Chapter III: Foreword (3)

It seemed that for several days before his arrest the prisoner had been lurking about the bazaars, a butt for gamins and the despair of those who sought to interrogate him. As much for his own protection as for any other motive the police had locked him up. Now the assistance of Capt. Abdullah as translator was solicited.

Abdullah accompanied the puzzled functionary to the prison. In a corner of a cell crouched a huge black man staring with apprehensive, sullen eyes at the newcomers. It was evident that he was of some African stock; also it was plain that he was in a badly frightened state. He was clad in a nondescript costume of tatters which he had picked up somewhere—the sandals of an Arabian, a Turkish fez and the ragged remains of a donkey driver’s robe.

Being admitted to the cell, the volunteer interpreter proceeded to fire simple questions at the captive, first in French, then in Afghan and then in Ashantee, in Turkish, in Tibetan, in Greek, in Chinese, in Persian and in Batu. There was no response; the black merely continued to glower at him dumbly. So then Abdullah tried him in some of the tongues of the Sahara Desert and in the clucking dialects of one or two Congo tribes and finally in Zuluese, with which he was also more or less familiar. Still the hunched-up figure gave no sign of understanding.

In despair Abdullah gave it up. “I wonder,” he said aloud to himself in English, “what in thunder you are, anyway?”

With a bellow of thanksgiving the prisoner leaped to his feet.

“Boss,” he whooped, “I’se a Free Will Baptist!”

And so he was—a country darky from Alabama who had shipped on a tramp steamer out of New Orleans, had deserted off the African coast, swimming ashore naked, and had for days past been dodging about the native quarters, growing hourly more bewildered and more desperate in these strange surroundings.

§ 62 Enough of a Good Thing

In September of 1918 Col. Bozeman Bulger, in charge of the press bureau of the A. E. F., was driving in his car up toward the front on the afternoon of a day when there had been hard fighting with the stubborn Germans. Limping down the high road on the way from the forward trenches to rest billets came a company of infantry, or what was left of it, just relieved after more than a week of practically continuous service under fire.

The officer in command was a lanky youth of perhaps twenty-two whose face was gray with exhaustion. He hailed Bulger, asking for something to smoke. He had been without tobacco, he said, for four days—without food, too, for most of that time.

Bulger left his car and he and the youth sat down together in a convenient shell hole to pass the time of day. Between long, grateful puffs on a cigarette the youth discoursed of his recent experiences in the slow drawl of a Southwesterner.

“Major,” he said, “we’ve had it pretty toler’ble tough these last few days—the Heinies shelling us day and night, communication interrupted and liaison broken, no chow to speak of, no makin’s, no nothing except mud and wet and the chances of being blown into little scraps.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve had pretty rough sledding ever since I got over here, and that’s more than a year ago. I haven’t had any leave—they seem to have overlooked me when they were passing out the trips to Paris—and I’ve been working my head off when I wasn’t in the line on active duty. And now finally, to top off with, we have this week up front.”

“Where are you from?” asked Bulger.

“Texas,” replied the youth. “Yes, sir, I was teaching school down there when we got into this war. I had a mother dependent on me, and while I wanted to go and do my bit I thought it better on my mother’s account that I should wait until the draft took me. But while I was trying to decide Senator Morris Sheppard came to our town and made a recruiting speech. He said it was high time we were satisfying our national honor. Well, sir, that phrase hit me right where I lived. The next day I went in as a volunteer, and after a spell I got a commission—and here I am.

“Major, I don’t regret having done what I did do. If it was to do over again I reckon I wouldn’t hesitate. But, Major, as I look back on what I’ve gone through with ever since I landed, I don’t mind telling you, in strict confidence, that my national honor is dern near satisfied!”

§ 63 Absolutely Bored by the Whole Thing

A youth in southeastern Missouri became involved in legal proceedings as the result of the mysterious disappearance of a neighbor’s mare and the upshot was that a jury went so far as to find him guilty of horse-stealing and the judge gave him a sentence of five years at hard labor. A friend of mine defended him at his trial.

Some months after his late client had been taken away to begin serving his sentence this friend was sitting one morning in his office when the door opened and there entered the father of the youth, an elderly bearded hillsman.

“Hal,” began the newcomer, “I come to see you to git you to do somethin’ ’bout my boy Wesley Junior.”

“Well, Uncle Wes,” said the lawyer, “I don’t believe there is anything I can do. You remember how hard I worked for him at his trial—how I sweated down two or three collars over yonder in that courthouse and how I wasted all the oratory I had in my system and how I snapped both my suspenders. But in spite of all I could say, you know as well as I do what happened. The case went against us and the Judge gave Wesley five years in the State penitentiary and there he is!”

“Yas, suh, Hal,” said the father. “Wesley Junior, is up thar in that there penitentiary and that’s jest the p’int! I got a letter frum him this mawnin’. And he told me to come to see you and to tell you to git him out of that place right-away—he’s plum dissatisfied.”

§ 64 The Question Categorical

There is a certain young actor in New York, a player of romantic swashbuckler parts who, when he is sober, is one of the gentlest and most companionable of men. But when he indulges in strong water his nature changes. He becomes dogmatic, disputatious, and occasionally quarrelsome. Such times he delights to corner some inoffensive acquaintance and pin him down to a definite position on this subject or that and then debate the point for hours on end.

One night, being in one of these alcoholically promoted moods, he trapped a friend against the bar of a certain club. The latter wished not to argue with any one on any topic whatsoever. But the actor would not have it so.

