"All but one," says he, "and he had just graduated from Snake Hill.
But you didn't take this for one of Frohman's road companies, did you?"
They unloaded the Sagawa, though. The audience wasn't missin'
anything, and most everyone bought a bottle for a souvenir.
"It's the great Indian liver regulator and complexion beautifier," says
Leonidas in his business talk. "It removes corns, takes the soreness
out of stiff muscles, and restores the natural colour to grey hair.
Also, ladies and gents, it can be used as a furniture polish, while a
few drops in the bath is better than a week at Hot Springs."
He was right to home, Leonidas was, and it was a joy to see him. He'd
got himself into a wrinkled dress suit, stuck an opera hat on the back
of his head, and he jollied along that swell mob just as easy as if
they'd been factory hands. And they all seemed glad they'd come.
After it was over Pinckney says that it was too bad to keep such a good
thing all to themselves, and he wants me to see if Leonidas wouldn't
stay and give grand matinee performance next day.
"Tell him I'll guarantee him a full house," says Pinckney.
Course, Leonidas didn't need any coaxin'. "But I wish you'd find out
if there isn't a butcher's shop handy," says he. "You see, we were up
against it for a week or so, over in Jersey, and the rations ran kind
of low. In fact, all we've had to live on for the last four days has
been bean soup and pilot bread, and the artists are beginning to
complain. Now that I've got a little real money, I'd like to buy a few
pounds of steak. I reckon the aggregation would sleep better after a
hot supper."
I lays the case before Pinckney and Sadie, and they goes straight for
Mrs. Brassett. And say! before eleven-thirty they had that whole
outfit lined up in the main dinin'-room before such a feed as most of
'em hadn't ever dreamed about. There was everything, from chilled
olives to hot squab, with a pint of fizz at every plate.
Right after breakfast Pinckney began warmin' the telephone wires,
callin' up everyone he knew within fifteen miles. And he sure did a
good job. While he was at that I strolls out to the tent to have a
little chin with Leonidas, and I discovers him up to the neck in
trouble. He was backed up against the centre pole, and in front of him
was the whole actorette push, all jawin' at once, and raisin' seven
different kinds of ructions.
"Excuse me for buttin' in," says I; "but I thought maybe this might be
a happy family."
"It ought to be, but it ain't," says Leonidas. "Just listen to 'em."
And say, what kind of bats do you think had got into their belfries?
Seems they'd heard about the two-dollar-a-head crowd that was comin' to
the matinee. That, and bein' waited on by a butler at dinner the night
before, had gone to the vacant spot where their brains ought to be.
They were tellin' Leonidas that if they were goin' to play to Broadway
prices they were goin' to give Broadway acts.
Mlle. Peroxide allowed that she would cut out the rag time and put in a
few choice selections from grand opera. Montana Kate hears that, and
sheds the buckskin leggins. No rifle shootin' for her; not much! She
had Ophelia's lines down pat, and she meant to give 'em or die in the
attempt. The black-face banjoist says he can impersonate Sir Henry
Irving to the life; and the juggler guy wants to show 'em how he can
eat up the Toreador song.
"These folks want somethin' high-toned," says Mlle. Peroxide, "and this
is the chance of a lifetime for me to fill the bill. I'd been doin'
grand opera long ago if it hadn't been for the trust."
"They told me at the dramatic school in Dubuque that I ought to stick
to Shakespeare," says Montana Kate, "and here's where I get my hooks
in."
"You talk to 'em, Shorty," says Leonidas; "I'm hoarse."
"Not me," says I. "I did think you was a real gent, but I've changed
my mind, Mr. Dodge. Anyone who'll tie the can to high-class talent the
way you're tryin' to do is nothin' less'n a fiend in human form."
"There, now!" says the blondine.
Leonidas chucks the sponge. "You win," says he, "I'll let you all take
a stab at anything you please, even if it comes to recitin' 'Ostler
Joe'; but I'll be blanked if I shut down on selling Sagawa!"
