Chapter IX: Foreword (9)

“Oh, just give him back his three cents and tell him to go to hell!”

§ 289 Stylish Language, Indeed!

For years, a certain worthy and highly intelligent old colored woman did our family washing. One Saturday night after she had fetched the week’s laundry she sat in the kitchen of our home before she started on her return trip to her own house a mile and a half away. My mother came to the kitchen door to chat with her a little while.

From remarks which the old woman let fall, my mother gathered that Aunt Milly, although very devout, did not seem to care deeply for the present pastor of her church.

“Mis’ Manie,” said Aunt Milly, “I’m goin’ tell you how I put that there biggety preachin’ man in his place. Yere yistiddy evenin’ jest ’fo’ suppertime, I wuz settin’ on my front po’ch w’en the Rev’n Rogers come along by. He sees me settin’ there an’ he stops an’ fumbles wid the gate latch an’ he sez to me he sez, ‘Sist’ Carter, I would have speech with thee?’—jest lak that.

“Now, Mis’ Manie, I ain’t aimin’ to let no nigger whatsoever, even ef he is a min’ster of the gospel, use mo’ stylish language ’en whut I kin. So I sez right back to him, I sez, ‘Rev’n, draw nigh an’ ye shall be heard!’

“So he undo the gate an’ come on up the walk to my do’step. But no sooner do he start in to speak ’en I know whut ’tis he’s fixin’ to say. He fixin’ to ax my sympathy on ’count of that tore-down limb of a onmarried daughter of his’n havin’ got herse’f mixed up in a scandalizin’ an’ bein’ tawked about all over the neighborhood. So, jest soon ez I sees whut he’s drivin’ at, I th’ows up my right hand like this, an’ I sez to him, I sez,

“‘Rev’n,’ I sez, ‘hold! Yere last fall,’ I sez, ‘w’en my husband, Isaiah Carter, at the age of seventy-fo’ w’en he should a’knowed better, wuz mekin’ hisse’f kind of promisc’us by hangin’ ’round two of the lady members of the congregation, an’ I went to you,’ I sez, ‘an’ axed you, az the pastor, to ’monstrate wid him, whut did you do? Jest because he’d done give you five dollars fur the new organ fund, you tole me to shet up my black mouth an’ go on home an’ ’tend to my own bizness.’

“‘Rev’n,’ I sez, ‘ez ye sows, so shall ye reap! Rev’n, pass on!’”

§ 290 The Original Package

Marjorie, aged four, marched into the grocer’s to tell the news.

“We’ve got a new baby brother up at our house,” she said.

“You don’t tell me!” said the grocer. “Is he going to stay with you?”

“I guess so,” said Marjorie; “he’s got his things off.”

§ 291 The Voice of a Husband

An Eastern college professor, on his first visit to Yellowstone Park, attempted to study at close range the grizzly bears that came down to the garbage heaps back of the Fountain Hotel for their provender. An irritable she-bear, with a cub in tow, resented his scientific curiosity. She hauled off and slapped him about fifteen feet and was preparing to claw him when Mrs. Professor came running up, armed with an umbrella, and by opening and closing it repeatedly, so frightened the bear that she departed without doing any serious injury to the startled investigator.

On the following day, two cowboys who, in the season, served as park guides, were discussing the affair. Said the first one:

“I claim that was a powerful brave woman, takin’ her own life in her hands to save that fool husband of hers.”

“I don’t see nothin’ so brave about it,” said his friend. “Anybody would do that.”

“Like hell they would! Spose’n some bear had your wife down and was fixin’ to claw her to death—what would you do?”

“Me? I’d give three loud ringin’ cheers.”

§ 292 The Passive Rôle

It is set forth that during the Civil War a young officer in the Union Army was taking a stroll along a road in Virginia when he met an old negro man and engaged him in conversation. The ancient darky returned such quaint answers to the Northerner’s questions that the latter was moved to quiz him humorously.

“Uncle,” he said, “you know, don’t you, that this war between us and the Rebs is largely on your account?”

“Yas, sah, dat’s whut I done heared ’em say.”

“Well, you crave to have your freedom, don’t you?”

“I ’spects I does.”

“Then why aren’t you in the army yourself?”

The negro scratched his head reflectively.

“Boss,” he said, at length, “did you ever see two dawgs fightin’ over a bone?”

“Yes, many a time.”

