facing Canterbury cathedral with his legs planted far apart, his cap on
the back of his head, his hands rammed deep into his trousers pockets,
his cigar stuck into one corner of his mouth, and on his face an
expression betokening profound boredom.
The celebrated Canterbury chimes were ringing for vespers, filling all
the air with silver melody, when a side door of the cathedral opened and
there issued forth a little, plump, pink-cheeked, benevolent clergyman.
He approached the visiting stranger and in cultured tones said to him:
“I take it, sir, that you are a stranger?”
“Hey?” inquired the American, cupping one hand about his ear.
The clergyman raised his voice:
“I assume, sir, that you are not a resident of these parts?”
“Nope,” said the American. “I hail from Wyoming. It’s durned good State,
too—best in the Union. You ought to come out there some time, Elder,
and give us the once-over.”
“Eh—quite so,” said the reverend gentleman. “Then,” he continued,
“since you are newly-come to this place it must seem to you, even as it
does to those of us who dwell in these cloistered and holy precincts,
that the music of our glorious bells comes floating down to one almost
like the voice of the Almighty Himself, seeking through the medium of
their old brazen throats to communicate the message of peace on earth,
goodwill to man, to us His children here below.”
“Which?” inquired the visitor, inclining his head somewhat.
“Er—what I meant to say,” stated the clergyman, “was that one must
carry away from here, after hearing our chimes, the conviction in his
soul that really he has been in communication with Deity itself—that
the voices of the angels have cried out to him. Er—is it not so, my
friend?”
The American shook his head.
“I’m sorry, parson,” he said regretfully, “but them damn bells is makin’
so much noise I can’t hear a word you say!”
§ 95 An Appeal to the Senses
The editor of a New York evening newspaper has a little niece who, on
her sixth birthday, received as presents a wrist-watch and a large
bottle of perfumery. Having strapped on the watch, and copiously scented
herself, the youngster spent the entire day proudly parading the
apartment directing the attention of all and sundry to her new
possessions. Eventually she became somewhat of a bore. For the evening
some friends of her parents were coming in.
“Honey,” said her mother, “I can understand why you should be proud of
your birthday gifts, but grown people are not interested in such things.
You may come to dinner to-night on condition that you do not once
mention your wrist-watch or your bottle of perfumery.”
The little one promised. At the table she sat, saying not a word, but
from time to time sniffing audibly, and at frequent intervals raising
her left wrist to her ear to catch the sound of the ticking. These
tactics failed to attract attention. Toward the end of the meal, in a
lull in the conversation, little Miss Helen spoke:
“Listen, everybody,” she said. “If anybody hears anything or smells
anything, it’s me.”
§ 96 The Truth from the Inside
The dining car waiter was one of those persons who feel a sense of
personal proprietorship in the institutions they serve—a type not at
all uncommon among members of his race. His manner, his voice, all about
him, subtly conveyed the idea that here was one who took a deep pride in
the undertaking of feeding people on a transcontinental train, and was
determined that no blot ever should besmirch the fair name of the
system.
So when the gentleman who was going to California gave a breakfast order
of grapefruit, toast, coffee and soft-boiled eggs, he bent over the
patron and in confidential tones whispered:
“Boss, I would not keer to reccermend the aigs this mawnin’! Naw, suh, I
would suggest you tuck somethin’ else on the bill.”
“What’s the matter with the eggs—aren’t they fresh?” asked the
customer.
The waiter’s voice sank still lower.
“I don’t know ef they’s fresh or ef they ain’t,” he said; “but to tell
you the truth, we ain’t got none.”
§ 97 The Fate of the Saloon
In the last months of the fighting in 1918, a draft regiment of colored
troops from the Gulf States went in near the Flanders line, where the
British held, to help mop up the retreating Germans. One morning three
of my fellow-correspondents borrowed a staff car and rode up to an
abandoned village where there had been sharp fighting, seeking for a
forward dressing-station with intent to get stories from wounded men.
At an entrance to an improvised hospital in a dugout one of the group
came upon a coal-black infantryman who, while not seriously injured,
bore unmistakable signs of having come into abrupt contact with some
form of high and violent explosive. He was wearing, for the moment, his
belt and his boots and a part of his collar. The correspondent said to
him:
“Soldier, how did you get hurt?”
“Well, mister,” stated the victim, “it ain’t altogether clear in my own
mind yit, but I could mebbe tell you some of de things w’ich hez
occurred.”
“I should be very pleased to hear them.”
