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THE
NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
PRESENTED BY
_W_.L._Purc_&n
May 14, 1925 .
THEM WAS THE
GOOD OLD DAYS
J,
-"M^^x^A.'C-ic
Its'
THEM WAS THE
GOOD OLD DAYS
IN DAVENPORT
SCOTT COUNTY, IOWA
>L ..
./ By
W: L. PURCELL
("OLD TIMER")
PUBLISHED BY
PURCELL PRINTING COMPANY
1922
A
, • • • • » • ^
• > > >
• » • . * •
THE NEW YORK "
PUBLIC UBfAR
ASTOR. LENOX AND
^ TILDEN FOUNDa r:ON3 j
K 1 923 r
CooVright 1922, by W. L. Purcell.
«' / •
Here's How!
TO THE OLD TIMERS OF DAVENPORT:
MAY YOUR JOURNEY THROUGH THE INDIAN SUMMER
OF LIFE BE BRIGHTENED WITH HAPPY
MEMORIES OF THE GOOD OLD DAYS.
Words and Illustrations Assembled by
W. L. PURCELL
Special Cartooixs by
W. A. CEPERLEY
Photographs Loaned by
OLD TIMERS OF DAVENPORT
Reprinted from Sketches Published in
THE DAVENPORT DEMOCRAT
With Revisions and Additions
The Hokum.
The Alibi - H
Pep: With and Without 21
Kid Days Along the Levee 23
Original Simp-Phoney Orchestra 31
Chawbeef Days at Duck Creek 33
Corkhill and the Patch - 43
Dancing Days at Mrs. Whistler's. 53
Rollicking Times at Wapsie Shindigs 59
When the Eclipse Threw a Scare..- 67
Slick Skaters and Sweet Singers 71
Highheel Boots and Bellbottom Pants 77
With the Boys of Company B 83
Hoglatin, Gibberish, Slanguage -- 89
The Tale of the Scott County Apple 91
Enough is Suffish. 95
The Carnival City Minstrels 97
The Tank Town Troupers 105
Street Music and Catarrh 109
An Album of Quaint Types 115
At the Grumbler's Camp 121
Encore Music and Elks 123
The Exile of Johnny Robbins 129
The Old Turner Hall Crowd 133
Old Time Cullud Folks 147
In Dampest Davenport 153
Bobbing the Tail of Demon Rum 163
Hooking Suckers in Little Monte Carlo 167
Along the Bucktown Rialto 171
Skunk River Amenities 175
The Human Fly at the Burtis 179
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Old Jazzdad's Birthplace 187
What Made Rock Island Great 191
The Dope on Chief Black Hawk 195
The Volunteer Fire Laddies 197
Pioneer Work in Cubist Art 203
Thuthie Thmither'th Thilly Vertheth 207
Pretzel Alley 211
Come Back to Pretzel Alley 216
Steve Oilman's Nimrods 217
Billiards and Drum Corps 219
The Davenport Burns Club 221
When Folks Were Sociable. 225
Curbstone Merrymakers 227
The Happy Ending 231
8
The Pichers.
Antoine LeClaire 14
Colonel George L. Davenport _ 15
Mayors of Davenport in the Good Old Days -.. 16
In the Forties and Nineties 17
Old Davenport Homestead 19
Isaac Rothschild .- 22
Henry Jaeger's Camp on Second Island 36
A Fine String of Carp.. 42
Original Hotel Davenport 46
Daddy Davis Clam Chowder Club 50
Dandies of the Seventies.. 54
Frank DeWarf 55
Fresh-Air Club 60
Toot! Toot! The Seventy-Two 66
All Dolled for Easter Sunday Style Parade 76
Ted Neuhaus in Belva Lockwood Costume 84
Davenport Carnival City Minstrels 96
Brown and Dewey in Heavy Tragedy 98
Kindt's Minstrel Troupers at Solon 104
Grumblers Camp on Smith's Island 120
Davenport Elks as Filipinos 124
Flashlight of Russell's Scoopery.. 128
John Hill 132
Old Turner Hall 134
Dutch Treat Days at Old Turner Hall 136
Peter N. Jacobsen 138
When Charlie Lippy's Band Played 140
Taking a Jolt at Charlie Gallagher's 152
Little Mint on East Third Street 154
Burial Services of Gooshie Logie 156
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Hotel Davenport Pie-Shaped Bar 162
When Cob and Packey Were Chums 174
Davenport's First Human Fly... 178
Bert Leslie and "Steve Hogan" 182
First Automobile in Davenport... 186
Famous Never-Sweat Club 190
The Steamer Donahue 198
Officials of Court House 202
Pretzel Alley Press Club Parade.... 210
Bobby Burns 220
Invitation to Burns Club 222
Scott County Kidneyfoot Club.. 228
10
The Alibi.
N ORDINARY PERSON, diverging from routine,
sniffs an impulse to confide the reason therefor,
to ease devious doubts and to invite dubious
endorsement: the urge to alibi. The purchase of
a fliv has been alibied on a salesman's suggestion that the
air is extremely desirable for a robust neurotic.
Owney Geegan, of intermittent nerves, diagnosed his
temperamental ailment as abdominal, easiest appeased by
stimulant: the satisfactory alibi. . . . To augment his
discomfort, Owney annexed a wife v/ho tipped the beam at
two-ten. Explanatory information was vouchsafed to friends
— difficulties encountered with his fliv, in taking the bumps,
vanished with connubial conquest: the rear-seat ballast alibi.
. The short-skirt epidemic raged — Owney developing
opposition. His two-tener, hitting her stride and scenting
opposition, was a victim of circumstances. An attack of flu,
four years previously, was the cause of falling hair — Mrs.
Owney observed one morning — and after visiting a beauty-
parlor, for expert consultation, she emerged therefrom with
bobbed hair. The cleaner delivered her best skirt that morn-
ing, also, and Owney's woman discovered a shrinkage which
elevated that garment stylishly above her shoetops. . . .
The afternoon was devoted to explaining, voluminously, to
incredulous neighbors the how-come of the twin-alibi: short
skirt and bobbed hair. That evening Owney took one flash
at his buxom better-half, . . . recourse to his satisfac-
tory alibi restraining homicidal urge. . . . On taking the
bumps the following Sunday, Owney's fliv was loaded with
alibis — the satisfactory one and the rear-seat threesome. . .
Frank Gordon, sports editor, solicited a contribution for
Bob Feeney's "Homade Hooch" column for the Christmas
issue of the Democrat, to recall "old days down the line."
Hugh Harrison, city editor, inspected that contribution and
urged its expansion, with cartoons by "Cep," for the New
Year's hooch resume. Vince Dorgan recalled some Cork-
11
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
The Assembler.
With first pants pocket and coppertoe shoes.
TINTYPE Br 0LM3TEA0
12
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
hill characters. Frank Brady spoke
of old time river camps. Adolph
Petersen registered old Turner hall
memories. Walter Blair recalled
the old darky days. Charlie Kindt
bubbled reminiscently, and so did
Ralph Cram. Frank Throop said,
"Hop to it!" Mary Wright sug-
gested a jazz voliune for historical
(?) archives. And so! . . .
Approaching the half century
milestone, involuntarily we glance
backward, to observe that time has
smoothed many rough places; that
memory delights in mooning half-
forgotten incidents of the misty
past. Trifling episodes of youthful
days take on retrospective charm as the years glide along. . .
Webster's dictionary, the city directory, newspaper sport
pages, and street patter were ruthlessly prowled in the task
of word-assembling. Phrases were lifted, ideas pilfered,
expressions pirated — resulting in a plagiarized potpourri for
the delectation and edification of tired old timers. . . .
In the old days clothes were the handwork of the good
mother who guided the destinies of numerous progeny. . .
Frequently clothes were bequeathed from sire to son, and
from older to younger brother. Coppertoe shoes, incident-
ally, were the vogue. A young hopeful, enjoying the luxury
of knee-pants, could not forego the pleasure of inserting a
thumb in his first pocket, although cautioned to "look pleas-
ant" and "listen to the pretty birdie."
Amateur word-assemblers, the first time out, usually
submit facial credentials — without any apparent justification.
That custom has been observed in collating "Them Was the
Good Old Days," by reproducing, on the opposite page, a
tintype by Olmstead, taken in eighteen-seventy.
And now, sport, having alibied the prelim, the gong
sounds that batthng call — "Time!"
Come on — let's go!
13
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Antoine LeCIaire.
Old Timer who located site for "Them Was the Good Old Days."
14
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Colonel George L. Davenport.
Old Timer who named site for "Them Was the Good Old Days.'
15
S^^^^^'^
-^'-ms^S^i
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Davenport.
In the Forties.
In the Nineties.
17
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
^^mk^S"^^--
Old Davenport Homestead on Rock Island Arsenal.
19
0
0
O
4)
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Pep: With and Without.
Assembling Charles Kingsley's stuff to jazz.
hen unit are full of pep, sport,
Anb etierytlimg ts jnkc,
T5ou make Hie j^rahe on I|i5l|, sport.
Anil bveiih ts attgel-cahe.
^etgl]-©! ^tep on tl]e gas, sport —
^on't take a hackltiitrb glance;
^tne np anh hit tl]e ball, sport,
^nh take a sporting chance,
^l|en you are sI]o of }J2p, sport,
Axth sloluing in tl]e race,
^on't tt]ink you're out of luck, sport,
3For young hlooh sets tl]e pace,
^e game! ^tanb for tl]e raz, sport,
J\nb fiil]ett you back&iarb gase,
fere's l]oping you can cl]irp, sport,
**^t]em foas the gooh olh bags."
21
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
-Just to holler "Hello, Isaac!" — 'cause all them little tikes
liked Mr. Rothschild.
22
Kid Days Along the Levee,
AY, BOB — Don't s'pose you reporters know
anything about the fun the youngsters had
in the old days before movies, flivvers, hip-
oil, and eskimo pie was invented. Course,
they didn't have no chili-con-carne, tinfoil
caramels, nut sundaes, nor all-day suckers
then, so they had to get by with Kendall's
baked beans, chewin' wax, molasses candy,
licorice-root, and ice cream.
When a coupla kids went gutter-snipin',
if one found a nickel and the other hollered
"hav-vers" before his buddy got his fingers
crossed, he was in fifty-fifty on the findin's.
Then they'd scoot like the dickens to Black's ice cream par-
lor on Brady street for a five-cent dish of ice cream with two
spoons, and Mr. Black would push the specs back on his
head and divide the cream on the plate so's they wouldn't
battle about who got the biggest half. After them little lads
gobbled the ice cream they'd pull straws to see who'd lick the
plate, the kid who got the long straw bein' the wirmer. Lotsa
little gals bought five-cent dishes of ice cream with two
spoons, too, whenever they "found a nickel rollin' up hill."
But they wasn't many nickels rollin' in them days.
Mr. Black was a kind old gent with blue eyes and gray
sideburns, and he whistled softly when soundin' his "s's". He
wore a black alpaca coat with the sleeves pulled up to his
elbows, and his cassimere pants kept ketchin' on the pullon
strap of his soft-soled congress gaiters. The boys called him
"Stingy" Black, because he never gave them a good fillin' of
ice cream for a nickel.
Say, that was real handmade ice cream, sport! It felt
as soothin' as liquid sunshine, tickled all the way down, and
tasted like it was made by the angels. That pair of kids
had tummy capacity for a gallon of Black's ice cream, and
standin' room for a coupla hunks of Bremer's cream pie, with-
out any crowdin'.
23
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Gutter-snipin' was an excitin' pastime in them days.
Understand, they wasn't no pavin' on Brady street — only
macadam and plank sidewalks with slabstone gutters. After
a rainstorm, little boys went gutter-snipin' — lookin' for small
change and trinkets that the rain washed down hill to get
ketched in cracks between the slabstones. Sometimes they
even picked up ten-cent shinplasters. In them days kids
hadta dig for what they got. Now all they gota do is sit still
and wait till the team starts a drive. Purty soft!
That's the time snipe-shootin' was invented, sport — when
them young injuns learned to smoke comsilk, rattan, and
killikinick behind Buckshot Norton's onion barn, back of the
old market house. Link Starbuck, Stony Johnston, Chub
Nash, Dick McGuire, Jamthought Jordan, Clint Lee, Lew Orr,
Frank Robeson, Chub Wells, Doc Lauer, Wade Willey, Billy
Steams, Merv Agnew, Undershot Brady, Beech Frame, Buck-
tooth Keck, Muley Mullins, Chook Grady, Pus LeClaire, Brick
Ogden, Johnny Miclot, Jimmy Dooley, and a lota other dead-
game sports took their smokin' lessons in
the alley near Buckshot's barn, Hadta
show class if you trotted with that bunch.
No chance if your ma had named you
Percy, or Harold, or Clarence, or if you
wore curls. If a kid couldn't smoke two
pipefuls of killikinick or take a chewa fine-
cut without throwin' up his heels, he had
as much standin' with that gang as a
chinaman. After he graduated and learned
to spit through his teeth he would be able
to shoot snipes and blow the smoke through
his nose like a regular feller. But them
boys never smoked cigarets — exceptin' "cupebs," and them
catarrh pills smelled like Jack Munro's blacksmith shop when
Jack was shoein' a boss, Hadta be mighty careful their dads
didn't ketch 'em smokin' and to keep an eye peeled for Tile-
bein, the copper, as old Til was a holy terror for youngsters
that was breakin' the game laws.
Kids was awful scared of cops, 'cause they was liable
to slam 'em inta the hoosegow for nothin' at all.
24
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
In them days kids belonged to gangs, and when they
wandered outside their own territory they was likely to get
a good wallopin'. While every gang had its own whistle call
for help, it was mighty dangerous for a downtown kid to
cross the territory of the Patch gang, Goosetown gang, or
Flatiron Square gang unless he was a good foot racer. Now
we got the Rotary gang, the Kiwanis gang, the Gyro gang,
the Adclub gang, and a lota other gangs, and them birds
aint nothin' but just a bunch of growed-up kids.
The Rogertown gang in East Davenport had a lota hard
eggs that scared the livin' daylights outa the Mount Ida gang
and Brady street gang when they went nut-
pickin' in the fall. Startin' early and takin'
their lunch, them tads tramped all the way to
Ashford's pasture, and put in a hard day
fillin' their sacks with hazelnuts. Comin'
back, tired and hungry, the wreckin' crew of
the Rogertown gang would halt 'em near
Kuehl's hall and ast 'em what right they had
comin' out there to steal their nuts. Then
they'd grab the day's work them youngsters
carried on their shoulders — sorta takin' off
the peak load. Them Rogertown guys was
awful touchy and their feelin's was easy
hurt, 'cause if a kid got balky and showed fight they'd gang
him and give him a good maulin'. Didn't do no good to go
'round a coupla miles and come home by Jersey Ridge road,
neither, 'cause they had spotters out to ketch any outsiders
that stole their nuts — them birds controllin' all the best nut
orchards from East Davenport to the Wapsie. That's why
they was so many squirrels up there — Rogertown jakes livin'
on nuts all winter. But the only way they picked nuts was
by the sackful, when six of them brave fellers took a sackful
away from one scared kid.
It was an awful disgrace in them times for a young lad
to get caught talkin' to a little gal, exceptin' his sister. If
he even spoke to his little gal cousin, he'd have to put up an
airtight alibi or get razzed for bein' a sis. There's lo'fs of
punishment them little fellers could stand — but not that.
25
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Patrick T. Walsh
Father Pelamorgues.
26
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
When a boy showed up wearin' a paper collar, the gang
would wise up that he had a mush case on with little Mamie,
and he'd havta come clean to square himself. If he didn't
ding the collar pronto, and stop the little gal right in front of
the gang and tell her to quit speakin' to him, and to mind her
own darn business, his pals would holler in chorus and say:
First the radish, then the bean —
Johnny Smith and Mamie Green.
Then, if he got sore, they'd dance and sing:
Johnny's mad and I'm glad
And I know what'll please him
A bottle of wine
To make him shine,
And Mamie Green to squeeze him.
Saturday mornin' was a big day on the levee, and the
kids got an early start so's they could watch Con Mast and
his dad, his brother Ganny, Dad Sever-
ance, and them other topnotch fisher-
men on the log rafts and coal barges,
pullin' in bass, sunfish, and perch. Dad
Severance was hep to every good fishin'
spot from the Rocks to Shantytown. He
could tell whether grub-worms, crawfish,
or minnies was the best bait to use ; and
when the salmon was runnin' in Octo-
ber, Dad was on the job at Stubb's eddy,
Cook's point, or Renwick's pier, smokin'
his briar pipe, and pullin' in the big five-
pounders with his willow pole, while a
lota dubs with the finest fishin' machin-
ery couldn't even get a bite.
After them youngsters tired of watchin' the fishin', they'd
go up and ast Jim Osborne was they any packets comin' in,
and when Jim told 'em they wasn't nothin' due but the Lone
Star or a coupla rafters, they'd go up to the Fire King ingine
house to watch Milt Rowser, Teddy Auerochs, and Bill
McCrellias polishin' the brass on the Fire King to get that old
fire ingine dolled up for firemen's parade day, 'cause they
wanted the Fire Ring to be shinin' sweller than the Donahue.
27
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
I saw the boat come 'round the bend —
Good-bye, my lover, good-bye I
'Twas loaded down w^ith steamboat men —
Good-bye, my lover, good-bye!
Busy Days Down on the Levee.
Steamboat Saint Paul, Diamond Jo Line Passenger Packet.
28
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
When they'd ast could they help shine her up, old BiU'd say,
"Getahell outa here, you doggone little sav-
ages, or we'll turn the hose on ya!" Old
Bill always talked in pure steamboat lan-
guage, he bein' the guy that taught them
steamboat mates, raftsmen, and the molders
at Davis's threshin' machine foundry how
to put real kick in their conversation. Then
the kids would holler to old Bill, "Dare ya
to, ya big stiff, ya!" and they'd leg it down
the alley back of Van Patten and Marks, and
crawl into them big sugar hogsheads that
the steamboats brung up from New Or-
leans, to dig out the brown sugar that had
melted between the staves.
Ever know the handiest tool for a youngster, sport — out-
side a pocketknife? Why, it's a hoss-shoe nail. Comes in
handy for chinkin' off brown sugar in hogsheads, and for
holdin' up pants when the buttons snap off — them little lads
only wearin' pants, waists, and 'spenders, and mebbe a hat.
Usta swipe hoss-shoe nails at Jack Speed's hoss-shoein' shop
when they was shoein' flies for Jack while he was manicurin'
the boss's hoofs.
Them arabs never wore shoes then — exceptin' on Sun-
days— and when a kid showed up with new shoes that
squeaked, all the gang would havta take turns and spit on
'em to christen 'em by spoilin' the shine. A new suit hadta
be christened too, a kid always feelin' ashamed 'til he rassled
in his new handmedowns.
When they got through stokin' up on brown sugar, they'd
watch Lew Marks sortin' oranges and bananas, and wait
till he'd throw away the specked ones, when they was some
awful scramblin' done — most of them oranges only bein' half
rotten.
After mixin' specked oranges and bananas with the
brown sugar, they'd romp around to Second street, past Roth-
schild's clothing store, just to holler "Hello, Isaac !"— 'cause
all them little tikes liked Mr. Rothschild. And when it came
time to get a suit of clothes in the fall, their dads gave Isaac
29
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
the standoff — and mebbe they paid and meb-
be they thought Isaac was easy and they'd
play their jack on the growler.
Then they'd move along and circle
around Richter's open-faced stuffed bear that
stood up on his hind legs a-holdin' on to a
pole with his front paws. They'd holler and
make faces at the bear, to show that they
wasn't afraid, and brag about how they'd kill
grizzlies and Indians when they growed up
and went to Texas to hunt buffaloes with
Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack — them good old
scouts bein' the grandest men in the world,
accordin' to them youngsters.
If an ice wagon with the sign "Ice, E. Peck," came
rumblin' by, and one kid hollered, "What d'ya see when the
iceman comes?" another kid would answer, "I — see — Peck!"
Then they'd jump on the tailboard and ast August for a piece
of ice, so's they could cool the speckled fruit that was fer-
mentin' with the brown sugar, but they never even dreamed
that they was the originators of orange ice and banana flip.
30
Original Simp-phoney Orchestra.
Hearin' the gangsaw singin' down at
Schricker and Mueller's sawmill, they'd
hotfoot it to Scott street, through the lum-
ber yard, to watch the logs glidin' up the
chute to be chewed into lumber, or they'd
start a game of banter or wood-tag on the
boom, of the log raft.
Talk about singin', sport — that old
Schricker and Mueller gangsaw had it all
over Caruso or John McCormack, and you
could hear it from Mount Ida to Rockingham. It would
modulate its voice when the wind shifted, and do creepy,
tremolo stuff that sounded like a million mockin' birds was
spillin' out melody in a singin' contest, or like all the banshees
from Ireland was workin' in harmony. Why, even the old
Helen Blair, comin' around the bend of the river, and blowin'
her quivery baritone whistle, sounded purtier than Mary
Garden, or Galli-Curci, or any of them high-steppin' janes
that's squawkin' outa talkin' machines now'days.
That's where music fans got this symphony orchestra
idea, sport — tryin' to give an imitation of the old buzzsaw
moanin' and sobbin' its way through a tough knot in a juicy
pine log down at Schricker and Mueller's, When the sawmill
buzzsaw and steamboat siren done a jazz duet on a windy day,
doublin' up with the glucose aroma that crowded the south-
ern summer breeze, Davenport's original simp-phoney orches-
tra was dishin' up free nose and ear music for everybody.
After a hurryup visit to Berger's livery, to help Taich Ber-
ger and Hank Treffs curry bosses and swob buggies, them
arabs trotted down to the Liberty fire engjne house on Brown
street to admire the fireman's statue standin' up in the cupola,
with the trumpet to his lips like he was givin' orders to the
firemen. Then they'd flip a farm wagon for a ride up-town,
unless somje old heiney from the Lumberyard gang hollered
"Whip behind!" to the farmer.
31
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
The waterworks whistle blowin' about this time, them
kids would notice that it was about time to slip on the feed
bag, so they'd call it a half day and toddle home to dinner.
The biggest honor for a kid in them days was torchboy
for the Rescues of Fifth Ward hose company, so's he could
sport a fireman's uniform — double-breasted red flannel shirt
with brass buttons, white pants, helmet, and
torch — and step along in the fireman's day
parade. A torchboy had his gang burnin*
with envy, and they'd scamper along the
march, hollerin' to their buddy, wishin' they
was wearin' a red shirt.
Next best honor to torchboy was totin*
the bass drum in Haverly's minstrels street
parade. Many hard-fought battles was pulled
off in Burtis theatre alley to decide who's
turn it was to tote the bass drum. Even
holdin' music for the cornet solo guy at the
minstrel band's evening concert would send
a youngster to the hay sparklin' with happiness.
Yes, indeed — them was the good old days! The trouble
was them young fellers didn't know when they was well off.
Always wishin' to be men so's they could have a toothbrush
handle peekin' outa their vest pocket, or grow whiskers like
a doctor, or have wax-end soup-strainers like them dandy
dudes that wore bell-bottom jeans pants. Then, when they
growed up to be men, they switched the hokum and wished
they was kids again.
Lotsa wimmen folks get chicken ideas, too. They teehee
and doll up like kindergarten babies, but they don't fool
nobody — unless it's the makeup they see in their handbag
mirrors.
All the nuts don't grow in Ashford's pasture, sport, and
a lota smart folks ain't got no license to wonder how them
pop-eyed hopheads get that way.
32
Chawbeef Days at Duck Creek.
AY, BOB — Even if kids didn't have sandy
beaches and enclosed nats in the old days,
they had some dandy swimmin' places—
not countin' the Arp and Reuber swimmin'
house at the foot of Perry, where a kid could
take a swim in the little hole for a nickel
or in the big hole for a dime. On Satur-
days, though, there was such a mob waitin'
in line that old Reuber'd only let 'em stay in
a half hour, when he'd chase 'em out with a
bamboo pole. Boys didn't wear swimmin'
suits then, and a kid that brung soap and towel got razzed for
bein' a dude.
Rooks's brickyard pond, in the ravine at Tenth and Gaines,
was a dandy swimmin' hole, exceptin' it had a mushy yaller
clay bottom and gangrene scum around the edges. Folks
said it wasn't healthy to swim there, but the kids didn't
believe 'em. The irish canaries that boarded in Rooks's pond
had fine baritone voices, and on moonlight nights you could
hear 'em chantin' in mournful chorus down to Schuetzen park.
The swimmin' hole under the oak trees in Farnam street
woods was the cushiest place, but it was risky for outside
kids to take a chance swimmin' there unless they stood in
with the Corkhill gang, them guys takin' full charge of all
that territory after they chased the injuns out.
The best swimmin' hole was in Baker's cow pasture, west
of Brady at Duck creek. There wasn't nobody there to chase
youngsters just when the fun was gettin' good, but sometimes
they hadta stay in all afternoon, 'cause they'd get splattered
with mud and havta jump in again and wash off, unless the
gang agreed to let 'em out.
Of course, it was different when lunch time came, when
they'd build a fire to bake potatoes or roast corn on hot coals,
or fry a yaller-bellied mudcat if fishin' was good, or boil
eggs in a tomato can. Didn't make no difference if ashes
33
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Old High School at Sixth and Main.
Old Stone School at Seventh and Perry.
Old Mount Ida School at Mississippi and Fulton.
34
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
and dirt got mixed with that grub, it tasted better than any
of the chuck they got at home. Or, mebbe they'd hike to
Gilruth's orchard out on Harrison street, to prowl for bell-
flowers and russets, and grab onions, grapes, and sweet pota-
toes on the way. Then they'd sit around the fire to enjoy a
good smoke of porous driftwood or the ripe cigars they picked
from catalpa trees, and talk about how fine it would be if
they was out on the plains fightin' redskins with the old
scouts they read about in Beadle's dime novels and the Boys
of New York Weekly. Then they'd go buffalo huntin' —
chasin' Baker's cows over the meadows, and sayin' "Bang!
Bang!" every time they'd draw a bead on them wild animals
with their trusty old rifles that was made outa cornstalks.
Some days, after listenin' to George Baker's wonderful
snake stories, they went explorin' in the willows for hoop-
snakes. George told 'em that when a hoopsnake seen a guy
comin' it would grab the end of its tail in its mouth and
whirl through the pasture like a bat outahell, not stoppm' for
nothin' unless it bumped against a tree or rail fence.
George said he'd seen lotsa hoopsnakes
— and jointsnakes, too, and George said if
a kid whacked a jointsnake with a slippery-
elm club it would fly to pieces, and the
pieces would all come together again at
sundown, and the jointsnake would be doin'
business at the old stand the next day. If
a kid ever got stung by a rattler or copper-
head, George said, the only cure was to
hike to Pillion's and drink a quart of forty-
rod likker.
Al Lindsay told them little fellers they couldn't kill all
of a snake or turtle in the daytime — that even if they
chopped 'em into little pieces the heads would live 'til sun-
down. George and Al lived on the banks of that stream and
was the big authority on Duck creek snakes in them times.
But in all their explorin', from the Hospital to the Orphans'
home, the nearest them kids ever come to seein' a hoopsnake
or a jointsnake was when they killed a ferocious gartersnake
or drownded out a gopher.
35
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THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
One Saturday the Locust street gang started from Eagel's
grocery store on a hike to the creek, and began playin' banter
at Brewster's place near the old Fair grounds, and kept it
up clear out to the Black Hills saloon.
Charlie Osborn was leader, and when he ast them little
men if they all was game enough to folly their leader in any-
thing he done, they said they was. So Charlie peeled off all
his togs under the big maple when they got near Balluff's, and
Lew Wicksey and more than a dozen kids follyed suit. Then
Charlie started the percession with a yell, and they raced a
half mile to the creek, carryin' their duds in their hands,
whoopin' and hollerin' like wild injuns out on the warpath.
Even if there wasn't many houses along there then, the wim-
men folks that seen them skinny legs flyin' past musta thought
that nuts was gettin' ripe purty early that season.
After they paddled around in the swimmin' hole for an
hour or so, with Gus Paine, Joe Orendorff, and Mike Rus-
sell, collectin' leeches, sandburrs, and sun-
burn in fifteen inches of water, they heard
that horrible cry that always puts a feelin'
of terror in the heart of a kid in swimmin'
— "Chaw beef!" Then they knew that
Bob Armil and Howey Oliver, leaders of
the notorious Noels's woods gang, had
snuck up while they was en joy in' their-
selves, and that dirty work was bein' done,
as them two mallards was the champeen
chawbeefers in that neck of the woods.
There was some wild scrambiin' by them little lads for
their togs, and after they fished 'em outa the creek, chawed the
knots loose with their teeth, and spread 'em out to dry, it was
gettin' nigh on to supper-time. On the way home they
remembered they had forgot about pilin' the big load of wet
wood the millman brung from Renwick, Shaw, and Crosset's
durin' the week, and they knew they was due for a good
lammin' when their dads started astin' questions, unless they
could get away with the old alibi about bein' sick in the
stummick.
Them was the good old days, sport!
37
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
They wasn't no wild w^immen pickin' tame flowers then,
nor no tame wimmen pickin' wild flowers. When a flocka
janes took to the timber for an outin', they'd pick mayapples,
wild strawberries, and hazelnuts, but they never run hogwild
and pulled 'em up by the roots. Only the men folks done
the killin' — poppin' the robins, woodpeckers, and other song-
birds with their muzzle-loaders, just for fun, and helpin' civ-
ilization along by cleanin' up the prairie chickens, bobwhites,
and pheasants. Then there was the old sports that thought
duckshootin' too tame. Them old roosters took trips to the
wild prairies of Nebraska to slaughter meek-eyed buffaloes
that just had noodle enough to folly the leader. There's a
coupla buffaloes in Fejervary park now, and it might be a good
idea to stick a few wild flowers and ferns down there — or in
the Academy of Sciences — so's that the next generation kin
see what them things looked like.
When Leas Lingafelt introduced grape-
fruit in this burg, Neil Collamer laughed,
and said he'd rather sink a tooth into a
hedgeball or a hunk of limburger than in
one of them darn things. Frank Paddock
passed up them jumbo lemons, too, sayin'
they was n. g. Hugh Barr couldn't even
con his two salesmen. Oyster Jim and
Celery Pete, to tackle grapefruit. Them
twoi birds said that just because they
started Hugh in the fish business, and
could hoist anything in the moisture
market, was no reason why Hugh should try to feed 'em big
quinine pills. Leas then ast Charlie Robeson would he try
his taster, and Charlie said that he'd try anything once. When
he put away the first grapefruit raw, the other yaps expected
to see the butcher boy knocked stiff. But Charlie was game,
and only said it tasted kinda bitter. Then he seasoned the
next one with a dash of mustard and some sugar, and said it
tasted finer than Charlie Cavanaro's Florida oranges.
Then Doc Sharon and Senator Gorman split a grapefruit,
sprinkled it with sugar, and said it was the next best bet to
wild strawberries or Bob Pringle's cream puffs.
38
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
In them days Leon Allen's dad and Tommy McKinney's
dad had hot arguments in the old Farnam street roundhouse
regardin' whose boy was the keenest at eatin' arithmetic —
both of them youngsters bein' johnny-at-the-rathole when it
come to figgerin', and the smartest boys in their schools.
Leon's dad said his boy was. Tommy's dad said his boy
was. So, after Jake Goehring balked on refereein' the argu-
ment, them two dads framed for a joint debate to a decision
on the next Sunday afternoon. When time was called Leon's
dad examined his son, and Tommy's dad examined his son,
and decimals and geometry was bein' batted all over the
room. Then, while the two proud dads was summin' up and
argufyin' the case all over, the two little shavers slipped out
into the back yard to play a game of jacks. Then they played
a game of mibs for keeps. Then Tommy traded five com-
In the Academy of Sciences.
mies and a glassie to Leon for a blind agate. Then Leon
traded his top to Tommy for a big whiteally and his two-
licker taw. And about the time them little lads was gettin'
ready to swap jackknives, sight-unseen, their dad's came out
and told 'em who was winners in the big contest in arithmetic.
Never heard of Crazy Litz, didya, sport? Well, he was
a kinda queer old geezer that growed rusty whiskers and lived
in a shanty up in Main street hollow. He usta mind his own
business and keep his trap shut, and, naturally, people thought
he was coocoo. He was easy teasin' for the kids, and when
he wandered down town they follyed him, hollerin' "Crazy
Litz is gettin' fits!" One hot day in August they was tor-
mentin' him by yellin' and throwin' clods, when the old man
39
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
flew clear off the handle, grabbed a tantalizin' youngster and
gave him a blamed good maulin'. Then old Crazy Litz was
pinched for disturbin' the peace, and he done a thirty-day
stretch in the cooler. After they turned him loose he could
walk by the Sixth street gang any time, and not a peep outa
any of 'em. And that gang had such hard eggs as Charlie
Haskins, Ed Webb, Jim Hurd, Harry High, Tom Lowery,
Johnny Drew, Ed Marvin, Harry Eldridge, Billy Coulter,
Bill Dooley, Dave Magoun, Tim Parker, Ed Hood, Billy
Webb, Ferd Mast, Wils McClelland, Chet Croul, Pickels
Gildea, Jack Leonard, Charlie Barnes, Butch Thiele, Hons
McGee, Win McChesney, Dinny Denison, Jack Berryhill,
Tom Griggs, Brock Darling, Tip Nealey, Peg Donahoo, Jim
Flemming and Jack Cook.
Jim Flemming and Jack Cook were the radio boys of the
old days. They had the first private telegraph line in this
burg, a block long, runnin' from their
homes, on the corners of Brady and Main
along Sixth street. When them boy
wizards practiced operatin', kids usta press
their ears to the telegraph poles to listen
in. They could hear Jim and Jack con-
fabbin', by the way the wire hummed, but
they couldn't understand telegraph lan-
guage.
Jim and Jack gabbed through the first
telephone, too, and they helped string the
wire. That telephone was a great dish for
the natives, and the two oil-spreaders that operated it tore oflf
lotsa mazume. It reached from the roof of Doc Mitchell's
sample rooms at Brady and Commercial alley to the sidewalk
at Rothschild's clothin' store on Second and Brady. A nosey
mob gathered around, takin' turns talkin' at ten cents a talk.
Two bakin' powder cans without covers, connected with a
fishline, stretched across the street, and them cans was used
both for talkin' and hearin'.
That telephone line got an awful play, sport, but nobody
ever heard the bird on the roof say "the line's busy." But
he was a flip young feller, and he'd say "pull down your vest"
40
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
and "wipe off your chin," bein' a hound for usin' the latest
slang of them times. Now'days if some sap asts for number
3333, after the little lady with the ukelele voice repeats them
numbers, with all the canary bird thr-r-rills, it sounds like
Frank Fick tunin' his flute to shoot a quickfire cadenza for
the symphony jays that inhale wop opera.
In these times wimmen use lotsa makeup on telephone
gab, workin' two brands of lingo — the cardparty guff and
kitchen variety. When the bell rings, and a dame gurgles
"Hel-1-o-o-o-uh!" — all drippin' with honey — it sounds sweeter
than Mendelssohn's "Spring Song" usta sound when Jake
Strasser was leadin' his swell orchestra. But if a roughneck
brother^ or sumpin, hooks on the line, the sweet voice bawls,
"Oh! It's you, is it!" — soundin' like a strawboss razzin' a
herda hunks. It's sure tough, sport, after dopin' the settin'
for high-class shootin' to have the prize headache horn in.
