Shorty McCabe on the Job

by Sewell Ford · English · Gutenberg #21005 · 433,841 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Shorty McCabe on the Job

Author: Sewell Ford

Release date: April 7, 2007 [eBook #21005]
Most recently updated: January 2, 2021

Language: English

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SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB

SEWELL FORD

Author of Shorty Mccabe, Side-Stepping with Shorty, Etc.

Illustrated by F. Vaux Wilson

[Illustration: "It might give us some clew," says I, "as to what him and
your paw had a run-in about."]

New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Wishing a New One on Shorty 1
II. A Few Squirms by Bayard 18
III. Peeking in on Pedders 32
IV. Two Singles to Goober 49
V. The Case of a Female Party 65
VI. How Millie Shook the Jinx 81
VII. Reverse English on Sonny Boy 100
VIII. Gumming Gopher to the Map 115
IX. What Lindy Had up Her Sleeve 131
X. A Case of Nobody Home 150
XI. Under the Wire with Edwin 165
XII. A Fifty-Fifty Split with Hunk 182
XIII. A Follow Through by Eggy 198
XIV. Catching up with Gerald 217
XV. Shorty Hears from Pemaquid 233
XVI. Scratch One on Bulgaroo 251
XVII. Bayard Ducks His Past 267
XVIII. Trailing Dudley Through a Trance 285
XIX. A Little While with Alvin 304

ILLUSTRATIONS

"It might give us some clew," says I, "as to
what him and your paw has a run-in about" Frontispiece

FACING PAGE
"I wouldn't have anything happen to you
for the world," says I 8

"Now see hea-uh, Mistuh Constable," says he,
"I wouldn't go for to do anything like that" 60

"Say, I'm a bear for Paris" 97

"Now, friends," he calls, "everybody in on the chorus" 124

"What's the idea," says Mabel, "wishin' this
Rube stuff on us?" 157

He sidles up to the desk and proceeds to make
some throaty noises 199

Blamed if Dudley don't have the nerve to tow
Veronica into the next room, stretchin' on
tiptoe to talk in her ear 298

SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB

CHAPTER I

WISHING A NEW ONE ON SHORTY

Do things just happen, like peculiar changes in the weather, or is there
a general scheme on file somewhere? Is it a free-for-all we're mixed up
in--with our Harry Thaws and our Helen Kellers; our white slavers, our
white hopes, and our white plague campaigns; our trunk murders, and our
fire heroes? Or are we runnin' on schedule and headed somewhere?

I ain't givin' you the answer. I'm just slippin' you the proposition,
with the side remark that now and then, when the jumble seems worse than
ever, you can get a glimpse of what might be a clew, or might not.

Anyway, here I was, busy as a little bee, blockin' right hooks and body
jabs that was bein' shot at me by a husky young uptown minister who's a
headliner at his job, I understand, but who's developin' a good, useful
punch on the side. I was just landin' a cross wallop to the ribs, by way
of keepin' him from bein' too ambitious with his left, when out of the
tail of my eye I notices Swifty Joe edgin' in with a card in his paw.

"Time out!" says I, steppin' back and droppin' my guard. "Well, Swifty,
what's the scandal?"

"Gent waitin' to see you," says he.

"Let him wait, then," says I.

"Ah-r-r-r, but he's a reg'lar gent!" protests Swifty, fingerin' the
card.

"Even so, he'll keep five minutes more, won't he?" says I.

"But he--he's----" begins Swifty, strugglin' to connect that mighty
intellect of his with his tongue.

"Ah, read off the name," says I. "Is it Mayor Mitchel, Doc Wilson, or
who?"

"It says J. B-a-y-a-r-d Ste--Steele," says Swifty.

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'. "Lemme see. Him! Say, Swifty, you go back and
tell J. Bayard that if he's got nerve enough to want to see me, it'll be
a case of wait. And if he's at all messy about it, I give you leave to
roll him downstairs. The front of some folks! Come on now, Dominie!
Cover up better with that right mitt: I'm goin' to push in a few on you
this time."

And if you never saw a Fifth avenue preacher well lathered up you should
have had a glimpse of this one at the end of the next round. He's game,
though; even thanks me for it puffy.

"You're welcome," says I. "Maybe I did steam 'em in a bit; but I expect
it was because I had my mind on that party out front. While you're
rubbin' down I'll step in and attend to his case. If I could only wish a
pair of eight-ounce gloves on him for a few minutes!"

So, without stoppin' to change, or even sheddin' the mitts, I walks into
the front office, to discover this elegant party in the stream-line
cutaway pacin' restless up and down the room. Yes, he sure is some
imposin' to look at, with his pearl gray spats, and the red necktie
blazin' brilliant under the close-clipped crop of Grand Duke whiskers. I
don't know what there is special about a set of frosted face shubb'ry
that sort of suggests bank presidents and so on, but somehow they do.
Them and the long, thin nose gives him a pluty, distinguished look, in
spite of the shifty eyes and the weak mouth lines. But I ain't in a mood
to be impressed.

"Well?" says I snappy.

I expect my appearin' in a cut-out jersey, with my shoulder muscles
still bunched, must have jarred him a little; for he lifts his eyebrows
doubtful and asks, "Er--Professor McCabe, is it?"

"Uh-huh," says I. "What'll it be?"

"My name," says he, "is Steele."

"I know," says I. "Snug fit too, I judge."

He flushes quick and stiffens. "Do you mean to infer, Sir, that----"

"You're on," says I. "The minute I heard your name I placed you for the
smooth party that tried to unload a lot of that phony Radio stock on
Mrs. Benny Sherwood. Wanted to euchre her out of the twenty thousand
life insurance she got when Benny took the booze count last winter, eh?
Well, it happens she's a friend of Mrs. McCabe, and it was through me
your little scheme was blocked. Now I guess we ought to be real well
acquainted."

But I might have known such crude stuff wouldn't get under the hide of a
polished article like J. Bayard. He only shrugs his shoulders and smiles
sarcastic.

"The pleasure seems to be all mine," says he. "But as you choose. Who am
I to contend with the defender of the widow and the orphan that between
issuing a stock and trading in it there is a slight difference? However
deeply I am distressed by your private opinion of me, I shall try
to----"

"Ah, ditch the sarcasm," says I, "and spring your game! What is it this
trip, a wire-tappin' scheme, or just plain green goods?"

"You flatter me," says J. Bayard. "No, my business of the moment is not
to appropriate any of the princely profits of your--er--honest toil,"
and he stops for another of them acetic-acid smiles.

"Yes," says I, "it is a batty way of gettin' money--workin' for it, eh?
But go on. Whatcher mean you lost your dog?"

"I--er--I beg pardon?" says he.

"Ah, get down to brass tacks!" says I. "You ain't payin' a society call,
I take it?"

He gets that. And what do you guess comes next? Well, he hands over a
note. It's from a lawyer's office, askin' him to call at two P.M. that
day to meet with me, as it reads, "and discuss a matter of mutual
interest and advantage." It's signed "R. K. Judson, Attorney."

"Well, couldn't you wait?" says I. "It's only eleven-thirty now, you
know."

"It is merely a question," says Steele, "of whether or not I shall go at
all."

"So you hunt me up to do a little private sleuthin' first, eh?" says I.

"It is only natural," says he. "I don't know this Mr.--er--Judson, or
what he wants of me."

"No more do I," says I. "And the notice I got didn't mention you at all;
so you have that much edge on me."

"And you are going?" says he.

"I'll take a chance, sure," says I. "Maybe I'll button my pockets a
little tighter, and tuck my watchfob out of sight; but no lawyer can
throw a scare into me just by askin' me to call. Besides, it says
'mutual interest and advantage,' don't it?"

"H-m-m-m!" says Mr. Steele, after gazin' at the note thoughtful. "So it
does. But lawyers have a way of----" Here he breaks off sudden and asks,
"You say you never heard of this Mr. Judson before?"

"That's where you fool yourself," says I. "I said I didn't know him; but
if it'll relieve your mind any, I've heard him mentioned. He used to
handle Pyramid Gordon's private affairs."

"Ah! Gordon!" says Steele, his shifty eyes narrowin'. "Yes, yes! Died
abroad a month or so ago, didn't he?"

"In Rome," says I. "The rheumatism got to his heart. He could see it
comin' to him before he left. Poor old Pyramid!"

"Indeed?" says Steele. "And was Gordon--er--a friend of yours, may I
ask?"

"One of my best," says I. "Know him, did you?"

Mr. Steele darts a quick glance at me. "Rather!" says he.

"Then there can't be so much myst'ry about this note, then," says I.
"Maybe he's willed us a trinket or so. Friend of yours too, I expect?"

J. Bayard almost grins at that. "I have no good reason to doubt," says
he, "that Pyramid Gordon hated me quite as thoroughly and actively as I
disliked him."

"He was good at that too," says I. "Had a little run-in with him, did
you?"

"One that lasted something like twenty years," says Steele.

"Oh!" says I. "Fluffs or finance?"

[Illustration: "I wouldn't have anything happen to you for the world,"
says I.]

"Purely a business matter," says he. "It began in Chicago, back in the
good old days when trade was unhampered by fool administrations. At the
time, if I may mention the fact, I had some little prominence as a pool
organizer. We were trying to corner July wheat,--getting along very
nicely too,--when your friend Gordon got in our way. He had managed to
secure control of a dinky grain-carrying railroad and a few elevators.
On the strength of that he demanded that we let him in. So we were
forced to take measures to--er--eliminate him."

"And Pyramid wouldn't be eliminated, eh?" says I.

J. Bayard shrugs his shoulders careless and spreads out his hands.
"Gordon luck!" says he. "Of course we were unprepared for such methods
as he employed against us. Up to that time no one had thought of
stealing an advance copy of the government crop report and using it to
break the market. However, it worked. Our corner went to smash. I was
cleaned out. You might have thought that would have satisfied most men;
but not Pyramid Gordon! Why, he even pushed things so far as to sell out
my office furniture, and bought the brass signs, with my name on them,
to hang in his own office, as a Sioux Indian displays a scalp, or a
Mindanao head hunter ornaments his gatepost with his enemy's skull. That
was the beginning; and while my opportunities for paying off the score
have been somewhat limited, I trust I have neglected none. And
now--well, I can't possibly see why the closing up of his affairs
should interest me at all. Can you?"

"Say, you don't think I'm doin' any volunteer frettin' on your account,
do you?" says I.

"I quite understand," says he. "But about seeing this lawyer--do you
advise me to go?"

He's squintin' at me foxy out of them shifty eyes of his, cagy and
suspicious, like we was playin' some kind of a game. You know the sort
of party J. Bayard is--if you don't, you're lucky. So what's the use
wastin' breath? I steps over and opens the front office door.

"Don't chance it," says I. "I wouldn't have anything happen to you for
the world. I'll tell Judson I've come alone, to talk for the dictograph
and stand on the trapdoor. And as you go down the stairs there better
walk close to the wall."

J. Bayard, still smilin', takes the hint. "Oh, I may turn up, after
all," says he as he leaves.

"Huh!" says I, indicatin' deep scorn.

But if I'd been curious before about this invite to the law office, I
was more so now. So shortly after two I was on hand. And I find Mr.
Steele has beat me to it by a minute or so. He's camped in the waitin'
room, lookin' as imposin' and elegant as ever.

"Well, you ain't been sandbagged or jabbed with a poison needle yet, I
see," says I.

He glances around uneasy. "Mr. Judson is coming," says he. "They said he
was--here he is!"

Nothin' terrifyin' about Judson, either. He's a slim-built, youngish
lookin' party, with an easy, quiet way of talkin', a friendly, confidin'
smile; but about the keenest, steadiest pair of brown eyes I ever had
turned loose on me. He shakes us cordial by the hand, thanks us for
bein' prompt, and tows us into his private office.

"I have the papers all ready," says he.

"That's nice," says I. "And maybe sometime or other you can tell us what
it's all about?"

"At once," says he. "You are named as co-executors with me for the
estate of the late Curtis B. Gordon."

At which J. Bayard gasps. "I?" says he. "An executor for Pyramid
Gordon?"

Judson nods. "I understand," says he, "that you were--ah--not on
friendly terms with Mr. Gordon. But he was a somewhat unusual man, you
know. In this instance, for example, he has selected Professor McCabe,
whom he designates as one of his most trusted friends, and yourself,
whom he designates as his--ah--oldest enemy. No offense, I hope?"

"Quite accurate, so far as I am concerned," says Steele.

"Very well," says the lawyer. "Then I may read the terms of his will
that he wishes us to carry out."

And, believe me, even knowin' some of the odd streaks of Pyramid Gordon
the way I did, this last and final sample had me bug-eyed before Judson
got through! It starts off straight enough, with instructions to deal
out five thousand here and ten there, to various parties,--his old
office manager, his man Minturn, that niece of his out in Denver, and so
on. But when it come to his scheme for disposin' of the bulk of his
pile--well, just lemme sketch it for you!

Course, I can't give it to you the way Pyramid had it put down; but here
was the gen'ral plan: Knowin' he had to take the count, he'd been
chewin' things over. He wa'n't squealin', or tryin' to square himself
either here or beyond. He'd lived his own life in his own way, and he
was standin' pat on his record. He knew he'd put over some raw deals;
but the same had been handed to him. Maybe he'd hit back at times
harder'n he'd been hit. If he had, he wa'n't sorry. He'd only played the
game accordin' to the rules he knew.

Still, now that it was most over, he had in mind a few cases where he'd
always meant to sort of even things up if he could. There was certain
parties he'd thrown the hooks into kind of deep maybe, durin' the heat
of the scrap; and afterwards, from time to time, he'd thought he might
have a chance to do 'em a good turn,--help 'em back to their feet again,
or something like that. But somehow, with bein' so busy, and kind of out
of practice at that sort of thing, he'd never got around to any of 'em.
So now he was handin' over the job to us, all in a lump.

"And I have here," goes on Mr. Judson, exhibitin' a paper, "a list of
names and addresses. They are the persons, Mr. Steele, on whose behalf
you are requested, with the advice and help of Professor McCabe, to
perform some kind and generous act. My part will be merely to handle the
funds." And he smiles confidin' at J. Bayard.

Mr. Steele has been listenin' close, his ears cocked, and them shifty
eyes of his takin' in every move; but at this last he snorts. "Do you
mean to say," says he, "that I am asked to--er--to play the good fairy
to persons who have been wronged by Pyramid Gordon?"

"Precisely," says the lawyer. "They number something over twenty, I
believe; but the fund provided is quite ample--nearly three millions, if
we are able to realize on all the securities."

"But this is absurd," says J. Bayard, "asking me to distribute gifts and
so on to a lot of strangers with whom I have nothing in common, except,
perhaps, a common enemy! A fine time I'd have, wouldn't I, explaining
that----"

"Pardon me," breaks in Judson, "but one of the conditions is that it
must all be done anonymously; at least, so far as the late Mr. Gordon is
concerned. As for your own identity in the several cases, you may make
it known or not, as you see fit."

"How truly fascinating!" sneers Mr. Steele, gettin' up and reachin' for
his hat. "To go about like an unseen ministering angel, trying to salve
the bygone bruises of those who were unlucky enough to get in Pyramid
Gordon's way! Beautiful! But unfortunately I have other affairs."

He was startin' for the door too, when Judson smiles quiet and holds up
a stayin' hand. "Just a moment more," says the lawyer. "You may be
interested to hear of another disposition decided upon by Mr. Gordon in
the event of your refusal to act in this capacity."

"He might have known me better," says Steele.

"Perhaps he did," says Judson. "I should hardly say that he lacked
insight or shrewdness. He was a man too, who was quite accustomed to
having his own way. In this instance he had rather a respectable fortune
to dispose of according to his own somewhat original ideas. Leave it to
public institutions he would not. He was thoroughly opposed to what he
termed post-mortem philanthropy of the general kind. To quote his own
words, 'I am not enough of a hypocrite to believe that a society based
on organized selfishness can right its many wrongs by spasmodic gifts to
organized charity.'"

J. Bayard shifts uneasy on his feet and smothers a yawn. "All very
interesting, I'm sure," says he; "but really, you know, Pyramid
Gordon's theories on such matters do not----"

"I am merely suggesting," breaks in the lawyer, "that you may care to
glance over another list of twenty names. These are the persons among
whom Mr. Gordon's estate will be divided if the first plan cannot be
carried out."

Mr. Steele hesitates; but he fin'lly fishes out a pair of swell nose
pinchers that he wears hung from a wide ribbon, and assumes a bored
expression. He don't hold that pose long. He couldn't have read more'n a
third of the names before he shows signs of bein' mighty int'rested.

"Why, see here!" says he. "I'd like to know, Sir, where in thunder you
got this list!"

"Yes, I thought you would," says Judson. "It was quite simple. Perhaps
you remember, a few days ago, meeting a friendly, engaging young man in
the café of your hotel? Asked you to join him at luncheon, I believe,
and talked vaguely about making investments?"

"Young Churchill?" says J. Bayard.

"Correct," says the lawyer. "One of our brightest young men.
Entertaining talker too. And if I'm not mistaken, it was he who opened a
good-natured discussion as to the limit of actual personal acquaintance
which the average man has, ending by his betting fifty dollars--rather
foolishly, I admit--that you could not remember the names and addresses
of twenty persons whom you actually disliked. Well, you won. Here is the
list you made out."

And the stunned way J. Bayard gawps at the piece of paper brings out a
snicker from me. He flushes up at that and glares down at Judson.

"Tactics worthy of a Tombs lawyer!" says he. "I congratulate you on your
high-class legal methods!"

"Oh, not at all," says Judson. "A suggestion of Mr. Gordon's. Another
evidence of his insight into character, as well as his foresight into
events. So, you see, Mr. Steele, if you decline to become the benefactor
of Mr. Gordon's enemies, his money goes to yours!"

"The old fox!" snarls J. Bayard. "Why--I--let me see that list again."

It's no more'n gripped in his fingers than he steps back quick and
begins tearin' it to bits. I'd jumped for him and had his wrists
clinched when Judson waves me off.

"Only a copy," says he smilin'. "I have several more. Sit down, Mr.
Steele, and let me give you another."

Kind of dazed and subdued, J. Bayard submits to bein' pushed into a
chair. After a minute or so he fixes his glasses again, and begins
starin' at the fresh list, mumblin' over some of the names to himself.

"To them! Three millions!" says he gaspy.

"Roughly estimated," says Judson, "that would be about one hundred and
fifty thousand dollars apiece which you would, in effect, hand over."

"And the only way to keep them from getting it," goes on Steele, "is for
me to spend my time hunting up Pyramid Gordon's lot?"

"Not entirely without recompense," adds the lawyer. "As an inducement
for doing the work thoroughly, I am authorized to give you a commission
on all you spend in that way."

"How much?" demands the other.

"Twenty per cent.," says Judson. "For instance, if in doing some kind
and generous deed for a person on Mr. Gordon's list, you spend, say,
five thousand, you get a thousand for yourself."

"Ah!" says Steele, perkin' up consider'ble.

"The only condition being," goes on the lawyer, "that in each case your
kind and generous proposals must have the indorsement and approval of
Professor McCabe, who is asked to give his advice in these matters on a
five per cent. basis. I may add that a like amount comes to me in place
of any other fee. So you see this is to be a joint enterprise. Is that
satisfactory to you, Mr. McCabe?"

"It's more'n I usually get for my advice," says I, "and I guess Pyramid
Gordon knew well enough he didn't have to pay for anything like that
from me. But if that's the way he planned it out, it goes."

"And you, Mr. Steele?" says Judson.

"One dollar for every five that I can spend of Pyramid Gordon's money?"
says he, wrinklin' his eye corners. "With pleasure! When may I begin?"

"Now," says Judson, reachin' prompt into a pigeonhole and producin' a
sealed envelope. "Here is the first name on the list. When you bring me
Professor McCabe's indorsement of any expenses incurred, or sum to be
paid out, I shall give you a check at once."

And, say, the last I see of J. Bayard he was driftin' through the door,
gazin' absentminded at the envelope, like he was figurin' on how much
he could grab off at the first swipe. I gazes after him thoughtful until
the comic side of it struck me.

"This is a hot combination we're in, eh?" I chuckles to the lawyer gent.
"Steele, Judson & McCabe, Joy Distributers; with J. Bayard there
wieldin' the fairy wand. Why, say, I'd as quick think of askin' Scrappy
McGraw to preside at a peace conference!"

Mr. Judson's busy packin' away his papers in a document case; but he
smiles vague over his shoulder.

"Honest now," I goes on, "do you think our friend will make good as the
head of the sunshine department?"

"That," says Judson, "is a matter which Mr. Gordon seems to have left
wholly to you."

"Eh?" says I, doin' the gawp act sudden on my own account. "Well, post
me for a Bush League yannigan if it don't listen that way! Then I can
see where I'll be earnin' my five per cent. all right, and yet some!
Referee for a kind deeds campaign! Good night, Sister Sue! But it's on
old Pyramid's account; so let J. Bayard shoot 'em in!"

CHAPTER II

A FEW SQUIRMS BY BAYARD

Say, take it from me, this job of umpirin' a little-deeds-of-kindness
campaign, as conducted by J. Bayard Steele, Esq., ain't any careless
gladsome romp through the daisy fields. It's a real job!

He's the one, you know, that poor old Pyramid Gordon--rest his
soul!--picked out to round up all the hangover grouches he'd strewed
behind him durin' a long and active career, with instructions to soothe
the same with whatever balm seemed best, regardless of expense.

And the hard part of it for Steele is that he has to get my O.K. on all
his schemes before he can collect from the estate. And while I don't
bill myself for any expert on lovin'-kindness, and as a gen'ral thing I
ain't of a suspicious nature, I'm wise enough to apply the acid test and
bore for lead fillin' on anything he hands in. Course maybe I'm too hard
on him, but it strikes me that an ex-pool organizer, who makes a livin'
as capper for a hotel branch of a shady stock-brokin' firm, ain't had
the best kind of trainin' as an angel of mercy.

So when he shows up at my Physical Culture Studio again, the day after
Lawyer Judson has explained for us the fine points of that batty will of
Pyramid's, I'm about as friendly and guileless as a dyspeptic customs
inspector preparin' to go through the trunks of a Fifth avenue
dressmaker. He comes in smilin' and chirky, though, slaps me chummy on
the shoulder, and remarks cordial:

"Well, my trusty coworker in well doing, I have come to report
progress."

"Shoot it, then," says I, settlin' back in my chair.

"You will be surprised," he goes on, "to learn who is first to benefit
by my vicarious philanthropy."

"Your which?" says I.

"Merely another simile for our glorious work," says he. "You couldn't
guess whose name was in that envelope,--Twombley-Crane's!"

