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Shorty McCabe

<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3></div> Does the Boss let it go at that? Say, I was just thick enough to guess that he would. I was still havin' that dream, a few days later, when the Boss 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 has accepted." "Goin' to blow it up?" I says. "I hope," says he, gettin' a little red under the eyes, "to spend my honeymoon 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 prefer some 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't know what I said next, but it didn't matter much. He was too far up in the 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 my regards 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; but somehow it seemed all right, for him. I couldn't get a view of the Boss mated up with any silk-lined, city-broke girl. I guess Miss Padova was about his style, after all; and I reckon it would take a man like him to manage 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't feelin' 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 much pride in. You see, I'd been knockin' around for months with someone who was clean all the way through—washed clean, spoke clean, thought clean—and now there was no tellin' what kind of a push I'd fall in with. You've had a peek at trainin' camps, eh? Them rubbers is apt to be a scousy lot. It was 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 guy loadin' 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 lawyer the Boss wanted me to see. I'd met him a few times, so when I sends in my name there wa'n't any waitin' around in the ante-room with the office boy. "Bring Mr. McCabe right in," says he. "Mister McCabe," mind you. He's one of those wiry, brisk little chaps, with x-ray eyes, and a voice like a telephone bell. "Ah, yes!" says he, takin' the letter. "I know about that—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's bank 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 an account 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 services rendered,' that was the way his instructions to me read. I sold the stock 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 fist grippin' that bank book like it was a life raft. First off I has to go and have a look at the outside of that bank. That's right, snicker. But say, I've had as much dough as that before, only I'd always carried it in a bundle. There's a lot of difference. Every tinhorn sport has his bundle, you know; but it's only your real gent that can flash a check book. I could feel my chest swellin' by the minute. "Shorty," says I, "you've broke into a new class. Now you've got to make good." And how do you s'pose I begins? Why, I hires one of these open faced cabs by the hour, and tells the chap up top to take me up Fifth ave. I wanted to think, and there ain't any better place for brain exercise than leanin' back in a hansom, squintin' out over the foldin' doors. I'd got 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 up with a lot of his crowd, and some of 'em had tried the gloves on with me. I didn't go in for sluggin' their blocks off, just to show 'em I could 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 tonic it can't be beat. They liked the way I handled 'em, and they used to say they wished they could take a dose of that medicine reg'lar, same as the Boss 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 floor I'd noticed, and signs a lease. Inside of a week I has the place fixed up 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 name done in gold letters on the ground glass. Boxin' instructor? Not on your accident 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 scares off the cheap muggs that would hang around a boxin' school. They don't know 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 those gents, and before I'd been runnin' a fortnight I'd booked business enough to see that I'd struck it right. What's the use monkeyin' with comers when you can take on men that's made their pile? They're a high-toned lot, too, and they don't care what it costs, so long as I keeps 'em in shape. Some of 'em don't put on the mitts at all, but most of 'em works up to that. Now there was Mr. Gordon. Sure, Pyramid Gordon. But I'll have to tell you about the game he stacks me up against. I'd had him as a reg'lar for about a month—Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays, from five to six—and he was just gettin' so he knew what real livin' was, when somethin' breaks loose down on the street that makes him forget everything but the figures on the tape. So he quits trainin'. About ten days later he drops in one afternoon, with fur on his tongue, and his eyes lookin' like a couple 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 a volcano, Shorty, wondering whether it would blow you up, or open and let you fall in, you're apt to forget your liver." "It ain't apt to forget you, though," says I. "Shall we have a little session right now?" And then he springs his proposition. He'd got to go to Washington and back 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 he was still on the lid. His private car was hitched to the tail of the Flyer, 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 a preferred creditor." "I'll take chances on that," says I. They did do the trick to Pyramid once, you know; but they'd never got him right since. They had him worried some this time, though. You could tell that by the way he smiled at the wrong cues, and combed his deacon whiskers with his fingers. They're the only deacon whiskers I ever had in the Studio. Used to make me nervous when I hit 'em, for fear I'd drive '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 the wall, and we pikes for the ferry. "Where's the other parties?" says I, when I'd sized up the inside of the Adeline. There was room enough for a minstrel troupe. "We're to have it all to ourselves, professor," says he. "And it's almost 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 of ceremonies on the car, havin' an argument out in the vestibule. He was tryin' to shunt somebody. They didn't shunt though, and in comes a long-geared old gent, wearin' one of those belted ulsters that they make out of horse-blankets for English tourists. He had a dinky cloth cap of the same pattern, and the lengthiest face I ever saw on a man. It wasn't a cheerful face, either; looked like he was huntin' for his own tombstone, and didn't care how soon he found it. Rufus Rastus was hangin' to one of his arms, splutterin' things about this being a private car, and gettin' no more notice taken of himself than as if he'd been an escape-valve. Behind 'em, totin' a lot of leather bags of all shapes, was a peaked-nosed chap, who looked like he was 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 just said 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 the first 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 a little 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 private car—private car!" "Don't shout," says Sir Peter. "I'm not deaf. I'd lend you a bucket if I had an extra one; but I haven't. Danvers!" This time Danvers edged in with one of those sole-leather cases that an Englishman carries his plug-hat in. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-094.jpg" alt=""Got his wheels all under cover," says I." title="" width-obs="350" /> "Got his wheels all under cover," says I.</div> "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 that hat-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 as peaceful as a bench-duster in the park. "Looks like he's got his wheels all under cover," says I. "Great scheme—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?" says Danvers. "Why, 'e's Sir Peter—the Sir Peter. 'E's a bit heccentric at times, sir." Well, we let it go at that. Sir Peter seemed to be enjoying himself; so we piles all the wicker chairs around him, opens the ventilators, and peels down for business. Ever try hand-ball in a car that's being snaked over switches at fifty miles an hour? So far as looks went, we were just as batty as Sir Peter with his wooden hat. We caromed around like a couple of six-spots in a dice-box, and some of the foot-work we did would have had a buck-and-wing artist crazy. We was using a tennis-ball, and when we'd get in three strokes without missing we'd stop and shake hands. There wa'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. Danvers watched us from behind some chairs. He looked disgusted. By the time we'd got half-way across Jersey we was ready for the bath tub. And say, that's the way to travel and stay at home, all to once. A private car for mine. While we was puttin' on a polish with the Turkish towels, 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 he an' Pyramid gets together; but it was the wizziest brand of conversation I ever heard. You'd have thought they was talkin' over the 'phone to the wrong numbers. Sir Peter would listen to all Mr. Gordon had to say, just as if he was gettin' next to every word, but his come-backs didn't fit by a mile. "Sorry to disturb you," says Mr. Gordon; "but I'll have to ask you to change to a forward car next stop." Sir Peter blinked his lamps at him a minute, and then he says: "Yes, it keeps the decimals out," and he taps the bucket, knowing like. "My own invention, 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 afraid you'll have to be getting ready to move. This is my private car, you see." "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 with him." "Sure," says I. "I've talked sense through thicker things than a wooden pail." 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's seventeen after six. That's twenty-three for you. Are you next?" Now say, you'd thought most anyone would have dropped for a hint like that, dippy or not. But Sir Peter sizes me up without battin' an eye. He had a kind of dignified, solemn way of lookin', too, with eyes wide open, 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 one had handed me the lemon. "Scratch me off," says I. "I'm in the wrong class. If there's to be any more Bloomingdale repartee, just count me out." Naw, I wa'n't sore, or nothin' like that. If anyone can get free vawdyville from me I'll write 'em an annual pass; but I couldn't see the use of monkeyin' with that bug-house boarder. Say, if you was payin' for five 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 behind his 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 he didn'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 the half, 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 gather around!" You should have seen the way he did it, though. Reg'lar John Drew manners, the old duffer had. Lord knows where he thought he was, though; somewhere on Highgate Road, I suppose. But wherever it was, he was right to home—called Rufus Rastus Jenkins, and told Danvers he could go for the 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 tomato soup doin' a merry-go-round in the plates, the engine tootin' for grade crossin's; and Sir Peter, wearin' his pail as dignified as a cardinal does a red hat, talkin' just as if he was back on the farm, up north of London. I don't blame Rufus Rastus for wearin' his eyes on the outside. They stuck out like the waist-buttons on a Broadway cop, and he hardly knew whether he was waitin' on table, or makin' up a berth. With