs. Bur- 
 nett's work was innocuous enough. Surely she 
 would not blow twenty-odd souls into eter- 
 nity. True, the old rascal might be playing 
 a trick on us. Perhaps he wanted to destroy 
 us all, and to end his own miserable life. I 
 was trembling from tip to toe. The room was 
 horribly still. I reached . . . 
 
 "TOOTl TOOTYI TOOTl TOOT I" 
 
 Mr. Tutwheeler jumped. We all jumped 
 at the sound of brazen trumpets outside. Sud- 
 denly Bones burst screaming into the room. 
 
 [195] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 "She is here! She is herel Flee for your 
 life, master, she is here!" 
 
 "Who is here?" demanded my mad host, 
 still with a semblance of dignity. 
 
 *'Amy Lowelir gasped terrified Bones, and 
 fainted. 
 
 Mr. Tutwheeler's face became white, so 
 white that it looked like a wrinkled death 
 mask of his former self. He made a hurried 
 movement toward the shelf ; but with greater 
 presence of mind than I usually display, I 
 seized him by both elbows and held him there 
 struggling. The other guests expressed their 
 astonishment in various ways, some by faint- 
 ing, some by running in circles, some by bab- 
 bling coherently, others by babbling incoher- 
 ently. Then, completely surrounded by a 
 guard of stalwart young men heavily armed. 
 Miss Lowell entered. She smiled, nodded to 
 right and left, and came swiftly down the 
 room. For an instant she looked at Mr. Tut- 
 wheeler. He shriveled before her gaze. 
 Then she uttered one word, delicately but 
 firmly. 
 
 [196] 
 
Old Mr. Tutwheeler of Boston 
 
 'Tossiir said Miss Lowell. 
 
 He sank as though he had been shot. 
 
 "Tie them both securely and put them in a 
 corner," Miss Lowell commanded. Then 
 turning to me she said, "Wasn't it fortunate 
 that your wife telephoned me of your disap- 
 pearance? He signed his name to the note 
 in the hotel. I had heard of his mysterious 
 house. I used to know him once on a time. 
 So I came here directly. What was happen- 
 
 ing?" 
 
 I explained in trembling tones. 
 
 "So," said Miss Lowell. We called on 
 some member of the party who was an elec- 
 trician to cut the wires which we found at the 
 back of the case. There was a rush to exam- 
 ine the books. 
 
 Every one of those volumes except one was 
 attached to the infernal mechanism — and that 
 one — "Legends" by Amy Lowell. In another 
 moment we would all of us have been seeking 
 information in higher altitudes. 
 
 "Why did he do that?" someone asked. 
 
 [197] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 "Did he secretly admire Miss Lowell's work, 
 or was he just a rotten sportsman?" 
 
 No one will ever know ; for late that night 
 after we had all left, there was a terrific deto- 
 nation which shook all Cambridge. Old Mr. 
 Tutwheeler of Boston had gone elsewhere to 
 join the other members of the Cambridge 
 school of literature. May his works live as 
 long as theirs. 
 
 [198] 
 
Chapter Six 
 THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY 
 
CHAPTER SIX 
 
 THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY 
 
 I attended many universities and schools 
 while in the United States, and I really see 
 very little difference among them. They are 
 all finishing schools. Even Yale and Har- 
 vard, the most spectacular schools in Amer- 
 ica, do little more than teach manners. Har- 
 vard teaches the sons of successful men to ap- 
 pear successful, Yale teaches atiy boy to be 
 successful in spite of his bad manners, while 
 Princeton teaches its students that to pur- 
 chase clothes at the right tailors is the sum- 
 mit of all wisdom — and it gives them a list 
 of the tailors. However, the most charming 
 thing about America, is the college youth. 
 Insouciant, is the word. Worshipful, fresh, 
 keen, always indulging in some jolly little 
 prank. I shall never forget the delightful 
 
 [201] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 few days I spent at Dartmouth, a somewhat 
 rural college for farmers' sons, hidden away 
 in the wilds of the White and Green Moun- 
 tains. It was in Winter. My first few hours 
 were torture, until I noticed that most of the 
 boys and all of the professors wore ear-muffs,^ 
 little furry pads that snap over the ears and 
 are most necessary in zero weather. 
 
 After that, I was quite happy, except for 
 the little incident of the skiing party. I had 
 used these instruments once, many years ago 
 in the Swiss Mountains ; but, as Theresa later 
 reminded me, that was when I was somewhat 
 less stout. Nevertheless, as I heard the dear 
 boys talking about their amusements, I wanted 
 so to prove to them that an Englishman is ac- 
 tually the good sport that he is said to be in all 
 the books, that I slightly hinted that I could 
 ski. "Oh," those ruddy-cheeked youngsters 
 immediately chorused. "We'll get up a party 
 for you, and we'll have the moving picture 
 men come around. What a lark that will be!" 
 
 * Why is it that men can never stand so much pain as women ? 
 You certainly would never see ear muffs being worn in a girls' 
 college. 
 
 [202] 
 
BIYI KICiC HIM out! LUTEM TO TUB BULL-DOOl 
 
The American University 
 
 — and the still small voice in my soul, so care- 
 fully cultivated by Mr. Vernay, echoed, 
 "What good publicity!" 
 
 It was a bright clear morning. We all wore 
 sporting clothes, although mine did not fit too 
 well. Now I had supposed that we would 
 all go out upon one of those gentle white 
 slopes that I had observed along the road- 
 side; but instead I found myself suddenly con- 
 fronted by a huge iron structure, miles high, 
 at which I looked in wonder and amazement. 
 
 "What is this?" I asked. Theresa had al- 
 ready surmised, and was weeping softly. 
 "You'll break your neck or — something!" she 
 whispered. 
 
 It was, it seemed, the slide on which I was 
 to ski. My heart began to go pit-a-pat. But, 
 oh! I could not forget that the honor of my 
 country was involved. The boys stood around 
 expectantly. As I climbed the dizzy heights, 
 my soul misgave me. I looked down. Some- 
 one kindly fastened on the instruments, which 
 at the moment made me think of the Spanish 
 
 [205] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 Inquisition. I smiled. Yes, I smiled. That 
 makes me especially proud of myself, the fact 
 that I smiled.^ 
 
 Theresa, I'm ashamed to say, controlled 
 herself very badly. She very nearly fainted, 
 and it was only because of the kindly encir- 
 cling arms of the Dartmouth librarian (I be- 
 lieve it was he) that she survived.^ 
 
 I looked down again. I could see the mov- 
 ing picture operators, stamping their feet 
 from the cold, and I knew that I must not 
 keep them waiting. "Bravo! Bravo! Tubby! 
 Tubby!" I heard those nice young fellows 
 shouting. "One — two — three" — I counted. 
 Alas, somehow I did not start. "Now!" I 
 said to myself, "One — two" — and, I'm proud 
 'of it, if I do have to tell it myself, and I do, 
 don't I? For who else could know. I ac- 
 tually started that perilous descent on the sec- 
 ond, instead of the third count. What hap- 
 pened then, I do not know. Down, down, I 
 
 ' I should like to remind the reader that there are smiles and 
 smiles. Thr. Tb. 
 
 * Who wouldn't faint, if they saw their husband not only about 
 to be killed but, as usual, to make a fool of himself? Thr. Tb, 
 
 [206] 
 
The American University 
 
 went, swifter and more swift. I heard a roar 
 of horror in my ears. I was suddenly and 
 somehow high in the air. Then blessed 
 blankness. 
 
 When I came to, I was in a warm room. 
 The face of a kind doctor-man was bending 
 over me. "Nothing wrong with you, old 
 man," he said, "and that was a fine perform- 
 ance, all but the end." 
 
 Now that all goes to show that doctors are 
 not to be trusted. True, there was nothing 
 wrong with me but a sprained ankle, and the 
 performance, as later shown in the movies, 
 may have been a success ; but it was labelled 
 by that impudent young Mr. Sherwood, the 
 moving picture critic (if you can dignify any- 
 one who will go to the moving pictures by 
 that name) as "the most humorous incident 
 that has ever been shown in a news reel." How- 
 ever, it was all worth while, because of the 
 way the dear boys treated me. They sent me 
 bunches of roses and lilies, they came and read 
 to me, from "Jurgen," "The Green Mountain 
 Boys," and "Dancers in the Dark," and when 
 
 [207] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 I spoke to them on crutches, there were cries 
 of "Good old boy," as I entered, and even one 
 voice singing, "Here the conquering hero 
 comes." Those are the moments that stand 
 out above all others in my American trip. 
 There is nothing like being appreciated by the 
 youth of so great and essentially youthful a 
 country. 
 
