Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. III. No. 28, December, 1921

1,500,000 Readers!

SUBJECT

GREAT NORTHERN RAILWAY COMPANY

M. J. Woulfe

St. Paul, Minn. Sept 29th, 1922.

Editor Whiz-Bang,
Robbinsdale, Minn.

Dear Sir:

On September 27th our train #12 was held at Robbinsdale 37 minutes loading what is stated to have been 36,000 lbs. of mail. In order that provision be made to handle such large quantities of mail without causing unreasonable delay to trains, would you kindly furnish the following information:

First, Frequency of publication of the magazine.

Second, Days or dates when regularly due to be placed in the mail.

Third, Approximate weight or number of copies of each issue.

With this information we will consider the making of some special arrangement for bringing to the cities. It might be advantageous to set a baggage car out at Robbinsdale the day before the magazine due to be forwarded.

Yours truly

M. J. Woulfe

The letter tells the story!

If our Winter Annuals had been loaded at one time Captain Billy would have filled an entire mail train. Hereafter, Gentle Reader, your news dealer will have the Whiz Bang on the 15th of the month, and because of our enormous orders, we will, in future, mail a few truck loads every day throughout the full month, all magazines to be held at the various postoffices until the 15th for delivery. In conclusion, I thank you for your indulgence at delays in getting your Whiz Bang and your Winter Annual. The old Whiz Bang Farm has been a busy spot these past few months. Yours for fun,

CAPTAIN BILLY.

Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang

America’s Magazine of
Wit, Humor and
Filosophy

DECEMBER, 1921 Vol. III. No. 28

Published Monthly
W. H. Fawcett, Rural Route No. 2
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota

Entered as second-class matter May, 1, 1920, at the postoffice at Robbinsdale, Minnesota, under the Act of March 3, 1879.

Price 25 cents $2.50 per year
ONE DOLLAR FOR THE WINTER ANNUAL

Contents of this magazine are copyrighted. Republication of any part permitted when properly credited to Capt. Billy’s Whiz Bang.

“We have room for but one soul loyalty and that is loyalty to the American people.”—Theodore Roosevelt.

Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang employs no solicitors. Subscriptions may be received only at authorized news stands or by direct mail to Robbinsdale. We join in no clubbing offers, nor do we give premiums. Two-fifty a year in advance.

Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated to the fighting forces of the United States

Drippings From the Fawcett

It is a long jump from a one-horse town like Robbinsdale to the land of deciduous fruits, forbidden fruits, fruitless fruits, movie stars, reformers, abilone cuff links, outdoor plumbing and all-night burglar service—meaning California, of course.

I am at this writing occupying a room in that well known San Francisco hostelry which “Fatty” Arbuckle tried to convert into an ice-house. The only kick I have against the St. Francis is that the room clerk assigned me to twin beds. Being of a bullsheviki theosophical frame of mind and also very lonesome, I moved the other twin alongside my twin and slept soundly ever after.

Lolled around for two weeks at the Alexandria, in Los Angeles, and before that at a hotel at Coronado that fairly “oozed” hospitality, although older than the handles on Solomon’s wheelbarrow.

There is an ancient quip about the three divisions of liars—plain liars, d—— liars and Native Sons. Also there used to be one that went something like this: “The miners came in ’49 and the janes in ’51,” etc., etc. But they are both all wrong. Despite what Gus’ brother said about Robbinsdale not being a one-horse town after he had spent a week wearing the “white wing” vestments, I am willing to admit that Los Angeles and San Francisco have opened the eyes of an inquisitive farmer from the aforesaid Robbinsdale.

They seem to have everything here including the Whiz Bang—and in this connection permit an old farmer the privilege of remarking that the leading California news distributors, Egbert Brothers, tell me the little old Banger leads all 25-cent magazines in California in the matter of circulation.

So Robbinsdale is on the map in California even if we don’t call our hen-coops “Renaissance architecture” and our dog-houses “Colonial garages.”

* * *

We landed in Los Angeles just in time to plunk down in the center of a quarrel between expert fanatics and the motion picture people. A flock of moonbeam-chasing neurasthenic preachers insist that evil was not brought into the world by the serpent in Eden but was created by Thomas Edison, who invented the motion picture machine.

The latest synthetic scheme of the reformers calls for Los Angeles censorship for every picture manufactured and exhibited in the city. If the “long hairs” get away with it—and we don’t think they will—it will be a huge moral victory. Los Angeles youth will then be limited to such amusement as may be gleaned from shooting craps, joy-riding, dancing at road-houses, poker and looking for one’s umbrella.

