BY THE AUTHOR OF
“SPEAKING OF OPERATIONS,” ETC.
A LAUGH A DAY
KEEPS THE DOCTOR
AWAY
His Favorite Stories as Told by
Irvin S. Cobb
GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK
GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., INC.
CL
Copyright, 1923,
By George H. Doran Company
Copyright, 1921,
By the Central Press Association
Copyright, 1922, 1923,
By the McNaught Syndicate, Inc.
A Laugh a Day Keeps the Doctor Away.
Printed in the United States of America
To
Three of the Best Story-Tellers I Know:
ROBERT H. DAVIS SAMUEL G. BLYTHE
HAL S. CORBETT
FOREWORD
The anecdotal form of humor is largely, I think, a native institution. Americans did not invent or discover the short humorous story, it is true. Indeed, some short stories still are making their rounds which were old when the Pyramids were young. Probably the piper who piped before Moses rounded out his act with one of the standard jokes of the period—a joke which, dressed in new clothes, is doing duty somewhere to-day. The mother-in-law joke could not have originated with Adam, because Adam had no mother-in-law, but I have not the slightest doubt that Cain began using it shortly after his marriage. And beyond peradventure Father Noah wiled away many a dragging half hour in the Ark by telling Shem, Ham and Japhet one of the ones which begin: “It seems there were two Irishmen named Pat and Mike. And Pat said to Mike, ‘Faith, an’ be jabers!—’ ”
So it would not do for us to lay claim to sole responsibility for the short humorous story. But I am quite certain that we, more than any other people, have made it a part of our daily life, using it to point morals, to express situations, to help us solve puzzles. To these extents, at least, it is a national institution with us.
Americans like to tell short stories and like to laugh at them. We are by inheritance a race of story-tellers. There are short stories which sum up the characteristics of white Americans or black Americans, Jews or Gentiles, city folk or country folk more completely than could ponderous essays or scholarly expositions. It is of record that Abraham Lincoln, in the darkest days of the Union, cured more than one crisis with some homely anecdote, some aptly barbed retort.
After-dinner speakers and professional jokesmiths of the stage or the printed page are not responsible for the spread of good stories to the extent with which they generally are credited. That honor properly belongs to telegraph operators and notably to telegraph operators serving on “leased” wires in newspaper offices. Late at night when the flood tides of news matter have slackened off, the operator, say, in New York, tells his friend in Buffalo a good one he heard that afternoon. The Buffalo man passes it along to Kansas City. The Kansas City man conveys it by dot-and-dash to a pal in Denver and next morning folks are grinning over it in the streets of San Francisco.
I always have loved short funny stories. I prefer them to be new, but an old one, properly told, is often better than a new one badly presented. For the contents of this book I have sought to choose those short stories which made the greatest appeal to me. Some of them I heard years ago; others no longer ago than yesterday.
For the book I claim two distinctions, namely, as follows:
There is only one mother-in-law story in it.
There is not a single story in it in which a colored character is referred to as “Rastus.”
