Saturday, April 15, 2017


Herriman Saturday

January 22 1909 -- About as racist as imaginable, this sort of flippant and contemptuous treatment of black-on-black crime was pretty standard newspaper fodder in the day.


It's amazing that Herriman could bring himself to create this, given that he was (secretly) blavk himself. Or black-ish, I guess, as a Creole. Looks like he absorbed all the racist attitudes of the white community. I don't really understand how that would work.
I guess Herriman was just going along with the ethnic humor of that period. I'm can't exactly wrap my head around it either.

Ben Ferron
Perhaps he viewed ethic humor similar to the way whites enjoy "you know you are a redneck when" or how blacks can use the racist n-word in humor.

Perhaps he was more interested in making a living entertaining an audience than share the same views about race that people in the 21st Century have.
What? Herriman didn't want to entertain people in the 21st Century?
I guess we don't pay him enough:) Seriously when you think what the world was like when this gag was done. 1909 - WWI has not begun, American was a rural nation and even in the cities the blacks and whites lived separate. All the two races had were their prejudices.

I have not seen a picture of Herriman but not all Creole looked black. Here in Louisiana Cajun country there is the French looking as well.

What makes the entertainment of the past that is offensive to us today worth examining is trying to place yourself in a world where this exists. Your original question is a good one. In over a hundred years I suspect that future society will ask the same questions about us.

It has been too long since this site has shown some forgotten black cartoonists work. It is always interesting in comparing the characters designs from both sides of the tracks.
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Friday, April 14, 2017


Wish You Were Here, from Percy Crosby

Here's another early Percy Crosby production, a divided back card with no maker info, with art that I'm kinda surprised he would want to sign. Interesting thing is that this card has weirdly colored lettering, just like this other Crosby card I ran awhile back. Almost seems like a code, but WIGSODUSDILSOUOFOD means nothing to me other than maybe the sound of a sneezing fit.


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Thursday, April 13, 2017


King News by Moses Koenigsberg: Chapter 1 Part 2

King News by Moses Koenigsberg

Published by F.A. Stokes Company, 1941

Chapter 1

Murder with a Carom Shot (continued)

link to previous installment   link to next installment

Justice of the Peace Anton Adam was ready at every moment of the night or day to tie a nuptial knot, preside over a mortuary inquest, make out a bail bond, conduct a misdemeanor trial or perform any of the varied functions for which he was competent “under the authority vested in him by the Commonwealth of Texas.”

As if chopped out of a square block, his five feet of height was matched by his breadth. Each contour of his face harmonized with his figure. The chin and jaws suggested the handiwork of a woodsman with a dull adze. One gentle brown eye, disdaining the preoccupations of its mate, gazed steadily beyond those pres­ent. It might have been the orb of a dreamer in rapt contempla­tion of mystic realms. The other eye was startlingly different in color and behavior. A bright marine blue, it seemed driven by a tremendous diligence in never-ceasing scrutiny of all visible minutiae. Few persons sought to trace in Justice Adam’s counte­nance any hint of his thoughts. It was no more revealing on the bench than in a poker game.

The magistrate was seated under the single gaslight in the tiny courtroom when the posse with Ben Thompson deployed in Veramendi Alley. The desk behind which Anton Adam sat, his back against the east wall, was so scarred and battered that its mere aspect offered a rowdy taunt to the majesty of the law. The only other furniture was two benches and an assortment of camp stools and kitchen chairs.

Fully forty perspiring men squeezed into the smoke-filled room behind Ben Thompson and his police guard. Among them were several friends of the prisoner, including Lee Tarleton, a lawyer hurriedly fetched by Ben’s brother, Bill, who had been for several years a resident of San Antonio. From outside, through Vera­mendi Alley, came the sullen murmur of the waiting crowd. All the adjacent streets were now choked with a surging mass of men, their stern faces more ominous than their numbers.

Ben Thompson
Policemen and county peace officers, with drawn revolvers, blocked off both ends of Veramendi Alley, the two strategic points that commanded the only open routes to Justice Adam’s courtroom. The cell-like chamber in which Ben Thompson awaited arraignment was also accessible through a window that opened from the north wall into a patio shared by the residents of the block. For a mob to reach that patio, however, would have entailed breaking through one or more of the houses surrounding it; and thus far there was no hint of such an extremity.

