the suspicious way she looks at me, you'd thought I'd been breakin'
into some nursery. I'll admit she was a beaut, all right; but the hard
look I gets from them big black eyes didn't win me for a cent.
"Maybe if I knew who you was, ma'am," says I, "we'd get along faster."
That don't soothe her a bit. She gives me one glare, and then whirls
around and shouts to a couple of tough lookin' bruisers that was in the
car.
"Quick!" she sings out. "Watch the rear and side doors. I'm sure he's
here."
And the mugs pile out and proceed to plant themselves around the house.
"Sa-a-ay," says I, "this begins to look excitin'. Is it a raid, or
what? Who are the husky boys?"
"Those men are in my employ," says she.
"Private sleut's?" says I.
"They are," says she, "and if you'll give up the boy without any
trouble I will pay you just twice as much as you're getting to hide
him. I'm going to have him, anyway."
"Well, well!" says I.
And say, maybe you can guess by that time I was feelin' like it was a
warm day. If I'd had on a celluloid collar, it'd blown up. Inside of
ten seconds, I've shucked my coat and am mixin' it with the plug that's
guardin' the side door. The doin's was short and sweet. He's no
sooner slumped down to feel what's happened to his jaw than No. 2 come
up. He acts like he was ambitious to do damage, but the third punch
leaves him on the grass. Then I takes each of 'em by the ear, leads
'em out to the road, and gives 'em a little leather farewell to help
'em get under way.
"Sorry to muss your hired help, ma'am," says I, comin' back to the
front stoop; "but this is one place in the country where private
detectives ain't wanted. And another thing, let's not have any more
talk about me bein' paid. If there's anyone here belongin' to you, you
can have him and welcome; but cut out the hold up business and the
graft conversation. Now again, what's the name?"
She was so mad she was white around the lips; but she's one of the kind
that knows when she's up against it, too. "I am Mrs. Rutgers Greene,"
says she.
"Oh, yes," says I. "From down on the point?"
"Mr. Greene lives at Orienta Point, I believe," says she.
Now that was plain enough, wa'n't it? You wouldn't think I'd need
postin' on what they was sayin' at the clubs, after that. But these
high life break-aways are so common you can't keep track of all of 'em,
and she sprung it so offhand that I didn't more'n half tumble to what
she meant.
"I suppose I may have Gerald now?" she goes on.
"Sure," says I. "I'll bring him down." And as I skips up the stairs I
sings out, "Hey, Mr. Smith! Your maw's come for you!"
There was nothin' doin', though. I knocks on the door, and calls
again. Next I goes in. And say, it wa'n't until I'd pawed over all
the clothes, and looked under the bed and into the closet, that I could
believe it. He must have got up at daylight, slipped down the back way
in his stockin' feet, and skipped. The note on the wash stand clinches
it. It was wrote kind of wobbly, and the spellin' was some streaked;
but there wa'n't any mistakin' what he meant. He was sorry he had to
tell so many whoppers, but he wa'n't ever goin' home any more, and he
was much obliged for my tip about the freight car. Maybe my jaw didn't
drop.
"Thick head!" says I, catchin' sight of myself in the bureau glass.
"You would get humorous!"
When I goes back down stairs I find Mrs. Greene pacin' the porch.
"Well?" says she.
I throws up my hands. "Skipped," says I.
"Do you mean to say he has gone?" she snaps.
"That's the size of it," says I.
"Then this is Rutgers's work. Oh, the beast!" and she begins stampin'
her foot and bitin' her lips.
"That's where you're off," says I; "this is a case of----"
But just then another big bubble comes dashin' up, with four men in it,
and the one that jumps out and joins us is the main stem of the fam'ly.
I could see that by the way the lady turns her back on him. He's a
clean cut, square jawed young feller, and by the narrow set of his eyes
and the sandy colour of his hair you could guess he might be some
obstinate when it came to an argument. But he begins calm enough.
"I'm Rutgers Greene," says he, "and at the police station they told me
Gerald was here. I'll take charge of him, if you please."
"Have you brought a bunch of sleut's too?" says I.
He admits that he has.
"Then chase 'em off the grounds before I has another mental typhoon,"
says I. "Shoo 'em!"
"If they're not needed," says he, "and you object to----"
"I do," says I.
So he has his machine run out to the road again.
"Now," says I, "seein' as this is a family affair----"
"I beg pardon," puts in Greene; "but you hardly understand the
situation. Mrs. Greene need not be consulted at all."
"I've as much right to Gerald as you have!" says she, her eyes snappin'
like a trolley wheel on a wet night.
