Shorty McCabe, Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  Say, you can't always tell, can you? Here a couple of weeks back Ithought I'd wiped It'ly off the map. We'd settled down in this littleold burg, me and the Boss and Mister 'Ankins, nice and comfortable, andnot too far from Broadway. And we was havin' our four o'clock teas withthe mitts, as reg'lar as if there was money comin' to us for each round,when this here Sherlock proposition turns up.

  Mister 'Ankins, he was the first to spot it, and he comes trottin' inwhere we was prancin' around the mat, his jaw loose, and his eyebrowspropped up like Eddie Foy's when he wears his salary face.

  "Hit's most hunnacountable, sir," says he.

  "Time out!" says I, blockin' the Boss's pet upper cut. "Mister 'Ankinsseems to have something on the place where his mind ought to be."

  "Hankins," says the Boss, putting down his guard reluctant, "haven't Itold you never to----"

  "Yes, sir; yes, sir," says Mister 'Ankins, "but there's that houtrageousthing fawst to the door and, Lor' 'elp me, sir, Hi cawnt pull it hoff."

  The Boss he looks at me, and I looks at the Boss, and then we both looksat Mister 'Ankins. Seein' as how he couldn't reveal much with thatcheese pie face of his, we goes and takes a look at the door. It wasthe outside one, just as you gets off the elevator.

  And there _was_ something there, too; the dizziest kind of a visitin'card that was ever handed out, I suspicion, in those particular swellchambers for single gents. It was a cuff, just a plain, every day wristchafer, pinned up with the wickedest little blood letter that ever cameoff the knife rack. Half an inch of the blade stuck through the panel,so the one who put it there must have meant that it shouldn't blow away.The Boss jerks it loose, sizes it up a minute, and says:

  "Stiletto, eh? Made in Firenze--that's Florence. Shorty, have you anyfriends from abroad that are in the habit of leaving their cutleryaround promiscuous?"

  "I know folks as far west as Hoboken, if that's what you mean," says I,"but there ain't none of them in the meat business."

  Well, we takes the thing inside under the bunch light and has anothersquint.

  "Here's writin' in red ink," says I, and holds up the cuff.

  "Read it," says the Boss.

  "I could play it better on a flute," says I. "You try."

  We didn't have to try hard. The minute he skinned his eye over that hisjaw goes loose like he'd stopped a body wallop with his short ribs.

  "It's Tuscan," says he, "and it means that someone's in trouble andwants help."

  "Do they take this for police headquarters, or a Charity Organization?"says I. "Looks to me like a new kind of wireless from the wash lady. Whydon't you pay her?"

  "That's one of my cuffs," says the Boss.

  "It's too well ventilated to get into the bag again," says I.

  "Shorty," says he, lettin' my Joe-Weber go over his shoulder, "do youknow where I saw that cuff last? It was in North Italy!"

  Then he figured out by the queer laundry marks just where he'd shed thisidentical piece of his trousseau. We'd left it, with a few momentoesjust as valuable, when we made that quick move away from that punky oldpalace after our little monkey shine with the brigands.

  "You don't mean--?" says I. But there wa'n't no use wasting breath onthat question. He was blushin'. We fiddled some on its having come fromold Vincenzo, or maybe from Blue Beak, the Count that rented us theplace; but the minute we tied that cuff up with the castle we knew thatthe one who sent it meant to ring up a hurry call on us for help, andthat it wasn't anybody but the Lady Brigandess herself, the one thatput us next and kept the Boss from being sewed up in a blanket.

  "That's a Hey Rube for me," says I. "How about-cher?"

  But the Boss was kicking off his gym. shoes and divin' through hisshirt. In five minutes by the watch we were dressed for slootin'.

  "I know a Dago roundsman--" says I.

  "No police in this," says the Boss.

  "Guess you're right," says I. "Too much lime-light and too littleheadwork. We'll cut the cops out. Where to first?"

  "I'm going to call on the Italian consul," says the Boss. "He's a friendof mine."

