BEING SICCED ON PERCEY
Maybe it ain't figured in the headlines, or been noised around enough
for the common stockholders to get panicky over it, but, believe me, it
was some battle! Uh-huh! What else could you expect with Old Hickory
Ellins on one side and George Wesley Jones on the other? And me? Say,
as it happens, I was right on the firin' line. Talk about your drummer
boys of '61--I guess the office boy of this A. M. ain't such a dead one!
Course I knew when Piddie begins tiptoein' around important, and Mr.
Robert cuts his lunchtime down to an hour, that there's something in
the air besides humidity.
"Boy," says Old Hickory, shootin' his words out past the stub of a
thick black cigar, "I'm expecting a Mr. Jones sometime this afternoon."
"Yes, Sir," says I. "Any particular Jones, Sir?"
"That," says he, "is a detail with which you need not burden your mind.
I am not anticipating a convention of Joneses."
"Oh!" says I. "I was only thinkin' that in case some other guy by the
same names should----"
"Yes, I understand," he breaks in; "but in that remote contingency I
will do my best to handle the situation alone. And when Mr. Jones
comes show him in at once. After that I am engaged for the remainder
of the day. Is that quite clear?"
"I'm next," says I. "Pass a Jones, and then set the block."
If he thought he could mesmerize me by any such simple motions as that
he had another guess. Why, even if it had been my first day on the
job, I'd have been hep that it wa'n't any common weekday Jones he was
expectin' to stray in accidental. Besides, the minute I spots that
long, thin nose, the close-cropped, grizzly mustache, and the tired
gray eyes with the heavy bags underneath, I knew it was George Wesley
himself. Ain't his pictures been printed often enough lately?
He looks the part too, and no wonder! If I'd been hammered the way he
has, with seventeen varieties of Rube Legislatures shootin' my past
career as full of holes as a Swiss cheese, grand juries handin' down
new indictments every week end, four thousand grouchy share-holders
howlin' about pared dividends, and twice as many editorial pens
proddin' 'em along----well, take it from me, I'd be on my way towards
the tall trees with my tongue hangin' out!
Here he is, though, with his shoulders back and a sketchy, sarcastic
smile flickerin' in his mouth corners as he shows up for a hand-to-hand
set-to with Old Hickory Ellins. Course it's news to me that the
Corrugated interests and the P., B. & R. road are mixed up anywhere
along the line; but it ain't surprisin'.
Besides mines and rollin' mills, we do a wholesale grocery business,
run a few banks, own a lot of steam freighters, and have all kinds of
queer ginks on our payroll, from welfare workers to would-be statesmen.
We're always ready to slip one of our directors onto a railroad board
too; so I takes it that the way P., B. & R. has been juggled lately was
a game that touches us somewhere on the raw. Must be some kind of a
war on the slate, or Old Hickory'd never called for a topliner like
George Wesley Jones to come on the carpet. If it had been a case of
passin' the peace pipe, Mr. Ellins would be goin' out to Chicago to see
him.
"Mr. Jones, Sir," says I, throwin' the private office door wide open so
it would take me longer to shut it.
But Old Hickory don't intend to give me any chance to pipe off the
greetin'. He just glances casual at Mr. Jones, then fixes them
rock-drill eyes of his on me, jerks his thumb impatient over his
shoulder, and waits until there's three inches of fireproof material
between me and the scene of the conflict.
So I strolls back to my chair behind the brass rail and winks
mysterious at the lady typists. Two of 'em giggles nervous. Say, they
got more curiosity, them flossy key pounders! Not one of the bunch but
what knew things was doin'; but what it was all about would have taken
me a week to explain to 'em, even if I'd known myself.
And I expect I wouldn't have had more'n a vague glimmer, either, if it
hadn't been for Piddie. You might know he'd play the boob somehow if
anything important was on. Say, if he'd trotted in there once durin'
the forenoon he'd been in a dozen times; seein' that the inkwells was
filled, puttin' on new desk blotters, and such fool things as that.
