gwine say, in big black letters, ‘Fifty thousand Frenchmen trompled to
death by twenty-five thousand niggers.’”
§ 163 The Trifles of an Earlier Day
In the great Meuse-Argonne advance two doughboys were squatted in a
shell hole for shelter. In another minute or two they expected an order
to go forward again against the German positions. The enemy was pouring
everything he had in their direction. Machine-gun bullets were whining
by just above their heads. High explosives and shrapnel shells were
bursting about them. Hundreds of guns, big and little, roared and
thundered.
One of the soldiers turned his head toward his companion.
“Buddy,” he said, “I’ve just been layin’ here thinkin’.”
“Hell of a time to be thinkin’,” said his pal. “What were you thinkin’
about?”
“I was thinkin’ how a fellow’s feelings get changed in this war.”
“What do you mean—get changed?”
“Why, once upon a time, back home, a fellow with a thirty-eight calibre
pistol run me plum’ out of town.”
§ 164 In Accordance with the Ritual
Archie Gunn, the artist, is a Scot who was educated in England and who
still has a great love for the national game of the British Isles, to
wit: cricket. Will Kirk, the verse-writer, is a product of Wisconsin and
until one day when his friend Gunn took him over on Staten Island had
never seen a game of cricket.
Teams made up of English residents were playing. The spectators, almost
exclusively, were their fellow-countrymen.
A batsman dealt the ball a powerful wallop.
“Well hit, old chap!” cried Gunn. And “Well hit! Well hit!” echoed
others in the crowd.
An opposing player made a hard run to catch the ball as it descended
into his territory. He almost got under it—almost, but not quite. It
just eluded his clutching fingers.
“Well tried, old chap! Well tried!” called out Gunn.
Kirk figured this sort of thing must be in accordance with the proper
ritualism of the game. He decided that, to show his approval, he would
at the next opportunity speak up, too.
Once more the batsman smote the ball. It rose high in the air. A fielder
for the rival club ran to catch it. His toe caught in a clod of upturned
turf and he tumbled forward on his face, and the ball, dropping, hit him
squarely on the top of his head.
Kirk’s yell rose high and clear above all lesser sounds.
“Well fell, old chap!” he shouted. “Well fell, by gum!”
§ 165 A Customer Who Wasn’t Wanted
Almost invariably, when men fall to discussing examples of business
sagacity, someone present is reminded of the illustrative incident of
the white tramp and the colored saloon-keeper.
The colored man sat behind his bar in a moment when trade was slack.
Through the swinging doors entered the ragged Caucasian.
“Give me a good five-cent cigar,” he ordered.
The proprietor produced a box containing a number of dangerous-looking
dark-brown rolls. The patron made a discriminating choice and then in
the act of putting the cigar between his lips checked himself.
“Say, I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Believe I’ll take a glass of beer
instead.”
The negro returned the cigar to its box and drew a glass of beer. The
customer drank it, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and started
to withdraw.
“Yere, hol’ on, w’ite man,” said the negro, “you forgot to pay fur dat
beer.”
“Why, I give you a cigar for it.”
“Yes, but you ain’t paid fur de cigar, neither.”
“But you’ve still got the cigar, ain’t you? What’s the matter with you,
anyhow?”
The colored man scratched his head.
“Lemme see, boss,” he said, “ef I gits dis thing straight: You don’t owe
me for de beer, ’cause you give me de cigar fur it; and you don’t owe me
fur de cigar, ’cause you handed it back to me. Is dat right?”
“Certainly, it’s right,” said the crafty white.
“Ver’ well, then,” agreed the colored man; “but say, mister, I wants to
ax you a favor: Next time you feels lak smokin’ or drinkin’ please tek
yo’ custom somewhars else.”
§ 166 The Surest System Yet
This story has to do with a man describing a poker game which he was
invited to join while visiting in a strange town.
“The first hand that was dealt,” he says, “I had threes. I opened the
pot and one other man stayed. He drew one card. We bet back and forth
for a while and finally he called. ‘I’ve got three of a kind,’ I said,
and showed down my three nines. ‘I’ve got a straight—ten high,’ he
says, and pitches his hand in the deck and reaches for the chips. ‘Hold
on,’ I says, ‘I didn’t see what you had.’ He looks at me sort of
surprised and the fellow who’s givin’ the party speaks up and says to
me: ‘This is a gentleman’s game. If a man wins a pot here we never ask
him to show his hand. We just take his word for it that he holds the
winning cards and we let it go at that. That’s our rule.’”
