_OUR CIVIL SERVICE_.
Some of the public officers of Millburg are interesting in their way.
The civil service system of the village is based upon the principle
that if there is any particular function that a given man is wholly
unfitted to perform he should be chosen to perform it. The result is
that the business of our very small government goes plunging along in
the most surprising manner, with a promise that it will end some day
in chaos and revolution--of course upon a diminutive scale.
A representative man is Mr. Bones, the solitary night-watchman of the
town. One of the duties of Mr. Bones is to light the street-lamps. It
is an operation which does not require any very extraordinary effort
of the intellect; but during a part of the summer the mind of Mr.
Bones did not seem to be equal to the strain placed upon it by this
duty. It was observed that whenever there were bright moonlight nights
Mr. Bones would have all the lamps burning from early in the evening
until dawn, while upon the nights when there was no moon he would not
light them at all, and the streets would be as dark as tar. At last
people began to complain about it, and one day one of the supervisors
called to see Mr. Bones about it. He remarked to him,
"Mr. Bones, people are finding fault because you light up on moonlight
nights and don't light the lamps when it is dark. I'd like you to
manage the thing a little better."
"It struck me as being singular, too, but I can't help it. I've got
instructions to follow the almanac, and I'm going to follow it."
"Did the almanac say there'd be no moon last night?"
"Yes, it did."
"Well, the moon was shining, though, and at its full."
"I know," said Mr. Bones, "and that's what gits me. How in the thunder
the moon kin shine when the almanac says it won't beats me out.
Perhaps there's something the matter with the moon; got shoved off her
course may be."
"I guess not."
"Well, it's changed off somehow, and I've got to have something
regular to go by. I'm going by what the almanac says; and if the
moon's going to shuffle around kinder loose and not foller the
almanac, that's its lookout. If the almanac says no moon, then I'm
bound to light the lamps if there's millions of moons shining in the
sky. Them's my orders, and I'll mind 'em."
"How d'you know the almanac is not wrong?"
"Because I know it ain't. It was always right before."
"Let's look at it."
"There it is. Look there, now. Don't it say full moon on the 20th? and
this yer's only the 9th, and yet it's full moon now."
"That's so; and--Er--er--Less--see Er-er--Mr. Bones, do you know what
year this almanac is for?"
"Why, 1876, of course."
"No, it isn't; it's for 1866. It's ten years old."
"Oh no! 1866! Well, now, it is. I declare! 1866! Why, merciful Moses!
I got the wrong one off the shelf, and I've been depending on it
for three months! No wonder the lamps was wrong. Well, that beats
everything."
Then Mr. Bones tore up the almanac and got one for 1876, and ever
since that time the lamp-lighting department has given tolerable
satisfaction.
But it is as a night-watchman that Mr. Bones shines with surpassing
splendor. When he first entered the service, he was very anxious to
make a good impression on Colonel Coffin, the burgess and head of the
village government; and the first night upon which he went on duty
Colonel Coffin was awakened about half-past twelve by a furious ring
at his door-bell. He looked out of the window and perceived the
watchman, who said,
"She's all right. Nobody's broke in. I've got my eye on things. You
kin depend on me."
The colonel thought he was one of the most faithful watchmen he ever
saw, and he returned serenely to bed. On the following night, just
after twelve, there was another energetic ring at the bell; and when
the burgess raised the window, the watchman said,
"Your girls ain't left the window-shutters open and the house is not
afire. All right as a trivet while I'm around, you bet!"
"Louisa," said the colonel to his wife as he returned to his couch,
"that is a splendid watchman, but I think he's just the least bit too
enthusiastic."
A couple of nights later, when the door-bell rang at half-past one,
the colonel felt somewhat angry, and he determined to stay in bed; but
the person on the step below at last began to kick against the front
door, when the colonel threw up the window and exclaimed,
"What do you want?"
It was the watchman, and he said,
"You know old Mrs. Biles up the street yer? Well, I've just rung Biles
up, and he says her rheumatism ain't no better. Thought you might want
to know, so I called. I felt kinder lonesome out here, too."
As Colonel Coffin slammed the sash down he felt mad and murderous. The
next night, however, that faithful guardian applied the toe of his
boot to the front door with such energy that the colonel leaped from
bed, and protruding his head from the window said,
"I wish to _gracious_ you'd stop kicking up this kind of fuss around
here every night! What do you mean, anyhow?"
"Why, I only stopped to tell you that Butterwick has two setter pups,
and that I'd get you one if you wanted it. Nothing mean about that, is
there?"
The colonel uttered an ejaculatory criticism upon Butterwick and the
pups as he closed the window, and a moment later he heard the watchman
call up Smith, who lives next door, and remark to him,
"They tell me it's a splendid season for bananas, Mr. Smith."
When Coffin heard Smith hurling objurgations about bananas and
watchmen out upon the midnight air, he knew it was immoral, but he
felt his heart warm toward Smith. The next time the watchman tried
to get the colonel out by ringing and kicking the colonel refused to
respond, and finally the watchman banged five barrels of his revolver.
