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ODD NUMBERS
Being Further Chronicles of Shorty McCabe
by
SEWELL FORD
Author of
Trying Out Torchy, Etc.
Illustrations by F. Vaux Wilson
[Illustration: "'SISTERS? DO WE LOOK IT?' SAYS MAISIE"]
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Copyright, 1908, 1909, 1910, 1911, by Sewell Ford
Copyright, 1912, by Edward J. Clode
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Goliah and the Purple Lid 1
II. How Maizie Came Through 17
III. Where Spotty Fitted In 35
IV. A Grandmother Who Got Going 50
V. A Long Shot on DeLancey 67
VI. Playing Harold Both Ways 84
VII. Cornelia Shows Some Class 100
VIII. Doping Out an Odd One 116
IX. Handing Bobby a Blank 134
X. Marmaduke Slips One Over 151
XI. A Look In on the Goat Game 167
XII. Mrs. Truckles' Broad Jump 183
XIII. Heiney Takes the Gloom Cure 199
XIV. A Try-Out for Toodleism 214
XV. The Case of the Tiscotts 230
XVI. Classing Tutwater Right 246
XVII. How Hermy Put It Over 262
XVIII. Joy Riding with Aunty 279
XIX. Turning a Trick for Beany 294
ODD NUMBERS
CHAPTER I
GOLIAH AND THE PURPLE LID
One of my highbrow reg'lars at the Physical Culture Studio, a gent that
mixes up in charity works, like organizin' debatin' societies in the deaf
and dumb asylums, was tellin' me awhile back of a great scheme of his to
help out the stranger in our fair village. He wants to open public
information bureaus, where a jay might go and find out anything he wanted
to know, from how to locate a New Thought church, to the nearest place
where he could buy a fresh celluloid collar.
"Get the idea?" says he. "A public bureau where strangers in New York
would be given courteous attention, friendly advice, and that sort of
thing."
"What's the use?" says I. "Ain't I here?"
Course, I was just gettin' over a josh. But say, it ain't all a funny
dream, either. Don't a lot of 'em come my way? Maybe it's because I'm so
apt to lay myself open to the confidential tackle. But somehow, when I
see one of these tourist freaks sizin' me up, and lookin' kind of dazed
and lonesome, I can't chuck him back the frosty stare. I've been a stray
in a strange town myself. So I gen'rally tries to seem halfway human, and
if he opens up with some shot on the weather, I let him get in the
follow-up questions and take the chances.
Here the other day, though, I wa'n't lookin' for anything of the kind. I
was just joltin' down my luncheon with a little promenade up the sunny
side of Avenue V, taking in the exhibits--things in the show windows and
folks on the sidewalks--as keen as if I'd paid in my dollar at some
ticket office.
And say, where can you beat it? I see it 'most every day in the year, and
it's always new. There's different flowers in the florists' displays, new
flags hung out on the big hotels, and even the chorus ladies in the
limousines are changed now and then.
I can't figure out just what it was landed me in front of this millinery
window. Gen'rally I hurry by them exhibits with a shudder; for once I got
gay and told Sadie to take her pick, as this one was on me; and it was
months before I got over the shock of payin' that bill. But there I finds
myself, close up to the plate glass, gawpin' at a sample of what can be
done in the hat line when the Bureau of Obstructions has been bought off
and nobody's thought of applyin' the statute of limitations.
It's a heliotrope lid, and the foundation must have used up enough straw
to bed down a circus. It has the dimensions and general outlines of a
summerhouse. The scheme of decoration is simple enough, though. The top
of this heliotrope summerhouse has been caught in a heliotrope fog,
that's all. There's yards and yards of this gauzy stuff draped and puffed
and looped around it, with only a wide purple ribbon showin' here and
there and keepin' the fog in place.
Well, all that is restin' careless in a box, the size of a quarter-mile
runnin' track, with the cover half off. And it's a work of art in itself,
that box,--all Looey Cans pictures, and a thick purple silk cord to tie
it up with. Why, one glimpse of that combination was enough to make me
clap my hand over my roll and back away from the spot!
Just then, though, I notices another gent steppin' up for a squint at the
monstrosity, and I can't help lingerin' to see if he gets the same kind
of a shock. He's sort of a queer party, too,--short, stoop shouldered,
thin faced, wrinkled old chap, with a sandy mustache mixed some with
gray, and a pair of shrewd little eyes peerin' out under bushy brows.
Anybody could spot him as a rutabaga delegate by the high crowned soft
hat and the back number ulster that he's still stickin' to, though the
thermometer is way up in the eighties.
But he don't seem to shy any at the purple lid. He sticks his head out
first this way and then that, like a turtle, and then all of a sudden he
shoots over kind of a quizzin' glance at me. I can't help but give him
the grin. At that his mouth corners wrinkle up and the little gray eyes
begin to twinkle.
