"That's it!" she purrs. "Now, 'Evil and fear and pain are the creatures of darkness.' Go on!"

"Sure thing!" says I. "'Evil and fear and——Ouch!"

Ever feel one of them last gasps that a nerve gives when it goes out of business? I thought the top of my head was comin' off. But it didn't, and a couple of seconds later I knew the jumpin' was all over; so I straightens my face out, and we proceeds with the catechism.

It was a bird, too. I didn't mind doin' it at all with Miss Lee there to help; for, in spite of her loppy ways, she's more or less of a candy girl. There was a good deal to it, and it all means the same as what Toodle was tryin' to hand out; but now that the ache has quit I'm ready for any kind of foolishness.

Violet had got to the point where she has snuggled up nice and close, with one hand still grippin' mine and the other smoothin' out my jaw while she told me again how pain was only a pipe dream,—when I glances over her shoulder and sees Sadie floatin' in hangin' to Dr. Toodle's arm.

And does Sadie miss the tableau in our corner? Not to any extent! Her eyebrows go up, and her mouth comes open. That's the first indication. Next her lips shut tight, and her eyes narrow down, and before you could count three she's let go of Toodle as if he was a hot potato, and she's makin' a bee line for the cozy corner.

"Why!" says Miss Lee, lookin' up and forecastin' the comin' conditions in a flash. "Is dinner over? Oh, and there's Dr. Toodle!" and off she trips, leavin' the McCabe fam'ly to hold a reunion.

"Well, I never!" says Sadie, givin' me the gimlet gaze. And say, she puts plenty of expression into them three words.

"Me either," says I. "Not very often, anyway. But a chance is a chance."

"I hope I didn't intrude?" says she, her eyes snappin'.

"There's no tellin'," says I.

"It was a very touching scene!" says she. "Very!"

"Wa'n't it?" says I. "Nice girl, Violet."

"Violet! Humph!" says she. "There's no accounting for tastes!"

"Just what I was thinkin' when I see you with the timelock clutch on that freak doctor's south wing," says I.

"Dr. Toodle," says she, "was explaining to me his wonderful self healing theories."

"And dear Violet," says I, "was puttin' me through a course of sprouts in the automatic toothache cure."

"Oh, indeed!" says Sadie. "Was patting your cheek part of it?"

"I hope so," says I.

"Huh!" says she. "I suppose it worked?"

"Like a charm," says I. "All that bothers me now is how I can dig up another pain."

"You might have your dear Violet see what can be done for that soft spot in your head!" she snaps. "Only next time take her off out of sight, please."

"Oh, we'll attend to that, all right," says I. "This havin' a green eyed wife buttin' in just at the interestin' point is something fierce!" And that's where I spread it on too thick.

"Don't be a chump, Shorty!" says Sadie, lettin' loose a sudden giggle and mussin' my hair up with both hands. It's a way she has of gettin' out of a corner, and she's skipped off before I'm sure whether she's still got a grouch, or is only lettin' on.

By that time my appetite has come back; so I holds up the butler and has him lay out a solitaire feed. And when I goes back to the crowd again I finds Toodle has the center of the stage, with the spotlight full on him. All the women are gathered round, listening to his guff like it was sound sense. Seems he's organized a new deal on the thought cure stunt, and he's workin' it for all it's worth. The men, though, don't appear so excited over what he's sayin'.

"Confounded rubbish, I call it!" says Mr. Purdy-Pell.

"You ought to hear it from Violet," says I. "She's the star explainer of that combination."

But Violet seems to have faded into the background. We don't see anything more of her that evenin', nor she wa'n't in evidence next mornin'. Doc. Toodle was, though. He begins by tellin' how he never takes anything but hot water and milk on risin'; but that in the middle of the forenoon he makes it a point to put away about three fresh laid eggs, raw, in a glass of sherry.

"How interesting!" says Mrs. Purdy-Pell. "Then we must drive over to Fernbrook Farm, right after breakfast, and get some of their lovely White Leghorn eggs."

That was the sort of excursion I was rung into; so the bunch of us piles into the wagonette and starts for a fresh supply of hen fruit. When we gets to the farm the superintendent invites us to take a tour through the incubator houses, and of course they all wants to see the dear little chickies and so on. All but me. I stays and chins with the coachman while he walks the horses around the driveway.

In about half an hour they comes troopin' back, Toodle in the lead, luggin' a paper bag full of warm eggs. He don't wait for the others, but pikes for the wagonette and climbs in one of the side seats facin' me. We was just turnin' to back up to the block for the ladies, when a yellow kyoodle dashes around the corner after a cat. Them skittish horses was just waitin' for some such excuse as that, and before Mr. Driver can put the curb bit on 'em hard enough they've done a quick pivot, cramped the wheels, and turned us over on the soggy grass as neat as anything you ever see.

Me bein' on the low side, I strikes the ground first; but before I can squirm out, down comes Toodle on top, landin' his one hundred and ninety pounds so sudden that it knocks the wind clear out of me. He's turned over on the way down, so I've got his shoulder borin' into my chest and the heavy part of him on my leg.

Course, the women squeals, and the horses cut up some; but the driver has landed on his feet and has them by the head in no time at all, so we wa'n't dragged around any. Noticin' that, I lays still and waits for Toodle to pry himself loose. But the Doc. don't seem in any hurry to move, and the next thing I know I hear him groanin' and mumblin' under his breath. Between groans he was tryin' to say over that rigmarole of his.

"I am a child of light—Oh, dear me!—of light and goodness!" he was pantin' out. "Evil and fear and—Oh, my poor back!—and pain are creatures of—Oh my, oh my!—of darkness! Nothing can harm me!"

"Say, something is goin' to harm you mighty sudden," says I, "if you don't let me up out of this."

"Oh, my life blood!" he groans. "I can feel my life blood! Oh, oh! I am a child of——"

"Ah, slush!" says I. "Get up and shake yourself. Think I'm a bloomin' prayer rug that you can squat on all day? Roll over!" and I manages to hand him a short arm punch in the ribs that stirs him up enough so I can slide out from under. Soon's I get on my feet and can hop around once or twice I finds there's no bones stickin' through, and then I turns to have a look at him.

And say, I wouldn't have missed that exhibition for twice the shakin' up I got! There he is, stretched out on the wet turf, his eyelids flutterin', his breath comin' fast, and his two hands huggin' tight what's left of that bu'sted paper bag, right up against the front of his preacher's vest. And can you guess what's happened to them eggs?

"Oh, my life blood!" he keeps on moanin'. "I can feel it oozing through——"

"Ah, you're switched, Toodle!" says I. "Your brain kodak is out of register, that's all. It ain't life blood you're losin'; it's only your new laid omelet that's leakin' over your vest front."

About then I gets a squint at Sadie and Mrs. Purdy-Pell, and they're almost chokin' to death in a funny fit.

Well, say, that was the finish of Toodleism with the Rockywold bunch. The Doc. didn't have a scratch nor a bruise on him, and after he'd been helped up and scraped off, he was almost as good as new. But his conversation works is clogged for good, and he has his chin down on his collar. They sends him and Violet down to catch the next train, and Sadie and Mrs. Purdy-Pell spends the rest of the day givin' imitations of how Toodle hugged up the eggs and grunted that he was a child of light.

"Not that I don't believe there was something in what he said," Sadie explains to me afterwards; "only—only——"

"Only he was a false alarm, eh?" says I. "Well, Violet wa'n't that kind, anyway."

"Pooh!" says she. "I suppose you'll brag about Violet for the rest of your life."

Can you keep 'em guessin' long, when it comes to things of that kind? Not if they're like Sadie.



CHAPTER XV

THE CASE OF THE TISCOTTS

What I had on the slate for this part'cular afternoon was a brisk walk up Broadway as far as the gasoline district and a little soothin' conversation with Mr. Cecil Slattery about the new roadster he's tryin' to Paladino me into placin' my order for. I'd just washed up and was in the gym. giving my coat a few licks with the whisk broom, when Swifty Joe comes tiptoein' in, taps me on the shoulder, and points solemn into the front office.

"That's right," says I, "break it to me gentle."

"Get into it quick!" says he, grabbin' the coat.

"Eh?" says I. "Fire, police, or what?"

"S-s-sh!" says he. "Lady to see you."

"What kind," says I, "perfect, or just plain lady? And what's her name?"

"Ahr-r-r chee!" he whispers, hoarse and stagy. "Didn't I tell you it was a lady? Get a move on!" and he lifts me into the sleeves and yanks away the whisk broom.

"See here, Swifty," says I, "if this is another of them hot air demonstrators, or a book agent, there'll be trouble comin' your way in bunches! Remember, now!"

Here was once, though, when Swifty hadn't made any mistake. Not that he shows such wonderful intelligence in this case. With her wearin' all them expensive furs, and the cute little English footman standin' up straight in his yellow topped boots over by the door, who wouldn't have known she was a real lady?

She's got up all in black, not exactly a mournin' costume, but one of these real broadcloth regalias, plain but classy. She's a tall, slim party, and from the three-quarters' view I gets against the light I should guess she was goin' on thirty or a little past it. All she's armed with is a roll of paper, and as I steps in she's drummin' with it on the window sill.

Course, we has all kinds driftin' into the studio here, by mistake and otherwise, and I gen'rally makes a guess on 'em right; but this one don't suggest anything at all. Even that rat faced tiger of hers could have told her this wa'n't any French millinery parlor, and she didn't look like one who'd get off the trail anyway. So I plays a safety by coughin' polite behind my hand and lettin' her make the break. She ain't backward about it, either.

"Why, there you are, Professor McCabe!" says she, in that gushy, up and down tone, like she was usin' language as some sort of throat gargle. "How perfectly dear of you to be here, too!"

"Yes, ain't it?" says I. "I've kind of got into the habit of bein' here."

