clever of you, Count!"
At that Skippy throws out his chest and begins to chuck in the
flourishes. That kind of business suited him down to the ground. He
cocks his head on one side, twists up his lip whiskers like Billy the
Tooth, and goes through all the motions of a man that knows he's givin'
folks a treat.
"Hates himself, don't he?" says I. "He must have graduated from some
tombstone foundry."
Pinckney was wild. So was Sadie and Mrs. Purdy Pell, on account of the
free-for-all bein' turned into a game of solitaire.
"I just wish," says Sadie, "that there was some way of taking him down
a peg. If I only knew of someone who----"
"I do, if you don't," says I.
Say, what do you reckon had been cloggin' my thought works all that
time. I takes the three of 'em to one side and springs my proposition,
tellin' 'em I'd put it through if they'd stand for it. Would they?
They're so tickled they almost squeals.
I gets Swifty Joe at the Studio on the long distance and gives him his
instructions. It was a wonder he got it straight, for sometimes you
can't get an idea into his head without usin' a brace and bit, but this
trip he shows up for a high brow. Pretty quick we gets word that it's
all O. K. Pinckney bulletins it to the crowd that, while Sadie's
pulled out of the competition, she's asked leave to put on a sub, and
that the prize awardin' will be delayed until after the returns are all
in.
Meantime I climbs into the sleigh and goes down to meet the express.
Sure enough, Cornelia Ann was aboard, a bit hazy about the kind of a
stunt that's expected of her, but ready for anything. I don't go into
many details, for fear of givin' her stage fright; but I lets her know
that if she's got any sculpturin' tricks up her sleeve now's the time
to shake 'em out.
"I've been tellin' some friends of mine," says I, "that when it comes
to clay art, or plaster of paris art, you was the real lollypop; and I
reckoned that if you could do pieces in mud, you could do 'em just as
well in snow."
"Snow!" says she. "Why, I never tried."
Maybe I'd banked too much on Cornelia, or perhaps she was right in
sayin' this was out of her line. Anyway, it was a mighty disappointed
trio that sized her up when I landed her under the porte cochere.
When she's run her eye over the size and swellness of the place I've
brought her to, and seen a sample of the folks, she looks half scared
to death. And you wouldn't have played her for a fav'rite, either, if
you'd seen the cheap figure she cut, with them big eyes rollin' around,
as if she was huntin' for the nearest way out. But we give her a cup
of hot tea, makes her put on a pair of fleece lined overshoes and
somebody's Persian lamb jacket, and leads her out to make a try for the
championship.
Some of 'em was sorry of her, and tried to be sociable; but others just
stood around and snickered and whispered things behind their hands.
Honest, I could have thrown brickbats at myself for bein' such a mush
head. That wouldn't have helped any though, so I gets busy and rolls
together a couple of chunks of snow about as big as flour barrels and
piles one on top of the other.
"It's up to you, Cornie," says I. "Can't you dig something or other
out of that?"
She don't say whether she can or can't, but just walks around it two or
three times, lookin' at it dreamy, like she was in a trance. Next she
braces up a bit, calls for an old carvin' knife and a kitchen spoon,
and goes to work, the whole push watchin' her as if she was some freak
in a cage.
I pipes off her motions for awhile real hopeful, and then I edges out
where I could look the other way. Why say, all she'd done was to hew
out something that looks like a lot of soap boxes piled up for a
bonfire. It was a case of funk, I could see that; and maybe I wa'n't
feelin' like I'd carried a gold brick down to the subtreasury and asked
for the acid test.
Then I begins to hear the "Oh's!" and "Ah's!" come from the crowd.
First off I thought they was guyin' her, but when I strolls back near
enough for a peek at what she was up to, my mouth comes open, too.
Say, you wouldn't believe it less'n you'd seen it done, but she was
just fetchin' out of that heap of snow, most as quick and easy as if
she was unpackin' it from a crate, the stunningest lookin' altogether
girl that I ever see outside a museum.
