knees and started to crawl across the intervening floor-space. But when
he was just alongside of her bed he chanced to brush against the
coverlids and the lady was aroused.
In the darkness, mistaking the dark bulk that was in arm’s reach of her
for the family house-dog, she said, “Come, Jocko, Jocko!”
“Whereupon, at that verra moment,” said the husband next day when
recounting the event to a crony, “I had the rare intelligence to lick
her hand.”
§ 225 No Closed Season on Fanchon
When a Frenchman goes hunting he takes the sport rather seriously. In
certain districts there isn’t much in the way of game for him to kill.
So the native makes up for this by wearing a most elaborate and fanciful
costume.
An American, visiting in the château country, was invited by his host to
go for a rabbit hunt. With a borrowed gun in his hands and wearing his
oldest clothes, the American went. Alongside him, as they trudged
through the cover, walked the Frenchman, gorgeous in gaiters and belted
jacket, with a pheasant’s feather curling from the brim of his hat.
Presently a bunny darted from a thicket. The American raised his
fowling-piece.
“Don’t shoot!” cried out his host. “That’s Armand, a great pet of ours.
We never shoot at Armand.”
A little further along a second rabbit hopped into view. Again the
visitor made ready to fire and again his host detained him with:
“That one is Pierre. We never shoot at Pierre, either.”
Almost immediately, a third rabbit, a long rangy animal, came bouncing
into sight.
“Shoot! Shoot!” cried the Frenchman, throwing his own gun to his
shoulder. “That is Fanchon. We always shoot at Fanchon.”
§ 226 Down and Out for the Count
Dr. Jones, a young physician with a growing practice, had been going
night and day for the better part of a week. If it wasn’t the stork busy
in one part of the town it was the malaria microbe busy in another. He
kept up his round of visits until exhausted nature demanded a respite.
He staggered into his house in the evening completely fagged out, and
tumbled into bed, telling his wife that, excepting upon a matter of life
and death, he was not to be called.
At two o’clock in the morning she came to his bedside, shook him,
pinched him, slapped him in the face with a wet washrag and finally
roused him to a state of semi-consciousness. Mrs. Smith, physically the
biggest woman in town, had been seized with a heart attack at her home
on the next street and he was wanted immediately.
He struggled to his feet, threw a few garments on over his
night-clothes, caught up his emergency kit and in a sort of walking
trance made his way to the Smith residence. A frightened member of the
household led him to the sick-room. There the patient lay, a great
mountain of flesh, her features congested and her breath coming in
laborious panting. Dr. Jones took her pulse and her temperature and
examined her eyes, her lips and her tongue. Then he perched himself in a
half recumbent attitude upon the side of the bed, put his right ear
against her left breast and said:
“Madam, will you kindly start counting very slowly? Now then,
one-two-three and so on. Go on until I tell you to stop.”
Obediently the sufferer began.
The next thing Dr. Jones knew was when a shaft of bright morning
sunlight fell upon his face, and, drowsily, he heard a faint, weak
female voice saying:
“Nine-thousand-seven-hundred and one, nine-thousand-seven-hundred and
two——!”
§ 227 The Plan of the Shut-In
A gentleman who resided in the heart of the Corn Belt paid his first
visit to Chicago. With him came two friends. The three of them occupied
one large room in a Loop hotel.
On the second day of sight-seeing the Corn Belter’s feet gave out on
him. Leaving his companions to finish out the evening at a theatre, he
returned to the hotel and went to bed. When the other two arrived,
shortly before midnight, they found the door of their room locked. They
pounded on the panels until the sleeper awakened.
“Let us in, Zach!” said one of them impatiently.
“Let yourself in,” he answered. “The key is outside there in the hall.”
“How does it come to be outside when you’re inside?” demanded one of
them.
“Oh, after I got undressed I throwed it over the transom so’s you
fellers could git in without no trouble. It must be layin’ on the
floor.”
They found the key and admitted themselves. As they entered one of them
asked:
“Say, Zach, what would you have done, locked in here this way, if
there’d been a fire?”
“Why, I wouldn’t have went.”
§ 228 The Quick-Thinking Referee
In the ninth inning the score was a tie, with two men on bases for the
home team and one out. Naturally the excitement was intense—for this
game was for blood money and the Afro-American championship of the
county. The umpire, a small, dapper man, a barber by profession and
naturally mild-mannered, was filled with regret that the opportunity for
prominence had lured him into taking this job. He had a sincere
conviction that, no matter what decision he made next, somebody would
feel aggrieved.
