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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
52
"Oh,
fine!"
I
said.
"The
people
in
it
are
the
Dog
and
Pio,
and
Carlo
Carlotti
the
Condottiere,
and
those
others
that
we
spoke
of."
"That's
right,"
Sinclair
said.
"Of
course,
there
are
more
still
that
I
can
tell
you
about
if...."
"Oh,
never
mind,"
I
said,
"I'll
work
along
with
those,
they're
a
pretty
representative
crowd.
Then
Porphirio
is
under
Pio's
thumb,
and
Pio
is
under
Demonio's
thumb,
and
the
Dog
is
crafty,
and
Lucia
is
full
of
something
all
the
time.
Oh,
I've
got
a
mighty
clear
idea
of
it,"
I
concluded
bitterly.
"Oh,
you've
got
it,"
Sinclair
said,
"I
knew
you'd
like
it.
Now
we'll
go
on.
I'll
just
finish
to
the
bottom
of
my
page
and
then
I'll
go
on
aloud."
He
ran
his
eyes
rapidly
over
the
lines
till
he
came
to
the
bottom
of
the
page,
then
he
cut
the
leaves
and
turned
over.
I
saw
his
eye
rest
on
the
half-dozen
lines
that
confronted
him
on
the
next
page
with
an
expression
of
utter
consternation.
"Well,
I
will
be
cursed!"
he
said
at
length.
"What's
the
matter?"
I
said
gently,
with
a
great
joy
at
my
heart.
"This
infernal
thing's
a
serial,"
he
gasped,
as
he
pointed
at
the
words,
"To
be
continued,"
"and
that's
all
there
is
in
this
number."
Telling
His
Faults
"Oh,
do,
Mr.
Sapling,"
said
the
beautiful
girl
at
the
summer
hotel,
"do
let
me
read
the
palm
of
your
hand!
I
can
tell
you
all
your
faults."
Mr.
Sapling
gave
an
inarticulate
gurgle
and
a
roseate
flush
swept
over
his
countenance
as
he
surrendered
his
palm
to
the
grasp
of
the
fair
enchantress.
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