  So we opened the sloot business with a ride in one of those heavy weight'lectric hansoms, telling the throttle pusher to shove her wide open.Maybe we broke the speed ord'nance some, but we caught Mr. Consul on thefly, just as he was punchin' the time card. He wore a rich set of PeterCooper whiskers, but barring them he was a well finished old gent, witha bow that was an address of welcome all by itself. The way that heshoved out leather chairs you'd thought he was makin' a present of 'emto us.

  But the Boss hadn't any time to waste on flourishes. We got right downto cases. He wanted to know about where the Tuscans usually headed forwhen they left Ellis Island, what sort of gangs they had in New York andwhat kind of Black Hand deviltry they were most given to. He asked ahundred questions and never answered one. Then he shook hands with Mr.Consul and we chased out.

  "It looks like the Malabistos," says the Boss. "They have a kind ofheadquarters over a basement restaurant. Perhaps they've shut her upthere. We'll take a look at the place anyway."

  A lot of good it did us, too. The spaghetti works was in full blast,with a lot of husky lowbrows goin' in and out, smokin' cheroots half aslong as your arm, and acting as if the referee had just declared a draw.The opening for a couple of bare fisted investigators wasn't what youmight call promisin'. Not having their grips and passwords, we didn'tfeel as though we could make good in their lodge.

  "I could round up a gang and then we could rush 'em," says I.

  "That wouldn't do," says the Boss. "Strategy is what we need here."

  "I'm just out of that," says I.

  "Perhaps there's a back door," says the Boss.

  So we moseys around the block, huntin' for a family entrance. But thatain't the way they build down in Mulberry Bend. They chucks their oldrookeries slam up against one another, to keep 'em from fallin' over, Iguess. Generally though, there's some sort of garlic flue through themiddle of the block, but you need a balloon to find it.

  "Hist!" says I. "Hold me head while I thinks a thunk. Didn't I come downhere once to watch a try-out? Sure! And it was pulled off in thepalatial parlors of Appetite Joe Cardenzo's Chowder Association, thesame being a back room two flights up. Now if we could dig up AppetiteJoe--"

  We did. He was around the corner playing 'scope for brandied plums, buthe let go the cards long enough to listen to my fairy tale about wantin'a joint where I could give my friend a private lesson.

  "Sure!" said Joe, passing out the key, "but you breaka da chair I chargafeefty cent."

  There were two back windows and the view wasn't one you'd want to put ina frame. Down below was a court filled with coal boxes and old barrels,and perfumed like the lee side of Barren Island. But catty-cornersacross was the back of that spaghetti mill. We could tell it by thetwo-decker bill board on the roof. In the upper windows we could seeDago women and kids, but the windows on the second floor were black.

  "Iron shutters," says the Boss. "And that's where she is if anywhere."

  "Got a scalin' ladder and a jimmy in your pocket?" says I. "Then I'llhave to run around to a three ball exchange and see if I can't dig up anoutfit."

  A patent fire escape and a short handled pick-axe was the best I coulddo. We made the board jumper fast inside and down I went. Then there wasacrobatics; swingin' across to that three inch window ledge, balancin'with one foot on nothing, and single hand work with the pick-axe. Luckythat shutter-bar was half rusted away. She came open with a bang whenshe did come, and it near sent me down into the barrels. Me eyelashesheld though, and there I was, up against a window.

  "See anything?" says the Boss.

  "Room to rent," says I, for it looked like we'd pried open a vacantflat.

  Just then the sash goes up and something shiny glitters in the dark. Iwas just lettin' go with one hand to swing for a head when someone letsloose a Dago remark that was mighty business like and more or lessfamiliar.

  "Is it y
ou?" says I. "If you're the Lady Brigandess own up sudden."

  "Ah-h-h!" says she, thankful like, as if she'd seen her horse win by anose. Then she puts up the rib tickler and grabs me by the wrist.

  "Guess your lady friend's here," I sings out to the Boss.

  "Have you got her?" says he.

  "No," says I; "she's got me."

