Kitabı oku: «Sandburrs and Others», sayfa 10
“An’ you can bet that pastor knows his business!” said Old Monte, the stage driver, who had been commissioned to bring one over. “He’s a deep-water brand, an’ he’s all right! I takes my steer when I seelects him from the barkeep of the Golden Rod saloon, an’ he’d no more give me the wrong p’inter, that a-way, than he’d give me the wrong bottle.”
Doc Peets’s offering to the bride was a bullet. It was formerly the property of Jack Moore. It was the one he conferred on Riley Bent that evening in the foothills of the Très Hermanas.
“Keep it!” said Doc Peets to the bride. “It’s what sobers him, an’ takes the frivolity outen him, an’ makes him know his own heart.”
“An’ I shorely reckons you’re right that a-way, Doc,” said Jack Moore, some hours after the wedding as the two turned from the laundry whither Moore had repaired to return Riley Bent his pistols; “I shore reckons you’re right a whole lot. I knows a gent in the states, an’ he tells me himse’f how he goes projectin’ ‘round, keepin’ company with a lady for a year, an’ ain’t thinkin’ none speshul of marryin’ her. One day somebody gets plumb tired of the play an’ shoots him some, after which he simply goes about pantin’ to lead that lady to the altar; that’s straight!”
JOE DUBUQUE’S LUCK
(Annals of The Bend)
YOUSE can soak your super,” said Chucky, “some dubs has luck! I’ve seen marks who could fall into d’ sewer, see! an’ come out wit’ a bunch of lilacs in each mit.
“Nit; it wasn’t all luck wit’ Joe Dubuque. His breakin’ out of hock that time is some luck, but mostly ‘cause Joe himself is a dead wise guy an* onto his job. Tell youse about it? In a secont – in a hully second! Just say ‘gin fizz!’ to d’ barkeep an’ I’ll begin.
“Never mind d’ preeliminaries, as d’ story writers says, but Joe’s in jail, see! Joe win out ten spaces for touchin’ a farmer for his bundle. Was it a wad? D’ roll Joe gets is big enough to choke a cow – ‘leven t’ousand plunks, if it’s a splinter.
“Wherefore, as I relates, Joe gets ten years, an’ is layin’ in jail while d’ gezebo, who’s his lawyer, sees can he woik d’ high court to give Joe a new trial.
“Joe don’t feel no sort chirpy; he’s onto it d’ high court’s dead sure to t’run him down. Then he goes to d’ pen to do them ten spaces. An’ onct there, wit’ all that time ahead, he sees his finish all right, all right. He might as well be a lifer.
“So Joe puts it up he’ll break himself out. Joe’s goil comes every day to see him. Say! she’s a bute, Joe’s Rag is; d’ crooks calls her ‘Wild Willie,’ ‘cause now an’ then she toins dopey an’ acts like she’s got doves in her eaves. But anyhow she’s on d’ square wit’ Joe, an’ sticks to him like a postage stamp.
“Joe sends out d’ woid be his Rag about what he’s goin’ to do, to d’ push outside; an’ tells ‘em how to help. Yes; d’ job is put up as fine as silk. Every mark knows what he’s to do.
“Now, here’s d’ trick dey toins; here’s how Joe beats d’ jail for good.
“It comes round to d’ night. Joe’s cell – it’s a big cell, a reg’lar corker, wit’ gas into it – is on d’ fort’ corridor. D’ guard comes round at 9 o’clock orderin’ out d’lights. Joe’s gas is boinin’ away to beat d’ band, an’ Joe is lay in’ on his bunk.
“‘Dowse d’ glim, Joe!’ says d’ guard.
“What th’ ‘ell!’ says Joe. ‘Dowse d’ glim, yourself, you Sheeny hobo!’
“D’ guard makes a bluff about what he’ll do, an’ cusses Joe out. All d’ same he unlocks d’ door an’ comes chasin’ in to put out Joe’s gas.
“Now, what does Joe do? As d’ guard toins to d’ gas to dowse it, Joe sets up on his bunk, an’ all at onct he soaks this gezebo of a guard wit’ a rubber billy his Moll sneaks in to him d’ day before. Does he land d’ sucker? Say! he almost cracks his nut, an’ that’s for fair!
