Shorty McCabe

by Sewell Ford

  CHAPTER XI

  No, Nightingale Cottage ain't in the market, and it looks like I'd got asteady job introducin' Aunt 'Melie's doll collection to society; forPinckney carts down a new gang every Sunday. As Sadie's generally onhand to help out, I'm ready to stand for it. Anyways, I've bought afam'ly ticket and laid in a stock of fancy groceries.

  The Maje? Oh, him and me made it up handsome. He comes over and tells meabout that Mission Ridge stunt of his every chance he gets. But say, I'mbeginnin' to find out there's others. It's a great place, Primrose Parkis, and when I sized it up as a sort of annex to a cemetery I'd mistookthe signs.

  It don't make much difference where you are, all you've got to do tokeep your blood from thinnin' out, is to mix in with folks. Beats allhow much excitement you can dig up that way.

  Now, I wa'n't huntin' for anything of the kind, but I was just usin' myeyes and keepin' my ears open, so I notices that out on the main road,in front of the Park, is one of those swell big ranches that hog theshore front all the way from Motthaven up to the jumpin'-off place. Fromthe outside all you can see is iron gates and stone wall and stretchesof green-plush lawn. Way over behind the trees you can get a squint atthe chimney tops, and you know that underneath is a little cottage aboutthe size of the Grand Central station. That's the style you live in whenyou've hit the stock-market right, or in case you've got to be atop-notch grafter that the muck-rakers ain't jungled yet.

  I'd been wonderin' what kind of folks hung out in there, but I'd neverseen any of 'em out front, only gardeners killin' time, and coachmenexercisin' the horses. But one mornin' I gets a private view that wasworth watchin' for.

  The first thing on the program was an old duffer dodgin' in and outaround the bushes and trees like he was tryin' to lose somebody. Thatgot me curious right away, and I begins to pipe him off. He was toggedout in white ducks, somethin' like a window cook in a three-off joint,only he didn't sport any apron, and his cap had gold braid on it. Hishair was white, too, and his under lip was decorated with one of themold-fashioned teasers--just a little bunch of cotton that the barber hadshied. He was a well-built old boy, but his face had sort of a soleleather tint to it that didn't look healthy.

  From his motions I couldn't make out whether he was havin' a game ofhide-and-go-seek or was bein' chased by a dog. The last thought seemedmore likely, so I strolls over to the stone wall and gets ready to handout a swift kick to the kioodle, in case it was needed.

  When he sees me the old gent begins to dodge livelier than ever and makesignals with his hands. Well, I didn't know his code. I couldn't guesswhether he wanted me to run for a club, or was tryin' to keep me frombuttin' in, so I just stands there with my mouth open and looks foolish.

  Next thing I sees is a wedge-faced, long-legged guy comin' across thelawn on the jump. First off I thought he was pushin' one of thesesick-abed chairs, like they use on the board walk at Atlantic City. Butas he gets nearer I see it was a green wicker tea-wagon--you know. Iain't got to the tea-wagon stage myself, but I've seen 'em out atRockywold and them places. Handy as a pocket in a shirt, they are. Whenyou've got company in the afternoon the butler wheels the thing out onthe veranda and digs up a whole tea-makin' outfit from the inside. Whenit's shut it looks a good deal like one of them laundry push-carts theyhave in Harlem.

  Now, I ain't in love with tea at any time of the day except for supper,and I sure would pass it up just after breakfast, but I don't know asI'd break my neck to get away from it, same's the old gent was doin'.The minute he gets a look at the wagon comin' his way he does somelively side-steppin'. Then he jumps behind a bush and hides, givin' methe sign not to let on.

  The long-legged guy knew his business, though. He came straight on, likehe was followin' a scent, and the first thing old Whitey knows he's beenrun down. He gives in then, just as if he'd been tagged.

  "Babbitt," says he, "I had you hull down at one time, didn't I?"

  But either Babbitt was too much out of breath, or else he wasn't thetalkative kind, for he never says a word, but just opens up the top ofthe cart and proceeds to haul out some bottles and a glass. First hespoons out some white powder into a tumbler. Then he pours in some waterand stirs it with a spoon. When the mess is done he sticks it out to theold gent. The old one never lifts a finger, though.

  "Salute, first, you frozen-faced scum of the earth!" he yells. "Salute,sir!"

  Babbitt made a stab at salutin' too, and mighty sudden.

  "Now, you white-livered imitation of a man," says the old gent, "you mayhand over that villainous stuff! Bah!" and he takes a sniff of it.

