Part 2

Here we are, right in the midst of the festal season. Dug and I have been trying a new kind of liquor every day for a week to get the exact right thing for the holidays. Queer about Christmas, Billy, there seems to be something in the air that makes a duffer want to give something to every guy who is worse off than he is.

I saw a hard looking old dub on the street on Christmas morning; he did not seem to know which way to turn; his clothes were whole, but had been worn shiney. He had no overcoat and his old plug hat looked as though it had done duty for many a year. I touched him on the shoulder and said to him:

“Come with me, old man, and take a drink.” The old man looked surprised.

“I don’t drink, sir,” said he, “and it would be better for you if you did not, either.”

“All right, old man,” said I, “I admire your principles, but I deplore the loss of so much fun on your account, and by the way,” said I, noticing how drawn and pinched the old man’s face looked, “if you wouldn’t waste so much money on grub and put a little of it into good whiskey for yourself, it would help out your looks a heap.”

I imagined the old man looked hurt at something I had said and not wishing to hurt anyone’s feelings on Christmas morning, I handed him a dollar and left him. He seemed to take the dollar reluctantly and I felt then that I must have touched the old man’s pride.

As we walked down the street I noticed we were followed by a couple of nicely dressed gentlemen, and I also noticed that they were wonderfully pleased about something; in fact, they seemed to be immoderately pleased for they were laughing good and plenty. As they came close to us I turned and said to them:

“If that is a jag you have you ought to have divided it with some one else; it will hurt you to carry that load all day.”

“No,” said one of them as he leaned against a tree and talked between laughs, “we are not jagged, but we are willing and it is up to you to do the proper.”

“Up to me,” said I, “what’s chewing you?”

“Oh! not a thing, only I was wondering how you would feel when you found out that the fellow you gave the dollar to was old Josiah Grubb, who is known to be worth two million and is too mean to feed his face regularly.”

Billy, I have had a good many raw turns, but this capped them all. I thought at first I would go back and make him cough that dollar up again, but I only went back to prove that our two new found friends were right. Then I bought wine. This Christmas giving is a great stunt, Billy, and there is certainly one dollar that I have put into safe keeping.

Speaking of Christmas giving reminds me that the average Christmas present is a gift of something that we would like to own to someone who has a very bad opinion of our individual taste.

Dug has a cousin who is attending a theological school in Boston and a couple of days before Christmas, Dug had wired me to send this cousin a suitable present. This was a little out of my line, but I did the best I could and then promptly forgot about it. On Christmas day Dug received a number of presents, and among them a bundle from Clarence Hulburt, the theological student. Dug showed it to me; it consisted of two books, one was Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress,” and the title of the other was “How to Be Good Though Rich.” Dug was laughing.

“What an ass,” said I, “sending such things as that to anyone.”

This waked Dug up to the fact of my buying something for this same fellow and he asked me what I sent him.

“Sent him?” said I. “I sent him the neatest little poker outfit you ever laid your eyes on, four decks of cards and over three hundred chips. The cleanest looking white ones and red ones that would make you bluff on a pair of fours, and blues that were a dream. I never had so many chips on my side of the table at one time, and for a fact, Dug, I hated to see them go.”

Dug turned as pale as a ghost and groaned.

“What is the matter?” said I, jumping towards him.

“Matter,” said he, “you d——d idiot, do you really mean to tell me you sent an outfit like that to a man who is studying for the ministry?”

“Why not,” said I; and up to now I can’t see what there was to groan over. There was sure more fun in that poker outfit than in the books he sent to Dug, if I am any judge.

Christmas is all right, though, even if the presents don’t fit the right spot. I never knew of but one family that could hit it right every time. That family consisted of a man and his wife. The man usually bought his wife a box of cigars or a pipe, and she would buy him a pair of earrings, a breastpin or a box of candy. If he did not like the earrings she would wear them, and the cigars never came amiss. Taking it all in all, it is a day that makes a fellow feel generous, whether the money he is spending belongs to him or to some one else.