“Well, wuz de bone fightin’?”

§ 293 The Suggestion of a Scandal

In a high state of excitement little Evelyn runs into the house.

“Oh, mother!” she cries out. “Our pussy-cat has got some kittens and I didn’t even know she was married!”

§ 294 A Warning Word to a Friend

Two Irishmen, newly landed, got jobs as laborers in a small machine shop on the second story of a loft-building, so-called, on the lower West Side of New York. Under the fire regulations, smoking by the operatives was not permitted while they were on duty. During their first morning in the new place one of the green hands, whose name was Donlan, craved a few comforting whiffs from his pipe. He voiced his desire and a friendly fellow-employee confided to him that in such cases it was customary to ask leave of the foreman to go to the washroom and there to steal a clandestine smoke.

Thus advised, Donlan approached his boss and inquired the whereabouts of the washroom.

“Go down the hall,” said the foreman, “and take the first turn to the right, and the second door you come to after that is the door to the lavatory.”

Donlan undertook to follow instructions but he made a mistake. In the darkness he took the turn to the left instead of the right-hand turn, and, opening the second door, stepped into the elevator shaft and struck with a bump on the ground floor below.

Presently he came back upstairs. He was sweeping up rubbish when O’Day, his buddy, asked him where was the washroom.

Donlan gave him the direction as he remembered it, and, as O’Day turned to go, he called out to him:

“But say, Larry, look out for the top step—it’s a son-of-a-gun!”

§ 295 Obstructing the Highway

There is a corner in a Southern state, down near the Mississippi River, where formerly lynchings occurred more frequently than they do these times. In the days before the rural-free-delivery system was adopted, Uncle Gip Thomas held the contract for delivering the mail in this neighborhood. So regular was he that the residents almost could set their clocks by him.

But one day he was nearly two hours late in reaching the end of the line, where there was a tiny cross-roads hamlet. Just as the citizens were forming a posse to set out in search of him, in fear that some mishap had befallen him, Uncle Gip ambled into view.

“What delayed you, Uncle Gip?” asked the postmaster. “Did you happen to an accident or did an accident happen to you?”

“Nary one, nor both,” stated Uncle Gip. “But about ten o’clock this mornin’, jest before I crossed the creek, I come to where some of the boys had done left a nigger hangin’ right thar in the public road. Well, suh, my mare she got skeered and shied back, and I jest natchelly couldn’t make her go past him noways; so finally I had to tear down a panel of rail fence and lead her through the gap and lay the fence back up again and go through the woods down into the hollow and ford the creek and then tear another gap in the fence before I could get back again on the turnpike—and that was what kept me so late.” Uncle Gip paused a moment and then went on again in an aggrieved tone:

“Honest, boys, it does look to me like there oughter be a law against leavin’ a nigger hangin’ in the public road.”

§ 296 In Part Settlement

The men who earn their living on the waters and in the marshes of the Great South Bay of Long Island are a race unto themselves. They are a sturdy, independent lot, and, almost without exception, are endowed with a quaint native wit.

One winter’s day a party of baymen sat around a red-hot stove in a little oyster shanty on one of the farther bars. The talk veered this way and that until finally there arose the ancient question:

“What would you do if you had a million dollars?”

One of the company allowed he’d buy himself an ocean-going yacht and tour the world. Another rather thought he’d adopt orphans and educate them. And so forth and so on.

All this time, Old Man Banks, locally celebrated as the most shiftless man in the county, had sat in silence, rolling his quid and staring reflectively into the hot coals.

“Say, Banks,” quoth one of the group, “you been keepin’ pretty quiet; what would you do if somebody was to hand you a million in cash?”

The ancient deftly spat in through the open stove door before he answered:

“Well,” he said, “I don’t know exactly, but I reckon I’d pay it on my debts ez fur ez it went.”

§ 297 The Apostolic Switch

An Irishman walked up Fifth Avenue one Wednesday night, dropped into a place of worship and immediately went to sleep. After the prayer-meeting services were over the sexton came and shook him by the arm.

“We are about to close up,” said that functionary, “and I’ll have to ask you to go now.”

“What talk have you?” said the Irishman. “The cathedral never closes.”

“This is not the cathedral,” said the sexton. “The cathedral is several blocks above here. This is a Presbyterian church.”

The Irishman sat up with a jerk and looked about him. On the walls between the windows were handsome paintings of the Apostles.

