Tag: 1934 Page 1 of 5

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, January 27, 1934.

“We,” said Jimmy Frise, “lead a pretty humdrum life.”

“You and me?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Jimmie. “Think of all the prize fighters, and the rich people that ride horses over high jumps, and the actors dancing in all the vaudeville theatres and everything.”

“Yes, but think,” I said, “of all the long rows of houses, miles and miles of rows of houses, and in them all the people sitting doing nothing, nothing is happening, nothing ever has happened, and nothing ever will happen!”

“But think of firemen,” said Jimmie, “never knowing what minute the fire bell will ring and they go lashing out into the icy streets, in dark and storm, to fight the demon fire. Think of Gordon Sinclair¹ going to Darkest Africa. Of detectives, in the middle of the night, creeping along dark alleys, right here in Toronto, with guns in their hands, their teeth bared.”

“And think,” I said, “of all the people yawning in Toronto and lying back in their chairs, waiting for bed time, half asleep.”

“You have no romance in your soul,” said Jim. “Life should be an adventure.”

“In Toronto?” I asked.

“Yes, in Toronto. I bet you there is not a single street in Toronto, no matter how short,” said Jim, “in which, at this moment, tremendous adventure is not being enacted. Romance, tragedy, thrill, revenge, hate, yes, murder!”

“Not murder, Jim!” I cried. “Toronto won’t put up with murder. I grant you a little romance, yes. Romance of a decent sort. But revenge, murder, hate, all those things, no. Not at all.”

“You’re a typical Torontonian,” said Jim, caustically.

“I ought to be,” I said, proudly. “My great-grandfather was born here, in the village of York. I have remote ancestors buried under all the biggest skyscrapers in Toronto. There is not a downtown corner that one of my forebears did not own at one time or another and traded them to Jesse Ketchum² for a hundred acres in Markham township.”

“You certainly show it,” said Jim. “In all my travels, from Lindsay to St. Thomas, I never knew anybody like the Torontonians for dodging life, though it be right under their noses.”

“We don’t dodge life, Jimmie,” I explained, “we just keep it calm and orderly.”

“You are only fooling yourselves,” said Jim. “Life and adventure are going on, right under your noses but you are too dumb to see it.”

“I defy you,” I said; “I defy you to show me any life going on in Toronto. I defy you!”

“Why,” cried Jimmie, “we could go and stand on any corner in Toronto, and unless you were too timid, adventure would come along and sweep you off in its embrace before you knew where you were!”

“Nothing of the sort,” I said. “A policeman would come along and order us to move on. That’s all that would happen.”

Challenging Adventure

“Would you like to try?” demanded Jimmie, his eyes narrow.

“It would be no use,” I said. “I know my Toronto.”

“Would you risk standing with me,” said Jim, levelly, “at any corner you like in Toronto and accepting the first adventure that comes along?”

“We would just feel silly,” I said. “Watching all the married couples out window-shopping after dinner.”

“You are as usual evading the question,” said Jim. “Will you come with me now, to-night, and stand on a corner and accept the first adventure that comes to us? Will you?”

“It is after 9 o’clock, Jim,” I said. “There will be only a few people walking along, coming from the first show at the movies.”

“I challenge you,” said Jim; “I challenge you to come right now and stand on any corner you like and see if adventure doesn’t come along and smack us on the nose!”

“It’s 9.20,” I said, “but I’ll come.”

So we got in Jim’s car that was out in front and we drove down along Bloor toward the city.

“There you are, Jimmie,” I said, waving at the familiar scene. “The only bright spots are the Italian fruit stores and, as you see, they are starting to carry the stuff indoors, preparatory to closing up. A few blonde ladies in lingerie shops standing looking sadly out their windows. Drug stores very busy selling cough remedies and soaps. Adventure, thank goodness, has been eliminated from Toronto the Good.”

“Name a corner,” said Jim, briefly.

“All right,” I said, “let’s just scramble it. Turn two blocks up, two blocks right, one block up and one block right, and where that will bring us out, I don’t know.”

“One corner is as good as another,” said Jim, turning up at a street I never saw before. We drove up two blocks, turned right and drove two blocks, then north another block and then right. Jim slowed down near the corner and parked. We got out. It was a typical west end corner. There were pleasant houses all around up and down the four streets at which we stood. Their lights burned dimly. Bridge lamps³ glowed softly in windows. Nobody moved. Not a living soul was to be seen. It was now twenty to 10 o’clock, and in all those pleasant, safe, comfortable homes there was not a sign or shadow of life. The Hydro lights glowed brightly.

“H’m,” I said, as we strolled to the corner and took up our stand.

“H’m is right,” said Jimmie. “Just look about you. Would you ever dream that in this quiet, peaceful neighborhood romances are being staged, tragedies and dramas being enacted? Can you hear screams, yells? Can you detect the odor of poisons, lethal gases, blood?”

“Jimmie,” I hushed him, “lower your voice!”

The calm was beautiful. For such a calm have we true Torontonians labored and voted and paid our taxes for a century.

“Know What You’re Up Against?”

We stood side by side. A car drove along the street. It turned carefully into a side drive. The gentleman driving it closed his garage doors. He stamped his feet carefully on the front walk to knock off any mud or snow that might be adhering to his feet. He coughed. He let himself into his house. All was quiet again.

“Well, well,” I said. “The great, wicked city!”

A boy on a bicycle rode past, singing softly to himself.

Two more cars drove carefully and pleasantly up the street.

“All I can hear,” I said, “is a faint radio, and if it isn’t Seth Parker⁴, it is one of his imitators.”

“Just wait,” said Jimmie, “this quiet is ominous, menacing.”

I smiled.

A car came slowly along to us. Two men were in it. As it came even with us, it braked and stopped.

The man at the wheel leaned out the window and said quietly:

“Are you the gents that were expecting us?”

My heart stopped beating.

“Yes,” said Jimmie.

“Hop in,” said the driver, reaching back and opening the rear door of the car. Jimmie took me by the elbow and shoved me into the car, ahead of him. He slid in beside me and slammed the door. The car started and the driver stepped on it. We lurched around the first corner and, gathering speed, raced southward.

“Easy,” I said nervously. “Not too fast.”

The second man in the car turned and rested his arm on the back of the front seat.

“We got to make it snappy,” he said.

“The Big Boy don’t like waiting around on a job like this.”

“No, of course,” said Jim, squeezing my knee.

“Was you waiting long?” asked the man facing us. I could feel him inspecting us with gleaming eyes as we flashed rapidly past lamp after lamp.

