Chapter VII: Foreword (7)

The parrot memorized this speech. She even learned to mimic her master’s exact tone. Repeating his admonition was a favorite part of her repertoire.

One afternoon when business was over he went away, forgetting to close the slide on his window. When he returned a little later his pet was gone. Immediately he organized a search party to look for the truant bird.

Half a mile distant from the show lot, in a field, he found Poll. She was reared back on the ground, practically featherless. About her circled and swirled a great flock of crows, cawing joyously. Every instant nearly, one of the crows, twisting out of the circle, would dart down and pluck a souvenir of green plumage from the disheveled alien.

And each time this happened Poor Poll, in a beautiful imitation of her owner’s voice and accent would shriek out:

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

§ 210 A Seeker after Hidden Facts

When the New York Central inaugurated its fast service between New York and Chicago there was a great pother along the main line. Employees of whatsoever rank were instructed that the paramount consideration was to get the Twentieth Century Limited through on schedule. If the slightest mishap occurred to the train all hands were charged to forward prompt reports to headquarters, giving the complete details.

At a small flag-stop west of Albany, the station-agent was a callow youth. By enthusiasm and a sense of his responsibilities he made up, though, for what he lacked in experience. In addition to being the ticket-seller he also was the despatcher.

One wintry evening just at dusk he caught, passing over the wire, word that the Twentieth Century Limited was two hours behind time. What had retarded her he did not learn, but he knew wherein his duty lay.

He lit his lantern, sharpened a pencil, and got out a notebook, then sat him down to bide his time. Ten minutes before the belated Limited was due to whiz past he left the station, walked eastward along the tracks a quarter of a mile and posted himself between the rails.

Soon the headlight hove into sight. In an effort to make up the precious lost minutes the engineer was driving his locomotive at tremendous speed. Suddenly far ahead he saw the dancing signal of a lantern. He gave her the brakes; he gave her the sand. Passengers in the coaches behind were slammed up against the end bulkheads of their berths. With sparks flying from her wheels, the snorting mogul stopped not fifty feet distant from where the youth stood. The engineer and his fireman dropped down from the cab and ran forward, sputtering questions.

The station-agent stilled them with an authoritative gesture. He put down his lantern on the right-of-way, braced his pad in the crook of his elbow, poised his pencil ready to record their answers and said briskly:

“Now then, boys, tell me—what detained you?”

§ 211 The Curfew in Nebraska

Of course, in these days, when no community is so small or so obscure or so old-fashioned that it lacks service stations and jazz orchestras and schemes for a proposed Civic Center, this story no longer could be made to apply in any American town.

As the tale runs, a man who had been born and reared in a remote Nebraska country-seat moved to New York where he succeeded in business. Years later a friend from his former home came to see him. Naturally, talk drifted back to childhood scenes and memories.

“I guess the old town hasn’t changed much, has it, Jim?” asked the New Yorker.

“Not much,” said Jim. “She’s pretty much the same.”

“I presume they still blow the curfew whistle at nine o’clock every night just as they started to do shortly before I moved East?”

“Naw, they had to quit that after a few months. It woke everybody up!”

§ 212 The Reward of the Early Riser

In a small New England town, there used to be an Irishman of convivial habits. He _convived_ in season and out of it. In fact, he was in a fair way to qualify as the village drunkard.

Late one night—perhaps I should say early one morning—half a dozen natives were on their homeward way after a social evening at the groggery. At the foot of the main street they stumbled upon the recumbent form of the inebriate, whose name was McGuire. Now, they were what used to be known in the old pre-Volstead days as “pickled.” But he was absolutely petrified. At sight of their friend peacefully asleep, thwartwise of the sidewalk, one of the party had an inspiration.

“Here,” he said, “is a beautiful chance to cure old McGuire of boozing. Let’s carry him out to the cemetery and stick him in an open grave, if we can find one. Then we’ll hang around and wait until he comes to. He’ll think he’s been buried alive, and the shock will be a lesson to him.”

The suggestion met instantaneous approval. The slumberer was picked up by his arms and legs and borne to the burying-ground. Circumstances and chance favored the conspirators. In an ancient vault from which the roof was missing they found an abandoned coffin. Into the empty box they snuggled their victim and, placing the crumbling lid over him for a coverlet, they hid themselves behind adjacent tombstones to await the climax of their plot.

The wait was a long one, but all of them stayed on, allured by the prospect that patience eventually would be rewarded. At length dawn showed in the east. Daylight broke; the sun came up and presently it was six o’clock. Prompt on the hour the whistle of a near-by shoe-factory cut into the morning calm with a shrill siren whoop.

At this blast Mr. McGuire stirred. He threw up his arms, displacing the lid, sat up in his narrow form-fitting casket, and blinked in the rosy light. Then, as he comprehended where he was, a triumphant smile split his face.

“By cripes!” he said exultantly, “’tis the Resurrection Day and I’m the first son-of-a-gun up!”

§ 213 A Competition Which Was Open to All

Two gentlemen connected with the cloakings and suitings trade went to the Catskills on their vacations. Shortly after their arrival they took a tramp among the hills.

“I wish,” said one, “that I owned that tallest mountain yonder and that it was all solid gold.”

“That’s a lovely thought,” said the other approvingly. “Say, Ike, if that mountain was solid gold and you owned it all by yourself would you give me some of it, huh?”

“Certainly I wouldn’t!” said Ike. “Wish yourself a mountain.”

