using “shinplaster” too—but they were not generous enough to invite me
to go down under. I do not wish to name them. Nor would I have mentioned
the boys’ names but for the fact all of them have now gone to their
reward. And, besides, despite the undercurrent that it was not
considered strictly genteel, everybody, more or less, played poker
then—even, it was said, Father Bagley, our first High Priest, would take
a hand occasionally. There was a regular fellow. For him it was Mass
of a Sunday morning, then base ball or horse-racing in the afternoon,
without fail.
With this slow and awkward beginning it was a long, long time before I
got nerve enough to sit in a private poker game as guest of a friend, in
Kansas City, with a player who afterwards became President of the United
States. He did not impress me as likely timber then. But, may I say,
that when once in the running, he showed ‘em that he was truly from
Missouri—and that, surprisingly, he could, in a pinch, run like a scared
rabbit. Politics was his forte.
In explanation of the Girl-Papa-Richboy incident: I had sent a boy with
a note asking the girl for her company for a dance, a private dance to
be given by our select crowd, of which she was a favorite. The boy came
back without a written reply—but he said she told him to tell me that
she would go with me. This being rather unusual, I asked the -boy if
that was all she said? “Well,” he said, “her mother said, ‘Now, girlie,
you know what your father will say’ — and the girl said, ‘I don’t care,
I’m going with him anyway’.” I had not known about the rich man’s son
trying to edge in, and this indicated slap by her papa was a grievous
blow to my ego.
I sent the girl another note, telling her in simple words—I always made
‘em simple now since having once, to no avail, slopped over ridiculously
— that I had wormed out of the boy the remarks between mother and
daughter, and that in consequence thereof I deemed it wise for me to
cancel the date, until I could find out what it was all about. I may say
I never sent but one formally phrased note to a girl in all my life—and
that got me exactly nothing. That literary boy, Ecky Hamel, dictated
it for me, and to make matters worse, it was to his girl. And he
really wanted it to click—to ward off, in his absence, some dangerous
competition.
However, I once got a neatly written acceptance to an ultra-formal and
gorgeously phrased note bearing my name, which I didn’t write. I was a
new boy in Seneca at the time. I met a lot of girls at the skating rink
in the old Armory building on upper Main Street. Ena Burbery, pretty
and agreeably alert, was good on roller skates. Ena and four other girls
worked as trimmers in the millinery department of the Cohen store. Ena
talked. And the girls, all but one, joined in mailing her a note bearing
my forged signature requesting her company for a swank party three days
hence. Ella Murphy, one of the five, boarded and roomed at the Theodore
Wolfley home, same as I did while working on Wolfley’s newspaper, The
Tribune. Ella said the note was formal and softly silly, and so did Ena
say it was awful — but, she giggled, “I was not going to let that spoil
a date, especially for a party like that.” Now, the ridiculous part of
it all is, that it was an exclusive party to be given by Seneca’s upper
crust, to which I had no invitation. But, even so, it gave me elevated
status for a little while, in a limited way. We compromised on the rink.
And the girls, whom I never did meet, sent me an apology, through Ella
Murphy, for recklessly abusing my name—and getting the girl a date. Ena
was the section foreman’s daughter, but that was no handicap. I myself
married a section foreman’s daughter, picked her for a winner from a
sizable field of promising prospects.
Naturally, I wanted to know more about the status of the rich man’s
son—and I got it too, back at the gospel tent the next night. The girl
said nothing at all about my poker-playing proclivities. She was too
sensible to try to reform a boy. Her idea was to pick ‘em as suited her
fancy—and trust to luck. Indeed, she said in rebuttal of her father’s
expressed opinion of me, that if her mamma only could have kept her
mouth shut everything would have been all right, and that I would have
never known. “And besides,” she said, “You don’t drink, and papa does—a
little; and you don’t smoke, and papa does, though he does not smoke
cigarettes.” A cigarette smoker in those days was considered cheap. How
times have changed. The girl had overlooked one of “Papa’s” weaknesses,
but for me to have mentioned it to her then would have got me nothing
that I was not now likely to get anyway.
