himself loose in Tenth-ave. society, just to help the Dillons put it
over the Bradys, I expect I'll be a mark too. But it's a dippy move."
Course, I mistrusted how Pinckney would take it. He thinks he's got me
on the rollers, and proceeds to shove. He hasn't heard more'n half the
tale before he begins handin' me the josh about it's bein' my duty to
spread sunshine wherever I can.
"It's calcium the Dillons want," says I. "But I hadn't got to tellin'
you about Aloysius."
"What's that?" says he. "Aloysius Dillon, did you say?"
"He's the one that's playin' the part of the missing prod.," says I.
"What is he like?" says Pinckney, gettin' interested.
"Accordin' to descriptions," says I, "he's a useless little runt, about
four feet nothin' high and as wide as a match, with the temper of a
striped hornet and the instincts of a yellow kyoodle. But he's his
mother's pet, just the same, and if he ain't found she threatens to
throw fits. Don't happen to know him, do you?"
"Why," says Pinckney, "I'm not sure but I do."
It looks like a jolly; but then again, you never can tell about
Pinckney. He mixes around in so many sets that he's like to know 'most
anybody.
"Well," says I, "if you run across Aloysius at the club, tell him
what's on for Sunday afternoon."
"I will," says Pinckney, lettin' out a chuckle and climbin' into his
cab.
I was hoping that maybe Sadie would renige before the time come; but
right after dinner Sunday she makes up in her second best afternoon
regalia, calls a hansom, and starts for Tenth-ave., leavin'
instructions how I was to show up in about an hour with Pinckney, and
not to forget about handin' out our cards just as if this was a swell
affair. I finds Pinckney got up in his frock coat and primrose pants,
and lookin' mighty pleased about something or other.
"Huh!" says I. "You seem to take this as a reg'lar cut-up act. I call
it blamed nonsense, encouragin' folks like the Dillons to----"
But there ain't any use arguin' with Pinckney when he's feelin' that
way. He only grins and looks mysterious. We don't have to hunt for
the number of the Dillons' flat house, for there's a gang of kids on
the front steps and more out in the street gawpin' up at the lighted
windows. We makes a dive through them and tackles the four flights,
passin' inspection of the tenants on the way up, every door bein' open.
"Who's comin' now?" sings out a women from the Second floor back.
"Only a couple of Willies from the store," says a gent in his shirt
sleeves, givin' us the stare.
From other remarks we heard passed, it was clear the Dillons had been
tootin' this party as something fine and classy, and that they wa'n't
making good. The signs of frost grows plainer as we gets nearer the
scene of the festivities. All the Dillon family was there, right
enough, from the youngest kid up. Old Larry has had his face scraped
till it shines like a copper stewpan, and him and Mother Dillon is
standin' under a green paper bell hung from a hook in the ceiling. I
could spot Tom, the coal cart driver, by the ring of dust under his
eyelashes; and there was no mistakin' lady Kate, the sales person, with
the double row of coronet hair rolls pinned to the top of her head.
Over in the corner, too, was Sadie, talkin' to Father Kelley. But
there wa'n't any great signs of joy.
The whole party sizes up me and Pinckney as if they was disappointed.
I can't say what they was lookin' for from us; but whatever it was, we
didn't seem to fill the bill. And just when the gloom is settlin' down
thickest, Mother Dillon begins to sniffle.
"Now, mother," says Nora, soothin' like, "remember there's company."
"Ah, bad scran to the lot of yez!" says the old lady. "Where's my
Aloysius? Where is he, will ye tell me that?"
"Divvul take such a woman!" says old Larry.
"Tut, tut!" says Father Kelley.
"Will you look at the Bradys now!" whispers Maggie, hoarselike.
It wa'n't easy guessin' which windows in the block was theirs, for
every ledge has a pillow on it, and a couple of pairs of elbows on
every pillow, but I took it that the Bradys was where they was grinnin'
widest. You could tell, though, that the merry laugh was bein' passed
up and down, and it was on the Dillons.
And then, as I was tryin' to give Sadie the get-away sign, we hears a
deep honk outside, and I sees the folks across the way stretchin' their
necks out. In a minute there's a scamperin' in the halls like a
stampede at a synagogue, and we hears the "Ah-h-hs!" coming up from
below. We all makes a rush for the front and rubbers out to see what's
happenin'. By climbin' on a chair and peekin' over the top of the lady
Kate's hair puffs, I catches a glimpse of a big yellow and black bodied
car, with a footman in a bearskin coat holdin' open the door.
"Oh-o-o-oh! look what's here?" squeals eight little Dillons in chorus.
