The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 12, 1899, Page 24

24 THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 1899. TORC——— 00000000000000000000000009 ‘ . gozoooo°°°°°°°°°°°°°°.°°°°: Soanns.sory of e MARRIED FOR LOVE THOUGH [T MEANT POVERTY & W hsrever You Fina ¢ Poor Old Couple Who ¢ . | O : s it, Among the Rich ¢ ¢ May Be Seen on (he s s or the Poor. if You g e Steeets of Our City ¢ s Find the Real Thing ¢ SR o e HE play is over at last; the “Bless-you-my-children” finale has been perfunctorily. gabbled through to the usual San Fran- cisco accompaniment of scraping feet.and rustling garments, and the big curtain has rolled down and shut out of the world of malke-believe into the. world of reality. us, after the pleasing habit of the pericd, have pinned , settled ourselves in.our wraps, or wiggled and squirmed and writhed ourselves into our topcoats, as soon as the fatal note of the beginning of the-end sounded from the stage, and we are on our feetrand pushing firmly and decidedly. for the exit before the orchestra Yias had time even to announce its polite willingness to show us to the door. It is a decently good play- that we have seen, and it has been decently well acted, so we are an amiable crowd, even though we are { r for.comfort. Nearing the door, a waft of out- igoratingly on our faces, bringing with it a sudden, of how lifeless and heavy and how laden with the faded perfumes is the warm atmosphere we are man of our party pulls her wrap up a trifle closer t-as the human river, on the surface of which t into the broad and sky-roofed street. g to be a frost,” she says sententiously, “‘see how and feel how' dreadfully chilly it is.” Francisco and San Franciscans. There is no an invisible sprite flying about us who d ¢ s like a playful kitten, and the soda and the gaily lighted store windows do hot make it ve something hot,” declares the young woman, ‘“‘even i but red-pepper tea, or I shall positively congeal on the y home. “We hava drifted to the edge of the stream by -this time, the “boat anxious to catch ferry cars,’ forming the swifter current in -ement, .and we pause just before we.reach the t be caught in the swirl and borne to Alameda We have other plans, but they can walt vay near at hand stand two figures, an electrio )ve their -heads throwing them out in sharp ground .of shadow. Théy are a man and & BT bearded and broad-shouldered, with the =h-held chin which tell .of -past days spent a- a thin, shivering little old creatare with a face w it had made a pretty picture of it at first a ally smudged it with a damp finger @nd left it blu 1 spoiled. The man’s right hand, mottled with cold until it looks like a plece of castile soap, leans a 1ittlé heavily on a stout cane; his companion has linked her arm in-his on the other side, standing so close to him at the brim of her shabby black hat résts on his shoulder. Beneath his thin and patched gray overcoat there appears on the right side a plece of wood shaped 1ike an inverted champagne bottle and strapped to his thigh -in :place of the flesh-and-bone leg that should This and the half-dozen pencils which the old woman holds sely in her claw-like hand constitute the old couple’s stock in trade. They make no effort to_sell their penclls; they make no effort to arrest the attention of the chattering throng that surges by unheed- ing. Not even by a ‘gesture do. they. endeavor to attract notice to themselves and tk eed. They stand silent and motionless, gazing straight out before them—the. man ‘with a touch of dignity in his air and expression which lends’ distinction to his well-cut features and his patriarchal beard, the woman with her small face puckered and shriveled, her & reéd. and ‘watery and her lips purple with the chill that seems to re reached to her bones—but patiently resigned, both, to whatever the fates may bring.” So might two earth-tortured human souls stand -gazing across.the River Styx, hoping nothing, fearing mnothing; since-whatever comes can be no worse than that which they have already known. The fates kind to them to-night, at least they are not cruel; moré than one hand comes out of the owner’s pocket into the eager s & small coin into the palm that holds the penciis. The darnce does likewise, though his largess—either be- v more ‘charitable, or has more of an incentive to ap- zer than the others’; but he receives in return just little simultaneous bow from the two old heads. s lifts her pointed little chin and flings a glance at - e on-our way toward the “something hot.” Her face, in‘its frame of fluffy white fur, looks like a three-quarter moon sur- rounded.by & storm halo. “Darby and Joan,” she says, to stand. begging with him and for him night after night! poor old things are always around when the theaters close. it -doesn’t kill them—the njght air and the late hours!"” This is nothing,” ‘avers the Knight, forgetting prudence in his desire to be interesting. “‘They are just beginning their evening now. I've seen: them around- the saloons and different resorts as late as 3 o'clock in. the morning.” The: shadow ‘of an’ interrogative eyebrow over down-drooping white 1ids rests suddenly upon him and he pauses. Then, being a bold: youth withal, he breasts the breakers manfully and swims tri- umpharitly Into’ safe waters. . “I'was down-here one night when Smith was taken {1l and sen? for me, you know,” he explains elaborately, “and I saw them and talked with them and they told me that they never go home until nearly. four; the late people are the: lsindest hearted, they say.” . . B . . . . “Fancy caring enough for a man Those two I wonder When we.turn our faces homeward the two are moving slowly along the pavement, still.arm in arm, the woman still pressing close to the man as though seeking protection of his larger and stronger personality, but. they- are talking together as they go, and their at- titude is—oddly enough, considering their circumstances and en- vironment—unguesti ly sentimental and lover-like. The man's head {s bent deferentially over his companion and she is looking up at him with a puckered smile which evidently finds response somes where in his forest of beard. “I wonder if such people really do love each other,” muses our fair maid, ‘and the Knight sniffs scornfully. The Silent Pencil Sellers. They make no effort to sell their pencils; they make no effort to arrest the attention of the chattering throng that surges by un- heeded. Not even by a gesture do they endeavor to attract notice to themselves and their needs. They stand silent and motionless, gazing straight out before them—the man with a touch of dignity in his air; the woman with her small face puckered and shriveled, her eyes red and watery and her lips purple with the chill that seems to have reached to her bones—but patiently resigned, both, to what- ever the fates may bring. So might two earth-tortured human souls stand gazing across the river Styx, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, since whatever comes can be no worse than that which they have already known. “Such creatures don’t know what love means,” he declares. “They huddle together like sheep in a storm for the sake of company in their misery, that's all. As for those two, they drink like fishes and are all around disreputable. It really is wrong to encourage them by giving them anything, but they look so wretched that one can’t well help it. As for loving each other—'" “I wonder if they do,” comes the musing voice again out of the halo of white fur. . . I am going calling, and mine is to be an unfashionably early call, for my prospective hosts keep eccentric hours. I can be sure of seeing them only by timing my visit so that I may be sure to arrive before they have arisen from their slumbers. My des s a long, sway-backed, low-browed, two-story building with a dark and untidy saloon for a corner stone, which stretches away down one side of a dirty and discouraged-looking street, “south of Market.” I pause dublously at the door, but it is opened for me affably by a courteous person who is returning to his home nest—from some place further off than the cornerstone, be it remarked—with a pailful of foaming beer. Far be it from me to criticize a fellow mortal for his taste in beverages, but the sight of that soapsuds of beer at such a chilly time of the day sends a shiver down my back. That my self-elected escort does not share my prejudices is, however, attested by the evi- dent fact that this has not been his first trip outside in pursuit of cooling refreshments. He lurches uncertainly up the stairs beside me, spilling a trifle of his precious burden on my gown as we go, nnd after translating the name of Edwin Sellon, for whom I inquire, into the more familiar cognomen of “Old Peg-Leg,” kindly shows me into the house parlor, there to await the arousing of Mr. and Mrs. Sallon and their pleasure as to the reception of their self-invited guest. The parlor is a little square room fenced in with thin boards set dirty skylight; the furniture A and ered, and lighted by a dir ;’ana.el:gnca.veplzr!