would join that temperance lodge you’d be waiting for me when I got
back.”
“Oh,” said the young matron, “you never heard the news, did you?”
“What news?”
“That very night, about two hours after you sailed, you were
blackballed.”
§ 260 Everything Happens for the Worst
This one is dedicated to pessimists and is included in this book
especially for their consideration.
The setting is a country store. The proprietor is reading a newspaper
which has just arrived from the city.
Uncle Henry, the official grouch of the neighborhood, bites off a chew
of tobacco and masticates it with a morose intensity. This done, he is
moved to ask a question:
“Ezra,” he says, addressing the storekeeper, “I persoom that durned
paper is jest as dull to-night as ’tis every other night in the week. No
news wuth tellin’, I reckin?”
“Well,” says the proprietor, “there’s one item on the front page that’s
sort of interestin’. It says here that a lot of those scientists all
over the world are gettin’ together in a scheme to change the calendar
and have thirteen months to the year instead of twelve.” Uncle Henry
gives a low despairing moan:
“It’ll be jest my luck for it to be a winter month an’ me plum’ out o’
fodder!”
§ 261 Spreading the Glad Tidings
A gentleman who evidently thought well of himself entered a restaurant
and with commanding mien beckoned the head-waiter to him. He ordered a
seven course dinner, winding up with this instruction to the obsequious
servitor:
“Now, don’t forget to tell the cook that these things are for Colonel
Brown—understand, Colonel Brown. Just mention my name to him and he’ll
understand.”
A person of mild aspect had been a witness to this. As the head-waiter
turned over Colonel Brown’s order to an underling the mild man caught
his eye.
“Just a minute, please,” said the second patron. “I want to give an
order, too. Got any fresh clams?”
“Yes, sir, some very fine clams to-day.”
“Good. Here’s my visiting card. Now go down to the cellar, open
twenty-four clams, put ’em on some cracked ice, and while you’re doing
it, mention my name to every damn’ one of ’em.”
§ 262 Out of Business Hours
To realize what the antiquity of this one is you first must look up the
date of General Tom Thumb’s death and then hark still farther back to
the yet more remote period when that little man was at the height of his
fame.
Under the management of P. T. Barnum, the most famous of all our dwarfs
was touring the country. Between engagements he stopped over Sunday at a
country hotel in New England.
A lady of the neighborhood called and sent up her card with the request
that she be permitted to meet the General. The message was received by a
member of Barnum’s staff, who happened at the moment to be in the
General’s room. This person, who was six feet tall and broad in
proportion, and also something of a wit, asked that the lady be shown
up.
Presently she knocked at the door and he answered it.
“I am looking,” she said, “for General Tom Thumb.”
“Madam,” he said, “proceed to look.”
“Surely you are not the celebrated midget?” she cried.
“Certainly I am,” he answered. “But just at the present moment, Madam, I
happen to be resting.”
§ 263 In the Ascending Scale
A person who had been so incautious as to sample a bootlegger’s wares
was endeavoring to negotiate the opening into a hat store. Another man,
who was perfectly sober and apparently had no sympathy with any persons
who also were not perfectly sober, shoved the inebriated one aside and
entered the establishment. The jostled person, straightening himself
with difficulty, followed through the door.
Just inside a salesman bowed before the sober man.
“I want a hat,” said the latter. “A derby hat. Size 6-7/8.”
Having found a hat to his liking he departed. The clerk turned to the
soused individual, who, while the sale was in progress, had been
regarding the first purchaser with a baleful eye.
“And what can I do for you, sir?” inquired the clerk.
“I want a lid, too.”
“Yes sir. What size?”
“Whasch size ’at other feller take?”
“6-7/8.”
“Alri’—then gimme 9-10-11!”
§ 264 A Family of Imitators
In the old days there was an ex-miner who opened a hotel in Reno,
Nevada. Alongside the clerk’s desk he installed a cigar-stand and
stocked it.
One day a traveling man, who had sold him his original supply and who
was in the habit of serving him, dropped in and inquired whether there
was anything in his line that the proprietor desired to-day.
“Sure, pard,” said the ex-miner. “You kin ship me another thousand of
them Madero cigars. You needn’t send me any more of them punks made by
Colorado Madero. And say, who in thunder is this young Clara Madero
who’s busted into the cigar business and is tryin’ to git away with it
by tradin’ on the family name?
“Me for old man Madero—to hell with his relatives!”
