The Hay Thief, the Bathtub, and the Shotgun Out of Repair
A Westside barn alarm turns into a comic opera of nightshirts, a borrowed shotgun and one stolen bale of hay.
The story, cleaned up
A cleaned-up reading of the newspaper page: spelling and layout repaired, one story lifted off a crowded page. It follows the original closely but it is not a transcription. The original page is below; read it if a detail matters.
EDITOR TRIBUNE: Since the Westside cow question has been settled, the inhabitants of that rustic neighborhood have been pining for some little excitement to while away the long and weary evenings. Some two weeks ago a whist club was formed, and succeeded for a time. Then the neighborhood decided to attend Keene’s performance of Richard III, and went home on Friday evening to dream of all sorts of dreadful blood-curdling deeds. But things reached a climax Saturday evening.
Mr. Bilger had been out to a supper, and on coming home immediately retired, but was soon awakened by a noise in the barn. Mr. Bilger took the part of Keene, and hastily making his toilet, which consisted of a mackintosh coat and straw hat, he hastened to his post on the fence opposite the barn, accompanied by a shotgun slightly out of repairs. Somebody hastened to the residence of B. G. Armstrong, where admittance was demanded in heavy dramatic tones. B. G. Armstrong at that moment was dreaming of the duel scene in Richard III, and his sword being in the woodshed, he quietly got out of bed and hid himself in the bathtub. P. J. Armstrong, being naturally of a bold and warlike nature (having on a previous occasion had occasion to crawl under the bed to keep himself from laying hands on the enterprising burglar), hastily completed his toilet and with steady voice demanded, “What wilt thou?” The messenger, who was a lady, explained that he must cross the river for assistance with all possible speed. He grabbed his staff, took both his rheumatic feet and proceeded to police headquarters at a 5:15 gait, having to halt every 20 seconds to push his heart down to its original quarters. On reaching the City Hall, Capt. Andrews immediately summoned two of his men, and arriving at the Bilger residence they spied the would-be Keene, sitting at the butt end of a corn cob pipe, still grasping his blunderbuss. After carefully searching the hay and some empty grain sacks, Capt. Andrews succeeded in making Mr. B. believe the villain had got tired of waiting and had gone home. Mr. Bilger retired for the night, the police promising to guard the house till daybreak. One bale of hay was stolen. Invitations will be issued to intimate friends for the next performance.
“One bale of hay was stolen. Invitations will be issued to intimate friends for the next performance.”
A stolen bale of hay once warranted a midnight siege and a call out of the police; today it reads like a neighborhood group chat gone dramatic. The story also shows how small Olympia’s Westside was in 1891, when barns, City Hall and the police were all within easy—if panicked—walking distance.
From readers
No comments yet. If you know something about this story — a correction, a family memory, a source — it belongs here.