Chapter I: Part 1

S&S HUMOR LIBRARY No. 5 PRICE 25 CENTS

WHAT'S
YOUR
HURRY?

A
DECK FULL
OF
JOKERS

BY
GEORGE
NIBLO

STREET & SMITH · PUBLISHERS · NEW YORK

What's Your Hurry?

A DECK FULL
OF JOKERS....

By
GEORGE NIBLO

Author of
"B'Gosh!" "Atchoo!" "Step Lively!" etc.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers
238 William Street, New York

Copyright, 1904
By STREET & SMITH

What's Your Hurry?

WHAT'S YOUR HURRY?

Sit down! Sit down! Stop right where you are! The game isn't over by a long way.

I've got a few aces up my sleeve yet, and don't you forget it!

No wonder I'm feeling tiptop! Fact is, I fancy I am feeling to-night a little like the colored brother who got religion, and filled with enthusiasm, or something more of a liquid character, expressed to the doubting parson his desire to imitate Elijah, and go to glory in a chariot of fire.

"Yes," said the parson, "I reckon, my friend, you'se just want to get acclimated-like before reachin' de end ob your journey."

Now how did that reverend gentleman know?

Why, only through circumstantial evidence, for you see he had unfortunately once been the proud owner of a flock of fowls that did not have sense enough to roost high.

However, I'm not sighing just yet to go to glory.

This gay metropolis pleases me some.

But, talking of circumstantial evidence, I know one man who would never consent to hang a suspected murderer on the strength of it.

You won't blame him, either, when you hear what his experience in that line has I been.

He's a doctor by profession.

His learning has always been in the direction of mind troubles, and consequently I wasn't surprised when I met him the other day to learn that he is now in full charge of one of the biggest institutions in the State, for the care of the insane.

Now, it happened that recently in making a tour of inspection the doctor had occasion to enter an unoccupied cell in the ward reserved for incurables.

As he did so the iron door clicked shut, making him a prisoner in his own asylum.

While he was standing there, rattling the grating and calling for an attendant, a party of visitors came strolling his way.

"I beg your pardon," said the doctor suavely to the first man, "but I'm locked in."

"Poor fellow," replied the visitor, "so I perceive."

"I wish you would be good enough to have some one let me out," the doctor continued.

By this time a second visitor appeared.

"See," said the first, "this fellow looks quite intelligent, and asks to be released, as though he really expected it."

"Gentlemen, I see your error. I am not crazy, I assure you. I locked myself in here by accident. Really--I--why----" and the doctor felt himself smiling in the most blankly imbecile manner.

"Look at him now!" cried the second visitor. "Did you ever see a more hopelessly idiotic expression on the face of man?"

This was really too much for human nature to endure.

"See here, you scoundrels," cried the doctor, excitedly, "call an attendant or I'll have you both in here for life. I'm the superintendent."

"Come away," said one of the strangers, quickly, "we musn't get the poor devil worked up. He may do himself harm," and they passed on down the corridor.

The doctor spent a morning in that cell, and now he says he has more sympathy for his patients.

He assured me that if I ever took a notion to drop in and see him, he would do all he could to make my stay comfortable.

I wonder what he meant, and if that was a mere formula used to calm each new guest at his hotel.

Long experience has made the doctor quite an artist in that line.

Speaking of artists, there's Craigie, who has a studio on Fifth Avenue. Craigie is a friend of mine.

He paints atrocious pictures, but somehow seems to make a living out of the business.

Sometimes I go to see him, when business is bad, and I'm wondering where the money's coming from to pay the month's bill.

Between you and myself, the sight of all those daubs on the walls of his studio, which he considers masterpieces, always makes me feel better.

Misery likes company, and they certainly do look tough.

Recently, while I was lounging there in his Oriental corner, old Dr. Gregg dropped in.

I expected some fun, because the doctor has quite a caustic tongue, you know, and don't mind giving a fellow a rap.

Craigie understood why I winked at him, and I saw blood in his eye while he continued to paint.

The doctor walked around, grunting and making an occasional slurring remark that in another man might have been looked on as an insult.

But we all knew Gregg.

Finally he turned to the artist.

"I say, Craigie, these things which you exhibit on your walls, seeking a purchaser in vain, I suppose may be called failures?"

"Well," remarked the artist, "perhaps you hit the nail on the head in a commercial sense, doctor. You see, men in your profession have the advantage over us poor devils of painters, for while we are compelled to exhibit our failures on the wall, yours are safely planted underground out of sight."

When I met Craigie, after he had spent a summer abroad, he delighted me with his sketches of the many interesting things he had seen.

Among other subjects he had a picture of Monte Carlo.

It is certainly a lovely heaven on earth and I said as much. Craigie grinned at me.

"All the same," said he, "it has appeared to be a regular hades for many a poor devil."

"That's so--when a fellow has lost all his money," I admitted.

"Why," said he, "I myself experienced the tortures of the Inquisition in that room you see yonder."

"What are those affairs in sight?" I asked.

"I played roulette there, and was broken at the wheel."

Although I never went through a similar experience I could sympathize with Craigie.

Leaving out the wheel part of it, his condition has usually been a constitutional failing of mine, and was that morning when I called at the office of the Sunday paper.

