Published in Wetmore Spectator and
Seneca Courier-Tribune—October 11, 1935
By John T. Bristow
In glancing over the current issue of The Courier-Tribune I notice that the good citizens of Seneca are putting on a Biblical show this week. That’s fine. Whenever I hear of home talent aspiring to portray those ancient characters on the stage I become interested right away. It recalls to mind the time when I myself was, briefly, in the cast of a local entertainment of that sort held in the old school house here in Wetmore many, many years ago.
It was a show the likes of which Wetmore had never had before, nor since—a show that stands out in memory as the one classic of the times—a show that rocked the whole countryside, rocked it with near volcanic convulsions.
Considering the extraordinary performers and the conduct of an audience which ran wild, this little review is not offered as something worthy of emulation. Nor is it to be construed as criticism. Rather, it is something to be contrasted with the newer interpretations and renditions, something to be compared with present-day reactions as against old-time unbridled responses.
As aforesaid, with other local talent—grownups, and some lesser lights, including an injection of members of “that tanyard gang”—I was cast for a minor part in that show. To give you the right slant on this last mentioned group of my theatrical co-workers, I should say here that my father operated a tannery in the old days, and “the gang”—frequenters of the yard—included just about all the happy-go-lucky youth of the town, vividly alive, and callow. Collectively, we made quite a record—something short of enviable, it now pains me to relate.
It was my dear old Sunday School superintendent who had selected me for one of her characters in this Biblical show. I had been marvelous—so she said—in her Sunday School, committing and reciting as many as twenty Bible verses on a Sunday morning, for which I would sometimes be given a little up-lift card. She said that my good work in her Sunday School was guarantee enough for her that I would handle the part assigned me creditably. I would not need to attend rehearsals. All that I should do was to have my good mother make for me a heterogeneous coat according to specifications. She would instruct me at the last minute so that I wouldn’t forget.
I was to take the part of Joseph—Joseph, the boy. And, although a bit irregular, and I might say diabolically devised, to save the stage-carpenter the trouble of making a pit to cast me into, one of my Hebrew brothers—I think it would have been Judah, who, off stage, was a big Swede—was to have batted me on the “bean” so that I couldn’t protest when he and my other naughty brothers would sell me to the Egyptians, and thus banish me to the Land of Bondage. I wouldn’t need to rehearse? Oh, no, of course not! And as it turned out I didn’t perform, either.
The show was going strong. The audience applauded and yelled itself hoarse. After a particularly exciting scene, Rolland Van Amburg, the town clown, jumped up from his seat and yelled, “It’s the best thing Wetmore ever had—I’ve had my money’s worth already! Come and get another quarter!” Van was ably assisted in this demonstration by one William Morris, leading merchant.
The sponsoring lady was in high glee—happy daze. She said to her puppets, “It’s taking! Oh, dear children, we must give them this one again!” She flitted about from one to another, saying, “Oh, girls, please do hurry!”
The scene which had so excited Van was a tableau draped in naught but thin mosquito bar and set off by the best soft mellowing light effect that could be had with the oil-burning lamps, depicting some Biblical event with strictly private and as time goes quite modern interpretations. Embroidered beyond the original concept, it exhibited in silhouette some of Wetmore’s fairest damsels—some who will read this and blush—in an amazing state of dishabille. I should like to—and probably will—hear from Montana and Idaho, and even faraway Hollywood, on this statement.
A wag in the audience who was not man enough to show himself, like Van, yelled, “Take down the bars!” The audience roared! The sponsoring lady beamed! Things got to going so good for the director that she began pulling surprises on the performers. Wholly without warning, she ordered Clifford Ashton to take off his shirt. That young Englishman, ever obliging and obedient, had about completed the job when Dr. Thomas Milam cried out in his most dramatic voice, “Put that shirt back on, you idiot!”
The woman, who was my Sunday School superintendent, overhearing the Doctor’s remark, forthwith gave another curt command: “Off with that shirt, Clifford—off with that shirt!” The voice carried, full and resonant, through the calico partitions to the rear of the auditorium. That command became a phrase which was hurled at Clifford as long as he lived here. He is now in Seattle, Washington.
As already stated, I was to have taken the part of Joseph. I had a sort of vague idea that my beautiful coat of variegated hues was to have been torn from my person by my brothers to show to my old man as evidence of a lie they were going to tell him. And not knowing what turn of mind the now deliriously happy director would take next, I beat it—went outside and thought I would see the show through the green shutters which covered the old school house windows.
Outside, I found that other deserters had preceded me. Bill McVay, a grown young man, bewhiskered for the occasion, with a flowing white beard the likes of which has seldom been seen on this earth since the days of Moses, said, in his drawling voice, “I could drink all the whisky the old town’s got and it wouldn’t faze me—but that thing has bumped me off my feet. She’ll have to get someone else to take my part.”
Actually, I was afraid to remain in the cast, fearing, the way things were happening, fast and furious like, that I might be persuaded against my will to appear before that hilariously responsive audience with greatly reduced apparel. I really was in a dangerous spot. The plot called for partial forced disrobement. Knowing the hyenas who posed as my brothers, and knowing also that those brothers had caught the spirit of the producer in a large way, I had the feeling that when they would have finished with me, working in that free atmosphere, that it would have been sans pants for little Johnny.
It should be borne in mind that the director of this very extraordinary show was an extremely odd woman, very religious, and sincere—and, having ideas of her own, she had the courage to mirror them bounteously in her work.
The show was all right, of course. Biblical, and all that. And, viewed with an eye for the beautiful, it was all that Van said it was. But coming as it did in an age of many clothes for women, it was a revelation.
Not Hitherto Published—1947.
