Part 4

But when Fryday night arrive up my vacation become considerably more entangled. From out from depot emerge Hon. Mr. Liddbeater with tired business expression while reading Wall Street news from paper.

“Markets are decomposing rapidly while I am here,” he snuggest. “Unless I rest very laboriously I must go back to my unhealth.”

“What shall we do to make you feel entirely idle?” require entire family together like chorus-girls.

“At 4.06 tomorrow a.m. high tide shall arise and codfish will be biting viciously,” he say so. “Therefore we go fishing.”

Groans by all.

“Maybe you prefer to enjoy your seasickness alone,” renig Hon. Mrs. Madam with Pankhurst expression.

“Darling, I could not,” he reprieve. “I am determined to share my pleasures with my family. Therefore we arise upward at 3.30 to be prompt with hooks.”

That midnight was night for party where I friz ice-creams, served slight rabbits of Welsh birth, assisted chairs where tangos was jumping, play “Robt. E. Lee Polka” on pianola, and was otherwise considerable talented. By 2.26 I retire upwards to my box bedroom under cooked roof, where I remained outside my dreams till 3.31.

At 3.30 come tap-knock to door.

“What is it?” I require with startle.

“3.30!” holla Hon. Liddbeater voice out there. “Arise to go fish!”

“Do fish get up so early?” I ask to know.

“They bite best this hour,” he explain.

“I should also bite!” I snarrel.

“I do not pay you to make injurious comments,” he snudged while I hastily coat & pant myself for day labor.

All was there awaiting for breakfast with extreme appetite. When this devouring was finished Stanhope and Bluebell arrive up with flirtatious hats expected to attract fish.

“Togo,” demand Hon. Liddbeater like Napoleon, “while we fish you shall go along and whittle bait. Also prepare lunching for 10 and be very impromptu about it.”

I do so and we nextly go to shore where I must carry complete lunching including baby and umburella. Pretty soonly we arrive to detestable whaleboat being kept by salted gentleman resembling damaged admiral.

“Will this boat hold 12?” require Hon. Boss Man.

“So easily!” corrode Hon. Navy. “It were built for six.”

Therefore all was compressed in while we chug with gas-perfumery to central middle of ocean.

“I have feeling of slight squash,” narrate Hon. Bluebell when we were five miles among rolls.

“I hold your hand for it,” report Hon. Oliver, looking pale but poetic. He do not seem to accomplish much medicine by this. Hon. Bluebell become yet bluer.

All the ocean seem to tip up on one side as if it was going to spill into California. Something inside my interior stumack seem to speak of my dead ancestors. And look! Each stylish person of that cruise begin concealing their happiness by laying down on it. Groans. Yet Hon. Liddbeater continue to make happy cheek and smiling lip resembling Hon. Edw. Foy seeming comic.

At lastly he motion Hon. Salt Gentleman to choke his engine.

“This are the exact patch of waves where Thos Cod came to chew their cud,” he explaned. “Therefore, Hon. Capt. stop boat. Togo, while all other fishermans lay dying, you shall cut baits attractive to fish.”

“If convenient, Mr. Sir,” I bereft, “I should prefer to join the other groans.”

“Continue to fish-hook or I discharge you!” he dib.

“If you would discharge me back to shore I would bless you in Japanese,” I gargle. Yet he horribly threw me clams, unhappy mammals which I must amputate with dull knife while spearing them with disgustly hooks.

Hon. Liddbeater lit pipe of very enraged smell. Groans by all.

“Nothing like pipe-smoke while fishing!” he say for smiles.

“I notice,” is feebly voice from me.

Pretty soon Hon. Boss make electric movement with wet string. He bite pipe more cruelly while halling in one enraged cod who mock him with angry mouth.

“A beautiful fish!” he yellup joyly. “All see it!”

All those sicknesses report “Um” with unhappy nose.

“Are he not beautiful fish?” he ask it to me.

“Perhapsly when younger,” I disengage while holding my head on.

Of suddenly Hon. Mrs. Liddbeater arise upwards from pillows like a fried snake.

“For sake of your children,” repeat her, “I ask you to cease making clams and people and Japs and fish miserable for selfish joy of your depravity. Put us somewheres where we can run away.”

“Fishing cannot be accomplished by running away,” he deploy with Samurai expression. “I never depart off until I have caught 14.”

“O!!” yellup Eclaire looping beside Stanhope and looking less engaged than usual. “Drowning would be painless after this.”

“If you drowned I could save you,” dictate Stanhope looking very pale Yale.