"Really, now!" says she, smilin' just as though we was carryin' on a sensible conversation. And it's a swagger stunt too, this talkin' without sayin' anything. When you get so you can keep it up for an hour you're qualified either for the afternoon tea class or the batty ward. But the lady ain't here just to pay a social call. She makes a quick shift and announces that she's Miss Colliver, also hoping that I remember her.

"Why, sure," says I. "Miss Ann, ain't it?"

As a matter of fact, the only time we was ever within speakin' distance was once at the Purdy-Pells' when she blew in for a minute just at dinner time, lifted a bunch of American Beauties off the table with the excuse that they was just what she wanted to send to the Blind Asylum, and blew out again.

But of course I couldn't help knowin' who she was and all about her. Ain't the papers always full of her charity doin's, her funds for this and that, and her new discoveries of shockin' things about the poor? Ain't she built up a rep as a lady philanthropist that's too busy doing good to ever get married? Maybe Mrs. Russell Sage and Helen Gould has gained a few laps on her lately; but when it comes to startin' things for the Tattered Tenth there ain't many others that's got much on her.

"Gee!" thinks I. "Wonder what she's going to do for me?"

I ain't left long in doubt. She backs me up against the desk and cuts loose with the straight talk. "I came in to tell you about my new enterprise, Piny Crest Court," says she.

"Apartment house, is it?" says I.

"No, no!" says she. "Haven't you read about it? It's to be a white plague station for working girls."

"A white—white——Oh! For lungers, eh?"

"We never speak of them in that way, you know," says she, handin' me the reprovin' look. "Piny Crest Court is the name I've given to the site. Rather sweet, is it not? Really there are no pines on it, you know; but I shall have a few set out. The buildings are to be perfectly lovely. I've just seen the architect's plans,—four open front cottages grouped around an administration infirmary, the superintendent's office to be finished in white mahogany and gold, and the directors' room in Circassian walnut, with a stucco frieze after della Robbia. Don't you simply love those Robbia bambinos?"

"Great!" says I, lyin' as easy and genteel as if I had lots of practice.

"I am simply crazy to have the work started," she goes on; "so I am spending three afternoons a week in filling up my lists. Everyone responds so heartily, too. Now, let me see, I believe I have put you down for a life membership."

"Eh?" says I, gaspin' some; for it ain't often I'm elected to things.

"You will have the privilege of voting for board members and of recommending two applicants a year. A life membership is two hundred and fifty dollars."

"You mean I get two-fifty," says I, "for—for just——"

Then I came to. And, say, did you ever know such a bonehead? Honest, though, from all I'd heard of the way she spreads her money around, and the patronizin' style she has of puttin' this proposition up to me, I couldn't tell for a minute how she meant it. And when I suddenly surrounds the idea that it's me gives up the two-fifty, I'm so fussed that I drops back into the chair and begins to hunt through the desk for my checkbook. And then I feels myself growin' a little warm behind the ears.

"So you just put me down offhand for two hundred and fifty, did you?" says I.

"If you wish," says she, "you may take out a life certificate for each member of your family. Several have done that. Let me show you my list of subscribers. See, here are some of the prominent merchants and manufacturing firms. I haven't begun on the brokers and bankers yet; but you will be in good company."

"Ye-e-es?" says I, runnin' my eye over the firm names. "But I don't know much about this scheme of yours, Miss Colliver."

"Why, it is for working girls," says she, "who are victims of the white plague. We take them up to Piny Crest and cure them."

"Of working?" says I.

"Of the plague," says she. "It is going to be the grandest thing I've done yet. And I have the names of such a lot of the most interesting cases; poor creatures, you know, who are suffering in the most wretched quarters. I do hope they will last until the station is finished. It means finding a new lot, if they don't, and the public organizations are becoming so active in that sort of thing, don't you see?"

Somehow, I don't catch it all, she puts over her ideas so fast; but I gather that she'd like to have me come up prompt with my little old two-fifty so she can get busy givin' out the contracts. Seein' me still hangin' back, though, she's willin' to spend a few minutes more in describin' some of the worst cases, which she proceeds to do.

"We estimate," says Miss Ann as a final clincher, "that the average cost is about fifty dollars per patient. Now," and she sticks the subscription list into my fist, "here is an opportunity! Do you wish to save five human lives?"

Ever had it thrown into you like that? The sensation is a good deal like bein' tied to a post and havin' your pockets frisked by a holdup gang. Anyway, that's the way I felt, and then the next minute I'm ashamed of havin' any such feelings at all; for there's no denyin' that dozens of cases like she mentions can be dug up in any crowded block. Seems kind of inhuman, too, not to want chip in and help save 'em. And yet there I was gettin' grouchy over it, without knowin' why!

"Well," says I, squirmin' in the chair, "I'd like to save five hundred, if I could. How many do you say you're going to take care of up at this new place?"

"Sixty," says she. "I select the most pitiful cases. I am taking some things to one of them now. I wish you could see the awful misery in that home! I could take you down there, you know, and show you what a squalid existence they lead, these Tiscotts."

"Tiscotts!" says I, prickin' up my ears. "What Tiscotts? What's his first name?"

"I never heard the husband mentioned," says Miss Ann. "I doubt if there is one. The woman's name, I think, is Mrs. Anthony Tiscott. Of course, unless you are really interested——"

"I am," says I. "I'm ready to go when you are."

That seems to jar Miss Colliver some, and she tries a little shifty sidestepping; but I puts it up to her as flat as she had handed it to me about savin' the five lives. It was either make good or welsh, and she comes to the scratch cheerful.

"Very well, then," says she, "we will drive down there at once."

So it's me into the Victoria alongside of Miss Ann, with the fat coachman pilotin' us down Fifth-ave. to 14th, then across to Third-ave., and again down and over to the far East Side.

I forget the exact block; but it's one of the old style double-deckers, with rusty fire escapes decorated with beddin' hung out to air, dark hallways that has a perfume a garbage cart would be ashamed of, rickety stairs, plasterin' all gone off the halls, and other usual signs of real estate that the agents squeeze fifteen per cent. out of. You know how it's done, by fixin' the Buildin' and Board of Health inspectors, jammin' from six to ten fam'lies in on a floor, never makin' any repairs, and collectin' weekly rents or servin' dispossess notices prompt when they don't pay up.

Lovely place to hang up one of the "Home, Sweet Home" mottoes! There's a water tap in every hall, so all the tenants can have as much as they want, stove holes in most of the rooms, and you buy your coal by the bucket at the rate of about fourteen dollars a ton. Only three a week for a room, twelve dollars a month. Course, that's more per room than you'd pay on the upper West Side with steam heat, elevator service, and a Tennessee marble entrance hall thrown in; but the luxury of stowin' a whole fam'ly into one room comes high. Or maybe the landlords are doin' it to discourage poverty.

"This is where the Tiscotts hang out, is it?" says I. "Shall I lug the basket for you, Miss Colliver?"

"Dear no!" says she. "I never go into such places. I always send the things in by Hutchins. He will bring Mrs. Tiscott down and she will tell us about her troubles."

"Let Hutchins sit on the box this time," says I, grabbin' up the basket. "Besides, I don't want any second hand report."

"But surely," puts in Miss Ann, "you are not going into such a——"

"Why not?" says I. "I begun livin' in one just like it."

At that Miss Ann settles back under the robe, shrugs her shoulders into her furs, and waves for me to go ahead.

Half a dozen kids on the doorstep told me in chorus where I'd find the Tiscotts, and after I've climbed up through four layers of stale cabbage and fried onion smells and felt my way along to the third door left from the top of the stairs, I makes my entrance as the special messenger of the ministerin' angel.

It's the usual fam'ly-room tenement scene, such as the slum writers are so fond of describin' with the agony pedal down hard, only there ain't quite so much dirt and rags in evidence as they'd like. There's plenty, though. Also there's a lot of industry on view. Over by the light shaft window is Mrs. Tiscott, pumpin' a sewin' machine like she was entered in a twenty-four-hour endurance race, with a big bundle of raw materials at one side. In front of her is the oldest girl, sewin' buttons onto white goods; while the three younger kids, includin' the four-year-old boy, are spread out around the table in the middle of the room, pickin' nut meat into the dishpan.

What's the use of tellin' how Mrs. Tiscott's stringy hair was bobbed up, or the kind of wrapper she had on? You wouldn't expect her to be sportin' a Sixth-ave. built pompadour, or a lingerie reception gown, would you? And where they don't have Swedish nursery governesses and porcelain tubs, the youngsters are apt not to be so——But maybe you'll relish your nut candy and walnut cake better if we skip some details about the state of the kids' hands. What's the odds where the contractors gets such work done, so long as they can shave their estimates?

The really int'restin' exhibit in this fam'ly group, of course, is the bent shouldered, peaked faced girl who has humped herself almost double and is slappin' little pearl buttons on white goods at the rate of twenty a minute. And there's no deception about her being a fine case for Piny Crest. You don't even have to hear that bark of hers to know it.

I stands there lookin' 'em over for a whole minute before anybody pays any attention to me. Then Mrs. Tiscott glances up and stops her machine.

"Who's that?" she sings out. "What do you——Why! Well, of all things, Shorty McCabe, what brings you here?"

"I'm playin' errand boy for the kind Miss Colliver," says I, holdin' up the basket.

Is there a grand rush my way, and glad cries, and tears of joy? Nothing doing in the thankful hysterics line.

"Oh!" says Mrs. Tiscott. "Well, let's see what it is this time." And she proceeds to dump out Miss Ann's contribution. There's a glass of gooseb'ry bar le duc, another of guava jelly, a little can of pate de foie gras, and half a dozen lady fingers.

"Huh!" says she, shovin' the truck over on the window sill. As she's expressed my sentiments too, I lets it go at that.

"Looks like one of your busy days," says I.

"One of 'em!" says she with a snort, yankin' some more pieces out of the bundle and slippin' a fresh spool of cotton onto the machine.

"What's the job?" says I.

"Baby dresses," says she.

"Good money in it?" says I.

"Oh, sure!" says she. "Forty cents a dozen is good, ain't it?"