By John T. Bristow
The discussion of odd characters was going strong when I entered the corner grocery store one evening. I did not join in the discussion for the simple reason that the range of observations did not go far enough back to take in the really odd ones—as I knew them. Had I told what I’m going to tell now, without supporting evidence it would, perhaps, have branded me as a prevaricator, and I wouldn’t have liked that. But I’m taking no chances now. Supporting evidence is at hand.
Speaking of odd characters, Wetmore had ‘em in the old days—in numbers. In truth, this assertion takes in just about everyone, except of course Thee and Me—that is, if Thee are still living. The odd characters dominating this story were Mr.O.Bates, Mr. Peter Shuemaker, and Mr. Jim Riley.
But first, an opening paragraph introducing a fourth character that shall be nameless—that is, in spelled out letters. I think I shall call my man Mr. June, and guarantee that I have not missed his real name more than thirty days. Also, he had a brother in the business, and the firm-name was June Bros.—only this is one month away from it, in the springtime.
Mr. June came into my printing office to arrange for some advertising—and also to get a load of fire insurance. I wrote fire insurance on the side. He was bringing a stock of clothing from his store in Atchison, and putting it in the Bates grocery store below the printing office, in the Bleisener block.
Mr. June inquired of me about our fire fighting facilities, and as to whether or not we had waterworks. When I told him we had no waterworks and practically no fire protection, he almost let his portly Jewish self fall off the chair. He promised, “The first thing you should have waterworks when I come.”
I told Mr. June that he was moving in with a man who had the agency for a sure-shot fire fighting hand grenade. This seemed to hit him a little off guard—but he rallied, and said he would investigate. It is presumed that his investigation was satisfactory. He moved in right away. Also, he might have heard about Mr.O.Bates’ ineffective demonstration with his hand grenades. They had “fizzled” on him a while back.
The clothing stock had been in the building only about sixty days when a mysterious fire occurred at 11:45, in the night—old time. It started in the oil room under the stairs leading up to my office. I was working late that night, with a shaded coal oil lamp on my desk. When I looked away from my work, I was startled by a solid wall of smoke which had come up through a stovepipe hole in the rear end of the room and stood only a few feet away from my desk. Alex Hamel had been working with me, but he had left the office some time before that. Also, Myrtle Mercer had been working that night, and I had gone out to take her home—leaving the office in total darkness while I was away.
Alex Hamel and Bill McAlester, a barber, were first to show up after I had rushed out and yelled “Fire!” It was not long before a crowd had assembled. Some gave their attention to the fire in the building, while others rushed up stairs to my office, against my protest. There was no fire in the printing office. “Chuck” Cawood dashed a bucket of water on my shaded coal-oil lamp, and rushed out of the room, yelling, “I put it out—I’ve put it out!” Chuck’s water had also ruined an order of printed stationery ready for delivery. Others milled about in the dark and “pied” several galleys of type we had set for the paper which was to come out the next day. The clothing stock was carried to the street—and the fire was put out before it had done much damage. Since there were two occupants of the store room, no one could say with certainty whose fire it might have been.
The Jew’s insurance was canceled in due course. He said, “If I don’t got insurance, I’ll not stay in a town which don’t got waterworks.” I reminded him that he still had Mr. O. Bates, with his hand grenades. It was but a short while before this that Mr.O.Bates had acquired the agency for his hand grenades. He planned a demonstration in the public square, by making a pyramid of wooden boxes, about ten feet high, early in the afternoon as a sort of advertisement for the event to take place after dark. This advertising stunt brought him humiliating repercussions.
The square was filled with people. Mr.O.Bates, a gabby auctioneer who really knew how to make a spiel, gave them a good one. He said, “Ladies and gentlemen. I have here the greatest fire extinguisher ever devised! But you don’t have to take my word for this! You shall see with your own eyes! Why, my friends, I wouldn’t hesitate one moment about building my bonfire right up against my own home.”
Then he backed off a few paces from the burning boxes and threw a grenade at the fire—but it failed to connect with the solid bumpboard, which had been placed in the center to break the glass bottles, and passed through the mass as a dud. He then tried again, hitting the bumpboard, but instead of quenching the fire, it made a decided spurt upwards. Then, with a huge grunt, Bates, threw them in as fast as he could, resulting in further spurts of blaze upward—up, up, and up!
It was then boos for Mr.O.Bates. He was a sadly confused man, numb with bewilderment. He stammered, “I’ll fetch a man here who’ll show you that they will do the trick.” At a lesser publicized exhibition, Bates—and his man—had extinguished the fire quickly. Rumor had it that “Frosty” and “Cooney” had emptied the chemicals out of his grenades, and had filled them with coal oil.
Mr.O.Bates had unbounded faith in his grenades. He actually wanted to build his bonfire almost smack-up against the frame hotel building on the corner where Harry Cawood’s store is now. But “Uncle” Peter Shuemaker wouldn’t stand for that. “Uncle” Peter was a wiry little man of Pennsylvania Dutch ancestry—much set in his ways, with a quick tongue with which to defend himself. He was always on the defense.
“Frosty” Shuemaker had said, with reason, “Granddad, don’t you let that old windjammer light his fire near the hotel. You don’t know what might happen,” and “Uncle” Peter had snapped, “Goway, Forrest—who’s asking you for advice?” But, I think, “Uncle” Peter had “smelled a mouse.”
Mr.O.Bates—pompous, windy, and positive—told “Uncle” Peter that the proposed demonstration would do his hotel no more harm than for him to allow Jim Riley to ride his horse in and out of the hotel office—an occurrence that still rankled. “Uncle” Peter flew off the handle, so to speak, and spluttered, “It’s no-sicha-na-thing! I never permitted that lousy drunken pie-stealing galoot to ride into my hotel! And just who would pay me for my hotel if it should burn down? By-GODDIES, you couldn’t do it—Mr. Bates!”