“Well, suh, at daylight this mawnin’ we fell into one of these yere lil’
towns up yere jest ’bout the time dem Bush Germans wuz fallin’ out of
it. But even ef we did have de scoundrels on de run, dey didn’t fergit
to shoot at us ez dey went away. Dem big shells wuz whistlin’ past over
my haid, talkin’ to demselves, an’ ever’ now an’ then one of ’em would
come by w’ich, it seemed lak, t’wuz speakin’ to me pussonally. I could
hear it say jest ez plain: ‘You ain’t never gwine _see-e-e-e-e-e_ yore
home in Ala-BAM!’
“So I sez to myse’f, I sez: ‘Seein’ ez dese Germans is all daid an’
scattered an’ ever’thing, ’twon’t be any real harm ef I gets under cover
myse’f!’
“So I looks ’round fur a place to git at. ’Co’se, most of de houses in
dat town hez done been shot down flat. But I sees one still standin’,
wid de roof on it, too—a lil’ place called a _Taverne_. Dat’s whut a
Frenchman say, boss, w’en he means saloon.
“Natchelly, dey ain’t nobody livin’ thar no mo’. So I walks up an’ I
teks hold of de doorknob an’ I’se jest fixin’ to turn de knob an’ shove
open de do’ an’ step in w’en _BAM!_ right ’long side of me one of dem
German shells went off an’ tuk dat saloon right out of my hand!”
§ 98 What the Case Called For
Gabe Thompson was a person of unrelieved color, the color being black.
Always, until he reached middle age he had enjoyed perfect health.
Suddenly he was stricken down with what seemingly was a grievous
affliction. His complexion turned the color of wet wood-ashes and he
moaned with pain. His wife, in alarm, summoned a friend from a near-by
cabin.
“Gabe,” said the neighbor, “You ’pears lak to me that you is powerful
porely. S’posin’ I hitches up an’ goes to town fur the doctor?”
“All right,” said Gabe, “but let de doctor w’ich you gits be a hoss
doctor.”
“Whu’ fur you wants a hoss doctor?” asked the other in astonishment.
“You ain’t no hoss. Chances is you ain’t got no hoss disease.”
“Nummine,” replied Gabe between gasps of agony, “you jest do lak I tells
you. Ef I knowed whut ailed me ’twould be diffe’nt, but I ain’t
knowin’.”
“Whut diffe’nce does dat make?”
“I’ll tell you,” said Gabe. “Ef a regulation doctor comes to see you he
kin talk wid you. He kin ax you whar de pain is an’ whut you been eatin’
an’ drinkin’ an’ you kin tell him. But a hoss doctor he can’t talk wid
his patients kaze de patients can’t talk back. He’s jest natchelly
’bleedged to know whut ails ’em.
“Nigger, you go git me de bes’ hoss doctor you kin find!”
§ 99 The Light that Failed
An ambitious Chinaman secured a long time lease on a tiny island on the
California coast. Here he built himself a simple shack and here he
raised garden-truck. Because of the climate, which was generally damp,
and because of the soil and most of all because of the tenant’s
industry, the venture prospered. Naturally, when a gentleman in uniform
came along one day and suggested him that he should vacate the property
and turn it over to the government, the Oriental protested. He wanted to
know why Uncle Sam should covet his tiny possession.
The visitor said to him:
“Well, you see, John, it’s like this: There’s a lot of fog along this
coast and Uncle Sam wants to put up a lighthouse here for the benefit of
ships. Savee?”
The Chinaman shook his head.
“No glood,” he said. “Lighthouse no glood for flog.”
“What makes you think so?” asked the government agent.
“Listlen,” said the Chinaman, “’fore I clumb here I live long-time in
Oakland, acloss Bay from San F’lisco. Muchee flog there. Uncle Slam plut
up lighthouse and flog-whistle and flog-bell. Lighthouse he shine,
flog-whistle he blow, flog-bell he ling—an’ damn flog he come just
same!”
§ 100 He’d Have Preferred Union Hours
Being seized with the fever for modern improvement, the legislature of a
certain state in the South some years ago voted for the installation of
the electric chair. At the same time the lawgivers tacked on a provision
to the effect that no newspaper might publish the details of an
electrocution but, on the contrary, should go no farther than to state
that on such a date, at such and such an hour, the execution of the law
was carried out upon the body of John Doe or Richard Roe, as the case
might be, the purpose of this being to invest the entire proceeding with
a mystery in the minds of those individuals most likely to come within
the scope of its operations.