“You go ’round saying you know so mush, don’t you?” he demanded belligerently. “You go ’round saying you know so many people in this town, don’t you? Thatsh kinda fellow you are, ain’t you—huh?”

“Not at all,” protested the hapless friend, “I never——”

“Pleash don’t contradict me,” said the actor; “thatsh no way to carry on argument between gen’men. Lemme get through stating my side and then I’ll lisshen to you. You go ’round saying you know more people in this club than I know, don’t you? Just answer me that!”

“Why, I never said any such——”

“Kin’ly lemme get word in edgeways, if you please,” said the actor with elaborate politeness. “You say you know more members of thish club ’en I do—more than anybody knows? A’right, then, you answer me thish: Do you know Jerome Lawrence—he’sh member here?”

“Certainly, I know him,” said the badgered one, thinking he saw a loophole. “As it happens, I also know his brother, Oscar, who looks so much like him.”

“Ah, hah!” exulted the intoxicated one, with the air of having led an unwilling witness into a damaging admission. “You say you know Jerome Lawrence and you say you know his brother Oscar that looks so mush like him? Well, then, if you know so mush, you tell me thish: Whish one of ’em looks the most alike?”

§ 65 Before or After Taking?

A well-dressed party, who was far overtaken in alcoholic stimulant, stumbled into a restaurant, slumped into a handy chair at a table and gave unmistakable evidence that he was about to enjoy a refreshing slumber. A waitress shook him by the arm.

“What is it you want?” she asked.

“Dearie,” he said drowsily, “what have you?”

“Almost anything in the food line.”

“Ver’ well, then,” he said, “bring me almost anything in the food line.”

“How about a nice salad?” she asked, on a venture.

“That’d be lovely, dearie,” he assented. “Glad you thought of it—shows you got a good mind—quick thinker, everything like that. Bring me nice salad.”

“What sort of a salad?”

“That, dearie, I leave to your superior judgment,” he said. “You been here longer than I have.”

The girl went away, returning presently with a bowl of hearts of lettuce and sliced tomatoes, with an abundance of Russian dressing poured over the combination. The patron was now sound asleep. She slipped the order past his elbow and left it there where his eyes would fall upon it when he opened them.

Presently he did open his eyes. As though spellbound he contemplated that which confronted him. He took a fork and gently he stirred the contents of the bowl. Then with his free hand he beckoned the young woman to his side.

“Dearie,” he said, “drunk or sober or drinking, as is the case at present, my aim is ever to be a gen’man. Far be it from me to do anythin’ which would bring reproach upon me as a gen’man or upon the fair and unsullied name of thish noble ’stablishment. But, dearie, in justish to all concerned, it becomes nes’ary for me to ash you a queshun.”

“What’s your question?” she said snappily.

“Well,” he said, “I drift off in slumber. I wake up, and right here under my nose I find thish.” And again with his fork he daintily agitated a frond of dressing-soaked lettuce. “So, therefore, dearie, the queshun is as follows: Do I eat this—or DID I?”

§ 66 A Time for All Things

It was an irate Iowa farmer of the old-fashioned type who sat him down, pen in hand, and wrote an indignant letter to a concern which made a specialty of selling plumbing supplies to rural patrons.

“I have got a kick to make,”—thus the farmer wrote. “Early last spring your agent came through this district taking orders for your patent porcelain bath tub. Some of the neighbors give him their names and so nothing would do but that my wife and daughter should have one for our house and they kept after me until I give your man my name too and told him to send me one of his tubs.

“Well, that was in the early part of April. April passed and also May and no sign of that bath tub. So I wrote to you telling you to hurry on up and deliver me that there tub. Nothing was done and so June went by and July and then August.

“And now here, when it’s the middle of September and the bathing season practically over for the year, you people are trying to make me take that dern tub.”

§ 67 Tuesday Would Be Just Like Sunday

On the occasion of a local election in a small Tennessee town an old colored man was the only member of his race who voted the Democratic ticket. It was felt that this devotion to the cause of the Caucasian—as it prevailed in that vicinity—was deserving of recognition.

Accordingly the incoming administration promptly created a department of street cleaning—something of which the municipality had never seriously felt the need before. This department was to consist of two members, namely, a foreman or superintendent and a staff of one. Naturally, to a white man went the job of foreman but upon the worthy old black man was conferred the honor of being the staff.

Now he had the idea, which is not uncommon among other political appointees, that holding a public office meant regular wages and considerable glory and no appreciable amount of manual exertion. Nevertheless on the Monday morning when he reported for duty, as a concession to the conventionalities, he did bring a shovel along with him.

But the white man who had been selected as superintendent had a very different idea of the obligations which he owed the municipality. No sooner had the old negro shoveled up one of the accumulated piles of vintage rubbish of the years from the public thoroughfare than the vigilant eye of the boss spied out at least half a dozen more similar mounds which to his way of thinking seemed to require immediate attention.

As a consequence it was 4 o’clock in the afternoon before the surprised and chagrined and pained old man had time to blow on the plump, new formed blisters in the palm of his hands or to rub the cricks out of his back. Finally in a lull in the operations he straightened his spine with an almost audible creak, and as he wrung the dew of unwonted toil from his forehead he inquired of his superior:

“Look here, mister, ain’t you got nothin’ to do ’ceptin’ jes’ to think up things fur me to do?”

