0097
“Mr. Pres'dent,” interrupted Short Creek Dave, “jest let me get my views in yere. It's my turn all right, as I makes clear, easy. I've looked up things some, an* I finds that the Apostle Peter, who was a great range boss of them days, scroopled not to fight. Which I trails out after Peter in this. I might add, too, that while it gives me pain to be obleeged to shoot up brother Texas Thompson in the first half of the first meetin' we holds in Wolfville, still the path of dooty is plain, an' I shall shorely walk tharin, fearin' nothin'. I tharfore moves we adjourn ten minutes, an' as thar is plenty of moon outside, if the chair will lend me its gun—I'm not packin' of sech frivolities no more, regyardin' of 'em in the light of sinful bluffs—I trusts to Providence to convince brother Texas Thompson that he's followed off the wrong waggon track. You-alls can gamble! I knows my business. I ain't 4-flushin' none when I lines out to pray!”
“Onless objection is heard, this meetin' will stand adjourned for ten minutes,” said Enright, at the same time passing Short Creek Dave his pistol.
Fifteen paces were stepped off, and the opponents faced up in the moonlit street. Enright, Peets, Hall, Boggs, Tutt, Moore and the rest of the congregation made a line of admiration on the sidewalk.
“I counts one! two! three! an' then I drops the contreebution box,” said Enright, “whereupon you-alls fires an' advances at will. Be you ready?”
The shooting began on the word. When the smoke blew away, Texas Thompson staggered to the sidewalk and sat down. There was a bullet in his hip, and the wound, for the moment, brought a feeling of sickness.
“The congregation will now take its seats in the sanctooary,” remarked Enright, “an' play will be re-soomed. Tutt, two of you-alls carry Texas over to the hotel, an' fix him up all right. Yereafter, I'll visit him an' p'int out his errors. This shows concloosive that Short Creek Dave is licensed from Above to pray any gait for whoever he deems meet, an' I'm mighty pleased it occurs. It's shore goin' to promote confidence in Dave's ministrations.”
The concourse was duly in its seats when Short Creek Dave again reached the pulpit.
“I will now resoome my intercessions for our onfortunate brother, Texas Thompson,” said Short Creek Dave.
“I know'd he would,” commented Dan Boggs, as twenty dollars came over addressed by the wounded Thompson to the contribution box. “Texas Thompson is one of the reasonablest sports in Wolfville. Also you can bet! relig'ous trooths allers assert themse'ves.”
Say! Matches,” said Chucky, removing his nose from his glass, “youse remember d' Jersey Bank? I means d' time youse has to go to cover an 'd' whole mob is pinched in d' hole. Tell us d' story; it's dead int'restin'.”
This last was to me in a husky whisper.
“That play was a case of fail,” remarked Mollie Matches thoughtfully. Then turning to me as chief auditor, he continued. “It's over twenty years ago; just on d' heels of d' Centenyul at Phil'delfy. D' graft was fairly flossy durin 'd' Centenyul, an' I had quite a pot of dough.
“One day a guy comes to me; he's a bank woiker, what d' fly people calls 'a gopher man'; he's a mug who's onto all d' points about safes an' such. Well, as I says, this soon guy comes chasin' to me.
“'Matches,' he says, 'don't say a woid; I'll put youse onto an easy trick. Come wit' me to Jersey, an' I'll show you a bin what's all organised to be cracked. Any old hobo could toin off d' play; it's a walk-over.'
“Wit' that, for I had confidence in this mark, see! We skins over to Jersey, an' he steers me out to a nearby town an' points me out a bank. What makes it a good t'ing is a vacant joint, wit' a 'To Rent' sign in d' window, built dost ag'inst d' side of d' bank.
“'Are youse on?' says d' goph, pointin' his main hook at d' empty house, an' then at d' bank.
“Bein' I'm no farmer meself, I takes no time to tumble. We screws our nuts, me an' d' goph, to d' duck who owns d' house, an 'd' nex' news is we rents it. D' duck who does d' rentin' says he can see we're on d' level d' moment we floats in; but all d' same, if we can bring him a tip or two on d' point of our bein' square people from one or two high rollers whose names goes, he'll take it kindly. We says, suttenly; we fills him to d' chin wit' all d' ref-runces he needs.
“'We won't do a t'ing but send our pastor to youse,' puts in d' goph.
“Good man, me pal was, as ever draws slide on a dark lantern, but always out to be funny.
“We rents d' joint, as I states, an' no more is said about refrunces. Now, when it comes to d' real woik, I ain't goin' to do none, see! I ain't down to dig an' pick; it spoils me hooks for dippin'. What I does is furnish d' tools an 'd' dough.
