Odd Numbers

“I expect we’re way off the track,” says I; “but I’d like to have you take a careless glance at the giddy old party over under the kummel sign in the corner; the one facin’ this way – there.”

Vincent gives a jump at the first look. Then he starts for her full tilt, me trailin’ along and whisperin’ to him not to make any fool break unless he’s dead sure. But there’s no holdin’ him back. She’s so busy chattin’ with the reformed Sioux in store clothes that she don’t notice Vincent until he’s right alongside, and just as she looks up he lets loose his indignation.

“Why, grandmother!” says he.

She don’t seem so much jarred as you might think. She don’t even drop the fork that she’s usin’ to twist up a gob of spaghetti on. All she does is to lift her eyebrows in a kind of annoyed way, and shoot a quick look at the copper tinted gent across the table.

“There, there, Vincent?” says she. “Please don’t grandmother me; at least, not in public.”

“But,” says he, “you know that you are a – ”

“I admit nothing of the kind,” says she. “I may be your mother; but as for being anybody’s grandmother, that is an experience I know nothing about. Now please run along, Vincent, and don’t bother.”

That leaves Vincent up in the air for keeps. He don’t know what to make of this reception, or of the change that happened to her; but he feels he ought to register some sort of a kick.

“But, mother,” says he, “what does this mean? Such clothes! And such – such” – here he throws a meanin’ look at the Indian gent.

“Allow me,” says grandmother, breakin’ in real dignified, “to introduce Mr. John Little Bear, son of Chief Won-go-plunki. I am very sorry to interrupt our talk on art, John; but I suppose I must say a few words to Vincent. Would you mind taking your coffee on the back veranda?”

He was a well-trained red man, John was, and he understands the back out sign; so inside of a minute the crockery has been pushed away and I’m attendin’ a family reunion that appears to be cast on new lines. Vincent begins again by askin’ what it all means.

“It means, Vincent,” says she, “that I have caught up with the procession. I tried being the old-fashioned kind of grandmother, and I wasn’t a success. Now I’m learning the new way, and I like it first rate.”

“But your – your clothes!” gasps Vincent.

“Well, what of them?” says she. “You made fun of the ones I used to wear; but these, I would have you know, were selected for me by a committee of six chorus ladies who know what is what. I am quite satisfied with my clothes, Vincent.”

“Possibly they’re all right,” says he; “but how – how long have you been wearing your hair that way?”

“Ever since Madam Montrosini started on my improvement course,” says she. “I am told it is quite becoming. And have you noticed my new waist line, Vincent?”

Vincent hadn’t; but he did then, and he had nothin’ to say, for she has an hourglass lookin’ like a hitchin’ post. Not bein’ able to carry on the debate under them headings, he switches and comes out strong on what an awful thing it was for her to be livin’ among such dreadful people.

“Why,” says grandmother, “they’re real nice, I’m sure. They have been just as good to me as they could be. They take turns going out to dinner with me and showing me around the town.”

“Good heavens!” says Vincent. “And this – this Bear person, does he – ”

“He is an educated, full blooded Sioux,” says grandmother. “He has toured Europe with Buffalo Bill, and just now he is an artists’ model. He is very entertaining company, Johnny is.”

“Johnny!” gasps Vincent under his breath. That’s the last straw. He lays down the law then and there to grandmother. If she ever expects him to recognize her again, she must shake this whole crowd and come with him.

“Where to, Vincent?” says she.

“Why, to my home, of course,” says he.

“And have your wife’s maid speak of me as a dumpy old scarecrow? No, thank you!” and she calls the waiter to bring a demitasse with cognac.

“But no one could call you that now, mother,” says Vincent. “You – you’re different, quite different.”

“Oh, am I?” says she.

“To be sure you are,” says he. “Julia and I would be glad to have you with us. Really, we would.”

She was a good natured old girl, grandmother was. She says she’ll try it; but only on one condition. It was a corker, too. If she’s going to give all her good friends at the actors’ boardin’ house the shake, she thinks it ought to be done at a farewell dinner at the swellest place in town. Vincent groans; but he has to give in. And that’s how it happens the other night that about two dozen liberty people walked up from Appetite Row and fed themselves off Sherry’s gold plates until the waiters was weak in the knees watchin’ ’em.

“Is the old lady still leadin’ the band wagon, Vincent!” says I to him yesterday.

“She is,” says he, “and it is wonderful how young she has grown.”

“New York is a great place for rejuvenatin’ grandmothers,” says I, “specially around in the Red Ink Zone.”

CHAPTER V

A LONG SHOT ON DELANCEY

Well, I’ve been slummin’ up again. It happens like this: I was just preparin’, here the other noontime, to rush around the corner and destroy a plate of lunch counter hash decorated with parsley and a dropped egg, when I gets this ’phone call from Duke Borden, who says he wants to see me the worst way.