“Ain’t that Saint Luke over yonder?” he demanded.

“It is,” said the sexton.

“And ’tis Saint Mark just beyant him, if I’m not mistook?”

“Yes.”

“And still farther along Saint Timothy?”

“Yes.”

“Young man,” demanded the Irishman, “since whin did all thim turn Protestant?”

§ 298 In One of His Tamer Moments

Fred Kelly, the writer, was standing on a street corner in Cleveland waiting for a car. A small man, densely grown up in whiskers and with a mild manner and a diffident way of speaking, sidled up to him.

“Excuse me,” he said, “are you acquainted with this town?”

“More or less,” said Kelly.

“Well,” said the stranger, “maybe you can tell me, then, where the street fair is going on.”

It so chanced that Kelly knew the location where a carnival company was holding forth for the week, and he gave the directions for reaching the spot. Then, as the little meek-looking man started off, Kelly was moved to put a question on his own account:

“Are you running one of the concessions over there?” he asked.

“No,” said the little fellow, “but I’m working in one of them.”

“What do you do?”

“I work in a side-show that they’ve got over there. I’m the wild man.”

§ 299 That Thick Hotel Crockery

A Northern man was stopping at a small hotel in Alabama. One night after he had retired there came a knocking at his door.

“Who is it?” he asked, sitting up in bed.

“Hit’s me, boss,” came the somewhat cryptic answer.

“Who’s ‘me’?”

“One of de bell-boys.”

“What do you want at this time of night?”

“Got a telegram fur you, boss.”

“Oh, that’s it? Well, it’s not very important, I guess. I’ll read it when I get up in the morning. Just shove it under the door.”

There was a pause. Then, in a voice made sharp by the fear of losing a tip, the darky spoke:

“I can’t—hit’s on a plate!”

§ 300 A Reduction for Cash

Any Scot will tell you that, while as a race the Scotch are thrifty, it is in Aberdeen that thrift becomes an exact science.

And it was in Aberdeen, so the story runs, that an especially frugal citizen entered an apothecary’s shop or, as we would say in America, a drug store. He told the proprietor that he wished to purchase three-pence worth of morphine.

The chemist pondered over a request so unusual. Customarily he sold the drug only on a physician’s prescription; but this customer was known to him as reputable and responsible. Nevertheless, he must make sure the purpose was proper.

“Thr-pence worth of morphine, eh?” he said. “What would ye be wantin’ it for?”

The native thought a moment.

“Tuppence,” he said.

§ 301 Extending Down to the Very Bottom

Let us not forget the story of the young woman who had a tooth which must come out. She agreed with the practitioner that it should be drawn, but each time he brought the forceps into view she clenched her jaws tightly together and refused to open them until he put down the shining instrument to argue with her.

Finally he had an inspiration. He bade his woman assistant get a long hatpin from her hat and station herself just behind where the obdurate patient sat.

“Now, then,” he counseled her, “when I get the forceps right close to her lips I’ll give you the signal and you jab the hatpin clear up through the seat of the chair. Naturally, she’ll open her mouth to say ‘Ouch!’ and then I’ll get that tooth. It’s very loose—it’ll come out in a jiffy.”

The artifice worked. As the dentist held up the ousted tooth he said soothingly:

“Now, then, that wasn’t so bad after all, was it?”

“No,” said the relieved sufferer; “only one sharp, darting pain. But oh, doctor, I had no idea that the roots of a tooth went down so deep!”

§ 302 Belated but Sincere

The funeral was over. The elderly widower, having returned from the cemetery, sat on the front porch of his small New Hampshire cottage whistling to himself. A neighbor passed, and saw the solitary figure in the shadow of the porch, and halted his team.

“Well, Uncle Gil,” he said, striving to put sympathy into his tones, “how air you bearin’ up?”

“Fust-rate, Eph,” said the supposedly bereaved one, cheerfully. “Dun’t know ez I ever felt better.”

“I thought mebbe you’d be missin’ her,” said the neighbor. “She was a good wife—tuck keer of your home and raised your children and always done mighty well by you durin’ all the thutty years you lived together.”

“Yas; I know that,” stated the widower. “She done all them things and I lived with her thutty years, jest ez you was sayin’. But, gol-dern her, I never did like her!”

