Doctor Tushmaker was never regularly bred as a physician or surgeon, but he possessed naturally a strong mechanical genius and a fine appetite; and finding his teeth of great service in gratifying the latter propensity, he concluded that he could do more good in the world, and create more real happiness therein, by putting the teeth of its inhabitants in good order than in any other way; so Tushmaker became a dentist. He was the man who first invented the method of placing small cog-wheels in the back teeth for the more perfect mastication of food, and he claimed to be the original discoverer of that method of filling cavities with a kind of putty which, becoming hard directly, causes the tooth to ache so grievously that it has to be pulled, thereby giving the dentist two successive fees for the same job. Tushmaker was one day seated in his office, in the city of Boston, Massachusetts, when a stout old fellow named Byles presented himself to have a back tooth drawn. The dentist seated his patient in the chair of torture, and, opening his mouth, discovered there an enormous tooth, on the right-hand side, about as large, as he afterward expressed it, “as a small Polyglot Bible.” “I shall have trouble with this tooth,” thought Tushmaker, but he clapped on his heaviest forceps and pulled. It didn’t come. Then he tried the turn-screw, exerting his utmost strength, but the tooth wouldn’t stir. “Go away from here,” said Tushmaker to Byles, “and return in a week, and I’ll draw that tooth for you or know the reason why.” Byles got up, clapped a handkerchief to his jaw, and put forth. Then the dentist went to work, and in three days he invented an instrument which he was confident would pull anything. It was a combination of the lever, pulley, wheel and axle, inclined plane, wedge and screw. The castings were made, and the machine put up in the office, over an iron chair rendered perfectly stationary by iron rods going down into the foundations of the granite building. In a week old Byles returned; he was clamped into the iron chair, the forceps connected with the machine attached firmly to the tooth, and Tushmaker, stationing himself in the rear, took hold of a lever four feet in length. He turned it slightly. Old Byles gave a groan and lifted his right leg. Another turn, another groan, and up went the leg again. “What do you raise your leg for?” asked the Doctor. “I can’t help it,” said the patient. “Well,” rejoined Tushmaker, “that tooth is bound to come out now.” He turned the lever clear round with a sudden jerk, and snapped old Byles’s head clean and clear from his shoulders, leaving a space of four inches between the severed parts! They had a post-mortem examination—the roots of the tooth were found extending down the right side, through the right leg, and turning up in two prongs under the sole of the right foot! “No wonder,” said Tushmaker, “he raised his right leg.” The jury thought so, too, but they found the roots much decayed; and five surgeons swearing that mortification would have ensued in a few months, Tushmaker was cleared on a verdict of “justifiable homicide.” He was a little shy of that instrument for some time afterward; but one day an old lady, feeble and flaccid, came in to have a tooth drawn, and thinking it would come out very easy, Tushmaker concluded, just by way of variety, to try the machine. He did so, and at the first turn drew the old lady’s skeleton completely and entirely from her body, leaving her a mass of quivering jelly in her chair! Tushmaker took her home in a pillow-case. The woman lived seven years after that, and they called her the “India-Rubber Woman.” She had suffered terribly with the rheumatism, but after this occurrence never had a pain in her bones. The dentist kept them in a glass case. After this, the machine was sold to the contractor of the Boston Custom-House, and it was found that a child of three years of age could, by a single turn of the screw, raise a stone weighing twenty-three tons. Smaller ones were made on the same principle and sold to the keepers of hotels and restaurants. They were used for boning turkeys. There is no moral to this story whatever, and it is possible that the circumstances may have become slightly exaggerated. Of course, there can be no doubt of the truth of the main incidents. Bob Ingersoll relates an anecdote of a Hebrew who went into a restaurant to get his dinner. The devil of temptation whispered in his ear, “Bacon.” He knew if there was anything that made Jehovah real white mad, it was to see anybody eating bacon; but he thought, “Maybe He is too busy watching sparrows and counting hairs to notice me,” and so he took a slice. The weather was delightful when he went into the restaurant, but when he came out the sky was overcast, the lightning leaped from cloud to cloud, the earth trembled, and it was dark. He went back into the restaurant, trembling with fear, and, leaning over the counter, said to the clerk, “My God, did you ever hear such a fuss about a little piece of bacon!”

