James Thurber's "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty" 114 words

"Hmm?" said Walter Mitty.

"You're tensed up again," said Mrs. Mitty.

"Oh," said Mitty, handing the man the ignition key.

He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye.

"Coreopsis has set in," said Renshaw nervously.

"Cheerio!" he said.

"A bit of a near thing," said Captain Mitty carelessly.

Kleenex, he thought, Squibb's, razor blades?

He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye.

"You are a crack shot with any sort of firearms, I believe?" said the District Attorney, insinuatingly.

Captain Mitty looked up at him through tousled hair.

"Overshoes," he said to himself, and he began looking for a shoe store.

They went out through the revolving doors that made a faintly derisive whistling sound when you pushed them.

"You are a crack shot with any sort of firearms, I believe?" said the District Attorney, insinuatingly.

He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye.

The crew, bending to their various tasks in the huge, hurtling eight-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at each other and grinned.

"Remember to get those overshoes while I'm having my hair done," she said.

A huge, complicated machine, connected to the operating table, with many tubes and wires, began at this moment to go pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.

No. Toothpaste, toothbrush, bicarbonate, cardorundum, initiative and referendum?

No. Toothpaste, toothbrush, bicarbonate, cardorundum, initiative and referendum?

He drove around the streets aimlessly for a time, and then he drove past the hospital on his way to the parking lot.

The District Attorney suddenly thrust a heavy automatic at the quiet figure on the witness stand.

"Give me a fountain pen!" he snapped.

Captain Mitty looked up at him through tousled hair.

He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye.

In the operating room there were whispered introductions: "Dr. Remington, Dr. Mitty.

No. Toothpaste, toothbrush, bicarbonate, cardorundum, initiative and referendum?

Then, with that faint, fleeting smile playing about his lips, he faced the firing squad; erect and motionless, proud and disdainful, Walter Mitty the Undefeated, inscrutable to the last.

Then, with that faint, fleeting smile playing about his lips, he faced the firing squad; erect and motionless, proud and disdainful, Walter Mitty the Undefeated, inscrutable to the last.

The pounding of the cannon increased; there was the rat-tat-tatting of machine guns, and from somewhere came the menacing pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of the new flame-throwers.

"Oh," said Mitty, handing the man the ignition key.

Walter Mitty took the gun and examined it expertly.

A woman's scream rose above the bedlam and suddenly a lovely, dark-haired girl was in Walter Mitty's arms.

His wife would be through at the hairdresser's in fifteen minutes, Mitty saw in looking at his watch, unless they had trouble drying it; sometimes they had trouble drying it.

"Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!" he shouted.

A newsboy went by shouting something about the Waterbury trial.

At the drugstore on the corner she said, "Wait here for me.

"It's forty kilometers through hell, sir," said the sergeant.

He kicked at the slush on the sidewalk.

They're so damn cocky, thought Walter Mitty, walking along Main Street; they think they know everything.

A man had had to come out in a wrecking car and unwind them, a young, grinning garageman.

A man had had to come out in a wrecking car and unwind them, a young, grinning garageman.

"The cannonading has got the wind up in young Raleigh, sir," said the sergeant.

He began fingering delicately a row of glistening dials.

He drove around the streets aimlessly for a time, and then he drove past the hospital on his way to the parking lot.

There was a rending of wood and splinters flew through the room.

He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye.

"You were up to fifty-five," she said.

Walter Mitty raised his hand briefly and the bickering attorneys were stilled.

He put them on, but after she had turned and gone into the building and he had driven on to a red light, he took them off again.

He drove around the streets aimlessly for a time, and then he drove past the hospital on his way to the parking lot.

It began to rain, rain with sleet in it.

An excited buzz ran around the courtroom.

War thundered and whined around the dugout and battered at the door.

He took one last drag on his cigarette and snapped it away.

"Get on with the operation."

Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in twenty years of Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his mind.

Pandemonium broke loose in the courtroom.

Once he had tried to take his chains off, outside New Milford, and he had got them wound around the axles.

There was a rending of wood and splinters flew through the room.

It's spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me."

He began cautiously to back out of the lane marked "Exit Only."

He pulled a faulty piston out of the machine and inserted the pen in its place.

Wish you'd take a look at him."

She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd.

No. Toothpaste, toothbrush, bicarbonate, cardorundum, initiative and referendum?

"Didn't know you were in the States, Mitty," grumbled Remington.

The attendant vaulted into the car, backed it up with insolent skill, and put it where it belonged.

The District Attorney suddenly thrust a heavy automatic at the quiet figure on the witness stand.

He pulled a faulty piston out of the machine and inserted the pen in its place.

He drove around the streets aimlessly for a time, and then he drove past the hospital on his way to the parking lot.

"You miserable cur!"

"You are a crack shot with any sort of firearms, I believe?" said the District Attorney, insinuatingly.

"With any known make of gun," he said evenly, "I could have killed Gregory Fitzhurst at three hundred feet with my left hand."

"Gee. Yeh," muttered Mitty.

An excited buzz ran around the courtroom.

He walked over and twisted a row of complicated dials.

"Puppy biscuit," said Walter Mitty.

The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.

Since then Mrs. Mitty always made him drive to the garage to have the chains taken off.

"To hell with the handkerchief," said Walter Mitty scornfully.

Kleenex, he thought, Squibb's, razor blades?

She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd.

Walter Mitty jammed on the brakes.

The District Attorney struck at her savagely.

He began fingering delicately a row of glistening dials.

There was a rending of wood and splinters flew through the room.

He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye.

Walter Mitty walked to the door of the dugout humming "AuprËs de Ma Blonde."

He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye.

"Get him to bed," he said wearily.

Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in twenty years of Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his mind.

The pounding of the cannon increased; there was the rat-tat-tatting of machine guns, and from somewhere came the menacing pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of the new flame-throwers.