The Bad Boy At Home Part 1

The Bad Boy At Home.

by Walter T. Gray.

CHAPTER I.

WHY HE CHEWSES A PERFESSHUN.--HYFALUTIN PROLOG, WITH SUM BARE POSSIBILITIES.--PROSPECTUS OF THE "DAILY BUSTER."

Mister Diry:

I've been intending ever since I got home from Yourope, to begin ritin'

in a diry, but I ain't had no time, cos my chum Jimmy and me has been puttin' in our days havin' fun. I've got to give all that sorter thing up now, cos I've accepted a persisshun in a onherabel perfesshun, and wen I get to be a man, and reech the top rung of the ladder, I'm goin'

to mak' New York howl.

Pa, he wanted me to go to skule, but I culdn't see it a tall, cos a feller wot's alwus goin' to skule don't never kno nothin' but base-ballin' and prize fitin' wen 'he gets thru. All them fellers wot rite in dirys begin by usin a lot of hyfalutin wurds wot sound orful big but don't meen nothin; so I guess I'll be in the fashun, so here goes:

You're only a quire of "common noose" paper, Mr. Diry, so you needn't put on so menny airs over your cleen wite dress, wot only needs a morocker lether mantel and gilt braceletts to make you look like you b'longed to the Astor house dude.

We all know you was maid of rags, and them rags might once have bean in the mazey, lacey laberinths of wite linnin wot audashusly pressed 'gainst the tender form of Lillyan, the dudine.

If you warn't there you mite have ben all ablaze with chane st.i.tches and crushed oniyun stripes, closely incircling a cupple of been-poles--no, not eggsactly been-poles, but the sharpley, shadderly lower lims of Sarah Jane Burnhard, the actress wot got mashed on Dam-all-her.

Then, agen, you mite have ben on some infantile prospecktive Preserdent, but you didn't stay on him long, cos baby's and safety-pins maid you tired.

Enyway you've got a histery, cos them littel black spots on your rite bussum looks like they mite wunce hav ben part of Mrs. Dr. Walker's patent backackshun, maskuline, dress-reform trowsers, wot she sent to the paper-mill to get ground up inter paper to mak books for the enlitenin of the wimmin of our country.

How's that for high, Mr. Diry? My muse come playguey neer running away with me, so I had to wistle "down brakes," and slow her up. Now I'll begin to record my doins on your pages, so that, shuld the toes of my boots be applide to the patent bucket early in my useful carreer, the hull wurld'll kno wot a trea.s.sure socieaty has lost. I ain't givin you eny biled la.s.ses candie, but don't you let your memmerizin orgins lose site of the fact that I, Georgie, the Bad Boy wot's ben to Yourope, ain't no slouch.

My pa sez I'm a geneyus. I guess he's 'bout rite, ony he orter sed I was a buddin' one, 'cos my hankerin' after a perfeshunal carrieer has led me to axcept a posishun in the publick-opinyun-moldin' shop wots known as the _Daily Buster_, Joe Gilley, edittur and proprieat-her. Subskripshun price, $5 per yare. No trubbel to sine receits.

N.B.--Spesh.e.l.l arrangements with ex-Senater Satan enabels us to give our delinkent subskribers cheap excurshun rates to the Hot Sulfur Baths, via the Haydies Short Line, our fitin' edit-her corndoctor. This paper is run on red-hot indypendant principels, in a spicey, sparklin' manher. In pollyticks our motto is: "Onhest men, regardless of partie, candy-dates with barr'ls xcepted."

The above is the prospecktus of the journalistick venture in wich I have mbarked in the capacerty of typergraffickal devil. So now Mr.

Diry, look out for the brakers.

CHAPTER II.

HIS FIRST INTERVUE.--WILL THEY BE CONSINED TO A PLACE THAT IS HOTTER THAN THIS.--A LABER-SAVTN' MASHEEN.--BEER, Ga.s.sERLIN AND PROHIBISHUN.

