by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER VII
REVERSE ENGLISH ON SONNY BOY
"Do you know, Shorty," says J. Bayard Steele, balancin' his bamboowalkin' stick thoughtful on one forefinger, "I'm getting to be a regularexpert in altruism."
"Can't you take something for it?" says I.
But he waves aside my comedy stab and proceeds, chesty and serious,"Really, I am, though. It's this philanthropic executor work that I'vebeen dragged into doing by that whimsical will of your friend, the latePyramid Gordon, of course. I must admit that at first it came a littleawkward, not being used to thinking much about others; but now--why, I'mgetting so I can tell almost at a glance what people want and how tohelp them!"
"Huh!" says I. "Then you're some wizard. It often bothers me to dope outjust what I need myself; and when it comes to decidin' for otherfolks---- Say, have you tackled envelope No. 4 on Pyramid's list yet?"
"I have," says J. Bayard, smilin' confident. "Peculiar case too. A monthor so ago I should have been puzzled. Now it seems very simple. I'vedone all my investigating, made my plans, and if you will run downtownto a lawyer's office with me after luncheon we shall meet thebeneficiaries-to-be and fix up the details of a nice little deed ofkindness of which I am the proud author."
"Fat commission in it for you, eh?" says I.
J. Bayard looks pained and hurt. "Really," says he, "I hadn't thought ofthat. No, the outlay will be slight. In fact, it's merely a matter oflaunching a young man in society."
"Well, well!" says I. "That's a husky job for a couple of grown men likeus, ain't it? Who's the young gent--Clarence what?"
"Ever hear of Hungry Jim Hammond?" says he.
I had, but couldn't quite place him; so J. Bayard supplies thedescription. He'd started out as a railroad man, Hammond had, back inthe days when Pyramid Gordon was first beginnin' to discover thatswappin' hot air for votin' shares was perfectly good business so longas you could get away with the goods. Only Hammond was the real thing.He was a construction expert.
Mr. Gordon had found him on the payroll of a line he'd annexed by amidnight deal; concluded he knew too much about the job to be a safe manto have around; so he transfers him to the Far West and sets him to workon a scheme to lay out a road parallelin' the Southern Pacific. Hammondcouldn't tell it was a stall. He blazes merrily ahead surveyin' a rightof way across three States, and had got as far as Death Valley when therumor comes to camp that this new line is all a fake.
Hammond had a gang of twenty-five or thirty men with him, and his weeklypay check hadn't shown up for about a month. But he couldn't believethat Pyramid had laid down on him. He'd got mighty int'rested inbuildin' that road across the desert, and had dreamed some rosy dreamsabout it. But his men felt diff'rent. They wanted action on thecashier's part, or they'd quit. Hammond begged 'em to stay. He even blewin his own bank account settlin' part of the back wages. But inside ofthree days his crew had dwindled to a Chinese cook and a Greaser muledriver. Took him a couple of weeks more to get wise to the fact that hewas stranded there in the sand, six miles from a water hole, with a fewcases of canned beef and a sack of corn meal.
Even then he didn't give up for good. He made his way back to a stagestation and sent through a wire to Pyramid askin' for instructions. Morethan a month he waited, with no word from Gordon. Seems that by thenPyramid was too busy with other things. He'd cashed in on his bluff andwas sortin' a new hand. And maybe he wa'n't anxious to have Hammond comeEast again. Anyway, he let him shift.
That was when Hammond came so near starvin'. But he didn't--quite. For ayear or more he managed to live somehow. Then one day he drove a teamof boneyard mules into Blue Dog with a wagonload of stuff that thenatives stared at. It was white, shiny stuff. Hammond said it was borax.He'd discovered a big deposit of it out there in the blisterin' sand. Hewas goin' to ship it back East and sell it. They thought he was nutty.He wasn't, though. On East they was usin' a lot of borax and demandin'more.
With a few thousand back of him Hammond might have got to be the BoraxKing right then; but as it was he held onto an interest big enough tomake him quite a plute, and inside of a year he was located in Denverand earnin' his nickname of Hungry Jim. His desert appetite had stayedwith him, you see, and such little whims as orderin' a three-inchtenderloin steak frescoed with a pound of mushrooms and swimmin' in thejuice squeezed from a pair of canvasback ducks got to be a reg'lar thingfor him.
