“So they left you and Sim Phinney to keep house, did they, Hiram?” observed Wingate.
“They did. And, for a spell, we figgered on bein' free from too much style.
“After they'd gone we loafed into the settin' room or libr'ry, or whatever you call it, and come to anchor in a couple of big lazy chairs.
“'Now,' says I, takin' off my coat, 'we can be comf'table.'
“But we couldn't. In bobs a servant girl to know if we 'wanted anything.' We didn't, but she looked so shocked when she see me in my shirt sleeves that I put the coat on again, feelin' as if I'd ought to blush. And in a minute back she comes to find out if we was SURE we didn't want anything. Sim was hitchin' in his chair. Between 'nerves' and Archibald, his temper was raw on the edges.
“'Say,' he bursts out, 'you look kind of pale to me. What you need is fresh air. Why don't you go take a walk?'
“The girl looked at him with her mouth open.
“'Oh,' says she, 'I couldn't do that, thank you, sir. That would leave no one but the cook and the kitchen girl. And the master said you was to be made perfectly comf'table, and—'
“'Yes,' says Sim, dry, 'I heard him say it. And we can't be comf'table with you shut up in the house this nice evenin'. Go and take a walk, and take the cook and stewardess with you. Don't argue about it. I'm skipper here till the boss gets back. Go, the three of you, and go NOW. D'ye hear?'
“There was a little more talk, but not much. In five minutes or so the downstairs front door banged, and there was gigglin' outside.
“'There,' says Simeon, peelin' off HIS coat and throwin' himself back in one chair with his feet on another one. 'Now, by Judas, I'm goin' to be homey and happy like poor folks. I don't wonder that Harriet woman's got nerves. Darn style, anyhow! Pass over that cigar box, Hiram.'
“'Twas half an hour later or so when Margaret, the nursemaid, came downstairs. I'd almost forgot her. We was tame and toler'ble contented by that time. Phinney called to her as she went by the door.
“'Is that young one asleep?' he asked.
“'Yes, sir,' says she, 'he is. Is there anything I can do? Did you want anything?'
“Simeon looks at me. 'I swan to man, it's catchin'!' he says. 'They've all got it. No, we don't want anything, except—What's the matter? YOU don't need fresh air, do you?'
“The girl looked as if she'd lost her last friend. Her pretty face was pale and her eyes was wet, as if she'd been cryin'.
“'No, sir,' says she, puzzled. 'No, sir, thank you, sir.'
“'She's tired out, that's all,' says I. I swan, I pitied the poor thing. 'You go somewheres and take a nap,' I told her. 'Me and my friend won't tell.'
“Oh, no, she couldn't do that. It wa'n't that she was tired—no more tired than usual—but she'd been that troubled in her mind lately, askin' our pardon, that she was near to crazy.
“We was sorry for that, but it didn't seem to be none of our business, and she was turnin' away, when all at once she stops and turns back again.
“'Might I ask you gintlemen a question?' she says, sort of pleadin'. 'Sure I mane no harm by it. Do aither of you know a man be the name of Michael O'Shaughnessy?'
“Me and Sim looked at each other. 'Which?' says I. 'Mike O' who?' says Simeon.
“'Aw, don't you know him?' she begs. 'DON'T you know him? Sure I hoped you might. If you'd only tell me where he is I'd git on me knees and pray for you. O Mike, Mike! why did you leave me like this? What'll become of me?'
“And she walks off down the hall, coverin' her face with her hands and cryin' as if her heart was broke.
“'There! there!' says Simeon, runnin' after her, all shook up. He's a kind-hearted man—especially to nice-lookin' females. 'Don't act so,' he says. 'Be a good girl. Come right back into the settin' room and tell me all about it. Me and Cap'n Baker ain't got nerves, and we ain't rich, neither. You can talk to us. Come, come!'
“She didn't know how to act, seemingly. She was like a dog that's been kicked so often he's suspicious of a pat on the head. And she was cryin' and sobbin' so, and askin' our pardon for doin' it, that it took a good while to get at the real yarn. But we did get it, after a spell.
“It seems that the girl—her whole name was Margaret Sullivan—had been in this country but a month or so, havin' come from Ireland in a steamboat to meet the feller who'd kept comp'ny with her over there. His name was Michael O'Shaughnessy, and he'd been in America for four years or more, livin' with a cousin in Long Island City. And he'd got a good job at last, and he sent for her to come on and be married to him. And when she landed 'twas the cousin that met her. Mike had drawn a five-thousand-dollar prize in the Mexican lottery a week afore, and hadn't been seen sence.
“So poor Margaret goes to the cousin's to stay. And she found them poor as Job's pet chicken, and havin' hardly grub enough aboard to feed the dozen or so little cousins, let alone free boarders like her. And so, havin' no money, she goes out one day to an intelligence office where they deal in help, and puts in a blank askin' for a job as servant girl. 'Twas a swell place, where bigbugs done their tradin', and there she runs into Cousin Harriet, who was a chronic customer, always out of servants, owin' to the complications of Archibald and nerves. And Harriet hires her, because she was pretty and would work for a shavin' more'n nothin', and carts her right off to Connecticut. And when Margaret sets out to write for her trunk, and to tell where she is, she finds she's lost the cousin's address, and can't remember whether it's Umpty-eighth Street or Tin Can Avenue.
“'And, oh,' says she, 'what SHALL I do? The mistress is that hard to please, and the child is that wicked till I want to die. And I have no money and no friends. O Mike! Mike!' she says. 'If you only knew you'd come to me. For it's a good heart he has, although the five thousand dollars carried away his head,' says she.
“I don't believe I ever wanted to make a feller's acquaintance more than I done that O'Shaughnessy man's. The mean blackguard, to leave his girl that way. And 'twas easy to see what she'd been through with Cousin Harriet and that brat. We tried to comfort her all we could; promised to have a hunt through Long Island and the directory, and to help get her another place when she got back from the South, and so on. But 'twas kind of unsatisfactory. 'Twas her Mike she wanted.
“'I told the Father about it at the church up there,' she says, 'and he wrote, but the letters was lost, I guess. And I thought if I might see a priest here in New York he might help me. But the mistress is to go at noon to-morrer, and I'll have no time. What SHALL I do?' says she, and commenced to cry again.
