Contents

TALKALOGUES[9-33]
By E. P. Moran
MORE TALKALOGUES[34-38]
By Joseph Horrigan
LOVE AND LAGER BEER[38]
By Leontine Stanfield
THE MAN FROM SQUASHOPOLIS[40-49]
By Harry L. Newton
THE PACIFIC SLOPE[49-60]
By Harry L. Newton
WOULDN’T GOLF DIALECT DO?[60-62]
SOME WESTERN STORIES[62-64]
HAPPENINGS IN KEROSENELAMPVILLE[64-67]
BITS OF VERSE AND PROSE[68-72]
By Edwards & Ronney
RAPID FIRE[73-85]
By Harry L. Newton
“A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME”[86]
AN ORIGINAL HABEAS CORPUS CASE[87-89]
LI HUNG CHANG’S JOKE[89]
FIFTEEN MINUTES WITH A PLAYWRIGHT[90-95]
By Harry L. Newton
POPULAR SONGS APPROPRIATELY APPLIED[96]

WILL ROSSITER’S
Original
Talkalogues

Well, well! here we are again! I just did manage to get here on time, too. I never thought I’d be able to do it in the world. My wife and I were out riding in our automobile, and we got into a heated argument as to which of us was the better chauffeur. During the excitement of the argument we both neglected to hold the lines of the automobile, and it shied at a piece of paper and ran away.

Instinct told us both to make a grab, I for the lever and she for my hair. Just then the automobile struck the curb-stone, and my wife and I had a “falling out.”

My wife and I had a “falling out.”

There I was, several miles from the theater, with a broken-down automobile and an angry wife that wouldn’t speak to me. Wasn’t that suffering for you? I felt sure that I could make it to the theater all right, but I didn’t know whether I’d have time to “make up” or not.

This trying to please a woman is a tough game. I tell you, ladies, the trouble is the men don’t know just how to take their wives. Now I took mine in an automobile, and it turned out a frost. Maybe if I had taken her in a wheelbarrow she’d have thought it delightful—still, I doubt it.

But I wasn’t married always; I was an American citizen once myself. I say American citizen once, because an American citizen prides himself that he is under no tyrannical ruler, enjoys liberty and the fact that he can do as he pleases. Therefore, a married man can’t be an American citizen.

The reason I married was that I was out of work. I answered an advertisement for a situation, and the proprietor asked me “if I was married.” I told him no, that I was single. Then he said: “Well, I’d give you the position at once, only I must have a married man.” I said: “Keep the place open for about an hour, and I’ll fix that all right—it’s easier to get married than it is to get a job.”

There’s no trouble in getting married at all; the trouble starts after you are married—when you have to get up in the middle of the night and walk the floor with Reginald singing coon songs; that is, Reginald does not sing coon songs—you’ve got to sing to Reggy; and you can’t sing a lullaby, or you’d go to sleep yourself.

Why, I had an awfully hard time getting used to it; the kid used to cry so much that it wouldn’t even stop for meals. The neighbors all said: “O, my! why don’t you feed that baby on Mellin’s food? It would make a different child of him.” I didn’t say a word to anyone, but went out and bought eight watermelons and five cantaloupes and then I fed him till I thought he’d bust. Well, after the doctors brought him to, he was a different child; they asked me why I didn’t feed him on cucumbers and sliced tripe.

Of course, after that experience I knew better. So I got a box of the true article at the druggist’s, and took the baby on my knee to feed him. The directions said: “Before feeding the baby, shake well.” Well, that was pie for me, because I had it in for him, anyway. I nearly shook the life out of him; then I fed him.

“Before feeding the baby, shake well.”

I was overly anxious to follow the directions strictly to the letter, so I read the whole thing through two or three times to make sure. Down near the bottom it read: “N. B.—After child is fed—set in a cool place—” I put him in the ice-box.

