Billy Baxter\'s Letters
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William J. Kountz, Jr. >> Billy Baxter\'s Letters
Billy Baxter's Letters
By William J. Kountz, Jr.
Contents:
Preface
Out Hunting
One Night
In Society
In Love
In New York
Johnny Black's Girl
PREFACE
In presenting this work, we believe that an explanation is
due the reader as to why the letters are given in their present
form at this time.
The first book published, "One Night," was "issued by The Duquesne
Distributing Company to show its great love for the American
people, and to incidentally advertise the 'R--R--S--.'" Its
success was immediate.
"In Society" appeared February 1, 1899, and scored as promptly
as "One Night." The demand for the booklets was phenomenal, and
Mr. Kountz received thousands of friendly letters applauding
him for his humor. He also received flattering offers from the
leading comic weeklies, the metropolitan dailies, and great
advertisers throughout the Union. He declined them all, being
primarily a business man, and carrying literature only as a
side line.
On May 1st "In Love" was given to the public, with the promise
that "In New York" would follow on October Ist. On the evening
of August 9th, William J. Kountz, Jr., turned to the writer of
this preface, and referring to "In New York," said: "Well, I'm
through, all but going over it." He never returned to his office,
and on August 18th he died in the room where he was born not
quite thirty-two years before.
We then conceived the idea of putting the letters out in their
present form, as a last tribute to the author, who in less than
a year's work lifted himself into a place among the nation's
humorists.
We have reproduced only such of the prefaces and advertisements
as have been widely discussed for their humorous quality, and
which the author's friends insisted should no be omitted.
The two heretofore unmentioned letters were discovered after
the author's death, and are published in the rough, as they
were found. "Out Hunting" is based on a trip which actually
took place, and from personal knowledge contains a good deal
of fact. It was doubtless written before "One Night," and for
that reason is given priority in the arrangement.
"Johnny Black's Girl" is merely a scrap, and is inserted as
such. It shows, however, that the author had a "tear for pity"
as well as an eye for the ridiculous.
Geo. McC. Kountz.
OUT HUNTING
Pittsburg, September 1, 1898.
Dear Jim:
I am just back from St. Paul, where I spent a couple of days
with Teddy Worthington. Teddy and Bud Hathaway of Chicago were
going on a shooting trip in the Big Woods of Minnesota, and they
asked me to go with them. It was new deal for me, so of course I
was for it. I hired a hammerless breech-loader for seven a week,
borrowed a lot of fishing-tackle, and bought a hunting-knife with
a nickel-plated handle. It was a beaut, and stood me three fifty.
A fellow can never be too careful. Up there you are likely any
minute to come face to face with an Apache or some old left-over
Aztec rubbering around among the trees.
At the last minute Bud Hathaway's father had to die, so just Teddy
and myself went. After we left the train we rode twenty miles in
a wagon to Freshwater Lake, which was our destination. The house
where we stayed was kept by a half-breed guide named Sarpo, and
with him lived his two sons and his second wife, who was a young
white girl, and not a bad looker at that.
The next morning we started out after ducks. I made a horrible
bluff that I was one of the old boys at the business, and that
I was on to everything--till it came to loading my hammerless,
and there's where I went to the bad. I couldn't get the blamed
thing open. Teddy handed me a few of his kind little remarks,
and I got back at him with something personal. He got sore. No
thoroughbred kidder would have grown personal, but I couldn't
think of anything else at the time. There was nothing stirring
in the duck line, and for two hours we sat all hunched up in a
little boat among a lot of weeds. It was getting to be a sad
affair for me, and I was thinking of Atlantic City, and the bands
of music, and the swell dances, and trying to figure where these
hunters have the fun they are always coming home and talking
about, when suddenly along came a drove of ducks. On the square,
there must have been a million. The other members of the party
began picking them off, but your Uncle Bill is one of those wise
shooters. I waited till they were right over my head. Say! they
were so thick I couldn't see the sky. I let go with the first
barrel, right into the center of the bunch. Nit duck. Then the
second barrel went off of its own accord. I'll swear, Jim, I had
nothing whatever to do with it. Anyway, nit duck. I think if I'd
had three barrels on that gun I would have nailed a duck, a duck
and a half, or two ducks, as I was just getting good. I loaded
up, and I must have been flustered a bit, as I blew one of the
decoys clear into the next block.