“No,” said Jim. “We hadn’t waited five minutes.”

“We wasn’t sure of the streets up in this swell neighborhood,” said the man. “Say, you gents don’t look much like what we expected to meet.”

“Is that so?” said Jim.

“No, we was looking for something…. well… a little more… how do you say it?”

“Sophisticated?” suggested Jim.

“Sure, that’s it,” said the man beside the driver. We were going faster than ever. We were headed out Queen St.

“Oh, I guess you can’t tell by the looks of a man what is inside of him,” said Jim.

“You sure can’t,” said he. “But still, I guess you gents know what you’re up against? Huh? You know what end of a gun is loaded. Ha, ha!”

“Ha, ha,” said Jimmie.

“Ha, ha,” said I. Jimmie squeezed my knee again.

Little Guys are the Big Shots

“The Big Guy.” continued the man in front, “he don’t want to deal with no pikers. He says to me, if these two guys can’t come across, then we’re going to deal with somebody acrost the line. See? Somebody that knows this sort of business. Regular guys, you understand?”

“Oh, sure,” said Jimmie.

“Have you had much experience along these lines?” asked the man in front, respectfully.

“Enough, I think,” said Jim, dryly.

“What I mean to say,” said he, “the thing you are going to do to-night isn’t done every day, is it? Not in Toronto.”

“No,” said Jim. “I guess it will give the old town quite a jolt.”

“It sure will,” said the man in front.

“You’ll have to keep mum,” warned Jimmie.

“I don’t want anybody going around shooting off his mouth, you understand.”

“No, sir: no, sir,” said the man in front. “The Big Boy has got me trained. I only wish I was big enough in your racket to swing a thing like this myself.”

“Why don’t you try some time?” asked Jimmie.

“Me?” cried the man. “Huh, I haven’t got the nerve. If I was all hopped up, and could keep myself hopped up for a year, I might take one swipe at it. But I know my limits, I leave jobs like this to the sharp shooters.”

“Excuse me,” I broke in.

But Jimmie grabbed my knee so sharply that all I could do was lean back in the seat and bite my tongue.

“Uh?” said the man in front. “What’s the little guy got to do?”

“Oh,” said Jimmie, “he’s the real performer to-night.”

But

“Excuse ME,” cried the man in front, jovially. “I beg your pardon, mister. I ought to of knew. All my life, I’ve noticed that it is the little guys that is the big shots. Leave it to a little guy to step in, do the trick and make a slick getaway.”

“I don’t shoot,” I stated, despite Jim’s sudden grab at the soft part of my leg above the knee.

“Haw, haw,” laughed the man in front, and even the driver laughed, though he should have been attending to his driving at the speed we were going. We were lacing in amongst some dirty old downtown back streets.

“Haw, haw, haw,” laughed the man in front. “Oh, no. You don’t shoot. Not if the Big Boy has picked you for this job. Listen, he never picked a muff in his life he’s worked with gents in your line of business all over North America.”

“In Chicago?” I asked.

“Yes, in Chicago,” said the man in front. “And that’s a tough town to work in, I’m telling you.”

“Ohhhhhh,” I said.

“I beg pardon?” asked the man.

“My friend was just yawning,” said Jimmie.

A Fit Place For a Murder

The car had slowed. We were picking our way down a narrow, half-lighted street. The back of warehouses, tall blind brick walls were massed about and above us, as the car jolted carefully in the narrow, ill-paved lane.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“We’re driving around to the back,” said the man in front. “The front doors are padlocked and under police guard. The Big Boy has the key to the back.”

“Police?” I asked.

“Sure,” said he. “The house is empty. isn’t it?”

“Ohhhhhhhh,” I said again.

“Uh?” said the man in front.

“My friend always gets sleepy when he he’s excited,” explained Jimmie.

“He ought to be excited,” said the man in front. The car had stopped in the shadowiest spot in all the long, narrow lane, and he was out and had opened the car door.

“Follow me,” he said quietly. “And hey, Andy, turn off them lights and wait ready to drive these gents wherever they say when the job’s over.”

He stepped up and unlocked the small door in the tall, ghostly brick wall.

“Jimmie,” I hissed, stepping tight against him, “this is gone far enough!”

“You’re going through with it,” replied Jim, in a murmur. “Get in there.”

The man was holding the door open for us, and we saw a narrow, dusty, unused corridor, dimly lighted by a dirty bulb hanging from the ceiling.

“Jim,” I said, “if I go another step, you’ll carry me!”

“Very well, I’ll carry you,” hissed Jim.

“Step along, gents,” said the man, whom I now saw to be a short, swarthy individual of foreign appearance.

Jim shoved me in, and the man slammed the door behind us.

“Watch your step,” said he.

He led us along the corridor, through dark chambers filled with the smell of dust and mould. It was a queer, unearthly place. A fit place for a murder.

We came out in a vast, empty chamber, filled with darkness. At a rough table on a platform sat a small man with a flashlight burning beside him.

“The Big Boy,” whispered our guide.

Jim took my arm and we walked across the creaking board floor, amidst that vast, echoing chamber, with its gaunt shadows cast by the tiny beam of the flashlight.

“Ah,” cried the Big Boy, leaping up. He was a tiny, weazened little foreigner, with his coat collar turned up and a wicked light in his close-set eyes. “So here you are!”

“Yes,” said Jimmie. “This is the man you want to deal with.”

The Big Boy reached excitedly and shook my hand.

“Are you prepared to do the job?” he cried.

“No,” I shouted, my voice echoing in the empty, forbidding and ghostly emptiness. “No, I am not!”

“You what!” gasped the Big Boy.

“My friend,” thrust in Jimmie, standing forward, “like all geniuses, is a little mad. That is his idea of a joke. Of course, he will do the job. Tell him what it is.”

“We’re Two Gunmen, See?”

“Listen,” said the Big Boy, swelling himself up, and staring hypnotically at me. “I picked you on your record. I heard about you all over America. I know what you can do. You’re the man I want.”

“No, I’m not,” I cried loudly. “You’ve got me wrong. I’m a law-abiding citizen of the city of Toronto. My forebears were archdeacons. Their portraits hang in Trinity College. I’m no gunman! Never!”

“Ha, ha,” laughed the Big Boy, like a rooster crowing. “That’s what I want exactly. A law-abiding citizen. The guy that runs this theatre for me has got to be law-abiding, or it would never get by.”

