What's your hurry? A deck full of jokers

"Two dollars to see the forty thieves, eh?" he repeated.

"Yes, sir," said the box-office man.

"Well, keep your durned seat," exclaimed the man from Jersey. "I don't think I care to see the other thirty-nine."

Then there's the elevator boy in our apartment house, who was born and brought up in the city.

He had a little flag pinned on his coat, and I was joking him on his patriotism.

"What have you ever done for your country, Bill?" I asked.

Would you believe it, that urchin had the nerve to look me wickedly in the eye and say:

"Well, I guess I've raised a good many families, sir."

On the train I met a man I used to know.

After we had been chatting about generations a while, I asked:

"How about that wedding out in your town that I saw mentioned in the papers – did it come off without a hitch?"

"Well, I guess so."

"Everybody pleased, of course, as usual?"

"Everybody nothing, everybody as mad as hornets, you mean. The groom didn't show up, the bride got screeching hysterics, and the father's been prowling round with a shotgun ever since," said my friend.

"But see here – you said it went off well?" I broke in.

"No, I didn't. You asked if it went without a hitch and I assented, for how could there be a hitch without the bridegroom."

But, say, I must tell you about being in court the other day.

The smart lawyer had the witness in hand, and it appeared to be his plan of campaign to impeach the man's testimony, by showing what a bad citizen he was.

"Now," said he, very deliberately, "will you have the goodness in conclusion, Mr. Gallagher, to answer me a few questions; and be pleased to remember, sir, that you are on your oath, and have sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

"Certainly, sor," replied the witness, whom I thought an honest-looking fellow, though hardly smart enough to hold his own against a lawyer's search-light methods.

"Now, Mr. Gallagher, we have reason to believe that at the present time there is a female living with you who is known in the neighborhood as Mrs. Gallagher. Kindly tell the jury if what I say is true?"

"It is, sor."

"Ah! yes, and Mr. Gallagher, is she under your protection?"

"Sure."

"Now, on your oath, do you maintain her?"

"I do."

"And have you ever been married to her?"

"I have not."

The lawyer smiled just here, with the proud consciousness of having rendered that man's testimony not worthy of being taken into consideration.

"That is all, Mr. Gallagher, you may step down," he said.

"One moment, please," remarked the opposing counsel; "with the permission of the court I would like to ask a question."

"Granted," said the judge.

"Mr. Gallagher, remembering that you are on oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, be pleased to state the relation which this objectionable female bears to you."

"She's me grandmother, sure," said Gallagher.

In Central Park I saw a policeman wheeling a baby carriage, with the little cherub sound asleep inside.

Possibly the nurse had eloped with another copper, and this chap was taking the abandoned infant to the station that it might be claimed.

"Why are you arresting a little child like that?" I asked the officer.

"Kidnaping," he said, with a grin, pointing to the slumbering baby.

Don't look round but let me whisper. There's an ancient couple at the back of the hall enjoying a basket-lunch. That's what I call combining pleasure with lunch. Now at the place where I dine we do things differently. There we combine business with lunch. The legend over the portals of the restaurant reads:

"Business Luncheons."

I suppose they make that candid announcement because it's anything but a pleasure to make way with what they serve there.

The other day when I dined there the waiter came round and asked:

"What are you going to have?"

"I guess a beefsteak – but see here, waiter, not a small one. I'm that nervous to-day every little thing upsets me."

"Pardon me for asking, sir," said the waiter, between the courses, "but what's made your eye black and blue? Perhaps you've been having a little affair with the gloves."

"Yes," I replied, carelessly; "I've been going through an operation at the hands of a knockulist, that's all."

Then I turned my attention to the roast chicken, which reminded me of another affair.

You shall hear it.

Teddy O'Toole, who gave me so much amusement last summer while I was sojourning in a mountain town, has been at it again, I hear.

He is a sad case.

What do you think, his last trick was but to play good old Father Ryan for a dinner.

Let me tell you the ingenious way the graceless scamp went about it.

First of all, being hard set by hunger, what does he do but steal a fat young fowl from the priest's henyard.

