Policemen

In Manhattan, a scrawny little character scurried up Sixth Avenue, peering in a timid manner at elevated trains, passersby. On the lookout for anarchists about to bomb subway stations, Patrolman William Burns, wearing official trousers, civilian coat, as he returned to his 4 a. m. beat, gave chase. "Stop!" he bellowed, lumbering after his prey. Scared, the little man he was chasing ducked into a bystreet. "They must be after somebody," he thought. "I don't want to get hit if they start shooting." Patrolman Burns, scenting adventure, shot twice into the air to make an effect.

Patrolmen Sheehan and Gillee took note. "An anarchist, maybe!" said Patrolman Gillee. On seeing a great lout, lumbering along the nearly deserted street, firing off a gun in crazy fashion they were convinced. Overtaking Patrolman Burns, they whacked his head with clubs, searched him for explosives, found his police shield.

Mixer

In Stroudsburg, Pa., one William Lacey, road laborer, saw the big concrete-mixer at his job stop functioning. Peering in over the muddy mixture, he saw that a stone had lodged in the machinery. Practical; he crawled inside to remove the stone. Alert, a fellow-laborer noticed the machine was idle. Dutiful, he started it working. After three minutes, Laborer Lacey, his mouth and nose bubbling cement, his clothes torn completely off, his body cut and bruised, made his shrieks heard, was rescued.

Surprise

In Manhattan one R. C. Walton, newly arrived from England, inquired how best to reach Coney Island, famed pleasure beach. When advised to take the subway, he became elated at the prospect of a good walk.

Accompanied by his wife, his daughter, Mr. Walton entered a kiosk. From the platform he surveyed with disfavor a gloomy pathway, splotched with grime and puddles, lined with tracks. "Whatever would they want tracks for?" he inquired of his wife as the three of them jumped down off the platform, paraded off into the dingy passage. Soon a train nosed around the curve, gathered speed, screamed toward Mr. Walton, his wife, his daughter, ground brakes, shivered, stopped. Passengers, lifting themselves from the floor where the abrupt halt had put them, watched Mr. Walton, his wife, his daughter clamber aboard, smiling mildly with surprise.

Steak

In Newark, N. J., Mae C. Collins, 307 pounds, waddled into a butcher shop. On the walls hung red, juicy, uncooked animals. Under the glass counter reposed cool, damp, bulging joints of beef. On the counter, in the icebox, lay bloody fowl; flaccid livers; grisly, delicious knuckles; dainty, pink and white lamb chops. The gullet of Mae C. Collins gaped a little. Her small, pleasant, piggy eyes, twinkling behind rolls of fat as round and red as hamburgers, finally fixed on a ponderous porterhouse steak. Seizing it, she waddled out of the butcher shop.

Unable to overlook a trivial theft by so gargantuan a shoplifter, the proprietor caused her to be arrested. In the police station her massive figure, always noticeable, was scrutinized with more interest than usual. Detectives recognized it as belonging also to Margy Summer, Mae Burns, Katie Burns, Mary Mugits, Mary Lawrence, under which nicknames Miss Collins had for eight years functioned as a servant, conducting, meanwhile, depredations upon her employers to the extent of $5,000.

On Long Island

At Woodmere, L. I., newly-elected village commissioners notified the village fire department that card-playing was henceforth unlawful in the village firehouse. Reason: the village firehouse is hard by the Methodist Episcopal Church. Methodists had complained that their worship was disturbed by ejaculations and by the click of chips from the firehouse.

When firemen play cards they are more or less likely to ejaculate:

"Twist my nozzle if this ain't a hand!" (Bridge talk).

"I'd be a sucker to drop out now. I'll see you and give her another bump." (Poker talk).

"Who's got that old black mammy?" (Hearts talk).

"Just sling that little boy down and I'll knock his puss in." (Slap jack talk).

"Hit me again . . . easy . . . again . . . e-easy now . . . again ... ye Gods! Seventeen! . . . once more . . . YOWIE! That's enough!" (Vingt-et-un talk).