Did you shut the hall door? That's right. There's no tellin' what's
liable to float in here any time. Say, if they don't quit it, I'll get
to be one of these nervous prostraters, that think themselves sick abed
without half tryin'. Sure, I'm just convalescin' from the last shock.
How? Now make a guess. Well, it was this way: I was sittin' right here
in the front office, readin' the sportin' dope and takin' me reg'lar
mornin' sunbath, when the door-buzzer goes off, and in drifts about a
hundred and ninety pounds of surprise package.
There was a foreign label on it, all right; but I didn't know until
later that it read "Made in Austria." He was a beefy sort of gent, with
not much neck to speak of, and enough curly black hair to shingle a
French poodle. He was well colored, too. Beats the cars, don't it, the
good health that's wasted on some of these foreigners?
But what takes my eye most was his trousseau. Say! he was dressed to the
minute, from the pink in his buttonhole, to the mother-of-pearl gloves;
and the back of his frock coat had an in-curve such as your forty-fat
sisters dream about. Why, as far as lines went, he had Jimmy Hackett and
Robert Mantell on the back shelf. Oh, he was a crusher, sure!
"I have the purpose of finding Prof-fes-seur McCabby," says he, reading
it off'n a card.
"If you mean McCabe," says I, "I'm discovered."
"Is it you that are also by the name of Shortee?" says he.
"Shorty for short," says I, "and P. C. D. on the end to lengthen it
out--Physical Culture Director, that stands for. Now do you want my
thumb-print, and a snap-shot of my family-tree?"
That seemed to stun him a little; but he revived after a minute, threw
out his chest, lifted his silk lid, and says, solemn as a new notary
public takin' the oath of office: "I am Baron Patchouli."
"You look it," says I. "Have a chair."
"I am," says he, gettin' a fresh start, "Baron Patchouli, of Hamstadt
and Duesseldorf."
"All right," says I, "take the settee. How are all the folks at home?"
But say, there wa'n't any use tryin' to jolly him into makin' a short
cut of it. He'd got his route of parade all planned out and he meant to
stick by it.
"Professeur McCabby--" says he.
"Don't," says I. "You make me feel like I'd been transplanted into
French and was runnin' a hack-line. Call it McCabe--a-b-e, abe."
"One thousand pardons," says he, and tries again. This time he gets
it--almost, and I lets him spiel away. Oh, mama! but I wish I could say
it the way he did! It would let me on the Proctor circuit, if I could.
But boiled down and skimmed, it was all about how I was a kind of
safety-deposit vault for everything he had to live for.
"My hopes, my fortune, my happiness, the very breath of my living, it is
all with you," says he as a windup, hittin' a Caruso pose, arms out,
toes in, and his breath comin' hard.
How was that for news from home? I did some swift surmisin', and then I
says, soothin' like: "Yes, I know; but don't take on about it so.
They're all right, just as you handed 'em over; only I asked me friend
the Sarge to lock 'em up till you called. We'll walk around and see the
Sarge right away."
"Ah!" says he, battin' his noble brow, "you do not comprehend. You make
to laugh. And me, I come to you from the adorable Sadie."
"Sadie?" says I. "Sadie Sullivan that was?"
He bows and grins.
"If you've got credentials from Sadie," says I, "it's all right. Now,
what's doing? Does she want me to match samples, or show you the sights
along the White Lane?"
"Ah, the adorable Sadie!" says he, rollin' his eyes, and puffin' out his
cheeks like he was tryin' the lung-tester. "I drive with her, I walk
with her, I sit by her side--one day, two day, a week. Well, what
happens? I am charm, I am fascinate, I am become her slave. I make to
resist. I say to myself: 'You! You are of the noble Austrian blood; the
second-cousin of your mother is a grand duke; you must not forget.' Then
again I see Sadie. Pouff! I have no longer pride; but only I luff. It is
enough. I ask of her: 'Madam Deepworth, where is the father of you?' She
say he is not. 'Then the uncle of you?' I demand. She say: 'I'm shy on
uncles.' 'But to who, then,' I ask, 'must I declare my honorable
passion?' 'Oh,' she say, 'tell it to Shorty McCabe.' Ha! I leap, I
bound! I go to M. Pinckney. 'Tell me,' I say, 'where is to be found one
Shorty McCabe?' And he sends me to you. I am come."
