DOPING OUT AN ODD ONE
Say, notice any deep sea roll about my walk? No? Well, maybe you can get
the tarry perfume as I pass by? Funny you don't; for I've been a Vice
Commodore for most three weeks now. Yes, that's on the level--belay my
spinnaker taffrail if it ain't!
That's what I get for bein' one of the charter members of the Rockhurst
Yacht Club. You didn't, eh? Well, say, I'm one of the yachtiest yachters
that ever jibbed a gangway. Not that I do any sailin' exactly; but I
guess Sadie and me each paid good money for our shares of club stock, and
if that ain't as foolish an act as you can find in the nautical calendar,
then I'll eat the binnacle boom.
Course, this Vice Commodore stunt was sort of sprung on me; for I'd been
such an active member I didn't even know the bloomin' clubhouse was
finished until here the other day I gets this bulletin from the annual
meetin', along with the programme for the openin' exercises.
"Gee!" says I. "Vice Commodore! Say, there must be some mistake about
this."
"Not at all," says Sadie.
"Sure there is," says I. "Why, I hardly know one end of a boat from the
other; and besides I ain't got any clubby habits. They've been let in
wrong, that's all. I'll resign."
"You'll do nothing of the sort!" says Sadie. "When I took all that
trouble to have you win over that ridiculous Bronson-Smith!"
"Eh?" says I. "Been playin' the Mrs. Taft, have you? In that case, I
expect I'll have to stay with it. But, honest, you can look for a season
of perfectly punk Vice Commodorin'."
As it turns out, though, there ain't one in ten members that knows much
more about yachtin' than I do. Navigatin' porch rockers, orderin' all
hands up for fancy drinks, and conductin' bridge whist regattas was their
chief sea-goin' accomplishments; and when it come to makin' myself
useful, who was it, I'd like to know, that chucked the boozy steward off
the float when he had two of the house committee treed up the signal
mast?
I suspect that's how it is I'm played up so prominent for this house
warmin' episode. Anyway, when I arrives there on the great night--me all
got up fancy in a double breasted serge coat, white flannel pants, and
cork soled canvas shoes--I finds they've put me on the reception
committee; and that, besides welcomin' invited guests, I'm expected to
keep one eye peeled for outsiders, to see that nobody starts nothin'.
So I'm on deck, as you might say, and more or less conspicuous, when this
Larchmont delegation is landed and comes stringin' up. It was "Ahoy
there, Captain This!" and "How are you, Captain That?" from the rest of
the committee, who was some acquainted; and me buttin' around earnest
tryin' to find someone to shake hands with, when I runs across this thick
set party in the open front Tuxedo regalia, with his opera hat down over
one eye and a long cigar raked up coquettish from the sou'west corner of
his face.
Know him? I guess! It's Peter K. Tracey; yes, the one that has his name
on so many four-sheet posters. Noticed how he always has 'em read, ain't
you? "Mr. Peter K. Tracey presents Booth Keene, the sterling young
actor." Never forgets that "Mr."; but, say, I knew him when he signed it
just "P. Tracey," and chewed his tongue some at gettin' that down.
Them was the days when he'd have jumped at the chance of managin' my ring
exhibits, and he was known in sportin' circles as Chunk Tracey. I ain't
followed all his moves since then; but I know he got to handlin' the big
heavyweights on exhibition tours, broke into the theatrical game with an
animal show that was a winner, and has stuck to the boxoffice end ever
since.
Why shouldn't he, with a half ownership in a mascot Rube drama that never
has less than six road companies playin' it, and at least one hit on
Broadway every season? I admit I was some surprised, though, to hear of
him buyin' a house on Fifth-ave. and makin' a stab at mixin' in society.
That last I could hardly believe; but here he was, and lookin' as much
jarred at findin' me as I was to see him.
"Well, I'll be hanged!" says I. "Chunk Tracey!"
"Why, hello, Shorty!" says he, and neither one of us remembers the
"Charmed to see yuh, old chappy" lines we should have been shootin' off.
