 | Eli Perkins (at large) |  |
SCARING A CONNECTICUT FARMER.
The Hon. Charles Backus, of the San Francisco
minstrels, was once censured by the Speaker of the
California Legislature for making fun of his brother
members. This broke poor Charley's heart, and he
joined a minstrel company, so's to be where no one
would grumble when he indulged in a little pleasantry.
The other day, Mr. Backus rode up through Stamford,
Conn., with Mr. Lem Read, the bosom friend of
the lamented minstrel, Dan Bryant. As the train
stopped before the Stamford station for water, Mr.
Backus saw a good old red-faced Connecticut farmer
sitting in the station reading the Brooklyn scandal.
“Do you want to see me get a good joke on that
old duffer, Lem?” asked Mr. Backus, pointing to the
old farmer.
“Yes,” said Lem; “le's see you.”
“Well, you wait till jes' before the train starts, Lem,
and I'll show you fun—fun till you can't rest. Jes'
you wait,” said Charley, laughing and pounding the
palm of his left hand with his ponderous right.
“All right, I'll wait,” said Lem.
When the train came to a full stop, Mr. Backus
jumped off, telling his friend Lem to save his seat,
“for,” said he, “as soon as the bell rings I want to
bound back on the train.”
Then Mr. Backus rushed up to the innocent farmer,
a tragic stamp, and shaking his clenched fist in the
poor man's face, exclaimed,
“O, you old rascal! I've found you 't last, you miserable
old scapegrace—now I'm goin' to lick the life
out of you—you contemptible old scoundrel, you—
you—”
Ding-a-ding! ding-a-dong! ding-a-ding! went the
bell, drowning Charley's voice, and the train began
moving out.
“Yes, I'll lick you,” said Charley. “I'll get an ox
whip and—”
And then he jumped back from the astonished farmer
and got on the last car of the train moving out.
The old farmer was astonished. He stood up bewildered.
His knees quaked and his German silver
glasses fell on the floor. Then gathering himself together,
he picked up his newspaper and glasses and
started for the train.
“Whar's the man who wanted to lick me?” he shouted.
“Whar's the man who called me a scoundrel?
Whar's—”
“Here he is,” said Charley from the rear platform,
as he held his thumb derisively to his nose amid the
laughter of the passengers. “Here I am, sir—I'm your
Roman—take me—”
Just then the bell went ding-a-ding again, and what
do you think? Why, the train backed back! It
backed poor Charley right into the hands of the infuriated
farmer, who took off his coat and went for that
poor fun-loving minstrel. Expressed by the types, if
about thus:
St. box8DVcccKCL!
“You want to lick me, do you?” said the farmer,
jumping onto the platform, while Charley ran through
the car. “You miserable dandy! You want to—”
And then he chased that poor minstrel through the
cars with his cane in the air, while his big fist came
down on his back like a triphammer.
“You've found
me, have you? Yes, I guess
you have!” said the old
farmer, as Charley left his
hat and one coat-sleeve in
his infuriated grasp. “Evidently
you have.”
Mr. Backus said, as he
washed off the blood with Enoch Morgan's Sapolio,
and went in to interview a tailor in New Haven two
hours afterwards,
“I guess the next time I want to make Lem Read
laugh I won't try to scare a Connecticut farmer. Oh
no! I'll get some pugilist to fan me with an Indian
club, or go and sleep under a pile driver. You hear
me!”
| Eli Perkins (at large) | |