It was into one of these buildings that I was led by the police­man detailed by Marshal Shardein to restore me to my father. Perhaps a painful scene would have followed the reunion were it not for the salving influence of official attention touched by the policeman’s genial humor. Instead of the thrashing that ordinarily would have attended a similar set of circumstances, there was an animated discussion of what I had seen and heard on Main Plaza.

In a few moments, excited neighbors were questioning me, and presently the party repaired to the patio for more comfortable conversation. Then I saw Ben Thompson the second time. He was seated beside the window opening into Anton Adam’s court.

I never understood my parent’s indulgence on that occasion, but it required little wheedling to have a table moved from his shop to a point at which, though outside the building, we joined the spectators of Justice Adam’s courtroom, actually nearer to the magistrate himself than most of the persons inside. My father’s elbows rested on the windowsill. Standing on the table, I leaned over his shoulder.

Ben Thompson was whispering with Lee Tarleton and another lawyer.

Marshal Shardein was in close conference with Jacobo Coy and several other officers.

The prosecution was in a dilemma. Coy’s canvass of the evi­dence had yielded a unique problem. There was no question about the corollary facts. It was gen­erally known that a bitter enmity had subsisted for months between Thompson and the proprietors of the gambling parlor over which Joe Foster officiated in the Crystal Palace. Thompson had openly charged that he was fleeced out of a large sum of cash in a monte game. He had been heard repeatedly to threaten to “clean out the joint.” He had visited the Crystal Palace earlier that day and demanded to see Jack Harris.

In mid-afternoon, Coy, learning that Thompson had announced an intention to return and “get” Harris, sought out several of his friends. A program was arranged to keep Ben engaged in other parts of town until he could be persuaded to return to Austin, eighty miles north. At sundown, a messenger brought word that Thompson had disappeared from a poker game in a resort “across the creek,” eluded his friends and supposedly gone on a rampage. It was then that Coy took up his vigil under the shadows of San Fernando Cathedral.

Thompson slipped through the loungers in front of the Crystal Palace shortly after seven o’clock. Stepping to the bar, he ordered a pint of champagne. Barney Mitchell, a habitue, greeted, “Howdy, Ben!” and was out of the front door before Thompson could respond, leaving him alone with John Dyer, the bartender.

No patron ever received prompter or politer service. Thompson quaffed the wine as if it were water.

“Now give me your best Havana see-gar,” he ordered.

Dyer was pushing forward a box of cigars when Thompson demanded, “Hasn’t that bastard, Harris, come down yet?”

According to Dyer’s circumstantial account to Coy, repeated later on the witness stand, he answered, “I’ll go look for Mr. Harris.”

“Well, tell him we’ll settle for these drinks in my private office in hell.”

Thompson sauntered toward the street while Dyer climbed to the upper floor. There he reported to Harris that the blustering visitor from Austin awaited him below. Harris came slowly down­stairs. Perhaps until that moment he had hoped to avoid a meet­ing with Thompson. He peeped through the three-inch aperture between one of the swinging fiber doors and the wall on which it hinged. Billy Simms was in front talking with Thompson. Everybody else had vanished. Simms was trying to mollify his old friend, Ben.

The ticket office, a tiny enclosure the inside of which was open to view from all parts of the saloon, stood back of the swing­ing fiber doors. When incomers entered, they continued straight north to the bar or turned west to the ticket window. Dyer, again behind the bar, had an uninterrupted vision of everything inside tile main entrance. He saw Harris walk into the ticket office and pick up a double-barreled shotgun. He saw Simms step back into the saloon.

It was possible for Thompson and Simms to glimpse each other through the space between the two swinging doors and Dyer heard them exchanging words. Thompson on the sidewalk was invisible to Harris, and Harris in the ticket office was completely out of Thompson’s sight.

“Why don’t you make that yellow-bellied bastard come out and fight?” Thompson yelled to Simms.

Harris laid the shotgun in the crook of his left arm and braced himself against a chair. The barrel projected across the opening through which he had peeped a moment before. The muzzle pointed due east. A line drawn from the triggers straight south would have passed through Thompson’s chest a dozen feet away.
Alongside Harris stood an iron pillar, twin of another column on the opposite side of the fiber doors, both serving as props of the upper story. They were round and smooth, each eight inches in diameter. 

