I've heard 'em say that old man Ogden, who's a little, dried up runt of
about five feet nothin', has never got over bein' surprised at the size
Eunice has growed to. When she was about fourteen and weighed only a
hundred and ninety odd, he and Mother Ogden figured a lot on marryin'
Eunice into the House of Lords, like they did her sister, but they gave
all that up when she topped the two hundred mark.
Standin' there with Rossiter, they loomed up like a dime museum couple;
but they was lookin' happy, and gazin' at each other in that mushy
way--you know how.
"Say," says Rossiter's old man, sizin' 'em up careful, "is it all true?
Do you think as much of one another as all that?"
There wa'n't any need of their sayin' so; but Rossy speaks up prompt
for the only time in his life. He told how they'd been spoons on each
other for more'n a year, but hadn't dared let on because they was
afraid of bein' kidded. It was the same way about gettin' married.
Course, their bein' neighbours on the avenue, and all that, he must
have known that the folks on either side wouldn't kick, but neither one
of 'em had the nerve to stand for a big weddin', so they just made up
their minds to slide off easy and have it all through before anyone had
a chance to give 'em the jolly.
"But now that you've found it out," says Rossiter, "I suppose you'll
want us to wait and----"
"Wait nothing!" says the old man, jammin' on his hat. "Don't you wait
a minute on my account. Go ahead with your elopement. I'll clear out.
I'll go up to the club and find Ogden, and when you have had the knot
tied good and fast, you come home and receive a double barrelled
blessing."
About that time the minister that they'd been waitin' for shows up, and
before I knows it I've been rung in. Well, say, it was my first whack
playin' back stop at a weddin', and perhaps I put up a punk
performance; but inside of half an hour the job was done.
And of all the happy reunions I was ever lugged into, it was when
Rossiter's folks and the Ogdens got together afterwards. They were so
tickled to get them two freak left overs off their hands that they
almost adopted me into both families, just for the little stunt I did
in bilkin' them P. D.'s.
XII
TWO ROUNDS WITH SYLVIE
If it hadn't been for givin' Chester a show to make a gallery play, you
wouldn't have caught me takin' a bite out of the quince, the way I did
the other night. But say, when a young sport has spent the best part
of a year learnin' swings and ducks and footwork, and when fancy
boxin's about all the stunt he's got on his program, it's no more'n
right he should give an exhibition, specially if that's what he aches
to do. And Chester did have that kind of a longin'.
"Who are you plannin' to have in the audience, Chetty?" says I.
"Why," says he, "there'll be three or four of the fellows up, and maybe
some of the crowd that mother's invited will drop in too."
"Miss Angelica likely to be in the bunch?" says I.
Chester pinks up at that and tries to make out he hadn't thought
anything about Angelica's bein' there at all. But I'd heard a lot
about this particular young lady, and when I sees the colour on Chester
his plan was as clear as if the entries was posted on a board.
"All right, Chetty," says I; "have it any way you say. I'll be up
early Saturday night."
So that's what I was doin' in the smoker on the five-nine, with my gym.
suit and gaslight clothes in a kit bag up on the rack. Just as they
shuts the gates and gives the word to pull out, in strolls the last man
aboard and piles in alongside of me. I wouldn't have noticed him
special if he hadn't squinted at the ticket I'd stuck in the seat back,
and asked if I was goin' to get off at that station.
"I was thinkin' some of it when I paid my fare," says I.
"Ah!" says he, kind of gentle and blinkin' his eyes. "That is my
station, too. Might I trouble you to remind me of the fact when we
arrive?"
"Sure," says I; "I'll wake you up."
He gives me another blink, pulls a little readin' book out of his
pocket, slumps down into the seat, and proceeds to act like he'd gone
into a trance.
