Public-domain ebook
by Various
Language: en344 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Poetry·Humour·American Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #56864.
The opening · free to read
Along about the first of September last year, my cellar supply gave out and on the second day I had a look of languor like a homesick bum. Then it was that I met my old “Turk” friend, Casey, who immediately shanghaied me while he was cockeyed on a mixture of fusel oil, barbed wire, turpentine, tuba, rotgut, red-eye, wood alcohol, ether and dynamite. In fact, his mixture would make the Dove of Peace challenge the American Eagle to mortal combat.
Casey is a vagrant minstrel of human interest and I was only too glad to accept of an invitation to join him at his country home in Golden Valley. But here it is necessary to explain that Golden Valley is different than most communities in these good old dry United States. In Golden Valley it doesn’t appear to be necessary to distill the corn. Nearly every shock contains its gallon jug hidden away in the darkened recesses. The farmers merely leave the empty receptacle and come back later to find it has been mysteriously filled.
Well, friends and fellow-countrymen, Casey and I surely worked hard that night in the corn fields and about the last thing I can remember was Casey mumbling a story about a colored family in St. Paul named Henderson—man, wife and two grown daughters, who had been suspected of bootlegging for some time.
“There is also a coon in St. Paul named Johnson,” Casey explained, “who got very drunk and was placed under arrest.”
To the police judge’s inquiry as to how and where he obtained the liquor, the negro replied:
“I found it in a corn-field, your honor.”
“Did you ever get anything from Henderson?” asked the magistrate.
“No, sah. Nevah got nothin’ from him.”
“From Mrs. Henderson?”
“No, sah, not from Mrs. Henderson.”
“Nor from Miss Henderson?”
“Jes’ a minute, jedge—is you’ all still talkin’ ’bout booze?”
New Year’s morning, bright and early, Gus, the hired man, wanted to start off right, so he whispered to my 8-year-old son to go and find something with whiskey in it. The lad, in boyish innocence, replied: “Just a minute, Gus, an’ I’ll go and wake up father.”
I remember the only time I ever was in New York. I was still a commissioned officer in the army and had registered at a Broadway hotel as “Captain Gunn.” I immediately got loaded; dreamed I was discharged and awakened to find myself shot to the devil. My brother Harvey, who was a buck private in the tank corps at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, met me at the Marlborough hotel while he was A. W. O. Ling in New York. Evidently on account of the lack of tanks in the tank corps, Harvey decided to bring one back to Gettysburg. And, believe me, boys, it was a mogul tank he had when last I saw him. Of course, he’ll say the same about me—in fact, he accused me of being so rash as to pat a colonel on the back in the Pennsylvania depot with the salutation of “Hello, old trapper, this is a heluva war.” But I really don’t believe I did anything of the kind. At least I can’t remember having done so.
On the return to Camp Lee, I carried along a goodly supply of medicine. Somehow or other, I managed to land in an upper berth and when I awoke in Richmond next morning, my faithful satchel and contents were safely in bed beside me. I cannot recall having ever awakened with a more pleasant companion than that old grip. I carefully peeked through the curtains to see if the coast was clear before partaking of a morning’s nip.
I shall always have a good word for New York. After all, our likes or dislikes for a city depend entirely on how we enjoy ourselves and the friends we are fortunate enough to meet. I was treated with a reckless abandon and true western spirit of congeniality. At first, their language was difficult to fathom, but later I became used to the lack of the letter “R.” If it ever happens that Ford cars go up in price so I can sell my 1915 model, I’ll surely sneak away from friend wife for a week or two of bright lights and green witches.
Hello, Tom! Glad to see you. What was that crowd I saw as I came aboard ship? Looked to me like an accident. Suicide! Young Parmerly killed himself, and for a woman!
“A Fool there was, and he made his prayer, Even as you and I, To a rag, and a bone, and a hank of hair; We called her the Woman who did not care, But the Fool, he called her his Lady Fair— Even as you and I.”
Good God. Here I am back in New York, alone, alone; wife and child and friends, all gone; disgraced, dishonored, and for that woman!
“A Fool there was, and his goods he spent, Even as you and I, Honor, Faith, and a sure Intent; But it wasn’t the least what the Lady meant, And a Fool must follow his natural bent— Even as you and I.”
Age comes, the body withers, the brain grows dull, the blood becomes thin, the soul grows weary; and the power to live, as once we lived, is taken from us. We sit, white-haired, blue veined, drinking in the sun, through shriveled pores, to drive the chill from our shrunken frame. It will come to you, to me, to all of us, and neither man nor God may stop it.
You, Tom, you here? Before you begin, let me tell you that it is useless; nothing that you can say to me will change me in the slightest; I’ve made up my mind and my decision is unalterable. Gone, gone! Tell me what you think, Tom; tell me what every one thinks; put into words the scorn and contempt I see in every eye that looks into mine and every mirror that I look into. Gone, gone! Tell me something of your own; tell me the things that lie here and burn in my brain, and burn and burn, tell me something! Alas, not that; I know that by heart! Don’t, Tom, don’t try to save me! What is there left to save—nothing but memories, nightmares!
I drink to you, gentlemen; I drink to you, Parmerly; I drink to you, Rogers, and to you, Van Dalm; I drink to you, even as you drink to me! Bumpers, gentlemen, bumpers! Bumpers? Good God, what has come over me? I thought from the beginning it was too late—the loss of honor, and dignity, and manhood, and self-respect were all new to me, Tom, and I couldn’t understand. I cursed myself and swore to God that I would not become the thing I am. Look at me, The Honorable John Schuyler!
I prayed to God, Tom, but he didn’t help me. He didn’t, he didn’t; and I couldn’t help myself. I tried, oh, I tried and tried, but it was no use; there was something, I don’t know what it was! It was her eyes, Tom, it was her eyes, and I couldn’t help myself. I tried to kill myself as Parmerly did, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t, and the only forgetfulness lay in drink.
Drink that sapped my strength and raised my veins, and shriveled up my brain. Don’t hate me, Tom!
Pity me, for the love of God, pity me, pity me!
“The Fool was stripped to his foolish hide, Even as you and I, Which she might have seen, as she threw him aside; But it wasn’t on record the Lady tried, So some of him lived—but the most of him died— Even as you and I.”
In a crowded omnibus a stout woman vainly endeavored to get her fare out of the pocket of her cloak, which was tightly buttoned as a precaution against pickpockets.
After she had been working in vain for some minutes, a gentleman seated on her right said: “Please allow me to pay your fare.”
The lady declined and recommenced her attacks on the pocket.
After these had continued for some little time her fellow-passenger said: “You really must let me pay your fare. You have already undone my suspenders three times and I cannot stand it any longer.”
Imagine the scene: A big, comfortable chair, a beautiful girl snuggled down in it, her head leaned back so that she is looking up into the face of the man who is bending so attentively over her.
Now he reaches his arm around her. Her head is pressed against his heart. Speech at this time would be impossible.
Listen. We hear her struggled whisper: “Oh, dear, you hurt.” In a low, earnest voice he says: “Well, I simply cannot help hurting you a little bit. You don’t mind that, do you?”
Again we hear only silence. They seem perfectly contented.
It is not long, however, that they remain in this position. He does not seem content with what he sees in her face.
Her eyes are a violet gray. He bends farther over so that he can see into—well—see into her mouth.
Because, of course, it is the dentist repairing her teeth.
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