"We will allow the courts to decide that point," says he, real frosty.
"I don't want to butt in on any tender little domestic scene," says I;
"but if I was you two I'd find the kid first. He's been gone since
daylight."
"Gone!" says Greene. "Where?"
"There's no tellin' that," says I. "All I know is that when he left
here he was headed for the railroad track, meanin' to jump a freight
train and----"
"The railroad!" squeals Mrs. Greene. "Oh, he'll be killed! Oh,
Gerald! Gerald!"
Greene don't say a word, but he turns the colour of a slice of Swiss
cheese.
"Oh, what can we do?" says the lady, wringin' her hands.
"Any of them detectives of yours know the kid by sight?" says I.
They didn't. Neither did Greene's bunch. They was both fresh lots.
"Well," says I, "I'll own up that part of this is up to me, and I won't
feel right until I've made a try to find him. I'm goin' to start now,
and I don't know how long I'll be gone. From what I've seen I can
guess that this cottage will be a little small for you two; but if
you're anxious to hear the first returns, I'd advise you to stay right
here. So long!"
And with that I grabs my hat and makes a dash out the back way, leavin'
'em standin' there back to back. I never tracked a runaway kid along a
railroad, and I hadn't much notion of how to start; but I makes for the
rock ballast just as though I had the plan all mapped out.
The first place I came across was a switch tower, and I hadn't chinned
the operators three minutes before I gets on to the fact that an east
bound freight usually passed there about six in the mornin', and
generally stopped to drill on the siding just below. That was enough
to send me down the track; but there wa'n't any traces of the kid.
"New Haven for me, then," says I, and by good luck I catches a local.
Maybe that was a comfortable ride, watchin' out of the rear window for
somethin' I was hopin' I wouldn't see! And when it was over I hunts up
the yard master and finds the freight I was lookin' for was just about
due.
"Expectin' a consignment?" says he.
"Yes," says I. "I'm a committee of one to receive a stray kid."
"Oh, that's it, eh?" says he. "We get 'em 'most every week. I'll see
that you have a pass to overhaul the empties."
After I'd peeked into about a dozen box cars, and dug up nothin' more
encouraging than a couple of boozy 'boes, I begun to think my
calculations was all wrong. I was just slidin' another door shut when
I notices a bundle of somethin' over in the far corner. I had half a
mind not to climb in; for it didn't look like anything alive, but I
takes a chance at it for luck, and the first thing I hears is a growl.
The next minute I has Togo by the collar and the kid up on my arm. It
was Gerald, all right, though he was that dirty and rumpled I hardly
knew him.
He just groans and grabs hold of me like he was afraid I was goin' to
get away. Why, the poor little cuss was so beat out and scared I
couldn't get a word from him for half an hour. But after awhile I
coaxed him to sit up on a stool and have a bite to eat, and when I've
washed off some of the grime, and pulled out a few splinters from his
hands, we gets a train back. First off I thought I'd 'phone Mr. and
Mrs. Greene, but then I changes my mind. "Maybe it'll do 'em good to
wait," thinks I.
We was half way back when Gerald looks up and says, "You won't take me
home, will you?"
"What's the matter with home, kid?" says I.
"Well," says he, and I could see by the struggle he was havin' with his
upper lip that it was comin' out hard, "mother says father isn't a nice
man, and father says I mustn't believe what she says at all,
and--and--I don't think I like either of them well enough to be their
little boy any more. I don't like being stolen so often, either."
"Stolen!" says I.
"Yes," says he. "You see, when I'm with father, mother is always
sending men to grab me up and take me off where she is. Then father
sends men to get me back, and--and I don't believe I've got any real
home any more. That's why I ran away. Wouldn't you?"
"Kid," says I, "I ain't got a word to say."
He was too tired and down in the mouth to do much conversing either.
All he wants is to curl up with his head against my shoulder and go to
sleep. After he wakes up from his nap he feels better, and when he
finds we're goin' back to my place he gets quite chipper. All the way
walkin' up from the station I tries to think of how it would be best to
break the news to him about the grand household scrap that was due to
be pulled off the minute we shows up. I couldn't do it, though, until
we'd got clear to the house.
"Now, youngster," says I, "there's a little surprise on tap for you
here, I guess. You walk up soft and peek through the door."
For a minute I thought maybe they'd cleared out, he was so still about
it, so I steps up to rubber, too. And there's Mr. and Mrs. Rutgers
Greene, sittin' on the sofa about as close as they could get, her
weepin' damp streaks down his shirt front, and him pattin' her back
hair gentle and lovin'.
"Turn off the sprayer!" says I. "Here's the kid!"