"The Long Island plute?" says I. "You don't say! Why, when did Pyramid
ever get the best of him, I wonder?"

"I had almost forgotten the affair myself," says Steele. "It was more
than a dozen years ago, when Twombley-Crane was still actively
interested in the railroad game. He was president of the Q., L. & M.;
made a hobby of it, you know. Used to deliver flowery speeches to the
stockholders, and was fond of boasting that his road had never passed a
dividend. About that time Gordon was organizing the Water Level System.
He needed the Q., L. & M. as a connecting link. But Twombley-Crane would
listen to no scheme of consolidation. Rather an arrogant aristocrat,
Twombley-Crane, as perhaps you know?"

"Yes, he's a bit stiff in the neck," says I.

"He gave Gordon a flat no," goes on Steele. "Had him shown out of his
office, so the story went. And of course Pyramid started gunning for
him. Twombley-Crane had many interests at the time, financial, social,
political. But suddenly his appointment as Ambassador to Germany, which
had seemed so certain, was blocked in the Senate; his plans for getting
control of all the ore-carrying steamer lines on the Lakes were upset by
the appearance of a rival steamship pool; and then came the annual
meeting of the Q., L. & M., at which Gordon presented a dark horse
candidate. You see, for months Pyramid had been buying in loose holdings
and gathering proxies, and on the first ballot he fired Twombley-Crane
out of the Q., L. & M. so abruptly that he never quite knew how it
happened. And you know how Gordon milked the line during the next few
years. It was a bitter pill for Twombley-Crane; for it hurt his pride as
well as his pocketbook. That was why he quit Chicago for New York. Not a
bad move, either; for he bought into Manhattan Transportation at just
the right time. But I imagine he never forgave Gordon."

"Huh!" says I. "So that's why they used to act so standoffish whenever
they'd run across each other here at the studio. Well, well! And what's
your idea of applyin' a poultice to Twombley-Crane's twelve-year-old
sting?"

"Ah-h-h!" says J. Bayard, rubbin' his hands genial, and at the same time
watchin' me narrow to see how I'm goin' to take it. "Rather difficult,
eh? I confess that I was almost stumped at first. Why, he's worth to-day
twice as much as Gordon ever was! So it ought to be something handsome,
hadn't it?"

"That depends," says I. "Have anything special in mind, did you?"

"Oh, yes," says Steele. "Now what do you say to presenting him with a
nice, comfortable steam yacht, all equipped for cruising, with a captain
and----"

"Flag it!" says I. "Twombley-Crane ain't a yachty person, at all. He's a
punk sailor, to begin with. Besides, he's tried ownin' a yacht, and she
almost rusted apart waitin' for him to use her. Nothing like that for
him."

J. Bayard looks mighty disappointed. He'd planned on spendin' a couple
of hundred thousand or so of Pyramid's money at one lick, you see, which
would have been some haul for him, and my turnin' the scheme down so
prompt was a hard blow. He continued to argue the case for ten minutes
before he gives up.

"Well, what is the objection, then," he goes on, "to a handsome
limousine, with one of those luxurious French bodies, solid silver
fittings, and----"

"He's got a garage full of cars now," says I, "and hardly ever steps
into one himself. His fad is to stick to horses, you know."

More long-face business by J. Bayard. But he's a quick recoverer. "In
that case," says he, "suppose I send over for a pair of Arabs, the best
blood to be found, and have them put into his stable as a surprise?"

"Steele," says I, tappin' him encouragin' on the knee, "you've got the
spendin' part down fine; but that alone don't fill the bill. As I take
it, Pyramid meant for us to do more than just scatter around a lot of
expensive gifts reckless like. 'Some kind and generous act,' is the way
he put it. Let's remember that."

"But," says he, shruggin' his shoulders eloquent, "here is a man who has
everything he wants, money enough to gratify every wish. How am I to do
anything kind and generous for him?"

"That's all up to you," says I. "As a matter of fact, I don't believe
there ever was anybody, no matter how rich, who had everything he
wanted. There's always something, maybe so simple as to sound absurd,
that he'd like and can't get. I'll bet it's that way with
Twombley-Crane. Now if you don't know him well enough to find out, my
advice would be to----"

"Oh, I know him well enough," breaks in J. Bayard, "even if he doesn't
know me. I share the distinction with Gordon of having been, on one
occasion, barred out of Twombley-Crane's office; only I got no farther
than his private secretary. It meant a good deal to me at the time too,
and wouldn't have hurt him at all. I merely wanted his firm to handle
some bonds of a concern I was trying to promote. With merely a nod he
could have opened the door of success for me. But he wouldn't. Oh, no!
Played the rôle of haughty aristocrat, as usual, and never gave me
another thought. But I managed to get back at him, in a small way."

"Oh, you did, eh?" says I.

"It was a couple of years later, in Paris," goes on Steele. "I was
dining in one of those big cafés--Maxime's, I think,--when I recognized
him at the next table. He was telling a friend of a find he'd made in an
old printshop,--a pencil sketch by Whistler. He collects such things, I
believe. Well, this was something he wanted very badly; but he'd
happened to be caught without cash enough to pay for it. So he'd asked
the dealer to put it aside until next day. There was my chance. I know
something about etchings; own a few, in fact, although I'd never
splurged on Whistlers. But I was on hand next morning when that shop
opened, and for a bonus of twenty francs I persuaded the old pirate to
sell me the sketch he was holding for Twombley-Crane. It was a beauty
too; one of the half-dozen Whistler did in working up that portrait of
his mother, perhaps his most famous piece. It's about the only sketch of
the kind, too, not in a public gallery. How Twombley-Crane must have
raved at that Frenchman! So, as the English put it, I did score off him
a bit, you see."

"You sure did," says I. "That picture collection is what he's daffy
over; even more so than over his horses. And right there, J. Bayard, is
your cue."

"Eh?" says he, starin' puzzled.

"Simple as swearin' off taxes," says I. "Send him the sketch."

Mr. Steele gasps. "Wha-a-at!" says he. "Why, I've been offered ten times
what I paid for it, and refused; although there have been times
when--well, you understand. My dear McCabe, that little pencil drawing
is much more to me than a fragment of genius. It stands for
satisfaction. It's something that I own and he wants."

"And there you are," says I. "Been rackin' your nut to dig up something
kind and generous to do for him, ain't you! Well?"

Say, you should have seen the look J. Bayard gives me at that! It's a
mixture of seven diff'rent kinds of surprise, reproach, and indignation.
And the line of argument he puts up too! How he does wiggle and squirm
over the very thought of givin' that picture to Twombley-Crane, after
he'd done the gloat act so long!

But I had the net over Mr. Steele good and fast, and while I was about
it I dragged him over a few bumps; just for the good of his soul, as
Father Reardon would say.

"Oh, come!" says I. "You're makin' the bluff that you want to scatter
deeds of kindness; but when I point one out, right under your nose, you
beef about it like you was bein' frisked for your watch. A hot idea of
bein' an angel of mercy you've got, ain't you? Honest now, in your whole
career, was you ever guilty of wastin' a kind word, or puttin' out the
helpin' hand, if you couldn't see where it might turn a trick for J.
Bayard Steele?"

Makes him wince a little, that jab does, and he flushes up under the
eyes.

"I don't know that I have ever posed either as a philanthropist or a
saint," says he. "If I seem to have assumed a rôle of that sort now, it
is because it has been thrust upon me, because I have been caught in a
web of circumstances, a tangle of things, without purpose, without
meaning. That's what life has always been to me, always will be, I
suppose,--a blind, ruthless maze, where I've snatched what I could for
myself, and given up what I couldn't hold. Your friend Gordon did his
share in making it so for me; this man Twombley-Crane as well. Do you
expect me to be inspired with goodness and kindliness by them?"

"Oh, Pyramid had his good points," says I. "You'd find Twombley-Crane
has his, if you knew him well enough."

"And who knows," adds Steele, defiant and bitter, "but that I may have
mine?"

I glances at him curious. And, say, with that set, hard look in them
narrow eyes, and the saggy droop to his mouth corners, he's almost
pathetic. For the first time since he'd drifted across my path I didn't
feel like pitchin' him down the stairs.

"Well, well!" says I soothin'. "Maybe you have. But you don't force 'em
on folks, do you? That ain't the point, though. The question before the
house is about that----"

"Suppose I hand back Twombley-Crane's name," says he, "and try another?"

I shakes my head decided. "No dodgin'," says I. "That point was covered
in Pyramid's gen'ral directions. If you do it at all, you got to take
the list as it runs. But what's a picture more or less? All you got to
do is wrap it up, ship it to Twombley-Crane, and----"

"I--I couldn't!" says J. Bayard, almost groanin'. "Why, I've disliked
him for years, ever since he sent out that cold no! I've always hoped
that something would happen to bend that stiff neck of his; that a panic
would smash him, as I was smashed. But he has gone on, growing richer
and richer, colder and colder. And when I got this sketch away from
him--well, that was a crumb of comfort. Don't you see?"

"Kind of stale and picayune, Steele, it strikes me," says I. "Course,
you're the doctor. If you'd rather see all them other folks that you
dislike come in for a hundred and fifty thousand apiece, with no rakeoff
for you--why, that's your business. But I'd think it over."

"Ye-e-es," says he draggy. "I--I suppose I must."

With that he shakes his shoulders, gets on his feet, and walks out with
his chin well up; leavin' me feelin' like I'd been tryin' to wish a dose
of castor oil on a bad boy.

"Huh!" thinks I. "I wonder if Pyramid guessed all he was lettin' me in
for?"

What J. Bayard would decide to do--drop the whole shootin' match, or
knuckle under in this case in the hopes of gettin' a fat commission on
the next--was more'n I could dope out. But inside of an hour I had the
answer. A messenger boy shows up with a package. It's the sketch from
Steele, with a note sayin' I might send it to Twombley-Crane, if that
would answer. He'd be hanged if he would! So I rings up another boy and
ships it down to Twombley-Crane's office, as the easiest way of gettin'
rid of it. I didn't know whether he was in town or not. If he wa'n't,
he'd find the thing when he did come in. And while maybe that don't
quite cover all the specifications, it's near enough so I can let it
pass. Then I goes out to lunch.

Must have been about three o'clock that afternoon, and I'd just finished
a session in the gym, when who should show up at the studio but
Twombley-Crane. What do you suppose? Why, in spite of the fact that I'd
sent the picture without any name or anything, he'd been so excited over
gettin' it that he'd rung up the messenger office and bluffed 'em into
tellin' where the call had come in from. And as long as I'd known him
I've never seen Twombley-Crane thaw out so much. Why, he acts almost
human as he shakes hands! Then he takes the package from under his arm
and unwraps it.

"The Whistler that I'd given up all hope of ever getting!" says he,
gazin' at it admirin' and enthusiastic.

"So?" says I, non-committal.

"And now it appears mysteriously, sent from here," says he. "Why, my
dear fellow, how can I ever----"

"You don't have to," I breaks in, "because it wa'n't from me at all."

"But they told me at the district office," he goes on, "that the call
came from----"

"I know," says I. "That's straight enough as far as it goes. But you
know that ain't in my line. I was only passin' it on for someone else."

"For whom?" he demands.

"That's tellin'," says I. "It's a secret."

"Oh, but I must know," says he, "to whom I am indebted so deeply. You
don't realize, McCabe, how delighted I am to get hold of this gem of
Whistler's. Why, it makes my collection the most complete to be found in
any private gallery!"

"Well, you ought to be satisfied then," says I. "Why not let it go at
that?"

But not him. No, he'd got to thank somebody; to pay 'em, if he could.

"How much, for instance?" says I.

"Why, I should readily have given five thousand for it," says he; "ten,
if necessary."

"Not fifteen?" says I.

"I think I would," says he.

"Huh!" says I. "Some folks don't care what they do with money. We'll
split the diff'rence though, and call it twelve and a half. But it don't
cost you a cent. It's yours because you wanted it, that's all; and maybe
the one that sent it is glad you've got it. That's as far as I can go."

"But see here, McCabe!" he insists. "Delighted as I am, I must know who
it is that----"

Just here the front office door opens, and in walks J. Bayard. For a
second he don't notice Twombley-Crane, who's standin' between me and the
window.

"Oh, I say!" says Steele, sort of breathless and hasty. "Have you sent
that away yet?"

A freak hunch hit me and I couldn't shake it: I guess I wanted to see
what would happen. So I nudges Twombley-Crane.

"Here's the party now, if you must know," says I. "This is Mr. J. Bayard
Steele."

"Eh?" says he, steppin' forward. "Steele, did you say? Why, my dear Sir,
although I must admit that I am stupid enough not to remember you, I
must express my most----"

Say, he did it handsome too. He grabs J. Bayard brotherly by the mitt,
and passes him an enthusiastic vote of thanks that don't leave out a
single detail. Yes, he sure did unload the gratitude; with J. Bayard
standin' there, turnin' first one color and then another, and not bein'
able to get out a word.

"And surely, my dear Sir," he winds up, "you will allow me to recompense
you in some way?"

Steele shakes his head. "It's not precisely," he begins, "as if
I--er----"

"Ah-h-h!" says Twombley-Crane, beamin' friendly. "I think I see. You had
heard of my collection."

J. Bayard nods.

"And you conceived the idea," goes on Twombley-Crane, "of completing it
in this anonymous and kindly manner? Believe me, Sir, I am touched,
deeply touched. It is indeed good to know that such generous impulses
are felt, that they are sometimes acted upon. I must try to be worthy of
such a splendid spirit. I will have this hung at once, and to-morrow
night, Friend Steele, you must come to see it; at my country place, you
know. We dine at seven. I shall expect you, Sir." And with a final
brotherly grip he goes out.

"Well," says I to J. Bayard, "that's over, ain't it? You've put across
the genuine article. How does it feel?"

He brushes his hand over his eyes sort of dazed. "Really," says he,
"I--I don't know. I was coming, as a matter of fact, to take the sketch
back. The more I thought it over, the worse I---- But he was pleased,
wasn't he? And Twombley-Crane too! I would not have believed that he
could act so decently."

"Well, he believed it of you," says I. "You don't stand to lose so much
either, by the way. Here! Wait until I write a voucher for twenty per
cent. of twelve thousand five hundred. His figures, you know. There! Now
you can collect from Judson and call for name Number Two."

CHAPTER III

PEEKING IN ON PEDDERS

Who started that dope about Heaven givin' us our relations but thanks be
we can pick friends to suit ourselves? Anyway, it's phony. Strikes me we
often have friends wished on us; sort of accumulate 'em by chance, as we
do appendicitis, or shingles, or lawsuits. And at best it's a matter of
who you meet most, and how.

Take J. Bayard Steele. Think I'd ever hunted him out and extended the
fraternal grip, or him me? Not if everyone else in the world was deaf
and dumb and had the itch! We're about as much alike in our tastes and
gen'ral run of ideas as Bill Taft and Bill Haywood; about as congenial
as our bull terrier and the chow dog next door. Yet here we are, him
hailin' me as Shorty, and me callin' him anything from J. B. to Old Top,
and confabbin' reg'lar most every day, as chummy as you please.

All on account of our bein' mixed up in carryin' out this batty will of
Pyramid Gordon's. First off I didn't think I'd have to see him more'n
once a month, and then only for a short session; but since he put
through that first deal and collected his twenty-four hundred
commission, he's been showin' up at the studio frequent, with next to no
excuse for comin'.

You remember how he drew Twombley-Crane as the first one that he had to
unload a kind and gen'rous act on, and how I made him give up the
picture that he'd gloated over so long? Well, J. Bayard can't seem to
get over the way that turned out. Here he'd been forced into doin'
something nice for a party he had a grudge against, has discovered that
Twombley-Crane ain't such a bad lot after all, and has been well paid
for it besides, out of money left by his old enemy.

"Rather a remarkable set of circumstances, eh, Shorty?" says he, tiltin'
back comf'table in one of my front office chairs and lightin' up a fresh
twenty-five-cent cigar. "An instance of virtue being rewarded on a cash
basis. Not only that, but I was royally entertained down at
Twombley-Crane's the other night, you know. I think too I interested him
in a little development scheme of mine."

"Jump off!" says I. "You're standin' on your foot. If you dream you can
slip any of your fake stock onto him, you're due to wake up. Better
stick to widows and orphans."

At which jab Mr. Steele only chuckles easy. "What an engagingly frank
person you are!" says he. "As though rich widows weren't fair game! But
with the practice of philanthropy so liberally compensated I'm not
troubling them. Your friend, the late Mr. Gordon, has banished the wolf
from my door; for the immediate present, at least. I wonder if he
anticipated just how much I should enjoy his post-mortem munificence?"

And here J. Bayard gives a caressin' pat to his Grand Duke whiskers and
glances approvin' down at the patent leathers which finish off a costume
that's the last word in afternoon elegance. You've seen a pet cat
stretch himself luxurious after a full meal? Well, that's J. Bayard.
He'd hypothecated the canary. If he hadn't been such a dear friend of
mine too, I could have kicked him hearty.

"Say, you're a wonder, you are!" says I. "But I expect if your kind was
common, all the decent people would be demandin' to be jailed, out of
self-respect."

Another chuckle from J. Bayard. "Is that envy," says he, "or merely
epigram? But at least we will agree that our ethical standards vary. You
scorn mine; I find yours curiously entertaining. The best thing about
you is that you seem to bring me good luck."

"Don't trust that too far," says I. "I'm neither hump-backed, nor a live
Billiken. How soon are you going to start on proposition Number Two?"

"Ah!" says he, straightenin'. "That is the real business of the moment,
isn't it? As a matter of fact, I was just about to seek your valuable
advice on the subject."

"Shoot it, then," says I. "Who's the party?"

He explores his inside pockets, fishes out an envelop, and inspects it
deliberate. It's sealed; but he makes no move to open it. "My next
assignment in altruism," says he, holdin' it to the light. "Rich man,
poor man, beggar man, thief--I wonder?"

"Ah, come!" says I, handin' him a paper knife.

"But there's no need for haste," says J. Bayard. "Just consider, Shorty:
In this envelop is the name of some individual who was the victim of
injustice, large or small, at the hands of Pyramid Gordon, someone who
got in his way, perhaps years ago. Now I am to do something that will
offset that old injury. While the name remains unread, we have a bit of
mystery, an unknown adventure ahead of us, perhaps. And that, my dear
McCabe, is the salt of life."

"Say, you ought to take that lecture out on the Chautauqua," says I.
"Get busy--slit or quit!"

"Very well," says he, jabbin' the knife under the flap. "To discover the
identity of the next in line!"

"Well?" says I, as he stares at the slip of paper. "Who do you pluck
this time?"

"An enigma, so far as I am concerned," says he. "Listen: 'John Wesley
Pedders, in 1894 cashier of the Merchants' Exchange Bank, at Tullington,
Connecticut.' Ever hear of such a person, Shorty!"

"Not me," says I, "nor the place either."

"Then it remains to be discovered first," says Steele, "whether for
twenty years Pedders has stayed put or not. Haven't a Pathfinder handy,
have you? Never mind, there are plenty at the hotel. And if to-morrow is
such another fine spring day as this, I'll run up there. I'll let you
know the results later; and then, my trusty colleague, we will plot
joyously for the well-being of John Wesley Pedders."

"Huh!" says I. "Don't try to pull any steam yachts or French limousines
on me this time. The kind stuff goes, remember."

"To your acute sense of fitness in such matters, McCabe," says he, "I
bow profoundly," and with a jaunty wave of his hand he drifts out.

Honest, compared to the shifty-eyed, suspicious-actin' party that blew
into my studio a few weeks back, he seems like a kid on a Coney Island
holiday. I expect it's the prospects of easy money that's chirked him up
so; but he sure is a misfit to be subbin' on a deeds-of-kindness job.
That ain't my lookout, though. All I got to do is pass on his plans and
see that he carries 'em out accordin' to specifications. So I don't
even look up this tank station on the map.

A couple of days go by, three, and no bulletin from J. Bayard. Then here
the other mornin' I gets a long distance call. It's from Steele.

"Eh?" says I. "Where the blazes are you?"

"Tullington," says he.

"Oh!" says I. "Still there, are you? Found Pedders?"

"Ye-e-es," says he; "but I am completely at a loss to know what to do
for him. I say, McCabe, couldn't you run up here? It's a curious
situation, and I--well, I need your advice badly. There's a train at
eleven-thirty that connects at Danbury. Couldn't you?"

Well, I hadn't figured on bein' any travelin' inspector when I took this
executor job; but as J. Bayard sends out the S O S so strong I can't
very well duck. Besides, I might have been a little int'rested to know
what he'd dug up.

So about three-fifteen that afternoon finds me pilin' off a branch
accommodation at Tullington. Mr. Steele is waitin' on the platform to
meet me, silk lid and all.

"What about Pedders?" says I.

"I want you to see him first," says J. Bayard.

"On exhibition, is he?" says I.

"In a town of this size," says he, "everyone is on exhibition
continuously. It's the penalty one pays for being rural, I suppose.
I've been here only two days; but I'll venture to say that most of the
inhabitants know me by name and have made their guess as to what my
business here may be. It's the most pitiless kind of publicity I ever
experienced. But come on up to the postoffice, and I'll show you
Pedders."

"Fixture there, is he?" says I.

"Twice a day he comes for the mail," says J. Bayard. "Your train brought
it up. He'll be on hand."

So we strolls up Main street from the station, while Steele points out
the brass works, the carpet mill, the opera house, and Judge Hanks'
slate-roofed mansion. It sure is a jay burg, but a lively one. Oh, yes!
Why, the Ladies' Aid Society was holdin' a cake sale in a vacant store
next to the Bijou movie show, and everybody was decoratin' for a
firemen's parade to be pulled off next Saturday. We struck the
postoffice just as they brought the mail sacks up in a pushcart and
dragged 'em in through the front door.

"There he is," says Steele, nudgin' me, "over in the corner by the
writing shelf!"

What he points out is a long-haired, gray-whiskered old guy, with a
faded overcoat slung over his shoulders like a cape, and an old slouch
hat pulled down over his eyes. He's standin' there as still and quiet as
if his feet was stuck to the floor.

"Kind of a seedy old party, eh?" says I.

"Why not?" says J. Bayard. "He's an ex-jailbird."

"You don't say!" says I. "What brand?"

"Absconder," says he. "Got away with a hundred and fifty thousand from
the local bank."

"Well, well!" says I. "Didn't spend it dollin' himself up, did he?"

"Oh, all that happened twenty years ago," says Steele. "The odd part of
it is, though---- But come over to the hotel, where I can tell you the
whole story."