"Quite a hat, eh?" he chuckles.
"It's goin' some in the lid line," says I.
"I expect that's a mighty stylish article, though," says he.
"That's the bluff the store people are makin'," says I, "and there's no
law against it."
"What would be your guess on the price of that there, now?" says he,
edging up.
"Ah, let's leave such harrowin' details to the man that has to pay for
it," says I. "No use in our gettin' the chilly spine over what's marked
on the price ticket; that is, unless you're thinking of investin'," and
as I tips him the humorous wink I starts to move off.
But this wa'n't a case where I was to get out so easy. He comes right
after me. "Excuse me, neighbor," says he; "but--but that's exactly what I
was thinking of doing, if it wasn't too infernally expensive."
"What!" says I, gazin' at him; for he ain't the kind of citizen you'd
expect to find indulgin' in such foolishness. "Oh, well, don't mind my
remarks. Go ahead and blow yourself. You want it for the missus, eh?"
"Ye-e-es," he drawls; "for--for my wife. Ah--er--would it be asking too
much of a stranger if I should get you to step in there with me while I
find out the price?"
"Why," says I, lookin' him over careful,--"why, I don't know as I'd want
to go as far as---- Well, what's the object?"
"You see," says he, "I'm sort of a bashful person,--always have
been,--and I don't just like to go in there alone amongst all them women
folks. But the fact is, I've kind of got my mind set on having that hat,
and----"
"Wife ain't in town, then?" says I.
"No," says he, "she's--she isn't."
"Ain't you runnin' some risks," says I, "loadin' up with a lid that may
not fit her partic'lar style of beauty?"
"That's so, that's so," says he. "Ought to be something that would kind
of jibe with her complexion and the color of her hair, hadn't it?"
"You've surrounded the idea," says I. "Maybe it would be safer to send
for her to come on."
"No," says he; "couldn't be done. But see here," and he takes my arm and
steers me up the avenue, "if you don't mind talking this over, I'd like
to tell you a plan I've just thought out."
Well, he'd got me some int'rested in him by that time. I could see he
wa'n't no common Rube, and them twinklin' little eyes of his kind of got
me. So I tells him to reel it off.
"Maybe you never heard of me," he goes on; "but I'm Goliah Daggett, from
South Forks, Iowy."
"Guess I've missed hearin' of you," says I.
"I suppose so," says he, kind of disappointed, though. "The boys out
there call me Gol Daggett."
"Sounds most like a cussword," says I.
"Yes," says he; "that's one reason I'm pretty well known in the State.
And there may be other reasons, too." He lets out a little chuckle at
that; not loud, you know, but just as though he was swallowin' some joke
or other. It was a specialty of his, this smothered chuckle business. "Of
course," he goes on, "you needn't tell me your name, unless----"
"It's a fair swap," says I. "Mine's McCabe; Shorty for short."
"Yes?" says he. "I knew a McCabe once. He--er--well, he----"
"Never mind," says I. "It's a big fam'ly, and there's only a few of us
that's real credits to the name. But about this scheme of yours, Mr.
Daggett?"
"Certainly," says he. "It's just this: If I could find a woman who looked
a good deal like my wife, I could try the hat on her, couldn't I? She'd
do as well, eh?"
"I don't know why not," says I.
"Well," says he, "I know of just such a woman; saw her this morning in my
hotel barber shop, where I dropped in for a haircut. She was one of
these--What do you call 'em now?"
"Manicure artists?" says I.
"That's it," says he. "Asked me if I didn't want my fingers manicured;
and, by jinks! I let her do it, just to see what it was like. Never felt
so blamed foolish in my life! Look at them fingernails, will you? Been
parin' 'em with a jackknife for fifty-seven years; and she soaks 'em out
in a bowl of perfumery, jabs under 'em with a little stick wrapped in
cotton, cuts off all the hang nails, files 'em round at the ends, and
polishes 'em up so they shine as if they were varnished! He, he! Guess
the boys would laugh if they could have seen me."
"It's one experience you've got on me," says I. "And this manicure lady
is a ringer for Mrs. Daggett, eh?"
"Well, now," says he, scratchin' his chin, "maybe I ought to put it that
she looks a good deal as Mrs. Daggett might have looked ten or fifteen
years ago if she'd been got up that way,--same shade of red hair, only
not such a thunderin' lot of it; same kind of blue eyes, only not so wide
open and starry; and a nose and chin that I couldn't help remarking.
Course, now, you understand this young woman was fixed up considerable
smarter than Mrs. Daggett ever was in her life."
"If she's a manicure artist in one of them Broadway hotels," says I, "I
could guess that; specially if Mrs. Daggett's always stuck to Iowa."
"Yes, that's right; she has," says Daggett. "But if she'd had the same
chance to know what to wear and how to wear it----Well, I wish she'd had
it, that's all. And she wanted it. My, my! how she did hanker for such
things, Mr. McCabe!"
