Nonsenseorship Part 10

Can you believe it? Why, I d.a.m.n near fainted.

His daughter too good for the likes of us!

Of course I got so mad I couldn't see!

Of course I pasted him square in the eye!

And if I catch him sayin' things about me I'll knock his stuck-up head off! And I tell you, If you go near the dirty oilcan's place, And crawl around that snippy brat of his, I'll kick you out into the street to stay.

You hear that? Eight out in the street you go!

The nerve! The dirty, lousy, low-down crook!

A Bootleg gettin' stuck-up over money!

The world is crazy, that's all there is to it!

Crazy, I tell you! All turned upside-down!

Listen. It's fifteen years I know this Bill.

Them good old days, most every afternoon On the way home from the lumber yards I'd drop in And get a beer, and gas around a while.

That was my second home, I useta say, And Bill's Place was a home you could be proud of.

Say. The old woman never kep' a floor As clean as Bill's was. And the bra.s.s spittoons And rail-you could of shaved lookin' in one.

And all the gla.s.ses polished! And the tables So neat! And over at the free-lunch counter, Charlie the c.o.o.n with a ap.r.o.n white like chalk, Dis.h.i.+n' out hot-dogs, and them Boston Beans, And Sad'dy nights a great big hot roast ham, Or roast beef simply yellin' to be et, And washed down with a seidel of old Schlitz!

Oh, say, that sure was fun, and don't forget it.

Old Ed, and Tom, and Baldy Frank McGee, And the two Bentleys, we was all the reg'lars.

It was our meetin'-place. And there we stood, And Lord! The rows about the government, And arguin! and all about the country, How it was goin' to the dogs. And maybe Somebody'd start a song, and old Pop Dikes Would have to quit the checker-game in the corner That him and Fat Connell was always playin', And never gettin' through. I never seen

No b.u.ms come in and stay for more'n a minute; Bill didn't like to have no drunks around; He made 'em hit the air. Well, some of us, Of course, might get just a wee mite too much Under the belt, but who did that ever hurt?

At least we knowed the licker wasn't poison.

And when somebody would get very lit Bill was right there to try and make him stop; I can't see how it ever hurt us any.

And Bill! He was some barkeep! One swell guy!

A pleasant word for everybody, always, Straight as a string, and just the whole world's friend.

I never saw a guy was liked so much.

He hardly took a drink, just a cigar, And oncet a while a pony, say, of lager.

And my, the way that bird could tell a story!

Why, many a time I laughed until I cried.

And if it happened I was out of dough, Bill was right there to make a little loan.

Generous, that was Bill, and one good pal.

A great old place it was, that place of Bill's.

Them was the happy days!-them was the days.

I never will forget that good-bye party The night that Prohibition was wished on us.

You bet it wasn't any rough-house then.

We all stood 'round the bar, solemn and quiet, And couldn't hardly think of what to say.

Bill--it was funny what had happened to him.

He didn't crack a smile the whole blame night.

He just would shake his head, and bite his lips, And gosh, the way his eyes was shootin' fire.

The last thing that he said before I left, "By G.o.d, I'll get back at 'em, you just wait!

I'm closing here. But don't you fret--I'll get 'em-- The dirty, p.u.s.s.y-footin' lousy skunks!"

I had to go home early. And the next day I seen the wagons comin' to take the bar And all the furniture. I felt like cryin'.

Well, you know what this prohibition is.

Bill goes away, and stays about three months.

And then one day I meets him on the street.

"Well, Jack," he says, "You want some real good gin?"

"Just what I need," I says. "All right," he says, "You come down to the house at nine o'clock.

I'll fix you up. I'll give you half a case Four Bucks a bottle."... "Four a bottle!" I says, Thinkin' he must be kiddin'. "Sure," he says, "I got to make my profit. There's the risk.

This is good stuff. I made it by myself.

I guarantee that it won't make you sick."

"I'm sick already, just from hearin' the price.

No thanks. Not now," I says. He says all right, But when I want some, just remember him.

And so, of course, later I did want some, And had to pay that much, and even more; But h.e.l.l, what can you do? So long's you're sure The stuff ain't goin' to burn your insides out, You got to pay the price. And all the friends That Bill had useta have is customers,

And all get stung the same. And dozens more.

Them old days Bill was one fine friend for sure, Happy and nice and straight and generous.

And now to think he high-brows you and me!

A great big house he's got, and a new Packard, And di'monds for his wife, that scrubbed the floors Back in the days when he was only barkeep.

That's what this Prohibition done for him, And what's it do for me, I'd like to know?

It makes a crook of me, the same as him, Only I'm losin' money, and he gets it.

Why, say, I catch myself all of the time Laughin' about this Prohibition law, And figgerin' new ways how I could break it.

And that's the way it is with everybody.

We get to see that one law is a joke, And think it's smart to bust it all to pieces.

And pretty soon there's all the other laws, And how're you goin' to keep from think' likewise About a thing like stealin', and all that?

No wonder that we got these here now crime waves!

No wonder everybody is a crook!

But that ain't what I'm sayin' to you now!

You leave that stuck-up little Jane alone!

They's plenty of girls that's pretty in the world-- You leave that dirty oilcan's daughter be.

Ten years ago she used to run around And rush the can for me and other folks.

Now she's a real swell lady! d.a.m.n her eyes, And Bill's, and them there p.u.s.s.y-footin' fis.h.!.+

The world is, crazy! And I'm goin' nuts!

High-tonin' me! You hear me? If I catch you Foolin' around that girl, I kick you out, So fast you won't know what has ever hit you!

A bootleg's daughter! h.e.l.l!

AND THE PLAYWRIGHT

[Ill.u.s.tration: Alexander Woollcott rescuing the Playwright from the awful shears of the Censor.]

ALEXANDER WOOLLCOTT

Every American playwright goes about his work these days oppressed by a foreboding. He suspects that before long a censor is going to materialize out of thin air to take stern and morose charge of the American theatre. It is true that no statutory precipitation of such an agent has been definitely proposed. It is true that the policeman from the nearest corner has not gone so far as to drop around and warn him that he'd better be careful. Nevertheless, he has the foreboding.

He perceives dimly that a desire to chasten the stage is in the air.

And he is right. It, is. It has been ever since the war.