Odd Numbers

“Director of enterprises, eh?” says I. “That’s a new one on me.”

“Naturally,” says he, wavin’ his hand, “considering that I am first in the field. It is a profession I am creating.”

“So?” says I. “Well, how are you comin’ on?”

“Excellently, sir, excellently,” says he. “I have found, for the first time in my somewhat varied career, full scope for what I am pleased to call my talents. Of course, the work of preparing the ground is a slow process, and the – er – ahem – the results have not as yet begun to materialize; but when Opportunity comes my way, sir – Aha! Ha, ha! Ho, ho! Well, then we shall see if Tutwater is not ready for her!”

“I see,” says I. “You with your hand on the knob, eh? It’s an easy way of passin’ the time too; that is, providin’ such things as visits from the landlord and the towel collector don’t worry you.”

“Not at all,” says he. “Merely petty annoyances, thorns and pebbles in the pathways that lead to each high emprise.”

Say, it was almost like hearin’ some one read po’try, listenin’ to Tutwater talk; didn’t mean much of anything, and sounded kind of good. At the end of half an hour I didn’t know any more about his game than at the beginning. I gathered, though, that up to date it hadn’t produced any ready cash, and that Tutwater had been on his uppers for some time.

He was no grafter, though. That dollar twenty-five weighed heavier on his mind than it did on mine. He’d come in and talk about not bein’ able to pay it back real regretful, without even hintin’ at another touch. And little by little I got more light on Tutwater, includin’ some details of what he called his career.

There was a lot to it, so far as variety went. He’d been a hist’ry professor in some one-horse Western college, had tried his luck once up at Nome, had canvassed for a patent dishwasher through Michigan, done a ballyhoo trick outside a travelin’ tent show, and had given bump lectures on the schoolhouse circuit.

But his prize stunt was when he broke into the real estate business and laid out Eucalyptus City. That was out in Iowa somewhere, and he’d have cleaned up a cool million in money if the blamed trolley company hadn’t built their line seven miles off in the other direction.

It was gettin’ this raw deal that convinces him the seed district wa’n’t any place for a gent of his abilities. So he sold out his options on the site of Eucalyptus to a brick makin’ concern, and beat it for 42d-st. with a capital of eighty-nine dollars cash and this great director scheme in his head. The brass plate had cost him four dollars and fifty cents, one month’s rent of the upstairs coop had set him back thirty more, and he’d been livin’ on the rest.

“But look here, Tutty,” says I, “just what sort of enterprise do you think you can direct?”

“Any sort,” says he, “anything, from running an international exposition, to putting an icecream parlor on a paying basis.”

“Don’t you find your modesty something of a handicap?” says I.

“Oh, I’m modest enough,” he goes on. “For instance, I don’t claim to invent new methods. I just adapt, pick out lines of proved success, and develop. Now, your business here – why, I could take hold of it, and in six months’ time I’d have you occupying this entire building, with classes on every floor, a solarium on the roof, a corps of assistants working day and night shifts, and – ”

“Yes,” I breaks in, “and then the Sheriff tackin’ a foreclosure notice on the front door. I know how them boom methods work out, Tutty.”

But talk like that don’t discourage Tutwater at all. He hangs onto his great scheme, keepin’ his eyes and ears open, writin’ letters when he can scare up money for postage, and insistin’ that sooner or later he’ll get his chance.

“Here is the place for such chances to occur,” says he, “and I know what I can do.”

“All right,” says I; “but if I was you I’d trail down some pavin’ job before the paper inner soles wore clean through.”

Course, how soon he hit the bread line wa’n’t any funeral of mine exactly, and he was a hopeless case anyway; but somehow I got to likin’ Tutwater more or less, and wishin’ there was some plan of applyin’ all that hot air of his in useful ways. I know of lots of stiffs with not half his brains that makes enough to ride around in taxis and order custom made shirts. He was gettin’ seedier every week, though, and I had it straight from the agent that it was only a question of a few days before that brass plate would have to come down.