Seems he'd been towed along with a bunch of near-swells that didn't dare
treat him as if he really belonged, and he was almost frothin' at the
mouth.
"Talk about your society folks!" says he. "Why,--blankety blank 'em!--I
can go down the Rialto any afternoon, pick up a dozen people at
twenty-five a week, drill 'em four days, and give a better imitation than
this crowd ever thought of putting up!"
"Yes; but look who you are, Chunk," says I.
"I know," says he.
And he meant it too. He always was about the cockiest little rooster in
the business; but I'd rather expected eight or ten years of ups and downs
in the theatrical game, bein' thrown out of the trust and crawlin' back
on his knees would have tempered him down some.
You couldn't notice it, though. In fact, this chesty, cocksure attitude
seemed to have grown on him, and it was plain that most of his soreness
just now come from findin' himself in with a lot of folks that didn't
take any special pains to admit what a great man he was. So, as him and
me was sort of left to flock by ourselves, I undertook the job of
supplyin' a few soothin' remarks, just for old time's sake. And that's
how it was he got rung in on this little mix-up with Cap'n Spiller.
You see, the way the committee had mapped it out, part of the doin's was
a grand illumination of the fleet. Anyway, they had all the craft they
could muster anchored in a semicircle off the end of the float and
trimmed up with Japanese lanterns. Well, just about time for lightin' up,
into the middle of the fleet comes driftin' a punk lookin' old sloop with
dirty, patched sails, some shirts and things hangin' from the riggin',
and a length of stovepipe stickin' through the cabin roof. When the
skipper has struck the exact center, he throws over his mud hook and lets
his sail run.
Not bein' posted on the details, I didn't know but that was part of the
show, until the chairman of my committee comes rushin' up to me all
excited, and points it out.
"Oh, I say, McCabe!" says he. "Do you see that?"
"If I didn't," says I, "I could almost smell it from here. Some new
member, is it?"
"Member!" he gasps. "Why, it's some dashed old fisherman! We--we cawn't
have him stay there, you know."
"Well," says I, "he seems to be gettin' plenty of advice on that point."
And he was; for they was shoutin' things at him through a dozen
megaphones.
"But you know, McCabe," goes on the chairman, "you ought to go out and
send him away. That's one of your duties."
"Eh?" says I. "How long since I've been official marine bouncer for this
organization? G'wan! Go tell him yourself!"
We had quite an argument over it too, with Peter K. chimin' in on my
side; but, while the chappy insists that it's my job to fire the old
hooker off the anchorage, I draws the line at interferin' with anything
beyond the shore. Course, it might spoil the effect; but the way it
struck me was that we didn't own any more of Long Island Sound than
anyone else, and I says so flat.
That must have been how the boss of the old sloop felt about it too; for
he don't pay any attention to the howls or threats. He just makes things
snug and then goes below and starts pokin' about in his dinky little
cabin. Judgin' by the motions, he was gettin' a late supper.
Anyway, they couldn't budge him, even though half the club was stewin'
about it. And, someway, that seemed to tickle Chunk and me a lot. We
watched him spread his grub out on the cabin table, roll up his sleeves,
and square away like he had a good appetite, just as if he'd been all by
himself, instead of right here in the midst of so many flossy yachtsmen.
He even had music to eat by; for part of the programme was the turnin'
loose of one of these high priced cabinet disk machines, that was on the
Commodore's big schooner, and feedin' it with Caruso and Melba records.
There was so much chatterin' goin' on around us on the verandas, and so
many corks poppin' and glasses clinkin', that the skipper must have got
more benefit from the concert than anyone else. At last he wipes his
mouth on his sleeve careful, fills his pipe, and crawls out on deck to
enjoy the view.