Then Coffin came to the window in a rage.
"You eternal idiot," he said, "if you don't stop this racket at night,
I'll have you put under bonds to keep the peace."
"Oh, all right," replied the watchman. "I had something important to
tell you; but if you don't want to hear it, very well; I kin keep it
to myself."
"Well, what is it? Out with it!"
"Why, I heard to-day that the kangaroo down at the Park in the city
can't use one of its hind legs. Rough on the Centennial, ain't it?"
Then, as the colonel withdrew in a condition of awful rage, the
watchman sauntered up the street to break the news to the rest of the
folks. On the next night a gang of burglars broke into Coffin's house
and ransacked it from top to bottom. Toward morning Coffin heard them;
and hastily dressing himself and seizing his revolver, he proceeded
down stairs. The burglars heard him coming and fled. Then the colonel
sprang his rattle and summoned the neighbors. When they arrived, the
colonel, in the course of conversation, made some remarks about the
perfect uselessness of night-watchmen. Thereupon Mr. Potts said,
"I saw that fellow Bones only an hour ago two squares above here, at
McGinnis's, routing McGinnis out to tell him that old cheese makes the
best bait for catfish."
Mr. Bones was reprimanded, but he remained upon what is facetiously
known as "the force." The borough cannot afford to dispense with the
services of such an original genius as he.
Our sheriff is a man of rather higher intelligence, but he also has a
singular capacity for perpetrating dreadful blunders. Over in the town
of Nockamixon one of the churches last year called a clergyman
named Rev. Joseph Striker. In the same place, by a most unfortunate
coincidence, resides also a prize-fighter named Joseph Striker, and
rumors were afloat a few weeks ago that the latter Joseph was about to
engage in a contest with a Jersey pugilist for the championship. Our
sheriff considered it his duty to warn Joseph against the proposed
infraction of the laws, and so he determined to call upon the
professor of the art of self-defence. Unhappily, in inquiring the way
to the pugilist's house, somebody misunderstood the sheriff, and sent
him to the residence of the Rev. Joseph Striker, of whom he had never
heard. When Mr. Striker entered the room in answer to the summons, the
sheriff said to him familiarly,
"Hello, Joe! How are you?"
Mr. Striker was amazed at this address, but he politely said,
"Good-morning."
"Joe," said the sheriff, throwing his leg lazily over the arm of the
chair, "I came round here to see you about that mill with Harry Dingus
that they're all talking about. I want you to understand that it can't
come off anywheres around here. You know well enough it's against the
law, and I ain't a-going to have it."
"Mill! Mill, sir? What on earth do you mean?" asked Mr. Striker, in
astonishment. "I do not own any mill, sir. Against the law! I do not
understand you, sir."
"Now, see here, Joe," said the sheriff, biting off a piece of tobacco
and looking very wise, "that won't go down with me. It's pretty thin,
you know. I know well enough that you've put up a thousand dollars on
that little affair, and that you've got the whole thing fixed, with
Bill Martin for referee. I know you're going down to Pea Patch Island
to have it out, and I'm not going to allow it. I'll arrest you as sure
as a gun if you try it on, now mind me!"
"Really, sir," said Mr. Striker, "there must be some mistake about--"
"Oh no, there isn't; your name's Joe Striker, isn't it?" asked the
sheriff.
"My name is Joseph Striker, certainly."
"I knew it," said the sheriff, spitting on the carpet; "and you see
I've got this thing dead to rights. It sha'n't come off; and I'm doing
you a favor in blocking the game, because Harry'd curl you all up any
way if I let you meet him. I know he's the best man, and you'd just
lose your money and get all bunged up besides; so you take my advice
now, and quit. You'll be sorry if you don't."
"I do not know what you are referring to," said Mr. Striker. "Your
remarks are incomprehensible to me, but your tone is very offensive;
and if you have any business with me, I'd thank you to state it at
once."
"Joe," said the sheriff, looking at him with a benign smile, "you play
it pretty well. Anybody'd think you were innocent as a lamb. But it
won't work, Joseph--it won't work, I tell you. I've got a duty to
perform, and I'm going to do it; and I pledge you my word, if you and
Dingus don't knock off now, I'll arrest you and send you up for ten
years as sure as death. I'm in earnest about it."
"What do you mean, sir?" asked Mr. Striker, fiercely.
"Oh, don't you go to putting on any airs about it. Don't you try any
strutting before me," said the sheriff; "or I'll put you under bail
this very afternoon. Let's see: how long were you in jail the last
time? Two years, wasn't it? Well, you go fighting with Dingus and
you'll get ten years sure."
"You are certainly crazy!" exclaimed Mr. Striker.
"I don't see what you want to stay at that business for, anyhow," said
the sheriff. "Here you are, in a snug home, where you might live
in peace and keep respectable. But no, you must associate with low
characters, and go to stripping yourself naked and jumping into a ring
to get your nose blooded and your head swelled and your body
hammered to a jelly; and all for what? Why, for a championship! It's
ridiculous. What good'll it do you if you're champion? Why don't you
try to be honest and decent, and let prize-fighting alone?"
