"Yes," he continued, "especially after the beautiful dream I had about
her the other night. I dreamt that I had married her and that she had
settled $14,000,000 on me."
"Yes, and then you woke up," says I.
"No," says he, "that's the funny part of it. I put that money in the
bank."
"Well, that's all right," says I, "but you'll have a dickens of a time
in getting it out again."
"That's easy," says he, "I'll just go to sleep again. I guess I'll do
that now and draw some of the interest."
We got to the city of the dead and, having nothing else to do, I went
with Joe on a scout for business.
While we were out in the suburbs, he struck a man putting up some kind
of a building, for he had a large pile of bricks.
"Good-morning, neighbor," says Joe. "I'd like to insure this new cottage
you are putting up."
[Illustration]
"It isn't a cottage at all," began the man.
"Ah, well, my good man," says Joe, "if it's only a dog-house, you'd
better have it insured."
"Confound you," says the suburbanite, now in a rage, "get out of this.
I'm rebuilding my well."
Joe, soon after this, decided to stay in the carpetbaggers' city and
take the agency of a large insurance company.
One day there was a very destructive fire at Cohen &
Wosislosmitdewhiskey's clothing store.
Joe took the company's adjuster and went down to investigate.
A good deal of discussion resulted, in which the cause of the fire
figured principally.
Cohen said it was due to the electric wiring, and his partner claimed it
was the gas-light.
Finally the adjuster called upon Joe to render his opinion.
"Look here, Joe," says he. "This man claims it was the Arc-light and
this fellow that it was the Gas-light. Now what do you think it was?"
"Well," says Joe, "if you want my candid opinion, I think it was
neither. I'll bet a dollar that it was the Israelite."
[Illustration]
Joe at last got married and, when his son was still quite young, it
bothered him somewhat to know just what trade or profession he ought to
select for him.
So at last he told his wife to get the boy a box of paints, a toy steam
engine, a printing press, and see what the boy would take to most
readily.
When Joe got home at night, he asked his wife how the plan had
succeeded.
"Well, I'm a bit puzzled," says she, "he has smashed the whole lot to
atoms."
"The very thing," says Joe. "We'll make him a furniture mover."
[Illustration]
That didn't suit Mrs. Dempsey though, and she said they ought to have
the boy a musician.
"All right," says Joe, "we'll let him learn the clarionette."
"Why, Joe!" says his wife. "Whoever heard of such a thing. I say, let
him learn to play the violin. Think what an unhandy thing a clarionette
is to carry."
"That's right, my dear," says Joe, "but think what a darn handy thing it
is in case of a scrap."
Now I'll try to amuse you by singing my latest dead march, entitled "The
Moth and the Flame; or, My Kingdom For a Fire."
They howl of the creature who uses the hoe,
Of the farmer behind the plow;
They warble a song to the horny palm,
And they garland the sunburned brow.
There's praise for the soldier behind the gun,
Who fights after others tire;
But here's to the victim of fate's worst blow,
The Hebrew who don't have a fire.
There's flame in his optic that bodeth ill,
There's a dangerous set of jaw;
There's a mighty unrest in his heaving chest,
And he scoffs at the moral law.
Then woe to the creature--or man, or beast--
That rouseth the smoldering ire
Of the Jew who heavily insures his place,
Then finds he can't have a fire.
[Illustration]
That song always gives my friend Rosensky a bad attack of indigestion.
All the time I'm singing it he keeps moaning:
"Dink if that vas me. Dink!"
The time I was boarding, my landlady's name was Mrs. Closefist.
One day she went to the grocery store and says:
"I'd like to have some more of that bad butter you sold me last week."
"Why," says the grocer, "if it was bad, what do you want more for?"
"Well, you see," says she, "it lasts longer."
This same woman had a calf. That calf was taken sick and died. We had
veal for the next three weeks.
[Illustration]
She had a pig and that pig died. We had pork for the next four weeks.
She had a mother-in-law. That mother-in-law was taken sick--but we
fooled her, we all moved.
One morning my egg wasn't fried right, so I blew the girl up.
She blew the servant up, the servant blew the cook up, and the gasoline
stove blew the frying pan up.
It was a case of blow-up all around.
Mrs. Closefist had a daughter named Jane, who was taking painting
lessons at the time.
She also took pains to let every one within a hundred miles know about
it.
One day she brought down a thing that looked to me like a green shutter
in a cloud of steam.
"Look here," says she, "isn't this pretty?"
[Illustration]
"I'm enraptured," says I. "Such a wealth of detail, such a display of
budding genius! The perspective is simply perfect.
It-it-it--is--so--clever. Oh! confound it, I can't find words to express
my admiration. By the way, what is it?"
"Why," says she, "I am surprised. It represents a green field on a
cloudy day. Can't I paint well?"
"Fine," says I. "In fact you have done so well, I am going to recommend
you to a friend of mine who wants a fence whitewashed."
Mrs. Closefist, whose reputation for meanness was well known, was in the
habit of giving a soiree once a year, "just to liven the boarders up."
I don't know whether it made any of the other fellows particularly
lively, but I know that on such occasions was the only time I ever
managed to get any sleep.
There were very few outsiders who attended, because the "racket" usually
partook very much of the chief trait of the hostess.
Once, when she was making preparations for one of these soul-stirring
affairs, she says to me:
"I'd like to give my guests a pleasant surprise. Something distinctly
original."