“Theatre?” I exclaimed.

“Sure, theatre,” said the Big Boy, puzzled. “What did you think it was, a bank?”

I gazed around at the fearful shadows.

“Aw, now, Mr. Perkins,” cried the Big Boy, “I know she looks terrible. But she’s been empty now three years. That’s why I got the lease so cheap, see?”

“Theatre?” I repeated. And Jimmie was standing closer to me.

“Sure,” said the Big Boy. “I want you should run this theatre for me. I got a swell lease. I pay you what you asked in your letter. I give you free hand. All I want is you should run it, and you know your way around Toronto.”

“I didn’t write you any letter,” I said. By now, I was getting a grip on myself.

“Listen,” said the Big Boy, shrinking inside his overcoat, “aren’t you Mr. Perkins? Hey, Sam, Andy! Come here. Who’s this you brought in here?”

The man who had sat in front of the car walked forward out of the shadows and stared at us.

“They was at the corner where he said to pick him up,” said the man.

“What is this?” yelled the Big Boy, shrilly. “A hold-up?”

“What was you doing at that corner? And getting in our car?” demanded the man called Sam, standing dangerously.

“Just a second,” hissed Jimmie. “We’re two gunmen, see? And we were waiting on that corner for an appointment with a job we have to do to-night. See?”

“Gunmen,” whispered the Big Boy and Sam, backing away.

“Yes,” said Jim. “And when this bird pulled up in a car we thought he was our party.”

“Oh, gosh,” breathed Sam. “Gunmen! In my car!”

“Excuse it,” said the Big Boy, hurriedly. “My boys will take you back. They’ll take you anywhere you say, gentlemen. Right away.”

“No, thanks,” said Jim. “We’ll have nobody driving us, thanks. Show us out.”

“Yes, sir; yes, sir,” said Sam, wobbling for the narrow corridor.

He let us out. Jim and I walked hastily down the lane. We got out to King St. and got in a King car headed west.

“Ah,” breathed Jimmie triumphantly. “So what!”

“Well,” I laughed, “so there was your adventure. A theatre lease!”

“Pardon me,” cried Jim. “We thought they were murderers, and they think we are gunmen. Isn’t that adventure enough for all of us?”

“But it is only thinking,” I exclaimed. “This is Toronto!”

“I know,” countered Jimmie. “But adventure and romance is mostly in our minds anyway.”

“I insist,” I said, “that adventure in Toronto is mostly misunderstanding.”

And it was after 11 o’clock when we got home.

---

Editor’s Notes:

1. Gordon Sinclair was a popular international reporter for the Toronto Star at the time. Before World War 2, international reporting was still considered romantic and mysterious, especially outside of Europe and North America. ↩︎
2. Jesse Ketchum was a political figure in Upper Canada in the early 19th century. ↩︎
3. A bridge lamp is a floor lamp that has an adjustable arm and is used to light up the floor or a small side table. ↩︎
4. Phillips Lord was an American radio program writer, creator, producer and narrator. He became a national radio personality after creating the character “Seth Parker”, a clergyman and backwoods philosopher, telling stories of rural New England life featuring ordinary folks singing hymns and telling jokes and stories. ↩︎

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, October 13, 1934.

“This is the fourth time in a row,” declared Jimmie Frise as we drove along the dreary back country road in the dusk, “that we have come home with no rabbits,””

“Our wives will become suspicious,” I agreed. “It looks fishy.”

“We don’t want any family interference in our rabbit hunting,” stated Jim, “with the season just starting nicely, so I have thought up a way out of it.”

“What is it?”

“We will drop into one of these farms,” said Jimmie, “and each get some chickens.”

“Great stuff,” I applauded.

“Live chickens,” said Jim. “You have that dog kennel in your yard and I have a sort of wired-off play area in mine. We will each take home half a dozen chickens, fatten them up and the local butcher will kill them for us when and as we need them.”

“Jimmie,” I cried, “you are a genius. You understand women. Half a dozen choice chickens, fresh from the farm, will warm their hearts more than a sackful of dead rabbits.”

“You watch,” said Jim, “for a sign on any of these farms we are passing that says anything about chickens for sale.”

And away up there on the top end of Peel and Halton counties, over whose bleak pastures we had been pursuing the jackrabbit in vain all day, we came down a bumpety little sideroad to a desolate-looking farmhouse, at the entrance to the lane of which our car headlights picked up the sign: “Chickens for Sale.”

The farmer led us out to the chicken-house and there we waked about fifty chickens on their perches, and the farmer, with his lantern, went along the rows of fluttering and squawking hens and selected three pair each for us at a dollar a pair.

“If you gents,” he said, “will take one more pair at a dollar I’ll throw in a pair for nothing.”

“Sold,” cried Jimmie.

So the farmer spent all of ten minutes picking out the pair he would throw in. By their legs, he carried them out to our car.

“Have you no crate?” he asked.

“No,” said Jim. “I thought we would just curtain off the back of the car with my lap robe and our leather coats over the windows. They would settle down and go to sleep on the back seat all right, don’t you think?”

The farmer more or less agreed and, having no pins, he got us some small nails, and we hung the lap robe across behind our front seat, and curtained the windows with the coats we rabbit hunters all carry too many of, and after each handing the farmer $4¹ we drove out on our way home.

“Good-looking fowls,” said Jim, as we got back on to the bumpety road. “Nice and plump.”

“That Buff Orpington² I got, especially,” I said. “Did you notice it? The farmer said it was under a year and a perfect roaster.”

Wonderful Prospect

“Boy,” said Jimmie, “we have got four or five meals of lovely roast chicken right behind us here. I like two chickens to a meal. That makes four drum sticks, four upper parts of the leg, four wings, four breasts and about five slices to a breast, making twenty slices.”

“Jimmie, you make me weak with hunger.”

“And those are good big chickens,” went on Jimmie, intent on steering down the ragged road, “so there can be about a solid quart of dressing stuffed into them. And at this time of year apple jelly is nice with chicken. And turnips, with plenty of pepper. And the gravy! With giblets chopped up in it.”

“I feel faint,” I begged.

The smell of chickens roasting,” said Jim, rounding a turn and heading at last for the main highway. “We each have five pairs of chickens. That means at least five dinners, or if you are a sort of meany ten dinners in the next couple of weeks.”

“I like that bit they call the oyster,” I said. “You find it on the side of the bird, just under the leg.”

“Don’t advertise that bit,” warned Jimmie. “That’s a bit I always have myself, and I am terrified of my family learning about it.”

