WHERE SPOTTY FITTED IN
Also we have a few home-grown varieties that ain't listed frequent. And
the pavement products are apt to have most as queer kinks to 'em as those
from the plowed fields. Now take Spotty.
"Gee! what a merry look!" says I to Pinckney as he floats into the studio
here the other day. He's holdin' his chin high, and he's got his stick
tucked up under his arm, and them black eyes of his is just sparklin'.
"What's it all about?" I goes on. "Is it a good one you've just
remembered, or has something humorous happened to one of your best
friends?"
"I have a new idea," says he, "that's all."
"All!" says I. "Why, that's excuse enough for declarin' a gen'ral
holiday. Did you go after it, or was it delivered by mistake? Can't you
give us a scenario of it?"
"Why, I've thought of something new for Spotty Cahill," says he,
beamin'.
"G'wan!" says I. "I might have known it was a false alarm. Spotty Cahill!
Say, do you want to know what I'd advise you to do for Spotty next?"
No, Pinckney don't want my views on the subject. It's a topic we've
threshed out between us before; also it's one of the few dozen that we
could debate from now until there's skatin' on the Panama Canal, without
gettin' anywhere. I've always held that Spotty Cahill was about the most
useless and undeservin' human being that ever managed to exist without
work; but to hear Pinckney talk you'd think that long-legged,
carroty-haired young loafer was the original party that philanthropy was
invented for.
Now, doing things for other folks ain't one of Pinckney's strong points,
as a rule. Not that he wouldn't if he thought of it and could find the
time; but gen'rally he has too many other things on his schedule to
indulge much in the little deeds of kindness game. When he does start out
to do good, though, he makes a job of it. But look who he picks out!
Course, I knew why. He's explained all that to me more'n once. Seems
there was an old waiter at the club, a quiet, soft-spoken, bald-headed
relic, who had served him with more lobster Newburg than you could load
on a scow, and enough highballs to float the _Mauretania_ in. In fact,
he'd been waitin' there as long as Pinckney had been a member. They'd
been kind of chummy, in a way, too. It had always been "Good morning,
Peter," and "Hope I see you well, sir," between them, and Pinckney never
had to bother about whether he liked a dash of bitters in this, or if
that ought to be served frappe or plain. Peter knew, and Peter never
forgot.
Then one day when Pinckney's just squarin' off to his lunch he notices
that he's been given plain, ordinary salt butter instead of the sweet
kind he always has; so he puts up a finger to call Peter over and have a
swap made. When he glances up, though, he finds Peter ain't there at
all.
"Oh, I say," says he, "but where is Peter?"
"Peter, sir?" says the new man. "Very sorry, sir, but Peter's dead."
"Dead!" says Pinckney. "Why--why--how long has that been?"
"Over a month, sir," says he. "Anything wrong, sir?"
To be sure, Pinckney hadn't been there reg'lar; but he'd been in off and
on, and when he comes to think how this old chap, that knew all his
whims, and kept track of 'em so faithful, had dropped out without his
ever having heard a word about it--why, he felt kind of broke up. You
see, he'd always meant to do something nice for old Peter; but he'd never
got round to it, and here the first thing he knows Peter's been under the
sod for more'n a month.
That's what set Pinckney to inquirin' if Peter hadn't left a fam'ly or
anything, which results in his diggin' up this Spotty youth. I forgot
just what his first name was, it being something outlandish that don't go
with Cahill at all; but it seems he was born over in India, where old
Peter was soldierin' at the time, and they'd picked up one of the native
names. Maybe that's what ailed the boy from the start.
Anyway, Peter had come back from there a widower, drifted to New York
with the youngster, and got into the waiter business. Meantime the boy
grows up in East Side boardin'-houses, without much lookin' after, and
when Pinckney finds him he's an int'restin' product. He's twenty-odd,
about five feet eleven high, weighs under one hundred and thirty, has a
shock of wavy, brick-red hair that almost hides his ears, and his chief
accomplishments are playin' Kelly pool and consumin' cigarettes. By way
of ornament he has the most complete collection of freckles I ever see on
a human face, or else it was they stood out more prominent because the
skin was so white between the splotches. We didn't invent the name Spotty
for him. He'd already been tagged that.
