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every respect except that of magnitude. A diddler may thus be regarded as a banker in petto -- a "financial
operation," as a diddle at Brobdignag. The one is to the other, as Homer to "Flaccus" -- as a Mastodon to a
mouse -- as the tail of a comet to that of a pig.
Interest: -- Your diddler is guided by self-interest. He scorns to diddle for the mere sake of the diddle. He has
an object in view- his pocket -- and yours. He regards always the main chance. He looks to Number One. You
are Number Two, and must look to yourself.
Perseverance: -- Your diddler perseveres. He is not readily discouraged. Should even the banks break, he
cares nothing about it. He steadily pursues his end, and
Ut canis a corio nunquam absterrebitur uncto. so he never lets go of his game.
Ingenuity: -- Your diddler is ingenious. He has constructiveness large. He understands plot. He invents and
circumvents. Were he not Alexander he would be Diogenes. Were he not a diddler, he would be a maker of
patent rat-traps or an angler for trout.
Audacity: -- Your diddler is audacious. -- He is a bold man. He carries the war into Africa. He conquers all by
assault. He would not fear the daggers of Frey Herren. With a little more prudence Dick Turpin would have
made a good diddler; with a trifle less blarney, Daniel O'Connell; with a pound or two more brains Charles the
Twelfth.
Nonchalance: -- Your diddler is nonchalant. He is not at all nervous. He never had any nerves. He is never
seduced into a flurry. He is never put out -- unless put out of doors. He is cool -- cool as a cucumber. He is
calm -- "calm as a smile from Lady Bury." He is easy- easy as an old glove, or the damsels of ancient Baiae.
Originality: -- Your diddler is original -- conscientiously so. His thoughts are his own. He would scorn to
employ those of another. A stale trick is his aversion. He would return a purse, I am sure, upon discovering
Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor 50
that he had obtained it by an unoriginal diddle.
Impertinence. -- Your diddler is impertinent. He swaggers. He sets his arms a-kimbo. He thrusts his hands in
his trowsers' pockets. He sneers in your face. He treads on your corns. He eats your dinner, he drinks your
wine, he borrows your money, he pulls your nose, he kicks your poodle, and he kisses your wife.
Grin: -- Your true diddler winds up all with a grin. But this nobody sees but himself. He grins when his daily
work is done -- when his allotted labors are accomplished -- at night in his own closet, and altogether for his
own private entertainment. He goes home. He locks his door. He divests himself of his clothes. He puts out
his candle. He gets into bed. He places his head upon the pillow. All this done, and your diddler grins. This is
no hypothesis. It is a matter of course. I reason a priori, and a diddle would be no diddle without a grin.
The origin of the diddle is referrable to the infancy of the Human Race. Perhaps the first diddler was Adam.
At all events, we can trace the science back to a very remote period of antiquity. The moderns, however, have
brought it to a perfection never dreamed of by our thick-headed progenitors. Without pausing to speak of the
"old saws," therefore, I shall content myself with a compendious account of some of the more "modern
instances."
A very good diddle is this. A housekeeper in want of a sofa, for instance, is seen to go in and out of several
cabinet warehouses. At length she arrives at one offering an excellent variety. She is accosted, and invited to
enter, by a polite and voluble individual at the door. She finds a sofa well adapted to her views, and upon
inquiring the price, is surprised and delighted to hear a sum named at least twenty per cent. lower than her
expectations. She hastens to make the purchase, gets a bill and receipt, leaves her address, with a request that
the article be sent home as speedily as possible, and retires amid a profusion of bows from the shopkeeper.
The night arrives and no sofa. A servant is sent to make inquiry about the delay. The whole transaction is
denied. No sofa has been sold -- no money received -- except by the diddler, who played shop-keeper for the
nonce.
Our cabinet warehouses are left entirely unattended, and thus afford every facility for a trick of this kind.
Visiters enter, look at furniture, and depart unheeded and unseen. Should any one wish to purchase, or to
inquire the price of an article, a bell is at hand, and this is considered amply sufficient.
Again, quite a respectable diddle is this. A well-dressed individual enters a shop, makes a purchase to the
value of a dollar; finds, much to his vexation, that he has left his pocket-book in another coat pocket; and so
says to the shopkeeper-
"My dear sir, never mind; just oblige me, will you, by sending the bundle home? But stay! I really believe that
I have nothing less than a five dollar bill, even there. However, you can send four dollars in change with the
bundle, you know."
"Very good, sir," replies the shop-keeper, who entertains, at once, a lofty opinion of the high-mindedness of
his customer. "I know fellows," he says to himself, "who would just have put the goods under their arm, and
walked off with a promise to call and pay the dollar as they came by in the afternoon."
A boy is sent with the parcel and change. On the route, quite accidentally, he is met by the purchaser, who
exclaims:
"Ah! This is my bundle, I see -- I thought you had been home with it, long ago. Well, go on! My wife, Mrs.
Trotter, will give you the five dollars -- I left instructions with her to that effect. The change you might as well
give to me -- I shall want some silver for the Post Office. Very good! One, two, is this a good quarter?- three,
four -- quite right! Say to Mrs. Trotter that you met me, and be sure now and do not loiter on the way."
Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor 51
The boy doesn't loiter at all -- but he is a very long time in getting back from his errand -- for no lady of the
precise name of Mrs. Trotter is to be discovered. He consoles himself, however, that he has not been such a
fool as to leave the goods without the money, and re-entering his shop with a self-satisfied air, feels sensibly
hurt and indignant when his master asks him what has become of the change.
A very simple diddle, indeed, is this. The captain of a ship, which is about to sail, is presented by an official
looking person with an unusually moderate bill of city charges. Glad to get off so easily, and confused by a
hundred duties pressing upon him all at once, he discharges the claim forthwith. In about fifteen minutes,
another and less reasonable bill is handed him by one who soon makes it evident that the first collector was a
diddler, and the original collection a diddle.
And here, too, is a somewhat similar thing. A steamboat is casting loose from the wharf. A traveller,
portmanteau in hand, is discovered running toward the wharf, at full speed. Suddenly, he makes a dead halt,
stoops, and picks up something from the ground in a very agitated manner. It is a pocket-book, and -- "Has
any gentleman lost a pocketbook?" he cries. No one can say that he has exactly lost a pocket-book; but a great
excitement ensues, when the treasure trove is found to be of value. The boat, however, must not be detained. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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