Kitabı oku: «Side-stepping with Shorty», sayfa 9

"Do you know," says he, "if I was in the mood for that sort of thing, I'd be charmed; but – er – "

"Oh, fudge!" says Chetty. "I expect you'd rather recite us some poetry?" And at that one of Chester's chums snickers right out. Sylvie flushes up like some one had slapped him on the wrist.

"Beg pardon," says he; "but I believe I will try it for a little while," and he holds out his paws for me to slip on the gloves.

"Better shed the parlour clothes," says I. "You're liable to get 'em dusty," which last tickles the audience a lot.

He didn't want to peel off even his Tuxedo; but jollies him into lettin' go of it, and partin' with his collar and white tie and eye glasses too. That was as far as he'd go, though.

Course, it was kind of a low down game to put up on anybody; but Curlylocks wa'n't outclassed any in height, nor much in weight; and, seein' as how he'd kind of laid himself open to something of the sort, I didn't feel as bad as I might. All the time, Chester was tryin' to keep the grin off his face, and his chums was most wearin' their elbows out nudgin' each other.

"Now," says I, when I've got Curlylocks ready for the slaughter, "what'll it be – two-minute rounds?"

"Quite satisfactory," says Sylvie; and Chetty nods.

"Then let 'er go!" says I, steppin' back.

One thing I've always coached Chester on, was openin' lively. It don't make any difference whether the mitts are hard or soft, whether it's a go to a finish or a private bout for fun, there's no sense in wastin' the first sixty seconds in stirrin' up the air. The thing to do is to bore in. And Chester didn't need any urgin'. He cuts loose with both bunches, landin' a right on the ribs and pokin' the left into the middle of Sylvie's map; so sudden that Mr. Poet heaves up a grunt way from his socks.

"Ah, string it out, Chetty," says I. "String it out, so's it'll last longer."

But he's like a hungry kid with a hokypoky sandwich, – he wants to take it all at one bite. And maybe if I'd been as much gone on Angelica as he was, and had been put on a siding for this moonlight po'try business, I'd been just as anxious. So he wades in again with as fine a set of half arm jolts as he has in stock.

By this time Sylvie has got his guard up proper, and is coverin' himself almost as good as if he knew how. He does it a little awkward; but somehow, Chetty couldn't seem to get through.

"Give him the cross hook!" sings out one of the boys.

Chester tries, but it didn't work. Then he springs another rush, and they goes around like a couple of pinwheels, with nothin' gettin' punished but the gloves.

"Time!" says I, and leads Sylvie over to a chair. He was puffin' some, but outside of that he was as good as new. "Good blockin', old man," says I. "You're doin' fine. Keep that up and you'll be all right."

"Think so?" says he, reachin' for the towel.

The second spasm starts off different. Curlylocks seems to be more awake than he was, and the first thing we knows he's fiddlin' for an openin' in the good old fashioned way.

"And there's where you lose out, son," thinks I.

I hadn't got through thinkin' before things begun happenin'. Sylvie seems to unlimber from the waist up, and his arms acted like he'd let out an extra link in 'em. Funny I hadn't noticed that reach of his before. For a second or so he only steps around Chester, shootin' out first one glove and then the other, and plantin' little love pats on different parts of him, as if he was locatin' the right spots.

Chetty don't like havin' his bumps felt of that way, and comes back with a left swing followed by an upper cut. They was both a little wild, and they didn't connect. That wa'n't the worst of it, though. Before he's through with that foolishness Sylvie turns them long arms of his into a rapid fire battery, and his mitts begin to touch up them spots he's picked out at the rate of about a hundred bull's eyes to the minute. It was bing – bing – bing – biff! – with Chetty's arms swingin' wide, and his block rockin', and his breath comin' short, and his knees gettin' as wabbly as a new boy speakin' a piece. Before I can call the round Curlylocks has put the steam into a jaw punch that sends Chester to the mat as hard as though he'd been dropped out of a window.

