JOY RIDING WITH AUNTY
Was I? Then I must have been thinking of Dyke Mallory. And say, I don't
know how you feel about it, but I figure that anybody who can supply me
with a hang-over grin good for three days ain't lived in vain. Whatever
it's worth, I'm on his books for just that much.
I'll admit, too, that this Dyckman chap ain't apt to get many credits by
the sweat of his brow or the fag of his brain. There's plenty of folks
would class him as so much plain nuisance, and I have it from him that
his own fam'ly puts it even stronger. That's one of his specialties,
confidin' to strangers how unpop'lar he is at home. Why, he hadn't been
to the studio more'n twice, and I'd just got next to the fact that he was
a son of Mr. Craig Mallory, and was suggestin' a quarterly account for
him, when he gives me the warnin' signal.
"Don't!" says he. "I draw my allowance the fifteenth, and unless you get
it away from me before the twentieth you might as well tear up the bill.
No use sending it to the pater, either. He'd renig."
"Handing you a few practical hints along the economy line, eh?" says I.
"Worse than that," says Dyke. "It's a part of my penance for being the
Great Disappointment. The whole family is down on me. Guess you don't
know about my Aunt Elvira?"
I didn't, and there was no special reason why I should; but before I can
throw the switch Dyke has got the deputy sheriff grip on the Mallorys'
private skeleton and is holdin' him up and explainin' his anatomy.
Now, from all I'd ever seen or heard, I'd always supposed Mr. Craig
Mallory to be one of the safety vault crowd. Course, they live at Number
4 West; but that's near enough to the avenue for one of the old fam'lies.
And when you find a man who puts in his time as chairman of regatta
committees, and judgin' hackneys, and actin' as vice president of a swell
club, you're apt to rate him in the seven figure bunch, at least.
Accordin' to Duke, though, the Mallory income needed as much stretchin'
as the pay of a twenty-dollar clothing clerk tryin' to live in a
thirty-five dollar flat. And this is the burg where you can be as hard up
on fifty thousand a year as on five hundred!
The one thing the Mallorys had to look forward to was the time when Aunt
Elvira would trade her sealskin sack for a robe of glory and loosen up on
her real estate. She was near seventy, Aunty was, and when she first went
out to live at the old country place, up beyond Fort George, it was a
good half-day's trip down to 23d-st. But she went right on livin', and
New York kept right on growin', and now she owns a cow pasture two blocks
from a subway station, and raises potatoes on land worth a thousand
dollars a front foot.
Bein' of different tastes and habits, her and Brother Craig never got
along together very well, and there was years when each of 'em tried to
forget that the other existed. When little Dyckman came, though, the
frost was melted. She hadn't paid any attention to the girls; but a boy
was diff'rent. Never havin' had a son of her own to boss around and brag
about, she took it out on Dyke. A nice, pious old lady, Aunt Elvira was;
and the mere fact that little Dyke seemed to fancy the taste of a morocco
covered New Testament she presented to him on his third birthday settled
his future in her mind.
"He shall be a Bishop!" says she, and hints that accordin' as Dyckman
shows progress along that line she intends loadin' him up with worldly
goods.
Up to the age of fifteen, Dyke gives a fair imitation of a Bishop in the
bud. He's a light haired, pleasant spoken youth, who stands well with his
Sunday school teacher and repeats passages from the Psalms for Aunt
Elvira when she comes down to inflict her annual visit.
But from then on the bulletins wa'n't so favor'ble. At the diff'rent
prep. schools where he was tried out he appeared to be too much of a live
one to make much headway with the dead languages. About the only subjects
he led his class in was hazing and football and buildin' bonfires of the
school furniture. Being expelled got to be so common with him that
towards the last he didn't stop to unpack his trunk.
Not that these harrowin' details was passed on to Aunt Elvira. The
Mallorys begun by doctorin' the returns, and they developed into reg'lar
experts at the game of representin' to Aunty what a sainted little fellow
Dyke was growin' to be. The more practice they got, the harder their
imaginations was worked; for by the time Dyckman was strugglin' through
his last year at college he'd got to be such a full blown hickey boy that
he'd have been spotted for a sport in a blind asylum.
So they had to invent one excuse after another to keep Aunt Elvira from
seein' him, all the while givin' her tales about how he was soon to break
into the divinity school; hoping, of course, that Aunty would get tired
of waitin' and begin to unbelt.