The HELL SHIP By Ray Palmer - https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/32615/pg32615-images.html

 

Want to be a hero, son?"

"Who, me? Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day."

"Don't be cute. It's an assignment. Get into White Sands."

"Who tried last?"

The voice was huge and cold, like wind from an ice field. "None of us like it, chum. But the ships have got to sail. You're one of us now, because we're on our way and by the time you get there, there'll be no place left for you to work, unless it's in a circus as a freak."

Och! don’t be talkin’. Is it howld on, ye say? An’ didn’t I howld on till the heart of me was clane broke entirely, and me wastin’ that thin you could clutch me wid yer two hands! To think o’ me toilin’ like a nager for the six year I’ve been in Ameriky—bad luck to the day I iver left the owld counthry, to be bate by the likes o’ them! (faix, an’ I’ll sit down when I’m ready, so I will, Ann Ryan, an’ ye’d better be list’nin’ than drawin’ your remarks), an’ it’s mysel’, with five good characters from respectable places, would be herdin’ wid the haythens. The saints forgive me, but I’d be buried alive soon ’n put up wid a day longer. Sure, an’ I was a granehorn not to be lavin’ at onct when the missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver about the new waiter-man which was brought out from Californy. “He’ll be here the night,” says she, “and Kitty, it’s meself looks to you to be kind and patient wid him, for he’s a furriner,” says she, a kind o’ looking off. “Sure an’ it’s little I’ll hinder nor interfare wid him nor any other, mum,” says I, a kind o’ stiff, for I minded me how these French waiters, wid their paper collars and brass rings on their fingers, isn’t company for no gurril brought up dacint and honest. Och! sorra a bit I knew what was comin’ till the missus walked into me kitchen smilin’, and says, kind o’ schared, “Here’s Fing Wing, Kitty, an’ you’ll have too much sinse to mind his bein’ a little strange.” Wid that she shoots the doore; and I, misthrusting if I was tidied up sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper collar, looks up and——Holy fathers! may I never brathe another breath, but there stud a rale haythen Chineser a-grinnin’ like he’d just come off a tay-box. If you’ll belave me, the crayture was that yeller it ’ud sicken you to see him; and sorra stich was on him but a black night-gown over his trousers, and the front of ’is head shaved claner nor a copper biler, and a black tail a-hanging down from behind, wid his two feet stook into the heathenesest shoes you ever set eyes on. Och! but I was upstairs afore you could turn about, a-givin’ the missus-warnin’; an’ only stopt wid her by her raisin’ me wages two dollars and playdin’ wid me how it was a Christian’s duty to bear wid haythins and taitch ’em all in our power—the saints save us! Well, the ways and trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I couldn’t be tellin’. Not a blissed thing cud I do but he’d be lookin’ on wid his eyes cocked up’ard like two poomp-handles, an’ he widdout a speck or a smitch o’ whiskers on him, and his finger-nails full a yard long. But it’s dying you’d be to see the missus a-larnin’ him, and he grinnin’ an’ waggin’ his pig-tail (which was pieced out long wid some black stoof, the haythen chate!), and gettin’ into her ways wonderful quick, I don’t deny, imitatin’ that sharp, you’d be shurprised, and ketchin’ and copyin’ things the best of us will do a-hurried wid work yet don’t want comin’ to the knowledge of the family—bad luck to him! Is it ate wid him? Arrah, an’ would I be sittin’ wid a haythen, and he a-atin’ wid drum-sticks—yes, an’ atin’ dogs