Chapter I: Part 1

Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. III. No. 32, April, 1922

The Winter Annual

(See inside back cover)

_CONTENTS_

DRIPPINGS FROM THE FAWCETT
GIRL IN BLUE VELVET BAND
FACE ON THE BARROOM FLOOR
FRANKIE AND JOHNNIE BLUES
SHOOTING OF DAN MCGREW
WEDDING OF THE PERSIAN CAT
ACE IN THE HOLE
BOOZE FIGHTER’S DREAM
DIARY OF A DIVORCEE
FABLE OF THE BULL
HIGHTY TIGHTY APHRODITE
GOLIGHTLY HIGHBALLS
HOW TO KISS DELICIOUSLY
HUNTING THE WILY POLE CAT
MOHAMMEDAN BULL
OUR OWN FAIRY QUEEN
TOOL HOUSE ON THE FARM
THE OLD SMOKEHOUSE
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
GILA MONSTER ROUTE
PASTURE POT POURRI
HOOCH CURE BLUES
DYING HOBO
LASCA
SAM’S GIRL
TOLEDO SLIM
EVOLUTION
POPPIES
AFTER THE RAID
THE HARPY
THE SUICIDE
TARNISHED GOODS
SEPARATION
LITTLE RED GOD
THE LADIES
LIMBER KICKS
NAUGHTY BUT NICE
TO THE GIRL
RURAL MAIL BOX
TIRED HIRED MAN
LIFE’S A FUNNY PROPOSITION AFTER ALL

_Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang_

_America’s Magazine of
Wit, Humor and
Filosophy_

APRIL, 1922 Vol. III. No. 32

Published Monthly
W. H. Fawcett,
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota

Entered as second-class matter May 1, 1920, at the postoffice
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota, under the Act of March 3, 1879.

Price 25 cents $2.50 per year
ONE DOLLAR FOR THE WINTER ANNUAL

Contents of this magazine are copyrighted. Republication of any
part permitted when properly credited to Capt. Billy’s Whiz
Bang.

“We have room for but one soul loyalty and that is loyalty to
the American people.”—Theodore Roosevelt.

Copyright 1922
By W. H. Fawcett

Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang employs no solicitors. Subscriptions
may be received only at authorized news stands or by direct
mail to Robbinsdale. We join in no clubbing offers, nor do we
give premiums. Two-fifty a year in advance.

Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated to the
fighting forces of the United States

_Drippings From the Fawcett_

Readers of this little bundle of farm-yard foolishness and filosophy may have gotten a kick out of some of our jabs at the movie colony that hangs out at Hollywood—on the Pacific Coast near Los Anglaise.

There are estimated to be about 30,000 people engaged in the motion picture industry in Hollywood and environs. Out of this crew there are a lot of lame-brains, a goodly sprinkling of nincompoops, who flaunt their peccadillos with a too-apparent wish to have them noticed and press-agented. They wear brass-band clothes, ride around in noisy cars with license tags like “Fatty” Arbuckle’s “606,” and live noisy lives.

By the very nature of their employment they are in the public eye and everything they do comes under the public’s microscope. Every move they make is published to the eager world by their zealous press agents. A home-brew party in a bungalow comes forth a “Neroesque orgy in a mansion,” as Waldemar Young put it. And yet, goodness knows, they probably have enough of the real kind—and we envy them.

* * * * *

However, what are we coming to, is that the noisy movie people have their prototypes everywhere in society and its numerous substrata, and we for one are not going to make any scavenger’s holiday out of the William Desmond Taylor murder mess in Los Angeles.

Taylor appears to have been an artist of high calibre—hard-working, earnest, capable and a gentleman. But he permitted himself to be murdered—and he was a movie director. Consequently the public immediately put Taylor on trial. They dragged his name through the mud, swishing, swashing. Having put Taylor on trial, it was found that he had taken a stage name—a common thing in the movie and the fight game. But when a man gets murdered he ought to be more careful.

Man of mystery, “Dual life.” Perhaps yes and perhaps no.

But a lot of buncombe, any way you look at is—Imbecilic, puerile. That’s what we think of the campaign of calumny against the motion picture colony growing out of the Taylor murder.

* * * * *

The other day we read a statement from Frank Mayo, a movie actor, who burst out with this denunciation: “The Hollywood film colony is a pernicious influence. Scatter it, abolish it, burn it up—I say.” Mayo ought to be ashamed of himself. We might just as sensibly orate Robbinsdale—burn it up, scatter red pepper in every front yard and squirt formaldehyde through every key-hole. Somebody tried to rob the Robbinsdale bank and got killed at it.

As we have hereinbefore set forth, there are a lot of tramps in Hollywood—just as there are a lot of undesirables in Robbinsdale, in Minneapolis, in Chicago. And there are just as many honest, decent men and women in the picture business as in the ranks of the sanctimonious reformers, even if they do not go around mouthing the scavenger’s chant “I am holier than thou.”

If Mayo had said: “Run out the undesirables,” we might have joined with him in a hearty “amen.” But it is childish and surely unfair to damn the good with the bad.

The mayor of Los Angeles insists that the actresses and actors of Hollywood are fine citizens, good neighbors and respectable ladies and gentlemen. Adolph Zukor, who is head of the Famous Players, declares: “There is no more immorality in Hollywood than in the New York Stock Exchange”—not much of a boost for Hollywood but a powerful statement just the same.

* * * * *

Finally, you find Hobart Bosworth throwing the responsibility squarely in the faces of an audience that listened to him: “You think that we of the motion picture world are rotten. Through the confessions of the box office we know that you, the public, are rotten.”