Measurements taken afterward showed that Harris stood a full foot north and west of the iron shaft nearest to him.

“Why doesn’t that stinking coyote come out?” Thompson called. “Is that him behind the door with a shotgun?”

“Yes, you dirty  -----, I’m here,” Harris answered.

A revolver-shot crashed. Harris slumped down. The shotgun, undischarged, slipped from his arm. Another pistol blast came while he lay crumpled on the floor. That bullet was never traced.

Simms and Dyer helped Harris upstairs. A lead slug had pierced his chest, rupturing die right lung. Death came before the doctor.

“There won’t be any dispute about these things,” Jacobo Coy told his police confreres, “but what’s a jury going to do when Ben’s lawyers prove that there was no straight line between his gun and any part of Jack Harris’ body? Won’t they have a lot of fun showing that you can’t curve a pistol-shot like a baseball pitcher curves his throw? I know what happened, but a smart lawyer could make my testimony sound like a joke. They’d laugh me out of court.”

“What do you mean ?” asked Shardein.

“Ben killed Harris with a carom shot,” was the answer. “He couldn’t have done it any other way. He laid his sight through the crack in the door against the iron post so that the bullet would carom off into Harris’ body. I’ve taken all the measurements and marked all the positions with chalk lines. I found a sliver of lead on the iron shaft where the bullet glanced off. And Dyer swears he doesn’t know whether the shots were fired over the doors, through die opening between them or through a crack on one side.”

A sharp rap on the magistrate’s desk halted the whispered conversations.

“A prima facie case has been presented and the defendant will be held for the action of the grand jury,” Justice Adam an­nounced. “No arguments will be heard at this time. It would be foolish to consider any question now except the safe conduct of the prisoner to the proper place of confinement.

“In view of the circumstances plain to all present, the court expects the fullest cooperation of all within the hearing of my voice. Certain arrangements have been made. Those not charged with their execution will, immediately upon the adjournment of court, file outside in an orderly manner and refrain from any comment of any kind among themselves or to others until such time as their intelligence indicates that the need for silence has passed. Until court is adjourned you will remain quietly in your present positions.”

Two mounted policemen were dispatched for a cab. There was no secrecy about their errand. In fact, they made a good deal of fuss over it.

At the moment the hack arrived, the courtroom crowd was emptying into the narrow street. The squat figure of Justice Anton Adam was conspicuous. Immediately behind him, a group moved into a huddle, apparently surrounding and screening someone. The magistrate paused a moment as if presenting him­self for observation. Then he stepped into the cab. The compact bunch of men following him gathered around a door of the vehicle. Suddenly, three of them were thrust inside. The move­ment was so swift and abrupt that even the mounted policemen at hand could not have identified the trio.

The courtroom light went out and a constable appeared in the entrance, slowly closing the door and then turning the lock. The cabman lashed his horse. Eight mounted policemen set off, two on either side in Indian file, two ahead and two behind.

A shout, starting at the corner of Veramendi Alley and Acequia Street, rolled through the neighborhood: “They’re taking Thomp­son away!”

Justice Anton Adam stuck his head through the open cab window. “Disperse! Go home! Respect the law!” he roared.

Perhaps the nine galloping horses alone would have forced a path through the weltering crowds; but the grisly visage of Anton Adam, drawing added austerity from his hoarse shouting, left no doubt of the sortie’s success. Men fell backward in real alarm.

The cab and its escort whirled south on Acequia Street, across Main Plaza and then turned eastward on Market Street. It was a mystifying move. Every man in the mob had believed the cab was carrying Ben Thompson to the county jail; but that building lay in the opposite direction. What, they asked, did this mean? Was the killer being hurried to a friendly refuge?

Shouts of mixed perplexity and resentment arose. The horde that had filled the contiguous streets broke into knots and small groups moving eastward, less in purposeful chase than in be­fuddled quest. The mob was dispersing.

Ben Thompson was not in the cab with Anton Adam. The instant the lamp in the tiny courtroom was extinguished, the prisoner, in the hands of four policemen, made his way through the window into the tomb-like darkness of the patio. By the light of a small lantern, he was taken into the living-room that lay behind the Koenigsberg shop on Soledad Street. There, with hushed voices, Thompson and the four policemen sat while my father busied himself among the shelves in front. I spent the interval examining my five companions.