I went home the other evening and my wife said: “Ed, you know that this is the night that we are to go to the swell reception given by the Richmonds.” I said: “Yes, dear, I remember.” I hadn’t given it a thought, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. Then she came over and put her arms around me and started to cry. I asked what the trouble was, and she said: “Well, you know, dear, I only intended getting just a light dinner, because, you know, we’ll get plenty to eat at the reception.” Then I lied again and said: “Yes, I know.” “Well,” she went, on, “the cook has allowed what little we were going to have to burn, and now there isn’t a thing in the house fit to eat. But don’t scold,” she said, “for she is so young and inexperienced, and, besides, she’s so sweet; won’t a kiss do instead?” I was pretty hungry, but I said: “All right; send her in.”

Put her arms around me and started to cry

For a long time I didn’t think we’d go to the reception—but, finally I squared matters and told her to run on and get dressed. I read the evening paper until she started putting on her hat,—and then I started to get ready. After I was dressed and waiting about five minutes she said she was ready. So we started for the reception, she on her dignity and I on an empty stomach. And I might as well say right here, I took my empty stomach back home with me again, for all I saw there to eat was some opera-glass sandwiches—that is, you could look through them.

With these they passed around lemonade, and after that was gobbled up by the hungry mob they flashed a box or two of bon-bons. Think of it—bon-bons on an empty stomach! If it wasn’t for fear of my wife being jealous I’d have gone to the kitchen and made a play for the cook.

I never attended anything that I got so disgusted with in all my life. Did you ever have to go to one, fellows, with your wife? The women all sit around in bunches, and each bunch runs down the others. Mrs. Hypocrite will look up rather suddenly to see if she can discover anybody talking about her, and she notices that Mrs. Stabyouinthe Back is gazing fixedly at her; then, each seeing that they are caught, smile sweetly, bow to each other and go back to knocking.

How can they do it, girls? How can they do it? Each woman there knew, deep down in her heart, that every woman three feet away was talking about her! If it wasn’t about her hat being one of last season’s styles it was about the way her dress was made; and if both of these happened to be above criticism then they would say: “O, pshaw! what good is all that finery to her? It doesn’t become her! It would be just the same if she had a Worth gown on, and the hat—well, she could put on picture-hats from all the picture-books published and it wouldn’t make her look dressed! Why, she can look well with nothing on!”

As though that woman would go to a reception with nothing on!

But the part that takes my time is that after all their knocking they stand in the hall when it’s time to go home, and, with the door open until everybody in the house is chilled to death, they have three or four rounds of kisses, tell what a delightful time they have had and invite each other to come and see them!

Henceforth I scratch receptions off my list. Nothing but a stag goes with me any more.

There was one poor fellow there that I took quite a fancy to—he was holding up the wall opposite to me. After a bit I went over and spoke to him. “How are you getting on?” I asked. “O, I’m holding up all right,” he said—I didn’t know whether he meant the wall or his spirits.

We talked for a while, and then he gaped and said: “Excuse me”; and I gaped and said: “Excuse me.” Then after a bit I gaped and said: “Pardon me”; and he gaped immediately after me and said: “Pardon me,” and we went on talking. Finally he said: “Don’t you think it’s a long gap between gaps?” I said: “So it is.” Then, feeling one coming on, I said: “Have a gap on me.” He said: “Not on your life! The last one was on you; have this one on me”—and I did.

I said: “It’s awfully slow here, isn’t it?” “I should say it is,” he replied. I said: “Let’s go home.” “I am home,” he said; “my wife is giving this affair.”

My mother-in-law is a lovely woman—at least, that’s what my wife tells me, anyway; so it must be so. The old dame thinks a great deal of me, too—in fact, she’s always thinking of me, and she’s not the little girl that’s afraid to tell me what she’s thinking, either. My! but my left ear is burning!

We came near losing her the other day—unintentionally on our part, too, because you couldn’t lose her if you tried.

It happened in this way: We have a large, old-fashioned clock hanging in the hall. It’s a massive affair and weighs quite a bit. Well, we were all surprised to hear a terrible crash, which was caused by the clock falling from its place on the wall and breaking in a thousand pieces.

Now my mother-in-law figures in the story in this way: She had been standing right underneath that clock only two minutes before it fell—and had walked away.

