Yours,BUNCH.
"Two rosebuds!" I snickered. "That boy Bunch is a honey-cooler all right. But I'm sorry he didn't make it two cigars."
"Oh! John!" Peaches said to me a little while later, when we went over to Uncle Peter's villa to take dinner with them and spend the evening. "Idowish I could tell you about the surprise, but Uncle Peter made me promise not to say a single word."
"Well, if you feel tempted to give the old gentleman the double cross and tell me, why I'll lock myself up in the doghouse till he gives you the starting pistol," I chimed in. "Who is that dragging the works out of the clock in the sitting room?"
"It isn't any such thing!" Peaches exclaimed indignantly. "It's Uncle Peter, and he has a dreadful cold, but Aunt Martha has it nearly cured now, she says."
I went in and jollied the old chap along a bit, and little by little I heard his awful story.
He caught the cold about three days previously, but, after taking the prescription of every loving friend within a radius of four miles, the cold had almost disappeared. In place of the cold, however, Uncle Peter now had acute indigestion, nervous procrastination, delirium tremens and a spavin on his off fetlock.
All this was caused by a rush of home-made medicine to his brain.
Aunt Martha is a great believer in the simple life, so when Uncle Peter acquired a simple cold she got a simple move on and poured enough simple medicines into him to float a simple tug.
Every friend she had in the world suggested a different remedy, and she tried them all on Uncle Peter.
The cold got frightened and left on the second day, but a woman has to be loyal to her friends, so Aunt Martha kept on spraying Uncle Peter's system with dandelion tea and fried peppermint until every microbe heard about him and dropped in to pay him a long visit.
The first thing Aunt Martha wanted to do was to rub Uncle Peter's chest with goose grease.
"Goose grease is such a noisy companion," Uncle Peter remonstrated.
"Goose grease may be loud, but it is never vulgar," said AuntMartha, and she went after it.
In about ten minutes she came back with the painful news that the only thing in the neighborhood which looked like a goose was a quill toothpick, and that was ungreasable.
"But, my dear," Aunt Martha whispered, "I have something Just as good. I found this box of axle grease in the barn."
Uncle Peter shuddered and said nothing.
"My idea is to rub it on your chest and call it goose grease, because the moral effect will be the same," Aunt Martha told him.
Then that loving wife rubbed so much axle grease into Uncle Peter that for hours afterwards he thought he had a pair of shafts on him, and every time he saw a horse he felt like making fifty revolutions a minute.
I suppose the axle grease gave him wheels in the noddle and made him buggyhouse.
Then Aunt Martha said to him, "Now, Peter, we could cure that cold in five minutes if we can get a woolen stocking to tie around your throat."
After a little while she found out that the only woolen stocking in our village was owned by the night watchman.
The night watchman said he liked Uncle Peter well enough, but he'd be switched if he was going to walk around all night with one bare foot even to let the Mayor use his stocking for a necktie.
Selfish watchman.
The next morning Uncle Peter's cold was much worse, but the axle grease had cured his appetite.
About nine o'clock his friend Dave Torrence came in, and after Uncle Peter had barked for him a couple of times Dave decided that the trouble was information of the lungs and he suggested that Uncle Peter should tie a rubber band around his chest and rub his shoulder blades with gasolene.
Uncle Peter told his friend that he had no desire to become a human automobile, so Dave got mad, kicked the piano on the shins and went home.
An hour later Deacon Ed. Sprong, the Mayor's next-door neighbor, came in and in ten minutes he had Uncle Peter making signs to an undertaker.
Deacon Sprong decided that Uncle Peter had the galloping asthma with compressed tonsilitis, and a touch of chillblainous croup on the side, aggravated by asparagus on the chest.
Deacon Sprong told Uncle Peter to drink a pint of catnip tea, take eight grains of quinine, rub the back of his neck with benzine, soak his ankles in kerosene, take two grains of phenacetine, and drink a hot whiskey toddy every half-hour before meals.
Deacon Sprong volunteered to run over every half-hour and helpUncle Peter drink the toddy if it tasted bitter.
Then Deacon Sprong went home, and Uncle Peter's temperature came down about ten degrees, while his respiration began to sit up and notice things.