“Any shipwreck would be welcome,” mone Oliver greenishly.

“Will nothing stop off your mulish fishing?” require Hon. Mrs. waking up from her death.

“Unless the boat sinks I shall stay remaining here until I catch 14,” he growell.

That ocean now look entirely double to me and I could feel my courage rolling around inside my lung.

“If the boat sink I be much obliged!” gaggle all together like chorus-girls in hospital.

“I know how!” I holla with suddenness of intelligence. “By preparing to swim you shall snub those 14 codfish!”

Thusly exclamming, I lept uply & grabb hammer where it layed sleeping beside lunch. With nimble ankles peculiar to heroes I jump to bung-plug in central middle of that boat. Whacks! Uply sprung plug quite corkishly and next came huj sprout of salt Atlantic approaching inside like giganterous fountain.

“Brainless species of mice!” reproach Hon. Mr. while attempting to brush out ocean with heel. Yet already Hon. Boat resemble bath-tub where all set in lake. Alarming wakefulness from seasickness was next to arrive and—before I could acknowledge—each person make flop-splash to water including me who was there amidst swimming while Hon. Boat turn over on his nose and float up-down.

I save Hon. Mrs. Liddbeater, lady of large tonnage but considerable floatage. Hon. Oliver save Hon. Bluebell. Hon. Liddbeater save himself. Hon. Eclair save Hon. Stanhope. Hon. Captain save Hon. Bottle. So everybody were quite comfortable, thank you, hooking their nails to stumack of that boat. But where was room for me? I continue onwards splashing doggishly.

“Why should it?” I holla with water-spouts. “I save you from sick-death and yet you will not support me on your floater.”

“Get off of!” snagger Hon. Mrs. giving me crude push with heel while I attemp to sclutch.

“Did I not stop fish-catch?” I bubble frogfully.

“We can be sifficiently miserable without you!” narrate Hon. Oliver while making water-polo across my head.

“You are discharged!” howell Hon. Liddbeater. “Report to my office in New York for your payment.”

I hear this ingratitude with extreme compression of soul. How difficult it are to be useful when not required to do so! Therefore I would snub them with my immediate departure.

Thinking thusly I struck offward in gen. direction of New York and when lastly seen I feel very free, although expecting to be drowned.

Hoping you are the same,

Yours truly, HASHIMURA TOGO.

IX

Togo Meets Hon. Clothes Line

_To Editor Good Housekeeper, who help make civilization with soap._

Dear Mr.:—Another place where I am no longer at is Rahway, N. J., working for Mrs. H. Griddle, cultured lady.

I tell you why I am removed.

This Mrs. Griddle to who I came determined to do Gen. Housework, have got considerable musical ambition inside her voice. She do all her housework at the piano. For continual hours each day she set there making soprano, compelling her voice to do following gymnasium:

AH yi yi yi yi Hi ah!!!

More of this is to be continued. She say vocal culture require great endurance. She contain more of this noble quality than I can.

Washday arrive up to Griddle home by each Monday a.m. when Hon. Maggie Kelley approach to laundry prepared to drown all clothing in suds. This lady, who contains 6 feet complete muscle, is a scrubber of great talents. She say she was deprived of her husband several years of yore, because he beat her frequently. I should like to observe that athleetick gentleman.

A wash lady is something I prefer not to be, above all professions.

But last Monday it was arranged for me.

“Togo,” dictate Mrs. H. Griddle, stopping her soprano sifficiently to speak, “you will kindly give ade to Hon. Maggie today in clothes wash ceremony.”

“O thank you not to do so!” I declare with pathos.

“Why so?” she snagger with Mary Garden expression.

“This Hon. Maggie treat me without chivalry. How could I be assistant scrub beside her haughty actions?” I resolve.

“Either do so or deprive yourself of this job,” she holla, departing off in high Key of C.

I find Hon. Maggie lady in laundry preparing to suds. Redness appear from her hair and arms while she look to me with cross expression peculiar to a eagle watching an angly-worm. Then she lift wash-boiler from stove showing energy like Sandow juggling automobiles.

“Jap,” she reproach.

“Yes, Sir!” I pronounce.

“Was you sent here to look beautiful or to be helpful?” she ask out.

“Not sure—Mrs. Boss did not instruct me which to be,” I report.

“I will instruct you!” she growell like a lady menagerie. “Become busy as soonly as possible. You will find a clothes-ringer annexed to yonder tub. Attach yourself to the handle and ring the cloths earnestly until I tell you quit.”