Say, I didn't need more'n one glimpse to size him up for a freak. The
Angora haircut was tag enough--reg'lar Elbert Hubbard thatch he was
wearin', all fluffy and wavy, and just clearin' his coat collar. That
and the artist's necktie, not to mention the eye glasses with the
tortoise shell rims, put him in the self advertisin' class without his
sayin' a word.
Outside of the frills, he wa'n't a bad lookin' chap, and sizable enough
for a 'longshoreman, only you could tell by the lily white hands and
the long fingernails that him and toil never got within speakin'
distance.
"Wonder what particular brand of mollycoddle he is?" thinks I.
Now there wa'n't any call for me to put him through the catechism, just
because he was headed for the same town I was; but somehow I had an
itch to take a rise out of him. So I leans over and gets a peek at the
book.
"Readin' po'try, eh?" says I, swallowin' a grin.
"Beg pardon?" says he, kind of shakin' himself together. "Yes, this is
poetry--Swinburne, you know," and he slumps down again as if he'd said
all there was to say.
But when I starts out to be sociable you can't head me off that way.
"Like it?" says I.
"Why, yes," says he, "very much, indeed. Don't you?"
He thought he had me corked there; but I comes right back at him.
"Nix!" says I. "Swinny's stuff always hit me as bein' kind of punk."
"Really!" says he, liftin' his eyebrows. "Perhaps you have been
unfortunate in your selections. Now take this, from the Anactoria----"
And say, I got what was comin' to me then. He tears off two or three
yards of it, all about moonlight and stars and kissin' and lovin', and
a lot of gush like that. Honest, it would give you an ache under your
vest!
"There!" says he. "Isn't that beautiful imagery?"
"Maybe," says I. "Guess I never happened to light on that part before."
"But surely you are familiar with his Madonna Mia?" says he.
"That got past me too," says I.
"It's here," says he, speakin' up quick. "Wait. Ah, this is it!" and
hanged if he don't give me another dose, with more love in it than you
could get in a bushel of valentines, and about as much sense as if he'd
been readin' the dictionary backwards. He does it well, though, just
as if it all meant something; and me settin' there listenin' until I
felt like I'd been doped.
"Say, I take it all back," says I when he lets up. "That Swinny chap
maybe ain't quite up to Wallace Irwin; but he's got Ella Wheeler pushed
through the ropes. I've got to see a friend in the baggage car,
though, and if you'll let me climb out past I'll speak to the brakeman
about puttin' you off where you belong."
"You're very kind," says he. "Regret you can't stay longer."
Was that a josh, or what? Anyway, I figures I'm gettin' off easy, for
there was a lot more of that blamed book he might have pumped into me
if I hadn't ducked.
"Never again!" says I to myself. "Next time I gets curious I'll keep
my mouth shut."
I wa'n't takin' any chances of his holdin' me up on the station
platform when we got off, either. I was the first man to swing from
the steps, and I makes a bee line for the road leadin' out towards
Chester's place, not stoppin' for a hack. Pretty soon who should come
drivin' after me but Curlylocks. He still has his book open, though;
so he gets by without spottin' me, and I draws a long breath.
By the time I'd hoofed over the two miles between the stations and
where Chester lives I'd done a lot of breathin'. It was quite some of
a place to get to, one of these new-model houses, that wears the
plasterin' on the outside and has a roof made of fancy drain pipe.
It's balanced right on the edge of the rocks, with the whole of Long
Island sound for a back yard and more'n a dozen acres of private park
between it and the road.
"Gee!" says I to Chester, "I should think this would be as lonesome as
livin' in a lighthouse."
"Not with the mob that mother usually has around," says he.
If the attendance that night was a sample, I guess he was right; for
the bunch that answers the dinner gong would have done credit to a
summer hotel. Seems that Chester's old man had been a sour, unsociable
old party in his day, keepin' the fam'ly shut up in a thirty-foot-front
city house that was about as cheerful as a tomb, and havin' comp'ny to
dinner reg'lar once a year.