I've jest got my supper, so I guess I'll tell you 'bout my first day's xperience on the Dailey "Buster." I was down to the offis at 7 'clock, and the mannergin edittur, he detaled me to intervue, the old papers and dust, on the floor. By the ade of a broom, wot was so old, it was most bald-hedded, I suckceeded in completely ridden the floor of its surplus stock of litterature, and terbackhey b.a.l.l.s, wot them printers spit out, wen they warnted to use there mouths, to consine sum feller, wot rote orful to Hallyfax, or sum other mild climat.

I wunder if everybodie, wot them printers dam, goes to Hades, cos, if they do, and all printin' offisses is like ourn, I guess us fellers wont have much compenny in Heaven wen we get there. They all ap-pare to have a pertickler spite 'gainst a Mister Copy, cos I hearn him bein' dammed, more an a hundred times to-day. I guess the poor feller ain't got no sho a tall.

I never seen the wurkins of a edithers sanktuary before. I useter wonder, how they rote all them long artickels wot everybodie sed show'd the grate geneyus of the edittur, but I never knowed till this mornin'

bout the laber-savin' masheen, wot is maid of two peeces of steal, with sharp points on one end, and two rings on the other, wot slip over the editturs fingers. Wen he's got them on, he takes off his shoes and stockins, and waids inter a lot of old noosepapers, clippin' out littel bits here and there, and pastin' 'em on a sheet of wite paper. The masheen wurked splendid, and Mister Gilley sez its a sure anty-dote agin skribler's parallysis, wot all great riters is trubbelled with.

Jest 'fore dinner the edit-her begun to get orful dry ritin a artickel hedded, "Pernisshus Pizen; or, Holesail Slaughter," caused by the adulterashun of beer with a.r.s.ernic, so he sent me down to the barroom next door to get him a bottle of beer on thirty days time. I'd jest got back to the sanktum, and was takin' out the cork, wen the Metherdist minnysteer c.u.m in to arrange 'bout a big prohibishun rally wot comes off next week. He looked orful suspishus at the bottle, till the edit-her told me to take that bottel of ga.s.serline, to the forman, and tell him to wash the forms with it, and be sure not to get it neer a lite, cos ga.s.serline was orful 'xplosive.

I guess it got 'xploded cos, wen the minnyster was gone, I went out to get it, and I culdn't even find a smell of it, so I had ter go round to the next block for another, cos the edittur's face wasn't good for morean one, in the same place, in one day.

Say, Mister Diry, did you ever get a whiff of the smell, throne out by the paste-pot, in an edittur's offis, wot was 'stablished in '49? Cos, if you never did, you can't apreshiate how deliteful the consentrated 'xtract of half a dozen glew factorys would be, in comparyson. This afternoon the edit-her perlitely requested me to consine the contents of ours to their last restin' place in the ash-heep, in our back-yard.

Menny a silent teer did I shed over the cold and clammy remanes of hundreds of c.o.c.kroaches, whose young and usefull lives came to such a sad and untimely end, in there brave efferts to 'xplore the mystear-ious and fathemless depths of the "Buster's" paste-pot.

I guess I muster forgot to wash my hands 'fore supper, cos pa's down in the sellar settin' a trap for a polecat, and ma she swares she's goin'

to have a carpinter take up the dinin'-room flure tomorrer mornin', and hunt up the rat wot crawled under there and died.

CHAPTER III.

THE XCHANGE FYEND.--SHEECARGO ALL QUIETT.--THE FYEND GOES ABROAD.--HIS GRATE SPERIT APALLED.--THE BERRIED HOPES OF A RUMATIICK POET.

Our offis has got wot is called a xchange fyend wot comes in every mornin wen we get the male and looks over all the papers, cos he's too meen to buy his own readin matter. I knovv'd by the way the edittur looks at him, he'd like to kick him down 3 flites of steep steps, but I guess he borrowed a dime from him, bout ten years ago, and he's 'frade he'll 'tach the offis furniture for it. I alwus like to help my 'mployers outer a t.i.te place, so, this mornin, I run 'cross a paper that was printed this day sevral yares ago, so I lade it down on the tabil where the Fyend'd strike it the first thing, and then I got orful busy dustin the book-case. Wen he c.u.m in, he picked up the paper and looked down the hed-lines. I seen he was gettin orful xcited, then he s.n.a.t.c.hed up his hat and segar stump, and run like he was chased by litenin.