This exchange of ideas took place in the reserved corner of the arena in
advance of the regular session while other congregated young people were
likely thinking of an afar off haven having streets paved with jasper
and gold. Something about streets and jasper and gold ran in the lines
of the old song books. Also, I dare say, some of the converts might have
cringed a little at the thought of an everlasting fire of brimstone—this
idea emanating from George, the Evangelist—which the wayward and
lukewarm alike might, if they didn’t watch out, fall into in a
last-minute rush for that afar off haven.
Every evening during his meetings Reverend Graham would institute a
two-minute session of silent prayer. In - view of George’s admitted
downfall at a later stand, I trust it will not now be considered
sacrilegious for me to hazard an opinion that those silent periods
offered the preacher an excellent opportunity to pray for grace.
It was not required by custom then for those seeking salvation to come
clear down to earth, and some merely bowed their heads, rested them on
the backs of deserted chairs, and whispered when so inclined. The girl
and I, we did not desecrate the hallowed moment. We didn’t have to.
Silence was golden. I was conceited enough just then to believe that
this beautiful girl, thoroughly repentant or no, would have gone through
George’s pictured purgatory for me.
And nothing happened that could be chalked up as material gain for the
better life. Well, I ask you, how in the name of high heaven, could it?
I’m not particularly proud of it, though. But, you know, if your chariot
does not come along, you can’t take a ride. I certainly do not wish
to cast reflection on the Church. The Church, as a Church, is really a
grand institution. I should hate to think where we would be in a world
without it. Henry DeForest, Yale graduate, said the tent doings was
proselytizing.
Perhaps you would like to know how I fared in the days to come with this
renewed lease on life which the Evangelist’s revival had brought me?
Well, “Papa” shelved his dislike of my poker-playing, and both he and
“mama” greeted me as a friend ever after. They were really fine people—I
might say the very BEST, with capitals.
“Papa” had played a little poker himself—and that too, by-gosh, in
our penny-ante game—and his wish for a switch in the matter of his
daughter’s company was based on too slim premise to set store by, now
that the girl had told him with flat-footed finality that it would not
work.
And the girl? Well, I had to go away, first to Centralia, then to Seneca
to help Theodore Wolfley print his newly purchased Tribune, and I turned
her over to my best poker-playing friend to keep for me against the time
when I might return.
Now, to do me this small favor my friend had to drop another girl with
whom he had been keeping company steadily for two years. He probably
saw possibilities in the change, but he was really too fine—and too ably
assisted by the girl—to take advantage of a friend’s absence.
As my trusted friend and my girl in escrow were already lined up for the
party that first night after my return, it was mutually agreed that—just
for once—I should line up with my friend’s discarded girl, who was still
free. It worked out all right—and it was wonderful to be back with the
old crowd again.
Now, don’t jump at conclusions. Though she was a mighty fine girl, and
good looking too, I did not find her preferable to the other girl. Just
why I made it a regular habit for nearly a year, was quite a different
matter.
We all belonged to an exclusive clique known as The Silver Stockings.
Why so named I never learned. One unalterable requirement for the men
was that each had to bring a girl—or a wife. No “stags” were permitted
at our parties. This was because a certain unwanted young man had the
disturbing habit of sneaking in at public gatherings and monopolizing
our girls.
The thoughtful young man of that period did not think of marriage the
first time he went out with a girl. In our community none but the rich
man’s four sons were financially (in prospect) able to indulge in such
dreams. And, besides, by this time I had had a change of heart—resolved
to consider the future of the girl. After all “Papa” might have had the
right idea. I figured that an attractive girl like she, would not be
justified in playing along with me until I could make my stake.
And again, were I to pursue my chances—which at this time were, I
flattered myself, in a high bracket—who could say with certainty that
“Papa” would not someday become afflicted with a recurrent attack of
that silly notion the first time that the favored son, or maybe another
of the RM’s sons might strut his stuff in the presence of the girl.
Then, too, something fine—alas, something very fine, was now gone out of
the picture that could never be returned. I reluctantly decided to let
matters drift along as temporarily planned the first night back home—and
see what would happen. It was my hardest decision.
I had seen too many people trying to make a stake and raise a family
at the same time. My father made more money than most—but with ten
children, it was slavery for him. He worked sixteen hours a day at his
trade as shoemaker—and even then he had to skimp, and work and skimp.