“I goes back an' gets a whole kit of bank tools—drills, centre-bits, cold-chisels, jointed-jimmies, wedges, pullers, spreaders, fuse, powder, mauls an' mufflers—I gets d' whole t'ing, see! Me pal knows a brace of pards who'll stand in on d' play. He calls 'em in, an' one night d' entire squeeze, wit 'd' tools, goes over an' plants themselfs in d 'empty house. Yes; dey takes grub an' blankets an' all dey needs.
“Before this I goes ag'inst d' bank janitor; an' while he's a fairly downy party, I wins him. D' janitor of d' bank gets a hundred bones, an' I gets a map of d' bank, which shows where d* money is planted an' all about it.
“What's d' idee? Our racket is to tunnel from d' cellar of d' joint we rents, under d' sidewall of d' bank, an' keep on until we reaches d' stuff, see! We're out to do all d' woik we can wit'out lettin' d' bank-crush twig d' graft. Then we waits till Saturday noon. D' bank shuts up on Saturday noon, understan'! An' then we has till Monday at 9 o'clock to finish d' woik. An' say! it's time plenty! It gives us time to boin!
“As I states, I don't do any of d' woik. D' gopher an' his two pals is all d' job calls for. So I lays dead in d' town, ready to split out me piece of d' plunder, an' waits results.
“To hurry me yarn, everyt'ing woiks like it's greased to fit d' play. D' mob gets d' tunnel as far as it'll go. Saturday noon comes an 'd' last sucker who belongs to d' bank skips out. It's then me gopher an' his two pals t'rows themselfs.
“All t'rough Saturday afternoon an' all d' night till daylight Sunday mornin', them gezebos woiks away like dogs. An' say! don't youse ever doubt it! dey was winnin' in a walk.
“But all this time d' pins was set up to do 'em. It was d' same old story. There's always some little nogood bet a crook is sure to overlook, an' it goes d' wrong way an' downs him. Here's what happens:
“In d' foist place, we forgets to take d' 'To Rent' sign out of d' window, see! That's d' beginnin'. Nex,' me goph an' his side-partners digs so much dirt out of d' tunnel it fills d' cellar. Honest! it won't hold no more.
“At this last, dey takes to shovelin 'd' dirt into a bushel basket. Then dey carries it up d' back stairs and dumps it on d' floor of a summer kitchen. Be 7 o'clock Sunday, mebby dey dumps as many as six basketfuls; dumps it, as I tells youse, in this lean-to, which is built on d' rear.
“Now, right at this time there's an old Irish Moll who keeps a boardin' house not far away who is flyin' along to early Mass, bein' dead religious an' leary about her soul, see! This old goil, as she comes sprintin' along, gets her bleary old lamps on d' 'To Rent' card. All at onct d' idee fetches her a t'ump in d' cocoa that d' house would be out of sight for a boardin' joint. Wit' that she steers herself in to take a squint an' size up d' crib.
“D' door is locked, so d' old goil can't come in. Wit' that she leads d' nex' best card an' goes galumpin' round, pipin' off d' place t'rough d' windows. An' say! she gets stuck on it. She t'inks if she can rent it, she can run d' dandy boardin' house of d' ward in it.
“As d' old frail goes round d' place, among all d' rest, she looks t'rough d' windows into d' summer kitchen. She gets onto d' dirt that's dumped, as I states, in one corner. But she don't see none of d' gang, bein' dey's down in d' hole at d' time, so she don't fasten to nothin'.
“At last she's seen enough an' sherries her nibs to d' cat'edral.
“That's all right if it's only d' end; but it ain't. When it gets to about 2 o'clock, this old skate in petticoats goes toinin' nutty ag'in about d' empty house. Over she spins to grab another glimpse, see! When she strikes d' summer kitchen she comes near to throwin' a faint. D' pile of rubbidge is twenty times as big!
“That settles it! d' joint is ha'nted! an' wit' that notion all tangled up in her frizzes d' old mut makes a straight wake for d' priest.
“'D' empty house nex' to d' bank is full of ghosts!' she shouts, an' then she flings her apron over her nut an' comes a fit.
“Now, this priest is about as sudden a party as ever comes over d' ocean. Youse can't give him no stiff about spooks, see! Bein' nex' to d' bank is a hot tip, an' he takes it.
“Nit! he don't go surgin' round for his prayer-books an d' hully water. It would have been a dead good t'ing if he had. Nixie weedin'! D' long-coat sucker don't even come over to d' house.
