CHAPTER IV
Does the Boss let it go at that? Say, I was just thick enough to guessthat he would. I was still havin' that dream, a few days later, when theBoss says to me:
"Shorty, you remember that old castle of ours?"
"You don't think I've been struck with softenin' of the brain, do you?"says I. "That'll be the last thing I'll forget. What's happened to it?"
"It's mine," says he.
"G'way!" says I. "They couldn't force you to take it."
"I've bought it," says he. "I cabled over an offer, and the Count hasaccepted."
"Goin' to blow it up?" I says.
"I hope," says he, gettin' a little red under the eyes, "to spend myhoneymoon there; that is, if the Princess Padova--"
"The who?" says I. "Oh, you mean the lady brigandess?"
"If the Princess Padova," says he, keepin' straight on, "doesn't prefersome other place. We sail to-morrow."
"Then--then--" says I, catchin' my breath, "you've done it?"
It was silly askin' him. Why, it stuck out all over his face. I don'tknow what I said next, but it didn't matter much. He was too far up inthe air to hear anything in particular. Just as we shakes hands though,he passes me an envelope and says:
"Shorty, I wish you'd take this down to my lawyer next Monday morning.It's a little matter I haven't had time to fix up."
"Sure," says I. "I'll tie up any loose ends. And don't forget to give myregards to old Vincenzo."
Say, I s'pose I'd ought to told him what a mark he'd made of himself,takin' a chance with any such wild-rose runnin' mate as that; butsomehow it seemed all right, for him. I couldn't get a view of the Bossmated up with any silk-lined, city-broke girl. I guess Miss Padova wasabout his style, after all; and I reckon it would take a man like him tomanage one of her high flyin' kind. Anyway, I'm glad he got her.
I was sorry to lose the Boss, though. "It's me to go back to trainin'four flush comers again," says I, when he'd gone. And say, I wa'n'tfeelin' gay over the prospect. Some of these mitt artists is nice,decent boys, but then again you'll find others that you can't take muchpride in.
You see, I'd been knockin' around for months with someone who was cleanall the way through--washed clean, spoke clean, thought clean--and nowthere was no tellin' what kind of a push I'd fall in with. You've had apeek at trainin' camps, eh? Them rubbers is apt to be a scousy lot. Itwas the goin' back to eatin' with sword swallowers that came hardest,though. I can stand for a good many things, but when I sees a guyloadin' up his knife for the shovel act, I rubs him off my list.
I was goin' over all this, on the way down to the office of that lawyerthe Boss wanted me to see. I'd met him a few times, so when I sends inmy name there wa'n't any waitin' around in the ante-room with the officeboy.
"Bring Mr. McCabe right in," says he. "Mister McCabe," mind you. He'sone of those wiry, brisk little chaps, with x-ray eyes, and a voice likea telephone bell. "Ah, yes!" says he, takin' the letter. "I know aboutthat--some stock I was to turn into cash. Franklin!" he sings out.Franklin comes in like he'd come through a tube. "Bring me Mr. McCabe'sbank book."
"Bank book!" says I. "I guess you've dipped into the wrong letter file.I don't sport any bank book."
"Perhaps you didn't yesterday," says he, "but to-day you do."
And say, what do you think the Boss had gone and done? Opened anaccount in my name, and fatted it up good and sweet, as a starter.
"But he didn't owe me anything like that," says I.
"A difference of opinion, Mr. McCabe," says the lawyer. "'For servicesrendered,' that was the way his instructions to me read. I sold thestock and made the deposit to your credit. That's all there is to it.Good day. Call again."
And the next thing I knew I was goin' down in the elevator with me fistgrippin' that bank book like it was a life raft. First off I has to goand have a look at the outside of that bank. That's right, snicker. Butsay, I've had as much dough as that before, only I'd always carried itin a bundle. There's a lot of difference. Every tinhorn sport has hisbundle, you know; but it's only your real gent that can flash a checkbook. I could feel my chest swellin' by the minute.
"Shorty," says I, "you've broke into a new class. Now you've got to makegood."
And how do you s'pose I begins? Why, I hires one of these open facedcabs by the hour, and tells the chap up top to take me up Fifth ave. Iwanted to think, and there ain't any better place for brain exercisethan leanin' back in a hansom, squintin' out over the foldin' doors. I'dgot pretty near up to the Plaza before I hooks what I was fishin'after. It came sudden, too.
