Jack
Henderson.
The Long Salesman.
Wichita, Kans., 190—.
Dear Billy:—
Since I wrote you last I have learned a new lesson in tipping. I used to think that tipping was confined to porters, waiters and congressmen, but I have struck a new lead and I begin to think now that the man doesn’t live who is not either giving or taking tips, and the majority of them do both.
While stopping here at the Carrie Hotel I made friends with a traveling salesman for a lumber concern. My first meeting with him came near being my last; the little slim Jim stepped on my foot and I pasted him one in the jaw, then for a few seconds there was nothing doing and then there was. That little duffer jumped to his feet, pulled a thirty-two from his pocket and fired at me. The bullet went wide of the mark and before he could think to fire again, I had taken his gun away and was holding him and his gun apart, one in each hand. That one shot cleared the barroom of all but we two and the bartender, and he was lying full length on the floor behind the bar. The salesman and myself had both been drinking more than was good for us, but the shot had sobered me and I guess it had done as much for him. I gave him back his gun.
“You are a damned poor shot,” said I, “put up the popgun and let’s take a drink.”
We stood up to the bar and I called for the bartender, who managed to get up after a time and set out the red liquor. When the police arrived we were touching glasses and in answer to an inquiry as to where the man was who did the shooting, I answered:
“Couldn’t tell you, old man, we just came in; will you have a drink?”