Chapter I: Part 1

S&S HUMOR LIBRARY No. 3 PRICE 25 CENTS

JIGLETS

A SERIES OF
SIDESPLITTING
GYRATIONS
REELED OFF

BY

WALTER JONES

ILLUSTRATED

STREET & SMITH · PUBLISHERS · NEW YORK

"JIGLETS"

A SERIES OF SIDESPLITTING
GYRATIONS REELED OFF..

By
WALTER JONES

STREET & SMITH, Publishers
238 William Street, .. New York

Copyright, 1903
By STREET & SMITH

Jiglets

IMPORTANT

DEAR READER:

While an artist has been engaged at a great expense to illustrate this volume of funniness, I want it distinctly understood that the illustrations are purely ornamental and are not intended to be diagrams of or keys to the jokes.

Between you and me, any one of the jokes--if you like it--is worth eleven times the price asked for the book. But, like the filigree work on a lemon merangue pie, the decoration may not make the pie any more palatable--but, it looks a whole lot better.

Confidentially yours,
Walter Jones

JIGLETS

Ha! Ha! Ha! I am astonished. I didn't expect to find more than ten persons in the house to-night, and I see there are eleven.

I want to thank that gentleman in the first row--the man with the vigorous growth of hair. It's such a relief to see a man with some hair, in the front row.

Say, I don't think I ever told you of the time I went with a Shakespearian company to tour the New England States.

Never knew I was an actor? Why, of course.

Wouldn't have thought it? Neither would I, if I didn't know to what extremes a man of my attainments may be driven, when his bread-basket is empty.

Well, I signed for a hundred a week and all expenses.

I got expenses all right, part of the time, and had to employ one of Pinkerton's men to look after the salary.

Up to yesterday, he hadn't found it; but no actor who goes out of New York town ever expects to get any salary, and I didn't.

I played Hamlet, Egglet, Eyelet, Omelet and To Let.

Every time I played Hamlet, I got an Egglet in the Eyelet, and I saved them up and made an Omelet, which caused such a disturbance among the other boarders, that my landlady told me my room was To Let.

I was in hard luck all around.

The worst blow that ever struck yours truly, was when we hit a little town in Maine called Haystack Mountain.

People there didn't appreciate good acting and the show went busted.

Well, the manager had an urgent engagement with a sick friend in New York, and he left us high and dry.

Some of the girls wept a little and asked how far it was to the railroad station.

I didn't ask how far it was to the station. I knew what to do. I began to walk.

Do you know, I never struck such a confounded lot of ties in all my life.

The railroad must have employed non-union help. You couldn't judge them at all. You'd strike a lot that were three feet apart and think they were all that way. You'd go to sleep until you struck one at a four-foot interval; then you'd wake up pretty quick and murmur gentle nothings about the company.

About the second day out, I landed at the town of Bridgewater. I walked into the only hotel of the place and thought I'd bluff 'em a little.

"What are the rates?" says I.

"Five dollars a day and up," says the clerk.

"Oh, come off," says I, "I'm an actor."

"In that case," says he, "it's five dollars a day, down."

Toward evening, I came to a siding where a lot of box-cars were stalled. I crept on one of the trucks and went to sleep. I woke up to find I was traveling at the rate of forty miles an hour.

Suddenly I became aware that I had a visitor, and I knew my visitor had visitors, too--because I could hear him scratching.

"Say," says I, "who the dickens are you and what do you want?"

"Look here, young feller," says the visitor, "I'm Cornelius Vanderbilt out for a spin in my new automobile, and I won't be disturbed by the likes of you."

"Where do you come from?" says I.

"Maryland," says he. "My father is a great farmer down there. He raised a cabbage last year that weighed four hundred pounds. Now, who are you?"

"Why," says I, "I'm Admiral Dewey on a tour of inspection in my private car. I'm going back to Brooklyn Navy Yard to superintend the manufacture of a boiler, so large that it takes two hundred and fifty men to drive one of the rivets."

"Go slow, there," says he. "What could they do with a boiler so large as that?"

"Why," says I, "they're going to boil that cabbage your father raised."

After a little while he told me his name was Percival Reginald Van Dusenberry. He was an actor, but he had been walking longer than I.

When we struck the town of Grafton, we got off our Pullman, and began looking for the graft.

Percy went up to a cottage and rapped at the door, intending to ask for some cold victuals.

A hand shoved out and gave him a roll of green-backs. Percy was dumfounded, but took to his heels.

When we were about two miles away, Percy looked at me, and said:

"Those lobsters took me for the landlord."

We located a restaurant presently, and sat waiting at a table for an hour and a half.

Finally, Percy said to the fellow behind the desk:

"Are you the proprietor of this hash house?"

"Yes," says he.

"Well, then I want to know if you sent your waiter away, when you saw us coming, so you could charge us for a night's lodging."

Just then the waiter came in.

"Say," says I, "do you know we have been waiting here for an hour and a half?"

"That's nothing," says he, "I've been waiting here for ten years."

He placed a carafe of water on the table.

"Look here," says Percy, "I never drink water unless it's absolutely pure and healthy. Is this all right?"

"Sure," says the waiter.

Percy took a glassful, and most of it was pollywogs.

"Look here," says he, "I thought you said this water was healthy. Look at those bugs."

"That only proves what I said," says the waiter. "If it wasn't healthy the bugs couldn't live in it."

