Side-stepping with Shorty

  Produced by Al Haines

  [Frontispiece: THEY TACKLES ANYTHING I LEADS 'EM UP TO]

  Side-stepping

  with Shorty

  _By_

  Sewell Ford

  _Illustrated by_

  _Francis Vaux Wilson_

  NEW YORK

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  PUBLISHERS

  _Copyright, 1908, by Mitchell Kennerley_

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  I. SHORTY AND THE PLUTE II. ROUNDING UP MAGGIE III. UP AGAINST BENTLEY IV. THE TORTONIS' STAR ACT V. PUTTING PINCKNEY ON THE JOB VI. THE SOARING OF THE SAGAWAS VII. RINKEY AND THE PHONY LAMP VIII. PINCKNEY AND THE TWINS IX. A LINE ON PEACOCK ALLEY X. SHORTY AND THE STRAY XI. WHEN ROSSITER CUT LOOSE XII. TWO ROUNDS WITH SYLVIE XIII. GIVING BOMBAZOULA THE HOOK XIV. A HUNCH FOR LANGDON XV. SHORTY'S GO WITH ART XVI. WHY WILBUR DUCKED XVII. WHEN SWIFTY WAS GOING SOME XVIII. PLAYING WILBUR TO SHOW XIX. AT HOME WITH THE DILLONS XX. THE CASE OF RUSTY QUINN

  ILLUSTRATIONS

  THEY TACKLES ANYTHING I LEADS 'EM TO . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

  THE TWINS ORGANIZE A GAME OF TAG

  "WE--E--E--OUGH! GLORY BE!" YELLS HANK, LETTIN' OUT AN EARSPLITTER

  HE HAS THE PO'TRY TAP TURNED ON FULL BLAST

  I

  SHORTY AND THE PLUTE

  Notice any gold dust on my back? No? Well it's a wonder there ain't,for I've been up against the money bags so close I expect you can findeagle prints all over me.

  That's what it is to build up a rep. Looks like all the fat wads inNew York was gettin' to know about Shorty McCabe, and how I'm a surecure for everything that ails 'em. You see, I no sooner take hold ofone down and outer, sweat the high livin' out of him, and fix him uplike new with a private course of rough house exercises, than he passesthe word along to another; and so it goes.

  This last was the limit, though. One day I'm called to the 'phone bysome mealy mouth that wants to know if this is the Physical CultureStudio.

  "Sure as ever," says I.

  "Well," says he, "I'm secretary to Mr. Fletcher Dawes."

  "That's nice," says I. "How's Fletch?"

  "Mr. Dawes," says he, "will see the professah at fawh o'clock thisawfternoon."

  "Is that a guess," says I, "or has he been havin' his fortune told?"

  "Who is this?" says the gent at the other end of the wire, real sharpand sassy.

  "Only me," says I.

  "Well, who are you?" says he.

  "I'm the witness for the defence," says I. "I'm Professor McCabe, P.C. D., and a lot more that I don't use on week days."

  "Oh!" says he, simmerin' down a bit. "This is Professor McCabehimself, is it? Well, Mr. Fletcher Dawes requiahs youah services. Youare to repawt at his apartments at fawh o'clock this awfternoon--fawho'clock, understand?"

  "Oh, yes," says I. "That's as plain as a dropped egg on a plate ofhash. But say, Buddy; you tell Mr. Dawes that next time he wants mejust to pull the string. If that don't work, he can whistle; and whenhe gets tired of whistlin', and I ain't there, he'll know I ain'tcomin'. Got them directions? Well, think hard, and maybe you'llfigure it out later. Ta, ta, Mister Secretary." With that I hangs upthe receiver and winks at Swifty Joe.

  "Swifty," says I, "they'll be usin' us for rubber stamps if we don'tlook out."

  "Who was the guy?" says he.

  "Some pinhead up to Fletcher Dawes's," says I.

  "Hully chee!" says Swifty.

  Funny, ain't it, how most everyone'll prick up their ears at that name?And it don't mean so much money as John D.'s or Morgan's does, either.But what them two and Harriman don't own is divided up among FletcherDawes and a few others. Maybe it's because Dawes is such a freespender that he's better advertised. Anyway, when you say FletcherDawes you think of a red-faced gent with a fistful of thousand-dollarbills offerin' to buy the White House for a stable.

  But say, he might have twice as much, and I wouldn't hop any quicker.I'm only livin' once, and it may be long or short, but while it lasts Idon't intend to do the lackey act for anyone.

  Course, I thinks the jolt I gave that secretary chap closes theincident. But around three o'clock that same day, though, I looks downfrom the front window and sees a heavy party in a fur lined overcoatbein' helped out of a shiny benzine wagon by a pie faced valet, andbefore I'd done guessin' where they was headed for they shows up in theoffice door.