§ 303 An Expert Opinion

When I hear of medical experts disagreeing in a consultation I think of a diagnosis which was made once by a colored person from down South who came North to drive a car for a friend of mine.

This was in the days when automobiles were more prone to functional disorders than at present. The darky was a fair-enough chauffeur and he professed to be a good mechanic, but as subsequent events proved, no reasonably prudent person would entrust him with a nutpick.

One bright Sunday he took his master for a spin over on Long Island. Suddenly, on a lonely road, the car developed a racking cough and a hectic flush and after panting along for a few rods came to a dead stop.

The chauffeur descended from his seat, selected an armload of wrenches and other utensils from the tool-box and wriggled his way under the balking auto. There he hammered and tinkered for twenty minutes. Eventually he crawled out, covered with dust and streaked with grease, and delivered his opinion to his employer.

“Mr. Miner,” he said, “I reckon you’ll have to find yore way back to town the bes’ way you kin. They’s fo’ sep’rit things de matter wid dis yere cyar—an’ I dunno whut nary one of ’em is.”

§ 304 A Well-Merited Rebuke

“Vaiter, vaiter, here vaiter—gif me some addension, uf you blease!”

The gentleman rapped with impatient knuckles on the table top. At his call, a servitor came hurrying to his side.

The scene was a Yiddish restaurant in Grand Street on New York’s East Side. The hour was the luncheon hour. The speaker was a heavily bearded person who had just made his entrance. All about him conveyed the idea that here was a business man in a rush.

“Vaiter,” he said, “you should right avay bring me a knife und a fork und a napkin und a blate; ulso ein glass water. Und make it snappy!”

The waiter, somewhat puzzled, produced the articles called for, then stood by awaiting the order. To his surprise the patron waved him back and then before his astounded eyes drew from one coat-pocket a knuckle of rye bread and from the other a pickled herring and proceeded to make a light but satisfying meal.

Ablaze with indignation the waiter spun on his heel and dashed away to find the proprietor.

“See that guy yonder?” he said, pointing toward the bewhiskered one. “Well, of all the scalded nerve ever I seen in my life—say, you know what that guy done, boss? He come in here a minute ago and made me fetch him a set of feedin’ tools and then, be gee, he hauled out his own chow and started eatin’. Ain’t you goin’ to give him a call-down?”

“I certainly am,” stated the owner. He ranged up alongside the offender.

“Say,” he demanded with terrific sarcasm, “wot kind of a place do you think I’m runnin’ here, anyway?”

The stranger looked up from his repast:

“Vell,” he said calmly, “since you ask me, I got to dell you—der service here iss rotten! Ulso, for why ain’t der orchestra playing?”

§ 305 For Business, Not Pleasure

The newly organized Ku Klux Klan, having had its first parade, was now in session behind locked doors for the purpose of conferring the secret work upon a batch of new members. A stranger tried to shove his way into the hall. The keeper of the outer portals shooed him away. Presently the persistent intruder returned.

“Say, look here,” said the warden, “you don’t belong in here.” He took a closer look at the stranger. “I’m sure of it. Ain’t you Jewish?”

“Shure, I’m Jewish,” answered the other, with an ingratiating smile.

“Well, don’t you know the Ku Klux Klan don’t let no Jews join it?”

“I don’t vant to join.”

“Well, what do you want then?”

“I vant to see the feller vot buys the bed-sheetings.”

§ 306 Let There Be Light!

A young negress visited a dentist of her own race late one afternoon to have an aching molar removed.

“Does you want gas?” inquired the dentist.

“Suttinly I wants gas,” she answered. “Does you think I crave to have a strange man foolin’ ’round me in de dark?”

§ 307 A Little Bed Time Tale

If you have for a friend a clergyman who is slightly deaf, it is proper to tell this story on him, adding that you were present when it happened. As a matter of fact, it has been attributed to every distinguished churchman in this country who is hard of hearing. However, it goes better, I think, when you make the central character a bishop—by preference a very dignified bishop—who is attending a dinner-party.

Seated next to him, on his deafer side, is a young lady who, being naturally diffident, is now deeply awed by her proximity to so famous a man. She hesitates to address him, preferring to wait for what she regards as a favorable opportunity; yet she craves conversation with him.

Toward the end of the meal, fruit is passed about. The nervous guest seizes on this for her cue. Gently she joggles her great neighbor’s elbow.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she says, “but are you fond of bananas?”

