Nothing of interest comes my way, nothing remarkable or out of
the common. Even the little things that I do try to find some interest
in don't seem to interest other people. Things in my garden, for
instance."
"The potato that weighed just over two pounds," said his friend Gorworth.
"Did I tell you about that?" said Blenkinthrope; "I was telling the
others in the train this morning. I forgot if I'd told you."
"To be exact you told me that it weighed just under two pounds, but I
took into account the fact that abnormal vegetables and freshwater fish
have an after-life, in which growth is not arrested."
"You're just like the others," said Blenkinthrope sadly, "you only make
fun of it."
"The fault is with the potato, not with us," said Gorworth; "we are not
in the least interested in it because it is not in the least interesting.
The men you go up in the train with every day are just in the same case
as yourself; their lives are commonplace and not very interesting to
themselves, and they certainly are not going to wax enthusiastic over the
commonplace events in other men's lives. Tell them something startling,
dramatic, piquant that has happened to yourself or to someone in your
family, and you will capture their interest at once. They will talk
about you with a certain personal pride to all their acquaintances. 'Man
I know intimately, fellow called Blenkinthrope, lives down my way, had
two of his fingers clawed clean off by a lobster he was carrying home to
supper.
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