Epistles from Pap: Letters from the man known as 'The Will Rogers of Indiana' Part 11

The following two letters relate to Pap's experience at losing more money than he had counted on during a visit to the hospital.

August 10, 1939

My dear Mr. & Mrs. Cunningham: You are probably slightly interested in knowing how I came out in my run-in with the Methodist Hospital over my hospital bill and some money I lost. I am therefore enclosing Benson's letter to me and a copy of one I just mailed him.

George, I want to thank you for being willing to say just what you knew and saw about my having any money on me at the time of the accident, because by reason of what you saw and knew, I just had to have two $1 bills and some other money in a bill or bills.

Those facts helped write the enclosed letter to Benson. Then too, you know how a jury goes in a hotel run-in with somebody who isn't worth much, or anything. You don't have a chance. Same way with a hospital or a railroad. It's too bad it is that way, but it is.

And now Mrs. Cunningham.. . . I don't know what was the matter with my mental processes last Tuesday noon when I was in the hotel and called you. I knew I was going straight in to eat with Ike--I'd much rather have eaten with you--but I never thought of asking you to come along and break bread with me. And now listen how I thereby missed an opportunity to advance my social standing. When I got in, there was our Labor-loving Democratic State Chairman feeding his brother and some other "loyal Democratic worker" off of our famous 2% Club money, over on one side, and John Frenzel over in the corner feeding himself off of usurious interest money he had wrangled out of some unfortunate borrower. We'll cut out the Organized Labor-loving State Chairman and get to Frenzel, who is somebody--as a man and every other way including a whale of a good Banker with a whale of a good Bank.

Now just suppose I had been escorting you into the dining room--you and your stately and dignified walk and manner, and Frenzel had looked up through a cigarette smoke fog. He wouldn't have believed his eyes. He'd have said to himself: "My G--, that can't be her with Andy Durham from that little jerk water bank down in Russellville. Yes it is, sure as I'm of German extraction! W-e-l-l, next time he comes in my place I'll not have the police lead him out like I wanted to do last time he was in.

I'll bring him right back behind the rail to my desk and get better acquainted with him. He just has to be somebody--although he sure doesn't look it, and I'd never have guessed it."

See what an opportunity I missed if I could have had you along I'll never do it again, even if I have to pay for a rum sour or whatever it is you get to go with your meals.

As ever,

August 10, 1939 John C. Benson, Superintendent Methodist Episcopal Hospital Indianapolis, Indiana

My dear John: . . . Your adjustment offer on my hospital bill, under the circ.u.mstances, would seem fair to any disinterested person. You offered to reduce the bill by $24.35, and I insisted my loss was either $27 or $32, not knowing which myself--which looks rather bad on its face, for me.

But John, as sure as Meharry Hall is in the middle campus, and the Democrats are G.o.d's chosen, some low fellow (I'd ordinarily use a four-word combination we use and thoroughly understand over at Russellville to characterize certain men folks) there at your hospital rifled my clothes--and got either $27 or $32 in bills.

The last thing I did before leaving Mooresville the night of the accident was to pull out my modest roll and give Doc White a $5 bill, and he gave me back two $1 bills, that I folded with the others and then put in my little watch, or ticket pocket, in the upper front part of my britches. Mr. George Cunningham, manager of the Claypool Hotel, saw that, and so did Doc White of Mooresville, I think. Then Mr. Cunningham and his wife and I got in his car, Mr. Cunningham in the front seat driving, and Mrs.

Cunningham and I in back, and went direct to your place. Mr.

Cunningham couldn't have robbed me, and wouldn't have if he could (there's some wording for you); it would be heresy to think Mrs.

C. would (if you know her); anybody would have to be a h.e.l.l of a sight worse off than I was to go broadcasting $1 bills enroute to a place like yours, knowing full well if he had any sense at all that if he stayed there a week he'd have to mortgage the back 40 to get paid out. So that last theory is plumb out. And all that remains is the aforesaid "low fellow."

The weak spot in my whole story is expecting the other fellow to believe me, and me alone as to just how much I had in money. I don't like to be in that position. I wouldn't want the other fellow to expect me to take his word for what he had. That's something like our railroad troubles. I've been attorney here for the New York Central since about 1916. In all that time we've never killed any live stock that wasn't a thoroughbred. All railroad attorneys get used to that and expect it. So four or five years ago the Springfield, Ill., Division of the B & O that runs through my farm at Russellville (and whose trains on that particular division run more by the compa.s.s than on the rails) killed my registered Hereford bull with one of its pa.s.senger trains. I knew their General Attorney at Cincinnati quite well, so I wrote him the facts and ended by saying, "and as is usual in railroad cases, he was a thoroughbred." Right back came his answer: "Your thoroughbred bull has nothing on us. We want you to distinctly understand ours is a thoroughbred train". But he paid me on a thoroughbred basis.