Then things again assumed their usual hunter's attitude, and
after sitting for another hour we paddled over to our sail-boat
and started down the lake for the house. It was blowing pretty
hard, and the sky was blacker than Pittsburg. The skipper said
something about a squall, but it didn't hit us until we were
about two hundred yards from the dock. Then we got it, and got
it good. It was buttercups and daisies. Thunder, lightning, rain,
and all the side dishes. I'd have given eight dollars to have
seen a cable car coming along about that time. The skipper yelled
to me to ease off the larboard stay. Now, I might know something
about mince pie, but a larboard stay is not my long and hasty.
Then some one pushed me aside, and succeeded in putting things
in such excellent shape that we ran plumb through the dock. It
was great!
That night we sat around, and Sarpo and his sons told some funny
stories. My, but they were to the saddings! I told one of my best,
and nobody filtered but Teddy.
The next morning at five we took the dogs and started out after
deer. They have what they call run-ways or deer passes, and the
deer always go the same route. They ought to have better sense,
although as far as I am concerned they are perfectly safe. They
put me on one of the passes, behind a lot of underbrush. Well,
I sat and sat until I went to sleep, but I slept with one eye
open. Deadwood Dick and all the great scouts and trappers had the
one-eye-open habit. I was awakened by hearing something crack,
and there standing about twenty feet away with its side turned
to me was a deer. It must have belonged to the fair sex, as it
had no horns. Talk about shaking! I would have shaken my best
friend. I finally pulled myself together, and remembering the
ducks, I let her have both barrels at once. She kicked her feet
up in the air, turned her head, and on the level, she gave me
the laugh and cut into the woods. I believe she saw me all the
time, and knew I was a lobster.
On the way back, I met the half-breed, and we walked together.
On reaching the house we happened to glance through the window,
and there was Teddy with his arm around the young wife's waist.
Teddy always was a rubber. It was lovely cards for a while, and
Teddy worked the old gag that he was showing her how they did in
a play, but she wasn't wise enough to follow it up, so we had to
leave.
While returning on the train I made the horrible discovery that
I had been using my buckshot on the ducks and my birdshot on the
deer. I can see how the deer got away, but I'll say one thing,
and that is, that if a passing duck had ever reached his mitt out
for one of those buckshot he would have thought Rusie was doing
the pitching. He would have got it fine and daisy.
I am not for the country. They have ticks, jiggers, and gnats,
all doing a nice conservative business at once. You never had
a tick on you, did you, Jim? Well, a tick is a very busy little
cup of tea. First, he'll crawl all over you, and then select a
spot on the back directly between the shoulder blades, where you
can't reach him. I talked to a man who was up on ticks, and he
said a tick was wiser than a bedbug. Now, you take a bedbug whose
head is perfectly clear, and who hasn't been drinking or smoking
too much, and there won't be many men on Wall Street much wiser
than he is. Well, after a tick gets his place picked out he
burrows in under the skin, then dies and festers. You wouldn't
catch a bedbug standing for that martyr game.
There should be some kind of a law against gnats. About two
hundred of them will stay right in front of your eyes until one
of them gets an opening; then he'll cut in and land a jab, and
the other hundred and ninety-nine will give you the Big Minnehaha.
I had so many lumps on me when I got back to St. Paul that they
called me Pneumatic Willie.
Talk about your sylvan dells and sweet-scented fragrance! Why,
an asphalt street has a sylvan dell skinned to death, and a
twelve-percent soap factory is sweet enough for me.
Yours as ever,
Billy.
P. S.--Good night. I'm for the sleeps.
ONE NIGHT
A Kind of a Preface
The Baxter Letters are written in the up-to-date slang of the
day, by one who has seen several of the sides of life, and who
has also come in contact with a few of the corners.
We will mail "One Night" to any address in North America upon
receipt of four cents* in postage. Do not lick stamps and attach
to letter of request, as at some future date we may wish to use
same, and the Government foolishly requires a whole stamp.