But when he finally quit breathin', and the lawyers had pried the
checkbook out of his grip, mother had sailed in to make up for lost
time. It wasn't bridge and pink teas. She'd always had a hankerin'
for minglin' with the high brows, and it was them she went gunnin'
for,--anything from a college president down to lady novelists.
Anybody that could paint a prize picture, or break into print in the
thirty-five-cent magazines, or get his name up as havin' put the scoop
net over a new germ, could win a week of first class board from her by
just sendin' in his card.
But it was tough on Chester, havin' that kind of a gang around all the
time, clutterin' up the front hall with their extension grips and
droppin' polysyllables in the soup. Chetty's brow was a low cut.
Maybe he had a full set of brains; but he hadn't ever had to work 'em
overtime, and he didn't seem anxious to try. About all the heavy
thinkin' he did was when he was orderin' lunch at the club. But he was
a big, full blooded, good natured young feller, and with the exercise
he got around to the Studio he kept in pretty good trim.
How he ever come to get stuck on a girl like Angelica, though, was
more'n I could account for. She's one of these slim, big eyed,
breathless, gushy sort of females; the kind that tends out on picture
shows, and piano recitals, and Hindu lectures. Chester seems to have a
bad case of it, though.
"Is she on hand to-night, Chetty?" says I.
He owns up that she was. "And say, Shorty," says he, "I want you to
meet her. Come on, now. I've told her a lot about you."
"That bein' the case," says I, "here's where Angelica gets a treat,"
and we starts out to hunt for her, Chester's plan bein' to make me the
excuse for the boxin' exhibit.
But Angelica didn't seem to be so easy to locate. First we strikes the
music room, where a heavy weight gent lately come over from Warsaw is
tearin' a thunder storm out of the southwest corner of the piano.
The room was full of folks; but nary sign of the girl with the eyes.
Nor she wa'n't in the libr'y, where a four-eyed duck with a crop of
rusty chin spinach was gassin' away about the sun spots, or something.
Say, there was 'most any kind of brain stimulation you could name bein'
handed out in diff'rent parts of that house; but Angelica wa'n't to any
of 'em.
It was just by accident, as we was takin' a turn around one of the
verandas facin' the water, that, we runs across a couple camped down in
a corner seat under a big palm. The girl in pink radium silk was
Angelica. And say, by moonlight she's a bunch' of honeysuckle! The
other party was our old friend Curlylocks, and I has to grin at the
easy way he has of pickin' out the best looker in sight and leadin' her
off where she wouldn't have to listen to anybody but him. He has the
po'try tap turned on full blast, and the girl is listenin' as pleased
as if she had never heard anything better in her life.
[Illustration: HE HAS THE PO'TRY TAP TURNED ON FULL BLAST]
"Confound him!" says Chester under his breath. "He's here again, is
he?"
"Looks like this part of the house was gettin' crowded, Chetty," says
I. "Let's back out."
"Hanged if I do!" says he, and proceeds to do the butt in act about as
gentle as a truck horse boltin' through a show window. "Oh, you're
here, Angelica!" he growls out. "I've been hunting all over the shop
for you."
"S-s-sh!" says Angelica, holding up one finger and him off with the
other hand.
"Yes, I see," says Chester; "but----"
"Oh, please run away and don't bother!" says she. "That's a good boy,
now Chester."
"Oh, darn!" says Chester.
That was the best he could do too, for they don't even wait to see us
start. Angelica gives us a fine view of her back hair, and Mr.
Curlylocks begins where he left off, and spiels away. It was a good
deal the same kind of rot he had shoved at me on the train,--all about
hearts and lovin' and so on,--only here he throws in business with the
eyelashes, and seems to have pulled out the soft vocal stops.
Chester stands by for a minute, tryin' to look holes through 'em, and
then he lets me lead him off.
"Now what do you think of that?" says he, makin' a face like he'd
tasted something that had been too long in the can.
