MY BEST INVESTMENT
Not Hitherto Published — 1947
By John T. Bristow
Girls — Girls — Girls
After mulling the old thing over, I know now that the boy who sat with me in the reserved section at Evangelist George Graham’s meetings, as intimated in the foregoing article, was not Peter Cassity. It was his brother Bill. Pete tells me that he was farming at the time over on Wolfley creek and did not attend the meetings regular—but don’t ever think Pete did not remember his raising, when he did get in.
Bill Cassity had the nerve and the Biblical knowledge to stand up in a big way for his Maker. That boy had an almost irresistible line, and it was, at times, questionable whether the minister, or the converts—with Bill well out in the lead — were doing most in the matter of gathering in the prospects.
When my uncle, the Rev. Thomas S. Cullom, minister of a Methodist Church in Nashville, Tennessee, with his wife Irene, and two daughters, Lora and Clevie, paid a visit to their Wetmore relatives in 1908, the Reverend told me that in his Church, and throughout the south, it was customary during revivals to have “exhorters” stationed in the congregation to give supplementary support to the minister’s pleas for the redemption of lukewarm and tottering souls.
I asked him if his exhorters ever broke in on his impassioned pleas in a discordant manner—that is, a little off key? “Cert’nly,” he said, with fine southern accent. “My exhorters are very devout workers for the Lord, and sometimes when filled to overflowing with the Holy Ghost, they say their lines and then keep right on exhorting and sometimes steal the whole show.” This ungodly reference to his Church as a show was made with a wink and a grin.
And so, with the old time revivals here, the minister’s exhorters, under another name of course, sometimes ran away with the show. This brings us back to Bill Cassity, first born of Newton and Anne Shuemaker-Cassity. Bill did just that on at least two occasions in the Evangelist’s revival here. He had the Christian training to do it courageously.
While still a young man, Bill Cassity went to Colorado, worked in the mines and smelters, at high wages, and ordered the Spectator sent to him there — and later to Los Angeles. Bill came home once, told me he liked his work in Colorado, or rather the big wages—but he did not like the characters he had to associate with. In California, still on the right side of the laws of God and man, Bill pushed his penchant for righteousness a little too far for his own good. As a detective, self-appointed or otherwise, he learned much of the ways of the Los Angeles underworld—and, it was said, the boys took him for a ride and failed to bring him back.
And again, some twenty-odd years ago, Than Gustafson, a former Wetmore man, older brother of our Fred Gustafson — and in a legal way Fred’s brother was also his brother-in-law, the two Gustafson boys having married sisters, Adelia and Ophelia, daughters of S. M. Hawkins—is supposed to have been taken for a one-way ride by the Rocky Mountain crooks. He left his home in Denver, a wife and two children, one evening in line of his duties — and was never heard of again. Than Gustafson evidently knew too much for his own good.
When in gangdom, it is wise to be dumb.
Under the old system, in revivals, the first converts either appointed themselves or were delegated to work among the congregation as boosters for the minister—something like Uncle Tom’s “exhorters.” They would go out in the audience, usually in pairs, and plead with you, cry, and sniffle over you—an actual fact—in a manner that would - make you feel mighty cheap. The boy who respected them, loved them through long associations, was struck dumb.
One particularly sanctified woman—no one could ever doubt her sincerity; I had known her for years, and she was always so—with redoubled sniffling tendencies as of the moment, accompanied by the prettiest girl that ever walked down a church aisle or any other avenue in Wetmore, a girl whom I had just about given up as lost to a certain rich man’s son, on account of her papa’s preference for the other boy, and because “papa” said I played poker, made a firm stand in front of me one night. I knew before the old girl began to sniffle that, on account of the young girl, I would, sooner or later, find myself in a front row. More than one boy went forward in that meeting because he did not have the heart to disappoint them—and maybe there was also the attraction of a girl. Girls were more susceptible to the worker’s pleas.
The older woman talked rapidly, between sniffles, in terms only partly understood by me—but the girl’s radiant smile told me much. I would not permit them to march me up to the front, as other workers were doing with prospects, but I promised to sit with the young girl in the reserved corner on the following night—and see what would happen.
I hope the good people will pardon me for mixing my worldly activities with the more decent church sittings — but this seems the opportune time for me to ‘fess up. In this story I mean to come clean—tell everything, and have as little of the old hero stuff in it as is consistent with the making of a good story.
I had been to church—Methodist protracted meeting — and then dropped in on the boys in the DeForest store at the virtual close of a little poker game. Even now I hate to think what Henry DeForest would have done to us had he known his dry goods counter was serving as a poker table. One man, Willard Lynch, dropped out while the deal was in progress, and said I might play his hand.
This was to be my first poker game. Also, it should have been my last—but it wasn’t. Not that it ever became an obsession with me. But, in general, it is not an elevating attainment—and it is something which any self-respecting young man can very well do without. It was, however, my last game in Mr. Henry’s store. I wanted to retain, at all costs, his respectful opinion of me. And the other boys finally saw the error of their ways — and changed their meeting place. On the cleaner side, I will say that I never learned to shoot craps, never bet on elections, ball games, or the horses; never drank or caroused, wouldn’t feel “at “home” at the popular cocktail party; was never in court as complainant or defendant—and was only once in my whole life in court as a witness, at which time, had I told the Whole Truth as I was sworn to do, I could have been jailed for my ignorance. I was an untutored member of the Kansas Grain Dealers Association, which was under investigation. Also, I want to say in the outset that this poker stigma was not the thing which had lowered me in the opinion of “Papa.” It was the more powerful evil—money—of which I had none. But there was one bright spot in the clouded picture. The rich man’s son looked a lot better to “Papa” than he did to the girl.
