Shirley had delayed his evening meal to fit his appointment at the Model Trucking Company. Near eight o'clock he crossed the street to go up the alley to Cherry Street. At the crossing of the dark alley he encountered a policeman and was greeted casually by that officer. In front of the lighted office he accosted another officer, standing in a darkened area near a car parked in front. "Maybe this is a warning," he thought, as he stepped into the well-lighted office.
He was greeted cordially by Anzio and was introduced to the two others present. "This is Don Carlin, our custodian here, and this is Jan Damino, our most trusted employee." Carlin was a slight young man, but his companion differed much in size and considerably in age. Damino, aging to baldness, was a commanding figure. Thick-chested, with arms and legs of considerable size, his seamed face revealed a ragged scar from temple to chin. Both nodded acknowledgment of the introduction and Carlin brought a chair for the visitor.
"I'm glad you've come," said Anzio in pleasing tones. "Your brother reports that you have been badly informed asto what this company is doing. We want to correct any such wrong ideas."
"No one has given me any information about you," said Shirley scornfully. "I was out to the old farm and saw with my own eyes just what's going on."
"Ah! You paid us a visit and we didn't know it. Somebody has been negligent."
"That's right! Your carefully guarded distillery had a visitor. I used to live out there. Knowing about your locked gates and posted guard, I went on the farm from the rear. I edged up to see your still in operation in the old shed. I saw your bottling plant in the big barn. It recalls the old adage: 'You can't fool all the people all the time.'"
Anzio's face clouded as he planned a reply. "You didn't go in close enough to see what was being bottled and labeled? You are willing to spread a false report without having the facts?
"What you glimpsed in your casual snooping was the details of the one business in this community that is prospering. Out in your family's old farm, Doctor David Allen, formerly of St. Louis, is preparing, mixing, bottling, and labeling 'Allen's Stomach Bitters' that has been famous in the South and Southwest for many years. He is now pushing sales in the North and East. Because of its vegetable content, just a small amount of alcohol is a part of the mixture.
"You saw only the sidelines in your snooping and you are putting out a lot of misinformation," concluded Anzio, "and to set you right, I have arranged for our trusted employee, Damino, to take you out there and show you the whole works. The night shift is on and I want 'em to show you every detail of the business."
"Will Damino furnish a round trip ticket?" asked Shirley, as he arose from his chair.
"I don't quite know what you mean," countered Anzio.
"Oh, yes you do," said Shirley emphatically. "Damino here is a 'one-way' man. It's his business to destroyopposition. I wouldn't ride with him down State Street, let alone a country road. With him at the wheel, we couldn't get past that thicket down by the bridge."
"Get him out of here," roared Anzio as he waved to Damino to obey his commands.
Damino approached his quarry cautiously. With his right hand he fingered an inside pocket of his coat; withdrew the hand to place it on Shirley's shoulder. "Let's git goin'," he said as he shoved Shirley toward the door.
Shirley had seen a move that he thought important. He grabbed the extended right arm to give it a jujitsu move up and to the back of the body. It made the assailant grunt and his left knee buckled in its uncertain stance. Quickly Shirley reached in the inside pocket to withdraw a lengthy Colt revolver. Shifting the weapon to his right hand, he brought it down in a mighty blow on the temple of his assailant. Damino fell to the floor. Carlin fled the room by the back door. Shirley turned to find Anzio frantically searching the contents of a drawer in the nearby cabinet. Placing the gun in his pocket, Shirley seized a tall, steel-legged stool to bring it down on Anzio's unprotected head. Anzio joined Damino on the floor. Shirley walked out the front door.
On the sidewalk Shirley encountered the policeman. "What's going on in there?" he demanded.
"Not much, just now," was the reply, "but I was certainly busy for a short time. Why are you here?"
"Your friend, Fred Townsend, is responsible. Fred is seemingly not in touch with our present city administration, but he sure has a strong pull with our chief. Fred phoned him to send two or three of the force down here to see that you were not killed or taken for a ride. We don't know what it's all about, but we're here. Ah, here's company," the officer added as another policeman came out of the alley, shoving Carlin in front of him.
"Is this the finish?" inquired the alley officer. "This fellow," pointing to Carlin, "came out of the back door ratherhurriedly and began searching in a pile of junk. I thought that was a part of that play. What's it all about anyway?"
"This is the finish, my friends, and I am very much obliged for your presence," said Shirley as he prepared to leave. "But there's a couple in there that may need first aid. Go right in; give what assistance you can, and call me if I'm needed."
Shirley watched the perplexed officers as they went into the front office. Then he walked leisurely up the alley to Oak Street. Nearing the railroad, he heard a freight train slowing down at the water-tank. Now he hurried to pass down the train to a boxcar with an open door. He crawled in. As the train pulled out, he went to a front corner, sat down to pull off his shoe and place a neatly folded twenty-dollar bill on the inner sole.
Whatever his future was to be, Shirley Wells was on his way.
