Swearing Off.
Philadelphia, 19—.
Dear Billy:—
The New Year’s days have come, the saddest of the year—when every dub a fellow knows swears off on booze and beer. Oh, say! But doesn’t it make you tired—this swearing off business?
I went down the line on New Year’s morning, from the Malton to the Singum House, and every man I asked to take a smile cocked his eye, shook his head and croaked “water wagon.” I went back to the Malton, pulled Dug out of bed, and could hardly wait for him to dress before I hurried him into the bar for a morning’s morning. D— a man, I say, who doesn’t know when he has enough. That was the toast we drank to, and before we had worn that toast out we certainly had enough and we knew it.
We did some great calling on New Year’s day, but a fellow can’t call at every booze joint in the Quaker City without having a load he can feel. In our wanderings for new booze joints to conquer, we accidentally got into a barber shop. I think it was the bottles of colored fluid that attracted us. We were trying to find an excuse for coming in when I saw a sign which read: “No one allowed to tip the barbers.”
“Good,” said I to myself; “here is one place where we play even.” I called Dug’s attention to it, and we planted ourselves in chairs. That was the slickest shave I ever got, and the barber I had—why, he ought to have been a trained nurse: he was so solicitous of my health and comfort.
“This not allowing you chaps to take any tips is a great scheme,” said I. “How do you like it?”
“Like it,” said the barber; “it’s great. And we make more this way than we did before.”
“More pay, I suppose?”
“No, we get the same pay.”
“Then how can you make more?” The barber laughed.
“Then you ain’t on?” said he. “It’s the slickest ever. You notice that little fancy cup on the shelf?”
I told him I had noticed it.
“Well,” commenced he, “that cup does the business. We are not allowed to receive any tips, and we tell everybody so, and we also tell them about the fancy cup, and tell them we cannot help it if they want to send a present to our baby, and it is a nervy guy who will toss in less than a quarter on a plea like that. It looks small, you know. Besides, my baby has not been feeling well for the past few days.”
“So you are married and got children?” said I.
“Well, no; not exactly. I am not married, and of course haven’t any children, but I have the sweetest baby you ever saw. She is about twenty-seven summers old, and if any one should ask you, she is about the warmest baby in the bunch, and she does need money. Say, my friend, a chap came in here yesterday that put a dollar into that fancy little dish and he said, as he did it:
“That’s for the baby.”
I got out of the chair. As I did so he handed me the fancy cup. This made me mad, and I said to him:
“Look here, you tonsorial lobster, you and your baby will be obliged to worry along without anything from me for a while longer,” and I looked him fair in the eye that he might understand I meant business.
“That’s all right, my friend. You do exactly as you please, of course. Should be pleased to have you call again, and will treat you the best I know.”
He certainly was the limit and was trying hard to make me feel like a two-cent piece. As I turned my eyes from him they encountered a very fetching pair of eyes that belonged to the manicure lady. She not only had a fine pair of eyes, but she knew how to use them. I had always thought I would like to have one of those chiropodist ladies hold my hand for me, but I always hated to have it happen before a lot of barbers; but this one was different. She could have held my hands sitting on the sidewalk on Chestnut Street, with all the shoppers loose on the street. She made me put one of my hands in water and soak it up for a while, and then she commenced to get in her work. Say, but she had the softest hands and the most delicate touch. Oh, my! It just took my breath away for a minute. After a while I began to get a little used to it and found myself able to talk.
“You are an awfully sweet girl to be wasting your time sitting around a barber shop,” said I; “holding people’s hands that you have never been introduced to.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” said the Queen. “This is no ordinary shop, and my customers are all very nice.”
“They can’t be nice enough to you,” said I, “and it’s a wonder to me you stay here.”
“What do you think I ought to do?”
“You ought to get a position where you would only have one pair of hands to take care of,” said I; and then for fear she would not understand me I said:
“Why don’t you get married?” She laughed.
“I don’t know any one who would have me.”
“Did you ever advertise?”
“No,” said she. “I never thought of that. I am doing pretty well here.”
“How much do you get for holding hands like this?”
“Fifty cents is the regular price, but sometimes I put in a little more work and then my customers give me more.”
“Then” said I; “you just throw in a squeeze or two and I will make this job two dollars.”
She smiled, which showed her dimples in good shape, and when she caught hold of me again I could feel the effect clear up my back. This was a new deal for me, but it was worth the money.