Just then Percy's eye caught a sign that read:

"All the pancakes you can eat for ten cents."

"I'm going to have some pancakes," says he. "What's yours?"

"Chicken," says I.

Percy kept eating pancakes.

When he had eaten twenty plates the boss of the joint began to get interested.

Percy was certainly getting the biggest ten cents' worth I ever saw, when he stepped over and says:

"Don't you think you have had enough?"

"Just one more plate and then--" says Percy.

"Then what?" says the boss.

"Then you can tell the cook to make them a little bit thicker," says Percy.

I tried to chew my chicken, but couldn't get it down. I managed to catch the waiter on his fifteenth lap between the kitchen and Percy's plate, and says:

"Waiter, this chicken is awfully tough."

"Have some pancakes, then," says Percy. "They're good and come cheap."

"Well," says the waiter, "that chicken always was a Jonah. When we tried to kill it, the darned thing flew to the top of the house and we had to shoot it."

"Oh, that accounts for it," says I. "Your aim was bad and you shot the weather cock by mistake."

Percy finally got enough pancakes and paid his ten cents like a man.

We traveled along the road that leads from the hash house, and met a farmer with a gun.

"Say," says I, "have you seen anything worth shooting around here?"

"Not until you came," says he.

I don't blame him though.

Talking of shooting, I don't think I ever told you of the time I went shooting with Teddy.

Teddy is a great shot, but he can't compare with me. I'm going to sing you a song about it, entitled:

"Snap Shot, Half Shot, All Shot; or, It Costs Money To Get Loaded."

On the farms there's consternation,
And there's wide-spread agitation,
For the hunting season's opened up again.
In the paths and in the by-ways,
In the woods and in the highways,
There are packs of dogs and scores of shooting men.

Now and then a pig is squealing,
Or a hen or rooster keeling
Over suddenly in some sequestered spot.
Upon a close examination,
You may glean the information,
That by some lobster of a gunner it was shot.

Now and then a cow is snorting,
And around a field cavorting,
All because a load of shot has come its way.
Now and then a horse is rearing,
And in greatest pain appearing,
For it stopped another charge that went astray.

'Tis no wonder that the granger
Growls each time he sees a stranger,
Prowling through the woods and fooling with a gun;
For the shooting is alarming,
To the man who does the farming,
And he won't rest easy till the season's done.

That's a very fine song, I'll admit. Percy is just dead in love with it. He makes me sing it about ten times a day.

He says he can sympathize with the horses and cows, for he has "stopped many a charge that went astray" and knows how it feels.

We left the farmer with the gun, and Percy began to get woefully dry.

"Great Scott," says he, "I'd give almost anything for a drink of whiskey."

He spied an old gent with a kind face, tottering along the road.

"Just wait a minute," says Percy, "I'll see if that old gent carries a pocket flask."

So he went over and says:

"Kind sir, can you give a poor man who has heart trouble a drop of whiskey?"

"You should not drink that stuff," says the old man, "why do you do it?"

"Because I'm thirsty," says Percy.

"Then why don't you drink milk?" says he. "Milk, you know, makes blood."

"But," says Percy, "I'm not blood-thirsty."

"The doctors," continued the old man, "say that whiskey ruins the coat of the stomach. What would you do if that happened in your case?"

"I'd mighty soon make the darn thing work in its shirt-sleeves," says Percy.

We walked on and saw a farmhouse through the trees.

Percy went up to ask for some cold victuals and actually got the cold shoulder.

Then we struck the town of Freysburg. There's where poor Percy got fried to a rich, golden brown.

It happened this way.

We saw a large tent in which a revival meeting was going on.

"I'm going to take part," says Percy.

I tried to dissuade him, but it wouldn't go.

The deacon looked him over and says:

"Will the brother relate his experiences?"

I judged that Percy would have a very large contract on his hands, but he went at it like a man.

Everybody was shouting something, so every time Percy said anything, I shouted:

"Thank Heaven for that."

"Ladies and gentlemen," says he, "I've been a villain of the deepest dye."

"Thank Heaven for that," says I.

Percy looked at me and continued:

"Often I have felt tempted to commit suicide."

"Thank Heaven for that," says I.

"I'm heart and soul in the noble cause, but I'm penniless."

"Thank Heaven for that," says I.

Percy went on:

"I know that these noble men and women will raise a subscription to enable me to carry out my aims."

"Thank Heaven for that," says I.

Say, the way Percy got money surprised me.

Finally, we got clear of the tent and just sloped for it.

The next town a constable was waiting for us.

He spotted Percy right away.

"You're wanted for obtaining money under false pretenses," says he.

He took Percy to the court, which was held in the rear of a grocery store.

Going in, I knocked a big cheese off the counter and stooped to pick it up.

"That's all right," says the grocer, "it knows its own way around the counter by this time."

The judge asked Percy what his profession was.

"I'm an actor," says Percy. "When I'm on the stage I become so absorbed in my part that the theatre vanishes, the audience disappears----"

"Yes," commented the judge, "they go out and ask for their money back. What were you before you became a loafer?" asked the judge.

"I was a gentleman," says Percy.

"That's a good business, but you're not the only one who failed in it," says the judge. "Now what have you to say in your defense?"

"I must wait till my lawyer arrives," says he.

"Why," says the judge, "you were caught red-handed with the goods on. What could your lawyer say that would influence my decision?"

