‘The Dumb Man’

by Sherwood Anderson

There is a story - I cannot tell it - I have no words. The story is almost

forgotten but sometimes I remember.

The story concerns three men in a house in a street. If I could say the

words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women,

of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. My

tongue would be torn loose--it would rattle against my teeth.

The three men are in a room in the house. One is young and dandified.

He continually laughs.

There is a second man who has a long white beard. He is consumed with

doubt but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps.

A third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously

about the room rubbing his hands together. The three men are waiting -

waiting.

Upstairs in the house there is a woman standing with her back to a wall,

in half darkness by a window.

That is the foundation of my story and everything I will ever know is

distilled in it.

I remember that a fourth man came to the house, a white silent man.

Everything was as silent as the sea at night. His feet on the stone floor of

the room where the three men were made no sound.

The man with the wicked eyes became like a boiling liquid - he ran back

and forth like a caged animal. The old grey man was infected by his

nervousness - he kept pulling at his beard.

The fourth man, the white one, went upstairs to the woman.

There she was - waiting.

ow silent the house was - how loudly all the clocks in the neighbourhood

ticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story.

She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create in love.

When the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward.

Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.

The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question.

His eyes were as impersonal as stars.

Down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost

hungry dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew

tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He never awoke again.

The dandified fellow lay on the floor too. He laughed and played with his

tiny black moustache.

I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I cannot tell the story.

The white silent one may have been Death.

The waiting eager woman may have been Life.

Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think and

think but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do not

think of them at all. I keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed

all through my story.

If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could run

through the world telling a wonderful story. I would no longer be dumb.

Why was I not given words? Why am I dumb?

I have a wonderful story to tell, but know no way to tell it.

word complete: I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I

The Collision

by George Ade

Once in the dim dead Days beyond Recall, there lived a blue-eyed Gazook

named Steve.

We refer to the Period preceding the Uplift, when the Candidate wearing

the largest collar was the People's Choice for Alderman.

A Good Citizen wishing to open a Murder Parlor needed a couple of Black

Bottles, a Barrel of Sawdust and a Pull at the City Hall.

When he opened up, he threw the Key in the River and arranged to have

the Bodies taken out through the Alley so as not to impede Traffic in the

Main Thoroughfares.

Twelve months every Year marked the Open Season for every Game from

Pitch-and-Toss to Manslaughter.

Any one in search of Diversion could roll Kelly Pool at 10 Cents a Cue in

the Morning, go to the Track in the Afternoon, take in a 20-round Scrap in

the Evening and then Shoot at the Wheel a few times before backing into

the Flax.

The Police were instructed to make sure that all Push-Cart Peddlers were

properly Licensed.

Steve roamed the Wide-Open Town and spread his Bets both ways from

the Jack.

When he cut the String and began to back his Judgment he knew no Limit

except the Milky Way. Any time he rolled them, you could hear

considerable Rumble.

All the Bookies, Barkeeps, Bruisers, and the Boys sitting on the Moonlight

Rattlers knew him by his First Name and had him tagged as a Producer

and a Helva Nice Fellow.

The Collision

by George Ade

Once in the dim dead Days beyond Recall, there lived a blue-eyed Gazook

named Steve.

We refer to the Period preceding the Uplift, when the Candidate wearing

the largest collar was the People's Choice for Alderman.

A Good Citizen wishing to open a Murder Parlor needed a couple of Black

Bottles, a Barrel of Sawdust and a Pull at the City Hall.

When he opened up, he threw the Key in the River and arranged to have

the Bodies taken out through the Alley so as not to impede Traffic in the

Main Thoroughfares.

Twelve months every Year marked the Open Season for every Game from

Pitch-and-Toss to Manslaughter.

Any one in search of Diversion could roll Kelly Pool at 10 Cents a Cue in

the Morning, go to the Track in the Afternoon, take in a 20-round Scrap in

the Evening and then Shoot at the Wheel a few times before backing into

the Flax.

The Police were instructed to make sure that all Push-Cart Peddlers were

properly Licensed.

Steve roamed the Wide-Open Town and spread his Bets both ways from

the Jack.

When he cut the String and began to back his Judgment he knew no Limit

except the Milky Way. Any time he rolled them, you could hear

considerable Rumble.

All the Bookies, Barkeeps, Bruisers, and the Boys sitting on the Moonlight

Rattlers knew him by his First Name and had him tagged as a Producer

and a Helva Nice Fellow.

Steve heard vague Rumors that certain Stiffs who hurried home before

Midnight and wore White Mufflers, were trying to put the Town on the

Fritz and Can all the Live Ones, but he did not dream that a Mug who

went around in Goloshes and drank Root Beer could put anything across

with the Main Swivel over at the Hall.

O, the Rude Awakening!

One day he was in a Pool Room working on the Form Sheet with about

150 other Students and getting ready to back Sazerack off the Boards in

the Third at Guttenberg, when some Blue Wagons backed up and Steve

told the Desk Sergeant, a few Minutes later, that his Name was Andrew

Jackson.

