CHAPTER VIIKEEPING TABS ON PIDDIE
Say, I thought I knew Piddie. If anybody'd asked me to pick a party for the Honest John act from among the crowd we got around the Corrugated Trust here, I'd made J. Hemmingway Piddie my one best bet. He's been with the concern ever since Old Hickory Ellins flim-flammed his partners out of their share of the business and took out a New Jersey chartered permit that allowed him to practice grand larceny.
If Piddie hadn't been a pinhead, he'd had his name on the board of directors years ago. But there ain't no use tryin' to make parlor comp'ny out of kitchen help; so Piddie's just trailed along, bein' as useful as he knew how, and workin' up from ten a week to one fifty a month, just as satisfied as if he was gettin' his per cent. of the profits.
What he does around the shop wouldn't turn anyone gray-headed; but he makes the most of it. He swells up more over orderin' a few office supplies than Mr. Robert would aboutsignin' a million-dollar contract, and the way he keeps watch of the towels and soap and spring water you'd think our stock was fallin' below par, 'stead of payin' nine per cent, on common. Gen'rally Piddie don't handle anything but petty cash; but once in awhile, when no one else is handy, they chuck something big his way, and he never lets up until everyone knows all about it. You can tell how chesty he feels, just by his strut.
Well, there'd been a big rush on, and they was usin' Piddie more or less frequent, so I was gettin' used to his makin' a noise like a balloon, when one mornin' he come turkeyin' out to the brass gate and says to me:
"Torchy, call up 0079 Broad and get the opening on Blitzen."
"Sure," says I. "And if it touches seven-eighths don't you want to unload a couple of thousand shares?"
"When I have any further orders," says he, puffin' out his face, "you will get them!"
"Oh, slush!" says I. "Don't play so rough, Piddie."
I was onto him, all right. I've seen these hot-air plungers before. They follow up a stock for weeks, and buy and sell in six figures, and reckon up how they've hit the market for great chunks—but it's all under their lids. You can't spend pipe dreams, if you win; and if you lose,it don't shrink the size of your really truly roll. It's almost as satisfyin' as walkin by the back door of a bakery when you're hungry. That kind of game is about Piddie's size, too. All it calls for is plenty of imagination, and he's got that by the bale. I was kind of glad to see him enjoyin' himself so innocent, and now and then I'd help along the excitement.
"Heard about how Morgan's tryin' to get hold of Blitzen?" I'd say, and Piddie would prick up his ears like a fox-terrier sightin' a rat.
"Who told you?" Piddie'd ask.
"Why," I'd say, "I got it straight from a delicatessen man that lives on the same block with a man that runs a hot dog cart in John-st. Don't want anything closer'n that, do you!"
Then Piddie'd look kind of foolish, and go off and call down some one good and hard, just to relieve his feelin's.
First thing I knew, though, Piddie was havin' star-chamber sessions with a seedy-lookin' piker that wore an actor's overcoat and a brunette collar that looked like it had been wished onto his neck about last Thanksgivin'. They'd get together in a corner of the reception room and whisper away for half an hour on a stretch. If it hadn't been Piddie, I'd put it down for a hard-luck tale with a swift touch for a curtain; but no one that ever took a secondlook at Piddie would ever waste their time tryin' a touch on him. So I guessed the gent was a bucketshop tout who was tryin' to interest Piddie in some kind of a deal.
Still, I couldn't get any picture of Piddie takin' a chance with real money. It wa'n't until I seen him walkin' around stary-eyed one day, and gettin' nervous by the minute, that I could believe he's really been rung in. He was goin' through all the motions, though, of a man that's shoved everything, win or lose, on the red, and it was a circus to keep tabs on him. He makes a bluff at bein' awful busy with the billbook; but he couldn't stay at the desk more'n three minutes at a spell. Inside of an hour I counted four times that he washed his hands and six drinks of water that he had.
"You'll be damp enough to need wringin' out, if you keep that up," says I.
"Keep what up?" says he. Honest, he was so rattled he didn't know whether he was usin' the roller towel or runnin' over the ticker tape. Half an hour before lunchtime he skips out and leaves word with me that maybe he'll be back late.
"All right," says I. "If the boss calls for you I'll tell him he'll have to shut down the shop until you blow in again."
Maybe you've seen symptoms like that in a hired man. It gen'rally means that there'ssomethin' doin' in ponies or margins, and that next payday is goin' to seem a long ways off. If I'd been asked to give a guess, I should have put it as about two hundred bucks that Piddie had thrown into the market. Anyway, it wa'n't enough to knock the props out of call-money quotations; so I was lettin' Piddie do all the worryin'.
He didn't show back at twelve-thirty, nor at twelve-forty-five. Some one else did, though. She was a nice little lady, one of the smooth-haired, big-eyed kind, as soft talkin' and as gentle actin' as the heroine in "No Weddin' Cake for Her'n," just before she gets to the weepy scenes. You could see by the punky mill'nery and the last season's drygoods that she'd just drifted in from Mortgagehurst, New Jersey. The little snoozer she has by the hand was a cute one, though. When he gets a glimpse of my sunset top piece he sings out:
"O-o-o-o, mama! Burny, burn!"
"Why, Hemmingway!" says she. "I am surprised. Naughty, naughty!"
"Don't worry, lady," says I. "The kid's got it dead right—it's one of them kind."
Then I wets my finger and shows him how it'll go "S-z-z!" when I touch it off. That gets a laugh out of little Hemmingway, and in a minute we're all good friends.
She's Mrs. Piddie, of course, and she's abrick. Say, how is it these two-by-fours can pull out such good ones so often? Why, if she'd been got up accordin' to this year's models, and could have thrown the front she ought to, she'd have been fit for a first-tier box at the grand op'ra.
"Chee!" thinks I. "Did she pick Piddie in the dark?"
She'd come in to drag him out shoppin' and hypnotize him into loosenin' up. It was a case of gettin' things for little Hemmingway.
"Me, I go have new s'oes, an' new coat wif pockets too," says he.
Say, they wins me, kids like that do. There's some I ain't got any use for, the kind brought up in hotels and boardin' houses that learn to play to the gallery before they can feed themselves, and others I could name; but clean, grinnin' youngsters, with big eyes that take in everything, they're good to have around. And, little Hemmy was a star. I got so int'rested showin' him things in the office that I clean forgot about Piddie and what he was up to.
"He will be back soon, won't he?" says Mrs. Piddie.