 I have already written of Boston, yet I 
 failed to say at that time, that it is really little 
 more than a suburb of Cambridge. After all, 
 Boston is Harvard, or vice versa, as the case 
 may be. Well, needless to say, I felt more at 
 home in the academic atmosphere of Cam- 
 bridge than at any other point in my trip. 
 This was partly because the English language 
 is spoken at Harvard, while one finds various 
 American dialects at most of the other univer- 
 sities. I understand that Mr. H. L. Mencken, 
 the great critic of slang, has made every at- 
 tempt to persuade the Harvard faculty to give 
 over the teaching of English, and substitute 
 that of American; and, though he has been 
 successful in this at Princeton, as can be seen 
 
 [208] 
 
The American University 
 
 from the writings of Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald, 
 and at Smith College, as is witnessed by Miss 
 Dorothy Speare, he cannot yet dominate that 
 stubborn old aristocracy, based on the funda- 
 mentals of English culture, which is the soul 
 of Harvard. Harvard atmosphere I like best 
 of any in America ; but it is to the Yale under- 
 graduates that my heart goes out. More of 
 that, anon.* 
 
 Imagine what a full day was mine after 
 hearing one of Professor Bliss Perry's lec- 
 tures, attending a soiree at Professor Copey's, 
 and then going to my first real college dance. 
 The last is what gave me the thrill ! There I 
 learned what few men know : the truth about 
 the American flapper. I found that the west- 
 ern variety, the kind that I had encountered 
 in Chicago, was a silly imitation of the deep 
 resonant whole-souled young lady that is the 
 typical American young lady of good Boston 
 breeding. 
 
 I shall not attempt to describe Professor 
 
 *On this point ray husband and I disagree. The Yale under- 
 graduate talks too much and too loudly. Harvard has culture. 
 Thr. Tb. 
 
 [209] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 Perry's lecture. It was on some phase of 
 poetry, I forget which, and it is a subject con- 
 cerning which I, myself, being a poet, know 
 little, and he seemed to know a great dejl. 
 
 Unfortunately I was late in arriving at Pro- 
 fessor Copey's. I was ushered into a large 
 room. There were dim lights. I could see 
 many youths sitting about on divans, on win- 
 dow seats, on cushions, on the floor. This is 
 the most famous salon at Harvard; in fact, the 
 only one of its kind, I suspect, in the world. 
 They were deep in admiration of the profes- 
 sor, who was reading to them in a voice which, 
 I understand, is famous for its mellifluousness. 
 No one noticed me. This seemed strange, so 
 I coughed. Still no one noticed me, though 
 the Professor shook his head slightly. What 
 was he reading? I couldn't quite make out. 
 Was it funny? There was an occasional up- 
 roarious laugh ; but, on the whole, the expres- 
 sions in those young eyes were of such soul- 
 ful admiration, that I judged him to be read- 
 ing from Keats, or at least Alfred Noyes. I 
 coughed again. This time the Professor 
 
 [210] 
 
The American University 
 
 stopped reading, but he did not raise his head. 
 
 "Go . over . in . the . corner . and . sit . down 
 . until . I'm . through . reading," said he. 
 
 Naturally, I felt like a schoolgirl who has 
 been caught in her first kiss. There was a 
 slight, appreciative yet respectful snigger 
 from the boys. However, rather than intrude, 
 and let an Englishman be known as one who 
 insists on his rights to the discomfort of others, 
 I went quietly to the corner, and sat down to 
 listen. 
 
 Was he reading Keats? I listened again; 
 but could make nothing of it. I whispered 
 to the boy next me. 
 
 "Do you mind telling me what it is Profes- 
 sor Copey is reading?" I asked. 
 
 "Behind the Beyond," replied the young 
 man in awed tones. 
 
 "What?" I gasped. 
 
 "Oh, really don't you know? It's one of our 
 favorites here. The famous burlesque by the 
 humorous Stephen Leacock." 
 
 "Humorous indeed!" said I, and with that 
 in what I believe to be righteous indignation, 
 
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Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 I arose and slipped away. Think of reading 
 to a group of earnest youngsters humorous se- 
 lections when, obviously, they had all come 
 together to have their minds improved. 
 Surely an Oxford or Cambridge Professor 
 would never do such a thing as that! 
 
 Outside, Ted Dinehart was waiting for me 
 in his car. His mother is a famous novelist. 
 She writes books; but is also interested in 
 hunting. She has even shot such big game as, 
 let me see, tarpons, I think, and her son is not 
 unlike her. He is interested in books ; but he 
 also is an authority on dancing and did much 
 to introduce me to the subject of the flapper. 
 
 "Do you dance?" he asked. 
 
 "Well — " I commenced. 
 
 "Of course you do! Now, don't treat 'em 
 all alike — the girls, I mean. You've got to 
 use subtlety, just as though you were writing 
 a book, that is, if you write the subtle kind. 
 You see, they're all different — girls, I mean. 
 Now the college graduates can't dance, most 
 of them, and the other kind can't talk, most 
 of them — so you've got to choose, and, in most 
 
 [212] 
 
The American University 
 
 cases, compromise. Personally, I prefer them 
 when theyVe been out of college a year or 
 two, though, of course theyVe getting a little 
 old then for me; but they'd be all right for 
 you. You see, by that time, theyVe learned to 
 dance again, and they haven't quite forgotten 
 how to talk. Later, of course, what happens 
 to them, depends entirely on what sort of a 
 guy they marry. If they have a golf-playing 
 husband, they take up aesthetics. If they 
 marry an intellectual guy, they take up golf. 
 Aren't women perverse?" 
 
 How wonderful is the wisdom of the young! 
 I could but agree with him, though, of course, 
 I added hastily that I was married myself, to 
 a paragon of all the virtues, who never played 
 golf, and spoke only when she was spoken to.® 
 
 The dance was a brilliant affair. Ted 
 drew me into a corner and asked me to look 
 over the girls. I studied them carefully, then 
 picked one in a dull orange dress, who did not 
 wear earrings, and whose hair was not bobbed. 
 
 "Ah," said Ted, "I thought you'd pick her. 
 
 *I wonder. Thr. Tb, 
 
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Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 She's not only beautiful ; but she's intelligent. 
 She's a dancer, in a show playing in town 
 now. Sally Stern is her name. I'll introduce 
 you." 
 
 "A dancer!" I gasped. "Surely it were bet- 
 ter if I should talk with one of your Boston 
 Society Ladies." 
 
 Ted looked at me scornfully. "Certainly 
 notl" he said, and went to get the young lady, 
 looking over his shoulder as he went, he flung 
 back at me — "Not if you want an interesting 
 evening!" 
 
 Miss Stern smiled at me, cordially, as Ted 
 flew oflf to dance with someone whose hair was 
 bobbed. "So you're Mr. Tubby. Dear Dr. 
 Traprock has told me about you so often. He 
 says that you have that South Sea Island touch 
 in your books that is seldom met with these 
 days. So very tropical." 
 
 Naturally, I was flattered. We sat down 
 on a divan, where we were quite plainly in 
 sight of the chaperones.^ 
 
 "I suppose you are trying to decide what 
 
 •I wonder. Tkr, Tb. 
 
 [214] 
 
The American University 
 
 the American girl is like," began Miss Stern, 
 "and I suppose that you've read a great deal 
 about them. Well, I'd like you to go back to 
 England with the impression that they're 
 really not so bad as they are painted. It's the 
 American man that is stupid. Now, I ask 
 you, look at them. Aren't they a prize lot of 
 dumbbells?" 
 
 "Dumbbells?" I queried, and looked. 
 They seemed to me pleasant-faced young men 
 who danced exceedingly well. 
 
