anywhere near a yell, and I wouldn't have believed he could have done
it if I hadn't had my eyes on him as he jumps clear of the corner,
makes a flyin' break through the bunch, and streaks it down the deck
for the forward companionway.
Me and the Bishop didn't wait to see the finish of that group picture.
We takes after Ferdy as fast as the Bishop's wind would let us, he
bein' afraid that Ferdy was up to somethin' desperate, like jumpin' off
the dock. All Ferdy does, though, is jump into a cab and drive for
home, us trailin' on behind. We was close enough at the end of the run
to see him bolt through the door; but Kupps tells us that Mr. Dobson
has left orders not to let a soul into the house.
Early next mornin', though, the Bishop comes around and asks me to go
up while he tries again, and after we've stood on the steps for ten
minutes, waitin' for Kupps to take in a note, we're shown up to Ferdy's
bed room. He's in silk pajamas and bath robe, lookin' white and hollow
eyed. Every mornin' paper in town is scattered around the room, and
not one of 'em with less than a whole column about how Madam Brooklini
sailed for Europe.
"Any of 'em got anything to say about Number Five?" says I.
"Thank heaven, no!" groans Ferdy. "Bishop, what do you suppose poor
dear Alicia thinks of me, though?"
"Why, my son," says the Bishop, his little eyes sparklin', "I suppose
she is thinking that it is 'most time for you to arrive in Newport, as
you promised."
"Then she doesn't know what an ass I've been?" says Ferdy. "No one has
told her?"
"Shorty, have you?" says the Bishop.
And when Ferdy sees me grinnin', and it breaks on him that me and the
Bishop are the only ones that know about this dippy streak of his, he's
the thankfulest cuss you ever saw. Alicia? He could hardly get there
quick enough to suit him; and the knot's to be tied inside of the next
month.
"Marryin's all right," says I to Ferdy, "so long's you don't let the
habit grow on you."
XVII
WHEN SWIFTY WAS GOING SOME
Say, I don't play myself for any human cheese tester, but I did think I
had Swifty Joe Gallagher all framed up long ago. Not that I ever made
any special study of Swifty; but knowin' him for as long as I have, and
havin' him helpin' me in the Studio, I got the notion that I was wise
to most of his curves. I've got both hands in the air now, though.
Goin' back over the last few months too, I can see where I might have
got a line on him before. But, oh no! Nothin' could jar me out of
believin' he wouldn't ever run against the form sheet I'd made out.
The first glimmer I gets was when I finds Joe in the front office one
day, planted before the big lookin' glass, havin' a catch as catch can
with his hair.
"Hully chee!" says he, dippin' one of my military brushes in the wash
basin. "That's fierce, ain't it, Shorty?"
"If it's your nerve in helpin' yourself to my bureau knickknacks," says
I, "I agree with you."
"Ah, can the croak!" says he. "I ain't eatin' the bristles off, am I!"
"Oh, I'm not fussin'," says I; "but what you need to use on that thatch
is a currycomb and a lawn rake."
"Ah, say!" says he, "I don't see as it's so much worse than others I
know of. It's all right when I can get it to lay down in the back.
How's that, now?"
"Great!" says I. "Couldn't be better if you'd used fish glue."
Maybe you never noticed how Swifty's top piece is finished off? He has
a mud coloured growth that's as soft as a shoe brush. It behaves well
enough when it's dry; but after he's got it good and wet it breaks up
into ridges that overlap, same as shingles on a roof.
But then, you wouldn't be lookin' for any camel's hair finish on a nut
like Swifty's--not with that face. Course, he ain't to blame for the
undershot jaw, nor the way his ears lop, nor the width of his smile.
We don't all have gifts like that, thanks be! And it wa'n't on purpose
Swifty had his nose bent in. That come from not duckin' quick enough
when Gans swung with his right.