"Well, better late than never," says I.
"No, no!" says he, his voice kind of breakin' up. "That's what I want to
forget, how--how late it is!" and hanged if he don't have to fish out a
handkerchief and swab off his eyes. "You see," he goes on, "Marthy's
gone."
"Eh?" says I. "You mean she's----"
He nods. "Four years ago this spring," says he. "Typhoid."
"But," says I, "how about this hat?"
"One of my notions," says he,--"just a foolish idea of mine. I'll tell
you. When she was lying there, all white and thin, and not caring whether
she ever got up again or not, a new spring hat was the only thing I could
get her to take an interest in. She'd never had what you might call a
real, bang-up, stylish hat. Always wanted one, too. And it wasn't because
I was such a mean critter that she couldn't have had the money. But you
know how it is in a little place like South Forks. They don't have 'em in
stock, not the kind she wanted, and maybe we couldn't have found one
nearer than Omaha or Chicago; and someway there never was a spring when I
could seem to fix things so we could take the trip. Looked kind of
foolish, too, traveling so far just to get a hat. So she went without,
and put up with what Miss Simmons could trim for her. They looked all
right, too, and I used to tell Marthy they were mighty becoming; but all
the time I knew they weren't just--well, you know."
Say, I never saw any specimens of Miss Simmons' art works; but I could
make a guess. And I nods my head.
"Well," says Daggett, "when I saw that Marthy was kind of giving up, I
used to coax her to get well. 'You just get on your feet once, Marthy,'
says I, 'and we'll go down to Chicago and buy you the finest and
stylishest hat we can find in the whole city. More than that, you shall
have a new one every spring, the very best.' She'd almost smile at that,
and half promise she'd try. But it wasn't any use. The fever hadn't left
her strength enough. And the first thing I knew she'd slipped away."
Odd sort of yarn to be hearin' there on Fifth-ave. on a sunshiny
afternoon, wa'n't it? And us dodgin' over crossin's, and duckin' under
awnin's, and sidesteppin' the foot traffic! But he keeps right close to
my elbow and gives me the whole story, even to how they'd agreed to use
the little knoll just back of the farmhouse as a burial plot, and how she
marked the hymns she wanted sung, and how she wanted him to find someone
else as soon as the year was out.
"Which was the only thing I couldn't say yes to," says Daggett. "'No,
Marthy,' says I, 'not unless I can find another just like you.'--'You'll
be mighty lonesome, Goliah,' says she, 'and you'll be wanting to change
your flannels too early.'--'Maybe so,' says I; 'but I guess I'll worry
along for the rest of the time alone.' Yes, sir, Mr. McCabe, she was a
fine woman, and a patient one. No one ever knew how bad she wanted lots
of things that she might of had, and gave up. You see, I was pretty deep
in the wheat business, and every dollar I could get hold of went to
buying more reapers and interests in elevator companies and crop options.
I was bound to be a rich man, and they say I got there. Yes, I guess I am
fairly well fixed."
It wa'n't any chesty crow, but more like a sigh, and as we stops on a
crossing to let a lady plutess roll by in her brougham, Mr. Daggett he
sizes up the costume she wore and shakes his head kind of regretful.
"That's the way Marthy should have been dressed," says he. "She'd have
liked it. And she'd liked a hat such as that one we saw back there; that
is, if it's the right kind. I've been buying 'em kind of careless,
maybe."
"How's that?" says I.
"Oh!" says he, "I didn't finish telling you about my fool idea. I've been
getting one every spring, the best I could pick out in Chicago, and
carrying it up there on the knoll where Marthy is--and just leaving it.
Go on now, Mr. McCabe; laugh if you want to. I won't mind. I can almost
laugh at myself. Of course, Marthy's beyond caring for hats now. Still, I
like to leave 'em there; and I like to think perhaps she does know, after
all. So--so I want to get that purple one, providing it would be the
right shade. What do you say?"
Talk about your nutty propositions, eh? But honest, I didn't feel even
like crackin' a smile.
"Daggett," says I, "you're a true sport, even if you have got a few bats
in the loft. Let's go back and get quotations on the lid."
"I wish," says he, "I could see it tried on that manicure young woman
first. Suppose we go down and bring her up?"
"What makes you think she'll come?" says I.
"Oh, I guess she will," says he, quiet and thoughtful. "We'll try,
anyway."
And say, right there I got a new line on him. I could almost frame up how
it was he'd started in as a bacon borrowin' homesteader, and got to be
the John D. of his county. But I could see he was up against a new deal
this trip. And as it was time for me to be gettin' down towards 42d-st.
anyway, I goes along. As we strikes the hotel barber shop I hangs up on
the end of the cigar counter while Daggett looks around for the young
woman who'd put the chappy polish on his nails.
