he would have, too; but they wa'n't, so down we sails to the pier,
where the folks was comin' ashore.
First thing Pinckney spies after we has rushed the gangplank is a gent
with a healthy growth of underbrush on his face and a lot of gold on
his sleeves. By the way they got together, I see that they was old
friends.
"I hear you have something on board consigned to me, Captain?" says
Pinckney. "Something in the way of live stock, eh?" and he pokes Cap
in the ribs with his cane.
"Right you are," says Cappie, chucklin' through his whiskers. "And the
liveliest kind of live stock we ever carried, sir."
Pinckney gives me the nudge, as much as to say he'd struck it first
crack, and then he remarks, "Ah! And where are they now?"
"Why," says the Cap, "they were cruising around the promenade deck a
minute ago; but, Lor' bless you, sir! there's no telling where they are
now--up on the bridge, or down in the boiler room. They're a pair of
colts, those two."
"Colts!" says Pinckney, gaspin'. "You mean ponies, don't you?"
"Well, well, ponies or colts, it's all one. They're lively enough for
either, and--Heigho! Here they come, the rascals!"
There's whoop and a scamper, and along the deck rushes a couple of six-
or seven-year old youngsters, that makes a dive for the Cap'n, catches
him around either leg, and almost upsets him. They was twins, and it
didn't need the kilt suits just alike and the hair boxed just the same
to show it, either. They couldn't have been better matched if they'd
been a pair of socks, and the faces of 'em was all grins and mischief.
Say, anyone with a heart in him couldn't help takin' to kids like that,
providin' they didn't take to him first.
"Here you are, sir," says the Cap'n,--"here's your Jack and Jill, and I
wish you luck with them. It'll be a good month before I can get back
discipline aboard; but I'm glad I had the bringing of 'em over. Here
you are, you holy terrors,--here's the Uncle Pinckney you've been
howling for!"
At that they let loose of the Cap, gives a war-whoop in chorus, and
lands on Pinckney with a reg'lar flyin' tackle, both talkin' to once.
Well say, he didn't know whether to holler for help or laugh. He just
stands there and looks foolish, while one of 'em shins up and gets an
overhand holt on his lilac necktie.
About then I notices some one bearin' down on us from the other side of
the deck. She was one of these tall, straight, deep chested, wide eyed
girls, built like the Goddess of Liberty, and with cheeks like a bunch
of sweet peas. Say, she was all right, she was; and if it hadn't been
for the Paris clothes she was wearin' home I could have made a guess
whether she come from Denver, or Dallas, or St. Paul. Anyway, we don't
raise many of that kind in New York. She has her eyes on the
youngsters.
"Good-bye, Jack and Jill," says she, wavin' her hand at 'em.
But nobody gets past them kids as easy as that. They yells "Miss
Gertrude!" at her like she was a mile off, and points to Pinckney, and
inside of a minute they has towed 'em together, pushed 'em up against
the rail, and is makin' 'em acquainted at the rate of a mile a minute.
"Pleased, I'm sure," says Miss Gerty. "Jack and Jill are great friends
of mine. I suppose you are their Uncle Pinckney."
"I'm almost beginning to believe I am," says Pinckney.
"Why," says she, "aren't you----"
"Oh, that's my name," says he. "Only I didn't know that I was an
uncle. Doubtless it's all right, though. I'll look it up."
With that she eyes him like she thought he was just out of the nut
factory, and the more Pinckney tries to explain, the worse he gets
twisted. Finally he turns to the twins. "See here, youngsters," says
he, "which one of you is Jack?"
"Me," says one of 'em. "I'se Jack."
"Well, Jack," says Pinckney, "what is your last name?"
"Anstruther," says the kid.
"The devil!" says Pinckney, before he could stop it. Then he begs
pardon all around. "I see," says he. "I had almost forgotten about
Jack Anstruther, though I shouldn't. So Jack is your papa, is he? And
where is Jack now?"
