got back in bed when I heard a sound and I looked around and there was
_sixty_ Brooklyn Boys! I knew they was up to something because they’d
look up at me and then nod among themselves and whisper: ‘That’s him,
all right. Uh-huh, that’s him.’
“All this time, y’understand, the ol’ head was clear as a bell. I knew
perfectly well what I was doing.
“So I jumped right at them—because that’s the best way to get rid of
the Brooklyn Boys, y’know. But they all got away, every single one, and
I got back in bed again, thinkin’ I was safe now for sure. Well, d’ye
know what?”
“What?” asked somebody.
“Why, I hadn’t but barely got back in bed when I looked down and there
on the floor was _thirty-five thousand_ Brooklyn Boys! And this time
each one had a little musket over his shoulder. Well, the leader he
lines them all up and waved his sword up toward me in the bed and
yelled: ‘That’s him, boys! That’s the guy, up there!’
“Then he yelled: ‘Ready!’ . . .
“Then he yelled: ‘Aim!’ . . .
“Well, now, as I said, all this time the ol’ bean was workin’
beautifully. I saw just what they was up to and before that Brooklyn Boy
that had the sword could yell, ‘Fire!’ I’d jumped clean out of bed and
through the window.”
George paused, and wetted his throat with an appropriate liquid.
“Of course,” he added, “my room is on the third floor an’ I got sort o’
banged up—as you fellas notice. But just think what might have happened
if I’d been drunk and couldn’t a’ made that jump in time!”
§ 243 When O. Henry Met the Poet Scout
Bob Davis of _Munsey’s Magazine_, who has a mania for bringing
celebrities together just to see how they react on each other, was
strolling along Broadway with O. Henry in the latter hours of the
nineteenth century, when Captain Jack Crawford, the poet scout, his hair
waving in the wind, came sailing across Madison Square. Davis introduced
the pair and dragged them off to lunch.
Captain Jack, like most poets, having memorized all his own verse, never
let a chance go by to hold the willing or unwilling listener spellbound.
He opened up on the Bagdad Scribe before the oysters arrived. He spilled
frontier poetry all over the premises, shook his hair out in a burst of
blank verse, wedded the Pecos River to the Rocky Mountains, swept
through the Yellowstone, tramped the plains, shot Indians, broke horses
and piled the rhythmic dust of pioneer days all over O. Henry.
Captain Jack did all the talking and all the reciting that was done at
that luncheon, which lasted two hours. About 3.30 P. M. the party broke
up and O. Henry staggered out into the fresh air waving Davis and
Crawford a mute farewell.
In the morrow’s mail Bob received the following note:
“My dear Colonel Davis:
“How is your friend Captain Crack Jawford, the go it spout?
“O. Henry.”
§ 244 Our Institutions Approved
A candidate for citizenship came to a naturalization bureau in New York
to take out his first papers. The applicant was a Russian who spoke
badly broken English. With him was a friend and sponsor from the East
Side.
Under examination the candidate betrayed a tremendous lack of knowledge
of national history and institutions and public men. Finally the
examiner turned to the alien’s companion:
“Here,” he said testily, “this man’s ignorance is appalling. Take him
away and explain something to him about the Constitution and the
government of the United States. Don’t bring him back until he is better
qualified.”
The East Sider led his crestfallen fellow-countryman away. Within an
hour they both returned.
“Here,” said the Examiner, “what brings you here again?”
“Everything is all right,” stated the East Sider. “I took my friend out
and read to him out of the Constitution, and he says he likes it
first-rate.”
§ 245 The Annoyed Mr. Goldstein
A gentleman named Goldstein graduated out of the buttonhole-making line
into practical politics. He gave his allegiance to the Republican party.
That year the Republicans carried New York state. They also carried Mr.
Goldstein’s election district which was an even more notable victory
inasmuch as it was in a heavily Democratic section. At that time
Chauncey Depew was U. S. Senator from New York; also head of the New
York Central Railroad and likewise Republican state chairman.
Bright and early on the morning after election day Mr. Goldstein was at
the outer doors of Mr. Depew’s offices in the old Grand Central terminal
building. He sent word in that Mr. Goldstein, the politicianer, desired
to see the head of the line.
Being admitted, he directed Mr. Depew’s attention to the result of the
voting in his neighborhood and claimed credit for the showing. Mr. Depew
agreed with him that he had done well and that his labors in behalf of
the party entitled him to recognition and reward. He desired to know how
he personally or the G.O.P. might serve his friend.
