Part 7

_Classics in Slang_ is a series of tales told by a prize fighter, One-Punch McTague, who has inherited a bookshop, conducted for him by an attractive young woman named Ethel Kingsley. At least she is attractive to McTague and he finds her altogether too attractive to a customer named Hootmon and probably Scotch. Ethel has been trying to instil in McTague a love for reading and in each story the prize fighter gives his own version of some literary classic she has put in his hands. There is also a running account of his own personal affairs, including fights in the ring and encounters in the bookshop.

CLASSICS IN SLANG: ROBINSON CRUSOE[1]

[1] Copyright, 1926, by H. C. Witwer.

I wish whoever ejaculates they's nothin' new under the son couldst of got a load of the gory conflict between them two fascinatin' heavyweights, Fifty-seven-Round McFoul and One-Punch McTague. In this epoch-makin' fracas One-Punch McTague done somethin' which was as new as the word itself; namely, he knocked _himself_ as cold as a mother-in-law's kiss!

Speakin' of artichokes, few people can give you as good a account of that brawl as I can, because by a odd coincidence I'm One-Punch McTague.

I suppose, gentle readers, all three of you remember I was left a book store by my defunct Uncle Angus and I know you're all agog over my romantical affair de heart with Ethel Kingsley, the blond panic which is governess of the volumes therein. Via the efforts of sweet Ethel I'm gettin' a mock education through a darin' method she worked out herself; viz., I read one of my books and then put down in black and white all I can remember about it, if anything. In this way I've dallied and toyed with a flock of the classicals, somethin' I missed in my youth, as my schoolin' went in one ear and out the other, there bein' nothin' in between to stop it.

The fly in the ointment is a boloney answerin' to the high-soundin' title of Jack Hootmon, only sun and air of the aged Elihu Hootmon, the trillionaire Thumb-Tack King. This milk-fed bozo is a inmate of Columbia's College and nearly every time I honor my book emporium with a visit he's acin' around Ethel tryin' to promote. She tolerates him on the account he always hurriedly buys a book when he sees me darken the threshold and as customers is at the premium Ethel won't give him the gate. The last time he was in our midst he hauled off and purchased a choice novel published in 1790 and give us a thousand bucks for same. Since then Ethel has been busy tryin' to find some more bed-time stories of that date and likewise some more Patsys like Jack Hootmon, both bein' exceedin'ly rare.

Well, to get to the plot, the day of my fatal muss with Fifty-seven Round McFoul I sauntered nimbly into my book bazaar, and, low and behold, the first thing which greets my sparklin' eye is Jack Hootmon.

The plentifully tubed triple superiodine I'd put in to amuse my delicious clerkess was playin' either a Charleston or St. Vitus dance, and I bet in another minute them two wouldst of been trippin' the light fantastical. Not so good! I ain't what you call jealous, what I mean, but for a counterfeit Chinese coin of nominal value I wouldst of clouted this Hootmon gil right in the whiskers. Ethel turned to the shelves with undue haste and nature's gift to Columbia's College gives me a sickly grin. "Hello, McTague," he says. "Nice day, isn't it?"

"Blah!" I growled courteously. "What are you doin' clutterin' up my store?"

"He's been helping me look for some rare first editions," speaks up Ethel, comin' to this dizzy boob's succor. "You know, I'm sure, this place is a treasure house of valuable old books."

"Of course!" yeses Stupid, in that male milliner's voice of his. "Wouldn't it be splendid if you'd come across a first folio Shakespeare?"

"It'd be even more splendid if you'd come across with the price of a couple books," I tells him. "What's the idea of the jazz? This ain't no dance hall!"

"We picked up Static, Wyoming, a little while ago!" brags Ethel, hopin' to stave off violence. "Tune in on a movie studio if you crave some real distance!" I says.

"You mean we can listen to a star?" butts in Hootmon, beatin' me to the giggle of my nifty and lookin' to the smilin' Ethel for admiration.

"Cop a sneak and make it snappy!" I barks, the bit infuriated. "If it wasn't for the facts that I'm goin' to box to-night I'd broadcast you!"

He looked somewhat alarmed and picked up a near-by book. "How much is this?" he asks, the bit nervous.

"Ten bucks!" I snaps promptly. "And at that price it's a steal!"

"Nonsense!" says Ethel, frownin' at me. "That Mother Goose is only two and a half dollars!"

