Shorty McCabe on the Job Part 16

"Sure!" says I. "I'm backin' him to qualify."

"It might mean," goes on J. Bayard insinuatin', "an opportunity to--well, to meet the right girl, you know."

Mrs. Hammond draws in her breath sharp and clasps her hands tight. I could see the picture she was watchin' on the screen,--Royce and a real swell young lady plutess trippin' towards the altar; maybe a crest on the fam'ly note paper.

"Oh!" says she. "And he should have the chance, shouldn't he? Well then, he must go. And you can just leave me out."

That seemed to settle it, and we was all takin' a deep breath, when Royce steps to the center of the stage. He puts his arm gentle around Mrs. Hammond and pats her on the shoulder.

"Sorry, Mother," says he, "but I'm going to do nothing of the sort.

You're an old dear, and the best mother a boy ever had. I never knew how much you had given up for me, never dreamed. But from now on it's going to be different. It's my turn now!"

"But--but, Royce," protests Mrs. Hammond, "you--you don't quite understand. We can't go on living as we have. Our income isn't so much as it was once, and----"

"I know," said Royce. "I had a talk with your attorney last week. It's the fault of that Honduras rubber plantation, where most of our funds are tied up. That Alvarez, your rascally Spanish superintendent, has been robbing you right and left. Well, I'm going to put a stop to that."

"You, Royce!" says Mother.

"Yes," says he quiet but earnest, "I'm going down there and fire him.

I'm going to run the plantation myself for awhile."

"Why, Royce!" gasps Mrs. Hammond.

He smiles and pats her on the shoulder again. "I know," he goes on. "I seem useless enough. I've been trained to s.h.i.+ne at dinner parties, and b.a.l.l.s, and _thes dansants_. I suppose I can too. And I've learned to sound my final G's, and to use the right forks, and how to make a parting speech to my hostess. So you've kept your promise to Father. But I've been thinking it all over lately. That isn't the sort of person I want to be. You say Father was a real man. I want to be a real man too.

I mean to try, anyway. This little affair with Alvarez ought to test me. They say he's rather a bad one, that he can't be fired. We'll see about that. There's a steamer for Belize next Thursday. I'm going to sail on her. Will you go along too?"

For a minute they stood there, Mother and Sonny boy, gazin' into each other's eyes without sayin' a word; and then--well, we turns our backs as they goes to a clinch and Mother turns on the sprinkler.

But J. Bayard's programme for helpin' Royce break into the younger set is bugged for fair. Instead we've dug up an expert in rubber farmin' and are preparin' to send him down as first a.s.sistant to the cla.s.siest plantation manager that ever started for Honduras. Mrs. Hammond announces that she's goin' too.

"There's good stuff in that young chap," says J. Bayard. "He isn't the son of Hungry Jim for nothing. I'll bet he wins out!"

"Win or lose," says I, "he's ducked bein' a parlor rat for life, which is something."

CHAPTER VIII

GUMMING GOPHER TO THE MAP

I'd heard the front office door pushed open and listened to a couple of heavy steps on the floor runner before I glances round to find this high party with the wide, stooped shoulders and the rugged face standin'

there beamin' at me genial and folksy. In one hand he has a green cloth bag with somethin' square in it, and in the other he has a broad-brimmed soft hat about the color of Camembert cheese. A tank station delegate and no mistake!

"The Horse Dealers' Exchange is over east of Fourth avenue, about eight blocks down," says I.

He chuckles good-natured and shakes his head. "You got two more comin'

to you, Brother," says he.

"Is it sawmill machinery you're lookin' for, then," says I, "or the home office of Marriage Bells?"

"Struck out!" says he. "Now it's my bat. Are you J. Bayard Steele, Mister?"

"Honest, now," says I, "do I look it?"

"Then I reckon you're the other one--Professor McCabe," says he.

"Line hit over center field!" says I. "What's the follow up to that?"

"No hurry," says he. "Have a b.u.t.ton first."

"Eh?" says I, gawpin', as he tosses the green bag and yellow lid onto a chair, dives into his side pocket, and proceeds to pin something on my coat lapel.

"Plenty of 'em," says he. "Here, take some for your friends. How's that for a slogan, anyway? 'Go to Gopher!' Good advice too. Gopher's the garden spot of the universe."

