CHAPTER XVI
CLASSING TUTWATER RIGHT
Maybe that brass plate had been up in the lower hall of our buildin' amonth or so before I takes any partic'lar notice of it. Even when I didget my eye on it one mornin' it only gets me mildly curious. "Tutwater,Director of Enterprises, Room 37, Fourth Floor," is all it says on it.
"Huh!" thinks I. "That's goin' some for a nine by ten coop under theskylight."
And with that I should have let it drop, I expect. But what's the use?Where's the fun of livin', if you can't mix in now and then. And you knowhow I am.
Well, I comes pikin' up the stairs one day not long after discoverin' thesign, and here on my landin', right in front of the studio door, I findsthis Greek that runs the towel supply wagon usin' up his entire UnitedStates vocabulary on a strange gent that he's backed into a corner.
"Easy, there, easy, Mr. Poulykopolis!" says I. "This ain't any golflinks, where you can smoke up the atmosphere with language like that.What's the row, anyway?"
"No pay for five week; always nex' time, he tells, nex' time. Gr-r-r-r! Iam strong to slap his life out, me!" says Pouly, thumpin' his chest andshakin' his black curls. They sure are fierce actin' citizens whenthey're excited, these Marathoners.
"Yes, you would!" says I. "Slap his life out? G'wan! If he handed you onejolt you wouldn't stop runnin' for a week. How big is this national debtyou say he owes you! How much?"
"Five week!" says Pouly. "One dollar twenty-five."
"Sufferin' Shylocks! All of that? Well, neighbor," says I to the strangegent, "has he stated it correct?"
"Perfectly, sir, perfectly," says the party of the second part. "I do notdeny the indebtedness in the least. I was merely trying to explain tothis agent of cleanliness that, having been unable to get to the bankthis morning, I should be obliged to----"
"Why, of course," says I. "And in that case allow me to stake you to theprice of peace. Here you are, Pouly. Now go out in the sun and cooloff."
"My dear sir," says the stranger, followin' me into the front office,"permit me to----"
"Ah, never mind the resolutions!" says I, "It was worth riskin' that muchfor the sake of stoppin' the riot. Yes, I know you'll pay it back. Let'ssee, which is your floor?"
"Top, sir," says he, "room 37."
"Oh ho!" says I. "Then you're the enterprise director, Tutwater?"
"And your very humble servant, sir," says he, bringin' his yellow Panamalid off with a full arm sweep, and throwin' one leg graceful over theback of a chair.
At that I takes a closer look at him, and before I've got half throughthe inspection I've waved a sad farewell to that one twenty-five. Fromthe frayed necktie down to the runover shoes, Tutwater is a walkin'example of the poor debtor's oath. The shiny seams of the black frockcoat shouts of home pressin', and the limp way his white vest fits himsuggests that he does his own laundry work in the washbowl. But he'sclean shaved and clean brushed, and you can guess he's seen the time whenhe had such things done for him in style.
Yet there ain't anything about the way Tutwater carries himself thatsignifies he's down and out. Not much! He's got the easy, confident swingto his shoulders that you might expect from a sport who'd just pickedthree winners runnin'.
Rather a tall, fairly well built gent he is, with a good chest on him,and he has one of these eager, earnest faces that shows he's alive allthe time. You wouldn't call him a handsome man, though, on account of thedeep furrows down each side of his cheeks and the prominent jut to hiseyebrows; but, somehow, when he gets to talkin', them eyes of his lightsup so you forget the rest of his features.
You've seen chaps like that. Gen'rally they're cranks of some kind orother, and when they ain't they're topliners. So I puts Tutwater down asbelongin' to the crank class, and it wa'n't long before he begun livin'up to the description.
"Director of enterprises, eh?" says I. "That's a new one on me."
"Naturally," says he, wavin' his hand, "considering that I am first inthe field. It is a profession I am creating."
"So?" says I. "Well, how are you comin' on?"
"Excellently, sir, excellently," says he. "I have found, for the firsttime in my somewhat varied career, full scope for what I am pleased tocall my talents. Of course, the work of preparing the ground is a slowprocess, and the--er--ahem--the results have not as yet begun tomaterialize; but when Opportunity comes my way, sir----Aha! Ha, ha! Ho,ho! Well, then we shall see if Tutwater is not ready for her!"
