There is something about the average Chicago young man that gives
him away, and gives away anybody that gets in with him. He is full of
practical jokes, and is a bad egg on general principles.
Last week Mr. Eppenetus Hoyt, of Fond du Lac, went to Chicago on a
visit. He is a pious gentleman, whose candor would carry conviction
to the mind of the seeker after righteousness, and his presence at the
prayer meeting, at the sociable or the horse-race, is an evidence that
everything will be conducted on the square.
Mr. Hoyt knew a young man named Johnny Darling, who was attending
Rush Medical College, and through him was permitted to visit the
dissecting-room, and gaze upon the missionary work being done there. Mr.
Hoyt was introduced to a number of the wicked young men who were carving
the late lamented, and after he got accustomed to the climate he rather
enjoyed the performance.
Whether young Mr. Darling told the boys that Mr. Hoyt was “fresh” or
not, will, perhaps, never be known; but, as Mr. Hoyt passed around among
the slabs where they were at work, each made a contribution from the
“stiff” he was at work upon to Mr. Hoyt's coat pockets unbeknown to him.
While one was calling his attention to a limb that he was dissecting,
another would cut off an ear, or a finger, or a nose, or dig out an eye,
and drop the same into Mr. Hoyt's overcoat pockets. Finally, he bid the
boys good-bye, thanked them for their courtesies in showing him around,
told them if they ever came to Fond du Lac his pew in church was at
their disposal, and he skipped for the train and got on board.
The seats were all occupied, and a middle aged lady, with a slim face
and spectacles, and evidently an old maid, allowed him to sit beside
her. The car was warm, and it was not long before the “remains” began to
be heard from. He was talking to the lady about the “sweet by-and-by,”
and the hope of a glorious immortality beyond the grave, and of the
inducements held out by the good book to those who try to lead a
different life here on earth, when he smelled something. The lady had
been smelling it for some miles back, and she had got her eye on Mr.
Hoyt, and had put her handkerchief to her nose. He took a long breath
and said to the lady:
“The air seems sort o' fixed here in this car, does it not?” and he
looked up at the transom.
“Yes,” said the lady, as she turned pale, and asked him to let her out
of the seat, “it is very much fixed, and I believe _that you are the man
that fixed it!_” and she took her satchel and went to the rear of
the car, where she glared at him as though he was a fat rendering
establishment.
Mr. Hoyt devoted a few moments to silent prayer, and then his attention
was called to a new married couple, in the seat ahead of him. They had
been having their heads close together, when suddenly the bride said:
“Hennery, have you been drinking?”
He vowed by all that was great and glorious that he had not, when she
told him there was something about his breath that reminded her of
strong drink, or a packing-house.
He allowed that it was not him, but admitted that he had noticed there
was something wrong, though he didn't know but it was some of her teeth
that needed filling.
They were both mad at the insinuations of the other, and the bride
leaned on the window and cried, while the groom looked the other way,
and acted cross.
Mr. Hoyt was very much annoyed at the smell.
The smell remained, and people all around him got up and went to the
forward end of the car, or to the rear, and there were a dozen empty
seats when the conductor came in, and lots of people standing up. The
conductor got one sniff, and said:
“Whoever has got that piece of limberger cheese in his pocket, will have
to go in the emigrant car!”
They all looked at Hoyt, and the conductor went up to him and asked him
if he didn't know any bettor than to be carrying around such cheese as
that?
Hoyt said he hadn't got no cheese.
The conductor insisted that he had, and told him to turn his pockets
wrong side out.
Hoyt jabbed his hands into his pockets, and felt something cold and
clammy. He drew his hands out empty, turned pale, and said he didn't
have any cheese.
The conductor insisted on his feeling again, and he brought to the
surface a couple of human ears, a finger, and a thumb.
“What in the name of the Apostles have you got there?” says the
conductor. “Do you belong to any canning establishment that sends canned
missionary to the heathen cannibals?”
Hoyt told the conductor to come in the baggage car, and he would explain
all; and as he passed by the passengers, with both hands full of the
remains, the passengers were ready to lynch Hoyt. He told the conductor
where he had been, and the boys had played it on him, and the fingers
and things were thrown beside the track, where some one will find them
and think a murder has been committed.
Afterwards Hoyt went into the car and tried to apologize to the old
maid, but she said if he didn't go away from her she would scream. Hoyt
would always rather go away than have a woman scream.
He is trying to think of some way to get even with the boys of Rush
Medical College.