Part 19

Repercussions hit hard back here. The one great wrong done our converts was, as you might expect, heaped upon them by the unbelievers who had been consigned to the everlasting fire of brimstone by the now fallen preacher. As is usual with emotionally recruited converts there was some immediate backsliding, or cooling off, but when “twitted”—that’s what they called it then—by the ungodly, the stampede back to normal got under way and was, in the days that followed, made complete—save one. “Uncle” Peter was seemingly the only one of the many who could bring himself to believe that religion was religion—something pure, and worth keeping, even though it had been delivered to him through the channels of a dirty carrier.

There is an old saying that “one should give the devil his due.” I’m sure that, regardless, the magnetic George did a power of good in his revivals here. While, it is true, his converts did not choose to “join-up” after the crash, until the backwash of that scandal had become tempered by time, they did, however, accept the opportunity to come into the fold under another standard bearer. And, unfortunately for the Baptists, the Methodists were first to hold a revival—and reap the harvest. And the girl who was “called” upon to babble in tongues, gave up the pursuit when it was evident that she was fooling no one but herself.

At the time of the exposure, I was temporarily working for Bill Granger on his Centralia Journal, and boarding at the old McCubbin House, down by the tracks. Ed Murray — later, Mo. Pacific agent in Wetmore for many years—was clerk at the hotel. Professor Roberts, principal of the Centralia Public Schools, was the third person present when the Evening Daily newspaper was brought in. After reading the exposure article, I passed the paper to Mr. Roberts, with comment that I had attended Graham’s revival meetings in Wetmore. Mr. Murray had his say about preachers in general, and about one Reverend Locke in particular—of the latter, quite complimentary, however.

As he read, Mr. Roberts said, “Say—you, a newspaperman—here’s something you ought to commit, for future use.” For future use? He meant, let us hope, only as a model for phrase building to be used on occasion. That Mr. Roberts, he was a mighty clever young man—quite young, then. It was a long time ago, sixty-one years to be exact — but I still remember.

The newspaper report was vague as to the exact nature of the preacher’s misstep, and I shall not attempt to state it here lest I might do someone an injustice. So, then, let’s let George do it. The paper quoted him, thus:

“I have the consolation, small though it be, of knowing that though my bark goes down amid the turbid waters of Illicit love the shores of Time are marked with many such wrecks.”

Prettily phrased. But no further comment.

NOTE — This is okayed, “No-sicha-na-thing.” “By-Goddies,” and all, by Hettie Shuemaker-Kroulik, (70), granddaughter; and by Peter Cassity, (80), grandson. And they go further, saying: The $1,000 he paid to rid himself of the woman, plus what it had cost him to get her (preacher’s reward) just about cleaned “Uncle” Peter. And Cassity says the pies swiped by Riley numbered exactly forty. Jim paid double, as always—and liked it.

And now wouldn’t it be nice if I could say here that Cassity was one of those converts? I’d say it, anyway—if I weren’t afraid Peter would tell on me.

MY BEST INVESTMENT Not Hitherto Published — 1947

By John T. Bristow

Girls — Girls — Girls

After mulling the old thing over, I know now that the boy who sat with me in the reserved section at Evangelist George Graham’s meetings, as intimated in the foregoing article, was not Peter Cassity. It was his brother Bill. Pete tells me that he was farming at the time over on Wolfley creek and did not attend the meetings regular—but don’t ever think Pete did not remember his raising, when he did get in.

Bill Cassity had the nerve and the Biblical knowledge to stand up in a big way for his Maker. That boy had an almost irresistible line, and it was, at times, questionable whether the minister, or the converts—with Bill well out in the lead — were doing most in the matter of gathering in the prospects.

When my uncle, the Rev. Thomas S. Cullom, minister of a Methodist Church in Nashville, Tennessee, with his wife Irene, and two daughters, Lora and Clevie, paid a visit to their Wetmore relatives in 1908, the Reverend told me that in his Church, and throughout the south, it was customary during revivals to have “exhorters” stationed in the congregation to give supplementary support to the minister’s pleas for the redemption of lukewarm and tottering souls.

