Not hurrying to, not turning from the goal.
Not mourning for the things that disappear
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear
From what the future veils; but with a whole
And happy heart, that pays the toll
To you and age, and travels on with cheer.
Uncle Madison, stage driver, soldier, planter, historian, a gentleman of
the old school; versed in the classics and current events, most positive
in his deductions. He fought every day and year of the Civil War for the
cause of the South. He had labored every day since Appomattox to better
the conditions he had been active in unsettling. The soul of honor, as
courtly as a king, as keen as a flint, as blunt as a sledge, as tender
as a child.
[Illustration: Uncle Madison]
It was telegraphed all over the country that A. P. Clayton, Mayor of St.
Joe, Mo., and Alfred, were behind the bars in Pittsburgh, Pa. Bill Brown
telegraphed W. E. Joseph, Masonic Temple, Columbus: "Clayton and Field
in jail here, will you help to get them out?" The answer was: "If
Clayton and Alfred are in jail, it's where they belong. W. E. Joseph."
Uncle Madison read of it in the newspapers. He reared and charged. "Bill
Brown nor no other man could put him in jail without suffering for it."
Alfred's explanation did not satisfy Uncle Madison. "It's only Bill's
way of having fun with his friends. No one that goes to Pittsburgh but
Bill plays some sort of a joke on him. We are glad to get off so easy.
We expected him to steal our clothes or have us indicted for
bootlegging. Why, there are a number of people in the west--good
people--who will not go east via Pittsburgh, fearing Bill's practical
jokes."
Pet Clayton, Imperial Potentate of the Shrine, was _compelled_ to visit
Pittsburgh in connection with his official duties. Clayton carried
Alfred with him as protection. Alfred, in his haste, forgot his dress
suit. Arriving in Pittsburgh only a few moments before the ceremonial
session, Bill insisted Alfred wear one of his (Bill's) dress suits; that
it was the rule of the Temple that all must wear dress suits to gain
admission. Bill is wider than Alfred, "thicker through," but not quite
as tall. There was too much space everywhere excepting in the length of
legs and arms of Bill's dress suit, as it encompassed Alfred. No coaxing
or lengthening of the suspenders or pulling at the sleeves could make
Alfred look other than ridiculous. After walking from the Ft. Pitt Hotel
to the Temple, the suit began to "set" to its new conditions. The legs,
seat and sleeves, were drawing up at every breath.
Bill, in introducing the visitors, kindly made apologies for the
condition of Clayton, and the appearance of Alfred, explaining that
Clayton had just come from Louisville, where he was booked for one night
only, but there was more to inspect than he had ever tackled before. He
also assured the Nobility that Alfred owned a dress suit but they would
not permit him to take it out of Columbus; that the suit Alfred wore was
one he had kindly loaned him and he hoped that if anything happened
Alfred those assembled would respect the clothes. When Alfred arose the
next morning to prepare for the automobile ride the local people had
tendered the visitors, his clothes were missing from the room. Bill
Brown and the committee were waiting. "Slip on your overcoat; that will
hide Bill's old suit. You won't be out of the automobile until you
return. This hotel will make that suit good. How much did it cost you?"
"Sixty dollars; well, we'll make them buy you a hundred dollar suit."
Every out of town guest, (Shriners) had lost something from their rooms.
Harrison Dingman was tugging at an odd pair of shoes, a number eight
and a ten, to get ready for the automobile tour. Bill Brown was
everywhere consoling the losers, making notes of the losses pretending
he wanted to bring suit against the hotel.
Alfred and Clayton were hustled into an automobile under Brown's tender
care. As the auto sped on, Clayton remonstrated as to the high speed at
which the machine was traveling. Brown was describing the Carnegie
Technical School. Clayton, seemingly not interested, bluntly informed
Bill he would not ride further at the speed we're going. "I'm too damn
good a man to get killed by one of these machines," declared Clayton.
Brown pretended his feelings were injured. Halting the auto as he
climbed out backwards, he remarked: "I don't want to annoy you,
gentlemen. The educational institution we are now passing is one of the
most noted in the world. I supposed you'd be interested in it. It is one
of which Pittsburghers are justly proud. We take a young man from the
home, pass him through this school and turn him out versed in any
profession or trade."
