Atchoo! Sneezes from a Hilarious Vaudevillian

"Tell me the circumstances, Mike."

"Will, it's jist this way, yer honor, the walkin' diligate has ordhered me to sthroike, and me ould woman tills me to ka-ape on wur-rkin', an' for me loife I don't know phwat to do."

It was a hard case, and I felt sorry for Mike, but under the circumstances any advice I might give would have been wasted, for to tell you the truth, knowing Mrs. Casey as I did, I realized that he was between the devil and the deep sea.

I've often wondered how he made out.

My having been a theatrical man off and on for years, it is nothing out of the way for me to spend some of my spare time lounging about agencies where they give out the prizes.

There is one such on Broadway, and it chanced that in taking up quarters near the Criterion they were given the telephone number of a fish market that had moved away.

This little but significant fact gives rise to occasional mistakes on the part of housewives who have been in the habit of ordering their sea-food by wire.

For instance, when I was in there the other day the bell rang violently, and a message, loud enough to be heard all over the office, and in a decidedly feminine voice, came over the wire.

"Send up two quarts of oysters at once."

"Sorry to say we haven't any just now," said the polite gentleman in the theatrical office; "but if they would do as well, we have a few fine lobsters we could let you have, madam."

Another order came for "crawfish" which were especially desired for dinner.

"Sorry," called the agent, "impossible to supply you with crawfish, but we can send you up a fine lot of assorted coryphees."

"Coryphees," said a dazed feminine voice, "I don't know what they are – I said crawfish."

"Sorry, but crawfish are no good in our business; but we can send up nice selected coryphees, all dressed – make any dinner go off well."

"You must be a fool," we heard over the wire, and no doubt the receiver was slammed into the holder while the lady hurried to get a dictionary to discover what manner of sea-food coryphees might be.

Perhaps she found that they might be called nymphs.

Speaking of nymphs, reminds me of my next-door neighbor, Miss Snappe, whose tongue is surcharged with cayenne pepper when she is ruffled.

I remember she once had a squabble with another neighbor, Miss Antique, and as they had once been good friends, my wife, in her warm-hearted way, tried to soothe the ruffled plumage of Miss Snappe, and pour oil on troubled waters.

"Come now," said the dear little peacemaker, "why don't you and Miss Antique become friends again?"

"Oh, I don't see the sense of going to all that trouble for her!"

"But it isn't any more trouble for you to make up, than it is for her."

"Don't you believe it. She's used to making up, for she's been doing it for years."

Nevertheless I've found that same Miss Antique something worth cultivating, for she possesses more genuine wit than any other woman of my acquaintance.

It was only recently the doctor said to her:

"My dear Miss Antique, you must really take exercise for your health."

"All right, doctor," she replied, "I will certainly jump at the first offer."

To win the matrimonial race —Oh, all ye maids who try —You're lucky if you get a placeResulting in a tie.

I remember asking this frisky old maid whether, in her opinion, women were really as brave as men.

She gave me a look of scorn.

"Far braver, sir; if you notice carefully all accounts upon the subject, you will learn that the scientists who keep on talking with alarm and even terror concerning the dreadful bacilli in a kiss, are every one of them males."

She has also very decided views as to the future of this glorious country, and while we were discussing the chances of America ever being dominated by a combined Europe, she said, emphatically:

"That will never happen, sir, so long as eminent Europeans continue to marry American girls."

I agreed with her, knowing from experience what an influence in the household the average American wife must ever be.

Speaking of marrying brings to my mind a very eccentric old minister out in Oklahoma at the time the boom was in full progress.

He was the only parson for miles around, and it kept him busy splicing couples, for a regular fever seemed to have broken out, and everybody thought of taking a mate.

I asked a resident if the stories I had heard about the domine were true, and that in his wholesale business he had actually married thirty couples within an hour, that being high-water mark.

"Yes, stranger," responded the boomer, "and we call him the 'torpedo-boat minister.'"

"Why so?"

"Because he made thirty knots an hour."

By the way, I forgot to tell you several amusing things that happened while I was down in Dixie.

When in Alabama, I spent some time with an old friend who owned a big plantation.

