Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. II. No. 17, February, 1921 _Moe Thompson’s Masterpiece_ I went to see my girl one night; For her love I was seeking, I missed her mouth and kissed her nose; The gosh darn thing was leaking. —_Whiz Bang Bill._ _Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang_ [Illustration] OUR MOTTO: “_Make It Snappy_” February, 1921 Vol. II. No. 17 Published Monthly by W. H. Fawcett, Rural Route No. 2 at Robbinsdale, Minnesota Entered as second-class matter May 1, 1920, at the post office at Robbinsdale, Minnesota, under the Act of March 3, 1879. _Price 25 cents_ _$2.50 per year_ “_We have room for but one soul loyalty and that is loyalty to the American People._”—_Theodore Roosevelt._ Copyright 1921 By W. H. Fawcett [Illustration] _Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated to the fighting forces of the United States._ _Drippings from the Fawcett_ By CAPTAIN BILLY Along about the first of September last year, my cellar supply gave out and on the second day I had a look of languor like a homesick bum. Then it was that I met my old “Turk” friend, Casey, who immediately shanghaied me while he was cockeyed on a mixture of fusel oil, barbed wire, turpentine, tuba, rotgut, red-eye, wood alcohol, ether and dynamite. In fact, his mixture would make the Dove of Peace challenge the American Eagle to mortal combat. Casey is a vagrant minstrel of human interest and I was only too glad to accept of an invitation to join him at his country home in Golden Valley. But here it is necessary to explain that Golden Valley is different than most communities in these good old dry United States. In Golden Valley it doesn’t appear to be necessary to distill the corn. Nearly every shock contains its gallon jug hidden away in the darkened recesses. The farmers merely leave the empty receptacle and come back later to find it has been mysteriously filled. Well, friends and fellow-countrymen, Casey and I surely worked hard that night in the corn fields and about the last thing I can remember was Casey mumbling a story about a colored family in St. Paul named Henderson—man, wife and two grown daughters, who had been suspected of bootlegging for some time.