O.O. McIntyre
Dayton Daily News/July 14, 1914
NEW YORK, July 14. Patrolman George F. Armstrong was seating himself nonchalantly in a chair in the back room of the Simpson street police station preparing for a little nap before going out on his beat. It suddenly occurred to him that it might be well to count his monthly pay, as he had just cashed his check at a saloon. He pulled out his wallet, thumbed the bills and then gave a yell like a Comanche of the reservation. “Poo-leece,” he shouted, and the room soon filled with bluecoats. “What’s the matter?” they demanded. Armstrong didn’t speak—he couldn’t—he just held toward them a fluttering yellowback. Upon investigation It proved to be a $1,000 bill. He hustled back to the saloon and said to Tom McQuade, the proprietor: “Look what you gave me.” McQuade looked. “Huh! Oh, that! I’ve got several of them layin’ around here. Have a cigarette or a cigar?” he yawned.
Thls seems to be the year for the turning worms. You’ve heard, of course, about John Bull winning the polo cup, also the St. Louis Browns cup in the American league race, and the trouncing Yale gave Harvard? Very well, then. Hark to the story of James W. Donely (the Done in his. name is good). James is a locomotive engineer. In 1879 he married. Every Saturday night since that time he has been handing Mrs. Donely his weekly envelope. For 35 years he never held out once. Some record. The other day Donely, who lives in Jersey City, asked the court for an accounting. He says he can get no satisfaction from his wife as to what she did with the money.
The police In New York sometimes give cause for the remark of a former police commissioner. He was talking about the stupidity of some of the members and finally said with a smile: “But at that. I love every bone In their heads.” The latest blunder made by the members of the force was a raid on Bryant park. Vagrants had been making the park objectionable to those who at night had occasion to walk through it. It was taken for granted that at a certain hour all those seated in the park would be vagrants. So the police descended and 250 were bundled into patrol wagons. At headquarters it was learned that two were a man and wife of entire respectability, resting for a bit on their way home. Others of the 250, while frankly dozing there, were in no sense vagrants without home or livelihood. Only one person out of the lot deserved to be arrested, and yet all were humiliated without any apology. What the magistrate said, however, caused many of the raiding officers to tingle.
Frank Bostock, a sporting writer with the Cleveland ball team, is a great admirer of his home city, and will go to any length to defend It. Recently, while Bostock was in New York watching the Yankees and Naps battle for cellar honors, one of the New York baseball writers made a somewhat slurring remark about the home city of the Naps. Bostock was on the job in a defensive way instantly and for several minutes extolled the virtues of the Forest City. After he had run out of praise the writer who caused all the trouble said:
“Cleveland? Oh, yes; that’s the place where Rockefeller goes when he wants rest and quiet.”
Bostock did not reply. It was too much.
Speaking of monumental nerve! One thousand feet of ocean front, belonging to the public, has been fenced off at Brighton Beach by a development company and an admission of 15 cents per person is charged. The company declares the measure was taken to keep the riff-raff out and defy the mayor and aldermen to stop them. Mayor Mitchell has ordered an Investigation, and the manager of the company say flippantly: “Let them investigate all they want. We are here to stay, and if they want to see the ocean they must pay.”
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