“Set ’em up in the other alley!”
“My mistake, ma’am,” says Magpie. “It’s so blasted dark in here that I
didn’t see who I was kissing. Now that I can see you I’m ashamed of
myself.”
“Are you Samuel White?” she asks, and I can see the frost on her breath.
“Of Brazil, ma’am,” admits Magpie; “how’s the folks?”
“You wished to see Marion?”
“Gosh!” snorts Magpie. “I came all the way from Brazil, sent an army
officer to tell her I was here, and now I got to wish. All right,
auntie, I’ll wish. Now can I see her?”
“Uncle Samuel!” says the voice of a mocking bird behind me, and Ike
Harper got his first free kiss. Man, I’d orate aloud that she’s some
filly. Me and her exchanges hugs, and then I breaks the clinch.
“Ma’am,” says I, “you sure shows good judgment, but that long hombre
over there is your uncle.”
Magpie meets her half-way, and I can hear auntie sniff. Pretty soon they
breaks away, and looks foolish like at each other, and Magpie says:
“Ain’t you got no place where there’s light enough for us to see each
other? I don’t like this cell.”
“Let’s go out on the porch,” she suggests. “I want to meet the rest of
your friends.”
“I kissed your aunt,” says Magpie, apologetic like. “I’d have kissed
your uncle, too, but he was smoking a vile cigaret.”
Marion laughs like she was amused, and we all goes out on the verandy,
and gets used to each other’s looks. She’s some looker in the light, and
I says to myself—
“I don’t blame Frankie, and I’m glad she made that mistake.”
Homely watches her while he rolls a cigaret. She must have attracted him
some, ’cause he throws away his cigaret and puts the match in his mouth,
and says—
“Say, you ain’t going to marry no duke, are you?”
Her eyebrows goes up about an inch, and she stares at Homely.
“Ex-cuse me!” he gasps, and puffs hard on the match.
“Why,” says she, offended like, “why ask that when the announcements are
all out, and——”
“My ——!” says I. “More announcements, boys. When do we see the duke?”
“He’s at his hotel,” says Marion. “We are having a reception here
tonight. Perhaps you can arrange a meeting tomorrow.” And then her and
Magpie strolls away up the verandy for a personal visit, while me and
Homely takes off our boots to rest our feet, and sets down to wait for
him to break away.
We tells her we’re a heap glad to meet her, and then we goes back to the
hotel. Magpie has a drink with us, and then orates that he’s going to
buy some more clothes and get his hair cut. We don’t want to go with
him, so me and Homely pokes around the streets. Watching a hair cut is
my idea of nothing to see.
* * * * *
We’re standing on a corner when here comes Pinky in an automobile. He
didn’t aim to see us, I reckon, so me and Homely both yelled at him to
stop, and then we pilgrims out to his buggy. He didn’t tell us not to,
so we climbs in with him, just as a policeman comes up. He tips his hat
to Pinky, and says—
“Anything I can do for you, Mister Van Veen?”
Pinky looks at me and Homely, and his gills get sort of red, but then he
shakes his head—
“Nothing, Officer, thank you.”
“You sure stand in with the law, Van,” says Homely. “Let’s all go have a
drink. What do you say, Van?”
“Why—er—really, don’t you know, I’m afraid——”
“We’ll protect you with our lives,” states Homely. “Won’t we, Ike?”
“To the death,” says I. “Drive careful, ’cause I got a gun on my hip,
and it might jolt off and ruin a cushion.”
Pinky didn’t seem in the best of spirits, but he took us out in the
country to a place where they sells everything from soda water to souls.
He wanted to drink mineral water, but we objects so hard that he decides
in favor of real liquor.
Pinky is the hardest man I ever tried to get six drinks into, and after
that he’s the hardest to choke off. He sure did surprise me.
“Reshepshun tonight,” says he, wise as a owl. “Bes’ people in the city.
Duke’ll be there. Duke’s a lion—you know it?”
“Mostly all do lie more or less,” agrees Homely. “Are we invited?”
“Sure. Friends of mine—besshur life. Got evenin’ clothes?”
“Night-gown party, eh?” gulps Homely, along with a pint of liquor.
“Pass. I’m a respectable person, Van.”
“Dresh shuit,” says Pinky. “Le’s all go to tailor, eh? Get shuited for
party. What shay?”