"I see," says I. "You with your hand on the knob, eh? It's an easy way ofpassin' the time too; that is, providin' such things as visits from thelandlord and the towel collector don't worry you."
"Not at all," says he. "Merely petty annoyances, thorns and pebbles inthe pathways that lead to each high emprise."
Say, it was almost like hearin' some one read po'try, listenin' toTutwater talk; didn't mean much of anything, and sounded kind of good. Atthe end of half an hour I didn't know any more about his game than at thebeginning. I gathered, though, that up to date it hadn't produced anyready cash, and that Tutwater had been on his uppers for some time.
He was no grafter, though. That dollar twenty-five weighed heavier on hismind than it did on mine. He'd come in and talk about not bein' able topay it back real regretful, without even hintin' at another touch. Andlittle by little I got more light on Tutwater, includin' some details ofwhat he called his career.
There was a lot to it, so far as variety went. He'd been a hist'ryprofessor in some one-horse Western college, had tried his luck once upat Nome, had canvassed for a patent dishwasher through Michigan, done aballyhoo trick outside a travelin' tent show, and had given bump lectureson the schoolhouse circuit.
But his prize stunt was when he broke into the real estate business andlaid out Eucalyptus City. That was out in Iowa somewhere, and he'd havecleaned up a cool million in money if the blamed trolley company hadn'tbuilt their line seven miles off in the other direction.
It was gettin' this raw deal that convinces him the seed district wa'n'tany place for a gent of his abilities. So he sold out his options on thesite of Eucalyptus to a brick makin' concern, and beat it for 42d-st.with a capital of eighty-nine dollars cash and this great director schemein his head. The brass plate had cost him four dollars and fifty cents,one month's rent of the upstairs coop had set him back thirty more, andhe'd been livin' on the rest.
"But look here, Tutty," says I, "just what sort of enterprise do youthink you can direct?"
"Any sort," says he, "anything, from running an international exposition,to putting an icecream parlor on a paying basis."
"Don't you find your modesty something of a handicap?" says I.
"Oh, I'm modest enough," he goes on. "For instance, I don't claim toinvent new methods. I just adapt, pick out lines of proved success, anddevelop. Now, your business here--why, I could take hold of it, and insix months' time I'd have you occupying this entire building, withclasses on every floor, a solarium on the roof, a corps of assistantsworking day and night shifts, and----"
"Yes," I breaks in, "and then the Sheriff tackin' a foreclosure notice onthe front door. I know how them boom methods work out, Tutty."
But talk like that don't discourage Tutwater at all. He hangs onto hisgreat scheme, keepin' his eyes and ears open, writin' letters when he canscare up money for postage, and insistin' that sooner or later he'll gethis chance.
"Here is the place for such chances to occur," says he, "and I know whatI can do."
"All right," says I; "but if I was you I'd trail down some pavin' jobbefore the paper inner soles wore clean through."
Course, how soon he hit the bread line wa'n't any funeral of mineexactly, and he was a hopeless case anyway; but somehow I got to likin'Tutwater more or less, and wishin' there was some plan of applyin' allthat hot air of his in useful ways. I know of lots of stiffs with nothalf his brains that makes enough to ride around in taxis and ordercustom made shirts. He was gettin' seedier every week, though, and I hadit straight from the agent that it
was only a question of a few daysbefore that brass plate would have to come down.
And then, one noon as we was chinnin' here in the front office, in blowsa portly, red faced, stary eyed old party who seems kind of dazed anduncertain as to where he's goin'. He looks first at Tutwater, and then atme.
"Same to you and many of 'em," says I. "What'll it be?"
"McCabe was the name," says he; "Professor McCabe, I think. I had itwritten down somewhere; but----"
"Never mind," says I. "This is the shop and I'm the right party. Whatthen?"
"Perhaps you don't know me?" says he, explorin' his vest pockets sort ofaimless with his fingers.
"That's another good guess," says I; "but there's lots of time ahead ofus."
"I--I am--well, never mind the name," says he, brushin' one hand over hiseyes. "I--I've mislaid it."
"Eh?" says I.
"It's no matter," says he, beginnin' to ramble on again. "But I own agreat deal of property in the city, and my head has been troubling melately, and I heard you could help me. I'll pay you well, you know.I--I'll give you the Brooklyn Bridge."