Some one must have trained them to do it, for they gets their heads
together, like they was goin' to sing a hymn, rolls up their eyes, and
pipes out, "Our--papa--is--up--there."
"The deuce you say! I wouldn't have thought it!" gasps Pinckney. "No,
no! I--I mean I hadn't heard of it."
It was a bad break, though; but the girl sees how cut up he is about
it, and smooths everything out with a laugh.
"I fancy Jack and Jill know very little of such things," says she; "but
they can tell you all about Marie."
"Marie's gone!" shouts the kids. "She says we drove her crazy."
That was the way the story come out, steady by jerks. The meat of it
was that one of Pinckney's old chums had passed in somewhere abroad,
and for some reason or other these twins of his had been shipped over
to Pinckney in care of a French governess. Between not knowing how to
herd a pair of lively ones like Jack and Jill, and her gettin'
interested in a tall gent with a lovely black moustache, Marie had kind
of shifted her job off onto the rest of the passengers, specially
Gerty, and the minute the steamer touched the dock she had rolled her
hoop.
"Pinckney," says I, "it's you to the bat."
He looks at the twins doubtful, then he squints at me, and next he
looks at Miss Gertrude. "By Jove!" says he. "It appears that way,
doesn't it? I wonder how long I am expected to keep them?"
The twins didn't know; I didn't; and neither does Gerty.
"I had planned to take a noon train west," says she; "but if you think
I could help in getting Jack and Jill ashore, I'll stay over for a few
hours."
"Will you?" says he. "That's ripping good of you. Really, you know, I
never took care of twins before."
"How odd!" says she, tearin' off a little laugh that sounds as if it
come out of a music box. "I suppose you will take them home?"
"Home!" says Pinckney. Say, you'd thought he never heard the word
before. "Why--ah--er--I live at the club, you know."
"Oh," says she.
"Would a hotel do?" says Pinckney.
"You might try it," says she, throwin' me a look that was all twinkles.
Then we rounds up the kids' traps, sees to their baggage, and calls
another cab. Pinckney and the girl takes Jill, I loads Jack in with
me, and off we starts. It was a great ride. Ever try to answer all
the questions a kid of that age can think up? Say, I was three behind
and short of breath before we'd gone ten blocks.
"Is all this America?" says Mr. Jack, pointin' up Broadway.
"No, sonny," says I; "this is little old New York."
"Where's America, then?" says he.
"Around the edges," says I.
"I'm goin' to be president some day," says he. "Are you?"
"Not till Teddy lets go, anyway," says I.
"Who's Teddy?" says he.
"The man behind the stick," says I.
"I wish I had a stick," says Jack; "then I could whip the hossie. I
wish I had suffin' to eat, too."
"I'd give a dollar if you had," says I.
It seems that Jill has been struck with the same idea, for pretty soon
we comes together, and Pinckney shouts that we're all goin' to have
lunch. Now, there's a lot of eatin' shops in this town; but I'll bet
Pinckney couldn't name more'n four, to save his neck, and the
Fifth-ave. joint he picks out was the one he's most used to.
It ain't what you'd call a fam'ly place. Mostly the people who hang
out there belong to the Spender clan. It's where the thousand-dollar
tenors, and the ex-steel presidents, and the pick of the pony ballet
come for broiled birds and bottled bubbles. But that don't bother
Pinckney a bit; so we blazes right in, kids and all. The head waiter
most has a fit when he spots Pinckney towin' a twin with each hand; but
he plants us at a round table in the middle of the room, turns on the
electric light under the seashell shades, and passes out the food
programs. I looks over the card; but as there wa'n't anything entered
that I'd ever met before, I passes. Gerty, she takes a look around,
and smiles. But the twins wa'n't a bit fazed.
"What will it be, youngsters?" says Pinckney.
"Jam," says they.
"Jam it is," says Pinckney, and orders a couple of jars.