Mayo’s statement is not true. The man who agrees with him has forgotten that things exist because certain definite forces have brought them into being—and Hollywood, even though rotten to the core, burnt up or scattered would arise again somewhere else. The mayor of Los Angeles spoke half the truth, at least. The motion picture people are folk like all the rest. Bosworth is blind. He is angry when he should be sympathetic, despising when he should be greatly moved by the pathos of the spectacle.

If there is weakness in the movie picture colonies the imperfections are not the result of viciousness and immorality in the public that Bosworth calls “rotten.” It is the effect of loneliness and frustrated hopes that sends the starved ones to the movies. It is no small thing in each human being—that longing for beauty and the allurements of wealth, love and triumph. But the sum of all this longing combined and packed into the streams that flow toward Hollywood is stupendously powerful.

It makes life what it is in the motion pictures, brings out the noise in those who have not had proper advantages and makes puppets of men and women who ought to be just “plain folk” and ruins their lives.

* * * * *

But so far as William Desmond Taylor is concerned—We are unable to see that the movies made a puppet out of him. He was in life respected by his associates—a leader, a man of ideals. And that is why the little old Whiz Banger refuses to be stampeded with the gang that is burrowing in the Hollywood garbage can, seeking delicacies of juicy, ripe dirt to twist their long tongues around.

* * * * *

We’ve heard the story of the lions and the lionesses, tigers and tigresses, and bears and bear cubs, but not until we became a guest on board the U. S. S. Niagara in Havana harbor of Lieutenants Parsons and Faga did we really discover the superintelligence of wild animals. The first member of the crew we met was a jovial gob, Jack Sellers, who introduced us to his Pride and Joy, the mascot, a big black bear.

“This bear is very intelligent,” vouchsafed Sellers. “You know we sailors sleep in hammocks on the decks. In the middle of the night when the bear gets cold he sneaks around and steals blankets off the sleeping gobs. He carries the blankets to a secluded spot on the ship and piles them evenly, one on top of the other, until he gets forty or fifty. He then retires for a comfortable nap on his downy bed. When the gobs are awakened from the chill and find their blankets missing they immediately search for Bruin. Would you believe it, that bear won’t let any jackie take his bedding until he first smells him and then sniffs at the pile of blankets? When he finds the rightful owner he pulls out his blanket from the pile and gives it to him.”

Woof! Woof! Woof!

* * * * *

_A New York poet who knows the yearnings of a demi-virgin’s heart gave this verse the title “Naughty—But Nice,” a plagiarized version of an original poem under that title which was published in an early issue of the Whiz Bang and the Whiz Bang Winter Annual. The New York Times, in publishing this verse, believes a more fitting title would be_:

It Can’t Be Done

_I want to be naughty, but I want to be nice,_
_I don’t mind the route, but I don’t like the price._
_I want to do what the other girls do—_
_Tease ’em, and cuddle up, and bill and coo._
_Blacken my eyes, and powder my nose;_
_Roll my cigarettes and my hose;_
_Rouge my cheek and pencil my lip;_
_Carry a silver flask on my hip;_
_Tango a little, and shimmy a lot;_
_Park my corset when the weather gets hot._
_Ride and swim and golf and skate;_
_Take the fences instead of the gate._
_Break all records—yes, all but one—_
_And be good and true when the game is done._
_I don’t like pepper, but I do love spice;_
_I want to be naughty, but I want to be nice._

* * * * *

“Dear Billy,” writes Chris Corey, a Minneapolis pill pusher, “You are always writing jokes about other tradesmen but nothing about we druggists. Now, you know we all handle the Whiz Bang and are great boosters for it, so please give us a joke about the pill pounders.”

All right, Chris, here’s one, having to do with your recent convention of druggists in Minneapolis—The chairman rapped with his gavel, “You are out of order, sir!”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Chairman,” responded the speaker, “I never felt better in my life.”

* * * * *

They have a new way of catching whitefish at Breezy Point in the winter months. The fisherman repairs to the frozen over river with a hammer, a saw and a can of peas. He cuts a hole in the ice, sprinkles the peas around the edge of the hole and when the fish comes up to take a bite he hits him over the head with the hammer.

* * * * *

Americans in Cuba for the most part are strictly business. I hadn’t been in Havana twenty-four hours until fellow citizens tried to sell me the Malecon; Morro Castle; the Almendares; a boneless elephant; some finless fish; fiddlers’ soup; and a throatless frog. I’ll tell you our brother Americans in Cuba are great for business.

* * * * *

“Humor”

The following is a vivacious little conceit, entitled “Humor,” culled from Laura Benet’s “Fairy Bread.” (Thomas Seltzer.)

_A fairy dances_
_In upland pastures,_
_Picking tart crabapples,_
_Swinging low;_
_Twisted and green,_
_Elfin-mouth, lean,_
_His feet may be chained_
_They are never slow._

_He slyly peeps under_
_Bushes of wonder,_
_Hunts for thistles_
_In hedgerow trees_
_And straight thereafter_
_Tickles to laughter_
_Solemn asses_
_On bended knees._

_Where his sharp wits go_
_Occasions grow,_
_The blind see meadows_
_Of waving corn;_
_Men mazed with talking_
_Find lost hopes walking_
_When he conjures roses_
_Out of a thorn._

* * * * *

Turn ’im Loose, Judge!

Judge—Are you guilty or not guilty?

Prisoner—I was going to plead guilty, yer honor, but my lawyer has convinced me that I am innocent.

* * * * *

The Boys in the Back Room

“Vat will you haf?”

“Vat haf you got?”

“Ve haf some nice ha’f and ha’f.”

“You haf? Ha’f vat and ha’f vat?”

“Ha’f ha’f of vun per cent dark and ha’f ha’f of vun per cent light.”

“Vell, I think I’ll haf to haf a seegar.”

* * * * *

“Maud kicked the bucket,” said Gus, as he sadly surveyed the spilt milk.

