The Mintage Part 8

UNCLE JOE AND AUNT MELINDA

The opinion prevails all through the truly rural districts that the big cities are for the most part given over to Confidence Men.

And the strange part is that the opinion is correct.

But it should not be a.s.sumed that all the people in, say, Buffalo, are moral derelicts-there are many visitors there, most of the time, from other sections.

And while at all times one should exercise caution, yet to a.s.sume that the party who is "fresh" is intent on high crimes and misdemeanors may be a rather hasty and unjust generalization.

For instance, there are Uncle Joe and Aunt Melinda, who live eight miles back from East Aurora, at Wales Hollow. They had been married for forty-seven years, and had never taken a wedding-journey. They decided to go to Buffalo and spend two days at a hotel regardless of expense.

Much had been told them about the Confidence Men who hang around the railroad-station, and they were prepared.

They arrived at East Aurora, where they were to take the train, an hour ahead of time. The Jerkwater came in and they were duly seated, when all at once Uncle Joe rushed for the door, jumped off and made for the waiting-room looking for his carpetbag. It was on the train all right, but he just forgot, and feeling sure he had left it in the station made the grand skirmish as aforesaid.

The result was that the train went off and left your Uncle Joseph.

Aunt Melinda was much exercised, but the train-hands pacified her by a.s.surances that her husband would follow on the next train, and she should simply wait for him in the depot at Buffalo.

Now the Flyer was right behind the Jerkwater, and Uncle Joe took the Flyer and got to Buffalo first. When the Jerkwater came in, Uncle Joe was on the platform waiting for Aunt Melinda.

As she disembarked he approached her.

She s.h.i.+ed and pa.s.sed on.

He persisted in his attentions.

Then it was that she shook her umbrella at him and bade him hike. The eternally feminine in her nature prompted self-preservation. She banked on her reason-woman's reason-not her intuition. She had started first-her husband could only come on a later train.

"Go 'way and leave me alone," she shouted in shrill falsetto. "You have got yourself up to look like my Joe-and that idiotic grin on your homely face is just like my Joe, but no city sharper can fool me, and if you don't go right along I'll call for the perlice!"

She called for the police, and Uncle Joe had to show a strawberry-mark to prove his ident.i.ty, before he received recognition.

To be your brother's keeper is beautiful if you do not cease to be his friend.

BILLY AND THE BOOK

One day last Winter in New York I attended a police court on a side street, just off lower Broadway. I was waiting to see my old friend Rosenfeld in the Equitable Life Building, but as his office didn't open up until nine o'clock, I put in my time at the police court.

There was the usual a.s.sortment of drunks, petty thieves-male and female, black, white and coffee-colored-disorderlies, vagabonds and a man in full-dress suit and a wide expanse of dull ecru s.h.i.+rt-bosom.

The place was stuffy, foul-smelling, and reeked with a stale combination of tobacco and beer and patchouli, and tears, curses, fear and promises unkept.

The Judge turned things off, but without haste. He showed more patience and consideration than one usually sees on the bench. His judgments seemed to be gentle and just.

The courtroom was clearing, and I started to go.

As I was pa.s.sing down the icy steps a piping child's voice called to me, "Mister, please give me a lift!"

There at the foot of the steps, standing in the snow, was a slender slip of a girl, yellow and earnest, say ten years old, with a shawl pinned over her head. She held in her hand a rope, and this rope was tied to a hand-sled. On this sled sat a little boy, s.h.i.+vering, dumpy and depressed, his bare red hands clutching the seat.

"Mister, I say, please give me a lift!"

"Sure!" I said.

It was a funny sight.

This girl seemed absolutely unconscious of herself. She was not at all abashed, and very much in earnest about something.

Evidently she had watched the people coming out and had waited until one appeared that she thought safe to call on for help.

"Of course I'll give you a lift-what is it you want me to do?"

"I've got to go inside and see the Judge. It's about my brudder here.

He is six, goin' on seven, and they sent him home from school 'cause they said he wasn't old enough. I'm going to have that teacher 'rested. I've got the Bible here that says he's six years old. If you'll carry the book I'll bring Billy and the sled!"

"Where is the Bible?" I asked.

"Billy's settin' on it."

It was a big, black, greasy Family Bible, evidently a relic of better days. It had probably been hidden under the bed for safety.

The girl grappled the sled with one hand, and with the other Billy's little red fist.

I followed, carrying the big, black, greasy Family Bible.

Evidently this girl had been here before. She walked around the end of the judicial bar, and laid down the sled. Then she took the Bible out of my hands. It was about all she could do to lift it.

In a shrill, piping voice, full of business, and very much in earnest, she addressed the Judge: "I say, Mister Judge, they sent my brudder Billy away from school, they did. He's six, goin' on seven, and I want that teacher 'rested and brought here so you can tell her to let Billy go to school. Here is our Family Bible-you can see for yourself how old Billy is!"

The Judge adjusted his gla.s.ses, stared, and exclaimed, "G.o.d bless my soul!"

Then he called a big, blue-coated officer over and said: "Mike, you go with this little girl and her brother, and tell that teacher, if possible, to allow the boy to go to school; that I say he is old enough. You understand! If you do not succeed, come back and tell me why."

The officer smiled and saluted.

The big policeman took the little boy in his arms. The girl carried the sled, and I followed with the Family Bible.