Next Day he had a Wire from a Trainer but when he went to the old

familiar Joint, the Plain Clothes Men gave him the Sign to Beat it and he

turned away, throbbing with Indignation.

The down-town Books were being raided but the Angoras kept on

galloping at the Track, so he rode out on the Train every day in order to

preserve his Rights as a free-born American.

One Day just as he was Peeling from his Roll in front of the Kentucky

Club, in order to grab Gertie Glue at 8 to 5, Lightning struck the Paddock

and laid out the entire Works.

When the Touts and the Sheet-Writers and the Sure-Thingers came to

and began to ask Questions, it was discovered that the Yap Legislature

had killed the Racing Game and ordered all the Regulars to go to Work.

Steve went back to Town in a dazed Condition to hunt up the Gang and

find out what could be done to put out the Fire.

When he arrived at the Hang-Out there was a Flag at Half-Mast. The

Roost had been nailed up for keeping open after Eleven o'Clock!

A few Evenings after that he sauntered up to a large Frame Building to

look at a couple of Boys who had promised to make 135 Ringside.

A Cannon was planted at the Main Chute and the Street was filled with

Department Store Employees disguised as Soldiers.

Nothing doing.

The Governor had called out the Militia in order to prevent a Blot being

put upon the Fair Name of the Commonwealth.

With the Selling-Platers turned out to Pasture, the Brace-Box and the

Pinch Wheel lying in the Basement at Central Station, the Pugs going back

to the Foundry and all the Street Lamps being taken in at Midnight, no

wonder Steve was hard pushed to find Innocent Amusement.

He started to hang around a Broker's Office but it was no Fun to bet on a

Turn-Up when you couldn't watch the Shuffle. Besides, the Game was

Cold and was being fiercely denounced by the Press.

For a Time he kept warm in a Bowling Alley. Drive a Man into a Corner

and goad him to Desperation and he will go so far as to Bowl, provided

that he lives in a German Neighborhood.

One Evening he went down to see the Walhallas go against the

Schwabens, but the Place was Dark.

The Authorities had interfered.

It seemed that the Manufacture of Bowling Balls involved the Destruction

of the Hardwood Forests, while the Game itself overtaxed certain

Important Muscles ending with "alis," at the same time encouraging

Profanity and the use of 5-cent Cigars.

Steve had one Stand-By left to him. He could prop himself up on the

Bleachers with a bag of lubricated Pop-Corn between his Knees and hurl

insulting Remarks at Honus Wagner, Joe Tinker and Ty Cobb.

When he crawled up in the 50-cent Seats he found the same old Bunch

that used to answer Roll Call at the Pool Room, the Sharkey Club, and the

Betting Ring.

The Law had made them Decent Citizens, but it hadn't made them any

easier to look at.

Steve longed for the Ponies and the good old Prelims between the Trial

Horses, with Blood dripping from the Ropes, but when he picked up the

Pink Sporting Page in the Morning, all he could find was that the Sacred

Heart Academy has wrested the Basket-Ball Trophy away from the West

Division High School.

Base Ball is only Near-Sport to one who has whanged the Wise Ikes that

mark up the Odds. Steve went to it because there was nothing else on the

Cards.

One Day he found every entrance to the Park guarded by a Blue Burly

and the Crowds being turned away.

The Health Department had put in a Knock on the Game, on the Ground

that the Ball, after being handled by various Players and passed from one

to the other, carried with it dangerous Microbes.

The Officials insisted that, after every Play, the Ball should be treated with

an Antiseptic or else that each Player should have an Individual Ball and

allow no one else to touch it.

The Society for the Protection of the Young had put up a Howl because

the Game diverted the Attention of Urchins from their Work in the Public

Schools and tended to encourage Mendacity among Office Boys.

The Concatenated Order of High-Brows had represented to the proper

Authorities that, as a result of widespread Interest in the demoralizing

Pastime, ordinary Conversation on the tail-end of a Trolley Car was

becoming unintelligible to University Graduates, and the Reports in the

Daily Press had passed beyond the Ken of a mere Student of the English

Language.

The Medical Society certified that eight out of ten Men had shattered their

Nervous Systems, split their Vocal Cords and developed Moral

Astigmatism, all because of the Paroxysms resulting from Partisan Fervor.

Either build an Asylum in every Block or else liberate the present Inmates

of all the Nut-Colleges. It was not fair to keep the Quiet Ones locked up

while the raving Bugs were admitted to the Grand Stand every Afternoon.

Under the Circumstances, a purely Paternal Administration could do only

One Thing. It put Base Ball out of Business.

On the very next Afternoon the unquenchable demand for Sport asserted

itself.

Steve went into the Back Yard with his eldest Son and looked about

cautiously.

"Is the Look-Out stationed on the Fence?" he asked.

"He is."

"Is the Garden Gate securely locked?"

"It is."

"Are the Mallets properly muffled?"

"They are."

"Then t'hell with the Law! We'll have a Game of Croquet."

MORAL: If it is in the Blood, the only Remedy is the substitution of Iced

Tea.