* * * * *

Sob Stuff

=Dear Capt. Billy Fairfax=—I’m on a visit from the East. Fell in love with a Western girl. For the past six months I have been faithful to her, I thought my love was returned and never looked at anyone else. Took her around the country some and to different places of amusement. Finally on a beautiful moonlight night I took her in my arms. Oh, my, I can see her now—her beautiful face, Oh, those eyes, those nose, those mouth, those beautiful hair.

I kissed her and she closed her beautiful eyes. She was happy I thought. Things went on fine but as I had not been in the town long I didn’t know much of what had been going on. Then to my sorrow I found there was someone else, a guy with a super-six and a tin ear. I was broken-hearted, she had lied, used me for a fool. Then this shy, modest thing I had trusted crushed me by telling others she had never cared for me and also laughingly told them of my lovesick talk. What do you think of that for honor and decency? She continues to talk and my life is a miserable affair.

Please advise me what to do, because if my wife ever hears what this girl has to say she’ll “raise ’ell.”—=Pete Olson.=

* * * * *

Iowa Frivol Pulls This One

An optimist is a man going up the river with a canoe, a girl, a basket, a blanket and a couple of pillows.

A pessimist is the same man coming back.

* * * * *

She was so bow-legged she could wear a pair of parenthesis for stockings!

* * * * *

The Height of Ambition

I sure got a fine job since I came out of the Army.

What’s that.

Well, you know the fellow that hammers underneath the passenger cars, well, I help him listen.

* * * * *

Ancient Stuff

El—“What did you give the baby when it was christened?”

Ella—“A silver spoon.”

El—“Was it a good one?”

Ella—“I’ll say it was. It had ‘Blackstone Hotel’ on it.”

* * * * *

Ikenstein—“Your new stenographer iss a beaut. Can she spell?”

Rubenstein—“Vat hass that to do vid it?”

* * * * *

Speaking of stingy people, I knew a fellow that had two teeth extracted and then wanted the price of his board reduced.

_Hollywood Flirtations_

(_The following item was written a few days before the tragic death of Mr. Taylor. Miss Normand at this time is reported the last known visitor to Mr. Taylor’s apartment before the slaying._)

Mabel Normand is tripping the light fantastic at the Cocoanut Grove very often. Sometimes it’s William D. Taylor, Lasky director, and we also hear that Mack Sennett gave her a wonderful birthday party and many presents. When the girls get Mabel to talk in the seclusion of her own boudoir, the sly gal brings out a little bag just dangling full of nice diamond solitaire engagement rings. When she gets a new one she gives the bag a toss and giggles! That’s how seriously Mabel takes this matrimony stuff!

* * * * *

An ironic fact has put May Collins into the very dressing room at the Mayer studio formerly occupied by Mildred Harris. May, you know, has been often reported as engaged to Charlie Chaplin, Mildred’s noted ex. Miss Collins, it is said, found a picture of Charlie in a remote drawer of the dresser, wiped off the dust and stuck it in the mirror for her own perusal!

* * * * *

Bebe Daniels’ grandmother, her mother and Jack Dempsey all deny that Bebe and Jack are to wed. Reporters have even interviewed the family cat on the subject, but the news tip has fallen flat all around!

* * * * *

And, speaking of Charlie Chaplin, his leading lady, Edna Purviance (who was one of Charlie’s early loves as well) is reported engaged to Paul Hunter, wealthy business man and polo player of Pasadena.

* * * * *

Lucille Carlisle again will be leading lady for Larry Semon. She formerly was engaged to marry Semon, but suddenly the engagement was declared off; she left the studio and nothing had been heard of her for several months. Now it appears that all is again sweetness and light between Miss Carlisle and the comedian.

* * * * *

Whiz Bang will soon invade a new territory. We believe that the Laguna Beach and La Jolla artist colonies have been too long neglected in our zeal to disclose those little personal affairs out in Hollywood. While fair and winsome Hollywood nobly tows a few barges of stuff, Whiz Bang’s astute investigators have discovered naughty Laguna Beach doing just terrible things and getting away with it because there are four hours of muddy automobile road away from any sort of town. La Jolla has this week confirmed some of our suspicions in the bathing suit marriage which took place when Del Carmen and Sarah Andrews plighted their serious (?) troth in the trough of the ocean. Artist like, they just wanted to be “different.”

Of course you wouldn’t think an artist who paints with a brush could be as lowbrow as those Hollywood actors, but you just ought to be in on some of the parties staged down at sneaky little Laguna Beach. An artist colony (many of them people of national reputation, too), resides there permanently in a little world of their own. Judging from several little Bohemian affairs visited by Whiz Bang’s official chaperone, we would judge that everyone’s in love with best friend’s wife, and best friend doesn’t even care! Sandals, and loose sloppy clothes and no haircuts usually travel with freedom of thought. That’s why it’s hard to believe that some of Hollywood’s most athletic, healthiest, best groomed and best clothed actors are steeped in sin!

The Hollywood Chamber of Commerce and the Motion Picture Producers’ Association have just joined forces to combat magazine and newspaper propaganda tending to paint Hollywood as a modern Babylon. Whiz Bang suggests the simple expedient of throwing loads of mud at somebody else (perhaps Laguna or La Jolla), thus diverting the scandal hungry eyes of the nation away from Hollywood long enough to pull a few more good parties.

* * * * *

Charlie Chaplin and Douglas Gerrard gave a lovely dinner party in honor of Mme. Anna Pavlowa, husband and company on their recent visit to Los Angeles. This year’s party was drier than the last, but Douglas, we haven’t forgotten that party you gave in Anna’s honor about two years ago! The Wilshire district and Los Angeles “upper ten” gave a smart tea in the afternoon at the residence of a well-known society woman. Everyone in society was there and poor Anna shook hands and said polite things until her patience was almost at an end. So, when Douglas’ party was pulled off that evening ’tis said Anna cut loose, enjoyed a lot of naughty stories and vowed she preferred Bohemians! You know Douglas can tell ’em, too!