“No argument,” agrees Homely. “If there’s any shooting going on you can
count me in. Lead us to Mister Tailor, and may the Lord have mercy on
his shoul.”
All of which shows that Homely is beginning to thicken. Me—I’m getting
beautifully primed.
We went to the tailor’s about a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth. Pinky
insists on dressing us right there, so we left our week day garments in
his care, and got back in that machine.
We’re pretty dry, so we hunts a place to wet them new suits. I don’t
like a coat you can’t button, and them pants are too tight to go over
the tops of my boots, so I tucks them inside. Pinky’s crazy any time he
thinks we’re going to dress up that much and then wear high collars and
white ties.
We tore them off in that palace of vice, and then bought us each a red
one, and two new rubber collars. Homely got a red four-in-hand, with
black horseshoes on, while I got a pure red one of the kind you can
cross and tie off each end to your suspenders.
I never felt so aristocratic in my life, and Homely looks like a actor.
He feels so good that he stands on the sidewalk and sings:
“I’m a buckaroo from Bucktown and I drinks my whisky clear.
I’m a rearin’ rootin’ tooter, a son-of-a-gambolier.”
The same of which makes a hit with Pinky, and we has to stand right
there and sing it until he learns the words. Then Pinky throws the quirt
into that automobile, and we ambles for home. Pinky would sure make good
on a cross-country drive after coyotes, but four wheels are too many,
and the road ain’t wide enough, ’cause he ignores the road entirely,
jumps a brush fence, skates all around over a nice grassy plot, and when
I wakes up I got flowers in my mouth and dirt in my ears.
Homely is setting there in a fountain, splashing water, and Pinky is
hugging a female statue, and whispering words of love into its ear. The
hind end of the automobile is sticking out of the side of a little lath
house covered with vines, and one wheel is still turning, and I wonders,
foolish like, if it will stop on 00 or the red.
I wipes the dirt off my face, and walks over to the wreck. Homely swims
to land, and Pinky gets disgusted when the lady don’t talk back to him,
so we all goes over inside the little house.
“Tha’s shame,” says Pinky, “never went in here before. Wife’ll have
shixteen fits—you know it? Peculiar woman is Louisa. Ever met her?”
“Whispering kissed her by mistake,” says I, and Pinky chuckles, and
looks wise.
“Tha’s bes’ way. Married her by mistake myshelf. I’m always making
mistakes—you know it? Have shixteen fits.”
“Bottle didn’t break,” announces Homely, fussing around inside the
automobile. “Let’s all have a snort and take a nap. Nice and cool in
here. Over the lips and through the gums: look out, Stummick, here she
comes.”
“That’s shome toast,” applauds Pinky. “Mush tell that at club. Ho,
hum-m-m-m-m!” and he went to sleep with his head through a busted wheel,
while me and Homely curls up on the seats.
“Homely,” says I, “are you comfortable?”
“Am now,” says he, “the front of this blasted shirt kept doubling up and
shutting off my wind, but now I got her bent out of the way. How do you
like Pinky?”
“Just like a cucumber—pickled but not raw. They upset my stummick.”
I don’t know how long I slept but when I woke up I can see a light
through the door of the shack, so I’d opine it’s after dark. Pinky and
Homely are snoring, so I rolls a smoke. Pretty soon I hears voices, male
and female.
“But my deah girl,” says the male voice, “you surely wouldn’t let a
boundah like that interfere. Brazil, indeed! He’s not your parent, and
when you are mine I’ll snap my fingers at him.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” says Marion’s voice. “I don’t think
it would scare him in the least. He surely is unconventional, and has
the quaintest pair of men with him.”
“Barbarians!” snorts this party, which I’d opine to be the duke, “fancy
throwing a bellboy out of the hotel when he essays to carry your
luggage. And they eat with their knives! Unconventional? I’d jolly well
say that they’re uncivilized and uncouth. Shall we enter the
Summer-house?”
“I wonder where uncle is?” says Marion. “He hasn’t been home since early
this afternoon, and auntie is simply furious.”
They ambles inside. I reckon it must be dark to them, cause they
stumbles over Pinky’s legs, and the duke sprawls all over a front wheel.
Marion cuts loose a little squeak, and I hears Pinky’s voice softly
singing:
“I’m a buckaroo from Bucktown, and I drinks my whisky clear.
