in session behind locked doors for the purpose of conferring the secret
work upon a batch of new members. A stranger tried to shove his way into
the hall. The keeper of the outer portals shooed him away. Presently the
persistent intruder returned.
“Say, look here,” said the warden, “you don’t belong in here.” He took a
closer look at the stranger. “I’m sure of it. Ain’t you Jewish?”
“Shure, I’m Jewish,” answered the other, with an ingratiating smile.
“Well, don’t you know the Ku Klux Klan don’t let no Jews join it?”
“I don’t vant to join.”
“Well, what do you want then?”
“I vant to see the feller vot buys the bed-sheetings.”
§ 306 Let There Be Light!
A young negress visited a dentist of her own race late one afternoon to
have an aching molar removed.
“Does you want gas?” inquired the dentist.
“Suttinly I wants gas,” she answered. “Does you think I crave to have a
strange man foolin’ ’round me in de dark?”
§ 307 A Little Bed Time Tale
If you have for a friend a clergyman who is slightly deaf, it is proper
to tell this story on him, adding that you were present when it
happened. As a matter of fact, it has been attributed to every
distinguished churchman in this country who is hard of hearing. However,
it goes better, I think, when you make the central character a
bishop—by preference a very dignified bishop—who is attending a
dinner-party.
Seated next to him, on his deafer side, is a young lady who, being
naturally diffident, is now deeply awed by her proximity to so famous a
man. She hesitates to address him, preferring to wait for what she
regards as a favorable opportunity; yet she craves conversation with
him.
Toward the end of the meal, fruit is passed about. The nervous guest
seizes on this for her cue. Gently she joggles her great neighbor’s
elbow.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she says, “but are you fond of bananas?”
His Reverence inclines a stately head in her direction, at the same time
cupping his hand behind his ear.
“What did you say?” he asks.
Blushing, the young woman raises her voice:
“It’s really of no consequence,” she says; “I merely asked you whether
you liked bananas.”
By now, all the others at the table are listening. The bishop considers
for a moment and then replies:
“Well, my dear, if you wish my honest opinion, I have always preferred
the old-fashioned night-shirt.”
§ 308 A Growing Suspicion
For years Mrs. Grauman, wife of the wealthy retired shirt-waist
manufacturer, had been ailing. Or anyhow, she thought she was ailing.
She tried one specialist after another, patronized a succession of
sanitariums, took the cure here, there and elsewhere. Yet nothing seemed
to help her. She remained a chronic complainer.
The husband’s patience sorely was tested. Also there was a constant
drain upon his checkbook. Mr. Grauman didn’t so much mind the latter.
Always he had been a generous provider for his family. What secretly
irked him was a conviction that the lady’s trouble was more or less
imaginary; an unspoken but none-the-less sincere belief that his money
was being spent to gratify a neurotic whim. Had Mr. Grauman known the
words “malingerer” and “hypochondriac” these undoubtedly were the words
he would have applied in his own private diagnosis of the case.
Nevertheless, the invalid, after long months of treatment, succumbed to
her mysterious malady. She became no more.
On the night before the funeral the mourning widower sat alone by the
bier. For long hours he communed with himself. Finally he reached forth
a caressing hand and softly patted the casket.
“Vell,” he said, “maybe Mommer _vas_ sick!”
§ 309 Caught in the Jam
There is an actor in New York who is distinguished among other qualities
for his frugality. There have been other frugal actors from time to
time, but probably none quite so much so as this gentleman is. His
passion for personal economy has come to be proverbial. Let us for
convenience call him Jones, which isn’t his name at all.
One day in the early part of December of last year a gentleman of a
waggish turn of mind came, with a look of concern on his face, into the
Lambs Club. He approached a card table where four brother members were
playing bridge.
“Did you hear about the accident to Jones?” he asked.
“No,” they chorused. “What was it?”
“Well, it just happened over on the East Side. While Jones was doing his
Christmas shopping he got crushed between two push-carts.”
§ 310 And Getting Worse All the Time
The transcontinental flier had pulled out from Chicago for the long run
to the Coast and the conductor had made his rounds, when the passengers
in one of the coaches became aware of signs of concern on the part of a
fellow traveler. This was an elderly bearded man in old-fashioned garb
and of fatherly aspect. He sat with his head in his hands muttering to
himself in Yiddish and at intervals uttering low moaning sounds.
They sympathized with his grief and among themselves wondered what ailed
him. The common theory was that the poor old fellow must be on his way
across country, hoping to reach the bedside of some dear one who was in
sore affliction. Or, possibly, he was going west to attend a funeral.
