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Shorty McCabe

<h3>CHAPTER XV</h3></div> Flag it, now, and I'll say it for you. Yes, you read about it in the papers, and says you: "Is it all so?" Well, some of it was, and some of it wasn't. But what do you expect? No two of the crowd would tell it the same way, if they was put on the stand the next minute. Here's the way it looked from where I stood, though; and I was some close, wa'n't I? You see, after I woke up from that last trance, I gets to thinkin' about Sadie, and Miriam, and all them false alarms I've been ringin' in; and, says I to myself: "Shorty, if I couldn't make a better showin' than that, I'd quit the game." So I quits. I chases myself back to town for good, says hello to all the boys, and tells Swifty Joe, if he sees me makin' another move towards the country, to heave a sand bag at me. Not that there was any loud call for me to tend out so strict on the physical culture game. I'd been kind of easin' up on that lately, and dippin' into outside things; and it was them I needed to keep closer track of. You know I've got a couple of flat houses up on the West side, and if you let them agents run things their own way you'll be makin' almost enough to buy new hall carpets once a year. Then there was ripe chances I was afraid of missin'. You see, knockin' around so much with the fat wads, I often sees spots where a few dollars could be planted right. Sometimes it's a hunch on the market, and then again it's a straight steer on a slice of foot front that's goin' cheap. I do a lot of dickerin' that way. Well, I'd just pushed through a deal that leaves me considerable on velvet, and I was feelin' kind of flush and sassy, when Mr. Ogden calls me up, and wants to know if I can make use of a gilt edged bargain. "Oh, I don't know," says I. "What's it look like?" "It's The Toreador," says he. "Sounds good," says I. "How much?" "Cost me forty thousand two years ago," says he, "but I'm turning it over for twenty-five to the first bidder." Well, say, when old man Ogden slings cold figures at you like that, you can gamble that he's talkin' straight. "I'm it, then," says I. "Fifteen down, ten on mortgage." "That suits me," says he. "I'll have the papers made out to-day." "And say," says I, "what is this Toreador, anyway; a race horse, or an elevator apartment?" Would you guess it? He'd hung up the receiver. That's what I got for bein' sporty. But I wa'n't goin' to renig at that stage. I fills out me little blue check and sends her in, and that night I goes to bed without knowin' what it is that I've passed up my coin for. It must have been near noon the next day, for I'd written a letter and got my check book stubs added up so they come within two or three hundred of what the bank folks made it, when a footman in white panties and a plum colored coat drifts through the Studio door. "Is this Professor McCabe, sir?" says he. "Yep," says I. "There's a lady below, sir," says he. "Can she come up?" "It ain't reg'lar," says I, "but I s'pose there's no dodgin' her. Tell her to come ahead." Say, I wa'n't just fixed up for receivin' carriage comp'ny. When I writes and figures I gets more mussed up than as if I'd been in a free-for-all. I'd shed my coat on one chair, my vest on another, slipped off my suspenders, rumpled my hair, and got ink on me in seventeen places. But I didn't have sense enough to say I was out. In a minute or so there was a click-click on the stairs, I gets a whiff of l'Issoir Danube, and in comes a veiled lady. She was a brandied peach; from the outside lines, anyway. Them clothes of hers couldn't have left Paris more'n a month before, and they clung to her like a wet undershirt to a fat man. And if you had any doubts as to whether or no she had the goods, all you had to do was to squint at the big amethyst in the handle of the gold lorgnette she wore around her neck. For a Felix-Tiffany combination, she was it. You've seen women of that kind—reg'lar walkin' expense accounts. "So you are Shorty McCabe, are you?" says she, givin' me a customs inspector look-over, and kind of sniffin'. "Sorry I don't suit," says I. "How odd!" says she. "I must make a note of that." "Help yourself," says I. "Is there anything else?" "Is it true," says she, "that you have bought The Toreador?" "Who's been givin' you that?" says I, prickin' up my ears. "Mr. Ogden," says she. "He's an authority," says I, "and what he says along that line I don't dispute." "Then you have bought it?" says she. "How exasperating! I was going to get Mr. Ogden to let me have The Toreador this week." "The whole of it?" says I. "Why, of course," says she. "Gee!" thinks I. "It can't be an apartment house, then. Maybe it's an oil paintin', or a parlor car." "But there!" she goes on. "I suppose you only bought it as a speculation. Now what is your price for next week?" Say, for the love of Pete, I couldn't tell what it was gave me a grouch. Maybe it was only the off-hand way she threw it out, or the snippy chin-toss that goes with it. But I felt like I'd been stroked with a piece of sand paper. "It's too bad," says I, "but you've made a wrong guess. I'm usin' The Toreador next week myself." "You!" says she, and through the gauze curtain I could see her hump her eyebrows. That finished the job. Even if The Toreador turned