So long as he kept in his class, though, and wa'n't called on to
understudy Kyrle Bellew, Swifty met all the specifications. If I was
wantin' a parlour ornament, I might shy some at Swifty's style of
beauty; but showin' bilious brokers how to handle the medicine ball is
a job that don't call for an exchange of photographs. He may have an
outline that looks like a map of a stone quarry, and perhaps his ways
are a little on the fritz, but Swifty's got good points that I couldn't
find bunched again if I was to hunt through a crowd. So, when I find
him worryin' over the set of his back hair, I gets interested.
"What's the coiffure for, anyway?" says I. "Goin' to see the girl, eh?"
Course, that was a josh. You can't look at Swifty and try to think of
him doin' the Romeo act without grinnin'.
"Ahr, chee!" says he.
Now, I've sprung that same jolly on him a good many times; but I never
see him work up a colour over it before. Still, the idea of him
gettin' kittenish was too much of a strain on the mind for me to follow
up.
It was the same about his breakin' into song. He'd never done that,
either, until one mornin' I hears a noise comin' from the back room
that sounds like some one blowin' on a bottle. I steps over to the
door easy, and hanged if I didn't make out that it was Swifty takin' a
crack at something that might be, "Oh, how I love my Lulu!"
"You must," says I, "if it makes you feel as bad as all that. Does
Lulu know it?"
"Ahr, chee!" says he.
Ever hear Swifty shoot that over his shoulder without turnin' his head?
Talk about your schools of expression! None of 'em could teach anyone
to put as much into two words as Swifty does into them. They're a
whole vocabulary, the way he uses 'em.
"Was you tryin' to sing," says I, "or just givin' an imitation of a
steamboat siren on a foggy night?"
But all I could get out of Swifty was another "Ahr, chee!" He was too
happy and satisfied to join in any debate, and inside of ten minutes
he's at it again; so I lets him spiel away.
"Well," thinks I, "I'm glad my joy don't have any such effect on me as
that. I s'pose I can stand it, if he can."
It wa'n't more'n two nights later that I gets another shock. I was
feelin' a little nervous, to begin with, for I'd billed myself to do a
stunt I don't often tackle. It was nothin' else than pilotin' a fluff
delegation to some art studio doin's. Sounds like a Percy job, don't
it? But it was somethin' put up to me in a way I couldn't dodge.
Maybe you remember me tellin' you awhile back about Cornelia Ann
Belter? She was the Minnekeegan girl that had a room on the top floor
over the Physical Culture Studio, and was makin' a stab at the
sculpture game--the one that we got out to Rockywold as a ringer in the
snow carvin' contest. Got her placed now?
Well, you know how that little trick of makin' a snow angel brought her
in orders from Mrs. Purdy Pell, and Sadie, and the rest? And she
didn't do a thing but make good, either. I hadn't seen her since she
quit the building; but I'd heard how she was doin' fine, and here the
other day I gets a card sayin' she'd be pleased to have my company on a
Wednesday night at half after eight, givin' an address on Fifth avenue.
"Corny must be carvin' the cantaloup," thinks I, and then forgets all
about it until Sadie holds me up and wants to know if I'm goin'.
"Nix," says I. "Them art studio stunts is over my head."
"Oh, pshaw!" says Sadie. "How long since you have been afraid of Miss
Belter? Didn't you and I help her to get her start? She'll feel real
badly if you don't come."
"She'll get over that," says I.
"But Mrs. Pell and I will have to go alone if you don't come with us,"
says she. "Mr. Pell is out of town, and Pinckney is too busy with
those twins and that Western girl of his. You've got to come, Shorty."
"That settles it," says I. "Why didn't you say so first off?"
So that was what I was doin' at quarter of eight that night, in my open
face vest and dinky little tuxedo, hustlin' along 42d-st., wonderin' if
the folks took me for a head waiter late to his job. You see, after I
gets all ragged out I finds I've left my patent leathers at the Studio.