Well, Pinckney discovers that Spotty has been livin' on the few dollars
that was left after payin' old Peter's plantin' expenses; that he didn't
know what he was goin' to do after that was gone, and didn't seem to
care. So Pinckney jumps in, works his pull with the steward, and has
Spotty put on reg'lar in the club billiard room as an attendant. All he
has to do is help with the cleanin', keep the tables brushed, and set up
the balls when there are games goin' on. He gets his meals free, and six
dollars a week.
Now that should have been a soft enough snap for anybody, even the born
tired kind. There wa'n't work enough in it to raise a palm callous on a
baby. But Spotty, he improves on that. His idea of earnin' wages is to
curl up in a sunny windowseat and commune with his soul. Wherever you
found the sun streamin' in, there was a good place to look for Spotty. He
just seemed to soak it up, like a blotter does ink, and it didn't disturb
him any who was doin' his work.
Durin' the first six months Spotty was fired eight times, only to have
Pinckney get him reinstated, and it wa'n't until the steward went to the
board of governors with the row that Mr. Cahill was given his permanent
release. You might think Pinckney would have called it quits then; but
not him! He'd started out to godfather Spotty, and he stays right with
the game. Everybody he knew was invited to help along the good work of
givin' Spotty a lift. He got him into brokers' offices, tried him out as
bellhop in four diff'rent hotels, and even jammed him by main strength
into a bank; but Spotty's sun absorbin' habits couldn't seem to be made
useful anywhere.
For one while he got chummy with Swifty Joe and took to sunnin' himself
in the studio front windows, until I had to veto that.
"I don't mind your friends droppin' in now and then, Swifty," says I;
"but there ain't any room here for statuary. I don't care how gentle you
break it to him, only run him out."
So that's why I don't enthuse much when Pinckney says he's thought up
some new scheme for Spotty. "Goin' to have him probed for hookworms?"
says I.
No, that ain't it. Pinckney, he's had a talk with Spotty and discovered
that old Peter had a brother Aloysius, who's settled somewhere up in
Canada and is superintendent of a big wheat farm. Pinckney's had his
lawyers trace out this Uncle Aloysius, and then he's written him all
about Spotty, suggestin' that he send for him by return mail.
"Fine!" says I. "He'd be a lot of use on a wheat farm. What does Aloysius
have to say to the proposition?"
"Well, the fact is," says Pinckney, "he doesn't appear at all
enthusiastic. He writes that if the boy is anything like Peter when he
knew him he's not anxious to see him. However, he says that if Spotty
comes on he will do what he can for him."
"It'll be a long walk," says I.
"There's where my idea comes in," says Pinckney. "I am going to finance
the trip."
"If it don't cost too much," says I, "it'll be a good investment."
Pinckney wants to do the thing right away, too. First off, though, he has
to locate Spotty. The youth has been at large for a week or more now,
since he was last handed the fresh air, and Pinckney ain't heard a word
from him.
"Maybe Swifty knows where he roosts," says I.
It was a good guess. Swifty gives us a number on Fourth-ave. where he'd
seen Spotty hangin' around lately, and he thinks likely he's there yet.
So me and Pinckney starts out on the trail. It leads us to one of them
Turkish auction joints where they sell genuine silk oriental prayer rugs,
made in Paterson, N. J., with hammered brass bowls and antique guns as a
side line. And, sure enough, camped down in front on a sample rug, with
his hat off and the sun full on him, is our friend Spotty.
"Well, well!" says Pinckney. "Regularly employed here, are you, Spotty?"
"Me? Nah!" says Spotty, lookin' disgusted at the thought. "I'm only
stayin' around."
"Ain't you afraid the sun will fade them curly locks of yours?" says I.
"Ah, quit your kiddin'!" says Spotty, startin' to roll a fresh
cigarette.
"Don't mind Shorty," says Pinckney. "I have some good news for you."
That don't excite Spotty a bit. "Not another job!" he groans.
"No, no," says Pinckney, and then he explains about finding Uncle
Aloysius, windin' up by askin' Spotty how he'd like to go up there and
live.
"I don't know," says Spotty. "Good ways off, ain't it!"
"It is, rather," admits Pinckney; "but that need not trouble you. What do
you think I am going to do for you, Spotty?"