"Is – is it all over?" says Chetty when he comes to, a couple of minutes later.

"If you leave it to me," says I, "I should say it was; unless Mr. What's-his-name here wants to try that same bunch of tricks on me. How about it?"

"Much obliged, professor," says Curlylocks, givin' a last hitch to his white tie; "but I've seen you in the ring."

"Well," says I, "I've heard you recite po'try; so we're even. But say, you make a whole lot better showin' in my line than I would in yours, and if you ever need a backer in either, just call on me."

We shakes hands on that; and then Chetty comes to the front, man fashion, with his flipper out, too. That starts the reunion, and when I leaves 'em, about one A. M., the Scotch and ginger ale tide was runnin' out fast.

How about Angelica? Ah, say, next mornin' there shows up a younger, fresher, gushier one than she is, and inside of half an hour her and Curlylocks is close together on a bench, and he's got the little book out again. Angelica pines in the background for about three minutes before Chester comes around with the tourin' car, and the last I see of 'em they was snuggled up together in the back of the tonneau. So I guess Chetty don't need much sympathisin' with, even if he was passed a couple of lime drops.

XIII
GIVING BOMBAZOULA THE HOOK

Maybe I was tellin' you something about them two rockin' chair commodores from the yacht club, that I've got on my reg'lar list? They're some of Pinckney's crowd, you know, and that's just as good as sayin' they're more ornamental than useful. Anyway, that description's a close fit for Purdy.

First off I couldn't stand for Purdy at all. He's one of these natty, band box chappies, with straw coloured hair slicked down as smooth as if he'd just come up from a dive, and a costume that looks as if it might have been copied from a stained glass window. You've seen them symphonies in greys and browns, with everything matched up, from their shirt studs to their shoes buttons? Now, I don't mind a man's bein' a swell dresser – I've got a few hot vests myself – but this tryin' to be a Mr. Pastelle is runnin' the thing into the ground.

Purdy could stand all the improvin' the tailor could hand him, though. His eyes was popped just enough to give him a continual surprised look, and there was more or less of his face laid out in nose. Course, he wa'n't to blame for that; but just the same, when he gets to comin' to the Studio twice a week for glove work and the chest weights, I passes him over to Swifty Joe. Honest, I couldn't trust myself to hit around that nose proper. But Swifty uses him right. Them clothes of Purdy's had got Swifty goin', and he wouldn't have mussed him for a farm.

After I'd got used to seein' Purdy around, I didn't mind him so much myself. He seemed to be a well meanin', quiet, sisterly sort of a duck, one of the kind that fills in the corners at afternoon teas, and wears out three pairs of pumps every winter leadin' cotillions. You'll see his name figurin' in the society notes: how Mrs. Burgess Jones gave a dinner dance at Sherry's for the younger set, and the cotillion was led by Mr. Purdy Bligh. Say, how's that as a steady job for a grown man, eh?

But so long as I'm treated square by anyone, and they don't try to throw any lugs around where I am, I don't feel any call to let 'em in on my private thoughts. So Purdy and me gets along first rate; and the next thing I knows he's callin' me Shorty, and bein' as glad to see me when he comes in as if I was one of his old pals. How you goin' to dodge a thing of that kind? And then, 'fore I knows what's comin', I'm right in the middle of this Bombazoula business.

It wa'n't anything I butted into on purpose, now you can take that straight. It was this way: I was doin' my reg'lar afternoon stroll up the avenue, not payin' much attention to anything in particular, when a cab pulls up at the curb, and I looks around, to see Purdy leanin' over the apron and makin' motions at me with his cane.

"Hello!" says I. "Have they got you strapped in so you can't get out?"

"By Jove!" says he, "I never thought of jumping out, you know. Beg pardon, old man, for hailing you in that fashion, but – "

"Cut it!" says I. "I ain't so proud as all that. What's doin'?"

