The Sputta Comedies

The Sputta Comedies

Mr. Sputta Turns Poet and Does a Masterpiece

 Mr. Sputta threw down his evening paper in disgust.

“What is the matter, dear?” wooed Mrs. Sputta, looking up from a single sheet of advertisements he had previously torn from the paper and given her.                                  

“I have just read a poem here which a man got $100 for writing,” he growled.

“Well, what of that?” she queried.

“The idea of paying $100 for such a poem as that. Why, the editor of that paper must be a natural born numbskull. I could write a better poem than that myself. I would do it – for a quarter of the money. Gee whiz, if there’s so much boodle in poetry writing I’m going to write it.”

“Why don’t you try it, dear?’ suggested Mrs. Sputta, gently.

“You don’t believe I can do it, do you? You don’t believe I can do anything, do you? That’s the woman of it,” he exclaimed, somewhat wetted.

“Certainly I do, Stephen,” she replied, meekly. “Don’t you remember you used to send me love verses?”

“Oh, those were mere drivel compared to what I could do now,” he said, expanding his shirt front. “I can do a real poem and don’t you think I can’t. I’ll beat that poem before I go to bed tonight, see if I don’t! Where’s some paper?”

“Why, there’s a pad right under your nose. Shall I get it for you?”

“Of course you won’t. Can’t I get it myself? Do you suppose I’m helpless?”

Mrs. Sputta made no reply. She didn’t wish to scare away the muse.

“Now don’t read to me out of that confounded paper,” he continued, “and don’t speak to me till I’m all through.”

“Shall I wait up for you?” she queried.

“Wait u for me? How long do you suppose it’s going to take me to write a measly little poem, anyway? No, go to bed when you get ready. I’ll read it to you when I come.”

“Perhaps I’ll be asleep, dear.”

“Huh should think you’d be willing to stay awake to listen to a poem I’m going to get good money for,” he grumbled. “Course, if you don’t want to hear it –“

“Oh, if you’re going to get money for it I shall be glad to stay awake. In fact, I don’t believe I could sleep without hearing it,” and, looking doubtfully at her husband, Mrs. Sputta left the room.

Sputta, alone in his glory, peeled off his coat and set about his task. His cigar had gone out so he lighted a fresh one. The window shades were partly up so he pulled them full length. Then his shoes seemed too small for his feet and he removed them. One suspender pulled on his shoulder, so he released both of them. It was evident he was growing nervous. His big round head was thrown back and his eyes roved the ceiling.

“The muse is a coy chicken,” he soliloquized, “and conditions have got to be about right.”

He gnawed at the end of his pencil, but his pad remained immaculate. He hadn’t even found a subject. The more he dug into his gray matter the more the subject dodged him.

“Drat it all!” he grumbled, “I’ll go ahead with the lines and hitch the title on afterwards!”

A line popped into his brain. He immediately scratched it down.

“The August moon hung heavy in the sky.”

“That looks good to me!” he exclaimed, squaring away and taking a deep breath. “And it sounds better than it looks.”

“The August moon hung heavy in the sky,” he repeated over and over again, till all he could see was the heavy August moon, in all its splendor, hanging on the walls of his mental vision. In fact the August moon was so brilliant it outshone everything before or behind it.

“Drat it!” growled Sputta, “there must be another line to go with that one,” and again he went over the lines:

“The August moon hung heavy in the sky.”

“Sky, sky!” he blurted out, “that’s an easy enough rhyme. It’s a cinch to rhyme something with ‘sky’, but –“

Just then the town clock began to hammer out the hour of eleven. A coolness had crept over the room which told him the heat was going down. He was himself hot and cold of turns. He had always preached and practiced early retiring. Doubtless his wife was already slumbering peacefully in the cozy room above. This fact alone made him envious. It was a long look ahead for a finished poem. His head was dizzy anyway, and he felt as though threatened with writer’s cramp.

“Drat it all, I’ll have another go at it tomorrow night,” he muttered, shaking from the cold.

He tore the sheet of paper from the pad, and, crushing it in his hand, flung it into the wastebasket.

Mrs. Sputta, half asleep, was waiting to hear the poem. Sputta crept upstairs noiselessly.

“Stephen, dear,” she murmured, “I am waiting to hear the poem.”

