VIII
PINCKNEY AND THE TWINS
Say, when it comes to gettin' himself tangled up in ways that nobodyever thought of before, you can play Pinckney clear across the board.But I never knew him to send out such a hard breathin' hurry call asthe one I got the other day. It come first thing in the mornin' too,just about the time Pinckney used to be tearin' off the second couponfrom the slumber card. I hadn't more'n got inside the Studio doorbefore Swifty Joe says:
"Pinckney's been tryin' to get you on the wire."
"Gee!" says I, "he's stayin' up late last night! Did he leave thenumber?"
He had, and it was a sixty-cent long distance call; so the first play Imakes when I rings up is to reverse the charge.
"That you, Shorty?" says he. "Then for goodness' sake come up here onthe next train! Will you?"
"House afire, bone in your throat, or what?" says I.
"It's those twins," says he.
"Bad as that?" says I. "Then I'll come."
Wa'n't I tellin' you about the pair of mated orphans that was shippedover to him unexpected; and how Miss Gertie, the Western blush rosethat was on the steamer with 'em, helps him out? Well, the last Ihears, Pinckney is gone on Miss Gertie and gettin' farther from sightevery minute. He's planned it out to have the knot tied right away,hire a furnished cottage for the summer, and put in the honeymoongettin' acquainted with the ready made family that they starts in with.Great scheme! Suits Pinckney right down to the ground, because it'sdifferent. He begins by accumulatin' a pair of twins, next he finds agirl and then he thinks about gettin' married. By the way he talked, Ithought it was all settled; but hearin' this whoop for help Isuspicioned there must be some hitch.
There wa'n't any carnation in his buttonhole when he meets me at thestation; he hasn't shaved since the day before; and there's troubletracks on his brow.
"Can't you stand married life better'n this?" says I.
"Married!" says he. "No such luck. I never expect to be married,Shorty; I'm not fit."
"Is this a decision that was handed you, or was it somethin' you foundout for yourself?" says I.
"It's my own discovery," says he.
"Then there's hope," says I. "So the twins have been gettin' youworried, eh? Where's Miss Gertie?"
That gives Pinckney the hard luck cue, and while we jogs along towardshis new place in the tub cart he tells me all about what's beenhappenin'. First off he owns up that he's queered his good start withMiss Gertie by bein' in such a rush to flash the solitaire spark onher. She ain't used to Pinckney's jumpy ways. They hadn't beenacquainted much more'n a week, and he hadn't gone through any of theprelim's, when he ups and asks her what day it will be and whether shechooses church or parsonage. Course she shies at that, and the nextthing Pinckney knows she's taken a train West, leavin' him with thetwins on his hands, and a nice little note sayin' that while sheappreciates the honour she's afraid he won't do.
"And you're left at the post?" says I.
"Yes," says he. "I couldn't take the twins and follow her, but I couldtelegraph. My first message read like this, 'What's the matter withme?' Here is her answer to that," and he digs up a yellow envelopefrom his inside pocket.
"Not domestic enough. G." It was short and crisp.
He couldn't give me his come back to that, for he said it covered threeblanks; but it was meant to be an ironclad affidavit that he could bejust as domestic as the next man, if he only had a chance.
"And then?" says I.
"Read it," says he, handin' over Exhibit Two.
"You have the chance now," it says. "Manage the twins for a month, andI will believe you."
And that was as far as he could get. Now, first and last, I guessthere's been dozens of girls, not countin' all kinds of widows, that'shad their lassoes out for Pinckney. He's been more or less interestedin some; but when he really runs across one that's worth taggin' shedoes the sudden duck and runs him up against a game like this.
"And you're tryin' to make good, eh?" says I. "What's your program?"
For Pinckney, he hadn't done so worse. First he hunts up the only aunthe's got on his list. She's a wide, heavy weight old girl, that's lostor mislaid a couple of husbands, but hasn't ever had any kids of herown, and puts in her time goin' to Europe and comin' back. She wasjust havin' the trunks checked for Switzerland when Pinckney locatesher and tells how glad he is to see her again. Didn't she want tochange her plans and stay a month or so with him and the twins at somenice place up in Westchester? One glimpse of Jack and Jill with theircomp'ny manners on wins her. Sure, she will!
