Since I wrote you last I have learned a new lesson in tipping. I used to
think that tipping was confined to porters, waiters and congressmen, but
I have struck a new lead and I begin to think now that the man doesn’t
live who is not either giving or taking tips, and the majority of them
do both.
While stopping here at the Carrie Hotel I made friends with a traveling
salesman for a lumber concern. My first meeting with him came near being
my last; the little slim Jim stepped on my foot and I pasted him one in
the jaw, then for a few seconds there was nothing doing and then there
was. That little duffer jumped to his feet, pulled a thirty-two from his
pocket and fired at me. The bullet went wide of the mark and before he
could think to fire again, I had taken his gun away and was holding him
and his gun apart, one in each hand. That one shot cleared the barroom
of all but we two and the bartender, and he was lying full length on the
floor behind the bar. The salesman and myself had both been drinking
more than was good for us, but the shot had sobered me and I guess it
had done as much for him. I gave him back his gun.
“You are a damned poor shot,” said I, “put up the popgun and let’s take
a drink.”
We stood up to the bar and I called for the bartender, who managed to
get up after a time and set out the red liquor. When the police arrived
we were touching glasses and in answer to an inquiry as to where the man
was who did the shooting, I answered:
“Couldn’t tell you, old man, we just came in; will you have a drink?”
The bartender, after he had waked up to the situation, explained that
the man the police wanted had left by the rear door and that was the
last we saw of the cops. The bartender then turned to us and ejaculated:
“Well, you two fellows do extract the sweet all right. Here you are
chumming together and you don’t even know each other’s names. Just you
have one on the house while I introduce you,” which we did and as we
clinked the glasses, the bartender said:
“Bless you, my children! Harry Monroe never fired a truer shot than when
he drew bead on Jack Henderson, for he brought down a friend—get
together there,” and we drank and shook hands.
That was my introduction to Harry Monroe, and a whiter rounder never
lived. The only trouble with him was he was obliged to divide his time
between living and earning money to live on. Harry got to telling me
about his selling lumber on the road and how he did it, but it looked a
little punk to me and I told him so. After I said that there was nothing
for me to do but to make a trip with him and see how it was done.
He was going to make a trip over a route that he had never traveled
before, and he told me it would give me an insight into life that I
couldn’t get in any other way. I went and the first town we struck was a
little place up in northern Kansas, and the first office we got into was
plastered all over with temperance signs. I took a look at Harry to see
how he took it, but it never feazed him. He introduced himself to Mr.
Brown, the proprietor, and then introduced me as his cousin and said I
was traveling for my health. Then he dropped into a chair by the side of
Brown and reeled off a string of temperance talk that would have put the
average temperance lecturer in the ditch. I never knew what a fearful
thing drink was before. Harry fairly cried when he told the dealer how
his father and three sisters went to the bad on account of drink. Then
Harry told him a story about a man who sold his wife’s washboard for
drink, and, said Harry:
“Just think, she was the only support of her husband and six little
children;” then they both cried. We spent two hours in that office and
when it was almost train time Harry mentioned his business and took an
order for eight cars of lumber. We made a quick get-away to catch the
train, and I want to say right here that I was feeling sort of punk
about that story of Harry’s three sisters. After we got seated in the
car and I found I could not keep the destruction of Harry’s family out
of my mind, I said to him:
“Harry, is your father dead?”
“Dead, well I should say not! He is preaching down in Swampscott,
Massachusetts, and holding his own with the best of them.”
“And those sisters of yours?” I added.
“Oh, yes, those sisters, I see now. Well, you see Jack, I never had any
sisters, that’s why I can put them to the bad so easy. It’s like this,
Jack, every one you meet has to have what they call down south,
‘Lagniappe;’ in the north we call it perquisites or graft. In reality it
is a tip given by one person to another. Now, a salesman is called on to
give out more kinds of tips and give them out in more different ways
than any other man that travels. Sometimes we give cigars, sometimes
it’s a drink or a dinner, and sometimes soft-soap, and other times its
tears, but to be a success on the road you must give something.”
“Don’t you ever make a mistake in giving?” said I.
“Never did but once.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Not much to tell, Jack. I gave a man the measles once and lost his
trade.”
He was so nervous about that I felt for a moment that he had walked into
some fellow’s office and handed out a package marked “measles,”
expecting to make a hit by doing it.
The next dealer we struck was a little, under-sized, florid man, who had
a twinkle in his eye that put you in good humor at once. This time Harry
introduced me as a druggist out of a job, and Mr. Wise, the dealer,
asked me if I was a good judge of spiritus frumenti.
“Try him,” said Harry, and Mr. Wise started for his sash house,
motioning for us to follow. We went to the farther end of the sash house
and there down inside a pile of sash Mr. Wise fished out a bottle of
whiskey. I tasted of it.
“It’s rotten,” said I, and it was. Harry laughed and pulling a pint
flask from his pocket, said:
“I told Jack to say that so I could offer you a pint of the best that’s
made.”
It was good, and although Mr. Wise did not know the difference, he
pretended he did and we didn’t do a thing to that pint bottle between us
in about ten minutes. The talk of the morning had made me so dry I could
hardly stand it. Harry got an order for three cars at that place and
then nothing of real worth turned up for a couple of days.
