The other day a stout woman, armed with an umbrella and leading a
small urchin, called at the office of a New York boys’ story paper.
“Is this the place where they fight Indians?” she inquired of the
gentleman in charge. “Is this the locality where the brave boy charges
up the canyon and speeds a bullet to the heart of the dusky red-skin?”
and she jerked the urchin around by the ear and brought her umbrella
down on the desk.
“We publish stories for boys,” replied the young man evasively.
“I want to know if these are the premises on which the daring lad
springs upon the fiery mustang and, darting through the circle of
thunderstruck savages, cuts the captive’s cords and bears him away
before the wondering Indians have recovered from their astonishment!
That’s the information I’m after. I want to know if that sort of thing
is perpetrated here!” and she swung the umbrella around her head and
launched a crack at the young man’s head.
“I don’t remember those specific acts,” protested the young man.
“I want to know if this is the precinct where the adventurous boy
jumps on the back of a buffalo and with unerring aim, picks off one by
one, the bloodthirsty pursuers, who bite the dust at every crack of
his faithful rifle! I’m looking for the place where that sort of thing
happens!” and this time she brought the unlucky young man a tremendous
whack across the back.
“I think--?’ commenced the dodging victim.
“I’m in search of the shop in which the boy road agent holds the
quivering stage driver powerless with his glittering eye, while
he robs the male passengers with an adroitness born of long and
tried experience, and kisses the hands of the lady passengers with
a gallantry of bearing that bespeaks noble birth and a chivalrous
nature!” screamed the woman, driving the young man into the corner.
“I’m looking for the apartment in which that business is transacted!”
and down came the umbrella with trip-hammer force on the young man’s
head.
“Upon my soul, ma’am--!” gasped the wretched youth.
“I want to be introduced to the jars in which you keep the boy scouts
of the Sierras! Show me the bins full of the boy detectives of the
prairie! Point out to me the barrels full of boy pirates of the
Spanish main!” and with each demand she dropped the umbrella on the
young man’s skull, until he skipped over the desk and sought safety in
a neighboring canyon.
“I’ll teach ’em!” she panted, grasping the urchin by the ear and
leading him off. “I’ll teach ’em to make it good or dance. Want to go
fight Indians any more? Want to stand proudly upon the pinnacle of
the mountain and scatter the plain beneath with the bleeding bodies
of uncounted slain? Want to say ‘hist’ in a tone that brooks no
contradiction? Propose to spring upon the taffrail and with a ringing
word of command send a broadside into the richly laden galley, and
then mercifully spare the beautiful maiden in the cabin, that she may
become your bride? Eh! Going to do it any more?”
With each question she hammered the yelping urchin until his bones
were sore and he protested his permanent abandonment of all the
glories enumerated.
“Then come along,” said she, taking him by the collar. “Let me catch
you around with any more ramrods and carving knives, and you’ll
think the leaping, curling, resistless prairie fire had swept with a
ferocious roar of triumph across the trembling plains and lodged in
your pantaloons to stay!”