Chapter VI: Foreword (6)

“Ver’ well, then,” agreed the colored man; “but say, mister, I wants to ax you a favor: Next time you feels lak smokin’ or drinkin’ please tek yo’ custom somewhars else.”

§ 166 The Surest System Yet

This story has to do with a man describing a poker game which he was invited to join while visiting in a strange town.

“The first hand that was dealt,” he says, “I had threes. I opened the pot and one other man stayed. He drew one card. We bet back and forth for a while and finally he called. ‘I’ve got three of a kind,’ I said, and showed down my three nines. ‘I’ve got a straight—ten high,’ he says, and pitches his hand in the deck and reaches for the chips. ‘Hold on,’ I says, ‘I didn’t see what you had.’ He looks at me sort of surprised and the fellow who’s givin’ the party speaks up and says to me: ‘This is a gentleman’s game. If a man wins a pot here we never ask him to show his hand. We just take his word for it that he holds the winning cards and we let it go at that. That’s our rule.’”

“Did you keep on playing after that?” asks a bystander.

“Certainly I did,” says the first speaker.

“And did you win?”

“Did I win? Huh—the first pot was the only one I lost!”

§ 167 All According to Specifications

“Now, then, children,” said the Sunday school teacher in her best Sunday school teacher’s manner, “the lesson for to-day is about the Prophet Elisha. Can any little boy or little girl here tell us anything about Elisha?”

“Me,” answered a ten-year-old urchin, holding up his hand.

“Very well, then, Eddie,” answered the teacher. “Now, then, all the rest of you be nice and quiet while Eddie, here, tells us about the Prophet Elisha.”

“Well,” said Eddie, “Elisha was an old bald-headed preacher. One day he was goin’ along the big road and he came past where some children were playin’ in the sand, and they laughed at him and poked fun at him and called him names and hollered, ‘Oh, look at that old bald-headed man!’ That made Elisha hoppin’ mad and he stopped and turned around and shook his fist at ’em and he said: ‘Don’t you kids make fun of me any more! If you do I’ll call some bears out of them woods yonder and they’ll shore eat you up.’

“And they did and he did and the bears did.”

§ 168 The Reason the Artist Quit

This is in explanation of why a rather well-known New Yorker gave up free-hand drawing. Although without any artistic training, he rather fancied himself a pretty fair amateur sketch artist.

In company with a newspaper man he was touring Spain. One morning in Malaga the two Americans dropped into a little café for breakfast. They knew no Spanish and their waiter knew no English. Largely by signs they made him understand that they wanted coffee and rolls. But when the newspaperman decided that he wished also a glass of milk difficulties arose.

Singly and in chorus they pronounced the word “milk.” Then they spelled it out. Then they shouted it loudly as one always does, somehow, when using one’s own language, one is dealing with a stranger who doesn’t understand that language. The waiter merely shrugged his shoulders and spread his fingers in a gesture of helplessness.

The man who wanted milk imitated the action of one milking a cow, meanwhile mooing plaintively, and then, to round out the illustration, went through the pantomime of emptying an imaginary glass. Still the waiter stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“Hold on,” said the artist, “I’ve got an idea. I can draw about as well as the next one. Lend me a pencil; it won’t take me a minute to make this fellow understand.”

With the pencil, on the table cloth, he sketched rapidly what seemed to him a very graphic likeness of a domestic cow, and, squatted down alongside the cow, his conception of a conventional milkmaid engaged in the act of milking.

As he made the finishing strokes the waiter, who had been watching the operation over his shoulder, burst into a delighted cry of “Sí! Sí! Señor!” and, tucking up his apron, dashed from the restaurant and ran across the street into the shop of a tobacconist.

“Now, then,” said the artist to his friend, “see what a knack with the pencil will do for a fellow when he gets into difficulties in a foreign country? I’ll venture I could go all over the world, making my meaning clear by dashing off these little illustrations.”

“Maybe so,” said the newspaper man, “but why in thunder did the waiter go to a cigar store for milk?”

“Probably a custom of the country,” said the artist. “The main point was that just as soon as he’d had a good look at my drawing he was on his way. He’ll be back here in a minute with your glass of milk.”

The prediction was only partly true. The waiter was back again in a minute or less, but he brought no milk. Triumphantly, he laid down in front of his patrons two tickets for a bull-fight.

§ 169 To the Depths of Dogology

It was back in 1899 that State Senator William Goebel seized the Democratic nomination for Governor of Kentucky and, so doing, split the party in the state to flinders. The feuds born of that fight are still alive to-day after the lapse of more than twenty-three years. It was my fortune as a reporter from a Louisville paper to follow the story of the conflict.

Theodore Hallam, perhaps the greatest orator in a state of orators, and almost the quickest-thinking man on his feet, I believe, that ever lived anywhere, having bolted the nomination of Goebel, took the stump against him. The seceding wing of the party picked on Hallam to open its fight, and chose the town of Bowling Green as a fitting place for the firing of the first gun, Bowling Green being a town where the rebellion inside the Democratic ranks was wide-spread and vehement. But Goebel had his adherents there, too.

You could fairly smell trouble cooking on that August afternoon when Hallam rose up in the jammed courthouse to begin his speech. Hardly had he started when a local leader, himself a most handy person in a rough-and-tumble argument, stood upon the seat of his chair, towering high above the heads of those about him.

“I want to ask you a question!” he demanded in a tone like the roar of one of Bashan’s bulls.