}mge. three debilitated chairs and % shlakgng:;;nq‘ man sits in one of the chairs with his hat_jammefl‘ rmry e bac of his head, reading an almanac; and disapprov lng odmy ;‘,pg,,_ or my possible curiosity, glances at me moroseg'anr g;oun. ds twist his chair around until he faces into a nuarf_ b} corner an gents to my view only a noncommittal expanse o ach s The whole place is but a low-roofed loft with, og el aexaal e long central corridor, a flimsy partition of upright oaé‘ s diver: at brief but regular intervals by charcgal-qpmbe_r?dd %ars. F a week, I have been told, one can hire ‘“‘furnishe ousekeer rooms” here, and that many do is proven by the (‘m’lglomeratl'(,; of odors that floats to my nostrils. Over all there is the uncanny, un- “placeable, ever-present, all-permeating smell which characterizes the io overty. adeAessrgfillgr;ifi?;:ln?sir?a wrapper held together at the throat by one thin hand, and her hair flying about her shoulders in the dishevel. ment of recent slumber, appears in the dcg?r\\':?y. % “T am Mrs. Sellon,” she says simply. It is so early that I mu ask you to excuse the disorder of our rooms—otherwise you are wel com;}\e rooms are two, the corridor door opening directly ) windowless bedroom, just large enough for a bed and'a. sta,nfi w 2 narrow passageway between them to the equally tiny Dned?lm“ wed room beyond. In this apartment there is a slumped sofa, two chairs a small table, a set of shelves nailed to the wall and a doll co. k stove. On the table is a be-sooted one-burner oil stove, surrounded by unwashed dishes in various stages of disintegration. On invitation I perched myself upon the dependable edge of the sofa and Mrs. Sellon takes a chair. Mr. Sellon, to whom the work dressing is something of a problem by reason of his xpnssing leg remains prone and unobstrusive in the bedroom. Mrs. Sellon looks at me with a calmly receptive expression, and awaits the announce- of my errand. m‘mStlnce Iysaw this woman last I have heard her history, and the memory of it is with me as I sit opposite her in that wretched lodg- ing-house room. gVSthy years ago there was given to a wealthy family in far-oft Boston a lovely baby girl—their first-born—who grew to womanhood surrounded by every luxury and enjoyed every indulgence that money could bestow. Beautiful, graceful, accomplished, possessing far mora than ordinary mental gifts, this oldest daughter of a family of four gisters was the special pride and pet of her parents’ hearts. At the age of eighteen she married, rather against her father’s judgment, a young man named Sperry and took $10,000 w ith her as a wedding present. Later her husband came to California, where she, with her little son, presently joined him. A beautiful and well-bred woman, she was soon surrounded by congenial acquaintances here and lived the usual life of well-cared- for young wives and mothers in her own comfortable and happy home. She went East as the fancy seized her and visited her father and sisters, receiving a generous allowance from her husband during her absence. A happy and indulged wife, a loving and devoted mother, an idolized daughier and a beloved sister, even in those har- monious days a “little rift” appeared which was destined “by and by to make the music mute.” A love for alcoholic stimulants seemed born in the young wifs, and it was not long before her strictly reared Eastern family found reason to express themselves severely regarding certain lapses of thelr otherwise charming relative. Perhaps the right way was not taken with her—perhaps there was no right way; such cases have unhappily occurred. Be that as it may, one thing is certain: Mrs. Angeline Sperry found herself, less than twenty years ago, the divorced wife of a man whose ex- ample had not been one to help her in any way, the sast-off mother of a son whom she had lovingly reared to manhood; and the repudi- ated sister of three women, each of whom thinks that the other should “do something” for the reclamation of the black sheep of the flock. Left to her own devices “Ann Sperry” drank more heavily than ever. As a means of livellhood she who in her youth had found the care of her own white hands task enough for each passing day learned and worked at the trade of tailor repairing and went out nursing occasionally as occasion offered. One of the women whom she nursed was Edwin Sellon’s wife, a frail little woman, who came out here with her crippled husband gome six years ago and died soon after. Two years ago