349,” said the Englishman and American in unison. “No contradictions, no personalities, and no loud talking.”
The conductor touched Pamfret on the arm and signalled him to leave the car. Pamfret’s first impulse was to throw him through a window; this continual restraint was becoming irksome. But he thought better of it, and besides, they had reached Sixty-sixth Street. He alighted at the next corner, and started south on Central Park West.
At Sixty-fifth Street was a restaurant, and he stopped for dinner. The room was crowded; but finally Pamfret found a table over against the wall, sat down and called a waiter, who seemed a little worried as he caught sight of him.
“Table d’hote?” asked Pamfret.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Make the selection yourself,” and the waiter hurried away, still with the worried look on his face.
A man and woman entered the restaurant and walked straight to the table where Pamfret was sitting. They seemed surprised on seeing him seated there, looked around in a disconcerted manner, and finally sat down on a small divan placed against the wall. Pamfret thought he understood. He got up from his chair and bowed to the man.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but is this your table?”
The man nodded. “Yes—that is, we—we had it reserved,” he answered.
“Well, then,” said Pamfret, “I wouldn’t think of appropriating it. The waiter should have told me. Of course you will take it?”
“But surely you know that would be against the law,” exclaimed the other, horrified. “We couldn’t.”
“But that is exactly what I do not know,” said Pamfret. “At least,” he added, “I trust you will allow me to share it with you?”
The man looked at the woman inquiringly. She nodded. Pamfret found another chair, and all three sat down at the table together. The waiter appeared with a plate of soup, and seeming relieved to find the couple seated, took their order.
“I am surprised—” began the man.
“Of course you are,” interrupted Pamfret. “But I really don’t know the first thing about these beastly—these laws. The truth is—I have lived nearly all my life in China, where everything is different.”
“But I thought the peace laws were universal.”
“They are, they are,” Pamfret replied hastily. “But I was alone most of the time—er—scientific explorations, you know. Besides they do this sort of thing better in China. There is no—”
“Rule 142. No comparisons,” interrupted the woman.
There was silence for a while. Finally Pamfret tried again.
“Those broiled mushrooms were delicious,” he declared. “Don’t you think so?”
“I beg your pardon, but I’m afraid I can’t answer you,” replied the man. “Rule 207, you know. No contradictions.”
Pamfret was becoming desperate. He had given his head so many bumps against this immovable wall of Peace that he was unable even to think. Silence, he decided, was his only refuge.
As the dessert came on he heaved a sigh of relief, and foolishly ventured a question.
“You know,” he said, “I have been out of the world for a number of years, and I hope you won’t mind if I ask you a question. How long has this peace thing been in power?”
“Really,” answered the man, “you amaze me. Discussion of history is strictly forbidden.”
Pamfret could stand it no longer. He threw a bill on the table; took up his hat and stick and rushed wildly out of the restaurant.
A car was passing the door. Pamfret ran to the next corner ahead of it and waved his cane at the motorman. The car went by without stopping, and as it passed the conductor tossed a card out of the window. It fell on the pavement at Pamfret’s feet. He picked it up and read:
INTERNATIONAL PEACE CONGRESS.
COMMITTEE ON PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION.
Rule 96. The motorman or engineer of a public vehicle shall ignore signals to stop for passengers, if such signals are boisterous or agitated, or made in any but a thoroughly peaceful
The conductor touched Pamfret on the arm and signalled him to leave the car. Pamfret’s first impulse was to throw him through a window; this continual restraint was becoming irksome. But he thought better of it, and besides, they had reached Sixty-sixth Street. He alighted at the next corner, and started south on Central Park West.
At Sixty-fifth Street was a restaurant, and he stopped for dinner. The room was crowded; but finally Pamfret found a table over against the wall, sat down and called a waiter, who seemed a little worried as he caught sight of him.
“Table d’hote?” asked Pamfret.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Make the selection yourself,” and the waiter hurried away, still with the worried look on his face.
A man and woman entered the restaurant and walked straight to the table where Pamfret was sitting. They seemed surprised on seeing him seated there, looked around in a disconcerted manner, and finally sat down on a small divan placed against the wall. Pamfret thought he understood. He got up from his chair and bowed to the man.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but is this your table?”
The man nodded. “Yes—that is, we—we had it reserved,” he answered.
“Well, then,” said Pamfret, “I wouldn’t think of appropriating it. The waiter should have told me. Of course you will take it?”
“But surely you know that would be against the law,” exclaimed the other, horrified. “We couldn’t.”
“But that is exactly what I do not know,” said Pamfret. “At least,” he added, “I trust you will allow me to share it with you?”
The man looked at the woman inquiringly. She nodded. Pamfret found another chair, and all three sat down at the table together. The waiter appeared with a plate of soup, and seeming relieved to find the couple seated, took their order.
“I am surprised—” began the man.
“Of course you are,” interrupted Pamfret. “But I really don’t know the first thing about these beastly—these laws. The truth is—I have lived nearly all my life in China, where everything is different.”
“But I thought the peace laws were universal.”
“They are, they are,” Pamfret replied hastily. “But I was alone most of the time—er—scientific explorations, you know. Besides they do this sort of thing better in China. There is no—”
“Rule 142. No comparisons,” interrupted the woman.
There was silence for a while. Finally Pamfret tried again.
“Those broiled mushrooms were delicious,” he declared. “Don’t you think so?”
“I beg your pardon, but I’m afraid I can’t answer you,” replied the man. “Rule 207, you know. No contradictions.”
Pamfret was becoming desperate. He had given his head so many bumps against this immovable wall of Peace that he was unable even to think. Silence, he decided, was his only refuge.
As the dessert came on he heaved a sigh of relief, and foolishly ventured a question.
“You know,” he said, “I have been out of the world for a number of years, and I hope you won’t mind if I ask you a question. How long has this peace thing been in power?”
“Really,” answered the man, “you amaze me. Discussion of history is strictly forbidden.”
Pamfret could stand it no longer. He threw a bill on the table; took up his hat and stick and rushed wildly out of the restaurant.
A car was passing the door. Pamfret ran to the next corner ahead of it and waved his cane at the motorman. The car went by without stopping, and as it passed the conductor tossed a card out of the window. It fell on the pavement at Pamfret’s feet. He picked it up and read:
INTERNATIONAL PEACE CONGRESS.
COMMITTEE ON PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION.
Rule 96. The motorman or engineer of a public vehicle shall ignore signals to stop for passengers, if such signals are boisterous or agitated, or made in any but a thoroughly peaceful
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