Side-stepping with Shorty Part 41

And Wilbur, he gathers her in.

"Roland," says I, steppin' up to the shuffer, "you can crank up.

Hoxie's won out in the tenth."

XIX

AT HOME WITH THE DILLONS

I was expectin' to put in a couple of days doin' the sad and lonely, Sadie havin' made a date to run out to Rocky wold for the week end; but Friday night when I'm let off at the seventh floor of the Perzazzer--and say, no matter how many flights up home is, there's no place like it--who should I see but Sadie, just takin' off her hat.

Across by the window is one of the chamber maids, leanin' up against the casing and snifflin' into the expensive draperies.

"Well, well!" says I. "Is this a rehearsal for a Hank Ibsen sprinkler scene, or is it a case of missin' jewels?"

"It's nothing of the sort, Shorty," says Sadie, giving me the shut-off signal. Then she turns to the girl with a "There, there, Nora!

Everything will be all right. And I will be around Sunday afternoon.

Run along now, and don't worry." With that she leads Nora out to the door and sends her away with a shoulder pat.

"Who's been getting friendly with the help now; eh, Sadie?" says I.

"And what's the woe about?"

Course she begins at the wrong end, and throws in a lot of details that only lumbers up the record; but after she's been talkin' for half an hour--and Sadie can separate herself from a lot of language in that time--I gets a good workin' outline of this domestic tragedy that has left damp spots on our window curtains.

It ain't near so harrowin', though, as you might suspect. Seems that Nora has the weepin' habit. That's how Sadie come to remember havin'

seen her before. Also it counts for Nora's s.h.i.+ftin' so often. Folks like Mrs. Purdy Pell and the Twombley-Cranes can't keep a girl around that's liable to weep into the soup or on the card tray. If it wa'n't for that, Nora'd been all right; for she's a neat lookin' girl, handy and willin',--one of these slim, rosy cheeked, black haired, North of Ireland kind, that can get big wages, when they have the sense, which ain't often.

Well, she'd changed around until she lands here in the fresh linen department, workin' reg'lar twelve-hour s.h.i.+fts, one afternoon off a week, and a four-by-six room up under the copper roof, with all the chance in the world to weep and no one to pay any attention to her, until Sadie catches her at it. Trust Sadie!

When she finds Nora leakin' her troubles out over an armful of clean towels, she drags her in here and asks for the awful facts. Then comes the fam'ly history of the Dillons, beginnin' on the old rent at Ballyshannon and endin' in a five-room flat on Double Fifth-ave. When she comes to mentionin' Larry Dillon, I p.r.i.c.ks up my ears.

"What! Not the old flannel mouth that's chopped tickets at the 33d-st.

station ever since the L was built?" says I.

"He's been discharged," says Sadie. "Did you know him?"

Did I know Larry? Could anyone live in this burg as long as I have, without gettin' acquainted with that Old Country face, or learnin' by heart his "Ha-a-a-ar-lem thr-r-rain! Ha-a-a-ar-lem!"? There's other old timers that has the brogue, but never a one could touch Larry. A purple faced, grumpy old pirate, with a disposition as cheerful as a man waitin' his turn at the dentist's, and a heart as big as a ham, he couldn't speak a civil word if he tried; but he was always ready to hand over half his lunch to any whimperin' newsy that came along, and he's lent out more nickels that he'll ever see again.

But about the other Dillons, I got my first news from Sadie. There was four of 'em, besides Nora. One was Tom, who had a fine steady job, drivin' a coal cart for the Consolidated. A credit to the family, Tom was; havin' a wife and six kids of his own, besides votin' the straight Tammany ticket since he was nineteen. Next there was Maggie, whose man was on the stage,--s.h.i.+ftin' scenery. Then there was Kate, the lady sales person, who lived with the old folks. And last there was Aloysius, the stray; and wherever he was, Heaven help him! for he was no use whatever.

"I take it that 'Loyshy's the brunette Southdown of the Dillon flock,"

says I. "What particular brand of cussedness does he make a specialty of?"

Sadie says that Nora hadn't gone much into particulars, except that when last heard of he'd joined the Salvationists, which had left old Larry frothin' at the mouth. He'd threatened to break Aloysius into two pieces on sight, and he'd put the ban on speakin' his name around the house.

"Followin' the tambourine!" says I. "That's a queer stunt for a Dillon. The weeps was for him, then?"

They wa'n't. 'Loyshy's disappearin' act had been done two or three years back. The tears was all on account of the fortieth weddin'

anniversary of the Dillons, fallin' as it did just a week after Larry had the spell of rheumatism which got him laid off for good. It's a nice little way the Inter-Met. people has of rewardin' the old vets.

An inspector finds Larry, with his hand tied to the chopper handle, takes a look at his cramped up fingers, puts down his number, and next payday he gets the sack.