Yet about three-fifteen, right in the middle of the bout, he has to
answer a ring, and it turns out he's forgotten some important papers.
"Here, Boy," says he, comin' out peevish, "this must go to Mr. Ellins
at once."
"Huh!" says I, glancin' at the file title. "Copy of charter of the
Palisades Electric! At once is good. Ought to have been on Mr.
Ellins's desk hours ago."
"Boy!" he explodes threatenin'.
"Ah, ditch the hysterics, Peddie!" says I. "It's all right now I'm on
the job," and with a grin to comfort him I slips through Mr. Robert's
room and taps on the door of the boss's private office before blowin'
in.
And, say, it looks like I've arrived almost in time for the final
clinch. Old Hickory is leanin' forward earnest, his jaw shoved out,
his eyes narrowed to slits, and he's poundin' the chair arm with his
big ham fist.
"What I want to know, Jones," he's sayin', "is simply this: Are your
folks going to drop that Palisades road scheme, or aren't you?"
Course, I can't break into a dialogue at a point like that; so I closes
the door gentle behind me and backs against the knob, watchin' George
Wesley, who's sittin' there with his chin down and his eyes on the rug.
"Really, Ellins," says he, "I can't give you an answer to that.
I--er--I must refer you to our Mr. Sturgis."
"Eh?" snaps old Hickory. "Sturgis! Who the syncopated sculping is
Sturgis?"
"Why," says Mr. Jones, "Percey J. Sturgis. He is my personal agent in
all such matters, and this--well, this happens to be his pet
enterprise."
"But it would parallel our proposed West Point line," says Mr. Ellins.
"I know," says G. Wesley, sighin' weary. "But he secured his charter
for this two years ago, and I promised to back him. He insists on
pushing it through too. I can't very well call him off, you see."
"Can't, eh?" raps out Old Hickory. "Then let me try. Send for him."
"No use," says Mr. Jones. "He understands your attitude. He wouldn't
come. I should advise, if you have any proposal to make, that you send
a representative to him."
"I go to him," snorts Mr. Ellins, "to this understrapper of yours, this
Mr. Percey--er----"
"Sturgis," puts in George Wesley. "He has offices in our building.
And, really, it's the only way."
Old Hickory glares and puffs like he was goin' to blow a cylinder head.
But that's just what Hickory Ellins don't do at a time like this. When
you think he's nearest to goin' up with a bang, that's the time when
he's apt to calm down sudden and shift tactics. He does now.
Motionin' me to come to the front, he takes the envelope I hands over,
glances at it thoughtful a second, and then remarks casual:
"Very well, Jones. I'll send a representative to your Mr. Sturgis.
I'll send Torchy, here."
I don't know which of us gasped louder, me or George Wesley. Got him
in the short ribs, that proposition did. But, say, he's a game old
sport, even if the papers are callin' him everything from highway
robber to yellow dog. He shrugs his shoulders and bows polite.
"As you choose, Ellins," says he.
Maybe he thinks it's a bluff; but it's nothing like that.
"Boy," says Old Hickory, handin' back the envelope, "go find Mr. Percey
J. Sturgis, explain to him that the president of the P., B. & R. is
bound under a personal agreement not to parallel any lines in which the
Corrugated holds a one-third interest. Tell him I demand that he quit
on this Palisades route. If he won't, offer to buy his blasted
charter. Bid up to one hundred thousand, then 'phone me. Got all
that?"
"I could say it backwards," says I. "Shake the club first; then wave
the kale at him. Do I take a flyin' start?"
"Go now," says Old Hickory. "We will wait here until five. If he
wants to know who you are, tell him you're my office boy."
Wa'n't that rubbin' in the salt, though? But it ain't safe to stir up
Hickory Ellins unless you got him tied to a post, and even then you
want to use a long stick. As I sails out and grabs my new fall derby
off the peg Piddie asks breathless:
"What's the matter now, and where are you off to?"