And, say, he had a tale, all right. Seems Pedders had been one of the
leadin' citizens,--cashier of the bank, pillar of the church, member of
the town council, and all that,--with a wife who was a social fav'rite,
and a girl that promised to be a beauty when she grew up. The Pedders
never tried to cut any gash, though. They lived simple and respectable
and happy. About the only wild plunge the neighbors ever laid up against
him was when he paid out ten dollars once for some imported tulip bulbs.

Then all of a sudden it was discovered that a bunch of negotiable
securities had disappeared from the bank vaults. The arrow pointed
straight to Pedders. He denied; but he couldn't explain. He just shut up
like a clam, and let 'em do their worst. He got ten years. Before he was
put away they tried to make him confess, or give 'em some hint as to
what he'd done with the bonds. But there was nothin' doin' in that
line. He just stood pat and took his medicine.

Bein' a quiet prisoner, that gave no trouble and kept his cell tidy, he
scaled it down a couple of years. Nobody looked for him to come back to
Tullington after he got loose. They all had it doped out that he'd
salted away that hundred and fifty thousand somewhere, and would proceed
to dig it up and enjoy it where he wa'n't known.

But Pedders fooled 'em again. Straight back from the bars he come, back
to Tullington and the little white story-and-a-half cottage on a side
street, where Mrs. Pedders and Luella was waitin' for him.

She'd had some hand-to-hand tussle meanwhile, Mrs. Pedders had; but
she'd stuck it out noble. At the start about nine out of ten of her
neighbors and kind friends was dead sure she knew where that bunch of
securities was stowed, and some of 'em didn't make any bones of sayin'
she ought to be in jail along with Pedders. So of course that made it
nice and comfy for her all around. But she opened up a little millinery
shop in her front parlor, and put up jams and jellies, and raised a few
violets under a window sash in the back yard. She didn't quite starve
that first year or so; though nobody knew just how close she shaved it.
And in time even them that had been her closest friends begun to be
sorry for her.

When Pedders showed up again all the old stories was hashed over, and
the whole of Tullington held its breath watchin' for some sign that he's
dug up his hank loot. But it didn't come. Pedders just camped down
silent in his old home and let his whiskers grow. Twice a day he made
reg'lar trips back and forth from the postoffice, lookin' at nobody,
speakin' to nobody. Mrs. Pedders held her usual fall and spring openin's
of freak millinery, while Luella taught in the fourth grade of the
grammar school and gave a few piano lessons on the side. They didn't act
like a fam'ly that had buried treasure.

But what had he done with that hundred and fifty thousand? How could he
have blown so much without even acquirin' a toddy blossom? Or had he
scattered it in the good old way, buckin' Wall Street? But he'd never
seemed like that kind. No, they didn't think he had the nerve to take a
chance on a turkey raffle. So that left the mystery deeper'n ever.

"No chance of him bein' not guilty to begin with, eh?" I suggests.

J. Bayard smiles cynical. "So far as I am able to learn," says he,
"there is just one person, aside from Mrs. Pedders and her daughter, who
believes him innocent. Strangely enough too, that's Norris, who was
teller at the time. He's president of the bank now. I had a talk with
him this morning. He insists that Pedders was too honest to touch a
dollar; says he knew him too well. But he offers no explanation as to
where the securities went. So there you are! Everyone else regards him
as a convicted thief, who scarcely got his just deserts. He's a social
outcast, and a broken, spiritless wretch besides. How can I do anything
kind and generous for such a man?"

Well, I didn't know any more'n he did. "What gets me," I goes on, "is
how he ever come to be mixed up with Pyramid Gordon. Got that traced
out?"

"I sounded Norris on that point," says Steele; "but he'd never heard of
Gordon's having been in Tullington, and was sure Pedders didn't know
him."

"Then you ain't had a talk with Pedders himself?" says I.

"Why, no," says J. Bayard, shruggin' his shoulders scornful. "The poor
devil! I didn't see what good it would do--an ex-convict, and----"

"You can't always be dealin' with Twombley-Cranes," I breaks in. "And
it's Pedders you're after this trip. Come on. Let's go tackle him."

"What! Now?" says Steele, liftin' his eyebrows.

"Ah, you ain't plannin' to spend the summer here, are you?" says I.
"Besides, it'll do you good to learn not to shy at a man just because
he's done time. Show us the house."

I could have put it even stronger to him, if I'd wanted to rub it in.
Had about as much sympathy for a down-and-out, Steele did, as you'd find
milk in a turnip. You should see the finicky airs he puts on as he
follows me into the Pedders cottage, and sniffs at the worn,
old-fashioned furniture in the sittin' room.

It's Mrs. Pedders that comes in from the shop to greet us. Must have
been quite a good looker once, from the fine face and the still slim
figure. But her hair has been frosted up pretty well, and there's plenty
of trouble lines around the eyes. No, we couldn't see Mr. Pedders. She
was sorry, but he didn't see anyone. If there was any business, perhaps
she could----

"Maybe you can," says I; "although it ain't exactly business, either.
It's a delayed boost we're agents for; friendly, and all that."

"I--I don't believe I understand," says she.

"We'll get to that later on," says I, "if you'll take our word and help.
What we're tryin' to get a line on first off is where and how Mr.
Pedders run against Pyramid Gordon."

"Gordon?" says she. "I don't think I ever heard him mention the name."

"Think 'way back, then," says I, "back before he was--before he had his
trouble."

She tried, but couldn't dig it up. We was still on the subject when in
floats Daughter. She's one of these nice, sweet, sensible lookin' girls,
almost vergin' on the old maid. She'd just come home from her school.
The case was explained to her; but she don't remember hearin' the name
either.

"You see, I was only nine at the time," says she, "and there was so much
going on, and Papa was so upset about all those letters."

"Which letters?" says I.

"Oh, the people who wrote to him during the trial," says she. "You've no
idea--hundreds and hundreds of letters, from all over the country; from
strangers, you know, who'd read that he was--well, an absconder. They
were awful letters. I think that's what hurt Papa most, that people were
so ready to condemn him before he'd had a chance to show that he didn't
do it. He would just sit at his old desk there by the hour, reading them
over, and everyone seemed like another pound loaded on his poor
shoulders. The letters kept coming long after he was sent away. There's
a whole boxful in the garret that have never been opened."

"And he never shall see them!" announced Mrs. Pedders emphatic.

"H-m-m-m!" says I. "A whole boxful that nobody's opened? But suppose now
that some of 'em wa'n't--say, why not take a look at the lot, just the
outsides?"

Neither Mrs. Pedders nor Luella took kind to that proposition; but
somehow I had a vague hunch it ought to be done. I couldn't say exactly
why, either. But I kept urgin' and arguin', and at last they gave in.
They'd show me the outsides, anyway; that is, Luella might, if she
wanted to. Mrs. Pedders didn't even want to see the box.

"I meant to have burned them long ago," says she. "They're just letters
from idle, cruel people, that's all. And you don't know how many such
there are in the world, Mr. McCabe. I hope you never will know. But go
up with Luella if you wish."

So we did, J. Bayard glancin' suspicious at the dust and cobwebs and
protectin' his silk hat and clothes cautiously. It's a good-sized box
too, with a staple and padlock to keep the cover down. Luella hunted up
the key and handed out bunch after bunch. Why do people want to write to
parties they've read about in the newspapers? What's the good too, of
jumpin' on bank wreckers and such at long range? Why, some even let
their spite slop over on the envelopes. To see such a lot of letters,
and think how many hard thoughts they stood for, almost gave you chills
on the spine.

Didn't seem to do much good to paw 'em over now, at this late date,
either. I was almost givin' up my notion and tellin' Luella that would
be about enough, when I noticed a long yellow document envelope stowed
away by itself in a corner.

"There's a fat one," says I.

She hands it out mechanical, as she'd done the rest.

"Hello!" says I, glancin' at the corner.

"Gordon & Co., Broad Street, New York! Why, say, that's the Pyramid
Gordon I was askin' about."

"Is it?" says she. "I hadn't noticed."

"Might give us some clew," I goes on, "as to what him and your Paw had a
run-in about."

"Well, open it, if you like," says Luella careless.

J. Bayard and I takes it over to the window and inspects the cancel
date.

"June, 1894," says I. "Twenty-eight cents postage; registered too. Quite
a package. Well, here goes!"

"Bonds," says Steele, takin' a look. "That old Water Level Development
Company's too."

"And here's a note inside," says I. "Read it."

It was to John Wesley Pedders, cashier of the Merchants' Exchange Bank,
from Mr. Gordon. "In depositing securities for a loan, on my recent
visit to your bank," it runs on, "I found I had brought the wrong set;
so I took the liberty, without consulting your president, of
substituting, for a few days, a bundle of blanks. I am now sending by
registered mail the proper bonds, which you may file. Trusting this
slight delay has caused you no inconvenience, I am----"

"The old fox!" cuts in J. Bayard. "A fair sample of his methods! Had to
have a loan on those securities, and wanted to use them somewhere else
at the same time; so he picked out this little country bank to work the
deal through. Oh, that was Pyramid Gordon, every time! And calmly
allowed a poor cashier to go to State's prison for it!"

"Not Pyramid," says I. "I don't believe he ever heard a word of the
trouble."

"Then why did he put Pedders' name on his list?" demands Steele.

"Maybe he thought sendin' on the bonds would clear up the mess," says I.
"So it would, if they hadn't come a day or two late and got stowed away
here. And here they've been for twenty years!"

"Yes, and quite as valuable to the bank as if they'd been in the
vaults," sneers J. Bayard. "That Water Level stock never was worth the
paper it was printed on, any more than it is now."

"We'll make it useful, then," says I. "Why, it's got Aladdin's lamp beat
four ways for Wednesday! These bonds go to Pedders. Then Pedders shaves
off his whiskers, puts on his Sunday suit, braces his shoulders back,
walks down to the bank, and chucks this bunch of securities at 'em
triumphant."

"But if the bank is still out a hundred and fifty thousand," objects
Steele, "I don't see how----"

"They ain't out a cent," says I. "We'll find a customer for these
bonds."

"Who?" says he.

"J. Bayard Steele," says I. "Ain't you actin' for a certain party that
would have wanted it done?"

"By Jove!" says he. "Shorty, you've hit it! Why, I'd never have thought
of----"

"No," says I; "you're still seein' only that twenty per cent commission.
Well, you get that. But I want to see the look in Mrs. Pedders' eyes
when she hears the news."

Say, it was worth makin' a way train trip to Tullington, believe me!

"I knew," says she. "Oh, I always have known John didn't do it! And now
others will know. Oh, I'm glad, so glad!"

Even brought a slight dew to them shifty eyes of J. Bayard's, that
little scene did. "McCabe," says he, as we settles ourselves in the
night express headed towards Broadway, "this isn't such a bad game,
after all, is it?"

CHAPTER IV

TWO SINGLES TO GOOBER

"Shorty," says Sadie, hangin' up the 'phone and turnin' to me excited,
"what do you think? Young Hollister is back in town!"

"So are lots of other folks," says I, "and more comin' every day."

"But you know he promised to stay away," she goes on, "and his mother
will feel dreadfully about it when she hears."

"I know," says I. "And a livelier widow never hailed from Peachtree
street, Atlanta; which is sayin' a lot. Who sends in this bulletin about
Sonny?"

"Purdy-Pell," says Sadie, "and he doesn't know what to do."

"Never does," says I.

Sadie flickers a grin. "It seems Robin came two days ago, and has hardly
been seen about the house since. Besides, Purdy-Pell could do nothing
with him when he was here before, you remember."

"Awful state of things, ain't it?" says I. "The youngster's all of
nineteen, ain't he?"

"He's nearly twenty-one," says Sadie. "And Mrs. Hollister's such a
dear!"

"All of which leads up to what?" says I, tearin' my eyes from the
sportin' page reluctant.

"Why," says Sadie, cuddlin' up on the chair arm, "Purdy-Pell suggests
that, as Robin appeared to take such a fancy to you, perhaps you
wouldn't mind----"

"Say," I breaks in, "he's a perfectly punk suggester! I'd mind a lot!"

Course that opened the debate, and while I begins by statin' flat-footed
that Robin could come or go for all I cared, it ends in the usual
compromise. I agrees to take the eight-forty-five into town and skirmish
for Sonny. He'd be almost sure to show up at Purdy-Pell's to-night, Sadie
says, and if I was on hand I might induce him to quit wreckin' the city
and be good.

"Shouldn't I wear a nurse's cap and apron?" I remarks as I grabs my hat.

For, honest, so far as I've ever seen, this young Hollister was a nice,
quiet, peaceable chap, with all the earmarks of a perfect gent. He'd
been brought up from the South and put into Purdy-Pell's offices, and
he'd made a fair stab at holdin' down his job. But of course, bein'
turned loose in New York for the first time, I expect he went out now
and then to see what was goin' on under the white lights.

From some youngsters that might have called for such panicky protests as
Mother and Mrs. Purdy-Pell put up; but young Robin had a good head on
him, and didn't act like he meant to develop into a rounder. Course I
didn't hear the details; but all of a sudden something happened that
caused a grand howl. I know Sadie was consulted, then Mrs. Hollister was
sent for, and it ended by Robin marchin' into the studio one mornin' to
say good-by. He explains that he's bein' shipped home. They'd got a job
for him with an uncle out in the country somewhere. That must have been
a year or so ago, and now it looked like he'd slipped his halter and had
headed back for Broadway.

I finds Purdy-Pell peeved and sarcastic. "To be sure," he says, "I feel
honored that the young man should make my house his headquarters
whenever his fancy leads him to indulge his sportive instincts. Youth
must be served, you know. But Mrs. Hollister has such a charmingly
unreasonable way of holding me responsible for her son's conduct! And
since she happens just now to be our guest--well, you get the idea,
McCabe."

"What do you think he's up to?" says I.

Purdy-Pell shrugs his shoulders. "If he were the average youth, one
might guess," says he; "but Robin Hollister is different. His mother is
a Pitt Medway, one of the Georgia Medways."

"You don't say!" says I. I expect I ought to know just how a Georgia
Medway differs from a New Jersey Medway, or the Connecticut brand; but,
sad to say, I don't. Purdy-Pell, though, havin' been raised in the
South himself, seems to think that everyone ought to know the traits of
all the leadin' fam'lies between the Potomac and the Chattahoochee.

"Last time, you know," goes on Purdy-Pell, "it was a Miss Maggie Toots,
a restaurant cashier, and a perfectly impossible person. We broke that
up, though."

"Ye-e-es?" says I.

"Robin's mother seemed to think then," says he, "that it was largely my
fault. I suppose she'll feel the same about whatever mischief he's in
now. If I could only find the young scamp! But really I haven't time.
I'm an hour late at the Boomer Days' as it is."

"Then toddle along," says I. "If I'm unanimously elected to do this
kid-reformin' act, I expect I might as well get busy."

So as soon as the butler's through loadin' Purdy-Pell into the limousine
I cross-examines Jarvis about young Mr. Hollister's motions. Yes, he'd
shown up at the house both nights. It might have been late, perhaps
quite late. Then this afternoon he'd 'phoned to have his evenin' clothes
sent uptown by messenger. No, he couldn't remember the number, or the
name of the hotel.

"Ah, come, Jarvis!" says I. "We know you're strong for the young man,
and all that. But this is for the best. Dig it up now! You must have put
the number down at the time. Where's the 'phone pad?"

He produces it, blank. "You see, Sir," says he, "I tore off the leaf and
gave it to the messenger."

"But you're a heavy writer, ain't you?" says I. "Find me a readin'
glass."

And, sure enough, by holdin' the pad under the big electrolier in the
lib'ry, we could trace out the address.

"Huh!" says I. "The Maison Maxixe, one of them new trot palaces! Ring up
a taxi, Jarvis."

Didn't happen to be up around there yourself that night, did you? If you
had, you couldn't missed seein' him,--the old guy with the Dixie lid and
the prophet's beard, and the snake-killer staff in his fist,--for with
that gold and green entrance as a background, and in all that glare of
electric lights, he was some prominent.

Sort of a cross between Father Time and Santa Claus, he looks like, with
his bumper crop of white alfalfa, his rosy cheeks, and his husky build.
Also he's attired in a wide-brimmed black felt hat, considerable dusty,
and a long black coat with a rip in the shoulder seam. I heard a couple
of squabs just ahead of me giggle, and one of 'em gasps:

"Heavings, Lulu! Will you lamp the movie grandpop! I wonder if them
lambrequins are real?"

She says it loud enough to be heard around on Broadway, and I looks to
see how the old boy takes it; but he keeps right on beamin' mild and
sort of curious at the crowds pushin' in. It was them calm, gentle old
blue eyes of his, gazin' steady, like he was lookin' for someone, that
caught me. First thing, I knew he was smilin' folksy straight at me, and
liftin' one hand hesitatin', as if he wanted to give me the hail.

"Well, old scout?" says I, haltin' on the first step.

"Excuse me, Neighbor," says he, drawlin' it out deep and soft, "but be
yo' goin' in thayah?"

"I don't say it boastin'," says I, "but that was the intention."

"We-e-e-ell," he drawls, half chucklin', half sing-songy, "I wisht I
could get you to kind of look around for a young fellah in thayah,--sort
of a well favored, upstandin' young man, straight as a cornstalk, and
with his front haiah a little wavy. Would you?"

"I might find fifty that would answer to that description," says I.

"No, Suh, I reckon not," says he, waggin' his noble old head. "Not fifty
like him, nor one! He'll have his chin up, Suh, and there'll be a
twinkle in his brown eyes you can't mistake."

"Maybe so," says I. "I'll scout around a bit. And if I find him, what
then?"

"Jes' give him the word, Neighbor," says he, "that Uncle Noah's a
waitin' outside, wantin' to see him a minute when he gets through.
He'll understand, Robin will."

"Eh?" says I. "Robin who?"

"Young Mistuh Hollister I should say, Suh," says he.

"Well, well!" says I, gawpin' at him. "You lookin' for Robin Hollister
too? Why, so am I!"

"Then we ought to find him between us, hadn't we?" says he, smilin'
friendly. "Lott's my name, Suh."

"Wha-a-at!" says I, grinnin' broad as the combination strikes me. "Not
Uncle Noah Lott?"

"It's a powerful misleadin' name, I got to admit," says he, returnin'
the grin; "but I reckon my folks didn't figure jes' how it was goin' to
sound when they tacked the Noah onto me, or else they didn't allow for
my growin' up so simple. But I've had it so long I'm used to it, and so
is most everyone else down in my part of Jawgy."

"Ah!" says I. "Then you're from Georgia, eh? Down where they sent Robin,
I expect?"

"That's right," says he. "I'm from Goober."

"Goober!" I echoes. "Say, that's a choice one too! No wonder Robin
couldn't stand it! Sent you up to fetch him back, did they?"

"No, Suh," says he. "Mistuh Phil Hollister didn't send me at all. I jes'
come, Suh, and I can't say if I'm goin' to carry him back or no. You
see it's like this: Robin, he's a good boy. We set a heap by him, we do.
And Robin was doin' well, keepin' the bale books, lookin' after the
weighin', and takin' general charge around the cotton gin. Always had a
good word for me in the mornin' when I hands over the keys, me bein'
night watchman, Suh. 'Well, Uncle Noah,' it would be, 'didn't let
anybody steal presses, did you?' 'No, Mistuh Robin,' I'd say, 'didn't
lose nary press last night, and only part of the smokestack.' We was
that way, me and Robin. And when Mistuh Phil and his folks started off
to visit their married daughter, up in Richmond, he says to me, 'Uncle
Noah, I expect you to look after Robin while I'm gone, and see that he
don't git into no trouble.' Them was his very words, Suh."

"And Robin's kept you busy, eh?" says I.

"Well, he's a good boy, Robin is," insists Uncle Noah. "I reckon it took
him sort of sudden, this wantin' to leave Goober. Just had to come to
New York, it seems like. I dunno what for, and I ain't askin'; only I
promised his Uncle Phil I'd see he didn't git into no trouble,
and--well, I'm a waitin' around, you see, waitin' around."

"How'd you come to locate him, Uncle?" says I.

"We-e-ell," says he, "I reckon I shouldn't a done it nohow, but he left
the envelope to her letter on his desk,--a Miss Toots it come
from,--and the address was on the back. It was directly afterwards that
Robin quits Goober so sudden."

"Ah-ha!" says I. "Maggie Toots again, eh?"

Looked like the myst'ry was solved too, and while I wa'n't plannin' to
restrict any interstate romance, or throw the switch on love's young
dream, I thought as long as I'd gone this far I might as well take a
look.

"Maybe he'll be too busy to receive any home delegation just now," says
I; "but if you want to stick around while I do a little scoutin' inside,
Uncle, I'll be out after a bit."

"I'll be a waitin'," says Uncle Noah, smilin' patient, and I leaves him
backed up against the front of the buildin' with his hands crossed
peaceful on the top of his home-made walkin' stick.

It's some giddy push I gets into after I've put up my dollar for a
ballroom ticket and crowded in where a twenty-piece orchestra was busy
with the toe-throbby stuff. And there's such a mob on the floor and
along the side lines that pickin' out one particular young gent seems
like a hopeless job.

I drifts around, though, elbowin' in and out, gettin' glared at by fat
old dames, and bein' bumped by tangoin' couples, until I finds a spot in
a corner where I could hang up and have a fair view. About then someone
blows a whistle, and out on the platform in front of the orchestra
appears a tall, bullet-headed, pimple-faced young gent, wearin' white
spats with his frock-coat costume, and leadin' by the hand a zippy young
lady who's attired mostly in black net and a pair of gauze wings growin'
out between her shoulder blades. It's announced that they will do a
fancy hesitation.

Take it from me, I never saw it danced like that before! It was more'n a
dance: it was an acrobatic act, an assault with intent to maim, and
other things we won't talk about. The careless way that young sport
tossed around this party with the gauze wings was enough to make you
wonder what was happenin' to her wishbone. First he'd swing her round
with her head bent back until her barrette almost scraped the floor;
then he'd yank her up, toss her in the air, and let her trickle graceful
down his shirt front, like he was a human stair rail. Next, as the music
hit the high spots, they'd go to a close clinch, and whirl and dip and
pivot until she breaks loose, takes a flyin' leap, and lands shoulder
high in his hands, while he walks around with her like she was something
he was bringin' in on a tray.

The hesitation, eh? Say, that's what Mrs. McCabe has been at me to take
lessons in. I can see myself, with Sadie tippin' the scales at one
hundred and sixty-eight! But when I go home to-night I'll agree to try
it if she's willin' to have her spine removed first.