"Wha-a-at's that?" I gasps. "Say, couldn't you make it Madison SquareGarden? I could get rent out of that."
"Well, if you prefer," says he, without crackin' a smile.
"And this is Mr. Tutwater," says I. "He ought to be in on this. What'llyours be, Tutty?"
Say, for a minute or so I couldn't make out whether the old party wasreally off his chump or what. He's a well dressed, prosperous lookin'gent, a good deal on the retired broker type, and I didn't know but hemight be some friend of Pyramid Gordon's who'd strayed in here to hand mea josh before signin' on for a course of lessons.
Next thing we knew, though, he slumps down in my desk chair, leans backcomf'table, sighs sort of contented, smiles a batty, foolish smile at us,and then closes his eyes. Another second and he's snorin' away aspeaceful as you please.
"Well, say!" says I to Tutwater. "What do you think of that, now? Does hetake this for a free lodgin' house, or Central Park? Looks like it was upto me to ring for the wagon."
"Don't," says Tutwater. "The police handle these cases so stupidly. Hismind has been affected, possibly from some shock, and he is physicallyexhausted."
"He's all in, sure enough," says I; "but I can't have him sawin' woodhere. Come, come, old scout," I hollers in his ear, "you'll have to campsomewhere else for this act!" I might as well have shouted into the safe,though. He never stirs.
"The thing to do," says Tutwater, "is to discover his name, if we can,and then communicate with his friends or family."
"Maybe you're right, Tutwater," says I. "And there's a bunch of lettersin his inside pocket. Have a look."
"They all seem to be addressed to J. T. Fargo, Esq.," says Tutwater.
"What!" says I. "Say, you don't suppose our sleepin' friend here is oldJerry Fargo, do you? Look at the tailor's label inside the pocket. Eh?Jeremiah T. Fargo! Well, say, Tutty, that wa'n't such an idle dream ofhis, about givin' me the garden. Guess he could if he wanted to. Why,this old party owns more business blocks in this town than anybody I knowof except the Astors. And I was for havin' him carted off to the station!Lemme see that 'phone directory."
A minute more and I had the Fargo house on the wire.
"Who are you?" says I. "Oh, Mr. Fargo's butler. Well, this is ShortyMcCabe, and I want to talk to some of the fam'ly about the old man. Sure,old Jerry. He's here. Eh, his sister? She'll do. Yes, I'll hold thewire."
I'd heard of that old maid sister of his, and how she was a queer oldgirl; but I didn't have any idea what a cold blooded proposition she was.Honest, she seemed put out and pettish because I'd called her up.
"Jeremiah again, hey?" she squeaks. "Now, why on earth don't he stay inthat sanatorium where I took him? This is the fourth time he's gonewandering off, and I've been sent for to hunt him up. You just tell himto trot back to it, that's all."
"But see here, Miss Fargo," says I, "he's been trottin' around until youcan't tell him anything! He's snoozin' away here in my office, dead tothe world."
"Well, I can't help it," says she. "I'm not going to be bothered withJeremiah to-day. I've got two sick cats to attend to."
"Cats!" says I. "Say, what do you----"
"Oh, hush up!" says she. "Do anything you like with him!" And hanged ifshe don't bang up the receiver at that, and leave me standin' there at myend of the wire lookin' silly.
"Talk about your freak plutes," says I to Tutwater, after I've explainedthe situation, "if this ain't the limit! Look what I've got on my handsnow!"
Tutwater, he's standin' there gazin' hard at old Jerry Fargo, his eyesshinin' and his thought works goin' at high pressure speed. All of asudden he slaps me on the back and grips me by the hand. "Professor,"says he, "I have it! There is Opportunity!"
"Eh?" says I. "Old Jerry? How?"
"I shall cure him--restore his mind, make him normal," says Tutwater.
"What do you know about brushin' out batty lofts?" says I.
"Nothing at all," says he; "but I can find someone who does. You'll giveme Fargo, won't you?"
"Will I?" says I. "I'll advance you twenty to take him away, and chargeit up to him. But what'll you do with him?"
"Start the Tutwater Sanatorium for Deranged Millionaires," says he."There's a fortune in it. May I leave him here for an hour or so?"
"What for?" says I.
"Until I can engage my chief of staff," says he.