This umbrella story has spinach on it, but in small towns like Robbinsdale it is still good. Has to do with the church-goer who arose hurriedly and left the church as the pastor was in the midst of reading the Ten Commandments. He explained to the pastor afterward that it had just been recalled to his memory where he had left his umbrella.

However, we didn’t travel all the way out to California to find our umbrella—or to lose one—and it is nobody’s business except our old Minneapolis friend, Dick Ferris, if we did. Dick is living at the Alex in Los Angeles and is one of Southern California’s most popular and esteemed citizens. Dick has begun bobbing his hair since his early days in Minneapolis, but says that if hair was brains an old-fashioned parlor sofa would be vice president.

Dick is one of the best entertainers in the Southland. One can step inside the “Ferris Harem” almost any time of day or night and meet anybody from “diggers of the ditches” to the “dignitaries of the ducats.”

Roscoe Sarles, famous race driver; Bill Pickens, Barney Oldfield’s old manager; Julian Eltinge, the actor; Harry Grayson, sports editor of the Express; “Scotty” Chisholm, golf editor and star; King Young, publicity director for Kathrine MacDonald’s pictures; Ham Beall, another publicity director extraordinary; Bob Henderson, wealthy oil operator and owner of the most beautiful home I have ever spilled ashes in—these are only a few of the legion of good fellows with whom I had the pleasure of swapping stories at the Ferris chateau.

* * *

And speaking of stories, I attended a Motion Picture Press Agents’ banquet and heard a good one on the reformers. According to the story, Rev. Wilbur F. Crafts was addressing an audience of the hoi poili and he started off bombastically like this: “You cigar suckers; you cigarette suckers; you pipe suckers—” At this juncture a tenor voice in the rear of the hall sung out: “Hey, Doc, you ain’t going to forget us, are you?” Evidently a willy boy with an all-day sucker in his hand.

Getting back to Dick Ferris, the former Minneapolis theatrical magnate, is head of a big taxi concern and on the side is a “promoting fool.” Rummaging around in one of Dick’s dresser drawers, I ran across a box containing a pair of white silk pajamas. Inside was a card which, in feminine scrawl, informed Dick that they were to be worn when “Alone—and Feeling Blue.” Dick hasn’t been able to wear them—says he hasn’t felt blue since Mt. Lassen was a small hill.

* * *

During our busy two weeks in Los Angeles we found time to accept invitations to inspect several motion picture studios, among them Universal City and the Katherine MacDonald studio. Miss MacDonald is a very charming and very good-looking young woman—and we feel sorry that such estimable young artists as Miss MacDonald, Miss Bebe Daniels and others must suffer some of the reflected criticism that is brought against the motion picture colony by the antics of some of the lame-brained and low-browed satyrs and satellites.

Out at Universal, Director Eddie Laemmle grabbed a picture of us in a wild-west scene—a Minnesota farmer entirely surrounded by cowboys and “Injuns.”

While in the south I also enjoyed a trip to Tia Juana, the Mexican Monte Carlo, just across the border from San Diego. Started to fly down from Rogers’ airport in Los Angeles, but had to confine my aerial pilgrimage to a jaunt over the city and beaches. They don’t allow American planes to fly across the border because there is so much booze running.

* * *

Through the good offices of the Oil King of Breckenridge, Texas, Bob Henderson, it was our fortune to meet Vice Admiral Wm. Shoemaker. We were gathered in Bob’s magnificent home in Los Angeles, formerly occupied by Mary Pickford and Mary Miles Minter (on the q. t., folks, you’ll have to admit it was pretty soft for a decrepit old Robbinsdale farmer) indulging in the ornery duties of testing the champagny contents of Robert’s cellar.

It was while the sparkling bubbles bubbled that the subject of a visit to Admiral Shoemaker’s Pacific fleet bobbed up. Next day we received a personal invitation from the Admiral, who insisted that we board his barge at the San Pedro dock. On the Red River of the North my Dad hauled wheat for the Northern Pacific railroad in a barge and not having been on speaking terms with naval language I assumed that a barge was a heluvan ugly looking thing.