"That's just what I want to find out," says Percy. "But give me a little time and I will explain all."

"All right," says the judge. "Six years at hard labor. I hope you will be able to explain when you get out, or back you'll go for another six."

I was so afraid that the judge would give me time to explain why I was with Percy that I started to run and didn't stop until I got to Boston.

Now I'm going to sing you a little song, entitled: "He Made a Foolish Break And Got The Laugh; or, Wedded Persons' Compliments."

Said a young and tactless husband
To his inexperienced wife:
"If you would but give up leading
Such a fashionable life,
And devote more time to cooking--
How to mix and when to bake--
Then, perhaps you might make pastry
Such as mother used to make."

And the wife, resenting, answered
(For the worm will turn, you know):
"If you would but give up horses
And a score of clubs or so,
To devote more time to business--
When to buy and what to stake--
Then, perhaps, you might make money,
Such as father used to make."

There! I'm greatly relieved now that I've got that song off my mind. I was afraid I might break down, because it's so touching.

Talking of relief, puts me in mind of a friend of mine who wanted to be relieved, in the worst way, of a barrel of over-ripe sauerkraut. When I heard his tale of woe, I laughed so that I had to go and buy a new pair of suspenders.

You see, he had a German friend who had the kraut and didn't know what to do with it, so he offered to send it home to my friend Jenkins. Jenkins accepted and stored it in his cellar.

The next day, the fellow upstairs, named McCarthy, came down and raised thunder with his wife. When Jenkins came home he heard all about it. He went upstairs and saw the offender.

"Say," says he, "I understand you object to the smell down in my cellar."

"No," says McCarthy, "I don't object to it down there, but when it opens the cellar door and creeps upstairs I do object. It kept me awake all last night."

"Well," said Jenkins, "I'll put it out in the yard behind the dog house."

And he did.

The next morning he went out to feed the dog and found him--dead.

That day nine families moved out of Jenkins' flat, and the tenth was just going when he donated the kraut to an orphan asylum. The orphans broke loose and took leg bail.

There wasn't any one but the janitor to feed it to and he threatened to quit.

The last Jenkins heard of the kraut, it was about to be shipped to Dick Croker to sod his lawn at Wantage.

I came near being put under the sod myself the other day.

I heard that one of my best and oldest friends, J. Fishpond O'Morgan, was down with rheumatism in his arm, so I went around to see him.

As soon as I showed my face in the door, Fishpond howled:

"I'm saved."

I did not know what he was driving at, so I said:

"Sure."

"I want you to do me a favor," says he. "Go around to Prof. Sockem's and tell him to give you some of the usual medicine."

I went to old Sockem's, and just caught him in.

"Doctor," says I, "my friend O'Morgan sent me around for some of the usual for gout."

"All right," says he. "Arm, I suppose. Just roll up your sleeve."

I thought I had struck a maniac, so I tried to humor him.

He came back with a suspicious-looking black bottle and I thought I was a gone goose sure. You see, I had heard so much about the black bottle.

He grabbed my wrist in a grip of iron, poured some of the black bottle stuff on my arm and began to rub it, gently.

Then he began to rub harder and faster, and I could see my arm swell up like a pillow under the fearful treatment.

I kicked, and finally managed to break loose.

"You confounded scoundrel," I says, "what do you mean by assulting me?"

"Assulting you?" says he; "you wanted some of the usual and you got it good and hard, but let me sell you some of my medicine for swollen arms. It's the best thing in the world for such cases."

Did you ever notice what a lot of trouble a simple, little girl may make? Oh! you girls. You're never happy unless you're making some poor lobster show how much money he has, by blowing it in on you.

You know, though, girls, I appreciate you, if no one else does.

If it weren't for you, I'll bet a dollar to Rockfeller's oil-can that none of the young fellows I see here to-night would have ever thought of coming here.

Now I'm going to sing you a little warble entitled:

"What a Surprisingly Fresh Man That Jones Is; or, I'd Like to Meet Him Outside."

Many a man has often cussed,
For only an innocent maid;
Many a bank has gone in the dust,
For just an innocent maid;
Many a judge has not been just,
To only an innocent maid;
Many a saint went on a bust,
For just an innocent maid.

Cho. When Johnny goes to his lady's house
She greets him with a smile;
At once she starts the glim to douse
So he can propose in style.

Many a milkman has got the sack,
For only an innocent maid;
Many a dude has been knocked on his back,
For just an innocent maid;
Many a doctor has had to quack,
For only an innocent maid;
Many a dollar is won on the track,
For just an innocent maid.

Cho. When Johnny takes her to the altar,
He may think it's for his good,
In his opinion soon he'll falter,
When she makes him split the wood.

Many a cop has left his beat,
For only an innocent maid;
Many a gambler has had to cheat,
For just an innocent maid;
Many a commuter has given his seat,
To only an innocent maid;
Many a lover has known pa's foot,
For just an innocent maid.

Cho. Johnny thinks he's caught a prize,
When he's only been married a week;
But when she feeds him on apple pies,
He feels like taking a sneak.

Did you hear that peculiar toot the fellow with the big horn gave when I finished up?

That means "Rotten" in his low vocabulary. He's got a grudge against me.

Once, when he didn't occupy his present high position, he came to me and wanted me to stake him the price of the horn he just insulted me with.