So it's tip to Pinckney to hire a happy home for the summer, all found.Got any idea of how he tackles a job like that? Most folks would takea week off and do a lot of travelling sizin' up different joints.They'd want to know how many bath rooms, if there was malaria, and allabout the plumbin', and what the neighbours was like. But livin' atthe club don't put you wise to them tricks. Pinckney, he just rings upa real estate agent, gets him to read off a list, says, "I'll take No.3," and it's all over. Next day they move out.
Was he stung? Well, not so bad as you'd think. Course, he's stuckabout two prices for rent, and he signs a lease without readin' fartherthan the "Whereas"; but, barrin' a few things like haircloth furnitureand rooms that have been shut up so long they smell like the subcellarsin a brewery, he says the ranch wa'n't so bad. The outdoors was good,anyway. There was lots of it, acres and acres, with trees, and flowergardens, and walks, and fish ponds, and everything you could want for apair of youngsters that needed room. I could see that myself.
"Say, Pinckney," says I, as we drives in through the grounds, "if youcan't get along with Jack and Jill in a place of this kind you'd bettergive up. Why, all you got to do is to turn 'em loose."
"Wait!" says he. "You haven't heard it all."
"Let it come, then," says I.
"We will look at the house first," says he.
The kids wa'n't anywhere in sight; so we starts right in on the tour ofinspection. It was a big, old, slate roofed baracks, with jigsaw workon the eaves, and a lot of dinky towers frescoed with lightnin' rods.There was furniture to match, mostly the marble topped, black walnutkind, that was real stylish back in the '70's.
In the hall we runs across Snivens. He was the butler; but youwouldn't guess it unless you was told. Kind of a cross between a horsedoctor and a missionary, I should call him--one of these short legged,barrel podded gents, with a pair of white wind harps framin' up a puttycoloured face that was ornamented with a set of the solemnest lookin'lamps you ever saw off a stuffed owl.
"Gee, Pinckney!" says I, "who unloaded that on you!"
"Snivens came with the place," says he.
"He looks it," says I. "I should think that face would sour milk.Don't he scare the twins?"
"Frighten Jack and Jill?" says Pinckney. "Not if he had horns and atail! They seem to take him as a joke. But he does make all the restof us feel creepy."
"Why don't you write him his release?" says I.
"Can't," says Pinckney. "He is one of the conditions in thecontract--he and the urns."
"The urns?" says I.
"Yes," says Pinckney, sighin' deep. "We are coming to them now. Therethey are."
With that we steps into one of the front rooms, and he lines me upbefore a white marble mantel that is just as cheerful and tasty as someof them pieces in Greenwood Cemetery. On either end was what looks tobe a bronze flower pot.
"To your right," says Pinckney, "is Grandfather; to your left, AuntSabina."
"What's the josh?" says I.
"Shorty," says he, heavin' up another sigh, "you are now in thepresence of sacred dust. These urns contain the sad fragments of twogreat Van Rusters."
"Fragments is good," says I. "Couldn't find many to keep, could they?Did they go up with a powder mill, or fall into a stone crusher?"
"Cremated," says Pinckney.
Then I gets the whole story of the two old maids tha
t Pinckney rentedthe place from. They were the last of the clan. In their day the VanRusters had headed the Westchester battin' list, ownin' about half thecounty and gettin' their names in the paper reg'lar. But they'd beenpeterin' out for the last hundred years or so, and when it got down tothe Misses Van Rusters, a pair of thin edged, old battle axes that hadnever wore anything but crape and jet bonnets, there wa'n't much leftof the estate except the mortgages and the urns.
Rentin' the place furnished was the last card in the box, and Pinckneyturns up as the willin' victim. When he comes to size up what he'sdrawn, and has read over the lease, he finds he's put his name to a lothe didn't dream about. Keepin' Snivens on the pay roll, promisin' notto disturb the urns, usin' the furniture careful, and havin' the grasscut in the private buryin' lot was only a few that he could think ofoff hand.
"You ain't a tenant, Pinckney," says I; "you're a philanthropist."
"I feel that way," says he. "At first, I didn't know which was worse,Snivens or the urns. But I know now--it is the urns. They are drivingme to distraction."
"Ah, do a lap!" says I. "Course, I give in that there might be betterparlour ornaments than potted ancestors, specially when they belong tosomeone else; but they don't come extra, do they? I thought it was thetwins that was worryin' you?"