But he took a philosophical view of matters, and on the whole his was
a rather contented life. One time when he was complaining about the
difficulty of getting ahead, I suggested that maybe he had erred in
first taking on the responsibility of raising a big family.
He said, “Well, they kept coming and I couldn’t knock ‘em in the head.”
I said, “They didn’t start coming until after you were married—”
He yelped, as if something had stung him, “Of course not, you young
upstart!” That was a time when he would have been justified in applying
the kneestrap, his ever ready implement of correction, to my posterior.
But my father was a forbearing man.
I said, “Gosh, Dad—I only meant to say if you had waited until after you
had made your stake, you would not now be bothered with this burdensome
load.”
He said, quickly, “If I had waited longer where do you think you’d be
now, young man?”
Well, that was something to think about. It might have upset the whole
continuity. I think we older boys reminded him too often of the excess
baggage he was struggling along with—only, however, when he would begin
his lamenting, usually about the high tariff.
I can think of nothing more disturbing than to be caught short-handed
(otherwise broke) in a community marked by a dearth of opportunity to
earn a living—-With dependents to care for. Such was our country in the
early days. My parents had rubbed up against this situation on numerous
occasions. However, unlike some of our neighbors, the time never came
when we did not have enough to eat. But that “hand to mouth” rule of
living could not rub out the anxiety.
It was an era when the ambitious young fellow was of necessity compelled
early in life to begin laying-by for the “rainy day” if he did not wish
to run the risk of becoming an object of charity—and who did in the old
days? It was then considered about the last straw. It took a long time
to lay-by a competence in the old days. The average wage-earner gets as
much per hour now as was paid for a whole day’s work then—when ten hours
was a day. This is not to say the young “sprout” could not marry before
he had a competence. He did—recklessly. And paid the price.
It was to avoid such conditions as this that I made a firm resolve to
defer marriage until I could make a stake.
I set my goal at $10,000, and when things got going good I kept right
on going until this goal was more than doubled — and in subsequent years
learned that it was none too much:
However, in strict honesty, I think this cautious streak was inherited
rather than instilled in me by observations. My father had entertained
the same cautious notions. Orphaned early in life, he made his own
way—saved, and had what he called a nice nest-egg at the age of 25. He
went from Kentucky over into Tennessee to visit relatives, met my mother
while there—and married her the next time he came into her back-woods
community. And had it not been for the cruel Civil War—and the
guerillas—I am pretty sure: that I would have had a rich Dad regardless
of his super-abundance of kids.
However, conditions changed for the better for father. When his boys got
big enough to lessen the burden, and then in time lift it altogether, he
had an easy life. My brother Frank worked with him in the shoeshop,
and at the same time conducted a shoe store in the front end of the
building, with our sister Nannie in charge. When Frank decided to go to
California to join his brother Dave in business, he gave them the shoe
stock. I had written insurance in the sum of $1,000 for Frank, and when
the assigned policy was about to expire I mentioned the matter one day
at the dinner table. Father said, “Oh, I don’t need any insurance.”
I renewed the policy anyway, paid the premium myself, and said no more
about it. Then, some months later, a fire destroyed the old Logue frame
store building across the street, in early evening—and the town was out
in numbers. There was little chance of the blaze reaching my father’s
shop, but he and several excited volunteers were making ready to remove
the shoe stock to the street. I told him that he better just get his
books and records where he could put his hands on them in case of need,
and to leave the stock in the building for a while, at least. Thinking
to ease his fears, I said, “You’ve got a thousand dollar insurance
policy on the stock.” He exclaimed, excitedly, “Oh, that’s not enough!”
By this time—we are now back again on the matter of girls, mostly — the
girl’s papa had been elevated to the Mayorality, and the family was now
operating the Wetmore hotel. On one of my trips home from Seneca, after
spending a pleasant hour with the girl, I dropped in on the poker
game, just to greet the boys, and watch the play. I had reformed then
— mostly, I think, on account of the girl. Incidentally, I may say I
reformed more times than a backslider ever confessed his sins—every
time, I think, on account of a girl—before finally realizing that it was
not the way to build character.