Of course, I was awfully sorry—to lose the clock, as it had been in our family for generations back, and in all those years it had kept good time up until the time it fell—and then it was ONLY TWO MINUTES SLOW.

Only two minutes slow

I was walking along the street the other day when a tramp walked up and touched me on the arm. He said: “Pardon me, but I have seen better days.” I said: “So have I. I can remember back when such awful weather as this was unknown.”

A tramp touched me on the arm

I said: “So long,” and started to walk away, but little Willie was right there. “Excuse me,” he said, “but will you give me five cents for a bite to eat?” I said: “A bite! what good is a bite? If you had a meal for sale I might talk business to you.”

Of all the narrow escapes from death I ever witnessed I think the one that I saw to-day was nothing short of a miracle. I was walking along Broadway [substitute local street] when my attention was attracted to a man standing on a scaffold painting an advertising sign on the fourth story of a building. It made me feel dizzy to look up at him. He worked away, seemingly unconscious of his dangerous position.

Suddenly I noticed him stagger; he made a grab for one of the ropes to protect himself, but missed it. I closed my eyes in horror as I saw him fall—the blood seemed to freeze in my very veins—I felt faint.

I closed my eyes in horror

I could stand the suspense no longer. I opened my eyes, but all seemed blurred before them. “Is he dead?” I asked of a man standing by my side. “No; he’s all right,” the man answered. “But he fell, didn’t he?” I cried. “O, yes, he fell all right,” he said; “but he landed on a bunch of rubber-necks and bounced back on the scaffold again.”

Wishing to make the jump from New York to Chicago a few weeks ago, I called on a friend of mine who stands pretty well with one of the officials of a certain railroad. I asked my friend if he thought he could get me a rate over that line, and he promised to see what he could do for me.

He said: “I’ll go right down, and if I can possibly get you a rate I’ll send word up to your hotel.” I said: “All right, old man; I’ll appreciate it very much.”

After waiting around the hotel for about an hour I recollected that I had a little business to transact down town, and I thought I’d have time to attend to it and get back to my hotel before the message arrived concerning the rate. So I bought a newspaper and jumped on a down-town car.

I had scarcely rode over four or five blocks when the conductor came by and shook me roughly by the arm and said, in a rough, surly manner: “Hey, you! Did you expectorate? [Expect a rate.] Now don’t sit there and tell me that you didn’t,” he added, “for I know you did.”

“Hey, you! did you expectorate?”

I was on my feet in an instant. “Why, you little insignificant, illiterate collector of plugged coins and dispenser of pennies!” I cried. “What do you mean by insulting me before this car full of people? Yes,” I said, “I did expect a rate, but that’s my affair. It’s none of your confounded business, nor anyone else’s, if I expect a pass! What I expect and what I don’t expect concern me alone!”

“O, is that so?” he sneered. “You’re going to bluff me—that’s what you expect. Now here’s what you don’t expect”—and he called a policeman and had me arrested for spitting on the floor of the car.

Did you ever have the toothache? My! but isn’t it a great thing to make you forget all your other troubles? I had the toothache the other night, and it nearly had me wild. I wouldn’t have minded being awakened by the tooth so much, but it was the nerve of the thing that struck me—and it struck me properly.

I jumped up, dressed myself and dashed over to the dentist’s. I said: “Doc, you argue with it, will you—you’ve got more of a pull than I have.”

Dashed over to the dentist’s

Then after he had it out he showed it to me, and I was surprised to think that such a tiny thing could make a person act so foolishly.

But I wasn’t the only one in misery, for there was a lady that came in shortly after I, and her jaw was swollen out like that. [Measure.] The doctor looked in her mouth and said: “My dear madam, you have evidently made a mistake—this is a dental office, not a quarry. You’ll have to take that to some place where they blast rock.”

