the part he had played in the war between the States. It was rather to
be inferred that he was one of the main reasons why the Confederacy
endured, against odds, for four years. He progressed to where he was
enriching history with an account of the first engagement in which he
had participated.
“Gentlemen,” he proclaimed, “envisage the scene. There we stand, a
little group, armed for the most part with nondescript weapons, with
flint lock muskets, with scythes, with axes, even with cudgels. We are
underfed, half shod and ragged, yet inspired by the dauntless resolution
and splendid valor which sustained the Southern heart. Over the slope
and straight against our line come pouring the Northern hordes, those
relentless invaders of our beloved Southland, lusty and strong and
equipped with every appliance for conducting warfare that modern science
can provide.
“We are outnumbered three to one; we are weak from hunger while they are
lusty with bacon and beef. But none among us quails. A righteous belief
in our sacred cause inspires us, every one. Each one feels himself a
giant. And what is the result? Suddenly we leap forward in the charge.
We grapple with them, we fight like demons. And, gentlemen, such is the
impetuosity of our attack, such the ferocity of our blows that soon the
blue lines break and in mad disorder routed the enemy flees, unable to
face that irresistible torrent of Southern manhood.”
From the audience spoke up a gray bearded listener.
“Say, looky here, Kurnel,” he said. “I was in that there fight myself
and whut really happened wuz that them plegged Yanks give us a fust rate
lickin’ and run us ten miles acrost country.”
With a magnificent gesture of surrender the Colonel rose to his feet.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “another instance of a good story spoiled by a
damn eyewitness!”
§ 61 Solving a Dark Mystery
Achmed Abdullah, the novelist, is an Afghan, a descendant of an old and
noble family of Afghanistan and a son of a former Governor of Kabul. He
was educated in Europe, and he has lived and adventured pretty much all
over the world. Being a natural linguist, he has picked up tongues as he
went.
With the rank of captain he was on recruiting service once for the
British army in Cairo. To him came an Egyptian officer of police to ask
his aid. Two native constables had picked up in the bazaars a black man
whose nationality was unknown and whose purposes were unfathomable,
seeing that he could not be made to understand the questions put to him
by his captors.
It seemed that for several days before his arrest the prisoner had been
lurking about the bazaars, a butt for gamins and the despair of those
who sought to interrogate him. As much for his own protection as for any
other motive the police had locked him up. Now the assistance of Capt.
Abdullah as translator was solicited.
Abdullah accompanied the puzzled functionary to the prison. In a corner
of a cell crouched a huge black man staring with apprehensive, sullen
eyes at the newcomers. It was evident that he was of some African stock;
also it was plain that he was in a badly frightened state. He was clad
in a nondescript costume of tatters which he had picked up
somewhere—the sandals of an Arabian, a Turkish fez and the ragged
remains of a donkey driver’s robe.
Being admitted to the cell, the volunteer interpreter proceeded to fire
simple questions at the captive, first in French, then in Afghan and
then in Ashantee, in Turkish, in Tibetan, in Greek, in Chinese, in
Persian and in Batu. There was no response; the black merely continued
to glower at him dumbly. So then Abdullah tried him in some of the
tongues of the Sahara Desert and in the clucking dialects of one or two
Congo tribes and finally in Zuluese, with which he was also more or less
familiar. Still the hunched-up figure gave no sign of understanding.
In despair Abdullah gave it up. “I wonder,” he said aloud to himself in
English, “what in thunder you are, anyway?”
With a bellow of thanksgiving the prisoner leaped to his feet.
“Boss,” he whooped, “I’se a Free Will Baptist!”
And so he was—a country darky from Alabama who had shipped on a tramp
steamer out of New Orleans, had deserted off the African coast, swimming
ashore naked, and had for days past been dodging about the native
quarters, growing hourly more bewildered and more desperate in these
strange surroundings.
§ 62 Enough of a Good Thing
In September of 1918 Col. Bozeman Bulger, in charge of the press bureau
of the A. E. F., was driving in his car up toward the front on the
afternoon of a day when there had been hard fighting with the stubborn
Germans. Limping down the high road on the way from the forward trenches
to rest billets came a company of infantry, or what was left of it, just
relieved after more than a week of practically continuous service under
fire.
The officer in command was a lanky youth of perhaps twenty-two whose
face was gray with exhaustion. He hailed Bulger, asking for something to
smoke. He had been without tobacco, he said, for four days—without
food, too, for most of that time.
