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                         THRILLS OF A BELL BOY




------------------------------------------------------------------------






                      [Illustration: Frontispiece]




------------------------------------------------------------------------






                              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


                    [Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]


                                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.


[Illustration]


           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!


[Illustration]


           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.


[Illustration]


           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.


[Illustration]




                                  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.”


[Illustration]




                                  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?


[Illustration]


             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.


[Illustration]


           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.


[Illustration]




                                 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.


[Illustration]


            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.


[Illustration]


               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.

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sense of humor.”—Judge.

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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.

                                   ❦

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                                   ❦

    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”)


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               Beautifully made. 292 pages. Price, $1.25.

                      FORBES & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
                            Box 664, CHICAGO




------------------------------------------------------------------------




 ● Transcriber’ Notes:
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
    ○ Unbalanced quotation marks were left as the author intended.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.





End of Project Gutenberg's Thrills of a Bell Boy, by Samuel Ellsworth Kiser