  But no sooner does she hear him than she lets go of me, shoves her headout of the window and calls up to him. The Boss says something back andfor the next two minutes they swaps Dago talk to beat the cars.

  "How shall I pass her up?" says I.

  Just then she made a spring for that rope ladder of ours and overhandsup like a trapeze star. An' me thinkin' we'd need a derrick or abo's'n's chair!

  It wa'n't no time for reunions at that stage of the game, nor for hardluck stories, either. None of us was pining to hold any sociables withthe Malabistos. We quit the chowder club on the jump, streaked up thehill into Mott street, and piled into one of those fuzzy two horsechariots that they keep hooked up for weddin's and funerals.

  "Where to?" says the bone thumper.

  "Head her for Buffalo and let loose to beat the Empire State express,"says I, "but hunt for asphalt."

  That fetched us up Second Avenue, but there wasn't any conversin' doneuntil we'd put fifty blocks behind us. Then I reckon the Boss asked theLady Brigandess if she'd missed any meals lately. From the way he gaveorders to steer for a food refinery she must have allowed that she had.

  Not having time to be particular, we hit a goulash emporium where theyspell the meat card mostly with cz's. But they gave us a private roomupstairs, which was what we wanted. And it wasn't until we got insidethat we had a full length view of her. Say, I was glad we'd landed sofar east of Broadway. Post me for a welcher if she wasn't rigged out inthe same kind of a chorus costume that she wore when we saw her last,over there in It'ly! Only it was more so. It was the kind of costumethat'd been all right on a cigarette card, or outside a Luna Park joint,and it would have let her into the Arion ball without a ticket; but itwasn't built for circulatin' 'round New York in.

  "Piffle! Piffle!" says I to the Boss. "They'll think we've pinched herout of a Kiralfy ballet. Hadn't we better send for yer lady-fren'strunk?"

  The Boss grinned, but he looked her over as satisfied as if she'd beendressed accordin' to his own water color sketches. She was something ofa star, yes, yes! If you were lookin' for figure and condition, she had'em. And when it came to the color scheme--well, no grease paintmanipulator ever mixed caffy-o-lay and raspb'ry pink the way it grew onher. For a made-in-It'ly girl she was the real meringue.

  "We'll see about clothes later," says the Boss, and ordered up seventeenkinds of sckeezedsky, to be served in relays.

  She brought her appetite with her, all right, even if she had mislaidher suit case. And, while she was pitchin' into what passes for grub onSecond Avenue, she told the Boss the story of her life. Leastways,that's what it sounded like to me.

  The way I gets it from the Boss was like this: Her father, the oldbrigand pantanta, couldn't get over the way we'd bansheed his bunch ofthird rate kidnappers with our tin armor play. He accumulated a sort ofingrowin' grouch and soured on the whole push because they wouldn't turnstate's evidence as to who had given us the dope to do 'em.

  The Lady Brigandess she had stood that for a while, until one day shegets her Irish up, tells the old man how she tipped us off herself, andthen makes tracks out of the country. One way and another she'd heard alot about America. So she takes out yellow tickets on a few sparesparks and buys a steerage berth for New York.

  Well, she hadn't more'n got past Sandy Hook before a Malabisto runnerspotted her. So did the advance man of another gang. They sized up thegold hoops in her ears, her real money necklace and some of the otherfurniture she sported, and they invited her home to tea. Just how thescrap began or what it was all about she didn't know, so the story byrounds hasn't been told. The next thing she knew though, they'd hustledher into the Bend and bottled her up in that back room, but not beforeshe'd done a little extemporaneous carvin' on her own account. Igathered that three or four of the Malabistos needed some plain sewin'done on 'em after the bell rang, and that the rest wasn't so anxious forher society as at first. She'd been cooped up for two days when shemanaged to get hold of a Dago woman who promised to carry that cuff tothe place where old Vincenzo had told her we hung out in New York.

  "So far it's as good as playin' leading heavy in 'The Shadows of a GreatCity,'" says I, "but what's down for the next act? Where does she wantto go now?"