And then, one noon as we was chinnin’ here in the front office, in blows a portly, red faced, stary eyed old party who seems kind of dazed and uncertain as to where he’s goin’. He looks first at Tutwater, and then at me.

“Same to you and many of ’em,” says I. “What’ll it be?”

“McCabe was the name,” says he; “Professor McCabe, I think. I had it written down somewhere; but – ”

“Never mind,” says I. “This is the shop and I’m the right party. What then?”

“Perhaps you don’t know me?” says he, explorin’ his vest pockets sort of aimless with his fingers.

“That’s another good guess,” says I; “but there’s lots of time ahead of us.”

“I – I am – well, never mind the name,” says he, brushin’ one hand over his eyes. “I – I’ve mislaid it.”

“Eh?” says I.

“It’s no matter,” says he, beginnin’ to ramble on again. “But I own a great deal of property in the city, and my head has been troubling me lately, and I heard you could help me. I’ll pay you well, you know. I – I’ll give you the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Wha-a-at’s that?” I gasps. “Say, couldn’t you make it Madison Square Garden? I could get rent out of that.”

“Well, if you prefer,” says he, without crackin’ a smile.

“And this is Mr. Tutwater,” says I. “He ought to be in on this. What’ll yours be, Tutty?”

Say, for a minute or so I couldn’t make out whether the old party was really off his chump or what. He’s a well dressed, prosperous lookin’ gent, a good deal on the retired broker type, and I didn’t know but he might be some friend of Pyramid Gordon’s who’d strayed in here to hand me a josh before signin’ on for a course of lessons.

Next thing we knew, though, he slumps down in my desk chair, leans back comf’table, sighs sort of contented, smiles a batty, foolish smile at us, and then closes his eyes. Another second and he’s snorin’ away as peaceful as you please.

“Well, say!” says I to Tutwater. “What do you think of that, now? Does he take this for a free lodgin’ house, or Central Park? Looks like it was up to me to ring for the wagon.”

“Don’t,” says Tutwater. “The police handle these cases so stupidly. His mind has been affected, possibly from some shock, and he is physically exhausted.”

“He’s all in, sure enough,” says I; “but I can’t have him sawin’ wood here. Come, come, old scout,” I hollers in his ear, “you’ll have to camp somewhere else for this act!” I might as well have shouted into the safe, though. He never stirs.

“The thing to do,” says Tutwater, “is to discover his name, if we can, and then communicate with his friends or family.”

“Maybe you’re right, Tutwater,” says I. “And there’s a bunch of letters in his inside pocket. Have a look.”

“They all seem to be addressed to J. T. Fargo, Esq.,” says Tutwater.

“What!” says I. “Say, you don’t suppose our sleepin’ friend here is old Jerry Fargo, do you? Look at the tailor’s label inside the pocket. Eh? Jeremiah T. Fargo! Well, say, Tutty, that wa’n’t such an idle dream of his, about givin’ me the garden. Guess he could if he wanted to. Why, this old party owns more business blocks in this town than anybody I know of except the Astors. And I was for havin’ him carted off to the station! Lemme see that ’phone directory.”

A minute more and I had the Fargo house on the wire.

“Who are you?” says I. “Oh, Mr. Fargo’s butler. Well, this is Shorty McCabe, and I want to talk to some of the fam’ly about the old man. Sure, old Jerry. He’s here. Eh, his sister? She’ll do. Yes, I’ll hold the wire.”

I’d heard of that old maid sister of his, and how she was a queer old girl; but I didn’t have any idea what a cold blooded proposition she was. Honest, she seemed put out and pettish because I’d called her up.

“Jeremiah again, hey?” she squeaks. “Now, why on earth don’t he stay in that sanatorium where I took him? This is the fourth time he’s gone wandering off, and I’ve been sent for to hunt him up. You just tell him to trot back to it, that’s all.”