His Reverence inclines a stately head in her direction, at the same time cupping his hand behind his ear.

“What did you say?” he asks.

Blushing, the young woman raises her voice:

“It’s really of no consequence,” she says; “I merely asked you whether you liked bananas.”

By now, all the others at the table are listening. The bishop considers for a moment and then replies:

“Well, my dear, if you wish my honest opinion, I have always preferred the old-fashioned night-shirt.”

§ 308 A Growing Suspicion

For years Mrs. Grauman, wife of the wealthy retired shirt-waist manufacturer, had been ailing. Or anyhow, she thought she was ailing. She tried one specialist after another, patronized a succession of sanitariums, took the cure here, there and elsewhere. Yet nothing seemed to help her. She remained a chronic complainer.

The husband’s patience sorely was tested. Also there was a constant drain upon his checkbook. Mr. Grauman didn’t so much mind the latter. Always he had been a generous provider for his family. What secretly irked him was a conviction that the lady’s trouble was more or less imaginary; an unspoken but none-the-less sincere belief that his money was being spent to gratify a neurotic whim. Had Mr. Grauman known the words “malingerer” and “hypochondriac” these undoubtedly were the words he would have applied in his own private diagnosis of the case.

Nevertheless, the invalid, after long months of treatment, succumbed to her mysterious malady. She became no more.

On the night before the funeral the mourning widower sat alone by the bier. For long hours he communed with himself. Finally he reached forth a caressing hand and softly patted the casket.

“Vell,” he said, “maybe Mommer _vas_ sick!”

§ 309 Caught in the Jam

There is an actor in New York who is distinguished among other qualities for his frugality. There have been other frugal actors from time to time, but probably none quite so much so as this gentleman is. His passion for personal economy has come to be proverbial. Let us for convenience call him Jones, which isn’t his name at all.

One day in the early part of December of last year a gentleman of a waggish turn of mind came, with a look of concern on his face, into the Lambs Club. He approached a card table where four brother members were playing bridge.

“Did you hear about the accident to Jones?” he asked.

“No,” they chorused. “What was it?”

“Well, it just happened over on the East Side. While Jones was doing his Christmas shopping he got crushed between two push-carts.”

§ 310 And Getting Worse All the Time

The transcontinental flier had pulled out from Chicago for the long run to the Coast and the conductor had made his rounds, when the passengers in one of the coaches became aware of signs of concern on the part of a fellow traveler. This was an elderly bearded man in old-fashioned garb and of fatherly aspect. He sat with his head in his hands muttering to himself in Yiddish and at intervals uttering low moaning sounds.

They sympathized with his grief and among themselves wondered what ailed him. The common theory was that the poor old fellow must be on his way across country, hoping to reach the bedside of some dear one who was in sore affliction. Or, possibly, he was going west to attend a funeral.

Next morning, as the train entered Kansas, his grief seemed greater even than it had been the night before. He groaned almost continuously, beating himself gently on the breast and at intervals exclaiming:

“Oi! Oi!”

This continued all through that day and the day following. The patriarch seemed so alone in his sorrow; so completely desolated. Kindly eyes regarded him and all on the train wished they might do something to soothe him and comfort him. But he was a stranger and, after all, there wasn’t anything really they could do; besides, they felt it was not proper that they, who never before had seen him, should intrude upon his distress.

Finally, though, on the next afternoon when they were crossing Southern California and were within a few score miles of Los Angeles, one big-hearted man could contain himself no longer. He approached the seat where the old man sat in a huddle of misery and extending a cordial hand, he said:

“Sir, I do not know you. I do not wish you to think that I am inquisitive, but I have been sorely moved by your grief and perhaps now that we are approaching our destination I can be of some small assistance to you. Is there anything I can do?”

Tears gushed from the old man’s eyes as mutely he shook his head.

“I’m so sorry. Pardon me for asking, but have you suffered a personal bereavement?”

The ancient shook his head in the negative.

“Is it worse than that even?”

A nod.

“Well, then, what is the matter?”

“Listen, Meester: T’ree days already I am on der wrong train!”