Two minutes later they were turnin' trunks upside down diggin' out
costumes to fit. As soon as they began to rehearse, Leonidas goes
outside and sits down behind the tent, holdin' his face in his hands,
like he had the toothache.
"It makes me ashamed of my kind," says he. "Why, they're rocky enough
for a third-rate waggon show, and I supposed they knew it; but I'll be
hanged if every last one of 'em don't think they've got Sothern or
Julia Marlowe tied in a knot. Shorty, it's human nature glimpses like
this that makes bein' an optimist hard work."
"They're a bug-house bunch; all actors are," says I. "You can't change
'em, though."
"I wish I wasn't responsible for this lot," says he.
He was feelin' worse than ever when the matinee opens. It had stopped
rainin' early in the mornin', and all the cottagers for miles around
had come over to see what new doin's Pinckney had hatched up. There
was almost a capacity house when Leonidas steps out on the stage to
announce the first turn. I knew he had more green money in his clothes
that minute than he'd handled in a month before, but he acted as
sheepish as if he was goin' to strike 'em for a loan.
"I wish to call the attention of the audience," says he, "to a few
changes of program. Mlle. Peroxide, who is billed to sing coon songs,
will render by her own request the jewel song from 'Faust,' and two
solos from 'Lucia di Lammermoor.'"
And say, she did it! Anyways, them was what she aimed at. For awhile
the crowd held its breath, tryin' to believe it was only a freight
engine whistlin' for brakes, or somethin' like that. Then they began
to grin. Next some one touched off a giggle, and after that they
roared until they were wipin' away the tears.
Leonidas don't look quite so glum when he comes out to present the
reformed banjoist as Sir Henry Irving. He'd got his cue, all right,
and he hands out a game of talk about delayed genius comin' to the
front that tickled the folks clear through. The guy never seemed to
drop that he was bein' handed the lemon, and he done his worst.
I thought they'd used up all the laughs they had in 'em, but Montana
Kate as Ophelia set 'em wild again. Maybe you've seen amateurs that
was funny, but you never see anything to beat that combination.
Amateurs are afraid to let themselves loose, but not that bunch. They
were so sure of bein' the best that ever happened in their particular
lines that they didn't even know the crowd was givin' 'em the ha-ha
until they'd got through.
Anyway, as a rib tickler that show was all to the good. The folks
nearly mobbed Pinckney, tellin' him what a case he was to think up such
an exhibition, and he laid it all to Sadie and me.
Only the duchess didn't exactly seem to connect with the joke. She sat
stolidly through the whole performance in a kind of a daze, and then
afterwards she says: "It wasn't what I'd call really clever, you know;
but, my word! the poor things tried hard enough."
Just before I starts for home I hunts up Leonidas. He was givin'
orders to his boss canvasman when I found him, and feelin' the pulse of
his one-lunger, that Mrs. Brassett's chauffeur had tinkered up.
"Well, Leonidas," says I, "are you goin' to put the Shakespeare-Sagawa
combination on the ten-twenty-thirt circuit?"
"Not if I can prove an alibi," says he. "I've just paid a week's
advance salary to that crowd of Melbas and Booths, and told 'em to go
sign contracts with Frohman and Hammerstein. I may be running a
medicine show, but I've got some professional pride left. Now I'm
going back to New York and engage an educated pig and a troupe of
trained dogs to fill out the season."
The last I saw of Montana Kate she was pacin' up and down the station
platform, readin' a copy of "Romeo and Juliet." Ain't they the
pippins, though?
VII
RINKEY AND THE PHONY LAMP
Say, for gettin' all the joy that's comin' to you, there's nothin' like
bein' a mixer. The man who travels in one class all the time misses a
lot. And I sure was mixin' it when I closes with Snick Butters and Sir
Hunter Twiggle all in the same day.