  Say, you'd thought the Boss had been nipped with the goods on. He goesstrawb'ry color back to his ears. Next he takes a look across the tableat her where she sits, quiet and easy, and as much to home as LadyGraftwad on the back seat of the tonneau. She was takin' notice of him,too, kind of runnin' over his points like he was something rich she'dwon at a raffle and was glad to get. But the Boss he braced up andlooked me straight in the eye.

  "Shorty," says he, "I want to call your attention to the fact that thisyoung lady is something like three thousand miles from home, that we'rethe only two human beings on this side of the ocean she knows by sight,and that once she risked a good deal to do us a service."

  "I'll put my name to all that," says I, "but what does it lead up to;where do we exit?"

  "That," says the Boss, "is a conundrum."

  "Ain't she got any programme?" says I.

  "She--er--that is," says the Boss, trying to duck, "she says she wantsto go with us."

  "Whe-e-e-ew!" says I, through my front teeth. "This is _so_ sudden. Justtell the lady, will you, that I've resigned."

  "No you don't, Shorty," says the Boss. "You'll see this thing through."

  "But look at them circus clothes," says I. "I've got no aunts orgrandmothers, or second cousins that I could unload a Lady Brigandesson."

  "Nor I," says the Boss.

  But he didn't look half so worried as he might. Say, when I came tofigure out what we were up against, I could feel little cold storagewhiffs on my shoulder blades. Suppose someone should meet you in themiddle of Herald Square, hand you a ring-tailed tiger, and then skiddoo.What? That would be an easy one compared to our proposition. It wasn't asquare deal to shake her, and she'd made up her mind not to stay putanywhere again.

  "Wait here until I telephone someone," says the Boss.

  "De-lighted!" says I. "Better ring up the Gerry Society, too, whileyou're about it. They might help us out."

  The Lady Brigandess and I didn't have a real sociable time while theBoss was gone. I could see she was watchin' every move I made, as muchas to say, "You can't lose me, Charlie." It was just as cheery aswaitin' in the Sergeant's room for bail.

  When the Boss does show up he wears a regular breakfast food smile thatmade me leary, for when he looks tickled it don't signify that thingsare coming his way. Generally it only means that he's goin' to break outin a new spot.

  "It just occurred to me," says he, "that I had accepted an invitationfrom the Van Urbans for the opera."

  "What kind of a bluff did you throw?" says I.

  "None at all, Shorty," says he. "I just asked if they would have roomfor three, and they said they would."

  Say, the Boss don't need no nerve tonic, does he? You know about the VanUrbans, don't you? They weigh in at something like forty millions andare a good fifth on Mrs. Astor's list.

  "Straight goods, now," says I, "you don't reckon to spring thisaggregation on the diamond horse-shoe, do you?"

  "We must put in the time somehow," says he.

  I thought it might be all a grand josh, until I'd watched some of hismoves. First we drives over to Fift' avenue and stops at one of thoseplaces where it says "Robes" on a brass plate outside. The Boss stays inthere four minutes and comes out with a piece of dry goods that theymust have stood him up a hundred for--kind of an opera cloak, ulsterlength, all rustly black silk outside and white inside. The LadyBrigandess she puts it on with no more fuss than as if sh
e'd beenbrought up on such things and had ordered this one a month ahead.

  Next we heads for our own quarters, having shifted our Mott streetchariot for the real article, with rubber tires and silver platedlamps. About that time I got wise to the fact that the Boss and herLadyship were ringin' me into their talk, and I was gettin' curious. Isee the Boss shaking his head like he was tryin' to prove an alibi, andevery once in a while pointin' to me. First thing I knows she'd quit hisside of the carriage and was snugglin' up alongside of me, and cooin'away in some outlandish kind of baby talk that I was glad I didn'tsavvy. I made no kick though, until she begins to pat me on the head.

  "Call her off, will you?" says I. "I'm no lost kid."