“Then I had an idea. 'Priest?' says I. 'There's a fine big church, with a cross on the ridgepole of it, not five minutes' walk from this house. I see it as we was comin' up. Why don't you run down there this minute?' I says.
“No, she didn't want to leave Archibald. Suppose he should wake up.
“'All right,' says I. 'Then I'll go myself. And I'll fetch a priest up here if I have to tote him on my back, like the feller does the codfish in the advertisin' picture.'
“I didn't have to tote him. He lived in a mighty fine house, hitched onto the church, and there was half a dozen assistant parsons to help him do his preachin'. But he was big and fat and gray-haired and as jolly and as kind-hearted a feller as you'd want to meet. He said he'd come right along; and he done it.
“Phinney opened the door for us. 'What's the row?' says I, lookin' at his face.
“'Row?' he snorts; 'there's row enough for six. That da—excuse me, mister—that cussed Archibald has woke up.'
“He had; there wa'n't no doubt about it. And he was raisin' hob, too. The candy, mixed up with the dinner, had put his works in line with his disposition, and he was poundin' and yellin' upstairs enough to wake the dead. Margaret leaned over the balusters.
“'Is it the Father?' she says. 'Oh, dear! what'll I do?'
“'Send some of the other servants to the boy,' says the priest, 'and come down yourself.'
“Simeon, lookin' kind of foolish, explained what had become of the other servants. Father McGrath—that was his name—laughed and shook all over.
“'Very well,' says he. 'Then bring the young man down. Perhaps he'll be quiet here.'
“So pretty soon down come Margaret with Archibald, full of the Old Scratch, as usual, dressed up gay in a kind of red blanket nighty, with a rope around the middle of it. The young one spotted Simeon, and set up a whoop.
“'Oh! there's the funny whiskers,' he sings out.
“'Good evenin', my son,' says the priest.
“'Who's the fat man?' remarks Archibald, sociable. 'I never saw such a red fat man. What makes him so red and fat?'
“These questions didn't make Father McGrath any paler. He laughed, of course, but not as if 'twas the funniest thing he ever heard.
“'So you think I'm fat, do you, my boy?' says he.
“'Yes, I do,' says Archibald. 'Fat and red and funny. Most as funny as the whisker man. I never saw such funny-lookin' people.'
“He commenced to point and holler and laugh. Poor Margaret was so shocked and mortified she didn't know what to do.
“'Stop your noise, sonny,' says I. 'This gentleman wants to talk to your nurse.'
“The answer I got was some unexpected.
“'What makes your feet so big?' says Archie, pointin' at my Sunday boots. 'Why do you wear shoes like that? Can't you help it? You're funny, too, aren't you? You're funnier than the rest of 'em.'
“We all went into the library then, and Father McGrath tried to ask Margaret some questions. I'd told him the heft of the yarn on the way from the church, and he was interested. But the questionin' was mighty unsatisfyin'. Archibald was the whole team, and the rest of us was yeller dogs under the wagon.
“'Can't you keep that child quiet?' asks the priest, at last, losin' his temper and speakin' pretty sharp.
“'O Archie, dear! DO be a nice boy,' begs Margaret, for the eight hundredth time.
“'Why don't you punish him as he deserves?'
“'Father, dear, I can't. The mistress says he's so sensitive that he has to have his own way. I'd lose my place if I laid a hand on him.'
“'Come on into the parlor and see the pictures, Archie,' says I.
“'I won't,' says Archibald. 'I'm goin' to stay here and see the fat man make faces.'
“'You see,' says Sim, apologizin' 'we can't touch him, 'cause we promised his ma not to interfere. And my right hand's got cramps in the palm of it this minute,' he adds, glarin' at the young one.
“Father McGrath stood up and reached for his hat. Margaret began to cry. Archibald, dear, whooped and kicked the furniture. And just then the front-door bell rang.
“For a minute I thought 'twas Cousin Harriet and the Holdens come back, but then I knew it was hours too early for that. Margaret was too much upset to be fit for company, so I answered the bell myself. And who in the world should be standin' on the steps but that big Dempsey man, the boss of the Golconda House, where me and Simeon had been stayin'; the feller we'd spoke to that very mornin'.
“'Good evenin', sor,' says he, in a voice as deep as a well. 'I'm glad to find you to home, sor. There's a telegram come for you at my place,' he says, 'and as your friend lift the address when he come for the baggage this afternoon, I brought it along to yez. I was comin' this way, so 'twas no trouble.'
“'That's real kind of you,' I says. 'Step inside a minute, won't you?'
“So in he comes, and stands, holdin' his shiny beaver in his hand, while I tore open the telegram envelope. 'Twas a message from a feller I knew with the Clyde Line of steamboats. He had found out, somehow, that we was in New York, and the telegram was an order for us to come and make him a visit.
“'I hope it's not bad news, sor,' says the big chap.
“'No, no,' says I. 'Not a bit of it, Mr. Dempsey. Come on in and have a cigar, won't you?'
“'Thank you, sor,' says he. 'I'm glad it's not the bad news. Sure, I ax you and your friend's pardon for bein' so short to yez this mornin', but I'm in that throuble lately that me timper is all but gone.'
“'That so?' says I. 'Trouble's thick in this world, ain't it? Me and Mr. Phinney got a case of trouble on our hands now, Mr. Dempsey, and—'
“'Excuse me, sor,' he says. 'My name's not Dempsey. I suppose you seen the sign with me partner's name on it. I only bought into the business a while ago, and the new sign's not ready yit. Me name is O'Shaughnessy, sor.'
“'What?' says I. And then: 'WHAT?'
“'O'Shaughnessy. Michael O'Shaughnessy. I—'
“'Hold on!' I sung out. 'For the land sakes, hold on! WHAT'S your name?'
“He bristled up like a cat.
“'Michael O'Shaughnessy,' he roars, like the bull of Bashan. 'D'yez find any fault with it? 'Twas me father's before me—Michael Patrick O'Shaughnessy, of County Sligo. I'll have yez know—WHAT'S THAT?'
“'Twas a scream from the libr'ry. Next thing I knew, Margaret, the nurse girl, was standin' in the hall, white as a Sunday shirt, and swingin' back and forth like a wild-carrot stalk in a gale.
“'Mike!' says she, kind of low and faint. 'Mary be good to us! MIKE!'
