Judge — June 8, 1912 — page 9: what you’re looking at

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

EATED about the grocery stove were several elderly gentle- men, each with plenty of hirsute adornment and time to spare. “‘Whar's George Potts this morning?”" inquired William Swink, noting the ab- sence of a regular visitor. “T calc’late he’s in rather clost prox- imity to the handle of a wringer jest now,”’ observed Uncle Silas Wilson. “‘George’s wife keeps him thar till every rag is washed on a Monday.’’ The grocery cat at this moment, hav- ing just completed a lazy trip to the numerous mouse traps about the store, jumped up on the counter and settled down near the feather duster for a nap. Peter Swink, William's elder brother, pulled thoughtfully at his long, white beard and was about to launch forth in a monologue on the negro problem. Fearing something of the kind, Uncle Silas hastened to divert his train of thought. “Peter,” he inquired, with deadly in- tent in his eye, ‘‘how much does that cat weigh?” Peter Swink coughed slightly. ‘*Must be out o’ cigars, Silas, to ask a question like that, Can’t get up a bet with me, though; I've still got one.”” “Wall, jest fer a guess then, Peter,”’ insisted Silas, dreading the out- break of the negro prob- lem, which Peter loved to discuss. ‘‘I ain't weighed many cats lately, and I jest hev a curiosity t’ know.” Frank Smith, the good- humored grocer, placed the feline on the scales. He, too, was glad to in- terfere with oneof Peter’s oratorical flights. “Ten pounds and a half, she weighs,” he an- nounced, seeing no wagers in sight. “Right smart weight feracat, I should think,” observed Uncle Silas sagely. Then he added, “Here comes George Weighing the Cat. By ROBERT C. McELRAVY. Potts, at last. Mebbe George c’n guess its weight.” The assemblage rose to the occasion with a single purpose. George Potts was known as the closest-fisted man in town. No one had ever been known to worst him in a wager or get ahead of him in any deal involving finances. Here seemed a promising opportunity ! ‘Morning, everybody !"' greeted Potts, backing up to the stove and chewing on a dried peach he had pilfered en route from the front door. “*We war jest debatin’, George,’” ex- plained William Swink, in non-committal tones. “You gen’rally air debatin’ some- thing,’ interpolated Potts. “Yes; but we were all sort of feelin’ th’ need for a seegar, and th’ question rose as to the pro-bubble weight of that eat. I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t guess along with th’ rest of us, ef you feel sportingly inclined.’* “‘Wall,’” replied Potts thoughtfully, “TI been so busy with th’ washin’ this morning thet I ain’t smoked yet. Mebbe when you fellers air through, I might take a chanst.”” A sigh went up from the group about the stove. The grocer leaned forward, on fire with interest. The bare possi- “PRANK SMITH, THE GOOD HUMORED GROCER, PLACED THE CAT ON THE SCALES.” bility of ‘‘stick- ing’’ George Potts for cigars all around was better than a horse race. “*What would you say the cat weighs, Silas?'’ questioned Peter Swink, setting the ball in motion. “I hain’t much i-dy, I'm sure,’’ re- plied Uncle Silas, not wishing to appear over-confident. ‘Ten pounds, perhaps." “Ten pounds,’’ repeated Peter Swink, setting the guess down on a slip of paper. ‘What do you say, Dad?" turn- ing to Dad Smith, a quiet member of the circle, who seemed to be restraining a desire to laugh. “*Bout "leven pounds, I’d say,"? re- plied Dad, in offhand tones. “Too heavy!’" commented William Swink, winking at the grocer. ‘‘I’ll make it nine pounds.” Peter Swink laughed. “Twelve pounds is my guess,’’ he announced. A low whistle went up from the lips of George Potts. They all looked ex- pectantly toward him. The conspirators, without having guessed the actual weight of the feline, had covered the ground well on both sides of it, Potts drew a very long face. “You fellers seem to hev a su'prisin’ similarity of views on this ques- tion,” he remarked. “Never saw you agreed so clost on anything afore, A-body might al- most think you'd been dealin’ in cats every day, frum the way you guess ‘em."" The group about the stove stirred nervously. They had not anticipated this tension at the last moment. What they wanted was a cigar apiece and a-chance to laugh at George Potts. “Now,” ruminated Potts, ‘I’m free to con- fess that I ain’t much up on th’ weight o’ cats. I c'n guess hosses and cat- tle purty well, but cats is different.” Uncle Silas laughed comicbooks.com