The first candidate for these lethal attentions in a remote county
chanced to be a large, brawny negro. In passing sentence upon him the
judge followed, in the main, the old and time-honored formula, merely
altering it somewhat to conform to the new conditions. After reviewing
the crime and the trial, His Honor spoke substantially as follows:
“It is the duty, therefore, of this court to charge that the warden of
the state penitentiary shall closely hold you in confinement until the
twenty-first day of August, next, when between the hours of sunrise and
sunset he shall put you to death by the electric chair—and may God have
mercy on your soul! Mr. Sheriff, remove the prisoner.”
The sheriff took the condemned man away. Overnight, pending his removal
to the place of execution, he was lodged in his old cell in the county
jail. He sent a message to the commonwealth’s attorney who had
prosecuted him, asking that he might see that official immediately. The
commonwealth’s attorney went to the jail. The doomed darky was sitting
on his cot with his face in his hands rocking himself back and forth
while the tears trickled through his fingers.
“Mr. Corbett,” he said, “I craves to ax a dyin’ favor of you, please
suh?”
“Well, Jake,” said the attorney, “I’d do anything in my power, almost,
to ease your mind. But if you are after a pardon or a reprieve I can’t
see my way clear to helping you. You killed that man in cold blood and
you had a fair trial and you’ve got to die and, what’s more, you’ve got
to die on the date this judge has named.”
“’Tain’t dat, suh,” bewailed Jake, “I ain’t got no quarrel wid de date.
I kin git all my worldly affairs settled up ’twixt now an’ den an’ mek
my peace wid de Lawd, lakwise. But, Mr. Corbett,”—and here his voice
broke sharply—“I p’intedly does hate to be settin’ in dat dere cheer
f’um sunrise plum’ till sunset.”
§ 101 The Perils of Pranking
There was a homicide trial going on in the mountains of West Virginia. A
lanky native took the stand to testify to the good character and
peaceful disposition of the prisoner at the bar. When he had given the
accused a glowing testimonial the prosecuting attorney took him in hand
for cross-examination.
“Look here,” he demanded: “isn’t that the mark of an old knife cut
you’ve got across the lobe of your left ear?”
“Yas, suh; it is.”
“Well, who inflicted that wound?”
“Bill, thar, he done it, one time.”
“By ‘Bill’ you mean the defendant here?”
“Yep.”
“I see you also have the scar of a bullet wound in your right cheek. Who
made that?”
“Bill.”
“On still another occasion didn’t Bill, as you call him, gouge one of
your eyes almost out?”
“That’s a fact, too.”
“Now, then, in view of the injuries you yourself admit having sustained
at his hands, how do you reconcile your sworn statements of a minute ago
that the defendant is an individual of peaceable and law-abiding nature,
and a good neighbor?”
“Well, suh,” said the witness, “Bill is one of the nicest fellers ever
you seen in your life; but I must say this—he’s a powerful onlikely
pusson to prank with!”
§ 102 The Really Important Point
Among the writer’s acquaintances is a well-to-do person who spends his
summers cruising about in a private yacht. One afternoon near Cape Cod
he dropped anchor just off a village for the night. While he was sitting
on deck puffing a cigar before retiring, he saw one native approach
another who was perched upon the dock and heard the newcomer say, in
excited tones:
“I walked in my house awhile ago and the first thing I noticed was some
blood spots on the kitchen floor. And then I seen how everything was
mussed up, so that give me a kind of a start, and I dropped everything
and went on into the settin’-room, and there was my wife stretched out
on the floor, plum’ unconscious, with a club layin’ alongside her where
somebody had knocked her cold. It certainly was a terrible surprise.
Here I come home, tired out after fishin’ all day long——”
“How was the fishin’?” inquired the friend.
§ 103 The Proper Remedy at Last
Possibly inspired by the missionary work of Pussyfoot Johnson, a Scotch
Minister undertook a temperance crusade among the members of his flock.
He announced that on a certain Sabbath he would deliver a sermon upon
the evils of strong drink, with physical illustrations to prove his
argument. Upon the appointed morning a congregation which crowded the
kirk greeted him. The dominie lost no time in making his demonstration.
Upon the pulpit he placed two glasses; one containing whiskey and the
other spring water. Then in an impressive silence he brought a small box
from his coat pocket, opened the box and produced a long wriggling worm.
