Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 30, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 August 1885 — A Drummer’s Yarn. [ARTICLE]

A Drummer’s Yarn.

My friend, whom I will call Norvell, is no* a drummer in a professional way, but frequently makes a trip for the benefit of his own establishment. He is a versatile genius and his travels are generally productive of both lucre and knowledge. I met him recently and his salutation was: “Do I look like a countryman ?” I replied that I failed to discover anything in his make-up that would indicate a recent arrival from the country. “Well, sir, let me tell you," said he, “that for the first time in my life I have been put down for a greenhorn. Yes, sir, a veritable greenhorn and no mistake.” “Well,” said I, “did you succeed in removing that impression?” “Well,-now, I should relax my classical features.” And under promise of “no chestnuts” he proceeded* “Quite recently I had occasion to run over to Boston, partly on business and partly for pleasure. The pleasure I expected to derive from attending a dinner given by an old army friend of mine. We had a jolly time, and I started the next afternoon for New York, but afterward concluded to stop in New London. I was sitting on the deck of the boat which runs between Providence and New London, smoking a cigar and trying to amuse myself with my thoughts and occasionally with viewing my surroundings. I noticed that nearly opposite where I was so comfortably sitting there sat an individual who was evidently sizing me up. There was nothing very striking in the fellow’s appearance excepting, perhaps, a huge diamond in his necktie. On our arrival at New London this individual kept quite close to me, and as I was registering at the hotel some one tapped me on the shoulder. On' turning about, I recognized my diamond-studed fellow-traveler. Said he: ‘I beg pardon, sir; are you not Mr. D., of Brooklyn?’ ‘No,’ I replied, ‘I am Mr. So-and-so,’ giving him some fictitious name. “Ah, then, I have made a mistake. Mr. D. is a drummer for a house in Brooklyn, and having reason to believe that you were he, I took the liberty of approaching you. Hope there’s no offense. By the way, ’spose we take a drink?’ “Feeling pretty certain that my newfound acquaintance was one of Hungry Joe’s disciples, I determined to make his experiment on me as interesting and expensive as possible. I accepted his invitation, ordered the best brandy and a bottle of soda, after which we smoked the choicest brands afforded at the hotel, all at his expense. After more affability on his part, during which I discovered that his object was to have me change my quarters and accompany him to his hotel"—which proposition I of course declined—we had something more at his expense, and then excusing myself I retired to my room. “After supper, while I was loitering about, along ca,me my friend again, and he opened up with a proposition to wine me. I had no desire for the wine, but hated to lose an opportunity to make him spend his money, so I acquiesced and we drank the wine and we smoked—at his expense. Then we strolled about, talking of nothing in particular and everything in general. Finally he exclaimed, with something like exasperation, ‘Say, if you want an evening’s amusement, come with me down to my hotel. There’s a lot of us drummers down there and we are going to have a little game.’ “As I saw no prospect of ridding myself of his company, I agreed to go; so we started, but I was revolving in my mind how I should get rid of him, when, as we were walking along, he said quietly, ‘Do you know, my dear sir, that I am the oldest drummer on this road?’ ‘What, you,’l said, ‘the oldest drummer; why, sir, it is impossible. I attended a dinner in Boston last evening given by a man who has been on the road over fifty years.’ “I remembered that my Boston friend, while gesticulating, had revealed the loss of two fingers from his right hand, during the war, and what is more,’ said 1, ‘it is a remarkable fact that this old drummer has but two fingers on his right’hand.’ ‘Well,’ said my confidential companion,’ ‘what has that to do with it?’ “ ‘Why,’ said I, ‘he wore off the other two carrying samples. He is also tongue-tied from talking off the skin gamblers that tried to take him into camp. You should see his tongue. He has had it photographed. A cannibal would relish that tongue pickled or smoked, All swelled up from bluffing off New London skins and smoking too many cigars at their expense. He is a physical wreck, I regret to state, in every respect, from having turned himself into a walking beer vat, all at the expense of these funny little New England skins who ’

“But my fiction had done its work. I was suddenly left without an auditor. The poker sharp, with one amusing glance, compounded of fright, surprise, disgust and sheepishness, had recognized his blunder and fled. I stole through the moonlight back to my hotel, and aided by the somnolent effects of the bunko sharp’s brandy, champagne and Reina Victorias, slept the sleep of the just.” Brooklyn was ahead.— Brooklyn Times.

“I hear you have bought a horse, Mr. Flaherty?” “Yes, I have; an’ a foine baste he is, too.” “Trotter?” “The hist in the alley, sor.” “Ah! Has he a record?” “Murtherin’ Moses! sure he has the bistrecord of'any horse I iver saw.” “Indeed! What is it?” *For ating oats, sor.” .