The Adventure of Tubby Mills
At the street entrance to the cafe, Mills and Atherton came
momentarily to a halt. "Well," observed the stout one, "we've got to
hand it to Blagden. He's what you might describe as the original
Tabasco. Yet it's no credit to him that he finds adventures; they just
naturally come his way. He couldn't dodge 'em if he tried. See what's
happened to him now; do you suppose either of us is going to run into
anything like that?"
Atherton, still under the spell of Blagden's eloquence, was gazing
forth upon the crowded thoroughfare, with its hurrying throngs of
pedestrians, and its multitude of motors, passing and repassing
incessantly under the glare and brilliance of the bright white lights.
"I think," he slowly answered, "that anything is possible. Blagden is
right. Ninety-nine men out of a hundred live and die in a rut. It has
to be so; that is life. But if the hundredth man is so situated that
he may range the world at will, with eyes open and every sense alert,
I believe, with Blagden, that he will find adventure awaiting him at
every turn in the road. It's tremendously exhilarating. Here we take
leave of each other; you go one way, I go the other, and what we may
discover we haven't the shadow of an idea. I think we ought to thank
Blagden for waking us up. I haven't felt so keen about living since I
can remember."
"Blagden," said Mills, "is a queerer combination than most of us. He's
an artistic sort of chap, with all the merits and defects of the
artistic temperament. He always makes me think of an airship with its
steering gear shot away; he goes like the very deuce, but you can't
tell what his destination is, or at what moment a gust of wind may
veer him from his course. Prince or pauper; he may become either; but
he'll never be one of your commonplace mediocrities."
"You're right," Atherton agreed, "and to-night, at least, I envy him,
though I imagine that in the end your plodder is perhaps the happier
man of the two. He may get less out of life, but he risks less.
Thrills and ills are apt to go together."
His companion laughed. "Well, we've got to risk it," he answered.
"We're committed now to a life of adventure, whether we like it or
not. I'm going to vary your phrase. 'Thrills for Mills' is going to be
my motto. And we must make a start, Atherton; our time is short.
Good-night and good luck; we'll see each other Friday."
He raised his hand in farewell, and started leisurely down the street.
People by tens and hundreds and thousands surrounded him, enveloped
him on every hand, yet of all the multitude he seemed to be the only
wayfarer who was not hurried, preoccupied, intent upon his own
individual affairs. "This," he concluded, "is too much like the middle
of the stream; what I want is some quiet backwater, where there's a
chance to pause and breathe."
Leaving the main street, he walked east for several blocks, and
turning again parallel to his original course, found himself in one of
the poorer residential districts of the city. As he had divined, here
there was incident to be encountered, but of too sordid a nature to
bear the remotest resemblance to genuine adventure. Old men, ragged,
unkempt, muttered requests for a night's lodging, for food, or more
openly for the price of a drink. Younger men, of sinister exterior,
eyed him as he passed and noting his bulk, allowed him to go on his
way unmolested. Women of the street, in gaudy finery, their white
faces daubed with scarlet in ghastly mockery of health and beauty,
ogled him leeringly, and Mills, sophisticated city dweller though he
was, felt his heart sicken at the thought of their venal trade. "If
there was some attraction," he thought, "some seduction, that would be
one thing. But these wrecks--these walking corpses--it's horrible."
By this time, he had traversed several blocks, and the chances of
adventure seemed each moment to be growing slimmer. "I'll go home," he
reflected, "and go to bed. And in the morning I'll make a round of the
brokers' offices; perhaps I'll be able to pick up news of something
really good." And having thus allowed his mind to return to the
subject of the market, he began to dream, like all defeated gamblers,
of some wonderful way of "getting square with the game." "Cotton," he
mused. "A man could make money in cotton. I got in too deep; that was
all. If a fellow would only stick to small lots, and regular rules--"
A touch upon his arm aroused him, and he wheeled to confront a girl of
a very different type from those whose demeanor had so disgusted him.
She was evidently of the working class, but she had the instinctive
good taste to dress according to her station, leaving to others the
garish footgear, the semi-nudities of costume, and the overpowering
stench of cheap perfume. And thus, in comparison with her companions
upon the street, she looked so refreshingly youthful and ingenuous,
and her big eyes were so appealingly pathetic that Mills, for the
first time, began to feel that an adventure, even in this locality,
might be both possible and enjoyable.
"I ask your pardon," she said, "for speaking to you, but I am in great
trouble, and I thought that perhaps you would be willing to help me."
