Judge — December 3, 1921 — page 26: what you’re looking at

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

S TORI ES TO TELL JUDGE pays $10 weekly for the best story submitted for this page, and $5 for the second best. All others at regular rates. First Prize Sam’s STRIKE—A colored man named Sam had worked for his boss about five years, and in that time he had just about run things. His good friend Ben said to him one day: “Now, Sam, you have worked up there and made your boss rich. You ought to ask for more money, or else you quit. You just go up there and tell him: ‘Look here, boss, you pay me more or else.’” Sam tried his friend’s advice while sweeping the next morn- ing. He began, ‘Say, boss, you’ll have to gib me mo’ money fo’ dis job.” “Well, Sam, I'll see about it,” replied the boss. “See about nothin’, you pay mo’ or else.” “Pay more or else? Else what?” The boss’s eyes flashed, and his tone was sharp. Sam’s eyes blinked as he de- tected his boss’s anger, and in a soft voice he replied, “Else I wuck for de same money.”—V. I. Mosley. Second Prize A WEIRD SuGGESTION—A party of men were drinking and talking in a saloon. One of the men had traveled a great deal, and liked to talk about it. He was telling the others all about where he had been and what he had seen, An old toper who was stand- ing near sipping his whiskey heard the traveler talk, and easing up to him tapped him on the back and said: “My friend, have you ever had the D.T.’s?” “Why, no,” replied the talk- ative one. “Why do you ask?” “Well, then you ain’t ever been anywhere or seen any- thing,” replied the old toper as he walked off.—M. Lyon. R. Drawn by R. J. HouNcnen. DANNY CALLS THE NEWS—A dis- cussion once arose between a wealthy New Yorker and a British sportsman as to the relative efficiency of the noisy American newsbey and his stolid English cousin. “T’ll bet you even money,” said the American, “that my newsy can go to England and outsell your boy on his own corner.” “Taken,” answered the confident Britisher. Ten days later little Danny O’Brien received his armful of papers and began to get busy on a crowded London corner. Twenty feet away was Wally Stackhouse, the en- try of the British sportsman. The two gamblers stood across the street. In two minutes a milling crowd was fighting to buy from Danny, while Wally stood alone on the outskirts. “My word!” ex- claimed the Brit- isher. ‘“What’s the secret of this?” They strolled across the street to see. “Big social affair at the palace!” cried Wally. “Read about it! Big social affair!” A more sensa- tional call came from Danny. “Big surgical Objection overruled. 24 Original, unpublished humorous stories only are wanted. operation on the king!” he yelled, raucously. ‘Read about it!” “Here! Here!” interrupted the excited Britisher. ‘“There’s no such news as that!” “Whatcher talkin’ about, you big mutt?” flashed Danny. ‘Don’t you see the big headlines, “King’s Fete Comes Off To-night?” Tom’s REASON—Negro garbage collectors in Cleveland recently sent a delegation to ask the Public Serv- ice Director for increased wages. The spokesman dwelt at length upon the unpleasant features of the work. “Tom, I believe you’ve been in the garbage department for about ten years,” the Director said after listen- ing patiently. “Now, if the work is so unpleasant and the pay so poor, why have you stayed at it all this time?” “Mistah Director,” inquired the spokesman, “wasn’t yo’ formerly a membah of City Council?” “Yes, for two terms.” “An’ then yo’ wuz denomi- nated to your present office?” “Yes, the mayor appointed me five years ago.” . “Now, Mistah Director, do yo’ feel that yo’ work is easy an’ yo’ salary enough?” “Of course I might make more money by returning to the practice of law. But to be a Director of this great city means much to me. I value the office because it brings me honor and personal prestige.” “Dat’s it, Mistah Director. Dat’s it, exactly. Dat’s w’y I keeps on bein’ a garbage col- lectah.” CLANDESTINE — A woman asked her maid-servant to mail several letters for her, and afterward learned that two of them had not been addressed. “Why did you mail them, Hulda?” “Why, I t’ot you maybe didn’t vant anny vun know who t’ey for,” was the frank reply. comicbooks.com