 "Dumbbells means that they don't know 
 enough to go home when it rains," she vouch- 
 safed. "Yes, I can see that you think they 
 dance well. They do. They have to. It's 
 the only way they have to entertain a young 
 lady, except petting, and when they aren't 
 dancing, they're making themselves believe 
 that every girl they meet likes to be kissed, or 
 something like that. Well, it's absurd. I'm 
 all for forming a league to suppress the Amer- 
 ican flapper, and, by that, I mean the Male 
 flapper. What can a girl do? She can't talk 
 to a stick about painting, or music, or even the 
 
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Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 best kind of dancing. Naturally, she devel- 
 ops a 4ine'; she gives them what they want 
 because she's afraid she'll get to be twenty- 
 five without having a good husband who fits 
 into her latest scheme of psychoanalysis or 
 eugenics. So she talks to them about prohibi- 
 tion, and college athletics, and the weather. 
 Oh ! That old topic, the weather, is meat for 
 her! Take it from me, Mr. Tubby, it's the 
 American boy that's a flapper, not the Ameri- 
 can girl. Wait a few years, and you'll see 
 the women running this country. The men 
 will have to take an intellectual back seat, and 
 they'll be there before they know what has 
 happened to them." 
 
 This young lady had quite taken me off my 
 feet. I scarcely knew how to reply. Fortu- 
 nately, Ted appeared then, with a young per- 
 son clad in flaming scarlet. 
 
 "Miss Bobby Leeds," and we were off danc- 
 ing before I knew it. What a determined per- 
 son. My fox trot had improved a little ; but I 
 fear that I found myself stepping occasionally 
 on her dainty scarlet-clad toe. 
 
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The American University 
 
 "Nice evening," she murmured. 
 
 I agreed. 
 
 "Nice party," she murmured. 
 
 I agreed. 
 
 "Did you go to the Joneses last night?" 
 
 "No," I replied. 
 
 "Too bad. Nice party," she murmured. 
 
 We danced, with some difficulty. 
 
 "Your name Bubby?" she murmured. 
 
 "No, Tubby," I corrected. 
 
 "Sorry. Ted says you write stories?" 
 
 "Yes," I agreed. 
 
 "Must be fun to write stories," she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "It is," I agreed. 
 
 "Isn't Jack Dempsey wonderful?" she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 I agreed. 
 
 — "And Rodolph Valentino?" she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 I agreed. 
 
 "I adore books," she murmured. 
 
 I made the proper grunting sound. 
 
 "Don't you?" she murmured, 
 
 [217] 
 
Timothy Tubby's Journal 
 
 "Oh yes!" I agreed. 
 
 "Naturally," she murmured. "How stupid 
 of me. You write them, don't you?" 
 
 At this point someone took her away from 
 me, and I sank into a chair. What an amaz- 
 ing thing is an American girl! I looked up, 
 after I had mopped my heated brow, and saw, 
 oh! what do you think? Crossing the hall, 
 stately in a purple velvet evening gown was a 
 woman. Ted came to my side now and I 
 turned to him with a little expression of hor- 
 ror! 
 
 "Who is that woman?" I demanded. 
 
 "Mrs. Camberry. She's—" 
 
 "Oh yes ! I know, I know, Ted ; she's Presi- 
 dent of the Pencilcraf ters, and here she comes, 
 and you've got to get me out of this hall." 
 
 "But I can't, dear Mr. Tubby, she just spoke 
 to me about you, says that you're a great ad- 
 mirer of hers, and that she must see you. It 
 really wouldn't be — " 
 
 But I did not wait to hear the rest. I saw 
 a window near by. I leaped out, not knowing 
 that we were two floors from the ground. A 
 
 [218] 
 
The American University 
 
 policeman tried to arrest me for attempted 
 suicide ; but I assured him that I was only run- 
 ning away from a woman who talked so much 
 that it would have been sure suicide to stay 
 longer. 
 
 "Sure and she isn't Irish, is she?" he asked. 
 
 "No," I replied. 
 
 "I didn't think so," he said, and helped me 
 to a cab. Alas! I had sprained the other 
 ankle; but it was far better than another en- 
 counter with that all-embracing woman. 
 
 My invitation to deliver a lecture at Yale 
 was warmly phrased. It was from Professor 
 William Lyon Phelps, who had long appre- 
 ciated my work, and it told me that I could 
 speak before a group of anxious undergrad- 
 uates on any subject that I chose. He didn't 
 say what they were anxious about. He sug- 
 gested, further, that I come at the time of the 
 Yale-Harvard game, so that I might benefit 
 by that great spectacle. Naturally, I wrote an 
 immediate acceptance. 
 
 At the station, Professors Berdan and 
 
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Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 Phelps and the University band, also, several 
 cheer leaders, and a parade of undergrad- 
 uates met me. Or, at least, the Professors, 
 met me; for I rather imagine that the return- 
 ing foot-ball team had a little to do with the 
 other turn-out, though, when Professor Ber- 
 dan told them who I was, having heard of my 
 exploits at Dartmouth, they took me on their 
 shoulders and carried me through the streets, 
 shouting. It was another great moment. 
 
 We were rushed directly to Lampson Ly- 
 ceum, where I was to lecture. 
 
 "I didn't hear from you what subject you 
 wished to speak on; but knowing that you 
 were an authority on women, I thought that, 
 ^My Impressions of Women in American Lit- 
 erature,' would be a good one to announce, 
 and you may speak on anything you choose, of 
 
 course." 
 
 "Oh! That's as good as another I" I said in 
 an off-hand manner, attempting to appear con- 
 fident, though my knees were shaking, and 
 Theresa pressed my hand knowingly, under- 
 
 [220] 
 
The American University 
 
 standing my feelings. How wonderful it is to 
 have an intuitive wif eJ 
 
 The lecture room was crowded as I entered. 
 In fact, people were standing in the doors. 
 I had heard that Yale was the intellectual 
 center of America, Now I was sure. 
 
 "Let's all stand to do the great Englishman 
 honor," said Professor Phelps. All stood. I 
 started to stand ; but remembered in time, so 
 that I scarcely left my chair. It surely was 
 not more than half an inch.^ 
 
 Then, after Professor Phelps' brief but 
 glowing introduction, I spoke. And how easy 
 it was. 
 
 "I don't know much about American Liter- 
 ature," I commenced ; "but as to the other half 
 of the program — I do feel that I know some- 
 thing about your women!" 
 
 They laughed, and after that it was plain 
 sailing. Only, due to my near-sighted condi- 
 tion, I did not realize that there were many 
 
 'I wonder. Thr. Tb. 
 
 ' He stood, and sat down again ; but it only showed his innate 
 shyness and proved indirectly his modesty. Thr. Tb. 
 
 [221] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 faculty wives, and New Haven ladies pres- 
 ent. This was unfortunate, considering; but, 
 at any rate, how the undergraduates did ap- 
 plaud, and Professor Phelps led them in a 
 cheer, when we had finished. Such an intel- 
 lectual cheer, too — all in Greek — though 
 jazzed a bit, I should say were I an American, 
 which, praise be, I am not, though it is a won- 
 derful country, nevertheless, and Yale is the 
 absolute intellectual center, just as Chicago is 
 the literary center. What could better prove 
 it, than the wonderful thing that followed? 
 Just as the boys finished cheering, a roar went 
 up from them. As with one voice they 
 shouted, "Will you autograph a book for me?" 
 "Do you mind?" asked Billy confidentially, 
 for I had already learned to call him that, and 
 he handed me a fountain pen. Then they 
 climbed over one another's heads, fought, 
 pushed, climbed the platform, and clambered, 
 blushing, about me. Think of it, those de- 
 lightful chaps, who had read my books, and 
 wanted autographs. Billy counted them, and 
 will you believe it, there were seven hundred, 
 
 [222] 
 
The American University 
 
 (Just think of what that amounts to in roy- 
 alties, too, whispers the still small voice.) 
 Now it has always been my custom to put a 
 little mark in each book that I autograph and 
 I did not wish to depart from my custom, so, 
 the shades of night had actually fallen when I 
 had finished, and we rushed to an osteopath, so 
 that my arm would not be permanently dis- 
 abled. The papers carried the following 
 headlines the next day: 
 
 FAMOUS BRITISH AUTHOR DIS- 
 ABLED BY YOUNG YALE AUTO- 
 GRAPH-HUNTERS. 
 
 Isn't that wonderful? And I put the fol- 
 lowing in every single volume, whether the 
 pages were cut or not. In fact, I didn't have 
 time to look at many, and I expect the ones 
 I didn't look at were well thumbed. 
 