Bulger left his car and he and the youth sat down together in a
convenient shell hole to pass the time of day. Between long, grateful
puffs on a cigarette the youth discoursed of his recent experiences in
the slow drawl of a Southwesterner.
“Major,” he said, “we’ve had it pretty toler’ble tough these last few
days—the Heinies shelling us day and night, communication interrupted
and liaison broken, no chow to speak of, no makin’s, no nothing except
mud and wet and the chances of being blown into little scraps.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve had pretty rough sledding ever since I got
over here, and that’s more than a year ago. I haven’t had any
leave—they seem to have overlooked me when they were passing out the
trips to Paris—and I’ve been working my head off when I wasn’t in the
line on active duty. And now finally, to top off with, we have this week
up front.”
“Where are you from?” asked Bulger.
“Texas,” replied the youth. “Yes, sir, I was teaching school down there
when we got into this war. I had a mother dependent on me, and while I
wanted to go and do my bit I thought it better on my mother’s account
that I should wait until the draft took me. But while I was trying to
decide Senator Morris Sheppard came to our town and made a recruiting
speech. He said it was high time we were satisfying our national honor.
Well, sir, that phrase hit me right where I lived. The next day I went
in as a volunteer, and after a spell I got a commission—and here I am.
“Major, I don’t regret having done what I did do. If it was to do over
again I reckon I wouldn’t hesitate. But, Major, as I look back on what
I’ve gone through with ever since I landed, I don’t mind telling you, in
strict confidence, that my national honor is dern near satisfied!”
§ 63 Absolutely Bored by the Whole Thing
A youth in southeastern Missouri became involved in legal proceedings as
the result of the mysterious disappearance of a neighbor’s mare and the
upshot was that a jury went so far as to find him guilty of
horse-stealing and the judge gave him a sentence of five years at hard
labor. A friend of mine defended him at his trial.
Some months after his late client had been taken away to begin serving
his sentence this friend was sitting one morning in his office when the
door opened and there entered the father of the youth, an elderly
bearded hillsman.
“Hal,” began the newcomer, “I come to see you to git you to do somethin’
’bout my boy Wesley Junior.”
“Well, Uncle Wes,” said the lawyer, “I don’t believe there is anything I
can do. You remember how hard I worked for him at his trial—how I
sweated down two or three collars over yonder in that courthouse and how
I wasted all the oratory I had in my system and how I snapped both my
suspenders. But in spite of all I could say, you know as well as I do
what happened. The case went against us and the Judge gave Wesley five
years in the State penitentiary and there he is!”
“Yas, suh, Hal,” said the father. “Wesley Junior, is up thar in that
there penitentiary and that’s jest the p’int! I got a letter frum him
this mawnin’. And he told me to come to see you and to tell you to git
him out of that place right-away—he’s plum dissatisfied.”
§ 64 The Question Categorical
There is a certain young actor in New York, a player of romantic
swashbuckler parts who, when he is sober, is one of the gentlest and
most companionable of men. But when he indulges in strong water his
nature changes. He becomes dogmatic, disputatious, and occasionally
quarrelsome. Such times he delights to corner some inoffensive
acquaintance and pin him down to a definite position on this subject or
that and then debate the point for hours on end.
One night, being in one of these alcoholically promoted moods, he
trapped a friend against the bar of a certain club. The latter wished
not to argue with any one on any topic whatsoever. But the actor would
not have it so.
“You go ’round saying you know so mush, don’t you?” he demanded
belligerently. “You go ’round saying you know so many people in this
town, don’t you? Thatsh kinda fellow you are, ain’t you—huh?”
“Not at all,” protested the hapless friend, “I never——”
“Pleash don’t contradict me,” said the actor; “thatsh no way to carry on
argument between gen’men. Lemme get through stating my side and then
I’ll lisshen to you. You go ’round saying you know more people in this
club than I know, don’t you? Just answer me that!”
“Why, I never said any such——”
“Kin’ly lemme get word in edgeways, if you please,” said the actor with
elaborate politeness. “You say you know more members of thish club ’en I
do—more than anybody knows? A’right, then, you answer me thish: Do you
know Jerome Lawrence—he’sh member here?”
“Certainly, I know him,” said the badgered one, thinking he saw a
loophole. “As it happens, I also know his brother, Oscar, who looks so
much like him.”