The young lady in black, though, don't seem to mind. She bows smilin' at
the finish, and then trips off with Pimple Face, lookin' whole and
happy. I was watchin' 'em as they made their way out towards the front.
Seemed to be gen'ral fav'rites with the crowd, for they were swappin'
hails right and left, and she was makin' dates for the next ground and
lofty number, I expect; when all of a sudden they're stopped by someone,
there's a brief but breezy little argument, and I hears a soft thud that
listens like a short arm jab bein' nestled up against a jawbone. And
there's Pimple Face doin' a back flip that ain't in his repertoire at
all.

Course that spilled the beans. There was squeals, and shrieks, and a
gen'ral mixup; some tryin' to get closer, others beatin' it to get away,
and all the makin's of a young riot. But the management at the Maison
Maxixe don't stand for any rough stuff. In less than a minute a bunch of
house detectives was on the spot, the young hesitationer was whisked
into a cloakroom, and the other gent was bein' shot towards the fresh
air.

Just a glimpse that I caught of his flushed face as it was bein' tucked
under a bouncer's arm set me in action. I made a break for a side exit;
but there's such a jam everywhere that it's two or three minutes before
I can get around to the front.

And there's young Hollister, with an end of his dress collar draped
jaunty over his right ear, tryin' to kick the belt buckle off a
two-hundred-pound cop who's holdin' him at arm's length with one hand
and rappin' his nightstick for help with the other; while Uncle Noah
stands one side, starin' some disturbed at the spectacle. I knew that
was no time to butt in!

In that section of the White Light district too you can call up plenty
of help by a few taps from the locust. Cops came on the jump from two
adjoinin' posts,--big husky Broadway cops,--and they swoops down on
young Robin like a bunch of Rockefeller deacons on a Ferrer school
graduate who rises in prayer meetin' to ask the latest news from Paint
Creek.

"What you got, Jim?" puffs one.

"Young hick that got messy in the tango joint," says Jim.

"Ah, fan him a few!" remarks the other. "Hold him still now while I----"

At which Uncle Noah pushes in and holds up a protestin' hand. "Now see
heah, Mistuh Constable," says he, "I wouldn't go for to do anything like
that!"

"Wha-a-at?" snarls the copper. "Say, you old billy-goat, beat it!" And
he proceeds to clip young Mr. Hollister a glancin' blow on the side of
the bead. His next aim was better; but this time the nightstick didn't
connect.

There's been let loose a weird, high-pitched howl, which I didn't
recognize at the time as the old Rebel yell, but know now that it was.
Uncle Noah had gone into action. That walkin' stick of his was a
second-growth hickory club as thick as your wrist at the big end. He
swung it quick and accurate, and if that cop ain't nursin' a broken
forearm to-day he's lucky. I expect his dome was solid iv'ry,--most of
them sluggers have that kind,--and in this case he needed it; for, once
he gets goin', Uncle Noah makes a thorough job of it. He lands his next
swipe square on the copper's head and tumbles him to the sidewalk like a
bag of meal. The other two was at him with their clubs by this time,
swingin' on him vicious; but somehow they couldn't get in anything but
body blows that echoed on Uncle Noah's ribs like thumpin' a barrel. Must
have been a tough old boy; for that never fazed him. And the crowd, that
was a block deep by this time, seemed to be right with him.

"Slug the clubbers!" they yelled. "Knock their blocks off! Go to it, old
man!"

He didn't need that to encourage him; for he wades in lively, raps first
one head and then the other, until he had 'em all three on the pavement.
That set the crowd wild.

"Now sneak while the sneakin's good, old top!" shouts one.

"Jump a cab!" sings out another.

Say, the idea that either of 'em might get out of this muss without
goin' to the station house hadn't occurred to me before. But here was a
taxi, jam up against the curb not a dozen feet off, with the chauffeur
swingin' his cap enthusiastic.

"Quick, Uncle!" says I, gettin' him by the arm. "It's your one chance.
You too, Robin. But show some speed about it."

At that, if it hadn't been for half a dozen chaps in the front row of
the crowd that helped me shove 'em in, and the others that blocked off
the groggy coppers who were wabblin' to their feet, we couldn't have
pulled it off. But we piled 'em in, I gave the cabby the Purdy-Pells'
street number, and away they was whirled. And you can bet I didn't
linger in front of the Maison Maxixe long after that.

Twenty minutes later we had a little reunion in the Purdy-Pell lib'ry.
Robin was holdin' some cracked ice to a lump on his forehead, and Uncle
Noah was sittin' uncomf'table on the edge of a big leather chair.

"How cheery!" says I. "But take it from me, Uncle, you're some
two-fisted scrapper! I didn't think it was in you."

"We-e-ell," he drawls out, still breathin' a bit hard, but gettin' back
his gentle smile, "I didn't want to do no fursin' with them constables;
but you know Mistuh Phil he told me to see that Robin didn't git into no
trouble, and--and--we-e-ell, I didn't care for their motions none at
all, I didn't. So I jes' had to tap 'em a little."

[Illustration: "Now see hea-uh, Mistuh Vonstable," says he, "I wouldn't
go for to do anything like that."]

"Tappin' is good!" says I. "And how about you, Robin? How do you come to
be mixin' it up so conspicuous?"

"I'm sorry," says he. "I suppose I made an awful ass of myself. But even
if she is a public dancer, that snipe shouldn't have insulted her. Of
course I'd found out long before that Miss Toots was no longer anything
to me; but----"

"Then that was the famous Maggie, was it?" I breaks in. "The one that
lured you up from Dixie?"

"Not exactly a lure," says he. "She didn't think I'd be chump enough to
come. But that's all off now."

"I ain't curious," says I, "but the fam'ly has sort of delegated me to
keep track of your moves. What's next, if you know?"

Robin shrugs his shoulders sort of listless. "I don't know," says he.
Then he turns to Uncle Noah. "Uncle," says he, "how will those
scuppernongs be about now on the big arbor in front of Uncle Phil's?"

"Bless you, Mistuh Robin," says old Noah, "they'll be dead ripe by now,
and there's jes' doodlins of 'em. Miss Peggy Culpepper, she'll be mighty
lonesome, a pickin' of 'em all by herself."

"Humph!" says Robin, tintin' up. "Think so, do you?"

"I don't have to think, Mistuh Robin," says Uncle Noah. "Miss Peggy told
me that herself the mornin' I come away."

Young Mr. Hollister gazes earnest into them gentle old blue eyes for a
second, then he takes a turn or two up and down the lib'ry, and fin'lly
claps Uncle Noah on the shoulder. "I've been waiting all summer for a
taste of those grapes," says he. "Come, we can just catch the midnight.
I've had enough of Broadway to last me for a long time."

And my partin' glimpse of 'em was at eleven-fifty-six, when they pushed
through the gate bound for Goober, Georgia.

"After all," thinks I, "it may not be so bad as it sounds."

CHAPTER V

THE CASE OF A FEMALE PARTY

You know how free this J. Bayard Steele has been in callin' on me for
help in puttin' over his little deeds of kindness, at so much per deed?
Well, here the other day he shows up at the studio with sealed envelope
No. 3 in his pocket, and after springin' his usual guff about the door
of fate he opens it.

"Well, who's the party of the second part this time?" says I.

But he just gazes at the slip of paper he's taken out and smiles mushy.

"All right," says I. "Keep it to yourself. This is my busy day, anyway."

"Pardon me, McCabe," says he. "I was lost in wonder at the varied
character of the persons whom the late Pyramid Gordon numbered on his
conscience list. This time it is a lady."

"Huh!" says I. "Didn't know Pyramid ever had any skirt complications."

"From Adam down has any man escaped?" says J. Bayard, wavin' his
cigarette jaunty. "No, your friend Gordon was no wiser than the rest of
us, as this shows. Hearken to the name--Josie Vernon!"

"That does listen flossy," says I. "But I never heard him mention any
Josie as long as I knew him. Any details?"

"There's an address," says J. Bayard, "and in one corner is written,
'Mrs. Fletcher Shaw.' Probably a friend, or next of kin. Ah, but this is
something like! Knight-errantry for the fair sex! Here, McCabe, is where
I shine!"

"You do, eh?" says I. "Think you can handle this case all by your
lonesome?"

Did he? Why, to see him turkeyin' round, glancin' at himself approvin'
in the mirror, and pattin' them Grand Duke whiskers of his into shape,
you'd think he had some matinée idol as an understudy. Oh, yes, he
rather fancied he understood women, knew how to handle 'em, and all
that. He would look up Josie Vernon at once, find out what had been the
trouble between her and Pyramid, and decide on some kind and generous
way of evenin' the score, accordin' to the terms of Mr. Gordon's will.

"And in this instance, Shorty," says he, "I shall probably not be
compelled to trouble you at all until I submit my plans for your
indorsement. Now I'm off. The ladies, bless 'em!" and he winks giddy as
he trips through the door.

Ain't they the nutty ones, these old cut-ups? Look at Steele now,--in
the late fifties, but just at the mention of a name like Josie Vernon he
gets kittenish!

Well, it's nothin' to me, and I'm glad to duck any dealin's with stray
dames; for when it comes to the surprisin' sex you never know what
you're goin' to be let in for. Besides, my part of his executor game was
only to O.K. J. Bayard's final schemes and see that he spent the money
somewhere near the way I judged Pyramid meant to have it distributed.
Course, I hadn't been able to stick to that very strict in the first two
cases; but this time it looked like I would.

So by the next afternoon, havin' been busy in the gym since nine A.M.,
I'd forgotten the incident complete, and I'm some surprised when Swifty
Joe announces that there's a female party askin' for me in the front
office.

"Wha' d'ye mean--female party?" says I. "Is it a lady?"

"Ah-r-r-r chee!" says Swifty. "How do I know?"

That's some surprisin' too; for as a rule he ain't strong on drawin'
fine distinctions. If they're young and flossy dressed, he calls 'em
"fluffs"; but anything over twenty-five, no matter how she's costumed,
is a lady to Swifty, even a scrubwoman. So his describin' this visitor
as a female party gets me curious.

The minute I steps into the office and gets a glimpse at her, though, I
got Swifty's point of view. The battered old lid had been gay enough
once, a few seasons back, when the willow plume hadn't been dislocated
in four places, and before the velvet trimmin' had faded into so many
differ'nt shades. It had been a lady's hat once. And the face under it,
in spite of the red tip to the nose and the puffs under the eyes, might
have belonged to a lady. Anyway, there was traces of good looks there.
But the rusty black cloak that hung limp over the sagged shoulders, only
part hidin' the sloppy shirt waist and reachin' but halfway down the
side-hiked, draggled-edge skirt--that's the sure mark of a female party.
I don't know why, but it is.

Where they get cloaks like that is a mystery. You see 'em on women
panhandlers, on the old hags that camp on park benches, and in the jag
line at police courts. But you never see a new one. Perhaps they're made
special by second-hand shops for the female party trade.

"Well?" says I, lookin' her over cold and curious.

But you can't faze a female party so simple. They're used to that. She
stares back at me just as cool, and then remarks, "I guess you know who
I am well enough."

"Sure!" says I. "You're the long lost Duchess of Gainsborough, ain't
you?"

She just gazes at me brassy and shakes her head.

"Then you must be a lady snake agent," says I.

"What?" says she, scowlin' puzzled.

"I don't know the answer, either," says I. "Called for Professor McCabe,
didn't you? Well, you're connected. Shoot the rest of it."

"I'm Mrs. Fletcher Shaw," says she.

And for a minute there I couldn't place the name. Then it came to me.
"Oh!" says I. "Some relation of Josie Vernon's, eh?"

"Suppose I am?" she demands, eyin' me suspicious.

"Tut, tut, now!" says I. "You're the one that's occupyin' the witness
stand, you know. You were about to tell why you came."

"Was I?" says she. "You might guess that: you've had a man pryin' and
snoopin' around my flat for two days."

I gawps at her for a second, and then chuckles. "You mean a
classy-dressed gent with whiskers?" says I.

She nods.

"Mr. J. Bayard Steele," says I. "He's the one to see. He'll give you all
the partic'lars."

"Humph!" says she, sniffin'. "What does he want of Josie Vernon? What's
his game?"

"Deeds of kindness, that's all," says I.

Mrs. Shaw indulges in a hard, throaty cackle. "There ain't no such
animal," says she. "Come now, you're in on this with him. He said so.
What's it all about?"

"Mrs. Shaw," says I, "you've heard all I got to say on the subject. I'm
more or less busy too, and----"

"How impolite!" she breaks in. "And me a lady too! Heavings! how faint I
feel!" With that she sidles towards my desk chair and slumps into it.

"Very distressin' symptoms," says I. "But I got a quick cure for attacks
like that. It's fresh air, taken outside."

"I sha'n't budge until I've found why you're hounding me!" says she,
grippin' the chair arms.

"So?" says I. "Maybe you didn't notice the size of my assistant, Swifty
Joe, as you came in? His specialty is escortin' obstreperous parties
downstairs and dumpin' 'em on the curb."

"You try any strong-arm stuff on me and I'll scream for help!" says she.
"I'll make a charge against you too."

She looked equal to it, and for a minute I stands there gazin' puzzled
at her and scratchin' my head.

"You win," says I. "I can't have Swifty scratched up. He's too handsome.
It ain't any secret I'm keepin' away from you, anyway. All Mr. Steele
wants to do is to locate Josie Vernon. It's a will case, and there may
be something in it for her. There! That's the whole story."

"It's a fishy one," says she.

"Maybe," says I; "but I'm givin' you my word on it. Produce Josie, and
you'll see."

She squints at me doubtful, glances around the room cautious once or
twice, and then remarks quiet, "Very well. I'll take a chance. I'm
Josie."

"Eh?" says I. "You!"

"Ask the Sergeant over at the Nineteenth," says she. "He ran me out of
his precinct because I wouldn't give up enough. Fortune-telling, you
know. He wanted twenty a month. Think of that!"

"Never mind the Sarge," says I. "Did you know Mr. Gordon?"

"Pyramid?" says she. "Rather! Back in the '90's, that was. I was in his
offices for awhile."

"Oh--ho!" says I. "Then you must be the one. Would you mind givin' me a
sketch of the affair?"

Mrs. Shaw shrugs her shoulders under the old cape. "Why should I care
now?" says she. "I sprung a breach of promise suit on him, that's all. I
might have known better. He was a hard man, Pyramid Gordon. What with
lawyers and the private detectives he set after me, I was glad to get
out of the city alive. It was two years before I dared come back--and a
rough two years they were too! But you're not raking that up against me
at this late date, are you?"

"I'm not," says I. "Any move I make will be for your good. But Steele's
the man. I'll have to call him in."

"Call away, then," says she. "I ain't afraid of him, either."

And by luck I catches J. Bayard at his hotel and gets him on the 'phone.

"Well?" says I. "How about the fair Josie?"

I could hear him groan over the wire. "Hang Josie!" says he. "See here,
McCabe, I've had a deuce of a time with that case. Must have been
something wrong with the address, you know."

"How's that?" says I.

"Why," says he, "it led me to a smelly, top-floor flat up in Harlem, and
all I could find there was this impossible person, Mrs. Fletcher Shaw.
Of all the sniveling, lying, vicious-tongued old harridans! Do you know
what she did? Chased me down four flights of stairs with a broom, just
because I insisted on seeing Josie Vernon!"

"You don't say!" says I. "And you such a star at this knight-errant
business! Still want to see Josie, do you?"

"Why, of course," says he.

"Then come down to the studio," says I. "She's here."

"Wha-a-at!" he gasps. "I--I'll be right down."

And inside of ten minutes he swings in, all dolled up elegant with a
pink carnation in his buttonhole. You should have seen the smile come
off his face, though, when he sees what's occupyin' my desk chair. He'd
have done a sneak back through the door too, if I hadn't blocked him
off.

"Steady there, J. Bayard!" says I. "On the job, now!"

"But--but this isn't Josie Vernon," says he. "It's that Mrs.----"

"One and the same," says I. "The lady says so herself. She's proved it
too."

"I had you sized up as a police spotter," puts in Mrs. Shaw, "trying to
get me for palm reading. Thought you might have run across one of my
cards. Josie Vernon's the name I use on them. Sorry if I was too free
with the broom."

"I was merely returning to tell you, Madam," says Steele, "that I had
discovered you to be an impostor. Those five children you claimed as
yours did not belong to you at all. The janitor of the building informed
me that----"

"Yes, I heard him through the dumb-waiter shaft," says Mrs. Shaw. "But I
always borrow some youngsters for my poor widow act when I think I'm
being shadowed; so you needn't get peeved."

"Of course not. How silly of him!" I puts in. "There, Steele, that's all
straightened out, and here is the original Josie Vernon. What have you
got to suggest?"

He stares at me blank, and then takes another look at Mrs. Shaw. I'll
admit she wa'n't a fascinatin' sight.

"You don't mean," says he, whisperin' husky in my ear, "that you would
do anything for such a creature?"

"She's on the list, ain't she?" says I.

"Ye-e-es," he admits; "but----"

"Let's ask the lady herself for a few more details, so we can have
something definite to go on," says I. "Excuse us, Mrs. Shaw, for this
little side debate; but we ain't quite made up our minds about you yet.
Let's see--you was tellin' me about bringin' a breach of promise suit
against Pyramid, and how he ran you out of town. You had a good case
too, I expect?"

"What's the use of lying about it now?" says she. "It was a cheap bluff,
that's all; one of Mr. Shaw's brilliant schemes. Oh, he was a schemer,
Shaw was! Pretended to be a lawyer, Fletcher did, in those days. He was
smooth enough for one, but too lazy. I didn't know that when I married
him. What I didn't know about him then! But I learned. He thought he
could scare Mr. Gordon into settling for a few thousand. Of course my
claim was all bosh. Pyramid Gordon hardly knew I was in his office.
Besides, I was married, anyway. He didn't guess that. But the bluff
didn't work. We were the ones who were scared; scared stiff, too."

"H-m-m-m!" says I. "Not what you might call a pretty affair, was it?"

Mrs. Shaw don't wince at that. She just sneers cynical. "Life with
Fletcher Shaw wasn't pretty at any stage of the game," says she. "Say,
you don't think I picked my career, do you? True, I was only a girl; but
I wasn't quite a fool. You will laugh, I suppose, but at twenty-two I
had dreams, ambitions. I meant to be a woman doctor. I was teaching
physiology and chemistry in a high school up in Connecticut, where I was
born. In another year I could have begun my medical course. Then
Fletcher came along, with his curly brown hair, his happy, careless
smile, and his fascinating way of avoiding the truth. I gave up all my
hopes and plans to go with him. That's what a woman does when she
marries. I don't know why it should be so, but it is. Take my case: I
had more brains, more energy, more character, than he. But he was a man;
so I had to live his life. A rotten sort of life it was. And when it was
over--well, look at me. I've learned to drink gin and to make a living
as a fortune-teller. And the worst of it is, I don't care who knows it.
Wanted details, didn't you? Well, you've got 'em."

I glances at J. Bayard, and finds him lookin' the other way with his lip
curled. You couldn't blame him so much. Listenin' to a female party tell
the story of her life ain't inspirin', and we're all apt to duck things
of that kind. They may be true; but it's easier and pleasanter to look
the other way. As for me, I want to, but can't. I just got to take
things as they are and as they come. Forgettin' weeds in the back yard
don't get rid of 'em. I'm apt to paw around and see where the roots
spread to.

Meanwhile J. Bayard has stepped over by the window and signals me to
follow. "Disgusting, isn't it?" says he. "And you see by this creature's
own story that she doesn't deserve a penny of Pyramid's money. He was
fooled by her, that's all."

"Not Pyramid," says I. "Didn't he have her married name on the slip too?
So he must have found out."

"That's so," says Steele. "Well, suppose we give her fifty or so, and
ship her off."

"That's kind of small, considerin' the pile we got to draw on, ain't
it!" says I. "And it strikes me that since Pyramid put her name down he
meant---- Let's see if there ain't something special she wants."

"Say," sings out Mrs. Shaw, "what about that will business? If it was
old Gordon, I suppose he wouldn't leave me much. He had no call to."

"About what would you expect, now?" says I, as we drifts back to her.

She squints foxy at us for a minute. "After all this fuss," says she,
"it ought to be two or three hundred--maybe five. No, I mean a
thousand."

"Huh!" says I. "A thousand! Got your nerve with you, ain't you? But
suppose it was that much, what would you do with it?"

"Do!" says she, her eyes brightenin'. "Why, I would--I---- Ah, what's
the use! I'd make a fool of myself, of course. And inside of ten days
I'd be in a D.T. ward somewhere."

"No old home or folks that you could go back to?" I suggests.

She shakes her head. "It's too late for me to go back," says she. "Too
late!" She don't try to be tragic, don't even whine it out, but just
states it dull and flat.

"But most everyone has a friend or so somewhere," says I.

At first that don't make any impression at all. Then all of a sudden she
sits up and gazes vague over the top of my head.

"There's the Baron!" says she.

"The which?" says I.

"Von Blatzer," says she. "Oh, he's a real Baron, all right; an
odd-looking, dried up little chap with a wig and painted eyebrows. Yet
he's hardly sixty. I got to know him at Atlantic City, where I had a
Board Walk pitch one season. Queer? That's no word for it! Shy and
lonesome he was; but after you got to know him, one of the brightest,
jolliest old duffers. Our first talk was out on the end of one of those
long piers, by moonlight.

"After that it was a regular thing. We'd walk up and down like two kids,
telling each other all about ourselves. I'd never stated my full opinion
of Fletcher Shaw to a soul before; but somehow old Von was so friendly
and sympathetic that I cut loose. The Baron ground his teeth over it. He
said that Fletcher should have been caught young and shot from a cannon.
Good old Von Blatzer! Wanted me to go back to Vienna as the Baroness.
Think of it--me! But I was having a good season. Besides, I didn't think
I could stand for a wig. I didn't know how much I was going to miss
him."

"You wouldn't shy at the wig now, eh?" says I.

"Would I?" says she. "Honest, I liked Von Blatzer, for all his freaky
ways. He was human, he was, and we understood each other. He'll be at
Monte Carlo now. Roulette, you know. That's all he lives for. Plays a
system. Nice little income he has; not big, but comfortable. And during
the season he feeds it all into the wheel. Someone ought to cure him of
that."

"Think you could, I expect?" says I. "But how about you and the juniper
juice?"

"Oh, I could quit that easy if there was anything else to do," says she.
"But there isn't."

"Then here's a proposition," says I. "You query him by cable to see if
he's changed his mind; and if he's still a candidate for
matrimony--well, I guess Mr. Steele will see that you get to the Baron."

"You--you mean that?" says she gaspy.

"Uh-huh," says I. "It's up to you."

"But--but I---- Why, look at me!" says she.

"Two weeks on the water wagon, a few visits to the beauty parlors, and
an outfit of tango skirts ought to make some diff'rence, hadn't it?"
says I. "Those items would be included. What do you say?"