“And the big chap dropped his tall hat on the floor and turned as white as she was.
“'MAGGIE!' he hollers. And then they closed in on one another.
“Sim and the priest and Archie had followed the girl into the hall. Me and Phinney was too flabbergasted to do anything, but big Father McGrath was cool as an ice box. When Archibald, like the little imp he was, sets up a whoop and dives for them two, the priest grabs him by the rope of the blanket nighty and swings him into the libr'ry, and shuts the door on him.
“'And now,' says he, takin' Sim and me by the arms and leadin' us to the parlor, 'we'll just step in here and wait a bit.'
“We waited, maybe, ten minutes. Archibald, dear, shut up in the libr'ry, was howlin' blue murder, but nobody paid any attention to him. Then there was a knock on the door between us and the hall, and Father McGrath opened it. There they was, the two of 'em—Mike and Maggie—lookin' red and foolish—but happy, don't talk!
“'You see, sor,' says the O'Shaughnessy man to me, ''twas the five-thousand-dollar prize that done it. I'd been workin' at me trade, sor—larnin' to tind bar it was—and I'd just got a new job where the pay was pretty good, and I'd sint over for Maggie, and was plannin' for the little flat we was to have, and the like of that, when I drew that prize. And the joy of it was like handin' me a jolt on the jaw. It put me out for two weeks, sor, and when I come to I was in Baltimore, where I'd gone to collect the money; and two thousand of the five was gone, and I knew me job in New York was gone, and I was that shamed and sick it took me three days more to make up me mind to come to me Cousin Tim's, where I knew Maggie'd be waitin' for me. And when I did come back she was gone, too.'
“'And then,' says Father McGrath, sharp, 'I suppose you went on another spree, and spent the rest of the money.'
“'I did not, sor—axin' your pardon for contradictin' your riverence. I signed the pledge, and I'll keep it, with Maggie to help me. I put me three thousand into a partnership with me friend Dempsey, who was runnin' the Golconda House—'tis over on the East Side, with a fine bar trade—and I'm doin' well, barrin' that I've been crazy for this poor girl, and advertisin' and—'
“'And look at the clothes of him!' sings out Margaret, reverentlike. 'And is that YOUR tall hat, Mike? To think of you with a tall hat! Sure it's a proud girl I am this day. Saints forgive me, I've forgot Archie!'
“And afore we could stop her she'd run into the hall and unfastened the libr'ry door. It took her some time to smooth down the young one's sensitive feelin's, and while she was gone, me and Simeon told the O'Shaughnessy man a little of what his girl had had to put up with along of Cousin Harriet and Archibald. He was mad.
“'Is that the little blackguard?' he asks, pointin' to Archibald, who had arrived by now.
“'That's the one,' says I.
“Archibald looked up at him and grinned, sassy as ever.
“'Father McGrath,' asks O'Shaughnessy, determined like, 'can you marry us this night?'
“'I can,' says the Father.
“'And will yez?'
“'I will, with pleasure.'
“'Maggie,' says Mike, 'get your hat and jacket on and come with the Father and me this minute. These gintlemen here will explain to your lady when she comes back. But YOU'LL come back no more. We'll send for your trunk to-morrer.'
“Even then the girl hesitated. She'd been so used to bein' a slave that I suppose she couldn't realize she was free at last.
“'But, Mike, dear,' she says. 'I—oh, your lovely hat! Put it down, Archie, darlin'. Put it down!'
“Archibald had been doin' a little cruisin' on his own hook, and he'd dug up Mike's shiny beaver where it had been dropped in the hall. Now he was dancin' round with it, bangin' it on the top as if it was a drum.
“'Put it down, PLEASE!' pleads Margaret. 'Twas plain that that plug was a crown of glory to her.
“'Drop it, you little thafe!' yells O'Shaughnessy, makin' a dive for the boy.
“'I won't!' screams Archibald, and starts to run. He tripped over the corner of a mat, and fell flat. The plug hat was underneath him, and it fell flat, too.
“'Oh! oh! oh!' wails Margaret, wringin' her hands. 'Your beautiful hat, Mike!'
“Mike's face was like a sunset.
“'Your reverence,' says he, 'tell me this; don't the wife promise to “obey” in the marriage service?'
“'She does,' says Father McGrath.
“'D'ye hear that, you that's to be Margaret O'Shaughnessy? You do? Well, then, as your husband that's to be in tin minutes, I order you to give that small divil what's comin' to him. D'ye hear me? Will yez obey me, or will yez not?'
“She didn't know what to do. You could see she wanted to—her fingers was itchin' to do it, but—And then Archie held up the ruins of the hat and commenced to laugh.
“That settled it. Next minute he was across her knee and gettin' what he'd been sufferin' for ever sence he was born; and gettin' all the back numbers along with it, too.
“And in the midst of the performance Sim Phinney leans over to me with the most heavenly, resigned expression on his face, and says he:
“'It ain't OUR fault, Hiram. We promised not to interfere.'”
“What did Sam Holden and his wife say when they got home?” asked Captain Sol, when the triumphant whoops over Archibald's righteous chastisement had subsided.
“We didn't give him much of a chance to say anything. I laid for him in the hall when he arrived and told him that Phinney had got a telegram and must leave immediate. He wanted to know why, and a whole lot more, but I told him we'd write it. Neither Sim nor me cared to face Cousin Harriet after her darlin' son had spun his yarn. Ha! ha! I'd like to have seen her face—from a safe distance.”
Captain Bailey Stitt cleared his throat. “Referrin' to them automobiles,” he said, “I—”
“Say, Sol,” interrupted Wingate, “did I ever tell you of Cap'n Jonadab's and my gettin' took up by the police when WE was in New York?”
“No,” replied the astounded depot master. “Took up by the POLICE?”
“Um—hm. Surprises you, don't it? Well, that whole trip was a surprise to me.
“When Laban Thorp set out to thrash his son and the boy licked him instead, they found the old man settin' in the barnyard, holdin' on to his nose and grinnin' for pure joy.
“'Hurt?' says he. 'Why, some. But think of it! Only think of it! I didn't believe Bill had it in him.'
