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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
127
Here
is
another
man,
ragged
and
with
a
six
days'
growth
of
beard,
frying
a
piece
of
bacon
on
a
stick
over
a
little
fire.
Now
what
does
he
think
he
is?
The
CHEF
of
the
Waldorf
Astoria?
Yes,
he
does,
and
what's
more
he
thinks
that
that
miserable
bit
of
bacon,
cut
with
a
tobacco
knife
from
a
chunk
of
meat
that
lay
six
days
in
the
rain,
is
fit
to
eat.
What's
more,
he'll
eat
it.
So
will
the
rest.
They're
all
crazy
together.
There's
another
man,
the
Lord
help
him
who
thinks
he
has
the
"knack"
of
being
a
carpenter.
He
is
hammering
up
shelves
to
a
tree.
Till
the
shelves
fall
down
he
thinks
he
is
a
wizard.
Yet
this
is
the
same
man
who
swore
at
his
wife
for
asking
him
to
put
up
a
shelf
in
the
back
kitchen.
"How
the
blazes,"
he
asked,
"could
he
nail
the
damn
thing
up?
Did
she
think
he
was
a
plumber?"
After
all,
never
mind.
Provided
they
are
happy
up
there,
let
them
stay.
Personally,
I
wouldn't
mind
if
they
didn't
come
back
and
lie
about
it.
They
get
back
to
the
city
dead
fagged
for
want
of
sleep,
sogged
with
alcohol,
bitten
brown
by
the
bush-flies,
trampled
on
by
the
moose
and
chased
through
the
brush
by
bears
and
skunks--and
they
have
the
nerve
to
say
that
they
like
it.
Sometimes
I
think
they
do.
Men
are
only
animals
anyway.
They
like
to
get
out
into
the
woods
and
growl
round
at
night
and
feel
something
bite
them.
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