Having wrung its neck he presented himself before the reverend father, looking sadly repentant.

"What now, Teddy?" asked the old man, who was growing weary of wrestling with the devil as personified in the vagrant.

O'Toole, with his head hanging low, confessed that in an evil moment he had stolen a fowl, and then, stung by the lashing of his conscience, had come to confess his wrong.

The father, of course, began to lecture him.

Then Teddy, as if desirous of doing penance, offered the fowl to his reverence, which shocked Father Ryan more, and he added to his words of reproach.

"But faith, phat shall I do with the burrd at all?" asked Teddy.

"First, return it to the owner."

"Indade and I've done the same, and be me sowl he's actually refused to resave the purty creature."

"That is strange, and complicates matters. Stay, there is one other chance left. Find some poor widow who is in need, and present her with the wretched bird."

"And thin will ye confess me?" demanded Teddy.

"Of a surety, since the good deed will have balanced the evil one," returned the priest.

So away posted that miserable sinner to the house of the Widow McCree, and she only too gladly cooked the bird, since she had the fire handy.

Thus pooling their resources they fared merrily.

And I am told on good authority that Teddy, determined to do the thing up as it should be, presented himself before the priest on the same evening, related how he had given the fowl to a poor widow in need, and received absolution as meekly as though he might be but an erring saint instead of a scheming sinner.

His pranks always amuse me.

Though on more than one occasion I've found the laugh didn't seem to come quite so spontaneously, when the joke was on me.

This happened on a recent occasion.

I thought I had enough common sense about me not to be caught by such a picayune piece of tom-foolery, but no doubt at the time my mind was wrestling with some of the weighty questions that daily beset a professional man.

At any rate I fell an easy victim.

And I feel foolish every time I think of the affair.

There were seven gay boys in Snyders when I entered, and having seen me coming, through the glass door, they seemed to be engaged in serious discussion.

"Here he is now – he can settle the argument himself," said Tom Radcliffe.

"What's it all about?" I asked, innocently.

"Why, Craigie here said you understand German, and I told him he was badly mistaken, and that I didn't believe you could translate five words of it."

"Oh! well, I don't pretend to be a scholar, but I've rubbed against some Teutons in my day, and may say without egotism that I've conversed in German," I replied, for it rather galled me to have Radcliffe say that.

"Bosh!" exclaimed my detractor, "I've an idea the simplest sentence would stump you. Say, what does 'Was wollen Sie haben' mean, anyhow?"

"Why, what will you have?"

"Scotch for me," said Radcliffe, and the others said that would suit them to a fine point.

But I don't believe they would have caught me so easily if cares of state had not occupied my mind – you see I was sitting on a new scientific joke, and waiting for it to hatch.

Talking of science, I've found that it pays a man to keep right up with the times.

By observing small things he is able to increase his reputation among those who read less.

Let me prove this to you.

When that eclipse of the sun came I was down among the mountains of North Carolina.

The district was a wild one, and they made considerable moonshine whiskey round there, too; but as I received no salary from the government for looking after these mountain-dew men, I shut my eyes to their little game.

You see I hadn't forgotten all the trouble they gave my friend Bill Nye when he retired to these North Carolina wilds to make up his funny books.

It occured to me that I might have some fun with the ignorant darkies over the eclipse.

So, meeting old Uncle Lisha the day before, I told him how his chickens would all go to roost before noon on the following day.

Of course the old fellow was incredulous, and just as I supposed, circulated my prophecy round.

Well, now, I'm telling you there were some pretty badly scared darkies in that section when it began to get dark about eleven o'clock.

And the fowls perched high all right.

I never passed a cabin after that, but every inmate ran to the door and gaped after me in dumb admiration.

It was a great temptation to pose as a wizard, but I was wise enough to forbear.

Something sudden sometimes happens to wizards and other objectionable people down in that country.

Why, I remember one day seeing a poor woman sitting outside her door, and crying while she dipped snuff.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"They's took my old man an' rided him on a rail," she said.

"That's bad."

