Jim started to shinny up the pole. “Jim,” I laughed, winding the music heartily, “don’t do that. Leave it up there.”

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, August 5, 1939.

Greg and Jim find that what looks like an interesting stopping place produces monkey business in more senses than one

“Why is it,” demanded Jimmie Frise, “we didn’t stop for that poor chap back there?”

“We didn’t like his looks,” I suggested. “He looked sort of sticky.”

“He was probably a very worthy citizen,” countered Jim. “Maybe he was some poor chap hurrying to the bedside of his dying mother.”

“The law of averages is in his favor,” I reminded. “He signals 100 cars. The 101st picks him up.”

“I often wonder,” mused Jim, “why it is we pick one guy up and pass up 50 others. What is it about certain people that causes us to stop and pick them up? And what is it about hundreds of others that causes us to go right by them?”

“If our curiosity is aroused,” I submitted, “we usually stop. For example, last year I saw a young bum on the road with a bunch of flowers in his hand. I couldn’t help stopping for him. When I asked him why he was carrying flowers, he said it was to arouse curiosity in people so they would stop and pick him up. I never felt so indignant in my life.”

“I guess it’s a combination of things,” said Jim. “For instance, conscience. I have often passed a dozen hitch-hikers and then I began to feel mean, so I stopped at the very next one.”

“And probably got a far less pleasant companion in your journey,” I pointed out, “than if you had selected one of the earlier ones.”

“I’ve had some terrible specimens,” confessed Jim. “I’ve been itchy for a week after picking some of them up. Just imagination. But imaginary fleas are as bad as real ones.”

“The whole hitch-hiking game is difficult,” I stated. “On humanitarian grounds, we ought to give a lift to everybody. It is the parable of the good Samaritan in modern garb. But at the same time, it has a lot of evils. For example, the way those young beggars walk backward along the edge of the highway, thumbing. They walk just far enough out on the pavement to obstruct you, so that to pass them, you have to swing out. I have had some awful narrow squeaks passing cars that were swinging out to miss those backing-up hitch-hikers.”

“It is against the law to hitch-hike,” said Jim. “Yet the police pass hundreds of them every day on the highways.”

“Some laws are in force,” said I, “just in case they are needed. They are like the cop’s gun. He has it in case he needs it, but just because he has a gun is no reason why he should go around shooting it off all the time.”

“How about these?” cried Jim, as we approached two men with packsacks sadly thumbing at us as we approached.

We slowed the car slightly while we looked them over. Two more villainous gents it would be hard to imagine. They were scowling, they had blue stubble on their chins, they looked as if they had just broken out of prison and a life sentence and their clothes seemed damp. But they were thumbing in a commanding way.

“Step on it,” I said.

And as we went by, the two errant gentlemen shouted abusive epithets after us, their teeth bared.

“Phew,” said Jim. “Imagine that pair in the back seat.”

People Mostly Disagree

“Do you suppose,” I asked, “there are people who would actually pick those two up?”

“You can’t judge all mankind by us,” replied Jim. “No two people look exactly alike, and no two people really have the same impressions, the same thoughts or ideas. I don’t suppose any two people actually see alike. Or hear alike. How a rose smells to me may be entirely different from the way it smells to you.”

“In general, though,” I argued, “we all agree on what is nice and what isn’t nice.”

“In general, we disagree, you mean,” said Jim. “The girl one man would marry isn’t the girl 1,000 other men would. And the 1,000 girls those men would marry, the one man would no more marry than he’d marry a freight engine.”

“How about movie stars?” I inquired. “There seems to be general agreement as to them?”

“But who’d marry them?” demanded Jim. “Think that over. How many of the most beautiful movie stars you admire would you want to have around the house all the time?”

“There’s something in what you say,” I confessed. “They’d be an awful problem, wouldn’t they?”

“No, sir,” said Jim, “people for the most part disagree on all major points. Look at the political parties. Look at the religions. Look at the styles in furniture, in clothes, even in food. When I walk through a cafeteria, I always wonder who the heck is going to eat most of the junk on display. Because out of the whole shebang, I can see only one thing I want.”