“Yep,” said the white man briskly, “that’s all my job—just to keep you busy.”

“Well, suh,” said the old man softly, “in dat case you’ll prob’ly be pleased to know dat you ain’t goin’ be workin’ tomorrer.”

§ 68 A Sort of Circulating Medium, as It Were

An auctioneer’s man had been sent to a household to list its contents. Nothing of especial interest, either to himself or to others, marked the course of his labors until he had progressed so far as the dining room. Here, following his routine, he proceeded to enumerate the furnishings in proper order, item by item.

In his flowing professional script he set down the tally in his book:

One mahogany dining room table.

Six mahogany dining chairs.

One mahogany sideboard.

One bottle Scotch whiskey, full.

Seemingly, then, ensued a period when the appraiser was otherwise engaged and made no entries whatsoever. Then, in a somewhat struggling and uncertain handwriting, he scratched out the last item and concluded his labors for the day with the following notations:

One bottle Scotch whiskey, partially full.

One revolving Turkish rug.

§ 69 A Service to the Whole Land

In the early summer of 1918 three of us made a long trip by automobile to pay a visit to a colored regiment at the front in France. The results more than repaid us for the time and trouble. One of the main compensations was First Class Private Cooksey, who, because he had been an elevator attendant in a Harlem apartment house, gave his occupation in his enlistment blank as “indoor chauffeur.” It was to First Class Private Cooksey that the Colonel of the regiment, seeing the expression on the others’ faces when a shell from a German mortar fell near by on the day the command moved up to the front, put this question:

“Cooksey, if one of those things drops right here alongside of us and goes off, are you going to stay by me?”

“Kurnel,” stated Cooksey with sincerity, “I ain’t aimin’ to tell you no lie. Ef one of them things busts clost to me I’ll jest natchelly be obliged to go away frum here. But please, suh, don’t you set me down as no deserter. Jest put it in de book as ‘Absent without leave,’ ’cause I’ll be back jest ez soon ez I kin git my brakes to work.”

“But what if the enemy suddenly appears in force without any preliminary bombardment?” pressed the Colonel. “What do you think you and the rest of the boys will do then?”

“Kurnel,” said Cooksey, earnestly, “we may not stick by you, but we’ll shore render one service, anyway: we’ll spread de news all over France ’at de Germans is comin’!”

§ 70 Deportment Taught by Wire

There was a so-called financial wizard who advertised to give lessons by mail which would enable patrons to prosper in their speculations.

A subscriber down in the Southwest found himself in difficulties as a result of following the directions for playing the grain market as laid down by the expert. He wrote a letter to this effect:

“You told me if I got into trouble I was to communicate with you and you would tell me how to act. Well, I done just what you said about buying winter wheat and I am now busted. How shall I act? Please wire.”

By wire promptly came back the answer:

“Act like you are busted!”

§ 71 Speaking of Carrier Pigeons

Speaking of carrier pigeons—although no one has done so—reminds me of a yarn that was related at the front in 1918. A half company of a regiment in the Rainbow Division, on going forward early one morning in a heavy fog for a raid across No Man’s Land, carried along with the rest of the customary equipment a homing pigeon. The pigeon in its wicker cage swung on the arm of a private, who likewise was burdened with his rifle, his extra rounds of ammunition, his trenching tool, his pair of wire cutters, his steel helmet, his gas mask, his emergency ration and quite a number of other more or less cumbersome items.

It was to be a surprise attack behind a cloak of the fog, so there was no artillery preparation as the squads climbed over the top and advanced into the mist-hidden beyond. Behind, in the posts of observation and in the post of command, the Colonel and his aides and his intelligence officers waited for the sound of firing. When after some minutes the distant rattle of the rifle fire came to their ears they began calculating how long reasonably it might be before word reached them by one or another medium of communication touching on the results of the foray. But the ground telephone remained mute, and no runner returned through the fog with tidings. The suspense increased as time passed.

Suddenly a pigeon sped into view, flying close to the earth. While eager eyes followed it in its course the winged messenger circled until it located its portable cote just behind the Colonel’s position and fluttering down it entered its familiar shelter.

An athletic member of the staff hustled up the ladder. In half a minute he was tumbling down again, clutching in one hand the little scroll of paper that he had found fastened about the pigeon’s leg. With fingers that trembled in anxiety the Colonel unrolled the paper and read aloud what was written upon it.

What he read, in the hurried chirography of a kid private, was the following succinct statement: “I’m tired of carrying this damn bird.”

§ 72 Total Loss!

For the first time in the history of the State—it was a Southern State—an electrocution took place within the walls of the State prison. The Legislature, keeping step with the march of progress and civilization, had ordered the installation of an electric chair to take the honored place of the old-fashioned slip-noose under the left ears of the fathers.

A negro “trusty” was an unwilling witness to the first performance under the new arrangement. The warden had detailed him as helper to the paid executioner. He issued forth from the lethal chamber with popped eyes and ashen face.

A group of his fellow convicts knotted about him, anxious to hear the grisly details. He proceeded to elucidate:

“Well, suhs,” he said, with a shiver, “they teks an’ strops you down, hand an’ foot, in a big cheer. An’ den they clamps some lil’ things onto yo’ haid an’ yo’ laigs. An’ den one of de w’ite men he step over to whar they’s a little jigger set in de wall an’ he give it a lil’ yank—zzz—like dat!”

Here he paused and fetched a deep breath.