As the man on the farm says when he starts to give me advice: "Now, I don't want to tell you how to run your business, but I'd do so and so", so now in like manner I want to urgently request that you check up on everybody who handled my clothes from the time they took them from me in the X-ray room, or whatever it was, until the clothes got back in my room, and keep a watch on him or them. . . Whoever did it to me will try it again.

And now, I do have a request to make, and it's for my own benefit. Please call Mr. Cunningham at the Claypool and see if my story about the money is in fact true insofar as he knows. Then question Doc White next time he comes in. . . Anybody who is anybody would want to furnish as much outside proof as he might be able to get. Now John, don't come back at me by saying you don't have to ask Mr. Cunningham and Doc White because you believe everything I say, like Mr. Hess did over the telephone.

Somehow that sort of nettled me. Mr. Hess doesn't know me from Al Capone. I'm serious in what I ask, and I'm going to check-up on you, old timer . . .

Respectfully, Andrew Durham

ASKING HELP WITH MONEY

September 25, 1939 Mr. Wilbur O. C--, Lebanon, Indiana

My Dear Wib: I was in Lebanon the other day and called you, but your good wife said you were in Lafayette.

Wib, here is what I wanted to see you about. Frank is in Law School and needs new clothes. I am in need of some money badly, and want you to help me out all you can. I am enclosing a copy of your note, with all the credits on the back. I am also enclosing a blank note. I had Ward Mayhall, down at Central National Bank figure out the balance of princ.i.p.al and interest as of Sept. 21, 1939--$157.55 on that date. So please send me a check for all you possibly can, and if you can't pay all, then please date the blank note, make it payable in thirty days like the old one, and for such sum as is the difference between what your check amounts to and the sum of $157.55; sign and send to me along with the check, and I will be greatly obliged. The old note is simply covered with Intangible Stamps, with no room to put on any more credits. . .

Cordially,

October 30, 1939 Mr. Wilbur O. C.

Rochester, Indiana Care of Barrett Hotel

My Dear Wib: I am enclosing the note dated October 1, 1939 which you sent me some weeks ago, for the reason it does not seem to be drawn properly. The figures show the amount to be $160, but the writing shows an even $100. The former seems to be right.

I have been getting ready for Joan's wedding in New York next month, and have not had time to make this explanation and get a letter off to you until now. And anyway, it has been a month now and perhaps you can send me a check for something at the same time you execute the enclosed new note and send it back to me.

The Lord knows I am in need of cash at this time--in fact I have been needing cash about all my life it would appear. . .

When I get the new note back in the correct amount, I will cancel the old one that is all gummed-up with Intangibles.

Respectfully,

IT'S NO PICNIC

November 15, 1939

My dear Miss Robbins: About the time you are perusing this tender missive, we and our oversized family will be on the "Southwestern" en route New York City and Joan's wedding, which latter will occur at St.

Bartholomew's at 4 p.m. on the afternoon of the eve of Lord's Day next.

Let me tell you about another trip on the same Southwestern that happened about 14 years ago. Joan was 13 and Sugar Foot still getting regular eye doses of boric acid, and Ann Drew just out of the boric acid period, and so on up the line, when the Fair Calantha, as was her custom from time immemorial, started on safari via New York to Milford, Penna. She had pa.s.ses--but what pa.s.ses! Not good on Number this, and not good on No. that. In desperation I went to the General Superintendent, good old B.C.

Byers, told him my troubles, and asked if he would make them good on the Knickerbocker. He looked at the pa.s.ses, then at me, and said: "Why, you've only got walking pa.s.ses." He thought a minute, then: "A woman with six little children has no business getting into New York City at 3 or 4 p.m.--then across town and the ferry to Jersey City, then by Erie to Port Jervis, N.Y., and then by auto into the mountains. Give me those pa.s.ses. I'll make them good on No. 12. I'll make your reservations, and I'll have No. 12 stop at Greencastle and pick them up." All the which he did.

The train stopped, and old man Keith happened to be the conductor. He was in a huff about having to stop his long heavy train at any town like Greencastle. He stood to one side and the patrons started climbing up the steps: Mother, nurse, kids, boxes, suit cases, bird cages, more kids, grips, violin cases, dolls, milk, kids, a kitten, lunch boxes and more kids. He turned to me and asked, "Is this a picnic or a family?"

I said: "It's a family--and they're no picnic by a d-- sight."

Yours,

AUNT MARGARET'S SPLASH IN JOURNALISM

December 3, 1939

My dear Julia and Anna: I saw a couple of "features" written by Joan and published in today's Indianapolis Sunday Star, so I clipped them, and here they are. One uses her own by-line, and the other "Betty Clarke."