At this Mr. Goldstein confessed to an ambition. He straightway desired,
he said, to become a dispatcher for the railroad.
Depew directed his caller’s attention to the fact that a dispatcher,
among other essential qualifications, must have more or less knowledge
of telegraphy. It then developed, that Mr. Goldstein thought a
dispatcher was one of those functionaries in blue uniform who, through
megaphones, called incoming and outgoing trains in the station.
Behold, then, Mr. Goldstein on a night, one week later, arrayed, in blue
and brass, proudly pacing the main waiting-room, a megaphone under his
arm and conscious dignity, conscious power and conscious pomp in his
manner. Presently his chance comes. He lifts his voice and this
statement comes from him:
“Say, efferbody, listen. It gifs me the outmost bleasure to announce
that a lofely train, mit cushioned seats und a conductor und ef’rything
pleasant—say, you’d like that train—is now aboud leafing on track
Number Fife for Albany, Uticcer, Ro-chester, Syracuse, Buffaler und
points on the Vest. Who would like to go in a nice train for some points
on the Vest?”
Plainly pained at the failure of the populace to leap forward and avail
itself of this opportunity he is about to repeat the announcement when
he feels a tug at his coat tail. He turns impatiently to find a person
of lowly aspect, who is burdened with hand baggage.
“Vell,” he demands, “vot is idt?”
“When does the last train go to Cleveland?” inquires the stranger.
Into Mr. Goldstein’s tones comes pity for such ignorance.
“Ven, on the Noo Yawk Central, does the last train go for Cleveland?” he
repeats as though he scarcely can believe his ears. “Mine friendt, you
should live so long!”
§ 246 Darkness Before the Dawn
A barn-storming troupe, specializing in Shakespearean repertoire, was
fighting its difficult way through the middle west. For a month salaries
had not been paid. One constable and two hotel-keepers were now
traveling with the company, hoping to collect their claims.
On Tuesday morning of a certain week the leading man approached the
manager.
“Let me have half a dollar, will you?” he said.
The manager gave him a hurt look.
“Say, what’s the matter with this gang, anyhow?” he demanded; “always
wanting money. What do you think I am—a National bank, or something?
It’s only yesterday that the heavy man kept nagging after me for two
dollars. Said he wanted to get his laundry out. What does he need with
laundry? Am I bothering about my laundry? No. Here I am working like a
tiger to dig up railroad fares for you people and square up
hotel-keepers and keep this show moving across the country until we run
into some good territory. And now you come yelling for dough. What do
you want with a half dollar, anyhow?”
“I’ll tell you what I need with it,” said the leading man. “You
announced ‘Romeo and Juliet’ for the bill to-night, didn’t you?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Well, you’re expecting me to play Romeo, ain’t you?”
“Sure I am.”
“Well, how in thunder do you figure I’m going to play Romeo with a three
days’ beard? I’ve got to have a shave—so Romeo won’t come on with a
quarter of an inch of black whiskers on his face.”
The manager considered the thick dark stubble on his star’s chops and
saw the force of the argument. Slowly, he rammed a reluctant hand into
his pocket, then, as a smile of relief broke over his face, brought it
out empty.
“Tell you what we’ll do,” he said briskly, “we’ll change the bill to
‘Othello’!”
§ 247 A Scandal in the Family
A young Irishman whose family was scattered pretty well over the
English-speaking portions of the globe emigrated to America. Soon after
his arrival in New York he paid a visit to the Bronx Zoo. He halted in
front of a cage containing one of the largest kangaroos in captivity.
After watching the curious creature for some time in an awed silence, he
hailed a keeper.
“What’s that thing?” he asked.
“That,” said the keeper in his best professional manner, “is a
marsupial, a mammal that carries its young in a pouch on its breast,
lives on roots and herbs, can jump twenty feet at one leap, is able to
knock a human being down with a kick from either hind leg, and is a
native of Australia.”
“For the love of Hiven!” cried the Irishman, bursting into tears. “Me
sisther’s married to wan of thim!”
§ 248 Aiding the Sheriff’s Vision
The late Charlie Case, for many years a headliner in vaudeville, was, I
think, one of the funniest men and certainly one of the most original
that the American stage has produced. He used to come sidling out of the
wings in a diffident, apologetic sort of way and while twisting a string
in and out of his fingers, tell side-splitting stories of what a
mythical father of his had been saying and doing. The one I loved best
had to do with Father’s famous lapse from sobriety. As nearly as I
recall Case’s own rendition it ran as follows:
“Father came mighty near getting into some serious trouble here the
other day. A lot of folks wanted to have him arrested for obtaining
money under false pretences; but he got out of it all right.