“Look here, little queen,” said I. “Why can’t you meet me after you get out tonight and have a nice little supper somewhere?”
“I would like to awful well, but I am afraid I couldn’t do it. You see, I have a steady, and I couldn’t afford to break with him just for one evening with a stranger.”
“Just my luck,” said I, “I never saw anything yet that I really wanted that some guy didn’t have a prior claim to it.”
Just at this time Dug pulled away from the barber who had him under control and coming over to where I was, said:
“Cut that out, Jack; let’s get out of this.”
The queen cut her work short, but she froze on to the two dollars just the same, and worse than that she handed it to the barber whom I had refused to tip, saying as she handed it to him:
“Here’s two bucks for you, Charlie,” and then turning to me she added, “that’s my steady.”
The d— lout of a barber got my money after all. I met the queen on the street once afterwards. Her eyes were not working, some one had bruised them for her.
“What’s the matter, little one,” said I, “who has been trying to put your lamps out?”
“That steady of mine,” said she, “he accused me of holding out on him.”
“Why don’t you quit him, little one?”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. You see he is always good to me when he doesn’t booze or he gets it into his fool head that I am flirting with some one.”
And still we wonder at crime.
The little queen has passed out of my life, and me—have I sworn off on queens? Well, not exactly, but if I know it I have sworn off on barber’s queens.
Dug and I were out on the Germantown road the other evening. We were out to see some friends and had taken a few bowls with Hank and a few bowls with Jim, and when we got ready to start home we were feeling rich, good natured and prosperous, and Germantown road, Billy, doesn’t run the same as the other streets in Philadelphia, but looks as though it had been taken from some other city and dropped into Philadelphia crossways. This plays hob with the street corners and a fellow never knows where the street cars are going to stop.
We stationed ourselves at a corner, where we figured they ought to stop, and waited. When the car came it went by us like the wind and the motorman was motioning us to get to the next corner. By the time we got to the next corner, the car was half way down town. Dug was mad, but I reminded him that we had all night to get to the hotel in, and that we were safe for the next car. It was late and the cars did not run often, but one came at last. The first thing I noticed when the car hove in sight was the motorman gesticulating with all his might for us to get back to the corner where we were before. This made Dug madder than ever and he would not stir and, of course, the car went by us again. I laughed, which did not improve Dug’s temper.
“Think you are smart, don’t you?” said he. “Now, I am going to make you pay for this. I will bet you a sawbuck that the next car stops right between these points,” indicating the two corners where we had missed before.
I took the bet, taking a chance that his scheme, whatever it was, would fail. We both took our places at the point where Dug said the car would stop and awaited results. In a few minutes another headlight showed us that another car was coming. There was a cab standing by the curb with a tag on it marked “Public Cab,” and when the car was about a block and a half away, Dug grabbed the whip out of the socket and caught the horse by the bridle, and with a little cussing and whipping, brought the cab directly across the car track. Unbeknown to us the driver was sleeping inside the cab, the movement of the cab awakened him and about the time the wheels struck the car track, the driver fell out of the door of the cab and landed on all fours in the street. He regained his feet and as soon as he saw Dug at the horse’s head a sulphuric string of oaths rolled out of his mouth that it is not often the privilege of a white man to hear.
“You blankety blank fool,” said the driver, “what are you trying to steal my horse for?”
“Hold on there, young fellow,” said Dug, “your horse was running away and I caught him at the risk of my life. You ought to thank me, not curse me.”
“You are a liar,” said the cabbie, “that horse can’t run.”
This was too much for Dug and he promptly knocked the cabbie down. By this time the car had stopped with the fender touching the wheels of the cab. The cabbie had regained his feet and was hollowing “Bloody murder” at the top of his voice. Dug let go of the bridle and hit the horse a couple of cuts across the rump. This set him off on a dog trot down the road and the cabbie took after him. Dug and I boarded the car, the conductor gave the signal to go ahead and this closed the incident so far as we were concerned. I guess the cabbie caught his horse, anyway he wouldn’t be much loss.
It cost me ten dollars, but it put Dug in good humor and he tells now that if I want something else to swear off on I can swear off on betting against a sure thing.
Yours,
Jack.
“A DUFFER WINKED AT HER.”
Grafting.
Jack
Henderson.