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THE SINGULAR CASE OF
WILLIAM PLUMPTY
(Continued from page 11)
I am unique, and found it cold comfort, (I sometimes pick up Pinky’s books). For the first time, I made the acquaintance of the words neurotic and neurosis and did not care about them; also I got a glimmer on the subject of suggestion. I turned for relief to a treatise on Commercial Fertilizers. We found, by experience, that I could not speak one of these sentences "of intent." If only I could have had an option as to which one to use, the consequence might not have been so awkward. But some sprite of misfortune, some frolic pixy, perhaps one of the mischievous native spirits I met in Pinky’s theosoph magazines, seemed to have charge of affairs. Always it was the wrong sentence! Laughing over it afterward with Pink and Lenny was all that saved me from nervous collapse. Thank heaven for a sense of humour!
I MAY say Dr. Ketchum had given out I was suffering from temporary loss of spirits, caused by shock, and needed rest. He murmured the word "aphasia" but Pinky Patterson said that aphasia, either sensory, ataxic, or amnesic, did not describe my case. She also reeled off a long list of words—varieties of diseases affecting the speech by the nerves—that made me dizzy. I can neither spell them nor pronounce them, but as she decided none of them would do, it does not matter.
I had a capable Deputy Registrar of Deeds installed, and, as I was not altogether dependent on the office for my income, I had no financial anxieties.
Three examples of the sometimes exceeding appropriateness—or otherwise—of my remarks, will suffice here; but you who have imagination, can multiply them:
One day Mrs. Billows, who was a most ardent temperance worker, came to solicit funds for a new bell for the Division of the Sons of Temperance, the Crystal Clears, at Billowsville. She had overborne the objections of Jane, my wife (a great feat!), and pushed her way into my private sitting-room. Pinky was in the garden and Len had gone fishing, so I sat defenceless and listened to her flood of argument. I am the most temperate of men and feel quite rakish if I even indulge in too much ginger beer, but she reasoned with me as if I were a rum-soaked profligate. A woman (or man) with a hobby is like a dog with a bone—they never know when to stop chewing.
Hearing a voice, Pinky came quietly into the foom through the open French window. I waved a signed cheque at her and started to say "Please give this to Mrs. Billows," but instead these words dropped like icicles into the air:
"Great Crimson Christopher! She has run amuck!"
Mrs. Billows has never spoken to me since, but she had the presence of mind to take the cheque from Pinky as she bounced out.
One day a rattly, country buggy drove up to our door. It was the mail-carrier from East Plumpty, and when I heard the penetrating voice of his passenger, floating to my window, I had a fit of goose flesh. Well I know the lady. Alas! alas! too well, for long and tedious had been her previous visitations. It was my great-aunt, Annabella Plumpty, who was the leading lady of East Plumpty, and had money.
She jerked into the room, barking her elbow on the door, as usual, as she entered.
"My dear, dear William," she said gushingly, "I have come help take care of you, and to make you a long, long visit."
From force of habit I began to reply, "Delighted, Aunt Annabella!" instead a groan burst from me, "Oh! my poor wife!"
I hear Aunt Annabella has left her money "elsewhere."
After this I refused myself to visitors for several days, but Pinky, Professor Wyse, and Len Briscom enjoyed so much my neat retort to Aunt Annabella, that I cheered up.
ONE afternoon my wife's minister, the Reverend Wilberforce Stone, called, and Jane insisted that I see him.
I do not need to describe him, his name just hits him off. I am sure his mother called him Wil-ber-force in his cradle, I did very well that day. I was reinforced by the presence of Pinky and Francis Wyse. I listened to the Reverend Stone's petrifactions and made polite replies on my slate. I was so proud of myself, that my pride was my undoing. Such a wave of relief went over me as he turned his stony back in departure, that I went to sing out for the benefit of my audience, "Come again, Mr. Stone." Instead a clear, cheerful voice rang out, with a touch of banter in it:
"Good-bye, Bill!" and Pink Patterson rushed for a sofa pillow.
I heard Wilberforce said I was very frivolous for one chosen for affliction.
Perhaps Professor Francis Wyse comes in here. He was brought into my room one day by Pinky Patterson, who was looking as sweet as a spray of mignonette in a green sprigged muslin. She had met him at a Tennis Tea and, I judged, had borne him away from all competitors; and not trying one bit either! Girls like Pinky Patterson don't have to try. They just walk off, looking as though nothing nearer than the horizon interested them, and the Francises follow. Such eyes she had, almost equal to Uncle Lens, such apple-blossom cheeks, such a dear she was! I admired the young man's taste.
It seems Wyse was Professor of Psychology at Queen's University and was spending his holidays at Harmony Centre, He was extremely interested in my case, as a psychologist, and more interested, as a (Continued on page 44)
JUNE 1917
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