Chapter XV · MISCELLANEOUS LOCAL NEWS (continued 2)

Although the proved nimbleness of the Cluett leads her charterers to hope that she may slip into Melville Bay and out with the rescued MacMillan party in time to get back to New York in November, the way food supplies have been poured into her show that no chances are to be taken, in a locality where, as the captain remarked, “ye can’t fetch stuff from a grocery ’round the corner.’” He shed light upon what for a dozen men might be considered a two years’ food supply. Some two thousand pounds of beef, nearly half of it canned and the rest pickled in brine, and an almost equal quantity of mutton and pork, formed the backbone of the stores. Beans and potatoes and barrel on barrel of pilot bread set off this impressive meat supply, which winter hunting is to vary with fresh steaks and roasts.

Several hundred pounds of coffee and a hundred of tea, onions and many gallons of lime juice to ward off scurvy, were important items; strangely enough, not a particle of chocolate or cocoa. A comment upon the rather small supply of milk—condensed, of course—as compared with, for one thing, three hundred pounds of rolled oats, drew from the hardy captain the explanation that crews in the North preferred molasses with their oatmeal, and of molasses he had nearly a hundred gallons.

Perhaps these assurances of creature comfort have had their attractions. At any rate, Capt. Pickels has been pestered with would-be passengers who want to make the trip with him or put in a winter of hunting on Melville Bay. And they were not all men. One young person from Vassar sent a request. But Capt. Pickels will have none of them. So that, when he starts on the last leg of his journey north, with decks piled high with barrels of kerosene—the Cluett is to be stocked with nearly five thousand gallons of kerosene and 900 gallons of gasolene for her engines—the only person aboard beside his crew of eight hardy Nova Scotians, will be the representative of the Natural History Museum. Capt. Pickels’s Newfoundland dog “Chum” completes the list.

SQUIRREL

New York World

Somebody let a squirrel loose in City Hall Park yesterday, or more likely Saturday night, and as a result that part of the green grass plot just north of the Nathan Hale statue was the only busy section in the business district from 2 until 3 o’clock on the Sabbath. If there was one cat there were thirty. Of all sizes and conditions they ranged, hailing from Cherry Hill and other points. Toms, tabbies and kittens were all there, and in circles they sat about a big tree on which a gilt sign read “Ulmus Americanus.”

Above, perched in the branches, was Mr. Squirrel. Intently he looked down at the cats and the crowd of park loungers and others leaning on the fence and flicked his gray tail saucily at the feline delegation. One venturesome Tom scooted up the tree, but when he began to crawl out on the branch on which “Brer” Squirrel sat the latter lightly jumped to an adjoining tree, not labelled, and chattered back at Tomcatus Cherryhillibus.

The other cats with uplifted eyes watched the flight of the squirrel and camped under the second tree, while the crowd of human onlookers increased. The siege was getting interesting.

“I wonder will the cats get him, Jimmie,” said one young woman, but the squirrel only kept on scolding to himself.

Not long after a young man in a gray suit stepped over the fence and stood beneath the tree. He carried a small bag over one shoulder. The moment the squirrel saw him he ran down the tree and perched on the man’s other shoulder. When the man opened the bag he popped in, and they started off for a Jersey ferry.

The disgusted cats dispersed and the crowd melted away.

POLICEMEN’S PET

Philadelphia Telegraph

Just as the “joker” tapped 12 o’clock today in the Trenton avenue and Dauphin street police station, a file of unhelmeted patrolmen marched silently into the back yard and reverently placed the remains of “Benny” in his last long resting place.

For a moment they stood sad-eyed, while Bill Tufts, the old turnkey, softly dropped the earth upon the coffin, and then, when only a memory marked the spot near the patrol house where “Benny” slept, they went back to the roll-room and discussed in whispers the unexpected death.

“Benny” died at 11.20 o’clock, despite the efforts of House Sergeant Site, who immersed him in fresh water and tried in every way to restore the fast-ebbing life. But a broken heart could not thus be appeased, for “Benny’s” heart had undoubtedly been broken when a younger rival for the affections of the bluecoats turned up in the station house not long ago.