“Well,” says I, “the studio’s still here on 42d-st., and if your eyesight ain’t failed you – ”

“Oh, chop it, can’t you, Shorty?” says he. “This is really important. Come right up, can’t you!”

“That depends,” says I. “Any partic’lar place?”

“Of course,” says he. “Here at the club. I’m to meet Chick Sommers here in half an hour. We’ll have luncheon together and – ”

“I’m on,” says I. “I don’t know Chick; but I’m a mixer, and I’ll stand for anything in the food line but cold egg. Scratch the chilled hen fruit and I’m with you.”

Know about Duke, don’t you? It ain’t much to tell. He’s just one of these big, handsome, overfed chappies that help the mounted traffic cops to make Fifth-ave. look different from other Main-sts. He don’t do any special good, or any partic’lar harm. Duke’s got just enough sense, though, to have spasms of thinkin’ he wants to do something useful now and then, and all I can dope out of this emergency call of his is that this is a new thought.

That’s the answer, too. He begins tellin’ me about it while the head waiter’s leadin’ us over to a corner table. Oh, yes, he’s going in for business in dead earnest now, y’know, – suite of offices, his name on the letterheads, and all that sort of thing, bah Jove!

All of which means that Mr. Chick Sommers, who was a star quarterback in ’05, when Duke was makin’ his college bluff on the Gold Coast, has rung him into a South Jersey land boomin’ scheme. A few others, friends of Chick’s, are in it. They’re all rippin’ good fellows, too, and awfully clever at planning out things. Chick himself, of course, is a corker. It was him that insisted on Duke’s bein’ treasurer.

“And really,” says Duke, “about all I have to do is drop around once or twice a week and sign a few checks.”

“I see,” says I. “They let you supply the funds, eh?”

“Why, yes,” says Duke. “I’m the only one who can, y’know. But they depend a great deal on my judgment, too. For instance, take this new deal that’s on; it has all been left to me. There are one hundred and eighteen acres, and we don’t buy a foot unless I say so. That’s where you come in, Shorty.”

“Oh, do I?” says I.

“You see,” Duke goes on, “I’m supposed to inspect it and make a decision before the option expires, which will be day after to-morrow. The fact is, I’ve been putting off going down there, and now I find I’ve a winter house party on, up in Lenox, and – Well, you see the box I’m in.”

“Sure!” says I. “You want me to sub for you at Lenox?”

“Deuce take it, no!” says Duke. “I want you to go down and look at that land for me.”

“Huh!” says I. “What I know about real estate wouldn’t – ”

“Oh, that’s all right,” says Duke. “It’s only a matter of form. The boys say they want it, and I’m going to buy it for them anyway; but, just to have it all straight and businesslike, either I ought to see the land myself, or have it inspected by my personal representative. Understand?”

“Duke,” says I, “you’re a reg’lar real estate Napoleon. I wouldn’t have believed it was in you.”

“I know,” says he. “I’m really surprised at myself.”

Next he explains how he happened to think of sendin’ me, and casually he wants to know if a couple of hundred and expenses will be about right for spoilin’ two days of my valuable time. How could I tell how much it would lose me? But I said I’d run the chances.

Then Chick shows up, and they begin to talk over the details of this new bungalow boom town that’s to be located on the Jersey side.

“I tell you,” says Chick, “it’ll be a winner from the start. Why, there’s every advantage anyone could wish for, – ocean breezes mingled with pine scented zephyrs, magnificent views, and a railroad running right through the property! The nearest station now is Clam Creek; but we’ll have one of our own, with a new name. Clam Creek! Ugh! How does Pinemere strike you?”

“Perfectly ripping, by Jove!” says Duke, so excited over it that he lights the cork end of his cigarette. “Shorty, you must go right down there for me. Can’t you start as soon as you’ve had your coffee?”

Oh, but it was thrillin’, listenin’ to them two amateur real estaters layin’ plans that was to make a seashore wilderness blossom with surveyors’ stakes and fresh painted signs like Belvidere-ave., Ozone Boulevard, and so on.

It struck me, though, that they was discussin’ their scheme kind of free and public. I spots one white haired, dignified old boy, doing the solitaire feed at the table back of Duke, who seems more or less int’rested. And I notices that every time Clam Creek is mentioned he pricks up his ears. Sure enough, too, just as we’re finishing, he steps over and taps Duke on the shoulder.

“Why, howdy do, Mr. Cathaway?” says Duke. “Charmed to see you, by Jove!”

And it turns out he’s DeLancey Cathaway, the big noise in the philanthropy game, him that gets up societies for suppressin’ the poor and has his name on hospitals and iron drinkin’ fountains. After he’s been introduced all around he admits that he’s caught one or two remarks, and says he wants to congratulate Duke on givin’ up his idle ways and breakin’ into an active career.

