HOW HERMY PUT IT OVER
What do you know about luck, eh? Say, there was a time when I banked
heavy on such things as four-leaf clovers, and the humpback touch, and
dodgin' ladders, and keepin' my fingers crossed after gettin' an X-ray
stare. The longer I watch the game, though, the less I think of the luck
proposition as a chart for explainin' why some gets in on the ground
floor, while others are dropped through the coal chute.
Now look at the latest returns on the career of my old grammar school
chum, Snick Butters. Maybe you don't remember my mentionin' him before.
Yes? No? It don't matter. He's the sporty young gent that's mortgaged his
memorial window to me so many times,--you know, the phony lamp he can do
such stunts with.
He's a smooth boy, Snick is,--too smooth, I used to tell him,--and always
full of schemes for avoidin' real work. For a year or so past he's held
the hot air chair on the front end of one of these sightseein' chariots,
cheerin' the out of town buyers and wheat belt tourists with the flippest
line of skyscraper statistics handed out through any megaphone in town.
They tell me that when Snick would fix his fake eye on the sidewalk, and
roll the good one up at the Metropolitan tower, he'd have his passengers
so dizzy they'd grab one another to keep from fallin' off the wagon.
Yes, I always did find Snick's comp'ny entertainin', and if it hadn't
been more or less expensive,--a visit always meanin' a touch with him,--I
expect I'd been better posted on what he was up to. As it is, I ain't
enjoyed the luxury of seein' Snick for a good many months; when here the
other afternoon, just as I was thinking of startin' for home, the studio
door opens, and in blows a couple of gents, one being a stranger, and the
other this Mr. Butters.
Now, usually Snick's a fancy dresser, no matter who he owes for it. He'll
quit eatin' any time, or do the camel act, or even give up his
cigarettes; but if the gents' furnishing shops are showin' something new
in the line of violet socks or alligator skin vests, Snick's got to sport
the first ones sprung on Broadway.
So, seein' him show up with fringes on his cuffs, a pair of runover tan
shoes, and wearin' his uniform cap off duty, I can't help feelin' some
shocked, or wonderin' how much more'n a five-spot I'll be out by the time
he leaves. It was some relief, though, to see that the glass eye was
still in place, and know I wouldn't be called on to redeem the ticket on
that, anyway.
"Hello, Snick!" says I. "Glad you came in,--I was just going. Hope you
don't mind my lockin' the safe? No offense, you know."
"Can it, Shorty," says he. "There's no brace coming this time."
"Eh?" says I. "Once more with that last, and say it slower, so I can let
it sink in."
"Don't kid," says he. "This is straight business."
"Oh!" says I. "Well, that does sound serious. In that case, who's
your--er----Did he come in with you?"
I thought he did at first; but he seems so little int'rested in either
Snick or me that I wa'n't sure but he just wandered in because he saw the
door open. He's a high, well built, fairly good lookin' chap, dressed
neat and quiet in black; and if it wa'n't for the sort of aimless,
wanderin' look in his eyes, you might have suspected he was somebody in
partic'lar.
"Oh, him!" says Snick, shootin' a careless glance over his shoulder.
"Yes, of course he's with me. It's him I want to talk to you about."
"Well," says I, "don't he--er----Is it a dummy, or a live one? Got a
name, ain't it?"
"Why, sure!" says Snick. "That's Hermy. Hey you, Hermy, shake hands with
Professor McCabe!"
"Howdy," says I, makin' ready to pass the grip. But Hermy ain't in a
sociable mood, it seems.
"Oh, bother!" says he, lookin' around kind of disgusted and not noticin'
the welcomin' hand at all. "I don't want to stay here. I ought to be
home, dressing for dinner."
And say, that gives you about as much idea of the way he said it, as
you'd get of an oil paintin' from seein' a blueprint. I can't put in the
pettish shoulder wiggle that goes with it, or make my voice behave like
his did. It was the most ladylike voice I ever heard come from a
heavyweight; one of these reg'lar "Oh-fudge-Lizzie-I-dropped-my-gum"
voices. And him with a chest on him like a swell front mahog'ny bureau!
"Splash!" says I. "You mean, mean thing! So there!"
"Don't mind what he says at all, Shorty," says Snick. "You wait! I'll fix
him!" and with that he walks up to Hermy, shakes his finger under his
nose, and proceeds to lay him out. "Now what did I tell you; eh, Hermy?"
says Snick. "One lump of sugar in your tea--no pie--and locked in your
room at eight-thirty. Oh, I mean it! You're here to behave yourself.
Understand? Take your fingers off that necktie! Don't slouch against the
wall there, either! You might get your coat dusty. Dress for dinner!
Didn't I wait fifteen minutes while you fussed with your hair? And do you
think you're going to go through all that again? You're dressed for
dinner, I tell you! But you don't get a bit unless you do as you're told!