“Well, that's the way I felt when Cap'n Jonadab sprung the New York plan on to me. I was pretty nigh as much surprised as Labe. The idea of a man with a chronic case of lockjaw of the pocketbook, same as Jonadab had worried along under ever sence I knew him, suddenly breakin' loose with a notion to go to New York on a pleasure cruise! 'Twas too many for me. I set and looked at him.
“'Oh, I mean it, Barzilla,' he says. 'I ain't been to New York sence I was mate on the Emma Snow, and that was 'way back in the eighties. That is, to stop I ain't. That time we went through on the way to Peter T.'s weddin' don't count, 'cause we only went in the front door and out the back, like Squealer Wixon went through high school. Let's you and me go and stay two or three days and have a real high old time,' says he.
“I fetched a long breath. 'Jonadab,' I says, don't scare a feller this way; I've got a weak heart. If you're goin' to start in and be divilish in your old age, why, do it kind of gradual. Let's go over to the billiard room and have a bottle of sass'parilla and a five-cent cigar, just to break the ice.'
“But that only made him mad.
“'You talk like a fish,' he says. 'I mean it. Why can't we go? It's September, the Old Home House is shut up for the season, you and me's done well—fur's profits are concerned—and we ought to have a change, anyway. We've got to stay here in Orham all winter.'
“'Have you figgered out how much it's goin' to cost?' I asked him.
“Yes, he had. 'It won't be so awful expensive,' he says. 'I've got some stock in the railroad and that'll give me a pass fur's Fall River. And we can take a lunch to eat on the boat. And a stateroom's a dollar; that's fifty cents apiece. And my daughter's goin' to Denboro on a visit next week, so I'd have to pay board if I stayed to home. Come on, Barzilla! don't be so tight with your money.'
“So I said I'd go, though I didn't have any pass, nor no daughter to feed me free gratis for nothin' when I got back. And when we started, on the followin' Monday, nothin' would do but we must be at the depot at two o'clock so's not to miss the train, which left at quarter past three.
“I didn't sleep much that night on the boat. For one thing, our stateroom was a nice lively one, alongside of the paddle box and just under the fog whistle; and for another, the supper that Jonadab had brought, bein' mainly doughnuts and cheese, wa'n't the best cargo to take to bed with you. But it didn't make much diff'rence, 'cause we turned out at four, so's to see the scenery and git our money's worth. What was left of the doughnuts and cheese we had for breakfast.
“We made the dock on time, and the next thing was to pick out a hotel. I was for cruisin' along some of the main streets until we hove in sight of a place that looked sociable and not too expensive. But no; Jonadab had it all settled for me. We was goin' to the 'Wayfarer's Inn,' a boardin' house where he'd put up once when he was mate of the Emma Snow. He said 'twas a fine place and you could git as good ham and eggs there as a body'd want to eat.
“So we set sail for the 'Wayfarer's,' and of all the times gittin' to a place—don't talk! We asked no less than nine policemen and one hundred and two other folks, and it cost us thirty cents in car fares, which pretty nigh broke Jonadab's heart. However, we found it, finally, 'way off amongst a nest of brick houses and peddler carts and children, and it wa'n't the 'Wayfarer's Inn' no more, but was down in the shippin' list as the 'Golconda House.' Jonadab said the neighborhood had changed some sence he was there, but he guessed we'd better chance it, 'cause the board was cheap.
“We had a nine-by-ten room up aloft somewheres, and there we set down on the edge of the bed and a chair to take account of stock, as you might say.
“'Now, I tell you, Jonadab,' says I; 'we don't want to waste no time, and we've got the day afore us. What do you say if we cruise along the water front for a spell? There's ha'f a dozen Orham folks aboard diff'rent steamers that hail from this port, and 'twouldn't be no more'n neighborly to call on 'em. There's Silas Baker's boy, Asa—he's with the Savannah Line and he'd be mighty glad to see us. And there's—'
“But Jonadab held up his hand. He'd been mysterious as a baker's mince pie ever sence we started, hintin' at somethin' he'd got to do when we'd got to New York. And now he out with it.
“'Barzilla,' he says, 'I ain't sayin' but what I'd like to go to the wharves with you, first rate. And we will go, too. But afore we do anything else I've got an errand that must be attended to. 'Twas give to me by a dyin' man,' he says, 'and I promised him I'd do it. So that comes first of all.'
“He got his wallet out of his inside vest pocket, where it had been pinned in tight to keep it safe from robbers, unwound a foot or so of leather strap, and dug up a yeller piece of paper that looked old enough to be Methusalem's will, pretty nigh.
“'Do you remember Patrick Kelly in Orham?' he asks.
“'Who?' says I. 'Pat Kelly, the Irishman, that lived in the little old shack back of your barn? Course I do. But he's been dead for I don't know how long.'
“'I know he has. Do you remember his boy Jim that run away from home?'
“'Let's see,' I says. 'Seems to me I do. Freckled, red-headed rooster, wa'n't he? And of all the imps of darkness that ever—'
“'S-sh-sh!' he interrupted solemn. 'Don't say that now, Barzilla. Sounds kind of irreverent. Well, me and old Pat was pretty friendly, in a way, though he did owe me rent. When he was sick with the pleurisy he sends for me and he says, “Cap'n 'Wixon,” says he, “you're pretty close with the money,” he says—he was kind of out of his head at the time and liable to say foolish things—“you're pretty close,” he says, “but you're a man of your word. My boy Jimmie, that run away, was the apple of my eye.”'
“'That's what he said about his girl Maggie that was took up for stealin' Mrs. Elkanah Higgins's spoons,' I says. 'He had a healthy crop of apples in HIS orchard.'
“'S-sh-h! DON'T talk so! I feel as if the old man's spirit was with us this minute. “He's the apple of my eye,” he says, “and he run away, after me latherin' the life out of him with a wagon spoke. 'Twas all for his good, but he didn't understand, bein' but a child. And now I've heard,” he says, “that he's workin' at 116 East Blank Street in the city of New York. Cap'n Wixon, you're a man of money and a travelin' man,” he says (I was fishin' in them days). “When you go to New York,” he says, “I want you to promise me to go to the address on this paper and hunt up Jimmie. Tell him I forgive him for lickin' him,” he says, “and die happy. Will you promise me that, Cap'n, on your word as a gentleman?” And I promised him. And he died in less than ten months afterwards, poor thing.'