his second glass of fizz Sir Peter began to thaw a little. He hadn't paid much attention to me for a while, passin' most of his remarks 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 Peter was tryin' to register me as a Conservative. Anyway, I've promised to vote for Balfour, or somebody like that next election; so I'm goin' to send word to Little Tim that he needn't come around. Had to do it, just to please the old gent. By the time we'd got to the little cups of black he'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 nightfall when Gordon's around as it would be to try to raise watermelons in Minetta Lane. He grinned, too, and said something about not knowing as much about 'em as he did once. With that Sir Peter lights up one of Mr. Gordon's Key West night-sticks and cuts adrift on the railroad business. That made the boss kind of sick at first. Railroads was something he was tryin' to forget for the evenin'. But there wasn't any shuttin' the old jay off. And say! he knew the case-cards all right. There was too much high finance about it for me to follow close; but anyways I seen that it made Mr. Gordon sit up and take notice. He'd peg in a question now and then, and got the old one so stirred up that after a while he shed the bucket, lugged out one of 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, if ever 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 good snooze, 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 an hour 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 get back." "What you say goes," says I. I shoved up the shade and sees that they'd put the Adeline down at the end of the train-shed. About all I could see of Washington was the top of old George's headstone stickin' up over a freight-car. I fixed myself up and had breakfast, just as if I was in a boardin'-house, and then sits around waitin' for Sir Peter. He an' Danvers shows up after a while, and the old gent calls for tea and toast and jam. Then I knows he's farther off his base than ever. Think of truck like that for breakfast! 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 a Danvers never made a move when I gives him the wink. All he could get into that peanut head of his at one time was to collect those leather bags and get ready to trot around wherever that long-legged old lunatic led 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 I winks an eye loose at Danvers. "'Pon my word!" says Sir Peter, "you here yet? Danvers, show this person to 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 the ears. "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 wide open, with a guard like a soft-shell crab. I slips down the state-room passage, 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 as if 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-house him. He was too ancient; and anyway, I kind of liked the old chap's looks. He'd forgot all about Danvers, and was makin' figures on an envelope when I got back. I let him figure away, until all of a sudden he 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, just pouring 'em. But I've got to get my report in." With that he claps on the 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 to collar him. Just then I spots the tennis-ball. "Whoop-ee!" says I, grabbin' it up and slammin' it at his head. I made a bull's-eye on the pail, too. "That's a cigar you owe me," says I, "and I gets two more cracks for my nickel." He tried to dodge; but I slammed it at 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 it sounds; but I'd just thought of something a feller told me once. He was a young doctor in the bat ward at Bellevue. "They're a good deal like kids," says he, "and if you remember that, you can handle 'em easy." And say, Sir Peter seemed to look tickled and interested. The first thing I knew he'd chucked the bucket on my head and was doin' a war-dance, lambastin' that tennis-ball at me to beat the cars. It was working, all right. When he got tired of that I organized a shinny game, with an umbrella and a cane for sticks, and a couple of wicker chairs for goals. He took to that, too. First he shed his frock-coat, then his vest, and after a while we got down to our undershirts. It was a hot game from the word go. There wa'n't any half-way business about Sir Peter. When he started out to drive a goal through my legs he whacked good and strong and often. My shins looked like a barber's pole afterwards; but I couldn't squeal then. There was no way to duck punishment but to get the ball into his territory and make him guard goal. It wa'n't such a cinch to do, 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 the bucket game. But Sir Peter was as excited over it as a boy with a new pair of roller-skates. He wouldn't stand for any change of program, and he wouldn't stop for breathin'-spells. Rufus Rastus came out of his coop once to see what the row was all about; but when he saw us mixed up in a scrimmage for goal he says: "Good Lawd ermighty!" lets out one yell, and shuts himself up with his canned soup and copper pans. I guess Danvers thought I was draggin' his boss around by the hair; for I heard him yelp once in a while, but he couldn't get loose. Sir Peter began to leak all over his head, and his gray hair got mussed up, and his eyes was bulgin' out; but I couldn't get him switched to anything else. Not much! Shinny was a new game to him and he was stuck on it. "Whee-yee!" he'd yell, and swing that crooked-handled cane, and bang would go a fancy gas globe into a million pieces. But a little thing like that didn't feaze him. He was out for goals, and he wasn't particular 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 jump two feet high, or else get