an’ cats unknownst to me, I warrant you, which is the custom of them Chinesers, till the thought made me that sick I could die. An’ didn’t the crayture proffer to help me a wake ago come Toosday, an’ me a foldin’ down me clane clothes for the ironin’, an’ fill his haythen mouth wid wather, an’ afore I could hinder squrrit it through his teeth stret over the best linen table-cloth and fold it up tight, as innercent now as a baby, the dirty baste! But the worrest of all was the copyin’ he’d be doin’, till ye’d be distracted. It’s yerself knows the tinder feet that’s on me since ever I’ve bin in this country. Well, owin’ to that, I fell into the way o’ slippin’ me shoes off when I’d be settin’ down to pale the praties or the likes o’ that, and, do ye mind, that haythin would do the same thing after me whiniver the missus set him parin’ apples or tomaterses. The saints in heaven couldn’t have made him belave he cud kape the shoes on him when he’d be payling anything. Did I lave fur that? Faix an’ didn’t he get me into trouble wid my missus, the haythin? You’re aware yerself how the boondles comin’ from the grocery often contains more’n’ll go into anything dacently. So, for that matter, I’d now and then take out a sup o’ sugar, or flour, or tay, an’ wrap it in paper and put it in me bit of a box tucked under the ironin’ blankit the how it cuddent be bodderin’ any one. Well, what should it be, but this blessed Sathurday morn the missus was a-spakin’ pleasant and respec’ful wid me in me kitchen, when the grocer boy comes in an’ stands fornenst her wid his boondles, an’ she motions like to Fing Wing (which I never would call him by that name nor any other but just haythin); she motions to him, she does, for to take the boondles an’ empty out the sugar an’ what not where they belongs. If you’ll belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that blatherin’ Chineser do but take out a sup o’ sugar, an’ a handful o’ tay, an’ a bit o’ chaze, right afore the missus, wrap them into bits o’ paper, an’ I spacheless wid shurprise, an’ he the next minute up wid the ironin’ blankit and pullin’ out me box wid a show o’ bein’ sly to put them in. Och, the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, and the missus sayin’, “O Kitty!” in a way that ’ud curdle your blood. “He’s a haythin nager,” says I. “I’ve found you out,” says she. “I’ll arrist him,” says I. “It’s you ought to be arristed,” says she. “You won’t,” says I. “I will,” says she; and so it went, till she give me such sass as I cuddent take from no lady, an’ I give her warnin’ an’ left that instant, an’ she a-pointin’ to the doore. It is now the proper time for the cross-eyed woman to fool with the garden hose. I have faced death in almost every form, and I do not know what fear is, but when a woman with one eye gazing into the zodiac and the other peering into the middle of next week, and wearing one of those floppy sun-bonnets, picks up the nozzle of the garden hose and turns on the full force of the institution, I fly wildly to the Mountains of Hepsidam. Water won’t hurt any one, of course, if care is used not to forget and drink any of it, but it is this horrible suspense and uncertainty about facing the nozzle of a garden hose in the hands of a cross-eyed woman that unnerves and paralyzes me. Instantaneous death is nothing to me. I am as cool and collected where leaden rain and iron hail are thickest as I would be in my own office writing the obituary of the man who steals my jokes. But I hate to be drowned slowly in my good clothes and on dry land, and have my dying gaze rest on a woman whose ravishing beauty would drive a narrow-gage mule into convulsions and make him hate himself t’death.

