Published Monthly
W. H. Fawcett, Rural Route No. 2
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota
Entered as second-class matter May, 1, 1920, at the postoffice
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota, under the Act of March 3, 1879.
Price 25 cents $2.50 per year
ONE DOLLAR FOR THE WINTER ANNUAL
Contents of this magazine are copyrighted. Republication of any
part permitted when properly credited to Capt. Billy’s Whiz
Bang.
“We have room for but one soul loyalty and that is loyalty to
the American people.”—Theodore Roosevelt.
Copyright 1921
By W. H. Fawcett
Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang employs no solicitors. Subscriptions
may be received only at authorized news stands or by direct
mail to Robbinsdale. We join in no clubbing offers, nor do we
give premiums. Two-fifty a year in advance.
Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated to the
fighting forces of the United States
_Drippings From the Fawcett_
It is a long jump from a one-horse town like Robbinsdale to the land
of deciduous fruits, forbidden fruits, fruitless fruits, movie stars,
reformers, abilone cuff links, outdoor plumbing and all-night burglar
service—meaning California, of course.
I am at this writing occupying a room in that well known San Francisco
hostelry which “Fatty” Arbuckle tried to convert into an ice-house. The
only kick I have against the St. Francis is that the room clerk assigned
me to twin beds. Being of a bullsheviki theosophical frame of mind and
also very lonesome, I moved the other twin alongside my twin and slept
soundly ever after.
Lolled around for two weeks at the Alexandria, in Los Angeles, and before
that at a hotel at Coronado that fairly “oozed” hospitality, although
older than the handles on Solomon’s wheelbarrow.
There is an ancient quip about the three divisions of liars—plain liars,
d—— liars and Native Sons. Also there used to be one that went something
like this: “The miners came in ’49 and the janes in ’51,” etc., etc.
But they are both all wrong. Despite what Gus’ brother said about
Robbinsdale not being a one-horse town after he had spent a week wearing
the “white wing” vestments, I am willing to admit that Los Angeles and
San Francisco have opened the eyes of an inquisitive farmer from the
aforesaid Robbinsdale.
They seem to have everything here including the Whiz Bang—and in this
connection permit an old farmer the privilege of remarking that the
leading California news distributors, Egbert Brothers, tell me the little
old Banger leads all 25-cent magazines in California in the matter of
circulation.
So Robbinsdale is on the map in California even if we don’t call our
hen-coops “Renaissance architecture” and our dog-houses “Colonial
garages.”
* * * * *
We landed in Los Angeles just in time to plunk down in the center of a
quarrel between expert fanatics and the motion picture people. A flock of
moonbeam-chasing neurasthenic preachers insist that evil was not brought
into the world by the serpent in Eden but was created by Thomas Edison,
who invented the motion picture machine.
The latest synthetic scheme of the reformers calls for Los Angeles
censorship for every picture manufactured and exhibited in the city. If
the “long hairs” get away with it—and we don’t think they will—it will
be a huge moral victory. Los Angeles youth will then be limited to such
amusement as may be gleaned from shooting craps, joy-riding, dancing at
road-houses, poker and looking for one’s umbrella.
This umbrella story has spinach on it, but in small towns like
Robbinsdale it is still good. Has to do with the church-goer who arose
hurriedly and left the church as the pastor was in the midst of reading
the Ten Commandments. He explained to the pastor afterward that it had
just been recalled to his memory where he had left his umbrella.
However, we didn’t travel all the way out to California to find our
umbrella—or to lose one—and it is nobody’s business except our old
Minneapolis friend, Dick Ferris, if we did. Dick is living at the Alex
in Los Angeles and is one of Southern California’s most popular and
esteemed citizens. Dick has begun bobbing his hair since his early days
in Minneapolis, but says that if hair was brains an old-fashioned parlor
sofa would be vice president.
Dick is one of the best entertainers in the Southland. One can step
inside the “Ferris Harem” almost any time of day or night and meet
anybody from “diggers of the ditches” to the “dignitaries of the ducats.”