It was like this: Whilst I was sparrin' secretary to the Boss I'd met upwith a lot of his crowd, and some of 'em had tried the gloves on withme. I didn't go in for sluggin' their blocks off, just to show 'em Icould do it. There's no sense in that, unless you're out for a purse.Sparrin' for points is the best kind of fun, and for an all 'round tonicit can't be beat. They liked the way I handled 'em, and they used to saythey wished they could take a dose of that medicine reg'lar, same as theBoss did.
"And that's just the chance I'm goin' to give 'em," says I.
With that I heads back for Forty-second street, picks out a vacant floorI'd noticed, and signs a lease. Inside of a week I has the place fixedup with mat, chest weights, and such; lays in a stock of soft gloves,buys a medicine ball or two, gets me some cards printed, and has me namedone in gold letters on the ground glass. Boxin' instructor? Not on youraccident policy. Nor private gym., either.
PROFESSOR M'CABE'S STUDIO OF PHYSICAL CULTURE
That's the way the door plate reads. It may be a bluff, but it scaresoff the cheap muggs that would hang around a boxin' school. They don'tknow what it means, any more'n if it was Chinese.
Well, when I gets things all in shape I gives out word to some of thosegents, and before I'd been runnin' a fortnight I'd booked businessenough to see that I'd struck it right. What's the use monkeyin' withcomers when you can take on men that's made their pile? They're ahigh-toned lot, too, and they don't care what it costs, so long as Ikeeps 'em in shape. Some of 'em don't put on the mitts at all, but mostof 'em works up to that.
Now there was Mr. Gordon. Sure, Pyramid Gordon. But I'll have to tellyou about the game he stacks me up against. I'd had him as a reg'lar forabout a month--Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays, from five to six--andhe was just gettin' so he knew what real livin' was, when somethin'breaks loose down on the street that makes him forget everything but thefigures on the tape. So he quits trainin'. About ten days later he dropsin one afternoon, with fur on his tongue, and his eyes lookin' like acouple of cold fried eggs.
"Are you comin' or goin', Mr. Gordon?" says I.
"Where, Shorty?" says he.
"Hospital," says I.
He grinned a little, the kind of grin a feller wears when he's bein'helped to his corner, after the count.
"I know," says he; "but when you've been sitting for two weeks on avolcano, Shorty, wondering whether it would blow you up, or open and letyou fall in, you're apt to forget your liver."
"It ain't apt to forget you, though," says I. "Shall we have a littlesession right now?"
And then he springs his proposition. He'd got to go to Washington andback inside of the next two breakfasts, and he wanted me to go along,some on account of his liver, but mostly so's he could forget that hewas still on the lid. His private car was hitched to the tail of theFlyer, and he had just forty-five minutes to get aboard. Would I come?
"If I'm wiped out by the time we get back," says he, "I'll make you apreferred creditor."
"I'll take chances on that," says I.
They did do the trick to Pyramid once, you know; but they'd never gothim right since. They had him worried some this time, though. You couldtell that by the way he smiled at the wrong cues, and combed his deaconwhiskers with his fingers. They're the only deacon whiskers I ever hadin the Studio. Used to make me nervous when I hit 'em, for fear I'ddrive 'em in. But he's dead game, Pyramid is,
whether he's stoppin'mitts, or buckin' the Upright Oil push. So I grabs a few things off thewall, and we pikes for the ferry.
"Where's the other parties?" says I, when I'd sized up the inside of theAdeline. There was room enough for a minstrel troupe.
"We're to have it all to ourselves, professor," says he. "And it'salmost time for us to pull out; there's the last Cortlandt-st. boat in."
About then we hears Mr. Rufus Rastus, the Congo brunet that's master ofceremonies on the car, havin' an argument out in the vestibule. He wastryin' to shunt somebody. They didn't shunt though, and in comes along-geared old gent, wearin' one of those belted ulsters that they makeout of horse-blankets for English tourists. He had a dinky cloth cap ofthe same pattern, and the lengthiest face I ever saw on a man. It wasn'ta cheerful face, either; looked like he was huntin' for his owntombstone, and didn't care how soon he found it.