“'But that was sixteen—eighteen—nineteen years ago,' says I. 'And the boy run away three years afore that. You've been to New York in the past nineteen years, once anyhow.'
“'I know it. But I forgot. I'm ashamed of it, but I forgot. And when I was goin' through the things up attic at my daughter's last Friday, seein' what I could find for the rummage sale at the church, I come across my old writin' desk, and in it was this very piece of paper with the address on it just as I wrote it down. And me startin' for New York in three days! Barzilla, I swan to man, I believe something SENT me to that attic.'
“I knew what sent him there and so did the church folks, judgin' by their remarks when the contribution came in. But I was too much set back by the whole crazy business to say anything about that.
“'Look here, Jonadab Wixon,' I sings out, 'do you mean to tell me that we've got to put in the whole forenoon ransackin' New York to find a boy that run off twenty-two years ago?'
“'It won't take the forenoon,' he says. 'I've got the number, ain't I?'
“'Yes, you've got the number where he WAS. If you want to know where I think he's likely to be now, I'd try the jail.'
“But he said I was unfeelin' and disobligin' and lots more, so, to cut the argument short, I agreed to go. And off we put to hunt up 116 East Blank Street. And when we located it, after a good hour of askin' questions, and payin' car fares and wearin' out shoe leather, 'twas a Chinese laundry.
“'Well,' I says, sarcastic, 'here we be. Which one of the heathen do you think is Jimmie? If he had an inch or so more of upper lip, I'd gamble on that critter with the pink nighty and the baskets on his feet. He has a kind of familiar chicken-stealin' look in his eye. Oh, come down on the wharves, Jonadab, and be sensible.'
“Would you believe it, he wa'n't satisfied. We must go into the wash shop and ask the Chinamen if they knew Jimmie Kelly. So we went in and the powwow begun.
“'Twas a mighty unsatisfyin' interview. Jonadab's idea of talkin' to furriners is to yell at 'em as if they was stone deef. If they don't understand what you say, yell louder. So between his yells and the heathen's jabber and grunts the hullabaloo was worse than a cat in a hen yard. Folks begun to stop outside the door and listen and grin.
“'What did he say?' asks the Cap'n, turnin' to me.
“'I don't know,' says I, 'but I cal'late he's gettin' ready to send a note up to the crazy asylum. Come on out of here afore I go loony myself.'
“So he done it, finally, cross as all get out, and swearin' that all Chinese was no good and oughtn't to be allowed in this country. But he wouldn't give up, not yet. He must scare up some of the neighbors and ask them. The fifth man that we asked was an old chap who remembered that there used to be a liquor saloon once where the laundry was now. But he didn't know who run it or what had become of him.
“'Never mind,' I says. 'You're as warm as you're likely to be this trip. A rum shop is just about the place I'd expect that Kelly boy WOULD be in. And, if he's like the rest of his relations on his dad's side, he drank himself to death years ago. NOW will you head for the Savannah Line?'
“Not much, he wouldn't. He had another notion. We'd look in the directory. That seemed to have a glimmer of sense somewheres in its neighborhood, so we found an apothecary store and the clerk handed us out a book once again as big as a church Bible.
“'Kelly,' says Jonadab. 'Yes, here 'tis. Now, “James Kelly.” Land of Love! Barzilla, look here.'
“I looked, and there wa'n't no less than a dozen pages of James Kellys beginning with fifty James A.'s and endin' with four James Z.'s. The Y in 'New York' ought to be a C, judgin' by that directory.
“'Godfrey mighty!' I says. 'This ain't no forenoon's job, Jonadab. If you're goin' through that list you'll have to spend the rest of your life here. Only, unless you want to be lonesome, you'll have to change your name to Kelly.'
“'If I'd only got his middle letter,' says he, mournful, ''twould have been easier. He had four middle names, if I remember right—the old man was great on names—and 'twas too much trouble to write 'em all down. Well, I've done my duty, anyhow. We'll go and call on Ase Baker.'
“But 'twas after eleven o'clock then, and the doughnuts and cheese I had for breakfast was beginnin' to feel as if they wanted company. So we decided to go back to the Golconda and have some dinner first.
“We had ham and eggs for dinner, some that was left over from the last time Jonadab stopped there, I cal'late. Lucky there was hot bread and coffee on the bill or we'd never got a square meal. Then we went up to our room and the Cap'n laid down on the bed. He was beat out, he said, and wanted to rest up a spell afore haulin' anchor for another cruise.”
“Where's the arrestin' come in?” demanded Stitt.
“Comes quick now, Bailey. Plenty quick enough for me and Jonadab, I tell you that! After we got to our room the Cap'n went to sleep pretty soon and I set in the one chair, readin' the newspaper and wishin' I hadn't ate so many of the warm bricks that the Golconda folks hoped was biscuit. They made me feel like a schooner goin' home in ballast. I guess I was drowsin' off myself, but there comes a most unearthly yell from the bed and I jumped ha'f out of the chair. There was Jonadab settin' up and lookin' wild.
“'What in the world?' says I.
“'Oh! Ugh! My soul!' says he.
“'Your soul, hey?' says I. 'Is that all? I thought mebbe you'd lost a quarter.'
“'Barzilla,' he says, comin' to and starin' at me solemn, 'Barzilla, I've had a dream—a wonderful dream.'
“'Well,' I says, 'I ain't surprised. A feller that h'isted in as much fried dough as you did ought to expect—'
“'But I tell you 'twas a WONDERFUL dream,' he says. 'I dreamed I was on Blank Street, where we was this mornin', and Patrick Kelly comes to me and p'ints his finger right in my face. I see him as plain as I see you now. And he says to me—he said it over and over, two or three times—Seventeen,” says he, “Seventeen.” Now what do you think of that?'
“'Humph!' I says. 'I ain't surprised. I think 'twas just seventeen of them biscuits that you got away with. Wonder to me you didn't see somebody worse'n old Pat.'
“But he was past jokin'. You never see a man so shook up by the nightmare as he was by that one. He kept goin' over it and tellin' how natural old Kelly looked and how many times he said 'Seventeen' to him.
“'Now what did he mean by it?' he says. 'Don't tell me that was a common dream, 'cause twa'n't. No, sir, 'twas a vision sent to me, and I know it. But what did he mean?'
