by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER XIII
SIFTING OUT UNCLE BILL
Things happen to you quick, don't they, when the happenin' is good? Takethis affair of Zenobia's. One day I'm settled down all comfy and solidwith two old near-aunts who'd been livin' in the same place and doin'the same things for the last thirty years or so, and the next--well, offone of 'em goes, elopes with an old-time beau of hers that happens toshow up here just because Europe is bein' shot up.
And then, before I've recovered from that jolt, comes this humansurprise package labeled Dorsett, who blows breezy into the Corrugated.Fair-haired Vincent, who still holds my old place on the brass gate,brings in his card.
"William H. Dorsett?" says I. "Never heard of the party. Did he ask forMutual Funding?"
"No, Sir," says Vincent. "He asked for you, Sir."
"How?" says I.
At which Vincent tints up embarrassed. "He said he wished to talk to ayoung fellow known as Torchy, Sir," says he.
"Almost a description of me, ain't it?" says I. "Well, tow him in,Vincent, until I see if his map's any more familiar than his name."
It wa'n't. He's a middle-aged gent, kind of tall and stoop-shouldered,with curly hair that's started to frost up above the ears. The raincoathe's wearin' is a little seedy, specially about the collar and cuffs;but he's sportin' a silver-mounted walkin'-stick, and has a new pair ofyellow gloves stickin' from his breast pocket.
With a free and easy stride he follows Vincent's directions, sails overto my corner of the private office, pulls up a chair, and camps down bythe desk without any urgin'. Also he favors me with a friendly smilethat he produces from one corner of his mouth. Sort of a catchy smile itis too, and before we've swapped a word I finds myself smilin' back.
"Well!" says I. "You're introducin' what?"
"Just William H. Dorsett," says he.
"You do it well," says I.
He allows the off corner of his mouth to loosen up again, and for asecond his deep-set brown eyes steady down as he gives me the once-over.Kind of an amused, quizzin' look it is, but more or less foxy. Hecrosses his legs and hitches up his chair confidential.
"I imagine you're rather used to handling big propositions here," sayshe, takin' in the office mahogany, the expensive floor rugs, andeverything else in a quick glance: "so I hope you won't mind if Ipresent a small one."
"In funding?" says I.
"It might very well come under that head," says he. "Ever do much withmunicipal franchises,--trolleys, lighting, that sort of thing?"
"Nope," says I; "nor racin' tips, church fair chances, or Danish lotterytickets. We don't even back new movie concerns."
That gets a twinkle out of his restless eyes. "I don't blame you in theleast," says he. "I suppose there are more worthless franchises hawkedaround New York than you could stuff into a moving van. That's whatmakes it so difficult to get action on any real, gilt-edgedpropositions."
"Such as you've got in your inside pocket eh?" says I.
"Precisely," says he. "Mine are the worthwhile kind. Of coursefranchises are common enough. It's no trick at all to go into theaverage Rube village, 'steen miles from a railroad, and get 'em thrilledwith the notion of being connected by trolley with Jaytown, umpteenmiles south. Why, they'll hand you anything in sight! A deaf-mute couldgo out and get that sort of franchise. But to prospect through the wholecotton belt, locate opportunities where the dividends will follow therails, pick out the cream of them all, get in right with the board oftrade, fix things up with a suspicious town council, stall off the localcapitalist who would like to hog all the profits himself, and set thereal estate operators working for you tooth and nail--well, that islegitimate promoting; my brand, if you will permit me."
"Maybe," says I. "But the Corrugated don't----"
"I understand," breaks in Mr. Dorsett. "Quite right too. But here Iproduce the personal equation. For five weary weeks I've skittered aboutthis city, carrying around with me half a dozen of the ripest, richestfranchise propositions ever matured. Bona-fide prospects, mind you,communities just yearning for transportation facilities, with tentativestock subscriptions running as high as two hundred thousand in somecases. They're schemes I've nursed from the seed up, as you might say.I've laid all the underground wires, seen all the officials that needseeing, planned for every right of way. Six splendid opportunities thatmay be coined into cash simply by pressing the button! And the nearest Ican get to any man with real money to invest is a two-minute interviewin a reception room with some clerk. All because I lack someone to takeme into a private office and remark casually: 'Mr. So-and-So, here's myfriend Dorsett, who's bringing us something good from the South.' That'sall. Why, only last week I actually offered to deliver afifty-thousand-dollar franchise on a ten per cent. commission basis,provided I was given a beggarly two hundred advance for expenses--andhad it turned down!"
