But Mrs. Badger, after shooting him one quick look, probably decided
that it was a blank cartridge.
[Illustration]
Badger, when her back was turned, actually gave me a wicked wink behind
his paper.
On the whole, I guess there's a little of the old spunk left, but it
will never set the river afire.
Badger told me once, he and his wife ran away and got married by a
justice of the peace.
If you never witnessed a civil marriage by an alderman, a mayor, or some
such officer authorized to deal out bliss in double harness, well, you
don't know what you've missed, that's all.
The first time a magistrate has to officiate upon such a happy occasion,
one can hardly blame him for being kind of nervous.
A good fairy sent me to the office of a friend, who is a justice, and it
happened he was tying his first double knot.
Having been duly coached, he opened the proceedings all right, and
fancied he had plain sailing.
The woman had been duly asked whether she would take the aforesaid man
to be her husband, and as that was the identical reason why she was
there, she hastened to say that she had no objections, and at the same
time took a firmer hold on his arm, as though determined not to let him
get away from her.
[Illustration]
Then the magistrate turned to the groom and pierced him with his eagle
eye.
Perhaps he was so accustomed to having appeals made to him in his
official capacity, that it came very natural for him to remark:
"Prisoner at the bar, what have you to say in your defense."
At the same time I thought it rather hard on the young man, but he came
up to the scratch smiling and proved an alibi.
A magistrate's office is a good place for picking up humor, but it
doesn't compare with the den of an installment book agent.
The manager of the office was hauling a candidate for a position over
the coals while I waited for an interview, and quite a few amusing
tidbits floated over the top of the partition.
"Ever done any canvassing before, Mr. Jones?"
"Well, I worked a year in a Chicago house where they packed hams for the
market."
[Illustration]
"You are a little hoarse this morning--I hope your voice is reliable,
for you'll need it in this business."
"That's all right, the neighbors think I got a good voice--they all
advised me to go abroad and study."
"You complained of having the toothache--will that prevent you from
carrying on business?"
"Not at all, sir. You see it's a holler tooth."
By the way, this same manager of the Book Agents' Supply Company has a
most decided aversion to all department stores.
He declares they are ruining the country.
That there is no longer a chance for a young man to set himself up in
business, and so forth.
You've heard the changes rung up on that story.
Possibly there's more or less truth about it; but we've got to face a
condition, not a theory.
Well, Babcock carries his hatred so far that he detests the very sight
and name of the department stores. His wife has the strictest
instructions not to purchase anything whatever at these pernicious
paradises, and, therefore, when he returned to his home early one day
last week and discovered a parcel of groceries on the hall table which
bore the hated imprint of Swindell & Getrich, great and tremendous was
his virtuous wrath.
His knife was out in an instant, and in another the various packages
were ripped up, and condensed milk, eggs, tea, sugar, and the sultanas
were mixed together in a fearsome heap on the linoleum.
"Why, what are you doing, Henry?" said his wife, entering at that
moment.
Rip, went another packet of Scraped Nutshells for Scraggy Nonentities,
and whizz went its contents.
[Illustration]
"I'm teaching you a lesson, madam!" he roared. "Teaching you to obey my
instructions not to deal at this store?"
"Why, Henry," said the lady, "they don't belong to us at all. Mrs
Jenkins, next door, has gone away for the day, and I promised to take
them in for her."
And Babcock had to subdue his spleen, allow his wife to hie away to the
hated department store and duplicate the whole Jenkins' order.
He is also a singular man, in that he will not allow himself the
pleasure of a good cigar.
Some men would make good Mohammedans, for they always seem trying to
deny themselves the good things of life--a sort of crawling to Mecca on
their knees.
Why, what do you think, while Babcock and myself were sauntering through
Central Park recently, up runs a smart little urchin, and sings out:
"Box o' matches, sir?"
"No," said Babcock, loftily, "don't smoke."
[Illustration]
"Well," remarked the boy, sympathetically, "if you'll buy a box,
guv'nor, I don't mind teachin' yer."