Next morning, as the train entered Kansas, his grief seemed greater even
than it had been the night before. He groaned almost continuously,
beating himself gently on the breast and at intervals exclaiming:
“Oi! Oi!”
This continued all through that day and the day following. The patriarch
seemed so alone in his sorrow; so completely desolated. Kindly eyes
regarded him and all on the train wished they might do something to
soothe him and comfort him. But he was a stranger and, after all, there
wasn’t anything really they could do; besides, they felt it was not
proper that they, who never before had seen him, should intrude upon his
distress.
Finally, though, on the next afternoon when they were crossing Southern
California and were within a few score miles of Los Angeles, one
big-hearted man could contain himself no longer. He approached the seat
where the old man sat in a huddle of misery and extending a cordial
hand, he said:
“Sir, I do not know you. I do not wish you to think that I am
inquisitive, but I have been sorely moved by your grief and perhaps now
that we are approaching our destination I can be of some small
assistance to you. Is there anything I can do?”
Tears gushed from the old man’s eyes as mutely he shook his head.
“I’m so sorry. Pardon me for asking, but have you suffered a personal
bereavement?”
The ancient shook his head in the negative.
“Is it worse than that even?”
A nod.
“Well, then, what is the matter?”
“Listen, Meester: T’ree days already I am on der wrong train!”
§ 311 A Temptation to His Majesty
The steamer was calling at the principal port of one of those remote
South Sea islands regarding which so much romance has been written these
last few years by gifted fictionists and imaginative travelers. In
canoes the natives paddled out to welcome the strangers from other
climes. At the head of the volunteer reception committee came the ruling
monarch, King Some-thing-or-Other, a huge brown man with an air of heavy
dignity and a battered high hat upon his head. He was accompanied by the
Imperial staff and also by his household retinue, the party including
all of his wives, many of his children and his prime minister. The
latter was a Cockney beach-comber who had been stranded here years
before and who, having been adopted into the tribe had risen to a place
of high favor in the eyes of the copper-colored potentate.
The king, his premier, and his body-guard were welcomed aboard ship. The
subjects remained alongside, in broken English begging the passengers to
throw pennies down to them. Whenever a coin struck the water, half a
dozen islanders at once dived for it.
One of the visitors was generously inclined. When he had emptied his
pockets of coppers he began flinging out small bits of silver and
correspondingly, the excitement among the amphibious natives increased.
In the hope of moving them to an even more spirited exhibition of their
powers, the white benefactor fished about until he found a silver
dollar. He was in the act of hurling it over the side when the prime
minister caught his arm.
“Please, sir,” begged the Cockney, “don’t do that, sir. Hi ask you to
restrain yourself, sir. You’ll be ’aving ’Is Royal ’Ighness overboard
next!”
§ 312 Giving the Lady the Air
A country girl went to Charleston, South Carolina, to have some work
done on her teeth. The operator was cleansing a cavity with a small
blow-pipe. The patient flinched.
“Do you feel that air?” asked the dentist.
“That air whut?” said the young lady.
§ 313 Complete in Every Detail
The gentleman who entered the popular-price restaurant must have had a
great night the night before. Because he felt so miserable this morning.
And looked it! He was disheveled; his eyes were wan and bloodshot; his
hand trembled. In short, it was plain to any eye that he suffered from
what, technically, is known as a hang-over.
He fell into a chair at the table, took one look at the breakfast menu
and gagged. To him, all affability, came a colored waiter.
“Well, boss,” began the servitor genially, “whut’s it goin’ to be this
mawnin’?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the sufferer. He sniffed the close air of the
little place and turned slightly paler. “I feel like the devil. About
all I want, I guess, is two fried eggs and a few kind words.”
“Lemme see ef I got that right?” said the waiter. “You is feelin’ kind
of puny so all w’ich you craves frum me is two fried aigs an’ a few kind
words.”
“That’s it.”
The colored man hurried to the kitchen. Presently he returned balancing
a small platter. On the cloth before the nervous patron he placed a dish
containing two eggs.
“Boss, here’s part of yore awder.” He sank his voice to a discreet
whisper. “An’ yere’s the rest of it:
“_Don’t eat ’em!_”
§ 314 A Bare Statement
The eminent Dr. Blank, specialist in bone and muscular diseases, was a
busy man. The routine in his offices was devised with a view to
facilitating the handling of cases. He had a full staff of nurses,
clerks and attendants.