I’m a rearin’, rootin’ tooter, a son-of-a-gambolier.”
“Uncle!” gasps Marion. “Uncle!”
“Say, what in —— is going on around here?” inquires Homely, sleepy like.
“Busting into a man’s room this way.”
I see him rise up in the machine, grab at something, and I sees a man,
with shiny hair, roll out of the doorway and weave toward the house. I
reckon Homely cast him fairly hard.
“Tha’s good!” proclaims Pinky. “Marion, I’m ’shamed of you. Go in the
house shooner or later. Homely, you old Injun, where’s that bottle?”
All of which shows that Pinky is getting civilized fast. Marion walks
out of there, sort of dazed like, and follers the duke.
“The duke says that we’re barbarians, Homely,” says I, “he says we eat
with our knives.”
“Huh! I’d rather be one than to eat with my fork—they leak.”
“Le’s go ’way,” says Pinky, “Marion will tell Louisa, and I’ll have to
come in the house. Best time I ever had, and I hope you decide to remain
here.”
“Not if I live,” says I, pushing my shirt down so I won’t look so
chesty. “Let’s all go in the house.”
“That’s sensible,” agrees Homely. “Hear the music? Let’s all go in and
sing a song.”
“Tha’s the stuff,” says Pinky; “all shing a shong. Don’t take a drink in
there, ’cause they drink punch. I got some in my room, and when that’s
gone we’ll kill the butler and rob the cellar. I’m a rearin’ rootin’
tooter—wish I lived in Brazil.”
“You’d do well there,” says Homely, “in fact, you’d flourish.”
We weaves around to the front door. Everything is decorated up, and some
folks are getting out of an automobile on to a strip of carpet, which
seems to lead into the door. We goes over and wipes our feet off, too,
locks arms and goes for the doorway.
That blamed army officer is there again. I’ll bet that hombre has got an
over-sized Adam’s apple or he’s studying the stars, ’cause he pokes his
long nose in the air and looks right over our heads. Me and Homely
shakes hands with him, and then gives his hand to Pinky, who shakes it,
hearty like.
“Shimmons,” says Pinky, earnest like, “we’d like to be announshed and
introdushed.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” says he, still looking up.
Homely looks him over, steps behind him and kicks him in the back of the
knees. We left him setting on the steps, and walked on.
“I’ll announsh us,” says Pinky. “Forward, marsh!”
* * * * *
Say, there was some herd in that room. I never seen so much of so many
ladies in my life, and I’d ’a’ likely went right out if I had been
sober. The men are all wearing unbuttoned coats like ours, so I feels
sort of at home. They all turns as we comes in, and Pinky waves his arms
like a windmill.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says he, loud like, “Mister Bedrock Benshon, and
Homely Hobbs, late of Brazil. Boys thish aggregation is all folks that
know me. They never had a good time in their lives, ’cause they’re
afraid to. Shake hands with ’em.”
Homely gathers in the hands of a tall, skinny dame, and it scared her
plumb sick.
I reckon she never shook hands with a man before. A feller tried to
dodge me, but I beat him to it, and give him some grip. He sure is a
lily-white person, with one weak eye, which he advertises by wearing
glass over it. When I shook his hand he almost wiggled out of his pants.
“Howdy,” says I; “how’s your folks?”
I reckon he’s hard of hearing, ’cause he just stares at me, so I hauls
him up close and yells in his ear—
“How’s your folks!”
He fainted in a chair.
“Mr. Benson!” says Marion’s voice, chiding like, and I turns.
She’s standing there looking at the feller in the chair, and then says
to me:
“Why—why, that’s the Duke of Northmore. Where is my uncle?”
Everybody is quiet for a second, and we hears Pinky’s voice:
“You can’t, eh? Shay you can’t play it? Oh, Homely! Thish orchestra
can’t play our song. Let’s shing without the music, eh?”
Auntie is standing there as white as a statue, and her eyes are as round
as saucers. She sure is frozen stiff, and just then I hears a voice that
I know. It’s Frankie Burt.
“My dear Mrs. Van Veen,” says he, low like, “let me handle the
situation, please. You don’t want a scene.” Then he turns to me, and
whispers: “Ike, get Homely and Van Veen, and I’ll show you where Van
Veen’s room is.”