The manager of the side at bat sent in, as an emergency hitter, a large,
broad-shouldered person with a reputation for being very touchy on
matters affecting his personal interests or his personal honor. As this
individual moistened the bat after the approved manner he cast a
glowering look upon the umpire who crouched back of the catcher.
“Jedge ’em an’ jedge ’em right, lil’ nigger,” he growled, “else six of
yore friends ’ll be wearin’ w’ite gloves ’bout dis time day after
to-mor’.”
The pitcher wound up and sped the ball across.
“Strike one!” shrilled the umpire.
As the batter turned his head to scowl at the referee the pitcher shot
another across—a perfect one, waist high and right over the center of
the plate. _Plunk!_ it landed in the catcher’s mitt.
“Two!” chanted the umpire.
The big darky dropped his bat. He fixed both brawny hands on the throat
of the umpire and squeezed hard. There was murder in his eyes.
“Two whut?” he demanded as though he could not believe his outraged
ears.
“Too high fur a strike!” quavered the umpire with magnificent presence
of mind. “Yas, suh, entirely too high fur a strike.”
§ 229 George, the Forbearing
When Millie came on a Saturday night to bring the week’s washing her
comely, pleasant brown face was disfigured by a swollen black contusion
which began at her left eye and extended downward until it covered her
cheek.
“Oh, Millie,” said her distressed employer, “what a dreadful bruise! How
did it ever happen?”
“A nigger man hit me,” explained Millie simply.
“Oh, that’s terrible!” exclaimed the white lady. “I hope—I hope it
wasn’t your husband that struck you?”
“No’m, Mizz Harrison, ’twuzn’t him. Gawge, he don’t never hit me. He
treats me mo’ lak a friend than a husband.”
§ 230 An Old One and Its Younger Half-Brother
Everybody does know—or should know—the ancient wheeze of the theatre
manager who posted a sign in his house: “Don’t Smoke—Remember the
Iroquois Fire,” and of the wag who wrote under this the added warning:
“Don’t Spit—Remember the Johnstown Flood.” A half-brother to this yarn,
of somewhat newer vintage, however, comes from a regular army post.
A newly enlisted private, still unskilled in military etiquette, flung a
lighted cigarette end on the parade ground. The first sergeant of his
company saw the crime committed. He made the offender pick up the
smouldering butt and then stand at attention while being scolded at
length.
When mess call sounded, the new hand was tardy for his meal.
“What made you late?” demanded the sergeant.
“Oh,” said the private, “I walked down to the river to spit.”
§ 231 Corroboration from On High
Little Florence was inclined to over-exaggeration; also she was overly
timid in some regards. Her mother was striving to rid her of both
faults.
One afternoon Florence was playing in the front yard. A fox-terrier,
belonging to a neighbor, darted at her playfully. With a shriek of
fright Florence fled indoors and never stopped running until she had
reached the room upstairs where her mother sat.
“What’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Marshall.
“Mamma,” said Florence, “a great big bear came through a crack in the
fence and chased me in the house; he almost caught me, too.”
“Florence,” said the mother sternly, “aren’t you ashamed of yourself to
be so frightened of Mr. James’ little pet dog and then to tell a
deliberate falsehood? I was sitting here at the window and I saw the
whole thing. Now I’m going to punish you. You go in your own room and
get down on your knees and confess to the Lord that you’re a naughty
little girl and that you told your mother a deliberate lie. I want you
to stay there, too, until you feel sure that you have obtained
forgiveness for your sin.”
The sunshine outside was alluring and there was a mud-pie in a half
finished state in the yard. Florence reluctantly withdrew herself to the
privacy of the nursery. In a surprisingly short time she opened the door
and poked her head out.
“It’s all right, mother,” she said. “I told God all about it and He says
He didn’t blame me a bit. He thought it was a bear, too, when He first
saw it.”
§ 232 Suffering from a Relapse
In those wicked days before the Eighteenth Amendment and the Volstead
Act put an end to all liquor-drinking in America there were two actors
in New York who sometimes carried their social inclinations to an
extreme. To put the matter brutally, they occasionally had attacks of
what were known in the vernacular as the “willies.” While recuperating
from these seizures they customarily patronized the same sanitarium. Let
us, for convenience’s sake, call them A. and B.
It befell one day that A. felt himself to be acutely in need of a period
devoted to rest and restoration. As he approached the door of the
sanitarium he met his friend, B., rather white and drawn-looking, just
coming out.
