Volume 2 — The Crap Shooting Major

By SKIPPER BILL.

This is a story of a major in the Motor Mechanics brigade, Signal Corps, U. S. Army,—A. C. Rebadow, by name. He hails from the city of Buffalo, N. Y., where he was employed in an automobile manufacturing plant and received his commission because of the supposition that he was a motor sharp.

“Soldiering” and gambling go hand in hand. The greatest indoor sport of the military man is to riffle the “pasteboards,” while his outdoor pastime consists of blowing on a pair of galloping dominoes as he prays for a “natural” to rear itself heavenward. Rebadow is neither soldier nor gambler but a dyed-in-the-wool squawker.

The “major’s” system was simple. If he lost he merely issued checks on his bank at Tonawanda, N. Y., and then “Stopped Payment,” on them. So simple, in fact, that his racial instinct led him promptly to the telegraph office to void the payment.

The Major relied upon military discipline to save him from his outraged victims. He believed that none would have nerve enough to make complaint against his ungentlemanly and indecent behavior, but at least on one occasion he reckoned without his host. That was at Camp Hancock, Georgia, where Rebadow lost $400 during several days’ indulgence at craps. The victim, however, took the matter up with the superior officers.

Rebadow was traced to an air post far behind the whiz bangs’ zone where he possibly imagined himself safe from his debtors as well as from the Jerries. This is a letter which compelled payment. It was written by one superior officer to another, the commandant at the air post where Rebadow was then situated:

“1. It is requested that the Commanding Officer of A. A. A. P. No. 1 take this matter up personally with Major Rebadow, as the following are the facts in the case, as can be supported by the record of the Motor Mechanics Brigade, which records I have personally inspected. Several months ago an exhaustive investigation of the merits of this case was made and it was shown that Major Rebadow was entirely in the wrong in this matter and was dropped on account of an indorsement he signed in which he stated he would make good the amount of these checks, approximately $400.

“2. The unprincipled manner in which Major Rebadow now treats this matter is considered so reprehensible that effort is being made to secure the forwarding of the personal file of Major Rebadow and he may be informed that unless this account has been settled by the time those records are received that this office will make all efforts to have Major Rebadow brought to trial as a result of his derelictions.”

Needless to say, Major Rebadow cowered before the eye of his superior officer and forthwith repaid the broken pledge.

I look back on my days in the ranks, where a man was a man, true blue and shorn of falsity, insolence, domineering and double-crossing ways. They were the days when we got paid together, painted the town together, and went broke together, where every man “shot square” with his “buddie.”

As for this crap-shooting major, he is in civies again and military discipline will afford him no protection for such breeches.

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’Twas Ever Thus

Every time we see an article offered at an uncommonly low price—whether it be shoes, prunes, fountain pens, wood blocks, or a personal service of some kind—we are reminded of Chief Big Smoke.

The owner of this picturesque name was a copper-colored native employed as a missionary to his fellow smokes out in Oklahoma. A tourist once asked him what he did for a living.

“Umph!” said Big Smoke, “me preachum.”

“That so? What do you get for preaching?”

“Me get ten dollars a year.”

“Well,” commented the white man, “that’s d——n poor pay.”

“Umph!” replied Big Smoke, “me d——n poor preacher.”

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The Eternal Feminine

Women want marriage and a home. They should. And there are more women than men. Even before the war there was, in Europe and America, an extra sixth woman for every five men, and the sixth woman brings competition. She bulls the market, and makes feminine sex solidarity impossible. And, of course, added to that is the woman who requires three or four men to make her happy, one to marry and support her, and one to take her to the theatre and to luncheon at Delmonico’s, and generally fetch and carry for her, and one to remember her as she was at nineteen and remain a bachelor and have a selfish, delightful life, while blaming her.—Mary Roberts Rinehart.

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Move Over

Bridget failed to get up one morning to cook breakfast for the Smith family. Instead she yelled downstairs that she was “pretty sick.”

Mr. Smith promptly summoned his family doctor who gave the “sick” servant a thorough examination. The doctor was unable to find anything wrong with Bridget.

“My good woman,” he said, “you’re not sick at all.”

“I know I’m not,” Bridget replied, “but the Smiths owe me $20 and I’m going to stay in bed until they pay me.”

“Well, if that’s the case, move over; they owe me $50.”