As there are several people in the United States with whom we
are not personally acquainted, and not being mind-readers, we
ask that all signatures be written plainly.
* This offer is superseded by the publication of this volume.
Admiral Dewey's Letter
In November, 1898 we sent Admiral Dewey a copy of "One Night."
The appended letter is photographed from the original reply
addressed to the president of our company, which was received
March 9, 1899.
Flagship Olympia
Manila,
Jan'y 28/99
Dear Sir,
Accept my best thanks for the book (One Night) which you were
good enough to send me.
Very truly
George Dewey
We also sent a copy to His Royal Highness, Albert, Prince of
Wales, and, having heard nothing from him, it now looks as
though Al were going to snob us. Under the circumstances, when
he runs for King we can't be for him.
One Night
Pittsburg, PA., August, 189-.
Dear Jim:
You remember I wrote you about a sack suit I ordered last week.
Well, it came yesterday, and you know the finish. Why can't a
fellow put on a new suit, make a few calls, and go home like a
gentleman? The minute I got into that suit, I fell off the water
wagon with an awful bump, although I hadn't touched a drink for
thirty-seven days. Oh! But I got a lovely bun on. That's the last.
No more for me. There's nothing in it. If anybody says, "Have
something, Billy," you'll see your Uncle Bill take to the trees.
Yesterday at 2:30 I had a hundred and ten dollars; this morning
I'm there with a dollar eighty, and that's the draw out of a
two-dollar touch. If there is any truth in the old saying that
money talks, I am certainly deaf and dumb to-day. Besides I have
a card in my pocket which says I've opened up a running account
of thirty-two forty at George's place. I wonder if this George
is on the level, because I'll swear I don't think I was in there
at all. I'll bet he stuck the forty on anyway. You know me, Jim;
I am one of those bright people who tries to keep up with a lot
of guys who have nothing to do but blow their coin. I stood around
yesterday and looked wise, and licked up about four high-balls;
then I kind of stretched. Whenever I give one of those little
stretches and swell up a bit that's a sign I am commencing to
get wealthy. I switched over and took a couple of gin fizzes,
and then it hit me I was richer than Jay Gould ever was; I had
the Rothschilds backed clear off the board; and I made William
H. Vanderbilt look like a hundred-to-one shot. You understand,
Jim, this was yesterday. I got a little red spot in each cheek,
and then I leaned over the bar and whispered, "Mr. Bartender,
break a bottle of that Pommery." Ordinarily I call the booze
clerk by his first name, but when you are cutting into the grape
at four dollars per, you always want to say Mr. Bartender, and
you should always whisper, or just nod your head each time you
open a new bottle, as it makes it appear as though you were
accustomed to ordering wine. You see, Jim, that's where I go off
my dip. That wine affair is an awful stunt for a fellow who makes
not over two thousand a year, carries ten thousand life, and rooms
in a flat that's fifteen a month stronger than he can stand. But
to continue, I lost the push I started out with, and got mixed
up with a fellow named Thorne, or Thorpe, or something like that,
and we got along great for a while. He knew a lot of fellows in
Boston that I did, and every time we struck a new mutual friend
we opened another bottle. I don't know just what the total
population of Boston is, but we must have known everybody there.
Finally Thorne got to crying because his mother had died. You
know I am a good fellow, so I cried, too. I always cry some time
during a bat, and there was an opening for your life. I cried so
hard that the bartender had to ask me to stop three different
times. I made Niobe look like a two spot. Between sobs I asked
him about the sad affair, and found that his mother had died
when he was born. I guess it had just struck him. Then there
were doings.
I had wasted a wad of cries that would float the Maine, and I was
sore for fair. A fat fellow cut into the argument, and some one
soaked him in the eye, and then, as they say in Texas, "there was
three minutes rough house." In the general bustle a seedy looking
man pinched the Fresh Air Fund, box and all. You know I'm not much
for the bat cave, and to avoid such after-complications as patrol
wagons and things, I blew the bunch and started up street. I guess
the wind must have been against me, as I was tacking.