  "The young lady is just expressing her thanks," says the Boss, "to thegallant young hero who so nobly rescued her from the Malabistos. Don'tshy, Shorty; she says that anyone so brave as you are needn't worryabout not being handsome."

  He was kiddin' me, see? I knew he'd given her some fairy tale or other,but I didn't have any come back that she could understand. I felt like amonkey though, having my hair mussed and thinkin' maybe next minuteshe'd give me the knife. And the Boss he sat there grinnin' like a Jacklantern.

  I didn't get a chance to break away until we got to our own ranch. Thenwe left her sitting in the buggy while we went up to make a lightnin'change. Sure, I've got a head waiter's rig; bought it the time I had tolead off the grand march at the Tim Grogan Association's tenth annualball, but I never looked to wear it out attendin' grand opera.

  "I hope the Van Urbans will appreciate that I'm givin' 'em a treat,"says I.

  "They'll be blind if they don't," says the Boss. "Is it your collar thathurts?"

  "No, it's the shoes," says I, "but the pain'll numb down by the time weget there."

  We made our grand entry about the end of the second spasm. The VanUrbans had taken their corners. There was Papa Van Urban, lookin' likeready money; and Mamma Van Urban, made up regardless; and Sis Van Urban,one of those tall Gainsborough girls that any piker could pick for awinner on form and past performance.

  Say, it took all the front I had in stock just to tag along as an alsoran, but when I thought of the Boss, headin' the procession, I was deadsorry for him. And what kind of a game do you think he hands out?Straight talk, nothin' but! Course he didn't make no family hist'ry outof tellin' who his lady-fren' was, but as far as he went it tallied withthe card, even to lettin' on that she was a Lady Brigandess.

  "Out we go now," says I to myself, and looks to see Mamma Van Urbanthrow a cat fit. But she didn't. She just squealed a little, same's ifsomeone had tickled her behind the ear, and then she began slingin' thatgurgly-gurgly Newport talk that the Sixt' avenue sales ladies use. SisVan Urban caught the same cue, and to hear 'em you'd thought the Bosshad done something real cute. They gave the Lady Brigandess the HighBridge wig-wag and shooed her into a stage corner chair.

  She never made a kick at anything until they tried to take away hercloak. Not much! She was just beginnin' to be stuck on that. She kept itwrapped around her like she knew the proprietor wa'n't responsible forovercoats. The Boss tried to tell her how there wa'n't any grand larcenyintended, but it was no go. She had her suspicions of the crowd, so theyjust had to let her sit there draped in black. And at that she wa'n'tany misfit.

  Now I'd been inside the Metropolitan once or twice before, havin' blownmyself to a standee just for the sake of lookin' at the real things withtheir war paint on, but I wasn't feelin' any more to home in the back ofthat box than I would in the pilot house of an air ship.

  But the Lady Brigandess didn't show no more stage fright than anauctioneer. She just holds her chin up and looks out at all that displayof openwork dressmaking and cut glass exhibit without so much as battin'an eyelash. She was takin' it all in, too, from the bargain hats in thefam'ly circle, to the diamond tummy warmers in the parterre, but you'dnever guessed that she'd just escaped from a Dago back district wherethey have one mail a week. If I hadn't seen her chumming with a hold-upgang that couldn't have bought fifteen cent lodgings on the Bowery, I'dbet the limit that she was a thoroughbred in disguise.

  There was some rubberin' at her, of course, and I expect we had thesafety vault crowd guessin' as to what kind of a prize the Van Urbanshad won, but it didn't feaze her a bit. She just gave 'em the Horse Showstare, as cool as a mint frappe. The ringin' up of the curtain didn'tdisturb her any, either. When a chesty baritone sauntered down towardthe footlights and began callin' the chorus names she glanced over hershoulder, casual like, just to see what the row was all about, and thenwent on sizin' up the folks in the boxes. She couldn't have done itbetter if she'd taken lessons by mail.

  "If she would only talk!" gurgles Mrs. Van Urban. "Doesn't she speakanything but Italian?"

