"Mine's Mustard." He produced a plastic cup and rapidly extracted from
it a series of others in diminishing sizes. "I wouldnt have thought it
to look at you. The dirty deed, I mean--not the exzemical hotdog. O K,
Mister Weener--who's this scientific magnate? Whyre you holding him out
on me?"
"Scientists don't like to be disturbed in their researches," I
temporized.
"No more does a man in a whorehouse," he retorted vulgarly. "Story's no
good without him."
That was what I thought and I'm afraid my satisfaction appeared on my
face.
"Now leely man--no try a hold up da press. Whatsa matter, you aready had
da beer and da roasta bif sanawich?"
"Maybe you better repeat the order. You know in these cheap places they
don't like to have you sit around and talk without spending money."
"Money! Eh, laddie--I'm nae a millionaire." He balanced a full glass of
water thoughtfully upon a knifeblade, looking around for applause. When
it was not forthcoming he meekly followed my suggestion.
"Listen, Gootes," I swallowed a mouthful of sandwich and sipped a little
beer. "I want to help you get your story."
He waved his hand and pulled a handkerchief out of his ear.
"The point is," I commenced, sopping a piece of bread in the thick
gravy, "if I were to betray the confidence involved I couldnt hope to
continue my connection and I'd lose my chances to benefit from this
remarkable discovery."
"Balls," exclaimed Gootes. "Forget the spiel. I'm not a prospect for
your lawn tonic."
I disregarded the interruption. "I'm not a mercenary man and I believe
in enlightening the public to the fullest extent compatible with
decency. I'm willing to make a sacrifice for the general good, yet I--"
"--'must live.' I know, I know. How much?"
"It seems to me fifty dollars would be little enough--"
"Fifty potatoes!" He went through an elaborate pantomime of shock,
horror, indignation, grotesque dismay and a dozen other assorted
emotions. "Little man, youre fruitcake sure. W R wouldnt part with half
a C for a tipoff on the Secondcoming. No, brother--you rang the wrong
bell. Five I might get you--but no more."
I replied firmly I was not in need of charity--ignoring his pointed look
at the remains on my plate--and this was strictly a business
proposition, payment for value received. After some bargaining he
finally agreed to phone his managingeditor and propose I'd "come clean"
for twenty dollars. While he was on this errand I added pie and coffee
to the check. It is well to be provident and I'd paid for my meal in
more than money.
Jacson Gootes came limply from the phonebooth, his bumptiousness gone.
"No soap." He shook his head dejectedly. "Old Man said only pity for the
lower mammals prevented him from letting me go to work for Hearst right
away. Sorry."
His nerves appeared quite shattered; capable of restoration only by Old
Grandad. After tossing down a couple of bourbons he seemed a little
recovered, but hardly quite well enough to use an accent or perform a
trick.
"I'm sorry also," I said. "Since we can be of no further use to each
other--"
"Don't take a powder, chum," he urged plaintively. "What about a last
gander at the weed together?"
As we walked back I reflected that at any rate I was saved from
submitting Miss Francis to vulgar publicity. Everything is for the
best--Ive seen a hundred instances to prove it. Perhaps--who
knew--something might yet happen to make it possible for me to profit by
the freak growth.
"Needs a transfusion," remarked Gootes as we stood on the sidewalk
before it.
Indeed it was anemically green; uneven, hacked and ragged; shorn of its
emerald beauty. A high fog filtered the late afternoon light to show Mr
Barelli's task accomplished and the curious watchers gone. It was no
smoothly clipped carpet, yet it was no longer a freakish, exotic thing.
Rather forlorn it looked, and crippled.
"Paleface pay out much wampum to get um cut every day."
"Oh, it probably won't take long till the strength is exhausted."
"Says you. Well, Ive got half a story. Cheerio."