Now, if there is anything I dislike it's to see an editor show his temper.

Some of them are really too provoking.

So when I happened in and found the man who runs the comic supplement frothing at the mouth I tried to soothe him.

"Christopher Columbus!" I remarked, pleasantly, after my usual way, "you seem to be out of humor this morning."

"That's all right," he snarled; "you can't sell me any."

What a husband that bear must be; not domestic, after my own fashion, for I dearly love to do errands for my wife.

Of course I sometimes make blunders in shopping, but then experience teaches one, and in time I hope to be able to hold my own with the tricky tradesmen who look upon me as a soft mark.

When the mistake is really atrocious I get a good calling down, and sometimes have to resort to strategy in order to save the day.

The lady of the house was indignant this evening when I came home from my weary round of the newspaper offices.

"The joke is on you, George," she said.

I wondered which one, for the day had not been productive of much long green.

"What's it all about?" I asked.

"Why, that mattress I told you to buy."

"Well, I bought it all right," I protested, feebly.

"Yes, and instead of sending home a mattress of live goose feathers, you purchased one of excelsior."

"How can you blame me, my dear," I said, "when I assure you it had a placard fastened to it which read 'Marked Down'? That furniture man is a prevaricator, that's all."

Those sharks who sell furniture must have some connection with fishermen, to judge from the thundering big lies they tell.

Now, I am fond of going fishing myself.

Perhaps I take a deeper interest in the whooping big yarns spun around the blazing camp fire by a set of jolly sportsmen than in the taking of mighty strings of fish.

Still, I delight to lure the festive trout out of the wet.

I've met some fellows who like old-fashioned methods, and succeed where the rest with their expensive tackle fail.

One day I had a remarkable run of luck, and that night as we sat around the camp fire, I took occasion to say that my success was due to the superior kind of flies I had used.

"You may flatter yourself on the string you've brought in to-day," said an old fisherman who had joined our party, "but let me tell you, mister, that I saw a Digger Indian catch more fish in one hour in this stream than you've landed all day with your fine flies."

"What bait did he use?" I asked.

"Live grasshoppers," replied the old man; "but he didn't impale them. From his head he would stoically pluck a hair, and with it bind the struggling insect to the hook. Almost upon the instant that this bait struck the water a fish would leap for it. After landing him the Indian would calmly repeat the performance of snatching a hair from his head and affixing a fresh grasshopper to the hook.

"After the Indian had landed in quick succession a mighty string of salmon trout he suddenly stopped. I called to him to go on with the exciting sport, but he merely smiled grimly and pointed significantly to his head."

"What was the matter with his head?" I asked.

"He had plucked it bald," replied the old man.

There have been some occasions when I've felt myself as though I would like to pluck my hair out, though it is generally on account of some stupidity on my part.

And if you don't mind I will tell you right here, how.

I put my foot in it the other night.

I was so provoked at my stupidity that I came near retiring to a nunnery, or taking a solemn vow not to speak a single word for a week.

Now, I haven't an unusually large mouth, and yet when I related my unfortunate break to Charlie Parsons, the cashier of our bank, he was cruel enough to hint that perhaps some people never could open their mouth without putting their foot in it.

I call that decidedly uncharitable, don't you?

But about this stupid remark of mine.

It was a big reception you know, a mixed company, where one was apt to meet any sort of an old star.

Some famous chaps were there, too.

I honored it with my presence.

At the table I chanced to sit next to a learned professor, head of a famous college. And during the meal some fiendish spirit induced me to turn toward him and say:

"Professor, can you tell me who that uncommonly ugly lady is, opposite to you?"

He looked at me with a wicked smile.

"Sir," he said, "she chances to be my wife."

Of course I was overwhelmed with confusion, and to crawl out of the hole I did what any other person would have done under the same circumstances.

"Pardon me, professor, but I mean the lady on the right."

"And that, sir, is my daughter," he said, solemnly.

Then I flew the coop.

When I was strolling along the Bowery this evening I saw a man come jumping out of a museum that boasts of more freaks than Barnum's show.

"Where's the nearest doctor?" he cried, and from his frightened appearance I felt positive the human snake had gulped down the bearded lady, or the living skeleton with the ossified bones wanted a tough joint pulled, or had got stuck in the wastepipe of the sink.

"What's the matter--anything wrong?" I asked.

"Wrong," he yelled, "I should say there was. Why, the sword swallower has got a pin down his gullet! Show me a doctor, quick!"

A little further along I saw an Irishman being run out of a clothing store by an irate Jew, who certainly looked as though he couldn't take a joke.

The Celt was laughing when I caught up with him.

"What's up?" I asked.

He pointed to the sign that read:

"Great Slaughter in Clothing."

"Sure," said he, "the gossoon was mad clane through because I wint in and asked to see one av thim kilt suits," and he laughed so hard that he choked half to death over a set of false teeth.

Speaking of teeth, that was pretty tough on Snyder when his little son and heir took to giving away family secrets so recklessly.

It seems that Snyder had been treating himself to a new set of teeth.

The youngster thought the event of sufficient importance to be related to the minister when he called.

And quite naturally the good dominie, much amused, asked what would become of the old ones.

"Oh, I suppose," replied little James, with a look of resignation; "they'll cut 'em down and make me wear 'em."