The poet made no reply. He stood on one foot hoping she would drop off to sleep.

“Stephen, dear, did you finish it?”

“No, drat it, but it nearly finished me!”

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“Say, do you know what I think about poets?” he said, fiercely. “I believe one of two things: that poets are either inspired or insane. I don’t know which, but I ain’t going to take a chance of working myself up to the woozy stage to find out. Where’s my –“

“Right where it always hangs Stephen, dear,” cooed Mrs. Spada, consolingly.

 

Dec. 14, 1912

 

 

 

The Sputta Comedies

Sputta Wants Honest News, But News!!

 

“Ding take this newspaper, anyway!” growled Mr. Sputta, throwing down the evening edition and kicking it to the further side of the room.

“What is the matter with it, Stephen?” queried Mr. Sputta, who had looked longingly at it for fully twenty minutes.

“Matter?” he echoed, “Matter enough! Here I’ve been reading a column and a half of the most exciting news, and when I get to the end of it they stick in a later paragraph saying there is no truth whatever in the report. What do these papers think they’ve got here, anyway? What do they think my time is worth, I’d like to know? I wonder if they think all I’ve got to do is read columns of stuff that there ain’t any truth in!”

“Well, Stephen,” said Mrs. Sputta, consolingly, “there’s one way you can get around it.”

“Yes, by cutting out the confounded sheet!” he exclaimed.

“No, by just looking at the end of the column first to see if it’s true,” she suggested.

“Yes, I’d look cute doing that, wouldn’t I? Regular woman’s trick, looking ahead to see how it’s coming out! No, by gimlet, nothing of the kind; if a paper’s going to lie to me I’m going to cut it out, see?”

“Why Stephen!” exclaimed Mr. Sputta, in some alarm, “what will you do for news?”

“News? Ha ha! Good joke, ain’t it? That’s just it, it ain’t news. Do you call it news to ram a column down my throat, and then turn around and say it ain’t so? No, it ain’t news, it’s bunco, that’s what it is, and you can tell the boy tomorrow night not to leave his infernal paper. I won’t be imposed on, not me!”

“But Stephen,” pled Mrs. Sputta, “I don’t see how we’re going to get along without a paper?”

“Oh, well have a paper, all right, but not one of these ‘now you see ‘em and now you don’t’, papers. We’ll have a real ‘honest to goodness’ paper from the country, one we can depend on. When you see anything in the ‘Bingtown Banner’ it’s so. I’ll make a check out tonight.”

“That’s your old home town, isn’t it, Stephen?”

“That’s what it is, Maria, and they don’t lie up there for the sake of filling up their columns, either.”

“But it’s so far out of the world,” she suggested.

“Out of the world? I guess not, Madam. It’s right up to date. I came from there, and look at the long list of other noted –“

“It’s a weekly, isn’t it?” interrupted Mrs. Sputta.

“Sure it is, but what of that! Ain’t it better to have true news once a week than lies twice a day? Well, I guess yes!”

Sputta, true to his word, wrote out a check and went out and mailed it. The next evening, when he had pushed back from the table, he looked around suddenly and said, “Where’s the –?” He stopped quickly.

“The evening paper, Stephen?” she added.

“Evening paper?” he thundered, “no, my slippers!”

“Why Stephen, you put them on before supper,” cooed Mrs. Sputta.

Sputta looked down at his feet. Sure enough, he had his slippers on.

“I meant the magazine I brought home,” he said, sarcastically, “You know very well I didn’t want an evening paper.”

Sputta buried himself in the magazine, and Mrs. Sputta in her sewing. The next evening Mrs. Sputta’s face was radiant across the table.

“Oh, Stephen!” she exclaimed, “I have a surprise for you!”

“Got a check from my shares in that mining stock?”

“No, other than that. Your paper has come!”

“What paper?”

“Your paper from the country, and I’ve read it all through.”

“Where is it?” he queried.

“Right by your easy chair, near the drop light,” she answered. “You have a treat in store for you, dear.”