  "Pure Tuscan is all she knows," says the Boss, "and the way she talks itis better than any music you'll hear to-night. Wait until she hassatisfied her eyes."

  Pretty soon the baritone quits jawin' the chorus and a prima donna inspangled clothes comes to the front. Maybe it was Melba, or Nordica.Anyway, she was an A-1 warbler. She hadn't let go of more'n a dozennotes before the Lady Brigandess begins to sit up and take notice. Firstshe has a kind of surprised look, as if a ringer had been sprung on her;and then, as the high C artist begins to let herself go, she swingsaround and listens with both ears. The music didn't seem to go in oneside and out the other. It stuck somewhere between, and swayed andlifted her like a breeze in a posy bush. I could hear her toe tappin'out the tune and see her head keep time to it. Why, if I could get mymoney's worth out of music like that I'd buy a season ticket.

  When the prima donna had cut it off, with her voice way up in the fliessomewhere, and the house had rose to her, as the bleachers do when oneof the Giants knocks a three bagger, the Lady Brigandess was stillsittin' there, waitin' for more.

  Her trance didn't last long, though. She just cast one eye around theboxes, where the folks were splittin' gloves and wavin' fans andyellin' "Bravo! Bravo!" so that you'd 'a-thought somebody'd carried Ohioby a big majority, and then she takes a notion to get into the gameherself.

  Shuckin' that high priced opera cloak she jumps up, drops one hand onher hip, holds the other up to her lips and peels off a kind ofwhoop-e-e-e yodel that shakes the skylight. Talk about your cornet buglecalls! That little ventriloquist pass of hers had 'em stung to awhisper. It cut through all that patter and screech like a siren whistlesplittin' a fish horn serenade, and it was as clear as the ring ofsilver sleigh bells on a frosty night.

  After that it was all up to her. The other folks quit and turned to seewho had done it. Two or three thousand pairs of double barrelled operaglasses were pointed our way. The folks behind 'em found something worthlookin' at, too. Our Brigandess wasn't in disguise any more. She stoodup there at the box rail, straight as a Gibson girl, her black hairhangin' in two thick braids below her waist, the gold hoops in her earsall ajiggle, her little fringed jacket risin' and fallin', and her blackeyes snappin' like a pair of burning trolley fuses. Well, say, if shewa'n't a pastelle I never saw one! I guess the star singer thought so,too. She'd just smiled and nodded at the others, but she blew a kiss upto our lady before she left.

  I don't know just what would have happened next if someone hadn't shownup at the back of the box and asked for the Boss. It was the Italianconsul that we'd been to see earlier in the day.

  "Where'd you find her?" says he.

  "Meanin' who?" says the Boss.

  "Why, her highness the Princess Padova."

  "Beg pardon," says the Boss, "but if you mean the young lady there,you're wrong. She's the daughter of a poor but honest brigand chief, andshe's just come from Tuscany to discover New York."

  "She's the Princess Padova or I'm a Turk," says the Consul. "Ask her tostep back here a moment."

  It sounded like a pipe dream, all right. Who ever saw a princess riggedout for the tambourine act and mixin' with a lot of chestnut roasters?But old whiskers had the evidence down pat, though. As he told it, shewa
s a sure enough princess, so far as the tag went, only the family hadbeen in the nobility business so long that the pedigree had lasted outthe plunks.

  It seemed that away back, before the Chicago fire or the Sayers-Heenango, her great-grandpop had princed it in regulation shape. Then there'dcome a grand mix-up, a war or something, and a lot of princes had eitherlost their jobs or got on the blacklist. Her great-grandpop had been oneof the kind that didn't know when he was licked. They euchred him outof his castle and building lots, but he gathered up what was left of hisgang and slid for the tall timber, where he went on princing the best heknew how. As he couldn't disgrace himself by workin', and hadn't lostthe hankerin' for reg'lar meals, he got into the habit of taking upcontributions from whoever came along, calling it a road tax. And that'show the Padova family fell into playing the hold-up game.