I expect it was a good deal of a proposition to spring on a female
party. No wonder she choked up over it.

"If I thought you were just guying me," says she, "I--I'd----"

"Here's a cable blank," says I. "Frame up your call to the Baron while I
state the case to Mr. Steele."

He couldn't see it at all, J. Bayard couldn't. "What!" says he. "Waste
all that money on such a wretch! Why, the woman is unworthy of even the
most----"

"What's that got to do with it?" says I. "Pyramid didn't put that in the
bill of partic'lars, did he? Maybe he had doubts about himself. And how
would we qualify? How would you? Come, what's your battin' average,
Steele, in the worthy league?"

J. Bayard squirms a little at that, and then hunches his shoulders.
"Oh, if you're going to put it that way," says he, "go ahead. But when
she starts to be a Baroness, I'd like to see her."

"You'll be there to hand her the tickets," says I. "You'll get her
ready. That's part of your job."

He saw the point. And, say, he did his work thorough. I saw no more of
Mrs. Shaw until nearly two weeks later, when Steele towed me down to the
steamer.

"Which one?" says I, lookin' at the crowd along the rail. "Ah, come off!
That with the veils and the stunnin' figure--the one wavin' this way?
That ain't never Mrs. Fletcher Shaw!"

"That's Josie," says he. "And before the end of the month she'll be the
Baroness Von Blatzer. Changed? Why, I hardly recognized her myself after
her first day's shopping! She must have been quite a beauty once. But
what a wreck she was when----"

"When she chased you with the broom, eh?" says I, chucklin'. "And now
you're as chesty over her as though you'd been workin' a miracle. Just
beamin' for joy, you are!"

"I know," says he. "And really, McCabe, I've never had a hand in
anything which has given me so much genuine pleasure. It--it's weird,
you know. I can't think what's happening to me."

"Maybe," says I, "you're sproutin' a soul."

CHAPTER VI

HOW MILLIE SHOOK THE JINX

Kind of odd the way the Morans and Elisha Porter Bayne coincided. You'd
think so if you could see 'em bunched once; for Elisha P. is a mighty
fine man; you know, one of our most prominent and highly respected
citizens. Everybody says so. The local weekly always prints it that way.
Besides, he's president of the Trust Company, head of the Buildin' and
Loan, chairman of the School Board, and a director of such things as the
Old Ladies' Home, the Hospital, and the Nut and Bolt Works. Always wears
a black frock coat and a white string tie too,--tall, thin jawed,
distinguished lookin' gent.

While the Morans--say, let's put them off as long as we can. And the
more we linger in the society of Mr. Bayne the better we ought to be. Up
to last spring, I blush to admit, I'd never been favored much. Course,
commutin' in and out the way I do, I didn't have a good show. But we
passes the nod when we meets. Elisha P. never strains his neck durin'
the exercise. You could detect his nod with the naked eye, though, and I
expect that was a good deal from him to me. You get the idea. That nod
includes only the Mr. McCabe that owns a shore-front place and votes in
Rockhurst-on-the-Sound. It don't stretch so far as to take in Shorty
McCabe who runs a Physical Culture Studio on 42d-st. And that's all
right too. I'm satisfied.

Then here one day back in April, as I'm drivin' home from the station
with Sadie, who should step to the curb and hold me up but Mr. Bayne.
Does it offhand, friendly, mind you. Course I stops sudden. Sadie bows
and smiles. I lifts my lid. Mr. Bayne holds his square-topped derby
against his white shirt front. We shakes hands cordial. And I'm most
gaspin' for breath when it's over.

"Ah, by the way, Mr. McCabe," says he, "about that--er--Sucker Brook
tract? Have you thought it over yet?"

Just like that, you know; as if it was something we'd been talkin' about
for months, while as a matter of fact this is the first hint I'd had
that Elisha P. was interested at all.

Not that it hadn't been put up to me. Why, three diff'rent parties had
interviewed me confidential on the proposition, offerin' to let me in on
the ground floor, and givin' as many diff'rent but more or less
convincin' reasons for bein' so generous. One explains how he wanted to
see the tract go to some local man instead of New York speculators;
another confesses that their little syndicate is swingin' too much
undeveloped property and has got to start a bargain counter; while the
third man slaps me hearty on the back and whispers that he just wants to
put me next to a good thing.

I come near swallowin' the bait too; for I'd turned over some Bronx
buildin' lots not long before at a nice little advance, and the kale was
only drawin' three per cent. Course this Sucker Brook chunk ain't much
to look at, a strip of marshy ground along the railroad; but half a mile
away they're sellin' villa plots, and acreage is mighty scarce so near
the city line as we are. Took me a week of scoutin' among my friends to
discover that this gang of real estate philanthropists had bought up the
Sucker Brook tract on a private tip that a trolley extension was goin'
to be put through there. So it might have been too, only a couple of the
County Board members who was tryin' to pull off another deal got busy
and blocked the franchise. Then it was a case of unload, with me runnin'
as favorite in the Easy Mark Handicap. And now here comes Elisha P.,
straight out of the Trust Company, to spring the trapdoor himself.

"Why, yes, Mr. Bayne," says I. "I've chewed it over some; but I ain't
quite made up my mind to take it on."

"You haven't!" says he, his nice, white, respectable eyebrows showin'
great surprise. "But, my dear man, I personally had that offer made to
you. Why, we could have---- But never mind that. I hope you may see fit
to give us your answer by Saturday noon."

"That depends," says I, "on whether you come for it or not."

"I beg pardon?" says he, starin'.

"At the studio," says I, shovin' over one of my professional cards.
"That's where I do business. So long, Mr. Bayne." And with that I throws
in the clutch and leaves him gawpin'!

"Why, Shorty!" says Sadie. "How horrid of you! And Mr. Bayne is such a
nice old gentleman too!"

"Yes, ain't he?" says I. "And for smoothness he's got a greased plank
lookin' like a graveled walk."

I didn't think he'd come after that. But the other lines they had out
must have been hauled in empty; for not ten days later I has a 'phone
call from him sayin' he's in town and that if it's convenient he'll drop
around about three P.M.

"I'll be here," says I.

"And I trust," he adds, "that I--er--may not encounter any pugilists
or--er----"

"You'll be safe," says I, "unless some of my Wall Street customers break
office rules and try to ring you in on a margin deal. Outside of them,
or now and then a railroad president, the studio has a quiet, refined
patronage."

"Ah, thanks," says he.

"Swifty," says I to my assistant, "don't show yourself in the front
office after three to-day. I'm goin' to entertain a pillar of society,
and a sight of that mug of yours might get him divin' through the
window."

"Ahr-r-r-r chee!" remarks Swifty Joe, catchin' the wink.

Course, I might have got real peevish over Mr. Bayne's suspicions, and
told him to go chase himself; but I'm feelin' sort of good-humored that
day. Besides, thinks I, it won't do any harm to show him just how
peaceful and respectable a physical culture studio can be. You know the
ideas some people get. And as a rule our floor here is the quietest in
the buildin'. I knew it would be that day specially; for all we had on
the slate was a couple of poddy old parties who'd be workin' away at the
apparatus, havin' about as strenuous a time as a baby playin' with its
toes.

But I hadn't counted in that Sieger & Bloom combination, up on the
fourth. They run a third-rate theatrical agency, you know, and just
about then they was fillin' out contracts for summer snaps, and what you
saw driftin' up and down the stairs didn't make you yearn to be a
vaudeville actor. So later on, when I heard an argument in progress out
in the hall, I glances nervous at the clock. It's almost on the tick of
three.

"Hey, cut out the riot!" I calls through the transom; but as there's no
letup to the debate I strolls over to the door, prepared to reprove
someone real severe.

It's quite some spirited scene out on the landin'. There's old man
Bloom, a short, squatty, fish-eyed old pirate with a complexion like
sour dough. He has one foot on the next flight, and seems to be
retreatin' as he waves his pudgy hands and sputters. Followin' him up is
a tall, willowy, black-eyed young woman in a giddy Longchamps creation
direct from Canal-st. She's pleadin' earnest that Bloom mustn't forget
he's talkin' to a lady. Behind her is a husky, red-haired young gent
with his fingers bunched menacin'; while just below, hesitatin' whether
to push through the hostilities or beat it back to the street, is Elisha
P. Bayne, Esq.

"Give us a show to make good, that's all we ask," the young woman is
sayin'. "Put us on somewhere, as you said you would when you took our
money."

"Bah!" snorts old Bloom. "I vouldn't sign you for a Third-ave. cabaret.
Your act is rotten. A pair of cheab skaters, you are--cheab skaters!"

"Oh, we are, are we?" explodes the young woman. Then, biff! out flashes
one of her long arms, and the next thing Bloom knows his silk lid has
been smashed down over his eyes.

"Helb! Helb!" he squeals. "Bolice! I vill ged the bolice after you."
With that he makes a break past her and goes waddlin' downstairs on the
run.

"Now I've done it, I reckon," says the young woman. "And that about
finishes us, Timothy dear. He's after a cop."

"Yes, and he'll bring one back," I puts in, "or I don't know Abie Bloom.
About five and costs will be the bill. But it ought to be worth it."

"It would, every cent," says she, "if we had the five."

"In that case," says I, "you'd better do a sudden duck."

"But where to!" says she, glancin' desperate down the stairs.

And, say, the thought of how comic old Bloom looked strugglin' out of
his hat, and of how eager he'd be to get her sent to the Island for it,
was too much for me.

"In here," says I, steppin' out of the studio door. "You too," and I
motions to the red-haired gent. Then, turnin' to Elisha P., I goes on,
"Better join the group, Mr. Bayne."

"But, you know," he protests, "this is the very thing I wished to avoid.
I do not care to mingle with such--er----"

"I expect not," says I; "but if you stay here you'll be gathered in as a
witness to the assault. Course, if you'd rather do that--why----"

"No, no!" says he. "I--I think I will step in, for a moment at least."

He made up his mind just in time; for I'd no sooner herded the bunch
into the front office and locked the door than we hears Bloom towin'
the cop up the stairs and describin' puffy how he'd been most murdered.
We listens while they searches the hallways clear to the top, and then
hears the cop trampin' down again. He calls back to Bloom that he'll
keep an eye out for the female assaulter.

"That's Roundsman Foley," says I, "and he's got a four-mile beat to
cover between now and five o'clock. Inside of twenty minutes he'll be
blocks away. Might as well sit down, Folks."

"Say, Mister," speaks up the young woman, "I don't know who you are, but
we're much obliged. Tim, speak up."

Timothy wanted to; but he ain't an easy converser, and the language
seems to clog his tongue.

"Don't mention it," says I. "I ain't got any personal grudge against Mr.
Bloom; but I've been achin' to see someone hand him a pat, just for
greens. There's my name on the door."

"Oh!" says the young woman. "Then you're Professor McCabe? Well, we're
the Morans, Millie and Tim. Tango is our line."

I can see Elisha P. shudder visible at that. He hesitates a second, and
then comes to the front. "McCabe," says he, "I feel that I must protest.
An assault was committed in your presence. As a law-abiding citizen it
should be your duty to turn the offender over to the authorities
instead of furnishing a hiding place."

"Now listen to that!" says I. "All right, Mr. Bayne, if you insist. But
you go along as a witness too."

"In a police court!" he gasps. "Why--really, you know, I--I couldn't do
such a thing."

"Case quashed then," says I. "I'm too bashful to go alone."

"But you know," says he, "I came here merely on a matter of business."

"Yes, we'll get to that pretty soon," says I. "Our friends here are only
goin' to stop until the travelin' is safer." Then I turns to the Morans.
"Dancers, eh!" says I. "Where have you been on?"

"Nowhere," says Millie. "We're tryin' to break in."

"Oh!" says I. "Candidates for amateur night?"

"Not much!" says Millie. "We're as good as any. Maurice ain't got a
thing on us, honest; nor that Ripple combination, either. Why, we got
steps of our own that the rest haven't thought of!"

"Ye-e-es?" says I.

"Oh, I know," says she, shruggin' her shoulders. "Maybe we don't look
it; but, say, we've got the goods."

"Case of undiscovered genius, eh?" says I.

Millie flushes a little at that; but bites her lips to keep back the
hot retort. Bright lookin' girl, Millie; and if she hadn't been costumed
so vivid she wouldn't have been such a bad looker. But in that tight,
striped dress with the slashed skirt, and that foolish lid with the two
skimpy pink feathers curlin' over the back--well, believe me, she was
some zippy!

"Say, lemme tell you how it happened, won't you?" says she.

"If it ain't too long," says I.

"I'll make it sketchy," says she. "In the first place, when I landed
here in New York about a year and a half ago, I'd made up my mind to
connect with big money. I didn't know exactly how; the stage, maybe.
Anyway, I knew the coin was here, and that it wasn't in Saskatoon."

"Sass--which?" says I.

"Saskatoon," says she. "It's on the map, up in Saskatchewan, you know.
No, I wasn't born there. Hardly anybody was. It's too new. I went there
with Mother and Brother Phil when the Northwest boom first started. It
was all right for Philip. He could do surveying, and then he got to
dipping into real estate. But there was no chance for me; so I started
for the white lights. While I was looking around here I took on anything
that would furnish a meal ticket. Oh, you can't starve Millie! I did
fancy ironin' in a hand laundry, was window demonstrator for an electric
vibrator concern, did a turn as a dress model, and sold soda checks in
a drugstore. They don't load you down on payday in any of them places;
but that didn't worry me. I was sizing up the good things, and I'd about
decided on the front row of a musical comedy for mine, when what did I
have to go and do but get soft on Tim here!"

Tim blushes embarrassed and scrapes his hoof.

"Enough to wreck most any career, wasn't it?" goes on Millie. "Think of
it! Me, who'd come down to New York with my head so full of ambitions
there wasn't any room to catch cold, and then in a little over a year to
go and marry the first good-natured Irishman that asked me! You see, I'm
only half Irish myself,--Mother was Argentine Spanish,--which makes me
so different from Tim. Look at him! Would you dream he had a bit of
sense? But he's--oh, he's Tim, that's all. And not many of 'em come
better. Driving a motor truck, he was, and satisfied at that. It was up
at a Terrace Garden dance we got acquainted. No music at all in his
head; but in his feet--say, he just naturally has to let his toes follow
the tune, and if ragtime hadn't been invented he'd have walked slow all
his life. And me? Well, I ought to dance, with Father a born fiddler,
and Mother brought up with castanets in her hands. We danced twelve of
the fourteen numbers together that night, and I never even noticed he
had red hair. I'd been dying to dance for months. Some partner, Tim was
too. That began it. We joined a class and started learning the new
steps. And almost before I knew it I was Mrs. Moran. We'd been married
nearly a month before I woke up to what a fool thing I'd done. There I
was, tryin' to feed and clothe two people, besides payin' the rent and
furniture installments, all on sixteen per. I got a job as cashier in a
quick lunch place next day. Tim didn't like it a bit; did you, Tim?"

Mr. Moran grins good-natured.

"That's the way he stormed around at home," says Millie. "But I had a
scheme. We'd seen some of this dancing done on the stage, not much
better than we could do ourselves. 'Tim dear,' says I, 'we've been
dancing for the fun of it. It's the best thing you do. Now let's make it
pay.' He thought I was crazy. I believe he had an idea he was born to
drive a gasoline truck, and that it would be wicked to try anything
else. But I do the heavy thinking for the Moran family. I nearly starved
him until I'd saved out a tenspot. Then I went to the best tango
professor I could find and took an hour lesson. Next I taught Tim. We
cleared out our little dining room and had our meals off the gas range.
My next splurge was a music machine and some dance records. One Saturday
Tim brought home two dollars for overtime, and that night we watched
Maurice from the second balcony. Then we really began practicing. Why,
some nights I kept him at it for four hours on a stretch. He weighed
one hundred and eighty at the start; but now he's down to one hundred
and forty-three. But it's been good for him. And trying to keep all
those new variations in his head--why, he's almost learned to think!
Say, you know you can get almost anything by keeping at it. And Tim and
I have learned rag dancing, all there is to it, besides some I've made
up. All we need now is a chance, and it's such scum as old Bloom that
keeps us out. Do you blame me for landing on his hat?"

"Not me," says I. "And I hope you break in sometime or other."

"It's got to be now," says Millie. "I've made Tim quit the truck, and
we're down to our last dollar. Think of that! Just when I can see
daylight ahead too! Why, if I knew where I could get hold of two
hundred----"

She pauses and gazes around sort of desperate, until she and Elisha P.
Bayne are starin' at each other.

I couldn't resist the temptation, either. "There you are," says I. "Mr.
Bayne runs a bank. Lendin' money's his business."

"Really, McCabe!" says Bayne indignant.

But Millie ain't lettin' any hints get by. "Why wouldn't someone lend me
that much?" says she, gazin' earnest at me once more. "Just two hundred!
I could pay it back in less than six months. Oh, I'm sure I could! Mr.
McCabe, wouldn't you?"

Almost took my breath away, the quick way she turned my josh back on me.
"Why," says I, "I--I might--on security."

"Security?" says she, kind of vague. Then all of a sudden she brightens
up. "Why, yes; of course you'd want security. I'd put up Tim."

"Eh?" says I, and something of the kind comes from Timothy too.

"He can always earn from twelve to fifteen a week," says Millie, eager.
"You could have ten of it for twenty weeks. We could live in one room,
and I would keep things running. Honest, if we don't make a go of it
we'll come back and pay up."

"But what's the scheme?" says I. "Going off somewhere, are you?"

"That's what I want the money for, to take us there," says she. "I--I
don't want to tell the rest. I haven't even told Tim. But we can win
out. I'm sure we can if you'll stake us. Won't you, please, Professor
MCCabe?"

And I expect it was all due to that sneer of Elisha P. Bayne's. For
while this was about as batty a business proposition as I ever had put
up to me, this scheme of Millie's for hockin' her hubby, I'd got more or
less int'rested in her yarn. And it struck me that a girl who'd done
what she had wa'n't any quitter. Elisha puts on such a hard, cold sneer
too; and comin' from this wise, foxy old near-plute who'd been playin'
lead pipe cinches all his life, I expect, and never lettin' go of a
nickel until he had a dime's worth of goods in his fist--well, it got
to me, all right.

[Illustration: "Say, I'm a bear for Paris."]

"You win," says I, flashin' my roll and startin' to count off the
twenties.

"But, McCabe!" gasps Elisha P. "Surely you're not going to lend two
hundred dollars to--to such a person as this?"

"Yep," says I. "This is my foolish day. And I'm goin' to write you a
check for two hundred more for a six months' option on that Sucker Brook
tract. Here you are, Mrs. Moran. Never mind the ticket for Tim. I'm
takin' your word."

"Talk about miracles!" says Millie, countin' the money dazed.

"Bless you, Sorr!" says Tim husky as I shows 'em out.

And I finds Elisha P. sittin' there rubbin' his hands expectant. He must
have suspicioned I was easy all the while, or he wouldn't have hung on
so; but after this exhibition I expect he felt it was only a matter of
makin' a few passes and then walkin' off with everything but my shirt.
Fact is, though, I'd had some new dope on this property, and while it
looked like a thirty-to-one shot I thought I'd take a chance. Course, he
tries to close the deal outright; but the option is as far as I'll go.

For weeks after that, though, I carried four hundred on the books with a
minus sign in front. Then I crossed it off altogether. Not a word from
the Morans. Nothing doing in the way of buying booms around Sucker
Brook. But you got to stand some losses now and then if you're goin' to
keep in line for an occasional big cleanup. And, anyway, it was worth
while to head Elisha P. Bayne's boob list. You ought to see the
sarcastic smiles he used to shoot over when we'd meet and he'd ask if
I'd heard from, my dancing friends yet. Say, I expect I furnished the
one joke of his life.

I did bank on gettin' back something from Millie, though, if only a
money order for ten on account. But all through June and July, clear
into August, not a whisper. Whatever her scheme had been, it must have
gone wrong.

And then here one mornin' last week as I'm gazin' idle out the front
window onto 42d-st., up rolls a taxi, and out climbs a couple that you
might have said had been shot over by aëroplane from the Rue de Rivoli.
Couldn't tell that so much from her getup as from the Frenchy hat and
boulevard whiskers he's sportin'. First brick red imperial I ever
remember seein' too. It ain't until they've climbed the stairs and
walked in the studio door, though, that I even had a glimmer as to who
they was. But one glance at them black eyes of the lady's was enough.

"Well, I'll be singed!" says I. "The Morans!"

"Of London and Paris," adds Millie.

"Gwan!" says I.

"Show him, Tim," says she. At which Timothy extracts from the inside of
his silk tile a billboard poster announcing the comin', for a limited
engagement only, of those European tango wizards, Mons. and Mlle. Moran.

"I cabled our agents we wouldn't sail until we'd seen a sample of the
paper," says Millie.

"Gee!" says I. "You must have got next!"

"Did we?" says Millie. "My word! Why, when we hit London the craze was
just striking in over there. We was among the advance guard. Say, we
hadn't been over ten days before we headed the bill at the Alcazar as
the famous New York tango artists. Inside of two weeks more we were
doing three turns a night, with all kinds of private dates on the side.
Say, would you believe it? I've danced with a real Duke! And Tim--why if
it hadn't been for me on the spot there'd been no telling what would
have happened. Those English society women are the limit. Then Paris.
Ah, _ma chère Paris_! Say, I'm a bear for Paris. Didn't we soak the
price on when that Moulin Rouge guy came after us, though? _Ma foi!_
Say, he used to weep when be paid me the money. '_Mon Dieu!_ Five
hundred francs for so small a _danse_!' But he paid. Trust Millie Moran!
Say, I collected a few glad rags over there too. What about this one?"

"It don't need any Paris label," says I. "Don't see how you got
upstairs in it, though."

"I can do a cartwheel in it," says she. "We've learned to handle
ourselves some, Tim and I. And now I guess I'll take him out of hock.
You'll find two hundred gold in the package."

"Thanks," says I, openin' the long envelope. "But what's this other?"

"Oh, that!" says she. "Interest. Deed for a few lots in the new North
Addition to Saskatoon."

"Tut, tut!" says I. "I can't take 'em. That wa'n't any loan I staked you
to; just bread on the waters."

"Well, you can't kick if it comes back a ham sandwich," says she.
"Besides, the lots stand in your name now. They were a mile out of town
when I bought 'em; but Brother Phil says the city's bulged that way
since. They've got the boom, you know. That's where we've been sending
all our spare salary. Phil's down here to see us open."

"Eh?" says I. "Not the surveyor!"

"He still does some of that," says she.

"Do you suppose," says I, "I could get him to do a little stunt for me
while he's here?"