“’Lo, old man,” said A. somewhat thickly, and with difficulty repressing
a hiccup, “whaz mazzer wiz you? Same ol’ complaint, eh?”
“I’m all right now,” said B., “but I’ve had an awful time. Never again
for me—I’m through. You may think I’m a little bit shaky and nervous
now, but you should have seen me last week before I began to get over
it. Why, man, for ten days, little red lizards with green eyes and
purple tails were crawling all over me.”
With his horrified eyes starting from his head, A. aimed a tremulous
forefinger at B.’s coat collar.
“My God, man!” he cried. “You—you ain’t well yet! There’s one of ’em on
you now!”
§ 233 One Old Enough to Merit Respect
I venture to present here and now the famous and deservedly immortal
tale of the Educated Flea. At a theatrical hotel a vaudeville performer
was stopping. He was the owner of a troupe of performing fleas. One
evening, at dinner, he was telling his fellow-lodgers how he went about
the job of training his tiny pets. To demonstrate, he cleared a space on
the table, took one of his fleas, an especially intelligent and gifted
insect, out of a small box, and proceeded to put the lively little chap
through his paces.
“Hop East!” he commanded, and the flea hopped.
“Hop West!” The flea obeyed.
“Forward!” The flea marched.
“Face about!” And the flea whirled into the air to execute the command.
But one of the lady boarders, in the intensity of her interest, was
bending close and the flea landed in her hair and was instantly lost
from view.
Confusion followed. After much searching the lady produced the truant
and the performance was resumed.
“Hop East!” the man commanded, but the flea refused to move.
“Hop West, then!” The flea remained stationary. Surprised, the owner
leaned over and scrutinized the performer more closely. Then, sitting up
with a start and staring at the lady, he said in a stern, accusing
voice:
“Madam, there has been a mistake—this is not my flea!”
§ 234 The Retort Courteous
There was once a boy who grew up in the village of Weeping Willow,
Nebraska, with the persisting idea in his head that railroading offered
the best career for an ambitious and energetic youth. When he was
eighteen his opportunity came. He got a job as helper to the local
station agent at forty dollars a month.
Years passed. The youth was a youth no longer; he was nearing his
fortieth birthday but still he served the railroad at Weeping Willow. So
well and so truly had he served it that, step by step, the management
had widened the scope of his duties until now he was the entire resident
staff of the great transcontinental system which passed through Weeping
Willow. He was station agent, dispatcher, ticket-seller, train-caller,
express-agent, baggage-handler, janitor and porter, all rolled into one.
As a further mark of the esteem in which it held him and of the
confidence it reposed in him, the railroad had never seen fit to reduce
his wages by a single penny. He still drew down his forty a month just
as regularly as pay-day came around.
Yet there were people in Weeping Willow who could not understand why it
was that, holding so many responsible positions and receiving so steady
an income, the man sometimes should show signs of broodiness and
irritation verging upon outright melancholy. But such was the case. At
times his peevishness was most marked.
On a broiling July day he sat in his small cubby-hole of an inner
sanctum manipulating the key of his telegraph instrument. It was one of
his gloomy days. As he sat with the perspiration coursing down his nose
and his black calico sleeve protectors growing damp and soggy upon his
wrists, the local Baptist minister, whom he disliked excessively, poked
his head through the ticket window and in his best pulpit voice said:
“Brother, what tidings of the noon train?”
Without lifting his head the dripping misanthrope made answer:
“Not a gol darn tiding!” he said.
§ 235 The Proper Point of View
There was an Englishman who made a tour of this continent. The tourist
was a fit type of a certain group of Englishmen who think that nothing
is worth while unless it is to be found on British soil, or at least
under the protecting shadow of the Union Jack.
When he got back to New York after his swing across the land, an
American asked him what he thought of our country.
“Oh, on the whole, rather tiresome,” said the visitor.
“Didn’t you see anything out of the ordinary?” asked the American.
“Cahn’t say that I was especially impressed.”
“Well,” said the American, “you astonish me. We rather thought there
were a few interesting sights over here. Did you, by any chance, see
Niagara Falls?”
“Oh, yes. Spent half a day there.”
“Well, isn’t Niagara Falls worth looking at?”
“From the Canadian side—yes!”
§ 236 Between the Cloves and the Hiccough
Before prohibition the bar in the Lambs’ Club—now given over to soft
drinks, confectionery and vain regrets—was a famous place. I think more
quick humor originated there than on any other spot of similar size on
this hemisphere.
