"James, My Hat and Stick!"

Wherein a Victim of the Current Fad for Character-Analysis Invents a New Game in Self-Defence

COREY FORD

I DON'T know. It may be that I am naturally gullible. I am generous to hat-check girls and other panhandlers, I believe what the palmists tell me, and recently I spent ten cents to see the moon through a telescope in Bryant Park. And now that these Character-Analysis Games have become the plague of every house-party, I'm just everybody's meat.

I can't get away from them. They hound me. Wherever I go, no matter which way I turn, there is someone standing eagerly, question-book in hand, waiting to analyze my character by my handwriting, by the letters in my name, by my reactions to a long and tortuous questionnaire. They-, feed me into their books like clothes into a wringer; and I emerge, secrets-first, in damp lumps like last week's wash, all my self-respect wrung out of me. Three times during the past week-end I have been put through a Character-Analysis; and each time I have turned out differently. It's a wonder I have any character left at all.

For they are sweeping the country, it seems, in the wake of the cross-word puzzles and the laddergrams: these newest devices for ruining an otherwise happy evening. Everywhere today eager groups examine each other in intent whispers, studying their friends, probing their phobias and manias and 'versions, unbuttoning their inhibitions and stripping their characters naked for the Roman holiday. Unwary guests bare their private secrets under crossfire, and are henceforth scrupulously avoided by the rest of the party. Husbands are seeing through their wives for the first time; wives at last are comprehending their husbands. This entire nation is running around in its mental unmentionables. I don't know what we are coming to!

I DON'T know what am coming to, for one. I'm getting as nervous as a witch. They find out unpleasant things about me from my handwriting, from my reactions to certain words, from the way I wear my hat. Night and day I must watch myself like a hawk. I am afraid to answer a civil question any more, for fear I shall give something else away. Let me be off guard for a moment, and someone has looked me up in a book and found out that I wear long woolen underwear, or have a suppressed desire to marry my aunt. Nowadays, a fellow has no secrets.

Handwriting, for example. At least, I thought I was safe enough there. My script was a little illegible and wobbly as to spelling, to be sure, and my m's were inclined to have one or two peaks too many; but at least it was fairly decided and square-jawed, and nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to be ashamed of, that is, until Mr. Alvord smuggled a copy of Mind Your P's and Q's into Mrs. Messersmith's week-end, and drew it forth with a flourish as we swallowed our coffee.

"Come on, old man," he said, by way of example, handing me a pencil and a tablet of paper, "let's have a look at your handwriting."

I stared at the blank paper helplessly.

"Just the thing!" my hostess providentially (I thought) bubbled, rummaging frantically in a desk-drawer, "I have your letter of acceptance for this week-end somewhere . . . here it is," flourishing the fatal evidence before me. "Will this do, Mr. Alvord?"

The group circled closer and gloated over it in rich silence for several moments. I loosened my collar.

"Hmm. Wavering line. Doesn't that mean vacillation and moral weakness . . . ?"

"The capitals are too large. Clearly egotism and ..."

"The first stroke of the M is much higher than the others . . . self-opinionated and arrogant person with great social ambition."

"D's have wide loops. That means susceptibility to flattery ..."

Mr. Alvord cleared his throat. The other buzzards flapped their wings and circled back grimly to their posts.

"'Tch, 'tch, 'tch . . . I'm afraid this is rather unfortunate," he began sadly. "For example, my dear fellow, if you will notice this phrase: 'I shall be delighted to spend a week-end with you . . . ' Denotes hypocrisy, not to say downright dishonesty."

I glanced guiltily at the hostess. Perhaps there was something in this handwriting business, after all.

"And see here . . . Oh, this is very bad," continued Mr. Alvord. "You have written;

.....always remember my last visit as most enjoyable . . . ' Dear, dear." He shook his head. "Deceitfulness, I'm afraid. Not to be trusted."

POSITIVELY uncanny. This man had me cold. I swallowed, stole another look at the hostess, and measured my distance to the door.

. . . 'accept your invitation with pleasure, and look forward to seeing you and your charming daughter . . . '" Mr. Alvord adjusted his spectacles. "A clear sign of weakmindedness." (I peered warily at the daughter. Weak-mindedness, I agreed silently, was putting it mildly.) "Many criminals and mental degenerates have this characteristic." He handed the hostess my letter, and beamed at me. "Thank you."

"Oh, no. Thank you," I returned in a weak falsetto, bowing my head slightly as I passed beneath the raised eyebrows of my hostess and her daughter, and groped my way toward the stairs.

There was nothing else to do. Early the next morning I let myself down from the bathroom window on the cord of my dressinggown, and prowled away toward the railroad tracks before the break of day. When I got back to the city, I bought myself a typewriter at once. Hereafter, when I answer invitations, I shall play safe.

