# The Black Cat (magazine)/Volume 22/Number 2/Hazard & O'Chance

​HAZARD & O'CHANCE: LIGHT COMEDY
BY FRANCIS W. DEVER
Highway robbery is a legitimate profession as practiced by these two comedians, who pool their capital in one grand plunge on the good horse, Pat McGlynn. But Pat proves to be one of those flivvers that pass in the night. .
ICIOUSLY the September sun cast its enervating rays on the macadem of the Black Horse Pike. Wearily the drooping figures of Terrence O'Chance and me shuffled over it, (the pike, of course), burdened each with the weight of a traveling bag and a heart heavy with woe; and with pockets that sang not the sweet melody of jingling coins.
This wallop of Fate we would, ordinarily, have accepted with the calm philosophy of practice. Involved in our late descent from affluence, however, were many things which rendered it, even to our callous hides, a blow most cruel indeed.
Before carrying you over the route from effect to cause, a word or two anent the dramatis personae would seem not out of place:
Terrence O'Chance is five feet, eight, ovate, and ample of back. Red hair and imperturbability are a rare combination. Terrence possesses it. Also, he has a captivating, redeeming, blue-eyed humor. And when you hear the voice of him, you sense the purl of water through the green-scoured hills of Erin; and you know that Terrence O'Chance has hung by the heels from Blarney Castle, and pressed his lips against a certain facet of cold, unresponsive stone, not once only, but often, and passionately.
My own specifications I will omit. In their stead, permit me to offer that if the autobiography of alias Dave Hazard were written, it would contain sequent and closely related chapters entitled: Broadway on the High Gear; The Expensive Heart of Mazie Terpsichore; A Row with Dad; and Pruned from the Family Tree.
Two weeks prior to the staging of this comedy, Terry and I desired to operate in the town of Oyster Grass, New Jersey. One of our preliminaries was to call on Reuben Venal, chief of police. Character analysis accomplished, we discussed our enterprise with him. A a result, it was mutually agreed and understood that each and every night at the hour of eight, and stealthily, Terry or I would deposit in the yawning palm of the officer on our beat, the meager sum of two dollars. Said Reuben Venal, in return, was to render himself and his department, as far as possible, concerning a certain stuss game, bereft of sight, speech and hearing. Further: Hazard and O'Chance were to be advised of any raid, foray, visit, or other device tending to jeopardize their peace, liberty, or comfort, at least thirty minutes in advance.
​Ten days that little game of ours prospered. Then, unheralded, one night at the hour of nine, the officer into whose yearning palm Terry or I had deposited each and every night at the hour of eight, and stealthily, the meager sum of two dollars, closed our doors and projected us into the august presence of His Honor, the mayor.
We were held for court then in session. Ere another two suns had sunk beneath the hills that fringed the western rim, the Grand Jury had us indicted. We pleaded guilty. The judge was an adept at knowing what the traffic would bear. He fined us two hundred and fifty each, accepting my stop watch, worth three hundred, for the twenty dollars we were short; and suspended sentence. In reference to our future, he advised most kindly; and gave us three hours to relieve the country of the "odium" of our presence. The cynosure of eyes choleric, eyes contemptuous, and eyes commiserating, we slunk from the court house. With an hour to spare, we hurried over the county line.
Again you see Terrence O'Chance and Dave Hazard, misanthropes, wilted, leg-weary, and barren of funds, plodding disconsolately over the somber surface of the Black Horse Pike.
"'Tis a foine pass we've come to when two dacent respectable gamblers can't ply their trade without bein' persecuted be a bunch of rubes that couldn't tell a full house from low casino," mourned Terry.
"We rave about Rooshia and the Jews but, in me own opinion: 'Charity begins at home.' It's got so a man can't participate in a game of penny ante in the gintle warmth of his own foireside without some self-appointed eradicator of vice reportin' the incident to the police. The country's gone to the divil."
"Professional jealousy, Terry," I explained. "The pirates of finance have it on us. With wealth on their side, they're out to eliminate competition. What chance have honest men like us against them?"
"Niver a monad," said Terry. "But there's wan little oasis in this desert of persecution. Down on the boardwalk, the other day, a chap was tellin' me about it. It lies south of the Mason & Dixon line.