As we sauntered along we came upon a diminutive girl who was wheeling a
perambulator, in which was a very young child.
As the vehicle was being pushed dangerously near the edge of a somewhat
steep curb, I was alarmed, and ventured to faintly remind her that the
little one was in danger of being thrown out.
[Illustration]
The girl looked up in my face, and, in a tone of utter and complete
indifference, replied:
"It don't matter, mister; it ain't our kid."
And it was on the same afternoon that I saw an amusing mix-up, as well
as had my recollection of a life upon the ocean wave revived.
An old salt, who had apparently learned to navigate a bicycle fairly
well, was working his wobbly way along one of the paths in the park,
when, before our eyes, he collided with a lady wheeler.
[Illustration]
It was awfully funny, I'm telling you, now.
Fortunately, there was no personal damage, and he hastened to murmur his
excuses.
"I'm sure as I ought to be scuttled for it, mum," he said,
apologetically, "but I couldn't get your signals no more as if we were
feeling through a fog bank. I was blowin' for you to pass to port an'
steerin' my course accordin'. Just as I was going to dip my pennant an'
salute proper, your craft refused to obey her rudder, an' you struck me
for'ard. Afore I could reverse, your jib-boom fouled my starboard mizzen
riggin', your mainsail (skirt) snarled up with my bobstay, parted your
toppin' lift, and carried away my spanker down haul. As I listed to try
to jib, I capsized, keel up, an' put you flounderin' in the wreckage. I
hope you'll forgive me, mum, and let's start off fresh, on a new tack."
[Illustration]
Now, I liked that old tar.
He was a square-rigged man, and ready to accept what the gods sent him.
That's my style.
I've got my faults, but kicking isn't one of 'em, you bet.
[Illustration]
You'll always find me at the same old stand, ready to take things as
they come--but please be a little careful about the antiquity of the
eggs, because, you see, I've got my best clothes on.
Now, if the orchestra will kindly wake up and give us a little music,
I'll try and sing a song which I have called "No Kicker Need Apply."
Hold on, professor, you want to be sharp. I expected you'd be flat, so I
guess you'd better compromise and only be natural.
Well, then, here goes:
Guess I've been about as lazy as the civil laws allow;
Know blame well I've been as lazy as I could be anyhow;
Never liked t' do th' milkin', never liked t' heft a hoe,
Never liked to plow or harvest, never liked t' reap ner sow.
Never was much good at nothin' that my daddy put me at,
But I've never been a kicker, an' I'm bloomin' glad o' that.
There isn't any chorus to this song, so glide right along to the second
verse, professor. Here you are.
I've been called a triflin' beggar, I've been called a shif'less
slouch;
I've been called some things that hurt me, but I never hollered "Ouch!"
I've left undone a heap o' things I started out to do,
An' I've had my share of headache--yes, I've had my share, f'r true;
But my upper lip's kep' stiffer'n any board ye ever see,
Fer I've never been a kicker, an' I'm never goin' t' be.
I've seen days when clouds was hangin' over ev'rything in sight;
I've seen times I wished t' goodness, morning wouldn't foller night;
I've felt kicked an' snubbed an' slighted--though folks didn't mean it
so,
An' I've had to blink an' swaller for t' make my smiler go;
But I made it work, by ginger, and I'm thankful for it still--
Fer I've never been a beefer, an' you bet I never will.
I've been watchin' folks that hollered till they's purple in th' face,
Claimin' that their nat'ral enemies was all th' human race.
Kep' on noticin', and purty soon their guess was blame near right,
For they al'ays was commingled in some sort o' gen'ral fight.
Thankful I don't see things that way, though I'm not no haloed saint;
But I've never been a kicker, an' I'm mighty glad I ain't.
[Illustration]
Thank you ladies and gentlemen.
I knew the noble sentiments expressed in those verses would take your
hearts by storm.
And please forbear showing your appreciation by the customary liberal
supply of ancient hen fruit, tomatoes, and cabbage flowers.