Now if you give me time I can slick up an answer so it'll sound like the truth and mean something else; but as an offhand liar I'm a frost. Somehow I always has to swaller somethin' before I can push out a cold dope. Course,I knew he'd got to be back before long; but I see right off that this wa'n't any day for a fam'ly reunion. Piddle wa'n't goin' to be any too sociable by dinner time that night, 'less'n he'd hit up the bucketshop, which the chances was against. So it was my turn to make a foxy play.
"He's due here before long, that's a fact," says I, "but there's no tellin'. You see, there's a big deal on, and Mr. Piddie's gone downtown, and——"
"Oh!" says Mrs. Piddle, her eyes shinin'. "Then he has some important business engagement?"
You couldn't help seein' how she had it framed up,—the whole Corrugated Trust and half of Wall Street holdin' its breath while hubby, J. Hemmingway Piddie, Esq., worked his giant intellect for the good of the country.
"That's it," says I. "I couldn't say pos'tive that he'd be as late as four o'clock; but——"
"Oh! then we'll not wait," says she, "Come, Hemmingway, we must go home."
"Don't I det my new s'oes?" says Hemmy.
There was a proposition for you! The kid was runnin' true to form and stickin' to the main line. No side issues for him! Pop might be a big man, and all that; but his size didn't cut much ice alongside of the new-shoes prospect.Things was beginnin' to look squally, and Mrs. Piddie's mouth corners was saggin' some, when I has a thought.
"Hold on," says I. "Maybe he's left a note or something for you."
See what it is to have a little wad stowed away in the southwest corner of your jeans? I slips through into the main office, gets one of the typewriter girls to address an envelope to Mrs. Piddie, jams a sawbuck into it, and comes out smilin'.
"Maybe this'll do as well as Pop himself," says I. "Feels like it had long green in it," and the last I heard of little Hemmy he was tellin' the elevator man about the "new s'oes" that was comin' to him.
"It's a fool way to lend out coin," thinks I; "but what's the diff? That kid's got his hopes set on bein' shod to-day, and Piddie's bound to make good sometime."
Piddie didn't look it, though, when he drifts in about one-thirty. If he'd had a load on his mind earlier in the day, he'd got somethin' more now. Just sittin' at the desk doin' nothin made the dew come out on his noble brow like it was the middle of August. He was too much of a wreck to stand any joshin'; so I let him alone, not even tellin' him about the fam'ly visit.
The first thing I knows he comes over to me,his jaw set firmer'n I ever see it shut before, and a kind of shifty look in his eyes. He hands me a letter and a package.
"Torchy," says he, "take these down to that address just as soon as you can. You've got to go quick. Understand?"
"Fourth speed, advanced spark, that's me!" says I, grabbin' my hat and coat. "Free track for the Piddie special! Honk, honk!" and I jams him up against the letterpress as I makes a rush for the door.
When I gets into the subway I sizes up the stuff I'm carryin'. Well say, it ain't often I gets real curious; but this was one of them times. I started in by rollin' a pencil under the envelope flap while the gum was moist. Not that I'd made up my mind to rubber; but just so's I could if I took the notion. And, sure enough, I got the notion, or it got me.
Chee! I near slid off the rattan seat when I reads that note. Guess I must have sat there, starin' bug-eyed and lookin' batty, from 14th to Wall. Do you know what that mush-head of a Piddie was at? He was givin' an order to bolster up Blitzen by buyin' up to a hundred thousand shares, and in the package was a bunch of gilt-edged securities to cover the margins.
Now wouldn't that jiggle the grapes on sister's new lid? Piddie, a narrow-gauge,dime-pinchin' ink-slinger, doin' the bull act like he was a sooty plute from Pittsburg! That's what comes of swallowin' the get-rich-fast bug.
Well, when I gets out at the Street I didn't have any programme planned. First I strolls down to the number on the letter and takes a look at the buildin'. That was enough. There was some good names on the hall directory; but most of 'em was little, two-room, fly-by-night firms, with a party 'phone for a private wire and a mail-order list bought off'm patent medicine concerns. The people Piddie was doin' business with was that kind.
Next I takes a walk around into Broad-st., where the mounted cops keep the big-wind bunch roped in so's they can't break loose and pinch the doorknobs off the Subtreasury. The ear-muff brigade was lettin' themselves out in fine style, tradin' in Ground Hog bonds, Hoboken gas, Moonshine preferred, and a whole lot of other ten-cent shares, as earnest as if they was under cover and biddin' on Standard Oil firsts.
While I was lookin' 'em over, wonderin' what to do next, I spots Abey Winowski on the fringe of the push. And say, it wa'n't so long ago that Abey was wearin' sky-blue pants and a Postal shield, trottin' out with messages from District Ten. But here he is, with a checkedulster and a five-dollar hat, writin' figures on a pad.
"Hello, Motzie!" says I. "How long since they lets the likes of you inside the ropes?"
"Hello, Torchy!" says he. "Got any orders?"
"I'm lined with 'em," says I. "What's good?"
"Blitzen," says he. "It's on the seesaw; but'll fetch fifty."
"Ain't it a wildcat?" says I.
"Just from the menagerie," says he. "Goin' to take a dollar flyer?"
"Guess I'll see what my brokers has to say first," says I.
With that I goes around to a little joint I knows of, where they has a board for unlisted stocks, and I sets back and watches the curves Blitzen was makin'. First she'd jump four or five points, and then she'd settle back heavy. The Curb was playin' tag with it; that was all, so far as I could see. Nice lot of Hungry Jakes to feed with int'rest-bearin' securities!
About fifteen minutes before the market closed I quit and moseyed along uptown, just killin' time and tryin' to figure out what ought to be done. Course, I didn't have any idea of playin' private detective and showin' Piddie up to Mr. Robert,—that's out of my line,—but I didn't like the scheme of just chuckin' thebonds back at him and let him get away with any bluff about my interferin' with something I didn't understand at all. Besides, if the returns showed that he'd have won on the deal, what was to hinder his tryin' the same trick again next time he got the chance? That wouldn't been a fair shake for the firm.
Say, I worked my thinker overtime that trip; but I couldn't dig up a thing that was worth savin' from the scrap basket, and when I strolled into the office just about closin' time I wa'n't any nearer to knowin' what to do than when I started.
