Odd Characters — Colorful, Picturesque
Not Hitherto Published—1947.
By John T. Bristow
The discussion of odd characters was going strong when I entered the corner grocery store one evening. I did not join in the discussion for the simple reason that the range of observations did not go far enough back to take in the really odd ones—as I knew them. Had I told what I’m going to tell now, without supporting evidence it would, perhaps, have branded me as a prevaricator, and I wouldn’t have liked that. But I’m taking no chances now. Supporting evidence is at hand.
Speaking of odd characters, Wetmore had ’em in the old days—in numbers. In truth, this assertion takes in just about everyone, except of course Thee and Me—that is, if Thee are still living. The odd characters dominating this story were Mr. O. Bates, Mr. Peter Shuemaker, and Mr. Jim Riley.
But first, an opening paragraph introducing a fourth character that shall be nameless—that is, in spelled out letters. I think I shall call my man Mr. June, and guarantee that I have not missed his real name more than thirty days. Also, he had a brother in the business, and the firm-name was June Bros.—only this is one month away from it, in the springtime.
Mr. June came into my printing office to arrange for some advertising—and also to get a load of fire insurance. I wrote fire insurance on the side. He was bringing a stock of clothing from his store in Atchison, and putting it in the Bates grocery store below the printing office, in the Bleisener block.
Mr. June inquired of me about our fire fighting facilities, and as to whether or not we had waterworks. When I told him we had no waterworks and practically no fire protection, he almost let his portly Jewish self fall off the chair. He promised, “The first thing you should have waterworks when I come.”
I told Mr. June that he was moving in with a man who had the agency for a sure-shot fire fighting hand grenade. This seemed to hit him a little off guard—but he rallied, and said he would investigate. It is presumed that his investigation was satisfactory. He moved in right away. Also, he might have heard about Mr. O. Bates’ ineffective demonstration with his hand grenades. They had “fizzled” on him a while back.
The clothing stock had been in the building only about sixty days when a mysterious fire occurred at 11:45, in the night—old time. It started in the oil room under the stairs leading up to my office. I was working late that night, with a shaded coal oil lamp on my desk. When I looked away from my work, I was startled by a solid wall of smoke which had come up through a stovepipe hole in the rear end of the room and stood only a few feet away from my desk. Alex Hamel had been working with me, but he had left the office some time before that. Also, Myrtle Mercer had been working that night, and I had gone out to take her home—leaving the office in total darkness while I was away.
Alex Hamel and Bill McAlester, a barber, were first to show up after I had rushed out and yelled “Fire!” It was not long before a crowd had assembled. Some gave their attention to the fire in the building, while others rushed up stairs to my office, against my protest. There was no fire in the printing office. “Chuck” Cawood dashed a bucket of water on my shaded coal-oil lamp, and rushed out of the room, yelling, “I put it out—I’ve put it out!” Chuck’s water had also ruined an order of printed stationery ready for delivery. Others milled about in the dark and “pied” several galleys of type we had set for the paper which was to come out the next day. The clothing stock was carried to the street—and the fire was put out before it had done much damage. Since there were two occupants of the store room, no one could say with certainty whose fire it might have been.
The Jew’s insurance was canceled in due course. He said, “If I don’t got insurance, I’ll not stay in a town which don’t got waterworks.” I reminded him that he still had Mr. O. Bates, with his hand grenades. It was but a short while before this that Mr. O. Bates had acquired the agency for his hand grenades. He planned a demonstration in the public square, by making a pyramid of wooden boxes, about ten feet high, early in the afternoon as a sort of advertisement for the event to take place after dark. This advertising stunt brought him humiliating repercussions.
The square was filled with people. Mr. O. Bates, a gabby auctioneer who really knew how to make a spiel, gave them a good one. He said, “Ladies and gentlemen. I have here the greatest fire extinguisher ever devised! But you don’t have to take my word for this! You shall see with your own eyes! Why, my friends, I wouldn’t hesitate one moment about building my bonfire right up against my own home.”
Then he backed off a few paces from the burning boxes and threw a grenade at the fire—but it failed to connect with the solid bumpboard, which had been placed in the center to break the glass bottles, and passed through the mass as a dud. He then tried again, hitting the bumpboard, but instead of quenching the fire, it made a decided spurt upwards. Then, with a huge grunt, Bates, threw them in as fast as he could, resulting in further spurts of blaze upward — up, up, and up!
It was then boos for Mr. O. Bates. He was a sadly confused man, numb with bewilderment. He stammered, “I’ll fetch a man here who’ll show you that they will do the trick.” At a lesser publicized exhibition, Bates—and his man—had extinguished the fire quickly. Rumor had it that “Frosty” and “Cooney” had emptied the chemicals out of his grenades, and had filled them with coal oil.