"Give it up," says he, calmly lightin' a match and proceedin' with the
smoke.
"Well," says Pinckney, "because of the long and faithful service of your
father, and the many little personal attentions he paid me, I am going to
give you---- Wait! Here it is now," and hanged if Pinckney don't fork
over ten new twenty-dollar bills. "There!" says he. "That ought to be
enough to fit you out well and take you there in good shape. Here's the
address too."
Does Spotty jump up and crack his heels together and sputter out how
thankful he is? Nothin' so strenuous. He fumbles the bills over curious
for a minute, then wads 'em up and jams 'em into his pocket. "Much
obliged," says he.
"Come around to Shorty's with your new clothes on to-morrow afternoon
about four o'clock," says Pinckney, "and let us see how you look.
And--er--by the way, Spotty, is that a friend of yours?"
I'd been noticin' her too, standin' just inside the doorway pipin' us
off. She's a slim, big-eyed, black-haired young woman, dressed in the
height of Grand-st. fashion, and wearin' a lot of odd, cheap lookin'
jewelry. If it hadn't been for the straight nose and the thin lips you
might have guessed that her first name was Rebecca.
"Oh, her?" says Spotty, turnin' languid to see who he meant. "That's
Mareena. Her father runs the shop."
"Armenian?" says I.
"No, Syrian," says he.
"Quite some of a looker, eh?" says I, tryin' to sound him.
"Not so bad," says Spotty, hunchin' his shoulders.
"But--er--do I understand," says Pinckney, "that there is--ah--some
attachment between you and--er--the young lady?"
"Blamed if I know," says Spotty. "Better ask her."
Course, we couldn't very well do that, and as Spotty don't seem bubblin'
over with information he has to chop it off there. Pinckney, though, is
more or less int'rested in the situation. He wonders if he's done just
right, handin' over all that money to Spotty in a place like that.
"It wa'n't what you'd call a shrewd move," says I. "Seems to me I'd
bought his ticket, anyway."
"Yes; but I wanted to get it off my mind, you know," says he. "Odd,
though, his being there. I wonder what sort of persons those Syrians
are!"
"You never can tell," says I.
The more Pinckney thinks of it, the more uneasy he gets, and when four
o'clock comes next day, with no Spotty showin' up, he begins to have
furrows in his brow. "If he's been done away with, it's my fault," says
Pinckney.
"Ah, don't start worryin' yet," says I. "Give him time."
By five o'clock, though, Pinckney has imagined all sorts of
things,--Spotty bein' found carved up and sewed in a sack, and him called
into court to testify as to where he saw him last. "And all because I
gave him that money!" he groans.
"Say, can it!" says I. "Them sensation pictures of yours are makin' me
nervous. Here, I'll go down and see if they've finished wipin' off the
daggers, while you send Swifty out after something soothin'."
With that off I hikes as a rescue expedition. I finds the red flag still
out, the sample rug still in place; but there's no Spotty in evidence.
Neither is there any sign of the girl. So I walks into the store, gazin'
around sharp for any stains on the floor.
Out from behind a curtain at the far end of the shop comes a fat, wicked
lookin' old pirate, with a dark greasy face and shiny little eyes like a
pair of needles. He's wearin' a dinky gold-braided cap, baggy trousers,
and he carries a long pipe in one hand. If he didn't look like he'd do
extemporaneous surgery for the sake of a dollar bill, then I'm no judge.
I've got in too far to look up a cop, so I takes a chance on a strong
bluff.
"Say, you!" I sings out. "What's happened to Spotty?"
"Spot-tee?" says he. "Spot-tee?" He shrugs his shoulders and pretends to
look dazed.
"Yes, Spotty," says I, "red-headed, freckle-faced young gent. You know
him."
"Ah!" says he, tappin' his head. "The golden crowned! El Sareef
Ka-heel?"
"That's the name, Cahill," says I. "He's a friend of a friend of mine,
and you might as well get it through your nut right now that if
anything's happened to him----"
"You are a friend of Sareef Ka-heel?" he breaks in, eyin' me suspicious.
"Once removed," says I; "but it amounts to the same thing. Now where is
he?"