“'I think he meant you was seventeen kinds of an idiot,' I snorts, disgusted. 'Get up off that bed and stop wavin' your arms, will you? He didn't mean for you to turn yourself into a windmill, that's sartin sure.'
“Then he hits his knee a slap that sounds like a window blind blowin' to. 'I've got it!' he sings out. 'He meant for me to go to number seventeen on that street. That's what he meant.'
“I laughed and made fun of him, but I might as well have saved my breath. He was sure Pat Kelly's ghost had come hikin' back from the hereafter to tell him to go to 17 Blank Street and find his boy. 'Else why was he ON Blank Street?' he says. 'You tell me that.'
“I couldn't tell him. It's enough for me to figger out what makes live folks act the way they do, let alone dead ones. And Cap'n Jonadab was a Spiritu'list on his mother's side. It ended by my agreein' to give the Jimmie chase one more try.
“'But it's got to be the last,' I says. 'When you get to number seventeen don't you say you think the old man meant to say “seventy” and stuttered.'
“Number 17 Blank Street was a little combination fruit and paper store run by an Eyetalian with curly hair and the complexion of a molasses cooky. His talk sounded as if it had been run through a meat chopper. All he could say was, 'Nica grape, genta'men? On'y fifteen cent a pound. Nica grape? Nica apple? Nica pear? Nica ploom?'
“'Kelly?' says Jonadab, hollerin' as usual. 'Kelly! d'ye understand? K-E-L-Kel L-Y-ly, Kelly. YOU know, KELLY! We want to find him.'
“And just then up steps a feller about six feet high and three foot through. He was dressed in checkerboard clothes, some gone to seed, and you could hardly see the blue tie he had on for the glass di'mond in it. Oh, he was a little wilted now—for the lack of water, I judge—but 'twas plain that he'd been a sunflower in his time. He'd just come out of a liquor store next door to the fruit shop and was wipin' his mouth with the back of his hand.
“'What's this I hear?' says he, fetchin' Jonadab a welt on the back like a mast goin' by the board. 'Is it me friend Kelly you're lookin' for?'
“I was just goin' to tell him no, not likin' his looks, but Jonadab cut in ahead of me, out of breath from the earthquake the feller had landed him, but excited as could be.
“'Yes, yes!' says he. 'It's Mr. Kelly we want. Do you know him?'
“'Do I know him? Why, me bucko, 'tis me old college chum he is. Come on with me and we'll give him the glad hand.'
“He grabs Jonadab by the arm and starts along the sidewalk, steerin' a toler'ble crooked course, but gainin' steady by jerks.
“'I was on me way to Kelly's place now,' says he. 'And here it is. Sure didn't I bate the bookies blind on Rosebud but yesterday—or was it the day before? I don't know, but come on, me lads, and we'll do him again.'
“He turned in at a little narrer entry-like, and went stumblin' up a flight of dirty stairs. I caught hold of Jonadab's coat tails and pulled him back.
“'Where you goin', you crazy loon?' I whispered. 'Can't you see he's three sheets in the wind? And you haven't told him what Kelly you want, nor nothin'.'
“But I might as well have hollered at a stone wall. 'I don't care if he's as fur gone in liquor as Belshazzer's goat,' sputters the Cap'n, all worked up. 'He's takin' us to a Kelly, ain't he? And is it likely there'd be another one within three doors of the number I dreamed about? Didn't I tell you that dream was a vision sent? Don't lay to NOW, Barzilla, for the land sakes! It's Providence a-workin'.'
“'Cording to my notion the sunflower looked more like an agent from t'other end of the line than one from Providence, but just then he commenced to yell for us and upstairs we went, Jonadab first.
“'Whisht!' says the checkerboard, holdin' on to Jonadab's collar and swingin' back and forth. 'Before we proceed to blow in on me friend Kelly, let us come to an understandin' concernin' and touchin' on—and—and—I don't know. But b'ys,' says he, solemn and confidential, 'are you on the square? Are yez dead game sports, hey?'
“'Yes, yes!' says Jonadab. 'Course we be. Mr. Kelly and us are old friends. We've come I don't know how fur on purpose to see him. Now where's—'
“'Say no more,' hollers the feller. 'Say no more. Come on with yez.' And he marches down the dark hall to a door with a 'To let' sign on it and fetches it a bang with his fist. It opens a little ways and a face shows in the crack.
“'Hello, Frank!' hails the sunflower, cheerful. 'Will you take that ugly mug of yours out of the gate and lave me friends in?'
“'What's the matter wid you, Mike?' asks the chap at the door. 'Yer can't bring them two yaps in here and you know it. Gwan out of this.'
“He tried to shut the door, but the checkerboard had his foot between it and the jamb. You might as well have tried to shove in the broadside of an ocean liner as to push against that foot.
“'These gents are friends of mine,' says he. 'Frank, I'll do yez the honor of an introduction to Gin'ral Grant and Dan'l O'Connell. Open that door and compose your face before I'm obliged to break both of 'em.'
“'But I tell you, Mike, I can't,' says the door man, lookin' scared. 'The boss is out, and you know—'
“'WILL you open that door?' roars the big chap. And with that he hove his shoulder against the panels and jammed the door open by main force, all but flattenin' the other feller behind it. 'Walk in, Gin'ral,' he says to Jonadab, and in we went, me wonderin' what was comin' next, and not darin' to guess.
“There was a kind of partitioned off hallway inside, with another door in the partition. We opened that, and there was a good-sized room, filled with men, smokin' and standin' around. A high board fence was acrost one end of the room, and from behind it comes a jinglin' of telephone bells and the sounds of talk. The floor was covered with torn papers, the window blinds was shut, the gas was burnin' blue, and, between it and the smoke, the smells was as various as them in a fish glue factory. On the fence was a couple of blackboards with 'Belmont' and 'Brighton' and suchlike names in chalk wrote on 'em, and beneath that a whole mess in writin' and figures like, 'Red Tail 4—Wt—108—Jock Smith—5—1,' 'Sourcrout 5—Wt—99—Jock Jones—20—5,' and similar rubbish. And the gang—a mighty mixed lot—was scribblin' in little books and watchin' each other as if they was afraid of havin' their pockets picked; though, to look at 'em, you'd have guessed the biggest part had nothin' in their pockets but holes.
