By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, November 26, 1938.
“My, you’re sulky,” observed Jimmie Frise.
“Jim,” I requested, “do you know any dirty tricks I could play on a certain party?”
“Do you mean on me?” inquired Jim, cautiously.
“No, it’s this bird McMuddle,” I confided. “I’ve come to the end. I’ve got to do something about him.”
“Aw,” said Jim. “He’s not such a bad scout. You’re just a little allergic to his type, that’s all.”
“He has really got on my nerves,” I declared, firmly. “I find myself brooding about him during the day, when I should be thinking of my work. I find myself spending my evenings sitting at home, sunk in an easy chair, just patiently hating that guy.”
“You shouldn’t let individuals get you down like that,” protested Jimmie. “After all, he has never done you any real damage. He’s just irritated you, that’s all.”
“Irritation,” I submitted, “can often be worse than a real injury.””
“What has he done,” inquired Jim, “that has finally got you so worked up?”
“As a matter of fact,” I admitted, “it was rather a childish incident. I was standing talking on the street corner with a couple of acquaintances when this McMuddle came along behind me. I didn’t see him. He clapped me heartily on the shoulder, in passing, and sang out in a loud voice: ‘Well, my little man, have you got them spellbound?'”
“That wasn’t very bad,” smiled Jim. “You admit you generally do make speeches whenever you get a couple of guys backed into a corner.”
“As a matter of fact,” I declared, “I did have them spellbound. I was explaining to them the situation in Europe, how the different nations are all lining up against Russia….”
“Then what was the matter with McMuddle remarking the fact,” demanded Jim, “if you had them standing there with their mouths open?”
“Oh, it’s just the climax of a hundred things this McMuddle has done to me,” I gritted. “And you know it. You know if he is in the party, either at anybody’s home or on a fishing or shooting trip, if that guy is in the party, it’s ruined for me.”
“He just kids you,” protested Jim.
“He haunts me,” I insisted. “He makes fun of every word I say. If I make a suggestion, he instantly offers a counter suggestion. If I do anything, like last summer, the time I brought in those six big bass, not one of them under three pounds, what does that bird do? Any natural pride I might have in the performance is simply made ridiculous by the way he rushed about, shouting to everybody to come and see, and overdoing the praise and being so excited that anybody could see he was just making a fool of me.”
“You and Mac,” explained Jim, “happen to be two types that just naturally get on each other’s nerves. You irritate him. He irritates you. Like cat and dog.”
“Or like cat and rat,” I muttered, “and I know who’s the rat.”
“Why Does He Pick on Me?”
“You’re right, to some extent,” admitted Jim. “Mac is a bit of a poor sport. He always sees he gets the best of anything that is going, like on that same trip last summer, he snaffled the best guide and the boat with the cushions in it, and all that.”
“He’s greedy, Jim,” I cried. “And selfish. And without a vestige of sporting character in his make-up. Even when we were out at Ed’s house last week, McMuddle acted like a paid entertainer, took the floor and held it all night, never stopped talking for a minute, ate all the olives, picked all the ripe olives out of the dish before even the sandwiches were passed.”
“I think,” said Jim, carefully “that he was just having a little fun with you because your well-known preference for ripe olives.”
“Why does he pick on me?” I shouted.
“To tell the truth,” said Jim, embarrassed, “I think he held the floor, over at Ed’s, because he thought unless he did, you’d get it and hold it.”
“Jim,” I said, “That’s very unfair. If I ever take the floor, it is because I have come with something interesting to say. McMuddle just talked birds, that night.”
“Everybody thought,” said Jim, “that he gave a pretty fair take-off of you. We all laughed enough.”
“Except me.” I pointed out.
“Yes, but,” considered Jim, “I agree with you, Mac is a bit of a pain in the neck. He is one of those practical jokers. One of those outspoken, frank fellows who imagines he is hitting straight from the shoulder, whereas all he is doing is hitting a man when he’s down.”
“You said it,” I agreed fervently.
“You’re not the only one he picks on,” went on Jim. “As a matter of fact, he is pretty free with his tongue to everybody.”
“I wonder you put up with it,” I said.
“Well, Mac’s type,” explained Jim, “is kind of hard to handle. He’s big and husky. He is good-looking and hearty. He says what he thinks. He has a quick wit. You get into an argument with him, and no holds are barred. He says anything he likes to you or about you. He just puts his head back, looks down his nose at you, and in a loud, sarcastic voice, he just rips you up, and you are so flustered with his style of attack, you can’t even think…”
“That’s him, that’s him,” I concurred. “I wish we could get rid of the guy, some way. Can’t we drop him from our gang?”