"It's rather a rummy go," says he; "but where can I buy some snakes?"

"That's rummy, all right," says I. "Have you tried sendin' him to an institute?"

"Sending who?" says he.

"Oh!" says I. "I figured this was a snake cure, throwin' a scare into somebody, that you was plannin'."

"Oh, dear, no," says Purdy. "They're for Valentine. He's fond of snakes, you know – can't get along without them. But they must be big ones – spotted, rings around them, and all that."

"Gee!" says I. "Vally's snake tastes must be educated 'way up! Guess you'll have to give in your order down at Lefty White's."

"And where is that?" says he.

"William street, near the bridge," says I. "Don't you know about Lefty's?"

Well, he didn't; hadn't ever been below the bridge on the East Side in his life; and wouldn't I please come along, if I could spare the time.

So I climbs in alongside Purdy and the cane, and off we goes down town, at the rate of a dollar 'n' a half an hour. I hadn't got out more'n two questions 'fore Purdy cuts loose with the story of his life.

"It's almost the same as asking me to choose my lot in the cemetery," says he, "this notion of Aunt Isabella's for sending me out to buy snakes."

"I thought it was Valentine they was for?" says I. "Where does he come in?"

That fetches us to Chapter One, which begins with Aunt Isabella. It seems that some time back, after she'd planted one hubby in Ohio and another in Greenwood, and had pinned 'em both down secure with cut granite slabs, aunty had let herself go for another try. This time she gets an Englishman. He couldn't have been very tough, to begin with, for he didn't last long. Neither did a brother of his; although you couldn't lay that up against Isabella, as brother in law got himself run over by a train. About all he left was a couple of fourteen-year-old youngsters stranded in a boarding school. That was Purdy and Valentine, and they was only half brothers at that, with nobody that they could look up to for anything more substantial than sympathy. So it was up to the step-aunt to do the rescue act.

Well, Isabella has accumulated all kinds of dough; but she figures out that the whole of one half brother was about all she wanted as a souvenir to take home from dear old England. She looks the two of 'em over for a day, tryin' to decide which to take, and then Purdy's 'lasses coloured hair wins out against Valentine's brick dust bangs. She finds a job for Vally, a place where he can almost earn a livin', gives him a nice new prayer book and her blessin', and cuts him adrift in the fog. Then she grabs Purdy by the hand and catches the next boat for New York.

From then on it's all to the downy for Purdy, barrin' the fact that the old girl's more or less tryin' to the nerves. She buys herself a double breasted house just off the avenue, gives Purdy the best there is goin', and encourages him to be as ladylike as he knows how.

And say, what would you expect? I'd hate to think of what I'd be now if I'd been brought up on a course of dancin' school, music lessons, and Fauntleroy suits. What else was there for Purdy to do but learn to drink tea with lemon in it, and lead cotillions? Aunt Isabella's been takin' on weight and losin' her hearin'. When she gets so that she can't eat chicken salad and ice cream at one A. M. without rememberin' it for three days, and she has to buy pearls to splice out her necklace, and have an extra wide chair put in her op'ra box, she begins to sour on the merry-merry life, scratches half the entries on her visitin' list, and joins old lady societies that meet once a month in the afternoon.

"Of course," says Purdy, "I had no objection to all that. It was natural. Only after she began to bring Anastasia around, and hint very plainly what she expected me to do, I began to get desperate."

"Stashy wa'n't exactly your idea of a pippin, eh?" says I.

That was what. Accordin' to Purdy's shorthand notes, Stashy was one of these square chinned females that ought to be doin' a weight liftin' act with some tent show. But she wa'n't. She had too much out at int'rest for that, and as she didn't go in for the light and frivolous she has to have something to keep her busy. So she starts out as a lady preventer. Gettin' up societies to prevent things was her fad. She splurges on 'em, from the kind that wants to put mufflers on steamboat whistles, to them that would like to button leggins on the statues of G. Wash. For all that, though, she thinks it's her duty to marry some man and train him, and between her and Aunt Isabella they'd picked out Purdy for the victim.