"That is where the urns come in," says he. "Here the youngsters arenow. Step back in here and watch."
He pulls me into the next room, where we could see through thedraperies. There's a whoop and a hurrah outside, the door bangs, andin tumbles the kids, with a nurse taggin' on behind. The youngstersmakes a bee line for the mantelpiece and sings out:
"Hello, Grandfather! Hello, Aunt Sabina! Look what we brought thistime!"
"Stop it! Stop it!" says the nurse, her eyes buggin' out.
"Boo! Fraid cat!" yells the twins, and nursy skips. Then they beginsto unload the stuff they've lugged in, pilin' it up alongside the urns,singin' out like auctioneers, "There's some daisies for Aunt Sabina!And wild strawberries for Grandfather! And a mud turtle for aunty!And a bird's nest for Grandfather!" windin' up the performance byjoinin' hands and goin' through a reg'lar war dance.
Pinckney explains how this was only a sample of what had been goin' onever since they heard Snivens tellin' what was in the urns. They'dstood by, listenin' with their mouths and ears wide open, and thenthey'd asked questions until everyone was wore out tryin' to answer'em. But the real woe came when the yarn got around among the servantsand they begun leavin' faster'n Pinckney's Aunt Mary could send out newones from town.
"Maybe the kids'll get tired of it in a few days," says I.
"Exactly what I thought," says Pinckney; "but they don't. It's thebest game they can think of, and if I allow them they will stay in hereby the hour, cutting up for the benefit of Grandfather and Aunt Sabina.It's morbid. It gets on one's nerves. My aunt says she can't stand itmuch longer, and if she goes I shall have to break up. If you're afriend of mine, Shorty, you'll think of some way to get thoseyoungsters interested in something else."
"Why don't you buy 'em a pony cart?" says I.
"I've bought two," says he; "and games and candy, and parrots andmechanical toys enough to stock a store. Still they keep this thingup."
"And if you quit the domestic game, the kids have to go to some home,and you go back to the club?" says I.
"That's it," says he.
"And when Miss Gertie comes on, and finds you've renigged, it's all upbetween you and her, eh?" says I.
Pinckney groans.
"G'wan!" says I. "Go take a sleep."
With that I steps in and shows myself to the kids. They yells andmakes a dash for me. Inside of two minutes I've been introduced toGrandfather and Aunt Sabina, made to do a duck before both jars, and amplanted on the haircloth sofa with a kid holdin' either arm, while theyputs me through the third degree. They want information.
"Did you ever see folks burned and put in jars?" says Jack.
"No," says I; "but I've seen pickled ones jugged. I hear you've gotsome ponies."
"Two," says Jill; "spotted ones. Would you want to be burned after youwas a deader?"
"Better after than before," says I. "Where's the ponies now?"
"What do the ashes look like?" says Jack.
"Are there any clinkers?" says Jill.
Say, I was down and out in the first round. For every word I could getin about ponies they got in ten about them bloomin' jars, and when Ileaves 'em they was organisin' a circus, with Grandfather and AuntSabina supposed to be occupyin' the reserved seats. Honest, it wasenough to chill the spine of a morgue keeper. By good luck I runsacross Snivens snoopin' through the hall.
"See here, you!" says I. "I want to talk to you."
"Beg pardon, sir," says he, backin' off, real stiff and dignified;"but----"
"Ah, chuck it!" says I, reachin' out and gettin' hold of his collar,playful like. "You've been listenin' at the door. Now what do youthink of the way them kids is carryin' on in there?"
"It's outrageous, sir!" says he, puffin' up his cheeks, "It'sscandalous! They're young imps, so they are, sir."
"Want to stop all that nonsense?" says I.
He says he does.
"Then," says I, "you take them jars down cellar and hide 'em in thecoal bin."
He holds up both hands at that. "It can't be done, sir," says he."They've been right there for twenty years without bein' so much asmoved. They were very superior folks, sir, very superior."
"Couldn't you put 'em in the attic, then?" says I.
He couldn't. He says it's in the lease that the jars wa'n't to betouched.
"Snivens," says I, shovin' a twenty at him, "forget the lease."
Say, he looks at that yellowback as longin' as an East Side kid sizin'up a fruit cart. Then he gives a shiver and shakes his head. "Not fora thousand, sir," says he. "I wouldn't dare."
"You're an old billygoat, Snivens," says I.
