Part 2

The Casino orchestra was squeaking, the couples reeking; airs were lively like those of the girls. One temptress asked me to give her a good time—and my watch; another charmer wanted my gold charm; but discretion was the better part of virtue and valor. To escape with money and morals, we slid down hill after throwing them a few shillings to buy religious tracts to make tracks in a different direction. In town a crowd stood watching two women fighting and shaking their fists and naked breasts at each other till the sweet milk of kindness turned to sour hate.

I went to a local banker to change some money. He was not in his office or home, but his charming daughter was. We exchanged Christmas courtesies and coin. She said she disliked our high American exchange, the color line in United States, and praised the fact that blacks and whites in St. Lucia ate, slept and grew up together. I was sorely tried, for a long time resisted temptation, but eventually succumbed to the enticements of this Eve’s daughter. She made me drink a glass she had filled with old French rum, syrup, lime-juice and other good things. I can’t remember, except that it was eloquent of the time, place and occasion. O tempora, O mores! How blessings brighten as they take their flight. I write with a glass of water nearby, in spite of the Horatian dictum that songs are not able to live long or please that are written in draughts of water. But I am writing prose, not poetry.

The guide-book asserts that “modest sleeping accommodations can be found in this island.” If so, it is one of the few places in the West Indies where, by day and night, the traveler is offered sleeping accommodations far removed from sleep or modesty. Cricket is popular in Castries, but not the bed-bug and cockroach.

If one is socially inclined there is many a black beauty whose back steps “take hold on hell.” One is accosted noon and night. Boat traffic in the West Indies is not always legitimately commercial. At different isles girls come aboard to sell beads, fruit and themselves. A ship is often delayed in getting these moral derelicts and strumpet stowaways put off. Do not be surprised if at various ports, men board the ship and invite Americans going ashore for the night to come and stay with their sisters—a hospitality quite Mexican and Latin-American. This is “old stuff” to observing travelers, but not often referred to by the average writers and lecturers on the West Indies who profoundly inform you the sky is blue, the grass green and the water wet. True, but Columbus discovered that—is there nothing else to describe?

* * * * *

A Dog Story

Two dogs, on a trip through the Minnesota woods, came upon a skunk.

After considerable discussion “Little Dog” was chosen to engage the strange intruder at battle. When he returned, “Big Dog” asked him how he had fared.

“Fairly well in the first round,” reported “Little Dog,” “but in the second attack the son-of-a-gun gassed me.”

* * * * *

A Friendly Household

“A flirt, am I?” exclaimed Mary Ann, under notice to go. “Well, I knows them as flirts more than I do, and with less excuse.” She shot a spiteful look at her mistress, and added, “I’m better looking than you. More handsome… ’Ow do I know? Your husband told me so.”

“That will do,” said her mistress frigidly.

“But I ain’t finished yet!” retorted Mary Ann. “I can give a better kiss than you! Want to know who told me that, ma’am?”

“If you mean to suggest that my husband—”

“No, it wasn’t your husband this time,” said Mary Ann. “It was your chauffeur.”

* * * * *

Sweet Kisses

He—“Oh, dearie, please give me just one.”

She—“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s Lent.”

“Will you when you get it back?”

* * * * *

Another good drink has been scratched off our list when we make our rounds of the bootleg joints—sherry and egg, for with eggs at a dollar a dozen and sherry 90 cents a finger, we can’t make the grade. However, as McIntyre & Heath might say, if we had some sherry, we could have sherry and egg, if we had an egg.

* * * * *

He Gets a Tip

The dinner was excellent, and what made it better still was the fact that the girl who waited at table was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen in his life.

And now it was time for him to leave his host and hostess and return to town. As luck would have it, however, it was discovered, too late, that the last train had gone. There was no alternative—he would have to stay the night, but the difficulty was that the house was full.

At last a bright idea seemed to strike the hostess. “I hardly like to suggest it,” she said, “but would you mind turning in with the cook?”

Knowing full well that they kept only the one maid, whom he had already seen, he accepted the offer with almost unseemly alacrity.

“Oh, that’s all right,” said the hostess, obviously much relieved; “the bed will be quite large enough—you’ll find him quite a superior man; indeed, he’s engaged to our parlormaid.”

* * * * *

Oh, Mommer, Boil My Socks

We’ve heard a lot of boarding house jokes, but the one our hired man, Gus, tells is the prize winner.

Gus was boarding in Chicago once where they had no napkins. Whenever Gus wanted to wipe his fingers he called the shaggy Newfoundland dog and rubbed them in the dog’s hair. Saturday night the cook washed the dog and Sunday morning they had soup.