“What does he do? He sprints for d' nearest p'lice station at a 40 clip, an' fills up d' captain in charge wit 'd' story till youse can't rest. After that, it takes' d' p'lice captain about ten seconts to line up his push; an' be coppin' a sneak, he pinches me gopher an' his two pals right in d' hole. Dey was gettin' along beautiful at d' time, an' in ten hours more dey would have had that bank on d' hog for fair.
Dey was dead games at that. While dey gets d' collar, not one of 'em coughs on me, an' me name ain't never in it from start to finish. Dey was game, true pals from bell to bell, an' stayed d' distance.
“It was d' bummest finish, all d' same, for what looked like d' biggest trick, an' d' surest big money, that I ever goes near. Youse may well peel your peeps! If it wasn't for that old Irish keener an' her ghost stories, in less than ten hours more we wouldn't have got a t'ing but complete action on more'n a million plunks! There was a hay-mow full of money in that bin!
“That's d' last round an' wind-up, as d' pugs puts it. Me gopher an' his pals is handed out ten spaces each, an' I lose me kit of tools. Take it over all, I'm out some four t'ousand dollars on d' deal. A tidy lump of dough to be done out of be a priest, a p'liceman an' an old Irish boardin' boss! D' old loidy lands wit' bot' her trilbys, though; d' bank chucks her a bundle of fly-paper big enough to stan' for all her needs until she croaks, forcuttin' in on our play, see!”
The boys had resolved on revenge, and nothing could turn them from their purpose. The trouble was this: Some one not otherwise engaged had fed the furnace an overshoe which it did not need. As incident to its consumption the overshoe had filled the building with an odour of which nothing favourable could be said. The professor afterwards, in denouncing the author of the outrage, had referred to it as “effluvia.” It had as a perfume much force of character, and was stronger and more devastating than the odour which goes with an egg in its old age, when it has begun to hate the world and the future holds nothing but gloom.
As stated, the schoolhouse reeked and reeled with this sublimated overshoe. It all pleased the boys excessively. They made as much as possible of the odour; they coughed, and sneezed, and worried the professor by holding up their hands one after the other with the remark:
“Teacher, may I go out?”
The professor, after several destructive whiffs of the overshoe, made a fiery speech. He said that could he once locate the boy who lavished this overshoe on mankind in a gaseous form, that boy's person would experience a rear-end collision. He would be so badly telescoped that weeks would elapse before the boy could regard himself as being in old-time form. The professor said the boy who founded the overshoe odour was a “miscreant” and a “vandal.” He demanded his name of the boys collectively; and failing to get it, the professor said they were all miscreants and vandals, and that it would be as balm to his spirits were he to wade in and larrup the entire outfit.
After school the boys held a meeting.
Frank Payne, aged fourteen, the boy who could lick any boy in school, denounced the professor. He referred to the fact that his father was a school trustee; and that under the rules the professor had no right to bestow upon them the epithets of miscreants and vandals. Frank Payne advised that they whip the professor; who must, he said, while a large, muscular man, yield to mob violence.
The proposition to whip the professor was carried unanimously under a suspension of the rules.
In the ardour of this crusade for their rights the boys did not feel as if they could await the slow approach of trouble in the natural way. It was decided by them to bring matters to a focus. It was planned to have Tony Sanford stick a pin in John Dayton. That would be a splendid start! John Dayton, thus stuck, would yell; and when the professor asked the cause of his lamentations, John Dayton would point to Tony Sanford as his assassin. When the professor laid corrective hands on Tony all of the conspirators were to rush upon the professor and give him such a rough-and-tumble experience that succeeding ages would date time from the emeute. The boys were filled with glee; they regarded the business, so they said, as “a pushover.”
The hour for action had arrived.
Tony Sanford had no pin. But Tony was a fertile boy; if there was a picket off Tony's mental fence at all, it was his foresight. Lacking a pin, the ingenious Tony stuck the small blade of his knife into John Dayton. The victim howled like a dog at night.
“Please, sir, Tony Sanford's stabbed me,” was John Dayton's explanation of his shrieks.
Tony Sanford was paraded for punishment. The cold-blooded enormity of the crime seemed to strike the professor dumb. He did not know how to take hold of the situation. But Tony pursued a course which not only invited but suggested action. As Tony approached, he dealt the professor an uppercut in the bread-basket, and with the cry, “Come on, boys!” closed doughtily with the foe.
The boys beheld the deeds of the intrepid Tony; they heard his cry and knew it for their cue. Nevertheless, notwithstanding, not a boy moved. They sat in their seats and gazed fixedly at Tony and the professor. With the call of Tony to his fellow-conspirators the professor saw it all.