§ 265 Two Conundrums and a Tragedy
I do not know why it is that nearly all the stories having to do with
frugality should be aimed at the Scot. Your average Scotchman does not
particularly wish to hoard his money; he merely desires that when he
spends it, he shall obtain a proper return.
You know of course the ancient conundrum which was printed years ago in
London _Punch_. As I recall it, this conundrum ran as follows:
“How, at the conclusion of a railroad journey, can you definitely fix
the nationality of an English passenger, an Irish passenger, and a
Scotch passenger?”
The answer was:
“The Englishman hurries to the lunch-stand; the Irishman hastens to the
bar; the Scotchman goes back through the train to see if anybody left
anything.”
Here recently, a friend fired this one at me:
“Why,” he asked, “have the Scotch a sense of humor?”
“All right,” I asked, “I’ll bite; tell me, Mr. Bones, why have the
Scotch a sense of humor?”
“Because,” he said, “it’s a gift.”
A still later addition to the crop has just been received. It is stated
that an Englishman, standing treat to a Scotchman at a pub recommended
that his guest try some very fine brandy which the establishment had in
stock at three shillings a drink. With glistening eyes the Scotchman
agreed. He waited until the bar-maid had poured out the brandy and then
with a sudden leap he pounced upon the glass, seizing it in both hands
as in a vise.
“Why do you do that, old dear?” asked the astonished host.
“Because,” said the Scotchman, “when I was a verra young man, back in
Edinburgh in the year 1862, I saw one of them spilled.”
§ 266 In the Very Lap of Comfort
An aged couple from the East Side were visiting their married daughter
in Brooklyn. One afternoon on a sight-seeing stroll they drifted into a
near-by cemetery.
Presently, a huge marble mausoleum caught their eye. They halted before
it in admiration.
“Ain’t that peautiful!” said the old man. “I pet you, Esther, that cost
fully dwenty thousand dollars. Who is buried there, I wonder?”
His wife, whose eyesight was better than his, spelled out the name
carved over the entrance to the tomb.
“It says: ‘August Kohn.’”
“August Kohn, huh?—so! Then it must be the millionaire silk-goods
importer vot’s puried there.” He wagged his beard in tribute. “Vell,
them rich peoples certainly do live vell.”
§ 267 Making It a Sweepstakes
This is one of my standbys. Every time I hear it—and I hear it on an
average of at least four times a year—I like it better. I hope the
reader may feel the same way about it.
The principal characters are an Irishman, with red whiskers, and a
Hebrew with black whiskers. They fall into an argument over the relative
glories of the two great races they severally represent. It is finally
proposed by the Semitic debater that for every great Jew he names he
shall be permitted to pluck one hair from his adversary’s face. For
every famous Irishman listed the other man may claim the tribute of a
hair from the Jew’s beard. The first to cry enough, or the first to be
entirely denuded will be the loser.
A chosen referee gives the signal for the start. It is the Jew’s turn.
“Moses,” he cries, and yanks a hair from the Irishman’s chin.
“Brian Boru,” shouts his opponent.
“Abraham.”
“St. Patrick.”
“Baron Hirsch.”
“Daniel O’Connell.”
“Rothschild.”
“Jawn L. Sullivan.”
Inspiration seizes the Hebrew.
“The Twelve Apostles,” he whoops exultingly, and snatches an even dozen
of auburn hairs from where they grew.
With a triumphant whooroo the Irishman fixes both his hands in the
Hebrew’s beard:
“The A.O.H.!” he bellows, and brings away the entire crop.
§ 268 Filling a Long-Felt Want
An amateur investigator made a trip to a state lunatic asylum. While
strolling about the grounds he happened upon an old man of a benign
aspect sitting under a tree.
“Good evening,” said the venerable gentleman. “A stranger here I
assume?”
“Yes,” said the caller. “I am. I take it that you, too, are a visitor.”
“Unfortunately,” said the old gentleman, “I am an inmate.”
“But—pardon me—but you don’t look like——” began the astonished
stranger.
“I’m not, either,” said the old gentleman. “My son, I am the victim of
circumstances. Members of my family coveted my property. On trumped up
charges they had me declared of unsound mind, and I was railroaded off
from my home and brought to this place where I have ever since been in
confinement. And yet, if only the truth were known, I am engaged in a
great scientific literary work—an undertaking which has busied me for
many years and which, if justice is ever done, will some day make my
name famous throughout the English-speaking world.”