“Whut den? whut den?” came the chorus.

“Nothin’ but ruin—jes’ absolute ruin!”

§ 73 With All Good Wishes

The colonel of one of our negro regiments serving in France during the world war impressed it upon the rank and file of his command that in the field a soldier addressing his superior officer invariably should have regard for correct military procedure and for correct military language. The lesson must have gone home, because now among the treasured possessions of that colonel is a certain document sent by runner from a forward trench to company headquarters back of the second line of defense.

On a scrap of paper, with a stub of pencil, the author of the communication, a much-harried black corporal then undergoing his baptism of shelling, wrote as follows:

“To Lieutenant Seth B. McClintock,

“Commanding Company F.—Blank Regimen’

“Blank Division, A. E. F., U. S. A.

“Dear Sir—I am being fired on heavily from the left. I await
your instructions.

“Trusting these few lines will find you the same, I remain,

“Yours truly,
“James Jordon.”

§ 74 A Start from Humble Beginnings

Mr. Campbell, who was a lawyer, felt somewhat irritated on reaching his office at 8:30 in the morning to find the fire in the grate unkindled and the floor unswept and the place generally in a state of disorder. It was nearly 9 o’clock before Ike, his black office servant, appeared.

“Good Lord, Ike,” said Mr. Campbell petulantly. “What’s detained you?”

“Mist’ Campbell,” apologized Ike, “you must please, suh, ’scuse me fur bein’ late dis one time. I sort of overslept myse’f. De truth of de matter is dat I wuz kept up de best part of de night on ’count of j’inin’ a lodge.”

“It surely didn’t take you all night to join a lodge, did it?”

“Naw, suh, not perzac’ly. De fust part of de evenin’ they wuz ’niciatin’ me into de membership an’ de rest of de time dey wuz ’onductin’ me into office.”

“Isn’t it rather unusual to confer an office on a member immediately after taking him in?”

“Naw suh, dat’s de standin’ rule in dat lodge—jes’ soon ez you is ’niciated you gits a office.”

“What office did they confer upon you?”

“Imperial Supreme King.”

“What?”

“Dat’s whut dey calls it—Imperial Supreme King of de Universe.”

“Isn’t that rather a high office for a brand new member?”

“Why, naw, suh, Mist’ Campbell, dat’s de lowes’ office dey is in dat lodge. W’en I’s been in a spell longer dey is goin’ give me somethin’ really wuth while.”

§ 75 The Confusing Geography of Jersey

Years ago, when I earned my daily bread and occasional beer on Park Row, one Andy Horn ran a cozy bar in the shadow of Brooklyn Bridge. A grubby person known as Smitty was a fixture at Andy’s. He cut up food for the free lunch counter, did odd jobs and in rush hours helped to serve the trade.

He had been born on Cherry Hill, right around the corner; he had been reared on the Bowery and he had never ranged farther than Coney Island or Far Rockaway. Greater New York city was all the world he knew or cared to know.

His sister married a market gardener over in New Jersey, and when his summertime vacation came Smitty went to visit her for two weeks. His new brother-in-law had bought a car and had promised to tour Smitty about the State and show him the sights.

At the end of a week Smitty was back at work. One of the regular patrons hailed him:

“Hey, Smitty, I thought you were going to stay longer. Didn’t you care for country life?”

“Nix on dat stuff fur me,” said Smitty. “I’m offen it fur life. Say, dat Joisey soitinly is one funny place. Why, all dem towns over there is got different names!”

§ 76 With Credit to S. Blythe

Sam Blythe claims this is a true one. Maybe he is right; Sam generally is.

He says a Washington wholesaler wished to learn the relative qualities of two brands of mucilage. He handed one bottle of each brand to his negro janitor.

“Henry,” he said, “take these and test them and see which one is the stickier.”

Hours passed before Henry reappeared. Wearing a somewhat unhappy, not to say distressed, expression, he entered his employer’s office and placed the two bottles on the latter’s desk.

“Well, Henry,” said the jobber, “what’s the result of your experiments?”

“Boss,” stated Henry, “it’s lak dis: Dis yere one gummed up my mouth the most; but dis yere other one, the taste lasted the longest.”

§ 77 When the H. C. of L. Came Down

As I heard the tale it had to do with a small community in Texas where the railroad ran through the main street and on either side of the track stood a short order restaurant owned and operated by a colored man.

One night the official bad man of the vicinity came lurching into one of these rival establishments. The visitor was under the influence of strong drink—a circumstance calculated to make him slightly more dangerous than rattlesnakes.

While the uneasy proprietor made pretense at being glad to see him the bully flopped his long frame into a chair and demanded:

“Nigger, have you got a nice tender sirloin steak here?”

“Yas, suh!”

“All right, then; you cook it fur me and don’t you cook it too long else I’ll cook you. And along with it you better bring me some fried onions and fried potatoes and some celery and a mess of hot biscuits and green peas and roasting ears and pie and coffee and anything else tasty that you’ve got around this dump. Now jump before I start jumpin’ you.”

The black man jumped. In a miraculously short time, considering the magnitude of the order, he staggered in from his cubby-hole of a kitchen at the rear bearing a waiter tray piled high with dishes. He ranged the array of food in a half moon effect before his patron and then fluttered back a few paces.

When the bad man had eaten he leaned back in his chair, drew a spring-back dirk knife out of his pocket, flipped its five-inch blade out with a nudge of a practiced thumb and leisurely picked his teeth with its needle-like point. His caterer watched him as a fascinated bird watches a coiled serpent.

