OCR Text |
Show SmoKe From the WeeKly Ttpe. HEARD FROIVUTHE MANAGER'S BENCH. Dramatis Personae. Salt Lake. and Butte baseball base-ball teams. Salt Lake manager. Sixty Spectators. Specta-tors. Manager New, hit the- ball. You are not here to imitato Bryaji looking for votes from Indiana; hit it. (Tlie' first man up, Babbett, Carves out a three-bagger.) That's leaning on 'em! A walloper, wallop-er, old boy! The best all round batter in the league. -Hold on there, you hobnailed old coal heaver. Are you trying to give away this game? Would you look at that going to the bat now (as Engle approaches), just when we're choking to death for a hit. What! you'll bring him- in, will ypu? You wooden-shoed web-footer, are you always going to try to chew off those high ones? Sons of Erin, Clark Griffith ought to sign you (as Engle struck out) ; you'll bring him in, will you, you glass-armed mudder. You play like the tail on a dope alley kite. Now, Slats, do something. There's nobody looking. That's a beauty, you bean-eater. What am I paying you for, to mow microbes out of the air? Hit the ball. ! I knew it. Did a man ever pick up such a midway collection collec-tion of escaped imbeciles and candle-eaters? (Side retired.) Slats Davis (as Piggy Ward approaches) Plenty pepper! All together! We'll beat this Democratic candidate in his own ward. All together! to-gether! Plenty of life! Stab him Manager That's it; two strikes. You've got him. Wind one around his pneumonia. Bing! That's it, you headless old beer reservoir. Two strikes, and then send one over big as a horse collar. .Gave him three sacks. Was anypne ever cursed' with such a bunch of frozen cornfeds? Field your position there, you raw-boned mastodon. masto-don. What are you, statuary? Another run !' (Side retired.) Manager Now, Hanley, maybe you can come out of those beer suds long enough to see the ball. Bing! The greatest ball player in any league. Run, you mick, you chase around there like a Jersey truckman with hobbles. Now, Hqw-lett, Hqw-lett, see if you can't connect with Abraham Lincoln. Lin-coln. He ought to be splitting rails instead of What! another dead one. Say, if pop-ups could be put on the free coinage list you zinc-eyed has-beens has-beens would be millionaires. Manager (last of the ninth inning) Now the score is tied. You know it, my beauties. Hausen, we know what you can do. Grand, old boy, I guess that will hold the Amalgamated. Three sacks. Umpire, get that dog off the field. Mc-Neely Mc-Neely up, that looks rosy. Hold there, you red-faced red-faced ping-pongist! Anyone who couldn't hit that Abraham Lincoln caricature ought to be playing for Richfield. You poor spavined old mick; struck out, eh? How many could you see, you hang-over highball has-been? mj I'll watch every one of you tonight. If you're not in bed by 9 o'clock, I'll fine every beer-sopping dead one in the bunch. What! another strike-out. Say, you couldn't see Twin Peaks- if you fell on 'em from a balloon. Of all the booze-eyd, lead-jointed, lead-jointed, jaundiced freebooters that ever got into a uniform this bundle of hay-throwers takes the blue ribbon. Now, Weaver, I guess you'll make the hospital play, not there, eh? Let Hausen die on third, is that it? a hit and Hausen scoring. Well, as I've said all along, my bonnies, I am now here to repeat, you're a bunch of Hans Wagners, did you hear me, Hans Wagners; Wag-ners; and this is the Best Team on Earth. (Cheers. Exeunt team and spectators. Curtain.) Cur-tain.) je jjt . The bold thief who on the same day ambled away with -a showcase filled with revolvers and denuded a haberdasher's dummy of a new suit of clothes should arrange to have himself shadowed by a furniture van when he indulges in these hospitable hos-pitable incursions. $ V fc The hold-up appears to be a migrating form of criminality. He cometh and vanisheth like the irradiant blooms of spring. He flees the tropical trop-ical zones and will continue to do so until he comes to the final domicile of intense torridity, where he will everlastingly bake and blister. The hold-up has now opened up hostilities in Salt Lake with a neat function on South Temple street, and his intermittent amenities toward pedestrians may be looked for until the close of the season of frost. The women of the Four Hundred are now being pattered with the paper bullets from the editorial quill on the charge that they are looking look-ing with more and more indications of Joy upoa the bubbling scintillations of the elusive highball high-ball and the beads of paradise appertaining to the sparkling chalice of Extra Dry. Does it not appeal to the chivalrous editor that these loveliest love-liest of women have enough to endure without being belabored with unseemly epithets anent their wish for intimacy with the soothing potion which exhilarates and makes one forget. They have sufficient troubles to drive them to Ultimate Dim Thule. Feminine worriment among the Four Hundred verges into the last limits of despair des-pair over refractory automobiles, the smiles of lordly sycophants directed otherwhere, the unmistakable un-mistakable superiority of other gowns, the satiated satiat-ed appetite which no longer responds to the ancient an-cient delicacies, the horrifying moment when gray hairs for the first time begin to empowder the hirsutal splendors above the haughty brow. And, too, there is the mentdl anguish of deciding whether to play Wall Street for bear or bull eccentricities. ec-centricities. Surely the ways of the. women of opulence are strewn with stones. And then, of course, there are the children. A. K. N. |