Snyder's wife is a good general.

She was riding in the car with her little daughter Edith, when the conductor, thinking perhaps of a half fare, asked:

"How old are you, little girl?"

"You must ask ma," she immediately replied, "'cause she always takes care of my age in a street car."

Now that was pretty cute, don't you think so?

And my youngest came up smiling recently.

Really, I am worried about that little chap, because I never know whether he is going to be a fool or a humorist.

Perhaps it doesn't matter much.

On this occasion he had had his first ride in an automobile.

A fellow around the corner bought one recently, and as he wants to get in my good graces for some reason or other, he asked Harold to go through the park with him.

That evening I heard my wife, who is very circumspect in all such matters of etiquette, say:

"Harold, did you thank Mr. Gaycrank for that lovely ride he gave you?"

Harold was reading but did not answer.

So she asked him again.

I knew he heard from the way he looked up, but was surprised that he made no reply.

"Harold!" she spoke sharply, now.

"Yes, ma," he replied.

"Did you thank Mr. Gaycrank for taking you riding? Why don't you answer me?"

"I did thank him, ma," whispered Harold, "but he told me not to mention it."

Harold was studying geography.

I saw something puzzled him.

"What's the knotty problem?" I asked him.

"They call the Mississippi the 'Father of waters,'" he said, "and I think it ought to be the 'Mother of waters.'"

"Correct, my son," I said, admiringly.

"Is Missouri the daughter of Mississippi then?" he asked.

I'm afraid I have much to answer for.

And think of it, that boy only nine years old.

What will become of us when he breaks loose at man's estate?

Just this morning he astonished me by declaring the dictionary was only an old joke book after all.

I frowned upon such levity.

The dictionary I look upon as an old and valued friend, and one deserving of the utmost respect.

It has pulled me out of many a difficulty.

"Nonsense, I'll give you a dime for every bona fide joke you show me in the dictionary," I said.

"All right, here's one already."

He pointed out the word "question."

Reading further I found this:

"To pop the question--see pop."

Well, I never begrudged that dime a bit. And my respect for that solemn old conglomeration of knowledge is now mingled with hilarity.

Since I'm in on the subject of young ones, let me tell you that I've always endeavored to impress my children with the fact that I take an interest in all they do.

That is, I want them to come to me with all their troubles, and gain by my checkered experience.

Sort of older brother confidence game, you know.

Once in a while I'm rather afraid they take advantage of my easy-going character.

There's Aleck, about sixteen, and almost ready to go to college--what d'ye think he said to me yesterday.

Catching me in a particularly good frame of mind, when a big check had just come in, he said in a serious tone:

"Will you advise me, pop?"

"Certainly--only too delighted, my son. Now, what is it you want my opinion upon?" I said, feeling particularly pleased because of this confidence.

"Well, you see, I wanted to know whether I had better strike you for five dollars or for ten?"

There's no use in telling you how much he got, for who could resist such a clever hold up?

Oh, by the way, did I ever tell you about Jackman?

Among my friends I suppose he is by long odds the most consequential--why, he has the strut of a Lord High Admiral in a comic opera.

That is, when before the public.

Secretly, I believe he leads a sort of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde life, and that the power behind the throne is in reality his wife, a little woman with a will of her own.

This was proven to my mind the day I was out with him at his country seat.

His coachman came up, looking red in the face, as though out of humor.

"I think I must leave you, Mr. Jackman," said he.

"Why, what's wrong, Thomas?"

"I don't like to complain, sir, but really I can't stand the missus."

"Oh, is that it--she's too strict, eh?" laughed Jackman.

"Yes, sir, she keeps forgetting that I can throw up my job at any time, and bosses me around just as if I was you, sir."

I thought it good manners to get behind the stable before I allowed myself to laugh.

But Thomas went all the same.

Jackman told me Thomas had recently got religion and was about the longest-winded petitioner at prayer he ever knew. But I had been South among the darkies, and remembered one old fellow, at least, who could give him points and still win out.

This was old Uncle Mose, who looked solemn enough for a funeral when I asked him how things were going.

"I declar'," he said, "I got ter be mo' keerful in future--I sho' has!"

"What's the trouble now?" I asked.

"Well, suh, I whirled in en prayed fer rain dese two hours en a half, en bless de Lawd, dey come along a regular deluge, dat mighty nigh drown de bes' mule I had. Prov'dence am so partial ter me, dat I'se got ter be mo' keerful about overdoin' things, you see."

Uncle Mose had a son who, being a barber, puts on considerable style at times.

I'd seen him look like a howling swell.

One day, down at the post office, while waiting for the mail to be distributed, I saw this Adolphus saunter in.

Another young gamecock rubbed elbows with him.

"Hullo, 'Dolphus, you'se ain't been a wearin' dem fine patent-leather shoes ob yours no mo'. What am de matter?" I heard him ask.

"Kain't--de patent done run out," said Adolphus.

That fellow was quite good looking, and in fact I can remember quite enjoying him after a fashion.

I don't believe I've ever been called a handsome man myself.

That is, in a beauty show, the prizes wouldn't be rushing in my direction.

And yet for years I did cherish the fond belief that my face had the stamp of honesty and rectitude upon it.

Alas! I'm not so positive now.