Christmas Eve I went into the hotel barber shop to get shaved. As I sat down in a chair I noticed that I had drawn a long, cadaverous-looking cuss for a barber who seemed to take full possession of anything that came within his reach. He had caught on to my name, somehow, and as I sat down he said:

“Your hair needs trimming, Mr. Henderson. It is a little ragged around the edges.”

I knew well enough that my hair did not need cutting, and was about to say so when he butted in with:

“It’s Christmas to-morrow, you know, Mr. Henderson,” and while he was saying it he was pulling out the headrest. It was Christmas Eve, and I did not want to make him feel bad, so I let him go ahead. One thing I liked about him, he did not seem to be one of the talking kind; that is to say, he did not say much, but what he did say you felt that he meant. After he was through cutting my hair, he laid my head back, and, with those long swipes of his, laid the lather on all parts of me that showed above my collar. Then he commenced on me with his razor. He was long at this. He would lay his razor on above my cheek-bone, and with one swipe would rake down over my cheek and land under the tip of my chin. I fairly held my breath. After he had given me a couple of swipes of that kind he stopped to wipe his razor.

“Look here,” said I; “what did you work at before you struck the barber trade?”

“Stock Yards,” said he, taking a swipe down the other side of my face with that infernal razor; “used to be a ripper,” he added. And before my mind’s eye came a long row of hogs strung up by the hind legs and my friend of the razor going down the line giving each one a slash down the middle. Again I held my breath, and, after a few more of those swiping cuts, I was washed off and jerked into an upright position.

“Singe?” I heard him say, and, before I could utter a protest a blaze of fire was dancing about my head. This was another case of hold your breath. Then I was thrown on my back again, and lengthy was massaging my face. He was handling it as though it was a piece of putty, and I wondered if I would know myself if I ever got a chance to look in the glass again. Then I was bounced into an upright position again, and I heard him say something about the danger of taking cold. The next I knew those long fingers were going through what was left of my hair, executing what he called an alcohol shampoo. There was nothing further he could do for me, but, as he presented me with my check, he slipped a bottle of hair tonic into my pocket.

“Greatest tonic on earth,” said he. “There are indications that your hair will begin to fall out in a few years, and you should be prepared.”

The check was two dollars and forty cents. I handed him three one dollar bills.

“Thanks!” said he, looking at the bills. “Sixty cents is the smallest tip I have had today, but it is all right, old man. Come in again.”

I clinched the bottle of hair tonic in one hand and a strong desire came to me to kill that barber on the spot. I took a step towards him. He had put the money away, had gotten hold of his razor with his right hand, and was stropping it on the palm of his left. A vision of those slashed hogs came before me, and I walked out, but if I ever meet that man separated from his razor, there is going to be trouble.

I am keeping a little book now and putting in it the things to be avoided. One of the first things down is to avoid a hotel barber shop on Christmas Eve. You can never forget that it is Christmas time. They commence telling you about it a week before Christmas, and don’t let up until a week after New Year’s.

When you first come into a hotel the boy shows you to your room, and after setting down your grip in the only place in the room where you would rather not have it, he fixes the windows. They most likely don’t need fixing, but he fixes them anyway. If they are shut, he opens them, and if they are open he shuts them. Then, if you don’t notice him, he stands on one foot awhile, then changes off and stands on the other. Then he coughs, and, if that doesn’t fetch you, he says:

“Anything more I can do for you?”

You say “No,” and he puts you down for a cheap guy and then goes down and tells the news to the rest of the bell hops.

The one who showed me up at this place wasn’t to be put off so easy. After he had worked all the old grafts he said:

“It’s going to be fine weather for Christmas.”

“All right,” said I. “If you will pull off a good sunshiny day, you can come to my room and get a half a dollar,” and then the little beggar asked me if I was going to be here Christmas. I got rid of this boy for the time being on a promise, but I knew that half would have to be paid if Christmas brought in a cyclone.