“I guess we are more different than we generally suppose,” I agreed.

“That’s why somebody is likely to pick up those two thugs back there,” said Jim. “No doubt there are thousands of people who shudder at the thought of picking up a student preacher as we shudder at the thought of picking up those hyenas.”

“I once picked up a student preacher,” I admitted. “He rode all the way from Bradford to Bracebridge with me, and he talked the whole way about the evils of tobacco.”

“Did he convert you?” asked Jim.

“He converted me to never pick up pious-looking people again,” I averred. “I like a sort of medium-boiled hitch-hiker. I don’t go for thugs and I don’t go for saints in human form.”

“You’re very choosey in your benevolence,” remarked Jim.

“I have one rule,” I stated. “If anything looks interesting, I stop.”

We were by now slowing through one of the nice little cities we pass through on our way to Muskoka, and because the traffic in these places is all angle parked and therefore tangled up beyond all belief, with cars trying to go both ways and cars trying to back out of angle parking and girls in shorts jay-walking and gentlemen of all ages trying to drive a car and take in the scenery at the same time, Jim and I have long ago resorted to the plan of detouring off the main streets of these little summery cities and going around through the residential streets.

And as we drove slowly, as becomes residential streets, we saw a scene of considerable excitement ahead.

“Okay,” cried Jimmie, “here’s something interesting. Do we stop?”

“You bet,” I proposed.

So we stopped and hopped out.

Speaking Commandingly

Amongst a bevy of children, an organ grinder and his monkey were staging a most unusual act. The organ grinder was rolling on the ground emitting loud foreign cries, and the monkey, in its little red and green uniform, was dancing up and down like a maniac, round and round its master on the ground.

As we ran across, a motorcycle cop arrived and leaped off his bike.

“He’s sick,” said Jim.

The cop ran over and knelt down by the organ grinder, and the monkey, baring its teeth, savagely rushed in as if to attack the law.

“Here,” yelled the cop, kicking at the monkey and signalling to Jim and me, “keep that brat away.”

“There’s no string,” shouted Jim.

“Shoo him,” shouted the cop, rolling the organ grinder over.

“Stand back, children,” I said, commandingly. “I’ll keep the children back, Jim. You attend to the monkey.”

“If it had a string on it,” cried Jim anxiously. “Or if I had a club.”

The monkey was jibbering in a high squeaky voice, baring its fangs horribly and dancing wildly around, in and out, trying to get a bite at the bent part of the policeman.

“It’s appendicitis, likely,” said the cop, straightening up. “I’ll throw him in my side car. You gents look after this monkey until I get back.”

“Take our car,” I suggested eagerly.

“No thanks,” said the cop, arching away from another attack by the bounding little beast. “I don’t want any sick man and a monkey both in any car with me. How would you like to bring them both in your car, and I’ll ride ahead, clearing the traffic?”

“We’ll guard the monkey until you get back,” I agreed hurriedly. “Stand back, you children.”

And I went busily in a circle, a wide circle, holding the excited children back.

“Jim,” I commanded, “try to chase the brute up a tree.”

Jim warily circled around the monkey, while the traffic officer hoisted the stricken organ grinder heavily to his feet and dragged him over to the side car.

The monkey did not know whether to follow his master or to stay with the grind organ which was lying on the ground. It raced pitifully after his master, Jim heading it off with wild whoops; then it raced back and jumped on the organ, bounding up and down and shrieking tiny shrieks.

“Hey,” shouted Jim. “The next time it gets off the organ, you pick the organ up and start to play. Maybe that will soothe it.”

“O, yeah,” I protested.

But the children were well back by now and a lady was issuing loud commands from a nearby veranda. And there was really nothing else for me to do.

“Okay,” cried Jim, as the monkey took a last despairing run after the departing motorcycle.