One third of the crowd yelled: “Go ahead!” The other two thirds yelled: “Throw him out!” and a few enthusiastic spirits suggested the expediency of destroying the gentleman utterly.

With a wave of his hand Hallam stilled the tumult.

“Let it be understood now and hereafter that this is to be no joint debate,” he said in his rather high-pitched voice. “My friends have arranged for the use of this building this afternoon and I intend to be the only speaker. But it is a tenet of our political faith that in a Democratic gathering no man who calls himself a Democrat shall be denied the right to be heard. If the gentleman will be content to ask his question, whatever it is, and to abide by my answer to it, I am willing that he should speak.”

“That suits me,” proclaimed the interrupter. “My question is this: Didn’t you say at the Louisville convention not four weeks ago that if the Democrats of Kentucky, in convention assembled, nominated a yaller dog for Governor, you would vote for him?”

“I did,” said Hallam calmly.

“Well, then,” whooped the heckler, eager now to press his seeming advantage, “in the face of that statement, why do you now repudiate the nominee of that convention and refuse to support him?”

For his part Hallam waited for perfect quiet and finally got it.

“I admit,” he stated, “that I said then what now I repeat, namely, that when the Democrats of Kentucky nominate a yaller dog for the governorship of this great state I mean to support him—but lower than that ye shall not drag me!”

§ 170 Time Was No Object

A colored man was idling along the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street from where the county jail stood. From a barred window high up in the structure came the voice of a member of his own race:

“Say, nigger,” called the unseen speaker.

The pedestrian halted and faced about.

“Whut you want?” he demanded.

“I wants to ax you a question,” said the invisible one.

“Well, ax it. I’s listenin’.”

“Is you got a watch on you?”

“Suttinly I’s got a watch on me.”

“Well, den, whut time is it?”

“Whut is time to you?” answered the man in the street. “You ain’t fixin’ to go nowheres, is you?”

§ 171 A Diagnosis Made Offhand

Puffed with pride, a colored man returned to his native town in North Carolina after a season spent with a traveling circus. He was recounting his experiences in the great world at large to a fellow Afro-American.

“I started out,” he said, “ez a roustabout, but de boss man w’ich owned de show he right away seen dat I had merits above my station an’ he permoted me to be a lion tamer. So dat’s whut I is now—a reg’lar perfessional lion tamer.”

“Is dat so?” said his townsman. “Tell me, boy, how does you go ’bout bein’ a lion tamer?”

“It’s ver’ simple,” said the returned one. “All you got to have is bravery an’ de dauntless eye. Fust you picks out yore lion—de best way is to pick out de fiercest one. Den you walks up to de cage whar he is wid a club in yore hand an’ open de do’ and jump inside an’ slam de do’ shut behind you. Natchelly, de lion rare hisse’f up on his hind laigs an’ come at you wid his mouth open an’ his teeth all showin’. You waits till he’s right clost up to you an’ den you hauls off an’ you busts him acrost de nose wid yore club. Den you backs him up into a corner an’ you beats him some mo’ till he ’knowledges you fur his master. Den, w’en he’s plum’ cowed down, you grabs him by de jaws an’ twists his mouth open an’ sticks yore head down his throat an’ after dat you meks him jump th’ough a hoop an’ lay at yore feet an’ sit up an’ beg fur raw meat an’ teach him a few more tricks such as dem. Tha’s being a lion tamer.”

“Huh, nigger,” grunted his audience, “you ain’t no lion tamer—you’ a lyin’ scoundrel!”

§ 172 Remodeling the Calendar

August Winestopper ran a family liquor store in the day when there were family liquor stores. Mr. Winestopper’s knowledge of English was somewhat circumscribed but, as events were to prove, his business sagacity was profound.

In the early part of the summer business, for some reason or other, fell off considerably. While Mr. Winestopper, was canvassing in his own mind the possible causes for this shrinkage in normal neighborhood consumption of wet goods other discomfiting things began to occur. The agent for the owner of the premises waited upon him and told him that, beginning the following month, the rent would be advanced $600 per annum. The two barkeepers notified him that the barkeepers’ union had passed a rule calling for an increase in the wage scale. He got a summons for an alleged violation of the Sunday closing law and was confronted by the prospect that, if found guilty, he would pay a heavy fine. The brewery sent him word that the price of beer shortly would go up.

Mr. Winestopper considered the situation in all of its various and disturbing phases. Then he took a piece of chalk and on the mirror behind the bar he wrote, where all might read, the following ultimatum:

“The first of July will be the last of August!”

§ 173 Of a Careless Nature

A colored man owned a mule which, for reasons best known to himself he desired to sell. He heard that a neighbor down the road was in the market for a mule. So he put a halter on the animal and led her to the cabin of the other negro.

At once negotiations were entered into. The owner had delivered himself of a eulogy touching on the strength, capacity for hard work, and amiable disposition of his beast, when the prospective purchaser broke in with a question:

“Is dis yere mule fast?”

“Fast?” the proprietor snorted. “Look yere!” He gave the mule a kick in the ribs, whereupon she bucked sideways, tore down a strip of fencing, galloped headlong through a week’s washing, butting against the side of the barn, and then caroming off, tore across a garden patch and vanished into the woods beyond the clearing.

“Look yere, nigger,” said the owner of the damaged property, “dat mule must be blind.”

“She ain’t blind,” said the owner; “but she jest natchelly don’t keer a damn!”

§ 174 The Light That Failed

An old colored man, who had been crippled in the railroad service, served for many years as a watchman at a grade crossing in the outskirts of an Alabama town. By day he wielded a red flag and by night he swung a lantern.

