No one since Artemus Ward has started a greater number of witty sayings and amiable hits than the late club favorite, the leader of turf and athletic sport, the stockbroker, W. R. Travers; and it is time the best of them were served up together as a sauce piquante. Wherever he moved, flashes of his droll humor, made still more effective by his stuttering speech, enlivened his comrades. The following anecdotes are obtained chiefly from one of his business associates. The brilliancy of his wit shines with all the more sparkle because of the spirit of good will and of strong sense permeating all he said.
One day after Mr. Travers began business in New York, an old friend from Baltimore met him in Wall Street. As it had been a long time since they saw each other, they had a number of topics to talk over. They had been familiar friends in the Monumental City, and were not therefore restrained by the usual social formalities.
“I notice, Travers,” said the Baltimorean, “that you stutter a great deal more than when you were in Baltimore.”
“W-h-y, y-e-s,” replied Mr. Travers, darting a look of surprise at his friend; “of course I do. This is a b-b-blamed sight b-b-bigger city.”
In the yachting season a loquacious and irrepressible Britisher was invited to accompany a party, of which Mr. Travers was the leading spirit, down the bay in Mr. Travers’ yacht. The voluble English orator had talked everybody within earshot of his voice almost deaf. When the party arrived at the dinner table it was hoped that he would cease for a short time; but when every other topic seemed exhausted, as well as the patience of his listeners, he started off with renewed fluency on the subject of oysters, which constituted the dish then at table.
“It is now a debatable point among scientists,” he began, “as to whether or not the oyster has brains.” Travers, who up to this time had endured the infliction of his loquacious guest with the calmness of Job, said, “I think the oyster must have b-b-b-brains because it knows enough when to sh-sh-shut up.”
The English orator was dumfounded and his fluent tongue ceased to wag.
The worst set-back probably that he ever received during his residence in this city was on one occasion on his way home after the business day was over. Being attracted by the display in the window of a bird fancier and dog dealer, from curiosity he was tempted to enter the place. One of the conspicuous objects that met his eye was a very large-sized parrot. Mr. Travers inquired of the proprietor who was in attendance, “C-c-can th-th-th-that p-p-parrot t-t-talk?”
Its owner quickly replied, “If it couldn’t talk better than you, I’d cut its head off.”
Mr. Travers made up his mind to get even with this dealer in animals and birds, and succeeded most effectually. His coachman made a complaint to him that the stable was overrun with rats. Mr. Travers said, “Well, you m-m-must hunt for a r-r-rat dog.” The coachman made it known that Mr. Travers wanted a dog, and dog dealers soon became as abundant at Mr. Travers’ house as the rats were at the stable. Among the rest who responded was this identical man who kept the store where the parrot was. Mr. Travers recognized him at once, and told him, “If y-you’ll b-b-b-be d-d-down at the s-s-stable in the m-morning with t-th-the d-dog, I’ll g-g-give him a tr-tr-trial, and if he p-p-proves to b-b-be a g-g-good r-rat c-c-catcher, I’ll b-b-buy him.”
Mr. Travers sent for his coachman and told him to catch three or four rats and put them in the bin, and he would be down in the morning to try the dog. So, good and early next morning Mr. Travers was on hand at the stable, and also the dog man and his terrier. Three rats having been put into the bin, Mr. Travers ordered the dog placed there. The rats were so ferocious that they kept the dog at bay, and he took to the corner of the bin for protection. At length the owner pushed him upon the rats, and after a fierce tussle the dog secured one and shook him until dead. This success encouraged a tussle with another, which, after a long fight, shared the same fate. The third rat, however, made a prolonged fight, which resulted in a draw, and it was hard to tell which was the worst hurt, the dog or the rat.
The owner of the dog then turned to Mr. Travers and said: “Now you see what a fine dog that is, won’t you buy him?” Mr. Travers replied: “I d-don’t w-w-want t-t-to b-b-buy the d-d-dog, b-b-but I’ll b-b-buy the r-rat.”
A well known banker of New York, whose head is sparsely adorned with hair, and who had been made to pose in an illustrated paper as a self-made man, tells this story:
“I happened, one afternoon, on my way uptown, to drop into the Union Club, and as usual, went into the main room. It was full of members, largely composed of a scattering of bankers and brokers.
“Travers was present, and when he is on hand on such occasions, it always meant laughter for the multitude at some one’s expense. In this instance it happened to be at mine. As I entered the room, Travers said, in an audible voice: ‘Hallo, boys! here comes the self-made man!’ Then, addressing himself to me, he said: ‘I s-s-say, Cl-Cl-Clews, as you are a s-s-self-made man, wh-wh-why the d-d-devil didn’t you p-put more h-h-hair on the top of your head?’
“I found consolation, shortly afterwards, in a joke that the same facetious individual perpetrated upon another member of the Club, who happened to be one of New York’s most celebrated lawyers. This gentleman has been connected with some of the largest and most remunerative railroad cases in our courts for many years, and is in the habit of exacting a very fat fee from his wealthy clients. He was standing on the side of the street opposite the Club House one afternoon, while Travers, surrounded by a cluster of club men, observed him on the other side, meditating, with hands in pockets. ‘Look across the way, boys,’ said Travers, ‘th-th-there’s B-B-Barlow with his hands in his own pockets at last.'”