I met Johnny Black, and he was going to keep a date with a couple
of swell heiresses at one of the hotel dining-rooms. I saw them
on the street to-day, and they won't do. One of them wore an
amethyst ring that weighed about sixty carats, and the other
had on white slippers covered with little beads.
I don't know anything about them, but I'll gamble that they are
the kind of people that have pictures of the family and wreaths
in the parlor. They looked fine and daisy last night, though.
Probably the grape. My girl's name was Estelle. Wouldn't that
scald you? Estelle handed me a lot of talk about having seen
me on the street for the last two years, and how she had always
been dying to meet me, and I got swelled up and bought wine like
a horse owner. Johnny was shaking his head and motioning for me
to chop, but what cared I? Estelle was saying, "He done it,"
"I seen it," and "Usen't you?" right along, but the grape stood
for everything.
Estelle's friend was talking about her piano, and how hard it
was to get good servants nowadays, and say, Jim, I've heard
knockers in my time, but Estelle is the original leader of the
anvil chorus. She just put everybody in town on the pan and
roasted them to a whisper. She could build the best battleship
Dewey ever saw with her little hammer. Estelle's friend, after
much urging, then sang a pathetic ballad entitled, "She Should
Be Scolded, but Not Turned Adrift," and I sat there with one
eye shut, so that I could see single, and kept saying, "Per'fly
beauf'ful."
About this time I commenced to forget. I remember getting an
awful rise out of Estelle by remarking that her switch didn't
match her hair. She came up like a human yeast cake. Johnny
sided with the dame, and said I might at least try to act like
a gentleman, even if I weren't one. Perhaps the grape wasn't
getting to Johnny by this time. He was nobby and boss. He was
dropping his r's like a Southerner, and you know how much of a
Southerner Johnny is--Johnstown, Pa.; and he was hollering around
about his little three-year-old, standard-bred, and registered
bay mare out of Highland Belle, by Homer Wilkes, with a mark of
twenty-one, that could out-trot any thing of her age that ever
champed a bit. Did you get that, Jim? That ever champed a bit;
and still he said at noon to-day that he had had two, possibly
three, glasses of wine, but no more. The only way that mare of
Johnny's can go a mile in twenty-one is "In the Baggage Coach
Ahead."
Say, Jim, I've never said much about it, but you let any of these
fellows who own horses get a soak on, and they get to be a kind
of a village pest, with their talk about blowing up in the stretch,
shoe blisters on the left forearm, etc. Now, since when did a horse
get an arm? They have got me winging. I can't follow them at all.
But to return to last night. When Johnny threw that thing at me
about champing the bit, it was all off to Buffalo with little
Will. I went out of business right there.
When I got up this morning I had to ask the bellboy what hotel
I was in. I'll see the fellows to-night, and they'll all tell me
how dirty my face was, and what I called so and so, and make me
feel as bad as they possibly can. It's a wonder a fellow doesn't
get used to that, but I never do; I feel meaner each time. Guess
I'll take the veil.
Don't fail to come down Saturday. Several of us are going yachting
on the Ohio River. It will be lovely billiards.
Yours as ever,
Billy.
P. S.--Do you know anything about that George's place?
Horse Sense
Sometimes you eat too much, sometimes you drink too much, and
sometimes you do both. In any event, you feel like the very old
scratch the next morning. Too much liquor overheats the blood.
Too much food, and the liver goes on a strike. The first remedy
which should suggest itself is a purgative which will act on the
liver, and cleanse the system of all the indigestible junk with
which it has been overtaxed. This is positively the foundation
for permanent relief. The next thing is to cool the blood. Now,
isn't it common horse sense?
Think it over.
The R--R-- is the only water which acts on the liver. It's base
is sodium phosphate.
The R--R-- is the only water which cools the blood, Overheated blood is what
causes the pressure on the head.
The R--R-- is the only pleasant-tasting aperient water of any
strength on the market to-day.
We have stumbled onto a good thing, and we've got the money to
push it.
You remember the man who at breakfast said: "Waiter, bring me
about ten grains of oatmeal, and put stickers on it so that it
will stay down; and say, waiter, please look as pleasant as
possible, for I feel like h--l."
Well, that's how a person's stomach gets some mornings.
