I have just returned from the Pacific slip—slop—slope, I meant to say. Excuse the slop—I mean the slip of the tongue. I say “returned,” but I didn’t say in what way. That’s a long walk—I mean talk—I should say story. That slip—slop—slope has got me sloppy—slippy—twisted, I mean.

Well, while on the slip—slop—slippery slope, I slopped—slipped in love. I fell in love from slipping on the sloppy slope. I came pretty near getting a life sentence—married, I mean; it’s the same thing. The girl I loved was a brunette by birth. You know some are brunettes by accident; this girl was born that way. I don’t like brunettes. I like the blondes. This girl from the slope was a slippery—slobbery—slobby—I mean nobby—girl and was deeply infatuated with me. She would do anybody, anything for me. She declared she would die for me—and she did. That’s how she’s a blonde now.

Her father was a doctor—a “cure-all.” He claimed he could cure anything. When he found out I loved his daughter he tried to cure my love for her. He gave me a prescription. His specialty was rejections—injections, I mean. So he injected a load of buckshot into my frame. He said I needed something to increase my weight, so he filled me with lead.

The prescription was a good one, though. If they hadn’t called in another doctor to pick out the shot, my love would have certainly proved fatal. They took me to a horse-pistol—I mean a hospital. While I was filled with lead the boys used to come in and borrow me to go fishing with. They used me for a stinker—I mean a sinker. One day I asked the nurse how much longer I was going to be laid up and used for a sinker and she said I’d be well enough to leave just as soon as the fish quit biting. They couldn’t find all the shot that the prescription called for, so I had to leave the hospital “half-shot.”

Well, I finally did a slide from the slope and came east by way of the Northern Precipitate—Northern Pacific, I should say.

We started a game of poker on the train. I lost thirty dollars. When the train was twenty miles out I was thirty dollars out. I didn’t have a cent left. The conductor asked me for my fare and just then the train stopped. One of the passengers called to the conductor and said: “What’s the matter? Anything broke?” The conductor said; “Yes, one of the passengers.” Then the conductor asked me if I could fix the “break.” I couldn’t, so I got off.

Then the conductor began to kick about having to stop the train, and I was the receiver for his kicks. They came so fast I couldn’t stop them all. I do hate to feel—hear a man kick against little things. It wasn’t fair—or rather it was fare—that is, I didn’t have the fare. But anyhow it made me sore. I wouldn’t get back on his old train.

After I had collected my thoughts and the other parts of my anatomy, I found I was several parts of anatomy shy; so I went up to the conductor and I asked him if he had any old anatomy of mine hanging to him; that is, if I had anything coming that I had not got. He raised his foot—his large, massive right foot. I looked at it. It was too large for me; it wasn’t my size. I knew as soon as I looked at it it wouldn’t fit me, so I began to wend my way. I found it was cheaper to wend my way than to pay my way.

When I got to the next station I went into a balloon—I mean salome—so long—saloon; I always did forget that word. Well, on the wall was one of those strong—wrong long-distance telephones—nickel-in-the-slit—slop—slap—slot machine. I thought I’d call up the doctor and tell him what I thought of him. I didn’t think much of him—only about five cents’ worth.

So I slipped up to the slot and slipped a nickel in the slot to get a connection with the slope I had just slipped from. Just then the keeper of the life-shaving—life-saving station, the bar-slender—sender—tender, asked me what I wanted; I said I thought I’d take a gee whiz—a ginfizz. He said I had another thunk coming, so I told him I would take a glass of Schlitz before I heard from the slope. So I slanted a glass of Schlitz in the slot in my face and slowly sopped—sipped the Schlitz. Just then the telephone-bell rang; I went to the rang and rung the ring.

The doctor says: “Who are you?” I says: “I’m the fellow that took your prescription.” He says: “Well, what are you calling me up for?” I says: “I ain’t calling you up; I’m calling you down.” He says: “I think you sloped from the slope with my child, you slob, and if ever I see you again I’ll puncture your——”

Just then the barfender—bender—lender—tender asked me to have another Schlitz, so I dropped the fender—the sender to sip the Schlitz. Just as I sized up the Schlitz to seize it the bartender told me to settle for the last Schlitz. I couldn’t settle, so the bartender settled me. He gave me a sassy slap in the slats and spilled all the Schlitz that I had sipped.

