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.
"But see here – you said it went off well?" I broke in.
"No, I didn't. You asked if it went without a hitch and I assented, for how could there be a hitch without the bridegroom."
But, say, I must tell you about being in court the other day.
The smart lawyer had the witness in hand, and it appeared to be his plan of campaign to impeach the man's testimony, by showing what a bad citizen he was.
"Now," said he, very deliberately, "will you have the goodness in conclusion, Mr. Gallagher, to answer me a few questions; and be pleased to remember, sir, that you are on your oath, and have sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."
"Certainly, sor," replied the witness, whom I thought an honest-looking fellow, though hardly smart enough to hold his own against a lawyer's search-light methods.
"Now, Mr. Gallagher, we have reason to believe that at the present time there is a female living with you who is known in the neighborhood as Mrs. Gallagher. Kindly tell the jury if what I say is true?"
"It is, sor."
"Ah! yes, and Mr. Gallagher, is she under your protection?"
"Sure."
"Now, on your oath, do you maintain her?"
"I do."
"And have you ever been married to her?"
"I have not."
The lawyer smiled just here, with the proud consciousness of having rendered that man's testimony not worthy of being taken into consideration.
"That is all, Mr. Gallagher, you may step down," he said.
"One moment, please," remarked the opposing counsel; "with the permission of the court I would like to ask a question."
"Granted," said the judge.
"Mr. Gallagher, remembering that you are on oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, be pleased to state the relation which this objectionable female bears to you."
"She's me grandmother, sure," said Gallagher.
In Central Park I saw a policeman wheeling a baby carriage, with the little cherub sound asleep inside.
Possibly the nurse had eloped with another copper, and this chap was taking the abandoned infant to the station that it might be claimed.
"Why are you arresting a little child like that?" I asked the officer.
"Kidnaping," he said, with a grin, pointing to the slumbering baby.
Don't look round but let me whisper. There's an ancient couple at the back of the hall enjoying a basket-lunch. That's what I call combining pleasure with lunch. Now at the place where I dine we do things differently. There we combine business with lunch. The legend over the portals of the restaurant reads:
"Business Luncheons."
I suppose they make that candid announcement because it's anything but a pleasure to make way with what they serve there.
The other day when I dined there the waiter came round and asked:
"What are you going to have?"
"I guess a beefsteak – but see here, waiter, not a small one. I'm that nervous to-day every little thing upsets me."
"Pardon me for asking, sir," said the waiter, between the courses, "but what's made your eye black and blue? Perhaps you've been having a little affair with the gloves."
"Yes," I replied, carelessly; "I've been going through an operation at the hands of a knockulist, that's all."
Then I turned my attention to the roast chicken, which reminded me of another affair.
You shall hear it.
Teddy O'Toole, who gave me so much amusement last summer while I was sojourning in a mountain town, has been at it again, I hear.
He is a sad case.
What do you think, his last trick was but to play good old Father Ryan for a dinner.
Let me tell you the ingenious way the graceless scamp went about it.
First of all, being hard set by hunger, what does he do but steal a fat young fowl from the priest's henyard.
Having wrung its neck he presented himself before the reverend father, looking sadly repentant.
"What now, Teddy?" asked the old man, who was growing weary of wrestling with the devil as personified in the vagrant.
O'Toole, with his head hanging low, confessed that in an evil moment he had stolen a fowl, and then, stung by the lashing of his conscience, had come to confess his wrong.
The father, of course, began to lecture him.
Then Teddy, as if desirous of doing penance, offered the fowl to his reverence, which shocked Father Ryan more, and he added to his words of reproach.
"But faith, phat shall I do with the burrd at all?" asked Teddy.
"First, return it to the owner."
"Indade and I've done the same, and be me sowl he's actually refused to resave the purty creature."
"That is strange, and complicates matters. Stay, there is one other chance left. Find some poor widow who is in need, and present her with the wretched bird."
"And thin will ye confess me?" demanded Teddy.
"Of a surety, since the good deed will have balanced the evil one," returned the priest.
So away posted that miserable sinner to the house of the Widow McCree, and she only too gladly cooked the bird, since she had the fire handy.
Thus pooling their resources they fared merrily.
And I am told on good authority that Teddy, determined to do the thing up as it should be, presented himself before the priest on the same evening, related how he had given the fowl to a poor widow in need, and received absolution as meekly as though he might be but an erring saint instead of a scheming sinner.
His pranks always amuse me.
Though on more than one occasion I've found the laugh didn't seem to come quite so spontaneously, when the joke was on me.
This happened on a recent occasion.
I thought I had enough common sense about me not to be caught by such a picayune piece of tom-foolery, but no doubt at the time my mind was wrestling with some of the weighty questions that daily beset a professional man.
At any rate I fell an easy victim.
And I feel foolish every time I think of the affair.
There were seven gay boys in Snyders when I entered, and having seen me coming, through the glass door, they seemed to be engaged in serious discussion.
"Here he is now – he can settle the argument himself," said Tom Radcliffe.
"What's it all about?" I asked, innocently.
"Why, Craigie here said you understand German, and I told him he was badly mistaken, and that I didn't believe you could translate five words of it."
