means of support, but such was his ingratiating personality that
speedily he became a favorite among the simple pioneers. Shortly after
this advent the local Methodist circuit rider organized a protracted
meeting.
The last night of the meeting was devoted to foreign missions. The
preacher rose to inspired heights of eloquence. In vivid colors he
painted the forlorn and ignorant state of the heathen and the crying
need of funds with which to spread the Christian doctrine in far-off
pagan lands. At the psychological moment, when the assemblage had been
worked up into a fit frame of mind for contributing heavily, the
preacher called upon the fascinating stranger to pass the hat. It
developed later that upon that very day the latter had gone to the
minister and volunteered for this service.
He passed the hat. He passed it until it was filled to the brim with the
offerings of the multitude. When his round of the pews was completed,
instead of marching up to the pulpit and depositing the funds there, the
newcomer began to edge toward the door of the church, and, incidentally,
toward where his horse was tethered outside. Observing this suspicious
maneuver, the preacher was filled with a horrid dread.
“My brother,” he called out, “if you go away from the house of God with
that there money you will be damned!”
On the words, the stranger vanished out of the door. The voice of a
resident in a back pew broke the horrified hush which followed.
“Well, parson,” he said, “ef he ain’t went, I’ll be damned!”
§ 207 The Final Smash
There was company at the farmhouse that evening and Mrs. Purdy, who had
her share and more of New Hampshire thrift, was moved through
hospitality to offer the suggestion that possibly the guests might like
a glass apiece of fresh apple cider. There was unanimous endorsement of
the idea. So Mr. Purdy got a china pitcher from the pantry and started
for the cellar where the cider was stored.
The cellar was dark and the steps leading to it were steep. Half way
down he stumbled and dropped with a resounding thump upon the brick
floor six feet below, where he lay half-stunned.
Upstairs in the parlor they heard the sound of his fall. With alarm and
wifely solicitude writ large upon her face Mrs. Purdy ran to the head of
the cellar steps.
“Paw,” she called down, “did you break the pitcher?”
From the void below a determined voice answered her back:
“No, I didn’t, but by Judas Priest, I’m goin’ to now!”
§ 208 Making It Unanimous
A few years ago Colonel Hal Corbett, one of my oldest friends, came up
from the South to stay a week with me in New York. Three of us, all old
cronies of his but all living in the North, met him at the train.
At his suggestion we dropped into the café of the Imperial Hotel on
Broadway. Hotels had cafés in those days, and Corbett was thirsty, he
said. We lined up at the bar, facing a genial gentleman in a white
jacket and a white apron.
Now it so happened that at the moment all three of us, for one reason or
another, were riding on the well-known water wagon—a circumstance of
which Corbett was not aware and probably one which he had never dreamed
could be possible.
He turned to me:
“What’s it going to be?” he asked genially.
I said:
“A glass of buttermilk.”
He gave a start of surprise. But, like a true Kentucky gentleman, he did
not voice his emotions. He turned to the second member of the group.
“And what do you take?” he inquired hopefully.
“Oh,” said Number 2, “I don’t want anything except a plain lemonade.”
Corbett’s eyes widened as he waved his arm toward the third man.
“And yours?” he inquired.
“Mine is a ginger ale,” was the answer.
Corbett faced front:
“Mr. Barkeeper,” he said, “I’m going to be in the fashion while I’m here
if it kills me. Give me a quart of blueing.”
§ 209 Advice from Expert Sources
There used to be a ticket seller with the old Yankee Robertson circus
who owned a big green parrot. The parrot’s perch swung from the roof of
the ticket wagon and there the bird would sit just above her owner’s
head.
The ticket man had a line of patter which he constantly chanted as the
patrons surged in front of his wicket twice on each week day of the
season—before the afternoon performance and again before the evening
performance.
“Don’t shove, friends!” he would say. “Don’t crowd! Take your time. Give
everybody a chance!”
The parrot memorized this speech. She even learned to mimic her master’s
exact tone. Repeating his admonition was a favorite part of her
repertoire.
One afternoon when business was over he went away, forgetting to close
the slide on his window. When he returned a little later his pet was
gone. Immediately he organized a search party to look for the truant
bird.
Half a mile distant from the show lot, in a field, he found Poll. She
was reared back on the ground, practically featherless. About her
circled and swirled a great flock of crows, cawing joyously. Every
instant nearly, one of the crows, twisting out of the circle, would dart
down and pluck a souvenir of green plumage from the disheveled alien.
