The judgments and biases of 1923
In January 1923, wolves had been hunted into rarity in Arkansas, but their legendary terrorism still howled through the pages of the Arkansas Gazette.
One old, canny and savage loner known as “Old Blue” was said to be stalking Prairie County. In a long, meandering feature, the Gazette celebrated his exploits by quoting old-timers who had tangled with timber wolves long before.
Meanwhile, the Gazette added, in North Little Rock, the fire department had three pet wolves.
They were about 10 months old, and “according to their owners, are gentle, affectionate, playful and generally angelic. But of course a fireman’s specifications for an angelic disposition may not exactly coincide with those of people who lead less rugged lives.”
That phrase — “specifications for an angelic disposition” — bothers my brain. Each of us — each one different from every other one — do seem to carry around sets of criteria that allow us to discern character, or lack of it, in other people, animals and even things. And different specifics arise from different people’s upbringing, experiences and associations (biases).
Did Arkansans use different criteria in 1923? I have no answer. I haven’t even clearly framed the question. But I do have these stories from January 1923 that would make texts for discussion.
THE DEMENTED COBBLER
The Jan. 14, 1923, Gazette reported the sad case of Fred Dawson, “aged, friendless and apparently penniless recluse.”
Dawson, 73, was living and conducting business in a dilapidated cobbler shop at 1703 W. Third St.
He had been arrested Jan. 13 after asking several printing shops to print money for him. He carried blank sheets of paper cut in the shape and size of money.
Municipal Court Judge Troy Lewis appointed Drs. W.A. Lamb and E.E. Hodges to examine Dawson. They declared him irresponsible — demented. He was confined to a sanitarium.
But when he kept insisting that he had several hundred dollars in his tumbledown shop, Dr. Lamb and W.E. Greene, court clerk, went there with the old man and uncovered assets amounting to almost $3,000.
They found $584 hidden behind boxes, in trunks, behind
loosened wallpaper. About $400 was in $1 and $5 bills; $107.40 was in silver. Two stock certificates from the U.S. Automotive Corp. had a cash value of $530, and a bank register showed he had $1,801 in a savings account at the American Bank of Commerce and Trust.
His neighbors told the Gazette they hardly knew him; but he had been robbed and assaulted a few years earlier: “It is said his mind has been unbalanced since, as he received a heavy blow on the head and never recovered from the effects.”
Several times he had complained about check swindlers to the police.
Dawson told his examiners that he had no relatives and had spent 23 years at an Illinois insane asylum — but whether he was an inmate or an employee he could not recall. He described field work, and so they decided he was an inmate.
Stories in the Jan. 15 Arkansas Democrat and Jan. 16 Gazette conveyed an update: The doctors and judge had declared Dawson was in fact sane.
He was merely in very poor health from lack of care and lack of attention.
He would remain in the Sharp Sanitarium at 16th and Cumberland streets until he recovered his health. Also, he had remembered that he had two brothers and a sister in Illinois, whom he had not seen in 20 years.
C.E. Wright of Judsonia, a newspaper reader, wrote to the court that he recalled Dawson but hadn’t seen him in 40 years. Wright said Dawson’s people lived in Marshall, Ill.
By Jan. 19, the Democrat knew that Mrs. Elizabeth Clatz of Marshall was willing to take care of her brother. Dawson also had a brother who was a railroad fireman in Marshall. Clatz had requested a photo to ensure that Dawson was indeed their missing brother.
By the Jan. 20 Gazette, Dawson had become “the aged and eccentric cobbler”; and the judge was trying to persuade him to move to Illinois and live with his sister.
THE THIRSTY STICKUP MEN
The Jan. 15 Gazette also reported that an Army officer and his sons had been held up on a deserted road outside Little Rock.
After 25 years in the Army, including combat service, Col H.A. Meyer of the Picron area had his first encounter with highwaymen: five masked bandits with five revolvers.
“How are you fixed?” their spokesman demanded.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Colonel Meyer.
“Well, what have you got in the back end of your car?” said the head bandit.
“Oh, I got my boys, some guns and a dog back there,” Meyer said.
Confiscating the colonel’s flashlight, the head bandit searched the rear of the car while the other four stood guard.
After finding no booze to take he said, “Give us that dog.”
Meyer refused: “He’s a good dog and I don’t want to part with him.”
“Aw, let ’em keep his dog,” another bandit argued. “We don’t want it.”
The masked men backed away, allowing Meyer to leave. But his car snagged on a stump and he was stuck.
Without a word, the five bandits returned and lifted the wheel over the stump. The mask fell off one, and he made no effort to hide his identity. But the Meyers didn’t know him.
Meyer and his sons proceeded home to Little Rock. The Gazette concluded: “The matter was not reported to the authorities.”
FIREMAN’S CAR BURNS
This story appeared in the Gazette on Jan. 9, 1923.
Hunt Raymond, a member of Little Rock Fire Co. No. 3, was fond of his ancient bus. He often said it was kind and gentle and would stand hitched, and that it would make more miles, and in less time, than any modern bus with all its newfangled equipment.
His fellow firemen said it would not run downhill if pushed.
One time, at 11th and Battery streets, the bus set itself afire. Raymond dashed to the nearest house, calling for water.
“Don’t you want me to call the Fire Department?” the woman of the house asked.
“No!” Raymond exploded. “I wouldn’t have that bunch down at Central station know this for anything you could name.” They would seize the excuse to roll the poor bus into the river and drown it. He saved its life on his own.
More recently it had bumped into a street car, but he was able to repair the bus using tin and baling wire from the city dump.
The old bus “was running fine yesterday when Raymond ventured forth to give it a trial on the city speedway,” the Gazette reported. “You could hear the motor humming smoothly several blocks, and the rattle of tin sounded like a melody on a piano out of tune.”
Until, all at once, it expired in a fiery blaze of glory.
The Gazette reported that when Raymond walked into the station house with an automobile tire draped over each shoulder, “his mates knew that the hour had arrived when they could say Requiescat in Pace to Raymond’s ancient bus, which, from force of habit, was called an automobile.”
A wolf might seem tame while being kept well fed. An elderly man might appear demented because he’s underfed. Stickup men might help you come unstuck. A machine might feel like your best friend only because you’ve had it a long time.
Judgment might feel like discernment and yet be wrong.