“But see here, Miss Fargo,” says I, “he’s been trottin’ around until you can’t tell him anything! He’s snoozin’ away here in my office, dead to the world.”

“Well, I can’t help it,” says she. “I’m not going to be bothered with Jeremiah to-day. I’ve got two sick cats to attend to.”

“Cats!” says I. “Say, what do you – ”

“Oh, hush up!” says she. “Do anything you like with him!” And hanged if she don’t bang up the receiver at that, and leave me standin’ there at my end of the wire lookin’ silly.

“Talk about your freak plutes,” says I to Tutwater, after I’ve explained the situation, “if this ain’t the limit! Look what I’ve got on my hands now!”

Tutwater, he’s standin’ there gazin’ hard at old Jerry Fargo, his eyes shinin’ and his thought works goin’ at high pressure speed. All of a sudden he slaps me on the back and grips me by the hand. “Professor,” says he, “I have it! There is Opportunity!”

“Eh?” says I. “Old Jerry? How?”

“I shall cure him – restore his mind, make him normal,” says Tutwater.

“What do you know about brushin’ out batty lofts?” says I.

“Nothing at all,” says he; “but I can find someone who does. You’ll give me Fargo, won’t you?”

“Will I?” says I. “I’ll advance you twenty to take him away, and charge it up to him. But what’ll you do with him?”

“Start the Tutwater Sanatorium for Deranged Millionaires,” says he. “There’s a fortune in it. May I leave him here for an hour or so?”

“What for?” says I.

“Until I can engage my chief of staff,” says he.

“Say, Tutty,” says I, “do you really mean to put over a bluff the size of that?”

“I’ve thought it all out,” says he. “I can do it.”

“All right, blaze ahead,” says I; “but I’m bettin’ you land in the lockup inside of twenty-four hours.”

What do you think, though? By three o’clock he comes back, towin’ a spruce, keen eyed young chap that he introduces as Dr. McWade. He’s picked him up over at Bellevue, where he found him doin’ practice work in the psychopathic ward. On the strength of that I doubles my grubstake, and he no sooner gets his hands on the two sawbucks than he starts for the street.

“Here, here!” says I. “Where you headed for now?”

And Tutwater explains how his first investment is to be a new silk lid, some patent leather shoes, and a silver headed walkin’ stick.

“Good business!” says I. “You’ll need all the front you can carry.”

And while he’s out shoppin’ the Doc and me and Swifty Joe lugs the patient up to Tutwater’s office without disturbin’ his slumbers at all.

Well, I didn’t see much more of Tutwater that day, for from then on he was a mighty busy man; but as I was drillin’ across to the Grand Central on my way home I gets a glimpse of him, sportin’ a shiny hat and white spats, just rushin’ important into a swell real estate office. About noon next day he stops in long enough to shake hands and say that it’s all settled.

“Tutwater Sanatorium is a fact,” says he. “I have the lease in my pocket.”

“What is it, some abandoned farm up in Vermont?” says I.

“Hardly,” says Tutwater, smilin’ quiet.

“It’s Cragswoods; beautiful modern buildings, formerly occupied as a boys’ boarding school, fifteen acres of lovely grounds, finest location in Westchester County. We take possession to-day, with our patient.”

“But, say, Tutwater,” says I, “how in blazes did you – ”

“I produced Fargo,” says he. “Dr. McWade has him under complete control and his cure has already begun. It will be finished at Cragswoods. Run up and see us soon. There’s the address. So long.”

Well, even after that, I couldn’t believe he’d really pull it off. Course, I knew he could make Fargo’s name go a long ways if he used it judicious; but to launch out and hire an estate worth half a million – why he was makin’ a shoestring start look like a sure thing.