out to be a new opera house or a tourin' balloon, I was goin' to keep it busy for the next seven days. "Why not me?" I says. "All alone?" says she. Well, I didn't know where it would land me, but I wa'n't goin' to have her tag me for a solitaire spender. "Not much," says I. "I was just makin' up my list. How do you spell Mrs. Twombley-Crane's last name—with a k?" "Really!" says she. "Do you mean to say that she is to be one of your guests? Then you must be going just where I'd planned to go—to the Newport evolutions?" "Sure thing," says I. I'd heard of their havin' all kinds of fool doin's at Newport, but evolutions wa'n't one of 'em. The bluff had to be made good, though. The lady pushes up her mosquito nettin' drop, like she wanted to see if I was unwindin' the string ball or not, and then for a minute she taps her chin with them foldin' eyeglasses. I wanted to sing out to her that she'd dent the enamel if she didn't quit bein' so careless, but I held in. Say, what's the use eatin' carrots and takin' buttermilk baths, when you can have a mercerized complexion like that laid on at the shop? All of a sudden she flashes up a little silver case, and pushes out a visitin' card. "There's my name and address," says she. "If you should change your mind about using The Toreador, you may telephone me; and I hope you will." "Oh!" says I, spellin' out the old English letters. "I've heard Pinckney speak of you. Well, say, seein' as you're so anxious, I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll just put you down for an in-vite. How does that hit you?" I had an idea she might blow up, at that. But say, there was nothin' of the kind. "Why," says she, "I'm not sure but that would be quite a novelty. Yes, you may count on me. Good day," and she was gone without so much as a "thank you kindly." When I came to, and had sized the thing all up, it looked like I'd got in over my head. I was due to stand for some kind of a racket, but whether it was a picnic, or a surprise party, I didn't know. What I wanted just then was information, and for certain kinds of knowledge there's nobody like Pinckney. I was dead lucky to locate him, too; but I took a chance on his bein' in town, so I found him at his special corner table in the palm room, just lookin' a dry Martini in the face. "Hello, Shorty!" says he. "Haven't lunched yet, have you? Join me." "I will," says I, "if you'll answer me two questions. First off, what is it that Mr. Ogden owns that he calls The Toreador?" "Why," says Pinckney, "that's his steam yacht." "Steam yacht!" says I, gettin' a good grip on the chair, to keep from falling out. "And me dead sure it was a bunch of six-room-and-baths! Oh, well, let that pass. What's done is done. Now what's this evolution stunt they're pullin' off up at Newport next week?" "The naval evolutions, of course," says Pinckney. "You should read the newspapers, Shorty." "I do," says I, "but I didn't see a word about it on the sportin' page." He gave me the program, though; how they was goin' to have a sham torpedo battle, windin' up with a grand illumination of the fleet. "You ought to run up and see it," says he. "It looks like I had to," says I. "But what about The Toreador?" says he. "Nothin' much," says I,—"only I've bought the blamed thing." It was Pinckney's turn to grow bug-eyed; but when I'd told him all about the deal, and how the veiled lady had stung me into sayin' what I had, he's as pleased as if he'd been readin' the joke column. "Shorty," says he, "you're a genius. Why, that's the very thing to do. Get together your party, steam up there, anchor in the harbor, and see the show. It's deuced good form, you know." "That's all I want," says I. "Just so long's I'm sure I'm in good form, I'm happy. But say, I wouldn't dare tackle it unless you went along." I found out later that Pinckney'd turned down no less than three parties of that kind, but when I puts it up to him, he never fiddles short at all. "Why, I'd be delighted," says he. With that we finishes our cold fried egg salad, or whatever fancy dish it was we had on the platter, and then we pikes off to the pier where he says the yacht's tied up. And say, she was somethin' of a boat. She made that Dixie Girl, that Woodie and me brought the Incubator kids down in, look like a canoe. She was white all over, except for a gold streak around her, and a couple of dinky yellow masts. I didn't go down stairs. We plants ourselves in some green cushioned easy chairs under the back stoop awnin', and I sends one of the white-wing hired hands after the conductor. "It's the sailing master you want," says Pinckney. "Well, bring him along, too," says I. But there was only the one. He was a solid built, quiet spoken chap, with a full set of red whiskers and a state of Maine accent. He said his name was Bassett, and that he was just packin' his things to go ashore, havin' heard that the boat had been sold. "The shore'll be there next month," says I. "What'll you take to stay on the job?" Well, he didn't want no iron worker's wages, bein' content with a captain's salary, so I tells him to take hold right where he left off and tell the rest of the gang they could do the same. So inside of half an hour I has a couple of dozen men on the pay roll. "Gee!" says I to Pinckney, "I'm glad the yachtin' season's most over