The Genial Idiot Part 10

"And do you mean to say those people invite you out?" asked the Bibliomaniac.

"All the time," said the Idiot. "Just as soon as one of our swell customers finds he can't pay his margins he comes down to the office and gets very chummy with all of us. The deeper he is in it the more affable he becomes. The result is there are house-parties and yacht-cruises and all that sort of thing galore on tap for us every summer."

"And you accept them, eh?" said the Bibliomaniac, scornfully.

"As a matter of business, of course," replied the Idiot. "We've got to get something out of it. If one of our customers can't pay cash, why, we get what we can. In this particular case Mr. Reginald Squandercash had me down at Newport for five full days, and I know now why he can't pay up his little shortage of eight hundred dollars. He's got the money, but he needs it for other things, and, now that I know it, I shall recommend the firm to give him an extension of thirty days. By that time he will have collected from the De Boodles, whom he is launching in society, C.

O. D., and will be able to square matters with us."

"Your conversation is Greek to me," said the Bibliomaniac. "Who are the De Boodles, and for what do they owe your friend Reginald Squandercash money?"

"The De Boodles," explained the Idiot, "are what are known as climbers, and Reginald Squandercash is a booster."

"A what?" cried the Bibliomaniac.

"A booster," said the Idiot. "There are several boosters in the Four Hundred. For a consideration they will boost wealthy climbers into society. The climbers are people like the De Boodles, who have suddenly come into great wealth, and who wish to be in it with others of great wealth who are also of high social position. They don't know how to do the trick, so they seek out some booster like Reggie, strike a bargain with him, and he steers 'em up against the 'Among-Those-Present' game until finally you find the De Boodles have a social cinch."

"Do you mean to say that society tolerates such a business as that?"

demanded the Bibliomaniac.

"Tolerates?" laughed the Idiot. "What a word to use! Tolerate? Why, society encourages, because society shares the benefits. Take this especial vacation of mine. Society had two five-o'clock teas, four of the swellest dinners you ever sat down to, a cotillon where the favors were of solid silver and real ostrich feathers, a whole day's clam-bake on Reggie's steam-yacht, with automobile-runs and coaching-trips galore.

n.o.body ever declines one of Reggie's invitations, because what he has from a society point of view is the best the market affords. Why, the floral decorations alone at the _fete champetre_ he gave in honor of the De Boodles at his villa last Thursday night must have cost five thousand dollars, and everything was on the same scale. I don't believe a cent less than seventy-five hundred dollars was burned up in the fire-works, and every lady present received a souvenir of the occasion that cost at least one hundred dollars."

"Your story doesn't quite hold together," said Mr. Brief. "If your friend Reggie has a villa and a steam-yacht, and automobiles and coaches, and gives _fetes champetres_ that cost fifteen or twenty thousand dollars, I don't see why he has to make himself a booster of inferior people who want to get into society. What does he gain by it?

It surely isn't sport to do a thing like that, and I should think he'd find it a dreadful bore."

"The man must live," said the Idiot. "He boosts for a living."

"When he has the wealth of Monte Cristo at his command?" demanded Mr.

Brief.

"Reggie hasn't a cent to his name," said the Idiot. "I've already told you he owes us eight hundred dollars he can't pay."

"Then who in thunder pays for the villa and the lot and all those hundred-dollar souvenirs?" asked the Doctor.

"Why, this year, the De Boodles," said the Idiot. "Last year it was Colonel and Mrs. Moneybags, whose daughter, Miss Fayette Moneybags, is now clinching the position Reggie sold her at Newport over in London, whither Reggie has consigned her to his sister, an impecunious American d.u.c.h.ess--the d.u.c.h.ess of Nocash--who is also in the boosting business.

The chances are Miss Moneybags will land one of England's most deeply indebted peers, and, if she does, Reggie will receive a handsome check for steering the family up against so attractive a proposition."

"And you mean to tell us that a plain man like old John De Boodle, of Nevada, is putting out his hard-earned wealth in that way?" demanded Mr.

Brief.

"I didn't mean to mention any names," said the Idiot. "But you've spotted the victim. Old John De Boodle, who made his sixty million dollars in six months, after having kept a saloon on the frontier for forty years, is the man. His family wants to get in the swim, and Reggie is turning the trick for them; and, after all, what better way is there for De Boodle to get in? He might take sixty villas at Newport and not get even a peep at the divorce colony there, much less a glimpse of the monogamous set acting independently. Not a monkey in the Zoo would dine with the De Boodles, and in his most eccentric moment I doubt if Tommy Dare would take them up, unless there was somebody to stand sponsor for them. A cool million might easily be expended without results by the De Boodles themselves; but hand that money over to Reggie Squandercash, whose blood is as blue as his creditors' sometimes get, and you can look for results. What the Frohman's are to the stage, Reggie Squandercash is to society. He's right in it; popular as all spenders are; lavish as all people spending other people's money are apt to be. Old De Boodle, egged on by Mrs. De Boodle and Miss Mary Ann De Boodle (now known as Miss Marianne De Boodle), goes to Reggie and says: 'The old lady and my girl are nutty on society. Can you land 'em?' 'Certainly,' says Reggie, 'if your pocket is long enough.' 'How long is that?' asks De Boodle, wincing a bit. 'A hundred thousand a month, and no extras, until you're in,'

says Reggie. 'No reduction for families?' asks De Boodle, anxiously.