I went into a cigar-store the other day, and walking up to the counter I said to the proprietor: “Let me have a Childs cigar.” “Pardon me, sir,” he said; “but what did you say you wanted?” “A Childs cigar, if you please,” I replied. “A child’s cigar? I am very sorry,” he said; “but we are not allowed to sell a child a cigar—but if a cinnamon cigarette will do you any good I can sell you one of those.”

“Let me have a Childs cigar”

I had a friend once that suffered terribly from a half-dozen different complaints. He woke up in the middle of the night once, and he didn’t know what ached him the most—the cold that had settled on his chest, his liver that was out of order, or the corn that he had on his little toe.

Anyway he got up, dressed himself and woke the druggist up to fix him some medicine that would give him some relief. The druggist fixed him up a powerful liniment, some pills and a corn-plaster, saying: “Rub your chest with the liniment for your cold, swallow the pills for your liver and use the corn-plaster for your toe.”

My friend kept repeating this to himself all the way back home, but when he got there he was all puzzled up. He stuck the corn-plaster on his chest, swallowed the liniment and tied the pills on his corn.

After that, he never suffered any more pain—he died without a struggle.

Isn’t it strange the funny things a man will run into? Now I ran into a well-known comedian this morning. I got an awful bump, too—it cost me a V. Have you ever noticed that an actor whom nature has best fitted for comedy invariably wants to break into the legit., and vice versa?

Now, for instance, the man that I met this morning is doing comedy, while every one that knows him will tell you that he is at his best in “touching” scenes. He can get my testimonial any old time.

Do you know a woman can’t stand flattery? It’s a fact. Now I went home the other evening, and, seeing my wife so earnestly engaged with the housework I could not refrain from commenting on it. I said: “Why, my dear, you’re as busy as a bee”—and the next day she got all jollied up and broke out with the hives.

By E. P. Moran

There seems to be a lot of talk about woman suffrage going on lately. It’s in reference to giving women the same right to vote that men have. Some men are in favor of it, while others are not; but, strange to say, the politicians to a man are against giving woman the right to vote, and I’ll tell you why.

A politician can get up in front of a gathering of men, throw out his chest and exclaim: “I am man’s greatest friend”—and they’ll believe him. But can that man get up before a crowd of women and say: “I am woman’s greatest friend”?

“I am man’s greatest friend”

No, sir—not on your life! They wouldn’t believe him—not while there is a bottle of Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound on the market!

In front of the office of the New York Journal [name local paper] on last election night, a tremendous crowd had gathered. They pushed and squeezed each other in order to get a look at the election returns that were being shown by the stereopticon. An old maid passed that way, and wishing to continue on down the street she said to a police officer standing there: “Officer, can I get through that crowd?”

“Officer, can I get thru that crowd?”

He looked at her a moment and said: “Lady, if you attempt to go through that crowd you’ll be squeezed ’most to death.”

A bright smile overspread her antique countenance as she looked up at him and said: “O, I’m not afraid to die!” Then she jumped into the crowd.

In a small town in New England, where the laws against prize-fighting are very strict, an ambitious youth by the name of Green was caught training for a fight. He was arrested and brought before the Judge, who said: “Mr. Green, you are charged with violating the law by training for a prize-fight; have you anything to say in your defense?”

“Well, your honor,” said Green, “is it against the law for a young lady to put on a corset?” “No,” replied the Judge, “it is not.”

“Then, your honor,” said Green, “I ask to be discharged, as there is no difference between a fighter training for a fight and a young woman putting on her corsets—they are both getting into shape.”

“I ask to be discharged”

By Joseph Horrigan

Now the thing we call love is like lager beer,

Only good when it’s fresh on tap, I fear.

Out of cut-glass and silver of course it’s nice,

If you can afford it and have the price;

But you’ll find any day when your purse is small

That from pewter it’s better than no beer at all.

The one thing important, and this is no “con,”

Is to get your drink quick, while the thirst is on.

