Arthur Neale’s Page
Boarding our Interborough subway car at Columbus Circle the other day en route for our office—or, to be more exact, the office in which we have desk room—we espied one of the loveliest young feminine creatures it had ever yet been our good fortune to gaze on. She would have inspired artists to undreamed of masterpieces—she would have thrilled even a sign-painter. Bathed in her beauty we rode on, oblivious of all else—even our getting off stop. How we wished that we knew her! At Times Square she arose to alight. Poor girl—she was lame.
Still reflecting on this, we reached the office and started to put the final—not finishing—touches to the musical composition we were then at work on, a snappy little one-step entitled “When My Baby Smiles at Me, I Wish She’d See a Dentist.” We had no sooner put pen to paper when one of these wandering salesmen entered the office and planked down his bag of wares on the desk. “Would you be interested in anything in ladies’ silk stockings?” he said. “We used to be,” we replied. “But now we know it’s best to be careful.”
During that day we had to make a trip further downtown, and so used the subway again. Seated opposite to us was a very nice girl with her mother, and her legs were crossed—that is, the girl’s legs were. As Gus may remember, or rather, as Gus will never forget, there is a subway breeze wafting through these cars, and it was wafting just then. The mother noticed it, and although she spoke sotto voice—whatever that is—we heard her say to the girl: “Put your leg down, Rosie, der vind ist blowin’ der dress up.” “That’s all right, ma,” said the girl, “I ain’t deformed.” And seated directly opposite, we knew that the lady was quite correct.
While waiting with a friend the other evening for a Times Square traffic jam to disentangle itself, the friend drew our attention to a taxicab stalled at the curb just where we were standing. Or, to be precise, he drew our attention to the contents of the cab. She was a queen if there ever was one. Said our friend: “Shouldn’t mind being in there with that one.” “We should,” we replied. “Already the clock says $9.60.”
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All Was Not Well
“Don’t yo’ all know it’s wrong to shoot craps?” piped the preacher as he discovered a portion of his congregation pursuing the Goddess of Chance.
“Yas, suh,” admitted one parishioner, languidly, “an’ bulieve me, Ah’s payin’ fo’ mah sins.”
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