“Tony Sanford,” quoth the professor, “we will adjourn to the library. When I get through, you will be of no further use to science.”
The door closed on Tony Sanford, and a professor weighing 211 pounds. The sounds which came welling from the library showed that some strong, emotional work was being done within. Tony and the professor sounded at times like a curlew at night, and anon like unto a man falling downstairs with a stove. Tony Sanford said afterward that he would never again attach himself to a plot which did not show two green lights on the rear platform of its caboose.
DARLING, I fear that man! The cruel guy can from his place as umpire do you up.”
It was Gwendolin O'Toole who spoke. She was a beautiful blonde angel, and as she clung to her lover, Marty O'Malley, they were a picture from which a painter would have drawn an inspiration.
“Take courage, love!” said Marty O'Malley tenderly; “I'm too swift for the duck.”
“I know, dearest,” murmured the fair Gwendolin, “but think what's up on the game! Me brother, you know him well! the rooter prince, the bleachers' uncrowned king! he is the guardian of me vast estates. If I do not marry as he directs, me lands and houses go to found an asylum for decrepit ball tossers. And to-day me brother Godfrey swore by the Banshee of the O'Tooles that me hand should belong to the man who made the best average in to-morrow's game. Can you win me, love?”
“I will win you or break the bat!” said Marty O'Malley, as he folded his dear one in his arms.
WHEN that villain, O'Malley, goes to bat to-morrow, pitch the ball ten feet over his head. No matter where it goes I'll call a 'strike.'”
It was Dennis Mulcahey who spoke; the man most feared by Gwendolin O'Toole. He was to be the next day's umpire, and as he considered how securely his rival was in his grasp, he laughed the laugh of a fiend.
Dennis Mulcahey, too, loved the fair Gwendolin, but the dear girl scorned his addresses. His heart was bitter; he would be revenged on his rival.
“You've got it in for the mug!” replied Terry Devine, to whom Dennis Mulcahey had spoken. Devine was the pitcher of the opposition, and like many of his class, a low, murdering scoundrel. “But, say! Denny, if you wants to do the sucker, why don't youse give him a poke in d' face? See!”
“Such suggestions are veriest guff,” retorted Dennis Mulcahey. “Do as I bid you, caitiff, an' presume not to give d' hunch to such as I! A wild pitch is what I want whenever Marty O'Malley steps to the plate. I'll do the rest.”
“I'll t'row d' pigskin over d' grand stand,” said Terry Devine as he and his fellow-plotter walked away.
As the conspirators drifted into the darkness a dim form arose from behind a shrub. It was Marty O'Malley.
“Ah! I'll fool you yet!” he hissed between his clinched teeth, and turning in the opposite direction he was soon swallowed by the darkness.
You'll not fail me, Jack!” said Marty O'Malley to Jack, the barkeeper of the Fielders' Rest.
“Not on your sweater!” said Jack, “Leave it to me. If that snoozer pitches this afternoon I hopes d' boss'll put in a cash-register!”
Marty O'Malley hastened to the side of his love. Jack, the faithful barkeeper, went on cleaning his glasses.
“That hobo, Devine, will be here in a minute,” said Jack at last, “an' I must organise for him.”
Jack took a shell glass and dipped it in the tank behind the bar. Taking his cigar from between his finely chiselled lips, he blew the smoke into the moistened interior of the glass. This he did several times.
“I'll smoke a glass on d' stiff,” said Jack softly. “It's better than a knockout drop.”
It was a moment later when Terry Devine came in. With a gleam of almost human intelligence in his eye Jack, the barkeeper, set up the smoked glass. Terry Devine tossed off the fiery potation, staggered to a chair, and sat there glaring. A moment later his head fell on the table, while a stertorous snore proclaimed him unconscious.
“That fetched d' sucker,” murmured Jack, the barkeeper, and he went on cleaning his glasses. “His light's gone out for fourteen hours, an' he don't make no wild pitches at Marty O'Malley to-day, see!”
Ten thousand people gathered to witness the last great contest between the Shamrocks and the Shantytowns.
Gwendolin O'Toole, pale but resolute, occupied her accustomed seat in the grand stand. Far away, and high above the tumult of the bleachers she heard the hoarse shouts of her brother, Godfrey O'Toole, the bleachers' king.
“Remember, Gwendolin!” he had said, as they parted just before the game, “the mug who-makes the best average to-day wins your hand. I've sworn it, and the word of an O'Toole is never broken.”
“Make it the best fielding average, oh, me brother!” pleaded Gwendolin, while the tears welled to her glorious eyes.