It was there he met and married the husky built head waitress and movedinto a double-breasted mansion up on Capitol Hill. Also he begun wearin'diamond shirtstuds and givin' wine dinners.
"But, like others of his kind," goes on J. Bayard, "his luck didn'tlast. Because he'd made one big strike, he thought he knew the mininggame from top to bottom. He lost hundreds of thousands on wild ventures.His long drawn out suit against Pyramid was another expensive luxury;for in the end Gordon beat him.
"It was Hammond's big appetite that finished him off, though,--acuteindigestion. So that is why Pyramid leaves us this item in his list:'The widow or other survivor of James R. Hammond.' Well, I've found themboth, Mrs. Hammond and her son Royce. I haven't actually seen either of'em as yet; but I have located Mrs. Hammond's attorney and had severalconferences with him. And what do you think? She won't take a dollar ofGordon's money for herself; nor will Royce directly. There's one thing,however, that she will probably not refuse,--any social assistance wemay give to her son. That's her chief ambition, it seems,--to see Royceget into what she considers smart society. Well, what do you say,McCabe? Can't we help?"
"Depends a good deal on Royce," says I. "Course, if he's too raw aroughneck----"
"Precisely!" breaks in J. Bayard. "And as the son of such a man we mustlook for rather a crude youth, I suppose. But in order to carry out theterms of Gordon's will we must do some kind and generous act for thesepeople. This seems to be our only chance. Now here is my plan."
And he's comin' on, J. Bayard is! He proposes that we use our combinedpull with Mr. Twombley-Crane to land Royce--for one consecutive night,anyway--plunk in the middle of the younger set. He's leased a nicefurnished cottage from one of the Meadowbrook bunch, not more'n a milefrom the Twombley-Crane estate, got the promise of havin' theyoungster's name put up at the Hunt Club for the summer privileges, andhas arranged to have mother and son move in right in the height of theseason.
"In time for the Twombley-Cranes' big costume ball?" I suggests.
"Nothing less," says he. "And if we could manage to have them invited tothat--well, what more could a fond parent ask?"
"H-m-m-m!" says I, rubbin' my chin. "Might get ourselves disliked if wesprung a ringer on 'em that way. Course, if this Royce boy could betrained to pull a broad A now and then, and be drilled into doin' amaxixe that would pass, I might take a chance. Mrs. McCabe could gettheir names on the guest list, all right. But I'd have to have a peek atSonny first."
You see, with an ex-waitress mother, and a Hungry Jim for a father,Royce might be too tough for anything but a Coney Island spiel-fest. Inthat case J. Bayard would have to dig up a new scheme. So we starts outto look 'em up.
Accordin' to schedule we should have found 'em both waitin' for us atthe lawyer's, sittin' side by side and lookin' scared. But the boy thatshows us into the reception room says how Mrs. Hammond is in the privateoffice with the boss, and it looks like Sonny was late.
"I'll tell you," says I to J. Bayard. "You push in and interview Mother,while I stick around out here and wait for the other half of thesketch."
He agrees to that, and has disappeared behind the ground-glass door whenI discovers this slick-haired young gent sittin' at a desk over by thewindow,--a buddin' law clerk, most likely. And by way of bein' sociableI remarks casual that I hear how McGraw is puttin' Tesreau on the moundagain to-day against the Cubs.
That don't get much of a rise out of him. "Aw, rully!" says he.
"I expect you'll be hikin' out for the grandstand yourself prettyquick?" I goes on.
"No," says he, shruggin' his shoulders annoyed. "I take no
interest inbaseball; none whatever, I assure you."
"Excuse my mentionin' it, then," says I. "But just what is yourline,--croquet?"
"My favorite recreation," says he, "is dawncing." And with that he turnsaway like he'd exhausted the subject.
But this gives me an idea. Maybe he could be hired to coach Royce.
"It's a thrillin' sport," says I. "And, by the way, there's a young chapdue to show up here soon. I wonder if you've seen him aroundbefore,--young Hammond?"