"They overdid it, that's all," says Dyke. "Healthy looking Bishop I'd
make! What?"
"You ain't got just the style for a right reverend, that's a fact," says
I.
Which wa'n't any wild statement of the case, either. He's a tall, loose
jointed, slope shouldered young gent, with a long, narrow face, gen'rally
ornamented by a cigarette; and he has his straw colored hair cut plush.
His costume is neat but expensive,--double reefed trousers, wide soled
shoes, and a green yodler's hat with the bow on behind. He talks with the
kind of English accent they pick up at New Haven, and when he's in repose
he tries to let on he's so bored with life that he's in danger of fallin'
asleep any minute.
Judgin' from Dyke's past performances, though, there wa'n't many
somnolent hours in it. But in spite of all the trouble he'd got into, I
couldn't figure him out as anything more'n playful. Course, rough housin'
in rathskellers until they called out the reserves, and turnin' the fire
hose on a vaudeville artist from a box, and runnin' wild with a captured
trolley car wa'n't what you might call innocent boyishness; but, after
all, there wa'n't anything real vicious about Dyke.
Playful states it. Give him a high powered tourin' car, with a bunch of
eight or nine from the football squad aboard, and he liked to tear around
the State of Connecticut burnin' the midnight gasolene and lullin' the
villagers to sleep with the Boula-Boula song. Perfectly harmless fun--if
the highways was kept clear. All the frat crowd said he was a good
fellow, and it was a shame to bar him out from takin' a degree just on
account of his layin' down on a few exams. But that's what the faculty
did, and the folks at home was wild.
Dyke had been back and on the unclassified list for nearly a year now,
and the prospects of his breakin' into the divinity school was growin'
worse every day. He'd jollied Mr. Mallory into lettin' him have a little
two-cylinder roadster, and his only real pleasure in life was when he
could load a few old grads on the runnin' board and go off for a joy
ride.
But after the old man had spent the cost of a new machine in police court
fines and repairs, even this little diversion was yanked away. The last
broken axle had done the business, and the nearest Dyke could come to
real enjoyment was when he had the price to charter a pink taxi and
inspire the chauffeur with highballs enough so he'd throw her wide open
on the way back.
Not bein' responsible for Dyke, I didn't mind having him around. I kind
of enjoyed the cheerful way he had of tellin' about the fam'ly boycott on
him, and every time I thinks of Aunt Elvira still havin' him framed up
for a comer in the Bishop class, I has to smile.
You see, having gone so far with their fairy tales, the Mallorys never
got a chance to hedge; and, accordin' to Dyke, they was all scared stiff
for fear she'd dig up the facts some day, and make a new will leavin' her
rentroll to the foreign missions society.
Maybe it was because I took more or less interest in him, but perhaps it
was just because he wanted company and I happened to be handy; anyway,
here the other afternoon Dyke comes poundin' up the stairs two at a time,
rushes into the front office, and grabs me by the arm.
"Come on, Shorty!" says he. "Something fruity is on the schedule."
"Hope it don't taste like a lemon," says I. "What's the grand rush?"
"Aunt Elvira is coming down, and she's called for me," says Dyke,
grinnin' wide. "She must suspect something; for she sent word that if I
wasn't on hand this time she'd never come again. What do you think of
that?"
"Aunty's got a treat in store for her, eh?" says I, givin' Dyke the
wink.
"I should gurgle!" says he. "I'm good and tired of this fake Bishop
business, and if I don't jolt the old lady out of that nonsense, I'm a
duffer. You can help some, I guess. Come on."
Well, I didn't exactly like the idea of mixin' up with a fam'ly surprise
party like that; but Dyke is so anxious for me to go along, and he gets
me so curious to see what'll happen at the reunion, that I fin'lly grabs
my coat and hat, and out we trails.
It seems that Aunt Elvira is due at the Grand Central. Never having tried
the subway, she's come to town just as she used to thirty years ago:
drivin' to Kingsbridge station, and takin' a Harlem river local down. We
finds the whole fam'ly, includin' Mr. and Mrs. Craig Mallory, and their
two married daughters, waitin' outside the gates, with the gloom about
'em so thick you'd almost think it was a sea turn.