"Don't you think they ought to have something besides sweets?" says
Miss Gerty.
"Blessed if I know," says Pinckney, and he puts it up to the kids if
there wa'n't anything else they'd like.
"Yep!" says they eagerly. "Pickles."
That's what they had too, jam and pickles, with a little bread on the
side. Then, while we was finishin' off the grilled bones, or whatever
it was Pinckney had guessed at, they slides out of their chairs and
organises a game of tag. I've heard of a lot of queer doin's bein'
pulled off in that partic'lar caffy, but I'll bet this was the first
game of cross tag ever let loose there. It was a lively one, for the
tables was most all filled, and the tray jugglers was skatin' around
thick. That only made it all the more interestin' for the kids.
Divin' between the legs of garcons loaded down with silver and china
dishes was the best sport they'd struck in a month, and they just
whooped it up.
[Illustration: THE TWINS ORGANIZE A GAME OF TAG]
I could see the head waiter, standin' on tiptoes, watchin' 'em and
holdin' his breath. Pinckney was beginnin' to look worried too, but
Gerty was settin' there, as calm and smilin' as if they was playin' in
a vacant lot. It was easy to see she wa'n't one of the worryin' kind.
"I wonder if I shouldn't stop them?" says Pinckney.
Before he's hardly got it out, there comes a bang and a smash, and a
fat French waiter goes down with umpteen dollars' worth of fancy grub
and dishes.
"Perhaps you'd better," says Gerty.
"Yes," says I, "some of them careless waiters might fall on one of 'em."
With that Pinckney starts after 'em, tall hat, cane, and all. The kids
see him, and take it that he's joined the game.
"Oh, here's Uncle Pinckney!" they shouts. "You're it, Uncle Pinckney!"
and off they goes.
That sets everybody roarin'--except Pinckney. He turns a nice shade of
red, and gives it up. I guess they'd put the place all to the bad, if
Miss Gerty hadn't stood up smilin' and held her hands out to them.
They come to her like she'd pulled a string, and in a minute it was all
over.
"Pinckney," says I, "you want to rehearse this uncle act some before
you spring it on the public again."
"I wish I could get at that letter and find out how long this is going
to last," says he, sighin' and moppin' his noble brow.
But if Pinckney was shy on time for letter readin' before, he had less
of it now. The three of us put in the afternoon lookin' after that
pair of kids, and we was all busy at that. Twice Miss Gerty started to
break away and go for a train; but both times Pinckney sent me to call
her back. Soon's she got on the scene everything was lovely.
Pinckney had picked out a suite of rooms at the Waldorf, and he thought
as soon as he could get hold of a governess and a maid his troubles
would be over. But it wa'n't so easy to pick up a pair of twin
trainers. Three or four sets shows up; but when they starts to ask
questions about who the twins belongs to, and who Pinckney was, and
where Miss Gerty comes in, and what was I doin' there they gets a touch
of pneumonia in the feet.
"I ain't casting any insinuations," says one; "but I never have been
mixed up in a kidnapping case before, and I guess I won't begin now."
"The sassy thing!" says I, as she bangs the door.
Pinckney looks stunned; but Miss Gerty only laughs.
"Perhaps you'd better let me go out and find some one," says she. "And
maybe I'll stay over for a day."
While she was gone Pinckney gets me to take a note up to his man,
tellin' him to overhaul the mail and send all the London letters down.
That took me less'n an hour, but when I gets back to the hotel I finds
Pinckney with furrows in his brow, tryin' to make things right with the
manager. He'd only left the twins locked up in the rooms for ten
minutes or so, while he goes down for some cigarettes and the afternoon
papers; but before he gets back they've rung up everything, from the
hall maids to the fire department, run the bath tub over, and rigged
the patent fire escapes out of the window.
"Was it you that was tellin' about not wantin' to miss any fun?" says I.
"Don't rub it in, Shorty," says he. "Did you get that blamed Tootle
letter?"