"Say, Tutty," says I, "do you really mean to put over a bluff the size ofthat?"
"I've thought it all out," says he. "I can do it."
"All right, blaze ahead," says I; "but I'm bettin' you land in the lockupinside of twenty-four hours."
What do you think, though? By three o'clock he comes back, towin' aspruce, keen eyed young chap that he introduces as Dr. McWade. He'spicked him up over at Bellevue, where he found him doin' practice work inthe psychopathic ward. On the strength of that I doubles my grubstake,and he no sooner gets his hands on the two sawbucks than he starts forthe street.
"Here, here!" says I. "Where you headed for now?"
And Tutwater explains how his first investment is to be a new silk lid,some patent leather shoes, and a silver headed walkin' stick.
"Good business!" says I. "You'll need all the front you can carry."
And while he's out shoppin' the Doc and me and Swifty Joe lugs thepatient up to Tutwater's office without disturbin' his slumbers at all.
Well, I didn't see much more of Tutwater that day, for from then on hewas a mighty busy man; but as I was drillin' across to the Grand Centralon my way home I gets a glimpse of him, sportin' a shiny hat and whitespats, just rushin' important into a swell real estate office. About noonnext day he stops in long enough to shake hands and say that it's allsettled.
"Tutwater Sanatorium is a fact," says he. "I have the lease in mypocket."
"What is it, some abandoned farm up in Vermont?" says I.
"Hardly," says Tutwater, smilin' quiet.
"It's Cragswoods; beautiful modern buildings, formerly occupied as aboys' boarding school, fifteen acres of lovely grounds, finest locationin Westchester County. We take possession to-day, with our patient."
"But, say, Tutwater," says I, "how in blazes did you----"
"I produced Fargo," says he. "Dr. McWade has him under complete controland his cure has already begun. It will be finished at Cragswoods. Run upand see us soon. There's the address. So long."
Well, even after that, I couldn't believe he'd really pull it off.Course, I knew he could make Fargo's name go a long ways if he used itjudicious; but to launch out and hire an estate worth half a million--whyhe was makin' a shoestring start look like a sure thing.
And I was still listenin' for news of the grand crash, when I begunseein' these items in the papers about the Tutwater Sanatorium."Millionaires Building a Stone Wall," one was headed, and it went on totell how five New York plutes, all sufferin' from some nerve breakdown,was gettin' back health and clea
rin' up their brains by workin' like daylaborers under the direction of the famous specialist, Dr. ClintonMcWade.
"Aha!" says I. "He's added a press agent to the staff, and he sure hasgot a bird!"
Every few days there's a new story bobs up, better than the last, until Ican't stand it any longer. I takes half a day off and goes up there tosee if he's actually doin' it. And, say, when I walks into the mainoffice over the Persian rug, there's the same old Tutwater. Course, he'sslicked up some fancy, and he's smokin' a good cigar; but you couldn'timprove any on the cheerful countenance he used to carry around, evenwhen he was up against it hardest. What I asks to see first is the fivemillionaires at work.
"Seven, you mean," says Tutwater. "Two more came yesterday. Step rightout this way. There they are, seven; count 'em, seven. The eighth man isa practical stone mason who is bossing the job. It's a good stone wallthey're building, too. We expect to run it along our entire frontage."
"Got 'em mesmerized?" says I.
"Not at all," says Tutwater. "It's part of the treatment. McWade's idea,you know. The vocational cure, we call it, and it works like a charm. Mr.Fargo is practically a well man now and could return to his home nextweek if he wished. As it is, he's so much interested in finishing thatfirst section of the wall that he will probably stay the month out. Youcan see for yourself what they are doing."
"Well, well!" says I. "Seven of 'em! What I don't understand, Tutwater,is how you got so many patients so soon. Where'd you get hold of 'em?"
"To be quite frank with you, McCabe," says Tutwater, whisperin'confidential in my ear, "only three of them are genuine paying patients.That is why I have to charge them fifty dollars a day, you see."
"And the others?" says I.
"First class imitations, who are playing their parts very cleverly," sayshe. "Why not? I engaged them through a reliable theatrical agency."
"Eh?" says I. "You salted the sanatorium? Tutwater, I take it all back.You're in the other class, and I'm backin' you after this for whateverentry you want to make."