Chapter II: Part 2

Life is a game of whist; from unseen sources
The cards are shuffled and the hands are dealt.
Vain are our efforts to control the forces
Which though unseen are no less strongly felt.

* * * * *

The Kid’s Last Fight

Us two was pals, the Kid and me;
’Twould cut no ice if some gayzee,
As tough as hell jumped either one,
We’d both light in and hand him some.

Both of a size, the Kid and me,
We tipped the scales at thirty-three;
And when we’d spar ’twas give and take,
I wouldn’t slug for any stake.

One day we worked out at the gym,
Some swell guy hangin’ round called “Slim,”
Watched us and got stuck on the Kid,
Then signed him up, that’s what he did.

This guy called “Slim” he owned a string
Of lightweights, welters, everything;
He took the Kid out on the road,
And where they went none of us knowed.

I guessed the Kid had changed his name,
And fightin’ best ones in the game,
I used to dream of him at night,
No letters came—he couldn’t write.

In just about two months or three
I signed up with Bucktooth McGee,
He got me matched with Denver Brown,
I finished him in half a round.

Next month I fought with Brooklyn Mike,
As tough a boy who hit the pike;
Then Frisco Jim and Battlin’ Ben,
And knocked them all inside of ten.

I took ’em all and won each bout,
None of them birds could put me out;
The sportin’ writers watched me slug,
Then all the papers run my mug.

“He’d rather fight than eat,” they said,
“He’s got the punch, he’ll knock ’em dead.”
There’s only one I hadn’t met,
That guy they called “The Yorkshire Pet.”

He’d cleaned ’em all around in France,
No one in England stood a chance;
And I was champ in U. S. A.,
And knocked ’em cuckoo every day.

Now all McGee and me could think,
Was how we’d like to cross the drink,
And knock this bucko for a row,
And grab a wagon load of dough.

At last Mac got me matched all right,
Five thousand smackers for the fight;
Then me and him packed up our grip,
And went to grab that championship.

I done some trainin’ and the night
Set for the battle, sure was right;
The crowd was wild, for this here bout
Was set to last till one was out.

The mob went crazy when the Pet
Came in, I’d never seen him yet;
And then I climbed up through the ropes,
All full of fight and full of hopes.

The crowd gave me an awful yell,
(’Twas even money at the bell)
They stamped their feet and shook the place;
The Pet turned ’round, I saw his face!

My guts went sick, that’s what they did,
For Holy Gee, it was the Kid!
We just had time for one good shake,
We meant it too, it wasn’t fake.

Whang! went the bell, the fight was on.
I clinched until the round was gone,
A beggin’ that he’d let me take
The fall for him—he wouldn’t fake.

Hell, no, the Kid was on the square,
And said we had to fight it fair,
The crowd had bet their dough on us—
We had to fight (the honest cuss).

The referee was yellin’ “break,”
The crowd was sore and howlin’ “fake,”
They’d paid their dough to see a scrap,
And so far we’d not hit a tap.

The second round we both begin,
I caught a fast one on my chin;
And stood like I was in a doze,
Until I got one on the nose.

I started landin’ body blows,
He hooked another on my nose,
That riled my fightin’ blood like hell,
And we was sluggin’ at the bell.

The next round started, from the go,
The millin’ we did wasn’t slow,
I landed hard on him, and then,
He took the count right up to ten.

He took the limit on one knee,
—A chance to get his wind you see;
At ten he jumped up like a flash
And on my jaw he hung a smash.

I’m fightin’ too there, toe to toe,
And hittin’ harder, blow for blow,
I damn soon knowed he couldn’t stay,
He rolled his eyes—you know the way.

The way he staggered made me sick,
I stalled, McGee yelled “cop him quick!”
The crowd was wise and yellin’ “fake,”
They’d seen the chance I wouldn’t take.

That mob kept tellin’ me to land,
And callin’ things I couldn’t stand;
I stepped in close and smashed his chin,
The Kid fell hard, he was all in.

I carried him into his chair,
And tried to bring him to for fair,
I rubbed his wrists, done everything,
—A doctor climbed into the ring.

And I was scared as I could be,
The Kid was starin’ and can’t see;
The doctor turned and shook his head,
I looked again—the Kid was dead!