Since I have quoted Peter Shuemaker detrimental to the character of one Jim Riley, I shall now explain. Never like to leave any of the old fellows out on a limb. Then, too, there is still another reason for this elaboration. It is to keep the record straight. Some, I now learn, are inclined to question if I have quoted “Uncle” Peter verbatim. That I have you may be sure. I make no inventions. You can always bank on that. Why, I ask, should I want to feed you figments of fiction, when memory is stocked with so much of the real thing—spoken words by the old fellows, a thousand times better than anything an antiquated mind could conjure up now? And then there is always the little matter of accuracy to be considered. “No-sicha-na-thing” and “by-goddies” were his exact utterances.
Not to be confused with the Soldier creek Jim Reilly, who built a house in town on the site where E. W. Thornburrow’s home is now, this Irishman owned land up in the Capioma neighborhood—a half section north of the Patrick Hand land. Jim Riley was a substantial farmer and cattleman. He was not married. Jim bached on the farm—but spent much of his spare time in Wetmore, always pretty close to the dram shops. He was a periodical hard drinker. And a prankster of the first order.
But as time went on—and as he prospered—Jim decided that he could change the baching situation for the better if his sister, whom he had left in Ireland years before, were here to keep house for him. He made the trip back to Ireland, but when he got there he learned that his sister was married and lived in California. He then made a hurried trip to the west coast—and in due time the sister, with her husband and several little Ketchums, became members of the Jim Riley household on the farm here. And through the hand of Fate title to the Riley lands later passed to the Ketchums.
As Bates had said, Jim Riley did ride his horse into Shuemaker’s hotel. And as “Uncle” Peter had spluttered, Jim did swipe his pies—baked for a big dance supper. Riley carted them out on the street in a wheelbarrow, and passed them out to anyone who would take them. But he paid. Jim always paid. His reputation for doing that was well established. Like the time when someone went into Rising’s general store and said Jim Riley was out in front smashing up a consignment of crockery that had just been unloaded on the high front porch, giving a war-whoop every time as the crocks he was throwing crashed in the street, Don Rising said, “Let him have his fun. He’ll pay.”
Also, Jim Riley did deliberately back his wagon up to the post supporting Shuemaker’s prized birdhouse, hurriedly threw a logchain around the post—and drove off, giving one of his famous war-whoops. “Jim’s on another bender,” the oldtimers said—but I knew he was just plain drunk.
Jim Riley dearly loved to torment Peter Shuemaker. And he liked to play hide-and-seek with the town marshal. But most of all, Jim loved his drink. And it was while burdened with a mixture of the two that he met his death—in 1887. While making a hurried getaway from the marshal his team of mules, under lash, turned a street corner too quickly, threw Jim out his spring-wagon—and broke his neck.
And that bird-house—it was a three-decker, about a yard square, with entrances on all four sides, perched on top of a 10-foot post out in front of the hotel. Here the martins of that day nested and multiplied in such numbers as to greatly overcrowd their living quarters. In the late summer months the new broods would have to take to the roof.
Jim’s log chain, applied at the height of the nesting season, broke up all too many bird-nests to suit “Uncle” Peter—and it just about caused his to lose his religion. “Uncle” Peter took his newly-found religion seriously enough, but when suddenly angered he was a mite forgetful. Lapsing back into pre-conversion times, his overworked byword—by-goddies—was shortened up a bit, and with it went a blast of other sulphurous words telling the world what he meant to do to that scoundrel when and if he could ever lay hands on him.
Peter Shuemaker was practically the sole support of the Baptist Church here for a time, in the old days. The Church membership was poor, and there came a lean time when the members wanted to close up shop—but “Uncle” Peter said no, “By-goddies,” he’d pay the preacher himself.
Having lost his wife, Shuemaker, in his late eighties, and always a bit on the contrary side, was now, with descendents in his home, a little hard to get along with. But he hit it off fine with his preacher. Then, one Sunday morning, when a beautiful camaraderie between preacher and parishioner was running high, the Reverend announced something special, a surprise, for the evening services. That surprise proved to be “Uncle” Peter going shakily down the aisle, altarward, with a feeble old woman, an octogenarian from God only knew where, clinging to his arm. She was an “importation.” Thus, one perceives, that in casting his bread upon the waters it had indeed been returned to “Uncle” Peter manifold. And for his descendents, who were keeping a watchful eye on his modest savings, it was as a devastating bombshell topping a most disturbing surprise. Son-in-law Don Rising “swore” the old gentleman had been “sold down the river.”
The marriage did not endure.
But, at that, “Uncle” Peter fared better, spiritually, “than did the preacher who showed him the way. The Reverend George Graham, evangelist, had pitched his gospel tent on the triangular spot of vacant ground across the street east of the Catholic Church in Wetmore back in the middle 80’s. With him was a buxom woman, with rosy cheeks—who sang quite well. And what with her good singing and George’s impassioned pleas for repentance they garnered a good harvest—very good, indeed.
The Reverend Graham invoked, with the wrath of Jehovah of old, all the terrors of hell upon unbelievers. Together, they slew the sinners. Even some quite good people were swayed into the belief that they ought to make amends and strive to measure up to the high plane of this super exhorter—and thus make sure of following through to the Great Beyond. There were among them converts with Methodist leanings, and converts with Baptist leanings—even one young lady was possessed of the gift of tongues. When it was all over here, the converts went their several ways, as the preacher had advised—or rather they began to map a course by which they might make the takeoff for the long journey. Then, with the second stand away from here—somewhere down around Lawrence—the preacher and the lady were publicly exposed for unholy conduct.
And yea, verily, the Reverend had a family somewhere abroad in the land.
Repercussions hit hard back here. The one great wrong done our converts was, as you might expect, heaped upon them by the unbelievers who had been consigned to the everlasting fire of brimstone by the now fallen preacher. As is usual with emotionally recruited converts there was some immediate backsliding, or cooling off, but when “twitted”—that’s what they called it then—by the ungodly, the stampede back to normal got under way and was, in the days that followed, made complete—save one. “Uncle” Peter was seemingly the only one of the many who could bring himself to believe that religion was religion—something pure, and worth keeping, even though it had been delivered to him through the channels of a dirty carrier.