First he dipped the worm in the tumbler of water, where it coiled and
twisted happily. Then he dropped it into the whiskey. Instantly the
hapless creature shriveled, and after a few feeble contortions became
limp and lifeless. Hauling forth the dead thing and holding it in plain
view of all present the minister said:
“Now then, my brethren, behold the effects of strong spirits upon this
wee creature. In the water it took no harm; but the first contact with
this foul stuff here instantly destroyed it. Need I say or do more to
convince you of the effects of whiskey?”
From the body of the church there rose up a lantern-jawed person.
“Meenister,” he said, “might I ask where ye got the whusky in that
tumbler?”
“I’m glad you put that question,” said the clergyman. “I purchased it at
that den of iniquity, the public-house, which stands at the top of the
street not a hundred yards from this place of worship.”
“Thank ye,” said the parishioner. “I’ll be goin’ there on the morrow.
I’ve been troubled with worms myself.”
§ 104 An Anniversary to Be Remembered
Differences of an acute nature arose in a crap game on the Nashville
wharf. The dispute had to do with the ownership of a five dollar bill.
For possession of it there were two claimants,—a resident roustabout
and a truculent-looking stranger from up St. Louis way.
The argument reached a crucial and critical stage. The right hand of the
visiting nobleman stole slowly back toward his hip pocket.
“Nigger,” he inquired softly of his enemy, “whut date is dis?”
“I ain’t payin’ no heed to de dates,” said the Nashville darky.
“Well, you better do so,” said the stranger, “’cause jest twelve months
frum to-day you’ll a’been daid perzackly one yeah.”
§ 105 The Handiwork of the Amateur
Back about 1905, in the Dark Ages of automobiling a veterinary surgeon
in my town, whom I shall call Dr. Jones, bought a second-hand car. It
already was beginning to shake itself to pieces before it came into his
possession. In fact, so loudly did it rattle, when in motion, that it
was known affectionately throughout the county as Jones’ Patent
Pea-Huller. When the tires wore out the owner, who was by way of being a
mechanical genius, equipped it with ordinary buggy-wheels.
One day an automobile run to a near-by town was organized. Every proud
proprietor of a car joined in. As the procession headed out past the
corporate limits it was met by a farmer, from the Massac Creek section
on his way to the warehouse with a wagon-load of tobacco. His half-grown
son rode with him.
As the head of the column loomed through the dust the farmer’s two
mules, unused to the sight of automobiles, showed signs of skittishness.
The boy leaped down from his seat and held the heads of the team, the
mules flinching and trembling as the cavalcade roared past.
Seemingly, the last car had gone by. The youth was in the act of
climbing back to his place alongside his father when in the distance
there arose a terrific clattering sound and over the crest of the hill
appeared Dr. Jones, seated at the wheel of his machine and striving
valiantly to overtake the tail of the vanished parade. On he came, with
his gears grinding, the tormented vitals of his car shrieking, the
wooden wheels clattering on the hard gravel of the turnpike and gusts of
smoke issuing from beneath the body.
The astounded agriculturist caught one good look at the approaching
apparition. Then as he set the brakes harder than ever and tightened his
grasp on the lines he called out to the boy:
“Hold ’em, Wesley, for God’s sake, hold ’em! Here comes a home-made
one!”
§ 106 The Forethoughted Widow
In an unthoughted moment a colored woman in a North Carolina town
contracted a matrimonial alliance. But the honeymoon ended tragically.
Just two weeks after the wedding ceremony the happy bridegroom was
fooling about the railroad yards and a switch engine ran over him—on
the bias—and he, being of a fleshy build, was distributed for a
considerable distance along the right of way becoming, to all intents
and purposes, a total loss.
Yet it was immediately to develop that in a deceased state, he had a
financial standing which had been denied him in the flesh. For, with
that desire to do justice speedily which ever marks the legal
profession, a claim agent of the railroad got hold of the widow before
any other lawyer could reach her and hurried her to his office and there
showed her five hundred dollars in shiny new bills, which was more money
that she thought there was in the world. With one eager hand she reached
for this incredible fortune and with the other, using haste lest the
beneficent white gentleman should recover from his impulses of
generosity, she signed on the dotted line _A_ of the quit claim.
Another colored woman who had come with her to witness this triumph and
who was standing behind her, perfectly pop-eyed with envy and
admiration, said:
“Clarissa, whut you reckin you goin’ do now, sence you had all dis
luck?”
Before the widow answered she lifted a rustling twenty from off the top
of the delectable heap and fanned herself with it and inhaled its
fragrance; and then she said:
“I don’t know ez I shall do anything—fur a spell. I got to wait till
time is healed my wounds an’ I’s spent dis yere money. Of co’se in the
yeahs to come I may marry ag’in an’ then ag’in I may not—who kin tell?
