“Well, I might as well explain now; it’s too good to keep a moment longer,” chuckled “Solitaire” Bill, as he ordered the driver of the taxi waiting in front of the church to drive to the Liverpool House.
“We are assuredly anxious to learn what you and Mr. Smith are laughing about,” chorused Lieut. Douglas MacGillis and his wife in unison. The mate, Mr. Smith, was obviously uncomfortable in what he termed his “moonlight clothes,” nevertheless he laughed immoderately as he indulged in retrospection.
“I’ve always been a fiend for solitaire,” said Captain Billy, “and after getting your cable I was in a quandary, and sought solace in a game with myself. I wanted to get to this wedding more than anything else, but I couldn’t get here without a crew to work the ship, and sailormen were about as plentiful as hen’s teeth in Kingston. But the cards gave me an inspiration. I shipped a crew of niggers who did not know one rope from another on a square-rigged ship—but they all knew how to play cards. I fastened a playing card to each of the principal ropes and sails, and those niggers were like cats aloft.
“When I shouted, ‘Clew up your ace of spades,’ they were after that mizzen-royal in a jiffy. Mr. Smith, the cook, and myself took turns at the wheel. ‘Double reef your deuce of diamonds,’ and they made snug the fores’l to a nicety. All’s well that ends well. I never had a smarter lot of sailors. I know the men all called me ‘Solitaire’ Bill behind my back, but henceforth and hereafter, every fo’c’sle hand and the cook calls me ‘Solitaire,’ or they don’t sign articles on the trimmest brig that sails the Atlantic.”
JUST A PAL
By Elsie D. Knisely
Jim Doyle—sent to Sing Sing last year—is innocent. I done the job he was sent up for. I was broke and out of work and Mary, my wife, had consumption and needed food and warm clothes and medicine. I held up a guy with more than he needed that didn’t come by it any honester than I done when I cracked him over the head and took it out of his belt. Then Jim cooked up a scheme to own he done it and take my medicine as long as Mary lived, so she wouldn’t know and so’s I could be with her and look after her. She died to-day. There’s one hundred and fifty dollars under the mattress along with the proof that I’m the guilty guy. Bury my wife decent and give the rest to Jim to get on his feet after you turn him loose. Get a kind-hearted parson to say a prayer over me and then plant me in Potter’s Field. I’m going the gas route. Jim’s no kin of mine—just a pal. He allowed no one would care a darn if he was in the pen or not. He loved a girl once, but she turned out bad and spoiled Jim’s life. Tell him “God bless him.”
P. S.—I’m sorry I killed that guy, but I just had to have money for Mary. Mebbe I can square it with him where I’m going.
WHEN “KULTUR” WAS BEATEN
By Lieutenant X