"Not no more!" I says firmly. "Geese is out of season and has went up in price!"

"I love that!" says Hootmon.

"So's your elderly parent!" I returns, bein' unrivaled at repertoire.

"Here's a new history of the League of Nations, Mr. Hootmon," remarks Ethel in a futile effort to change the subject.

"I don't think so much of the League," says this tomato, and who cares if he don't? "With all the bickering they're havin' over there, I don't believe we should ever join it, do you, McTague?"

"What wouldst the League of Nations wish with you and me?" I asked him lightly. "C'mon, leave me book you! Have you scanned 'Ladies Prefer Brunettes,' by Anita Loose; 'Lightnin' on the Right,' by Christy More Lee; 'The--

"What do _you_ read?" he butts in, with a touch of evil curiosity.

"He's going to read Robinson Crusoe next," says Ethel, actin' as my counsel. "That will give him a breathing spell before he returns to the heavier classics."

"Why, he must have become familiar with Robinson Crusoe when he was in school!" exclaims Hootmon.

"I never get familiar with nobody, Ape!" I says. "And on top of that Robinson Crusoe didn't go to my school. We was particular in the trap _I_ studied at, what I mean--you had to get sent by a judge!"

"Who do you box this evening?" inquired Ethel, winkin' at me not to give this mug too much of my secret life story.

Says I: "A palooka named Fifty-seven-Round McFoul, heavyweight champeen of Saturn. I'll lay him like a pavement, and I don't mean I guess so! I wish you wouldst be there to see the fun. I already got you a ringside ducat, for that matter."

"But I couldn't go to a prize fight without a male escort!" cries Ethel in dismay.

"I'd be very glad to take you, Miss Kingsley," pipes up the chump.

I was on the brinks of breakin' his arm for him, pour le sport, when like the flash it strikes me that the best thing in the world wouldst be to let him go to the murder with Ethel. Then she couldst see for herself what a vast difference they was between a he-man of the wide open faces like me and a parlor pest like Hootmon. So I become ungruff and give my consent to the date, though I knew that sendin' this monkey anywheres with the breath-takin' Ethel was like sendin' somebody a cabbage leaf by a rabbit. How the so ever, I couldst always leap from the ring and ruin Monsieur Hootmon, shouldst he endeavor to hold Ethel's hand durin' the fight.

Well, lads and lassies, a few delicate hints, such as pushin' him out the door and slammin' it in his pan, soon made this Hootmon sapolio check out. Then me and Ethel searched high, low, jack and the game for some more choice old books but the only thing we discovered was that spiders is still makin' cobwebs. The hunt throwed me and Ethel into close contact which she didn't seem to find nauseatin' and I was doin' a fine piece of buildin' up for a evenin' in her parlor, when Red Higgins phones me. This clown's my manager and operates a stable of racin' snails on the side. I got the same cryin' need for him as I got for another thumb, what I mean!

"Hey, you big umpchay!" he greets me, with Old World politeness. "Shove off from 'at blonde and do some road work. I'll state you'll need it to-night in this pettin' party we got on with Fifty-seven-Round McFoul, because if you can't run he'll kill you!"

A nice, encouragin' manager, what? The big stiff!

"What have you found out about this catcher McFoul?" I inquired, with forgivable interest. "Can he hit?"

"And how!" says Red, with the gusto. "If you keep in close, he'll cave in your ribs, and if you box him off he'll left-hand you into a pulp. His best punch is his right, though nobody's ever yet got up from a sock with his left!"

"I see--just a tramp, eh? Well, I don't know my own strength, Red!"

"You wouldn't fool me, would you? 'At ain't _all_ you won't know when _this_ baby pastes you. You better give me a power of attorney so's I can act for you, Big Boy, just in case!"

"You can start right off actin' for me to-night," I suggests demurely, "by goin' in there with powers of attorney and boxin' this guy McFoul!"

"I can't," says Red. "The referee's McFoul's old man, and he knows me."

No kiddin', Red simply slays me!

Well, Ethel give me Robinson Crusoe for my home work, and I says good-by and left for the wars. First I got a shave and a haircut to ready myself for the battle of the centuries with Fifty-seven-Round McFoul, and then I went home and passed the few remainin' hours before my doom by readin' about Robby. It's a grand book, and I'll put you jerry to it the minute I get through describin' my thrillin' conflict with this McFoul scissor-bill--a fight which was the talk of the industry for many moons.

