5. No squab shall leave the House after lights without
express permission.
These regulations were not simply an exercise of arbitrary authority,
for in the House itself were certain elements which Dink perfectly
understood, and whose spheres of influence he was resolved to confine
to their own limits.
"How're you going to enforce, Sire, these imperial decrees?" asked the
Tennessee Shad, who, however, thoroughly approved.
"I have a method," said Stover, with an interior smile. "It's what I
call a Rogues' Gallery."
"I don't see," said the Tennessee Shad, puzzled.
"You will."
The first rebel was a Freshman, Bellefont, known as the Millionaire
Baby, who, due to a previous luxurious existence, had acquired manly
practices at an early age. Bellefont was detected with the odor of
tobacco.
"Young squab, have you been smoking?" said Stover.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" said the youngster
defiantly.
"Gutter Pup, get your camera," said Stover.
The Gutter Pup, mystified, returned. The autocrat seized the young
rebel, slung him paternally across his knee and with raised hand
spoke:
"Gutter Pup, snap a couple of good ones. We'll make this Exhibit A in
our Rogues' Gallery."
Bellefont, at the thought of this public perpetuation, set up a howl
and kicked as though mortally stung. Stover held firm. The snapshots
were taken, developed and duly posted.
From that moment, in public at least, Stover's slightest gesture was
obeyed as promptly as the lifting of an English policeman's finger.
The yoke once accepted became popular alike with the older members,
who ceased to be annoyed, and with the squabs themselves, who, finding
they were protected from bullying or unfair exactions, soon adopted
toward Stover an attitude of reverent idolatry that was not without
its embarrassments. He was called upon at all hours to render
decisions on matters political and philosophical, with the knowledge
that his opinion would instantly be adopted as religion. Before him
were brought all family quarrels, some serious, some grotesque; but
each class demanding a settlement in equity.
One afternoon Dennis maliciously piloted to his presence Pee-wee
Norris and his new roommate, a youngster named Berbacker, called
Cyclops from the fact that one eye was glass, a gift that brought him
a peculiar admiration and envy.
Stover, observing the cunning expression on Finnegan's face, scented a
trap. The matter was, indeed, very grave.
"See here, Dink," said Pee-wee indignantly; "I leave it to you. How
would you like to stumble upon a loose eye all over the room?"
"A what?"
"A loose eye. This fellow Cyclops is all the time leaving his glass
eye around in my diggin's and I don't like it. It's the deuce of a
thing to find it winking up at you from the table or the window-seat.
It gives me the creeps."
"What have you got to say, Cyclops?" said Stover, assuming a judicial
air.
"Well, I've always been used to takin' the eye out," said Cyclops,
with an injured look. "Most fellows are glad to see it. But, I say,
I'm the fellow who has the kick. The whole thing started by Norris
hiding it on me."
"Did you swipe his eye?" said Stover severely.
"Well, yes, I did. What right's he got to let it out loose?"
"I want him to leave my eye alone," said Cyclops.
"I want him to keep his old eye in his old socket," said Pee-wee.
"Oh, Solomon, what is thy judgment?" said Dennis, who had engineered
it all.
"I'll give my judgment and it'll settle it," said Dink firmly. "But
I'll think it over first."
True to his word, he deliberated long and actively and, as the
judgment had to be given, he called the complaining parties before him
and said:
"Now, look here, Pee-wee and Cyclops; you fellows are rooming together
and you've got to get on. If you fight, keep it to yourselves; don't
shout it around. But get together--agree. You've got to go on, and
the more you agree--ahem--the less you'll disagree, see? It's just
like marriage. Now you go back and live like a respectable married
couple, and if I hear any more about this glass eye I'll spank you
both and have you photographed for the Rogues' Gallery."
Among the members of the Kennedy House there were two who defied his
authority and gave him cause for dissatisfaction--the Millionaire
Baby, who was a nuisance because he had been pampered and impressed
with his own divine right, and a fellow named Horses Griffin, who was
unbearable because, owing to his size and strength, he had never had
the blessing of a good thrashing.
Now when Stover promulgated his laws for the protection of Squabs he
had served notice on the sporting centers that he expected their
adherence. Fellows like Slops Barnett and Fatty Harris, who, to do
them justice, approved of segregation, made no defiance. Griffin,
though, who was a hulking, rather surly, self-conscious fellow,
secretly rebelled at this act of authority, and gave asylum to
Bellefont, from whom he was glad to accept the good things that
regularly arrived in boxes from a solicitous mother.
Stover had seen from the first how the issue would have to be met,
and met it at the first opportunity. Griffin having defied his
authority by openly inviting the Millionaire Baby up for the nefarious
practice of matching pennies, Dink marched up the stairs and entered
the enemy's room.
A moment later the group expectantly gathered in the hall heard
something within that resembled an itinerant cyclone, then the door
blew open and Griffin shot out and raced for the stairs, while behind
him--like an angry tom-cat--came Stover, in time to give to the
panicky champion just that extra impetus that allowed him, as Dennis
expressed it, to establish a new record--flying start--for the
twenty-six steps. After this little explanation Griffin showed a
marked disinclination for the company of Bellefont, and became,
indeed, quite a useful member of the community, though he always
retained such acute memories that an angry tone from Stover would
cause him to fidget and calculate the distance to the door.
Griffin subdued, the Millionaire Baby still remained. The problem was
a knotty one, for as Bellefont was still of sub-stature the means of
correction were limited.
