Billy Baxter's Letters

By William J. Kountz, Jr.

Contents:
Preface
Out Hunting
One Night
In Society
In Love
In New York
Johnny Black's Girl

PREFACE

In presenting this work, we believe that an explanation is 
due the reader as to why the letters are given in their present 
form at this time.

The first book published, "One Night," was "issued by The Duquesne 
Distributing Company to show its great love for the American 
people, and to incidentally advertise the 'R--R--S--.'"  Its 
success was immediate.

"In Society" appeared February 1, 1899, and scored as promptly 
as "One Night." The demand for the booklets was phenomenal, and 
Mr. Kountz received thousands of friendly letters applauding 
him for his humor. He also received flattering offers from the 
leading comic weeklies, the metropolitan dailies, and great 
advertisers throughout the Union. He declined them all, being 
primarily a business man, and carrying literature only as a 
side line.

On May 1st "In Love" was given to the public, with the promise 
that "In New York" would follow on October Ist. On the evening 
of August 9th, William J. Kountz, Jr., turned to the writer of 
this preface, and referring to "In New York," said: "Well, I'm 
through, all but going over it." He never returned to his office, 
and on August 18th he died in the room where he was born not 
quite thirty-two years before.

We then conceived the idea of putting the letters out in their 
present form, as a last tribute to the author, who in less than 
a year's work lifted himself into a place among the nation's 
humorists.

We have reproduced only such of the prefaces and advertisements 
as have been widely discussed for their humorous quality, and 
which the author's friends insisted should no be omitted.

The two heretofore unmentioned letters were discovered after 
the author's death, and are published in the rough, as they 
were found. "Out Hunting" is based on a trip which actually 
took place, and from personal knowledge contains a good deal 
of fact. It was doubtless written before "One Night," and for 
that reason is given priority in the arrangement.

"Johnny Black's Girl" is merely a scrap, and is inserted as 
such. It shows, however, that the author had a "tear for pity" 
as well as an eye for the ridiculous.

Geo. McC. Kountz.

OUT HUNTING

Pittsburg, September 1, 1898.

Dear Jim:

I am just back from St. Paul, where I spent a couple of days 
with Teddy Worthington. Teddy and Bud Hathaway of Chicago were 
going on a shooting trip in the Big Woods of Minnesota, and they 
asked me to go with them. It was new deal for me, so of course I 
was for it. I hired a hammerless breech-loader for seven a week, 
borrowed a lot of fishing-tackle, and bought a hunting-knife with 
a nickel-plated handle. It was a beaut, and stood me three fifty. 
A fellow can never be too careful. Up there you are likely any 
minute to come face to face with an Apache or some old left-over 
Aztec rubbering around among the trees.

At the last minute Bud Hathaway's father had to die, so just Teddy 
and myself went. After we left the train we rode twenty miles in 
a wagon to Freshwater Lake, which was our destination. The house 
where we stayed was kept by a half-breed guide named Sarpo, and 
with him lived his two sons and his second wife, who was a young 
white girl, and not a bad looker at that.

The next morning we started out after ducks. I made a horrible 
bluff that I was one of the old boys at the business, and that 
I was on to everything--till it came to loading my hammerless, 
and there's where I went to the bad. I couldn't get the blamed 
thing open. Teddy handed me a few of his kind little remarks, 
and I got back at him with something personal. He got sore. No 
thoroughbred kidder would have grown personal, but I couldn't 
think of anything else at the time. There was nothing stirring 
in the duck line, and for two hours we sat all hunched up in a 
little boat among a lot of weeds. It was getting to be a sad 
affair for me, and I was thinking of Atlantic City, and the bands 
of music, and the swell dances, and trying to figure where these 
hunters have the fun they are always coming home and talking 
about, when suddenly along came a drove of ducks.  On the square, 
there must have been a million. The other members of the party 
began picking them off, but your Uncle Bill is one of those wise 
shooters. I waited till they were right over my head. Say! they 
were so thick I couldn't see the sky. I let go with the first 
barrel, right into the center of the bunch. Nit duck. Then the 
second barrel went off of its own accord. I'll swear, Jim, I had 
nothing whatever to do with it. Anyway, nit duck. I think if I'd 
had three barrels on that gun I would have nailed a duck, a duck 
and a half, or two ducks, as I was just getting good. I loaded 
up, and I must have been flustered a bit, as I blew one of the 
decoys clear into the next block.

