Volume 2 — Drippings From the Fawcett

A few months ago a newspaper friend of mine in New Orleans wrote about having taken a drink of the Louisiana brand and then backing against a bale of cotton as he said: “Come on, boy, let’s go.” I didn’t appreciate his humor very much at that time because I had been on the wagon for several months. I had not touched the “fiery flare” that “stealeth away the mind” principally because the morning after the night before found me in such condition that it seemed to take months of the “tapering off” process to get back in shape.

However, the devil got the upper hand again and, as usual, there was the devil to pay. Somebody presented me with a nice, new-appearing black bottle bearing a shiny, greenish colored label. The alleged bonded stamp had a peculiar shade and indicated a bourbon of twelve summers. The contents, however, bore the taste of a reverse action to an old maid’s age. But the cayenne pepper, ether and tobasco sauce got in its damnable work.

Two hours later I passed by the Ashley Airport, located in Robbinsdale near the Whiz Bang farm. Instead of backing against a bale of cotton, I backed against a 90 horsepower aeroplane, handed the pilot my last $50 and said: “Come on, Gus, let’s go.” And, believe me, Gus and I went some before we got off this last “bender.”

The pilot, Homer Cole, veteran of four years’ service in France, fulfilled his duties in a business-like way, while Gus and myself were filling ourselves in an unbusiness-like way. Our first stop was Brainerd, Minn., a hustling city about 150 miles north of Robbinsdale. We had so much real or fancied fun on our first flight that we enveigled Cole to make another leap of 22 miles to Breezy Point lodge in the old Indian territory. Of course in the meantime we had ridded ourselves of our visible supply of tobasco sauce and both knew that our stay in my Pequot log cabin resort must be brief. Therefore, the very bright and brilliant idea soaked in the hired man’s dome, that an airship would be a necessary permanent adjunct for traveling back and forth between Robbinsdale and Pequot.

Gus conducted negotiations with Cole and learned that his plane could be purchased on the installment plan. The deal was soon closed and at this writing the plane is partly mine. We managed to last it out for one day in the North pine woods and early next morning hopped off for Minneapolis, with its fond memories of many mills and motley moonshine.

Later in the day, my brother, Harvey, who now conducts the business end of the little old Whiz Bang, located Gus and I in a gin mill. He handed me a nice letter of invitation to attend a convention of the Independent Magazine Distributors at the Schlitz Hotel at Atlantic City. While the convention notice sounded mighty good, the name of the hotel suggested a hankering for the good old days.

Gus was heart-broken, to think that I would leave him behind and as he had performed valiant service as caretaker of Pedro, our pedigreed bull, and the cows and chickens during many years as Whiz Bang farm hand, I granted his plea to accompany me.

We landed safe, sound and, as usual, sick in the McAlpin in New York City. It was Gus’ longest train ride and incidentally his first visit to the big village. At the outset he refused to remove his overalls, rubber collar and red necktie, which was quite embarrassing to me. We had a swell room on the tenth flight, with carpets on the floor and brass buttoned fellows to wait on us. We were informed we could get no liquor in New York unless we were Enright. Gus promptly formed the advance guard on the Great White Way, or whatever you call it, and soon we were both in right. After an eye opener or two, my hired man asked the genial barkeep for the location of the wash-room. He was shown an ante-room which bore the sign: “Gentlemen.” He walked right in anyway. Nothing in New York seemed to deter this faithful, simple Minnesota farm-hand.

That night we received a telegram from Robbinsdale cautioning us to make reservations in the Schlitz Hotel at Atlantic City, as that institution might be full on account of the convention. Gus read the message to me, threw it in the waste basket as he nonchalantly remarked: “If the Schlitz Hotel is full it has nothing on me.”

The next day it was Atlantic City or bust. We arrived in rather good shape and were assigned a pleasant room overlooking the Atlantic and the famous boardwalk. I induced Gus to take a bath, although he insisted he didn’t need one and that anyway it wasn’t the right time of the month. A little bribe, however, brought him around to his senses and after his plunge, I handed him a ten dollar bill to go about and enjoy himself. Before leaving the room he was strictly cautioned to beware of pickpockets.