"For a friend--well, I know not," says the old boy, kind of hesitatin'.
Then, with another shrug, he makes up his mind. "So it shall be. Come.
You shall see the Sareef."
At that he beckons me to follow and starts towards the back. I went
through one dark room, expectin' to feel a knife in my ribs every minute,
and then we goes through another. Next thing I knew we're out in a little
back yard, half full of empty cases and crates. In the middle of a clear
space is a big brown tent, with the flap pinned back.
"Here," says the old gent, "your friend, the Sareef Ka-heel!"
Say, for a minute I thought it was a trap he's springin' on me; but after
I'd looked long enough I see who he's pointin' at. The party inside is
squattin' cross-legged on a rug, holdin' the business end of one of these
water bottle pipes in his mouth. He's wearin' some kind of a long bath
robe, and most of his red hair is concealed by yards of white cloth
twisted round his head; but it's Spotty all right, alive, uncarved, and
lookin' happy and contented.
"Well, for the love of soup!" says I. "What is it, a masquerade?"
"That you, McCabe?" says he. "Come in and--and sit on the floor."
"Say," says I, steppin' inside, "this ain't the costume you're going to
start for Canada in, is it?"
"Ah, forget Canada!" says he. "I've got that proposition beat a mile.
Hey, Hazzam," and he calls to the old pirate outside, "tell Mrs. Cahill
to come down and be introduced!"
"What's that?" says I. "You--you ain't been gettin' married, have you?"
"Yep," says Spotty, grinnin' foolish. "Nine o'clock last night. We're
goin' to start on our weddin' trip Tuesday, me and Mareena."
"Mareena!" I gasps. "Not the--the one we saw out front? Where you going,
Niagara?"
"Nah! Syria, wherever that is," says he. "Mareena knows. We're goin' to
live over there and buy rugs. That two hundred was just what we needed to
set us up in business."
"Think you'll like it?" says I.
"Sure!" says he. "She says it's fine. There's deserts over there, and you
travel for days and days, ridin' on bloomin' camels. Here's the tent
we're goin' to live in. I'm practisin' up. Gee! but this pipe is
somethin' fierce, though! Oh, here she is! Say, Mareena, this is Mr.
McCabe, that I was tellin' you about."
Well, honest, I wouldn't have known her for the same girl. She's changed
that Grand-st. uniform for a native outfit, and while it's a little gaudy
in color, hanged if it ain't becomin'! For a desert bride I should say
she had some class.
"Well," says I, "so you and Spotty are goin' to leave us, eh?"
"Ah, yes!" says she, them big black eyes of hers lightin' up. "We go
where the sky is high and blue and the sun is big and hot. We go back to
the wide white desert where I was born. All day we shall ride toward the
purple hills, and sleep at night under the still stars. He knows. I have
told him."
"That's right," says Spotty. "It'll be all to the good, that. Mareena can
cook too."
To prove it, she makes coffee and hands it around in little brass cups.
Also there's cakes, and the old man comes in, smilin' and rubbin' his
hands, and we has a real sociable time.
And these was the folks I'd suspected of wantin' to carve up Spotty! Why,
by the looks I saw thrown at him by them two, I knew they thought him the
finest thing that ever happened. Just by the way Mareena reached out sly
to pat his hair when she passed, you could see how it was.
So I wished 'em luck and hurried back to report before Pinckney sent a
squad of reserves after me.
"Well!" says he, the minute I gets in. "Let me know the worst at once."
"I will," says I. "He's married." It was all I could do, too, to make him
believe the yarn.
"By Jove!" says he. "Think of a chap like Spotty Cahill tumbling into a
romance like that! And on Fourth-ave!"
"It ain't so well advertised as some other lanes in this town," says I;
"but it's a great street. Say, what puzzled me most about the whole
business, though, was the new name they had for Spotty. Sareef! What in
blazes does that mean?"
"Probably a title of some sort," says Pinckney. "Like sheik, I suppose."
"But what does a Sareef have to do?" says I.
"Do!" says Pinckney. "Why, he's boss of the caravan. He--he sits around
in the sun and looks picturesque."
"Then that settles it," says I. "Spotty's qualified. I never thought
there was any place where he'd fit in; but, if your description's
correct, he's found the job he was born for."