§ 214 Not the Order of the Bath

In a small city which we will not name, there lived a maiden lady who, for convenience, shall here be called Miss Henrietta Blank. She was of an old family and she was prominent in club life. In fact, so constantly was she engaged by her communal activities that, according to local rumor, she rarely found time for applying soap and water to her neck and ears.

On a certain occasion a patriotic organization, of which she was a member, was holding a session. Miss Blank was not present. The presiding officer, a lady civically celebrated for her ready wit, was delegated to choose the members of a special committee.

After deliberation she made this announcement:

“For the members of this committee I shall name Mrs. Major Jones, Mrs. Dr. Robinson and Miss Henrietta Blank.”

“Oh, Madam Chairman,” put in a member, “I’m sure I do not wish to be unkind, but this is really a very important matter where decision is needed and prompt action. Don’t you think you should substitute someone else for dear Miss Henrietta—she’s so wishy-washy!”

The presiding officer’s retort was instantaneously delivered:

“The person in question may be wishy,” she said, “but the Lord in Heaven knows she is not washy!”

§ 215 The Embarrassing Broad A

A Chicago man visiting in London was invited to a ball where everybody except himself talked with an exceedingly broad a, as people will do in England—and Boston, Mass. The accent was puzzling to his Chicago ears but he did his best.

He danced with the wife of his host. The lady spoke with an especially broad accent; also she ran somewhat to flesh. When they had finished the round of the floor she was panting in a repressed and well-bred way.

“Shall we try another whirl?” inquired the Chicago man.

“Not now,” she said; “I’m darnced out.”

“Oh, no,” said the Chicago man, “not darn stout—just nice and plump, ma’am.”

§ 216 Tributes to the Late Lamented Ones

Out West a dump car broke its couplings and went on a wild trip down grade. At a switch it was derailed, turning over on its side and instantly crushing to death a Mexican laborer.

It fell to the lot of the foreman of the gang to which the victim belonged to render a report of the tragedy. This foreman, whose name I believe was Cassidy,—at any rate, it was a good Hibernian name,—got along fairly well with his literary labors until he came to the final space in the printed form, opposite the question: _Remarks?_ Mr. Cassidy studied awhile and then inserted these words:

“He never made none!”

The companion-piece to this has for a setting a stretch of a Southern line whereon a freight train had killed a cow, the property of a farmer. Mr. Dugan, the resident section boss, interviewed the owner of the slain animal and then proceeded to fill out a blank for the subsequent use of the claim agent.

Painstakingly Mr. Dugan entered references relating to the circumstances under which the fatality occurred, also the age, color and presumed value of the lately deceased cow and other particulars, as gleaned from eye-witnesses and from the bereft farmer. But he was stumped when he came to the words: “State disposition of the remains?”

He was stumped, but not for long; he set down this:

“She was kind and gentle!”

§ 217 And the Point of Order Was Sustained

Back in 1890 George Clark, of Waco, and James S. Hogg, of Tyler, were candidates for the Democratic gubernatorial nomination in Texas. At the convention, Hogg won.

Clark, the defeated aspirant, was not satisfied with the methods used to bring about his opponent’s nomination. He and some of his followers bolted the convention and he ran as an independent candidate. In this emergency, both he and Hogg sought the endorsement of the Republican organization.

In 1890 the Republican party in Texas was even more of a minority party than it is to-day. Its leaders mainly were white men, but the rank and file overwhelmingly was black; so that when the Republican state convention met at Fort Worth the delegates nearly all were negroes.

The Clark people controlled the preliminary organization. The temporary chairman called upon the Reverend Sin Killer Griffin to open the proceedings with prayer. Sin Killer was a famous revivalist hailing from near the border between Texas and Arkansas. He was fat and black and had a mighty voice. In thunderous tones he invoked the blessings of the Almighty upon the assemblage. And just before he concluded, he roared out these words:

“An’ finally, Oh Lawd, bless thy sarvant, George Clark, an’ mek ’im gov’ner of de great state of Texas.” Instantly a roar of mingled protest and approbation arose. The tumult continued for several minutes. Finally down in the body of the hall a bullvoiced black politician obtained recognition from the presiding officer.

“Mista’ Cheerman!” he shouted, “I teks de floor to mek a motion: I moves dat de name of George Clark be oxpunged from dat air prayer an’ dat de name of de Honor’ble Jeemses Stephens Hogg be substituted therefur.”

The Sin Killer was still upon his feet.

“Mista’ Cheerman,” he proclaimed, “I speaks to a p’int of order.”

“State the point of order.”

“De genelman’s motion is pintedly out of awder fur de reason dat de prayer in question done went to Heaven more’n five minutes ago!”

§ 218 The Light That Lies in Bankers’ Eyes

This offering has to do with a leading financier of a Middle Western city—a gentleman renowned for his personal vanity as well as for his cold-blooded sagacity in financial matters. The gentleman in question had a glass eye; but, so well did it match its fellow, that it was a point of pride with the owner that no one, lacking full information on the subject, could tell at a glance the artificial from the real one. His name was Oliver. One day, a citizen of the community, who was a chronic borrower, emerged from Mr. Oliver’s bank after an unsuccessful effort to negotiate a loan, and on the sidewalk met a friend.

“Say,” he said, “you know a lot of people in this town have never been able to tell which one of old Oliver’s eyes was his glass eye. Well, I know. I found out awhile ago when I was in there trying to get him to let me make a ninety-day note. All the time we were talking I was watching him and I finally caught onto the secret. It’s the left one.”

“How do you know it’s the left one?” asked his friend.

“Because it was the one that seemed to have a kindly human gleam in it.”

