Judge — September 21, 1907 — page 3: what you’re looking at

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

PROFESSOR PITZtR’S PRESTIDIGITATORIAL PASTIMES PLAINLY PROPOUNDED. PRODUCT A STACK OF MONEY OUT OF NOTHING. NY morried woman can perform this trick successfully. The directions are very Simple: First make sure that your hushand is sound asleep and that his trousers are carelessly hanging over the foot of the bed. Tiptoe into the room and quietly confiscate the trousers, and then soft- ly sneak into the dining-room. Hold the trousers about two feet above the table, and with the thumb and forefinger take hold of the bottom of each pocket, holding the pocket with the mouth pointing toward the table. You will be surprised to see the vast amount of coin that will immediately appear on the table out of nothing. You know it is out of nothing, for just before retiring your husband told you he hadn't a cent in his clothes. After the pockets are entirely emptied, put back the pool-checks, keys, drink-tags, and other débris that fell out with the money, and replace the trousers over the foot of the bed. If he catches you, just say you were fixing upa rent, and then you will have him guessing either that you refer toa tear in his garment or a deal with the landlord. ONLY A YELLOW DOG. ONCE there was a dog—sa yellow dog. ‘The most profound and romantic lover of dogs could not have called him anything better than ++a yellow dog.” No amount of enthusiasm could have made that color anything but “Tawny” would have been dignified ; golden” would have been poetic. But «+ yellow” was the truth, His name was Shep. He was called Shep. Because, so far as could be determined, there wasn’t a drop of shepherd blood in him. No, nor ot any other respectable or recognized breed. Away back somewhere in his ancestry there may have been a prize-winning bull-terrier or collie, but not that anybody knew of or cared. He showed no trace of any breed other than The stack of money. vp. PiTzER, yellow. just plain dog—nay, yellow dog. His master did not think much of Shep. There seemed no good reason why he should. Never had the cur shown any-symptoms of humanesque intelligence, gratitude, or any of the other qualifications supposed to make up the sum total of the dog-hero. If it be possible that there can be anything commoner than a yellow dog, Shep was whatever that is. Nobody knows exactly why the brute had been kept, up to that time, except that the family was humane and didn’t care to take any life that was not a positive nuisance., And Shep had never been quite that since the days when he used to carry off, in his puppy jaws, galoshes, baby-clothes, and other things, and keep the front yard full of discarded chicken-heads, ill- smelling bones, etc., that were noticeably undecorative and defacing in their landscape effect. . One day his master was riding a restive horse through the woods a good many miles from home and out of calling distance—even fashionable calling distance, and that is a pretty “distant” process, as a rule—from human A WOULD-BE NATURE-FAKER. ON NEWSPAPER ROW. ‘Sracer—'! hear they have made Penny an editor. | didn’t know he was much of a writer."" Lines—"' He isn't; but he can think up the most horrible head- ings of any man on the sheet. habitation, Shep was trotting near the horse and looking about, dog-fashion, for something to pursue and destroy. Suddenly the horse stumbled in a miry place, throwing his master in such a way as to hold him between the horse’s body and the ground. Also the horse lay in such position that he could not himself get up, and so that every frantic motion in the effort to arise threw his heavy body more and more violently against the imprisoned leg of Shep’s master, until finally it was crushed and broken. At the first wild outcry from his master the yellow dog had swerved aside with a yelp of terror, tucked his tail between his legs, and scooted for home, running faster and faster and yelping more and more terrifiedly as the calls of the master grew more furious and agonized. At length the voice ot the suffering man died away in the dog-made distance, the yellow cur removed his sagging tail from between his crooked hind-legs, nosed about a thicket in the faint hope of scaring up a rab- bit, and went home serenely, as if nothing had happened. Several hours later passers-by found the master, fainting with excruciating pain, beneath the struggling horse, and rescued him. : “Ah! soliloquized the yellow dog as he ate bones near the back gate that night, ++ [guess I've distinguished my- self all right. Any of Ernest Hyphen-Siphon’s dogs, Dick Davis's Bar Sinister, old Boh Son of Battle, or any other dog ever written about, would have saved my master. [have saved myself the anguish of standing on a pedestal during the re- mainder ot my life. Also, 1 shall not be lied about.” Whereupon he joyously pursued the spitting cat up a plum-tree. sraicktaxo w. Git Litan. comicbooks.com