Shorty McCabe Part 11

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-b.u.t.tons on a Broadway cop, and he hardly knew whether he was waitin' on table, or makin' up a berth.

With his second gla.s.s of fizz Sir Peter began to thaw a little. He hadn't paid much attention to me for a while, pa.s.sin' 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-sh.e.l.l crab. I slips down the state-room pa.s.sage, 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 b.u.t.tin'

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 seance 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 gla.s.s 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."