§ 219 A Call for the Prohibited Stuff

A hand-picked group of American bankers went to France to study financial and economic conditions with a view to pooling a large loan on some Continental industrial properties. Naturally, the prospective borrowers exerted themselves to win the favor of the distinguished visitors.

The hosts labored under the impression, seemingly, that, because America has in force a Prohibition law, their guests must be exceedingly thirsty. Accordingly, in whatsoever part of the republic the party stopped, the pick of the vintages of that particular district was served. There was wine for breakfast, wine for luncheon, wine for dinner, wine for late supper and unlimited wines between meals.

Now, one of the group from the States was a native son of the far West. Through his life he had been an imbiber but an exceedingly moderate one. Howsomever, if his gorge rose and his palate grew jaded because of the irrigating facilities constantly provided by his hospitable French friends, he gave no sign, for he was a polite man.

At length the expedition arrived in Paris, after a tour of what seemed to the Westerner all the vineyards in France. On the day of his arrival he met an old acquaintance now residing abroad.

“Say,” declared his friend, “this reunion calls for a celebration. You’ve got to dine with me to-night at the Golden Snail. I’ll order some food there that’ll make your eyes bug out.

“As a further inducement, I might add that the Golden Snail restaurant has as good a cellar as there is in this town. You can have whatever you want to drink and as much of it as you can hold. Now, there’s a Burgundy——”

“Hold on!” said the Californian. “Do you mean that? Can I really have what I crave most in this world? It may be hard to find in this town—I warn you of that.”

“You name the brand and I’ll engage to find it.”

“All right, then. You look up a good reliable local bootlegger and see if you can get me about two quarts of drinking water.”

§ 220 The Perfect Introduction

In his second race for president W. J. Bryan was beaten. In fact, it will be recalled that in all his races for the presidency Mr. Bryan has been beaten. But in the 1900 campaign, while Democracy lost nationally, certain local triumphs were here and there achieved. A city in northern New York which usually went Republican by an overwhelming majority reversed itself and elected for Mayor a German flour miller.

It was felt that the victory deserved suitable celebration. The local Democrats organized a monster rally. The Great Commoner accepted an invitation to attend the jubilation and deliver the principal address. It was deemed fitting that the newly chosen Mayor should sponsor the distinguished guest. Now, the Mayor was a good citizen and his flour was above reproach, but he was no orator; indeed, until this occasion came, he had never in all his life formally addressed a public assemblage.

The great evening came and a great host gathered. Side by side on the platform sat Bryan and the Mayor-elect. The latter’s secretary had written a suitable speech for His Honor’s use, and His Honor laboriously had memorized it. But as he waited the cue to launch himself in his new rôle it was plain to be seen that the gentleman was in a distressful state. He was deathly pale. Perspiration rolled down his face in streams, wilting his collar; and when finally he stood up, all present could tell from his expression that the last shreds and remnants of the carefully rehearsed oration treacherously had departed from him.

He choked and gulped. Then, seizing inspiration out of sheer desperation he made what Mr. Bryan subsequently declared to be the most complete speech of introduction that Bryan in all his long career on the stump and the rostrum ever has heard or ever expects to hear.

“Ladies und chentelmen,” said the Mayor, “I haf been asked to bresent to you Mister Vilhelm Chenninks Bryne, who vill speak. I haf now done so! He vill now do so!”

§ 221 An Answer Right Off the Ice

Just before he started on that famous Arctic expedition of his which was crowned with success, the late Admiral Robert E. Peary boarded a train at New Orleans. He settled down in the smoking compartment to enjoy a cigar. Presently there entered a rather self-sufficient young man who took the seat adjoining and engaged Peary in conversation.

“Well,” he began, “I’m off on a long hard trip.”

“Yes? Is that so?” said Peary, politely.

“Yep. I go clear through to Louisville. Traveling far yourself?”

“Yes, a fair distance,” said Peary.

“Well, I’m bound clear through to Louisville, as I was saying. Pretty tiresome trip, too—all the way through from New Orleans to Louisville.”

“Probably so,” agreed Peary.

“By the way,” said the young chap, “you didn’t tell me where you were going?”

“No,” said Peary, “that’s a fact, I didn’t.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you’re as used to traveling as I am,” said the young fellow. “Whereabouts are you headed for, anyhow?”

“Me?” said Peary. “Oh, I’m only going to the North Pole.”

§ 222 Where He Could Go for Thirty Cents

“About three months ago,” so a friend of mine said, “fourteen of us were waiting in a line at the Grand Central Station to purchase fares on outgoing trains. Some among us had but a few minutes to spare. All of us, naturally, were in a hurry to transact the business and get ourselves and our luggage aboard the cars.

“All of a sudden an inebriated person burst like an alcoholic bombshell among us. Ignoring the rules of procedure, he shoved his way to the front, elbowing and jostling those already in line, until he reached the ticket window. Upon the shelf he slammed down a quarter and a nickle and in a loud voice stated his wishes.

“‘Gimme a ticket for San Francisco,’ he said.

“‘You can’t go to San Francisco for thirty cents,’ stated the ticket-seller.

“‘Well, where can I go, then?’ he asked.

“And with one voice, all fourteen of us told him.”

§ 223 Overlooking No Side Bets

Jimmie and Arthur, aged respectively six and ten, were spending a week with their grandmother, who was wealthy and generous, while their parents were away from home on a visit.

A few nights before Christmas the youngsters were getting ready for bed. Their grandmother was in an adjoining room waiting for them to retire so she might turn out the light.