* * * * *

_Just because you own an Ingersoll watch is no indication you’re a horological expert._

* * * * *

The Rolling Stone

The reason I never can quit the road
Is a reason that’s plain and clear;
It’s because no matter where I may stop
And whether it’s far or near,
There is a place beyond the place I am
Wherever I may be at,
And then beyond is a place beyond,
And the world beyond all that.

And as long as a man has eyes to see
And a brain that wants to know,
I figure there are things he’s bound to miss
If he doesn’t go on and go.
For there’s always a place beyond that place
I happen to hand my hat;
And another place beyond that place
And the world beyond all that.

* * * * *

_“Did you hear the one about the mouse-trap?”_

_“No.”_

_“Well, it’s snappy.”_

* * * * *

A fool and his honey are soon mated.

* * * * *

_“I’m glad my affairs are rounded into good shape,” said the pretty young thing as she pulled on her stockings._

* * * * *

You Can’t Tamper

Heard about the classy new neckwear for trainmen? They say these railroad ties are quite the rage.

* * * * *

_“Is she a very modest girl?”_

_“Very—she won’t even look at the weather strip on the house!”_

* * * * *

Slobbering Blues

“Let me kiss those tears away!” he begged tenderly.

She fell in his arms, and he was busy for the next few moments. And yet the tears flowed on.

“Can nothing stop them?” he asked, breathlessly sad.

“No,” she murmured; “it is hay fever, you know. But go on with the treatment.”

* * * * *

Encore Ha Ha

Mr. Jones had recently become the father of twins. The minister stopped him in the street to congratulate him.

“Well, Jones, I hear that the Lord has smiled on you,” he said.

“Smiled on me!” repeated Jones. “He laughed out loud at me.”

* * * * *

A Colorado Egg

While a Denver physician was inspecting the insane hospital at Pueblo an inmate approached him and asked: “I beg your pardon, sir, but have you a piece of toast?” “No,” replied the doctor, in surprise, “but I can get a piece if you want it badly.” “Oh, I wish you would. I’m a poached egg and I want to sit down.”

* * * * *

Jockey thrown in first race at New Orleans:

“Let Zybszko ride him.”

* * * * *

A Startling Exegesis

At a colored camp meeting in Louisiana the following sermon was delivered by a very black old darky, wearing huge spectacles:

“Brethren and Sistren, de preachifying dis mawnin’ will be from de text on de 10 virgins. De bridegroom war a-coming and ’spectin’ dem 10 virgins to be ready wif dere lamps all trimmed and a-burnin’, but, lo, when he was come he done foun’ dat on’y five of dem virgins war ready; yessir, five was trimmed and five was ontrimmed; five was wise and five was onwise; five was ready and five was onready; five was male and five was female.”—Harper’s Magazine.

* * * * *

Must Be Dr. Cupid

“I don’t like your heart action,” said the doctor, applying his stethoscope.

“You’ve had some trouble with angina pectoris, haven’t you?”

“You’re partly right, Doc,” answered the young man, sheepishly. “Only that ain’t her name.”—Pathfinder.

* * * * *

Roll ’Em Out Kid

When I was farmin’ in North Dakota I raised spuds an’ one day I went out to see how my spuds was comin’. The patch was right on a side hill. Well, sir, do you know that when I pulled up that vine two bushels of spuds rolled out of that hill before I could plug up the hole.

* * * * *

The Piping Costs

The colored minister had just concluded a powerful sermon on “Salvation is Free” and was announcing that a collection would be taken. Up jumped a brother in the back of the church. “If salvation is free,” he interrupted, “what’s the use paying for it? I’m going to give you nothing till I find out. Now—”

“Patience, brother, patience,” said the parson. “I’ll illustrate. Suppose you were thirsty and came to a river. You could kneel right down and drink, couldn’t you? And it would cost you nothing, would it?”

“Of course not. That’s just what I—”

“That water would be free,” continued the parson. “But supposing you were to have that water piped to your house, you would have to pay, would you not?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Well, brother, salvation is free, but it is the having it piped to you that you got to pay for. Pass the hat, sexton.”

