Volume 3 — Drippings From the Fawcett

After an extended trip of two months, which led me throughout the North American continent, it was a rare treat to settle down again to routine duties on the Whiz Bang farm. The main street of our own little “Gopher Prairie” looked mighty good to a tired and worn out farmer. ’Twas indeed a pleasure to view the Howard lumber yard, with its red fence and shed, and to grasp the sturdy hand of our village postmaster and storekeeper, Bud Nasett. J. J. McCormick, who is depot agent and telegraph operator, not to mention baggage smasher for genial drummers, greeted me at the station.

“How are you, Bill, you old son-of-a-gun?” or words to this effect, was the whole-hearted way that Mac welcomed back a wayward and prodigal pilgrim.

Arm in arm we walked along Main Street to Gus Urban’s meat market to inquire as to the price of livestock. Mr. Urban, in his usual jovial embonpoint manner, informed us that cows brought five cents a pound, but that bull was priceless. I disagreed with Gus, insisting that my recent journeys in quest of the pedigreed animal had left me “flat broke.”

Directly across the street, neatly encased in imitation granite blocks of concrete, is our only bank, the Security State of Robbinsdale—and it hasn’t gone “bump” for nigh onto four years. In the reorganization which followed the last crash, Joe Roche was selected as cashier and Joe has since successfully piloted this financial bulwark of our happy little village. Joe also manages the Robbinsdale baseball nine. After making a small “touch” at the bank it was home and the farm.

My welcome back was so pleasant that the words of that rural gem—“The Little Old Home Town”—went Whiz-Zing through my jaded mind.

* * *

Bobby Nelson, our neighbor’s boy, is the worst kid in the world for betting, and the unusual feature of it is he usually wins. Bobby’s father took the matter up with the school marm to see if she couldn’t break him of the gambling habit, promising her a reward if successful.

The other morning when Bobby came to school he wanted to bet teacher she had a wart on her right knee and the school marm, knowing better, and thinking she had an opportunity to win a bet from Bobby and by so doing, discourage his betting habit, accepted Bobby’s challenge. After school that evening teacher proved Bobby was wrong and won the two dollar bet.

She then called on old man Nelson.

“Mr. Nelson, I have broken Bobby of the betting habit. It was a little embarrassing, but this is how it was—Bobby bet me two dollars I had a wart on my right knee and in order to make him lose and cure him of the betting habit I accepted his challenge.”

“Lady! Lady! Why did you do it? Bobby bet me this morning ten dollars that he would see your knee before the day was out.”

* * *

In naughty old New York you need cold cash to have a hot time.

* * *

The other day I went to an Irish wedding and the people who attended were very ill mannered. Why, I never saw such impolite people. We were all seated around the dinner table and when they brought the turkey in to serve, everybody made a grab for it, but the two legs I got tasted very good.

* * *

Out in Idaho it is reported that the natives are making booze in this manner—women chew corn and then “gob” it into a hollowed-out section of a tree trunk. Water is added and the mess allowed to ferment, after which it is imbibed to intoxication. Some drink, we would pause to remark!

* * *

A friend of mine told me the other night he slept in a wagon standing in an alley, and when he woke up in the morning he had nothing but a dime in his pocket. He was thirsty and he also needed a shave, so he decided to toss the coin to see whether he would get a shave or a drink. He tossed up the dime, and when it came down he missed it and it rolled near a sewer grating, coming to a standstill just half over the edge of the grating.

“Gee,” he exclaimed, “that was a close shave. I guess I’ll get a drink.”

* * *

We asked Gus what he thought of Helen of Troy, but he said that he had stopped running around with those laundry girls.

* * *

Our Robbinsdale druggist insists that Minnesota Swedes are the most advanced settlers in this country.

“Formerly we thought the Swedes were crazy for drinking pure alcohol,” he said, “But present day events prove them to have been about twenty years in advance of the rest of us.”

* * *

A stranger got off the train at our neighboring town of Coon Creek and went up to the town druggist and asked for whisky.