Most everyone had left when I pushes through the gate and takes a peek into Piddie's office. He was there. And, say, for a speakin' likeness of a dropped egg that's hit the floor instead of the toast, he was it! He's slumped all over the desk, with his head in his hands, and his hair all mussed up, and his shoulders lopped. I always suspicioned he was built out with pneumatic pads, and blew himself up in the mornin' before he buttoned on the four-inch collar that kept his chin up; but I did'nt guess he had a rubber backbone. It was a case of fush with Piddie. He was all in. What I could see of his face had about as much color to it as a sheet of blottin' paper.
Layin' on the floor was a map of the whole disaster. It was a Wall Street extra, with ascarehead story of how Blitzen had kept 'em guessin' all day and then, in the last quarter of an hour of tradin', had gone bumpin' the bumps from twenty-eight down to almost nothin' at all. I didn't stop to read the whole thing; but I read enough to find out that Blitzen had gone soarin' on a false alarm, and that when the facts was give out right the balloon had took fire. And there was Piddie, still fallin'!
"Hello," says I. "You look like a boned ham that's in need of the acid bath and sawdust stuffin'. What's queered you so sudden?"
He jumps and tries to pull himself together when he first hears me; but after he finds who it is he goes to pieces again and flops back in the chair groanin'.
"Is it new mown hay of the lungs, or too many griddle cakes on the stomach?" says I.
But he only gasps and groans some more. Maybe I should of felt sorry for him; but, knowin' the sort of sprung kneed near crook he was, I didn't. He was scared mostly, and he was doin' all the sympathizin' for himself that was needed. All of a sudden he braces up and looks at his watch.
"Perhaps you didn't get there in time?" says he.
"With the letter and package?" says I. "Watcher take me for? Think I got mucilage on my shoes? I was there on time, all right."
"Oh, mercy!" says he. "Torchy, I'm a ruined man."
"You look it," says I; "but cheer up. You never was much account anyway; so there's no great harm done."
Then he begins to blubber, and leak brine, and take on like a woman with a sick headache. "It wasn't my fault," says he. "I was led into it. Torchy, tell them I was led into it! You'll believe that, won't you?"
"Cert," says I. "I'll make affidavit I seen 'em snap the ring in your nose. But what's it all about?"
"Oh, it's something awful that's happened to me," he wails. "It's too terrible to talk about. You'll know to-morrow. I sha'n't be alive then, Torchy."
"Ain't swallowed a buttonhook, have you?" says I.
Next he begins throwin' a fit about what's goin' to become of the missus and the kid. Say, I've been in at two or three acts like this before, and I gen'rally notice that at about such a stage they play that card, the wife and kid. Your real tough citizen don't, nor your real gent,—they shuts their mouths and takes what's comin' to 'em,—but Mr. Weakback has a sudden rush of mem'ry about the folks at home, and squeals like a pup with his tail shut in the door.
"Ah, say," says I, "cut it out! You ought to move up to Harlem and learn to pound the pipes. You're a healthy plunger, you are, sneakin' bonds out of the safe to stack up against a crooked game, and then playin' the baby act when you lose out! Come now, ain't that the awful thing that's happened to you?"
He couldn't have opened up freer if he'd been put through the third degree. I gets the story of his life then, with a handkerchief accomp'niment,—all about the house he's tryin' to buy through the buildin' loan, and the second-hand bubble he wants to splurge on 'cause the neighbors have got 'em, and how he was tipped off to this sure thing in Blitzen by a party that had always been a friend of his but couldn't get hold of the stuff to turn the trick himself. He put in all the fine points, even to the way he came to have a chance at the safe.
"If I could only put them back!" says he, sighin'.
"What then?" says I. "Next time I s'pose you'd swipe the whole series, wouldn't you?"
If you could have heard him tell how good he'd be you'd think practicin' a little crooked work now and then was the only sure way to learn how to keep straight.
"Piddie," says I, "I don't want to hurt your feelin's, but you act to me like a weak sister.If I was to do what the case calls for, this thing ought to go to the boss."
"Please don't, Torchy! Please don't!" says he, scrabblin' down on his hands and knees.
"Nix on that!" says I. "This is no carpet-layin' bee. I'm no squealer, anyway; besides, I had a little interview with Mrs. Piddie and the kid this noon, and after seein' them I can't rub it in like you deserve. What I've seen and heard I'm goin' to forget. Now sit up straight while I break the news to you gentle. I went down there to-day, just as you told me."
"Yes, I know," he groans, squirmin'.
"But I didn't like the looks of the joint; so I didn't dump the bonds. There they are. Now see they get back where you found 'em!"
Talk about your hallelujah praise meetin's! Piddie was havin' one, all by himself—when the inside door opens and Mr. Roberts steps out of his office.
"I'll take care of those bonds, Mr. Piddie," says he.
Chee! what a stunner! Mr. Robert had been in there all the time, writin' private letters, and had took in the whole business.
Did he give Piddie the fire on the spot? Nah! Mr. Robert carries around a frigid portico; but he's got a warm spot inside. He says he'smighty sorry to hear how near Piddie'd come to goin' wrong; but he's glad it turned out the way it did, and if Piddie'll say how much they rung him in for on Blitzen he'll be happy to make good right there.
And how much do you guess? A pair of double X's! He'd worried himself near sick, worked himself up desp'rate, and had finished by doin' something that stood to get him put away for ten or fifteen years—all for forty bucks!
"Piddie," says I, "for a tinhorn, you're a wonder! But, say, when you get home to-night tell that kid of yours I want to see them new shoes of his before he gets the toes all stubbed out."
CHAPTER VIIIA WHIRL WITH KAZEDKY
Chee! W'atcher think? I ain't read an "Old Sleut'" for more'n a week, and there's two murder myst'ries runnin' in the sportin' extras that I'm way behind on. You wouldn't guess it in a month, but I'm takin' a fall out of the knowledge game. Mr. Mallory says I'm part in the sixt' grade and part in the eight'.
"I believe it," says I; "my nut feels that way."
Honest, I'm stowin' away so much that I never knew before that I'm thinkin' of wearin' a leather strap around my head, same's these strong boys wears 'em on their wrists.
"Ah! w'at's the use?" says I. "Nobody's ever goin' to ask me what's four per cent of thoity thousand plunks, an' if I had that much I wouldn't farm it out for less'n six, anyway. And I don't see where this De Soto comes in. Sounds like he might have played first base for the Beanies; but he's been dead too long for that. What odds does it make if I don't know the capital of Nevada? I ain't lookin' for no divorce, am I?"