"Do I?" says she. "Why, he knows all about it. Brother Phil will go the
limit for you."

Uh-huh. Philip was up to all the fine points of the game, and the
imitation he gave of layin' out a two-million-dollar factory site along
Sucker Brook was perfect, even to loadin' his transit and target
jugglers into a tourin' car right in front of the Rockhurst Trust
Company.

Maybe that's how it come to be noised around that the Western Electric
Company was goin' to locate a big plant on the tract. Anyway, before
night I had three of the syndicate biddin' against each other
confidential; but when Elisha P. runs it up to four figures, offerin' to
meet me at the station with a certified check, I closes the deal with a
bang.

"Swifty," says I, hangin' up the 'phone, "trot around to the Casino and
get a lower box for to-night, while I find a florist's and order an
eight-foot horseshoe of American beauties."

"Chee!" says Swifty, gawpin'. "What's doin'?"

"I'm tryin' to celebrate a doubleheader," says I.

CHAPTER VII

REVERSE ENGLISH ON SONNY BOY

"Do you know, Shorty," says J. Bayard Steele, balancin' his bamboo
walkin' stick thoughtful on one forefinger, "I'm getting to be a regular
expert in altruism."

"Can't you take something for it?" says I.

But he waves aside my comedy stab and proceeds, chesty and serious,
"Really, I am, though. It's this philanthropic executor work that I've
been dragged into doing by that whimsical will of your friend, the late
Pyramid Gordon, of course. I must admit that at first it came a little
awkward, not being used to thinking much about others; but now--why, I'm
getting so I can tell almost at a glance what people want and how to
help them!"

"Huh!" says I. "Then you're some wizard. It often bothers me to dope out
just what I need myself; and when it comes to decidin' for other
folks---- Say, have you tackled envelope No. 4 on Pyramid's list yet?"

"I have," says J. Bayard, smilin' confident. "Peculiar case too. A month
or so ago I should have been puzzled. Now it seems very simple. I've
done all my investigating, made my plans, and if you will run downtown
to a lawyer's office with me after luncheon we shall meet the
beneficiaries-to-be and fix up the details of a nice little deed of
kindness of which I am the proud author."

"Fat commission in it for you, eh?" says I.

J. Bayard looks pained and hurt. "Really," says he, "I hadn't thought of
that. No, the outlay will be slight. In fact, it's merely a matter of
launching a young man in society."

"Well, well!" says I. "That's a husky job for a couple of grown men like
us, ain't it? Who's the young gent--Clarence what?"

"Ever hear of Hungry Jim Hammond?" says he.

I had, but couldn't quite place him; so J. Bayard supplies the
description. He'd started out as a railroad man, Hammond had, back in
the days when Pyramid Gordon was first beginnin' to discover that
swappin' hot air for votin' shares was perfectly good business so long
as you could get away with the goods. Only Hammond was the real thing.
He was a construction expert.

Mr. Gordon had found him on the payroll of a line he'd annexed by a
midnight deal; concluded he knew too much about the job to be a safe man
to have around; so he transfers him to the Far West and sets him to work
on a scheme to lay out a road parallelin' the Southern Pacific. Hammond
couldn't tell it was a stall. He blazes merrily ahead surveyin' a right
of way across three States, and had got as far as Death Valley when the
rumor comes to camp that this new line is all a fake.

Hammond had a gang of twenty-five or thirty men with him, and his weekly
pay check hadn't shown up for about a month. But he couldn't believe
that Pyramid had laid down on him. He'd got mighty int'rested in
buildin' that road across the desert, and had dreamed some rosy dreams
about it. But his men felt diff'rent. They wanted action on the
cashier's part, or they'd quit. Hammond begged 'em to stay. He even blew
in his own bank account settlin' part of the back wages. But inside of
three days his crew had dwindled to a Chinese cook and a Greaser mule
driver. Took him a couple of weeks more to get wise to the fact that he
was stranded there in the sand, six miles from a water hole, with a few
cases of canned beef and a sack of corn meal.

Even then he didn't give up for good. He made his way back to a stage
station and sent through a wire to Pyramid askin' for instructions. More
than a month he waited, with no word from Gordon. Seems that by then
Pyramid was too busy with other things. He'd cashed in on his bluff and
was sortin' a new hand. And maybe he wa'n't anxious to have Hammond come
East again. Anyway, he let him shift.

That was when Hammond came so near starvin'. But he didn't--quite. For a
year or more he managed to live somehow. Then one day he drove a team
of boneyard mules into Blue Dog with a wagonload of stuff that the
natives stared at. It was white, shiny stuff. Hammond said it was borax.
He'd discovered a big deposit of it out there in the blisterin' sand. He
was goin' to ship it back East and sell it. They thought he was nutty.
He wasn't, though. On East they was usin' a lot of borax and demandin'
more.

With a few thousand back of him Hammond might have got to be the Borax
King right then; but as it was he held onto an interest big enough to
make him quite a plute, and inside of a year he was located in Denver
and earnin' his nickname of Hungry Jim. His desert appetite had stayed
with him, you see, and such little whims as orderin' a three-inch
tenderloin steak frescoed with a pound of mushrooms and swimmin' in the
juice squeezed from a pair of canvasback ducks got to be a reg'lar thing
for him.

It was there he met and married the husky built head waitress and moved
into a double-breasted mansion up on Capitol Hill. Also he begun wearin'
diamond shirtstuds and givin' wine dinners.

"But, like others of his kind," goes on J. Bayard, "his luck didn't
last. Because he'd made one big strike, he thought he knew the mining
game from top to bottom. He lost hundreds of thousands on wild ventures.
His long drawn out suit against Pyramid was another expensive luxury;
for in the end Gordon beat him.

"It was Hammond's big appetite that finished him off, though,--acute
indigestion. So that is why Pyramid leaves us this item in his list:
'The widow or other survivor of James R. Hammond.' Well, I've found them
both, Mrs. Hammond and her son Royce. I haven't actually seen either of
'em as yet; but I have located Mrs. Hammond's attorney and had several
conferences with him. And what do you think? She won't take a dollar of
Gordon's money for herself; nor will Royce directly. There's one thing,
however, that she will probably not refuse,--any social assistance we
may give to her son. That's her chief ambition, it seems,--to see Royce
get into what she considers smart society. Well, what do you say,
McCabe? Can't we help?"

"Depends a good deal on Royce," says I. "Course, if he's too raw a
roughneck----"

"Precisely!" breaks in J. Bayard. "And as the son of such a man we must
look for rather a crude youth, I suppose. But in order to carry out the
terms of Gordon's will we must do some kind and generous act for these
people. This seems to be our only chance. Now here is my plan."

And he's comin' on, J. Bayard is! He proposes that we use our combined
pull with Mr. Twombley-Crane to land Royce--for one consecutive night,
anyway--plunk in the middle of the younger set. He's leased a nice
furnished cottage from one of the Meadowbrook bunch, not more'n a mile
from the Twombley-Crane estate, got the promise of havin' the
youngster's name put up at the Hunt Club for the summer privileges, and
has arranged to have mother and son move in right in the height of the
season.

"In time for the Twombley-Cranes' big costume ball?" I suggests.

"Nothing less," says he. "And if we could manage to have them invited to
that--well, what more could a fond parent ask?"

"H-m-m-m!" says I, rubbin' my chin. "Might get ourselves disliked if we
sprung a ringer on 'em that way. Course, if this Royce boy could be
trained to pull a broad A now and then, and be drilled into doin' a
maxixe that would pass, I might take a chance. Mrs. McCabe could get
their names on the guest list, all right. But I'd have to have a peek at
Sonny first."

You see, with an ex-waitress mother, and a Hungry Jim for a father,
Royce might be too tough for anything but a Coney Island spiel-fest. In
that case J. Bayard would have to dig up a new scheme. So we starts out
to look 'em up.

Accordin' to schedule we should have found 'em both waitin' for us at
the lawyer's, sittin' side by side and lookin' scared. But the boy that
shows us into the reception room says how Mrs. Hammond is in the private
office with the boss, and it looks like Sonny was late.

"I'll tell you," says I to J. Bayard. "You push in and interview Mother,
while I stick around out here and wait for the other half of the
sketch."

He agrees to that, and has disappeared behind the ground-glass door when
I discovers this slick-haired young gent sittin' at a desk over by the
window,--a buddin' law clerk, most likely. And by way of bein' sociable
I remarks casual that I hear how McGraw is puttin' Tesreau on the mound
again to-day against the Cubs.

That don't get much of a rise out of him. "Aw, rully!" says he.

"I expect you'll be hikin' out for the grandstand yourself pretty
quick?" I goes on.

"No," says he, shruggin' his shoulders annoyed. "I take no interest in
baseball; none whatever, I assure you."

"Excuse my mentionin' it, then," says I. "But just what is your
line,--croquet?"

"My favorite recreation," says he, "is dawncing." And with that he turns
away like he'd exhausted the subject.

But this gives me an idea. Maybe he could be hired to coach Royce.

"It's a thrillin' sport," says I. "And, by the way, there's a young chap
due to show up here soon. I wonder if you've seen him around
before,--young Hammond?"

"I beg pardon," says he, "but do you refer to Royce Hammond?"

"That's the guy," says I. "Kind of a husky young hick, eh?"

He stares at me cold and disapprovin'. "I am Royce Hammond!" says he.

You could have bought me for a yesterday's rain check. "Wha-a-at!" says
I, gawpin'. "You--you are----"

Say, come to look him over close, I might have known he was no
ten-a-week process server. He's costumed neat but expensive, and his
lily-white hands are manicured to the last notch. Nice lookin' youth he
is, with a good head on him and a fine pair of shoulders. And for
conversation he uses the kind of near-English accent you hear along the
Harvard Gold Coast. Cul-chaw? Why, it fairly dripped from Royce, like
moisture from the ice water tank on a hot day!

"Excuse," says I. "I'm Professor McCabe, and I was only----"

"Oh, yes," says he, sighin' weary, "I understand. Something absurd about
a will, isn't it? Mother is quite keen over it; and I wish she wouldn't,
you know."

"Eh?" says I, a bit dizzy from tryin' to follow him.

"Oh, I've no doubt you mean well enough," he goes on; "but we cawn't
accept favors from utter strangers--really, we cawn't. And besides, old
Gordon was such a rotter!"

To relieve his feelin's he lights a cigarette and gives me the shoulder
once more. I felt like I'd been slapped on the wrist and sent to stand
in the corner.

"Maybe you'd like my apology in writin'?" says I. "Just point out a real
dusty spot on the floor, and I'll grovel in it. But remember, Son, all
we laid out to do, in our humble way, was to give you a boost. So don't
be too hard on us."

He smiles patronizin' at that. "No offense intended, I'm suah," says he.
"I merely wished to make clear my own position in this ridiculous
affair. Of course, if Mother insists, I presume I must---- Bah Jove!
Here they are, though!"

And out through the door comes J. Bayard and the lawyer, escortin' a
stunnin'-built lady with her face half hid by veils. I'd been introduced
too, and was just handin' her a chair, when we got a good square look at
each other. So it was simultaneous. She gives a little gasp and
stiffens, and I expect I did some open-face work myself. I glances from
her to J. Bayard and stares foolish.

"Did you say Mrs. Hammond?" says I.

"Of course, McCabe," says he sort of peevish. "You know I explained
beforehand."

"Yes," says I; "but--but----"

Then the lady steps to the front herself, her chin up and her lips
pressed tight. "Professor McCabe and I have met before," says she,
"under--well, under different circumstances. That is all. And now, Mr.
Steele, you spoke of securing an invitation for my son and myself to an
important social affair. At just whose house, please?"

"Why," says J. Bayard, "at Mr. Twombley-Crane's."

She don't wince. Near as I could tell she don't make a move, and a
second later she's turned to me with a sketchy sort of a smile. "I think
I may trust you to explain to Mr. Steele later on," says she, "how
impossible it would be for me to accept such an invitation."

I nods, still gawpin' at her. You'd most thought that would have been
hint enough for J. Bayard; but he's such a fathead at times, and he's so
strong for carryin' through any proposition of his own, that it don't
get to him.

"But, my dear lady," says he, "such an opportunity! Why, the
Twombley-Cranes, you know, are----"

"Ah, ditch it, J. B.!" I cuts in, and shakes my head menacin'.

The lady smiles grateful and lifts one hand. "It's no use," says she.
"I've given up. And you might as well know the whole story at once;
Royce too. I didn't mean that he should ever know; but I see now that he
is bound to hear it sooner or later. Professor McCabe, you tell them."

It's some attentive audience I faced too; J. Bayard starin' puzzled, the
lawyer with his eyes squinted hard at her, and young Royce growin' pale
around the gills. It was that look of his that hurried me on.

"Why, it ain't so much," says I; "only when I knew you you was
housekeeper at the Twombley-Cranes, wa'n't you?"

"Mother!" says the young gent choky, jumpin' to his feet.

"I was," says she. "That was four years ago, when Royce was a freshman.
Very glad I was to get the position too, and not a little pleased that I
was able to fill it. Why? Because it gave me a chance to learn there the
things I wanted to know; the things I needed to know, Royce, as your
mother."

But he only gazes at her blank and shocked.

"Can't you understand, Royce?" she goes on pleadin'. "You know how we
have moved from place to place; how at times my cards have read 'Mrs.
James R. Hammond,' then 'Mrs. J. Royce Hammond,' and finally 'Mrs. Royce
Hammond'? But it was all useless. Always someone came who knew, and
after that--well, I was just the widow of Hungry Jim Hammond.

"Not that I cared for myself. I was never ashamed of Hungry Jim while he
lived. He was a real man, Jim Hammond was, honest and kind and brave.
And if he was crude and rough, it was only because he'd lived that way,
because he'd had to. He let them call him Hungry Jim too. No one ever
knew him to resent it. But it hurt, just the same. He tried to live it
down, there in Denver, tried to be refined and polite; but those years
in the desert couldn't be wiped out so easily. He was Hungry Jim to the
last.

"He wanted his son to be different, though. 'Outfit him to travel with
the best, Annie,' he used to say to me during those last days, 'and see
that he gets on a polish. Promise, now!' I promised. And I've done as
well as I could. I've lived for that. But I soon found that real
refinement was something you couldn't order at the store. I found that
before I could get it for Royce I must have at least a speaking
acquaintance with it myself.

"That meant associating with nice people. But nice people didn't care to
mix with Mrs. Jim Hammond. I didn't blame them for shutting their front
doors to me. I had to get in, though. So I slipped in by the back
way--as housekeeper. I kept my eyes and ears open. I picked up their
little tricks of speech and manner, their ways of doing things. I toned
my voice down, schooled myself, until I knew the things that Royce ought
to know. It wasn't easy, especially the giving him up during his
holidays and sending him off with his college friends, when I wanted him
to be with me. Oh, how much I did miss him those two summers! But I had
promised Jim, and--and--well, I think I've made of Royce what he wanted
me to make of him."

Somehow or other, as she stops, we all turns towards young Hammond. His
face ain't pale any more. It's well pinked up.

"By Jove!" says J. Bayard enthusiastic. "But that's what I call real
pluck, Mrs. Hammond. And your son does you credit too. So what if the
Twombley-Cranes might remember you as a former housekeeper? They don't
know the young man, needn't know just who he is. Why not accept for him?
Why not give him a chance? What do you say, McCabe?"

"Sure!" says I. "I'm backin' him to qualify."

"It might mean," goes on J. Bayard insinuatin', "an opportunity
to--well, to meet the right girl, you know."

Mrs. Hammond draws in her breath sharp and clasps her hands tight. I
could see the picture she was watchin' on the screen,--Royce and a real
swell young lady plutess trippin' towards the altar; maybe a crest on
the fam'ly note paper.

"Oh!" says she. "And he should have the chance, shouldn't he? Well then,
he must go. And you can just leave me out."

That seemed to settle it, and we was all takin' a deep breath, when
Royce steps to the center of the stage. He puts his arm gentle around
Mrs. Hammond and pats her on the shoulder.

"Sorry, Mother," says he, "but I'm going to do nothing of the sort.
You're an old dear, and the best mother a boy ever had. I never knew how
much you had given up for me, never dreamed. But from now on it's going
to be different. It's my turn now!"

"But--but, Royce," protests Mrs. Hammond, "you--you don't quite
understand. We can't go on living as we have. Our income isn't so much
as it was once, and----"

"I know," said Royce. "I had a talk with your attorney last week. It's
the fault of that Honduras rubber plantation, where most of our funds
are tied up. That Alvarez, your rascally Spanish superintendent, has
been robbing you right and left. Well, I'm going to put a stop to that."

"You, Royce!" says Mother.

"Yes," says he quiet but earnest, "I'm going down there and fire him.
I'm going to run the plantation myself for awhile."

"Why, Royce!" gasps Mrs. Hammond.

He smiles and pats her on the shoulder again. "I know," he goes on. "I
seem useless enough. I've been trained to shine at dinner parties, and
balls, and _thés dansants_. I suppose I can too. And I've learned to
sound my final G's, and to use the right forks, and how to make a
parting speech to my hostess. So you've kept your promise to Father. But
I've been thinking it all over lately. That isn't the sort of person I
want to be. You say Father was a real man. I want to be a real man too.
I mean to try, anyway. This little affair with Alvarez ought to test
me. They say he's rather a bad one, that he can't be fired. We'll see
about that. There's a steamer for Belize next Thursday. I'm going to
sail on her. Will you go along too?"

For a minute they stood there, Mother and Sonny boy, gazin' into each
other's eyes without sayin' a word; and then--well, we turns our backs
as they goes to a clinch and Mother turns on the sprinkler.

But J. Bayard's programme for helpin' Royce break into the younger set
is bugged for fair. Instead we've dug up an expert in rubber farmin' and
are preparin' to send him down as first assistant to the classiest
plantation manager that ever started for Honduras. Mrs. Hammond
announces that she's goin' too.

"There's good stuff in that young chap," says J. Bayard. "He isn't the
son of Hungry Jim for nothing. I'll bet he wins out!"

"Win or lose," says I, "he's ducked bein' a parlor rat for life, which
is something."

CHAPTER VIII

GUMMING GOPHER TO THE MAP

I'd heard the front office door pushed open and listened to a couple of
heavy steps on the floor runner before I glances round to find this high
party with the wide, stooped shoulders and the rugged face standin'
there beamin' at me genial and folksy. In one hand he has a green cloth
bag with somethin' square in it, and in the other he has a broad-brimmed
soft hat about the color of Camembert cheese. A tank station delegate
and no mistake!

"The Horse Dealers' Exchange is over east of Fourth avenue, about eight
blocks down," says I.

He chuckles good-natured and shakes his head. "You got two more comin'
to you, Brother," says he.

"Is it sawmill machinery you're lookin' for, then," says I, "or the home
office of Marriage Bells?"

"Struck out!" says he. "Now it's my bat. Are you J. Bayard Steele,
Mister?"

"Honest, now," says I, "do I look it?"

"Then I reckon you're the other one--Professor McCabe," says he.

"Line hit over center field!" says I. "What's the follow up to that?"

"No hurry," says he. "Have a button first."

"Eh?" says I, gawpin', as he tosses the green bag and yellow lid onto a
chair, dives into his side pocket, and proceeds to pin something on my
coat lapel.

"Plenty of 'em," says he. "Here, take some for your friends. How's that
for a slogan, anyway? 'Go to Gopher!' Good advice too. Gopher's the
garden spot of the universe."

"Gopher what--where is it?" says I.

"Why," says he, "Gopher, U.S.A. That's the idea! I'm from there. Hubbs
is the name,--Nelson Hubbs, secretary of the Gopher Board of Trade,--and
I never miss a chance to give Gopher a boost."

"If this is a sample," says I, "you don't need to make an affidavit. But
you wanted to see J. Bayard Steele, didn't you?"

It was as I'd suspicioned. Mr. Hubbs was No. 5 on the kindly deeds list
that Pyramid Gordon had wished on Steele and me. We was to apply
soothin' acts and financial balm to all the old grouches that Pyramid
had left behind him, you remember, on a commission basis.

Seems J. Bayard had been tracin' Hubbs up by mail for more'n a month,
and at that it was just by chance one of his letters had been forwarded
to the right place. So Hubbs had come on to see what it was all about.

"Course," says he, "I remember this Gordon; but I didn't think he would
me, and I can't see how settlin' up his will could----"

"Threw the hooks into you sometime or other, didn't he?" says I.

"I dun'no's you'd rightly call it that, either," says Hubbs, runnin' his
long fingers reflective through his heavy mop of wavy hair. "I was
station agent and dispatcher out at Kayuse Creek the only time we met
up--and of all the forsaken, dreary, one-mule towns along the line that
was the worst. I'd been there a year and a half, with no signs of ever
gettin' out, and I'd got so I hated every human, being in sight,
includin' myself. I even hated the people in the trains that went
through, because they was goin' somewhere, and I wasn't. You know how it
is."

"Well?" says I.

"So when this special pulled in, two private cars and a blind baggage,"
he goes on, "and a potty conductor asked me for a clear track to Omaha,
I turned him down flat. Might of done it, you know, for the express was
four hours behind schedule; but I was just too ornery. I let on I hadn't
got the order, made 'em back their old special on a siding, and held 'em
there all one blisterin' hot afternoon, while they come in by turns and
cussed me. But your Mr. Gordon was the only one that talked straight to
the point. 'Let us through, or I'll see that you're fired before
morning!' says he, and fired I was. The night freight dropped a new
agent, and by breakfast time I was a wanderer on the face of the earth.
Which was the best thing, Sir, that ever happened to me! I might have
stuck in Kayuse Creek until this day."

"How long was it until you discovered this Gopher spot?" says I. "Near a
dozen years," says he, "and during that time, Sir, I've had a whirl at
more different kinds of industry than you'd believe existed, from
runnin' a self-binder to canvassin' for the Life of James A. Garfield.
It was Possum Oil that brought me good luck. Boiled linseed with camphor
and a little tincture of iron was what it was really made of; but there
was a 'possum picture on the label, and I've had testimonials provin'
that it has cured nearly every disease known to man, from ringworm to
curvature of the spine. I'd worked up a fifteen-minute spiel too that
was a gem of street corner eloquence, and no matter where I stuck up my
flare I could do an evenin's business runnin' from ten to forty dollars.