From the chilly looks they shot at Dyke you could tell just how they'd
forecasted the result when Aunt Elvira got him all sized up; for, with
his collar turned up and his green hat slouched, he looks as much like a
divinity student as a bulldog looks like Mary's lamb. And they can almost
see them blocks of apartment houses bein' handed over to the heathen.
As for Mr. Craig Mallory, he never so much as gives his only son a second
glance, but turns his back and stands there, twistin' the ends of his
close cropped gray mustache, and tryin' to look like he wa'n't concerned
at all. Good old sport, Craig,--one of the kind that can sit behind a
pair of sevens and raise the opener out of his socks. Lucky for his
nerves he didn't have to wait long. Pretty soon in pulls the train, and
the folks from Yonkers and Tarrytown begin to file past.
[Illustration: "Most of Auntie was obscured by the luggage she carries"]
"There she is!" whispers Dyke, givin' me the nudge. "That's Aunt Elvira,
with her bonnet on one ear."
It's one of the few black velvet lids of the 1869 model still in
captivity, ornamented with a bunch of indigo tinted violets, and kept
from bein' lost off altogether by purple strings tied under the chin.
Most of the rest of Aunty was obscured by the hand luggage she carries,
which includes four assorted parcels done up in wrappin' paper, and a
big, brass wire cage holdin' a ragged lookin' gray parrot that was tryin'
to stick his bill through the bars and sample the passersby.
She's a wrinkled faced, but well colored and hearty lookin' old girl, and
the eyes that peeks out under the rim of the velvet lid is as keen and
shrewd as a squirrel's. Whatever else she might be, it was plain Aunt
Elvira wa'n't feeble minded. Behind her comes a couple of station
porters, one cartin' an old-time black valise, and the other with his
arms wrapped around a full sized featherbed in a blue and white tick.
"Gee!" says I. "Aunty carries her own scenery with her, don't she?"
"That's Bismarck in the cage," says Dyke.
"How Bizzy has changed!" says I. "But why the feather mattress?"
"She won't sleep on anything else," says he. "Watch how pleased my
sisters look. They just love this--not! But she insists on having the
whole family here to meet her."
I must say for Mr. Mallory that he stood it well, a heavy swell like him
givin' the glad hand in public to a quaint old freak like that. But Aunt
Elvira don't waste much time swappin' fam'ly greetin's.
"Where is Dyckman?" says she, settin' her chin for trouble. "Isn't he
here?"
"Oh, yes," says Mr. Mallory. "Right over there," and he points his cane
handle to where Dyke and me are grouped on the side lines.
"Here, hold Bismarck!" says Aunty, jammin' the brass cage into Mr.
Mallory's arm, and with that she pikes straight over to us. I never
mistrusted she'd be in any doubt as to which was which, until I sees her
look from one to the other, kind of waverin'. No wonder, though; for,
from the descriptions she'd had, neither of us came up to the divinity
student specifications. Yet it was something of a shock when she fixes
them sharp old lamps on me and says:
"Land to goodness! You?"
"Reverse!" says I. "Here's the guilty party," and I pushes Dyke to the
front.
She don't gasp, or go up in the air, or throw any kind of a fit, like I
expected. As she looks him over careful, from the sporty hat to the wide
soled shoes, I notices her eyes twinkle.
"Hum! I thought as much!" says she. "Craig always could lie easier than
he could tell the truth. Young man, you don't look to me like a person
called to hold orders."
"Glad of it, Aunty," says Dyke, with a grin. "I don't feel that way."
"And you don't look as if you had broken down your health studying for
the ministry, either!" she goes on.
"You don't mean to say they filled you up with that?" says Dyke.
"Hee-haw!"
"Huh!" says Aunty. "It's a joke, is it? At least you're not afraid to
tell the truth. I guess I want to have a little private talk with you.
Who's this other young man?"
"This is Professor McCabe," says Dyke. "He's a friend of mine."
"Let him come along, too," says Aunty. "Perhaps he can supply what you
leave out."
And, say, the old girl knew what she wanted and when she wanted it, all
right! There was no bunkoin' her out of it, either. Mr. Mallory leads her
out to his brougham and does his best to shoo her in with him and Mrs.
Mallory and away from Dyke; but it was no go.
"I will ride up with Dyckman and his friend," says she. "And I want to go
in one of those new automobile cabs I've heard so much about."
