This is the time and this is the town. It is Christmas and there is no
town that needs it more than this one does. In Chicago when a fellow
puts on a polished shirt front he usually comes in with a polka dot at
least, but here it changes from a laundry polish to a shoe polish.
Here we are, right in the midst of the festal season. Dug and I have
been trying a new kind of liquor every day for a week to get the exact
right thing for the holidays. Queer about Christmas, Billy, there seems
to be something in the air that makes a duffer want to give something to
every guy who is worse off than he is.
I saw a hard looking old dub on the street on Christmas morning; he did
not seem to know which way to turn; his clothes were whole, but had been
worn shiney. He had no overcoat and his old plug hat looked as though it
had done duty for many a year. I touched him on the shoulder and said to
him:
“Come with me, old man, and take a drink.” The old man looked surprised.
“I don’t drink, sir,” said he, “and it would be better for you if you
did not, either.”
“All right, old man,” said I, “I admire your principles, but I deplore
the loss of so much fun on your account, and by the way,” said I,
noticing how drawn and pinched the old man’s face looked, “if you
wouldn’t waste so much money on grub and put a little of it into good
whiskey for yourself, it would help out your looks a heap.”
I imagined the old man looked hurt at something I had said and not
wishing to hurt anyone’s feelings on Christmas morning, I handed him a
dollar and left him. He seemed to take the dollar reluctantly and I felt
then that I must have touched the old man’s pride.
As we walked down the street I noticed we were followed by a couple of
nicely dressed gentlemen, and I also noticed that they were wonderfully
pleased about something; in fact, they seemed to be immoderately pleased
for they were laughing good and plenty. As they came close to us I
turned and said to them:
“If that is a jag you have you ought to have divided it with some one
else; it will hurt you to carry that load all day.”
“No,” said one of them as he leaned against a tree and talked between
laughs, “we are not jagged, but we are willing and it is up to you to do
the proper.”
“Up to me,” said I, “what’s chewing you?”
“Oh! not a thing, only I was wondering how you would feel when you found
out that the fellow you gave the dollar to was old Josiah Grubb, who is
known to be worth two million and is too mean to feed his face
regularly.”
Billy, I have had a good many raw turns, but this capped them all. I
thought at first I would go back and make him cough that dollar up
again, but I only went back to prove that our two new found friends were
right. Then I bought wine. This Christmas giving is a great stunt,
Billy, and there is certainly one dollar that I have put into safe
keeping.
Speaking of Christmas giving reminds me that the average Christmas
present is a gift of something that we would like to own to someone who
has a very bad opinion of our individual taste.
Dug has a cousin who is attending a theological school in Boston and a
couple of days before Christmas, Dug had wired me to send this cousin a
suitable present. This was a little out of my line, but I did the best I
could and then promptly forgot about it. On Christmas day Dug received a
number of presents, and among them a bundle from Clarence Hulburt, the
theological student. Dug showed it to me; it consisted of two books, one
was Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress,” and the title of the other was “How
to Be Good Though Rich.” Dug was laughing.
“What an ass,” said I, “sending such things as that to anyone.”
This waked Dug up to the fact of my buying something for this same
fellow and he asked me what I sent him.
“Sent him?” said I. “I sent him the neatest little poker outfit you ever
laid your eyes on, four decks of cards and over three hundred chips. The
cleanest looking white ones and red ones that would make you bluff on a
pair of fours, and blues that were a dream. I never had so many chips on
my side of the table at one time, and for a fact, Dug, I hated to see
them go.”
Dug turned as pale as a ghost and groaned.
“What is the matter?” said I, jumping towards him.
“Matter,” said he, “you d——d idiot, do you really mean to tell me you
sent an outfit like that to a man who is studying for the ministry?”
“Why not,” said I; and up to now I can’t see what there was to groan
over. There was sure more fun in that poker outfit than in the books he
sent to Dug, if I am any judge.
Christmas is all right, though, even if the presents don’t fit the right
spot. I never knew of but one family that could hit it right every time.
That family consisted of a man and his wife. The man usually bought his
wife a box of cigars or a pipe, and she would buy him a pair of
earrings, a breastpin or a box of candy. If he did not like the earrings
she would wear them, and the cigars never came amiss. Taking it all in
all, it is a day that makes a fellow feel generous, whether the money he
is spending belongs to him or to some one else.
Christmas Eve I went into the hotel barber shop to get shaved. As I sat
down in a chair I noticed that I had drawn a long, cadaverous-looking
cuss for a barber who seemed to take full possession of anything that
came within his reach. He had caught on to my name, somehow, and as I
sat down he said:
“Your hair needs trimming, Mr. Henderson. It is a little ragged around
the edges.”