Arthur said his prayers and crawled under the covers. Jimmie, still on his knees, proceeded to petition Heaven for an extensive line of Christmas presents. As he progressed, his voice rose louder and louder. Also he began to repeat himself. He spoke somewhat after this fashion:

“And, Oh, Lord, please send me a soldier-suit, and a tool-chest—a big tool-chest, Lord—and a watch and a drum and a horn and a toy wagon and——”

Annoyed, the older brother raised up and interrupted:

“Say,” he demanded, “you needn’t be praying so loud; the Lord ain’t deaf.”

“I know he ain’t,” said Jimmie, “but Grandma is.”

§ 224 The Lick That Won the Victory

There was a Scotchman who had a wife and she had strong views upon the subject of strong drink. One night he came home late and badly befuddled. He managed to get inside the house without awakening her, but, in order to reach his own sleeping quarters, it was necessary for him to pass through her room.

On its threshold he had an inspiration. He got down on his hands and knees and started to crawl across the intervening floor-space. But when he was just alongside of her bed he chanced to brush against the coverlids and the lady was aroused.

In the darkness, mistaking the dark bulk that was in arm’s reach of her for the family house-dog, she said, “Come, Jocko, Jocko!”

“Whereupon, at that verra moment,” said the husband next day when recounting the event to a crony, “I had the rare intelligence to lick her hand.”

§ 225 No Closed Season on Fanchon

When a Frenchman goes hunting he takes the sport rather seriously. In certain districts there isn’t much in the way of game for him to kill. So the native makes up for this by wearing a most elaborate and fanciful costume.

An American, visiting in the château country, was invited by his host to go for a rabbit hunt. With a borrowed gun in his hands and wearing his oldest clothes, the American went. Alongside him, as they trudged through the cover, walked the Frenchman, gorgeous in gaiters and belted jacket, with a pheasant’s feather curling from the brim of his hat.

Presently a bunny darted from a thicket. The American raised his fowling-piece.

“Don’t shoot!” cried out his host. “That’s Armand, a great pet of ours. We never shoot at Armand.”

A little further along a second rabbit hopped into view. Again the visitor made ready to fire and again his host detained him with:

“That one is Pierre. We never shoot at Pierre, either.”

Almost immediately, a third rabbit, a long rangy animal, came bouncing into sight.

“Shoot! Shoot!” cried the Frenchman, throwing his own gun to his shoulder. “That is Fanchon. We always shoot at Fanchon.”

§ 226 Down and Out for the Count

Dr. Jones, a young physician with a growing practice, had been going night and day for the better part of a week. If it wasn’t the stork busy in one part of the town it was the malaria microbe busy in another. He kept up his round of visits until exhausted nature demanded a respite.

He staggered into his house in the evening completely fagged out, and tumbled into bed, telling his wife that, excepting upon a matter of life and death, he was not to be called.

At two o’clock in the morning she came to his bedside, shook him, pinched him, slapped him in the face with a wet washrag and finally roused him to a state of semi-consciousness. Mrs. Smith, physically the biggest woman in town, had been seized with a heart attack at her home on the next street and he was wanted immediately.

He struggled to his feet, threw a few garments on over his night-clothes, caught up his emergency kit and in a sort of walking trance made his way to the Smith residence. A frightened member of the household led him to the sick-room. There the patient lay, a great mountain of flesh, her features congested and her breath coming in laborious panting. Dr. Jones took her pulse and her temperature and examined her eyes, her lips and her tongue. Then he perched himself in a half recumbent attitude upon the side of the bed, put his right ear against her left breast and said:

“Madam, will you kindly start counting very slowly? Now then, one-two-three and so on. Go on until I tell you to stop.”

Obediently the sufferer began.

The next thing Dr. Jones knew was when a shaft of bright morning sunlight fell upon his face, and, drowsily, he heard a faint, weak female voice saying:

“Nine-thousand-seven-hundred and one, nine-thousand-seven-hundred and two——!”

§ 227 The Plan of the Shut-In

A gentleman who resided in the heart of the Corn Belt paid his first visit to Chicago. With him came two friends. The three of them occupied one large room in a Loop hotel.

On the second day of sight-seeing the Corn Belter’s feet gave out on him. Leaving his companions to finish out the evening at a theatre, he returned to the hotel and went to bed. When the other two arrived, shortly before midnight, they found the door of their room locked. They pounded on the panels until the sleeper awakened.

“Let us in, Zach!” said one of them impatiently.

“Let yourself in,” he answered. “The key is outside there in the hall.”

“How does it come to be outside when you’re inside?” demanded one of them.

“Oh, after I got undressed I throwed it over the transom so’s you fellers could git in without no trouble. It must be layin’ on the floor.”

They found the key and admitted themselves. As they entered one of them asked:

“Say, Zach, what would you have done, locked in here this way, if there’d been a fire?”

“Why, I wouldn’t have went.”

§ 228 The Quick-Thinking Referee

In the ninth inning the score was a tie, with two men on bases for the home team and one out. Naturally the excitement was intense—for this game was for blood money and the Afro-American championship of the county. The umpire, a small, dapper man, a barber by profession and naturally mild-mannered, was filled with regret that the opportunity for prominence had lured him into taking this job. He had a sincere conviction that, no matter what decision he made next, somebody would feel aggrieved.

The manager of the side at bat sent in, as an emergency hitter, a large, broad-shouldered person with a reputation for being very touchy on matters affecting his personal interests or his personal honor. As this individual moistened the bat after the approved manner he cast a glowering look upon the umpire who crouched back of the catcher.

“Jedge ’em an’ jedge ’em right, lil’ nigger,” he growled, “else six of yore friends ’ll be wearin’ w’ite gloves ’bout dis time day after to-mor’.”