The Man from
Squashopolis

By Harry L. Newton

[Copyright MCMIII by Will Rossiter]

Ladies and gentlemen, and those that are sitting in the boxes, and you, too, orchestra, you’ll pardon me if I hesitate for a moment, but I’ve just returned from a very long walk. All the way from Squashopolis, b’gosh! I think that was the name of the town where our show closed. We say “Closed,” you see. You know when a saloon-keeper or a bank, or a chop-suey restaurant, or an iceman, gives up business, we say that the owner liquidated, or busted up, or went to the devil, or it was a frost; but a theatrical troupe always “closes.” It sounds better, you know; just as if the manager got tired taking in money and was hiding some place so that no one could throw any twenty-dollar gold-pieces at him.

But Squashopolis is a great town! Ever heard of Squashopolis? No? Why, it’s right between Pumpkinhollow and Spinachville. Squashopolis is the largest town on the map. You see it was this way: The mayor and the fire-department and the postmaster—that is, the fellow that ran the saloon—bought a map of Indiana to find out where they were at, and finding that the man who wrote the map had made a mistake and overlooked the flourishing town of Squashopolis, the mayor and the fire-department, etc., of the aforesaid town betook themselves to the pen and ink and placed Squashopolis upon the map in a manner calculated to give their beloved town its due importance and dignity; and that is how Squashopolis became the largest town on the map. The census of the village—I took it myself—revealed the fact that its population consists of one saloon and three dogs. You see the town has gone to the dogs. I asked the man at the railroad station where I could find the mayor. He said: “Why, the mayor’s left and gone to the Klondike.” “How’d that happen?” He said: “Why, money makes the mayor go.” Well, I’ll sing you a sing.

[Introduce Song]

Well, I see that I’ve come out of that alive; now I’ll hand you some more. Now, in all my adventures on land or sea, and I’ve often been at sea as to where I was going to land (you never can tell in this business), in all my travels the saddest event in my career occurred the other day. I was invited to a swell dinner party—you know, a handful of lettuce and a cup of coffee; they’re something fierce; you all know how they are—maybe.

Well, as soon as I got through my turn I left the theater prepared for a long walk, as it was some distance from—pay-day. I stepped into the alley—you know they always dump us into the alley when they get through with us (they dump everything into the alley—actors, ashes, everything), then you have to sneak your way between the piles. Why, it, was only last night that I fell in a heap.

Well, right on the corner of the alley I noticed a man posting some bills. I said: “See here! Don’t post any bills there.” He says: “Why not?” I said: “Don’t you see that sign: ‘Post no bills under penalty’?” “Well, you big lobster,” said he, “don’t you see I’m posting them over penalty?”

Now that man was in the wrong business. I said to him: “What are you posting those bills for?” He says: “Why, don’t you see? Them are pictures of Richard Mansfield. He said if I’d stick these pictures up for him he’d buy the drinks.” I said: “O, I see; you’re sticking him for the drinks.”

I just reached the sidewalk when I was approached by a tramp; no, not an actor, but a decent, hard-working tramp. Yes, a hard-working tramp; I know he worked me hard enough. He was one of those fellows who has a child and sixteen wives to support. He said: “Friend, can you help a poor old slob who has got money in the bank but don’t know how to make out a check?” You know I’m generous; I’ve never yet refused any beggar who came to me and asked—for a match. With tears in his voice he said: “Say, mister, save me from a watery grave.” “How’s that?” I asked. “Young fellow,” he says, “if you don’t give me a quarter I’ll have to work in a soap factory or jump in the lake.” Well, I couldn’t help parting with a week’s salary, so I gave him a quarter. You know, somehow, he touched me. The man was overjoyed. “Friend,” he says, “you’ve saved my life. I don’t know how to thank you. I feel as though I never could repay you.” He never did.

I was approached by a tramp.

Talk about beggars! That night I met them all. If there was any I missed they were on a vacation. They all seemed to take to me. They all seemed to keep in touch with me, as it were. One man had nerve enough to ask me for 19 cents to buy a shirtwaist. I gave him the 19 and told him not to waste it. Talk about begging! I asked one man what he did for a living and he begged the question. I asked: “Why don’t you go to work?” He says: “I can’t; I’m a cripple.” I says: “That’s a lame excuse.” “Well,” he says, “you see I’m tongue-tied and I can’t do a lick of work.”

