LEAVE MY NAME OUT.

Evening Star, Issue 3854, 1 July 1875, Page 3

LEAVE MY NAME OUT.

One of the bores of newspaperdom is the daily procession of chaps who march into the editoral rooms, just after the adjournment of the police court, with the request, “ Please leave my name out of your police reports,” and accompany said request with explanations which prove that the fellows are among the most gifted liars in the universe. The thing is becoming monotonous. It is useless to tell them that a certain way to prevent the dreaded publication is to behave themselves respectably—in they come right on time next morning with freshly-blackened eyes and battered hats, and with the same plaintive petition, or to ask that we falsify the police records as to the character of the offence or penalty*inflicted. As before remai’ked, this is becoming monotonous, and unless there is an early change we shall feel it necessary to adopt the western style of correction, of which the following paragraphs are samples:—Correction.—Tho Mr Sneezer, arrested for being drunk on the streets, is not Mr Snoozer, the fish pedlar. The latter gentleman gets drunk in his own house, believing that intoxication, like charity, bogins at home. Not the man.—The name of Mr U. No, appeared in our Police Court yesterday, charged with stealing a baby waggon. This is not Mr U. No, our well-known bridge-lender. He wouldn’t stoop to steal a baby waggon, though it wouldn’t be safe to leave a circus chariot or a freight train lying around where he could get his hands on it. Amende Honorable, Our local columns yesterday contained an account of the elopement of a gay young Lothario of this town named Stiggins, with the wife of a well-to-do farmer in a neighboring countiy. And now comes Stiggins, the plasterer, to say it isn’t him. Stiggins’a wife is sitting in a buggy in front of our office, and, after a cursory glance at her, we are prepared to say that we wouldn’t blame Stiggins if he did run away. She must be a living and constant provocation to skedaddle. All right Stig. ; it is another man this time, but if you get a chance to elope with a good-looking woman, our advice is to “git.” Give the Devil His Due.—iPluguglie, who runs a saloon on the tow-path, called this morning to say that he is not the Pluguglie who beat and robbed a countryman at a late hour on Wcdnesday night. We are hound to believe him, but at the same time we must say

that we wouldn’t like to meet this particular Pluguglie alone at a late hour of the night with any valuables about us. If robbery, murder, and sudden death are not written on his countenance, we don’t want a cent.— ‘ Hartford Post.’