Purty soon, there was more an 5,000 peepel on the street in front of the offis, and the edittur got orful scared, cos he thought they was goin to run him outer town, on account of the big soshill scandell wot he published yesterday, so he sent me to the door to see wot they all wanted. Wen I got there the peeple was most crazey for noose from the Sheecargo fire. I told em to hold on and we'd hav out an xtra in a few minits, and then I showed the edittur the paper wot the Fyend was reedin, wot gave a big account of the Sheecargo fire. Wen we got out our extra, we sold 'bout 10,000 coppies, with a artickel, wot red like this:

"The latest des.p.a.ches from that city report Sheecargo all quiett, thanks to the forethort of the Mayor, in swarein in a large number of extra perlice, for service durin the sittin of the Youmorists Conven-shun, and the grate precaushuns taken by Common Counsil to see that no lickher was sold to delergates!" You bet there was a mad crowd, wen they found out there warnt no fire a tall in Sheecargo. The 'xchange fyend's gone to New Jersey, cos it'll have time to blow over, 'fore Congres can promulgait a xtrodishun treety, with that government.

This afternoon, I was appalled, my grate big spirit fell down into my shoes, like a Jump of led. Ala.s.s how grate the breech is, tween the orthor, and the columns of a noospaper, and how short the rode, wot leeds to the waist basket, espeschially the one, in a printin offis like the Daily "Buster," were the basket covers bout a square akrc of flore.

I was put to cleenin up the waste basket, so as we'd hav the paper reddy, for the junk man, wot calls round with his six horse teem of goverment muels, once a week, I coldn't help lingerin over the contents, and sying, wen I thought, of the hopes wot lied burried thare. There was one littel peece of poultry, rittin on a sheet of 'lectric blue paper, and sented with otto of roses, and indited to "My dare George." I wunder if the poultryess ment me, wen she rote it, cos if she did, she struck it jest rite, for Ive got it stowed away, in my pants pocket next my hart.

There was a nother roll of manerskript, wot wayed a pound, and come by xpress, without bein pade. I guess the edittur was mad, wen he paid 50 sents charges, and found out it warnt no berthday present. A note with it, red like this:

My dare Edittur Buster--

The enclosed storie ent.i.tled "Dudish d.i.c.k, the Flirtin Corn-Doctor of Horse-car No. 36," is wurth $500, but in complerment of the high standin of your valewbel jurnal, I will allow you to publish it for notthin, if you will send me papers containin it.

Yours trooly,

Sammy Lane, Author.

Wat unappreciatin beins editturs are! Wen they wuld let a geneyus wot was capable of pennin the follerin lines go unrewarded:

A big politishun named Kelley, Had a gripin pane in his belly.

He used St. Jacobs oil, And now he's nussin a boil, But his pane has left him by golly.

CHAPTER IV.

HE AIN'T NO TYPERGRAFFICKAL CYCLOPEEDA.--SERIUS COMPLERCASHUNS, WITH A TEMPORY ABBERASHUN.--A PRINTIN' OFFIS FEED.

I'm in a peck of troubel to-day, wot I'll have ter trust ter Providence to get me outer. A typergraffickal devil ain't s'posed to know everything, enyway. Now the hull offis is mad at me, 'cos I ain't a walk-in' cyclopeeda of typograffickal turm.

In the fust place, the foreman of the composin' room's mad, 'cos wen he tole me to fech him a long stick, I went down street and hunted round till I struck a house wot was bein plast.u.r.d, and brot him back a good lath. Wen I giv it to him I thot there was a erupshun from a volcano, the way he swared at me. He sed he'd a noshun to brake it over my back, for not havin cents enuff to kno that he bot his fire wood by the cord.