“I like wings, too,” I suggested.

“I like wings cold,” said Jim. “Supper the day after, we will eat the two cold carcases, on which the wings have been left intact. With cold dressing, fried potatoes, you know, the smooth round kind of fried potatoes, brown on only one side.”

“Aw, Jimmie, shut up!” I beseeched.

The casual clucking and fluttering behind us as the chickens adjusted themselves to their surroundings in the darkness of their curtained-off chamber had almost died away. We came to the main gravel highway that leads southeast to join the greater cement highways to Toronto. We had gone only a mile or two on it when we saw ahead the lights of a village. As we came through the village, which consists of a store, a garage and a church, we saw a crowd of cars parked around the church and its basement was gleaming with lights.

“Hooray!” yelled Jimmie suddenly.

In the night, across the front of the church entrance, was strung a banner on which was printed, to be seen dimly in the night, the words:

“Harvest Home and Fowl Supper 35c.³“

“A fowl supper,” roared Jimmie, slewing the car into the gravel in front of the church. “Let’s go!”

“Aren’t we going to get home late?” I asked.

“Listen, you’ve never been to a fowl supper. Come on in. Only 35 cents and all the chicken and duck you can eat. Maybe turkey. With pies and coffee and thick country bread and butter and pickles-“

We ran the car in alongside the others. Nobody was in sight, which suggested the supper was in full swing. We left the car and walked up to the steps of the church basement, where we met two ladies, who took our 35 cents each and smilingly directed us in, where a great buzz and bustle of sound and talk and an odor of good things to eat drew us like a magnet.

A Little Bit Late

The basement was jammed with men and women and ladies were waiting at the long tables set on trestles. Steaming coffee pots were passing, and a gentleman, whom we learned afterwards was one of the elders, saw us and beckoned us in and sat us down at the far end of the room amongst a group of shy young men in their Sunday clothes who were looking very red in the face and shiny and about to burst. They were eating pie in immense bites.

“We’re late,” whispered Jimmie as we sat down and smiled around at everybody.

“I don’t want any pie,” I said. “All I want is chicken and plenty of it.”

“Duck for me,” said Jimmie.

A large lady leaned over us.

“Boys,” she said, “which will you have – cold ham or cold pork?”

“Chicken,” said I.

“Duck,” said Jimmie.

“The fowl is all gone,” said the lady, beaming. “You’ve come late. But we have some lovely cold pork. I cooked it myself.”

Jimmie and I looked around at that long table full of young men and a few young ladies, and we noticed that even the young ladies had a shiny and stretched look. They dropped their eyes when we looked accusingly about.

“At a fowl supper,” said the lady with the coffee pot, “you have to be on time. I guess you boys are from the city, eh?”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll have ham.”

The elder who had seated us came along and helped console us. The minister worked his way down between the tables and shook hands with us and told us how sorry he was the fowl was all done, but he looked as if he had done pretty well himself.

By this time the majority had got through their pie, some of them two or three kinds, apple, mince and berry, and a few were rising and going to the exit of the basement for a breath of air and a stretch or else gathering in groups to chat about the things people chat about in church basements.

The ham came and it was a great helping, half a dozen rich cuts, the way a tired carver carves ham, half the width of the ham, thick at one edge and fading off at the other. I also had mashed potatoes, stewed corn and pickled beets. Jim had the same, only he took pork. The corn was cold, the potatoes were just warm, and I glared at Jimmie.

“Fowl supper,” said I.

“We must go to one some time,” said Jim, spearing a big forkful.

As we ate, the diners mostly rose and about the time the coffee pot was brought by the motherly lady, who kept passing Jim the pickles, the conserve, the bread, the butter and everything she could reach, I happened to glance over toward the door and I caught about six of the men, mostly of them youngish, standing staring coldly at us. They did not look away when surprised in this act.

“Apparently,” I said to Jim, “they don’t even like us to have any of their ham.”

Jim looked at the door.

“Um,” said he, looking away.

By unseen signals and eye glasses I noticed that everybody in the basement was gradually vanishing out the exit and through the door came the sounds of muttered excitement.

Two very large young men came in awkwardly and sat down on chairs as if guarding the door. We ate our pie and the motherly lady left us alone in the basement.

“What is this?” asked Jim.

“I don’t like the look of things,” I assured him.

The excitement increased and through the crowd in the exit pushed an elderly man wearing a policeman’s cap. A dozen of the men and one or two thin ladies followed him. He walked over and stood across the table from us.

“Where are you boys from?” asked the town constable.

“Toronto,” we said, politely enough.

“Is that your car outside, license No. L1170?”

“It is,” we said.

“Where did you get the chickens you have hidden in the back of it?” asked the constable.

“We bought them,” said Jimmie, a light dawning on him. “Ah, I see. You thought we were chicken thieves? Ha, ha.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” said I.

“You will be glad to give us the name of the party you bought them from?” asked the constable, as the ring of men and the two thin ladies gathered closer around us.

“It was a farmer,” said Jim. “Let’s see. It was up in the north end of the county. Let’s see, we came down by … let’s see. Look here, we have been rabbit hunting. I can’t just say where we were when we bought those birds.”

“It was dark,” I put in.

“Ah, you can’t just say,” said the constable softly, nodding his head. He got out a notebook and began to take notes.

“Just a minute,” said Jimmie, rising to his feet. “Do you mean to insinuate that you think those chickens are stolen?”

The elder pushed forward.

“Boys,” he said, “there has been a lot of chicken stealing going on in this neighborhood.”

“Well, I assure you,” I said, “we got them from a farmer and paid him a dollar a pair for them.”

“That settles it,” cried the constable. “A dollar a pair they say they paid for a lot of old hens like those.”

“Several of the congregation,” said the elder, “think they identify some of their own chickens. Now that Buff Orpington in there, Mrs. Sampson thinks it is her old pet hen, Chicky.”

“I’ve had that hen seven years,” cried Mrs. Sampson loudly. She was one of the thin ladies. But already the crowd was slowly and soft-footedly flowing back through the entrance into the basement and listening with averted faces to the conversation.

“This is False Arrest”

“I don’t like this at all,” declared Jimmie loudly. “I am a respectable citizen. I buy some hens from a farmer…”

“Why had you them concealed behind rugs and coats?” asked the constable slyly, like a lawyer.

“Why did some nosey person go peeking behind those rugs and coats?” roared Jimmie.

Mrs. Sampson turned very red.