Among his negro hands was his coachman, who up to that time had invariably persisted in getting in his vote, despite the plain hints of the white election officers that he would do better to stay at home. On that particular Election Day he returned home in the afternoon with a countenance that looked like it had been taking some familiarities with a buzz saw.

"What's the matter, Zack?" I asked, with some solicitude.

"It's this way, boss; I went up dar to the votin' place, and there wuz the county undertakah, sah, a-sittin' with a big book open 'foah him, and he sez to me right sharp like:

"'What's your name?'

"'Zack Taylor', I sez, humble.

"'Let's see?' says the undertakah, and he turned over the leaves of the book. All of a sudden he stopped turnin' and begin to run his fingers down the page, mutterin' to himself.

"'Taylor, Taylor, Taylor, Taylor – Zack.' And pretty soon he hollered out:

"'Heah it iz. You black scoundrel. I dun buried you ten year ago. What you mean by tryin' to vote?'

"Just then a passel of white men tuk and threw me out, and den I dun come home 'fore they could bury me again."

They were having a genuine old-time revival in the darky church near by, and of course I went to see the enthusiasm.

You remember it was at such a place a devout and practical old mammy was heard to shout:

"Good Lawd, come down fru de roof, an' I'll pay for de shingles."

I wanted to see if the affair was all it had been cracked up to be.

It happened that in order that the revival spirit should be quickened, it was arranged that the preacher should give a signal when he thought the excitement was highest, and from the attic through a hole cut in the ceiling directly over the pulpit, the sexton was to shove a pure white dove, whose flight around the church and over the heads of the audience was expected to have an inspiring effect, and, as far as emotional excitement was concerned, to cap the climax.

All went well at the start; the church was packed; the preacher's text was, "In the form of a dove," and as he piled up his eloquent periods the excitement was strong.

Then the opportune moment arrived – the signal was given – and the packed audience was scared out of its wits on looking up to the ceiling and beholding a cat, with a clothesline around its middle, yowling and spitting, being lowered over the preacher's head.

The preacher called to the sexton in the attic:

"Whar's de dove?"

And the sexton's voice came down through the opening so you could hear it a block:

"Inside de cat!"

But, say, I want to tell you about a genuine farmer that I struck down South.

He lived from hand to mouth, was about as ugly a specimen as the sun ever shone upon, and yet would you believe it this fellow actually thought himself to be the Robby Burns of Alabama?

One of his shadow hogs chanced to be wandering on the railway, and, as sometimes happens, was transformed into bacon ready for the pan.

Naturally he started to collect damages, even while he smoked the remains, and here is the result:

"My razorback strolled down your trackA week ago to-day;Your 29 came down the lineAnd snuffed his light away."You can't blame me – the hog, you see,Slipped through a cattle gate;So kindly pen a check for ten,The debt to liquidate."

However, the game didn't pan out as he expected, for there chanced to be a match for his genius in the office of the railroad, and shortly after Skeezer received the following poetic reply:

"Old 29 came down the lineAnd killed your hog, we know;But razorbacks on railroad tracksQuite often meet with woe."Therefore, my friend, we cannot sendThe check for which you pine,Just plant the dead; place o'er his head:'Here lies a foolish swine.'"

As I have said, old Skeezer was always so dilapidated, and his person so soiled, that he had become a by-word of reproach in the neighborhood.

Even respectable darkies scorned to be seen in his society, and he found his only solace among his swine.

Why, his boy, just turned six, barelegged and far from clean himself, had some knowledge of his pa's shortcomings.

I proved this to my satisfaction.

Having some business over at the farm, I went to the house and knocked.

This little chap came to the door.

"Is this where Skeezer, Nathan Skeezer, lives?" I asked.

"It be," he replied.

"Is he at home?"

"Reckon he is, sah – you'll find him over yonder cleanin' out the pigpen."

I thanked the youngster, and was moving away when he called out:

"Say, mister, you'll know dad, 'cause he's got his hat on."

While I'm at it, let me relate an experience I had with homely men, and I remember it the better because it cost me five dollars.

I chanced to be on one of the Old Dominion steamers at the time, in company with Tom Plunger, whose game it was to play the races.