I. S. C.
CONTENTS
[Topically Arranged]
A
Actors [[1]][64], [178], [179]
After-dinner Speakers [16], [130], [142], [355]
Agricultural [66], [84], [119], [348], [360]
Alcoholic [1], [11], [18], [33], [36], [64], [65], [68], [89], [150], [157], [203], [212], [232], [242], [263], [319], [342]
Americans Abroad [10], [24], [94], [215], [219]
Animal Friends [5], [15], [25], [71], [117], [167], [216], [232], [233], [248], [291], [293], [344]
Army (A. E. F. mostly) [21], [30], [34], [39], [62], [69], [71], [73], [97], [156], [161], [162], [163], [354], [359]
| [1] | These figures refer to the numbers of the stories and not to the pages in the book. |
B
Banking [44], [52], [113], [218]
Baseball [32], [184], [228], [278], [357]
Bridal Couples [92], [200], [205], [320]
Business [8], [35], [44], [136], [165], [277], [341]
C
Canadian [180]
Carrier-pigeons [71]
Census [40]
Children [95], [128], [129], [223], [231], [240], [290], [293], [324], [347], [352]
Circuses [19], [123], [171], [209], [336], [366]
Clergymen [33], [45], [49], [56], [94], [103], [116], [158], [187]
Cricket [164]
Criticism [362]
D
Dancing [9]
Dentists [301], [303], [306], [312]
Dining [53], [65], [77], [128], [160], [192], [261], [304], [313]
Doctors [98], [146], [226], [285], [314], [361]
Dogs [190]
E
Educational [57], [268], [276], [346]
English [16], [24], [46], [130], [142], [184], [235], [249], [321], [337], [345]
F
Feminine [9]
Feuds [3], [101], [138], [143]
Finance [70], [241], [250], [296]
Football [78]
Fortune Telling [158]
French [30], [196], [225], [280]
Frugality [35], [42], [108], [147], [265], [300], [309]
G
Golf [182], [237], [270], [317]
H
Hangings [14], [17], [54], [56], [295], [316]
Health [131]
Hebrew [8], [12], [44], [52], [113], [132], [197], [213], [237], [244], [245], [255], [276], [304], [305], [308]-310, [335], [365]
I
Indian [122]
Irish [2], [49], [107], [118], [188], [247], [251], [258], [267], [294], [297], [339]
J
Jails [63], [170], [278], [328]
Journalistic [41], [195], [281]
Judicial [38], [90], [91], [115]
K
L
Lawyers [7], [28], [31], [58], [63]
Laziness [350]
Lunacy [268]
M
Mathematical [323]
Matrimonial [29], [81], [92], [106], [124], [135], [205], [229], [238], [302]
Mining [333]
Miscellaneous [75], [82], [109], [131], [172], [185], [186], [189], [191], [193], [202], [208], [211], [214], [227], [230], [234], [236], [243], [248], [257], [259], [260], [277], [284], [286], [296], [298], [307], [315], [329], [331], [343], [346], [348], [356]
Mortuary [107]-132, [254], [256], [266], [288], [308], [322]
Movies [13]
N
Negro [5], [14], [17], [25], [34], [37], [38], [39], [42], [43], [53], [54], [55], [56], [57], [61], [67], [69], [72], [73], [74], [76], [77], [81], [83], [85], [86], [88], [90], [92], [93], [97], [100], [104], [111], [144], [146], [148], [192], [198], [205], [217], [278], [283], [289], [292], [299], [326], [363]
O
P
Politics [67], [169], [204] [217]
Prophecy [47], [49], [58], [80], [104], [145], [149], [158], [162], [172], [207], [222], [235]
Pugilistic [41], [139], [253], [272], [338]
R
Rogues [48], [110], [133], [273], [279], [334]
S
Science [181]
Scotch [27], [35], [103], [108], [112], [116], [147], [224], [265], [300]
Southern [3], [15], [20], [23], [26], [28], [29], [58], [60], [79], [84], [127], [137], [140], [154], [155], [159], [206], [252], [275]
Spiritualism [59]
Sunday Schools [167], [240], [269]
T
Theatrical [12], [114], [126], [151], [246], [271]
Traveling [4], [47], [55], [93], [96], [157], [221], [222], [310]
V
Vaudeville [176], [177], [194]
W
Weather [87], [121], [145], [199], [287]
Western [4], [22], [50], [51], [264], [279], [291], [349]
Y
Yankee [6], [19], [125], [135], [145], [160], [207], [341], [360]
A LAUGH A DAY
KEEPS THE
DOCTOR AWAY
§ 1 The Untraveled Stranger
Back in those sinful days which ended in January, 1919—that is, officially they ended then—a group of congenial spirits were gathered one Saturday night in a local life-saving station on the principal corner of a small Kentucky town, engaged in the quaint old pastime of pickling themselves.
In the midst of these proceedings the swinging doors were thrust asunder and there entered one of those self-sufficient, self-important persons who crave to tell their private affairs to others, and who, in those times, preferably chose as a proper recipient for their confidences, a barkeeper—as I believe the functionary was called.