“I warn you gentlemen,” said Jim, softly, tapping the table with his finger, “if I am accused by you, without any evidence whatsoever, of chicken stealing, I shall sue this municipality for ten thousand dollars. I am a respectable man. This is a false arrest.”

Three of the older men, including the elder, turned pale and hurried back to a corner, where they held a consultation.

“I warn you, too,” I said loudly. “My reputation is worth ten thousand dollars. This will go hard with you taxpayers.”

“Tell us where you got the chickens,” demanded the constable, somewhat disturbed by the turn of events.

“You identify some of the birds,” retorted Jim. “Then arrest me if you dare.”

“We got the lanterns,” said a man from back in the crowd.

Escorted closely by several husky young farmers, we walked through the crowd and out into the night. The crowd swarmed after us. Up to the car the constable led us. The lanterns flooded their light over the scene.

The constable carefully opened our car door.

He opened it wider.

He flung it wide.

“They’re gone!” he yelled.

Our chickens were gone.

There was a moment of shocked silence.

“Who opened my car door?” demanded Jim. “Whoever opened my car door first is guilty of trespass, theft, breaking and entering! Did you open my car door, constable? If so, where’s your warrant?”

“And where are my chickens?” I asked.

But in the confusion the constable and the lantern bearers and Mrs. Sampson were all swept apart from us, and in the dark Jim and I continued to shout about our stolen chickens and what we would do about it.

But nobody paid any attention. Cars were driving off with loud exhausts, lights were going on. The elder tried to engage us, but his wife drew him aside.

“Aw,” said Jim, turning on his own lights.

“Anyway, it might take us a week, Jimmie,” I said, “to locate that farm back in the north end of the county.”

“Let’s get out of this,” said Jim, as if I had suggested the fowl supper.

So while Jim drove away I tore down the curtains of rugs and coats, and rearranged the rabbit guns and rubber boots.

---

Editor’s Notes: This story appeared in Greg Clark & Jimmie Frise Outdoors (1979).

1. $4 in 1934 would be $92 in 2025. ↩︎
2. An Orpington chicken is a British breed. ↩︎
3. 35 cents in 1934 would be $8 in 2025 ↩︎

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, February 3, 1934.

“Can you run over for a minute?” asked Jimmie Frise on the telephone.

“I’ve just settled down,” I said, “for the night, with a good fishing book.”

“Well, I’ve got a poor chap here, I wanted you to see him,” said Jimmie. “It’s a pathetic case.”

“A friend?’ I asked.

“No, he just came to the door,” said Jimmie, in a guarded voice. “He is selling necktie racks. A very nice article. But he lacks salesmanship. He hasn’t got the punch. And he broke down on my porch. Run over for a minute, will you?”

“I’m no good in cases like that, Jimmie,” I demurred. “I always break down, too.”

“Come on,” begged Jim, “we’ll go into a committee on him.”

So I threw on my coat and walked over to Jimmie’s.

Jim had him in his little study at the side of the house. He was a man in his thirties, not badly dressed, but with that drawn look of despair and defeat on his face that is familiar to any of us that answer our front doors. Beside him on the floor was a paper bundle containing about a dozen objects made of wood with numerous pegs sticking out of them. They were painted pink, or blue or white.

“This gentleman,” said Jimmie, when I walked in, “makes these tie racks himself.”

I examined one critically.

“It’s a very attractive article,” I said with a professional air.

“But,” said Jimmie, “this gentleman can’t sell them. He simply can’t sell them. He has gone from door to door all through this well-to-do neighborhood and he hasn’t sold one!”

“I guess I’m not cut out for a salesman,” muttered the tie rack man huskily.

“Wasn’t anybody interested?” I inquired sitting down sympathetically.

“Most of them just opened the door, and before I could say a word, when they saw me hold out the tie rack, they shut the door,” said the man. His mouth was working, and tears stood in his eyes.

“It isn’t,” said Jim, hastily, “as if these were some commonplace junk. These are an original conception. Made by hand. Designed to fill a long-felt want in almost every home.”

A Surprise Selling Line

“Yes, sir,” said the man, sniffing loudly, “I thought them up myself. And I made the first model myself. And I perfected it myself. And I produced them in quantity myself. Painted and all.”

“Well,” I said, “nowadays you have to have a selling idea as good as the idea in itself. It’s no longer true that the world will beat a pathway to the door of a man who makes a better mouse trap. Nowadays, the only pathway, beaten to any mouse trap manufacturer’s is to the one who advertises and has worked up a smart selling line. In fact, the only pathways at all are those beaten by tireless salesmen driven by a tireless sales manager. To-day, the best mouse traps in the world aren’t catching any mice if the inventor is simply sitting at home looking out across the lawn for a path to appear.”

“You mean,” said Jim, “that this gentleman ought to get some manufacturer to adopt his idea?”

“Not if this gentleman wants to make any money out of it,” I replied. “I was merely suggesting that we think up some smart idea for him. This is old territory he is working. Every door in this neighborhood has been opened ten times a day for the past three years by somebody with something to sell, useful or otherwise. He has got to have some way of keeping that door open for half a minute, for even fifteen seconds, until he sinks the harpoon of interest into his prospective customer.”

“That’s true,” admitted Jim. “Now what would you suggest?”

“For one thing,” I said, “I’d have a couple of nice snappy ties hanging in one of these racks when I hold it up as the door opens.”

“Great!’ exclaimed Jimmie.

The other poor chap sat up with interest.

“Then I would say something like this,” I said, getting up and holding one of the tie racks in my hand, as if I were at a door. “‘Surprise, madam, a surprise for your husband. This tie rack hanging handy to his dresser, with all his ties neatly and tidily displayed. Only fifty cents. It will keep his dresser tidy. It will tend to make him interested in his appearance. Only fifty cents. In three colors. To match your furnishings!’”

I sat down amidst applause.

The man was impressed and flushed.

“Gents,” he said, “I sure am grateful. I’m sure I can do it. You’ve put new life into me. But I don’t think I’ll try to-night. I’ll wait till to-morrow. I’m all in tonight.”

“No, no,” cried Jimmie. “Try it to-night. While the idea is fresh upon you. Why, you can get rid of this dozen to-night in half an hour.”

“I’d rather tackle it to-morrow when I’m fresh,” said he.

Making a Poor Start

“Think of going home to-night with six bucks in your pocket,” said Jimmie, earnestly. “I believe in striking when the iron is hot.”

“Gents, if you don’t mind,” said the poor fellow anxiously.