Edwin Sellon, who fought through the Civil War in the glorious First Massachusetts Regiment, and Angie Sperry, the Boston belle, the bright promise of whose youth had so sadly come to naught, made up their minds to fight the world together. Both were wellnigh penniless, practically homeless and alto- gether friendless. They joined misfortunes and since then— Mrs. Sellon has been telling me of herself quite unemotionally and indifferently. She does not try to excuse herself by blaming others, nor does she make any bid for remunerative sympathy. “The world has been a little hard on me,” she says; “but I have not been blameless. I was over-indulged at first and afterward peo- ple were over-harsh. I married the wrong man and suffered for it. I married too young to know my own mind, as many girls do. I have known wealth and poverty, happiness and misery, but the happiness has_come last.” I look at her with sudden sharpness. The torn wrapper had in- advertently slipped aside, leaving one bony bare knee frankly ex- posed. She folds the soiled garment over it again and meets my eyes squarely. “I love my present husband,” she says, with a convincing little emphasis upon the verb. “We are very poor, but we meet good and i1l fortune together. My son wants me to enter a home—my home is here. None of my people will send me money, because they think me foolish to link my life with a cripple. If I will leave him they will help me, they say—as it is, I may starve.” A voice comes wavering out of the bedroom. “It would be wiser of you if you listened to them, dear,” it says, and the little woman smiles at me brightly as she makes quick denial. B “Could I leave the man I love and who loves me to go out into these streets alone, to come home here alone, to be sick alone, to starve alone, perhaps, while I was well cared for?” she asks. -‘“No, madame, it is impossible. Wherever you find it, among the rich or the poor, if you find the real thing—love is love.” 0OOO00OOO000OO00000OOOOOODOOOOOOOOOOOGOOOOOOOOOOO0’JOOO0OOOOO000ODOOOOO00000000O0000O0000000000000000000000‘00000000000000000 ENDED HIS NEWSPAPER IJFE WITH A WHOOFP OF J0OY. Sam Davis Has Dropped the Fen for the Toga &and Sagebrush Journalism Is in Mourning — Hisg Recklessly BErilllant Career and Some of the Pranks He Flayed Nevada journalism' is in a sorry plight. Sam Davis s deserted -her for politics. It's the worst blow the sagebrush te has suffered since the Comstock shut down and the faro banks gasped out their-lives, unable to cash five-cent chips. In the palmy days of ‘the Comstock Davis was associated with such ‘men as. Bill Nye,- Mark Twain, Judge C. C. Goodwin and Arthur McEwen. His last venture in San Francisco journalism was a breezy publication at the Midwinter Fair in connectlon with the ’49 Mining Camp. - Since’ that time he has continued to conduct the Car- gon Appeal, a paper neted for strikingly original features at times while he was at-its:helm. This trumpet-toned organ he has edited for the past two ‘decades.. ‘At the beginning of the present year he annou retirement and his successor as H. R. Mighels, a stepson. loses. the last ef it -unique journalists. Davfs, ‘with the Carson Appeal waving above him, easily led the pro- Gession and the whoops in late Nevada journalism. He took particular pride in unearthing schemes of boodlers and in tricing up public officials whom he believed to be shirking duties imposed upon them by law. This far from pleasant occupation has kept him constantly en combat with gangs and rings for many years, and has been the means of causing him an occasional visit to a physician for the purpose of having nu- merous abrasions about the head and face treated. These little occurrences did not inspire any fear in Davis. Invariably, the morning following the altercation a page of matter, containing a lashing which few writers could administer, would appear in the Appeal. trouble arose with Charles A. Jones, the United States District Attorney, who was later shot by young Guinan at Carson. In this fracas Davis received the worst of the battle, as Jones had a revolver. Davis was willing even to combat this, but his friends prevented him from run- ning against it. Davis began his newspaper career very early in life. He was born in Branford, Conn., in 1850, and is the son of an Episcopalian clergyman. He was sent to a theological school, and after three years of delving Into the intricacies of the theological course, threw his Greek book at a professor's head and was told to go home.. He edited