Tom was a mighty good fellow, and his only fault lay in the fact that he stuttered dreadfully.

That's an awful infliction, but it sometimes adds piquancy to a joke, just as Worcestershire sauce does to your chops.

We hadn't been long on the water, when I observed a most remarkable-looking individual pacing the deck.

I've seen some ill-looking men in my day, but this specimen was surely the very worst that had ever crossed the scope of my vision, and beat that old Alabama farmer out of sight.

I said as much to my friend, whereupon Tom offered to wager a five-dollar bill that he had seen a worse one in the steerage.

I at once accepted, and Tom started for his man for comparison.

He found the fellow a bit of a wag, as an intolerably homely man is apt to be, and, after the promise of a nip, nothing loath to exhibit himself.

As they appeared on deck, my friend, with an air of conscious triumph, turned to direct my attention to his companion, who was making sure of his success by concocting faces.

"St-st-st-stop!" ordered Tom. "No-no-none of that! You st-st-stay just as you were made. You ca-ca-ca-ca-can't be beat!"

And he wasn't.

It takes an Irishman to be a Job's comforter.

Patrick Brannagan, whose face was so plain that his friends used to tell him it was an offense to the landscape, happened to be as poor as he was homely.

One day a neighbor met him, and asked:

"How are you, Pat?"

"Mighty bad! Sure, 'tis starvation that's starin' me in the face."

"Begorra!" exclaimed his neighbor, sympathetically, "it can't be very pleasant for either of yez!"

Say, have you ever tried the Christian Science cure? It's simply great.

And the cost is so little, too.

Apparently there are some people though who can't see things in the right way.

They simply lack faith.

I remember when out in the country, I dropped in to see friend Wilkins, the editor of the local sheet.

He was endeavoring to give some medicine to his little chap, who writhed and twisted in contortions.

Of course it was a case of too many green apples, and I could sympathize with Teddy.

We've all been there.

Now, it happened that a good woman next door had been called in.

She was a devout Christian Scientist, and the way she assured the boy he must be deceiving himself, and there could not be anything the matter with him, would have convinced you or me right away.

But Teddy stubbornly refused to take comfort.

"I think I ought to know," he groaned. "I guess I've got inside information."

Speaking of these fads puts me in mind of the widow McCree, whose husband when alive was noted as a tough case, but he left her well provided for, and she tries to make people believe she mourns for him.

Once she even went to a medium, hoping to hear some message of consolation from the dear departed.

But I rather guess that same medium had been acquainted with Billy during his lifetime.

"Is there any message from my dear husband?" asked the widow, anxiously.

"Yes, there is," snapped the medium, "and it's hot stuff, too."

By the way, on that Old Dominion steamer there was a newly-married couple – there always is.

I soon discovered that the lady had been something of a yachtswoman, and seemed perfectly at home on the heaving ocean.

Not so the newly-made Benedict.

As soon as the swell off the capes set us to dancing he rushed to the side and started lightening the ship.

This he repeated many times, but was too game to seek his berth.

So, as night came on, they sat there, she chipper as a lark, and he about as dejected a bridegroom as could be found in seven counties.

Perhaps she thought a touch of the romantic might get him out of his mood, so she tried this:

"The moon is up, isn't it, darling?"

"Yes," I heard him reply, languidly; "that is, if I swallowed it."

It isn't often that a shrewd lawyer gets two set-backs on the same day.

Yet I once witnessed such a thing.

It was in a Western city – never mind the name.

This lawyer was cross-examining a woman who it seemed was the spouse of a burglar of considerable notoriety.

It was his intention to shatter her testimony, and he went about it in the usual browbeating way.

"Madam, you are the wife of this man?"

"Yes."

"You knew he was a burglar when you married him?"

"Yes."

"How did you come to contract a matrimonial alliance with such a man?"

"Well," the witness said, sarcastically, "I was getting old, and I had to choose between a lawyer and a burglar."

The cross-examination ended there.

In the other case, the gentleman of the green bag received even a worse dose, and he was such a bulldozing character that no one felt sorry.