“The six-foot checkerboard—who, it turned out, answered to the hail of 'Mike'—seemed to be right at home with the gang. He called most of 'em by their first names and went sasshayin' around, weltin' 'em on the back and tellin' 'em how he'd 'put crimps in the bookies rolls t'other day,' and a lot more stuff that they seemed to understand, but was hog Greek to me and Jonadab. He'd forgot us altogether which was a mercy the way I looked at it, and I steered the Cap'n over into a corner and we come to anchor on a couple of rickety chairs.
“'What—why—what kind of a place IS this, Barzilla?' whispers Jonadab, scared.
“'Sh-h-h!' says I. 'Land knows. Just set quiet and hang on to your watch.'
“'But—but I want to find Kelly,' says he.
“'I'd give somethin' to find a back door,' says I. 'Ain't this a collection of dock rats though! If this is a part of your dream, Jonadab, I wish you'd turn over and wake up. Oh land! here's one murderer headin' this way. Keep your change in your fist and keep the fist shut.'
“A more'n average rusty peep, with a rubber collar on and no necktie, comes slinkin' over to us. He had a smile like a crack in a plate.
“'Say, gents,' he says, 'have you made your bets yet? I've got a dead straight line on the handicap,' says he, 'and I'll put you next for a one spot. It's a sure t'ing at fifteen to three. What do you say?'
“I didn't say nuthin'; but that fool dream was rattlin' round in Jonadab's skull like a bean in a blowgun, and he sees a chance for a shot.
“'See here, mister,' he says. 'Can you tell me where to locate Mr. Kelly?'
“'Who—Pete?' says the feller. 'Oh, he ain't in just now. But about that handicap. I like the looks of youse and I'll let youse in for a dollar. Or, seein' it's you, we'll say a half. Only fifty cents. I wouldn't do better for my own old man,' he says.
“While the Cap'n was tryin' to unravel one end of this gibberish I spoke up prompt.
“'Say,' says I, 'tell me this, will you? Is the Kelly who owns this—this palace, named Jimmie—James, I mean?'
“'Naw,' says he. 'Sure he ain't. It's Pete Kelly, of course—Silver Pete. But what are you givin' us? Are you bettin' on the race, or ain't you?'
“Well, Jonadab understood that. He bristled up like a brindled cat. If there's any one thing the Cap'n is down on, it's gamblin' and such—always exceptin' when he knows he's won already. You've seen that kind, maybe.
“'Young feller,' he says, perkish, 'I want you to know that me and my friend ain't the bettin' kind. What sort of a hole IS this, anyway?'
“The rubber collared critter backed off, lookin' worried. He goes acrost the room, and I see him talkin' to two or three other thieves as tough as himself. And they commenced to stare at us and scowl.
“'Come on,' I whispered to Jonadab. 'Let's get out of this place while we can. There ain't no Jimmie Kelly here, or if there is you don't want to find him.'
“He was as willin' to make tracks as I was, by this time, and we headed for the door in the partition. But Rubber Collar and some of the others got acrost our bows.
“'Cut it out,' says one of 'em. 'You can't get away so easy. Hi, Frank! Frank! Who let these turnip pullers in here, anyhow? Who are they?'
“The chap who was tendin' door comes out of his coop. 'You've got me,' he says. 'They come in with Big Mike, and he was loaded and scrappy and jammed 'em through. Said they was pals of his. Where is he?'
“There was a hunt for Mike, and, when they got his bearin's, there he was keeled over on a bench, breathin' like an escape valve. And an admiral's salute wouldn't have woke him up. The whole crew was round us by this time, some ugly, and the rest laffin' and carryin' on.
“'It's the Barkwurst gang,' says one.
“'It's old Bark himself,' says another. 'Look at them lace curtains.' And he points to Jonadab's whiskers.
“'This one's Jacobs in disguise,' sings out somebody else. 'You can tell him by the Rube get-up. Haw! haw!'
“'Soak 'em! Do 'em up! Don't let 'em out!' hollers a ha'f dozen more.
“Jonadab was game; I'll say that for him. And I hadn't been second mate in my time for nothin'.
“'Take your hands off me!' yells the Cap'n. 'I come in here to find a man I'm lookin' for, James Kelly it was, and—You would, would you! Stand by, Barzilla!'
“I stood by. Rubber Collar got one from me that made him remember home and mother, I'll bet. Anyhow, my knuckles ached for two days afterwards. And Jonadab was just as busy. But I cal'late we'd have been ready for the oven in another five minutes if the door hadn't bu'st open with a bang, and a loud dressed chap, with the sweat pourin' down his face, come tearin' in.
“'Beat it, fellers!' he yells. 'The place is goin' to be pinched. I've just had the tip, and they're right on top of me.'
“THEN there was times. Everybody was shoutin' and swearin' and fallin' over each other to get out. I was kind of lost in the shuffle, and the next thing I remember for sartin is settin' up on Rubber Collar's stomach and lookin' foggy at the door, where the loud dressed man was wrestlin' with a policeman. And there was police at the windows and all around.
“Well, don't talk! I got up, resurrects Jonadab from under a heap of gamblers and furniture, and makes for harbor in our old corner. The police was mighty busy, especially a fat, round-faced, red-mustached man, with gold bands on his cap and arms, that the rest called 'Cap'n.' Him and the loud dressed chap who'd give the alarm was talkin' earnest close to us.
“'I can't help it, Pete,' says the police cap'n. ''Twas me or the Vice Suppression crowd. They've been on to you for two weeks back. I only just got in ahead of 'em as it was. No, you'll have to go along with the rest and take your chances. Quiet now, everybody, or you'll get it harder,' he roars, givin' orders like the skipper of a passenger boat. 'Stand in line and wait your turns for the wagon.'
“Jonadab grabbed me by the wrist. He was pale and shakin' all over.
“'Oh, Lordy!' says he, 'we're took up. Will we have to go to jail, do you think?'
“'I don't know,' I says, disgusted. 'I presume likely we will. Did you dream anything like this? You'd better see if you can't dream yourself out now.' Twas rubbin' it in, but I was mad.
“'Oh! oh!' says he, flappin' his hands. 'And me a deacon of the church! Will folks know it, do you think?'
“'Will they know it! Sounds as if they knew it already. Just listen to that.'