Well, in this, my first poker game, I picked up four natural aces, and if you know only as much as I knew then, you would consider it a top hand. No one had told me they were playing the joker wild, “cut and slash.” I bet a nickel. Alfred Anderson called, and raised me a dime. Two of the other boys called Alfred’s fifteen-cent bet—and the dealer, Sidney Loop, (clerk in the store), dropped out of the play. I thought my four aces were good for ten cents more, and not possessing a loose dime, I dug up a five-dollar bill. Alfred was up on his toes, and said, “You aiming to bet all that?” I replied, “No—only aiming to call your dime raise.” Still upon his toes, a little higher now, he said rather anxiously, “If you want to bet it all, I’ll call it—you can’t bluff me.” I took one more look at my hand—and not one of the aces had gotten away. And then I said, “All right, I’ll just bet it all.”
Now, if you know the game, you are maybe expecting to hear that he had a set of fives, including the joker of course. But it was not Alfred who held them. His four kings were not good. It was the dealer, the man who had dropped out because I had dropped in, who had five fives.
But this I did not know until two days later, not until after I had gone to church again and contributed $5.00 to Mrs. Draper’s fund for buying Christmas candies for her Sunday School kiddies. Alfred’s sister Phoeba, as personal representative of our dear old Sunday School Superintendent, took my contribution with gracious acknowledgment, as though it were not tainted money. And Mrs. Draper—the less chivalrous boys called her “Mother Corkscrew” because she wore her gray hair in ringlets at shoulder length—came to me on the double quick, shrieking her praise of me, and intimated that this generous gift might get me places.
Alfred said that inasmuch as he surmised he had been cold-decked out of the five—thankfully with no aspersion attachment—that I should have at least given the donation in both our names. But that would have been risky. Alfred was a rather white “black sheep” in a very religious family, and Sis would most likely have wanted to know how come? The fact that Sidney and Willard were keeping company with sisters at that time may have had nothing to do with the introduction of that cold deck. And then again it might have. Sidney said the fellow needed “taking down” a bit — and that it was planned to give the losers back their money. A fat chance they would have of getting their money back now.
Until now I had only stood, by and watched a penny-ante game in the new opera house over the Morris store, where the clerks — Dave Clements, Bill McKibbon, George and Chuck Cawood, Bob Graham—and some younger fry, congregated on Sundays. And then, too, as a kid, I had been present on several occasions at a somewhat bigger game in the Neville residence on this same corner. But here I did not have a chance to closely observe the technique of the game—for I was under the table most of the time. The men played altogether then with “shinplaster” money — undersized ten, twenty-five, and fifty cent pieces of U. S. paper currency, and the breeze caused from shuffling the cards would sometimes blow the money off the table. Mr. Jim Neville said I might keep all I could get my hands on — and I think it was a sort of house rule that the players were not to contend roughly with me for the fluttering pieces. Still I think I got more kicks than the law allowed.
Also, I once saw the women playing poker in this same home—and they were using “shinplaster” too—but they were not generous enough to invite me to go down under. I do not wish to name them. Nor would I have mentioned the boys’ names but for the fact all of them have now gone to their reward. And, besides, despite the undercurrent that it was not considered strictly genteel, everybody, more or less, played poker then—even, it was said, Father Bagley, our first High Priest, would take a hand occasionally. There was a regular fellow. For him it was Mass of a Sunday morning, then base ball or horse-racing in the afternoon, without fail.
With this slow and awkward beginning it was a long, long time before I got nerve enough to sit in a private poker game as guest of a friend, in Kansas City, with a player who afterwards became President of the United States. He did not impress me as likely timber then. But, may I say, that when once in the running, he showed ‘em that he was truly from Missouri—and that, surprisingly, he could, in a pinch, run like a scared rabbit. Politics was his forte.
In explanation of the Girl-Papa-Richboy incident: I had sent a boy with a note asking the girl for her company for a dance, a private dance to be given by our select crowd, of which she was a favorite. The boy came back without a written reply—but he said she told him to tell me that she would go with me. This being rather unusual, I asked the -boy if that was all she said? “Well,” he said, “her mother said, ‘Now, girlie, you know what your father will say’ — and the girl said, ‘I don’t care, I’m going with him anyway’.” I had not known about the rich man’s son trying to edge in, and this indicated slap by her papa was a grievous blow to my ego.
I sent the girl another note, telling her in simple words—I always made ‘em simple now since having once, to no avail, slopped over ridiculously — that I had wormed out of the boy the remarks between mother and daughter, and that in consequence thereof I deemed it wise for me to cancel the date, until I could find out what it was all about. I may say I never sent but one formally phrased note to a girl in all my life—and that got me exactly nothing. That literary boy, Ecky Hamel, dictated it for me, and to make matters worse, it was to his girl. And he really wanted it to click—to ward off, in his absence, some dangerous competition.
However, I once got a neatly written acceptance to an ultra-formal and gorgeously phrased note bearing my name, which I didn’t write. I was a new boy in Seneca at the time. I met a lot of girls at the skating rink in the old Armory building on upper Main Street. Ena Burbery, pretty and agreeably alert, was good on roller skates. Ena and four other girls worked as trimmers in the millinery department of the Cohen store. Ena talked. And the girls, all but one, joined in mailing her a note bearing my forged signature requesting her company for a swank party three days hence. Ella Murphy, one of the five, boarded and roomed at the Theodore Wolfley home, same as I did while working on Wolfley’s newspaper, The Tribune. Ella said the note was formal and softly silly, and so did Ena say it was awful — but, she giggled, “I was not going to let that spoil a date, especially for a party like that.” Now, the ridiculous part of it all is, that it was an exclusive party to be given by Seneca’s upper crust, to which I had no invitation. But, even so, it gave me elevated status for a little while, in a limited way. We compromised on the rink. And the girls, whom I never did meet, sent me an apology, through Ella Murphy, for recklessly abusing my name—and getting the girl a date. Ena was the section foreman’s daughter, but that was no handicap. I myself married a section foreman’s daughter, picked her for a winner from a sizable field of promising prospects.