* * * * *

It was rather quiet at the postoffice the other day and outside of the Whiz Bang mail our genial postmaster, Bud Nasset, sorted out only two letters. The first one was addressed to Deacon Miller from his son, reading as follows: “Dear Father—I am in jail. Son.” The Deacon’s answer was the other letter, “Dear Son—So am I. Father.”

_Chinese Nightmare Cities_

BY REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL

Pastor People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.

All aboard for China, the country of Confucius and chop suey! At Canton a wonderful spectacle took place at the wharf. A sampan man had beaten his wife and thrown her on the dock where she sat and chanted in a monotonous voice while a hundred coolies gathered round and watched the interesting ceremony. She referred to her husband and his ancestors, then scraped up a little pile of dirt, spat on it, molded it into the image of a man, addressed it with a few words, suddenly knelt and foully insulted it, and so eased her conscience, balanced the books of honor and “saved her face.”

From the Hotel Victoria in the Shameen, or Foreign Quarter, two cadaverous coolies carried me in a coffin-shaped sedan chair across a stinking canal into native Canton. My guide, Ah Cum, led the way. The streets were so narrow and the show windows so near that I could have been a shoplifter with both hands. If hungry, there was a free lunch counter extending along the streets with tea and rice, live fish, glazed ducks, gory pigs, a choice assortment of fresh entrails, some dead dogs and rats, crates of yowling cats, and huge pots of slimy soup thickened with animal, vegetable and other matter that would make the Witches’ Cauldron in “Macbeth” look like a cup of consomme in comparison.

At the Temple of the Five Hundred Genii, where the prayers of the holy had given way to the harangues of the politicians, I saw a gilded statue big as life of the first European globe-trotter to China, Marco Polo. Such a traveler was a novelty then, but now is a nuisance. I went by old walls whose painted dragons the new Chinese had wiped out; by temples whose only occupants were a few second-hand gods and bats; took time to visit the water-clock tower where drops of water instead of grains of sand mark the time of China’s millions towards the grave; passed through gates of the old city wall to the hillside where hundreds had been shot; looked into the graveyard where the poor common people rest after life’s fitful fever, while the restless rich, who shunned them in life, lie apart from them in the City of the Dead.

Like mummies in a museum, they sleep unburied in their rich caskets and await the grafting geomancer, that oriental undertaker, who promises the relatives to find some place in the ground undisturbed by the Great Dragon. By the religious milestone of the five-storied, weedy, seedy Pagoda, whose oracles are dumb, I headed for the Execution Grounds in the pottery district where the sharp sword had sent many a man back to his original clay.

China is becoming civilized now and stands her criminals up against a wall and shoots them. Here was a narrow alley lined with earthen pots covered with mats, under which were fleshless skulls. One of them seemed to look imploringly at me, and I picked it up. Alas, some poor Chinese Yorick! I was anxious to see the man who struck the fearful blows, and Ah Cum called the executioner who came out with a knife estimated to have cut off 300,000 heads in thirty years. There is a death here by “seventy-two cuts,” but one from his sword was enough.

Bayard Taylor said China was a good place to leave, and I was not very sorry when the whistle blew to cast off and say good-bye to the city of dreadful sights, sounds, suffering and smells. Leaving the grotesque outline of an old fort, a little island stained by some dark murder, a place where pirates had scuttled a ship, a picturesque Pagoda looking like an eight-story Easter bonnet, Grecian-bend shaped junk-boats and sampans like big, broken barrels floating along, we sailed down the Pearl River and at midnight reached the Portuguese town of Macao. On deck we were surprised to find the officers embracing the coolies. Were they trying to relieve them of their hard-earned spoils of fan-tan which they had won during the night? No, the honest officials were only searching for concealed arms, but found only those which Nature had allowed and provided.

An illuminated sign, “First-class Gambling House,” drew my attention. Gambling, next to loafing and the manufacture of opium, is the principal occupation of the youngest and oldest inhabitants. Macao is the Oriental Monte Carlo. Gambling here is backed by the government which gets back a certain per cent of the earnings which it invests in hospitals, asylums and cheap lodgings for the people who have been beaten at the game. At this gambling-hell one could play at the big table downstairs, or drop into the game by lowering his money in a small basket from the balcony above. Tired of the game, the player recuperates his wasted energies here by eating bird-nest soup and shark-fins, or drinking Portuguese wines. If he is sleepy, he may take the opium-pipe train of thought to the Flowery Land where every-day is Sunday.