There is an old saying that “one should give the devil his due.” I’m sure that, regardless, the magnetic George did a power of good in his revivals here. While, it is true, his converts did not choose to “join-up” after the crash, until the backwash of that scandal had become tempered by time, they did, however, accept the opportunity to come into the fold under another standard bearer. And, unfortunately for the Baptists, the Methodists were first to hold a revival—and reap the harvest. And the girl who was “called” upon to babble in tongues, gave up the pursuit when it was evident that she was fooling no one but herself.
At the time of the exposure, I was temporarily working for Bill Granger on his Centralia Journal, and boarding at the old McCubbin House, down by the tracks. Ed Murray—later, Mo. Pacific agent in Wetmore for many years—was clerk at the hotel. Professor Roberts, principal of the Centralia Public Schools, was the third person present when the Evening Daily newspaper was brought in. After reading the exposure article, I passed the paper to Mr. Roberts, with comment that I had attended Graham’s revival meetings in Wetmore. Mr. Murray had his say about preachers in general, and about one Reverend Locke in particular—of the latter, quite complimentary, however.
As he read, Mr. Roberts said, “Say—you, a newspaperman—here’s something you ought to commit, for future use.” For future use? He meant, let us hope, only as a model for phrase building to be used on occasion. That Mr. Roberts, he was a mighty clever young man—quite young, then. It was a long time ago, sixty-one years to be exact—but I still remember.
The newspaper report was vague as to the exact nature of the preacher’s misstep, and I shall not attempt to state it here lest I might do someone an injustice. So, then, let’s let George do it. The paper quoted him, thus:
“I have the consolation, small though it be, of knowing that though my bark goes down amid the turbid waters of Illicit love the shores of Time are marked with many such wrecks.”
Prettily phrased. But no further comment.
NOTE—This is okayed, “No-sicha-na-thing.” “By-Goddies,” and all, by Hettie Shuemaker-Kroulik, (70), granddaughter; and by Peter Cassity, (80), grandson. And they go further, saying: The $1,000 he paid to rid himself of the woman, plus what it had cost him to get her (preacher’s reward) just about cleaned “Uncle” Peter. And Cassity says the pies swiped by Riley numbered exactly forty. Jim paid double, as always—and liked it.
And now wouldn’t it be nice if I could say here that Cassity was one of those converts? I’d say it, anyway—if I weren’t afraid Peter would tell on me.
Not Hitherto Published—1947
By John T. Bristow
Girls—Girls—Girls
After mulling the old thing over, I know now that the boy who sat with me in the reserved section at Evangelist George Graham’s meetings, as intimated in the foregoing article, was not Peter Cassity. It was his brother Bill. Pete tells me that he was farming at the time over on Wolfley creek and did not attend the meetings regular—but don’t ever think Pete did not remember his raising, when he did get in.
Bill Cassity had the nerve and the Biblical knowledge to stand up in a big way for his Maker. That boy had an almost irresistible line, and it was, at times, questionable whether the minister, or the converts—with Bill well out in the lead—were doing most in the matter of gathering in the prospects.
When my uncle, the Rev. Thomas S. Cullom, minister of a Methodist Church in Nashville, Tennessee, with his wife Irene, and two daughters, Lora and Clevie, paid a visit to their Wetmore relatives in 1908, the Reverend told me that in his Church, and throughout the south, it was customary during revivals to have “exhorters” stationed in the congregation to give supplementary support to the minister’s pleas for the redemption of lukewarm and tottering souls.
I asked him if his exhorters ever broke in on his impassioned pleas in a discordant manner—that is, a little off key? “Cert’nly,” he said, with fine southern accent. “My exhorters are very devout workers for the Lord, and sometimes when filled to overflowing with the Holy Ghost, they say their lines and then keep right on exhorting and sometimes steal the whole show.” This ungodly reference to his Church as a show was made with a wink and a grin.
And so, with the old time revivals here, the minister’s exhorters, under another name of course, sometimes ran away with the show. This brings us back to Bill Cassity, first born of Newton and Anne Shuemaker-Cassity. Bill did just that on at least two occasions in the Evangelist’s revival here. He had the Christian training to do it courageously.
While still a young man, Bill Cassity went to Colorado, worked in the mines and smelters, at high wages, and ordered the Spectator sent to him there—and later to Los Angeles. Bill came home once, told me he liked his work in Colorado, or rather the big wages—but he did not like the characters he had to associate with. In California, still on the right side of the laws of God and man, Bill pushed his penchant for righteousness a little too far for his own good. As a detective, self-appointed or otherwise, he learned much of the ways of the Los Angeles underworld—and, it was said, the boys took him for a ride and failed to bring him back.
And again, some twenty-odd years ago, Than Gustafson, a former Wetmore man, older brother of our Fred Gustafson—and in a legal way Fred’s brother was also his brother-in-law, the two Gustafson boys having married sisters, Adelia and Ophelia, daughters of S. M. Hawkins—is supposed to have been taken for a one-way ride by the Rocky Mountain crooks. He left his home in Denver, a wife and two children, one evening in line of his duties—and was never heard of again. Than Gustafson evidently knew too much for his own good.
When in gangdom, it is wise to be dumb.
Under the old system, in revivals, the first converts either appointed themselves or were delegated to work among the congregation as boosters for the minister—something like Uncle Tom’s “exhorters.” They would go out in the audience, usually in pairs, and plead with you, cry, and sniffle over you—an actual fact—in a manner that would - make you feel mighty cheap. The boy who respected them, loved them through long associations, was struck dumb.