If you are going to drink an aperient, why try to force down a
water that is warm, and tastes like a lot of bad eggs, doesn't
touch your liver, and won't cool your blood, when you can get
the R--R--, cold and sparkling and pleasant, which will do all
these things?
If you are annoyed with constipation, stomach or liver trouble,
use as your system dictates, and see bow much better you feel.
It can't hurt you. Best before breakfast.
IN SOCIETY
Preface
In presenting "In Society," we are confident of success. Upon
"One Night" comment is unnecessary. A bona fide demand for nearly
250,000 copies in less than three months speaks for itself. In
inclosing stamps for books, our men readers who will join the
"Union" mentioned on page 36 will so state. No names attached to
such communications will be published. The partial description
of the Grand Opera "Die Walkure" in this book is given precisely
as it occurred; and although the up-to-date slang used might
suggest exaggeration, such is really not the case. Again we ask
that your name be written plainly. This caution is not addressed
to the women. We have given up all hope of ever getting a readable
signature from a woman. Don't think for a moment that we have
anything against the women. Heaven forbid! We merely say that
if there is a woman in the United States who can write plainly,
that particular woman hasn't written us yet.
In Society
Pittsburg, Pa., Feb. 1, 1899.
Dear Jim:
There is no new scandal worth mentioning. What I started to write
you about was Hemingway's duplicate whist party which was pulled
off last night. I had a bid, and as there was nothing else stirring,
I put on that boy's size dress suit of mine, and blew out there.
Jim, you know the signs you see on the dummies in front of these
little Yiddisher stores, "Take me home for $io.98," or "I used
to be $6.21, now I'm yours for $3.39." Well, that's your Uncle
Bill in a dress suit. Every one takes me for a waiter.
I have just been thinking this society push over, and I have
come to the conclusion that an active leader in society has more
troubles than a man in the wheat pit, and a man in the wheat pit
is long on troubles about as often as he is on wheat. If you don't
believe it, ask Joe Leiter. He was long on both at the same time.
Take the woman who uses fair English and has coin, and let her
display the same good cold judgment that has made her husband
successful in business, and some rainy Thursday morning the four
hundred will wake up and find a new member has joined the order.
While she is on her way she'll get many a frost, but after she
lands she'll even up on the other candidates.
I have heard it said that locomotive engineers as a rule suffer
from kidney troubles, caused by the jolting and bumping of the
engine. If jolts and bumps go for anything, some of these people
who are trying to break into society must have Bright's Disease
something grievous.
Jim, if you have never been to a duplicate whist party, see some
of those people play whist and then order your shroud. Last night
for a partner I drew an old girl who was a Colonial Dame because
her ancestors on both sides had worked on the Old Colony Railroad.
She must have taken a foolish powder or something, just before she
left home, as she was clean to the bad. She had to be called five
minutes before each play, and the way she trumped my ace the first
time around was enough to drive a person dippy. Once she mentioned
her husband's diamond-studded airship. Poor old lady! Probably took
a double dose by mistake. How careless!
Everybody was making a great fuss over some girl who is lecturing
throughout the country on "Man as Woman Sees Him." Talk about
lavish eyes. My boy! my boy! but this dame was there with the
swell lamps. A hundred candle power easily. I tried to sit up
to her, but there was nothing doing. I might have known I was a
dead one. Because why? Because Mr. Percy Harold was talking to
her, and he knows all about rare china, real old lace, and such
things. When I came up the subject was Du Bois' Messe de Mariage.
(Spelling not guaranteed.) I asked about it this morning, Jim.
A Messe de Mariage seems to be some kind of a wedding march, and
a bishop who is a real hot dog won't issue a certificate unless
the band plays the Messe. Mr. Percy Harold kept right on talking
about Jack Hayes being so desperately in love with Mrs. Hardy-
Steele, and how late they were getting home from the Opera the
other night, and what a shame it was, as Mr. Steele seemed like
such a nice fellow. There I stood like a Harlem goat. I couldn't
cut in, because I have so many troubles of my own getting home
from any place at all that I haven't time to keep tab on other
people. I must be as slow getting onto a scandal as the injured
husband. If 115,000 people know something about a woman, my
number is 14,999, and the husband's number is 15,000. It seems
strange, but the husband always seems to get wise last.