But there's no shakin' Mallory off. He's dug up a lot of kid school books for me, and I got 'em stowed away in the desk here, like this was P. S. 46, 'stead of the front office of the Corrugated Trust. And when I ain't takin' cards into the main squeezes, or answerin' fool questions over the 'phone, or chasin' out on errands for Piddie, I'm swallowin' chunks of information about the times when G. Wash. was buildin' forts in Harlem and makin' good for a continuous in front of the Subtreasury.
Course, it's a clean waste of time. Suppose I gets the run next week, could I win another head office boy job by spielin' off a mess of guff about a lot of dead ones? Nit, never! But Mallory's got the bug that it'll all come in handy to me sometime, and I'm doin' it just to keep him satisfied. We get together most every night in his room, and I has to cough up what I've got next to durin' the day. And say, when I've been soldierin', and try to run in a stiff bluff instead of the real goods, he looks as disappointed as if I'd done something real low down. So gen'rally I hits up the books when there's nothin' else doin'.
Mr. Robert's on. He comes in one mornin' and pipes off the 'rithmetic. "What's this, Torchy?" says he. "Studying?"
"Yep," says I. "When I went through Columbia College there wa'n't anybody therebut the janitor; so I'm takin' a postprandial whirl at this number dope, and it's fierce."
"Whose idea?" says he.
"Mr. Mallory's," says I. "But I've laid it out flat to him that I draws the line at Greek. I'd never want to talk like them 23d-st. flower peddlers, not in a thousand years!"
Didn't tell you, did I, about Mallory's doin' the skyrocket act? After Mr. Robert gets next to the fact that Mallory's a two seasons' old football hero from his old college he yanks him out of that twelve-dollar-a-week filin' job and makes him a salaried gent, inside of two days.
"Which is something I owe chiefly to you, Torchy," says Mallory.
"Honk, honk!" says I. "Them's the kind of ideas that will get you run in for reckless thinkin'. You was winnin' all that when you did that sprint for goal your friend Dicky was tellin' about the other day. Now all you got to do is get up on your toes and make one or two touchdowns for old Corrugated."
"I know," says he; "but I'm afraid that in this game I'm outclassed."
Honest, he was scared stiff; but he didn't let anyone but me see it. Even a little thing like goin' down to Wall Street and lookin' up some securities gets him rattled. He hadn't been gone more'n an' hour 'fore he calls me up on the 'phone and says some broker's clerk hasasked him if our concern don't want to bid on P. O. privileges at seven-eighths. "What are P. O. privileges?" says Mallory.
"Oh, tush!" says I. "And you let 'em hand you such a burry one? P. O. privileges is the right to lick stamps at the gen'ral post-office, and it's a gag them curb shysters has wore to a frazzle. You go back and tell that fresh paper-chewer we're only buyin' options on July snow removals preferred."
That's what comes of foolin' around at college. Mallory comes back lookin' like some one had sold him a billboard seat to a free window show.
But that was nothin' to the down-and-out slump I found him in next night, when I goes around for my writin' lesson and so on.
"Is it thespino comeandgetus," says I, "or has Miss Tuttifrutti sent back your Christmas card?"
"It's worse than either," says he, with his chin on the top button of his vest. "I guess I'm what you would call a false alarm, Torchy. I've been tried out and haven't made good."
"G'wan!" says I. "Everyone gets a lemon now and then. Some tries to swaller it whole, and chokes to death; others mixes 'em up with eggs and things, and knocks out a pie, with meringue on top. Draw us a map of how you fell off the scaffold."
Well, I jollied the hard luck tale out of him. It was a case of sendin' a boy with a pushcart to bring home a grand piano. The Old Man had done it. He's kind of sore on the way Mr. Robert lugged Mallory in by the hair, 'cause I heard him growlin' somethin' about makin' a kindergarten out of the Corrugated; so he springs this on him. He calls for Mallory and tells him there's a Russian gent down to the Waldorf that's come over to place a big Gover'ment contract.
"We've got to have a slice of that," says he. "Just you run down and get it for us." Like that, offhand, as if it was somethin' you could do anytime between lunch and one-thirty.
Near as I could make out, Mallory goes for it in his polite, standoff, after-you way, and the closest he gets to Russky is a minute with a cocky secretary that says his Excellency is very sorry, but he'll be too busy to see him this trip—maybe next time, about 1912, he'll have an hour off.
"And then you backs up the alley?" says I.
"There was nothing else for me to do," says Mallory. "He went off without giving me another chance."
"Say," says I, "if I had all your parlor manners, I'd organize an English holdin' comp'ny for 'em, so's not to be jacked up for bein' a monopoly. Why didn't you give himthe low tackle and sit on his head until he promised to behave? Was that the only try you made?"
"No, I sent up my card twice after that," says he, "and it came back. So I've flunked. I think I'd better go down in the morning and resign."
Now wouldn't that rust you?
"Then here goes the books," says I, chuckin' 'em into the corner. "If doin' the knowledge stunt leaves you with a backbone like a piece of boiled spaghetti, I'm through."
That makes Mallory sit up as if I'd jabbed him with a pin. "Do I seem that way to you?" says he.
"You don't think you're givin' any weight-liftin' exhibition, do you?" says I.
He lets that trickle through for a minute or so, and then he comes back to life. "Torchy," says he, "you're right. I'm acting like a quitter. But I don't mean to let go just yet. Hanged if I don't try to see that man to-night, now, as quick as I can get down there! He's got to see me, by Jove!"
"There's more sense to that than anything else you've said in a week," says I. "Wish I could be there to hold your hat."
"Why not?" says he. "Come on. I may need fresh inspiration."
"Whatever I gives you'll be fresh, allright," says I; "but if I was you, and was goin' to butt into any Fifth-ave. hotel along about dinner-time, I'd wear the regalia. Yours ain't in on a ticket, is it?"
It wa'n't. Mallory had to go clear to the bottom of the trunk after it; but when he'd shook out the wrinkles and got himself inside the view was worth while. After he's blown up his op'ra hat and got out his stick you couldn't tell him from a three times winner.
"Chee!" says I. "You've got Silent Smith tied to a post. If you acts like you look, you don't need me."
He wouldn't have it that way, though. I'd got to go along and be ready to give him any points I thought of. We goes in a cab, too, in over the rubber mats to the carriage door, just like we'd come to hire the royal suite.
"The Baron Kazedky," says Mallory, shovin' his card across at the near plute behind the desk.
Then the cold wave begun comin' our way. Mister Baron was out. Nobody knew where he'd gone. He hadn't left any word. And he didn't receive callers after four P.M., anyway. Mallory was gettin' his breath after stoppin' them body blows, when I pushes in.