“Never!” retorted Godfrey O'Toole, with a scowl; “I'm on to your curves! You want to give Marty O'Malley a better show. But if the butter-fingered muffer wants you, he must not only win you with his fielding, but with the stick.”
Terry Devine wasn't in the box for the Shantytowns. With his head on the seven-up table, he snored on, watched over by the faithful barboy Jack. He still yielded to smoked glass and gave no sign of life.
“Curse him!” growled Umpire Mulcahey hoarsely beneath his breath “has he t'run me down? If I thought so, the world is not wide enough to save him from me vengeance.”
And the change pitcher took the box for the Shantytowns.
Marty O'Malley, the great catcher of the Shamrocks, stepped to the plate. Dennis Mulcahey girded up his false heart, and registered a black, hellish oath to call everything a strike.
“Never! never shall he win Gwendolin O'Toole while I am umpire!” he whispered, and his face was dark as a cloud.
It was the last word that issued from the clam-shell of Dennis Mulcahey for many a long and bitter hour; the last crack he made. Just as he offered his bluff, the first ball was pitched. It was as wild and high as a bird, as most first balls are. But Marty O'Malley was ready. He, too, had been plotting; he would fight Satan with fire!
As the ball sped by, far above his head, Marty O'Malley leaped twenty feet in the air. As he did this he swung his unerring timber. Just as he had planned, the flying, whizzing sphere struck the under side of his bat, and glancing downward with fearful force, went crashing into the dark, malignant visage of Dennis Mulcahey, upturned to mark its flight. The fragile mask was broken; the features were crushed into complete confusion with the awful inveteracy of the ball.
Dennis Mulcahey fell as one dead. As he was borne away another umpire was sent to his post. Marty O'Malley bent a glance of intelligence on the change pitcher of the Shantytowns, who had taken the place of the miscreant Dermis, and whispered loud enough to resell from plate to box:
“Now, gimme a fair ball!”
And so the day was won; the Shamrocks basted the Shantytowns by the score of 15 to 2. As for Marty O'Malley, his score stood:
Ab. R. H. Po. A. E.O'Malley, c,....4 4 4 10 14 0
No such record had ever been made on the grounds. With four times at bat, Marty O'Malley did so well, withal, that he scored a base hit, two three-baggers and a home-run.
That night Marty O'Malley wedded the rich and beautiful Gwendolin O'Toole. Jack, the faithful bar-boy of the Fielders' Rest, officiated as groomsman. Godfrey O'Toole, haughty and proud, was yet a square sport, and gave the bride away.
The rich notes of the wedding bells, welling and swelling, drifted into the open windows of the Charity Hospital, and smote on the ears of Dennis Mulcahey, where he lay with his face.
“Curse 'em!” he moaned.
Then came a horrible rattle in his throat, and the guilty spirit of Dennis Mulcahey passed away.
Death caught him off his base.
Nixie! I ain't did nothin', but all de same I'm feelin' like a mut, see!”
Chucky was displeased with some chapter in his recent past. I could tell as much by the shifty, deprecatory way in which he twiddled and fiddled with his beer-stein.
“This is d' way it all happens,” exclaimed Chucky. “Over be Washin'ton Square there's an old soak, an' he's out to go into pol'tics—wants to hold office; Congress, I t'inks, is what this gezeybo is after. Anyhow he's nutty to hold office.
“Of course, I figgers that a guy who wants to hold office is a sucker; for meself, I'd sooner hold a baby. Still, when some such duck comes chasin' into pol'tics, I'm out for his dough like all d' rest of d' gang.
“So I goes an' gets nex' to this mucker an' jollies his game. I tells him all he's got to do is to fix his lamps on d' perch that pleases him, blow in his stuff an' me push'll toin loose, an' we'll win out d' whole box of tricks in a walk, see!
“That's all right; d' Washin'ton Square duck is of d' same views. An' some of it ain't no foolish talk at that. I'm dead strong wit' d' Dagoes, an' d' push about d' Bend, an' me old chum—if he starts—is goin' to get a run for his money.
“It ain t this, however, what wilts me d' way you sees to-night. It's that I'm 'shamed, see! In d' foist place, I'm bashful. That's straight stuff; I'm so bashful that if I'm in some other geezer's joint—par-tic'ler if he's a high roller an' t'rowin' on social lugs, like this Washin'ton Square party—I feels like creep-in' under d' door mat.
“D' other night this can'date for office says, says he, 'Chucky, I'm goin to begin my money-boinin' be givin' a dinner over be me house, an' youse are in it, see! in it wit' bot' feet.*
“'Be I comin' to chew at your joint?' I asts; 'is that d' bright idee?'