Naturally, I wanted to know more about the status of the rich man’s son—and I got it too, back at the gospel tent the next night. The girl said nothing at all about my poker-playing proclivities. She was too sensible to try to reform a boy. Her idea was to pick ‘em as suited her fancy—and trust to luck. Indeed, she said in rebuttal of her father’s expressed opinion of me, that if her mamma only could have kept her mouth shut everything would have been all right, and that I would have never known. “And besides,” she said, “You don’t drink, and papa does—a little; and you don’t smoke, and papa does, though he does not smoke cigarettes.” A cigarette smoker in those days was considered cheap. How times have changed. The girl had overlooked one of “Papa’s” weaknesses, but for me to have mentioned it to her then would have got me nothing that I was not now likely to get anyway.
This exchange of ideas took place in the reserved corner of the arena in advance of the regular session while other congregated young people were likely thinking of an afar off haven having streets paved with jasper and gold. Something about streets and jasper and gold ran in the lines of the old song books. Also, I dare say, some of the converts might have cringed a little at the thought of an everlasting fire of brimstone—this idea emanating from George, the Evangelist—which the wayward and lukewarm alike might, if they didn’t watch out, fall into in a last-minute rush for that afar off haven.
Every evening during his meetings Reverend Graham would institute a two-minute session of silent prayer. In - view of George’s admitted downfall at a later stand, I trust it will not now be considered sacrilegious for me to hazard an opinion that those silent periods offered the preacher an excellent opportunity to pray for grace.
It was not required by custom then for those seeking salvation to come clear down to earth, and some merely bowed their heads, rested them on the backs of deserted chairs, and whispered when so inclined. The girl and I, we did not desecrate the hallowed moment. We didn’t have to. Silence was golden. I was conceited enough just then to believe that this beautiful girl, thoroughly repentant or no, would have gone through George’s pictured purgatory for me.
And nothing happened that could be chalked up as material gain for the better life. Well, I ask you, how in the name of high heaven, could it? I’m not particularly proud of it, though. But, you know, if your chariot does not come along, you can’t take a ride. I certainly do not wish to cast reflection on the Church. The Church, as a Church, is really a grand institution. I should hate to think where we would be in a world without it. Henry DeForest, Yale graduate, said the tent doings was proselytizing.
Perhaps you would like to know how I fared in the days to come with this renewed lease on life which the Evangelist’s revival had brought me? Well, “Papa” shelved his dislike of my poker-playing, and both he and “mama” greeted me as a friend ever after. They were really fine people—I might say the very BEST, with capitals.
“Papa” had played a little poker himself—and that too, by-gosh, in our penny-ante game—and his wish for a switch in the matter of his daughter’s company was based on too slim premise to set store by, now that the girl had told him with flat-footed finality that it would not work.
And the girl? Well, I had to go away, first to Centralia, then to Seneca to help Theodore Wolfley print his newly purchased Tribune, and I turned her over to my best poker-playing friend to keep for me against the time when I might return.
Now, to do me this small favor my friend had to drop another girl with whom he had been keeping company steadily for two years. He probably saw possibilities in the change, but he was really too fine—and too ably assisted by the girl—to take advantage of a friend’s absence.
As my trusted friend and my girl in escrow were already lined up for the party that first night after my return, it was mutually agreed that—just for once—I should line up with my friend’s discarded girl, who was still free. It worked out all right—and it was wonderful to be back with the old crowd again.
Now, don’t jump at conclusions. Though she was a mighty fine girl, and good looking too, I did not find her preferable to the other girl. Just why I made it a regular habit for nearly a year, was quite a different matter.
We all belonged to an exclusive clique known as The Silver Stockings. Why so named I never learned. One unalterable requirement for the men was that each had to bring a girl—or a wife. No “stags” were permitted at our parties. This was because a certain unwanted young man had the disturbing habit of sneaking in at public gatherings and monopolizing our girls.
The thoughtful young man of that period did not think of marriage the first time he went out with a girl. In our community none but the rich man’s four sons were financially (in prospect) able to indulge in such dreams. And, besides, by this time I had had a change of heart—resolved to consider the future of the girl. After all “Papa” might have had the right idea. I figured that an attractive girl like she, would not be justified in playing along with me until I could make my stake.
And again, were I to pursue my chances—which at this time were, I flattered myself, in a high bracket—who could say with certainty that “Papa” would not someday become afflicted with a recurrent attack of that silly notion the first time that the favored son, or maybe another of the RM’s sons might strut his stuff in the presence of the girl. Then, too, something fine—alas, something very fine, was now gone out of the picture that could never be returned. I reluctantly decided to let matters drift along as temporarily planned the first night back home—and see what would happen. It was my hardest decision.
I had seen too many people trying to make a stake and raise a family at the same time. My father made more money than most—but with ten children, it was slavery for him. He worked sixteen hours a day at his trade as shoemaker—and even then he had to skimp, and work and skimp. But he took a philosophical view of matters, and on the whole his was a rather contented life. One time when he was complaining about the difficulty of getting ahead, I suggested that maybe he had erred in first taking on the responsibility of raising a big family.
He said, “Well, they kept coming and I couldn’t knock ‘em in the head.”