She point to one slight machinery resembling a hand organ with pianola rolls. I wind this instrument continuously. Nothing evolve.

“O Mrs. Madam, I cannot hear the bell!” I suggest.

“Which bell please?” she otter.

“You tell me to ring the clothes, not so?” I ask it.

“I despise you for your yellow mind!” she dib. “Clothes does not ring when you ring them!”

I could not assimilate the way she said it. She lift several drowned clothes from the tub and show me with considerable muscle how to squash them through those rollers. Clothes, however wet, can be sent through that machinery and emerge forth with great dignity like flat snakes. I turn crank handle continuously while Hon. Maggie make poke-in with wettish clothing. I enjoy great pain in my wrist and elbows, and when I commence to quit, this laundered female say “Faster” with bull dog expression.

Pretty soonly I lay down my hands and stop. Her mad eyebrows snub me.

“Hon. Mrs. Wash,” I renig, “why should you be more cross and peeved than other persons?”

“Togo,” she say so, “my duties require it. Cleaning things is a job full of tragedy and other grouch. It would be unnatural to laugh while washing. Clothes is pleasanter to wear, but unpleasant to scrub. It is similar with everything. Dishes is joyful to eat from, but nobody admire them when hour of dishpan arrive. Nobody love Monday, because it is sacred to splash and suds, yet if Monday was abolished by Congress, there would be no beautiful society on Saturday night.”

“Can’t some variety of soap be invented with more poetry in it?” I require.

“It could,” she dib, “but it would probably be useless to take the dirt out.”

Hon. Mag fill tub with artistic color from blue bottle.

“While you are idle you can do something!” she holla suddenly like a steam whistle.

“How could I do something when idle?” this inquiry from me.

“You see that baskett of clothes?” She point forth to one baskett full of complete whiteness like a bushel of damp ghosts.

“I observe what is.”

“Take them immediately for hang-out!” she otter with gloom.

“What should I hang them out from?” I require.

“Maybe you are not acquainted with clothesline!” she say sarcastly while she led me forth to back yard where she introduce me to this useful rope. “If I knew I was to come to this place to be washing-instructor, I should demand teacher’s salary,” she pronounce glubly.

“That would be nice job for deserving widows,” I say for politeness. Yet she seem less ladylike.

“To hang clothes,” she instruct, “you must first lift them one at a time from the baskett, grasping them by both ears—thusly.” She show how. “You shake him twice, snap—snap!” She demonstrate this with considerable clothes-shake. “Then you buckle him to line with a clothespin on each ear.” She fill her mouth with clothespins, and then she lift one tablecloth by his ears, shake him brutally with her pugilistic hands, and nail him to clothes-line like she said so.

“You got sifficient strength enough to do this?” she require snapply.

“Maybe-so, yes,” I report.

“If not, I give you the prize!” she say, eloping to house without telling me which prize she meant.

I put all my intellectual mind on this clothes-hang job. It seem to be light, agreeable job for Japanese Schoolboy—simply to lift a clothes by his ears and glue him to rope with clothespins. But suddenly I was reminded. That Clothes-line was 7½ feet in highness, while I stood merely 5 feet in lowness. How should I get up there without flying machinery?

I observed a step-ladder sleeping quietly by kitchen window. It was a very diseased-looking furniture with lameness in one leg and several ribs fractured by too much exercise in open air, yet it was a step-ladder. I removed this piece of stairway to underneath clothesline where I put him. Then I poked six (6) clothespins in my mouth like wooden cigars. Then I took one pillow case from baskett, shook him rudely by his ears and ascended upwards. Hon. Ladder wubble on his sore leg, yet I enjoy no fear, because I am a brave Japanese. With gestures of extreme courage I pin Hon. Pillow Case to that stretched string where he clung with beautiful purity peculiar to washing.

I began to love this clothes-hang performance. It seemed so nice and healthful to do housework outdoors amidst backyard scenery and gentle summer breeze. It was very superior pleasure for me, making up and down hops on that ladder with agility resembling birds.

So I continued onwards near my duty. With extreme earnestness I suspended following clothing where they hung lynched upon line:

1 tablecloths (slightly dragged on ground, yet quite pale).

9 towels (one of them dropped, but was nicely brushed afterwards).

3 sox.

4½ pillow-case.