Swifty has said he was goin' to take the night off too, so I'm some
surprised to see the front office all lit up like there was a ball
goin' on up there. I takes the steps three at a time, expectin' to
find a couple of yeggs movin' out the safe; but when I throws the door
open what should I see, planted in front of the mirror, but Swifty Joe.
Not that I was sure it was him till I'd had a second look. It was
Swifty's face, and Swifty's hair, but the costume was a philopena. It
would have tickled a song and dance artist to death. Anywhere off'n
the variety stage, unless it was at a Fourth Ward chowder party, it
would have drawn a crowd. Perhaps you can throw up a view of a
pin-head check in brown and white, blocked off into four-inch squares
with red and green lines; a double breasted coat with scalloped cuffs
on the sleeves, and silk faced lapels; a pink and white shirt striped
like an awnin'; a spotted butterfly tie; yellow shoes in the latest
oleomargarin tint; and a caffy-o-lay bean pot derby with a half-inch
brim to finish off the picture. It was a sizzler, all right.
For a minute I stands there with my mouth open and my eyes bugged,
takin' in the details. If I could, I would have skipped without sayin'
a word, for I see I'd butted in on somethin' that was sacred and
secret. But Swifty's heard me come in, and he's turned around waitin'
for me to give a verdict. Not wantin' to hurt his feelin's, I has to
go careful.
"Swifty," says I, "is that you?"
He only grins kind of foolish, sticks his chin out, and saws his neck
against his high collar, like a cow usin' a scratchin' post.
"Blamed if I didn't take you for Henry Dixey, first shot," says I,
walkin' around and gettin' a new angle. "Gee! but that's a swell
outfit!"
"Think so?" says he. "Will it make 'em sit up?"
"Will it!" says I. "Why, you'll have 'em on their toes."
I didn't know how far I could go on that line without givin' him a
grouch; but he seems to like it, so I tears off some more of the same.
"Swifty," says I, "you've got a bunch of tiger lilies lookin' like a
faded tea rose. You've got a get-up there that would win out at a
Cakewalk, and if you'll take it over to Third-ave. Sunday afternoon
you'll be the best bet on the board."
"Honest?" says he, grinnin' way back to his ears. "I was after
somethin' a little fancy, I'll own up."
"Well, you got it," says I. "Where'd you have it built?"
"Over the bridge," says he.
Say, it's a wonder some of them South Brooklyn cloth carpenters don't
get the blind staggers, turnin' out clothes like that; ain't it?
"Must be some special occasion?" says I.
"D'jer think I'd be blowin' myself like this if it wa'n't?" says he.
"You bet, it's extra special."
"With a skirt in the background?" says I.
"Uh-huh," says he, springin' another grin.
"Naughty, naughty!" says I.
"Ahr, say," says he, tryin' to look peevish, "you oughter know better'n
that! You never heard of me chasin' the Lizzies yet, did you? This is
a real lady,--nice and classy, see?"
"Some one on Fifth-ave.?" says I, unwindin' a little string. But he
whirls round like I'd jabbed him with a pin.
"Who tipped you off to that?" says he.
"Guessed it by the clothes," says I.
That simmers him down, and I could see he wanted to be confidential the
worst way. He wouldn't let go of her name; but I gathers it's some one
he's known for quite a spell, and that she's sent him a special invite
for this evenin'.
"Asks me to call around, see?" says he. "Now, I put it up to you,
Shorty, don't that look like I got some standin' with her?"
"She must think pretty well of you, that's a fact," says I, "and I
judge that you're willin' to be her honey boy. Ain't got the ring in
your vest pocket, have you?"
"Maybe that ain't so much of a joke as you think," says he, settin' the
bean pod lid a little more on one side.
"Z-z-z-ipp!" says I. "That's goin' some! Well, well, but you are a
cute one, Swifty. Why, I never suspicioned such a thing. Luck to you,
my lad, luck to you!" and I pats him on the back. "I don't know what
chances you had before; but in that rig you can't lose."
"I guess it helps," says he, twistin' his neck to get a back view.