One particularly sanctified woman—no one could ever doubt her sincerity; I had known her for years, and she was always so—with redoubled sniffling tendencies as of the moment, accompanied by the prettiest girl that ever walked down a church aisle or any other avenue in Wetmore, a girl whom I had just about given up as lost to a certain rich man’s son, on account of her papa’s preference for the other boy, and because “papa” said I played poker, made a firm stand in front of me one night. I knew before the old girl began to sniffle that, on account of the young girl, I would, sooner or later, find myself in a front row. More than one boy went forward in that meeting because he did not have the heart to disappoint them—and maybe there was also the attraction of a girl. Girls were more susceptible to the worker’s pleas.
The older woman talked rapidly, between sniffles, in terms only partly understood by me—but the girl’s radiant smile told me much. I would not permit them to march me up to the front, as other workers were doing with prospects, but I promised to sit with the young girl in the reserved corner on the following night—and see what would happen.
I hope the good people will pardon me for mixing my worldly activities with the more decent church sittings—but this seems the opportune time for me to ‘fess up. In this story I mean to come clean—tell everything, and have as little of the old hero stuff in it as is consistent with the making of a good story.
I had been to church—Methodist protracted meeting—and then dropped in on the boys in the DeForest store at the virtual close of a little poker game. Even now I hate to think what Henry DeForest would have done to us had he known his dry goods counter was serving as a poker table. One man, Willard Lynch, dropped out while the deal was in progress, and said I might play his hand.
This was to be my first poker game. Also, it should have been my last—but it wasn’t. Not that it ever became an obsession with me. But, in general, it is not an elevating attainment—and it is something which any self-respecting young man can very well do without. It was, however, my last game in Mr. Henry’s store. I wanted to retain, at all costs, his respectful opinion of me. And the other boys finally saw the error of their ways—and changed their meeting place. On the cleaner side, I will say that I never learned to shoot craps, never bet on elections, ball games, or the horses; never drank or caroused, wouldn’t feel “at “home” at the popular cocktail party; was never in court as complainant or defendant—and was only once in my whole life in court as a witness, at which time, had I told the Whole Truth as I was sworn to do, I could have been jailed for my ignorance. I was an untutored member of the Kansas Grain Dealers Association, which was under investigation. Also, I want to say in the outset that this poker stigma was not the thing which had lowered me in the opinion of “Papa.” It was the more powerful evil—money—of which I had none. But there was one bright spot in the clouded picture. The rich man’s son looked a lot better to “Papa” than he did to the girl.
Well, in this, my first poker game, I picked up four natural aces, and if you know only as much as I knew then, you would consider it a top hand. No one had told me they were playing the joker wild, “cut and slash.” I bet a nickel. Alfred Anderson called, and raised me a dime. Two of the other boys called Alfred’s fifteen-cent bet—and the dealer, Sidney Loop, (clerk in the store), dropped out of the play. I thought my four aces were good for ten cents more, and not possessing a loose dime, I dug up a five-dollar bill. Alfred was up on his toes, and said, “You aiming to bet all that?” I replied, “No—only aiming to call your dime raise.” Still upon his toes, a little higher now, he said rather anxiously, “If you want to bet it all, I’ll call it—you can’t bluff me.” I took one more look at my hand—and not one of the aces had gotten away. And then I said, “All right, I’ll just bet it all.”
Now, if you know the game, you are maybe expecting to hear that he had a set of fives, including the joker of course. But it was not Alfred who held them. His four kings were not good. It was the dealer, the man who had dropped out because I had dropped in, who had five fives.
But this I did not know until two days later, not until after I had gone to church again and contributed $5.00 to Mrs. Draper’s fund for buying Christmas candies for her Sunday School kiddies. Alfred’s sister Phoeba, as personal representative of our dear old Sunday School Superintendent, took my contribution with gracious acknowledgment, as though it were not tainted money. And Mrs. Draper—the less chivalrous boys called her “Mother Corkscrew” because she wore her gray hair in ringlets at shoulder length—came to me on the double quick, shrieking her praise of me, and intimated that this generous gift might get me places.
Alfred said that inasmuch as he surmised he had been cold-decked out of the five—thankfully with no aspersion attachment—that I should have at least given the donation in both our names. But that would have been risky. Alfred was a rather white “black sheep” in a very religious family, and Sis would most likely have wanted to know how come? The fact that Sidney and Willard were keeping company with sisters at that time may have had nothing to do with the introduction of that cold deck. And then again it might have. Sidney said the fellow needed “taking down” a bit—and that it was planned to give the losers back their money. A fat chance they would have of getting their money back now.
Until now I had only stood, by and watched a penny-ante game in the new opera house over the Morris store, where the clerks—Dave Clements, Bill McKibbon, George and Chuck Cawood, Bob Graham—and some younger fry, congregated on Sundays. And then, too, as a kid, I had been present on several occasions at a somewhat bigger game in the Neville residence on this same corner. But here I did not have a chance to closely observe the technique of the game—for I was under the table most of the time. The men played altogether then with “shinplaster” money—undersized ten, twenty-five, and fifty cent pieces of U. S. paper currency, and the breeze caused from shuffling the cards would sometimes blow the money off the table. Mr. Jim Neville said I might keep all I could get my hands on—and I think it was a sort of house rule that the players were not to contend roughly with me for the fluttering pieces. Still I think I got more kicks than the law allowed.
Also, I once saw the women playing poker in this same home—and they were using “shinplaster” too—but they were not generous enough to invite me to go down under. I do not wish to name them. Nor would I have mentioned the boys’ names but for the fact all of them have now gone to their reward. And, besides, despite the undercurrent that it was not considered strictly genteel, everybody, more or less, played poker then—even, it was said, Father Bagley, our first High Priest, would take a hand occasionally. There was a regular fellow. For him it was Mass of a Sunday morning, then base ball or horse-racing in the afternoon, without fail.