“Ah, hah!” exulted the intoxicated one, with the air of having led an
unwilling witness into a damaging admission. “You say you know Jerome
Lawrence and you say you know his brother Oscar that looks so mush like
him? Well, then, if you know so mush, you tell me thish: Whish one of
’em looks the most alike?”
§ 65 Before or After Taking?
A well-dressed party, who was far overtaken in alcoholic stimulant,
stumbled into a restaurant, slumped into a handy chair at a table and
gave unmistakable evidence that he was about to enjoy a refreshing
slumber. A waitress shook him by the arm.
“What is it you want?” she asked.
“Dearie,” he said drowsily, “what have you?”
“Almost anything in the food line.”
“Ver’ well, then,” he said, “bring me almost anything in the food line.”
“How about a nice salad?” she asked, on a venture.
“That’d be lovely, dearie,” he assented. “Glad you thought of it—shows
you got a good mind—quick thinker, everything like that. Bring me nice
salad.”
“What sort of a salad?”
“That, dearie, I leave to your superior judgment,” he said. “You been
here longer than I have.”
The girl went away, returning presently with a bowl of hearts of lettuce
and sliced tomatoes, with an abundance of Russian dressing poured over
the combination. The patron was now sound asleep. She slipped the order
past his elbow and left it there where his eyes would fall upon it when
he opened them.
Presently he did open his eyes. As though spellbound he contemplated
that which confronted him. He took a fork and gently he stirred the
contents of the bowl. Then with his free hand he beckoned the young
woman to his side.
“Dearie,” he said, “drunk or sober or drinking, as is the case at
present, my aim is ever to be a gen’man. Far be it from me to do
anythin’ which would bring reproach upon me as a gen’man or upon the
fair and unsullied name of thish noble ’stablishment. But, dearie, in
justish to all concerned, it becomes nes’ary for me to ash you a
queshun.”
“What’s your question?” she said snappily.
“Well,” he said, “I drift off in slumber. I wake up, and right here
under my nose I find thish.” And again with his fork he daintily
agitated a frond of dressing-soaked lettuce. “So, therefore, dearie, the
queshun is as follows: Do I eat this—or DID I?”
§ 66 A Time for All Things
It was an irate Iowa farmer of the old-fashioned type who sat him down,
pen in hand, and wrote an indignant letter to a concern which made a
specialty of selling plumbing supplies to rural patrons.
“I have got a kick to make,”—thus the farmer wrote. “Early last spring
your agent came through this district taking orders for your patent
porcelain bath tub. Some of the neighbors give him their names and so
nothing would do but that my wife and daughter should have one for our
house and they kept after me until I give your man my name too and told
him to send me one of his tubs.
“Well, that was in the early part of April. April passed and also May
and no sign of that bath tub. So I wrote to you telling you to hurry on
up and deliver me that there tub. Nothing was done and so June went by
and July and then August.
“And now here, when it’s the middle of September and the bathing season
practically over for the year, you people are trying to make me take
that dern tub.”
§ 67 Tuesday Would Be Just Like Sunday
On the occasion of a local election in a small Tennessee town an old
colored man was the only member of his race who voted the Democratic
ticket. It was felt that this devotion to the cause of the Caucasian—as
it prevailed in that vicinity—was deserving of recognition.
Accordingly the incoming administration promptly created a department of
street cleaning—something of which the municipality had never seriously
felt the need before. This department was to consist of two members,
namely, a foreman or superintendent and a staff of one. Naturally, to a
white man went the job of foreman but upon the worthy old black man was
conferred the honor of being the staff.
Now he had the idea, which is not uncommon among other political
appointees, that holding a public office meant regular wages and
considerable glory and no appreciable amount of manual exertion.
Nevertheless on the Monday morning when he reported for duty, as a
concession to the conventionalities, he did bring a shovel along with
him.
But the white man who had been selected as superintendent had a very
different idea of the obligations which he owed the municipality. No
sooner had the old negro shoveled up one of the accumulated piles of
vintage rubbish of the years from the public thoroughfare than the
vigilant eye of the boss spied out at least half a dozen more similar
mounds which to his way of thinking seemed to require immediate
attention.
As a consequence it was 4 o’clock in the afternoon before the surprised
and chagrined and pained old man had time to blow on the plump, new
formed blisters in the palm of his hands or to rub the cricks out of his
back. Finally in a lull in the operations he straightened his spine with
an almost audible creak, and as he wrung the dew of unwonted toil from
his forehead he inquired of his superior:
“Look here, mister, ain’t you got nothin’ to do ’ceptin’ jes’ to think
up things fur me to do?”