Snick had first place on the card. He drifts into the Studio early in
the forenoon, and when I sees the green patch over the left eye I knows
what's comin'. He's shy of a lamp on that side, you know--uses the
kind you buy at the store, when he's got it; and when he ain't got it,
he wants money.
I s'pose if I was wise I'd scratched Snick off my list long ago; but
knowin' him is one of the luxuries I've kept up. You know how it is
with them old time friends you've kind of outgrown but hate to chuck in
the discard, even when they work their touch as reg'lar as rent bills.
But Snick and me played on the same block when we was kids, and there
was a time when I looked for Snick to be boostin' me, 'stead of me
boostin' him. He's one of the near-smarts that you're always expectin'
to make a record, but that never does. Bright lookin' boy, neat
dresser, and all that, but never stickin' to one thing long enough to
make good. You've seen 'em.
"Hello, Snick!" says I, as he levels the single barrel on me. "I see
you've pulled down the shade again. What's happened to that memorial
window of yours this time?"
"Same old thing," says he. "It's in at Simpson's for five, and a
bookie's got the five."
"And now you want to negotiate a second mortgage, eh?" says I.
That was the case. He tells me his newest job is handlin' the josh
horn on the front end of one of these Rube waggons, and just because
the folks from Keokuk and Painted Post said that lookin' at the patch
took their minds off seein' the skyscrapers, the boss told him he'd
have to chuck it or get the run.
"He wouldn't come across with a five in advance, either," says Snick.
"How's that for the granite heart?"
"It's like other tales of woe I've heard you tell," says I, "and
generally they could be traced to your backin' three kings, or gettin'
an inside tip on some beanery skate."
"That's right," says he, "but never again. I've quit the sportin' life
for good. Just the same, if I don't show up on the waggon for the
'leven o'clock trip I'll be turned loose. If you don't believe it
Shorty, I'll----"
"Ah, don't go callin' any notary publics," says I. "Here's the V to
take up that ticket. But say, Snick; how many times do I have to buy
out that eye before I get an equity in it?"
"It's yours now; honest, it is," says he. "If you say so, I'll write
out a bill of sale."
"No," says I, "your word goes. Do you pass it?"
He said he did.
"Thanks," says I. "I always have thought that was a fine eye, and I'm
proud to own it. So long, Snick."
There's one good thing about Snick Butters; after he's made his touch
he knows enough to fade; don't hang around and rub it in, or give you a
chance to wish you hadn't been so easy. It's touch and go with him,
and before I'd got out the last of my remarks he was on his way.
It wa'n't more'n half josh, though, that I was givin' him about that
phony pane of his. It was a work of art, one of the bright blue kind.
As a general thing you can always spot a bought eye as far as you can
see it, they're so set and stary. But Snick got his when he was young
and, bein' a cute kid, he had learned how to use it so well that most
folks never knew the difference. He could do about everything but see
with it.
First off he'd trained it to keep pace with the other, movin' 'em
together, like they was natural; but whenever he wanted to he could
make the glass one stand still and let the other roam around. He
always did that on Friday afternoons when he got up to speak pieces in
the grammar school. And it was no trick at all for him to look wall
eyed one minute, cross eyed the next, and then straighten 'em out with
a jerk of his head. Maybe if it hadn't been for that eye of Snick's
I'd have got further'n the eighth grade.
His star performance, though, was when he did a jugglin' act keepin'
three potatoes in the air. He'd follow the murphies with his good eye
and turn the other one on the audience, and if you didn't know how it
was done, it would give you the creeps up and down the back, just
watchin' him.
Say, you'd thought a feller with talent like that would have made a
name for himself, wouldn't you? Tryin' to be a sport was where Snick
fell down, though. He had the blood, all right, but no head. Why when
we used to play marbles for keeps, Snick would never know when to quit.