Roscoe Sarles, famous race driver; Bill Pickens, Barney Oldfield’s old
manager; Julian Eltinge, the actor; Harry Grayson, sports editor of the
Express; “Scotty” Chisholm, golf editor and star; King Young, publicity
director for Kathrine MacDonald’s pictures; Ham Beall, another publicity
director extraordinary; Bob Henderson, wealthy oil operator and owner of
the most beautiful home I have ever spilled ashes in—these are only a few
of the legion of good fellows with whom I had the pleasure of swapping
stories at the Ferris chateau.
* * * * *
And speaking of stories, I attended a Motion Picture Press Agents’
banquet and heard a good one on the reformers. According to the story,
Rev. Wilbur F. Crafts was addressing an audience of the hoi poili and he
started off bombastically like this: “You cigar suckers; you cigarette
suckers; you pipe suckers—” At this juncture a tenor voice in the rear
of the hall sung out: “Hey, Doc, you ain’t going to forget us, are you?”
Evidently a willy boy with an all-day sucker in his hand.
Getting back to Dick Ferris, the former Minneapolis theatrical magnate,
is head of a big taxi concern and on the side is a “promoting fool.”
Rummaging around in one of Dick’s dresser drawers, I ran across a box
containing a pair of white silk pajamas. Inside was a card which, in
feminine scrawl, informed Dick that they were to be worn when “Alone—and
Feeling Blue.” Dick hasn’t been able to wear them—says he hasn’t felt
blue since Mt. Lassen was a small hill.
* * * * *
During our busy two weeks in Los Angeles we found time to accept
invitations to inspect several motion picture studios, among them
Universal City and the Katherine MacDonald studio. Miss MacDonald
is a very charming and very good-looking young woman—and we feel
sorry that such estimable young artists as Miss MacDonald, Miss Bebe
Daniels and others must suffer some of the reflected criticism that is
brought against the motion picture colony by the antics of some of the
lame-brained and low-browed satyrs and satellites.
Out at Universal, Director Eddie Laemmle grabbed a picture of us in a
wild-west scene—a Minnesota farmer entirely surrounded by cowboys and
“Injuns.”
While in the south I also enjoyed a trip to Tia Juana, the Mexican Monte
Carlo, just across the border from San Diego. Started to fly down from
Rogers’ airport in Los Angeles, but had to confine my aerial pilgrimage
to a jaunt over the city and beaches. They don’t allow American planes to
fly across the border because there is so much booze running.
* * * * *
Through the good offices of the Oil King of Breckenridge, Texas, Bob
Henderson, it was our fortune to meet Vice Admiral Wm. Shoemaker. We were
gathered in Bob’s magnificent home in Los Angeles, formerly occupied by
Mary Pickford and Mary Miles Minter (on the q. t., folks, you’ll have to
admit it was pretty soft for a decrepit old Robbinsdale farmer) indulging
in the ornery duties of testing the champagny contents of Robert’s cellar.
It was while the sparkling bubbles bubbled that the subject of a visit
to Admiral Shoemaker’s Pacific fleet bobbed up. Next day we received a
personal invitation from the Admiral, who insisted that we board his
barge at the San Pedro dock. On the Red River of the North my Dad hauled
wheat for the Northern Pacific railroad in a barge and not having been on
speaking terms with naval language I assumed that a barge was a heluvan
ugly looking thing.
Imagine my surprise, please, when the bare-foot jackies heaved ho with
an immaculate launch with three golden stars. Pretty soft for a hardened
old rascal, I claim. We rolled on to the Flagship “Pennsylvania” and
were greeted by the Admiral’s aide, Lieut. L. S. Lewis. It was my first
view of a battleship and at once I was impressed with the fact that the
“Pennsylvania” probably could have licked any of the numerous boats that
father once owned on the Red River. I was surprised to learn that the
14-inch guns I had read about were really about 40 feet long instead of
14 inches.
Anyway, we had a delightful time aboard the “Pennsylvania” and it was
the first time in my life I ever cussed Josephus Daniels (say it sweet
and low: “gawsch darn him”) I had to drink tea. But the Admiral was a
wonderful fellow—hale, hearty and well met. We exchanged anecdotes and
spent a grand, though dry afternoon. Lieutenant Lewis and his crew of
noblemen returned us to the dock in the starry BARGE.