Mr. O. Bates had unbounded faith in his grenades. He actually wanted to build his bonfire almost smack-up against the frame hotel building on the corner where Harry Cawood’s store is now. But “Uncle” Peter Shuemaker wouldn’t stand for that. “Uncle” Peter was a wiry little man of Pennsylvania Dutch ancestry—much set in his ways, with a quick tongue with which to defend himself. He was always on the defense.
“Frosty” Shuemaker had said, with reason, “Granddad, don’t you let that old windjammer light his fire near the hotel. You don’t know what might happen,” and “Uncle” Peter had snapped, “Goway, Forrest—who’s asking you for advice?” But, I think, “Uncle” Peter had “smelled a mouse.”
Mr. O. Bates — pompous, windy, and positive — told “Uncle” Peter that the proposed demonstration would do his hotel no more harm than for him to allow Jim Riley to ride his horse in and out of the hotel office—an occurrence that still rankled. “Uncle” Peter flew off the handle, so to speak, and spluttered, “It’s no-sicha-na-thing! I never permitted that lousy drunken pie-stealing galoot to ride into my hotel! And just who would pay me for my hotel if it should burn down? By-GODDIES, you couldn’t do it—Mr. Bates!”
Since I have quoted Peter Shuemaker detrimental to the character of one Jim Riley, I shall now explain. Never like to leave any of the old fellows out on a limb. Then, too, there is still another reason for this elaboration. It is to keep the record straight. Some, I now learn, are inclined to question if I have quoted “Uncle” Peter verbatim. That I have you may be sure. I make no inventions. You can always bank on that. Why, I ask, should I want to feed you figments of fiction, when memory is stocked with so much of the real thing—spoken words by the old fellows, a thousand times better than anything an antiquated mind could conjure up now? And then there is always the little matter of accuracy to be considered. “No-sicha-na-thing” and “by-goddies” were his exact utterances.
Not to be confused with the Soldier creek Jim Reilly, who built a house in town on the site where E. W. Thornburrow’s home is now, this Irishman owned land up in the Capioma neighborhood—a half section north of the Patrick Hand land. Jim Riley was a substantial farmer and cattleman. He was not married. Jim bached on the farm—but spent much of his spare time in Wetmore, always pretty close to the dram shops. He was a periodical hard drinker. And a prankster of the first order.
But as time went on—and as he prospered—Jim decided that he could change the baching situation for the better if his sister, whom he had left in Ireland years before, were here to keep house for him. He made the trip back to Ireland, but when he got there he learned that his sister was married and lived in California. He then made a hurried trip to the west coast—and in due time the sister, with her husband and several little Ketchums, became members of the Jim Riley household on the farm here. And through the hand of Fate title to the Riley lands later passed to the Ketchums.
As Bates had said, Jim Riley did ride his horse into Shuemaker’s hotel. And as “Uncle” Peter had spluttered, Jim did swipe his pies—baked for a big dance supper. Riley carted them out on the street in a wheelbarrow, and passed them out to anyone who would take them. But he paid. Jim always paid. His reputation for doing that was well established. Like the time when someone went into Rising’s general store and said Jim Riley was out in front smashing up a consignment of crockery that had just been unloaded on the high front porch, giving a war-whoop every time as the crocks he was throwing crashed in the street, Don Rising said, “Let him have his fun. He’ll pay.”
Also, Jim Riley did deliberately back his wagon up to the post supporting Shuemaker’s prized birdhouse, hurriedly threw a logchain around the post—and drove off, giving one of his famous war-whoops. “Jim’s on another bender,” the oldtimers said—but I knew he was just plain drunk.
Jim Riley dearly loved to torment Peter Shuemaker. And he liked to play hide-and-seek with the town marshal. But most of all, Jim loved his drink. And it was while burdened with a mixture of the two that he met his death — in 1887. While making a hurried getaway from the marshal his team of mules, under lash, turned a street corner too quickly, threw Jim out his spring-wagon—and broke his neck.
And that bird-house—it was a three-decker, about a yard square, with entrances on all four sides, perched on top of a 10-foot post out in front of the hotel. Here the martins of that day nested and multiplied in such numbers as to greatly overcrowd their living quarters. In the late summer months the new broods would have to take to the roof.
Jim’s log chain, applied at the height of the nesting season, broke up all too many bird-nests to suit “Uncle” Peter—and it just about caused his to lose his religion. “Uncle” Peter took his newly-found religion seriously enough, but when suddenly angered he was a mite forgetful. Lapsing back into pre-conversion times, his overworked byword—by-goddies—was shortened up a bit, and with it went a blast of other sulphurous words telling the world what he meant to do to that scoundrel when and if he could ever lay hands on him.
Peter Shuemaker was practically the sole support of the Baptist Church here for a time, in the old days. The Church membership was poor, and there came a lean time when the members wanted to close up shop—but “Uncle” Peter said no, “By-goddies,” he’d pay the preacher himself.