With this slow and awkward beginning it was a long, long time before I got nerve enough to sit in a private poker game as guest of a friend, in Kansas City, with a player who afterwards became President of the United States. He did not impress me as likely timber then. But, may I say, that when once in the running, he showed ‘em that he was truly from Missouri—and that, surprisingly, he could, in a pinch, run like a scared rabbit. Politics was his forte.
In explanation of the Girl-Papa-Richboy incident: I had sent a boy with a note asking the girl for her company for a dance, a private dance to be given by our select crowd, of which she was a favorite. The boy came back without a written reply—but he said she told him to tell me that she would go with me. This being rather unusual, I asked the -boy if that was all she said? “Well,” he said, “her mother said, ‘Now, girlie, you know what your father will say’—and the girl said, ‘I don’t care, I’m going with him anyway’.” I had not known about the rich man’s son trying to edge in, and this indicated slap by her papa was a grievous blow to my ego.
I sent the girl another note, telling her in simple words—I always made ‘em simple now since having once, to no avail, slopped over ridiculously—that I had wormed out of the boy the remarks between mother and daughter, and that in consequence thereof I deemed it wise for me to cancel the date, until I could find out what it was all about. I may say I never sent but one formally phrased note to a girl in all my life—and that got me exactly nothing. That literary boy, Ecky Hamel, dictated it for me, and to make matters worse, it was to his girl. And he really wanted it to click—to ward off, in his absence, some dangerous competition.
However, I once got a neatly written acceptance to an ultra-formal and gorgeously phrased note bearing my name, which I didn’t write. I was a new boy in Seneca at the time. I met a lot of girls at the skating rink in the old Armory building on upper Main Street. Ena Burbery, pretty and agreeably alert, was good on roller skates. Ena and four other girls worked as trimmers in the millinery department of the Cohen store. Ena talked. And the girls, all but one, joined in mailing her a note bearing my forged signature requesting her company for a swank party three days hence. Ella Murphy, one of the five, boarded and roomed at the Theodore Wolfley home, same as I did while working on Wolfley’s newspaper, The Tribune. Ella said the note was formal and softly silly, and so did Ena say it was awful—but, she giggled, “I was not going to let that spoil a date, especially for a party like that.” Now, the ridiculous part of it all is, that it was an exclusive party to be given by Seneca’s upper crust, to which I had no invitation. But, even so, it gave me elevated status for a little while, in a limited way. We compromised on the rink. And the girls, whom I never did meet, sent me an apology, through Ella Murphy, for recklessly abusing my name—and getting the girl a date. Ena was the section foreman’s daughter, but that was no handicap. I myself married a section foreman’s daughter, picked her for a winner from a sizable field of promising prospects.
Naturally, I wanted to know more about the status of the rich man’s son—and I got it too, back at the gospel tent the next night. The girl said nothing at all about my poker-playing proclivities. She was too sensible to try to reform a boy. Her idea was to pick ‘em as suited her fancy—and trust to luck. Indeed, she said in rebuttal of her father’s expressed opinion of me, that if her mamma only could have kept her mouth shut everything would have been all right, and that I would have never known. “And besides,” she said, “You don’t drink, and papa does—a little; and you don’t smoke, and papa does, though he does not smoke cigarettes.” A cigarette smoker in those days was considered cheap. How times have changed. The girl had overlooked one of “Papa’s” weaknesses, but for me to have mentioned it to her then would have got me nothing that I was not now likely to get anyway.
This exchange of ideas took place in the reserved corner of the arena in advance of the regular session while other congregated young people were likely thinking of an afar off haven having streets paved with jasper and gold. Something about streets and jasper and gold ran in the lines of the old song books. Also, I dare say, some of the converts might have cringed a little at the thought of an everlasting fire of brimstone—this idea emanating from George, the Evangelist—which the wayward and lukewarm alike might, if they didn’t watch out, fall into in a last-minute rush for that afar off haven.
Every evening during his meetings Reverend Graham would institute a two-minute session of silent prayer. In - view of George’s admitted downfall at a later stand, I trust it will not now be considered sacrilegious for me to hazard an opinion that those silent periods offered the preacher an excellent opportunity to pray for grace.
It was not required by custom then for those seeking salvation to come clear down to earth, and some merely bowed their heads, rested them on the backs of deserted chairs, and whispered when so inclined. The girl and I, we did not desecrate the hallowed moment. We didn’t have to. Silence was golden. I was conceited enough just then to believe that this beautiful girl, thoroughly repentant or no, would have gone through George’s pictured purgatory for me.
And nothing happened that could be chalked up as material gain for the better life. Well, I ask you, how in the name of high heaven, could it? I’m not particularly proud of it, though. But, you know, if your chariot does not come along, you can’t take a ride. I certainly do not wish to cast reflection on the Church. The Church, as a Church, is really a grand institution. I should hate to think where we would be in a world without it. Henry DeForest, Yale graduate, said the tent doings was proselytizing.
Perhaps you would like to know how I fared in the days to come with this renewed lease on life which the Evangelist’s revival had brought me? Well, “Papa” shelved his dislike of my poker-playing, and both he and “mama” greeted me as a friend ever after. They were really fine people—I might say the very BEST, with capitals.
“Papa” had played a little poker himself—and that too, by-gosh, in our penny-ante game—and his wish for a switch in the matter of his daughter’s company was based on too slim premise to set store by, now that the girl had told him with flat-footed finality that it would not work.
And the girl? Well, I had to go away, first to Centralia, then to Seneca to help Theodore Wolfley print his newly purchased Tribune, and I turned her over to my best poker-playing friend to keep for me against the time when I might return.
Now, to do me this small favor my friend had to drop another girl with whom he had been keeping company steadily for two years. He probably saw possibilities in the change, but he was really too fine—and too ably assisted by the girl—to take advantage of a friend’s absence.