On the level, now, it went like that. Maybe I've left out some of the
frills, but that was the groundwork of his remarks.
"Yes," says I, "you're a regular come-on. I guess the adorable Sadie has
handed you a josh. She's equal to it."
But that got by him. He just stood there, teeterin' up and down on his
patent leathers, and grinnin' like a monkey.
"I say," says I, "she's run you on a sidin', dropped you down a
coal-hole. Do you get wise?"
Did he? Not so you would notice it. He goes on grinnin' and teeterin',
like he was on exhibition in a museum and I was the audience. Then he
gets a view of himself in the glass over the safe there, and begins to
pat down his astrakhan thatch, and punch up his puff tie, and dust off
his collar. Ever see one of these peroxide cloak models doin' a march
past the show windows on her day off? Well, the Baron had all those
motions and a few of his own. He was ornamental, all right, and it
wa'n't any news to him either.
About then, though, I begins to wonder if I hadn't been a little too
sure about Sadie. There's no tellin', when it comes to women, you know;
and when it hit me that perhaps, after all, she'd made up her mind to
tag this one from Austria, you could have fried an egg on me anywhere.
"Look here, Patchouli," says I. "Is this straight about you and Sadie?
Are you the winner?"
"Ah, the adorable Sadie!" says he, comin' back to earth and slappin' his
solar plexus with one hand.
"We've covered that ground," says I. "What I want to know is, does she
cotton to you?"
"Cot-_ton_? Cot-_ton_?" says he, humpin' his eyebrows like a French
ballad singer.
"Are you the fromage?" says I. "Is she as stuck on you as you are on
yourself? Have you made good?"
He must have got a glimmer from that; for he rolls his eyes some more,
breathes once like an air-brake bein' cut out, and says: "Our luff is
like twin stars in the sky--each for the other shines."
"It's as bad as all that, is it?" says I. "Well, all I've got to say is
that I'd never thought it of Sadie; and if she sent you down here on
approval, you can tell her I'm satisfied if she is."
I figured that would jar him some, but it didn't. He looked as pleased
as though I'd told him he was the ripest berry in the box, and before I
knew what was comin' he had the long-lost-brother tackle on me, and was
almost weepin' on my neck, splutterin' joy in seven different kinds of
language. Just then Swifty Joe bobs his head in through the gym. door,
springs that gorilla grin of his, and ducks back.
"Break away!" says I. "I don't want to spoil the looks of anythin' that
Sadie's picked out to frame, but this thing has gone about far enough.
If you're glad, and she's glad, then I ain't got any kick comin'. Only
don't rub it in."
[Illustration: He had the long-lost-brother tackle on me.]
Say, it was like talkin' to a deaf man, sayin' things to the Baron.
"She's mine, yes?" says he. "I have your permission, Professeur McCabe?"
"Sure," says I. "If she'll have you, take her and welcome."
Now you'd thought that would have satisfied him, wouldn't you? But he
acted like he'd got a half-arm jolt on the wind. He backed off and
cooled down as if I'd chucked a pail of water over him.
"Well," says I, "you don't want it in writin', do you? I'm just out of
permit blanks, and me secretary's laid up with a bad case of McGrawitis.
If I was you, I'd skip back and keep my eye on Sadie. She might change
her mind."
The Baron thought he'd seen a red flag, though. He put in a worry period
that lasted while you could count fifty. Then he forks out his trouble.
"It is not possible that I have mistake, is it?" says he. "I am learn
that Madam Deepworth is--what you call--one heiress? No?"
See? I'd been sort of lookin' for that; and there it was, as plain as a
real-estate map of Gates of Paradise, Long Island. Me bein' so free and
easy with tellin' him to help himself had thrown up a horrible suspicion
to him. Was it true that Sadie's roll was real money, the kind you
could spend at the store? And say, long's it was up to me to write her
prospectus, I thought I might as well make it a good one.