The pitcher wound up and sped the ball across.

“Strike one!” shrilled the umpire.

As the batter turned his head to scowl at the referee the pitcher shot another across—a perfect one, waist high and right over the center of the plate. _Plunk!_ it landed in the catcher’s mitt.

“Two!” chanted the umpire.

The big darky dropped his bat. He fixed both brawny hands on the throat of the umpire and squeezed hard. There was murder in his eyes.

“Two whut?” he demanded as though he could not believe his outraged ears.

“Too high fur a strike!” quavered the umpire with magnificent presence of mind. “Yas, suh, entirely too high fur a strike.”

§ 229 George, the Forbearing

When Millie came on a Saturday night to bring the week’s washing her comely, pleasant brown face was disfigured by a swollen black contusion which began at her left eye and extended downward until it covered her cheek.

“Oh, Millie,” said her distressed employer, “what a dreadful bruise! How did it ever happen?”

“A nigger man hit me,” explained Millie simply.

“Oh, that’s terrible!” exclaimed the white lady. “I hope—I hope it wasn’t your husband that struck you?”

“No’m, Mizz Harrison, ’twuzn’t him. Gawge, he don’t never hit me. He treats me mo’ lak a friend than a husband.”

§ 230 An Old One and Its Younger Half-Brother

Everybody does know—or should know—the ancient wheeze of the theatre manager who posted a sign in his house: “Don’t Smoke—Remember the Iroquois Fire,” and of the wag who wrote under this the added warning: “Don’t Spit—Remember the Johnstown Flood.” A half-brother to this yarn, of somewhat newer vintage, however, comes from a regular army post.

A newly enlisted private, still unskilled in military etiquette, flung a lighted cigarette end on the parade ground. The first sergeant of his company saw the crime committed. He made the offender pick up the smouldering butt and then stand at attention while being scolded at length.

When mess call sounded, the new hand was tardy for his meal.

“What made you late?” demanded the sergeant.

“Oh,” said the private, “I walked down to the river to spit.”

§ 231 Corroboration from On High

Little Florence was inclined to over-exaggeration; also she was overly timid in some regards. Her mother was striving to rid her of both faults.

One afternoon Florence was playing in the front yard. A fox-terrier, belonging to a neighbor, darted at her playfully. With a shriek of fright Florence fled indoors and never stopped running until she had reached the room upstairs where her mother sat.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Marshall.

“Mamma,” said Florence, “a great big bear came through a crack in the fence and chased me in the house; he almost caught me, too.”

“Florence,” said the mother sternly, “aren’t you ashamed of yourself to be so frightened of Mr. James’ little pet dog and then to tell a deliberate falsehood? I was sitting here at the window and I saw the whole thing. Now I’m going to punish you. You go in your own room and get down on your knees and confess to the Lord that you’re a naughty little girl and that you told your mother a deliberate lie. I want you to stay there, too, until you feel sure that you have obtained forgiveness for your sin.”

The sunshine outside was alluring and there was a mud-pie in a half finished state in the yard. Florence reluctantly withdrew herself to the privacy of the nursery. In a surprisingly short time she opened the door and poked her head out.

“It’s all right, mother,” she said. “I told God all about it and He says He didn’t blame me a bit. He thought it was a bear, too, when He first saw it.”

§ 232 Suffering from a Relapse

In those wicked days before the Eighteenth Amendment and the Volstead Act put an end to all liquor-drinking in America there were two actors in New York who sometimes carried their social inclinations to an extreme. To put the matter brutally, they occasionally had attacks of what were known in the vernacular as the “willies.” While recuperating from these seizures they customarily patronized the same sanitarium. Let us, for convenience’s sake, call them A. and B.

It befell one day that A. felt himself to be acutely in need of a period devoted to rest and restoration. As he approached the door of the sanitarium he met his friend, B., rather white and drawn-looking, just coming out.

“’Lo, old man,” said A. somewhat thickly, and with difficulty repressing a hiccup, “whaz mazzer wiz you? Same ol’ complaint, eh?”

“I’m all right now,” said B., “but I’ve had an awful time. Never again for me—I’m through. You may think I’m a little bit shaky and nervous now, but you should have seen me last week before I began to get over it. Why, man, for ten days, little red lizards with green eyes and purple tails were crawling all over me.”

With his horrified eyes starting from his head, A. aimed a tremulous forefinger at B.’s coat collar.

“My God, man!” he cried. “You—you ain’t well yet! There’s one of ’em on you now!”

§ 233 One Old Enough to Merit Respect

I venture to present here and now the famous and deservedly immortal tale of the Educated Flea. At a theatrical hotel a vaudeville performer was stopping. He was the owner of a troupe of performing fleas. One evening, at dinner, he was telling his fellow-lodgers how he went about the job of training his tiny pets. To demonstrate, he cleared a space on the table, took one of his fleas, an especially intelligent and gifted insect, out of a small box, and proceeded to put the lively little chap through his paces.

“Hop East!” he commanded, and the flea hopped.

“Hop West!” The flea obeyed.

“Forward!” The flea marched.

“Face about!” And the flea whirled into the air to execute the command. But one of the lady boarders, in the intensity of her interest, was bending close and the flea landed in her hair and was instantly lost from view.

Confusion followed. After much searching the lady produced the truant and the performance was resumed.

“Hop East!” the man commanded, but the flea refused to move.

“Hop West, then!” The flea remained stationary. Surprised, the owner leaned over and scrutinized the performer more closely. Then, sitting up with a start and staring at the lady, he said in a stern, accusing voice:

“Madam, there has been a mistake—this is not my flea!”