One dark night a colored man from the country, driving home from town, steered his mules across the track just as the Memphis flier came through and abolished him, along with his team and his wagon. His widow sued the railroad for damages. At the trial the chief witness for the defence was the old crossing watchman.

Uncle Gabe stumped to the stand and took the oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Under promptings from the attorney for his side, he proceeded to give testimony strongly in favor of the defendant corporation. He stated that he had seen the approaching team in due time and that, standing in the street, he had waved his lantern to and fro for a period of at least one minute. In spite of the warning, he said, the deceased had driven upon the rails.

Naturally, the attorney for the plaintiff put him to a severe cross-examination. Uncle Gabe answered every question readily and with evident honesty. He told just how he had held the lantern, how he had swung and joggled it and so forth and so on.

After court had adjourned the lawyer for the railroad sought out the old man and congratulated him upon his behavior as a witness.

“Gabe,” he said, “you acquitted yourself splendidly. Weren’t you at all nervous while on the stand?”

“I suttinly wuz, boss,” replied Uncle Gabe. “I kep’ wonderin’ whu wuz gwine happen ef dat w’ite genelman should ax me if dat lantern wuz lighted.”

§ 175 Sir Izaak Walton in Black

Captain George Walker, of Savannah, used to have a hand on his Georgia plantation who loved ease and fishing. When he wasn’t fishing he was loafing.

One night there was a rain almost heavy enough to be called a cloudburst and the next morning all the low places on the plantation were flooded two feet deep. Passing his tenant’s cabin, Captain Walker found him seated in an easy chair at the kitchen door fishing in a small puddle of muddy water that had formed there.

“Henry, you old fool,” said Captain Walker, “what are you doing there?”

“Boss,” said Henry, “I’s jes’ fishin’.”

“Well, don’t you know there are no fish there?” demanded Captain Walker.

“Yas, suh,” said Henry; “I knows dat. But this yere place is so handy!”

§ 176 Doing Something for the Patient

Frank McIntyre, the plump comedian, played vaudeville dates one season. One night after his turn he dropped into a short-order restaurant near the theatre for a bite, before going to bed. Sitting next to him was a former circus acrobat, who did a horizontal-bar act on the same bill with McIntyre.

The acrobat was sawing away at the sinewy knee-joint of a fried chicken leg. Though the knife was sharp and he was athletic, he made but little headway.

He waved his arm toward a bottle of ketchup which stood upon the counter near McIntyre’s elbow.

“Say, bo,” he requested, “pass de liniment, will you? De sea gull’s got de rheumatism.”

§ 177 The Real Point of the Joke

Two American performers, filling vaudeville engagements in London, took lodgings together in a house on a side street back of Covent Gardens. Late at night, following the first day of their joint tenancy they left the theatre in company and, having had a bite and a drink at a chophouse set out afoot for the new diggings. One of the pair undertook to show the way. The trouble was, though, that for the life of him he couldn’t recall the name of the street where the house stood nor the number of the house. For nearly an hour they wandered through deserted byways seeking their destination. Finally they happened upon a street which wore a familiar look. Sure enough, half way down the block stood the house where they were quartered.

With glad cries the tired pair hurried to it. Here a fresh difficulty arose. They had no latch keys. Coming away that afternoon neither had thought to ask their landlady for a key. However, the second man figured he could pick the lock. He worked at it vainly for another half hour while his companion fidgeted about. Finally in disgust and despair he gave it up as a bad job, and the two of them went to a hotel where they spent the remainder of the night.

Now comes the point of the story: The man who could not remember the name of the street, nor the number of the house, was Barton the Memory Wizard. The man who could not master the lock was Houdini, the Handcuff King.

§ 178 The Mystery of Wednesday

A Broadway actor got carried away by the spirit of the prohibition times and remained carried away for several days. He came to himself in his own room without knowing exactly how he got there. A friend sat beside him.

“Hello,” he said, as he opened his eyes, “what day is this?”

“This,” said his friend, “is Thursday.”

The invalid thought it over a minute.

“What became of Wednesday?” he asked.

§ 179 The Cockney and the Lady

Mrs. Pat Campbell has rather a caustic wit, as her friends—and more especially her enemies—can testify. On one occasion an interview with her was besought by a London playwright for whom personally Mrs. Campbell did not care very deeply. The playwright was a self-educated cockney. Sometimes in moments of forgetfulness he lapsed into the idioms of his youth.

He desired an opportunity to tender Mrs. Campbell a play he had just completed and in which he hoped she might consent to take the star rôle. She sat in silence while he read the script, act by act.

When he had finished he looked up, expecting some word of approval or at least of comment from his auditor. Mrs. Campbell, with a noncommital look on her face, said nothing at all. An awkward pause ensued.

“Ahem,” said the dramatist at length, “I’m afraid my play seemed rather long to you?”

“Long? Well, rather!” drawled the lady. “It took you over two hours to read it—without the h’s.”

§ 180 Neither Here Nor There

Two French Canadians were traveling down a Quebec river in a houseboat. One of them knew the river and the other did not.

They anchored for the night on a bar. During the night the river rose and along toward daylight the craft went adrift. Three hours later the motion awoke one of the travelers. He poked his head out of the door. An entirely strange section of scenery was passing.

“Baptiste! Baptiste!” he yelled. “Get up! We ain’t here some more.”

“No, by gar!” said his companion after a quick glance at the surroundings—“we are twelve mile from here!”