To tell the plain, unvarnished truth, I begin to fear this business of talking on humorous subjects is beginning to leave its effect upon my frank countenance.

This is how I know.

I had engaged to do a stunt in a certain town down among the North Carolina pines.

Come to find out, there was no way of getting there except by means of a stagecoach, just as in olden days.

I was the only passenger, you see.

There had been considerable talk about a rascal who had robbed right and left, so that I was not feeling very good.

Besides, I didn't like the looks of that driver, for if ever an evil-browed mountaineer had taken to coaching, he was the man.

He kept looking back at me every little while, and somehow I got the notion into my head that he was figuring whether it would pay to make way with me.

There was an awful lonely stretch of woods between Athens and Saulsboro, and when we struck it I tell you a cold chill pranced up and down my spinal column, for it was just an ideal spot for murder.

Suddenly the driver drew in his horses.

My knees began to knock together, and my teeth rattled just like those Turkish castanets you've seen dancers use.

The worst had come, and this black-browed villain was about to finish me then and there.

I tried to get to my feet.

"Hold on there!" growled the driver.

His voice trembled, I thought, with rage.

It was the most terrible moment of my life.

"Who are ye?" he next demanded.

I told him my name.

"What ye going to Athens fur?" he asked.

I hastened to inform him that I was the funny man who had been engaged to appear, my object being to let him know I might be worth more coming away from Athens than when bound there.

He put out his big hand, quickly.

I expected to see a big pistol in it, but no, it was empty.

"How glad I am, mister, to hear that," he said. "I've been shaking in my boots all this yer time thinkin' ye was that land pirate an' meant to murder me, 'cause they say he's even an uglier cuss than me. Shake hands, mister. I declar ye've taken a mighty big load off'n my mind."

I shook hands with the delighted fellow, but lacked the nerve to tell him how badly scared I had been.

But I'm not so proud of my honest looks nowadays.

Whenever I hear a good story in connection with some person of note, I always enjoy it more if I happen to know the party.

They told me about Richard Harding Davis the other night at the club, which amused me not a little.

Ever hear of his adventures with the bull?

Well, it runs something like this, and those who happen to be honored with a personal acquaintance with the famous young American author will appreciate its point best.

He was taking a stroll one day, and lost in meditation, so the story runs, rather incautiously started to cross a meadow where a ferocious bull was pastured.

The gentleman did not see the bull until he charged, and then like a true soldier of fortune he dropped his dignity and made headlong for the nearest fence.

This he reached in good time, but the bull had the satisfaction of assisting him over.

Though no great damage was done, Mr. Davis' feelings were deeply injured.

Just then, as luck would have it, the owner of the bellowing bovine came running up.

He was angry because Mr. Davis had been trespassing on his property, and Mr. Davis was mad clean through because he was not in the habit of being assisted over fences in that style.

"I'll have you arrested for trespass, sir," exclaimed the farmer, in a rage.

"And I'll have you summoned for keeping dangerous animals at large," cried Mr. Davis.

"You had no business on my land, sir."

"Ah! perhaps you don't know me; I'm Richard Harding Davis, sir!" striking his well-known attitude, and tapping his manly breast significantly.

"Oh," said the farmer, duly impressed, "but Mr. Davis, why didn't you tell that to the bull?"

I was out in a country cemetery lately.

Ever walked through one?

Sometimes you find some queer epitaphs on the old stones.

I read one that told about the virtues of three husbands a certain woman had.

And the monument had evidently been touched up several times, as occasion required.

This gave me a suggestion which I later carried out in the shape of a little song, and if you will permit me, I'll sing it to you now. Keep your seats, there's no extra charge.

The orchestra will please play, softly, the "Dead March of Saul." My song is entitled "The Overworked Monument."

She followed him unto his grave
And reared a marble rare,
And chiseled on this sentence sweet,
"My grief I cannot bear."

She mourned a year and then she wed,
And they chiseled on that stone
A single word, and now it reads,
"My grief I cannot bear--alone."

But soon she wore her weeds again,
And they turned that stone about;
And on it traced this touching line,
"My life's light has gone out."

Not long she walked in darkness lone
Around that marble patch,
The bells rang out, the sculptor wrote,
"I've struck another match."

She's happy now with number four,
But all the neighbors say
That she will be a busy girl
On Resurrection Day.

Some people are very partial to the bang-tails.

There's Cribber, for example, has become quite infatuated over the races, and loses no opportunity of going when the season is on.

He stoutly maintains that it is just his Kentucky love for the magnificent thoroughbreds that lures him there.

And being a confiding sort of a fellow myself I actually believed this song and dance for a time.

I know better now.

Here's where the bars were lowered.

Cribber has a lovely home, and a devoted wife, who has long been one of my wife's best friends.

The other day when she was at the house she took advantage of my wife running upstairs to get her hat on, to put me on the rack.

I was surprised.

What do you think she asked me?

She wanted to know whether the air down on Long Island had malaria in it, and especially around Sheepshead Bay, where the horses ran.

I assured her that so far as I knew it was considered fully as healthy as any other part of the shore.

Then she let the cat out of the bag.

Several times of late after Cribber had been to the races he looked careworn and cross, and complained that there was something radically wrong with his system.