"Gopher what--where is it?" says I.

"Why," says he, "Gopher, U.S.A. That's the idea! I'm from there. Hubbs is the name,--Nelson Hubbs, secretary of the Gopher Board of Trade,--and I never miss a chance to give Gopher a boost."

"If this is a sample," says I, "you don't need to make an affidavit. But you wanted to see J. Bayard Steele, didn't you?"

It was as I'd suspicioned. Mr. Hubbs was No. 5 on the kindly deeds list that Pyramid Gordon had wished on Steele and me. We was to apply soothin' acts and financial balm to all the old grouches that Pyramid had left behind him, you remember, on a commission basis.

Seems J. Bayard had been tracin' Hubbs up by mail for more'n a month, and at that it was just by chance one of his letters had been forwarded to the right place. So Hubbs had come on to see what it was all about.

"Course," says he, "I remember this Gordon; but I didn't think he would me, and I can't see how settlin' up his will could----"

"Threw the hooks into you sometime or other, didn't he?" says I.

"I dun'no's you'd rightly call it that, either," says Hubbs, runnin' his long fingers reflective through his heavy mop of wavy hair. "I was station agent and dispatcher out at Kayuse Creek the only time we met up--and of all the forsaken, dreary, one-mule towns along the line that was the worst. I'd been there a year and a half, with no signs of ever gettin' out, and I'd got so I hated every human, being in sight, includin' myself. I even hated the people in the trains that went through, because they was goin' somewhere, and I wasn't. You know how it is."

"Well?" says I.

"So when this special pulled in, two private cars and a blind baggage,"

he goes on, "and a potty conductor asked me for a clear track to Omaha, I turned him down flat. Might of done it, you know, for the express was four hours behind schedule; but I was just too ornery. I let on I hadn't got the order, made 'em back their old special on a siding, and held 'em there all one blisterin' hot afternoon, while they come in by turns and cussed me. But your Mr. Gordon was the only one that talked straight to the point. 'Let us through, or I'll see that you're fired before morning!' says he, and fired I was. The night freight dropped a new agent, and by breakfast time I was a wanderer on the face of the earth.

Which was the best thing, Sir, that ever happened to me! I might have stuck in Kayuse Creek until this day."

"How long was it until you discovered this Gopher spot?" says I. "Near a dozen years," says he, "and during that time, Sir, I've had a whirl at more different kinds of industry than you'd believe existed, from runnin' a self-binder to canva.s.sin' for the Life of James A. Garfield.

It was Possum Oil that brought me good luck. Boiled linseed with camphor and a little tincture of iron was what it was really made of; but there was a 'possum picture on the label, and I've had testimonials provin'

that it has cured nearly every disease known to man, from ringworm to curvature of the spine. I'd worked up a fifteen-minute spiel too that was a gem of street corner eloquence, and no matter where I stuck up my flare I could do an evenin's business runnin' from ten to forty dollars.

"So when I hit them corn fritters of Mrs. Whipple's that night in Gopher I had no more notion of quittin' the road than a prairie chicken has of breakin' into a hencoop. But say, Brother, no human being ever made tastier corn fritters than them. 'Young lady,' says I to the half-grown girl that waited on table, 'who built these?'--'Mrs. Whipple,' says she. 'Present my best compliments to her,' says I, 'and tell me where I can find Mr. Whipple. I want to congratulate him.'--'Lawzee! Whipple?'

says she. 'Why, he died back East goin' on six years ago.'--'Then,' says I, 'I'll take the message to Mrs. Whipple myself. She's, around, I suppose?'--'No,' says the girl. 'Soon's she got supper ready she had to go down to the square 'lectioneerin'. She's runnin' for Mayor.'

"Say, Professor McCabe, it was a fact! Besides conductin' her boardin'

house and bein' president of the Civic League, she was candidate for Mayor on an independent ticket. Got it too, Sir! They have the vote out in our State, you know.

"Well, hearin' that sort of cooled me down a bit. I thought she'd be a hatchet-faced female with a voice like a guinea hen. So I didn't, see her until I was all packed up to leave next day and hunted her up to pay my bill. And say, Brother, doggoned if she don't turn out to be about the plumpest, cheeriest, winningest little body that ever I see unclaimed! Nothin' standoffish about her, either. 'There!' says she.