"Oh! well, I don't pretend to be a scholar, but I've rubbed against some Teutons in my day, and may say without egotism that I've conversed in German," I replied, for it rather galled me to have Radcliffe say that.
"Bosh!" exclaimed my detractor, "I've an idea the simplest sentence would stump you. Say, what does 'Was wollen Sie haben' mean, anyhow?"
"Why, what will you have?"
"Scotch for me," said Radcliffe, and the others said that would suit them to a fine point.
But I don't believe they would have caught me so easily if cares of state had not occupied my mind – you see I was sitting on a new scientific joke, and waiting for it to hatch.
Talking of science, I've found that it pays a man to keep right up with the times.
By observing small things he is able to increase his reputation among those who read less.
Let me prove this to you.
When that eclipse of the sun came I was down among the mountains of North Carolina.
The district was a wild one, and they made considerable moonshine whiskey round there, too; but as I received no salary from the government for looking after these mountain-dew men, I shut my eyes to their little game.
You see I hadn't forgotten all the trouble they gave my friend Bill Nye when he retired to these North Carolina wilds to make up his funny books.
It occured to me that I might have some fun with the ignorant darkies over the eclipse.
So, meeting old Uncle Lisha the day before, I told him how his chickens would all go to roost before noon on the following day.
Of course the old fellow was incredulous, and just as I supposed, circulated my prophecy round.
Well, now, I'm telling you there were some pretty badly scared darkies in that section when it began to get dark about eleven o'clock.
And the fowls perched high all right.
I never passed a cabin after that, but every inmate ran to the door and gaped after me in dumb admiration.
It was a great temptation to pose as a wizard, but I was wise enough to forbear.
Something sudden sometimes happens to wizards and other objectionable people down in that country.
Why, I remember one day seeing a poor woman sitting outside her door, and crying while she dipped snuff.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"They's took my old man an' rided him on a rail," she said.
"That's bad."
"An' then they done tarred and feathered him."
She wept copiously at the memory.
My tender heart beat in sympathy with her.
"My good woman, I'm really sorry for you. It must have been terrible hard," I said.
"It were," she cried. "They done took my best feather bed."
But to return to the eclipse.
A few days later I ran across Uncle Lisha again, and he took his hat off very humbly.
"Well, did it all happen as I said, uncle?"
"'Deed an' it did, sah, jest to de letter. 'Scuse me, but did I understan' you to say, sah, dat you knowed all about dat ting for a long time back dat it would happen?"
"Why, yes, quite a while, uncle," I replied.
"Mout it a ben as much as a yeah, sah?"
"Oh, two of them I'm certain," I replied, carelessly.
"Dat am shore a powerful queer ting," said the old man, scratching his head in perplexity as I rode on, "case, you see, sah, dem chickens waunt eben hatched den, and yet you knowed it all. Powerful strange."
I might have talked all week and that old fellow would never have understood.
I like to go househunting with my wife.
Of course we keep on living in the same place, but then she has a periodical desire to better our condition.
The last time we were out a relative of hers who has always lived in Jersey, mistress of her own lawn and with plenty of room to swing a cat in her house, accompanied us.
It was very funny.
That dear little woman gave the heartache to many a lordly janitor before we wound up the day.
Her remarks were so refreshing.
Now, at the very first place we examined I heard her give utterance to a genuinely feminine squeal of delight.
"Why, isn't this just too cute for anything – the dearest little linen closet I ever saw. Now, this is what I call sensible," she said, enthusiastically.
"Excuse me," said the agent, coldly, "but that is not a linen closet, lady; that's the dining-room."
After that I watched Mrs. Suburb eagerly, for somehow I conceived the idea that she was in for a good time.
At another place there were limited accommodations, and when my wife talked of putting Aleck to sleep in the parlor on a wire couch, I entered my solemn protest.
"The boycott is a relic of barbarism," I declared; and that settled our chances of taking that flat.
Talking about flats and moving, puts me in mind of the long ago, when I was a merry, light-hearted bachelor, not caring a rap what the day brought forth.
Little I bothered myself about the price of spring bonnets or how the crops promised.
Each day was sufficient unto itself, and brought its joys and difficulties, but the tatler never weighed heavily.
I've raised a family since, and my credit is still good.
Thank you, I appreciate your encouragement, but one experience will probably be quite sufficient for me.
Now, during these halcyon days of yore, I remember there was one dear old lady who seemed to take the greatest interest in my welfare.
I often met her in the street, and she would even stop to chat with me at times.
One day I was looking in at a shop window.
I had a cigar box under my arm.
Just then, as luck would have it, the old lady came up and greeted me.
She gave me a reproachful look.
"I'm afraid you are smoking too much for your health. I never see you now, without a cigar box under your arm," she said, in her motherly way.
"Oh, it isn't that, I assure you," I hastened to declare, "but the fact is, I'm moving again."
And speaking of those days, puts me in mind of a little thing that happened to me about that time.
I was working as a reporter then, and the managing editor complained that my material was quite too far stretched.
That is, he said I cost them too much money in telegraphic tools, and desired me to condense the details.