“'That's d' stuff,' he says; 'youse are comin' to eat wit' me an' me friends. An' you can gamble your socks me friends is a flossy bunch at that.'
“I says I'll assemble wit' 'em.
“Nit, I ain't stuck on d' play. I'd sooner eat be meself. But if I'm goin' to catch up wit' his Whiskers an' sep'rate him from some of d' long green, I've got to stay dost to his game, see!
“It's at d' table me troubles begins. I does d' social double-shuffle in d' hall all right. D' crush parts to let me t'rough, an' I woiks me way up to me can'date—who, of course, is d' main hobo, bein' he's d' architect of d' blowout—an' gives him d' joyful mit; what you calls d' glad hand.
“'Glad to see youse, Chucky,' says d' old mark. 'Tummas, steer Chucky to his stool be d' table.'
“It's at d' table I'm rattled, wit' all d' glasses an' dishes an 'd' lights overhead. But I'm cooney all d' same. I ain't onto d' graft meself, but I puts it up on d' quiet I'll pick out some student who knows d' ropes an' string me bets wit' his.
“As I sets there, I flashes me lamps along d' line, an' sort o' stacks up d' blokes, for to pick out d' fly guys from d' lobsters, see!
“Over'cross'd table I lights on an old stiff who looks like he could teach d' game. T'inks I to meself, 'There's a mut who's been t'rough d' mill many a time an' oft. All I got to do now is to pipe his play an' never let him out o' me sight. If I follows his smoke, I'll finish in d' front somewheres, an' none of these mugs 'll tumble to me ignorance.'
“Say! on d' level! there was no flies on that for a scheme, was there? An' it would have been all right, me system would; only this old galoot I goes nex' to don't have no more sense than me. Why! he was d' ass of d' evening! d' prize pig of d' play, he was! Let me tell youse.
“D' foist move, he spreads a little table clot' across his legs. I ain't missin' no tricks, so I gets me hooks on me own little table clot' and spreads it over me legs also.
“'This is good enough for a dog, I t'inks, an' easy money! Be keepin' me eye on Mr. Goodplayer over there I can do this stunt all right.'
“An' so I does. I never lets him lose me onct.
“'How be youse makin' it, Chucky?' shouts me can'date from up be d' end of d' room.
“'Out o' sight!' I says. 'I'm winner from d' jump; I'm on velvet.'
“'Play ball!' me can'date shouts back to encourage me, I suppose because he's dead on I ain't no Foxy Quiller at d' racket we're at; 'play ball, Chucky, an' don't let 'em fan youse out. When you can't bat d' ball, bunt it,' says me can'date.
“Of course gettin 'd' gay face that way from d' boss gives me confidence, an' as a result it ain't two seconts before I'm all but caught off me base. It's in d' soup innin's an 'd' flunk slams down d' consomme in a tea cup. It's a new one on me for fair! I don't at d' time have me lamps on d' mark 'cross d' way, who I'm understudyin', bein' busy, as I says, slingin 'd' bit of guff I tells of wit' me can'date. An' bein' off me guard, I takes d' soup for tea or some such dope, an' is layin' out to sugar it.
“'Stan' your hand!' says a dub who's organised be me right elbow, an' who's feedin' his face wit' both mits; 'set a brake!' he says. 'That's soup. Did youse t'ink it was booze?'
“After that I fastens to d' old skate across d' table to note where he's at wit' his game. He's doin' his toin on d' consomme wit' a spoon, so I gets a spoon in me hooks, goes to mixin' it up wit 'd' soup as fast as ever, an' follows him out.
“An' say! I'm feelin' dead grateful to this snoozer, see! He was d' ugliest mug I ever meets, at that. Say! he was d' limit for looks, an' don't youse doubt it. As I sizes him up I was t'inking to meself, what a wonder he is! Honest! if I was a lion an' that old party comes into me cage, do youse know what I'd do? Nit; you don't. Well, I'll tip it to youse straight. If any such lookin' monster showed up in me cage, if d' door was open, I'd get out. That's on d' square, I'd simply give him d' cage an' go an' board in d' woods. An' if d' door was locked an' I couldn't get out, I'd t'row a fit from d' scare. Oh! he was a dream! He's one of them t'ings a mark sees after he's been hittin' it up wit 'd' lush for a mont'.
“'But simply because he looks like a murderer,' I reflects, 'that's no reason why he ain't wise. He knows his way t'rough this dinner like a p'liceman does his beat, an' I'll go wit' him.'