“Did you keep on playing after that?” asks a bystander.
“Certainly I did,” says the first speaker.
“And did you win?”
“Did I win? Huh—the first pot was the only one I lost!”
§ 167 All According to Specifications
“Now, then, children,” said the Sunday school teacher in her best Sunday
school teacher’s manner, “the lesson for to-day is about the Prophet
Elisha. Can any little boy or little girl here tell us anything about
Elisha?”
“Me,” answered a ten-year-old urchin, holding up his hand.
“Very well, then, Eddie,” answered the teacher. “Now, then, all the rest
of you be nice and quiet while Eddie, here, tells us about the Prophet
Elisha.”
“Well,” said Eddie, “Elisha was an old bald-headed preacher. One day he
was goin’ along the big road and he came past where some children were
playin’ in the sand, and they laughed at him and poked fun at him and
called him names and hollered, ‘Oh, look at that old bald-headed man!’
That made Elisha hoppin’ mad and he stopped and turned around and shook
his fist at ’em and he said: ‘Don’t you kids make fun of me any more! If
you do I’ll call some bears out of them woods yonder and they’ll shore
eat you up.’
“And they did and he did and the bears did.”
§ 168 The Reason the Artist Quit
This is in explanation of why a rather well-known New Yorker gave up
free-hand drawing. Although without any artistic training, he rather
fancied himself a pretty fair amateur sketch artist.
In company with a newspaper man he was touring Spain. One morning in
Malaga the two Americans dropped into a little café for breakfast. They
knew no Spanish and their waiter knew no English. Largely by signs they
made him understand that they wanted coffee and rolls. But when the
newspaperman decided that he wished also a glass of milk difficulties
arose.
Singly and in chorus they pronounced the word “milk.” Then they spelled
it out. Then they shouted it loudly as one always does, somehow, when
using one’s own language, one is dealing with a stranger who doesn’t
understand that language. The waiter merely shrugged his shoulders and
spread his fingers in a gesture of helplessness.
The man who wanted milk imitated the action of one milking a cow,
meanwhile mooing plaintively, and then, to round out the illustration,
went through the pantomime of emptying an imaginary glass. Still the
waiter stared at him uncomprehendingly.
“Hold on,” said the artist, “I’ve got an idea. I can draw about as well
as the next one. Lend me a pencil; it won’t take me a minute to make
this fellow understand.”
With the pencil, on the table cloth, he sketched rapidly what seemed to
him a very graphic likeness of a domestic cow, and, squatted down
alongside the cow, his conception of a conventional milkmaid engaged in
the act of milking.
As he made the finishing strokes the waiter, who had been watching the
operation over his shoulder, burst into a delighted cry of “Sí! Sí!
Señor!” and, tucking up his apron, dashed from the restaurant and ran
across the street into the shop of a tobacconist.
“Now, then,” said the artist to his friend, “see what a knack with the
pencil will do for a fellow when he gets into difficulties in a foreign
country? I’ll venture I could go all over the world, making my meaning
clear by dashing off these little illustrations.”
“Maybe so,” said the newspaper man, “but why in thunder did the waiter
go to a cigar store for milk?”
“Probably a custom of the country,” said the artist. “The main point was
that just as soon as he’d had a good look at my drawing he was on his
way. He’ll be back here in a minute with your glass of milk.”
The prediction was only partly true. The waiter was back again in a
minute or less, but he brought no milk. Triumphantly, he laid down in
front of his patrons two tickets for a bull-fight.
§ 169 To the Depths of Dogology
It was back in 1899 that State Senator William Goebel seized the
Democratic nomination for Governor of Kentucky and, so doing, split the
party in the state to flinders. The feuds born of that fight are still
alive to-day after the lapse of more than twenty-three years. It was my
fortune as a reporter from a Louisville paper to follow the story of the
conflict.
Theodore Hallam, perhaps the greatest orator in a state of orators, and
almost the quickest-thinking man on his feet, I believe, that ever lived
anywhere, having bolted the nomination of Goebel, took the stump against
him. The seceding wing of the party picked on Hallam to open its fight,
and chose the town of Bowling Green as a fitting place for the firing of
the first gun, Bowling Green being a town where the rebellion inside the
Democratic ranks was wide-spread and vehement. But Goebel had his
adherents there, too.
You could fairly smell trouble cooking on that August afternoon when
Hallam rose up in the jammed courthouse to begin his speech. Hardly had
he started when a local leader, himself a most handy person in a
rough-and-tumble argument, stood upon the seat of his chair, towering
high above the heads of those about him.