Sputta dropped into his chair and picked up the paper. The first page was Bingtown Local News, surrounded by local ads. “Huh!” he muttered, running through the locals, “I don’t know any of these people now.” “Huh! Plate matter!” he exclaimed, scanning the second page, “I’ve read all this before. Advertisements!” he sneered, glancing at the third page. “Plate matter and locals mixed on the fourth page,” he growled, running his eye up and down the columns. “Well, what do you know about that?”

“Isn’t it newsy?” asked Mrs. Sputta, trying to keep her face straight.

“Newsy enough,” grumbled Sputta, “only, of course, I don’t know many of the people up there now.”

“And so intereting, Stephen.”

Stephen made no reply.

“And so exciting, dear, with those funny little jokes in the corners! Won’t you read it aloud to me, I’m just dying to hear them all over again?”

Sputta was growing red. It was evident that Mrs. Sputta had the strangle hold.

“Been out anywhere today?” he carped.

“No, dear,” was the reply.

“Anybody been in?”

“Not a soul, Stephen, why?”

“Oh, nothing, I was just wondering, that’s all.”

It was evident Mr. Sputta wanted assistance.

“No,” chirped Mrs. Sputta, “I haven’t heard anything that’s going on.”

Sputta grew restless. First he kicked off his slippers. Then he reached for his shoes.

“Where are you going, Stephen?” queried Mrs. Sputta.

“I’m going out after a paper. Don’t you s’pose I want to know what’s going on? I’ll be the laughing stock at the office if I don’t keep posted. Where’s my hat?”

“Oh, you needn’t go out, Stephen, here’s the evening paper,” and she pulled the ‘last edition’ out of her work basket.

Sputta glared at her, but he was so hungry for news that he dropped into his chair and forgot to carry out the dignity of his surname.

 

Jan. 12, 1913

 

 

 

The Sputta Comedies

Sputta Turns Vocalist – For One Night Only

 

“What in the world do you have under your arm, Stephen?” enquired Mrs. Sputta, as her husband came in from his day’s work.

“Songs,” replied Mr. Sputta as he grinningly deposited a roll as large as a dinner plate on the kitchen table; “popular songs. That is my music roll, Maria.”

“Popular songs? What do we want with popular songs? You know very well I can’t sing.”

“I know you can’t, for which I am very grateful, but that’s no sign that I can’t, is it, Mrs. Sputta?” and the vocalist began untying the package.

“How many have you got there?” she enquired.

“Twenty five, Maria; twenty five of the newest and most popular songs of the day. They’re beauts.”

“How much did they cost?”

“Ten cents apiece; every one of them a gem. Just read the words of this one.”

Mrs. Sputta disdained looking at the words.

“That’s two dollars and a half, Stephen Sputta. That would almost buy me a hat,” she said in an injured tone.

“A hat? There you go again! Always thinking of yourself; never interested in any little, two-cent pleasure for me,” and Sputta looked seriously injured.

“But what good will those songs do you, I can’t play them?”

“Course you can’t. I know that. You’ve wasted your whole lifetime juggling with embroidery and crochet needles when you might have been an accomplished musician! Our piano is about as much use to us as a cork leg.”

“Well you can’t play them, either,” she retorted.

“I know I can’t, but I know someone who can, and she’s coming out tonight to run them over with me. I’m going to have some music in this house after this.”

“She, who’s she?” asked Mrs. Sputta, not thinking of the music.

“Why – er – Sadie – I mean Miss Banger, our new stenog’ in the office, you know. She’s a corkerino on the piano. Gee! You orter hear her play!”

“Why, Stephen, have you ever heard her play?” and Mrs. Sputta eyed him keenly.

“I? No – that is – I only know by what she says. She says she can eat ragtime on the piano and go away hungry.”

“So she’s coming here tonight, is she?”

“Why – er – yes – I thought you’d be glad to hear her play,” stammered Sputta.

“Yes, I should like to see her,” replied Mrs. Sputta, icily. “I want to see what a corkerino looks like. I want to see someone eat ragtime, it will save me the trouble of setting out a lunch, perhaps.”

Sputta was uneasy all through the tiresome meal. His wife appeared to be gay, but he could see she was working under a forced draught. He had a feeling that something was about to fall on him.

“How did it occur to you that you could sing, Stephen?” queried Mrs. Sputta, ironically.