It was well worth lookin' at too; for, although there was most too many
clouds for the moon to do much execution, here was all the yachts lighted
up, and the clubhouse blazin' and gay, and the water lappin' gentle in
between. He gazes out at it placid for a minute or so, and then we see
him dive down into the cabin. He comes back with something or other that
we couldn't make out, and the next thing I knows I finds myself keepin'
time with my foot to one of them lively, swingin' old tunes which might
have been "The Campbells Are Coming" or might not; but anyway it was
enough to give you that tingly sensation in your toes. And it was
proceedin' from the after deck of that old hulk.
"Well, well!" says I. "Bagpipes!"
"Bagpipes be blowed!" says Chunk. "That's an accordion he's playing.
Listen!"
Say, I was listenin', and with both ears. Also other folks was beginnin'
to do the same. Inside of five minutes, too, all the chatter has died
down, and as I glanced around at the tables I could see that whole crowd
of fancy dressed folks noddin' and beatin' time with their fans and
cigars and fizz glasses. Even the waiters was standin' still, or tiptoin'
so's to take it in.
Ever hear one of them out-of-date music bellows handled by a natural born
artist? Say, I've always been partial to accordions myself, though I
never had the courage to own up to it in public; but this was the first
time I'd ever heard one pumped in that classy fashion.
Music! Why, as he switches off onto "The Old Folks at Home," you'd
thought there was a church organ and a full orchestra out there! Maybe
comin' across the water had something to do with it; but hanged if it
wa'n't great! And of all the fine old tunes he gave us--"Nellie Gray,"
"Comin' Through the Rye," "Annie Laurie," and half a dozen more.
"Chunk," says I, as the concert ends and the folks begin to applaud,
"there's only one thing to be done in a case like this. Lemme take that
lid of yours."
"Certainly," says he, and drops a fiver into it before he passes it over.
That wa'n't the only green money I collects, either, and by the time I've
made the entire round I must have gathered up more'n a quart of spendin'
currency.
"Hold on there, Shorty," says Chunk, as I starts out to deliver the
collection. "I'd like to go with you."
"Come along, then," says I. "I guess some of these sailormen will row us
out."
What we had framed up was one of these husky, rugged, old hearts of oak,
who would choke up some on receivin' the tribute and give us his blessin'
in a sort of "Shore Acres" curtain speech. Part of that description he
lives up to. He's some old, all right; but he ain't handsome or rugged.
He's a lean, dyspeptic lookin' old party, with a wrinkled face colored up
like a pair of yellow shoes at the end of a hard season. His hair is long
and matted, and he ain't overly clean in any detail. He don't receive us
real hearty, either.
"Hey, keep your hands off that rail!" he sings out, reachin' for a
boathook as we come alongside.
"It's all right, Cap," says I. "We're friends."
"Git out!" says he. "I ain't got any friends."
"Sure you have, old scout," says I. "Anyway, there's a lot of people
ashore that was mighty pleased with the way you tickled that accordion.
Here's proof of it too," and I holds up the hat.
"Huh!" says he, gettin' his eye on the contents. "Come aboard, then.
Here, I guess you can stow that stuff in there," and blamed if he don't
shove out an empty lard pail for me to dump the money in. That's as
excited as he gets about it too.
Say, I'd have indulged in about two more minutes of dialogue with that
ugly faced old pirate, and then I'd beat it for shore good and disgusted,
if it hadn't been for Chunk Tracey. But he jumps in, as enthusiastic as
if he was interviewin' some foreign Prince, presses a twenty-five-cent
perfecto on the Cap'n, and begins pumpin' out of him the story of his
life.
And when Chunk really enthuses it's got to be a mighty cold proposition
that don't thaw some. Ten to one, too, if this had been a nice, easy
talkin', gentle old party, willin' to tell all he knew in the first five
minutes, Chunk wouldn't have bothered with him; but, because he don't
show any gratitude, mushy or otherwise, and acts like he had a permanent,
ingrowin' grouch, Chunk is right there with the persistence. He drags out
of him that he's Cap'n Todd Spiller, hailin' originally from Castine,
Maine, and that the name of his old tub is the Queen of the Seas. He says
his chief business is clammin'; but he does a little fishin' and
freightin' on the side. He don't work much, though, because it don't take
a lot to keep him.
