Democratic Sentinel, Volume 8, Number 44, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 November 1884 — San Francisco Sunday Amusements. [ARTICLE]

San Francisco Sunday Amusements.

Continuing in my wicked round of Sabbath-breaking, I recklessly crossed the floor toward tbe barroom. A quadrille was in progress, and at the end of each figure the couples would polka round in the most desperate fashion, like perpetual “tee-to-tuniß. ” At one end of the barroom was collected a multitude of hoodlums. They were solemnly engaged in chanting “■When the Robins Nest Again.” Pretty soon a pale young man entered. He was evidently a dry-goods clerk in some Third street store; and his clothes were quite fancy, and fitted his slight figure with remarable ability. His gait was not entirely free from the suspicion of beer, and his eyes sustained the allegation. He rashly approached the bacchanalian toughs. “Plow it away, somebody! don’t let it come too —near —me-e-e,” cried one of the hoodlums in mock fear. The young clerk blushed. “I should like to sing, too, ” he replied ingenuously. “Why, you dizzy little fright, who taught you?” minced the hoodlum, in a girl’s falsetto. “Spiel!” bawled an ugly young villain, with murderous scowl. The meek young clerk began in a thin, weak voice “I-i-i-leen Allaner,” and went right through with it, amid the guys and cat-calls of his tormentors. ■ “Now, you kin shout,” said a young hoodlum, when he finished. “Do you mean going it over louder ?” asked the mild clerk tremulously. “Hell, no!” said the other, “you kin shout” “I don’t quite understand,” remonstrated the clerk. “Why, you kin shout—you kin set ’em up—come down with the beer. ” “But I can’t,” leplied the clerk. “Who’s goin’ ter bluffy’ off ?” queried the hoodlum. “I haven’t any money,” faltered the clerk. “Yer ain’t got th’ skads, haven’t ye? Well, what d’yer mean by cornin’ out here an’ doin’ th’ dude act, then, in them clo’s?” “I spent all my money at the seaside, before I came,” stammered the clerk. “Well, that won’t stop th’ racket. We’ll use them clo’s to coller on to th’ beer, anyhow. Jus’ yer step out, an’ set em up fur th’ crowd. He’ll think yer got th’ wealth, and when yer tell th’ barkeeper yer kint ante, well giv’ him a rally ’at he’ll remember. ” The unfortunate clerk was pushed up to the bar by his wolfish backers. “For th’ crowd,” said the chief hoodlum to the barkeeper. “Who’s payin’?” demanded that personage, dubiously. “The stiff,” replied the hoodlum, pointing to the trembling clerk. The beer was poured out for all hands, the clerk included. It disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. Suddenly there was a rusn* for the door, and in another second not a hoodlum remained. The clerk stood dumbfounded at the bqr, liis untasted beer in his hand. “Yell?” demanded the barkeeper. “I—l—l ” “Shell out. Yot you vaitin’ for—a golt mine!” “I—l—l—haven’t g-g-got any m-m----m-oney.” “No, you don’t,” roared the barkeerer; “I’ve seen you Tellers bevore. You leedle scroop!” 'The terrified youth made a dash for liberty. But in vain. The hawk was on him with a swoop, and after having gone through the farce of turning out hja empty pockets, he was treated to that muscular process, known in barrooms as “bounce.”--Dogberry, in Mgleside.