But to return to the girl with the electric eyes. I hung around in
that sad dress suit like a big dub, hoping that the conversation
would finally get switched to theaters or dogs or sparring, or
something where I could make good, but Mr. Harold had the floor,
and he certainly had me looking like a dirty deuce in a new deck.
I stood for him till he suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, fudge!" because
he had forgotten one of his rings, and there was where I took to
the tall timbers. If I were a ring I wouldn't let a guy like that
wear me. Now will you kindly tell me why it is that a girl will
throw a good fellow down every time for one of those Lizzie boys?
If I thought there were enough men in the country who feel as
I do, I would start "The American Union for the Suppression of
Lizzie Boys."
Well, I decided to get into my class, so I started for the
smoking-room. I hadn't gone three feet till some woman held me
up, and began telling me how she adored grand opera. I didn't
even reply. I flew madly and remained hidden in the tall grasses
of the smoking-room until it was time to go home. Jim, should
any one ever tell you that grand opera is all right, he is either
trying to even up, or he is not a true friend. I was over in New
York with the family last winter, and they made me go with them
to "Die Walkure" at the Metropolitan Opera House. When I got
the tickets I asked the man's advice as to the best location.
He said that all true lovers of music occupied the dress circle
and balconies, and that he had some good center dress circle
seats at three bones per. Here's a tip, Jim. If the box man ever
hands you that true lover game, just reach in through the little
hole and soak him in the solar for me. It's coming to him. I'll
give you my word of honor we were a quarter of a mile from the
stage. We went up in an elevator, were shown to our seats, and
who was right behind us but my old pal Bud Hathaway from Chicago.
Bud had his two sisters with him, and he gave me one sad look
which said plainer than words, "So you're up against it, too,
eh?" We introduced all hands around, and about nine o'clock the
curtain went up. After we had waited fully ten minutes, out came
a big, fat, greasy looking Dago with nothing on but a bear robe.
He went over to the side of the stage, and sat down on a bum rock.
It was plainly to be seen, even from my true lover's seat, that
his bearlets was sorer than a dog about something. Presently in
came a woman, and none of the true lovers seemed to know who she
was. Some said it was Melba, others Nordica. Bud and I decided it
was May Irwin. We were mistaken, though, as Irwin has this woman
lashed to the mast at any time or place. As soon as Mike the
Dago espied the dame it was all off. He rushed, and drove a
straight-arm jab, which had it reached would have given him the
purse. But Shifty Sadie wasn't there. She ducked, side-stepped,
and landed a clever half-arm hook which seemed to stun the big
fellow. They clinched, and swayed back and forth, growling
continually, while the orchestra played this trembly
Eliza-crossing-the-ice music. Jim, I'm not swelling this a bit.
On the level, it happened just as I write it. All of a sudden
some one seemed to win. They broke away, and ran wildly to the
front of the stage with their arms outstretched, yelling to beat
three of a kind. The band cut loose something fierce. The leader
tore out about $9.00 worth of hair, and acted generally as though
he had bats in his belfry. I thought sure the place would be
pinched. It reminded me of Thirsty Thornton's dance-hall out in
Merrill, Wisconsin, when the Silent Swede used to start a general
survival of the fittest every time Mamie the Mink danced twice
in succession with the young fellow from Albany, whose father
owned the big mill up Rough River. Of course, this audience was
perfectly orderly, and showed no intention whatever of cutting in,
and there were no chairs or glasses in the air, but I am forced to
admit that the opera had Thornton's faded for noise. I asked Bud
what the trouble was, and he answered that I could search him.
The audience apparently went wild. Everybody said "Simply sublime!"
"Isn't it grand?" "Perfectly superb!" "Bravo!" etc., not because
they really enjoyed it, but merely because they thought it was the
proper thing to do. After that for three solid hours Rough House
Mike and Shifty Sadie seemed to be apologizing to the audience
for their disgraceful street brawl, which was honestly the only
good thing in the show. Along about twelve o'clock I thought I
would talk over old times with Bud, but when I turned his way I
found my tried and trusty comrade "Asleep at the Switch."