“I want to ask you a question!” he demanded in a tone like the roar of
one of Bashan’s bulls.
One third of the crowd yelled: “Go ahead!” The other two thirds yelled:
“Throw him out!” and a few enthusiastic spirits suggested the expediency
of destroying the gentleman utterly.
With a wave of his hand Hallam stilled the tumult.
“Let it be understood now and hereafter that this is to be no joint
debate,” he said in his rather high-pitched voice. “My friends have
arranged for the use of this building this afternoon and I intend to be
the only speaker. But it is a tenet of our political faith that in a
Democratic gathering no man who calls himself a Democrat shall be denied
the right to be heard. If the gentleman will be content to ask his
question, whatever it is, and to abide by my answer to it, I am willing
that he should speak.”
“That suits me,” proclaimed the interrupter. “My question is this:
Didn’t you say at the Louisville convention not four weeks ago that if
the Democrats of Kentucky, in convention assembled, nominated a yaller
dog for Governor, you would vote for him?”
“I did,” said Hallam calmly.
“Well, then,” whooped the heckler, eager now to press his seeming
advantage, “in the face of that statement, why do you now repudiate the
nominee of that convention and refuse to support him?”
For his part Hallam waited for perfect quiet and finally got it.
“I admit,” he stated, “that I said then what now I repeat, namely, that
when the Democrats of Kentucky nominate a yaller dog for the
governorship of this great state I mean to support him—but lower than
that ye shall not drag me!”
§ 170 Time Was No Object
A colored man was idling along the sidewalk on the opposite side of the
street from where the county jail stood. From a barred window high up in
the structure came the voice of a member of his own race:
“Say, nigger,” called the unseen speaker.
The pedestrian halted and faced about.
“Whut you want?” he demanded.
“I wants to ax you a question,” said the invisible one.
“Well, ax it. I’s listenin’.”
“Is you got a watch on you?”
“Suttinly I’s got a watch on me.”
“Well, den, whut time is it?”
“Whut is time to you?” answered the man in the street. “You ain’t fixin’
to go nowheres, is you?”
§ 171 A Diagnosis Made Offhand
Puffed with pride, a colored man returned to his native town in North
Carolina after a season spent with a traveling circus. He was recounting
his experiences in the great world at large to a fellow Afro-American.
“I started out,” he said, “ez a roustabout, but de boss man w’ich owned
de show he right away seen dat I had merits above my station an’ he
permoted me to be a lion tamer. So dat’s whut I is now—a reg’lar
perfessional lion tamer.”
“Is dat so?” said his townsman. “Tell me, boy, how does you go ’bout
bein’ a lion tamer?”
“It’s ver’ simple,” said the returned one. “All you got to have is
bravery an’ de dauntless eye. Fust you picks out yore lion—de best way
is to pick out de fiercest one. Den you walks up to de cage whar he is
wid a club in yore hand an’ open de do’ and jump inside an’ slam de do’
shut behind you. Natchelly, de lion rare hisse’f up on his hind laigs
an’ come at you wid his mouth open an’ his teeth all showin’. You waits
till he’s right clost up to you an’ den you hauls off an’ you busts him
acrost de nose wid yore club. Den you backs him up into a corner an’ you
beats him some mo’ till he ’knowledges you fur his master. Den, w’en
he’s plum’ cowed down, you grabs him by de jaws an’ twists his mouth
open an’ sticks yore head down his throat an’ after dat you meks him
jump th’ough a hoop an’ lay at yore feet an’ sit up an’ beg fur raw meat
an’ teach him a few more tricks such as dem. Tha’s being a lion tamer.”
“Huh, nigger,” grunted his audience, “you ain’t no lion tamer—you’ a
lyin’ scoundrel!”
§ 172 Remodeling the Calendar
August Winestopper ran a family liquor store in the day when there were
family liquor stores. Mr. Winestopper’s knowledge of English was
somewhat circumscribed but, as events were to prove, his business
sagacity was profound.
In the early part of the summer business, for some reason or other, fell
off considerably. While Mr. Winestopper, was canvassing in his own mind
the possible causes for this shrinkage in normal neighborhood
consumption of wet goods other discomfiting things began to occur. The
agent for the owner of the premises waited upon him and told him that,
beginning the following month, the rent would be advanced $600 per
annum. The two barkeepers notified him that the barkeepers’ union had
passed a rule calling for an increase in the wage scale. He got a
summons for an alleged violation of the Sunday closing law and was
confronted by the prospect that, if found guilty, he would pay a heavy
fine. The brewery sent him word that the price of beer shortly would go
up.