Questions and Answers

=Dear Captain Billy=—Why is a marriage performed on Friday considered unlucky?—=Hoo Dew.=

Friday is so named because alloted to Frigga, the goddess of marriage. Perhaps that is why ceremonies on that day are so unlucky.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—My husband insists on wandering about the house barefooted at night, and I’ve been wondering if the servants have been attracting him out of his slumbers. What should I do?—=Miriam DeVorce.=

A few tacks placed judiciously about the house will cure your husband’s night walking in his bare feet.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bill=—My fiance says she will not marry me until I have done something big in life. Can you suggest something?—=Worried Romeo.=

Why not try washing elephants.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper Bill=—What is meant by a “ruined career?”—=Carrie A. Kidd.=

Bartending.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bill=—Who was the first jockey?

Eve. Adam entered her in the human race.

* * * * *

=Dear Whiz Bang Bill=—If a flivver ran over a farmer’s rooster, what would he be out?—=Artie Choke.=

Nothing that I know about, except possibly his rooster would be out a foot or two.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—Who was the world’s greatest female juggler?—=Soubrette Sue.=

Nat Goodwin.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—What is the meaning of the word “flapper?”—=June Peas.=

Flapper is usually applied to a girl who flaps.

* * * * *

=Captain Bill=—I am a wrestler and a very light sleeper, my wife snores likell. What would you recommend to stop her sonorous snores?—=Ima Snoozer.=

Use a strangle hold.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper Bill=—What is meant by the expression “A silent partner?”—=Gangrene Gertie.=

A woman’s husband.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bill=—What makes the human race?—=Hammond Eggs.=

Men and women chasing each other.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper Bill=—What’s the difference between a cow and a baby?—=Dunn O. Nuttin.=

Well, a cow drinks water to make milk, while a baby just drinks milk.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—How can I keep my husband home at night?—=Worried Newlywed.=

Take five pounds of fusel oil, two pounds of prunes and one pound of raisins, put it in a five gallon crock. Then for nine dreary evenings, sit beside the crock and gently lift up the cheesecloth cover and hold communion therewith. It will sing a song to you in peculiar fashion, reminding you of the olden days when you put the parlor sea shell to your ear to hear the wild waves roar. You’ll hear Eva Tanguay singing “I Don’t Care.” When the tenth day has come to pass, strain the contents of the crock into bottles and then you can telephone your husband’s drug store and tell him to come home. You should have no further trouble in retaining his company.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain=—What’s the difference between a sea gull and a baby?—=Flipflop Flapper.=

A sea gull flips along the shore, while a baby slips along the floor.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper Bill=—Don’t you think that giving up drinking will assure a longer life?—=Repentant Soak.=

Perhaps you’re right. I once gave it up for 24 hours and it was the longest day I ever lived.

* * * * *

=Dear Farmer Billy=—As an honest tiller of the soil, perhaps you can tell me the difference between an apple and a girl?—=Ann Arbor.=

Sure, you have to squeeze an apple before you can get cider. But with a girl, you have to get “side” ’er before you can squeeze her.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bill=—I live in Milwaukee and a neighbor of mine is always making home beer. Who should I report it to?—=Adam Sapple.=

Notify the American consul.

* * * * *

=Dear Sir and Captain=—My husband, whenever he comes home intoxicated from moonshine liquor, kicks me in the stomach. What would you advise me to do?—=Abused Wife.=

Turn your back on the brute.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper=—Could you tell me who is the inventor of the loose leaf system?—=L. E. Phant.=

Eve.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Jazzbo=—I have a sweet girlie, with teeth quite pearly. I took her in my arms one night. She scratched and giggled and tried to bite. Can you guess what’s worrying me?—=Hymanjasus.=

Your poetry is punk, old trapper, and I’ll answer you, the same—You like to love but you hate to fight with a dirty neck when you monkey-bite.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bill=—I see where you discuss at length the brevity of girls’ attire, but I never see you object in your writings. How do you stand, anyway?—=Noonan Knight.=

Well, you don’t see me wearing any smoked glasses.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper Bill=—What’s your idea of a fine sight?—=Lotta Bull.=

I suppose you think I’ll say hosiery, but guess again. My idea of a fine sight is the one I have on my bear hunting rifle.

* * * * *

=Dear Whiz Bang Billy=—What’s the most useful food?—=Fletcher Eyes.=

Chicken. You can eat it before it is born and after it is dead.

* * * * *

=Dear Doctor Billy=—What are the three great plagues of the world?—=Iva Sharpe Payne.=

My expert diagnosis reveals that the three greatest are: Water on the knee, liquor on the hip and woman on the brain. Which Paynes you most?

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper=—Do you think it possible to get intoxicated on one-half of one percent beer?—=Ringaround A. Rosey.=

Sure, two hundred bottles of one-half of one percent equals one hundred percent drunk.

* * * * *

The Deadly Mouse

“What a brave, brave girl Mary is!” said a young man in enthusiastic tones.

