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LLA TR Tl “SUNDAY wmAMERICAN [E{ES LR o HLL G
REe % o Lglbl (e ‘ W2O Gy - 0 ST e evT AR
s ATLANTA, GA, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 1915, - —— RS
When the Ghost Walks at Sing Sing!
- By TE. POWERS, the Famous Cartoonist
JULSOON BE A , g ]
< % SHIE bE A l S LUO NAIRE: A=A PRISON Rt
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: " T AUTHE SAMET M, _c=~ 0. ety |
WALL ST qu’”fr@wggfim/fl WAVE B
Bert Williams as the Hallboy in the Apartment House Scene at the Follies
ERT (at phone)—~Yassa, yassa, 4is am de Bunkem Oourt Apahtments.
B Nosa, Miss Tillle Hitemup is out. She’s gone to the Sixty Club.
Dat's right. One ebery second in ebery minute. Well, she gen'ly
comes in ‘bout five in de mawnin’, unless she goes around to Jack's.
Nosa, you-all caln't get Miss Tillle on Sunday. FEbery SBunday she goes
to Long Beach wif her financier.
BOY-—~Bign here! Here's a lemon tree for Miss Gladiosus.
BERT--Ah cain’t sign. Ah’s got a kink in mah hand.
BOY-~I bet you never went to school :
BERT-—Well, yes ;ah went once, ah remembers, but ah dldl'tm
BOY--I'm gonna use your phone a minute. Hello, gimme Railbird’s.
Hello, what's the lay on Yellow Feather this afternoon? Eight to five?
I'm down for fifty. Yep, fifty cents, that's what 1 say.
BERT-—Come "long, now, white trash. Slip me a nickel ¢ 'at eal
BOY--Nickel, nothin’. Didn't 1 give you information?
BERT (at phone)—Hello! Who? Louls? Nosa, you got de wrong
pahty. He lives in St. Louis? Oh, yassa, Louls from Bt. Louis. Well,
this ain't Louls.
LOTTA PEP-—Now, Bert, I'm going out, and If any one ecalis, Just
remember to tell him that from two to two-thirty I'll be at the Rita, and
from (wo-thirty till threethirty at my halrdresser's, from threethirty till
four at a tea dance on the Roof, from four till five-thirty at the other
Roof, and then from fve-tulrly Wil sixihirly st the Cguatry Club, Alter
that I'm coming In town and will dine with my sister, and at half past
eight we will be at the theatre. Now, don't forget, will you, Bert? It's
very important.
BERT--No, ma'am. Ah won't forget. But jes’ kindly tell me de
numba of yo' taxi,
A TENANT--Here, boy. Whassamatter, I can't get any service
around here? Here I been up on the eighth floor pressin’ the elevator
button till I got callouses on every finger. Maybe you think walkin's
good exercise, huh? Well, I show youn. I'll report you to the landlord,
and, whass more, I'm gonna move out tomorra, see? Tomorra—get dat?
BERT —Yassa, yassa, ah know. Lots of ‘em goes threatenin’ around
same thing ebery day.
TENANT--Well, this is no threat! I'm tired of the Bunkem Court
Apartments., You'll see. Tomorra out goes my stuff.
BERT--—But there's jes’ one thing I'se always noticed 'bout disheer
ob. Fo' dem dat moves out dere's always others moves In.
EXPRESSMAN--Box for Miss Tinytoes! (Puts it down with a orash.)
BERT fas phone)-—Miss Tinytoes, here am a box fo' you. Yassum.
It's glassware. Mo'm. Ah made a mistake. It's & bear, A tame bear,
All right'm,
EXPRESSMAPN-—~Wali, *hers do 1 take it?
BERT--Bay, man, what you'all doin’, takin’ & nap on mah switch.
board? Why doan’ you-all go oveh on mab lounge au' compose yo'sel Lo
slumbalt
00N BE A
EXPRESSMAN--Come on, Rastus, what do we do wit the bear?
BERT--Miss Tinytoes say take him back. She say she doan’ nebber
let nobody hug her. Neb-ber! Not nobody! (Starts to drink from bottle,
but phone buzzes.)
BERT--Ah doan’ spec’ ah ebber gonta quaff mah refreshments, un
less ah disables thisheer phome.
Hello! Yassum. Youall wants sumpm to eat? Well, no'm, not
hahdly—it's little late. Oh, yassum, Chinee, of co'se. Well, ah takes de
awda rightcheer. All right'm. Two awdas China ham un eggs. Two
chop sueys—yassum, cert'ny, de rice goes wif dat: dat's understood-—~
fried noodles fo' two. And any kinda tea, speclally? Oh-—oh, yassum ;
ah gotcha. Half a dozen bottles. Make 'em cold? Cold dey is!
BOY--Hello, Bert. Whadda yuh know?
BERT-—~Why, dere's 11l Oswald. Say, Oswald, now you-all takes dis
awda roun’ de cawna to One Lung's, see? An’ also—de aleo part am very
impawtant-—tell him to send in addition a large size awda of poke chops
an’ fried potatoes. Put it all on one check.
BOY--All right, I'm on.
BERT -But, Oswald, when it comes to writin' out de check, an’ dey
gets puzzlin' 'bout de poke chops—don't specity, Oswald, don’t specity.
(Phone buzzes,)
BBRT Hello. Nowa, she am out. [ say she am out. Who?! De
Lambs? O, yassa. Bcuse me. Ah didn't know yo' volce. Here's yo'
pabty, ‘
Monthly Magazi
IS GIVEN FREE with the first issue of The Sun
day American each month, You can’t afford to miss
it, because the nation’s best writers and artists are en
gaged upon it.
Demand It! Read It!
By-Products of
@ . ®
| Business Life
.
