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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRENZIED FICTION *** Produced by Gardner Buchanan, and David Widger



FRENZIED FICTION



By Stephen Leacock





CONTENTS


I.   My Revelations as a Spy

II.   Father Knickerbocker: A Fantasy

III.   The Prophet in Our Midst

IV.   Personal Adventures in the Spirit World

V.   The Sorrows of a Summer Guest

VI.   To Nature and Back Again

VII.   The Cave-Man as He is

VIII.   Ideal Interviews

     I.   WITH A EUROPEAN PRINCE

     II.   WITH OUR GREATEST ACTOR

     III.    WITH OUR GREATEST SCIENTIST

     IV.   WITH OUR TYPICAL NOVELISTS

IX.   The New Education

X.   The Errors of Santa Claus

XI.   Lost in New York

XII.   This Strenuous Age

XIII.   The Old, Old Story of How Five Men Went Fishing

XIV.   Back from the Land

XV.   The Perplexity Column as Done by the Jaded Journalist

XVI.   Simple Stories of Success, or How to Succeed in Life

XVII.   In Dry Toronto

XVIII.     Merry Christmas









I. My Revelations as a Spy

In many people the very name โ€œSpyโ€ excites a shudder of apprehension; we Spies, in fact, get quite used to being shuddered at. None of us Spies mind it at all. Whenever I enter a hotel and register myself as a Spy I am quite accustomed to see a thrill of fear run round the clerks, or clerk, behind the desk.

Us Spies or We Spiesโ€”for we call ourselves bothโ€”are thus a race apart. None know us. All fear us. Where do we live? Nowhere. Where are we? Everywhere. Frequently we donโ€™t know ourselves where we are. The secret orders that we receive come from so high up that it is often forbidden to us even to ask where we are. A friend of mine, or at least a Fellow Spyโ€”us Spies have no friendsโ€”one of the most brilliant men in the Hungarian Secret Service, once spent a month in New York under the impression that he was in Winnipeg. If this happened to the most brilliant, think of the others.

All, I say, fear us. Because they know and have reason to know our power. Hence, in spite of the prejudice against us, we are able to move everywhere, to lodge in the best hotels, and enter any society that we wish to penetrate.

Let me relate an incident to illustrate this: a month ago I entered one of the largest of the New York hotels which I will merely call the B. hotel without naming it: to do so might blast it. We Spies, in fact, never name a hotel. At the most we indicate it by a number known only to ourselves, such as 1, 2, or 3.

On my presenting myself at the desk the clerk informed me that he had no room vacant. I knew this of course to be a mere subterfuge; whether or not he suspected that I was a Spy I cannot say. I was muffled up, to avoid recognition, in a long overcoat with the collar turned up and reaching well above my ears, while the black beard and the moustache, that I had slipped on in entering the hotel, concealed my face. โ€œLet me speak a moment to the manager,โ€ I said. When he came I beckoned him aside and taking his ear in my hand I breathed two words into it. โ€œGood heavens!โ€ he gasped, while his face turned as pale as ashes. โ€œIs it enough?โ€ I asked. โ€œCan I have a room, or must I breathe again?โ€ โ€œNo, no,โ€ said the manager, still trembling. Then, turning to the clerk: โ€œGive this gentleman a room,โ€ he said, โ€œand give him a bath.โ€

What these two words are that will get a room in New York at once I must not divulge. Even now, when the veil of secrecy is being lifted, the international interests involved are too complicated to permit it. Suffice it to say that if these two had failed I know a couple of others still better.

I narrate this incident, otherwise trivial, as indicating the astounding ramifications and the ubiquity of the international spy system. A similar illustration occurs to me as I write. I was walking the other day with another man, on upper B. way between the T. Building and the W. Garden.

โ€œDo you see that man over there?โ€ I said, pointing from the side of the street on which we were walking on the sidewalk to the other side opposite to the side that we were on.

โ€œThe man with the straw hat?โ€ he asked. โ€œYes, what of him?โ€

โ€œOh, nothing,โ€ I answered, โ€œexcept that heโ€™s a Spy!โ€

โ€œGreat heavens!โ€ exclaimed my acquaintance, leaning up against a lamp-post for support. โ€œA Spy! How do you know that? What does it mean?โ€

I gave a quiet laughโ€”we Spies learn to laugh very quietly.

โ€œHa!โ€ I said, โ€œthat is my secret, my friend. Verbum sapientius! Che sara sara! Yodel doodle doo!โ€

My acquaintance fell in a dead faint upon the street. I watched them take him away in an ambulance. Will the reader be surprised to learn that among the white-coated attendants who removed him I recognized no less a person than the famous Russian Spy, Poulispantzoff. What he was doing there I could not tell. No doubt his orders came from so high up that he himself did not know. I had seen him only twice beforeโ€”once when we were both disguised as Zulus at Buluwayo, and once in the interior of China, at the time when Poulispantzoff made his secret entry into Thibet concealed in a tea-case. He was inside the tea-case when I saw him; so at least I was informed by the coolies who carried it. Yet I recognized him instantly. Neither he nor I, however, gave any sign of recognition other than an imperceptible movement of the outer eyelid. (We Spies learn to move the outer lid of the eye so imperceptibly that it cannot be seen.) Yet after meeting Poulispantzoff in this way I was not surprised to read in the evening papers a few hours afterward that the uncle of

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