* * * * *

It was only two weeks ago that we thought we saw Mabel Normand dancing at the Cocoanut Grove with F. Richard Jones; chief director under Mack Sennett, but Mabel “bawled” out a morning sheet for insinuating such a thing, so maybe it isn’t true! Anyhow, Mrs. F. Richard has just filed suit for divorce. She asks $1,000 a month alimony, claiming hubby earns $100,000 a year. Mutual jealousy seems to have caused the break-up.

* * * * *

“Billie” Rhodes, comedy star of picturedom, has filed a divorce action against William Jobelmann, a theater publicity man. She charges he drank, even stealing a bottle from her own private stock to appease his desire. This, says Billie, capped the climax and she asks her freedom.

* * * * *

Mrs. Thelma Morgan Goetz, pretty English actress, has just divorced Ronald Goetz, formerly a captain in the English army. They are both members of Hollywood’s film colony. “He made a wonderful lover,” complained the wife, “but not a good husband. He wanted his fling—he craved variety.”

* * * * *

Paramount opened its Wilshire district studio just recently. Was it for this reason that the Los Angeles police department found it necessary to open a Wilshire station the same day?

* * * * *

_When a woman puckers up her lips to be kissed she is just setting her trap._

* * * * *

Man is somewhat like a sausage,
Very smooth upon the skin,
But you never can tell exactly
How much hog there is within.

* * * * *

_“Youth must have its fling,” said the Scotchman, as he started his bag-pipe working._

* * * * *

Torch’s Best One

She (to fair friend)—“I’m not going with Bill any more.”

Fair Friend—“Why not?”

She—“He knows too many naughty songs.”

Fair Friend—“Does he sing them?”

She—“No, but he’s always whistling them.”

* * * * *

Song of the Tire Chain

Wee, wee, wee,
Klop, klop, klop,
Squeak, squawk, squeak,
Twat, twat, twat.

* * * * *

Girls may smoke. However, the correct way to light a match still remains a man’s privilege.

* * * * *

In Valparaiso

Why so sad, Diogenes?

I was going up College Avenue looking for an honest man, and, alas, someone stole my lantern.

* * * * *

“That pianist sure claws a mean batch of ivories.”

“Yeh, he sure beats a nasty can!”

* * * * *

“Now do be sure to come and see us soon, won’t you?”

“Yes, we will. We’ll call on you the first time we go slumming.”

* * * * *

Soliloquy of a Hooch-hound

When my soul becomes clogged with evil deeds, my mind and conscience inundated with hideous hallucinations, and my heart dry and acrid with the pain of living, I imbue my soul, my heart, my mind with King Alcohol.

Then, as the morning breeze dissipates the fog, the kindly King cleanses my soul; as the sun dries and purifies the stagnant swamp, so Alcohol transforms the morass of my mind into a verdant meadow; as the spring rains change the desolation of winter into flowers and grain, so my lord and master changes the cynical, skeptical desert of my heart into an oasis of compassion and philanthropy.

That’s why I drink.

* * * * *

The Diff’unce

Percival chews Spearmint,
John, Virginia twist;
Percy shakes a wicked hoof,
And John, a wicked fist.

* * * * *

Special For the Clergy

“Father,” explained the visitor to the priest, “I ask penance for the sin of bootlegging.”

Father Kelly was puzzled and telephoned the superior father for advice.

“What shall I give a bootlegger, Very Reverend Sir?” the priest inquired.

“Don’t give him more than five dollars,” came the answer. “That’s all I ever pay.”

* * * * *

London Post Toastie

“Oh, what a naughty little boy,” cried the kind lady, “to beat and kick his poor mother like that!”

“Take no notice of the choild at all,” responded the proud mother. “Bliss his little heart, he must do everything he sees his father do!”

* * * * *

Bones to Bones,
And skin to skin;
Ain’t it heck
When a feller’s thin?

* * * * *

Lodge Notice

The Bootleggers’ Benevolent Association of America.

Meets every Thirsty night at Wood-Alco Hall. At our next meeting the following officers will be installed:

F. U. Selloyl, High Muck-a-Muck of the Mash.

I. Rob. Sellers, Bearer of the Boot.

Formal D. Hyde, Lord of the Leg.

R. Ott Gutt, Licker of the Labels and Seals.

A special lecture on “Making Moonshine with the Materials at Hand” will be given, with Prof. Ray Sinn at the Still.

* * * * *

Spring Sports

Standing in the barnyard and watching the cows come in.

Questions and Answers

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I am a young man, fifteen years old, and I am going with two girls, one fourteen and the other twenty-seven. Do you think it possible to love both of them at the same time?—=_Willie Bohy._=

No, Willie, not if they know it.

* * * * *

=_Dear Cap’n Bill_=—When the silverware for your meal consists of more than three pieces, which side do you start on, the right or left?—=_Konnick Essen._=

Start at either side, Konnick, but be sure and have one piece left for the dessert.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Bill_=—Of late I have been having trouble with my lungs and thought perhaps you could suggest a remedy.—=_Ada Clock._=

Dear Ada—Merely open a window and throw out your chest.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—Please give us the definition of Booster, also Knocker.—=_Isin Yet Tu._=

A Booster is a man with something to sell, and a Knocker is one who bought some of it.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is the difference between a dawnce and a dance?—=_Iowa Bill._=

The difference between a dawnce and a dance is one dollar and fifty cents and three fights.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is a goblet?—=_Frank Furter._=

A small sailor.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Bill_=—My little boy has worms; what would you suggest?—=_Alvie._=

Feed him fish, fish like worms.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—Percy, my sixteen-year-old son, says his greatest ambition is to sing tenor in a glee club. What shall I do?—=_Worried Mama._=

The case is hopeless. You never should have named him Percy.