"What noble merchant prince is so generous to you as all that?" says I.

Mrs. Tiscott, she shoves over the sweater's shop tag so I can read for myself. Curious,—wa'n't it?—but it's the same firm whose name heads the Piny Crest subscription list. It's time to change the subject.

"How's Annie?" says I, lookin' over at her.

"Her cough don't seem to get any better," says Mrs. Tiscott. "She's had it since she had to quit work in the gas mantle shop. That's where she got it. The dust, you know."

Yes, I knew. "How about Tony?" says I.

"Tony!" says she, hard and bitter. "How do I know? He ain't been near us for a month past."

"Sends in something of a Saturday, don't he?" says I.

"Would I be lettin' the likes of her—that Miss Colliver—come here if he did," says she, "or workin' my eyes out like this?"

"I thought Lizzie was in a store?" says I, noddin' towards the twelve-year-old girl at the nut pickin' table.

"They always lays off half the bundle girls after Christmas," says Mrs. Tiscott. "That's why we don't see Tony regular every payday any more. He had the nerve to claim most of Lizzie's envelope."

Then it was my turn to say "Huh!"

"Why don't you have him up?" says I.

"I'm a-scared," says she. "He's promised to break my head."

"Think he would?" says I.

"Yes," says she. "He's changed for the worse lately. He'd do it, all right, if I took him to court."

"What if I stood ready to break his, eh?" says I. "Would that hold him?"

Say, it wa'n't an elevatin' or cheerful conversation me and Mrs. Tiscott indulged in; but it was more or less to the point. She's some int'rested in the last proposition of mine, and when I adds a few frills about givin' a butcher's order and standin' for a sack of potatoes, she agrees to swear out the summons for Tony, providin' I'll hand it to him and be in court to scare the liver out of him when she talks to the Justice.

"I hate to do it too," says she.

"I know," says I; "but no meat or potatoes from me unless you do!"

Sounds kind of harsh, don't it? You'd think I had a special grudge against Tony Tiscott too. But say, it's only because I know him and his kind so well. Nothing so peculiar about his case. Lots of them swell coachmen go that way, and in his day Tony has driven for some big people. Him and me got acquainted when he was wearin' the Twombley-Crane livery and drawin' down his sixty-five a month. That wa'n't so long ago, either.

But it's hard waitin' hours on the box in cold weather, and they get to boozin'. When they hit it up too free they lose their places. After they've lost too many places they don't get any more. Meantime they've accumulated rheumatism and a fam'ly of kids. They've got lazy habits too, and new jobs don't come easy at forty. The next degree is loafin' around home permanent; but they ain't apt to find that so pleasant unless the wife is a good hustler. Most likely she rows it. So they chuck the fam'ly and drift off by themselves.

That's the sort of chaps you'll find on the bread lines. But Tony hadn't quite got to that yet. I knew the corner beer joint where he did odd jobs as free lunch carver and window cleaner. Also I knew the line of talk I meant to hand out to him when I got my fingers on his collar.

"Well?" says Miss Ann, when I comes back with the empty basket. "Did you find it an interesting case?"

"Maybe that's the word," says I.

"You saw the young woman, did you?" says she, "the one who——"

"Sure," says I. "She's got it—bad."

"Ah!" says Miss Ann, brightenin' up. "And now about that life membership!"

"Well," says I, "the Piny Crest proposition is all right, and I'd like to see it started; but the fact is, Miss Colliver, if I should put my name down with all them big people I'd be runnin' out of my class."

"You would be—er——Beg pardon," says she, "but I don't think I quite get you?"

I'd suspected she wouldn't. But how was I going to dope out to her clear and straight what's so muddled up in my own head? You know, all about how Annie got her cough, and my feelin's towards the firms that's sweatin' the Tiscotts, from the baby up, and a lot of other things that I can't state.

"As I said," goes on Miss Colliver, "I hardly think I understand."

"Me either," says I. "My head's just a merry go round of whys and whatfors. But, as far as that fund of yours goes, I don't come in."

"Humph!" says she. "That, at least, is quite definite. Home, Hutchins!"

And there I am left on the curb lookin' foolish. Me, I don't ride back to the studio on any broadcloth cushions! Serves me right too, I expect. I feels mean and low down all the rest of the day, until I gets some satisfaction by huntin' up Tony and throwin' such a scare into him that he goes out and finds a porter's job and swears by all that's holy he'll take up with the fam'ly again.

But think of the chance I passed up of breakin' into the high toned philanthropy class!



CHAPTER XVI

CLASSING TUTWATER RIGHT

Maybe that brass plate had been up in the lower hall of our buildin' a month or so before I takes any partic'lar notice of it. Even when I did get my eye on it one mornin' it only gets me mildly curious. "Tutwater, Director of Enterprises, Room 37, Fourth Floor," is all it says on it.

"Huh!" thinks I. "That's goin' some for a nine by ten coop under the skylight."

And with that I should have let it drop, I expect. But what's the use? Where's the fun of livin', if you can't mix in now and then. And you know how I am.

Well, I comes pikin' up the stairs one day not long after discoverin' the sign, and here on my landin', right in front of the studio door, I finds this Greek that runs the towel supply wagon usin' up his entire United States vocabulary on a strange gent that he's backed into a corner.

"Easy, there, easy, Mr. Poulykopolis!" says I. "This ain't any golf links, where you can smoke up the atmosphere with language like that. What's the row, anyway?"

"No pay for five week; always nex' time, he tells, nex' time. Gr-r-r-r! I am strong to slap his life out, me!" says Pouly, thumpin' his chest and shakin' his black curls. They sure are fierce actin' citizens when they're excited, these Marathoners.

"Yes, you would!" says I. "Slap his life out? G'wan! If he handed you one jolt you wouldn't stop runnin' for a week. How big is this national debt you say he owes you! How much?"

"Five week!" says Pouly. "One dollar twenty-five."

"Sufferin' Shylocks! All of that? Well, neighbor," says I to the strange gent, "has he stated it correct?"

"Perfectly, sir, perfectly," says the party of the second part. "I do not deny the indebtedness in the least. I was merely trying to explain to this agent of cleanliness that, having been unable to get to the bank this morning, I should be obliged to——"

"Why, of course," says I. "And in that case allow me to stake you to the price of peace. Here you are, Pouly. Now go out in the sun and cool off."

"My dear sir," says the stranger, followin' me into the front office, "permit me to——"

"Ah, never mind the resolutions!" says I, "It was worth riskin' that much for the sake of stoppin' the riot. Yes, I know you'll pay it back. Let's see, which is your floor?"

"Top, sir," says he, "room 37."

"Oh ho!" says I. "Then you're the enterprise director, Tutwater?"

"And your very humble servant, sir," says he, bringin' his yellow Panama lid off with a full arm sweep, and throwin' one leg graceful over the back of a chair.

At that I takes a closer look at him, and before I've got half through the inspection I've waved a sad farewell to that one twenty-five. From the frayed necktie down to the runover shoes, Tutwater is a walkin' example of the poor debtor's oath. The shiny seams of the black frock coat shouts of home pressin', and the limp way his white vest fits him suggests that he does his own laundry work in the washbowl. But he's clean shaved and clean brushed, and you can guess he's seen the time when he had such things done for him in style.

Yet there ain't anything about the way Tutwater carries himself that signifies he's down and out. Not much! He's got the easy, confident swing to his shoulders that you might expect from a sport who'd just picked three winners runnin'.

Rather a tall, fairly well built gent he is, with a good chest on him, and he has one of these eager, earnest faces that shows he's alive all the time. You wouldn't call him a handsome man, though, on account of the deep furrows down each side of his cheeks and the prominent jut to his eyebrows; but, somehow, when he gets to talkin', them eyes of his lights up so you forget the rest of his features.

You've seen chaps like that. Gen'rally they're cranks of some kind or other, and when they ain't they're topliners. So I puts Tutwater down as belongin' to the crank class, and it wa'n't long before he begun livin' up to the description.

"Director of enterprises, eh?" says I. "That's a new one on me."

"Naturally," says he, wavin' his hand, "considering that I am first in the field. It is a profession I am creating."

"So?" says I. "Well, how are you comin' on?"

"Excellently, sir, excellently," says he. "I have found, for the first time in my somewhat varied career, full scope for what I am pleased to call my talents. Of course, the work of preparing the ground is a slow process, and the—er—ahem—the results have not as yet begun to materialize; but when Opportunity comes my way, sir——Aha! Ha, ha! Ho, ho! Well, then we shall see if Tutwater is not ready for her!"

"I see," says I. "You with your hand on the knob, eh? It's an easy way of passin' the time too; that is, providin' such things as visits from the landlord and the towel collector don't worry you."

"Not at all," says he. "Merely petty annoyances, thorns and pebbles in the pathways that lead to each high emprise."

Say, it was almost like hearin' some one read po'try, listenin' to Tutwater talk; didn't mean much of anything, and sounded kind of good. At the end of half an hour I didn't know any more about his game than at the beginning. I gathered, though, that up to date it hadn't produced any ready cash, and that Tutwater had been on his uppers for some time.

He was no grafter, though. That dollar twenty-five weighed heavier on his mind than it did on mine. He'd come in and talk about not bein' able to pay it back real regretful, without even hintin' at another touch. And little by little I got more light on Tutwater, includin' some details of what he called his career.

There was a lot to it, so far as variety went. He'd been a hist'ry professor in some one-horse Western college, had tried his luck once up at Nome, had canvassed for a patent dishwasher through Michigan, done a ballyhoo trick outside a travelin' tent show, and had given bump lectures on the schoolhouse circuit.

But his prize stunt was when he broke into the real estate business and laid out Eucalyptus City. That was out in Iowa somewhere, and he'd have cleaned up a cool million in money if the blamed trolley company hadn't built their line seven miles off in the other direction.

It was gettin' this raw deal that convinces him the seed district wa'n't any place for a gent of his abilities. So he sold out his options on the site of Eucalyptus to a brick makin' concern, and beat it for 42d-st. with a capital of eighty-nine dollars cash and this great director scheme in his head. The brass plate had cost him four dollars and fifty cents, one month's rent of the upstairs coop had set him back thirty more, and he'd been livin' on the rest.

"But look here, Tutty," says I, "just what sort of enterprise do you think you can direct?"

"Any sort," says he, "anything, from running an international exposition, to putting an icecream parlor on a paying basis."

"Don't you find your modesty something of a handicap?" says I.

"Oh, I'm modest enough," he goes on. "For instance, I don't claim to invent new methods. I just adapt, pick out lines of proved success, and develop. Now, your business here—why, I could take hold of it, and in six months' time I'd have you occupying this entire building, with classes on every floor, a solarium on the roof, a corps of assistants working day and night shifts, and——"

"Yes," I breaks in, "and then the Sheriff tackin' a foreclosure notice on the front door. I know how them boom methods work out, Tutty."

But talk like that don't discourage Tutwater at all. He hangs onto his great scheme, keepin' his eyes and ears open, writin' letters when he can scare up money for postage, and insistin' that sooner or later he'll get his chance.

"Here is the place for such chances to occur," says he, "and I know what I can do."

"All right," says I; "but if I was you I'd trail down some pavin' job before the paper inner soles wore clean through."

Course, how soon he hit the bread line wa'n't any funeral of mine exactly, and he was a hopeless case anyway; but somehow I got to likin' Tutwater more or less, and wishin' there was some plan of applyin' all that hot air of his in useful ways. I know of lots of stiffs with not half his brains that makes enough to ride around in taxis and order custom made shirts. He was gettin' seedier every week, though, and I had it straight from the agent that it was only a question of a few days before that brass plate would have to come down.

And then, one noon as we was chinnin' here in the front office, in blows a portly, red faced, stary eyed old party who seems kind of dazed and uncertain as to where he's goin'. He looks first at Tutwater, and then at me.

"Same to you and many of 'em," says I. "What'll it be?"

"McCabe was the name," says he; "Professor McCabe, I think. I had it written down somewhere; but——"

"Never mind," says I. "This is the shop and I'm the right party. What then?"

"Perhaps you don't know me?" says he, explorin' his vest pockets sort of aimless with his fingers.

"That's another good guess," says I; "but there's lots of time ahead of us."

"I—I am—well, never mind the name," says he, brushin' one hand over his eyes. "I—I've mislaid it."

"Eh?" says I.

"It's no matter," says he, beginnin' to ramble on again. "But I own a great deal of property in the city, and my head has been troubling me lately, and I heard you could help me. I'll pay you well, you know. I—I'll give you the Brooklyn Bridge."

"Wha-a-at's that?" I gasps. "Say, couldn't you make it Madison Square Garden? I could get rent out of that."

"Well, if you prefer," says he, without crackin' a smile.

"And this is Mr. Tutwater," says I. "He ought to be in on this. What'll yours be, Tutty?"

Say, for a minute or so I couldn't make out whether the old party was really off his chump or what. He's a well dressed, prosperous lookin' gent, a good deal on the retired broker type, and I didn't know but he might be some friend of Pyramid Gordon's who'd strayed in here to hand me a josh before signin' on for a course of lessons.

Next thing we knew, though, he slumps down in my desk chair, leans back comf'table, sighs sort of contented, smiles a batty, foolish smile at us, and then closes his eyes. Another second and he's snorin' away as peaceful as you please.

"Well, say!" says I to Tutwater. "What do you think of that, now? Does he take this for a free lodgin' house, or Central Park? Looks like it was up to me to ring for the wagon."

"Don't," says Tutwater. "The police handle these cases so stupidly. His mind has been affected, possibly from some shock, and he is physically exhausted."

"He's all in, sure enough," says I; "but I can't have him sawin' wood here. Come, come, old scout," I hollers in his ear, "you'll have to camp somewhere else for this act!" I might as well have shouted into the safe, though. He never stirs.

"The thing to do," says Tutwater, "is to discover his name, if we can, and then communicate with his friends or family."

"Maybe you're right, Tutwater," says I. "And there's a bunch of letters in his inside pocket. Have a look."

"They all seem to be addressed to J. T. Fargo, Esq.," says Tutwater.

"What!" says I. "Say, you don't suppose our sleepin' friend here is old Jerry Fargo, do you? Look at the tailor's label inside the pocket. Eh? Jeremiah T. Fargo! Well, say, Tutty, that wa'n't such an idle dream of his, about givin' me the garden. Guess he could if he wanted to. Why, this old party owns more business blocks in this town than anybody I know of except the Astors. And I was for havin' him carted off to the station! Lemme see that 'phone directory."

A minute more and I had the Fargo house on the wire.

"Who are you?" says I. "Oh, Mr. Fargo's butler. Well, this is Shorty McCabe, and I want to talk to some of the fam'ly about the old man. Sure, old Jerry. He's here. Eh, his sister? She'll do. Yes, I'll hold the wire."

I'd heard of that old maid sister of his, and how she was a queer old girl; but I didn't have any idea what a cold blooded proposition she was. Honest, she seemed put out and pettish because I'd called her up.

"Jeremiah again, hey?" she squeaks. "Now, why on earth don't he stay in that sanatorium where I took him? This is the fourth time he's gone wandering off, and I've been sent for to hunt him up. You just tell him to trot back to it, that's all."

"But see here, Miss Fargo," says I, "he's been trottin' around until you can't tell him anything! He's snoozin' away here in my office, dead to the world."

"Well, I can't help it," says she. "I'm not going to be bothered with Jeremiah to-day. I've got two sick cats to attend to."

"Cats!" says I. "Say, what do you——"

"Oh, hush up!" says she. "Do anything you like with him!" And hanged if she don't bang up the receiver at that, and leave me standin' there at my end of the wire lookin' silly.

"Talk about your freak plutes," says I to Tutwater, after I've explained the situation, "if this ain't the limit! Look what I've got on my hands now!"

Tutwater, he's standin' there gazin' hard at old Jerry Fargo, his eyes shinin' and his thought works goin' at high pressure speed. All of a sudden he slaps me on the back and grips me by the hand. "Professor," says he, "I have it! There is Opportunity!"

"Eh?" says I. "Old Jerry? How?"

"I shall cure him—restore his mind, make him normal," says Tutwater.

"What do you know about brushin' out batty lofts?" says I.

"Nothing at all," says he; "but I can find someone who does. You'll give me Fargo, won't you?"

"Will I?" says I. "I'll advance you twenty to take him away, and charge it up to him. But what'll you do with him?"

"Start the Tutwater Sanatorium for Deranged Millionaires," says he. "There's a fortune in it. May I leave him here for an hour or so?"

"What for?" says I.

"Until I can engage my chief of staff," says he.

"Say, Tutty," says I, "do you really mean to put over a bluff the size of that?"

"I've thought it all out," says he. "I can do it."

"All right, blaze ahead," says I; "but I'm bettin' you land in the lockup inside of twenty-four hours."

What do you think, though? By three o'clock he comes back, towin' a spruce, keen eyed young chap that he introduces as Dr. McWade. He's picked him up over at Bellevue, where he found him doin' practice work in the psychopathic ward. On the strength of that I doubles my grubstake, and he no sooner gets his hands on the two sawbucks than he starts for the street.

"Here, here!" says I. "Where you headed for now?"

And Tutwater explains how his first investment is to be a new silk lid, some patent leather shoes, and a silver headed walkin' stick.

"Good business!" says I. "You'll need all the front you can carry."

And while he's out shoppin' the Doc and me and Swifty Joe lugs the patient up to Tutwater's office without disturbin' his slumbers at all.

Well, I didn't see much more of Tutwater that day, for from then on he was a mighty busy man; but as I was drillin' across to the Grand Central on my way home I gets a glimpse of him, sportin' a shiny hat and white spats, just rushin' important into a swell real estate office. About noon next day he stops in long enough to shake hands and say that it's all settled.

"Tutwater Sanatorium is a fact," says he. "I have the lease in my pocket."

"What is it, some abandoned farm up in Vermont?" says I.

"Hardly," says Tutwater, smilin' quiet.

"It's Cragswoods; beautiful modern buildings, formerly occupied as a boys' boarding school, fifteen acres of lovely grounds, finest location in Westchester County. We take possession to-day, with our patient."

"But, say, Tutwater," says I, "how in blazes did you——"

"I produced Fargo," says he. "Dr. McWade has him under complete control and his cure has already begun. It will be finished at Cragswoods. Run up and see us soon. There's the address. So long."

Well, even after that, I couldn't believe he'd really pull it off. Course, I knew he could make Fargo's name go a long ways if he used it judicious; but to launch out and hire an estate worth half a million—why he was makin' a shoestring start look like a sure thing.

And I was still listenin' for news of the grand crash, when I begun seein' these items in the papers about the Tutwater Sanatorium. "Millionaires Building a Stone Wall," one was headed, and it went on to tell how five New York plutes, all sufferin' from some nerve breakdown, was gettin' back health and clearin' up their brains by workin' like day laborers under the direction of the famous specialist, Dr. Clinton McWade.

"Aha!" says I. "He's added a press agent to the staff, and he sure has got a bird!"

Every few days there's a new story bobs up, better than the last, until I can't stand it any longer. I takes half a day off and goes up there to see if he's actually doin' it. And, say, when I walks into the main office over the Persian rug, there's the same old Tutwater. Course, he's slicked up some fancy, and he's smokin' a good cigar; but you couldn't improve any on the cheerful countenance he used to carry around, even when he was up against it hardest. What I asks to see first is the five millionaires at work.

"Seven, you mean," says Tutwater. "Two more came yesterday. Step right out this way. There they are, seven; count 'em, seven. The eighth man is a practical stone mason who is bossing the job. It's a good stone wall they're building, too. We expect to run it along our entire frontage."

"Got 'em mesmerized?" says I.

"Not at all," says Tutwater. "It's part of the treatment. McWade's idea, you know. The vocational cure, we call it, and it works like a charm. Mr. Fargo is practically a well man now and could return to his home next week if he wished. As it is, he's so much interested in finishing that first section of the wall that he will probably stay the month out. You can see for yourself what they are doing."

"Well, well!" says I. "Seven of 'em! What I don't understand, Tutwater, is how you got so many patients so soon. Where'd you get hold of 'em?"

"To be quite frank with you, McCabe," says Tutwater, whisperin' confidential in my ear, "only three of them are genuine paying patients. That is why I have to charge them fifty dollars a day, you see."

"And the others?" says I.

"First class imitations, who are playing their parts very cleverly," says he. "Why not? I engaged them through a reliable theatrical agency."

"Eh?" says I. "You salted the sanatorium? Tutwater, I take it all back. You're in the other class, and I'm backin' you after this for whatever entry you want to make."



CHAPTER XVII

HOW HERMY PUT IT OVER

What do you know about luck, eh? Say, there was a time when I banked heavy on such things as four-leaf clovers, and the humpback touch, and dodgin' ladders, and keepin' my fingers crossed after gettin' an X-ray stare. The longer I watch the game, though, the less I think of the luck proposition as a chart for explainin' why some gets in on the ground floor, while others are dropped through the coal chute.

Now look at the latest returns on the career of my old grammar school chum, Snick Butters. Maybe you don't remember my mentionin' him before. Yes? No? It don't matter. He's the sporty young gent that's mortgaged his memorial window to me so many times,—you know, the phony lamp he can do such stunts with.

He's a smooth boy, Snick is,—too smooth, I used to tell him,—and always full of schemes for avoidin' real work. For a year or so past he's held the hot air chair on the front end of one of these sightseein' chariots, cheerin' the out of town buyers and wheat belt tourists with the flippest line of skyscraper statistics handed out through any megaphone in town. They tell me that when Snick would fix his fake eye on the sidewalk, and roll the good one up at the Metropolitan tower, he'd have his passengers so dizzy they'd grab one another to keep from fallin' off the wagon.

Yes, I always did find Snick's comp'ny entertainin', and if it hadn't been more or less expensive,—a visit always meanin' a touch with him,—I expect I'd been better posted on what he was up to. As it is, I ain't enjoyed the luxury of seein' Snick for a good many months; when here the other afternoon, just as I was thinking of startin' for home, the studio door opens, and in blows a couple of gents, one being a stranger, and the other this Mr. Butters.

Now, usually Snick's a fancy dresser, no matter who he owes for it. He'll quit eatin' any time, or do the camel act, or even give up his cigarettes; but if the gents' furnishing shops are showin' something new in the line of violet socks or alligator skin vests, Snick's got to sport the first ones sprung on Broadway.

So, seein' him show up with fringes on his cuffs, a pair of runover tan shoes, and wearin' his uniform cap off duty, I can't help feelin' some shocked, or wonderin' how much more'n a five-spot I'll be out by the time he leaves. It was some relief, though, to see that the glass eye was still in place, and know I wouldn't be called on to redeem the ticket on that, anyway.

"Hello, Snick!" says I. "Glad you came in,—I was just going. Hope you don't mind my lockin' the safe? No offense, you know."

"Can it, Shorty," says he. "There's no brace coming this time."

"Eh?" says I. "Once more with that last, and say it slower, so I can let it sink in."

"Don't kid," says he. "This is straight business."

"Oh!" says I. "Well, that does sound serious. In that case, who's your—er——Did he come in with you?"

I thought he did at first; but he seems so little int'rested in either Snick or me that I wa'n't sure but he just wandered in because he saw the door open. He's a high, well built, fairly good lookin' chap, dressed neat and quiet in black; and if it wa'n't for the sort of aimless, wanderin' look in his eyes, you might have suspected he was somebody in partic'lar.

"Oh, him!" says Snick, shootin' a careless glance over his shoulder. "Yes, of course he's with me. It's him I want to talk to you about."

"Well," says I, "don't he—er——Is it a dummy, or a live one? Got a name, ain't it?"

"Why, sure!" says Snick. "That's Hermy. Hey you, Hermy, shake hands with Professor McCabe!"

"Howdy," says I, makin' ready to pass the grip. But Hermy ain't in a sociable mood, it seems.

"Oh, bother!" says he, lookin' around kind of disgusted and not noticin' the welcomin' hand at all. "I don't want to stay here. I ought to be home, dressing for dinner."

And say, that gives you about as much idea of the way he said it, as you'd get of an oil paintin' from seein' a blueprint. I can't put in the pettish shoulder wiggle that goes with it, or make my voice behave like his did. It was the most ladylike voice I ever heard come from a heavyweight; one of these reg'lar "Oh-fudge-Lizzie-I-dropped-my-gum" voices. And him with a chest on him like a swell front mahog'ny bureau!

"Splash!" says I. "You mean, mean thing! So there!"

"Don't mind what he says at all, Shorty," says Snick. "You wait! I'll fix him!" and with that he walks up to Hermy, shakes his finger under his nose, and proceeds to lay him out. "Now what did I tell you; eh, Hermy?" says Snick. "One lump of sugar in your tea—no pie—and locked in your room at eight-thirty. Oh, I mean it! You're here to behave yourself. Understand? Take your fingers off that necktie! Don't slouch against the wall there, either! You might get your coat dusty. Dress for dinner! Didn't I wait fifteen minutes while you fussed with your hair? And do you think you're going to go through all that again? You're dressed for dinner, I tell you! But you don't get a bit unless you do as you're told! Hear?"

"Ye-e-es, sir," sniffles Hermy.

Honest, it was a little the oddest exhibition I ever saw. Why, he would make two of Snick, this Hermy would, and he has a pair of shoulders like a truck horse. Don't ever talk to me about chins again, either! Hermy has chin enough for a trust buster; but that's all the good it seems to do him.

"You ain't cast the hypnotic spell over him, have you, Snick?" says I.

"Hypnotic nothing!" says Snick. "That ain't a man; it's only a music box!"

"A which?" says I.

"Barytone," says Snick. "Say, did you ever hear Bonci or Caruso or any of that mob warble? No? Well, then I'll have to tell you. Look at Hermy there. Take a good long gaze at him. And—sh-h-h! After he's had one show at the Metropolitan he'll have that whole bunch carryin' spears."

"Is this something you dreamed, Snick," says I, "or is it a sample of your megaphone talk?"

"You don't believe it, of course," says he. "That's what I brought him up here for. Hermy, turn on the Toreador business!"

"Eh?" says I; then I sees Hermy gettin' into position to cut loose. "Back up there! Shut it off! What do I know about judgin' singers on the hoof? Why, he might be all you say, or as bad as I'd be willin' to bet; but I wouldn't know it. And what odds does it make to me, one way or another?"

"I know, Shorty," says Snick, earnest and pleadin'; "but you're my last hope. I've simply got to convince you."

"Sorry, Snick," says I; "but this ain't my day for tryin' out barytones. Besides, I got to catch a train."

"All right," says Snick. "Then we'll trot along with you while I tell you about Hermy. Honest, Shorty, you've got to hear it!"

"If it's as desperate as all that," says I, "spiel away."

And of all the plunges I ever knew Snick Butters to make,—and he sure is the dead gamest sport I ever ran across,—this one that he owns up to takin' on Hermy had all his past performances put in the piker class.

Accordin' to the way he deals it out, Snick had first discovered Hermy about a year ago, found him doin' the tray balancin' act in a porcelain lined three-off-and-draw-one parlor down on Seventh-ave. He was doin' it bad, too,—gettin' the orders mixed, and spillin' soup on the customers, and passin' out wrong checks, and havin' the boss worked up to the assassination point.

But Hermy didn't even know enough to be discouraged. He kept right on singsongin' out his orders down the shaft, as cheerful as you please: "Sausage and mashed, two on the wheats, one piece of punk, and two mince, and let 'em come in a hurry! Silver!" You know how they do it in them C. B. & Q. places? Yes, corned beef and cabbage joints. With sixty or seventy people in a forty by twenty-five room, and the dish washers slammin' crockery regardless, you got to holler out if you want the chef to hear. Hermy wa'n't much on the shout, so he sang his orders. And it was this that gave Snick his pipedream.

"Now you know I've done more or less tra-la-la-work myself," says he, "and the season I spent on the road as one of the merry villagers with an Erminie outfit put me wise to a few things. Course, this open air lecturing has spoiled my pipes for fair; but I've got my ear left, haven't I? And say, Shorty, the minute I heard that voice of Hermy's I knew he was the goods."

So what does he do but go back later, after the noon rush was over, and get Hermy to tell him the story of his life. It wa'n't what you'd call thrillin'. All there was to it was that Hermy was a double orphan who'd been brought up in Bridgeport, Conn., by an uncle who was a dancin' professor. The only thing that saved Hermy from a bench in the brass works was his knack for poundin' out twosteps and waltzes on the piano; but at that it seems he was such a soft head he couldn't keep from watchin' the girls on the floor and striking wrong notes. Then there was trouble with uncle. Snick didn't get the full details of the row, or what brought it to a head; but anyway Hermy was fired from the academy and fin'lly drifted to New York, where he'd been close up against the bread line ever since.

"And when I found how he just naturally ate up music," says Snick, "and how he'd had some training in a boy choir, and what a range he had, I says to him, 'Hermy,' says I, 'you come with me!' First I blows in ten good hard dollars getting a lawyer to draw up a contract. I thought it all out by myself; but I wanted the whereases put in right. And it's a peach. It bound me to find board and lodging and provide clothes and incidentals for Hermy for the period of one year; and in consideration of which, and all that, I am to be the manager and sole business representative of said Hermy for the term of fifteen years from date, entitled to a fair and equal division of whatsoever profits, salary, or emoluments which may be received by the party of the second part, payable to me, my heirs, or assigns forever. And there I am, Shorty. I've done it! And I'm going to stay with it!"

"What!" says I. "You don't mean to say you've invested a year's board and lodgin' and expenses in—in that?" and I gazes once more at this hundred and eighty-pound wrist slapper, who is standin' there in front of the mirror pattin' down a stray lock.

"That's what I've done," says Snick, shovin' his hands in his pockets and lookin' at the exhibit like he was proud of it.

"But how the—where in blazes did you get it?" says I.

"Squeezed it out," says Snick; "out of myself, too. And you know me. I always was as good to myself as other folks would let me. But all that had to be changed. It come hard, I admit, and it cost more'n I figured on. Why, some of his voice culture lessons set me back ten a throw. Think of that! He's had 'em, though. And me? Well, I've lived on one meal a day. I've done a double trick: on the wagon day times, night cashier in a drug store from nine till two a.m. I've cut out theaters, cigarettes, and drinks. I've made my old clothes last over, and I've pinched the dimes and nickels so hard my thumbprints would look like treasury dies. But we've got the goods, Shorty. Hermy may be the mushiest, sappiest, hen brained specimen of a man you ever saw; but when it comes to being a high class grand opera barytone, he's the kid! And little Percival here is his manager and has the power of attorney that will fix him for keeps if I know anything!"

"Ye-e-es?" says I. "Reminds me some of the time when you was backin' Doughnut to win the Suburban. Recollect how hard you scraped to get the two-fifty you put down on Doughnut at thirty to one, and how hard you begged me to jump in and pull out a bale of easy money? Let's see; did the skate finish tenth, or did he fall through the hole in his name?"

"Ah, say!" says Snick. "Don't go digging that up now. That was sport. This is straight business, on the level, and I ain't asking you to put up a cent."

"Well, what then?" says I.

Would you guess it? He wants me to book Hermy for a private exhibition before some of my swell friends! All I've got to do is to persuade some of 'em to give a little musicale, and then spring this nutmeg wonder on the box holdin' set without warnin'.

"If he was a Russki with long hair," says I, "or even a fiddlin' Czech, they might stand for it; but to ask 'em to listen to a domestic unknown from Bridgeport, Conn.——I wouldn't have the nerve, Snick. Why not take him around to the concert agencies first?"

"Bah!" says Snick. "Haven't we worn out the settees in the agency offices? What do they know about good barytone voices? All they judge by is press clippings and lists of past engagements. Now, your people would know. He'd have 'em going in two minutes, and they'd spread the news afterwards. Then we'd have the agents coming to us. See?"

Course I couldn't help gettin' int'rested in this long shot of Snick's, even if I don't take any stock in his judgment; but I tries to explain that while I mix more or less with classy folks, I don't exactly keep their datebooks for 'em, or provide talent for their after dinner stunts.

That don't head off Snick, though. He says I'm the only link between him and the set he wants to reach, and he just can't take no for an answer. He says he'll depend on me for a date for next Wednesday night.

"Why Wednesday?" says I. "Wouldn't Thursday or Friday do as well?"

"No," says he. "That's Frenchy's only night off from the cafe, and it's his dress suit Hermy's got to wear. It'll be some tight across the back; but it's the biggest one I can get the loan of without paying rent."

Well, I tells Snick I'll see what can be done, and when I gets home I puts the problem up to Sadie. Maybe if she'd had a look at Hermy she'd taken more interest; but as it is she says she don't see how I can afford to run the chances of handin' out a lemon, even if there was an op'nin'. Then again, so many of our friends were at Palm Beach just now, and those who'd come back were so busy givin' Lent bridge parties, that the chances of workin' in a dark horse barytone was mighty slim. She'd think it over, though, and see if maybe something can't be done.

So that's the best I can give Snick when he shows up in the mornin', and it was the same every day that week. I was kind of sorry for Snick, and was almost on the point of luggin' him and his discovery out to the house and askin' in a few of the neighbors, when Sadie tells me that the Purdy-Pells are back from Florida and are goin' to open their town house with some kind of happy jinks Wednesday night, and that we're invited.

Course, that knocks out my scheme. I'd passed the sad news on to Snick; and it was near noon Wednesday, when I'm called up on the 'phone by Sadie. Seems that Mrs. Purdy-Pell had signed a lady harpist and a refined monologue artist to fill in the gap between coffee and bridge, and the lady harper had scratched her entry on account of a bad case of grip. So couldn't I find my friend Mr. Butters and get him to produce his singer? The case had been stated to Mrs. Purdy-Pell, and she was willin' to take the risk.

"All right," says I. "But it's all up to her, don't you forget."

With that I chases down to Madison Square, catches Snick just startin' out with a load of neck stretchers, gives him the number, and tells him to show up prompt at nine-thirty. And I wish you could have seen the joy that spread over his homely face. Even the store eye seemed to be sparklin' brighter'n ever.

Was he there? Why, as we goes in to dinner at eight o'clock, I catches sight of him and Hermy holdin' down chairs in the reception room. Well, you know how they pull off them affairs. After they've stowed away about eleventeen courses, from grapefruit and sherry to demitasse and benedictine, them that can leave the table without wheel chairs wanders out into the front rooms, and the men light up fresh perfectos and hunt for the smokin' den, and the women get together in bunches and exchange polite knocks. And in the midst of all that some one drifts casually up to the concert grand and cuts loose. That was about the programme in this case.

Hermy was all primed for his cue, and when Mrs. Purdy-Pell gives the nod I sees Snick push him through the door, and in another minute the thing is on. The waiter's uniform was a tight fit, all right; for it stretches across his shoulders like a drumhead. And the shirt studs wa'n't mates, and the collar was one of them saw edged laundry veterans. But the general effect was good, and Hermy don't seem to mind them trifles at all. He stands up there lookin' big and handsome, simpers and smiles around the room a few times, giggles a few at the young lady who'd volunteered to do the ivory punishing, and then fin'lly he gets under way with the Toreador song.

As I say, when it comes to gems from Carmen, I'm no judge; but this stab of Hermy's strikes me from the start as a mighty good attempt. He makes a smooth, easy get-away, and he strikes a swingin', steady gait at the quarter, and when he comes to puttin' over the deep, rollin' chest notes I has feelin's down under the first dinner layer like I'd swallowed a small thunder storm. Honest, when he fairly got down to business and hittin' it up in earnest, he had me on my toes, and by the look on Sadie's face I knew that our friend Hermy was going some.

But was all the others standin' around with their mouths open, drinkin' it in? Anything but! You see, some late comers had arrived, and they'd brought bulletins of something rich and juicy that had just happened in the alimony crowd,—I expect the event will figure on the court calendars later,—and they're so busy passin' on the details to willin' ears, that Hermy wa'n't disturbin' 'em at all. As a matter of fact, not one in ten of the bunch knew whether he was makin' a noise like a bullfighter or a line-up man.

I can't help takin' a squint around at Snick, who's peekin' in through the draperies. And say, he's all but tearin' his hair. It was tough, when you come to think of it. Here he'd put his whole stack of blues on this performance, and the audience wa'n't payin' any more attention to it than to the rattle of cabs on the avenue.

Hermy has most got to the final spasm, and it's about all over, when, as a last straw, some sort of disturbance breaks out in the front hall. First off I thought it must be Snick Butters throwin' a fit; but then I hears a voice that ain't his, and as I glances out I sees the Purdy-Pell butler havin' a rough house argument with a black whiskered gent in evenin' clothes and a Paris model silk lid. Course, everyone hears the rumpus, and there's a grand rush, some to get away, and others to see what's doin'.

"Let me in! I demand entrance! It must be!" howls the gent, while the butler tries to tell him he's got to give up his card first.

And next thing I know Snick has lit on the butler's back to pull him off, and the three are havin' a fine mix-up, when Mr. Purdy-Pell comes boltin' out, and I've just offered to bounce any of 'em that he'll point out, when all of a sudden he recognizes the party behind the brunette lambrequins.

"Why—why," says he, "what does this mean, Mr. ——"

"Pardon," says the gent, puffin' and pushin' to the front. "I intrude, yes? A thousand pardons. But I will explain. Next door I am dining—there is a window open—I hear that wonderful voice. Ah! that marvelous voice! Of what is the name of this artist? Yes? I demand! I implore! Ah, I must know instantly, sir!"

Well, you know who it was. There's only one grand opera Napoleon with black whiskers who does things in that way, and makes good every trip. It's him, all right. And if he don't know a barytone voice, who does?

Inside of four minutes him and Hermy and Snick was bunched around the libr'y table, chewin' over the terms of the contract, and next season you'll read the name of a new soloist in letters four foot high.

Say, I was up to see Mr. Butters in his new suite of rooms at the St. Swithin, where it never rains but it pours. He'd held out for a big advance, and he'd got it. Also he'd invested part of it in some of the giddiest raiment them theatrical clothing houses can supply. While a manicure was busy puttin' a gloss finish on his nails, he has his Mongolian valet display the rest of his wardrobe, as far as he'd laid it in.

"Did I get let in wrong on the Hermy proposition, eh?" says he. "How about stayin' with your luck till it turns? Any reminder of the Doughnut incident in this? What?"

Do I debate the subject? Not me! I just slaps Snick on the back and wishes him joy. If he wants to credit it all up to a rabbit's foot, or a clover leaf, I'm willin' to let him. But say, from where I stand, it looks to me as if nerve and grit played some part in it.



CHAPTER XVIII

JOY RIDING WITH AUNTY

Was I? Then I must have been thinking of Dyke Mallory. And say, I don't know how you feel about it, but I figure that anybody who can supply me with a hang-over grin good for three days ain't lived in vain. Whatever it's worth, I'm on his books for just that much.

I'll admit, too, that this Dyckman chap ain't apt to get many credits by the sweat of his brow or the fag of his brain. There's plenty of folks would class him as so much plain nuisance, and I have it from him that his own fam'ly puts it even stronger. That's one of his specialties, confidin' to strangers how unpop'lar he is at home. Why, he hadn't been to the studio more'n twice, and I'd just got next to the fact that he was a son of Mr. Craig Mallory, and was suggestin' a quarterly account for him, when he gives me the warnin' signal.

"Don't!" says he. "I draw my allowance the fifteenth, and unless you get it away from me before the twentieth you might as well tear up the bill. No use sending it to the pater, either. He'd renig."

"Handing you a few practical hints along the economy line, eh?" says I.

"Worse than that," says Dyke. "It's a part of my penance for being the Great Disappointment. The whole family is down on me. Guess you don't know about my Aunt Elvira?"

I didn't, and there was no special reason why I should; but before I can throw the switch Dyke has got the deputy sheriff grip on the Mallorys' private skeleton and is holdin' him up and explainin' his anatomy.

Now, from all I'd ever seen or heard, I'd always supposed Mr. Craig Mallory to be one of the safety vault crowd. Course, they live at Number 4 West; but that's near enough to the avenue for one of the old fam'lies. And when you find a man who puts in his time as chairman of regatta committees, and judgin' hackneys, and actin' as vice president of a swell club, you're apt to rate him in the seven figure bunch, at least. Accordin' to Duke, though, the Mallory income needed as much stretchin' as the pay of a twenty-dollar clothing clerk tryin' to live in a thirty-five dollar flat. And this is the burg where you can be as hard up on fifty thousand a year as on five hundred!

The one thing the Mallorys had to look forward to was the time when Aunt Elvira would trade her sealskin sack for a robe of glory and loosen up on her real estate. She was near seventy, Aunty was, and when she first went out to live at the old country place, up beyond Fort George, it was a good half-day's trip down to 23d-st. But she went right on livin', and New York kept right on growin', and now she owns a cow pasture two blocks from a subway station, and raises potatoes on land worth a thousand dollars a front foot.

Bein' of different tastes and habits, her and Brother Craig never got along together very well, and there was years when each of 'em tried to forget that the other existed. When little Dyckman came, though, the frost was melted. She hadn't paid any attention to the girls; but a boy was diff'rent. Never havin' had a son of her own to boss around and brag about, she took it out on Dyke. A nice, pious old lady, Aunt Elvira was; and the mere fact that little Dyke seemed to fancy the taste of a morocco covered New Testament she presented to him on his third birthday settled his future in her mind.

"He shall be a Bishop!" says she, and hints that accordin' as Dyckman shows progress along that line she intends loadin' him up with worldly goods.

Up to the age of fifteen, Dyke gives a fair imitation of a Bishop in the bud. He's a light haired, pleasant spoken youth, who stands well with his Sunday school teacher and repeats passages from the Psalms for Aunt Elvira when she comes down to inflict her annual visit.

But from then on the bulletins wa'n't so favor'ble. At the diff'rent prep. schools where he was tried out he appeared to be too much of a live one to make much headway with the dead languages. About the only subjects he led his class in was hazing and football and buildin' bonfires of the school furniture. Being expelled got to be so common with him that towards the last he didn't stop to unpack his trunk.

Not that these harrowin' details was passed on to Aunt Elvira. The Mallorys begun by doctorin' the returns, and they developed into reg'lar experts at the game of representin' to Aunty what a sainted little fellow Dyke was growin' to be. The more practice they got, the harder their imaginations was worked; for by the time Dyckman was strugglin' through his last year at college he'd got to be such a full blown hickey boy that he'd have been spotted for a sport in a blind asylum.

So they had to invent one excuse after another to keep Aunt Elvira from seein' him, all the while givin' her tales about how he was soon to break into the divinity school; hoping, of course, that Aunty would get tired of waitin' and begin to unbelt.

"They overdid it, that's all," says Dyke. "Healthy looking Bishop I'd make! What?"

"You ain't got just the style for a right reverend, that's a fact," says I.

Which wa'n't any wild statement of the case, either. He's a tall, loose jointed, slope shouldered young gent, with a long, narrow face, gen'rally ornamented by a cigarette; and he has his straw colored hair cut plush. His costume is neat but expensive,—double reefed trousers, wide soled shoes, and a green yodler's hat with the bow on behind. He talks with the kind of English accent they pick up at New Haven, and when he's in repose he tries to let on he's so bored with life that he's in danger of fallin' asleep any minute.

Judgin' from Dyke's past performances, though, there wa'n't many somnolent hours in it. But in spite of all the trouble he'd got into, I couldn't figure him out as anything more'n playful. Course, rough housin' in rathskellers until they called out the reserves, and turnin' the fire hose on a vaudeville artist from a box, and runnin' wild with a captured trolley car wa'n't what you might call innocent boyishness; but, after all, there wa'n't anything real vicious about Dyke.

Playful states it. Give him a high powered tourin' car, with a bunch of eight or nine from the football squad aboard, and he liked to tear around the State of Connecticut burnin' the midnight gasolene and lullin' the villagers to sleep with the Boula-Boula song. Perfectly harmless fun—if the highways was kept clear. All the frat crowd said he was a good fellow, and it was a shame to bar him out from takin' a degree just on account of his layin' down on a few exams. But that's what the faculty did, and the folks at home was wild.

Dyke had been back and on the unclassified list for nearly a year now, and the prospects of his breakin' into the divinity school was growin' worse every day. He'd jollied Mr. Mallory into lettin' him have a little two-cylinder roadster, and his only real pleasure in life was when he could load a few old grads on the runnin' board and go off for a joy ride.

But after the old man had spent the cost of a new machine in police court fines and repairs, even this little diversion was yanked away. The last broken axle had done the business, and the nearest Dyke could come to real enjoyment was when he had the price to charter a pink taxi and inspire the chauffeur with highballs enough so he'd throw her wide open on the way back.

Not bein' responsible for Dyke, I didn't mind having him around. I kind of enjoyed the cheerful way he had of tellin' about the fam'ly boycott on him, and every time I thinks of Aunt Elvira still havin' him framed up for a comer in the Bishop class, I has to smile.

You see, having gone so far with their fairy tales, the Mallorys never got a chance to hedge; and, accordin' to Dyke, they was all scared stiff for fear she'd dig up the facts some day, and make a new will leavin' her rentroll to the foreign missions society.

Maybe it was because I took more or less interest in him, but perhaps it was just because he wanted company and I happened to be handy; anyway, here the other afternoon Dyke comes poundin' up the stairs two at a time, rushes into the front office, and grabs me by the arm.

"Come on, Shorty!" says he. "Something fruity is on the schedule."

"Hope it don't taste like a lemon," says I. "What's the grand rush?"

"Aunt Elvira is coming down, and she's called for me," says Dyke, grinnin' wide. "She must suspect something; for she sent word that if I wasn't on hand this time she'd never come again. What do you think of that?"

"Aunty's got a treat in store for her, eh?" says I, givin' Dyke the wink.

"I should gurgle!" says he. "I'm good and tired of this fake Bishop business, and if I don't jolt the old lady out of that nonsense, I'm a duffer. You can help some, I guess. Come on."

Well, I didn't exactly like the idea of mixin' up with a fam'ly surprise party like that; but Dyke is so anxious for me to go along, and he gets me so curious to see what'll happen at the reunion, that I fin'lly grabs my coat and hat, and out we trails.

It seems that Aunt Elvira is due at the Grand Central. Never having tried the subway, she's come to town just as she used to thirty years ago: drivin' to Kingsbridge station, and takin' a Harlem river local down. We finds the whole fam'ly, includin' Mr. and Mrs. Craig Mallory, and their two married daughters, waitin' outside the gates, with the gloom about 'em so thick you'd almost think it was a sea turn.

From the chilly looks they shot at Dyke you could tell just how they'd forecasted the result when Aunt Elvira got him all sized up; for, with his collar turned up and his green hat slouched, he looks as much like a divinity student as a bulldog looks like Mary's lamb. And they can almost see them blocks of apartment houses bein' handed over to the heathen.

As for Mr. Craig Mallory, he never so much as gives his only son a second glance, but turns his back and stands there, twistin' the ends of his close cropped gray mustache, and tryin' to look like he wa'n't concerned at all. Good old sport, Craig,—one of the kind that can sit behind a pair of sevens and raise the opener out of his socks. Lucky for his nerves he didn't have to wait long. Pretty soon in pulls the train, and the folks from Yonkers and Tarrytown begin to file past.



"There she is!" whispers Dyke, givin' me the nudge. "That's Aunt Elvira, with her bonnet on one ear."

It's one of the few black velvet lids of the 1869 model still in captivity, ornamented with a bunch of indigo tinted violets, and kept from bein' lost off altogether by purple strings tied under the chin. Most of the rest of Aunty was obscured by the hand luggage she carries, which includes four assorted parcels done up in wrappin' paper, and a big, brass wire cage holdin' a ragged lookin' gray parrot that was tryin' to stick his bill through the bars and sample the passersby.

She's a wrinkled faced, but well colored and hearty lookin' old girl, and the eyes that peeks out under the rim of the velvet lid is as keen and shrewd as a squirrel's. Whatever else she might be, it was plain Aunt Elvira wa'n't feeble minded. Behind her comes a couple of station porters, one cartin' an old-time black valise, and the other with his arms wrapped around a full sized featherbed in a blue and white tick.

"Gee!" says I. "Aunty carries her own scenery with her, don't she?"

"That's Bismarck in the cage," says Dyke.

"How Bizzy has changed!" says I. "But why the feather mattress?"

"She won't sleep on anything else," says he. "Watch how pleased my sisters look. They just love this—not! But she insists on having the whole family here to meet her."

I must say for Mr. Mallory that he stood it well, a heavy swell like him givin' the glad hand in public to a quaint old freak like that. But Aunt Elvira don't waste much time swappin' fam'ly greetin's.

"Where is Dyckman?" says she, settin' her chin for trouble. "Isn't he here?"

"Oh, yes," says Mr. Mallory. "Right over there," and he points his cane handle to where Dyke and me are grouped on the side lines.