I said, “They didn’t start coming until after you were married—”
He yelped, as if something had stung him, “Of course not, you young upstart!” That was a time when he would have been justified in applying the kneestrap, his ever ready implement of correction, to my posterior. But my father was a forbearing man.
I said, “Gosh, Dad—I only meant to say if you had waited until after you had made your stake, you would not now be bothered with this burdensome load.”
He said, quickly, “If I had waited longer where do you think you’d be now, young man?”
Well, that was something to think about. It might have upset the whole continuity. I think we older boys reminded him too often of the excess baggage he was struggling along with—only, however, when he would begin his lamenting, usually about the high tariff.
I can think of nothing more disturbing than to be caught short-handed (otherwise broke) in a community marked by a dearth of opportunity to earn a living—-With dependents to care for. Such was our country in the early days. My parents had rubbed up against this situation on numerous occasions. However, unlike some of our neighbors, the time never came when we did not have enough to eat. But that “hand to mouth” rule of living could not rub out the anxiety.
It was an era when the ambitious young fellow was of necessity compelled early in life to begin laying-by for the “rainy day” if he did not wish to run the risk of becoming an object of charity—and who did in the old days? It was then considered about the last straw. It took a long time to lay-by a competence in the old days. The average wage-earner gets as much per hour now as was paid for a whole day’s work then—when ten hours was a day. This is not to say the young “sprout” could not marry before he had a competence. He did—recklessly. And paid the price.
It was to avoid such conditions as this that I made a firm resolve to defer marriage until I could make a stake.
I set my goal at $10,000, and when things got going good I kept right on going until this goal was more than doubled — and in subsequent years learned that it was none too much:
However, in strict honesty, I think this cautious streak was inherited rather than instilled in me by observations. My father had entertained the same cautious notions. Orphaned early in life, he made his own way—saved, and had what he called a nice nest-egg at the age of 25. He went from Kentucky over into Tennessee to visit relatives, met my mother while there—and married her the next time he came into her back-woods community. And had it not been for the cruel Civil War—and the guerillas—I am pretty sure: that I would have had a rich Dad regardless of his super-abundance of kids.
However, conditions changed for the better for father. When his boys got big enough to lessen the burden, and then in time lift it altogether, he had an easy life. My brother Frank worked with him in the shoeshop, and at the same time conducted a shoe store in the front end of the building, with our sister Nannie in charge. When Frank decided to go to California to join his brother Dave in business, he gave them the shoe stock. I had written insurance in the sum of $1,000 for Frank, and when the assigned policy was about to expire I mentioned the matter one day at the dinner table. Father said, “Oh, I don’t need any insurance.”
I renewed the policy anyway, paid the premium myself, and said no more about it. Then, some months later, a fire destroyed the old Logue frame store building across the street, in early evening—and the town was out in numbers. There was little chance of the blaze reaching my father’s shop, but he and several excited volunteers were making ready to remove the shoe stock to the street. I told him that he better just get his books and records where he could put his hands on them in case of need, and to leave the stock in the building for a while, at least. Thinking to ease his fears, I said, “You’ve got a thousand dollar insurance policy on the stock.” He exclaimed, excitedly, “Oh, that’s not enough!”
By this time—we are now back again on the matter of girls, mostly — the girl’s papa had been elevated to the Mayorality, and the family was now operating the Wetmore hotel. On one of my trips home from Seneca, after spending a pleasant hour with the girl, I dropped in on the poker game, just to greet the boys, and watch the play. I had reformed then — mostly, I think, on account of the girl. Incidentally, I may say I reformed more times than a backslider ever confessed his sins—every time, I think, on account of a girl—before finally realizing that it was not the way to build character.
The game then was in the Billy Buzan residence—af ter his wife’s death—on the corner where Bob Cress’ residence is now, west of the telephone office. It was the original William Cawood location, with the west portion of the high fence (seven-foot up and down pine boards) still standing. That high fence had enclosed four lots, and held in captivity a “pet” deer for several years. When the Mayor and a guest of the hotel came in at the front door, I slipped out the back door, as I thought unobserved by His Honor, and streaked it, in bright moonlight, to the fence and went over almost without touching. The next day the Mayor said to me, “Young fellow, I saw your shirt-tail going over that high board fence last night.” But he hadn’t. It was before the young sports had begun to wear their shirt-tails on the outside of their pants. And then again I never was guilty of that slovenly habit.
About that deer. It finally jumped over the gate at the southeast corner of the enclosed grounds—and was gone for several days. But it came back and jumped in again. Then, it made a game of jumping out and jumping in — with periodic trips to the country. Then, one morning there were two deer in the enclosure. I think the “pet” deer tried its best to domesticate the visitor — but after three days, the call of the wilds claimed them both.
Some years later—after he had spent a couple of years in Arkansas, and was now back in the hotel again, in Wetmore—”Papa” was in a tight spot at Enid, Oklahoma, the third day after the opening of the Cherokee Strip, September 16,1893. He had made the run, staked a claim, and was in line—a very long line—at the Land Office, waiting his turn to file. I had already filed on my claim. While in line, I observed soldiers, who were supposed to be on hand to see that everyone would get a fair deal, were running in people ahead of me—and a little later, a man I shall simply call Eddie—apparently in the role of chief grafter—whom I had known in Wetmore, approached me with a proposition to advance me in line for $5. I was too near the door to be interested—and besides, my brother Dave who held a filing number next to mine, promised to “wipe the earth up” with Ed if we should be delayed further. Might say here that the gang followed this remunerative activity with another dirty practice. They filed contests on claims, so that the rightful locators would, in many instances, buy them off rather than stand the expense of fighting the case. Then Dave had to give Mr. Ed that promised thrashing. It got Dave a prompt withdrawal of the contest. I was the only one of our party of four who did not have to fight a contest. My friendship, or co-operation with the crooks, whichever way you choose to look at it, had, I presume, saved me.