Suddenly he spoke and the negro jumped.

“What sort of a dump does that other nigger over acrost the tracks run?” he asked.

“Oh, you wouldn’t lak dat place a-tall,” stated the colored man. “Dat nigger natchelly thinks a fly is somethin’ you cooks wid. He ain’t sanitatious, lak I aims to be.”

“Yes,” said the bully, “and whut’s more, he’s a robber—he’s a regular pirate.”

“Is dat so, suh?”

“Well, judge for yourself. Last night I went into that nigger’s joint and ordered just about what I’ve had here to-night—maybe a little more, maybe a little less. When I got through I asked him what the damage was and, do you know, that black scoundrel had the gall to ask me for a dollar and a quarter? Of course I oughter killed him. In fact, I got up intendin’ to kill him. But something sort of stayed my hand. All I done to him was just to cut off both his ears with this here frog-sticker and feed ’em to him. By the way, what do I owe you for this mess of vittles?”

“Boss,” said the darky, “I reckon a dime would be ample.”

§ 78 How to Beat the System

The late “Tiny” Maxwell was a sporting writer in Philadelphia. He was called “Tiny” because he weighed nearly three hundred pounds. He had a ready wit.

Because he was an expert at football and also because back in his college days he was a gridiron star of magnitude, Mr. Maxwell frequently was called upon to referee games along the Eastern Seaboard.

One afternoon he was officiating at a match between Georgetown, which, as everybody knows, is a Catholic institution, and a team representing a Southern university. In an interval one of the Southern players limped up to Maxwell.

“Mr. Referee,” he said, “I want to make a protest. There’s one of those Georgetown men that seems to have a private grudge against me. Every time we two get in a scrimmage together he bites me. Yes, sir, he just hauls off and bites me. I don’t want to start any rough house stuff, but I’m getting good and tired of having that big Irishman biting on me. What had I better do?”

“I should advise,” said Maxwell, “that you play him only on Fridays.”

§ 79 An Echo from 1865

I rather guess they have been telling this one ever since the War between the States. Indeed, for all I know to the contrary it may date back as far as the first and second Punic wars. For a good story never really dies. It merely goes into retirement for a season or a decade or a century and rises up again when occasion suits, with its youth miraculously restored.

The narrative runs that in the last days of the war a ragged, wornout, hungry, half-crippled, half-dead Confederate straggler was limping along a Virginia highway striving to catch up with his command. Where there was a puddle in the ruts he stopped to bathe his bruised and bleeding feet. As he sat at the roadside dabbling his swollen toes in the water a Union skirmisher, well fed and lusty, stepped from behind a tree with his musket raised to his shoulder and yelled out exultantly:

“Now I got you!”

“Yas,” drawled the Southerner, “an’ a hell of a git you got!”

§ 80 There’d Be a Popular Uprising

The revivalist was the mouthpiece of a new cult. In his interpretations of the Scriptures he saw no possible hope for any member of the human family who refused to accept his particular brand of religion.

Before an awe-struck congregation he was describing what would come to pass with regard to those stiff-necked and perverse non-believers who were found outside the fold on the day of judgment.

“My brethren,” he clarioned, “there is no middle course. By the word of the Holy Writ I have proved to you that mankind either must take the true doctrine as it has been expounded here or accept the awful consequences. I can close my eyes and see the picture right now.

“Over there in shining robes stand the little group of the elect and the saved. And down below in the fiery pits of perdition millions of the unregenerate are roasting in the undying fires through all eternity while the minions of the Devil heap hot coals upon their heads and give them molten lead when they beg for water to cool their parched tongues. That, my brethren, is what will come to pass.”

From the body of the house a small elderly gentleman rose up.

“Excuse me for interruptin’,” he said, “but there ain’t no chance fur sich a thing to happen. Why, the people jest natchelly wouldn’t stand fur it.”

§ 81 From the Book of Moses

Mose Morris used to live near Frankfort, Ky. He was a small, meek person of color who cultivated a truck patch for a living, and was generally liked by the white population. He remained a bachelor until he was nearing middle age.

Then, in an unthoughted hour, he suffered himself to be shackled in the holy bonds of wedlock with a large, truculent, overbearing black woman nearly twice his size. He led his bride away to his little house seven miles from town.

Within two weeks’ time he came driving into Frankfort in a two-mule wagon, which was piled high with household effects. As he crossed the bridge over the Kentucky River a white gentleman hailed him.

“Why, hello, Mose! Where are you going with all that plunder?”

“I’se movin’, Mist’ Bob,” answered Mose.

“Movin’ where?”

“Movin’ into town—done rented a lil’ house down back behint de L. and N. depot.”

“Why, I thought you liked the country?” said the white man.

“I used to lak it,” said Mose. “I used to lak it powerful. But my wife she don’t lak the country. An’ yere lately I’ve tuck notice, Mist’ Bob, dat w’en my wife don’t lak a thing I jest natchelly hates it.”

§ 82 Almost Startling, Really

In the days when Frank A. Munsey was in active editorial charge of his various publications he had a serious-minded office boy who took things literally—and with due deliberation.

One day Congressman Thomas B. Reed, then Speaker of the House, came from Washington to New York and dropped into the office of _Munsey’s Magazine_ to see its proprietor. Between the famous publisher and the famous statesman a close bond of friendship existed—they were both sons of Maine, and they had been intimate associates for years.

