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Leacock, Stephen, 1869-1944

"Frenzied Fiction"


Things had changed indeed.
"Can I get breakfast in the grill room?" I inquired of
the melancholy clerk.
He shook his head sadly.
"There is no grill room," he answered. "What would you
like?"
"Oh, some sort of eggs," I said, "and--"
The clerk reached down below his desk and handed me a
hard-boiled egg with the shell off.
"Here's your egg," he said. "And there's ice water there
at the end of the desk."
He sat back in his chair and went on reading.
"You don't understand," said Mr Narrowpath, who still
stood at my elbow. "All that elaborate grill room breakfast
business was just a mere relic of the drinking days--sheer
waste of time and loss of efficiency. Go on and eat your
egg. Eaten it? Now, don't you feel efficient? What more
do you want? Comfort, you say? My dear sir! more men have
been ruined by comfort--Great heavens, comfort! The most
dangerous, deadly drug that ever undermined the human
race. But, here, drink your water. Now you're ready to
go and do your business, if you have any."
"But," I protested, "it's still only half-past seven in
the morning--no offices will be open--"
"Open!" exclaimed Mr. Narrowpath. "Why! they all open at
daybreak now.


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