If I get the story right, some Betty Clarke wrote for the a.s.sociated Press on cosmetics, etc. Her successors have used that same name in turn. When Joan writes on foods, she uses a by-line of a "Mrs." somebody--I don't know the name--because a younger unmarried woman now-a-days knows practically nothing about foods and wouldn't be believed, or taken seriously. . .

Well, as you know, Joan was married in St. Bartholomew's Church (Episcopal) in New York City Nov. 18 last. She married a William H. (Taft) McGaughey, as you may already know if you read Walter Winch.e.l.l's column of Nov. 5th, I think it was. "Bill" is a former DePauw boy, a Phi Gam., graduated here about 1932. Was a reporter for the Indianapolis News after leaving school, then to the New York Herald-Tribune, I think it was; then on the Wall Street Journal, and now is Editor of the American Automobile Manufacturers a.s.sociation Magazine, or some such name. Heretofore it has been edited in New York, but after January 1st next, they move him and the magazine, and Joan, etc., to Detroit, Mich., where the magazine will continue to be published. Therefore, if I understand it right, Joan will lose her job with A.P, and become a housewife--Good Gosh A'mighty!!--Giving up a job like that to become anybody's housewife--I don't care who, or where he comes from--and just when she had struck her stride. Understand I'm not kicking--he's a fine young fellow and alright in every particular, so far as I know and can learn. I'm just thinking out loud. . .

We were all at the wedding--the whole family, including Aunt Margaret, Sarah Jane and her husband. We stayed at the Waldorf- Astoria, just across the street from St. Bartholomew's . . . and otherwise disported ourselves as Russellville blue-bloods. And that reminds me of Aunt Margaret's splurge in the realm of journalism (Aunt Margaret lives at Russellville). Well, when Aunt M. learned Joan was to be married, she wrote Joan a real homey letter about it, including therein a recital of what she did in preparation for her own wedding years and years ago; that she began preparations a year ahead, made towels, spreads, dish cloths, muslin garments (I don't know what she meant by that) etc., saying she had some of them yet and about as good as new.

You know the secret, if it was that--Aunt M. tried to "learn" the girls to be economical. . . She went on to say she hoped Joan and her husband would be well and happy, and would try to make home their chief object in life. And so on, in that sort of vein.

What do you suppose Joan did with that letter? She turned it over to another A.P Feature writer, and he sent it out over the whole world about as follows: "A very charming young woman I know here in New York is about to be married. Her old-fas.h.i.+oned aunt out in Russellville, Indiana, wrote her a letter about marriage, which in view of the present day stress and strain and disregard of marriage vows, we think deserves a wider publicity. Here it is."

Then he quoted the letter. The Greencastle paper got hold of the release and printed it. Aunt Margaret got hold of the Greencastle paper and almost swooned. When she got to New York for the wedding, she found she was a famous writer and almost swooned again. Then she got sort of tickled and concluded it might make some of these young persons think, and eventually do some good. I have no copy, or I would send it. At the time, I was so busy rigging up my own trea.s.seau, or however you spell it, I didn't take time to save any copy.

I think I should tell you about my wedding-clothes troubles.

Joan's was my third wedding. When Sarah Jane married two years ago she wanted an evening wedding at Gobin Memorial Church here.

That called for a dress suit for the old man. Mine was of the 1910 vintage. I thought that wasn't so terrible bad, but when I got it separated from the moth b.a.l.l.s and camphor, I found that one or the other of them, or both, had tended to shrink it tremendously. Whatever it was seemed to have centered the attack on the waist band of the pants. Then too, some "low comedian"

here at the house said the lapels looked like those of an "end man" in a Russellville home talent minstrel, and another said the tails were too short and seemed blunt and worn off, like an old feather duster. Now that couldn't be, because practically the last time I wore it was at my own wedding. I had put a telegram in an inside pocket--and there it was: "Veedersburg, Indiana, November 24, 1910. Sorry we can't be there but we're with you to a man. Congratulations. Fred S. Purnell." Well, we wound up in a one-sided compromise--a new dress suit from Bro. McMurray, 201 Board of Trade Bldg., Indpls, Ind.

Along came Joan wanting a 4 p.m. St. Bartholomew's wedding. That called for a "cut-away." So again I went to interview Bro.

McMurray. He was delighted and thoroughly in favor. When I went up for a try-on, while Bro. McMurray was chalk-marking here and there, I took a hurried look in the gla.s.s, and Holy Nellie! What I saw took me back instantly to "Old Prince" at Russellville. Old Prince is a 26-year-old faded-out black work horse I own, spavined, two splints and stiff as Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish. In that cutaway, I looked like Old Prince in a set of track harness.

I hope Margaret marries before the j.a.panese take the country, and that Ann doesn't decide on a gra.s.s dress.