§ 234 The Retort Courteous

There was once a boy who grew up in the village of Weeping Willow, Nebraska, with the persisting idea in his head that railroading offered the best career for an ambitious and energetic youth. When he was eighteen his opportunity came. He got a job as helper to the local station agent at forty dollars a month.

Years passed. The youth was a youth no longer; he was nearing his fortieth birthday but still he served the railroad at Weeping Willow. So well and so truly had he served it that, step by step, the management had widened the scope of his duties until now he was the entire resident staff of the great transcontinental system which passed through Weeping Willow. He was station agent, dispatcher, ticket-seller, train-caller, express-agent, baggage-handler, janitor and porter, all rolled into one. As a further mark of the esteem in which it held him and of the confidence it reposed in him, the railroad had never seen fit to reduce his wages by a single penny. He still drew down his forty a month just as regularly as pay-day came around.

Yet there were people in Weeping Willow who could not understand why it was that, holding so many responsible positions and receiving so steady an income, the man sometimes should show signs of broodiness and irritation verging upon outright melancholy. But such was the case. At times his peevishness was most marked.

On a broiling July day he sat in his small cubby-hole of an inner sanctum manipulating the key of his telegraph instrument. It was one of his gloomy days. As he sat with the perspiration coursing down his nose and his black calico sleeve protectors growing damp and soggy upon his wrists, the local Baptist minister, whom he disliked excessively, poked his head through the ticket window and in his best pulpit voice said:

“Brother, what tidings of the noon train?”

Without lifting his head the dripping misanthrope made answer:

“Not a gol darn tiding!” he said.

§ 235 The Proper Point of View

There was an Englishman who made a tour of this continent. The tourist was a fit type of a certain group of Englishmen who think that nothing is worth while unless it is to be found on British soil, or at least under the protecting shadow of the Union Jack.

When he got back to New York after his swing across the land, an American asked him what he thought of our country.

“Oh, on the whole, rather tiresome,” said the visitor.

“Didn’t you see anything out of the ordinary?” asked the American.

“Cahn’t say that I was especially impressed.”

“Well,” said the American, “you astonish me. We rather thought there were a few interesting sights over here. Did you, by any chance, see Niagara Falls?”

“Oh, yes. Spent half a day there.”

“Well, isn’t Niagara Falls worth looking at?”

“From the Canadian side—yes!”

§ 236 Between the Cloves and the Hiccough

Before prohibition the bar in the Lambs’ Club—now given over to soft drinks, confectionery and vain regrets—was a famous place. I think more quick humor originated there than on any other spot of similar size on this hemisphere.

I remember one night when a distinguished comedian in a groggy condition was clinging to the rail. Only a few days before, he had announced that he was off the stuff forever. A fellow-actor entered.

“Why, Jack,” he said, “I thought you’d taken the pledge and now here you are with a bun on. How did you get it?”

The inebriated one raised his head, revealing a happy, dreamy smile.

“Drink by drink,” he murmured softly. “Drink by drink.”

But, to my way of thinking, the honors for repartee at the Lambs’ bar should go to Hap Ward, of the old team of Ward and Vokes. Hap, one day, was acting as host to a group of thirsty Lambs. A newcomer joined the party, bringing with him as a guest a gentleman of a serious aspect. When introductions had been completed, Hap addressed the stranger.

“What will you have, sir?”

The visitor drew himself up.

“I have never indulged in the habit of imbibing strong drink in my life,” he said.

“My friend,” said Ward, “I can teach you in three easy lessons.”

§ 237 War Upon the Reptiles

Messrs. Cohen and Shapinsky retired from the white-goods business to devote themselves to lives of leisure. They took up golf.

Mr. Shapinsky sliced his drive and the ball, flying off at a tangent, descended in a bunker. Over the parapet of the bunker there came to the ears of the waiting Mr. Cohen muffled sounds as Mr. Shapinsky with his niblick dug into the sand. Finally he emerged.

“Vell,” he said, “not so bad, huh? It only took me three strokes to get out of that pit.”

“Vat do you mean three strokes?” demanded Mr. Cohen. “Myself I stood here und counted und I distinctly heard you hit the ground mit your iron nine times.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Shapinsky, “I vas killing a snake.”

§ 238 One of Those Nature-Faking Yarns

A gentleman of social habits came home one evening to be confronted by a wife bristling with indignation. No sooner had he opened the front door of the apartment than she fired a blast at him.

“Why, my dear,” he said, “what’s the matter?”

“Matter enough,” she answered. “I thought you told me that you were going down to Belmont track yesterday afternoon with a party of men!”

“That’s right,” he said, “what of it?”

“Then perhaps you can explain this,” she said. “This morning I sent the suit you wore yesterday out to be pressed. But first I went through the pockets and in one of the pockets I found a card and on the card was written in your handwriting: ‘Evelyn, 2161 Fitzroy.’ Now then, what does this mean?”

Without a moment’s hesitation the husband answered.

“My dear child,” he said soothingly, “the thing is simplicity itself. ‘Evelyn’ is the name of a racehorse—a friend gave me a tip on her. And ‘2161’ were the odds on her for first and second place. ‘Fitzroy’ is the name of the jockey. Surely you’ve heard of Fitzroy, the famous jockey? Now then, aren’t you ashamed that you suspected me?”

The lady admitted that she might have been a bit hasty in jumping at conclusions. She dried her tears and peace descended upon the household.

On the following evening the husband entered the flat at peace with the world and whistling a merry catch. An ominous silence greeted him.