“Mary brave? How so?” inquired the young man’s sister.

“Why, at the dance last night,” said the young man, “she was the only girl who kept her seat and remained perfectly cool when the mouse appeared.”

“Pshaw!” said his sister. “That wasn’t bravery. Mary told me afterwards that she had her old garters on.”

* * * * *

For Private Circulation

“May I print a kiss upon your lips?”

“Yes, provided you promise not to publish it.”

* * * * *

Baldheaded Bad Luck

The transport had just been torpedoed.

After a little struggle in the moisture, Bill found himself safely within the confines of an empty lifeboat.

Realizing that he was safe himself he began to look around to see who needed assistance.

Observing several men endeavoring to keep afloat nearby, he reached over the side and grabbed two of them by the hair and dragged them into the boat.

Suddenly a bald-headed man appeared alongside the boat. Peering over the side, Bill slapped him on the head and cried angrily: “Gwan down and come up right.”

_“Wimmin”_

By Jack Andrews.

The ever perplexing, never understanding, and most ancient of mysteries—Woman—is still with us. With but slight variations she is today the same enigma as were her predecessors running back to the beginning of time.

The modern man starts out just about as the cave man did, only he believes he is more accomplished, and capable of penetrating the veil that men of vast experience in dealing with the “deadlier sex,” associate with the Unknown Origin.

It is the incertitude of what Woman will do that brings out the gambling spirit in all of us, makes wise men of some of us, and pessimists of the rest of us.

When you find this type of pessimist, a man who breaks out the hammer as the talk tends toward women—wild and otherwise—just jot it down in your little note book that at some time in his life a little bubble of conceit was pierced by a woman, and a man failed to measure up to the requirements.

There is another class of supposedly male beings who continually rant about the women. They usually exhibit a holier-than-thou attitude when the pleasures of a woman’s society are mentioned, and denounce them as contributors to the undoing of man. They boast of a virtue that stamps them as impotents, superinduced by their own follies, and makes of them living hypocrites, ashamed to acknowledge the truth.

A man who boasts of “never a thought of women” will certainly not be molested by REAL women.

Remember this, my friends, that in the conquest for a woman’s love, it is far better to be audacious, for to profess too great a virtue may cause them to doubt your virility.

* * * * *

Embarrassing Moments

A Robbinsdale school teacher had a class up to spell. They were very young. She pronounced the word “leg.” The young miss who was to spell it was very modest and couldn’t spell it, a big awkward boy blushed furiously when it was passed down to him and the next one spelled it.

“And what is the definition?” she asked, elevating her eyebrows encouragingly.

Nobody knew.

“Why children,” she insisted, “surely you know that? What is it of which I have two and a cow has four?”

There was an awkward pause for just a moment and then a diminutive urchin at the foot of the class yelled out an answer. The answer has not yet appeared in print, but they do say that there was a vacation the rest of that day, while the teacher recovered consciousness.

_Whiz Bang Editorials_

“_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet_”

During the past month, we have received an inquiry from a reader asking us to define a “lounge lizard.” We have nothing of that caliber in this rural community of Robbinsdale. Most of us are poor financially, but strong in the knowledge of Mother Nature and the homely ways of the farm and fireside. During the midst of our studies, we journeyed through Shakespeare’s immortal “King Lear,” and in the scene before Gloucester’s castle, we find the following:

Kent: Fellow, I know thee.

Oswald: What does thou know me for?

Kent: A knave, a rascal; and an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action taking knave, a glass-gazing, super-serviceable, finical rogue. One that would’st be a bawd in the way of good service, and are nothing but the mad composition of a knave, beggar, coward, and the son and heir of a mongrel; one whom I would beat into a clamoured whining if thou denyest the least syllable of thy addition.

We have omitted some expressions from this denunciation. We have deliberately weakened it. We cannot find it in our soul possible to condemn any fellow man in such language as Shakespeare uses. We follow the quaint philosophy that every man has a redeeming quality and that none combines the bald badness which Kent ascribes to Oswald. In our community, a man denounces another in few words. We shake our fist and call our enemy “a blankey-blank-son-of-a-blank.” Our language may not be as polished as Shakespeare, but it seems to satisfy the vendor.

* * * * *

Wonder what a dog thinks about while he sits hours at a time watching his master bending over a battered desk pecking with two pitchfork-blistered fingers at a typewriter model of 1898?

Have you ever stopped to consider the dog? I’ll admit that in the eight years my collie breed “Shep” has been my faithful companion, I have never stopped to give him thanks or to reason with myself why this dumb beast should love me so.

As I work here by my old desk in Whiz Bang headquarters, “Shep” sits on his hind quarters panting. Occasionally, as I turn in a friendly glance, he points his nose as if inviting an affectionate pat. “Shep” seems to approve of my magazine. I really believe he understands what it is. He seems never so happy or affectionate as when he sits beside me in my study. When I’m in the field he saunters about, paying little attention to me, but here in the study he seems vitally and keenly interested. His attitude brings me to Senator Vest’s plea for a dog.

