Evening Republican, Volume 17, Number 270, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 November 1913 — The Basement Philosopher [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Basement Philosopher

By KENNETT HARRIS

(Copyright, 1911. by W. G. Cbipmw) “Nels, my friend," said the janitor to his Scandinavian assistant, "I take notice that you're these days. That there cap of yours is got too small for your head and I don’t believe the cap’s shrunk any at that. What was you abusing that gentleman for just now?—What gentleman? The gentleman with the laundry, the yellow complected gentleman with the ,jslant eyes and the baggy pants that you was a-speaking to so unkindly. “Chinyman, was he?” said the janitor, with a broad smile of perfect comprehension. “Well, of course that’s different lf ( he was a Chink, I don’t know as I can blame you. It’s perfectly natural tliat you’d want to kick him off the premises and make motions to that effect I s’pose he give you the excuse that he had business here —what? Thirty-eight and twentyseven gives him their shirts an’ flat pieces, don’t they? I thought they did. Anyway you done well to let him know that he was the scum of the earth and the offscourings of humanity. He mightn’t realise it if he was treated civil and decent. “When you come to think of it, it’s a blessing that there is scum and offscourings for us to look down on and kick around and bawl out once in a while,” mused the janitor. “We’d certainly be In a bad way if there wasn’t. I guess we’d lose all our self respect. I know you’ve done me heaps of good that way, Nels, my friend. It’B been a great comfort to me after the agent

has been raising Ned around here for to Jack you up and tell you what I thought of a race of people that put fishballs in their soup. I don’t know but what I’m going a little too far in calling you a race. You’re more like a funeral procession, judging by the most of you that’s worked for me. But that’s neither here nor there. We can’t all be Irish, nor yet American, and it’s a good thing as I’m a telling you. Somebody’s got to be the goat. "What makes me sore, and what makes any right-thinking man scfe,” the janitor went on, “is to see some guy doing something that I don’t never do nor never thought of doing, and couldn’t do if I wanted to do it. You understand that don’t apply to baseball or variety show stunts, but them’s about the only exceptions I can think of Just now. You take this here golf. I get the willies now every time I take the old woman to the park. Honest, it takes away my appetite for the lunch to see them lunatics. Seems to me a grown person might find something better to do than to put in time swatting a dinky little ball around a twenty-acre lot I feel like smearing their fingers with molasses and giving them a couple of feathers to play with. That would be a sensible form of amusement alongside of golf, it looks like to me. Some of ’em wear knee panties, too. Geei'What they ought to wear 1b Russian blouse suits with sailor collars and pretty little socks on their pretty little legs. Fierce, ain’t it? - "Another thing that gives me a pain is to see a guy a-smoking a cigarette. That’s something there ain’t no excuse for that I can see. Anybody can get a clay pipe, and a couple of month’s steady smoking’ll make it as sweet and juicy as need be. A pipe is a man’s smoke, though I ain’t got no objection to a cigar once in a while — about election time. Same way I’ll take a tub of suds when I’m dry and I’ve got the price, but if you’re bound it’s your treat and I happen to feel like It you can give me a little rye. But mine'B beer as a general thing. That's one thing I’ll give the Dutch credit for: they may have a poor language and disgusting ideas on the subject of cooking, but they’re all right when it comes to a steady and sensible drink. Most drink is good in moderation, though, as long as it’s not mixed. The only thing I draw the line at ia Scotch. What I say is, patronize home industries. I’ve no use for Scotch or a man who will drink it. “Yes, sir,’’ said the janitor, emphatically, “I’m against golf and bridge whist and cigarettes and Scotch. Likewise I’m opposed to spaghetti and cabbage soup and Bismarck herring and chop suey and four o'clock tea. I’m an American citizen. At the same time I don’t claim that Dagos and Kikes and Chinks and Hunkles and Scandeboovlans ain't got no right to lire, add. 1 don’t feel called on to kick 'em around when I get one of ’em oO by himself, any more than I’d feel called on to

heave a Chunk of coal at a tenant because lie had had his finger nails manicured. I don’t have my finger nails manicured, but I can control my feelings. ‘Tm willing to admit, Nels, my friend, that there Chipk ain’t got white eyebrows and a complexion that looks like it was fresh b’iled. He’s got a good deal the same cheek bones that you’ve got, but then, he braids his hair and works fourteen hours a day and eats rice oftener than Vhat you do. I know that’s aggravating and there ought to be a law against it, but there ain’t no law and there’s nothing in the rules of this here building against it, so I guess you’ll have to stand for it You get me? “Because if you don’t, Nels, my friend,” said the janitor, with sudden ferocity, “I’ll beat it into your bone head with a grate crank. Why, you tow-topped, lop-eared, knock-kneed son of a smoked halibut, the first thing you know you’ll get that Chink scared and I’ll have to be paying out. money to have my little bit of a week’s laundry done .for me. “And,you not even naturalized!” copcludqd the janitor, with bitter scorn.

"ANOTHER THING THAT GIVES ME A PAIN 18 TO SEE A GUY A-SIGARETTE.”