Oh, he’s a smooth old party, Mr. Cathaway is! He don’t let on to be more’n moderately int’rested, and the next thing I know he’s sidled away from Duke and is walkin’ out alongside of me.

“Going down town?” says he. “Then perhaps you will allow me to give you a lift?” and he motions to his town car waiting at the curb.

“Gee!” thinks I. “I’m makin’ a hit with the nobility, me and my winnin’ ways!”

That don’t exactly state the case, though; for as soon as we’re alone DeLancey comes right to cases.

“I understand, Mr. McCabe,” says he, “that you are to visit Clam Creek.”

“Yep,” says I. “Sounds enticin’, don’t it?”

“Doubtless you will spend a day or so there?” he goes on.

“Over night, anyway,” says I.

“Hum!” says he. “Then you will hardly fail to meet my brother. He is living at Clam Creek.”

“What!” says I. “Not Broadway Bob?”

“Yes,” says he, “Robert and his wife have been there for nearly two years. At least, that is where I have been sending his allowance.”

“Mrs. Bob too!” says I. “Why – why, say, you don’t mean the one that – ”

“The same,” he cuts in. “I know they’re supposed to be abroad; but they’re not, they are at Clam Creek.”

Maybe you’ve heard about the Bob Cathaways, and maybe you ain’t. There’s so many new near-plutes nowadays that the old families ain’t getting the advertisin’ they’ve been used to. Anyway, it’s been sometime since Broadway Bob had his share of the limelight. You see, Bob sort of had his day when he was along in his thirties, and they say he was a real old-time sport and rounder, which was why he was let in so bad when old man Cathaway’s will was probated. All Bob pulls out is a couple of thousand a year, even that being handled first by Brother DeLancey, who cops all the rest of the pile as a reward for always having gone in strong for charity and the perfectly good life.

It’s a case where virtue shows up strong from the first tap of the bell. Course, Bob can look back on some years of vivid joy, when he was makin’ a record as a quart opener, buyin’ stacks of blues at Daly’s, or over at Monte Carlo bettin’ where the ball would stop. But all this ends mighty abrupt.

In the meantime Bob has married a lively young lady that nobody knew much about except that she was almost as good a sport as he was, and they were doin’ some great teamwork in the way of livenin’ up society, when the crash came.

Then it was the noble hearted DeLancey to the rescue. He don’t exactly take them right into the fam’ly; but he sends Mr. and Mrs. Bob over to his big Long Island country place, assigns ’em quarters in the north wing, and advises ’em to be as happy as they can. Now to most folks that would look like landin’ on Velveteen-st., – free eats, no room rent, and a forty-acre park to roam around in, with the use of a couple of safe horses and a libr’y full of improvin’ books, such as the Rollo series and the works of Dr. Van Dyke.

Brother Bob don’t squeal or whine. He starts in to make the best of it by riggin’ himself out like an English Squire and makin’ a stagger at the country gentleman act. He takes a real int’rest in keepin’ up the grounds and managin’ the help, which DeLancey had never been able to do himself.

It’s as dull as dishwater, though, for Mrs. Robert Cathaway, and as there ain’t anyone else handy she takes it out on Bob. Accordin’ to all accounts, they must have done the anvil chorus good and plenty. You can just see how it would be, with them two dumped down so far from Broadway and only now and then comp’ny to break the monotony. When people did come, too, they was DeLancey’s kind. I can picture Bob tryin’ to get chummy with a bunch of prison reformers or delegates to a Sunday school union. I don’t wonder his disposition curdled up.

If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Bob, though, they’d been there yet. She got so used to rowin’ with Bob that she kept it up even when Brother DeLancey and his friends came down. DeLancey stands for it until one morning at breakfast, when he was entertainin’ an English Bishop he’d corraled at some conference. Him and the Bishop was exchangin’ views on whether free soup and free salvation was a good workin’ combination or not, when some little thing sets Mr. and Mrs. Bob to naggin’ each other on the side. I forgot just what it was Bob shot over; but after standin’ her jabs for quite some time without gettin’ real personal he comes back with some stage whisper remark that cut in deep.

Mrs. Bob was right in the act of helpin’ herself to the jelly omelet, usin’ a swell silver servin’ shovel about half the size of a brick layer’s trowel. She’s so stirred up that she absentmindedly scoops up a double portion, and just as Bob springs his remark what does she do but up and let fly at him, right across the table. Maybe she’d have winged him too, – and served him right for saying what no gentleman should to a lady, even if she is his wife, – but, what with her not stoppin’ to take good aim, and the maid’s gettin’ her tray against her elbow, she misses Bob by about three feet and plasters the English Bishop square between the eyes.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.