  Babbitt keeps his eyes glued on him until the last drop was down, thenhe jumped. Lucky he was quick on the duck, for the glass just whizzedover the top of his head. While he was stowin' the things away the oldfellow let loose. Say, you talk about a cussin', I'll bet you neverheard a string like that. It wasn't the longshoreman's kind. But the wayhe put together straight dictionary words was enough to give you achill. It was the rattlin' style he had of rippin' 'em out, too, thatmade it sound like swearin'. If there was any part of that long-leggedguy that he didn't pay his respects to, from his ears to his toe-nails,I didn't notice it.

  "It's the last time you get any of that slush into me, Babbitt," sayshe. "Do you hear that, you peanut-headed, scissor-shanked whelp?"

  "Ten-thirty's the next dose, Commodore," says he as he starts off.

  "It is, eh, you wall-eyed deck swab?" howls the Commodore. "If you mixany more of that infant food for me I'll skin you alive, and sew you uphind side before. Do you hear that, you?"

  I was wearin' a broad grin when the old Commodore turns around to me.

  "If that fellow keeps this up," says he, "I shall lose my temper someday. Ever drink medicated milk, eh? Ugh! It tastes the way burntfeathers smell. And I'm dosed with it eight times a day! Think of it,milk! But what makes me mad is to have it ladled out to me by thatlong-faced, fish-eyed food destroyer, whose only joy in life is to huntme down and gloat over my misery. Oh, I'll get square with him yet, sir;I swear I will."

  "I wish you luck," says I.

  "Who are you, anyway?" says he.

  "Nobody much," says I, "so there's two of us. I'm livin' in the cottageacross the way."

  "The deuce you say!" says he. "Then you're Shorty McCabe, aren't you?"

  "You're on," says I. "How'd you guess it?"

  Well, it seems one of my reg'lars was a partner of his son-in-law, whoowned the big place, and they'd been talkin' about me just the daybefore. After that it didn't take long for the Commodore and me to get aline on each other, and when I finds out he's Roaring Dick, the nervyold chap that stood out on the front porch of his ship all through themuss at Santiago Bay and hammered the daylights out of the Spanishfleet, I gives him the hand.

  "I've read about you in the papers," says I.

  "Not so often as I used to read about you," says he.

  And say, inside of ten minutes we was like a couple of G. A. R. vets, ata reunion. Then he told me all about the medicated-milk business.

  It didn't take any second sight to see that the Commodore was a gay oldsport. He'd been on the European station for three years, knockin'around with kings and princes, and French and Russian naval officersthat was grand dukes and such when they was ashore; and he'd carriedalong with him a truck-driver's thirst and the capacity of a ward boss.The fizzy stuff he'd stowed away in that time must have been enough tosail a ship on. I guess he didn't mind it much, though, for he'd been inpickle a long time. It was the seventeen-course night dinners and theforeign cooking that gave him the knockout.

  All of a sudden his digester had thrown up the job, and before he knewit he was in a state where a hot biscuit or a piece of fried potatowould lay him out on his back for a week. He'd come home on sick leaveto visit his daughter, and his rich son-in-law had steered him upagainst a specialist who told him that if he didn't quit and obey ordershe wouldn't last three weeks. The orders was to live on nothin' butmedicated milk, and for a man that had been livin'
the way he had it wasan awful jolt. He couldn't be trusted to take the stuff himself, so theyhired valets to keep him doped with it.

  "I scared the first one half to death," says the Commodore, "and thenext one I bribed to smuggle out ham sandwiches. Then they got thisfellow Babbitt to follow me around with that cursed gocart, and Ihaven't had a moment's peace since. He's just about equal to a job likethat, Babbitt is. I make him earn his money, though."

  You'd have thought so if you could have seen the old Commodore work upgames to throw Babbitt off the track. I put in most of the day watchin''em at it, and it was as good as a vaudeville act. About a quarter of anhour before it was time for the dose the valet would come out and beginto look around the grounds. Soon as he'd located the Commodore he'dslide off after his tea wagon. That was just where the old boy got inhis fine work. The minute Babbitt was out of sight the Commodore makes abreak for a new hidin' place, so the valet has to wheel that cart allover the lot, playin' peek-a-boo behind every bush and tree until henailed his man.

  Now you'd think most anyone with a head would have cracked a joke nowand then with the old gent, and kind of made it easy all round. But notBabbitt. He'd been hired to get medicated milk into the Commodore, andthat was all the idea his nut could accommodate at one time. He was oneof these stiff-necked, cold-blooded flunkies, that don't seem much morehuman than wooden Indians. He had an aggravatin' way, too, of treatin'the old chap when he got him cornered. He was polite enough, so far aswhat he had to say, but it was the mean look in his ratty little eyesthat grated.

