It was a swift squad of sports that climbed into a coach and allowed themselves to be yanked over the rails in the direction of Chicago one morning last week.
A bunch of brisk boys—believe me!
"A bunch of brisk boys—believe me!"
Nick Dalrymple, Tod Stone, Slim Barnes—say! do you remember Slim?
Travels for a clothing house in Cincinnati and they call him Slim because he's so fat that every time he turns around he meets himself coming back.
He's all to the good—that boy is!
And such a cut-up!
Slim knows more "look-out!—there's - a - lady - over - there!" stories than any other drummer in the business.
Nick goes after the gilt things for a hardware house in Columbus and he knows everybody in the world—bar no one living.
Nick has only one trouble, he will paddle after the ponies.
Whenever he makes a town where there's a pool room his expense account gets fat and beefy, and Nick begins to worry for fear he may win something.
He won $12 in Cleveland once and he spent $218 at a boozeologist's that night getting statistics on how it happened.
Tod Stone cuts ice for a match factory in Newark and he's the life of a small party.
Tod's main hold is to creep into the "reading room" of a Rube hotel after the chores are done of an evening and throw salve at the come-ons.
Tod tells them that their town is the brightest spot on the map and they warm up to him and want to buy him sarsaparilla and root beer.
Then when he gets them stuck on themselves he sells them matches.
"Pipe the gang to quarters and all rubber!" said Slim, about half an hour after the train pulled out.
In the seat ahead of us a somewhat demure looking Proposition in rainbow rags had been sampling the scenery ever since we started.
We had all given her the glad glance but she was very much Cold Storage, so we passed it up.
As Slim spoke, the Proposition was joined by a young chap with a loose face who had been out in the smoking room working faithfully on one of those pajama panatella cigars that bite you on the ringer if you show the least sign of fear.
Just then the train stopped for a few minutes and we were put wise to the fact that it was an incurable case of bride and groom.
"Oh! Boozey is back to his Birdie!" said the brand new wife; "did Boozey like his smoky woky?"
Boozey opened a bunch of grins and sat down while wifey patted his cheek and cooed:
"Is ums glad to get back to ums 'ittle wifey-pifey?"
Nick Dalrymple and Tod Stone began to scream inwardly and Slim was chuckling like a pet porpoise.
"Sweetie mustn't be angry with Petie, but Sweetie is sitting on Petie's 'ittle hand!" said the bride, whereupon Tod exploded and Slim began to grab for his breath.
A Dutch brewer and his wife sat right ahead of Boozey and Birdie and every once in a while the old hop puncher would turn around and beam benignly over the gold rims at the bride.
"Boozie must snuggy-wuggy up closer to his Coozie and skeeze her 'itty arm—no, no, not her waist! you naughty! naughty!"
The brewer was back at the bride with another gold-rimmed goo-goo when his wife got nervous and cut in:
"Is id you turn your face to see someding—yes?" she snapped, and the foam builder ducked to the window and began to eat scenery.
Dalrymple was almost out; Tod was under the seat sparring for wind; Slim was giving an imitation of a coal-barge in a heavy sea, and the rest of the passengers were in various stages from hiccoughs to convulsions.
"Is Boozey comfy wif his 'itty weeny teeny Birdie?" chirped the bride.
"Boozey is so happy wif his izzy-wizzy!" gurgled the husband; "how's my 'ittle girley wirly?"
"Oh! she's such a happy wappy 'ittle fing!" giggled the dotty dame, pinching her piggie's ear, whereupon the brewer tried to hand the bride another gasoline gaze, but the old lady caught him with the goods:
"Is id to my face you go behind my back to make googley-googley eyes ad somevun—yes?" she growled, and in a minute the brewer's brow was busy with the window pane.
"Sweetie looks at Petie and Sweetie sees that Petie's p'etty face is getting sunburned, so it is!" cuckooed Mrs. Daffy; "and Sweetie has a dood mind to tiss him, too!"
They opened a newspaper, crawled under cover and began to bite each other on the chin.
"Go as far as you like!" said Slim, then he went down and out.
The man who helped to make Weehawken famous had his head out the window watching for an ice-wagon, and Mrs. Brewer was industriously muttering "Du bist ein Narr. Du bist ein Narr!"
Just then the train pulled out and saved our lives.
Nick, Tod, Slim and I went over near the water-cooler to rest up, and in a minute the three of them were fanning each other with fairy tales about the goods they sold.
I'll back these three boys to dream longer than any other drummers on the track.
