A solemn philanthropist was standing at a corner of the Market House
square yesterday making a calculation in his head as to how long it
would take a man to save enough beer money to build Solomon's temple.
While he was musing, a small, slender policeman with a fiery eye came
along, dragging by the wrist a big negro man about twice as large as
himself.
The policeman stopped for a moment on the steps to rest, and the
philanthropist, with a pitying glance, said to the negro:
"My colored friend, what has been the cause of your coming to such a
sorry plight? To what do you attribute your downfall into the clutches
of the law?"
"Whisky, boss," said the negro, rolling his eyes wildly at the
officer.
"Ah, I thought so," said the philanthropist, taking out his note book.
"I am making a memorandum of your case for the benefit of some other
poor wretch who is also struggling with the demon. Now, how did whisky
bring you to this condition?"
"It done it in dis way," said the negro, ducking his head as the
policeman raised his hand to brush a fly off his nose. "I is one ob de
wust niggers in dis town, en dey don't no policeman got sand 'nuff to
try en 'rest me fo' de last two years. Dis mawnin' dis here mis'able
little dried-up ossifer what's got me, goes out an' fills hisse'f up
wid mean whisky till he ain't know what danger he am in, an' he come
an' scoop me up. Dis little runt wid brass buttons wouldn't er tetch
me ef he ain't plum full er whisky. Yes, boss, de whisky am done it,
an' nuffin' else."
The philanthropist put up his note book and walked away, while the
officer whacked the negro over the head a couple of times with his
club and dragged him down the steps, exclaiming:
"Come along 'n shuzzer mouse, you blacksh rascal. Strongarm e'r law
gossher zis time, 'n no mistake."
(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, April 26, 1896.)