41
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Corkhill and the Patch.
AY, BOB— REMEMBER Jerry the Fiddler
in the old Corkhill days, when he usta
play the "Connukman's Rambles" and the
"Devil's Dream" for the shindigs on Cork-
hill and the Patch — how he made more
music with the foot than with the fid?
I don't s'pose you remember "Jerry's
Bridge" on Rock Island street, from Tenth
to Eleventh, neither — and how the old
moon shimmered on the crisp snow on a
winter's evenin', and winked when you
looked down "Doogan's Rawveen"?
Don't remember when Yankee Robinson's one-ring cir-
cus showed on the Patch, and how the old clown sung "Pullin'
Hard Against the Stream"?
In this world I've gained my knowledge,
And for it I've had to pay,
Though I never went to college,
Still I've heard the poet say: ,
Life is like a mighty river, ,
Runnin' on from day to day,
Men are vessels cast upon it.
Sometimes wrecked and cast away.
Then do your best for one another,
Makin' life a pleasant dream,
Help a worn and weary brother
Pullin' hard against the stream.
Say, boy — that was some singin'!
Nor you haint got no recollection of Hons McGee and
Cal Gillooley when they was drivin' the cows to pasture to
Farnam street woods in the mornin's and bringin' 'em back
for milkin' in the evenin's, and how Hons was always whist-
lin' for his dog Shep.
Never heard of good old Brahaney, and how the kids
usta tease him and holler, "Brahaney, will yer dog bite?'*
just to get him to chase 'em?
It's a ten-to-one bet you never heard about John Driscoll
blowin' the depot whistle at the old roundhouse at Fifth and
43
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Farnam, and that you didn't never know that railroad time
was fifteen minutes earlier than city time in them days.
Don't know about them times, huh?
Well, you're a fine bird for Corkhill
reporter !
About all that you newspaper guys
does now'days is put on the feedbag,
hustle for hooch, and shake the jazz leg
with them bobhair janes.
Why, in the old days, when a little
cutie bobbed her hair and came sailin'
down the line, the kids usta holler,
•'Chippie, get yer hair cut — fifteen cents!"
Little gals was so bashful then that they
usta blush, and a vamp was called a tramp.
In them times, old George Ballou did all the reportin'
and editin' on that sheet of yourn, and John Hassen and Tom
Woods did the printin' — no matter how near pickled they
was. Now who's doing all the shootin' at the payroll?
And George didn't run no pichers of society razberries,
efficiency experts, bootleggers, oil-stock easers, and guys that
works in banks, neither.
Nothin' like that!
The only pichers that George run was Lydia Pinkham's
compound. Saint Jacob's oil, Hostetter's bitters, and a coupla
Jersey caffs, and he run 'em every day, not every three weeks.
When an ad was set up it was up, and Mayor Claussen
couldn't change it unless he squared things with Aleck
Anderson or Cy Darling.
Another thing. Bob: In them days a guy needin' eye
exercise had to go to the Burtis to watch Alice Oates and
her "English Blondes" or slip into a barber shop and double-O
the Police Gazette. Now them underwear and silk stockin'
ads get the up-and-down and nobody never takes a peek at
the Police Gazette. It's too tame.
And, bein' as Charlie Kindt's showshop blooied when
that firenut broke out of the cuckoo factory, you're outa luck.
Them ad club guys puts so much stuff on the ball that
it gives folks all the thrills their blood pressure will stand
44
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
under. They sure help to start people wearin' them big
hornrimmed specs, and a weaktop guy gets away with a lota
stuff by sportin' them hootowl cheaters.
Wimmen don't care to read nothin' now but half-off
sale ads and cartoons, or something about operations for
adenoids and tonsils. And when some advertisin' slicker puts
over a come-on sale to work off holdover flyswatters in the
wintertime, the rush begins, and they kin hardly wait for
the doors to open.
Then the riot call comes in to Billy Claussen up at the
works for the extra harness bulls and flydicks to hurry up
and tame the mob. And all this is done without usin' no
likker nor hooch whatsoever. Ads has an awful kick in 'em.
Anybody except an out-and-out dumbell kin grab an
awful laugh out of the news your sheet
keep shootin' about Ireland bein' free —
now.
Where do you reporters get that
"now" stuff?
Why, freein' old Ireland was all
cooked and dried in the old days when
the Land League was hittin' her up in
Forrest block hall at Fourth and Brady.
Parnell was the main screw in them days,
and the debatin' club of the Land League
burned up Johnny Bull every Sunday
evenin'. That was when the Deputies made sleep a losin'
game for the boys that wore the galways — when they was
supposed to be drillin' in the drill-halls under the churches.
Anybody that ever watched them hard-workin' old turks
marchin' in a Saint Patrick's day parade could see that the
only drillin' they ever done was on a handcar or up at the
stone quarry gettin ready for the blast. In them parades they
was all out of step but Curbstone Jim, and Jim was ridin' a
swayback.
Why, there's a coupla loaded ivories livin' in this burg
that believes them drill stories even to this day, and they
come out of their holes every election time to hang a few
whispers on the wires.
45
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
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Original Hotel Davenport.
Famous hostlery of old days, when Davenport was a popular
summer resort for southern aristocrats.
46
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Never heard about the Land League debatin' club bat-
tles, Bob, and how the Corkhill jakes and Slough jakes
used to flock to 'em?
Well, a little wisin'-up won't hurt you.
Some of the hottest battles ever fought to free old Ire-
land was pulled off by the debatin' club in them days.
The fighters was trained to the minute and kept right
in the pink up to the tap of the gong, the same as these lads
that puts on the scraps at the Legion hall now. Only the
style of fightin' and the rules was different.
They wasn't no clinchin' and no stallin', but they was
plenty of jabbin' and footwork and windjammin'. The fighters
fought one at a time, and they used eight-pound words
instead of eight-ounce gloves. They uppercut with short-
arm swings, and blocked with dirty looks, and tried to put
across the haymaker with wild swingin' and cruel adjectives.
In them days the fighters wasn't hoggin' for the big
crack at the gate receipts, and they wasn't no chewin' about
weights or havin' their purty fingers manicured. Them boys
just naturally mixed it because they loved the fightin' game.
But the great championship battle to free Ireland, and
the biggest ever pulled by the Land League, was held on the
evenin' of Saint p-dtrick's day in the mornin'.
The hall was packed and jammed long before the first
prelim, and after some guy sung Joe Murphy's funny song
about "A Handful of Earth," the main go Vv'as announced.
The big prize at that championship battle was for a
decision at catch weights to settle that one big question:
"Resolved, that Ireland is, and of right ought to be, a
free and independent nation."
To give you reporters some idea of what a whale of a
show it was, they had to have three referees for that big
contest. Harry McFarland was the chief referee, with Duck
McKee and Spud Flynn for assistants. Fred Sharon was
timekeeper, and Kernel Ed O'Brien was bottle-holder. All
these lads, understand, was born-and-bred Corkhill boys, and
strictly on the wagon.
It was a battle royal from the first tap of the gong till
old Johnny Bull was stretched stiff and cold for the full count.
47
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Four of the cleverest little lightweights in the west was
carded for that contest, and they put up the fight of their
lives. There was young Kid Vollmer of the Brickyard gang
and Cyclone Lischer of the Sawmill gang, on the negative
side, paired against Spider Bollinger of the Mount Ida gang
and Kayo Gundaker of the Fifth street gang, on the affirma-
tive side.
There wasn't a dull spot in the program.
Each scrapper was allowed to fight a fifteen-minute
round in the semi-windup, and a fast three-minute whirl on
the windup, so's he could mop up the other guy with the
comeback.
Every round went the full limit in slam-bang style,
tooth-and-nail. Talk about shadow boxing, speedy foot-
work, swingin' with the right, uppercuttin' with the left, and
playin' for the wind! Never nothin' like it!
Why, the audience was hollerin' their heads off, and the
cheerin' got so terrific that the folks at Turner hall had to
call time on a German play called "Gesundheit" that was
bein' pulled down there.
But listen: At the finish the referees begun to mix
and lock horns on the decision. Them guys had some fightin'
blood in their boilers, too. But finally they adjourned to
the supreme court of the debatin' club in the back room of
John Lillis's grocery store, where they fought the battle all
over again, round by round. And the
next day the ice went out.
On the followin' Sunday evenin' the
referees handed in their decision in favor
of the battlers on the negative side, by
declarin' that their argument was a clean
knockout for freein' Ireland. As that
made it unanimous, the little old Green
Isle was then and there declared a free
and independent nation.
So all this noise that's bein' pulled
now over in the Old Sod is just so much
highjack flimmin' of the business agents,
stallin' so they won't lose their jobs and havta go to work.
48
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
If them birds hadn't horned in and mussed things, and
had stood for the hard-fought decision of the Land League
debatin' club, all this jobbin' wouldn't have took place.
But then I s'pose. Bob, it's the business of business
agents to keep guys from doin' business that wants to do
business.
There was some famous old ringsiders squatted in the
front row at that big battle. There was Jerry Driscoll, Char-
lie Hubbell, Owen Murray, Billy Gordon, Mike Kilfeather,
Ike Deutsch, Dan Keeler, John Crowley, Pat Hanley, Luke
Brennan, Jack Mullins, Johnny Grady, Dan Home, Fonse
Arnould, Jack Bryson, Cobb McMahon, Jappy Miclot, Banty
Keating, Eddie Slevin, Pat Lannon, Jim O'Connor, Webb
Mason, Simon Garvey, Jimmy Currey, Joe Hart, Billy
Gilooley, John A. Feeney, Dannie Kennedy, Cully McCabe,
Ed Connole, Jim Halligan, Ed McCormick, Pascal Pucinelli,
Martin Downs, Goat Dwyer, and a lota other descendants of
the Old Sod.
There's a whole lot of old time hits that you newspaper
guys could dish up that'd be more interestin' to the ladies than
them market reports and Fatty R. Buckle stories you keep
runnin'. Gal readers needs more attention than they been
gettin', now that they kin vote and work on the juries.
Wimmen isn't always 'preciated. Bob. In the old days
they saved a lota coin for the taxpayers by sweepin' up
cigaret butts and tobacco juice with their long trailers. Now
the city has to operate electric sweepers at a big expense,
and taxes keep jumpin' higher and higher.
And a lota soreheads was beefin' then about wimmen's
styles — just like they is now.
What do them birds want? Can't they 'preciate artistic
dressin', or do they want all the swell dames runnin' around in
mother hubbards and sunbonnets so they'll look like a herd
of cattle?
Admittin' that straw hats is now due for springin', you
kin expect another yawp from them baldheaded guys that
has to wear nightcaps to warm their knobs these cold evenin's.
If you reporters was keen to the job there'd be a hot
pannin' comin' to them knockin' crabs.
49
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Daddy Davis Clam Chowder Club.
Ferd Haymeyer, chef, at Ashford's Pasture.
50
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Course, some grumpy guys don't mind seein' other guys'
janes wearin' that upstage stuff, but they want their janes
to lay off'n it.
Men is hard to please. Bob. Most of 'em has a streak
of squirrel about a yard wide in their makeup, and it onlj'
takes a coupla shots of hooch to make 'em show that they
aint nobody home.
Unless some of them pink dreamers up at the City Hall
gets an adjustment and wakes up before the good old sum-
mertime cracks open, you kin get all sittin' pritty for the
season. That is, provided them aldermen don't get nosey-
and pass an ordinance to make them bathin' beauties cover-
up with blankets or towels when they parade to that new
swimmin' joint down on the levee next summer.
Any ordinance that blocks 'em will need more kick
than this two-bit brew is got — you kin tell the world.
File your application for charter member of the Rockin'-
chair club that's just organized, as all of the club members
will get clubby and camp under the can- ;
opy at the Saint James down on Main '^
street, to see at what's seein' and to look |
at what's looking — the beerkegs or broom i
sticks, the broads or bean-poles. Nothin''^
barred.
Of course, the lamps of some of the
old timers in the Rockin'-chair club is still
doin' business for distance, and they ain't
so poor on closeup stuft, but if it gets so's
they're overlookin' any big bets on late
styles in figleafs and colored beads on the
bathin' beauty citcuit, you kin lay down a small piece of
change that they'll step on the gas and speed to the oculist
for some of that first-aid stuff.
M-
51
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Dandies of Mrs. Whistler's Dancing School.
Warren Scott, Charlie Russell, Charlie Baker, Will Wadsworth,
Fred, Decker, Ira Gifford, Ed Webb, George Gillette.
52
Dancing Days at Mrs. Whistler's.
IDN'T know that Buffalo Bill held his first
wild west exhibition in a sideshow tent in
the vacant lot just below Fourth, on the
east side of Brady, didya, sport? Had a
coupla circus bosses, buckin' bronchos,
cowboys, buffaloes, pigeon-toed squaws,
and real Sioux injun bucks, who wouldn't
steal anything that was nailed down or
was too heavy for the squaws to carry.
Nor you didn't know they had signs,
"Walk your bosses on the bridge," posted
on that government driveway, and how a guy was liable
to get chucked in the guardhouse if his spav happened to
break into a trot?
Never heard nothin' about the old-time dancin' days,
either, didya? Well, Mrs. Whistler's dancin' school, at Elev-
enth and Perry, was the trainin'-ground for teachin' young
bloods to "daunce the launcers and all the fauncy daunces,"
includin' the waltz, polka, schottische, and square dances.
There wasn't no neckin', strangle-holts, nor half-nelson
clutches at Mrs. Whistler's — only old-fashioned long-distance
grips, holdin' the gal at arms-len'th, as though she was liable
to bite you. If any smarty got actin' cute, and attempted
any closeup stuff, his dancin' partner would box his ears
darn quick.
When Mrs. Whistler raised her skirt to her shoe-tops,
to show the boys the dance movement, Charlie Baker, Tim
Murphy, Nat Harris, Clarence Cochrane, Fred Decker, and
Art Sampson usta blush like fury, and rush to the hallway —
they was so embarrassed.
Tuesday night was the big night for the boys at Mrs.
Whistler's, and you could depend on meetin' Ernie Allen,
Charlie Dixon, Ira Gifford, Ed Webb, Nick Kuhnen, Duke
Martin, Ike Deutsch, Will Altman, Win Scott, Charlie Rus-
sell, Bird Richardson, Art Wallace. Will Wadsworth, John
53
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Dandies of the Seventies.
Frank Gillette, Henry Carmichael, Jack Van Tuyl
54
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
m
C (ff^
Van Patten, Harry Smith, Charlie Leslie, Ed Leonard, Will
Axtman, Jules Gaspard, Jim Smith, Harry Kirk, Warren
Scott, Billy Evers, Harry Wadsworth, Howard Nott, Fred
Crouch, George Iles^ and Vic Littig at dancin'-school, listen-
in' to swell piano music and trainin' their dogs to behave, so's
they could take a jump into society.
Before the reverse waltz came into
fashion the dancers usta spin one-way,
windin' up till they got dizzy, and then
unwindin' by spinnin' the other way. Some
dancers had their carburetors adjusted so's
they could whirl one way as long as the
music played without gettin' seasick.
We had some high old times at the
Fire King dances, too, when Bob Swindell
and his brother Nin did the fiddlin', with
Hughey Mullin sawin' the hossfid. Some-
times, when the dancers was hittin' up the Virginia reel, and
havin' the time of their lives. Bob would join in the grand-
right-and-left, playin' his fid and mixin' with the dancers.
One evenin', when Hughey was feelin' kinda so-so, him and
Nin joined the grand-right-and-left with Bob, and dogged, if
Hughey didn't drag the old hossfid with him, dancin' it up
and down the line, and when Bob called "Swing yer partner!"
Hughey swung that big fid of his'n and didn't skip a note.
Talk about jolly times, sport! More fun'n a boxa
monkeys !
Why, in the old days, when Charlie
Cameron and his gal, and George Ott and
his gal, usta dance the redowa at Burns's
festival, all the dancers just naturally
slipped to the side lines to watch them
two couples pivotin'. Talk about classic
dancin', and the graceful movements of
Isadore Duncan and Pavlowa — say, if you
ever seen Charlie and George and their
gals, when they was hittin' up the redowa,
you'd take off your hats and say that them dancers was the
real dancin' pippins.
55
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Frank DeWarf.
Beau Brummel of Davenport Job Printers.
56
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
That's about the time, sport, that the plughat epidemic
was ragin' in this burg. High-rolHn' dandies didn't think
they was properly dolled unless crowned with the lids made
famous by Rain-in-the-Face and other noble redmen who got
saturated with firewater. The plughat was the high-sign of
gentility and the comeon of the fourflush.
Hiram Price set the fashion in lids with his sky-scrapin'
beaver stovepipe, Michael Donahue and Senator Lowrey
were natural-born plughatters, gettin' away clean with 'em,
but Mose Zimmerman, Charlie Lindholm, Neighbor Carpen-
ter, Joe Bettendorf, and Henry Volkman balked on sportin'
the three-deck dicer. Harry Sommers, manager of the Kim-
ball house, didn't feel dressed up unless a plughat topped his
knob. Neither did Denny Hart, the head-waiter, Ed Purse,
the bartender, nor Judge Shaughnessy, the barber. Other
dandy dressers, sported the stovepipe and the soup-and-fish
scenery, with and without the eggspot that
is makin' evenin' clothes so popular with
greek waiters.
New Year's was callin' day, when some
mighty fine old toppers chartered sea-goin'
hacks to pay their respects to folks that run
notices in The Democrat sayin' they would
keep open house. Hot-punch and bubbles,
oyster patties and hickorynuts, turkey and
the trimmin's, was served, just the same
as at popular free-lunch stations down town,
the callers always wearin' stovepipe skim-
mers. Sometimes a guy copped a nice fashionable stew in
makin' them calls, but as he only tried to be sociable by
stowin' away all the junk shoved in front of him, and didn't
want to offend the hostess by tellin' her the cookin' was
bum, he had a home-cooked alibi on the mornin' after, when
he was nursin' a hangover.
Some dashin' young swells played the free-lunch layout
on the New Year's circuit, sport — guys like Harry Coventy,
Charlie Griffith, Ernie Bennett, Billy Waddell, Sam Maxwell,
Len Stockwell, Charlie Berryhill, Bert Dow, Frank Shelly,
Mishie Borland, Billy Forrest, Charlie Putnam, Frank De-
57
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
warf, Orrin Andrews, Carl Schlegel, Deacon White, Charlie
Hagemann, Gough Grant, Dick Hill, Ben Tillinghast, Tom
Swiney, Howard Henry, Ed Gifford, Ira Tabor, Quin
Annable, Billy Elmer, Bert Conkright, Billy Lee, Al Meadley,
Mer Parker, Walt Crandall, Nat Harris, Spicey Jones, and
Vinegar Smith.
Them boys had all the chesterfield stride, grace, and
dignity that went with that callin' game, and, even if they
used hairoil and waxed their mustashes, any respectable plug-
hat felt honored to decorate their domes.
58
Rollicking Times at Wapsie Shindigs.
We had fine social dances at Turner hall,
Metropolitan hall, LeClaire hall, Lahr-
mann's hall. Library hall, Kuehl's hall, and
Moore's hall. In summertime the dancin'
took place in the open, at Schuetzen park,
Bornemann's garden, Hincher's garden,
Washington garden, Pariser garden, Pete
Jacobsen's, and out at Charlie Borcherdt's,
Pete Wiese's, Maysville, Donahue, Walcott,
Durant, Green Tree, LeClaire, the Fivemile
house, and all the leadin' whistlin' stations.
Hayrack and bobsled parties was popular then, not havin'
flivvers nor interurbans to carry folks to goose raffles, duck
dances, and corncrib hoedowns.
The caller at the old time dances had more guts than
a second lieutenant, the arrangements committee, and floor
managers, and what he spilled was right outa the feedbox.
John Cameron was high cockalorum, and when he rasped the
openin' strains of a quadrille on the second fid, and shouted,
"Salute yer partners!" everybody knew that the old master
mechanic was on the job.
Henry Schillinger was second choice of the callers, and
when the dances came too thick around these diggin's, George
Stroehle, of Rock Island, or Gus Wilson, of Moline, would be
drafted into service.
But it was at the country farmhouses that real old-fash-
ioned shindigs were held. The farmer boys and gals jigged
to lively tunes of the country fiddler, dancin' quadrilles and
singin' old-time songs, after trashin' time, when the harvest
days was over, Jessie dear.
Early settlers in Winfield township, along the Wapsie,
included the Maloneys, Gillens, Tyners, Dempseys, DufFys,
Blooms, Armstrongs, Brennans, Carrols, MuUinos, Whalens,
Ennises, Feeneys, McGuires, McNamaras, Gallaghers,
Schmidts, Kivlins, Daughertys, Crowes, Murphys, Kellys,
59
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Fresh-Air Club.
Cruising along the Hennepin Canal.
eo
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
O'Briens, and a lota other folks that didn't com* from Sweden
nor Czecho-Slovakia. Eamon de Valera and Countess Mar-
kievicz couldn't never get away with them kinda names in
Winfield township.
The rubberin' historian on a hero chase amid the archives
of the great State of Scott is astounded at the magnificent
exhibit of deathless posterity that has sprung from the corn-
fields along the banks of the Wapsie. Other states may
boast of war heroes or graft-scarred vets of commercial battle-
fields, but grand old Scott points its finger at animate and
aggressive heroes whose names emblazon in letters big as box
cars its scroll of fame.
Look who's here, sport:
Pat Crowe, author-actor, world's greatest kidnapper,
born in Winfield township, on the banks of the Wapsie,
Buffalo Bill, scout, world's greatest wildwest showman,
born in Liberty township, on the banks of the Wapsie.
Farmer Burns, rassler, world's greatest strangle-holt
demonstrator, bom in Butler township, on the banks of the
Wapsie.
Lillian Russell, opera star, world famous actress, born
in Clinton county, on the banks of the Wapsie.
That's steppin' some, you kin tell the world!
Only one fiddler vi^as needed at them dances, and he usta
sing when callin' quadrilles, makin' up verses as he went
along, while keepin' time with the music and dancin'. Jimmy
Brennan was the star singin'-caller of Winfield township, but
Niely Whalen was a young comer that was
pressin' him close for first honors.
When callin' to the tune of "The Girl
I Left Behind Me," Jimmy's song would
run sumpin like this:
Now all four gents will lead to the right.
Where four nice gals kin find you —
Then balance all, and welt the floor,
And swing that gal behind you.
Jimmy sang through the quadrille, with
the dancers laughin' and jiggin', and when
they balanced-on-the-corners, and gave the grand-double-
61
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
swing, them ros^-cheeked lasses got some swingin' that
started their blood circulatin'.
Mebbe, while a handout was bein'
served, some thoughtful guy would happen
to mention the little brown jug he brung
out from Roddewig's on his last trip to town
— that had sumpin in it that was "as mild
as goat's milk." After the folks took a try
at the refreshments, that was as mild as
goat's milk, it seemed like sumpin happened
that put new life in the party, and they'd
start singin' that jolly old song about the
"Little Brown Jug":
If I had a cow that gave such milk
I'd dress her up in satin and silk,
Feed her on the choicest hay,
And milk her forty times a day.
Ha! ha I ha! You and me!
Little brown jug, how I love thee!
Then somebody would remember to call for Beezy
Maloney to dance a jig — Beezy bein' so light on her feet she
could balance a glass of water on her head and dance an Irish
jig without spillin' a drop. Then, when Beezy raised her
skirt to give her feet plenty of action, the fiddler would begin
playin', and Btezy would get up on her toes and show the
folks some real jiggin' that brought plenty of applause.
Then Owney O'Brien and his woman, after a whole lota
teasin' and coaxin', would take the floor to step off a reel,
givin' all the fancy twists and turns, sashayin' and flirtin',
bowin' and smilin', while Jimmy Brennan put in his best
licks playin' "Mrs. McLeod's Reel."
That dance would lead up to call for a bit of a song,
and Dominick Gillin would be ast would he sing "My Molly,
O!" It took a whole lot of coaxin' and palaverin' to get
Dominick wound up, for he would try to excuse hisself by
sayin': "Bad cess t' me, but th' divil a word can I ray-
memiber, at all at all." But after the folks demanded, and
insisted, and wouldn't listen to no excuse, Dominick would
clear his throat and cough a coupla times, and then start
singin' in a slow, tremulous comealye voice:
62
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Whin Oi wint out wan morenin',
'Twas in the month of May,
Oi met a pritty Oirish gerril,
And unto her Oi did say.
Oi put me hand into me pocket
And it happened to be so
Sure Oi tuck me goolden guinea
For to trait me Molly, O!
As Dominick warmed to his work he grew more confid-
ent, and his voice became clearer, stronger, louder, and when
everybody in the party joined in with him while singin' the
last line — "For to tr'at me Molly, O!" — you could hear that
chorus way over at Ground Mound in Clinton county.
"More power, Dominick, an' long life t' ye!" a young
Gallagher lad would shout.
"Ha-Ha! 'Tis Dominick that has the foine v'ice!" one
of the little Armstrong gals would declare.
Then the merry chorus of "Little Brown Jug'" would be
repeated, havin' a whole lot more pep this time, and young
Paddy Murphy would start the call for California Pat to
show the young b'ys and gerrils how he usta dance a real
Irish jig in the OuM Country. Havin' been lookin' on quietly
and listenin' attentively to the others, while smokin' his pipe
contentedly in the corner, California Pat became all flustered,
and acted sheepishly and embarrassed, as he begged to be
excused.
"Arrah, hiven bless yez!" he pleaded, bashfully. "Sure'n
I haven't putt a futt t' th' fluur since th'
christenin' av Moike Dimpsey's son Garge."
But there was no stoppin' the call for
California Pat, once it started, and though
he was proof against all entreaty and coax-
in', it was plain he was nettled and annoyed
by the taunts of Charlie Duffy, who "dared
him to dance a jig, sayin' that he couldn't
dance like he usta back in the Ould Coun-
try, or he wouldn't "take water" before all
the neighbors. The taunts of Charlie Duffy
had the effect of bringin' California Pat
to life unexpectedly, for he stood up and declared that "The
Duffy niver breathed that cud make a Brinnin take water."
63
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
To think that he, California Pat — who had suffered the
privations and hardships of that terrible overland journey to
California in an ox-drawn prairie schooner with the old
forty-niners, and, with the hard-earned gold he wrested from
the eternal hills concealed in his belt, had taken a sailin'
vessel to the Isthmus of Panama, and then hoofed it over the
mountains on the return trip, to buy his coveted eighty acres
in Winfield township — should take a "dare!" And from a
Duffy!.
Wurra! Wurra! 'Twas more than mortal man could
stand !
Boundin' to the middle of the room suddenly, California
Pat jumped high, swingin' his arms wildly and slappin' his
chest forcefully, as he shouted: "Hur-roo, b'ys! Long live
Oireland and County Kilkenny, and may th' divil mend th'
connuckmin', wan and all! Jimmy, me b'y — play the
'Flowers of Edinburg,' till yer fa-ather shows th' heavy-
heeled Duffys how a Brinnin can dance a r'al Irish jig!"
And California Pat had a dash of fire in his heels that
night, for he danced a real Irish jig, just like he usta dance
when a boy back in County Kilkenny in the Ould Country,
where he won manny's the prize in the dancin' contests at
the country fairs.
Whether it was the goat's milk from the little brown jug,
or the naggin' of a Duffy, that started the ancestral fires
burnin' in the breast of that hardy old pioneer, is small matter,
but the likes of that jig was never seen before nor since in
Winfield township.
California Pat shouted as he danced, leapin' high as the
ceilin', crackin' his heels and weltin' the floor with his
brogans, till the rafters shook and the dishes rattled, while
the prism pendants of the hangin' lamp in the parlor clattered
to the rollickin' strains of the "Flowers of Edinburg." The
fervor of his parent was reflected in young Jimmy Brennan,
as the fiddle-bow skimmed merrily over the strings, and the
honor of County Kilkenny was upheld in a fascinatin' concord
of movement between sire and son.
There was haughty defiance mingled with kindly pity,
directed toward Charlie Duffy, in every movement of the
64
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
excited dancer, and an expression of fine contempt for all
doubters spread over his sturdy, handsome features.
When California Pat finished dancin' that Irish jig,
Charlie Duffy, on behalf of the Duffys, one and all, present
and absent, apologized profusely for havin' entertained any
doubt about the jig dancin' ability of California Pat, and, as
he grasped his friend's hand, he shook it warmly, sayin' that
now he knew for sure that a Brennan would never take a
"dare."
At sunup the next mornin', while the young lads slept
soundly under the eaves, California Pat, with sleeves rolled
up to his sun-tanned shoulders, was sloppin' the hogs and
feedin' the chickens. He smiled good-humoredly as he sur-
veyed the corn that was ripenin' over in the east forty, while
he crooned softly to himself that homely ould chune, "My
Molly, O!" — for it plaised California Pat immensely to know
for sure, for all time and forever, that "The Duffy niver
breathed that cud make a Brinnin take water."
65
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Toot! Tootl The Seventy-two I
Connie O'Brien and the Killienny crew !
66
When the Eclipse Threw a Scare.
AY, BOB— Ever heard about
the big eclipse us old timers
had back in the early sev-
enties? Well, that was a
whale of a big show, and
they ain't been nothin' like
it pulled around here since.
It came along about three
o'clock in the afternoon,
and everything went dark
as pitch for half an hour.
Schools closed so's the kids
could run home before dark,
and folks hadta light the
gas at Stevenson and Car-
nahan's, Whistler's, Schom-
berg and Evans's, and at all
the other big, hustlin' stores.
People was all nervoused up
and stood mopin' around
and takin' their peekin's at
the eclipse through smoked glasses, wonderin' what was goin'
to happen, and, if some live kidder had blasted a loud snort
through a trombone, folks would of thought that old Gabriel
was primin' his trumpet for the blowoff solo. They certainly
was keyed up to a high pitch of excitement.
The chickens clucked and the geese quacked, and then
went to roost like on regular evenin's, and just about the
time that snoozin' was gettin' snooky the rooster crow^ed
all hands on deck, and that poultry outfit thought sure that
things was gettin' twisted.
Nancy, the old roan boss of little Billy McFarland, the
expressman, was the most surprised nag in town, Billy get-
tin' balled up in his dates and givin' old Nance an extra
feed of oats.
67
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Matthias Frahm, Bernhard Eseke, Dick Shebler, Henry
Korn, and Fritz Paulsen was argufyin' about the barley mar-
ket and the price of hops at Fifth and Harrison, when Old
Sol went off watch, and when they broke for cover, up
to the summerhouse, old Ed had the big brass lamp lit,
and them boys took a dutch treat, and switched their gab
from food to astronomy.
Connie O'Brien came steamin' in with a way freight
from Brooklyn, with Pat Riley shovelin' black diamonds
into old engine seventy-two. Jimmy O'Meara was the front
brakesy and Barney Costello was the con that perched in the
little red caboose when Connie whistled down brakes and
stopped the train at Harrison street, alongside Dow, Gil-
man, and Hancock's elevator, so's the Riley boy could touch
up the kerosene glim in the ingine headlight.
All them laddybucks on that train crew was from
old County Kilkenny, exceptin' Zee McMahon, the second
brakesy, he bein' from Donegal, or one of them north coun-
ties. And them boys knowed more about handlin' freight
trains than Mose Hobbs, or Seth Twombley^ or any of them
wise-crackers that was wearin' paper collars and makin' out
reports in the old Farnam street roundhouse.
That's when Zee McMahon usta sing:
Binkem! Bunkem! My old hen!
She lays eggs for railroad men.
Sometimes eight and sometimes ten
Binkem! Bunkem! My old hen!
Understand, sport, in them days the brakesys and con
hadta do hand-brakin', runnin' from car to car and twistin'
the brakes, not havin' no boghead sittin in the ca'o to put
the clampers on with a shot of juice. Brakesys and switch-
men coupled cars with their bare mitts, and a regular hard-
boiled railroader was alv/ays shy a coupla fingers from seein'
how long he could hold his hand between the bumpers with-
out gettin' ketched when makin' a couplin'.
Purty cushy for engineers nov/'days, with airbrakes and
electric lights. But, even at that, sport, them old timers
could jerk the throttle on the old ingine and pep her up so's
68
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
she'd throw a bunch of shotes or yearlin' steers further than
any of these guys with all their electricity and modern in>
provements.
People was scared stiff about that eclipse, as in them
days folks believed in ghosts, goblins, banshees, and fairies,
and in payin' their debts. Now'days they think they're too
wise for that old bunk, but a lota Barnum's one-a-minute
yaps are still with us, and are ducksoup for oilstockers,
socialists, and easy-money pirates, just the same. A little
mushy con about ten-per-cent-a-month
stuff, and them open-and-shut guys can
take 'em for their underclothes.
In them titnes lovey and dovey
dreamed about the hardcoal burner and
horsehair furniture for the parlor, with
a kerosene hangin' lamp havin' a flock
of prism-glass dewdads danglin' around
the dome, and makin' a noise like a
rock-crusher while bein' pulled down for
lightin'. But now'days lovey and dovey
dope up on stucco bungalov/s, sun parlors, and sport-model
roadsters, with fathead father for the fallguy. And they
aint got noodle enough to think of goin' out in the woods
and livin' in trees with the other squirrels.
But mebbe the squirrels is gettin' particular.
Fritz Haller usta throw in a chunk of liver with a ten-
cent soup-bone, and he'd slip you enough dogmeat on the
side to keep the family fed up on hash for two days.
When little gals played with their dollies they wore
long dresses so's they' look like their mammas, printers
could tell a comma from a bobtail flush, and boilermakers
could ride on the waterwagon all through lent without battin'
an eyelash.
Granger Wallace usta play "Nancy Lee" on the mouth-
organ and his little sister accompanied him with the jews-
harp, and that little team of blondies had it all over these
nut-eyed uke twangers that is makin' the earache a popular
malady now'days.
69
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
When spring came around and dandelions began bloom-
in', in them days, sport, folks took sulphur and molasses with
cream of tartar, or a shot of salts and senna, to cool their
blood that had got overheated from feedin' up on buck-
wheats, flannelcakes, and pork sausage durin' the winter.
Doctors told 'em to hit up rhubarb sauce, mush and milk,
cornbread, and green onions, to cool their blood for the dog-
days. There's a smart hunch for lady members of the cold-
feet club, and for old codgers that sleep under six blankets :
Stoke up on buckwheats and hotdogs, and put heat under
the belt. Lay off the rhubarb and onions. Heat the blood
to concert pitch, and next summer dance the shimmy and
do high divin' at that new sv/immin' joint that's bein' built
by hand down on the levee.
70
Slick Skaters and Sweet Singers.
Say, sport — You don't know
nothin' about the old days when we
usta play checkers for excitement on
winter evenin's in the corner grocery
— back in the times when Cash Wat-
son was the champeen ice-skate
jumper — do you? That's goin' back
purty far, boy — back to the skatin'
park of Collins and Casette, between
Brady and Main on Seventeenth, when screwheel club skates
first came into style, and when all the young fellers and their
gals had the skatin' fever in its worst form.
Of course. Cash Watson was the original rough-ridin'
ice-skater, and when he took to jumpin', all the others took a
back seat. When it came to fancy trick and graceful skatin',
though, Miley Blakemore stood at the top of the heap, and
he performed with the speed of a greyhound and the grace
of a gazelle.
But you kin tell the world they ain't been no real ice-
skate jumpin' since Cash hung up his world's record by
jumpin' over twenty old-fashioned school benches.