The newcomer wedged his way into the congenial group of patrons, and apropos of nothing which up until then had been said or done, introduced himself to the notice of the company by stating in a loud clear voice:
“The doctor wants me to take a trip. I haven’t been feelin’ the best in the world and my wife got worried—you know how women are—and to-night she sent for the doctor. And he came over, a little while ago, and he asked me a lot of foolish questions and took my temperature and five dollars and then he says to me that I should rest up for a spell and travel ’round. He says I ought to go out to California and see the sights. Ain’t I been to California? I have—more’n half a dozen times. Ain’t I seen every sight there is in the whole state of California? I have. As a matter of fact, I don’t mind tellin’ you fellers that I’ve been everywhere and I’ve seen practically everything there is.”
At this a gentleman who was far overtaken in stimulant, slid the entire length of the bar, using his left elbow for a rudder. Anchoring himself alongside the stranger he hooked a practiced and accomplished instep on the brass rail to hold him upright and he focused a watery, wavering, bloodshot eye upon the countenance of the other and to him in husky tones he said:
“Excus’h me, but could I ash you a ques’shun?”
“Sure, you could ask me a question,” said the stranger. “Go ahead.”
“The ques’shun,” said the alcoholic one, “ ’s as follows: Have you ever had delirium tremens?”
“Certainly not,” snorted the indignant stranger.
“Well, you big piker!” said the inebriate, “then you ain’t never been nowheres—and you ain’t never seen nothin’.”
§ 2 The Prudent Mr. Finnerty
The lawyer picked his way to the edge of the excavation and called down for Michael Finnerty.
“Who’s wantin’ me?” inquired a deep voice.
“I am,” said the lawyer. “Mr. Finnerty, did you come from Castlebar, County Mayo?”
“I did.”
“And was your mother named Mary and your father named Owen?”
“They was.”
“Then Mr. Finnerty,” said the lawyer, “it is my duty to inform you that your Aunt Kate has died in the old country, leaving you an estate of twenty thousand dollars in cash. Please come up.”
There was a pause and a commotion down below.
“Mr. Finnerty,” called the lawyer, craning his neck over the trench, “I’m waiting for you!”
“In wan minute,” said Mr. Finnerty. “I just stopped to lick the foreman!”
For six months Mr. Finnerty, in a high hat and with patent leather shoes on his feet, lived a life of elegant ease, trying to cure himself of a great thirst. Then he went back to his old job. It was there that the lawyer found him the second time.
“Mr. Finnerty,” he said, “I’ve more news for you. It is your Uncle Terence who’s dead now in the old country; and he has left you his entire property.”
“I don’t think I can take it,” said Mr. Finnerty, leaning wearily on his pick. “I’m not as strong as I wance was; and I’m doubtin’ if I could go through all that again and live!”
§ 3 Enough for Wilkins
From the lowlands a special judge was sent up to the Kentucky mountains to try some murder cases growing out of a desperate and bloody feud. He took with him as his official stenographer a young man from Louisville, who dressed smartly and, in strong contrast to the silent mountaineers, did considerable talking. For convenience let us call him Wilkins.
On his first Sunday morning in the mountain hamlet Wilkins felt the need of a shave. He had no razor and there was no regular barber in the town; but he learned from the hotel-keeper that there was an old cobbler living a few doors away who sometimes shaved transients.
In a tiny shop Wilkins found an elderly native with straggly chin whiskers and a gentle blue eye. The old chap got out an ancient razor and was soon scraping away on the patron’s jowls. Wilkins felt the desire for conversation stealing over him.
“This is a mighty lawless country up here, ain’t it?” he began.
“I don’t know,” said the old chap mildly. “Things is purty quiet jist at present.”
He paused to put a keener edge on his blade.
“Well,” said Wilkins, “you won’t deny, I suppose, that you have a lot of murders in this town?”
“We don’t gin’rally speak of ’em as murders,” said the old man in a tone of gentle reproof. “Up here we jest calls ’em killin’s.”
“I’d call ’em murders, all right,” said Wilkins briskly. “If shooting a man down in cold blood from ambush isn’t murder, then I don’t know a murder when I see one, that’s all. When was the last man killed, as you call it, here in this town?”
“Why, last week,” said the patriarch.
“Whereabouts was he killed?” continued Wilkins.