“And what, may I ask, is this work?”
“I am engaged,” said the old gentleman, “in compiling a complete index
to The Unabridged Dictionary.”
§ 269 Spoken from the Heart Out
In an effort to link practice with preaching, the Sunday-school teacher
asked her class of small boys to recite appropriate quotations from the
Scriptures as they added their free will offerings to the regular
collection. The youngsters had a week in which to find and memorize
suitable texts.
On the following Sunday the scholars advanced, one by one, each with a
coin ready and his brow furrowed by the effort of trying to remember the
quotation he meant to deliver.
First, as was fitting, came the brag pupil and, as he deposited a dime
in the plate, he said:
“The Lord loveth a cheerful giver.”
“Beautiful,” said the teacher approvingly. “Now, Harry, what are you
going to say?”
“The liberal soul shall be made fat.”
“Willie?”
“Whoso giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord.”
“Bobby?”
“Freely thou hast received, freely give.”
“Very good, indeed. Tommy, it’s your turn next.”
Tommy’s hand came slowly forth from his pocket, bringing a penny.
“A fool and his money are soon parted,” said Tommy.
§ 270 Where Proper Relief Lay
Late in life, Messrs. Abrams and Jacobs took up golf. Both were retired
cloak and suit merchants of the type made famous in Montague Glass’s
immortal stories.
On a glorious September afternoon they were going over the links of
their country-club. They were playing for a stake of a dollar a hole,
and the competition was spirited.
Mr. Abrams drove into a bunker. With his iron he made four ineffectual
swipes, raising the sand in clouds. Then he stooped down, picked up the
half buried ball and tossed it out on the fairway.
Mr. Jacobs stiffened with indignation.
“Look a’ here!” he whooped. “You couldn’t do that. It’s against the
rules.”
“I already have done it,” said Mr. Abrams, calmly.
“But again I tell you it’s against the rules,” declared Mr. Jacobs. “I
have been playing this game longer as you have and I tell you it says in
the book where you should not touch the ball with your hands at all.
What am I going to do if by such tricks as that you should win the
match?”
“Sue me,” said Mr. Abrams.
§ 271 No Repetitions for Hubby
A few months ago an English illustrated paper published a joke which
struck me as having merit. When I repeated it in company a gentleman who
is supposed to know nearly all the jokes in the world told me that in
slightly different guise the same wheeze was current on the Pacific
Coast twenty years ago. He may or may not have been wrong. In any event,
I like the British version.
A couple from the country have come up to London for a week’s visit.
They have seats in the first gallery for a performance of a society
drama. To them the play proves exceedingly tiresome. In one of the
intervals the husband, stifling a yawn, turns to his deeply bored wife:
“What comes next?” he asks.
She consults the program.
“It says ’ere, ‘Act four, sime as Act one.’”
“Ow!” he exclaims, “let’s ’op it. I couldn’t sit through all that hawful
mess again.”
§ 272 There Was No Hurry about It
A brawny negro prize-fighter made application at an athletic club which
was putting on a series of bouts, for an opportunity to meet some
suitable opponent. He announced that he was a dark cloud, a whirlwind, a
tempest, a tornado, a hurricane and a sirocco.
His language impressed the match-maker and for the preliminary go he was
entered against a dependable colored scrapper. The stranger made a
deplorable showing. For two rounds his opponent hammered him all over
the ring. Early in the third round the beaten darky decided he had
enough. He took an easy poke on the jaw and flattened out on the canvas
to be counted out.
The referee was halfway through with his tally when disgust moved him to
interpolate a speech:
“Say, nigger,” he growled out of the corner of his mouth, “you ain’t
hurt. Get up from there! Ain’t you goin’ to fight any more?”
Without stirring from his comfortable recumbent position the whirlwind
made answer:
“Oh, yassuh, I’m gwine fight some mo’—_but not to-night!_”
§ 273 An Attack on the Affiliated Talent
Two professional confidence-men made the acquaintance of a wealthy
sportsman. He admired their sprightliness while privately deploring
their vocation.
When the acquaintance had ripened into friendship he invited them to
shoot in his private preserve. Before daylight they were paddled out in
a skiff and put in a blind which, the night before, had been stocked
with wooden decoys. There the guide left them, for the time being.
As the dawn began to break, one of the pair suddenly was aware of the
wooden birds bobbing about in front of him. The light was poor and he
was green at the duck-shooting game. He arose and fired both barrels of
his gun into the flock.
