Shorty McCabe on the Job Part 33

"Oh!" says Sister Evelyn, liftin' her eyebrows sarcastic. "Will you?"

Well, that's just what J. Bayard and I have been askin' each other ever since. Anyway, he's gone. Showed up here in the studio the last thing, wearin' a wide-brimmed felt hat with a leather band--and if that don't signify somethin' wild and rough, I don't know what does.

"Rather an impetuous nature, Gerald's," observes Steele. "I hope it doesn't get him into trouble down there."

"Who knows?" says I. "Next thing we may be hearin' how he's tried to stab some Spaniard with a whisk broom."

CHAPTER XV

SHORTY HEARS FROM PEMAQUID

It was mostly my fault. I'd left the Physical Culture Studio and was swingin' east across 42d-st. absentminded, when I takes a sudden notion to have lunch at my favorite chophouse joint on Broadway, and it was the quick turn I made that causes the collision.

I must have hit him kind of solid too; for his steel-rimmed gla.s.ses are jarred off, and before I can pick 'em up they've been stepped on.

"Sorry, old scout," says I. "Didn't know you'd dodged in behind. And it's my buy on the eyegla.s.ses."

"Sho!" says he. "No great harm done, young man. But them specs did cost me a quarter in Portland, and if you feel like you----"

"Sure thing!" says I. "Here's a half--get a good pair this time."

"No, Son," says he, "a quarter's all they cost, and Jim Isham never takes more'n his due. Just wait till I git out the change."

So I stands there lookin' him over while he unwraps about four yards of fishline from around the neck of a leather money pouch. Odd old Rube he was, straight and lean, and smoked up like a dried herring.

"There you be," says he, countin' out two tens and a five.

Course, I'd felt better if he'd kept the half. The kale pouch wa'n't so heavy, and from the seedy blue suit and the faded old cap I judged he could use that extra quarter. But somehow I couldn't insist.

"All right, Cap," says I. "Next time I turn sudden I'll stick my hand out." I was movin' off when I notices him still standin' sort of hesitatin'. "Well?" I adds. "Can I help?"

"You don't happen to know," says he, "of a good eatin' house where it don't cost too all-fired much to git a square meal, do you?"

"Why," says I, "I expect over on Eighth-ave., you could----" And then I gets this rash notion of squarin' the account by blowin' him to a real feed. Course, I might be sorry; but he looks so sort of lonesome and helpless that I decides on takin' a chance. "Say, you come with me,"

says I, "and lemme stack you up against the real thing in Canadian mutton chops."

"If it don't cost over twenty-five cents," says he.

"It won't," says I, smotherin' a grin. He wa'n't a grafter, anyway, and the only way I could ease his mind on the expense question was to let him hand me a quarter before we went in, and make him think that covered his share. Max, the head waiter, winks humorous as he sees who I'm towin' in; but he gives us a table by a Broadway window and surprises the old boy by pullin' out his chair respectful.

"Much obliged, Mister," says Jim Isham. "Much obliged."

With that he hangs his old cap careful on the candle shade. It's one of these oldtime blizzard headpieces, with sides that you can turn down over your ears and neck. Must have worn that some constant; for from the bushy eyebrows up he's as white as a piece of chalk, and with the rest of his face so coppery it gives him an odd, skewbald look.

I expected a place like Collins's, with all its pictures and rugs and fancy silverware, would surprise him some; but he don't seem at all fussed. He tucks his napkin under his chin natural and gazes around int'rested. He glances suspicious at a wine cooler that's carted by, and when the two gents at the next table are served with tall gla.s.ses of ale he looks around as if he was locatin' an exit. Next he digs into an inside pocket, hauls out a paper, spreads it on the table, and remarks:

"Let's see, Mister--jest about where are we now?"

I gives him the cross street and the Broadway number, and he begins tracin' eager with his finger. Fin'lly he says:

"All correct. Right in the best of the water."

"Eh?" says I. "What's that you've got there?"