“Listen,” cried Jim. “I know how you feel, this salesman stuff is terrible at first when you aren’t used to it. I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go with you for the first few calls and get you started.”

“Would you!” exclaimed the tie rack man joyfully. “Would you?”

“Sure,” I said.

“We certainly would,” said Jim. “We’re interested in human nature experiments like this.”

Jim dashed out for his coat and hat and the man picked up his bundle of tie racks.

We went out, taking Jim’s car.

“We’ll drive a little way,” said Jim, “just to get away from this immediate neighborhood where we’re known.”

We drove up a couple of blocks and parked in a comfortable neighborhood and began at the first house in the block.

“Now you be the salesman,” said Jimmie to me, “and we’ll come right with you, carrying the stock of merchandise.”

We rang the bell. I cleared my throat.

A lady came to the door.

“Surprise,” I said, bowing slightly and employing a regular salesman smile. “Madam, here is a surprise for your husband. This tie rack hanging handy to your husband’s dresser…”

The lady, who had been looking with astonishment from one to the other of us, slowly closed the door. She didn’t even say scat.

In silence we walked down the steps.

“There you are, gents!” said the tie rack man. “That’s it.”

“One swallow doesn’t make a summer,” said Jimmie. “The bad beginning means a good end.”

Nobody was home but the young folks at the next house, they were dancing to the radio and the seven or eight of them who answered the door didn’t have fifty cents.

The next house, only the maid was in.

The next one, only the man of the house was in, and he had the book he was reading in his hand, and you could see his mind was not on what we were saying.

“Surprise,” I cried, holding the tie rack up in front of him. “Sir, a surprise for yourself. This handsome tie rack hanging handy to your dresser with all your ties neatly and tidily arrayed . . .”

“What the heck!” he said suddenly. And as suddenly slammed the door.

We went back out to the pavement.

The tie rack man was getting impatient. You could tell by the way he kept silent and stared off down the dark street moodily.

“Think of a new line,” said Jim. “Try some other approach.”

Trying the Heart Appeal

“How about this?” I exclaimed. “All three of us stand in the doorway, each one of us holding out a tie rack, you the blue one, you the pink one, and me the white one. What you call mass appeal. And then I will say: “Madam, these are tie racks. They are a useful and ornamental object for every man’s room.’ “

“No good,” said Jimmie, “we would only frighten the woman.”

“I guess you gents had better let me get along,” said the tie rack man in a melancholy voice.

“No, sir, once we put our hand to the plow,” cried Jimmie.

“Look here,” I cut in, “why not employ the one appeal that has worked to-night? What got this man into your house and brought us out into a committee of the whole? Why, the heart appeal.”

“Tears,” cried Jimmie.

“The breakdown,” I said. “We will call at this next house and we will all three stand there, with tears in our eyes, and appeal to the lady to buy a tie rack, we haven’t sold one to-night!”

“And that would be true,” added the tie rack man.

“Don’t overdo it,” warned Jimmie.

We went up to the next house. We turned up our coat collars and stood in an abject huddle while we waited for the bell to be answered.

A bald-headed man in shirt sleeves came to the door.

“Mister,” I said, exhibiting the poor pink tie rack, “us three have been all over this neighborhood trying to dispose of these tie racks, we only ask fifty cents, they’re a lovely thing, handy as anything, and we made them ourselves (here I let a little quaver get into my voice) and painted them ourselves, our own idea, too, and we thought we could make an honest dollar or two out of them…”

The bald-headed man stood looking at us silently. The tie rack man was the picture of woe. Jim had his chin ducked down in his collar, his hat over his eyes, a look of desperation in his attitude.

“You haven’t sold one, eh?”

“No, sir,” I said, brokenly. Jim gave what sounded like a muffled sob. The tie rack man lifted his wan face into the light.

“By george,” said the bald-headed man, “step inside here a minute.”

Generous With Advice

He held the door wide, and we three trooped into the hall. Beyond, there was a table, through a haze of cigar smoke, at which sat three men playing poker.

“Just a minute, boys,” called the baldheaded man. “Step out here.”

The poker players got up and came into the hall.

“These three poor chaps,” said the baldheaded man, “have a very handy little article here, a tie rack. See? A handy little gadget. They made them themselves. They thought up the idea themselves. They painted then. They have been all over this district and haven’t sold one! Now, here’s a case where we ought to help, don’t you think?”

All four of them regarded us with deep sympathy.

We all sat down in the front room.

“You follows look like pretty respectable men,” said the baldhead.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “We’re all good honest mechanics, and we thought we could make a few honest dollars to help along. But it seems we can’t sell these things.”

One of the men opened the bundle of tie racks and they all passed them around, admiring them.

“A smart idea,” they said. “A first-rate article. A thing you would imagine would sell in any house.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Any man would appreciate having a thing like that to keep his ties in order.”

“Sure,” said one of the poker players, “my ties are all hanging on a knob by the mirror on my dresser. All in a mess.”

“I tell you what,” said the-bald-headed man, “you fellows have got a good article here, but no matter how good your article you have got to have a selling talk to go with it. It isn’t enough just to show them at the door from house to house.”

“That’s true, sir,” I said. And Jimmie nodded brightly.

“Now, we four men,” said the baldheaded man, looking around at his three friends who were regarding us sympathetically and curiously, “are in the merchandising business. In fact, this gentleman is something of a wizard at selling. I think we could get together right now and give you a sales talk on these articles which would work magic. You could dispose of this lot in no time, the three of you.”

“You’re right, Bill,” said the others, nodding.

“Now, let’s see,” said the bald-headed man. “How about this: you walk up to the door and when the lady comes you are holding the tie rack up like this, see? And you say, right off: “Madame, the problem of keeping your husband’s ties in order is one of the banes … no, not one of the banes…”

“The problem of keeping your husband’s ties in order,” stated one of the other poker players, a tall, thin, thoughtful man, whose tie was all skew-gee, “is promptly solved by this simple, attractive and handsome little article, only fifty cents.”

“That’s better,” cried the bald-headed man. “Or how about this: “Madame, how often do you have to sort out your husband’s ties, all in a tangle in his bureau drawer? This handy little article, etcetera, etcetera…” Do you see?”

The New Message

Jimmie and the tie rack man and I all saw, but the tie rack man had a slight bulge in his eyes that I did not like.

