§ 75 The Confusing Geography of Jersey Years ago, when I earned my daily bread and occasional beer on Park Row, one Andy Horn ran a cozy bar in the shadow of Brooklyn Bridge. A grubby person known as Smitty was a fixture at Andy’s. He cut up food for the free lunch counter, did odd jobs and in rush hours helped to serve the trade. He had been born on Cherry Hill, right around the corner; he had been reared on the Bowery and he had never ranged farther than Coney Island or Far Rockaway. Greater New York city was all the world he knew or cared to know. His sister married a market gardener over in New Jersey, and when his summertime vacation came Smitty went to visit her for two weeks. His new brother-in-law had bought a car and had promised to tour Smitty about the State and show him the sights. At the end of a week Smitty was back at work. One of the regular patrons hailed him: “Hey, Smitty, I thought you were going to stay longer. Didn’t you care for country life?” “Nix on dat stuff fur me,” said Smitty. “I’m offen it fur life. Say, dat Joisey soitinly is one funny place. Why, all dem towns over there is got different names!” § 76 With Credit to S. Blythe Sam Blythe claims this is a true one. Maybe he is right; Sam generally is. He says a Washington wholesaler wished to learn the relative qualities of two brands of mucilage. He handed one bottle of each brand to his negro janitor. “Henry,” he said, “take these and test them and see which one is the stickier.” Hours passed before Henry reappeared. Wearing a somewhat unhappy, not to say distressed, expression, he entered his employer’s office and placed the two bottles on the latter’s desk. “Well, Henry,” said the jobber, “what’s the result of your experiments?” “Boss,” stated Henry, “it’s lak dis: Dis yere one gummed up my mouth the most; but dis yere other one, the taste lasted the longest.” § 77 When the H. C. of L. Came Down As I heard the tale it had to do with a small community in Texas where the railroad ran through the main street and on either side of the track stood a short order restaurant owned and operated by a colored man. One night the official bad man of the vicinity came lurching into one of these rival establishments. The visitor was under the influence of strong drink—a circumstance calculated to make him slightly more dangerous than rattlesnakes. While the uneasy proprietor made pretense at being glad to see him the bully flopped his long frame into a chair and demanded: “Nigger, have you got a nice tender sirloin steak here?” “Yas, suh!” “All right, then; you cook it fur me and don’t you cook it too long else I’ll cook you. And along with it you better bring me some fried onions and fried potatoes and some celery and a mess of hot biscuits and green peas and roasting ears and pie and coffee and anything else tasty that you’ve got around this dump. Now jump before I start jumpin’ you.”