That's what Cash done, sport. Started out to jump
over ten, and ended by breakin' the record. Just slipped a
dime wad of finecut into his left cheek, done some circlin',
took a tailspin and nosedive, got a flyin' start and — zowie!
Cleaned twenty benches like a tomcat would clean a canary.
Now'days a lota hotdogs gets peeved for not gettin'
credit for doin' a little peanut business for the old burg.
Just so's they won't be no squabblin' about who gets credit
for Cash Watson's ice-skate jump, you kin say the benches
was borryed from Jake Nagel, principal of the Locust street
school, and the guys that carted them benches was Henry
Randall, Teedee Eagal, Lee Valentine, Brick Bryan, George
Strong, Tom Sherman, Jim Houghton, Boney Mack, Hoosier
Osborn, Gus Koester, Duck Wilsey, Frank Balch, Joe Har-
71
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
rington, Pete Remine, Charlie Booth, Roy Keyset, Will Hos-
ford, Al Winkless, Charlie Hibbard, and Tador Kuehl.
Nothin' like keepin' the record straight, sport.
I don't suppose you ever heard of Jack Powers and his
little brother Mickey, that usta light the gas lights on the
lamp-posts on downtown corners. Jack carried the ladder
and would lean it against the lamp-post and Mickey would
climb up and light the gas with his torch. On evenin's
when they was a little scrappin' to be done. Free McMahon
and Badger Cottrell helped 'em do the lightin'. Then about
three o'clock in the mornin' the Powers kids went around
and doused the glims, and they split three bucks a week
for doin' this work. Pretty soft, huh?
When the circus was billed, kids usta scout the alleys
for magnesia bottles to sell at Harrison and Holman's drug
store. Them there was the original Boy Scout drives. Mr.
Harrison always had a nickel to slip a kid for a magnesia
bottle, and then if the kid played in luck sellin' scrap iron
to old Jake, and could run a few errands for a penny, he'd
be all settin' pritty on circus day. Kids would run their
legs off doin' errands for a penny then, but now'days it
takes a dime or a quarter to get them to step on their starters.
You young fellers is excused for not knowin' good sing-
in', never havin' heard Jim Dermody, Tom
Biddison, Joe Carroll, and Tommie Mack
doin' close harmony at Johnny McGuin-
ness's.
That quartet put more zip into songs
than the guy that wrote 'em ever dreamed
about. They sang all them smooth old
timers, like "Larboard Watch," "Silver
Threads," "Sweet Genevieve," "Daisy
Dean," "Swanee Ribber," and "Cahve Dat
Possum," and when they tipped over "The
Old Oaken Bucket" there wasn't a dry
throat in the joint.
Then there was Doc Worley, at the livery barn at Fifth
and Brady. Doc could spiel tenor, bass or falsetto, and plunk
72
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
the guitar like a Spanish cavalier. He played in C major
and A minor, with capo on the fifth fret, and could grab all
them naughty barber chords for the high spots, and do the
bass runs to a frazzle.
On moonlight evenin's Doc hitched up the team of bays
to his best landau, lowered the top, and invited the quartet
to go serenading pickin' up Lawrie the Coon, with his deep-
cellar bass. Comin' back to the barn they always gave a
concert to the big crowd that was waitin', and Lawrie would
dance the "Gawgie Essence" on the board sidewalk.
Doc Worley sang Emmett's "Lullaby" and "Cuckoo
Song" and warbled as sweetly as J. K. himself, and when he
trilled "Sweet Peggy O'Moore" you'd never know it wasn't
W. J. Scanlon. Now'days young fellers tv/ang the uke and
sing "Ain't We Got Fun," "All By Myself," "In Sunny Ten-
nessee."
Some evenin's, after trimmin' Billy Catton and Lanny
MacafTee at shark pool down at Lev/y
Boquillion's, Max Ochs would join up
and try his mellow baritone voice on
"Moonlight on the Lake," with the help
of the quartet, the chorus, and the Coon.
Across the street, in front of Dave Hunter's market,
enjoyin' the concert, you'd find Granny Conyer — Lawrie's old
mammy — and old Aunt Lucy, two fine cullud types of the
old slavery days. And, along about ten o'clock, when Granny
began to nod and grow sleepy, she would interrupt the merry-
makers by callin' over:
"Come 'long heah, yo' Law'nce Conyeh! 'Bout time
yo' was totin' home with youah ol' Granny, an' not singin'
all ebenin' fo' dem white folkses, 'ca'se they don't want fo'
to 'sociate with no cullud trash. So come on 'long heah,
Law'nce, fo' I'se done gwine home. 'Sides I'se got a poweh-
ful lahge washin' to staht soakin' fo' de mohnin'!"
And Lawrie would reply:
"Yas-sum, Granny — yas-sum — I'se a-comin'!"
Then while the colored trio walked homeward the sere-
naders would join in the chorus, "Carry Me Back to Ol'
Virginny."
73
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Say, boy! That Ol' Virginny song sholy did make light
steppin' fo' dem cullud folkses.
Aunt Lucy lived in the basement of the cullud church
at Fourth and Gaines, after she had grown too old to make
the rounds as washerwoman.
When Cleveland was elected,
there was lotsa kiddin' with
the cullud folks, the story
bein' circulated that if a
democrat got elected presi-
dent all the old slaves would
be sent back to the cotton
fields. Sam McClatchey met
Aunt Lucy after the election,
and ast her what she thought
about Cleveland, and if she
was gettin' ready to go back
to Alabama. Aunty had other
worries about that time, for she shifted the red bandana on
her head and told about Johnny Schmidt, the county poor-
master, bein' overdue in his coal dates.
"Ah aint bothe'in' ma haid 'bout who done got 'lected,
chile. What Ah is bothe'd 'bout is when Mistah Smiff is
gwine to delivah ma wintah coal. Go 'long now, Sammy,
'bout yo' ol' 'lectium, an' don' fool yo' ol' aunty. What Ah
wants, 'stid of 'lectium, is mo' cohnmeal, bacon, an' 'tatehs
fo' de col' wintah mohnin's."
But there were always a few kind white folks to look
after the simple needs of old Aunt Lucy.
Lemme tell you, sport — them was the good old days!
Kids usta spit for good luck when they'd spot a red-
headed gal, and then they'd look for the white hoss before
makin' a wish. Now'days they need to be some spitters
with all these henna-headed babies floatin' around. And,
bein' as they aint no more white bosses, they're outa luck
unless they wish sumpin' on a yaller cab or ford coop.
Barney Reddy played "Molly Darlin'," "Down in a Coal
Mine," and "Sweet Evalina" on the wheezy hand-organ for
the hoss-power merry-go-round at the old Fair grounds.
74
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
where you now got Vander Veer park. The lucky hick that
grabbed the brass ring from the ringrack, while buzzin'
around, was entitled to another spin free.
Jakey Heinsfurter w^as learnin' to waltz and two-step
with the good-lookin' young gals at the Thalia maskenball and
the Sawmill boys' social. Jakey
never did learn, his dogs bein'
church-broke, but he had more darn
fun practicin' down there and at the
Friedegg and the Dirty Dozen
social. He danced mostly with his
arms and shoulders, but his hoofs
wouldn't register. Jakey was jake
to this nineteen twenty-two dancin'
stuff, but the folks didn't know it.
Many a little gal had to have her
corns pared after a friendly dancin'
bout around the hall with Jakey.
When gals was homely they knowed it, and learned to
be wallflowers, so's they could hold a man when they hooked
him. Now'days they open beauty parlors and shoot the
con and other chemicals into pinhead broads — tellin' 'em their
dresses is too long, givin' 'em Spanish treatment for their
double chins, and coachin' 'em in eye-rollin', so's they'll look
like baby dolls.
That's when Carpenter Drake had a split-up with Ben
Coates, his old sidekick, because Ben blowed the carpenter
trade and took up the tar roof business. Carpenter Drake
frankly confessed that the tar roof knowed more about Ben
Coates than Ben Coates knowed about the tar roof. Car-
penter was the original keenkutter kid, built on the sparerib
plan, five-foot-one in his socks, and he cracked the scales for
one-twenty. He had sorrel whiskers and usta eat peanuts
when lappin' his brew, and he'd keep singin', "You can't
have any of my peanuts when your peanuts are gone." Never
a peep out of Carpenter till he got well lubricated, then his
gabber started sparkin' and he'd say, "Listen, fellers — never
steal a mule when there's a runnin' boss in the next stall."
75
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
All Dolled for Easter Sunday Style Parade.
San Harrison and Nick Buck.
76
Highheel Boots and Bellbottom Pants.
Let me tell you, sport, these Hotstove leaguers don't
know nothin' about natural baseball — the game played by
hand, not by machinery. Now'days, with shinguards, chest-
protectors, mitts, masks, spikes, and other tools, a ball-player
looks like a warrior bold startin' out on stick-up duty.
Why, the old timers played with bare knuckles, and could
do their stuff with bare feet in a pinch. First bounce was
out — so was over the fence. The
empire hadta watch his step, and
they wasn't no beanin' nor spik-
in'. The pitcher done underhand
pitchin' — not throwin' — and the
catcher took 'em on first bounce.
They played scrub and one-ol'-
cat for money, marbles, or chalk, and they would fight at the
drop of a hat.
Ever heard of that crack all-star nine of kid players in
the old days, the Enterprise club?
Some team, sport — some bail team. Trained on Gris-
wold college grounds, with Professor Sheldon and Professor
Brooks for coachers.
Had the original stonewall infield — Hiram Dillon on
first, Jim Preston on second, George Preston on third, and
George W. French at short. In the outfield Buck Layden
played right. Max Ochs center, and Billy Meese left. Harry
Glaspell done the pitchin' and Joe Lane the catchin'.
The Enterprise club cleaned up everything in the base-
ball line in Western Illinois and Eastern Iowa, and then went
to LeClaire to trim the Brown Stockin's,
That game, for the championship of Scott county, was
pulled in Hanley's pasture, with Billy Chamberlin empirin'.
Score sixty-eight to thirteen, for the Enterprisers. The
audience of thirty-three included Captain Wes Rambo, of
the Steamer Libby Conger and his crew, not countin' a herd
of steers in the next pasture.
77
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Understand, sport, them LeClaire bugs was rank home-
towners and couldn't swolly the trimmin' their boys got
without framin' to even up things.
Nobody knows how the Enterprise ball-
players got to LeClaire that day, but everybody
knowed that walkin' was fair to middlin'. So
when Captain Wes Rambo ast them would they
like to ride back on the Libby Conger they said
sure thing. After they got planted comfortably
on the boat the Cap gave the highsign to start,
but he stopped the Libby about twenty feet from
shore and showed his loyalty to LeClaire by
tellin' them Enterprise boys he'd changed his
mind and guessed they'd better walk to Davenport. He
talked in straight steamboat language, without no ifs, nor
ands, nor buts. He gave 'em five seconds to jump off the
boat, and to show that he wasn't kiddin' the old fire-eater
yelped a wild, injun warwhoop, jerked his hip cannon, and
busted her three times in
the air.
Hi Dillon drew first
water, but Jim Preston beat
him to shore. Billy Meese
and Buck Layden was tied
for third place, with the
other Enterprisers steppin'
on their heels.
Then Captain Wes hol-
lered and ast them boys how
many tallies they scored in
that innin', and he blowed
the whistle for the Libby
Conger to start downstream.
By that time, sport, them
champion ballplayers was
all outa pep from runnin'
around bases and puUin' for
the shore in their swirrunin'
78
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
contest, so they stretched out to dry under the old elm tree.
Harry Glaspell knowed an easy-pickin' livery stable guy that
owned a picnic hack, and Harry coaxed him to hitch up and
drive the Enterprise champions to East Davenport.
Them was the days when swell dressers wore high-top
boots with three-inch heels. Lew Davis sported the finest
calfskin boots that Robert Murdock could make, but Lew
didn't have nothin' on Charlie Benton, Chet Lorton, Jack
Munro, Mick McCrellias, nor any of them freight engineers
or conductors on the Rock Island, when it come right down
to class in high-heel boots.
That's where the wimmen folks got this french-heel idea
— they copped from the boobs that staked 'em to the rib.
Now'days men is lucky if they wear fly-dick heels that need
attention from a greek heel straightener.
Men didn't wear trousers then — only pants. And when
they wore 'em creased the kids usta holler "Hand-me-down!"
When a young feller graduated from roughneck society
and broke out as a dude, he'd slip into a paper collar and
visit Bartemier's clothin' store and get measured for sporty
three-dollar black jeans pants with twenty-two inch bell-
bottoms. They fit his legs as tight as blony sausage and he
hadta use a shoe-horn to slide into 'em. Then he'd put up
his best front and spiel a song-and-dance to Jules Guillyo,
the old frog shoemaker, and hook
him for a pair of made-to-order
high-heel low-quarter shoes, agree-
in' to come through with the coin
on payday night. Isaac Rothschild
was the next mark to get nicked —
for the red socks and the red neck-
tie. Then Ed Ryan would get the
hurryup for the lid, one of them
lowbridge potboiler kellys that bal-
anced on his ears, the kind that yid
comedians is still using in vaude-
ville.
Then, bein' all set, this ladykillin' proposition would
parade Second street on Sunday afternoon to give free eye
79
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
entertainment to the dames that wore bustles, opera hats,
and bangs, and was steerin' for Shuler' tintype gallery to
have their pichers took.
Ever know, sport, who was the first guy to use poetry
in his newspaper ads? Why, when Ed Ryan operated his
hat joint at Second and Main, he had a ten-foot plughat above
the door for a comeon for ginks that was lookin' to be
properly crowned, and Ed usta run ads in The Democrat
tellin' these blobs what was screwy about their makeup and
how they'd been bumped by other hat guys v/ith the wrong
steer, and he doped it that when they was out for class in
bean covers to visit
Ryan the hatter —
That's what's the matter.
And from that innocent beginnin', sport, has sprung up
the big herd of ad writers that uses poetry in these days to
knock business.
In them times Hirschl Debattie sold
stogie twofers that you could inhale without
slappin' a plaster on the back of your neck.
Now you get sacked for a thin dime for a
fireproof torch that no old-time democrat
would hand to a republican, even at a
national election.
Doctors prescribed quinine powders with whiskey for
the grippe, and lotsa guys got so's they could take the
whiskey without the quinine — after a little practice. Now'-
days the bugs gargle white mule that tastes worse than
quinine without the whiskey, but carries a stiffer wallop.
When the guy with the scythe fell down on the job
in the old days, tight old codgers kept stickin' around, just
to kid the folks that was achin' for the knockoff so's they
could shoot his jack. Now'days an operation is framed, and
the tightwad gets the skiv,
Sam Lucas came to town with the Heyer Sisters, and
made a hit singin' "Grandfather's Clock." Folks said that
song was more'n fifty years old at that time. Now, when the
Rotary and Kiwanis clubs want to liven up, they wind
80
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
"Grandfather's Clock" or clink water glasses for that other
old timer, "Jingle Bells."
Not throwin' the hammer, understand, but some guy
on your sheet is short-changin' on market reports. Course,
you're keen on Liverpool grain, Chicago bull, and St. Louis
mule, but Peoria has blooied. In the old days, standin' out
like breakfast egg on a travelin' man's chin, was the Peoria
market — "Whiskey, steady and unchanged, @ $1.10." That
@ $1.10 wasn't for a shot, nor a drugstore short pint, but
for a gallon of bourbon that a guy could swolly without
stranglin'.
Here's your hunch, sport — boost the town as the great-
est market for hooch, white mule, and home brew. Tell the
world our leggers stretch a gallon of Johnny Walker to five
gallons by dopin' it with raisin soup and alk, that our moon-
shiners make five-year squirrel in five days, and our good-
lookin' kitchen chemists distil knockout dandelion wine in
two weeks.
Bein' as them birds at the city hall has stopped Volstead
and come clean for wine and brew, the stage is set for a
big killin'.
You newspaper boys may be leery about playin' the car-
toon and the harpoon, but you kin put plenty of smoke on,
them hooch market reports without bein' called on the carpet
81
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Captain Walter Blair's Palatial Steamboat.
Where Tri-City Press Club held frolic.
82
With the Boys of Company B.
Say, Bob — We had some humdinger parades in this burg
in the old days, startin' in the early seventies with the day-
light hossback parade of the butchers and drovers, led by
that roughridin' cowboy, Ed Mueller, with his
long hair, sombrero, spurs,, chapps, buckin'
broncho, and badlands mustash. Then there
was Bill Korn and his Pretzel alley press club
parade, with all the reporters, editorial staff,
and war correspondents of the Pretzel Alley
Wurst-Blatt — includin' Hizzoner Mayor Alec
Anderson and Poet Lariat Barney Squires —
all made up to life and ready for the pichers.
That's when the world's heavyweight cham-
pionship battle, Jack Johnson versus the White Man's Hope,
was staged at Credit island at the Tri-City press club frolic,
after Captain Walter Blair had entertained the elite of the
Tri-cities at evenin' tea on his palatial steamboat, the Morn-
in' Star, with the help of the captain and crew of the steam-
boat Beder Wood of Moline.
We had protest percessions for freein' old Ireland in them
times, and for warnin' snoopy government guys against the
folly of tryin' to Aim the Germans outa their beverage in
our Glorious and Independent State of Scott County. But
the turnout that made all other parades look like peanut
affairs was the Belva Lockwood pageant of Company B,
when them boys had got the rep of bein' the crack militia
company of the West.
In them times, sport, wimmen wasn't keen for crackin'
into politics, as they was kept busy at home, playin' wash-
board solos, doin' plain and fancy cookin', and refereein' bat-
tles for a yardful of kids. Regardin' kale drives, wearin'
boudoir bonnets in fords in the daytime, polite panhandlin',
and uplift hokum, there was nothin' stirrin'.
This Belva dame, bein' the first female entry in the
race for president, and the starter of wimmen on the high-
83
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Ted Neuhaus in Belva Lockwood Costume.
84
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
heel road to freedom, naturally the gallant young sojers
of Company B lined up for her. They arranged a whang-
doodle torchlight percession for that gal that beat anything
ever put over for Cleveland and Hendricks or Blaine and
Logan, with all their marchin' clubs, flambeau clubs, drum
corps, tin caps, oilcloth capes, leaky kerosene torches, and
mounted hicks from Blue Grass and the corn belt.
That's when them Ole-and-Axel marchin' clubs from
Moline was shipped over in cattle cars, with galesburg snoos
and their full-dinnerpail lanterns, to misstep in the parade
and yammer in march time, "Plaine! Plaine! Yames Yee
Plaine!" Them's the guys that put the indian sign on the
Plumed Knight and Black Eagle.
When Company B started anything they always fin-
ished, and them sojers went the route for Belva — dollin' in
regular Belva style, with long dresses, steelframe corsets,
banged hair, poke-bonnets, and balloon bustles. Exceptin'
actresses, wimmen in them times didn't smear the powder,
paint, and calcimine, use the lipstick, and fight the lookin'-
glass like they do now.
Highprivate Harry Fulton was the ace that played the
Belva part, and that bird showed top class as a leader, with
four prime pippins — Clyde Riley, Brick Ogden, Vic Skiles,
and Sojer Davis — as escorts. Then came Private Ted Neu-
haus, Belva's runnin' mate, the lady candidate for vice-pres-
ident, and Ted was the swellest dressed trimmie in that
turnout. Private Lib Graham was next in line, as the lady
drum major, twirlin' a kitchen broom for baton and directin'
Strasser's full band, all ribboned and pinked in comin'-out
dresses.
The officers, headed by Private Litz Warriner as flag-
bearer, trailed the band. Captain Ed Cameron and Lieuten-
ants Billy McCullough and Billy Gilbert doin' female mili-
tary duty, with hoopskirts, wide-spreadin' opera hats, and
bustles. The First Big Four, a quartet of cornfed huskies,
followed — Charlie Coen, Billy Stroehle, Bob Russell, and
Billy Purcell. The Inside Four, that ast no odds from no-
body, came next — Johnny Quinn, Ed Randolph, Earl Nichols,
and Bump Mossman. Then the Sawedoff Four, squatty
85
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
and quick-steppin' — Frank Snell, Jim Kough, Frank Valen-
tine, and Johnnie McGee.
There wasn't a pigeon-breast on the roster of privates
that wore dresses and carried jap-lanterns and umbrellas to
make the march for Belva — only sturdy gladiators, like
Frank Parmele, Ed Kough, Sam Lafferty, Emil Hass, Her-
man Stolle, Charlie Osborn, Dalt Risley, Max Robinson, Cap
White, Billy Davidson, Charlie Cameron, Lee Clark, Billy
Oakes, Cliff Reid, CharHe Hubbell, Billy Speer, Dan Lyon,
Al Muckle, Layt Ackley, Jake Matteson, Frank Porter, Roy
Matthews, Tom Hanley, Enoch Wood, Jim Gannon, Vince
Dorgan, Cap Nelson, Morris Fort, John Helmick, George
Curtis, George Davis, Bert Durfee, Ben Garrett, Ike Gray,
Billy Devinney, Erv Kemmerer, Frank Mitchell, Chet Pratt,
Jim Robeson, Otto Smith, John Streeper, Jake Matteson,
Al Shorey, Lew Wild, Billy Carney, Johnny McGee, Mar-
tin Oakes, Max Robinson, Meese Berg, Bob Kulp, John
Dolan, Frank Taylor, George Jones, George Eldridge, George
Fay, Doctor Jimmy Tomson, and Pus LeClaire.
Visitors from the country jammed the streets, and Bar-
num's circus and hippodrome never brought more parade
bugs to town. After marchin' the downtown streets, all lit up
with greek fire and fireworks, the parade halted at Third and
Perry, where Belva delivered a most magnolious address on
Woman's Rights, lefts, and uppercuts, from the balcony of
the old Central hotel. That famous speech aint never been
equaled in any political campaign to this day, even by
George Scott, Buck Hamann, Billy Maines, Willum O.
Schmidt, Lew Roddewig, Harry McFarland, or any other
member of the silver-tongued order of spread-eagles.
Mebbe you boys aint next that Company B was the
whole smear, and when big stuff needed a push they was in
the game up to their elbows. The military ball at Metropoli-
tan hall made a bigger stir with the natives than Bobby
Bums's festival, the Volunteer Fireman's masquerade, or the
East Davenport Turnverein kaffeeklatch.
Some big guns hooked up with the B outfit — men like
General Lyman Banks, Colonel Henry Egbert, Colonel Park
McManus, Colonel George French, Major Morton Marks,
86
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Major George McClelland, and Lieutenant August Reimers.
When them old war hosses spoke folks took notice. The
B boys usta drill in the old market house, and later they
built the armory, now g.h.q. for the Legion boys.
Why, sport, when the state offered a stand of arms as a
prize to the two best-drilled companies, one from each
brigade, Company B copped in the first brigade right off the
reel. They then challenged the Governor's Grays of Dubuque,
second brigade winners, and cleaned 'em in jigtime at Mar-
shalltown. They taught a lota new tricks to the Rodman
Rifles of Rock Island, and when the National Rifles of Wash-
ington barnstormed the West, the B boys escorted 'em on
their visit to the Arsenal, and took charge of affairs at their
exhibition drill at the Fair grounds.
When the crepe-hangers from the high-grass counties
put prohibition over, things looked awful dry for the B boys
as they strapped on their knapsacks and headed for the
encampment at Centerville. But the night before startin', a
coupla wet sojers was inhalin' brew and pretzels at Frahm's
and mournin' over the dry outlook with Henry Frahm, when
that good old scout tipped 'em on how they could save a few
lives out in the desert country.
On the second day in camp two trucks with barrels
marked "Beattie's XXX Hard Winter Wheat Flour" rumbled
into B headquarters, and when them barrels was tapped with
a wooden faucet liquid flour with a white collar bubbled out
into tin cups, and the big drouth at the encampment was
busted.
The Captain passed samples of that flour to the officers
of the other companies, and B g.h.q. was the popular spot
of Centerville. Then the Cap got mildly inoculated with
fluid flour and the bright idea of givin' a banquet to the
regimental officers. Callin' Privates Joe Frazer and George
Gillette, he told 'em the visitin' officers had a weakness for
fried chicken as well as for Beattie's XXX flour, and he
kinda hinted that a yallerlag ranch a mile down the pike
looked like pushover prowlin'.
In them days Joe Frazer, flash speeder of B Company,
could do a hundred yards in ten flat, with Chet Croul hold-
87
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
ing his german-silver stop-watch, but nobody ever pegged
George Gillette as a cuckoo collins sprinter. Them two
sojers made location on that hennery, penetrated the first
line defenses of the Rhode Island reds, and they were just
grabbin' some plump three-pound pullets when a shotgun
exploded from the direction of the farmhouse, and a buck-
shot barrage splattered all over that coonfruit cafeteria.
Private Joe had practiced startin' with the pistol shot,
and won first dash outa that hencoop, but before he covered
twenty yards a pair of broomsticks in sojer's uniform
streaked past him, and when Private Joe finished the mile
run to camp he found Private George snorin' soundly in
his tent, grippin' a bunch of rooster tailfeathers in his hand.
At court-martial next mornin' it was brought out that
Private George bolted the henhouse at nine-fifteen and
reached camp at nine-ten, beatin' Father Time for the record
by five minutes. At the banquet that evenin' the officers
of the First Regiment, I. N. G., enjoyed spuds, greens, beans,
and oratory, with Beattie's XXX flour as a side dish.
Oh, boy! Them was the good old days!
Hep! Hep! Hep! — hep! — hep!
88
Hoglatin, Gibberish, Slanguage.
In them times, sport, youngsters was right pert when
talkin' hoglatin, so's folks couldn't get next to their dark
secrets. Instead of a kid askin' his buddy, "Will you come
with me?" he'd say "Wigery yougery cogery wigery me-
gery?" in hoglatin — givin' each word a soft final and addin'
the sound of "gery" for a bit of mysterious bolshevik flavor.
After passin' fifth grade a kid could master gibberish —
shiftin' the first letter of a word to the end of the word
and addin' the sound "ay" to the letter, as, "Illway ouyay
omecay ithway emay?" With them two foreign languages
schoolboys could prattle in secret right in front of their
dads.
Now'days flappers and shifters gabble a new lingo,
called slanguage, that gives our good old United States lady-
food some awful scramblin'. Imagine, sport, an old-timer
droppin' into a picher show to read movie ads and rest his
dogs, and gettin' planted alongside a coupla world-weary
little old wimmen — seventeen or eighteen years old — all fed
up on dancin', love, clothes, vamps, and pichers, and dis-
gusted with tiresome people, and particularly parents. The
gabby bobbed blonde is givin' first release of the troubles
of herself and a girl friend while shootin' the circuit the night
before. She chatters fluent slanguage, and she may be either
a laundry queen, a cigar packer, or a hi-sweetie. Her weary
bobbed brune chum is a good earplayer, gettin' this first-run
stuff:
"We bloused into a nosebaggery with a flat-wheeler and
a boiler factory, and they hit the dopesheet for the boston
chow that a goofy greaseball served as we listened in on their
feathers and clothesline scandal. A kippy pair of oilcans,
I'll say! So we made the blow and gave 'em the air, and
then crashed a jazz-garden where a flock of sub-chasers and
dumb-doras were rattlin' their dogs. We lined up a brace
of Goldstein strangle-holders, who were the cat's pajamas
and bee's knees — if you went for there blaah. I went goofy
89
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
iCAf^DAl- WMKtU
TOMATO
/V£CK£L/?
over one toppy wally, and while neckin' with him I glimmed
Percy foxin' it with his new tomato, and servin' the apple
sauce. Some rugshaker for that bell-polisher, Sis! Woof!
"Then I jazzed a whirl with a cake-eater on parole,
but slufied him for a fluky corn-shredder with a flat tire, who
ditched his bozark to do my corn-crackin', my dog-kennels
gettin' jammed somethin' fierce. Although half plastered
and havin' a hipoil plant, he was no cuddle-cootie, for he
handled his ice-tongs like I had T. B. Then we hooked
a dumb-Otis and scandal-walker for the yellow dimbox, and
I blouse to the homehouse to dingle-dangle this dewdropper
until timJe to mattress. Ye gods! What a slow night!
Nobody loves me! I hope it gets hot, so's I kin wear
my furs."
Now, on the dead level, sport — wouldn't that lingo
get a guy's goat? Admittin' times is changin', and that a
lota speedhounds is operatin' on last year's license, what
chance has an old stager to wise up on an earful of this
new slanguage? Sn^^ boy — he'll never get to first base.
SUB-CHA5E«
CAKE.-£Ate;v
iJSli.- P6LISHE.??
90
The Tale of the Scott County Apple.
Come, little children, gather around the Old Timer,
while he relates the sad tale of the Scott County Apple.
Once upon a time, many years ago, a Scott County
Apple grew weary of the simple life on the Wapsie bottoms,
in the quiet onion orchard in which
it had been born, and thereupon it
resolved to seek its fortune amid the
bright lights of gay Pretzel alley, far
away.
Its little brothers and sisters, pop-
ping up their green heads to greet the
glad sunshine, appeared contented in
their pastoral environment, but our
young hero had become inoculated
with the unquenchable symptoms of
unrest and the desire for a change.
So, my dears, one beautiful evening in the balmy month
of September, when the harvest moon was making eyes over
the dew-kissed meadow and hibernian canaries were warb-
ling sweetly in Chawbeef slough, this Scott County Apple
cautiously pulled itself up from its mulchy bed, hastily packed
its telescope, and took a swift run and jump into the brawny
bosom of the ebullient Wapsie, where it landed with an
ominous kersplash.
And the next morning, while Old Sol was gently slip-
ping his daylight stuff over the acquiline nose of the great
State of Iowa, our young hero rode gingerly out upon the
rippling waters of the majestic Mississippi, and it heaved
a deep sigh as it thought of the little brothers and sisters
it had left behind in their peaceful garden home on the banks
of the Wapsie.
Pausing in its journey to leak a few bitter tears, our
hero observed an apple from up-stream — some Real Fruit —
floating gracefully down the river toward it.
91
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
"Good morning, Brother Apple," exclaimed our young
hero cheerily, while slackening its pace and attempting to
strike up an acquaintance with its chance fellow voyageur.
"Whither are we drifting?"
Now the Real Fruit, my dear children, being toppy
and of some class, deigned no reply, but tossed its head
grandiloquently in the autumn sunshine and sought a swifter
current midstream in the erratic rapids.
Undismayed at this palpable rebuke, the Scott County
Apple hurried to catch its new-found friend, and, as the two
travelers cut a dashing figure eight in a swirling eddy near
the Duck creek delta, our young hero
snuggled insinuatingly alongside the
Real Fruit, exclaiming joyfully:
"My! How us apples do float!"
"Apples!" the Real Fruit retorted,
with great disdain, drawing itself
proudly together and casting a wither-
ing glance at our hero. "Apples! Where do you get that
apple stuff? Why, you're not an apple — you're an onion!"
"Sure thing, I'm an apple," urged our hero, earnestly.
"I'm a Scott County Apple. I was born and bred in old
Scott county, on the banks of the Wapsie!"
"Huh!" the Real Fruit rejoindered, with fine scorn, "they
raise onions in Scott county — not apples! That's where the
tall corn grows."
"But I'm a regular Scott County Apple all right," urged
our young hero, with a hot flash of native pride, "and I'm
on my maiden voyage to Pretzel alley."
"I wish you good luck on your journey," the Real Fruit
grumpily replied. "I'm on my way to Missouri, and you'll
have to show me."
And at that moment, dear children, there was a great
splashing and swishing in the water behind the two floating
apples. Then a robust german carp, in search of its morn-
ing's morning, espied the Real Fruit, and, with an appalling
disregard of formality, gobbled that haughty wayfarer into
its capacious maw, after which it sank tranquilly beneath
92
P^IWFOTrFI
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
the surface to hobnob with the menial Duck creek clam and
yellow-bellied mudcat, the back-sliding crawfish, the blinkey-
eyed turtle, and the slithering skipjack.
"Which reminds me of a lesson I learned on mother's
knee," mused the Scott County Apple : " 'Never get gay when
you're full of sunshine.' Therefore, it behooves me to slip
into the shallows and cut this sporting life on the gay deep."
So, little boys and
girls, our Scott County
Apple turned its nose
shoreward on approach-
ing the bustling burg of
Bettendorf. And it also
laughed immoderately as
it recalled the great dis-
comfiture of its haughty
friend, the Real Fruit, and the ignominious squelching of that
proud aristocrat.
But, dear kiddies, the Old Timer wishes to remind you
that there are many alluring pitfalls in this world to ensnare
the unwary. Now, when this Scott County Apple approached
shallow water, it observed a flat-bottomed scow manned by
a Corkhill clamdigger, who for many moons had diligently
scraped the murky Duck creek clambeds in quest of the
elusive pearl of commerce. On, the approach of the Wapsie
truant, the clammer, with an eurekan expletive and a joyous,
"Welcome, little stranger!" seized our young hero uncere-
moniously by the suspenders and thrust it roughly into the
pockets of his trousers.
"Woe is me!" the Scott County Apple wailed. "To
think that I sidestepped a jonah turn on a ravenous carp only
to fall for the meal ticket for a hungry harp!"
When the Corkhill clammer stepped from his scow that
evening, to prepare his luncheon, he drew the Scott County
Apple from his pocket, rubbed its rosy cheeks affectionately,
and smacked his lips hungrily in anticipation of a royal feast,
with our hero the complementary guest of honor, sliced in
vinegar, as a sidecard to bacon, flapjacks, and spuds.
93
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
But Fate, that uncertain mentor of our destinies, had
decreed otherwise in the affairs of this Scott County Apple.
At that particular moment, little boys and girls, a
Hebrew peddler came driving down the river road, stroking
his sorrel whiskers complacently and humming a plaintive
yiddish lullaby. Upon being hailed in greeting by the Cork-
hill clammer, the yahoodah replied "Oi-yoi!" — with added
ghetto gayety perhaps, which reply, unfortunately, was mis-
interpreted by the clammer as a reflection upon the valor and
integrity of his ancestors from old Kil-
larney — an affront which demanded im-
mediate redress.
Hastily drawing the Scott County
Apple from his pocket, the Corkhill
clammer hurled it with violent impetus
at the itinerant commercial salesman,
who, alert to the occasion, having sus-
pecting ulterior designs on the part of
the clammer, quickly poked out his fin
and speared our young hero as it sailed swiftly and unerringly
through the gathering twilight.
Then, lashing his spavin into a quick trot, the Hebrew
peddler drove homeward at full speed, to the bright lights
of Pretzel alley, where he subsequently was greeted by his
numerous family with many manifestations of affection as he
displayed our blushing young hero, wreathed in smiles, in
the palm of his good left hand.
"At last I am in Pretzel Alley," sighed the Scott County
Apple, while being sliced into the frying-pan with a ration of
porkchops, "but I have a hunch that I shall soon see my
finish."
And thus it came to pass, dear children, that the Scott
County Apple paid the penalty that Fate exacts of the verdant
bohunk who falls for the glare and glimmer of the bright
lights of the gay commonwealth or Pretzel alley.
Moral : If the Irish or the Dutch don't get your nannie
you have a fat chance with the Jews.
94
Enough is Suffish.
When you're putting on a party,
If you use the stuff that cheers,
Why the guzzling like a stew-bum
'Til you're soused up to the ears?
While admitting stimulation
Will accentuate desire
And pep-up the old afHatus,
How about the next-day fire?