* * * * *

=_Dear Doctor Bill_=—One night at a party I met a fellow and he had to escort me home. When we got to a dark place he pushed me into a mud puddle and ran. Do you think he loves me?—=_Sis Hopkins._=

There can be no question of it.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Whiz Bang_=—I very much enjoy hunting, but also believe in the protection of wild animal life. What shall I do?—=_Daniel Boone of Kokomo._=

Always use blank cartridges.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—Since I enrolled at the University, I have heard the girls talking about dates. Tell me what a date is and how to acquire them.—=_Iowa Girl._=

Dates grow in Palestine, Arabia, and other Oriental countries. They also flourish on the walls of telephone booths and in pool halls. Send me your picture and you will hear from me soon or I will return the picture.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—Can you recommend a stiff drink?—=_Bill Eltinge._=

Embalming fluid.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is your idea of an ideal job?—=_Abie Friedman._=

Pork inspector for the City of Jerusalem.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What fish does a girl like most?—=_A. John._=

Her ring.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—Do you believe in reincarnation?—=_Havana Eggie._=

Can’t say as I do. However, should I ever be reincarnated my hopes are to be either a colored man or a Hebrew. A colored man, you know, doesn’t want anything much and a Hebrew usually has all he wants.

* * * * *

They called the baby Fish-hooks—it was such a “catchy” name.

* * * * *

The Ace of Tragedies

“It was in the spring of 1896,” related the grizzled veteran of the Yarn-Stretcher’s Club, according to the London Post, “that I was out in the Wild West. I was on a jury that was trying a man for homicide. I hated to think of the fellow being hanged, so I stuck out against the other eleven jurymen for five solid days and nights. My obstinacy was rewarded. One by one they gave in, and we returned into Court and returned a verdict of ‘Not Guilty.’ The only thing that spoiled my satisfaction with the result was that some of the citizens had lynched the prisoner the first day we were locked up.”

And he sighed, reminiscently, as he took another gulp of his whisky-and-soda.

* * * * *

Toole’s Best One

Small boy (handing grocer two cents)—“I want two cents’ worth of bananas.”

“We have no bananas,” said the grocer, not wanting to monkey with two cents.

“What’s them?” said the boy, pointing to a bunch of bananas.

“Pineapples,” the grocer replied.

“Well, gimme two cents’ worth of pineapples.”

* * * * *

Southern Hospitality

_Does you all like yore entatanment wit or witout?_

* * * * *

Walking with a Purpose

I love to walk.

Last Sunday I took the most wonderful stroll.

I went for quite some distance through the park, thoroughly enjoying every breath of the cool, crisp air. I felt like a new man as I hastened onward, increasing my speed at every step. I walked on and on, drinking in the beauty of all about me. It was wonderful.

Finally I picked her up.

* * * * *

Coffin Nail Epitaph

_Here lies my good friend_
_Willie Betts;_
_His age was ten—_
_Cigarettes._

* * * * *

Our Monthly Proverb

A stitch in time gathers no moss.

* * * * *

In the vernacular of the Bowery,

“DE OILY BOID CATCHES DE WOIM.”

* * * * *

A Warning to Flappers

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, all good girlies go to Heaven,
8, 9, 10, e-leven, 12, all bad girlies don’t.

* * * * *

Our Latest Song Hit

“A Cat Has Nine Lives, But a Bull Frog Croaks Every Night.”

* * * * *

Our Chestnut Rack

Two Irishmen held up a Scotchman, who had put up a terrific battle, but finally was overcome. After the two Irishmen had gotten Sandy’s pocketbook, which was tied up with a stout string, they ran away.

Unwinding the string and poking his fingers into the corners of the thing, Pat finally located a solitary five cent piece. Looking at it a moment in silence, he turned to his companion and said, “My gausch, Mike, suppose he’d had a dime, he would have killed both of us.”

* * * * *

Here’s to the good old sea gull,
That cleans up Frisco’s Bay;
With a tummy full of sardines
He flies to San Jose.

* * * * *

To Molly of Havana

Mia Mamacita, she’s una grande fool;
She makes me hot tamale,
Then sets it out to cool.

* * * * *

Our Monthly Motto

“A girl in your arms is worth two on the ’phone.”

* * * * *

“Did you hear the joke about the spoiled mulligan?”

“No.”

“’Stoo bad, ’stoo bad.”

* * * * *

Motorcycle Mike

Mike and Pat went motorcycle riding one evening. All of a sudden they had a collision. Two hours later Pat recovered consciousness in a hospital and learned that Mike had been killed.

“He should have been dead long ago,” remarked Pat, wryly, “he saw two bright lights ahead of him and the dang fool said to me: ‘Watch me sneak through there.’”

* * * * *

At Havana Races

The old sport stood on a grand stand chair,
There was muck in his whiskers and coots in his hair,
But his voice rang out in the afternoon air:
“She’ll win in a walk, bejabers.”

“She’s from blue blooded stock—can’t go slow,
Out of Black Bess by Hungry Joe;
Their money’s on her—those who know,
For she’ll win in a walk, bejabers.

“She got off behind—at the turn was third
Worked up to second, then slipped like a bird
Fell in a ditch, when hit by the switch,
And she wasn’t in it, bejabers.”

* * * * *

Pardon Me—

“I beg your pardon,” cried the convict as the governor passed his cell.