"So when I hit them corn fritters of Mrs. Whipple's that night in Gopher
I had no more notion of quittin' the road than a prairie chicken has of
breakin' into a hencoop. But say, Brother, no human being ever made
tastier corn fritters than them. 'Young lady,' says I to the half-grown
girl that waited on table, 'who built these?'--'Mrs. Whipple,' says
she. 'Present my best compliments to her,' says I, 'and tell me where I
can find Mr. Whipple. I want to congratulate him.'--'Lawzee! Whipple?'
says she. 'Why, he died back East goin' on six years ago.'--'Then,' says
I, 'I'll take the message to Mrs. Whipple myself. She's, around, I
suppose?'--'No,' says the girl. 'Soon's she got supper ready she had to
go down to the square 'lectioneerin'. She's runnin' for Mayor.'

"Say, Professor McCabe, it was a fact! Besides conductin' her boardin'
house and bein' president of the Civic League, she was candidate for
Mayor on an independent ticket. Got it too, Sir! They have the vote out
in our State, you know.

"Well, hearin' that sort of cooled me down a bit. I thought she'd be a
hatchet-faced female with a voice like a guinea hen. So I didn't, see
her until I was all packed up to leave next day and hunted her up to pay
my bill. And say, Brother, doggoned if she don't turn out to be about
the plumpest, cheeriest, winningest little body that ever I see
unclaimed! Nothin' standoffish about her, either. 'There!' says she.
'Look at you, going off with all that dandruff on your coat collar!
Mamie, bring me that whisk broom.'--'Ma'am,' says I, when she'd finished
the job and added a little pat to my necktie, 'my name is Hubbs. It's a
homely name, and I'm a homely man; but if there's any chance of ever
persuadin' you to be Mrs. Nelson Hubbs, I'll stick around this town
until the crack of doom.'--'Now don't be foolish,' says she. 'Run along.
I'm busy.' Wa'n't so encouragin', was it? 'Let's see,' says I, 'what
place is this anyhow?'--'The idea!' says she. 'It's Gopher; and let me
tell you, Mr. Hubbs, some day it's going to be one of the finest cities
west of Chicago!'--'While you're in it,' says I, 'it's goin' to be good
enough for me. I'm goin' to stay right here.'

"Well, that's what I did, Sir. The Gopher Gazette was for sale, and
inside of twenty-four hours I'd bought it, one-third cash, and I've been
runnin' it ever since. And I've proposed to Mrs. Whipple once a week
reg'lar the whole ten months."

"Only to get more of that run-along-now advice?" says I.

He winks rapid two or three times by way of relievin' his feelin's. "It
ain't exactly as bad as that," says he. "I reckon she's kind of got used
to my homely face, and if I have any good points at all, you can bet
she's found 'em. Anyway, one night a couple of months ago she dropped a
hint that was like manna from the sky. I've been livin' on it ever
since. 'Nelson,' says she, 'there's only one man I'd have, and that's
the man who will put Gopher on the map.'"

"Oh-ho!" says I. "Hence the buttons?"

"That's only part of my scheme," says Hubbs. "The rest I worked out
between the time I got word from this Mr. Steele and the day I left for
New York. Up to then I hadn't thought of comin' East to boost Gopher;
but the letter settled me. 'I'm goin' on,' says I to Mrs. Whipple, 'and
if Gopher ain't on the map when I come back, I'll never ask you again to
change your name to Hubbs. I'll change mine to Dubb!' So you see,
Professor, I ain't got any time to waste. Where can I find Mr. Steele?"

I gave him directions for locatin' J. Bayard, and off he pikes, swingin'
the green bag jaunty in one big paw. He'd been here ten minutes, and
he'd told me the story of his life. Now see what Steele gets out of him.

"Shorty," says J. Bayard, driftin' in languid after lunch and caressin'
his bank president whiskers approvin' as he camps down by the desk, "the
deeper I get into the career of your late friend, Pyramid Gordon, the
more I am amazed at the infinite pains he took to deal unjustly with so
many different persons of no account."

"All of which means, I expect," says I, "that you've been havin' a talk
with Hubbs. Well, what you goin' to do for him?"

Mr. Steele shrugs his shoulders. "He is simply impossible!" says he.

"How's that?" says I.

"I was unable to decide," says J. Bayard, "whether he was mentally
unbalanced, or just plain crank. Comes from some absurd little hole out
West, and has but one idea in his head,--to boom that place. Tried to
pin a beastly button on me. Ah! I see you have one."

"Sure!" says I. "'Go to Gopher!' Catchy, ain't it?"

"Bah!" says he. "What do I care for his little two-by-four village? What
does anyone care, save the poor wretches who must live there? And yet he
insisted on boring me for one mortal hour with his preposterous schemes.
It appears that he has raised an advertising fund of a thousand dollars,
and means to open a publicity bureau somewhere downtown."

"Well, that's enterprisin', ain't it?" says I.

"It's imbecile!" says J. Bayard. "What can he do with a thousand in New
York. You might as well try to sprinkle Central Park with a quart
watering can. I told him so. I tried to get out of him too some
suggestion as to how we could best carry out the terms of Gordon's crazy
will; some kind and generous act that we could do for him, you know. But
he would talk of nothing but Gopher--everlastingly and eternally
Gopher!"

"Yes," says I, "that's his long suit."

"And do you know what he thinks he's going to do?" goes on Steele. "Why,
he's had the nerve to plot out a whole quarter-section around his
infernal town, organized a realty company, and had half a million
dollars' worth of Gopher Development shares printed! Thinks he's going
to unload trash like that here in New York! Now what can I do for such
a man?"

"Ain't that right in your line, though?" says I.

"It may have been at one time," admits J. Bayard; "but to-day you
couldn't give away nickel chances on the national gold reserve. The
market is dead. Even the curb brokers have fallen back on racing tin
rolling toys and matching quarters."

Well, I couldn't dispute it. If anyone knows the phony finance game at
all, it's J. Bayard Steele. And the best I could do was to get him to
agree to sort of keep track of Hubbs and maybe, after he'd blown all his
cash against this bloomin' stunt, step in and send him back to Gopher
before he hit the bread line.

Must have been a week that I didn't hear from either of 'em, and then
here the other afternoon J. Bayard calls up on the 'phone.

"Shorty," says he, "if you want to see our friend Hubbs reach the
pinnacle of his folly, come down to Broad street right away. I'll meet
you in front of the Hancock National!"

As there's no rush on at the studio just then I goes down.

"It's rich," says Steele. "Actually, that country clown is trying on,
right here in New York, the same primitive methods that real estate
boomers use in the soggy South and the woolly West. Would you believe
it? Come have a look."

Well, say, it wa'n't easy gettin' near enough, at that. But we works our
way through the mob until we're in front of the buildin', where there's
a big, yellow-lettered sign that reads:

GOPHER, U.S.A.
HEADQUARTERS

Underneath the sign was a big window with the sash out and a sort of
platform juttin' over the sidewalk. Just as we arrives out steps Nelson
Hubbs, wearin' the same rube rig and carryin' the same green bag. He
looks just as big and homely and good-natured as ever.

"Friends," says he, sweepin' off the alfalfa lid with a flourish, "out
in Gopher we always like to open up with a little music; and while I
ain't no Caruso, or anything like that, I'm goin' to do my best."

A snicker runs through the crowd at that, turnin' to haw-haws as he
proceeds to unlimber something from the green bag. It's an accordion,
one of these push and pull organs. Believe me, though, he could sing
some! Throwin' back his head and shakin' that heavy mop of hair, he
roars out deep and strong the first advertisin' solo, I guess, that New
York ever heard.

"Now, Friends, everybody in on the chorus!" he calls. "Every-body! Here
she goes!

"Oh, I want to go to Gopher--Gopher--
Oh, I want to go to Gopher--Gopher!
The streets are straight, the sky is high,
You'll strike it rich, and live on pie,
You can't get sick, and you never die,
In Gopher, U. S. A."

Did they join in? Say, it was a swingin' tune, the words was easy to
follow, and the crowd was ready for anything. They simply cut loose, and
by the time they'd done that chorus two or three times he had 'em right
with him. Then he springs his business spiel.

Talk about your boost orations--say, that was a classic! He tells 'em
confidential how Gopher is the comin' metropolis of the great West; how,
"with its main boulevard laid out along the sinuous, lovely banks of the
pellucid Pinto River, and its western boundaries stretching off to the
sunset-tinted tops of Soup Kettle Range, it has a scenic setting
unsurpassed anywhere this side of Switzerland." And when it comes to
predictin' how prosperity has picked Gopher for its very own, he goes
the limit. Next he tells 'em about the development company and the
shares.

"Remember, Friends," says he, "every share means a front foot, and every
front foot a fortune. Send in fifty shares, and we'll give you a deed to
a city lot. First come first served, and the early bird laps up the
cream. I don't urge you to buy 'em. I'm just giving you a chance to get
in on the ground floor. And if you don't want to come in to-day, maybe
you will to-morrow. Anyway, have a button. Wear it! Tell your friends
about Gopher. Here you are! Every-body have a button!"

With that he scatters handful after handful broadcast into the crowd,
which catches 'em eager. Even J. Bayard gets excited and grabs for one.

"By George, Shorty!" says he. "Hanged if there isn't the germ of a good
idea in this scheme of his! Every share a front foot! And if he could
only get the buying started----"

Steele is gazin' over the heads of the crowd absentminded. All of a
sudden he breaks out again. "I have it!" says he. "I'll get that curb
gang to fooling with Gopher."

But, foxy as he was, I don't believe J. Bayard knew just how big a
bonfire he was touchin' off. I know I thought he was nutty when he wants
me to O.K. his plan for buyin' a hundred shares to distribute free.

"Bait!" says he. "They'll bite! You watch 'em!"

Well, if you've been followin' the market close, you know what happened.
I expect the first bids was made just as a josh. I hear that Gopher
Development started at ten cents. Then someone sold a block at fifteen.
By noon they'd gone to twenty. Durin' luncheon time a sporty bunch in a
rathskeller cooked up the bright idea that it would be humorous to sell
Gopher short and hammer the price down to five cents. Before three P.M.
the gross transactions had run into the thousands.

[Illustration: "Now, Friends!" he calls, "Everybody in on the chorus."]

I was in Hubbs' office when the first real money was paid over for
Gopher. A hook-nosed young broker in a shepherd plaid suit and a pink
felt hat rushes in and planks down twenty dollars for fifty shares at
the market. Hubbs was just passin' 'em over too, when Steele interferes.

"Five more, please," says J. Bayard. "We are holding Gopher at 50."

"Wha'd'ye mean, fifty?" gasps the curb man. But he was short on a
three-fifteen delivery, and he had to put up the extra five.

"Stick to that rule," Steele advises Hubbs. "Ask 'em ten points more
than outside quotations."

What really got things goin', though, was when some of the stock clerks
and bookkeepers, who'd heard and talked nothin' but Gopher these last
two days, begun buyin' lots outright and turnin' 'em in for deeds.
Whether or not they believed all Hubbs had fed 'em about Gopher don't
matter. They was takin' a chance. So they slips out at noon and gives
real orders. Course, they wa'n't plungin'; but the combined effect was
the same.

And it don't take the curb long to get wise. "The suckers are buying
Gopher," was the word passed round. Then maybe the quotations didn't
jump! There wa'n't any quarter matchin' down in Broad street after
that. They was too busy yellin' Gopher at each other. Up she went,--75,
then 85, then 110, and when closin' hour come the third day it was the
liveliest scene inside the ropes that the margin district had known in
years.

I expect the newspapers helped a lot too. They had a heap of fun with
Hubbs and his Gopher proposition,--Hubbs of Gopher, U.S.A. They printed
pictures of him playin' the accordion, and interviews reproducin' his
descriptive gems about "the banks of the pellucid Pinto," and such.

But you never can tell how a comedy stab is goin' to turn out. This game
of buyin' real estate shares for a dollar or so, with the prospects that
before night it might be worth twice as much, was one that hit 'em hard.
By Friday Gopher stock was being advertised like Steel preferred, and
the brokers was flooded with buyin' orders. Some of the big firms got
into the game too. A fat German butcher came all the way down from the
Bronx, counted out a thousand dollars in bills to Nelson Hubbs, and was
satisfied to walk away with a deed for a hundred front feet of Gopher
realty. He wasn't such a boob, either. Two hours later he could have
closed out five hundred to the good.

It wa'n't like a stock flurry, where there's an inside gang manipulatin'
the wires. All the guidin' hand there was in this deal was that of J.
Bayard Steele, and he contents himself with eggin' Hubbs on to stand
firm on that ten-cent raise.

"Not a penny more, not a penny less," says he, beamin'. "It'll get 'em."

And I don't know when I've seen him look more contented. As for Nelson
Hubbs, he seems a little dazed at it all; but he keeps his head and
smiles good-natured on everybody. Not until Gopher Development hits
twenty-five dollars a share does he show any signs of gettin' restless.

"Boys," says he, bangin' his fist down on the desk, "it's great! I've
turned that thousand-dollar fund into fifty, and as near as I can figure
it property values along our Main street have been jumped about eight
hundred per cent. They've heard of it out home, and they're just wild. I
expect I ought to stay right here and push things; but--well, McCabe,
maybe you can guess."

"No word from a certain party, eh?" says I.

Hubbs shakes his head and starts pacin' up and down in front of the
window. He hadn't done more'n three laps, though, before in blows a
messenger boy and hands him a telegram.

"We-e-e-yow!" yells Hubbs. "Hey, Shorty, it's come--doggoned if it ain't
come! Look at that!"

It was a brief bulletin, but full of meat. It runs like this:

Good work, Nelson. You've done it. Gopher's on the map.

And the last we saw of him, after he'd turned the stock business over to
Mendell & Co., he was pikin' for a west-bound train with his grip in one
fist and that old accordion in the other.

J. Bayard smiles after him friendly and indulgent. "A woman in the case,
I suppose?" says he.

"Uh-huh," says I. "The plumpest, cheeriest, winnin'est little body ever
left unclaimed,--his description. She's the lady Mayor out there. And if
I'm any judge, with them two holdin' it down, Gopher's on the map to
stay."

CHAPTER IX

WHAT LINDY HAD UP HER SLEEVE

"But think of it, Shorty!" says Sadie. "What an existence!"

"There's plenty worse off than her," says I; "so what's the use?"

"I can't help it," says she. "Twenty years! No holidays, no home, no
relatives: nothing but sew and mend, sew and mend--and for strangers, at
that! Talk about dull gray lives--ugh!"

"Well, she's satisfied, ain't she?" says I.

"That's the worst of it," says Sadie. "She seems to live for her work.
Goodness knows how early she's up and at it in the morning, and at night
I have to drive her out of the sewing room!"

"And you kick at that?" says I. "Huh! Why, on lower Fifth-ave. they
capitalize such habits and make 'em pay for fifteen-story buildin's.
Strikes me this Lindy of yours is perfectly good sweatshop material. You
don't know a good thing when you see it, Sadie."

"There, there, Shorty!" says she. "Don't try to be comic about it.
There's nothing in the least funny about Lindy."

She was dead right too; and all I meant by my feeble little cracks was
that a chronic case of acute industry was too rare a disease for me to
diagnose offhand. Honest, it almost gave me the fidgets, havin' Lindy
around the house. Say, she had the busy bee lookin' like a corner loafer
with his hands in his pockets!

About once a month we had Lindy with us, for three or four days at a
stretch, and durin' that time she'd be gallopin' through all kinds of
work, from darnin' my socks or rippin' up an old skirt, to embroiderin'
the fam'ly monogram on the comp'ny tablecloths; all for a dollar'n a
half per, which I understand is under union rates. Course, Sadie always
insists on throwin' in something for overtime; but winnin' the extra
didn't seem to be Lindy's main object. She just wanted to keep goin',
and if the work campaign wa'n't all planned out for her to cut loose on
the minute she arrived, she'd most have a fit. Even insisted on havin'
her meals served on the sewin' table, so she wouldn't lose any time.
Sounds too good to be true, don't it? But remember this ain't a class
I'm describin': it's just Lindy.

And of all the dried-up little old maids I ever see, Lindy was the
queerest specimen. Seems she was well enough posted on the styles, and
kept the run of whether sleeves was bein' worn full or tight, down over
the knuckles or above the elbow, and all that; but her own costume was
always the same,--a dingy brown dress that fits her like she'd cut it
out in the dark and had put it together with her eyes shut,--a faded old
brown coat with funny sleeves that had little humps over the shoulders,
and a dusty black straw lid of no partic'lar shape, that sported a bunch
of the saddest lookin' violets ever rescued from the ashheap.

Then she had such a weird way of glidin' around silent, and of shrinkin'
into corners, and flattenin' herself against the wall whenever she met
anyone. Meek and lowly? Say, every motion she made seemed to be sort of
a dumb apology for existin' at all! And if she had to go through a room
where I was, or pass me in the hall, she'd sort of duck her head, hold
one hand over her mouth, and scuttle along like a mouse beatin' it for
his hole.

You needn't think I'm pilin' on the agony, either. I couldn't exaggerate
Lindy if I tried. And if you imagine it's cheerin' to have a human being
as humble as all that around, you're mistaken. Kind of made me feel as
if I was a slave driver crackin' the whip.

And there wa'n't any special reason that I could see for her actin' that
way. Outside of her clothes, she wa'n't such a freak. That is, she
wa'n't deformed, or anything like that. She wa'n't even wrinkled or gray
haired; though how she kept from growin' that way I couldn't figure out.
I put it down that her lonesome, old maid existence must have struck in
and paralyzed her soul.

There was another queer quirk to her too. Work up as much sympathy as
you wanted to, you couldn't do anything for her. Sadie ain't slow at
that, you know. She got int'rested in her right off, and when she
discovers how Lindy lives in a couple of cheap rooms down in the Bronx
all by herself, and never goes anywhere or has any fun, she proceeds to
spring her usual uplift methods. Wouldn't Lindy like a ticket to a nice
concert? No, thanks, Lindy didn't care much about music. Or the theater?
No, Lindy says she's afraid to go trapesin' around town after dark.
Wouldn't she quit work for an hour or so and come for a spin in the car,
just to get the air? Lindy puts her hand over her mouth and shakes her
head. Automobiles made her nervous. She tried one once, and was so
scared she couldn't work for two hours after. The subway trains were bad
enough, goodness knows!

I couldn't begin to tell you all the things Lindy was afraid
of,--crowds, the dark, of getting lost, of meetin' strangers, of tryin'
anything new. I remember seein' her once, comin' out on the train. She's
squeezed into the end seat behind the door, and was huddled up there,
grippin' a little black travelin' bag in one hand and a rusty umbrella
in the other, and keepin' her eyes on the floor, for all the world like
she'd run away from somewhere and was stealin' a ride. Get it, do you?

But wait! There was one point where Lindy had it on most of us. She
knew where she was goin'. Didn't seem to have any past worth speakin'
about, except that she'd been born in England,--father used to keep a
little store on some side street in Dover,--and she'd come over here
alone when she was quite a girl. As for the present--well, I've been
tryin' to give you a bird's-eye view of that.

But when it comes to the future Lindy was right there with the goods.
Had it all mapped out for twenty years to come. Uh-huh! She told Sadie
about it, ownin' up to bein' near forty, and said that when she was
sixty she was goin' to get into an Old Ladies' Home. Some
prospect--what? She'd even picked out the joint and had 'em put her name
down. It would cost her three hundred and fifty dollars, which she had
salted away in the savings bank already, and now she was just driftin'
along until she could qualify in the age limit. Livin' just for that!

"Ah, can the gloom stuff, Sadie!" says I as she whispers this latest
bulletin. "You give me the willies, you and your Lindy! Why, that old
horse chestnut out there in the yard leads a more excitin' existence
than that! It's preparin' to leaf out again next spring. But Lindy! Bah!
Say, just havin' her in the house makes the air seem moldy. I'm goin'
out and tramp around the grounds a bit before dinner."

That was a good hunch. It's a clear, crisp evenin' outside, with the
last red of the sun just showin' in the northwest and a thin new moon
hangin' over Long Island Sound off in the east, and in a couple of turns
I shook off the whole business. I'd taken one circle and was roundin'
the back of the garage, when I sees something dark slip into a tree
shadow up near the house.

"That you, Dominick?" I sings out.

There's no answer to that, and, knowin' that if there's one failin'
Dominick don't possess it's bein' tonguetied, I gets suspicious.
Besides, a couple of porch-climbin' jobs had been pulled off in the
neighborhood recent, and, even though I do carry a burglar policy, I
ain't crazy about havin' strangers messin' through the bureau drawers
while I'm tryin' to sleep. So I sneaks along the hedge for a ways, and
then does the sleuthy approach across the lawn on the right flank.
Another minute and I've made a quick spring and has my man pinned
against the tree with both his wrists fast and my knee in his chest.

"Woof!" says he, deep and guttural.

"Excuse the warm welcome," says I, "but that's only a sample of what we
pass out to stray visitors like you. Sizin' up the premises, were you,
and gettin' ready to collect a few souvenirs?"

"A thousand pardons," says he, "if I have seem to intrude!"

"Eh?" says I. That wa'n't exactly the comeback you'd expect from a
second-story worker, and he has a queer foreign twist to his words.

"It is possible," he goes on, "that I have achieved the grand mistake."

"Maybe," says I, loosenin' up on him a little. "What was it you thought
you was after?"

"The house of one McCah-be," says he, "a professor of fists, I am told."

"That's a new description of me," says I, "but I'm the party. All of
which don't prove, though, that you ain't a crook."

"Crook?" says he. "Ah, a felon! But no, Effendi. I come on an errand of
peace, as Allah is good."

How was that now, havin' Allah sprung on me in my own front yard? Why
travel?

"Say, come out here where I can get a better look," says I, draggin' him
out of the shadow. "There! Well, of all the----"

No wonder I lost my breath; for what I've picked up off the front lawn
looks like a stray villain from a comic opera. He's a short,
barrel-podded gent, mostly costumed in a long black cape affair and one
of these tasseled Turkish caps. About all the features I can make out
are a pair of bushy eyebrows, a prominent hooked beak, and a set of
crisp, curlin' black whiskers. Hardly the kind to go shinnin' up
waterspouts or squeezin' through upper windows. Still, I'd almost caught
him in the act.

"If that's a disguise you've got on," says I, "it's a bird. And if it
ain't--say, let's hear the tale. Who do you claim to be, anyway?"

"Many pardons again, Effendi," says he, "but it is my wish to
remain--what you call it?--incognito."

"Then you don't get your wish," says I. "No John Doe game goes with me.
Out with it! Who and what?"

"But I make protest," says he. "Rather would I depart on my way."

"Ah, ditch that!" says I. "I caught you actin' like a suspicious
character. Now, if you can account for yourself, I may turn you loose;
but if you don't, it's a case for the police."

"Ah, no, no!" he objects. "Not the constables! Allah forbid! I--I will
make explanation."

"Then let it come across quick," says I. "First off, what name are you
flaggin' under?"

"At my home," says he, "I am known as Pasha Dar Bunda."