Mr. Winestopper considered the situation in all of its various and
disturbing phases. Then he took a piece of chalk and on the mirror
behind the bar he wrote, where all might read, the following ultimatum:
“The first of July will be the last of August!”
§ 173 Of a Careless Nature
A colored man owned a mule which, for reasons best known to himself he
desired to sell. He heard that a neighbor down the road was in the
market for a mule. So he put a halter on the animal and led her to the
cabin of the other negro.
At once negotiations were entered into. The owner had delivered himself
of a eulogy touching on the strength, capacity for hard work, and
amiable disposition of his beast, when the prospective purchaser broke
in with a question:
“Is dis yere mule fast?”
“Fast?” the proprietor snorted. “Look yere!” He gave the mule a kick in
the ribs, whereupon she bucked sideways, tore down a strip of fencing,
galloped headlong through a week’s washing, butting against the side of
the barn, and then caroming off, tore across a garden patch and vanished
into the woods beyond the clearing.
“Look yere, nigger,” said the owner of the damaged property, “dat mule
must be blind.”
“She ain’t blind,” said the owner; “but she jest natchelly don’t keer a
damn!”
§ 174 The Light That Failed
An old colored man, who had been crippled in the railroad service,
served for many years as a watchman at a grade crossing in the outskirts
of an Alabama town. By day he wielded a red flag and by night he swung a
lantern.
One dark night a colored man from the country, driving home from town,
steered his mules across the track just as the Memphis flier came
through and abolished him, along with his team and his wagon. His widow
sued the railroad for damages. At the trial the chief witness for the
defence was the old crossing watchman.
Uncle Gabe stumped to the stand and took the oath to tell the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Under promptings from the
attorney for his side, he proceeded to give testimony strongly in favor
of the defendant corporation. He stated that he had seen the approaching
team in due time and that, standing in the street, he had waved his
lantern to and fro for a period of at least one minute. In spite of the
warning, he said, the deceased had driven upon the rails.
Naturally, the attorney for the plaintiff put him to a severe
cross-examination. Uncle Gabe answered every question readily and with
evident honesty. He told just how he had held the lantern, how he had
swung and joggled it and so forth and so on.
After court had adjourned the lawyer for the railroad sought out the old
man and congratulated him upon his behavior as a witness.
“Gabe,” he said, “you acquitted yourself splendidly. Weren’t you at all
nervous while on the stand?”
“I suttinly wuz, boss,” replied Uncle Gabe. “I kep’ wonderin’ whu wuz
gwine happen ef dat w’ite genelman should ax me if dat lantern wuz
lighted.”
§ 175 Sir Izaak Walton in Black
Captain George Walker, of Savannah, used to have a hand on his Georgia
plantation who loved ease and fishing. When he wasn’t fishing he was
loafing.
One night there was a rain almost heavy enough to be called a cloudburst
and the next morning all the low places on the plantation were flooded
two feet deep. Passing his tenant’s cabin, Captain Walker found him
seated in an easy chair at the kitchen door fishing in a small puddle of
muddy water that had formed there.
“Henry, you old fool,” said Captain Walker, “what are you doing there?”
“Boss,” said Henry, “I’s jes’ fishin’.”
“Well, don’t you know there are no fish there?” demanded Captain Walker.
“Yas, suh,” said Henry; “I knows dat. But this yere place is so handy!”
§ 176 Doing Something for the Patient
Frank McIntyre, the plump comedian, played vaudeville dates one season.
One night after his turn he dropped into a short-order restaurant near
the theatre for a bite, before going to bed. Sitting next to him was a
former circus acrobat, who did a horizontal-bar act on the same bill
with McIntyre.
The acrobat was sawing away at the sinewy knee-joint of a fried chicken
leg. Though the knife was sharp and he was athletic, he made but little
headway.
He waved his arm toward a bottle of ketchup which stood upon the counter
near McIntyre’s elbow.
“Say, bo,” he requested, “pass de liniment, will you? De sea gull’s got
de rheumatism.”
§ 177 The Real Point of the Joke
Two American performers, filling vaudeville engagements in London, took
lodgings together in a house on a side street back of Covent Gardens.