He'd shoot away until he'd lost his last alley, and then he'd pry out
that glass eye of his and chuck it in the ring for another go. Many a
time Snick's gone home wearin' a striped chiny or a pink stony in place
of the store eye, and then his old lady would chase around lookin' for
the kid that had won it off'm him. There's such a thing as bein' too
good a loser; but you could never make Snick see it.
Well, I'd marked up five to the bad on my books, and then Swifty Joe
and me had worked an hour with a couple of rockin' chair commodores
from the New York Yacht Club, gettin' 'em in shape to answer Lipton's
batch of spring challenges, when Pinckney blows in, towin' a tubby, red
faced party in a frock coat and a silk lid.
"Shorty," says he, "I want you to know Sir Hunter Twiggle. Sir Hunter,
this is the Professor McCabe you've heard about."
"If you heard it from Pinckney," says I, "don't believe more'n half of
it." With that we swaps the grip, and he says he's glad to meet up
with me.
But say, he hadn't been in the shop two minutes 'fore I was next to the
fact that he was another who'd had to mate up his lamps with a specimen
from the glass counter.
"They must be runnin' in pairs," thinks I. "This'd be a good time to
draw to three of a kind."
Course, I didn't mention it, but I couldn't keep from watchin' how
awkward he handled his'n, compared to the smooth way Snick could do it.
I guess Pinckney must have spotted me comin' the steady gaze, for
pretty soon he gets me one side and whispers, "Don't appear to notice
it."
"All right," says I; "I'll look at his feet."
"No, no," says Pinckney, "just pretend you haven't discovered it. He's
very sensitive on the subject--thinks no one knows, and so on."
"But it's as plain as a gold tooth," says I.
"I know," says Pinckney; "but humour him. He's the right sort."
Pinckney wa'n't far off, either. For a gent that acted as though he'd
been born wearin' a high collar and a shiny hat, Sir Twiggle wasn't so
worse. Barrin' the stiffenin', which didn't wear off at all, he was a
decent kind of a haitch eater. Bein' dignified was something he
couldn't help. You'd never guessed, to look at him, that he'd ever
been mixed up in anything livelier'n layin' a church cornerstone, but
it leaks out that he had been through all kinds of scraps in India,
comes from the same stock as the old Marquis of Queensberry, and has
followed the ring more or less himself.
"I had the doubtful honour," says he, bringin' both eyes into range on
me, "of backing a certain Mr. Palmer, whom we sent over here several
years ago after a belt."
"He got more'n one belt," says I.
"Quite so," says he, almost crackin' a smile; "one belt too many, I
fancy."
Say, that was a real puncherino, eh? I ain't sure but what he got off
more along the same line, for some of them British kind is hard to know
unless you see 'em printed in the joke column. Anyway, we has quite a
chin, and before he left we got real chummy.
He had a right to be feelin' gay, though; for he'd come over to marry a
girl with more real estate deeds than you could pack in a trunk. Some
kin of Pinckney's, this Miss Cornerlot was; a sort of faded flower that
had hung too long on the stem. She'd run across Sir Hunter in London,
him bein' a widower that was willin' to forget, and they'd made a go of
it, nobody knew why. I judged that Pinckney was some relieved at the
prospects of placin' a misfit. He'd laid out for a little dinner at
the club, just to introduce Sir Hunter to his set and brace him up for
bein' inspected by the girl's aunt and other relations at some swell
doin's after.
I didn't pay much attention to their program at the time. It wa'n't
any of my funeral who Pinckney married off his leftover second cousins
to; and by evenin' I'd clean forgot all about Twiggle; when Pinckney
'phones he'd be obliged if I could step around to a Broadway hotel
right off, as he's in trouble.
Pinckney meets me just inside the plate glass merry go round.
"Something is the matter with Sir Hunter," says he, "and I can't find
out from his fool man what it is."
"Before we gets any deeper let's clear the ground," says I. "When you
left him, was he soused, or only damp around the edges?"