I asked him if his exhorters ever broke in on his impassioned pleas in a discordant manner—that is, a little off key? “Cert’nly,” he said, with fine southern accent. “My exhorters are very devout workers for the Lord, and sometimes when filled to overflowing with the Holy Ghost, they say their lines and then keep right on exhorting and sometimes steal the whole show.” This ungodly reference to his Church as a show was made with a wink and a grin.

And so, with the old time revivals here, the minister’s exhorters, under another name of course, sometimes ran away with the show. This brings us back to Bill Cassity, first born of Newton and Anne Shuemaker-Cassity. Bill did just that on at least two occasions in the Evangelist’s revival here. He had the Christian training to do it courageously.

While still a young man, Bill Cassity went to Colorado, worked in the mines and smelters, at high wages, and ordered the Spectator sent to him there — and later to Los Angeles. Bill came home once, told me he liked his work in Colorado, or rather the big wages—but he did not like the characters he had to associate with. In California, still on the right side of the laws of God and man, Bill pushed his penchant for righteousness a little too far for his own good. As a detective, self-appointed or otherwise, he learned much of the ways of the Los Angeles underworld—and, it was said, the boys took him for a ride and failed to bring him back.

And again, some twenty-odd years ago, Than Gustafson, a former Wetmore man, older brother of our Fred Gustafson — and in a legal way Fred’s brother was also his brother-in-law, the two Gustafson boys having married sisters, Adelia and Ophelia, daughters of S. M. Hawkins—is supposed to have been taken for a one-way ride by the Rocky Mountain crooks. He left his home in Denver, a wife and two children, one evening in line of his duties — and was never heard of again. Than Gustafson evidently knew too much for his own good.

When in gangdom, it is wise to be dumb.

Under the old system, in revivals, the first converts either appointed themselves or were delegated to work among the congregation as boosters for the minister—something like Uncle Tom’s “exhorters.” They would go out in the audience, usually in pairs, and plead with you, cry, and sniffle over you—an actual fact—in a manner that would - make you feel mighty cheap. The boy who respected them, loved them through long associations, was struck dumb.

One particularly sanctified woman—no one could ever doubt her sincerity; I had known her for years, and she was always so—with redoubled sniffling tendencies as of the moment, accompanied by the prettiest girl that ever walked down a church aisle or any other avenue in Wetmore, a girl whom I had just about given up as lost to a certain rich man’s son, on account of her papa’s preference for the other boy, and because “papa” said I played poker, made a firm stand in front of me one night. I knew before the old girl began to sniffle that, on account of the young girl, I would, sooner or later, find myself in a front row. More than one boy went forward in that meeting because he did not have the heart to disappoint them—and maybe there was also the attraction of a girl. Girls were more susceptible to the worker’s pleas.

The older woman talked rapidly, between sniffles, in terms only partly understood by me—but the girl’s radiant smile told me much. I would not permit them to march me up to the front, as other workers were doing with prospects, but I promised to sit with the young girl in the reserved corner on the following night—and see what would happen.

I hope the good people will pardon me for mixing my worldly activities with the more decent church sittings — but this seems the opportune time for me to ‘fess up. In this story I mean to come clean—tell everything, and have as little of the old hero stuff in it as is consistent with the making of a good story.

I had been to church—Methodist protracted meeting — and then dropped in on the boys in the DeForest store at the virtual close of a little poker game. Even now I hate to think what Henry DeForest would have done to us had he known his dry goods counter was serving as a poker table. One man, Willard Lynch, dropped out while the deal was in progress, and said I might play his hand.