* * * * *

_I wish I was the Warden’s daughter._

_How come?_

_There’s always men hangin’ around._

* * * * *

“_My wife’s tongue is so long she doesn’t have to use a towel to wash her face._”

* * * * *

The Traveling Man

I register, most any old hotel, some bug cage, fire trap with glue plant smell. In darkened hall I seek the number on the door, and find the bed—a sea of tumbled rags, used many nights before. And often I must lend my aid to drowsy, hook-worm chambermaid, who spreads and shakes and smoothes and tucks and toils and sweats to make it well—then I jump in and tear it all t’ell!

* * * * *

_They were always happy until a stranger wrecked their lives,_
_For she went back to the laundry, and he went back to his wife._

* * * * *

Song of Newlywed

I must go home tonight,
Oh, I must go home tonight,
I don’t care if it’s snowing,
Blowing, I’m going,
I got married only this morning,
And it fills me with delight,
I’ll stay out as long as you want next week,
But I must go home tonight.

* * * * *

For verily he that sitteth upon a toad stool shall arise again.

* * * * *

“Might as well hitch my wagon to a star,” said the drunken teamster, as he passed his rope around the lamp-post.

* * * * *

What Is All the Noise About?

The barber is shaving himself.

But why the argument?

He is trying to talk himself into having a massage.

* * * * *

Blank Verse

He had worked six months
In a ship yard,
And was worried
For fear they would hurt
The baby,
The day of the Baptism
When they hit him,
Over the head with the bottle.

* * * * *

_He went in to church the first time and they threw water on him; the second trip they threw rice on him; the third time was the charm; they threw dirt on him._

* * * * *

Back Porch Cross Fire

“Fire, Fire,” said Mrs. McGuire.

“Where, Where?” said Mrs. Blair.

“Downtown,” said Mrs. Brown.

“S’ help us and save us,” said Mrs. Davis.

* * * * *

The Penalty

Between women and wine
A man is not so smart,
For wine makes his headache,
And women his heart.

* * * * *

I never looked up my family tree but I know that I’m the sap.

* * * * *

’Twas Sweet of Her

“Sweetheart,” gushed his bride, “the grocery stores were all closed today, and—”

“I suppose I don’t get any dinner,” he cut in, eyeing his true love hungrily.

“No, my darling,” she gurgled, “the confectionery was open, and I’ve made you some nourishing jelly bean soup.”

* * * * *

In the Army

He missed on four,
Crapped out on six,
Put in his own dice,
And hit twenty licks.

* * * * *

We went to a fair the other evening for the benefit of the church and took chances on everything but did not win a prize. About twelve o’clock, as I was leaving a friend told me to stick around and I did for an hour and one o’clock.

* * * * *

Wild Guy

Clarence is a devilish boy,
He loves his sarsaparilla,
He drank two bottles yesterday
Then smashed his umbrella.

* * * * *

Boo Hoo, Blooey

She—When I die you’ll never find another woman like me.

He—Well, you can take it from me, I’m not going to try.

_True Confessions_

_A Fawcett Publication_

_$10,000 Short Story Contest!_

Within a few weeks _True Confessions_, a Fawcett Monthly magazine, will make its appearance on the news stands of the United States and Canada with a new purpose and new ideas. We live in the field for distinctively interesting based-on-fact stories of 1,000 to 10,000 words, and offer contributors—

=Two grand prizes of $1,000 each.=
=Two second prizes of $300 each.=
=Two third prizes of $200 each.=
=Twenty prizes of $100 each.=
=Fifty prizes of $50 each.=
=One Hundred prizes of $25 each.=

The contest is divided into two sections. The first section closes June 30, 1922 and manuscripts which fail to win prizes in the first section will be entered in the second section automatically, and thus early contestants will have a second chance. The second section closes Oct. 1, 1922.

FIRST SECTION

(Contest closes June 30, 1922)

=$1,000 Grand prize=
=$300 Second prize=
=$200 Third prize=
=Ten prizes of $100 each=
=Twenty-five prizes of $50 each=
=Fifty prizes of $25 each.=

SECOND SECTION

(Contest closes Oct. 1, 1922)

=$1,000 Grand prize=
=$300 Second prize=
=$200 Third prize=
=Ten prizes of $100 each=
=Twenty-five prizes of $50 each=
=Fifty prizes of $25 each=

=_Suggestions_=: Confessions of a Magdalene, Confessions of a Jimmy Valentine, Confessions of a Maniac, Confessions of a Dope Fiend, Confessions of Faithless Love, Confessions of Hate. All stories must be _unusual_. _True Confessions_ will not consider cut and dried fiction. We will take our readers into the _inner chambers of real life_. Unless otherwise requested, writers’ names will not be published. All manuscripts not prize winners will be purchased at space rates upon acceptance.

Further information will be supplied on request. Manuscripts should be addressed to—

W. H. FAWCETT, Editor,
_True Confessions_
ROBBINSDALE. MINNESOTA.

Whiz Bang Editorials

_“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet.”_

When we were a soakey-nosed kid in Grand Forks, North Dakota, our teacher taught us a poem headed “Abou Ben Adhem,” which went something like this, “Then count me among those who love his fellowmen.”

It appears that old Abou Ben Adhem hadn’t been listed among those in the angel’s Book of Gold, having a sure ticket through St. Peter’s gates, and for that reason the old fellow merely wanted to be charted among the Dead Game Sports who were square to their fellows; who judged not that they be not judged; that, being pure, to them all things were pure. The Abou Ben Adhem legend concluded by the angel making a return the next night and listing this old time legendary Sport on Page One of the Book of Gold.

Riley Grannan, who died in April, 1908, at Rawhide, Nevada, was one of these Dead Game Sports, and while we can’t all be angels and see through the eyes of Billy Sunday and Doctor Crafts and lead the ordained exemplary life, we can take a tip from the life of Riley Grannan and be Dead Game Sports no matter what path in life we follow.

