﻿BONE-YARD  
By T-BONE SLIM 

I’m in a terrific fix editor, I can’t make up my mind which is the more entertaining, an ice cream social or a rummage sale—I leave it to you. 

Wealth is a slick scheme to get something for nothing. %! Do I hear any opposed? 

A Hi-Jacker’s capital—is his gun. Any objections? If not? So ordered. 

Can it be? Can it be that aforesaid rummage sale, a religious ceremo . . . ceremoney, is nothing but a depraved second-hand store sanctified with a blessing? Amen. So ordered. 

To Say that man is entitled to profits on the $500 he has saved—that is in a business way—is to say that he was not paid in full when he got the 500. 
I concede the point. 
He is entitled to profit—on them grounds—and again, he isn’t. 
He should have got the amount of the profits in the first place, the same place where he got the 500—not from every John, Hick and Larry. Fine set of social bookkeeping it would be if a man could leave part of his income behind and then start collecting from entire strangers! 
Bums, I calls ‘em. 
And again, he is entitled to profits to a certain extent but that does not mean that he may run his $500 into $3,500,000,000, not by damsite—and still keep on collecting. 
Upon seventh thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that he should lose the $500 for trying to tax innocent bystanders. 

“WORKMAN IMPROVES 
AFTER SUSTAINING 
BROKEN RIBS”— 
Just as I suspected. It’s unbroken ribs that’s holding us back. 
Possibly if his neck too was broken he would be a regular, whirlwind of a workman. 

“Broke, jobless and cold John Lucas, 22, Wilmtngton, Del., demanded the privilege of dying in an Electric chair. . . .” 
High toned “buck” wasn’t he? 
Once upon a time, on a personally conducted excursion (or incursion) I too had the misfortune to project myself upon Wilmington—the B & O bull tight on my heels. 
Although I didn’t precisely insist on being executed, I couldn’t help but wish that if ever again I visit Wilmington, I’ll have no objections to being crucified. 

“SOUTH FLORIDA 
STORM LOSS 
HITS $200,000,000” 
When anything hits dollars and cents is amounts to something!—and the papers are bound to mention it in a casual way. And, I think, our papers should point out to the palpitating public, especially to the nervous rebel girl whose heart is going twitter-twitter, and to the calm, fierocious male radical whose heart is repeating potato-potato that when zephyrs on the warpath “hits $200,000,000” it also hits a millionaire or two, more’s the pity. 
Imagine a perfectly good millionaire being bowled along end for end over acres and acres of finest fruit land; a long lanky financier making revolutions in the air like a crankshaft with one end loose from its bearing, and a big fat money king rolling along the terra-not-so-firma and land of the free, like a barrel of calcium carbide —imagine this and you lose all taste for the tilting doldrums of the Charlesdale “wrastling.” 
Imagine our own Johnny Rockefeller, the Dime King, doing a tail spin in i cloud of dust, dishpans and debutantes — Imagine this and you’ll wonder what’s the world coming to. 
More. You’ll stand aghast—you’ll be unable to wonder. 
Yea. You’ll blurt out “God! is there no safe retreat for our better people— our money men and weather-beaten better- halves?” 
Discouraging outlook, true, but when we consider that money men don’t risk their hide down there during hurricane season, we can dry our leant and view the fleet of cardboard houses (in the air) with a feeling akin to equanimity. 
The human loss is not under discussion—we know God loves the poor—we’re discussing dollars and cents. And the marvel is not that millions were demolished by a slight breeze (of about the same intensity as that of a Ford uhhobbled). The marvel is that they stood all those calm days. 
Several ships r e p o r t e d nasty, weather. 
Sailors must be getting neurotic! 
1926_80_IW_16101926 
BY THE POWERS! 
 
