HANDING BOBBY A BLANK
Say, what do you make out of this plute huntin' business, anyway? Has the
big money bunch got us down on the mat with our wind shut off and our
pockets inside out; or is it just campaign piffle? Are we ghost dancin',
or waltz dreamin', or what? It sure has me twisted up for fair, and I
don't know whether I stand with the criminal rich or the predatory poor.
That's all on account of a little mix-up I was rung into at the hotel
Perzazzer the other day. No, we ain't livin' there reg'lar again. This
was just a little fall vacation we was takin' in town, so Sadie can catch
up with her shoppin', and of course the Perzazzer seems more or less like
home to us.
But it ain't often I've ever run against anything like this there. I've
been thinkin' it over since, and it's left me with my feet in the air.
No, you didn't read anything about it in the papers. But say, there's
more goes on in one of them big joints every week than would fill a whole
issue.
Look at the population the Perzazzer's got,--over two thousand, countin'
the help! Why, drop us down somewhere out in Iowa, and spread us around
in separate houses, and there'd be enough to call for a third-class
postmaster, a police force, and a board of trade. Bunched the way we are,
all up and down seventeen stories, with every cubic foot accounted for,
we don't cut much of a figure except on the checkbooks. You hear about
the Perzazzer only when some swell gives a fancy blow-out, or a guest
gets frisky in the public dining room.
And anything in the shape of noise soon has the muffler put on it. We've
got a whole squad of husky, two-handed, soft spoken gents who don't have
anything else to do, and our champeen ruction extinguisher is Danny
Reardon. To see him strollin' through the cafe, you might think he was a
corporation lawyer studyin' how to spend his next fee; but let some
ambitious wine opener put on the loud pedal, or have Danny get his eye on
some Bridgeport dressmaker drawin' designs of the latest Paris fashions
in the tea room, and you'll see him wake up. Nothing seems to get by
him.
So I was some surprised to find him havin' an argument with a couple of
parties away up on our floor. Anyone could see with one eye that they was
a pair of butt-ins. The tall, smooth faced gent in the black frock coat
and the white tie had sky pilot wrote all over him; and the Perzazzer
ain't just the place an out of town minister would pick out to stop at,
unless he wanted to blow a year's salary into a week's board.
Anyway, his runnin' mate was a dead give away. He looked like he might
have just left a bench in the Oriental lodgin' house down at Chatham
Square. He's a thin, gawky, pale haired youth, with tired eyes and a limp
lower jaw that leaves his mouth half open all the time; and his costume
looks like it had been made up from back door contributions,--a faded
coat three sizes too small, a forty fat vest, and a pair of shiny black
whipcord pants that someone had been married in about twenty years back.
What gets me is why such a specimen should be trailin' around with a
clean, decent lookin' chap like this minister. Maybe that's why I come to
take any notice of their little debate. There's some men, though, that
you always give a second look at, and this minister gent was one of that
kind. It wa'n't until I see how he tops Danny by a head that I notices
how well built he is; and I figures that if he was only in condition, and
knew how to handle himself, he could put up a good lively scrap.
Something about his jaw hints that to me; but of course, him bein' a
Bible pounder, I don't expect anything of the kind.
"Yes, I understand all that," Danny was tellin' him; "but you'd better
come down to the office, just the same."
"My dear man," says the minister, "I have been to the office, as I told
you before, and I could get no satisfaction there. The person I wish to
see is on the ninth floor. They say he is out. I doubt it, and, as I have
come six hundred miles just to have a word with him, I insist on a chance
to----"
"Sure!" says Danny. "You'll get your chance, only it's against the rules
to allow strangers above the ground floor. Now, you come along with me
and you'll be all right." With that Danny gets a grip on the gent's arm
and starts to walk him to the elevator. But he don't go far. The next
thing Danny knows he's been sent spinnin' against the other wall. Course,
he wa'n't lookin' for any such move; but it was done slick and prompt.
"Sorry," says the minister, shovin' his cuffs back in place; "but I must
ask you to keep your hands off."
I see what Danny was up to then. He looks as cool as a soda fountain; but
he's red behind his ears, and he's fishin' the chain nippers out of his
side pocket. I knows that in about a minute the gent in the frock coat
will have both hands out of business. Even at that, it looks like an even
bet, with somebody gettin' hurt more or less. And blamed if I didn't hate
to see that spunky minister get mussed up, just for objectin' to takin'
the quiet run out. So I pushes to the front.
"Well, well!" says I, shovin' out a hand to the parson, as though he was
someone I'd been lookin' for. "So you showed up, eh?"