I don't know who it was supposed to be, or why. She's holdin' up with
one hand what draperies she's got--which wa'n't any too many--an' with
the other she's reachin' above her head after somethin' or other--maybe
the soap on the top shelf. But she was a beaut, all right. And all
Cornelia was doin' to bring her out was just slashin' away careless
with the knife and spoon handle, hardly stoppin' a second between
strokes. She simply had 'em goggle eyed. I reckon they'd seen things
just as fine and maybe better, but they hadn't had a front seat before,
while a little ninety-pound cinnamon top like Cornelia Ann stepped up
and yanked a whitewashed angel out of a snow heap.
"It's wonderful!" says Mrs. Purdy Pell.
"Looks to me like we had Skippy fingerin' the citrus, don't it?" says I.
The Count he's been standin' there with his mouth open, like the rest
of us, only growin' redder 'n' redder.
But just then Cornelia makes one last swipe, drops her tools, and steps
back to take a view. We all quits to see what's comin' next. Well,
she looks and looks at that Lady Reacher she's dug out, never sayin' a
word; and before we knows it she's slumped right down there in the
snow, with both hands over her face, doin' the weep act like a kid.
In two shakes it was Sadie and Mrs. Purdy Pell to the rescue, one on
each side, while the rest of us gawps on and looks foolish.
"What is it, you poor darling?" says Sadie.
Finally, after a good weep, Cornie unloosens her trouble. "Oh, oh!"
says she. "I just know it's going to rain to-morrow!"
Now wouldn't that give you a foolish fit?
"What of it?" says Sadie.
"That," says she, pointin' to the snow lady. "She'll be gone forever.
Oh, it's wicked, wicked!"
"Well," says I, "she's too big to go in the ice box."
"Never mind, dear," says Mrs. Purdy Pell; "you shall stay right here
and do another one, in solid marble. I'll give you a thousand for a
duplicate of that."
"And then you must do something for me," says Sadie.
"And me, too," says Mrs. Dicky Madison.
I didn't wait to hear any more, for boostin' lady sculpturesses ain't
my reg'lar work. But, from all I hear of Cornelia Ann, she won't paste
labels in any broom fact'ry.
For your simple liver and slow quitter, art's all right; but it's a
long shot, at that. What?
XVI
WHY FERDY DUCKED
Say, there's no tellin', is there? Sometimes the quietest runnin'
bubbles blows up with the biggest bang. Now look at Ferdy. He was as
retirin' and modest as a new lodge member at his first meetin'. Why,
he's so anxious to dodge makin' a show of himself that when he comes
here for a private course I has to lock the Studio door and post Swifty
Joe on the outside to see that nobody butts in.
All the Dobsons is that way. They're the kind of folks that lives on
Fifth-ave., with the front shades always pulled down, and they shy at
gettin' their names in the papers like it was bein' served with a
summons.
Course, they did have their dose of free advertisin' once, when that
Tootsy Peroxide bobbed up and tried to break old Peter Dobson's will;
but that case happened so long ago, and there's been so many like it
since, that hardly anybody but the Dobsons remembers it. Must have
been a good deal of a jolt at the time, though; for as far as I've
seen, they're nice folks, and the real thing in the fat wad line,
specially Ferdy. He's that genteel and refined he has to have pearl
grey boxin' gloves to match his gym. suit.
Well, I wa'n't thinkin' any of him, or his set, havin' just had a
session with a brewer's son that I've took on durin' the dull season,
when I looks out into the front office and sees my little old Bishop
standin' there moppin' his face.
"Hello, Bishop!" I sings out. "Thought you was in Newport, herdin' the
flock."
"So I was, Shorty," says he, "until six hours ago. I came down to look
for a stray lamb."
"Tried Wall Street?" says I.
"He is not that kind of a lamb," says the Bishop. "It is Ferdinand
Dobson. Have you seen him recently?"