On a certain morning a neatly dressed and diffident-appearing youth
entered the outer room and told the nurse in charge that he wished to
see Dr. Blank.
“Have you an appointment?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” he said.
“Then this must be your first visit?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Very well, then. Go to that dressing-room down the hall, second door on
the left, and remove all your clothing, including your shoes. Presently
a bell will ring and you may then enter the adjoining room where Dr.
Blank will be waiting to see you.”
Blushingly, the young man started to say that he didn’t think all this
was necessary. With an authoritative gesture the nurse checked him.
“If you really desire to see Dr. Blank you must do exactly as I tell
you,” she stated. “This is the invariable rule for all who call upon him
for the first time.”
Still protesting, the stranger repaired to the disrobing chamber. Sure
enough, within a few minutes a bell tinkled, and, wearing nothing at all
except his embarrassment, the youth stepped timorously across a
threshold into an inner room where the distinguished specialist sat at a
desk.
“Well sir,” snapped the expert with professional brusqueness, “what
seems to be the matter with you?”
“There ain’t nothin’ the matter with me,” said the newcomer.
“Well, then, what do you want? What did you come here for?”
“I came,” said the youth, “to see if you didn’t want to renew your
subscription to the _Ladies Home Journal_.”
§ 315 One Right Behind Another
Some years ago the editor of a popular publication had an inspiration.
He made up a list of men and women distinguished in art, religion,
literature, commerce, politics, and other lines, and to each he sent a
telegram containing this question: “If you had but forty-eight hours
more to live, how would you spend them?” his purpose being to embody the
replies in a symposium in a subsequent issue of his periodical.
Among those who received copies of the inquiry was a humorous writer. He
thought the proposition over for a spell, and then by wire, collect,
sent back this answer:
“One at a time.”
§ 316 How Time Flies, to Be Sure!
A negro in Sunflower County, Mississippi, was tried and convicted of
murder and sentenced for a certain date. After he had been returned to
his cell to await the time of execution it would appear that he
practically was forgotten. The lawyer, who had been appointed by the
court to defend him, lost interest in the case. He neither moved for a
new trial nor did he take an appeal from the verdict.
Time slipped by until, finally, it dawned upon the condemned darky that,
unless he took steps in his own behalf, something of a highly unpleasant
nature shortly would be happening. So he sat down and himself wrote a
letter to the governor of the state, reading as follows:
“Dere Guvnor:
“The w’ite folks is got me in the jail here at this place and I is in
the middle of a right bad fix. So I teks my pen in hand to ax you
please, Mister Guvner, to do something fur me right away?
“Because dey is fixin’ to hang me on Friday. And here ’tis Wednesday
already!”
§ 317 Honor Where Honor Was Due
A certain distinguished English actor whom we will call Walker-Smith
plays a persistent but terrible game of golf. During a visit to this
country he visited the links of a country club in Westchester County,
New York State.
After an especially miserable showing one morning, he flung down his
niblick in disgust.
“Caddy,” he said, addressing the youth who stood alongside, “that was
awful, wasn’t it?”
“Purty bad, sir.”
“I’ll have to confess that I am the worst golfer in the world,”
continued the actor.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir,” purred the caddy, soothingly.
“Did you ever see a worse player than I am?”
“No, sir, I never did,” confessed the boy truthfully; “but some of the
other boys was tellin’ me yistiddy about a gentleman that must be a
worse player than what you are. They said his name was Walker-Smith.”
§ 318 On Her Own Motive Power
I am reliably informed that this one really happened down in
Winston-Salem, which is the only town in North Carolina that parts its
name with a hyphen. A lady who lives there was my informant. She heard
it from her pantry window one summer afternoon.
Her cook, Aunt Cilly, was sitting in the kitchen door. The organizer of
a new lodge was entreating Aunt Cilly to become a charter member. At
length and with eloquence he painted the advantages of belonging to the
society. He pointed out its manifold advantages. To begin with, it had a
beautiful name made up of noble long words. Its ritual was impressive,
its uniform dazzling. Practically every member would hold office, and so
forth and so on.
In silence Aunt Cilly harkened until the solicitor ran dry. Then she
spoke:
“Tell me dis, Br’er Sawyer, befo’ you goes any fu’ther—do dis yere
lodge of your’n fune’lize de daid?”
“To tell you de truth, Sista’, we ain’t quite got ’round to dat part
yit,” confessed the orator. “Dey’s been so much else to do. But in due
time we aims to ’range ’bout de sick benefits an’ de buryin’ fund an’
all dat.”