Old age might also have contributed toward the death, for “Benny” was 7½ years old, and his species never exist longer than seven years, according to Street Sergeant Murdock, who is well posted on the subject. “Benny” holds the record for age around the station house. There have been others of his ilk there constantly for fifteen years, but “Benny” was the longest liver of the entire crowd.

“Benny” was a fan-tailed goldfish.

ZOO STORY

New York World

This rock shall fly from its firm base as soon as I.

—Hippopotamus Pete.

“He’s a pig-headed brute,” say the keepers in the Bronx Zoo after they have been up all night watching Pete, who weighs 1,300 pounds—more than four Tafts.

“He’s a wise old guy,” say the keepers admiringly after they have slept and are wondering at Pete’s sagacity.

Director Hornaday, of the Zoo, and the keepers fondly hope to remove Pete to-day from his old cage in the antelope house to his apartment in the new and splendid elephant house. But whether Pete goes or stays in the antelope house depends upon how hungry he was last night.

The World has told of the futile efforts to move this Gibraltar of hippopotamus flesh. As a last resort, Director Hornaday has been starving Pete for two days and nights. When Pete is hungry he is very hungry, indeed. He eats a wagon load of provender a day, shovelling in the food as stokers shovel coal into a steamship’s furnace.

Taking advantage of this, Director Hornaday had placed in Pete’s cage a “moving case,” a very strong box big enough to hold Pete. At one end of the box is a drop door rigged to a fall and tackle. At the closed end of the big box the keepers placed a tempting meal of all the things Pete likes best.

It was all very simple. Two keepers watched Pete every hour of the twenty-four. Pete, hungry, was to walk into the box after the food, the keepers were to let the drop door fall and—there you are, or, rather, there Pete was.

The simple plan did not work out well. By day Pete seemed to have lost all appetite. But by Saturday night he had thought out a plan in his turn. While the sleepy keepers watched, Pete entered the box, but he carefully stretched back his hind legs so that they remained outside it. The keepers dropped the door; it fell on Pete’s hind quarters.

Pete backed out, scooping the food along with his fore legs. Once outside he had a hearty meal, which he seemed to enjoy exceedingly.

They built a much longer moving case yesterday and put food at its closed end. A hippopotamus is not built like a dachshund. To get that food Pete must include his whole bulk in the box.

CAT

Chicago Inter Ocean

Tom Stroller is dead.

Tom Stroller was only a cat, and he was old and ugly and never even had been allowed within the sacred precincts of a cat show, so, perhaps, it doesn’t matter much.

And yet there were a hundred girls, students at the Art Institute, who looked wistfully at the desk of the Klio Club when they went to their lunch. And there were 100 others who didn’t smile as they sat about the tables. One or two attempted a eulogy, but the efforts were not inspiring, for the best that could be said of old Tom Stroller was that “he was such a friendly cat.”

Time was when Tom was young and useful. Those were the days—twelve years ago—when there was a stern work to be done at the Klio Club, then at South Michigan Avenue and East Monroe Street. Those were the days when Tom stepped proudly through serried ranks of rodent dead, the days when he was tolerated because he was useful, and was forgiven his ugliness because he was so friendly. Those were the days when Tom achieved his first love—the love of Mrs. Bush, mother of the club.

Side by side Tom and Mrs. Bush grew old together. When the girls at the institute moved their club to 26 South Wabash Avenue, Tom, now toothless, and Mrs. Bush, now almost at the end of the road, were established together at the cashier’s desk.

New students came to look amused and remained to love them both. Old students came back to Chicago to rush up to the Klio Club and cry: “Why, if there aren’t Tom and Mother Bush. God bless you both!”

But one day last year Mrs. Bush was stricken with an illness that soon may prove fatal. She was taken to the Mary Thompson Hospital and a new cashier came to the club’s desk. She was kind to Tom and stroked his grizzled fur, but things were different now, and Tom began to grow old very fast. He died yesterday morning.

DOG

Chicago Herald

Colonel is only a dog, but he is believed to be dying because he did his duty.

Colonel is a dignified St. Bernard, with a fine head and kindly eye. He belongs to Sven Carlson, a saloon-keeper at 3300 North Racine avenue. When Colonel could lie on the floor, keeping one eye on the door and the other on his master, the dog was happy.