David Lannarck arrived in Chicago in the late afternoon. Wanting to see Bransford in the daylight hours, he stayed the night with a friend at the Miami Patio to take a morning train to his destination. He had never been in Bransford and he preferred to take an open cab to the Grand Union so that he might look around. At the hotel he was assigned the parlor suite with telephone and bath, probably because the clerk had never before registered a three-footer with the face and voice of an adult.
Davy was not yet ready to announce his plans for rehearsals. He wanted to know more of local conditions. He phoned the Fred Townsend office. "Mr. Townsend is in court this morning," the secretary reported, "but he will be available this afternoon."
"Save me the first hour," said Davy. "It's important to both of us."
After luncheon Davy tipped the bellhop to accompany him. "I could probably find the place," he explained, "but I go better if I am haltered and led to the spot." As the caller hoped, Townsend was in. The secretary ushered Davy into the private office.
"I was sent here by a Mister Sam Welborn," Davy explained. "He wants to learn of the legal status and community standing of a former resident by the name of Shirley Wells."
"Shirley Wells! Do you know Shirley Wells?" Townsend sprang to his feet and walked around the desk. "Is Shirley Wells alive? Available? Can I get in touch with him right away?"
"Say, Mister Townsend, out in my blessed locality, where men are men, and the women are glad of it, they accuse me of asking eight or ten questions before the first one isanswered. I want to take you out there to show 'em I am an amateur. For a year or more I have been associated with an upstanding gent who gave out his name as Sam Welborn. In all my public career I've never met a person more honest in business or more fearless with thugs and undesirables. Ten devils couldn't stop him if he thought he was right and even a midget could, and did, shame him out of some of his atrocious efforts. When he reached a certain goal in his persistent activities he disclosed to us four at the home where he headquartered that he was going back to his old home town to find out just where he stood—criminal or citizen. He planned to go back there in disguise; to listen in, to read old newspaper files, and to learn the truth.
"And then I horned in. This man Welborn had saved my life; he got me planted where I wanted to be; I owed him everything. I didn't ask—I just told him—that I would go to his town and, under the pretext of rehearsing a midget show, I would get the needed dope. He fell right in with my proposal. He disclosed that his name was Shirley Wells, that his home town was Bransford, and here I am."
Townsend went to the door of the office. "I will be busy for the next hour," he said to the secretary as he closed the door.
"Just where, and how soon, can I contact this Shirley Wells?" Townsend asked as he seated himself alongside of Davy. "This is really the only time I've needed him since he left. Where is he? I'll send him all the funds needed to get him home."
"He's in Denver, just temporarily. I do not have his address, but he will be in this Chicago vicinity by the end of this week. Maybe he will be disguised, but I hope not. He will phone me at the Grand Union to know how he stands in his home town. That's what I've come here to find out. Is he under indictment? Will he have to serve time? How much money is needed to clean his slate? Will a mob form if he shows up on your city streets? What was it he did, anyhow?"
Fred Townsend laughed quietly. "We are both so anxious to get information that our cross-questioning is confusing. However, when you described your man as honest, persistent, and fearless in dealing with crooks and thugs, I would have known that you were talking about Shirley Wells, even if you had omitted the name. He's just that!
"Shirley Wells is not under indictment, and when he returns the general public will give him a hearty welcome. In fact, had he stayed here for a day or two after the incident he would have been a hero. Would have been carried at the head of the mob of women that paraded the streets of our city in protest of conditions. He would have been a part of the orderly crowd of men that went out to the old farm to destroy the offending distillery. Shirley Wells started the clean-up here, and it spread to all affected localities. This is the story."
Then Fred Townsend told the story, to include the history of the Wells bank, of Shirley's army service, of Carson's banking relations with the Chicago mobsters. "For nearly a decade this Shirley Wells was a silent do-nothing. He seemingly hesitated to claim his property rights and yet had nerve to invade the stronghold of these gangsters and tell 'em the truth. He nearly killed two of 'em and the other disappeared."
And then Townsend detailed what followed as the morning paper gave big headlines of the desperate adventure. It not only recited that the two were hospitalized in a critical condition but it gave inside information as to the illegal business being conducted at the farm. "That evening, nearly a thousand women paraded our streets to the mayor's office, with banners flying, to insist that there be a clean-up of the entire illegal business.
"The next day, fully fifty automobiles assembled at Fifth and Cedar Streets to drive out to the farm and burn down the old shed where the still was located. I was in that party and I easily persuaded them to allow the house and big barn to remain unharmed, but all bottles, labels, cans of liquids,crates, and containers were thrown in the fire. The house-furnishings revealed that it was the headquarters for the many employees, but none were present, either to welcome or protest.
"On returning to town it was learned that Carson Wells had committed suicide. His worthy wife was not at home, was not present at the funeral. She is reported as living in Chicago, a housemother at a sorority of one of the universities.
"The Wells National Bank was of course closed. I was appointed the receiver. Things were in a terrible mess; negligence and forgeries caused a lot of added work, but the bank had a valuable asset in that the stock was held in one family—wasn't scattered to cause contentions and delays. I recovered the farm, held on to the bank building, and charged the forgeries and shortages to Carson's account. Shirley is possessed of the remainder, but it's not enough to do what's required.