Rufus Rastus was hangin' to one of his arms, splutterin' things aboutthis being a private car, and gettin' no more notice taken of himselfthan as if he'd been an escape-valve. Behind 'em, totin' a lot ofleather bags of all shapes, was a peaked-nosed chap, who looked like hewas doin' all the frettin' for a Don't Worry Club.
"It's honly Sir Peter," says the worried chap. "'E's myde a mistyke, y'know. Hi'll get 'im out, sir."
"Danvers, shut up!" says Sir Peter.
"Yes, sir; directly, sir; but--" says he.
"Shut up now and sit down!" Sir Peter wasn't scrappy about it. He justsaid it as though he was tired. But Danvers wilted.
"Shall I give 'em the run?" says I.
"No," says Mr. Gordon; "there's the bell. We can get rid of them at thefirst stop."
Then he goes over to Sir Peter, tells him all about the Adeline's bein'a private snap, and how he can change to a parlor-car at Trenton.
The old fellow seems to take it all in, lookin' him straight in the eye,without turnin' a hair, and then he says, just as if they'd been talkin'about it for a month: "You'd better wear a bucket, as I do. It looks alittle odd, you know; but the decimals can't get through a bucket.Danvers!" he sings out.
"But you don't understand," says Pyramid. "I said this was a privatecar--private car!"
"Don't shout," says Sir Peter. "I'm not deaf. I'd lend you a bucket if Ihad an extra one; but I haven't. Danvers!"
This time Danvers edged in with one of those sole-leather cases that anEnglishman carries his plug-hat in.
"Got his wheels all under cover," says I.]
"Don't you think, Sir Peter--" says he.
"Yes; but you don't," says Sir Peter. "Hurry on, now!"
And I'll be welched if Danvers didn't dig a wooden pail out of thathat-case and hand it over. Sir Peter chucks the cap, puts on the pail,drops the handle under his chin, and stretches out on a corner sofa aspeaceful as a bench-duster in the park.
"Looks like he's got his wheels all under cover," says I. "Greatscheme--every man his own garage."
"Who is he?" says Mr. Gordon to Danvers.
"Lord, sir, you don't mean to sye you don't know Sir Peter, sir?" saysDanvers. "Why, 'e's Sir Peter--_the_ Sir Peter. 'E's a bit heccentric attimes, sir."
Well, we let it go at that. Sir Peter seemed to be enjoying himself; sowe piles all the wicker chairs around him, opens the ventilators, andpeels down for business.
Ever try hand-ball in a car that's being snaked over switches at fiftymiles an hour? So far as looks went, we were just as batty as Sir Peterwith his wooden hat. We caromed around like a couple of six-spots in adice-box, and some of the foot-work we did would have had abuck-and-wing artist crazy. We was using a tennis-ball, and when we'dget in three strokes without missing we'd stop and shake hands. Therewa'n't any more sense to it than to a musical comedy; but it was makin'Mr. Gordon forget his troubles, and it was doing his liver good. Danverswatched us from behind some chairs. He looked disgusted.
By the time we'd got half-way across Jersey we was ready for the bathtub. And say, that's the way to travel and stay at home, all to once. Aprivate car for mine. While we was puttin' on a polish with the Turkishtowels, Rufus Rastus was busy with the dinner.
"Now, we'll have another talk with Sir Peter of the Pail," says Mr.Gordon.
We took the barricade down, and found him just as we'd left him. Then hean' Pyramid gets together; but it was the wizziest brand of conversationI ever heard. You'd have thought they was talkin' over the 'phone to thewrong numbers. Sir Peter would listen to all Mr. Gordon had to say, justas if he was gettin' next to every word, but his come-backs didn't fitby a mile.
"Sorry to disturb you," says Mr. Gordon; "but I'll have to ask you tochange to a forward car next stop."
Sir Peter blinked his lamps at him a minute, and then he says: "Yes, itkeeps the decimals out," and he taps the bucket, knowing like. "My owninvention, sir. I'd advise you to try it if they ever bother you."
"Yes, I'll take your word for that," says Mr. Gordon; "but I'm afraidyou'll have to be getting ready to move. This is my private car, yousee."
"They always come point first," says Sir Peter; "that's how they get in.It's only the bucket that makes 'em shy off."