"Now, sir," began the attorney, knitting his brows and preparing to annihilate the witness whom he was about to cross-examine, "you say your name is Williams? Can you prove that to be your real name? Is there anybody in the courtroom who can swear that you haven't assumed it for purposes of fraud and deceit?"

"I think you can identify me yourself," answered the witness, quietly.

"I? Where did I ever see you before, sir?" demanded the astonished lawyer.

"I put that scar over your right eye twenty-five years ago, when you were stealing peaches out of father's orchard. Yes, I'm the same Williams."

Which must have shattered some of the nerve of that same legal gentleman.

But that's nothing to the nerve of a Western landlord! One of them roped me in for fair. You see the blamed hotel burned down while I was there, and – would you believe it? – the next day I got a bill from the proprietor for a fire in my room.

I've been abroad more than once during my checkered career, the last time with a company that played the "Children of the Ghetto." When it was staged in New York, in order to get the best effect of the mob scene the manager went into the New York Ghetto and engaged the real article, employing at the same time an interpreter to explain to them in Yiddish the stage directions. The plan was successful.

But when the production was taken to London we abandoned this scheme.

The English manager had employed the usual group of cockney supers, and spent a good deal of English gold in buying make-ups for them. When our manager saw the lot he was furious.

"Why," he screamed, "that band of mutts looks like a gang of sneak thieves trying to dodge the police! They'll ruin the play! – ruin it! – do you hear me? They'll ruin it! Look at those whiskers!"

And he yanked off the beard of one of the supers, threw it on the floor and stamped on it.

"And look at that wig!" and a bit of false head-dressing followed the whiskers to the floor, and was shredded under the American's angry heel. "And that one, too!" Another wig went to destruction. "And that nose! – that nose!"

Here he made a grab at the very prominent and highly Roman nasal organ of a very short super, and tweaked it as through he would throw it, too, to the floor and stamp on it.

The super's eyes filled with tears, he uttered a cry of pain, indignantly grabbed and pulled away the manager's wrenchlike fingers, and then backing away, bowed and explained very humbly:

"Hi begs your pardon, sir, but that's me hown."

But, after all, it takes a young woman of the present day, to rub it in with a free hand.

There's Miss Gutting, for instance, whose father roped me in on many a deal on Wall Street. He made his little pile, and of course the daughter is considered a great catch, and among those who hover about the bright flame are several young society swells whose brains have never come out of their swaddling clothes.

She gave Softleigh an awful jolt the other day when he thought to get off a poem, which somehow seemed to lose all its point in his hands.

"I think, Mr. Softleigh, you will become quite a distinguished man if you live long enough," she said.

"Ah, thanks, awfully, doncher know. It's very good of you to say that. By the way, what do you – aw – think I will be distinguished for?"

"Longevity," said the minx.

It was cruel, perhaps, but I've no doubt she enjoyed it.

But Miss Gutting sometimes finds her match in the grim old Wall Street operator whom she calls papa.

She has a passion for hats, and of course her Easter creation was a dandy.

"Isn't it a duck of a hat?" she asked the old gentleman, parading it before him.

"Certainly; only I'd call it a pelican," he said, grimly glancing at the account on his desk, "judging from the size of the bill."

I suppose you've noticed that I've done a good deal of chin-scratching to-night. Some people do that when they're thinking hard, but not so with me. Oh, no, the simple fact is I got shaved by a new barber and I guess I'll grow a beard in future. Some people say there's lots of comedy in a barber shop. They mean tragedy. Again some people think there's poetry in the prattlings of the knight of the brush. I know one man who thinks different. Little Archie Rickets has a horror of the tribe and has a scheme to head 'em off.

Whenever he has to patronize a strange barber during the course of his travels, it is his invariable custom to immediately hand out a piece of money before sitting down in the chair, and whisper:

"Here, put this in your pocket for yourself."

The barber, delighted of course, always declares that he has never before received a tip before commencing operations.

Whereupon Rickets will frown and cut him short with:

"That is not a tip – it's hush money."

And in every case the barber tumbles to the racket, and puts a lock on his lips.

Rickets was telling me the other day about a wonderful bookkeeper his father used to have in his office.