Hear?"
"Ye-e-es, sir," sniffles Hermy.
Honest, it was a little the oddest exhibition I ever saw. Why, he would
make two of Snick, this Hermy would, and he has a pair of shoulders like
a truck horse. Don't ever talk to me about chins again, either! Hermy has
chin enough for a trust buster; but that's all the good it seems to do
him.
"You ain't cast the hypnotic spell over him, have you, Snick?" says I.
"Hypnotic nothing!" says Snick. "That ain't a man; it's only a music
box!"
"A which?" says I.
"Barytone," says Snick. "Say, did you ever hear Bonci or Caruso or any of
that mob warble? No? Well, then I'll have to tell you. Look at Hermy
there. Take a good long gaze at him. And--sh-h-h! After he's had one show
at the Metropolitan he'll have that whole bunch carryin' spears."
"Is this something you dreamed, Snick," says I, "or is it a sample of
your megaphone talk?"
"You don't believe it, of course," says he. "That's what I brought him up
here for. Hermy, turn on the Toreador business!"
"Eh?" says I; then I sees Hermy gettin' into position to cut loose. "Back
up there! Shut it off! What do I know about judgin' singers on the hoof?
Why, he might be all you say, or as bad as I'd be willin' to bet; but I
wouldn't know it. And what odds does it make to me, one way or another?"
"I know, Shorty," says Snick, earnest and pleadin'; "but you're my last
hope. I've simply got to convince you."
"Sorry, Snick," says I; "but this ain't my day for tryin' out barytones.
Besides, I got to catch a train."
"All right," says Snick. "Then we'll trot along with you while I tell you
about Hermy. Honest, Shorty, you've got to hear it!"
"If it's as desperate as all that," says I, "spiel away."
And of all the plunges I ever knew Snick Butters to make,--and he sure is
the dead gamest sport I ever ran across,--this one that he owns up to
takin' on Hermy had all his past performances put in the piker class.
Accordin' to the way he deals it out, Snick had first discovered Hermy
about a year ago, found him doin' the tray balancin' act in a porcelain
lined three-off-and-draw-one parlor down on Seventh-ave. He was doin' it
bad, too,--gettin' the orders mixed, and spillin' soup on the customers,
and passin' out wrong checks, and havin' the boss worked up to the
assassination point.
But Hermy didn't even know enough to be discouraged. He kept right on
singsongin' out his orders down the shaft, as cheerful as you please:
"Sausage and mashed, two on the wheats, one piece of punk, and two mince,
and let 'em come in a hurry! Silver!" You know how they do it in them C.
B. & Q. places? Yes, corned beef and cabbage joints. With sixty or
seventy people in a forty by twenty-five room, and the dish washers
slammin' crockery regardless, you got to holler out if you want the chef
to hear. Hermy wa'n't much on the shout, so he sang his orders. And it
was this that gave Snick his pipedream.
"Now you know I've done more or less tra-la-la-work myself," says he,
"and the season I spent on the road as one of the merry villagers with an
Erminie outfit put me wise to a few things. Course, this open air
lecturing has spoiled my pipes for fair; but I've got my ear left,
haven't I? And say, Shorty, the minute I heard that voice of Hermy's I
knew he was the goods."
So what does he do but go back later, after the noon rush was over, and
get Hermy to tell him the story of his life. It wa'n't what you'd call
thrillin'. All there was to it was that Hermy was a double orphan who'd
been brought up in Bridgeport, Conn., by an uncle who was a dancin'
professor. The only thing that saved Hermy from a bench in the brass
works was his knack for poundin' out twosteps and waltzes on the piano;
but at that it seems he was such a soft head he couldn't keep from
watchin' the girls on the floor and striking wrong notes. Then there was
trouble with uncle. Snick didn't get the full details of the row, or what
brought it to a head; but anyway Hermy was fired from the academy and
fin'lly drifted to New York, where he'd been close up against the bread
line ever since.
"And when I found how he just naturally ate up music," says Snick, "and
how he'd had some training in a boy choir, and what a range he had, I
says to him, 'Hermy,' says I, 'you come with me!' First I blows in ten
good hard dollars getting a lawyer to draw up a contract. I thought it
all out by myself; but I wanted the whereases put in right. And it's a
peach. It bound me to find board and lodging and provide clothes and
incidentals for Hermy for the period of one year; and in consideration of
which, and all that, I am to be the manager and sole business
representative of said Hermy for the term of fifteen years from date,
entitled to a fair and equal division of whatsoever profits, salary, or
emoluments which may be received by the party of the second part, payable
to me, my heirs, or assigns forever. And there I am, Shorty. I've done
it! And I'm going to stay with it!"
"What!" says I. "You don't mean to say you've invested a year's board and
lodgin' and expenses in--in that?" and I gazes once more at this hundred
and eighty-pound wrist slapper, who is standin' there in front of the
mirror pattin' down a stray lock.