His partner straightened up, took one look, and cried out in distress:
“My God! You’re shootin’ the boosters!”
§ 274 The Deceased Had Been Forehanded
A few months after the Eighteenth Amendment went into effect a Texan
passed from this life.
While the funeral services were in progress at the late home of the
deceased, two of the men mourners stood on the front porch of the house
lamenting the passing of their friend and praising his virtues.
Said one of them:
“There wasn’t no finer feller anywhere than what Bill was, but the main
trouble with him was he wasn’t forehanded. He had a wife and a whole
passel of children and he should a-been more saving than what he was. He
might a-knowed he couldn’t live on forever. But no, he lived up to
everything he made. And here now, right in the very prime of life, with
a family on his hands, he gets sick and dies without leaving no estate
as I knows of.”
“The hell he didn’t leave no estate!” exclaimed the other. “He left
mighty nigh a gallon!”
§ 275 How the Reform Worked
When the Union troops under Grant, early in the Civil War, took
possession of West Kentucky, some difficulty was encountered in
controlling the populace, for that end of the state was a hot-bed of
Southern sentiment. General Grant issued proclamations stating that no
citizen would be molested unless he undertook to give aid and comfort to
the enemy.
In one town in the invaded district, though, there was an elderly
gentleman whose sympathies with the Southern cause were especially
outspoken. Whenever word came of a victory for the Southern armies his
jubilation was undisguised.
The Union provost-marshal, hearing complaints from his men of this man’s
actions and words, decided to make an example of him. He sent a squad to
arrest the offender and presently, under guard, the old gentleman was
brought before him.
“Look here,” said the officer, “I’m getting tired of your behavior.
Every few days I hear that you’ve been going about again spreading
reports that our forces have been defeated. Now then, I’ve decided to
reform you. Either you take the oath of allegiance to the Union right
now or off you go to a military prison. Which shall it be?”
The prisoner decided to take the oath. After it had been administered
the officer felt that a further admonition might be in order. “Now
then,” he said, “I hope you understand what this thing means? If ever
again you utter a word of disparagement for the Union cause or a word of
approval for the Confederates, and I hear of it, you’ll suffer severely;
because now you’re a loyal Unionist. A single disloyal remark makes you
guilty of treason.”
The reclaimed one thanked him for the warning. On his way out he stopped
at the door.
“Major,” he said, “they ain’t no law against thinkin’, is they?”
“That depends,” said the Major. “What’s in your mind now?”
“Well,” said the Kentuckian, “I was just thinkin’ that them Rebels
certainly did give us fellers hell day before yistiddy down below the
state line.”
§ 276 Where Higher Education Would Have Landed Him
Some fifteen years ago there landed in New York a friendless and almost
penniless Russian immigrant who found lodgings on the East Side and at
once, with racial perseverance and energy, set out to earn a living.
He was of a likeable disposition, and speedily made acquaintances who
sought to aid him in his ambition. One of them sponsored him for the
vacant post of janitor, or _shammos_, to use the common Hebraic word, of
a little synagogue on a side street. But when the officers of the
congregation found out the applicant was entirely illiterate they
reluctantly denied him employment, inasmuch as a _shammos_ must keep
certain records. The greenhorn quickly rallied from his disappointment.
He got a job somewhere. He prospered. Presently he became a dabbler in
real-estate.
Within ten years he was one of the largest independent operators in East
Side tenement-house property and popularly rated as a millionaire. An
occasion arose when he needed a large amount of money to swing what
promised to be a profitable deal. Finding himself for the moment short
of cash, he went to the East Side branch of one of the large banks.
It was the first time in his entire business career that he had found it
necessary to borrow extensively. He explained his position to the
manager, who knew of his success, and asked for a loan of fifty thousand
dollars.
“I’ll be very glad to accommodate you, Mr. Rabin,” said the banker.
“Just sit down there at that desk and make out a note for the amount.”
The caller smiled an embarrassed smile.
“If you please,” he said, “you should be so good as to make out the note
and then I should sign it.”
“What’s the idea?” inquired the bank manager, puzzled.
“Vell, you see,” he confessed, “I haf to tell you somethings: Myself, I
cannot read and write. My vife, she has taught me how to make my own
name on paper, but otherwise, with me, reading and writing is nix.”
In amazement the banker stared at him.