"I beg pardon," says he, "but do you refer to Royce Hammond?"
"That's the guy," says I. "Kind of a husky young hick, eh?"
He stares at me cold and disapprovin'. "I am Royce Hammond!" says he.
You could have bought me for a yesterday's rain check. "Wha-a-at!" saysI, gawpin'. "You--you are----"
Say, come to look him over close, I might have known he was noten-a-week process server. He's costumed neat but expensive, and hislily-white hands are manicured to the last notch. Nice lookin' youth heis, with a good head on him and a fine pair of shoulders. And forconversation he uses the kind of near-English accent you hear along theHarvard Gold Coast. Cul-chaw? Why, it fairly dripped from Royce, likemoisture from the ice water tank on a hot day!
"Excuse," says I. "I'm Professor McCabe, and I was only----"
"Oh, yes," says he, sighin' weary, "I understand. Something absurd abouta will, isn't it? Mother is quite keen over it; and I wish she wouldn't,you know."
"Eh?" says I, a bit dizzy from tryin' to follow him.
"Oh, I've no doubt you mean well enough," he goes on; "but we cawn'taccept favors from utter strangers--really, we cawn't. And besides, oldGordon was such a rotter!"
To relieve his feelin's he lights a cigarette and gives me the shoulderonce more. I felt like I'd been slapped on the wrist and sent to standin the corner.
"Maybe you'd like my apology in writin'?" says I. "Just point out a realdusty spot on the floor, and I'll grovel in it. But remember, Son, allwe laid out to do, in our humble way, was to give you a boost. So don'tbe too hard on us."
He smiles patronizin' at that. "No offense intended, I'm suah," says he."I merely wished to make clear my own position in this ridiculousaffair. Of course, if Mother insists, I presume I must---- Bah Jove!Here they are, though!"
And out through the door comes J. Bayard and the lawyer, escortin' astunnin'-built lady with her face half hid by veils. I'd been introducedtoo, and was just handin' her a chair, when we got a good square look ateach other. So it was simultaneous. She gives a little gasp andstiffens, and I expect I did some open-face work myself. I glances fromher to J. Bayard and stares foolish.
"Did you say Mrs. Hammond?" says I.
"Of course, McCabe," says he sort of peevish. "You know I explainedbeforehand."
"Yes," says I; "but--but----"
Then the lady steps to the front herself, her chin up and her lipspressed tight. "Professor McCabe and I have met before," says she,"under--well, under different circumstances. That is all. And now, Mr.Steele, you spoke of securing an invitation for my son and myself to animportant social affair. At just whose house, please?"
"Why," says J. Bayard, "at Mr. Twombley-Crane's."
She don't wince. Near as I could tell she don't make a move, and asecond later she's turned to me with a sketchy sort of a smile. "I thinkI may trust you to explain to Mr. Steele later on," says she, "howimpossible it would be for me to accept such an invitation."
I nods, still gawpin' at her. You'd most thought that would have beenhint enough for J. Bayard; but he's such a fathead at times, and he's sostrong for carryin' through any proposition of his own, that it don'tget to him.
"But, my dear lady," says he, "such an opportunity! Why, theTwombley-Cranes, you know, are----"
"Ah, ditch it, J. B.!" I cuts in, and shakes my head menacin'.
The lady smiles grateful and lifts one hand. "It's no use," says she."I've given up. And you might as well know the whole story at once;Royce too. I didn't mean that he should ever know; but I see now that heis bound to hear it sooner or later. Professor McCabe, you tell them."
It's some attentive audience I faced too; J. Bayard starin' puzzled, thelawyer with his eyes squinted hard at her, and young Royce growin' palearound the gills. It was that look of his that hurried me on.
"Why, it ain't so much," says I; "only when I knew you you washousekeeper at the Twombley-Cranes, wa'n't you?"
"Mother!" says the young gent choky, jumpin' to his feet.
"I was," says she. "That was four years ago, when Royce was a freshman.Very glad I was to get the position too, and not a little pleased that Iwas able to fill it. Why? Because it gave me a chance to learn there thethings I wanted to know; the things I needed to know, Royce, as yourmother."
But he only gazes at her blank and shocked.