During the rest of the day every friend and relative Uncle Peter had in the world rushed in, suggested a couple of prescriptions, and then rushed out again.
Aunt Martha tried them all on Uncle Peter.
Before the shades of evening fell that day Uncle Peter was turned into a human medicine chest.
And to make matters worse, he took some dogberry cordial and it chased the catnip tea all over his interior from Alpha to Omaha.
Then Aunt Martha gave him some hoarhound candy to bite the dogberry, so it would leave the catnip alone, but blood will tell, and the hoarhound joined with the dogberry and chased the catnip up Uncle Peter's family tree.
But it cured the cold. Now all Uncle Peter had to do was to cure the medicine.
Dinner was nearly over that evening at Uncle Peter's villa in Ruraldene when suddenly the doorbell rang violently and two minutes later the servant announced that Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius McGowan were in the parlor.
First I decided to faint; then I changed my mind and tried to figure out which would be the most cruelly effective way of killing Bunch Jefferson.
Uncle Peter resented the unexpected arrival of these strangers, because he wanted to sit around and have the home folks tell him how sick he was.
"I'd like to know what Bunch Jefferson means by sending his relatives over to us on a Sunday evening," my wife's uncle snapped. "Why doesn't he worry old Bill Grey with them, eh? It's bad enough for me to have to sneeze my head off before my own people, but I'll be dod bimmed if I'm going to sit around the parlor and play solos on my bronchial tubes for the edification of strangers—no, sir!"
Uncle Peter sniffled off to his apartments, and Peaches said she'd try to entertain the visitors.
I concluded to help her some.
Skinski arose from the sofa and greeted us with his most elaborate bow.
Ma'moselle Dodo didn't Society very much.
She sat in the middle of the room and sang soft lullabys to a hold-over.
"Mr. Jefferson, my nephew," Skinski was saying, "insisted that we should hit the suburban trail and locate your shack. Here's a note from nephew Bunch for you."
Skinski handed me the note with a face as solemn as a monkey-wrench, and I read it:
CITY, Sunday P.M.
DEAR JOHN—I send herewith the two rosebuds. As a favor to your old pal please treat my beloved relatives with every consideration and make a fuss over them. You know you told them in the restaurant to come and see you. They want to make good and will stay a week if you insist.
With kindest regards,BUNCH.
P. S. Don't drag Aunt Flora into any literary discussions—she might hand you something. Her favorite author is Pommery Sec., the chap who writes all those frothy books.
"I wish you could have seen our place in the day-time," Peaches was saying to Skinski when I finished reading Bunch's get-back. "We think it's delightful out here. Did you, have much trouble in finding the place?"
"Nay, lady fair," Skinski replied; "no trouble at all. NephewBunch came as far as the front door with us."
"What!" exclaimed the astonished Peaches.
"Yes," Skinski concluded; "he even saved us the hardship of ringing the bell. Oh! he's a thoughtful relative, Bunch is."
Clara J. looked at me, I looked at Skinski, he looked at Dodo, and she looked at the piano and said thoughtfully, "You betcher sweet!"
"The idea of Bunch coming to our front door and then rushing off again without seeing anybody," gasped Peaches, "what does it mean?"
"Alice lives only half a mile away and possibly Bunch was running behind his schedule," I suggested.
Just then Aunt Martha and Uncle Peter came in the parlor, and presently I grabbed a chance to say a few words to Skinski on the side:
"If my family circle ever gets wise that you and the Queen of Laughter over there are excess baggage it'll be to the cabbage patch for mine," I whispered.
"I'm on," Skinski whispered back. "Never a break from yours mysteriously, believe me. We wouldn't have come out at all if your partner hadn't insisted. He was so hot to have us butt in here and hand your heart a flutter that I just couldn't resist his pleading voice. It's a catchy jest, all right, and it's making me laugh. The way you two ducks josh each other is pitiful, but your secret is safe with me, Manager. I won't make no bad breaks, and Dodo won't ever open her talk-trap. She never talks off the stage. On the stage, say! she has the most elegant line of language that ever left the pipes. Leave it all to me, Manager, and I'll see that the McGowan family makes an awful hit with your fireside companions."
And Skinski kept his word.