Carlson was proud of Colonel, too. He boasted of the dog’s cleverness—how he would fetch and carry from the grocer’s, and even carry notes to tradesmen in the neighborhood. Colonel never failed to go to the right store.

It was for Carlson that the dog sacrificed himself.

A few minutes before closing time Saturday night Carlson went behind the bar and Colonel followed him.

Two men entered the saloon and walked over to the bar. They did not see the dog.

“Hands up,” ordered one man.

“It’s late, gentlemen; if you wish to drink you have no time for such joking,” replied Carlson.

Both men drew revolvers.

“It’s a long way from a joke,” said the man. “Hands up or we’ll shoot.”

“Go for ’em, Colonel,” ordered Carlson.

The dog sped around the end of the bar as though he had been shot from a catapult, his hair bristling, uttering deep growls; and the bandits backed away.

Then one of the men fired a shot, and the dog toppled over and lay still.

Carlson gave a roar of rage when he saw Colonel fall, and, grasping a bung starter, climbed over the bar.

The holdups fled.

Carlson chased them a block before he gave up the pursuit.

Colonel was taken to Thomas Kendrew’s veterinary hospital at 3039 Sheffield avenue, bandaged and put into a private kennel with clean, sweet straw to lie upon.

“He surely will die,” said Dr. Kendrew. “I think there is no hope for him. The bullet went into his hip and through some of his vital organs.

“If every man could die as gallantly as Colonel this would be a better world.”

TRICK MULE

Kansas City Star

If you’ve been to the horse show this week you’ve seen Henry and Zip. Henry—his last name is Harbaugh—is 18 years old and lives near Bedford, Mo., when he’s at home. Zip is 8 years old, and if you don’t believe he’s the most wonderful trick mule in the world, you’d better not mention it to Henry.

Zip knows how to sit up on his haunches like a rabbit and walk around on his hind legs with Henry on his back, and walk across the tanbark arena on his knees, and—oh, innumerable things. Also he can buck in the most humorous way—you’re quite sure nobody but Henry could stick on.

There’s an interesting story connected with Henry and Zip. Zip is an educated mule, and he is helping make Henry an educated boy. For, the money that Henry receives for his talents and Zip’s goes for Henry’s education. The boy is half way through the high school at Avalon, Mo., and when he finishes, he hopes to go to the University of Missouri. And the talented Zip is a great help to a fellow who’s trying to get an education. For Henry is drawing down $50 and expenses for his week’s work at the Kansas City Horse Show, and he has hopes of repeating the performance at St. Louis next week.

Col. W. V. Galbraith, general manager of the horse show, got a letter from the trick mule’s owner last week. The letter told about all the wonderful things Zip could do—and he can, too—and said if the colonel could find a place for him, please to let Henry know at once, as it’s one hundred miles from Bedford to Kansas City, and it would take some little time to ride. The boy, having no money to spend on railroad fare, proposed to ride his mule to Kansas City. The colonel was so pleased by the boy’s enterprise that he sent him word to come and enclosed money to bring Zip by railroad. Of course, strictly speaking, a mule doesn’t belong in a horse show, but Colonel Galbraith figured that a trick mule named Zip was too good a bet to overlook.

The boy started training his mule five years ago, when he was 13 years old and Zip was 3. Henry lived on a farm and he had no brothers and sisters. So he made a pet of Zip, and taught him all sorts of tricks. Then he began showing him at county fairs and saving the money that he got to spend for education. One of these days he hopes to be as well educated for a boy as Zip is for a mule. And if they gave degrees to mules, Zip would certainly be a Ph.D.

Zip is also quite a teacher. He has taught this country boy a philosophy of life.

“You have to be patient—patient and kind,” Henry said yesterday. “The first thing I ever taught Zip took me two hours and a half. I wanted to see if I could make him lie down. I grabbed his opposite foreleg and held it up. I just had to tire him out, but at last he keeled over. Next day he did it in two minutes. He had learned what I wanted. It was easy after that.”

Henry had never seen a trick mule, but he began thinking of other tricks. With infinite patience he showed Zip what was wanted.

“Then he did it because he loved me,” said the boy simply.

Henry never uses a whip to teach Zip tricks. He feeds him sugar, and is just kind to him and works with him and is patient. Now he learns faster than ever. You can teach an old mule new tricks, according to Henry.