"Can't you understand, Royce?" she goes on pleadin'. "You know how wehave moved from place to place; how at times my cards have read 'Mrs.James R. Hammond,' then 'Mrs. J. Royce Hammond,' and finally 'Mrs. RoyceHammond'? But it was all useless. Always someone came who knew, andafter that--well, I was just the widow of Hungry Jim Hammond.
"Not that I cared for myself. I was never ashamed of Hungry Jim while helived. He was a real man, Jim Hammond was, honest and kind and brave.And if he was crude and rough, it was only because he'd lived that way,because he'd had to. He let them call him Hungry Jim too. No one everknew him to resent it. But it hurt, just the same. He tried to live itdown, there in Denver, tried to be refined and polite; but those yearsin the desert couldn't be wiped out so easily. He was Hungry Jim to thelast.
"He wanted his son to be different, though. 'Outfit him to travel withthe best, Annie,' he used to say to me during those last days, 'and seethat he gets on a polish. Promise, now!' I promised. And I've done aswell as I could. I've lived for that. But I soon found that realrefinement was something you couldn't order at the store. I found thatbefore I could get it for Royce I must have at least a speakingacquaintance with it myself.
"That meant associating with nice people. But nice people didn't care tomix with Mrs. Jim Hammond. I didn't blame them for shutting their frontdoors to me. I had to get in, though. So I slipped in by the backway--as housekeeper. I kept my eyes and ears open. I picked up theirlittle tricks of speech and manner, their ways of doing things. I tonedmy voice down, schooled myself, until I knew the things that Royce oughtto know. It wasn't easy, especially the giving him up during hisholidays and sending him off with his college friends, when I wanted himto be with me. Oh, how much I did miss him those two summers! But I hadpromised Jim, and--and--well, I think I've made of Royce what he wantedme to make of him."
Somehow or other, as she stops, we all turns towards young Hammond. Hisface ain't pale any more. It's well pinked up.
"By Jove!" says J. Bayard enthusiastic. "But that's what I call realpluck, Mrs. Hammond. And your son does you credit too. So what if theTwombley-Cranes might remember you as a former housekeeper? They don'tknow the young man, needn't know just who he is. Why not accept for him?Why not give him a chance? What do you say, McCabe?"
"Sure!" says I. "I'm backin' him to qualify."
"It might mean," goes on J. Bayard insinuatin', "an opportunityto--well, to meet the right girl, you know."
Mrs. Hammond draws in her breath sharp and clasps her hands tight. Icould see the picture she was watchin' on the screen,--Royce and a realswell young lady plutess trippin' towards the altar; maybe a crest onthe 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, whenRoyce steps to the center of the stage. He puts his arm gentle aroundMrs. 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 howmuch you had given up for me, never dreamed. But from now on it's goingto be different. It's my t
urn now!"
"But--but, Royce," protests Mrs. Hammond, "you--you don't quiteunderstand. We can't go on living as we have. Our income isn't so muchas it was once, and----"
"I know," said Royce. "I had a talk with your attorney last week. It'sthe fault of that Honduras rubber plantation, where most of our fundsare tied up. That Alvarez, your rascally Spanish superintendent, hasbeen 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. "Iseem useless enough. I've been trained to shine at dinner parties, andballs, and _thes dansants_. I suppose I can too. And I've learned tosound my final G's, and to use the right forks, and how to make aparting speech to my hostess. So you've kept your promise to Father. ButI've been thinking it all over lately. That isn't the sort of person Iwant 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 testme. They say he's rather a bad one, that he can't be fired. We'll seeabout that. There's a steamer for Belize next Thursday. I'm going tosail on her. Will you go along too?"
For a minute they stood there, Mother and Sonny boy, gazin' into eachother's eyes without sayin' a word; and then--well, we turns our backsas they goes to a clinch and Mother turns on the sprinkler.
But J. Bayard's programme for helpin' Royce break into the younger setis bugged for fair. Instead we've dug up an expert in rubber farmin' andare preparin' to send him down as first assistant to the classiestplantation manager that ever started for Honduras. Mrs. Hammondannounces that she's goin' too.
"There's good stuff in that young chap," says J. Bayard. "He isn't theson 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, whichis something."