“D’ guard drops an’ in a minute Joe winds him all up tight in a bedtick rope he’s made. Then he stoppers his jaw an’ t’rows d’ mucker on d’ bunk, takes his keys, locks him in d’ cell an’ goes galumpin’ off to let himself t’rough d’ doors, so he can try a sprint for it. Yes, Joe makes some row when he t’umps this party, but d’ captiffs in d’ nex’ cells hears d’ racket an’ half tumbles to it; an’ so dey starts singin’ ‘Rock of Ages,’ an’ makes a noise so as to cover Joe’s play, see! Oh! dey was some fly guys locked up in that old coop.
“As Joe lines out for d’ doors, he’s t’inkin’ to himself, how on eart’ is he goin’ to make it? Nit; it wouldn’t be no trouble to get outside d’ doors of what youse might call d’ jail proper. But after that, Joe’s got to go t’rough four offices wit’ a mob of dep’ties into ‘em. An’ he’s on it’s goin’ to be a squeak if some of ‘em don’t recognize him. Joe’s mug was well known.
“You know how dey woiks d’ doors to a jail? Youse don’t? It’s this way. Joe, when he comes up, has d’ key to d’ inside door, which he nips off d’ guard as I says when he slugs him wit ‘d’ billy. Joe lets himself into d’ cage wit’ that.
“Now, d’ key to d’ outside door ain’t in d’ coop at all. There’s an old stiff of a dep’ty sheriff planted outside wit’ that. As Joe opens d’ inside door, he raps on d’ bars of d’ cage wit’ his key, an’ it’s d’ tip for this outside snoozer to unlock his door. Of course he plays Joe for d’ guard coinin’ out from his rounds.
“It’s at this door-slammin’ pinch where Joe’s luck comes in, an’ relieves him of d’ chanct of d’ gang of dep’ties in d’ office tumblin’ to him. Just as Joe raps to d’ sucker on d’ outside door, an’ then lets himself into d’ cage, a gun goes off inside d’ jail. It’s Joe’s guard. Joe forgets to pinch d’ pop, see! an’ this gezebo gets his hooks onto it, all tied like he is, an’ bangs away wit’ it in his pockets so as to warn d’ gang Joe’s loose.
“‘That does me for fair!’ t’inks Joe when he hears d’ gun; ‘’dey gets me dead to rights!’
“Say! it was d’ one trick that saves him! At d’ bang of d’ gun every dep’ty leaps to his trilbys an’ comes chasin’. D’ outside mark has just unslewed his door. He flings it wide open an’ scoots inside d’ cage. Joe t’rows d’ inside door open – for Joe’s dead swift to take a hunch that way – an ‘d’ outside guard an ‘d’ entire bunch of dep’ties goes sprintin’ into d’ jail. Then Joe locks ‘em all in an’ loafs t’rough d’ offices into d’ street.
“Yes; Joe knows where he’s goin’. He toins into d’ foist stairway an’ climbs one story to a law office, which d’ crooks outside has fixed to be open, waitin’ for him. Nixie; d’ law guy ain’t in on d’ play. A dip named Jim Butts comes an’ touts this law sharp away, an’ cons him into goin’ out six miles to d’ country to draw d’ last will an’ test’ment of a galoot he says is on d’ croak, an’ can’t wait for mornin’. Yes, Butts has one of his mob faked up for sick, an’ dey detains d’ law guy four hours makin’ d’ will. This stall of Butts, who’s doin’ d’ sick act, sets up between gasps an’ gives away more’n twenty million dollars wort’ of wealt’. This crook who’s fakin’ sick is on his uppers at d’ time, an’ don’t really have d’ price of beer; but to hear him make his will that night, you’d say he was d’ richest ever; d’ Astors was monkeys to him.
“As I states, Joe skips into this lawyer’s office, d’ same bein’ open for d’ poipose, an’ one of d’ ‘fambly’ holdin’ it down. While Joe’s in there he hears d’ chase runnin’ up an’ down in d’ street below d’ window.
“Not for long, though. Fifteen minutes after Joe is outside d’ jug, one of d’ crooks calls up d’ Central Office be telephone.