§ 311 A Temptation to His Majesty

The steamer was calling at the principal port of one of those remote South Sea islands regarding which so much romance has been written these last few years by gifted fictionists and imaginative travelers. In canoes the natives paddled out to welcome the strangers from other climes. At the head of the volunteer reception committee came the ruling monarch, King Some-thing-or-Other, a huge brown man with an air of heavy dignity and a battered high hat upon his head. He was accompanied by the Imperial staff and also by his household retinue, the party including all of his wives, many of his children and his prime minister. The latter was a Cockney beach-comber who had been stranded here years before and who, having been adopted into the tribe had risen to a place of high favor in the eyes of the copper-colored potentate.

The king, his premier, and his body-guard were welcomed aboard ship. The subjects remained alongside, in broken English begging the passengers to throw pennies down to them. Whenever a coin struck the water, half a dozen islanders at once dived for it.

One of the visitors was generously inclined. When he had emptied his pockets of coppers he began flinging out small bits of silver and correspondingly, the excitement among the amphibious natives increased. In the hope of moving them to an even more spirited exhibition of their powers, the white benefactor fished about until he found a silver dollar. He was in the act of hurling it over the side when the prime minister caught his arm.

“Please, sir,” begged the Cockney, “don’t do that, sir. Hi ask you to restrain yourself, sir. You’ll be ’aving ’Is Royal ’Ighness overboard next!”

§ 312 Giving the Lady the Air

A country girl went to Charleston, South Carolina, to have some work done on her teeth. The operator was cleansing a cavity with a small blow-pipe. The patient flinched.

“Do you feel that air?” asked the dentist.

“That air whut?” said the young lady.

§ 313 Complete in Every Detail

The gentleman who entered the popular-price restaurant must have had a great night the night before. Because he felt so miserable this morning. And looked it! He was disheveled; his eyes were wan and bloodshot; his hand trembled. In short, it was plain to any eye that he suffered from what, technically, is known as a hang-over.

He fell into a chair at the table, took one look at the breakfast menu and gagged. To him, all affability, came a colored waiter.

“Well, boss,” began the servitor genially, “whut’s it goin’ to be this mawnin’?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the sufferer. He sniffed the close air of the little place and turned slightly paler. “I feel like the devil. About all I want, I guess, is two fried eggs and a few kind words.”

“Lemme see ef I got that right?” said the waiter. “You is feelin’ kind of puny so all w’ich you craves frum me is two fried aigs an’ a few kind words.”

“That’s it.”

The colored man hurried to the kitchen. Presently he returned balancing a small platter. On the cloth before the nervous patron he placed a dish containing two eggs.

“Boss, here’s part of yore awder.” He sank his voice to a discreet whisper. “An’ yere’s the rest of it:

“_Don’t eat ’em!_”

§ 314 A Bare Statement

The eminent Dr. Blank, specialist in bone and muscular diseases, was a busy man. The routine in his offices was devised with a view to facilitating the handling of cases. He had a full staff of nurses, clerks and attendants.

On a certain morning a neatly dressed and diffident-appearing youth entered the outer room and told the nurse in charge that he wished to see Dr. Blank.

“Have you an appointment?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“Then this must be your first visit?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very well, then. Go to that dressing-room down the hall, second door on the left, and remove all your clothing, including your shoes. Presently a bell will ring and you may then enter the adjoining room where Dr. Blank will be waiting to see you.”

Blushingly, the young man started to say that he didn’t think all this was necessary. With an authoritative gesture the nurse checked him.

“If you really desire to see Dr. Blank you must do exactly as I tell you,” she stated. “This is the invariable rule for all who call upon him for the first time.”

Still protesting, the stranger repaired to the disrobing chamber. Sure enough, within a few minutes a bell tinkled, and, wearing nothing at all except his embarrassment, the youth stepped timorously across a threshold into an inner room where the distinguished specialist sat at a desk.

“Well sir,” snapped the expert with professional brusqueness, “what seems to be the matter with you?”

“There ain’t nothin’ the matter with me,” said the newcomer.

“Well, then, what do you want? What did you come here for?”

“I came,” said the youth, “to see if you didn’t want to renew your subscription to the _Ladies Home Journal_.”

§ 315 One Right Behind Another

Some years ago the editor of a popular publication had an inspiration. He made up a list of men and women distinguished in art, religion, literature, commerce, politics, and other lines, and to each he sent a telegram containing this question: “If you had but forty-eight hours more to live, how would you spend them?” his purpose being to embody the replies in a symposium in a subsequent issue of his periodical.

Among those who received copies of the inquiry was a humorous writer. He thought the proposition over for a spell, and then by wire, collect, sent back this answer:

“One at a time.”