"What!" says I. "Are you going to learn to be a blower? Don't you think you are nuisance enough already?"

You see, I wanted to save the money. He stood firm though, and I had to cough up.

About a week later he came around looking a perfect wreck. His eye was closed, his head bandaged, and his clothes in shreds.

"What's the matter?" says I. "Couldn't you manage the horn."

"Well, you see, Brother Jones," says he, "I could manage the horn all right, but I could not manage the neighbors."

This same fellow is a bird fancier. He breeds all kinds of birds.

I asked him to blow me to a small hot bird and a cold bottle now that he was so wealthy, and the stare he gave me was so cold that it froze the highball I carry in my pocket flask.

I don't care, though, if I didn't have the hot bird I had a cold bottle.

He has a great flock of homing pigeons.

The other day he bet a fellow named Robinson, that he could select two out of the bunch that would come home no matter where they were taken.

Robinson thought a while, and then said he'd bet they couldn't come home from Coney Island. I held the stakes.

When the birds were selected and put in the basket, Robinson slyly clipped their wings.

The next day the fellow came to me and claimed the bet.

"What!" says I. "Did those birds come home?"

"Sure," says he. "But their feet are awfully sore."

Say, the other night I was coming down from Yonkers in a trolley car.

No, I wasn't loaded. Do you think every fellow who goes to Yonkers, has to get loaded to drown his sorrow? No, I was quite sober.

One fellow got up in a hurry to leave and brought up plump against a stunning Fire-Island Cinnamon-Bear blond, on the platform.

"It's a wonder you wouldn't be careful," says she of the red cranium.

"I am," says he, "but I was dazzled by your head-light."

The ruddy complexioned damsel came in and sat beside me.

In the natural course of events we got to talking and swapped childhood memories.

She told me that she was married, but didn't live with her husband.

"In that case," says I, "you must be a grass widow."

"Why, yes," she assented. "By the way, are you a lawn mower?"

I hastened to assure her that I was a married man.

"Do you know," she says, as we were crossing the Harlem River, "I was walking over this bridge one time and suddenly a man ran up, seized me, and before I could cry out, hurled me over the rail."

"Can you swim?" says I.

"No," says she.

"Then how were you saved?"

"Well, you see, I walked ashore."

"Walked ashore," says I. "How could you walk ashore?"

"Well, I had rubber boots on."

I thought that was pretty hard on the Harlem.

Say, that reminds me of a friend of mine who is the most spiteful cuss alive.

The other day he went to visit his uncle whose name is John Smith. He hadn't been to see him in so long that he mistook the house, went up the stoop of the house next door, and rang the bell.

A maid came to the door, evidently very much out of humor.

"Is this John Smith's house?" he asked.

"No, it ain't," she snapped, and slammed the door in his face.

Smith walked the distance of several doors, then went back and rang the same bell.

The identical girl came to the door, and Smith up and said:

"Who the devil said it was John Smith's?" and walked away.

Smith has a wife who is dead stuck on fortune tellers and palmists.

The other day she called upon an East Indian Prince on Thompson Street and had her fortune told.

Among other things, he told her that she would have visitors soon who would come to stay. She couldn't think who it could be.

One night Smith came home, and his wife rushed up to him and cried:

"Now, don't say again there is nothing in fortune telling. He told me that we would have visitors who'd come to stay, and we have. Our cat has just had kittens."

Another time she went to a palmist, who rambled on telling her the usual stuff they tell every one.

Finally, she says:

"There is a line on your hand that indicates you are a very beautiful woman."

"Does my hand tell that?" says Smith's wife.

"Sure," says the palmist. "You don't suppose I could tell that by looking at your face, do you?"

Yeow--by James, I thought I heard a cat that time.

Say, I had an accident with a cat the other night, and I'm nervous for fear the S. P. C. A. will get after me.

You see I came home pretty early and, just as I got my key in the door, I heard something behind me.

I didn't pay any attention, and as I opened the door that something scooted past me and slipped upstairs.

I took off my boot, got a light, and--the rest I'll tell you in my latest sonata, entitled:

"Oh, Bring Back My Tabby To Me."

Not a mew was heard, not a feline note,
As his corpse to the back yard I hurried;
For I laid him low with my trusty boot,
And thought it was time he was buried.
So I sallied forth, in the dead of the night,
My head meanwhile cautiously turning,
For I feared that his mistress, the old maid next door,
Might catch on and give me a burning.

No orthodox coffin enclosed the defunct,
Not in paper or rag did I wind him;
But I shoveled him into his cold, narrow bed,
Where no one was likely to find him.
Yes, softly she'll call to the spirit that's gone,
From his new home in vain to allure.
But little he'll care; for Tom will sleep on--
He has an illness no doctor can cure.

That's a pretty good song, if I do say so myself. I always feel like laughing when I sing it, though. It reminds me of my dear departed friend, Tom O'Moore.

This Tom was the brightest fellow that ever lived.

One day he was greatly troubled with an aching tooth. He went to the dentist and exhibited his swollen jaw.

"Which tooth do you want extracted?" asked the dentist.

Tom pointed to a tooth opposite the swelling.

"Why," says the dentist, "the swelling is on the other side."

"Och," says Tom, "is it that small lump you mane, that's nothin'. That's only where Bridget hit me with the lifter."

Tom had the troublesome tooth taken out and left the place.