And each time this happened Poor Poll, in a beautiful imitation of her
owner’s voice and accent would shriek out:
“Don’t shove, friends! Don’t crowd! Take your time! Give everybody a
chance!”
§ 210 A Seeker after Hidden Facts
When the New York Central inaugurated its fast service between New York
and Chicago there was a great pother along the main line. Employees of
whatsoever rank were instructed that the paramount consideration was to
get the Twentieth Century Limited through on schedule. If the slightest
mishap occurred to the train all hands were charged to forward prompt
reports to headquarters, giving the complete details.
At a small flag-stop west of Albany, the station-agent was a callow
youth. By enthusiasm and a sense of his responsibilities he made up,
though, for what he lacked in experience. In addition to being the
ticket-seller he also was the despatcher.
One wintry evening just at dusk he caught, passing over the wire, word
that the Twentieth Century Limited was two hours behind time. What had
retarded her he did not learn, but he knew wherein his duty lay.
He lit his lantern, sharpened a pencil, and got out a notebook, then sat
him down to bide his time. Ten minutes before the belated Limited was
due to whiz past he left the station, walked eastward along the tracks a
quarter of a mile and posted himself between the rails.
Soon the headlight hove into sight. In an effort to make up the precious
lost minutes the engineer was driving his locomotive at tremendous
speed. Suddenly far ahead he saw the dancing signal of a lantern. He
gave her the brakes; he gave her the sand. Passengers in the coaches
behind were slammed up against the end bulkheads of their berths. With
sparks flying from her wheels, the snorting mogul stopped not fifty feet
distant from where the youth stood. The engineer and his fireman dropped
down from the cab and ran forward, sputtering questions.
The station-agent stilled them with an authoritative gesture. He put
down his lantern on the right-of-way, braced his pad in the crook of his
elbow, poised his pencil ready to record their answers and said briskly:
“Now then, boys, tell me—what detained you?”
§ 211 The Curfew in Nebraska
Of course, in these days, when no community is so small or so obscure or
so old-fashioned that it lacks service stations and jazz orchestras and
schemes for a proposed Civic Center, this story no longer could be made
to apply in any American town.
As the tale runs, a man who had been born and reared in a remote
Nebraska country-seat moved to New York where he succeeded in business.
Years later a friend from his former home came to see him. Naturally,
talk drifted back to childhood scenes and memories.
“I guess the old town hasn’t changed much, has it, Jim?” asked the New
Yorker.
“Not much,” said Jim. “She’s pretty much the same.”
“I presume they still blow the curfew whistle at nine o’clock every
night just as they started to do shortly before I moved East?”
“Naw, they had to quit that after a few months. It woke everybody up!”
§ 212 The Reward of the Early Riser
In a small New England town, there used to be an Irishman of convivial
habits. He _convived_ in season and out of it. In fact, he was in a fair
way to qualify as the village drunkard.
Late one night—perhaps I should say early one morning—half a dozen
natives were on their homeward way after a social evening at the
groggery. At the foot of the main street they stumbled upon the
recumbent form of the inebriate, whose name was McGuire. Now, they were
what used to be known in the old pre-Volstead days as “pickled.” But he
was absolutely petrified. At sight of their friend peacefully asleep,
thwartwise of the sidewalk, one of the party had an inspiration.
“Here,” he said, “is a beautiful chance to cure old McGuire of boozing.
Let’s carry him out to the cemetery and stick him in an open grave, if
we can find one. Then we’ll hang around and wait until he comes to.
He’ll think he’s been buried alive, and the shock will be a lesson to
him.”
The suggestion met instantaneous approval. The slumberer was picked up
by his arms and legs and borne to the burying-ground. Circumstances and
chance favored the conspirators. In an ancient vault from which the roof
was missing they found an abandoned coffin. Into the empty box they
snuggled their victim and, placing the crumbling lid over him for a
coverlet, they hid themselves behind adjacent tombstones to await the
climax of their plot.
The wait was a long one, but all of them stayed on, allured by the
prospect that patience eventually would be rewarded. At length dawn
showed in the east. Daylight broke; the sun came up and presently it was
six o’clock. Prompt on the hour the whistle of a near-by shoe-factory
cut into the morning calm with a shrill siren whoop.
At this blast Mr. McGuire stirred. He threw up his arms, displacing the
lid, sat up in his narrow form-fitting casket, and blinked in the rosy
light. Then, as he comprehended where he was, a triumphant smile split
his face.