 [223] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 The next day was the game. Naturally, I 
 have never seen so many people gathered to- 
 gether. It was a little bit too large to be sport- 
 ing, in the true British sense of the word. 
 However, they do carry out everything on the 
 grand scale in America. Unfortunately I did 
 not see the game itself. But that is the least 
 part of it. Then, too, Yale lost, and with my 
 new-found affection for the Yale boys, I could 
 not have borne this too terrible tragedy. It all 
 happened because of a misunderstanding. I 
 did not know that the Yale color was blue, 
 and, again due to my near-sighted condition, 
 I did not see when the Harvard team came 
 on the field, that it was indeed the Harvard 
 team. Theresa and I had somehow been 
 placed on the edge of the section where all 
 the boys are put who do not take young ladies 
 to the game, and on what is known as the 
 '^Harvard Side." As the Harvard men came 
 on the field, I rose and shouted lustily, "Bravo I 
 Bravo for Yale!" 
 
 "Hey! Kick him out! Listen to the bull- 
 dog! What do you mean, you little guy!" 
 
 [224] 
 
The American University 
 
 and more such epithets were hurled at 
 me. Then the astonishing event took place. 
 I was picked up, and tossed by hundreds of 
 hands in the air. Theresa screamed; but 
 her screams were drowned by roars of 
 what sounded to me like mirth. Down 
 the sides of the great sea of human beings 
 that formed ^The Bowl" I was rolled 
 until, gasping for breath, I found myself on 
 the grass at the side of the gridiron, itself. 
 Then, as is my custom, I fainted. When I 
 awoke, I found myself in a place called the 
 Elizabethan Club, which is composed of un- 
 dergraduates and faculty members who enjoy 
 looking at first editions, and are fond of tea. 
 Bending over me was a black face. It was the 
 custodian of this club. 
 
 "Won't you smoke one of our clay pipes?" 
 he asked. "They brought you here in an am- 
 bulance. I think our tobacco would revive 
 you." 
 
 "But I never smoke a clay pipe," I objected. 
 
 "Ah then," said this gentleman, who is 
 
 [225] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 versed in the lore of centuries, "you will have 
 all the sensations of a Sir Walter Raleigh." 
 
 You see, even the servants at Yale are intel- 
 lectual. Still I preferred a walk to a pipe. 
 
 "Are you sure that you can find your way 
 back?" asked the dark gentleman politely. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" I said, and started out for a nice 
 little stroll. Presently, people began coming 
 back from the game, and the streets were so 
 full of cars, that I became confused. I 
 thought that I had better return to the club. 
 I had no idea what it looked like ; but I found 
 myself standing in front of a structure which 
 was obviously a club of sorts and I thought 
 that I could at least ask there where to go. 
 It was a box-like structure, set in the middle 
 of a lawn, covered with vines, and with a 
 gate in front. 
 
 Before I go any further, I must explain 
 that there are Senior Societies at Yale. These 
 societies are difficult to explain because they 
 are so secret that it's impossible to find out 
 anything about them. I asked several times; 
 but every time I said anything in this vein, 
 
 [226] 
 
The American University 
 
 half the people left the room, and the other 
 half looked exceedingly pained. At any rate, 
 there are secret societies. 
 
 I approached the door. I fumbled for a 
 bell. Suddenly it opened, in a most ghostly 
 fashion. I entered. Was I insane? Before 
 me, I seemed to see a ghost of Shakespeare, 
 holding out a huge punch-bowl in which I 
 could see lemonade. I gasped. 
 
 "Who are you?" I screeched. 
 
 As I said this, people seemed to spring at 
 me from all sides. A black cloth was flung 
 over my head. And, for the second time that 
 day, I was lifted in the air, and flung outside. 
 What strange treatment from civilized 
 people? 
 
 When I found the Elizabethan Club again, 
 I asked the servant what this meant. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Tubby, do not worry," he said. 
 "We simply do not speak of these things at 
 Yale." 
 
 Weill Well! In spite of all this, I still feel 
 that Yale is the intellectual center of America. 
 They actually read at Yale. Why, only think, 
 
 [227] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 seven hundred of them have read, or at least 
 own, at least one book of mine. What better 
 proof could I offer? I have sent Professor 
 Phelps a copy of "Heaven's Holocaust," and I 
 am sure that he will review it for the N. Y. 
 Times. Of course, I'm a little worried about 
 putting that book in the hands of undergrad- 
 uates. It's a trifle frank in spots. And those 
 dear Yale boys are so naive. 
 
 [228] 
 
Chapter Seven 
 AMERICAN WOMANHOOD 
 
CHAPTER SEVEN 
 AMERICAN WOMANHOOD 
 
 Why should I write this article at all? Why- 
 should I be called upon to criticize in any 
 way that delicate product of fortitude and 
 breeding — the American woman? Alas, they 
 demand it of me. I can see their pretty lips 
 (a little too deeply carmined at times, I must 
 admit) forming the fatal words, "Oh, Mr. 
 Tubby! Do tell us what you think of us! As 
 a great English novelist, noted for his under- 
 standing of women, your aid should be inval- 
 uable. How do we compare with the women 
 of Merrie England?" Cruel — how cruel; for 
 she will not like what I think of her. Shall I 
 be honest? How could I be anything else, 
 being an Englishman, being a Tubby? How 
 shall I ever dare the American lecture plat- 
 form again if I say what I think? It is, in- 
 
 [231] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 deed, a problem not only in ethics but in eco- 
 nomics. How full life is of problems. But 
 this particular problem has been on my mind 
 for days. I arose early this morning, as early 
 as eleven o'clock. I went out on the street. I 
 had determined to question the first woman I 
 saw. It proved to be a stout handsome lady 
 hurrying somewhere. She looked well bred 
 — not at all like an American. I went up to 
 her, quite boldly for me. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," I commenced, "but 
 Fm Timothy Tubby, and I have to write an 
 article on American womanhood. Now if you 
 were an American woman — " 
 
 "But I am!'' she interrupted. 
 
 "Well, you don't look like one," I assured 
 her, at which remark she did not seem prop- 
 erly pleased. "At any rate, would you rather 
 have me flatter you, or would you prefer to 
 have me tell the truth? Would you be angry 
 if I criticized you?" 
 
 She looked at me, and there was true Brit- 
 ish hauteur in her glance. 
 
 [232] 
 
American Womanhood 
 
 "Why should I care at all what you think?" 
 she said, and swept on. 
 
 After all, I thought, she might have been 
 partly right. Why should she care? Why 
 should anyone care? Is not the truth always 
 best? With her courageous remark ringing in 
 my ears, I sit down this beautiful morning 
 and write. May I have the courage to speak 
 plainly, and may the American woman heed 
 what warnings I shall give. I can feel, or at 
 least almost feel, the prophetic spirit moving 
 within me. 
 
 First of all, we are face to face with a mat- 
 ter of definitions. What is an American 
 woman? What is a woman? Ah poetry, ah 
 passion — Need you ask? Need I define? 
 But, what is an American? — that is a dififerent 
 matter. As one walks along the streets one 
 observes skulls, ears, color, and noses — par- 
 ticularly noses. What is the American char- 
 acteristic? In London we have the eyeglass 
 and the cane — but in New York? Negro and 
 Jew, Scandinavian and redskin — these, these 
 all, are Americans. To be precise, why don't 
 
 [233] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 we make it definite? Shall we take for our 
 premise, for our understanding of the word 
 "American," some such statement as this : for 
 our purposes, let us consider a native Ameri- 
 can "anyone not too dark in color who came to 
 the shores of the United States, before the age 
 of two years, via Liverpool — or, for that mat- 
 ter, was born in the United States." 
 
 First of all, there is the matter of physical 
 appearance, or dress would perhaps be a bet- 
 ter word for it. What is the American psy- 
 chology of dress? I spent exactly six weeks in 
 exhaustive researches to determine some com- 
 mon denominator of taste in clothes among 
 American women. Only one thing I discov- 
 ered. They do not dress to please men. The 
 American man has no subtlety. He prefers 
 the costume of the bathing beach and the ball- 
 room to the tea gown. No, the American 
 woman desires to make her fellow females 
 envious, or to please visiting Englishmen. 
 This having been established, I feel that a 
 recounting of some of my experiences in 
 modistical research should prove valuable. 
 
 [234] 
 
American Womanhood 
 
 Theresa had become acquainted, through 
 her efforts to secure an evening gown that 
 would make her look thinner than she actually 
 was, with a Fifth Avenue modiste, Madame 
 Susette. Arrangements were made with the 
 Madame to allow me to sit behind a screen in 
 her establishment while some of her customers 
 looked at gowns. A hole was made in an in- 
 conspicuous portion of the screen, behind 
 which I carefully placed my eye. First came 
 a tall thin woman, whose figure was, I as- 
 sure you, quite without contour. 
 