Now in the day of retrospection I fain would believe that the Admiral or
his aide must have been in collusion with the “Pennsylvania” gobs because
every last one of them either was bare-footed or reading Sam Clark’s Jim
Jam Jems or the little old Banger. Wonderful fellows, these jackies,
but the pesky cusses just insisted on looking onward and upward (mostly
upward) when the fairly formed feminines in the party mounted from deck
to deck. They just couldn’t control their naughty eyes. Possibly it had
something to do with Bull of the Durham, for I am told that the sailor
boys love to roll their own.
* * * * *
Now, Gentle Readers of this journal of uplift, I have one little wee
surprise for you. Gus, my old time hired man, who jumped the job two
months ago, located and surprised me at the Alexandria. Gus is a
pestiferous cuss and has the faculty of bobbing up at the crucial moment.
My “supply” had given out and promptly, even more promptly than had been
his will to paint boats at Breezy Point Lodge, he supplied the missing
medicine. It was “terrible stuff” but with the sailor boys I’ll say—Any
port in a storm. His juniper juice created a tempest within me but I was
glad nevertheless once again to shake the hoary hand of toil.
In parting I slipped Gus a five simoleon note. He whispered that he was
“on the rocks” and hadn’t worked since he left Minnesota. We then and
there entered into a gentleman’s agreement that he never again would work
for me unless his duties would be solely acting as Indian guide at Breezy
Point at a wage of nothing—except the maternal or fraternal friendship of
Maggie, our cook. Gus loves Maggie, I think, but better still, he loves
her flapjacks.
Adios to you, Gustav, and here’s hoping I don’t see you till the fishing
season next spring.
* * * * *
Just one more drop or so before turning off the tap. It happened to be my
good luck to be invited by Bill Eltinge, better known in the theatrical
world as Julian, to attend a stag party in honor of the Los Angeles and
Vernon baseball teams at the Maier brewery in Los Angeles. Doc Stone was
master of ceremonies and he treated us lonely two hundred homeless and
wifeless old stags in a royal manner. From a purely personal standpoint
there was but one action that marred the entire evening. After being
entertained to a realistic view of the grand canyon and a wonderful
dance performed by Slim Summerfield and Bobby Dunn of the Fox studio,
the right honorable toastmaster called on “Captain Billy Whiz Bang” to
recitate. Imagine a rube farmer trying to spread the fertilizer over the
rathskeller of an up-to-date Loz Onglaz brewery. Impossible, I’ll say.
Here I had been trying all evening to “put on the dog” with Frank Chance
of Cub fame next to me, Julian Eltinge, world renowned actor, to my
right, Dick Ferris, best known privateer in the public eye in front of
me, not to mention such luminaries as Bill Essick, Wade Killifer, Larry
McGraw and Jack Milligan all around. Then there was “Shine” Scott doing
the honors back of the “near” beer bar, and “Shine” is well known to
every ball player on the Pacific Coast. Oh, by the way, I certainly
cannot overlook the immortal Tod Sloan. Either I followed Tod or he
followed me because it was my good fortune to drink Manhattans with him
in the Sunset Inn at Tia Juana and near beer near here.
Now, readers, to tell the truth, it’s quite trying to write about this
wonderful party while the writer has a perfectly good Scotch highball on
the desk beside him. (Here goes another “Happy Day.”)
One must, as one says, review one’s bunk to see where one’s left off.
Talk about Southern hospitality, well, give me the Coast. Anyway, I never
made the speech. How could I after Eltinge had brought tears of joy to
members of this famous gathering?
Like the lowly backward shyster of pedigreed bull that I am, I failed to
carry out the principles of my “deah” old friend Volstead. (This effort
calls for one Scotch heeball.) So I walked upon the brewery stage. And
when I made my bow I’ll tell you one thing which every ball player and
umpire of Southern California will verify. The stein of near beer was
clutched fondly in my sturdy right hand.
It was a rotten speech—in fact, no speech at all. My Los Angeles
physician had prescribed that I take “one tablespoonful in milk every
hour.” The milkman and my watch both went hay-wire.
But I had a good time—an elegant time and awakened next day with fond
remembrances of the morning after the night before.