Then a young worried woman—I mean married woman—stopped and said: “Excuse me, sir, but I’m in such trouble. My husband gave me sixty cents to go down to the Boston Store and buy some radishes and a new folding-bed, and I forgot myself and thought that I was single and spent the money for a bunch of Allegretti’s; and now I haven’t any money to buy the radishes, and I don’t know how in the world to get home.”

I always did pity a woman in distress so I showed her the way. Then a man came up to me and said—well, before he could say anything I asked him: “Well, what is it? Radishes or a folding-bed?” He says: “I don’t understand you. I wanted information as to where [local street] is.” “O,” I said, “you want information? I thought you wanted a nickel.”

The doctors say that begging is a disease, and I notice everybody has a “touch” of it. Why, I believe there are more beggars in this town than there are prohibitionists in Milwaukee. Why, all the boxers in China are a Sweet Caporal guard along side the soldiers of misfortune I met that night. I made a detour around the courthouse to avoid their left flank, but I was confronted by the enemy’s center, which advanced toward me and occupied a strong position on [local street.]

They were commanded by a blind man with a picture of his finish on a sixteen-inch hand-organ. With this he was doing great execution—to the music. Among the wounded were the “Wild Irish Rose,” “She Is a Sensible Girl,” “My Rainbow Coon,” “Whistling Rufus” and a “Bird in a Gilded Cage.” “The Georgia Camp-Meeting” was also badly broken up.

My retreat being cut off by their right flank, which moved around to cop me at [local store] kopje, I decided to cut my way through the center and encounter the enemy en masse, en massay, en massee—well, in great big juicy bunches.

One of the enemy approached me; as [local writer] would say, he was brimful of the bibulous effervescence of concentrated outpourings of the intellectual excrescences resulting from the imbibition of infinitesimal—well, he was drunk. He started a spirited argument with me. I scented trouble, and observing trouble—I mean a copper—I gave him a cent. He gave me several scents and I almost lost my senses. He tried to thank me but I told him not to breathe a word of it.

Then a deah little child came up to mah and spoke to mah. She said she was a long way from home. Her aunt had given her three cents to chase herself to the parental roof—to ride home on—and she lost the money. Seeing she was but a little child (under 12 years), I thought it was only half fare, so I put her on the car.

At this point the organ-grinder with a monkey began a disturbance on the corner. One man declared he ought to be “pinched.” I said: “Certainly not.” He asked: “Why not?” I said: “He is a human being and has a perfect right to use his own organ.” He says: “Yes, as long as he doesn’t monkey with anybody else’s.”

I will now beg leave to change the subject, and tell you about the dinner party I mentioned seven minutes ago. Well, no sooner had I arrived at my destination than I was greeted by the hostess, who said: “Why, how do you do? Won’t you recite something?” You know they think an actor is just like a slot-machine. You throw in a meal and out comes a stunt. Well, I didn’t like the meal very well, so I sung them a song.

The Pacific Slop

By Harry L. Newton

[Copyright MCMIII by Will Rossiter]

I have just returned from the Pacific slip—slop—slope, I meant to say. Excuse the slop—I mean the slip of the tongue. I say “returned,” but I didn’t say in what way. That’s a long walk—I mean talk—I should say story. That slip—slop—slope has got me sloppy—slippy—twisted, I mean.

Well, while on the slip—slop—slippery slope, I slopped—slipped in love. I fell in love from slipping on the sloppy slope. I came pretty near getting a life sentence—married, I mean; it’s the same thing. The girl I loved was a brunette by birth. You know some are brunettes by accident; this girl was born that way. I don’t like brunettes. I like the blondes. This girl from the slope was a slippery—slobbery—slobby—I mean nobby—girl and was deeply infatuated with me. She would do anybody, anything for me. She declared she would die for me—and she did. That’s how she’s a blonde now.

Her father was a doctor—a “cure-all.” He claimed he could cure anything. When he found out I loved his daughter he tried to cure my love for her. He gave me a prescription. His specialty was rejections—injections, I mean. So he injected a load of buckshot into my frame. He said I needed something to increase my weight, so he filled me with lead.