“Hello, dearie!” he hailed. “How do you feel?”

“I’m quite all right, considering,” answered his wife frigidly.

“Any mail here for me?”

“You might look and see.”

“Anybody drop in to-day?”

“No.”

“Has anything happened at all?”

“Well,” she said, “about three o’clock this afternoon your racehorse called up and asked for you.”

§ 239 The Unaccommodating Kansan

Our country was enjoying one of its regular Japanese war-scares. I forget, now, whether it was the fifteenth or the sixteenth Japanese war-scare. A Congressman, representing a Kansas district, felt that a crisis impended.

On the floor of the House he made a speech pointing out the need of preparedness, and having done this, he took the train for his district with a view to sounding out his constituents upon the advisability and wisdom of the measures he so strenuously had advocated.

However, upon his arrival home, he was pained to note that the voters seemed strangely apathetic as regarded the prospect of an invasion by the Mikado’s armed forces. By a personal campaign the Representative undertook to arouse his people to the seriousness of the situation.

The first prospective convert he encountered was an elderly farmer, who listened as the statesman expounded his views and then slowly shook his head, in seeming dissent.

“But look here, John,” protested the Congressman. “If this war comes it may be necessary to call every able-bodied man in America to arms. You even may be called. Wouldn’t you fight the Japs if they set foot on the soil of this country?”

“I reckon I wouldn’t do that,” said the farmer. “From what I kin understand, most every Japanese is what they call a fatalist.”

“What has their fatalism got to do with your duty as a patriot?” asked the Congressman.

“Well,” said the honest Kansan, “it looks to me like I couldn’t derive much nourishment from fightin’ with a lot of fellows that think you’re doing ’em a personal favor every time you kill one of ’em.”

§ 240 The Happy Return

Egbert, aged seven, went to the Sunday-school picnic. For days he had been looking forward to the event; but, as in the case of so many other things, realization hardly measured up to anticipation.

In the wagon on the way to the picnic ground, Egbert had a personal difference with a fellow-passenger. He came out of the altercation second best. Shortly after his arrival at the scene of festivities he sat down on a bumble-bee, with the result that he was painfully stung. Then he fell in the creek. A little girl took offence at a perfectly innocent pleasantry on his part and smacked his face and pulled his hair. He got badly sunburnt.

Late in the afternoon Egbert, in a disheveled state, reached home. As he limped up the front steps his father, glancing up from the evening paper, said:

“Well, son, what sort of a time did you have at the picnic?”

“Papa,” said Egbert, “I’m so glad I’m back I’m glad I went.”

§ 241 Bringing in the Sheaves

This story may or may not be true, but in view of the drops in the currencies of certain European countries which suffered heavily in the Great War, I am inclined to think it at least has a plausible sound to it.

It is said that a Swiss hotel-keeper made an announcement which was calculated to bring him the patronage of refugee notables from other lands. He gave it out that at current rates of exchange, he would accept money of any Continental nation in settlement of accounts. As a consequence, his establishment was at once filled up with distinguished exiles.

An Austrian asked for his bill. He glanced at the figures and then heaved a heavy suitcase upon the desk of the proprietor.

“You will find enough money in this bag to pay you,” he said.

Next to come was a German nobleman. Upon learning the amount of his indebtedness he produced a yellow slip and put it into the hand of the Swiss.

“This,” he said, “is the bill of lading for a carload of marks which arrived yesterday, consigned to me. The car is now at the station. Go there and get as many bales as you need.”

The third patron was a Russian prince. After a glance at his bill he drew from an inner pocket a flat thin heavy package which gave off a metallic sound as he deposited it upon the desk-top.

“What’s this?” asked the hotel-keeper.

“These,” said the Russian, “are the engraver’s plates. Kindly take them and print as many million-ruble notes as may be required.”

§ 242 Regarding the Brooklyn Boys

It would seem that a person named George customarily patronized a certain bar wherein gathered nightly a group of men whose highest ambition was to be on their feet when all the others were under the table, and whose proudest boast was that they had never been known to “pass out of the picture.” To these ambitions George subscribed.

One night they missed George. Nor did he come the next evening, nor the next, nor the next. It was a month before he reappeared; and then he was so swathed in bandages, so painfully hopping on crutches, that they swarmed around him with excited questionings.

“How did I get this way?” said George. “Well, I’ll tell you. Y’ remember that las’ night I was here? Drinkin’ pretty heavy that night, but you know how it is with me. . . . When I left, the ol’ bean was as clear as a bell. Actually, I might just as well not a’ had anything. Well, somehow I knew the Brooklyn Boys were going to show up that night: I sort of felt it. And when I turned out the light an’ hopped into the ol’ bed, sure enough there was two of them—one on each corner, down by my feet.”

“The Brooklyn Boys?” somebody queried.

“Yeh, sure,” said George. “You know ’em, don’t you? Little men about so high”—with his hands he indicated a span of four or five inches—“in bright yellow shirts.

“Well, as I said, there they were, two of ’em. I laid still for awhile, pretendin’ I was asleep, an’ watched ’em lookin’ at me and then at each other, and noddin’ their heads an’ sayin’: ‘That’s him. That’s the guy.’ Then all of a sudden I made a spring at them. But they got away . . . one hopped over the transom and one oozed out through the keyhole.

“‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘that settles ’em for to-night.’ An’ I got back in bed.

“D’ye know, I hadn’t been there a minute when I looked around and saw, there in the middle of the floor, seven of those Brooklyn Boys, all lookin’ up at me and noddin’ among themselves and sayin’: ‘That’s the guy there—that’s him.’