When I stumbled into the ring my first view of Fifty-seven-Round McFoul satisfied me that they wasn't the faintest chance of me yawnin' myself to death for the next half hour! I'll have you know this burly gorilla must of outweighed me eighty-odd pounds, and I personally tip the beams at two hundred, stark naked. He toured over me like Washington's monument, but faint heart never win no decisions, so I merely give this proper elephant a dirty look and sit down on my stool determined to show no quarter to _nobody_! I'm one of them two-fisted, fightin' idiots which makes boxin' a tough racket for the weaklin's.

The instant the old cowbell rings out I fairly skidded across the ring, and before McFoul couldst make a move I slammed him on the smeller with a horrible left. He looked somewhat nonpulsed at this little incident, and his seconds shrieked, "Don't leave him fox you, McFoul--use your head!" No sooner said than this big goiter butts me with that organ and the crowd howls, "Just a couple of bums!" meanin', of course, McFoul and the referee.

I then put a sizzlin' left and right to McFoul's profile, but they got delayed in transit whilst the right he shot at me didn't! Alas, ah me and alackaday! The next thing I know I'm sittin on the floor and the referee is sayin' to me, "Six--get up, you banana, _you_ ain't hurt!--seven--snap into it or I'll kick your teeth out--eight----"

Up I sprang like a enraged baboon and the panic was on! I chased McFoul all over the ring till it looked like our names was Paddock and Nurmi, instead of what the customers was callin' us. The fun waxed fast and furious! Twice McFoul led with his chin and each time he connected perfect with my right glove. The second time he dropped to his haunches, bounced up and wowed me and the fans by smackin' me right on top of the head. It was a fearful buffet! I come near windin' up in the basement of the club, but thought better of it and stayed in the ring, gettin' a bird's eye view of the ceilin'. I managed to leap up before the referee got through countin' and I swung two murderous rights which wouldst of ended the thing, only I forgot to get off my knees and the punches caught McFoul in the shins. The bell found us in mid-ring, exchangin' wise cracks.

I was sittin' on my stool with my handlers laughin' themselves sick at the whole affair, when McFoul staggers over to me and holds out his glove. He seemed the bit goofy.

"Well, I hope we fight again some time!" he says, shakin' my hand.

"Go back and sit down, you big mock orange!" snarls the referee. "That's only the first round!"

We had ten frames yet to go.

"How am I goin'?" I quizzed Red Higgins as he shoved the smellin' salts under my battered beak.

"You wouldn't even make a good punchin' bag!" says my jovial manager coyly. "You're so far behind now, you'll have to knock this other false alarm stiff to get a draw!"

I seen Ethel and this Hootmon parsnip in the ringside seats I'd bestowed on 'em. Ethel give me a cheery smile, whilst Hootmon gazed at me and then grabbed his uncomely nose with his thumb and finger like some garlic eater had just breathed on him.

With all this encouragement, I was full of new life for the second round, while McFoul pushes his handlers to one side and stands erect, glarin' at me. The mob screams for us to kill each other, and at the gong I tried nobly to oblige. I decided to make a choppin' block out of my adversus, and I begin workin' on him with the skill of a old master, hittin' him with everything but the ring posts! He socked me on the button with a hard right, but life bein' what it is I deliberately ignored it and wittily retorted with a terrible left to the stomach. Mr. McFoul didn't care for it down below, and was forced to grimace at me. We traded ugly looks whilst the crowd went mad and then I suddenly run amuck.

I slammed McFoul back against the ropes with a torrid right to what passed for his head. Another right to the same address crashed him to the mat, and Jack Dempsey, a ringside witness, was heard to shudder and wince. McFoul rose and fell again. This time he got up about as steady as the French Premier's job, and I indignantly floored him again, as he annoyed me bobbin' up and down like that! McFoul took nine before arisin', and at that he didn't seem overanxious to make no reputation for gameness which wouldst stand for all time. This Humpty Dumpty staggered around the ring like a wood-alcohol admirer and out of the corner of my one good eye I seen Ethel jump up and cheer me!