“I come from a musical family, I want you to understand, madam. My father led the choir in Bingtown for years, and Sadie – I mean Miss Banger; says she knows a musical voice when she hears it,” replied Sputta, swelling with pride.

“Did she tell you that, Stephen?”

But Stephen did not answer. He answered the bell instead. In a few moments Miss Banger was issued into the front room. Between the automatic action of her jaws, between which revolved a wad of gum, she acknowledged the introduction. Then she removed her wraps and proceeded to make herself at home. Mrs. Sputta was fashionably polite and anxiously awaited the climax. Miss Banger arranged her barrette for the sixth time, and dropping her handkerchief on the end of the keyboard, ran her fingers over the ivories. She was a slip of a girl, red-haired and freckled. She did not talk much because it interfered with her chewing.

“Watcha gonta hit up first?” she asked of Sputta, over her shoulder.

Sputta approached the piano, shrinkingly.

“‘Moonlight Bay’s’ my favorite,” he replied, clearing his throat.

“All right, put it over,” answered the corkerino, thumping the prelude.

“I’ve got a bad cold,” Mrs. Sputta heard him explain, above the waves of the “Bay”.

“Sing above it, sport,” shouted the corkerino, keeping time with her gum department.

Sputta tried to sing above it, but fell far below it. Some of the time he was under water, and then again he would rise to the surface and cling to a floating spar. The moonlight all went out of the Bay and a fog came up. This necessitated the starting of the foghorn, and Mrs. Sputta suggested he try something else and thus avoid a shipwreck.

The next attempt was interrupted by a jangling of the doorbell. Sputta, glad of a recess, went to the door.

“What’s the matter here?” demanded a gruff voice, and through the darkness Sputta saw the outlines of a policeman’s helmet.

“Matter? Why – er – nothing,” gasped Sputta, “only having a little song, that’s all.”

“Oh, all right,” answered the officer, backing off. “Waldo next door said he heard suspicious noises and I’d better look in.”

“Who was it, Stephen?” queried Mrs. Sputa when he entered the room.

“Sorry,” said Sputta, turning to Miss Banger, “but one of our neighbors has got a sick child, and the doctor asks if we’ll kindly refrain from making any extra noise.”

 

June 16, 1913

 

 

 

The Sputta Comedies

Mr. Sputta Aspires to Be a High Flier

 

“What have you there?” queried Mrs. Sputta, espying a book her husband had placed on the kitchen table. “I hope it’s the novel I have wanted so long.”

Sputta looked guilty for a moment – a moment only.

“No, Maria, I – I haven’t been able to get it yet. It’s a book on aviation.”

“On what?”

“On aviation, flying, you know,” he replied, sheepishly.

“On flying? You don’t intend to fly, do you, Stephen Sputta?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied, spiriting up. “Others have done it.”

Mrs. Sputta laughed. It was an uncomfortable laugh. Sputta didn’t like that kind of a laugh.

“You fly!” She chuckled. “You don’t dare go up on a step ladder. Possibly you might fly off the handle, or something like –”

“That will do, madam,” said Stephen, severely. I know what I am doing. Do you s’pose I’m going to work in a dinged old office all my life? Yes, I could for all you care. But I don’t intend to stay down all my life. I’m going up. I’m going to rise in spite of you. I’ve got some ideas I’m going to work out. Me for the altitude!”

“You may go up all right, Stephen, but it’s the coming down that hurts,” she replied.

“Oh, you can laugh if you want to. Poke fun at me all you like, but I’ll tell you, I’ve got an idea, and I’m going to carry it out. I’m going to study this book, and then I’m going to build one.”

“Build one what?” and Mrs. Sputta faced him.

“Why – er – build an airship,” he replied, feebly.

“Air castle, you mean,” she sniffed. “It won’t be the first one. You’re always building them. As an air castle builder, Stephen Sputta, you are a good workman; you can’t be beat.”

Sputta’s only reply to this was a grunt of disgust, and seizing his book, he made for the dining room. During her preparations for supper Mrs. Sputta softened a little. After all, she admired ambition.

“Supper’s ready,” she announced.

Sputta made no response. He was making a spiral descent from an altitude of 12,000 feet and was deaf to everything save the applause of the rubber necks below.

