There is no use of any vulgar curiosity concerning the reason of my
being present; but I will say right here that I won my case, and when a
fellow does that he's all right. Yes, sir; I had the dough with me.
While I was waiting my turn a disreputable-looking chap was brought
before the judge, I believe charged with vagrancy or something of the
sort.
"What is your name?" inquired the justice.
"Pete Smith," responded the vagrant.
[Illustration]
"What occupation?" continued the court.
"Oh, nothing much at present; just circulatin' round."
"Retired from circulation for thirty days," pronounced the court,
dryly.
In another case where one of the witnesses had been severely baited by a
counsel, the question arose as to the authenticity of a letter of which
the witness was reputed to be the author.
"Sir," said the lawyer, fiercely, "do you, on your oath, swear that this
is not your handwriting?"
[Illustration]
"I think not," was the reply.
"Does it resemble your handwriting?"
"I can't say it does."
"Will you swear that it does not resemble your handwriting?"
"I will."
"You will positively take your oath that this writing does not resemble
yours?" persisted the lawyer, working himself into a state bordering on
frenzy.
"Ye-s-s, sir."
"You seem less positive," remarked his interrogator; "perhaps we had
better have a specimen of your handwriting for purposes of comparison."
The witness caused it to be understood that this was impossible,
whereupon the lawyer, scenting his approaching triumph, smiled serenely
at the court.
"Oh, sir, it is impossible, is it? And may I ask why?"
"'Cause I can't write," returned the man.
"Step down; I'm done with you," said the smart lawyer.
Which reminds me of an occasion when an Irish judge was on the bench,
and took occasion, in my hearing, to address the jury.
"Gentlemen," he said, seriously, "you have heard the evidence. The
indictment says the prisoner was arrested for stealing a pig.
"The offense seems to be becoming a common one. The time has come when
it must be put a stop to; otherwise, gentlemen, none of you will be
safe."
As I came out of court that day it was only natural that I should run
across an old friend, Dr. Case, and hear of more courting. Ah, I thought
you'd see it!
"Great news about McGregor--he's to be married again."
I expressed my surprise, for let me tell you I had already enjoyed the
pleasure of an acquaintance with three wives of this same gentleman.
"Fourth time--that's going it pretty steep, doctor," I remarked.
"It would appear so. Beats all how the rage for collecting will take
hold of a man. Sometimes it's old books or playbills, and sometimes it's
postage stamps. In McGregor's case it appears to be wives."
[Illustration]
When I looked in on Bob Lightwate the other day, at his office,
expecting him to accompany me to the hospital, where a mutual friend had
been taken, I found him clipping an item from a newspaper, which he was
very careful to place in his note book.
"It tells how a house was robbed, and I want to show it to my wife," he
explained.
"What good will that do?" I inquired.
"A whole lot," was the reply. "You see, this house was robbed while a
man was at church with his wife."
"B'Gosh!" I exclaimed, excitedly, "you haven't got a duplicate copy of
that paper, have you?"
Before we could get away Bob had a caller.
You see he owns a lot of real estate in the suburbs and his tenants
pester the life half out of him on account of trivial troubles.
This party was plainly embarrassed, for he kept twirling his hat in his
hands.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Sorter?" asked Bob.
"I came to tell you, sir, that our cellar--"
"Well, what about the cellar?"
"It's full of water, sir."
"Is that all? Humph, I don't see that you've any kick coming, Mr.
Sorter. You surely didn't expect a cellar full of champagne for ten
dollars a month."
The matter was of course satisfactorily adjusted, after Bob had enjoyed
his little joke, and we went on our way to the hospital.
Now, a hospital isn't the most cheerful place in the world, and yet now
and then there is some gleam of humor breaks out there.
[Illustration: Appendices removed suddenly while you wait]
Human nature is a queer combination, and I've known men who would joke
even under the surgeon's knife.
When we entered the room where poor Huggins lay, we found that two
physicians were beside his cot holding a consultation over him, and that
it was suspected he had a severe case of appendicitis concealed about
his person.
"I believe," said one of the surgeons, "that we should wait and let him
get stronger before cutting into him."
Before the other prospective operator could reply the patient turned his
head, and remarked feebly:
"What do you take me for--a cheese?"
I rejoice to tell you that this hero survived the operation, and is
about again.
Lightwate has always been a great lover of the weed, and it is a rare
thing to find him without a cigar or a pipe in his mouth.
When taken to task he never fails to joke about the matter, and turn the
tables on a fellow.
I remember of asking him plainly once why he smoked so much, and he
immediately replied:
"I suppose because I'm too green to burn."
[Illustration]
While Bob and myself were on the way back to his office we saw a
commotion ahead, and pretty soon a wild-looking citizen rushed up to a
policeman who stood on the curb, and shouted:
"Officer, officer, I've been robbed, and yonder goes the wretch who
snatched my watch!"
The vigilant guardian of the peace waved him majestically aside, as he
answered:
"Don't bother me with such very trifling affairs when I'm timing an
automobile."
Bob said things had come to a pretty pass when a man's time-piece might
be stolen with impunity because of the necessity for securing the
time-pace of a machine.
Our walk took us along the Bowery, and as I was passing, a man seemed to
be busily engaged in shoving some bank-bills, together with a
straw-colored ticket into his pocket. I was surprised to hear him give
way to sentiment and exclaim:
[Illustration: Alone at last!]
"Alone at last!"
Just then Bob, with a grin, called my attention to the three golden
balls over the door of the shop from which he had evidently just
emerged, and I tumbled to the game.