"Say, Sir Wally," says I, leanin' over towards the clerk and speakin' confidential, "lemme give you somethin' from the inside.If Kazedky misses seein' Mr. Mallory to-night, you'll be called up to-morrow to hear some Russian language that'll take all the crimp out of that Robert Mantell bang of yours. Now ring up one of them bench-warmers and show us the Baron!"
But, say, you might's well try bluffin' your way through the fire lines on a brass trunk check, "You'll find the manager's office two doors to the left, gentlemen," says he.
"Much obliged for nothin'," says I.
Course, there wa'n't any use registerin' a kick. Orders is orders, and we was on the wrong side of the fence. Mallory and I takes a turn through the corridors and past the main dinin'-room, where they keeps an orchestra playin' so's the got-rich-quick folks won't hear each other eat their soup.
We was tryin' to think up a new move. I was for goin' out somewhere and callin' for the Baron over the 'phone; but Mallory's got his jaw set now and says he don't mean to leave until he has some kind of satisfaction. He's kind of slow takin' hold; but when he gets his teeth in he's a stayer.
We knocks around half an hour, and nothin' happens. Then, just as we was pushin' through the mob into the Palm Room I runs into Whitey Buck. You know about Whitey, don't you? Well, you've seen his name printed across thetop of the sportin' page that he runs. And say, Whitey's the smooth boy, all right! Him and me used to do some great old joshin' when I was on the Sunday editor's door.
"Hello, Whitey!" says I. "Who you been workin' for a swell feed now?"
"That you, Torchy?" says he. "Why, I took your head for an exit light. How's tricks?"
"On the blink," says I. "We're up against a freeze out, Mr. Mallory and me. You know Mallory, don't you?"
"What, Skid Mallory?" says he, takin' another look. "What a pipe! Why, say, old man, I want you the worst way. Got to hash up a full-page sympose knockin' reformed football, and if you'll take off a thousand-word opinion I'll blow you to anything on the bill of fare. Come on in here to a table while we chew it over. Torchy, grab a garçon. Sizzlin' sisters! but I'm glad to root you out, Skid!"
He was all of that; but it didn't mean anything more'n that Whitey sees an easy column comin' his way.
Mr. Mallory wa'n't so glad. "Sorry," says he, "but whatever football reputation I ever had I'm trying to live down."
"What!" says Whitey. "Trying to make folks forget the nerviest quarterback that ever pranced down the turf with eleven men afterhim? Don't you do it. Besides, you can't. Why, that run of yours through the Reds has been immortalized in a whole library of kid story books, and they're still grinding 'em out!"
Mallory turns the color of the candleshades and shakes his head. "You print any such rot as that about me," says he, "and I'll come down and wreck the office. I'm out of all that now, and into something that has opened my eyes to what sort of useless individual I am. Behold, Whitey, one of the unfit!"
Then Whitey wants to know all about it.
"It's nothing much," says Mallory, "only I've been sent out to do business with a Russian Baron, and I'm such a chump I can't even get within speaking distance of him."
"What Baron?" says Whitey. "Not Kazedky?"
"That's the identical one," says Mallory. "Don't happen to know him, do you?"
"I sure do," says Whitey. "Didn't he and I have a heart to heart session when that sporty Russian Prince was over here and got himself pinched at a prizefight? Kazedky was secretary of the legation then, and it was through me he got the story muffled."
"Wish you could find out where he is now," says Mallory.
"Don't have to," says Whitey; "I know.He's up in private dining-room No. 9. Been captured by a gang of Chamber of Commerce men, who are feeding him ruddy duck and terrapin and ten-dollar champagne. He's got a lot of steel contracts up his sleeve, you know, and——"
"Yes, I know," says Mallory; "but how can I get to see him?"
"Who are you with?" says Whitey.
"Corrugated Trust," says Mallory.
"Wow!" says Whitey, them skim-milk eyes of his gettin' big. "They wouldn't let you within a mile of him if they knew. But say, suppose I could lug him outside, would I get that football story?"
"You would," says Mallory.
"By to-morrow noon?" says he.
"Before morning, if you'll stay at the office until I get through here," says Mallory.
"Good!" says Whitey. "Come on! I'll snake him out of there if I have to drag him by the collar. But he's a fussy old freak, and I don't guarantee he'll stay more than a minute."
"That's enough," says Mallory. "He can talk French, I suppose?"
"What's the matter with English?" says Whitey. "Now let's see what kind of hot air I'll give him."
Whitey didn't say what it was he thinks up;but he was grinnin' all over his face when he leaves us outside of No. 9 and goes in where the corks was poppin'. It must have been a happy thought, though; for it wa'n't long before he comes out, towin' a dried-up little old runt with a full set of face lambrequins and a gold dog license hung round his neck from a red ribbon. He had his napkin in one hand and half a dinner roll in the other; so it didn't look like he meant to make any long stop. He was actin' kind of dazed, too, like he hadn't got somethin' clear in his mind, and he hung back as if he was expectin' some one to hand out a bomb. But Whitey rushes him right up to Mallory.
"Here's the chap, Baron!" says he. "I couldn't let you go back to Russia without shaking hands with the greatest quarterback America ever produced. Mr. Mallory, Baron Kazedky," and then he winks at Mallory, much as to say, "Now jump in!"
And say, Mallory was Johnny on the spot. He grabs Kazedky's flipper like it was a life preserver.
"I—I—really, gentlemen, there's some mistake," says the Baron. "A quarter what, did you say?"
"Oh," says Mallory, "that's some of Mr. Buck's tomfoolery—football term, you know."
"But I am not interested in football," saysthe Baron, tryin' to back towards the door, "not in the least."
"Me either," says Mallory, gettin' a new grip on him. "What I want to talk to you about is steel. Now, I represent the Corrugated Trust, and we——"
Well say, the old man himself couldn't have reeled it off better'n Mallory. Why, he had it as letter perfect as a panhandler does his tale about bein' in the hospital six weeks and havin' four hungry kids at home. I only hears the start of it; for as soon as he got well under way Mallory starts for the other end of the corridor, skatin' the little old Baron along with him like he was a Third-ave. clothing store dummy that was bein' hauled in at closin'-up time.
Whitey didn't even wait for the overture. The minute he hands Kazedky over he fades towards the elevator. There's nothin' for me to do but wait; so I picks out a red velvet chair and camps down on it to watch the promenade. That's what it was, too; for Mallory acts like he'd forgot everything he ever knew except that he's got to talk steel into the Baron. I guess it was steel he was talkin'! Every time he passes me I hear him ringin' in Corrugated, and drop forged, and a lot of things like that.