“That would be hard,” said Jim, “anyway, some of the gang would accuse us of not being able to take it.”
“I wish,” I stated deeply, “I could think of some way we could put him on the spot. I’ve gone over dozens of imaginary meetings with him. I’ve dramatized, in my own mind, dozens of conversations with him, in which I have flayed him to the bone. But when I meet him, the conversations never turn out that way.”
A Whale of a Stunt
“Did you ever hear the story about dear old Lou Marsh and the Detroit Yacht club?” asked Jimmie. “It’s one of the funniest tales I ever heard.”
“What was it?” I enquired hopefully.
“Lou was over at some sailing races in Detroit,” said Jim, “and, as you recollect, Lou was a pretty masterful type. During the races, Lou was very much on top of any situations that arose. He wasn’t taking anything from the Americans. And after the races were ended, the Detroit boys decided they’d have one on Lou.”
“That would not be easy to do,” I submitted.
“They staged a party in the clubhouse,” related Jimmie. “About 20 prominent sailors were invited. Among other diversions was a poker game, into which about nine of them sat, including Lou. The game went on for long time, with increasing tension, which was not lessened by the fact that one of the men at the table was a bad actor who, as the evening drew on, started making trouble in a quiet way.”
“There is always a McMuddle in every party,” I put in.
“Suddenly,” recounted Jimmie, “this trouble maker leaped to his feet. Pointing an accusing finger across the table at another member of the party, he shouted, ‘Cheat, cheat!'”
“Good gracious,” I exclaimed.
“Lou,” went on Jim, “and all the others, sat frozen with horror. In an exclusive club. Amongst a pleasant party. The accused man got angry and leaped to his feet. There were violent words shouted across the table. The accused man took a sudden swing at the trouble-maker. The trouble-maker reached back, pulled a gun and fired point-blank at the accused man.”
“What a scene,” I breathed.
“And at that instant,” said Jim, “the lights were switched off, pandemonium broke loose and three more shots were fired by the man with the gun.”
“Pandemonium is right,” I admitted.
“Of course, nobody,” explained Jim, “except three of them knew it was a joke, that the gun was the starter’s pistol for the sailing races and blank cartridges were being used.”
“What a whale of a stunt.” I cried.
“Well, there it is,” concluded Jim. “The gun spitting, the sudden darkness, everybody crashing and leaping in all directions, sheer panic. And then, suddenly, the lights go on. Some of them are under the tables and chairs. One man has even crawled under the edge of the carpet. Three of them raced for the stairway and one fell down the stairs, bruising himself badly. And Lou Marsh was on his hands and knees trying to get his 200-pound bulk in behind the iron radiator along the wall.”
“Grand, grand,” I crowed. “I can see it. It was magnificent. It was a good one on Lou and on everybody else, and nobody would have acted any differently.”
“Not even you or me,” admitted Jim.
“But how can we work this on McMuddle?” I demanded.
“Exactly the same,” said Jim. “Exactly, in every detail. At the next party we’re on, and there is to be one next week at Bill’s house; we’ll pull it. We’ll only have to let one other man in on it. The one we’ll accuse of cheating. You handle the pistol, I’ll handle the lights.”
“No, no, Jim,” I said. “Let me handle the lights. Let me be the guy that reveals McMuddle for what he really is.”
“You handle the pistol,” said Jim, “because you’re a hot-tempered little guy anyway, and just nutty enough to be carrying a pistol. Nobody would ever imagine I’d carry a gun.”
“Oh, wouldn’t they?” I retorted. “You good-natured fellows are the ones that really boil over when you get mad. Please, Jim, let me be the one that turns on the lights. That’ll give me more satisfaction than anything I can imagine.
Finding a Villain
“I don’t see how we can fool our gang,” insisted Jim. “Nobody, least of all McMuddle, would ever believe either you or I would carry a gun.”
“Could we ring in a stranger?” I asked.
“Look,” said Jim, suddenly. “I think I have it. I’ll agree to come to the party, and then have to beg off on account of a jam I’m in with a fellow. I have to entertain that night.”
“Yes?” I urged.
“Bill and the boys will insist on me coming and bring the guy,” explained Jim, “and I’ll try to beg off, because this fellow is a very bad actor, a fellow I’ve got mixed up with in a rather funny deal, and I think he’s a crook. See?”
“Swell.” I agreed
“And when Bill says bring him along anyway and let’s look him over, I’ll agree, on one condition that Bill explain to all the rest of the gang that this fellow is a louse, and probably has got me rooked for $2,000 but that I can’t be sure and I’ve got to be nice to him, and so on.”
