was with the
P. D. advertising department. One afternoon the postman brought the mail to our house and my wife looked it over and found a letter addressed to some name like Jennings or Galt or something like that. It wasn’t for us at all. So she laid for the postman next day and gave him back the letter. She said, ‘Look here, here’s a letter that don’t belong to us at all. It’s for somebody else.’ I forget now just what the name was. Anyway, he took the letter and I guess he delivered it to the right people.”
“I got some pretty good Scotch myself for fifty-six dollars a case,” said S. P. Daniels. “It’s old James Buchanan.”
“Where did you get it, S. P.?” inquired Paul Sickles.
“I’ve got the phone number home,” replied Daniels. “I’ll bring it to you tomorrow, Paul.”
Sickles was the only man in the outfit who was not an officer, so they called him Paul instead of by his initials.
“Prohibition’s a joke!” said T. W. Havers.
“People drink now’days that never drank before,” said S. P. Daniels.
“Even nice women are drinking,” said L. M. Croft.
“I think you’ll see light wines and beer before it’s over,” said K. M. Dewey.
J. H. C. spoke again.
“But what about this letter?”
“It seems funny to me,” said A. T. Lansing, “that the people in the post-office don’t open it and find out what it’s all about. Why, my wife opens my personal mail, and when I’m home I open hers.”
“Don’t she care?” asked S. P. Daniels.
“No, S. P.,” said the younger Lansing. “She thinks everything I do is all right.”
“My wife got a letter last week with no stamp on it at all,” said Sickles. “The stamp must have dropped off. All it was anyways was a circular about mah jongg sets.”
“Do you play with flowers, Paul?” asked K. M. Dewey.
“Why—”
Harvey Hester, in the outer office, looked at his watch for the twentieth time; then got up and went to the girl at the desk.
“Please have Mr. Lansing’s secretary come out here again,” he said.
“A. M. or A. T.?” asked the girl.
“A. T.,” said Hester.
The secretary came out.
“Listen,” said Hester. “If I can’t see Mr. Lansing right this minute it’ll be too late.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t interrupt him when he’s in conference.”
“All right,” said Hester. “Will you please give him this message? You’ve got my name. Mr. Lansing and I were in school together and were more or less friendly. Well, I was tipped off this morning—I don’t need to tell you how—I was tipped off that Mrs. Lansing is leaving for Chicago on the 12:05 train. And she isn’t leaving alone. She’s eloping. I thought Mr. Lansing might want to try to stop her.”
“What time is it now?”
“Seven minutes of twelve,” said Hester. “He can just make it.”
“But he’s still in conference,” said the secretary.
Haircut
I got another barber that comes over from Carterville and helps me out Saturdays, but the rest of the time I can get along all right alone. You can see for yourself that this ain’t no New York City and besides that, the most of the boys works all day and don’t have no leisure to drop in here and get themselves prettied up.
You’re a newcomer, ain’t you? I thought I hadn’t seen you round before. I hope you like it good enough to stay. As I say, we ain’t no New York City or Chicago, but we have pretty good times. Not as good, though, since Jim Kendall got killed. When he was alive, him and Hod Meyers used to keep this town in an uproar. I bet they was more laughin’ done here than any town its size in America.
Jim was comical, and Hod was pretty near a match for him. Since Jim’s gone, Hod tries to hold his end up just the same as ever, but it’s tough goin’ when you ain’t got nobody to kind of work with.
They used to be plenty fun in here Saturdays. This place is jampacked Saturdays, from four o’clock on. Jim and Hod would show up right after their supper, round six o’clock. Jim would set himself down in that big chair, nearest the blue spittoon. Whoever had been settin’ in that chair, why they’d get up when Jim come in and give it to him.
You’d of thought it was a reserved seat like they have sometimes in a theayter. Hod would generally always stand or walk up and down, or some Saturdays, of course, he’d be settin’ in this chair part of the time, gettin’ a haircut.
Well, Jim would set there a w’ile without openin’ his mouth only to spit, and then finally he’d say to me, “Whitey,”—my right name, that is, my right first name, is Dick, but everybody round here calls me Whitey—Jim would say, “Whitey, your nose looks like a rosebud tonight. You must of been drinkin’ some of your aw de cologne.”
So I’d say, “No, Jim, but you look like you’d been drinkin’ somethin’ of that kind or somethin’ worse.”
Jim would have to laugh at that, but then he’d speak up and say, “No, I ain’t had nothin’ to drink, but that ain’t sayin’ I wouldn’t like somethin’. I wouldn’t even mind if it was wood alcohol.”
Then Hod Meyers would say, “Neither would your wife.” That would set everybody to laughin’ because Jim and his wife wasn’t on very good terms. She’d of divorced him only they wasn’t no chance to get alimony and she didn’t have no way to take care of herself and the kids. She couldn’t never understand Jim. He was kind of rough, but a good fella at heart.
Him and Hod had all kinds of sport with Milt Sheppard. I don’t suppose you’ve seen Milt. Well, he’s got an Adam’s apple that looks more like a mushmelon. So I’d be shavin’ Milt and when I’d start to