Mallory has a right-arm hook on Kazedkyand is makin' motions with his left hand. Bein' so tall, he has to lean over to pump his speech into the old fellow's ear; but every now and then he gets excited and, 'stead of bendin' himself, he lifts the Baron clear off his feet.
About the third lap some of the gents from the private dinin'-room pokes their heads out to see what's happened to the guest of the evenin'. They saw, all right! They must have been suspicious, too; for they were lookin' anxious, and begun signaling him to break away.
The Baron didn't have no time for watchin' signals just then. He was busy tryin' to keep his feet on the floor. First I knew there was a whole gang at the door watchin' 'em, and they was talkin' over makin' a rush for the Baron and rescuin' him, I guess, when Mallory leans him up against the wall, hauls out a pad and a fountain pen, and hands the things to Kazedky. The Baron drapes bis napkin over one arm, stuffs the piece of roll into his mouth, and scribbles off somethin'.
When he's done that Mallory pockets the pad, leads the Baron back to his friends, shakes hands with him, motions to me, and pikes for the elevator. The last glimpse I has of Kazedky, he's bein' pulled into the private dinin'-room, with that half a roll stickin' out of his face like a bung in a beer keg.
"Well, Torchy," says Mallory to me, as the car starts down, "I got it!"
"Got what!" says I.
"Why, the contract," says he.
"Chee!" says I. "Is that all? I thought you was pullin' one of his back teeth."
CHAPTER IXDOWN THE BUMPS WITH CLIFFY
Say, if you read in the papers to-morrow about how the Chicago Limited was run on a siding and a riot call wired back to the nearest Chief of Police, you needn't do any guessin' as to what's happened. It'll be a cinch that Clifford's gettin' in his fine work; for the last I saw of him he was headed West, and where he is there's trouble.
But you mustn't tear off the notion that Clifford's a Mr. Lush, that goes and gets himself all lit up like a birthday cake and then begins to mix it. That ain't his line. He's one of the camel brand. The nearest he ever gets to red liquor is when he takes bottled grape juice for a spring tonic; but for all that he can keep the cops busier'n any thirsty man I ever saw.
First glimpse I gets of him was when I looks up from the desk and sees him tryin' to find a break in the brass rail. And say, there wa'n't any doubt about his havin' come in from beyond where they make up the milk trains. Not that he wears any R. Glue costume. From the nose pinchers, white tie, and black cutaway I mighthave sized him up as a cross between a travelin' corn doctor and a returned missionary; but the ear muffs and the umbrella and the black felt lid with the four-inch brim put him in the tourist class. He was one of your skimpy, loose-jointed parties, with a turkey neck that had a lump in front and wa'n't on good terms with the back of his coat collar. Two of his front teeth was set on a bias, givin' him one of these squirrel mouths that keeps you thinkin' he's just goin' to bite into an apple.
I watched him a minute or so without sayin' anything, while he was pawin' around for the gate sort of absent minded, and when I thinks it's about time to wake him up I sings out:
"Say, Profess, you're on the right side of the fence now; let it go at that."
"Ah—er—I beg pardon," says he.
"Well," says I, "that's a good start."
"I—er—I beg——" says he.
"You've covered that ground," says I. "Take a new lead."
That seems to rattle him more'n ever. He hangs his umbrella over one arm, peels off a brown woolen mitt, and fishes a card out of his inside pocket. "This is the—ah—Corrugated Trust Building, is it not?" says he.
"It is, yes," says I; "but the place where you cash in your scalper's book ticket is down on the third floor."
"Oh!" says he. "Thank you very much," and he starts to trot out. He has his hand on the knob, when a new thought comes to him. He tiptoes back to the gate, pries off one of the ear muffs, and leans over real confidential. "I didn't quite understand," says he. "Did you say Cousin Robert's was the third door?"
"Chee!" says I. "Willie, take off the other one, so you can get a good healthy circulation through the belfry."
The words seemed to daze him some; but he tumbled to my motions and unstoppered his south ear.
"Now," says I, "what's this about your Cousin Bob? Where'd you lose him?"
Watcher think, though? I gets it out of him that he's come all the way from Bubble Creek, Michigan, and is lookin' for Mr. Robert Ellins. With that I lets him through, plants him in a chair, and goes in to the boss.
"Say," says I to Mr. Robert, "there's a guy, outside that's just floated in from the breakfast food belt and is callin' for Cousin Robert. Here's his card."
"Why, that must be Clifford!" says he.
"Then it's true, is it, the cousin business?" says I.
"Certainly it is, Torchy," says he. "Why not?"
"Oh, nothin'," says I. "I wouldn't have thought it, though."
"It isn't at all necessary," says Mr. Robert. "Bring him in at once."
"I guess I can spare him," says I. Then I goes back and taps Cousin Clifford on the shoulder. "Cliffy," says I, "you're subp@oelig;ned. Push through two doors and then make yourself right to home."
Course anyone's liable to have a freak cousin or so knockin' round in the background, and I s'pose it was a star play of Mr. Robert's, givin' the glad hand to this one; but if I'd found Clifford hangin' on my fam'ly tree I'd have felt like gettin' out the prunin' saw.
Maybe Mr. Robert was a little miffy because I hadn't been a mind reader and played Clifford for a favorite from the start. Anyway, he jumps right in to feature him, lugs him off to the club for lunch, and does the honors joyous, just as though this was something he'd been lookin' forward to for months.
I was beginnin' to think I'd made a wrong guess on Clifford, and the awful thought that maybe for once I'd talked too gay was just tricklin' through my thatch, when we gets our first bulletin. Cliffy was due back to the office about four-thirty, havin' gone off by his lonesome after lunch; but at a quarter of five he don't show up. It was near closin' time whenMr. Robert gets a 'phone call, and by the worried look I knew something was up.
"Yes," says he, "this is Robert Ellins. Yes, I know such a person. That's right—Clifford. He's my cousin. No, is that so? Why, there must be some mistake. Oh, there must be! I'll come up and explain. Yes, I'll sign the bail bond."
He didn't have a word to say when he turns around and catches me grinnin'; but grabs his hat and coat and pikes for the green lights.
There wa'n't any call for me to do any rubberin' next day, or ask any questions. It was all in the mornin' papers: how a batty gent who looked like a disguised second story worker had collected a crowd and blocked traffic on Fifth Avenue by standin' on the curb in front of one of the Vanderbilt houses and drawin' plans of it on a pad.
Course, he got run in as a suspect, and I guess Mr. Robert had his troubles showin' the desk sergeant that Clifford wa'n't a Western crook who was layin' pipes for a little jimmy work. Cliffy's architect tale wouldn't have got him off in a month, and if it hadn't been that Mr. Robert taps the front of his head they'd had Clifford down to Mulberry-st. and put his thumb print in the collection.
He was givin' it to 'em straight, though. Architectin' was what Cliffy was aimin' at.He'd been studying that sort of thing out in Michigan, and now he was makin' a tour to see how it was done in other places, meanin' to polish off with a few months abroad. Then, after he'd got himself well soaked in ideas, maybe he'd go back to Bubble Creek, rent an office over the bank, and begin drawin' front elevations of iron foundries and double tenements.
That's what comes of havin' rich aunts and uncles in the fam'ly, and duckin' real work while you wait for notice from the Surrogate to come on and take your share. It wa'n't a case of hustle with Clifford. I suspicioned that his bein' an architect was more or less of a fad; but he was makin' the most of it, there was no discountin' that. He'd laid out a week to put in seein' how New York was built, high spots and low, and he went at it like he was workin' by the piece.
Now, say, there ain't no special harm in goin' around town gawpin' at lib'ries and office buildin's and churches. 'Most anyone could have done it without bumpin' into trouble; but not Cliffy. It was wonderful how he dug up ructions—and him the mildest lookin' four-eyed gent ever let loose. And green! Say, what sort of a flag station is Bubble Creek, anyway?
Askin' fool questions was Cliffy's specialty. You see, he'd made out a list of buildin's he thought he wanted to take a look at; but hehadn't stopped to put down the street numbers or anything. And when he wants information does he hunt up a directory or a cop? Oh, no! He holds up anyone that's handy, from a white wings dodgin' trucks in the middle of Madison Square, to a Wall Street broker rushin' from 'Change out to a directors' meetin'. He seems to think anybody he meets knows all about New York, and has time to take him by the hand and lead him right where he wants to go, whether it's the new Custom House down town, or Grant's Tomb up on the drive. Throw downs don't discourage him any, either. Two minutes after he's been told to go chase himself he'll butt right in somewhere else and call for directions.
The worst of it was that he couldn't remember what he was told for more'n three minutes on a stretch. We found out these little tricks of Clifford's after he'd been makin' the office his headquarters for a couple of days.
First mornin' we started him out early for the Battery, to size up the Bowling Green Buildin' and the Aquarium. About noon he limps in with his hat all dirt and ashes up and down his back. From the description he gives we figure out that he's been somewhere up on Washington Heights and has got into an argument with a janitor that didn't like being rung up from the basement and asked how far it was to Whitehall-st.
Well, we fixes him up, writes out all the partic'lars of his route on a card, and gives him a fresh send-off. It wa'n't more'n half an hour afterwards that I was out on an errand, and as I cut through 22d-st. back of the Flatiron I sees a crowd. Course, I pushes in to find out what was holdin' up all the carriages and bubbles that has to switch through there goin' north. Somehow I had a feelin' that it might be Clifford. And it was!
He was in the middle of the ring, hoppin' around lively and wavin' that umbrella of his like a sword. The other party was the pilot of a hansom cab that had climbed down off his perch and was layin' on with his whip.
I hated to disturb that muss; for I had an idea Cliffy was gettin' about what was comin' to him, and the crowd was enjoyin' it to the limit. But I see a couple of traffic cops comin' over from Broadway; so I breaks through, grabs Clifford by the arm, and chases him down the avenue, breathin' some hard but not much hurt.
"Chee!" says I, "but you're a wonder! Was you tryin' to buy an eight-mile cab ride for a quarter?"
"Why, no," says he. "I merely stopped the man to ask him where the nearest subway station was, and before I knew it he became angry. I'm sure I didn't know——"
"That's the trouble with you, Cliffy," says I, "and if you don't get over it you'll be hurt bad. Where's that card we made out for you?"
"I—I must have lost that," says he.
"What you need is a guide and an accident policy," says I. "Better let me tow you back to the office, and you can talk it over with Mr. Robert."
He was willin'. He'd had enough for one day, anyhow.
By mornin' Mr. Robert has lost some of his joy over Cousin Clifford's visit. Come to find out, he'd never seen him before, and hadn't heard much about him, either. "Torchy," says he, "I shall be rather busy to-day; so I am going to put Cousin Clifford in your care."
"Ah, say!" says I. "Hand me an easier one. I couldn't keep him straight less'n I had him on a rope and led him around."
"Well, do that, then," says he, "anyway you choose. You may take the day off, show him the buildings he wants to see, keep him out of trouble, and don't leave him until you have him safe inside my house to-night. I'll make it right with you."
"Seein' it's you," says I, "I'll give it a whirl. But if Clifford wants to travel around town with me he's got to shake the ear pads."
Mr. Robert says he'll give him his instructions, and all that; but when it came to springin'the programme on Clifford he runs on a snag. Somewhere back of them squirrel teeth and under the soft hat there was a streak of mule. Cliffy balks at the whole business. He's a whole lot obliged, but he really don't care for comp'ny. Goin' around alone and not havin' his thoughts sidetracked by some one taggin' along is what he likes better'n anything else. He's always done it in Bubble Creek and never got into any trouble before—that is, none to speak of. But he'll promise to cut out janitors and cab drivers.
As for the ear muffs, he couldn't think of partin' with them. For years he's been puttin' them on the first of December and wearin' 'em until the last of March, and he'd feel lost without 'em, just the same as he would without the umbrella. Yes, he knew it wa'n't common; but that didn't bother him at all.
Right there I gets a new line on Clifford. He's one of these guys that throws a bluff at bein' modest; but when you scratch him deep you gets next to the fact that he's dead sure he's a genius and is anxious to prove it by the way he wears his clothes. There's a lot of that kind that shows themselves off every night at the fifty-cent table d'hôte places; but I never knew any of 'em ever came in from so far west as Bubble Creek.
Mr. Robert wa'n't on, though. He stillfreezes to the notion that Cousin Clifford's just a well-meanin', corn-fed innocent; so before he turns him loose again he gives him a lot of good advice about not gettin' tangled up with strangers. Cliffy smiles kind of condescendin' and tells Mr. Robert he needn't worry a bit.