A. T. Stewart, the world-renowned retail dry goods merchant, was invited, on one occasion, to preside at a meeting of citizens during the war period, Travers being among the number present. When Mr. Stewart took his gold pencil case from his pocket and rapped with its head on the table for the meeting to come to order, Travers called out, in an audible tone, “C-cash!” which brought down the house, and no one laughed more heartily than Mr. Stewart, although it was a severe thrust at himself.
One of Travers’ best bon mots was inspired by the sight of the Siamese Twins. After carefully examining the mysterious ligature that had bound them together from birth, he looked up blankly at them and said, “B-b-brothers, I presume.”
One of Travers’ contemporaries was a Mr. Frost, whose peculiar methods of financiering gave him an uncomplimentary reputation. Frost had bushy, curly hair, a beardless, full face, and a very red nose, which could have been acquired only at considerable expense. Mr. Travers met this gentleman one morning when time was beginning to tell upon Mr. Frost’s white locks. Travers cordially shook hands with the old gentleman, and, after making a rapid survey of his person, said, “Wh-why, Mr. Frost, wh-wh-what beautiful white hair you have; what a su-su-superb blue n-n-necktie you wear; what a m-m-magnificent red nose you have got. If I had s-s-seen you as I do now in w-w-war times, I should have taken you for a p-p-perfect p-p-patriot, red, white and blue.”
Mr. Travers once said to a friend: “Come and see me in S-September. If y-you wish I will give you a p-point that will m-m-make m-money.” He wished to do the man a favor in return for a kindly office. Late in the month mentioned the friend dropped into Travers’ office.
“C-come for that p-point?” asked Mr. Travers.
“Certainly,” replied the friend.
“Well, y-you are the luckiest d-dog I know. I p-played that p-point two weeks ago myself and lost a pile of money. Y-you, st-stick to m-me l-long enough and c-close enough, and I’ll l-land y-you in the p-poor-house, sure.”
When “Plunger” Walton was in the height of his prosperity on the turf he met Travers at Saratoga.
“I have been anxious to see you for some time,” said Walton. “I think we can do business together,” he added. “I’ve got good judgment on horses and horse racing, and you have the same on stocks and stock speculation. I’ve made three hundred and fifty thousand dollars on horse races in the last two years. Now, you give me points on stocks, and I’ll give you points on races. Is it a go?”
“Y-you’ve made three h-hundred and f-f-fifty thousand dollars on h-horse racing?” Travers repeated.
“Yes.”
“And you w-want m-me to g-give you p-points on st-stocks?”
“In exchange for my points on horses. Yes.”
“Well, I’ll g-g-give you a f-first rate p-point. If you’ve made that much in two y-years, st-stick to your b-b-business. It is a f-first rate p-point.”
One day, many years ago, Mr. Travers was standing on the curb of New street, opposite the Exchange, buying some stock from a gentleman whose aspect was unmistakably of the Hebrew stamp.
“Wh-wh-what is your name?”
“Jacobs,” responded the seller.
“B-b-but wh-what is your Christian name?” reiterated Travers.
The Hebrew was nonplussed, and the crowd was convulsed with laughter.
The first time Mr. Travers attempted to find Montague street, in Brooklyn, he lost his way, although he was near the place. Meeting a man, he said:
“I desire to r-reach M-montague st-street. W-will you b-be k-k-kind enough to pu-point that way?”
“Y-you are g-going the wrong w-way,” was the stammering answer. “That is M-montague s-street there.”
“Are y-you mim-mimicking me, making fun of m-me?” asked Mr. Travers, sharply.
“Nun-no, I assure you, sir,” the other replied. “I-I am b-badly af-aflicted with an impediment in my speech.”
“Why do-don’t y-you g-get cured?” asked Travers, solemnly. “G-go to Doctor ——, and y-you’ll get c-cured. D-don’t y-you see how w-well I t-talk? He c-cured me.”
A foppish swell, whose polished bald head was conspicuous in one of the clubs, begged Mr. Travers to advise him what character he should take in a coming masquerade.
“W-w-why d-don’t you p-p-powder your head, and g-go as a p-p-pill?” replied Travers.
It is related that when Mr. Travers was once riding in a crowded stage-coach, holding his small son on his lap, a handsome lady appeared at the door of the coach, but every seat being taken she was obliged to stand. Travers reproachfully addressed the child on his knee. “M-my b-boy, w-where’s your manners? W-w-why don’t you g-g-give the lady your seat?”
Mr. Travers was a kind and indulgent father, but was pleased to see his boys manifest ample pluck like himself. Apropos of this characteristic, one of his boys came home one day with a big blackened eye.
“W-w-w-where d-did you g-g-g-get th-th-that?” inquired the father, anxiously.
“In a f-f-fight, sir,” replied the son, who had a similar impediment in his speech.
“D-d-did y-you w-w-whip the other f-f-fellow?”
“Y-y-yes, sir.”
“Q-q-q-q-q-q-uite r-right. H-h-h-here’s a d-d-dollar f-f-for y-you. Always w-w-whip the other f-f-fellow.”
His wit, like that of Tom Hood, did not forsake him even in his last hours.
While on his death-bed at Bermuda a friend called to see him, and said: “What a nice place Bermuda is for rest and change.” Travers replied: “Y-y-yes, th-the waiters g-get th-the ch-change and the h-h-hotel k-k-keepers th-the r-r-rest.”
The closing refrain of every friend of this famous wag always sounds the same—”We shall never see his like again.”