He grabs it eager. "Now," says he, "we'll see who these youngsters are
to be handed over to, and when."
The twins had got me harnessed up to a chair, and we was havin' an
elegant time, when Pinckney gives a groan and hollers for me to come in
and shut the door.
"Shorty," says he, "what do you think? There isn't anyone else. I've
got to keep them."
Then he reads me the letter, which is from some English lawyers, sayin'
that the late Mr. Anstruther, havin' no relations, has asked that his
two children, Jack and Jill, should be sent over to his old and dear
friend, Mr. Lionel Ogden Pinckney Bruce, with the request that he act
as their guardian until they should come of age. The letter also says
that there's a wad of money in the bank for expenses.
"And the deuce of it is, I can't refuse," says Pinckney. "Jack once
did me a good turn that I can never forget."
"Well, this makes twice, then," says I. "But cheer up. For a
bachelor, you're doin' well, ain't you? Now all you need is an account
at the grocer's, and you're almost as good as a fam'ly man."
"But," says he, "I know nothing about bringing up children."
"Oh, you'll learn," says I. "You'll be manager of an orphan asylum
yet."
It wa'n't until Miss Gerty shows up with a broad faced Swedish nurse
that Pinckney gets his courage back. Gerty tells him he can take the
night off, as she'll be on the job until mornin'; and Pinckney says the
thoughts of goin' back to the club never seemed quite so good to him as
then.
"So long," says I; "but don't forget that you're an uncle."
I has a picture of Pinckney takin' them twins by the hand, about the
second day, and headin' for some boardin' school or private home. I
couldn't help thinkin' about what a shame it was goin' to be too, for
they sure was a cute pair of youngsters--too cute to be farmed out
reckless.
Course, though, I couldn't see Pinckney doin' anything else. Even if
he was married to one of them lady nectarines in the crowd he travels
with, and had a kid of his own, I guess it would be a case of mama and
papa havin' to be introduced to little Gwendolyn every once in awhile
by the head of the nursery department.
Oh, I has a real good time for a few days, stewin' over them kids, and
wonderin' how they and Pinckney was comin' on. And then yesterday I
runs across the whole bunch, Miss Gerty and all, paradin' down the
avenue bound for a candy shop, the whole four of 'em as smilin' as if
they was startin' on a picnic.
"Chee, Pinckney!" says I, "you look like you was pleased with the
amateur uncle business."
"Why not?" says he. "You ought to see how glad those youngsters are to
see me when I come in. And we have great sport."
"Hotel people still friendly?" says I.
"Why," says he, "I believe there have been a few complaints. But we'll
soon be out of that. I've leased a country house for the summer, you
know."
"A house!" says I. "You with a house! Who'll run it?"
"S-s-s-sh!" says he, pullin' me one side and talkin' into my ear. "I'm
going West to-night, to bring on her mother, and----"
"Oh, I see," says I. "You're goin' to offer Gerty the job?"
Pinckney gets a colour on his cheek bones at that. "She's a charming
girl, Shorty," says he.
"She's nothin' less," says I; "and them twins are all right too. But
say, Pinckney, I'll bet you never meet a steamer again without knowin'
all about why you're there. Eh?"
VI
THE SOARING OF THE SAGAWAS
Well, I've been doin' a little more circulatin' among the fat-wads.
It's gettin' to be a reg'lar fad with me. And say, I used to think
they was a simple lot; but I don't know as they're much worse than some
others that ain't got so good an excuse.
I was sittin' on my front porch, at Primrose Park, when in rolls that
big bubble of Sadie's, with her behind the plate glass and rubber.
"But I thought you was figurin' in that big house party out to Breeze
Acres," says I, "where they've got a duchess on exhibition?"
"It's the duchess I'm running away from," says Sadie.
"You ain't gettin' stage fright this late in the game, are you?" says I.