Mills, still only half aroused from his meditations, stared at her
uncomprehendingly, and as he did so was struck afresh by the girl's
air of innocence. Her eyes still gazed trustfully into his, her hold
upon his arm was not relaxed, and as a result Mills presently found
himself replying guardedly, "Why, I might. What's wrong?"
She gave a sigh of relief. "Oh, you are so good," she cried. "I was
sure of it when I saw you. And I need someone to help me so badly.
Only--" she added shyly, "let's not stand here. It's so conspicuous,
and this is a horrid neighborhood; people are always talking. Just
come with me; it's only a step--"
Mills hesitated. Perhaps, if he had taken a little less wine, he might
have been more suspicious; possibly, if she had not slipped her arm
confidingly through his, he might have been less avid of adventure;
but as it was, he yielded, and as they walked along she lost no time
in acquainting him with the story. It was not she herself, it
appeared, who was in trouble, but a friend of hers named Rose, who was
only eighteen years old and as beautiful as a picture. Rose, it
appeared, had been sought by a policeman on the beat, but being as
virtuous as she was pretty, she had indignantly rejected the overtures
of this immoral man. Whereupon he had threatened to "get" her, and
promptly made good his threat by employing a skillful shoplifter to
"plant" some articles of jewelry upon the person of the persecuted
Rose. She had been arrested; her case was coming up for trial
to-morrow; and alone in the world, she did not know, in her
predicament, where to turn for aid. Thus her friend had been prompted
to go forth and look for help, and had been attracted by the
prepossessing exterior of Mills. "I knew you looked good, the moment I
saw you," she repeated, and as she uttered the words, her voice was
tremulous either with grief or with some other emotion. Mills was
frankly puzzled. The tale struck him as extremely wild and improbable,
but on the other hand he was enjoying the society of his guide, and
the opportunity of seeing the lovely Rose strongly appealed to him.
Just how this meeting was to benefit the Order of Gentlemen
Adventurers was perhaps not quite clear, but Mills' mind was not, by
this time, working along the lines of strict logic; emotion, rather
than pure reason, was in the ascendant. And in any event, he would
have had little time to ponder the matter, for the walk, as his guide
had promised, was a short one, and he presently found himself
following her into a tenement of rather dubious exterior, and up
countless flights of stairs whose atmosphere wholly failed to appeal
to Mills' somewhat fastidious nostrils. More than once, during the
climb, strong suspicion assailed him, and his better judgment
counselled flight, but the fear of being a "quitter" restrained him,
and he continued his ascent until presently he surmounted the final
flight, and found himself in a room somewhat barely furnished, but
with an air of comfort and refinement which renewed his confidence in
his guide.
She laid aside her hat and coat, and as she turned toward him, he
observed with pleasure that she was really exceedingly pretty. "Rose
will be here right away," she observed; then, listening for a moment,
she added, "There she is now," and Mills, listening in his turn, could
hear a light footfall ascending the stair. But in another instant his
companion's face turned white. "My God!" she cried, "it's my husband.
I thought he was out of town. What on earth shall I do? He mustn't
find you here."
Mills gave her one searching glance, muttered grimly to himself,
"Well, I'll be damned," and making no effort to escape, sat motionless
in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the door, which opened the next
moment to admit a small, sinister looking man, who gazed at the couple
before him in a manner forbidding and malevolent. Nor were his first
words reassuring. "What the hell is this?" he cried, and advancing
toward Mills, he demanded truculently, "What the devil are you doing
here?"
The girl sprang forward. "Don't hurt him!" she cried. "It's my fault.
I oughtn't to have listened to him. But he wanted to come. He said
he'd pay me well--"
Her words acted as an infuriant upon this slender but dangerous
looking man. "I'll teach you swells--" he hissed, and like a flash he
whipped a pistol from his pocket and levelled it at the head of the
unfortunate Mills.
For an instant the victim gazed stolidly at the menacing circle of
steel; then, with an air of complete detachment from his surroundings,
he made an equivocal and wholly unlooked-for rejoinder. "Got a
cigarette?" he asked.
The outraged husband glared. From past experience on many such
occasions he was quite prepared for men who grovelled and begged for
mercy, and once in a great while he had learned to look for a man who
showed fight, but a retort like this was distinctly a novelty. And
since the question scarcely admitted of a direct reply, he responded
with a snarl, "Now don't get gay, young feller, don't get gay."