"That's what I've done," says Snick, shovin' his hands in his pockets and
lookin' at the exhibit like he was proud of it.
"But how the--where in blazes did you get it?" says I.
"Squeezed it out," says Snick; "out of myself, too. And you know me. I
always was as good to myself as other folks would let me. But all that
had to be changed. It come hard, I admit, and it cost more'n I figured
on. Why, some of his voice culture lessons set me back ten a throw. Think
of that! He's had 'em, though. And me? Well, I've lived on one meal a
day. I've done a double trick: on the wagon day times, night cashier in a
drug store from nine till two a.m. I've cut out theaters, cigarettes, and
drinks. I've made my old clothes last over, and I've pinched the dimes
and nickels so hard my thumbprints would look like treasury dies. But
we've got the goods, Shorty. Hermy may be the mushiest, sappiest, hen
brained specimen of a man you ever saw; but when it comes to being a high
class grand opera barytone, he's the kid! And little Percival here is his
manager and has the power of attorney that will fix him for keeps if I
know anything!"
"Ye-e-es?" says I. "Reminds me some of the time when you was backin'
Doughnut to win the Suburban. Recollect how hard you scraped to get the
two-fifty you put down on Doughnut at thirty to one, and how hard you
begged me to jump in and pull out a bale of easy money? Let's see; did
the skate finish tenth, or did he fall through the hole in his name?"
"Ah, say!" says Snick. "Don't go digging that up now. That was sport.
This is straight business, on the level, and I ain't asking you to put up
a cent."
"Well, what then?" says I.
Would you guess it? He wants me to book Hermy for a private exhibition
before some of my swell friends! All I've got to do is to persuade some
of 'em to give a little musicale, and then spring this nutmeg wonder on
the box holdin' set without warnin'.
"If he was a Russki with long hair," says I, "or even a fiddlin' Czech,
they might stand for it; but to ask 'em to listen to a domestic unknown
from Bridgeport, Conn.----I wouldn't have the nerve, Snick. Why not take
him around to the concert agencies first?"
"Bah!" says Snick. "Haven't we worn out the settees in the agency
offices? What do they know about good barytone voices? All they judge by
is press clippings and lists of past engagements. Now, your people would
know. He'd have 'em going in two minutes, and they'd spread the news
afterwards. Then we'd have the agents coming to us. See?"
Course I couldn't help gettin' int'rested in this long shot of Snick's,
even if I don't take any stock in his judgment; but I tries to explain
that while I mix more or less with classy folks, I don't exactly keep
their datebooks for 'em, or provide talent for their after dinner
stunts.
That don't head off Snick, though. He says I'm the only link between him
and the set he wants to reach, and he just can't take no for an answer.
He says he'll depend on me for a date for next Wednesday night.
"Why Wednesday?" says I. "Wouldn't Thursday or Friday do as well?"
"No," says he. "That's Frenchy's only night off from the cafe, and it's
his dress suit Hermy's got to wear. It'll be some tight across the back;
but it's the biggest one I can get the loan of without paying rent."
Well, I tells Snick I'll see what can be done, and when I gets home I
puts the problem up to Sadie. Maybe if she'd had a look at Hermy she'd
taken more interest; but as it is she says she don't see how I can afford
to run the chances of handin' out a lemon, even if there was an op'nin'.
Then again, so many of our friends were at Palm Beach just now, and those
who'd come back were so busy givin' Lent bridge parties, that the chances
of workin' in a dark horse barytone was mighty slim. She'd think it over,
though, and see if maybe something can't be done.
So that's the best I can give Snick when he shows up in the mornin', and
it was the same every day that week. I was kind of sorry for Snick, and
was almost on the point of luggin' him and his discovery out to the house
and askin' in a few of the neighbors, when Sadie tells me that the
Purdy-Pells are back from Florida and are goin' to open their town house
with some kind of happy jinks Wednesday night, and that we're invited.
Course, that knocks out my scheme. I'd passed the sad news on to Snick;
and it was near noon Wednesday, when I'm called up on the 'phone by
Sadie. Seems that Mrs. Purdy-Pell had signed a lady harpist and a refined
monologue artist to fill in the gap between coffee and bridge, and the
lady harper had scratched her entry on account of a bad case of grip. So
couldn't I find my friend Mr. Butters and get him to produce his singer?
The case had been stated to Mrs. Purdy-Pell, and she was willin' to take
the risk.
"All right," says I. "But it's all up to her, don't you forget."
With that I chases down to Madison Square, catches Snick just startin'
out with a load of neck stretchers, gives him the number, and tells him
to show up prompt at nine-thirty. And I wish you could have seen the joy
that spread over his homely face. Even the store eye seemed to be
sparklin' brighter'n ever.
