TheMan fromSquashopolis

By Harry L. Newton

[Copyright MCMIII by Will Rossiter]

Ladies and gentlemen, and those that are sitting in the boxes, and you, too, orchestra, you’ll pardon me if I hesitate for a moment, but I’ve just returned from a very long walk. All the way from Squashopolis, b’gosh! I think that was the name of the town where our show closed. We say “Closed,” you see. You know when a saloon-keeper or a bank, or a chop-suey restaurant, or an iceman, gives up business, we say that the owner liquidated, or busted up, or went to the devil, or it was a frost; but a theatrical troupe always “closes.” It sounds better, you know; just as if the manager got tired taking in money and was hiding some place so that no one could throw any twenty-dollar gold-pieces at him.

But Squashopolis is a great town! Ever heard of Squashopolis? No? Why, it’s right between Pumpkinhollow and Spinachville. Squashopolis is the largest town on the map. You see it was this way: The mayor and the fire-department and the postmaster—that is, the fellow that ran the saloon—bought a map of Indiana to find out where they were at, and finding that the man who wrote the map had made a mistake and overlooked the flourishing town of Squashopolis, the mayor and the fire-department, etc., of the aforesaid town betook themselves to the pen and ink and placed Squashopolis upon the map in a manner calculated to give their beloved town its due importance and dignity; and that is how Squashopolis became the largest town on the map. The census of the village—I took it myself—revealed the fact that its population consists of one saloon and three dogs. You see the town has gone to the dogs. I asked the man at the railroad station where I could find the mayor. He said: “Why, the mayor’s left and gone to the Klondike.” “How’d that happen?” Hesaid: “Why, money makes the mayor go.” Well, I’ll sing you a sing.

[Introduce Song]

Well, I see that I’ve come out of that alive; now I’ll hand you some more. Now, in all my adventures on land or sea, and I’ve often been at sea as to where I was going to land (you never can tell in this business), in all my travels the saddest event in my career occurred the other day. I was invited to a swell dinner party—you know, a handful of lettuce and a cup of coffee; they’re something fierce; you all know how they are—maybe.

Well, as soon as I got through my turn I left the theater prepared for a long walk, as it was some distance from—pay-day. I stepped into the alley—you know they always dump us into the alley when they get through with us (they dump everything into the alley—actors, ashes, everything), then you have to sneak your way between the piles. Why, it, was only last night that I fell in a heap.

Well, right on the corner of the alley Inoticed a man posting some bills. I said: “See here! Don’t post any bills there.” He says: “Why not?” I said: “Don’t you see that sign: ‘Post no bills under penalty’?” “Well, you big lobster,” said he, “don’t you see I’m posting them over penalty?”

Now that man was in the wrong business. I said to him: “What are you posting those bills for?” He says: “Why, don’t you see? Them are pictures of Richard Mansfield. He said if I’d stick these pictures up for him he’d buy the drinks.” I said: “O, I see; you’re sticking him for the drinks.”

I just reached the sidewalk when I was approached by a tramp; no, not an actor, but a decent, hard-working tramp. Yes, a hard-working tramp; I know he worked me hard enough. He was one of those fellows who has a child and sixteen wives to support. He said: “Friend, can you help a poor old slob who has got money in the bank but don’t know how to make out a check?” You know I’m generous; I’ve never yet refused any beggar who came to me and asked—for a match. With tears in his voice he said: “Say, mister, save me from a watery grave.”“How’s that?” I asked. “Young fellow,” he says, “if you don’t give me a quarter I’ll have to work in a soap factory or jump in the lake.” Well, I couldn’t help parting with a week’s salary, so I gave him a quarter. You know, somehow, he touched me. The man was overjoyed. “Friend,” he says, “you’ve saved my life. I don’t know how to thank you. I feel as though I never could repay you.” He never did.

I was approached by a tramp.

Talk about beggars! That night I met them all. If there was any I missed they were on a vacation. They all seemed to take to me. They all seemed to keep in touch with me, as it were. One man had nerve enough to ask me for 19 cents to buy a shirtwaist. I gave him the 19 and told him not to waste it. Talk about begging! I asked one man what he did for a living and he begged the question. I asked: “Why don’t you go to work?” He says: “I can’t; I’m a cripple.” I says: “That’s a lame excuse.” “Well,” he says, “you see I’m tongue-tied and I can’t do a lick of work.”

Then a young worried woman—I mean married woman—stopped and said: “Excuseme, sir, but I’m in such trouble. My husband gave me sixty cents to go down to the Boston Store and buy some radishes and a new folding-bed, and I forgot myself and thought that I was single and spent the money for a bunch of Allegretti’s; and now I haven’t any money to buy the radishes, and I don’t know how in the world to get home.”

I always did pity a woman in distress so I showed her the way. Then a man came up to me and said—well, before he could say anything I asked him: “Well, what is it? Radishes or a folding-bed?” He says: “I don’t understand you. I wanted information as to where [local street] is.” “O,” I said, “you want information? I thought you wanted a nickel.”

The doctors say that begging is a disease, and I notice everybody has a “touch” of it. Why, I believe there are more beggars in this town than there are prohibitionists in Milwaukee. Why, all the boxers in China are a Sweet Caporal guard along side the soldiers of misfortune I met that night. I made a detour around the courthouse to avoid their left flank, but I was confronted by the enemy’scenter, which advanced toward me and occupied a strong position on [local street.]

They were commanded by a blind man with a picture of his finish on a sixteen-inch hand-organ. With this he was doing great execution—to the music. Among the wounded were the “Wild Irish Rose,” “She Is a Sensible Girl,” “My Rainbow Coon,” “Whistling Rufus” and a “Bird in a Gilded Cage.” “The Georgia Camp-Meeting” was also badly broken up.

My retreat being cut off by their right flank, which moved around to cop me at [local store] kopje, I decided to cut my way through the center and encounter the enemy en masse, en massay, en massee—well, in great big juicy bunches.

One of the enemy approached me; as [local writer] would say, he was brimful of the bibulous effervescence of concentrated outpourings of the intellectual excrescences resulting from the imbibition of infinitesimal—well, he was drunk. He started a spirited argument with me. I scented trouble, and observing trouble—I mean a copper—I gave him a cent. He gave me several scents and Ialmost lost my senses. He tried to thank me but I told him not to breathe a word of it.

Then a deah little child came up to mah and spoke to mah. She said she was a long way from home. Her aunt had given her three cents to chase herself to the parental roof—to ride home on—and she lost the money. Seeing she was but a little child (under 12 years), I thought it was only half fare, so I put her on the car.

At this point the organ-grinder with a monkey began a disturbance on the corner. One man declared he ought to be “pinched.” I said: “Certainly not.” He asked: “Why not?” I said: “He is a human being and has a perfect right to use his own organ.” He says: “Yes, as long as he doesn’t monkey with anybody else’s.”

I will now beg leave to change the subject, and tell you about the dinner party I mentioned seven minutes ago. Well, no sooner had I arrived at my destination than I was greeted by the hostess, who said: “Why, how do you do? Won’t you recite something?” You know they think an actor isjust like a slot-machine. You throw in a meal and out comes a stunt. Well, I didn’t like the meal very well, so I sung them a song.

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