  But the old man Padova, the Princess' father, never forgot that if he'dhad his rights he would have been boss of his ward, and he always actedaccordin'. So when he picked the Consul up on the road one night with abroken leg he gave him the best in the house, patched him up like anambulance surgeon, and kept him board free until he could walk back totown. And so, when Miss Padova takes it into her head to elope toAmerica with a tin trunk, Papa Padova hikes himself down to the nearesttelegraph office and cables over a general alarm to his old friend,who's been made consul.

  "I've been having Mulberry Bend raked with a fine toothed comb," sayshe, "but when I saw her highness stand up here in the box I knew her ata glance, although it's been ten years since I saw her last."

  Then he asked her if he hadn't called the trick, and she said he had.

  "Now," says he, "perhaps you'll tell us why you came to America?"

  "Sure," says she, or something that meant the same, "I've come overafter me best feller. I've made up my mind that I'll marry him," and sheslips an arm around the Boss's neck just as cool as though they'd beenon a moonlight excursion.

  Mr. Consul's face gets as red as a fireman's shirt, the Van Urbans catchtheir breath with both fists, and I begins to see what a lovely mess I'dbeen helping the Boss to get himself into. He never turned a hairthough.

  "The honor is all mine," says he, just as if he meant every word of it.

  "Ahem!" says the Consul, kind of steadying himself against the curtains."Perhaps it would be best, before anything more is said on this subject,for the Princess to have a talk with my wife. We'll take her home."

  Well, they settled it that way and I was mighty glad to get her off ourhands so easy.

  Next afternoon the Consul shows up at our ranch as gay as an up-statedeacon who's seeing the town incog.

  "Sir," says he to the Boss, givin' him the right hand of fellowship,"you're a real gent. After what you did last night I'm proud to knowyou; and I'm happy to state that it's all off with the Princess."

  Then he went on to tell how Miss Padova, being out of her latitude,hadn't got her book straight. She'd carried away the notion that when aPrincess went out of her class she had a right to sign on any chap thatshe liked the looks of, without waitin' for him to make the first move.They did it that way at home. But when the Consul's wife had explainedthe United States way, and how the Boss was a good deal of a roosterhimself, with real money enough to buy up a whole rink full of Dagoprinces, why Miss Padova feels like a plush Christmas box at a Januarysale. She turns on the sprinkler, wants to know what they suppose theBoss thinks of her, and says she wants to go back to It'ly by the nexttrolley.

  "But she'll get over feeling bad," says the Consul. "We'll ship her backnext Friday, and you can take it from me that the incident is closed."

  I was lookin' for the Boss to open a bottle or two on that. But hedidn't. For a pleased man he held in well.

  "Poor little girl!" says he, looking absent minded towards the Bronx.Then he cheers up a minute. "I say, do you mind if I run up and see heronce before she sails?"

  "You may for all of me," says the Consul, "but if you'll listen to myadvice you won't go."

  He did though, and lugged me along for a chaperone, which is some out ofmy line.

  "I'm afraid they've rather overdone the explaining business," says he onthe way up; and while I had my own idea as to that, I had sense enough,for once, not to butt in.

  That was an ice house call, all right. They left us on the mat while ourcards went up, and after a while the hired girl comes down to give usthe book-agent glare.

  "Th' Missus," says she, "says as how the young lady begs to be 'xcused."

  "Does the young lady know we're here?" says the Boss.

  "She does," says the girl, and shuts the door.

  "Gee!" says I, "that's below the belt."

  The Boss hadn't a word left in him, but I wouldn't have met him in thering about then for anything less'n a bookie's bundle.

  Just as we hit the sidewalk we hears a front window go up, and downcomes a red rose plunk in front of us.

  "Many happy returns of the day," says I, handing it to the Boss.

  "I suppose you're right," says he. "It's the only way to look at it, Iexpect; and yet--oh, hang it all, Shorty, what's the use?"

  "Ahr-r, say!" says I. "Switch off! It's all over, and you've sidestepped takin' the count."