“Well, I jumped out of bed like a flash but they were too quick for me. They all scooted—under the door, over the door, through the keyhole an’ everywheres.

“Well, I thought I’d sure finished ’em for a while. But I’d no sooner got back in bed when I heard a sound and I looked around and there was _sixty_ Brooklyn Boys! I knew they was up to something because they’d look up at me and then nod among themselves and whisper: ‘That’s him, all right. Uh-huh, that’s him.’

“All this time, y’understand, the ol’ head was clear as a bell. I knew perfectly well what I was doing.

“So I jumped right at them—because that’s the best way to get rid of the Brooklyn Boys, y’know. But they all got away, every single one, and I got back in bed again, thinkin’ I was safe now for sure. Well, d’ye know what?”

“What?” asked somebody.

“Why, I hadn’t but barely got back in bed when I looked down and there on the floor was _thirty-five thousand_ Brooklyn Boys! And this time each one had a little musket over his shoulder. Well, the leader he lines them all up and waved his sword up toward me in the bed and yelled: ‘That’s him, boys! That’s the guy, up there!’

“Then he yelled: ‘Ready!’ . . .

“Then he yelled: ‘Aim!’ . . .

“Well, now, as I said, all this time the ol’ bean was workin’ beautifully. I saw just what they was up to and before that Brooklyn Boy that had the sword could yell, ‘Fire!’ I’d jumped clean out of bed and through the window.”

George paused, and wetted his throat with an appropriate liquid.

“Of course,” he added, “my room is on the third floor an’ I got sort o’ banged up—as you fellas notice. But just think what might have happened if I’d been drunk and couldn’t a’ made that jump in time!”

§ 243 When O. Henry Met the Poet Scout

Bob Davis of _Munsey’s Magazine_, who has a mania for bringing celebrities together just to see how they react on each other, was strolling along Broadway with O. Henry in the latter hours of the nineteenth century, when Captain Jack Crawford, the poet scout, his hair waving in the wind, came sailing across Madison Square. Davis introduced the pair and dragged them off to lunch.

Captain Jack, like most poets, having memorized all his own verse, never let a chance go by to hold the willing or unwilling listener spellbound. He opened up on the Bagdad Scribe before the oysters arrived. He spilled frontier poetry all over the premises, shook his hair out in a burst of blank verse, wedded the Pecos River to the Rocky Mountains, swept through the Yellowstone, tramped the plains, shot Indians, broke horses and piled the rhythmic dust of pioneer days all over O. Henry.

Captain Jack did all the talking and all the reciting that was done at that luncheon, which lasted two hours. About 3.30 P. M. the party broke up and O. Henry staggered out into the fresh air waving Davis and Crawford a mute farewell.

In the morrow’s mail Bob received the following note:

“My dear Colonel Davis:

“How is your friend Captain Crack Jawford, the go it spout?

“O. Henry.”

§ 244 Our Institutions Approved

A candidate for citizenship came to a naturalization bureau in New York to take out his first papers. The applicant was a Russian who spoke badly broken English. With him was a friend and sponsor from the East Side.

Under examination the candidate betrayed a tremendous lack of knowledge of national history and institutions and public men. Finally the examiner turned to the alien’s companion:

“Here,” he said testily, “this man’s ignorance is appalling. Take him away and explain something to him about the Constitution and the government of the United States. Don’t bring him back until he is better qualified.”

The East Sider led his crestfallen fellow-countryman away. Within an hour they both returned.

“Here,” said the Examiner, “what brings you here again?”

“Everything is all right,” stated the East Sider. “I took my friend out and read to him out of the Constitution, and he says he likes it first-rate.”

§ 245 The Annoyed Mr. Goldstein

A gentleman named Goldstein graduated out of the buttonhole-making line into practical politics. He gave his allegiance to the Republican party.

That year the Republicans carried New York state. They also carried Mr. Goldstein’s election district which was an even more notable victory inasmuch as it was in a heavily Democratic section. At that time Chauncey Depew was U. S. Senator from New York; also head of the New York Central Railroad and likewise Republican state chairman.

Bright and early on the morning after election day Mr. Goldstein was at the outer doors of Mr. Depew’s offices in the old Grand Central terminal building. He sent word in that Mr. Goldstein, the politicianer, desired to see the head of the line.

Being admitted, he directed Mr. Depew’s attention to the result of the voting in his neighborhood and claimed credit for the showing. Mr. Depew agreed with him that he had done well and that his labors in behalf of the party entitled him to recognition and reward. He desired to know how he personally or the G.O.P. might serve his friend.

At this Mr. Goldstein confessed to an ambition. He straightway desired, he said, to become a dispatcher for the railroad.

Depew directed his caller’s attention to the fact that a dispatcher, among other essential qualifications, must have more or less knowledge of telegraphy. It then developed, that Mr. Goldstein thought a dispatcher was one of those functionaries in blue uniform who, through megaphones, called incoming and outgoing trains in the station.

Behold, then, Mr. Goldstein on a night, one week later, arrayed, in blue and brass, proudly pacing the main waiting-room, a megaphone under his arm and conscious dignity, conscious power and conscious pomp in his manner. Presently his chance comes. He lifts his voice and this statement comes from him:

“Say, efferbody, listen. It gifs me the outmost bleasure to announce that a lofely train, mit cushioned seats und a conductor und ef’rything pleasant—say, you’d like that train—is now aboud leafing on track Number Fife for Albany, Uticcer, Ro-chester, Syracuse, Buffaler und points on the Vest. Who would like to go in a nice train for some points on the Vest?”