At a “song-parlor” some Chinese dolls amused us with their squeaky voices and knife-scraping music. It sadly recalled my visit to a Hongkong house of pleasure whose almond-eyed inmates illustrated Confucius’ remark that “women had no souls,” and the Chinese philosophy which attributes death and evil to Yin, the female principle in Nature. Their artificially whitened and rouged faces were ghastly, and their flower-and-jewel-bedecked hair glued down to the skull was anything but attractive to an Occidental eye. Their lips were red like the dawn of day, their complexions like congealed ointment, and their betel-nut-stained teeth like black watermelon seeds. They unfurled painted fans, sipped tea, nibbled sweetmeats, puffed at opium-pipes, and looked quite flowery in their blue collars, purple tunics and bright green trousers. I wonder if the men, whom they were entertaining, remembered the Chinese proverb, “There is no such poison in the green snake’s mouth or in the hornet’s sting as in a woman’s heart.”

After visiting next day a firecracker factory, temples, joss-houses, and a tobacco plant where little children and old women were at work sorting the leaves, I was conducted to Macao’s notorious opium factory. I entered a low-ceiling room where men were stripped to their waists like blacksmiths at the forge. They picked up the crude opium, shaped like a cocoanut shell, scooped out the chocolate-looking substance, threw it into a kind of brass wash-basin under which roared the fire, until it steamed and blubbered like a pot of hot mush or molasses. They darted here and there like imps with these pans. Then the liquid was poured in porcelain boxes of various sizes. The whole place seemed like a Devil’s smithyshop where chains were being forged for lost souls. The odor was peculiar and penetrating. I must have absorbed some of the dope, for I felt dizzy and was glad to get outside in the fresh air.

There is no more melancholy sight, in China’s teeming nightmare cities, than a drug-befuddled victim staggering out in the early dawn from some hasheesh house and tumbling down in the street where he dreams he is in the Celestial City with his ancestors. When he is rudely awakened by a hungry rat gnawing his hand or foot, the golden vision vanishes. In the cold light of the morning, racked with nameless pains, he crawls off to work at some mean job, hoping to make enough for another night’s opium dream in which to forget the hell of this tormenting world.

* * * * *

Be An “I Can” Giant

As on through Life’s journey we go, day by day,
There are two whom we meet, at each turn of the way,
To help or to hinder—to bless or to ban,
And the names of these two are “I Can’t” and “I Can!”

“I Can’t” is a dwarf, a poor, pale, puny imp,
His eyes are half blind and his walk is a limp,
He stumbles and falls, or lies writhing in fits,
And for those who would help him plants snares and digs pits.

“I Can” is a giant, unbending he stands,
There is strength in his arms, and skill in his hands,
He asks for no favors, he wants but a share
Where labor is honest and wages are fair.

* * * * *

“Now, let’s stick together, boys,” said the first of three flies as they lit on the piece of tanglefoot.

* * * * *

An Immediate Saving

Ikey kicked in the bathroom door and discovered Rebecca dead in the bath tub. For a moment he gazed horror stricken, then rushed to the head of the stairs and shouted to the maid, “Mary, Mary!”

“Yes, sir,” answered the shixa.

“Only von egg for breakfast dis morning, Mary.”

* * * * *

Ad In Theatrical Paper

Engagement wanted. Small part, such as dead body or outside shouts.

* * * * *

Fancy Poetry

Father got his hand blown off. That was a terrible sin. It could have been worse if it was the hand that he had his wages in.

* * * * *

“Paris is falling,” delicately hinted the maiden, as her escort’s garter snapped and fell over his shoe-top.

* * * * *

“Trash!” exclaimed the president of the Ash Men’s Union, as the secretary finished reading the reports.

* * * * *

Bang! Bang!

Lady went into a store and asked for a camisole. “What bust?” asked the salesman. “I didn’t hear anything,” she replied.