"What! Ferdy?" says I. "Not for weeks. They're all up at their Lenox
place, ain't they?"
No, they wa'n't. And then the Bishop puts me next to a little news
item that hadn't got into the society column yet. Ferdy, after gettin'
to be most twenty-five, has been hooked. The girl's name was Alicia,
and soon's I heard it I placed her, havin' seen her a few times at
different swell ranches where I've been knockin' around in the
background. As I remembers her, she has one of these long, high toned
faces, and a shape to match--not what you'd call a neck twister, but
somethin' real classy and high browed, just the sort you'd look for
Ferdy to tag.
Seems they'd been doin' the lovey-dovey for more'n a year; but all on
the sly, meetin' each other at afternoon teas, and now and then havin'
a ten-minute hand holdin' match under a palm somewhere. They was so
cute about it that even their folks didn't suspect it was a case of
honey and honey boy; not that anyone would have raised a kick, but
because Ferdy don't want any fuss made about it.
When Alicia's mother gets the facts, though, she writes a new program.
She don't stand for springin' any quiet weddin's on her set. She plans
a big party, where the engagement bulletin is to be flashed on the
screen reg'lar and proper, so's folks can be orderin' their dresses and
weddin' presents.
Ferdy balks some at the thought of bein' dragged to the centre of the
stage; but he grits his teeth and tells 'em that for this once they can
go as far as they like. He even agrees to leave home for a week and
mix it at a big house party, just to get himself broke in to meetin'
strangers.
Up to within two days of the engagement stunt he was behavin' lovely;
and the next thing they knows, just when he should be gettin' ready to
show up at Newport, he can't be found. It has all the looks of his
leavin' his clothes on the bank and jumpin' the night freight. Course,
the Dobsons ain't sayin' a word to Alicia's folks yet. They gets their
friends together to organise a still hunt for Ferdy; and the Bishop
bein' one of the inside circle, he's sent out as head scout.
"And I am at my wits' ends," says he. "No one has seen him in Newport,
and I can't find him at any of his clubs here."
"How about the Fifth-ave. mausoleum?" says I.
"His man is there," says the Bishop; "but he seems unable to give me
any information."
"Does, eh?" says I. "Well, you take it from me that if anyone's got a
line on Ferdy, it's that clam faced Kupps of his. He's been trained so
fine in the silence business that he hardly dares open his mouth when
he eats. Go up there and put him through the wringer."
"Do what?" says the Bishop.
"Give him the headquarters quiz," says I. "Tell him you come straight
from mother and sisters, and that Ferdy's got to be found."
"I hardly feel equal to doing just that," says the Bishop in his mild
way. "Now if you could only----"
"Why, sure!" says I. "It'd do me good to take a whirl out of that
Englishman. I'll make him give up!"
He's a bird though, that Kupps. I hadn't talked with him two minutes
before I would have bet my pile he knew all about where Ferdy was
roostin' and what he was up to; but when it come to draggin' out the
details, you might just as well have been tryin' to pry up a pavin'
stone with a fountain pen. Was Ferdy in town, or out of town, and when
would he be back? Kupps couldn't say. He wouldn't even tell how long
it was since he had seen Ferdy last. And say, you know how pig headed
one of them hen brained Cockneys can be? I feels my collar gettin'
tight.
"Look here, Hiccups!" says I. "You----"
"Kupps, sir," says he. "Thomas Kupps is my full nyme, sir."
"Well, Teacups, then, if that suits you better," says I. "You don't
seem to have got it into your head that the Bishop ain't just buttin'
in here for the fun of the thing. This matter of retrievin' Ferdy is
serious. Now you're sure he didn't leave any private messages, or
notes or anything of that kind?"
"Nothink of the sort, sir; nothink whatever," says Kupps.
"Well, you just show us up to his rooms," says I, "and we'll have a
look around for ourselves. Eh, Bishop?"
"Perhaps it would be the best thing to do," says the Bishop.