For the law of compensation
Takes its toll in ample score
When the stew inhales too many
Of the hooch the night before.
If a little bit is plenty.
Why — O, why — a whole lot more?
If you have a shapely ankle
And a buxom silk-hosed calf,
With this first-aid to the snooper.
Why that dizzy teehee laugh?
If inclined to be clothes-simple
And you freely blow your jack
For the duds that flash the w^ishbone
And the pimples on the back —
When the roughneck upanddowner
Looks you over, don't get sore.
For the cutie eyeful peddler
Has no license for a roar.
If a little bit is plenty.
Why — O, why — a whole lot more?
95
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The Carnival City Minstrels.
Come on, sport ! Push the clock
back a ripvanwinkle notch or two —
to the days of Old Hoss Hoey and
Ezra Kendall; back to the old days
of Barlow, Wilson, Primrose, and
West; back to the days of Billy
Emerson's minstrels, Sam Lucas,
and Billy Kersands; back to the
days when Seth Crane and Fay
Templeton sang the "Gobble" song
in the "Mascot;" when Dan Home
and Ferd Haymeyer pleased the
folks at Burns's ball with their
song-and-dance specialty, "Strol-
ling Through the Park."
Them was the good old days ! All wide open and every-
thing, and none of these crepe-hangers on crabbin' duty.
Let's see — that song warbled somethin' like this:
While strollin' through the park one day.
One lovely afternoon in May
I was taken by surprise
By a pair of roguish eyes (pause).
And we met her by the fountain in the park.
Some class to that, bo! Georgie Cohan nor Irv Berlin
aint got nothin' on nobody in arrangin' them kind of words,
has they? Then the dance — a sort of cubist non-com clog,
with rollickin', raggy swing. O, boy! Now — second spasm:
We immeday-ut-ly raised our hats.
And fond-a-ly she replied.
1 never shall forget
That lovely aftah-noon (pause),
When we met her by the fountain in the park.
Say! Did them guys get a hand? Listen, sport — you
know what they're feedin' these movie birds, that does happy-
endin' bunk in the pichers, in the applause line? Well, that'll
kinda give you some idea of what they gave Dan and Hay in
the old days, only it aint one-two-six.
97
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THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Then, there was Billy Kelly. No dance was regular
steppin' unless Billy trotted out after supper to do the
"Sailor's Hornpipe" to the strains of Strasser's. At clo?, jig,
or reel, Billy had it forty ways on all the soft-shoe artists at
the local shindigs.
Then, folks could always depend on Dan Leonard, Tom
Ross, Steve Costello, Grunter O'Donnell, or some other classy
hoofers to do "Fred Wilson's" clog or the "Silver Shower"
jig after the musicians had packed away their supper.
That's when Colonel Hipwell got his rep as leader of
the band. Any percession that thought it was a percession,
without the colonel leadin' the band, wasn't no percession.
In them days M. J. Malloy introduced brick pavin' and
bathtubs in Northwest Davenport — upsettin' all dope con-
cernin' the Saturday evenin' plunge in the wash-basin, as folks
thought is was dangerous to take a bath more'n once a week.
Bob Porter held the ribbons on Lucy,
the speediest little roan single-footer at that
time, and he never took no guy's dust when
a-comin' home from Schuetzen.
You know the time, sport! When
Ben Luetje hit the scales at a hundred and
ten in his socks — before they got namin'
alarm clocks after him — and when Jack
Feeney and Jack Kivlin burned the track
footracin' at the Mount Joy fair, doin' a hundred yards in ten
flat, accordin' to Chet Croul's german-silver stop-watch.
Yep! In them days you could slip on the feed-bag at
Schuetzen park, and inhale a mess of sirloin, spring chick,
roastin' ears, and vegetables, and polish off with dessert and
coffee — all for two bits. And if any of them waiter birds ever
was handed a tip they'd a-threw a hemorrhage.
But, at that, a guy was lucky to draw down one bone per.
Now'days these miracle monkey-wrench mechanics squawk
unless they spear eight iron men for soldierin' eight hours.
You see, it was this way: Back yonder, around eight-
een-ninety, a lota Davenport young men got tryin' out their
voices on barber-shop sevenths and doin' close harmony on
99
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
the evenin' breeze out in the parks on moonlight nights.
Others was musically inclined, and took their revenge out on
different kinds of wind instruments. Still others was afflicted
with declamatory delusions, rangin' from tragedy to comedy.
Understand, sport, the motor cop hadn't arrived then,
and the ordinances wasn't so sensitive and easy to fracture as
now. Folks wasn't so particular as to noises, like the cut-
out, the short-skirt, or the jazz trottery.
The first release of the Carnival City Cullud Comedians
was staged in the town hall of Dixon on Thanksgiving eve,
in November, eighteen ninety-four. The excuse for pickin'
on Dixon for the pop-off play has never been alibed, but the
frost was on punk-uns all through the first part.
But sumpin happened during the wind-up that made
'em cut loose. The lightin' system consisted of one juicy
kerosene drop-lamp, hangin' over the front of the stage. This
glim was billed for a crab play, layin' down on the job durin'
the grand finale. But Sojer Davis, the manager of props,
proved up in the pinch. Grabbin' a rickety stepladder, he
mounted it and quickly adjusted the lamp trouble, but as
he leaned too heavy on one side, he took a tailspin down en
the leader of the orchestra.
The rubes thought that lofty
tumble gag all in the play.
It was the highsign for the
fireworks, and they broke loose
with applause, indicatin' that the
hick is keen for athletic stuff. The
other acts were greatly enjoyed,
and then the hall was cleared, and
everybody danced 'till mornin'.
If good old Joe Miller had
been at Dixon, he would have felt
repaid for the labor on his original
work. The chicken gag was used,
and it went over with as much
effect as in present-day vaudeville.
Listen to this:
100
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Mr. Fort — "How is you feelin' this evenin', Mistah Sam-
sing?"
Mr, Sampson — "Why, I'se feelin' ve'y salubrious this
evenin', Mistah Fo't; ve'y salubrious."
"Mistah Samsing, I desiah to plopound a culumdum fo'
you heah this evenin', before this lahge intellumgent aujence."
"Go 'long, man, you cain't compound no clumblum what
I cain't edificate. 'Deed yo' cain't, niggah. No, suh!"
"Ve'y well, Mistah Samsing, ve'y well. What I's gwine
fo' to ask is, 'Why do a chicken cross de road?' "
"'Why do a chicken cross de road?' Yah! Yah! Yah!
Dat cuhtainly am too easy, Mistah Fo't — too easy."
"Ve'y well, Mistah Samsing, ve'y well. Then tell these
heah good people, right heah in Dixon, why dat chicken he
done cross de road."
"Dat chicken, Mistah Fo't, he done cross de road bekase
he has a most impo'tant ingagement on de otheh side."
The interlocutor — "Mr. James Lindley, the sweet-voiced
Scott county nightingale, will now favor the audience with
that beautiful ballad entitled, "Little Darling, Dream of Me."
The artists in the first part:
Interlocutor — Eugene A. Craft.
Bones — Frank Wilson and Gus
Brown. Tambos — James Sampson
and Frank Fort.
The songs and the singers
were: "Oblige a Lady," Frank
Wilson. "Little Darling, Dream
of Me," James Lindley. "Do,
Do, My Huckleberry Do," Charles
Brown. "Little Darling, Good-
bye." Martin Oakes. "Christopher
Columbo," Gus Brown. "Silver
Bells of Memory," William Dewey.
"Annie Laurie," Eugene Craft.
"Put on de Golden Shoes," James
Sampson.
The features of the second part :
Charlie Brown, in refined song-and-dance. Frank Wilson,
101
THEM WAS THE OOOD OLD DAYS
in a brief discourse on political events. Hugo Hill and Tony
Biehl, the musical team. Gene Craft and Frank Fort in
"The Merry Fakers." James Lindley and Martin Oakes in
popular melodies. William Dewey and Gus Brown in
"Wanted— An Actor." Lew Eckhardt, Frank Wilson, James
Lindley and Martin Oakes, in old-time plantation melodies.
The Lindello Mandolin club, Hugo Hill, Tom O'Brien, John
Emendorfer, Lew Eckhardt, Tony Biehl, and Juie Purcell.
Grand finale, "On the Bowery," featuring Lew Eckhardt as
Samantha Johnsing, assisted by Gus Brown, Fred Hoelmer,
Sojer Davis, Tom O'Brien, and the active chair-warmers.
The show went big, and a return date was signed for
openin' of the new opera house in the spring. Durant was
the scene of the second performance of the Carnivals, in
December, and the home folks stood the gaff at the Burtis
in January. Blue Grass and Buffalo were nailed by the
troupers in February. It was up to the good people of Le-
Claire to throw a wrench into the works in February, as they
framed a revival against the Carnivals, on a night when the
thermometer hit twenty degrees below zero. The minstrel
boys declared the affair a draw, claimin' a fifty-fifty split in
the contest between blackface and salvation.
Meantime, minstrelsy was get-
tin' in its work, and a number of
prominent citizens fell before its
ravages. And among others, such
artists as Maj Meyer, Henry Gar-
stang. Bob Abbott, Bill Franklin,
Bob Kulp, Charles Everheard, Bob
Osborne, Harry Downer, Frank
Hearne, Willy Mueller, and the
Moline famous Big Four — Weber,
Samuelson, Crimmins, and Bier-
man. The Carnivals entertained
in Moline in eighteen ninety-five.
The final performances were
given at Schuetzen park on July,
fourth, afternoon and evenin'. In
102
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
the mornin' a street parade was held with Strasser's full band,
followed by thirty-six performers, vocalists, comedians, and
chair-warmers. Then the company got wise and quit while
the quittin' was good.
The Carnival City organization was unique in home tal-
ent minstrelsy — its members never resortin' to the sap and
sandbag as stimulants to quicken reserved seat ticket sales.
Many of our leadin' bankers, business and professional
men owe their start in life to the Carnival City minstrels.
Naturally Bert Dawson and Frank Yetter can't claim this
brand of glory, because it was before they landed in the
burg. But, you take Bill Heuer and Otto Hill, for instance.
Everything they have they owe to the Carnival City minstrels
— and they'll tell you so, if you ast 'em.
Bill Heuer was only a kid then, but he worked his way
to Dixon and back by sellin' songbooks. Bill pulled a line of
patter on the natives that made 'em loosen, openin' up some-
thin' like this : "Ladies and gentlemen, 'Little Annie Rooney'
was 'Strolling Through the Park One Day,' dressed in 'The
Little Old Red Shawl My Mother Wore', and while 'She May
Have Seen Better Days'," and so
on, and by the time Bill announced
one hundred popular songs for the
small sum of ten cents, one dime,
he had all the hardboiled gentry
shellin' thin dimes like they was
operatin' a corn sheller.
Otto Hill was the professor
and musical director of that outfit,
and he could make that old pianner
loop the loop. At Dixon he was
assisted by Albert Petersen, Henry
Sonntag, and Hugo Toll, and that
quartette certainly did whang the
daylights out of the "Orpheus"
overture, and covered up all the
weak spots of the show.
You tell 'em, sport! There's lotsa old timers in this burg
that loves to hear them words: "Gentlemen — be seated!"
103
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The Tank Town Troupers.
jUT, just a minute, sport. This tale also has
somethin' to do with another band of wan-
derin' blackface minstrels that invaded the
bucolic bailiwick of Solon — up yonder in
Northern Iowa — about thirty years ago, by
request, for one consecutive night. That
was long before it became necessary for
our leadin' citizens to study chemistry and
learn the distiller's trade.
Of course, nearly every male citizen
over twenty years of age in any respectable community, at
some time in his career, has felt the bite of the minstrel bug,
and under the mellowin' influence of time he fancies he has
been a regular performer. Davenport has growed a big crop
of minstrel artists in the past forty years.
On that occasion, Solon's population was closin' in on
the four-figure mark and sproutin' city airs. One live wire
of that burg, Seth Smith, allowed it was time to build an
opry house, and, by jing, he went and done it. When it was
finished and the benches set in place, it needed some scenery
to give it a touch of realism,
Charley Kindt, a sprightly young blade in his early
twenties, was hooked by Seth for the scene paintin', and he
put over a hangup job. After inspectin' the work, the man-
ager was so well pleased that he released a hard-luck serial
that touched a tender spot with the scene painter.
Now, Solon, in the lingo of the perfesh, was a tank town,
well off the main line, not covered by legit and rep shows.
The manager wanted a live attraction for the grand openin'
the next Saturday — a show with lotsa pep.
Charley, right off the bat, told the Solonite that a first-
class minstrel performance, with silver cornet band and street
parade at noon, was what Solon needed for an opener — a show
that would go over with a bang and furnish the natives with
talk food for years to come.
105
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
The day bein' Wednesday, speed was needed to corral a
troupe to invade Solon on time, but
as Davenport was brimmin' over
with blackface talent, Impresario
Kindt knew where to uncover the
best. The S. O. S. call went out,
Joe Miller's joke book was dusted
off, costumes gathered, performers
drafted, wigs and burnt cork were
requisitioned, and railroad passes
secured on a slow freight. That
outfit included some high-class
performers, vocalists, and musicians
who later hit the highspots.
Lew Greeley Home did the old
darkey stuff, and sang "Old Black
Joe." Greeley was as good as
Milt Barlow, and he had refused many offers to take the road.
Greeley went so good that he hadta sing "I Love to Think of
the Days When I Was Young" for an encore.
Mel Trotter made his debut, with his sweet-soundin'
tenor voice, singin' "The Little Old Red Shawl My Mother
Wore," and, for encore, "The Prodigal Son," the song that
Bill Nye wrote for Thomas Q. Seabrooke in "The Isle of
Champagne," one verse runnin' sumpin like —
Oh, the eldest son was a sonofagun,
He was! He was!
He shuffled the cards and he played for mon,
He did! He did!
He wore a red necktie, a high-standin' collar,
Went out with the boys, got full and did holler,
Oh, he was a regular jimdandy loller —
Sing tra-la-la-la-la-la-la!
Tony Biehl as the Dutchman, Gus Wilson as the Swede,
and Lee Grabbe as the Professor, put over a screamin' musi-
cal act, usin' every instrument they could beg, borry, and
steal from Dinny Hickey.
Bill Korn made his first plunge in monolog, takin' for
his text that good old gag of Joe Miller's about the guy with
his slops on who ast Mike the copper, "What time is it?"
"It just struck wan," says Mike, givin' the stew a whack on
106
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
the bean. "I'm glad I wasn't here an hour
ago," says the guy. Well, that went so
good that Bill tried singin' "Tit Willow."
Art McDonald dished up a stew of mul-
ligan melo-drama from "The Moonshiner's
Daughter," takin' the parts of both deacon
and the hoss, as they stopped to talk with
Mirandy near the lonely log cabin. "Whoa,
Silas!" said the deacon, bringin' the hoss to
a dead stop. "Is yer pa t'hum, Mirandy?"
"Nope," answered Mirandy, "pa he's up on
the mounting, moonshinin' ." "Wa-al," says
the deacon, "I calklate as how I'd better be a-movin' to the
mounting. Giddap, Silas!" Then Art switched from moon-
shinin' to the gates ajar, and put over the chills and fever
patter of old Uncle Tom at the knockoff of
little Eva.
Chris Schlegel was interlocutor in the
first part, with Lew Home and Charlie Kindt
rappin' the tambos, and Bill Korn and Tony
Biehl shakin' the bones.
The Alabama quartet, Schlegel, Trotter,
Grabbe, and Home, did some near harmony,
and Charlie Kindt got away with his stump
speech, "The Politician from Scott County,"
tellin' about the Irishman and Scotchman
that stood before a bar, and the harp didn't
have any money, and how, after waitin' a
spell, the nickel-nurser said. "Well, Pat, what are we going
to have today — rain or snow?"
Matt Lamb was property man, Fred Coates was care-
taker of Tony Biehl's daaschund, "Patsey," and Billy Ritter
was press agent and cashier.
A heavy rainstorm tore loose on the evenin' of the big
show, but the opry house was packed just the same. All the
corn-shredders for miles around blowed in, bringin' kerosene
lanterns with 'em, and they kept 'em lit in the gallery all durin'
the performance.
107
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
The company carried its own orchestra — an old-time
square piano — borryed from Denny Hickey of the Hoyt piano
company. On account of a five-dollar freight bill that piano
was left at Solon, and mebbe it's still doin' business there.
Because of the short time between bookin' and show-time,
rehearsals was held in the little red caboose on the freight
train, and the postin' service consisted of handin' out five
hundred dodgers.
When the troupe arrived, every sonofagun and his brother
turned out to see the big street parade at noon, with silver
cornet band, plug hats, linen dusters, and bamboo canes.
Shortly before the performance it was discovered that the
programs had not been printed, and as the printer had closed
his shop and gone fishin', the office was broken into and Chris
Schlegel set the type and Charlie Kindt run the programs on
the hand press. The next momin' the
printer flashed a bill of two bucks for
material and use of type, and Fred
Coates paid the bill a year later.
As the minstrel company entered
the caboose for the return trip, Matt
Lamb lingered on the station platform
and ast one of the natives:
"Well, how'd you like the show?"
"Guess we hadn't better talk about
that," was the reply.
Now'days it's different in puttin'
on a minstrel show. Whenever the Elks,
Eagles, Caseys, Moose, Masons, Owls,
Camels, Turners, or any of them brother
outfits, gets the blackface fever, they wire a canned minstrel
promoter for costumes, scenery, makeup, and music. Then,
after they lasso Tad Martin, they're all set. And, bein' all
set, special committees leadpipe friends and foes for program
ads and reserved seat tickets. Then the newspapers say the
show was finer'n silk — that everybody is just dyin' to hear
'em repeat the dose.
Oilstock salesman ain't the only guys that spread that old
mexican stuff, sport.
108
Street Music and Catarrh.
E HAD bully music back in the old days
sport, before the marimbo, xylophone,
saxophone, and uke got jammin' up the
works, and not countin' the ocarino, tin-
whistle, or jewsharp, nor solo work with
the triangle, tambourine, or bass drum.
When the Swiss bell-ringers showed at
the Metropolitan hall the standin' room
sign was stuck up for the first time.
Professor Martini had the folks all diz-
zied with his sleight-of-hand tricks at the Metropolitan, too,
and when he mesmerized the little gal dressed in a white
suit, with boys' pants and ruffles at the knees, and put her
to sleep up in the air, with her head restin' on her hand,
balancin' on her elbow on a broomstick, he had the town
gaspin' and wonderin'. Then Martin Greeley named a cock-
tail in honor of Martini, with lotsa hop to it, and the folks
with classy tasters and jaded appetites gave that Martini
drink an awful play.
Joe Emmett showed how easy it was to play "Home,
Sweet Home" with variations on the toy harmonica at the
Burtis, and the nigger-heaven kids cleaned out the stock of
mouth-organs at Hoyt's and Wallace's music stores the
next day.
General Tom Thumb and Miss Minnie Warriner, the
world's smallest midgets, were the big attractions then, and
Miss Minnie held a public reception after every matinee, to
meet the wimmen folks.
The old bear man and his big brown bear came to town
every summer. The bear man usta sleep with his bear in a
boxstall back of Deutsches Gasthaus on Second and Scott.
He called the bear "Chack," and he controlled him with a
clothesline fastened to a ring in his nose. When old bruin
shimmied, the bear man sang a weird dago chanty:
109
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Ta-ra, ra-ruum, ra-ruum, ra-ray!
Ta-ra, ra-ruum, ra-ruum, ra-ray I
The bear danced a clumsy sidestep, actin' like he was
scared stiff. The bear man got lotsa pennies when passing
the hat, and he usta say, "For-a fifta-cent
I make-a Chack climb a tree," but they
wasn't no spendthrifts shootin' four-bit
pieces in them days.
Nobody knew who started the boys
playin' the accordeon, but if a guy strolled
west of Harrison on hot summer evenin's
he'd hear Frank Wickleman or some other
barber pumpin' the "Lauterbach" waltz or
"Fatherland" outa a beerharp. Or, he'd
get an earful of a tinklin' zither, and know
the Tyrolean warblers had been visitin' Turner hall or Claus
Groth, and had started Al Fahmer, Billy Wagner, and a lota
other boys raspin' the zit.
There was more rivalry between musicians then than
between soprano soloists in church choirs. If that aint spil-
lin' a mouthful, sport, come up and get your money. The
leadin' bass drum artists — Gus Wilson of Restorff's Military
band and Billy Carney of the Light Guard band — were deadly
rivals, and they fought a fierce duel one Saturday evenin' at
Moore's hall before a packed house. Charlie Wesenberg was
second for Gus, and Mike Ruefer acted for Billy, with Ernst
Otto officiatin' as referee,
and Mike Goetsch as bot- y<l**\ — — -^ % X'^ I
tie-holder. The folks that y^^j^ ')k*-^/^> ^
think they aint no melody
in bass drum solo work
is due for wisin' up on
their musical education.
Nasty feelin' existed
between them star drum-
mers, and the Carney fac-
tion preferred charges against Wilson, claimin' he manicured
his finger nails and played guitar at weddin's. The Wilson
110
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
bunch came back at Carney, sayin' that besides his bein' a
molder at Donahue's foundry he sawed bull fid at Fire King
dances. A big hullabaloo was bein' raised when the referee
declared there was nothin' in union rules against usin' them
kinda tools, and he ordered the drum soakers to get ready.
Them boys went through five fast rounds, and the referee
decided their combat work was fifty-fifty, and, while Wilson
shaded the molder on animato con furia, Carney had the
stockfish boy faded on prestissimo vivacissimo, but that the
andante passages were considerably scherzante el torro. Gus
said that sounded fair enough, as far as
he was concerned, and Billy invited the
party to the sulphur spring at Beattie's
mill for a drag at the pump.
Dago Joe with his harp was a sum-
mer tourist. Joe was a real wiz with that
hibernian instrument, and even if he didn't
know a note from a receipt, he was king
of the fakirs and could tear off either high-
brow or popular stuff. How that fat wop
could sprinkle the notes! Oh, boy! Didn't make a bita dif
what key a stev/ party started to sing in, that harpist could
pick 'em right off. Joe passed the hat after every tune, but
he never passed passed a stein or a snit.
Old time fiddlers done all the music tricks at dances, or
mebbe some professor would play the piano with his hands,
Now'days them dishpans is played with the hoofs, and a
player that knows music is nine, ten — out! Any hunk with
nut enough to change the needle on a talkin' machine can
line up with the old masters now.
Another famous music duel was fought between Soapy
Smith with Barnum's calleyope and Fatty Saunders with
Trinity chimes. It was circus day in August, and Barnum's
big top was pitched in the old fair grounds out on Brady
street. As the tail of the parade rounded the top of Brady
street hill, Soapy took a crack at "Swanee River," and Fatty,
on practice duty that mornin', answered with the "Sweet
Bye and Bye." Soapy took up the challenge, and when his
111
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
noise chariot was passin' the steeple he
tore loose with "This House is Haunted,"
and Fatty came right back with the "Blue
Bells of Scotland," takin' an awful wham
at the high note on the bell tuned in q
flat. That punch of Fatty's had so much
zip on it that Soapy sm.elled scotch, and
when he was passin' Pat Tuohy's joint he
jumped off the calleyope and ast Pat to
mix him a stiff snorter of scotch, sayin'
that the bum note that Fatty pulled on the bells gave him
the willies. Pat thought Soapy was easily nervoused, and ast
him how he'd like to hear that note every day and twice
on Sundays. Soapy said no guy hadta stand for that pun-
ishment when he had such a beautiful chance to jump off the
bridge. Then Soapy remarked that, as far as he was con-
cerned. Fatty won the battle — that he'd never fight another
duel with chimes that was tuned by a clam-digger.
When the scotch bagpipers came to town in fair-time,
dressed in kilts, you could tell by their knees they never took
water for a chaser. The kids usta folly them kilties around
when they played the .saloons, and could tell they were playin'
music, but couldn't get hep to the tunes, every wheeze sound-
in' just the same. Them hielan' guys carried heavy campin'
outfits on their backs, and mjusta had a hunch that prohibi-
tion was comin', the way they practiced preparedness.
Professor Guckert gave a mandolin and guitar concert
at the Burtis, and the burg went daffy on that tinkly music,
Jimmy Donahue bein' the first kid to tackle a mandolin.
Lee Grabbe then organized the Venetian mandolin club, with
mandolins, guitars, mandola, banjo, flute, violin, and 'cello,
and he had Tony Biehl, Gus Wilson, Ike Freed, Frank Fick,
Henny Reese, Charlie Ribby, Al Moetzel, Johnny Emendor-
fer, Hugo Hill, Doodle Eckhardt, Tom O'Brien, and a lota
other stars playin' for the high-class entertainments. When
Lee talked of organizin' a saxophone quartet in them days,
folks said if things kept gettin' worse they'd round that boy
up for a bugs recital before the commissioners.
112
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THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Of course, regular summer visitors
included handorgan grinders with flea-cov-
ered monkeys that would climb for pen-
nies and salute when they were dropped
in the cup. Then the handorgan grinder
would smile and say, "Da gooda monk!"
Later the hurdy-gurdy man came with the
pipeorgan on wheels, and his wife and
family did the hat-passin' act.
Italian street bands made the rounds
of this old town every summer, playin' violins, flute, and
harp on afternoons and evenin's. Them birds had the artis-
tic touch and plenty of pep, and they played the fids in an
upright position, restin' 'em on their knees. Kids follyed 'em
in droves, from Melchert's hotel to the Scott house and New-
comb house, but didn't get close when they passed the hat.
When them dagoes played in front of the Kimball house,
if Doctor Connaughton had his big white fedora, white prince
albert, and habits on, he'd stand on the balcony and toss 'em
a silver dollar for every tune.
Doc Con was a catarrh moses — nearly everybody havin'
catarrh in them days from readin' the doc's monthly paper,
The Medical Missionary. If Doc Con couldn't relieve your
catarrh, he could certainly make an awful
nick in your bank roll. Or, you could take
a chance with Doc McAffee or Mrs. Doc
Keck, and get a tumble for your catarrh
and your coin, gettin' action two ways
from the ace. All them catarrh flimmers
wore bushy whiskers, exceptin' the Mrs.
Doc, but her hubby sprouted a wilder
bunch of wind whistlers than either Trade
Smith or his brother Mark. Doc Con kept
the microbes on the jump in his alfalfa by
usin' a comb, even if that was buckin' the rules of the doctor's
union. The only doc guy that had Doc Con on a barrel in
the whiskers line was Doc Spinney, of Spinneyville sulphur
springs, the place that's now called Linwood. Every time
113
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Doc Con got a flash at Doc Spinney's whiskers he turned
green, and then took a jump off the wagon.
Them was the good old days, sport! No
square-heads was tryin' to shoot constructive
criticism, no oilcans sprinklin' sugar on sliced
tomatoes, no dumbells tippin' bellhops to page
'em at banquets, and you could get six beers
for a quarter. But we had Slammy Ottersen
hollerin' "She-car-r-go papers" on the post-
office corner, plenty of plain soldierin' at the
Arsenal, and Bert Brockett introducin' floor-
walkin' and Harry McLaughlin 'tendin' the
silk counter at Petersen's. Of course, the men
folks was wearin' their vests buttoned and stiff
collars and neckties durin' dogdays, just like
they do in these bustlin' times. So was the wimmen folks
against neck ventilation, but since then they inherited a
coupla brains. Business men hang to the old collar and
necktie, though, and no power on this green earth can tear
'em away from the habits of the old paper-collar days. Ast
any guy why he wears that junk around his neck on hot days
and he'll say it's on account of his personal appearance.
That punk alibi oughta get a hee-haw outa anything but a
hard-headed business man.
114
An Album of Quaint Types.
There's a lot of knockin' being done
in this burg about that sheet of yourn
and them pichers you been printin',
sport. Of course, every guy thinks he
kin handle his own work, but when it
comes to stickin' in blinky-eyed Japs
and them ambassadors to Bohunk, it
looks like you newspaper guys needs a
hot hunch.
Why don't you print some pichers of the old timers and
put new life in the old blanket?
Now, s'posin' you'd print Steve Hoover's picher, Steve
was the youngest boghead on the Rock Island road, and
he usta pull the throttle on the old "Cannon Ball" when
she'd roll into the Perry street depot at noons, back in the
old days. Then Steve slipped out of his overalls, combed
his whiskers, and went over to Charlie Haskin's livery barn
for his sorrel pacin' mare, and showed speed for a coupla
hours. Then he'd drop into Os Reynolds poker parlor and
buy a stack of blues.
Or, take Murt Burns, that used to swing the red lantern
and sing the come-al-yez, at the old switch shanty on Fifth
between Brady and Perry. There's as fine an old bird as
ever pulled on a cob-pipe. Murt'd go better than a lot of
the lame ducks that's causin' eye trouble.
Or, how'd old John Shiner do? John was assistant
bookkeeper for Con Mast at Smith's coal yard at Fifth and
Harrison, and every time the lumber yard gang slipped a
dime to Shiner he'd take the growler up to Struve's with-
out a whimper. And he never laid a lip over the goods
on the return trip.
Why, sport, you got lotsa good material to work up.
For instance: Take Dutch Pete, Ugly Perry, or Crum-
my Jim, them old boys that drove sea-goin' hacks in the
115
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
old days, when they wasn't no flivvers. All a guy needed
was to get two-thirds pickled and drop into a bumpy hack
for a ride over the jolty macadam, with Dutch, or Ugly,
or Crummy, at the reins, gettin' a good chumin' all down
the line, and nature would do the rest — just as nature does
funny tricks to apple cider, elderberry wine, and home-
brew now'days for Davenport's leadin' lady distillers. You
kin imagine what them rocky hack rides would do to a
guy now if he'd squirt some white mule into his radiator.
Or, how about little old Hoopde-Doodle Dan Keeler
from County Kilkenny? There was some worker. Started
grindin' at four in the mornin's and was always done at nine
in the evenin's. Laid down the first pavin' in Davenport,
from Perry to Scott on Third street, thirty-five years ago,
and built the Main street sewer in all that quicksand, when
folks said he'd be ruined if it rained. Didn't rain for two
months. After the job was finished it rained cats and dogs
for forty days and forty nights.
Every day after work, Hoopde-Doodle would shoulder
a broom at quittin' time and march his gang in single file
to Frahm's summerhouse and tap a coupla kegs. Got so's
he could say, "Ein beer hobben, lunchman," in his choicest
irish brogue, and he took lessons on Swiss warblin' from
Henry Barmettler^ doin' this kinda work:
Oh, the moon he climb
Up the mountain high —
O, til-le — ay-e-hoo!
O, til-le yi-e-hoo!
Und he climb so high
Till he touch the sky —
O, til-le — ay-e-hoo!
O, ay-e-hoo!
O, til-le ay-e til-le-
Til-le-ay-e hoo !
-o-ee,
O, til-le ay-e-hoo I
O, til-le — ay-e-hoo!
O, til-le ay-e til-le o-ee,
Til-le — ay-e-hoo !
Til-le ay-e til-le — o-ee
Ay-e — o-o-o-o-o!
Folks wanted Hoopde-Doodle brung up before the com-
missioners because he bet everything he had, includin' his
116
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
underpants, at ten-to-one, that Cleveland would nose out
Blaine in the presidential election. Just a plain case of bugs,
they said. Hadn't been a Democrat elected in twenty-four
years. But when little Hoopde-Doodle cashed in for twenty-
five thousand bucks, them wise birds crossed over and says
that's a purty wise little mick.
Or, how about old John Wunderlich, the night school
hookey cop that usta chase the kids evenin's when they had
night school in the old high school buildin' at Sixth and
Main? John could do a hundred yards in ten flat, standin'
start, whenever he chased a kid for playin' hookey, and
he could see things around the corner with them ironbound
specs of his.
You reporter guys keep printin' stories about big men in
this burg these days, but listen — you don't know what a real
big man is.
There's a whole lot of old timers the folks'd rather see in
your paper than them foreign guys, kings, queens, and deuces
that you been runnin'.
Here's a bunch of likely old time lads that hain't never
had their picher in your paper, and even if they didn't never
sock much jack nor cut a fat hog nor nothin', they'd stack up
better than some of them painful maps you been runnin':
Chookie Kuphal, Chooner Burns, Cooktail Paulsen, Slot
Reupke, Leaky Tuohy, Rooster Stapleton, Blinkey Murphy,
Lately Carlin, Louse Mason, Limerick Hopkins, Stiffy
Stewart, Skutch Lyons, Jack Cass, Big Jack and Little Jack,
Dirty French, Joe Neibrisch, Dutch Steemer, Zip Hammerly,
Tobe Gilmartin, Ski Peck, Jim Peters, Billy Hogenkamp, Jim
Drumgoole, Chris Jipp, Cooney Krebs, Simon Koch, Chris
Dittmar, Lew Pickens, Luke O'Melia, Butch Eggers, and
Charlie Cable.
Course, sport, you young folks is got it on the old times
in some ways — mebbe!
Take heatin' street cars, for instance: On cold winter
mornin's in the old days, Henry Schnittger heated his one-hoss
bobtail car by throwin' a coupla armsful of fresh oats straw
on the floor after Dan McGugin drove outa the Brady street
bam at the south corner of Vander Veer park. A guy hadta
117
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
keep trompin' his dogs right smart to keep 'em from freezin',
and a coaloil ghm done the lightin'.
Amachoor cartoonists done funny pichers on the window
frostin' when Henry stopped the bus to wait for some bird that
whistled two blocks away. The boss shook a dinky bell on
his collar, and folks waited to hear the bell, and then hollered
to Henry — it bein' an hour between trips.
But when Doctor Allen strung trolley wires up Brady
street. Captain Gabbert, Job Ross, Phil
Nagel, John Rowe, George Marvin, John
Temple, P. J. Hagerty, Sam Perry, Joshua
Burr, Joe LeClaire, Sam Hurto, Jim
Croak, John Haley, Andy Butler, and
other wise hicks 'lowed they couildn't
see how no hosscar would pull itself up
Brady hill with a gosh-derned fishpole.
Old Mike Wenzel operated the Third street line in the
same efficient manner, includin' the hoof-heatin' system.
Now you young folks is got electric light and heat and
no waitin', and still you're bellyachin'.
In them days wimmen that didn't have children had hired
gals that done the work and washin' for two bucks a week,
and them gals was tickled speechless with one night off,
bein' Monday night — called "Biddy's night." Now the hired
gals is called maids, and maids is lookin'-glass fighters, and
knows more about Douglas and Mary than corned beef and
cabbage. Maids sets a pace in dollin' up that keeps the
missus steppin'. But maids never use punk perfume nor
flash their teeth tryin' to look purty.
Gals usta wear red flannins three sizes too large, fig-
urin' on them shrinkin' when they was washed. Now'days
they wear union suits, but, just to show they aint muley,
they play the game fifty-fifty by wearin' openshop waists
and cloaks. They wore one-buckle overshoes then, with
long woolen dresses to keep their legs warm. Now they
wear golashes, and a whole flock of buckles tinkles jazz
tunes and wigwags nosey parties the stop-look-listen signal.
In them days a guy that took a bath any day except
Saturday got hisself talked about. He took his plunge in a
118
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
tin basin near the kitchen cookstove, with one side of him
freezin' and the other side fryin'. Now he kin slosh around
in the tub and manicure his toenails every evenin', but if
he starts three-sheetin' about his cold bath, like some chronic
headaches does, his friends kin only hope for a hurry call
from the croaker guy.