“The best friend a man can have in this world may turn against him,” said the senator. “His son or daughter, whom he has raised with kind and loving care, may prove ungrateful, those who are nearest and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name, may become traitors to our faith. The money a man has, he may lose; it flies away from him when he perhaps needs it most. A man’s reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. Those who are prone to fall on their knees and do us honor when success is with us, may be the first to cast the stone of malice when failure settles its clouds upon our heads. The one absolutely unselfish friend a man can have in this selfish world, is his dog.

“A man’s dog stands by him, in health and in sickness, in poverty and in wealth; he will sleep on the cold ground, when the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may be near his master’s side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer him; he will lick the wounds and the sores that come from an encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince.

“If fortune drives the master forth, an outcast into the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than to accompany him, to guard against dangers, to fight against his enemies. And when the last scene of all takes place, and death takes the master in its embrace, and his body is laid away in the cold ground; no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by the graveside will be found the faithful dog, his head between his paws, his eyes open yet sad, in alert watchfulness. Ever faithful unto death.”

* * * * *

What Daughter Learned

Grandmother—“Come here, Diploma.”

Visitor—“That’s a funny name for your grandchild. Why do you call her that?”

“You see, I sent my daughter to one of those nawthern seminaries and that’s all she brought back.”

* * * * *

Progress Is Our Motto

Electrical appliances have superseded steam, Old time sailing vessels are an antiquated dream; We have our horseless carriages driven by the rich, Our ladies wear silk stockings but never take a stitch; We have wireless telegraphy which flies o’er land and sea, We play upon the piano but never touch a key; The belly-ache of former days is appendicitis now, And we are eating creamery butter that never saw a cow. Though progression is our motto and modern times have come to stay, Thank God! We raise our babies— In the good old fashioned way.

* * * * *

Back to His Childhood

Pat and Mike walked into a drug store and said they wanted something to make them feel young again. The druggist gave them a well known remedy, and Pat and Mike each took a swallow and started out.

A block down the street they took another swallow.

“I feel foive years younger,” said Pat.

“Begorra, I feel like a boy,” said Mike.

A few blocks farther Pat said: “Bejabers, Mike, don’t drink another drop of that stuff. I’ve gone back to infancy.”

_Smokehouse Poetry_

_Lasca, the rhythmic tale of a girl of the Rio Grande and the stampede pictured by Paul Desprez will lead the Smokehouse Poetry for April. With it also will be “In Flanders Field,” by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCray, which is being published after many requests. Colonel McCray’s simple song of tragedy was the Marsellaise of the great world war. The author was a surgeon with the Canadian Expeditionary forces and wrote the poem during the battle of Ypres._

The Shooting of Dan McGrew

By Robert W. Service.

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up, in the Malemuke saloon, The Kid that tickled the music-box, was playing a jag-time tune; Back of the bar in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew, While watching his luck was the light of his love. The Lady—that was known as Lou.

When out of the night which was fifty below And into the din and the glare There stumbled a miner, fresh from the creeks, Dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.

He looked like a man with one foot in the grave And scarcely the strength of a louse, As he tilted a poke of dust on the bar And called for the drinks for the house.

There was none could place the stranger’s face, Though we searched ourselves for a clew; But we drank to his health, and the last to drink, Was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

There are men that somehow just grip your eyes And hold them hard like a spell, And such was he for he looked to me Like a man who had lived in hell.

With a face most hair, and a glassy stare Like a dog whose day is done As he watered the green stuff in his glass And the drops fell one by one.

Then I got to figuring who he was And wondering what he’d do When I turned, and there stood watching him Was the Lady, who was known as Lou.

The stranger’s eyes wandered round the room And seemed in a kind of a daze Till at last that old piano fell In the way of his wandering gaze.

The Rag-time Kid was having a drink There was no one else on the stool And the stranger stumbled across the room And flopped down there like a fool.

In a buck-skin shirt that was glazed with dirt He sat and I seen him sway With a talon hand he clutched the keys God, but that man could play.

Were you ever out on the great alone, When the night was awful clear And the icy mountains held you in With a silence that you most could hear.

With only the howl of a timber wolf As you camped out there in the cold A half-dead thing in a stark dead world Clean mad, for the muck, called gold.

While high overhead green, yellow, and red The Northern lights swept in bars Then you’ve a hunch what the music meant Hunger night, and the stars.

Hunger, not of the belly kind That’s banished with bacon and beans. But the gnawing hunger of a lonely man For a home, and all that it means.

For a fireside far, from the cares that are Four walls and a roof above But oh, so cram full of cozy joy And crowned with a woman’s love.