You couldn't blame 'em, either, for the hat that was bein' squeezed out
through the door of the car was one of these Broadway thrillers, four
feet across, and covered with as many green ostrich feathers as you
could carry in a clothes basket. What was under the feather lid we
couldn't see. Followin' it out of the machine comes somethin' cute in
a butter colored overcoat and a brown derby. In a minute more we gets
the report that the procession is headed up the stairs, and by the time
we've grouped ourselves around the room with our mouths open, in they
floats.
In the lead, wearin' the oleo coat with yellow silk facin's, was a
squizzled up little squirt with rat eyes and a mean little face about
as thick as a slice of toast, and the same colour. His clothes,
though, is a pome in browns and yellows, from the champagne tinted No.
3 shoes to the tobacco coloured No. 5 hat, leavin' out the necktie,
which was a shade somewhere between a blue store front and a bottle of
purple ink.
Even if I hadn't seen the face, I could have guessed who it was, just
by the get-up. Course, there's been a good many noisy dressers
floatin' around the grill room district this winter, but there always
has to be one real scream in every crowd; and this was it.
"If it ain't Shrimp!" says I.
"Hello, Shorty!" says he, in that little squeak of his.
And at that some one swoops past me. There's a flapping of green silk
skirt, and Mother Dillon has given him the high tackle.
"Aloysius! My little 'Loyshy!" she squeals.
And say, you could have pushed me over with one finger. Here I'd been
hearin' for the last two seasons about this jock that had come up from
stable helper in a night, and how he'd been winning on nine out of
every ten mounts, and how all the big racing men was overbiddin' each
other to get him signed for their stables. Some of Pinckney's sportin'
friends had towed Shrimp into the Studio once or twice, and besides
that I'd read in the papers all about his giddy wardrobe, and his big
Swede valet, and the English chorus girl that had married him. But in
all this talk of Sadie's about the Dillon fam'ly, I'd never so much as
guessed that Aloysius, the stray, was one and the same as Shrimp Dillon.
Here he was, though, in the Dillon flat, with Mother Dillon almost
knockin' his breath out pattin' him on the back, and all the little
Dillons jumpin' around and yellin', "Uncle 'Loyshy, Uncle 'Loyshy!" and
Kate and Maggie and Nora waitin' their turns; and the rest of us,
includin' old Larry and me and Sadie, lookin' foolish. The only one
that acts like he wa'n't surprised is Pinckney.
Well, as soon as Shrimp can wiggle himself clear, and shake the little
Dillons off his legs, he hauls Mrs. Shrimp to the front and does the
honours. And say, they make a pair that would draw a crowd anywhere!
You know the style of chorus ladies the Lieblers bring over,--the
lengthy, high chested, golden haired kind? Well, she's one of the
dizziest that ever stood up to make a background for the pony ballet.
And she has on a costume--well, it goes with the hat, which it puttin'
it strong.
If the sight of her and the circus coloured car wa'n't enough to stun
the neighbours and send the Bradys under the bed, they had only to wait
till the Swede valet and the footman began luggin' up the sheaf of
two-dollar roses and the basket of champagne.
I was watchin' old Larry to see how he was takin' it. First he looks
Shrimp up and down, from the brown hat to the yellow shoes, and then he
gazes at Mrs. Shrimp. Then his stiff lower jaw begins saggin' down,
and his knobby old fingers unloosens from the grip they'd got into at
first sight of 'Loyshy. It's plain that he was some in doubt about
that chuckin' out programme he'd had all framed up. What Larry had
been expectin' should the boy turn up at all, was something that looked
like it had been picked out of the bread line. And here was a specimen
of free spender that had "Keep the change!" pasted all over him. Then,
before he has it half figured out, they're lined up in front of each
other. But old Larry ain't one to do the sidestep.
"Aloysius," says he, scowlin' down at him, "where do ye be afther
gettin' ut?"
"Out of the ponies, old stuff. Where else?" says Shrimp.
"Bettin'?" says Larry.
"Bettin' nothin'!" says Shrimp. "Mud ridin'."
"Allow me," says Pinckney, pushin' in, "to introduce to you all, ladies
and gentlemen, Mr. Shrimp Dillon, one of the best paid jockeys in
America."
"And what might they be payin' the likes of him for bein' a jockey?"
says old Larry.
"Why," says Pinckney, "it was something like twenty thousand this
season, wasn't it, Shrimp?"
"Countin' bonuses and all," says Shrimp, "it was nearer thirty-two."
