Earl Derr Biggers

“ One final picture of the Café Cote d'Or at six o'clock, the hour for dining. The door is thrust open, and there enter two gentlemen of Monsieur Casserole's own nationality. One may note they wear the coiffure of the temperamental, the flowing black tie of the dreamer. They advance, and stand before the cage of Madame. One of them—Antoine Paquet—carries a huge package, which he lays upon the counter. They both bow in pompous courtesy.
“With the compliments of both of us,” says Antoine. “It is a new ledger, Monsieur. The largest to be found.” ”

“ We'll corner the inspiration market so that when we come to tackle the subject of Elysium Oats, the result will make Shakespeare turn over in his grave in envy.”
Proud of his classical allusion, Mr. Stumps sat down, and after a perfunctory cheer, the assembled poets applied themselves to the business in hand with smiling faces. As course followed course, they inclined toward revelry. It was the introduction of a dish said to be Elysium Oats, however, that inspired the gale of laughter which carried the dinner onward into a riotous success. ”

“ I feed 'em Elysium Oats. Maybe other things are on the bill, but the oats are featured. Inspired by the best breakfast-food on the market, they sit down and dash off immortal verse in praise of it. Me running ads in the papers. 'Great poets agree,' I say in the ads, 'that the only real, red-hot inspiration for a struggling poet is a good meal. Read what Lucius J. Somebody, the eminent poet, wrote after one dish of Elysium Oats.' Here, Jimmy, I follow with a hummer of a poem. ”

“ Some ten typewriters stood, neatly arranged for use, a white sheet of paper in the carriage of each. They awaited only the touch of genius.
The seven who were there to inscribe the anthems of Elysium Oats sat down, each before a machine, and regarded the blank paper in dismay.
Mr. Stumps lighted a cigar.
“Hope the Muse doesn't mind the smoke,” he said jokingly, “take your time, gentlemen. I want poems that'll get a word from the book-reviewers. Go slow, but sure.” ”

“ Mr. Stumps read on the nearest. Hurriedly he scanned the products of six other machines. There also he found verses extolling his beloved oats. The contract had been honored, and this sleep of the poets was one of natural exhaustion following a duty well performed.
“Wake up!” cried Mr. Stumps, snatching the manuscript from the typewriters. “Wake up, gentlemen, it is morning. Wake up and accept my thanks for these poems. I tell you, Elysium Oats is going down in literature, as I predicted.”
Starting guiltily, the seven awoke and blinked at the busy Mr. Stumps like owls caught out by day. ”

“ What's more, there's fifty each in it for all the rising young poets of your acquaintance you care to ring in on the feed.”
Antoine thoughtfully regarded his coffee. He did not speak. Perrin also was silent. Mr. Stumps watched a waiter hurry by with a very red lobster.
“I'm after a high grade of work,” he went on, a moment later. “I want poems the children'll learn to recite and the old folks'll enjoy. I want poems that'll haunt people long after they've laid down the paper or passed the bill-board; poems that will follow them round and make them miserable until they've tried the Oats. ”

“ Will you come with me while I arrange matters with the Poets' Union?”
“No thanks.” The young man yawned. “I'll wait here, if you don't mind.”
The elderly man crossed to the table where Antoine and Perrin were consuming, in gloomy silence, the divine dishes of Adolphe. He bowed politely and drew up a chair.
“Pardon my intrusion, gentlemen,” he remarked. “I'm a plain man, and I don't dally with the dictionary when I talk. I've got a proposition to put to you. My name is Henry J. Stumps, and I am manager of the Elysium Oats Company, Limited. You have eaten Elysium Oats?” ”

“ IT was six o'clock of a spring evening.
A steady stream of workers homeward bound hurried past the Café Cote d'Or, while, up above, the elevated growled in constant complaint against the vast army of weary folk it must carry. ”

“ Stumps quickly. “Fifty round, cold, clammy dollars. Take my advice, gentlemen. Bury the ideals. Ideals never got a man a meal yet. Bury them, and don't waste good time doing a 'Heart Bowed Down' specialty over their grave, either. If you must be poets, join the balance in the bank division; come in among the velvet carpets and the drop-lights.”
Another silence fell. A lady Antoine Paquet had once celebrated in song smiled at him across the Cote d'Or, but he looked at her with unseeing eyes. His lips moved.
“Fifty dollars,” he murmured.
“Antoine!” cried Perrin, in horrified warning. ”

“ Just add cream and sugar and serve.”
“A brilliant scheme, my dear uncle,” laughed the young man, “but you will never carry it through. A poet has a soul. What you suggest would sear and mutilate it.” ”

“ Stumps, leaping to his feet. “I'm going home. I never was much for late hours. Show your poems to the night-watchman when you get through, and if he likes them, he'll let you out. Good-night.”
Mr. Stumps did not sleep well that night; 6:30 o'clock the next morning found him opening the door of the room in the offices of Elysium Oats, where he had left seven poets in the throes of com position. ”