"Oh, it's not that at all," says Pinckney. "Sir Hunter is a
gentleman--er, with a wonderful capacity."
"The Hippodrome tank's got that too," I says; "but there's enough fancy
drinks mixed on Broadway every afternoon to run it over."
Sir Hunter has a set of rooms on the 'leventh floor. He wa'n't in
sight, but we digs up Rinkey. By the looks, he'd just escaped from the
chorus of a musical comedy, or else an Italian bakery. Near as I could
make out he didn't have any proper clothes on at all, but was just done
up in white buntin' that was wrapped and draped around him, like a
parlour lamp on movin' day. The spots of him that you could see,
around the back of his neck and the soles of his feet, was the colour
of a twenty-cent maduro cigar. He was spread out on the rug with his
heels toward us and his head on the sill of the door leadin' into the
next room.
"Back up, Pinckney!" says I. "This must be a coloured prayer meetin'
we're buttin' into."
"No, it's all right," says Pinckney. "That is Sir Hunter's man, Ringhi
Singh."
"Sounds like a coon song," says I. "But he's no valet. He's a cook;
can't you see by the cap?"
"That's a turban," says Pinckney. "Sir Hunter brought Ringhi from
India, and he wears his native costume."
"Gee!" says I. "If that's his reg'lar get up, he's got Mark Twain's
Phoebe Snow outfit beat a mile. But does Rinkey always rest on his
face when he sits down?"
"It's that position which puzzles me," says Pinckney. "All I could get
out of him was that Sahib Twiggle was in bed, and wouldn't see anyone."
"Oh, then the heathen is wise to United States talk, is he?" says I.
"He understands English, of course," says Pinckney, "but he declines to
talk."
"That's easy fixed," says I, reachin' out and grabbin' Rinkey by the
slack of his bloomers. "Maybe his conversation works is out of kink,"
and I up ends Rinkey into a chair.
"Be careful!" Pinckney sings out. "They're treachous chaps."
I had my eye peeled for cutlery, but he was the mildest choc'late cream
you ever saw. He slumped there on the chair, shiverin' as if he had a
chill comin' on, and rollin' his eyes like a cat in a fit. He was so
scared he didn't know the day of the month from the time of night.
"Cheer up, Rinkey," says I, "and act sociable. Now tell the gentleman
what's ailin' your boss."
It was like talkin' into a 'phone when the line's out of business.
Rinkey goes on sendin' Morse wireless with his teeth, and never
unloosens a word.
"Look here, Br'er Singh," says I, "you ain't gettin' any third
degree--yet! Cut out the ague act and give Mr. Pinckney the straight
talk. He's got a date here and wants to know why the gate is up."
More silence from Rinkey.
"Oh, well," says I, "I expect it ain't etiquette to jump the outside
guard; but if we're goin' to get next to Sir Hunter, it looks like we
had to announce ourselves. Here goes!"
I starts for the inside door; but I hadn't got my knuckles on the panel
before Rinkey was givin' me the knee tackle and splutterin' all kinds
of language.
"Hey!" says I. "Got the cork out, have you?"
With that Rinkey gets up and beckons us over into the far corner.
"The lord sahib," says he, rollin' his eyes at the bed room door--"the
lord sahib desire that none should come near. He is in great anger."
"What's he grouchy about?" says I.
"The lord sahib," says he, "will destroy to death poor Ringhi Singh if
he reveals."
"Destroy to death is good," says I; "but it don't sound convincin'. I
think we're bein' strung."
Pinckney has the same idea, so I gets a good grip on Rinkey's neck.
"Come off!" says I. "As a liar you're too ambitious. You tell us
what's the matter with your boss, or I'll do things to you that'll make
bein' destroyed to death seem like fallin' on a feather bed!"
And it come, quick. "Yes, sahib," says he. "It is that there has been
lost beyond finding the lord sahib's glorious eye."
"Sizzlin' sisters! Another pane gone!" says I. "This must be my eye
retrievin' day, for sure."
