Wrong Number, locked up in the directors’ room of the White River
National, studied timetables and maps and newspaper clippings bearing
upon the Western pilgrimage of the Illyrian Commission. In fifty words
Webster G. Burgess had transferred to his shoulders full responsibility
for producing the Illyrians in the Burgess home, warning him it must be
done with all dignity and circumspection.
“That’s for expenses,” said Burgess, handing him a roll of bills. “This
job isn’t a bank transaction--you get me? It’s strictly a social event.”
Wrong Number betrayed no perturbation as the president stated the case.
Matters of delicacy had been confided to him before by his patron--the
study of certain horses he thought of buying and wished an honest
report on, the cautious sherlocking of a country-town customer who
was flying higher than his credit; the disposal of the stock of an
automobile dealer whose business had jumped ahead of his capital;--such
tasks as these Wrong Number had performed to the entire satisfaction of
his employer.
In a new fall suit built by Burgess’s tailor, with a green stripe
instead of a blue to differentiate it from the president’s latest, and
with a white carnation in his lapel (Mrs. Burgess provided a pink one
for Web every morning), Wrong Number brooded over this new problem for
two days before he became a man of action.
His broad democracy made him a familiar visitor to cigar stands,
billiard parlors, gun stores, soft drink bars and cheap hotels where
one encounters horsemen, expert trap shooters, pugilists, book-makers,
and other agreeable characters never met in fashionable clubs. After
much thought he chose as his co-conspirator, Peterson, a big Swede, to
whom he had advanced money with which to open a Turkish bath. As the
bath was flourishing the Swede welcomed an opportunity to express his
gratitude to one he so greatly admired; and besides he still owed Wrong
Number two hundred dollars.
“I want a coupla guys that will look right in tall hats,” said Wrong
Number. “You’ll do for one; you’ll make up fine for the Illyrian
Minister of Foreign Affairs,--he’s a tall chap, you’ll see from that
picture of the bunch being received at the New York city hall. Then
you want a little weazened cuss who won’t look like an undertaker in a
frock coat to stand for the Minister of Finance. We need four more to
complete the string and they gotta have uniforms. Comic opera hats with
feathers--you can’t make ’em too fancy.”
The Swede nodded. The Uniform Rank of the Order of the Golden Buck of
which he was a prominent member could provide the very thing.
“And I gotta have one real Illyrian to spout the language to the
delegation.”
“What’s the matter with Bensaris who runs a candy shop near where I
live? He’s the big squeeze among ’em.”
“We’ll go down and see him. Remember, he don’t need to know anything;
just do what I tell him. There’s a hundred in this for you, Pete, if
you pull it right; expenses extra.”
“The cops might pinch us,” suggested Peterson, warily. “And what you
goin’ to do about the Mayor? It says in the papers that the Mayor meets
the outfit at the Union Station.”
“If the cops ask the countersign tell ’em you turned out to meet the
remains of a deceased brother. And don’t worry about the Mayor. He’s
been over the Grand Circuit with me and brought his money home in a
trunk.”
He drew a memorandum book from his pocket and set down the following
items:
Pete. 2 silk hats; five uni.
Band.
Bensaris.
Mayor.
5 touring cars.
“The honor, it is too much!” pleaded Bensaris when Wrong Number and
Peterson told him all it was necessary for him to know, at a little
table in the rear of his shop. “But in the day’s paper my daughter read
me their excellencies be met at the Union Station; the arrange’ have
been change’?”
“The papers are never right,” declared Wrong Number. “And you don’t
need to tell ’em anything.”
“A lady, Mees Burgett, she came here to arrange all Illyrians go to
Relief office to sing the songs of my country. My daughter, she shall
dance and hand flowers to their excellencies!” cried Bensaris beaming.
“The Bensaris family will be featured right through the bill,” said
Wrong Number.
“It is too kind,” insisted Bensaris. “It is for the Mayor you make the
arrange’?”
“I represent the financial interests of our city,” Wrong Number
replied. “You want to go the limit in dressing up the automobiles; make
’em look like Fourth o’ July in your native O’Learyo. Where do we doll
’em up, Pete?”
A garage of a friend in the next block would serve admirably and
Peterson promised to co-operate with Bensaris in doing the job properly.
“Tail coat and two-gallon hat for Mr. Bensaris,” said Wrong Number.
“Pete, you look after that.” He pressed cash upon Mr. Bensaris and
noted the amount in his book. “We’ll call it a heat,” he said, and went
uptown to pilot Mr. Webster G. Burgess to a ten round match for points
between two local amateurs that was being pulled off behind closed
doors in an abandoned skating rink.