* * * * *

_Tell the truth and shame the family._

* * * * *

They Shot Spitballs

A good story is told on our old friend Colonel Luce of the Minnesota National Guard. Two battalions of the Colonel’s regiment were staging a sham battle at their summer encampment.

The defending forces took possession of a small hill overlooking a river and destroyed the only bridge by the simple method of tacking up a notice on it stating that they had done so. As a result it was quite a surprise to them to see the attacking forces swarming across the bridge, making extraordinary motions in front of them with their hands.

“Hold on there, men!” shouted the Colonel’s aide from the observer’s post, “you can’t cross that bridge. It has been blown up.”

“Tuhel with that!” retorted the Major of the other side, “we’re not crossing it, can’t you see we are swimming the dang river?”

* * * * *

Let’s Now Sing

I love a lassie,
She’s naughty, but,
She’s classy.

* * * * *

The Morning Mail

When we were in the army we used to read “The Daily Undershirt.”

* * * * *

A woman’s beauty is always a liability, although at times considered a big asset.

_Classified Ads_

We’ll Take the Solar System

(From the L. A. Times)

Personal—Lady 26, quiet, traveled, experienced in business or will assume domestic work for opportunity in music and art. Prefer aged person financially able who would appreciate ray of sunshine. Address MP.

* * * * *

One “Bier” Makes a Jolly Party

(Cuba City, Wis., News-Herald)

An auto load of Benton girls, consisting of the Hunter sisters, Miss Calvert, Miss Ayer, and another one, attended the funeral Tuesday, and put in the rest of the time fishing, etc. They had a jolly fine time.

* * * * *

Gus is a Good Ex-Farmer

(From the Peoria Journal)

Would like acquaintance of good business man or a young farmer, like one with car, for pastime and results. Address C. A., care Star.

* * * * *

It’s Quite Cool Now at Breezy Point

(Adv. of Chicago Beach Hotel)

Patrons not wearing bathing suits will find the cafe very comfortable.

* * * * *

Has Your Wife Gone to the Country?

(From the Denver Post)

Caring neither for life, limb or anything, I will consider any proposition you may have, regardless of what it may be; must earn money; do anything; go anywhere; fear nothing; answers confidential. I need money. Will go the limit to get it.

* * * * *

One at a Time

Years ago when W. A. McConnell was manager of the Brooklyn theater he had a pet parrot which was kept in the box office. During a “big run” the ticket seller was wont to say, “Get in line, please; one at a time, one at a time, gentlemen.”

The bird escaped one afternoon, and McConnell commissioned some boys to find it, which they did on an old tree in a nearby park, where several crows were making its feathers fly. McConnell asked if the bird said anything and the leader of the boys replied: “Yes, he said, ‘Get in line, please; one at a time, one at a time, gentlemen.’”

* * * * *

We Should Worry

The porch was dark. The hour was late. The couple sat whispering among the shadows.

“Mary,” called a voice, “it’s time for you to come in.”

No movement.

“Come in, Mary.”

Still no movement.

He asked: “Don’t you mind your mother?”

“Not unless you do, Jimmy.”

* * * * *

Here’s Lookin’ Atchew!

Boy—“What is a grass widow?”

Father—“A woman whose husband died with the hay fever.”

* * * * *

Something to Worry About

Among the things you read about but never see is a crease in a fat man’s trousers.

* * * * *

“Along the Road”

I walked a mile with Pleasure;
She chattered all the way,
But left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.

I walked a mile with Sorrow
And ne’er a word said she;
But oh, the things I learned from her
When Sorrow walked with me!

* * * * *

Broadway’s Leg Lane

(From New York Times)

HOMELESS HUSBANDS—If you want a friend, a pal—a WIFE!—look for one like the Lonely Lady in BEAUTY AND NICK. Such as she is rarely to be found in this, the age of sex and shekels—surely not in the endless procession of poppy-painted dames and damsels, young as youth, wrinkled as an O’Shanter witch; all with skirts so tight as to make them goat-gaited; so short that these bogus beauties have turned the most beautiful Avenue of the world into a mere leg lane—a free rival of the sash-clad ladies of a Broadway burlesque.

* * * * *

These Were the Good Old Days

“Step up, boys! Ladies not allowed! See for yourself. And we all paid the two bits and saw a jackass.”