I saw a great light.

But I made no attempt to explain matters to the little woman, who doubtless continues to be worried about the health of that gay old deceiver, Cribber, and when I told him about it he bribed me to secrecy with a prize fifty-cent cigar.

To tell you the truth, if there's anything I enjoy it's a prime cigar.

And like many another man I've had to make myself a martyr each Christmas, for my better-half invariably insists on buying me a box of the weeds.

Her intentions are all right, but the cigars--well, they generally bring back vivid recollections of boyhood days, when corn-silk and grape leaves all went.

I have come to dread the holiday time.

And yet I never have the heart to dissuade her, she seems to take such delight in seeing me smoke one of the vile weeds some villain of a tobacconist sold her as prime stuff.

Now this year I determined to be wise.

Accordingly I managed to slip out of the house and presented the box with a "Merry Christmas" to Mike McGinnity who lives around the corner.

Then I bought a box of my favorites and smuggled it into the house, feeling guilty, yet triumphant.

That night Clara, bless her heart, insisted on opening the package and bringing me the first cigar, which she lighted with her own dear hands.

Then she watched me puff my satisfaction.

It was genuine, I tell you, and mentally I was patting myself on the back.

"How do you like them, my dear?" she asked, anxiously.

"Prime--as good as any I've ever smoked," I replied, honestly.

"I'm so glad, for you see I had Mr. Harvesthome pick them out for me. They cost fifteen dollars for the box of fifty. But I do love to see you enjoy a good cigar after dinner."

Well, what do you think of that?

Harvesthome is the best judge of cigars I know.

Every time I pass McGinnity he calls out blessings on my head for the "illegant" box of cigars I gave him.

And I think Harvesthome suspects something.

That will cost me another box to keep him hushed up.

I guess those were about the most expensive common, everyday smokes I've ever indulged in.

Next year I will bribe Clara to let me help her select the present.

But talking of smoking, I wonder whether it really has any effect on the nerves, as the doctors claim.

Because, it's been my experience that some of the nerviest chaps among the rising generation were boys who indulged in cigarettes.

Why, just last week I had occasion to go to a neighboring town down the coast.

It was confusing to a total stranger, the streets ran at such queer angles.

So I determined to seek a little assistance.

There came along a sallow youth, puffing away at a cigarette and looking mighty important.

I held him up.

"Say, young fellow, can you direct me to the bank?" I asked.

"Guess I kin, for a quarter," he replied, coolly.

I liked his nerve.

At the same time I expressed my surprise over the steep demand he made for such a trifling service.

"Huh," he said with a grin, "guess you can't expect a fellow to be a bank director for nothing."

He got that quarter for his smartness.

If only one keeps his ears open on the streets he is very apt to hear many queer things, and sometimes fragments of humor go floating on the breeze.

Try it once.

You'll soon realize that after all, this is something of a gay old world.

Down on Park Row, just as I was passing, an irate customer was hauling a clothing dealer over the coals.

"Say, Isaacson, you said this suit would wear like iron," I heard the customer say.

The Jew shrugged his shoulders.

"Vell, do you mean to dell me it did not?" he asked.

"Hang it, too much like iron. I've only had it a week, and see here how rusty it's become."

The same day I stopped to gaze at an astonishing picture in front of a Fourteenth Street museum, where the freaks are on exhibition day and night.

A wild-looking man came out and hurried away.

He was met by the manager, but broke loose and walked down the street, evidently out of temper.

"See here," called out the proprietor to the man in the ticket office, "what's gone wrong with the glass-eater?"

"Oh! he's struck."

"Wants more money, eh?"

"Nope, getting too toney, that's all."

"What's he up to, now?"

"Refuses what we give him--lamp chimneys ain't fastidious enough for his highness--wants cut glass," said the man in the ticket office.

While I was still smiling about the stuck-up devourer of broken glass, I ran slap into Godkin, who used to be a neighbor of ours.

Some months back he yielded to the alluring blandishments of the Jere Johnson tribe of suburban real estate men, and went over in Jersey to reside.

He certainly looked bad.

His face was pale and his eyes had a far-away expression.

"Old man," I said, anxiously, "what's ailing you? I never knew you to be sick before. Really, you ought to ask some doctor what's the matter."

"It's no use, I know it only too well. It's quick consumption," he replied, with a sigh.

I was really distressed.

Godkin, bluff and hearty, was the last man I should ever have expected to go into a decline.

"Quick consumption!" I repeated, after him, and laying a hand on his arm, sympathetically.

"Yes, having to bolt my breakfast in two gulps and hurry to catch the train for town."

While I was talking with Godkin a nervous-looking man passed us.

He had a lad along with him, and as it was a cold day the boy kept knocking his hands together to induce circulation.

This appeared to annoy grandpa.

"Tommy, stop rubbing your hands like that. The weather's not cold."

And Young America made reply:

"Well, I ain't tryin' to warm the weather--I'm a warmin' my hands, see!"

I have good cause to remember that day.

It was a red-letter occasion.

I pride myself as being as smart as the next one, and in a long experience seldom come out at the small end of the horn.

But that day--it was a terrible blow to my pride.

An auction attracted me.

I must confess that I've a sneaking liking for any stray old bargain that may be floating around.