Outside, he met his dear friend O'Holleran who, as he saw Tom, yelled:

"I say, Tom, did you hear of the frightful miscarriage of justice that McCarthy was the victim of?"

"No," says Tom, "what was it?"

"Well," says O'Holleran, "they locked poor Mac up for being drunk when he was clane sober."

"Begob," says Tom, "I don't belave it at all, at all. Mac must have been drunk to let them lock him up when he was sober."

"I say, Tom," says O'Holleran, "do you believe in drames?"

"Sure, I do," says Tom. "Whoi?"

"Then what's it a sign of when a married man drames he's a bachelor?"

"Begob," says Tom, "it's a sign of disappointment--when he wakes up."

"Do you know, Tom," says O'Holleran, "I'd give a hundred dollars to know the exact spot I'm going to die on."

"Whoi?" says Tom.

"Whoi, you gossoon, I'd never go near the ould spot at all, at all."

Tom and O'Holleran took a walk through the suburbs, and came upon some blackberry bushes laden with half-ripe fruit.

"I say," says O'Holleran, "what kind of bushes do you call those, Tom?"

"Whoi, you fule," says Tom, "they're blackberries."

"Get out," says O'Holleran, "they're red."

"Sure," says Tom, "but every fule knows that blackberries are always red when they're green."

A little way beyond, they came to a crossroad. Tom said they ought to go to the right and O'Holleran said to the left.

They argued for a while, and Tom says:

"I'll tell you what we'll do. You go by one and I'll take the other. If I get home first, I'll put a chalk mark on the door, and if you get there first you rub it out."

Tom recently imported one of his poor relatives to this country. His name was Pat Sullivan.

Pat was a very thick Irishman, and as he had never seen a railroad in Erin-Go-Bra-a-a-a-ha, he couldn't get it into his head how it worked.

Finally Tom took him up a railroad track to explain the matter to him.

When they were rounding a curve, between two high embankments, a train came thundering behind them.

"Run up the bank for your life," cried Tom, and set a good example by doing it himself.

Pat, however, dug straight down the track, and it was not long before the train overtook him and hurled him forty feet away.

"Ye lobster," says Tom, "whoi didn't you run up the bank as I told you?"

"Begob," says Pat, "if I couldn't beat that bloomin' thing on the level, what chance did I stand running uphill?"

By the way, did you ever get into one of those lunch counter, go-outside-and-get-something-fit-to-eat restaurants? I did, and it's a regular circus. If you've never been, you want to take it in.

The other day I had sixteen cents with which to get something to eat, and I thought I'd chance it.

I stepped into one of these holy terrors and sat down on a revolving stool similar to those they have in dry goods stores.

These seats are placed so closely together that your neighbor's business is your own.

You try to eat your soup. He nudges you and sends it back in your plate.

He tries to eat his pork and beans. You nudge him and he fishes in his vest pocket for pork, and down his shirt front for beans.

Well, I picked up the bill of fare and glanced over it. Really, I hadn't been out late for a week and I didn't know what to make of it.

The first entree was:

"Omelette a la Creole."

"Good heavens!" I thought. "Do they slice Creoles and serve them as omelettes?"

I wasn't very anxious to find out.

The next was:

"Rice soup a la Bellevue."

"Holy smoke, I have the rum habit so bad, I imagine I see Bellevue everywhere I go. I wonder what would happen if I were to take that?"

I got nervous and prepared to leave.

The last thing I saw on the calender was

"Croquettes a la D'Esprit."

"That's it exactly," I thought, "they get so desperate in these places that they hash up all the leavings and call them by their right name."

When I passed the manager of the shebang, he says:

"What's the matter? Are you dissatisfied with what you've had?"

"Not a bit of it," says I, "it's what I haven't had that I am dissatisfied with."

When I got outside of the restaurant, who should I run into but my dear friend, Rufus Sage.

"Hello, Rufus," says I, "how's business?"

"Candidly," says he, "it's rotten. I made only three millions this morning, and I've got to get a new suit this afternoon that will cost all the way from ten to fifteen dollars."

"Too bad," says I.

"Then, besides, I'm liable to be inconvenienced any time," he says, "through an argument I had with a friend of mine this morning. He said I was extravagant, and I said I wasn't."

"Well," says I, "did you succeed in getting him to think the same as yourself?"

"Yes," says he, "but I may get arrested any minute for assult and battery, and they'll fine me not less than five dollars."

I don't think I ever told you of the awful time I had, when I went yachting with my friend Rufus Sage, did I?

Oh! It was a swell time, indeed.

It began to swell the minute we struck the swell outside the harbor, and my poetic soul swelled up within me in great shape.

I was leaning over the rail looking at the beautiful green waves and the reflection of my beautiful face in them (no, I wasn't doing anything else), when my dear friend, Rufus, came to me and said:

"Cheer up, old man, things will get pleasanter, when the moon comes up."

"Darnation," says I, "it has come up, if I ever swallowed it."

Right after that, we encountered a most terrific gale. The wind blew, the storm howled, the ship tossed, and the lightning flashed. In fact, we were in a devil of a mess all around.

I found my ear in the captain's mouth and he was telling me something I didn't want to know.

The captain found my right boot exactly where it should have been under the circumstances.

The last thing I saw was Rufus running to his cabin to get a two-for-five collar button he had left in his trunk.

All hands got safely into the boat but me. There was so much of me overboard already that I didn't care how soon my skeleton followed.