* * * * *

Let me introduce myself. My name is Sol.

Any relation to Lysol?

No, Ingersoll. Watch me!

* * * * *

Torch Pulls This One

It’s a long road that has no roadhouse.

_Our Rural Mail Box_

=_Bridget_=—Better put on your woolen socks, Bridget, or you will catch cold in your lungs.

* * * * *

=_Andy Gump_=—A continuous buzzing noise in your ears is not always a sign of serious mental trouble, or any other illness. It is probably the first indication that your wife needs a new hat.

* * * * *

=_Sweet Marie_=—You are mistaken, Marie. The Scottish Highlanders are not members of the Middlesex Regiment.

* * * * *

=_Weeping Winnie_=—Cheer up, Winnie. You are overdosed on pessimism and, in retrospection, I feel sure you have presented a very sad aspect to the cynics of humanity.

* * * * *

=_Queen Liz_=—Your singing lessons may keep the wolf away from the door, ’tis true, if the wolf hears you.

* * * * *

=_“You can’t pick me up—I’m not of that metal,” said the piece of glass to the bar magnet._=

* * * * *

=_Naughty Nellie_=—Where does your lap go when you stand up?

* * * * *

=_Willie Zatso_=—It is considered bad manners for children to stick their elbows out when cutting their meat at dinner. You might make your father cut his mouth.

* * * * *

A knock-kneed man walked down the street. Said the right knee to the left knee, “If you let me get around this time I’ll let you get around next time.”

* * * * *

Warm Stuff

I saw a dog chasing a jackrabbit down the hill and it was so hot the dog and rabbit were both walking. (Lie down, Fido, you’re all wet.)

* * * * *

We Clipped This

“I’ve got that down Pat,” said Mrs. Flanigan, as she gave her son a dose of castor oil.

* * * * *

Bob—“You look sweet enough to eat.”

Gert—“I do! Where shall we go?”

* * * * *

_Frank Adams in a recent Cosmopolitan story describes the modern dance thusly:_

_“If there wasn’t any music they would be arrested.”_

* * * * *

_My head is dizzy,_
_My eyes are getting sore,_
_That’s all for this issue,_
_There ain’t any more._

The Winter Annual

_CONTENTS_

DRIPPINGS FROM THE FAWCETT
GIRL IN BLUE VELVET BAND
FACE ON THE BARROOM FLOOR
FRANKIE AND JOHNNIE BLUES
SHOOTING OF DAN MCGREW
WEDDING OF THE PERSIAN CAT
ACE IN THE HOLE
BOOZE FIGHTER’S DREAM
DIARY OF A DIVORCEE
FABLE OF THE BULL
HIGHTY TIGHTY APHRODITE
GOLIGHTLY HIGHBALLS
HOW TO KISS DELICIOUSLY
HUNTING THE WILY POLE CAT
MOHAMMEDAN BULL
OUR OWN FAIRY QUEEN
TOOL HOUSE ON THE FARM
THE OLD SMOKEHOUSE
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
GILA MONSTER ROUTE
PASTURE POT POURRI
HOOCH CURE BLUES
DYING HOBO
LASCA
SAM’S GIRL
TOLEDO SLIM
EVOLUTION
POPPIES
AFTER THE RAID
THE HARPY
THE SUICIDE
TARNISHED GOODS
SEPARATION
LITTLE RED GOD
THE LADIES
LIMBER KICKS
NAUGHTY BUT NICE
TO THE GIRL
RURAL MAIL BOX
TIRED HIRED MAN
LIFE’S A FUNNY PROPOSITION AFTER ALL

_Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22_

256 pages of fun. The gems of 25 early editions of Capt. Billy’s Whiz Bang. Stories, toasts, poems, drippings and pot pourri comprise this greatest Whiz Bang book.

_Only a Few Left_

If your newsdealer’s supply is exhausted, pin a dollar bill, or your check, money order or stamps to the coupon below and receive this peppy collection.

Whiz Bang,
Robbinsdale, Minnesota.

Gentlemen:

Enclosed is dollar bill, check, money order or stamps for $1.00
for which please send me the Winter Annual of Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang, “Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22.”

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One dollar for the WINTER ANNUAL.