Gus returned several hours later and, I am sorry to relate, was a little the worse for wear. He had a puzzled, sorrowful look on his face. After a few moments of hesitation he confessed—he had been “touched.” The mystery of the missing mazuma was cleared later that night when I coaxed him to take off his socks before crawling into bed. There in the dark recess of his left light blue stocking was hidden a five and a two dollar bill. “Gosh, but I forgot all about hiding it,” he exclaimed with a sigh of relief.

Next day we “dolled up” as pretty as possible so as to be somewhat presentable at the convention banquet. We had just started to leave the room when Gus became so grief stricken that I was forced to cancel the engagement and remain by his bedside. The shock came in the form of a telegram from Maggie, the hired girl, and read as follows:

“Pedro took violently ill last night from heart disease—Horse Doctor Hawkins unable to diagnose his sickness and Pedro was rushed on truck to Minneapolis—Bull specialists in the Midway Packing plant say his trouble is homesickness due to Gus’ absence—All hope given up—What shall we do?”

An hour later, while Gus was still shedding tears and demanding that we return home at once, we received a second message, this one from my brother, which read:

“Pedro died at 6:00 o’clock—Does Gus want his body brought to Robbinsdale for burial?—A son was born to the Hereford cow one hour after Pedro passed—Have named him Pedro Junior after his father, which assures continuation of the Pedro Bullage.”

Pedro’s death and my intermittent headaches rather dampened our spirits and so we started back for Robbinsdale. Waiting in Chicago for our connections to Minnesota, and wishing to cheer up Gus and to ease the pain of Pedro’s death I said to him, “Gus, you have done pretty good on the trip so I will get you something nice. What do you want?” We were just passing a bird store and Gus said, “Get me a pet monkey.” So I bought him a ring tail monk, which he now has at Breezy Point and with which he spends most of his time after his day’s work.

As this is written I have somewhat overcome the effects of tapering off, but the memory of this last jamboree has made an everlasting record on Gus’ snoose dampened mind.

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Deacon Miller’s son, Pete, has a new racket. It appears that he bought a golden trombone from some Chicago mail order house, and every night he entertains the boys and girls of the neighborhood with his melodies. Everybody likes to see the way Pete is coming to the front and when it comes to playing fast music, etc., Pete can slide that golden trombone in and out to beat the band.

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IN MEMORIAM

Gus and Maggie wish to express their heartfelt thanks for the kind sympathy and the beautiful flowers attending the recent bereavement of their beloved Pedro, famed pedigreed bull, to whom we were very much attached and who died from shortness of breath, superinduced by a severe case of homesickness, due to the absence of his favored master, Gus, during Mr. Gus’ recent trip to Broadway. It is our joy and comfort to let our many friends know that Pedro’s place in our hearts will be partly filled by his young son, Pedro, Jr.

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We went to church last Sunday for a change and the minister preached a sermon about Lot’s wife looking back and turning into a pillar of salt. We were telling Gus, our hired man, about the sermon, and Gus says he was walking around Robbinsdale Monday evening and saw the minister strolling with Deacon Smith’s wife, and when they looked back and saw Gus, both of them turned into a dark side street.

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Whiz Bang readers will remember some time ago we got a letter from a fellow on the Pacific Coast who enquired if his long lost brother from Sweden was our hired man, Gus. It developed later that this was true and Gus and his brother, Ole, staged a reunion the other day, but as Gus’ brother is not any too dainty and as he has weak pedals, I was unable to find a position for him on the Whiz Bang farm. However, Gus solved the difficulty by getting his brother a job as street cleaner in Robbinsdale, and after the first day, Ole quit and said that Robbinsdale was too fast for him. At least that is the impression we got from him, for he said Robbinsdale was no one horse town.

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Rus Morrissey says we were in error in declaring that a whiffenpoof was a fish that swims backwards to keep water out of its eyes, and that a whiffenpoof really is a dog whose left legs are shorter than its right legs so that the said whiffenpoof dog can walk around a hill without losing its balance. Some dorg, we’d say!

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A Succulent Table d’Hote