I picked up the organ, ready to drop it if the beast attempted to return to it, and started to wind the handle. It played “The Music Goes Round and Round.”1

With a wild leap, the little monkey started for me, a look of joy on its face.

“Shoo!” I shouted, stamping the one leg of the organ.

“Hoy,” shouted Jim, cutting in with flailing arms and large leaps.

And the monkey, instead of leaping on to the organ, which I was in the act of jettisoning, wheeled and leaped up a Hydro pole instead. Six feet up, arms and legs wrapped around the pole, it clung there, glaring angrily and with purpose at Jim and then at me, making up its mind.

“Chase it higher,” I shouted, winding furiously. “Chase it to the top.”

Jim ducked in and slapped the post safely below the monkey. And with a deft snatch, the beast took Jim’s new straw hat, a lovely new boater, the mate to mine, which we had purchased only this morning at one of those August straw hat sales.

“Here,” said Jim. “Give me that.”

And Stop For Nothing

But the monkey, as slick as a sailor, climbed aloft and proceeded to bite, rip, tear and unwind Jimmie’s lovely hat.

“Here,” shouted Jim, starting to shinny up the pole.

“Jim,” I laughed, winding the music heartily, “don’t do that. Leave it up there.”

“That’s my hat,” shouted Jim.

“A hat is a cheap price to pay, if we can keep it up there,” I pointed out, as the children gathered round me.

“Yes, somebody else’s hat is always a cheap price,” sneered Jim, eyeing mine.

When the monkey had torn Jim’s to its ultimate ribbon and flung the last fragment at us in irate fury, it crouched in deep meditation, eyeing me intently. I played very sweetly. I played slow. I played fast.

“He sees your hat,” sang Jimmie heartily.

“Stand over near the pole,” I commanded.

“You stand there,” suggested Jim.

“Don’t let him come down,” I shouted. “Keep him up. Keep him up. Goodness knows what we’re in for if we let him down.”

“Throw him up your hat,” offered Jim. “

“Don’t be a fool,” I retorted. “One hat is enough.”

“Throw him the hat,” cried Jim. “He’s starting down.”

And in fact the horrid beast was shifting position and starting to back down the pole.

“Hoy, shoo, ffft, scat,” I shouted, grinding very loud on the organ, which was still playing the same tune over and over.

“Your hat,” said Jim, ceremoniously, lifting my hat off, as both my hands were engaged.

Jimmie walked over and held that hat up to the monkey. It looked down, accepted the hat, climbed to the top again and, with an air of fury, and a little more deliberately, proceeded to rip my good hat to pieces, flinging the pieces at us with an almost human derision.

“Suppose I run down the street,” suggested Jim, “and find another August hat sale? Give me a couple of bucks and I’ll buy you one and I’ll get one for myself. We may need quite a supply of hats before the day’s up.”

“Stay right here,” I ground.

“May I take a whirl at the organ?” suggested Jim, very polished. “You’re sweating.”

But at that moment we heard the welcome roar of a motorcycle, and back came the cop with a gentleman in the side car armed with a large net.

“The dog catcher,” cried all the little children.

And in no time at all, the dog catcher had scooped the little monkey into the net and transferred it into a large sack.

“Whew,” said Jimmie and I.

“Thanks very much,” said the speed cop. “Maybe they give some kind of medal for this sort of thing. I’ll see you get it.”

“How’s the patient?” asked Jim.

“He’s okay,” said the cop. “Been eating too much pop corn, the doctor said. Nothing serious.”

So he drove off with the dog catcher and the bass organ and the bag.

“Look here, gentleman,” called the lady who had been watching from the veranda. “Don’t leave all that litter on that lawn.”

We looked very indignant, but picked up all the pieces of straw hat and made a neat pile of them on the side of the road.

“The best thing,” I said, as we got back in the car, “is to nick up nobody and stop for nothing.”


Editor’s Notes:

  1. The Music Goes ‘Round and Around is a popular song written in 1935. It can be heard here. ↩︎