In them days cigar stores smelled of finecut and figleaf
eatin' tobacco, or Havana smokes and scraps. Now a guy
gets cracked on the beezer with a knockout punch of bean
soup or Spanish stew when he slips in to buy the makin's.
Wonderful was a descent, respectable word in the old
days, and nobody was pickin' on it. Now every pinhead
and his sister abuses poor old wonderful. Soup is wonderful.
So is movies and mush, feet and fudge, gassers and gushers,
bobbed hair and perfumery, and chow dished out at weiney
roasts.
But in slang they's been some improvement. In the
old days when a young smarty began feedin' the old line
to a likely trim, she'd say, "Ah, cheese it, cully — you're givin'
me taffy!" When a bright boy with belted overcoat, tan
shoes, and greased hair aims his best line at a peppy little
flapper now, she hops to it with a cold fishy eye, and tells
him to "Park that bull!"
Yes, indeed, sport — things keep improvin'.
119
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At the Grumbler's Camp.
Don't s'pose you reporters ever heard of the Grumblers
camp down the river on Smith's island, near Linwood, in the
old days. That roundup spot was opened by
Boney Strathman and his brother Lew and
was goin' full blast all the year 'round. They
had a swell big shack, and there was always
plenty of fishin' and shootin'. In them days
a guy could take his shootin'-iron and pot
somethin' besides an english sparrow, and he
could throw a line in the Mississippi and ketch somethin' bet-
ter than german carp or the flu.
Our greatest freshair sportsmen put in their spare time
at the Grumblers camp, playin' stud, rummy, checkers, mum-
bledypeg, and other wild and excitin' games. Frank Brady
was the french chef, and Buck Kniphals the dishwasher, with
Sawdust Billy and Duckfoot Malone doin' chambermaid serv-
ice. Nick Boy and George Halligan, in charge of the com-
missary, kept the old fishbox
loaded with bass, croppies,
and channel cat, and the ice-
box filled with top-sirloin,
yallerlegs, and bacon. Prow-
lin' henroosts and orchards
was the popular moonlight
sport at that camp. Gooshie
Lagie was pilot on the "Po-
tato Bug," the skiff that carried chow and pale export over
from Max Hoffbauer's logcabin at Buffalo.
Henry Jaeger, George Mengel, John Hentzleman, Soapy
Matthes, George Havens, and Pete Otten, the board of direc-
tors, had Jack Smith's steamboat, the "Island Queen," for
pleasure cruisin' up and down the river when entertainin'
their friends and enemies and candidates for election, or
when trimmin' tinhorns that thought they knew how to
play that little game called poker.
121
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
On Saturday cvenin's Ignatz Schmidt would row down
in his skow for the week-end, as that boy loved to soak
the heel of the pumpernickel in beefsteak
gravy for his Sunday dinner. He always
brought his fid, and when Ig and Uncle
Johnny Sauer sawed off their soulful duet,
"Ach, du Lieber Augustin," why even the
birds in the trees were charmed. Ignatz
delivered the greatest political speeches
of his career to his "distinguished fellow-
citizens," and showed up them prohibition
guys to a fareyewell, under the willows
at the Grumblers camp, whenever his
bearin's got properly lubricated. Many a Sunday evenin'
Ignatz rowed back with a twenty-pound rock tied to the
stern of his skow by George Herman, who figured that Ig
needed exercise.
Sunday entertainers included seasoned old troupers that
had done big time on the glucose circuit. P. O. Kelly was
topliner with his monolog, about the airship "Dolly Doten,"
in his trip around the world and across the English channel.
George McClelland warbled his sunshine baritone solo, "The
Heart Bowed Down," and Tommy Atky sang "Stick to Your
Mother." The Sawdust sextet, Herman Blunck, Buck Hoff-
man, Sausage Malone, Pomp Flemming, Eddie Wulf, and
Chris Timm rendered "Yes, We Will Gather at the River."
Other high-class performers that done upstage stuff were
Lew Rouch, Free Foch, Lounce Lerch, Frank Boyle, George
Schmidt, Claus Kuehl, Steve Costello, Simon Yann, Doc
Painter, Henry Proestler, Gus Reimers, Red Ehlers, Jack
Frost, Jud Banker, Lew Meumann, Mick Lee, Dick Iben,
Henry Jaeger, Bert Grosbeck, and Charley Palmer.
But them good old days is gone, sport, and camplife
along the old river aint nothin' but an imitation. Now'days
they got screens on the shacks to keep the flies in in the
daytime and the mosquitoes in in the nighttime, and old
rounders aint got nothin' special to do but gabble hardluck
stories and design phoney alibis for hittin' the mule.
122
Encore Music and Elks,
Say, sport — Been goin' back too fur
with the old-time stuff to suit you? Don't
know nothin' about the old volunteer fire
department, do you? Nor about the old
Turner hall gang? Nor nothin' about the
time the silver engine crossed the old bridge
and came steamin' up to the station in front
of the old Burtis house at Fifth and Iowa?
Well, you missed a heap of big doin's.
But come closer, sport — here's somethin'
mebbe you kin wrap around yourself.
Remember the time the Davenport Elks
run wild and hogged everything at Saint Louis, coppin' all
the big prizes at the Elks convention?
That's when old two-nine-eight was young — when them
antlered guys went down to Saint Louis, shed their togs, and
paraded barefooted as naked Filipinos, dressed up in nothin'
but burnt-cork, straw hats, and hula-hula skirts that reached
half way to the knees.
Never heard of Doctor McClurg, the leader of that perces-
sion, and the world's greatest corn conductor and ingrowin'
toenail trainer? Well, the Doc was a darb — a tall, fine-lookin'
guy, sport, about a hundred and 'leven years ancient, bein'
the oldest two-legged Elk in captivity. Old Doc carried the
purple banner, with plughat, specs, linen duster, three-foot
Santa Claus beard, dignity, and great credit to the lodge
Saint Louis reporters fell hard for Doc, and the papers
was filled with echoes that blowed through his whiskers all
durin' the convention, the Doc bein' some gabber.
Followin' Doc in the parade came Strasser's full band,
thirty pieces, blowin' real encore music — and them birds
could spiel even if the band was only half full. Then came
them Davenport Elks, lookin' like they'd just broke out of a
movie studio, and they burned up Saint Louis when they
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THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
pranced down Washington avenue, givin' their corn rah-rah:
Davenport! Davenport! Tviro-nine-eigKtl
We are from the Haw^keye state.
Corn is King — so they say —
We are Elks from I-o-v^ay!
None of them other visitin' Elks had a
look-in when the judges came to handin' out
prizes, as Davenport copped everything.
In them days Saint Louis dished up
high-grade six per cent brew, and, naturally,
Strasser's full band was doin' the umta-ra-ra
right in the pink, and they swung a knock-
out the first crack out of the box.
Only a few insiders knows how them
tooters put it over, so it won't hurt nobody's
feelin's to spill the beans now.
Understand, sport, they was some high-
class kidders trottin' along with two-ninety-eight then, and,
bein' as they was out to take Saint Louis all the way to
the cleaners, they had to fix things so's their full band would
play only encore music — good easy-listenin' American stuff.
Some job, sport — some big job — considerin'.
Ever notice when topnotchers gets out to do their stuff
how they show off and pull earache numbers? And folks
applaud because they know them squareheads has just so
much late-lamented melody to unlimber before they come
through on second guess with encore music. That's what
gives them artists the idea they're good, and they get tem-
peramental and balky, and they hafta be petted and sugared,
or they'll pout and take their little dolly and go home.
Well, the Davenport Elks didn't want them musician-
ers mussin' up their party by lettin' 'em murder Wagner,
Neierbeer, Tschotahoochski, and other dead birds, so Dolph
Henigbaum, Billy Harrison, Charlie Reed, Charlie Cameron,
George Willis, and Dan Home framed with the two leadin'
band guys, Ole Petersen and Heiney Sonntag, for some real
lowdown dirty work that haint never been equaled in the
movies.
125
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
While the other twenty-eight members of Strasser's
full band was seein' the sights four cellars underground at
Lemp's brewery, singin' "Hilee-Hilo" and sayin' "Prosit,"
and gettin' theirselves keyed away up
in G, tellin' how swell the Davenport
turner society was, them two missin'
links raided the music library of that
full band and went south with all the
classics, etudes, symphonies, and over-
tures. They didn't leave nothin' for the
full band to play but encores.
You kin lay down a fat bet, sport,
that they was helapopin' next mornin'
while them twenty-eight artistic underground explorers was
coolin' their hot coppers, and moanin' and lamentin' the
losin' of their beloved earache classics.
The tubby guy that blowed in the ringtailed tuba put out
a squawk that was heard clear out to Kerry patch, and the
cornist vv^anted to join the Kuklux and drop somebody off
the Eads bridge. All them musicianers did the best they
could to express their feelin's by usin' plain United States,
but it couldn't make the grade. So they hadta switch to that
more fluent heiney lingo that they knew how to handle.
The judges in the band contest that day was all Elks,
understand, and didn't know B flat from straight up, but
they knowed melody from nutnoise. And, bein' as Strasser's
full band could only play encore stuff in the contest, while
other crack bands from all over the United States tooted
earache selections, naturally there wasn't nothin' to it. Dav-
enport cleaned the plate.
That was about the time that Uncle Sam took on the
benevolent assimilation of the Filipinos, sport, and Daven-
port organized Manila lodge, number four-eleven-forty-four,
at Saint Louis, electin' Charlie Hagemann as exhausted roos-
ter, chief of the tribe. Lee Grabbe took the part of Aguin-
aldo, chief of the insurgents, and other Elks takin' part in
that Filipino parade were Charlie Sommers, Doc Robeson,
Lew Eckhardt, Dave Nabstedt, Elmer Smith, Charlie Korn,
126
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Jack McCarthy, Henry Cleve, George Willis, Abe Rothschild,
Charlie Reed, Otto Lahrmann, Ben Blinn, Tony Biehl, Lew
Muhs, Charlie Kindt, Jack Lauer, Dolph Henigbaum, Jake
Nabstedt, Charlie Cooper, Dan Regenitter, Doc McClurg,
and J. F Nabstedt.
When them two-nine-eight boys and Strasser's full band
blowed back to Davenport they knowed the folks was proud
of 'em, and after paradin' the town they went out to Schuet-
zen park, where the city council met 'em and blew the lid
off the park.
Them was the good old days, sport!
The breweries cornered every corner and always helped
the coroner. They wasn't no wild mexs doin' plain and fancy
carvin', no greek early-risin' pottin' contests, and coons was
coons. Wide mollies with fruitjar ankles didn't wear lemon-
colored hoisery and highwater skirts, barberin' was a regu-
lar trade, and a cigarmaker could get a drink at any first-
class joint if he kicked in with the price
127
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The Exile of Johnny Robbins.
ON'T s'pose you newspaper boys ever heard
of Johnny Robbins and how he was ban-
ished to Ireland in the old days, didya?
Well, Johnny was a husky young laddybuck
— "twinty-wan years of old, foive-fut tin,
weighin' wan hunderd and sivinty-siven, and
a roarin' Tip, whin I landed in Ameriky,
beegob!" — and you've Johnny's own words
for it. He was a harum-scarum with the
colleens and the poteen over in County Tipperary, and when
there was any skylarkin' at fairs and dances, Johnny was in the
thick of it. He talked with a rich, melodious brogue, and
believed in ghostS: fairies, banshees, and the likes o' that.
The Robbins family was of the quality, d'ye moind, and,
whin Johnny tuck the staimer to Quanestown, sure they were
that well plaised they tolt him he'd be afther havin' his twinty
pounds in goold sint him aich month whin he settled in
Ameriky.
So Johnny came to the garden-spot of the west, with his
love for fun and his taste for poteen. Light-hearted, the
young gorsoon made friends quickly at Brophy's boardin'
house — after the news of the monthly remittance had been
whispered at the supper table.
Now, in Tipperary, Johnny had never heard of the bird
known as the jack-roller. Neither did he have a suspicion
that Johnny could sing like a thrush. Those things came as
a surprise after the night of his first visit to Russell's scoop-
ery, when he sang "The Boys of Kilkenny" to the boys of
Bucktown in a comealye voice that rippled dolefully through
his adenoids:
O, the boys o' Kilkenny
Were bowld Oirish blades,
Whiniver they'd mate
Anny pritty young maids,
Sure, they'd kiss and cariss thim
And tr'at thim so free
O-ho! of all towns in Oireland
Kilkenny for me.
129
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
After Johnny crooned "Larry O'Gaff" and the "Shan Van
Vocht/' Mel Trotter and the boys told him he was a fine
young bucko and that he could sing like a thrush— Johnny
havin' visited the bank to cash his twenty-pound note that
day. Johnny could sob as easily as he
could sing, and late that night, as his
thoughts wandered to the Old Sod, he
grew melancholy and keened his grief and
lamentation.
"Wurra, wurra, mother dar-rlin'," he
sobbed, as the big tears rolled down his
cheeks, "could ye but see yer poor b'y
Jahnny this avenin', with no wan to care
for him, at all at all, sure it would break
yer heart. Ochone! Ochone! Whin yer
poor b'y came to Ameriky, acushla, sure he thought the goold
growed on bushes. But the divil a bit of goold has he seen
hide or hair of but the twinty-pound note from ould Oireland."
Then his head drooped, and his deep snorin' gave signal
that the roarin' Tip was all set for the jack-roller. Johnny
awoke the next mornin' with nothin' but a bad taste in his
mouth, but he was happy — for he knew he could sing like a
thrush.
Admittin', sport, that Johnny couldn't sing like a real
thrush, he could certainly wail like a real banshee. He liked
the jack-roller, too, for as quickly as he cashed his twenty-
pound note each month he hurried to meet the boys, between
times doin' pick-and-shovel duty to pay boardin' expenses.
And he grew fond of ridin' in the hurry-wagon, takin' a whirl
to the police station every few weeks for thrushin' or ban-
sheein' in the open air.
One day a few friends — Dan McFarland, Joe Hebert,
Pete Jacobsen, Pat McCarthy, Paul Lagomarcino, Brick
Munro, and Jimmie Mackay — held a secret session in the
catacombs to find a way to sand the track for the roarin' Tip.
Johnny had great respect for the power of a "joodge of the
coort," and as he had sobbed so pathetically when he was
pickled, they decided that Ireland was the place for that
homesick boy.
130
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Johnny took his farewell spin in the hurry-wagon a few
days later, and the next mornin' was brought before Judge
Bollinger at a special session of court. Witnesses were
examined, the wild life he had led was reviewed, and the
judge solemnly announced that it was the decision of the
court that Johnny Robbins be banished from America, and
sentenced to spend all the days of his life in the County of
Tipperary, Ireland.
Johnny appeared dazed. Then a happy smile lit up his
features as he ferevently thanked the judge in his choicest
brogue, and everyone knew he was the happiest man in court
that day.
In place of the twenty-pound note, the next month Johnny
received through tickets for his passage to County Tipperary.
Of course all the boys went to the station to wish Johnny
good luck on his journey, and, as the train pulled away, he
was standin' on the coach steps singin' "The Boys of Kil-
kenny."
And that's when Johnny Robbins sang like a thrush.
131
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
132
The Old Turner Hall Crowd.
In the good old days, sport, old timers from over the
Rhine would gather at the old Turner hall in the afternoons
to greet young John Hill with a genial "Goondacht!" — order
a cold stein of brew and a Modoc cigar, and qualify in a
gabfest while waitin' for the four o'clock lunch to be served.
After they got through moppin' up that lunch the tables
looked like they'd been visited by the Kansas grasshoppers,
and there wasn't enough food left to feed a canary.
After supper they'd come droppin' in, one at a time, to
play pinochle, skat, or sancho-pedro, keepin' tab on the game
with a piece of chalk, on a cloth-bound slate that had a
sponge tied to it with a red string, and they talked mighty
loud considerin' the amount of money they was spendin' for
the good time they was havin'.
If them free lunch tables at old Turner hall could talk,
sport, they'd have some awful funny stories to tell. Proba-
bly you've read in story books about big banquets where
"the tables groaned with choice viands," Well, them's the
first tables that ever was known to groan, and they groaned
plenty every day at four o'clock, when the lunch hounds
lined up with their forks and started spearin' dill pickles and
blind robins.
Some fine days, when Traugott Richter and Karl Kuehl
laid a foundation after makin' the lunch stations along the
Second street route, they'd
mosey into old Turner hall,
all smilin' and happy, at
about half-past three. That
pair of chow-killers was as
welcome to the old lunch
gang as them cruel words of Sholly, the barkeep, around
closin' time, "The beer is all!" Their chins would drop, and
they'd look so downcast and gloomy you'd think they lost a
nickle or sumpin.
133
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Old Turner Hall.
134
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Traugott and Karl was awful conceited about their
wonderful food-storage facilities, and the regulars knew that
the liverwurst, pig's knuckles, schmierkase, and kieler-sprot-
ten was just shakin in their boots
whenever them star lunchers hit
the trail.
Some folks, sport, likes a cav-
iar sandwich or lobster cocktail for
an appetizer, but nothin' like that
for Traugott and Karl. The fav-
orite appetizer for them birds was
a fat roast goose with all the trim-
min's, and plenty of brew. Then ""^^^^
they'd be all set and smilin', ready -^>^rg^^^-^
for the big eats, cleanin' the table
d'hote from soup to nuts. They was awful sensitive about
hurtin' the feelin's of any kinda food, and they wouldn't even
offend a little turnip.
Karl was Traugott's ambitious understudy, and an all-
'round smilin', good natured sort of a guy. And, while he
couldn't poke out four-base wallops in the food game like
the old master, he batted over three hundred, and was the
handiest clean-up hitter in the old freelunch league. Karl
had more dignity than a crown prince in throwin' out his
chest and twirlin' his fierce mustash, and when he put the
bur-r-rs on that name of his'n — Kar-r-rl Kue-e ehl ! — say,
boy! you'd think he was crankin' a ford.
Henry Struck and Waldo Becker were great admirers
of that pair of bitnbos, the old gang sayin' that Henry and
Waldo sported considerable tapeworms theirselfs.
Now'days you hear some roundheads braggin' about
how a coupla polandchina propositions around Eagles hall
kin knock off a dozen hardboiled eggs, a loafa pumpernickel,
and a coupla quarts of homebrew for afternoon lunch, on the
way home to supper.
Huh! That'd only make an old Turner hall rounder
laugh, and he'd start right in to tellya about the good old
days when Traugott and Karl usta drop a dozen hardboiled
135
THEM WAS THE G(^OD OLD DAYS
Dutch Treat Days at Old Turner Hall.
Ordering a "Dick Smith."
136
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
plymouthrock eggs in their silos before breakfast, when they
was feelin' kinda dumpy, instead of usin' Doctor P. Walter
Connaughton's little pink liver pills — one dollar a box, or
six boxes for five.
On warm summer evenin's the old Turner hall gang
would move chairs out on the sidewalk, light their long-
stemmed meerschaums, and park their carpet slippers on
the iron rail that the farmers usta tie their bosses to. Then
they'd brag about the good old times they had over in the
Fatherland, and they'd order their evenin' stein while they
listened to the work of the maennerchor, liederkranz, and
gesangverein rehearsin' upstairs in the dinin'-room for the
big doin's of the Sylvester, harmonic, and turner maskenball
that was to be pulled off the next winter.
It was dutchtreat for all hands and the cook, sport. No
callin' Sholly to set 'em up to the house and see what the
boys in the backroom would have, nor no puttin' on parties.
Each old stager dug up his leather sack, untied the shoe-
string, and carefully and solemnly handed over his nickel.
Nobody hurried. No chance for katzenjammer. They would
just shake the stein around occasionally to freshen it up,
and then sip slowly to make it last all evenin'. When ailin'
or feelin' "not so goot," they ordered "a leedle schnaaps"
from Sholly, and then hurried home to mamma, and hit
the hay early. In the mornin' they crawled out feelin' fit
as a fiddle. Some control, sport, but not much speed.
The second generation put the Indian sign on the dutch-
treat, labeled the dicksmither a tightwad, and hot-coppers
came into fashion. When young fellers got feelin' "not so
goot," they ordered "a leedle schnaaps" from Sholly. They
liked the kick that the schnaaps carried, and they took a few
more jolts right in the same old spot, and then the singin'
bug got busy. As old Turner hall doused the glims at ten
o'clock, they then crossed the street to Fritz Quickenstedt's
"Unter den Linden," or moseyed up to Herr Priester's "Die
Kapelle" to show a little class with Swiss warblin'. That's
how the mornin' after the night before was introduced west
of Harrison street, over the Great Divide. Some speed, sport,
but not much control.
137
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
"Old Pete."
Peter N. Jacobsen.
"Young Pete."
138
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
John Hill managed old Turner hall, and Charley Kindt
operated the theatre where German shows played on Sunday
evenin's. The seats were carried out after the performance
by George Matern, head usher, assisted by Pete Roddewig,
Frank Maehr, Harry Steffen, Billy and Charley Korn, Frank
and Ed Mueller, Reinhard Wagner, and Billy Schwentzer.
The floor was sprinkled with sawdust, swept off clean, and
the dancers stuck around 'til mornin', hittin' up the polka,
schottische, waltz, rheinlander, galop, and redowa.
Herman Warnken sold hotdogs in the hallway, and
when he called "Heiss sind sie nouch!" Ossie Becker, Ed
Kauffman, or some of the young kidders would say, "Gefres-
sen werden sie doch!" Visitors from the left hand side of
Harrison street thought ."Heiss sind sie nouch" meant "five
cents enough,"
Them was the good old days, sport ! That's when Otto
Klug, Bleik Peters, Nic Incze, Willum O. Schmidt, John Ber-
wald. Otto Albrecht, Dick Heeschen, Billy Siemson, Ed
Lischer, Theodor Hartz, Dick Schricker, Otto Riecke, Chink
Pohlmann, Doctor Matthey, Theodore Kraebenhoeft, John
Brockmann, Adolph Petersen, Henry Kuhrmeier, Pete Koch,
Theodore Blunck, Henry Koehler, and other famous rounders
camped in old Turner hall, and life was worth livin'.
That's when Thiess Rawey, the mustardman, got control
of the mustard industry, and he made the circuit with his
leather apron and mustard bucket, dealin' out real mustard.
Fritz Lieball, the scissors-grinder, usta make the rounds
with his grindstone machine strapped to his back. He kept
ringin' his bell along the streets, and when he got a job he
worked the machine by footpower, the little boys and gals
standin' around to watch the sparks fly. Fritz was so reg-
ular in his habits that wimmen folks set their clocks by his
visits, when the wind blowed so's they couldn't hear the
waterworks whistle.
In them times, sport, bockbeer day was a sorta national
holiday around old Turner hall. All the leadin' breweries
posted flashy colored posters showin' a ^milin' billy-goat
standin' on his hind legs, holdin' a foamy glass of brew in
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his front paws. Folks that celebrated bockbeer day didn't
have any doubt about alcoholic content in that beverage on
the mornin' after. Bockbeer looked just like
molasses, tasted like brew, but had lotsa TNT
and white mule concealed about its person.
When you came to, and opened your peepers
the next mornin', that smilin' billy-goat was"
right there, and he cracked you between the
eyes with a mallet that weighed a coupla tons,
and said, "Now willya be good!"
Terrence O'Brien, the flagman on west
Fifth street, was short and squatty, and had
a habit of talkin' to hisself, and the heiney
kids from Warren street school usta holler and tell him to
shut up. "Indade an' I'll nat shut up," Ter-
rence would reply, "an' divil the dootchman
of me inches kin make me shut up!"
George Ott was kingpin noisemeister
of the old Turner hall crowd, and he presided yN.
at the "honorary card table," with the old '*^'-
Schmidt trio — E. Hugo Schmidt, Professor
Niederschmidt, and Editor Dreckschmidt of
the Staatz-Zeitung as his helpers. When that quartet got
warmed up right, in a pinochle game, old George would get
excited and whack the table an awful wallop, hollerin'
"Schoeppe wie haus!" — meanin' "Spade high, as big as a
house." One time when little red-headed Professor de Poli-
tur, from Saint Louis, was polishin' the backbar, the old lion
roared so loud, that the professor dropped off the ladder,
spillin' a quart of his high-priced polish. It required the
help of Emil Geisler, Henry Kohrs, Lipman Ochs, Rudolph
Lange, and a coupla jolts of kuemmel to iron out the pro-
fessor's trouble. The only time that George Ott failed to
show up at the Turner hall was when he put in a week at
the hospital havin' his knuckles repaired, aften an excitin'
game of pinochle.
Tailor Krambeck, besides bein' alderman of the First
ward and an all-'round comical guy, walked with a limp, his
right wheel sorta gooseteppin'. He was called "Ruthen Bur"
141
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Traugott Richter.
Nicholas Fejervary,
142
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
by the old Turner hall gang, meanin' "the jack of diamonds."
In them days the volunteer fire companies usta line up for
the annual inspection down on the levee, dolled to a frazzle,
before marchin' along in the big parade. After Ruthen Bur
landed in the council he was made marshal of the day, to
lead the band and city council down to the reviewin' stand,
and that little heiney acespot felt mighty proud and started
balloonin' right off the reel.
On the mornin' of the parade Ruthen Bur visited Turner
hall to take on a little courage for the big march, and he
lingered longer with the old gang than was good for him.
Them old rounders called Charlie Lippy to one side and
done some whisperin'- When Ruthen Bur marched past old
Turner hall that mornin', swingin' a baton and gooseteppin'
like a major-general, Lippy's band was puttin' in its best
licks playin' "Du Bist Verrueckt, Mein Kind." Then them
old Turner hall rounders shouted and applauded, and the jack
of diamonds was siu"prised at makin' such a big hit as the
leader of the band, on the first time out.
Away back in the seventies young emi-
grants poured into this burg from the old
country. They wore heavy clothes and
plenty of 'em, even in summer time havin*
their vests buttoned neckhigh, with heavy
knitted scarfs, dutch caps, and wooden shoes.
When they walked down the street carryin'
their big bundles, the kids usta folly 'em and holler "Green-
horn!" The emigrants would look kinda sheepish and
frightened, and wonder what the kids was hollerin' about.
One summer afternoon Hilda Schwartz, a buxom rosy-
cheeked fraulein, from Schleswig-Holstein, stepped off the
Rock Island train at the old Farnam street station, with a
heavy shawl, a big bundle, and wearin' a pair of wooden
shoes. Hilda's cousin, Heiney, a young farmer from Durant,
was waitin' for her on the platform, and he happened to be
chinnin' with Milt Howard, a cuUud lad, who could deutsch
sprechen in either a high-german or low-german key. Hilda
hadn't never seen a real chocolate drop in her whole life, and
when Milt greeted her in low-german, sayin' "Wie geiht di
143
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
dat!" the poor little gal got all flustered, and blushed like a
ripe cherry. Then she turned to her cousin and ast him if
Milt came froim Germany, and when Heiney told her that he
did, she wanted to know what made him so black.
Milt bein' quite a kidder in them days, talked to Hilda
in low-german, sayin', "After you have lived in Davenport
as long as I have you'll be just as black as I am." The
poor little gal got awfully scared, and she wanted her cousin
to send her back to Germany right away.
The next day Hilda and Heiney took a freight train for
Durant, where the little emigrant gal learned howta milk
cows, weed onions, and plow corn. When they visited Dav-
enport a few years later, to attend the bird-shootin' exercises
of the turners on Mayday, they called on Milt, and Hilda had
a good laugh when the cullud boy again greeted her, savin*
"Wie geiht di dat!"
The biggest event in the history of old Turner hall was
the grand masquerade of the Turners, "General Grant's Trip
Around the World." The Turner boys circused that show
to the limit, and lotsa people thought that old "U. S." his-
self was really comin' to town. Gustav Donald, havin' the
build of the general, made up for the part, with the big black
cigar in the corner of his mouth, and he was a knockout.
The committees marched to the Rock Island station at eight
o'clock to meet the "General Grant Special," to tender that
old war-hoss the freedom of the city. The general was
accompanied by Herr Foolscap, special reporter of the New
York Times, personated by Heinrich Schober, an actor of
the theatre stock company. They had all kindsa fireworks
and redfire while paradin' the streets, and both halls were
packed that night, the costumes bein' the finest ever seen in
the burg.
Among the popular pastimes of that period, sport, was
beatin' the gate at old Turner hall. Young fellers worked
at counterfeitin' ribbons and tickets for dances and masquer-
ades. They would try to crowd the door between dances
when the rush to the bar was on, crawl through upstairs
windows, sneak through the theatre, or climb the highboard
fence in the rear. Some workers, havin' a stock of colored
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THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
cardboard and ribbons, would buy a ticket to get a return
check, then cross the street to the wineroom at Otto Volk-
land's, make up phoney tickets, and sell 'em for a quarter or
half dollar.
One cold winter night, when the Thalia society gave a
big masquerade, a dozen ticket workers climbed the high-
board fence in the rear, and were just about to pry open a
window in the little hall when Charlie Kindt turned the fire-
hose on 'em, givin' 'em an awful soakin'. They showed speed
gettin' back over the fence, and they hadta linger a coupla
hours around the big cannon heatin' stove in the Farmer's
hotel 'til their clothes dried so's they could go home.
Mebbe you young fellers think you got some big men
steppin' around in the old town now'days, sport, but the
old Turner hall gang had a man that
was bigger than Fatty Raible, Carl
Thode, and George Schick all rolled
together.
Never heard of Sholly Schwert-
feger, didya? Well, Sholly gave the
hayscales a wallop they haint forgot
to this day. He was six-feet-four, up
and down, across, around, and be-
tween. When Sholly stepped out for
a walk folks usta ast what was all the
excitement and where was all the big
crowd goin'. When he'd get measured for a suit it meant
overtime at the woolen mills. Sholly was the slickest pen
artist that ever lived in Davenport, and he could draw birds,
lions, and fancy letters that looked like steel engravin's. He
had a smile that reached from Renwick's pier to Cook's
point, and when he moseyed around on cloudy days folks
thought the sun had come out.
There wasn't no wireless then, sport, but them Turner
hall boys had a system all worked out that beat wireless
forty ways when the Rogertown and Goosetown roughnecks
tried to break in on their dancin' parties. When visitin'
stews started rough stuff, some member of the committee
would holler "Raus mit ihm!" and that message circulated
145
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
quicker than wireless. There was a close-in football rush,
and when the roughhouser pulled himself together in the
middle of the street there
wasn't nobody in sight,
but after the birdies quit
singin' and he dusted off
his clothes, he could hear
the orchestra playin' the
strains of the good old
Tyrolean waltz.
If a guy hailed you in
them days and slapped you
on the back and called you
"brother," you'd think he
he was cuckoo or sumpin,
and you'd hike up to the
police station and report
to Frank Kessler, or Henry
Hass, or Charlie Faulkner,
that there was a loose nut
down the line that needed
tightenin'. But when one
nails you in these times
you give the combination on your pants pocket a quick turn,
and you wonder if you're up against a panhandler or only a
lodge member with the grip and password that's pickin' off
easy ones for practice.
Times is surely changin', sport, and unless a guy drives
slow and watches his step, he's liable to get bumped into.
146
Old Time Cullud Folks.
We had some quaint cullud gents in the old
days, sport — happy-go-lucky boys, who didn't
worry so long as they got a chance occasionally
to iron out the wrinkles with pohkchops and
gravy, or yallerlegs and crushed spuds.
General Houston set the pace as a flashy
dresser, wearin' a prince-albert coat, plughat,
jazbo vest, cane, and a forty-volt rock on his ingagement
finger. By perfesh a corn-doctor, the general stopped all
hoof trouble for the white folks, and had all the chocolate
sweeties makin' goo-goos when he sailed down the line on
a bunion expedition, with his instrument case under his arm.
The Reverend Emanuel Franklin was tall, stately, and
dignified. He preached salvation and sang in the choir on
Sundays in the Afro-American Methodist church at Fourth
and Gaines, slippin' the brethren the correct dope for trav-
elin' the straight and narrow path. Reverend Emanuel never
passed the collection plate, as he did chambermaid service
on week-days in a Commercial alley livery stable, curryin'
bosses, washin' buggies, oilin' harness, and other chores.
Albert Nuckolls, with his quaint southern dialect and
ready wit, was a popular favorite. The
town bill-poster, he was known as "Prince
Albert," because he always sported a gray
p. a., trimmed with black braid, even when
on duty with his brush and paste bucket.
When the cullud boys leaned too heavy
on old tom gin along Five-row, and mixed
with the coppers. Prince Albert was the
square-off guy and fixer with Chief Kess-
ler. One day Adam Degraf got tangled
in a stutterin' argument with a Pullman
porter at Linsey Pitts's, and, in the excitement, showed the
other cullud boys how to do flash carvin' with his favorite
147
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
instrument. A wagonload of harness bulls backed up fifteen
minutes later to ast Adam how come, but the Degraf boy
had done gone and fiew the coop. Chief Kessler met Prince
Albert the next day and told him he wanted Adam, and
ast when he would return. "Ah dunno jus' exactly how soon,
Mistah Kessleh," Albert replied, "but it 'pears to me that if
Adam shows as much speed comin' as he did goin', that boy's
a long time ovehdue now." That story of Prince Albert's
has made the rounds in the papers regularly since then, and
is used by vaudeville hams now when the hoochy-kocchy
gag fails to get over.
John Hanover Warwick and his four sons — Locke,
Gawge, Beb, and Idell — operated a barber shop on Third
street near Perry, where business men dropped in to enjoy
the quaint philosophy of the former slave. John Hanover's
oldest boy, Locke, was not keen for the razor, bein' handier
with the banjo, and one day he hopped an east-bound freight
for Chicago. Locke returned a few years later, billed on
the posters as star end-man of the famous Georgia minstrels.
When he stepped along in the street parade all the cullud
gals and boys lined the streets to greet Locke, and Pap War-
wick was the proudest man in town. When Locke sang
"These Bones Shall Rise Again," at the Burtis, the cullud
folks nearly raised the roof. There wasn't a coon in nigger-
heaven that evenin', sport — they were holdin' down reserved
seats to show Locke they were strong for him.
We had our George Washington in them times, too.
George done whitewashin' and calciminin', and was the first
cullud brother to marry a white gal. George lived out near
Ninth and Harrison, and hung out his sign readin':
George Washington, General
Whitewashing.
On Sunday afternoons he dolled up with plughat and
linen duster, Mrs. George wearin' her big flowered hat, and
when they paraded the streets they set a hot pace for cullud
society.
Charlie Gifford, with his big white hat and happy smile,
was a familiar figure. Although Charlie never heard anything
about "mammy" songs, he spilled a nasty tenor, could roll
148
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
the bones, and call for little Jo, with Alonzo Twiggs, Mose
Patton, Billy Messenger, or any of the young sports that
inhaled bean soup at Mistah Hill's quick lunch counter.
When Charlie Buck came to town with a minstrel show,
he made a hit in the street parade jugglin' the drumsticks
in the air while he played the snare drum. Charlie was so
well pleased with his cullud admirers that he counted the
ties back to this burg as soon as the show went broke.
A splendid old landmark of the cullud fraternity was
Milton Howard, who worked many years for Uncle Sam at
the Arsenal and later retired on a pension. Uncle Milt was
a gifted linguist, havin' mastered several languages, and with
his stories from slavery days to the present time he could
always interest a crowd.