Mills turned to the girl. "I call that tough," he observed
conversationally. "Here I want to register courage, and the only real
way to do it is to light a cigarette. I love to see 'em do it on the
stage, and now when I have a chance myself, all I can do is just say
I'm not scared. But it's not the same thing; it ruins the effect."
The girl eyed him keenly, her face noncommittal, expressionless. The
man continued to glare. Mills did not look like a lunatic, and the
girl, as a rule, managed to "pick them" to perfection. Yet this time
it appeared as though she had made a mistake, and while he hesitated,
uncertain as to his next move, Mills obligingly relieved his
embarrassment by continuing, "What you want, of course, is to get
money out of me or else to damage my reputation. But unfortunately for
you, I have neither reputation nor money. As far as reputation goes,
I'm a small town guy, unknown in New York, and as for money, I've been
playing the wheat market, and if you're looking for my coin, why, as
the funny man says, 'I'll help you look.' I'm sorry to be such a
disappointment--" he turned once more to the girl--"but this is the
time you got the wrong pig by the ear."
The pseudo husband stared fixedly at Mills as if trying to make up his
mind as to the truth of his story; then evidenced his belief by
abruptly returning his pistol to his pocket, and to relieve his
feelings began to vent his indignation upon the girl. "By Gad, you're
clever," he exclaimed, and since he did not possess a large vocabulary
and depended principally upon repetition for his effects, he added,
after a momentary pause, "You're clever, by Gad."
The girl's brow darkened. Evidently she did not take kindly to
criticism, and casting about for some means of defence, she jerked her
head in Tubby's direction. "Well," she countered, "look at him."
Her four words worked wonders, for Mills, quick to perceive their
point, first grinned, then laughed, and finally, partly as a relief
for overstrained nerves, partly because the true humor of the whole
affair now suddenly dawned upon him, fairly shook with merriment,
while the girl, watching him, forgot her resentment and relaxed, until
finally she too joined in his mirth, and even her saturnine companion
permitted himself the luxury of a grin.
"But see here," cried Mills at last, "I'm not stuck on my looks, or my
shape, but the old badger game--why that's positively an insult. Why
didn't you sell me a gold brick and be done with it? You must have
thought I was a cinch."
"I did," she retorted, "but don't you care, Fatty, you're all right.
The joke's on me; I'm sorry I tackled you."
"Well, it's on me, too," he admitted. "You did a good job. Let's call
it square, all around."
The man with the pistol had come forward as they talked, and now stood
directly in front of Mills, regarding him with a fixed and searching
gaze. "Just one minute, now," he cautioned. "A square answer to a
square question. There's no double cross to this? You're not going to
leak to the bulls?"
"Not much," Mills answered. "Live and let live. I've no kick coming."
Apparently the man was content. "Then see here," he continued, "if
you're busted, I can find you a job. My name is Stoat. This old
badger stuff isn't my regular line; in my day I was called the best
second-story man in New York, and I could turn a good trick now if I
needed to. But there's safer games than that; I've had a fake
promoting scheme under my hat for a long time, and with your front we
could make a killing. With a few little changes you'd be the honest
miner to the life you and I and the kid here could work the thing to a
frazzle. What do you say?"
Mills hesitated. The change from full pockets to empty ones had
wrought a distinct alteration in his moral code. Yet partnership with
Stoat was not an attractive prospect. "I don't believe," he
temporized, "I'm the man you want. I never mixed up in anything like
that."
Stoat yawned audibly. "Well, it's late," he said, "and I'm most
cursedly sleepy. I was sitting into a game all last night, and I've
got to get to bed. Think this thing over, and if you want to give it a
go, drop around to-morrow sometime. You'll be making no mistake; it's
safe as can be, and there's big money in it, too."
Mills got up and started for the door. "All right," he agreed, "I'll
think it over. Much obliged for the offer." And to the girl he added,
"Good night. When you see Rose, remember me to her."
She laughed. "Say," she answered, "you fell for that easy, like all
the rest of 'em. It's a shame to do it. But you're a pretty good guy.
You come around to-morrow and we'll talk business."
Once more upon the street, Mills gazed around him with fresh
appreciation. How near he had been to death he could not guess; his
knees felt as they used to at the finish of a three-mile run. To the
lights, the noises, the people on the street, he warmed with a new
affection. "I'm mighty glad," he muttered, "that I'm still in the
picture." And more pensively than was his wont, he turned his steps
toward home.