“Yep,” said the white man briskly, “that’s all my job—just to keep you
busy.”
“Well, suh,” said the old man softly, “in dat case you’ll prob’ly be
pleased to know dat you ain’t goin’ be workin’ tomorrer.”
§ 68 A Sort of Circulating Medium, as It Were
An auctioneer’s man had been sent to a household to list its contents.
Nothing of especial interest, either to himself or to others, marked the
course of his labors until he had progressed so far as the dining room.
Here, following his routine, he proceeded to enumerate the furnishings
in proper order, item by item.
In his flowing professional script he set down the tally in his book:
One mahogany dining room table.
Six mahogany dining chairs.
One mahogany sideboard.
One bottle Scotch whiskey, full.
Seemingly, then, ensued a period when the appraiser was otherwise
engaged and made no entries whatsoever. Then, in a somewhat struggling
and uncertain handwriting, he scratched out the last item and concluded
his labors for the day with the following notations:
One bottle Scotch whiskey, partially full.
One revolving Turkish rug.
§ 69 A Service to the Whole Land
In the early summer of 1918 three of us made a long trip by automobile
to pay a visit to a colored regiment at the front in France. The results
more than repaid us for the time and trouble. One of the main
compensations was First Class Private Cooksey, who, because he had been
an elevator attendant in a Harlem apartment house, gave his occupation
in his enlistment blank as “indoor chauffeur.” It was to First Class
Private Cooksey that the Colonel of the regiment, seeing the expression
on the others’ faces when a shell from a German mortar fell near by on
the day the command moved up to the front, put this question:
“Cooksey, if one of those things drops right here alongside of us and
goes off, are you going to stay by me?”
“Kurnel,” stated Cooksey with sincerity, “I ain’t aimin’ to tell you no
lie. Ef one of them things busts clost to me I’ll jest natchelly be
obliged to go away frum here. But please, suh, don’t you set me down as
no deserter. Jest put it in de book as ‘Absent without leave,’ ’cause
I’ll be back jest ez soon ez I kin git my brakes to work.”
“But what if the enemy suddenly appears in force without any preliminary
bombardment?” pressed the Colonel. “What do you think you and the rest
of the boys will do then?”
“Kurnel,” said Cooksey, earnestly, “we may not stick by you, but we’ll
shore render one service, anyway: we’ll spread de news all over France
’at de Germans is comin’!”
§ 70 Deportment Taught by Wire
There was a so-called financial wizard who advertised to give lessons by
mail which would enable patrons to prosper in their speculations.
A subscriber down in the Southwest found himself in difficulties as a
result of following the directions for playing the grain market as laid
down by the expert. He wrote a letter to this effect:
“You told me if I got into trouble I was to communicate with you and you
would tell me how to act. Well, I done just what you said about buying
winter wheat and I am now busted. How shall I act? Please wire.”
By wire promptly came back the answer:
“Act like you are busted!”
§ 71 Speaking of Carrier Pigeons
Speaking of carrier pigeons—although no one has done so—reminds me of
a yarn that was related at the front in 1918. A half company of a
regiment in the Rainbow Division, on going forward early one morning in
a heavy fog for a raid across No Man’s Land, carried along with the rest
of the customary equipment a homing pigeon. The pigeon in its wicker
cage swung on the arm of a private, who likewise was burdened with his
rifle, his extra rounds of ammunition, his trenching tool, his pair of
wire cutters, his steel helmet, his gas mask, his emergency ration and
quite a number of other more or less cumbersome items.
It was to be a surprise attack behind a cloak of the fog, so there was
no artillery preparation as the squads climbed over the top and advanced
into the mist-hidden beyond. Behind, in the posts of observation and in
the post of command, the Colonel and his aides and his intelligence
officers waited for the sound of firing. When after some minutes the
distant rattle of the rifle fire came to their ears they began
calculating how long reasonably it might be before word reached them by
one or another medium of communication touching on the results of the
foray. But the ground telephone remained mute, and no runner returned
through the fog with tidings. The suspense increased as time passed.
Suddenly a pigeon sped into view, flying close to the earth. While eager
eyes followed it in its course the winged messenger circled until it
located its portable cote just behind the Colonel’s position and
fluttering down it entered its familiar shelter.