it on the shins. And say! I jumped when I could. I'd have given a sable-lined overcoat for a pair of leg-guards just about then; and if I could have had that young bug-ward doctor to myself for about ten minutes—well, he'd have learned something they didn't tell him at Bellevue. Course, I don't keep up reg'lar ring trainin' these days; but I'm generally fit for ten rounds or so any old time. I thought I was in good trim then, until that dippy old snoozer had rushed me for about twenty-five goals. Then I began to breathe hard and wish someone would ring the gong on him. There was no counting on when Mr. Gordon would show up; but his footsteps wouldn't have made me sad. I've let myself in for some jay stunts in my time; but this gettin' tangled up with a bad dream that had come true—well, that was the limit. And I'd started out to do something real cute. You could have bought me for a bunch of pink trading stamps. And just as I was wondering if this Bloomingdale séance was to go on all day, Sir Peter gives out like a busted mainspring, slumps all over the floor, 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 after I'd sluiced him with ice-water and worked over him a little, he came back to the boards. He was groggy, and I reckon things was loopin' the loops when he looked at 'em; but his blood pump was doing business again, and I knew he'd feel better pretty soon. I helped him up on the bucket, that being handiest, and threw a three-finger slug of rye into him, and then he began to take an inventory of things in general, kind of slow and dignified. He looks at the broken glass on the car carpet, at the chairs turned bottom up, at me 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's your odds." This didn't seem to satisfy him, though. He kept on lookin' around, as though he'd lost something. I guessed he was hunting for that blasted cane. "See here," says I. "You get the decision, and there ain't goin' to be any encore. I've retired. I've had enough of that game to last me until I'm as old as you are, which won't be for two or three seasons on. If you're dead anxious for more, you wait until Mr. Gordon comes back and challenge 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 of that place—Briskett Arms? I didn't want to chance it. "This is the same old stand," says I, "right where you started an hour ago." "But," says he—"but Lord Winchester?" "He's due on the next trolley," says I. "Had to stop off at the gun-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 third degree. I couldn't even refuse to answer on advice of counsel, and in no time 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 feel better if you wore the bucket awhile." "Bucket?" says he. And I'll be put on the buzzer if he didn't throw the bluff 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's your turn, anyway. But let me swab you off a little." He didn't kick on that, and I was gettin' busy with warm water and towels when the door opens, and in drifts Mr. Gordon with three well-fed gents behind him. "Great cats!" says he, throwin' up both hands. "Shorty, what in blazes has 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 around there for a few minutes was enough to make a curtain scene for a Third avenue 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 on both hands and take 'em all three at once, kickin' allowed. "Oh, come, Shorty," says Mr. Gordon. "These gentlemen have been a little hasty. They don't understand, and they're great friends of Sir Peter. This is the British Ambassador, Lord Winchester, and these are his two secretaries. Now, what about this shinny?" "It was a stem-winder," says I. "Sir Peter was off side most of the time; 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 he got so warmed up he couldn't stop until he ran out of steam. They were polite enough after that. We shook hands all round, and I went in and resurrected Danvers, and they got Sir Peter fixed up so that he was fit to go in a cab, and the whole bunch clears out. In about an hour Mr. Gordon comes back. He wears one of the won'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 of honor from the British Government. You seem to have cured Sir Peter of the 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 law and gospel in every capital of Europe. It was while he was working on that 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 have brought him back to his senses." "He's welcome," says I; "but I wish the British Government would ante up a bottle of spavin-cure. Look at that shin." "We'll make 'em pay for that shin," says he, with a kind of it's-coming-to-us grin. "And by the way, Shorty; those few after-dinner remarks that Sir Peter made about his report—you could forget about hearing '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 to pull out. Never saw a car ride do a man so much good as that one back to New York seemed to do Mr. Gordon. He was as pleased with himself as if he was a red apple on the top branch. It was a couple of weeks, too, before I knew why. He let it out one day after we'd had our little kaffee klatch with the gloves. Seems that hearing Sir Peter tell what he was goin' to report about American railroads was just like givin' Gordon an owner's tip on a handicap winner; 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 all it was worth and there's a bunch down around Broad street that don't know just what hit 'em yet. Me? Little Rollo? Oh, I'm satisfied. With what I got out of that trip I could buy enough shin salve to cure up all the bruises in New York. That's on the foot rule, too. <hr class="major" /> <div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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