(It's always interesting to learn things about people, especially people you know but never have met.
Looking over and laughing at the comic pages of The Call every day, you get the feeling that you know
the chaps who tickle you in the ribs via the optics and cause cachinnations.
We reproduce here a cartoon by that famous San Franciscan, Tad, in Circulation, together with some close-up
stuff about George Herriman. Cartoon and close-up are by Tad, who expresses himself with equal facility through
medium of india ink or typewriter ribbon. There are six popular cartoonists in the cartoon.)
ERRIMAN. That's the monicker you see signed to the Stumble Inn drawings in The Call.
His first name is George, but the boys calls him Garge, because that's the way he pronounces it himself.
Now I'm not going to sit here and chuck the swell about that guy, I'm going to tell the truth.
Garge came from somewhere out West, we think it's Los Angeles. He came here on a side door Pullman.
Of course, he wouldn't want me to say so if he was here, but it's a fact just the same.
He hangs around with a lot of painters, poets and authors these days, but when I first saw him he still
had grease from the box cars on his pants.
He looked like a cross between Omar the tent maker and Nervy Nat when he eased into the art room
of the New York Journal twenty years ago. We didn't know what he was, so I named him the Greek,
and he still goes by that name.
Garge is short and wide, like the door of a safe, and as Johnny Dunn, the announcer, used to
say of his wrestler, "He is strong. He can bend 'irun' bars with his naked hands."
Garge also has a peculiar way of drawling. He is never in a rush as he drawls his words.
He calls garden "gordon," he calls harness "horness," he calls cigars
"cigors," and so on.
He always wears a hat. Like Chaplin and his cane, Garge is never without his skimmer.
Hershfield says that he sleeps in it.
Garge has three hobbies. They are Arizona Indians, chili con carne and boxing gloves.
He once knocked a guy cold on the elevated station at Forty-second street, New York City, and has
been living on the "rep" ever since.
No one has ever found out what this knocked out gent did to Garge, but it must have been
something awful, because he has never once lost his temper with us and he has been trough
some tough afternoons and evenings. No matter what happens Garge is always the same.
You can steal his pens, but he only smiles. You can knock California, but he merely smiles.
You can cut up rubber in his tobacco pouch and he'll smoke it just to let you laugh.
He is like the old rye the guy told of. Not a hard word in a barrel of it.
There never was a smoother tempered gent. I'll bet right now that if you asked Garge
what the brick that hits Krazy Kat was made of he'd say velvet.
Then he'd add, "You don't think I'd want the poor lil' cat to be hurt, do you?"
Garge is a great reader and a great movie fan. His favorite author is "Chorles"
Dickens and his favorite movie guy is "Chorles" Chaplin.
He will sit by the hour and talk of them. That is, he used to before the soda store took
the places once held by the Pilsner peddlers.
He brags about his favorites, Garge does, but never about himself.
The violet imitated Garge when it assumed that attitude of shyness.
He thinks he's the rottenest artist that ever got behind a pen, and no matter
how many boosting letters he gets he's of the same opinion still.
Of course, we know better.
Half the guys that never get a boosting letter admit that they're good. Garge doesn't and never will.
He is always last. He laughs, though. Yes, he gets his giggles. When he laughs you'd think he had
just taken a sniff of snuff. It isn't a laugh, it's a sort of internal explosion.