'No,' says Reggie. 'Harder job.' 'All right,' says De Boodle, 'here's my check for the first month.' That's how Reggie gets his Newport villa, his servants, his horses, yacht, automobiles, and coaches. Then he invites the De Boodles up to visit him. They accept, and the fun begins. First it's a little dinner to meet my friends Mr. and Mrs. De Boodle, of Nevada. Everybody there, hungry, dinner from Sherry's, best wines in the market. De Boodles covered with diamonds, a great success, especially old John De Boodle, who tells racy stories over the _demi-ta.s.se_ when the ladies have gone into the drawing-room. De Boodle voted a character. Next thing, bridge-whist party. Everybody there.

Society a good winner. The De Boodles magnificent losers. Popularity cinched. Next, yachting-party. Everybody on board. De Boodle on deck in fine shape. Champagne flows like Niagara. Poker game in main cabin. Food everywhere. De Boodles much easier. Stiffness wearing off, and so on and so on, until finally Miss De Boodle's portrait is printed in nineteen Sunday newspapers all over the country. They're launched, and Reggie comes into his own with a profit for the season in a cash balance of fifty thousand dollars. He's had a bully time all summer, entertained like a prince, and comes to the rainy season with a tidy little umbrella to keep him out of the wet."

"And can he count on that as a permanent business?" asked Mr.

Whitechoker.

"My dear sir, the rock of Gibraltar is no solider and no more permanent," said the Idiot. "For as long as there is a Four Hundred in existence, human nature is such that there will also be a million who will want to get into it."

"At such a cost?" demanded the Bibliomaniac.

"At any cost," replied the Idiot. "Even people who know they cannot swim want to get in it."

XII

HE MAKES A SUGGESTION TO THE POET

"Good-morning, Homer, my boy," said the Idiot, genially, as the Poet entered the breakfast-room. "All hail to thee. Thou art the bright particular bird of plumage I most hoped to see this rare and beauteous summer morning. No sweet-singing robin-redbreast or soft-honking canvasback for yours truly this A.M., when a living, breathing, palpitating son of the Muses lurks near at hand. I fain would make thee a proposition, Shakespeare dear!"

"Back pedal there! Avaunt with your flowery speech, oh Idiot!" cried the Doctor. "Else will I call an ambulance."

"No ambulance for mine," chortled the Idiot.

"Nay, Sweet Gas-bags," quoth the Doctor. "But for once I fear me we may be scorched by this Pelee of words that thou spoutest forth."

"What's the proposition, Mr. Idiot?" asked the Poet. "I'm always open to anything of the kind, as the Subway said when an automobile fell into it.'"

"I thirst for laurels," said the Idiot, "and I propose that you and I collaborate on a book of poems for early publication. With your name on the t.i.tle-page and my poems in the book I think we can make a go of it."

"What's the lay?" asked the Poet, amused, but wary. "Sonnets, or French forms, or just plain s.n.a.t.c.hes of song?"

"Any old thing as long as it runs smoothly," replied the Idiot. "Only the poems must fit the t.i.tle of the book, which is to be _Now_."

"_Now?_" said the Poet.

"_Now!_" repeated the Idiot. "I find in reading over the verse of the day that the 'Now' poem always finds a ready market. Therefore, there must be money in it, and where the money goes there the laurels are.

You know what Browning Robinson, the Laureate of Wall Street, wrote in his 'Message to Posterity':

"'Oh, when you come to crown my brow, Bring me no bay nor sorrel; Give me no parsley wreath, but just The legal long green laurel.'"

"I never heard that poem before," laughed the Poet, "though the sentiment in these commercial days is not unfamiliar."

"True," said the Idiot. "Alfred Austin Biggs, of Texas, voiced the same idea when he said:

"'Crown me not with spinach, Wreathe me not with hay; Place no salad on my head When you bring the bay.

Give me not the water-cresses To adorn my flowing tresses, But at e'en Crown my pockets good and strong With the green-- The green that's long.'"

"Do you remember that?" asked the Idiot.

"Only faintly," said the Poet. "I think you read it to me once before, just after you--er--ah--rather just after Alfred Austin Biggs, of Texas--wrote it."

The Idiot laughed. "I see you're on," he said. "Anyhow, it's good sentiment, whether I wrote it or Biggs. Fact is, in my judgment, what the poet of to-day ought to do is to collect the long green from the present and the laurel from posterity. That's a fair division. But what do you say to my proposition?"