Well, we was all mixed up for the next few minutes. They hugs Gerald
both to once, and then they hugs each other, and if I hadn't ducked
just as I did I ain't sure what would have happened to me. When I
comes back, half an hour later, all I needs is one glance to see that a
lot of private sleut's and court lawyers is out of a job.
"Shorty," says Greene, givin' me the hearty grip, "I don't know how I'm
ever goin' to----"
"Ah, lose it!" says I. "It was just by a fluke I got on the job,
anyway. That's a great kid of yours, eh?"
Did I say anything about Primrose Park bein' a place where nothin' ever
happened? Well, you can scratch that.
XI
WHEN ROSSITER CUT LOOSE
As a general thing I don't go much on looks, but I will say that I've
seen handsomer specimens than Rossiter. He's got good height, and
plenty of reach, with legs branchin' out just under his armpits--you
know how them clothespin fellers are built--but when you finish out the
combination with pop eyes and a couple of overhangin' front teeth--
Well, what's the use? Rossy don't travel on his shape. He don't have
to, with popper bossin' a couple of trunk lines.
When he first begun comin' to the Studio I sized him up for a soft
boiled, and wondered how he could stray around town alone without
havin' his shell cracked. Took me some time, too, before I fell to the
fact that Rossy was wiser'n he looked; but at that he wa'n't no
knowledge trust.
Just bein' good natured was Rossy's long suit. Course, he couldn't
help grinnin'; his mouth is cut that way. There wa'n't any mistakin'
the look in them wide set eyes of his, though. That was the real
article, the genuine I'll-stand-for-anything kind. Say, you could
spring any sort of a josh on Rossy, and he wouldn't squeal. He was one
of your shy violets, too. Mostly he played a thinkin' part, and when
he did talk, he didn't say much. After you got to know 'him real well,
though, and was used to the way he looked, you couldn't help likin'
Rossiter. I'd had both him and the old man as reg'lars for two or
three months, and it's natural I was more or less chummy with them.
So when Rossy shows up here the other mornin' and shoves out his
proposition to me, I don't think nothin' of it.
"Shorty," says he, kind of flushin' up, "I've got a favour to ask of
you."
"You're welcome to use all I've got in the bank," says I.
"It isn't money," says he, growin' pinker.
"Oh!" says I, like I was a lot surprised. "Your usin' the touch
preamble made me think it was. What's the go?"
"I--I can't tell you just now," says he; "but I'd like your assistance
in a little affair, about eight o'clock this evening. Where can I find
you?"
"Sounds mysterious," says I. "You ain't goin' up against any Canfield
game; are you?"
"Oh, I assure----" he begins.
"That's enough," says I, and I names the particular spot I'll be
decoratin' at that hour.
"You won't fail?" says he, anxious.
"Not unless an ambulance gets me," says I.
Well, I didn't go around battin' my head all the rest of the day,
tryin' to think out what it was Rossiter had on the card. Somehow he
ain't the kind you'd look for any hot stunts from. If I'd made a
guess, maybe I'd said he wanted me to take him and a college chum down
to a chop suey joint for an orgy on li-chee nuts an' weak tea.
So I wa'n't fidgetin' any that evenin', as I holds up the corner of
42nd-st., passin' the time of day with the Rounds, and watchin' the
Harlem folks streak by to the roof gardens. Right on the tick a hansom
fetches up at the curb, and I sees Rossiter givin' me the wig-wag to
jump in.
"You're runnin' on sked," says I. "Where to now?"
"I think your Studio would be the best place," says he, "if you don't
mind."
I said I didn't, and away we goes around the corner. As we does the
turn I sees another cab make a wild dash to get in front, and, takin' a
peek through the back window, I spots a second one followin'.
"Are we part of a procession?" says I, pointin' 'em out to him.
He only grins and looks kind of sheepish. "That's the regular thing
nowadays," says he.
"What! Tin badgers?" says I.
He nods. "They made me rather nervous at first," he says; "but after
I'd been shadowed for a week or so I got used to it, and lately I've
got so I would feel lost without them. To-night, though, they're
rather a nuisance. I thought you might help me to throw them off the
track."
"But who set 'em on?" says I.
"Oh, it's father, I suppose," says he; not grouchy mind you, but kind
of tired.
"Why, Rossy!" says I. "I didn't think you was the sort that called for
P. D. reports."
"I'm not," says he. "That's just father's way, you know, when he
suspects anything is going on that he hasn't been told about. He runs
his business that way--has a big force looking into things all the
time. And maybe some of them weren't busy; so he told them to look
after me."