"Do you see that movin'-van out there?" says I.
The Baron saw it.
"And have you been introduced to these?" I says, flashin' a big,
wrist-size wad of tens and fives.
Oh, he was acquainted all right.
"Well," says I, "Sadie's got enough of these put away to fill two carts
like that."
Fetch him? Why, his fingers almost burnt a hole through his gloves.
"Ah-h-h!" says he, and takes a little time out to picture himself
dippin' into the family pocket-book.
Course, it wa'n't any of my funeral, but when I thinks of a sure-enough
live one, like Sadie, that I'd always supposed had a head like a
billiard table, gettin' daffy about any such overstuffed frankfurter as
this specimen, I felt like someone had shoved a blue quarter on me.
Worst of it was, I'd held the step-ladder for her to climb up where such
things grow.
I was gettin' rawer to the touch every minute, and was tryin' to make up
my mind whether to give the Baron a quick run down the stairs, or go
off an' leave him to dislocate his neck tryin' to see the small of his
back in the mirror; when in comes Pinckney, with that little sparkle in
his eyes that I've come to know means any kind of sport you're a mind to
name.
"Hello!" says he, givin' the Baron a hand. "You found him, eh? Hello,
Shorty. Got it all fixed, have you?"
"Say," says I, pullin' Pinckney over by the window, "did you put this up
on me?"
He said he didn't, honest.
"Then take your fat friend by the hand," says I, "and lead him off where
things ain't liable to happen to him."
"Why, what's up, Shorty?" says he. "Haven't you given him your blessing,
and told him to go in and win?"
"Switch off!" says I. "I've heard enough of that from the Baron to last
me a year. What's it all about, anyway? Suppose he has laid his plans to
Miznerize Sadie; what's he want to come hollerin' about it to me for?
I'm no matrimonial referee, am I?"
I knew somethin' was ticklin' Pinckney inside; but he put up a front
like a Special Sessions judge. "Baron," says he, callin' over to
Patchouli, "I forgot to mention that our friend, the professor, doesn't
understand the European system of conducting such affairs as this. If
you'll pardon me, I'll make it clear to him."
Well, he did and a lot more. It seems that the Baron was a ringer in the
set where Sadie and Pinckney had been doing the weekend house-party
act. He'd been travelin' on that handle of his, makin' some broad jumps
and quick shifts, until he'd worked himself up, from a visitor's card at
a second-rate down-town club, to the kind of folks that quit New York at
Easter and don't come back until the snow flies again. They don't squint
too close at a title in that crowd, you know.
First thing the Baron hears, of course, is about the Drowsy Drop dollars
and the girl that's got 'em. He don't lose any time after that in makin'
up to Sadie. He freezes to her like a Park Row wuxtree boy does to a
turkey drumstick at a newsies' Christmas dinner, and for Pinckney and
the rest of 'em it was as good as a play.
"Huh!" says I. "You're easy pleased, ain't you? But I want to tell you
that it grouches me a lot to think that Sadie'd fall for any such
wad-huntin' party as that."
"What ho!" says Pinckney. "Here's a complication that we hadn't
suspected."
"Meanin' which?" says I.
"Perhaps it would be better to postpone that explanation," says he;
"but I sympathize with your state of mind, Shorty. However, what's done
is done, and meanwhile the Baron is waiting."
"It wouldn't surprise me none," says I, "to hear that that's his trade.
But say, what kind of a steer is it that brings him to me? I ain't got
that straight yet."
Pinckney goes on to say as how the foreign style of negotiatin' for a
girl is more or less of a business proposition; and that Sadie, not
havin' any old folks handy to make the deal, and maybe not havin' the
game clear in her own mind, shoves him my way, just off-hand.
"To be sure," says Pinckney, "whatever arrangements you may happen to
make will not be binding, but they will satisfy the Baron. So just act
as if you had full authority, and we'll see if there are any little
details that he wants to mention."