“Here’s the way the thing happened: A fellow up in the mountains made
some moonshine whiskey and he gave Father a quart of it. So Father took
three drinks of it and then, he went down town and rented a vacant store
and began charging people ten cents apiece to come in and see the
animals and the snakes. Right away they raised a row. Father could see
the snakes and animals all right but they couldn’t see anything but just
an empty store.
“So some of them got mad and they went away and found the sheriff and
swore out a warrant and told the sheriff that they wanted to have Father
locked up in jail until he’d given them their money back. The sheriff
put on his badge and came around to arrest Father.
“But Father gave the sheriff one drink out of the bottle and sold him a
half-interest in the show for three hundred dollars.”
§ 249 The Affair in Half Moon Street
Ever since I first heard it—and that must be fully ten years ago now—I
have treasured the story of the gentleman, living at Number 5 Half Moon
Street, who inserted the advertisement in the Agony Column of the London
_Times_.
The advertisement stated, in effect, that a person of scientific
attainments, living at Number 5 Half Moon Street, was preparing to go on
a journey of exploration into Equatorial Africa, and desired, as a paid
companion, a young man who was a good rifle-shot, experienced in the
tropics and acquainted with the languages of the native tribes.
The same evening a youth-about-town was sitting in his club. He picked
up a copy of that morning’s _Times_ and his eye fell upon this
advertisement. He read it through and then he said to himself what an
Englishman always says when confronted by anything which seems to him
striking or interesting.
“Most ’straordinary! Most remarkably ’straordinary that any Johnnie
living in Half Moon Street should wish to leave his diggings and go to
Africa and take a strange Johnnie with him!”
The impression of what he had read lingered in his mind all through the
evening. Pondering it over, he drank more perhaps than was good for him.
At least, what he drank was not good for his speech—it made it thick
and hiccuppy. Also it tangled his legs.
At 1 A. M. he arose and, leaving the club, set out for his lodgings. He
rambled off his route and presently he found himself in Half Moon
Street. By another coincidence he was directly in front of Number 5.
Groggily, he stood for a space trying to couple these facts with some
foggy recollections which lurked in the back of his brain. Then he
remembered.
He made his fumbling way up the steps to the door and rang the bell and
rang it again and again. At length footsteps sounded in the passage
within and the door was opened by an individual who, despite his state
of partial undress, plainly was a butler.
“Well, sir?” he asked.
“I desire (hic) to shee your master,” said the inebriate. “Mush shee him
at once.”
“But the hour is very late, sir,” remonstrated the servant. “The master
has retired. He is in bed asleep. Can’t I take the message, sir, and
deliver it in the morning?”
“Not at all,” said the clubman. “Thish is mosh pressing and imperative.
Businish is strictly between your master (hic) and myself.”
So the butler went away, leaving him there, and eventually there
appeared in the doorway, a middle-aged gentleman of an irritable aspect,
in dressing-gown and slippers who plainly had just been aroused from
slumber.
“Well, sir, well, sir,” he snapped, “what is it you wish to say to me?”
“Are you the gen’l’m who inserted (hic) advertishment in _Times_ stating
you wished engage servishes of a young man ’company you to Africa?”
“I am. What of it?”
“Well, (hic) I jus’ happened to be passing and I dropped in to tell you
that, pershonally, I can’t shee my way clear to going.”
§ 250 Everything Coming Out Just Right
This is one of those post-war stories. However, it is said to have the
advantage on its side of being true. It seems there was an English
nobleman whose estate shrunk frightfully between 1914 and 1918. He
decided, in order to replenish the family fortune, to go into business.
But neither nature nor experience had qualified him for a commercial
career and he made a frightful hash of the venture.
Eventually, a receiver took over his affairs. The receiver engaged an
expert accountant who went over the books and struck a trial balance.
His Lordship scanned the document and exclaimed:
“What a remarkable coincidence! What an extraordinary coincidence! Why,
the totals on both sides are identical!”
§ 251 Delivered Through a Middleman
In the year after the Great War started there was a German who ran a
saloon in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Close by was a munition factory where
explosives were being manufactured for the Allies. As one who had a
sympathy for the cause of his Father-land, the German nursed a deep
grudge against the neighboring industry. He included the operatives in
the plant among his enemies.