"Thirty-two thou----" But Larry's mouth is open so wide he can't get
the rest out. He just catches his breath, and then, "'Loyshy, me lad,
give us your hand on it."
"Ahem!" says Father Kelley, pickin' up his hat, "this seems to be a
case where the prodigal has returned--and brought his veal with him."
"That's a thrue word," says Larry. "'Tis a proud day for the Dillons."
Did they put it over the Bradys? Well, say! All the Bradys has to do
now, to remember who the Dillons are, is to look across the way and see
the two geranium plants growin' out of solid silver pots. Course, they
wa'n't meant for flower pots. They're champagne coolers; but Mother
Dillon don't know the difference, so what's the odds? Anyway, they're
what 'Loyshy brought for presents, and I'll bet they're the only pair
west of Sixth-avenue.
XX
THE CASE OF RUSTY QUINN
Say, I ain't one of the kind to go around makin' a noise like a pickle,
just because I don't happen to have the same talents that's been handed
out to others. About all I got to show is a couple of punch
distributors that's more or less educated, and a block that's set on
some solid. Not much to get chesty over; but the combination has kept
me from askin' for benefit performances, and as a rule I'm satisfied.
There's times, though, when I wish--say, don't go givin' me the hee-haw
on this--when I wish I could sing. Ah, I don't mean bein' no grand
opera tenor, with a throat that has to be kept in cotton battin' and a
reputation that needs chloride of lime. What would suit me would be
just a plain, every day la-la-la outfit of pipes, that I could turn
loose on coon songs when I was alone, or out with a bunch in the
moonlight. I'd like to be able to come in on a chorus now and then,
without havin' the rest of the crowd turn on me and call for the hook.
What music I've got is the ingrowin' kind. When anybody starts up a
real lively tune I can feel it throbbin' and bumpin' away in my head,
like a blowfly in a milk bottle; but if ever I try uncorkin' one of my
warbles, the people on the next block call in the children, and the
truck drivers begin huntin' for the dry axle.
Now look at what bein' musical did for Rusty Quinn. Who's Rusty?
Well, he ain't much of anybody. I used to wonder, when I'd see him
kickin' around under foot in different places, how it was he had the
nerve to go on livin'. Useless! He appeared about as much good to the
world as a pair of boxin' gloves would be to the armless wonder.
First I saw of Rusty was five or six years back, when he was hangin'
around my trainin' camp. He was a long, slab sided, loose jointed,
freckled up kid then, always wearin' a silly, good natured grin on his
homely face. About all the good you could say of Rusty was that he
could play the mouth organ, and be good natured, no matter how hard he
was up against it.
If there was anything else he could do well, no one ever found it out,
though he tried plenty of things. And he always had some great scheme
rattlin' round in his nut, something that was goin' to win him the big
stake. But it was a new scheme every other day, and, outside of
grinnin' and playin' the mouth organ, all I ever noticed specially
brilliant about him was the way he used cigarettes as a substitute for
food. Long's he had a bag of fact'ry sweepin's and a book of rice
papers he didn't mind how many meals he missed, and them long fingers
of his was so well trained they could roll dope sticks while he slept.
Well, it had been a year or so since I'd run across him last, and if
I'd thought about him at all, which I didn't, it would have been to
guess what fin'lly finished him; when this affair out on Long Island
was pulled off. The swells that owns country places along the south
shore has a horse show about this time every year. As a rule they gets
along without me bein' there to superintend; but last week I happens to
be down that way, payin' a little call on Mr. Jarvis, an old reg'lar of
mine, and in the afternoon he wants to know if I don't want to climb up
on the coach with the rest of the gang and drive over to see the sport.
Now I ain't so much stuck on this four-in-hand business. It's jolty
kind of ridin', anyway, and if the thing upsets you've got a long ways
to fall; but I always likes takin' a look at a lot of good horses, so I
plants myself up behind, alongside the gent that does the tara-tara-ta
act on the copper funnel, and off we goes.
It ain't any of these common fair grounds horse shows, such as anyone
can buy a badge to. This is held on the private trottin' track at
Windymere--you know, that big estate that's been leased by the
Twombley-Cranes since they started makin' their splurge.
And say, they know how to do things in shape, them folks. There's a
big green and white striped tent set up for the judges at the home
plate, and banked around that on either side was the traps and carts
and bubbles of some of the crispest cracker jacks on Mrs. Astor's list.
Course, there was a lot of people I knew; so as soon as our coach is
backed into position I shins down from the perch and starts in to do
the glad hand walk around.