§ 181 One of the Marvels of Science

On a hotel porch at a summer resort a visitor approached, in the dark, the spot where a beautiful young thing with bobbed hair and melting baby-blue eyes was sitting with an adoring youth.

As he neared the pair the newcomer heard her say: “Aren’t the stars just beautiful to-night? I love to sit and look at the stars on a night like this and think about science. Science is so interesting, so wonderful; don’t you think so? Now you take astronomy: Astronomers are such marvelous men! I can understand how they have been able to figure out the distance to the moon and to all the other planets, and the size of the sun, and how fast it travels and all. But how in the world do you suppose they ever found out the right names of all those stars?”

§ 182 The Proper End of a Caddy

In a Southern town is a lady, socially prominent, who enjoys the reputation of being a modern Mrs. Malaprop. The latest speech attributed to her had to do with the ancient game of Scotia.

“I’ve often thought,” she said to a friend, “that I’d like to go in for golf, but somehow I have never gotten ’round to it; and, besides, I don’t understand the first thing about playing it. Why, if I wanted to hit the ball I wouldn’t know which end of the caddy to take hold of.”

§ 183 One Way to Beat the Game

Those who in their youth were addicted, or subsequently have been addicted to the good old American game of Seven-up will appreciate a little tale which Frank I. Cobb, of the New York _World_, told.

Cobb, who was born in Kansas and reared in Michigan, went to a town in the former state to call upon an elderly uncle. He arrived about suppertime. His aunt received him and welcomed him, telling him that her husband would probably be along shortly.

Time passed and still the old gentleman did not appear.

“I wonder,” said Cobb, “whether Uncle Henry has been detained at his shop?”

“Oh, no,” said his aunt in a resigned tone. “He’s down at Number Two Engine House, claiming Low.”

§ 184 Absolutely No Reason for It

Harry Beresford, the actor, was born in England but has lived long enough in America practically to have recovered from it. One fall a friend sent him two tickets for one of the World’s Series ball games at the Polo Grounds, and he took with him to the game a newly arrived Englishman, a distant kinsman.

The stranger sat patiently enough through seven innings. The riotous proceeding was a puzzle to him but he was too polite to mention it. Then, when the mighty crowd, following the baseball custom, stood up to stretch, he rose, too, and started for the aisle.

“Hold on!” said Beresford. “It isn’t over yet.”

“I was only going to get a cup of tea, old chap,” explained his guest.

“You can’t get tea now,” said Beresford; “the game goes right on.”

“You mean to say there is no tea being served?” demanded the Englishman in amazement.

“Certainly not!” said Beresford.

“Well,” demanded the other, “what, then, is the purpose of the damned game?”

§ 185 The Withdrawal of the Candidate

When Miss Annie Oakley, the famous rifle shot, was traveling through the country giving exhibitions of her skill at theatres, she reached a small town in Texas; and her manager inserted an advertisement in the home paper for a smart colored boy to assist in the performance. Applicants were instructed to apply at the stage door of the local opera house at one P. M. sharp.

When the manager arrived he found the passageway congested with little negroes, each eager to testify to his smartness. He made a selection, picking out a spry boy of about twelve. He took his applicant inside and stationed him near the wings.

“You will stand right here and not move,” he said. “When the curtain goes up, Miss Oakley will come out and talk to the audience for a few moments. Then I will balance a small apple on your forehead and the lady will go over on the other side of the stage yonder and shoot it off.”

The candidate grabbed for his hat, his eyes wildly rolling in search of the nearest path to safety.

“Mistah,” he demanded, “who’s goin’ to shoot whut apple offer whose haid? Me, w’y I wouldn’t let mah own mammy shoot no apple offer mah haid, let alone it’s some stranger!”

And he was gone.

§ 186 A Peacemaker Who Blessed Himself

The proprietor of a drug store in a small Indiana town was issuing from the front door of his place when a small boy came tearing ’round the corner at top gait with his head down and butted squarely into him.

“Hey, kid!” demanded the druggist. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m tryin’ to keep two boys from gittin’ into a fight,” panted the youngster.

“Who are the boys?” asked the druggist.

“I’m one of ’em.”

§ 187 The Long Wait at Burlington

Included in my list of acquaintances is a gentleman who promotes sporting events. Originally he promoted foot-races, later he conducted balloon ascensions and parachute drops at county fairs and carnivals. Still later, he turned aviator himself and bought an early model aeroplane with which, in the period when flying was more of a novelty than it is at present, he gave exhibitions.

The members of a Catholic congregation in a suburb of New York City were striving to raise funds for a new rectory. They rented an old driving-park and gave a fair. For the crowning attraction on the final afternoon my friend was engaged to make a flight.

Now, the weather was lowering and the winds were capricious. Feeling a natural reluctance to trusting himself aloft under such circumstances the performer had recourse to an expedient he had employed on similar occasions. He sparred for time in the hope that darkness would come and so save him from taking the risk. He tinkered with his engine. He fiddled with the planes. He unscrewed this bolt and he screwed up that one.

The assembled crowd, grew impatient over the delay. Finally the parish priest, who was acting as master of ceremonies, approached the aeronaut and to him he said:

“My son, can’t you go ahead and give us the exhibition you promised us and for which we already have paid you in advance? These people have already been waiting more than an hour and a half for you to go up.”

“Father,” said my friend, “there’s a bunch of folks out in Burlington, Iowa, that have been waiting more’n eighteen months for me to go up.”