He was puttin' on the last touches when I left. Course, I was some
stunned, specially by the Fifth-ave. part of it. But then, it's a long
street, and it's gettin' so now that all kinds lives on it.
I was a little behind sched. when I gets to Sherry's, where I was to
pick up Sadie and Mrs. Purdy Pell; but at that it was ten or fifteen
minutes before they gets the tourin' car called up and we're all tucked
away inside. It don't take us long to cover the distance, though, and
at twenty to nine we hauls up at Miss Belter's number. I was just
goin' to pile out when I gets a glimpse of a pair of bright yellow
shoes carryin' a human checker board.
"S-s-s-sh!" says I to the ladies. "Wait up a second till we see where
he goes."
"Why, who is it?" says Sadie.
"Swifty Joe," says I. "You might not think it from the rainbow
uniform, but it's him. That's the way he dresses the part when he
starts out to kneel to his lady love."
"Really!" says Mrs. Pell. "Is he going to do that?"
"Got it straight from him," says I. "There! he's worked his courage
up. Now he takes the plunge."
"Why!" says Sadie, "that is Miss Belter's number he's going into."
"She don't live on all five floors, does she?" says I.
"No; but it's odd, just the same," says she.
I thought so myself; so I gives 'em the whole story of how I come to
know about what he was up to. By that time he was climbing the stairs,
and as soon as we finds the right door I forgets all about Swifty in
sizin' up Cornelia Ann.
Say, what a difference a little of the right kind of dry goods will
make in a girl, won't it? The last I saw of Cornie she was wearin' a
skirt that sagged in the back, a punky lid that might have come off the
top of an ash can, and shoes that had run over at the heel.
But prosperity had sure blown her way, and she'd bought a wardrobe to
suit the times. Not that she'd gone and loaded herself down like she
was a window display. It was just a cucumber green sort of cheese
cloth that floated around her, and there wa'n't a frill on it except
some silvery braid where the square hole had been chopped out to let
her head and part of her shoulders through. But at that it didn't need
any Paris tag.
And say, I'd always had an idea that Cornelia Ann was rated about third
row back. Seein' the way she showed up there, though, with all that
cinnamon coloured hair of hers piled on top of her head, and her big
eyes glistenin', I had to revise the frame up. It didn't take me long
to find out she'd shook the shrinkin' violet game, too. She steps up
and gives us the glad hand and the gurgly jolly just as if she'd been
doin' it all her life.
It wa'n't any cheap hang-out that Cornie has tacked her name plate on,
either. There was expensive rugs on the floor, and brass lamps hangin'
from the ceilin', and pieces of tin armor hung around on the walls,
with nary a sign of an oil stove or a foldin' bed.
A lot of folks was already on the ground. They was swells too, and
they was floatin' around so thick that it was two or three minutes
before I gets a view of what was sittin' under the big yellow sik lamp
shade in the corner. Say, who do you guess? Swifty Joe! Honest, for
a minute I thought I must be havin' a nerve spasm and seein' things
that wa'n't so. But it was him, all right; big as life, and lookin' as
prominent as a soap ad. on the back cover of a magazine.
There was plenty of shady places in the room that he might have picked,
but he has hunted out the bright spot. He's sittin' on one of these
funny cross legged Roman stools, with his toes turned in, and them
grid-iron pants pulled up to show about five inches of MacGregor plaid
socks. And he has a satisfied look on his face that I couldn't account
for no way.
Course, I thinks right off that he's broke into the wrong ranch and is
waitin' for some one to come and show him the way out. And then, all
of a sudden, I begins to remember things. You know, it was Swifty that
Cornelia Ann used to get to pose for her when she had the top floor
back in our building. She made an embossed clay picture of him that
Joe used to gaze at by the hour. And once he showed me her photo that
she'd given him. Then there was the special invite he'd been tellin'
me about. Not bein' used to gettin' such things, he'd mistook that
card to her studio openin' as a sort of private billy ducks, and he'd
built up a dream about him and her havin' a hand-holdin' session all to
themselves.