"Makin' powder for the allies is the chafe industry.
"Pick and shovel men recave four dollars a day; and the poor unfortunates are rakin' their brains for conganial ways of partin' with it. Law and order would be as welcome as roaches in Mrs. Rohrer's kitchen. There's only wan first-class game of chance in the town, too, and it don't begin to handle the patronage. Be golly, Dave, if we had a hundred dollars, we'd go down there, and soon be lopin' along on the road to filthy opulence."
"One hundred dollars!" I laughed bitterly. "If we had fifty cents right now, we wouldn't be dining on raw turnips and tomatoes, believe me. If we don't reach Philadelphia shortly, we'll be stricken with acute indigestion from worry and lack of proper food." Just then, as a touring car rushed past, some one in it threw a folded newspaper. It took Terry on the side of the head, and ricocheted sharply ​to the road. Terry rubbed his head ruefully. Angrily my eyes followed the car.
"Forget it," smiled Terry. "I have no kick to register. It moight have been a brick."
He stepped to the newspaper and picked it up. At once he turned to the sporting page. We read the Belgrave entries together.
"Look at Pat McGlynn in the third," yelled Terry. "Nointy eight pounds, and apprintace allowance. The handicapper must have been intoxicated. If Pat McGlynn couldn't bate that field with William Howard Taft up, Oi'm no judge of skates. The pickers have overlooked him, too. Oi'll bit ye could get as good as tin to wan. And us without a cint! Dave, if we can raise twinty dollars be tomorrow at iliven, and tiligraph it to McTurf, we'll be anyway two hundred dollars to the good. Thin we'd go down and show thim poor pick and shovel min how to be happy though married to four dollars a day."
I laughed quietly as Terry raved on.
About two o'clock that afternoon, we came upon a little four by six box by the roadside. Terry peered in the window.
"It must be a pay station," he announced. "There's a tiliphone in it."
This was my second trip over the Black Horse Pike. My first had been made by automobile. The chauffeur, a garrulous fellow, had informed me regarding this very box.
"It's a pay station, all right," I answered cynically. "Not the kind you mean, though. It's one of those diabolic contrivances known as speed traps.
"Another legal shakedown. There's no danger of us getting caught in it today, is there?" I laughed. "At any rate, it's only operative on Sundays when business is particularly good. You see, if it were worked every day, motorists would learn to run through it slowly, and another 'jestice o' the peace' and another 'conshtable' would be working for their living."
"Only on Sunday you say it's worked," mused Terry. "I wonder now—" Again he peered through the window. "There's a copy of the Revoised shtatutes lyin' on the 'phone stand. I wonder now—say, Dave, aren't ye almost a lawyer?"
"Another year at school would have turned the trick," I answered.
"Foine;" his eyes scintillated with the joy of a new-born inspiration. "The trap's sit Ye may be the jestice of the pace, Oi'll be the conshtable. To avoid confusion, and minimize complications, we'll shtop no cars bearin' New Jersey licenses. It moight also be well to sit up yer office in the cut back of this hill. Whin Oi make an arrest, Oi'll have the prisoners droive in. The hearin's had better be proivate."
"You don't mean' for us to—"
He interrupted while I was grasping the import of the scheme: "Ye get me, Oi think."
"Terry, you've got brains," I said with much eclat; no one who knew you long could well gainsay that. This proposition of yours looks good; it teems with the spice of adventure. There's only one serious objection to it; you're taking something and giving nothing in return. Was it Jeff Peters or Andy Carnegie who laid so much ​stress on this violation of business ethics? Whoever it was expressed my sentiments."
"How much does the Shtate of New Jersey owe us roight now?" he inquired.
"Considering mental anguish, ruin of business, lawyer's fees and fine, I should say about three thousand dollars. Neverthe—"
He again interrupted. "Yer estimate's low. But it disposes of the shtate. As to the motorist: There is written in the shtatutes of this shtate a law which provides a pinalty to be assissed on thim that droive their automobiles or motorcycles beyant a given shpade.