"Outside business for the boss," says I. "Buyin' up a railroad for
him, that's all."
I left him purple in the face, dashes across to the Subway, and inside
of fifteen minutes I'm listenin' fidgety while a private secretary
explains how Mr. Sturgis is just leavin' town on important business and
can't possibly see me today.
"Deah-uh me!" says I. "How distressin'! Say, you watch me flag him on
the jump."
"But I've just told you," insists the secretary, "that Mr. Sturgis
cannot----"
"Ah, mooshwaw!" says I. "This is a case of must--see? If you put me
out I'll lay for him on the way to the elevator."
Course with some parties that might be a risky tackle; but anyone with
a front name like Percey I'm takin' a chance on. Percey! Listens like
one of the silky-haired kind that wears heliotrope silk socks, don't
it? But, say, what finally shows up is a wide, heavy built gent with a
big, homespun sort of face, crispy brown hair a little long over the
ears, and the steadiest pair of bright brown eyes I ever saw. Nothing
fancy or frail about Percey J. Sturgis. He's solid and substantial,
from his wide-soled No. 10's up to the crown of his seven three-quarter
hat. He has a raincoat thrown careless over one arm, and he's smokin'
a cigar as big and black as any of Old Hickory's.
"Well, what is it, Son?" says he in one of them deep barytones that you
feel all the way through to your backbone.
And this is what I've been sent out either to scare off or buy up!
Still, you can't die but once.
"I'm from Mr. Ellins of the Corrugated Trust," says I.
"Ah!" says he, smilin' easy.
Well, considerin' how my knees was wabblin', I expect I put the
proposition over fairly strong.
"You may tell Mr. Ellins for me," says he, "that I don't intend to
quit."
"Then it's a case of buy," says I. "What's the charter worth, spot
cash?"
"Sorry," says he, "but I'm too busy to talk about that just now. I'm
just starting for North Jersey."
"Suppose I trail along a ways then?" says I. "Mr. Ellins is waitin'
for an answer."
"Is he?" says Percey J. "Then come, if you wish." And what does he do
but tow me down to a big tourin' car and wave me into one of the back
seats with him. Listens quiet to all I've got to say too, while we're
tearin' uptown, noddin' his head now and then, with them wide-set brown
eyes of his watchin' me amused and curious. But the scare I'm tryin'
to throw into him don't seem to take effect at all.
"Let's see," says he, as we rolls onto the Fort Lee ferry, "just what
is your official position with the Corrugated?"
I'd planned to shoot it at him bold and crushin'. But somehow it don't
happen that way.
"Head office boy," says I, blushin' apologizin'; "but Mr. Ellins sent
me out himself."
"Indeed?" says he. "Another of his original ideas. A brilliant man,
Mr. Ellins."
"He's some stayer in a scrap, believe me!" says I. "And he's got the
harpoon out for this Palisades road."
"So have a good many others," says Mr. Sturgis, chucklin'. "In fact, I
don't mind admitting that I am as near to being beaten on this
enterprise as I've ever been on anything in any life. But if I am
beaten, it will not be by Mr. Ellins. It will be by a hard-headed old
Scotch farmer who owns sixty acres of scrubby land which I must cross
in order to complete my right of way. He won't sell a foot. I've been
trying for six months to get in touch with him; but he's as stubborn as
a cedar stump. And if I don't run a car over rails before next June my
charter lapses. So I'm going up now to try a personal interview. If I
fail, my charter isn't worth a postage stamp. But, win or lose, it
isn't for sale to Hickory Ellins."
He wa'n't ugly about it. He just states the case calm and
conversational; but somehow you was dead sure he meant it.
"All right," says I. "Then maybe when I see how you come out I'll have
something definite to report."
"You should," says he.