Then I got desperate and commenced dropping nickels in the Schlitz and Schlitzes in the slots, then I got some more slaps in the slats; the doctor was trying to call me and I was calling the bartender—something I can’t repeat here, and—well, I finally got out and after a while, about thirty days after, I reached home—my old home. My father and mother said it was the home of my birth. Well, if “my birth” owned that home he never got any rent for it. The first person I met was a girl. Of course I met three politicians; but she was the first person. She was a singular person; she was the first person singular—singular because she wasn’t married. But that wasn’t so singular, because she was born with only one good eye. In the other one she got in a crockery store—kind of a bum pair of lamps.

Then one day she had the misfortune to be walking on a railroad track and she met a train—that, is, the train met her. Of course, there was no regular introduction; they just came together as people and trains will. Well, the train met her and now she’s got a cork—she’s got a corker. [Slap leg with hand.] Well, as I say, I met the corker—I mean the girl—and she told me she was engaged to be led to the slaughter—I mean sled to the halter—I mean led to the altar; going to be murdered—married; and she invited me to bring presents—I mean to be present at the wedding.

There wasn’t many people knew she had a corker. The fellow that was going to board her for life didn’t know she had a corker, either. The day before the wedding the gloom—that is, the groom—you know, the fellow that was going to marry the corker—I mean the girl—well, he was kind of a diffident fellow; he asked me to go to the parsley—the parsnips—the parson with him, and I went with the victim.

The parson charged him $5.00 to tie the connubial nit—the connubial knot. The parson said: “My dear sir; I will charge you $5.00 to set you sailing on the sea of matrimony.” My friend said: “Well, what’ll you charge for a round-trip ticket?” You see he didn’t know about the corker, but he was a corker. He says: “I’ll save you $4.00 to tie the conjugal knit-knot”—not knit but knot. But the parson refused. He said: “$5.00 or knot—nit.” The parson would not take any less than $5.00 for the imposition—the operation. He belonged to the “union.” So my friend that was engaged to the corker paid him the flea—the fee to knit the knot—I mean tie the knot. Well, the next day we all went to the church to see the fight—the wedding.

The young couple stood up in front of the parson and the parson opened a jackpot—I mean the Bible, looked all around the church and said: “Is there anybody here to give the bride away?” I jumped up and said: “Yes, I can, but I won’t!”

Then the queer—I mean the choir sang queer—that is, the queer choir sang “Take Me Just as I Am.” And the young fellow did. Of course, he didn’t know anything about the corker until——

Well, an old woman, 78 or 48, who lived in the town died one day. Of course, that isn’t strange, because old women die every day. But this particular old lady—but she couldn’t have been particular, either, or she wouldn’t have died. But anyhow she died, with a will, or against her will; that is, she had a will or left a will when she died. In the will she bequeathed to the corker—I mean the girl who married the fellow that didn’t know she had a corker—she bequeathed to her an old arm-chair.

Everybody gave the young couple the horse-laugh, but the young fellow took the old arm-chair home and put it in the house along with the glass eye and the corker. A few days after that they sat down to the breakfast-table—the fellow, the glass eye, the arm-chair and the corker—and while sitting at breakfast, talking over their cocoa, the husband said something over his cocoa, and then the wife said something over her cocoa, and they got into an argument over their cocoa, and finally he picked up the old arm-chair, over his cocoa, and passed it to his wife, over her cocoa, and broke it all to pieces—not the cocoa, but the old arm-chair. The old arm-chair was smashed all to pieces and out rolled fifteen million dollars in gold bull-con—bull-coin—gold bullion. You see, this wise old lady knew that the husband would break the old chair over his wife’s cocoa when he found she had a——

Well, the result was a divorce, and naturally the fellow that married the remnant—the girl—came to me, as I had been present at the execution—at the wedding—and he naturally looked upon me as a confidence man—as a confidant—and he asked me my advice.

You see the corker’s brother, a big fellow that weighed about two hundred and looked it, had taken offense at the sister’s husband talking about family secrets and was out looking for trouble. So when the husband came to me for advice I told him to challenge the brother to a duel. He said he didn’t know anything about a duel. So I told him to go get a pair of gloves, go up to the brother and slap him in the face with the gloves.

The next day the young fellow got a pair of gloves, went up to the big brother and slapped him in the face with the gloves. Then he came back to report to me. I says: “Well, did you get the gloves?” He says: “Yes.” I says: “What did you do after you got the gloves?” He says: “I did just what you told me to do. I took the gloves in my hand and went up to the big guy and slapped him in the face with the gloves.” I says: “Well, what did he do?” He says: “He knocked me down and took the gloves away from me.”