"An' then they done tarred and feathered him."

She wept copiously at the memory.

My tender heart beat in sympathy with her.

"My good woman, I'm really sorry for you. It must have been terrible hard," I said.

"It were," she cried. "They done took my best feather bed."

But to return to the eclipse.

A few days later I ran across Uncle Lisha again, and he took his hat off very humbly.

"Well, did it all happen as I said, uncle?"

"'Deed an' it did, sah, jest to de letter. 'Scuse me, but did I understan' you to say, sah, dat you knowed all about dat ting for a long time back dat it would happen?"

"Why, yes, quite a while, uncle," I replied.

"Mout it a ben as much as a yeah, sah?"

"Oh, two of them I'm certain," I replied, carelessly.

"Dat am shore a powerful queer ting," said the old man, scratching his head in perplexity as I rode on, "case, you see, sah, dem chickens waunt eben hatched den, and yet you knowed it all. Powerful strange."

I might have talked all week and that old fellow would never have understood.

I like to go househunting with my wife.

Of course we keep on living in the same place, but then she has a periodical desire to better our condition.

The last time we were out a relative of hers who has always lived in Jersey, mistress of her own lawn and with plenty of room to swing a cat in her house, accompanied us.

It was very funny.

That dear little woman gave the heartache to many a lordly janitor before we wound up the day.

Her remarks were so refreshing.

Now, at the very first place we examined I heard her give utterance to a genuinely feminine squeal of delight.

"Why, isn't this just too cute for anything – the dearest little linen closet I ever saw. Now, this is what I call sensible," she said, enthusiastically.

"Excuse me," said the agent, coldly, "but that is not a linen closet, lady; that's the dining-room."

After that I watched Mrs. Suburb eagerly, for somehow I conceived the idea that she was in for a good time.

At another place there were limited accommodations, and when my wife talked of putting Aleck to sleep in the parlor on a wire couch, I entered my solemn protest.

"The boycott is a relic of barbarism," I declared; and that settled our chances of taking that flat.

Talking about flats and moving, puts me in mind of the long ago, when I was a merry, light-hearted bachelor, not caring a rap what the day brought forth.

Little I bothered myself about the price of spring bonnets or how the crops promised.

Each day was sufficient unto itself, and brought its joys and difficulties, but the tatler never weighed heavily.

I've raised a family since, and my credit is still good.

Thank you, I appreciate your encouragement, but one experience will probably be quite sufficient for me.

Now, during these halcyon days of yore, I remember there was one dear old lady who seemed to take the greatest interest in my welfare.

I often met her in the street, and she would even stop to chat with me at times.

One day I was looking in at a shop window.

I had a cigar box under my arm.

Just then, as luck would have it, the old lady came up and greeted me.

She gave me a reproachful look.

"I'm afraid you are smoking too much for your health. I never see you now, without a cigar box under your arm," she said, in her motherly way.

"Oh, it isn't that, I assure you," I hastened to declare, "but the fact is, I'm moving again."

And speaking of those days, puts me in mind of a little thing that happened to me about that time.

I was working as a reporter then, and the managing editor complained that my material was quite too far stretched.

That is, he said I cost them too much money in telegraphic tools, and desired me to condense the details.

They could do all the romancing at the office, for we had men especially employed for that purpose, who, given a few facts for a foundation, could build up the most astonishing account imaginable.

Indeed, I've known them to describe things better than the fellow who was on the spot could have done.

That's genius, you understand.

Well, I laid low and awaited my opportunity to boil the next account down in a manner certain to please this grand mogul.

The opportunity came.

There was some sort of explosion on a big vessel over at Philadelphia, and as our regular correspondent there chanced to be ill, I was packed off to get special news.

"Be as quick as you can. Wire us hard, boiled-down facts as soon as you get hold of 'em. Leave details to the office. Perhaps you'll be in time for the noon edition."

That's what the managing editor said.

I spared no expense in hurrying to the spot, and before eleven-twenty sent this brief telegram:

"Terrific explosion. Man-o'-war. Boiler empty. Engineer full. Funeral to-morrow.