"Great cats!" thinks I. "Can it be Cornelia Ann he's gone on?"
Well, all you had to do to get the answer was to watch Swifty follow
her around with his eyes. You'd thought, findin' himself in a bunch of
top-notchers like that, and rigged out the way he was, he'd been
feelin' like a green strawb'ry in the bottom of the basket. But
nothin' of that kind had leaked through his thick skull. Cornie was
there, and he was there, dressed accordin' to his own designs, and he
was contented and happy as a turtle on a log, believin' the rest of us
had only butted in.
I was feelin' all cut up over his break, and tryin' to guess how
Cornelia was standin' it, when she floats up to me and says:
"Wasn't it sweet of Mr. Gallagher to come? Have you seen him?"
"Seen him!" says I. "You don't notice any bandage over my eyes, do
you? Notice the get up. Why, he looks like a section of a billboard."
"Oh, I don't mind his clothes a bit," says she. "I think he's real
picturesque. Besides, I haven't forgotten that he used to pose for me
when hiring models meant going without meals. I wish you would see
that he doesn't get lonesome before I have a chance to speak to him
again."
"He don't look like he needed any chirkin' up," says I; "but I'll go
give him the howdy."
So I trots over to the yellow shade and ranges myself up in front of
him. "You might's well own up, Swifty," says I. "Is Cornie the one?"
"Uh-huh," says he.
"Told her about it yet?" says I.
"Ahr, chee!" says he. "Give a guy a chance."
"Sure," says I. "But go slow, Joey, go slow."
I don't know how it happened, for all I told about it was Sadie and
Mrs. Purdy Pell; but it wa'n't long before everyone in the joint was
next to Swifty, and was pipin' him off. They all has to be introduced
and make a try at gettin' him to talk. For awhile he has the time of
his life. Mostly he just grins; but now and then he throws in an "Ahr,
chee!" that knocks 'em silly.
The only one that don't fall for what's up is Cornelia Ann. She gets
him to help her pass out the teacups and the cake, and tells everyone
about how Swifty helped her out on the model business when she was
livin' on pickled pigs' feet and crackers. Fin'lly folks begins to dig
out their wraps and come up to tell her how they'd had a bully time.
But Joe never makes a move.
Sadie and Mrs. Pell wa'n't in any hurry either, and the first thing I
knows there's only the five of us left. I see Sadie lookin' from Joe
to Cornie, and then passin' Mrs. Pell the smile. Cornelia Ann sees it
too, and she has a synopsis of the precedin' chapters all in a minute.
But she don't get flustered a bit. She sails over to the coat room,
gets Swifty's lid, and comes luggin' it out.
"I'm awfully glad you came, Mr. Gallagher," says she, handin' out the
bean pot, "and I hope to see you again when I have another
reception--next year."
"Eh?" says Swifty, like he was wakin' up from a dream. "Next year!
Why, I thought that--"
"Yes, but you shouldn't," says she. "Good night."
Then he sees the hat, and a light breaks. He grabs the lid and makes a
dash for the door.
"Isn't he odd?" says Cornelia.
Well say, I didn't know whether I'd get word that night that Swifty had
jumped off the bridge, or had gone back to the fusel oil. He didn't do
either one, though; but when he shows up at the Studio next mornin' he
was wearin' his old clothes, and his face looks like he was foreman of
a lemon grove.
"Ah, brace up, Swifty," says I. "There's others."
He just shakes his head and sighs, and goes off into a corner as if he
wanted to die slow and lingerin'.
Then Saturday afternoon, when it turns off so warm and we begins the
noon shut down, I thinks I'll take a little run down to Coney and hear
the frankfurters bark. I was watchin' 'em load the boys and girls into
a roller coaster, when along comes a car that has something familiar in
it. Here's Swifty, wearin' his brass band suit, a cigar stickin' out
of one corner of his mouth, and an arm around a fluffy haired Flossie
girl that was chewin' gum and wearin' a fruit basket hat. They was
lookin' happy.