The elevator boy sprung a new one on me. He handed out a catch-penny Christmas box and said:

“Ain’t that a peach?”

“Sure,” said I, wondering what he would say next.

“Then put a stone in it,” said he. That cost me a quarter.

In the dining-room each waiter wished me a “Merry Christmas,” and then you would see his hand slide out toward you as though he could not help it. Every chambermaid on my floor swore that she had waited on me at some other hotel, but the boy at the coat room took the palm. He wiped off my boots with a cloth, helped me on with my coat and brushed it, then as I was walking away, said:

“Thank you, sah; thank you, very kindly.”

“What in H—— are you thanking me for; I didn’t give you anything.”

“No, sah; no, sah!” said he, hesitatingly; “I only thanked yo’ cause yo’ let me bresh yo’ off, sah.”

What a fellow needs is one of those change-holders that the street car conductors use, with a place for each kind of a coin. But he would need more than that. He would need a national bank to keep the thing supplied.

Yours, Jack.

Swearing Off.

Jack Henderson.

Swearing Off.

Philadelphia, 19—.

Dear Billy:—

The New Year’s days have come, the saddest of the year—when every dub a fellow knows swears off on booze and beer. Oh, say! But doesn’t it make you tired—this swearing off business?

I went down the line on New Year’s morning, from the Malton to the Singum House, and every man I asked to take a smile cocked his eye, shook his head and croaked “water wagon.” I went back to the Malton, pulled Dug out of bed, and could hardly wait for him to dress before I hurried him into the bar for a morning’s morning. D— a man, I say, who doesn’t know when he has enough. That was the toast we drank to, and before we had worn that toast out we certainly had enough and we knew it.

We did some great calling on New Year’s day, but a fellow can’t call at every booze joint in the Quaker City without having a load he can feel. In our wanderings for new booze joints to conquer, we accidentally got into a barber shop. I think it was the bottles of colored fluid that attracted us. We were trying to find an excuse for coming in when I saw a sign which read: “No one allowed to tip the barbers.”

“Good,” said I to myself; “here is one place where we play even.” I called Dug’s attention to it, and we planted ourselves in chairs. That was the slickest shave I ever got, and the barber I had—why, he ought to have been a trained nurse: he was so solicitous of my health and comfort.

“This not allowing you chaps to take any tips is a great scheme,” said I. “How do you like it?”

“Like it,” said the barber; “it’s great. And we make more this way than we did before.”

“More pay, I suppose?”

“No, we get the same pay.”

“Then how can you make more?” The barber laughed.

“Then you ain’t on?” said he. “It’s the slickest ever. You notice that little fancy cup on the shelf?”

I told him I had noticed it.

“Well,” commenced he, “that cup does the business. We are not allowed to receive any tips, and we tell everybody so, and we also tell them about the fancy cup, and tell them we cannot help it if they want to send a present to our baby, and it is a nervy guy who will toss in less than a quarter on a plea like that. It looks small, you know. Besides, my baby has not been feeling well for the past few days.”

“So you are married and got children?” said I.

“Well, no; not exactly. I am not married, and of course haven’t any children, but I have the sweetest baby you ever saw. She is about twenty-seven summers old, and if any one should ask you, she is about the warmest baby in the bunch, and she does need money. Say, my friend, a chap came in here yesterday that put a dollar into that fancy little dish and he said, as he did it:

“That’s for the baby.”

I got out of the chair. As I did so he handed me the fancy cup. This made me mad, and I said to him:

“Look here, you tonsorial lobster, you and your baby will be obliged to worry along without anything from me for a while longer,” and I looked him fair in the eye that he might understand I meant business.

“That’s all right, my friend. You do exactly as you please, of course. Should be pleased to have you call again, and will treat you the best I know.”