The bulky Reed stepped into the anteroom and without giving his name said he wished to see Mr. Munsey. The office boy told him Mr. Munsey was in conference and invited the caller to have a seat. More than half an hour passed before the caller was admitted to the inner room. Then he told Mr. Munsey how he had been kept waiting.

Indignantly the latter issued forth and descended upon the youthful keeper of the outer gates.

“Do you know who that gentleman is that you’ve kept dawdling about here?” he demanded. “That is the Hon. Thomas B. Reed of Maine!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Munsey,” said the youth. “I thought all the time it was Dr. John Hall.”

“But don’t you know that Dr. Hall is dead?” said Mr. Munsey.

“Yes, sir,” said Truthful James, “that was what made it seem so strange to me that he should be calling.”

§ 83 A Violent Indisposition

A colored man, on appearing for work one morning, wore a countenance so battered that almost one might have been pardoned for assuming that its owner had made a more or less successful effort to run it through a meat chopper. The white man for whom the scarred and bruised victim worked took one look at that disfigured face and threw up both hands in horror and sympathy.

“Great heavens, boy,” he cried, “what have you been doing to yourself?”

“Me? I ain’t been doin’ nothin’ to myse’f,” explained the darky. “But somethin’ is done been did to me, Mr. Watkins. It’s lak dis, suh: Yistiddy evenin’ I got into a kind of an argymint wid another nigger an’ one word led to another, ez it will. An’ purty soon I up an’ hauled off an’ hit at him wid my fist.

“Well, seemed lak that irritated him. So he took an’ split my lip wide open wid a pair of brass knucks, an’ he blacked dis eye of mine clear down to my armpit an’ he tore one ear moughty nigh loose frum de side of my haid, an’ den, to cap all, he knocked me down and stomped up an’ down ’pun my stomach wid his feet. . . . Honest to Gawd, Mr. Watkins, I never did git so sick of a nigger in all my life!”

§ 84 The Simplest of Remedies

In Owen county, Ky., there formerly resided a self-ordained oracle on all questions pertaining to subjects of farming, horse raising and hog guessing. To him one day, as he sat on a horse block facing the public square at Owenton, came a pestered young husbandman from the knobs along the Kentucky River with this question:

“Uncle Hamp, how am I going to get shet of sassafras sprouts? The pesky dern things have jest about took an old field of mine. I’ve tried choppin’ em out and plowin’ ’em under and burnin’ ’em over, but they keep on gittin’ thicker and thicker all the time. It seems I can’t git rid of ’em noway. Whut would you advise?”

“My son,” said the wise man, “I don’t want to brag, but I reckon you ain’t made no mistake in comin’ to me—you’ve struck on to one man that’s fitten to advise you in this here matter ef anybody on this earth is. Man and boy, I’ve been givin’ the subject of sassafras sprouts my earnest attention fur goin’ on sixty years. And it’s my deliberatic judgment that when sassafras sprouts starts to takin’ a farm the only way you kin git rid of ’em is jest to pack up and move off and leave ’em.”

§ 85 Proving There’s Something in a Name

I once knew a colored child called “Exey” for short, whose real name was Eczema. The mother of the pickaninny had found the word in a patent medicine almanac and had fallen in love with its poetic sound. I also included in my acquaintance at one time a negro youth who answered to the title of Hallowed Harris.

“Yas, suh,” stated his father on being pressed for his reason for choosing so unusual a baptismal prefix for his offspring, “I got dat name outen de Holy Bible. Don’t you ’member, boss, whar it say in de Lawd’s Prayer, ‘Hallowed be Thy name’?”

But the Testamental name which struck me as being most interesting of all was worn by a dog—a mangy appearing, breedless, nondescript rabbit dog which trailed an old darky on a road in the piny woods of South Georgia. The dog ranged off into the thickets and his owner ordered him back.

“Did I hear you calling that dog ‘Rover,’ Uncle?” asked a white man.

“Naw, suh, I called him ‘Over,’ w’ich is short for ‘Mo’over,’ w’ich it is de dawg’s right name.”

“Where did you get that name and why?”

“Fur good reasons, boss,” said the old man, with a chuckle. “W’en I gits dat dawg he’s jest little scabby pup an’ alluz ’nointin’ of hisse’f wid his tongue. So I ’members whar de Good Book say, ‘An’ de dawg, Mo’over, licked his sores.’ So I knowed den I had done hit on de right name fur dat pup of mine.”

§ 86 Question: How Far Did George Go?

The white man was named Ferguson. He owned a string of two-room frame cottages and his tenants exclusively were colored. Very great was his chagrin when a negro man in a fit of pique cut a woman’s throat in one of his houses so that she bled to death, leaving a large dark stain on the floor, because immediately the word spread among the black population that the building was haunted and thereafter nobody would rent it, even at reduced rates. For months the cottage stood empty. Then the owner had a bright idea. He went one evening and hunted up a large dark individual named George, upon whom, by way of beginning, he conferred a drink out of a bottle of corn spirits.

“George,” said he, “these darkies tell me you know quite a lot about h’ants and ghosts and such things?”

“Well, suh, Mist’ Ferguson,” replied George modestly, “I does know a right smart ’bout sich.”

“That’s good,” said the wily white man. “I’m rather an authority myself on such matters. Now, then, speaking as one expert to another, I want to tell you that shack of mine out here on Clay street, where that woman was killed, is not haunted. She died in a state of grace and her spirit rests in peace.