"But you have a wife somewhere ashore, I suppose," suggests Chunk, "a
dear old soul who waits anxiously for you to come back?"
"Bah!" grunts Cap'n Spiller, knockin' the heel out of his corncob
vicious. "I ain't got any use for women."
"I see," says Chunk, gazin' up sentimental at the moon. "A blighted
romance of youth; some fair, fickle maid who fled with another and left
you alone?"
"No such luck," says Spiller. "My trouble was havin' too many to once.
Drat 'em!"
And you'd most thought Chunk would have let it go at that; but not him!
He only tackles Spiller along another line. "What I want to know,
Captain," says he, "is where you learned to play the accordion so well."
"Never learned 'tall," growls Spiller. "Just picked it up from a Portugee
that tried to knife me afterwards."
"You don't say!" says Chunk. "But there's the musician's soul in you. You
love it, don't you? You use it to express your deep, unsatisfied
longings?"
"Guess so," says the Captain. "I allus plays most when my dyspepshy is
worst. It's kind of a relief."
"Um-m-m--ah!" says Chunk. "Many geniuses are that way. You must come into
town, though, and let me take you to hear some real, bang up, classical
music."
"Not me!" grunts Spiller. "I can make all the music I want myself."
"How about plays, then?" says Chunk. "Now, wouldn't you like to see the
best show on Broadway?"
"No, sir," says he, prompt and vigorous. "I ain't never seen any shows,
and don't want to seen one, either."
And, say, along about that time, what with the stale cookin' and bilge
water scents that was comin' from the stuffy cabin, and this charmin'
mood that old Spiller was in, I was gettin' restless. "Say, Chunk," I
breaks in, "you may be enjoyin' this, all right; but I've got enough.
It's me for shore! Goin' along?"
"Not yet," says he. "Have the boat come back for me in about an hour."
It was nearer two, though, before he shows up again, and his face is
fairly beamin'.
"Well," says I, "did you adopt the old pirate, or did he adopt you?"
"Wait and see," says he, noddin' his head cocky. "Anyway, he's promised
to show up at my office to-morrow afternoon."
"You must be stuck on entertaining a grouchy old lemon like that," says
I.
"But he's a genius," says Chunk. "Just what I've been looking for as a
head liner in a new vaudeville house I'm opening next month."
"What!" says I. "You ain't thinkin' of puttin' that old sour face on the
stage, are you? Say, you're batty!"
"Batty, am I?" says Chunk, kind of swellin' up. "All right, I'll show
you. I've made half a million, my boy, by just such batty moves as that.
It's because I know people, know 'em through and through, from what
they'll pay to hear, to the ones who can give 'em what they want. I'm a
discoverer of talent, Shorty. Where do I get my stars from? Pick 'em up
anywhere. I don't go to London and Paris and pay fancy salaries. I find
my attractions first hand, sign' em up on long contracts, and take the
velvet that comes in myself. That's my way, and I guess I've made good."
"Maybe you have," says I; "but I'm guessin' this is where you stub your
toe. Hot line that'll be for the head of a bill, won't it--an accordion
player? Think you can get that across?"
"Think!" says Chunk, gettin' indignant as usual, because someone suggests
he can fall down on anything. "Why, I'm going to put that over twice a
day, to twelve hundred-dollar houses! No, I don't think; I know!"
And just for that it wouldn't have taken much urgin' for me to have put
up a few yellow ones that he was makin' a wrong forecast.
But, say, you didn't happen to be up to the openin' of Peter K.'s new
Alcazar the other night, did you? Well, Sadie and I was, on account of
being included in one of Chunk's complimentary box parties. And, honest,
when they sprung that clouded moonlight water view, with the Long Island
lights in the distance, and the Sound steamers passin' back and forth at
the back, and the rocks in front, hanged if I didn't feel like I was on
the veranda of our yacht club, watchin' it all over again, the same as it
was that night!