"So you've found another candidate for your private pension list, have you, Sadie?" says I.

But that's another wrong guess. The Dillons ain't takin' charity, not from anyone. It's the Dillon sisters to the rescue. They rustles around until they find Larry a job as night watch, in where it's warm.

Then they all chips in for the new Tenth-ave. flat. Maggie brings her man and the two kids, the lady Kate sends around her trunks with the furniture, and Nora promises to give up half of her twenty to keep things going.

And then the Bradys, who lives opposite, has to spring their blow out.

They'd been married forty years too; but just because one of their boys was in the Fire Department, and 'Lizzie Brady was workin' in a Sixth-ave. hair dressin' parlour, they'd no call to flash such a bluff,--frosted cake from the baker, with the date done in pink candy, candles burnin' on the mantelpiece, a whole case of St. Louis on the front fire escape, and the district boss drivin' around in one of Connely's funeral hacks. Who was the Bradys, that they should have weddin' celebrations when the Dillons had none?

Kate, the lady sales person, handed out that conundrum. She supplies the answer too. She allows that what a Brady can make a try at, a Dillon can do like it ought to be done. So they've no sooner had the gas and water turned on at the new flat than she draws up plans for a weddin' anniversary that'll make the Brady performance look like a pan of beans beside a standing rib roast.

She knows what's what, the lady Kate does. She's been to the real things, and they calls 'em "at homes" in Harlem. The Dillons will be at home Sunday the nineteenth, from half after four until eight, and the Bradys can wag their tongues off, for all she cares. It'll be in honour of the fortieth wedding anniversary of Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Dillon, and all the family connections, and all friends of the same, is to have a bid.

"Well, that's the limit!" says I. "Did you tell the girl they'd better be layin' in groceries, instead of givin' an imitation tea?"

"Certainly not!" says Sadie. "Why shouldn't they enjoy themselves in their own way?"

"Eh?" says I. "Oh, I take it all back. But what was the eye swabbin'

for, then?"

By degrees I gets the enacting clause. The arrangements for the party was goin' on lovely,--Larry was havin' the b.u.t.tons sewed onto the long tailed coat he was married in, the scene s.h.i.+fter had got the loan of some stage props to decorate the front room, there was to be ice cream and fancy cakes and ladies' punch. Father Kelley had promised to drop in, and all was runnin' smooth,--when Mother Dillon breaks loose.

And what do you guess is the matter with her? She wants her 'Loyshy.

If there was to be any fam'ly convention and weddin' celebration, why couldn't she have her little Aloysius to it? She didn't care a split spud how he'd behaved, or if him and his father had had words; he was her youngest b'y, and she thought more of him than all the rest put together, and she wouldn't have a hand in any doin's that 'Loyshy was barred from comin' to.

As Nora put it, "When the old lady speaks her mind, you got to listen or go mad from her." She don't talk of anything else, and when she ain't talkin' she's cryin' her eyes out. Old Larry swore himself out of breath, the lady Kate argued, and Maggie had done her best; but there was nothin' doin'. They'd got to find Aloysius and ask him to the party, or call it off.

But findin' 'Loyshy wa'n't any cinch. He'd left the Army long ago. He wa'n't in any of the fifteen-cent lodgin' houses. The police didn't have any record of him. He didn't figure in the hospital lists. The nearest anyone came to locatin' him was a handbook man the scene s.h.i.+fter knew, who said he'd heard of 'Loyshy hangin' around the Gravesend track summer before last; but there was no use lookin' for him there at this time of year. It wa'n't until they'd promised to advertise for Aloysius in the papers that Mother Dillon quit takin' on and agreed to wear the green silk she'd had made for Nora's chistenin'.

"Yes, and what then?" says I.

"Why," says Sadie, "Nora's afraid that if Aloysius doesn't turn up, her mother will spoil the party with another crying spell; and she knows if he does come, her father will throw him out."

"She has a happy way of lookin' at things," says I. "Was it for this you cut out going to Rockywold?"

"Of course," says Sadie. "I am to pour tea at the Dillons' on Sunday afternoon. You are to come at five, and bring Pinckney."

"Ah, pickles, Sadie!" says I. "This is----"

"Please, Shorty!" says she. "I've told Nora you would."

"I'll put it up to Pinckney," says I, "and if he's chump enough to let himself loose in Tenth-ave. society, just to help the Dillons put it over the Bradys, I expect I'll be a mark too. But it's a dippy move."

Course, I mistrusted how Pinckney would take it. He thinks he's got me on the rollers, and proceeds to shove. He hasn't heard more'n half the tale before he begins handin' me the josh about it's bein' my duty to spread suns.h.i.+ne wherever I can.

"It's calcium the Dillons want," says I. "But I hadn't got to tellin'

you about Aloysius."