With that off he goes; but every time the telephone rings that forenoon me and Mr. Robert gets nervous. We don't hear a word from him, though, and by three o'clock we're hopin' for the best.
Then Aunt Julie shows up. She's a large, elegant old girl, all got up in Persian lamb and a fur hat with seven kinds of sealin' wax fruit on it. She's just in from Palm Beach, and she's heard that Brother Henry's boy is here on a visit.
"He was such a cute little dear when he was a baby!" says she.
"He's changed," says Mr. Robert.
"Of course," says Aunt Julie. "I do want to see if he's grown up to look like Henry, as I said he would, or like his mother. Where is he now, Robert?"
"Heaven only knows!" says he. "It would suit me best if he was on his way back to Michigan."
"Why, Robert!" says Aunt Julie. "And Clifford the only cousin you have in the world!"
"One is quite enough," says he.
That gives her another jolt, and she starts to lay out Mr. Robert good, for givin' the frosty paw to a relation that had come so far to see him. "I shall stay right here," says she, "until that poor, neglected young man returns, and then I shall try to make up for your heartless treatment."
Aunt Julie didn't have a long wait. She hadn't more'n got herself settled, when the elevator stops at our floor and there breaks loose all kinds of a riot in the hall. There was a great jabberin' and foot scufflin', and I could hear Dennis, that juggles the lever, forkin' out the assault 'n' batt'ry language in a brogue that sounded like rippin' a sheet.
"What's up now?" says Mr. Robert, pokin' his head out.
"Two to one that's Clifford!" says I.
There wa'n't any time to get a bet down, though; for just then the door slams open and we gets a view of things. Oh, it was Cliffy, all right! He was comin' in backwards, tryin' to wave off the gang that was follerin' him.
"Go away!" says he, pushin' at the nearest of 'em. "Please go away!"
"Ah, it's you should be goin' away, ye shark-faced baboon, ye!" says Dennis, hoppin' up and down in the door of the car. "You an' yer Polack friends may walk down, or jump out thewinder; but divvle a ride do yez get in this illyvator again. Do ye mind that, now?"
You couldn't blame him; for the bunch wa'n't fit for the ash hoist. They were Zinskis, about twenty of 'em, countin' women and kids. You didn't have to look at the tin trunks and roped bundles to know that they'd just finished ten days in the steerage. You could tell that by the bouquet. They didn't carry their perfume with 'em. It went on ahead, and they follered, backin' Cliffy clear in until he fetched up against the gate, and then jammin' in around him close. Chee! but they was a punky lot! They had jack lantern faces and garlic breaths, and they looked to know about as much as so many cigar store Injuns.
"Did you have your pick, Cliffy," says I, "or was this a job lot you got cheap?"
"Clifford," says Mr. Robert, "what in thunder is the meaning of this performance of yours?"
But Clifford just keeps on tryin' to work his elbows clear and looks dazed. "I don't know," says Cliffy, "truly I don't, Cousin Robert. They've been following me for an hour, and I've had an awful time."
"Maybe you've been makin' a noise like a wienerwurst," says I.
About that time Aunt Julie comes paddin' out. "Did I hear some one say Clifford?" says she.
"You did," says Mr. Robert. "There he is, the one with the ear muffs. I haven't found out who the others are yet."
"Phe-e-e-ew!" says she, takin' one sniff, and with that she grabs out her scent bottle and runs back, slammin' the door behind her.
"Cliffy," says I, "you don't seem to be makin' much of a hit with your Ellis Island bunch."
"What I want to know," says Mr. Robert, "is what this is all about!"
But Clifford didn't have the key. All he knew was that when he started to leave the subway train they had tagged after, and that since then he hadn't been able to shake 'em. Once he'd jumped on a Broadway car; but they'd all piled in too, and the conductor had made him shell out a nickel for every last one. Another time he'd dodged through one of them revolvin' doors into a hotel, and four of 'em had got wedged in so tight it took half a dozen porters to get 'em out; but the house detective had spotted Clifford for the head of the procession and held him by the collar until he could chuck him out to join his friends.
"It was simply awful!" says he, throwin' up his hands.
And then I notices the rattan cane. After that it was all clear. "Where'd you cop the stick, Cliffy?" says I.
"Stick!" says he. "Why, bless me! I musthave taken this instead of my umbrella. It belongs to that gentleman who sat next to me in the subway train. You see he was leaning back taking a nap in the corner, and I was trying to talk to him, and when I left I suppose I took his cane by mistake."
"Well," says I, "the Zinskis goes with the cane."
It's a fact, too. Most all them immigrant runners carries rattans when they're herdin' gangs of imported pick artists around to the railroad stations. It's kind of a badge and helps the bunch to keep track of their leader. Most likely them Zinskis had had their eyes glued to that cane for hours, knowin' that it was leadin' 'em to a job somewheres, and they wa'n't goin' to let it get away.
"Gimme it," says I; "I'll show you how it works."
Sure enough, soon's I took it and started for the door the whole push quits eatin' cheese and bread out of their pockets and falls in right after me.
"Fine!" says Mr. Robert, grabbin' my hat and chuckin' it after me. "Go on, Torchy! Keep going!"
"Ah, say!" says I. "I ain't subbin' for Cliffy. This is his gang."
But Mr. Robert only grins and motions me to be on my way. "If you come back here beforeto-morrow morning," says he, "I'll discharge you on the spot."
Now wouldn't that bump you?
"All right," says I: "but this'll cost Cliffy just twenty."
"I'll pay it," says Mr. Robert.
"It's a whizz," says I, wavin' the cane. "Come on, you Sneezowskis! I'll show you where the one fifty per grows on bushes."
What did I do with 'em? Ah, say, it was a cinch! I runs 'em down seven flights of stairs, marches 'em three blocks up town, and then rushes up to a big stiff in a green and gold uniform that's hired to stand outside a flower shop and open carriage doors. He and me had some words a couple of months ago, because I butted him in the belt when I was in a hurry once.
"Here," says I, rushin' up and jammin' the cane into his hand, "hold that till I come back!" and before he has time to pipe off the bunch of Polackers that's come to a parade rest around us, I makes a dive in amongst the cars and beats it down Broadway.
Nah, I don't know what becomes of him, or the Zinskis either. All I know is that I'm twenty to the good, and that Cousin Clifford's been shipped back to Bubble Creek, glad to get out of New York alive. But, as I says to Mr. Robert, "What do you look for from a guy that buttons his ears up in flannel?"