“Right out yonder in the street in front of this here shop,” stated the old man, with the air of one desiring to turn the conversation. “Razor hurt you much?”
“The razor’s all right,” said Wilkins snappily. “What I want to know are the facts about the killing of this last man. Who killed him?”
The cobbler let the edge of the razor linger right over the Adam’s apple of the stranger for a moment.
“I done so,” he said gently.
There was where the conversation seemed to begin to languish.
§ 4 Why the Major Didn’t Suit
On a voyage of one of the Cunard liners from New York to Liverpool a Major H. Reynolds of London was registered on the passenger list. The purser, running over the names, assigned to the same stateroom as fellow travelers, this Major Reynolds and a husky stockman from the Panhandle of Texas.
A little later the cattleman, ignoring the purser, hunted up the skipper.
“Look here, cap,” he demanded, “what kind of a joker is this here head clerk of yours? I can’t travel in the same stateroom with that there Major Reynolds. I can’t and I won’t! So far as that goes, neither one of us likes the idea.”
“What complaint have you?” asked the skipper. “Do you object to an army officer for a traveling companion?”
“Not generally,” stated the Texan—“only this happens to be the Salvation Army. That there major’s other name is Henrietta!”
§ 5 Grandfather Laughed at This One
On a Georgia plantation a group of darkies went coon hunting one night. Because of his love for the sport they took with them Uncle Sam, the patriarch of the colored quarters. Uncle Sam was over eighty years old and all kinked up with rheumatism. He hobbled along behind the hunters as they filed off through the woods.
The dogs “treed” in a sweet gum snag on the edge of Pipemaker Swamp, five miles from home; but when the tree fell there rolled out of the top of it, not a raccoon but a full-grown black bear, full of fight and temper.
The pack gave one choral ki-yi of shock and streaked away, yelping as they went; and the two-legged hunters followed, fleeing as fast as their legs would carry them.
When they came to a moonlit place in the woods they discovered that Uncle Sam was missing; but they did not go back to look for him—they did not even check up.
“Pore ole Unc’ Sam!” bemoaned one of the fugitives, between pants. “His ole laigs must ’a’ give out on him ’foh he went ten jumps. I reckin dat bear’s feastin’ on his bones right dis minute.”
“Dat’s so! Dat’s so!” gasped one of the others. “Pore Unc’ Sam!”
When they reached the safety of the cotton patches they limped to Uncle Sam’s cottage to break the news to the widow. There was a light in the window; and when they rapped at the door, and it opened, the sight of him who faced them across the threshold made them gasp.
“Foh de Lawd!” exclaimed one. “How you git heah?”
“Me?” said Uncle Sam calmly, “oh, I come ’long home wid de dawgs.”
§ 6 The Day Denver Was Surprised
Swifty, the High Diver, was imported to give his performance as a crowning feature on the last day of the annual fair and races in a certain small county-seat of interior Vermont.
Those who remember the late Swifty may recall that it was his custom, clad in silken tights, to ascend to the top of a slender ladder which reared nearly ninety feet aloft and after poising himself there for a moment to leap forth headlong into air, describing a graceful curve in his downward flight, then with a great splatter and splash to strike in a tank of water but little larger and wider and deeper than the average well-filled family bathtub, and immediately thereafter to emerge from it, in his glittering spangles, amid the plaudits of the admiring multitude. That is to say, he did this until the sad and tragic afternoon when, just as Swifty jumped, some quaint practical joker moved the tank.
But on this particular occasion no mishap marred the splendor of the feat. Naturally enough that night, when the community loafers assembled at their favorite general store, the achievement of the afternoon was the main topic of the evening.
The official liar held in as long as he could; and when he no longer could contain himself, he spoke up and said:
“Wall, I hain’t denyin’ but what that there Swifty is consid’able of a diver—but I had a cousin onc’t that could a-beat him.”
The official skeptic gave a scornful grunt.
“Ah, hah!” he exclaimed, “I rather thought you’d be sayin’ somethin’ of that general nature before the evenin’ was over. Who, for instance, was this yere cousin of yourn?”
“Wall, for instance,” said the liar, modestly, “he wan’t no one in especial and perticular, exceptin’ the champeen diver of the world—that’s all.”