He certainly was the limit and was trying hard to make me feel like a two-cent piece. As I turned my eyes from him they encountered a very fetching pair of eyes that belonged to the manicure lady. She not only had a fine pair of eyes, but she knew how to use them. I had always thought I would like to have one of those chiropodist ladies hold my hand for me, but I always hated to have it happen before a lot of barbers; but this one was different. She could have held my hands sitting on the sidewalk on Chestnut Street, with all the shoppers loose on the street. She made me put one of my hands in water and soak it up for a while, and then she commenced to get in her work. Say, but she had the softest hands and the most delicate touch. Oh, my! It just took my breath away for a minute. After a while I began to get a little used to it and found myself able to talk.

“You are an awfully sweet girl to be wasting your time sitting around a barber shop,” said I; “holding people’s hands that you have never been introduced to.”

“Oh, I don’t know!” said the Queen. “This is no ordinary shop, and my customers are all very nice.”

“They can’t be nice enough to you,” said I, “and it’s a wonder to me you stay here.”

“What do you think I ought to do?”

“You ought to get a position where you would only have one pair of hands to take care of,” said I; and then for fear she would not understand me I said:

“Why don’t you get married?” She laughed.

“I don’t know any one who would have me.”

“Did you ever advertise?”

“No,” said she. “I never thought of that. I am doing pretty well here.”

“How much do you get for holding hands like this?”

“Fifty cents is the regular price, but sometimes I put in a little more work and then my customers give me more.”

“Then” said I; “you just throw in a squeeze or two and I will make this job two dollars.”

She smiled, which showed her dimples in good shape, and when she caught hold of me again I could feel the effect clear up my back. This was a new deal for me, but it was worth the money.

“Look here, little queen,” said I. “Why can’t you meet me after you get out tonight and have a nice little supper somewhere?”

“I would like to awful well, but I am afraid I couldn’t do it. You see, I have a steady, and I couldn’t afford to break with him just for one evening with a stranger.”

“Just my luck,” said I, “I never saw anything yet that I really wanted that some guy didn’t have a prior claim to it.”

Just at this time Dug pulled away from the barber who had him under control and coming over to where I was, said:

“Cut that out, Jack; let’s get out of this.”

The queen cut her work short, but she froze on to the two dollars just the same, and worse than that she handed it to the barber whom I had refused to tip, saying as she handed it to him:

“Here’s two bucks for you, Charlie,” and then turning to me she added, “that’s my steady.”

The d— lout of a barber got my money after all. I met the queen on the street once afterwards. Her eyes were not working, some one had bruised them for her.

“What’s the matter, little one,” said I, “who has been trying to put your lamps out?”

“That steady of mine,” said she, “he accused me of holding out on him.”

“Why don’t you quit him, little one?”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. You see he is always good to me when he doesn’t booze or he gets it into his fool head that I am flirting with some one.”

And still we wonder at crime.

The little queen has passed out of my life, and me—have I sworn off on queens? Well, not exactly, but if I know it I have sworn off on barber’s queens.

Dug and I were out on the Germantown road the other evening. We were out to see some friends and had taken a few bowls with Hank and a few bowls with Jim, and when we got ready to start home we were feeling rich, good natured and prosperous, and Germantown road, Billy, doesn’t run the same as the other streets in Philadelphia, but looks as though it had been taken from some other city and dropped into Philadelphia crossways. This plays hob with the street corners and a fellow never knows where the street cars are going to stop.

We stationed ourselves at a corner, where we figured they ought to stop, and waited. When the car came it went by us like the wind and the motorman was motioning us to get to the next corner. By the time we got to the next corner, the car was half way down town. Dug was mad, but I reminded him that we had all night to get to the hotel in, and that we were safe for the next car. It was late and the cars did not run often, but one came at last. The first thing I noticed when the car hove in sight was the motorman gesticulating with all his might for us to get back to the corner where we were before. This made Dug madder than ever and he would not stir and, of course, the car went by us again. I laughed, which did not improve Dug’s temper.