Honest to Coolidge, I simply couldn't lose, and though the crowd was urgin' me in no uncertain terms to execute McFoul, I took my time and measured him carefully. Tippin' his jaw back to a attractive angle with a light left, I swung a most boisterous right for the button. My glove landed flush on his embarrassed features, and he went down like I'd shot him through the heart! But, sad to relate, my countrymen, my swing was so furious that I lost my balance and fell backward on my head. The force of that fall knocked me insensible. I'd knocked myself for a loop, and this big punk McFoul got to his feet at nine and win the fight! What's wrong with this picture?

I was out for ten minutes, and when I come to life the water bucket was jammed tight over my head, where Red Higgins had carelessly parked it when the referee held up McFoul's glove.

Well, it's all in the game, and here's the confessions of Robinson Crusoe. If you find 'em less appetizin' than I did, don't be afraid to keep it a secret.

_ROBINSON CRUSOE_

By _Daniel Defoe_ and _One-Punch McTague_

Once upon a time Robinson Crusoe, a Big Pudding Man from Yorkshire, set sail for a slab called Guinea with the objects of buyin' some Senegambians. Rob wished these high browns for a Broadway revue he had a piece of, though he fails to state how come he had to sail the briny for 'em, when he couldst of hired a slew of colored entertainers in Birmingham and the etc.

How the so ever, he shoved off, and all went well till the twelfth day, when along come grief! For no reason at all, either two or fifty-one hurricanes hit the scow and drove it hither, thither and even yon, much to the dismay of the passengers, as you may well believe. Things had come to a pretty pass and somebody bellowed "Land!" But before anybody couldst get in touch with this real-estate operator, the ship hit a sand bank and bein' sick of the voyage it begin to sink. So much for that.

Robinson Crusoe, bein' a jack of all trades, hopped in a lifeboat with fourteen other devil-may-cares which started workin' their way toward the new sub-division discovered by the lookout, but before they got there the boat upset and everybody went down to mingle with the other poor fish with the slight exception of Rob. The latter done a Johnny Weismuller to shore, climbed up the cliffs and slept that night in a tree with the monkeys. Let Dayton, Tennessee, laugh that off!

Came the dawn and Rob woke up bright and early--that is, the mornin' was bright and he was early. Much to his surprise and disappointment, the ship was still floatin' about, and he seen at a glance that nobody wouldst of been drownded had they only kept out of the lifeboat or else stayed at home. Well, it was too late to tell his deceased companions they were all wet and as Robby had a hunch he was set for a long stay on the island he snapped into it.

His first imitation was to make a raft. He was a smart lad and knew his bananas! With the aid of the raft this boy scout managed to get his saxophone, food, gadgets, ammunition and game in season from the ship, includin' a pair of cats and a dog. He wouldst of brung the ship's horse and cow along too, only for one reason; namely, the ship didn't have no horse or cow. Right after that the noble but unseaworthy vessel sunk in deadly earnest. Bein' sociable to a fault, Rob looked about for more company and fin'ly run down a full-fledged parrot which he took the liberty of namin' "Poll" and taught to talk in a twinklin'. I told you he was clever! Rob claims the way this dizzy parrot wouldst crack "So's your old man!" and the like was a caution and broke up many's the dull night.

Well, to make a long story even longer, Mrs. Crusoe's little boy next scans the landscape for a joint to inhabit, but hotels was just somethin' else the island didn't have. It was no Miami, though ripe for a boom. D'ye think that stopped Robby? Hades, no! He snatched up a ax and buildin' materials he'd hauled from the ship and builds himself as nobby a drum as you'd care to lay a eye on. He was like that.

In the midst of his labors a sack of grain caught his glance, and he carelessly dumped the grain out on the ground, wishin' to use the sack for evenin' clothes shouldst the monkeys ask him to bridge or somethin'. That night it rained like nobody's business, and the next mornin' Rob nearly swoons when outside his hut he seen whole rows of corn, rice, barley and produce growin' where he'd throwed that grain.

"Well, burn my clothes!" laughs Robby, which was delighted with his good fortune and imagination. "If them Californians couldst only see this!"

Though Rob had never used tools before in his life, he found that when it got down to makin' furniture he had Grand Rapids lookin' like a novice, what I mean! Tables, chairs, bureaus, desks, beds, custom-made limousine bodies or what have you flowed from his fluent ax like magic. This go-getter likewise turned out baskets, hammers, creature comforts, hatchets, nails, crowbars and fliv rear ends as a side line. Why, they was no stoppin' the kid, and a simple ax to him was the same as a fully equipped machine shop to anybody else. His favorite feat of strength and skill was to stick his finger in his ear and hold himself out at arm's length!