The prescription was a good one, though. If they hadn’t called in another doctor to pick out the shot, my love would have certainly proved fatal. They took me to a horse-pistol—I mean a hospital. While I was filled with lead the boys used to come in and borrow me to go fishing with. They used me for a stinker—I mean a sinker. One day I asked the nurse how much longer I was going to be laid up and used for a sinker and she said I’d be well enough to leave just as soon as the fish quit biting. They couldn’t find all the shot that the prescription called for, so I had to leave the hospital “half-shot.”

Well, I finally did a slide from the slope and came east by way of the Northern Precipitate—Northern Pacific, I should say.

We started a game of poker on the train. I lost thirty dollars. When the train was twenty miles out I was thirty dollars out. I didn’t have a cent left. The conductor asked me for my fare and just then the train stopped. One of the passengers called to the conductor and said: “What’s the matter? Anything broke?” The conductor said; “Yes, one of the passengers.” Then the conductor asked me if I could fix the “break.” I couldn’t, so I got off.

Then the conductor began to kick about having to stop the train, and I was the receiver for his kicks. They came so fast I couldn’t stop them all. I do hate to feel—hear a man kick against little things. It wasn’t fair—or rather it was fare—that is, I didn’t have the fare. But anyhow it made me sore. I wouldn’t get back on his old train.

After I had collected my thoughts and the other parts of my anatomy, I found I was several parts of anatomy shy; so I went up to the conductor and I asked him if he had any old anatomy of mine hanging to him; that is, if I had anything coming that I had not got. He raised his foot—his large, massive right foot. I looked at it. It was too large for me; it wasn’t my size. I knew as soon as I looked at it it wouldn’t fit me, so I began to wend my way. I found it was cheaper to wend my way than to pay my way.

When I got to the next station I went into a balloon—I mean salome—so long—saloon; I always did forget that word. Well, on the wall was one of those strong—wrong long-distance telephones—nickel-in-the-slit—slop—slap—slot machine. I thought I’d call up the doctor and tell him what I thought of him. I didn’t think much of him—only about five cents’ worth.

So I slipped up to the slot and slipped a nickel in the slot to get a connection with the slope I had just slipped from. Just then the keeper of the life-shaving—life-saving station, the bar-slender—sender—tender, asked me what I wanted; I said I thought I’d take a gee whiz—a ginfizz. He said I had another thunk coming, so I told him I would take a glass of Schlitz before I heard from the slope. So I slanted a glass of Schlitz in the slot in my face and slowly sopped—sipped the Schlitz. Just then the telephone-bell rang; I went to the rang and rung the ring.

The doctor says: “Who are you?” I says: “I’m the fellow that took your prescription.” He says: “Well, what are you calling me up for?” I says: “I ain’t calling you up; I’m calling you down.” He says: “I think you sloped from the slope with my child, you slob, and if ever I see you again I’ll puncture your——”

Just then the barfender—bender—lender—tender asked me to have another Schlitz, so I dropped the fender—the sender to sip the Schlitz. Just as I sized up the Schlitz to seize it the bartender told me to settle for the last Schlitz. I couldn’t settle, so the bartender settled me. He gave me a sassy slap in the slats and spilled all the Schlitz that I had sipped.

Then I got desperate and commenced dropping nickels in the Schlitz and Schlitzes in the slots, then I got some more slaps in the slats; the doctor was trying to call me and I was calling the bartender—something I can’t repeat here, and—well, I finally got out and after a while, about thirty days after, I reached home—my old home. My father and mother said it was the home of my birth. Well, if “my birth” owned that home he never got any rent for it. The first person I met was a girl. Of course I met three politicians; but she was the first person. She was a singular person; she was the first person singular—singular because she wasn’t married. But that wasn’t so singular, because she was born with only one good eye. In the other one she got in a crockery store—kind of a bum pair of lamps.

