Shorty McCabe on the Job Part 41

"You can lug him along, can't you?" says I. "Make it a four-cornered affair. The more the merrier."

"He's such a diffident, shy chap, though," goes on Steele, "and after five years in the bush----"

"Oh, a dose of Mrs. Hollister will do him good," says I. "She won't mind. She'll be bein' bored. Just 'phone her and explain. And remind her when she's gettin' her costume that this ain't any church sociable we're attendin'."

Honest, I was more leery on that point than about anything else; for you know how giddy they doll up at them joints, and while her taste in stained gla.s.s windows might be strictly up to date, when it comes to flossin' up for the Maison Maxixe--well, no gray-and-white, back-number regalia would do there. If we wa'n't shut out, we'd be guyed to death.

So about seven-thirty Sat.u.r.day night I was some chilly in the ankles.

I'd called for J. Bayard at his hotel, and he'd shown up with the Major.

No figment of the imagination, either, the Major. He's a big, husky, rich-colored party that's some imposin' and decorative in open-faced togs; quiet and shy actin', though, just as Steele had said. I sort of took to him, and we swaps friendly greetin's.

"All aboard now," says I, "and we'll collect our widow."

Which seems to startle the Major more or less. "I say, Bayard," he puts in, "you didn't tell me she was a widow, you know. Perhaps, after all, I'd best not----"

"Ah, she ain't the net-wieldin' kind," says I soothin'. "She'll tell you all about her dear departed and the memorial window. About as gay as Trinity Church on Ash Wednesday, she is. Come along."

Can you blame him, then, for glancin' reproachful at me when he sees what answers our call at the Lady Louise a few minutes later? I lets go of a few gasps myself; while J. Bayard--well, he just stares at her with his mouth open.

For, take it from me, Mrs. Hollister had connected! Uh-huh! Not with any last fall outfit, nor yesterday's. About day after to-morrow's, I should call it. And if there wa'n't zipp and scream to it, then I'm shortsighted in the eyes. My guess is that it's a mixture of the last word in Byzantine effects, with a Cleopatra girdle and a Martha Washington polonaise. Anyway, if there ain't much above the waist line but gauze and strips of fur, there's plenty of flare below, as far as the ankles. Lucky she'd invested in a generous fur-lined wrap to go with it, or I wouldn't have stirred a step until we'd draped her in a rug or something. I ain't sayin' much about the feather affair clamped around her head in place of a hat; only it reminds me of an Indian war bonnet that's been through a hard blow.

"Well, Bayard," says she, floatin' up to us wabbly on her high heels, "you see I'm ready."

"Ye-e-es," says Steele draggy. And while I pushes the Major to the front almost by main strength, J. Bayard presents him.

After that, though--say, I don't know when I've seen two parties indulge in such a long and earnest look at each other as Major Ben and Mrs.

Hollister did then. While the Major flushes rosy and hardly has a word to say for himself, he just naturally glues his lamps to her and don't let 'em roam. Believe me too, she was some giddy picture! Wa'n't such a bad looker, you know, in her other rig; but in this zippy regalia--well, I got to admit that she's some ripe pippin. Her big brown eyes is sparklin', she's smilin' coy as she looks the Major up and down, and the next thing we know blamed if she ain't cuddled right up to him and remarked kittenish:

"You dear man! I'm going to let you take me out to the cab."

Well, that was the programme from then on. It was the Major and Mrs.

Hollister first, with me and J. Bayard trailin' on behind. We'd had some debate beforehand as to whether this should be a dry dinner or not, endin' by Steele announcin' he was goin' to take a chance on Martinis anyhow. Does she shy at the appetizer? Say, she was clinkin' gla.s.ses with the Major before J. Bayard has a chance to reach for his. Same way with the fizz that J. B. has put in a hurry order for.

"Bored to death, ain't she?" I remarks behind my hand.

And before the fillet of sole was served the Major had unlimbered his conversation works, and that pair was havin' about the chattiest time of any couple in the place, with me and J. Bayard stranded on the side lines.