TO BE OR NOT TO BE THE 1% -Since 1975, when the top marginal tax rate was reduced from 70% to 37%, $79 trillion in wealth has been redistributed from the bottom 90% to the top 1%, according to the RAND Corporation.

Beyond The Yellow Fog By EMMETT McDOWELL - https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/64323/pg64323-images.html

 

Does any one remember the Caravan? She was what would now be considered a slow boat—then (1827) she was regularly advertised as the “fast running,” etc. Her regular trips from New Orleans to Natchez were usually made in from six to eight days; a trip made by her in five days was considered remarkable. A voyage from New Orleans to Vicksburg and back, including stoppages, generally entitled the officers and crew to a month’s wages. Whether the Caravan ever achieved the feat of a voyage to the Falls (Louisville) I have never learned; if she did, she must have “had a time of it!” It was my fate to take passage in this boat. The Captain was a good-natured, easy-going man, careful of the comfort of his passengers, and exceedingly fond of the game of brag. We had been out a little more than five days, and we were in hopes of seeing the bluffs of Natchez on the next day. Our wood was getting low, and night coming on. The pilot on duty above (the other pilot held three aces at the time, and was just calling out the Captain, who “went it strong” on three kings) sent down word that the mate had reported the stock of wood reduced to half a cord. The worthy Captain excused himself to the pilot whose watch was below and the two passengers who made up the party, and hurried to the deck, where he soon discovered by the landmarks that we were about half a mile from a woodyard, which he said was situated “right round yonder point.” “But,” muttered the Captain, “I don’t much like to take wood of the yellow-faced old scoundrel who owns it—he always charges a quarter of a dollar more than any one else; however, there’s no other chance.” The boat was pushed to her utmost, and in a little less than an hour, when our fuel was about giving out, we made the point, and our cables were out and fastened to trees alongside of a good-sized woodpile. “Hallo, Colonel! How d’ye sell your wood this time?” A yellow-faced old gentleman, with a two-weeks’ beard, strings over his shoulders holding up to his armpits a pair of copperas-colored linsey-woolsey pants, the legs of which reached a very little below the knee; shoes without stockings; a faded, broad-brimmed hat, which had once been black, and a pipe in his mouth—casting a glance at the empty guards of our boat and uttering a grunt as he rose from fastening our “spring line,” answered: “Why, Capting, we must charge you three and a quarter this time.” “The d——l!” replied the Captain—(captains did swear a little in those days); “what’s the odd quarter for, I should like to know? You only charged me three as I went down.” “Why, Capting,” drawled out the wood merchant, with a sort of leer on his yellow countenance, which clearly indicated that his wood was as good as sold, “wood’s riz since you went down two weeks ago; besides, you are awar that you very seldom stop going down—when you’re going up you’re sometimes obleeged to give me a call, becaze the current’s aginst you, and there’s no other woodyard for nine miles ahead: and if you happen to be nearly out of fooel, why——” “Well, well,” interrupted the Captain, “we’ll take a few cords, under the circumstances,” and he returned to his game of brag. In about half an hour we felt the Caravan commence paddling again. Supper was over, and I retired to my upper berth, situated alongside and overlooking the brag-table, where the Captain was deeply engaged, having now the other pilot as his principal opponent. We jogged on quietly—and seemed to be going at a good rate. “How does that wood burn?” inquired the Captain of the mate, who was looking on at the game. “’Tisn’t of much account, I reckon,” answered the mate; “it’s cotton-wood, and most of it green at that.” “Well, Thompson—(Three aces, again, stranger—I’ll take that X and the small change, if you please. It’s your deal)—Thompson, I say, we’d better take three or four cords at the next woodyard—it can’t be more than six miles from here—(Two aces and a bragger, with the age! Hand over those V’s).” The game went on, and the paddles kept moving. At eleven o’clock it was reported to the Captain that we were nearing the woodyard, the light being distinctly seen by the pilot on duty. “Head her in shore, then, and take in six cords if it’s good—see to it, Thompson; I can’t very well leave the game now—it’s getting right warm! This pilot’s beating us all to smash.” The wooding completed, we paddled on again. The Captain seemed somewhat vexed when the mate informed him that the price was the same as at the last woodyard—three and a quarter; but soon again became interested in the game. From my upper berth (there were no state-rooms then) I could observe the movements of the players. All the contention appeared to be between the Captain and