§ 188 Where Jimmy’s Education Really Was Shy

After a twenty years’ absence a gentleman returned to the little New England town where he had been born and where he spent his boyhood. In the neighborhood in which he had been reared he found but one of the original residents remaining, an elderly Irish lady. She welcomed him back home again, and they fell to talking of the boys and girls with whom he had grown up. Finally he asked:

“Tell me, Mrs. Daly, what ever became of poor little Jimmy McKenna who used to live in the shanty right down the street here?”

“Poor, is it?” echoed Mrs. Daly. “Poor nothin’! Jimmy McKenna had no schoolin’, as you may remember, but when he grew up he got into the truckin’ business and from that he turned to contractin’, and though he couldn’t read and write, he made a million.”

“Bully!” said the returned one. “And where is he now?”

“As to that,” said Mrs. Daly, “I couldn’t say. I hope, though, he’s in Heaven. You see, sor, here about two years ago, Jimmy went down to the gravel pit where some of the byes was in swimmin’, an’ it bein’ a warm day he took off his clothes and waded in, and he waded out too far and he got over his head and was drownded.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” said the visitor. “To think of a boy who had no better start than Jim McKenna had doing so well in the world, and then meeting an end like that! And he made a million, you say? And yet he couldn’t read nor write.”

“No,” said Mrs. Daly, “nor swim.”

§ 189 The Made-in-England Substitute

An American actor with a reputation for wit went to a luncheon given by a famous actress to several members of her supporting company. Among the guests of honor was an English leading man, who rather fancied himself—and showed it. He monopolized the conversation, speaking copiously and feelingly of himself, his personality and his merits.

From his place across the table the American eyed him with an enhancing disfavor. At length he turned to the man sitting next him on the right.

“Our British friend over there is by way of being a regular ass, isn’t he?” he asked in a whisper.

“Oh I’d hardly go so far as to say that,” answered his neighbor.

“Well, he’ll do, won’t he, till one comes?” said the American.

§ 190 Practically Destitute

Tilted back in his chair on the boatstore porch overlooking the river sat Cap’n Joe Fowler, as typical a Kentuckian as the fag end of the last century produced. A packet bound from Cincinnati to New Orleans, landed. Up the steep slope of the wharf came a tourist lady from up North somewhere. In the crook of her arm this lady bore the first Mexican hairless dog Cap’n Joe had ever seen. The animal was no larger than a full grown rat; in fact it rather resembled a rat. It seemed a miserable, naked, sickly little thing which shivered even though the air was balmy and flinched with vague uneasiness at every sound.

As the lady drew close Cap’n Joe stood up and made a low bow to her.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said in his best company drawl, “but might a total stranger so far intrude upon you as to ask you a question?”

“You might” she said, her sharp accents in strong contrast to his deeper yet softer tones.

“Thank you, madam,” he said. “The question, madam, relates to the dog you air carrying. Is that your own dog?”

“It is,” she said.

“Is that the only dog you’ve got?”

“It is.”

“Madam,” said Cap’n Joe, “ain’t you mighty nigh out of dog?”

§ 191 Assigning G. B. S. to His Place

When George Bernard Shaw, as a young man, emerged from his native Ireland and moved to England he began writing a column for a London weekly publication.

At that time Oscar Wilde was enjoying his vogue as a wit and an epigram-maker. One evening an acquaintance, calling upon Wilde, happened upon a copy of the paper to which Shaw was a contributor and reading therein one of Shaw’s characteristic articles which was signed with the author’s initials, said to his host:

“I say, Wilde, who is this chap G. B. S. who’s doing a department for this sheet?”

“He’s a young Irishman named Shaw,” said Wilde. “Rather forceful, isn’t he?”

“Forceful,” echoed the other, “well, rather! My word, how he does cut and slash! He doesn’t seem to spare any one he knows. I should say he’s in a fair way to make himself a lot of enemies.”

“Well,” said Wilde, “as yet he hasn’t become prominent enough to have any enemies. But none of his friends like him.”

§ 192 A Voice from the Void

A group of big leaguers on their spring training trip were marooned by rain one morning so that they could not go to the ball field for practice. They sat under the portico of the Texas hotel where they were quartered and swapped small talk. An admiring ring of villagers surrounded them.

A languid, ragged negro drew near, anchoring himself at the outer edge of the audience. He laughed with loud appreciation at every sally from this or that visiting notable. He had the look about him of one seeking a suitable opportunity to solicit the gift of a small sum from some generous white stranger. But hour after hour passed with no proper opening until the forenoon was spent.

Suddenly the whistle on the canning factory across the street from the hotel let go with a blast and the hands came trooping out, bearing their lunch pails.

“Uh uh, dar she goes,” said the darky, as the siren voice died away. “Hit’s dinner time fur some folks—but jes’ twelve o’clock fur me.”

§ 193 Taking Nothing from Nothing

It was a striking coincidence that the new clerk at the soda-fountain was locally regarded as being a half-wit, and that the individual who approached him also happened to be the possessor of one of those fractional intellects.

“What’ll it be?” inquired semi-idiot number one.

“A glass of plain soda without flavor.”

“Without what flavor?”

The customer pondered this for a brief space.

“Without chocolate flavor,” he said.

“You can’t have it without chocolate flavor,” answered the soda-jerker. “Because we ain’t got no chocolate. You’ll have to take it without vanilly!”

§ 194 The Fate of Poor Harry

A cockney music-hall performer, to a congenial group of performers in London, was describing what had happened the night before to a brother actor whom he spoke of affectionately as “’Arry.”