"This city needs a bank. The nation is recovering from the depression and very soon business will be back to normal. The Wells National must be restored to service and Shirley Wells, the man who started the clean-up, must be connected with it. His service in cleaning out those crooks was, and is, the big asset.
"Here in my office I have prepared a list of names of those who can, and should, take stock in a bank. With Shirley here, we can canvass this list for the needed subscriptions. Surely we can...."
"Just how much money will it take to revive a bank?" asked Davy quietly.
"Forty or fifty thousand dollars will be required to complete the subscriptions and show a small surplus and I think we can——"
"Why, Shirley will have that much, and more, in his upper vest pocket when he arrives," and then Davy told his lengthy story to an eager listener.
"I have known him for nearly two years," said Davy in concluding his lengthy recital, "and in that time he worked hard—too hard. I upbraided him for it. Now, knowing why he was so continuously busy, working to restore his family name and credit in his home town, I should have kept my mouth shut."
"Do you think he will consent to taking charge of the restored family bank?" asked Townsend. "Will he apply the money to that end?"
"I'll see that he puts up the money. He says that half of it is mine, but he may balk on taking charge. And that's our present job. I have a friend in Springfield that's the greatest little banker the world ever produced. I'll get him here, or send Welborn—I mean Shirley—to him to learn the game."
"This has certainly been my lucky day," said Townsend as the party broke up. "This morning the judge approved my settlement of the long-standing Norris case, I received a letter containing a draft of an outstanding debt, and now the important Wells bank receivership settles itself. Let me know the minute Shirley arrives."
Davy's hours of impatience were interrupted on Saturday morning by a telephone call from Chicago. The booth at the Grand Union afforded the privacy needed.
"If you are in your own clothes...."
Davy's directive was interrupted by a hearty laugh, and a prompt inquiry: "Am I under indictment?"
"Naw! You're not under anything. You're at the top of the heap. Your scrap started things. Get out here on the first train—there's a lot to do and I've pledged you to carry out all the plans as proposed by your friend Townsend. There's lots to do. Get here at once."
And Shirley Wells of the East, Sam Welborn of the West, did as he was directed. He arrived in Bransford shortly after the noon hour. And the rest of the afternoon he was listening to Davy's story and Davy's plans. Sunday morning, at theFourth Avenue Church, he was cordially greeted by many, some of whom he had ridiculed at a former session. Monday, the full day was spent in the office of his friend Townsend. Tuesday, Ralph Gaynor of Springfield arrived in Bransford in response to Davy's telegram, wherein it was suggested that "one carfare was cheaper than two."
Shirley Wells admired Ralph Gaynor but he marveled at his methods. Instead of taking him down to the bank building to review the former methods of conducting the business, Gaynor persisted in interviewing any and all with whom he came in contact: business and professional men, farmers and laborers, women clerks and housewives. His questions were casual, the extended answers were his reward. That evening, in Townsend's office, he delivered his estimates and opinion.
"Banking service is badly needed in your city. Your present plans are timely. A news story should go out tomorrow that the organization is formed and will be functioning next week—this to prevent others from invading this fine prospect. You have present opportunity to secure the services of young Nelson, down at the Wide-Awake, as a receiving teller. He is fast and accurate in money matters. The young lady that compiled Mr. Townsend's reports can, and should, take care of the growing bookkeeping. You will not make a great deal of money in this first year of operation. After that, you will have the best banking investment I know of."
"But what about our new cashier, Shirley Wells?" inquired Townsend. "What's his job? He and his little friend here own practically all the stock."
"The banking business," said Gaynor, "has its peculiarities. Back of the counter, it's simply a matter of accuracy. In front of the counter, however, it's a question of diplomacy and good judgment. Shirley Wells is an asset. His business is in front of the counter, greeting the trade and broadening the field for service. A bank must have assets if it is to make loans."
The Wells National Bank, with its tidy and growing millions of assets, is functioning at 201 North Oak Street, Bransford, U.S.A.
Just where should these ramblings end? A tragedy ends at the death of any or all; a comedy ends with one of the revived jokes of former years; a biography should terminate at the grave, and a romance finishes as the groom carries his hard-won prize across the threshold of the cottage or palace. What's the finish here?
A start was made to tell the life story of a midget, but complications arose that could not be avoided. Instead of traveling the infrequent paths of the Lilliputians the journey has, in many instances, swept down the traffic-filled thoroughfare of the big adults. But midgets are few in number, they have few contacts with each other. In most every instance, their employment is to exhibit themselves to the thousands and thousands who come to see and comment.
Midgets do not go to war, cannot win a prize fight, or bust one over the right field fence for a home run. Their field for service is limited to public exhibitions; their contacts wholly with the questioning adult. The tragedies of a midget are of the lighter sort, comedies prevail only in a minor degree, romance is a limited factor, and in this particular instance, these ramblings cannot be classed as biography—the principal characters are still alive.
And because they are still alive and functioning, the reader is invited out to the Adot vicinity to see—and maybe participate—in the continuing story.
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