Niblo."

It would be hard to beat that for brevity. I believe in brevity, even when a man is proposing to his best girl.

Now there has always been considerable curiosity manifested by my friends, who know my humorous instincts, to know just how I ever popped the question.

They declare, the chances are, I must have done it in a joke.

Of course this doesn't refer to any lack of estimable qualities in my wife, but simply that a fellow of my character could not possibly do anything seriously.

I have determined to relate the facts in the case, and they can judge for themselves.

You see, we had been down to the seashore together, and, for the life of me, I couldn't muster up courage enough to ask her the all-important question.

She gave me an opening at last, though perhaps no one but a born humorist could have seen it.

Out on the rocks stood a gay old lighthouse, which seemed to possess unusual interest in the eyes of the young woman.

"It must be a lovely thing to live in such a weird place. Sometime, before I die, I hope I may keep a light house. I believe it would be lovely, don't you?" she said.

Now, to tell the truth, the idea never occured to me before, but when she spoke of it I saw my chance.

"My dear girl," I said, "if I had only known that you cared for light house-keeping, I would have spoken before this. Let us discuss the matter; what's the use waiting until long in the future, when the opportunity presents itself now."

And the result was, we pooled our issues, hired a couple of rooms, bribed a minister to say a few words, and kept house in a light way.

Since that time we've had our ups and downs.

But I've never felt toward my better half as that old bear Podgers must, with regard to the partner of his joys and woes.

He rode down with me in the elevator yesterday.

We had been having a little domestic trouble, and the lady in the kitchen had wafted herself away.

This sometimes makes a man sad, especially if his wife is seized with some of her old-time enthusiasm and joyously declares she will look up those recipe books, arranged at the time she went to cooking school.

I knew I was in for another dose of dyspepsia and had on my part been trying to remember the dozens of patent medicines to which I had given a trial on the last occasion, and which of them had been least injurious.

Of course, man-like, I poured my woes into the ear of Podgers, hoping for sympathy.

"Do you have any trouble keeping a cook?" I asked.

He laughed in a cold-blooded way.

"Not in the least – not such good luck, my boy. You see our cook has a lien on the place. She's my wife," he said.

Well, I wouldn't have said that, no matter what I thought.

But then Podgers always has been considerably henpecked at home, even if an arrogant chap downtown.

Sometimes he makes me think of the meek little fellow I saw recently in court.

He was a witness.

"Well," remarked the judge, "have you anything to say?"

Then the witness looked fearfully about him, like one long accustomed to knowing his place.

"That depends," said he, "upon circumstance. Is – er – my wife in the room, judge?"

While I am speaking of marrying let me tell you about a fellow I once knew.

His name was Steiner, and he set himself up in business as an international marriage broker.

You see, these matches between broken-down foreign noblemen and wealthy young American girls gave him an idea that he might make a nice dot.

In due time he was employed by a German count to secure an heiress for him.

The arrangement was that Steiner was to receive ten per cent. of the young lady's estate for arranging the match.

This looked like a snap, always providing Steiner should succeed in finding the heiress, and bring about an understanding.

Well, he found the girl with the ducats all right, but his price went up like bounds, until, not content with ten per cent. of the estate when a marriage was brought about, he asked for the whole shooting match.

Yes, and he got it, too.

How was that – why, just as easy as two and two make four. Steiner married the heiress himself.

Funny how one thing arouses a train of thought.

My wife brought home a curious Dutch stein after one of her shopping excursions, and I never looked at that affair without thinking of a certain graveyard out in Western New York.

Let me tell you how that happens.

While visiting a friend, he took me to see the sights of the place, and quite naturally we strolled through the churchyard.

There were lots of old-timers buried there, and some of the inscriptions quite interested me.

Presently we came to a new tombstone.

I noticed that above the inscription there had been cut a single hand, with the index finger pointing upward.

It seemed appropriate enough to me, and I was astonished when my friend, after bending down to read, actually laughed.