"While you'd gone and tagged some pink and white, mink lined Daisy May?" says I.

"I hadn't thought about getting married at all," says Purdy.

"Then you might's well quit squirmin'," says I. "If you've got two of that kind plannin' out your future, there ain't any hope."

Then we gets down to Valentine, the half brother that has been cut loose. Just as Purdy has given it to aunty straight that he'd rather drop out of two clubs and have his allowance cut in half, than tie up to any such tailor made article as Anastasia, and right in the middle of Aunt Isabella's gettin' purple faced and puffy eyed over it, along comes a lengthy letter from Valentine.

It ain't any hard luck wheeze, either. He's no hungry prod., Vally ain't. He's been doin' some tall climbin', all these years that Purdy's been collectin' pearl stick pins and gold cigarette cases, and changin' his clothes four times a day. Vally has jumped from one job to another, played things clear across the board and the ends against the middle, chased the pay envelope almost off the edge of the map, and finished somewhere on the east coast of Africa, where he bosses a couple of hundred coloured gentlemen in the original package, and makes easy money by bein' agent for a big firm of London iv'ry importers. He'd been makin' a trip to headquarters with a cargo, and was on his way back to the iv'ry fields, when the notion struck him to stop off in New York and say howdy to Aunt Isabella and Brother Purd.

"And she hasn't talked about anything but Valentine since," says Purdy.

"It's Vally's turn to be it; eh?" says I.

"You'd think so if you could hear them," says he. "Anastasia is just as enthusiastic."

"You ain't gettin' jealous, are you?" says I.

Purdy unreefs the sickliest kind of a grin you ever saw. "I was as pleased as anyone," says he, "until I found out the whole of Aunt Isabella's plan."

And say, it was a grand right and left that she'd framed up. Matin' Stashy up with Valentine instead of Purdy was only part. Her idea was to induce Vally to settle down with her, and ship Purdy off to look after the iv'ry job.

"Only fancy!" says Purdy. "It's a place called Bombazoula! Why, you can't even find it on the chart. I'd die if I had to live in such a dreadful place."

"Is it too late to get busy and hand out the hot air to Stashy?" says I. "Looks to me like it was either you for her, or Bombazoula for you."

"Don't!" says Purdy, and he shivers like I'd slipped an icicle down his back. Honest, he was takin' it so hard I didn't have the heart to rub it in.

"Maybe Valentine'll renig – who knows?" says I. "He may be so stuck on Africa that she can't call him off."

"Oh, Aunt Isabella has thought of that," says he. "She is so provoked with me that she will do everything to make him want to stay; and if I remember Valentine, he'll be willing. Besides, who would want to live in Africa when they could stop in New York? But I do think she might have sent some one else after those snakes."

"Oh, yes!" says I. "I'd clean forgot about them. Where do they figure in this?"

"Decoration," says Purdy. "In my old rooms too!"

Seems that Stashy and aunty had been reading up on Bombazoula, and they'd got it down fine. Then they turns to and lays themselves out to fix things up for Valentine so homelike and comfortable that, even if he was ever so homesick for the jungle, like he wrote he was, he wouldn't want to go any farther.

First they'd got a lot of big rubber trees and palms, and filled the rooms full of 'em, with the floors covered with stage grass, and half a dozen grey parrots to let loose. They'd even gone so far as to try to hire a couple of fake Zulus from a museum to come up and sing the moonrise song; so's Vally wouldn't be bothered about goin' to sleep night. The snakes twinin' around the rubber trees was to add the finishin' touch. Course, they wanted the harmless kind, that's had their stingers cut out; but snakes of some sort they'd just got to have, or else they knew it wouldn't seem like home to Valentine.