 Madame Susette: Ah, Mrs. Culberson, 
 we have just the thing for you this morning. 
 Annette, show Mrs. Culberson, the creme 
 georgette, 
 
 Mrs. Culberson : What a pretty sounding 
 name. So Parisian. Will it give me a figure? 
 
 Madame Susette {with magnificently 
 knowing eyes): Only wait until you see itl 
 
 At this point Annette, the model, appeared, 
 wearing a gown of soft veils and little else. It 
 was the sort of gown that only Annette could 
 have worn, and Annette's figure was as beau- 
 
 [235] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 tif ul as that of any healthy young English girl. 
 I suspect that she was born in Devon in spite 
 of her French name. 
 
 Madame SusetTE {breathing a little sigh) : 
 Ah ! Is that not perfect? 
 
 Mrs. Culberson : How lovely. Oh, it's a 
 dream! But really, Madame, / could never 
 wear it. It would not suit me at all. 
 
 Madame Susette: Au contraire, chere 
 Madame Culberson; with only a trifle 
 changed here — a snap there — a tuck here, it 
 would just suit. Shall we have a fitting? 
 
 They disappeared. A few moments later 
 Madame Susette appeared. "You should be 
 ashamed of yourself," I chided, "putting that 
 absurd gown on that impossible woman." 
 
 "My dear Mr. Tubby," Madame remon- 
 strated, "what a poor salesman you would 
 make. Don't you know that a woman never 
 buys a gown that fits her own figure — but the 
 one that fits the figure she wishes she had? 
 Watch this if you don't believe me!" 
 
 Another customer had entered. She was 
 chubby, yes more than chubby, actually fat, 
 
 [236] 
 
American Womanhood 
 
 quite typical of the young married American 
 woman. 
 
 Madame Susette : Ah, Mrs. Gardella, we 
 have just the thing for you this morning. An- 
 nette, show Mrs. Gardella the sheath exotique. 
 
 Mrs. Gardella: How interesting! And 
 will it give me long lines? 
 
 Madame Susette: Only wait until you 
 see it! 
 
 Whereupon Annette, the model, again ap- 
 peared, this time dressed in an evening gown 
 of orchid velvet, with scarlet inserts and a 
 sheath in the skirt that displayed gold and 
 black stockings at some length. 
 
 Mrs. Gardella : Ooooh ! Sweeeeet ! But 
 really, Madame Susette, I couldn't — how 
 could I? It never would do, particularly the 
 sheath part; you know my — 
 
 Madame Susette: Hush, dear lady. A 
 snip here, a trifle let out there. Nothing like 
 bright colors to bring out your particular 
 style, and it takes others to see us as we are, 
 really. You can't possibly appreciate how 
 trim your figure is. Trimness is not a ques- 
 
 [237] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 tion of much or little avoirdupois; but of pro- 
 portion. Now that particular dress requires a 
 person of proportion. How admirably it will 
 become you. Do slip it on. 
 
 They vanished, all three of them, and I sat 
 uncomfortably behind the screen contemplat- 
 ing problems of psychology in dress. What 
 was my duty? Should I allow Mrs. Gardella 
 to purchase the atrocious gown? Was it not 
 my duty to humanity to tell her the truth? 
 Theresa has often told me that it is wiser to 
 attack a woman's soul than to be frank about 
 her figure; and, somehow, this seemed an es- 
 pecial case. I could not bear to picture the 
 scene that would occur when Mrs. Gardella 
 wore the exotique for the first time, in the 
 presence of Mr. Gardella. Her arrival de- 
 cided me. Her face was red from the exertion 
 of a quick change of dress; her arms bulged 
 — but it was the black and gold stockings that 
 urged me to action. I rushed from behind the 
 screen. 
 
 "Don't buy that dress 1" I shouted excitedly. 
 
 [238] 
 
American Womanhood 
 
 She gave a little scream. Madame Susette 
 eyed me in horror. 
 
 "Who is this man? What is he doing here? 
 What do you mean?" gasped Mrs. Gardella. 
 
 "I am an authority on women gathering 
 data," I attempted to soothe her. "Now, if I 
 were you, I'd select another dress; that one 
 does not become you. It's designed for a thin 
 woman." 
 
 "I am insulted," said Mrs. Gardella coldly. 
 "I do not yet see why you think that I should 
 not wear this dress." 
 
 "Because" — I had determined to be blunt — 
 "you are fat." 
 
 "Madame Susette, have this dress altered 
 and sent to me at once. As for this boob" — 
 she flung a look of utter scorn at me — "per- 
 haps you will engage him as your chief de- 
 signer!" 
 
 She swept (or perhaps waddled is the 
 word) away, and I made my escape amid a 
 whir of invectives from the enraged Madame 
 Susette. 
 
 Yes, American women have no sense about 
 
 [239] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 any specific problem. They have strong emo- 
 tions of a certain variety, and they clothe 
 themselves both by and in their emotions. Yet 
 on the whole, their appearance is more sacred 
 to American women than to their English sis- 
 ters. If an Englishwoman hasn't the money to 
 purchase a new spring hat, she wears last 
 year's, or one from the year before that, or— I 
 am loathe to admit it — her grandmother's hat; 
 but an American? The most piteous stories 
 are told of the sacrifices young girls have made 
 so that they may app^ear with proper head 
 dress on Fifth Avenue on Easter Sunday, 
 when all good Americans make their pilgrim- 
 age to New York City to have the seal of met- 
 ropolitan approval placed on their spring 
 wardrobes. There was the famous case of 
 Angela Neatham, now notorious, but at that 
 time living in poverty in a hall bedroom. She 
 hadn't a cent. Easter was approaching. She 
 had no spring hat. What should she do? She 
 took stock of her meagre possessions. Noth- 
 ing to pawn. Then she had a bright idea. 
 She had read of the great sums people make 
 
 [240] 
 
*'0H yes!" chirped the young ladies, "how shall we find a 
 
 HANDSOME HUSBAND?" 
 
American Womanhood 
 
 writing for the magazines. She was very 
 lovely to look upon. She wrote six poems of 
 passion and immediately sold them to the edi- 
 tor of "Vanity Fair," and she asked his as- 
 sistant, a bright young man with taste, to go 
 with her while she picked out the hat. Now 
 she is one of the most famous poets in Amer- 
 ica. How beautiful is the determination to 
 be clothed. 
 
 Of course one cannot speak of the Ameri- 
 can woman without taking into consideration, 
 for a second, the American man. It is his at- 
 titude toward her which has rendered her so 
 generally cruel and calculating. Due prob- 
 ably to the original influence of Martha 
 Washington, a sort of woman worship has 
 sprung up in America. More than one man 
 has devoted his life to the "glorification of the 
 American girl." I have attended these wor- 
 shipful services. Their high priest is a man 
 named Ziegf eld, and he knows his business, or 
 profession, as you prefer it, remarkably well. 
 However, it is really a shame that these young 
 women of the U.S.A. should be allowed to 
 
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Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 take themselves so seriously. After all, in 
 England they would be women, nothing more. 
 But please don't for one teeny weeny instant 
 think that I'm criticizing. I wouldn't for any 
 sum of money. I have ample proof that this 
 attitude in America is only a surface one. I 
 am convinced that in spite of the strong rev- 
 erence Americans have for the godlike quali- 
 ties of the female, there is a sneaking hope 
 that, after all, she is only a human being, the 
 temptress of us all. However, I may be 
 wrong. It is so much harder to understand 
 the American man than the woman. Why, I 
 feel that I could almost step into the place of 
 some Chicago matron of forty-five and never 
 know the difference, so great is my sympathy 
 with them; but an American man — I find 
 them curiously unresponsive. 
 
 Now let me again reiterate the assertion 
 that I am not criticizing at any point in this 
 article. I wouldn't offend anyone, not for the 
 world, I do assure you. I wouldn't harm a 
 chicken or a goose, Theresa will tell you that. 
 I am so very gentle; but I don't care for the 
 
 [244] 
 
American Womanhood 
 
 attitude of the American woman in business 
 and politics. Why is it that the moment she 
 steps into an office, unless she is a stenog- 
 rapher, she must put off all signs of feminin- 
 ity? She cultivates the square jaw and the 
 long neck. She talks in hoarse and harsh 
 tones. She attempts to intimidate rather than 
 to cajole. Perhaps this is fortunate; for if 
 the method of Mr. Ziegfeld were carried into 
 the business world, who knows what might 
 happen to the stock market? 
 