As my trusted friend and my girl in escrow were already lined up for the party that first night after my return, it was mutually agreed that—just for once—I should line up with my friend’s discarded girl, who was still free. It worked out all right—and it was wonderful to be back with the old crowd again.
Now, don’t jump at conclusions. Though she was a mighty fine girl, and good looking too, I did not find her preferable to the other girl. Just why I made it a regular habit for nearly a year, was quite a different matter.
We all belonged to an exclusive clique known as The Silver Stockings. Why so named I never learned. One unalterable requirement for the men was that each had to bring a girl—or a wife. No “stags” were permitted at our parties. This was because a certain unwanted young man had the disturbing habit of sneaking in at public gatherings and monopolizing our girls.
The thoughtful young man of that period did not think of marriage the first time he went out with a girl. In our community none but the rich man’s four sons were financially (in prospect) able to indulge in such dreams. And, besides, by this time I had had a change of heart—resolved to consider the future of the girl. After all “Papa” might have had the right idea. I figured that an attractive girl like she, would not be justified in playing along with me until I could make my stake.
And again, were I to pursue my chances—which at this time were, I flattered myself, in a high bracket—who could say with certainty that “Papa” would not someday become afflicted with a recurrent attack of that silly notion the first time that the favored son, or maybe another of the RM’s sons might strut his stuff in the presence of the girl. Then, too, something fine—alas, something very fine, was now gone out of the picture that could never be returned. I reluctantly decided to let matters drift along as temporarily planned the first night back home—and see what would happen. It was my hardest decision.
I had seen too many people trying to make a stake and raise a family at the same time. My father made more money than most—but with ten children, it was slavery for him. He worked sixteen hours a day at his trade as shoemaker—and even then he had to skimp, and work and skimp. But he took a philosophical view of matters, and on the whole his was a rather contented life. One time when he was complaining about the difficulty of getting ahead, I suggested that maybe he had erred in first taking on the responsibility of raising a big family.
He said, “Well, they kept coming and I couldn’t knock ‘em in the head.”
I said, “They didn’t start coming until after you were married—”
He yelped, as if something had stung him, “Of course not, you young upstart!” That was a time when he would have been justified in applying the kneestrap, his ever ready implement of correction, to my posterior. But my father was a forbearing man.
I said, “Gosh, Dad—I only meant to say if you had waited until after you had made your stake, you would not now be bothered with this burdensome load.”
He said, quickly, “If I had waited longer where do you think you’d be now, young man?”
Well, that was something to think about. It might have upset the whole continuity. I think we older boys reminded him too often of the excess baggage he was struggling along with—only, however, when he would begin his lamenting, usually about the high tariff.
I can think of nothing more disturbing than to be caught short-handed (otherwise broke) in a community marked by a dearth of opportunity to earn a living—-With dependents to care for. Such was our country in the early days. My parents had rubbed up against this situation on numerous occasions. However, unlike some of our neighbors, the time never came when we did not have enough to eat. But that “hand to mouth” rule of living could not rub out the anxiety.
It was an era when the ambitious young fellow was of necessity compelled early in life to begin laying-by for the “rainy day” if he did not wish to run the risk of becoming an object of charity—and who did in the old days? It was then considered about the last straw. It took a long time to lay-by a competence in the old days. The average wage-earner gets as much per hour now as was paid for a whole day’s work then—when ten hours was a day. This is not to say the young “sprout” could not marry before he had a competence. He did—recklessly. And paid the price.
It was to avoid such conditions as this that I made a firm resolve to defer marriage until I could make a stake.
I set my goal at $10,000, and when things got going good I kept right on going until this goal was more than doubled—and in subsequent years learned that it was none too much:
However, in strict honesty, I think this cautious streak was inherited rather than instilled in me by observations. My father had entertained the same cautious notions. Orphaned early in life, he made his own way—saved, and had what he called a nice nest-egg at the age of 25. He went from Kentucky over into Tennessee to visit relatives, met my mother while there—and married her the next time he came into her back-woods community. And had it not been for the cruel Civil War—and the guerillas—I am pretty sure: that I would have had a rich Dad regardless of his super-abundance of kids.
However, conditions changed for the better for father. When his boys got big enough to lessen the burden, and then in time lift it altogether, he had an easy life. My brother Frank worked with him in the shoeshop, and at the same time conducted a shoe store in the front end of the building, with our sister Nannie in charge. When Frank decided to go to California to join his brother Dave in business, he gave them the shoe stock. I had written insurance in the sum of $1,000 for Frank, and when the assigned policy was about to expire I mentioned the matter one day at the dinner table. Father said, “Oh, I don’t need any insurance.”
I renewed the policy anyway, paid the premium myself, and said no more about it. Then, some months later, a fire destroyed the old Logue frame store building across the street, in early evening—and the town was out in numbers. There was little chance of the blaze reaching my father’s shop, but he and several excited volunteers were making ready to remove the shoe stock to the street. I told him that he better just get his books and records where he could put his hands on them in case of need, and to leave the stock in the building for a while, at least. Thinking to ease his fears, I said, “You’ve got a thousand dollar insurance policy on the stock.” He exclaimed, excitedly, “Oh, that’s not enough!”
By this time—we are now back again on the matter of girls, mostly—the girl’s papa had been elevated to the Mayorality, and the family was now operating the Wetmore hotel. On one of my trips home from Seneca, after spending a pleasant hour with the girl, I dropped in on the poker game, just to greet the boys, and watch the play. I had reformed then—mostly, I think, on account of the girl. Incidentally, I may say I reformed more times than a backslider ever confessed his sins—every time, I think, on account of a girl—before finally realizing that it was not the way to build character.
