THE Regina landlady screamed for police when she discovered a wicked-looking hunting knife under the new boarder’s pillow. She was terrified at the thought she was harboring a Jack the Ripper, but after police grilled the boarder briefly they were able to assure the landlady he was no more bloodthirsty than the next whodunit reader.
A confirmed reader in bed, the boarder had found some uncut pages in his latest thriller, had gone for his
trusty bowie knife to slit them— then tucked the weapon under his pillow and forgotten about it.
• • •
Calgary police have been cracking down on speeders on the city outskirts, but one motorist got back at them. A new road sign appeared on Macleod Trail, just where it enters the city, propped informally against a telephone pole: “SLOW—cop behind bushes ahead.”
• • •
On arrival in Chatham to play the opening at a renovated ballroom, the 12-piece brass and reed assemblage from Hamilton was highly annoyed to find the place bare of dancers and still aswarm with workmen. Smiting his brow, the proprietor told a sad tale of delayed construction due to shortages and apologized profusely for forgetting to notify the orchestra.
He offered to pay the band’s travelling expenses and sign them up for future engagements, but the boys just gave him the Petrillo glare:
“Nothing doing—we get paid in full.”
“Okay,” the proprietor glared back, “but if I pay you play.”
The carpenters and electricians had a gay old evening, pounding and wiring away eight to the bar, while the band played on in the otherwise empty hall.
• • •
Reporters on the Montreal Herald better not try padding any taxi bills they turn in to night city editor AÍ Palmer. Palmer knows all about taxi rates because as a remunerative sideline he operates a cab himself.
Al does his newspaper chores from 5 p.m. till 3 a.m., sleeps till noon, then turns cab executive for the afternoon
—checking accounts, instructing his two drivers and planning new fields to conquer. This makes for a fairly heavy day-and-night’s work, but Palmer’s single cab currently clears about $65 weekly which puts him in an income bracket well over most newspapermen.
• • •
The Toronto nursery school was staging one of those juvenile dramatic efforts. The first act curtain raised on a cherubic four-year-old Angel Gabriel—halo glowing above golden curls, wings sprouting from silver robes . . . and lips irrevocably sealed, despite the prompter’s hiss from offstage.
Gabriel just stood there, unperturbed. A second hiss from the prompter produced a frown, then drew an explanatory announcement to the audience.
“I’m not going to say anything,” declared Gabe.
There was a gurgle from the audience, then Gabriel hissed back at the prompter out of the side of his mouth: “I wanted Tommy to be IT!”
Laughter greeted the flurried descent of the curtain, and backstage the producers decided to hurry into the second act. Unfortunately, this was supposed to open with the Angel Gabriel leading a group of youngsters in a song, instead of which he merely continued to view his audience and
Finally a few tremulous voices were coaxed to begin without Gabriel, who thereupon unloosed his final comment of the evening.
“And I’m not going to sing, either!”
But young Gabriel dominated the rest of the show, anyway, wandering about the stage trying futilely to divest himself of halo and wings.
Once you’ve got them, wings apparently are just about as hard to get rid of as they are to win.
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