The game then was in the Billy Buzan residence—af ter his wife’s
death—on the corner where Bob Cress’ residence is now, west of the
telephone office. It was the original William Cawood location, with
the west portion of the high fence (seven-foot up and down pine boards)
still standing. That high fence had enclosed four lots, and held in
captivity a “pet” deer for several years. When the Mayor and a guest of
the hotel came in at the front door, I slipped out the back door, as I
thought unobserved by His Honor, and streaked it, in bright moonlight,
to the fence and went over almost without touching. The next day the
Mayor said to me, “Young fellow, I saw your shirt-tail going over that
high board fence last night.” But he hadn’t. It was before the young
sports had begun to wear their shirt-tails on the outside of their
pants. And then again I never was guilty of that slovenly habit.
About that deer. It finally jumped over the gate at the southeast corner
of the enclosed grounds—and was gone for several days. But it came back
and jumped in again. Then, it made a game of jumping out and jumping in
— with periodic trips to the country. Then, one morning there were
two deer in the enclosure. I think the “pet” deer tried its best to
domesticate the visitor — but after three days, the call of the wilds
claimed them both.
Some years later—after he had spent a couple of years in Arkansas, and
was now back in the hotel again, in Wetmore—”Papa” was in a tight spot
at Enid, Oklahoma, the third day after the opening of the Cherokee
Strip, September 16,1893. He had made the run, staked a claim, and was
in line—a very long line—at the Land Office, waiting his turn to file.
I had already filed on my claim. While in line, I observed soldiers, who
were supposed to be on hand to see that everyone would get a fair deal,
were running in people ahead of me—and a little later, a man I shall
simply call Eddie—apparently in the role of chief grafter—whom I had
known in Wetmore, approached me with a proposition to advance me in line
for $5. I was too near the door to be interested—and besides, my brother
Dave who held a filing number next to mine, promised to “wipe the earth
up” with Ed if we should be delayed further. Might say here that the
gang followed this remunerative activity with another dirty practice.
They filed contests on claims, so that the rightful locators would, in
many instances, buy them off rather than stand the expense of fighting
the case. Then Dave had to give Mr. Ed that promised thrashing. It got
Dave a prompt withdrawal of the contest. I was the only one of our
party of four who did not have to fight a contest. My friendship, or
co-operation with the crooks, whichever way you choose to look at it,
had, I presume, saved me.
After I had filed on my claim, I carried the “good” news of Mr. Eddie’s
activities to “Papa.” I knew he was anxious to get back home to his
hotel business, where he was trying hard to re-establish himself after
returning from Arkansas. He asked me to contact Mr. Eddie for him—and
said, “I’ll be your uncle.”
The soldiers advanced him to near the door—and there the line became
static once more, as other advancements were being pushed in ahead
of him. Then Ed told me that for $10 more the soldiers would put him
through the door without delay. “Papa” dug up the $10, and said, “Do
this for me Son, and I’ll dance at your wedding.” Now he could call me
“Son” and offer to dance at my wedding.
There are three girls prominently featured in this story, whose names I
do not wish to divulge. Substituting, I maybe should call the first one
Miss Beautiful, for she was all that. But from here on, until further
notice, I shall refer to them as My Best Girl, The Old Girl, and The
Kid.
In all too short time my nemesis, in the person of a certain rich man’s
son, an older brother of that other boy, got on my trail. I do not think
it was to avenge his disappointed brother, but it could have been that.
He told the boys it was to prove that he was “man enough” to “bump” me.
Well, just for once, it was not a bad guess. He would be working on
fertile ground. I didn’t care too much for the Old Girl anyway. She was
my senior by four or five years, and naturally she would welcome a
good “catch.” It was understood between us that she was only filling a
vacancy, and thereby providing a way to keep us in the Silver Stocking
circle. The thing I didn’t like was to be “bumped” just for the fun of
it, as viewed by the RM’s son.
Mike Norton, clerk in the DeForest store, saw the rich man’s son write
a letter to the Old Girl, and he thought this would be the time when the
RM’s son would try to make good his boast. Three days hence there was to
be a picnic in a grove south of Netawaka, and the Silver Stocking boys
and girls were lining up to go in a body. Mike and other members of the
circle put in two hours looking for me. The boys, and the girls too,
were all for me, in this instance — but not even the King’s Horses
could have stopped that boy in his purpose. The postmaster showed me the
letter with the OG’s name spelled out in bold relief—and I was off at
once, thinking I would now show this RM’s son that he could not do this
to me.
