The Man from
Squashopolis
By Harry L. Newton
[Copyright MCMIII by Will Rossiter]
Ladies and gentlemen, and those that are sitting in the boxes, and you, too, orchestra, you’ll pardon me if I hesitate for a moment, but I’ve just returned from a very long walk. All the way from Squashopolis, b’gosh! I think that was the name of the town where our show closed. We say “Closed,” you see. You know when a saloon-keeper or a bank, or a chop-suey restaurant, or an iceman, gives up business, we say that the owner liquidated, or busted up, or went to the devil, or it was a frost; but a theatrical troupe always “closes.” It sounds better, you know; just as if the manager got tired taking in money and was hiding some place so that no one could throw any twenty-dollar gold-pieces at him.
But Squashopolis is a great town! Ever heard of Squashopolis? No? Why, it’s right between Pumpkinhollow and Spinachville. Squashopolis is the largest town on the map. You see it was this way: The mayor and the fire-department and the postmaster—that is, the fellow that ran the saloon—bought a map of Indiana to find out where they were at, and finding that the man who wrote the map had made a mistake and overlooked the flourishing town of Squashopolis, the mayor and the fire-department, etc., of the aforesaid town betook themselves to the pen and ink and placed Squashopolis upon the map in a manner calculated to give their beloved town its due importance and dignity; and that is how Squashopolis became the largest town on the map. The census of the village—I took it myself—revealed the fact that its population consists of one saloon and three dogs. You see the town has gone to the dogs. I asked the man at the railroad station where I could find the mayor. He said: “Why, the mayor’s left and gone to the Klondike.” “How’d that happen?” He said: “Why, money makes the mayor go.” Well, I’ll sing you a sing.
[Introduce Song]
Well, I see that I’ve come out of that alive; now I’ll hand you some more. Now, in all my adventures on land or sea, and I’ve often been at sea as to where I was going to land (you never can tell in this business), in all my travels the saddest event in my career occurred the other day. I was invited to a swell dinner party—you know, a handful of lettuce and a cup of coffee; they’re something fierce; you all know how they are—maybe.
Well, as soon as I got through my turn I left the theater prepared for a long walk, as it was some distance from—pay-day. I stepped into the alley—you know they always dump us into the alley when they get through with us (they dump everything into the alley—actors, ashes, everything), then you have to sneak your way between the piles. Why, it, was only last night that I fell in a heap.