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The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon and other humorous tales   By: (1893-1949)

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The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon


Other Humorous Tales

Richard Connell

The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon


Other Humorous Tales


Richard Connell


New York Copyright, 1922, By George H. Doran Company


Copyright, 1922, by P. F. Collier & Son Co. Copyright, 1921, by The Century Co. Copyright, 1920, by Street and Smith Corporation Copyright, 1921, by The McCall Company Copyright, 1920, 1921, 1922, By the Curtis Publishing Company



My Wife Who Helped Me With These Stories



I The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon 11

II Mr. Pottle and the South Sea Cannibals 31

III Mr. Pottle and Culture 51

IV Mr. Pottle and the One Man Dog 69

V Mr. Pottle and Pageantry 101

VI The Cage Man 127

VII Where is the Tropic of Capricorn? 145

VIII Mr. Braddy's Bottle 165

IX Gretna Greenhorns 187

X Terrible Epps 207

XI Honor Among Sportsmen 239

XII The $25,000 Jaw 263

I: The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon

Moistening the tip of his immaculate handkerchief, M. Alphonse Marie Louis Camille Pettipon deftly and daintily rubbed an almost imperceptible speck of dust from the mirror in Stateroom C 341 of the liner Voltaire of the Paris New York Steamship Company, and a little sigh of happiness fluttered his double chins.

He set about his task of making up the berths in the stateroom with the air of a high priest performing a sacerdotal ritual. His big pink hands gently smoothed the crinkles from the linen pillow cases; the woolen blankets he arranged in neat, folded triangles and stood off to survey the effect as an artist might. And, indeed, Monsieur Pettipon considered himself an artist.

To him the art of being a steward was just as estimable as the art of being a poet; he was a Shelley of the dustpan; a Keats of the sheets. To him the making up of a berth in one of the cabins he tended was a sonnet; an orange pip or burnt match on the floor was as intolerable as a false quantity. Few poets took as much pains with their pens as he did with his whisk. He loved his work with a zeal almost fanatical.

Lowering himself to his plump knees, Monsieur Pettipon swept the floor with a busy brush, humming the while a little Provence song:

"My mama's at Paris, My papa's at Versailles, But me, I am here, Sleeping in the straw.


"Oo la la, Oo la la, Oo la, oo la, Oo la la."

As he sang the series of "Oo la las" he kept time with strokes of his brush, one stroke to each "la," until a microscope could not have detected the smallest crumb of foreign matter on the red carpet.

Then he hoisted himself wheezily to his feet and with critical eye examined the cabin. It was perfection. Once more he sighed the happy little sigh of work well done; then he gathered up his brush, his dustpan and his collection of little cleaning rags and entered the stateroom next door, where he expertly set about making things tidy to an accompaniment of "Oo la las... Continue reading book >>

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