Well, right on the corner of the alley I noticed a man posting some bills. I said: “See here! Don’t post any bills there.” He says: “Why not?” I said: “Don’t you see that sign: ‘Post no bills under penalty’?” “Well, you big lobster,” said he, “don’t you see I’m posting them over penalty?”
Now that man was in the wrong business. I said to him: “What are you posting those bills for?” He says: “Why, don’t you see? Them are pictures of Richard Mansfield. He said if I’d stick these pictures up for him he’d buy the drinks.” I said: “O, I see; you’re sticking him for the drinks.”
I just reached the sidewalk when I was approached by a tramp; no, not an actor, but a decent, hard-working tramp. Yes, a hard-working tramp; I know he worked me hard enough. He was one of those fellows who has a child and sixteen wives to support. He said: “Friend, can you help a poor old slob who has got money in the bank but don’t know how to make out a check?” You know I’m generous; I’ve never yet refused any beggar who came to me and asked—for a match. With tears in his voice he said: “Say, mister, save me from a watery grave.” “How’s that?” I asked. “Young fellow,” he says, “if you don’t give me a quarter I’ll have to work in a soap factory or jump in the lake.” Well, I couldn’t help parting with a week’s salary, so I gave him a quarter. You know, somehow, he touched me. The man was overjoyed. “Friend,” he says, “you’ve saved my life. I don’t know how to thank you. I feel as though I never could repay you.” He never did.
I was approached by a tramp.
Talk about beggars! That night I met them all. If there was any I missed they were on a vacation. They all seemed to take to me. They all seemed to keep in touch with me, as it were. One man had nerve enough to ask me for 19 cents to buy a shirtwaist. I gave him the 19 and told him not to waste it. Talk about begging! I asked one man what he did for a living and he begged the question. I asked: “Why don’t you go to work?” He says: “I can’t; I’m a cripple.” I says: “That’s a lame excuse.” “Well,” he says, “you see I’m tongue-tied and I can’t do a lick of work.”
Then a young worried woman—I mean married woman—stopped and said: “Excuse me, sir, but I’m in such trouble. My husband gave me sixty cents to go down to the Boston Store and buy some radishes and a new folding-bed, and I forgot myself and thought that I was single and spent the money for a bunch of Allegretti’s; and now I haven’t any money to buy the radishes, and I don’t know how in the world to get home.”
I always did pity a woman in distress so I showed her the way. Then a man came up to me and said—well, before he could say anything I asked him: “Well, what is it? Radishes or a folding-bed?” He says: “I don’t understand you. I wanted information as to where [local street] is.” “O,” I said, “you want information? I thought you wanted a nickel.”
The doctors say that begging is a disease, and I notice everybody has a “touch” of it. Why, I believe there are more beggars in this town than there are prohibitionists in Milwaukee. Why, all the boxers in China are a Sweet Caporal guard along side the soldiers of misfortune I met that night. I made a detour around the courthouse to avoid their left flank, but I was confronted by the enemy’s center, which advanced toward me and occupied a strong position on [local street.]
They were commanded by a blind man with a picture of his finish on a sixteen-inch hand-organ. With this he was doing great execution—to the music. Among the wounded were the “Wild Irish Rose,” “She Is a Sensible Girl,” “My Rainbow Coon,” “Whistling Rufus” and a “Bird in a Gilded Cage.” “The Georgia Camp-Meeting” was also badly broken up.