What's your hurry? A deck full of jokers

They could do all the romancing at the office, for we had men especially employed for that purpose, who, given a few facts for a foundation, could build up the most astonishing account imaginable.

Indeed, I've known them to describe things better than the fellow who was on the spot could have done.

That's genius, you understand.

Well, I laid low and awaited my opportunity to boil the next account down in a manner certain to please this grand mogul.

The opportunity came.

There was some sort of explosion on a big vessel over at Philadelphia, and as our regular correspondent there chanced to be ill, I was packed off to get special news.

"Be as quick as you can. Wire us hard, boiled-down facts as soon as you get hold of 'em. Leave details to the office. Perhaps you'll be in time for the noon edition."

That's what the managing editor said.

I spared no expense in hurrying to the spot, and before eleven-twenty sent this brief telegram:

"Terrific explosion. Man-o'-war. Boiler empty. Engineer full. Funeral to-morrow.

Niblo."

It would be hard to beat that for brevity. I believe in brevity, even when a man is proposing to his best girl.

Now there has always been considerable curiosity manifested by my friends, who know my humorous instincts, to know just how I ever popped the question.

They declare, the chances are, I must have done it in a joke.

Of course this doesn't refer to any lack of estimable qualities in my wife, but simply that a fellow of my character could not possibly do anything seriously.

I have determined to relate the facts in the case, and they can judge for themselves.

You see, we had been down to the seashore together, and, for the life of me, I couldn't muster up courage enough to ask her the all-important question.

She gave me an opening at last, though perhaps no one but a born humorist could have seen it.

Out on the rocks stood a gay old lighthouse, which seemed to possess unusual interest in the eyes of the young woman.

"It must be a lovely thing to live in such a weird place. Sometime, before I die, I hope I may keep a light house. I believe it would be lovely, don't you?" she said.

Now, to tell the truth, the idea never occured to me before, but when she spoke of it I saw my chance.

"My dear girl," I said, "if I had only known that you cared for light house-keeping, I would have spoken before this. Let us discuss the matter; what's the use waiting until long in the future, when the opportunity presents itself now."

And the result was, we pooled our issues, hired a couple of rooms, bribed a minister to say a few words, and kept house in a light way.

Since that time we've had our ups and downs.

But I've never felt toward my better half as that old bear Podgers must, with regard to the partner of his joys and woes.

He rode down with me in the elevator yesterday.

We had been having a little domestic trouble, and the lady in the kitchen had wafted herself away.

This sometimes makes a man sad, especially if his wife is seized with some of her old-time enthusiasm and joyously declares she will look up those recipe books, arranged at the time she went to cooking school.

I knew I was in for another dose of dyspepsia and had on my part been trying to remember the dozens of patent medicines to which I had given a trial on the last occasion, and which of them had been least injurious.

Of course, man-like, I poured my woes into the ear of Podgers, hoping for sympathy.

"Do you have any trouble keeping a cook?" I asked.

He laughed in a cold-blooded way.

"Not in the least – not such good luck, my boy. You see our cook has a lien on the place. She's my wife," he said.

Well, I wouldn't have said that, no matter what I thought.

But then Podgers always has been considerably henpecked at home, even if an arrogant chap downtown.

Sometimes he makes me think of the meek little fellow I saw recently in court.

He was a witness.

"Well," remarked the judge, "have you anything to say?"

Then the witness looked fearfully about him, like one long accustomed to knowing his place.

"That depends," said he, "upon circumstance. Is – er – my wife in the room, judge?"

While I am speaking of marrying let me tell you about a fellow I once knew.

His name was Steiner, and he set himself up in business as an international marriage broker.

You see, these matches between broken-down foreign noblemen and wealthy young American girls gave him an idea that he might make a nice dot.

In due time he was employed by a German count to secure an heiress for him.

The arrangement was that Steiner was to receive ten per cent. of the young lady's estate for arranging the match.

This looked like a snap, always providing Steiner should succeed in finding the heiress, and bring about an understanding.

Well, he found the girl with the ducats all right, but his price went up like bounds, until, not content with ten per cent. of the estate when a marriage was brought about, he asked for the whole shooting match.

Yes, and he got it, too.

How was that – why, just as easy as two and two make four. Steiner married the heiress himself.