“‘Who’s talkin’?’ asts d’ captain at d’ Central Office.
“‘It’s Doyle, lieutenant o’ police, Fourt’ Precinct,’ says d’ crook who’s on d’ wire. Me man on d’ station house beat just reports Joe Dubuque drivin’ west on Detroit street wit’ a horse an’ buggy. He was on d’ dead run, lamin’ loose to beat four of a kind. Send all d’ men youse can spare.’
“An’ that’s what d’ captain at d’ Central Office does. In ten minutes every cop an’ fly cop is on d’ chase, a mile away from Joe, an’ gettin’ furder every secont, see!
“After a while it settles down all quiet an’ dead about d’ jail, an ‘d’ little old law office where Joe lies buried. He, an’ d’ crook who’s waitin’ for him, is chinnin’ each other in whispers. All d’ time Joe’s got his lamps to d’ window pipin’ off d’ other side of d’ street. At last a cab drives up opposite d’ law office an’ stops. A w’ite han’kerchief shows flutterin’ be d’ window. It’s Wild Willie who’s inside.
“Joe’s pal gets up an’ goes down to d’ street. All’s clear an’ he w’istles up to Joe. When he gets d’ office Joe sort of loafs down an’ saunters over to d’ cab. D’ door opens an’ in one move Joe’s inside, an’ d’ nex’ his arm is ‘round his Moll. She’s all right, this Wild Willie is, an’ Joe does d’ correct t’ing to give her d’ fervent squeeze.
“That’s d’ end. Joe Dubuque runs clear away, goes under cover, an’ d’ sheriff never gets his hooks on him ag’in. As Joe drives be d’ jail he can still hear them captiffs singin’ ‘Rock of Ages.’
“‘Say!’ says Joe to Wild Willie as he toins her mug to his an’ smacks her onct for luck, ‘I won’t do a t’ing but make it a t’ousand dollars in d’ kecks of them ducks who’s doin’ that song. I’ll woik d’ dough to ‘em be some of d’ boys, see!’”
BINKS AND MRS. B
BINKS was an excellent man, hard-working and sober. He made good money and took it home to his wife for her judgment to settle its fate; every dollar of it. Mrs. Binks was a woman among a thousand. When taken separate and apart from his wife and questioned, Binks said she was a “corker.” Binks declined all attempts at definition, and beyond insisting that Mrs. Binks was and would remain a “corker,” said nothing.
From what was told of Mrs. Binks by herself, it would seem that she was a true, loving wife to Binks, and that, aside from the duty every woman owed to her sex and the establishment of its rights in all avenues of life, she held that with the wedding ring came a list of duties due from a good woman to her husband, which could not be avoided nor gone about.
“Some women,” quoth Mrs. B., “worry their husbands with a detail of small matters. A woman who is to be a helpmeet to her husband, such as I am to Binks, will be self-reliant and decide things for herself. In the little cares of life which fall to her share, let her go forward in her own strength. What is the use of adding her troubles to his? If she has plans, let her execute them. If problems confront her, let her solve them. If she tells her husband aught of the thousand little enterprises of her daily home life, then let it be the result. When success has come to her, she may call her husband to witness the victory. Aside from that she should face her responsibilities alone.”
Of course Mrs. B. did not mean by all this that she would not be open and frank with Binks, and confide in him if a burglar were in the house, or if the roof took fire in the night that she would not arouse Binks and mention it. What she did mean was that when it came to such things as dismissing the servant girl, the wife should gird up her loins and “fire” the maiden singlehanded, and not ring her husband in on a play, manifestly disagreeable, and likely to subject him to great remorse.
It chanced recently that an opportunity opened like a gate for Mrs. B. to illustrate her doctrine that wives should proceed in a plain duty alone, without imposing needless anxiety on the head of the family.
Mrs. Binks had decided to visit her sister in Hoboken. She was to go Thursday, and Binks, who was paid his sweat-bought stipend on Monday, was to furnish the money Monday evening wherewith to make the trip.
It chanced, unfortunately, that pay-day this particular week was deferred. The head partner was sick, or out of town; checks could not be drawn, or something like that.