“But the trouble is that these colored people around this town don’t know it and they’ve given the place a bad name. What I want to do is to prove to them that it’s not ha’nted. And here’s the way we’re going to do it—you and me. I’m going to hire you to spend to-night in the room where the killing took place. Then, when you come out to-morrow morning and tell your people that nothing happened there during the night, I’ll be able to rent the house again. I’m going to give you the rest of this bottle of liquor now and a fresh bottle besides. And to-morrow morning I’ll hand you a ten-dollar bill. How about it?”

That slug of corn whisky already was working. It made George valiant. Besides, a white man had appealed to him for professional aid. He consented—after another lusty pull at the flask.

The crafty Ferguson took no chances. He escorted his newly enlisted aid to the house of tragedy, provided him with a pallet on the floor and left him there in the gathering darkness. But before departing he took the precaution of barring the two windows from the outside and securely locking the front and rear doors.

Next morning bright and early he came to release his brother expert. The windows still were shuttered, the doors still fastened tight; but the house was empty. Also it was in a damaged state. At one side the thin clapboards were burst through, as though a blunt projectile traveling at great speed had struck them with terrific force from within. The shattered ends of planking stood forth, encircling the jagged aperture in a sort of sunburst effect.

Upon a splintered tip of one of the boards was a wisp of kinky wool. Upon a paling of the yard fence was a rag, evidently ripped from a shirt sleeve. Otherwise there were no signs of George. He was utterly gone, with only that yawning orifice in the cottage wall to give a clue as to the manner of his departure.

Mr. Ferguson waited all through the day for the missing one to turn up. On the second day the white man gave the alarm. A search party was organized—men on horseback with dogs. Bloodhounds took the trail. They followed it from early morning until late that evening.

Just before dusk, in a swamp thirty miles away the lead-dog bayed exultantly. The pursuing posse, with Ferguson in the lead, spurred forward.

Here came the missing George. His face was set toward home. It was a face streaked with dust and dried sweat, torn by briers, wet, drawn, gray with fatigue. His garments were in shreds; his hat was gone. His weary legs tottered under him as he dragged one sore foot after the other.

Yet in the heart of Mr. Ferguson indignation was stronger than compassion. He rode up alongside the spent and wavering pedestrian.

“Well, by heck, you certainly are the most unreliable nigger in this State!” he said. “Here night before last I make a contract with you for a certain job. I leave you in one of my houses. I come there the next morning and not only are you gone without leaving any word, but one side of my house is busted out. And then I have to leave my business to come hunting for you. And after riding all over the country I find you here, thirty miles from home, in a swamp. Where in thunder have you been since I last saw you, forty-eight hours ago?”

“Boss,” said George, “I’ve been comin’ back.”

§ 87 Natural Proof

When the weather gets unseasonably warm I deem the time suitable for reviving a story which I first heard at the Republican National Convention in Chicago in 1920. As may be recalled by those who attended that convention, the entire country from coast to coast sweltered through the week under a blanket of terrific heat.

A delegate from California, in a half fluid state, fell off of a transcontinental train. A Chicago friend met him at the station.

“Say, old man,” said the friend when greetings had been exchanged, “is it as hot out West as it is here on the lake?”

“Is it as hot out West?” repeated the newly arrived one. “Say, don’t make me laugh. You people here in the Corn Belt don’t know what heat it. Listen, I’ll illustrate to you just how hot it is on the other side of the Rockies. Coming across the Arizona desert day before yesterday I looked out of the car window and I saw a coyote chasing a jack rabbit—and they were both walking!”

§ 88 A Domicile for All Eternity

One of the surest tests of the excellence of a story is whether or not it speedily reaches the stage. Some stories no doubt originate there—born in the minds of patter-comedians or monologists; but the majority I think are built up on a foundation of fact elsewhere and then by adoption go into the theater.

Here is a sample. It had to do with a couple of darkies in Memphis.

One of them, who posed as bad, had just announced his intention of breaking into a chitterling supper where his presence was not desired. His companion followed him to the door.

“I’ll be waitin’ fur you outside yere,” he stated.

“Ef you ain’t gwine in wid me tain’t no use fur you to be hangin’ ’bout,” said the truculent one.

“Oh, yas, dey is,” said the friend. “I’ll wait ’round to carry you to yo’ home after dem niggers in dere gits through wukkin’ on you.”

“Not a chancet!” proclaimed the first negro, vaingloriously; “’sides w’ich I ain’t got no home.”

“Oh, dat’s all right,” murmured his friend softly. “I’m gwine dig you one.”

§ 89 The Man Who Was Thursday

Two men, strangers to each other, but having something in common in that they had been indulging in potent home brews, fell into a hiccoughy conversation on the back platform of a suburban trolley car whizzing across the New Jersey landscape.

“Shay,” inquired Number One, “whuz time is it?”

Number Two with difficulty extracted from his fob pocket a watch; but a temporary defect of vision prevented him from making out the position of the two hands. Nevertheless he did his best to oblige.

“It’s izactly Thurshday afternoon,” he said.

Number One gave a start.

“Iz tha’s so?” he murmured in surprised tones. “Well, then, thish is where I hafter get off.”

§ 90 The Least of His Worries

Down in southern Alabama a person of color was fetched into court to be arraigned for his preliminary hearing on a charge of wilful murder.