Funny how one thing arouses a train of thought.

My wife brought home a curious Dutch stein after one of her shopping excursions, and I never looked at that affair without thinking of a certain graveyard out in Western New York.

Let me tell you how that happens.

While visiting a friend, he took me to see the sights of the place, and quite naturally we strolled through the churchyard.

There were lots of old-timers buried there, and some of the inscriptions quite interested me.

Presently we came to a new tombstone.

I noticed that above the inscription there had been cut a single hand, with the index finger pointing upward.

It seemed appropriate enough to me, and I was astonished when my friend, after bending down to read, actually laughed.

"Well, I declare," he said, presently, "if that isn't just like old Stein. He never did order more than one beer at a time!"

To the very last he was attached to his bier.

I remember it was in this same cemetery I ran across a funny old darky who seemed to be examining several traps which he had set.

Of course, my curiosity being aroused, I began to fire a few questions at him.

If you ever want to find anything out, the best way is to ask the why and wherefore.

What do you think he was after?

Rabbits, of course.

Then I remembered that down South it was all the fashion for darkies to get the foot of a graveyard rabbit, and carry it around with them; they look on it as a sure thing to keep bad luck away.

I thought I might convince the old fellow of the absurdity of such mummery.

"See here, uncle, I'm afraid you're a bit superstitious," I remarked.

"'Deed I isn'," said he, shaking his white head. "Some folks is a skyaht of ghosses an' all kin's of critters; but as long as I have a rabbit's paw in mah pocket I feels puffickly safe."

After that I couldn't say a word.

In fact, I felt as though speech were denied me, as it is some unfortunate fellows.

If you ever ran across a man with a genuine impediment in his speech, well, you know how painful it seems to watch him nearly strangle in the endeavor to make himself understood.

Advice is wasted on such a man.

I remember trying it once, only to get the cold laugh.

Here's the story in verse.

Listen!

 
"Oh, be not hasty, friend?" I cried,
"Think twice o'er all you utter."
"I'm bound to do so," he replied,
"I stut-tut-tut-tut-tutter."
 

And I never hear any one carrying on in that way, but what I think of an old Irishman, a farmer who dropped into the office of a country weekly, run by a friend of mine.

"Sit down, Mr. Dooley," said my friend, the editor.

Mr. Dooley took a chair.

"By the way, Mr. Dooley," said my friend, "you have sent me a load of hay in payment for the five years' subscription you owed me for my paper."

"Oi d-d-d-did," declared Mr. Dooley, nodding pleasantly.

"Well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Dooley, my horse can't eat that hay."

Mr. Dooley screwed up his face, and puffed out his cheeks until I thought he would have a fit.

"T-t-t-to tell ye the t-t-truth, mister, no more c-c-can m-m-me g-g-go-go-goat e-e-eat your p-p-p-p-p-paper."

I don't know which was hotter, Mr. Dooley or the editor, when they finished their argument.

You realize there are various methods of warming a man up – for instance, at my hotel one evening a bell-boy came to the desk, after answering a call, and said:

"That fellow up in 999 says he's freezing."

"All right," said the clerk, cheerfully, "we'll soon have him hot enough. Here, take him up his bill."

I've got a great friend, Henry Badger by name, that I must tell you about.

I hardly know whether to admire the monumental nerve of Henry Badger, or class him as a near relative of the jackass tribe.

You may not know it, but his neighbors have long been aware of the fact that his good spouse ruled the roost with an iron rod, and Henry's former buoyant spirit has all but withered in his breast.

Why, he used to strut the streets with all the pompous airs of an alderman, while now he shuffles along as though he owed ten tailors on the block.

It is awful, the change made in that man.

Once in a while I understand there is a faint glow among the embers, and a trace of his old-time spirit flashes up, though it is gone almost as quickly.

That must have been the case the evening I was there.

Henry had been reading the evening paper, where many black headlines announced the exciting events of the day.

"One wife too many," I heard her say, sarcastically; "that must of course refer to the doings of another rascally bigamist."

"Not necessarily, my dear," returned Henry, without daring to take his eyes off the paper.

I held my very breath with awe.

But Mrs. Badger, after shooting him one quick look, probably decided that it was a blank cartridge.

Badger, when her back was turned, actually gave me a wicked wink behind his paper.

