A WHIRL WITH KAZEDKY
Chee! W'atcher think? I ain't read an "Old Sleut'" for more'n a week,
and there's two murder myst'ries runnin' in the sportin' extras that I'm
way behind on. You wouldn't guess it in a month, but I'm takin' a fall
out of the knowledge game. Mr. Mallory says I'm part in the sixt' grade
and part in the eight'.
"I believe it," says I; "my nut feels that way."
Honest, I'm stowin' away so much that I never knew before that I'm
thinkin' of wearin' a leather strap around my head, same's these strong
boys wears 'em on their wrists.
"Ah! w'at's the use?" says I. "Nobody's ever goin' to ask me what's four
per cent of thoity thousand plunks, an' if I had that much I wouldn't
farm it out for less'n six, anyway. And I don't see where this De Soto
comes in. Sounds like he might have played first base for the Beanies;
but he's been dead too long for that. What odds does it make if I don't
know the capital of Nevada? I ain't lookin' for no divorce, am I?"
But there's no shakin' Mallory off. He's dug up a lot of kid school
books for me, and I got 'em stowed away in the desk here, like this was
P. S. 46, 'stead of the front office of the Corrugated Trust. And when I
ain't takin' cards into the main squeezes, or answerin' fool questions
over the 'phone, or chasin' out on errands for Piddie, I'm swallowin'
chunks of information about the times when G. Wash. was buildin' forts
in Harlem and makin' good for a continuous in front of the Subtreasury.
Course, it's a clean waste of time. Suppose I gets the run next week,
could I win another head office boy job by spielin' off a mess of guff
about a lot of dead ones? Nit, never! But Mallory's got the bug that
it'll all come in handy to me sometime, and I'm doin' it just to keep
him satisfied. We get together most every night in his room, and I has
to cough up what I've got next to durin' the day. And say, when I've
been soldierin', and try to run in a stiff bluff instead of the real
goods, he looks as disappointed as if I'd done something real low down.
So gen'rally I hits up the books when there's nothin' else doin'.
Mr. Robert's on. He comes in one mornin' and pipes off the 'rithmetic.
"What's this, Torchy?" says he. "Studying?"
"Yep," says I. "When I went through Columbia College there wa'n't
anybody there but the janitor; so I'm takin' a postprandial whirl at
this number dope, and it's fierce."
"Whose idea?" says he.
"Mr. Mallory's," says I. "But I've laid it out flat to him that I draws
the line at Greek. I'd never want to talk like them 23d-st. flower
peddlers, not in a thousand years!"
Didn't tell you, did I, about Mallory's doin' the skyrocket act? After
Mr. Robert gets next to the fact that Mallory's a two seasons' old
football hero from his old college he yanks him out of that
twelve-dollar-a-week filin' job and makes him a salaried gent, inside of
two days.
"Which is something I owe chiefly to you, Torchy," says Mallory.
"Honk, honk!" says I. "Them's the kind of ideas that will get you run in
for reckless thinkin'. You was winnin' all that when you did that sprint
for goal your friend Dicky was tellin' about the other day. Now all you
got to do is get up on your toes and make one or two touchdowns for old
Corrugated."
"I know," says he; "but I'm afraid that in this game I'm outclassed."
Honest, he was scared stiff; but he didn't let anyone but me see it.
Even a little thing like goin' down to Wall Street and lookin' up some
securities gets him rattled. He hadn't been gone more'n an' hour 'fore
he calls me up on the 'phone and says some broker's clerk has asked him
if our concern don't want to bid on P. O. privileges at seven-eighths.
"What are P. O. privileges?" says Mallory.
"Oh, tush!" says I. "And you let 'em hand you such a burry one? P. O.
privileges is the right to lick stamps at the gen'ral post-office, and
it's a gag them curb shysters has wore to a frazzle. You go back and
tell that fresh paper-chewer we're only buyin' options on July snow
removals preferred."
That's what comes of foolin' around at college. Mallory comes back
lookin' like some one had sold him a billboard seat to a free window
show.
