The Flat Freak
Some time ago a Sub-Tropical Dinner was given by some
South African millionaire. I forget his name; and so, very likely,
does he. The humour of this was so subtle and haunting that it has
been imitated by another millionaire, who has given a North Pole Dinner
in a grand hotel, on which he managed to spend gigantic sums of money.
I do not know how he did it; perhaps they had silver for snow
and great sapphires for lumps of ice. Anyhow, it seems to have
cost rather more to bring the Pole to London than to take Peary
to the Pole. All this, one would say, does not concern us.
We do not want to go to the Pole--or to the hotel. I, for one,
cannot imagine which would be the more dreary and disgusting--
the real North Pole or the sham one. But as a mere matter of psychology
(that merry pastime) there is a question that is not unentertaining.
Why is it that all this scheme of ice and snow leaves us cold?
Why is it that you and I feel that we would (on the whole)
rather spend the evening with two or three stable boys in a pot-house
than take part in that pallid and Arctic joke? Why does the modern
millionaire's jest--bore a man to death with the mere thought of it?
That it does bore a man to death I take for granted, and shall do
so until somebody writes to me in cold ink and tells me that he really
thinks it funny.
Now, it is not a sufficient explanation to say that the joke
is silly.
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