THE CAMPAIGN QUICKENS
Mr. Jarvis was as good as his word. Early in the afternoon he made his
appearance at the office of _Peaceful Moments_, his forelock more
than usually well oiled in honor of the occasion, and his right
coat-pocket bulging in a manner that betrayed to the initiated eye the
presence of his trusty "canister." With him, in addition, he brought a
long, thin young man who wore under his brown tweed coat a blue-and-red
striped sweater. Whether he brought him as an ally in case of need or
merely as a kindred soul with whom he might commune during his vigil,
did not appear.
Pugsy, startled out of his wonted calm by the arrival of this
distinguished company, gazed after the pair, as they passed into the
inner office, with protruding eyes.
John greeted the allies warmly, and explained Smith's absence. Mr.
Jarvis listened to the story with interest, and introduced his
colleague.
"T'ought I'd let him chase along. Long Otto's his monaker."
"Sure!" said John. "The more the merrier. Take a seat. You'll find
cigars over there. You won't mind my not talking for the moment?
There's a wad of work to clear up."
This was an overstatement. He was comparatively free of work, press day
having only just gone by; but he was keenly anxious to avoid
conversation on the subject of cats, of his ignorance of which Mr.
Jarvis's appearance had suddenly reminded him. He took up an old proof
sheet and began to glance through it, frowning thoughtfully.
Mr. Jarvis regarded the paraphernalia of literature on the table with
interest. So did Long Otto, who, however, being a man of silent habit,
made no comment. Throughout the seance and the events which followed it
he confined himself to an occasional grunt. He seemed to lack other
modes of expression.
"Is dis where youse writes up pieces fer de poiper?" enquired Mr.
Jarvis.
"This is the spot," said John. "On busy mornings you could hear our
brains buzzing in Madison Square Garden. Oh, one moment."
He rose and went into the outer office.
"Pugsy," he said, "do you know Broster Street?"
"Sure."
"Could you find out for me exactly when the man comes round collecting
the rents?"
"Surest t'ing you know. I knows a kid what knows anodder kid what lives
dere."
"Then go and do it now. And, after you've found out, you can take the
rest of the day off."
"Me fer dat," said Master Maloney with enthusiasm. "I'll take me goil
to de Bronx Zoo."
"Your girl? I didn't know you'd got a girl, Pugsy. I always imagined
you as one of those strong, stern, blood-and-iron men who despised
girls. Who is she?"
"Aw, she's a kid," said Pugsy. "Her pa runs a delicatessen shop down
our street. She ain't a bad mutt," added the ardent swain. "I'm her
steady."
"Well, mind you send me a card for the wedding. And if two dollars
would be a help--"
"Sure t'ing. T'anks, boss. You're all right."
It had occurred to John that the less time Pugsy spent in the outer
office during the next few days, the better. The lull in the warfare
could not last much longer, and at any moment a visit from Spider
Reilly and his adherents might be expected. Their probable first move
in such an event would be to knock Master Maloney on the head to
prevent his giving warning of their approach.
Events proved that he had not been mistaken. He had not been back in
the inner office for more than a quarter of an hour when there came
from without the sound of stealthy movements. The handle of the door
began--to revolve slowly and quietly. The next moment three figures
tumbled into the room.
It was evident that they had not expected to find the door unlocked,
and the absence of resistance when they applied their weight had
surprising effects. Two of the three did not pause in their career till
they cannoned against the table. The third checked himself by holding
the handle.
John got up coolly.
"Come right in," he said. "What can we do for you?" It had been too
dark on the other occasion of his meeting with the Three Pointers to
take note of their faces, though he fancied that he had seen the man
holding the door-handle before. The others were strangers. They were
all exceedingly unprepossessing in appearance.
There was a pause. The three marauders had become aware of the presence
of Mr. Jarvis and his colleague, and the meeting was causing them
embarrassment, which may have been due in part to the fact that both
had produced and were toying meditatively with ugly-looking pistols.
Mr. Jarvis spoke.
"Well," he said, "what's doin'?"
The man to whom the question was directly addressed appeared to have
some difficulty in finding a reply. He shuffled his feet, and looked at
the floor. His two companions seemed equally at a loss.
"Goin' to start anything?" enquired Mr. Jarvis, casually.
The humor of the situation suddenly tickled John. The embarrassment of
the uninvited guests was ludicrous.
"You've just dropped in for a quiet chat, is that it?" he said. "Well,
we're all delighted to see you. The cigars are on the table. Draw up
your chairs."
Mr. Jarvis opposed the motion. He drew slow circles in the air with his
revolver.
"Say! Youse had best beat it. See?"
Long Otto grunted sympathy with the advice.
"And youse had best go back to Spider Reilly," continued Mr. Jarvis,
"and tell him there ain't nothin' doing in the way of rough-house wit'
dis gent here. And you can tell de Spider," went on Bat with growing
ferocity, "dat next time he gits fresh and starts in to shootin' up my
dance-joint, I'll bite de head off'n him. See? Dat goes. If he t'inks
his little two-by-four crowd can git way wit' de Groome Street, he's
got anodder guess comin'. An' don't fergit dis gent here and me is
friends, and anyone dat starts anyt'ing wit' dis gent is going to find
trouble. Does dat go? Beat it."
He jerked his shoulder in the direction of the door.
The delegation then withdrew.
"Thanks," said John. "I'm much obliged to you both. You're certainly
there with the goods as fighting editors. I don't know what I should
have done without you."
"Aw, Chee!" said Mr. Jarvis, handsomely dismissing the matter. Long
Otto kicked the leg of a table, and grunted.
Pugsy Maloney's report on the following morning was entirely
satisfactory. Rents were collected in Broster Street on Thursdays.