While standing tip-top on that ladder I was enabled to observe Nature. It are wonderful how tall a short Japanese feels while standing on a ladder! I could distinctly see over fence into next yard where Hon. Swede lady employed for cook by Mrs. J. C. Camel was making flirting conversation with Hon. Ice Man. I also observe Hon. Cat obtaining slight refreshment of cream-pitcher from window while that Swede was too interested. I stood in joyful trance holding wet sheet while biting clothes-pin like wooden sigars. It make such inexpensive enjoyment for cool summer day to stand on ladder beholding other folk’s business!

In the midst of everything Hon. Swede Lady turn off suddenly and see Hon. Cat. She made rude “Shoo!” with voice, and Hon. Cat were so offended he fell from window in the midst of milk pitcher and extreme breakage. With immediate quickness he made rabid scoot for fence with tail enlarged like a comets. “I shall attach him for you!” I holla to Mrs. Swedish—but soonly as I did so—O calamity!!

I lean too forward and Hon. Ladder stub his toe and broke lame leg with loud scrash! Bereaved of my support I make wildly grabb for atmosphere, Hon. Clothesline was where I struck, so I clasp him with tense affection. And there I was, hanging among clothes, swinging my legs with motion peculiar to wet stockings. Hon. Maggie Kelley observe me in this dangled condition.

“Git downward!” she snuggest.

Before I could reproach back, Hon. Rope bursted and I was anticipated to ground so forcibly that I sat there wondering what. Entire clothes-line seemed to surround me with damp washing like a wounded sail. Hon. Maggie making hysteria, seize bottle of wash blue in her prize-fight hands and approach a.m. screaming war cries. With howell of great intensity she threw that sky-colored liquid to my head, covering my nose and eyebrows with splashes of brilliant art.

Next she rose to house and obtain broom. When I seen that female club, I lost my connection with that home. I lep forwards. I fled off. I swum over the fence with great skill and continued to elope elsewheres. Farebye to that job!

When nextly seen I was 2 miles Westward setting among woods attempting to rub wash-fluid from my forehead which was blue.

Hoping you are the same,

Yours truly, HASHIMURA TOGO.

X

Togo Coaxes Down the Cost of Living

_To Editor Good Housekeeping Magazine who desire to make high-life less costly._

Dear Mr.:—Please address all letters to Fineheimer Employment Bureau where I am looking for it, as usual. Sorrow for me. Sometimes I think I am like a shoot-gun, merely make to be fired.

When last seen I was employed at home of Mrs. Ethel McManus who reside with her husband, Mr. Ethel McManus at Honeyville-on-the-Hudson. They are a very matrimonial couple of people. They were married only a short time of yore. Therefore they are living in midst of wedding presents which they are trying to use as furniture. How superflous!

“Togo,” say this lady to me, “I hire you because we are too poor to live without a servant.”

“How smart idea!” I report with chivalry.

“Yes,” she repartee. “I learn this wisdom from newspaper: ‘A good servant will save Hon. Housekeeper $6 a week.’ Acting on this advice I hire you for $5 a week, which make following arithmetic: $6-$5 = $1. Therefore I have cleaned up $1 a week by transaction.”

“If you kep 20 servants at that rate you could save sufficient to keep ottomobiles,” I pronounce joyfully.

“I have oftenly thought of that,” say this bridish lady. “But I think I shall begin gradually on 1 servant and see how much I save.”

“I permit you to retain all you make off me,” I suggest for generosity.

“Your duties,” she utter, “is to keep high cost of living as low-down as possible. I expect you to buy food for our home, and to purchase it with such financial cuteness that everything will cost less than formerly. When Hon. Beefsteak cost 28c per lb. I expect you to chide him until he become more reasonable. Hon. Chicken must walk down from his 37c perch if he wish to join us at our table. Potatus, string-bean, butter and salad must also act less haughty in their prices if they wish to associate with us on bill-of-fare. Could you manage this for our household?”

“Japanese are great diplomatists,” I report. “I am willing to approach the problem with intense stinginess.”

“The duties of a servant,” repeat Mrs. McManus with expression of old-age peculiar to brides, “the duties of a servant is to come into more affectionate contact with butcher, baker and icer. Thus tradesmen might be coaxed into sharing with Housekeeper that profits which they now selfishly keep in their business. You will arrange this.”

“I am willing to promise anything,” I collaborate.

“Each morning after dish-wash ceremony is over & Hon. Furnace is fed for the day, you must promenade with basket to market where High Cost of Living resides. It is useless for you to squander $2 here & there in reckless provisions. I read in newspaper this morning how one delicious and nourishing lunch for 3 persons might be bought for 50c, including cost of gas to cook it with. I shall try it today. My Hon. Aunt Augusta are expected here at noon. I require you to make miraculous meal for her. Here is 50c. Take it and be economical.”