He skilfully led Uncle Peter around to a discussion of sleight-of-hand, and two minutes later the Wonder Worker was dragging the coal shovel and the vinegar cruet out of the Mayor's inside pockets, to the intense mystification and delight of the old gentleman.
Uncle Peter was wearing a small diamond pin in his cravat and quite by accident the setting became loose and the stone dropped to the floor.
The old gentleman became very much concerned about it and we all started to look for it.
"Wait a minute!" said Skinski; "the spark fell in your left-hand vest pocket."
Uncle Peter looked at him blankly. "Impossible, why, there's nothing there but this box of quinine pills for my cold."
"Open it," said Skinski, and Uncle Peter did so.
"How many of those do you usually take in a day?" asked Skinski.
"Four," replied the puzzled old gentleman.
"Drop four of them in your left hand," ordered Skinski.
Uncle Peter's right hand trembled a bit, with the result that five of the quinines fell into his left hand.
"If you counted money the way you count pills you'd quit loser," chuckled Skinski. "Put four of those dizzy-wizzys back in the box."
The old gentleman did so.
"Now take your penknife and open the pill you didn't put back," commanded Skinski.
Uncle Peter obeyed instructions, and he nearly choked with astonishment when his diamond came to view.
It was a neat bit of work and Skinski became a solid success withUncle Peter.
"Did I understand you to say, Mr. McGowan, that you are a commission merchant in Springfield, Ohio?" the Mayor asked Skinski when the applause had subsided.
"I'm a used to was," Skinski corrected. "There was a time when I commished for fair, but the bogie man caught me and I lose all I had. Since then I've been trying to sell a gold mine I own out in the Blue Hills."
I tried to sidetrack Skinski and lead him away from the smoking room, but Uncle Peter insisted upon hearing more about those dreamland gold mines.
"I've got the documents and everything to prove that my claim is all the goods," Skinski rattled on. "All it needs is the capital to work it and it's a bonanza, sure—isn't it, Dodey—I mean Flo!"
"You betcher sweet!" she answered, whereupon Peaches and AuntMartha had a fit of coughing which lasted three minutes.
Then Uncle Peter coaxed Skinski off in a corner and there they hobnobbed for fifteen minutes while my wife and her aunt and I tried to get cheerful and chatty with "Aunt Flo," but we only succeeded in dragging from her four reluctant "You betcher sweets!"
Presently Uncle Peter and Skinski shook hands about something, and five minutes later Bunch's "relatives" took their departure to the accompaniment of much internal applause on my part.
"Mr. McGowan is a very accomplished gentleman," Uncle Peter decided; "but handicapped by a most depressing wife, most depressing. The Blue Hills, eh! the Blue Hills! Now, I wonder——"
Then he began to whistle softly and went into the dining-room.
Monday morning, bright and early, I met Bunch, and we buried the hatchet.
"I hope my beloved relatives didn't disgrace me while sojourning in your midst," he chuckled.
"Not at all," I answered airily. "Why, Uncle Cornelius was the hit of the season with Uncle Peter, though, of course, Aunt Flora didn't make good with that 'You betcher sweet!' monologue of hers. How could she? Even at that, she stands better with me than some conversational queens I know who get so busy with the gab they make me dizzy."
About noon Bunch and I ducked for New Rochelle to do a bit of advance work for our show.
Nobody knew us in the town, so we posed as Cameron & Connolly,owners of the Great Hall of Illusions, and Managers of the WorldWonder and Magic King, Signor Beppo Petroskinski, and Ma'moselleDodo, the Oriental Queen of Mystery.
Pretty hot line of goods, eh?
We handed out the salve thing to all the paper lads and they were for us good and plenty.
After our publicity department had been in operation for about four hours we began to see the neighbors sit up and notice us, and we figured on about a $1,000 opening.
"The show will cost us about $80 a day," Bunch financed, with a strangle hold on a big green lead pencil. "Let's see! expenses say $500 a week at the outside. Now, let's strike a low average and say we play to $800 a night; that's $4,800 a week, and two matinees at, say $200, that's $5,000 on the week, eh, John! That gives us a clean profit of $1,500 apiece for the three of us—oh, aces!"
"It looks good to me. Bunch," I agreed, and then we went out and ordered some more three-sheets and a flock of snipe.
We spent the whole day in New Rochelle, and I reached home tired, but enthusiastic.
"John," said Clara J. when we were alone after dinner, "Uncle Peter says if you will let him have that $5,000 by Thursday or Friday he will invest it where the returns will be enormous!"
"Sure," I answered, and I could feel my ears getting pale; "I'll hand it over to him Thursday or Friday—if you think it's best not to invest it in that new house."
"Oh! I really do!" she hurried back. "You know Uncle Peter is so careful and so clever with his investments. He told me in strictest confidence only this morning that he would more than double your money in six months. Isn't that perfectly splendid!"
"Is that the wonderful secret you threatened me with?" I asked mournfully.
"Oh no!" she replied; "I can't tell you that till Wednesday evening—I promised not to."
I guess I didn't sleep very well that night, for I had dreams of Uncle Peter chasing me with a club all over a theatre and making me hop every seat in the orchestra, while Ma'moiselle Dodo sat perched on the balcony rail and screamed, "You betcher sweet!"
The following day Bunch and I attended to the shipping of all the scenery and props and trick stuff, and we were two busy lads, believe me.
On Wednesday we tried all day to locate Skinski, but he avoided punishment until about four o'clock in the afternoon, when we finally flagged him and began to ask him questions.
"I've been busy since Monday," he explained; "brokers and bankers and lawyers, and there are doings. Say! you're two of the dead gamest sports I ever bumped into, and no matter what happens I'm for you for keeps!"
"What's the reason for the crab talk?" I asked sharply. "Are you going to give us the sorry hand and bow yourself out after we have put up every mazooboe we possess? What kind of a sour face are you pulling on us?"
"Oh! pinkies!" he came back. "Did I say anything about quitting you? Why, I wouldn't give you guys a cold deal not for Morgan's bank roll. I only wanted to prepare you for certain big happenings in case there are real doings with that gold mine out in the Blue Hills."
"Sush!" I laughed; "then it's only the hasheesh. But, Skinski, on the level, I do wish you'd quit smoking those No. 4's; they'll ruin your imagination."
"Wait and see," smirked Skinski. "And, by the way, nephew Bunch, I met a certain old party this morning who thinks you are very hot fried parsnips!"
"You did," Bunch came back, with a yawn.
"Yes," replied Skinski; "and a nice old man, too, is Mr. WilliamGrey.'
"Where the devil did you meet Mr. Grey?" Bunch inquired excitedly.
"Back, back up!" said Skinski quietly; "I didn't disgrace my family. Mr. Peter Grant introduced me to him as your Uncle and I made good."
"You met Uncle Peter, too!" I asked in alarm.
"Surest thing you know," said Skinski; "but, don't worry. TheJefferson family tree will never be blown down by any hot air fromme, so rest easy. Now, let's get down to cases about our openingThursday night."
Bunch and I were both puzzled by Skinski's peculiar line of talk, but we forgot it and completed all the details for the opening the next night.
It was after eight o'clock when I reached home, and Peaches met me at the door with the face lights on full.
"Now for the secret!" she chirped, as she dragged me into the diningroom.
"Make mine a small one," I admonished; "I've had a busy day."
"This is a cure for all your business worries," she gurgled."Guess what, John! We sail for Europe next Wednesday!"
"Poor Peaches!" I said sympathetically; "that's what you get for drinking too much tea."
"I mean it seriously, John!" she cried eagerly. "Uncle Peter has booked passages on the Oceanic for the whole family, and he is going to pay all the expenses for a three months' trip."
"Water! water!" I gasped faintly, and I meant it, but Peaches thought I was only cutting up.
"I knew you'd be delighted," she capered on; "and it was all I could do to keep from telling you long ago. Uncle Peter says that this is the dull season in your brokerage business and the trip will do you a world of good. You need only take a few hundred dollars for pocket money, and he's going to invest your $5,000 where it will be immensely productive."
I could only sit and listen and pass away.
What would become of Skinski and Bunch and our good money!
How could I ever account for the missing funds without leading Peaches down to Wall Street and showing her the tall buildings they had built with my dough.
And while these dismal thoughts ran through my mind Peaches grabbed that European trip between her pearly teeth and shook the delights out of it.
That night I had an attack of insomnia, neurasthenia, nervous prostration and the nightmare, with cinematograph pictures on the side.
All night long Skinski had me on the stage in a wicker basket, while Uncle Peter jabbed a sword through me and Dodo sat in the front row on the aisle yelling "You betcher sweet!"
Thursday broke clear and cloudless. Just before I left home for the fatal scene Peaches said, "I'm so sorry business will keep you in the city this evening, John; but of course I realize you have much to do before we sail on Wednesday. Alice Grey just phoned over that she has a box at a theatre somewhere, I didn't ask her where, but if you're sure you won't be home I'll go with Alice and Aunt Martha."
"By all means," I answered, and kissing her good-bue I trolleyed toNew Rochelle.
Bunch was there ahead of me and so were Skinski and Ma'moiselleDodo, all working like beavers.
"I'm going to take the 11:40 to town," Skinski informed us after all was in readiness for the performance. "I have a very important date, haven't I, Dodey?"
"You betcher sweet!" she puffingly replied.
"But I'll be back before six o'clock and I'll give 'em the show of my life," Skinski continued. "How's the sale?"
"There's a three hundred dollar advance sale," Bunch replied; "and Pietro in the box office says we're good for a five or six hundred dollar window sale if it's a fine night. You can gamble we've let 'em know we're in town, all right!"
"Right!" chirped Skinski. "You're the best bunch of managers I ever roomed with and nothing's too good for you. I'm for the 11:40 thing now, so you better rent a stall in the local hotel and rest up till show time. How about you, Dodey? Are you for hunting a thirst-killing palace and getting busy with a dipper of suds?"
"You betcher sweet!" the large lady replied, and with that she grabbed Skinski's arm and they left us flat.
Bunch and I loafed around till about an hour before show time, when we put a young chap we had sworn to secrecy on the door, and then we went back on the stage and began to chatter nervously.
At seven o'clock Dodo came in with one of those sunburst souses, and as she went sailing by to her dressing room she gave us the haughty head and murmured, "You betcher sweet!"
Seven thirty and no Skinski.
I was nervous, but I wasn't a marker to Bunch. He had long since graduated from biting his finger nails, and was now engaged in eating the brim of his opera hat.
Seven forty-five and no Skinski.
I was afraid to tell Bunch what I was thinking, and Bunch was afraid to think for fear he'd spill something.
Eight o'clock came and still no Skinski.
It was pitiful.
I began to see visions of an insulted audience reaching for my collar over the prostrate form of my partner in crime.
An usher came back at 8:10 and told us the house was full.
I grinned at him foolishly and Bunch fell over a stage brace and disgraced himself.
At 8:15 the orchestra leader came up to see why we didn't ring in and Bunch told him to ring off.
I told Beethoven, or whatever his name was, to tune up and play everything in sight till I gave him the warning.
At 8:20 Ma'moiselle Dodo waltzed out of her dressing room made up to look like a cream puff.
"Where's Skinski?" I shrieked. "It's nearly 8:30 and he's keeping that mob waiting. Isn't he going to show up!"
"You betcher sweet!" she gurgled, and passed on.
At 8:25 I rushed into Skinski's dressing room, put on a swift makeup, dove into Skinski's fright wig, hid my face behind a false moustache and goatee, and prepared to sell my life dearly.
"What are you going to do?" asked Bunch in wild alarm.
"I'm going out and pull a few mouldy tricks till Skinski gets here," I answered heroically.
Then I gave the warning to the leader and rang up the curtain.
I was greeted by a harsh round of applause as I stepped out and I could feel both knees get up and leave my legs.
I pulled myself together, picked up a pack of cards and began to do things with the deck that no mortal man ever saw before, while Bunch stood in the wings with his teeth chattering so loud they sounded like a pedestal clog accompaniment.
Then I picked up an egg where Skinski had placed it on the tabaret and started in to do something mysterious with it.
Just as I raised the egg to show it to the audience I got a flash of the stage box on my right, and there, gazing curiously at me, sat Peaches and Alice Grey and Aunt Martha.
I was so surprised I dropped the egg, and it lay at my feet in the form of an omelet, while the house roared with joy.