Sure enough, there was. He handed 'em to me easy; oh, nice and easy! He
didn't want much for a starter--just a trifle put within easy reach
before the knot was tied, a mere matter of ten million francs.
"No Jims nor Joes?" says I.
"The Baron is accustomed to reckoning in francs," says Pinckney. "He
means two million dollars."
"Two million cases?" says I, catchin' my breath. Well, say! I had to
take another look at him. If I could think as well of myself as that I
wouldn't ask no better.
"Patchouli," says I, "you're too modest. You shouldn't put yourself on
the bargain counter like that."
The Baron looks like I'd said somethin' to him in Chinese.
"The professor thinks that demand is quite reasonable, considering all
things," says Pinckney.
And that went with the Baron. Then he has to shake hands all round,
same's if we'd signed terms for a championship go, and him and Pinckney
gets under way for some private high-ball factory over on the avenue. I
wa'n't sorry to lose 'em. Somehow I wanted to get my mind on something
else.
Well, I put in a busy mornin', tryin' to teach blocks and jabs to a
couple of youngsters that thinks boxin' is a kind of wrist exercise,
like piano-playin', and I'd got a pound or so off a nice plump old
Bishop, who comes here for hand-ball and stunts like that. I was still
feelin' a bit ugly and wishin' there was somethin' sizable around to
take it out on, when in comes Curly Locks and Pinckney again.
"Has he made up his mind that he wants my wad, too?" says I to Pinckney.
"No," says he. "The Baron has discovered that up where Sadie is staying
the law requires a prospective bridegroom to equip himself with a
marriage license. He thinks he will get one in town and take it back
with him. Now, as you know all about such things, Shorty, and as I have
an appointment at twelve-thirty, I'll leave the Baron with you. So
long!" and he gives me the wink as he slides out.
Say, I had my cue this trip, all right. I couldn't see just why it was,
but the Baron had been passed up to me. He was mine for keeps. I could
hang him out for a sign, or wire a pan to him. And he was as innocent,
the Baron was, as a new boy sent to the harness shop after strap oil.
He'd got his eyes fixed on the Drowsy Drops bank-account, and he
couldn't see anything else. He must have sized me up as a sort of Santa
Claus that didn't have anything to do between seasons but to be good to
his kind.
"So you want to take out a license, do you?" says I, comin' a Mr. Smooth
play.
"If the professeur would be so oblige," says he.
"Oh, sure," says I. "That's my steady job. A marriage license, eh?"
I had a nineteenth-story view of the scheme he'd built up. He means to
go back heeled with the permit from me, with the little matter of the
two million ready all cinched, and the weddin'-papers in his inside
pocket. Then he does the whirlwind rush at Sadie, and as he dopes it out
to himself, figurin' on what a crusher he is, he don't see how he can
lose. And I suppose he thinks he can buy a marriage license most
anywhere, same's you can a money-order.
With that I had a stroke of thought. They don't hit me very often, but
when they do, they come hard. I had to go over to the water cooler and
grin into the tumbler. Then I walks up to the Baron and taps him on the
chest.
"Patchouli," says I, "you come with me. I'll get you a Romeo outfit
that'll astonish the natives."
It took me about two hours, chasin' him down to the Bureau of Licenses,
and huntin' up me old side partner, Jimmy Fitzpatrick, that's the main
guy there. But I didn't grudge the time. Jimmy helped me out a lot. He's
a keen one, Jimmy is, and when he'd got next, he threw in a lot of
flourishes just where they was needed most. He never cracked a smile,
either, when the Baron tipped him a dime.
I didn't let loose of Patchouli until I'd seen him stow away that sealed
envelope, and had put him aboard the right train at the Grand Central.
Then I went back to the Studio lookin' so contented that Swifty struck
me for a raise.
That was on a Monday. Long about Thursday I thought I might get word
from Pinckney, or some of 'em; but there was nothin' doin'.
"Somebody's put Curly Locks wise," thinks I, "or else he's sneaked away
to jump off the dock."