"Oh, the deuce!" says Pyramid. "Here, Shorty, you try your luck withhim."
"Sure," says I. "I've talked sense through thicker things than a woodenpail." First I raps on his cupola with me knuckles, just to ring him up.Then, when I gets his eye, I says, kind of coaxin': "Pete, it'sseventeen after six. That's twenty-three for you. Are you next?"
Now say, you'd thought most anyone would have dropped for a hint likethat, dippy or not. But Sir Peter sizes me up without battin' an eye. Hehad a kind of dignified, solemn way of lookin', too, with eyes wideopen, same's a judge chargin' a jury.
"You'll never need a bucket," says he.
Just then I heard something that sounded like pouring water from a jug,and I looks around, to see Mr. Gordon turnin' plum color and holdin'himself by the short ribs. I knew what had happened then. The nutty onehad handed me the lemon.
"Scratch me off," says I. "I'm in the wrong class. If there's to be anymore Bloomingdale repartee, just count me out."
Naw, I wa'n't sore, or nothin' like that. If anyone can get freevawdyville from me I'll write 'em an annual pass; but I couldn't see theuse of monkeyin' with that bug-house boarder. Say, if you was payin' forfive rooms and bath when you went on the road, like Mr. Gordon was,would you stand for any machinery-loft butt-in like that? I was waitin'for the word to pile Sir Peter on the baggage truck, Danvers and all.
Think I got it? Nix! Some folks is easy pleased. And Pyramid Gordon,with seventeen different kinds of trouble bein' warmed up for him behindhis back, stood there and played kid. Said he couldn't think of losin'Sir Peter after that. He'd got to have dinner with us. Blessed if hedidn't too, pail and all! Couldn't fall for any talk about changin'cars; oh, no! But when he sees the pink candles, and the oysters on thehalf, and the quart bott' in the ice bath, he seemed to get his hearin'back by wireless.
"Dinner?" says he. "Ah, yes! Danvers, has the prime minister come yet?It was to-night that he was to dine with me, wasn't it?"
"To-morrow night, Sir Peter," says Danvers.
"Oh, very well. But you gentlemen will share the joint with me, eh?Welcome to Branscomb Arms! And let's gather around, sirs, let's gatheraround!"
You should have seen the way he did it, though. Reg'lar John Drewmanners, the old duffer had. Lord knows where he thought he was, though;somewhere on Highgate Road, I suppose. But wherever it was, he was rightto home--called Rufus Rastus Jenkins, and told Danvers he could go forthe day. Gave me the goose-flesh back until I got used to it; but Mr.Gordon seemed to take it all as part of the game.
It beat all the dinners I ever had, that one. There we were poundin'over the rails through Pennsylvania at a mile-a-minute clip, the tomatosoup doin' a merry-go-round in the plates, the engine tootin' for gradecrossin's; and Sir Peter, wearin' his pail as dignified as a cardinaldoes a red hat, talkin' just as if he was back on the farm, up north ofLondon. I don't blame Rufus Rastus for wea
rin' his eyes on the outside.They stuck out like the waist-buttons on a Broadway cop, and he hardlyknew whether he was waitin' on table, or makin' up a berth.
With his second glass of fizz Sir Peter began to thaw a little. Hehadn't paid much attention to me for a while, passin' most of hisremarks over to Mr. Gordon; but all of a sudden he comes at me with:
"You're a Home Ruler, I expect?"
"Sure," says I. "Now, spring the gag."
But if there was a stinger to it, he must have lost it in the shuffle;for he opens up a line of talk that I didn't have the key to at all. Mr.Gordon tells me afterwards it was English politics and that Sir Peterwas tryin' to register me as a Conservative. Anyway, I've promised tovote for Balfour, or somebody like that next election; so I'm goin' tosend word to Little Tim that he needn't come around. Had to do it, justto please the old gent. By the time we'd got to the little cups of blackhe'd switched to something else.
"I don't suppose you know anything about railroads?" says he to Mr.Gordon.
Then it was my grin. Railroads is what Pyramid plays with, you know.He's a director on three or four lines himself, and is always lookin'for more. It's about as safe to leave a branch road out after nightfallwhen Gordon's around as it would be to try to raise watermelons inMinetta Lane. He grinned, too, and said something about not knowing asmuch about 'em as he did once.