  "My name is Dawes. Fletcher Dawes," says the gent in the overcoat.

  "I could have guessed that," says I. "You look somethin' like thepictures they print of you in the Sunday papers."

  "I'm sorry to hear it," says he.

  But say, he's less of a prize hog than you'd think, come to getnear--forty-eight around the waist, I should say, and about a numbersixteen collar. You wouldn't pick him out by his face as the kind of aman that you'd like to have holdin' a mortgage on the old homestead,though, nor one you'd like to sit opposite to in a poker game--eyesabout a quarter of an inch apart, lima bean ears buttoned down close,and a mouth like a crack in the pavement.

  He goes right at tellin' what he wants and when he wants it, sayin'he's a little out of condition and thinks a few weeks of my trainin'was just what he needed. Also he throws out that I might come up tothe Brasstonia and begin next day.

  "Yes?" says I. "I heard somethin' like that over the 'phone."

  "From Corson, eh?" says he. "He's an ass! Never mind him. You'll beup to-morrow?"

  "Say," says I, "where'd you get the idea I went out by the day?"

  "Why," says he, "it seems to me I heard something about----"

  "Maybe they was personal friends of mine," says I. "That's different.Anybody else comes here to see me."

  "Ah!" says he, suckin' in his breath through his teeth and levelin'them blued steel eyes of his at me. "I suppose you have your price?"

  "No," says I; "but I'll make one, just special for you. It'll be tendollars a minute."

  Say, what's the use? We saves up till we gets a little wad of twentiesabout as thick as a roll of absorbent cotton, and with what we got inthe bank and some that's lent out, we feel as rich as platter gravy.Then we bumps up against a really truly plute, and gets a squint at hisdinner check, and we feels like panhandlers workin' a side street.Honest, with my little ten dollars a minute gallery play, I thought Iwas goin' to have him stunned.

  "That's satisfactory," says he. "To-morrow, at four."

  That's all. I'm still standin' there with my mouth open when he'sbein' tucked in among the tiger skins. And I'm bought up by the hour,like a bloomin' he massage artist! Feel? I felt like I'd fit loose ina gas pipe.

  But Swifty, who's had his ear stretched out and his eyes bugged all thetime, begins to do the walk around and look me over as if I was a newwax figger in a museum.

  "Ten plunks a minute!" says he. "Hully chee!"

  "Ah, forget it!" says I. "D'ye suppose I want to be reminded that I'vebroke into the bath rubber class? G'wan! Next time you see me prob'lyI'll be wearin' a leather collar and a tag. Get the mitts on, youSouth Brooklyn bridge rusher, and let me show you how I can hit beforeI lose my nerve altogether!"

  Swifty says he ain't been used so rough since the time he took thecount from Cans; but it was a relief to my feelin's; and when he cometo reckon up that I'd handed him two hundred dollars' worth of puncheswithout chargin' him a red, he says he'd be proud to have me do itevery day.

  If it hadn't been that I'd chucked the bluff myself, I'd scratched theDawes proposition. But I ain't no hand to welch; so up I goes nextafternoon, with my gym. suit in a bag, and gets my first inside view ofthe Brasstonia, where the plute hangs out. And say, if you think thesedown
town twenty-five-a-day joints is swell, you ought to get somePittsburg friend to smuggle you into one of these up town apartmenthotels that's run exclusively for trust presidents. Why, they don'thave any front doors at all. You're expected to come and go in yourbubble, but the rules lets you use a cab between certain hours.

  I tries to walk in, and was held up by a three hundred pound specialcop in grey and gold, and made to prove that I didn't belong in thebaggage elevator or the ash hoist. Then I'm shown in over the Turkishrugs to a solid gold passenger lift, set in a velvet arm chair, andshot up to the umpteenth floor.

  I was lookin' to find Mr. Dawes located in three or four rooms andbath, but from what I could judge of the size of his ranch he must payby acreage instead of the square foot, for he has a whole wing tohimself. And as for hired help, they was standin' around in clusters,all got up in baby blue and silver, with mugs as intelligent as so manyfrozen codfish. Say, it would give me chillblains on the soul to haveto live with that gang lookin' on!

  I'm shunted from one to the other, until I gets to Dawes, and he leadsthe way into a big room with rubber mats, punchin' bags, and all thefixin's you could think of.

  "Will this do?" says he.

  "It'll pass," says I. "And if you'll chase out that bunch ofemployment bureau left-overs, we'll get down to business."

  "But," says he, "I thought you might need some of my men to----"

  "I don't," says I, "and while you're mixin' it with me you won't,either."