That's where we dropped the subject. It's some swell ride we had up
along the top of the Palisades, and on and on until we're well across
the State line into New York. Along about four-thirty he says we're
most there. We was rollin' through a jay four corners, where the
postoffice occupies one window of the gen'ral store, with the Masonic
Lodge overhead, when alongside the road we comes across a little
tow-headed girl, maybe eight or nine, pawin' around in the grass and
sobbin' doleful.
"Hold up, Martin," sings out Mr. Sturgis to the chauffeur, and Martin
jams on his emergency so the brake drums squeal.
What do you guess? Why Percey J. climbs out, asks the kid gentle what
all the woe is about, and discovers that she's lost a whole nickel that
Daddy has given her to buy lolly-pops with on account of its bein' her
birthday.
"Now that's too bad, isn't it, little one?" says Mr. Sturgis. "But I
guess we can fix that. Come on. Martin, take us back to the store."
Took out his handkerchief, Percey did, and swabbed off the tear stains,
all the while talkin' low and soothin' to the kid, until he got her
calmed down. And when they came out of the store she was carryin' a
pound box of choc'late creams tied up flossy with a pink ribbon. With
her eyes bugged and so tickled she can't say a word, she lets go of his
hand and dashes back up the road, most likely bent on showin' the folks
at home the results of the miracle that's happened to her.
That's the kind of a guy Percey J. Sturgis is, even when he has worries
of his own. You'd most thought he was due for a run of luck after a
kind act like that. But someone must have had their fingers crossed;
for as Martin backs up to turn around he connects a rear tire with a
broken ginger ale bottle and--s-s-s-sh! out goes eighty-five pounds'
pressure to the square inch. No remark from Mr. Sturgis. He lights a
fresh cigar and for twenty-five minutes by the dash clock Martin is
busy shiftin' that husky shoe.
So we're some behind schedule when we pulls up under the horse chestnut
trees a quarter of a mile beyond in front of a barny, weather-beaten
old farmhouse where there's a sour-faced, square-jawed old pirate
sittin' in a home made barrel chair smokin' his pipe and scowlin'
gloomy at the world in gen'ral. It's Ross himself. Percey J. don't
waste any hot air tryin' to melt him. He tells the old guy plain and
simple who he is and what he's after.
"Dinna talk to me, Mon," says Ross. "I'm no sellin' the farm."
"May I ask your reasons?" says Mr. Sturgis.
Ross frowns at him a minute without sayin' a word. Then he pries the
stubby pipe out from the bristly whiskers and points a crooked finger
toward a little bunch of old apple trees on a low knoll.
"Yon's my reason, Mon," says he solemn. "Yon wee white stone. Three
bairns and the good wife lay under it. I'm no sae youthful mysel'.
And when it's time for me to go I'd be sleepin' peaceful, with none o'
your rattlin' trolley cars comin' near. That's why, Mon."
"Thank you, Mr. Ross," says Percey J. "I can appreciate your
sentiments. However, our line would run through the opposite side of
your farm, away over there. All we ask is a fifty-foot strip across
your----"
"You canna have it," says Ross decided, insertin' the pipe once more.
Which is where most of us would have weakened, I expect. Not Mr.
Sturgis.
"Just a moment, Friend Ross," says he. "I suppose you know I have the
P., B. & R. back of me, and it's more than likely that your neighbors
have said things about us. There is some ground for prejudice too.
Our recent stock deals look rather bad from the outside. There have
been other circumstances that are not in our favor. But I want to
assure you that this enterprise is a genuine, honest attempt to benefit
you and your community. It is my own. It is part of the general
policy of the road for which I am quite willing to be held largely
responsible. Why, I've had this project for a Palisades trolley road
in mind ever since I came on here a poor boy, twenty-odd years ago, and
took my first trip down the Hudson. This ought to be a rich,
prosperous country here. It isn't. A good electric line, such as I
propose to build, equipped with heavy passenger cars and running a
cheap freight service, would develop this section. It would open to
the public a hundred-mile trip that for scenic grandeur could be
equaled nowhere in this country. Are you going to stand in the way,
Mr. Ross, of an enterprise such as that?"