"Well, that's some name, all right," says I. "Now the next item, Pasha,
is this, What set you to prowlin' around the home of one McCabe?"

"Ah, but you would not persist thus far!" says he, pleadin'. "That is a
personal thing, something between myself and Allah alone."

"You don't say," says I. "Sorry to butt in, but I've got to have it all.
Come, now!"

"But, Effendi----" he begins.

"No, not Fender," says I, "nor Footboard, or anything like that: just
plain McCabe."

"It is a word of respect," says he, "such as Sir Lord; thus, Effendi
McCabe."

"Well, cut out the frills and let's get down to brass tacks," says I.
"You're here because you're here, I expect. But what else?"

He sighs, and then proceeds to let go of a little information. "You have
under your roof," says he, "a Meesis Vogel, is it not?"

"Vogel?" says I, puzzled for a second. "You don't mean Lindy, do you?"

"She was called that, yes," says the Pasha, "Meelinda."

"But she's a Miss--old maid," says I.

"Ah?" says he, liftin' his bushy eyebrows. "A Mees, eh? It may be so.
They tell me at her place of living that she is to be found here.
_Voilà!_ That is all."

"But what about her?" says I. "Where do you come in?"

"Once when I am in England," says he, "many years gone past, I know her.
I learn that she is in New York. Well, I find myself in America too. I
thought to see her. Why not? A glimpse, no more."

"Is it the style where you come from," says I, "to gumshoe around and
peek in the windows to see old friends?"

"In my country," says he, "men do not--but then we have our own customs.
I have explain. Now I may depart."

"Not so fast, old scout!" says I. "If it's so you're a friend of Lindy,
she'll be wantin' to see you, and all we got to do is to step inside and
call her down."

"But thanks," says he. "It is very kind. I will not trouble, however. It
need not be."

"Needn't, eh?" says I. "Look here, Pasha So and So, you can't put over
anything so thin on me! You're up to something or other. You sure look
it. Anyway, I'm goin' to march you in and find out from Lindy herself
whether she knows you or not. Understand?"

He sighs resigned. "Since you are a professor of fists, it must be so,"
says he. "But remark this, I do not make the request to see her,
and--and you may say to her that it is Don Carlos who is here."

"Ah-ha!" says I. "Another pen name, eh? Don Carlos! Low Dago, or
Hidalgo?"

"My father," says he, "was a Spanish gentleman of Hebrew origin. My
mother was French."

"Some combination!" says I. "And Lindy knows you best as Don Carlos,
does she? We'll soon test that."

So I escorts him in by the side door, plants him in the livin' room
where I can keep an eye on him, and hoohoos gentle up the stairs to
Sadie.

"Yes?" says she.

"Shut the sewin' room door," says I.

"All right," says she. "Well?"

"There's a gent down here, Sadie," says I, "that looks like a cross
between a stage pirate and an Armenian rug peddler."

"For goodness' sake!" says Sadie. "Not in the house! What on earth did
you let him in for?"

"Because," says I, "he claims to be an old friend of Lindy's."

"Of Lindy's!" she gasps. "Why, what----"

"I don't know the rest," says I. "You spring it on her. Tell her it's
Don Carlos, and then let me know what she says."

That seems like a simple proposition; but Sadie takes a long time over
it. I could hear her give a squeal of surprise at something, and then
she seems to be askin' a lot of fool questions. In the course of five or
six minutes, though, she leans over the stair rail lookin' sort of
excited.

"Well?" says I. "Does she know him?"

"Know him!" says Sadie. "Why, she says he's her husband!"

"Not Lindy's!" I gasps.

"That's what she says," insists Sadie.

"Great Scott!" says I. "Must be some mistake about this. Wait a minute.
Here, you, Pasha! Come here! Lindy says you're her husband. Is that so?"

"Oh, yes," says he, as easy as you please. "Under your laws I suppose I
am."

"Well, wouldn't that frost you!" says I.

"But, say, Sadie, why don't she come down and see him, then?"

"Just what I've been asking her," says Sadie. "She says she's too busy,
and that if he wants to see her he must come up."

"Well, what do you know!" says I. "Pasha, do you want to see her?"

"As I have told," says he, "there is no need. I do not demand it."

"Well, of all the cold-blooded pairs!" says I. "How long since you've
seen her?"

"Very long," says he; "perhaps twenty years."

"And now all you can work up is a mild curiosity for a glimpse through
the window, eh?" says I.

He shrugs his shoulders careless.

"Then, by the great horned spoon," I goes on, "you're goin' to get what
you came after! Trail along upstairs after me. This way. In through
here. There you are, Pasha! Lindy, here's your Don Carlos!"

"Oh!" says she, lookin' up from the shirt-waist she was bastin' a sleeve
on, and not even botherin' to take the pins out of her mouth.

And maybe they ain't some cross-mated couple too! This Pasha party shows
up ponderous and imposin', in spite of the funny little fez arrangement
on his head. He's thrown his cloak back, revealin' a regulation frock
coat; but under that is some sort of a giddy-tinted silk blouse effect,
and the fringed ends of a bright red sash hangs down below his knee on
the left side. He's got a color on him like the inside of an old
coffeepot, and the heavy, crinkly beard makes him look like some foreign
Ambassador. While Lindy--well, in her black sewin' dress and white
apron, she looks slimmer and more old maidish than ever.

He confines his greetin' to a nod of the head, and stands there gazin'
at her as calm as if he was starin' at some stranger in the street.

"I suppose you've come to take me away with you, Carlos?" says she.

"No," says he.

"But I thought," says Lindy, "I--I thought some day you might. I didn't
know, though. I haven't planned on it."

"Is it your wish to go with me?" says he.

"Why, I'm your wife, you know," says she.

"You had my letters, did you?" he goes on.

"Four," says she. "There was one from Spain, when you were a brigand,
and another----"

"A brigand!" breaks in Sadie. "Do you mean that, Lindy?"

"Wasn't that it?" asks Lindy of him.

"For two years, Madam," says Don Carlos, bowin' polite. "A dull sort of
business, mingling so much with stupid tourists. Bah! And such small
gains! By the time you have divided with the soldiers little is left. So
I gave it up."

"The next came from that queer place," says Lindy, "Port--Port----"

"Port Said," helps out Pasha, "where I had a gambling house. That was
good for a time. Rather lively also. We had too much shooting and
stabbing, though. It was an English officer, that last one. What a row!
In the night I left for Tunisia."

"Oh, yes, Tunis," says Lindy. "Something about slaves there, wasn't it?"

"Camels also," says Pasha. "I traded in both stolen camels and smuggled
slaves."

He throws this off as casual as if he was tellin' about sellin' sewin'
machines. I glances over to see how Sadie's takin' it, and finds her
drawin' in a long breath.

"Well, I never!" says she explosive. "What a shameless wretch! And you
dared confess all this to Lindy?"

"Pardon, Madam," says he, smilin' until he shows most of his white
teeth, "but I desired no misunderstanding. It is my way with women, to
tell them only what is true. If they dislike that--well, there are many
others."

"Humph!" says Sadie, tossin' her head. "Lindy, do you hear that?"

Lindy nods and keeps right on bastin' the sleeve.

"But how did you ever come to marry such a person, Lindy?" Sadie
demands.

Carlos executes another smile at this and bows polite. "It was my
fault," says he. "I was in England, waiting for a little affair that
happened in Barcelona to blow over. By chance I saw her in her father's
shop. Ah, you may find it difficult to believe now, Madam, but she was
quite charming,--cheeks flushed like dawn on the desert, eyes like the
sea, and limbs as lithe as an Arab maiden's! I talked. She listened. My
English was poor; but it is not always words that win. These British
girls, though! They cannot fully understand romance. It was she who
insisted on marriage. I cared not a green fig. What to me was the
mumbling of a churchman, I who cared not for the priests of my mother
nor the rabbi of my father? Pah! Two weeks later I gave her some money
and left her. Once more in the mountains of Spain I could breathe
again--and I made the first English we caught settle the whole bill.
That is how it came to be, Madam. Ask her."

Sadie looks at Lindy, who nods. "Father drove me out when I went back,"
says she; "so I came over here. Carlos had told me where to write. You
got all my letters, did you, Carlos?"

"Oh, yes," says he. Then, turnin' to Sadie, "A wonderful writer of
letters, Madam,--one every month!"

"Then you knew about little Carlos?" puts in Lindy. "It was a pity. Such
lovely big black eyes. He was nearly two. I wish you could have seen
him."

"I also had regret," says Carlos. "I read that letter many times. It was
because of that, I think, that I continued to read the others, and was
at pains to have them sent to me. They would fill a hamper, all of
them."

"What!" says Sadie. "After you knew the kind of monster he was, Lindy,
did you keep on writing to him?"

"But he was still my husband," protested Lindy.

"Bah!" says Sadie, throwin' a scornful glance at the Pasha.

Don Carlos he spreads out his hands, and shrugs his shoulders. "These
English!" says he. "At first I laughed at the letters. They would come
at such odd times; for you can imagine, Madam, that my life has
been--well, not as the saints'. And to many different women have I read
bits of these letters that came from so far,--to dancing girls, others.
Some laughed with me, some wept. One tried to stab me with a dagger
afterward. Women are like that. You never know when they will change
into serpents. All but this one. Think! Month after month, year after
year, letters, letters; about nothing much, it is true, but wishing me
good health, happiness, asking me to have care for myself, and saying
always that I was loved! Well? Can one go on laughing at things like
that? Once I was dangerously hurt, a spearthrust that I got near Biskra,
and the letter came to me where I lay in my tent. It was like a
soothing voice, comforting one in the dark. Since then I have watched
for those letters. When chance brought me to this side of the world, I
found myself wishing for sight of the one who could remain ever the
same, could hold the faith in the faithless for so long. So here I am."

"Yes, and you ought to be in jail," says Sadie emphatic. "But, since
you're not, what do you propose doing next?"

"I return day after to-morrow," says Don Carlos, "and if the lady who is
my wife so wills it she shall go with me."

"Oh, shall she!" says Sadie sarcastic. "Where to, pray?"

"To El Kurfah," says he.

"And just where," says Sadie, "is that?"

"Three days by camel south from Moorzook," says he. "It is an oasis in
the Libyan Desert."

"Indeed!" says Sadie. "And what particular business are you engaged in
there,--gambling, robbing, slave selling, or----"

"In El Kurfah," breaks in Don Carlos, bowin' dignified, "I am Pasha Dar
Bunda, Minister of Foreign Affairs and chief business agent to
Hamid-al-Illa; who, as you may know, is one of the half-dozen rulers
claiming to be Emperor of the Desert. Frankly, I admit he has no right
to such a title; but neither has any of the others. Hamid, however, is
one of the most up-to-date and successful of all the desert chieftains.
My presence here is proof of that. I came to arrange for large shipments
of dates and ivory, and to take back to Hamid an automobile and the
latest phonograph records."

"I don't like automobiles," says Lindy, finishin' up the sleeve.

"Neither does Hamid," says Pasha; "but he says we ought to have one
standing in front of the royal palace to impress the hill tribesmen when
they come in. Do you go back to El Kurfah with me, Mrs. Vogel?"

"Yes," says Lindy, rollin' up her apron.

"But, Lindy!" gasps Sadie. "To such a place, with such a man!"

"He is my husband, you know," says she.

And Lindy seems to think when she's put that over that she's said all
there was to say on the subject. Sadie protests and threatens and begs.
She reminds her what a deep-dyed villain this Carlos party is, and
forecasts all sorts of dreadful things that will likely happen to her if
she follows him off. But it's all wasted breath.

And all the while Pasha Dar Bunda, alias Don Carlos Vogel, stands there
smilin' polite and waitin' patient. But in the end he walks out
triumphant, with Lindy, holdin' her little black bag in one hand and her
old umbrella in the other, followin' along in his wake.

Then last Friday we went down to one of them Mediterranean steamers to
see 'em actually start. And, say, this slim, graceful party in the
snappy gray travelin' dress, with the smart lid and all the gray veils
on, looks about as much like the Lindy we'd known as a hard-boiled egg
looks like a frosted cake. Lindy has bloomed out.

"And when we get to El Kurfah guess what Carlos is going to give me!"
she confides to Sadie. "A riding camel and Batime. He's one of the best
camel drivers in the place, Batime. And I have learned to salaam and say
'Allah il Allah.' Everyone must do that there. And in our garden are
dates and oranges growing. Only fancy! There will be five slaves to wait
on me, and when we go to the palace I shall wear gold bracelets on my
ankles. Won't that seem odd? It's rather warm in El Kurfah, you know;
but I sha'n't mind. Early in the morning, when it is cool, I shall ride
out into the sandhills with Carlos. He is going to teach me how to shoot
a lion."

She was chatterin' along like a schoolgirl, and when the boat pulls out
of the slip she waves jaunty to us. Don Carlos, leanin' over the rail
alongside of her, gazes at her sort of admirin'.

"El Kurfah, eh?" says I to Sadie. "That's missin' the Old Ladies' Home
by some margin, ain't it?"

CHAPTER X

A CASE OF NOBODY HOME

"Yes," says J. Bayard Steele, adjustin' the chin part in his whiskers
and tiltin' back comf'table in his chair, "I am beginning to think that
the late Pyramid Gordon must have been a remarkably good judge of human
nature."

"For instance?" says I.

"His selection of me as an executor of his whimsical will," says he.

"Huh!" says I. "How some people do dislike themselves! Now, if you want
to know my views on that subject, J. B., I've always thought that was
one of his battiest moves."

But he's got a hide like a sample trunk, Mr. Steele has. He only shrugs
his shoulders. "Yes, you have given me similar subtle hints to that
effect," says he. "And I will admit that at first I had doubts as to my
fitness. The doing of kind and generous acts for utter strangers has not
been a ruling passion with me. But so far I have handled several
assignments--in which have I failed?"

"Look who's been coachin' you, though!" says I.

J. Bayard bows and waves a manicured hand graceful. "True," he goes on,
"your advice has been invaluable on occasions, friend McCabe; especially
in the early stages of my career as a commissioned agent of
philanthropy. But I rather fancy that of late I have developed an
altruistic instinct of my own; an instinct, if I may say so, in which
kindly zeal is tempered by a certain amount of practical wisdom."

"Fine!" says I. "Bein' a little floral tribute, I take it, from Mr.
Steele to himself."

"Unless it should occur to you, McCabe," says he, "to make the
distinction between offensive egoism and pardonable pride."

"I don't get you," says I; "but I feel the jab. Anyhow, it's instructin'
and elevatin' to hear you run on. Maybe you've got somethin' special on
your mind?"

"I have," says he, producin' an envelope with some notes scribbled on
the back.

"Is that No. 6 on the list?" says I. "Who's the party?"

"Here," says he, tappin' the envelope impressive, "are my findings and
recommendations in the case of Hackett Wells."

"Shoot it," says I, settlin' back in the desk chair.

It's a pity too I can't give you all the high English J. Bayard uses up
in statin' this simple proposition; for he's in one of them comf'table,
expandin', after-luncheon moods, when his waist band fits tight and the
elegant language just flows from him like he had hydrant connection
with the dictionary.

It seems, though, that this Wells party had been sort of a partner of
Pyramid's back in the early days. Some sort of a buyers' pool for
Eastern coal deliveries, I believe it was, that Hackett had got into
accidental and nursed along until he found himself dividin' the cream of
the profits with only half a dozen others. Then along came Pyramid with
his grand consolidation scheme, holdin' out the bait of makin' Mr. Wells
head of the new concern and freezin' out all the rest.

Wells, he swallows it whole: only to wake up a few months later and
discover that he's been double crossed. Havin' served his turn, Gordon
has just casually spilled him overboard, thinkin' no more of doin' it
than he would of chuckin' away a half-smoked cigar.

But to Hackett Wells this was a national calamity. Havin' got in with
the easy-money bunch by a fluke in the first place, he wa'n't a man who
could come back. Course he brought suit, and wasted a lot of breath
callin' Pyramid hard names from a safe distance; but Pyramid's lawyers
wore him out in the courts, and he was too busy to care who was cussin'
him.

So Mr. Wells and his woe drops out of sight. He's managed to keep hold
of a little property that brings him in just enough to scrub along on,
and he joins that hungry-eyed, trembly-fingered fringe of margin pikers
that hangs around every hotel broker's branch in town, takin' a timid
flier now and then, but tappin' the free lunch hard and reg'lar. You
know the kind,--seedy hasbeens, with their futures all behind 'em.

And in time, broodin' over things in gen'ral, it got to Hackett Wells in
his weak spot,--heart, or liver, or something. Didn't quite finish him,
you understand, but left him on the scrapheap, just totterin' around and
stavin' off an obituary item by bein' mighty careful.

"I suppose Gordon must have heard something of the shape he was in,"
says J. Bayard, "when he included him in his list. Well, I hunted him up
the other day, in a cheap, messy flat-house to the deuce and gone up
Eighth avenue, got his story from him, and decided on a way of helping
him out."

"Want to buy him a coal mine, or something like that?" says I.

J. Bayard refuses to notice my little sarcastic play. "I am sure Pyramid
would have wanted this worn-out, cast-off tool of his to end his days
decently," goes on Mr. Steele; "but to give him a lump sum would be
worse than useless. Two or three plunges, and it would be all gone."

"Think of puttin' him in a home somewhere?" says I.

"That might be a good plan," says Steele, "if he was still a widower;
but it appears that he has married again,--a young woman too, some
waitress that he met in a quick-lunch place. I saw her. Bah! One of
these plump, stupid young females, who appeared in a dingy dressing gown
with her hair down. What an old fool! But I suppose she takes care of
him, in a way. So I thought that an annuity, of say a thousand or two,
paid in monthly installments, would be the wisest. That would enable
them to move out into the country, get a nice little house, with a
garden, and really live. It was pathetic to see how grateful he was when
I told him of my scheme. Of course, McCabe, all this is subject to your
indorsement. Thought you might like to have a talk with them first, and
see for yourself; so I asked them to meet me here about----"

"Guess they're right on time," says I as the studio door opens, and in
drifts a December-and-May pair that answers all the details of his
description.

The old boy might have been still in the sixties; but with his remnant
of white hair, watery eyes, and ashy cheeks he looks like a reg'lar
antique. Must have been one of these heavy-set sports in his day, a good
feeder, and a consistent drinker; but by the flabby dewlaps and the
meal-bag way his clothes hang on him I judge he's slumped quite a lot.
Still, he's kind of a dignified, impressive old ruin, which makes the
contrast with the other half of the sketch all the more startlin'.

She's a bunchy blonde, she is, about four foot six in her French heels,
with yellow hair, China-doll eyes, a snub nose, and a waxy pink and
white complexion like these show-window models you see in department
stores. She's costumed cheap but gaudy in a wrinkled, tango-colored
dress that she must have picked off some Grand street bargain counter
late last spring. The ninety-nine-cent soup-plate lid cocked over one
ear adds a rakish touch that almost puts her in the comic valentine
class.

But when I'm introduced to the old scout he glances fond at her and does
the honors graceful. "Mrs. Wells, Professor," says he, and she executes
an awkward duck response.

While the three of us are talkin' over J. Bayard's proposition she sits
at one side, starin' blank and absentminded, as if this was somethin'
that don't concern her at all.

It ain't a long debate, either. Hackett Wells seems satisfied with most
any arrangement we want to make. He's a meek, broken old sport, grateful
for anything that comes his way. That's what led me to insist on
boostin' the ante up to twenty-five hundred, I guess; for it didn't look
like he could go on pullin' that down for many years more. And of course
J. Bayard is tickled to get my O.K. so easy.

"Then it's all settled," says Mr. Steele. "You will receive a check from
the attorney of Mr. Gordon's estate on the first of every month. You and
Mrs. Wells ought to start to-morrow to look for a place in some nice
little country town and--why, what's the matter with your wife?"

She has her face in her hands, and her dumpy shoulders are heavin' up
and down passionate. At first I couldn't make out whether it's woe, or
if she's swallowed a safety pin. Anyway, it's deep emotion of some kind.

"Why, Deary!" says Mr. Wells, steppin' over and pattin' her on the back.

But that don't have any effect. The heavin' motion goes right on, and no
answer comes from Deary.

"Mabel! Mabel, dear!" insists Hackett. "Tell me what is wrong. Come
now!"

Mabel just shakes off his hand and continues her chest gymnastics. Also
she begins kickin' her heels against the chair rungs. And as Hubby
stands there lookin' helpless, with J. Bayard starin' disturbed, but
makin' no move, it appears like it was up to me to take a hand.

"Don't mind the furniture, Ma'am," says I. "Take a whack at the desk
too, if you like; but after you're through throwin' the fit maybe you'll
let us know what it's all about."

At which she begins rockin' back and forth and moanin' doleful. A couple
of hairpins works loose and drops to the floor.

"Excuse me, Ma'am," says I, "but you're goin' to lose the inside of that
French roll if you keep on."

That fetched her out of it in a hurry. Grabbin' wild at her back hair,
she sat up and faced us, with no signs at all of real weeps in her
eyes.

"I won't live in the country, I won't!" she states explosive.

"Why, Mabel dear!" protests Mr. Wells.

"Ah, don't be an old bonehead!" comes back Mabel. "What's the idea,
wishin' this Rube stuff on us? You can just count me out, Hacky, if
that's the game. Do you get me?"

Hacky does. "I'm very sorry, Gentlemen," says he, "to ask you to modify
your generous terms; but I feel that my wife's wishes in the matter
ought to be taken into account."

"Why--er--to be sure," says J. Bayard. "I merely suggested your living
in the country because it seemed to me the wisest plan; but after
all----"

"Do we look like a pair of jays, I'd like to know?" demands Mrs. Wells
indignant. "And another thing: I don't stand for this so much a month
dope, either. What's the good of a little now and then? If we've got
anything coming to us, why not hand it over annual? There'd be some
sense to that. Stick out for once a year, Hacky."

Which he done. She had him well trained, Mabel did. He shrugs his
shoulders, tries to smile feeble, and spreads out his hands. "You see,
Gentlemen," says he.

I must say too that Mr. Steele puts up a mighty convincin' line of talk,
tryin' to show 'em how much better it would be to have a couple of
hundred or so comin' in fresh on the first of every month, than to be
handed a lump sum and maybe lose some of it, or run shy before next
payday. He explains how he was tryin' to plan so the money might do 'em
the most good, and unless it did how he couldn't feel that he'd done his
part right.

"All of which," he goes on, "I am quite sure, Mrs. Wells, you will
appreciate."

"Go on, you whiskered old stuff!" comes back Mabel spiteful. "How do you
know so much what's good for us? You and your nutty dreams about cows
and flower gardens and hens! I'd r

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