I knew well enough that my hair did not need cutting, and was about to
say so when he butted in with:
“It’s Christmas to-morrow, you know, Mr. Henderson,” and while he was
saying it he was pulling out the headrest. It was Christmas Eve, and I
did not want to make him feel bad, so I let him go ahead. One thing I
liked about him, he did not seem to be one of the talking kind; that is
to say, he did not say much, but what he did say you felt that he meant.
After he was through cutting my hair, he laid my head back, and, with
those long swipes of his, laid the lather on all parts of me that showed
above my collar. Then he commenced on me with his razor. He was long at
this. He would lay his razor on above my cheek-bone, and with one swipe
would rake down over my cheek and land under the tip of my chin. I
fairly held my breath. After he had given me a couple of swipes of that
kind he stopped to wipe his razor.
“Look here,” said I; “what did you work at before you struck the barber
trade?”
“Stock Yards,” said he, taking a swipe down the other side of my face
with that infernal razor; “used to be a ripper,” he added. And before my
mind’s eye came a long row of hogs strung up by the hind legs and my
friend of the razor going down the line giving each one a slash down the
middle. Again I held my breath, and, after a few more of those swiping
cuts, I was washed off and jerked into an upright position.
“Singe?” I heard him say, and, before I could utter a protest a blaze of
fire was dancing about my head. This was another case of hold your
breath. Then I was thrown on my back again, and lengthy was massaging my
face. He was handling it as though it was a piece of putty, and I
wondered if I would know myself if I ever got a chance to look in the
glass again. Then I was bounced into an upright position again, and I
heard him say something about the danger of taking cold. The next I knew
those long fingers were going through what was left of my hair,
executing what he called an alcohol shampoo. There was nothing further
he could do for me, but, as he presented me with my check, he slipped a
bottle of hair tonic into my pocket.
“Greatest tonic on earth,” said he. “There are indications that your
hair will begin to fall out in a few years, and you should be prepared.”
The check was two dollars and forty cents. I handed him three one dollar
bills.
“Thanks!” said he, looking at the bills. “Sixty cents is the smallest
tip I have had today, but it is all right, old man. Come in again.”
I clinched the bottle of hair tonic in one hand and a strong desire came
to me to kill that barber on the spot. I took a step towards him. He had
put the money away, had gotten hold of his razor with his right hand,
and was stropping it on the palm of his left. A vision of those slashed
hogs came before me, and I walked out, but if I ever meet that man
separated from his razor, there is going to be trouble.
I am keeping a little book now and putting in it the things to be
avoided. One of the first things down is to avoid a hotel barber shop on
Christmas Eve. You can never forget that it is Christmas time. They
commence telling you about it a week before Christmas, and don’t let up
until a week after New Year’s.
When you first come into a hotel the boy shows you to your room, and
after setting down your grip in the only place in the room where you
would rather not have it, he fixes the windows. They most likely don’t
need fixing, but he fixes them anyway. If they are shut, he opens them,
and if they are open he shuts them. Then, if you don’t notice him, he
stands on one foot awhile, then changes off and stands on the other.
Then he coughs, and, if that doesn’t fetch you, he says:
“Anything more I can do for you?”
You say “No,” and he puts you down for a cheap guy and then goes down
and tells the news to the rest of the bell hops.
The one who showed me up at this place wasn’t to be put off so easy.
After he had worked all the old grafts he said:
“It’s going to be fine weather for Christmas.”
“All right,” said I. “If you will pull off a good sunshiny day, you can
come to my room and get a half a dollar,” and then the little beggar
asked me if I was going to be here Christmas. I got rid of this boy for
the time being on a promise, but I knew that half would have to be paid
if Christmas brought in a cyclone.
The elevator boy sprung a new one on me. He handed out a catch-penny
Christmas box and said:
“Ain’t that a peach?”
“Sure,” said I, wondering what he would say next.
“Then put a stone in it,” said he. That cost me a quarter.
In the dining-room each waiter wished me a “Merry Christmas,” and then
you would see his hand slide out toward you as though he could not help
it. Every chambermaid on my floor swore that she had waited on me at
some other hotel, but the boy at the coat room took the palm. He wiped
off my boots with a cloth, helped me on with my coat and brushed it,
then as I was walking away, said:
“Thank you, sah; thank you, very kindly.”
“What in H—— are you thanking me for; I didn’t give you anything.”
“No, sah; no, sah!” said he, hesitatingly; “I only thanked yo’ cause yo’
let me bresh yo’ off, sah.”
What a fellow needs is one of those change-holders that the street car
conductors use, with a place for each kind of a coin. But he would need
more than that. He would need a national bank to keep the thing
supplied.
Yours,
Jack.
[Illustration: “HOLDING PEOPLE’S HANDS THAT YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN
INTRODUCED TO.”]
Swearing Off.
Jack
Henderson.
Swearing Off.
Philadelphia, 19—.