when I begin; if it wa'n't I'm thinkin' I'd have to go out nights with a jimmy." But Pinckney's busy with his silver pencil, writin' down names. "There!" says he. "I've thought of a dozen nice people that I'm sure of, and perhaps I'll remember a few more in the mean time." "Say," says I, "have you got the Twombley-Cranes and Sadie on that list?" "Oh, certainly," says he, "especially Sadie." And then he grins. Well, for about four days I'm the busiest man out of a job in New York. I carries a bunch of railroad stocks on margin, trades off some Bronx buildin' lots for a cold water tenement, and unloads a street openin' contract that I bought off'm a Tammany Hall man. Every time I thinks of that steam yacht, with all them hands burnin' up my money, I goes out and does some more hustlin'. Say, there's nothin' like needin' the dough, for keepin' a feller up on his toes, is there? And when the time came to knock off, and I'd reckoned up how much I was to the good, I feels like Johnny Gates after he's cashed his chips. Yes, indeed, I was a gay boy as I goes aboard The Toreador and waits for the crowd to come along. I'd made myself a present of a white flannel suit and a Willie Collier yachtin' cap, and if there'd been an orchestra down front I could have done a yo-ho-ho baritone solo right off the reel. Pinckney shows up in good season, and he'd fetched his people, all right. There was a string of tourin' cars and carriages half a block long. They was all friends of mine, too; from Sadie to the little old bishop. And they was nice, decent folks. Maybe they don't have their pictures printed in the Sunday editions as often as some, but they're ice cutters, just the same. They all said it was lovely of me to remember 'em. "Ah, put it away!" says I. "You folks has been blowin' me, off'n on for a year, and this is my first set-up. I ain't wise to the way things ought to be done on one of these boudoir boats, but I wants everyone to be happy. Don't wait for the Who-wants-the-waiter call, but just act like you was all star boarders. Everything in sight is yours, from, the wicker chairs on deck, to what's in the ice box below. And I want to say right here that I'm mighty glad you've come. Now, Mr. Bassett, I guess you can tie her loose." Honest, that was the first speech I ever shot off, in or out of the ring, but it seemed to go. They was all pattin' me on the back, and givin' me the grand jolly, when a cab comes down the pier on the jump, someone waves a red parasol, and out floats the veiled lady, with a maid. I'd sent her an invite, just as I said I would, but I never thought she'd have the front to take it up. "We came near missin' you," says I, steppin' up to the gang plank. But say, she was so busy shakin' hands and callin' the rest of 'em by their front names, that she didn't see me at all. It was that way all day long, while we was goin' up the Sound. She cornered almost everyone else, and chinned to 'em real earnest about somethin' or other, but I never seemed to get in range. Well, I was havin' too good a time to feel cut up about it, but I couldn't help bein' curious. It wa'n't until dinner time that I got a line on her. Say, she was a converser. No matter what was opened up, she heard her cue. And knock! Why, she had a tack hammer in each hand. They was cute, spiteful little taps, that made you snicker first, and then you got ashamed of yourself for doin' it. "Ain't she got any friends besides what's here?" says I to Sadie, after we'd got through and gone up front by ourselves to see the moon rise. "I'm not so sure about even these," says Sadie. "Then why didn't someone cut in with a come-back?" says I. "It isn't exactly safe," says she. "Oh!" says I. "She's that kind, is she? You'd think from her talk that she knew only two sorts of women: them that had been divorced, and them that ought to be." "I'm afraid that's her specialty," says Sadie. "Sort of a lady muck-raker, eh?" says I. "Well I hope all she says ain't so. How about it?" Well, that was the beginnin' of a heart to heart talk that lasted for a good many miles. Somehow Sadie and I'd never had a real quiet chance like that before, and it came out that we had a lot to say to each other. I don't know how it was, but the rest of 'em seemed to let us alone. Some was back under the awnin' and others was down stairs, playin' whist. There was singin' too, but we couldn't make out just who was doin' it, and didn't care a whole lot. Anyway, it was the bulliest ride I ever had. The moon come up over Long Island, as big as a bill board and as yellow as a chorus girl's hair; the air was kind of soft and warm, like you gets it in the front room of a Turkish bath place; and there wa'n't anything on either side nearer'n the shore lights, way off in the dark. It wa'n't any time for thinkin' hard of anyone, so we agrees that the lady muck-raker must have been born with a bad taste in her mouth and can't help it, lettin' her slide at that. I forgot what it was we did talk about. It was each other mostly, I guess. You can do that when you've known anyone as long as we had; and it's a comfort, once in a while. After a bit, though, we didn't say much of any thing. I was just lookin' at Sadie. And say, I've seen her when I thought she looked mighty nice, but I'd never got just that view of her before, with