 Having interviewed the female business 
 heads of two large concerns, I feel myself par- 
 ticularly well able to speak concerning their 
 personalities. Not for one instant during my 
 talks with them did I feel thoroughly the man. 
 They made every effort to disregard my mas- 
 culinity. They snapped. They called innu- 
 merable assistants and displayed extraordi- 
 nary evidences of efficiency. The question I 
 went to ask was : "Are men or women more 
 efficient in business?" From the first woman, 
 a young lady of some twenty-eight years, I re- 
 ceived the following reply: "I never have a 
 
 [245] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 woman near me in the office. They are essen- 
 tially insubordinate." From the second exec- 
 utive lady, of some fifty summers, I received a 
 similar (but oh how dissimilar) reply: "I 
 never have a man near me in the office. They 
 are essentially insubordinate." There was 
 only one conclusion to be drawn from this : a 
 woman respects age in a woman, while a man 
 respects youth. 
 
 The American woman is primarily cold. I 
 have tried time and time again to make love to 
 them without the slightest encouragement. 
 Strange, isn't it; I have no such troubles at 
 home. Theresa explains it by the fact that in 
 the United States the ladies thought of me as 
 an intellect, admired my literary powers, and 
 did not visualize me as a person at all. This 
 may partly explain their curious behavior; 
 but not wholly. I have seen beautiful women 
 talk for an entire evening with handsome men 
 without so much as holding hands. What do 
 they talk about? Surely in England such 
 things do not happen. Nor is it, apparently, 
 the custom for the man to do the seeking in 
 
 [246] 
 
American Womanhood 
 
 America. The initiative must come from the 
 woman. I tried several experiments along 
 these lines. I had heard that Broadway, in 
 New York City, was the place where one 
 might reasonably expect to find young ladies 
 who would not be unwilling to enjoy a little 
 supper party. So, having made quite certain 
 that Theresa was willing that I should try 
 this experiment, I put on my new spats, a 
 bright yellow tie, took my walking stick in 
 hand, and sallied forth one evening. Broad- 
 way was brilliant with the after theatre crowd. 
 I began to feel quite young again, even jovial 
 and a little buoyant. I had long ago realized 
 that I knew America well enough to take 
 care of myself and to get rid of Mr. Vernay, 
 who in the early days had been so kind and so 
 protective as a press agent. I strolled up the 
 great street of pleasure, missing somewhat the 
 sombre grandiosity of Piccadilly but, never- 
 theless, feeling as I have said, jovial. I made 
 my facial expression now expansive, now 
 lonely. Yet I seemed to see no unattended 
 young ladies. I stopped on a street corner 
 
 [247] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 and made every effort to seem the unprotected 
 bachelor. To no avail. One dark eyed dam- 
 sel passed me. I essayed a wink. She turned 
 her head shyly and quickly away. For two 
 hours I tramped the streets. Not once did 
 anyone give me what we English call the 
 "glad eye." It was discouraging. For a mo- 
 ment I stood, despondent, at Columbus Circle, 
 near the great Central Park. Could it be that 
 my youthful charm had completely departed? 
 Was I actually forbidding in appearance, or 
 was this indeed the cold country I had heard 
 it was? Then I noticed a young lady stand- 
 ing not so far away. She was comely. I 
 smiled. She did not frown; though she did 
 not smile. I approached. She did not flee. 
 I began to feel expansive once more. 
 
 "A jolly evening," I ventured. 
 
 "Yes?" she questioned. 
 
 "How would a little supper strike you?" I 
 dared. 
 
 She did not assent; but neither did she re- 
 prove me. I hailed a cab. We entered it. I 
 reached tentatively for her hand. She leaned 
 
 [248] 
 
American Womanhood 
 
 forward and gave an address to the taxicab 
 driver. He looked perturbed. She assured 
 him. 
 
 "I suppose you know where we^re going, 
 don't you?" she demanded of me in tones that 
 had in them no note of cordiality. I, puzzled, 
 shook my head. 
 
 "To the police station!'' she vouchsafed. 
 
 "But—" I protested. 
 
 "Oh that's all right. I s'pose you English 
 guys think that you can come over here and 
 accost innocent young girls on the street and 
 get away with it. See here!" She displayed 
 the shining shield of a detective. 
 
 By this time I had become thoroughly 
 alarmed. Vernay afterward informed me 
 that if she really was a woman detective, and 
 he doubts it, I should have gone through with 
 it. He saw the headlines somewhat as fol- 
 lows: "NOTED AUTHOR ARRESTED WHILE 
 MAKING SOCIOLOGICAL INVESTIGATIONS." I, 
 however, naturally thought only of Theresa, 
 and of the possibility of being obliged to 
 spend another night in jail. 
 
 [249] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 "Oh no — you can't — I'm Timothy Tubby," 
 I began. 
 
 "Oh!" Her face brightened. "The guy 
 that knows all about women. Gee, what a fake 
 you must be. Picking me up that way. Why 
 you old fool! . . . Well, suppose you slip me a 
 ten spot and we'll call it quits." 
 
 I finally presented her with the money, paid 
 the driver, and rushed back a sadder and wiser 
 man to the protective soothings of dear 
 Theresa. Presumably things are not done this 
 way in the United States! 
 
 Marriage in America is apparently consid- 
 ered somewhat as a plague by most young men. 
 Why this is, I cannot understand, since di- 
 vorce is so easy. One young' lady informed 
 me that the first thing a young man asks these 
 days on being introduced to a girl is, "Do you 
 want to get married?" If she replies, "I 
 wouldn't for the world," everything progresses 
 splendidly; but if she should by any unhappy 
 chance say, "Yes, the thing I want most in life 
 is a home," he will be seen running across a 
 ballroom and jumping out the window. In 
 
 [250] 
 
American Womanhood 
 
 fact, there are daily suicides of those who 
 would rather give up life than bachelorhood. 
 
 It is a relief to turn from the stresses and 
 strains involved in any discussion of sex mat- 
 ters, to the quiet security of the American 
 woman's club. I know of nothing else like 
 these estimable organizations in the world. 
 They are the acme of learning, the epitome 
 of culture. They appreciated me in a way 
 in which I have never before been appre- 
 ciated. Not only had they read about my 
 books, but they had read them, and they now 
 follow my every word in the papers, molding 
 not only their culture but their lives after the 
 models I suggest, models which I assure you 
 are formed only after the most intense confer- 
 ences with Theresa, who in this case desires 
 to remain persona non grata of the occasion. 
 
 Perhaps I can best give you an idea of these 
 clubs, by telling you the story of one of the 
 most delightful afternoons of my long and 
 successful career. There was a thunder 
 storm, I remember. I don't know why I re- 
 member; but I do. So much electricity in the 
 
 [251] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 atmosphere, I suppose. Perhaps that ac- 
 counted for the great success of the afternoon. 
 I have always felt the magnetism of my per- 
 sonality grow under the influence of elec- 
 tricity. I used to have a violet ray treatment 
 before every lecture until I developed my 
 present well known sang froid. 
 
 The club was, I believe, in a small town in 
 upstate New York. But, in spite of the small- 
 ness of the town, four hundred women and 
 several men came to hear my talk on "How to 
 be a Woman and yet be Independent." As I 
 looked over my audience, I knew at once that 
 it would be a fine talk. They were of all ages. 
 Mostly, however, they were young girls, 
 brought there, I fancied, by their school 
 teachers to hear words of wisdom. 
 
 The lecture progressed splendidly. Little 
 ripples of laughter greeted me as I made my 
 usual mot: "I left my wife at home so that I 
 could say anything I chose about women." 
 Then I began to discuss books about women. I 
 could see gleams of intelligence shooting out 
 at me from their eyes. It is most encouraging 
 
 [252] 
 
American Womanhood 
 
 when you see intelligence in a woman's eyes, 
 and you do often in America, you really do. 
 It's extraordinary, considering the obtuseness 
 of the men. I have utterly failed in talking 
 to the men in the United States ; we don't seem 
 to have anything in common. Isn't it strange? 
 You can't talk to men about women. Appar- 
 ently they aren't interested. 
 