It's a pipe that they can sell bills to each other all day and never wake up.
Slim turned the gas on to the limit about hypnotizing a John Wanamaker merchant prince in Pikesville, Indiana, to the extent of $200 for open-work socks, farmer's size, and Todd Stone sent his balloon up by telling us how he sold the Siegel-Coopers of Bugsport, Iowa, $300 worth of Panama hats for horses.
The Hot Air Association was in full session when Buck Jones caromed over from the other end of the car and weighed-in with us.
Buck is a sweller.
He thinks he strikes twelve on all occasions, but his clock is all to the bad.
Buck isn't a drummer—nay! nay! take back your gold!
He'll look you straight in the eye and tell you he's a travelling salesman—nix on the drummer!
I think Buck sells canned shirt waists for the Shine Brothers.
Buck's wife and a three-year-old were traveling with him, but he wasn't giving it out through a megaphone.
Buck is one of those goose-headed guys who begin to scratch gravel and start in to make a killing every time they see a pretty girl.
Across the aisle sat two pet canaries from Plainfield, New Jersey.
They were members of the Soubrette Stinging Society and they were en route to the West to join the "Bunch of Birds Burlesque Company."
Their names were Millie and Tillie and they wore Florodora hats and did a sister act that contained more bad grammar than an East Side pinochle game.
Millie was fully aware that she could back Duse off the map, and Tillie was ready to bet a week's salary that she could make Bernhardt feel like she was out in the storm we had day before yesterday.
Slim called them the Roast-Beef Sisters, Rare and Well-done.
In a minute the castors on Buck's neck began to turn.
Slim put us wise with a wink so we lit the fire and began to cook it up.
Buck's heart was warming for the birds in the gilded cage.
"The real Kibo!" said Slim; "it's a plain case of Appomattox; the war is over and they are yours, Buck!"
Buck turned a few more volts into his twinkling lamps.
"Lower your mainsail, Buck, and drop alongside; you've made the landing," suggested Nick.
Buck began to feel his necktie and play patty-cake with the little bald spot on the top of his head.
"Stop the hansom and get out; you're at your corner," said Tod.
The Sweet Dreams across the way were giving Buck the glorious eye-roll and he felt that dinner was ready.
"Hang up your hat, Buck, and gather the myrtle with Mary!" I chipped in.
Then Buck bounced over and began to show Millie and Tillie what a handsome brute he was at close quarters.
He sat on the arm of the seat and steamed up.
In less than a minute he crowded the information on them that he was a millionaire who had escaped from Los Angeles, Cal., and he was just going to put them both in grand opera when his three-year-old toddled down the aisle and grabbed him by the coat tail:
"Papa! Mama wants 'oo to det my bottle of milk!"
"Stung!" shrieked Slim.
"Back to the nursery!" howled Tod, and then as Buck crawled away to home and mother we let out a yell that caused the conductor to think the train had struck a Wild West show.
During the rest of the trip Buck was nailed to his seat.
Every time he tried to use the elastic in his neck the wife would burn him with a hard, cold glitter.
The Roast-Beef Sisters seemed to be all carved up about something or other.
We were back to the shop selling things again when Sledgeheimer fluttered down among us.
The boys call him putty because he's the next thing to a pane.
He's such a stingy loosener that he looks at you with one eye so's not to waste the other.
If you ask Sledgeheimer what time it is he takes off four minutes as his commission for telling you.
"Barnes," said Sledgeheimer, "do you smoke?"
It was a knock-out.
In the annals of the road no one could look back to the proud day when Sledgeheimer had coughed.
Once, so the legend runs, he gave a porter a nickel, but it was afterwards discovered that Sledgeheimer was asleep and not responsible at the time, so the porter gave it back.
Sledgeheimer tried to collect three cents interest for the time the porter kept the nickel, and the conductor had to punch his mileage and his nose before he'd let go.
And now Sledgeheimer had asked Barnes if he smoked.
Slim was pale but game.
"Sometimes!" he answered.
"Do you like a goot seegar?" queried Sledgeheimer.
We looked for the engine to hit a cow any minute now.
"Sure!" said Slim, weak all over.
"Vell," said Sledgeheimer, "here is my brudder-in-law's card. He makes dot Grass Vidow seegar on Sigsth Afenue. Gif him a call und mention my name. He vill be glat to see you, yet."
Then Sledgeheimer went away back and sat down.
The laugh was on Slim so he got busy with the button.