Kupps didn't want to do it; but I gives him a look that changes his
mind, and up we goes. I was thinkin' that if Ferdy had got chilly feet
at the last minute and done the deep dive, maybe he'd left a few lines
layin' around his desk. There wa'n't anything in sight, though;
nothin' but a big photograph of a wide, full chested lady, propped up
against the rail.
"That don't look much like the fair Alicia," says I.
The Bishop puts on his nigh-to glasses and says it ain't. He thinks it
must have been took of a lady that he'd seen Ferdy chinnin' at the
house party, where he got his last glimpse of him.
"Good deal of a hummin' bird, she is, eh?" says I, pickin' it up.
"Tutty tut! Look what's here!" Behind it was a photo of Alicia.
"And here's somethin' else," says I. On the back of the big picture
was scribbled, "From Ducky to Ferdy," and the date.
"Yesterday!" gasps the Bishop.
"Well, well!" says I. "That's advancin' the spark some! If he meets
her only a week or so ago, and by yesterday she's got so far as bein'
his ducky, it looks like Alicia'd have to get out and take the car
ahead."
The Bishop acts stunned, gazin' from me to the picture, as if he'd been
handed one on the dizzy bone. "You--you don't mean," says he, "that
you suspect Ferdy of--of----"
"I hate to think it," says I; "but this looks like a quick shift.
Kupps, who's Ferdy's lady friend?"
"Mr. Dobson didn't sye, sir," says Kupps.
"Very thoughtless of him," says I. "Come on, Bishop, we'll take this
along as a clue and see what Vandy has to say."
He's a human kodak, Vandy is--makes a livin' takin' pictures for the
newspapers. You can't break into the swell push, or have an argument
with Teddy, or be tried for murder, without Vandy's showin' up to make
a few negatives. So I flashes the photo of Ducky on him.
"Who's the wide one?" says I.
"Why, don't you know who that is, Shorty?" says he.
"Say, do you think I'd be chasin' up any flashlight pirate like you, if
I did?" says I. "What's her name?"
"That's Madam Brooklini, of course," says he.
"What, the thousand-dollar-a-minute warbler?" says I. "And me seein'
her lithographs all last winter! Gee, Bishop! I thought you followed
grand opera closer'n that."
"I should have recalled her," says the Bishop; "but I see so many
faces----"
"Only a few like that, though," says I. "Vandy, where do you reckon
Mrs. Greater New York could be located just about now?"
Vandy has the whole story down pat. Seems she's been over here out of
season bringin' suit against her last manager; but havin' held him up
for everything but the gold fillin' in his front teeth, she is booked
to sail back to her Irish castle at four in the mornin'. He knows the
steamer and the pier number.
"Four A. M., eh?" says I. "That means she's likely to be aboard now,
gettin' settled. Bishop, if that Ducky business was a straight steer,
it's ten to one that a friend of ours is there sayin' good-bye. Shall
we follow it up?"
"I can hardly credit it," says he. "However, if you think----"
"It's no cinch," says I; "but this is a case where it won't do to bank
on past performances. From all the signs, Ferdy has struck a new gait."
The Bishop throws up both hands. "How clearly you put it," says he,
"and how stupid of me not to understand! Should we visit the steamer,
or not?"
"Bishop," says I, "you're a good guesser. We should."
And there wa'n't any trouble about locatin' the high artist. All we
has to do is to walk along the promenade deck until we comes to a suite
where the cabin stewards was poppin' in and out, luggin' bunches of
flowers and baskets of fruit, and gettin' the book signed for
telegrams. The Bishop was for askin' questions and sendin' in his
card; but I gets him by the sleeve and tows him right in.
I hadn't made any wrong guess, either. There in the corner of the
state room, planted in a big wicker arm chair, with a jar of long
stemmed American beauts on one side, was Madam Brooklini. On the other
side, sittin' edgeways on a canvas stool and holdin' her left hand, was
Ferdy.