With that Sir Peter lights up one of Mr. Gordon's Key West night-sticksand cuts adrift on the railroad business. That made the boss kind ofsick at first. Railroads was something he was tryin' to forget for theevenin'. But there wasn't any shuttin' the old jay off. And say! he knewthe case-cards all right. There was too much high finance about it forme to follow close; but anyways I seen that it made Mr. Gordon sit upand take notice. He'd peg in a question now and then, and got the oldone so stirred up that after a while he shed the bucket, lugged out oneof his bags, and flashed a lot of papers done up in neat little piles.He said it was a report he was goin' to make to some board or other, ifever the decimals would quit bothering him long enough.
Well, that sort of thing might keep Mr. Gordon awake, but not for mine.Half-way to Baltimore I turns in, leaving 'em at it. I had a goodsnooze, too.
Mr. Gordon comes to my bunk in the mornin', very mysterious. "Shorty,"says he, "we're in. I've got to go up to the State Department for anhour or so, and while I'm gone I'd like you to keep an eye on Sir Peter.If he takes a notion to wander off, you persuade him to stay until I getback."
"What you say goes," says I.
I shoved up the shade and sees that they'd put the Adeline down at theend of the train-shed. About all I could see of Washington was the topof old George's headstone stickin' up over a freight-car. I fixed myselfup and had breakfast, just as if I was in a boardin'-house, and thensits around waitin' for Sir Peter. He an' Danvers shows up after awhile, and the old gent calls for tea and toast and jam. Then I knowshe's farther off his base than ever. Think of truck like that forbreakfast! But he gets away with it, and then says to Danvers:
"Time we were off for the city, my man."
I got a glimpse of trouble ahead, right there; for that chump of aDanvers never made a move when I gives him the wink. All he could getinto that peanut head of his at one time was to collect those leatherbags and get ready to trot around wherever that long-legged old lunaticled the way.
"They've changed the time on that train of yours, Sir Pete," says I."She don't come along until ten-twenty-six now, spring schedule," and Iwinks an eye loose at Danvers.
"'Pon my word!" says Sir Peter, "you here yet? Danvers, show this personto the gates."
"Yes, sir," says Danvers. He comes up to me an' whispers, kind of ugly:"I sye now, you'll 'ave to stop chaffin' Sir Peter. I won't 'ave it!"
"Help!" says I. "There's a rat after me."
"Hi'll bash yer bloomin' nose in!" says he, gettin' pink behind theears.
"Hi'll write to the bloomin' pypers habout it if you do," says I.
I was wishin' that would fetch him, and it did. He comes at me wideopen, with a guard like a soft-shell crab. I slips down the state-roompassage, out of sight of Sir Peter, catches Danvers by the scruff,chucks him into a berth, and ties him up with the sheets, as careful asif he was to go by express.
"Now make all the holler you want," says I. "It won't disturb us none,"and I shut the door.
But Sir Peter was a different proposition. I didn't want to rough-househim. He was too ancient; and anyway, I kind of liked the old chap'slooks. He'd forgot all about Danvers, and was makin' figures on anenvelope when I got back. I let him figure away, until all of a suddenhe puts up his pencil and lugs out that bucket again.
"It's quit raining," says I.
"What do you know about it?" says he. "It's pouring decimals, justpouring 'em. But I've got to get my report in." With that he claps onthe bucket, grabs a bag and starts for the car door.
It was up to me to make a quick play; for he was just ripe to go buttin'around those tracks and run afoul of a switch-engine. And I hated tocollar him. Just then I spots the tennis-ball.
"Whoop-ee!" says I, grabbin' it up and slammin' it at his head. I made abull's-eye on the pail, too. "That's a cigar you owe me," says I, "and Igets two more cracks for my nickel." He tried to dodge; but I slammed itat him a couple more times. "Your turn now," says I. "Gimme the bucket."
Sounds foolish, don't it? I'll bet it looked a heap foolisher than itsounds; but I'd just thought of something a feller told me once. He wasa young doctor in the bat ward at Bellevue. "They're a good deal likekids," says he, "and if you remember that, you can handle 'em easy."