This was to be my first poker game. Also, it should have been my last—but it wasn’t. Not that it ever became an obsession with me. But, in general, it is not an elevating attainment—and it is something which any self-respecting young man can very well do without. It was, however, my last game in Mr. Henry’s store. I wanted to retain, at all costs, his respectful opinion of me. And the other boys finally saw the error of their ways — and changed their meeting place. On the cleaner side, I will say that I never learned to shoot craps, never bet on elections, ball games, or the horses; never drank or caroused, wouldn’t feel “at “home” at the popular cocktail party; was never in court as complainant or defendant—and was only once in my whole life in court as a witness, at which time, had I told the Whole Truth as I was sworn to do, I could have been jailed for my ignorance. I was an untutored member of the Kansas Grain Dealers Association, which was under investigation. Also, I want to say in the outset that this poker stigma was not the thing which had lowered me in the opinion of “Papa.” It was the more powerful evil—money—of which I had none. But there was one bright spot in the clouded picture. The rich man’s son looked a lot better to “Papa” than he did to the girl.

Well, in this, my first poker game, I picked up four natural aces, and if you know only as much as I knew then, you would consider it a top hand. No one had told me they were playing the joker wild, “cut and slash.” I bet a nickel. Alfred Anderson called, and raised me a dime. Two of the other boys called Alfred’s fifteen-cent bet—and the dealer, Sidney Loop, (clerk in the store), dropped out of the play. I thought my four aces were good for ten cents more, and not possessing a loose dime, I dug up a five-dollar bill. Alfred was up on his toes, and said, “You aiming to bet all that?” I replied, “No—only aiming to call your dime raise.” Still upon his toes, a little higher now, he said rather anxiously, “If you want to bet it all, I’ll call it—you can’t bluff me.” I took one more look at my hand—and not one of the aces had gotten away. And then I said, “All right, I’ll just bet it all.”

Now, if you know the game, you are maybe expecting to hear that he had a set of fives, including the joker of course. But it was not Alfred who held them. His four kings were not good. It was the dealer, the man who had dropped out because I had dropped in, who had five fives.

But this I did not know until two days later, not until after I had gone to church again and contributed $5.00 to Mrs. Draper’s fund for buying Christmas candies for her Sunday School kiddies. Alfred’s sister Phoeba, as personal representative of our dear old Sunday School Superintendent, took my contribution with gracious acknowledgment, as though it were not tainted money. And Mrs. Draper—the less chivalrous boys called her “Mother Corkscrew” because she wore her gray hair in ringlets at shoulder length—came to me on the double quick, shrieking her praise of me, and intimated that this generous gift might get me places.

Alfred said that inasmuch as he surmised he had been cold-decked out of the five—thankfully with no aspersion attachment—that I should have at least given the donation in both our names. But that would have been risky. Alfred was a rather white “black sheep” in a very religious family, and Sis would most likely have wanted to know how come? The fact that Sidney and Willard were keeping company with sisters at that time may have had nothing to do with the introduction of that cold deck. And then again it might have. Sidney said the fellow needed “taking down” a bit — and that it was planned to give the losers back their money. A fat chance they would have of getting their money back now.

Until now I had only stood, by and watched a penny-ante game in the new opera house over the Morris store, where the clerks — Dave Clements, Bill McKibbon, George and Chuck Cawood, Bob Graham—and some younger fry, congregated on Sundays. And then, too, as a kid, I had been present on several occasions at a somewhat bigger game in the Neville residence on this same corner. But here I did not have a chance to closely observe the technique of the game—for I was under the table most of the time. The men played altogether then with “shinplaster” money — undersized ten, twenty-five, and fifty cent pieces of U. S. paper currency, and the breeze caused from shuffling the cards would sometimes blow the money off the table. Mr. Jim Neville said I might keep all I could get my hands on — and I think it was a sort of house rule that the players were not to contend roughly with me for the fluttering pieces. Still I think I got more kicks than the law allowed.