"Why," says he,--"why--er----"
"Yes, I know," says I, headin' him off. "You can tell me about that
later. Bring your friend right in; this is my door. It's all right,
Danny; mistakes will happen."
And before any of 'em knows what's up, Danny is left outside with his
mouth open, while I've towed the pair of strays into our sittin' room,
and shooed Sadie out of the way. The minister looks kind of dazed; but he
keeps his head well.
"Really," says he, gazin' around, "I am sure there must be some
misunderstanding."
"You bet," says I, "and it was gettin' worse every minute. About two
shakes more, and you'd been the center of a local disturbance that would
have landed you before the police sergeant."
"Do you mean," says he, "that I cannot communicate with a guest in this
hotel without being liable to arrest?"
"That's the size of it," says I. "Danny had the bracelets all out. The
conundrum is, though, Why I should do the goat act, instead of lettin'
you two mix it up? But that's what happened, and now I guess it's up to
you to give an account."
"H'm!" says he. "It isn't quite clear; but I infer that you have, in a
way, made yourself responsible for me. May I ask whom I have to thank
for----"
"I'm Shorty McCabe," says I.
"Oh!" says he. "It seems to me I've heard----"
"Nothing like bein' well advertised," says I. "Now, how about you--and
this?" With that I points to the specimen in the cast offs, that was
givin' an imitation of a flytrap. It was a little crisp, I admit; but I'm
gettin' anxious to know where I stand.
The minister lifts his eyebrows some, but proceeds to hand out the
information. "My name is Hooker," says he,--"Samuel Hooker."
"Preacher?" says I.
"Ye-es, a poor one," says he. "Where? Well, in the neighborhood of Mossy
Dell, Pennsylvania."
"Out in the celluloid collar belt, eh?" says I. "This ain't a deacon, is
it?" and I jerks my thumb at the fish eyed one.
"This unfortunate fellow," says he, droppin' a hand on the object's
shoulder, "is one of our industrial products. His name is Kronacher,
commonly called Dummy."
"I can guess why," says I. "But now let's get down to how you two happen
to be loose on the seventh floor of the Perzazzer and so far from Mossy
Dell."
The Reverend Sam says there ain't any great mystery about that. He come
on here special to have a talk with a party by the name of Rankin, that
he understood was stoppin' here.
"You don't mean Bobby Brut, do you?" says I.
"Robert K. Rankin is the young man's name, I believe," says he,--"son of
the late Loring Rankin, president of the Consolidated----"
"That's Bobby Brut," says I. "Don't catch onto the Brut, eh? You would if
you read the champagne labels. Friend of yours, is he?"
But right there the Rev. Mr. Hooker turns balky. He hints that his
business with Bobby is private and personal, and he ain't anxious to lay
it before a third party. He'd told 'em the same at the desk, when someone
from Bobbie's rooms had 'phoned for details about the card, and then he'd
got the turn down. But he wa'n't the kind that stayed down. He's goin' to
see Mr. Rankin or bu'st. Not wantin' to ask for the elevator, he blazes
ahead up the stairs; and Danny, it seems, hadn't got on his track until
he was well started.
"All I ask," says he, "is five minutes of Mr. Rankin's time. That is not
an unreasonable request, I hope?"
"Excuse me," says I; "but you're missin' the point by a mile. It ain't
how long you want to stay, but what you're here for. You got to remember
that things is run different on Fifth-ave. from what they are on
Penrose-st., Mossy Dell. You might be a book agent, or a bomb thrower,
for all the folks at the desk know. So the only way to get next to anyone
here is to show your hand and take the decision. Now if you want to try
runnin' the outside guard again, I'll call Danny back. But you'll make a
mess of it."
He thinks that over for a minute, lookin' me square in the eye all the
time, and all of a sudden he puts out his hand. "You're right," says he.
"I was hot headed, and let my zeal get the better of my commonsense.
Thank you, Mr. McCabe."
"That's all right," says I. "You go down to the office and put your case
to 'em straight."
"No," says he, shruggin' his shoulders, "that wouldn't do at all. I
suppose I've come on a fool's errand. Kronacher, we'll go back."
"That's too bad," says I, "if you had business with Bobby that was on the
level."
"Since you've been so kind," says he, "perhaps you would give me your
opinion--if I am not detaining you?"
"Spiel away!" says I. "I'll own up you've got me some interested."
Well, say, when he'd described his visit as a dippy excursion, he wa'n't
far off. Seems that this Rev. Sam Hooker ain't a reg'lar preacher, with a
stained glass window church, a steam heated parsonage, and a settled job.