Finally the ship sank and I found myself astride a big hogshead. I was in an awful situation.

Suddenly, I sighted a flagstaff with a flag attached, and within an hour was in grabbing distance.

"This," I says, "is all right. I'll put the staff in the bung-hole of the barrel and fly a signal of distress."

It flew fine, until a gust of wind took it away. But, as you know, I am a man of resource.

I took off my jacket and hoisted it in the place of the flag.

Another gust of wind came and blew my jacket away. Then I hoisted my shirt. That blew away and I hoisted my socks. Those followed, and I hoisted my trousers.

Say, but it was good I had that barrel. Those pajamas saved my life, though. A week later a passing steamer caught sight of my signal of distress and rescued me.

The first thing I asked the captain was if Rufus had been saved.

"Why," says he, "haven't you heard? He landed at Savannah and cornered the cotton market to the tune of ten million dollars, but he says he's a ruined man because he lost his yacht."

Say, how do you stand on the servant question? I had a girl that beat all outdoors for intelligence.

The other day my wife went out to do some shopping and left Bridget in charge of the house.

When she returned she asked Bridget if any one had called for her.

"Sure, mum," says she, "the babbie called for you all the while you were gone."

That night, when I came home to dinner, I couldn't eat a thing. Everything that wasn't glowing embers, was charcoal. I gave my wife a lecture and told her to fire the girl at once.

My wife went down to Bridget's stronghold and said:

"Bridget, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you'll have to find another place."

"Whoy so, mum?" asked Bridget.

"Well, my husband thinks there's too much waste in the kitchen."

"For the land's sakes, if you'll only let me stay, mum, I'll get a twenty-two corset and lace it until I can't breathe."

One day a friend of mine came to me and says:

"I see you have Bridget Harrohan around the house."

"Yes," says I.

"Do you know that she was in her last situation five years."

"No," says I; "where was that?"

"Sing Sing," says he.

I went home and sent Bridget away.

My wife, in sympathy, recommended her to one of her dearest friends. That sympathy was beautiful to see.

A little later Bridget came back and announced that the friend had engaged her.

"So the lady engaged you, at once, when you told her you had been with me," says she.

"Oh, yes!" says Bridget. "She said any one who could stay with you three months, must be an angel."

Say, I picked up a newspaper this morning, and I was astonished at the great events that are taking place.

I see that George Washington, colored, was appointed postmaster of the town of Gooseberry, N. C., at 9:15 yesterday morning, took up his situation at 9:30, and was lynched at 9:45.

I see that Mark Hanna has donated two millions to be spent in buying ice-cream and ginger snaps for the w-o-r-k-i-n-g-m-a-n.

I had a terrible dream about Mark, last night. It was so terrible that I got right up and dedicated a song to it.

It's entitled:

"What Did I Have For Supper; or, If I Knew What It Was I'd Eat It Again."

A low key, professor. Not a latchkey.

I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And lived in regal state;
That aldermanic feasts were mine,
Served up in Rogers' plate.

I dreamt I once met dear old Ted,
And shook him by the hand;
He said he'd make the niggers
The first men in the land.

I dreamt I saw Mark Hanna
In the Presidential chair;
He had J. P. Morgan seated
Right beside him there.

I dreamt I saw coal king Baer
Stand out upon the street,
Giving tons of coal to all
Within a hundred feet.

I dreamt I saw good Russell Sage
Give millions by the score,
To every poor man in the land,
And some came back for more.

I dreamt that all the Vanderbilts
Had reduced the railroad fare,
And were giving round-trip tickets
To almost everywhere.

I dreamt I had a fortune left
By dear old Harold Payne;
A hundred thousand down, or so,
The lawyers did explain.

I dreamt the Senate quickly passed
The anti-combine laws;
And sent the trusts all limping off
With dislocated jaws.

I dreamt that William Jennings Bryan
Was eventually elected;
They couldn't tell by just what means,
But Dave Hill was suspected.

I dreamt I saw shrewd Tommy Platt
Give doughnuts to the poor,
And when they wouldn't take them
He threw them down the sewer.

I dreamt our friends at Congress
Were running ten-round bouts;
That McLaurin went on with Tillman,
And scored some clean knockouts.

I dreamt there was no grafting,
That politics were clean;
But then, you bet, I just woke up,
I knew that was a dream.

Verily, verily, Republics and friends are ungrateful.

Do you know, all the gentlemen I mentioned in that song I just sang are my friends?

Talking of friends, puts me in mind of an ungrateful cuss I once called by this over-worked figure of speech.

He met me on the street, slapped me on the back, and said:

"Hello, old man!"

"Hello!" says I, "what do you want?"

"What do I want?" says he. "I want ten dollars."

"That's an awful large sum of money, and I'm afraid I haven't got it to lend," says I.

"You've got it in the bank?" says he.

"Yes," says I.

"Now, look here," says he. "The Good Book teaches us that we are all brothers."

"Granted," says I.

"Well," says he, "if I am your brother, by moral right what's yours is mine, and what's mine is yours. If I had the money I'd give it to you so quick it would take your breath away. Now, what you ought to do is to draw that money from the bank."

I rushed down to the bank, and says to the teller:

"Is the cashier in?"

"No," says he, "he's out. Are you a depositor?"

"Yes," says I.

"Then you're out, too; the police are on the trail now."