Well say! I've heard some tough things about the old man, but I never
thought he'd carry a thing that far. Why, there ain't any more
sportin' blood in Rossiter than you'd look for in a ribbon clerk.
Outside of the little ladylike boxin' that he does with me, as a liver
regulator, the most excitin' fad of his I ever heard of was collectin'
picture postals.
Now, I generally fights shy of mixin' up in family affairs, but someway
or other I just ached to take a hand in this. "Rossy," says I, "you're
dead anxious to hand the lemon to them two sleut's; are you?"
He said he was.
"And your game's all on the straight after that, is it?" I says.
"'Pon my honour, it is," says he.
"Then count me in," says I. "I ain't never had any love for them sneak
detectives, and here's where I gives 'em a whirl."
But say, they're a slippery bunch. They must have known just where we
was headin', for by the time we lands on the sidewalk in front of the
physical culture parlours, the man in the leadin' cab has jumped out
and faded.
"He will be watching on the floor above," says Rossiter, "and the other
one will stay below."
"That's the way they work it, eh?" says I. "Good! Come on in without
lookin' around or lettin' 'em know you're on."
We goes up to the second floor and turns on the glim in the front
office. Then I puts on a pair of gym. shoes, opens the door easy, and
tiptoes down the stairs. He was just where I thought he'd be, coverin'
up in the shade of the vestibule.
"Caught with the goods on!" says I, reachin' out and gettin' a good
grip on his neck. "No you don't! No gun play in this!" and I gives
his wrist a crack with my knuckles that puts his shootin' arm out of
business.
"You're makin' a mistake," says he. "I'm a private detective."
"You're a third rate yegg," says I, "and you've been nipped tryin' to
pinch a rubber door mat."
"Here's my badge," says he.
"Anybody can buy things like that at a hock shop," says I. "You come
along up stairs till I see whether or no it's worth while ringin' up a
cop."
He didn't want to visit, not a little bit, but I was behind, persuadin'
him with my knee, and up he goes.
"Look at what the sneak thief business is comin' to," says I, standin'
him under the bunch light where Rossiter could get a good look at him.
He was a shifty eyed low brow that you wouldn't trust alone in a room
with a hot quarter.
"My name is McGilty," says he.
"Even if it wa'n't, you could never prove an alibi with that face,"
says I.
"If this young gent'll 'phone to his father," he goes on, "he'll find
that I'm all right."
"Don't you want us to call up Teddy at Oyster Bay? Or send for your
old friend Bishop Potter? Ah, say, don't I look like I could buy fly
paper without gettin' stuck? Sit down there and rest your face and
hands."
With that I chucks him into a chair, grabs up a hunk of window cord
that I has for the chest weights, and proceeds to do the bundle
wrapping act on him. Course, he does a lot of talkin', tellin' of the
things that'll happen to me if I don't let him go right off.
"I'll cheerfully pay all the expenses of a damage suit, or fines,
Shorty," says Rossiter.
"Forget it!" says I. "There won't be anything of the sort. He's
lettin' off a little hot air, that's all. Keep your eye on him while I
goes after the other one."
I collared Number Two squattin' on the skylight stairs. For a minute
or so he put up a nice little muss, but after I'd handed him a swift
one on the jaw he forgot all about fightin' back.
"Attempted larceny of a tarred roof for yours," says I. "Come down
till I give you the third degree."
He didn't have a word to say; just held onto his face and looked ugly.
I tied him up same's I had the other and set 'em face to face, where
they could see how pretty they looked. Then I led Rossiter down stairs.
"Now run along and enjoy yourself," says I. "That pair'll do no more
sleut'in' for awhile. I'll keep 'em half an hour, anyway, before I
throws 'em out in the street."
"I'm awfully obliged, Shorty," says he.
"Don't mention it," says I. "It's been a pleasure."'
That was no dream, either. Say, it did me most as much good as a trip
to Coney, stringin' them trussed up keyhole gazers.
"Your names'll look nice in the paper," says I, "and when your cases
come up at Special Sessions maybe your friends'll all have reserved
seats. Sweet pair of pigeon toed junk collectors, you are!"
If they wa'n't sick of the trailin' business before I turned 'em loose,
it wa'n't my fault. From the remarks they made as they went down the
stairs I suspicioned they was some sore on me. But now and then I runs
across folks that I'm kind of proud to have feel that way. Private
detectives is in that class.
I was still on the grin, and thinkin' how real cute I'd been, when I
hears heavy steps on the stairs, and in blows Rossiter's old man, short
of breath and wall eyed.
"Where's he gone?" says he.
"Which one?" says I.