“Well, well, well!” he murmured admiringly. “And yet, handicapped as
you’ve been, inside of a few years you have become a rich man! I wonder
what you’d have been by now if only you had been able to read and
write?”
“A _shammos_,” said Mr. Rabin modestly.
§ 277 Scarcely a Lucrative Calling
A group of wealthy Southerners, Virginians and Carolinians mostly, were
on a train returning from a meeting of the National Fox-Hunting
Association. Naturally the talk dealt largely with the sport of which
they were devotees. A lank Vermonter, who apparently had never done much
traveling, was an interested auditor of the conversation.
Presently, when the company in the smoking-compartment had thinned out,
he turned to one of the party who had stayed on. He wanted to know how
many horses the Southerner kept for fox-hunting purposes and how large a
pack of hounds he maintained and about how many foxes on an average he
killed in the course of a season.
The Southerner told him. In silence for a minute or two the Vermonter
mulled the disclosures over in his mind.
Then he said:
“Wall, with fodder fetchin’ such high prices, and with dog-meat for
hounds a-costin’ what it must cost, and with fox pelts as cheap as they
are in the open market, and takin’ one thing with another, I don’t see
how you kin expect to clear much money out of this business in the
course of a year.”
§ 278 A Plea for Studied Action
Two ball teams, made up of inmates of San Quentin in California, played
a game for the prison championship. One team was composed of negroes,
the other of white men.
In the seventh inning, with the score a tie, the pitcher for the colored
team, a long-term man, grew nervous under the strain. He wound up too
quickly. In his haste he made wild pitches. He gave two opposing batters
their bases on balls.
Over on the side lines a negro rooter raised his voice in steadying
words to the champion of his race:
“Tek yo’ time, black boy,” he clarioned. “Tek yo’ time! You ain’t
needin’ to be in no hurry. You got a-plenty time to win dis game—you
got nineteen yeahs!”
§ 279 The Current Rate on Suckers
The late Tom Williams dropped into a gambling house in Reno, Nevada, one
night, and, playing roulette, speedily dropped his roll, but not before
he had made up his mind that the game was crooked.
On his way downstairs in deep disgust he met the proprietor, Long Brown.
“What kind of a dump is this you’re running?” demanded Williams. “I’ve
just been skinned out of four hundred dollars.”
“Who brought you in here?” said Brown.
“I brought myself in,” said Williams.
“Oh, if that’s the case,” said Brown, “I owe you eighty dollars.”
“How come?”
“Well, you see, I pay twenty per cent. apiece for all suckers that are
steered in. You appear to have steered yourself in. Here’s your eighty.”
§ 280 Going and Coming
Two scholars, a Frenchman and an Italian, were having an argument. Each
insisted his own country had produced the most distinguished literary
figure that had ever lived.
“Dante,” said the Italian, “was the greatest of all writers. Dante went
to hell.”
“Bah!” cried the Frenchman, “Baudelaire was a thousand times greater
than Dante. Baudelaire came from hell.”
§ 281 The Evils of Intemperance
A certain newspaper proprietor in New York who always was—and still is,
even in these prohibition days—a total abstainer, dropped into the
office just before press time, and found the assistant managing editor
in charge.
“Where’s Blank?” he asked, naming the managing editor.
“Off on one of those periodical tears of his,” answered the assistant.
“Where’s the city editor?”
“Pie-eyed—down in Perry’s bar.”
“I didn’t see the make-up editor as I came through the composing-room.
What’s become of him?”
“He’s in a Turkish bath over in Brooklyn, getting a bun boiled out of
him.”
The proprietor dropped into a chair, shaking his head sadly.
“Well,” he said, “for a person who never touches a drop I seem to suffer
more from the effects of drunkenness than any man in this town.”
§ 282 Not a Family of Musicians
A self-made Western millionaire built the finest house in his home town.
He imported decorators to furnish it, and managed to get it finished by
the time his eldest son arrived from the East, where the youth had been
completing his education.
The proud father escorted the young man through the shining new mansion,
followed by the other members of the household. When the grand tour had
been completed the millionaire inquired whether the son had any
suggestions to make.
“Well,” said the young man, “to me it seems complete in every possible
detail except one.”
“What’s missin’?” demanded the parent.
“You ought to have a chandelier in the music-room,” said the boy.
“All right,” said the father. “I’ll order one by telegraph to-night, but
I’ll bet a thousand dollars there ain’t a damn one in the family can
play it.”
§ 283 The Reverend Had a Little Lamb