Shorty McCabe on the Job Part 35

"Sho!" says he. "Why not? I've asked most everybody I've had a chance to talk with ever since I got here, and most of 'em has been mighty accommodatin'. Why, there was one young man that followed me out of the lawyer's office just to tell me of some gold mine stock he knew about that inside of six months was goin' to be worth ten times what it's sellin' for now. Offered to buy me a controllin' interest too."

"You don't mean it!" says I.

"Yes, Sir. Nice, bright feller that didn't know me from Adam," says Uncle Jimmy. "Took me ridin' in one of these here taxicabs and bought me a bang-up hotel dinner. And if it hadn't been that I knew of a Methodist minister once who lost twenty dollars in gold mine stocks, hanged if I wouldn't have invested heavy! But somehow, ever since hearin' of that, I've had an idea gold mines was sort of risky."

"Which ain't such a fool hunch, either," says I.

"Then only this mornin'," goes on Uncle Jimmy enthusiastic, "I runs across a mighty friendly, spruce-dressed pair,--big Pittsburgh fi-nanciers, they said they was,--who was makin' money hand over fist bettin' on hoss races somewheres."

"Well, well!" says I. "Had an operator who'd tapped a poolroom wire and could hold up returns, didn't they?"

"That's it!" says Uncle Jimmy. "They explained just how it was done; but I'm a little slow understandin' such things. Anyway, they took me to a place where I saw one of 'em win two thousand inside of ten minutes; and b'gum, if I'd been a bettin' man, I could have made a heap! I did let one of 'em put up fifty cents for me, and he brought back five dollars in no time. They seemed real put out too when I wouldn't take the chance of a lifetime and bet a thousand on the next race. But somehow I couldn't bring myself to it. What would Cynthy think if she knew I was down here in New York, bettin' on hoss races? No, Sir, I couldn't."

"And you got away with the five, did you?" says I.

"Don't tell," says Uncle Jimmy, "but I slipped it in an envelope and sent it to that shiftless Hank Tuttle, over at the point. You see, Hank guzzles hard cider, and plays penny ante, and is always hard up. He won't know where it come from, and won't care. The fine cigars them two handed out so free I'm keepin' to smoke Sunday afternoons."

"Huh!" says I. "That's a good record so far, Uncle Jimmy. Anything more along that line?"

"Wall," says he, "there was one chance I expect I shouldn't have let slip. Got to talkin' with a feller in the hotel, sort of a hook-nosed, foreign-speakin' man, who's in the show business. He says his brother-in-law, by the name of Goldberg, has got an idea for a musical comedy that would just set Broadway wild and make a mint of money. All he needed to start it was twenty or thirty thousand, and he figured it would bring in four times that the first season. And he was willin' to let me have a half interest in his scheme. I'd gone in too, only from what he said I thought it must be one of these pieces where they have a lot of girls in tights, and--well, I thought of Cynthy again. What would she say to me bein' mixed up with a show of that kind? So I had to drop it."

"Any taxi rides or cigars in that?" says I.

"Just cigars," says Uncle Jimmy.

"But you mean to invest that fifty thousand sooner or later, don't you?"

says I.

"Cap'n Bill said I ought to," says he, "and live off'm the interest.

He's a mighty smart business man, Cap'n Bill is. And I guess I'll find something before long."

"You can't miss it," says I, "specially if you keep on as you've started. But see here, Uncle Jimmy, while I ain't got any wonderful deal of my own for you to put your money in, I might throw out a useful hint or two as to other folk's plans. Suppose you just take my card, and before you tie up with any accommodatin' financiers drop in at the studio, and talk it over with me."

"Why, much obliged, Mr.--er--Professor McCabe," says he, readin' the name off the card. "Mebbe I will."

"Better make it a promise," says I. "I hate to knock our fair village; but now and then you might find a crook in New York."

"So I've heard," says he; "but I kind of think I'd know one if he run afoul of me. And everybody I've met so far has been mighty nice."

Well, what else was there for me to say? There wa'n't any more suspicion in them gentle blue eyes of his than in a baby's. Forty years in Pemaquid! Must be some moss-grown, peaceful spot, where a man can grow up so innocent and simple, and yet have the stuff in him Uncle Jimmy must have had. So I tows him back to 42d-st., points him towards the new lib'ry again, and turns him loose; him in his old blue suit and faded cap, with Cap'n Bill's antique dive chart and certified check for fifty thousand in his inside pocket.