"Here, hold Bismarck!" says Aunty, jammin' the brass cage into Mr. Mallory's arm, and with that she pikes straight over to us. I never mistrusted she'd be in any doubt as to which was which, until I sees her look from one to the other, kind of waverin'. No wonder, though; for, from the descriptions she'd had, neither of us came up to the divinity student specifications. Yet it was something of a shock when she fixes them sharp old lamps on me and says:

"Land to goodness! You?"

"Reverse!" says I. "Here's the guilty party," and I pushes Dyke to the front.

She don't gasp, or go up in the air, or throw any kind of a fit, like I expected. As she looks him over careful, from the sporty hat to the wide soled shoes, I notices her eyes twinkle.

"Hum! I thought as much!" says she. "Craig always could lie easier than he could tell the truth. Young man, you don't look to me like a person called to hold orders."

"Glad of it, Aunty," says Dyke, with a grin. "I don't feel that way."

"And you don't look as if you had broken down your health studying for the ministry, either!" she goes on.

"You don't mean to say they filled you up with that?" says Dyke. "Hee-haw!"

"Huh!" says Aunty. "It's a joke, is it? At least you're not afraid to tell the truth. I guess I want to have a little private talk with you. Who's this other young man?"

"This is Professor McCabe," says Dyke. "He's a friend of mine."

"Let him come along, too," says Aunty. "Perhaps he can supply what you leave out."

And, say, the old girl knew what she wanted and when she wanted it, all right! There was no bunkoin' her out of it, either. Mr. Mallory leads her out to his brougham and does his best to shoo her in with him and Mrs. Mallory and away from Dyke; but it was no go.

"I will ride up with Dyckman and his friend," says she. "And I want to go in one of those new automobile cabs I've heard so much about."

"Good! We'll get one, Aunty," says Dyke, and then he whispers in my ear, "Slip around the corner and call for Jerry Powers. Number 439. He can make a taxi take hurdles and water jumps."

I don't know whether it was luck or not, but Jerry was on the stand with the tin flag up, and inside of two minutes the three of us was stowed away inside, with the bag on top, and Dyke holdin' Bismarck in his lap.

"Now my featherbed," says Aunt Elvira, and she has the porter jam it in alongside of me, which makes more or less of a full house. Then the procession starts, our taxi in the lead, the brougham second, and the married sisters trailin' behind in a hansom.

"My sakes! but these things do ride easy!" says Aunty, settlin' back in her corner. "Can they go any faster, Dyckman?"

"Just wait until we get straightened out on the avenue," says Dyke, and tips me the roguish glance.

"I've ridden behind some fast horses in my time," says the old lady; "so you can't scare me. But now, Dyckman, I'd like to know exactly what you've been doing, and what you intend to do."

Well, Dyke starts in to unload the whole yarn, beginnin' by ownin' up that he'd scratched the Bishop proposition long ago. And he was statin' some of his troubles at college, when I gets a backward glimpse out of the side window at something that makes me sit up. First off I thought it was another snow storm with flakes bigger'n I'd ever seen before, and then I tumbles to the situation. It ain't snow; it's feathers. In jammin' that mattress into the taxi the tick must have had a hole ripped in it, and the part that was bulgin' through the opposite window was leakin' hen foliage to beat the cars.

"Hey!" says I, buttin' in on the confession and pointin' back. "We're losin' part of our cargo."

"Land sakes!" says Aunt Elvira, after one glance. "Stop! Stop!"

At that Dyke pounds on the front glass for the driver to shut off the juice. But Jerry must have had Dyke out before, and maybe he mistook the signal. Anyway, the machine gives a groan and a jerk and we begins skimmin' along the asphalt at double speed. That don't check the moltin' process any, and Dyke was gettin' real excited, when we hears a chuckle from Aunt Elvira.

The old girl has got her eyes trained through the back window. Thanks to our speed and the stiff wind that's blowin' down the avenue, the Mallory brougham, with the horses on the jump to keep up with us, is gettin' the full benefit of the feather storm. The dark green uniforms of the Mallory coachman and footman was being plastered thick, and they was both spittin' out feathers as fast as they could, and the Mallorys was wipin' 'em out of their eyes and ears, and the crowds on the sidewalk has caught on and is enjoyin' the performance, and a mounted cop was starin' at us kind of puzzled, as if he was tryin' to decide whether or not we was breakin' an ordinance.

"Look at Craig! Look at Mabel Ann!" snickers Aunt Elvira. "Tell your man to go faster, Dyckman. Push out more feathers!"

"More feathers it is," says I, shovin' another fold of the bed through the window. Even Bismarck gets excited and starts squawkin'.

Talk about your joy rides! I'll bet that's the only one of the kind ever pulled off on Fifth-ave. And it near tickles the old girl to death. What was a featherbed to her, when she had her sportin' blood up and was gettin' a hunch in on Brother Craig and his wife?

We goes four blocks before we shakes out the last of our ammunition, and by that time the Mallory brougham looks like a poultry wagon after a busy day at the market, while Aunt Elvira has cut loose with the mirth so hard that the velvet bonnet is hangin' under her chin, and Bismarck is out of breath. It's a wonder we wa'n't pinched for breakin' the speed laws; but the traffic cops is so busy watchin' the feather blizzard that they forgets to hold us up. Dyke wants to know if I'll come in for a cup of tea, or ride back with Jerry.

"Thanks, but I'll walk back," says I, as we pulls up at the house. "Guess I can find the trail easy enough, eh?"

I s'posed I'd get a report of the reunion from him next day; but it wa'n't until this mornin' that he shows up here and drags me down to the curb to look at his new sixty-horse-power macadam burner.

"Birthday present from Aunty," says he. "Say, she's all to the good, Shorty. She got over that Bishop idea months ago, all by herself. And what do you think? She says I'm to have a thousand a month, just to enjoy myself on. Whe-e-e! Can I do it?"

"Do it, son," says I. "If you can't, I don't know who can."



CHAPTER XIX

TURNING A TRICK FOR BEANY

Where'd I collect the Flemish oak tint on muh noble br-r-r-ow? No, not sunnin' myself down to Coney Island. No such tinhorn stunt for me! This is the real plute color, this is, and I laid it on durin' a little bubble tour we'd been takin' through the breakfast doughnut zone.

It was Pinckney's blow. He ain't had the gasolene-burnin' fever very hard until this summer; but when he does get it, he goes the limit, as usual. Course, he's been off on excursions with his friends, and occasionally he's chartered a machine by the day; but I'd never heard him talk of wantin' to own one. And then the first thing I knows he shows up at the house last Monday night in the tonneau of one of these big seven-seater road destroyers, all fitted out complete with spare shoes, hat box, and a double-decker trunk strapped on the rack behind.

"Gee!" says I. "Why didn't you buy a private railroad train while you was about it, Pinckney?"

"Precisely what I thought I was getting," says he. "However, I want you and Sadie to help me test it. We'll start to-morrow morning at nine-thirty. Be all ready, will you?"

"Got any idea where you're going, or how long you'll be gone?" says I.

"Nothing very definite," says he. "Purdy-Pell suggested the shore road to Boston and back through the Berkshires."

"Fine!" says I. "I'd love to go meanderin' through the country with you from now until Christmas; but sad to say I've got one or two——"

"Oh, Renee tells me we can make it in four days," says Pinckney, nodding at the chauffeur. "He's been over the route a dozen times."

Well, I puts the proposition up to Sadie, expectin' she'd queer it first jump; but inside of ten minutes she'd planned out just how she could leave little Sully, and what she should wear, and it's all fixed. I tried to show her where I couldn't afford to quit the studio for two or three weeks, just at this time of year, when so many of my reg'lars need tunin' up after their vacations; but my arguments don't carry much weight.

"Rubbish, Shorty!" says she. "We'll be back before the end of the week, and Swifty Joe can manage until then. Anyway, we're not going to miss this lovely weather. We're going, that's all!"

"Well," says I to Pinckney, "I've decided to go."

Now this ain't any lightnin' conductor rehash. Bubble tourin' has its good points, and it has its drawbacks, too. If you're willin' to take things as they come along, and you're travelin' with the right bunch, and your own disposition's fair to middlin', why, you can have a bang up time, just like you could anywhere with the same layout. Also, I'm willin' to risk an encore to this partic'lar trip any time I get the chance.

But there was something else I was gettin' at. It don't turn up until along durin' the afternoon of our second day out. We was tearin' along one of them new tar roads between Narragansett Pier and Newport, and I was tryin' to hand a josh to Renee by askin' him to be sure and tell me when we went through Rhode Island, as I wanted to take a glance at it,—for we must have been hittin' fifty an hour, with the engine runnin' as smooth and sweet as a French clock,—when all of a sudden there's a bang like bustin' a paper bag, and we feels the car sag down on one side.

"Sacre!" says Renee through his front teeth.

"Ha, ha!" sings out Pinckney. "My first blow-out!"

"Glad you feel so happy over it," says I.

It's a sensation that don't bring much joy, as a rule. Here you are, skimmin' along through the country, glancin' at things sort of casual, same's you do from a Pullman window, but not takin' any int'rest in the scenery except in a general way, only wonderin' now and then how it is people happen to live in places so far away.

And then all in a minute the scenery ain't movin' past you at all. It stops dead in its tracks, like when the film of a movin' picture machine gets tangled up, and there's only one partic'lar scene to look at. It's mighty curious, too, how quick that special spot loses its charm. Also, as a gen'ral rule, such things happen just at the wrong spot in the road. Now we'd been sailin' along over a ridge, where we could look out across Narragansett Bay for miles; but here where our tire had gone on the blink was a kind of dip down between the hills, with no view at all.

First off we all has to pile out and get in Renee's way while he inspects the damage. It's a blow-out for fair, a hole big enough to lay your two hands in, right across the tread, where we'd picked up a broken bottle, or maybe a cast horseshoe with the nails in it. Then, while he proceeds to get busy with the jack and tire irons, we all makes up our minds to a good long wait; for when you tackle one of them big boys, with the rims rusted in, it ain't any fifteen-minute picnic, you know.