He's sort of a Gospel promoter, that goes around plantin' churches here
and there,--home missionary, he calls it, though I always thought a home
missionary was one that was home from China on a half-pay visit.
Mainly he says he drifts around through the coke oven and glass works
district, where all the Polackers and other dagoes work. He don't let it
go with preachin' to 'em, though. He pokes around among their shacks,
seein' how they live, sendin' doctors for sick babies, givin' the women
folks hints on the use of fresh air and hard soap, an' advisin' 'em to
keep their kids in school. He's one of them strenuous chaps, too, that
believes in stirrin' up a fuss whenever he runs across anything he thinks
is wrong. One of the fights he's been making is something about the boys
in the glass works.
"Perhaps you have heard of our efforts to have a child labor bill passed
in our State?" says he.
"No," says I; "but I'm against it. There's enough kids has to answer the
mill whistle, without passin' laws to make 'em."
Then he explains how the bill is to keep 'em from goin' at it too young,
or workin' too many hours on a stretch. Course, I'm with him on that, and
says so.
"Ah!" says he. "Then you may be interested to learn that young Mr. Rankin
is the most extensive employer of child labor in our State. That is what
I want to talk to him about."
"Ever see Bobby?" says I.
He says he hasn't.
"Know anything of his habits, and so on?" I asks.
"Not a thing," says the Rev. Sam.
"Then you take it from me," says I, "that you ain't missed much."
See? I couldn't go all over that record of Bobby Brut's, specially to a
preacher. Not that Bobby was the worst that ever cruised around the Milky
Way in a sea goin' cab with his feet over the dasher; but he was
something of a torrid proposition while he lasted. You remember some of
his stunts, maybe? I hadn't kept strict tabs on him; but I'd heard that
after they chucked him out of the sanatorium his mother planted him here,
with a man nurse and a private doctor, and slid off to Europe to stay
with her son-in-law Count until folks forgot about Bobby.
And this was the youth the Rev. Mr. Hooker had come to have a heart to
heart talk with!
"Ain't you takin' a lot of trouble, just for a few Polackers?" says I.
"They are my brothers," says he, quiet like.
"What!" says I. "You don't look it."
His mouth corners flickers a little at that, and there comes a glimmer in
them solemn gray eyes of his; but he goes on to say that it's part of his
belief that every man is his brother.
"Gee!" says I. "You've adopted a big fam'ly."
But say, he's so dead in earnest about it, and he talks so sensible about
other things, besides appearin' so white clear through, that I can't help
likin' the cuss.
"Look here!" says I. "This is way out of my line, and it strikes me as a
batty proposition anyway; but if you're still anxious to have a chin with
Bobby, maybe I can fix it."
"Thank you, thank you!" says he, givin' me the grateful grip.
It's a good deal easier than I'd thought. All I does is get one of
Bobby's retinue on the house 'phone, tell who I am, and say I was
thinkin' of droppin' up with a couple of friends for a short call, if
Bobby's agreeable. Seems he was, for inside of two minutes we're on our
way up in the elevator.
Got any idea of the simple way a half baked young plute can live in a
place like the Perzazzer? He has one floor of a whole wing cut off for
his special use,--about twenty rooms, I should judge,--and there was
hired hands standin' around in every corner. We're piloted in over the
Persian rugs, with the preacher blinkin' his eyes to keep from seein'
some of the statuary and oil paintin's.
At last we comes to a big room with an eastern exposure, furnished like a
show window. Sittin' at a big mahogany table in the middle is a narrow
browed, pop eyed, bat eared young chap in a padded silk dressin' gown,
and I remembers him for the Bobby Brut I used to see floatin' around with
the Trixy-Madges at the lobster palaces. He has a couple of decks of
cards laid out in front of him, and I guesses he's havin' a go at
Canfield solitaire. Behind his chair stands a sour faced lackey who holds
up his hand for us to wait.
Bobby don't look up at all. He's shiftin' the cards around, tryin' to
make 'em come out right, doin' it quick and nervous. All of a sudden the
lackey claps his hand down on a pile and says, "Beg pardon, sir, but you
can't do that."
"Blast you!" snarls Bobby. "And I was just getting it! Why didn't you
look the other way? Bah!" and he sends the whole lot flyin' on the floor.
Do you catch on? He has the lackey there to see that he don't cheat
himself.
But while the help was pickin' up the cards Bobby gets a glimpse of our
trio, ranged up against the door draperies.
"Hello, Shorty McCabe!" he sings out. "It's bully of you to drop in.
Nobody comes to see me any more--hardly a soul. Say, do you think there's
anything the matter with my head?"