"Just as though I cared whether he is going to feel at home or not!" says Purdy, real pettish. "By, Jove, Shorty! I've half a mind not to do it. So there!"

"Gee!" says I. "I wouldn't have your temper for anything. Shall we signal the driver to do a pivot and head her north?"

"N-n-n-o," says Purdy, reluctant.

And right there I gets a seventh son view of Aunt Isabella crackin' the checkbook at Purdy, and givin' him the cold spine now and then by threatenin' to tear up the will. From that on I feels different towards him. He'd got to a point where it was either please Aunt Isabella, or get out and hustle; and how to get hold of real money except by shovin' pink slips at the payin' teller was part of his education that had been left out. He was up against it for fair.

"Say, Purdy," says I, "I don't want to interfere in any family matters; but since you've put it up to me, let me get this chunk of advice off my mind: Long's you've got to be nice to aunty or go on a snowball diet, I'd be nice and do it as cheerful as I could."

Purdy thinks that over for a minute or so. Then he raps his cane on the rubber mat, straightens up his shoulders, and says, "By Jove, I'll do it! I'll get the snakes!"

That wa'n't so easy, though, as I'd thought. Lefty White says he's sorry, but he runs a mighty small stock of snakes in winter. He's got a fine line of spring goods on the way, though, and if we'll just leave our order —

"Ah, say, Lefty!" says I. "You give me shootin' pains. Here I goes and cracks up your joint as a first class snakery and all you can show is a few angleworms in bottles and a prospectus of what you'll have next month."

"Stuffed ones wouldn't do, eh?" says he.

"Why not?" says I.

Purdy wa'n't sure, but he thought he'd take a chance on 'em; so we picked out three of the biggest and spottedest ones in the shop, and makes Lefty promise to get 'em up there early next forenoon, for Valentine was due to show up by dinner time next night.

On the way back we talks it over some more, and I tries to chirk Purdy up all I could; for every time he thinks of Bombazoula he has a shiverin' fit that nearly knocks him out.

"I could never stand it to go there," says he – "never!"

"Here, here!" says I. "That's no way to meet a thing like this. What you want to do is to chuck a bluff. Jump right into this reception business with both feet and let on you're tickled to death with the prospect. Aunty won't take half the satisfaction in shunting you off to the monkey woods if she thinks you want to go."

Beats all what a little encouragement will do for some folks. By the time Purdy drops me at the Studio he's feelin' a whole lot better, and is prepared to give Vally the long lost brother grip when he comes.

But I was sorry for Purdy just the same. I could see him, over there at Bombazoula, in a suit of lavender pajamas, tryin' to organise a cotillion with a lot of heavy weight brunettes, wearin' brass rings in their noses and not much else. And all next day I kept wonderin' if Aunt Isabella's scheme was really goin' to pan. So, when Purdy rushes in about four o'clock, and wants me to come up and take a look at the layout, I was just about ripe for goin' to see the show.

"But I hope we can shy aunty," says I. "Sometimes I get along with these old battle axes first rate, and then again I don't; and what little reputation you got left at home I don't want to queer."

"Oh, that will be all right," says Purdy. "She has heard of you from Pinckney, and she knows about how you helped me to get the snakes."

"Did they fit in?" says I.

"Come up and see," says Purdy.

And it was worth the trip, just to get a view of them rooms. Nobody but a batty old woman would have ever thought up so many jungle stunts for the second floor of a brownstone front.

"There!" says Purdy. "Isn't that tropical enough?"

I took a long look. "Well," says I, "I've never been farther south than Old Point, but I've seen such things pictured out before now, and if I'm any judge, this throws up a section of the cannibal belt to the life."

It did too. They had the dark shades pulled down, and the light was kind of dim; but you could see that the place was chock full of ferns and palms and such. The parrots was hoppin' around, and you could hear water runnin' somewheres, and they'd trained them spotted snakes around the rubber trees just as natural as if they'd crawled up there by themselves.