After I had filed on my claim, I carried the “good” news of Mr. Eddie’s activities to “Papa.” I knew he was anxious to get back home to his hotel business, where he was trying hard to re-establish himself after returning from Arkansas. He asked me to contact Mr. Eddie for him—and said, “I’ll be your uncle.”
The soldiers advanced him to near the door—and there the line became static once more, as other advancements were being pushed in ahead of him. Then Ed told me that for $10 more the soldiers would put him through the door without delay. “Papa” dug up the $10, and said, “Do this for me Son, and I’ll dance at your wedding.” Now he could call me “Son” and offer to dance at my wedding.
There are three girls prominently featured in this story, whose names I do not wish to divulge. Substituting, I maybe should call the first one Miss Beautiful, for she was all that. But from here on, until further notice, I shall refer to them as My Best Girl, The Old Girl, and The Kid.
In all too short time my nemesis, in the person of a certain rich man’s son, an older brother of that other boy, got on my trail. I do not think it was to avenge his disappointed brother, but it could have been that. He told the boys it was to prove that he was “man enough” to “bump” me.
Well, just for once, it was not a bad guess. He would be working on fertile ground. I didn’t care too much for the Old Girl anyway. She was my senior by four or five years, and naturally she would welcome a good “catch.” It was understood between us that she was only filling a vacancy, and thereby providing a way to keep us in the Silver Stocking circle. The thing I didn’t like was to be “bumped” just for the fun of it, as viewed by the RM’s son.
Mike Norton, clerk in the DeForest store, saw the rich man’s son write a letter to the Old Girl, and he thought this would be the time when the RM’s son would try to make good his boast. Three days hence there was to be a picnic in a grove south of Netawaka, and the Silver Stocking boys and girls were lining up to go in a body. Mike and other members of the circle put in two hours looking for me. The boys, and the girls too, were all for me, in this instance — but not even the King’s Horses could have stopped that boy in his purpose. The postmaster showed me the letter with the OG’s name spelled out in bold relief—and I was off at once, thinking I would now show this RM’s son that he could not do this to me.
The Old Girl said she was awfully sorry—that she had promised another, naming the rich man’s son. I said, in substance—though really not sore at the OG, I think I was not in a frame of mind to phrase it just so—”Let’s see where we stand. The way things are shaped up now, I’m out—that is, barred from the Silver Stocking crowd by the rules of my own helpful making.”
She suggested that I go back to the girl I have designated as My Best Girl—said, “I KNOW you can, if you will just spunk up a little.” I had never “spunked” much with the OG.
“But,” I said, “if I should succeed in dating her, someone else would be out, and that someone is your old beau. Likely timber maybe. Then, in case your date does not choose to repeat, you might still have a chance to get back with the old crowd.”
She laughed — the OG was feeling pretty good, just then—and said, “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Now she giggled, “But, you know, I could always be a hanger-on, maybe even go with you and your girl—just in case.” A boy was permitted to take more than one girl—even a flock of them if he were unlucky enough.
Now the atmosphere around the OG’s home had changed, with exultant spirits taking a nose-dive. That letter was for the purpose of calling off a date. She was really too nice a girl to be buffed around like that — but please note that I did not hold with any such buffings. She had forfeited her chance to go with the crowd to the picnic. Now, more than ever, she wanted to go. She first took her troubles to her bosom friend, Bessie Campfield, wife of Judge Elwin Campfield. She wanted to know how could she, with propriety, get word to me that after all she would be free to go with me to the picnic. Bessie had spent some anxious moments trying to round up a courier to apprise me of that letter. She said to the OG, “I don’t know about that now. I could have told you about that fellow’s egotistical designs.”
The Old Girl lived with her aged parents, and when they would go away for the night, as they often did to visit another daughter in the country, she would have a young neighbor girl—not too young, but much younger than she-stay the night with her. The old folks were away now, and the young girl had been called in for the night.
The Old Girl was still worried. I’m now almost sorry that I ever started this “Old Girl” differential, as it smacks of disrespect — and I do not want the reader to form any such ideas. The OG first asked the young girl to come up town with her—then, remembering that her best friend had dropped a hint that the ground upon which she now stood was insecure, she decided that she was not constitutionally able to face me just then with her problem. She sent the young girl, alone.
But the Kid—that’s what they called her when we went together to the picnic, and thereafter as a member of the Silver Stocking crowd—said, “If you go with her now, you will be the biggest fool in the world. All she wants to go with you for, is to see who he takes,” naming the RM’s son.
The Kid was smart.
But please do not think the so-called Kid was betraying a trust. She was really a woman now. And, besides, she had reason to believe that, to use a homely expression, she were very soon going to get the OG’s goat, anyway.
And moreover, the Old Girl later told the “Kid,” perhaps in a gesture of discouragement, that I had gone with her steadily for nearly a year, and had never tried to kiss her. Had that not been the truth it would have been libel. -In the old days, the prudent young man did not dare kiss an old girl who was only filling a vacancy.