"Ivery toime a motorist violates this shtatute and gets away with it, he defrauds and insults this inglorious commonwealth. In shpoite of yer opinion of shpade traps, Oi think they're a grand and not unnaccassary corractive inshtitution. Not less than half a dozen toimes this very day we have been missed be the diameter of an oylash as some woild divil shot by. Can't ye see that we're doin' the shtate a sarvice be the settin' of this trap? At the same toime the money we collect in the name of the shtate, and turn over to ourselves rajuces the shtate's debt to us, and don't cost the shtate anything. Wan thing Oi'll grant: the shtate won't appreciate the work we're about to do. But rapublics and commonwealths are provarbially ungrateful."
I wrung his hand. Terry's logic was compelling. From the depths of my travelling bag, I disinterred a field glass. I handed it to Terry.
"Remember," I reminded, "a New Jersey license is as good as a passport. And we'd better not stop anything running less than forty miles an hour.
"From past observation, we'll keep busy enough at that."
"Very well, Yer Honor." Terry saluted comically.
The first car to feel the spring of the trap bore a New York license.
"Ye are under arrist for shpadin'," Terry informed the chauffeur.
A man on the rear seat bent forward smiling. He consulted a bill fold of unusual promise.
"My friend," he stated, "we are in a great hurry. We plead guilty. How much do we owe you?"
Terry and I held council. I came forward.
"You are fined five dollars and costs," I announced. Seven dollars and fifty cents, total."
He proffered a crisp ten dollar bill. "Good day, gentlemen," he bade us genially, and made no reference to his change.
"Pretty soft, Terry, pretty soft, eh, what?" I chortled.
"That wan was, yis," Terry admitted. "They won't all be in a hurry, though."
The next two cars bore Pennsylvania licenses. After some argument, and reference to the Revised Statutes, we collected from each seven dollars and fifty cents. We might have gotten more, but the motorists seemed pretty good fellows.
Then came the fourth car; in it a tartar. New York should have been ashamed of him.
"Outrageous," he blustered when Terry informed him of the charge. ​'Outrageous, I repeat. Let me warn you that I will pay no fine, sir. First I will rot in one of your filthy jails."
"Ye were runnin' at the rate of fifty miles an hour, contrary to one of the shtatutes of this shtate, the number of which I disremember" Terry answered without show of spirit.
"You are mistaken, sir. I was not running a mile over thirty-flve," asserted he who would rot in jail.
"Well, thirty's the limit," said Terry. "Bring yer machine off the highway. Ye'll be blockin' traffic."
Court convened. Preliminaries over.
"Mr. Plethore," said I, "you have heard the charge of 'Constable Burk.' What have you to say?"
Mr. Plethore had a great deal to say. He directed a tirade of invectives against the State of New Jersey—the integrity of its judiciary; the honesty of its people, (called them leeches, vampires, and sand-burrs), and their culture; and deeply into the tender flesh of its traditions, he jabbed the harpoon of coarse irony. Vocabulary of abuse exhausted, he paused.
"You seem to forget that you are in the presence of the court," I reminded.
"Court!" he howled. "A court of grafters, I should call it."
"Foine him for contimpt" whispered Terry.
"Enough said, my friend," I warned the defendant, assuming a mien of legal severity. "You are fined ten dollars for contempt of court, and ten dollars and costs for speeding. And if the fine does not have the effect of civilizing your tongue, we will try harsher measures."
"I desire to enter an appeal," he stated with the wheeze of an exhausting gas-bag.
"You may do so," I bluffed. "Bear in mind, however, that your remarks relative to the courts of this state will not look well on the records. You have your rights, nevertheless, so we will enter an appeal." Mr. Plethore engrossed himself in deep thought.
"Your Honor," said he, for the first time, and in melliferous tones, "an apology is due you. Permit me to offer it humbly and sincerely. This matter has annoyed and inconvenienced me more than you can imagine; and it is clear that I have allowed my temper to overrule my better judgment. Permit me to rid myself of the unpleasant incident. Will you kindly vacate the appeal? I have but fifteen dollars in cash on my person; will you accept my cheque for the balance?"
"Your apology alters the aspect of the case," I said. "Appeal not entered. Your fine for speeding is reduced to seven fifty and costs, and the law will consider its dignity upheld by a five instead of a ten dollar fine. Fifteen dollars removes your obligation to the court. Thank you. May we meet again under less embarrassing circumstances. Bon Voyage!"