a small newspaper published at the college and there got his first taste for journalism. After his expulsion he went to Nebraska and became a reporter on the Brownville Democrat at $3 a week. ‘That wae his start. His work attracted the attention of Dr. Miller, publisher of the Herald at Omaha, and- he advanced to Sam the first opportunity to make his presence known and felt in the world. About this time the correspondent of the Herald at Lincoln had written such a scathing review of the iniquities of the Legislature, which was then in session, that he was obliged to leave town in order to escape the vengeance of some of the members who sought his life. Miller wired to Davis to take the position and inside of twenty-four hours he reported for duty. Sam took up the story of corruption where his predecessor left off and opened & rapid-firing battery of vituperation on the members. He at length was -informed "that if he did not retract certain reflections on a Senator #rom Nebraska City he would be killed by noon the next day. This Sena- tor had flagrantly violated his pledges to the people and when Davis wired to Nebraska City the situation of affairs, a carload of indignant citizens came to the capital early next morning with a rope. They pro- tected the newspaper man and made their representative vote according to his-platform pledges. th A week later, however, there was a new grievance arising over his correspondence and a dozen men came to the lodging house where he was Stopping, They asked the Jandlord to be shown to his room, as they wanted fo get rid of him then and there, The men were desperate char- ced And so Nevada Dropped the Pen for the Toga. His last | his | acters, whose schemes of plunder Davis had exposed and he knew that he was ‘‘up against it.” While the landlord was parleying with the men Davis got out of a back window, and, reaching the house of a friend, borrowed a fast horse and rode nearly all night to a town called Beatrice. Here he found a news- paper man named Calhoun, whom he immediately engaged to return to Lincoln on the same horse and continue his work, signing Davis’ full name to all of his letters. Calhoun was soon on his way to the seat of war and for the following month engaged in ripping the Legislature to pieces in a maunner that was a reminder of Brick Pomeroy in his palmlest days. Calhoun kept his “incog” and everybody regarded Davis as the actual writer. While the baffled men, whom his substitute was abusing, were out gunning for him, he was taking life easy on a little ranch ten miles from Beatrice, and the farmer with whom he was stopping did not suspect his identity. The truth of the affalr was revealed at the close of the ses- sion and this incident first placed Davis before the public. After that he went on the staff of the Lincoln Statesman. One day he received a call from a stranger, who frankly told him that he had been hired to administer a beating to the editor. Davis inquired what price he expected to be paid for his services and was told that it was to be $100. “In that case,” was the reply, “we had better go In partnership. A fight at its best is always an uncertainty and if you like I will send a man down to your friend and Incidentally inform him that I have been nearly beaten to death. Then you drop in and get the money and we will divide it. In the next issue I will have an item that some unknown man stepped into the office and whipped a printer. You can explain that you made a mistake and let it go at that.” This programme was carried out to the letter and the man who paid the $100 to have Davis thrashed did not realize for several days the extent of the joke which had been played upon him. He was the Surveyor General of the State, and it was several years be- fore the press suffered the matter to dle out. St. Louis saw Davis next, working as river reporter on the Republican. Sam Clemens formerly held the same position and it was here that he got the name of “Mark Twain.” Davis attempted to liven up the river column, but made it too live- ly and was discharged. He then drifted to Chicago, and applied for a position on the Times. “Any credentials?’ asked the clty edi- tor. “None,” was the reply. “Where were you last employed?” “St. Louis Republican.” “Can’t do anything for a man who is —— fool enough to be qualified for a place on the St. Louls Republican.” “But I was discharged inside of = " Have you any credentials?” week."” Sam was glven a place on the strength of this and went to work. Shortly afterward the managing editor sent for him and he mounted the long flight of stairs to the guarded sanctum. “Are you the man who has been manufacturing these bogus items for the Times?"” Sam acknowledged he was. “That's right. If you don’t find news, make some.” He felt rather complimented on his ability as a faker of news and contemplated asking for & raise of salary, but when he reached his desk he found his discharge. His next employment was obtained on the Chicago News with J, Sterling Morton and from there he drifted West. The first work he ever did in San Francisco was for the News Letter and he tells his experience somewhat as follows: “I struck the town with $12 and I immediately wrote a poem for the News Letter. It appeared ahd I went around for my pay. I found a rwlfl' ulgn 'l:numl;l: with white hair and a clean-shaven face, who 00! e a Bishop, head in profile was as cleanly c g and 1 goll in love with him at once When I mentloned the pocs g started in surprise and then informed me, in the gentlest that he did not believe I had written it. I at first felt ln:;i‘l:?frbattm:::le:; he informed me that he did not think me old enough to do such work of such breadth of thought, such pathos and such perfect rhythm, I felt different. He then pulled out about $60 and counted it. He went through all of his pockets, getting a few more dollars, and also called the cashier, asking him how much money there was in the drawer. Learning that there was about $75, he turned to me in the blandest tones and safd: ‘Call to-morrow at 3 and I will have some collections in. I am willing to pay for such work and I regret that I have not suflicient cash on hand.’ “I went away brimming with joy and I thought that I had at last reached the land of gold. I figured out that if I could grind out one poem each week it would net me about $200. When I came back next day the bland little man did not appear to know me. He asked me my name and when I told him he blankly stared at me and asked me how I spelled it. I finally got him to understand that I had written a poem for the paper and he seemed quite delighted and sent for the cashier. The latter brought out a lafge sack of money and poured it out on the table. Mr. Marriott got some more and for several minutes they were busy counting out $500. ‘While the operation was going on I can safely say that I have never felt such a wave of pleasure and pride roll over me in my life. When he got it all counted he pushed two half-dollar pleces across the table and sald: ‘It isn’t worth it, but I delight to ald genius.’ “I had spent the last cent I had an hour before with some newspaper men and the shock nearly made me faint. I wanted to take a chair and wear it out over his head, but it occurred to me that such a delicious prac- tical jokgr was worth knowing, so I took the dollar and asked him out to have a drink. We spent an hour together and created a friendship which lasted until death.” A small band of writers, with Davis among them, afterward started the Open Letter, a weekly intended to compete with the News Letter. One day Marriott, meeting Davis, told him that the News Letter intended lambasting a certain combination of doctors; that the Open Letter could be their logical defender and if Sam wanted to make some money_ he could have a friend suggest to the medical men that he would champion their cause. The latter was agreeable and in a few weeks the doctors had en- gaged Davis at §75 a week to put Marriott on the rack. He proceeded to do so and every weck, after getting his $75, would take Marriott over to a popular French restaurant and treat him to a gorgeous dinner. One week he gave Marriott such a sizzling roast that the doctors, in their ecstacies, pald him double. He sought Marriott at once and lnvited him to champagne and terrapin. A friend of Marriott’s came in and the gentleman was asked to join the dinner. The Open Letter was lying in front of him as he became seated, and his eyes feel upon the cartoon and the scorching Sam had given his friend. After reading it he asked Mr. Marriott if he had seen it and if he proposed to let the man who wrote it live until sundown. “My friend here wrote it,” sald Mar- riott. ‘““Waiter, fetch another small bot- tle from the ice.” He waved his fork to Sam smilingly. “And you men eat together?” asked the man In astonishment. “You — fool,” was the reply; *“you don’t understand the depths of true news- paper friendship.” It was in this paper that Davis per- petrated the famous literary hoax at the expense