Although it has been fourteen years since he passed into the Great Beyond, his kindly deeds and noble character centralizes conversation on the Havana race track and at all other turf gatherings.

Just a few brief explanatory remarks before we publish from an old issue of a Nevada newspaper the story of Grannan’s burial. This Dead Game Sport was a famous race track plunger and his bets ran as high as $200,000 on a single race, and the following is respectfully dedicated to “The Gang”—that bunch of carefree fellows who follow the lure of the turf. Riley Grannan was one of them in life, and no greater tribute could be paid him than that found in the desire of the “gang” that these, the last words spoken over his bier, should be preserved. None can read them without gleaning some inspiration, for they cannot fail to strike a harmonious chord upon the heart-strings of the coldest soul. As chronicled by Jeanne C. Grainger—

Rawhide, Nev., April 15, 1908—Half shielded under an oil-cloth blanket, lodged in a common express wagon, the casket of Riley Grannan was carried recently down dusty Rawhide avenue and along Nevada street from the tented establishment of the camp’s undertaker to an improvised memorial chapel, a variety theatre at the rear of a saloon.

There congregated a throng in silks and corduroys, women of metropolitan costumes, miners covered with high-grade grime, prospectors sun-tanned, brokers, bankers, merchants, promoters, owners of saloons, bartenders, gamblers, rounders. Tears that were shed dropped from the eyes of all. Again, as always in mining camps, class forgotten, all men were equal.

A solemn hush came down upon the little playhouse where last night and tonight, jostling crowds drank and smoked while listening to doubtful wit from the coarse jesters, men and women on the variety forum. Hovered about the bier of Riley Grannan, race track plunger of national renown, was as solemn a group of sincere mourners as ever gathered to pay final tribute.

Solos were offered by Mrs. Hedricks, once an actress of wide fame, now wife of the editor of a Rawhide daily paper, and by Jack Hines, miner of Alaska, and leaser of Rawhide. Punctuations came with resounding blasts from a score of mines on the mountains just above. Saloons were closed and the streets were silent throughout the service. At its end a solemn cortege trudged with the remains, destined by automobile to travel thirty miles to Schurz, there to go aboard the cars to Riley’s brother in Kentucky.

Unique beyond experience and dramatic beyond compare was the eulogy pronounced by H. W. Knickerbocker, once a clergyman, then a mine operator of Goldfield, later a Rawhide pioneer. Hardly orthodox, but wholly in keeping with the scene and the mute desires of the dead, was the orator’s appearance. The once pulpit exponent stood beside the lily-laden bier, his eyes bedimmed with tears, his voice choked with a fraternal emotion, he was shod in high boots and clothed in the rough garb of a miner. A stenographic report of the eulogy follows:

“I feel that it is incumbent upon me to state that I now occupy no ministerial or prelatic position. I am only a prospector. I make no claims to moral merit whatever or to religious authority except it be the religion of the brotherhood of man. I wish to be taken only as a man among men, feeling that I can shake hands and style as my brother the most humble of you all. If there may come from me a word of moral admonition, it springs not from a sense of moral superiority, only from the depths of my experience.

“Riley Grannan was born at Paris, Ky., about forty years ago. He cherished all the dreams of boyhood. Those dreams found their fruition in phenomenal success financial. I am told that from the position of a bellboy in a hotel, he arose to be a celebrity of world wide fame. Riley Grannan was one of the greatest plungers the continent has produced. He died day before yesterday at Rawhide.

“That is a brief statement. We have his birth, and the day of his demise. Who can fill the interim? Not I. Who can tell his hopes and fears? Who knows the mystery of his quiet hours? Not I.

“Riley Grannan was born in the sunny southland of Kentucky. He died in Rawhide. That is the beginning. That is the end. Is there in this picture of what Ingersoll said at the grave of his brother, ‘Whether it be near the shore, or in mid-ocean, or among the breakers, at the last a rock must mark the end of one and all.’

“Born where brooks and rivers run musically through prolific soil, where magnolia gladiflora, like white stars, glow in a firmament of green, where lakes, the greensward and the softest summer breezes dimple the wavelets, where the air is resonant with the melody of a thousand sweet-voiced birds and redolent of the perfume of blooming flowers, that was the beginning. Riley Grannan died in Rawhide, where in winter the tops of the mountains are clothed in garments of ice and in summer the blistering rays of the sun beat down upon the skeleton of the desert.

“Is there in this a picture of universal life? Sometimes, when I look upon the circumstances of life there comes to my lips a curse. I relate to you only my views. If these run counter to yours, believe that what I say is sincere. When I see the ambitions of man defeated, when I see him struggling with mind and body to accomplish his end, when I see his aim and purpose frustrated only by a fortuitous combination of circumstances over which he can exert no control, when I see his outstretched hands about to grasp the flag of victory, and to seize instead the emblem of defeat, I ask, ‘What is life?’ Dreams, awakening, death. Life is a pendulum betwixt a smile and a fear. Life is but a momentary halt within the waste and then the nothing we set out from. Life is a shadow, a poor player that struts and then is heard no more. Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound, signifying nothing. Life is a child-blown bubble that but reflects the shadow of its environment and is gone, a mockery, a sham, a lie, a fool’s vision, its happiness but Dead Sea apples, its pain the crunching of a tyrant’s heel. Omar says it better when he says: ‘We are but a moving row of magic shadow shapes that come and go, around with a sunny lumined lantern held in midnight for the master of the shore, but helpless pieces of the game we play on the checkerboard of night and day; hither and thither moved or checks or slaves, and one by one back into the closet laid. The ball, no question, makes of eyes or nose, but here or there, as strikes the player, goes. But he that tossed you down into the field; He knows, He knows.’ He knows, but I don’t. That’s my mood. Not so with Riley Grannan.