“Stephen dear,” she called louder, “supper’s ready!” Not seeing any more on Stephen’s part to vacate his airship, she continued: “Stephen, if you will kindly hitch your aeroplane to the table leg we’ll have supper. Then you can go up again.”

“Oh, ah! Yes!” responded the aviator, “I didn’t know you were waiting.”

“I’ve been waiting a whole half hour for you to come down,” she replied. “Was the air chilly up there?”

“Look here, Mrs. Sputta,” he demanded, fiercely, “are you trying to trifle with me?”

“Land no, Stephen, I’m trying to get you to eat your supper so you can get back to the aviation field. You know a full stomach is a great help –”

“It seems to me,” he interrupted, “that you take very little interest in my affairs. Some women would be glad to help their husbands rise and be something.”

“I would gladly help you rise, Stephen, but not in an airship. You see the staying up is too uncertain. Now, if you were to use some other way – the office, for instance.”

“Oh drat the office! I’ll never rise there. It’s the same old thing. Write and figger and sum up every day. Twenty years of it and where am I at?”

“But you’re taking no chances and the ay is good.”

“That’s it; take no chance and you never take anything. Now if I build this airship –”

“Airship! Where and how would you build an airship?”

“Down cellar, of course. Then take it out in parts and put it together.”

“Oh, that’s what you meant by ‘carrying out’ this idea, wasn’t it, Stephen?”

Sputta ignored the small talk. He was too full of his subject to be phased.

“Then I’ll take it up to Bingtown when we go on vacation and try it out,” he explained. “Great place up there on the farm! Wide open fields, tall grass, soft meadows, downy pastures –”

“That certainly sounds easy,” she broke in. “Downy is what you want when it comes to landing quick. But the idea, Stephen Sputta, of you building an airship! You can’t even drive a nail straight.”

“Airships ain’t nailed together, Mrs. Sputta!”

“And all the tools you’ve got is a hammer and a coal shovel.”

“I can borrow.”

“And your mechanical bump is a – a cave-in. Why you couldn’t even fix my step ladder.”

“And as for building it in the cellar why there isn’t room enough to build a false hope. No, Stephen Sputta, you’d best build your airships in your mind. It won’t be so expensive, besides, there’s plenty of room there, and then some.”

Feb. 7, 1913

 

 

 

 

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)

 

 

 

 

Sputta’s Bicycle.

___________

SCENE I.

MRS. SPUTTA’S DINING-ROOM.

 

The supper table was tastefully spread and Mrs. Sputta dressed in a spic span new gown was watching for the coming of the worthy Mr. Sputta. She sat just behind the curtains in the dining-room window, where she could be seen and not be seen.

“I feel unusually happy to-night,” she mused; the rooms are all tidied up and I am all fixed up, and I feel almost sure John will be in a good mood. Dear me, if he isn’t I shall cry, I know I shall. But he always acts more cheerful on Saturday nights, I think. There comes the dear old fellow now. I will go down and let him in myself so as not to keep him waiting an instant. Won’t he be surprised when I open the door.”

“Ah, my dear,” cried Sputta, kissing her profusely, “how good of you not to keep me waiting. What! All slicked up? Happy, smiling? Well, well, we are really living now, ain’t we, Bess?” and Sputta kissed her three times more before they reached the top of the stairs.

It was easy enough to see that trouble would be the outcome of all this sweetness, but they, foolish mortals, saw it not.

“Bess,” said Sputta, tucking in his napkin, “I’ve got a pleasant surprise for you to-night; indeed, a great surprise. Now guess what it is.”

“Oh my, John; I couldn’t guess such a big surprise; tell me what it is, quick!”

“No, you must guess; a few times, at least,” and Sputta shrugged his broad shoulders and otherwise thoroughly enjoyed himself.

“Well, let me see; salary raised?”

“No.”

“Ma’ma coming to see us?”

Sputta looked weak.

“Going to take me abroad?”

Sputta looked disgusted.

“I know you’ve bought a house.”

“No; no, Mrs. Sputta, you are away off. It is better than all these combined; I’ve bought you a bicycle.”

“A bicycle! Oh, John, you dear old fool. A real bicycle! The very thing I wanted most of all,” and she jumped up and pulled him over back, kissing him several times right on his short, stubby mustache.