But, gal, I tells you right now, ef ever I does marry ag’in my second
husband is suttinly goin’ be a railroad man.”
§ 107 Bumpy Times for the Late Lamented
The late Mr. Donovan had had a very close call from being a dwarf.
Indeed, there are dwarfs in circuses not many inches shorter than he
was. Despite his diminutive bulk and the handicap of lack of height he
nevertheless had succeeded in the contracting business and when he died
he left a tidy estate and his widow mourned him properly.
On the day before the funeral, having finished the preparations for the
wake, she sat in the parlor of her home when Mr. McKenna, an old friend
of the family, was announced. Dressed in his Sunday best Mr. McKenna
entered and having shaken Mrs. Donovan’s hand stated that he would be
unable to attend the ceremonies that evening owing to other engagements.
He asked, therefore, if he might be permitted to take a last look at the
deceased.
“Help yourself,” said the widow. “He’s laid out upstairs in the front
room. Just you walk up, Mr. McKenna.”
So Mr. McKenna walked up. After the lapse of a few minutes he tip-toed
down again, wiping away his tears.
The widow removed the handkerchief from her eyes.
“Did you think to close the hall door as you came down, Mr. McKenna?”
she asked.
“I think so, madam,” he said. “I was so overcome wit’ me grief I didn’t
take much note. I think so, but I won’t be sure.”
“Would you make sure, thin,” she said. “It’s twice to-day already the
cat’s had him downstairs.”
§ 108 The Genesis of an Old Favorite
There are several variations of this yarn but a Scotch friend of mine
insists that the one which follows is the correct one and, by that same
token, the proper ancestor of all the crop of differing versions. As he
sets forth the original narrative it runs something like this:
An Aberdonian on his first visit to London got off the train at Euston
station. While proceeding afoot along Euston Road on his way to his
hotel he suffered a terrific misfortune. He dropped a sixpence and it
rolled out of sight. The desolated victim put down his luggage and began
a vigorous search for the missing coin. Presently a friendly policeman
came along and having learned from the grieved Scot what the trouble
was, proceeded to aid him in the hunt, but with no results, excepting
the loss of fifteen minutes. Finally the Bobby said:
“You go along on your way and I’ll keep my eye open for your money. If
it turns up I’ll have it for you, if you’ll come back this way this
afternoon.”
All day the Scot was afflicted with distress. Promptly at four o’clock
he was back on the spot where his sixpence had vanished. During the day
the gas company had had a squad of men excavating in the street for new
mains so that when the Aberdonian reappeared he found the paving torn up
and a wide, deep trench extending from the house line to the middle of
the road. He gazed at the scene for a moment and then remarked to
himself:
“Weel, I must admit one thing—they are verra thorough here.”
§ 109 “A Rose by Any Other Name . . .”
At a closely contested municipal election in New York the Tammany ticket
seemed in grave danger. Accordingly steps were taken. Scarcely had the
polls opened when a group of trained and experienced repeaters marched
into a down-town voting place.
“What name?” inquired the election clerk of the leader of the squad, who
was red-haired and freckled and had a black eye. The young gangster
glanced down at a slip of paper in his hand to refresh his memory.
“Isadore Mendelheim,” he said then.
“That’s not your real name, and you know it!” said a suspicious
challenger for the reform ticket.
“It is me name,” said the repeater, “and I’m goin’ to vote under
it—see?”
From down the line came a voice:
“Don’t let that guy bluff you, Casey. Soitin’ly your name is
Mendelheim!”
§ 110 A Detail of Figures
Grand Central Pete was a noted bunco-steerer of the old days, but could
neither read nor write. Once he fell upon hard times, and he and a
younger but equally luckless confidence man undertook to beat their way
on a freight train to Washington. A brake-man kicked them off at
Trenton.
It was getting late and neither of them had a cent. Across the tracks
from where they had landed was a hotel and right next door was an
express office. Pete had an idea. He went into the express office,
begged one of those large manila envelopes such as are used for
transporting currency, filled the envelope with pieces of newspaper cut
to the size of banknotes, and sealed it carefully.
“Now then,” he said to his partner, “you take your fountain pen and
write on the back of that there envelope ‘$9,000.’ Then we’ll go over to
that hotel and explain that we’ve lost our baggage, and I’ll hand this
envelope to the clerk and ask him to lock it in the safe. He’ll look at
the figures on the back—and he’ll take us for moneyed guys and give us
rooms and grub until we can raise a stake.”