Tighten up CSS
This commit is contained in:
Alex Cabal
parent
6d0af6d0fe
commit
48ec66ebac
@ -237,13 +237,10 @@ p span.i3{
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/* end of drama */
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/* story-specific formatting */
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#getting-at-the-facts blockquote > header > p,
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#a-bird-of-bagdad header{
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margin-bottom: 0.5em;
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margin-top: 1em;
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}
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#a-bird-of-bagdad header > p{
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font-variant: small-caps;
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margin: 1em;
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text-align: center;
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}
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@ -279,12 +276,6 @@ p span.i3{
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border-top: 1px solid;
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}
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#getting-at-the-facts blockquote > header > p{
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font-variant: small-caps;
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margin: 1em;
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text-align: center;
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}
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#in-mezzotint div{
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border: 2px solid;
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margin: 1em auto;
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@ -300,13 +291,8 @@ p span.i3{
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text-transform: uppercase;
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}
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#reconciliation p:last-child{
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text-align: center;
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text-indent: 0;
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}
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#reconciliation p:last-child,
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#sound-and-fury table + p{
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font-variant: small-caps;
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margin-top: 1em;
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text-align: center;
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}
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@ -319,9 +305,9 @@ p span.i3{
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#the-rose-of-dixie blockquote{
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text-align: center;
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text-indent: 0;
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}
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#the-proem blockquote p,
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#the-rose-of-dixie blockquote > p{
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text-indent: 0;
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}
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@ -29,38 +29,40 @@
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<p>“Gee, how you talk!” exclaimed the young man, a gleam of admiration supplanting for a moment the dull sadness of his eyes. “You’ve got the Astor Library skinned to a synopsis of preceding chapters. I mind that old Turk you speak of. I read ‘The Arabian Nights’ when I was a kid. He was a kind of Bill Devery and Charlie Schwab rolled into one. But, say, you might wave enchanted dishrags and make copper bottles smoke up coon giants all night without ever touching me. My case won’t yield to that kind of treatment.”</p>
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<p>“If I could hear your story,” said the Margrave, with his lofty, serious smile.</p>
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<p>“I’ll spiel it in about nine words,” said the young man, with a deep sigh, “but I don’t think you can help me any. Unless you’re a peach at guessing it’s back to the Bosphorus for you on your magic linoleum.”</p>
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<header>
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<p>The Story of the Young Man and the Harness Maker’s Riddle</p>
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</header>
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<p>“I work in Hildebrant’s saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street. I’ve worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That’s enough to marry on, ain’t it? Well, I’m not going to get married. Old Hildebrant is one of these funny Dutchmen—you know the kind—always getting off bum jokes. He’s got about a million riddles and things that he faked from Rogers Brothers’ great-grandfather. Bill Watson works there, too. Me and Bill have to stand for them chestnuts day after day. Why do we do it? Well, jobs ain’t to be picked off every Anheuser bush—And then there’s Laura.</p>
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<p>“What? The old man’s daughter. Comes in the shop every day. About nineteen, and the picture of the blonde that sits on the palisades of the Rhine and charms the clam-diggers into the surf. Hair the color of straw matting, and eyes as black and shiny as the best harness blacking—think of that!</p>
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<p>“Me? Well, it’s either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal. Bill is all to the psychopathic about her; and me?—well, you saw me plating the roadbed of the Great Maroon Way with silver tonight. That was on account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot not of what I wouldst.</p>
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<p>“How? Why, old Hildebrandt says to me and Bill this afternoon: ‘Boys, one riddle have I for you gehabt haben. A young man who cannot riddles antworten, he is not so good by business for ein family to provide—is not that—hein?’ And he hands us a riddle—a conundrum, some calls it—and he chuckles interiorly and gives both of us till tomorrow morning to work out the answer to it. And he says whichever of us guesses the repartee end of it goes to his house o’ Wednesday night to his daughter’s birthday party. And it means Laura for whichever of us goes, for she’s naturally aching for a husband, and it’s either me or Bill Watson, for old Hildebrant likes us both, and wants her to marry somebody that’ll carry on the business after he’s stitched his last pair of traces.</p>
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<p>“The riddle? Why, it was this: ‘What kind of a hen lays the longest? Think of that! What kind of a hen lays the longest? Ain’t it like a Dutchman to risk a man’s happiness on a fool proposition like that? Now, what’s the use? What I don’t know about hens would fill several incubators. You say you’re giving imitations of the old Arab guy that gave away—libraries in Bagdad. Well, now, can you whistle up a fairy that’ll solve this hen query, or not?”</p>
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<p>When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and fro by the park bench for several minutes. Finally he sat again, and said, in grave and impressive tones:</p>