On the whole, I guess there's a little of the old spunk left, but it will never set the river afire.

Badger told me once, he and his wife ran away and got married by a justice of the peace.

If you never witnessed a civil marriage by an alderman, a mayor, or some such officer authorized to deal out bliss in double harness, well, you don't know what you've missed, that's all.

The first time a magistrate has to officiate upon such a happy occasion, one can hardly blame him for being kind of nervous.

A good fairy sent me to the office of a friend, who is a justice, and it happened he was tying his first double knot.

Having been duly coached, he opened the proceedings all right, and fancied he had plain sailing.

The woman had been duly asked whether she would take the aforesaid man to be her husband, and as that was the identical reason why she was there, she hastened to say that she had no objections, and at the same time took a firmer hold on his arm, as though determined not to let him get away from her.

Then the magistrate turned to the groom and pierced him with his eagle eye.

Perhaps he was so accustomed to having appeals made to him in his official capacity, that it came very natural for him to remark:

"Prisoner at the bar, what have you to say in your defense."

At the same time I thought it rather hard on the young man, but he came up to the scratch smiling and proved an alibi.

A magistrate's office is a good place for picking up humor, but it doesn't compare with the den of an installment book agent.

The manager of the office was hauling a candidate for a position over the coals while I waited for an interview, and quite a few amusing tidbits floated over the top of the partition.

"Ever done any canvassing before, Mr. Jones?"

"Well, I worked a year in a Chicago house where they packed hams for the market."

"You are a little hoarse this morning – I hope your voice is reliable, for you'll need it in this business."

"That's all right, the neighbors think I got a good voice – they all advised me to go abroad and study."

"You complained of having the toothache – will that prevent you from carrying on business?"

"Not at all, sir. You see it's a holler tooth."

By the way, this same manager of the Book Agents' Supply Company has a most decided aversion to all department stores.

He declares they are ruining the country.

That there is no longer a chance for a young man to set himself up in business, and so forth.

You've heard the changes rung up on that story.

Possibly there's more or less truth about it; but we've got to face a condition, not a theory.

Well, Babcock carries his hatred so far that he detests the very sight and name of the department stores. His wife has the strictest instructions not to purchase anything whatever at these pernicious paradises, and, therefore, when he returned to his home early one day last week and discovered a parcel of groceries on the hall table which bore the hated imprint of Swindell & Getrich, great and tremendous was his virtuous wrath.

His knife was out in an instant, and in another the various packages were ripped up, and condensed milk, eggs, tea, sugar, and the sultanas were mixed together in a fearsome heap on the linoleum.

"Why, what are you doing, Henry?" said his wife, entering at that moment.

Rip, went another packet of Scraped Nutshells for Scraggy Nonentities, and whizz went its contents.

"I'm teaching you a lesson, madam!" he roared. "Teaching you to obey my instructions not to deal at this store?"

"Why, Henry," said the lady, "they don't belong to us at all. Mrs Jenkins, next door, has gone away for the day, and I promised to take them in for her."

And Babcock had to subdue his spleen, allow his wife to hie away to the hated department store and duplicate the whole Jenkins' order.

He is also a singular man, in that he will not allow himself the pleasure of a good cigar.

Some men would make good Mohammedans, for they always seem trying to deny themselves the good things of life – a sort of crawling to Mecca on their knees.

Why, what do you think, while Babcock and myself were sauntering through Central Park recently, up runs a smart little urchin, and sings out:

"Box o' matches, sir?"

"No," said Babcock, loftily, "don't smoke."

"Well," remarked the boy, sympathetically, "if you'll buy a box, guv'nor, I don't mind teachin' yer."

As we sauntered along we came upon a diminutive girl who was wheeling a perambulator, in which was a very young child.

As the vehicle was being pushed dangerously near the edge of a somewhat steep curb, I was alarmed, and ventured to faintly remind her that the little one was in danger of being thrown out.

The girl looked up in my face, and, in a tone of utter and complete indifference, replied:

"It don't matter, mister; it ain't our kid."

And it was on the same afternoon that I saw an amusing mix-up, as well as had my recollection of a life upon the ocean wave revived.

An old salt, who had apparently learned to navigate a bicycle fairly well, was working his wobbly way along one of the paths in the park, when, before our eyes, he collided with a lady wheeler.