I've got an attic full of 'em at home in the country--send 'em down there so my wife won't laugh at me.

However, up to this day, I don't think I've ever been as foolish about bidding things in as Mrs. Gerrold, who got a doorplate with the name Thompson on it, and when I asked what use it could be to her, calmly replied:

"Life is very uncertain. Who knows, Gerrold might be taken away and I might marry some man named Thompson, and this would come in very handy."

But I have purchased a white elephant.

You shall hear.

While prowling around in the auction room I ran across a little antique chest.

It struck my eye as the very thing to keep my papers in, and I thought I might squander a dollar or so for it when the time came to bid.

When I turned back the lid I found the box half-filled with packages of papers, some of which looked like deeds.

Of course I was foolish to think of treasure-trove, for who could say what valuable document a fellow might not unearth among these bundles!

A seedy-looking chap touched me on the arm.

"I beg pardon," said he, "but I hope you won't bid against me on this here chest."

"And why?" I asked, getting my back up at once.

"Because, you see, I used to be a coachman for the family, and when they busted up they owed me a part of my wages."

"Oh, yes, and now you think there may be a bonanza for you here. Well, I guess the track's free to all, and I've taken a fancy to that chest myself," I said, firmly.

He shook his head and looked angry.

The box was put up the next thing.

I've often thought that queer.

That fellow hung on like a bulldog, to the extent of his little pile, but my fighting blood was up, and if I'd been a Vanderbilt I guess I'd have gone a thousand.

I got it, though.

Locking the chest up I left it while I went to the bank and borrowed the money, some fifty-two dollars.

Yes, that was an expensive box.

It seemed so precious that I squandered another dollar and a half hiring a cab to carry it home.

My wife thought I had been to a funeral.

A little later I was of the same opinion myself.

Those stocks and bonds just brought me twenty-two cents for old paper.

Of course it was a set-up game, and they say a sucker is born every minute.

That was my minute, probably.

But I am not always such an easy mark.

I dropped into a wholesale shoe house the other day to see a friend.

Several of the salesmen were perched on boxes, taking it easy, for business had slackened.

"Hello," I remarked, "all pulled for the jury, I see."

"How's that?" asked one.

"Why, sitting on cases," I said.

Out in front I ran across two excited Hebrews.

"You called me a dead beat," said one, angrily. "You must take dot pack, sir, or suffer dose consequences."

"I never dakes anydings pack," declared the other, firmly.

"You don't dake noddings pack?"

"Never. So help me shiminy gracious."

"All right. You vas der man I've been looking for. Lend me a haluf a tollar."

I hope he got it.

I had no time just then to wait and see, for I had an errand to do downtown, a very particular one, too, for Gwendoline.

That's my niece, who runs our flat just now.

You see, my brother left his little girl with us while he ran across to London.

She's a dear little thing, but utterly spoiled.

Once in a while it is up to me to punish her, for I promised Henry to be a father to his little pet while he was gone.

The other night she was pouting and headstrong, so I set about depriving her of something she particularly desired.

Result, of course, a deluge of tears.

"It hurts me to see you cry, Gwendoline," I said, in a mournful voice, "but you understand you can't always have your own way, and do as you like."

"Oh, uncle," she sobbed, "how can you be so obstinate?"

They're all alike, these women, and bound to gain their ends by hook or by crook.

And yet sometimes they do have the most remarkable ideas about things.

I was at a reception, and having wandered in the conservatory thought myself alone, until I heard low voices behind some shrubbery.

Of course a pair of turtledoves had secreted themselves there to bill and coo--the cooing would end at the altar, but every married man knows the billing keeps right along.

Pretty soon I heard the happy youth say:

"Dearest, how do you know that you truly love me?"

And then she answered innocently:

"Why, George, don't you see, ever since I met you I've grown to admire ears that stand out."

When that girl gets married I don't think she'll need any assistance in her household work.

We changed help the other day.

I hardly know what to make of the new girl.

Sometimes I labor under the impression that she can be as dense as they make them across the water.

Then again she makes some remarks that stagger me, and on my life I'm unable to decide whether she's a fool, or takes me for one.

Her breaks are numerous.

Of course being newly landed she had never tasted ice cream, and as the first spoonful went into her mouth it came out again with violence, and tears coming into her eyes, she gasped:

"Howly mither, it do burn!"

Why, it was only this morning I wanted to consult my wife about something or other.

Of course she could not be found.

It's always thus.

But I am not the man to complain.

With the determination that has always distinguished my noble line of ancestry, I started in to search from one end of the flat to the other.

This brought me to the kitchen, where lovely Nora was diligently bending her back over the washtubs.

"Can you tell me of my wife's whereabouts?" I asked.

She looked puzzled, but only for a moment, and then smiling broadly, said:

"Faith, to till yees the truth, I do belave they're in the wash, sur."

However, I've run across some things that won't wash.

We had a regular seance one night last week at the house of a great friend of mine called Harper. It was very interesting.

The professor who conducted the exercises was a genius, and he came mighty near converting some of the ladies to his extraordinary way of thinking.

I think Harper's wife was anxious to be a convert.

At any rate I heard her eagerly saying to the gentleman with the long hair and the occult eye:

"I have always believed in dreams, professor."