“Br’er Sawyer, bresh by,” commanded the sagacious Aunt Cilly. “Yo’ new
lodge done lose its taste fur me already. I ’members whut happen’ to dat
shiftless flight-haided Fanny Meriwether whut lived jest a little piece
up dis same street. Yere two years ago she took an’ up an’ j’ined one of
dese yere new-fangled lodges w’ich a strange nigger got up in dis town,
same ez whut you’s aimin’ to do now. An’ dat lodge didn’t specify ’bout
no buryin’ money, neither. Well, Fanny Meriwether hauled off one day an’
died widout ary cent of money laid by fur to fune’lize her. An’ whut wuz
de upshot? W’y, she laid ’round de house daid fur goin’ on three days
an’ den dat pore gal had to git to de cemetery de best way she could.”
§ 319 Who’s Who in Newark
Back in those old sinful wet days, two gentlemen, both far overtaken in
alcoholic stimulant, were seen under a lamp-post on a street corner in
Newark, clinging to each other for support.
As a spectator passed them he overheard the following dialogue carried
on in somewhat fuzzy accents:
Said Souse Number One:
“Do you know Bill Talbot?”
Said Souse Number Two after a moment of reflection:
“No; whuzziz name?”
Said Souse Number One:
“Who?”
§ 320 Hives, Perhaps, But No Honey
On their bridal tour the young couple went, as many young couples do on
their bridal tours, to Washington. They stopped at one of the larger
hotels. For two days they did the usual sight-seeing stunts. They
visited the Capitol and the White House and they crossed over to
Arlington and they ascended the Monument.
Early on the morning of the third day the husband remained in the room
to write some letters. The bride ran out to do a little shopping. Half
an hour later she returned. She had left the elevator at her floor and
was passing through the long hallway when she discovered that she had
forgotten her own room number. She was sure, though, she knew which was
the right door, but, when she turned the knob and tried to enter, she
found it locked.
She rapped on the panel.
“Let me in, honey,” she said. “I’m back.”
There was no reply.
She rapped again.
“Honey, oh, honey!” she called, “I want to get in.”
From the other side of the door came the voice of a strange man—a
dignified and an austere voice:
“Madam, this is not a beehive; it is a bathroom.”
§ 321 A Mystery Revealed
This yarn, which is of English origin, requires quite a bit of
stage-setting. We are expected to imagine a village green in the
morning. The official village drunkard is revealed in the foreground. It
is evident that he has had a hard night. He leans against the village
pump, pressing his throbbing temples to the cool iron work. Ambling up
to him with a smile of gratification on his chubby cheeks, comes the
curate of the parish.
“Good morning, Walker,” says the curate briskly.
“Mornin’,” says Walker, opening one eye wanly but not shifting his
position.
“Walker,” continues the curate, “I want to tell you that I was most
pleased—although, I must confess, a bit surprised as well—to see you
among those present at vesper services last evening.”
“Ow,” says Walker; “so that’s where I was, was I?”
§ 322 It Very Often Proves Fatal
A literal and simple-minded man, by birth a German, sent his wife to the
hospital for an operation. The operation was performed in the forenoon.
In the afternoon, when he quit work, the husband called to inquire how
the patient had stood the ordeal. The nurse told him that she seemed to
be improving.
Early the next morning he was on hand asking for the latest tidings from
the sick-room, and again he was informed that his wife still appeared to
be improving. Twice daily all through the week he received similar
reports.
But one morning when he called he was met with the distressing news that
she had passed away. In a daze the widower started down the street to
find an undertaking establishment. On the way he met an acquaintance and
the latter said:
“Well, how’s your wife to-day?”
“She iss dead,” answered the bereft one.
“Ach!” said his friend. “That’s too bad. I thought she was getting along
first rate. What did she die of?”
“Improvements.”
§ 323 Proving That Figures Don’t Lie
Three patricians of the coal yards fared forth on mercy bent, each in
his great black chariot. Their overlord, the yard superintendent, had
bade them deliver to seven families a total of twenty-eight tons of coal
equally divided.
Well out of the yards, each with his first load, Kelly and Burke and
Shea paused to discuss the problem of equal distribution—how much coal
should each family get?
“’Tis this way,” argued Burke. “’Tis but a bit of mathematics. If there
are 7 families an’ 28 tons o’ coal ye divide 28 by 7, which is done as
follows: Seven into 8 is 1, 7 into 21 is 3, which makes 13.”