"Can't say your nut shows any cracks from here," says I. "Who's been
tellin' you it did?"
"Why, all those blasted doctors," says he. "They won't even let me go out
alone. But say," here he beckons me up and whispers mysterious, "I'll fix
'em yet! You just wait till I get my animals trained. You wait!" Then he
claps his hands and hollers, "Atkins! Set 'em going!"
Atkins, he stops scrabblin' after the cards and starts around the room.
And say, would you believe it, on all the tables and mantelpieces was a
lot of those toy animals, such as they sell durin' the holidays. There
was lions and tigers and elephants, little and big, and every last one of
'em has its head balanced so it'll move up and down when you touch it.
Atkins' job was to go from one to the other and set 'em bobbin'. Them on
the mantels wa'n't more'n a few inches long; but on the floor, hid behind
chairs, was some that was life size. One was a tiger, made out of a real
skin, and when his head goes his jaws open and shut, and his tail lashes
from side to side, as natural as life. Say, it was weird to watch that
collection, all noddin' away together--almost gave you the willies!
"Are they all going?" says Bobby.
"Yes, sir," says Atkins, standin' attention.
"What do you think, eh?" says Bobbie, half shuttin' his pop eyes and
starin' at me, real foxy.
"Great scheme!" says I. "Didn't know you had a private zoo up here. But
say, I brought along someone that wants to have a little chin with you."
With that I hauls the Rev. Sam to the front and gives him the nudge to
fire away. And say, he's all primed! He begins by givin' Bobbie a word
picture of the Rankin glass works at night, when the helpers are carryin'
the trays from the hot room, where the blowers work three-hour shifts,
with the mercury at one hundred and twenty, to the coolin' room, where
it's like a cellar. He tells him how many helpers there are, how many
hours they work a day, and what they get for it. It didn't make me yearn
for a job.
"And here," says the Rev. Mr. Hooker, pullin' the Dummy up by the sleeve,
"is what happens. This boy went to work in your glass factory when he was
thirteen. He was red cheeked, clear eyed, then, and he had a normal
brain. He held his job six years. Then he was discharged. Why? Because he
wasn't of any more use. He was all in, the juice sapped out of him, as
dry as a last year's cornhusk. Look at him! Any doubt about his being
used up? And what happened to him is happening to thousands of other
boys. So I have come here to ask you, Mr. Rankin, if you are proud of
turning out such products? Aren't you ready to stop hiring
thirteen-year-old boys for your works?"
Say, it was straight from the shoulder, that talk,--no flourishes, no
fine words! And what do you guess Bobby Brut has to say? Not a blamed
thing! I doubt if he heard more'n half of it, anyway; for he's got his
eyes set on that pasty face of Dummy Kronacher, and is followin' his
motions.
The Dummy ain't payin' any attention to the speech, either. He's got
sight of all them animals with their heads bobbin', and a silly grin
spreads over his face. First he sidles over to the mantel and touches up
one that was about stopped. Then he sees another, and starts that off
again, and by the time Hooker is through the Dummy is as busy and
contented as you please, keepin' them tigers and things movin'.
"Well?" says the Rev. Sam.
"Eh?" says Bobby, tearin' his eyes off the Dummy. "Were you saying
something about the glass works? Beastly bore! I never go near them. But
say! I want that chap over there. I want to hire him. What's his name?"
"Dummy Kronacher," says the Rev. Sam, comin' out strong on the first
word.
"Good!" says Bobbie. "Hey, Dummy? What will you take to stay here with me
and do that right along?"
Dummy has just discovered a stuffed alligator that can snap its jaws and
wiggle its tail. He only looks up and grins.
"I'll make it a hundred a month," says Bobbie. "Well, that's settled.
Atkins, you're fired! And say, McCabe, I must show this new man how I
want this business done. You and your friend run in some other time, will
you?"
"But," says Hooker, "can't you do something about those helpers? Won't
you promise to----"
"No!" snaps Bobby. "I've no time to bother with such things. Atkins, show
'em out!"
Well, we went. We goes so sudden the Rev. Sam forgets about leavin' the
Dummy until we're outside, and then he's for goin' back after him.
"What for?" says I. "That pair'll get along fine; they're two of a
kind."
"I guess you're right," says he. "And it's something to have brought
those two together. Perhaps someone will see the significance of it, some
day."
Now what was he drivin' at then? You can search me. All I've been able to
make out of it is that what ails the poor is poverty, and the trouble
with the plutes is that they've got too much. Eh? Barney Shaw said
something like that too? Well, don't let on I agree with him. He might
get chesty.