Thompson showed evidence of impatience. He had been an intent listener while Justice Adam was explaining the plan to outwit the mob. He had sneered at the detail of climbing through a window, but he offered no objection when the moment for action arrived. Now the vigil in the back room obviously irked him. He asked for a drink of whiskey. No one had a flask.

He urged that one of the policemen do a bit of reconnoitering. It would afford opportunity to pick up a pint of liquor. The officers were companionable but not obliging. Then Thompson had an inspiration. “Why don’t one of you get something for the kid?” he asked. “I’ll pay for a bunch of bananas if you’ll get it for him.”

That thought found receptiveness. Anyhow, each of the men in the room was eager to know what had been happening out­side. Two of the officers, in mufti, strolled through the shop into Soledad Street. Ten minutes later they were back with a bunch of bananas. No one offered me a counsel of moderation. That is why my recollection of Ben Thompson, though poignant, has been vastly more visceral than mnemonic.

A knock at fhe front door was followed by the entrance of a deputy sheriff. “The coast’s clear,” he announced. “The crowd’s scattered.”

The four policemen and the deputy sheriff led Thompson to the Houston Street side of the patio, where egress had been mean­while arranged. Two cabs waited outside. In ten more minutes, the City Marshal of Austin was safely lodged in the Bexar County jail. There he remained for months until his trial for murder.
The records of Bexar County show that the prosecutors of Ben Thompson exercised every precaution against being “laughed out of court.” Details indicating that the fatal bullet was a carom shot were scrupulously withheld from the testimony at the in­quest over the body of Jack Harris, at the preliminary hearing of Thompson before Justice Anton Adam and at his long-drawn-out trial before Judge George H. Noonan. Apparently, the police dread of ridicule affected the presentation of their case. At all events, Ben Thompson was finally acquitted of the murder of Jack Harris.

His exoneration supplied abundant tinder for a feud between two cities. The acquittal was cited by his Austin friends to em­phasize the harshness of the treatment Ben had suffered in San Antonio. Now that this man’s innocence was certified by a jury of his peers, it was shocking to recall “how he had been held for hours before the dangling noose of a mad mob.”

No mollifying effect flowed from the ruse by which the police had spirited Thompson through the throngs gathered around the neighborhood of Justice Anton Adam’s court. On the con­trary, indignation in Austin was sharpened by the fact that such a stratagem had been necessary.

When Thompson returned to Austin after his formal acquittal, he was greeted as a conquering hero. The International & Great Northern Railroad depot was festooned in flowers and decorated with banners and enormous placards acclaiming the valorous city marshal. Thompson was carried from the train on the shoulders of clamorous admirers to a waiting carriage. Then the horses were unhitched from the vehicle. Ropes were commandeered to attach to the shafts so that a long line of shouting citizens might pull the carriage through the main street to the great granite capitol building. Confetti wasn’t in style at the time. Instead, 45-calibre Colt revolvers echoed in salvos while bands blared, whooping horsemen dashed to and fro, bibulous orators vied in panegyrics and the capital city of Texas turned itself loose in a wild celebra­tion.

“Austin has neglected one tribute to Ben Thompson,” wrote a wag in a San Antonio newspaper of that week. “It should erect a bronze monument to commemorate his invention of ‘the forced loan.’ ”

The quip epitomized one of the outstanding traditions of the Southwest. It was linked with as large a share of Thompson's infamy as his reputation for killing. The story attributed to him the origination of a practice afterward adopted with varying degrees of finesse by other desperadoes.

Joseph Nalle
The technique was best exemplified by an account of its first presentation to Joseph Nalle, the wealthiest man in Austin. Thompson devoted the night before that historic occasion to one of his many losing bouts at table stakes poker. “Frozen out,” he exhausted all his resources for borrowing. Daylight found him seated on the front step of Nalle’s banking house, reeking with liquor, his head between his hands, his elbows on his knees, the embodiment of melancholy.

Nalle always rose before dawn. His first stop of the day was at his bank before any of the employees arrived. It was with con­siderable misgiving that he discovered Thompson on the door­step.

“Howdy, Ben?” the banker greeted. “Is there anything wrong?”