Then one day she had the misfortune to be walking on a railroad track and she met a train—that, is, the train met her. Of course, there was no regular introduction; they just came together as people and trains will. Well, the train met her and now she’s got a cork—she’s got a corker. [Slap leg with hand.] Well, as I say, I met the corker—I mean the girl—and she told me she was engaged to be led to the slaughter—I mean sled to the halter—I mean led to the altar; going to be murdered—married; and she invited me to bring presents—I mean to be present at the wedding.

There wasn’t many people knew she had a corker. The fellow that was going to board her for life didn’t know she had a corker, either. The day before the wedding the gloom—that is, the groom—you know, the fellow that was going to marry the corker—I mean the girl—well, he was kind of a diffident fellow; he asked me to go to the parsley—the parsnips—the parson with him, and I went with the victim.

The parson charged him $5.00 to tie the connubial nit—the connubial knot. The parson said: “My dear sir; I will charge you $5.00 to set you sailing on the sea of matrimony.” My friend said: “Well, what’ll you charge for a round-trip ticket?” You see he didn’t know about the corker, but he was a corker. He says: “I’ll save you $4.00 to tie the conjugal knit-knot”—not knit but knot. But the parson refused. He said: “$5.00 or knot—nit.” The parson would not take any less than $5.00 for the imposition—the operation. He belonged to the “union.” So my friend that was engaged to the corker paid him the flea—the fee to knit the knot—I mean tie the knot. Well, the next day we all went to the church to see the fight—the wedding.

The young couple stood up in front of the parson and the parson opened a jackpot—I mean the Bible, looked all around the church and said: “Is there anybody here to give the bride away?” I jumped up and said: “Yes, I can, but I won’t!”

Then the queer—I mean the choir sang queer—that is, the queer choir sang “Take Me Just as I Am.” And the young fellow did. Of course, he didn’t know anything about the corker until——

Well, an old woman, 78 or 48, who lived in the town died one day. Of course, that isn’t strange, because old women die every day. But this particular old lady—but she couldn’t have been particular, either, or she wouldn’t have died. But anyhow she died, with a will, or against her will; that is, she had a will or left a will when she died. In the will she bequeathed to the corker—I mean the girl who married the fellow that didn’t know she had a corker—she bequeathed to her an old arm-chair.

Everybody gave the young couple the horse-laugh, but the young fellow took the old arm-chair home and put it in the house along with the glass eye and the corker. A few days after that they sat down to the breakfast-table—the fellow, the glass eye, the arm-chair and the corker—and while sitting at breakfast, talking over their cocoa, the husband said something over his cocoa, and then the wife said something over her cocoa, and they got into an argument over their cocoa, and finally he picked up the old arm-chair, over his cocoa, and passed it to his wife, over her cocoa, and broke it all to pieces—not the cocoa, but the old arm-chair. The old arm-chair was smashed all to pieces and out rolled fifteen million dollars in gold bull-con—bull-coin—gold bullion. You see, this wise old lady knew that the husband would break the old chair over his wife’s cocoa when he found she had a——

Out rolled fifteen million dollars in gold

Well, the result was a divorce, and naturally the fellow that married the remnant—the girl—came to me, as I had been present at the execution—at the wedding—and he naturally looked upon me as a confidence man—as a confidant—and he asked me my advice.

You see the corker’s brother, a big fellow that weighed about two hundred and looked it, had taken offense at the sister’s husband talking about family secrets and was out looking for trouble. So when the husband came to me for advice I told him to challenge the brother to a duel. He said he didn’t know anything about a duel. So I told him to go get a pair of gloves, go up to the brother and slap him in the face with the gloves.

The next day the young fellow got a pair of gloves, went up to the big brother and slapped him in the face with the gloves. Then he came back to report to me. I says: “Well, did you get the gloves?” He says: “Yes.” I says: “What did you do after you got the gloves?” He says: “I did just what you told me to do. I took the gloves in my hand and went up to the big guy and slapped him in the face with the gloves.” I says: “Well, what did he do?” He says: “He knocked me down and took the gloves away from me.”