Judge — August 6, 1921 — page 4: what you’re looking at

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

Drawn by W. G. Farr. A Tantalizer “Any chance of getting a cocktail around here?” whispered the thirsty stranger who had just arrived in Ruralvale. “Yes,” whispered back the home- spunny-looking native to whom the question had been put, “you kin git one from Bill Laneford. Go down the road till you come to a house that’s painted red. Walk aroun’ to the back door an’ knock three times. Bill will come to the door. Tell him what you want. He'll ask you fer ten dollars. Give it to him. Then he’ll pint to a buildin’ back of the house and he’ll say, ‘Thar’s whar’ you'll find what you asked fer, me friend. It’s my chicken coop. Please don’t hurt the rooster.’ An’ then Bill will shet the door, an’ you’ll hear him lock an’ bolt it.” The Mark of Perfection Dyer—How do you like your new car? Ryer—Fine! It won’t do a thing the salesman claimed it would. Just a Case of Viewpoint First Passenger (on stalled train) —This is very annoying. I’m on my way to close up a million-dollar deal and I won’t be able to get there in time. Second Passenger—I know just how you feel. It’s going to make me late for the annual meeting of PICTURE OF A MAN LOOKING AT A PICTURE OF A MAN LOOKING AT A PICTURE OF A the Knapp’s Creek Cemetery Asso- MAN LOOKING, ETC., ETC. of eight minutes per hour, and you’d better allow for that, or you may miss her.” So Mr. Pilgarlic went back to the grocery store counter and wet the point of his pencil and began to figure what time to be at the depot by his watch, if the watch lost two minutes and seven seconds per hour and showed eighteen minutes to seven when the town-clock marked eighteen minutes after four, which meant seventeen minutes to three, which was seventeen minutes to two by Standard Time. He wanted to know what time his watch would show when yesterday’s three-twenty- seven train arrived at two-fifty- eight, less eight minutes per hour, between now and then. Mr. Pilgarlic figured, and every now and then he would say “No, that’s town time,” or “No, that’s wrong; that’s railroad time,” and then he would tear up the sheet of paper angrily and swear and begin again, and—just when he thought he had the thing worked out correctly —he discovered that he had added an hour instead of subtracting it; or subtracted it instead of adding it. I don’t now which. No one ever does know whether to add that hour or subtract it. Anyway, Mr. Pilgarlic had it the wrong way. He put his hands in his hair and moaned, and just then the town-clock struck. It struck eight and then thirteen and then seven and then forty-six, and Mr. Pilgarlic leaped over the counter and bit Joe Mezzer on the calf, and the alienists, when they consideved the case, sent him to the insane asylum for life. It is a sad, sad case. A Two-Part Day Cumson—Did you have a quiet Fourth? Millman—We did after eight o’clock in the morning. By that time the Brown boy and the Greene boy had been taken to the hospital, and the Black boy was in the morgue. A Mystery Rub—A woman has just been ar- rested for carrying concealed weap- ons. Dub—Where? ciation myself. Stimulating the Memory His Wife—I hope you'll be decent enough to remember the waiter. Mr. Pester—Can I ever forget him? He stuck his thumb in my soup, dripped pudding sauce on my coat and addressed me as “pal.” Drawn by C. J. Monro. THE REAL Wortp’s CHAMPION OF THE RING.