The Definite Object Part 12

"This evening, I guess. But, Geoff--say now, do I look like a real crook--do I?"

"No, you don't, Spike, that's sure! And yet--only last night--"

"Ah, yes, I know--I know!" groaned the lad, "but I was crazy, I think.

It was the whisky, Geoff, an' they doped me too, I guess! I don't remember much after we left till I found myself in your swell joint.

G.o.d! if I was only sure they doped me."

"Who?"

"Who? Why--gee, you nearly had me talking that time! Nix on the questions, Geoff, I ain't goin' to give 'em away; it ain't playin'

square. Only, if two or three guys dopes a guy till a guy's think-box is like a cheese an' his mind as clear as mud, that poor guy ain't to be blamed for it, now, is he?"

"Why, certainly!" nodded Ravenslee.

"How d' ye make that out?"

"For being such a fool of a guy as to let other guys fool him, of course. Sounds a little cryptic, but I guess you understand."

"Oh, I get you!" sighed Spike drearily. "But say, didn't you come out to buy a toothbrush?"

"And other things, yes."

"Well, say, s'pose we quit chewing th' rag an' start in an' get 'em.

There's a Sheeny store on Ninth Avenue where you can get dandy shirts for fifty cents a throw."

"Sounds fairly reasonable!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee as they turned up Thirty-ninth Street.

"Then you want a new lid, Geoff!"

Mr. Ravenslee took off the battered hat and looked at it.

"What's the matter with this?" he enquired.

"Nothin', Geoff, only it wants burnin'," sighed Spike. "An' then--them boots--oh, gee!"

"Are they so bad as that?"

"Geoff, they sure are the punkest pavement pounders in little old N'

York. Why, a Dago hodcarrier wouldn't be seen dead in 'em; look at th'

patches. Gee whizz! Where did His Whiskers dig 'em up from?"

"I fancy they were his own--once," answered Mr. Ravenslee, surveying his bulbous, be-patched footgear a little ruefully.

"Well, I'll gamble a stack of blue chips there ain't such a phoney pair in Manhattan Village."

"They're not exactly things of beauty, I'll admit," sighed Mr.

Ravenslee, "but still--"

"They're rotten, Geoff! They're all to the garbage can! They are the cheesiest proposition in sidewalk slappers I ever piped off!"

"Hum! You're inclined to be a trifle discouraging, Spike!"

"Why, ye see, Geoff, I wan'cher t' meet th' push, an' I don't want 'em to think I'm floatin' around with a down-an'-out from Battyville! You must have some real shoes, Geoff."

"Enough--it shall be done!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee.

"Well, tan Oxfords are all to th' grapes just now, Geoff. I don't mean those giddy-lookin' pumps with flossy bows onto 'em, but somethin'

sporty, good an' yellow that'll flash an' let folks know you're comin'.

And here's Eckstein's!"

With which abrupt remark Spike plunged into a shop, very dark and narrow by reason of a heterogeneous collection of garments, of ribbons and laces, of collars and ties of many shapes and hues, together with a thousand and one other things that displayed themselves from floor to ceiling; amidst which, Mr. Ravenslee observed a stir, a slight confusion, and from a screen of vivid-bosomed shirts a head protruded itself, round as to face and sleek as to hair.

"Greetin's, Ikey!" said Spike, nodding to the head. "How's pork to-day?"

"Aw--vat you vant now, hey?" enquired the head. "Vat's the vord; now--shpit it out!"

"It ain't me, Moses, it's me friend wants a sporty fit-out an' discount for spot cash, see? Show us your half-dollar shirts for a starter--an'

sporty ones, mind!"

Immediately out came drawers and down came boxes, and very soon the small counter was littered with piles of raiment variously gaudy which Spike viewed and disparaged with such knowing judgment that the salesman's respect proportionately grew, and Mr. Ravenslee, lounging in the background, was forgotten quite, the while they chaffered after this manner:

Salesman. "Here vos a shirt as can't be beat for der money--neglegee boosom an' turnover cuffs, warranted shrunk, and all for vun dollar."

Spike. "Come off, Aaron, come off! Fifty cents is th' bid!"

Salesman. "Fifty cents? Vy, on Broadvay dey'd sharge you--"

Spike. "Wake up, Ike! This ain't Broadway! And fifty's the limit!"

Salesman. "But shust look at dem pink shtripes--so vide as an inch! Dere's fifty cents' vorth of dye in dem shtripes, an' I'll give it you for seventy-five cents! On Broadvay--"

Spike. "We're gettin' there, Ikey, we're gettin' there; keep on, fifty's the call!"

Salesman. "Fifty cents! Oi! Oi! I vould be ruined! A neglegee boosom and turnover cuffs! Vell, vell--I'll wrap it up, so--an' I make you a present of it for--sixty! An' on Broadvay--"

Spike. "Come on, Geoff, Aaron's talking in his sleep! Come on, we'll go on to Mendelbaum's; see--we want shirts, an' ties, an' socks, an' collars, an'--"

Salesman. "Vait--vait! Mendelbaum's a grafter--vait! I got th'

best selection of socks an' ties on Ninth Av'noo, an' here's a neglegee shirt with turnover cuffs--an' only fifty cents. But at Mendelbaum's or on Broadvay--"

In this way Mr. Ravenslee became possessed of sundry shirts whose bosoms blushed in striped and spotted splendour, of vivid-hued ties and of handkerchiefs with flaming borders. From shop to shop Spike led him and, having a free hand, bought right royally, commanding that their purchases be sent around hotfoot to Mulligan's. Thus Spike ordered, and Mr. Ravenslee dutifully paid, marvelling that so much might be bought for so little.

"I guess that's about all the fixings you'll need, Geoff!" said Spike, as they elbowed their way along the busy avenue.

"Well," answered Mr. Ravenslee, as he filled his pipe, "it will certainly take me some time to wear 'em out--especially those shirts!"

"They sure are dandies, Geoff! Yes, those shirts are all to the lollipops, but say, you made a miscue gettin' them black shoes," and here Spike turned to stare down at his companion's newly acquired footwear. "Why not buy the yellow boys I rustled up for you. They sure were some shoes!"

"They were indeed, Spike."