Also, I once saw the women playing poker in this same home—and they were using “shinplaster” too—but they were not generous enough to invite me to go down under. I do not wish to name them. Nor would I have mentioned the boys’ names but for the fact all of them have now gone to their reward. And, besides, despite the undercurrent that it was not considered strictly genteel, everybody, more or less, played poker then—even, it was said, Father Bagley, our first High Priest, would take a hand occasionally. There was a regular fellow. For him it was Mass of a Sunday morning, then base ball or horse-racing in the afternoon, without fail.

With this slow and awkward beginning it was a long, long time before I got nerve enough to sit in a private poker game as guest of a friend, in Kansas City, with a player who afterwards became President of the United States. He did not impress me as likely timber then. But, may I say, that when once in the running, he showed ‘em that he was truly from Missouri—and that, surprisingly, he could, in a pinch, run like a scared rabbit. Politics was his forte.

In explanation of the Girl-Papa-Richboy incident: I had sent a boy with a note asking the girl for her company for a dance, a private dance to be given by our select crowd, of which she was a favorite. The boy came back without a written reply—but he said she told him to tell me that she would go with me. This being rather unusual, I asked the -boy if that was all she said? “Well,” he said, “her mother said, ‘Now, girlie, you know what your father will say’ — and the girl said, ‘I don’t care, I’m going with him anyway’.” I had not known about the rich man’s son trying to edge in, and this indicated slap by her papa was a grievous blow to my ego.

I sent the girl another note, telling her in simple words—I always made ‘em simple now since having once, to no avail, slopped over ridiculously — that I had wormed out of the boy the remarks between mother and daughter, and that in consequence thereof I deemed it wise for me to cancel the date, until I could find out what it was all about. I may say I never sent but one formally phrased note to a girl in all my life—and that got me exactly nothing. That literary boy, Ecky Hamel, dictated it for me, and to make matters worse, it was to his girl. And he really wanted it to click—to ward off, in his absence, some dangerous competition.

However, I once got a neatly written acceptance to an ultra-formal and gorgeously phrased note bearing my name, which I didn’t write. I was a new boy in Seneca at the time. I met a lot of girls at the skating rink in the old Armory building on upper Main Street. Ena Burbery, pretty and agreeably alert, was good on roller skates. Ena and four other girls worked as trimmers in the millinery department of the Cohen store. Ena talked. And the girls, all but one, joined in mailing her a note bearing my forged signature requesting her company for a swank party three days hence. Ella Murphy, one of the five, boarded and roomed at the Theodore Wolfley home, same as I did while working on Wolfley’s newspaper, The Tribune. Ella said the note was formal and softly silly, and so did Ena say it was awful — but, she giggled, “I was not going to let that spoil a date, especially for a party like that.” Now, the ridiculous part of it all is, that it was an exclusive party to be given by Seneca’s upper crust, to which I had no invitation. But, even so, it gave me elevated status for a little while, in a limited way. We compromised on the rink. And the girls, whom I never did meet, sent me an apology, through Ella Murphy, for recklessly abusing my name—and getting the girl a date. Ena was the section foreman’s daughter, but that was no handicap. I myself married a section foreman’s daughter, picked her for a winner from a sizable field of promising prospects.

Naturally, I wanted to know more about the status of the rich man’s son—and I got it too, back at the gospel tent the next night. The girl said nothing at all about my poker-playing proclivities. She was too sensible to try to reform a boy. Her idea was to pick ‘em as suited her fancy—and trust to luck. Indeed, she said in rebuttal of her father’s expressed opinion of me, that if her mamma only could have kept her mouth shut everything would have been all right, and that I would have never known. “And besides,” she said, “You don’t drink, and papa does—a little; and you don’t smoke, and papa does, though he does not smoke cigarettes.” A cigarette smoker in those days was considered cheap. How times have changed. The girl had overlooked one of “Papa’s” weaknesses, but for me to have mentioned it to her then would have got me nothing that I was not now likely to get anyway.