Having lost his wife, Shuemaker, in his late eighties, and always a bit on the contrary side, was now, with descendents in his home, a little hard to get along with. But he hit it off fine with his preacher. Then, one Sunday morning, when a beautiful camaraderie between preacher and parishioner was running high, the Reverend announced something special, a surprise, for the evening services. That surprise proved to be “Uncle” Peter going shakily down the aisle, altarward, with a feeble old woman, an octogenarian from God only knew where, clinging to his arm. She was an “importation.” Thus, one perceives, that in casting his bread upon the waters it had indeed been returned to “Uncle” Peter manifold. And for his descendents, who were keeping a watchful eye on his modest savings, it was as a devastating bombshell topping a most disturbing surprise. Son-in-law Don Rising “swore” the old gentleman had been “sold down the river.”
The marriage did not endure.
But, at that, “Uncle” Peter fared better, spiritually, “than did the preacher who showed him the way. The Reverend George Graham, evangelist, had pitched his gospel tent on the triangular spot of vacant ground across the street east of the Catholic Church in Wetmore back in the middle 80’s. With him was a buxom woman, with rosy cheeks — who sang quite well. And what with her good singing and George’s impassioned pleas for repentance they garnered a good harvest—very good, indeed.
The Reverend Graham invoked, with the wrath of Jehovah of old, all the terrors of hell upon unbelievers. Together, they slew the sinners. Even some quite good people were swayed into the belief that they ought to make amends and strive to measure up to the high plane of this super exhorter—and thus make sure of following through to the Great Beyond. There were among them converts with Methodist leanings, and converts with Baptist leanings — even one young lady was possessed of the gift of tongues. When it was all over here, the converts went their several ways, as the preacher had advised—or rather they began to map a course by which they might make the takeoff for the long journey. Then, with the second stand away from here — somewhere down around Lawrence — the preacher and the lady were publicly exposed for unholy conduct.
And yea, verily, the Reverend had a family somewhere abroad in the land.
Repercussions hit hard back here. The one great wrong done our converts was, as you might expect, heaped upon them by the unbelievers who had been consigned to the everlasting fire of brimstone by the now fallen preacher. As is usual with emotionally recruited converts there was some immediate backsliding, or cooling off, but when “twitted”—that’s what they called it then—by the ungodly, the stampede back to normal got under way and was, in the days that followed, made complete—save one. “Uncle” Peter was seemingly the only one of the many who could bring himself to believe that religion was religion—something pure, and worth keeping, even though it had been delivered to him through the channels of a dirty carrier.
There is an old saying that “one should give the devil his due.” I’m sure that, regardless, the magnetic George did a power of good in his revivals here. While, it is true, his converts did not choose to “join-up” after the crash, until the backwash of that scandal had become tempered by time, they did, however, accept the opportunity to come into the fold under another standard bearer. And, unfortunately for the Baptists, the Methodists were first to hold a revival—and reap the harvest. And the girl who was “called” upon to babble in tongues, gave up the pursuit when it was evident that she was fooling no one but herself.
At the time of the exposure, I was temporarily working for Bill Granger on his Centralia Journal, and boarding at the old McCubbin House, down by the tracks. Ed Murray — later, Mo. Pacific agent in Wetmore for many years—was clerk at the hotel. Professor Roberts, principal of the Centralia Public Schools, was the third person present when the Evening Daily newspaper was brought in. After reading the exposure article, I passed the paper to Mr. Roberts, with comment that I had attended Graham’s revival meetings in Wetmore. Mr. Murray had his say about preachers in general, and about one Reverend Locke in particular—of the latter, quite complimentary, however.
As he read, Mr. Roberts said, “Say—you, a newspaperman—here’s something you ought to commit, for future use.” For future use? He meant, let us hope, only as a model for phrase building to be used on occasion. That Mr. Roberts, he was a mighty clever young man—quite young, then. It was a long time ago, sixty-one years to be exact — but I still remember.
The newspaper report was vague as to the exact nature of the preacher’s misstep, and I shall not attempt to state it here lest I might do someone an injustice. So, then, let’s let George do it. The paper quoted him, thus:
“I have the consolation, small though it be, of knowing that though my bark goes down amid the turbid waters of Illicit love the shores of Time are marked with many such wrecks.”
Prettily phrased. But no further comment.
NOTE — This is okayed, “No-sicha-na-thing.” “By-Goddies,” and all, by Hettie Shuemaker-Kroulik, (70), granddaughter; and by Peter Cassity, (80), grandson. And they go further, saying: The $1,000 he paid to rid himself of the woman, plus what it had cost him to get her (preacher’s reward) just about cleaned “Uncle” Peter. And Cassity says the pies swiped by Riley numbered exactly forty. Jim paid double, as always—and liked it.
And now wouldn’t it be nice if I could say here that Cassity was one of those converts? I’d say it, anyway—if I weren’t afraid Peter would tell on me.