THE HORSE REPORTER WANTS A COMPAGNON DE VOYAGE.--THE
STRAPPIN YUNG WIDDER, WOT AIN'T ON THE MASH.--SWEET-FORTY
MAKES A NUTHER MINNYSTEERIAL SKANDAL.
Our horse reporter is a reglar wimmin hater, and he'd walk round a hull
blok, fore he'd meet a gal, wat'd try to flert with him. I guess he's
a grass widder that used to hav a woman, wot maid him tow a chock line,
and he aint never got no divorse from her yet. His affeckshuns is all
lavished on good lookin horses, and he'd giv more for one of them, than
he wuld for Lillie Lan-kry or the hull curboodel of perfesshunal buties.
I alwus did think it was a pitty, for a good lookin man like him, not to
hav sum wimmin, wot was brakin there harts, and everything for him, so
this mornin I sent out notes to a cuppel of gals, wot I thot was warntin
to get mashed, tellin them to call at the _Buster_ offis, & ast for
the Horse Reporter, 'cos he was ded struk on them, and warnted there
compinny, on a trip to Boston tonite.
Bout one 'clock, a grate stout woman, wot looked like a reglar bruisir,
cum inter the offis and enquired for the Horse Reporter. I show'd her
into his room, and shut the dore, just enuf so as I could see all wot
went on.
“Air yer the spalpeen, wot calls hisself the Maire Reporter? sez she.
“I am the horse reporter, madame. Has your mare got the glanders?”
“Me ma got the glanders, yer inserlent puppie, is that fhat yer say?
Me ma wots ben neeth the old sod fer ten yers. Don't cast any
miscomplementry reflecshuns, yung man, on my ma wot dide of
anty-consumpshun, or I'll plant the fore end of me toe nales forninst
the pit of yer stummick in a way wot'll mak yer feel like a he muel had
bruk loose. Air yer the in-dyvidooal wot sent me this invytashun?' sed
she, handin the reporter the note.
“I assure you, madam,” sez he, “there must be some mistak, cos I didn't
never rite this note.”
“Yees didn't, yer rech; is that the way your after crawlin outer it,
after try in to ruin a respectibel widdy like meself? Praps yer don't
think I'm good lookin enuf for yer, yer babby-faced, downey-lipped,
banged-haired, slim-legged, tite-laced, corset-cased, monkey-taled sun
of a noospaper doode. If my Pat was livin he'd giv yer a lessin next
time yer tride to mash a yung widdy like meself, moind that now, will
yer!”
She hadn't hardly got outer the door wen a tall, lone, lank maidin, wot
had seen bout forty sommers and too numerous to menshun winters, cum
salin in, with a slitely ellyvated skurt wot exposed to vue a couple of
wite and blue shafts wot might have been pipe-stems if they hadn't bin
her ankels. Bowin sweetly to the law reporter, she requested to be shown
into the horse reporter's offis.
Soon as I'd showd her in she tuk a chare, wot was purty close to the
Horse Reporters, & sed to him:
“Here I am Georgie, dere. I do feel so nurvus, you kno. I'm so very yung
and inexperienced, and my ma sez a yung and innocent gal lik me ortent
to trust myself to go to Boston with a man. But then, Georgie dere, you
dont look one bit norty. Wont we have a nice time, darlin.” Then she
reched over and kissed him rite on his mouth, and blushed wen she sed,
“Don't Georgie, yer orternter kiss me till we're better aquainted.”
Kissing him agen she sot rite down on his knee, and ex-clamed, in a
horryfied tone: “You horrid, norty boy, if yer do that again, I'll strik
you with a fether, reel hard, so I will.”
All this time the horse reporter was the pikter of despare. Suddenly
espying a up town divine waitin for the Manergin Edit-tur, in the room
opposite, he sed: “My dere madam, your sweetness is all waisted on me,
cos I'm a marreed man, wot had twins last nite. See, in yonder room, is
the Horse Reporter, the man youre looking for.”
By the time she was on the preechers nee, and was goin thru the kissing
per-formanse, the Horse Reporter had the hull staff, lookin thru the
half opened dore, and the fust day the _Busters_ stock of scandals
runs out, we hav one all reddy, bout the minnysteer kissin the madin of
forty.