I thought he might show up at the studio in a day or so, to submit some get-rich-quick fake to me. But he didn't. A couple of weeks goes by.

Still no Uncle Jimmy. I was beginnin' to look for accounts in the papers of how an old jay from the coast of Maine had been bunkoed and gone to the police with his tale of woe; but nothin' of the kind appears. They don't always squeal, you know. Maybe he was that kind.

Then here the other day in that big storm we had, as I'm standin' in the doorway hesitatin' about dodgin' out into them slantwise sheets of rain, who should come paddlin' along, his coat collar turned up and his cap pulled down, but Uncle Jimmy Isham.

"Well, well!" says I, makin' room for him in the hallway. "Still here, eh? Gettin' to be a reg'lar Broadway rounder, I expect?"

"No," says he, shakin' the water off of him like a terrier, "I--I can't seem to get used to bein' a city man. Fact is, McCabe, I guess I begun too late. I don't like it at all."

"Homesick for Pemaquid?" says I.

"That's it," says he. "I stove it off until this mornin'. I'd been doin'

fust rate too, goin' to picture shows reg'lar, takin' in the sights, and tryin' to make myself believe I was enjoyin' all the luxuries and refinements of life, like Cap'n Bill said I ought to. But when I woke up at daylight and heard this nor'easter snortin' through the streets I couldn't stand it a mite longer. I dun'no's I can make it plain to you, but--well, this ain't no place to be in a storm. Never saw the surf pile up on Pemaquid Point, did you? Then you ought to once. And I bet it's rollin' in some there now. Yes, Sir! The old graybacks are jest thunderin' in on them rocks with a roar you can hear three miles back in the woods. Roarin' and smashin', they are, grand and mighty and awful.

And I want to be there to see and hear. I got to, that's all. What's shows and museums and ridin' in the subway, compared to a storm on Pemaquid? No, Sir, I can't stand it any longer. I'm goin' back on the Boston boat to-night, and before it's calmed down at the point I'll be there. I'm goin' to stay there too; that is, if I don't move over to the Neck."

"With Cynthy?" says I.

"If she'll let me," says he.

"Got the fifty thousand invested yet?" says I.

"No," says he, droppin' his chin guilty, "I ain't. And I expect Cap'n Bill will call me an old fool. But I couldn't jest seem to find the right thing to put it into. So I'm goin' to stop at Wisca.s.set and leave it at the bank and git 'em to buy me some gover'ment bonds or something.

That won't bring me in much; but it'll be more'n I'll know what to do with. Then I got to see Cynthy. If she says she'll have me, I suppose I'll have to break it to her about the money. I dun'no what she's goin'

to say, either. That's what's botherin' me."

"Yes, Uncle Jimmy," says I, givin' him a farewell grip. "Like the cat in the bird store--you should worry!"

Pemaquid, eh? Say, I'm goin' to hire a guide in Portland and discover that place sometime. I'd like to see Uncle Jimmy again.

CHAPTER XVI

SCRATCH ONE ON BULGAROO

I'd strolled into the front office in my shirt sleeves, and was leanin'

against the gym door listenin' to Pinckney and his friend slangin' each other--and, believe me, it's a wonderful gift to be able to throw the harpoon refined and polite that way!

"Larry," says Pinckney, lookin' him over reproachful, "you are hopeless.

You merely c.u.mber the earth."

"Having made an art of being useless," says Larry, "you should be an excellent judge."

"You think you flatter me," says Pinckney; "but you don't. I live my life as it comes. You are botching yours."

"Hear, hear!" says Larry. "The b.u.t.terfly sermonizes!"

"Insect yourself!" says Pinckney.

"My word!" says Larry. "Chucking entomology at me too! Well, have it that I'm a gra.s.shopper. My legs are long enough."

"It's your ears that are long, Larry," says Pinckney.

"There you go, mixing the metaphor!" says Larry. "So I'm an a.s.s, eh?"

"The word strikes me as beautifully descriptive," says Pinckney.