At the same time it's never good policy to confess ignorance when asked
a point-blank question by Young America.
"Oh," I said casually, "why, he's a--yes, a watch dog, Harold."
The boy pondered a minute, while the beast kept revolving.
"Well," he observed, "from the long time it takes him to wind himself
up, I guess he must be a Waterbury watch dog."
While on the way to the Grand Central Depot I had to take the seat at
the rear end of an open car.
Of course as you all know the last three or four seats are generally
reserved for men who must smoke or die.
Occasionally, on account of the crowded condition of the cars, a female
or two finds herself tucked away between the users of the weed.
Perhaps she is accustomed to it at home and pays little attention to
the puffs of pungent smoke that float around her.
[Illustration]
I have seen cases, however, where the disgust was written in big
letters on the lady's face, and she took the earliest occasion to
change her seat.
Such an instance occurred that day.
I thought she was a woman with considerable temper, just from her
looks, and when she spoke I was sure of it.
"Smoking on a car!" she exclaimed, as an Irishman with his
short-stemmed pipe took his seat beside her.
"Oi am!" rejoined Pat, between long and determined puffs. "And av ye
don't loike ut go wan up froont. These sates is resairved for smokhers."
"If you were my husband I'd give you poison," she snapped.
"Would ye, now?" Puff, puff. "Oi think av ye wor me woife"--puff,
puff--"Oi'd take ut."
Hotel clerks stand in a class by themselves.
I have great admiration for the whole tribe, and am on speaking terms
with quite a bunch.
But for pure nerve commend me to that chap--it was in Chattanooga
where I was stopping at the time--who rung me up from the office, five
stories down.
Time eleven thirty-seven at night.
I jumped out of bed, and turning on the electric light, rushed to the
phone.
"Hello, 411."
"Hello."
"This George Niblo?"
"Yes."
"Gone to bed, yet?"
"Sure. Do you think I----"
"That's all right. How're you feeling?"
"All right."
[Illustration]
"That's good. Feel equal to a hurry-up slide down the fire-escape?"
"Well, I might if I had to. Say----"
"All right; that's just how it stands. You wriggle into your clothes
now, and make a record doing it. You see, the hotel's on fire,
and--and--gee! Don't talk like that, Brother Niblo, there are ladies in
the next room. Good-by."
You bet I made record time, and got out in pretty decent order,
considering that I carried all my clothes on my arms.
I always believe that telephone saved my life, though I never could
quite forgive the impudence of the clerk.
Among his other accomplishments Benson writes fancy ads, and when I
dropped in on him he was hard at work getting up a unique booklet.
My curiosity forced me to examine the cover, and I saw it was intended
to puff the benefits to be derived from using Madam Tussaud's Hair
Restorer.
"Going to have stories between the covers?" I asked.
"Sure."
[Illustration]
"Oh, I can imagine the kind--all about the beautiful girl whose long
braid was cut off by a rascal, and who found a rich husband."
"You're away off," he remarked.
"Well then, how about the maiden who paid the mortgage on the old home
by sacrificing her wonderful crop of hair, depending upon the use of
this stuff for a new supply--ain't that straight?"
"Humbug," he snorted.
[Illustration]
"Very well--tell me what brand you expect to use."
"Ghost stories, of course."
"And why ghost stories?"
"Well, I'm blessed, when you know just as much as I do they're the only
genuine hair-raising stuff."
On my way to the elevated I sometimes stop in to leave an order at our
grocer's.
Just this morning I found him taking an order from a new customer, who,
I judged, had not been married very long.
Of course I couldn't help hearing some fragments of their delightful
conversation.