I remember one night when a distinguished comedian in a groggy condition
was clinging to the rail. Only a few days before, he had announced that
he was off the stuff forever. A fellow-actor entered.
“Why, Jack,” he said, “I thought you’d taken the pledge and now here you
are with a bun on. How did you get it?”
The inebriated one raised his head, revealing a happy, dreamy smile.
“Drink by drink,” he murmured softly. “Drink by drink.”
But, to my way of thinking, the honors for repartee at the Lambs’ bar
should go to Hap Ward, of the old team of Ward and Vokes. Hap, one day,
was acting as host to a group of thirsty Lambs. A newcomer joined the
party, bringing with him as a guest a gentleman of a serious aspect.
When introductions had been completed, Hap addressed the stranger.
“What will you have, sir?”
The visitor drew himself up.
“I have never indulged in the habit of imbibing strong drink in my
life,” he said.
“My friend,” said Ward, “I can teach you in three easy lessons.”
§ 237 War Upon the Reptiles
Messrs. Cohen and Shapinsky retired from the white-goods business to
devote themselves to lives of leisure. They took up golf.
Mr. Shapinsky sliced his drive and the ball, flying off at a tangent,
descended in a bunker. Over the parapet of the bunker there came to the
ears of the waiting Mr. Cohen muffled sounds as Mr. Shapinsky with his
niblick dug into the sand. Finally he emerged.
“Vell,” he said, “not so bad, huh? It only took me three strokes to get
out of that pit.”
“Vat do you mean three strokes?” demanded Mr. Cohen. “Myself I stood
here und counted und I distinctly heard you hit the ground mit your iron
nine times.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Shapinsky, “I vas killing a snake.”
§ 238 One of Those Nature-Faking Yarns
A gentleman of social habits came home one evening to be confronted by a
wife bristling with indignation. No sooner had he opened the front door
of the apartment than she fired a blast at him.
“Why, my dear,” he said, “what’s the matter?”
“Matter enough,” she answered. “I thought you told me that you were
going down to Belmont track yesterday afternoon with a party of men!”
“That’s right,” he said, “what of it?”
“Then perhaps you can explain this,” she said. “This morning I sent the
suit you wore yesterday out to be pressed. But first I went through the
pockets and in one of the pockets I found a card and on the card was
written in your handwriting: ‘Evelyn, 2161 Fitzroy.’ Now then, what does
this mean?”
Without a moment’s hesitation the husband answered.
“My dear child,” he said soothingly, “the thing is simplicity itself.
‘Evelyn’ is the name of a racehorse—a friend gave me a tip on her. And
‘2161’ were the odds on her for first and second place. ‘Fitzroy’ is the
name of the jockey. Surely you’ve heard of Fitzroy, the famous jockey?
Now then, aren’t you ashamed that you suspected me?”
The lady admitted that she might have been a bit hasty in jumping at
conclusions. She dried her tears and peace descended upon the household.
On the following evening the husband entered the flat at peace with the
world and whistling a merry catch. An ominous silence greeted him.
“Hello, dearie!” he hailed. “How do you feel?”
“I’m quite all right, considering,” answered his wife frigidly.
“Any mail here for me?”
“You might look and see.”
“Anybody drop in to-day?”
“No.”
“Has anything happened at all?”
“Well,” she said, “about three o’clock this afternoon your racehorse
called up and asked for you.”
§ 239 The Unaccommodating Kansan
Our country was enjoying one of its regular Japanese war-scares. I
forget, now, whether it was the fifteenth or the sixteenth Japanese
war-scare. A Congressman, representing a Kansas district, felt that a
crisis impended.
On the floor of the House he made a speech pointing out the need of
preparedness, and having done this, he took the train for his district
with a view to sounding out his constituents upon the advisability and
wisdom of the measures he so strenuously had advocated.
However, upon his arrival home, he was pained to note that the voters
seemed strangely apathetic as regarded the prospect of an invasion by
the Mikado’s armed forces. By a personal campaign the Representative
undertook to arouse his people to the seriousness of the situation.
The first prospective convert he encountered was an elderly farmer, who
listened as the statesman expounded his views and then slowly shook his
head, in seeming dissent.
“But look here, John,” protested the Congressman. “If this war comes it
may be necessary to call every able-bodied man in America to arms. You
even may be called. Wouldn’t you fight the Japs if they set foot on the
soil of this country?”
“I reckon I wouldn’t do that,” said the farmer. “From what I kin
understand, most every Japanese is what they call a fatalist.”
