Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 2, No. 22, July, 1921 — Drippings From the Fawcett
_Drippings From the Fawcett_ My friend Norton took me around Minneapolis recently on an evening’s jaunt to see the “sights.
” After visiting two or three moonlit stores, Norton suggested that I be introduced to his sweetheart.
Brother Norton, being fairly well varnished with fusel oil and white mule, called at the wrong house.
A colored maid answered the door bell.
“Is (hic) Daisy at home?
” he inquired.
“No, suh,” replied the maid.
“Then is Pansy here?
” said Norton.
“No, suh.
” “Does Violet live here?
” “No, suh.
” “Then is (hic) Rose in?
” “No, suh, and look here, Mistuh, dis place ain’t no hot house.
” After which I led Brother Norton back to the flivver and we sojourned to Dutch’s stag cafe for the remainder of the evening.
* * * * * I’ve found another use for my flivver: Deacon Miller’s suckling colt followed old Lizzie for half a mile the other day.
* * * * * While at my Breezy Point cabin resort at Pequot I heard an interesting story regarding the manner in which young Indian men woo their sweethearts.
When the Indian feels a tug at his heart he will station himself with a tom-tom in front of the tepee of his beloved and beat frantically on the drum affair.
If the girl loves him she comes out and the medicine man does the rest.
If she scorns his love she places a snow-shoe at the wigwam entrance and the young chief goes back to his own tepee and keeps on beating his tom-tom until some squaw girl takes pity and marries him.
* * * * * Maggie, our new harvest cookhouse chef, lost her brooch the other night, so she has prepared the following advertisement for the Whiz Bang: “LOST—A cameo brooch representing Venus and Adonis on the Robbinsdale road about ten o’clock on Wednesday evening.
” * * * * * We’ve had a good laugh on our neighbor, Deacon Callahan, since the episode several of us witnessed in front of the Palace Shoe Store in Robbinsdale the other evening.
The Deacon saw his wife coming down the street, so he hid in the doorway of the Palace.
When she passed him, he jumped out suddenly and kissed her.
Instead of the scream he expected, she hoarsely whispered: “Don’t be so bold, mister.
Folks ’round here know me.
” * * * * * Johnnie Beaton, of Ranier, Minn.
, tells about a period in his life when old John Law grabbed out and placed him in the Ranier calaboose.
He had been inside but a short time when one of the local civic improvement “birds” handed him the usual circular asking a donation for the improvement of the local jail.
Johnnie replied: “The present jail is good enough to suit me.
” Half an hour later, he organized a stud poker game.
As usual, the sucker squawked.
His reply to the saphead was pert and to the point: “Sh!
keep still.
Do you want to get thrown out of here?
” * * * * * The “no booze” edict for soldiers during the recent friction with Germany raised havoc with some of us rum-soaked sinners, but it also had its comical side at times.
I remember a system I put into effect in Camp Lee.
The first sergeant was informed that no passes would be granted to visit Pennsylvania points (Pennsy was wet) unless the fortunate man returned with proper credentials, said credentials to be deposited upon arrival in the top drawer of the skipper’s desk in the orderly room.
It was my duty to check properly the pass“port.
” In our organization was a lieutenant whom we will call Evans for short.
Once upon a time Evans was in a mess (he often was, as far as that goes, but this time I mean a mess where we eat), and in that mess there also was a colonel—a man of meanness and incidentally a strict teetotaller.
This colonel saw, or thought he saw, in Evans a gentleman after his own heart—a steady, yea, even puritanical, officer.
One early morning, Evans returned from a pass to Altoona, Pa.
, and flopped his weary way to the mess hall.
Collapsing in a seat, he played with his fork and tried to look sober for a few minutes, and then giving it up he concentrated on grub—or rather on waiters.
Near the mantelpiece in the mess stood what appeared to Evans to be the waiter on duty, and he addressed this person—the only other person in the mess—rather gruffly, I’m afraid.
“Heah—hic—orderly!
” he exploded.
“D’yuh think I’m—hic—sitting here—hic—merely to provide you—hic—with a spectacle?
I want some food....
” “I’m afraid, lieutenant,” came the acid reply, “that you are providing me with a spectacle.
” “Good Gawsch!
” spluttered Evans.
“I thought you were an orderly.
I beg pardon, major; I didn’t shee you were the—hic—colonel.
” * * * * * Speaking of abbreviated dress brings to mind a recent occurrence in the St. Paul ball park, whence I had flivvered to watch Minneapolis lose to the Saints.
Coming out, after the game, I bumped into a small boy who had become lost in the crowd.
Upon inquiring why he was crying, he howled: “I lost my mama.
” “Why didn’t you hold to her skirts?
” I asked.
“I tried to,” wept the kid, “but I couldn’t reach them.
”