Prior to this, the “Kid” and I had “starred” in a local entertainment entitled “Beauty and Beelzebub” — and mutual admiration had blossomed then. She was the Angel and I was the Devil. In the tableau, the Devil, encased in a tight-fitting black sateen cover-all, with horns and a four-foot forked tail, was suspended on wires about four feet off the floor when the curtain went up. Then the Angel, up in the clouds, began the descent with song, the singing increasing in volume as she came down bare feet first, with outstretched wings, settling in front of the Devil. The “Kid” made a pretty picture, with her abundant dark hair — which, I happen to know, came down nearly to her ankles — spread over the white flowing covering whose traditional folds parted in front just enough to indicate that she dwelt in a place where shoes and stockings were taboo. The Angel departed by the same route—wire and windlass mechanism—went up into the clouds from whence she had come, with more singing, at first in full voice, then fading, fading, fading away in a manner denoting distance. In her young budding womanhood the “Kid” made a beautiful Angel — and the clear, sweet singing was out of this world.
Coral Hutchison was at first considered for the Angel. She was a beautiful girl, and a beautiful singer—and while she had a wonderful head of hair, quite as long as the “Kid’s,” its rather too blonde shade ruled her out. So the “Kid,” with the requisite dark hair, was given a place in the spot-light—and Coral did the singing behind the scenes.
Sorry, I can’t tell you what event or setting that tableau portrayed. There was much more to the show, speaking parts and superb acting. And though clearly the “Kid” and I were “it,” the whole show was titled “Beauty and Beelzebub.”
At the picnic, my adversary, the rich man’s son, said to me, “I see you’ve got a new girl. How come?” I said, “Yeah—likewise you. Thanks for the assist.” After I had started to walk on, he called, “Hey, John, whatsha mean by that?”
He was with Lou Kern. Hattie and Lou Kern, and Nina and Emma Bolman, were four Netawaka girls that were popular with our Silver Stocking crowd; as were also Caroline Emery, living in the country northeast of Wetmore, and her visiting friend, Mamie Blakeslee, a former neighbor whose home was now in Savannah, Mo.
Mamie Blakeslee was a strikingly pretty girl.
I shall now dwell a bit on a personal incident in connection with this beautiful girl. It was away back in 1884. I don’t think the girl was on my mind that day when I went to St. Joe. But, in St. Joe, I ran onto Bill (Hickorynut) Bradley who was on his way to Savannah, and he asked me to go along with him. One Oliver Bateman was to be hanged for the murder of two little girls who had caught him in an embarrassing act. The railroad was offering excursion rates, and the sleepy old Missouri town was decked out in celebration colors, with refreshment stands all along the lane from the jail to the gallows in an amphitheater in the nearby woods—everybody on the make.
Unlike Hickorynut, the hanging did not interest me, but the thought of seeing Mamie did. I called at the Blakeslee home on the outskirts of Savannah — it was a farm traded by G. N. Paige for the Blakeslee farm near Wetmore—on the pretense of wanting to see Mamie’s brother Edwin, who had been my schoolmate in Wetmore. He was not at home. I remained a reasonable time with Mamie, aiming to work up a little courage, and maybe ask her to go places with me—but lost my nerve.
Two hours later I met Mamie, with another girl, on a downtown street near the St. Charles hotel. Mamie said there was to be skating at the rink that night, and would I like to go? I certainly would. So now, after all, we would be going places together.
I called at the Blakeslee home for the two girls, and the ‘skating was going fine. Then, of a sudden, Miss West told me that Mamie was in a jam. Her steady, a traveling salesman, had unexpectedly dropped in on her — and, for some reason, likely well founded, Mamie had not intended to let him know about her going out with another fellow.
I told Miss West that we could fix that all right, if she herself did not have a steady sticking around somewhere. Miss West laughed, and assured me she did not have a steady. “If agreeable,” I said, “you shall now be my company, and, to all appearances, Mamie shall be the hanger-on, free to desert me for her steady.” Miss West laughed again, though she looked as if she were a little concerned about my reference to Mamie as the new hanger-on. Well, it was a slip. It was a term often applied to the extra girls in our Silver Stocking circle.
While visiting in Wetmore before this, Mamie had gone to a dance in Netawaka with a local man who proved to be not to her liking, and she had quit him cold at the dance hall door. Though it would hardly cause a ripple now, it was then considered about the worst thing that could happen to a young fellow’s social standing. I do not wish to identify him—yet I must give him a name to be used in Mamie’s pay-off to me for liberating her at the Savannah rink.
In the substitution of names, one is liable to innocently hit upon somebody’s real name, and to avoid the possibility of making this error, I shall give him the surname of his business partner, and go through the customary formality of saying that any similarity in names is purely coincidental. The man was half-owner of the livery stable from which we all got our “rigs” that night. And, anyway, the partners left here together for the state of Washington many, many years ago, and there should be no chance for repercussions now.
Mamie knew that I was familiar with the Netawaka incident—in fact, it was I who did the shifting with Sidney Loop to get her back home. When Miss West had delivered my message, Mamie broke away from her steady, rolled gracefully around the hall, and plumped herself down by my side, saying, “Thank you so much! It gets me out of an awful jam! And I want you to know that this is no Dr. Fisher deal!” I wondered? You know a girl, in competition with other girls, might strive for long to vamp a certain good catch—which is always a girl’s privilege—and then when the chance offers, find herself tied up for the time being with someone that right away stinks.
The Blakeslee family formerly lived on a farm four miles northeast of Wetmore, directly north of the old Ham Lynn farm. Mamie’s father, Nelson Blakeslee, often called at my father’s shoeshop for a visit. One time they planned on chartering a car together and shipping to California. I did not know Mamie then—but have since wondered what might have happened had they gone through with their plans.
Evidently Mamie did not make the most of the opportunity afforded her that night back in Savannah. She married Frank Schilling, of Hiawatha. There were some dark surmises that she stole Caroline Emery’s beau. “Stole” is an ugly word to be written in connection with this sweet, conscientious girl—as I knew her then. I would rather believe that Miss Emery’s beau was a man of rare good judgment. I have not seen Mamie since that night at the skating rink in Savannah. Now widowed, she lives in Fairview — thirty minutes away from Wetmore.
