What's your hurry? A deck full of jokers

A good fairy sent me to the office of a friend, who is a justice, and it happened he was tying his first double knot.

Having been duly coached, he opened the proceedings all right, and fancied he had plain sailing.

The woman had been duly asked whether she would take the aforesaid man to be her husband, and as that was the identical reason why she was there, she hastened to say that she had no objections, and at the same time took a firmer hold on his arm, as though determined not to let him get away from her.

Then the magistrate turned to the groom and pierced him with his eagle eye.

Perhaps he was so accustomed to having appeals made to him in his official capacity, that it came very natural for him to remark:

"Prisoner at the bar, what have you to say in your defense."

At the same time I thought it rather hard on the young man, but he came up to the scratch smiling and proved an alibi.

A magistrate's office is a good place for picking up humor, but it doesn't compare with the den of an installment book agent.

The manager of the office was hauling a candidate for a position over the coals while I waited for an interview, and quite a few amusing tidbits floated over the top of the partition.

"Ever done any canvassing before, Mr. Jones?"

"Well, I worked a year in a Chicago house where they packed hams for the market."

"You are a little hoarse this morning – I hope your voice is reliable, for you'll need it in this business."

"That's all right, the neighbors think I got a good voice – they all advised me to go abroad and study."

"You complained of having the toothache – will that prevent you from carrying on business?"

"Not at all, sir. You see it's a holler tooth."

By the way, this same manager of the Book Agents' Supply Company has a most decided aversion to all department stores.

He declares they are ruining the country.

That there is no longer a chance for a young man to set himself up in business, and so forth.

You've heard the changes rung up on that story.

Possibly there's more or less truth about it; but we've got to face a condition, not a theory.

Well, Babcock carries his hatred so far that he detests the very sight and name of the department stores. His wife has the strictest instructions not to purchase anything whatever at these pernicious paradises, and, therefore, when he returned to his home early one day last week and discovered a parcel of groceries on the hall table which bore the hated imprint of Swindell & Getrich, great and tremendous was his virtuous wrath.

His knife was out in an instant, and in another the various packages were ripped up, and condensed milk, eggs, tea, sugar, and the sultanas were mixed together in a fearsome heap on the linoleum.

"Why, what are you doing, Henry?" said his wife, entering at that moment.

Rip, went another packet of Scraped Nutshells for Scraggy Nonentities, and whizz went its contents.

"I'm teaching you a lesson, madam!" he roared. "Teaching you to obey my instructions not to deal at this store?"

"Why, Henry," said the lady, "they don't belong to us at all. Mrs Jenkins, next door, has gone away for the day, and I promised to take them in for her."

And Babcock had to subdue his spleen, allow his wife to hie away to the hated department store and duplicate the whole Jenkins' order.

He is also a singular man, in that he will not allow himself the pleasure of a good cigar.

Some men would make good Mohammedans, for they always seem trying to deny themselves the good things of life – a sort of crawling to Mecca on their knees.

Why, what do you think, while Babcock and myself were sauntering through Central Park recently, up runs a smart little urchin, and sings out:

"Box o' matches, sir?"

"No," said Babcock, loftily, "don't smoke."

"Well," remarked the boy, sympathetically, "if you'll buy a box, guv'nor, I don't mind teachin' yer."

As we sauntered along we came upon a diminutive girl who was wheeling a perambulator, in which was a very young child.

As the vehicle was being pushed dangerously near the edge of a somewhat steep curb, I was alarmed, and ventured to faintly remind her that the little one was in danger of being thrown out.

The girl looked up in my face, and, in a tone of utter and complete indifference, replied:

"It don't matter, mister; it ain't our kid."

And it was on the same afternoon that I saw an amusing mix-up, as well as had my recollection of a life upon the ocean wave revived.

An old salt, who had apparently learned to navigate a bicycle fairly well, was working his wobbly way along one of the paths in the park, when, before our eyes, he collided with a lady wheeler.

It was awfully funny, I'm telling you, now.

Fortunately, there was no personal damage, and he hastened to murmur his excuses.

"I'm sure as I ought to be scuttled for it, mum," he said, apologetically, "but I couldn't get your signals no more as if we were feeling through a fog bank. I was blowin' for you to pass to port an' steerin' my course accordin'. Just as I was going to dip my pennant an' salute proper, your craft refused to obey her rudder, an' you struck me for'ard. Afore I could reverse, your jib-boom fouled my starboard mizzen riggin', your mainsail (skirt) snarled up with my bobstay, parted your toppin' lift, and carried away my spanker down haul. As I listed to try to jib, I capsized, keel up, an' put you flounderin' in the wreckage. I hope you'll forgive me, mum, and let's start off fresh, on a new tack."

Now, I liked that old tar.

He was a square-rigged man, and ready to accept what the gods sent him.

That's my style.

I've got my faults, but kicking isn't one of 'em, you bet.

You'll always find me at the same old stand, ready to take things as they come – but please be a little careful about the antiquity of the eggs, because, you see, I've got my best clothes on.

Now, if the orchestra will kindly wake up and give us a little music, I'll try and sing a song which I have called "No Kicker Need Apply."

