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Updated: July 12, 2025
A late lecture of my friend, Stanley Pumphrey, comprises more of valuable information and pertinent suggestions on the Indian question than I have found in any equal space; and I am glad of the opportunity to add to it my hearty endorsement, and to express the conviction that its general circulation could not fail to awaken a deeper and more kindly interest in the condition of the red man, and greatly aid in leading the public mind to a fuller appreciation of the responsibility which rests upon us as a people to rectify, as far as possible, past abuses, and in our future relations to the native owners of the soil to "deal justly and love mercy."
"Don't look so aghast, Pumphrey. Let her sing a ballad to show you. Her voice is a real curiosity." Madame looked dubiously across the room: her black maid had whispered to her. Lot belonged to an order she had never met face to face before: one that lives in the suburbs of hell. "Let her sing, Pumphrey." "If" looking anxiously to the lady. "Certainly," drawled that type of purity.
Babbitt usually sat at the one near the door, with a group including Gunch, Finkelstein, Professor Pumphrey, Howard Littlefield, his neighbor, T. Cholmondeley Frink, the poet and advertising-agent, and Orville Jones, whose laundry was in many ways the best in Zenith. They composed a club within the club, and merrily called themselves "The Roughnecks."
Do you want us to give those hell-hounds love and kisses, or what?" said Orville Jones. "Do you defend a lot of hoodlums that are trying to take the bread and butter away from our families?" raged Professor Pumphrey. Vergil Gunch intimidatingly said nothing. He put on sternness like a mask; his jaw was hard, his bristly short hair seemed cruel, his silence was a ferocious thunder.
Joe Pumphrey says he saw you out the other night with a gang of totties, all stewed to the gills, and here to-day coming right into the Thornleigh with a well, she may be all right and a perfect lady, but she certainly did look like a pretty gay skirt for a fellow with his wife out of town to be taking to lunch. Didn't look well. What the devil has come over you, George?"
Judges: Henry C. Purdy, Thomas Hutchinson, and James A. Brown. For the Sixth Ward, at the Anacostia engine house. Judges: John D. Brandt, George A. Bohrer, and George R. Ruff. For the Seventh Ward, at Island Hall. Judges: Samuel Pumphrey, James Espey, and John L. Smith. For Georgetown, at the mayor's office. Judges: Edward Chapman, John L. Kidwell, and William H. Edes.
Jovially they whooped back Vergil Gunch, the coal-dealer, Sidney Finkelstein, the ladies'-ready-to-wear buyer for Parcher & Stein's department-store, and Professor Joseph K. Pumphrey, owner of the Riteway Business College and instructor in Public Speaking, Business English, Scenario Writing, and Commercial Law.
Clarence Drum is jealous of him." "Well," said Professor Pumphrey, "you hurt Clarence's feelings, George. He's been out there all morning getting hot and dusty, and no wonder he wants to beat the tar out of those sons of guns!" Gunch said nothing, and watched; and Babbitt knew that he was being watched.
Babbitt's table was particularly happy to-day, because Professor Pumphrey had just had a birthday, and was therefore open to teasing. "Let's pump Pump about how old he is!" said Emil Wengert. "No, let's paddle him with a dancing-pump!" said Ben Berkey. But it was Babbitt who had the applause, with "Don't talk about pumps to that guy! The only pump he knows is a bottle!
Only let any doggone Booster try to get Number 5 away from a live Rotarian next year, and watch the fur fly! And if they'd permit him, he'd wind up by calling for a cheer for the Boosters and Rotarians and the Kiwanis all together!" Babbitt sighed to Professor Pumphrey, "Be pretty nice to have as low a number as that! Everybody 'd say, 'He must be an important guy! Wonder how he got it?
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