  With every dose the Commodore got madder and madder. Some of the nameshe thought up to call that valet was worth puttin' in a book. It seemedlike a shame, though, to stir up the old gent that way, and I don'tbelieve the medicine did him any more good. He took it, though, becausehe'd promised his daughter he would. Course, I had my own notions ofthat kind of treatment, but I couldn't see that it was up to me to jumpin the coacher's box and give off any advice.

  Next mornin' I'd been out for a little leg-work and I was just joggin'into the park again, when I hears all kinds of a ruction goin' on overbehind the stonewall. There was screams and yells and shouts, like aSaturday-night riot in Double Alley. I pokes up a giraffe neck and seesa couple of women runnin' across the lawn. Pretty soon what they waschasin' comes into view. It was the Commodore. He was pushin' thetea-wagon in front of him, and in the top of that, with just his legsand arms stickin' out, was Babbitt.

  I knew what was up in a minute. He'd lost his temper, just as he wasafraid he would, and before he'd got it back again he'd grabbed thevalet and jammed him head first into the green cart. But where he wasgoin' with him was more'n I could guess. Anyway, it was somewhere thathe was in a hurry to get to, for the old boy was rushin' the outfitacross the front yard for all he was worth.

  In the top of the tea wagon, was Babbitt.]

  "Oh, stop him, stop him!" screams one of the women, that I figures outmust be the daughter.

  "Stop 'im! Stop 'im!" yells the other. She looked like one of the maids.

  "I'm no backstop," thinks I to myself. "Besides, this is a familyaffair."

  I'd have hated to have blocked that run, too; for it was doin' me a lotof good, just watchin' it and thinkin' of the bumps Babbitt was gettin',with his head down among the bottles.

  I follows along on the outside though, and in a minute or so I sees whatthe Commodore was aimin' at. Out to one side was a cute littlefish-pond, about a hundred feet across, and he was makin' a bee line forthat. It was down in a sort of hollow, with nice smooth turf slopin'clear to the edge.

  When the Commodore gets half-way down he gives the cart one last push,and five seconds later Mr. Babbitt, with his head still stuck in thewagon, souses into the water like he'd been dropped from a balloon. Theold boy stays just long enough to see the splash, and then he keepsright on goin' towards New York.

  At that I jumps the stone wall and prepares to do some quick divin', butbefore I could fetch the pond Babbitt comes to the top, blowin' muddywater out of his mouth and threshin' his arms around windmill fashion.Then his feet touches bottom and he finds he ain't in any danger ofbein' drowned. The wagon comes up, too, and the first thing he does isto grab that. By the time I gets there he was wadin' across with thecart, and the women had made up their minds there wa'n't any usefainting.

  "Babbitt," says the Commodore's daughter, "explain your conductinstantly. What were you doing standing on your head in that tea-wagon?"

  "Please, ma'am, I--I forget," splutters Babbitt, wipin' the mud out ofhis eyes.

  "You forget!" says the lady. And say, anyone that knew the old Commodorewouldn't have to do any guessin' as to who her father was. "You forget,do you? Well, I want you to remember. Out with it, now!"

  "Yes, ma'am," says Babbitt, tryin' to prop up his wilted collar. "I'djust give him his first dose for the day, and I'd dodged the glass, whensomethin' catches me from behind, throws me into the tea-wagon, and offI goes. But that dose counts, don't it, ma'am? He got it down."

  I sees how it was then; Babbitt had been gettin' a commission for everyglass of the medicated stuff he pumped into the Commodore.

  "Will you please run after my father and tell him to come back," saysthe lady to me.

  "Sorry," says I, "but I'm no antelope. You'd better telegraph him."

  I didn't stay to see any more, I was that sore on the whole crowd. But Ihoped the old one would have sense enough to clear out for good.

  I didn't hear any more from my neighbors all day, but after supper thatnight, just about dusk, somebody sneaks in through the back way andwabbles up to the veranda where I was sittin'. It was the old Commodore.He was about all in, too.

  "Did--did I drown him?" says he.

  "You made an elegant try," says I; "but there wasn't water enough."

  "Thank goodness!" says he. "Now I can die calmly."

  "What's the use dyin'?" says I. "Ain't there no thin' else left to dobut that?"

  "I've got to," says he. "I can't live on that cursed stuff they've beengiving me, and if I eat anything else I'm done for. The specialist saidso."

  "Oh, well," says I, "maybe he's made a wrong guess. It's your turn now.Suppose you come in and let me have Mother Whaley broil you a nice juicyhunk of steak?"

  Say, he was near starved. I could tell that by the way he looked when Imentioned broiled steak. He shook his head, though. "If I did, I'd diebefore morning," says he.

  "I'll bet you a dollar you wouldn't," says I.

  That almost gets a grin out of him. "Shorty," says he, "I'm going torisk it."