"This is the most extraordinary conversation I ever listened to," said
Mr. Striker. "You evidently take me for a--"
"I take you for Joe Striker; and if you keep on, I'll take you to
jail," said the sheriff; with emphasis. "Now, you tell me who's got
those stakes and who's your trainer, and I'll put an end to the whole
thing."
"You seem to imagine that I am a pugilist," said Mr. Striker. "Let me
inform you, sir, that I am a clergyman."
"Joe," said the sheriff, shaking his head, "it's too bad for you to
lie that way--too bad, indeed."
"But I _am_ a clergyman, sir--pastor of the church of St. Sepulchre.
Look! here is a letter in my pocket addressed to me."
"You don't really mean to say that you're a preacher named Joseph
Striker?" exclaimed the sheriff, looking scared.
"Certainly I am. Come up stairs and I'll show you a barrelful of my
sermons."
"Well, if this don't beat Nebuchadnezzar!" said the sheriff. "This is
awful! Why, I mistook you for Joe Striker, the prize-fighter! I don't
know how I ever--A preacher! What an ass I've made of myself! I don't
know how to apologize; but if you want to kick me down the front
steps, just kick away; I'll bear it like an angel."
Then the sheriff withdrew unkicked, and Mr. Striker went up stairs
to finish his Sunday sermon. The sheriff talked of resigning, but he
continues to hold on.
* * * * *
Mr. Slingsby, our assessor and tax-collector, holds on too. He
is another model member of our civil service. The principal
characteristic of Mr. Slingsby is enthusiasm. He has an idea that
whenever a man gets anything new it ought to be taxed, and he is
always on hand to perform the service. I had about fifteen feet added
to one of my chimneys last spring; and when it was done, Slingsby
called and assessed it, under the head of "improved real estate," at
eighty dollars, and collected two per cent. on it. A few days later,
while I was standing by the fence, Slingsby came up and said,
"Beautiful dog you have there."
"Yes; it's a setter."
"Indeed! A setter, hey? The tax on setters is two dollars. I'll
collect it now, while I have it on my mind."
I settled the obligation, and the next day Slingsby came around again.
He opened the conversation with the remark,
"Billy Jones told me down at the grocery-store that your terrier had
had pups."
"Yes."
"A large litter?"
"Four."
"Indeed! Less see: tax is two dollars; four times two is eight--yes,
eight dollars tax, please. And hurry up, too, if you can, for they
have a new batch of kittens over at Baldwin's, and I want to ketch
old Baldwin before he goes out. By the way, when did you put that
weathercock on your stable?"
"Yesterday."
"You don't say! Well, hold on, then. Four times two is eight, and
four--on the weathercock, you know--is twelve. Twelve dollars is the
exact amount."
"What do you mean by four dollars tax on a weathercock? I never heard
of such a thing."
"Didn't, hey? Why, she comes in under the head of 'scientific
apparatus.' She's put up there to tell which way the wind blows, ain't
she? Well, that's scientific intelligence, and the apparatus is liable
to tax."
"Mr. Slingsby, that is the most absurd thing I ever heard of. You
might just as well talk of taxing Butterwick's twins."
"Butter--You don't mean to say Butterwick has twins? Why, certainly
they're taxable. They come in under the head of 'poll-tax.' Three
dollars apiece. I'll go right down there. Glad you mentioned it."
Then I paid him, and he left with Butterwick's twins on his
memorandum-book.
A day or two afterward Mr. Slingsby called to see me, and he said,
"I've got a case that bothers me like thunder. You know Hough the
tobacconist? Well, he's just bought a new wooden Indian to stand in
front of his store. Now, I have a strong feeling that I ought to tax
that figure, but I don't know where to place it. Would it come in as
'statuary'? Somehow that don't seem exactly the thing. I was going to
assess it under the head of 'idols,' but the idiots who got up this
law haven't got a word in in reference to idols. Think of that, will
you? Why, we might have paganism raging all over this country, and we
couldn't get a cent out of them. I'd a put that Indian under 'graven
images,' only they ain't mentioned, either. I s'pose I could tax the
bundle of wooden cigars in his fist as 'tobacco,' but that leaves out
the rest of the figure; and he's not liable to poll-tax because he
can't even vote. Now, how would it strike you if I levied on him as an
'immigrant'? He was made somewheres else than here, and he came here
from there, consequently he's an immigrant. That's my view. What do
you think of it?"
I advised him to try it upon that plan, and the next morning Mr.
Slingsby and Mr. Hough had a fight on the pavement in front of the
Indian because Mr. Slingsby tried to seize the immigrant for unpaid
taxes. Slingsby was taken home and put to bed, and the business of
collecting taxes was temporarily suspended. But Slingsby will be
around again soon with some new and ingenious ideas that he has
thought of during his illness.