"Do you know, my dear Major," we hears her announce about nine-fifteen, as she toys with a three-dollar portion of roast pheasant, "I had no idea New York could be like this. Then there are the theaters, the opera. I believe I shall stay up for the rest of the season."

"Good!" says the Major. "I shall stay too."

Half an hour later, while he was showin' her how to burn brandy on her demita.s.se, I nudges Steele.

"Say," I whispers, "me for a spot where I ain't formin' a crowd!"

Steele takes a hasty glance at 'em. "I--I'm with you," says he.

"What!" says I. "Goin' to hand him over to her?"

He nods. "Well," says I, "I guess that'll pa.s.s for a kind deed."

"Also somewhat of a generous one," says he, exhibitin' the footin' of the dinner bill he's just settled for.

I don't think they noticed, either of 'em, when we did our sneak. Once outside, J. Bayard takes a long breath, like he was relieved at havin'

shifted something. Then he sort of sighs.

"Poor old Ben!" says he.

"Gwan!" says I. "You never can tell. Maybe he'll like playin' the devoted slave act for the rest of his life. Besides, she's on a new tack. The Major's quite a husk too. I'll bet he don't qualify for any memorial window. Not him!"

CHAPTER XVIII

TRAILING DUDLEY THROUGH A TRANCE

The Adamses hadn't been in the neighborhood two weeks before Sadie's discovered Veronica and was ravin' over her. "Isn't she perfectly stunning, Shorty?" she demands.

"Now that you mention it, I expect she is," says I, playin' safe and foxy. It's a useful phrase to pull in such cases; but here was once when I must have worked it overtime. Sadie sniffs.

"Pooh!" says she. "Just as though you couldn't see for yourself! Don't be absurd, Shorty."

"Gee! but you're hard to suit!" says I. "If I remember right, the last time I got enthusiastic over the looks of a young queen you wrinkled your nose and made remarks about my taste."

"It was that snippy little Marjorie Lowry with the baby face, wasn't it?" says she. "Oh, very well, if you prefer that kind. Just like a man!"

"Do I have to pick either one?" says I. "I hope not; for, between you and me, Sadie, I'm satisfied as it stands."

"Goose!" says she, snugglin' up forgivin'. "And--would you guess it?--they say she's twenty-six! I wonder why she isn't married?"

"There you go!" says I. "I could see it comin'."

"But she is such an attractive girl," goes on Sadie, "so well poised, graceful, dignified, all that! And she has such exquisite coloring, and such charming manners!"

Yep, I guess it was all so. One of these wavin' palm models, Veronica was,--tall and willowy, with all the cla.s.sy points of a heroine in a thirty-five-cent magazine serial,--dark eyes, dark, wavy hair, good color scheme in her cheeks,--the whole bag of tricks,--and specially long on dignity. Say, she had me m.u.f.fled from the first tap of the bell, and you know how apt I am to try to break that sort of spell with a few frivolous cracks. Not when Veronica swings on me with that calm gaze of hers, though!

For Sadie don't do a thing but call on the Adamses, give a tea for Veronica, and proceed to round up all the Johnnies in sight to meet her.

It's her reg'lar campaign, you know.

"Ah, why not let the poor girl alone?" says I. "Maybe she's got one in trainin' somewhere herself. There's no tellin', too, but what she's stayin' single from choice."

"Humph!" says Sadie. "Only the homely ones are ent.i.tled to give that excuse, because they have no other; and only a stupid man would believe it in either case. I suppose Miss Adams hasn't married because the right man hasn't asked her. Sometimes they don't, you know. But it's a perfect shame, and if I can help the right one to find her I'm going to do it."

"Sure you are," says I. "That's the skirt instinct. But, say, while the men still have the vote all to themselves they ought to revise the game laws by declarin' a close season on bachelors, say from the fifteenth of August to the fifteenth of December."

"Too bad about the young men, isn't it?" says Sadie. "Anyone would think we set traps for them."