“It's a go! When he plays a fork, I plays a fork; when he boards a shave, I'm only a neck behint him. When he shifts his brush an' tucks his little table clot' over his t'ree-sheet, I'm wit' him. I plays nex' to him from soda to hock.
“An' every secont I'm gettin' more confidence in this gezebo, an' more an' more stuck on meself. On d' dead! I was farmer enough to t'ink I'd t'ank him for bein' me guide before I shook d' push an' quit. Say! he'd be a nice old dub for me to be t'ankin 'd' way it toins out. I was a good t'ing to follow him, I don't t'ink.
“If I was onto it early that me old friend across d' table had w'eels an' was wrong in his cocoa, I wouldn't have felt so bad, see! But I'd been playin' him to win, an' followin' his lead for two hours. An' I was so sure I was trottin' in front, that all d' time I was jollyin' meself, an' pattin' meself on d' back, an' tellin' meself I was a corker to be gettin' an even run wit 'd' 400 d' way I was, d' foist time I enter s'ciety. An' of course, lettin' me nut swell that way makes it all d' harder when I gets d' jolt.
“It's at d' finish. I'd gone down d' line wit' this sucker, when one of them waiter touts, who's cappin' d' play for d' kitchen, shoves a bowl of water in front of him. Now, what do youse t'ink he does? Drink it? Nit; that's what he ought to have done. I'm Dutch if he don't up an' sink his hooks in it. An' then he swabs off his mits wit' d' little table clot'. Say! an' to t'ink I'd been takin' his steer t'rough d' whole racket! It makes me tired to tell it!
“'W'at th' 'ell!' I says to meself; 'I've been on a dead one from d' start. This stiff is a bigger mut than I be.'
“It let me out. Me heart was broke, an' I ain't had d' gall to hunt up me can'date since. Nit; I don't stay to say no 'good-byes.' I'm too bashful, as I tells you at d' beginnin'. As it is, I cops a sneak on d' door, side-steps d' outfit, an' screws me nut. The can'date sees me oozin' out, however, an' sends a chaser after me in d' shape of one of his flunks. He wants me to come back. He says me can'date wants to present me to his friends. I couldn't stan' for it d' way I felt, an' as d' flunk shows fight an' is goin' to take me back be force, I soaks him one an' comes away. On d' dead! I feels as'shamed of d' entire racket as if some sucker had pushed in me face.”
For generations the Essleins have been fanciers of game chickens. The name “Esslein” for a century and a half has had honourable place among Virginians. In his day, they, the Essleins, were as well known as Thomas Jefferson. As this is written they have equal Old Dominion fame with either the Conways, the Fairfaxes, the McCarthys or the Lees. And all because of the purity and staunch worth of the “Esslein Games.”
It was the broad Esslein boast that no man had chickens of such feather or strain. And this was accepted popularly as truth. The Essleins never loaned, sold, nor gave away egg or chicken. No one could produce the counterpart of the Esslein chickens for looks or warlike heart; no one ever won a main from the Essleins. So at last it was agreed generally, that no one save the Essleins did have the “Esslein Games;” and this belief went unchallenged while years added themselves to years.
But there came a day when a certain one named Smith, who dwelt in the region round about the Essleins, and who also had note for his fighting cocks, whispered to a neighbour that he, as well as the Essleins, had the “Esslein Games.” The whisper spread into talk, and the talk into general clamour; everywhere one heard that the long monopoly was broken, and that Smith had the “Esslein Games.”
This startling story had half confirmation by visitors to the Smith walks. Undoubtedly Smith had chickens, feather for feather, twins of the famous Essleins. That much at least was true. The rest of the question might have evidence pro or con some day, should Smith and the Essleins make a main.
But this great day seemed slow, uncertain of approach. Smith would not divulge the genesis of his fowls, nor tell how he came to be possessed of the Esslein chickens. Smith confined himself to the bluff claim:
“I've got 'em, and there they be.”
Beyond this Smith wouldn't go. On' their parts, the Essleins, at first maintained themselves in silent dignity. They said nothing; treating the Smith claim as beneath contempt.
As man after man, however, went over to the Smith side, the Essleins so far unbent from their pose of tongue-tied hauteur as to call Smith “a liar!”
Still this failed of full effect; the talk went on, the subject was in mighty dispute, and the Essleins at last, to settle discussion, defied Smith to a main.