§ 316 How Time Flies, to Be Sure!

A negro in Sunflower County, Mississippi, was tried and convicted of murder and sentenced for a certain date. After he had been returned to his cell to await the time of execution it would appear that he practically was forgotten. The lawyer, who had been appointed by the court to defend him, lost interest in the case. He neither moved for a new trial nor did he take an appeal from the verdict.

Time slipped by until, finally, it dawned upon the condemned darky that, unless he took steps in his own behalf, something of a highly unpleasant nature shortly would be happening. So he sat down and himself wrote a letter to the governor of the state, reading as follows:

“Dere Guvnor:

“The w’ite folks is got me in the jail here at this place and I is in the middle of a right bad fix. So I teks my pen in hand to ax you please, Mister Guvner, to do something fur me right away?

“Because dey is fixin’ to hang me on Friday. And here ’tis Wednesday already!”

§ 317 Honor Where Honor Was Due

A certain distinguished English actor whom we will call Walker-Smith plays a persistent but terrible game of golf. During a visit to this country he visited the links of a country club in Westchester County, New York State.

After an especially miserable showing one morning, he flung down his niblick in disgust.

“Caddy,” he said, addressing the youth who stood alongside, “that was awful, wasn’t it?”

“Purty bad, sir.”

“I’ll have to confess that I am the worst golfer in the world,” continued the actor.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir,” purred the caddy, soothingly.

“Did you ever see a worse player than I am?”

“No, sir, I never did,” confessed the boy truthfully; “but some of the other boys was tellin’ me yistiddy about a gentleman that must be a worse player than what you are. They said his name was Walker-Smith.”

§ 318 On Her Own Motive Power

I am reliably informed that this one really happened down in Winston-Salem, which is the only town in North Carolina that parts its name with a hyphen. A lady who lives there was my informant. She heard it from her pantry window one summer afternoon.

Her cook, Aunt Cilly, was sitting in the kitchen door. The organizer of a new lodge was entreating Aunt Cilly to become a charter member. At length and with eloquence he painted the advantages of belonging to the society. He pointed out its manifold advantages. To begin with, it had a beautiful name made up of noble long words. Its ritual was impressive, its uniform dazzling. Practically every member would hold office, and so forth and so on.

In silence Aunt Cilly harkened until the solicitor ran dry. Then she spoke:

“Tell me dis, Br’er Sawyer, befo’ you goes any fu’ther—do dis yere lodge of your’n fune’lize de daid?”

“To tell you de truth, Sista’, we ain’t quite got ’round to dat part yit,” confessed the orator. “Dey’s been so much else to do. But in due time we aims to ’range ’bout de sick benefits an’ de buryin’ fund an’ all dat.”

“Br’er Sawyer, bresh by,” commanded the sagacious Aunt Cilly. “Yo’ new lodge done lose its taste fur me already. I ’members whut happen’ to dat shiftless flight-haided Fanny Meriwether whut lived jest a little piece up dis same street. Yere two years ago she took an’ up an’ j’ined one of dese yere new-fangled lodges w’ich a strange nigger got up in dis town, same ez whut you’s aimin’ to do now. An’ dat lodge didn’t specify ’bout no buryin’ money, neither. Well, Fanny Meriwether hauled off one day an’ died widout ary cent of money laid by fur to fune’lize her. An’ whut wuz de upshot? W’y, she laid ’round de house daid fur goin’ on three days an’ den dat pore gal had to git to de cemetery de best way she could.”

§ 319 Who’s Who in Newark

Back in those old sinful wet days, two gentlemen, both far overtaken in alcoholic stimulant, were seen under a lamp-post on a street corner in Newark, clinging to each other for support.

As a spectator passed them he overheard the following dialogue carried on in somewhat fuzzy accents:

Said Souse Number One:

“Do you know Bill Talbot?”

Said Souse Number Two after a moment of reflection:

“No; whuzziz name?”

Said Souse Number One:

“Who?”

§ 320 Hives, Perhaps, But No Honey

On their bridal tour the young couple went, as many young couples do on their bridal tours, to Washington. They stopped at one of the larger hotels. For two days they did the usual sight-seeing stunts. They visited the Capitol and the White House and they crossed over to Arlington and they ascended the Monument.