"Why," says I, "it's touchin', if true. Who's the home destroyer with
the vaseline voice and the fuzzy nut?"
"He calls himself Sylvan Vickers," says Chester. "He's a poet--a
sappy, slushy, milk and water poet. Writes stuff about birds and
flowers and love, and goes around spouting it to women."
"Why," says I, "he peeled off a few strips for me, comin' up on the
cars, and I though it was hot stuff."
"Honest, Shorty," says Chester, swallowin' the string as fast as I
could unwind the ball, "you--you don't like that kind of guff, do you?"
"Oh, well," says I, "I don't wake up in the night and cry for it, and
maybe I can worry along for the next century or so without hearin' any
more; but he's sure found some one that does like it, eh?"
There's no sayin' but what Chester held himself in well; for if ever a
man was entitled to a grouch, it was him. But he says mighty little,
just walks off scowlin' and settin' his teeth hard. I knew what was
good for that; so I hints that he round up his chappies and go down
into the gym. to work it off.
Chetty's enthusiasm for mitt jugglin' has all petered out, though, and
it's some time before I can make him see it my way. Then we has to
find his crowd, that was scattered around in the different rooms,
lonesome and tired; so it's late in the evenin' before we got under way.
Chester and me have had a round or so, and he'd just wore out one of
his friends and was tryin' to tease somebody else to put 'em on, when I
spots a rubber neck in the back of the hall.
"O-o-h, see who's here, Chetty!" says I, whisperin' over his shoulder.
It was our poet friend, that has had to give up Angelica to her maw.
He's been strayin' around loose, and has wandered in through the gym.
doors by luck. Now, Chester may not have any mighty intellect, but
there's times when he can think as quick as the next one. He takes one
glance at Curlylocks, and stiffens like a bird dog pointin' a partridge.
"Say," says he all excited, "do you suppose--could we get him to put
them on?"
"Not if you showed you was so anxious as all that," says I.
"Then you ask him, Shorty," he whispers. "I'll give a hundred for just
one round--two hundred."
"S-s-sh!" says I. "Take it easy."
Ever see an old lady tryin' to shoo a rooster into a fence corner,
while the old man waited around the end of the woodshed with the axe?
You know how gentle and easy the trick has to be worked? Well, that
was me explainin' to Curlylocks how we was havin' a little exercise
with the kid pillows,--oh, just a little harmless tappin' back and
forth, so's we could sleep well afterwards,--and didn't he feel like
tryin' it for a minute with Chester? Smooth! Some of that talk of
mine would have greased an axle.
Sylvie, old boy, he blinks at me through his glasses, like a poll
parrot sizin' up a firecracker that little Jimmy wants to hand him. He
don't say anything, but he seems some interested. He reaches out for
one of the mitts and pokes a finger into the paddin', lookin' it over
as if it was some kind of a curiosity.
"Reg'lar swan's down cushions," says I.
"Like to have you try a round or so, Vickers," puts in Chester, as
careless as he could. "Professor McCabe will show you how to put them
on."
"Ah, really?" says Curlylocks. Then he has to step up and inspect
Chester's frame up.
"That's the finish!" thinks I; for Chetty's a well built boy, good and
bunchy around the shoulders, and when he peels down to a sleeveless
jersey he looks 'most as wicked as Sharkey. But, just as we're
expectin' Curlylocks to show how wise he was, he throws out a bluff
that leaves us gaspin' for breath.
"Do you know," says he, "if I was in the mood for that sort of thing,
I'd be charmed; but--er----"
"Oh, fudge!" says Chetty. "I expect you'd rather recite us some
poetry?" And at that one of Chester's chums snickers right out.
Sylvie flushes up like some one had slapped him on the wrist.
"Beg pardon," says he; "but I believe I will try it for a little
while," and he holds out his paws for me to slip on the gloves.
"Better shed the parlour clothes," says I. "You're liable to get 'em
dusty," which last tickles the audience a lot.