But Smith refused to fight his chickens against the Essleins. Smith said it was conscience, but failed to go into details. This was damaging. Meanwhile, however, as Smith challenged the world of fighting cocks, and, moreover, won every match he ever made, and barred only the Essleins in his campaigning, there arose, in spite of his steady objection to fighting the Essleins, many who believed Smith and stood forth for it that Smith did have the far-famed “Esslein Games.” It is to the credit of the Essleins that they did all that was in their power to bring Smith and his chickens to the battlefield. They offered him every inducement known in chicken war, and tendered him a duel for his cocks to be fought for anything from love to money.
Firm to the last, Smith wouldn't have it; and so, discouraged, the Essleins, failing action, nailed as it were their gauntlet to Smith's hen-coop door, and thus the business stood for months.
It came about one day that a stranger from Baltimore accepted Smith's standing challenge to fight anybody save the Essleins. The stranger proposed and made a match with Smith to fight him nine battles, $500 on each couple and $2,500 on the general main. And then the news went 'round.
There was high excitement in chicken circles. The day came and the sides of the pit were crowded. Smith was in his corner with his handler, getting the first of his champions ready for the struggle. As Smith was holding the chicken for the handler to fasten on the gaffs—drop-socket, they were, and keen as little scimetars—he chanced to glance across the pit.
There stood John, chief of the Essleins.
Smith saw it in a moment; he had been trapped. But it was too late. The match was made and the money was up; there was no chance to retrace, even if Smith had wanted. As a fact to his glory, however, he had no desire so to do.
“We're up against the Essleins, Bill,” Smith said to his trainer; “and it's all right. I didn't want to make a match with them, because I got their chickens queer. And if I'd fought them and won, I'd felt like I'd got their money queer; and that I couldn't stand. But this is different. We'll fight the Essleins now they're here, and 'if they can win over me, they're welcome.”
Then the main began. The first battle was short, sharp, deadly; and glorious for Smith. The Esslein chicken got a stab in the heart the first buckle. Smith smiled as his handler pulled his chicken's gaff out of its dead victim, and set it free.
The Smith entries won the second and third battle. Triumph rode on the glance of Smith, while the Esslein brows were bleak and dark.
“Smith's got the 'Esslein Games,' sure!” was whispered about the pit.
In the fourth and fifth battles the tide ran the other way, the Esslein chickens killing their rivals. Each battle, for that matter, had so far been to the death.
The sixth battle went to Smith and the seventh to the Essleins. Thus it stood four for Smith to three for the Essleins, just before the eighth battle. It didn't look as if Smith could lose.
It was at this juncture so hopeful for the coops of Smith, that Smith did a foolish thing. Yielding to the appeals of his trainer, Smith let that worthy man put up a chicken of his own to face the Esslein entry for the eighth duel. It was a gorgeous shawl-neck that Smith's trainer produced; eye bright as a diamond, and beak like some arrow-head of jet. His legs looked as strong as a hod-carrier's. It was a horse to a hen, so everybody said, that the Esslein chicken,—which was but a small, indifferent bird,—would lose its life, the battle, and the main at one and the same time.
Popular conjecture was wrong, as popular conjecture often is. The Esslein chicken locked both gaffs through the shawl-neck's brain in the second buckle.
“That teaches me a lesson,” said Smith. “Hereafter should an angel come down from heaven and beg me to let him fight a chicken in a main of mine, I'll turn him down!”
It was the ninth battle and the score stood four for Smith and four for the Essleins. As the slim gaffs, grey and cruelly sharp, were being placed on the feathered gladiators for the last deadly joust, Smith called across the pit to John Esslein:
“Esslein,” he said, “no matter how this last battle may fall, I reckon I've convinced you and everybody looking on, that, just as I said, I've got the 'Esslein Games.' To show you that I know I have, and give you a chance for revenge as well, I'll make this last fight for $10,000 a cock. The main so far has been an even break, and neither of us has won or lost. The last battle decides the tie and wins or loses me $3,000. To make it interesting, I'll raise the risk both ways, if you're willing, just $7,000, and call the bundle ten. And,” concluded Smith, as he glanced around the pit, “there isn't a sport here but will believe in his heart, when I, a poor man, offer to make this last battle one for $20,000, that I know that, even if I'm against, I'm at least behind an 'Esslein Game.'”
“Make it for $10,000 a cock, then!” said John Esslein bitterly. “Whether I win or lose main and money too, I've already lost much more than both to-day.”
Then the fight began. The chickens were big and strong and quick and as dauntlessly savage as ospreys. And feather and size, eye, and beak and leg, they were the absolute counterparts of each other.
For ten minutes the battle raged. Either the spurred fencers had more of luck or more of caution than the others. Buckle after buckle occurred, and after ten minutes' fighting the two enemies still faced each other with angry, bead-like eyes, and without so much as a drop of blood spilled.