And he was right. There was more than enough. It was nine o'clock that
night when the cellar door of Mr. Braddy's small house opened
cautiously, and Mr. Braddy followed his stub nose into the moonlight.
Mr. Lum, unsteady but gay, followed.
Mr. Braddy, whose customary pace was a slow, dignified waddle,
immediately broke into a brisk trot.
"Doan' go so fas', Hoo," called Mr. Lum, for they had long since reached
the first-name stage.
"Gotta get to city, N'Yawk, b'fore it's too late," explained Mr. Braddy,
reining down to a walk.
"Too late for what, Hoo?" inquired Mr. Lum.
"I dunno," said Mr. Braddy.
They made their way, by a series of skirmishes and flank movements, to
the subway station, and caught a train for Manhattan. Their action in
doing this was purely automatic.
Once aboard, they began a duet, which they plucked out of the dim past:
"Oh, dem golden slippers! Oh, dem golden slippers!"
This, unfortunately, was all they could remember of it, but it was
enough to supply them with a theme and variations that lasted until they
arrived in the catacombs far below the Grand Central Station. There they
were shooed out by a vigilant subway guard.
They proceeded along the brightly lighted streets. Mr. Braddy's step was
that of a man walking a tight-rope. Mr. Lum's method of progression was
a series of short spurts. Between the Grand Central and Times Square
they passed some one thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine persons, of
whom one thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine remarked, "Where did
they get it?"
On Broadway they saw a crowd gathered in front of a building.
"Fight," said Mr. Braddy hopefully.
"'Naccident," thought Mr. Lum. At least a hundred men and women were
industriously elbowing each other and craning necks in the hope of
seeing the center of attraction. Mr. Braddy, ordinarily the most timid
of innocent bystanders, was now a lion in point of courage.
"Gangway," he called. "We're 'tectives," he added bellicosely to those
who protested, as he and Mr. Lum shoved and lunged their way through the
rapidly growing crowd. The thing which had caused so many people to
stop, to crane necks, to push, was a small newsboy who had dropped a
dime down through an iron grating and who was fishing for it with a
piece of chewing gum tied on the end of a string.
They spent twenty minutes giving advice and suggestions to the fisher,
such as:
"A leetle to the left, now. Naw, naw. To the right. Now you got it.
Shucks! You missed it. Try again." At length they were rewarded by
seeing the boy retrieve the dime, just before the crowd had grown to
such proportions that it blocked the traffic.
The two adventurers continued on their way, pausing once to buy four
frankfurters, which they ate noisily, one in each hand.
Suddenly the veteran drinker, Mr. Lum, was struck by a disquieting
thought.
"Hoo, I gotta go home. My wife'll be back from the movies by eleven, and
if I ain't home and in bed when she gets there, she'll skin me alive;
that's what she'll do."
Mr. Braddy was struck by the application of this to his own case.
"Waddabout me, hey? Waddabout me, B'lum?" he asked plaintively.
"Angelica will just about kill me."
Mr. Lum, leaning against the Automat, darkly considered this
eventuality. At length he spoke.
"You go getta Turkish bath. Tell 'Gellica y' hadda stay in store all
night to take inventory. Turkish bath'll make you fresh as a daisy.
Fresh as a li'l' daisy--fresh as a li'l' daisy----" Saying which Mr. Lum
disappeared into the eddying crowd and was gone. Mr. Braddy was alone in
the great city.
But he was not dismayed. While disposing of the ancient liquor, he and
Mr. Lum had discussed philosophies of life, and Mr. Braddy had decided
that his was, "A man can do what he is a-mind to." And Mr. Braddy was
very much a-mind to take a Turkish bath. To him it represented the last
stroke that cut the shackles of timidity. "I can and I will," he said a
bit thickly, in imitation of Mr. Lum's heroes.