of Bret Harte. He made a wager that he could produce a poem 8o closely imitative of Harte’s style that the press or the public could not detect the fraud. Soon afterward there appeared in the Open Letter a poem entitled, “Bin. ley and 46,” signed by Bret Harte. It described an engineer golns’ to the rescue of & snow-bound train in the sxemmnd dying at his post. The poem was copied in every periodical from ne to Texas. It was given a full page in Frank.Leslle's Magazine and {llustrated by Matt -Morgan, Trying to Capture Bret Harte's Glory. After the country had swallowed the bait, hook and all, the Open Letter exposed the thing and called attention to its many absurdities, the most conspicuous of which was the scene where the engineer perished from cold by the side of a roaring furnace, with wood enough to last for twenty-four. hours. Davis was always a practical joker, and Is responsible for one of the greatest journalistic jokes ever played on the co: He was reporting the big $30,000 horse race between Thad Stevens, True Blue, etc., when a re- porter of the Vallejo Chronicle came to him and said that he had lost his credentials and wanted some one to pass him into the reporters’ stand. Davis took good care that he would not get there and then volunteered to send the unfortunate correspondent’s dispatches for him. The latter gave him a note to the operator, authorizing him to use his signature, and then the joker proceeded to send to the Chronicle a harrowing account of earthquake shocks that had struck the racetrack, demolishing the grandstand and killing and wounding several hundred people. He de- seribed the mad rush for life with several thousand vehicles jamming the gates and the running of the first heat, with Thad Stevens as winner. Then came another shock in which Joe Daniels, one of the horses, was Kkilled by a stall which fell upon him. Notwithstanding this, the dispatches said the sports were clearing away the dead and wounded and preparing for the next heat. He continued to wire earthquakes with each heat and piled up a harrowing description, while the inhabitants of Vallejo were going mad with excitement. Leach, the publisher of the paper, never doubted the authenticity of the dispatches, as they were signed by his correspondent, and plastered them up on the bulletin boards, at the same time issuing extras until the town was simply seething with excitement. Then there was a rush for the wharf. Some speculative individual char- tered a boat and took 600 people down to San Francisco at $2 per head. When they reached the city they inquired for the earthquake and were regarded as crazy. When they comprehended the extent of the. sell they hunted up the reporter of the Chron- icle, but Sam had treated him too well, and had landed him in the jail to keep him out of harm’s way. Next day Sam sent Leach a bill for “three earthquake shocks at $10 a shock,” and he compre- hended the extent of the situation. Davis was a theatrical writer for years and in touch with many of the celebrities of the stage. Nothing suited him bet- ter than to play some prank at the ex- pense of the profession. When Sheridan and Mack were producing “The Long Strike” in Virginia City, they asked Davis if he would enact the role of the fore- man of the jury, in the situation where a verdict Is brought in, acquitting the hero of a charge of murder. The scene, with Davis’ startling transposition, ran this way: Judge—Gulty, or not guilty? “Guilty, so say we all,” came In deep intonation from Sam’s lips. Sheridan, who acted the part of ‘the Judge, glared at Davis, but the latter never moved a muscle. Again he asked the question, shaking his fist in the direc- tion of the jury. “Guilty, so help me God,” was again the reply n mor than before. The curtain rang down amid the la,:x;'mer of t;:flsg;:nz?“ On another occasion Davis was billed to play the part of Charles, the wrestler, in ““As You Like It.”. Ada Cavendish was In the leading role, and when she leaned over the prostrate form she nearly fainted when she. covered blood from Davis’ mouth. He was carried off the sta, she dfs- parently dying condition, supposed to have been caused by of & blood vessel. There was great excitement behind the scenes, and ° when & physician arrived he sat up and sald, “Never mind, I always break Encouraging tresses. Ambitious Ao~ ge In an ap- the bursting a blood vessel in that scene.” He had produced a realistic effect by filling a fish bladder with some red mixture and s g crushing it 1? his mouth at the