“Poor old ’Arry, ’e ’ad a most awful time. They wouldn’t even let ’im finish. Before ’e was ’arf through with the first verse of ’is opening song they began giving ’im the rarsberry proper. And w’en ’e quit, them blokes in the gallery ’issed ’im right off the stage. They ’issed and ’issed and kept on ’issing even after ’e was out of sight. Right after ’im I ’ad to go on.”

“How did your act go?” inquired one of the listeners.

“’Ow, I got over fine,” said the modest vaudevillian. “But right in the middle of my act they starts ’issing ’Arry again.”

§ 195 A Wholesale Order

The late Sam Davis, editor of the Carson _Appeal_, was known as the Oracle of the Nevada sage-brush. Once upon a time he was instructed by the San Francisco _Examiner_ to meet Mme. Sarah Bernhardt at Reno and bring her over the mountains of California on her first tour of the Western Slope.

Davis was a most likable person. The great French actress became so fond of him that thereafter she declined to be interviewed by any other newspaperman during her sojourn on the Coast. If she had anything to say for publication, he said it for her.

The day came when the train bearing her private car was about to start on the long journey back East. As the locomotive bell was ringing, she put her hands upon his shoulders, kissed him upon either cheek, and then squarely upon the mouth, remarking, as she did so,

“The right cheek for the Carson _Appeal_, the left for the _Examiner_, the lips, my friend, for yourself.”

“Madam,” said Davis, without the slightest sign of bashfulness, “I also represent the Associated Press, which serves 380 papers west of the Mississippi River.”

§ 196 This “Yes” and That “Yes”

A distinguished French diplomat lately put into a few words what I think is the best possible explanation yet offered as a reason for the failure of his countrymen to perceive what our national attitude is, touching on the post-war issues which so deeply concern France and, by the same token, the failure of our countrymen to make out what the people of France want and what they are striving for.

“To begin with,” said the distinguished visitor, “the two races speak separate languages—always a bar to the adjustment of contrary points of view. But even where you find a Frenchman who speaks your tongue or an American who speaks mine, there still remains an obstacle.

“For example:

“When you set forth a proposition to an American and he says ‘Yes,’ he means, ‘I’ll do it.’

“But when you state the same thing to a Frenchman and he answers ‘Yes,’ what he really means is ‘I understand what you are saying.’”

§ 197 Satisfactory in Every Respect

A Jewish friend of mine told me of a co-religionist of his who had acquired a fortune. This gentleman had a daughter of whose talents he was tremendously proud. The young woman sang. The father sent her to Europe to study voice culture under the best Continental teachers. Upon her return home he arranged that she should give a recital at Carnegie Hall. To the recital all his friends were invited.

In celebration of the event he decided also to give a banquet to a chosen group of some ten or fifteen at the Waldorf. But even in the heights of his parental enthusiasm prudence guided him. He summoned the prospective guests together and to them he said this:

“If Miriam should make a big hit I gif you fellows all vot you can eat und drink—the very best of everything, disregardless of expense. But of course there’s a chance maybe she vont make a hit. She iss young und berhaps she gets scared ven she sees so many beeple all vaiting to lissen at her und, possibly, in that case, she might not go so vell. So, if she should fall down, ve vouldn’t feel like a celebration, und there vould be no dinner, understand?”

At Carnegie Hall the father’s fears were justified. The young woman immediately on her entrance was seized with a terrific attack of stage-fright. She uttered plaintive bleating sounds, then burst into tears and fled into the wings.

Almost before she vanished, her father had seized his hat, had dashed from the box where the family were seated, and, in a taxi-cab was hurrying down town to countermand the order for the spread. He reached the hotel, ascended in the elevator to the floor where he had engaged a private dining-room and ran through the hall to notify the head-waiter that there would be no feast.

But as he neared the door the sounds of brisk knife-and-fork play gave him added speed. He burst open the door and stood transfixed on the threshold. Only the place which had been reserved for him at the head of the table was vacant. At every other place sat one of his friends, stowing away expensive victuals and costly wines at tremendous speed.

“Vait!” shouted the agonized father. “Vait! Didn’t I say only ve should have a dinner if Miriam was a success?”

A spokesman for the others raised his face from the terrapin stew.

“Vell,” he said, “ve liked her!”

And went right on eating.

§ 198 Precisely the Right Word

Sometimes a speaker, casting about for exactly the right word, hits on the wrong word and yet, paradoxically, the wrong word seems exactly to sum up the situation which the orator has sought to describe.

Down at Whitehall, which is in the state of Virginia not many miles from Richmond, a negro farm-hand, whose first name was Levi, met a violent and sudden death. He was ploughing a corn patch when a thunder shower came up. In the midst of the storm, a bolt of lightning struck the tree under which he had taken shelter and scarcely enough of him was left for purposes of burial.

Nevertheless, his family and friends did give him an elaborate funeral. A colored minister, with a reputation for eloquence, was imported at considerable cost to preach the sermon.

The preacher very soon got into his swing while the congregation swayed and moaned and gave vent to muffled hallelujahs and amens. He came to his climax:

“De call fur our pore brother wuz swift an’ suddin. He did not linger fur long months on de bed of pain an’ affliction. He did not suffer an’ waste away. No suh, de Lawd jest teched an electric button in de skies an’ summarized Levi!”

§ 199 Touching on London Weather

The other day _Punch_ had a picture of an old gentleman about to climb into a taxi to escape a terrific snowstorm.