“We’re only allowed to sell spirits for medicinal purposes,” said the druggist.

“That’s what I want it for,” the stranger insisted, “this town gives me a pain.”

* * *

Djever Get Fooled?

* * *

On my way to the Pacific coast last month I traded a Whiz Bang to a kid at the depot in Fresno for a package of raisins which the boy was selling on the depot platform. On the way back I saw the same kid.

“Say, kid, those raisins were punk.”

“So was the book” he replied.

* * *

Now, Fellow Soaks, we’ll touch a few high spots in this grand and glorious continent as we ramble about with wry faces in pursuit of the elusive Scotch and Bubbon. San Diego and its fashionable suburb, Coronado, were tough spots for a thirsty Minnesota farmer. Nothing but a concoction commonly called “sympathy” gin to be had by a meek and lowly stranger. But, glory be to Mexico, Tiajuana with its old time western bar-rooms and music halls, is but an hour away.

We spent one grand and glorious afternoon and evening in this unique village. It reminded me of slumming expeditions of a quarter century ago. Visions of Omaha’s famous Arcade at Capitol Avenue and Ninth Street, and of Duluth’s “Minnesota Point” in its palmy days, not to mention the cribs of Dupont Street in Frisco, went flitting through my frappe’d brain.

In one solace of joy we sat at a table for Haig and Haig “service,” said service being delivered by jaded janes who divided their time between waiting on customers and jazz dancing to the tinny tunes of a tin pan orchestra. It was a wild place and a wild night. Later we dined at the Sunset Inn. The inn was flanked by rooms filled with scores of roulette wheels and faro tables. My sporting blood surged hither and thither but to no avail, for the Mexican government had placed a temporary ban on this style of gambling.

Alcatraz Island, that silent citadel that illumines the skyline of Frisco’s bay like a bleak battleship, is the temporary home of about five hundred United States soldiers who have become ensnarled in the tough and tedious red tape of Uncle Sam’s court martial system. Prisons and morgues are two places I abhor, but it fell my lot to visit both in one night in San Francisco.

It happened like this: While entertaining some new found Frisco friends in my room in the St. Francis Hotel, I was pleasantly surprised by the head director of the Jewish Welfare Board, Shea Swartz by name, who requested on behalf of the Board, that my pedigreed bunk be spread on the rocky soil of Alcatraz. The five hundred boys gathered in the barrack auditorium and gave the Whiz Bang a grand and glorious welcome. It was one of the bright lights of a very enjoyable tour of the coast.

Later in the evening, accompanied by George Duffy and G. W. DeLano of the district attorney’s office, we inspected the famous San Francisco morgue. It was a gruesome visit, I’ll admit, but some of the curse was removed by the marvelous furniture and apparatus used in the handling of the unfortunate.

From the morgue we glimpsed a view of the city jail, through the kind offices of Walter C. Schiller, who is bond and warrant clerk in the Hall of Justice.

It was next to Chinatown where we were met by the sergeant in charge of the Chinatown vice squad. Two of his operatives conducted our party through a score or more of Chink gambling and hop joints that had recently been raided. We sincerely thank the squad, but regret not having seen one or two places that had not been raided.

It is the hour of dusk that Chinatown pads to and fro noiselessly. In the little tangle of crooked streets, blue lozenges of lights, sitting gods and queer smells that babble of Oriental talk is incessant at this hour. Women parade in gaudy headdress and beads of jade. The men wear their gaudiest silken robes. There are dried-up men whose faces are old with the age of eastern lore, young women who walk with mincing steps and Oriental grace, cherry-cheeked babies tottering uncertainly.

We passed up Honolulu until later in the year and made a transcontinental jump to New York to try and “Get Gertie’s Garter.” Don’t believe I’ll ever be contented “down on the farm” after all the wonderful people and wonderful sights of the past two months. But here goes for Lil’ Ol’ New Yawk, as seen through the eyes of a farmer.