He didn't want to peel off even his Tuxedo; but jollies him into
lettin' go of it, and partin' with his collar and white tie and eye
glasses too. That was as far as he'd go, though.
Course, it was kind of a low down game to put up on anybody; but
Curlylocks wa'n't outclassed any in height, nor much in weight; and,
seein' as how he'd kind of laid himself open to something of the sort,
I didn't feel as bad as I might. All the time, Chester was tryin' to
keep the grin off his face, and his chums was most wearin' their elbows
out nudgin' each other.
"Now," says I, when I've got Curlylocks ready for the slaughter,
"what'll it be--two-minute rounds?"
"Quite satisfactory," says Sylvie; and Chetty nods.
"Then let 'er go!" says I, steppin' back.
One thing I've always coached Chester on, was openin' lively. It don't
make any difference whether the mitts are hard or soft, whether it's a
go to a finish or a private bout for fun, there's no sense in wastin'
the first sixty seconds in stirrin' up the air. The thing to do is to
bore in. And Chester didn't need any urgin'. He cuts loose with both
bunches, landin' a right on the ribs and pokin' the left into the
middle of Sylvie's map; so sudden that Mr. Poet heaves up a grunt way
from his socks.
"Ah, string it out, Chetty," says I. "String it out, so's it'll last
longer."
But he's like a hungry kid with a hokypoky sandwich,--he wants to take
it all at one bite. And maybe if I'd been as much gone on Angelica as
he was, and had been put on a siding for this moonlight po'try
business, I'd been just as anxious. So he wades in again with as fine
a set of half arm jolts as he has in stock.
By this time Sylvie has got his guard up proper, and is coverin'
himself almost as good as if he knew how. He does it a little awkward;
but somehow, Chetty couldn't seem to get through.
"Give him the cross hook!" sings out one of the boys.
Chester tries, but it didn't work. Then he springs another rush, and
they goes around like a couple of pinwheels, with nothin' gettin'
punished but the gloves.
"Time!" says I, and leads Sylvie over to a chair. He was puffin' some,
but outside of that he was as good as new. "Good blockin', old man,"
says I. "You're doin' fine. Keep that up and you'll be all right."
"Think so?" says he, reachin' for the towel.
The second spasm starts off different. Curlylocks seems to be more
awake than he was, and the first thing we knows he's fiddlin' for an
openin' in the good old fashioned way.
"And there's where you lose out, son," thinks I.
I hadn't got through thinkin' before things begun happenin'. Sylvie
seems to unlimber from the waist up, and his arms acted like he'd let
out an extra link in 'em. Funny I hadn't noticed that reach of his
before. For a second or so he only steps around Chester, shootin' out
first one glove and then the other, and plantin' little love pats on
different parts of him, as if he was locatin' the right spots.
Chetty don't like havin' his bumps felt of that way, and comes back
with a left swing followed by an upper cut. They was both a little
wild, and they didn't connect. That wa'n't the worst of it, though.
Before he's through with that foolishness Sylvie turns them long arms
of his into a rapid fire battery, and his mitts begin to touch up them
spots he's picked out at the rate of about a hundred bull's eyes to the
minute. It was bing--bing--bing--biff!--with Chetty's arms swingin'
wide, and his block rockin', and his breath comin' short, and his knees
gettin' as wabbly as a new boy speakin' a piece. Before I can call the
round Curlylocks has put the steam into a jaw punch that sends Chester
to the mat as hard as though he'd been dropped out of a window.
"Is--is it all over?" says Chetty when he comes to, a couple of minutes
later.
"If you leave it to me," says I, "I should say it was; unless Mr.
What's-his-name here wants to try that same bunch of tricks on me. How
about it?"
"Much obliged, professor," says Curlylocks, givin' a last hitch to his
white tie; "but I've seen you in the ring."