  At that he shoos 'em all out and shuts the door. I opens the windowso's to get in some air that ain't been strained and currycombed andscented with violets, and then we starts to throw the shot bag around.I find Fletcher is short winded and soft. He's got a bad liver and aworse heart, for five or six years' trainin' on wealthy water and patede foie gras hasn't done him any good. Inside of ten minutes he knowsjust how punky he is himself, and he's ready to follow any directions Ilay down.

  As I'm leavin', a nice, slick haired young feller calls me over andhands me an old rose tinted check. It was for five hundred and twenty.

  "Fifty-two minutes, professor," says he.

  "Oh, let that pyramid," says I, tossin' it back.

  Honest, I never shied so at money before, but somehow takin' that wentagainst the grain. Maybe it was the way it was shoved at me.

  I'd kind of got interested in the job of puttin' Dawes on his feet,though, and Thursday I goes up for another session. Just as I stepsoff the elevator at his floor I hears a scuffle, and out comes a coupleof the baby blue bunch, shoving along an old party with her bonnettilted over one ear. I gets a view of her face, though, and I seesshe's a nice, decent lookin' old girl, that don't seem to be eithertanked or batty, but just kind of scared. A Willie boy in a frock coatwas followin' along behind, and as they gets to me he steps up, grabsher by the arm, and snaps out:

  "Now you leave quietly, or I'll hand you over to the police!Understand?"

  That scares her worse than ever, and she rolls her eyes up to me inthat pleadin' way a dog has when he's been hurt.

  "Hear that?" says one of the baby blues, shakin' her up.

  My fingers went into bunches as sudden as if I'd touched a live wire,but I keeps my arms down. "Ah, say!" says I. "I don't see any callfor the station-house drag out just yet. Loosen up there a bit, willyou?"

  "Mind your business!" says one of 'em, givin' me the glary eye.

  "Thanks," says I. "I was waitin' for an invite," and I reaches out andgets a shut-off grip on their necks. It didn't take 'em long to loosenup after that.

  "Here, here!" says the Willie that I'd spotted for Corson. "Oh, it'syou is it, professor?"

  "Yes, it's me," says I, still holdin' the pair at arms' length."What's the row?"

  "Why," says Corson, "this old woman----"

  "Lady," says I.

  "Aw--er--yes," says he. "She insists on fawcing her way in to see Mr.Dawes."

  "Well," says I, "she ain't got no bag of dynamite, or anything likethat, has she?"

  "I just wanted a word with Fletcher," says she, buttin' in--"just aword or two."

  "Friend of yours?" says I.

  "Why-- Well, we have known each other for forty years," says she.

  "That ought to pass you in," says I,

  "But she refuses to give her name," says Corson.

  "I am Mrs. Maria Dawes," says she, holdin' her chin up and lookin' himstraight between the eyes.

  "You're not on the list," says Corson.

  "List be blowed!" says I. "Say, you peanut head, can't you see this issome relation? You ought to have sense enough to get a report from theboss, before you carry out this quick bounce business. Perhaps you'reputtin' your foot in it, son."

  Then Corson weakens, and the old lady throws me a look that was as goodas a vote of thanks. And say, when she'd straightened her lid andpulled herself together, she was as ladylike an old party as you'd wantto meet. There wa'n't much style about her, but she was dressedexpensive enough--furs, and silks, and sparks in her ears. Looked likeone of the sort that had been up against a long run of hard luck andhad come through without gettin' sour.

  While we was arguin', in drifts Mr. Dawes himself. I gets a glimpse ofhis face when he first spots the old girl, and if ever I see a mouthshut like a safe door, and a jaw stiffen as if it had turned toconcrete, his did.

  "What does this mean, Maria?" he says between his teeth.

  "I couldn't help it, Fletcher," says she. "I wanted to see you aboutlittle Bertie."

  "Huh!" grunts Fletcher. "Well, step in this way. McCabe, you can comealong too."

  I wa'n't stuck on the way it was said, and didn't hanker for mixin' upwith any such reunions; but it didn't look like Maria had any too manyfriends handy, so I trots along. When we're shut in, with thedraperies pulled, Mr. Dawes plants his feet solid, shoves his handsdown into his pockets, and looks Maria over careful.

  "Then you have lost the address of my attorneys?" says he, real frosty.

  That don't chill Maria at all. She acted like she was used to it."No," says she; "but I'm tired of talking to lawyers. I couldn't tellthem about Bertie, and how lonesome I've been without him these lasttwo years. Can't I have him, Fletcher?"

  About then I begins to get a glimmer of what it was all about, and bythe time she'd gone on for four or five minutes I had the whole story.Maria was the ex-Mrs. Fletcher Dawes. Little Bertie was a grandson;and grandma wanted Bertie to come and live with her in the big LongIsland place that Fletcher had handed her when he swapped her off forone of the sextet, and settled up after the decree was granted.

