A NARROW ESCAPE
On a rainy evening in mid-September, a salesman for an Eastern
chemical firm invited Amidon to join him in a game of billiards at the
Whitcomb House. As Russell Kirby was one of the stars of the traveling
fraternity, Jerry was greatly honored by this attention. Moreover, when
he hung up his coat in the billiard room and rolled up the sleeves of
his silk shirt, the traveler’s arms proved to be thoroughly tanned--and
this impressed Jerry as indicating that Kirby indulged in the
aristocratic game of golf and did not allow the cares of business to
interfere with his lawful amusements. Kirby played very good billiards,
and did not twist his cigar into the corner of his mouth when he made
his shots, as most of Jerry’s friends did.
“The lid’s on a little looser in your town than it was last winter,”
remarked the envied one, sipping a ricky. “I suppose by following our
noses we could strike a pretty stiff game without going out into the
wet.”
“Oh, there’s always more or less poker around here,” replied Jerry,
unwilling to appear ignorant of the moral conditions of his own city.
He chalked his cue and watched Kirby achieve a difficult shot.
Billiards afforded Jerry a fine exercise for his philosophic temper,
steady hand, and calculating eye. He had developed a high degree of
proficiency with the cue in the Criterion Billiard Parlors. It was a
grief to him that in trying to live up to Eaton he had felt called upon
to desert the Criterion, where the admiration of lesser lights had been
dear to his soul.
“Big Rodney Sykes is here,” Kirby remarked carelessly. “They chased him
out of Chicago that last time they had a moral upheaval.”
Jerry was chagrined that he knew nothing of Big Rodney Sykes,
presumably a gambler of established reputation. To be a high-salaried
traveler, with a flexible expense account, was to be in touch with
the inner life of all great cities. Jerry’s envy deepened; it availed
nothing that he could beat this sophisticated being at billiards.
“Rather tough about that boss of yours,” Kirby continued. “It’s fellows
of his size that Big Rodney goes after. A gentleman’s game and no
stopping payment of checks the next morning.”
“Oh, the boss is no squab; I guess he’s sat in with as keen sharps as
Sykes and got out with carfare home,” replied Jerry.
“Of course; but on a hot night like this many a good man feels the
need of a little relaxation. It just happened”--he prolonged the
deliberation of his aim to intensify Jerry’s curiosity--“happened I saw
Copeland wandering toward Sykes’s room as I was coming down.”
“I guess the boss knows a thing or two,” replied Jerry easily, in a
tone that implied unlimited confidence in Copeland.
He was consumed with indignation that Kirby should be able to tell him
anything about Copeland. It had been done, too, with a neatness of
insinuation that was galling.
“Well, I guess,” persisted Kirby, “you miss old Uncle Tim at the store.
I used to have many a jolly row with Uncle Tim; he was one man it
never paid to fool with; but he was all right--just about as clean-cut
and straight a man as I ever fought discounts with. Uncle Tim was a
merchant,” he ended impressively as he bent over the table.
In calling Farley a merchant with this air of finality he implied very
clearly that William B. Copeland was something quite different, and
Jerry resented this imputation as a slur upon his house. Much as he
admired Kirby’s clothes and metropolitan ways, he hated him cordially
for thus speaking of Copeland, who was one of Kirby’s important
customers. Mere defeat was no adequate punishment for Kirby; Jerry
proceeded to make a “run” that attracted the admiring attention of
players at neighboring tables and precluded further discussion of
Copeland.
At midnight Kirby said he had had all the billiards he wanted and
invited Jerry to his room.
“I always like to tell people about their own town and I’ll show you
where they’re piling up the chips,” he remarked.
His room was opposite the elevator on the seventh floor, and having
unlocked his door he piloted Jerry round a corner and indicated three
rooms which he said were given over to gambling.
“If you give the right number of taps that first door will open,” said
Kirby, “but as an old friend I warn you to keep out.”
As they were turning away a telephone tinkled faintly in one of the
rooms and they heard voices raised excitedly, accompanied by the bang
of over-turned furniture.
“They’ve got a tip the cops are coming or there’s a fight,” said Kirby.
“Here’s where we fade!”
He led the way quickly back to his room, dragged Jerry in, and shut the
door.
While the sounds of hasty flight continued, the elevator discharged
half a dozen men and they heard the hotel manager protesting to the
police that it was an outrage; that the rooms they were raiding had
been taken by strangers, and that if there was anything wrong he wasn’t
responsible.
A few minutes later the return of the prisoners to the elevator
announced the success of the raid. Several of them were protesting
loudly against riding to the police station in a patrol wagon; others
were taking the whole matter as a joke. Above the confusion Copeland’s
voice rose drunkenly in denunciation of his arrest.
