Volume 2 — Questions and Answers

Dear Captain Billy—I am 15 years old and have a sweetheart who is just 18. He owns a flivver and wants me to go riding with him. Should I?—Lizzie.

Walking is healthier.

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Dear Captain Billy—I have a girl friend who insists on writing to me and demanding an answer. What shall I do?—Charlie.

Tell her to enclose a stamp.

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Dear Captain Billy—My husband is going out with another woman all the time. What can I do to keep him home nights.—Mrs. Brown.

Take the other woman in as a boarder.

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Dear Captain Billy—I am a young lady attending a church college. Do you think it would be all right for me to wear skirts 15 inches from the ground.—Marie.

That depends on your height. If you are six feet tall it would be all right, but if you are only 29 inches “tall,” Not Yet Marie.

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Dear Captain Bill—What would you call the unoccupied side of an old maid’s bed?—Simple Susan.

No Man’s Land.

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Dear Captain Billy—My daughter has a sweetheart who just got back from France. He talks to her in French and says: “Villa vouz promenade,” or something like that, and then they go to some park. What does that mean?—Anxious Father.

That’s all right, old man. Your daughter’s sweetheart was only asking her to take a walk.

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Dear Captain Billy—What’s good for cooties?—Returned Soldier.

Bread crumbs.

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Dear Captain Billy—Please explain the uses of salpeter.—Tommy.

You are hereby referred to any soldier who will tell you its principal usage is in the manufacture of high explosives.

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Dear Captain Bill—What’s worse than a cow with the cooties?—Hi Ball.

A horse with a buggy behind.

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Dear Captain Bill—We are organizing a new lodge in ’Frisco to be known as the “Ancient Order of Modern Cavemen.” Will you kindly suggest a motto for our lodge? Yours truly—Rough on Cats.

My suggestion is: “Catch ’em young; treat ’em rough, and tell ’em nothin’.”

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Dear Captain Billy—Why do they use castor oil in racing automobiles and aeroplanes?—Eunice.

To make them run, of course, Eunice.

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Dear Bilious Billy—What would you write about if the country went wet again and you didn’t have the dry reformers to poke fun at and kid about?—Reginald Pewter.

We cannot tell a lie—we wouldn’t be able to write during the first few weeks.

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Dear Whiz Bang—My husband, a returned soldier, did not get home until 3 o’clock this morning. He said he was at the Fort all night playing golf. Do soldiers play golf in the middle of the night?—Worried War Bride.

Yes, Worried Wifie, they do. One of the favorite sports of the naughty doughboy is the game known as African golf. Two galloping dominoes are used in place of a small ball. Instead of the greens, the latrine floor is usually garnished with greenbacks and set off in silver. “Big Dick” and “Little Joe” act as caddies and there is more cussing at a “flock of box cars” than a minister foozling a putt. I indulged in a friendly game of dancing dominoes last night with my old buddy, Mr. “Eighter from Decatur.” “Jimmy Hicks” and “Long Legged Liz” were there, but before I got through I had “fever in the South” and “crapped” out several points under par.

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Dear Captain Bill—Please tell me what is golf?—Ignoramus.

Well, Ig., golf is a game where old men chase little balls around when they are too old to chase anything else.

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Dearest Billy—What’s the difference between a bachelor and a worm?—Andy Gump.

Somebody told me there was no difference—the chickens get them both.

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Dear Captain Billy—I have been married a year and am the mother of triplets who are now three months old. My husband has asked me to take dancing lessons this winter because he says he cannot afford to have any more children and that dancing will keep one’s mind off maternal cares. What do you think about it?—Triple Trixy.

Dancing’s all right, Trixy, providing you tango in the morning, fox trot in the afternoon and hesitate at night. Fine exercise, I say.

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Dear Captain Bill—I am struggling with myself to keep from falling in love with a handsome football player because I heard that football players were so terribly rough.—Troubled Tillie.

Move to the South Sea islands where it’s too hot to play football, or else to Norway where the summer sport is fishing and in winter it’s too cold to fish.

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Dear William—I recently met a cute little second lieutenant on the train and am very anxious to get in touch with him. He said his name was Joe Latrino and that he was in the Sanitary Corps. How may I find him?—Winsome Winnifred.

Write to him in care of the Captain of the Head, U. S. Navy.

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Dear Captain Billy—What is the difference between Spanish Flu and Spanish Fly?—Swede Harriet.

Spanish Flu is a disease. Spanish Fly is a drug, technically known as cantharides and is used as a plaster to cure rheumatism.

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Dear Billy—I am infatuated with a handsome young man from Akron, Ohio, but when he comes to visit me in a neighboring village he acts so embarrassed and appears always to be in a mood of deep thought. Do you suppose he wants to pop the question but hasn’t the nerve?—Hellenic Helen.

Now, Hellenic Helen, how in Hell’s Gate or Helena do I know? Overlook his seeming taciturnity and remember that “deep rivers move with silent majesty; small brooks are noisy as hell, and actions speak louder than words.”

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Dear Doctor Billy—Please give me the definition of the spinal column.—Slippery Lizz.

It’s a long disjointed bone, covered with knots—your head sits on one end and you sit on the other.

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Dear Captain Bill—What is meant by “bigamy?” Dandy Dillon.

Bigamy is a form of insanity which causes a man to pay three board bills instead of two.

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Dear Billy—What’s the definition of a “humdinger?”—Iva Hangover.

A man who can make a deaf and dumb girl say: “O, daddy.”

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Dear Bilious Billy—I was married last June and my wife wants me to obtain some polish in my manners so suggests that I take music lessons. What do you think about it?—Silas Hopkins.

It’s a very good idea, Si. You’ll soon gain a musical education by playing second fiddle. But beware of the jazz.

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Dear Skipper—Why is a certain specie of beans called Navy Beans?—Battle-Axe Liz.

I dunno, Liz. You might as well ask me why I labelled The Whiz Bang an “Explosion of Pedigreed Bull.” No reason at all.

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Dear Bill—They say there are germs on money. Do you think, then, it is safe for a poor working girl to carry her salary home in her stocking?—Sadie Woolworth.

Perfectly safe, I’d say. A germ couldn’t live on a working girl’s salary.

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Betty’s Better Batter