"Well," says I, "I've heard you recite po'try; so we're even. But say,
you make a whole lot better showin' in my line than I would in yours,
and if you ever need a backer in either, just call on me."
We shakes hands on that; and then Chetty comes to the front, man
fashion, with his flipper out, too. That starts the reunion, and when
I leaves 'em, about one A. M., the Scotch and ginger ale tide was
runnin' out fast.
How about Angelica? Ah, say, next mornin' there shows up a younger,
fresher, gushier one than she is, and inside of half an hour her and
Curlylocks is close together on a bench, and he's got the little book
out again. Angelica pines in the background for about three minutes
before Chester comes around with the tourin' car, and the last I see of
'em they was snuggled up together in the back of the tonneau. So I
guess Chetty don't need much sympathisin' with, even if he was passed a
couple of lime drops.
XIII
GIVING BOMBAZOULA THE HOOK
Maybe I was tellin' you something about them two rockin' chair
commodores from the yacht club, that I've got on my reg'lar list?
They're some of Pinckney's crowd, you know, and that's just as good as
sayin' they're more ornamental than useful. Anyway, that description's
a close fit for Purdy.
First off I couldn't stand for Purdy at all. He's one of these natty,
band box chappies, with straw coloured hair slicked down as smooth as
if he'd just come up from a dive, and a costume that looks as if it
might have been copied from a stained glass window. You've seen them
symphonies in greys and browns, with everything matched up, from their
shirt studs to their shoes buttons? Now, I don't mind a man's bein' a
swell dresser--I've got a few hot vests myself--but this tryin' to be a
Mr. Pastelle is runnin' the thing into the ground.
Purdy could stand all the improvin' the tailor could hand him, though.
His eyes was popped just enough to give him a continual surprised look,
and there was more or less of his face laid out in nose. Course, he
wa'n't to blame for that; but just the same, when he gets to comin' to
the Studio twice a week for glove work and the chest weights, I passes
him over to Swifty Joe. Honest, I couldn't trust myself to hit around
that nose proper. But Swifty uses him right. Them clothes of Purdy's
had got Swifty goin', and he wouldn't have mussed him for a farm.
After I'd got used to seein' Purdy around, I didn't mind him so much
myself. He seemed to be a well meanin', quiet, sisterly sort of a
duck, one of the kind that fills in the corners at afternoon teas, and
wears out three pairs of pumps every winter leadin' cotillions. You'll
see his name figurin' in the society notes: how Mrs. Burgess Jones gave
a dinner dance at Sherry's for the younger set, and the cotillion was
led by Mr. Purdy Bligh. Say, how's that as a steady job for a grown
man, eh?
But so long as I'm treated square by anyone, and they don't try to
throw any lugs around where I am, I don't feel any call to let 'em in
on my private thoughts. So Purdy and me gets along first rate; and the
next thing I knows he's callin' me Shorty, and bein' as glad to see me
when he comes in as if I was one of his old pals. How you goin' to
dodge a thing of that kind? And then, 'fore I knows what's comin', I'm
right in the middle of this Bombazoula business.
It wa'n't anything I butted into on purpose, now you can take that
straight. It was this way: I was doin' my reg'lar afternoon stroll up
the avenue, not payin' much attention to anything in particular, when a
cab pulls up at the curb, and I looks around, to see Purdy leanin' over
the apron and makin' motions at me with his cane.
"Hello!" says I. "Have they got you strapped in so you can't get out?"
"By Jove!" says he, "I never thought of jumping out, you know. Beg
pardon, old man, for hailing you in that fashion, but----"
"Cut it!" says I. "I ain't so proud as all that. What's doin'?"
"It's rather a rummy go," says he; "but where can I buy some snakes?"
"That's rummy, all right," says I. "Have you tried sendin' him to an
institute?"
"Sending who?" says he.
"Oh!" says I. "I figured this was a snake cure, throwin' a scare into
somebody, that you was plannin'."