Back again on the main theme: In the days which followed, I said to myself—thought it with vengeance, anyway—that I would like to see the color of the hair of any d—d RM’s son that could make me give up this one, meaning the “Kid,” of course. And may I say that for once I now believed I had my girl matters well in hand.
But, believe it or not, still another son of that same rich man tried his darndest to edge in. At this time the younger boys had the habit of lining up on the outside of the church, at Epworth League meetings, and grab themselves a girl, with a polite, and sometimes not so polite, “May I “see you home?” After the third “No, thank you,” from the “Kid,” the RM’s son told her to go to that place which is sometimes politely called hades.
Mrs. Pheme Wood, a well meaning soul who had been an intimate friend of our family since the first day we came here in 1869, and who apparently took a special interest in my welfare, stopped me one day while passing her home, and said, “There’s something I want to ask you. Of course I don’t believe it, but I’ll ask anyway. Were you out sleigh-riding with Myrtle Mercer the day her father lay dead in the home?”
Myrtle was the afore-mentioned “Kid.”
I had not intended to name her just yet, but her identity would have to come out soon anyway, as she figures in this story to the end. And then some.
“Well,” I said—but got no further. Pheme broke in, “It came to me pretty straight, and one would think—” I stopped her with a promise to ‘fess up, if she would not run to my mother with it. “Oh that,” she laughed, remembering a kindred incident, “was for your own good.” She had gone to my mother on an errand of mercy. That she had her wires badly crossed did not deter her. She said she had it on good authority that I was about to marry the aforesaid Old Girl, who was much too old for me; and that my mother ought to use her influence to prevent it.
Myrtle’s father, John W. Mercer, section foreman, aged 39, had died suddenly of a heart attack while milking his cow one morning in February, 1888. And naturally, the family—the mother and five girls—had to make preparations for the funeral. Myrtle had a badly sprained ankle — acquired while ice-skating with George Peters on the creek near her home—but she managed to hobble up town, taking her baby sister Jessie with her. I followed them into the store, told Myrtle that I would get a sleigh from the livery stable and take them home. After driving the girls three blocks directly to their home, I picked up the Old Girl and we drove for an hour or more. I knew that Frank Fisher would charge me $2.00 anyway, and I wanted to get my money’s worth. I was seen picking up the “Kid” at the store and later seen driving with the Old Girl, and someone had imagined that the two girls were one and the same — and that’s how the story got started.
When explained, Pheme could have no criticism of Myrtle, nor of me either for driving her home. But, being a woman of the old school, she was bound to have her say. She said, “It looks like you should have had more respect for Myrtle than to go joy-riding with that other girl at a time like that.” I was not sure that she didn’t have something there. I said, “Remember, not a word to my mother.”
“Ah, go on,” she laughed.
I might say here, before passing this incident, that after the family had split up a few years later, Myrtle was sister and mother too, as well as guardian, for Jessie. And speaking of pretty girls, this attractive little one had the makings of a real beauty that in later years just about topped them all.
The rich man’s sons were all fine boys—I think—but in view of their penchant for camping on my trail, the only compliment I wish to pay them now is to say: They did not play poker.
My trusted friend did not marry the girl I loaned him. She went with her parents and three brothers to Arkansas — and married down there. The trusted friend went to the Far West, made his stake, and married into a quite well-to-do family—and lived at Yakima, Washington.
The Old Girl got her man too—an out-of-town man — after she had quit fooling around with the younger fry, and went with Davey Todd to Kansas City to live. She became a helpless invalid—and then, not having prepared himself in a financial way for such eventuality, Davey literally and figuratively had his hands full. But, to the best of his ability, he was good to her—carried her around as if she were a baby. How do I know? Well, the “Kid’s” sisters, -Jennie and Kathy, neighbors while here, helped him a lot in giving her needed attention.
And now Euphema Wood speaks again. Commenting on this unfortunate affair, she said to me, “Now you can maybe appreciate all the grief I saved you.”
Many years later, I met the mother of the girl whom I designated for this writing as My Best Girl, on the train out of Kansas City going to Atchison, her home at that time. I knew the girl had married a man whom the family were pleased to call a Southern aristocrat, living at Bald Knob, Arkansas. He was a merchant who carried the sharecroppers—mostly descendants of Ham—on his books until harvest time, virtually owning them. This gave him status in his home community, particularly with the colored folk — and in traveling North this mark of distinction was greatly exaggerated. From what the girl told me, while on a visit back home, I think Mr. Walker was a worthy man—but that aristocracy appendage, I liked it even less than I liked the means that had been employed to push me out of the picture. It is a word that should never have been coined. I was pleased that the girl herself made no use of it.
In the course of our talking over old times in Wetmore, the mother said, “I never could understand why those two did not marry,” meaning her daughter and the boy who had succeeded me. I said, “If you really want to know,- I can tell you why. He just didn’t have the money to do it the way she insisted on having it done, an expensive wedding, and all that.” She, the mother, already knew why I had first gracefully tapered off, and then backed away from it all—for the girl had told me that her penitent mother had wanted to kick herself for speaking out of turn.
And the “Kid?” Well, wait and see. Might have to skip a few years, though. I had not yet made that stake. In reminiscing, one is permitted to wander about over all creation—provided, always, that he carries along for blending purposes at least one principal character already introduced: and makes sure to come back “home” before becoming hopelessly entangled in a wilderness of clearly unrelated matter.
The “Kid” figures prominently in this episode.