Mr. Plethore and his little Ford rambled on. As he moved off, I noted on his brow a cumulus of anger. So did Terry.
"Dave," said Terry, "it's about toime for us to be hittin' the grit. If Oi'm any judge of human nature, Mr. Plethore is goin' to bawl us out to ivery traveller he meets. Complications are inivitable, as me friend the poet ixprisses it. A half hour hince, ​and ivery pitchfork wielder in this locality will be trailin' us. The day has been profitable; why risk further humiliation at the hands of this accursed common wealth.'*
Walking rapidly, we soon came to a flag station of the Philadelphia & Fog River Railroad. Opportunely, too.
Shortly we were bowling merrily toward the big city across the Delaware. Once over the river, we breathed relief.
"Terry," I conceded, "the thirty-nine dollars we collected this afternoon is the product of your gray matter. Minus carfare expended, the disposition of it lies with you. I believe you mentioned a horse called Pat McGlynn, running at Belgrave tomorrow in a field of dogs. How much goes down on Pat McGlynn?"
"Since ye put it that way," answered Terry, "we'll woire twinty foive to McTurf."
First, though, we took the "L." Time to telegraph was not so precious. On the other hand, it were better not to linger long near the Jersey ferry. At Fortieth and Market Streets we left the "L." Immediately we hunted up a telegraph office. As telegraph companies are somewhat chary of handling business relating to horse racing, unpleasant questions are sometimes asked in this connection. Communicating with McTurf by means of a code, we wired with the twenty-five, this message which, in view of what precedes, is no doubt clear:
See Pat after two tomorrow. Make best bargain.
Hazard & O'Chance.
It occurred to me, after the telegram was on its way, that it would have been safer to have used "McGlynn" instead of "Pat" to designate the entry. Terry laughed when I voiced the thought.
"McTurf makes no mistakes," he assured me. "You should know that by this time. Pat McGlynn is the only Pat intered for tomorrow, anyhow."
"Third race: Fedora wins!" I read to Terry next evening from a sporting extra. "Among others, I observe that one Patrick McGlynn also ran," I remarked cynically.
Terry gazed at me. I gazed at Terry. Silently, sorrowfully, we fell into the arms of each other; silently, sorrowfully, we wept upon the shoulders of each other.
What did the gods think we were, anyway?
To a café we wandered, and sought solace in drinks of many colors, and maundered of evil stars, and the tenacity of misfortune until the shrill, defiant crow of a cork in a poultry store nearby apprised us of approaching dawn. In the nepenthic grip of saturation, we wended a tortuous journey to our little third-floor-back.
There in the gentle arms of Slumber, (or Morpheus, if you insist), we knew no more until well into the morning, when some one knocked loudly upon our door. It was the landlady. An expressman desired that we sign for a money package, she stated. Terry and I rushed to the street door. Sure enough, there was a money package—value three hundred and fifteen dollars! Terry opened it. This is the gist of the note it contained:
Twelve to one was the best I could get on Fedora. Harris and I cracked a couple ​of pints on you which accounts for the missing ten. Don't be so cryptical in indicating your skate hereafter. You had me guessing for a few minutes. Regards.
McTurf.
"If McTurf calls this a joke," said Terry, "Oi'm a willin' victim."
"Sentiment echoed," I returned. For fully an hour Terry and I mooted this strange matter. Like a will-o'-the-wisp, solution seemed as far away at the conclusion as when we began. One thing we knew: the money belonged to us, however its acquisition was brought about. McTurf's note had not been written to veil an act of benevolence. He was no paragon of charity we knew.
"How about the tiligraph company?" suggested the resourceful Terry.
We called at the office from which we had telegraphed McTurf.
"Will you please have ours of yesterday to McTurf, New York, repeated?" I asked the clerk.
A little later the clerk submitted for our inspection the following:
See hat after two. Make best bargain.
A DATE WITH FATE, by Gertrude Sanborn is another December feature. It is a cheery little story of a woman who went into the park in search of romance because she was tired of crocheting picots across guest towels and was bored by a husband who was a perfect forty-eight (around the waist) and had a perennial pain in his shoulder.