Thompson got slowly to his feet, rolled a pair of bloodshot eyes and mumbled in tragic tones: “Good morning, Mr. Nalle. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Sorry for what, Ben ? What’s happened ?”

“Well, you see, Mr. Nalle,” drawled Thompson, “I know you’re my friend and I’ve come to you because I want to keep out of trouble. I never get into trouble unless I’m worried and I’ve never been so much worried as I am now. You know I never shot a man in my life except after I got into a nervous spasm from worry.
When I get worried my head gets all churned up. It feels as if it were splitting and then something happens inside of me and I don’t know what I’m doing. I guess it’s a sort of a fit. That’s the only time I get into my scrapes. And it feels like one of those times now.”

Nalle would have been delighted to thrust a city’s width be­tween him and his visitor; but that was impossible. To dash into the bank seemed futile. Thompson might suffer a seizure before Nalle could open the door.

“What are you worried about?” the banker parleyed.

“That’s kind of funny, you asking me,” Thompson responded.

“I thought you knew I never worried about anything except money. I just can’t stand owing anybody anything and I’ve got myself into a bad financial mess.”

There was real relief in Nalle’s voice when he said, “Come on in, Ben, and let’s see what we can do about it.”

Of course, the imminence of one of Thompson’s fits was not lessened indoors. It must have weighed heavily on the conscious­ness of the banker because Nalle acted promptly and effectively in applying the preventive treatment Ben prescribed.

And that was how Ben Thompson got his first loan from Joseph Nalle. It was $5,000. Thompson insisted on executing a promissory note and on receiving in return a memorandum signed by Nalle indicating the amount and the due date. This document not only served to quash any taint of extortion, but it also sup­plied a formal record of the Ben Thompson system of forced loans.

Chapter 1, Part 3 next week   link to previous installment   link to next installment


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Wednesday, April 12, 2017


Magazine Cover Comics: Social Advice from Aunty Climax

We can't get enough of Fish's American Weekly covers around here at the Stripper's Guide blog, so enjoy a sample from another of her series, titled Social Advice from Aunty Climax. This one is a satirical take-off on newspaper advice columns, a genre that Fish would poke fun at in several of her series.

This series has the distinction of being her very first offering from the newspaper magazine, as far as I can determine. It began on February 26 1928, and ran in groups of 2-3 in a run, punctuated with other cover subjects by other creators, and ended on July 1 1928.

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You have the correct debut date, It's given the "No. 1" designation in an ad for the American Weekly in the upcoming issue of the Syracuse Sunday American in the 25 February 1928 issue of the Syracuse Journal.
Hello Allan,

I found a comic strip that was not listed in your book.

It is "Horace and Buggy" by Don Edwing and Paul Coker Jr., syndicated by McNaught Syndicate.

From browsing Newspaper Archive, I found that it ran in the following papers between February and June 1971: Snyder Daily News, Scottsdale Progress and the Kannapolis Daily Independent.

I was able to get an example from the latter, dated April 11th, 1971 (but with comics from the previous day):

Ben Ferron

Hi Ben --
Thanks for finding Horace and Buggy, which has been resisting my efforts to locate it for many moons! Unfortunately none of those papers you mentioned is on, where I do my research. Would there be any possibility that you could get me start and end dates based on your bonanza of papers that ran it?

Thanks, Allan Holtz
Hi Allan...

Sorry for not giving you start and end dates, but if I remember correctly, the earliest start date I could find was February 8, 1971 and the most recent end date is June 11, 1971 (a Friday, so obviously not the exact end date)

In any case, I can provide you with the comics pages for both dates on a later date, if that is OK with you.

Ben Ferron
Thanks Ben, I'll just go with the tentative Feb-Jun range on the SG listing if you don't think any of these papers had a definitive run. Best, Allan
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Tuesday, April 11, 2017


Ink-Slinger Profiles by Alex Jay: Tom Dibble Jr.


Thomas Reilly “Tom” Dibble Jr. was born in Haddonfield, New Jersey, on April 19, 1898. The New Jersey, Births and Christenings Index, at, said his parents were Thomas Dibble and Arabella Chase.

The 1900 U.S. Federal Census recorded Dibble as the only child. His father was a reporter. The family resided in West Haddonfield. At some point, the family moved.