But that was nothin' to the down-and-out slump I found him in next
night, when I goes around for my writin' lesson and so on.
"Is it the _spino comeandgetus_," says I, "or has Miss Tuttifrutti
sent back your Christmas card?"
"It's worse than either," says he, with his chin on the top button of
his vest. "I guess I'm what you would call a false alarm, Torchy. I've
been tried out and haven't made good."
"G'wan!" says I. "Everyone gets a lemon now and then. Some tries to
swaller it whole, and chokes to death; others mixes 'em up with eggs and
things, and knocks out a pie, with meringue on top. Draw us a map of how
you fell off the scaffold."
Well, I jollied the hard luck tale out of him. It was a case of sendin'
a boy with a pushcart to bring home a grand piano. The Old Man had done
it. He's kind of sore on the way Mr. Robert lugged Mallory in by the
hair, 'cause I heard him growlin' somethin' about makin' a kindergarten
out of the Corrugated; so he springs this on him. He calls for Mallory
and tells him there's a Russian gent down to the Waldorf that's come
over to place a big Gover'ment contract.
"We've got to have a slice of that," says he. "Just you run down and get
it for us." Like that, offhand, as if it was somethin' you could do
anytime between lunch and one-thirty.
Near as I could make out, Mallory goes for it in his polite, standoff,
after-you way, and the closest he gets to Russky is a minute with a
cocky secretary that says his Excellency is very sorry, but he'll be too
busy to see him this trip--maybe next time, about 1912, he'll have an
hour off.
"And then you backs up the alley?" says I.
"There was nothing else for me to do," says Mallory. "He went off
without giving me another chance."
"Say," says I, "if I had all your parlor manners, I'd organize an
English holdin' comp'ny for 'em, so's not to be jacked up for bein' a
monopoly. Why didn't you give him the low tackle and sit on his head
until he promised to behave? Was that the only try you made?"
"No, I sent up my card twice after that," says he, "and it came back. So
I've flunked. I think I'd better go down in the morning and resign."
Now wouldn't that rust you?
"Then here goes the books," says I, chuckin' 'em into the corner. "If
doin' the knowledge stunt leaves you with a backbone like a piece of
boiled spaghetti, I'm through."
That makes Mallory sit up as if I'd jabbed him with a pin. "Do I seem
that way to you?" says he.
"You don't think you're givin' any weight-liftin' exhibition, do you?"
says I.
He lets that trickle through for a minute or so, and then he comes back
to life. "Torchy," says he, "you're right. I'm acting like a quitter.
But I don't mean to let go just yet. Hanged if I don't try to see that
man to-night, now, as quick as I can get down there! He's got to see me,
by Jove!"
"There's more sense to that than anything else you've said in a week,"
says I. "Wish I could be there to hold your hat."
"Why not?" says he. "Come on. I may need fresh inspiration."
"Whatever I gives you'll be fresh, all right," says I; "but if I was
you, and was goin' to butt into any Fifth-ave. hotel along about
dinner-time, I'd wear the regalia. Yours ain't in on a ticket, is it?"
It wa'n't. Mallory had to go clear to the bottom of the trunk after it;
but when he'd shook out the wrinkles and got himself inside the view was
worth while. After he's blown up his op'ra hat and got out his stick you
couldn't tell him from a three times winner.
"Chee!" says I. "You've got Silent Smith tied to a post. If you acts
like you look, you don't need me."
He wouldn't have it that way, though. I'd got to go along and be ready
to give him any points I thought of. We goes in a cab, too, in over the
rubber mats to the carriage door, just like we'd come to hire the royal
suite.
"The Baron Kazedky," says Mallory, shovin' his card across at the near
plute behind the desk.
Then the cold wave begun comin' our way. Mister Baron was out. Nobody
knew where he'd gone. He hadn't left any word. And he didn't receive
callers after four P.M., anyway. Mallory was gettin' his breath after
stoppin' them body blows, when I pushes in.
"Say, Sir Wally," says I, leanin' over towards the clerk and speakin'
confidential, "lemme give you somethin' from the inside. If Kazedky
misses seein' Mr. Mallory to-night, you'll be called up to-morrow to
hear some Russian language that'll take all the crimp out of that Robert
Mantell bang of yours. Now ring up one of them bench-warmers and show us
the Baron!"
