"I say Gimpson..." Said Mr. Pigglesworth, as the two walked down the massive steps of the Victoria Theater, into the cold London night. Behind them was a large sign that read "Vlad Schless's Amazing Automaton!"
"What did you think of the exhibition?"
"Not my favorite, old man." Said Mr. Gimpson, throwing a thick wool scarf around his neck, and burying his hands deep in his overcoat pockets. They crunched down the sidewalk - covered with snow that had melted, frozen, and melted again. A dogcart clattered past in the street.
"You have to admit the contraption did have some amazing powers. Why, when it caught that butterfly in the net...I was astounded!"
"That was a neat trick, I'll admit." Gimpson found his fingers fondling a pewter flask in his pocket. He resisted it's pull for a moment. "Something was wrong though."
"Wrong!? What on earth do you mean?"
"Well, the base of the automaton...it didn't make sense. You wouldn't need that much space for the simple mechanisms of propulsion."
"Explain your thinking." Pigglesworth said, thinking back to the design of the automaton, basically a human-sized torso with a lifelike face, attached to a large box at the base, with four wheels at each corner.
"If the contraption only needed a human-sized arm to duplicate human arm movement, shouldn't it correspond, that it would need the same space, to duplicate human leg movement?"
"Well, I should think..."
"I'm under the suspicion that there was a small man, or dwarf in a compartment, at the base, who was operating levers."
"But the chess game!?" Pigglesworth exclaimed. "It beat the man from the crowd! That was impressive!"
"You might have noticed, that the arms were made of extremely polished silver." Gimpson could no longer resist the pull of his flask, and took it out. He stopped in front of a long row of shops, illuminated buy hissing gas-lights, along the street. It was a nice part of town. He unscrewed it, and had a nice long drink.
Pigglesworth walked a few more steps, and stopped.
"Are you saying it wasn't mechanical intelligence at all!?"
Gimpson took the flask away from his lips, and burped. "Exactly."
Pigglesworth stamped his feet on the ice. "It should be a crime, I daresay!"
"It is." Finished Gimpson as he capped his flask. "It's called fraud."
Pigglesworth paced angrily up and down the sidewalk, exclaiming words like, "inconceivable! Preposterous! Outrageous!" Gimpson decided he wasn't quite done with the flask, and unscrewed it to take another snort. He knew his companion would calm himself without any help from him.
Mr. Pigglesworth paced madly down the street, passing a number of fine shops. A furniture store, bookseller, stationary store, and the last on the block, selling luggage. He turned back, realizing his companion hadn't followed after. He stood there impatiently, as Gimpson took his time, strolling at a casual pace, nipping at his flask. Pigglesworth cast his gaze about, and cocked his head at an astoundingly nice steamer-trunk. He noticed the fine buckles, rich leather, and devious inlay upon the small drawers built into the inside. His gaze slid off the steamer-trunk to a nearby suitcase, crafted with the same details, but red in color, with small compartments for razors, and elixers, and other small items. From there, he saw the briefcase!
Black leather, with pocket dividers to hold pads, manuscripts, or dockets. In the front clever loops of leather to hold quill pens, and a small formed leather compartment for a bottle of ink. Apart from that, a small strap was fastened with grommets, where you could carry it over a shoulder! Genius!
"Gimpson!" Pigglesworth cried out. "Gimpson, look at this astounding briefcase!"
Gimpson strolled up, and looked into the window where Pigglesworth was pointing madly.
"Mmm. Nice." Said Gimpson.
"Nice!?" Exclaimed Pigglesworth. "It's perfect. Why, I can't imagine a finer satchel."
"What's wrong with your old one?"
"Why, just look! The various pockets will separate my business in an order. Plus, it could hold my favorite pen, and others, along with ink." Pigglesworth was so excited, had the store been open, he would have rushed in and bought it on the spot.
"I've never understood the allure of bags." Gimpson said.
"What, why? How could you not want to carry your possessions in that satchel?" Blabbered Pigglesworth.
"Well, so you purchase that fine case...and don't get me wrong, it's very nice. But then what. I daresay, you realize, that you don't have a pad nice enough to keep in such a nice bag. So you purchase a new, finer, and better pad. But, all you're doing is writing your ideas down. Any old pad will do. Is the bag going to make your ideas better? Will the bag make your belongings more important? Is the book you're reading going to be better when you take it out of your regular briefcase, or from a very nice one?"
Pigglesworth looked at Gimpson for a moment. His voice took on a harder edge.
"That's not the point."
Gimpson cocked his head.
"What, exactly, is the point."
"I like nice things. If it does it's job - fine. If it does it's job and looks nice doing it, well Gimpson, then I prefer to think of it as superior. It's called style, and it's something you'd know nothing about." As far as Mr. Pigglesworth was concerned, this was over. He reached into his own jacket's breast-pocket, and took out his flask. He turned to the street, and had a drink. As he did, he saw a wagon coming down the street. Gimpson's eyes glanced his way, and landed upon the same wagon. Two pairs of eyes followed it. It was the only thing to look at.
At the reigns, was Vlad Schless. Next to him, sat a dwarf, smoking a pipe. The wagon clopped by at a slow pace...slow enough where they could read the writing on the back of the wagon. "Vlad Schless's Amazing Automaton!"
Pigglesworth capped his flask, and lept up over the snowbank. He chased down the road after the wagon, and turned his head to shout.
"Gimpson! Fetch a constable! I'll have this Schless arrested for fraud, or my name isn't Pigglesworth!"
Gimpson groaned, and trundled down the street. Two blocks later, he found a small warming house. He rushed up, and ripped open the door. Three constables were gathered around a pot-bellied stove.
"My companion is in the midst of apprehending a fraudster! We could use the help!"
The constables leapt to their feet, and followed Mr. Gimpson down the street.
Gimpson knew Pigglesworth was happier, and he guessed that the constables, having something to do, were happier, but he wondered if he was happier. As they rounded the corner, he spied Pigglesworth fighting madly with the dwarf (who seemed to be more than holding his own) and didn't think about being happy for the rest of the night.
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