Judge — February 1938 — page 9: what you’re looking at

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

posited a second nickel, and got another wrong number. The ordinary human would have dialed the operator at this point, in or- der to call her a wicked name. But Mr. Peterson, pursing his lips, tried again. Wrong number. Mr. Peterson ran his hand over his face, pushed his hat back, and, with menacing calm, tried again—with the same result. He tried three more times. Three more wrong numbers. He tried again... in short, the preternatural Mr. Peterson kept on trying until he had gotten 22 wrong numbers, at five cents apiece. Then, and only then, did he lose aa 4 oo oe 2oes- ° control: and if you will consider how you feel when you get one wrong num. ber, you will get a clearer picture of Peterson's wrath. First he ripped the telephone out of the booth, and then took it outside and beat it against the wall until the nickels fell out. He was picking up his money when two policemen arrived, and with. out hesitation he started beating them against the wall. Peterson ended in jail, like a spent rocket. But, in our opinion, his soul goes marching on. eee Our animal editor has just sent word that we must qualify our theory about animals; he says that horses, at least, have brains, not to mention a flair for the ironic. Herewith, the evidence: At Humbolt, Iowa, auctioneer Gott- lieb Hanselmann cried, “What am I bid for this horse?"’ and a voice answered, “Seventy-five dollars.” “Lam offered seventy-five dollars,” he yelled, “do I hear eighty?” Silence fell. “Won't somebody please say eighty?” whined the auctioneer. Silence fell again, but just as Gottlieb Hanselmann raised his gavel, somebody shouted, “Eighty!” The horse fell dead. February, 1958 Then there's the case of Alan Cooper, the wealthy Australian sportsman; re- cently one of his horses, St. Cansant by name, so angered him by its poor per- formance that he sold it for $5. Sneer- ing, St. Cansant went out and won a $500 handicap at the Rosehall Races. The horse we like best must remain nameless. It seems that one of the more astute midwestern gamblers, having grown rich on the usufructs of dice, turned to the ponies for relaxation; he discovered to his dismay that there were no sure things at the tracks, so he set about to fix it. He sprinkled $20,000 around, and he really did fix it; he fixed all the jockeys, every last one of them, and then he placed his bets. Only one flaw developed. The chosen horse, despite the most thoroughly de- layed start on record, stayed at the post. wee Miss Eline Nielsen, of Hackensack, N. J., however, agrees with us about animals. She tried to get a permit to shoot two squirrels who annoyed her by sitting on the foot of her bed every morning. Promptly she got a sheaf of protesting letters from squirrel-lovers, one of them reading: “You should be kind to the squirrels. If you are good to them they will make the sweetest and best little friends. Signed, A Lover and Mother of Squir- rels.”” “Shecanhavethem,” said Miss Nielsen. wee As a rule this department's mail con. sists wholly of praise. Each month we approach it with joy, although God knows it is no better than we deserve. This month, however, all our cor- respondents are biased and impertinent. Mr. T. J. Collins, of St. Petersburg, Fla., writes to say that we got the total num. ber of Garbos in the U.S. mixed up, when we ex. plained how Greta Garbo got her name; he says that even by our own figures we were wrong. It seems incredible. But so” many other people sent in the same complaint that we are forced to bow to Mr. Col- lins, muttering under our breath as we do so. However, we decline to yield to Armando Pires, of Rio de Janeiro, Argentina. Mr. Pires claims that in these pages we referred to “Buenos Aires, Brazil,” which we did; he also claims that Buenos Aires is the capital of Argentina, and that Rio de Janeiro is the capital of Brazil, which is silly. Let Reader Pires study his geography. Buenos Aires is in Brazil. It is the cap- ital of Brazil, as all Brazilians know. Senor Pires has either been living in Rio de Janeiro, Argentina, or he has been living in Buenos Aires, Brazil. His contention that he lives in Rio de Jan- ciro, Brazil, is a palpable contradiction in terms. We have made an intensive study of South America, and we will not brook any further heckling about this. wee We are informed that the police in Akron, O., recently got a call from a gentleman who was stewed, stiff and even orrey-eyed, and who demanded that a radio car be sent to pick him up. Dispatcher E. L. Englehart sighed pa- tiently. “Forget it, Jack,” he counselled; “we're only hunting one-eyed bandits tonight.” And he hung up. A few minutes later the phone rang again and the souse went on talking: “Listen here! I'm a taxpayer! I have a right to go to jail. Send a radio car for me, or you'll hear from my attorney!” “Listen, Jack,” rasped Dispatcher En- glehart, “if you want your rights, come and get ‘em.”” He hung up and tried to forget—in vain. A cab pulled up to the station and the taxpayer sailed in, “Hic!” he remarked. He got his room. It is said that Benito Mussolini can talk through his cars, and that he can write an edict while hanging upside- down from the chandel- ier in his office. comicbooks.com