But, say, you might's well try bluffin' your way through the fire lines
on a brass trunk check, "You'll find the manager's office two doors to
the left, gentlemen," says he.
"Much obliged for nothin'," says I.
Course, there wa'n't any use registerin' a kick. Orders is orders, and
we was on the wrong side of the fence. Mallory and I takes a turn
through the corridors and past the main dinin'-room, where they keeps an
orchestra playin' so's the got-rich-quick folks won't hear each other
eat their soup.
We was tryin' to think up a new move. I was for goin' out somewhere and
callin' for the Baron over the 'phone; but Mallory's got his jaw set now
and says he don't mean to leave until he has some kind of satisfaction.
He's kind of slow takin' hold; but when he gets his teeth in he's a
stayer.
We knocks around half an hour, and nothin' happens. Then, just as we was
pushin' through the mob into the Palm Room I runs into Whitey Buck. You
know about Whitey, don't you? Well, you've seen his name printed across
the top of the sportin' page that he runs. And say, Whitey's the smooth
boy, all right! Him and me used to do some great old joshin' when I was
on the Sunday editor's door.
"Hello, Whitey!" says I. "Who you been workin' for a swell feed now?"
"That you, Torchy?" says he. "Why, I took your head for an exit light.
How's tricks?"
"On the blink," says I. "We're up against a freeze out, Mr. Mallory and
me. You know Mallory, don't you?"
"What, Skid Mallory?" says he, takin' another look. "What a pipe! Why,
say, old man, I want you the worst way. Got to hash up a full-page
sympose knockin' reformed football, and if you'll take off a
thousand-word opinion I'll blow you to anything on the bill of fare.
Come on in here to a table while we chew it over. Torchy, grab a garcon.
Sizzlin' sisters! but I'm glad to root you out, Skid!"
He was all of that; but it didn't mean anything more'n that Whitey sees
an easy column comin' his way.
Mr. Mallory wa'n't so glad. "Sorry," says he, "but whatever football
reputation I ever had I'm trying to live down."
"What!" says Whitey. "Trying to make folks forget the nerviest
quarterback that ever pranced down the turf with eleven men after him?
Don't you do it. Besides, you can't. Why, that run of yours through the
Reds has been immortalized in a whole library of kid story books, and
they're still grinding 'em out!"
Mallory turns the color of the candleshades and shakes his head. "You
print any such rot as that about me," says he, "and I'll come down and
wreck the office. I'm out of all that now, and into something that has
opened my eyes to what sort of useless individual I am. Behold, Whitey,
one of the unfit!"
Then Whitey wants to know all about it.
"It's nothing much," says Mallory, "only I've been sent out to do
business with a Russian Baron, and I'm such a chump I can't even get
within speaking distance of him."
"What Baron?" says Whitey. "Not Kazedky?"
"That's the identical one," says Mallory. "Don't happen to know him, do
you?"
"I sure do," says Whitey. "Didn't he and I have a heart to heart session
when that sporty Russian Prince was over here and got himself pinched at
a prizefight? Kazedky was secretary of the legation then, and it was
through me he got the story muffled."
"Wish you could find out where he is now," says Mallory.
"Don't have to," says Whitey; "I know. He's up in private dining-room
No. 9. Been captured by a gang of Chamber of Commerce men, who are
feeding him ruddy duck and terrapin and ten-dollar champagne. He's got a
lot of steel contracts up his sleeve, you know, and----"
"Yes, I know," says Mallory; "but how can I get to see him?"
"Who are you with?" says Whitey.
"Corrugated Trust," says Mallory.
"Wow!" says Whitey, them skim-milk eyes of his gettin' big. "They
wouldn't let you within a mile of him if they knew. But say, suppose I
could lug him outside, would I get that football story?"
"You would," says Mallory.
"By to-morrow noon?" says he.
"Before morning, if you'll stay at the office until I get through here,"
says Mallory.