Henry McGaw lived on Fifth street, where the Rock
Island station now stands. Henry introduced night janitor
service for leadin' doctors and lawyers, and his two boys,
Scott and Ed, were well known around town.
Aleck Roberts was one of the best known boys in cullud
circles, and in the old days when the Kimball house was the
big spot around here, Aleck done the train ballyhoo act at
the Rock Island station, and later at the big hotels. His
foghorn voice was familiar to all commiercial travelers.
Then there was that happy trio — Jake Busey and his
brothers, Tom and Jerry. Jake was educated by J. W. Stew-
art, the attorney, bein' the first cullud boy to graduate in
the public schools, and Jake was showered with flowers by
his white admirers. Jake had a style of his own in jugglin'
hard words that made the cullud folks
gasp. Jake loved Tom and Jerry, both
brotherly and liquid, and when the three
boys met it was one grand reunion, and
they felt so happy that they laughed all
the time. The Busey boys were in great
demand because of their pleasin' manners,
and at every encampment of Company B,
Jake was chief cook, with Tom and Jerry
for assistants. Them boys had splendid
voices, and although they had never heard
149
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
"Memphis Blues," Doc Worley taught 'em to sing the popu-
lar songs of the day. Couldn't make the Busey boys mad
by callin' 'em coons. No, sah! They'd just laugh at you.
They made a great hit singin' "Coon! Coon! Coon!" when
out with the serenaders, the chorus runnin' like this :
Coon! Coon! Coon!
Ah wish ma coloh would fade.
Coon! Coon! Coon!
It's sich a dusky shade.
Coon! Coon! Coon!
Mohnin*, night and noon —
Ah wish Ah was a white chile 'stid of a
Coon! Coon! Coon I
At the finish Tom would roll the whites of his eyes at
Jake, and rumble the low bass notes, Jerry would look solemn
while carryin' the air, and Jake would soar up on a high
falsetto note to the quivery finale.
Squire Burns, of East Davenport, was another celebrated
character. The squire spent forty years in slavery, and he
could entertain with stories of plantation days and the cotton
fields. With his gray boss and rickety wagon, the squire
did the light haulin' in the east end of town, and he was a
great favorite with the youngsters and old timers whenever
he drove down Mound street.
Silas Hopkins, natural mimic and imitator, lived on
Christy street in East Davenport. Silas was a gifted ventril-
oquist, and with his bird and animal imitations could enter-
tain folks by the hour. His sketch about the cullud parson
visitin' a hen-roost, and his conversation with the feathered
brothers, invitin' them to travel the true road to salvation,
has never been equaled by a professional.
Lotsa home folks has got the idea, sport, that hen-roost
prowlin' is a specialized trade for cullud artists only. Not
knockin' nobody's meal ticket, understand, but in the old
days we had a white poultry frisker named Charlie Forrest
who could vamp more broilers with his gunnysack, with less
cacklin' and fussin', than any of his cullud rivals. His skill
earned for him the title of "Chicken Charlie," and the right to
have his name emblazoned in the temple of fame of our Scott
county heroes.
150
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Whenever a roost was prowled clean, not even a tail-
feather bein' left, the fly-bobs knew that the grand old master
was on the job, and after the bertillion expert examined
Charlie's teeth the chicken charmer was rewarded with thirty
days' board at Harvey Leonard's hotel.
It was a gift with Charlie, comin' as natural to him as
rasslin' to Farmer Burns, kidnappin' to Pat Crowe, scoutin'
to Buffalo Bill, or as special talent comes to any of the grand
old heroes of Scott county.
Us old stagers may not stick around long enough to see
it, sport, but in years to come Chicken Charlie will roll into
his own, when some public-spirited guy will backfire his
bundle and erect a monument in LeClaire park to commem-
orate the wonderful achievements of our chiamp chicken
charmer.
151
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
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After a game of poker dice.
152
In Dampest Davenport.
ELL, BOB — I don't s'pose you remember
when the Davenport brewers went on strike
because the bosses wanted to limit 'em to
forty glasses of beer a day — during workin'
hours? Crool — wasn't it? Ach! Gott in
himmel !
Nor you don't remember the time of
the funeral of President Garfield, when the
saloonkeepers scouted all over this City
Beautiful for keys to lock their doors for
two hours durin' the services? Them
joints hadn't never had a key turned in 'em
after the day they were first opened.
Course you don't remember — you was too young.
Don't s'pose you ever even heard about Looie Schauder's
goulash, either — on the mornin' after — nor of his hungarian
noodle soup?
Say — you missed considerable.
More darn fun!
Why, in them days, every soak and down-and-outer was
good for an eyeopener on Christmas and New Year's mornin',
regardless of creed, color, or nationality.
"Say when!" was some slogan.
But, listen. Bob — let's just think about the good old
days of the frahmsize and the scoop, the tom-and-jerry and
the free lunch. On Christmas and New Year's any gink
could get a snootful and a big feed for two bits — easy.
Charlie Gallagher always served tom-and-jerry to his
friends on them good old holidays. So did Sam Stuckey,
John Hill, Gus Becker, Martin Greeley, Henry Schroeder,
and Bismarck Haase.
You could get free lunch — turkey, goose, roast pig,
oysters, and the swellest kind of eats — from Fred Roesch-
mann, Ted Oelkers, Al Hartung, Bill Gray, Smokey Reese,
Leo Schumacker, Lew Martens, Red Ehlers, Jack Frost,
153
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"Happy Days," and a lot of other heavy hitters in the old
booze league. It was good home-cooked chow, too.
Drinkin' was more or less a fine art
in them days. Nov/ it's a wildman's
game with the wild wimmen — puttin' on
a party with the fliv and the jazz. And a
lota guys is hittin' up hooch now that
never thought of guzzlin' before, because
they think the stuff's hard to get — and
they want to show up this Volstead guy.
Why, away back in the real old days,
of Johnny McGuinness, Doc Mitchell, Joe
Parrish, Sam Tanner, Philip Schlaap,
Billy May, Johnny Smith, Pat Tuohy, Joe
Cope, Fritz Quickenstedt, Honts Moore, and Ed Hood, any
lame bird was treated like a human, and he could toast his
shins up agin the old stove, and keep stickin' around 'til
some lonesome party, lookin' for somebody to listen to his
troubles, would blow in and ast him would he have somethin*
to take.
Talk about bein' sociable! It was always fair weather
at the "Bucket of Blood," the "Double Elbow," "Zum Eck-
stein," and the "Blue Goose."
There wasn't none of them sneaky
stickup guys moochin' around in the dark
lookin' to sap a live one for the price of
a hooch. None of this miserable gizzard-
grindin' moonshine was bein' dished out
in the homes neither. The wimmen folks
was playin' the washboards and tendin' to
their knittin', and not learnin' to be dis-
tillers.
Say — if every dame in this burg
that's operatin' a home-hooch factory was
sent up, they'd have to put sideboards on the big house out
at Anamosa. That prattle about humans gettin' good with
the blowoff of old John Barleycorn, was hoke for the marines.
Folks didn't seem to get it, nohow.
155
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Andy Glenn.
"Happy Days."
Jimmy Dooley.
156
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
In the old days you could get a quart of real likker or
a bottle of wine for one berry over at Roddewig's, Thode's,
Haase's, or any of them wholesale joints. They wasn't no
hipoil in them times, nor no doctor's short-pint perscriptions
at six bucks a throw.
Then, they had the family places, with grocery store in
front and bar in the rear, so's the wimmen folks and farmers
could come in and get their needin's. There was Pat Mc-
Bride's, Fred Aschermann's, Bobby Garvey's, Bartemeier's,
Shaughnessy's, Balluff' s, Pillion's, Naven's, and Dooley's, and
when a guy would settle his grocery bill he always had a
sniffler comin', with a bag of stick candy for the young ones.
Now it's cash and carry.
Then there was McElroy's "Keystone," over on Twenty-
seventh street in Rock Island, where the hard-boiled turks
from Corkhill, Goosetown, Rogertown, Flatiron Square, and
the Patch would wander on Sunday afternoons for the "big
ponies" and the "crusaders" — all for five cents a crack.
That was the original cash and carry. Bob. And it ain't
tellin' no lie to say that many a swell package was carried
back over the bridge along about sundown.
Brick Munro, Perl Galvin, Clay Woodward, Nick New-
comb, Jack McPartland, Jocky Manwarning, Heiney Mennen,
William Pamperin, and Lee Beauchaine, assisted by Parson
Ned Lee, looked after feedin' the Bucktown braves on Christ-
mas and New Year's, and they always got the second helpin'
without astin' no questions.
John Russell, Lew Hannemann, Fred Abel, Jack Frost,
John Schnaack, Nick Boy, Cal Witherspoon, Pat Marinan,
Mike Goetsch, Henry Struve, Miles Brubaker, Ernst Wenzel,
Pat Stapleton, Fred Wendt, John Masterson, Fred Billipps,
Sig Goldstein, Fred Ruhl, Al Moetzel, Dinny Dawney, Pete
Jacobsen, Orey Janssen, Joe Traeger, George Rohde, Andy
Glenn, Fred Muttera, Henry Jaeger, Fred Vogt, Din Har-
rigan, Henry Rosencranz, and young Dan Flynn, dished out
the best in the house to all comers on Christmas and New
Year's — and mebbe they'd slip you a pint to take home to the
woman.
157
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Why, when the big brewery guys, Henry Frahm, George
Mengel, Oscar Koehler, CharHe and Ernst Zoller, and Bore
Koester, raade the rounds, they could set 'em up to the
house for a five-case note.
And now what do you get for a five-caser? You meet
some sHmey bootlegger in a dark doorway and slip him a
five-spot for a pint of white mule that would make a rabbit
spit at a lion. Then you take a shot in the arm and get
goggle-eyed and fightin' mad. And then you have the willies
and come near croakin', and while you're moanin' "Never
again!" you're offa prohibition.
Take these hopheads that are up against the snow, for
instance. Why them birds, bein' mostly nuts, is so nervous
they can't read, nor work, nor do nothin' to ease the bugs
that is bitin' inside their noodles. That's where this strong-
arm stuff comes in, and the flydicks knows it. When them
there nobody-home guys gets illuminated
with the snow, and hittin' on all six cyl-
inders, they get feelin' generous and want
to declare in on the other guy's stuff, just
like reg'lar socialists. So they shove a
cannon under the nose of the first poor
blob they meet, or else stick up a one-man
car motorman on some lonesome street.
Whenever you get hep that a doctor's
joint has been prowled for the hop. Bob,
nail down your windows and get ready to
stick up your hands on first call.
Good old brew never acted that way.
Course, it bad some pep and action to it. It would
make a guy feel like singin' "Sweet Rosey O'Grady" and
"She May Have Seen Better Days," and help him to pull
a few of them barbershop chords and do some close-harmony
stuff, with his hoofs restin' on the old brass footrail. But
no guy never wanted to climb a telegraph pole nor murder
his poor old grandmother after takin' on a cargo. No, sir!
After you got through singin' you was all peaceable and
ready to hit the hay.
159
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
And you didn't need no smilin' coacher to clap his hands
and say, "Come on, fellers — get action on 'Smile — Smile —
Smile,' and when you come to them words, 'Smile,' don't
speak 'em, but just smile."
Honest, it's awful to think of what
one of them sissy birds would have comin'
to him with the old gang lined up and
primed.
But you couldn't help singin' when
you had real brew under your belt, and
you imagined you was fine and dandy.
Why, in them days, a guy had to go
to a masquerade or play Second street on
a windy day to get an eyeful. Now look
at 'em! All the novelty has blooied.
In them days, too, when a guy got canned at th Ar-
senal, or had his head chopped off at the City Hall for doin'
too much work, he could open a saloon and invite his friends
and relations to drop in and shake the dice and blow their
jack in his joint, just to help him get rich. He'd say, "Come
on, boys! Take sumpin on the house."
He had a fifty-fifty setup for the big comeback if he'd
lay off the booze.
Now what happens?
Why, when a guy hits the rocks and loses out on his
job, the only stuff he thinks he can pull is
to peddle insurance and real estate, or
work the stock-sellin' graft, and he makes
life miserable for all his friends and rela-
tions, and his wife's friends and relations,
in tryin' to blackjack 'em into fallin' for
the bunk he is tryin' to put ovef.
There's two old-time days in the year
that everybody would like to see come
back just once — them's Christmas and
New Year's — with the good old tom-and-jerry, the eggnogg,
the hotscotch, the rum punch, the bubbles, and all of them
other swell drinks, and the big free lunch.
160
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
But it ain't agoin' to happen, sport, because them good
guys that don't hit the dipper nohow don't want to let any-
body else take a crack at it.
Looks like we'd been gyp'd. They took our little red
wagon away from us, and they didn't even say "gimme."
Just grabbed it, and then told us to be good. Some fine old
army workers done a purty bit of highjackin' and flimmed
us when we was snoozin' in the hammick.
And see what they slipped us in exchange — jazz and
hooch! Some trade, sport — some bunk trade. The hooch
hound and the jazz jane! No more wimmen and wine!
But they ain't no use puttin' up a squawk at this stage
of the game. Them other guys was there with a cold deck,
and they crossed us by dealin' from the bottom.
Well, anyhow — nothin' like havin' a little plant of Old
Crow on your hip for New Year's, bein' as they ain't no chance
to unload one of them good old scoops.
So — here's how!
161
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Hotel Davenport Pie-Shaped Bar
Cut to legal distance from church property, the city council changing name of
Pretzel alley to Library street to provide street entrance.
162
Bobbing the Tail of Demon Rum.
When the joy-killer whetted
his skiv and hit the trail of Demon
Rum in the old days, sport, he took
him on the installment plan, lop-
pin' off his tail by inches, to make
the operation less painful. The
old monster would be called on the
carpet every so often, to stand for
the goat degree, and ast to spot
his tail on the choppin' block, to
give the Neals, the Lungers, and
other money-haters a whack at it,
on a percentage basis.
Of course, nobody ever heard
an old rounder call for a slug of rum to wet his whistle,
but the guys that's tryin' to popularize the stuff that flows
under the bridge always speak about Demon Rum.
When told to cut the wineroom and douse the glim at
one o'clock in the momin'. Demon Rum threw an awful roar.
He lost the tip of his tail. He bellered on twelve o'clock
closin', too. Another link was whacked off. The order
came to pull down the blinds at eleven o'clock. Demon Rum
was gettin' desperate, and declared nothin' doin'. He tried
to kid hisself by hirin' a flocka lawyers to back him up.
He lost another rattler. Every time that tail showed signs
of healin', the joy-killer swished the skiv, and Demon Rum
hollered "Ouch!"
One cold-blooded dry proposition, seein' that old Demon
Rum was on the run, won out with an argument that two
hundred life-savin' stations was too many for this burg. The
cards was shuffled again, and fifty was invited to walk the
plank every six months. That deal put the old monster on
his good behavior. Good saloon guys began tippin' off
other saloon guys not so good.
163
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
The tail of Demon Rum was wigglin' kinda weak when
the order was posted to blow the whistle at ten. The skiv
dropped, and another button clicked off'n the choppin' block.
Fifty good guys and true, with clerks and helpers, was
dumped on the market for picket duty, coroner-jury serv-
ice, or other light occupations.
When nine o'clock closin' was posted, the tail of Demon
Rum was bobbed clean as a pet bull purp's, and it had as
much wiggle as the steerin'-gear of a salt mackerel.
When the law barrin' saloons within a hundred yards of
schools, churches, and public institutions was put over, it
looked like curtains for three popular moisture resorts within
the limit of the cullud church near Fourth and Gaines. But
some wise-cracker showed the light to the intelligent board of
deacons of the church. In order not to buck personal liberty,
the cullud brethren gave the three popular moisture resorts a
short lease on life by movin' the church up on the hill.
Parson Ned Lee's mission, in the heart of Bucktown,
dangled the skiv over a dozen booze-havens decoratin' that
sporty section. The parson allowed he wasn't runnin' a
church nohow, none of his clients bein' hooked up with that
line of endeavor. But to play safe before knockoff-day came
around, the mission was moved across the Great Divide to
put a school off watch, and planted down near the park where
it couldn't squirt embalmin' fluid into any pleasure palaces
along the Bucktown right-of-way.
The Hotel Davenport bar brought out a peppy argument.
Some guys wanted the distance from the church property
measured on an angle, to save the brass-rail for travelin'
men. Other guys wanted the distance measured "as the
crow flies." The "as-the-crow-flies" guys won. The bar
was moved to the storeroom on the Pretzel alley side of the
hotel, and everything was lovely — until some snooper started
thumbin' the big law book. That great work had it doped
that bars hadta have a street entrance, not spillin' nothin'
about an alley entrance. The city council, pronto, called
a special meetin', and Pretzel alley lost its good name, bein'
changed to Library street, so's a guy could make the bar
without duckin' up an alley. After the joy-killers, crabbers,
164
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
surveyors, and postmortem workers got through with that
barroom — straightenin' it out accordin' to law — it had the
shape of a slice of custard pie. Then it was closed for keeps,
and damp folks hadta squeeze into a green car and ride to
Rock Island when they wanted a jingle.
In the old days, sport, North Harrison street was called
Little Coney Island, there bein' eighteen life-savin' stations
dottin' that bustlin' thoroughfare, beginnin' at Lookout moun-
tain on Sixth and runnin' out to the old Redlight. Henry
Rosencranz was kingpin of that great white way, he bein'
the friend of the hard-worker that sported the mansize thirst,
and his scoops had wonderful drawin' power all over the hill
district.
When Rosey got the idea of developin' Little Coney,
there was lotsa beavers in that territory, all kindsa whiskers
bein' cultivated by his clients.
One day Rosey met a young barber
named Clem Proestler, and he ast
Clem would he like to open a shave-
shop on North Harrison. Rosey
told Clem he had a small store-
room that was just the place for a
barber to absorb freeforall wisdom
from tongue waggers, but Clem
was leery that mebbe he couldn't
knock off enough jack to kick in
on rent-day. Rosey told Clem he
needn't v/orry about that, sayin' :
"You pay me four dollars a month
ven you got it, and noddink ven
you ain't." Right there the first big real estate deal to open
that great white way was closed, and North Harrison sports
started gettin' their chins scraped twice a week instead of
on Saturdays only.
Frank Morgan rolled little brown sugar bowls at the
Harrison street pottery on weekdays, and, havin' a notion
he was some kidder, usta try that weakness out on Rosey,
accusin' the old fox of bein' grouchy, and astin' why he didn't
smile when a customer dropped in.
165
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
"Ven somedime I see you not gome ar-r-roundt yet,"
Rosey replied, "I vill schmile all the time alretty."
Old Tom Smiley thought Rosey's comeback so clever
that he hawhawed and set 'em up to everybody, includin' Tom
Glenn, the porter, and a moochin' smoke from over in Goose
hollow.
Rosey was proud of his summer-garden with its saw-
dust-covered floor, where he served lunch and celebrated
birthdays and holidays out under the colored jap-lanterns.
Crowds gathered at these parties to listen to Rosey's speeches,
they bein' gems of pigeon-english, always sparklin' and
original. Rosey would urge customers with big growlers,
that they wanted filled for a nickel, to visit Si Hall, Ed Jen-
ney, John Conklin, Emil Beyer, Pete Foley, Julius Goetsch,
Mike Heeney, McManus's, Bartemeier's, Aschermann's, Pil-
lion's, Shaughnessy's, or other places that made a specialty of
workin' for the brewery.
_^^X
166
Hooking Suckers in Little Monte Carlo.
NY TIME a guy wanted quick action for his
coin in the old days, sport, he could get it
good and plenty in this burg. There was
a lota live gams roostin' along East Third
street, ready to take suckers with poker, faro,
roulette, craps, open-and-shut, the shells, or
the old army game. The trim-shops played
the game wide open, without curtains, and
old western minin' camps in their palmiest
days didn't have better tools for friskin' the
boob with the roll who tried to outsmart the
slicker at his own game.
Speedy young bloods and foxy old-
timers came from miles around to take a
chance, havin' heard the bunk about Zeke Murdock makin'
a big killin' at Smokey Reese's, or a pipedream about some
pikin' stool-pigeon bustin' the bank at Lew Marten's. But
it was always the old, old story — "the sucker loses and the
gambler wins" — at every turn of the wheel. Clerks, factory
workers, molders, mechanics, business men, travelin' men,
guys with and without brains, would speed to the gam-shops
to make a killin', and many a week's payroll was shot for a
big win that never connected.
Seasoned old racetrack workers, book-
makers, railbirds, and touts flocked to our
little Monte Carlo, to play bank between
hoss-racin' seasons, just to pass the time
away.
The gams operatin' them joints was
as swell a bunch as ever turned a trick —
the easy-come, easy-go boys. They tog-
ged in the latest, sported big sparklers,
and when they couldn't get chicken they "Smokey"
took the feathers, and stood the gaff like dead-game sports.
167
[ THE AC£ LOSES
MM*JT<E^K WINS
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
They admitted they were business men, sport — specu-
lators— and, while they were trimmin' marks and pushovers,
they hadta stand for many a shakedown — froim the regular
rakeoff to the blowback to squealers that shot their coin on
booze and told their wives
they lost it in card-dumps.
It was con for con — take or
get took.
Among the high-flyers
of the old guard were Monte
McCall, Hughie Corrigan,
Kid Warner, Os Reynolds,
Bob Clark, Sam Stuckey,
Ike Gray, Billy Maddox,
Bert Smith, Charlie Gordon,
Mike Gowan, Walter Nolan,
Bill Bryan, Cully Flannigan,
Jack McLarkin, Tom Davis,
Chub Finnegan, Ole Marsh, Frank Becker, Andy Billberg,
Jakie Schaum, Fred Titus, Frank Scott, and other good-
lookin' gents, besides a regiment of tin-horns, comeons,
dealers, stools, steerers, lookouts, pork-and-beaners, and
cheap pikers that did the cappin' to keep the old machine
greased.
The Chappie brothers worked the shells at the country
fairs, and they were so clumsy that any
rube could pick the shell that covered the
little pea, unless he happened to put down
a piece of longgreen on his guess.
It took lotsa good coin to keep them
there gamblin' joints movin', but the sucker
market was choked with talent lookin' for
ten-to-one shots — with the same easy
pickin's it now has for oil-sharks and other |(i|
grifters.
There was all kindsa poker fiends
runnin' loose, too, takin' a chance on blowin' their wages at
the green table with the cute little slothole in the center,
168
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
their hard-earned scads being sHpped in to sweeten the kittie.
The big gams kept close tab on them shoe-stringers, and
when any of that small fry failed to report on payday night
the houseman would hike out to see was they sick, or if they
had a new jane on their staff, or sumpin. But generally they
they could be depended on to come a-runnin'
with the cush burnin' their pants pocket.
Nice, clean work, boy — no shovin', no
strong-armin', no second-story business.
Besides havin' the wide-open gamblin',
sport, this burg had the main store of the
Mabray gang in the old days, and all the
branch stores, from Hot Springs on the south, Denver on
the west, and Saint Paul on the north, took orders from the
big guy that operated from the main store. When a mark
was tipped off for a goldbrick deal, for instance, the job was
framed by the big guy with the brains in the main store, the
workers all bein' hand-picked specialists in their line. Any
kinda work, from the badger game to green-goods, wire-
tappin', foot-racin', hoss-racin', or rasslin', was doped out in
the main store, and an intensive campaign planned, just the
same as big drives is put across now'days.
The tightwad, lookin' for a sure-shot, was the favorite
fruit of the Mabray outfit, and many a close-fisted hick from
the corn-belt was spotted for cappers of the gang by his best
friend in the home town — hunchin' 'em on his weakness and
how to spear him in the vital spot. The workers in the main
store always came clean on cuttin' the coin, though, and the
brother-in-law, banker, clergyman, or the bosom friend that
tipped the deal always got in on an even split with the
trimmers that done the real work. By lettin' a greedy tight
win a coupla hundred smackers the first time out, it was easy
to take him for his big bundle later.
Some fine hoss-racin' and foot-racin' jobs were pulled off
at the old Mile Track, too, demonstratin' to the surethingers
from other parts of the country that the sucker and his coin
are soon separated.
When Jack Cavanaugh saw how simple it was to frame
a surething to win fifty thousand bucks, trimmin' a mike on a
169
IT'6 REAL rtOtlElr '
BOHT BELIEVE IT
JoST FEEL THIS'
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
fake rasslin' job, the workers took Jack down to Missouri or
Arkansas for action. He bein' kinda particular, they let him
have his own way in everything, even to nattiin' the stake-
holder and referee, and to show him that real coin was put
up they let him feel the bundle. That feel made his mouth
water, and he swollyed the bait — hook, line, and sinker.
It took six months of careful work to
frame that case. Then, when the fake
sheriff arrested the gang — after the fake
rassler faked a busted blood-vessel and a
hemorrhage, by bitin' a bladder of red
ink — Jack made his quick getaway with
the other trimmers, so's he wouldn't get
pinched for bein' in on the murder of the
rassler. And when he couldn't find his
own stakeholder, to blow back the big
bundle of coin he had coughed up, Jack
tumbled that he'd been crossed. Then he squawked. It
took lotsa time to round up them grifters, but Jack kept after
'em 'til he broke up the gang.
Birds that get primed for big winnin's take long chances,
and they hate a five-cent piece like Farmer Bums or Tom
Sharkey.
170
Along the Bucktown Rialto.
We had some corkin' variety theatres and
dance halls in Bucktown in the old days,
too— Jack McPartland's "Bijou," Perl Cal-
vin's "Standard," Oscar Raphael's "Or-
pheum," Brick Munro's "PaviHon," and
Jocky Manwarning's "Dance Hall," Them
elnterprisin' amusement places catered
especially to the needs of restless rounders
lookin' for speedy entertainment. They
toplined the cheesy slapstickers and raspy-
voiced crowbaits that could take a rise outa soused rubes.
Operatin' on the all-night schedule and glucose circuit, things
didn't hit the right stride till the clock in the steeple struck
a dozen or so. Brick Munro originated the cabaret at his
"Pavilion," and it spread over the country like wildfire.
Understand, sport, that was back in the time of the
World's Fair at Chicago, when Fatima, Little Egypt, and
other greasy-lookin' egyptian dames on the Midway slipped
into their bead dresses and veils and done the "hoochie-
koochie," a new-style dance that didn't wear out much shoe
leather nor need a waxed floor. Snakey-
eyed arabs with black whiskers and yaller
teeth made squawky music with wheezy
clarinets and honky-tonky tomtoms,
helpin' the dancers with that weird oriental
twitchin'.
A complete change in dancin' styles
was noticed in this country shortly after,
that wiggledy harem movement makin*
quite a hit. Then the good old quadrille,
Virginia reel, twostep, polka, schottische,
and other dances havin' hoof action, seemed too tame, the
young folks sourin' on that stone-age stuff. So the old time
dances got the hook.
171
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
In the old days they used one caller for the square
dances. Now'days they got a lota bawlers, watchin' to see
that pivoters dance the round dance on the square.
Jocky Manwarning bein' a hustlin' young guy in them
times, wanted to operate his dump on uptodate lines, so he
introduced the "cuban grind," a dance imported by sojers
that done service in tenderloin districts down in Porto Rico.
Later Jock put on the "grizzly bear," a dance that made a
big hit with sailors right off the whalers along the Barbary
coast in 'Frisco. People flocked to Jock's place to have a look.
Slummin' parties got fashionable, and they usta visit Jock's
to glom the new dances — sometimes takin' a whirl at 'em,
just for the fun of the thing.
When the orchestra played the "Streets of Cairo," the
popular selection at that time, the dancers would sing :
She never saw the streets of Cairo,
On the Midway she had never strayed,
She never saw the hoochie-koochie,
Poor little country maid.
That was durin' the ragtime musical period, sport, when
coon songs was all the rage, and white boys and gals usta
sing "All Coons Look Alike
to Me," "All I Want is My
Black Baby Back," "I Want
a Real Coon," "Mistah
Johnsing, Turn Me Loose,"
and "My Coal Black Lady."
The "Cakewalk" was at the
height of its glory, "Little
Annie Rooney" was hittin'
the skids, and "Yoo-hoo"
wasn't even dreamed of. Cal-
isthenics and the contortions
kinda got tangled with foot-
work, the tango, bunny-hug,
and foxtrot comin' to the
front later, with the gasbus and moanin' saxophone.
When Jocky Manwarning came to town from his farm
over near Coal Valley last winter, to up-and-down the old
172
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
spots, he dropped into a dance hall to see the slashers and
shimtmy-shakers in action. Jocky rubbed his eyes like Rip
Vanwinkle, took one good look, turned a deep scarlet, and
made a rush for the door. The doorman called to his and ast :
'*Why the speed, Jock? Where to?"
"Back to the farm for me, bo," said Jock, pointin' to a
young couple steppin' the telephone dance. "They're workin'
children on my old stuff — with coon music! I'm done! I'm
t'rough!"
Them was the good old days, sport. No free-lance med-
dlers out picketin' the joy-joints, and you could take the game
as it laid, or leave it alone, and no questions ast.
Dinny Dawny wouldn't allow rag-chewin' in his refresh-
ment parlor. If a coupla windy guys got argufyin' too strong,
Dinny would say, "Hold on there! If you boys wanta fight
join the army or get married. This ain't no prize ring" One
day a fortune-teller wanted to run a tab, and Dinny told him
he was a bum fortune-teller, or he'd know better than to ast
such foolish questions.
173
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Skunk River Amenities.
When Packey McFar-
land and Kid Herman was
matched for the big go at
the old Coliseuim, to decide
who was to take on Battlin'
Nelson for the lightweight
championship, some gum-
shoe snoopers got to the
governor out at Des Moines,
stagin' the big knock, just
when things was all set.
They had the nerve to tell him that our little party was to
be a prize fight instead of a boxin' mjatch! Kinya beat it?
At that time the gov happened to be grandstandin' for
the high-grass vote of the local grangers lodge out in Ap-
panoose county, so he wired the sheriff of good old Scott
county, astin' him to block the big mill. Then, thinkin' the
wires, or sumpin, might get crossed, the gov ordered the
militia company to the ringside, to be sure of makin' a record
for hisself for the comin' election.
It was a grand sight that moonlight evenin', sport, to
see them dashin' young sojer boys of Company B marchin'
four abreast, with loaded rifles, down the street to the Coli-
seum, that old shack bein' packed to the rafters with sports
and fight fans from all over the west.
Nobody ever heard of the folks in the Capital of the
good old State of Scott County interferin' with the folks that
live out where the tall corn grows, or astin' them to pipe
down on their sportin' stuff. Not much! So, after the old
Col was filled, the doors was locked from the inside, so's they
wouldn't be no interruptin' of the services, and then Young
McGovern and Pete Giese opened the show with a prize
waltz of six stanzas, follyed by Biz Mackay and Ad Wolgast
in a ten-round pettin' party. Then Malachy Hogan called
175
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Packey and the Kid to the center of the ring^ and, seein' that
their hands was nicely manicured, he told 'em to be careful
and not slap too hard, and to play for the wrists. Then the
gong sounded, and everything, just like at a regular fight,
and them two blood-thirsty maulers done
their celebrated soft-shoe sketch.
The sojer boys filled all the choice
front-row ringside seats, and they had the
time of their young lives kiddin' the would-
be champeens on their onion stuff.
Captain Oliver W. Kulp was called
out to Des Moines by the gov a few days
later, to slip him the how-come on the
hokum of the night of the big scrap. The
cap told the gov that it was a nice friendly
exercise in wrist-slappin' between friends, to get the money,
and any porkhead that saw anything resemblin' prize fightin'
that evenin' had him cheated for optical range, low visibility,
illusion, and all-'round imagination.
The gallant young cap had his picher printed in all the
leadin' newspapers of the country the next mornin', right
alongside the gov's. Lotsa nosey people thought them two
boys was playin' the spotlight in a beauty contest, and, as
Ollie had it all over the gov when it come right down to
classy mug stuff, he was voted the best-lookin' sojer guy in
the Hawkeye state.
That wasn't the first time, sport, that them there Des
Moinesers got a set-back for buttin' in on our private parties.
Why, away back in the real old days, when Ernst Claussen
was fillin' the mayor's chair to capacity, them pleasure elimi-
nators got worryin' and losin' sleep because we had eight
per cent brew, summer gardens, dances, and everything. So
this governor party takes his pen in hand and tries to give
our mayor a nice friendly jackin'-up, tellin' him to tune
down the sportin' lay in this burg, tell the folks to douse the
candle at nine, take an early hop in the hay, and make a stall
at bein' good, be it ever so painful.
That evenin' there happened to be a meetin' of the city
council at the old city hall buildin', on Brady street, between
176
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Fifth and Sixth, and the mayor swung a haymaker on the
gov, givin' him the jump-off number right there.
You bet! When the mayor got warmed up to his work
that night he whacked the desk with his left mit, and hollered
loud enough to be heard away out to the Skunk river. He
told the gov and all his pals and old cronies about how us
folks had built the church on the hilltop, the little red school-
house in the valley, and the saloon right in between. He
said he wasn't knockin' on them' highbrow guys that had the
goods in their cellars, but he came out strong for the workin'
mean's club-room with its sawdust-covered floor, where a
tired old rounder could lap up a scoopa suds after a hard
day's grind, and forget his troubles the same as the rich guy.
Then the city council came out flat-footed for the Free
and Independent State of Scott county,
and all them foreign governments was
warned to quit snoopin' around and startin'
trouble or they'd get their nose pulled.
Everybody admitted that the gov had
a fine set of works in that noodle of his'n,
never havin' a comeback for the ballin' he
got from Mayor Claussen.
Folks that's fond of riddles has lotsa
fun now'days, wonderin' if them sporty old
times is due for a return engagement. Fig-
ger it out yourself, sport, with your pencil. How long did
it take them never-tirin' dry workers to land the knockout,
playin' a lone hand. Now they got the boot-leggers, high-
jackers, and shake-downers on their staff. That's easy
figgerin' — unless them birds of a feather has a fallin' out, or
their business agents tell 'em to pull a strike. Any dum-
bell kin write that answer.
Moonshinin' makes strange bedfellers, sport.
177
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Davenport's First Human Fly,
Jocko Kane,
And his pals — Tho McNamara and Cal Gillooley.
178
The Human Fly at the Burtis.
VEN if the guy that designed the
Burtis opera house didn't know it,
sport, he made easy pickin's for the
first human fly. On each side of
the entrance, from the ground to
the roof, brickwork columns stood
out, with every seventh brick in-
dented an inch, so's to make them
columns look pretty. Leadin' out
from nigger-heaven, up near the
top, a balcony extended over to
the fancy-step brickwork columns.
Mebbe that balcony wasn't as high
as the Kahl buildin', but it seemed
higher in them times. That step
brickwork made fine toeholt, and,
with the balcony, was ducksoup for
little Jocko Kane, of Corkhill, the
original human fly, and the first kid
to climb the Burtis bricks.
One evenin', when Kate Clax-
ton was playin' "The Double Mar-
riage," little Jocko climbed up the
bricks to the balcony, stepped over
the iron railin', raised the window,
walked in, and took a ringside seat
in nigger heaven.
Say, sport — the kids that watched little Jocko make that
first climb held their breath, thinkin' every minute he'd fall
and be dashed to mincemeat on the sidewalk. Later on
they nerved up to climb the bricks, too, and some nights they
had a regular percession. Got so Charlie Kindt hadta hire Jim
Wafer, Tilebein, or some flydick, to mope around evenin's
to keep thejm boys from makin' the ascension.