"Ah!" said he, delighted, "then perhaps you too have had some psychological experience?"

"Indeed, I did--a most remarkable one in particular," she gushed.

"Prophetic?"

"Yes."

"I should greatly like to hear it."

"One night I dreamed that the sky suddenly blazed with light; the heavens were filled with a thronging host, a trumpet sounded, the dead arose from their graves, and then a voice shouted: 'Something terrible is going to happen!'"

"Well?" he asked, "and it came to pass?"

"Why, the very next day our cook left."

I felt very sorry for the professor--he laughed, of course, but during the rest of the evening I noticed he fought shy of Mrs. Harper's company.

And the best of it was that lady actually believed in the realization of her prophecy.

I know Harper thought it a dire calamity when he had to subsist for a whole week on provender fashioned after the methods in vogue among cooking-school graduates.

When he was a little younger Harper used to be quite a clubman.

Habits of his bachelor days were hard to shake off.

I had often wondered how he came to suddenly reform, and when my wife told me recently, as a great secret, I have come to feel a new respect for the fertility of resource as shown in the gentler sex.

Mrs. Harper used strategy, where another little woman, less wise, might have tried expostulation and entreaty without effect, for most men dislike the tyranny of tears.

I'll tell you what she did.

Before going to bed she drew two easy chairs close together by the parlor fire.

Then she took one of Dick's cigars and held a match to it, until the room got a faint odor of smoke.

Harper casually asked the next morning who had dropped in and looked at her in a funny way when she said no one.

But he never went out another evening without Mrs. Harper.

Now, I call that as smart a bit of diplomacy as Napoleon ever exhibited in his campaigns, don't you?

Harper lives in Brooklyn.

This gives him the privileges of a landed proprietor.

Why, think of it, the nabob even owns a reel of garden hose, and when he comes home weary, in the evening of a hot, dusty day, he can find relaxation to body and mind by sprinkling the streets in front of his house.

The first time I was over there, I found him taking a turn at this thing.

There is a fascination about it, you know.

At first I joked him unmercifully about it, but wound up by offering to show him a few stunts in that line which proved how I had graduated as a past master in the art.

While we were chatting his little boy came along.

He seemed to be in tears about something.

"What's wrong, my son? I thought you had gone with your mother on an errand," said Harper.

"She sent me home to change my stockings," he blubbered.

"Why, what's the matter with them?"

"They's put on wrong side out."

"Hold on," I exclaimed, "that's easily remedied, if you will permit me," and I turned the hose on him.

That little event brought to my mind the narrow escape I had recently.

Through the carelessness on the part of a gentleman who was demonstrating the wonderful abilities of his patent liquid fire extinguisher, my clothes caught fire.

Well, that, you know, is no joke.

Many a poor chap has burned up before he could collect his wits and roll himself up in a rug.

But I must confess, the fellow who was to blame kept his head, and knew just what to do.

He slapped a little stream of his magic mixture on me, and before you could say Jack Robinson, I was saved.

Of course he apologized.

I felt like thrashing him, but, as he was a brother of my best friend, the pawnbroker, I forbore.

"I'm awful sorry, old boy," he said, "but no great damage is done, and I hope you're not angry with me."

"No, but to tell you the truth, I feel awfully put out," I replied.

Harper has another boy, about the age of my youngest, and like all Brooklyn lads he is precocious.

He came in while I was there, crying for keeps.

"Hello, what's happened?" asked his father.

"Been fightin' again."

"With that Irish boy, I suppose."

"Yep, I'm bound to lick him yet."

"Well, you seem to have come out second best this time. But what's the use crying--tears do no good," said Harper, thinking to make him more manly.

"All right," spluttered the boy as well as his cut lip would allow him, "but I guess if you'd gone and got whaled you'd blubber, too."

Harper was telling me about Jerry's experience at school. Jerry is the little chap who put his stockings wrong side out that afternoon.

I thought it was rather a joke on Harper, though he refuses to look at it that way.

Well, the teacher gave each of the little kids a good, big healthy word to write down.

Then they were expected to look up the definition in the dictionary, and write out a complete sentence containing it.

Jerry, he was given the word "anonymous," without a name, and when the teacher read what he had written on his strip of paper, she thought it was worth the while to send it to Mr. Harper for denial.

This was Jerry's sentence:

"The new baby at our house is anonymous."

Still that was unintentional humor.

Nothing delights me more than to accompany a friend on some afternoon excursion to the country.

This is especially true if he chances to be thinking of finding a house in the suburbs.

Recently I performed this sad rite with Hollingsworth, a legal friend of mine.

Among other places where he took me was a town in Jersey which I dare not name for fear of being lynched.

At any rate it was a dead herring.

Once a boom had set in, and streets were laid off in the most extravagant fashion, but for years the place had been going to the bad.

The real estate man had exhausted his resources, and as a last card he said, desperately:

"But you certainly must admit that the town is well laid out."

"Oh! we agree you've done the proper thing," I remarked. "When a town is dead it's only right to have it well laid out."

That real estate man was offended.

But then levity at a funeral is, I suppose, out of place.

There was a dentist in the town who seemed to have a little ambition, for he planted a sign in front of his office bearing the legend:

"Teeth inserted for five dollars."

"I call that dear," I remarked.