Not that handwriting is the single key they have discovered to your character. Palmistry and numerology are dragged in cold-bloodedly by these latter-day Inquisitors to supplement the modern thumb-screw and the rack; and among their most popular forms of after-dinner torture is a particularly savage method of gouging out your secrets from their sockets, which is known as I've Got Your Number! This indoor sport has made a universal appeal to hostesses by reason of its uncanny ability to provoke general bad feelings at any week-end house-party culminating as a pretty general rule in several divorce-proceedings and one or two ugly fistfights on the terrace.

The success of I've Got Your Number! is based on the theory that if a person can be induced to answer enough personal questions about himself, he will eventually uncover something hot. The victim is strapped in his chair, and twenty-five leading queries are hurled at him from a book. (Don't ask me why he answers them. For that matter, don't ask me why he attended this week-end in the first place.) The percentage of affirmative answers determines his "Key Numbers" (e. g., Key Number 124 or 235, etc.), which is listed in the back of the book together with a detailed analysis of his character, generally unpleasant. When the game is over, these are read aloud to the victim amid jeers from the assembled guests, until his self-respect is ruined, his wife has left him in tears, and he is a crushed and broken man.

AND the sad part is, whether he tells the A truth or lies like a little soldier, the same bitter tragedy is apt to ensue:

Q. (reading from his book): Are you bashful, modest and retiring?

A. (brushing his knees deprecatingly): Aha ha. Well, I . . .

Q. Do you insist upon having your own way with your friends?

A. (with a light smile): No, I don't think . . .

Chorus of Friends: Yes!

(A. turns indignantly)

Q. (continuing): Do you think people talk against you behind your back?

A. (glowering at the rest of the party): I know darned well they do.

Q. Are your mistakes your own fault?

A. (hotly): What mistakes?

Mrs. A. Now, Edgar, you know very well you make mistakes like everyone else. I suppose you think you're just about perfect. Well, I can tell you . . .

Q. (interrupting): Do people nag you?

A. (bitterly): Do they? Just listen!

Mrs. A. That's right, he's a martyr. And I suppose I never suffer . . .

Q. (reading hurriedly): When poverty is at the door, is love your haven of refuge?

A. Isn't that poetry?

Mrs. A. Don't try to be funny.

Q. Do you think the average woman is out for all she can get?

A. Well . . .

Mrs. A. (sharply): Edgar!

(A. opens his mouth and shuts it again hopelessly)

(Continued on page 116)

(Continued from page 60)

Q. Is a woman always sympathetic ready and helpful?

A. (glancing at Mrs. A.): Aha! Aha ha ha! Ahahaaaahaahahahaaaha! . . .

Mrs. A. (with thin lips): I don't see anything to laugh at.

Q. Would you enjoy being single again?

A. Boy, O, boy!

Mrs. A. (suddenly): What do you mean by that?

A. What do I mean by what?

Mrs. A. What you said.

A. What did I say?

Mrs. A. You said "Boy O Boy!"

A. Well, I don't see what's wrong with . . .

Mrs. A. It wasn't what you said, it was how you said it. Anyway, I don't like the way you've been talking about me tonight.

A. I haven't said a word about you tonight. I've just been answering questions.

Mrs. A. Yes, well, you'll answer a few more questions when you get home.

A. Oh, is that so!

Mrs. A. Yes, and not only that . . .

Which was where I got the idea for my own little game. It is a very simple pastime; and it should prove very popular at week-ends where the guests have grown weary of playing numerology, graphology, I've Got Your Number! and other forms of characteranalysis. I have called my game: "And Not Only That . . . "; but it may also be known as "And Here's What I Think of You!", "Candour", and "James, My Hat and Stick!"

Only two players are required for a round of "And Not Only That . . . the hostess and any guest; and, unlike its more formidable predecessors, there is no time wasted before they start in examining your hand-writing or asking you questions out of a book. In my game, you come right to the point. According to the rules, any hostess hereafter who saggests another game of Character-Analysis immediately becomes a 123456789; and any guest is privileged to walk up to her, level his forefinger accusingly, and recite her "Key Number" to her without further warning.

The "Key" for Number 123456789 is somewhat as follows:

"You pink-faced baboon, you social loss, you mental parasite, you've bored me with your parlor-sports ever since I arrived, you have pounced on me after breakfast with a book of character-analysis, you have taken up my mornings with questionnaires and my afternoons with graphology, you haven't given me time to digest my dinner before you have started in on me again at night, I'm sick and tired of being analyzed, probed and insulted, I never had such a hum time in all my life, and if I ever live through this week-end you'll get me out here again over my dead body. And not only that ..." The player is then privileged to turn back and recite the entire Analysis again from the beginning, repeating the process over and over until he is exhausted. He then bows politely from the waist, lights a cigarette, and exclaims: "James, my hat and stick."

In fact, this is where the game derives its other title: "James, My Hat and Stick!"

On second thought, it might be better for the guest to get his hat and stick from James before he starts to play. Then he can recite the "Key Number" to the hostess over his shoulder, while he is running down the road.