“If I have gauged his character correctly, he accepted the circumstances surrounding him as the mystic officials to whom the universe had delegated its whole office concerning him. He took defeat and victory with equal equanimity. He was a man of placid exterior. His meteoric past shows him invincible in spirit and it is not irreverently that I proclaim him a dead game sport. When I use that phrase I do so filling it as full of practical human philosophy as it will hold. Riley Grannan fully exemplified the philosophy of those fugitive verses, ‘It’s easy enough to be happy when life goes along like a song; but the man worth while is the man who will smile when everything goes wrong; for the test of the heart is trouble, and it always comes with the years; and the smile that is worth the homage of each is the smile that shines through tears.’

“There are those who will condemn him. They believe that today he is reaping the reward of misspent life. They are those who are dominated by mediaeval creeds. Them I am not addressing. They are ruled by the skeleton hand of the past. They fail to see the moral side of a character lived outside their puritanical ideas. Riley Grannan’s goodness was not of a type that reached its highest manifestation in ceremonious piety. It found its expression in the handclasp of friendship. It found its voice in the word of cheer to a discouraged brother. His were deeds of quiet charity. His were acts of manhood.

“Riley Grannan lived in the world of sport. My words are not minced because I am telling what I believe to be true. It was the world of sport, sometimes of hilarity, sometimes worse. He left the impress of his character upon us all, and through the medium of his financial power he was able with his money to brighten the lives of all who knew him. He wasted his money, so the world says; but did it ever occur to you that the men and women of such class upon whom he wasted it are yet men and women? A little happiness brought into their lives means as much to them as happiness carried into the lives of the straight and the good. If you can take one ray of sunshine into the night life and thereby carry a single hour of happiness, you are a benefactor. Riley Grannan did this.

“God confined not his sunbeams to the nourishing of potatoes and corn. His scattering of sunshine was prodigal. Contemplate. He flings the auroral beauties round the cold shoulders of the north. He hangs the quivering picture of the mirage above the palpitating heart of the desert. He scatters the sunbeams like shattered gold upon the bosom of a myriad of lakes that gem the robe of nature. He spangles the canopy of night with star jewels and silvers the world with the reflected beams from on high. He hangs the gorgeous crimson curtain of the occident across the sleeping room of the sun. ‘God wakes the coy maid of the morning to step timidly from her boudoir of darkness, to climb the steep of the orient, to fling wide the gates of morning and to trip o’er the landscape, kidding the flowers in her flight. She arouses the world to herald with their music the coming of her King, who floods the world with effulgent gold.’ These are wasted sunbeams. Are they?

“_I say to you that the man or woman who by the use of money or power is able to smooth one wrinkle from the brow of human care or to change one moan or sob into a song, or to wipe away a tear, and to place in its stead a jewel of joy, is a public benefactor. Such was Riley Grannan._

“The time has come to say goodbye. For the friends and loved ones not here to say the word, let me say goodbye, old man. We will try to exemplify the spirit of your life as we bear the grief at our parting. Words fail me here. Let those flowers, Riley, with their petaled lips and perfumed breath, speak in beauty and fragrance these sentiments too tender for words. Goodbye.”

* * * * *

Something Wrong

Little Willie—Ma, is Pop taking you out to dinner tonight?

Mother—Yes, then to the theatre.

Little Willie—What’s the matter?

* * * * *

Help! Help!

“Burglars! Burglars!” cried Jones, sticking his head out of the window and yelling like mad.

“What’s the row, mister?” asked a passerby.

“For heaven’s sake, friend, send a burglar here—there’s a policeman in my cellar.”

* * * * *

Speaking of Colors

My nose is red only when I blow it; then it’s blew.

* * * * *

“My dear man,” said the kind lady, “don’t you know that whisky kills more men than bullets?”

“I don’t dispute your word one bit,” the tramp replied, “but for my part I would rather be full of moonshine than bullets any day.”

* * * * *

She Said Thusly

Manslaughter me with kisses, daddy, then crucify me with love.

* * * * *

_Let us now sing that plaintive melody in three keys, Ikey, Jakey, and Whiskey. The last key is where you get the spirit of the song._

* * * * *

Beautiful Optics

Her eyes were as black as jet,
This charming girl I knew;
I kissed her, and her husband came,
Now mine are jet black too.

* * * * *

George Washington washed the country and the reformers dried it.

* * * * *

“Do you like Shakespearean roles?”

“Our baker never handles them.”

* * * * *

They told me my flivver was twenty horsepower but I’ve only been able to locate four plugs.

_Smokehouse Poetry_

_In one of our first issues Whiz Bang published ’Ostler Joe, but our circulation was comparatively small at that time and as a result many who sought the poem were disappointed. Many requests for it, coupled with our inability to supply back copies, will bring the poem back to these pages next month. ’Ostler Joe was originally published under the name of “Phryne’s Husband” and is a story of a broken home._

* * * * *

Absolution

By E. Nesbit.

Three months had passed since she had knelt before
The grate of the confessional, and he,
The priest, had wondered why she came no more
To tell her sinless sins—the vanity
Whose valid reason graced her simple dress,
The prayers forgotten, or the untold beads—
The little thoughtless words, the slight misdeeds,
Which made the sum of her unrighteousness.

She was the fairest maiden in his fold,
With her sweet mouth and musical pure voice,
Her deep gray eyes, her hair’s tempestuous gold,
Her gracious, graceful figure’s perfect poise.
Her happy laugh, her wild, unconscious grace,
Her gentle ways to old, or sick, or sad,
The comprehending sympathy she had,
Had made of her the idol of the place.