Imagine my surprise, please, when the bare-foot jackies heaved ho with an immaculate launch with three golden stars. Pretty soft for a hardened old rascal, I claim. We rolled on to the Flagship “Pennsylvania” and were greeted by the Admiral’s aide, Lieut. L. S. Lewis. It was my first view of a battleship and at once I was impressed with the fact that the “Pennsylvania” probably could have licked any of the numerous boats that father once owned on the Red River. I was surprised to learn that the 14-inch guns I had read about were really about 40 feet long instead of 14 inches.

Anyway, we had a delightful time aboard the “Pennsylvania” and it was the first time in my life I ever cussed Josephus Daniels ^{(say it sweet and low: “gawsch darn him”)} I had to drink tea. But the Admiral was a wonderful fellow—hale, hearty and well met. We exchanged anecdotes and spent a grand, though dry afternoon. Lieutenant Lewis and his crew of noblemen returned us to the dock in the starry BARGE.

Now in the day of retrospection I fain would believe that the Admiral or his aide must have been in collusion with the “Pennsylvania” gobs because every last one of them either was bare-footed or reading Sam Clark’s Jim Jam Jems or the little old Banger. Wonderful fellows, these jackies, but the pesky cusses just insisted on looking onward and upward (mostly upward) when the fairly formed feminines in the party mounted from deck to deck. They just couldn’t control their naughty eyes. Possibly it had something to do with Bull of the Durham, for I am told that the sailor boys love to roll their own.

* * *

Now, Gentle Readers of this journal of uplift, I have one little wee surprise for you. Gus, my old time hired man, who jumped the job two months ago, located and surprised me at the Alexandria. Gus is a pestiferous cuss and has the faculty of bobbing up at the crucial moment. My “supply” had given out and promptly, even more promptly than had been his will to paint boats at Breezy Point Lodge, he supplied the missing medicine. It was “terrible stuff” but with the sailor boys I’ll say—Any port in a storm. His juniper juice created a tempest within me but I was glad nevertheless once again to shake the hoary hand of toil.

In parting I slipped Gus a five simoleon note. He whispered that he was “on the rocks” and hadn’t worked since he left Minnesota. We then and there entered into a gentleman’s agreement that he never again would work for me unless his duties would be solely acting as Indian guide at Breezy Point at a wage of nothing—except the maternal or fraternal friendship of Maggie, our cook. Gus loves Maggie, I think, but better still, he loves her flapjacks.

Adios to you, Gustav, and here’s hoping I don’t see you till the fishing season next spring.

* * *

Just one more drop or so before turning off the tap. It happened to be my good luck to be invited by Bill Eltinge, better known in the theatrical world as Julian, to attend a stag party in honor of the Los Angeles and Vernon baseball teams at the Maier brewery in Los Angeles. Doc Stone was master of ceremonies and he treated us lonely two hundred homeless and wifeless old stags in a royal manner. From a purely personal standpoint there was but one action that marred the entire evening. After being entertained to a realistic view of the grand canyon and a wonderful dance performed by Slim Summerfield and Bobby Dunn of the Fox studio, the right honorable toastmaster called on “Captain Billy Whiz Bang” to recitate. Imagine a rube farmer trying to spread the fertilizer over the rathskeller of an up-to-date Loz Onglaz brewery. Impossible, I’ll say.

Here I had been trying all evening to “put on the dog” with Frank Chance of Cub fame next to me, Julian Eltinge, world renowned actor, to my right, Dick Ferris, best known privateer in the public eye in front of me, not to mention such luminaries as Bill Essick, Wade Killifer, Larry McGraw and Jack Milligan all around. Then there was “Shine” Scott doing the honors back of the “near” beer bar, and “Shine” is well known to every ball player on the Pacific Coast. Oh, by the way, I certainly cannot overlook the immortal Tod Sloan. Either I followed Tod or he followed me because it was my good fortune to drink Manhattans with him in the Sunset Inn at Tia Juana and near beer near here.

Now, readers, to tell the truth, it’s quite trying to write about this wonderful party while the writer has a perfectly good Scotch highball on the desk beside him. (Here goes another “Happy Day.”)

One must, as one says, review one’s bunk to see where one’s left off. Talk about Southern hospitality, well, give me the Coast. Anyway, I never made the speech. How could I after Eltinge had brought tears of joy to members of this famous gathering?

Like the lowly backward shyster of pedigreed bull that I am, I failed to carry out the principles of my “deah” old friend Volstead. (This effort calls for one Scotch heeball.) So I walked upon the brewery stage. And when I made my bow I’ll tell you one thing which every ball player and umpire of Southern California will verify. The stein of near beer was clutched fondly in my sturdy right hand.