“What has their fatalism got to do with your duty as a patriot?” asked
the Congressman.
“Well,” said the honest Kansan, “it looks to me like I couldn’t derive
much nourishment from fightin’ with a lot of fellows that think you’re
doing ’em a personal favor every time you kill one of ’em.”
§ 240 The Happy Return
Egbert, aged seven, went to the Sunday-school picnic. For days he had
been looking forward to the event; but, as in the case of so many other
things, realization hardly measured up to anticipation.
In the wagon on the way to the picnic ground, Egbert had a personal
difference with a fellow-passenger. He came out of the altercation
second best. Shortly after his arrival at the scene of festivities he
sat down on a bumble-bee, with the result that he was painfully stung.
Then he fell in the creek. A little girl took offence at a perfectly
innocent pleasantry on his part and smacked his face and pulled his
hair. He got badly sunburnt.
Late in the afternoon Egbert, in a disheveled state, reached home. As he
limped up the front steps his father, glancing up from the evening
paper, said:
“Well, son, what sort of a time did you have at the picnic?”
“Papa,” said Egbert, “I’m so glad I’m back I’m glad I went.”
§ 241 Bringing in the Sheaves
This story may or may not be true, but in view of the drops in the
currencies of certain European countries which suffered heavily in the
Great War, I am inclined to think it at least has a plausible sound to
it.
It is said that a Swiss hotel-keeper made an announcement which was
calculated to bring him the patronage of refugee notables from other
lands. He gave it out that at current rates of exchange, he would accept
money of any Continental nation in settlement of accounts. As a
consequence, his establishment was at once filled up with distinguished
exiles.
An Austrian asked for his bill. He glanced at the figures and then
heaved a heavy suitcase upon the desk of the proprietor.
“You will find enough money in this bag to pay you,” he said.
Next to come was a German nobleman. Upon learning the amount of his
indebtedness he produced a yellow slip and put it into the hand of the
Swiss.
“This,” he said, “is the bill of lading for a carload of marks which
arrived yesterday, consigned to me. The car is now at the station. Go
there and get as many bales as you need.”
The third patron was a Russian prince. After a glance at his bill he
drew from an inner pocket a flat thin heavy package which gave off a
metallic sound as he deposited it upon the desk-top.
“What’s this?” asked the hotel-keeper.
“These,” said the Russian, “are the engraver’s plates. Kindly take them
and print as many million-ruble notes as may be required.”
§ 242 Regarding the Brooklyn Boys
It would seem that a person named George customarily patronized a
certain bar wherein gathered nightly a group of men whose highest
ambition was to be on their feet when all the others were under the
table, and whose proudest boast was that they had never been known to
“pass out of the picture.” To these ambitions George subscribed.
One night they missed George. Nor did he come the next evening, nor the
next, nor the next. It was a month before he reappeared; and then he was
so swathed in bandages, so painfully hopping on crutches, that they
swarmed around him with excited questionings.
“How did I get this way?” said George. “Well, I’ll tell you. Y’ remember
that las’ night I was here? Drinkin’ pretty heavy that night, but you
know how it is with me. . . . When I left, the ol’ bean was as clear as
a bell. Actually, I might just as well not a’ had anything. Well,
somehow I knew the Brooklyn Boys were going to show up that night: I
sort of felt it. And when I turned out the light an’ hopped into the ol’
bed, sure enough there was two of them—one on each corner, down by my
feet.”
“The Brooklyn Boys?” somebody queried.
“Yeh, sure,” said George. “You know ’em, don’t you? Little men about so
high”—with his hands he indicated a span of four or five inches—“in
bright yellow shirts.
“Well, as I said, there they were, two of ’em. I laid still for awhile,
pretendin’ I was asleep, an’ watched ’em lookin’ at me and then at each
other, and noddin’ their heads an’ sayin’: ‘That’s him. That’s the guy.’
Then all of a sudden I made a spring at them. But they got away . . .
one hopped over the transom and one oozed out through the keyhole.
“‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘that settles ’em for to-night.’ An’ I got
back in bed.
“D’ye know, I hadn’t been there a minute when I looked around and saw,
there in the middle of the floor, seven of those Brooklyn Boys, all
lookin’ up at me and noddin’ among themselves and sayin’: ‘That’s the
guy there—that’s him.’
“Well, I jumped out of bed like a flash but they were too quick for me.
They all scooted—under the door, over the door, through the keyhole an’
everywheres.