They was cake galore on this wonderful island, but alas, no bread. Well, Rob was no cake eater, so he grabs up his trusty ax again, which was a little worn by now, and hews him a bakery. He ovened a wicked poultice, as he readily admits. All this took him a paltry three years, but, then, he was short-handed, as them cats, the dog and the wise-crackin' parrot was all thumbs when it come to helpin' him hew.

Rob kept one of the finest stables of goats on the island, which done nothin' night and day but make his clothin'. That is, they growed their own skin, at which point Rob stepped in and knocked 'em off, sewin' their hides into plus fours and the like. He was gettin' smarter all the time.

In that way the years passed like years. Rob was king of the island, even if he didn't have no subjects, and he wouldst of been as happy as happy itself, but for one thing--namely, he thought the island was applesauce and he craved somebody to talk to. Robby didn't care who it was, but he wouldn't of cut his throat by no means if his tête-à-tête had been late of the Follies!

Walkin' about his vast domains one fine day, Rob gets the thrill which comes once in a lifetime to a guy on a desert island. He seen a human footprint in the sand. Hot dog! Right away Rob thinks of cannibals and not havin' the wish to be part of somebody's diet he scurries back to his castle and locks himself in.

"What a sucker I was to go down to the sea in ships!" says Rob to his parrot. "They's Hades to pay and no pitch hot!"

"Be your age--this is only a book we're in, anyways!" sneers pretty Poll.

Rob had now put in twenty-two annums on this island, and he was commencin' to feel the need of a change. Two years later he heard a great how-dy-do on the beach and peerin' down from his cliff he seen a nude savage runnin' for his life from a mob of other scantily clad savages. He had the skin they'd love to touch! They hurled spears and tommyhawks and sarcastical remarks at the runner, but he was a two-legged fool and was tow-ropin' the field when he stumbled. Well, Robinson Crusoe come to the rescue by drawin' his gat and cookin' a bevy of these cannibals. The rest of 'em scampered away with shrill cries of indignation, and the sap he saved from a fatal death fell down at Robby's shapely feet and says:

"Boss, yo' sure is de berries, and Ah'm yo' slave fo' life!"

"Fair enough!" says Rob. "And what might your name be, gentle stranger?"

"Did y'all ever heah ob Napoleon Bonaparte?" asks the dinge.

"Yes," says Robby, gettin' interested in spite of himself.

"Well, mah name's Friday!" grins the slave, executin' a parabola.

"My, my, it's a small world after all!" remarks Crusoe.

"Ain't it de truf?" says Friday, the first yes-man, with typical cannibal wit.

As this was no time to draw the color line, the men become fast friends and after Rob had been on the island for a net total of twenty-seven years, a English ship comes along. The captain tripped gracefully ashore and told Rob he was just the egg he was lookin' for, as his crew had went crazy and mutinied on him. What to do? In round numbers, Crusoe and Friday made mince meat of the crew's ringleaders and then sailed for home on the ship. Robby made Friday a present of a brand-new whisk broom and got him a job as a Pullman porter, so they all lived happy ever after.

Robinson Crusoe was gone on that one voyage a total of thirty-five fiscal years and from that day to this he can't as much as look at a anchor without gettin' deathly sick at his stomach. He nearly killed a real-estate agent which tried to sell him a home on Long Island!

THE PUSHER-IN-THE-FACE

_By_ F. Scott Fitzgerald

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD

F. Scott Fitzgerald, born at St. Paul, Minn., on September 24, 1896, attended Princeton University, 1913-17, as every reader of his novel, _This Side of Paradise_, knows. He served in France as an officer of infantry, becoming aide-de-camp to Brig.-Gen. J. A. Ryan after the Armistice and being honorably discharged in February, 1919. He records himself as a Socialist. His novel, _The Great Gatsby_, has been held by most competent judges to be his best book to date.

"The Pusher-in-the-Face," first published in _Woman's Home Companion_ for February, 1925, and included in Fitzgerald's book, _All the Sad Young Men_, is something more than a humorous story, appealing as it does to a universal experience--for who has not at some tortured moment in his life yearned to push-in the face of the nuisance at the rear? This, as editors say, is a story of the very widest "reader-appeal."

THE PUSHER-IN-THE-FACE[1]

[1] Copyright, 1925, by Wheeler Syndicate, Inc.