He triumphantly exhibited his figures made with a stubby pencil on a bit
of grimy paper:
7/28/13
7
—
21
21
—
00
The figures were impressive but Shea was not wholly convinced. “There’s
a easy way o’ provin’ that,” he declared. “Ye add 13 seven times,” and
he made his column of figures according to his own formula. Then,
starting from the bottom of the 3 column, he reached the top with a
total of 21 and climbed down the column of 1’s, thus: “3, 6, 9, 12, 15,
18, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28.” “Burke is right,” he announced with
finality.
This was Shea’s exhibit:
13
13
13
13
13
13
13
—
28
“There is still some doubt in me mind,” said Kelly. “Let me demonstrate
in me own way. If ye multiply the 13 by 7 and get 28, then 13 is right.”
He produced a bit of stubby pencil and a sheet of paper. “’Tis done in
this way,” he said. “Seven times 3 is 21; 7 times 1 is 7, which makes
28. ’Tis thus shown that 13 is the right figure and ye’re both right.
Would ye see the figures?”
Kelly’s feat in mathematics was displayed as follows:
13
7
—
21
7
—
28
“There is no more argyment,” the three agreed, so they delivered
thirteen tons of coal to each family.
§ 324 The Exact Locality
Little Willie came running into the house stuttering in his excitement.
“Mommer,” he panted, “do you know Archie Sloan’s neck?”
“Do I know what?” asked his mother.
“Do you know Archie Sloan’s neck?”
“I know Archie Sloan,” answered the puzzled parent; “so I suppose I know
his neck. Why?”
“Well,” said Willie, “he just now fell into the back-water up to it.”
§ 325 A Two Part Serial
This story naturally resolves itself into two parts. Thus:
Part 1
Two midgets, members of a traveling troupe, are waiting at the Atlanta
station for a train to New Orleans. The train is due at midnight but it
is late. The dwarfs go into the lunch room for a bite. One of them
drinks two large cups of black coffee, then immediately begins to lament
his indiscretion.
“I had no business doing that,” he pipes to his companion. “Now I know I
won’t sleep a wink till broad daylight.”
The train arrives and the little men get on. The coffee-drinker has a
sleeper ticket calling for Upper Eleven. The other little man holds a
reservation for Upper Twelve.
The porter boosts the diminutive passengers into their respective berths
and the train moves on.
Part 2
On the following morning two traveling-men meet in the washroom of the
Pullman.
“Hello, old chap,” says the first, “I didn’t know you were aboard. What
space did you have last night?”
“I was in Lower Eleven,” said the second man.
“How did you rest?” asks number one.
“Rotten! I guess it must have been a fancy, but I had the feeling that
all night long somebody was walking up and down just over my head.”
§ 326 A Tribute to the Father
Over the alley fence the colored grass widow was calling her small black
offspring.
“Morphy!” she shouted. “Oh, you Morphy! Come yere to me.”
The passing white man was moved by curiosity to halt and ask questions:
“‘Morphy’?—isn’t that rather a curious name for a boy, Aunty?”
“Dat ain’t his full name,” she explained. “Dat’s jest whut I calls ’im
fur short. Dat chile’s full name is Morphine.”
“Well, then, why Morphine?”
“Ain’t you never heered de word ‘Morphine’?”
“Certainly; but never in this connection. Would you mind telling me why
you chose it when you were christening this child?”
“I chose it ’cause it wuz de mos’ suitable one dey wuz. ’Bout de time he
wuz bawn, I heerd one of de w’ite folks readin’ out of a book dat
Morphine wuz de product of a wild poppy.
“An’, Mista, ef evah a chile had a wild poppy, dis is de chile!”
§ 327 The Personal Touch Was Lacking
Among gamblers there is a saying, and a true one, that no matter how
wise a guy may be in his own line he’s always a sucker at some other
fellow’s game. The expert confidence man goes against the crooked
roulette wheel. The promoter of fixed foot-races blows his loot on faro.
It has remained for a sporting person whose specialty is poker to
explain why, in his own case, he fails to garner any profits when he
invades a kindred field of endeavor. He went to Belmont track one day to
play the races. When he returned home in the evening he was penniless.
The hand book-makers had stripped him of his last dollar.
His wife took him to task.
“You certainly are a boob,” she said. “Every time you go to the track
you come home cleaned out. Why is it you always lose there when you
always can win at cards?”
“Well,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about that very thing myself, and I
guess the answer is that I don’t shuffle the horses.”
§ 328 Straight from the Scriptures