“By cripes!” he said exultantly, “’tis the Resurrection Day and I’m the
first son-of-a-gun up!”
§ 213 A Competition Which Was Open to All
Two gentlemen connected with the cloakings and suitings trade went to
the Catskills on their vacations. Shortly after their arrival they took
a tramp among the hills.
“I wish,” said one, “that I owned that tallest mountain yonder and that
it was all solid gold.”
“That’s a lovely thought,” said the other approvingly. “Say, Ike, if
that mountain was solid gold and you owned it all by yourself would you
give me some of it, huh?”
“Certainly I wouldn’t!” said Ike. “Wish yourself a mountain.”
§ 214 Not the Order of the Bath
In a small city which we will not name, there lived a maiden lady who,
for convenience, shall here be called Miss Henrietta Blank. She was of
an old family and she was prominent in club life. In fact, so constantly
was she engaged by her communal activities that, according to local
rumor, she rarely found time for applying soap and water to her neck and
ears.
On a certain occasion a patriotic organization, of which she was a
member, was holding a session. Miss Blank was not present. The presiding
officer, a lady civically celebrated for her ready wit, was delegated to
choose the members of a special committee.
After deliberation she made this announcement:
“For the members of this committee I shall name Mrs. Major Jones, Mrs.
Dr. Robinson and Miss Henrietta Blank.”
“Oh, Madam Chairman,” put in a member, “I’m sure I do not wish to be
unkind, but this is really a very important matter where decision is
needed and prompt action. Don’t you think you should substitute someone
else for dear Miss Henrietta—she’s so wishy-washy!”
The presiding officer’s retort was instantaneously delivered:
“The person in question may be wishy,” she said, “but the Lord in Heaven
knows she is not washy!”
§ 215 The Embarrassing Broad A
A Chicago man visiting in London was invited to a ball where everybody
except himself talked with an exceedingly broad a, as people will do in
England—and Boston, Mass. The accent was puzzling to his Chicago ears
but he did his best.
He danced with the wife of his host. The lady spoke with an especially
broad accent; also she ran somewhat to flesh. When they had finished the
round of the floor she was panting in a repressed and well-bred way.
“Shall we try another whirl?” inquired the Chicago man.
“Not now,” she said; “I’m darnced out.”
“Oh, no,” said the Chicago man, “not darn stout—just nice and plump,
ma’am.”
§ 216 Tributes to the Late Lamented Ones
Out West a dump car broke its couplings and went on a wild trip down
grade. At a switch it was derailed, turning over on its side and
instantly crushing to death a Mexican laborer.
It fell to the lot of the foreman of the gang to which the victim
belonged to render a report of the tragedy. This foreman, whose name I
believe was Cassidy,—at any rate, it was a good Hibernian name,—got
along fairly well with his literary labors until he came to the final
space in the printed form, opposite the question: _Remarks?_ Mr. Cassidy
studied awhile and then inserted these words:
“He never made none!”
The companion-piece to this has for a setting a stretch of a Southern
line whereon a freight train had killed a cow, the property of a farmer.
Mr. Dugan, the resident section boss, interviewed the owner of the slain
animal and then proceeded to fill out a blank for the subsequent use of
the claim agent.
Painstakingly Mr. Dugan entered references relating to the circumstances
under which the fatality occurred, also the age, color and presumed
value of the lately deceased cow and other particulars, as gleaned from
eye-witnesses and from the bereft farmer. But he was stumped when he
came to the words: “State disposition of the remains?”
He was stumped, but not for long; he set down this:
“She was kind and gentle!”
§ 217 And the Point of Order Was Sustained
Back in 1890 George Clark, of Waco, and James S. Hogg, of Tyler, were
candidates for the Democratic gubernatorial nomination in Texas. At the
convention, Hogg won.
Clark, the defeated aspirant, was not satisfied with the methods used to
bring about his opponent’s nomination. He and some of his followers
bolted the convention and he ran as an independent candidate. In this
emergency, both he and Hogg sought the endorsement of the Republican
organization.
In 1890 the Republican party in Texas was even more of a minority party
than it is to-day. Its leaders mainly were white men, but the rank and
file overwhelmingly was black; so that when the Republican state
convention met at Fort Worth the delegates nearly all were negroes.