This exchange of ideas took place in the reserved corner of the arena in advance of the regular session while other congregated young people were likely thinking of an afar off haven having streets paved with jasper and gold. Something about streets and jasper and gold ran in the lines of the old song books. Also, I dare say, some of the converts might have cringed a little at the thought of an everlasting fire of brimstone—this idea emanating from George, the Evangelist—which the wayward and lukewarm alike might, if they didn’t watch out, fall into in a last-minute rush for that afar off haven.

Every evening during his meetings Reverend Graham would institute a two-minute session of silent prayer. In - view of George’s admitted downfall at a later stand, I trust it will not now be considered sacrilegious for me to hazard an opinion that those silent periods offered the preacher an excellent opportunity to pray for grace.

It was not required by custom then for those seeking salvation to come clear down to earth, and some merely bowed their heads, rested them on the backs of deserted chairs, and whispered when so inclined. The girl and I, we did not desecrate the hallowed moment. We didn’t have to. Silence was golden. I was conceited enough just then to believe that this beautiful girl, thoroughly repentant or no, would have gone through George’s pictured purgatory for me.

And nothing happened that could be chalked up as material gain for the better life. Well, I ask you, how in the name of high heaven, could it? I’m not particularly proud of it, though. But, you know, if your chariot does not come along, you can’t take a ride. I certainly do not wish to cast reflection on the Church. The Church, as a Church, is really a grand institution. I should hate to think where we would be in a world without it. Henry DeForest, Yale graduate, said the tent doings was proselytizing.

Perhaps you would like to know how I fared in the days to come with this renewed lease on life which the Evangelist’s revival had brought me? Well, “Papa” shelved his dislike of my poker-playing, and both he and “mama” greeted me as a friend ever after. They were really fine people—I might say the very BEST, with capitals.

“Papa” had played a little poker himself—and that too, by-gosh, in our penny-ante game—and his wish for a switch in the matter of his daughter’s company was based on too slim premise to set store by, now that the girl had told him with flat-footed finality that it would not work.

And the girl? Well, I had to go away, first to Centralia, then to Seneca to help Theodore Wolfley print his newly purchased Tribune, and I turned her over to my best poker-playing friend to keep for me against the time when I might return.

Now, to do me this small favor my friend had to drop another girl with whom he had been keeping company steadily for two years. He probably saw possibilities in the change, but he was really too fine—and too ably assisted by the girl—to take advantage of a friend’s absence.

As my trusted friend and my girl in escrow were already lined up for the party that first night after my return, it was mutually agreed that—just for once—I should line up with my friend’s discarded girl, who was still free. It worked out all right—and it was wonderful to be back with the old crowd again.

Now, don’t jump at conclusions. Though she was a mighty fine girl, and good looking too, I did not find her preferable to the other girl. Just why I made it a regular habit for nearly a year, was quite a different matter.

We all belonged to an exclusive clique known as The Silver Stockings. Why so named I never learned. One unalterable requirement for the men was that each had to bring a girl—or a wife. No “stags” were permitted at our parties. This was because a certain unwanted young man had the disturbing habit of sneaking in at public gatherings and monopolizing our girls.

The thoughtful young man of that period did not think of marriage the first time he went out with a girl. In our community none but the rich man’s four sons were financially (in prospect) able to indulge in such dreams. And, besides, by this time I had had a change of heart—resolved to consider the future of the girl. After all “Papa” might have had the right idea. I figured that an attractive girl like she, would not be justified in playing along with me until I could make my stake.

And again, were I to pursue my chances—which at this time were, I flattered myself, in a high bracket—who could say with certainty that “Papa” would not someday become afflicted with a recurrent attack of that silly notion the first time that the favored son, or maybe another of the RM’s sons might strut his stuff in the presence of the girl. Then, too, something fine—alas, something very fine, was now gone out of the picture that could never be returned. I reluctantly decided to let matters drift along as temporarily planned the first night back home—and see what would happen. It was my hardest decision.