The Dibble family of five were New York City residents in the 1905 New York State census. Dibble was the oldest of three brothers. They lived in Manhattan at 416 St. Nicholas Avenue.

Englewood, New Jersey was the home of the Dibbles, now six members, in the 1910 census. Their address was 28 Grand Avenue.

During World War I, Dibble served in the navy. His service was recorded in The Book of Englewood (1922).

Dibble, Thomas R., Jr.
In Federal Service from: April 21, 1917, to March 8, 1919.
Branch of Service: Navy, U. S. S. “Bussum;” U. S. S. “Herbert L. Pratt;” S.P. 579 New York.
Grade or Rank at Discharge: Quartermaster, 3rd Class.
On June 16, 1919, Englewood resident Dibble filled out the Application for Seaman’s Certificate of American Citizenship (R.S. 4588). It’s not known when he departed or where he sailed.

Dibble was counted in his parents’ family in the 1920 census which was enumerated in early January. They lived in Englewood.
Aboard the S.S. West Eldara, Dibble arrived in the port of New York on February 2, 1920. The crew list said his address was “Alexander Place, Englewood, New Jersey”.

The listing in Who Was Who in American Art (1985) provided a bit of information regarding Dibble’s art training, “Dibble, Thomas (Reilly), Jr. [P] Englewood, NJ b 19 Apr 1898, Haddonfield, NJ. Studied: V.D. Perrine. Member: Palisade AA; AFA [29]”. Dibble was a painter and a member of the Palisade Art Association and American Federation of Arts. His last 
listing was in volume 29 of the American Art Annual.

American Newspaper Comics (2012) said Dibble created Who’s Zoo which ran from October 19, 1925 to May 28, 1927. It was distributed by Press Publishing. His cousin was cartoonist Bernard Dibble. 
Anna Dibble left a comment at the Stripper’s Guide about the family relationships.
Bernard Dibble was my husband's father.
Tom Dibble, Jr. was Bernard Dibble's first cousin.
Bernard Dibble was the son of Theodore Savage Dibble.
Tom Dibble, Jr. was the son of Thomas Reilly Dibble.
Theodore Savage Dibble & Thomas Reilly Dibble were twin brothers. Their father Theodore Hoyt Dibble was a Civil War hero.
Dibble had a wife and son when he passed away March 2, 1929, in Englewood. His death was reported the following day in the New York Times.
Englewood, N.J., March 2.—John Ireland Howe, New York dress manufacturer, and Thomas Reilly Dibble Jr., artist, son of the late T.R. Dibble, former editor of The New York Evening Journal, died today in Englewood Hospital several hours after they were injured in an automobile accident on Sylvan Avenue in the Englewoods Cliffs district of the Palisades. Each of the victims was 29 years old and both lived in Englewood.

Mrs. Howe, Mrs. Dibble and Mrs. James B. Boynton of Tenafly also were injured in the accident. They are still in the hospital.

The party was returning from New York at 1 A.M., the police said, when the automobile, driven by Howe, skidded off the new concrete road, smashed into a pile of rock on the east side of the highway and then overturned. Mrs. Boynton was hurled through the windshield and the others were crushed or severely jolted, but remained in the car. They were picked up a few minutes later by a passing motorist.
The June 26, 2013 issue of Seven Days profiled Dibble’s granddaughter Anna and said: 
Dibble grew up in an artistic family in Peru, Vt. Her dad, Thomas Reilly Dibble, was a painter who owned a frame shop in Manchester. Her grandfather, whom she never knew, had a comic strip in the New York Sun called “Who’s Zoo” that featured made-up animals. Indeed, hybrid animals are a family specialty. A framed painting of a duck wearing a man’s suit, by Dibble’s father, sits on his daughter’s studio desk.

Further Reading
Anna Dennis Dibble Website
Equinox Village Press Release

—Alex Jay


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Monday, April 10, 2017


Ink-Slinger Profiles by Alex Jay: Bernard Dibble

Alfred Bernard Joseph Dibble was born in Haddonfield, New Jersey, on August 26, 1899. The New Jersey, Births and Christenings Index, at, recorded the name as Alfred B. Dibble. Bernard Joseph Dibble was the name on the World War I draft card.