We, the people, have a way of using old, obsolete terms or sayings that convey a meaning that is foreign to the facts in the case. 
For instance, in a case of death we say he was “gathered unto his ancestors”—to kind of fill up the collection, I s’pose—when we should say “he climbed the family tree.” We simply cannot bring ourselves to say “he played his last tune,” or, more direct still, “he lost his life or coughed up the ghost.” No; we’ve got to beat around the bush and insinuate (just because we’ve been hi-balling all our life) that he’s gone to his eternal rest. 
Nothing of the kind! He died and had to be carted away — he didn’t go — never moved. Only recently I read a statement that “Truth, alone, will set you free,” and, being of inventive turns of mind, I got to wondering if “truth” could be harnessed so’s to lift one of those htavy hand-cars on the track. 
My partner suggested that I better stick to perpetual motion (he’s a sarcastic cuss). That’s what comes of having too many chestnuts in the fire. But I couldn’t very well give up the idea because if truth can set me free, there must be power; and power certainly ought to put that car on the track; once on the track we could take it off the track by using a little falsehood. 
It occured to me that it isn’t enough that truth seta me free. We got to hitch it up some way so it will do some of thia work. 
This HE-IDEA of truth going around and freeing people is all right as far as it goes and I believe every word of it. And I believe, further, that it will be a great help to George—George, you know, had a contract to free people while the people were pounding their ear catching a few of those famous forty winks. . . . . 
Now George can lay down his tools— drills, hacksaws, coldcuts and hammers, and take a much needed flop for himself, for the truth is going to cut the shackles that prevent people doing the “Clarenceburg stagger”—and, in the meantime, the people can rest assured that when they wake up they’ll find the bawl and chain missing from their economic-ankle—yessirree—just like that—they even don’t have to give a hand filing them off. Just turn over on their side and stick out their other leg. 
I don’t know how long I would have kept on hugging this idea (of easy virtue) if my partner hadn’t asked me, kind of abruptly: “Slim, are you working in this gang?” 
He’s a sarcastic bugger and if he don’t improve fast I’m thinking of trading him off for a box of snuff or one of those new Fords that make 35 miles on a gallon. 
“Certainly, I’m working in this gang! and I’m about the only one in the gang that is earning the substantial wage issued by the considerate railroad ($7.05 for 5 days’ work, on the former empire-builder, Jim Hill’s Northern Pacific R. R., at Lincoln, Minn., Gang No. 2—what the other gangs got, I know not; but I do know, I had to wait five days (after I quit) before’ I got my seven dollars and a nickel. The company is honest—they even gave me the nickel. . . .  
“Certainly, I’m working in this gang!” 
“Well.” says he, “get a hold of the corner of this car.” 
“Damn those cars, anyway,” says I, forgetting for the time being about applying truth to the job of heavy lifting, “certainly I’ll get on the comer, but, before I do, I wish you fellows would kind of arrange yourselves around the load—there’s four of you on one side and two of us on the other. Indeed it seems to me that we’ve got to organize ourselves so’s not to be too thickly populated on one side. We don’t owe you fellows anything, do we? “ 
They were struck dumb by the force of my logic; and my sarcastic partner even didn’t have a comeback. 
“Certainly, I’ll get on the comer; but bear in mind, not only on this teeny job, but on all jobs we’ve got to organize (to do equitable lifting) until such time as our great author and inventor has perfected an instrument whereby truth can be squirted on the handles and handcars float in the atmosphere—mind you, not that I’m running down truth. 
I am fully conscious of the irresistable horsepower of truth and its potential, its positive pep; as well as I’m aware of the reciprocating effect of falsehood, its destructability and negative noxiousness—you see, I’ve watched for years the struggle between positive truth and negative false- hood and I’ve come to the conclusion that if negative-falsehood didn’t have the veto power, freedom would be a cinch. As it is, class, truth is too busy to give us a hand lifting this handcar. We got to organize ourselves and set it on the track by main-beef—if you please. And we got to organize ourselves into an industrial union to help us lift the wages—stands to reason: If one alone is weak, then many together are strong, and, all together, can raise the heaviest of wages; if they all lift. 
“O dry up on that,” says my partner, “this gang of men know all about that. The trouble is you can’t get the men to stick together.” Can’t, hey? Well, then, that being the case, well just keep on slaving and thank God for the blessings he pours down our neck —and try to get the ball and chain loose by wearing it off. Let’s put the car on the track boys—the company is waiting! 
As I was saying: Industrial Unionism alone, with or without either truth or falsehood, will set you free—nothing else but! 

P. S -A noted electrician said: “Juice will set you free”‘ 
An oracle, of Minneapolis claims: “Snus will set you free—if you chew ‘nough of it.” 
So, how can we decide? At first I thought it a dilemma but now I see its only a predicament.