Judge — 1891 — page 16: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

FUNNY THINGS FROM JUDGE. A DECREPIT LIE. -~BOW GRAVES was elected treasurer of the Black Star Tennis Association last week, and, after collecting a small percentage of the initiation and monthly dues, was sent over to the city to buy uni- forms, accoutrements and im- plements of the game. Not returning in a reason- able time, the auditing com- mittee sent out feelers in the shape of Mr. Peleg Eakins and Mr. Esmond Le Clair to pos- sibly help him bring home the goods, and in any event to trustrate a defalcation. “Whar's yo’ gwine t' look fer ‘m?" asked Mr. Le Clair as they stepped off the Hoboken ferry-boat and strolled up West street. “Whar yo’ surmise I'se gwine ter look fer 'm?” was the reply. “Yo! tink a Hoboke coon wiv nineteen dollah ena A DOUBTFUL COMPLIMENT. Miss Guppy (at a progressive euchre partr}—"* Just look at me, Mr. Lavisher, with this horrid fool's cap for @ booby prize. 1 know’ I look like a fright.” Mr. LAvIsHER (never lost for a compliment)—"* Oh, not at all. It’s very becoming. Just suits your style of beauty.” They eased up on hima little, and as he sucked back the air which had been squeezed out of him he said, “I done kim ober t' N’ Yark fer ter puchis d’ ’signia ob d° club.” “Dat yo' did, yo’ molas’ col’d Jachne ; dat you did! Whar’s d"‘signia ? “TL done struck two place whar dey sol’ unniforms.” “Go orn!" “ De fust place dey wanted jes’ twainty-one dollah fer foh regalias wiv d’ net, rackers, clubs en bawls frowed in “Umph !” “De secon’ place wuz in d’‘cinity ob Hunion squar’ en d’ price wuz HIS WATERLOO. Mr. Gateny (with a desire to be tough)" We had some aw: fully stiff playing at the club last night.” Miss CALLOWIILL—" Indeed ?” Mr. Gatcuy—"* Ya-as. Miss Catiow Which game do you prefer—battledore, little Sally Waters, or puss in the corner 2” sheet uv two-caint stamps, moh den he eber hed in he's life t’ wunst befoh, is a gwine ter be foun’ readin’ scripter in d’ Ashter lib’ry ? Nossir! dat he yaint. I'se gwine up t’ Portegee Mike's caffy, en 'f we don’ find 'm dar, instinc’ tell me dat he'll be down on Cabe's watah-million dock catin’ hisself sicker den a king-fish wiv d’ pro- ceed ob d’ k'lection. And at Cabe's, sure enough, they found him. Mr. Eakins seized him by one arm and Mr. Le Clair by the other, and as they pulled him apart till his shoulder-fastenings loosened, hot-shot queries were poured into him like the discharge of a Gat- ling gun. t ““Whadjer do wiv dem tennis scads, yo’ brack Fulgraft ?” : Ts “Whad I do?” “Yaas! Whadjer do!” “ Whad who do wiv whad scads ?” HOW HE GOT OUT OF IT. “Jerk ’m again, Mistah Eakins, Whadjer do ’r say ?” _ Mr. Benver (putting on a cold, stolid brace)—" Veen ¢ Long Island on “Ef yo’ gemmen 'Il ‘low me ter sput out some million-sced whad’s bishness wi’ Mishter (Aic Auc) "—— Nes nie oy . Mxs. Bespex—" How is Mr. Hickok?" god ketched undah mah collar-bon’ I'll tell yo’ whad 'r done. I Mg. Bexpex—'"Shplendid, m' dear!——Ay ginger, that was a narrer yain’t no ‘lastic man fer t’ be pulled out like dis !” “sheaps comicbooks.com