And that's all the good I did with my little whirl at the game; but Itries to cheer Pinckney up by tellin' him the kids wa'n't doin' anyharm.
"But they are," says Pinckney. "They're raising the very mischief withmy plans. The maids are scared to death. They say the house ishaunted. Four of them gave notice to-day. Aunt Mary is packing hertrunks, and that means that I might as well give up. I'll inquireabout a home to send them to this afternoon."
I guess it was about four o'clock, and I was tryin' to take a snooze ina hammock on the front porch, when I hears the twins makin' lifemiserable for the gard'ner that was fixin' the rose bushes.
"Lemme dig, Pat," says Jill.
"G'wan, ye young tarrier!" says Pat
"Can't I help some?" says Jack.
"Yes, if ye'll go off about a mile," says Pat.
"Why don't the roses grow any more?" asks Jill.
"It's needin' ashes on 'em they are," says Pat.
"Ashes!" says Jack.
"Ashes!" says Jill.
Then together, "Oh, we know where there's ashes--lots!"
"We'll fetch 'em!" says Jill, and with that I hears a scamperin' up thesteps.
I was just gettin' up to chase after 'em, when I has another thought."What's the use, anyway?" thinks I. "It's their last stunt." So Iturns over and pretends to snooze.
When Pinckney shows up about six the twins has the pony carts out andis doin' a chariot race around the drive, as happy and innocent as acouple of pink angels. Then they eats their supper and goes to bed,with nary a mention of sayin' good-night to the jars, like they'd beenin the habit of doin'. Next mornin' they gets up as frisky as coltsand goes out to play wild Indians in the bushes. They was at it allthe forenoon, and never a word about Grandfather and Aunt Sabina.Pinckney notices it, but he don't dare speak of it for fear he'll breakthe spell. About two he comes in with a telegram.
"Miss Gertie's coming on the four o'clock train," says he, lookin' wild.
"You don't act like you was much tickled," says I.
"She's
sure to find out what a muss I've made of things," says he."The moment she gets here I expect the twins will start up thatconfounded rigmarole about Grandfather and Aunt Sabina again. Oh, Ican hear them doing it!"
I let it go at that. But while he's away at the station the kitchentalk breaks loose. The cook and two maids calls for Aunt Mary, tellsher what they think of a place that has canned spooks in the parlour,and starts for the trolley. Aunt Mary gets her bonnet on and has hertrunks lugged down on the front porch. That's the kind of a receptionwe has for Miss Gertrude and her mother when they show up.
"Anything particular the matter?" whispers Pinckney to me, as he handsthe guests out of the carriage.
"Nothin' much," says I. "Me and Snivens and the twins is left. Theothers have gone or are goin'."
"What is the matter?" says Miss Gertie.
"Everything," says Pinckney. "I've made a flat failure. Shorty, youbring in the twins and we'll end this thing right now."
Well, I rounds up Jack and Jill, and after they've hugged Miss Gertieuntil her travelin' dress is fixed for a week at the cleaners',Pinckney leads us all into the front room. The urns was there on themantel; but the kids don't even give 'em a look.
"Come on, you young rascals!" says he, as desperate as if he waspleadin' guilty to blowin' up a safe. "Tell Miss Gertrude aboutGrandfather and Aunt Sabina."
"Oh," says Jack, "they're out in the flower bed."
"We fed 'em to the rose bushes," says Jill.
"We didn't like to lose 'em," says Jack; "but Pat needed the ashes."
"It's straight goods," says I; "I was there."
And say, when Miss Gertrude hears the whole yarn about the urns, andthe trouble they've made Pinckney, she stops laughin' and holds out onehand to him over Jill's shoulder.
"You poor boy!" says she. "Didn't you ever read Omar's--
"I sometimes think that never blows so red The rose, as where some buried Caesar bled'?"
Say, who was this duck Omar? And what's that got to do withfertilisin' flower beds with the pulverised relations of yourlandladies? I give it up. All I know is that Pinckney's had them jarsrefilled with A-1 wood ashes, that Aunt Mary managed to 'phone up a newset of help before mornin', and that when I left Pinckney and MissGertie and the twins was' strollin' about, holdin' hands and lookin' tobe havin' the time of their lives.
Domestic? Say, a clear Havana Punko, made in Connecticut, ain't in itwith him.