Yep, he was. He puffs away just as mulish as ever.
"Of course," goes on Percey, "it's nothing to you; but the one ambition
of my life has been to build this road. I want to do for this district
what some of our great railroad builders did for the big West. I'm not
a city-bred theorist, nor a Wall Street stock manipulator. I was born
in a one-story log house on a Minnesota farm, and when I was a boy we
hauled our corn and potatoes thirty miles to a river steamboat. Then
the railroad came through. Now my brothers sack their crops almost
within sight of a grain elevator. They live in comfortable houses,
send their children to good schools. So do their neighbors. The
railroad has turned a wilderness into a civilized community. On a
smaller scale here is a like opportunity. If you will let us have that
fifty-foot strip----"
"Na, Mon, not an inch!" breaks in Ross.
How he could stick to it against that smooth line of talk I couldn't
see. Why, say, it was the most convincin', heart-throbby stuff I'd
ever listened to, and if it had been me I'd made Percey J. a present of
the whole shootin' match.
"But see here, Mr. Ross," goes on Sturgis, "I would like to show you
just what we----"
"Daddy! Daddy!" comes a pipin' hail from somewhere inside, and out
dances a barefooted youngster in a faded blue and white dress. It's
the little heroine of the lost nickel. For a second she gawps at us
sort of scared, and almost decides to scuttle back into the house.
Then she gets another look at Percey J., smiles shy, and sticks one
finger in her mouth. Percey he smiles back encouragin' and holds out a
big, friendly hand. That wins her.
"Oh, Daddy!" says she, puttin' her little fist in Percey's
confidential. "It's the mans what gimme the candy in the pitty box!"
As for Daddy Ross, he stares like he couldn't believe his eyes. But
there's the youngster cuddled up against Percey J.'s knee and glancin'
up at him admirin'.
"Is ut so, Mon?" demands Ross husky, "Was it you give the lass the
sweeties?"
"Why, yes," admitted Sturgis.
"Then you shall be knowin'," goes on Ross, "that yon lassie is all I
have left in the world that I care a bawbee for. You've done it, Mon.
Tak' as much of the farm as you like at your own price."
Well, that's the way Percey J. Sturgis won out. A lucky stroke, eh?
Take it from me, there was more'n that in it. Hardly a word he says
durin' the run back; for he's as quiet and easy when he's on top as
when he's the under dog. We shakes hands friendly as he drops me
uptown long after dark.
I had all night to think it over; but when I starts for Old Hickory's
office next mornin' I hadn't doped out how I was goin' to put it.
"Well, what about Percey?" says he.
"He's the goods," says I.
"Couldn't scare him, eh?" says Old Hickory.
"Not if I'd been a mile high," says I. "He won't sell, either. And
say, Mr. Ellins, you want to get next to Percey J. The way I look at
it, this George Wesley Jones stiff ain't the man behind him; Percey is
the man behind Jones."
"H-m-m-m-m!" says Old Hickory. "I knew there was someone; but I
couldn't trace him. So it's Sturgis, eh? That being so, we need him
with us."
"But ain't he tied up with Jones?" says I.
"Jones is a dead dog," says Old Hickory. "At least, he will be inside
of a week."
That was some prophecy, eh? Read in the papers, didn't you, how G.
Wesley cables over his resignation from Baden Two Times? Couldn't
stand the strain. The directors are still squabblin' over who to put
in as head of the P., B. & R.; but if you want to play a straight
inside tip put your money on Percey J. Uh-huh! Him and Old Hickory
have been confabbin' in there over an hour now, and if he hadn't
flopped to our side would Mr. Ellins be tellin' him funny stories?
Anyway, we're backin' that Palisades line now, and it's goin' through
with a whoop.
Which is earnin' some int'rest on a pound of choc'lates and a smile.
What?