  "It's better'n starving to death," says I.

  And he sure did eat like a hungry man. When he'd put away a good squaremeal, includin' a dish of sliced raw onions and two cups of hot tea, Iplants him in an arm chair and shoves out the cigar box. He looks at theFumadoras regretful.

  "They've kept those locked away from me for two weeks," says he, "andthat was worse than going without food."

  "Smoke up, then," says I. "There's one due you."

  "As it will probably be my last, I guess I will," says he.

  Honest, the old gent was so sure he'd croak before mornin' that hewanted to write some farewell letters, but he was too done up for that.I tucked him into a spare bed, opened all the windows, and before Icould turn out the light he was sawin' wood like a hired man.

  He was still workin' the fog horn when I went in to rout him out at fiveo'clock. It was a tough job gettin' him up, but I got him out of histrance at last.

  "Come on," says I, "we've got to do our three miles and have a rub-downbefore breakfast."

  First off he swore he couldn't move, and I guess he was some stiff fromhis sprint the day before, but by the time he'd got out where the birdswas singin', and the trees and grass looked like they'd been done overnew durin' the night, I was able to coax him into a dog-trot. It was agentle little stunt we did, but it limbered the old boy up, and afterwe'd had a cold shower and a quick rub he forgot all about his joints.

&nbs
p; "Well, are you set on keepin' that date in the obituary column, or willwe have breakfast?" says I.

  "I could eat cold lobscouse," says he.

  "Mother Whaley's got somethin' better'n that in the kitchen," says I.

  "I suppose this will finish me," says he, tacklin' the eggs and cornmuffins.

  Now, wouldn't that give you the pip? Why, with their specialists andmedicated dope, they'd got the old chap so leery of good straight grubthat he was bein' starved to death. And even after I'd got him braced upinto something like condition, he didn't think it was hardly right to goon eatin'.

  "I expect I ought to go back and start in on that slop diet again," sayshe.

  I couldn't stand by and see him do that, though. He was too fine an oldsport to be polished off in any such style. "See here, Commodore," saysI, "if you're dead stuck on makin' a livin' skeleton of yourself, why, Ithrows up me hands. But if you'll stay here for a couple of weeks and dojust as I say, I'll put you in trim to hit up the kind of life I reckonyou think is worth livin'.

  "By glory!" says he, "if you can do that I'll--"

  "No you won't," say I. "This is my blow."

  Course, it was a cinch. He wa'n't any invalid. There was stuff enough inhim to last for twenty years, if it was handled right. He begun to pickup right away. I only worked him hard enough to make the meals seem along ways apart and the mattress feel good. Inside of a week I had thered back in his cheeks, and he was chuckin' the medicine ball aroundgood and hard, and tellin' me what a scrapper he used to be when hefirst went to the cadet mill, down to Annapolis. You can always tellwhen these old boys feel kinky--they begin to remember things like that.Before the fortnight was up he wasn't shyin' at anything on the bill offare, and he was hintin' around that his thirst was comin' back strong.

  "Can't I ever have another drink?" says he, as sad as a kid leavin'home.

  "I'd take as little as I could get along with," says I.

  "I'll promise to do that," says he.

  He did, too. About the second day after he'd gone back to hisson-in-law's place, he sends for me to come over. I finds him walkin'around the grounds as spry as a two-year-old.

  "Well," says I, "how did the folks take it?"

  He chuckles. "They don't know what to say," says he. "They can't see howa specialist who charges five hundred dollars for an hour's visit can bewrong; but they admit I'm as good as new."

  "How's Babbitt?" says I.

  "That's why I wanted you to come over," says he. "Now watch." Then helets out a roar you could have heard ten blocks away, and in about twoshakes old wash-day shows up. "Ha! You shark-nosed sculpin!" yells theCommodore. "Where's your confounded tea cart? Go get it, sir."

  "Yes, sir; directly, sir," says Babbitt.

  He comes trottin' back with it in a hurry.

  "Got any of that blasted decayed milk in it?" says the Commodore.

  "No, sir," says Babbitt.

  "Are you glad or sorry? Speak up, now," says the Commodore.

  "I'm glad, sir," says Babbitt, givin' the salute.

  "Good!" says the Commodore. "Then open up your wagon and mix me a Scotchhigh-ball."

  And Babbitt did it like a little man.

  "I find," says the Commodore, winkin' at me over the top of his glass,"that I can get along with as few as six of these a day. To your verygood health, Professor McCabe."

  Stand it? Well, I shouldn't wonder. He's a tough one. And ten years fromnow, if there's another Dago fleet to be filled full of shot holes, Ishouldn't be surprised to find my old Commodore fit and ready to turnthe trick.