“And what did he ever do to justify his right to that there title?” demanded the skeptic.
“Wall,” said the liar, “he done consid’able many things in the divin’ line, which was his speciality. I remember onc’t he made a bet of a hundred dollars, cash, that he could dive from Liverpool, England, to Noo York City.”
The skeptic gave a groan of resignation.
“I suppose,” he said, “that you’re goin’ to ask us to believe he won that there bet.”
“No I hain’t,” stated the liar. “I hain’t a-goin’ to lie to you. That wuz the one bet in his hull life my cousin ever lost. He miscalculated and come up in Denver, Colorado!”
§ 7 And Worth the Money, Too!
A noted lawyer down in Texas, who labored under the defects of having a high temper and of being deaf, was trying a case in a courtroom presided over by a younger man, for whom the older practitioner had a poor opinion.
Presently in an argument over a motion there was a clash between the lawyer and the judge. The judge ordered the lawyer to sit down, and as the lawyer, being deaf, didn’t hear him and went on talking, the judge fined him $10.
The lawyer leaned toward the clerk and cupped his hand behind his ear.
“What did he say?” he inquired.
“He fined you $10,” explained the clerk.
“For what?”
“For contempt of this court,” said the clerk.
The lawyer shot a poisonous look toward the bench and reached a hand into his pocket.
“I’ll pay it now,” he said. “It’s a just debt!”
§ 8 The Spirit of Seventy-six, with Improvements
A New York East Sider met a friend on Third Avenue and told him he had quit the buttonhole-making trade.
“I’m in the art business now,” he said, proudly—“such a fine business, too! Lots of money in it!”
“What do you mean—art business?” demanded his friend.
“Well,” explained the East Sider, “I go by auction sales, and I buy pictures cheap; then I sell ’em high. Yesterday I bought a picture for twenty-five dollars and to-day I sold it for fifty.”
“What was the subject?”
“It wasn’t no subject at all,” said the art collector—“it was a picture.”
“Sure, I know,” said the other. “But every picture has got to be a subject or it ain’t a regular picture, you understand. Was this here picture a marine, or a landscape, or a still life, or a portrait—or what?”
“How should I know?” said the puzzled ex-buttonholer. “To me a picture is a picture! This here picture now didn’t have no name. It was a picture of three fellers. One feller had a fife and one feller had a drum and one feller had a headache!”
§ 9 Protecting the Gentler Sex
A certain young lady who gives interpretative dances in rather scanty costume was engaged to go to a staid community in New England and dance before the local dramatic and literary society.
The day after her appearance the entertainment committee—all women—held a meeting to discuss the affair of the night before. Several had been heard, when one member raised her voice.
“Personally,” she said, “I enjoyed it ever so much. To me it was most artistic and symbolic and everything. But if you ask me, I must say this: It certainly was no place to take a nervous man!”
§ 10 Not at All Singular
An American journalist in poor health spent the summer of 1910 at a resort in Southern France. The proprietor was an English woman, and all of the other guests were English too. They were friendly and kind to the invalid—all excepting one very austere and haughty lady.
On his first day as a guest at the house he heard this lady say to the landlady:
“I distinctly understood that you did not admit Americans as lodgers here, and I wish to know why you have broken the rule.”
The other woman explained that the stranger had come with good references and that he seemed a quiet, well-mannered person who hadn’t offered to scalp anybody and who knew how to eat with a knife and fork. Nevertheless the complaining matron was not at all pleased.
She took frequent opportunity of saying unkind things about the States and those who lived in the States. The sick American maintained a polite silence. Finally one day at the dinner table she addressed him with direct reference to a certain ghastly murder case which even after the lapse of all these years will be remembered by most readers to-day.
“What do you Yankees think of your fellow-American, Doctor Crippen?” she inquired.
“We think he’s crazy,” said the American.
“How singular!” said the lady, arching her eyebrows.
“Not at all,” said the American. “He must have been crazy to kill an American woman in order to marry an English one.”