“I tell you what we’ll do, boys!” cried the bald-headed man. “We’ll go with you! This is most interesting to us, as sales experts. We’re not in the mood for cards to-night anyway, are we, boys? No. So just wait a jiffy and we’ll step out with you and see those racks vanish with a little snappy sales approach.”

“Good idea,” agreed the others, rising.

“Won’t there be a lot of us calling from door to door, sir?” I asked respectfully.

“I was going to suggest,” said the tall, thoughtful man, “that we might each take two racks apiece and we will scatter along the block and make a game of it. See who disposes of his racks first. Eh, boys! And so select the best sales talk.”

His friends all snapped up the challenge.

“How about it?” asked the bald-headed one, genially. “Will you trust us?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” I assured him, nudging the tie rack man, who seemed to be on the point of saying something.

We trooped out the front door.

“You chaps work right along here,” said the bald-headed one, “but as we others are known around here we’ll walk a couple of blocks north and start. When you’re through wait here, will you? We’ll be back in no time!”

We divided up the package of tie racks, giving each of the four gentlemen two apiece. Pinks and blues.

They walked eagerly away and Jim and the tie rack man and I started down to the corner of the block for Jim’s car.

“Now for a getaway,” I exclaimed.

“Where do I get off in this?” demanded the tie rack man loudly.

“Ssssh!” said Jim. “We’ll pay you for the lot. Three bucks each, me and my little friend. Am I right?’

“Right,” I said, opening the car door and hastening my two companions into it.

“But where do you get off in this?” asked the poor tie rack fellow, bewildered.

“It’s worth three bucks each to us,” I explained as Jim drove quietly but smartly away from there, “for the lesson.”

“Lesson?” said the tie rack man.

“Sympathy and advice aren’t enough,” I said. “We are all learning that now. Those four guys right now are learning it, too! It’s the new message of good times returning.”

“Yes,” said Jim, “we’ll buy your stuff even if we don’t need it.”

“And even,” I added, “if we haven’t got it!”

“Well, sir,” said the tie rack man, “I do believe things are on the mend!”

---

Editor’s Note: This story appeared in Silver Linings (1978).

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, December 29, 1934.

“AAAAAAGHHH,” said Jimmie Frise.

“What is it?” I asked anxiously.

“Ughh,” groaned Jimmie, this Christmas-New Year’s week gets me down. Over eating. Over eating. I feel like a boa constrictor that has eaten three goats. One goat. Two goats. Three goats.”

“Yes,” I said, “I know that lumpy feeling.”

“I could just lie down somewhere and let those colossal gorgings digest,” said Jimmie. “I feel drowsy. Or is it just that I have eaten so much, my skin is tight all over me, and that is what is making my eyes half close?”

“What we need,” I declared, “is exercise.”

“I never felt less like exercise in all my life,” replied Jim, resting himself in another slouched position on his chair.

“Big meals,” I said, clearing my throat, “big meals, Jimmie, should be forbidden by the public health legislation of this country. They should be a crime. In ancient times, when nature was our only law, men, like any other animal, ate whenever they could, but lots of times they went for days and days without a bite to eat.”

“I wish I was starving to death, right now,” moaned Jimmie.

“Lots of times,” I went on, “when game was scarce, whole tribes of men were slowly starving to death. Then all of a sudden, a herd of prehistoric reindeer or a couple of mammoths came along…”

“Ughh,” protested Jimmie.

“A herd of mammoths came along,” I continued, “and the whole tribe rushed out of the caves and slew a couple of them. And what a feast there was then! Up leaped the fires, and great juicy steaks of mammoth went on the pointed sticks to be roasted…”

“Please, please,” begged Jimmie, rising. “If you don’t change the subject, I’ll have to leave.”

“Very well,” I said. “But you see the point. Mankind, in the long-drawn-out early history of us, used to feast only after long fasts. I should say that in the ancient days mankind ate, as a rule, very little, and only once in a long while did they get a square meal. In these days, when we all eat regular meals, we should never, never feast.”

“Agreed, agreed,” said Jim, yawning and groaning at the same time.

“Having all and more than we need to eat, as often as we like,” I said, “it is against the ancient law of nature for us to gorge ourselves. It should be a public crime to stuff.”

“I’m a criminal all right,” said Jim, closing his eyes heavily.

“I’m a criminal, too,” I assured him. “Christmas Day, I started with two fried eggs and bacon, toast, cherry jam, two mugs of coffee and a beaker of orange juice. Then, about two p.m., we sat down to a turkey. Such a turkey. I ate three full-size slices off the breast, cut with a sharp knife. A gobbin of dressing about the size of a grapefruit…”

“Erp,” said Jim, “pardon me.”

“Then mashed potatoes with dark bright brown gravy, and turnips and cranberry sauce with the skins left in, for sharpness….”

Planning a Cellar Gym

“You were saying,” said Jim, heaving himself to an upright posture in his chair, “something about exercise. Talk about exercise. Tell me about walking five miles in the crisp winter afternoon, amidst bright pine trees along the frosty roads.”

“Walking,” I said, “about 120 to the minute, short, strong-legged paces, swinging a cane, with a tartan muffler around your neck, a pipe in your mouth, and steam blowing from your nose.”

“Aaaahhhh,” sighed Jimmie, looking better already.

“And big stout boots on your feet,” I pictured, “and the ground frozen and lumpy underfoot, and chickadees and maybe a redpoll or two in the trees for you to pause and look at, and maybe a pheasant, all dark and burnished, running across the road ahead of you.”

“Get away from pheasants, raw or roasted,” warned Jim.

“In the olden days,” I stated, “when we used to alternate feasts with long periods of enforced fasting, we got plenty of exercise. Hunting the mammoths must have been an arduous sport. Through bogs and swamps and through terrible jungles, with your poor stomach flat against your backbone from emptiness.”

“Beautiful,” murmured Jim.

“And you weary from carrying an immense club studded with bronze nails to kill the mammoths with.”

“Keep the mammoths alive,” urged Jim. “A dead mammoth gags me somehow.”

“I tell you what,” I suggested, “let’s go for a good walk right now. Let’s lock the office and go. Let’s drive as far as the Jail Farm¹ and then go for a big tramp about five miles west, along one of those lovely winter York county dirt roads.”

“I’d die,” said Jim. “I’d just sit down by a snake fence and die. I haven’t enough strength in my legs right now to stand up.”

“The only thing to cure you,” I informed him, “is exercise. A brisk, long walk. A swinging walk through country with cold wind in your face and pushing against your chest.”

“It’s lovely to hear about,” said Jim, “but I couldn’t do it. Just let us talk about exercise.”