“But, John,” she exclaimed, looking sober for a moment, “Haven’t you one, also?”

“Oh, you bet I have, Mrs. Sputta; I bought a pair. They are birds, too, Mrs. Sputta; a pair of birds, every one of them. They’ll be up to-night.”

Then Mrs. Sputta went on talking all through the meal how she would spin by Mrs. Meeker, Mrs. Perkins and Mrs. Primm, and they had had their wheels a month, too. She would sit up straight, too, and that was more than they did. The Sputtas really hadn’t enjoyed a meal so much for several weeks. Everything went. They cooed like a pair of country doves. Great is the power of the bicycle.

“O, by the way,” said Mrs. Sputta, drawing away from the table, “what is the make of the wheels; their name, I mean.”

“Mrs. Sputta,” said her husband, drawing himself up proudly, “I flatter myself that I’ve got the best wheel on the market. I know a good wheel when I see it. Ours are ‘Scorchers,’ my dear; they are called ‘The Scorcher.’”

“Oh, John,” said Mrs. Sputta, “I’m disappointed.”

“Disappointed; why?”

“I didn’t want a ‘Scorcher,’ I wanted a – a – what do you call them – a ‘Princess.’”

“A ‘Princess,’ pooh! I tell you the ‘Scorcher’ is the best wheel made.”

“I don’t care, I wanted a ‘Princess.’ Mrs. Perkins has one, and Mrs. Meeker, and Mrs. Primm, and they are just crazy over them. They say there’s nothing like them, and theirs look old now, and if I only had a new one how they would envy me.”

“But, Mrs. Sputta, the ‘Scorcher’ is a beautiful model, and” –

“I don’t care; I want a ‘Princess;’ I’ve set my heart on a ‘Princess.’ Besides how would it sound, ‘Mrs. Sputta rides a ‘Scorcher.’ No, John, if I can’t have a ‘Princess’ I don’t want any. You knew I wanted a ‘Princess.’”

Sputta was fast becoming hot. After all his trouble and expense he called such conduct on the part of his wife rank ingratitude.

“Mrs. Sputta,” he said, “I know wheels although I haven’t any about me. I also know a woman’s whim. I shan’t fool round with you any more. You’ll ride a ‘Scorcher’ or nothing. The wheels are ordered and paid for; do you hear? A ‘Scorcher’ or nit!”

“Very well, then, I’ll ride nothing! I suppose next you’ll tell me what make of air I shall breathe.”

This was more than Sputta could stand.

“All right, madam, you’ll ride nothing! I’ll go right down and stop the wheels. I’ll be a fool for your sake. I’ll sit in the house nights and suck my thumb while others enjoy themselves. People wonder why the insane asylums and barrooms are filling with men. Their amiable wives have nothing to do with it, oh, no,” and Sputta slammed the door before his wife had time to consider whether she was in the right or wrong.

SCENE II.

THE BICYCLE STORE.

“Have those wheels gone yet?” asked Sputta.

“No,” replied the dealer, “but they are ready as soon as the expressman gets along.”

“Well, say,” said Sputta, confidentially, “my wife very much objects to ride a ‘Scorcher,’ and I am determined she shall. Haven’t you got an old ‘Princess’ name plate around here?”

“There’s a ‘Princess’ wheel all smashed up in the back room.”

“Good! You see the idea. Put the plate on Mrs. Sputta’s wheel and send them right up. She won’t know the difference. She’s crazy over the ‘Princess’. A ‘Princess she shall have; ha, ha, ha!”

SCENE III.

MRS. SPUTTA’S HALL.

“John!” cried his wife, when he was fairly inside the door, “the bicycles came while you were away, and one is a ‘Scorcher’ and one a ‘Princess.’ You old dear, you went down and had that order changed, now, didn’t you? You ordered a ‘Princess’ after all, didn’t you?”

“Why – er – yes,” stammered Sputta.

“And you meant to let me ride a ‘Princess’ all the time, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did, you little goose.”

“And I so misjudged you, John.”

“Never mind, dear; we will go out and try them.”

And although Sputta enjoys having his own way in the matter, still he is dying to let her know that she didn’t have hers, but he hasn’t as yet found courage to tell her so. And thus it hangs.

 

N.Y. World, Aug. 9, 1896.