 After I had finished, with my usual flourish, 
 "There are no women in the world just like 
 the women of America, even if I, a citizen of 
 the United Kingdom, do say it," the applause 
 would have gratified any heart. There was 
 the usual flood of questions. I noticed a little 
 group of people waiting in the back of the 
 room, and I wondered what was in store for 
 me. After everyone else had left, they ap- 
 proached in a wave. At the head was a tall 
 spinster-like lady with cold eyes but a pleas- 
 ant smile. 
 
 "I am Miss Wilstich," she announced. 
 'The Miss Wilstich of Miss Wilstich's School 
 for Proper Young Ladies." 
 
 [253] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 I nodded and smiled, just as though I really 
 knew all about it. 
 
 "And these," she waved her carefully 
 gloved hand proudly, "are some of my young 
 ladies." 
 
 They tittered becomingly as I let my glance 
 fall along the line. They were pretty, oh very 
 pretty indeed, of that variety known as flapper. 
 Each one of them seemed to have more soulful 
 eyes than the last I had observed, so I looked 
 back quickly to the safe haven of Miss Wil- 
 stich's primness. 
 
 "Yes," I said becomingly. "And what can 
 I do for them? I should be happy to oblige 
 them in any way they may require." 
 
 "They require little," she announced. 
 "Here is a chance for you, sir, to do a great 
 service to humanity. There is one course 
 which we cannot give at my school, and which 
 young ladies of these days sadly need : that in 
 ^How to Get a Husband, or the Principles of 
 Courtship.' Alas, we have been successful in 
 many things at our little paradise among 
 schools; but, unfortunately, too large a per- 
 
 [254] 
 
American Womanhood 
 
 centage of our graduates remain spinsters. 
 While this condition, I assure you, is an emi- 
 nently tolerable one, in fact sometimes I be- 
 lieve it to be most desirable, yet for the future 
 of the race and the principles of Theodore 
 Roosevelt, whom we revere and respect, we 
 cannot allow this condition to continue. We 
 had heard that in such matters you were infal- 
 lible. We wonder if you would not, in a very 
 few moments, give us some of your ideas on 
 the subject. We promise the most eager at- 
 tention." 
 
 "Oh yes! Yes!" chirped the young ladies 
 in chorus. "How shall we find a handsome 
 and charming husband?" 
 
 This was what I most liked. I urged them 
 to be seated, visualizing myself as an actual 
 benefactor of American progress. 
 
 "First of all," I began, "you must disabuse 
 yourselves of the idea of handsome. Hand- 
 some is as handsome does, and you must first 
 try your arts and wiles on the less promising 
 young men, in order to learn how to ensnare 
 the others. Never wear curl papers in public. 
 
 [255] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 That is an infallible rule. A curl paper is one 
 of the most distressing sights a man can see. 
 Remember that, too, after you are married. 
 Do not be too free with your caresses. Do not 
 let your little brother put an alarm clock un- 
 der the sofa. If a caller wants to stay late, let 
 him stay, even though you have to stick a long 
 pin into your arm to keep yourself awake. As 
 long as he is talking and you are listening, he 
 will be happy; but do not yawn in his face 
 when he goes to kiss you good night, and never 
 slap him, no matter how objectionable he may 
 be. Remember that the number of your 
 suitors always speaks for popularity, and the 
 stupid fly may attract the brilliant moth to the 
 honey. 
 
 "Let a man think that you could be a good 
 cook if you wanted to; but don't let him get 
 the idea that you're too domestic. Never make 
 him do anything unless he first suggests it, and 
 above all things don't weep on his shoulder. 
 Laugh at his jokes, but don't expect him to 
 laugh at yours. Don't try to get him to pro- 
 pose to you. If he realizes that you're doing 
 
 [256] 
 
American Womanhood 
 
 so, he never will. Always choose to ride on a 
 bus rather than in a taxicab. A bus top is 
 more public but taxi fare eats up the week's 
 wages. Don't use so much powder that it 
 leaves a mark on his shoulder. Never inti- 
 mate that a man's a poor dancer. Be inter- 
 ested but not too interested in his work, and 
 above all, never be jealous." 
 
 ^^But Mr. Tubby — " a young lady inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 Miss Wilstich gave her a frightful glance. 
 
 ^^Yes, my dear, wha_t is it?" I said in sooth- 
 ing tones. 
 
 "I've done all those things and — " 
 
 "I hope not!" said Miss W. firmly. 
 
 "But I have," went on the young lady 
 dauntlessly, "and I haven't a husband yet, and 
 I'm going on eighteen." 
 
 "Now don't be discouraged," I comforted. 
 "I've known marriages to be successful as late 
 as fifty-two, and I certainly wouldn't be down- 
 hearted under forty-five." 
 
 Miss Wilstich glowed. 
 
 "Now young ladies, I've given you a wealth 
 
 [257] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 of advice, and I must away to the tea which 
 is being given for me. Farewell, and don't 
 any of you neglect to send me invitations to 
 your weddings. I shall not be able to come, 
 but I'll send you each a copy of my book 
 'Love After Marriage.' " 
 
 ^'Good-by, girls," said Miss Wilstich. "I'm 
 going to go along with Mr. Tubby. You 
 see," she added to me, ''we are both going 
 to the same tea, and there was a little private 
 matter I wanted to ask your advice about." 
 
 A motor was waiting outside. Somehow I 
 became a trifle nervous in the spinster lady's 
 presence. She leaned forward confidentially. 
 
 "I'm forty-two," she began, "and I want to 
 know what you think of a woman of my age 
 definitely making an attempt to win the affec- 
 tions of a married man. Now, with divorce 
 so easy — " 
 
 "If the love is great enough — " I began. 
 
 "Oh it is!" she assured me. "It only hap- 
 pened this afternoon — " She stopped and a 
 deep blush suffused her countenance. I be- 
 came distinctly uncomfortable. 
 
 [258] 
 
American Womanhood 
 
 "Now what would you advise?*' she pur- 
 sued. 
 
 Fortunately, we arrived at that moment be- 
 fore the imposing dwelling in which I was 
 being entertained. . . . 
 
 In closing, I should like to say to my friends, 
 the ladies of America, that I think they have 
 a great future, and that they have as warm a 
 place in my heart as they undoubtedly have 
 in the hearts of their husbands. Until my 
 next visit, when I shall have many interesting 
 things to tell you — from the lecture platform, 
 of course. 
 
 [259] 
 
Chapter Eight 
 I REVIEW MY AMERICAN TRIP 
 
CHAPTER EIGHT 
 I REVIEW MY AMERICAN TRIP 
 
 Here am I back again in Sussex, looking 
 out on the gentle rolling landscape, hearing 
 the nightingale sing once more, peaceful, oh! 
 so peaceful, after the roar and stress of de- 
 lightful, but essentially dirty, America. 
 Theresa is sitting on the lawn, reading a book 
 on titled heads and their recreations. It was 
 good to see a real aristocrat once morel 
 
 Looking back on this whole strenuous ex- 
 perience, the one thing that most annoyed me, 
 among many annoyances, though I would not 
 have you think for the world that I was in any 
 sense criticizing America in the remarks I 
 have to make — well. The one thing that an- 
 noyed me most was that they call lifts, eleva- 
 tors! Imagine! How perfectly absurd! 
 And the trajfEc rules on the streets for vehicles 
 
 [263] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 are exactly wrong, that is, just the opposite 
 from the right way, the way they are here. 
 Well! Well! I suppose that those are little 
 things, after all; but, somehow, it's the little 
 things that count. 
 
 Certain fundamental wrongs in America 
 worry me. There is the dirt, for example, 
 everything seems grimy. There is the roar 
 and the push of the subways, and the grab- 
 bing, jamming people. Now I suppose that 
 there are those who would say that London is 
 dirty; but they are persons who do not under- 
 stand the difference between the accumulated 
 mellowness of centuries and fresh dirt. 
 
 How terribly commercial Americans are! 
 They seem to think and talk nothing but 
 money. Therein men are a race of business 
 men, nothing more — no charm, no subtlety. 
 In fact, America might be visualized as at- 
 tempting to draw unto itself the commerce 
 of the world. I suppose that there are those 
 who would say that Britain, with her Mer- 
 chant Marine, and her Indian policy, has a 
 commercial instinct; but those persons do not 
 
 [264] 
 
/ Review My American Trip 
 
 realize that this is tradition, this is the spirit of 
 ages past, when Drake sailed the Seven Seas, 
 when Nelson upheld the Glory of Great Brit- 
 tain. This is not commerce ; this is the poetic 
 soul of Empire. What a difference! 
 