Late at night, following the first day of their joint tenancy they left
the theatre in company and, having had a bite and a drink at a chophouse
set out afoot for the new diggings. One of the pair undertook to show
the way. The trouble was, though, that for the life of him he couldn’t
recall the name of the street where the house stood nor the number of
the house. For nearly an hour they wandered through deserted byways
seeking their destination. Finally they happened upon a street which
wore a familiar look. Sure enough, half way down the block stood the
house where they were quartered.
With glad cries the tired pair hurried to it. Here a fresh difficulty
arose. They had no latch keys. Coming away that afternoon neither had
thought to ask their landlady for a key. However, the second man figured
he could pick the lock. He worked at it vainly for another half hour
while his companion fidgeted about. Finally in disgust and despair he
gave it up as a bad job, and the two of them went to a hotel where they
spent the remainder of the night.
Now comes the point of the story: The man who could not remember the
name of the street, nor the number of the house, was Barton the Memory
Wizard. The man who could not master the lock was Houdini, the Handcuff
King.
§ 178 The Mystery of Wednesday
A Broadway actor got carried away by the spirit of the prohibition times
and remained carried away for several days. He came to himself in his
own room without knowing exactly how he got there. A friend sat beside
him.
“Hello,” he said, as he opened his eyes, “what day is this?”
“This,” said his friend, “is Thursday.”
The invalid thought it over a minute.
“What became of Wednesday?” he asked.
§ 179 The Cockney and the Lady
Mrs. Pat Campbell has rather a caustic wit, as her friends—and more
especially her enemies—can testify. On one occasion an interview with
her was besought by a London playwright for whom personally Mrs.
Campbell did not care very deeply. The playwright was a self-educated
cockney. Sometimes in moments of forgetfulness he lapsed into the idioms
of his youth.
He desired an opportunity to tender Mrs. Campbell a play he had just
completed and in which he hoped she might consent to take the star rôle.
She sat in silence while he read the script, act by act.
When he had finished he looked up, expecting some word of approval or at
least of comment from his auditor. Mrs. Campbell, with a noncommital
look on her face, said nothing at all. An awkward pause ensued.
“Ahem,” said the dramatist at length, “I’m afraid my play seemed rather
long to you?”
“Long? Well, rather!” drawled the lady. “It took you over two hours to
read it—without the h’s.”
§ 180 Neither Here Nor There
Two French Canadians were traveling down a Quebec river in a houseboat.
One of them knew the river and the other did not.
They anchored for the night on a bar. During the night the river rose
and along toward daylight the craft went adrift. Three hours later the
motion awoke one of the travelers. He poked his head out of the door. An
entirely strange section of scenery was passing.
“Baptiste! Baptiste!” he yelled. “Get up! We ain’t here some more.”
“No, by gar!” said his companion after a quick glance at the
surroundings—“we are twelve mile from here!”
§ 181 One of the Marvels of Science
On a hotel porch at a summer resort a visitor approached, in the dark,
the spot where a beautiful young thing with bobbed hair and melting
baby-blue eyes was sitting with an adoring youth.
As he neared the pair the newcomer heard her say: “Aren’t the stars just
beautiful to-night? I love to sit and look at the stars on a night like
this and think about science. Science is so interesting, so wonderful;
don’t you think so? Now you take astronomy: Astronomers are such
marvelous men! I can understand how they have been able to figure out
the distance to the moon and to all the other planets, and the size of
the sun, and how fast it travels and all. But how in the world do you
suppose they ever found out the right names of all those stars?”
§ 182 The Proper End of a Caddy
In a Southern town is a lady, socially prominent, who enjoys the
reputation of being a modern Mrs. Malaprop. The latest speech attributed
to her had to do with the ancient game of Scotia.
“I’ve often thought,” she said to a friend, “that I’d like to go in for
golf, but somehow I have never gotten ’round to it; and, besides, I
don’t understand the first thing about playing it. Why, if I wanted to
hit the ball I wouldn’t know which end of the caddy to take hold of.”
§ 183 One Way to Beat the Game
Those who in their youth were addicted, or subsequently have been
addicted to the good old American game of Seven-up will appreciate a
little tale which Frank I. Cobb, of the New York _World_, told.
Cobb, who was born in Kansas and reared in Michigan, went to a town in
the former state to call upon an elderly uncle. He arrived about
suppertime. His aunt received him and welcomed him, telling him that her
husband would probably be along shortly.
Time passed and still the old gentleman did not appear.
“I wonder,” said Cobb, “whether Uncle Henry has been detained at his
shop?”
“Oh, no,” said his aunt in a resigned tone. “He’s down at Number Two
Engine House, claiming Low.”
§ 184 Absolutely No Reason for It