And say, Sir Peter seemed to look tickled and interested. The firstthing I knew he'd chucked the bucket on my head and was doin' awar-dance, lambastin' that tennis-ball at me to beat the cars. It wasworking, all right.
When he got tired of that I organized a shinny game, with an umbrellaand a cane for sticks, and a couple of wicker chairs for goals. He tookto that, too. First he shed his frock-coat, then his vest, and after awhile we got down to our undershirts. It was a hot game from the wordgo. There wa'n't any half-way business about Sir Peter. When he startedout to drive a goal through my legs he whacked good and strong andoften. My shins looked like a barber's pole afterwards; but I couldn'tsqueal then. There was no way to duck punishment but to get the ballinto his territory and make him guard goal. It wa'n't such a cinch todo, either, for he was a lively old gent on his pins.
After about half an hour of that, you can bet I wished I'd stuck to thebucket game. But Sir Peter was as excited over it as a boy with a newpair of roller-skates. He wouldn't stand for any change of program, andhe wouldn't stop for breathin'-spells. Rufus Rastus came out of his cooponce to see what the row was all about; but when he saw us mixed up in ascrimmage for goal he says: "Good Lawd ermighty!" lets out one yell, andshuts himself up with his canned soup and copper pans. I guess Danversthought I was draggin' his boss around by the hair; for I heard him yelponce in a while, but he couldn't get loose.
Sir Peter began to leak all over his head, and his gray hair got mussedup, and his eyes was bulgin' out; but I couldn't get him switched toanything else. Not much! Shinny was a new game to him and he was stuckon it. "Whee-yee!" he'd yell, and swing that crooked-handled cane, andbang would go a fancy gas globe into a million pieces. But a littlething like that didn't feaze him. He was out for goals, and he wasn'tparticular what he hit as long as the ball was kept moving.
It was a hot pace he set, all right. Every time he swung I had to jumptwo feet high, or else get it on the shins. And say! I jumped when Icould. I'd have given a sable-lined overcoat for a pair of leg-guardsjust about then; and if I could have had that young bug-ward doctor tomyself for about ten minutes--well, he'd have learned something theydidn't tell him at Bellevue.
Course, I don't keep up reg'lar ring trainin' these days; but I'mgenerally fit for ten rounds or so any old time. I thought I was in goodtrim then, until that dippy old snoozer had rushed me for abouttwenty-five goals. Then I began to breat
he hard and wish someone wouldring the gong on him. There was no counting on when Mr. Gordon wouldshow up; but his footsteps wouldn't have made me sad. I've let myself infor some jay stunts in my time; but this gettin' tangled up with a baddream that had come true--well, that was the limit. And I'd started outto do something real cute. You could have bought me for a bunch of pinktrading stamps.
And just as I was wondering if this Bloomingdale seance was to go on allday, Sir Peter gives out like a busted mainspring, slumps all over thefloor, and lays as limp as if his jaw had connected with a pile-driver.For a minute or so I was scared clear down to my toe-nails; but afterI'd sluiced him with ice-water and worked over him a little, he cameback to the boards. He was groggy, and I reckon things was loopin' theloops when he looked at 'em; but his blood pump was doing businessagain, and I knew he'd feel better pretty soon.
I helped him up on the bucket, that being handiest, and threw athree-finger slug of rye into him, and then he began to take aninventory of things in general, kind of slow and dignified. He looks atthe broken glass on the car carpet, at the chairs turned bottom up, atme in my hard-work costume, and at his own rig.
"Really, you know, really--I--I don't quite understand," he says."Where--what--"
"Oh, you're ahead," says I. "I wouldn't swear to the score; but it'syour odds."
This didn't seem to satisfy him, though. He kept on lookin' around, asthough he'd lost something. I guessed he was hunting for that blastedcane.
"See here," says I. "You get the decision, and there ain't goin' to beany encore. I've retired. I've had enough of that game to last me untilI'm as old as you are, which won't be for two or three seasons on. Ifyou're dead anxious for more, you wait until Mr. Gordon comes back andchallenge him. He's a sport."
But Sir Peter seemed to be clear off the alley. "My good man," says he,"I--I don't follow you at all. Will you please tell me where I am?"
Now say, how was I to know where he thought he was? What was the name ofthat place--Briskett Arms? I didn't want to chance it.
"This is the same old stand," says I, "right where you started an hourago."