The Old Girl said she was awfully sorry—that she had promised another,
naming the rich man’s son. I said, in substance—though really not
sore at the OG, I think I was not in a frame of mind to phrase it just
so—”Let’s see where we stand. The way things are shaped up now, I’m
out—that is, barred from the Silver Stocking crowd by the rules of my
own helpful making.”
She suggested that I go back to the girl I have designated as My Best
Girl—said, “I KNOW you can, if you will just spunk up a little.” I had
never “spunked” much with the OG.
“But,” I said, “if I should succeed in dating her, someone else would
be out, and that someone is your old beau. Likely timber maybe. Then, in
case your date does not choose to repeat, you might still have a chance
to get back with the old crowd.”
She laughed — the OG was feeling pretty good, just then—and said, “I
hadn’t thought of it that way.” Now she giggled, “But, you know, I could
always be a hanger-on, maybe even go with you and your girl—just in
case.” A boy was permitted to take more than one girl—even a flock of
them if he were unlucky enough.
Now the atmosphere around the OG’s home had changed, with exultant
spirits taking a nose-dive. That letter was for the purpose of calling
off a date. She was really too nice a girl to be buffed around like that
— but please note that I did not hold with any such buffings. She had
forfeited her chance to go with the crowd to the picnic. Now, more than
ever, she wanted to go. She first took her troubles to her bosom friend,
Bessie Campfield, wife of Judge Elwin Campfield. She wanted to know how
could she, with propriety, get word to me that after all she would be
free to go with me to the picnic. Bessie had spent some anxious moments
trying to round up a courier to apprise me of that letter. She said to
the OG, “I don’t know about that now. I could have told you about that
fellow’s egotistical designs.”
The Old Girl lived with her aged parents, and when they would go away
for the night, as they often did to visit another daughter in the
country, she would have a young neighbor girl—not too young, but much
younger than she-stay the night with her. The old folks were away now,
and the young girl had been called in for the night.
The Old Girl was still worried. I’m now almost sorry that I ever started
this “Old Girl” differential, as it smacks of disrespect — and I do not
want the reader to form any such ideas. The OG first asked the young
girl to come up town with her—then, remembering that her best friend had
dropped a hint that the ground upon which she now stood was insecure,
she decided that she was not constitutionally able to face me just then
with her problem. She sent the young girl, alone.
But the Kid—that’s what they called her when we went together to the
picnic, and thereafter as a member of the Silver Stocking crowd—said,
“If you go with her now, you will be the biggest fool in the world. All
she wants to go with you for, is to see who he takes,” naming the RM’s
son.
The Kid was smart.
But please do not think the so-called Kid was betraying a trust. She was
really a woman now. And, besides, she had reason to believe that, to
use a homely expression, she were very soon going to get the OG’s goat,
anyway.
And moreover, the Old Girl later told the “Kid,” perhaps in a gesture of
discouragement, that I had gone with her steadily for nearly a year, and
had never tried to kiss her. Had that not been the truth it would have
been libel. -In the old days, the prudent young man did not dare kiss an
old girl who was only filling a vacancy.
Prior to this, the “Kid” and I had “starred” in a local entertainment
entitled “Beauty and Beelzebub” — and mutual admiration had blossomed
then. She was the Angel and I was the Devil. In the tableau, the Devil,
encased in a tight-fitting black sateen cover-all, with horns and a
four-foot forked tail, was suspended on wires about four feet off the
floor when the curtain went up. Then the Angel, up in the clouds, began
the descent with song, the singing increasing in volume as she came
down bare feet first, with outstretched wings, settling in front of the
Devil. The “Kid” made a pretty picture, with her abundant dark hair —
which, I happen to know, came down nearly to her ankles — spread over
the white flowing covering whose traditional folds parted in front just
enough to indicate that she dwelt in a place where shoes and stockings
were taboo. The Angel departed by the same route—wire and windlass
mechanism—went up into the clouds from whence she had come, with more
singing, at first in full voice, then fading, fading, fading away in a
manner denoting distance. In her young budding womanhood the “Kid” made
a beautiful Angel — and the clear, sweet singing was out of this world.