[Illustration: I was so surprised I dropped the egg.]
At this moment Skinski bounded on the stage, bowed right and left, and in five words he made it appear that I was only a comedy curtain raiser.
Say! I never was so glad to see anybody in all my life.
I backed off the stage, and he pulled something on my exit that got an awful laugh.
I didn't care. I was so delighted that Skinski was there that I nearly hugged Dodo.
And he gave them their money's worth, all right. He flashed a line of hot illusions that had them groggy in short order.
When the curtain finally fell Skinski was given an ovation, and when it was all over we backed into his dressing-room and sat looking at each other.
"That's the last," our star said, after a pause; "and it was a hot finish all right."
"What do you mean?" I gasped.
"The syndicate has bought my gold mine in the Blue Hills," he answered calmly.
"And you're going to throw us after making a start like this?"Bunch almost sobbed.
"Throw nothing!" Skinski came back. "Didn't I tell you once before that I am for you two guys all the old while—didn't I, Dodey?"
"You betcher sweet!" she answered solemnly.
"Well, that still goes," Skinski went on. "I've sold out a half interest in my Blue Hill gold mine, and I've got the corn to show for it."
So saying, he dug up a wad that a hound couldn't leap over.
"Now, I'm going to pay you each $6,000 to cancel my contract,"Skinski added, after our eyes had feasted on his roll.
I looked at Bunch, and Bunch was stepping on his left foot to see if he was awake.
"No, by Hick! I'll make it seven thousand each," Skinski chortled. "You two guys put up your last dollar on me, and you didn't know whether I was an ace or a polish. I like you both, for you brought me good luck. Tear up the contract and take $7,000 apiece, is it a go?"
"Just as you say, Skinski," I answered nervously. "Of course, if you want the tour to continue, why——"
"Yes, of course," Bunch chimed in; "if you want the tour to continue, why——"
"Oh! pinkies!" said Skinski; "what do I want to go hugging one-night stands for when I have a hundred thousand booboos in the kick. It's the Parisian boulevards for us, and a canter on the Boy Bologna, eh, Dodey?"
"You betcher sweet!" she gurgled thirstily.
And so it came about that we destroyed the contract, pocketed our seven thousand each, and bade Skinski and Dodo an affecting farewell.
Bunch and I couldn't talk for hours afterwards.
We were afraid we'd wake ourselves up.
When I reached home Clara J. started in to tell me what a delightful time she had had at the New Rochelle theatre, and how clever the magician was, and what a funny clown came out first and smashed a real egg on the stage, but I begged off and went to bed.
I never slept so soundly in all my life.
Next day I handed the five thousand dollars to Uncle Peter, and he complimented me so highly on my ability to save money that I nearly swallowed my palate.
"I'm going to invest this carefully for you, John," he informed me."When we return from Europe you'll be surprised."
I don't know what powers of persuasion Bunch brought to bear on Alice and Uncle William, but I do know that there was a hurried wedding ceremony, and that a certain blushing bride and bashful groom and a delighted old Uncle who answered roll call when you yelled Bill Grey took passage that next Wednesday with us on the Oceanic.
I was promenading the deck with Peaches and Uncle Peter after we had been out two days when the old gentleman said, "John, aren't you curious to know how I invested your money?"
"Not particularly," I answered with a laugh,
"John knows it is perfectly safe in your hands," Peaches beamed.
"Well, I'll tell you," said Uncle Peter. "Bill Grey and myself celebrated the finish of our long quarrel by going into a little business deal together."
"Fine!" I said approvingly.
"We buried the hatchet," Uncle Peter went on, "by investing together in a gold mine."
"Where?" I asked nervously.
"We formed a little syndicate and bought a half-interest in a mine owned by Bunch's Uncle McGowan, out in the Blue Hills!"
"And is that where you invested my few plunks?" I asked, forcing myself to be calm.
"That's it," chuckled Uncle Peter, "and that's where Bill Grey has invested $5,000 for Bunch."
I excused myself and said I didn't feel like promenading—the undertow made me dizzy.
I went off by my lonesome and looked across the troubled sea.
It seemed to me that I could hear a voice coming from far away behind that biggest wave, and the voice said, "You betcher sweet!"