“Mose Tupper,” said the judge, “you are accused here of one of the most serious crimes known to our laws—to wit, the taking of a human life. Are you properly represented by counsel?”

“Naw, suh,” said the darky cheerfully.

“Well, have you talked to any one about your defense since your arrest?”

“I told de sheruff ’bout de shootin’ when he come to my cabin to bring me heah,” said the prisoner.

“And have you taken no steps whatever to engage a lawyer?”

“Naw, suh,” said Mose. “I ain’t got no money to be wastin’ on lawyers. Dey tell me lawyers is mighty costive.”

“If you have no funds,” insisted the judge, “it lies within the power of the court to appoint an attorney to represent you without expense on your part.”

“You needn’t be botherin’ yo’se’f, jedge,” answered Mose.

“Well, what do you propose to do about this case?” demanded his Honor. “You must be properly defended—the law so provides.”

“Jedge,” said Mose, “ez fur ez I’se concerned you kin jest let de matter drap!”

§ 91 This One Stood the Test of Time

Here is one which at intervals I have been hearing for years. It seems to me it gets better with each time of telling. I wonder if the reader will agree with me that its antiquity does not affect its excellence.

The thing is supposed to have happened in a remote court house of Missouri. A resident of the Ozark Mountains whose reputation was none the best, had been on trial on the charge of horse stealing. The jury returned a verdict of guilty. Taking into consideration the past record of the offender, his Honor on the bench said:

“It is my intention to sentence you to at least eight years at hard labor in State’s prison. Now, then, before sentence is formally pronounced, I shall listen to anything you may have to say in your behalf.”

After a moment of consideration the offender spoke:

“Well,” he said, “I don’t know ez I’ve got ary thing to say only this—it strikes me that you folks ’round this here cote house air purty toler’ble dam’ liberal with other people’s time.”

§ 92 The Prudent Bride

A comely colored girl was preparing for her marriage. Before the ceremony she hoarded her wages; but immediately after the wedding she hunted up her mistress and asked her to take charge of the fund.

“I’ll take it, of course,” said the puzzled lady; “but, Mandy, won’t you be needing your money to spend on your honeymoon?”

“Miss May,” said the bride, “does you think I’se goin’ to trust myse’f wid a strange nigger an’ all dat money on me?”

§ 93 As a Favor to the Railroad

A New Yorker had a bad attack of grippe and went South to recuperate. He stopped a few days in a small town in South Carolina. When he got ready to leave for the North he found the official bus had vanished; probably the driver had gone joy riding. There was no conveyance, public or private, to be had; in order to catch his train the Northerner was compelled to labor afoot over a mile and a half of dusty road, with a valise in either hand.

When he staggered up to the tiny station there was no one in sight except an old darky who was sitting on the platform.

“Uncle,” inquired the New Yorker, “why in the name of goodness did they build this depot so far from town?”

The old man scratched his head.

“I don’t know, boss,” he said—“onless it wuz because dey wanted to git it closer to de railroad.”

§ 94 Where the Real Fault Lay

The tourist was one of that type which for some mysterious reason are more numerously encountered abroad than at home. He was doing the cathedral towns of England, not because he particularly was interested in English towns, or in cathedrals either, but because the guide book advised him to do so.

Near the close of a glorious spring afternoon he stood on the greensward facing Canterbury cathedral with his legs planted far apart, his cap on the back of his head, his hands rammed deep into his trousers pockets, his cigar stuck into one corner of his mouth, and on his face an expression betokening profound boredom.

The celebrated Canterbury chimes were ringing for vespers, filling all the air with silver melody, when a side door of the cathedral opened and there issued forth a little, plump, pink-cheeked, benevolent clergyman. He approached the visiting stranger and in cultured tones said to him:

“I take it, sir, that you are a stranger?”

“Hey?” inquired the American, cupping one hand about his ear.

The clergyman raised his voice:

“I assume, sir, that you are not a resident of these parts?”

“Nope,” said the American. “I hail from Wyoming. It’s durned good State, too—best in the Union. You ought to come out there some time, Elder, and give us the once-over.”

“Eh—quite so,” said the reverend gentleman. “Then,” he continued, “since you are newly-come to this place it must seem to you, even as it does to those of us who dwell in these cloistered and holy precincts, that the music of our glorious bells comes floating down to one almost like the voice of the Almighty Himself, seeking through the medium of their old brazen throats to communicate the message of peace on earth, goodwill to man, to us His children here below.”

“Which?” inquired the visitor, inclining his head somewhat.

“Er—what I meant to say,” stated the clergyman, “was that one must carry away from here, after hearing our chimes, the conviction in his soul that really he has been in communication with Deity itself—that the voices of the angels have cried out to him. Er—is it not so, my friend?”

The American shook his head.

“I’m sorry, parson,” he said regretfully, “but them damn bells is makin’ so much noise I can’t hear a word you say!”

§ 95 An Appeal to the Senses

The editor of a New York evening newspaper has a little niece who, on her sixth birthday, received as presents a wrist-watch and a large bottle of perfumery. Having strapped on the watch, and copiously scented herself, the youngster spent the entire day proudly parading the apartment directing the attention of all and sundry to her new possessions. Eventually she became somewhat of a bore. For the evening some friends of her parents were coming in.

“Honey,” said her mother, “I can understand why you should be proud of your birthday gifts, but grown people are not interested in such things. You may come to dinner to-night on condition that you do not once mention your wrist-watch or your bottle of perfumery.”