“Cabby,” he says, “it’s a miserable winter day, isn’t it?”

“Guvinor,” answers the frost-bitten taxi driver, “I pass you my word I’ve been out since early mornin’ and I ain’t seen a single butterfly.”

But, off-hand, I’d say the prize under this heading goes to Fred Greig, the New York art critic, for his telling of a personal experience.

At the age of twelve he was riding on the front seat of a Fleet Street bus. Although the month was July, rain had been coming down, practically without cessation, for more than a week. An East Indian, garbed all in white, went past, slopping along the sidewalk under an umbrella.

The driver aimed his whip at the dark stranger.

“Wot’s that?” he asked.

“That,” said Young Greig, who at school had been studying up on Oriental history and customs, “is a Parsee.”

“And wot’s a Parsee?”

“A sun-worshipper.”

“Well,” said the driver, “’e must be ’ere on a blinkin’ vacation.”

§ 200 The Detour in the Bridal Path

A young couple, on their honeymoon, spent two days in a small Southern city. When they got off the train an old negro man, who served as porter, runner, chief bell-boy and general factotum for the hotel greeted them at the depot. He took charge of their hand-baggage and led the way for them to an ancient vehicle.

As he drove them along the street the young husband took him into their confidence:

“Now, look here, Uncle,” he said, “we don’t want anybody here to know that we’ve just been married. Probably some of the other guests will speak to you about us and we count on you to throw them off the track.”

“Boss,” said the old man, “don’t you an’ the young lady worry. Jest trust me. ’Taint nobody goin’ fin’ out by axin’ me questions.”

But when the pair came down from their room that evening for supper, they found themselves a target for the interested stares of everyone else in the dining room. All eyes were turned in their direction. At the conclusion of a somewhat hurried and decidedly embarrassed meal, the young man hunted up the old negro.

“Say,” he demanded, “I thought you promised not to give us away, and yet everybody around this hotel is looking at us and grinning.”

“Boss,” said the old negro fervently, “ef dey’s learned the truff, dey didn’t none of ’em learn it frum me—naw, suh!”

“Well, did anybody speak to you about us after we registered?”

“Yas, suh, sevr’l.”

“Did any of them want to know whether we were on our wedding trip?”

“Yas, suh, they did.”

“Well, what did you say to them?”

“I sez to ’em: ‘Naw, indeedy, them young folks ain’t no bridal couple—they’s jest a couple of chums.’”

§ 201 Tuesday May Have Been Worse

Out in Australia two Cockneys were sentenced to die for an atrocious murder. As the date for execution drew nearer the nerves of both of them became more and more shaken. Dawn of the fatal morning found them in a state of terrific funk.

As they sat in the condemned cell waiting the summons to march to the gallows one of the pair said:

“Me mind’s all in a whirl. I carn’t seem to remember anything. I carn’t even remember what dye of the week it is.”

“It’s a Monday,” stated his companion in misfortune.

“Ow!” said the first one, “wot a rotten wye to start the week!”

§ 202 A Touch of Summer Complaint

A small negro boy went to a physician in Natchez to be treated for a painful sensation in one of his ears. The doctor examined and found the ear was full of water.

“How did this happen,” he asked after he had drained the ear—“been going in swimming?”

“Naw, suh,” said the little darky—“been eatin’ watermelon!”

§ 203 He Never Went There Anyhow

A chronic imbiber in a New England city was clinging to a lamp-post one Sunday morning when a stranger came along and addressed him.

“Sir,” inquired the stranger, “can you tell me where the Second Presbyterian Church is?”

“Mister,” answered the weary one, “I don’t even know where the first one is!”

§ 204 Where Republicans Are Scarce

That famous wit, the late Private John Allen of Mississippi, while a member of Congress used to tell a story illustrative of political conditions in his home state.

According to Allen, there was a man in his county who hankered to hold public office. “Every time we had a Democratic primary,” said Allen, “this fellow turned up, seeking the nomination for one job or another. But always he was turned down—he never made the grade.

“Finally, he just naturally abandoned the Democratic party. He said the Democrats didn’t appreciate true worth; that they didn’t know real merit when they saw it. So he turned Republican.

“At the next election he entered himself as a candidate for sheriff on the Republican ticket. Well, sir, that fellow certainly made a spirited campaign. If ever a man worked to bring out the full strength of the white Republican vote he was the man. He canvassed the county from end to end. He spoke at every cross-roads blacksmith shop and every country schoolhouse. He left no stone unturned.

“Well, election day came. He got exactly two votes—and was arrested that night for repeating!”

§ 205 The Sole Drawback to Utter Success

Probably there are a dozen differing versions of this story but the one I like best of all is the one I heard some twenty-five years ago. Mandy, the cook, left her employer’s kitchen early one afternoon to attend a marriage ceremony in the colored quarter of the town.

The high contracting parties to the union were to be distinguished members of local Afro-American Society, and Mandy, as one of the invited guests, anticipated an enjoyable evening. Nor, as it would appear, was she disappointed. For, when she appeared at 8 o’clock next morning she gave her mistress an enthusiastic account of the affair.

