“Ever since I was thirteen, and I’m past sixty now.”
Mark shook his head and started to walk away, when he saw a copy of the paper nailed up on the outside. “I knew you were mistaken,” he said to the woman. “There is the paper I want. See the title: ‘Tay Pay,’ as large as life.”
“Pardon me,” said the newswoman. “We call it Tee Pee’s Weekly here.”
“You do, do you?” cried Mark. “Damned if I ever again try to talk Irish in Ireland.”
THE MAN WHO DIDN’T GET USED TO HANGING
At the Eccentric Club somebody said: “Man gets used to everything except hanging,” when Mark interrupted him: “Hold,” he drawled. “When I was last in London” (this was in 1907) “one of the ‘Savages’ related a yarn to me which flatly contradicts your commonplace idea.
“The incident happened in the good old hanging days, when all London, Glasgow, Brighton, or Edinburgh, etc., turned out before breakfast to see some poor devil dance on air. Henry VIII had two hundred thousand ‘sturdy beggars’ put to death, besides his several wives; I don’t remember now the London average per week or day, but while hanging continued a public amusement it had long ceased being a ‘first-page story’ as far as the metropolitan dailies were concerned.
“Indeed, the papers disdained to send their ‘own correspondents’ or reporters to such small-fry events as the taking of a man’s or, perchance, a woman’s life in public, and entrusted that part of the daily grind to a ‘flimsy man,’ who sent duplicate copies to all the papers, morning and evening. The ‘flimsy man,’ of course, got so used to the dope and to the eternal sameness of the thing, he could dictate a first-rate hanging yarn without leaving his office, or using the phone—beg pardon, there were no phones in those days.
“Well, one Monday morning, at sunrise, a certain ‘Knight of the Road’ was to die by a tight cravat in a town less than fifty miles from London, and the ‘flimsy man’ thought it would hardly pay to go up (or down) and impersonate the eyewitness. Besides, he knew the governor of the jail personally; his Lordship was an obliging man and would gladly assist at a fake.
“So Mr. Flimsy wrote out his story and held it ‘for release.’