“No gasolene shall be handled in any way for charging or filling any tank or repository by artificial light, and never at all after sundown,” reads the ordinance, passed in 1906. A fine of not more than $100 and imprisonment not exceeding thirty days, either or both, is provided.
“It is dangerous to handle such a fire producer as gasolene after sundown because people become careless and in many cases use open torches, candles or matches, to get enough light to see what they are doing,” said the fire chief. “Such carelessness leads to increased danger from gasolene explosions.”
It was because of efforts of the fire department to stop violations of the law, which, it is said, have become common, that Kolman, whose place of business is at No. 435 West Bond street, was docketed.
The ordinance was passed April 13, 1904, and amended Oct. 10, 1906, and August 14, 1907.
Recorder Schwarz remarked, in hearing the case against Kolman, that he had never heard of the ordinance, and that if it did exist he had seen it violated a number of times.
Down Main Street drove Carl Wilson, 1228 Jenifer Street, yesterday on the seat of an undertaker’s ambulance, blowing on his fingers to warm them. Presently he saw a familiar figure on the sidewalk. It was Gus Hart, 2231A Holton Street.
“Hey, Gus,” he called. “Come on and take a ride.”
Gus climbed to the seat beside Wilson and smiled expansively.
“Yes, it ain’t,” said Carl. “I’m cold through and through.”
“How can any man like this?” said Carl angrily. “You must be crazy.”
Then they fought on the seat of the undertaker’s ambulance, while the horse took the opportunity to snatch a few moments of rest.
Both were taken into the South Side Municipal Court this morning. Carl looked at Gus and Gus at Carl.
“Say, judge,” said Carl. “We’re friends. But even friends fall out about the weather. Let us off, will you?”
Acting Judge Casimir J. Welch let ’em off.
With his young wife clasping him in her arms and sobbing bitterly, Louis Short stood with hanging head in District court on Friday, heard himself branded as a forger, and in a shaking voice told how he had forged the check because his baby had died and he had no money to bury the little body.
A hush fell over the courtroom at the sight of the young couple standing in the prisoners’ dock, crushed and broken after the bitter, losing fight against poverty and temptation. They have been married but two years and were happy in their little home in Chicago until the boy husband lost his job.