§ 11 Strictly in Confidence
The time was in the early hours of a new day; the place was the lobby of a hotel; the principal character was a well-dressed gentleman in an alcoholic fog, who had come in and registered for the night a few minutes earlier. Now, half dressed, he descended the stairway from the second floor and stood swaying slightly in front of the desk.
“Mish’ Night Clerk,” he said politely but thickly, “I’ll ’ave requesh you gimme ’nozzer room.”
“Well, sir,” stated the clerk, “we’re a little bit crowded. I don’t know whether I could shift you immediately. It’s pretty late, you know.”
“Mish’ Night Clerk,” said the guest in a courteous but firm voice, “I repeat—mush gimme ’nozzer room.”
“Isn’t the room I gave you comfortable?” parleyed the functionary.
“Sheems be perf’ly so,” admitted the transient. “Nev’less, mush ash be moved ’mediately.”
“Well, what’s the matter with your room?” demanded the pestered clerk.
The stranger bent forward, and with the air of one imparting a secret addressed the clerk in a husky half whisper:
“If you mush know, my room’s on fire!”
§ 12 He Didn’t Believe in Signs
A fireman on duty behind the scenes of one of the big New York theatres and charged with the responsibility of seeing to it that the regulations were strictly obeyed back-stage, suffered a profound shock as he came around from behind a stack of scenery, just before the evening performance. Standing in the opposite wings was a salesman for an East Side cloak and suit concern, who had procured entrance via the stage door for the purpose of soliciting orders for his wares among the young ladies of the chorus. This person was vehemently puffing on a large, long, black, malignant-looking cigar.
In three jumps the scandalized fireman had the violator by the arm.
“Say,” he demanded, “what the hell do you mean, comin’ in here with that torch in your face? Don’t you see that sign right up over your head?”
The trespasser’s eyes turned where the fireman’s finger pointed.
“Sure, mister,” he said, “I see it.”
“Well, can’t you read?” demanded the fireman.
“Sure I can read,” admitted the other calmly.
“Then read what it says there. Don’t you see what it says in big letters? It says—‘No Smoking.’ ”
“Yes,” agreed the East Sider with a winning smile, “but it don’t say ‘Positively.’ ”
§ 13 Advice to Charlie Chaplin
When General Neville, the hero of the defense of Verdun, made his tour of America he was the guest of honor at a big public reception in one of the Los Angeles hotels. Among those invited to greet the distinguished visitor were the more prominent members of the moving-picture colony.
At the doors of General Neville’s suite Will Rogers met Charlie Chaplin. Chaplin, who in private life is a reserved and rather shy little man, was considerably fussed up over the prospect ahead of him.
“I suppose we’re expected to say a few words to the General,” he confided to Rogers. “But for the life of me I can’t think of the best way to start the conversation.”
Rogers gave to the problem a moment of earnest consideration.
“Well,” he said, “you might ask him if he was in the war, and which side he was on.”
§ 14 What Aunt Myra Desired
They brought a darky out of the jail in a North Carolina town with intent to hang him for murder. This was in the day when capital punishment was publicly inflicted. As a special mark of attention the widow of the murderer’s victim was permitted to witness the event from a position of vantage directly facing the gallows. She had had a sort of small grandstand rigged up and she had decorated it with bunting, and when the march to the scaffold started, there she sat in a white mother-hubbard wrapper, gently agitating a palmleaf fan, flanked and surrounded by relatives, invited friends and sister members of her lodge.
When the condemned had been properly trussed up, with the noose dangling about his neck, the sheriff, holding the black cap in his hand, edged up to him and said:
“Well, Jim, we’re about ready. If you’ve got anything to say, I reckon this would be a mighty good time to say it.”
“Yas, suh,” said the doomed, “I has got sump’n to say. I jest wants to say dat I is fully repented fur whut I done. I taken it to de Lawd in prayer an’ I knows it’s all right wid Him. I ast de jedge w’ich tried me an’ de persecutin’ attorney an’ de foreman of de jury ef they bore me any gredge, w’ich, one an’ all, they said they did not. An’ now I kin go right straight to Hebben an’ nestle in de bosom of Father Abraham ef only I kin git de fergiveness of dat nigger lady sittin’ yonder—de wife of de man I kil’t.”