My Objection to Callinson

is a mournful, respectable, hard-working, disapproving man; he is punctual in business, excellent in his domestic relations, and has not a grain of affectation about him; but it is not for any of these reasons that I object to Callinson. My grievance against him is a purely personal one. It is as here follows:—

Callinson has a friend (or says he has) whom he always speaks of as "poor Tom." He believes (or says he believes) that poor Tom is exactly like myself. He is so impressed (or professes to be so impressed) by the likeness between poor Tom and myself, that he never meets me without alluding to it. Now I do not know what poor Tom's other name is, or where he lives, or anything about him, except what Callinson has told me. I may add that for many years past I have never committed suicide, and am on principle opposed to the habit, but if I thought that I was exactly like the "poor Tom" that Callinson describes I would revise my principles and take my unhappy life.

My first intimation of the resemblance came long ago. Callinson met me in the street one day and asked me where I was going. I said that I was going to the post-office. He at once began to smile; it was a melancholy, offensive smile. I asked him if he was concealing anything amusing about him to produce it at once.

"No," he said. "But whenever I meet you, I always feel tempted to smile. You're so like a friend of mine—poor Tom. His face—his voice—his character—his little unfortunate ways and mannerisms—everything—you've got them all."

It annoyed me. I had never disposed of the copyright in my own personality, and it looked like an act of barefaced piracy. I told Callinson, a little rudely, perhaps—that I was very sorry to resemble any friend of his.

"Ah!" he replied, "that's exactly what poor Tom said when I told him about you. Tom's irritable, nasty temper makes him enemies. I'll go with you as far as the Post-office."

I already hated Callinson, and did not want him to come with me, but he insisted. It happened that I tore off the paper at the edge of the sheet of stamps that I had bought, and threw it away. Callinson's sad, green eye noted this trivial incident.

"That's Tom all over," he said. I knew he wanted me to ask in what way it was Tom all over, and so I carefully abstained from doing anything of the kind or showing the least interest in his remark. But that did not stop Callinson. "One of these days," he added, "you'll be wanting a bit of stamp-paper, and then you won't have it."

"That's better than always having it when I don't want it," I said.

"Ah! Poor Tom never saves it either. Thriftless—careless—unmethodical that's the way he goes on. He's been bankrupt once already."

"And I'm not thriftless—nor careless—nor unmethodical—neither have I ever been bankrupt. So there are a few slight differences between your friend and myself. Go away and think about them."

Callinson smiled. " So like Tom—the way you said that. You know he protests, too, that"

Here, my patience being exhausted, I turned away and left him. Next day he met me in the street, came up to me and grasped my hand, saying, "Well, Tom, what will you have to pay to hush up that—why it's not Tom."

"No, I'm not Tom, and I'm not paying anything to hush up anything."

"Oh, he won't actually pay either. Mere promises—they'll never see the colour of his money."

"And I'm not hushing up, or wanting to hush up. Good morning."

As I went away I heard him murmur, "Tom's temper all over!"

By some scandalous oversight on the part of the committee, Callinson got himself elected to a club of which I am a member. He comes there, I believe, simply to find me and tell me that I am just like his pestilential friend.

One hot morning in summer, he discovered me there. I was drinking a lemon-squash, when he came in. I endeavoured to conceal myself behind the Times newspaper. It was no good. He walked up, tapped the glass, and said in his penetrating unpleasant voice,

"Gin in the morning, that's what's ruining poor Tom. I've just left him at it."

"It's nothing to do with you," I replied. "But this happens to be a lemon-squash."

"Ah!" he sighed, "that's what poor Tom said."

Callinson once saw me knock over a glass. In the course of a laborious and useful career, extending over many years, I have knocked over three—and only three—glasses. Callinson bent over me.

"Tom's always doing that, too—clumsy with his hands."

I think it will be owned that I have strong grounds for my objection to Callinson. I thought, the other night, that I had stopped him. He suggested that I ought to meet Tom—that it would be so funny to see the two of us together.

"I refuse," I said. "According to your own account, your friend's a dirty, ill-conditioned, disreputable blackguard, and I won't meet him—even for the exquisite pleasure of amusing you."

Callinson smiled. "Funny," he said, "that you should both have refused."