Clayton said something about an institution in St. Joe that took a hog
from the pen every minute, passed him through and turned him out every
minute, ready for the table. Clayton referred to St. Joe's slaughter
houses.
After Brown left the auto there was no slacking of its speed. Both
Alfred and Clayton remonstrated with the chauffer. He claimed they were
not traveling nearly so rapidly as the machines containing the other
guests; that he did not know their destination and must keep in sight of
them. As Clayton was insisting that the auto be halted, a policeman
threw up his hands, commanding the chauffer to halt, advising all they
were arrested for exceeding the speed limit. Clayton quickly informed
the officers that we were guests, not the owners of the machine; that we
had protested since we entered the park at the high speed; that we were
not to blame and should not be arrested. "I'm not here in Pittsburgh to
break laws that I instruct my officers to enforce. I am the Mayor of St.
Joe and I won't stand for this arrest."
"St. Joe, St. Joe," mused the Irish policeman, "well, uv course, I have
no authority to turn yez loose. There may be a St. Joe but I haven't
heered uf it. There's so meny new korporations springing up around yere,
I exshpect Coryopolis will be havin' a Mayor next an' he'll come in the
city an' want to have immunity fur any crime he may commit. No, you
nabobs wid dese automobiles must be held in check. Ye kilt two
shill-dren and a hog out uv wan family last week."
[Illustration: "It's Done Every Day in St. Joe"]
Clayton led the officer behind the machine. Alfred overheard him offer
the cop two dollars and to set them up to turn the pair loose. "It's
done every day in St. Joe," Clayton confided. The officer shook his head
and remarked:
"I'll have tu take yez down. Get in!" and he pointed with his club to
the open door of the machine. "Climb in! I'll let yez talk to the
sargent." The Mayor of St. Joe and the meek minstrel re-embarked. The
officer sat up beside the chauffer, Clayton slinging it into him every
foot of the way to the station.
There was a crowd outside the door. "Phwat are they pinched fur?"
inquired a ward politician who had a pull, and consequently got a reply
from the cops. "Exceedin' the spheed law in the park," replied the
officer. "They're from out of town, are they?" "Yis," answered the cop.
"The big one claims he's the Mayor of St. Joseph's Academy, er some
other place. The other one has thryed to hide hisself in his overcoat."
They were in front of the Sergeant's desk. Alfred whispered to Clayton:
"Give a fictitious name." Clayton was arguing the case with the
Sergeant. "My name's Clayton. This is Mr. Field, Al. G. Field, of
minstrel fame. He lives in Columbus, Ohio, right near you. He is the
Potentate of Aladdin Temple, Columbus."
[Illustration: "It Will Cost Us Fifty Dollars and Costs"]
"Hold on, Pet, hold on," pleaded Alfred, "I--I--"
"Never mind, Alfred, never mind. Now, I'm the Mayor of a city. I know
just how to handle these matters."
"Well, don't give them my name and pedigree. Handle it without that,"
requested Alfred.
"Put them both together in cell twenty-three and send for the Bertillon
officers. I think you'll find their mugs in the Hall of Fame." Clayton
advised Alfred the Hall of Fame had reference to the Rogue's Gallery.
Clayton clamored for an opportunity to telephone the Chief of Police,
the Director of Public Safety, or some other high mogul. "If I was in
St. Joe, I'd be out of here in two minutes," he excitedly declared.
"Of course you would," assented Alfred, "but you're not in St. Joe.
You're in jail in Pittsburgh, a shake-down town, and it will cost us
fifty and costs, you see if it don't."
"Not on your life it won't. Let me get this fellow on the phone. What's
his name? I met him last night. I'll tell him something," said Clayton.
"Do you know him?" meekly inquired Alfred.
"Know him? Hell? Why, I'm well acquainted with him. I had fifty drinks
with him last night."
"Well, telephone him quick," urged Alfred.