* * * * *
There are still a few rumbling in San Francisco regarding Arbuckle and
his now famous party. The stories they tell are wonderful to listen to
by way of teaching us farmers what strange means certain persons have
devised to get a kick out of life.
For instance, as my friend Barney Google would say, take this little
“roomer”:
Two of the numerous members of the party decided to entertain their
guests—the party was “dragging” as it were. The form of entertainment
provided so I am told, was the kind few of us number among our
accomplishments. Somehow or other, we have never gotten over that
old-fashioned idea that certain ceremonies listed in the regular catalog
or otherwise, are not for an audience. Rather, they are for occasions
dedicated solely to the gods and ourselves.
And then there was another. That when certain restrictive measures were
indulged in, the Arbuckle counsel had it whispered about that should
things get too strong, the defense might allow the names of certain men
and women, socially prominent in San Francisco, to be introduced as
possible witnesses to testify as to the actual happenings.
Needless to say, the well known Mr. and Mrs. Consternation immediately
entered upon the scene.
* * * * *
And there was Captain Al Waddell, who commanded a battery in our late
fracas. Al is the boy who made a hero out of Cliff Durant out here—really
put over the son of the “Master Mind” of the automotive world, W. C.
Durant. Al, who knows everybody and everything in California, might have
made a fortune in writing a Hearst feature about the Durant divorce—but
he’s too busy selling the Perfecto two-speed axles for Fords—whatever
they may be.
It seems that for six years young Cliff had been telling his wife what to
do. When he returned from an important conference in New York with his
dad, who was still president of the General Motors, she calmly announced:
“For six years I’ve been listening to you tell me what to do. Now for six
seconds just listen to me tell you what to do.” The inside of the bomb
contained these sweet tidings: “Just give me one-half of what you own.”
Since Cliff was worth eight or ten millions, you’ll advise it was
disastrous news from the front, inasmuch as she “made it stick.”
And now, so the story goes, Cliff won’t have to worry and fret about any
mysterious looking gentleman coming to stop at his hotel at Le Bec when
he blows in.
* * * * *
There’s another echo from the town of fogs and poodle dogs that doesn’t
ring of Robbinsdale.
Just shortly after that infamous Howard Street Gangsters affair the
police raided a “Love Nest.” It seems that, regardless of race, creed or
color (or sex) you indulged your favorite diversion while in the “Love
Nest” with your neighbor. Inasmuch as minors were involved, there was
another “Roman holiday” expected for those who would crowd the prisons.
Just when they were getting ready to point thumbs down, the defense asked
for continuance. “And on what grounds?” demanded the prosecution.
“So that we may bring witnesses—women of high social rank in the city—to
testify, by way of the indisputable means of photographs, that my clients
are nothing more than artistic photographers, specializing in taking
photos of women in the nude.”
It is a rather singular fact that the continuance was granted, that
little more was heard about the case and that instead of being sent to
San Quentin for fifty years the defendants got off with light sentences.
Asked how they could account for these women posing in the Altogether,
one of the “Artistic photographers” replied, “Well, every woman seems to
feel that she has the form divine.”
* * * * *
Running across old friends is one of the best things you do on these
jamborees. Here in ’Frisco I found two old Minneapolis Journal men
holding down important jobs—Jim Callahan, now business manager of the
Examiner and generally considered one of Hearst’s “right hand” men, and
Chris Helin, manager of The Examiner’s Automobile Department. I am sorry
to say that they are both back sliders and wouldn’t trade the nip of the
peninsula for half of Minnesota.
Funny how these fellows go loco when they reach California. Really,
folks, you wouldn’t expect your friends to try to sell you real estate,
would you?
* * * * *
My visit to San Francisco was the first since 1904, when I came home
from doing my Spanish-American war “bit” in the Philippines. She’s a
different city since the fire. California is a great state for new
building—buildings going up here and everywhere. Among other enterprises
they are building a lot of old missions, I understand.
Saw a sign over a Mission street doorway reading: “Virtue & Co., Ltd.” It
used to be “unlimited” here back in the Dupont street days in 1904, but I
thought that had all gone with Barbary Coast.
Am off for New York but hope now to come back later.
* * * * *