"Say, Swifty," I sings out, "don't forget about Cornie."
"Ahr, chee!" says he, and off they goes down the chute for another
ten-cent ride.
But say, I'm glad all them South Brooklyn art clothes ain't goin' to be
wasted.
XVIII
PLAYING WILBUR TO SHOW
It's all right. You can put the Teddy sign on anything you read in the
papers about matrimony's bein' a lost art, and collectin' affinities
bein' the latest fad; for the plain, straight, old,
love-honour-and-cherish business is still in the ring. I have
Pinckney's word for it, and Pinckney ought to know. Oh, yes, he's an
authority now. Sure, it was Miss Gerty, the twin tamer. And say, what
do you suppose they did with that gift pair of terrors, Jack and Jill,
while they was makin' the weddin' tour? Took 'em along. Honest, they
travels for ten weeks with two kids, five trunks, and a couple of maids.
"You don't look like no honeymoon couple," says I, when I meets 'em in
Jersey City. "I'd take you for an explorin' party."
"We are," says Pinckney, grinnin'. "We've been explorin' the western
part of the United States. We have discovered Colorado Springs, the
Yosemite, and a lot more very interesting places, all over again."
"You'll be makin' a new map, I expect," says I.
"It would be new to most New Yorkers," says he.
And I've been tryin' ever since to figure out whether or no that's a
knock. Now and then I has a suspicion that Pinckney's acquired some
new bug since he's been out through the alfalfa belt; but maybe his
idea of the West's bein' such a great place only comes from the fact
that Gerty was produced there. Perhaps it's all he says too; but I
notice he seems mighty glad to get back to Main-st., N. Y. You'd
thought so if you'd seen the way he trails me around over town the
first day after he lands. We was on the go from noon until one A. M.,
and his cab bill must have split a twenty up fine.
What tickles me, though, is that he's the same old Pinckney, only more
so. Bein' married don't seem to weigh no heavier on his mind than
joinin' another club. So, instead of me losin' track of him
altogether, he shows up here at the Studio oftener than before. And
that's how it was he happens to be on hand when this overgrown party
from the ham orchard blows in.
Just at the minute, though, Pinckney was back in the dressin' room,
climbin' into his frock coat after our little half-hour session on the
mat; so Swifty Joe and me was the reception committee.
As the door opens I looks up to see about seven foot of cinnamon brown
plaid cloth,--a little the homeliest stuff I ever see used for
clothes,--a red and green necktie, a face the colour of a ripe tomato,
and one of these buckskin tinted felt hats on top of that. Measurin'
from the peak of the Stetson to the heels of his No. 14 Cinderellas, he
must have been some under ninety inches, but not much. And he has all
the grace of a water tower. Whoever tried to build that suit for him
must have got desperate and cut it out with their eyes shut; for it fit
him only in spots, and them not very near together. But what can you
do with a pair of knock knees and shoulders that slope like a hip roof?
Not expectin' any freaks that day, and bein' too stunned to make any
crack on our own hook, me and Swifty does the silent gawp, and waits to
see if it can talk. For a minute he looks like he can't. He just
stands here with his mouth half open, grinnin' kind of sheepish and
good natured, as if we could tell what he wanted just by his looks.
Fin'lly I breaks the spell.
"Hello, Sport," says I. "If you see any dust on top of that
chandelier, don't mention it."
He don't make any reply to that, just grins a little wider; so I gives
him a new deal.
"You'll find Huber's museum down on 14th-st.," says I. "Or have you
got a Bowery engagement?"
This seems to twist him up still more; but it pulls the cork. "Excuse
me, friends," says he; "but I'm tryin' to round up an eatin' house that
used to be hereabouts."
"Eatin' house?" says I. "If you mean the fried egg parlour that was on
the ground floor, that went out of business months ago. But there's
lots more just as good around on Sixth-ave., and some that carry stock
enough to fill you up part way, I guess."