Kirby, anxious not to be identified even remotely with the sinners who
had been caught in their transgressions, had taken off his coat and was
lighting a cigar.
“Try one of these, Amidon. We’d better sit tight until the cops get out
of the building. Nice town this! Gambling in respectable hotels. No
doubt all those fellows are leading citizens, including--”
At this instant the electric lights were extinguished. The darkness
continued and Jerry opened the door and stuck his head out. Half the
prisoners had been sent down and the remainder were waiting for the
elevator to return. They growled dismally and somebody said it was a
good chance to give the cops the slip.
One of the policemen struck a match and held it up to light the
entrance to the car. Jerry’s eyes ran quickly over the group facing
the shaft, but he recognized none of the men. As the match died out a
prolonged, weary sigh near at hand caused him to start. Some one was
leaning against the wall close beside him. He reached out, caught the
man by the arm, drew him into the room and softly closed the door.
Kirby demanded to know what Amidon had done, and during the whispered
explanation the globes began to brighten. Jerry jumped for the switch
and snapped off the lights. He climbed on a chair and surveyed the hall
through the transom. The last officer was stepping into the elevator,
and some one demanded to know what had become of Billy Copeland.
“Oh, he went down in the first load,” replied another voice.
Then the door clanged and the hall was quiet.
“Turn on the lights,” commanded Kirby.
Copeland sat on the bed, staring at them foolishly.
“Wherenell am I?” he asked blinking. “Thiss jail or somebody’s parlor?”
“Your nerve, young man,” Kirby remarked to Jerry, “leaves nothing to be
desired. I suppose it didn’t occur to you that this is my room?”
“Oh, that will be all right. If the cops ain’t back here in ten
minutes, they’ll probably think he’s skipped; and they won’t waste time
looking for him; they know they can pick him up to-morrow, easy enough.”
“Zhat you, Kirby, good old boy; right off Broadway! Kind of you, ’m
sure. Good boy, Amidon; wouldn’t let your boss get hauled off in patrol
wagon. Raise wages for that; ’preciate it; mos’ grateful!”
“All right; but please stop talking,” Jerry admonished. “We’ll all get
pinched if the cops find out you’re here.”
“Los’ five thous; five thou-sand dollars; hons’ to God I did!”
Copeland’s face was aflame from drink and the heat, and unable to
comprehend what had happened to him he tumbled over on the bed. Kirby
eyed him contemptuously and turned upon Amidon angrily.
“This is a nice mess of cats! Would you mind telling me what you’re
going to do with our fallen brother? Please remember that reputation’s
my only asset, and if I get arrested my house might not pass it off as
a little joke!”
“Oh, cheer up and be a good sport! I know the boys at the desk
downstairs and I’m going to tell ’em you’ve cleared out to make way for
an old comrade of the Army of the Potomac. I’ll have you moved, and
then I’ll put the boss to bed.”
“Anything to please you,” said Kirby ironically, as Copeland began
to snore. “Your boss is lying on my coat and I hope you’ll have the
decency to pay for pressing it!”...
At ten the next morning Amidon called at the Whitcomb and found
Copeland half dressed. He had telephoned to his house for toilet
articles and clean linen and presented the fresh and chastened
appearance with which he always emerged from his sprees.
“I thought I’d drop in,” said Jerry, seating himself in the window.
“Been to the store?” asked Copeland from before the mirror where he was
sticking a gold safety pin through the ends of a silk collar.
“Yes; I took a look in.”
“Any genial policeman lying in wait for me?”
“Nothing doing! Everything’s all fixed.”
“Fixed? How fixed?”
“Oh, I know the way around the pump at the police court, and I had a
bum lawyer who hangs out there make the right sign to the judge. You
owe me forty-seven dollars--that includes ten for the lawyer.”
“Cheap at the price,” remarked Copeland. He had taken a check book from
the table and was frowningly inspecting the last stub.
“I didn’t come to collect,” said Jerry. “Any old time will do.”
“How did the rest of the boys come out?” asked Copeland, throwing the
book down impatiently.
“Oh, the big sneeze from Chicago got a heavy soaking. The judge took
it out on him for the rest of you. Wouldn’t do, of course, to send
prominent business men to the work-house. All fined under assumed
names.”
“Rather expensive evening for me. Much obliged to you just the same for
saving me a ride in the wagon.”
“Oh, that was easy,” said Jerry. “By the way, I guess we’d better slip
my lawyer friend another ten. He dug this up for you--no questions, no
fuss; all on the dead quiet.”
He drew from his trousers pocket a crumpled bit of paper and handed it
to Copeland.