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<p>“I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in search of adventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered a more interesting or a more perplexing case. I fear that I have overlooked hens in my researches and observations. As to their habits, their times and manner of laying, their many varieties and cross-breedings, their span of life, their—”</p>
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<p>“Oh, don’t make an Ibsen drama of it!” interrupted the young man, flippantly. “Riddles—especially old Hildebrant’s riddles—don’t have to be worked out seriously. They are light themes such as Sim Ford and Harry Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow, I can’t strike just the answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not. Tomorrow will tell. Well, Your Majesty, I’m glad anyhow that you butted in and whiled the time away. I guess <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if one of his constituents had conducted him up against this riddle. I’ll say good night. Peace fo’ yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah.”</p>
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<p>The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.</p>
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<p>“I cannot express my regret,” he said, sadly. “Never before have I found myself unable to assist in some way. ‘What kind of a hen lays the longest?’ It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called the Plymouth Rock that—”</p>
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<p>“Cut it out,” said the young man. “The Caliph trade is a mighty serious one. I don’t suppose you’d even see anything funny in a preacher’s defense of John <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs.”</p>
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<p>From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth a card and handed it to the young man.</p>
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<p>“Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow,” he said. “The time may come when it might be of use to you.”</p>
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<p>“Thanks!” said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. “My name is Simmons.”</p>
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<hr/>
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<p>Shame to him who would hint that the reader’s interest shall altogether pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed astray if my hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser’s heart would follow. Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of Hildebrant, harness maker.</p>
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<p>Hildebrant’s 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw leather martingale.</p>
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<p>Bill Watson came in first.</p>
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<p>“Vell,” said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the joke-maker, “haf you guessed him? ‘Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?’ ”</p>
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<p>“Er—why, I think so,” said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. “I think so, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hildebrant—the one that lives the longest—Is that right?”</p>
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<p>“Nein!” said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. “You haf not guessed der answer.”</p>
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<p>Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood.</p>
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<p>In came the young man of the Arabian Night’s fiasco—pale, melancholy, hopeless.</p>
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<p>“Vell,” said Hildebrant, “haf you guessed him? ‘Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?’ ”</p>
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<p>Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse this mountain of pernicious humor—curse him and die? Why should—But there was Laura.</p>
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<p>Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and stood. His hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave’s card. He drew it out and looked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a crawling fly. There was written on it in Quigg’s bold, round hand: “Good for one roast chicken to bearer.”</p>
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<p>Simmons looked up with a flashing eye.</p>
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<p>“A dead one!” said he.</p>
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<p>“Goot!” roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee. “Dot is right! You gome at mine house at 8 o’clock to der party.”</p>
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<section epub:type="subchapter">
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<header>
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<p>The Story of the Young Man and the Harness Maker’s Riddle</p>
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</header>
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<p>“I work in Hildebrant’s saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street. I’ve worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That’s enough to marry on, ain’t it? Well, I’m not going to get married. Old Hildebrant is one of these funny Dutchmen—you know the kind—always getting off bum jokes. He’s got about a million riddles and things that he faked from Rogers Brothers’ great-grandfather. Bill Watson works there, too. Me and Bill have to stand for them chestnuts day after day. Why do we do it? Well, jobs ain’t to be picked off every Anheuser bush—And then there’s Laura.</p>
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<p>“What? The old man’s daughter. Comes in the shop every day. About nineteen, and the picture of the blonde that sits on the palisades of the Rhine and charms the clam-diggers into the surf. Hair the color of straw matting, and eyes as black and shiny as the best harness blacking—think of that!</p>
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<p>“Me? Well, it’s either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal. Bill is all to the psychopathic about her; and me?—well, you saw me plating the roadbed of the Great Maroon Way with silver tonight. That was on account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot not of what I wouldst.</p>
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<p>“How? Why, old Hildebrandt says to me and Bill this afternoon: ‘Boys, one riddle have I for you gehabt haben. A young man who cannot riddles antworten, he is not so good by business for ein family to provide—is not that—hein?’ And he hands us a riddle—a conundrum, some calls it—and he chuckles interiorly and gives both of us till tomorrow morning to work out the answer to it. And he says whichever of us guesses the repartee end of it goes to his house o’ Wednesday night to his daughter’s birthday party. And it means Laura for whichever of us goes, for she’s naturally aching for a husband, and it’s either me or Bill Watson, for old Hildebrant likes us both, and wants her to marry somebody that’ll carry on the business after he’s stitched his last pair of traces.</p>
