The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI. (of X.)

by Rick Raphael

  "Obey," thundered the Vice-Pontiff, "and all will be well!"

  Stevens resumed the Clue. At the station of the next officer to whom itbrought him, the nature of faith was explained to him, and he was giventhe password, "Ichthus," whispered so that all in that part of the roomcould hear the interdicted syllables. But he was adjured never, never toutter it, unless to the Guardian of the Portal on entering the lodge, tothe Deacon Militant on the opening thereof, or to a member, when he,Stevens, should become Sovereign Pontiff. Then he was faced toward theVice-Pontiff, and told to answer loudly and distinctly the questionsasked him.

  "What is the lesson inculcated in this Degree?" asked the Vice-Pontifffrom the other end of the room.

  "Obedience!" shouted Stevens in reply.

  "What is the password of this Degree?"

  "Ichthus!" responded Stevens.

  A roll of stage-thunder sounded deafeningly over his head. The piano wasswept by a storm of bass passion; and deep cries of "Treason! Treason!"echoed from every side. Poor Stevens tottered, and fell into a chairplaced by the Deacon Militant. He saw the enormity of the deed of shamehe had committed. He had told the password!

  "You have all heard this treason," said the Sovereign Pontiff, in thedeepest of chest-tones--"a treason unknown in all the centuries of thepast! What is the will of the conclave?"

  "I would imprecate on the traitor's head," said a voice from one of thehigh-backed chairs, "the ancient doom of the Law!"

  "Doom, doom!" said all in unison, holding the "oo" in a mostblood-curdling way. "Pronounce doom!"

  "One fate, and one alone," pronounced the Sovereign Pontiff, "can beyours. Brethren, let him forthwith be encased in the Chest of theClanking Chains, and hurled from the Tarpeian Rock, to be dashed infragments at its stony base!"

  Amidon's horror was modified by the evidences of repressed glee withwhich this sentence was received. Yet he felt a good deal of concern asthey brought out a great chest, threw the struggling Stevens into it,slammed down the ponderous lid and locked it. Stevens kicked at the lid,but said nothing. The members leaped with joy. A great chain was broughtand wrapped clankingly about the chest.

  "Let me out," now yelled the Christian Martyr. "Let me out, damn you!"

  "Doom, do-o-o-oom!" roared the voices; and said the Sovereign Pontiff inimpressive tones, "Proceed with the execution!"

  Now the chest was slung up to a hook in the ceiling, and gradually drawnback by a pulley until it was far above the heads of the men, the chainsmeanwhile clanking continually against the receptacle, from which cameforth a stream of smothered profanity.

  "Hurl him down to the traitor's death!" shouted the Sovereign Pontiff.The chest was loosed, and swung like a pendulum lengthwise of the room,down almost to the floor and up nearly to the ceiling. The profanity nowturned into a yell of terror. The Martyrs slapped one another's backsand grew blue in the face with laughter. At a signal, a light box wasplaced where the chest would crush it (which it did with a sound like asmall railway collision); the chest was stopped and the lid raised.

  "Let the body receive Christian burial," said the Sovereign Pontiff."Our vengeance ceases with death."

  This truly Christian sentiment was received with universal approval.Death seemed to all a good place at which to stop.

  "Brethren," said the Deacon Militant, as he struggled with the resurgentStevens, "there seems some life here! Methinks the heart beats, and--"

  The remainder of the passage from the ritual was lost to Amidon byreason of the fact that Stevens had placed one foot against the Deacon'sstomach and hurled that august officer violently to the floor.

  "Let every test of life be applied," said the Sovereign Pontiff."Perchance some higher will than ours decrees his preservation. Take thebody hence for a time; if possible, restore him to life, and we willconsider his fate."

  The recess which followed was clearly necessary to afford an opportunityfor the calming of the risibilities of the Martyrs. The stage, too, hadto be reset. Amidon's ethnological studies had not equaled his readingin _belles-lettres_, and he was unable to see the deep significance ofthese rites from an historical standpoint, and that here was a survivalof those orgies to which our painted and skin-clad ancestors devotedthemselves in spasms of religious frenzy, gazed at by the cave-bear andthe mammoth. The uninstructed Amidon regarded them as inconceivablehorse-play. While thus he mused, Stevens, who was still hoodwinked andbeing greatly belectured on the virtue of Faith and the duty ofObedience, reentered on his ordeal.

  He was now informed by the officer at the other end of the room thatevery man must ascend into the Mountains of Temptation and be tested,before he could be pronounced fit for companionship with Martyrs.Therefore, a weary climb heavenward was before him, and a great trial ofhis fidelity. On his patience, daring and fortitude depended all hisfuture in the Order. He was marched to a ladder and bidden to ascend.

  "I," said the Deacon Militant, "upon this companion stair will accompanyyou."

  But there was no other ladder and the Deacon Militant had to stand upona chair.

  Up the ladder labored Stevens, but, though he climbed manfully, heremained less than a foot above the floor. The ladder went down like atreadmill, as Stevens climbed--it was an endless ladder rolled down onStevens' side and up on the other. The Deacon Militant, from his perchon the chair, encouraged Stevens to climb faster so as not to beoutstripped. With labored breath and straining muscles he climbed, theMartyrs rolling on the floor in merriment all the more violent becausesilent. Amidon himself laughed to see this strenuous climb, sostrikingly like human endeavor, which puts the climber out of breath,and raises him not a whit--except in temperature. At the end of perhapsfive minutes, when Stevens might well have believed himself a hundredfeet above the roof, he had achieved a dizzy height of perhaps six feet,on the summit of a stage-property mountain, where he stood beside theDeacon Militant, his view of the surrounding plain cut off bypapier-mache clouds, and facing a foul fiend, to whom the DeaconMilitant confided that here was a candidate to be tested and qualified.Whereupon the foul fiend remarked "Ha, ha!" and bade them bind him tothe Plutonian Thunderbolt and hurl him down to the nether world. Thethunderbolt was a sort of toboggan on rollers, for which there was aslide running down presumably to the nether world, above mentioned.

  The hoodwink was removed, and Stevens looked about him, treading warily,like one on the top of a tower; the great height of the mountain madehim giddy. Obediently he lay face downward on the thunderbolt, andyielded up his wrists and ankles to fastenings provided for them.

  "They're not going to lower him with those cords, are they?"

  It was a stage-whisper from the darkness which spake thus.

  "Oh, I guess it's safe enough!" said another, in the same sort ofagitated whisper.

  "Safe!" was the reply. "I tell you, it's sure to break! Some one stop'em--"

  To the heart of the martyred Stevens these words struck panic. But as heopened his mouth to protest, the catastrophe occurred. There was a snap,and the toboggan shot downward. Bound as he was, the victim could seebelow him a brick wall right across the path of his descent. He washelpless to move; it was useless to cry out. For all that, as he felt inimagination the crushing shock of his head driven like a battering-ramagainst this wall, he uttered a roar such as from Achilles might haveroused armed nations to battle. And even as he did so, his head touchedthe wall, there was a crash, and Stevens lay safe on a mattress afterhis ten-foot slide, surrounded by fragments of red-and-white paper whichhad lately been a wall. He was pale and agitated, and generally donefor; but tremendously relieved when he had assured himself of theintegrity of his cranium. This he did by repeatedly feeling of his head,and looking at his fingers for sanguinary results. As Amidon looked athim, he repented of what he had done to this thoroughly maltreatedfellow man. After the Catacombs scene, which was supposed to beimpressive, and some more of the "secret" work, everybody crowded aboutStevens, now invested with the collar and "jewel" of Martyrhood, andlaughed, and cong
ratulated him as on some great achievement, while helooked half-pleased and half-bored. Amidon, with the rest, greeted him,and told him that after his vacation was over, he hoped to see him backat the office.

  "That was a fine exemplification of the principles of the Order," saidAlvord as they went home.

  "What was?" said Amidon.

  "Hiring old Stevens back," answered Alvord. "You've got to live yourprinciples, or they don't amount to much."

  "Suppose some fellow should get into a lodge," asked Amidon, "who hadnever been initiated?"

  "Well," said Alvord, "there isn't much chance of that. I shouldn't dareto say. You can't tell what the fellows would do when such sacred thingswere profaned, you know. You couldn't tell what they might do!"

  [Footnote 8: From _Double Trouble_. It should be explained that Mr.Amidon is suffering from dual consciousness and in his other state isknown as Eugene Brassfield. As the supposed Brassfield he has gone,while in his Amidon state of consciousness, to a meeting of the lodge towhich as Brassfield he belongs.]

  THE WILD BOARDER[9]

  BY KENYON COX

  His figure's not noted for grace; You may not much care for his face; But a twenty-yard dash, When he hears the word "hash," He can take at a wonderful pace.

  [Footnote 9: From "Mixed Beasts," by Kenyon Cox. Copyright 1904, by Fox,Duffield & Co.]

  DE GRADUAL COMMENCE

  BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARY

  Oui, Oui, M'sieu, I'm mos' happee, My ches' wid proud expan', I feel de bes' I evere feel, An' over all dis lan' Dere's none set op so moch as me; You'll know w'en I am say My leddle daughter Madeline Is gradual to-day.

  She is de ver' mos' smartes' gairl Dat I am evere know, I'm fin' dis out, de teacher, he Is tol' me dat is so; She is so smart dat she say t'ings I am no understan', She is know more dan any one Dat leeve on ol' Ste. Anne.

  De Gradual Commence is hol' Down at de gr'ad beeg hall, W'ere plaintee peopl' can gat seat For dem to see it all. De School Board wid dere presi_dent_, Dey sit opon front row, Dey look so stiff an' dignify, For w'at I am not know.

  De classe dat mak' de "gradual" Dey're on de stage, you see, In semi-cirque dat face de peop', Some scare as dey can be; Den wan of dem dey all mak' spe'k, Affer de nodder's t'roo, Dis tak' dem 'bout t'ree hour an' half De hull t'ing for to do.

  Ma Madeline she is all feex op, Mos' beautiful to see, In nice w'ite drass, my wife he buy Overe to Kankakee. An' when she rise to mak' de spe'k How smart she look on face, Dey all expec' somet'ing dey hear, Dere's hush fall on de place.

  She tell us how to mak' de leeve, How raise beeg familee; She tell it all so smood an' plain Dat you can't help but see; An' how she learn her all of dat Ees more dan I can say, But she is know it, for she talk In smartes' kind of way.

  W'en all is t'roo de presi_dent_ De sheepskin he geeve 'way; Dey're all nice print opon dem, An' dis is w'at dey say: "To dem dat is concern' wid dese Pres_ents_ you onderstan' De h'owner dese; is gradual At High School on Ste. Anne."

  An' now dat she is gradual She ees know all about De world an' how to mak' it run From inside to de out; For dis is one de primere t'ings W'at she is learn, you see, Dat long beeg word I can pronounce, It's call philosophee.

  An' you can' blame me if I am Ver' proud an' puff op so, To hav' a daughter like dis wan Dat's everyt'ing she know. No wonder dat I gat beeg head, My hat's too small, dey say-- Ma leddle daughter Madeline Is gradual to-day.

  ABOU BEN BUTLER

  BY JOHN PAUL

  Abou, Ben Butler (may his tribe be less!) Awoke one night from a deep bottledness, And saw, by the rich radiance of the moon, Which shone and shimmered like a silver spoon, A stranger writing on a golden slate (Exceeding store had Ben of spoons and plate), And to the stranger in his tent he said: "Your little game?" The stranger turned his head, And, with a look made all of innocence, Replied: "I write the name of Presidents." "And is mine one?" "Not if this court doth know Itself," replied the stranger. Ben said, "Oh!" And "Ah!" but spoke again: "Just name your price To write me up as one that may be Vice."

  The stranger up and vanished. The next night He came again, and showed a wondrous sight Of names that haply yet might fill the chair-- But, lo! the name of Butler was not there!

  LATTER-DAY WARNINGS

  BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

  When legislators keep the law, When banks dispense with bolts and locks,-- When berries--whortle, rasp, and straw-- Grow bigger _downwards_ through the box,--

  When he that selleth house or land Shows leak in roof or flaw in right,-- When haberdashers choose the stand Whose window hath the broadest light,--

  When preachers tell us all they think, And party leaders all they mean,-- When what we pay for, that we drink, From real grape and coffee-bean,--

  When lawyers take what they would give, And doctors give what they would take,-- When city fathers eat to live, Save when they fast for conscience' sake,--

  When one that hath a horse on sale Shall bring his merit to the proof, Without a lie for every nail That holds the iron on the hoof,--

  When in the usual place for rips Our gloves are stitched with special care, And guarded well the whalebone tips Where first umbrellas need repair,--

  When Cuba's weeds have quite forgot The power of suction to resist, And claret-bottles harbor not Such dimples as would hold your fist,--

  When publishers no longer steal, And pay for what they stole before,-- When the first locomotive's wheel Rolls through the Hoosac tunnel's bore;--

  _Till_ then let Cumming blaze away, And Miller's saints blow up the globe; But when you see that blessed day, _Then_ order your ascension robe!

  IT PAYS TO BE HAPPY[10]

  BY TOM MASSON

  She is so gay, so very gay, And not by fits and starts, But ever, through each livelong day She's sunshine to all hearts.

  A tonic is her merry laugh! So wondrous is her power That listening grief would stop and chaff With her from hour to hour.

  Disease before that cheery smile Grows dim, begins to fade. A Christian scientist, meanwhile, Is this delightful maid.

  And who would not throw off dull care And be like unto her, When happiness brings, as her share, One hundred dollars per ----?

  [Footnote 10: Lippincott's Magazine.]

  JAMES AND REGINALD

  BY EUGENE FIELD

  Once upon a Time there was a Bad boy whose Name was Reginald and therewas a Good boy whose Name was James. Reginald would go Fishing when hisMamma told him Not to, and he Cut off the Cat's Tail with the BreadKnife one Day, and then told Mamma the Baby had Driven it in with theRolling Pin, which was a Lie. James was always Obedient, and when hisMamma told him not to Help an old Blind Man across the street or Go intoa Dark Room where the Boogies were, he always Did What She said. That iswhy they Called him Good James. Well, by and by, along Came Christmas.Mamma said, You have been so Bad, my son Reginald, you will not Get anyPresents from Santa Claus this Year; but you, my son James, will getOodles of Presents, because you have Been Good. Will you Believe it,Children, that Bad boy Reginald said he didn't Care a Darn and he Kickedthree Feet of Veneering off the Piano just for Meanness. Poor James wasso sorry for Reginald that he cried for Half an Hour after he Went toBed that Night. Reginald lay wide Awake until he saw James was Asleepand then he Said if these people think they can Fool me, they areMistaken. Just then Santa Claus came down the Chimney. He had Lots ofPretty Toys in a Sack on his Back. Reginald shut his Eyes and Pretendedto be Asleep. Then Santa Claus Said,
Reginald is Bad and I will not Putany nice Things in his Stocking. But as for you, James, I will Fillyour Stocking Plum full of Toys, because You are Good. So Santa Clauswent to Work and Put, Oh! heaps and Heaps of Goodies in James' stocking,but not a Sign of a Thing in Reginald's stocking. And then he Laughed tohimself and Said I guess Reginald will be Sorry to-morrow because he Wasso Bad. As he said this he Crawled up the chimney and rode off in hisSleigh. Now you can Bet your Boots Reginald was no Spring Chicken. Hejust Got right Straight out of Bed and changed all those Toys and Truckfrom James' stocking into his own. Santa Claus will Have to Sit up allNight, said He, when he Expects to get away with my Baggage. The nextmorning James got out of Bed and when He had Said his Prayers he Limpedover to his Stocking, licking his chops and Carrying his Head as High asa Bull going through a Brush Fence. But when he found there was Nothingin his stocking and that Reginald's Stocking was as Full as Papa Is whenhe comes home Late from the Office, he Sat down on the Floor and beganto Wonder why on Earth he had Been such a Good boy. Reginald spent aHappy Christmas and James was very Miserable. After all, Children, itPays to be Bad, so Long as you Combine Intellect with Crime.