Shorty McCabe Part 12

"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 Amba.s.sador, 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.

CHAPTER V

It was that little excursion with Mr. Gordon that puts me up to sendin'

over to Williamsburg after Swifty Joe Gallagher, and signin' him as my first a.s.sistant. Thinks I; if I'm liable to go strollin' off like that any more, I've got to have someone that'll keep the joint open while I'm gone. I didn't pick Swifty for his looks, nor for his mammoth intellect.

But he's as straight as a string, and he'll mind like a setter dog.

Well, say, it was lucky I got him just as I did. I hadn't much more'n broke him in before I runs up against this new one. Understand, I ain't no fad chaser. I don't pine for the sporting-extra life, with a new red-ink stunt for every leaf on the calendar-pad. I got me studio here, an' me real-money reg'lars that keeps the shop runnin', and a few of the boys to drop around now and then; so I'm willing to let it go at that.

Course, though, I ain't no side-stepper. I takes what's comin' an' tries to look pleasant.

But this little hot-foot act with Rajah and Pinckney had me dizzy for a few rounds, sure as ever. And I wouldn't thought it of Pinckney. Why, when he first shows up here I says to myself: "Next floor, Reginald, for the manicure." He was one of that kind: slim, white-livered, feather-weight style of chap--looked like he'd been trainin' on Welch rabbits and Egyptian cigarettes at the club for about a year.

"Is this Professor McCabe?" says he.

"You win," says I. "What'll it be? Me cla.s.s in crochet ain't begun yet."

He kind of looked me over steady like, and then he pa.s.ses out a card which says as how he was Lionel Pinckney Ogden Bruce.

"Do I have my choice?" says I. "Cause if I do I nips onto Pinckney--it's cute. Well, Pinckney, what's doing?"

He drapes himself on a chair, gets his little silver-headed stick balanced just so between his knees, pulls his trousers up to high-water mark, and takes an inventory of me from the mat up. And say! when he got through I felt as though he knew it all, from how much I'd weigh in at to where I had my laundry done. Yes, Pinckney had a full set of eyes.

They were black; not just ordinary black, same's a hole in a hat, but shiny an' sparklin', like patent leathers in the sun. If it hadn't been for them eyes you might have thought he was one of the eight-day kind that was just about to run down. I ought to have got next to Pinckney's model, just by his lamps; but I didn't. I'm learnin', though, and if I last long enough I'll be a wise guy some day.

Well, when Pinckney finishes his census of me he says: "Professor, I wish to take a private course, or whatever you call it. I would like to engage your exclusive services for about three weeks."

"Chic, chic!" says I. "Things like that come high, young man."

Pinckney digs up a sweet little check-book, unlimbers a fountain-pen, and asks: "How much, please?"

"Seein' as this is the slack season with me, I'll make it fifty per,"

says I.

"Hour or day?" says he.

Maybe I was breathin' a bit hard, but I says careless like: "Oh, call it fifty a day and expenses."