“Well, Magpie, you’re a rotten shot—that’s all I can say.”
“That goes triple, Homely,” grins Magpie. “You and Ike had an even
break. Let’s get out of here. Them scared Jaspers will likely call the
police.”
“Not them,” says Homely, “what they’d call a policeman for wouldn’t get
nobody in jail but themselves.”
We had a fine time finding our way out of there, but we manages to get
back to the hotel. Magpie is so happy over finding that hat that he
forgets the condition of his clothes.
“Some hat,” says he. “I told the clerk that I was from Brazil and wanted
a hat, and he told me that he had a hat that had been waiting for me a
long time. I’m supposed to be from Brazil, Homely.”
“Supposed to be?” asks Homely, who ain’t wise to our pilgrimage, so
Magpie sets down and tells him all about it.
Homely gets excited over it, and offers to help pull the stunt.
“I like Frankie,” says he, “and I hate dukes like ——! Let me have first
shot at him and I’ll go along with you.”
“I know how you feel about it, Homely,” says Magpie. “If a feller ain’t
never shot at one he naturally hankers for the experience. I shot at one
once, and I know the sensation, but this is going to be a safe, sane and
sanitary proposition. Sabe? Naturally I got a lot to say about who
spends the money I earned, and I ain’t in the market for no shop-worn
dukes, but I ain’t provoked enough to let you shoot him on sight. Come
with us if you like, Homely, but don’t pack no gun.”
“I’ll come,” agrees Homely. “Me and Ike will sort of hang around as a
body-guard, and shoot him when you throw him out.”
* * * * *
It’s quite some trip from St. Paul to Redfield, but the town was there
when we arrived. Some say it was there before the war, which gave the
inhabitants an alibi for fighting.
We climbs off the train and let it go on without us. We looks the place
over from an unprejudiced standpoint and found her lacking.
There ain’t a hitching-rack in sight, and the only bronc we can see has
got its tail cropped off short, and is being mishandled by a
skinny-looking person, wearing panties, who bobs in the saddle like he
had boils. He sure is careful of his saddle.
There’s quite a lot of folks at the depot and I’d reckon there ain’t
many strangers stop there, ’cause everybody stares at us.
We sort of mills around, looking for a place to go, when a dude-looking
feller busts out of that herd of inquisitives and pilgrims up to us.
“I beg your pardon,” says he to Magpie, “would you mind telling me who
you are, and all that, don’t you know? I’m with the _Clarion_.”
“Real estate, roulette or religion?” asks Magpie.
“Beg pardon? Oh, I see you misunderstood me. I’m a reporter. I—I thought
perhaps you—er—might be worth a story. You and your party are so—well,
different, don’t you know?”
“Story and a half,” grins Homely, looking up at Magpie, “go on and tell
the kid who you are, old-timer. Me and Harper will see that you get fair
play.”
“I am Whispering White from Brazil, and other seaports,” says Magpie,
and that feller’s eyebrows rise half an inch.
“Whispering White, the South American millionaire?” he gasps. “The man
who died, and then came back to life? The uncle of Marion White, who is
going to marry the duke?”
“No,” says Magpie, “who was going to marry him.”
The feller sure got busy on a piece of paper.
“When did you leave Brazil?” he asks.
Magpie scratches his head, and squints at me and Homely.
“When did we leave Brazil?” he asks. “In May, wasn’t it?”
“April first,” says I.
“And the rest of your party is?” he asks, indicating me and Homely.
“This one,” says Magpie, pointing at me, “this is ‘Bedrock’ Benson,
mayor of Pecan Province, and this other one is Homely Hobbs, the
greatest squirrel expert in South America, if not in the world.”
“Great stuff!” exclaims the feller. “What do you think of Redfield?”
“I knowed a man what got lynched for saying what he thought,” says
Magpie, “so I’ll just keep my face shut.”
“I suppose you’ll miss the palms and coconuts,” says the reporter,
grinning, and writing fast.
“The palms,” agrees Magpie. “Nuts are the same wherever you find them.
What is the best hotel in the place?”
He showed us a hotel, and when we pilgrims up to the front door we gets
assaulted by some fellers in band uniforms. Magpie chases one of them
all over the house, trying to get his valise back. After he nails this
feller he takes the valise away from him, picks him up and throws him
out of the front door.
“If the boss is in I’d admire to have you ask him if we can have a room
with a bed big enough for three men,” says Magpie to the person behind
the counter, “and I don’t want one with a dirty white pitcher setting
there in a cracked, white dishpan, either, and if the springs bust down
like they did in Silver Bend I’ll come down and tie that bedstead around
your darn neck. Sabe? Now do we connect with our desire or don’t we?”
“You-you-you—” stutters the feller, and he turns a big book around in
front of Magpie, and hands him a pen.
“Register,” says he. Magpie looks at the pen and book, and then at the
feller.
“I didn’t come here to vote,” says he, “I came here to sleep.”
“What name, please?” asks the feller, and Magpie gets mad.
“Young feller,” says he, “I don’t like this town. Folks want to know
your name and occupation the minute they see you. I’m Whispering White,
of Brazil. These two with me are Bedrock Benson and Homely Hobbs. We’re
all from Brazil. Now, do we get that room?”
“Yes, Mr. White,” says he, getting friendly all at once, “surely you do.
You’ll want rooms with bath?”
“Bath?” asks Magpie, turning to us, “you fellers dirty?”
“I got dusty crossing the ocean,” says I, and Homely speaks up:
“I’ll take a little bath with you, Whispering, if I lose. I’m game.”
A couple of fellers packs our grips over to a little room, and we all
goes in with them, and that room goes skyhooting toward the sky. We
found out later that they only built the stairs to keep folks from
falling down the hole.
It was before noon when we gets there, and along about two o’clock the
alarm rings. Homely sabes the thing, so he yells into the box on the
wall—
“What do you want?”