"How so?" asked Hollingsworth.

"Why, I've got a brindle dog out in the country that I'll guarantee to do the job every time for nothing."

While that real estate man was showing us the beauties of the broad fields we made an unfortunate acquaintance with a gentleman cow.

Run--well, we did that everlastingly.

But the bull caught up with poor Hollingsworth.

I expected to see him gored to death.

That was when I forgot he was a lawyer, and used to holding every charge.

He clutched Mr. Bull by the horns, and I hardly knew whether to laugh or be frightened when I actually saw him riding the beast.

Finally he was assisted over the fence.

We hurried to him, anxious to learn whether he had been injured seriously.

Beyond a few scratches, and a tear or so in his garments, he seemed to be all right.

Of course I warmly congratulated him on his abilities as a prize bull-baiter.

He was a little dazed--I guess you would have been, too, after such a warm experience.

"Say, am I awake--was this thing the genuine article or did it only exist in my imagination?" he asked.

I thought of how he rode that all bovine like a Centaur, and hastened to reply:

"Well, if it wasn't real, it's certainly a striking example of a man being carried away by his imagination, that's all."

On the way home after that trip, Hollingsworth was quite gay.

I've often wondered whether it came from his being so well shaken up by the bull, or because he had successfully evaded the snares of that smart real estate agent.

"Did you notice it was a colored man who gave our friend Joblots his letters at the post office?" he asked.

I replied that I had been surprised to see that the residents of a town in Jersey had a negro postmaster.

"Oh! he's only an assistant. But you'd be surprised still more if you realized his real character."

"Would I?"

"Because everyone knows he's a blackmailer."

"That's serious, isn't it?"

"And it isn't the worst, either."

"Why, he must be a hard citizen--what else does he do?"

"Joblots says his wife takes hush money."

"Bribery, eh?"

"You see, she's one of the nurses at the orphan asylum."

By the way, before I forget, I want to tell you about a man I met this morning. He followed the funniest profession you ever heard of.

He appealed to me for help, saying times were hard and he could find no employment at his profession.

"What are you?" I asked him.

"An oculist," he replied.

He looked so seedy that I was surprised.

"An oculist, eh? How do you make that out?" I asked.

"I take the eyes out of potatoes," he said.

Well, I got him a job as scullion in a beanery.

He had the whitest hair and mustache you ever saw, and told me it had come in a night through a scare, that he nearly died from fright--now do you believe that?

Of course you do.

Why, more than once you've seen an old widower's hair suddenly turn from gray to black about five months after he buried the partner of his joys and woes, and he didn't dye from fright, either.

Say, did any of you people ever strike a prohibition town?

Any of you that have done so will sympathize with me, for I had a terrible experience of that sort when on a tour last winter.

To save my life I couldn't get anything stronger than Sparrowvinatis; that's a drink they have in those freak towns.

Well, sir, I spied a braw Scotchman selling tickets at a theatre door.

I gloated.

I made a bee line for him.

I plagued him with questions until he was the maddest man in the United States.

Then I went away feeling better.

Yes, friends, if you ever get stranded in a temperance town, do as I did, stir up a little hot Scotch.

It'll do you good.

I went to a dinner in that same town.

One fellow proposed a toast:

"May the trade of this town always be trodden under foot!"

Drunk? Oh, no, he wasn't drunk. You see they had a dozen big carpet manufacturies there, and----

Dear, dear, dear! Why, here's a hole in my coat. That puts me in mind of Sunday school--you know we learned long ago when we were good little boys and went to Sunday school, that the prophet rent his clothes. I guess he must have been a poor man and couldn't afford to buy 'em. That's nothing against old Elijah, is it?

Say, did you ever get up against the first-class lunatic who is forever telling us about the city man's smartness and the country man's dullness?

Let me tell you an experience of mine that gives the lie direct to such an idea.

It happened one night as I was standing near the ticket box of a swell Eastern theatre.

The play was "The Forty Thieves."

A big, raw-boned Jerseyman strode into the place, as though he had made up his mind to squander some of his hard-earned cash in order to see the really gorgeous performance.

Sliding up to the box office I heard him demand one of the best seats and laid down a five-dollar bill. A coupon and three dollars was handed to him. When he asked what the ticket cost and was told that it was two dollars, it was evident that he expected to pay half a dollar at most.

"Two dollars to see the forty thieves, eh?" he repeated.

"Yes, sir," said the box-office man.

"Well, keep your durned seat," exclaimed the man from Jersey. "I don't think I care to see the other thirty-nine."

Then there's the elevator boy in our apartment house, who was born and brought up in the city.

He had a little flag pinned on his coat, and I was joking him on his patriotism.

"What have you ever done for your country, Bill?" I asked.

Would you believe it, that urchin had the nerve to look me wickedly in the eye and say:

"Well, I guess I've raised a good many families, sir."

On the train I met a man I used to know.

After we had been chatting about generations a while, I asked:

"How about that wedding out in your town that I saw mentioned in the papers--did it come off without a hitch?"

"Well, I guess so."

"Everybody pleased, of course, as usual?"

"Everybody nothing, everybody as mad as hornets, you mean. The groom didn't show up, the bride got screeching hysterics, and the father's been prowling round with a shotgun ever since," said my friend.