"Hardly," says she. "I'm bored, though. The duchess is a frost. She
talks of nothing but her girls' charity school and her complexion
baths. Thirty of us have been shut up with her for three days now, and
we know her by heart. Pinckney asked me to drop around and see if I
could find you. He says he's played billiards and poker until he's
lost all the friends he ever had, and that if he doesn't get some
exercise soon he'll die of indigestion. Will you let me take you over
for the night?"
Well, I've monkeyed with them swell house parties before, and generally
I've dug up trouble at 'em; but for the sake of Pinckney's health I
said I'd take another chance; so in I climbs, and we goes zippin' off
through the mud. Sadie hadn't told me more'n half the cat-scraps the
women had pulled off durin' them rainy days before we was 'most there.
Just as we slowed up to turn into the private road that leads up to
Breeze Acres, one of them dinky little one-lunger benzine buggies comes
along, missin' forty explosions to the minute and coughin' itself to
death on a grade you could hardly see. All of a sudden somethin' goes
off. Bang! and the feller that was jugglin' the steerin' bar throws up
both hands like he'd been shot with a ripe tomato.
"Caramba!" says he. "Likewise gadzooks!" as the antique quits movin'
altogether.
I'd have known that lemon-coloured pair of lip whiskers anywhere.
Leonidas Dodge has the only ones in captivity. I steps out of the
show-case in time to see mister man lift off the front lid and shove
his head into the works.
"Is the post mortem on?" says I.
"By the beard of the prophet!" says he, swingin' around, "Shorty
McCabe!"
"Much obliged to meet you," says I, givin' him the grip. "The
Electro-Polisho business must be boomin'," says I, "when you carry it
around in a gasoline coach. But go on with your autopsy. Is it
locomotor ataxia that ails the thing, or cirrhosis of the sparkin'
plug?"
"It's nearer senile dementia," says he. "Gaze on that piece of
mechanism, Shorty. There isn't another like it in the country."
"I can believe that," says I.
For an auto it was the punkiest ever. No two of the wheels was mates
or the same size; the tires was bandaged like so many sore throats; the
front dasher was wabbly; one of the side lamps was a tin stable
lantern; and the seat was held on by a couple of cleats knocked off the
end of a packing box.
"Looks like it had seen some first-aid repairin'," says I.
"Some!" says Leonidas. "Why, I've nailed this relic together at least
twice a week for the last two months. I've used waggon bolts, nuts
borrowed from wayside pumps, pieces of telephone wire, and horseshoe
nails. Once I ran twenty miles with the sprocket chain tied up with
twine. And yet they say that the age of miracles has passed! It would
need a whole machine shop to get her going again," says he. "I'll
await until my waggons come up, and then we'll get out the tow rope."
"Waggons!" says I. "You ain't travellin' with a retinue, are you?"
"That's the exact word for it," says he. And then Leonidas tells me
about the Sagawa aggregation. Ever see one of these medicine shows?
Well, that's what Leonidas had. He was sole proprietor and managing
boss of the outfit.
"We carry eleven people, including drivers and canvas men," says he,
"and we give a performance that the Proctor houses would charge
seventy-five a head for. It's all for a dime, too--quarter for
reserved--and our gentlemanly ushers offer the Sagawa for sale only
between turns."
"You talk like a three-sheet poster," says I. "Where you headed for
now?"
"We're making a hundred-mile jump up into the mill towns," says he,
"and before we've worked up as far as Providence I expect we'll have to
carry the receipts in kegs."
That was Leonidas, all over; seein' rainbows when other folks would be
predictin' a Johnstown flood. Just about then, though, the bottom
began to drop out of another cloud, so I lugged him over to the big
bubble and put him inside.
"Sadie," says I, "I want you to know an old side pardner of mine. His
name's Leonidas Dodge, or used to be, and there's nothing yellow about
him but his hair."
And say, Sadie hadn't more'n heard about the Sagawa outfit than she
begins to smile all over her face; so I guesses right off that she's
got tangled up with some fool idea.