"Sailin' directions," says he, smilin' apologetic. "You mustn't mind; but for a minute there, seein' all the liquor bein' pa.s.sed around, I didn't know but what I'd got among the rocks and shoals. But it's all right. Full ten fathom, and plenty of sea room."

"Too tarry for me," says I. "Meanin' what, now?"

He chuckles easy. "Why, it's this way," says he: "You see, before I starts from home I talks it over with Cap'n Bill Logan. 'Jim,' says he, 'if you're goin' to cruise around New York you need a chart.'--'Guess you're right, Cap'n Bill,' says I. 'Fix me up one, won't ye?' And that's what he done. You see, Cap'n Bill knows New York like a book. Used to sail down here with ice from the Kennebec, and sometimes, while he was dischargin' cargo, he'd lay in here for a week at a time. Great hand to knock around too, Cap'n Bill is, and mighty observin'."

"So he made a map for you, did he?" says I.

"Not exactly," says Mr. Isham. "Found one in an old guide book and fixed it up like a chart, markin' off the reefs and shoals in red ink, and the main channels in black fathom figures. Now here's Front and South-sts., very shoal, dangerous pa.s.sin' at any tide. There's a channel up the Bowery; but it's crooked and full of buoys and beacons. I ain't tackled that yet. I've stuck to Broadway and Fifth-ave. All clear sailin'

there."

"Think so?" says I. "Let's see that chart?"

He pa.s.ses it over willin' enough. And, say, for a sailor's guide to New York, that was a peach! Cap'n Bill Logan's idea seems to have been to indicate all the crooked joints, gamblin' halls, and such with red daggers. Must have been some investigator too; for in spots they was sprinkled thick, with the names written alongside. When I begun readin'

some of 'em, though, I snickers.

"What's this on the Bowery?" says I. "Suicide Hall?"

"You bet!" says he. "Cap'n Bill warned me about that special."

"Did, eh?" says I. "Well, he needn't; for it's been out of business for years. So has Honest John Kelly's, and Theiss's, and Stevenson's. What vintage is this, anyway? When was it your friend took in the sights last?"

"Wall, I guess it's been quite awhile," says Jim Isham, rubbin' his chin. "Let's see, Bill opened the store in '95, and for a couple of years before that he was runnin' the shingle mill. Yes, it must have been nigh twenty years ago."

"Back in the days of the Parkhurst crusade," says I. "Yes, I expect all them dives was runnin' full blast once. But there ain't one of 'em left."

"Sho!" says he. "You don't say! Gov'ment been improvin' the channels, same as they done in h.e.l.l Gate?"

"Something like that," says I. "Only not quite the same; for when them h.e.l.l Gate rocks was blown up that was the end of 'em. But we get a fresh crop of red light joints every season. You tell Cap'n Bill when you get back that his wickedness chart needs revisin'."

"I'll write him that, b'gum!" says Mr. Isham. "Maybe that's why I couldn't locate this reservoir he said I ought to see, the one I was huntin' for when we fouled. See, it says corner of 42d and Fifth-ave., plain as day; but all I could find was that big white buildin' with the stone lions in front."

"Naturally," says I; "for they tore the old reservoir down years ago and built the new city lib'ry on the spot. But how was it your friend put in so many warnin's against them old dives? You didn't come on to cultivate a late crop of wild oats, did you?"

"Nary an oat," says he, shakin' his head solemn. "I ain't much of a churchgoer; but I've always been a moderate, steady-goin' man. It was on account of my havin' this money to invest."

"Oh!" says I. "Much?"

"Fifty thousand dollars," says he.

I glances at him puzzled. Was it a case of loose wirin', or was this old jay tryin' to hand me the end of the twine ball? Just then, though, along comes Hermann with a couple of three-inch combination chops and a dish of baked potatoes all broke open and decorated with b.u.t.ter and paprika; and for the next half-hour Mr. Isham's conversation works are clogged for fair. Not that he's one of these human sausage machines; but he has a good hearty Down East appet.i.te and a habit of attendin'