Then things again assumed their usual hunter's attitude, and 
after sitting for another hour we paddled over to our sail-boat 
and started down the lake for the house. It was blowing pretty 
hard, and the sky was blacker than Pittsburg. The skipper said 
something about a squall, but it didn't hit us until we were 
about two hundred yards from the dock. Then we got it, and got 
it good. It was buttercups and daisies. Thunder, lightning, rain, 
and all the side dishes. I'd have given eight dollars to have 
seen a cable car coming along about that time. The skipper yelled 
to me to ease off the larboard stay. Now, I might know something 
about mince pie, but a larboard stay is not my long and hasty. 
Then some one pushed me aside, and succeeded in putting things 
in such excellent shape that we ran plumb through the dock. It 
was great!

That night we sat around, and Sarpo and his sons told some funny 
stories. My, but they were to the saddings! I told one of my best, 
and nobody filtered but Teddy.

The next morning at five we took the dogs and started out after 
deer. They have what they call run-ways or deer passes, and the 
deer always go the same route. They ought to have better sense, 
although as far as I am concerned they are perfectly safe. They 
put me on one of the passes, behind a lot of underbrush. Well, 
I sat and sat until I went to sleep, but I slept with one eye 
open. Deadwood Dick and all the great scouts and trappers had the 
one-eye-open habit. I was awakened by hearing something crack, 
and there standing about twenty feet away with its side turned 
to me was a deer. It must have belonged to the fair sex, as it 
had no horns. Talk about shaking! I would have shaken my best 
friend. I finally pulled myself together, and remembering the 
ducks, I let her have both barrels at once. She kicked her feet 
up in the air, turned her head, and on the level, she gave me 
the laugh and cut into the woods. I believe she saw me all the 
time, and knew I was a lobster.

On the way back, I met the half-breed, and we walked together. 
On reaching the house we happened to glance through the window, 
and there was Teddy with his arm around the young wife's waist. 
Teddy always was a rubber.  It was lovely cards for a while, and 
Teddy worked the old gag that he was showing her how they did in 
a play, but she wasn't wise enough to follow it up, so we had to 
leave.

While returning on the train I made the horrible discovery that 
I had been using my buckshot on the ducks and my birdshot on the 
deer. I can see how the deer got away, but I'll say one thing, 
and that is, that if a passing duck had ever reached his mitt out 
for one of those buckshot he would have thought Rusie was doing 
the pitching. He would have got it fine and daisy.

I am not for the country. They have ticks, jiggers, and gnats, 
all doing a nice conservative business at once.  You never had 
a tick on you, did you, Jim?  Well, a tick is a very busy little 
cup of tea. First, he'll crawl all over you, and then select a 
spot on the back directly between the shoulder blades, where you 
can't reach him. I talked to a man who was up on ticks, and he 
said a tick was wiser than a bedbug. Now, you take a bedbug whose 
head is perfectly clear, and who hasn't been drinking or smoking 
too much, and there won't be many men on Wall Street much wiser 
than he is. Well, after a tick gets his place picked out he 
burrows in under the skin, then dies and festers. You wouldn't 
catch a bedbug standing for that martyr game.

There should be some kind of a law against gnats.  About two 
hundred of them will stay right in front of your eyes until one 
of them gets an opening; then he'll cut in and land a jab, and 
the other hundred and ninety-nine will give you the Big Minnehaha. 
I had so many lumps on me when I got back to St. Paul that they 
called me Pneumatic Willie.

Talk about your sylvan dells and sweet-scented fragrance! Why, 
an asphalt street has a sylvan dell skinned to death, and a 
twelve-percent soap factory is sweet enough for me.

Yours as ever,

Billy.

P. S.--Good night. I'm for the sleeps.

ONE NIGHT

A Kind of a Preface

The Baxter Letters are written in the up-to-date slang of the