Was he there? Why, as we goes in to dinner at eight o'clock, I catches
sight of him and Hermy holdin' down chairs in the reception room. Well,
you know how they pull off them affairs. After they've stowed away about
eleventeen courses, from grapefruit and sherry to demitasse and
benedictine, them that can leave the table without wheel chairs wanders
out into the front rooms, and the men light up fresh perfectos and hunt
for the smokin' den, and the women get together in bunches and exchange
polite knocks. And in the midst of all that some one drifts casually up
to the concert grand and cuts loose. That was about the programme in this
case.
Hermy was all primed for his cue, and when Mrs. Purdy-Pell gives the nod
I sees Snick push him through the door, and in another minute the thing
is on. The waiter's uniform was a tight fit, all right; for it stretches
across his shoulders like a drumhead. And the shirt studs wa'n't mates,
and the collar was one of them saw edged laundry veterans. But the
general effect was good, and Hermy don't seem to mind them trifles at
all. He stands up there lookin' big and handsome, simpers and smiles
around the room a few times, giggles a few at the young lady who'd
volunteered to do the ivory punishing, and then fin'lly he gets under way
with the Toreador song.
As I say, when it comes to gems from Carmen, I'm no judge; but this stab
of Hermy's strikes me from the start as a mighty good attempt. He makes a
smooth, easy get-away, and he strikes a swingin', steady gait at the
quarter, and when he comes to puttin' over the deep, rollin' chest notes
I has feelin's down under the first dinner layer like I'd swallowed a
small thunder storm. Honest, when he fairly got down to business and
hittin' it up in earnest, he had me on my toes, and by the look on
Sadie's face I knew that our friend Hermy was going some.
But was all the others standin' around with their mouths open, drinkin'
it in? Anything but! You see, some late comers had arrived, and they'd
brought bulletins of something rich and juicy that had just happened in
the alimony crowd,--I expect the event will figure on the court calendars
later,--and they're so busy passin' on the details to willin' ears, that
Hermy wa'n't disturbin' 'em at all. As a matter of fact, not one in ten
of the bunch knew whether he was makin' a noise like a bullfighter or a
line-up man.
I can't help takin' a squint around at Snick, who's peekin' in through
the draperies. And say, he's all but tearin' his hair. It was tough, when
you come to think of it. Here he'd put his whole stack of blues on this
performance, and the audience wa'n't payin' any more attention to it than
to the rattle of cabs on the avenue.
Hermy has most got to the final spasm, and it's about all over, when, as
a last straw, some sort of disturbance breaks out in the front hall.
First off I thought it must be Snick Butters throwin' a fit; but then I
hears a voice that ain't his, and as I glances out I sees the Purdy-Pell
butler havin' a rough house argument with a black whiskered gent in
evenin' clothes and a Paris model silk lid. Course, everyone hears the
rumpus, and there's a grand rush, some to get away, and others to see
what's doin'.
"Let me in! I demand entrance! It must be!" howls the gent, while the
butler tries to tell him he's got to give up his card first.
And next thing I know Snick has lit on the butler's back to pull him off,
and the three are havin' a fine mix-up, when Mr. Purdy-Pell comes boltin'
out, and I've just offered to bounce any of 'em that he'll point out,
when all of a sudden he recognizes the party behind the brunette
lambrequins.
"Why--why," says he, "what does this mean, Mr. ----"
"Pardon," says the gent, puffin' and pushin' to the front. "I intrude,
yes? A thousand pardons. But I will explain. Next door I am dining--there
is a window open--I hear that wonderful voice. Ah! that marvelous voice!
Of what is the name of this artist? Yes? I demand! I implore! Ah, I must
know instantly, sir!"
Well, you know who it was. There's only one grand opera Napoleon with
black whiskers who does things in that way, and makes good every trip.
It's him, all right. And if he don't know a barytone voice, who does?
Inside of four minutes him and Hermy and Snick was bunched around the
libr'y table, chewin' over the terms of the contract, and next season
you'll read the name of a new soloist in letters four foot high.
Say, I was up to see Mr. Butters in his new suite of rooms at the St.
Swithin, where it never rains but it pours. He'd held out for a big
advance, and he'd got it. Also he'd invested part of it in some of the
giddiest raiment them theatrical clothing houses can supply. While a
manicure was busy puttin' a gloss finish on his nails, he has his
Mongolian valet display the rest of his wardrobe, as far as he'd laid it
in.
"Did I get let in wrong on the Hermy proposition, eh?" says he. "How
about stayin' with your luck till it turns? Any reminder of the Doughnut
incident in this? What?"
Do I debate the subject? Not me! I just slaps Snick on the back and
wishes him joy. If he wants to credit it all up to a rabbit's foot, or a
clover leaf, I'm willin' to let him. But say, from where I stand, it
looks to me as if nerve and grit played some part in it.