"Good! We'll get one, Aunty," says Dyke, and then he whispers in my ear,
"Slip around the corner and call for Jerry Powers. Number 439. He can
make a taxi take hurdles and water jumps."
I don't know whether it was luck or not, but Jerry was on the stand with
the tin flag up, and inside of two minutes the three of us was stowed
away inside, with the bag on top, and Dyke holdin' Bismarck in his lap.
"Now my featherbed," says Aunt Elvira, and she has the porter jam it in
alongside of me, which makes more or less of a full house. Then the
procession starts, our taxi in the lead, the brougham second, and the
married sisters trailin' behind in a hansom.
"My sakes! but these things do ride easy!" says Aunty, settlin' back in
her corner. "Can they go any faster, Dyckman?"
"Just wait until we get straightened out on the avenue," says Dyke, and
tips me the roguish glance.
"I've ridden behind some fast horses in my time," says the old lady; "so
you can't scare me. But now, Dyckman, I'd like to know exactly what
you've been doing, and what you intend to do."
Well, Dyke starts in to unload the whole yarn, beginnin' by ownin' up
that he'd scratched the Bishop proposition long ago. And he was statin'
some of his troubles at college, when I gets a backward glimpse out of
the side window at something that makes me sit up. First off I thought it
was another snow storm with flakes bigger'n I'd ever seen before, and
then I tumbles to the situation. It ain't snow; it's feathers. In jammin'
that mattress into the taxi the tick must have had a hole ripped in it,
and the part that was bulgin' through the opposite window was leakin' hen
foliage to beat the cars.
"Hey!" says I, buttin' in on the confession and pointin' back. "We're
losin' part of our cargo."
"Land sakes!" says Aunt Elvira, after one glance. "Stop! Stop!"
At that Dyke pounds on the front glass for the driver to shut off the
juice. But Jerry must have had Dyke out before, and maybe he mistook the
signal. Anyway, the machine gives a groan and a jerk and we begins
skimmin' along the asphalt at double speed. That don't check the moltin'
process any, and Dyke was gettin' real excited, when we hears a chuckle
from Aunt Elvira.
The old girl has got her eyes trained through the back window. Thanks to
our speed and the stiff wind that's blowin' down the avenue, the Mallory
brougham, with the horses on the jump to keep up with us, is gettin' the
full benefit of the feather storm. The dark green uniforms of the Mallory
coachman and footman was being plastered thick, and they was both
spittin' out feathers as fast as they could, and the Mallorys was wipin'
'em out of their eyes and ears, and the crowds on the sidewalk has caught
on and is enjoyin' the performance, and a mounted cop was starin' at us
kind of puzzled, as if he was tryin' to decide whether or not we was
breakin' an ordinance.
"Look at Craig! Look at Mabel Ann!" snickers Aunt Elvira. "Tell your man
to go faster, Dyckman. Push out more feathers!"
"More feathers it is," says I, shovin' another fold of the bed through
the window. Even Bismarck gets excited and starts squawkin'.
Talk about your joy rides! I'll bet that's the only one of the kind ever
pulled off on Fifth-ave. And it near tickles the old girl to death. What
was a featherbed to her, when she had her sportin' blood up and was
gettin' a hunch in on Brother Craig and his wife?
We goes four blocks before we shakes out the last of our ammunition, and
by that time the Mallory brougham looks like a poultry wagon after a busy
day at the market, while Aunt Elvira has cut loose with the mirth so hard
that the velvet bonnet is hangin' under her chin, and Bismarck is out of
breath. It's a wonder we wa'n't pinched for breakin' the speed laws; but
the traffic cops is so busy watchin' the feather blizzard that they
forgets to hold us up. Dyke wants to know if I'll come in for a cup of
tea, or ride back with Jerry.
"Thanks, but I'll walk back," says I, as we pulls up at the house. "Guess
I can find the trail easy enough, eh?"
I s'posed I'd get a report of the reunion from him next day; but it
wa'n't until this mornin' that he shows up here and drags me down to the
curb to look at his new sixty-horse-power macadam burner.
"Birthday present from Aunty," says he. "Say, she's all to the good,
Shorty. She got over that Bishop idea months ago, all by herself. And
what do you think? She says I'm to have a thousand a month, just to enjoy
myself on. Whe-e-e! Can I do it?"
"Do it, son," says I. "If you can't, I don't know who can."