d’ lock-step. I’ve seen a heap of mugs who does d’ last.
“Anyhow, whatever he does, it gets to be a case of Hummin’ Boid, an’ dey brings me gay scrapper or kicker, whichever he is, out for punishment. An’ this is what he gets ag’inst:
“Dey sets him in a high trough, same as dey waters a horse wit’, see! Foist dey shucks d’ mark – peels off his make-up down to d’ buff. An’ then dey sets him in d’ trough, like I says, wit’ mebby its eight inches of water in it.
“Then he’s strapped be d’ ankles, an’ d’ fins, and about his waist, so he can’t do nothin’ but stay where he is. A sawbones gets him be d’ pulse, an’ one of them ‘lectrical stiffs t’rows a wire, which is one end of d’ battery, in d’ water. D’ wire, which is d’ other end, finishes in a wet sponge. An’ say! hully hell! when dey touches a poor mark wit’ d’ sponge end on d’ shoulder, or mebby d’ elbow, it completes d’ circuit, see! an’ it’ll fetch such a glory hallelujah yelp out of him as would bring a deef an’ dumb asylum into d’ front yard to find out what d’ row’s about.
“It’s d’ same t’ing as d’ chair at Sing Sing, only not so warm. It’s enough, though, to make d’ toughest mug t’row a fit. No one stands for a secont trip; one touch of d’ Hummin’ Boid! an’ a duck’ll welch on anyt’ing you says – do anyt’ing, be anyt’ing; only so youse let up and don’t give him no more. D’ mere name of Hummin’ Boid’s good enough to t’run a scare into d’ hardest an’ d’ woist of ‘em, onct dey’s had a piece.
“As I says about Mollie: it seems them Indians gives him d’ Hummin’ Boid; an’ dey gives him d’ gaff too deep. But I’ve got to chase meself now, and pump some dope into him. I ought to land Mollie right side up in a week. An’ then I’ll bring him over to this boozin’ ken of ours, an’ cap youse a knock-down to him. Ta! ta!”
GASSY THOMPSON, VILLAIN
WESTERN humour is being severely spoken of by the close personal friends of Peter Dean. Less than a year ago, Peter Dean left the paternal roof on Madison Avenue and plunged into the glowing West. On the day of his departure he was twenty-three; not a ripe age. He had studied mining and engineering, and knew in those matters all that science could tell. His purpose in going West was to acquire the practical part of his chosen profession. Peter Dean believed in knowing it all; knowing it with the hands as well as with the head.
Thus it befell that young Peter Dean, on a day to be remembered, tossed a careless kiss to his companions and fled away into the heart of the continent. Then his hair was raven black. Months later, when he returned, it was silver white. Western humour had worked the change; therefore the criticism chronicled. Peter Dean tells the following story of the bleaching:
“At Creede I met a person named Thompson; ‘Gassy’ Thompson he was called by those about him, in testimony to his powers as a conversationist. A barkeeper, who seemed the best-informed and most gentlemanly soul in town, told me that Gassy Thompson was a miner full of practical skill, and that he was then engaged in sinking a shaft. I might arrange with Gassy and learn the business. At the barkeeper’s hint, I proposed as much to Gassy Thompson.
“‘All right!’ said Gassy; ‘come out to the shaft to-morrow.’
“The next day I was at the place appointed. The shaft was already fifty feet deep. Besides myself and this person, Gassy, who was to tutor me, there was a creature named Jim. This made three of us.
“At the suggestion of Gassy, he and I descended into the shaft; Jim was left on the surface. We went down by means of a bucket, Jim unwinding us from a rickety old windlass.
“Once down, Gassy and I, with sledge and drill, perpetrated a hole in the bottom of the shaft. I held the drill, Gassy wielding the sledge. When the hole met the worshipful taste of my tutor, he put in a dynamite cartridge, connected a long, five-minute fuse therewith, and carefully thumbed it about and packed it in with wet clay.
“At Gassy’s word, I was then hauled up from the shaft by Jim. I added my strength to the windlass, Gassy climbed into the bucket, lighted the fuse, and was then swiftly wound to the surface by Jim and myself. We then dragged the windlass aside, covered the mouth of the shaft, and quickly scampered to a distance, to be out of harm’s reach.
“At the end of five minutes from the time that Gassy lighted the fuse, and perhaps three minutes after we had cleared away, the shot exploded with a deafening report. Tons of rock were shot up from the mouth of the shaft, full fifty feet in the air. It was all very impressive, and gave me a lesson in the tremendous power of dynamite. I was much pleased, and felt as if I were learning.
“Following the explosion Gassy and I again repaired to the bottom of the shaft. After clearing away the débris and sending it up and out by the bucket, we resumed the sledge and drill. We completed another hole and were ready for a second shot. This was about noon.
“It was at this point that the miscreant, Gassy, began to put into action a plot he had formed against me, and to carry out which the murderer, Jim, lent ready aid. You must remember that I had perfect confidence in these two villains.
“‘I never seed no tenderfoot go along like you do at this business,’ said Gassy Thompson to me.
“This was flattery. The miscreant was fattening me for the sacrifice.
“‘Looks like you was born to be a miner,’ he went on. ‘Now, I’m goin’ to let you fire the next shot. Usual, I wouldn’t feel jestified in allowin’ a tenderfoot to fire a shot for plumb three months. But you has a genius for minin’; it comes as easy to you as robbin’ a bird’s nest. I’d be doin’ wrong to hold you back.’
“Of course, I naturally felt pleased. To be allowed to fire a dynamite shot on my first day in the shaft I felt and knew to be an honour. I determined to write home to my friends of this triumph.
“Gassy said he’d put in the shot, and he selected one of giant size. I saw the herculean explosive placed in the hole; then he attached the fuse and thumbed the clay about it as before. He gave me a few last words.
“‘After I gets up,’ he said, ‘an’ me an’ Jim’s all ready, you climb into the bucket an’ light the fuse. Then raise the long yell to me an’ Jim, an’ we’ll yank ye out. But be shore an’ light the fuse. There’s nothin’ more discouragin’ than for to wait half an* hour outside an’ no cartridge goin’ off. Especial when it goes off after you comes back to see what’s the matter with her. So be shore an’ light the fuse, an’ then Jim an’ me’ll run you up the second follerin’. This oughter be a great day for you, young man! firin’ a shot this away, the first six hours you’re a miner!’
“Jim and Gassy were at the windlass and yelled:
“‘All ready below?’
“I was in the bucket and at the word scratched a match and lit the fuse. It sputtered with alarming ardour, and threw off a shower of sparks.
“‘Hoist away!’ I called.
“The villains ran me up about twenty-five feet, and came to a dead halt. At this they seemed to get into an altercation. They both abandoned the windlass, and I could hear them cursing, threatening, and shooting; presumably at each other.
“‘I’ll blow your heart out!’ I heard Gassy say.
“My alarm was without a limit. I’d seen one dynamite cartridge go off. Here I was, swinging some twenty-five feet over a still heavier charge, and about