“Can’t we do something about exercise?” I asked. “Instead of merely talking about?”

“I’ve often thought,” pursued Jim, “of making a sort of private gymnasium in my cellar. It’s a big cellar, with a nice high ceiling. I could erect a horizontal bar, and rings on ropes, you know?”

“And my wife,” I said, “has one of those rowing machines stored in the attic. I’d lend

it.”

“And a horse,” said Jim. “You know those leather horses for leaping over.”

“Why don’t we just join a gym?” I asked.

“It’s too public,” demurred Jim. “I couldn’t bear showing off my shape in front of a lot of beautiful young fellows built like gods.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Make it a cellar gym.”

“There,” said Jim, relaxing a little, “we two could meet of an early morning, fresh from sleep and before starting for the office. We could do a crisp half hour of swinging and whirling. We could shake all the stale blood out of our limbs.”

“And heads,” said I.

“We could start our pulses working,” went on Jim. “Evenings, we could do tricks, slowly reviving the lost talents of our muscles. Saturdays we could hold private and personal gymkhanas², competing with each other to see who had the most strength, the most skill.”

“You have me interested,” I admitted.

So that when we broke off work early and went home in the bright afternoon, we called at my house and got the rowing machine out of the attic of my house, and I also contributed a length of big half-inch rope that once I bought for an anchor, not knowing how big half-inch rope really is. An old army saddle I also dug out of the attic, relic of my war days when I tried to ride horses.

“This,” I explained to Jimmie, “will do instead of a gymnasium horse. We can prop it up some way between two chairs or something.”

Jim had timber to make horizontal bars. Old curtain poles of the kind all houses used to have between the living room and the dining room, and all of which are now stored in the attics of the world, Jim produced and we made series of bars on which we could swing like Tarzan, from limb to limb, strengthening our arms and dilating our chests and lungs.

Jimmie’s stuffiness passed off as we got the material assembled in his cellar.

“I feel better already,” said Jim, removing his coat and vest and producing an old box full of hammers, saws, nails and dusty old brackets and things.

First we had to sit down to plan it. We sat down on boxes and planned, with gestures. Over in the corner would be the rowing machine. Along the back of the big cellar would be a series of parallel bars for swinging, grand circles, short arm balances and chinning.

“I haven’t,” said Jim, “chinned myself for so long, it will be a treat to do it again.”

“And rings,” I cried. “Jimmie, when I was at school, I could travel faster around the rings than any boy in the school. I love rings. To swing at arm’s length on rings, gaining momentum and speed. I wonder if we couldn’t get so expert, we could set up two sets of ropes and rings, and swing from one to the other, like trapeze artists?”

“Vaulting the horse,” said Jim. “Now there’s a thing that tests your mettle. You take a run at the horse, place one hand on the saddle, and vault cleanly over it. I would rather see a man vault the horse than see a whole team of military jumpers take the hurdles on horseback.”

So we planned. We would have the horse in the middle of the cellar. I got up and set boxes and things and rested a broom across, and balanced my old saddle on the broom to show Jimmie just how it would look. Then I sat down again.

“It isn’t big enough,” mused Jim, “for a running track down here. But we might get some whitewash like they use on tennis courts and mark off the floor in rings and squares, to make it look gymnasiumy. You know, half the inspiration of a gymnasium is the look of it. It must look appetizing.”

“I thought you were tired of appetite,” I said.

“Now, how about a chest expander,” said Jim, shifting on to the floor and resting his back against the box. “We could attach a couple of bricks to some strong sash cord, and run it up through pulleys. A first-rate chest expander.”

“Swell,” said I. “And how about a rubbing-down table? I could rub you down and then you could rub me down.”

For Fresh Inspiration

“Boy,” said Jimmie, “that rub-down makes me feel good. What would we use for a rub-down?”

“Liniment,” I decreed. “A good cool stinging liniment. With a pungent, turpentiney odor.”

“Ach,” said Jim, “the smell of it fairly catches my breath. I feel like a new man already, just thinking about it.”

He sat up and stretched. He stood up. He walked around the cellar and patted the saddle.

“Think,” he said, “of that grand fresh, feeling of doing twenty minutes fast work on these bars, those rings, that horse, then five minutes on the rowing machine, then a quick rub-down with liniment and so to work!”

“I tingle,” I assured him. “Try a few pulls on that rowing machine.”

Jim stood above the rowing machine, looking down at it.

“Sit on it,” I urged him. “Take a few pulls and see how strong and elastic those springs are.”

“In a few minutes,” said Jim. “I’ve got to run upstairs for a second.”

Left alone, I lay there visualizing the gymnasium. Seeing Jimmie and me in our underwear lithely whirling and twisting, swinging and bending and wheeling. Upstairs I heard Jim’s feet to and fro in the kitchen.

He came down, just as the light from the cellar windows was fading, with a large tray.

On the tray were onion sandwiches, and the tail end of the turkey. The onion sandwiches were Spanish onions sliced thin, as only Jimmie knows how to make them, with salt and pepper, a dash of vinegar laid on with a teaspoon to get it just right, a faint dash of wooster sauce, between well-buttered thin bread.

The turkey was on its last legs, but hidden about its colossal carcase were large gobbets of meat, some white, some dark. Inside were large hunks of dressing still adhering to the ribs.

Jim had also a pot of coffee and a jug of thick cream.

“Ah,” said I, sitting forward.

We just laid the tray on the gymnasium floor and sat to it on our boxes.

After we had finished, I locked my fingers behind my head and leaned back against the wall.

“Well,” I said, “how about the gymnasium? How about doing something for a start?”

“New Year’s dinner will be in a few days,” said Jim, picking a last thread of white meat off from along that big keel bone sticking up drily. “What do you say if we wait until after New Year’s before going on with the gym? It will be a sort of fresh inspiration for us?”

“O-kay,” I agreed.

So before going upstairs to listen to the radio from the chesterfield and the big fat chair to match it, we pushed the bars and ropes and boards and saddle and stuff into a corner where they would be handy.

---

Editor’s Notes: This story appeared both in So What? (1937), and Silver Linings (1978).

1. The “Jail Farm” was the Langstaff Jail Farm. In today’s terminology, it was a minimum security facility for inebriates, first offenders, and petty criminals, an alternative to the dreaded Don Jail.  ↩︎
2. Gymkhana is a British Raj term which originally referred to a place of assembly. The meaning then altered to denote a place where skill-based contests were held. ↩︎