Judge — April 23, 1927 — page 20: what you’re looking at

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

JUDGE Timid fellow with bottle on hip—finds himself under suspicion. Portrait of a donkey making an ass of himself. jay-walkers. What a Man Thinks When He Gets a Stand-up It’s eight-thirty. She Maybe I said Humm! ought to be here. quarter to nine. I should make a note of these dates. I wonder if this is the right place? Never a woman on time in my . . . Now it’s quarter to nine. Think I'll go get a drink. She'll be here when I come back. . . . S’funny, she said she’d be here at eight-thirty. S’very funny Funny me eye! A woman’s never on time. Too much to expect. Can’t ask a girl to be on time and get her hair curled. Guess I'll get myself another drink. Cer'nly is strange. Suppose I’d of fainted Gotta be she guess I'll *f she’d a come on time. make so’ "llowances. lost her lipstick. . . . get ‘nother li'l’ drink. . . . 'M off women for life. ’Pointment or no 'pointment sh’ should a-been here. ’S no use waiting. ’S quarter ten. I'll call her to- morrow. Make the wires hot. Tell her what I think of her. Wouldn’ give ’er the sa’sfa’tion. No sa’sfa’tion. Women all un- sa ‘ory. ’S turrible. ’S dis- gus’ing. Ge’ me ‘nother drin’ an’ if she’s not here won't wait ‘nother minute. . . . ’Ere’s a cop. As’ a cop ’f he seen a beau’ful blon’. As’ a cop li’ kell. Wha’s a cop know? An’ I trus’ed ’at lil girl. Hurts. ’At’s what it does. Hurts. Hurt! Hurt? She a gotten hurt? Accident? Poor li'l’ kid. Maybe she’s liein’ diein’ —lieing dieing, won’er someone n wrote a son’ “Liein’ Diein’ Tor You’—for me. Hurt in a ceciden’ or sumthin’. ’Sa firs’ ti’ And now we have the Split-Six—especially designed to dodge my li'l’ girl ever done me like this. ‘How Come You Do Me Like You Do, Do, Do.” Oh, “Do —Do—Do What You Done— Done—Done_ Before, Bebb Try an’ get the chance. Jus’ try an’ get it. Get me ‘nother li'l’ drin’ an’ ’f she’s in a hosp’tal she can le’ me know. “Liein’ Diein’ sunwhere for me, dear?” Dear, sweet li’l’ girl all gone. All hurt an’ bleedin’ sunwhere for me. She mus’ a-been kill’ in a assiden’. . Nother li'l’ dri’ fo’ courage. Poor li'l’ gal. ’S turrible a stron’ man to bus’ out bawlin’ ’nother lil’ dr’ sh’ dea’ assiden’ hur’ poor... P. S. She wasn’t hurt in an accident.—Carro.tt Carroi. More Than Enough When I shall leave this mundane sphere, Shall leave drone, In letters large and white and clear its hectic, dismal Please chisel on stone These words that Time cannot destroy: “He never shouted ‘How's the Boy!” Sing not the noble deeds I've done, Nor print an epitaphic screed. Tell not the well-fought fights I’ve won, But merely state, so all can read, That as I shuffled off this coil, I did not blabber “Olive Oil!” —Arrtuvr L. Lippmann 18 my modest comicbooks.com