Jack the Giant Killer

The other day a lady canvasser came up into the Post editorial room with a book she was selling. She went into the editor-in-chief’s office, and her little five-year-old girl, who came up with her, remained in the outer rooms, doubtless attracted by the brilliant and engaging appearance of the staff, which was lolling about at its various desks during one of its frequent intervals of leisure.

She was a bright, curly-haired maiden, of a friendly disposition, so she singled out the literary editor for attack, no doubt fascinated by his aristocratic air, and his peculiarity of writing with his gloves on.

“Tell me a ’tory,” she demanded, shaking her curls at him, and gazing up with eyes of commanding brown.

“A story, little one?” said the literary editor, with a sweet smile, as he stroked her shining curls.

“Most assuredly. What shall it be?”

“Tell me Dack, de Diant Killer.”

“Jack, the Giant Killer? little sunbeam; with all my heart.”

The literary editor helped the little lady upon a stool and began:

“Once upon a time, in immediate proximity to a primeval forest, in an humble abode, where pleasures of a bucolic existence were profitably mingled with the more laborious task of agricultural pursuits, dwelt Jack, the hero of my tale, with his widowed maternal progenitor. Scarcely of a parsimonious nature, yet perforce of economic character, the widow was compelled to resort to numerous expedients in order to prolong existence. She was the possessor of a bovine quadruped of most excellent virtues. Her generous store of lacteal fluid, her amicable and pacific nature, and her gentleness of demeanor had endeared her to both Jack and his mother. But, alas, the exigencies of the situation soon demanded that they part with their four-footed friend, and to Jack the sorrowful duty was delegated to lead with lacerated bosom and audible lamentations their bovine benefactor to the market, to be bartered for the more indispensable necessaries of life. So Jack⁠—”

“Say,” said the little girl, “when is ’ou doin’ to tell me dat ’tory?”

“See here,” said the sporting editor, coming over from his desk, “you can’t expect a kid like that to get a place on such a heavy track as yours. Your talk is all right for the grandstand, but you outclass that five-year-old. What’s the lay you’re on, anyway?”

“Tan ’ou tell me Dack, the Diant Killer?” asked the little girl, apparently favorably impressed with the goodhumored smile of the sporting editor.

“You can gamble on that, sissy,” said that cheerful gentleman, taking her on his knees. “And I’ll put it to you low down, right over the plate, without any literary curve to it.”

“Now you see,” said the sporting editor, “Jack and his mother were short on dough, and the old girl gave him the tip to sling a running noose around the hooker end of the old cow and steer her up against some guy who was willing to put up the scads for a genuine Jersey creamery. So Jack lined up early one morning with the cow in tow, and when the flag dropped he was on the three-quarters stretch for town. Presently a guy came along and offered to plank down a bag of blue beans for the cow. Jack was inclined to give him the marble face at first, but finally called him and the strange bloke got his gaffles in dead easy. Jack was a regular peach pie for a flim-flammer, and no mistake. Jack then slid for home base, and when he worked his chin at the old girl about what he had done she knocked him over the ropes in a pair of seconds. So he⁠—”

“When is ’ou doin’ to begin dat ’tory?” asked the little girl, looking up at him in wonder.

“Well, I’ll be turned out to grass!” said the sporting editor. “I thought I had begun it, sissy,” he said, “but it must have been a foul.”

“What are you fellows teasing that little girl about?” asked the railroad editor, as he came in and hung his cuffs on the gas burner.

“She wants to hear about Jack the Giant Killer,” said the sporting editor, “but doesn’t seem to greet our poor efforts with much hilarity. Do you speak English, or only railroad?”

“It’s not likely she would be able to flag down your cockpit dialect,” said the railroad editor with fine scorn. “Clear the track and let me show you how to interest the youthful mind.”

“Will ’ou tell me dat ’tory?” said the little maiden with a hopeful look in her eyes.

“I will that,” said the railroad editor, seating himself on a pile of exchanges. “You fellows waste too much steam in pulling out of the station. You want to get right into the exciting part from the first.

“Now, little one,” said the railroad editor, “you see Jack woke up one morning and looked out of the window, and the right of way was blockaded by a bean stalk that had run a grand trunk air line that went clear up out of sight. Jack took on coal and water, and, without waiting to see if he had the track, grabbed hold and steamed off up grade without even whistling at way stations. When he got to the end of the run he found a castle as big as a union depot. So he put on brakes and⁠—”

“Tan ’ou tell me de ’tory about Dack de Diant Killer?” asked the little girl.

Just then the lady came out, and the little girl jumped down and ran to her. They had a little consultation, and as they went out the door the staff heard the lady say:

“B’ess um’s heart, muzzer will tell ums all about Jack when us gets home.”