“It builds up lovely,” I agreed.
“At the party,” concluded Jim. “I’ll act kind of moody and restrained. Not my old jolly self. see? And it will become more and more strained until, at the agreed signal, you get up and go and stand by the light switch, emptying your pipe or something, and then I’ll cut loose.”
What a glorious set-up,” I agreed, seeing McMuddle already trying to creep up the fireplace chimney.
Bill’s party was called for Thursday as usual. Six of us as a rule attend. Just a lot of cards, sandwiches and stuff, while the ladies are out to a movie.
Jim had no trouble finding a suitable villain from amongst his Russian pool-playing friends1, a lean and sinister fellow in the musical instrument business, wholly unknown to any of the rest of us. He was also an amateur theatricals enthusiast, and he fell for the plot with joy. To Bill, Jim told, with obvious reluctance, some of the facts of his being rooked by this gent, and how good it was of Bill and the boys to agree to Jim bringing him along. All through the evening, from the moment Jim arrived with the fictitious Mr. Sacrahan, which was a lovely name for a villain, Jim was ill at ease, anxious, jumpy. But all of us, realizing how embarrassed he was with this ringer in the party, were highly sympathetic and not a little jumpy ourselves. In fact, McMuddle, on whom I kept gloating and expectant eye, was almost decent throughout the night.
About 10 p.m., Jim began to get a little nasty with Mr. Sacrahan.
“Let’s have a look,” he would say, leaning over and examining Mr. Sacrahan’s cards whenever he tossed a winning hand down.
Sacrahan just gazed, with a malevolent expression, at Jim. In a few minutes, we all began to observe that Mr. Sacrahan was eyeing Jim steadily with increasing venom in his expression.
And Jim continued to make short, ugly remarks about each of Mr. Sacrahan’s bets, raises, calls.
Shots Crash Terribly
At a prearranged look from Jim, I rose and sauntered over to the dining-room light switch, and proceeded to fill my pipe.
Suddenly Jim leaped to his feet, crashing his chair over behind him.
“You crook!” grated Jim, pointing scarlet-faced at Sacrahan.
“Sit down,” said Mr. Sacrahan, evilly.
“You crook,” repeated Jim thickly. “I saw you take a card out of your sleeve.”
“That’s a lie,” said Sacrahan, as we all held our breaths in dazed horror.
“I’ve suspected for months,” began Jimmie, leaning forward across the table.
Mr. Sacrahan leaped to his feet and made a violent swing at Jim. I reached for the light switch, my eyes on McMuddle, who was observing the scene with tense fascination.
Out of Jim’s pocket came the bulldog starter’s pistol we had borrowed from Lou Marsh’s old sailing club.
All in one expert motion, the pistol swept up and crashed terribly in the strained and silent dining room.
Out went the lights.
And four more shots. scarlet, vicious, stabbed the pitch black.
Pandemonium is a poor word for it. Shouts, groans, yelps, crashes, scuffles, roars, and then, after 10 stupendous seconds in which I could hardly control the beating of my heart and the sobs of laughter fighting my diaphragm, I switched on the lights.
Bill was under his thick dining-room table. Others were rolled in corners, two were wedged in the narrow doorway, madly struggling to escape.
But on the floor lay Jimmie, flat on his back, and on top of him knelt McMuddle, one powerful hand holding Jim’s pistol hand at arm’s length pinned to the floor, the other hand clasped about Jim’s windpipe, slowly squeezing the life out of him.
“Here!” I shouted, “let go, let him up!”
McMuddle reached up and carefully took the gun from Jim’s now limp grasp.
“Has he gone nuts?” demanded McMuddle, in a cold, icy voice. “Has the poor guy gone completely nuts?”
“It was a joke,” I muttered.
“Does he want to hang?” continued McMuddle, slowly rising off the almost lifeless Jimmie, whose face had gone purple.
Then he saw Mr. Sacrahan grinning in the corner. And then we had to explain to everybody that it was just a little fun; and help Jim to his feet and take him into the kitchen for cold water.
“I should have known it was a joke,” said McMuddle, “but your acting was too good.”
“I guess,” said Jim, ruefully fingering his throat, “we should have let you in on the joke.”
And when the party broke up, all in the highest spirits, with Mr. Sacrahan suddenly blooming as one of the best story tellers we have ever had in our gang, Jim said to me aside: “It’s a funny thing, but often the most unpleasant people have the most guts.”
Editor’s Note:
- It has been mentioned before that Jim likes to play Russian Pool. There are different variations so I am not sure which he played. ↩︎
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