“I could not be extravagant under those circumstances,” I renig, compressing the ½ dollar to my pocket.

“Be as hasty as possible,” she beseech when I depart.

“It should take no time to make 50c go a long ways,” I encourage. “I shall saunter among markets making storekeepers jealous by my independent behavior. Then I shall promenade homewards and commence to cook.”

I do so and this is what I done.

I spent 5c trolley fare and arrive to shop of Hon. Fritz Schultz, prominent butchery. I discover this wealthy meat-person standing befront of his store making sweet whistles.

“O Hon. Mr. Sir,” I commence, “your soul feels very musical this morning.”

“A butcher’s soul is like his sausage,” he confab, “full of strange and wonderful surprises. Also I must feel slightly poetical because Spring have arrived to my store.”

“Spring,” I snagger.

“Ah, yes,” he say off. “Beholt the signs of Spring in my window.”

I notice several. One say: “SPRING LAMB!—Marked Up to 42c.” Another say, “SPRING CHICKEN—Formerly 18c. Reduced to 27c.”

“Why should meat behave so heavenly?” I reproach. “It is continually soaring beyond.”

“The Trusts—they are greedy about making profits,” he say, arranging his necktie, which was full of diamond pins. “The Trusts are to blame, as usual. What can I sell you this morning? I shall be willing to part from some delicious pork chops for twice that they are worth.”

“At such a price pork should taste like venison,” I suggested.

“Have you got any food for sale that is less ostentatious?” I acquit.

“Corn beef,” he report. “That homely dish can be obtained for 22c per lb.”

“I shall take 1 lb. please,” I order.

“Umpossible!” he disorder. “My corn beef come only in 5 lb. patterns.”

My soul drop back, completely flabbed.

“Ain’t you got nothing that I can buy for 15c?” I gosp.

“How you insult me!” he gollup, wiping meat-axe with rage. So I depart off before chop occur.

It was now 11:30 by clock-time and I had not yet obtained that 50c lunch. I spent 5c more trolley fare arriving at Nusbaum’s Butchery. This leave me 40c with which to do so with.

“What you got for 15c which is sifficient to retain 3 persons, mostly ladies?” I ask from Hon. Nusbaum. He look to me with fatty eyebrows.

“I can give you 3 nice mutton bones for that price of money,” he report.

“Can food be made from mutton bones?” I ask it.

“If properly prepared,” he renig, “they are delicious. First they should be boiled for 4 days in extract of beef, then stuffed with chicken giblets, olives, muskrooms, raisons, and 12 fresh eggs chopped finely. The cost of this dish are as follows:

Bones 15c Chicken giblets 1.50 Muskrooms .75 Eggs .65 Raisons .20 ———— Total Extravagance $3.25”

“You call this cheap dish?” I holla nervely.

“You would be surprised to see how cheap it tastes!” he suggest while I walk away from that conversation.

I stand with my 40c remainder on sidewalk and wonder what next. Ah! Vegetable lunch is most delicate for invalids and full of economy. Therefore I shall go to place of Hon. Cyrus Goldthwaite, groceries and vegetables. I arrive there by trolley, which cost 10c because I lost my transfer. This subtract me down to 3c.

“What wish?” require Cyrus Goldthwaite, with spectacles.

“How much would 3 potatus cost?” I negotiate. I was sure those vegetable would be nourishing, because Irish eats them and remains quite warlike.

“They come in all sizes,” suggest Hon. Goldthwaite.

“Give them to me about ladies’ size,” I suggest, because I knew they was for a ladies’ lunch.

Hon. Goldthwaite hand forth 3 gentle-looking potatus.

“23c” he require.

“O, Hon. Groceries!” I abject. “Ladies cannot live on potatus alone. I got 30c with which to obtain lunch for 3. From this I must extract 5c for trolley home-trip. What bill-of-fare can I purchase for 25c remainder?”

“Sardines,” he say, “are nourishing but they tastes lonesome without crackers. These rare fishes costs 20c per box and sifficient crackers to chaperone them would cost 7c. This would leave bonus of 3c for salt. Or if you would think it more delicate you might obtain ½ lb. cheese at 18c and 1 potatus at 7c.”

“I am completely puzzled by this arithmetic,” he said.

“Maybe I should telephone to Mrs. McManus and find what is,” I say so. So I do so.

“Hullo!”

“Yes.”

“This is Togo.”

“O!” Chillbite voice.