The game then was in the Billy Buzan residence—af ter his wife’s death—on the corner where Bob Cress’ residence is now, west of the telephone office. It was the original William Cawood location, with the west portion of the high fence (seven-foot up and down pine boards) still standing. That high fence had enclosed four lots, and held in captivity a “pet” deer for several years. When the Mayor and a guest of the hotel came in at the front door, I slipped out the back door, as I thought unobserved by His Honor, and streaked it, in bright moonlight, to the fence and went over almost without touching. The next day the Mayor said to me, “Young fellow, I saw your shirt-tail going over that high board fence last night.” But he hadn’t. It was before the young sports had begun to wear their shirt-tails on the outside of their pants. And then again I never was guilty of that slovenly habit.
About that deer. It finally jumped over the gate at the southeast corner of the enclosed grounds—and was gone for several days. But it came back and jumped in again. Then, it made a game of jumping out and jumping in—with periodic trips to the country. Then, one morning there were two deer in the enclosure. I think the “pet” deer tried its best to domesticate the visitor—but after three days, the call of the wilds claimed them both.
Some years later—after he had spent a couple of years in Arkansas, and was now back in the hotel again, in Wetmore—”Papa” was in a tight spot at Enid, Oklahoma, the third day after the opening of the Cherokee Strip, September 16,1893. He had made the run, staked a claim, and was in line—a very long line—at the Land Office, waiting his turn to file. I had already filed on my claim. While in line, I observed soldiers, who were supposed to be on hand to see that everyone would get a fair deal, were running in people ahead of me—and a little later, a man I shall simply call Eddie—apparently in the role of chief grafter—whom I had known in Wetmore, approached me with a proposition to advance me in line for $5. I was too near the door to be interested—and besides, my brother Dave who held a filing number next to mine, promised to “wipe the earth up” with Ed if we should be delayed further. Might say here that the gang followed this remunerative activity with another dirty practice. They filed contests on claims, so that the rightful locators would, in many instances, buy them off rather than stand the expense of fighting the case. Then Dave had to give Mr. Ed that promised thrashing. It got Dave a prompt withdrawal of the contest. I was the only one of our party of four who did not have to fight a contest. My friendship, or co-operation with the crooks, whichever way you choose to look at it, had, I presume, saved me.
After I had filed on my claim, I carried the “good” news of Mr. Eddie’s activities to “Papa.” I knew he was anxious to get back home to his hotel business, where he was trying hard to re-establish himself after returning from Arkansas. He asked me to contact Mr. Eddie for him—and said, “I’ll be your uncle.”
The soldiers advanced him to near the door—and there the line became static once more, as other advancements were being pushed in ahead of him. Then Ed told me that for $10 more the soldiers would put him through the door without delay. “Papa” dug up the $10, and said, “Do this for me Son, and I’ll dance at your wedding.” Now he could call me “Son” and offer to dance at my wedding.
There are three girls prominently featured in this story, whose names I do not wish to divulge. Substituting, I maybe should call the first one Miss Beautiful, for she was all that. But from here on, until further notice, I shall refer to them as My Best Girl, The Old Girl, and The Kid.
In all too short time my nemesis, in the person of a certain rich man’s son, an older brother of that other boy, got on my trail. I do not think it was to avenge his disappointed brother, but it could have been that. He told the boys it was to prove that he was “man enough” to “bump” me.
Well, just for once, it was not a bad guess. He would be working on fertile ground. I didn’t care too much for the Old Girl anyway. She was my senior by four or five years, and naturally she would welcome a good “catch.” It was understood between us that she was only filling a vacancy, and thereby providing a way to keep us in the Silver Stocking circle. The thing I didn’t like was to be “bumped” just for the fun of it, as viewed by the RM’s son.
Mike Norton, clerk in the DeForest store, saw the rich man’s son write a letter to the Old Girl, and he thought this would be the time when the RM’s son would try to make good his boast. Three days hence there was to be a picnic in a grove south of Netawaka, and the Silver Stocking boys and girls were lining up to go in a body. Mike and other members of the circle put in two hours looking for me. The boys, and the girls too, were all for me, in this instance—but not even the King’s Horses could have stopped that boy in his purpose. The postmaster showed me the letter with the OG’s name spelled out in bold relief—and I was off at once, thinking I would now show this RM’s son that he could not do this to me.
The Old Girl said she was awfully sorry—that she had promised another, naming the rich man’s son. I said, in substance—though really not sore at the OG, I think I was not in a frame of mind to phrase it just so—”Let’s see where we stand. The way things are shaped up now, I’m out—that is, barred from the Silver Stocking crowd by the rules of my own helpful making.”
She suggested that I go back to the girl I have designated as My Best Girl—said, “I KNOW you can, if you will just spunk up a little.” I had never “spunked” much with the OG.
“But,” I said, “if I should succeed in dating her, someone else would be out, and that someone is your old beau. Likely timber maybe. Then, in case your date does not choose to repeat, you might still have a chance to get back with the old crowd.”
She laughed—the OG was feeling pretty good, just then—and said, “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Now she giggled, “But, you know, I could always be a hanger-on, maybe even go with you and your girl—just in case.” A boy was permitted to take more than one girl—even a flock of them if he were unlucky enough.
Now the atmosphere around the OG’s home had changed, with exultant spirits taking a nose-dive. That letter was for the purpose of calling off a date. She was really too nice a girl to be buffed around like that—but please note that I did not hold with any such buffings. She had forfeited her chance to go with the crowd to the picnic. Now, more than ever, she wanted to go. She first took her troubles to her bosom friend, Bessie Campfield, wife of Judge Elwin Campfield. She wanted to know how could she, with propriety, get word to me that after all she would be free to go with me to the picnic. Bessie had spent some anxious moments trying to round up a courier to apprise me of that letter. She said to the OG, “I don’t know about that now. I could have told you about that fellow’s egotistical designs.”
The Old Girl lived with her aged parents, and when they would go away for the night, as they often did to visit another daughter in the country, she would have a young neighbor girl—not too young, but much younger than she-stay the night with her. The old folks were away now, and the young girl had been called in for the night.