“The first wagon full of prizes was bein' loaded in down at the front door, and the crowd outside was cheerin' 'em. Judgin' by the whoops and hurrahs there wa'n't no less than a million folks at the show, and they was gettin' the wuth of admission.
“'Oh, dear!' groans Jonadab. 'And it'll be in the papers and all! I can't stand this.'
“And afore I could stop him he'd run over and tackled the head policeman.
“'Mister—Mister Cap'n,' he says, pantin', 'there's been a mistake, an awful mis—take—'
“'That's right,' says the police cap'n, 'there has. Six or eight of you tin horns got clear. But—' Then he noticed who was speakin' to him and his mouth dropped open like a hatch. 'Well, saints above!' he says. 'Have the up-state delegates got to buckin' the ponies, too? Why ain't you back home killin' pertater bugs? You ought to be ashamed.'
“'But we wa'n't gamblin'—me and my friend wa'n't. We was led in here by mistake. We was told that a feller named Kelly lived here and we're huntin' for a man of that name. I've got a message to him from his poor dead father back in Orham. We come all the way from Orham, Mass.—to find him and—'
“The police cap'n turned around then and stared at him hard. 'Humph!' says he, after a spell. 'Go over there and set down till I want you. No, you'll go now and we'll waste no breath on it. Go on, do you hear!'
“So we went, and there we set for ha'f an hour, while the rest of the gang and the blackboards and the paper slips and the telephones and Big Mike and his chair was bein' carted off to the wagon. Once, when one of the constables was beatin' acrost to get us, the police cap'n spoke to him.
“'You can leave these two,' he says. 'I'll take care of them.'
“So, finally, when there was nothin' left but the four walls and us and some of the police, he takes me and Jonadab by the elbows and heads for the door.
“'Now,' says he, 'walk along quiet and peaceable and tell me all about it. Get out of this!' he shouts to the crowd of small boys and loafers on the sidewalk, 'or I'll take you, too.'
“The outsiders fell astern, lookin' heartbroke and disapp'inted that we wa'n't hung on the spot, and the fat boss policeman and us two paraded along slow but grand. I felt like the feller that was caught robbin' the poorhouse, and I cal'late Jonadab felt the same, only he was so busy beggin' and pleadin' and explainin' that he couldn't stop to feel anything.
“He told it all, the whole fool yarn from one end to t'other. How old Pat give him the message and how he went to the laundry, and about his ridiculous dream, every word. And the fat policeman shook all over, like a barrel of cod livers.
“By and by we got to a corner of a street and hove to. I could see the station house loomin' up large ahead. Fatty took a card from his pocketbook, wrote on it with a pencil, and then hailed a hack, one of them stern-first kind where the driver sits up aloft 'way aft. He pushed back the cap with the gilt wreath on it, and I could see his red hair shinin' like a sunset.
“'Here,' says he to the hack driver, 'take these—this pair of salads to the—what d'ye call it?—the Golconda House, wherever on top of the pavement that is. And mind you, deliver 'em safe and don't let the truck horses get a bite at 'em. And at half-past eight to-night you call for 'em and bring 'em here,' handin' up the card he'd written on.
“''Tis the address of my house, I'm givin',' he says, turnin' to Jonadab. 'I'll be off duty then and we'll have dinner and talk about old times. To think of you landin' in Silver Pete's pool room! Dear! dear! Why, Cap'n Wixon, barrin' that your whiskers are a bit longer and a taste grayer, I'd 'a' known you anywheres. Many's the time I've stole apples over your back fence. I'm Jimmie Kelly,' says he.”
“Well, by mighty!” exclaimed the depot master, slapping his knee. “So HE was the Kelly man! Humph!”
“Funny how it turned out, wa'n't it?” said Barzilla. “Course, Cap'n Jonadab was perfectly sat on spiritu'lism and signs and omens and such after that. He's had his fortune told no less'n eight times sence, and, nigh's I can find out, each time it's different. The amount of blondes and brunettes and widows and old maids that he's slated to marry, accordin' to them fortune tellers, is perfectly scandalous. If he lives up to the prophecies, Brigham Young wouldn't be a twospot 'longside of him.”
“It's funny about dreams,” mused Captain Hiram. “Folks are always tellin' about their comin' true, but none of mine ever did. I used to dream I was goin' to be drowned, but I ain't been yet.”
The depot master laughed. “Well,” he observed, “once, when I was a youngster, I dreamed two nights runnin' that I was bein' hung. I asked my Sunday school teacher if he believed dreams come true, and he said yes, sometimes. Then I told him my dream, and he said he believed in that one. I judged that any other finish for me would have surprised him. But, somehow or other, they haven't hung me yet.”
“There was a hired girl over at the Old Home House who was sat on fortune tellin',” said Wingate. “Her name was Effie, and—”
“Look here!” broke in Captain Bailey Stitt, righteous indignation in his tone, “I've started no less than nineteen different times to tell you about how I went sailin' in an automobile. Now do you want to hear it, or don't you?”
“How you went SAILIN' in an auto?” repeated Barzilla. “Went ridin', you mean.”
“I mean sailin'. I went ridin', too, but—”
“You'll have to excuse me, Bailey,” interrupted Captain Hiram, rising and looking at his watch. “I've stayed here a good deal longer'n I ought to, already. I must be gettin' on home to see how poor little Dusenberry, my boy, is feelin'. I do hope he's better by now. I wish Dr. Parker hadn't gone out of town.”
The depot master rose also. “And I'll have to be excused, too,” he declared. “It's most time for the up train. Good-by, Hiram. Give my regards to Sophrony, and if there's anything I can do to help, in case your baby should be sick, just sing out, won't you?”
“But I want to tell about this automobilin' scrape,” protested Captain Bailey. “It was one of them things that don't happen every day.”
“So was that fortune business of Effie's,” declared Wingate. “Honest, the way it worked out was queer enough.”
But the train whistled just then and the group broke up. Captain Sol went out to the platform, where Cornelius Rowe, Ed Crocker, Beriah Higgins, Obed Gott, and other interested citizens had already assembled. Wingate and Stitt followed. As for Captain Hiram Baker, he hurried home, his conscience reproving him for remaining so long away from his wife and poor little Hiram Joash, more familiarly known as “Dusenberry.”