“Miss May,” she declared, “dat suttinly wuz a scrumptious weddin’! I reckin very few w’ite folks an’ no niggers at all in dis town ever did have a weddin’ dat wuz de beat of dish yere one. I only wisht you mout a’ seen de bride yore own se’f. My! My! Dat gal suttinly wuz got up regardless. Her weddin’ gown wuz all hollered out at de top an’ ’twuz trimmed ’round de aidges wid rows of w’ite vermin. An’ her hair wuz done up high on her haid in a pampydo, an’ right in de middle of it wuz stuck one of dese yere w’ite regrets. And de contras’ betwixt dat black pamp and dat w’ite regret—_Ump huh!_

“Dat wuz only jest de beginnin’. De parlor wuz all trimmed wid smileaxes an’ de ushers dey all wore w’ite gloves an’ swaller-tail coats. An’ they wuz a string band of eight pieces to play de weddin’ march.

“Miss May, you sho’ly also an’ likewise should a’ seen de table whar de bridal feast wuz spread. Dey had chicken croquettes at ever’ plate an’ ice-cream ’twell you couldn’t rest, an’ punch made out of gin an’ a whole soup-syringe full of simon salad.

“De weddin’ feast lasted all night an’ tain’t finished ’till yit. Dem niggers is still over dere dancin’. I jest stole away to cook you up a lil’ breakfust an’ den, befo’ I washes de dishes, I aims to run on back fur to tek a hand in de las’ quodrille.”

“But Mandy,” said her mistress, “you haven’t said anything about the bridegroom?”

“Nome, I lef’ him out a-puppos. He wuz de only drawback dey wuz to dat weddin’.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Was he drunk?”

“I don’t know ef he wuz or ef he wuzn’t; but Miss May, wid dat gal got up de way she wuz an’ wid all dat music an’ all dem vittles, dat nasty, low-flung, kinky-haided nigger, he never did come.”

§ 206 Sure Damnation for Somebody

As a boy, I had this one from my father. I seem to recall that he said it actually had happened before the Civil War in the remote Southern settlement where my forbears lived for upwards of a hundred years.

Into the community there came a dashing stranger. He had no visible means of support, but such was his ingratiating personality that speedily he became a favorite among the simple pioneers. Shortly after this advent the local Methodist circuit rider organized a protracted meeting.

The last night of the meeting was devoted to foreign missions. The preacher rose to inspired heights of eloquence. In vivid colors he painted the forlorn and ignorant state of the heathen and the crying need of funds with which to spread the Christian doctrine in far-off pagan lands. At the psychological moment, when the assemblage had been worked up into a fit frame of mind for contributing heavily, the preacher called upon the fascinating stranger to pass the hat. It developed later that upon that very day the latter had gone to the minister and volunteered for this service.

He passed the hat. He passed it until it was filled to the brim with the offerings of the multitude. When his round of the pews was completed, instead of marching up to the pulpit and depositing the funds there, the newcomer began to edge toward the door of the church, and, incidentally, toward where his horse was tethered outside. Observing this suspicious maneuver, the preacher was filled with a horrid dread.

“My brother,” he called out, “if you go away from the house of God with that there money you will be damned!”

On the words, the stranger vanished out of the door. The voice of a resident in a back pew broke the horrified hush which followed.

“Well, parson,” he said, “ef he ain’t went, I’ll be damned!”

§ 207 The Final Smash

There was company at the farmhouse that evening and Mrs. Purdy, who had her share and more of New Hampshire thrift, was moved through hospitality to offer the suggestion that possibly the guests might like a glass apiece of fresh apple cider. There was unanimous endorsement of the idea. So Mr. Purdy got a china pitcher from the pantry and started for the cellar where the cider was stored.

The cellar was dark and the steps leading to it were steep. Half way down he stumbled and dropped with a resounding thump upon the brick floor six feet below, where he lay half-stunned.

Upstairs in the parlor they heard the sound of his fall. With alarm and wifely solicitude writ large upon her face Mrs. Purdy ran to the head of the cellar steps.

“Paw,” she called down, “did you break the pitcher?”

From the void below a determined voice answered her back:

“No, I didn’t, but by Judas Priest, I’m goin’ to now!”

§ 208 Making It Unanimous

A few years ago Colonel Hal Corbett, one of my oldest friends, came up from the South to stay a week with me in New York. Three of us, all old cronies of his but all living in the North, met him at the train.

At his suggestion we dropped into the café of the Imperial Hotel on Broadway. Hotels had cafés in those days, and Corbett was thirsty, he said. We lined up at the bar, facing a genial gentleman in a white jacket and a white apron.

Now it so happened that at the moment all three of us, for one reason or another, were riding on the well-known water wagon—a circumstance of which Corbett was not aware and probably one which he had never dreamed could be possible.

He turned to me:

“What’s it going to be?” he asked genially.

I said:

“A glass of buttermilk.”

He gave a start of surprise. But, like a true Kentucky gentleman, he did not voice his emotions. He turned to the second member of the group.

“And what do you take?” he inquired hopefully.

“Oh,” said Number 2, “I don’t want anything except a plain lemonade.”

Corbett’s eyes widened as he waved his arm toward the third man.

“And yours?” he inquired.

“Mine is a ginger ale,” was the answer.

Corbett faced front:

“Mr. Barkeeper,” he said, “I’m going to be in the fashion while I’m here if it kills me. Give me a quart of blueing.”

§ 209 Advice from Expert Sources

There used to be a ticket seller with the old Yankee Robertson circus who owned a big green parrot. The parrot’s perch swung from the roof of the ticket wagon and there the bird would sit just above her owner’s head.

The ticket man had a line of patter which he constantly chanted as the patrons surged in front of his wicket twice on each week day of the season—before the afternoon performance and again before the evening performance.

“Don’t shove, friends!” he would say. “Don’t crowd! Take your time. Give everybody a chance!”