179
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
There was other ways of beatin' the gate at the Burtis,
too— like sneakin' in on afternoons, and hidin' under the
gallery benches 'til the show started. Hadta keep darn quiet,
though, 'cause if Matt Lamb or old Joe Brown, the bill-
poster, heard you cough or laugh, they'd hustle you out so
quick it'd make yer head swim.
Usta climb the high gate alongside the Kimball house
sometimes, to slip through the laundry and crawl up under
the stage. Then hadta watch a chance, when nobody was
lookin', sneak up stairs past the actors' dressin' rooms, climb
a ladder up under the roof, crawl along the rafters over the
big dome — all dark as pitch — away out to the front of the
theatre, and slip through a cubby-hole into nigger-heaven.
Say, sport — if a kid ever missed his step or made a slip
on that journey over the big dome, he'd a tumbled down
through the plaster and splattered all over the dress circle.
Then, on cold evenin's when kids was waitin' around
and knockin' their heels together to keep 'em warm, mebbe
Henry Kerker, Oscar Koehler, Ike
Monk, Anthony Schuyler, or Dave
Baker, or some other dandy good-
hearted guy would blow along and
ast Charlie Kindt would he let the
whole mob in for a five-spot. When
Charlie answered, "Slip me the
cush," you'd think them young
savages would tear the steps to
pieces stampedin' for nigger-heaven.
Then they was all set to holler
"Su-up! Su-up!" when any home-
towner helped out the barnstormers
by carryin' a spear or sumpin.
One evenin', when Haverly's minstrels was playin',
Charlie was coachin' old Til in front of the show-shop, on
how to stop the kids from climbin' the bricks, and old Jack
Haverly was standin' there listenin' in on the gab.
"Do you mean to tell me," ast old Jack, kinda aston-
ished like, "that a youngster would risk his life climbin' them
bricks just to see a show?"
180
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Charlie 3aid they was hundreds of 'em that would, and
old Jack said: "Well, I'd just like to see 'em. Any boy
that'll risk his life climbin' them bricks kin see my minstrel
show free."
Charlie Kindt then called little Jocko Kane, and told
him Mister Haverly wanted to know would he climb the
bricks, and little Jocko told Mister Haverly he would, pro-
vided he'd let his gang climb with him. Old Jack Haverly
laughed right out and said: "Sure thing, son — take all your
gang with you."
So one youngster gave little Jocko a h'ist and he started
climbin' up, and all his gang follyed him, until it looked like
a string of flies climbin' up them there brick columns. Jack
Haverly said he'd be dad-jiggered if he ever seen anything
like that in his hull life. But purty soon he noticed little
Jocko startin' to make the second climb, and old Jack ast
Charlie how that happened. Charlie told him little Jocko
was makin' extra trips so's he could get return checks fpr
some boys in his gang that didn't have the nerve to shoot
the bricks.
Then Mister Haverly said that while the offer didn't
go for encores, he was satisfied that life wasn't worth much
to a nervy youngster when there was a good minstrel show
in town.
Lotsa young fellers that hung around the Burtis in the
old days, sport, kept their wits workin', and made good on
big time later^boys like Bee O'Day, Jimmy Doyle, Bob and
Hughie Conwell, Roger Imhoff, Hal Skelly, and others.
But there was one small chap nobody could understand
— little Billy Johnston. When hardly big enough to toddle,
he was hobnobbin' with actors and chummin' with Billy
Messenger, a cullud boy. If a circus came to town, young
Johnston was the first lad on the lot and the last to leave.
He studied every street faker and marched with every band.
Any kinda music sounded good to that youngster.
One evenin', when Murray and Mack played the Burtis,
little Billy said to Charlie Murray, "Some day you'll see my
name on Broadway." Charlie laughed at the kid, and ast
181
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Bert Leslie.
'Steve Hogan."
182
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
him what he could do to make Broadway. So little Billy
did the song-and-dance, "StroUin' Through the Park" — right
back there on the old Burtis stage.
Charlie patted the youngster, to
encourage him, and little Billy told
Murray again, when he was leavin*,
"Some day you'll see my name on
Broadway."
William Albert Johnston got
his start several years later with
the Kickapoo medicine company,
doin' a blackface version of "Stroll-
in' Through the Park," at Tamaroa,
Illinois. He peddled "Sagwa" and
"Rattlesnake Oil" durin' intermis-
sions, but never took any of the
medicine hisself, because, as he said later, every time he
sold a bottle it made him "gag."
In Chicago, Billy worked around theatres, and later came
to the front as a tramp comedian, tourin' the country under
the stage name of Bert Leslie in his own creation of that
celebrated character, "Steve Hogan." He was recognized as
the slickest slangster on the stage.
Later Bert Leslie made good on his boyhood boast —
"Some day you'll see my name on Broadway" — when he
starred with Trixie Friganzi in his own musical extravaganza,
"Town Topics." The big scene of that show represented a
rehearsal back on the old Burtis stage, with the Carbone
Brothers, song-and-dance comedians, in "Strollin' Through
the Park." It was a scream.
In a Broadv/ay cafe, one evenin', Charlie Murray ast
Bert Leslie: "Why do you close your eyes when you drink
whiskey?" And Bert replied, "I'm afraid if my eyes see it
that it will make my mouth water and dilute the likker."
Bert Leslie never had an opportunity to do his stuff
in Davenport, but he never forgot the days when he usta
climb the bricks at the Burtis.
Them was the fine times, sport. Pat Walsh usta whistle
"Garryowen" while hitchin' his bosses to start work at five
183
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
o'clock in the mornin', Billy Petersen was hustlin' fifteen
hours a day peddlin' matches as fast as his brother Henry
could make 'em, J. J. Richardson was tryin' to put all the
ads top-of-column-next-to-readin'-matter in that paper of
his'n, Billy Bettendorf was learnin' printin' by pumpin' a
foottreadle on a job press, and little B. J. Palmer was showin'
speed when the salesladies in Saint Onge's department store
tapped their pencils on the showcases and hollered "Cash!"
We had the spirit of seventy-six in real life in them times,
too, with the finest drum corps that ever stepped down the
line. L. P. Dosh was fifer, Gus Redding done the double-drag
on the snare drum, and little Hank Brown whanged the bass
drum with both hands. Them old boys was hard-boiled civil
war vets, and when they got workin' you could feel electricity
runnin* up and down your spine.
There wasn't no ad clubs in them days, sport, but Bob
Poole showed grocers howta ginger up business at his Brady
street store. Old Bob stood in front of his counter, along-
side a barrel of mixed candy, and handed each customer a
little bag of candy. The wirrimen
flocked in there from Rockingham,
Goosetown, Hamburg, Rogertown,
Corkhill, and all points north,
draggin' their kids, dolled in ging-
ham and coppertoe shoes, to buy
a bar of soap or sumpin, and get a
bag of candy. They'd make halfa
dozen calls, splittin' their orders
so's they'd get a bag of candy each
time. But old Bob only smiled,
and when little tads held wishin'
parties, mashin' their noses on the
windows, he'd bribe 'em to move
by givin' 'eim a bag of candy.
Mounted a platform, over their big factory, on Third,
between Main and Harrison, Woeber Brothers had a big
buggy for an advertisin' sign, that could be seen froin all
parts of town. Sears and Frizzell had a stuffed gray hoss,
all harnessed, to draw trade to their harness-shop. Other
184
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
live merchants used stuffed bears, tigers, eagles, and buffaloes
for come-on signs.
Cigar-stores had cigarmakers workin' at the bench, and
when a guy ast for a smoke the boss would say, "Light or
dark?" — light cigars bein' milder
than dark ones. They had injun-
gal cigar-signs in front of their
stores, too, Herman Jacker, Ernst
Roddewig, Rudolph Priester, Harry
Watt, Henry Ochs, John McSteen,
Otto Albrecht, Charlie Brock-
mann, and the Hermann Brothers
havin' the swellest lookers. They
hadta hide 'em evenin's, though,
'cause lotsa stews would elope
with 'em, carryin' 'em up to the old
high school, or down to the levee.
Bakers had spiral-spring bells
on their doors, as in then times a baker done his own bakin'
and clerkin'. When the bell clattered, he'd quit kneadin'
dough 'cause he needed dough. Mrs. Partner, Robert Fab-
ricius, Emil Pegelow, Bernhard Leemhuis, Caspar Schebler,
Moore's Pioneer bakery, Korn's Pacific bakery, and Ulbricht's
bakery had spiral-spring bells, and at noon and suppertime
they hadta step lively, watchin' the bakin', and sellin' hot
bread, sugar-cookies, frosted-creams, coffee-cake, and jelly-
doughnuts. Usta plug doughnut holes with jelly then. Now
see what they're usin'!
The T. K. quartet set the pace in singin', their voices
blendin' so naturally and easily. Them tomkatters took in
Harry Dower, Art Atkinson, Ed Peck, and Lew Knocke for
harmonizers, and in them freelunch days lotsa folks thought
singin' was on the bill of fare. When there was any enter-
tainin', some guy would call for the T. K.'s, and they always
came to the front. 'When the T. K. combination laid off
on the free list, the Clover quartet grabbed up the burden.
Ed Parmele, Bob Osborn, Billy Christy, and Lew Susemiehl
pooled their lung-power and entertained the natives for nine
years before givin' up the ghost.
185
Old Jazzdad's Birthplace.
AY, BOB — If any of you young fellers has
got the idea that jazz music is new stuff,
you kin take another guess for yourself.
Us old timers knew the jazz daddy — the
old bird that discovered this syncopatin'
movement that starts all the shoulder-
shakin' now'days.
Old John Biehl, of Rock Island, was
the first jazzbo — with his little b flat clari-
net, and Charlie Bleuer helped that old
trouper along with that work by pushin'
groans, moans, and sobs through his slide
trombone. Them two babies was the
original jazzhounds, and they didn't need cowbells, banjoes,
cuckoo clocks, nor boiler factories to cover up punk fakin' like
these saint-vitus artists that mutilates melody in these times.
Old John could make his squawstick cackle like a plymouth-
rock rooster, squeal like a razorback porker, or whinney like
a missouri mule.
Old John had lotsa class as an imitator.
In these speedy times, when a jazz professor organizes
his herd, he draws on Watertown for a tromboner, on Mount
Pleasant for a saxophoner, locoes a fordfixer for fid rasper,
and ropes a clamdigger to wallop the planner. Then, bein'
all set, a blinkey snowbird turns the music upside down,
gives the high sign with the baton, and says, "C'mon, fellers
— le's go!" And they're off!
In the old days, when Emil Ziegler and Muz Reddick
run dances at Miller's hall. Ruber's garden, and on the old
Riverhorse to Offermann's island, John Biehl and his band-
boys would play five or six encores for "Maggie Murphy's
Home," as them Rock Island dancin' bugs never could get
fed up on that tinkly tune about the little Murphy gal.
They'd keep singin' —
187
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
There's an organ in the parlor
To give the house a tone.
And you're welcome every e-ven-nin'
At Maggie Murphy's Home.
And the only way the jazzmaster could flag them dancin'
radicals was to kiyi like a coon fleahound hittin' it up the
alley with a can tied to his tail. Then Charlie Bleuer, Tony
and George Biehl, and George Stroehle would join up with
old John and give a correct imitation of nineteen twenty-two
jazz as done in these times.
In them days gals held up their long dresses with one
hand when dancin', to keep 'em from trailin' and to help
the eye-play of nosey ankle-
spotters. They wore high
collars, and, not knowin'
nothin' about this neckin'
and parkin', naturally they
never got in touch with the
real jazz punch these bob-
haired sweeties puts over
now'days.
That's when Phil Mil-
ler discovered that excitin'
outdoor sport of grabbin'
Davenport tinhorns on Sec-
ond avenue for fast drivin
with old wind-broken livery
plugs that couldn't knock
off a mile in eight-ten on a
bet. Then our genial old
Judge Cropper curried his
whiskers and romped into the game with a dash of speed
and sacked them yaps for the limit — the judge bein' a patri-
otic guy and strong for upholdin' the peace and dignity of
the grand old state of Illinois.
Any of you newspaper boys ever heard of little Mike
Radigan that usta jerk the lever on switch engine number
six on the Peoria and Rock Island in the old days? Say,
sport, there was the original whistlin' kid! Mike could
188
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
chatter with the birds in their own language, and on Sundays
when he rambled through the woods around Chippiannock
and the Watch Tower, the robins and bobwhites knew that
a real mechanic was takin' the air. Mike learned to whistle
by listenin' in on the birds, and then he taught 'em some
new tricks.
All the youngsters was dippy about little Mike Radigan,
and when he ditched his overalls and stepped outa the cab
of number six, they usta folly him along the street and ast
him wouldn't he please warble like the birdies. Little Mike
packed a rollickin' triller, and when it come to whistlin' Irish
jigs, and this trembly grand opera stuff, that little harp could
certainly hit the ball.
Ever heard who was the biggest man in Rock Island in
the old days, sport? Well he was Bailey Davenport — big
all over, up and down, and a long distance around. Lived in
a big colonial mansion, with big pillars, in the big pasture
on Seventh avenue and Seventeenth street, and when Gus
Schlapkohl, the big coachman, drove up with the big landau
and the big team of grays, and Bailey dropped into the big
back seat, the big springs was all set and playin' to capacity.
In them days, a five-pound chuck roast only set you back
two bits. If you carried a basket and a dime to the slaugh-
ter-house you'd get all the spareribs and pigsfeet you could
cart away, with a half dozen pigtails throwed in, and you
could get venison roasts, bear steaks, and buffalo cuts at any
butcher shop.
Harry Sage and Bert Cunningham was learnin' to play
one-ol'-cat on back lots and cowpastures, and dreamin' of
when they'd be bigleaguers. The watch factory was tickin'
along near that thrivin' town of Camden, and when the con-
stabule and the town council changed the name to Milan,
Charlie Dibbern, Lothar Harms, Fred Appelquist, and Carl
Mueller declared the name a hoodoo that would put the burg
on the blink.
189
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What Made Rock Island Great.
Yes, indeed, sport — thettn was
the good old days in Rock Island.
Jack and Tom Greehey was hog-
headin' freight on the Brooklyn
division. Jack and Tom Pender
kicked empties down the sidetrack
in the Rock Island switchyards,
and Pat and Johnny Murrin pulled
the throttles on Saint Louis pass-
enger trains on the Q. And, listen
— what them six big huskies didn't
know about railroadin' they couldn't learn from glommin'
time-tables, nor from Ben Cable, nor from R R., nor even
from Big Chief Kimball hisself.
That's when the Hardly Able club had a fish and chow-
der camp at Rock river, with some fine old stagers on its
roster — guys like Buck O'Brien, Mule Rispen, Gibe Gibsen,
Jumbo Kelly, Dutchy Rosenfield, Poke Lambert, Stuff Mc-
Mahon, Ben Stempel, Nick Newcomb, Eddie Stempel, Dan
Finnegan, Kit Atkinson, and a lota other stem-winders that
would peel the shirt off'n their backs for a pal that was right.
When Major Beardsley, Colonel Danforth, and Cy Dart
clashed on "Ingersoll" at the Harms, Gottlieb, the barboy,
said they was "sucha nice mans" it was stew bad they wasn't
Chermans. Gottlieb went weepy about Walter Rosenfield
bein' outaluck, too, but he stood pat on one proposition —
Robert Wagner was a greater all-'round guy than Richard
Wagner, the moosikbug.
Stone-cuttin' was a regular profession, and Joe, Bob, and
Charlie Evans, Bob and Tom Cox, Dick and Bill Lloyd, and
other efficiency experts was trimmin' stone and eight hours
at the big Arsenal store-houses, so that Uncle Sam would
have some real honestagod buildin's ready when the big war
started.
191
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Jack Cady and Charlie Skinner was showin' the young
trims of MoHne how to do that new two-step dance, and
George Huntoon drove his little roan and sidebar buggy up
and down the avenue on sunny afternoons, tryin' out his
lamps on long-distance work.
Salsbury's Troubadors played two consecutive nights
for Ben Harper at Harper's theatre, at fifty bucks per, with
Nate Salsbury as top comedian. A buxom little gal in short
skirts made a big hit with the gallery gods that packed nig-
ger-heaven when she sang "The Torpedo and the V/hale,"
and it's a ten-to-one shot there ain't an old timer that showed
his mug in the jam that kin
remember the name of that
little gal.
Don't s'pose you birds
ever heard about Harry Mc-
Darrah that usta be the
whole works on the ferry
boat. Harry was engineer,
fireman, coalpasser, and the
rouster. He usta brag that
he could "Chubble more
thuel than annie man that
iver stud fernist a staimboat
b'iler." No matter how cold
the weather, Harry never
wore a coat or vest, and
always had his shirt sleeves
rolled up to his shoulders.
Harry's the boy that started
the strenuous life business that T. R. got away with, by
beginnin' work at four-thirty in the mornin' and knockin' off
at nine-thirty in the evenin' — exceptin' when he rowed the
ferry skiff on stormy nights, after Chin Lawhead or the reg-
ular oarsmen got buck fever and laid down on the job.
When Harry got tired workin' he'd bank his fires and
mosey up to Ohlweiler's or Eckermann's, and after dustin'
the high collar off'n a coupla big ones, he'd tell them lunch-
192
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
grabber's and barflies all about the night of the big wind in
Ireland. And Harry was some teller when he pulled up a
few notches on his belt and took a drag at his clay pipe.
When the ferry docked for winter, down at the boatyard, and
Harry got through with his cleanin' and paintin', he'd cut
ice in the slough or split cordwood down around Andalusia,
just to keep in condish for the big openin' when the ice
went out. When you hear these young sportin' guys brag
about how them hunk and kike prize fighters is due to crack
from over-trainin' by workin' two hours a day^ tell 'em about
the time Harry McDarrah done his day's stuff for a dollar-
ten — and never a squawk outa him.
Jim Maucker hammered out lightweight racin' shoes for
the pacin' and trottin' bosses that speeded in the sleighin'
races on Second avenue, and little Jimmy Thompson, the
original boy deckative, was sproutin' the finger-print theory
and workin' out his sherlock-holmes idea about "the eye that
never winks nor sleeps."
Mike McCool was hardenin' his muscles for the heavy-
weight championship of the world, by learnin' how to draw
six in one mitt at the Blackhawk saloon of Hughey the Hawk,
and Hossler Jimmy Campbell hunched the roundheads at the
Rock Island and Peoria roundhouse on the right dope for
runnin' a railroad right up to snuff.
Jimmy Mahoney introduced that "Hello, brother!"
slogan in a rousin' campaign for alderman of the Second
ward, where there was a coupla weak but dark-colored spots
that needin' fixin'. Now all the prominent fraternal lodge-
workers use that slogan when slippin' goof members the
grip and puttin' over the secret work of the panhandle de-
gree. The "Hello, sister!" version was exemplified later by
Mush Marshall and Jim Lane to a full house at the Lincoln
club, the degree team paradin' with axes and full regalia.
Webb Leas was wise-cracker at Plunk's boardin' house,
where plain and fancy chuck was dished up for three bucks
a week. Webb's job as official argufier was contested by
Skip Day, and when them two birds locked horns on politics,
they hiked up to Cap Corcoran's shave-shop for a decision or
a draw. Webb shook a nasty elbow when razzin' the sec-
193
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
ond fid, and he never run outa gas when gabbin' about honin'
razors or can-shootin' with SHm McCormick, Shorty Wil-
liams, Johnny Meehan, or the other boys
that soldiered at Buford's plow factory.
Plow-fittin' was the best trade in them
days, and when a kid got strong enough
to help out with the family larder he'd
land at Buford's, at plow-fittin', grindin',
or moldin', and think it was soft pickin's.
Topsy Siemon was slug three at the Argus on Seven-
teenth street, poundin' up bourgeois, at twenty-five cents a
thousand ems, from horace-greeley writin' that Harry Simp-
son hung on the hook, not havin' any typewriters in them
days. Eli Mosenfelder started to learn job printin', but
when he learned it was easier to grab the jack by buyin'
printin' than by sellin' it, he chucked the job and started a
clothin' store.
Frank Wheelan was typesticker on the Union, and he
sprinkled lotsa commas through Burdette's english joke
columai. When the weekly was printed on Thursdays, Bur-
dette grabbed the first sheet that Adam Kramer run off on
the old Potter press, and squatted on an ink keg in the alley
to enjoy hisself laughin' at real comic stuff. Exceptin' a
coupla razberries that plowed corn out near Reynolds, the
only guys that could squeeze a titter on them english puns
was Walter Johnson, Merc Driffill, Jonas Bear, and Johnny
Dindinger. Folks had a dark suspish that Johnny Ding was
oullin' old-time bull when he cackled at them johnny-bull
wheezes. Ding bein' a tol'able kidder in them days.
194
The Dope on Chief Black Hawk.
You kin tell the world, sport, that Rock Island had the
ace of the old timers. Big Chief Black Hawk was the darb
that led 'em all, and these picher painters has got that injun
boy wrong. Mebbe you've seen the oil
paintin' that shows the Big Chief squatted
in front of his wigwam, takin' a solemn drag
on his pipe, a bunch of squaws stirrin' a
soup kettle, and a stream of smoke oozin'
up in the air. And mebbe you got the idea
that the big red boy was goin' to have dog-
soup for supper. To make that picher look
romantic, like the movies, the painter guy
said the Big Chief was broadcastin' smoke
signals to the braves around Coal Valley and Taylor Ridge,
tellin' 'em everything is jake on the Watch Tower, crops is
lookin' fine, and give our regards to all the folks.
Not so. Black Hawk wasn't brewin' dog-soup, sport.
He was operatin' a heap big ten-gallon still, and workin' up
a batch of prime corn hooch that gauged
two-hundred and ten mule-proof, it bein'
falltime and the corn was ripe and juicy.
When the Sacs and Foxes saw that
smoke signal they got foxy — 'cause they
knew the Star Old Timer was slippin' again,
and that he'd get properly likkered durin'
the evenin', bust up a coupla pigeon-toed
squaws, and start an oldtime ballyhoo all up
and down the reservation.
Then, with a splittin' holdover the next
mornin', he'd hit the warpath and paint the
Rock river valley a skyblue-pink. Proba-
bly you heard how them injun braves was fleet-footed and
could run all day without stoppin' for feed or water. Well,
they hadta step lively when Big Chief Black Hawk yelped his
195
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
blood-curdlin' warcry, all soused to the ears, and hit the trail.
That's why them big injuns built the big cave on the Arsenal
at the end of the bridge — so's they could dig in when the Big
Chief was rampagin'.
That name Black Hawk has some punch,
sport, and lotsa detective agencies, drugstores,
hotels, mattress factories, garages, nearbeer
joints, and chemical companies are named in
honor of the Big Chief,
When Rock Island was Suitcase Metrop-
olis of the West, a lota Davenport shortchange
specialists joined the caravan to that burg to help make the
world safe for guys that lifted high ones or needed a shot in
the arm. They volunteered to help the natives take care of
visitors that flocked in from Strawberry Point, Oquawka,
Letts, Low Moor, and all points west.
Any guy havin' a loose piece of change in his kick
could certainly get wholesome entertainment.
Them was the good old days, sport, and Second avenue
was shinin' brighter than Broadway or Coney island.
If Rock Island could sidestep the Volstead proposition
now, and stage a suitcase comeback, they'd need a coupla
thousand traffic cops to line up fiivs that would roll in from
the wilds of Iowa and the Dakotas. They could add two
million to the population in six months, and cover the corn-
fields of Rock river valley with bungalows and swiss villas
crowded away to the roof with snowbirds and
thirst-breakers.
Lotsa guys in Rock Island is belly-achin'
,-^^ about highcost of cobweb gowns and ohboy
stockin's that their dames is ringin' up on
charge account, and they're tryin' to skimp on
the eats by plantin' radishes and lettuce in
their back yards. If them saps had the noodle
of a jack-rabbit they'd plant fig trees and get
in on next year's styles before the New York
frogs and kikes corner the figleaf market.
Them's the birds that'll tell the ladies what kinda togs they
kin wear next summer.
196
The Volunteer Fire Laddies.
IREMEN don't enjoy theirselves like
they usta in the days of the volunteer
department, sport. Now'days they ain't
no fire bells ringin', nor no listenin' for
the waterworks whistle, nor no people
runnin' down the street hollerin' "Fi-ur!
Fi-ur!"
In the old days firemen was slow
gettin' started, but v>7hen they got to
a fire there was sumpin doin'. Now the
fiivcart and chemical whizzes down the line like an airplane,
and a blaze ain't got no chance whatever.
The old church at Fifth and Rock Island was the favorite
fire-spot, as it usta break out with a fire at least once a year.
One mornin' when 'Fonse Arnould was drillin' to work, he
seen smoke oozin' outa the old church. 'Fonse rushed down
the street yelpin' "Fi-ur! Fi-ur!" Fatsey McNerny and Bill
Kleinfelder joined him, racin' for the Fire King ingine house
in Commercial alley, it bein' a big honor to be first to ring
the fire bell. Matt Fisher and Ward Phillips beat 'em to it,
though, and was jerkin' the bell-ropes like all-harry when
'Fonse, Patsey, and Bill came rompin' in gaspin' for breath.
Bill Gallagher and Pat Hennessey came licketycut down
Perry street, hollerin, "Fi-ur! Fi-ur!'' drivin' the two big fire
hosses that was boarded in Bob Porter's barn. Marsh Noe,
all outa wind, came rushin' in, follyed by Johnny Schmidt and
Bob Littler, to light the fire under the ingine boiler, so's the
Fire King could blow her whistle ahead of the Donahue and
be first to get up steam.
Hearin' the Fire King bell ring. Otto Klug and Ignatz
Schmidt raced from Otto Volkland's lunch-table to the Liberty
hosehouse, and Chris Von Doehren, Henry Korn, and Boney
Strathman all rushed to the Rescues, to ring the bells, all
them guys hollerin' "Fi-ur! Fi-ur!" Then the Alerts, Hopes,
197
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THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Mount Idas, Pilots, First Wards, and other companies chimed
in with their bells, givin' a finer concert than the Swiss bell-
ringers.
Milt Rowser, Frank Boyler, Dick Kelly, and Hen Cooper
was enjoyin' a game of seven-up at Cal Witherspoon's when
the alarm sounded, and in the excitement they rushed out
without settlin'.
The Fire King bein' the only company that knowed where
the fire was, them other companies hadta wait for the water-
works whistle to blow so's they'd get the number of the ward.
In them times, if the waterworks whistle blowed one
long blast, it was a signal that the fire was out, and then them
fire laddies would stick around to chew about where they was
and what they v/as doin' when the alarm sounded, givin' all
the details. Bein' as the boss couldn't dock 'em when called
on fire duty, they did some whoppin' story-tellin' every time
they was called to a fire.
It took lotsa time for the Fifth Wards to get started
that day, sport. Louis Arnould, the foreman, was shinglin'
a roof for Andy Roach when the King's bell rung, and Mick
Delaney, Dinny Hickey, Henny Higgins, Jim Gabon, 'Gene
Deutsch, Billy Oakes, Mike Heeney, Jim Leonard, Pete Gil-
looley. Jack Cavanaugh, Gil Arnould, Joe Dugan, and Bryan
Toher was scattered all over town, workin' at their trades, but
at the first crack of the bell they dropped their tools to hot-
foot it to the hosehouse.
Humba Kelly, first torchboy, was stickin' type on the
Blue Ribbon News, and he bolted out the door without wait-
in' to space out his line or say a word to Ed Collins, the
foreman. Grunter O'Donnell, second
torchboy, jumped off Lillis's grocery
wagon, and hung up a new record
sprintin' to the hosehouse.
Dan McFarland, assistant fore-
man, was tappin' wheels on the Rocky
Mountain limited at the Perry street
depot, and he trun his hammer to Tom
Behan and Johnny Cody, and rushed
home for his silver plated trumpet, red
199
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
shirt, and castiron hat, as Dan always worked in full uniform
when firefightin'. Firemen in them times was always braver
when they had time to 'tend to their make-up.
Foreman Arnould was a sticker for system with the Fifth
Wards, and wouldn't let them lads start for a fire till they
knew where it was, no matter how restless they got, nor how
hard they pulled on the hosecart rope. "Wait 'til you hear
the waterworks whistle!" was the orders he blasted through
his silver-plated trumpet. He called the roll that day, and
everybody answered exceptin' Larry McKee, he bein' down
at Columbus Junction kickin' off empties on a side-track.
When the waterworks whistle blowed five times, it wasn't
no time at all 'til them Fifth Wards came tearin' around the
corner at Fifth and Iowa — the foreman and assistant foreman
"Wait 'til you hear the waterworks whistle!"
roarin' out important orders through their silver-plated trum-
pets— that company bein' tied with the Northwest Davenports
and East Davenport Pilots for last place in the race.
Them firemen was all outaluck that day, for some little
guy, weighin' about one-twenty, strapped a babcock extin-
guisher on his back, dumb a ladder, crawled along the roof,
took a coupla squirts at the blaze, and the fire was all over
exceptin' the big postmortem confab of them gallant firemen.
That Fifth Ward company was a sore outfit, sport, bein'
all set to show the people what kinda fire-fighters they was,
not even havin' to unreel the hose, nor givin' Dinny Hickey
200
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
and Bryan Toher a chance to make their famous lightnin'
couplin'. So they held a long session and then eased over
to Bobby Garvey's, parked the hosecart in front of Bobby's
summer-garden, and put in the day blowin' high collars offa
crusaders, and takin' a good rest before drillin' up the hill
with the hosecart.
Old John Gundaker and Ben Raphael usta kid the fire-
men, tellin' about the fire-fightin' days with the old hand-
pump machine that was kept in city hall alley or Brady,
between Fifth and Sixth, right alongside the big cistern the
draymen kept filled with water they brought from the river
in their big barrels to be used for fire fightin'.
On firemen's meetin' night in the old days the fire bells
would ring three taps — ding! dong! ding! — kinda doleful and
solemn, to call the firemen to special meetin', so's they'd have
an excuse to get away from the fireside battle-ground. Then
they'd sit around and smoke scraps, rush the growler, and
argue about what brave things they thought they done the
time of the big fires at Hill's opera house, Beattie's mill, the
ropewalk, and the Glucose works. When they got lit up
and properly mellowed, they'd brag about how many tickets
they was goin' to peddle at the saloons for their sixth grand
annual social ball and benefit entertainment that was to be
held the next winter, or they'd dope pipe-dreams about how
their company would skin all the other companies for first
prize on firemen's parade day.
Never heard what become of the fire bells of the old
days, didya, sport? Well, B. J. gathered 'em in, gave 'em
an adjustment, and lined 'em up for chimes in that cupola
of his at the top of the hill. Now, when B. J. needs exercise,
instead of playin' golf or buck-passin', he tries his hand on
"Annie Laurie" by ringin' them old fire bells. The Fire
King bell is tuned to carry the air, the Alerts for the tenor,
the Hopes takes the high notes, the Rescues the baritone, the
Libertys the bass, and the Fifth Wards and Pilots 'tends to
the barber-chords and accidentals. If some of them square-
heads had figured on harmonizin' them fire bells in the old
days, fire laddies coulda romped to blazes to the tune of
one of Sousa's marches, or to "Doncha Hear Them Bells."
201
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Pioneer Work in Cubist Art.
Them was he good old days, sport. That's when Charlie
Russell usta grind out "Breakfast Slices" on the first page
of the old Gazette, for eight bucks a week. After puttin' up
halfa column of paragraphs, Charlie filled the column with
"News Summary," in leaded nonpareil.
When Dave Rohm, the foreman, hung
that "fat take" on the hook, Tim
Hickey, Gus Brooks, Patsey McGlynn,
Bill Axtman, George Bailey, Henry
Pfabe, and the other printers would pull
out for it, as they was settin' solid
brevier at two bits a thousand ems.
Charlie Russell was soft panhandlin' for
the old typo tourists, and his copy was easy to read, but his
dad's writin' looked like it was done by Harry Simpson, and
that kinda henscratchin' drove many a type-sticker to drink.
Bird Richardson drove the first automobile on the streets
on the fourth of July, nineteen-hundred-one, and him and his
gang gave the natives the surprise of their lives.
There wasn't no screwy yaps hangin' around then to
say "I personally," but late one Saturday night when John
Hasson was goin' home with his usual, he dared the soldier
to come down ofif the monument to fight, and John got away
with his bluff.
Lafe and Walt Lancaster were the cleverest all-'round
acrobats in the burg, and no entertainment was complete
without Lafe and Walt on the program doin' their grind.
Joe Hebert usta sing "Nancy Lee," with that fine bari-
tone voice of his'n, and he wasn't stingy with it. In the
home-talent show of "Pinafore," Joe took the part of Sir
Joseph Porter, makin' a big hit singin' :
When I was a lad I served my term
As office boy in an attorney's firm,
I washed the windows and I scrubbed the floor.
And I polished up the handle of the big front door. •
203
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
An old rounder complained to Nick Newcomb one time
that he couldn't get any work. Nick hired him for three
bucks a day to take a brick in each hand, carry 'em across the
street, set 'em down, pick 'em up, carry 'em back, and then
repeat. At the end of the second day, Nick hadta hire two
extra barkeeps to moisten curious folks that laid off at the
Eagle works and the sawmills to watch the brick man work.
Dad Lower drove his speedy pacer, "Captain Jinks,"
along Second street, and all the other hossmcn hadta take
his dust. Waiter gals at the Commercial house would call
"ram-lamb-sheep-or-mutton" on the bill of fare, and saloons
kept eight-day matches in big stone matchboxes at the end
of the bar.
Jim Rhodes usta laugh and ast, "What is your corpor-
osity and how do you sagashiate?" when he'd shake flippers
with a brother oddfellow or an axe-carryin' member of the
woodmen degree team.
Steeplejack Oscar Wiley would stand on his head on a
smokestack and holler like a kickapoo when he was stewed,
and people expected to see him get killed. Oscar wasn't in
no hurry, though, for he waited patiently about to let nature
and Barleycorn take the regular course.
Smokey Reese blowed a cornet when he drilled down the
street with his chimney-sweep makeup, high cone-shaped
skimmer, rope and tackle. He could
go through a chimney like a swallow,
and chimney-soot had a fat chance
when Smokey got on its trail.
George Bagley, express messenger
on the Rock Island road, wanted to get
rich quick, so he stepped off the train
with a hundred thousand dollars in
greenbacks in a gunny sack, walked up
to Kellogg's barn at Sixteenth and
Iowa, and cached it under the hay. That's gettin' it fast,
sport. The train stopped for a half hour in them days and
George had plenty time to get back and take his place before
the train pulled out. When that stack of long-green was
204
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
checked up missin', George was put through the third degree,
but he had an alibi as long as a hophead's dream. A week
later, when everybody was talkin' about the great robbery
mystery, George weakened, coughed up, steered the railway
dicks to the plant, and then done his stretch at the big house.
George said havin' so much jack worried him, and he couldn't
sleep nights. Ralph Cram passed Kellogg's barn twice a
day in them times, but he never even stopped to take a feel
of that gunnysack with the hundred grand under the hay.
Although they wasn't no art school in the old days, sport,
we had some fine animal painters that ain't never been rekan-
ized by the elight of this burg. Mebbe it ain't too late to
give credit to one buddin' young artist that painted a zebra
by moonlight one evenin', without ever
takin' any art lessons, except helpin'
Joe Hines paint a corncrib out on Jer-
sey Ridge road.