While in Kansas City, I ran onto a street hawker selling fake “diamonds” for one dollar each. Just for the fun of it, I bought one of the things, brought it home and presented it to Myrtle Mercer, who was now working in my printing office, merely to see how a diamond would affect a girl.
After showing me that her heart was in the right place, she darted out the door before I could stop her, ran down the steps to the Means store, and showed it to Lizzie Means; then beat it out the back door and ran across to show it to Mamma Alma. This lady was the wife of Dr. J. W. Graham.
Mamma Alma was sharp as all getout. Lizzie Means was a shrewd business woman, but she had a less inquisitive mind. And I guess Myrtle was pretty sharp too, after the first ecstatic shock had passed.
Myrtle came bounding back up to the office, and bawled me out: “Mr. Smartie, that is going to cost you a real diamond—and a good one, too! And I want it right now!” She had reason to believe I was holding out on her.
I said, “All right, all right—but you can’t have it now.”
Cloy Weaver, my printer, who had been out on an errand, had come into the office by this time. He stood there with his mouth open, wondering what it was all about. Cloy had a girl in Stockton, California, and was aiming to leave the next day for California to marry her. As I needed him, and as he had told me he had a wife in the Philippines — he was a veteran of the Spanish American War— I tried to show him that this would be a bigamous trick. He agreed. Cloy was always agreeable. He remained with me a while longer—and married Edna Hudson.
Lizzie told me later in the day that the bogus diamond had her fooled, too. She laughed, “By golly, it did sparkle real prettily, didn’t it? But it’s going to cost you a real diamond—don’t forget that. Mamma Alma and I are not going to let Myrtle forget it either, Ough,” she shrugged, - “that was about the dirtiest trick imaginable. And Myrtle was so pleased! It was a shame!” And Mamma Alma had told Myrtle that it was high time anyway for me to be giving her a “real” diamond.
The next morning Coral Locknane—Myrtle’s best friend — came to the office, and I don’t know what all passed between the two, but it is pretty certain they didn’t discuss trifles. The three of us went to Kansas City on the noon train. I said to the girls, “Shall we go to Cady & Olmstead’s or to Jaccard’s?” I had been to both places on my last trip, and I knew they had just the right quality of sparklers to tickle a girl’s heart—now that I knew how a girl would react. But Myrtle, feeling pretty sure of herself, and in high good humor, said quite emphatically, “Neither.” She looked down the street and said, “We are going to Mercer’s on Petticoat Lane. It’s a name I believe I can trust. You don’t think I’d let you steer me to a place like where you got that other thing?”
When we went into the Mercer Store, Mr. Waddington, the diamond salesman, as it happened, pushed his portly self forward, and asked, “What will it be, please?”
I said, pretty loudly, “A diamond ring for Miss Mercer!” That claimed the attention of the whole house—the proprietor included.
Coral had several pretty good diamonds of her own. She took a seat with Myrtle at the salestable in the little black velvet-lined cubby corner, while I stood back and looked on. When Mr. Waddington told them the price of the one they had selected, Myrtle exclaimed, “Whe-e-ew!”
Then she looked to me for approval. The modest, one carat blue white stone was in good taste, plenty big enough for a girl. Coral’s largest diamond—at that time—was also an even carat, and she was a great help to Myrtle in making the selection. Coral said, “It’s not good taste to have them too big.” Later, Myrtle said earnestly and very softly, as if the thing had taken her breath away, “Do you really think you want to stand that much?” Mercer’s was the highest priced shop in Kansas City—but in a case of this kind I figured that a girl must have what she wants.
Then we separated, and I went over to the Cady & Olmstead store on the corner of 11th and Walnut, and bought for myself—or rather paid for what I had already bought — the beautiful blue white diamond, nearly twice as large, which Myrtle’s sister Jennie had helped me select only three days before. Jennie had warned me not to spring that fake diamond on Myrtle. Said it might not set just right with her. But I knew that Myrtle was too smart a girl to let anything make her mad at me for long.
Mr. Cady said, “You are a day early—where’s the lady?” “Yes,” I said, “I’m early. Got pushed around a little. Never mind the lady now. Though you may still make it a Tiffany setting, but make it for this hand right here.” He gave me a sympathetic look. Mr. Cady was such a nice man that I felt duty bound to tell him, as nearly as I could, what had happened to the lady.
Sometimes even quality folk didn’t get to see Mr. Cady, in person. Well, I did—just like I said. I still have the sales ticket, dated May 12, 1903, bearing his notation, “Will exchange Tif. Belcher mounting without cost—or diamond for other goods any time without discount.” Signed, “Cady.”
All this was too much for Coral. A woman with money of her own can stand only so much. She went over to Norton’s—and bought herself another diamond, nearly twice as big as Myrtle’s. The satisfied expression on her lovely face was something to behold. My first thoughts were that this might call for me to do some swapping with Myrtle. But, no sir—she’d not part with hers. If pressed, she’d claim them both. Trust a woman!
We had to stay the night in Kansas City with Myrtle’s sisters, Jennie and Kathy. When she got the chance, Jennie asked me, “How did it work?” meaning the bogus diamond.
“Well,” I replied, “it looks like it hasn’t blown the top off anything yet.” She said, “It surely does look that way now, but I wouldn’t be so sure of it after she sees the beauty we picked out for her.”
The two country girls had talked nothing but diamonds from the time they had entered the apartment.
The next morning the three of us started out three ways to get our diamonds—only we didn’t do it just that way. We went the rounds in a group. Mr. Mercer told Miss Mercer that she had selected the best one-carat blue-white flawless diamond in his store. And he wondered if they might not be related. Myrtle came home pretty pleased for keeps that time.
I’ve always counted it my best investment.