It was always “nuts” to me to see Harry deal out the tips, as he called
them, and when we struck a new lead and were working up a new game, he
would say:
“I wonder what this geezer will take, cigars, whiskey, or soft-soap?”
One morning about eight o’clock we came in sight of a lumber yard with a
small office; standing above on the top of the office was a signboard on
which was painted Capt. J. J. Jones. I called Harry’s attention to it
and said:
“How is that for conceit?”
Harry commenced counting on his fingers:
“One, two, three, four, five. That’s the checker, Capt. Jones, J. J.,
you are my meat. He needs the army tip and I’m the boy who can tip him.”
We walked into the office, there were three men there. Harry never
hesitated a moment but walked up to one of them, held out his hand, and
said:
“Captain Jones, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. There is not a
man who ever fought in the Civil War that I would not go miles to see. I
have always felt sorry that I did not live in those stirring times. What
regiment were you in, Colonel?”
“The—the——Pennsylvania,” said Mr. Jones, “and there was no finer
regiment in the service.”
The other two men had gone out of the office.
“Colonel,” said Harry, “it must have been grand to have led such a
regiment as that on the field of battle; it must have been awe-inspiring
to have sat there on the different horses that were shot from under you,
giving your orders to the staff officers for this battalion to charge or
that battalion to take a certain point of vantage. I can see you now, as
you sat upon your milk-white steed, raise up in your stirrups and a
determined look in your fearless face, wave your sword and say, ‘Follow
me, men, victory is ours!’ Oh, but it must have been grand. I tell you,
General, I cannot help but envy you just a little and I will confess
why. During the Spanish War I enlisted seven times, and each time I was
left behind because my height was too great for my width. It is awful,
General, to be so afflicted. Now had I your commanding figure (Mr. Jones
was round-shouldered and bow-legged), I might have died for my country,
and had I a noble brow like yours (Mr. Jones’ forehead sloped back like
that of an ape), I might at least have married the daughter of a Moro
chief and been court-martialed after I got home for leaving her with my
mother-in-law.”
Harry was really out of breath and Capt. Jones broke in and said:
“You don’t belong in this town, do you? Are you a traveling man?”
“Yes,” said Harry, with a sigh, “I am a lumber salesman, but General,
tell me of some of the rivers you swam and of some of the hair-breadth
escapes you have been through. I could stay here all day and feast on
your words. You knew Grant and Sherman and Lee well, didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Capt. Jones, “I have seen them all, but say, what are
two-by-fours worth, delivered here?”
Harry woke up with a start.
“By Jove, I must have forgotten myself.” He took a price list out of his
pocket and throwing it on the desk in front of the captain, said:
“There are my prices, General, if you want anything pick it out, but let
me sit down here near you and gaze on a man who at one time was a friend
and confidant of General Grant.”
Talk about spreading it on thick, slush, and all that—well, when we left
the mighty man of war, Harry had orders for seven cars of lumber.
“Gee! that’s a good order,” said Harry, “I wonder if the bow-legged old
chimpanzee is good for that much all at once.”
One night we got into a dealer’s office about six o’clock; the dealer
was just shutting up to go home. Harry always introduced me differently
to every one we met and it happened that at this particular office he
introduced me as a theological student. I was not at all surprised, as
he had introduced me as almost everything.
The dealer invited us to go with him for supper. I wanted to cut it out,
but Harry leaned towards the house, as I suppose he thought he saw an
order ahead. When we sat down to supper, there were besides Harry and
myself, the dealer, his wife and six boys ranging from twelve to twenty
years of age. They had a whole roast pig for supper, but it was the
smallest pig I ever saw, either dead or alive. I was hungry and as I
looked around that table and saw the anxious eyes that were sizing up
that pig, I could not help but think that if I could get one crack at it
myself, that the rest of them would go to bed hungry.
We were all seated, but there was nothing doing. I looked to see what
the trouble was; the old man was nodding at me. I glanced at Harry, he
was grinning. I looked myself over to see what was the matter with me
and then the old man spoke:
“Please ask a blessing, Mr. Henderson.” Then it occurred to me that
Harry had introduced me as a theological student and the perspiration
started out all over me. I knew every eye was on me and I looked at the
pig for inspiration. The thought came to me that I must carry out the
part if it took a wing. My eye rested on the pig as it stood on the
platter on all fours, and its small size struck me more forcibly. I
thought and before I could suppress the words, I had said my thoughts
aloud:
“It’s too d——d small.”
The boys had been worked up to a high pitch by the size of the pig and
the failure to get started right, and they gave a holler that shook the
dishes on the table, the old man looked ugly, the old woman fainted and
during the excitement Harry and I made a break for the door. We left
that night; we had queered ourselves with the only dealer there. Harry
was inclined to laugh the affair off, but it seemed to me as though I
had made an awful break somehow. Say, but it was an awful little pig,
though.
So long, Billy,
Jack.
[Illustration: THE ASSISTANT SUPERINTENDENT.]
At The Mission School.
Jack
Henderson.
At the Mission School.
Topeka, Kansas, 190—.