One day, as he sat behind his bar, a husky Irishman in overalls entered.
“Say,” he began, “I’d like to open a small account with you. I’d like to
come in here for me drinks and on Saturday night whin I get paid off
I’ll come over and settle. I’m a square guy and I always pay me debts.
How about it?”
“Vell,” said the German, “for my regular gustomers sometimes I put it on
der slate; only, you are a stranger to me. Where you work?”
“Right across the street here,” said the Irishman.
“In der munitions factory? Nutt’n doin’!”
“Well, they told me,” said the Irishman, “that you was kinda sore on us
fellers over there but I was thinkin’ that if you knew we was makin’
shells for the Germans now maybe you’d act different.”
The Teuton’s face broke into a broad smile.
“For the Chermans now you make ’em, eh? Say, dot’s fine—dot’s pully.
Have someding on me. We drink togeder, huh?”
They drank together. Three times more, as rapidly as the Irishman
emptied his beer-glass the German replenished it, each time stating that
for this festive occasion, at least, there would be no charge for the
refreshment. The hospitable rites having been concluded the new patron
was moving toward the door when the German was moved to put a question.
Until now, in his exuberance, he had forgotten to ask for details:
“Say,” he said, “how you get dose shells over to der Chermans?”
“Well,” said the Irishman, edging a little nearer toward the door, “we
don’t exactly send ’em to the Germans direct, you understand.”
“No? Then how you do it?”
“Oh, we sell ’em to the English and they shoot ’em over.”
§ 252 Back to God’s Country
Soon after the Civil War ended a former trooper of Morgan’s cavalry
moved from his home in the Bluegrass region to California. He was a
gentleman of genial habits and a natural orator. It was almost
inevitable, therefore, that sooner or later he should enter politics. He
was announced as a candidate for the legislature on the Democratic
ticket. He made a spirited campaign, but when the primary returns were
in, of three candidates the ex-Confederate had finished third.
He called a meeting of his friends and made a speech. It was short but
complete.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I’m going to quit this cussed country. I’m going
back to Kentucky—the only fit place for a gentleman to live—where the
niggers make your crop for you and the sheriff sells it.”
§ 253 Hail and Farewell!
An amateur pugilist in a small town in Ohio accepted the invitation of a
visiting professional who announced that he was ready to meet all
comers.
The local prodigy mounted the stage, climbed through the ropes and gave
his name to the announcer. As the announcer was introducing him the
amateur tugged at his sleeve and whispered something in his ear.
“Kid Binks desires me to state,” said the announcer, “that this is his
first appearance in any ring.”
He stepped back and the two men squared off. The professional ducked a
wild swing, led with his right and knocked the amateur down with such
violence that he fairly splashed when he hit the floor.
The master of ceremonies stood over the fallen one, counting him out. At
eight the dazed youth got upon his knees. At nine he spoke in a husky
whisper.
The announcer raised his hand for silence.
“Kid Binks also desires me to state,” he said, “that this is his last
appearance in any ring.”
§ 254 Calculated to Work Improvements
Two sympathetic friends called at a house of mourning in the Bronx. Mrs.
Levinsky, wife of a wealthy white-goods importer, had passed away,
following upon her return from a Southern trip.
The callers were shown into the parlor where the bereft husband sat
alongside the casket. They advanced and looked upon the face of the
deceased.
“Don’t she look wonderful?” said one of them.
The widower raised his head.
“Why shouldn’t she look wonderful?” he asked. “Didn’t she spend the
whole winter at Palm Beach?”
§ 255 Improvements in the Language
The infusion of Russian and Polish stocks into New York has been
responsible for some curious additions to the language of the Manhattan
Cockney. Most of us are familiar with the story of the small East-Side
boy who told his father that what he liked best about the arithmetic he
studied at school was Gozinta.
“What do you mean, Gozinta?” asked his parent.
“Why, 2 gozinta 4, 4 gozinta 8, 8 gozinta 16.”
Of somewhat more recent coinage is the one which recites how a teacher
asked if any member of her class knew the meaning of the word “Stoic.”
Up rose a small second-generation American from Rivington Street.
“Sure, teacher, I know what is a stoic,” he said.
“Well then, Sidney, suppose you tell us what a stoic is.”
“A stoic is the boid wot brings the babies.”