"Hello, hello! This is Clayton, Clayton, C-l-a-y-t-o-n, Clayton. I met
you last night. (Ha-ha-ha). How do you feel? (Oh, all right). Where am I
at? No, no! Pet Clayton, Mayor of St. Joe, Imperial Potentate of
the--hello--gurgle--gurgle," and Pet hung up the phone. "Well, don't
that beat the bugs! Now this fellow knows me but he says he must see me.
He only met me last night, he isn't familiar with my voice. I told him
who I was but he said I might be all right, but he would come out and
investigate."
"It seems to me Bill Brown would come back looking for us. You're the
guest of honor."
This reminder riled Clayton up. "I'll attend to Mr. Brown's case. I put
him where he is. I'll show him something next session of the Imperial
Council."
Just then the jailer thrust a thin loaf of bread part ways between the
bars. Alfred and Pet gazed at the bread as it stuck there. In a moment
the man sat a thin can of water beside the bread. Clayton endeavored to
bribe him to go to a restaurant and bring some real refreshments.
"Phwat wud yez like to eat?"
"Oh, Old Crow or Joe Finch's 'Golden Wedding.'"
"Oh, yez'll git none of those things out here. They wudn't know how to
cook them if they had 'em. Yez'd better have some corned beef and
cabbage. No, this is Friday, yez can't get that. Salt mackerel is the
bhest I can do for yez the day."
Clayton pinched off a crust, with the remark: "I'll eat your bread but
damned if I drink your water."
Clayton swore he could buy the police, the police station, the police
department or anything else in Pittsburgh, but he wouldn't be shook
down. He had endeavored to bribe everyone he came in contact with, but
all refused to accept, even the policeman. Pet confidentially informed
Alfred, as they sat in the dark, dismal cell, that he knew there wasn't
a straight man in Pittsburgh; that being Mayor of St. Joe he had got
next to all the grafting cities in the country. "I will admit to you,
and you are the first man I ever breathed it to, there is a little, very
little, grafting going on in St. Joe." Pet had Pittsburgh people sized
up right, but he applied St. Joe prices and they were rejected.
The old janitor seemed to be taken up greatly with the two prisoners.
"Yez belongs to some kind of a sacret society, don't yez?" he inquired.
Clayton straightened up to his full height. "Yes, we belong to the
Ancient Arabic Order Nobles of the Mystic Shrine of North America." Pet
rolled off the lengthy title so rapidly the old fellow was astounded.
Resting his hands on the cell bars, he gazed admiringly at Clayton fully
a half minute, ere he asked: "Are yez Pope of it?" Later it developed
the janitor was a captain of police, also a Shriner. He played his part
well.
When Bill Brown and McCandless arrived they almost came to blows. Bill
swore they were disgraced. Bill endeavored to borrow the fifty dollar
fine from both Clayton and Alfred. Failing, he borrowed, or pretended to
borrow the amount from McCandless. Clayton and Alfred were liberated,
loaded into an auto, the chauffer ordered to drive slowly to the Work
House. When Clayton and Alfred stepped on to the veranda, the doors were
flung open. On each side of the long tables there was a row of red
fezzes. Under each a Shriner. There was a welcome, and such a welcome as
could only be extended by those who at one time or another have been the
victims of Bill Brown's practical jokes.
To those who are not intimate with Bill Brown, his sense of humor may
appear forced. But his pranks are only the over-flowing exuberance of a
great, big, fun-loving man--a big body--but scarcely big enough to
contain a heart so filled with love for his fellow man. Alvah P. Clayton
thanked the committee, thanked Bill Brown, thanked the police for their
kindly consideration in placing him in jail. He stated that visiting the
city in his official capacity, he had concluded the duties that called
him to Pittsburgh, that he carried on his person money and valuables
representing thousands of dollars. He was compelled to remain in the
city all day and he felt much safer in jail than loose on the streets of
Pittsburgh.
We love men like Bill Brown and Pet Clayton because they are lovable
men. Happy is the man who has that in his soul that acts upon the
dejected mortal as April showers upon violet roots.
Bill Brown has a motto worked on brass, with steel fish-hooks. It hangs
over the mantelpiece in his home, and reads:
"I am an old man; my troubles are many, but most of them never
happened."