But Pinckney takes it mighty serious. He says that the dinner at the
club don't count for so much, but that the other affair can't be
sidetracked so easy. It seems that the girl has lived through one
throw down, when the feller skipped off to Europe just as the tie-up
was to be posted, and it wouldn't do to give her a second scare of the
same kind.
Rinkey was mighty reluctant about goin' into details, but we gets it
out of him by degrees that the lord sahib has a habit, when he's locked
up alone, of unscrewin' the fake lamp and puttin' it away in a box full
of cotton battin'.
"Always in great secret," says Rinkey; "for the lord sahib would not
disclose. But I have seen, which was an evil thing--oh, very evil!
To-night it was done as before; but when it was time for the return,
alas! the box was down side up on the floor and the glorious eye was
not anywhere. Search! We look into everything, under all things.
Then comes a great rage on the lord sahib, and I be sore from it in
many places."
"That accounts for your restin' on your face, eh?" says I. "Well,
Pinckney, what now?"
"Why," says he, "we've simply got to get a substitute eye. I'll wait
here while you go out and buy another."
"Say, Pinckney," I says, "if you was goin' down Broadway at
eight-thirty P. M., shoppin' for glass eyes, where'd you hit first?
Would you try a china store, Or a gent's furnishin's place?"
"Don't they have them at drug stores?" says Pinckney.
"I never seen any glass eye counters in the ones I go to," says I. And
then, right in the midst of our battin' our heads, I comes to.
"Oh, splash!" says I. "Pinckney, if anyone asks you, don't let on what
a hickory head I am. Why, I've got a glass eye that Sir Hunter can
have the loan of over night, just as well as not."'
"You!" says Pinckney, lookin' wild.
"Sure thing," says I. "It's a beaut, too. Can't a feller own a glass
eye without wearin' it?"
"But where is it?" says Pinckney.
"It's with Snick Butters," says I. "He's usin' it, I expect. Fact is,
it was built for Snick, but I hold a gilt edged first mortgage, and all
I need to do to foreclose is say the word. Come on. Just as soon as
we find Snick you can run back and fix up Sir Hunter as good as new."
"Do you think you can find him?" says Pinckney.
"We've got to find him," says I. "I'm gettin' interested in this game."
Snick was holdin' down a chair in the smokin' room at the Gilsey. He
grins when he sees me, but when I puts it up to him about callin' in
the loose lens for over night his jaw drops.
"Just my luck," says he. "Here I've got bill board seats for the
Casino and was goin' to take the newsstand girl to the show as soon as
she can get off."
"Sorry, Snick," says I, "but this is a desperate case. Won't she stand
for the green curtain?"
"S-s-sh!" says he. "She don't know a thing about that. I'll have to
call it off. Give me two minutes, will you?"
That was Snick, all over--losin' out just as easy as some folks wins.
When he comes back, though, and I tells him what's doin', he says he'd
like to know just where the lamp was goin', so he could be around after
it in the mornin'.
"Sure," says I. "Bring it along up with you, then, there won't be any
chance of our losin' it."
So all three of us goes back to the hotel. Pinckney wa'n't sayin' a
word, actin' like he was kind of dazed, but watchin' Snick all the
time. As we gets into the elevator, he pulls me by the sleeve and
whispers:
"I say, Shorty, which one is it?"
"The south one," says I.
It wasn't till we got clear into Sir Hunter's reception room, under the
light, that Pinckney heaves up something else.
"Oh, I say!" says he, starin' at Snick. "Beg pardon for mentioning it,
but yours is a--er--you have blue eyes, haven't you, Mr. Butters?"
"That's right," says Snick.
"And Sir Hunter's are brown. It will never do," says he.
"Ah, what's the odds at night?" says I. "Maybe the girl's colour
blind, anyway."
"No," says Pinckney, "Sir Hunter would never do it. Now, if you only
knew of some one with a----"