“Think you are smart, don’t you?” said he. “Now, I am going to make you pay for this. I will bet you a sawbuck that the next car stops right between these points,” indicating the two corners where we had missed before.

I took the bet, taking a chance that his scheme, whatever it was, would fail. We both took our places at the point where Dug said the car would stop and awaited results. In a few minutes another headlight showed us that another car was coming. There was a cab standing by the curb with a tag on it marked “Public Cab,” and when the car was about a block and a half away, Dug grabbed the whip out of the socket and caught the horse by the bridle, and with a little cussing and whipping, brought the cab directly across the car track. Unbeknown to us the driver was sleeping inside the cab, the movement of the cab awakened him and about the time the wheels struck the car track, the driver fell out of the door of the cab and landed on all fours in the street. He regained his feet and as soon as he saw Dug at the horse’s head a sulphuric string of oaths rolled out of his mouth that it is not often the privilege of a white man to hear.

“You blankety blank fool,” said the driver, “what are you trying to steal my horse for?”

“Hold on there, young fellow,” said Dug, “your horse was running away and I caught him at the risk of my life. You ought to thank me, not curse me.”

“You are a liar,” said the cabbie, “that horse can’t run.”

This was too much for Dug and he promptly knocked the cabbie down. By this time the car had stopped with the fender touching the wheels of the cab. The cabbie had regained his feet and was hollowing “Bloody murder” at the top of his voice. Dug let go of the bridle and hit the horse a couple of cuts across the rump. This set him off on a dog trot down the road and the cabbie took after him. Dug and I boarded the car, the conductor gave the signal to go ahead and this closed the incident so far as we were concerned. I guess the cabbie caught his horse, anyway he wouldn’t be much loss.

It cost me ten dollars, but it put Dug in good humor and he tells now that if I want something else to swear off on I can swear off on betting against a sure thing.

Yours, Jack.

Grafting.

Jack Henderson.

Grafting.

Indianapolis, Ind., 19—.

Dear Billy:—

Grafting is tipping on a large scale. The average man kicks because the porters, bell boys and waiters hold him up for his small change, but the chances are if you should find out all about the kicker you would find he was a grafter and one of the worst kind.

At the St. Louis exposition I wandered into a dancing hall where the Turkish dancers were going through their agonies, and in looking about the audience, I saw a bumpkin taking in the show. Beside him was his Sunday girl, who was trying to be shocked by the performance. After one or two looks she dropped her eyes and would not be comforted. The guy, who was grinning all over his face, had to take her out, but she was only doing what the grafter often does, playing to the grand stand. If that girl was my wife I would put a detective on her trail right from the start. She reminded me of a woman I saw in Los Angeles once.

This woman was married and very modest, but she got stuck on a friend of mine who was a good deal of a rounder, and she used to come down town to meet him two or three times a week. One day she was coming down in the car and a duffer winked at her. She was wild with indignation, shed tears in the car and demanded that the car be stopped and the conductor call a policeman. The masher left the car, the modest lady kept her appointment with her sweetheart and telephoned to her husband from their trysting place that she was home darning his socks.

The telephone is a great thing, Billy, and by the way it is the bellwether as a grafter. Just show this to the president of the old company in Chicago, he knows it. It doesn’t do to judge from appearances, Billy. Things are not always as they seem. Speaking of grafting, it doesn’t always mean money, but it costs money to go the pace. I was in a town not a hundred miles from this one a short time ago when I ran across Johnny Morgan. You remember Johnny, he was always one of the good boys. He was so d——d good it used to make me mad and I licked him often just because he was so good that it worried me. When Johnny got big enough he went to work instead of living on the old man, like you and I did, and I laid it up against him as much as I did his being good. It seems Johnny has gotten to be a crack salesman and is traveling for a school book house. Easiest thing in the world to sell, I should think, if a fellow has the best, but Johnny says not.