"What worries your Majesty?" said Dennis de Brian de Boru, perceiving
Stover in stern meditation. "Is it that beautiful specimen of
flunky-raised squab entitled the Millionaire Baby?"
"It is," said Dink. Between him and Dennis peace had long since been
concluded.
"He is a very precious hothouse flower," said Dennis sarcastically.
"He is the most useless, pestiferous, conceited little squirt I ever
saw," said Dink.
"I love him not."
"But I'll get that flunky smell out of him yet!"
"The pity is he has such fat, juicy boxes from home."
"He has--how often?"
"Every two weeks."
"It oughtn't to be allowed."
"What are you going to do? You can't take 'em by force."
"No--that wouldn't do."
"Still," said Dennis regretfully, "he's so young it is just ruining
his little digestion."
They sat a moment deliberating. Finally Dink spoke rapturously:
"I have it. We'll organize the Kennedy Customs House."
"Aha!"
"Everything imported must pass the Customs House."
"Pass?"
"Certainly; everything must be legal."
"What am I to be?"
"Appraiser."
"I'd rather be first taster."
"Same thing."
"You said pass," said Dennis obstinately. "I don't like that word."
"Purely technical sense."
"But there will be duties imposed?"
"Certainly."
"Aha!" said Dennis brightening. "Very high duties?"
"The maximum duty on luxuries," said Dink. "We're all good
Republicans, aren't we?"
"I am, if I can write the tariff schedule," said Dennis, who, as may
be seen, was orthodox.
When, on the following week, young Bellefont received his regular
installment of high-priced indigestibles he was amazed to see the
Gutter Pup and Lovely Mead appear with solemn demeanor.
"Hello," said the Millionaire Baby, placing himself in front of the
half-open box.
"See these badges," said Lovely Mead, pointing to their caps, around
which were displayed white bandages inscribed "inspector."
"Sure."
"We're in the Customs House."
"Well, what?"
"And we have received information that you are systematically
smuggling goods into this territory."
The Millionaire Baby looked as though a ghost had arisen.
"Aha!" said the Gutter Pup, perceiving the box. "Here's the evidence
now. Officer, seize the goods and the prisoner."
"What are you going to do to me?" said the culprit in great alarm.
"Take you before the Customs Court."
The Customs Court was sitting, without absentees, in Stover's
room--appraisers, weighers, adjusters and consulting experts, all
legally ticketed and very solemn. The prisoner was stood in a corner
and the contents of the box spread on the floor.
"First exhibit--one plum cake," announced Beekstein, who was in a
menial position.
"Duty sixty-five per cent," said Dennis de Brian de Born Finnegan,
consulting a book. "Raisins and spices."
"Two bottles of anchovy olives."
"Duty fifty per cent, imported fruits."
"Only fifty per cent?" said Stover, who had a preference for the same.
"That's all."
"What's it on?"
"Imported fruits."
"How about spiced fish?" said the Tennessee Shad, coming to the
rescue, "and, likewise, Italian glass?"
The Millionaire Baby gave a groan.
"Imported fish, forty per cent," said Dennis, "glass--Venetian
glass--thirty-five per cent. He owes us thirty per cent on this."
"Continue," said Stover, casting a grateful glance at the Tennessee
Shad.
"Two boxes of candied prunes, that's vegetables, twenty-five per
cent."
"They're preserved in sugar, aren't they?"
"Sure."
"There's a duty of fifty per cent on sugar."
"Long live the Sugar Trust."
"Doggone robbers!" said the Millionaire Baby tearfully.
"Three boxes salted almonds, one large box of chocolate bonbons, one
angel cake and six tins of candied ginger."
The judges, deliberating, assessed each article. Stover rose to
announce the decree.
"The clerk of the court will return to the importer thirty-five per
cent of the plum cake, twenty-five per cent of the candied prunes, one
box of salted almonds and two tins of ginger."
The Millionaire Baby breathlessly contained his wrath.
Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan addressed the court:
"Your Honor."
"Mr. Finnegan."
"I beg to call to your Honor's attention that these goods have been
seized and are subject to a fine."
"True," said Stover, glancing sternly at the frothing Bellefont. "I
would be inclined to be lenient, but I am informed that this is not
the defendant's first offense. The clerk of the court will, therefore,
confiscate the whole."
The Millionaire Baby, with a howl, began to express himself in the
language of the stables.
"Gag him," said Stover, "and let him be informed that the duties will
be lightened if in the future he declares his imports."
The government then applied the revenues to the needs of the
department of the interior.
"The duty on anchovy olives is too high," said Finnegan, looking
fondly down a bottle.
"How so?"
"It will stop the imports."
"True--we might reduce it."
"We must encourage imports," said the Gutter Pup firmly.
And the chorus came full mouthed:
"Sure!"
The Millionaire Baby received three more boxes--that is, he received
the limited portion that a paternal government allowed him. Then,
being chastened, he took a despicable revenge--he stopped the supply.
"Well, it was sweet while it lasted," said Dennis regretfully.
"We've stopped toadyism in the House," said Stover virtuously. "We
have eliminated the influence of money."
"That is praiseworthy, but it doesn't fill me with enthusiasm."
"Dink," said the Tennessee Shad, "I must say I consider this one of
your few failures. You're a great administrator, but you don't
understand the theory of taxation."
"I don't, eh? Well, what is the theory?"
"The theory of taxation," said the Tennessee Shad, "is to soak the
taxed all they'll stand for, but to leave them just enough, so they'll
come again."