Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 44, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 July 1875 — He Wasn’t the Right Man. [ARTICLE]

He Wasn’t the Right Man.

Over in Wilmington one of the churches recently called a clergyman named Rev. Joseph Striker. In that city, by a most unfortunate coincidence, there also resides a prominent prize-fighter named Joseph Striker, and rumors were afloat a few weeks ago that the latter Joseph was about to engage in a contest with a Jersey pugilist for the championship. Our Sheriff considered it his duty to warn Joseph against the proposed infraction of the laws, and so he determined to call upon the professor of the art of self-de-tense. Unhappily* in inquiring the way to the pugilist’s house somebody misunderstood the Sheriff, and sent him to the residence of the Rev. Mr. Striker, of whom he had never heard. When Mr. Striker entered the room, in answer to the summons, the Sheriff said to him familiarly: “ Hello, Joe! How are you?” ” Mr. Striker was amazed at this address, but he politely said: “ Good morning.” “Joe,” said the Sheriff, throwing his leg lazily over the arm of the chair, “ I came round here to see you about that mill with Patsy Dingus, that they’re all talking about. I want you to understand that it can’t come off anywhere’s around here. You know well enough it’s against the law, and I ain’t going to have it.” “Mill! Mill, sir! What on earth do you mean?” asked Mr. Striker, in astonishment. “I do not own any mill, sir. Against the law! I do not understand you, sir.” “Now see here, Joe,” said the Sheriff, biting off a piece of tobacco and looking very wise, “that won’t go down with me. It’s pretty thin, you know. I know well enough that you’ve put up $1,500 on that little affair, and that you’ve got the whole thing fixed with Bill Martin for referee. I know you’re going down to Pea Patch Island to have it out, and I’m not going to allow it. I’ll arrest you as sure as a gun if you try it on, now mind me. ’ ’ “ Really, sir,’l said Mr. Striker, “ there must be some mistake about ” “Ono, there isn’t; your name’s Joe Striker, isn’t it?” said the Sheriff. “ My name is Joseph Striker, certainly.” “ I knew it,” said the Sheriff, spitting on the carpet, “ and you see I’ve got this thing dead to rights. It shan’t come off; and I’m doing you a favor in blocking the game, because Patsey’d curl .you all up and sicken you anyway if I let you meet him. I know he’s the best man, and you’d just lose your money and get all bunged up besides; so you take my advice, now, and quit. You’ll be sorry if you don’t.” “ I do not know what you are referring to,” said Mr. Striker. “Your remarks are incomprehensible to me, but your tone is very offensive, and if you have any business with me I’d thank you to state it at once.”

“ Joe,” said the Sheriff, looking at him with a benign smile, “ you play it mighty well. Anybody’d think you were innocent as a lamb. But it won’t work, Joseph —it won’t work, I tell you. I’ve got a duty to perform, and I’m going to do it, and I pledge you my word, if you and Dingus don’t knock off now, I’ll grab you and send you up for ten years as sure as death. I’m in earnest about it.” “ What do you mean, sir?” asked Mr. Striker, fiercely. “ Oh, don’t go to putting on any airs about it. Don’t you try any strutting before me,” said the Sheriff, “or I’ll put you under bail this very afternoon. Let’s see, how long were you in jail last time? Two years, wasn’t it? Well, you go fighting with Dingus and you’ll get ten years, sure.” —“ You are certainly crazy, 11 exclaimed; Mr. Striker. “ I don’t see what you want to stay at that business for, anyhow,” said the Sheriff. “Here you are in a snug home where you might live in peace and keep respectable. But no, you must associate with low characters, and go to stripping yourself and jumping into a ring to get your nose bloodied and your head swelled and your body hammered to a jelly, and all for what? Why, for a championship! It’s ridiculous. What good’ll it do you if you are champion? Why don’t you try to be honest and decent, and let prize-fight-ing alone?” “Thisss the most extraordinary conversation I ever listened to,” said Mr. Striker. “ You evidently take me for a ” “ I take you for Joe Striker, and if you keep on I’ll take you to jail,” said the Sheriff with emphasis. “Now, you tell me who’s got those stakes and who’s your trainer, and I’ll put an end to the whole thing.” “ You seem to imagine that I am a pugilist,” said Mr. Striker. “ Let me inform you, sir, that I am a clergyman.” “ Joe,” said the Sheriff, shaking his head, “ it’s too bad for you to lie that way —too bad indeed.” “But I am a clergyman, sir—pastor of the Church of St Sepulchre, Look! here is a letter in my pocket addressed to me.” “ You don’t really mean to say that you’re a preacher named Joseph Striker?” exclaimed the Sheriff, looking scared. “ Certainly I am. Come up-stairs and I’ll show you a barrelful of my sermons.” “ Well, if this don’t beat the very old Nebuchadnezzar!” said the Sheriff; “ this is just awful! Why, I mistook you for Joe Striker, the prize-fighter! I don’t know howl ever A preacher! Insufferable Abraham! what an ass I’ve made of myself! I don’t know how to apologize, but if you want to kick me down the front steps just kick away; I’ll bear it like an angel!” Then the Sheriff withdrew unkicked, and Mr. Striker went up-stairs to finish his Sunday sermon. The Sheriff talked of resigning, but he continues to hold on. —Max Adeler, in Y. T. Weekly.

—A lively discussion' ft progressing in Walla Walla, Washington Territory, between the friends and opponents of a “nofence” law in that region. It is the interest of a large class of agriculturists who may be called poor, against another class of rich stock-owners w-ho count. their flocks and herds by the"hundreds.