the moon kind of touchin' up her red hair, and her cheeks and neck lookin' like white satin. She has a way, too, of starin' off at nothin' at all, sometimes, and then there's a look in her eyes, and a little twist to her mouth corners, that just sets me tinglin' all over with the wantin' to put me arm around her and tell her that no matter who else goes back on her, there'll always be Shorty McCabe to fall back on. It wa'n't anything new or sudden for me. I'd felt like that many a time, and as far back as when her mother ran a prune dispensary next door to my house, and she an' I used to sit on the front steps after supper. She'd have spells of starin' that way then, 'choppin' off a laugh in the middle to do it, and maybe finishin' up with a giggle. I guess that's only the Irish in her, but it always caught me. She must have been lookin' that way then, for the first thing I knows I'd reached out and pulled her up close. She never kicks, but just snuggles her head down on my shoulder, with them blue eyes turned so I could look way down into 'em. At that I draws a deep breath. "Sadie," says I, husky like, "you're the best ever!" She only smiles, kind of sober, but kind of contented, too. "And if I had the nerve," says I, "I'd ask you to be Mrs. Shorty McCabe." "It's too bad you've lost your nerve so sudden," says she. "Wha-a-at!" says I. "Will you, Sadie; will you?" "Silly!" says she. "Of course I will." "Bless the saints!" says I. "When?" "Any time, Shorty," says she. "You've been long enough about it, goodness knows." Well say! You talk about your whirlwind finishes! I guess the crowd that was bunched there in the cabin, sayin' good night, must have thought I'd gone clear off my pivot, the way I comes down the stairs. "Where's the bishop?" says I. "Right here, my boy," says he. "What's the matter?" "Matter?" says I. "Why, it's the greatest thing ever happened, and nobody to it. Folks," I says, "if the bishop is willin', and hasn't forgot his lines, there's goin' to be a weddin' take place right here in the main tent inside of fifteen minutes. Whoop-e-e!" I yells. "Sadie's said she would!" That's the way we did it, too; and for a short notice affair, it was done in style; even to a weddin' march that someone feeds into the pianola and sets goin'. Pinckney digs up a ring, and the bishop gives us the nicest little off-hand talk you ever listens to. I blushes, and Sadie blushes, and Mrs. Twombley-Crane hugs both of us when it's over. Then I has the steward lug up a lot of cold bottles and I breaks a ten year drouth with a whole glass of fizz water. Right in the middle of the toast the sailin' master shows up on the stairs and says: "We're just makin' the harbor, sir." "Forget it, Bassett," says I. "I want you to drink to the health of Mrs. McCabe." And when he hears what's been goin' on, he's the most flabbergasted sailor man I ever saw. After that we all has to go up and take a look at Newport and the warships, but they was all as black and quiet as a side street in Brooklyn after ten o'clock. "Say, it's a shame all them folks ain't in on this," says I. "Bassett, can't you make a little noise, just to let 'em know we're celebratin'?" Bassett thought he could. He hadn't made any mistake, either. In two shakes we had all the lights aboard turned on, and skyrockets whizzin' up as fast as they could be touched off. Did we wake up them warships? Well, rather. First we hears a lot of dinner gongs goin' off. Then colored lanterns was sent up, whistles blew, bugles bugled, and inside of three minutes by the watch there was guns bang-bangin' away like it was the Fourth of July. "Great Scott!" says Pinckney, "I never knew before that the United States navy would turn out in the middle of the night to salute a private yacht." "It depends on who owns the yacht. Eh, Sadie?" says I. By the time the guns got through bangin' we had a dozen search-lights turned on us, and a strong lunged gent on the nearest warship was yellin' things at us through a megaphone. "He wants to know, sir," says Bassett, "if we've got the Secretary of the Navy on board." "Tell him not guilty," says I, and Bassett did. That didn't satisfy Mr. Officer though. "Then why in thunder," says he, "do you make such a fuss coming into the harbor at this time of night?" "Because I've just been gettin' married," says I, in my Bosco voice. "And who the blazes are you?" says he. "Can't you guess?" says I. "I'm Shorty McCabe." "Oh!" says he, and you could hear the ha-ha's come across the water from all along the line. There was a wait for a minute, and then he hails again. "Ahoy, Shorty McCabe!" says he. "The Commodore presents his compliments and says he hopes you liked your wedding salute; and if you don't mind, the gun crews want to give three cheers for Mrs. McCabe." So Sadie and I stands up by the rail, with more lime light on us than we ever had before or since, and about six hundred Jackies gives us their college cry. There wa'n't anything slow about that as a send off for a weddin' tour, was there? But then, as I says to Sadie: "Look who we are." And say, if you'll be on the dock when we come back from Bar Harbor, we'll take you along down to Old Point with us. Eh? Think it over. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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