“Say,” he began, “I’d like to open a small account with you. I’d like to come in here for me drinks and on Saturday night whin I get paid off I’ll come over and settle. I’m a square guy and I always pay me debts. How about it?” “Vell,” said the German, “for my regular gustomers sometimes I put it on der slate; only, you are a stranger to me. Where you work?” “Right across the street here,” said the Irishman. “In der munitions factory? Nutt’n doin’!” “Well, they told me,” said the Irishman, “that you was kinda sore on us fellers over there but I was thinkin’ that if you knew we was makin’ shells for the Germans now maybe you’d act different.” The Teuton’s face broke into a broad smile. “For the Chermans now you make ’em, eh? Say, dot’s fine—dot’s pully. Have someding on me. We drink togeder, huh?” They drank together. Three times more, as rapidly as the Irishman emptied his beer-glass the German replenished it, each time stating that for this festive occasion, at least, there would be no charge for the refreshment. The hospitable rites having been concluded the new patron was moving toward the door when the German was moved to put a question. Until now, in his exuberance, he had forgotten to ask for details: “Say,” he said, “how you get dose shells over to der Chermans?” “Well,” said the Irishman, edging a little nearer toward the door, “we don’t exactly send ’em to the Germans direct, you understand.” “No? Then how you do it?” “Oh, we sell ’em to the English and they shoot ’em over.” § 252 Back to God’s Country Soon after the Civil War ended a former trooper of Morgan’s cavalry moved from his home in the Bluegrass region to California. He was a gentleman of genial habits and a natural orator. It was almost inevitable, therefore, that sooner or later he should enter politics. He was announced as a candidate for the legislature on the Democratic ticket. He made a spirited campaign, but when the primary returns were in, of three candidates the ex-Confederate had finished third. He called a meeting of his friends and made a speech. It was short but complete. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’m going to quit this cussed country. I’m going back to Kentucky—the only fit place for a gentleman to live—where the niggers make your crop for you and the sheriff sells it.” § 253 Hail and Farewell! An amateur pugilist in a small town in Ohio accepted the invitation of a visiting professional who announced that he was ready to meet all comers. The local prodigy mounted the stage, climbed through the ropes and gave his name to the announcer. As the announcer was introducing him the amateur tugged at his sleeve and whispered something in his ear. “Kid Binks desires me to state,” said the announcer, “that this is his first appearance in any ring.”