.Bat Masterson Chrome Plate Brass Knob Walking Stick H9113311
Whether its real life or the movies.....the past is gone but not forgotten! In remembrance, we call this walking cane/stick the "Bat Masterson." Step back in time with this beautiful, Chrome Plated Regal Brass Knob handle." A handsome, debonair walking stick with an elegant hardwood Black stained shaft with a steel reinforced rubber tip on the end. The shaft is made of hardwood Beechwood.
It is a standard 36" long, but can be cut to shorten. Need extra tall? We can make up to a 40" length. Take to any event or just a walk down the street.......this cane will turn heads no matter where you are going.
Designed for assisting with mobility & stability only for users up to 250 lbs Max.
Cane Length: 36" (for shorter, select from OPTIONAL SIZING below)
HOW TO MEASURE FOR LENGTH
Note: Resized canes are not returnable.
Diameter of cane: 7/8" tapering to 3/4" Weight of Cane: 1 lb.
A bit of history:
On October 25, 1921, 67 year old William Barclay "Bat" Masterson, the former frontier lawman, limped to his desk at the New York Morning Telegraph. He'd had to use a cane since the 1876 gunfight in Sweetwater, Texas when he was shot in the pelvis by a man he had mortally wounded. Allegedly, the fight was about a woman. This morning, Bat sat his aging bones down on his chair and balanced the cane against his desk so it would be readily available, but not slide to the floor. The gunfighter turned sports journalist started to work on his next article. He wrote into his typewriter the following:
"There are those who argue that everything breaks even in this old dump of a world of ours. I suppose these ginks who argue that way hold that because the rich man gets ice in the summer and the poor man gets it in the winter things are breaking even for both. Maybe so, but I'll swear I can't see it that way."
Bat leaned over the machine and reread what he had written. Before he could relax back into his chair, he realized he needed to use the toilet. As he reached for his cane, suddenly all the air seemed to evacuate his lungs. His chest felt like he had received a double shotgun blast at point blank range. He couldn't gain his balance, even with the help of his cane. Then he collapsed.
Bat Masterson died at his desk of a heart attack. He'd beaten the odds. He didn't die trying to take some drunken cowboy's six gun away. He hadn't been scalped by Indians. He wasn't shot by a jealous husband. He died doing what he loved. He died writing.