An athletic member of the staff hustled up the ladder. In half a minute
he was tumbling down again, clutching in one hand the little scroll of
paper that he had found fastened about the pigeon’s leg. With fingers
that trembled in anxiety the Colonel unrolled the paper and read aloud
what was written upon it.
What he read, in the hurried chirography of a kid private, was the
following succinct statement: “I’m tired of carrying this damn bird.”
§ 72 Total Loss!
For the first time in the history of the State—it was a Southern
State—an electrocution took place within the walls of the State prison.
The Legislature, keeping step with the march of progress and
civilization, had ordered the installation of an electric chair to take
the honored place of the old-fashioned slip-noose under the left ears of
the fathers.
A negro “trusty” was an unwilling witness to the first performance under
the new arrangement. The warden had detailed him as helper to the paid
executioner. He issued forth from the lethal chamber with popped eyes
and ashen face.
A group of his fellow convicts knotted about him, anxious to hear the
grisly details. He proceeded to elucidate:
“Well, suhs,” he said, with a shiver, “they teks an’ strops you down,
hand an’ foot, in a big cheer. An’ den they clamps some lil’ things onto
yo’ haid an’ yo’ laigs. An’ den one of de w’ite men he step over to whar
they’s a little jigger set in de wall an’ he give it a lil’
yank—zzz—like dat!”
Here he paused and fetched a deep breath.
“Whut den? whut den?” came the chorus.
“Nothin’ but ruin—jes’ absolute ruin!”
§ 73 With All Good Wishes
The colonel of one of our negro regiments serving in France during the
world war impressed it upon the rank and file of his command that in the
field a soldier addressing his superior officer invariably should have
regard for correct military procedure and for correct military language.
The lesson must have gone home, because now among the treasured
possessions of that colonel is a certain document sent by runner from a
forward trench to company headquarters back of the second line of
defense.
On a scrap of paper, with a stub of pencil, the author of the
communication, a much-harried black corporal then undergoing his baptism
of shelling, wrote as follows:
“To Lieutenant Seth B. McClintock,
“Commanding Company F.—Blank Regimen’
“Blank Division, A. E. F., U. S. A.
“Dear Sir—I am being fired on heavily from the left. I await
your instructions.
“Trusting these few lines will find you the same, I remain,
“Yours truly,
“James Jordon.”
§ 74 A Start from Humble Beginnings
Mr. Campbell, who was a lawyer, felt somewhat irritated on reaching his
office at 8:30 in the morning to find the fire in the grate unkindled
and the floor unswept and the place generally in a state of disorder. It
was nearly 9 o’clock before Ike, his black office servant, appeared.
“Good Lord, Ike,” said Mr. Campbell petulantly. “What’s detained you?”
“Mist’ Campbell,” apologized Ike, “you must please, suh, ’scuse me fur
bein’ late dis one time. I sort of overslept myse’f. De truth of de
matter is dat I wuz kept up de best part of de night on ’count of
j’inin’ a lodge.”
“It surely didn’t take you all night to join a lodge, did it?”
“Naw, suh, not perzac’ly. De fust part of de evenin’ they wuz ’niciatin’
me into de membership an’ de rest of de time dey wuz ’onductin’ me into
office.”
“Isn’t it rather unusual to confer an office on a member immediately
after taking him in?”
“Naw suh, dat’s de standin’ rule in dat lodge—jes’ soon ez you is
’niciated you gits a office.”
“What office did they confer upon you?”
“Imperial Supreme King.”
“What?”
“Dat’s whut dey calls it—Imperial Supreme King of de Universe.”
“Isn’t that rather a high office for a brand new member?”
“Why, naw, suh, Mist’ Campbell, dat’s de lowes’ office dey is in dat
lodge. W’en I’s been in a spell longer dey is goin’ give me somethin’
really wuth while.”
§ 75 The Confusing Geography of Jersey
Years ago, when I earned my daily bread and occasional beer on Park Row,
one Andy Horn ran a cozy bar in the shadow of Brooklyn Bridge. A grubby
person known as Smitty was a fixture at Andy’s. He cut up food for the
free lunch counter, did odd jobs and in rush hours helped to serve the
trade.
He had been born on Cherry Hill, right around the corner; he had been
reared on the Bowery and he had never ranged farther than Coney Island
or Far Rockaway. Greater New York city was all the world he knew or
cared to know.