The Clark people controlled the preliminary organization. The temporary
chairman called upon the Reverend Sin Killer Griffin to open the
proceedings with prayer. Sin Killer was a famous revivalist hailing from
near the border between Texas and Arkansas. He was fat and black and had
a mighty voice. In thunderous tones he invoked the blessings of the
Almighty upon the assemblage. And just before he concluded, he roared
out these words:
“An’ finally, Oh Lawd, bless thy sarvant, George Clark, an’ mek ’im
gov’ner of de great state of Texas.” Instantly a roar of mingled protest
and approbation arose. The tumult continued for several minutes. Finally
down in the body of the hall a bullvoiced black politician obtained
recognition from the presiding officer.
“Mista’ Cheerman!” he shouted, “I teks de floor to mek a motion: I moves
dat de name of George Clark be oxpunged from dat air prayer an’ dat de
name of de Honor’ble Jeemses Stephens Hogg be substituted therefur.”
The Sin Killer was still upon his feet.
“Mista’ Cheerman,” he proclaimed, “I speaks to a p’int of order.”
“State the point of order.”
“De genelman’s motion is pintedly out of awder fur de reason dat de
prayer in question done went to Heaven more’n five minutes ago!”
§ 218 The Light That Lies in Bankers’ Eyes
This offering has to do with a leading financier of a Middle Western
city—a gentleman renowned for his personal vanity as well as for his
cold-blooded sagacity in financial matters. The gentleman in question
had a glass eye; but, so well did it match its fellow, that it was a
point of pride with the owner that no one, lacking full information on
the subject, could tell at a glance the artificial from the real one.
His name was Oliver. One day, a citizen of the community, who was a
chronic borrower, emerged from Mr. Oliver’s bank after an unsuccessful
effort to negotiate a loan, and on the sidewalk met a friend.
“Say,” he said, “you know a lot of people in this town have never been
able to tell which one of old Oliver’s eyes was his glass eye. Well, I
know. I found out awhile ago when I was in there trying to get him to
let me make a ninety-day note. All the time we were talking I was
watching him and I finally caught onto the secret. It’s the left one.”
“How do you know it’s the left one?” asked his friend.
“Because it was the one that seemed to have a kindly human gleam in it.”
§ 219 A Call for the Prohibited Stuff
A hand-picked group of American bankers went to France to study
financial and economic conditions with a view to pooling a large loan on
some Continental industrial properties. Naturally, the prospective
borrowers exerted themselves to win the favor of the distinguished
visitors.
The hosts labored under the impression, seemingly, that, because America
has in force a Prohibition law, their guests must be exceedingly
thirsty. Accordingly, in whatsoever part of the republic the party
stopped, the pick of the vintages of that particular district was
served. There was wine for breakfast, wine for luncheon, wine for
dinner, wine for late supper and unlimited wines between meals.
Now, one of the group from the States was a native son of the far West.
Through his life he had been an imbiber but an exceedingly moderate one.
Howsomever, if his gorge rose and his palate grew jaded because of the
irrigating facilities constantly provided by his hospitable French
friends, he gave no sign, for he was a polite man.
At length the expedition arrived in Paris, after a tour of what seemed
to the Westerner all the vineyards in France. On the day of his arrival
he met an old acquaintance now residing abroad.
“Say,” declared his friend, “this reunion calls for a celebration.
You’ve got to dine with me to-night at the Golden Snail. I’ll order some
food there that’ll make your eyes bug out.
“As a further inducement, I might add that the Golden Snail restaurant
has as good a cellar as there is in this town. You can have whatever you
want to drink and as much of it as you can hold. Now, there’s a
Burgundy——”
“Hold on!” said the Californian. “Do you mean that? Can I really have
what I crave most in this world? It may be hard to find in this town—I
warn you of that.”
“You name the brand and I’ll engage to find it.”
“All right, then. You look up a good reliable local bootlegger and see
if you can get me about two quarts of drinking water.”
§ 220 The Perfect Introduction
In his second race for president W. J. Bryan was beaten. In fact, it
will be recalled that in all his races for the presidency Mr. Bryan has
been beaten. But in the 1900 campaign, while Democracy lost nationally,
certain local triumphs were here and there achieved. A city in northern
New York which usually went Republican by an overwhelming majority
reversed itself and elected for Mayor a German flour miller.
It was felt that the victory deserved suitable celebration. The local
Democrats organized a monster rally. The Great Commoner accepted an
invitation to attend the jubilation and deliver the principal address.
