He Delivers a Lecture Upon the Carelessness of Women.
In returning from a trip down town the other week I left my shopping bag in the car, and when I mentioned the fact to Mr. Bowser and asked him to call at the street railway office and get it, he replied:
"No, ma'am, I won't! Anybody careless enough to leave an article of value in a street car deserves to lose it. Besides, you did not take the number of the car, and they would only laugh at me at the office."
"Do you take the number of every street car you ride in?" I asked.
"Certainly. Every sensible person does. Day before yesterday I came up in No. 70. I went back in No. 44. I came up to supper in No. 66. Yesterday I made my trips in Nos. 55, 61 and 38. To-day in Nos. 83, 77 and 15. The street railways contract to carry passengers—not to act as guardians for children and imbeciles."
"Mr. Bowser, other people have lost things on the street car."
"Yes—other women. You never heard of a man losing anything."
I let the matter drop there, knowing that time would sooner or later bring my revenge. It came sooner than I expected. Mr. Bowser took his dress coat down to a tailor to get a couple of new buttons sewed on, and as he returned without it, I observed:
"You are always finding fault with the procrastination of my dressmaker. Your tailor doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry."
"How?"
"Why, you were to bring that coat back with you."
"That coat! Thunder!"
Mr. Bowser turned pale and sprang out of his chair.
"Didn't lose it going down, did you?"
"I—I believe I—I——!"
"You left it on the street car when you come up?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Bowser, anybody careless enough to leave an article of value in a street car deserves to lose it. However, you took the number of the car, I presume?"
"N—no!"
"You didn't! That shows what sort of a person you are. Yesterday when I went down after baby's shoes I took car No. 111. When I returned I took car 86. When I went over to mother's I took car 56. The conductor had red hair. One horse was brown and the other black. The driver had a cast in his left eye. There were four women and five men in the car. We passed two loads of ashes, one of dirt and an ice cream wagon. The conductor wore No. 8 shoes, and was nearsighted. The street railways contract to carry passengers, Mr. Bowser, not to act as guardians for sap heads and children."
"But I'll get it at the office to-morrow," he slowly replied.
"Perhaps, but it is doubtful. As you can't remember the number of the car they will laugh at the idea, and perhaps take you for an impostor."
He glared at me like a caged animal, and made no reply, and I confess that I almost hoped he would never recover the coat. He did, however, after a couple of days, and as he brought it home he looked at me with great importance and said:
"There is the difference, Mrs. Bowser. Had you lost anything on the car it would have been lost forever. The street car people were even sending out messengers to find me and restore my property."
One day a laboring man called at the side door and asked for the loan of a spade for a few minutes, saying that he was at work near by; and he was so respectful that I hastened to accommodate him. Two days later Mr. Bowser, who was working in the back yard, wanted the spade, and I had to tell him that I lent it. As it was not to be found the natural inference was that the borrower had not returned it.
"This is a pretty state of affairs!" exclaimed Mr. Bowser when he had given up the search. "The longer some folks live the less they seem to know."
"But he looked honest."
"What of it? You had no business to lend that spade."
"I was sure he'd return it."
"Well, he didn't, and anybody of sense would have known he wouldn't. If somebody should come here and ask for the piano, I suppose you'd let it go. Mrs. Bowser, you'll never get over your countrified ways if you live to be as old as the hills. It isn't the loss of the spade so much, but it is the fact that the man thinks you are so green."
In the course of an hour I found the spade at the side steps, where the man had left it after using, but when I informed Mr. Bowser of the fact he only growled:
"He brought it back because he probably heard me making a fuss about it and was afraid of arrest."
Two days later, as Mr. Bowser sat on the front steps, a colored man came up and asked to borrow the lawn mower for a few minutes for use on the next corner.
"Certainly, my boy," replied Mr. Bowser; "you'll find it in the back yard."
When he had gone I observed that the man had a suspicious look about him and that I should not dare trust him, and Mr. Bowser turned on me with:
"What do you know about reading character? There never was a more honest man in the world. I'd trust him with every dollar I have."
In about half an hour Mr. Bowser began to get uneasy, and after waiting a few minutes longer he walked down to the corner. No black man. No lawn mower. By inquiry he learned that the borrower had loaded the mower into a handcart and hurried off. It was a clear case of confidence.
"Well?" I queried, as Mr. Bowser came back with his eyes bulging out and his hair on end.
"It's—it's gone!" he gasped.
"I expected it. The longer some folks live the less they seem to know. If somebody should come and want to borrow the furnace or the bay windows you'd let 'em go, I suppose."
"But he—he——"
"But what of it? You had no business to lend that lawn mower, Mr. Bowser. You'll never get over your countrified ways if you live——"
He would listen no further. He rushed out and sailed around the neighborhood for two hours, and next morning got the police at work, and it was three days before he would give up that he had been "hornswagled," as one of the detectives put it. Then, to add to his misery, the officer said:
"We'll keep our eyes open, but there isn't one chance in 500. After this you'd better let your wife have charge of things. That negro couldn't have bamboozed her that way."
—Detroit Free Press.
(With the respectful compliments of Plunder.)
Susie—Why don't you get married, Kittie?
Kittie—Well, I should like to—that's a fact. But, unfortunately, I'm not yet able to support a husband.
H.