"But," says he--"but Lord Winchester?"
"He's due on the next trolley," says I. "Had to stop off at thegun-factory, you know."
Ever try to tear off a lot of extemporaneous lies, twenty to the minute?It's no pipe. Worse than being on the stand at an insurance thirddegree. I couldn't even refuse to answer on advice of counsel, and in notime at all he had me twisted up into a bow-knot.
"Young man," says he, "I think you're prevaricating."
"I'm doin' me best," says I; "but let's cut that out. P'raps you'd feelbetter if you wore the bucket awhile."
"Bucket?" says he. And I'll be put on the buzzer if he didn't throw thebluff that he'd never had the thing on his head.
"Oh, well," says I, "you've got a right to lie some if you want to. It'syour turn, anyway. But let me swab you off a little."
He didn't kick on that, and I was gettin' busy with warm water andtowels when the door opens, and in drifts Mr. Gordon with three well-fedgents behind him.
"Great cats!" says he, throwin' up both hands. "Shorty, what in blazeshas happened?"
"Nothin' much," says I. "We've been playin' a little shinny."
"Shinny?" says he, just as though it was something I'd invented.
"Sure," says I. "And Sir Peter won out. As a shinny player he's a bird."
Then the three other ducks swarms in, and the way they powwows aroundthere for a few minutes was enough to make a curtain scene for a Thirdavenue melodrama.
Mr. Gordon calmed 'em down though after a bit, and then I got a chance.I was a little riled by that time, I guess. I offered to tie pillows onboth hands and take 'em all three at once, kickin' allowed.
"Oh, come, Shorty," says Mr. Gordon. "These gentlemen have been a littlehasty. They don't understand, and they're great friends of Sir Peter.This is the British Ambassador, Lord Winchester, and these are his twosecretaries. Now, what about this shinny?"
"It was a stem-winder," says I. "Sir Peter was off side most of thetime; but I don't carry no grouch for that."
Then I told 'em how I'd done it to keep him off the tracks, and how hegot so warmed up he couldn't stop until he ran out of steam. They werepolite enough after that. We shook hands all round, and I went in andresurrected Danvers, and they got Sir Peter fixed up so that he was fitto go in a cab, and the whole bunch clears out.
In about an hour Mr. Gordon comes back. He wears one of thewon't-come-off kind, and steps like he was feelin' good all over."Professor," says he, "you needn't be surprised at getting a medal ofhonor from the British Government. You seem to have cured Sir Peter ofthe bucket habit."
"We're quits, then," says I. "He's cured me of wanting to play shinny.Say, did you find out who the old snoozer was, anyway?"
"The old snoozer," says he, "is the crack financial expert of England,and a big gun generally. He'd been over here looking into our railroads,and when he gets back he's to make a report that will be accepted as lawand gospel in every capital of Europe. It was while he was working onthat job that his brain took a vacation; and it was your shinny game,the doctors say, that saved him from the insane asylum. You seem to havebrought him back to his senses."
"He's welcome," says I; "but I wish the British Government would ante upa bottle of spavin-cure. Look at that shin."
"We'll make 'em pay for that shin," says he, with a kind ofit's-coming-to-us grin. "And by the way, Shorty; those few after-dinnerremarks that Sir Peter made about his report--you could forget abouthearing 'em, couldn't you?"
"I can forget everything but the bucket," says I.
"Good," says Mr. Gordon. "It--it's a private matter for a while."
We took a hansom ride around town until the noon limited was ready topull out. Never saw a car ride do a man so much good as that one back toNew York seemed to do Mr. Gordon. He was as pleased with himself as ifhe was a red apple on the top branch.
It was a couple of weeks, too, before I knew why. He let it out one dayafter we'd had our little kaffee klatch with the gloves. Seems thathearing Sir Peter tell what he was goin' to report about Americanrailroads was just like givin' Gordon an owner's tip on a handicapwinner; and Pyramid don't need to be hit on the head with a maul,either. Near as I can get it, he worked that inside information for allit was worth and there's a bunch down around Broad street that don'tknow just what hit 'em yet.
Me? Little Rollo? Oh, I'm satisfied. With what I got out of that trip Icould buy enough shin salve to cure up all the bruises in New York.That's on the foot rule, too.