“But your money will come on Saturday, boys,” said the other partner.
Binks was obliged to wait.
The money was all right; it would be accurately on tap Saturday, so Binks took no fret on that point.
But what was he to do about Mrs. B.? That good woman was to go Thursday, and in order to organise for the descent upon her relative would need the money – $40 – on Tuesday. What was Binks to do?
Clearly he must do something. He could not ask Mrs. B. to put off her trip a week; indeed, his reluctance to take such course came almost to the point of superstition.
In his troubles Binks suddenly bethought him of a gold watch, once his father’s, with a rich chain and guard attached. These precious heirlooms had been given to Binks by the elder Binks’ executor, and were cherished accordingly.
Rather than disappoint Mrs. B. the worthy Binks decided, that just for once in his life he would seek a pawnbroker and do business with that common relative of all.
Binks felt timid and ashamed, but the case was urgent. There was no risk, for his money would float in all right on the tides of Saturday. Binks would then redeem these pledges from disgraceful hock; all would be well. Mrs. B. would be in Hoboken on redemption day, and it would not be necessary to tell her anything about the matter. It would save her pain, and Binks bravely determined to keep the whole transaction dark.
Again, if he told her he had not been paid at the store, the brave woman would indubitably wend to his employer’s house and demand the reason why. This would be useless and embarrassing. Therefore, Binks would say nothing. He would pawn the ancestral super, and get it again when his money came in, and his wife was away.
The watch and its appertainments were snug in the far corner of a bureau drawer; away over and behind Mrs. B.‘s lingerie. Binks had a watch of his own, a Waterbury, with a mainspring as endless as a chain pump. Mrs. B. saw, therefore, no reason why he should carry the gold watch of his progenitor. Binks might lose it. Mrs. Binks strongly advised that it be kept in the bureau where it would be safe and naturally, in an affair of that sort Binks took his wife’s advice.
Binks reflected that he must secure the watch and pawn it that night. To do this he must plot to get Mrs. B. out of the house. Binks thought deeply. At last he had it.
Binks sent a message home in the afternoon and asked Mrs. B. to meet him in a store down town at six o’clock. Then he had himself released at 5:30, and went hotfoot homeward.
The coast was clear; Mrs. B. was down town in deference to his stratagem, no doubt believing that Binks meditated soda water, or some other delicacy, as the cause of his sudden summons of the afternoon. She little wotted that she was the victim of deceit. If she had, there would have been woe.
Binks rushed at once to the bureau and secured the treasure. He did not wait a moment, but plunged off to a store where the three balls over the door bore testimony to the commerce within. Binks would explain to Mrs. B. on his return, how he had missed her and so failed to keep his date with her down town.
The merchant of loans and pledges looked over Binks’ timepiece, and then, as Binks requested, gave him a ticket for it and $40. It was to be redeemed in thirty days or sooner. And Binks was to pay $44 to get it again. Binks was very willing. Anything was wiser and better than to permit Mrs. B.‘s visit to her sister to be interrupted.
When Binks got home Mrs. B. had already returned.
There was a bad light in her eye. She accepted Binks’ excuses and explanations as to “how he missed her down town” with an evil grace. She as good as told Binks that he deceived her; that if the phenomenon were treed she would find another woman in the case.
However, Binks had the presence of mind to turn over the $40 he reaped on the watch; and as he expressed it later:
“That sort of hushed her up.”
The next day Binks returned to his labours, while Mrs. B. repaired to the marts to plunge moderately on what truck she stood in want of for her trip.
When Mrs. B. got back to the house it chanced that the first thing she needed was in the fatal drawer. She opened it.
Horrors! The watch was gone!
There was naught of hesitation; Mrs. B. knew it had been stolen. Anybody could see that from the way every garment had been carefully laid back to hide the loss.
What should she do? The police must at once be notified. Mrs. B. pulled on her shaker and scooted for the police station. She told her story out of breath. She left her house at three o’clock and was back at four o’clock, and in that short hour her home had been entered and looted of its treasures. Made to be specific, Mrs. B. said the treasures were a watch and chain, and described them.
“What were they worth?” asked the sergeant of the detectives.