Early on the morning of the third day the husband remained in the room to write some letters. The bride ran out to do a little shopping. Half an hour later she returned. She had left the elevator at her floor and was passing through the long hallway when she discovered that she had forgotten her own room number. She was sure, though, she knew which was the right door, but, when she turned the knob and tried to enter, she found it locked.

She rapped on the panel.

“Let me in, honey,” she said. “I’m back.”

There was no reply.

She rapped again.

“Honey, oh, honey!” she called, “I want to get in.”

From the other side of the door came the voice of a strange man—a dignified and an austere voice:

“Madam, this is not a beehive; it is a bathroom.”

§ 321 A Mystery Revealed

This yarn, which is of English origin, requires quite a bit of stage-setting. We are expected to imagine a village green in the morning. The official village drunkard is revealed in the foreground. It is evident that he has had a hard night. He leans against the village pump, pressing his throbbing temples to the cool iron work. Ambling up to him with a smile of gratification on his chubby cheeks, comes the curate of the parish.

“Good morning, Walker,” says the curate briskly.

“Mornin’,” says Walker, opening one eye wanly but not shifting his position.

“Walker,” continues the curate, “I want to tell you that I was most pleased—although, I must confess, a bit surprised as well—to see you among those present at vesper services last evening.”

“Ow,” says Walker; “so that’s where I was, was I?”

§ 322 It Very Often Proves Fatal

A literal and simple-minded man, by birth a German, sent his wife to the hospital for an operation. The operation was performed in the forenoon. In the afternoon, when he quit work, the husband called to inquire how the patient had stood the ordeal. The nurse told him that she seemed to be improving.

Early the next morning he was on hand asking for the latest tidings from the sick-room, and again he was informed that his wife still appeared to be improving. Twice daily all through the week he received similar reports.

But one morning when he called he was met with the distressing news that she had passed away. In a daze the widower started down the street to find an undertaking establishment. On the way he met an acquaintance and the latter said:

“Well, how’s your wife to-day?”

“She iss dead,” answered the bereft one.

“Ach!” said his friend. “That’s too bad. I thought she was getting along first rate. What did she die of?”

“Improvements.”

§ 323 Proving That Figures Don’t Lie

Three patricians of the coal yards fared forth on mercy bent, each in his great black chariot. Their overlord, the yard superintendent, had bade them deliver to seven families a total of twenty-eight tons of coal equally divided.

Well out of the yards, each with his first load, Kelly and Burke and Shea paused to discuss the problem of equal distribution—how much coal should each family get?

“’Tis this way,” argued Burke. “’Tis but a bit of mathematics. If there are 7 families an’ 28 tons o’ coal ye divide 28 by 7, which is done as follows: Seven into 8 is 1, 7 into 21 is 3, which makes 13.”

He triumphantly exhibited his figures made with a stubby pencil on a bit of grimy paper:

7/28/13
7
—
21
21
—
00

The figures were impressive but Shea was not wholly convinced. “There’s a easy way o’ provin’ that,” he declared. “Ye add 13 seven times,” and he made his column of figures according to his own formula. Then, starting from the bottom of the 3 column, he reached the top with a total of 21 and climbed down the column of 1’s, thus: “3, 6, 9, 12, 15, 18, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28.” “Burke is right,” he announced with finality.

This was Shea’s exhibit:

13
13
13
13
13
13
13
—
28

“There is still some doubt in me mind,” said Kelly. “Let me demonstrate in me own way. If ye multiply the 13 by 7 and get 28, then 13 is right.” He produced a bit of stubby pencil and a sheet of paper. “’Tis done in this way,” he said. “Seven times 3 is 21; 7 times 1 is 7, which makes 28. ’Tis thus shown that 13 is the right figure and ye’re both right. Would ye see the figures?”

Kelly’s feat in mathematics was displayed as follows:

13
7
—
21
7
—
28

“There is no more argyment,” the three agreed, so they delivered thirteen tons of coal to each family.

§ 324 The Exact Locality

Little Willie came running into the house stuttering in his excitement.

“Mommer,” he panted, “do you know Archie Sloan’s neck?”

“Do I know what?” asked his mother.

“Do you know Archie Sloan’s neck?”

“I know Archie Sloan,” answered the puzzled parent; “so I suppose I know his neck. Why?”

“Well,” said Willie, “he just now fell into the back-water up to it.”

§ 325 A Two Part Serial

This story naturally resolves itself into two parts. Thus: