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[Illustration: PROFESSIONAL JEALOUSY]
_SUBE CANE_
_BY_
EDWARD BELLAMY PARTRIDGE
[Illustration]
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
1917
COPYRIGHT
1917 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
[Illustration]
"Sube Cane"
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I BEFORE USING 1
II ASTONISHING RESULTS 16
III THE LAST SAD RITES 28
IV AN INTERRUPTED HAIRCUT 40
V OUT OF WHOLE CLOTH 49
VI REIMBURSEMENT 60
VII A NEW FACE 75
VIII IN THE LION'S CAGE 86
IX IN THE GOOD OLD SUMMER TIME 100
X HIS DAY 112
XI A FLYER IN CATS 124
XII THE FUGITIVES 135
XIII THE EVER-GLORIOUS FOURTH 149
XIV THE GHOSTS 160
XV BISCUIT LEARNS TO SWIM 174
XVI SANCTUARY 190
XVII AN OLFACTORY RETORT 200
XVIII OF HOLY WRIT 208
XIX SUBE THE SHOWMAN 218
XX TEN KNIGHTS IN A BARROOM 228
XXI THE BARNSTORMERS 242
XXII A SECOND-HAND WAR BABY 254
XXIII RUMORS OF FRAUD 264
XXIV THE AUCTIONEER 275
XXV STUNG 286
XXVI SUBE GOES TO THE MOVIES 298
XXVII TRIAL MERSHUM 309
XXVIII THE TIMBER CRUISER 322
XXIX THE PARTY 334
XXX THE TRUTH 347
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Professional jealousy _Frontispiece_
A great light broke on him 7
The sheriff flashed a light 22
"I ain't done a thing!" 40
"Look how he left me" 57
"Want another haircut?" 67
"Now what does he mean?" 114
"I'll show you!" 131
"See what I've got" 146
He beheld two white figures 171
"Plain and fancy swimming" 178
He would have liked one for a pet 210
The audience was spell-bound 221
"Who's goin' to be the little girl?" 237
"Perhaps I can save your life" 251
"We want to sell all this" 269
The auctioneer paused 278
Piercing shrieks greeted their appearance 319
"My father got it for me" 327
"Put the tray on the table" 344
SUBE CANE
CHAPTER I
BEFORE USING
Astride the ridgepole of his father's stable Sube Cane sat with the easy
grace of a range-rider, gently rising in his stirrups in unison with the
pounding of imaginary unshod hoofs on the soft turf of a dreamland
prairie, as he conversed in low tones with a dark-haired maiden who rode
in fancy beside him. And, as he rode, he gently rubbed his upper lip
with an index finger.
Nor was this rubbing the aimless wandering of an idle forefinger; it was
persistent and purposeful. For although Sube was only twelve years of
age and still in knickerbockers, he was set upon the propagation of a
mustache.
The desire and the opportunity of fulfillment had come to him at almost
the same instant. Voices in the library had attracted his attention a
few moments before, and pausing outside the door he had heard Dr.
Richards jovially expounding to his father the virtues of a large
sample bottle of hair restorer which apparently possessed all the
quickening agencies known to man, and was, with the trifling exception
of an unendurable odor, all that the name implied--a Boon for Baldness.
The doctor's intimation that the stuff would grow hair on the side of a
house aroused Sube's interest. And soon after the doctor's departure the
boy purloined the bottle from his father's medicine cabinet, and
strictly in the interest of scientific investigation rubbed a small
quantity on the side of the house.
It was during this experiment that the big idea was born. If it would
grow hair on the side of a house, why not--?
A pleasant vision floated before Sube's eyes. He saw himself beneath the
kindly disguise of a flowing mustache, mingling unrecognized among his
friends. Then suddenly the adoring eyes of Nancy Guilford penetrated his
mask. And she began to seek his forgiveness for having called him a kid;
and with a continuous crossing of her heart she promised over and over
that she would never again refer to the fact that she was two years
older than he.
"That's all right, Nance," he condescended to say; "we'll let that go.
But if you want to have a _man_ with a _mustache_ for a fellow, you've
got to promise that you'll never speak to Biscuit Westfall again as
long as you live--"
But before Nancy's promise could be recorded, cruel footsteps intruded
upon the vision. And slipping the bottle under his coat Sube retired to
the barn, where he made the first fragrant application to his upper lip,
and then retired to the roof, where there would be plenty of ventilation
while he rubbed it in.
And here Gizzard Tobin found him a short time afterwards, to Sube's
intense discomfiture, for the young mustache-raiser was caught like a
rat in a trap and with no adequate explanation for smelling to heaven.
Sube did not overwhelm his caller with the warmth of his welcome.
Gizzard noted the lack of cordiality, and with all the directness of his
twelve years started in to probe it to the bottom.
"Been gettin' a lickin'?" he inquired as he seated himself in front of
his companion.
"No, I ain't," grunted Sube.
"Then what's the matter of you?"
"Who said an'thing was?"
At this moment Gizzard caught a whiff of the unspeakable aroma. His face
lighted up at once. "Been hurt?" he asked eagerly.
Sube shook his head.
Obviously disappointed, Gizzard pursued his inquiries. "Then what makes
you smell so much like a horse doctor?" he asked.
Sube was in deep water. He couldn't tell Gizzard the truth about the
mustache! But what _could_ he tell? As nothing occurred to him, he made
a bluff at mumbling that he didn't "smell nuthin'," thereby arousing
Gizzard's compassionate derision.
At this tense moment there popped into Sube's mind an interesting bit of
news that he had gleaned from his eaves-dropping outside the library
door during the doctor's visit, and thinking that he might, by telling
it, distract Gizzard's attention from his quest of the engaging odor,
Sube dramatically glanced around as if to make sure that nobody was
near, and whispered behind his hand:
"Hey, Giz, heard the news about ol' Whiting that lives nex' door to Doc
Richards?"
Gizzard shook his head skeptically.
"Well, sir, when he went out on his porch to get his paper this morning,
what do you s'pose he found there in a basket?"
"Apples?"
"I should say _not_! He found a little girl baby, as red as a beet!"
Gizzard was inclined to belittle this announcement. "That's nuthin'," he
muttered; "the folks who live 'cross the street from us had twins last
week--"
"But you don't understand!" cried Sube impatiently. "This was a
_founding_!"
"A what?" asked Gizzard with a blank stare.
"A founding. It didn't have any mother or father, or an'thing 'xcept a
'nomynous letter."
"A _what_ letter?" demanded Gizzard.
"A 'nomynous letter," Sube explained loftily. "A letter without any name
signed to it but 'A Friend' or 'Taxpayer' or some'pm like that."
"What'd the letter say in it?"
"Oh, nuthin' 'xcept would ol' Whiting bring up the kid, and a verse from
the Bible about sufferin' little children. And, Giz--" Sube lowered his
voice to a strained whisper--"I know who the mother is!"
"What of it?" grunted Gizzard. "Don't I know who the mother of them
twins is?"
"Huh!" snorted Sube. "I guess you don't know it's against the law to
leave founding babies around like that! Why, every officer in this town
is tryin' to find out who the mother is, and _I'm_ the only one who
knows!"
That gave the matter an entirely different complexion. And Gizzard's
eyes were bright as he asked in an eager whisper, "Who is it?"
"Figger it out for yourself," responded Sube gravely. "Who do you know
that's got a face as red as a beet? That's the first thing. And don't
girl babies always look like their mothers? That's the second thing. And
who sat there in Sunday School a couple of Sundays ago and said that
verse about sufferin' little children more'n a dozen times?"
Gizzard gasped. "Her!" he cried. "Aw, you're way off! _She_ ain't got
any children!"
Sube smiled tolerantly. "It was her, all right, and I can prove it," he
asserted; and then, perceiving that Gizzard was again beginning to sniff
questioningly at the atmosphere, Sube proceeded to introduce his proof.
Of course, the greater part of this talk was mere subterfuge to gain
time; he had already told Gizzard all he knew. And the situation was
becoming desperate. With grownups any old explanation would have gone.
But with Gizzard it was different; the explanation of that odor must
sound true. So Sube vapored on hoping wildly that something would occur
to him.
He kept on talking about the foundling and her putative mother simply
because he couldn't think
[Illustration]
of anything else. And he had just reached the point where he was
explaining that a little detective work would be required to bring the
cruel mother to justice, when a great light broke over him. He saw a
very simple way out of his predicament; he could tell Gizzard that he
was raising the mustache for detective purposes, and Gizzard would never
suspect that Nancy Guilford was at the bottom of it.
For a moment he paused, his eyes squinted for serious effect, then said
in a tone of the strictest confidence, "Giz, if a feller's goin' to do
good detective work, he's got to have a good disguise. And _I'm_ goin'
to have a blinger!" He moved closer to Gizzard as he asked, "Don't you
smell some'pm?"
Gizzard rather thought he did.
Sube nodded significantly. "Well, that's it! I'm raisin' a mustache!"
Gizzard was thrilled. And as Sube eloquently unfolded the tale of the
magic bottle, his audience was aroused to a pitch of boisterous
enthusiasm. Then followed complications that Sube had not anticipated;
Gizzard, too, wanted to raise whiskers and become a detective.
And as there appeared to be no way to prevent it without risk of
exposure, Sube reluctantly took him in as a sort of Dr. Watson, and duly
anointed his cheeks in the interest of a pair of long, flowing
side-whiskers. A bristling mustache rather appealed to Gizzard, but was
denied him on the ground of priority. Sube had already started a
mustache, and there must be no duplications.
Boon for Baldness promised nothing within a week; and for the first time
in their life the boys found the spring vacation beginning to drag.
They pored over the pictures alleged to have been taken "Before Using"
and "After Using," until the poor chromos were ragged and worn; they
discussed the "astonishing results" that were guaranteed, until they had
exhausted all the possibilities of surprise, and still the time dragged.
Then, more as a diversion than anything else, they began to shadow the
suspected mother; and this they found so absorbing that Sube almost lost
sight of the original purpose for which he had started his mustache.
A careful log of the suspect's movements was kept in a pocket memorandum
book that came in the carton with the Boon for Baldness. The entries
were masterpieces of brevity.
Monday April 10
WHY BE BALD WHEN BOON FOR BALDNESS WILL COVER YOUR SCALP WITH
LUXURIANT SILKY HAIR?
Monday she went to see the cid [Transcriber's note: 'cid' crossed
out] kid
Tuesday April 11
SEE THAT DANDRUFF ON YOUR COAT COLLAR! BOON FOR BALDNESS WILL
PREVENT IT.
Tuesday she saw the kid again Afternoon she
bought a bottel of something at Westfalls drug Store
Wednesday April 12
BE MANLY! RAISE A BEARD! LET BOON FOR BALDNESS DO IT FOR YOU.
RESULTS GUARANTEED.
Saw kid again
The next few pages in addition to various suggestions for the production
and preservation of human hair, set forth the damning fact that the
suspect visited the foundling every day. And the boys continued to
watch; and as they watched, they attended to their hirsutoculture with
infinite pains. In the public use of the tiny pocket phials they had
both taken to carrying they soon became as expert as a vain woman in the
repairing of a damaged complexion. They could slip out the phial and
anoint the face without fear of detection; but they encountered numerous
obstacles and difficulties of another sort.
This was especially true in the case of Sube. For although the members
of his family were wholly unaware of his secret ambitions they took a
violent dislike to the scent he wore, and did everything in their power
to discourage his indulgence in it. As he sought to seat himself at the
table for his midday meal shortly after the first application, his
father detained him, and without asking or permitting explanations, sent
him back to wash his hands and face thoroughly with soap and hot water.
The boy went, muttering and rebellious; and by the time that he had
returned to the table his father had finished eating, and had gone into
the library, where he lighted a cigar and puffed furiously as he waited
for his fragrant son to finish his meal and report to him for
investigation.
Sube tarried at the table as long as was humanly possible in the hope
that his father would forget his appointment and go back to the office.
