Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. II. No. 23, August, 1921
A Trip to the Battlefields
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_Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang_
[Illustration]
_America’s Magazine of
Wit, Humor and
Filosophy_
AUGUST, 1921 Vol. II. No. 23
Published Monthly
W. H. Fawcett, Rural Route No. 2
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
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 1921
By W. H. Fawcett
Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and
dedicated to the fighting forces of the United States
_Drippings From the Fawcett_
A few months ago a newspaper friend of mine in New Orleans wrote about
having taken a drink of the Louisiana brand and then backing against a
bale of cotton as he said: “Come on, boy, let’s go.” I didn’t appreciate
his humor very much at that time because I had been on the wagon for
several months. I had not touched the “fiery flare” that “stealeth away
the mind” principally because the morning after the night before found
me in such condition that it seemed to take months of the “tapering off”
process to get back in shape.
However, the devil got the upper hand again and, as usual, there was the
devil to pay. Somebody presented me with a nice, new-appearing black
bottle bearing a shiny, greenish colored label. The alleged bonded stamp
had a peculiar shade and indicated a bourbon of twelve summers. The
contents, however, bore the taste of a reverse action to an old maid’s
age. But the cayenne pepper, ether and tobasco sauce got in its damnable
work.
Two hours later I passed by the Ashley Airport, located in Robbinsdale
near the Whiz Bang farm. Instead of backing against a bale of cotton, I
backed against a 90 horsepower aeroplane, handed the pilot my last $50
and said: “Come on, Gus, let’s go.” And, believe me, Gus and I went some
before we got off this last “bender.”
The pilot, Homer Cole, veteran of four years’ service in France,
fulfilled his duties in a business-like way, while Gus and myself were
filling ourselves in an unbusiness-like way. Our first stop was Brainerd,
Minn., a hustling city about 150 miles north of Robbinsdale. We had so
much real or fancied fun on our first flight that we enveigled Cole to
make another leap of 22 miles to Breezy Point lodge in the old Indian
territory. Of course in the meantime we had ridded ourselves of our
visible supply of tobasco sauce and both knew that our stay in my Pequot
log cabin resort must be brief. Therefore, the very bright and brilliant
idea soaked in the hired man’s dome, that an airship would be a necessary
permanent adjunct for traveling back and forth between Robbinsdale and
Pequot.
Gus conducted negotiations with Cole and learned that his plane could
be purchased on the installment plan. The deal was soon closed and at
this writing the plane is partly mine. We managed to last it out for
one day in the North pine woods and early next morning hopped off for
Minneapolis, with its fond memories of many mills and motley moonshine.
Later in the day, my brother, Harvey, who now conducts the business end
of the little old Whiz Bang, located Gus and I in a gin mill. He handed
me a nice letter of invitation to attend a convention of the Independent
Magazine Distributors at the Schlitz Hotel at Atlantic City. While the
convention notice sounded mighty good, the name of the hotel suggested a
hankering for the good old days.
Gus was heart-broken, to think that I would leave him behind and as he
had performed valiant service as caretaker of Pedro, our pedigreed bull,
and the cows and chickens during many years as Whiz Bang farm hand, I
granted his plea to accompany me.
We landed safe, sound and, as usual, sick in the McAlpin in New York
City. It was Gus’ longest train ride and incidentally his first visit
to the big village. At the outset he refused to remove his overalls,
rubber collar and red necktie, which was quite embarrassing to me. We had
a swell room on the tenth flight, with carpets on the floor and brass
buttoned fellows to wait on us. We were informed we could get no liquor
in New York unless we were Enright. Gus promptly formed the advance
guard on the Great White Way, or whatever you call it, and soon we were
both in right. After an eye opener or two, my hired man asked the genial
barkeep for the location of the wash-room. He was shown an ante-room
which bore the sign: “Gentlemen.” He walked right in anyway. Nothing in
New York seemed to deter this faithful, simple Minnesota farm-hand.
That night we received a telegram from Robbinsdale cautioning us to make
reservations in the Schlitz Hotel at Atlantic City, as that institution
might be full on account of the convention. Gus read the message to me,
threw it in the waste basket as he nonchalantly remarked: “If the Schlitz
Hotel is full it has nothing on me.”