I didn't have anyone on that afternoon; so I was just workin' off a
little steam on a punchin'-bag, doing the long roll and a few other
stunts. I was getting nicely warmed up, and hittin' the balloon at the
rate of about a hundred and fifty raps a minute, when I hears somebody
break past Swifty and roar out:
"Where he iss? Let me to him!"
It was the Baron, his mustache bristlin' out like a bottle-cleaner, and
blood in his eye. "Ha-r-r-r!" says he in real heavy-villain style. "You
make me a joke, you?"
"G'wan!" says I over me shoulder. "You was born a joke. Sit down and
cool off; for it's your next," and with that I goes at the bag again.
Say, it ain't much of a trick to fight the bag, y'know. Most any
Y. M. C. A. kid can get the knack of catchin' it on his elbows and
collarbone, makin' it drum out a tune like the finish of a Dutch opera.
And that's about all I was doin', only chuckin' a few extra pounds into
it maybe. But if you don't know how easy it is, it looks like a
curtain-raiser for manslaughter. And I reckon the Baron hadn't any idea
I'd strip as bunchy as I do.
Course, there's no tellin' just what went on in his mind while he stood
there. Swifty says his mouth come open gradual, like a bridge draw
that's being swung for a tug; and his eyes began to bug out, and the
noble Austrian assault-and-battery blood faded out of his face same's
the red does in one of Belasco's sunsets. And pretty soon, when I
thought my little grandstand play'd had a chance to sink in, I throws a
good stiff one into the bag, ducks from under, and turns around to sing
out "Next!" to the Baron.
But he wa'n't in sight. Pinckney was there though, and Sadie behind him,
both lookin' wild.
"Hello!" says I. "Where's Patchouli? He was anxious to see me a minute
ago."
"He seemed anxious not to, when he passed us on the stairs just now,"
says Pinckney.
"Did he leave any word?" says I.
"He just said 'Bah!' and jumped into a cab," says Pinckney.
"He didn't hurt you, did he?" says Sadie.
"What, him?" says I. "Not that I know about. But I've got this to tell
you, Mrs. Dipworthy: if you put any high value on your new steady,
you'd better chase him off this reservation."
"Why, Shorty McCabe!" says she, takin' me by the shoulders and turnin'
them blue eyes of hers straight at me. "My new steady? That--that
woolly-haired freak?"
Say, you could have slipped me into the penny slot of a gum machine. Oh,
fudge! Piffle! Splash! It's a wonder when I walk I don't make a noise
like a sponge--I take some things in so easy. Is it curious my head
never aches?
Pinckney sees how bad I was feelin', and he cuts in to tell me how
things had worked out. And say, do you know what that Patchouli had
done?
After I left him he goes back tickled to death, and waits for an
openin'. Then, one night when they was havin' a big hunt ball, or some
kind of swell jinks, he tolls Sadie into the palm-room, drops to the mat
on his knees, and fires off that twin-star-luff speech, beggin' her to
fly with him and be his'n. As a capper he digs up that envelop, to show
her there needn't be any hitch in the program.
"What's this?" says Sadie, making a sudden grab and gettin' the goods.
With that she lets go a string of giggles and streaks it out into the
ball-room.
"It is the document of our marriage," says the Baron, makin' a bold
bluff.
"Oh, is it?" says she, openin' the thing up, and reading it off. "Why,
Baron, this doesn't give you leave to marry anyone," says Sadie; "this
is a peddler's license, and here's the badge, too. If you wear this you
can stand on the corner and sell shoe-laces and collar-buttons. I'd
advise you to go do it."
It was while the crowd was howlin' and pinnin' the fakir's tag on him
that he began to froth at the mouth and tell how he was comin' down to
make mincemeat of me.
"That's why we followed him," says Pinckney--"to avert bloodshed."
"If he had so much as touched you, Shorty," says Sadie, "I would have
spent my pile to have had him sent up for life."
"Oh, it wouldn't have cost that much," says I. "With me thinkin' the way
I did then, maybe there wouldn't have been a whole lot left to send."
Ah, look away! I ain't tellin' what Sadie did next. But say, she's a
hummin'-bird, Sadie is.