Mrs. B. considered a bit, and then said they would be dog cheap at $1,000. She reflected that the sum, if published in the papers, would be a source of pride.
The sergeant of detectives told Mrs. B. his men would look about for her property, and should they hear of it or find it they would at once notify her.
“You bet your gum boots! ma’am,” said the sleuth confidently, “whatever crook’s got your ticker, he’s due to soak it or plant it some’ers in a week. Mebby he’ll turn it over to his Moll. But the minute we springs it, ma’am, or turns it up, we’ll be dead sure to put you on in a jiff.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. B.
Then Mrs. Binks went home and, true to her determination to save Binks from unnecessary worry, she told him nothing of the loss nor of her arrangements for the watch’s recovery.
“What’s the use of bothering Binks?” she asked herself. “All he could do would be to notify the police, and I’ve done that.”
Thursday came and Mrs. B. set forth for Hoboken. No notice had come from the police. Binks was glad to see her go. He had lived in fear lest she come across the departure of the watch. He breathed easier when she was gone. As for Mrs. B., as she had not heard from the police, there was nothing to tell Binks; wherefore, like a self-reliant woman who did not believe in making her husband unhappy to no purpose, she left without word or sign as to her knowledge of the watch’s disappearance.
It was Friday; ever an unlucky day. Binks was walking swiftly homeward. Binks was thinking some idle thing when a hand came down on his shoulder, heavy as a ham.
“Hold on, me covey; I want you!”
Binks looked around, scared and startled. He had been halted by a stocky, bluff man in citizen’s clothes.
“What is it?” gasped Binks.
“Suttenly, sech a fly guy as you don’t know!” said the bluff man, with a glare. “Well! never mind why I wants you; I’m a detective, and you comes with me.”
And Binks went with him.
Not only that, Binks went in a noisy patrol wagon which the detective rang for; and it kept gonging its way along and attracting everybody’s attention.
The word went about among his friends that Binks was drunk and had been fighting.
“And to think a man would act like that,” said one lady, who knew Binks by sight, “just because his wife is away on a visit! If I were his wife I’d never come back to him!”
At the station Binks was solemnly looked over by the chief.
“He’s the duck!” said the chief at last. “Exactly old Goldberg’s description of the party who spouts the ticker. Where did you collar him, Bill?”
“I sees him paddin’ along on Broadway,” replied the bluff man, “and I tumbles to the sucker like a hod of brick. I knowed he was a sneak the first look I gives; and the second I says to meself, ‘he’s wanted for a watch!’ Then I nails him.”
“Do you know who he is?” asked the chief.
“My name,” said Binks, who was recovering from the awful daze that had seized him, “my name is B – ”
“Shet up!” roared the bluff man. “Don’t give us any guff! It’ll be the worse for you!”
“I know the mark,” said an officer looking on.
“His name is ‘Windy Joe, the Magsman.’ His mug’s in the gallery all right enough; number 38, I think.”
“That’s correct!” said the chief. “I knowed he was familiar to me, and I never forgets a face. Frisk him, Bill, and lock him up!”
“But my name’s Binks!” protested our hero. “I’m an innocent man!”
“That’s what they all says,” replied the chief. “Go through him, Bill, and lock him up; I want to go to me grub.”
Binks was cast into a dungeon. Next door to him abode a lunatic, who reviled him all night. On the blotter the ingenuity of the chief detective inscribed: “Windy Joe, the Magsman, alias Binks. Housebreaking in daytime.”
There is scant need of spinning out the agony. Binks got free of the scrape some twelve hours later. But it was all very unfortunate. He came near dismissal at the store, and the neighbours don’t understand it yet. They shake their heads and say:
“It’s very strange if he’s so innocent, why he was locked up. When the police take a man, he’s generally done something.”
“I’m not sorry a bit!” said Mrs. B., when she was brought back from Hoboken on Saturday by a wire the police allowed Binks to send her. “And when I saw him with the officers, I was as good a mind to tell them to keep him as ever I had to eat. To think how he deceived me about that watch, allowing me to break my heart with thoughts of it being stolen! I guess the next time Binks sneaks off to pawn his dead father’s watch, he’ll let me know.”