I could make a guess as to how the thing had come around; Ferdy
breakin' from his shell at the house party, runnin' across Brooklini
under a soft light, and losin' his head the minute she begins cooin'
low notes to him. That's what she was doin' now, him gazin' up at her,
and her gazin' down at him. It was about the mushiest performance I
ever see.
"Ahem!" says the Bishop, clearin' his throat and blushin' a lovely
maroon colour. "I--er--we did not intend to intrude; but----"
Then it was up to Ferdy to show the red. He opens his mouth and gawps
at us for a whole minute before he can get out a word. "Why--why,
Bishop!" he pants. "What--how----"
Before he has time to choke, or the Bishop can work up a case of
apoplexy, I jumps into the ring. "Excuse us doin' the goat act," says
I; "but the Bishop has got some word for you from the folks at home,
and he wants to get it off his mind."
"Ah, friends of yours, Ferdy?" says Madam Brooklini, throwin' us about
four hundred dollars' worth of smile.
There was nothin' for Ferdy to do then but pull himself together and
make us all acquainted. And say, I never shook hands with so much
jewelry all at once before! She has three or four bunches of sparks on
each finger, not to mention a thumb ring. Oh, there wa'n't any
mistakin' who skimmed the cream off the box office receipts after you'd
took a look at her!
And for a straight front Venus she was the real maraschino. Course,
even if the complexion was true, you wouldn't put her down as one of
this spring's hatch; but for a broad, heavy weight girl she was the
fancy goods. And when she cuts loose with that eighteen-carat voice of
hers, and begins to roll them misbehavin' eyes, you forgot how the
chair was creakin' under her. The Bishop has all he can do to remember
why he was there; but he manages to get out that he'd like a few
minutes on the side with Ferdy.
"If your message relates in any way to my return to Newport," says
Ferdy, stiffenin' up, "it is useless. I am not going there!"
"But, my dear Ferdy----" begins the Bishop, when the lady cuts in.
"That's right, Bishop," says she. "I do hope you can persuade the
silly boy to stop following me around and teasing me to marry him."
"Oh, naughty!" says I under my breath.
The Bishop just looks from one to the other, and then he braces up and
says, "Ferdinand, this is not possible, is it?"
It was up to Ferdy again. He gives a squirm or two as he catches the
Bishop's eye, and the dew was beginnin' to break out on his noble brow,
when Ducky reaches over and gives his hand a playful little squeeze.
That was a nerve restorer.
"Bishop," says he, "I must tell you that I am madly, hopelessly, in
love with this lady, and that I mean to make her my wife."
"Isn't he the dearest booby you ever saw!" gurgles Madam Brooklini.
"He has been saying nothing but that for the last five days. And now
he says he is going to follow me across the ocean and keep on saying
it. But you must stop, Ferdy; really, you must."
"Never!" says Ferdy, gettin' a good grip on the cut glass exhibit.
"Such persistence!" says Ducky, shiftin' her searchlights from him to
us and back again. "And he knows I have said I would not marry again.
I mustn't. My managers don't like it. Why, every time I marry they
raise a most dreadful row. But what can I do? Ferdy insists, you see;
and if he keeps it up, I just know I shall have to take him. Please be
good, Ferdy!"
Wouldn't that make you seasick? But the Bishop comes to the front like
he'd heard a call to man the lifeboat.
"It may influence you somewhat," says he, "to learn that for nearly a
year Ferdinand has been secretly engaged to a very estimable young
woman."
"I know," says she, tearin' off a little giggle. "Ferdy has told me
all about Alicia. What a wicked, deceitful wretch he is! isn't he?
Aren't you ashamed, Ferdy, to act so foolish over me?"
If Ferdy was, he hid it well. All he seemed willin' to do was to sit
there, holdin' her hand and lookin' as soft as a custard pie, while the
Lady Williamsburg tells what a tough job she has dodgin' matrimony, on
account of her yieldin' disposition. I didn't know whether to hide my
face in my hat, or go out and lean over the rail. I guess the Bishop
wa'n't feelin' any too comfortable either; but he was there to do his
duty, so he makes one last stab.