And I was still listenin’ for news of the grand crash, when I begun seein’ these items in the papers about the Tutwater Sanatorium. “Millionaires Building a Stone Wall,” one was headed, and it went on to tell how five New York plutes, all sufferin’ from some nerve breakdown, was gettin’ back health and clearin’ up their brains by workin’ like day laborers under the direction of the famous specialist, Dr. Clinton McWade.

“Aha!” says I. “He’s added a press agent to the staff, and he sure has got a bird!”

Every few days there’s a new story bobs up, better than the last, until I can’t stand it any longer. I takes half a day off and goes up there to see if he’s actually doin’ it. And, say, when I walks into the main office over the Persian rug, there’s the same old Tutwater. Course, he’s slicked up some fancy, and he’s smokin’ a good cigar; but you couldn’t improve any on the cheerful countenance he used to carry around, even when he was up against it hardest. What I asks to see first is the five millionaires at work.

“Seven, you mean,” says Tutwater. “Two more came yesterday. Step right out this way. There they are, seven; count ’em, seven. The eighth man is a practical stone mason who is bossing the job. It’s a good stone wall they’re building, too. We expect to run it along our entire frontage.”

“Got ’em mesmerized?” says I.

“Not at all,” says Tutwater. “It’s part of the treatment. McWade’s idea, you know. The vocational cure, we call it, and it works like a charm. Mr. Fargo is practically a well man now and could return to his home next week if he wished. As it is, he’s so much interested in finishing that first section of the wall that he will probably stay the month out. You can see for yourself what they are doing.”

“Well, well!” says I. “Seven of ’em! What I don’t understand, Tutwater, is how you got so many patients so soon. Where’d you get hold of ’em?”

“To be quite frank with you, McCabe,” says Tutwater, whisperin’ confidential in my ear, “only three of them are genuine paying patients. That is why I have to charge them fifty dollars a day, you see.”

“And the others?” says I.

“First class imitations, who are playing their parts very cleverly,” says he. “Why not? I engaged them through a reliable theatrical agency.”

“Eh?” says I. “You salted the sanatorium? Tutwater, I take it all back. You’re in the other class, and I’m backin’ you after this for whatever entry you want to make.”

CHAPTER XVII

HOW HERMY PUT IT OVER

What do you know about luck, eh? Say, there was a time when I banked heavy on such things as four-leaf clovers, and the humpback touch, and dodgin’ ladders, and keepin’ my fingers crossed after gettin’ an X-ray stare. The longer I watch the game, though, the less I think of the luck proposition as a chart for explainin’ why some gets in on the ground floor, while others are dropped through the coal chute.

Now look at the latest returns on the career of my old grammar school chum, Snick Butters. Maybe you don’t remember my mentionin’ him before. Yes? No? It don’t matter. He’s the sporty young gent that’s mortgaged his memorial window to me so many times, – you know, the phony lamp he can do such stunts with.

He’s a smooth boy, Snick is, – too smooth, I used to tell him, – and always full of schemes for avoidin’ real work. For a year or so past he’s held the hot air chair on the front end of one of these sightseein’ chariots, cheerin’ the out of town buyers and wheat belt tourists with the flippest line of skyscraper statistics handed out through any megaphone in town. They tell me that when Snick would fix his fake eye on the sidewalk, and roll the good one up at the Metropolitan tower, he’d have his passengers so dizzy they’d grab one another to keep from fallin’ off the wagon.

Yes, I always did find Snick’s comp’ny entertainin’, and if it hadn’t been more or less expensive, – a visit always meanin’ a touch with him, – I expect I’d been better posted on what he was up to. As it is, I ain’t enjoyed the luxury of seein’ Snick for a good many months; when here the other afternoon, just as I was thinking of startin’ for home, the studio door opens, and in blows a couple of gents, one being a stranger, and the other this Mr. Butters.

Now, usually Snick’s a fancy dresser, no matter who he owes for it. He’ll quit eatin’ any time, or do the camel act, or even give up his cigarettes; but if the gents’ furnishing shops are showin’ something new in the line of violet socks or alligator skin vests, Snick’s got to sport the first ones sprung on Broadway.