"Well, I declare," he said, presently, "if that isn't just like old Stein. He never did order more than one beer at a time!"

To the very last he was attached to his bier.

I remember it was in this same cemetery I ran across a funny old darky who seemed to be examining several traps which he had set.

Of course, my curiosity being aroused, I began to fire a few questions at him.

If you ever want to find anything out, the best way is to ask the why and wherefore.

What do you think he was after?

Rabbits, of course.

Then I remembered that down South it was all the fashion for darkies to get the foot of a graveyard rabbit, and carry it around with them; they look on it as a sure thing to keep bad luck away.

I thought I might convince the old fellow of the absurdity of such mummery.

"See here, uncle, I'm afraid you're a bit superstitious," I remarked.

"'Deed I isn'," said he, shaking his white head. "Some folks is a skyaht of ghosses an' all kin's of critters; but as long as I have a rabbit's paw in mah pocket I feels puffickly safe."

After that I couldn't say a word.

In fact, I felt as though speech were denied me, as it is some unfortunate fellows.

If you ever ran across a man with a genuine impediment in his speech, well, you know how painful it seems to watch him nearly strangle in the endeavor to make himself understood.

Advice is wasted on such a man.

I remember trying it once, only to get the cold laugh.

Here's the story in verse.

Listen!

"Oh, be not hasty, friend?" I cried,"Think twice o'er all you utter.""I'm bound to do so," he replied,"I stut-tut-tut-tut-tutter."

And I never hear any one carrying on in that way, but what I think of an old Irishman, a farmer who dropped into the office of a country weekly, run by a friend of mine.

"Sit down, Mr. Dooley," said my friend, the editor.

Mr. Dooley took a chair.

"By the way, Mr. Dooley," said my friend, "you have sent me a load of hay in payment for the five years' subscription you owed me for my paper."

"Oi d-d-d-did," declared Mr. Dooley, nodding pleasantly.

"Well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Dooley, my horse can't eat that hay."

Mr. Dooley screwed up his face, and puffed out his cheeks until I thought he would have a fit.

"T-t-t-to tell ye the t-t-truth, mister, no more c-c-can m-m-me g-g-go-go-goat e-e-eat your p-p-p-p-p-paper."

I don't know which was hotter, Mr. Dooley or the editor, when they finished their argument.

You realize there are various methods of warming a man up – for instance, at my hotel one evening a bell-boy came to the desk, after answering a call, and said:

"That fellow up in 999 says he's freezing."

"All right," said the clerk, cheerfully, "we'll soon have him hot enough. Here, take him up his bill."

I've got a great friend, Henry Badger by name, that I must tell you about.

I hardly know whether to admire the monumental nerve of Henry Badger, or class him as a near relative of the jackass tribe.

You may not know it, but his neighbors have long been aware of the fact that his good spouse ruled the roost with an iron rod, and Henry's former buoyant spirit has all but withered in his breast.

Why, he used to strut the streets with all the pompous airs of an alderman, while now he shuffles along as though he owed ten tailors on the block.

It is awful, the change made in that man.

Once in a while I understand there is a faint glow among the embers, and a trace of his old-time spirit flashes up, though it is gone almost as quickly.

That must have been the case the evening I was there.

Henry had been reading the evening paper, where many black headlines announced the exciting events of the day.

"One wife too many," I heard her say, sarcastically; "that must of course refer to the doings of another rascally bigamist."

"Not necessarily, my dear," returned Henry, without daring to take his eyes off the paper.

I held my very breath with awe.

But Mrs. Badger, after shooting him one quick look, probably decided that it was a blank cartridge.

Badger, when her back was turned, actually gave me a wicked wink behind his paper.

On the whole, I guess there's a little of the old spunk left, but it will never set the river afire.

Badger told me once, he and his wife ran away and got married by a justice of the peace.

If you never witnessed a civil marriage by an alderman, a mayor, or some such officer authorized to deal out bliss in double harness, well, you don't know what you've missed, that's all.

The first time a magistrate has to officiate upon such a happy occasion, one can hardly blame him for being kind of nervous.