"Ferdinand," says he, "your mother asked me to say that----"
"Tell her I was never so happy in my life," says Ferdy, pattin' a
broadside of solitaires and marquise rings.
"Come on, Bishop," says I. "There's only one cure for a complaint of
that kind, and it looks like Ferdy was bound to take it."
We was just startin' for the deck, when the door was blocked by a
steward luggin' in another sheaf of roses, and followed by a couple of
middle aged, jolly lookin' gents, smokin' cigars and marchin' arm in
arm. One was a tall, well built chap in a silk hat; the other was a
short, pussy, ruby beaked gent in French flannels and a Panama.
"Hello, sweety!" says the tall one.
"Peekaboo, dearie!" sings out the other.
"Dick! Jimmy!" squeals Madam Brooklini, givin' a hand to each of 'em,
and leavin' Ferdy holdin' the air. "Oh, how delightfully thoughtful of
you!"
"Tried to ring in old Grubby, too," says Dick; "but he couldn't get
away. He chipped in for the flowers, though."
"Dear old Grubby!" says she. "Let's see, he was my third, wasn't he?"
"Why, dearie!" says Dicky boy, "I was Number Three. Grubby was your
second."
"Really!" says she. "But I do get you so mixed. Oh!" and then she
remembers Ferdy. "Ducky, dear," she goes on, "I do want you to know
these gentlemen--two of my former husbands."
"Wha-a-at!" gasps Ferdy, his eyes buggin' out.
I hears the Bishop groan and flop on a seat behind me. Honest, it was
straight! Dick and Jimmy was a couple of discards, old Grubby was
another, and inside of a minute blamed if she hadn't mentioned a
fourth, that was planted somewhere on the other side. Course, for a
convention there wouldn't have been a straight quorum; but there was
enough answerin' roll call to make it pass for a reunion, all right.
And it was a peach while it lasted. The pair of has-beens didn't have
long to stay, one havin' to get back to Chicago and the other bein'
billed to start on a yachtin' trip. They'd just run over to say by-by;
and tell how they was plannin' an annual dinner, with the judges and
divorce lawyers for guests. Yes, yes, they was a jolly couple, them
two! All the Bishop could do was lay back and fan himself as he
listens, once in awhile whisperin' to himself, "My, my!" As for Ferdy,
he looked like he'd been hypnotised and was waitin' to be woke up.
The pair was sayin' good-bye for the third and last time, when in
rushes a high strung, nervous young feller with a pencil behind his ear
and a pad in his hand.
"Well, Larry, what is it now?" snaps out Madam Brooklini, doin' the
lightnin' change act with her voice. "I am engaged, you see."
"Can't help it," says Larry. "Got fourteen reporters and eight
snapshot men waiting to do the sailing story for the morning editions.
Shall I bring 'em up?"
"But I am entertaining two of my ex-husbands," says the lady, "and----"
"Great!" says Larry. "We'll put 'em in the group. Who's the other?"
"Oh, that's only Ferdy," says she. "I haven't married him yet."
"Bully!" says Larry. "We can get half a column of space out of him
alone. He goes in the pictures too. We'll label him 'Next,' or
'Number Five Elect,' or something like that. Line 'em up outside, will
you?"
"Oh, pshaw!" says Madam Brooklini. "What a nuisance these press agents
are! But Larry is so enterprising. Come, we'll make a splendid group,
the four of us. Come, Ferdy."
"Reporters!" Ferdy lets it come out of him kind of hoarse and husky,
like he'd just seen a ghost.
But I knew the view that he was gettin'; his name in the headlines, his
picture on the front page, and all the chappies at the club and the
whole Newport crowd chucklin' and nudgin' each other over the story of
how he was taggin' around after an op'ra singer that had a syndicate of
second hand husbands.