So, seein’ him show up with fringes on his cuffs, a pair of runover tan shoes, and wearin’ his uniform cap off duty, I can’t help feelin’ some shocked, or wonderin’ how much more’n a five-spot I’ll be out by the time he leaves. It was some relief, though, to see that the glass eye was still in place, and know I wouldn’t be called on to redeem the ticket on that, anyway.

“Hello, Snick!” says I. “Glad you came in, – I was just going. Hope you don’t mind my lockin’ the safe? No offense, you know.”

“Can it, Shorty,” says he. “There’s no brace coming this time.”

“Eh?” says I. “Once more with that last, and say it slower, so I can let it sink in.”

“Don’t kid,” says he. “This is straight business.”

“Oh!” says I. “Well, that does sound serious. In that case, who’s your – er – Did he come in with you?”

I thought he did at first; but he seems so little int’rested in either Snick or me that I wa’n’t sure but he just wandered in because he saw the door open. He’s a high, well built, fairly good lookin’ chap, dressed neat and quiet in black; and if it wa’n’t for the sort of aimless, wanderin’ look in his eyes, you might have suspected he was somebody in partic’lar.

“Oh, him!” says Snick, shootin’ a careless glance over his shoulder. “Yes, of course he’s with me. It’s him I want to talk to you about.”

“Well,” says I, “don’t he – er – Is it a dummy, or a live one? Got a name, ain’t it?”

“Why, sure!” says Snick. “That’s Hermy. Hey you, Hermy, shake hands with Professor McCabe!”

“Howdy,” says I, makin’ ready to pass the grip. But Hermy ain’t in a sociable mood, it seems.

“Oh, bother!” says he, lookin’ around kind of disgusted and not noticin’ the welcomin’ hand at all. “I don’t want to stay here. I ought to be home, dressing for dinner.”

And say, that gives you about as much idea of the way he said it, as you’d get of an oil paintin’ from seein’ a blueprint. I can’t put in the pettish shoulder wiggle that goes with it, or make my voice behave like his did. It was the most ladylike voice I ever heard come from a heavyweight; one of these reg’lar “Oh-fudge-Lizzie-I-dropped-my-gum” voices. And him with a chest on him like a swell front mahog’ny bureau!

“Splash!” says I. “You mean, mean thing! So there!”

“Don’t mind what he says at all, Shorty,” says Snick. “You wait! I’ll fix him!” and with that he walks up to Hermy, shakes his finger under his nose, and proceeds to lay him out. “Now what did I tell you; eh, Hermy?” says Snick. “One lump of sugar in your tea – no pie – and locked in your room at eight-thirty. Oh, I mean it! You’re here to behave yourself. Understand? Take your fingers off that necktie! Don’t slouch against the wall there, either! You might get your coat dusty. Dress for dinner! Didn’t I wait fifteen minutes while you fussed with your hair? And do you think you’re going to go through all that again? You’re dressed for dinner, I tell you! But you don’t get a bit unless you do as you’re told! Hear?”

“Ye-e-es, sir,” sniffles Hermy.

Honest, it was a little the oddest exhibition I ever saw. Why, he would make two of Snick, this Hermy would, and he has a pair of shoulders like a truck horse. Don’t ever talk to me about chins again, either! Hermy has chin enough for a trust buster; but that’s all the good it seems to do him.

“You ain’t cast the hypnotic spell over him, have you, Snick?” says I.

“Hypnotic nothing!” says Snick. “That ain’t a man; it’s only a music box!”

“A which?” says I.

“Barytone,” says Snick. “Say, did you ever hear Bonci or Caruso or any of that mob warble? No? Well, then I’ll have to tell you. Look at Hermy there. Take a good long gaze at him. And – sh-h-h! After he’s had one show at the Metropolitan he’ll have that whole bunch carryin’ spears.”