But of all such yarns I believe I like best the tale of the transplanted
Pole who had made a fortune by building cheap apartment-houses. He had
just completed the erection of a flat-building near Riverside Drive,
whereas theretofore all his operations had been confined to the more
crowded down-town districts. A friend said to him:
“Meyer, that’s a mighty nice-looking flat-building you’ve just put up.
Have you got a name for it yet?”
“Soitinly,” said the capitalist. “I’ve decided I should call it the
Cloister Apartments.”
“Strikes me as a rather curious name. Why call it that?”
“Because,” said Meyer, “it’s cloister the subway, it’s cloister Central
Park and its cloister the river.”
§ 256 An Abiding Delusion, Too
A prominent citizen of an Oregon town was an ardent believer in the cult
of mental-healing. Wherever possible this gentleman, with the zeal of a
devotee, preached his doctrine. One day on the main street he hailed an
impressionable youth from the country.
“Billy,” he said, “how’s your daddy?”
“Oh,” said the youth, “paw’s mighty bad off. He’s been porely all
spring. Now he’s down flat in bed and ailin’ stiddy. We’re feared paw’s
powerful sick. He’s feared, too.”
“Nonsense,” snorted the older man. “Your father isn’t sick—he only
thinks he’s sick. Tell him I said so.”
“Yessir, I will.”
A fortnight later the same pair met again in the same place.
“Billy,” said the citizen cheerily, “how’s your father now?”
The youngster heaved a deep sigh:
“He thinks he’s dead.”
§ 257 Bordering on the Unreasonable
The hero of this story was one of those persons who accept whatever
happens as a manifestation of the divine power. It was not for him to
question the workings of a mysterious Providence.
Misfortune dogged his footsteps, yet never once did he complain. His
wife ran away with the hired man. His daughter married a ne’er-do-well
who deserted her; his son landed in the penitentiary; a cyclone
destroyed his residence, a hailstorm spoiled his crop and the holder of
the mortgage foreclosed on his farm. Yet at each fresh stroke he knelt
and returned thanks to the Almighty for mercies vouchsafed.
Eventually, pauperized but still submissive to the decrees from on high,
he landed at the county poorhouse. The overseer sent him out one day to
plow a potato field. A thunderstorm came up but was passing by when
without warning a bolt of lightning descended from the sky. It melted
the ploughshare, stripped most of his garments from him, singed off his
beard and mustache, branded him on the back with the initials of an
utter stranger, and hurled him through a brush-fence.
Slowly he got upon his knees, clasped his hands and raised his eyes
toward heaven. Then, for the first time, the worm turned:
“Lord,” he said, “this is gittin’ to be plum’ rediculous!”
§ 258 A Slight for the Kellys
Somebody was reminded the other day—and, by the same token reminded
me—of one that I hadn’t heard for at least ten years. The best
authorities agree that a good story stands revival every five years.
As the tale runs, the parish priest called on a well-to-do parishioner
named Kelly, for a substantial contribution to the fund for purchasing a
bronze bell for the church. Mr. Kelly was in a generous mood. He gave a
larger sum than any other member of the congregation gave.
The bell was purchased and installed. Meeting Mr. Kelly a few days
later, the clergyman said:
“What do you think of the new bell?”
“I’m sorry I gave a cint,” said Mr. Kelly, shortly. “If I’d known what
was goin’ to happen ye’d have had no money from me.”
“You astonish me,” said the Father. “What’s wrong with it?”
“I’ll tell ye what’s wrong with it,” said Mr. Kelly; “whin that bell
rings do ye hear it speakin’ me name? Ye do not. All ye hear it sayin’
is: ‘_Doolan, Donlan, Donovan, Dugan!_’”
§ 259 The Luck of the Absentee
This was a favorite with Mark Twain. Whether he made it up or whether he
had it from other sources and merely stood sponsor for it I have no way
of knowing.
Twain said that a Nantucket sailor fell in love with a girl in his home
town. She objected to his habits but promised if he took the pledge she
would consider his suit favorably.
In his desire to win the young woman the suitor was willing to go
farther even than that. He made application in the local Total
Abstinence League, and on the same evening sailed on a whaling voyage.
According to Clemons, he was gone nearly two years and during the entire
time touched not a drop of strong drink. His mouth watered when the
other members of the crew downed their grog allowances, but he, as
befitting a good templar, stood fast.
The voyage ended. The reformed one hurried to his sweetheart’s house to
claim her hand. A shock awaited him. For eight months she had been the
wife of a stay-at-home citizen.