Mr. Cane was very far from doing any such thing. He had finished the
first cigar and begun on the second before Sube gave up, arose, folded
his napkin without being reminded, and walked reluctantly into the
library.
Mr. Cane was a lawyer of parts--none of them missing. He had been
overworking for years, and the long strain on his nerves had affected
him in a most peculiar way. It had made him super-sensitive to any
strong or unpleasant odor. He would go blocks out of his way to avoid
passing a livery stable. He had been known to get off from a trolley and
take the next car because of the presence among the passengers of a man
with his hand swathed with iodoform. He had refused even to consider the
purchase of an automobile on account of the reputed odor of gasoline.
And before such a tribunal came Sube, reeking of the unspeakable fumes
of the Boon, and clutching in the hand thrust deep down in his coat
pocket his emergency phial of the same, which he was determined to
defend with the last drop of his blood.
Mr. Cane motioned to a chair and cleared his throat. "Seward," he
began--
And at that moment the boy's memory performed a queer prank. It flashed
back to the day in Sunday School when he and his little classmate had
heard for the first time of his nickname-sake Tubalcain, the ancient
artificer in brass; to his anger when the name was combined with Seward
and made into Subal Cane; to his relief when it was worn down by use
into Sube Cane; and finally it got round to the apprehension that now
seized him whenever he was called by his own baptismal name--and he
squirmed in the chair as his father went on in a tone that was
alarmingly gentle.
"--you are twelve years old. You are at the portal of manhood. You are
old enough to take a little pride in your personal appearance, and your
personal--ah--your personal--well, you should be careful never to permit
yourself to become in any way offensive to others. You should take pride
in keeping sweet and clean. Now, my son, you got into something this
morning that has made you very distasteful company for man or beast.
Have you any idea what it is?"
As Mr. Cane resumed the vigorous puffing of his cigar, Sube's heart gave
a leap; his father hadn't recognized the smell! His mustache was safe!
"Why," the boy romanced easily, "if you mean the linimunt I put on my
leg, I know what _that_ is."
"Great heavens!" his father burst out. "Do you mean to say that you
intentionally contaminated yourself with any such evil-smelling stuff
as that?"
Sube quailed before his father's accusing stare and his more accusing
gestures. "I guess I hurt it, didn't I?" he mumbled defensively. "And
didn't I have to put some'pm on it? And that was the only linimunt--"
"Liniment!" snorted Mr. Cane. "Where did you ever get any such
'liniment' as that?"
"Sir?-- Why, out of a bottle," Sube managed to squirm out at last.
"Out of a bottle, eh? Well, bring me the bottle!"
Sube half started for the door, then halted. "I can't," he whimpered.
"Can't? Why not?" demanded his father.
"'Cause I dropped it and broke it," Sube faltered.
Mr. Cane was obviously relieved. "Oh, well," he said, "if that's the
case, never mind. But just as soon as one hour has elapsed I want you to
take a good hot bath. Now don't forget it!"
As Sube uttered a scowling but respectful "No, sir," and started to
leave the room his father noticed for the first time that he was limping
badly.
"Is your leg really hurt, my son?" he asked more kindly.
Sube's face was a study of excruciating pain as he paused to reply that
it was pretty bad and he was afraid a bath would make it a good deal
worse.
Mr. Cane was not a hard man. He wished to inflict no unnecessary
suffering on any one. Perhaps the application of hot water would be
painful. And doubtless the odor of the liniment would evaporate in an
hour or two.
"Never mind about the bath," he remitted as he began to gather up his
papers in preparation for going back to his office.
As he went down the front steps a few moments later, Mr. Cane narrowly
missed being run down by a youth who came bursting round the corner of
the house in pursuit of a fleeing cat; and recognizing the fleet-footed
pursuer as the erstwhile cripple, he scowled at the deception that had
been practiced on him. Then he was struck with humor of the situation,
and smiled in spite of himself.
"Miraculous liniment," he chuckled as he started down the street; "but
I'm mighty glad the bottle's been broken."