“Is this something you dreamed, Snick,” says I, “or is it a sample of your megaphone talk?”

“You don’t believe it, of course,” says he. “That’s what I brought him up here for. Hermy, turn on the Toreador business!”

“Eh?” says I; then I sees Hermy gettin’ into position to cut loose. “Back up there! Shut it off! What do I know about judgin’ singers on the hoof? Why, he might be all you say, or as bad as I’d be willin’ to bet; but I wouldn’t know it. And what odds does it make to me, one way or another?”

“I know, Shorty,” says Snick, earnest and pleadin’; “but you’re my last hope. I’ve simply got to convince you.”

“Sorry, Snick,” says I; “but this ain’t my day for tryin’ out barytones. Besides, I got to catch a train.”

“All right,” says Snick. “Then we’ll trot along with you while I tell you about Hermy. Honest, Shorty, you’ve got to hear it!”

“If it’s as desperate as all that,” says I, “spiel away.”

And of all the plunges I ever knew Snick Butters to make, – and he sure is the dead gamest sport I ever ran across, – this one that he owns up to takin’ on Hermy had all his past performances put in the piker class.

Accordin’ to the way he deals it out, Snick had first discovered Hermy about a year ago, found him doin’ the tray balancin’ act in a porcelain lined three-off-and-draw-one parlor down on Seventh-ave. He was doin’ it bad, too, – gettin’ the orders mixed, and spillin’ soup on the customers, and passin’ out wrong checks, and havin’ the boss worked up to the assassination point.

But Hermy didn’t even know enough to be discouraged. He kept right on singsongin’ out his orders down the shaft, as cheerful as you please: “Sausage and mashed, two on the wheats, one piece of punk, and two mince, and let ’em come in a hurry! Silver!” You know how they do it in them C. B. & Q. places? Yes, corned beef and cabbage joints. With sixty or seventy people in a forty by twenty-five room, and the dish washers slammin’ crockery regardless, you got to holler out if you want the chef to hear. Hermy wa’n’t much on the shout, so he sang his orders. And it was this that gave Snick his pipedream.

“Now you know I’ve done more or less tra-la-la-work myself,” says he, “and the season I spent on the road as one of the merry villagers with an Erminie outfit put me wise to a few things. Course, this open air lecturing has spoiled my pipes for fair; but I’ve got my ear left, haven’t I? And say, Shorty, the minute I heard that voice of Hermy’s I knew he was the goods.”

So what does he do but go back later, after the noon rush was over, and get Hermy to tell him the story of his life. It wa’n’t what you’d call thrillin’. All there was to it was that Hermy was a double orphan who’d been brought up in Bridgeport, Conn., by an uncle who was a dancin’ professor. The only thing that saved Hermy from a bench in the brass works was his knack for poundin’ out twosteps and waltzes on the piano; but at that it seems he was such a soft head he couldn’t keep from watchin’ the girls on the floor and striking wrong notes. Then there was trouble with uncle. Snick didn’t get the full details of the row, or what brought it to a head; but anyway Hermy was fired from the academy and fin’lly drifted to New York, where he’d been close up against the bread line ever since.

“And when I found how he just naturally ate up music,” says Snick, “and how he’d had some training in a boy choir, and what a range he had, I says to him, ‘Hermy,’ says I, ‘you come with me!’ First I blows in ten good hard dollars getting a lawyer to draw up a contract. I thought it all out by myself; but I wanted the whereases put in right. And it’s a peach. It bound me to find board and lodging and provide clothes and incidentals for Hermy for the period of one year; and in consideration of which, and all that, I am to be the manager and sole business representative of said Hermy for the term of fifteen years from date, entitled to a fair and equal division of whatsoever profits, salary, or emoluments which may be received by the party of the second part, payable to me, my heirs, or assigns forever. And there I am, Shorty. I’ve done it! And I’m going to stay with it!”