Nothing could have been more convenient, for that very day happened to
be Thursday.
"I rubbered around," said Pugsy, "an' done de sleut' act, an' it's this
way. Dere's a feller blows in every T'ursday 'bout six o'clock, an' den
it's up to de folks to dig down inter deir jeans for de stuff, or out
dey goes before supper. I got dat from my kid frien' what knows a kid
what lives dere. An' say, he has it pretty fierce, dat kid. De kid what
lives dere. He's a wop kid, an Italian, an' he's in bad 'cos his pa
comes over from Italy to woik on de subway."
"I don't see why that puts him in bad," said John wonderingly. "You
don't construct your stories well, Pugsy. You start at the end, then go
back to any part which happens to appeal to you at the moment, and
eventually wind up at the beginning. Why is this kid in bad because his
father has come to work on the subway?"
"Why, sure, because his pa got fired an' swatted de foreman one on de
coco, an' dey gives him t'oity days. So de kid's all alone, an' no one
to pay de rent."
"I see," said John. "Well, come along with me and introduce me, and
I'll look after that."
At half-past five John closed the office for the day, and, armed with a
big stick and conducted by Master Maloney, made his way to Broster
Street. To reach it, it was necessary to pass through a section of the
enemy's country, but the perilous passage was safely negotiated. The
expedition reached its unsavory goal intact.
The wop kid inhabited a small room at the very top of a building
half-way down the street. He was out when John and Pugsy arrived.
It was not an abode of luxury, the tenement; they had to feel their way
up the stairs in almost pitch darkness. Most of the doors were shut,
but one on the second floor was ajar. Through the opening John had a
glimpse of a number of women sitting on up-turned boxes. The floor was
covered with little heaps of linen. All the women were sewing.
Stumbling in the darkness, John almost fell against the door. None of
the women looked up at the noise. In Broster Street time was evidently
money.
On the top floor Pugsy halted before the open door of an empty room.
The architect in this case had apparently given rein to a passion for
originality, for he had constructed the apartment without a window of
any sort whatsoever. The entire stock of air used by the occupants came
through a small opening over the door.
It was a warm day, and John recoiled hastily.
"Is this the kid's room?" he said. "I guess the corridor's good enough
for me to wait in. What the owner of this place wants," he went on
reflectively, "is scalping. Well, we'll do it in the paper if we can't
in any other way. Is this your kid?"
A small boy had appeared. He seemed surprised to see visitors. Pugsy
undertook to do the honors. Pugsy, as interpreter, was energetic, but
not wholly successful. He appeared to have a fixed idea that the
Italian language was one easily mastered by the simple method of saying
"da" instead of "the," and adding a final "a" to any word that seemed
to him to need one.
"Say, kid," he began, "has da rent-a-man come yet-a?"
The black eyes of the wop kid clouded. He gesticulated, and said
something in his native language.
"He hasn't got next," reported Master Maloney. "He can't git on to me
curves. Dese wop kids is all bone-heads. Say, kid, look-a here." He
walked to the door, rapped on it smartly, and, assuming a look of
extreme ferocity, stretched out his hand and thundered: "Unbelt-a!
Slip-a me da stuff!"
The wop kid's puzzlement in the face of this address became pathetic.
"This," said John, deeply interested, "is getting exciting. Don't give
in, Pugsy. I guess the trouble is that your too perfect Italian accent
is making the kid homesick."
Master Maloney made a gesture of disgust.
"I'm t'roo. Dese Dagoes makes me tired. Dey don't know enough to go
upstairs to take de elevated. Beat it, you mutt," he observed with
moody displeasure, accompanying the words with a gesture which conveyed
its own meaning. The wop kid, plainly glad to get away, slipped down
the stairs like a shadow.
Pugsy shrugged his shoulders.
"Boss," he said resignedly, "it's up to youse."
John reflected.
"It's all right," he said. "Of course, if the collector had been here,
the kid wouldn't be. All I've got to do is to wait."
He peered over the banisters into the darkness below.
"Not that it's not enough," he said; "for of all the poisonous places I
ever met this is the worst. I wish whoever built it had thought to put
in a few windows. His idea of ventilation was apparently to leave a
hole about the size of a lima bean and let the thing go at that."
"I guess there's a door on to de roof somewhere," suggested Pugsy. "At
de joint where I lives dere is."
His surmise proved correct. At the end of the passage a ladder, nailed
against the wall, ended in a large square opening, through which was
visible, if not "that narrow strip of blue which prisoners call the
sky," at any rate a tall brick chimney and a clothesline covered with
garments that waved lazily in the breeze.
John stood beneath it, looking up.
"Well," he said, "this isn't much, but it's better than nothing. I
suppose the architect of this place was one of those fellows who don't
begin to appreciate air till it's thick enough to scoop chunks out with
a spoon. It's an acquired taste, I guess, like Limburger cheese. And
now, Pugsy, old scout, you had better beat it. There may be a
rough-house here any minute now."
Pugsy looked up, indignant.
"Beat it?"
"While your shoe-leather's good," said John firmly. "This is no place
for a minister's son. Take it from me."
"I want to stop and pipe de fun," objected Master Maloney.
"What fun?"
"I guess you ain't here to play ball," surmised Pugsy shrewdly, eying
the big stick.
"Never mind why I'm here," said John. "Beat it. I'll tell you all about
it to-morrow."
Master Maloney prepared reluctantly to depart. As he did so there was a
sound of well-shod feet on the stairs, and a man in a snuff-colored
suit, wearing a brown Homburg hat and carrying a small notebook in one
hand, walked briskly up the stairs. His whole appearance proclaimed him
to be the long-expected collector of rents.