Here's Luck

It is absolutely ridiculous to call a man of forty-eight old. A
restricted vocabulary might account for such a remark, and then of
course there are people whose observations are superficial and even
frivolous.

Temple, however, is a man who is never frivolous and I was astounded
when he said it.

"Gudgeon," he said, "you're getting old."

"I'm not old!" I protested.

"You look old!" he insisted.

That was a lie. I pride myself on my looks. I have not a grey hair in
my head, and numerous acquaintances have favourably remarked on my
appearance. I am perhaps, a little under medium height, but then mere
height is nothing. Notice the relative importance of Napoleon and the
giraffe. I have been called fat by envious persons less kindly treated
by nature and there was one who at the height of his jealousy called me
"Barrel."

I am not a vain man, but in my own defence I quote a remark made by the
girl in Flannery's saloon bar to a f riend.

"I like," she said, "his ruddy, clean-shaven, ingenuous face; and he
has such a splendidly mature figure and manly bearing."

That, I think, should be sufficient. If, however, I say IF there is the
slightest excuse for a remark such as Temple made there is only one
excuse for it. It is not age. It's worry.

It's Stanley--and if there is anything within the ken of man more
calculated to bring a man's grey hairs in sorrow to the grave, it,
whatever it is, is not human.

Stanley is about eighteen or nineteen, I am not sure which, but looks
much older than his years. He is taller and thinner than I but
otherwise resembles me as closely as can be expected these days. His
face can look positively cherubic on occasion, but this makes no
difference to the fact that he can be a fiend from the blackest pit
when he likes. I've had a lot of trouble with him. A few weeks ago he
was at that stage where he had given up the idea of being a pirate,
engine-driver, or chief rescuer in the fire brigade, and wanted to be a
poet. He has altered greatly since, but I would much rather rear a
platypus than a boy. Problems innumerable beset the conscientious
father, but the greatest problem of all is to know in what trade or
profession the boy will be best fitted to support his old father at a
later date.

The medical profession, of course, suggests itself immediately. I have
no yearning to have Stanley descend to the familiarity of listening-in
to the heart-throbs of the vulgar, and punching people in the ribs and
asking if it hurts. Neither do I wish to stand on one leg with my mouth
open and say ninety-nine, as I would undoubtedly be compelled to do if
he were training for the medical profession. His mother would see to
that. Furthermore, judging by the number of divorce cases that doctors
become entangled in it would seem that the only way some of them can
keep their names untarnished is by the application of a little
metal-polish to their brass plate. And whatever else Stanley is, I want
him to be untarnished. That is to say, he'd be fool enough to get
caught.

I could make a lawyer of him. He really has a talent in that direction.
He comes home in the small hours of the morning with an iron-clad alibi
and even the wife can find no chink in his armour of excuses. He is a
fountain of fluid eloquence. I'm a bit that way myself: it runs in our
family. Still, admitting that lawyers are quite all right in their
place, the trouble is to find the place.