Then in from one side comes this boat; no ordinary property piece faked
up from something in stock; but a life sized model that's a dead ringer
for the old Queen of the Seas, even to the stovepipe and the shirts hung
from the forestay. It comes floatin' in lazy and natural, and when Cap
Spiller goes forward to heave over the anchor he drops it with a splash
into real water. He's wearin' the same old costume,--shirt sleeves, cob
pipe, and all,--and when he begins to putter around in the cabin, blamed
if you couldn't smell the onions fryin' and the coffee boilin'. Yes, sir,
Chunk had put it all on!
Did the act get 'em interested? Say, there was fifteen straight minutes
of this scenic business, with not a word said; but the house was so still
I could hear my watch tickin'. But when he drags out that old accordion,
plants himself on the cabin roof with one leg swingin' careless over the
side, and opens up with them old tunes of his--well, he had 'em all with
him, from the messenger boys in the twenty-five-cent gallery to the
brokers in the fifteen-dollar boxes. He takes five curtain calls, and the
orchestra circle was still demandin' more when they rung down the front
drop.
"Chunk," says I, as he shows up at our box, "I take it back. You sure
have picked another winner."
"Looks like it, don't it?" says he. "And whisper! A fifty-minute act for
a hundred a week! That's the best of it. Up at the Columbus their top
liner is costing them a thousand a day."
"It's a cinch if you can hold onto him, eh?" says I.
"Oh, I can hold him all right," says Chunk, waggin' his head confident.
"I know enough about human nature to be sure of that. Of course, he's an
odd freak; but this sort of thing will grow on him. The oftener he gets a
hand like that, the more he'll want it, and inside of a fortnight that'll
be what he lives for. Oh, I know people, from the ground up, inside and
outside!"
Well, I was beginnin' to think he did. And, havin' been on the inside of
his deal, I got to takin' a sort of pride in this hit, almost as much as
if I'd discovered the Captain myself. I used to go up about every
afternoon to see old Spiller do his stunt and get 'em goin'. Gen'rally
I'd lug along two or three friends, so I could tell 'em how it happened.
Last Friday I was a little late for the act, and was just rushin' by the
boxoffice, when I hears language floatin' out that I recognizes as a
brand that only Chunk Tracey could deliver when he was good and warm
under the collar. Peekin' in through the window, I sees him standin'
there, fairly tearin' his hair.
"What's up, Chunk?" says I. "You seem peeved."
"Peeved!" he yells. "Why, blankety blank the scousy universe, I'm stark,
raving mad! What do you think? Spiller has quit!"
"Somebody overbid that hundred a week?" says I.
"I wish they had; then I could get out an injunction and hold him on his
contract," says Peter K. "But he's skipped, skipped for good. Read
that."
It's only a scrawly note he'd left pinned up in his dressin' room, and,
while it ain't much as a specimen of flowery writin', it states his case
more or less clear. Here's what it said:
Mister P. K. Tracey;
Sir:--I'm through being a fool actor. The money's all right if I needed
it, which I doant, but I doant like makin' a fool of myself twict a day
to please a lot of citty foalks I doant give a dam about annie way, I
doant like livin' in a blamed hotel either, for there aint annie wheres
to set and smoak and see the sun come up. I'd ruther be on my old bote,
and that's whare I'm goin'. You needn't try to find me and git me to come
back for I wont. You couldn't git me to act on that staige agin, ever.
It's foolish.
Yours, TODD SPILLER.
"Now what in the name of all that's woolly," says Chunk, "would you say
to a thing like that?"
"Me?" says I. "I don't know. Maybe I'd start in by admittin' that to card
index the minds of the whole human race was a good deal of a job for one
party to tackle, even with a mighty intellect like yours. Also, if it was
put up to me flat, I might agree with Spiller."