That's what fetches me onto one of the side paths leadin' up towards
the big house. I was takin' a short cut across the grass, when I sees
a little procession comin' down through the shrubbery. First off it
looks like some one was bein' helped into their coat; but then I
notices that the husky chap behind was actin' more vigorous than
polite. He has the other guy by the collar, and was givin' him the
knee good and plenty, first shovin' him on a step or two, and then
jerkin' him back solid. Loomin' up in the rear was a gent I spots
right off for Mr. Twombley-Crane himself, and by the way he follows I
takes it he's bossin' the job.
"Gee!" says I to myself, "here's some one gettin' the rough chuck-out
for fair."
And then I has a glimpse of a freckly face and the silly grin. The
party gettin' the run was Rusty Quinn. He's lookin' just as seedy as
ever, being costumed in a faded blue jersey, an old pair of yellow
ridin' pants, and leggin's that don't match. The bouncer is a great,
ham fisted, ruddy necked Britisher, a man twice the weight of Rusty,
with a face shaped like a punkin. As he sees me slow up he snorts out
somethin' ugly and gives Quinn an extra hard bang in the back with his
knee. And that starts my temperature to risin' right off.
"Why don't you hit him with a maul, you bloomin' aitch eater," says I.
"Hey, Rusty! what you been up to now?"
"Your friend's been happre'ended a-sneak thievin', that's w'at!" growls
out the beef chewer.
"G'wan," says I. "I wouldn't believe the likes of you under oath.
Rusty, how about it?"
Quinn, he gives me one of them batty grins of his and spreads out his
hand. "Honest, Shorty," says he, "I was only after a handful of
Turkish cigarettes from the smokin' room. I wouldn't touched another
thing; cross m' heart, I wouldn't!"
"'Ear 'im!" says the Britisher. "And 'im caught prowlin' through the
'ouse!" With that he gives Rusty a shake that must have loosened his
back teeth, and prods him on once more.
"Ah, say," says I, "you ain't got no call to break his back even if he
was prowlin'. Cut it out, you big mucker, or----"
Say, I shouldn't have done it, seein' where I was; but the ugly look on
his mug as he lifts his knee again seems to pull the trigger of my
right arm, and I swings in one on that punkin head like I was choppin'
wood. He drops Rusty and comes at me with a rush, windmill fashion,
and I'm so happy for the next two minutes, givin' him what he needs,
that I've mussed up his countenance a lot before I sends in the one
that finds the soft spot on his jaw and lands him on the grass.
"Here, here!" shouts Mr. Twombley-Crane, comin' up just as his man does
the back shoulder fall. "Why, McCabe, what does this mean?"
"Nothin' much," says I, "except that I ain't in love with your
particular way of speedin' the partin' guest."
"Guest!" says he, flushin' up. "The fellow was caught prowling.
Besides, by what right do you question my method of getting rid of a
sneak thief?"
"Oh, I don't stop for rights in a case of this kind," says I. "I just
naturally butts in. I happens to know that Rusty here, ain't any more
of a thief than I am. If you've got a charge to make, though, I'll see
that he's in court when----"
"I don't care to bother with the police," says he. "I merely want the
fellow kicked off the place."
"Sorry to interfere with your plans," says I; "but he's been kicked
enough. I'll lead him off, though, and guarantee he don't come back,
if that'll do?"
We both simmered down after he agrees to that proposition. The beef
eater picks himself up and limps back to the house, while I escorts
Rusty as far as the gates, givin' him some good advice on the way down.
Seems he'd been workin' as stable helper at Windymere for a couple of
weeks, his latest dream bein' that he was cut out for a jockey; but
he'd run out of dope sticks and, knowin' they was scattered around
reckless in the house, he'd just walked in lookin' for some.
"Which shows you've lost what little sense you ever had," says I. "Now
here's two whole dollars, Rusty. Go off somewheres and smoke yourself
to death. Nobody'll miss you."
Rusty, he just grins and moseys down the road, while I goes back to see
the show, feelin' about as much to home, after that run in, as a stray
pup in church.
It was about an hour later, and they'd got through the program as far
as the youngsters' pony cart class, to be followed by an exhibit of
fancy farm teams. Well, the kids was gettin' ready to drive into the
ring. There was a bunch of 'em, mostly young girls all togged out in
pink and white, drivin' dinky Shetlands in wicker carts covered with
daisies and ribbons. In the lead was little Miss Gladys, that the
Twombley-Cranes think more of than they do their whole bank account.
The rigs was crowded into the main driveway, ready to turn into the
track as soon as the way was cleared, and it sure was a sight worth
seein'.