It was deemed fitting that the newly chosen Mayor should sponsor the
distinguished guest. Now, the Mayor was a good citizen and his flour was
above reproach, but he was no orator; indeed, until this occasion came,
he had never in all his life formally addressed a public assemblage.
The great evening came and a great host gathered. Side by side on the
platform sat Bryan and the Mayor-elect. The latter’s secretary had
written a suitable speech for His Honor’s use, and His Honor laboriously
had memorized it. But as he waited the cue to launch himself in his new
rôle it was plain to be seen that the gentleman was in a distressful
state. He was deathly pale. Perspiration rolled down his face in
streams, wilting his collar; and when finally he stood up, all present
could tell from his expression that the last shreds and remnants of the
carefully rehearsed oration treacherously had departed from him.
He choked and gulped. Then, seizing inspiration out of sheer desperation
he made what Mr. Bryan subsequently declared to be the most complete
speech of introduction that Bryan in all his long career on the stump
and the rostrum ever has heard or ever expects to hear.
“Ladies und chentelmen,” said the Mayor, “I haf been asked to bresent to
you Mister Vilhelm Chenninks Bryne, who vill speak. I haf now done so!
He vill now do so!”
§ 221 An Answer Right Off the Ice
Just before he started on that famous Arctic expedition of his which was
crowned with success, the late Admiral Robert E. Peary boarded a train
at New Orleans. He settled down in the smoking compartment to enjoy a
cigar. Presently there entered a rather self-sufficient young man who
took the seat adjoining and engaged Peary in conversation.
“Well,” he began, “I’m off on a long hard trip.”
“Yes? Is that so?” said Peary, politely.
“Yep. I go clear through to Louisville. Traveling far yourself?”
“Yes, a fair distance,” said Peary.
“Well, I’m bound clear through to Louisville, as I was saying. Pretty
tiresome trip, too—all the way through from New Orleans to Louisville.”
“Probably so,” agreed Peary.
“By the way,” said the young chap, “you didn’t tell me where you were
going?”
“No,” said Peary, “that’s a fact, I didn’t.”
“Well, I don’t suppose you’re as used to traveling as I am,” said the
young fellow. “Whereabouts are you headed for, anyhow?”
“Me?” said Peary. “Oh, I’m only going to the North Pole.”
§ 222 Where He Could Go for Thirty Cents
“About three months ago,” so a friend of mine said, “fourteen of us were
waiting in a line at the Grand Central Station to purchase fares on
outgoing trains. Some among us had but a few minutes to spare. All of
us, naturally, were in a hurry to transact the business and get
ourselves and our luggage aboard the cars.
“All of a sudden an inebriated person burst like an alcoholic bombshell
among us. Ignoring the rules of procedure, he shoved his way to the
front, elbowing and jostling those already in line, until he reached the
ticket window. Upon the shelf he slammed down a quarter and a nickle and
in a loud voice stated his wishes.
“‘Gimme a ticket for San Francisco,’ he said.
“‘You can’t go to San Francisco for thirty cents,’ stated the
ticket-seller.
“‘Well, where can I go, then?’ he asked.
“And with one voice, all fourteen of us told him.”
§ 223 Overlooking No Side Bets
Jimmie and Arthur, aged respectively six and ten, were spending a week
with their grandmother, who was wealthy and generous, while their
parents were away from home on a visit.
A few nights before Christmas the youngsters were getting ready for bed.
Their grandmother was in an adjoining room waiting for them to retire so
she might turn out the light.
Arthur said his prayers and crawled under the covers. Jimmie, still on
his knees, proceeded to petition Heaven for an extensive line of
Christmas presents. As he progressed, his voice rose louder and louder.
Also he began to repeat himself. He spoke somewhat after this fashion:
“And, Oh, Lord, please send me a soldier-suit, and a tool-chest—a big
tool-chest, Lord—and a watch and a drum and a horn and a toy wagon
and——”
Annoyed, the older brother raised up and interrupted:
“Say,” he demanded, “you needn’t be praying so loud; the Lord ain’t
deaf.”
“I know he ain’t,” said Jimmie, “but Grandma is.”
§ 224 The Lick That Won the Victory
There was a Scotchman who had a wife and she had strong views upon the
subject of strong drink. One night he came home late and badly
befuddled. He managed to get inside the house without awakening her,
but, in order to reach his own sleeping quarters, it was necessary for
him to pass through her room.