In the 1900 U.S. Federal Census, “Aathur” Dibble was the only child of Theodore and Nina. His maternal grandmother was part of the household. They resided in Haddon, New Jersey on West Haddonfield. The Official Bulletin of the National Society of the Sons of the American Revolution, December 1921, identified Dibble’s ancestors. 

Bernard Dibble, Camden, N. J. (Pa. 35468). Son of Theodore Savage and Nina (Da Costa) Dibble; grandson of Theodore Hoyt and Mary Shelly (Reilly) Dibble; great-grandson of Timothy Taylor and Esther (Taylor) Dibble; great-grandson of Joshua Taylor, Sergeant, Colonel Swift’s Regt., Conn. Cont’l Troops.
The quartet was recorded in the 1910 census in Woodbury, New Jersey. Dibble’s father was a railroad stenographer.

On September 12, 1918, Dibble signed his World War I draft card. He lived with his parents in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, at 202 South DeKalb Street. Dibble was a clerk, with the West Jersey Sea Shore Railroad Company. The description of Dibble was medium height and build with hazel eyes and brown hair.

Information regarding Dibble’s education, art training and whereabouts in the 1920 census have not been found. Who’s Who of American Comic Books 1928–1999 said Dibble was self-taught. From 1920 to 1923, Camden, New Jersey city directories listed Dibble as a clerk who resided at 726 North 4th.

Apparently, Dibble moved to Manhattan, New York City in the mid-1920s. American Newspaper Comics (2012) said Dibble created the strip, Danny Dingle, which ran from July 29, 1924 to 1938. The topper was called Dub-Dabs.

The death of Dibble’s father was reported in The New York Times, February 12, 1928, and said in part:

Theodore S. Dibble, for more than thirty years with the freight traffic department of the Pennsylvania Railroad, died here Friday night, after an illness of many months. He lived recently with his son, Bernard Dibble, a newspaper cartoonist, at 214 Riverside Drive, although his home and office had been for years in Camden, N.J. He was 53 years of age.
Dibble’s artistic cousin, Tom Dibble Jr., died in a car accident March 2, 1929. Tom produced the strip Who’s Zoo. Anna Dibble left a comment at the Stripper’s Guide about the family relationships.
Bernard Dibble was my husband's father.
Tom Dibble, Jr. was Bernard Dibble's first cousin.
Bernard Dibble was the son of Theodore Savage Dibble.
Tom Dibble, Jr. was the son of Thomas Reilly Dibble.
Theodore Savage Dibble & Thomas Reilly Dibble were twin brothers. Their father Theodore Hoyt Dibble was a Civil War hero. 
According to the 1930 census, newspaper cartoonist Dibble married Barbara when he was 28 years old. They lived in Manhattan, New York City at 610 Riverside Drive. During the 1930s, American Newspaper Comics said Dibble drew Hawkshaw the Detective, Captain and the Kids, Cynical Susie, and Looy Dot Dope.

The Catalog of Copyright Entries, Part 1, Group 2, Pamphlets, Etc., 1938, New Series, Volume 35, Number 2 had this entry: “Dibble, Bernard. Captain and the kids with Uncle Seltzer. © Jan. 8, 1938; AA 254616; Stephen Slesinger, inc., New York. 3863”. The entry in catalog number seven said: “Dibble, Bernard. Captain and the kids in Boys vill be boys. © June 14, 1938; AA 270773; Stephen Slesinger, inc., New York. 25252”.

Information in the 1940 census said Dibble was a 1935 resident of Cresskill, New Jersey. Dibble’s 1940 address was 3120 Broadway in Manhattan. The self-employed cartoonist was married to Eleanor and had two sons, Michael and Theodore.

American Newspaper Comics said Dibble produced Jonesy in the mid-1940s, and ghosted Arnie Mossler’s The Young Idea. According to Alberto Becattini, Dibble ghosted Ernie Bushmiller’s Nancy in the 1950s. Dibble’s comic book work is noted here.

Manhattan telephone directories from 1949 and 1953 listed Dibble’s address as 3133 Broadway. Dibble resided in Manhattan at 536 Isham in 1957 and 1959.

Dibble passed away in 1961 according to Who’s Who of American Comic Books.

—Alex Jay


I have the world's best Bernard Dibble art at
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