- -
No. 1. Business of Watching a Parade
By Willard Connely
Copyright, 1915, by the Siar Company. Great Britain Rights Reserved,
NYBODY can arrange to have nothing to do at any given time,
A It you don’t belleve it, get out on a busy corner and look up at
the sky. At once every dut passing by will forget there's any
other object in life but to stand next to you and try to dope out the great
celestial idea. The night Brvan announced his favorite poison ten thou
sand people stopped in front of a window to watch a pasteboard man
drink pasteboard grape juice. They thought he might come to life.
Here Wink Fisk, an firregular business man, makes his bow. In
many ways he looks like a duck, except that his face-—blunt nose, shoe
button eves and negligible chin—has the ingredients of a guinea pig's.
You can never be quite sure that Wink won't topple forward and bounce
on the sidewalk. Whether he’s in his office or out, he's like a local train,
always In a hurry, but stopping at all way stations.
These way stations are the by-products in Wink’s business life. At
the noon hour Wink was crashing up the street on an inside job. For
his own satisfaction and comfort it was important that certain orders he
intended to give be filled. That is, he knew if he didn't reach that lunch
counter in time they would be “out” of his favorite dish.
But a parade came along, so Wink stopped, llke everybody else, and
perched on the curb,
Always pause for a parade, on account you may not live to see another.
However, be it parade, crap game, purpls automobile, man selling
bottles of combination glue and molagses, man making speech on the
evils of work, woman charity flend, waltzing mice or pink parrots telllng
your fortune, Wink let himself be sidetracked. He once read an “article”
on wasting time, and it made him so sore he went off for a week and
threw time away like water. And of all Hquids which anoint this earth
water is the one, and only one, which Wink consented to throw away,
As Wink burrowed his way through the gang roosting along the
curb he was greeted with these lines by admiring fellow citizens:
“Hey, whassy idea heres, whassy idea! You owna street, dooya?”
“Git back, willya, git back! There's somebody else here sides you,
fella.”
“Remember, there's ladies here, young man,” wheezed a fat bid.
And a bewful Il girl, with angelic eyes and several absent teeth,
chanted these touching bars of a soprano obligate:
“Ow! Git off me foot!”
It s a great satisfaction not to pass unnoticed. But Wink was at all
times aggressive, and he had a habit of getting what he wanted, which
was very often what he shouldn’t have. Anyhow, he made five yards
through the centre of this mob, and reached daylight.
Wink focussed his attention on the head of the parade, which soon
followed. It was the usual proud man on the brown horse which insisted
on walking sideways, although the rider was making frantic efforts to
keep the horse's nose pointed straight ahead. The antics of the animal
were such as to justify anybody in calllng him a quadruped, or sumpm
worse, without looking up the meaning of the word.
All this interfered with the man's bowing, although the plaudits of
the multitude were really for the horse.
Get off and walk, thought Wink, who by this time had asked one of
the men he irritated for a match, and got It
The little girl on whose foot Wink had rested was now sitting aloft
on Wink's forearm, and waving to eévery man in the pageant who carried
& hornful of flowers. Wink declded he would scratch lunch, except maybe
two apples or a bananoh.
Each fireman wears a neoktle once a year. It's white, and hooks
onto the sport collar of his nobby blue flannel jumper, while on parade.
A squad of such followed, with a faithful hound dog to heel
“What kind of a dog 18 that?" asked the fat bid of Wink.
“He's a hash hound, lady,” said Wink, cocking his head to one side
like a canary.
“Huh "
“A hash hound. He's part everything.”
As the blueshirted flame-eaters stalked by brisk, thelr polished
badges scintillating blindingly in the sunlight, their fingers nervously
twitching In their virgin white gloves and longing to burst into the open
alr yet again, the annual shine on their shoes reflecting their annoyed
countenances at the prospect of an eight-mile hike, these same faces
crying tears of heat, every man of them in step—think of {t—with thelr
machinelike legs suggesting a loom in a cotton mill weaving cloth, thetir
heavy hats tilted this way or that, according to the personal inspiration
of each, Wink hollered:
“Hi, Dan!"
Nine of the brave lads and the dog turned around to see who it wae
that knew them. And they all spoke, “Hi!" though they didn't ses who
called.
Funny, nearly every one named Dan is a fireman.
A band tooted by—umpta, umpta, zing-zing—preceded by a five-foot
drum major with a two-foot fur muff on his nut. From the side of this
muff swung a tassel which would be a credit to any hearsa, As for the
major himself, a banty rooster had nothing on him for self-esteem. His
stick with the big silver ball atop 1t he wieclded as it were a gigantic fee
pick, on the hottest day of the year,
Then five trombone players abreast, those fellas who always seem
to ralse their eyebrows In surprise as they push each note into that
extension horn
“Why do the tromboners always walk in front in a band?" asked the
11 girl.
“So’s they won't hit anybody when they shove the slides way ont on
the deep notes,” sald Wink.
The hard gink-—he musta been a hodsman--who had told Wink to
“git back,” here remarked that the band was playing “Clumbia Jimma the
Oshun.” Wink, on the other hand, claimed the tune was the Russian
national song, and the argument didn’t end until they both offered to bet.
Which ultimatum ends most of these sidewalk disputes, because neither
" roduce.
Mt?‘.l’u:tny plott fer firemen 'ese days,” somebody sald. “Every buildis’
"
conc'r:omm' to burn but money, and nobody wants to put that out*
explained Wink, as he turned around and plowed through the crowd again,
Wink had missed his lunch and let his business hang over. But he
had let the parade pass in review, and he had given it his official approval,
He had the satisfaction of knowing that ¥ snybudy seked if he'd seea 1t
he could put up a good line of comment,
All of which Is perfectly natural,