"It would be such a change from the duchess if we could get Mr. Dodge
to stop over at Breeze Acres to-night and give his show," says Sadie.
"Madam," says Leonidas, "your wishes are my commands."
Sadie kept on grinnin' and plannin' out the program, while Leonidas
passed out his high English as smooth as a demonstrator at a food show.
Inside of ten minutes they has it all fixed. Then Sadie skips into the
little gate cottage, where the timekeeper lives, and calls up Pinckney
on the house 'phone. And say! what them two can't think of in the way
of fool stunts no one else can.
By the time she'd got through, the Sagawa aggregation looms up on the
road. There was two four-horse waggons. The front one had a tarpaulin
top, and under cover was a bunch of the saddest lookin' actorines and
specialty people you'd want to see. They didn't have life enough to
look out when the driver pulled up. The second waggon carried the
round top and poles.
"Your folks look as gay as a gang startin' off to do time on the
island," says I.
"They're not as cheerful as they might be, that's a fact," says
Leonidas.
It didn't take him long to put life into 'em, though. When he'd give
off a few brisk orders they chirked up amazin'. They shed their rain
coats for spangled jackets, hung out a lot of banners, and uncased a
lot of pawnshop trombones and bass horns and such things. "All up for
the grand street parade!" sings out Leonidas.
For an off-hand attempt, it wa'n't so slow. First comes Pinckney,
ridin' a long-legged huntin' horse and keepin' the rain off his red
coat with an umbrella. Then me and Sadie in her bubble, towin' the
busted one-lunger behind. Leonidas was standin' up on the seat,
wearin' his silk hat and handlin' a megaphone. Next came the band
waggon, everybody armed with some kind of musical weapon, and tearin'
the soul out of "The Merry Widow" waltz, in his own particular way.
The pole waggon brings up the rear.
Pinckney must have spread the news well, for the whole crowd was out on
the front veranda to see us go past. And say, when Leonidas sizes up
the kind of folks that was givin' him the glad hand, he drops the
imitation society talk that he likes to spout, and switches to straight
Manhattanese.
"Well, well, well! Here we are!" he yells through the megaphone. "The
only original Sagawa show on the road, remember! Come early, gents,
and bring your lady friends. The doors of the big tent will open at
eight o'clock--eight o'clock--and at eight-fifteen Mlle. Peroxide, the
near queen of comedy, will cut loose on the coon songs."
"My word!" says the duchess, as she squints through her glasses at the
aggregation.
But the rest of the guests was just ripe for something of the kind.
Mrs. Curlew Brassett, who'd almost worried herself sick at seein' her
party put on the blink by a shop-worn exhibit on the inside and rain on
the out, told Pinckney he could have the medicine tent pitched in the
middle of her Italian garden, if he wanted to. They didn't, though.
They stuck up the round top on the lawn just in front of the stables,
and they hadn't much more'n lit the gasolene flares before the folks
begins to stroll out and hit up the ticket waggon.
"It's the first time I ever had the nerve to charge two dollars a throw
for perches on the blue boards," says Leonidas; "but that friend of
yours, Mr. Pinckney, wanted me to make it five."
Anyway, it was almost worth the money. Mlle. Peroxide, who did the
high and lofty with a job lot of last year coon songs, owned a voice
that would have had a Grand-st. banana huckster down and out; the
monologue man was funny only when he didn't mean to be; and the
black-face banjoist was the limit. Then there was a juggler, and
Montana Kate, who wore buckskin leggins and did a fake rifle-shootin'
act.
I tried to head Leonidas off from sendin' out his tent men, rigged up
in red flannel coats, to sell bottled Sagawa; but he said Pinckney had
told him to be sure and do it. They were birds, them "gentlemanly
ushers."
"I'll bet I know where you picked up a lot of 'em," says I.
"Where?" says Leonidas.