  Hearin' that brought the whole thing back, for the papers printed pagesabout the Daweses; rakin' up everything, from the time Fletcher run agrocery store and lodgin' house out to Butte, and Maria helped him sellflour and canned goods, besides makin' beds, and jugglin' pans, andtakin' in washin' on the side; to the day Fletcher euchred a prospectorout of the mine that gave him his start.

  "You were satisfied with the terms of the settlement, when it wasmade," says Mr. Dawes.

  "I know," says she; "but I didn't think how badly I should miss Bertie.That is an awful big house over there, and I am getting to be an oldwoman now, Fletcher."

  "Yes, you are," says he, his mouth corners liftin' a little. "ButBertie's in school, where he ought to be and where he is going to stay.Anything more?"

  I looks at Maria. Her upper lip was wabblin' some, but that's all."No, Fletcher," says she. "I shall go now."

  She was just about startin', when there's music on the other side ofthe draperies. It sounds like Corson was havin' his troubles withanother female. Only this one had a voice like a brass cornet, and shewas usin' it too.

  "Why can't I go in there?" says she. "I'd like to know why! Eh,what's that? A woman in there?"

  And in she comes. She was a pippin, all right. As she yanks back thecurtain and rushes in she looks about as friendly as a spotted leopardthat's been stirred up with an elephant hook; but when she sizes up t
hecomp'ny that's present she cools off and lets go a laugh that gives usan iv'ry display worth seein'.

  "Oh!" says she. "Fletchy, who's the old one?"

  Say, I expect Dawes has run into some mighty worryin' scenes beforenow, havin' been indicted once or twice and so on, but I'll bet henever bucked up against the equal of this before. He opens his mouth acouple of times, but there don't seem to be any language on tap. Themissus was ready, though.

  "Maria Dawes is my name, my dear," says she.

  "Maria!" says the other one, lookin' some staggered. "Why--why, thenyou--you're Number One!"

  Maria nods her head.

  Then Fletcher gets his tongue out of tangle. "Maria," says he, "thisis my wife, Maizie."

  "Yes?" says Maria, as gentle as a summer night. "I thought this mustbe Maizie. You're very young and pretty, aren't you? I suppose you goabout a lot? But you must be careful of Fletcher. He always wasfoolish about staying up too late, and eating things that hurt him. Iused to have to warn him against black coffee and welsh rabbits. Hewill eat them, and then he has one of his bad spells. Fletcher isfifty-six now, you know, and----"

  "Maria!" says Mr. Dawes, his face the colour of a boiled beet, "that'senough of this foolishness! Here, Corson! Show this lady out!"

  "Yes, I was just going, Fletcher," says she.

  "Good-bye, Maria!" sings out Maizie, and then lets out another of hersoprano ha-ha's, holdin' her sides like she was tickled to death.Maybe it was funny to her; it wa'n't to Fletcher.

  "Come, McCabe," says he; "we'll get to work."

  Say, I can hold in about so long, and then I've got to blow off or elsebust a cylinder head. I'd had about enough of this "Come, McCabe"business, too. "Say, Fletchy," says I, "don't be in any grand rush. Iain't so anxious to take you on as you seem to think."

  "What's that?" he spits out.

  "You keep your ears open long enough and you'll hear it all," says I;for I was gettin' hotter an' hotter under the necktie. "I just want tosay that I've worked up a grouch against this job durin' the last fewminutes. I guess I'll chuck it up."

  That seemed to go in deep. Mr. Dawes, he brings his eyes togetheruntil nothin' but the wrinkle keeps 'em apart, and he gets the hecticflush on his cheek bones. "I don't understand," says he.

  "This is where I quit," says I. "That's all."

  "But," says he, "you must have some reason."

  "Sure," says I; "two of 'em. One's just gone out. That's the other,"and I jerks my thumb at Maizie.

  She'd been rollin' her eyes from me to Dawes, and from Dawes back tome. "What does this fellow mean by that?" says Maizie. "Fletcher, whydon't you have him thrown out?"

  "Yes, Fletcher," says I, "why don't you? I'd love to be thrown outjust now!"

  Someway, Fletcher wasn't anxious, although he had lots of bouncersstandin' idle within call. He just stands there and looks at his toes,while Maizie tongue lashes first me and then him. When she getsthrough I picks up my hat.

  "So long, Fletchy," says I. "What work I put in on you the other dayI'm goin' to make you a present of. If I was you, I'd cash that checkand buy somethin' that would please Maizie."

  "D'jer annex another five or six hundred up to the Brasstonia thisafternoon?" asks Swifty, when I gets back.

  "Nix," says I. "All I done was to organise a wife convention and getmyself disliked. That ten-a-minute deal is off. But say, Swifty, justremember I've dodged makin' the bath rubber class, and I'm satisfied atthat."