When Captain Lon Bryson was
agent for the Diamond Jo steamboat
line, he usta drive a boss named Dolly,
that he kept in his barn at Sixth and
Tremont. That boss was an all-white
nag, and her and the cap was awful
pally. Dolly wasn't strong for speed, but when the cap drove
her down to the steamboat office the kids was kept busy spit-
tin' for the white boss, so's they'd have good luck.
One evenin' Ira Lingafelt, Tom Hooper, and Jack Mullins
was easin' home from a dance, and they frisked a can of black
paint from Tom Slattery at the old Rock Island repair shops.
"What to do?" ast Ira, not bein' sleepy nor nothin', and them
three lads went into conference. Hearin' a boss whinney,
they knew it was Cap Bryson's Dolly, and thinkin' mebbe she
was lonesome, they dropped in for a call at three o'clock in
the momin'. Dolly was tickled pink. So they backed the
old mare outa the manger, and Jack Mullins took holt of the
halter and begun whisperin' baby boss-talk into her ear, sayin'
"Nice ol' Dolly!" and stuff Hke that. Tom Hooper played
lookout, to give the alarm in case the cap should happen to
start any sleep-walkin'.
205
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Then Ira took that black paint and done a finer job of
paintin' than old man Rembrandt ever dreamed of. A streak
of black decorated every other white rib of Dolly, with black
streamers over her back and flanks, wide black stripes around
her legs, and big black spots on her neck. When Ira finished
the art work on Dolly, she made a finer-lookin' zebra than
any that Barnum had in his big menagerie — exceptin' that she
looked like a leopard from the neck up. Them kids took a
moonlight inspection of the old mare, and they agreed that
Ira was gifted with the divine fire.
But some folks, sport, is shy on artistic taste, and it
happened that Cap Bryson was one of them kinda guys. He
didn't appreciate art nor paintin', and when he clapped his
peepers on old Dolly the next mornin', all striped and spotted,
he went straight up. The cap made an awful beller to Chief
Kessler, and offered the large reward of five bucks for the
arrest and conviction of the culprit, the cap not discriminatin'
between a classy artist and a common culprit.
When that paint dried on old Dolly it fell off and took
the hair with it, givin' the old mare a black-and-tan zebra
effect. Every time the cap looked at old Dolly he burned
up, and he kept his reward of five bucks posted at the hoose-
gow, hopin' to land the culprit.
A number of years later, when Ira Lingafelt was visitin'
in the old town, he met Cap Bryson one day, and ast him
did he ever land the guy that put old Dolly through the zebra
degree. "No," said the cap, flarin' right up, "but if I ever
do, I'll prosecute him promptly and to the full extent of the
law."
Then Ira took the first train to Chicago, and he ain't
never been seen around these diggin's since.
206
Thuthie Thmither'th Thilly Vertheth.
When we had heatless days and lightless nights, picher
shows and pivot places were put off watch six days and nights
each week, and httle Susie Smithers assembled her woes in
sad verse for the benefit of Sam Greenebaum of the Garden
theatre. Susie lisped, and after she got through punchin' her
typewriter her verses read this way:
Thay, Tham— lithen !
There'th not a thingle plathe to go
Thinthe you clothed your thwell picher thhow.
Gee whith! I feel tho thad and blue —
My tholdier guy he'th got the flu.
I theldom thwear, but I'll thay "Damn
The Kaither!" Don't you thay tho, Tham?
It alwayth maketh thome hit with me
When I thtroll down the thtreet and thee
A cutie mith that'th out for bear,
Drethed like a horthe, with henna hair.
Thure thing ! each tholdier tipth hith lid.
And thmearth the thalve to thith thwell kid.
Your night-thchool clath ith cauthing pain !
When thome poor nut thpellth for hith jane
The adth and titleth on the thcreen —
Out loud — I want to butht hith bean.
May I thuggetht, to tholve thethe puthleth.
That thethe thmart thpellerth uthe fathe muthleth.
The jack you thpend for gatholine
To run that thwell big limouthine
Mutht thet you back thomie dithtanthe ; and
The way you thpeed ith thomething grand!
There'th not a buth that you let path —
I'll tell the folkth, you thhow thome clath!
207
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Your organitht playth out of date;
Hith thtuff don't theem appropriate,
'Cauthe, when the hero winth the doll,
It'th "Mendelthon'th" he playth. That'th all!
The betht noithe for a thlipping brother
Ith "Jutht Before the Battle, Mother."
It'th fierthe! My girl friendth are tho jealouth
Becauthe tho many tholdier fellowth
Keep chathin' me. It ith a fright —
I cop thome thwell guy every night.
I thurely ought to be athamed —
But, goodneth thaketh! thould I be blamed?
Your movie thhop, it theemth to me,
Thould have a nurthe and nurthery
To thave our nerveth, increathe our joyth,
And thlip the lid on daddy'th boyth.
Then, when thethe thmart kidth thtart to beller,
Jutht thlide 'em to the nurth'ry thellar.
Our little Mary'th O! tho thweet!
Thhe hath the other thtarth all beat.
Don't thay I'm thilly or a nut
To want to play in movieth, but,
With thome nithe hero, I'll thay thith —
I'd thhow thpeed with that vampire kith.
When Ethie Joneth — the'th my girl chum —
Ballth me, I'll thay the'th going thome.
Latht night Eth thaid, "Your tholdier guy
Ith thure in bad — the town'th bone dry."
But I thopped Eth. I said, "O ! ith he ! ? !
Mine'th got your'th thkinned; he ain't no thithy !"
When Charlie regithterth thurprithe,
Then thlamth the cheethe and cuthtard pieth,
And thoakth the villian on the bean,
I clap my handth and thtart to thcream;
208
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
But when the gloomth are on the job,
I lothe control, and thoftly thob.
Not knocking, Tham, but my chum'th furth
Took thome bird'th coin — it wathn't berth.
While I aint pothing ath a thaint,
I'll thay Mith Eth can thmear the paint.
Believe me, Tham, it'th been thome yearth
Thinthe thhe uthed thoapthudth in her earth.
The thlob I thlave for thaid to me:
"Mith Thue, pleathe can that pote-eree."
Tho I quit cold. Thay — lithen here!
I'd thurely make a thwell cathhier,
'Cauthe I've got thenthe, and aint no floothey.
Well— tho long, Tham.
Thintherely,
Thuthie.
209
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Pretzel Alley.
In the old days, sport, birthday
celebrations were very popular, and
Aleck Anderson had a birthday party
at least once a week. That's how
the Free and Independent Common-
wealth of Pretzel Alley, State of
Scott County, U. S. A., originated.
Aleck was first, last, and only mayor
of Pretzel Alley.
One day Aleck met the Korn
boys — Bill, Charlie, Otto, Harry, and
John — and ast themi wouldn't they
slip up to his wigwam that evenin',
as he was givin' a birthday party.
A Baby Beaver. j^^ ^y^^^ ^-^^^g gj^ j^^^^^ ^^^.^
bushy hair on his knob and silky whiskers like a baby beaver,
and Bill said to Aleck: "Why, you old sardine! You had a
birthday last week, and two the week before. Seems like
you're tryin' to skin old Methusaleh on his record?" Aleck
answered, "Can't lose."
That evenin', when the guests lined up for dutch lunch,
the icebox was loaded for bear, and any wetware mentioned
on Roddewig's or Haase's price list was on the
sideboard. When them boys got through sing-
in' and dancin', Bill Korn proposed organizin'
Pretzel alley, and after he outlined his plan the
proposition went over with a bang. An election
was held on the spot, and to start the ball rollin'
Aleck was elected mayor. On takin' the chair,
Aleck appointed each of his guests to an office—
from treasurer to dog-ketcher, from alley clerk ^S
to sexton, and from chief of police to alley ^^
scavenger. Nobody was overlooked while
Aleck had the appointin' fever. "Can't lose,"
he declared, as the party broke up at five o'clock.
211
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Then Pretzel alley
started out to become
famous. A newspaper
reporter spilled the news, and the alley, from
Main to Harrison, between Third and Fourth,
became the gayest streak in the town.
Pretzel alley had two political parties, the
weiners and pretzels, and the politicians put
over sdme redhot campaigns. The mayor appeared at council
meetin' one evenin' in full regalia, and whispers of big graft
in alley affairs got started, his nobs bein' accused of shakin'
down gams, street laborers, utility guys, and sports. Folks
started askin', "Where did he get it?" — and Aleck answered,
"Can't lose." The mayor blowed ten thousand smackers on
his second election, the greatest mudslingin' campaign in
the history of Pretzel alley.
A flag-raisin' was held before that election, after a torch-
light percession that marched all around town, a rube band
furnishin' the music. Spread-eagle speeches and political
promises, scrambled with music and vaudeville, marked that
election, Aleck bein' again elected unan-
imously
The Pretzel alley volunteer fire de-
partment was organized, with Charlie
Korn for chief and Philly Sonntag for
assistant, and they gave an exhibition
one evenin' for the benefit of the Dav-
enport city council and fire department.
The Pretzel firemen showed skill at lad-
der climbin', hosecart foot-racin', and
fancy couplin'. Havin' borryed a fire-
man's red shirt and cast-iron hat, the
chief showed how to play ragtime on
his trumpet. A fire broke out in a three-
story buildin' durin' that exhibition, and
a distracted mother rushed to the chief
cryin', "Who will save me che-ild?" The
chief answered, "I, the chief of Pretzel
f IB Wfluor iiip fflminr alley fire department, will save your
(Cant HiiBr
212
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
che-ild!" Then he run up a
ladder, through smoke and
flames, seized the child, and
hurled it safely into a fishnet
held by his brave firemen, A
mighty cheer burst from the
crowd at the heroic deed, and
the chief ast everybody into
Schiller Rice's storehouse to
smother a frahmsize
Lawyers, doctors, bank-
ers, flimmers, actors, bakers,
shell-workers, politicians, jan-
itors, grifters, tree-trimmers,
and other professional men
flocked to Pretzel alley, to
hold up their left hand and
swear loyalty to the flag of
the pretzel, and to renounce all allegiance to foreign kings,
queens, jacks, and deucespots.
The first primary election was held in Dad French's
barn, rigged up with votin' booths, election officials, and reg-
istration books. Frank McCullough popped in to register,
and was escorted to a votin' booth with sawdust floor, cov-
erin' four inches of water, and Frank said, "Darn!" when
the shine on his patent-leathers was spoiled. Then Frank
laughed and showed he was qualified to become a citizen of
Pretzel alley, as he stepped back to watch Beans Hanssen,
Ossie Hill, Billy Petersen, Con Murphy, Max Heyer, Dick
Kelly, and other citizens step on the sawdust floor.
Doc McClurg put one over on the registration board
that evenin', though, when he breezed in to register, with
rubber boots, raincoat, and umbrel. Seein' they couldn't
moisten Doc on the outside, the registration board worked
on the inside, and the weatherman hoisted the rain-flag when
Doc plowed home that evenin'.
At the annual election of Pretzel alley, held in the Hotel
Davenport ballroom, there was intense excitement over the
213
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
MaK£MEh4>
■f-^^
election of city scavenger. Charlie Caswell had held that
office, but growed tired of answerin' telephone calls regardin'
the location of dead -^ ^.^^
cats, dogs, billy-goats, ^'(pAfiy-i^
coons, and other duties
requirin' the attention
of the alley scav. If a stew-party slowed
down along about sunrise in the mornin',
some guy would get original and ring up
Cas to tell him a garbage barrel was doin'
a silent-noise solo down in Pretzel alley,
or a hunka limburger and a punk onion
was playin' a stockyards duet behind the
pickle foundry.
Charlie Kindt and Paul Lagomarcino
were nominated for that important office, and it was plain
that Charlie had the jump on Paul, and would win hands
down when it came to a vote. Charlie delivered a great
speech, implorin' his friends to vote for Paul, havin' in mind
the woes of Cas while holdin' that exalted office.
Emmet Sharon, Billy Chamberlin, and Lew Roddewig
spread-eagled in favor of Charlie, but after Paul got down
on his knees and prayed, beggin' his friends to vote for
Charlie, there was nothin' to it — the show-shop boy won
hands down. That night Charlie hopped the train for Palm
Beach for a month's vacation. At the next meetin' of the
alley council the mayor abolished the office of alley scav.
Pretzel alley published an official organ. The Wurst-
Blatt, for one consecutive week, while operatin' the rathskel-
ler at the Turner fair, and annually thereafter. The Wurst-
Blatt published official proceedings of the alley council, the
annual reports of alley officers, and the poetry of Barney
Squires, tree-trimmer and poet-lariat.
One big event of Pretzel alley was the parade of the
Pretzel alley press club, escorted by the Pretzel alley silver
cornet band, with the mayor, editors, and correspondents of
the Wurst-Blatt dolled in official regalia. That parade created
a sensation, as it escorted Jack Johnson, his white wife, and
214
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
the white man's hope to the steamer Morning Star for the
frolic of the Tri-City press club.
Some fine old scouts held office in Pretzel alley, sport —
guys like Charlie Steel, Oscar Raphael, Doc Middleton, Bill
Hickey, Pink Dillig, Billy Chambers, Rud Conrad, George
Martin, Lovin' Henry, Art Kelly, Emil Berg, Al O'Hern, Dad
French, Doc Raben, Mannie Adler, Charlie Caswell, Lee
Daugherty, Ott Paulsen, Pete Petersen, Schiller Rice, Charlie
Becker, Hans Schraam, Billy Harrison, Max Ruben, Harry
Spencer, Phil Daum, Aleck Roberts, Fred Brooks, Red Heeney,
Al Mueller, Brady Thompson, Tony Moore, Jim Gorman,
John Ruhl, Jimmy Cahill, Ed Carroll, Ben Geertz, Harry Man-
gan, Barney O'Neill, Harry Winters, George Scott, John
Sorenson, George Dempsey, Chub Thompson, Billy Clancy,
Hugo Moeller, Jack Marinan, Butter Kuehl, Al Goldschmidt,
Pink Meinert, Charlie Hild, Billy Noth, Frank Sammons, and
Doc Stoecks.
When the city council changed Pretzel alley to Library
street, that thoroughfare began to slip, and when the moisture
exchanges at the east and west end closed, Pretzel alley
turned up its toes, leavin' nothin' behind but memories of the
good old days.
215
Come Back to Pretzel Alley.
Noise — "Come Back to Erin" merged witii "Fatherland."
In Pretzel Alley, Heiney Stein, the leader of the band.
Was hunched by the gesang-verein from far off Fatherland,
That all his Uncle Fritz's gelt — a billion marks or so —
Was left him, with the tighwad belt, when Uncle made his blow.
Then Heiney kissed his lieber schatz, to make gay Berlin bloom.
With sizzling red the highest spots he smeared his Unc's mazume.
But Gretchen at the pretzel stand grew grumpy with the blues,
For when she took her pen in hand she spilled this style of news:
Chorus:
"Come back to Pretzel Alley, where onion blossoms bloom,
Limburger cheese flings to the breeze its beautiful perfume.
There's but one place for sicha face in all the Wapsie Valley,
So howld your tin, you'll nade it whin you light in Pretzel Alley."
But Heiney thought his jane too gay. He wrote — "Dear Wooden Shoes:
I'll not come back to old P. A. to battle squirrel juice.
I'm ducksoup for this Berlin noise, and getting johnny-wise.
Say, listen — with the army boys I spiel 'em, "HochI der Kaisel"
But Gretchen stung him with this fact — she feared he would get nicked
"You're slated for a sucker act! Old sport! Du bist verichtl
I long to take you for that cush, a live one — not a shine —
With the old Pretzel Alley push, a knockout for a Stein."
216
Steve Oilman's Nimrods.
OT BRAGGIN', sport, but before these
hundred per cent yaps got holdin' effi-
ciency picnics to give the false-alarms
an airin', we had some fine social clubs.
That was before the guardian's union
put the screws to the good-times party
— when Jim Hanley organized the Le-
Claire exiles; when Warren Teele was
custodian of the ground-hog and first-
guesser for ground-hog day; when the
old settlers held basket picnics in Far-
num street woods or on Mitchell's hill.
Golf and skat hadn't arrived as chronic diseases, the
Wapshanis club was in the dream stage, and the Sawmill
boys, Molders, Friedegg, Dirty Dozen, Company Q, Cigar-
makers, Idlewilds, and Ivy Leaf social clubs were goin' full
blast. Them dances was held at the "Stockyards," sport —
sometimes called Lahrmann's hall — and the pivoters had bully
times. Pete Stratton had the big sayso in them dancin' clubs,
and Pete's vocal works was the noisyest in the burg, not
exceptin' them of Auctioneer Van Tuyl.
The poker hunters club usta enjoy their favorite pas-
time on the top floor of the old Burtis, but never could agree
on a name. One evenin' they was enjoyin' a 'possum dinner
with injun trimmin's, and a soft-r visitor from down east
happened to mention "pokeh huntehs," and then everybody
got it. So the club was christened "Pocahontas" on the
spot, and after that red chips were used for playin' jackpots.
Ever heard of the Steve Gilman huntin' club, sport? In
the old days them sportsmen was famous hunters and fishers
in these parts, havin' such live members as Dick Englehart,
Emmet Sharon, Ruel Cook, Endee Ely, Fod Davis, Steve Gil-
man, Joe LeClaire, Ed Van Patten, Walter Chambers, Butch
Thiele, Doc Elmer, Captain Jack McCaffrey, and other dead-
217
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
game sports, that loved outdoor stuff. They hunted all over
the western prairies, and in the fall and spring, when wild
ducks and geese was flyin', they always had their muzzle
loaders greased for action.
Jim Means was guard on the dravv-
pier of the old wooden bridge then,
and he acted as lookout for the Steve
Gilman huntin' club when the teal,
bluebills, mallards, and mazooks started
flyin'. Jim had a special wild-duck sig-
nal for the Steve Gilman boys — two
long and two short toots of the whistle
— warnin' members to hop into their
huntin' togs, as the wild poultry was
coastin' down the rapids and parkin' in
the marshlands of the Wapsie and
Devil's glen.
The time the steamboat Effie Afton bumped into the old
wooden bridge, Jim Means kinda lost his noodle, and instead
of blowin' the distress signal, Jim tooted the Steve Gilman
wild-duck call, and there was a mad rush of nimrods to the
Piute club rooms. Pat Horan, steward at that time, was
holdin' down the dog-watch, and he wondered why them
sportsmen came rushin' in for their shootin'-irons. Pat made
up cheese sandwiches and took a coupla cold bottles off the
ice for them hunters before they discovered that Jim had
pulled a boner. Then the Steve Gilman boys rushed down
to the river, grabbed all the skiffs in sight, and hurried to
rescue the passengers and crew of the EfBe Afton.
218
Billiards and Drum Corps.
Lannie McAiTee trained billiard
balls, and he could almost make 'em
talk. Lannie would call a shot, "Carom,
in the hat," and the cue ball would
glance off the object ball and jump into
his hat on a chair near the table to com-
plete the carom. His trick dog, "Graff,"
would sit on a chair holdin' a billiard
ball on his nose, and Lannie would call
his shot, "Carom, on the dog." Kinda
ticklish for the dog, but he enjoyed it.
Lannie could play fancy masse and
draw shots, and was as clever at finger
billiards as old Yank Adams. One evenin' Lannie hung up a
world's record, punchin' out over fifteen hundred caroms at
straight billiards at Billy Ball's saloon on east Third street.
Henry Ascherman could whistle
like a calleyope with his fingers, and
little Packey Phelan bought a snare
drum on the installment plan, at Job
Ross's second-hand store, that drum
havin' done service in the Mexican war.
After Packey got so's he could knock
off the single-drag and the double-drag,
him and Henry organized the original
Scott county drum corps, and them two
kids marched at the head of the torch-
light percessions in the Tilden and
Hendrick parades. In them days some
folks got the idea that the vote of New York state elected
Grover, but us old timers knew it was the martial music of
Packey and Henry that done the trick.
219
The Davenport Burns Club,
In the early days a shipload of
Scotchmen settled on the prairies north
of Long Grove and scattered around
town. After they pinched off some jack
they began talkin' about Bobby Burns,
and organized a social club in honor of
their poet. Burns's festival grew to
be the biggest affair of the old days,
the dance startin' at eight in the evenin'
and lastin' 'til ten the next mornin'.
Hotscotch was served to men, hotwine
to wimmen, haggie to everybody, and
they danced old-fashioned dances, the
highland fling, the sword dance, and other scotch steps. After
twenty-five years the kiltie lads dropped out and the carps
and harps hunched in.
In the old days the Burns club had names like Neil
Mclnnis, Dave Munro, John Cameron, George Shanks, Pete
MacVey, John Craig, Tom Scholey, Bob Hunter, Adam Blair,
Bob Munro, Billy Barraclough, Jim Lindsay, Jock McClos-
key. Bob Swindell, and Mert Widdrington. After the crowd-
in'-out process the Burns club had names like George
Schwenke, Pete Jacobsen, Kelly Friday, Bill Dunker, Fred
Rueffel, Dan Home, Martin Greeley, Ferd Meyer, Al Rodde-
wig, Henry Klauer, Cal Witherspoon, Charlie Gallagher,
Henry Jaeger and Ignatz Schmidt. The fiftieth anniversary
festival at Turner hall filled both halls to capacity, and after
that event the club held family parties at Lahrmann's hall for
members only.
Hay Donald Macmeyer was presectreas for twenty-five
years, up to the time to the blowoff, with Ignatz, Schmidt as
understudy. When Hay presided at meetin's he had his own
parliamentary rules. Hay would move that his understudy
be instructed to buy a bowl, then second his own motion, and
after voting favor of his own motion. Hay would declare his
221
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
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ii^A MMMA. :-'r' '' : ' MI A IL RJ:,
(In tt>Jiips(i;iy Kveaiig. J.miary 25ili, 1811.
jOMMITSEE -OF- iREAi?521!ElITS;
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Tickets, S:'..itl. Paucins |.i Mlliiucnri' ;|( N oilmk.
MUSIC BY LUPPY'S UNION SAND. CAMERON, ii..»ipi.T.
JOHN TURNER; Secretary.
Jh^Niil TuAN.-KKK.UU.t.
222
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
own motion carried unanimusly. Then Ignatz would obey
the instructions of the presectreas.
Even if them latter-day bobby-boys couldn't gargle their
"r's" like Harry Lauder and sing "aboot a braw bricht moon-
licht nicht, a' richt," when Hay Donald got his pipes primed
with prime scotch and led the song service they could larrup
the chorus of "Doktar Eisenbart" in Scott county scotch when
singin' :
Ich bin der Doktar Eisenbart,
Villey, Villey vie turn boom!
Kuhir die Leut' nach meiner Art,
Villey, Villey vie turn boom!
Kann machen dass die Lahmen geh'n,
Und daas die Blinden wieder seh'n,
Villey, Villey vie turn boom I
Victo-ri-ay! Vieto-ri-ay!
Villey, Villey vie du heirassal
Victo-ri-ay! Vieto-ri-ay!
Villey, Villey vie turn boom!
Didn't make any difference how hard the Burns club
committee worked, when puttin' on their membership drives,
they couldn't land any members from Corkhill, GoosehoUow,
Flatiron square, Rogertown, or the Patch.
22a--^
7
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
''^ HONOP
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224
When Folks Were Sociable.
After organizin' a baseball club, the Scott county Kidney-
foot club held monthly suppers at Hill's cafe, and posted a
challenge to the world in the kidneyfoot class, but couldn't
find no takers. The lineup of that famous baseball team was
— John Hill, shortstop; Tony Moore, first base; Billy MeGuin-
ness, second base; Carl Thode, third base; Hugo Vollstedt,
right field; Circus Koester, pitch; and Roxy Gundaker, catch.
The Klam-Boreta club had a fine cabin in the woods at
Toronto, and kept open house durin' the summer season. The
charter members of that club were August Youngerman,
Henry Klauer, Ferd Meyer, Soapy Matthes, Doodle Eck-
hardt, Al Moetzel, Henry Thuenen,
Spikes Strobehn, Herman Volquardsen,
George Noth, Lew Roddewig, Ernst
ZoUer, George Martin, Johnny Barof-
sky, and Pete Jacobsen.
The Fresh-Air club didn't believe
in confinement between walls, so they
took their fun out in the great open
spaces, both winter snd summer, hikin'
all over the surroundin' country. The
roster took in such -fine old rounders as
Oscar Staby, Lew Kuehl, Butch Lago-
marcino, Lew Fahrner, Con Goettig,
Forrest Downing, Walter Lucht, Otto Schrumm, Art Kelly,
Albert Jansen, Fritz Becker, Fred Hoelmer, John Stelk, Vic
Flath, Fred Kunkel, Herman Oetzmann, Walter Hass, Fhil
Sonntag, Fink Lesser, Chris Heuck, Al Bruha, Dick Stelling,
Charlie Calnan, Charlie Flannigan, Maj Meyer, Ed Freese,
Gene Kelly, Hugo Schrceder, John. Harry, and Otto Korn.
Dad Offermann was the gay freshwater sailor of the good
steamer "Grandpa" that carried the Fresh-Air boys on all
their cruises along Rock river, the Hennepin canal, and up
and down the old Mississippi.
225
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Barnyard golf, shinny, and duck-on-davy were the leadin'
games of the old days, and them sports has come back again
strong. Of course the good old game of skat has been looked
after by Gus Stueben, Fred Kunkel, Oswald Schmidt, Claus
Kuehl, Otto Schrumm, Fete Bendixen, Herman Oetzmann,
Chris Behrens, Dick Mictlebuscher, Ernst Otto, Walter
Schmidt, Henry Von Maur, Leopold Siemon, Ed Berger,
Frank Mueller, Ed Lischer, and other skatbugs that would
rather play skat than eat fried spring chicken.
The Night Owl club made regular monthly trips to
Frobstei and Little's Grove to hold pinochle parties, under
the direction of King Henry Schroeder. Pompey Petersen,
Pathy Nagel, Cooney Kohrs, Feppo Roddewig, Ross Nagle,
and Paul Severin were the charter members of that club.
The Lauterbach club had a fine summer camp down at
Billy Petersen's island, and Hugo Vollstedt, Billy Maehr, and
Frank Colscn looked after the comfort of visitin' tourists
The Ideal club camped at McManus's island, and visitors
were given the glad hand, day or night, by Oscar Schuup,
Charlie Klein, Otto Gruenwald, and Billy Koch.
Then there was famous old Slab hall up on Tenth street,
between Farnam and LeClaire, a great club of the old days.
Jim Coulter was band instructor at Slab hall, and he started
the Light Guard band in the tootin' game. Lev/ and George
Mallette, Jim Leonard, Tom Flynn, Figiron Jones, Frank
Foster, Billy Frazer, Jim Gorman, Owen Murray, Buck Lay-
den, Gil Arnould, Pat Stapleton, Jack Higgins, Jim Roche,
Fat Hanley, Billy Gordon, and a lota other young birds got
their musical education in the conservatory department of
Slab hall.
226
Curbstone Merrymakers.
Mebbe you young fellers now'days
think you're havin' lotsa fun, sport, but
it ain't in it compared with the old
days, when the boys played "All-in,"
"Tick-tack," "Bar-bar-ee," "I-spy," and
other games. The old gangs never
thought of goin' to dancin'-school to
learn dancin', as they took lessons on
street corners and stepped to the music
of the mouthorgan or jewsharp.
The Brady street gang held danc-
in'-school sessions at the corner of
Fourth, alongside the salt barrels at Hurto's grocery store,
Granger Wallace and his mouthorgan bein' the orchestra.
When them youngsters got so's they could waltz, schottische,
and polka, and go through quadrilles without a skip, they
tried out their work at the Mayday dance and children's ball
at Turner hall, on the Monday after bird-shootin' day at
Schuetzen.
The Goosehollow gang usta take dancin' lessons at the
corner of Eighth and Harrison, near Noth's brewery, and some
mighty fine dancers graduated from Goosehollow dancin'
school. There was Dandy Devine, Pete Shaughnessy, Jim
Devlin, Benny Stuehmer, Billy Carroll, Jim Sweeney, Hugo
Moeller, Job O'Brien, Lew Pickens, Buck Timothy, Shanley
McPartland, Cconey Raphael, Jimmy Gannon, Poker Devine,
Heiney Paulsen, Jimmy Stretch, Billy Shine, Dutch Stuehmer,
Teeson Carroll, Tom Boyd, Chooky Kuphal, Din Harrigan,
Henry Frahm, Owen Sweeney, Hoosier Osborn, Hoy Stueh-
mer, Stiffy Brophy, Jim Houghton, Frank Pillion, Duckfoot
McFarland, and a lota other young bloods that learned to
waltz on their toes, without touchin' their heels, while Bogus
McGee played "After the Ball" on the mouthorgan.
The Slough gang, down in the west end, had the best
outdoor dancin' school in the burg, though. Them lads had
/
2'27
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Scott County Kidneyfoot Club.
Charlie Seemaim, Hugo Vollstedt, Bill Koesten
228
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
regular nights for dancin' classes, down at John Schnaack's
corner, on Third and Howell, and the niftiest four-piece or-
chestra of any gang — not barrin' the Rogertowns, with Chris
Kuehl and his accordeon. Dutch Klauer was leader of that
famous orchestra, and he was the slickest jewsharp plunker
in town. Jack Powers done quivery, shaky stuff on the
mouthorgan, and Charlie Coen done jazz work, bazzooin'
through a piece of paper on a comb. Mike Malloy 'tended to
the bass movement by rubbin' a broom-handle across his finger
on a cracker box. Them musicianers held regular rehearsals,
and got goin' so flossy that they could get more action outa
"The Irish Washerwoman," "Finne-
gan's Wake," and other lively tunes
than Jakey Strasser, Ernst Otto, Bob
Sv/indell, or any of them music guys
that played by note.
One evenin', about nine o'clock,
when Fat Walsh was easin' heme from
work kinda early, the Slough boys v/as
caliin' "One more couple wanted!"— as
they was tryin' to fill t.vo sets fcr a
quadrille. So v/hen Fat stopped to chin
with Big Jim McMahon about a job of
gradin' they was doin', Byber Garvey
ast I at v/ould he do the caliin' for that dance, so's little Mike
Lamb could take his place with the head couple and fill out
the set. Pat said sure thing, that caliin' was his middle name,
and when he took his stand over near the orchestra he ast
them dancers was they all full, and they hollered not yet
but sGon — it bein' close to election time.
You kin tell 'em, sport, there was some fine steppin' that
evenin', with Pat Walsh caliin' that quadrille and the orches-
tra puttin' in its nastiest licks playin' "The Devil's Dream,"
"My Love Nell," and "The Leg of a Duck." Understand,
them boys was well organized and had a system workin' in
their dancin' classes, so's they could tell guys from gals v.'hen
dancin', the gals always havin' a handkerchief tied on their
arms — provided they was enough handkerchiefs in the gang
to go around.
229
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
The gals dancin' in the quadrille that evenin' were Minnis
McGrath, Scoop Cottrell, Toad Keating, Nibs Collins, Bum
McMahon, Chip Bryson, Doshen McGrath, Joe Steadiey,
Vonko Lynch, and Sheeney Powers, and all them birds had
handkerchiefs tied to their arms exceptin' Chip Bryson, who
was wearin' his red flannin undershirt, havin' been workin'
overtime at the foundry that evenin'. The guys that danced
were Heiney Sievers, Byber Garvey, Billy Lavery, Buer Mc-
Grath, Jimmy O'Brien, Tug Lynch, Jim Cooney, Zulo Haugh,
and Dick Malone, and they sure done some fancy steppin'.
Big Tom and Little Tom Garvey acted as floor managers, to
see that everything moved right, and when they hollered "All
set," Fat Walsh gave the higli-sign to Dutch Klauer, and then
called out, "First four right and left!" Pat sent them Slough
boys through their paces at top speed on all three changes
of the quadrille, and then he done the callin' for the Virginia
reel before goin' home.
Them Slough jakes certainly did hit it up that evenin',
sport, and when the orchestra played "Home, Sweet Home,"
for the last dance, they hadta pla}'' six encores before them
young buckos would let 'em put away their instriunents.
And that's how it came about thzt the boys of the Slough
gsng ccpped all the prizes for waltzin' at the social club dances
that was held in the Stockyards and Heineyhall in the old
days before the shimmy-shakers broke loose.
230
1 he Happy Ending.
^
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■S
£
.^^
EIN' as most folks is keen for happy endin' hoke,
sport, they won't stand for a leadpipe blowoff.
So, not havin' a chance to pull weddin'-bell soft-
stuff — outside of framin' the cruel and inhuman
against General Houston, or sumpin — just imagine.
A balmy October evenin', fifty years ago — the old Brady
street gang sittin' en the boardwalk in front of Lillis's grocery,
dangiin' their feet in the slabstone gutter. The harvest moon
rises slowly over the maples near Worley's livery barn, shim-
merin' its silvery rays in the crisp autumn air.
Old Murt Burns gives the highsign v/ith his red lantern
to Connie O'Brien on ingine seventy-two, and throws the
switch to give the right-of-way to the Kilkenny crew. That
janglin' bell you hear comin' up the street, sport, is on the
hoss that Henry Schnitger is drivin' on his bobtail street car.
John Haley and Fhil Nagle are arguin' politics with Job
Ross and Andy Butler in front of Dave Hunter's meat market.
Old Aunt Lucy and Granny Conyer toddle slowly along the
street, laughin' and enjoyin' theirselves, after a hard day's
v/ork at washin' and ironin'.
But listen, sport'! Hear that tinklin' guitar and the
singin', comin' up the street? That's the old quartet — Jim
Dermody, Tom Biddison, Joe Carroll, and Tommy Mack —
returnin' in the open landau v/ith Doc Worley, after sere-
nadin' down at Johnny McGuinness's.
And see that mob of kids follyin' 'em!
And look — there's Max Ochs and Lawrie the Coon,
comin' across the street from "Stingy" Black's ice cream par-
lor. If old Til don't bust in, to show his authority, they'll be
Gumpin doin' purty soon.
Who's that hollerin', eh? Oh, that's young Stony John-
ston, callin' to Doc Worley, astin' him won't he sing the "Old
Song," and Doc hollers back and says sure thing.
Now, sport, vv'e'll hear real melody when Doc gets
through plunkin' the prelude and rollin' the bass runs.
231
THEM WAS THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Listen! That's Jim Dermody's voice. He's singin' the
first verse cf the "Old Song," . . . and now comes the
chorus :
Just a song at twilight,
When the lights are low —
New — Tom Biddison and Tommy Mack join in with —
And the flickerin' shadows
Softly come and go —
That sweet-voiced tenor on the high notes, sport, is
Utile Joe Carroll, . . . and now they're all singin' —
Though the heart be weary,
Sad the day and long.
Still to me at twilight,
Comes love's old song
Now — listen to Doc Worley, Max Ochs, and Lawrie
the coon, with his deep-cellar bass, joinin' in, as they slow
down and put feelin' into the last line —
Comes love's — old sweet song.
Hear the applause of that big crowd, sport! Kinya
beat it! Say, boy — mebbe old Saint Feter has better singers
in that choir of his'n, waitin' to greet tired old timers when
the last call comes, but you can't make them birds believe
there's any niftier harmonizers inside the pearly gates until
Gabriel blcv/s his trumpet and says, "Come on, boys!"
That's real old time melody, sport, and nobody kin
blame a guy, after hearin" the old quartet, for throwin' out
his chest and tellin' all the world that
Them was the good old days.
■m^rm^
232
THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
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