Life — October 16, 1884 — page 3: what you’re looking at

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

ing this unusual altitude asa result of the | course of study pursued at the University ? We shall send no boys to this college until our questions are answered. Think of cloth- ing one of those graduates ! HE PASSED THE PLATE, ID” Mandeville was washing some beer-glasses behind the bar of the “Hotel Lindenwald,” one Saturday evening, when Pete Cole, a colored gentleman with | a singular protuberance resembling a tumor in the vicinity of the breast-pocket, came shuffling in. Pete leaned up against the counter and reduced the swelling by pulling a bottle out of his pocket by a sort of eel- skinning process as the lining came with it. It was a close fit. | “What do you want, nigger?” asked “Gid,” wiping the bar. “Some ‘freshments fo’ Sunday, boss. 1 ain't got de ‘ brads’ now, but I—I ‘Il pay you Monday mornin’ shuah.” “Gid” reflected a moment, looked at the bottle, set it down on the bar, took a chew of tobacco, and then glared at the colored man with a fiery eye. * “See here, nigger, do you pass the plate in church, to-morrow ?” “I does, boss; ebery Sunday, now. been deacon dar since las’ fall.” “All right, then,” said “Gid,” tihing a demijohn, and pouring out the whiskey, “J ‘ll | trust you this time.” oe I'se V.S. AN UNFORTUNATE ERROR. E. was standing near the Worth Monument, gazing with | a pensive expression up the Avenue. His small black silk umbrella was encased in a neat cover, his genteel looking clothes fitted him to perfection, and his top-hat shone as re- splendently as his patent leather shoes. Apparently, he was looking for a canary cab, but in reality his keen eyes sought a victim, for he was that industrious and persevering bunco- steerer who is commonly known by the soubriguet of “ Well- fed Charley,” and who has as many a/sases as there are cities in the Union. In the distance appeared a heavily built man, whose hat was pulled down over his eyes, half-shading his face, but whose gait and appearance betokened that he was not a New Yorker, and probably hailed from New England. Unsuspect- ingly he sauntered on. Ashe drew nearer, the bunco-man walked to meet him, and stopping him with outstretched hands, exclaimed : | “Why, Mr. Mulligan! How d’ye do? When did you come to town? How'd ye leave all your folks?” O'BLAINE ABOO! OULD Shamus O'Blaine Av the county av Maine, Is the broth av a bye for ould Erin, We'll elect him avic— Ould England he ‘Il lick. Och! Him it's ould Vic ‘ll be tearin’. Bould Rossa in state At the President's gate, Will sit wid a thumpin’ shillaly. He'll bate every rogue Who has n't a brogue. Och, hone! won't he lather thim gayly ! W. J. D. “Mulligan?” said the stranger, “What do you mean? How dare you call me Mulligan?" “ | beg pardon,” apologized the bunco-steerer. your name Mulligan?” “But isn’t « No, Sit! Nothing to do with Mulligan, Si heard of the man, Sir!) My nameis James G, Blaine.” Twenty seconds later as the horizontal coat-tails of that bunco-man disappeared around the corner of Twenty-sixth street and Madison Avenue, the gentleman from Maine glanced at his watch and replaced it in his pocket. “ That's better running time than they made on the Fort Smith Road,” remarked the great letter-writer drily. “I guess I'll go up and discuss the Prohibition amendment with Steve.” Never A FouL-BALL—a chicken croquette. CAUGHT ON THE FLY—unwary trout. WELL MATCHED PatR—A horsey man and a nagging wife. comicbooks.com