THE
SPUTTA COMEDIES
By Joe Cone.
Sputta Shows
His Skill As A Dry-Land Fisherman.
“What in the world
are you rummaging in that closet for, Stephen Sputta?” queried his wife,
espying a pair of prostrate legs protruding from the storage room door.
“Huntin’ for my
fishin’ tackle? he replied, sneezing, and vainly trying to dodge an avalanche
of falling boxes and bundles.
Alas! As an artful
dodger he was a failure. Two or three of the pieces clipped him on his bald
pate, and he was nearly buried in the boxslide. He backed out, red and furious.
“It’s a wonder you
wouldn’t pile stuff up as high as a mountain!” he roared, rubbing his cranium. “I
s’pose you would only the ceiling interfered. Perhaps, now the damage is done,
you can tell me where my fishpole is?”
“Why, it isn’t in
there at all,” she said, chuckling behind her handerchief, “it’s behind your
roll-top desk. No,” she continued, interrupting one of his shots, “you put it
there yourself.”
“I wasn’t after that
alone,” he blurted, “I wanted the box of tackle also.”
“That is in the lower
drawer of your desk. You are not going trouting, are you, Stephen?” she asked,
sweetly. “You know it is closed season on trout, besides the puddle in the back
yard is frozen over.”
“Trout fishin’, no!
Drat it all, don’t you s’pose I know when it’s time to go fishin’? You don’t
need to tell me. I just want to get the stuff out and put it in order, that’s
all. Kinder want to get my hand in, so to speak. What’s the point of having stuff
if you don’t look it over once in a while and enjoy it?” and Sputta’s
enthusiasm outbalancing his injuries, he rushed about and soon had his rod,
tackle and various sundries, so to speak, all over the place.
“There, said he,”
switching his $2.98 rod, “ain’t that a peach
of a whip? That’ll bend up double, Maria, and won’t break. Just listen to this
reel! Zing-g! Ain’t that music to the ear? Gee, many a time I’ve heard that
sing in woodlands deep! Ah, Maria, little you know about the joys and blessings
of nature! And, say, I can cast some, too. Believe me, I can land a fly 50 feet
away, inside of a six inch circle. That’s going some for a fellow who don’t get
out but once a year.”
All the while Sputta
was delivering his gay monologue he was putting his gear together. He placed
the reel in the butt, strung in his line and attached thereto a large white
fly.
“Get onto this!” he
exclaimed, and giving his wrist a dexterous turn, he landed the fly on top of a
sofa pillow.
“You’d better be
careful, Stephen Sputta, this isn’t any woodland deep,” warned his wife, moving
her chair as far away as the wall would allow.
“Just see pussy
there, curled up on the sofa,” chuckled Sputta, with boyish glee, “We’ll
suppose he’s a black stump, with a trout just underneath. I can land this fly
just an inch this side of him.”
“Don’t you hook that
cat!” cried Mrs. Sputta, in alarm.
“Who’s goin’ to hook
him? Don’t I know my bus’ness?” demanded Sputta, making the case. The fly
sailed across the room and landed lightly on pussy’s back.
“There,” laughed
Sputta, “within an inch of the mark the first time. Ain’t that some castin’?”
Pussy felt a
trembling on his fur and looked up.
“Take it away, Stephen,
take it away!” exclaimed Mrs. Sputta, “He’ll think it’s a miller and try to eat
it!”
“Huh, you can’t fool
a cat like that,” answered Sputta, giving the rod a twitch.
But the hook didn’t
return to the angler as he had anticipated; instead it turned slightly and prodded
the wondering cat in the region of the spine. Evidently pussy thought another
cat had given him a dig, and with a hiss he went into the air. When he
descended to the floor two or three sofa pillows followed him, and there was a
general mix-up. For an instant cat, sofa pillows and fishline were in a tangle,
with poor Sputta not knowing whether to reel in or pay out. Finally the cat
freed himself and bolted for the kitchen. The skilled angler, thinking the hook
might still be imbedded in the cat’s back, hurried forward, and jamming the end
of his rod against the door casing, broke about six inches off the tip.
“Drab the cat,
anyway!” he exclaimed, looking at the broken rod sorrowfully.
“Now I hope you’re
satisfied!” snapped Mrs. Sputta, tiptoeing to the kitchen in search of pussy.
“Satisfied?” echoed
Sputta, “I hope the ding-dang cat’s satisfied, making such a fuss over a little
pin prick! Now it will cost me a dollar to get my rod fixed again.”
“Well, that’s getting
out of your trip pretty cheap, isn’t it?” asked Mrs. Sputta, returning with
pussy in her arms.
“Cheap, trip, what do
you mean?”
“Why, the last time
you went fishing it cost you $6, and you didn’t get anything, either,” she
replied, sweetly.
axb
(undated)
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