"Good!" says Whitey. "Come on! I'll snake him out of there if I have to
drag him by the collar. But he's a fussy old freak, and I don't
guarantee he'll stay more than a minute."
"That's enough," says Mallory. "He can talk French, I suppose?"
"What's the matter with English?" says Whitey. "Now let's see what kind
of hot air I'll give him."
Whitey didn't say what it was he thinks up; but he was grinnin' all
over his face when he leaves us outside of No. 9 and goes in where the
corks was poppin'. It must have been a happy thought, though; for it
wa'n't long before he comes out, towin' a dried-up little old runt with
a full set of face lambrequins and a gold dog license hung round his
neck from a red ribbon. He had his napkin in one hand and half a dinner
roll in the other; so it didn't look like he meant to make any long
stop. He was actin' kind of dazed, too, like he hadn't got somethin'
clear in his mind, and he hung back as if he was expectin' some one to
hand out a bomb. But Whitey rushes him right up to Mallory.
"Here's the chap, Baron!" says he. "I couldn't let you go back to Russia
without shaking hands with the greatest quarterback America ever
produced. Mr. Mallory, Baron Kazedky," and then he winks at Mallory,
much as to say, "Now jump in!"
And say, Mallory was Johnny on the spot. He grabs Kazedky's flipper like
it was a life preserver.
"I--I--really, gentlemen, there's some mistake," says the Baron. "A
quarter what, did you say?"
"Oh," says Mallory, "that's some of Mr. Buck's tomfoolery--football
term, you know."
"But I am not interested in football," says the Baron, tryin' to back
towards the door, "not in the least."
"Me either," says Mallory, gettin' a new grip on him. "What I want to
talk to you about is steel. Now, I represent the Corrugated Trust, and
we----"
Well say, the old man himself couldn't have reeled it off better'n
Mallory. Why, he had it as letter perfect as a panhandler does his tale
about bein' in the hospital six weeks and havin' four hungry kids at
home. I only hears the start of it; for as soon as he got well under way
Mallory starts for the other end of the corridor, skatin' the little old
Baron along with him like he was a Third-ave. clothing store dummy that
was bein' hauled in at closin'-up time.
Whitey didn't even wait for the overture. The minute he hands Kazedky
over he fades towards the elevator. There's nothin' for me to do but
wait; so I picks out a red velvet chair and camps down on it to watch
the promenade. That's what it was, too; for Mallory acts like he'd
forgot everything he ever knew except that he's got to talk steel into
the Baron. I guess it was steel he was talkin'! Every time he passes me
I hear him ringin' in Corrugated, and drop forged, and a lot of things
like that.
Mallory has a right-arm hook on Kazedky and is makin' motions with his
left hand. Bein' so tall, he has to lean over to pump his speech into
the old fellow's ear; but every now and then he gets excited and, 'stead
of bendin' himself, he lifts the Baron clear off his feet.
About the third lap some of the gents from the private dinin'-room pokes
their heads out to see what's happened to the guest of the evenin'. They
saw, all right! They must have been suspicious, too; for they were
lookin' anxious, and begun signaling him to break away.
The Baron didn't have no time for watchin' signals just then. He was
busy tryin' to keep his feet on the floor. First I knew there was a
whole gang at the door watchin' 'em, and they was talkin' over makin' a
rush for the Baron and rescuin' him, I guess, when Mallory leans him up
against the wall, hauls out a pad and a fountain pen, and hands the
things to Kazedky. The Baron drapes bis napkin over one arm, stuffs the
piece of roll into his mouth, and scribbles off somethin'.
When he's done that Mallory pockets the pad, leads the Baron back to his
friends, shakes hands with him, motions to me, and pikes for the
elevator. The last glimpse I has of Kazedky, he's bein' pulled into the
private dinin'-room, with that half a roll stickin' out of his face like
a bung in a beer keg.
"Well, Torchy," says Mallory to me, as the car starts down, "I got it!"
"Got what!" says I.
"Why, the contract," says he.
"Chee!" says I. "Is that all? I thought you was pullin' one of his back
teeth."