"An all-around athlete," he declared, with a grin.

"Indeed," I replied, knowing he had a card up his sleeve, for Rickets is quite prone to have his little joke.

"Yes, indeed," he continued, "you ought to have seen him balancing the books. Why, he could keep the day-book in the air while he juggled the ledger on his nose and totaled up the journal with either right or left hand. Oh, he was fine, but pop had to let him go."

"How was that?" I asked.

"He was too much of an adept at the horizontal bar."

"Yes," I remarked, "that same bar has doubtless been the cause of many a fine fellow's downfall. But it is becoming the fashion now among men who lead a strenuous life to give up their tippling. I was just reading that Santos Dumont, the celebrated Brazilian air-ship navigator, does not indulge at all."

"Quite right," remarked Rickets, soberly; "probably he is afraid of taking a drop too much."

There's poor old Juggins, who used to be a great friend of mine till he took to drink.

I knew he would get his desserts if he continued his habit of a periodical spree, and the other day sure enough he turned up in the pen when the cases of drunk and disorderly were called.

"Officer," said the police-court judge, "what made you think the prisoner was drunk?"

"Well, your honor, as he was going along the sidewalk he ran plump into a street lamppost. He backed away, replaced his hat on his head, and firmly started forward again, but once more ran into the post.

"Four times he tried to get by the post, but each time his uncertain steps took him right into the iron pole.

"After the fourth attempt and failure to pass the post he backed off, fell to the pavement, and clutching his head in his hands, murmured, as one lost to all hope:

"'Lost! Lost in an impenetrable forest.'"

"Ten days;" said the court.

Juggins has been given to this sort of thing ever since he lost his chance of marrying a belle in Washington, and the daughter of a rich senator.

As a newspaper man Juggins was rather free with his criticism of public men and measures, and one of his letters, written before he became infatuated with the young lady in question, had rubbed it in so hard that the senator had gone to the trouble of finding out just who the writer was.

His hour of revenge arrived when Juggins summoned up courage to ask for his daughter's hand.

Then he arose in all his awful majesty.

"Only a year ago, Mr. Juggins, you referred to me emphatically as an old pirate," he said.

Juggins was naturally overwhelmed.

His sins had found him out.

Of course he tried to stammer out excuses, and how he had regretted his indiscreet act ever since.

"No, I'm not a pirate, Mr. Juggins, I wish you to distinctly understand that – I'm only a sort of freebooter. This (biff-bing) won't cost you a cent."

And Juggins went out of that senatorial mansion a sadder and a wiser man.

That was why he took to drink.

I've known the poor fellow to have the delirium tremens, and see all manner of goblins.

Did you ever run across a ghost, any of you?

Not the nicest experience in the world.

Perhaps you'd like to hear of an exciting adventure in that line that once befell me.

I was out West at the time, traveling on horseback, and pulled up at a tavern when night came on.

There I learned to my chagrin that as a crowd was attending the races – it was in Kentucky, of course – the landlord did not have a single place to stow me.

When I pressed the old chap, he admitted that there was one unoccupied room.

"But," he said, "no one can sleep in that room, for it's haunted. You must go on to the next village."

"I'll sleep in the room, ghost or no ghost," I declared, determined to go no further, as it promised to be a stormy night.

The landlord tried to persuade me; but I had established myself over the fire and called for supper.

Reluctantly the landlord gave orders to prepare the haunted chamber.

Meantime I was enlightened by the other guests as to the nature of the ghostly visitant.

Every night at a certain hour a sepulchral voice was heard outside the casement, saying:

"Do you want to be shaved?"

"And then, what happens?" I demanded.

No one could certainly say.

The last gentleman who slept in the room had fled, shrieking, on hearing the voice, and had spent the rest of his days in an asylum.

Some said that if you allowed the ghostly barber to approach and commence operations on your chin, your throat would infallibly be cut.

Fortified by this information, I retired early to rest, leaving the company engaged in an exciting game at cards, each with his pile of cash on the table before him.

Waking up from my first sleep, a hoarse, croaking sound seemed to come from the casement.

To my half-awakened senses the sound seemed to take form in the words: