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Title: Thrills of a Bell Boy

Author: Samuel E. Kiser

Illustrator: John T. McCutcheon

Release date: March 18, 2018 [eBook #56783]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by ellinora,, Barry Abrahamsen, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THRILLS OF A BELL BOY *** 









THRILLS OF A BELL BOY










 













 






THRILLS OF A


BELL BOY


By


Samuel Ellsworth Kiser


Author of “Love Sonnets of an Office Boy,”


“Ballads of the Busy Days,” etc.


Illustrated by


John T. McCutcheon















Chicago


Forbes & Company


1906
















Copyright, 1904


By the Saturday Evening Post












Copyright, 1906


By Forbes & Company










Colonial Press: Electrotyped and Printed


by C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U. S. A.
















THRILLS OF A


BELL BOY








I.










GEE! There’s a call from seven-forty-eight—


That’s Miss Le Claire; she wants some ice, I’ll bet;


She stars in “Mrs. Middleton’s Regret.”


And when you mention peaches—say, she’s great!


If I could marry her I guess I’d hate


To have to do it—nit! I’d go and get


A plug hat and a fur-trimmed coat and let


The guy that’s managin’ her, pay the freight.






They say she gets a hundred dollars per;


I’d like to draw that much a year or two.


They’d know I’d been around when I got through.


I wish the dude that comes here after her


Was in my place and me in his—I’d stir


Things up around this town. I wouldn’t do


A thing but buy her everything I knew


She didn’t have but might be wishin’ fer.






She rung fer me to get some stamps, and when


I took them up she says, “Just wait a bit.”


She put one on a note and handed it


To me to mail—and he come in just then


And grabbed the thing—I’ve heard of crazy men,


And I know when it’s up to me to quit:


She had him goin’ groggy when I lit,


But, blame the luck, they’ve made it up again.










II.










IF I could have my choice I wouldn’t be


The main guy of a kingdom—nix fer me.


I’d only wish that I could be as great


As one of these gay boys from up the State


Imagines that we think he is when he


Tilts back his hat and lights his cigarette


And does the pouter-pigeon act; I’d let


Them have their thrones if I could be as grand


As these boys think they are when they “run down”


On business trips and let their chests expand


And act as though they’d come to buy the town.



















The minute one of them gets in he shies


Around the telegraph girl, makin’ eyes


And wantin’ to know what it costs to send


Ten words to Saugatuck or Brady’s Bend,


Or dictates to the shorthand girl and tries


To make her think he’s Mike from Up-the-Crick—


It’s easy work to spot these Johnnies quick:


They try to mash the chambermaids up-stairs,


And buzz the news-stand lady, and I s’pose


They think that we all think they’re millionaires—


Hello! There that sweet little actress goes.










III.










I WENT to see the show last night, the one


She’s playing in, you know, but all the fun


I thought I’d have was spoiled, confound the luck,


I bought a forty-cent bouquet to chuck


Down at her when the second act was done.


I got a seat in front, all right, and, oh!


How grand she looked away down there below!


I thought of angels every time she’d look


Up at the gallery—but when I let


My flowers tumble down the villain took


And give them to the putty-faced soubrette!



















I wish I was the hero of the play


She’s actin’ in and had the chance to lay


Her head agin my buzzom every night


And knock the villain down and hold her tight—


I wouldn’t ask to have a cent of pay.


And when she’d look up at me sweet and proud


I’d feel so glad I’d have to yell out loud:


I’ll bet the knock I give the villain when


I come to rescue her would make him grunt.


And when she wound her arms around me, then—


Oh, blame it, there’s Old Morton howlin’ “Front!”










IV.










I DON’T feel like I used to feel no more;


It seems as though I’d like to go away


From where the racket’s goin’ on all day,


And have her with me there, and she’d be sore


At that rich dude who meets her at the door


Back by the stage when she’s got through the play:


I wish that she’d get sweet on me and say


She never knew what lovin’ was before.






I’ve got a tooth-brush now, and every night


I wash my neck and ears: I don’t intend


To chew tobacco any more, nor spend


My change fer cigarettes; her teeth are white,


And if she seen that mine were, too, she might


Be liable to love me. Every time


She looks at me it kind of seems that I’m


All full of something tickel-ish and light.



















I’d like it if I knew some way to make


My ears stay closer to my head and not


Stick out the way they do, as though they’d got


Unfastened and hung loose. I wish I’d wake


To-morrow so good-lookin’ it would break


Her heart unless I’d take her on the spot;


And I could lick that dude if he got hot


And made rough house when she’d give him the shake.






If I could go away with her to where


There wasn’t anybody else at all,


And we could set around all day or loll


Beside the cricks and never have to care


When bells would ring, and all around us there


The posies would be growin’ sweet and tall,


I’d never mind if it was spring or fall—


But still I s’pose she couldn’t live on air.










V.










I THINK I’ll chuck this job and go and try


To be a supe with her, and by and by


Get speakin’ parts to play, and then—who knows?—


Be leadin’ man, at last, and wear dude clo’s.


I’d drink champagne whenever I was dry,


And have a chance to travel up and down


Around the country, seein’ every town,


And after every act they’d call fer me;


All week I’d only work two afternoons,


And nearly everywhere I went I’d see


My picture in the windows of saloons.






I’d have a stage name that was grand to hear—


I think I’d make it Reginald De Vere—


Gee! Wouldn’t that loom up great on the bills?


They’d never know they cheered fer Eddie Mills


When I would get the signal to appear.


I’d give her all the beautiful bouquets


The girls would send to me at matinées,


And when the show was over crowds would stand


Outside to watch fer me and her and stare


When we come out, and I would take her hand


And lead her to our carriage, waitin’ there.















VI.










I WENT up-stairs, this morning, when she rung—


I guess she must of just got out of bed—


It seemed to me her nose looked kind of red;


They was a little wad of hair that hung


Down in a pigtail on her back; she brung


A telegram out to the door, and said:


“Well, get a move—good Heavens, are you dead?”


Somehow she didn’t seem to look so young.






I can’t help kind of wonderin’ to-day


What made her look so queer; it seems as though


There’s something that is gone. I’d like to know


If all the ones that’s beautiful when they


Get on their riggin’ and are fixed up gay


Ain’t much but framework when they’ve gone at night


And safely locked themselves in out of sight


And laid what ain’t growed on to them away.






When me and Mike, the porter, were alone


I got to tellin’ him about my thoughts—


Mike’s had two wives, and so, of course, knows lots.


He told me in a kind of sollum tone:


“Me boy, a woman cr-rathure’s like a shtone—


At laste some women ar-re—Whin dr-ressed they’re foine,


But whin they ain’t ye’ll ha-ardly see a soign


Av beauty that ye’d ta-ake to be their own.”















VII.










IT’S all off now. She’s gone out West somewhere—


The papers say to South Dakota—there


She’s got things fixed to get divorced, they claim.


It seems that Mrs. Pickleham’s her name


In private life, instead of Miss Le Claire.


Her father runs a dray in Buffalo,


That’s what the papers say: I s’pose they know.


I wonder why it always has to be


That everything you think is great before


You know about it, when you get to see


Just how it is don’t seem so grand no more?



















I wish I had the forty cents I blew


To get the bunch of posies what I threw


At her that night. I had to gasp almost


Whenever she’d look up. Gee! What a roast


The boys would give me fer it if they knew.


But still there ain’t no use of feelin’ bad;


I got my money’s worth, fer I was glad,


And every minute that you’re feelin’ gay


About a thing that never can come true


Is something that’ll not get took away;


It’s in your system and belongs to you.










VIII.










THEY’VE give us a new operator here


To take the telegrams; she’s pretty near


A daisy, too. Her eyes are big and brown;


And when she sets there kind of lookin’ down,


As though she didn’t notice things, it’s queer


The way I get to wishin’ I could go


And save her from the clutches of some foe.


She makes me feel as though I’d like to be


A handsome man, about six foot, and strong,


To take her in my arms and let her see


That I was here protectin’ her from wrong.



















The other day I talked to her a while:


It seemed as though whenever she would smile


I’d have a goneish feelin’ in my breast.


She’d be a peach, no matter how she dressed,


She’s got the other girls here beat a mile.


The red that’s on her cheeks ain’t painted there,


And she ain’t wearin’ no dead woman’s hair:


I don’t blame homely women if they try


To make themselves look fine, fer good looks pay—


But hers is not the kind that they can buy—


The beauty that she’s got grew there to stay.










IX.










ONCE, when her instrument was workin’ bad


She jerked the thing and hit it with her fist


And nearly broke her round, soft little wrist—


I never s’posed that she could get so mad.


When I told ma it seemed to make her glad.


She says a girl that looks as nice as pie


Sometimes has awful thoughts: I wonder why


Ma’s always knockin’ so? It makes me sad.










X.










SOME people make me sick. They act as though


They’d leased this hemisphere. See that boy there,


The way he tilts his head up in the air


And struts around so everybody’ll know


He’s cut his second teeth. Now watch him go


And ask about the telegrams. I’ll bet


Nobody ever telegraphed him yet,


Or if they did it’s comin’ mighty slow.






When she was operatin’ yesterday


He leaned against the railin’, lookin’ wise


And spoilin’ blanks and makin’ goo-goo eyes.


I wish he’d pay his bill and go away,


Or that she’d slap his face for gettin’ gay.


When fellows hang around a girl to buzz


Her hours at a time the way he does


I wonder how they think of things to say?






Mike says he never seen a woman yet


That hated men fer showin’ them they’d like


To take them in their lovin’ arms and hike


Away to where nobody else could get.


Mike says it doesn’t seem to make them fret


When men get gone on them—I guess I’ll strike


Out bold, because it must be so, fer Mike


He’s had two wives, and knows a lot, you bet.






There goes that dude again, confound the luck!


I wish he’d get a telegram that said


Some chap was comin’ here to punch his head,


And he’d fergit how sweet she was, and duck:


Mike says that when a fellow shows he’s struck


A woman hardly ever raises Ned


Or seems to get to wishin’ she was dead—


Gee whiz! he’s went and give her chin a chuck.










XI.










THE Johnny’s went away that got so brash;


I let his blamed old satchel fall and smash


When him and me was goin’ out the door;


His razor and his brush rolled on the floor,


Mixed with his nightshirt and some other trash.


He’d just smiled back at her and raised his lid;


I’d hate to get let down the way he did:


She laughed, and all the rest let out a whoop—


I never seen a guy so mad before;


He got his things together with a swoop—


I guess he’ll never be our guest no more.






I s’pose I lost a tip, but I don’t care,


I’d rather have the chance fer gettin’ square;


What good is havin’ money, anyway,


If havin’ it don’t keep you feelin’ gay


Nor make you push your chest out in the air?


I snuck away, out by the barber shop,


And laughed so hard I couldn’t seem to stop:


Mike says that every laugh you ever laugh


Is something that you’re richer fer, and so


I gained about eight dollars and a half—


They called me down and nearly bounced me, though.










XII.










IF I would get to be a millionaire


And didn’t have to work or anything,


I’d go and buy a dimun’ stud and ring


And open up a swell hotel somewhere


And be head clerk myself, and have my hair


All curled and fixed like Morton’s is, and fling


On agony as though I’d be a king


And had a throne behind the counter there.






The guy that owns this joint ain’t got no style:


He wears his whiskers down around his neck:


I’ll bet that I’d have shiners by the peck


If I was in his place and had his pile.


When guests come in he don’t put on a smile


And get to lookin’ chesty and say “Front”


As though he owned the earth: he leaves that stunt


Fer Morton, who can beat him out a mile.















XIII.










I WISH somebody’d kick me through a fence;


I must be gettin’ dotty; I’m so dense


I couldn’t see half through an iron gate;


Why, any one could string me while you wait;


No wonder Morton says I’m shy of sense.


A man arrived here yesterday forenoon


Who seemed to be a fighter, and as soon


As ever I had spotted him I flew


And grabbed his satchel and got useful. Say,


His clo’s were great, he had on dimun’s, too—


I picked him fer a winner right away.



















It wasn’t tips I thought of, understand:


I hoped that mebby I could touch his hand;


I brought him pens and ink and things and stood


Around to be as useful as I could


And let him see I thought that he was grand.


I’d like to bump my head against a wall,


Because he ain’t a pugilist at all.


I’ll bet he never even seen a ring;


He’s just an author that is writin’ books:


That shows that you can never tell a thing


About how great a man is by his looks.










XIV.










I WISH some day there’d be a lawyer come


And say I’d got a fortune left by some


Rich relative I didn’t know I had;


The ones that’s kiddin’ now would soon be sad,


You’d see old Morton lookin’ pretty glum.


I’d buy this place and fire him so quick


The tumble that he got would make him sick;


And then I’d get the bridal-chamber key,


And take the little operator there,


And ask her how she’d like to marry me


And let some other girl hold down her chair.






I wish my hair would get to turnin’ gray,


And ma would suddenly find out some day


That I was ten years older than she thunk,


And I would grow six inches while you wunk.


But what’s the use of wishin’, anyway?


Mike says nobody ever caught a fish


By simply settin’ down somewhere to wish;


He claims if all our wishes would come true


We’d none of us be happy any more,


Fer every day we’d all be feelin’ blue


Because we wished fool things the day before.










XV.










THE news-stand lady’s got a steady beau;


He comes each night at six o’clock or so,


And when they leave he takes her by the arm,


As though he thought she might get into harm,


Or slip on something smooth, or stub her toe.


Mike says he’d let his mother get along


Without an arm to hang to that was strong,


And never seem to think she might get hurt


By bein’ bumped, and never fret at all


If she would put her foot down in the dirt,


And never be afraid that she would fall.






I wonder why a fellow’s mother tries


To make you think that every man that’s wise


Steers clear of all the girls? I wonder why


A fellow’s mother thinks they’re mean and sly


And hardly fit to look you in the eyes?


Ma thinks the operator here has planned


To hook the first poor chap that she can land;


And one night, when I got to tellin’ ma


How sweet she was—I mean the operator—


The more I tried to praise her up I saw


The more it kind of seemed to make ma hate ’er.






Ma says they’re all a schemin’ lot, who fix


Themselves up nice to fool the Toms and Dicks


And Harrys that don’t know enough to run:


You’d think, to hear her talk, that all they done


Was try to catch the boys by foxy tricks.


I don’t see why ma runs them down that way;


She used to be a girl herself, one day.


Mike says that when a woman’s married, though,


She never wants the rest that ain’t been took


To ever stand a chance or have a show


To ever get a nibble at the hook.










XVI.










THE other day we had excitement here;


The news-stand caught afire, and I thought


I’d be heroic Johnny-on-the-spot;


I grabbed the operator, yellin’: “Dear,


I’m here to save your life, so never fear.”


But just about that time I felt a swat,


And there was lots of things that I fergot


While Morton dragged me with him by the ear.






They’d doused the blaze before it got a start,


And I’d fergot our fire-drill, you see,


That’s what made Morton come and jump on me—


He nearly tore my head and ear apart—


That Alexander’s too dumnation smart.


They’re all a-kiddin’ me fer what I done,


And she looks on and seems to think it’s fun


Confound it! that’s What nearly breaks my heart.










XVII.










I​’M sorry fer the poor old boy we’ve got


In seven-sixty-six; he’s nearly due


To ask St. Peter to please let him through.


His wife’s a beaut and young, and mebby what


She’s doin’ right along is hope he’ll not


Be yanked away and planted in the sod


With her left here to fasten to his wad—


If that’s your guess, though, take another shot.






She won’t allow him to get out of bed,


But once when I went up because she’d rung


The first thing that I knew he up and flung


The quilts and things across the room and said


She’d hid his shirt and pants—that’s on the dead—


And then, before she’d caught her breath, he sprung


Up like a wild man and got in among


Her trunks and looked up pitiful and pled.






“I want my pants,” he says, “I’ll die unless


You let me out to get some exercise.”


She shook her head and looked him in the eyes


And told me it was second childishness


And that he wasn’t strong enough to dress—


Then out he jumped and started fer the door,


With nothin’ but his nightshirt on, and swore


He’d run away—he meant it, too, I guess.






But he was old and slow and she was spry,


And when he started to get out she caught


A pitcherful of water up and got


Around in front of me and let it fly.


She turned and give a sorry little sigh


When he’d went back to bed, and said a lot


Of things about how sad she’d be and not


Know how to bear the shock if he would die.



















When I get old and wrinkled up and gray


I want my wife to be as old as me:


Then she’ll not be ashamed if people see


Us out together, and they’ll never say


They wonder what she cost me, anyway.


I’d hate to think that every time when we


Went anywhere the men would wink and she


Had sad clo’s to jump into any day.










XVIII.










IT’S up to me to kick myself some more:


The daisy that is operatin’ here


Has been another fellow’s wife a year,


And he’s a clerk in some department store.


The happy thoughts I used to think before


Are busted up forever. I appear


To always land somewhere back in the rear—


The sound of telegraphin’ makes me sore.






I hope I’ll have a million bucks some day


And be the landlord here, and she will set


There, in the corner, telegraphin’ yet;


And when I pass she’ll look at me and say


All to herself she wished she knew some way


To not be married, and I’d stop and get


A blank sometimes, just so’s to make her fret


When she would count the dimun’s I’d display.






And mebby when I stood there near her, then,


And had broad shoulders, and was six feet high,


Her lips would tremble and she’d give a sigh


And nibble at her pencil or her pen,


And we would both be feelin’ sad, and when


She seen I loved her she’d begin to cry


Because she hadn’t waited, and then I—


Oh, rats! There’s Morton yellin’ “Front” agen.










XIX.










IF yesterday would come to-morrow


There wouldn’t hardly be no sorrow.






For then we’d have another try


At chances that we let go by.






Instead of givin’ luck the blame


We’d grab the good things when they came.






We’d take the best and leave the worst


If all the days came hind-end first.






The fools that stand and wonder now


Would know just when to act and how.






If yesterday would come agen


We’d not say “if” so often then.






We’d turn the merry face to sorrow


If yesterday would come to-morrow.








 












By S. E. KISER


Love Sonnets of an Office Boy


WITH TWELVE PICTURES BY JOHN T. MCCUTCHEON


❦






“A joy forever.”—New York Sun.


“Full of fun.”—Philadelphia Telegraph.


“Irresistibly funny.”—Minneapolis Times.


“All well done and exquisitely funny.”—The Journalist.


“Its fun is fairly side-splitting.”—Indianapolis Sentinel.


“If you have ever been a boy, read this book.”—Talent.


“Pure humor and actual tenderness.”—Louisville Courier-Journal.


“These sonnets will prove a source of delight to all
people with a true sense of humor.”—Judge.


“There is in each and every one of these sonnets a
screamingly funny office-boy-like turn of phrase.”—New
York Mail and Express.






❦


Price, 50 cents.


❦


FORBES & COMPANY, Publishers


Box 664, CHICAGO
















By S. E. KISER


Ballads of the Busy Days






ONE hundred poems representing the best
work of this well-known poet. Many of
them are humorous, some have a delicate vein
of pathos that makes a sure appeal to the heart,
and all possess that charming human quality
which has made Mr. Kiser’s verses widely popular.






❦






“Mr. Kiser’s work is too well known to need praise.
He is a popular favorite.”—Minneapolis Times.


“His many varieties of verse have made him a friend
of every lover of poetry.”—Columbus Press.


“Mr. Kiser has that rare original wit that can turn the
most commonplace things to laughable account.”—Dallas News.


“Few or none of the magazine poets excel Mr. Kiser
in touching the chord of human sympathy.”—The Argonaut, San Francisco.






❦






Tastefully printed and bound in an artistic, decorated
cover, 12mo, cloth, gilt top, 224 pages. Price, $1.25.






❦


FORBES & COMPANY, Publishers


Box 664, CHICAGO
















Now in Thirtieth Thousand


BEN KING’S VERSE












If I Should Die To-Night






If I should die to-night


And you should come to my cold corpse and say,


Weeping and heartsick o’er my lifeless clay—


If I should die to-night


And you should come in deepest grief and woe


And say, “Here’s that ten dollars that I owe”—


I might arise in my large white cravat


And say, “What’s that?”






If I should die to-night


And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel,


Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel—


I say, if I should die to-night


And you should come to me, and there and then


Just even hint ’bout payin’ me that ten,


I might arise the while;


But I’d drop dead again.


(From “Ben King’s Verse”)








“‘Ben King’s Verse’ will be appreciated by all who
enjoy good things.”—John Kendrick Bangs.


“Ben King’s verses may be recommended to those
suffering from melancholy.”—The Chicago Daily News.


“Lovers of real poetry and of quaint, whimsical humor
will treasure ‘Ben King’s Verse’ as a volume which can
be read and re-read with pleasure, a companion for all
moods and times.”—The Journalist (New York).






Beautifully made. 292 pages. Price, $1.25.


FORBES & COMPANY, Publishers


Box 664, CHICAGO