"That's her," says he, pointing out a heavyweight Titian blonde in the
far corner, and over he pikes.
I couldn't help admirin' the nerve of him; for of all the l'ongoline
queens I ever saw, she's about the haughtiest. Maybe you can throw on the
screen a picture of a female party with a Lillian Russell shape, hair
like Mrs. Leslie Carter's, and an air like a twelve-dollar cloak model
showin' off a five hundred-dollar lace dress to a bookmaker's bride.
Just as Daggett tiptoes up she's pattin' down some of the red puffs that
makes the back of her head look like a burnin' oil tank, and she swings
around languid and scornful to see who it is that dares butt in on her
presence. All the way she recognizes him is by a little lift of the
eyebrows.
I don't need to hear the dialogue. I can tell by her expression what
Daggett is saying. First there's a kind of condescendin' curiosity as he
begins, then she looks bored and turns back to the mirror, and pretty
soon she sings out, "What's that?" so you could hear her all over the
shop. Then Daggett springs his proposition flat.
"Sir!" says she, jumpin' up and glarin' at him.
Daggett tries to soothe her down; but it's no go.
"Mr. Heinmuller!" she calls out, and the boss barber comes steppin' over,
leavin' a customer with his face muffled in a hot towel. "This person,"
she goes on, "is insulting!"
"Hey?" says Heinmuller, puffin' out his cheeks. "Vos iss dot?"
And for a minute it looked like I'd have to jump in and save Daggett from
being chucked through the window. I was just preparin' to grab the boss
by the collar, too, when Daggett gets in his fine work. Slippin' a ten
off his roll, he passes it to Heinmuller, while he explains that all he
asked of the lady was to try on a hat he was thinkin' of gettin' for his
wife.
"That's all," says he. "No insult intended. And of course I expect to
make it worth while for the young lady."
I don't know whether it was the smooth "young lady" business, or the
sight of the fat roll that turned the trick; but the tragedy is declared
off. Inside of three minutes the boss tells Daggett that Miss Rooney
accepts his apology and consents to go if he'll call a cab.
"Why, surely," says he. "You'll come along, too, won't you, McCabe?
Honest, now, I wouldn't dare do this alone."
"Too bad about that shy, retirin' disposition of yours!" says I. "Afraid
she'll steal you, eh?"
But he hangs onto my sleeve and coaxes me until I give in. And we sure
made a fine trio ridin' up Fifth-ave. in a taxi! But you should have seen
'em in the millinery shop as we sails in with Miss Rooney, and Daggett
says how he'd like a view of that heliotrope lid in the window. We had
'em guessin', all right.
Then they gets Miss Rooney in a chair before the mirror, and fits the
monstrosity on top of her red hair. Well, say, what a diff'rence it does
make in them freak bonnets whether they're in a box or on the right head!
For Miss Rooney has got just the right kind of a face that hat was built
to go with. It's a bit giddy, I'll admit; but she's a stunner in it. And
does she notice it any herself? Well, some!
"A triumph!" gurgles the saleslady, lookin' from one to the other of us,
tryin' to figure out who she ought to play to.
"It's a game combination, all right," says I, lookin' wise.
"I only wish----" begins Daggett, and then swallows the rest of it. In a
minute he steps up and says it'll do, and that the young lady is to pick
out one for herself now.
"Oh, how perfectly sweet of you!" says Miss Rooney, slippin' him a smile
that should have had him clear through the ropes. "But if I am to have
any, why not this?" and she balances the heliotrope lid on her fingers,
lookin' it over yearnin' and tender. "It just suits me, doesn't it?"
Then there's more of the coy business, aimed straight at Daggett. But
Miss Rooney don't quite put it across.
"That's going out to Iowy with me," says he, prompt and decided.
"Oh!" says Miss Rooney, and she proceeds to pick out a white straw with a
green ostrich feather a yard long. She was still lookin' puzzled, though,
as we put her into the cab and started her back to the barber shop.
"Must have set you back near a hundred, didn't they?" says I, as Daggett
and I parts on the corner.
"Almost," says he. "But it's worth it. Marthy would have looked mighty
stylish in that purple one. Yes, yes! And when I get back to South Forks,
the first thing I do will be to carry it up on the knoll, box and all,
and leave it there. I wonder if she'll know, eh?"
There wa'n't any use in my tellin' him what I thought, though. He wa'n't
talkin' to me, anyway. There was a kind of a far off, batty look in his
eyes as he stood there on the corner, and a drop of brine was tricklin'
down one side of his nose. So we never says a word, but just shakes
hands, him goin' his way, and me mine.
"Chee!" says Swifty Joe, when I shows up, along about three o'clock, "you
must have been puttin' away a hearty lunch!"
"It wa'n't that kept me," says I. "I was helpin' hand a late one to
Marthy."