On the corner of Grand Street I was halted for a minute by an Irishman
whom I knew as a steady fellow, a machinist by trade, and with a buxom
better-half who ruled his home like a queen.
"Sure it's a bit av advice I'd be after beggin' sorr. I'm puzzled to
know phwat to do wid a case loike that," he said, mysteriously.
"Tell me the circumstances, Mike."
"Will, it's jist this way, yer honor, the walkin' diligate has ordhered
me to sthroike, and me ould woman tills me to ka-ape on wur-rkin', an'
for me loife I don't know phwat to do."
[Illustration]
It was a hard case, and I felt sorry for Mike, but under the
circumstances any advice I might give would have been wasted, for to
tell you the truth, knowing Mrs. Casey as I did, I realized that he was
between the devil and the deep sea.
I've often wondered how he made out.
My having been a theatrical man off and on for years, it is nothing out
of the way for me to spend some of my spare time lounging about agencies
where they give out the prizes.
There is one such on Broadway, and it chanced that in taking up quarters
near the Criterion they were given the telephone number of a fish market
that had moved away.
This little but significant fact gives rise to occasional mistakes on
the part of housewives who have been in the habit of ordering their
sea-food by wire.
For instance, when I was in there the other day the bell rang violently,
and a message, loud enough to be heard all over the office, and in a
decidedly feminine voice, came over the wire.
[Illustration]
"Send up two quarts of oysters at once."
"Sorry to say we haven't any just now," said the polite gentleman in the
theatrical office; "but if they would do as well, we have a few fine
lobsters we could let you have, madam."
Another order came for "crawfish" which were especially desired for
dinner.
"Sorry," called the agent, "impossible to supply you with crawfish, but
we can send you up a fine lot of assorted coryphees."
"Coryphees," said a dazed feminine voice, "I don't know what they are--I
said crawfish."
"Sorry, but crawfish are no good in our business; but we can send up
nice selected coryphees, all dressed--make any dinner go off well."
"You must be a fool," we heard over the wire, and no doubt the receiver
was slammed into the holder while the lady hurried to get a dictionary
to discover what manner of sea-food coryphees might be.
Perhaps she found that they might be called nymphs.
Speaking of nymphs, reminds me of my next-door neighbor, Miss Snappe,
whose tongue is surcharged with cayenne pepper when she is ruffled.
I remember she once had a squabble with another neighbor, Miss Antique,
and as they had once been good friends, my wife, in her warm-hearted
way, tried to soothe the ruffled plumage of Miss Snappe, and pour oil on
troubled waters.
[Illustration]
"Come now," said the dear little peacemaker, "why don't you and Miss
Antique become friends again?"
"Oh, I don't see the sense of going to all that trouble for her!"
"But it isn't any more trouble for you to make up, than it is for her."
"Don't you believe it. She's used to making up, for she's been doing it
for years."
Nevertheless I've found that same Miss Antique something worth
cultivating, for she possesses more genuine wit than any other woman of
my acquaintance.
It was only recently the doctor said to her:
"My dear Miss Antique, you must really take exercise for your health."
"All right, doctor," she replied, "I will certainly jump at the first
offer."
[Illustration]
To win the matrimonial race--
Oh, all ye maids who try--
You're lucky if you get a place
Resulting in a tie.
I remember asking this frisky old maid whether, in her opinion, women
were really as brave as men.
She gave me a look of scorn.
"Far braver, sir; if you notice carefully all accounts upon the subject,
you will learn that the scientists who keep on talking with alarm and
even terror concerning the dreadful bacilli in a kiss, are every one of
them males."
She has also very decided views as to the future of this glorious
country, and while we were discussing the chances of America ever being
dominated by a combined Europe, she said, emphatically:
"That will never happen, sir, so long as eminent Europeans continue to
marry American girls."
I agreed with her, knowing from experience what an influence in the
household the average American wife must ever be.
[Illustration: Rev. Splicem Daly The Torpedo-Boat Minister! Record--30
Knots an Hour]
Speaking of marrying brings to my mind a very eccentric old minister out
in Oklahoma at the time the boom was in full progress.
He was the only parson for miles around, and it kept him busy splicing
couples, for a regular fever seemed to have broken out, and everybody
thought of taking a mate.
I asked a resident if the stories I had heard about the domine were
true, and that in his wholesale business he had actually married thirty
couples within an hour, that being high-water mark.
"Yes, stranger," responded the boomer, "and we call him the
'torpedo-boat minister.'"
"Why so?"
"Because he made thirty knots an hour."
By the way, I forgot to tell you several amusing things that happened
while I was down in Dixie.
When in Alabama, I spent some time with an old friend who owned a big
plantation.
Among his negro hands was his coachman, who up to that time had
invariably persisted in getting in his vote, despite the plain hints of
the white election officers that he would do better to stay at home. On
that particular Election Day he returned home in the afternoon with a
countenance that looked like it had been taking some familiarities with
a buzz saw.
"What's the matter, Zack?" I asked, with some solicitude.
"It's this way, boss; I went up dar to the votin' place, and there wuz
the county undertakah, sah, a-sittin' with a big book open 'foah him,
and he sez to me right sharp like:
"'What's your name?'
"'Zack Taylor', I sez, humble.
"'Let's see?' says the undertakah, and he turned over the leaves of the
book. All of a sudden he stopped turnin' and begin to run his fingers
down the page, mutterin' to himself.
"'Taylor, Taylor, Taylor, Taylor--Zack.' And pretty soon he hollered
out:
[Illustration: ELECTION BOOTH