The next day it was Atlantic City or bust. We arrived in rather good
shape and were assigned a pleasant room overlooking the Atlantic and the
famous boardwalk. I induced Gus to take a bath, although he insisted
he didn’t need one and that anyway it wasn’t the right time of the
month. A little bribe, however, brought him around to his senses and
after his plunge, I handed him a ten dollar bill to go about and enjoy
himself. Before leaving the room he was strictly cautioned to beware of
pickpockets.
Gus returned several hours later and, I am sorry to relate, was a little
the worse for wear. He had a puzzled, sorrowful look on his face. After a
few moments of hesitation he confessed—he had been “touched.” The mystery
of the missing mazuma was cleared later that night when I coaxed him to
take off his socks before crawling into bed. There in the dark recess of
his left light blue stocking was hidden a five and a two dollar bill.
“Gosh, but I forgot all about hiding it,” he exclaimed with a sigh of
relief.
Next day we “dolled up” as pretty as possible so as to be somewhat
presentable at the convention banquet. We had just started to leave the
room when Gus became so grief stricken that I was forced to cancel the
engagement and remain by his bedside. The shock came in the form of a
telegram from Maggie, the hired girl, and read as follows:
“Pedro took violently ill last night from heart disease—Horse
Doctor Hawkins unable to diagnose his sickness and Pedro was
rushed on truck to Minneapolis—Bull specialists in the Midway
Packing plant say his trouble is homesickness due to Gus’
absence—All hope given up—What shall we do?”
An hour later, while Gus was still shedding tears and demanding that
we return home at once, we received a second message, this one from my
brother, which read:
“Pedro died at 6:00 o’clock—Does Gus want his body brought to
Robbinsdale for burial?—A son was born to the Hereford cow one
hour after Pedro passed—Have named him Pedro Junior after his
father, which assures continuation of the Pedro Bullage.”
Pedro’s death and my intermittent headaches rather dampened our spirits
and so we started back for Robbinsdale. Waiting in Chicago for our
connections to Minnesota, and wishing to cheer up Gus and to ease the
pain of Pedro’s death I said to him, “Gus, you have done pretty good on
the trip so I will get you something nice. What do you want?” We were
just passing a bird store and Gus said, “Get me a pet monkey.” So I
bought him a ring tail monk, which he now has at Breezy Point and with
which he spends most of his time after his day’s work.
As this is written I have somewhat overcome the effects of tapering off,
but the memory of this last jamboree has made an everlasting record on
Gus’ snoose dampened mind.
* * * * *
Deacon Miller’s son, Pete, has a new racket. It appears that he bought
a golden trombone from some Chicago mail order house, and every night
he entertains the boys and girls of the neighborhood with his melodies.
Everybody likes to see the way Pete is coming to the front and when it
comes to playing fast music, etc., Pete can slide that golden trombone in
and out to beat the band.
* * * * *
IN MEMORIAM
Gus and Maggie wish to express their heartfelt thanks for the kind
sympathy and the beautiful flowers attending the recent bereavement of
their beloved Pedro, famed pedigreed bull, to whom we were very much
attached and who died from shortness of breath, superinduced by a severe
case of homesickness, due to the absence of his favored master, Gus,
during Mr. Gus’ recent trip to Broadway. It is our joy and comfort to let
our many friends know that Pedro’s place in our hearts will be partly
filled by his young son, Pedro, Jr.
* * * * *
We went to church last Sunday for a change and the minister preached a
sermon about Lot’s wife looking back and turning into a pillar of salt.
We were telling Gus, our hired man, about the sermon, and Gus says he was
walking around Robbinsdale Monday evening and saw the minister strolling
with Deacon Smith’s wife, and when they looked back and saw Gus, both of
them turned into a dark side street.