It was a rotten speech—in fact, no speech at all. My Los Angeles physician had prescribed that I take “one tablespoonful in milk every hour.” The milkman and my watch both went hay-wire.

But I had a good time—an elegant time and awakened next day with fond remembrances of the morning after the night before.

* * *

There are still a few rumbling in San Francisco regarding Arbuckle and his now famous party. The stories they tell are wonderful to listen to by way of teaching us farmers what strange means certain persons have devised to get a kick out of life.

For instance, as my friend Barney Google would say, take this little “roomer”:

Two of the numerous members of the party decided to entertain their guests—the party was “dragging” as it were. The form of entertainment provided so I am told, was the kind few of us number among our accomplishments. Somehow or other, we have never gotten over that old-fashioned idea that certain ceremonies listed in the regular catalog or otherwise, are not for an audience. Rather, they are for occasions dedicated solely to the gods and ourselves.

And then there was another. That when certain restrictive measures were indulged in, the Arbuckle counsel had it whispered about that should things get too strong, the defense might allow the names of certain men and women, socially prominent in San Francisco, to be introduced as possible witnesses to testify as to the actual happenings.

Needless to say, the well known Mr. and Mrs. Consternation immediately entered upon the scene.

* * *

And there was Captain Al Waddell, who commanded a battery in our late fracas. Al is the boy who made a hero out of Cliff Durant out here—really put over the son of the “Master Mind” of the automotive world, W. C. Durant. Al, who knows everybody and everything in California, might have made a fortune in writing a Hearst feature about the Durant divorce—but he’s too busy selling the Perfecto two-speed axles for Fords—whatever they may be.

It seems that for six years young Cliff had been telling his wife what to do. When he returned from an important conference in New York with his dad, who was still president of the General Motors, she calmly announced:

“For six years I’ve been listening to you tell me what to do. Now for six seconds just listen to me tell you what to do.” The inside of the bomb contained these sweet tidings: “Just give me one-half of what you own.”

Since Cliff was worth eight or ten millions, you’ll advise it was disastrous news from the front, inasmuch as she “made it stick.”

And now, so the story goes, Cliff won’t have to worry and fret about any mysterious looking gentleman coming to stop at his hotel at Le Bec when he blows in.

* * *

There’s another echo from the town of fogs and poodle dogs that doesn’t ring of Robbinsdale.

Just shortly after that infamous Howard Street Gangsters affair the police raided a “Love Nest.” It seems that, regardless of race, creed or color (or sex) you indulged your favorite diversion while in the “Love Nest” with your neighbor. Inasmuch as minors were involved, there was another “Roman holiday” expected for those who would crowd the prisons. Just when they were getting ready to point thumbs down, the defense asked for continuance. “And on what grounds?” demanded the prosecution.

“So that we may bring witnesses—women of high social rank in the city—to testify, by way of the indisputable means of photographs, that my clients are nothing more than artistic photographers, specializing in taking photos of women in the nude.”

It is a rather singular fact that the continuance was granted, that little more was heard about the case and that instead of being sent to San Quentin for fifty years the defendants got off with light sentences.

Asked how they could account for these women posing in the Altogether, one of the “Artistic photographers” replied, “Well, every woman seems to feel that she has the form divine.”

* * *

Running across old friends is one of the best things you do on these jamborees. Here in ’Frisco I found two old Minneapolis Journal men holding down important jobs—Jim Callahan, now business manager of the Examiner and generally considered one of Hearst’s “right hand” men, and Chris Helin, manager of The Examiner’s Automobile Department. I am sorry to say that they are both back sliders and wouldn’t trade the nip of the peninsula for half of Minnesota.

Funny how these fellows go loco when they reach California. Really, folks, you wouldn’t expect your friends to try to sell you real estate, would you?

* * *

My visit to San Francisco was the first since 1904, when I came home from doing my Spanish-American war “bit” in the Philippines. She’s a different city since the fire. California is a great state for new building—buildings going up here and everywhere. Among other enterprises they are building a lot of old missions, I understand.

Saw a sign over a Mission street doorway reading: “Virtue & Co., Ltd.” It used to be “unlimited” here back in the Dupont street days in 1904, but I thought that had all gone with Barbary Coast.

Am off for New York but hope now to come back later.

* * *