That was when I forgot he was a lawyer, and used to holding every
charge.
He clutched Mr. Bull by the horns, and I hardly knew whether to laugh or
be frightened when I actually saw him riding the beast.
Finally he was assisted over the fence.
[Illustration]
We hurried to him, anxious to learn whether he had been injured
seriously.
Beyond a few scratches, and a tear or so in his garments, he seemed to
be all right.
Of course I warmly congratulated him on his abilities as a prize
bull-baiter.
He was a little dazed--I guess you would have been, too, after such a
warm experience.
"Say, am I awake--was this thing the genuine article or did it only
exist in my imagination?" he asked.
I thought of how he rode that all bovine like a Centaur, and hastened to
reply:
"Well, if it wasn't real, it's certainly a striking example of a man
being carried away by his imagination, that's all."
On the way home after that trip, Hollingsworth was quite gay.
I've often wondered whether it came from his being so well shaken up by
the bull, or because he had successfully evaded the snares of that smart
real estate agent.
"Did you notice it was a colored man who gave our friend Joblots his
letters at the post office?" he asked.
I replied that I had been surprised to see that the residents of a town
in Jersey had a negro postmaster.
"Oh! he's only an assistant. But you'd be surprised still more if you
realized his real character."
"Would I?"
"Because everyone knows he's a blackmailer."
"That's serious, isn't it?"
"And it isn't the worst, either."
"Why, he must be a hard citizen--what else does he do?"
[Illustration]
"Joblots says his wife takes hush money."
"Bribery, eh?"
"You see, she's one of the nurses at the orphan asylum."
By the way, before I forget, I want to tell you about a man I met this
morning. He followed the funniest profession you ever heard of.
He appealed to me for help, saying times were hard and he could find no
employment at his profession.
"What are you?" I asked him.
"An oculist," he replied.
He looked so seedy that I was surprised.
"An oculist, eh? How do you make that out?" I asked.
"I take the eyes out of potatoes," he said.
Well, I got him a job as scullion in a beanery.
He had the whitest hair and mustache you ever saw, and told me it had
come in a night through a scare, that he nearly died from fright--now do
you believe that?
Of course you do.
Why, more than once you've seen an old widower's hair suddenly turn from
gray to black about five months after he buried the partner of his joys
and woes, and he didn't dye from fright, either.
[Illustration]
Say, did any of you people ever strike a prohibition town?
Any of you that have done so will sympathize with me, for I had a
terrible experience of that sort when on a tour last winter.
To save my life I couldn't get anything stronger than Sparrowvinatis;
that's a drink they have in those freak towns.
Well, sir, I spied a braw Scotchman selling tickets at a theatre door.