The Inventions of the Idiot

"Wake me up when he gets to the point, will you, kindly?" whispered the Doctor to the Bibliomaniac. "If you sleep until then you'll never wake," said the Bibliomaniac. "To my mind the Idiot never comes to a point." "You are a little too mysterious for me," observed Mr. Whitechoker. "I know no more about Dreamaline now than I did when you began." "Which is my case exactly," said the Idiot. "It is a vague, shadowy something as yet. It is only a germ lost in my cerebral wrinkles, but I hope by a persistent smoothing out of those wrinkles with what I might call the flat-iron of thought, I may yet lay hold of the microbe, and with it electrify the world. Once Dreamaline is discovered all other discoveries become as nothing; all other inventions for the amelioration of the condition of the civilized will be unnecessary, and even Progressive Waffles will cease to fascinate." "Perhaps," said the Bibliomaniac, "if you will give us a hint as to the nature of your plan in general we may be able to help you in carrying it out." "The Doctor might," said the Idiot. "My genial friend who occasionally imbibes might--even the Poet, with his taste for Welsh rarebits, might--but from you and Mr. Pedagog and Mr. Whitechoker I fear I should receive little assistance. Indeed, I am not sure but that Mr. Whitechoker might disapprove of the plan altogether." "Any plan which makes life happier and better is sure to meet with my approval," said Mr. Whitechoker.