* * * * *
Whiz Bang readers will remember some time ago we got a letter from a
fellow on the Pacific Coast who enquired if his long lost brother from
Sweden was our hired man, Gus. It developed later that this was true and
Gus and his brother, Ole, staged a reunion the other day, but as Gus’
brother is not any too dainty and as he has weak pedals, I was unable to
find a position for him on the Whiz Bang farm. However, Gus solved the
difficulty by getting his brother a job as street cleaner in Robbinsdale,
and after the first day, Ole quit and said that Robbinsdale was too fast
for him. At least that is the impression we got from him, for he said
Robbinsdale was no one horse town.
* * * * *
Rus Morrissey says we were in error in declaring that a whiffenpoof was
a fish that swims backwards to keep water out of its eyes, and that a
whiffenpoof really is a dog whose left legs are shorter than its right
legs so that the said whiffenpoof dog can walk around a hill without
losing its balance. Some dorg, we’d say!
* * * * *
A Succulent Table d’Hote
The cow stood in the pasture field,
Her joy was most complete
For with her was her baby calf
A dining tete-a-tete.
_Our Movie Gossip_
BY RICHMOND
The Whiz Bang is hearing all sorts of rumors and gossip wheezes from the
movie camps surrounding the City of Angels, regarding the antics of Clara
Smith Hamon, who recently was freed in the Ardmore, Oklahoma, shooting
case and who is now attempting to break into the picture game with her
“life-story” to teach young girls to beware of oil kings and others.
According to the consensus of whisperings, Clara is having a difficult
time getting studio artists to work for her in the production of the
alleged “reform” photoplay. It is reported she is offering fabulous
salaries from the fund of $10,000 which Jake Hamon is supposed to have
left her, in an endeavor to put over the picture. One camera man said he
was offered $500 a week, and Mason Litson, former Goldwyn director, was
reported to have turned down an offer of $750 a week.
Los Angeles says that besides the Motion Picture Directors’ association
voting to expel any member who aids Clara, the Screen Writers’ Guild has
taken action against the Hamon photoplay. If all this dope is true, Clara
will have a job on her hands illustrating her adventures to young girls
via the screen play. Even after the play is produced, if it ever is,
Clara will find it a task to find theatres to exhibit it in.
Pauline Frederick is now on her way west again from a recent trip to New
York. They say she whispered to a close friend in the depot in New York
as she was leaving, that she and Willard Mack will again wed very soon.
This recalls to mind the gossip that revolved about their previous
engagement when Pauline was playing at the Famous studio in New York City
several years ago. While she and Mack were engaged—he was waiting to get
a divorce from Marjorie Rambeau at the time—it is said he wavered for a
time and showed a decided inclination toward returning to the fair and
beautiful Marjorie. Pauline became so alarmed over losing her playwright
prize that it is said she approached Marjorie.
So Pauline got him, then they separated. Last winter the beautiful
Barbara Castleton, former Goldwyn star, went east, joined one of Willard
Mack’s vaudeville acts, and it was reported was engaged to wed Mack.
They, too, were prevented from carrying out an immediate marriage because
of one of those bothersome final decrees.
Barbara, by the way, while at the Goldwyn studio was one day discovered
in a refined but tempestuous love scene with a tall, raven-haired English
actor. Maybe it was part of a picture, but took place way out on a dark,
deserted stage beneath a huge black cloth used to keep the dust off from
the furniture! An electrician stumbled upon the romantic scene and when
the story was whispered about the studio it is said the poor electrician
was cross questioned and put through the third degree by Hollywood’s best
gossips.
It seems that the English actor has a wife somewhere in the
Empire—Australia or Ireland—so Barbara was daily reported to be
infatuated with some other admirer. It seems her romantic passion for
Mack “took,” for she allowed the press to announce the fact that they
intended to wed when he won his decree from the emotional Pauline,
“Polly” as she is known.
Another interesting angle of the case is to the effect that Pauline never
rode a horse until last winter. One of the Goldwyn pictures required this
feat, so one perfectly handsome cowboy was engaged to teach “Polly” to
ride. The riding lessons were frequent all winter and Hollywood expected
to hear of one of those “high born lady chauffeurs”—in this case cowboy
star—marriages. However, that’s now cold.
* * * * *
Our Program
This is a modern society drama in four acts:
Act I. Their eyes meet.