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<p>“The riddle? Why, it was this: ‘What kind of a hen lays the longest? Think of that! What kind of a hen lays the longest? Ain’t it like a Dutchman to risk a man’s happiness on a fool proposition like that? Now, what’s the use? What I don’t know about hens would fill several incubators. You say you’re giving imitations of the old Arab guy that gave away—libraries in Bagdad. Well, now, can you whistle up a fairy that’ll solve this hen query, or not?”</p>
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<p>When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and fro by the park bench for several minutes. Finally he sat again, and said, in grave and impressive tones:</p>
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<p>“I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in search of adventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered a more interesting or a more perplexing case. I fear that I have overlooked hens in my researches and observations. As to their habits, their times and manner of laying, their many varieties and cross-breedings, their span of life, their—”</p>
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<p>“Oh, don’t make an Ibsen drama of it!” interrupted the young man, flippantly. “Riddles—especially old Hildebrant’s riddles—don’t have to be worked out seriously. They are light themes such as Sim Ford and Harry Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow, I can’t strike just the answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not. Tomorrow will tell. Well, Your Majesty, I’m glad anyhow that you butted in and whiled the time away. I guess <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if one of his constituents had conducted him up against this riddle. I’ll say good night. Peace fo’ yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah.”</p>
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<p>The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.</p>
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<p>“I cannot express my regret,” he said, sadly. “Never before have I found myself unable to assist in some way. ‘What kind of a hen lays the longest?’ It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called the Plymouth Rock that—”</p>
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<p>“Cut it out,” said the young man. “The Caliph trade is a mighty serious one. I don’t suppose you’d even see anything funny in a preacher’s defense of John <abbr class="name">D.</abbr> Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs.”</p>
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<p>From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth a card and handed it to the young man.</p>
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<p>“Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow,” he said. “The time may come when it might be of use to you.”</p>
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<p>“Thanks!” said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. “My name is Simmons.”</p>
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<hr/>
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<p>Shame to him who would hint that the reader’s interest shall altogether pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed astray if my hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser’s heart would follow. Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door of Hildebrant, harness maker.</p>
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<p>Hildebrant’s 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw leather martingale.</p>
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<p>Bill Watson came in first.</p>
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<p>“Vell,” said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the joke-maker, “haf you guessed him? ‘Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?’ ”</p>
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<p>“Er—why, I think so,” said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. “I think so, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Hildebrant—the one that lives the longest—Is that right?”</p>
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<p>“Nein!” said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. “You haf not guessed der answer.”</p>
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<p>Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood.</p>
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<p>In came the young man of the Arabian Night’s fiasco—pale, melancholy, hopeless.</p>
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<p>“Vell,” said Hildebrant, “haf you guessed him? ‘Vat kind of a hen lays der longest?’ ”</p>
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<p>Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse this mountain of pernicious humor—curse him and die? Why should—But there was Laura.</p>
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<p>Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and stood. His hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave’s card. He drew it out and looked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a crawling fly. There was written on it in Quigg’s bold, round hand: “Good for one roast chicken to bearer.”</p>
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<p>Simmons looked up with a flashing eye.</p>
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<p>“A dead one!” said he.</p>
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<p>“Goot!” roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee. “Dot is right! You gome at mine house at 8 o’clock to der party.”</p>
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</section>
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</article>
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</body>
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</html>
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@ -134,9 +134,7 @@
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</tr>
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</tbody>
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</table>
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<p>
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<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Curtain</i>
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</p>
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<p epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Curtain</p>
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</article>
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</body>
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</html>
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@ -236,7 +236,7 @@
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</tr>
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</tbody>
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</table>
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<p>Asbestos Curtain</p>
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<p epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Asbestos Curtain</p>
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</article>
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</body>
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</html>
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