I was standin' up on the coach, takin' it in, when all of a sudden
there comes a rumblin', thunderin' sound from out near the gates, and
folks begins askin' each other what's happened. They didn't have to
wait long for the answer; for before anyone can open a mouth, around
the curve comes a cloud of dust, and out dashes a pair of big greys
with one of them heavy blue and yellow farm waggons rattlin' behind.
It was easy to guess what's up then. One of the farm teams has been
scared.
Next thing that was clear was that there wa'n't any driver on the
waggon, and that them crazy horses was headed straight for that snarl
of pony carts. There wa'n't any yellin' done. I guess 'most every
body's throat was too choked up. I know mine was. I only hears one
sound above the bang and rattle of them hoofs and wheels. That was a
kind of a groan, and I looks down to see Mr. Twombley-Crane standin' up
in the seat of a tourin' car, his face the colour of a wax candle, and
such a look in his eyes as I ain't anxious to see on any man again.
Next minute he'd jumped. But it wa'n't any use. He was too far away,
and there was too big a crowd to get through. Even if he could have
got there soon enough, he couldn't have stopped them crazy brutes any
more'n he could have blocked a cannon ball.
I feels sick and faint in the pit of my stomach, and the one thing I
wants to do most just then is to shut my eyes. But I couldn't. I
couldn't look anywhere but at that pair of tearin' horses and them
broad iron wheels. And that's why I has a good view of something that
jumps out of the bushes, lands in a heap in the waggon, and then
scrambles toward the front seat as quick as a cat. I see the red hair
and the blue jersey, and that's enough. I knows it's that useless
Rusty Quinn playin' the fool.
Now, if he'd had a pair of arms like Jeffries, maybe there'd been some
hope of his pullin' down them horses inside the couple of hundred feet
there was between their front toe calks and where little Miss Gladys
was sittin' rooted to the cushions of her pony cart. But Rusty's
muscle development is about equal to that of a fourteen-year boy, and
it looks like he's goin' to do more harm than good when he grabs the
reins from the whip socket. But he stands up, plants his feet wide,
and settles back for the pull.
Almost before anyone sees his game, he's done the trick. There's a
smash that sounds like a buildin' fallin' down, a crackin' and
splinterin' of oak wood and iron, a rattlin' of trace chains, a couple
of soggy thumps,--and when the dust settles down we sees a grey horse
rollin' feet up on either side of a big maple, and at the foot of the
tree all that's left of that yellow and blue waggon. Rusty had put
what strength he had into one rein at just the right time, and the pole
had struck the trunk square in the middle.
For a minute or so there was a grand hurrah, with mothers and fathers
rushin' to grab their youngsters out of the carts and hug 'em; which
you couldn't blame 'em for doin', either. As for me, I drops off the
back of the coach and makes a bee line for that wreck, so I'm among the
first dozen to get there. I'm in time to shove my shoulder under the
capsized waggon body and hold it up.
Well, there ain't any use goin' into details. What we took from under
there didn't look much like a human bein', for it was as limp and
shapeless as a bag of old rags. But the light haired young feller that
said he was a medical student guessed there might be some life left.
He wa'n't sure. He held his ear down, and after he'd listened for a
minute he said maybe something could be done. So we laid it on one of
the side boards and lugged it up to the house, while some one jumps
into a sixty-horse power car and starts for a sure enough doctor.
It was durin' the next ten minutes, when the young student was cuttin'
off the blue jersey and the ridin' pants, and pokin' and feelin'
around, that Mr. Twombley-Crane gets the facts of the story. He didn't
have much to say; but, knowin' what I did, and seein' how he looked, I
could easy frame up what was on his mind. He gives orders that
whatever was wanted should be handed out, and he was standin' by
holdin' the brandy flask himself when them washed out blue eyes of
Rusty's flickers open for the first time.
"I--I forgot my--mouth organ," says Rusty. "I wouldn't of come
back--but for that."
It wa'n't much more'n a whisper, and it was a shaky one at that. So
was Mr. Twombley-Crane's voice kind of shaky when he tells him he
thanks the Lord he did come back. And then Rusty goes off in another
faint.
Next a real doc. shows up, and he chases us all out while him and the
student has a confab. In five minutes or so we gets the verdict. The
doc. says Rusty is damaged pretty bad. Things have happened to his
ribs and spine which ought to have ended him on the spot. As it is, he
may hold out another hour, though in the shape he's in he don't see how
he can. But if he could hold out that long the doc. knows of an A-1
sawbones who could mend him up if anyone could.
"Then telephone for him at once, and do your best meanwhile," says Mr.
Twombley-Crane.