 Then, of course, America is too large. That 
 isn't its fault, I know; but, nevertheless, it's 
 too large, just the same. Then, there is the 
 appearance of the women. Mr. Flo Ziegfeld, 
 who produces ^^The Follies," famous for their 
 beauties, thinks that he has in his chorus the 
 most beautiful ladies in the world; but he's 
 mistaken. I did not see (if I thought that this 
 would be read in America I would not say 
 this) a single woman in the United States 
 whose appearance was not anaemic; not one 
 that could compare with a good husky Sus- 
 sex lass leading the cows home across the 
 fields; nor even one that compared with my 
 own Theresa, God bless her soul as she sits 
 there reading her little book. 
 
 It is pleasant to be admired by people. It 
 is flattering to be so universally loved and 
 feted as I was in America; but occasionally, 
 
 [265] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 Oh! very occasionally, the suspicion crosses 
 one's mind that Americans are such fools that 
 they admire everyone. In fact, I rather hope 
 that I shall never have to return to that coun- 
 try of no whiskey and much talk. But of 
 course, I know that I shall; for they will de- 
 mand it, and so will my income. One cannot 
 turn down offers such as one receives from 
 American lecture bureaus, nor can one forego 
 the hospitality of American homes, where 
 millionaires' wives are tumbling over them- 
 selves to entertain any visiting Englishman in 
 the most lavish fashion. 
 
 I was rather surprised, this morning, to re- 
 ceive, in the mails, a letter from a young man 
 whom I met while in America, who seemed 
 to have rather more sense than most American 
 young men, who, in the main, except for the 
 undergraduates at Yale, had very little to do 
 with me. This letter, I feel, in justice to 
 America, I must print. I had written to him, 
 you see, telling him how happy I was to be 
 back upon my native heaths, and he replied 
 in somewhat bitter fashion. 
 
 [266] 
 
/ Review My American Trip 
 
 "You write," he commences, "that you are 
 ^infinitely relieved to be away from the glare 
 and the blare of America, from the sordid effi- 
 ciency of its marts of trade,' from the ^flatter- 
 ing unction of its society ladies,' from its ^vul- 
 gar display of wealth,' from its ^ghastly cul- 
 tural ignorance,' from its ^pernicious literary 
 back-scratching and ugly gossip,' that you are 
 overjoyed to find yourself again in quiet Sus- 
 sex where you can listen to your beloved 
 nightingale. 
 
 "Very well, Mr. Tubby, I'm glad that you 
 are there, too, only I do not want you to think 
 that you have seen America, or even tried to 
 understand her people. You speak of its glare 
 and blare, yet H. L. Mencken, writing from 
 England, tells me that you are already copy- 
 ing our electric signs, and that London is be- 
 coming increasingly bright. New York, Chi- 
 cago, and other cities, maybe, are glaring and 
 blaring; but did you ever shoulder a pack 
 and climb one of the Adirondack Mountains 
 at dawn, or sneak up along the Hudson in a 
 canoe at evening? You speak of the ^sordid 
 
 [267] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 efficiency of the marts of trade.' What other 
 marts did you seek out? Did you test the 
 hearts of the simple farmers of New England, 
 or talk with a rancher in Texas? Are you 
 speaking, Mr. Tubby, of New York, or of 
 America! You speak, too, of the ^flattering 
 unction of our society ladies.' What ladies do 
 you mean? Did you or your agent not seek, 
 with letters of introduction, and by any other 
 means which came to hand, entrance to the 
 homes of the very wealthiest, without regard 
 for their fundamental worth? Do you think 
 for one instant that by these methods you were 
 taken into the homes of any of what might be 
 called the real aristocracy of America? Did 
 you not yield in every case to the most flatter- 
 ing invitations, and visit those homes where 
 you became simply a puppet in a vulgar dis- 
 play? Do you mean to say that England has 
 no noveau riche, and that her wealthy men 
 and women are always paragons of taste? 
 
 "Again you use the phrase ^ghastly cultural 
 ignorance.' Did you meet our Doctors o£ 
 Philosophy, our scholars and our scientists, or 
 
 [268] 
 
/ Review My American Trip 
 
 did you spend your time with estimable fel- 
 lows whose one business in life is to create 
 literary news, to pound your drum and their 
 own on a literary band wagon? And, ahl Mr. 
 Tubby, are there no literary cliques in Lon- 
 don? Do you not have your private scandals? 
 Are the morals and the methods of your nov- 
 elists and poets never the subject for salacious 
 gossip amid after-dinner cigar-smoke? Is 
 your literary lingerie never cleansed in pub- 
 lic? And again, you say, that you are over- 
 joyed to find yourself in quiet Sussex where 
 you can listen to your beloved nightingale. 
 
 "Well, after all, Mr. Tubby, such differ- 
 ences of opinion as you and I must face are 
 not uncommon. I was not impressed by your 
 English nightingale when I first heard him 
 sing; and the reason, doubtless, was because he 
 has been so adequately celebrated by your 
 poets, so immortally idealized that I had been 
 led to expect a miracle. We have our hermit 
 thrush in America and I prefer his song to 
 that of your nightingale. But the cool notes 
 of the hermit have never been hymned. You 
 
 [269] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 have never read of him, I presume, and doubt- 
 less no one took you out on a quiet hillside at 
 evening in Vermont and let you hear that eerie 
 chorus of thrush and whippoorwill filling the 
 night with beauty, longing and impassioned 
 sadness. No! Mr. Tubby, you do not under- 
 stand America, and you never will until you 
 come to us with an open mind and a humble 
 heart. It is too great a country for a small 
 mind to absorb. When you forget your purse 
 and your interpretations, when you English 
 come to us as human beings rather than 
 curiosities, and when you look on us as human 
 beings instead of curiosities, then it may be we 
 shall cease to seem a side-show to you and you 
 will cease to seem to us something akin to a 
 new and rather ill-mannered variety of freak. 
 Until your celebrated men and women come to 
 us incognito they cannot expect to see the real 
 America. But all English visitors have not 
 been so strange as you, Mr. Tubby, nor have 
 all been so simple and kindly. We have much 
 to learn from each other; but the time has 
 passed, Mr. Tubby, when Americans wish to 
 
 [270] 
 
/ Review My American Trip 
 
 be patronized by you and your confreres. If 
 you cannot find it in you to attempt to under- 
 stand and appreciate us, doubtless it is only 
 human nature that we should cease to under- 
 stand and appreciate you and that we should 
 commence to find it in our hearts to patronize 
 you with our minds instead of our pocket 
 books." 
 
 A bitter letter, as I said ; but some truth in 
 it, doubtless. There is one thing, however, 
 that I should like to make plain in closing. 
 Every Englishman planning to visit America 
 should note it. Nor do I wish the English 
 to feel that America does not want them. 
 What of my visit? Does that not prove the 
 point? The Americans have an appetite for 
 just the type of thing that we can give them. 
 Witness the following quotation from Mr. 
 Sandburg's poem, "And so today" — 
 
 "Feed it to *em, 
 
 They lap it up, 
 
 bull . . . bull . . . bull." 
 Said a movie news reel camera man, 
 Said a Washington newspaper correspondent. 
 Said a baggage handler lugging a trunk, 
 
 [271] 
 
Timothy Tubby s Journal 
 
 Said a two-a-day vaudeville juggler, 
 
 Said a hunky-punky selling jumping-jacks. 
 
 "Hokum — they lap it up", said the buncli. 
 
 Yet, you must go to this great, simple, al- 
 most primitive people as I went, simply, even 
 as a little child. They will take you unto 
 themselves, laugh with you, weep with you, 
 and if, as one child to another, a word of cor- 
 rection or advice is spoken, remember that you 
 are the older child and what tact an elder 
 brother must display to his younger brother 
 or sister. It is a difficult situation; but it can 
 be surmounted. I met it — so can you. Amer- 
 ica is a great and promising country. It has 
 learned much from England already, it will 
 learn more. Meanwhile, we must do our 
 duty, we must help them when we can, always 
 remembering that the naughty child resents 
 the spanking. Though mama's hair brush be 
 wielded by a loving hand, it yet strikes a ten- 
 der spot. I shall go back to America, for I 
 love it, in spite of all its faults; and Theresa, 
 looking up from her book, nods her aristo- 
 cratic head in agreement. America, we love 
 you! Salute! 
 
 [272] 
 
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