the pilots (the latter personages took it turn and turn about, steering and playing brag), one of them almost invariably winning, while the two passengers merely went through the ceremony of dealing, cutting, and paying up their “anties.” They were anxious to learn the game—and they did learn it! Once in awhile, indeed, seeing they had two aces and a bragger, they would venture a bet of five or ten dollars, but they were always compelled to back out before the tremendous bragging of the Captain or pilot—or if they did venture to “call out” on “two bullits and a bragger,” they had the mortification to find one of the officers had the same kind of a hand, and were more venerable! Still, with all these disadvantages, they continued playing—they wanted to learn the game. At two o’clock the Captain asked the mate how we were getting on. “Oh, pretty glibly, sir,” replied the mate; “we can scarcely tell what headway we are making, for we are obliged to keep the middle of the river, and there is the shadow of a fog rising. This wood seems rather better than that we took in at Yellow-Face’s, but we’re nearly out again, and must be looking out for more. I saw a light just ahead on the right—shall we hail?” “Yes, yes,” replied the Captain; “ring the bell and ask ’em what’s the price of wood up here. (I’ve got you again; here’s double kings.)” I heard the bell and the pilot’s hail, “What’s your price for wood?” A youthful voice on the shore answered, “Three and a quarter!” “D——nèt!” ejaculated the Captain, who had just lost the price of two cords to the pilot—the strangers suffering some at the same time—“three and a quarter again! Are we never to get to a cheaper country? (Deal, sir, if you please; better luck next time.)” The other pilot’s voice was again heard on deck— “How much have you?” “Only about ten cords, sir,” was the reply of the youthful salesman. The Captain here told Thompson to take six cords, which would last till daylight—and again turned his attention to the game. The pilots here changed places. When did they sleep? Wood taken in, the Caravan again took her place in the middle of the stream, paddling on as usual. Day at length dawned. The brag-party broke up and settlements were being made, during which operations the Captain’s bragging propensities were exercised in cracking up the speed of his boat, which, by his reckoning, must have made at least sixty miles, and would have made many more if he could have procured good wood. It appears the two passengers, in their first lesson, had incidentally lost one hundred and twenty dollars. The Captain, as he rose to see about taking in some good wood, which he felt sure of obtaining now that he had got above the level country, winked at his opponent, the pilot, with whom he had been on very bad terms during the progress of the game, and said, in an undertone, “Forty apiece for you and I and James” [the other pilot] “is not bad for one night.” I had risen and went out with the Captain, to enjoy a view of the bluffs. There was just fog enough to prevent the vision taking in more than sixty yards—so I was disappointed in my expectation. We were nearing the shore for the purpose of looking for wood, the banks being invisible from the middle of the river. “There it is!” exclaimed the Captain; “stop her!” Ding—ding—ding! went the big bell, and the Captain hailed: “Hallo! the woodyard!” “Hallo yourself!” answered a squeaking female voice, which came from a woman, with a petticoat over her shoulders in place of a shawl. “What’s the price of wood?” “I think you ought to know the price by this time,” answered the old lady in the petticoat; “it’s three and a qua-a-rter! and now you know it.” “Three and the d——l!” broke in the Captain. “What, have you raised on your wood, too? I’ll give you three, and not a cent more.” “Well,” replied the petticoat, “here comes the old man—he’ll talk to you.” And, sure enough, out crept from the cottage the veritable faded hat, copperas-colored pants, yellow countenance and two-weeks’ beard we had seen the night before, and the same voice we had heard regulating the price of cotton-wood squeaked out the following sentence, accompanied by the same leer of the same yellow countenance: “Why, darn it all, Capting, there is but three or four cords left, and since it’s you, I don’t care if I do let you have it for three—as you’re a good customer!” After a quick glance at the landmarks around, the Captain bolted, and turned in to take some rest. The fact became apparent—the reader will probably have discovered it some time since—that we had been wooding all night at the same woodyard!

Made to Measure By WILLIAM CAMPBELL GAULT - https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/51194/pg51194-images.html

 He turned on the ignition and said, "Start." 

 

Some people were satisfied with mediocrities. Unscientific people.

Why was he restless? Why was he bored? Was he worried about his job?

 

"That was tactless last night. Very, very tactless."

"Yes, Joe. Tact requires deception. Tact is essentially deception."