I went back to Harris, and gave him the last cent I had. He promised to pay me back in an hour.

A month after I met him.

"Say," says I, "how about that money I lent you? You said you only wanted it for a short time."

"That's right," says he, "I only had it for ten minutes. I went into a faro game."

Some time ago, Harris visited a tailor and had an overcoat made. He wanted trust, and the tailor, of course, wanted references.

Harris put up such a bluff that the tailor gave him the overcoat. He certainly played his game to perfection.

Then Harris wouldn't pay.

The tailor came around and said:

"See here, Harris, wasn't I kind enough to let you have that coat on tick? And now you won't pay. I'm sure it was the best that I could make, and it must have worn well."

"Certainly," says Harris, "all my nephews wore it."

"There, didn't I tell you it--" began the tailor.

"Yes," said Harris, "every time it got wet it shrunk so that the next youngest one could wear it."

Then the fun began.

The tailor put the bill into a collector's hands.

The collector called upon Harris.

"I'm sorry for you, old man," said the collector, "but your tailor has put your account into my hands for collection."

"Indeed, I'm so sorry for you. And you say you're going to try to collect it eh?" says Harris. "Well, I am so sorry for you."

The collector couldn't get a cent. Every time he called after that, Harris threw him downstairs.

Why, he got so after a while, that as soon as Harris appeared at the door, he would rush to the stairs and throw himself down.

Harris had him trained.

The tailor hit upon a brilliant scheme.

He hired a woman to collect the bill.

Harris was in a dilemma. He couldn't throw a woman downstairs.

He told me about it, and asked my advice, but I had none to give.

The next time I met him he shook me by the hand and said:

"I got around that woman-collector business all right. She never went back to the bloomin' tailor after the second time she called."

"Why," says I, "how did you manage it?"

"Oh!" says he, "that was dead easy. I just married her."

Did you ever strike one of those people who are dead stuck on their lineage and have charts tacked on their bedroom door, showing how many thousand years they can trace their ancestors?

I struck a "she" specimen the other day.

As soon as we were introduced, she says: "Jones, Jones, surely you are a descendant of the famous family of Joneses, who had their origin in the stone age and lived in a cave on the Palisades, about a mile from Hoboken?"

"I can't remember," says I, "it's so long ago and I have a poor memory."

"Yes, but let us come nearer to the present generation," says she. "You surely are a relative of the Joneses, the Milwaukee millionaires of the same name."

"Yes," I says, "a distant relative."

"How distant?" she says.

"As distant as they can keep me," says I.

"Have you any poor relatives?" says she.

"None that know me," says I.

That got her mad. She says:

"If I were your wife, I would put poison in your coffee."

"And if I was your husband," says I, "I'd drink it."

The other day I met Charlie de Hopen Dagen, the Scotchman, who had just enlisted for service in the Philippines.

"Hello, old man!" says he, "come and have a drink."

I wasn't feeling very thirsty, but I went.

It seemed to me that I had about ten thousand Manhattans, and then we had nine thousand and forty-eight whiskey sours to counterbalance them and try to sober up.

Something made Charlie rampageous, and he began to scrap with the barkeeper and almost killed him.

I finally got Charlie, seeing four moons and ten gangplanks, on board his vessel which was just about to leave.

The next day I met his brother Jim.

"Hello, Walter, I hear you saw Charlie off last night," says he.

"Yes," says I, "he was very much off."

"Was he in good spirits when you left him?" says he.

"Sure," says I, "the best that money could buy. He was a little sick, though."

"I hope it wasn't anything contagious," says he.

"If you could see the barkeeper up in Dan Mulligan's place," says I, "you'd thought it was."

Say, every one says Lakewood is so healthy, know why?

I heard only the other day, from a man who knew all about it.

I went down there, and the first thing I struck was one of those watering carts, plastered over with a patent medicine ad.

"Holy smoke!" says a fellow who stood beside me on the station. "No wonder Lakewood is so healthy. They water the streets with Fakir's Sarsaparilla."

Did you ever notice that when you have been taking liquid refreshments and are feeling good, and can't walk straight, then is the time you meet all your dearly beloved friends who like to talk about you?

The other night I went to a beer party, and when it got time to go home, I felt pretty much so-so.

I started out and the very first fellow I met was Jenkins.

"Why, my dear Walter," says he, "I am surprised. Don't give way to strong drink. Verily, verily, put it behind you."

"Why, parson," says I, "I am very much surprised that you can't see that I've got it behind me now.

"Say," says I, "I fell down stairs last night, parson, with twenty bottles of beer, and didn't break one of them."

"Verily, verily," says he, "that was indeed marvelous. How did you accomplish that extraordinary feat?"

"I had them inside me," says I.

The parson passed on and the next fellow I met was Dr. Brown of Spotless Town.

"What!" says he, "drinking beer again, friend Jones? I thought I told you that every glass of beer you took put a nail in your coffin."

"Can't give it up, doctor," says I. "Then, too, what does it matter after you're dead and gone if your coffin is as full of nails as the new East River Bridge is full of rivets."

I began to get a little confused, and couldn't see very clearly.

I met a friend and says:

"Say, Tom, can you tell me what has become of Walter Jones?"

"Why," says he, "you're Walter Jones yourself, ain't you?"

"I know it," says I, "but I want to know where he's got to."

He took me home.

The next morning my wife thought I was down-hearted. So I was. She tried to cheer me up.