"Why, that fool boy of mine!" says the old man. "I've just had word
that he was here less than an hour ago."
"You got a straight tip," says I.
"Well, where did he go from here?" says he.
"I'm a poor guesser," says I, "and he didn't leave any word; but if you
was to ask my opinion, I'd say that most likely he was behavin'
himself, wherever he was."
"Huh!" growls the old man. "That shows how little you know about him.
He's off being married, probably to some yellow haired chorus girl;
that's where he is!"
"What! Rossy?" says I.
Honest, I thought the old man must have gone batty; but when he tells
me the whole yarn I begins to feel like I'd swallowed a foolish powder.
Seems that Rossiter's mother had been noticin' symptoms in him for some
time; but they hadn't nailed anything until that evenin', when the
chump butler turns in a note that he shouldn't have let go of until
next mornin'. It was from Rossiter, and says as how, by the time she
reads that, he'll have gone and done it.
"But how do you figure out that he's picked a squab for his'n?" says I.
"Because they're the kind that would be most likely to trap a young
chuckle head like Rossiter," says the old man. "It's what I've been
afraid of for a long time. Who else would be likely to marry him?
Come! you don't imagine I think he's an Apollo, just because he's my
son, do you? And don't you suppose I've found out, in all these years,
that he hasn't sense enough to pound sand? But I can't stay here.
I've got to try and stop it, before it's too late. If you think you
can be of any help, you can come along."
Well say, I didn't see how I'd fit into a hunt of that kind; and as for
knowin' what to do, I hadn't a thought in my head just then; but seein'
as how I'd butted in, it didn't seem no more'n right that I should stay
with the game. So I tags along, and we climbs into the old man's
electric cab.
"We'll go to Dr. Piecrust's first, and see if he's there," says he,
"that being our church."
Well, he wa'n't. And they hadn't seen him at another minister's that
the old man said Rossy knew.
"If she was an actorine," says I, "she'd be apt to steer him to the
place where they has most of their splicin' done. Why not try there?"
"Good idea!" says he, and we lights out hot foot for the Little Church
Around the Corner.
And say! Talk about your long shots! As we piles out what should I
see but the carrotty topped night hawk that'd had Rossy and me for
fares earlier in the evenin'.
"You're a winner," says I to the old man. "It's a case of waitin' at
the church. Ten to one you'll find Rossiter inside."
It was a cinch. Rossy was the first one we saw as we got into the
anteroom.
It wa'n't what you'd call a real affectionate meetin'. The old man
steps up and eyes him for a minute, like a dyspeptic lookin' at a piece
of overdone steak in a restaurant, and then he remarks: "What blasted
nonsense is this, sir?"
"Why," says Rossy, shiftin' from one foot to the other, and grinnin'
foolisher'n I ever saw him grin before--"why, I just thought I'd get
married, that's all."
"That's all, eh?" says the old man, and you could have filed a saw with
his voice. "Sort of a happy inspiration of the moment, was it?"
"Well," says Rossy, "not--not exactly that. I'd been thinking of it
for some time, sir."
"The deuce you say!" says the old man.
"I--I didn't think you'd object," says Rossy.
"Wow!" says the old man. He'd been holdin' in a long spell, for him,
but then he just boiled over. "See here, you young rascal!" says he.
"What do you mean by talking that way to me? Didn't think I'd object!
D'ye suppose I'm anxious to have all New York know that my son's been
made a fool of? Think your mother and I are aching to have one of
these bleached hair chorus girls in the family? Got her inside there,
have you?"
"Yes, sir," says Rossy.
"Well, bring her out here!" says the old man. "I've got something to
say to her."
"All right, sir," says Rossy. If there ever was a time for throwin'
the hooks into a parent, it was then. But he's as good humoured and
quiet about it as though he'd just been handed a piece of peach pie.
"I'll bring her right out," says he.
When he comes in with the lady, the old man takes one look at her and
almost loses his breath for good.
"Eunice May Ogden!" says he. "Why--why on earth didn't you say so
before, Rossy?"
"Oh, hush!" says the lady. "Do be still! Can't you see that we're
right in the middle of an elopement?"
Never saw Eunice May, did you? Well, that's what you miss by not
travellin' around with the swells, same as me. I had seen her. And
say, she's somethin' of a sight, too! She's a prize pumpkin, Eunice
is. Maybe she's some less'n seven feet in her lisle threads, but she
looks every inch of it; and when it comes to curves, she has Lillian
Russell pared to a lamp post. She'd be a good enough looker if she
wa'n't such a whale. As twins, she'd be a pair of beauts, but the way
she stands, she's most too much of a good thing.