While we was lookin' Aunt Isabella comes puffin' up the stairs.

"Isn't it just charming, Mr. McCabe?" says she, holdin' a hand up behind one ear. "I can hardly wait for dear Valentine to come, I'm so anxious to see how pleased he'll be. He just dotes on jungle life. The dear boy! You must come up and take tea with him some afternoon. He's a very shy, diffident little chap; but – "

At that the door bell starts ringin' like the house was afire, and bang! bang! goes someone's fist on the outside panel. Course, we all chases down stairs to see what's broke loose; but before we gets to the front hall the butler has the door open, and in pushes a husky, red whiskered party, wearin' a cloth cap, a belted ulster with four checks to the square yard, and carryin' an extension leather bag about the size of a small trunk, with labels pasted all over it.

"It's a blawsted shyme, that's w'at it is!" says he – "me p'yin' 'alf a bob for a two shillin' drive. These cabbies of yours is a set of bloomink 'iw'ymen!"

"What name, sir?" says the butler.

"Nime!" roars the whiskered gent. "I'm Valentine, that's who I am! Tyke the luggage, you shiverin' pie face!"

"Oh, Valentine!" squeals Aunt Isabella, makin' a rush at him with her arms out.

"Sheer off, aunty!" says he. "Cut out the bally tommyrot and let me 'ave a wash. And sye, send some beggar for the brandy and soda. Where's me rooms?"

"I'll show you up, Valentine," chips in Purdy.

"'Ello! 'O's the little man?" says Vally. "Blow me if it ain't Purdy! Trot along up, Purdy lad, and show me the digs."

Say, he was a bird, Vally was. He talks like a Cockney, acts like a bounder, and looks 'em both.

Aunt Isabella has dropped on the hall seat, gaspin' for breath, the butler is leanin' against the wall with his mouth open; so I grabs the bag and starts up after the half brothers. Just by the peachblow tint of Vally's nose I got the idea that maybe the most entertainin' part of this whole program was billed to take place on the second floor.

"Here you are," says Purdy, swingin' open the door and shovin' him in. "Aunt Isabella has fixed things up homelike for you, you see."

"And here's your trunk," says I. "Make yourself to home," and I shuts him in to enjoy himself.

It took Valentine just about twenty seconds to size up the interior decorations; for Purdy'd turned on the incandescents so's to give him a good view, and that had stirred up the parrots some. What I was waitin' for was for him to discover the spotted snakes. I didn't think he could miss 'em, for they was mighty prominent. Nor he didn't. It wasn't only us heard it, but everyone else on the block.

"Wow!" says he. "'Elp! 'Elp! Lemme out! I'm bein' killed!"

That was Valentine, bellerin' enough to take the roof off, and clawin' around for the doorknob on the inside. He comes out as if he'd been shot through a chute, his eyes stickin' out like a couple of peeled onions, an' a grey parrot hangin' to one ear.

"What's the trouble?" says Purdy.

"Br-r-r!" says Valentine, like a clogged steam whistle. "Where's the nearest 'orspital? I'm a sick man! Br-r-r-r!"

With that he starts down the stairs, takin' three at a time, bolts through the front door, and makes a dash down the street, yellin' like a kid when a fire breaks out.

Purdy and me didn't have any time to watch how far he went, for Aunt Isabella had keeled over on the rug, the maid was havin' a fit in the parlour, and the butler was fannin' himself with the card tray. We had to use up all the alcohol and smellin' salts in the house before we could bring the bunch around. When aunty's so she can hold her head up and open her eyes, she looks about cautious, and whispers:

"Has – has he gone, Purdy, dear?"

Purdy says he has.

"Then," she says to me, "bolt that door, and never mention his name to me again."

Everything's lovely now. Purdy's back to the downy, and Bombazoula's wiped off the map for good.

And say! If you're lookin' for a set of jungle scenery and stuffed snakes, I know where you can get a job lot for the askin'.