Jerry was not without his sense of the dramatic. He rolled a cigarette
and watched Copeland out of the corner of his eye.
“See here, Jerry,” said Copeland quickly, “I don’t know about this. If
I gave that check, and I know I did, I’ve got to stand by it. It’s not
square--”
“Oh, I wouldn’t burst out crying about that!” remarked Jerry easily.
“Five thousand is some money, and the Chicago shark was glad enough to
have the check disappear from the police safe. You were stewed when you
wrote the check; and besides, it was a crooked game. Forget it; that’s
all!” He stretched himself and yawned. “Can I do anything for you?”
“It seems to me,” said Copeland, “that you’ve done about enough for
me for one day,--kept me out of jail and then saved me five thousand
dollars!”
“We do what we can,” replied Jerry. “Keep us posted and when in doubt
make the high sign. You’d better keep mum about the check. The deputy
prosecutor’s a friend of mine and I don’t want to get him into trouble.”
“It makes me feel a little better about that check to know that it
wasn’t good when I gave it,” remarked Copeland dryly. “I’ve only got
about a hundred in bank according to my stubs.”
“I was just thinking,” said Jerry, playing with the curtain cord, “as
I came down from the police court, that five thousand per night swells
the overhead considerable. This isn’t a kick; I just mention it.”
Copeland paused in the act of drawing on his coat to bestow a
searching glance upon his employee. He shook himself into the coat and
rested his hand on the brass bedpost.
“What’s the odds?” he asked harshly. “I’m undoubtedly going to hell and
a thousand or two, here and there--”
“Why are you going?” asked Jerry, tying a loop in the curtain cord.
Copeland was not prepared for this; he didn’t at once correlate
Amidon’s question with his own remark that had inspired it.
“Oh, the devil!” he ejaculated impatiently; and then he smiled ruefully
as he realized that there was a certain appositeness in his rejoinder.
The relations of employer and employee had been modified by the
incidents of the night and morning. Copeland imagined that he was
something of a hero to his employees, and that Jerry probably viewed
the night’s escapade as one of the privileges enjoyed by the more
favored social class. Possibly in his own way Amidon was guilty of
reprehensible dissipations and therefore disposed to be tolerant of
other men’s shortcomings. At any rate, the young fellow had got him
out of a bad scrape, and he meant to do something for him to show his
gratitude.
“Well, a man’s got to let loose occasionally,” he said, as he began
collecting his toilet articles.
“I suppose he has,” Amidon admitted without enthusiasm.
“I guess I ought to cut out these midnight parties and get down to
business,” said Copeland, as though recent history called for some such
declaration of his intentions.
“Well, it’s up to you,” Jerry replied. “You can let ’er slide if you
want to.”
“You mean that the house is sliding already?” Copeland asked.
“It’s almost worse than a slide, if you want to know. But I didn’t come
here to talk about that. There’s plenty of others can tell you more
about the business than I can.”
“But they don’t,” said Copeland, frowning; “I suppose--I suppose maybe
they’re afraid to.”
“I guess that’s right, too,” Jerry affirmed.
“Well, you’re in a position to learn what’s going on. I want to push
you ahead. I hope you understand that.”
“Oh, you treat me all right,” said Jerry, but in a tone that Copeland
didn’t find cheering.
“I mean to treat everybody right at the store,” declared Copeland
virtuously. “If any of the boys have a kick I want them to come
straight to me with it.”
Jerry laid his hand on the door ready for flight and regarded Copeland
soberly.
“The only kick’s on you, if you can bear to hear it. Everybody around
the place knows you’re not on the job; every drayman in the district
knows you’re out with a paintbrush every night, and the solid men
around town are saying it’s only a matter of time till you go broke.
And the men down at the store are sore about it; it means that one of
these mornings there’ll be a new shift and they’re likely to be out of
a job. Some of them have been there a long time, and they don’t like to
see the old business breaking down. And some of them, I guess, sort o’
like you and hate to see you slipping over the edge.”
During this speech Copeland stood with his cigarette-case half opened
in his hand, looking hard at the top button on Amidon’s coat.
“Well,” he said, thrusting a cigarette into his mouth and tilting it
upwards with his lips while he felt for a match, “go on and hand me the
rest of it.”
“I guess that’s about all from me,” replied Jerry, “except if you want
to bounce me right now, go ahead, only--let’s don’t have any hard
feeling.”
Copeland made no reply, and Jerry went out and closed the door. Then
in a moment he opened it, saw Copeland staring out across the roofs in
deep preoccupation, and remarked, deferentially:--
“I’ll carry your bag down, sir. Shall I order a taxi?”
“Never mind,” said Copeland, with affected carelessness; “I’ll attend
to it. I’m going to the store.”