Hold on, professor, you want to be sharp. I expected you'd be flat, so I guess you'd better compromise and only be natural.

Well, then, here goes:

Guess I've been about as lazy as the civil laws allow;Know blame well I've been as lazy as I could be anyhow;Never liked t' do th' milkin', never liked t' heft a hoe,Never liked to plow or harvest, never liked t' reap ner sow.Never was much good at nothin' that my daddy put me at,But I've never been a kicker, an' I'm bloomin' glad o' that.

There isn't any chorus to this song, so glide right along to the second verse, professor. Here you are.

I've been called a triflin' beggar, I've been called a shif'less slouch;I've been called some things that hurt me, but I never hollered "Ouch!"I've left undone a heap o' things I started out to do,An' I've had my share of headache – yes, I've had my share, f'r true;But my upper lip's kep' stiffer'n any board ye ever see,Fer I've never been a kicker, an' I'm never goin' t' be.I've seen days when clouds was hangin' over ev'rything in sight;I've seen times I wished t' goodness, morning wouldn't foller night;I've felt kicked an' snubbed an' slighted – though folks didn't mean it so,An' I've had to blink an' swaller for t' make my smiler go;But I made it work, by ginger, and I'm thankful for it still —Fer I've never been a beefer, an' you bet I never will.I've been watchin' folks that hollered till they's purple in th' face,Claimin' that their nat'ral enemies was all th' human race.Kep' on noticin', and purty soon their guess was blame near right,For they al'ays was commingled in some sort o' gen'ral fight.Thankful I don't see things that way, though I'm not no haloed saint;But I've never been a kicker, an' I'm mighty glad I ain't.

Thank you ladies and gentlemen.

I knew the noble sentiments expressed in those verses would take your hearts by storm.

And please forbear showing your appreciation by the customary liberal supply of ancient hen fruit, tomatoes, and cabbage flowers.

I want you to understand that this is no donation party.

You doubtless saw that I was a little horse – in other words, that I have something of a colt this evening.

Now, I'm pretty good at making excuses myself, but I give the cake to Reddy Moriarty.

You see, he's a fellow working on the subway, under an old friend of mine, a Maj. Dickerson.

Just while I was interviewing the contractor the other morning, who should come along but Moriarty.

The foreman was mad clean through, and I thought only Reddy's ready Irish could save him from a hauling over the coals.

It did the same, by the powers.

"Nine o'clock!" snarled the foreman, "what d'yer mean by coming at this time of day? It's a wonder a man of your independence troubles himself about coming at all. Now, then, what's your excuse?"

Moriarty considered a moment, and at last the excuse came.

"Sure, sor," he said, "I dramed last night I was at a baseball match, betwane the giants and the Champions, that ended in a tie. So the umpire ordered extra innings to be played, and, begorra, sor, I only stopped to see the finish!"

Moriarty was once a pilot.

"Faith," says he to me, "time was when I piloted all kinds of ships into harbor, but I've redooced it all down to a system, and the only sort I take over the bar now is schooners sor."

But I musn't forget to tell you about my friend, old Dr. Raggles.

I always refer to him as "that old war horse." You'd know why, if you cast your eye over that last bill he sent me. As a charger he'd be hard to beat.

The doctor took a day off recently and ran up to a country town to see a family horse that was for sale.

He tried the beast, fancied him, paid a stiff price for the outfit, and rode off happy.

Three hours later he came back mad.

"Look here, sir!" he yelled, "this darned old horse won't do for me. He shies. I can't get him to cross the bridge."

"That's why I sold him," said the dealer. "Didn't I advertise my reasons for selling him?"

"Yes; 'to be sold,' you stated, 'for no other reason than that the owner wanted to get out of town.'"

"Well," says the dealer, "if you can get out of town with him, it will be more than I can do!"

Say, I went on the road with a post office inspector last year.

First post office we struck, a big, strong Irish woman was behind the counter.

"Ahem!" said the inspector. "I thought a man was in charge here!"

"Begorra, ye're roight, he was," said the lady; "but Oi married him, an' Oi'm in charge now. Pfwat is it yez want?"

She was a Tartar, I tell you.

I wonder what Mr. Man was doing. Maybe he had the cradle to rock.

I was in jail last month. Oh, only as a visitor, of course. I needn't explain that. Went the rounds of the cells with the governor of the State.

Well, we struck one man who was the homeliest specimen of humanity I've ever seen.

"What are you here for?" says the governor.

"For runnin' away with a woman, yer honor!" says the man.

"Bless my soul!" says the governor, "is that so? I must send you a pardon. I don't see how a man so homely as you could ever get a wife unless he ran away with one."

A cage or two farther on was occupied by a big, husky chap.

"What are you here for?" says the governor.

"I'm here for my health, governor," says the man.

"How's that?" asks the governor.

"Well, you see, I had six wives, governor."

Well, no pardon dropped in on that chap.

He had seized just six times his share.

A few more like him and the women wouldn't go around.

Jiminy Christmas! There's the gong of my auto. My chaffeur's getting impatient. Yes, my time is up. I got ten dollars advanced on it yesterday.

Good-night!