"Oh, Walter! look here, the morning paper says that in Yumyami, Africa, a wife may be bought for twenty yards of cotton cloth."

"Well," says I, "I guess a good wife is worth it."

Then she started on another tack.

"By the way, you know Charlie Benson, don't you?"

I admitted that I did.

"Well," says she, "of late he has become quite attentive. I really think he means to run away with me."

"I'd like to see him do it," says I.

"Why," says she, "here's an account of a very intrepid photographer, who took a picture of a wildcat, just as it was about to spring at him."

"That's nothing," says I. "Jimmy Peck has a snap shot of his wife coming at him with a kettle of boiling water."

"It says here that lightning never strikes twice in the same place. I wonder why?"

"Any fool knows that," says I. "When the lightning comes again the place isn't there to strike."

"Say," says she, "I heard that you spoke to that ugly Mrs. De Fashion yesterday."

"Yes," I assented.

"She had a new hat on; did you notice what it was like?" says she.

"Well," says I, "it had a cowcatcher front, a battered-down funnel, a tailboard behind, a flower garden on top, and a job lot of ribbons streaming down in back. You can easily make one like it."

She soon got tired of trying to cheer me up and quit in disgust. It's a pretty hard job to cheer me up when I'm down-hearted.

Just then the bell rang, and the maid announced the doctor. He came in looking like a big sunflower.

"Sorry, old man, to see you in such a condition last night," says he.

"Bad condition, doctor," says I. "Why, that wasn't a flea bite to the condition I'm in this morning."

"I called upon Rollins this morning," says he, "and I never saw a man in such a complete state of mental depression. He says he was out with you last night. Can't you go around and convince him that his life still holds some future brightness for him?"

"Doctor," says I, "that's impossible. He's drawn his salary three weeks in advance and spent it all last night."

"Do you know," says the doctor, "I had a very remarkable experience last night. A young fellow came to me and said he had swallowed a cent and I made him cough up two dollars."

That doctor has a son that beats anything you ever heard tell of. He has made all his money on apples.

No, he don't grow them. He's a doctor.

It's little green apples I'm talking about now.

When leaving, the doctor told me I must take to automobiling and I would soon get well. I told my wife about it.

"Doc is simple to throw money away like that," says she.

"Don't worry about that," says I. "He charges double price for surgical visits."

"Well," says she, "with all his faults, Dr. Brown has never had a patient die on his hands."

"Get out," says I, "is that so?"

"Yes," says she. "When he sees that they are doomed, he sends them to a specialist.

"Oh, Walter!" says she. "By the way, are we all out of debt?"

"Thank Heaven, we are," I replied.

"Then let's give a swell dinner."

"But that would throw us into debt again."

"Of course it would, but what is the use of having good credit unless you can use it?"

I suppose after that I ought to sing you my latest howling success, entitled "No New Proverbs for Your Willie Boy; or, Some of the Fifty-seven."

They say that if you have too many cooks
You ruin your Sunday joint;
But if you give them nothing to cook
The proverb loses its point.

They say that if you're a rolling stone
You'll pass through the poorhouse door;
But Germany's doing a roaring trade,
And her travelers say they'll do more.

They say that if you go early to bed
You'll prosper, if early you'll rise;
But if you held gas shares, and other folks
Did the same, would that be so wise?

They say that you shouldn't throw stones about
If your house is made of glass;
But if it's insured for more than its worth
The proverb will hardly pass.

The point is just this: that proverbs, though wise,
Are changed by modern inventions;
And to add to this bushel of old-time lies
Would give rise to mighty dissentions.

Say, do you know I'm always afraid to carry that song about with me, for fear that some burglar will follow me home and steal it while I'm asleep.

The truth is I'm somewhat afraid of burglars.

The other night my wife woke me up and said:

"Walter, Walter, there are burglars in the house."

"All right, just take a light and turn them out," says I.

"I'm afraid they might run away with me," says she.

"No fear of that if you take a light," says I. "By the way, dear, do you knew that a Washington man was shot by a burglar and his life was saved by a pajama button, which the bullet struck?"

"Well, what of it?" says she.

"Nothing," says I, "except that the button must have been on."

Well, she wailed and went on so bad, that I had to go down and see what the racket was.

I went into the dining-room and there stood the burglar.

"Hold up your hands," says he.

"I'm darned if I do," says I. "My wife rules me by day, and you're not going to butt in and do it by night."

I grabbed a chair and went at him.

We finally compromised.

He was to take everything of any value if he would only let me--I mean if I would only let him up.

He took all the silverware off the sideboard and began to pack it up.

Just then my little Josephine called from the cradle.

"Say," says my visitor, "I've spotted this house for two weeks and didn't know you had a baby. If you call that sharp-nosed woman, wifie, and that kid yonder, baby, I guess you're blessed enough and in need of sleep. Let's call it a draw. Thank Heaven I ain't married."

"You'll be sorry you didn't get married, if you don't," says I.

"That's all right," says he, "I'd a heap rather that I wasn't, than be married and sorry that I was."

Well, after much mutual congratulation, the midnight visitor finally took his leave.

I was about to go upstairs, when I heard talking down in the basement.

I thought that perhaps there were a few more poor devils down there who would sympathize with me, and went down to make their acquaintance.

I was mistaken.

It was only my servant, Bridget, talking to a policeman stationed on the beat.