"Ye-e-es," says I. "The way some of them Wall Street plutes shrink frombein' made richer is painful, ain't it? But I don't see where I fit in."
Mr. Dorsett pats me chummy on the shoulder and proceeds to show meexactly where. "You know the right people," says he. "You're in withthem. Very well. All I ask of you is the 'Here's Mr. Dorsett' part. I'lldo the rest."
"How simple!" says I. "And us old friends of about five minutes'standin'! Say, throw in your reverse or you'll be off the bridge. Who'sbeen tellin' you I was such a simp?"
Mr. Dorsett smiles indulgent. "My error," says he. "But I was hopingthat perhaps you might---- Come, Torchy, hasn't it occurred to you thatI would hardly come as an utter stranger? Who do you suppose now gave meyour address?"
"The chairman of the Stock Exchange?" says I.
"Mother Leary," says he.
"Eh?" says I, gawpin'.
"A flip of fate," says he. "At my hotel I got to talking with the roomclerk, and discovered that his name was Leary. It turned out that hewas Aloysius, the eldest boy. Remember him, don't you?"
Seein' how I'd almost been brought up in the fam'ly when I was a kid, Icouldn't deny it. Course I'd run more with Hunch than any of the otherboys. We'd sold papers together, and gone into the A. D. T. at the sametime. But there wasn't a Leary I didn't know all about.
"You must have boarded there too," says I. "But if I ever heard yourname, it didn't stick."
"It may have been," says he, "that I was not using the Dorsett part ofit just at that time. Business reasons, you understand. But the H in myname stands for Hines. What about William Hines, now?"
"Hm-m-m!" says I, starin' at him. Sure enough, that did have a familiarsound to it.
"Let's try it this way," says he: "Uncle Bill Hines."
And, say, that got me! I expect I made some gaspy motions before Imanaged to get out my next remark. "You--you ain't the one that left mewith Mother Leary, are you?" I asks.
Dorsett nods. "I'm a trifle late in explaining that carelessness," sayshe, "and I can only plead guilty to all your reproaches. But considerthe circumstances. There I was, a free lance of fortune, down to my lastdollar, and rich only in the companionship of a bright-eyed,four-year-old youngster who had been trusted to my care. You remembervery little of that period, I suppose; but it is all vivid enough to me,even now,--how we tramped up and down Broadway, you chattering away,excited and happy, while I was wondering what I should do when that lastdollar was gone.
"Then, just when things seem blackest, arrived opportunity,--theBirmingham boom. I ran across one of the boomers, who was struck withthe brilliant idea that he could make use of my peculiar talents inmaking known the coming glories of the new South. But I must join him atonce, that very day. And he waved yellow-backed bills at me. I simplyhad to drop you and go. Mother Leary promised to take care of you forthree months, or until your--well, until someone else claimed you. Isent word to them both, at least I tried to, and rushed gayly down intoDixie. Perhaps you never heard of the bursting of that first Birminghamboom? It was an abrupt but very-complete smash. I came out of it owningtwo gorgeous suits of clothes, one silk hat, and an opulent-look
ingpocketbook, bulging with thirty-day options on corner lots. One of theclerks in our office staked me with carfare to Atlanta, where I got ajob collecting tenement house rents.
"Since then I've been up and down. Half a dozen times I've almost hadmy fingers on the tail feathers of fortune: only to stumble into somehidden pit of poverty. And in time--well, time mends all things.Besides, I hardly relished facing Mother Leary. There was the chance toothat you no longer needed rescuing. I'm not trying to excuse my breachof faith: I am merely telling you how it came about. You realize that, Itrust?"
Did I? I don't know. I expect I was just sittin' there gazing stary athim. Only one thing was shapin' itself clear in my head, and fin'lly Istates it flat.
"Say," says I, "you--you ain't my reg'lar uncle, are you?"
Maybe I wa'n't as enthusiastic as the case called for. He springs thatsmile of his. "Hardly a flattering way to put it," says he. "Would yoube disappointed if I was?"
"Well," says I, eyin' him up and down, "you don't strike me as such aswell uncle, you know."
Don't faze him a bit, either. "Our near relatives are seldom quitesatisfactory," says he. "Of course, though, if I fail to suit----" Hehunches his shoulders and reaches for his hat.
So he had it on me, you see. Suppose you was as shy on relations as Iam, would you turn down the only one that ever showed up?
"Excuse me if I don't get the cues right," says I; "but--but this hasbeen put over a little sudden. Course I'll take Mrs. Leary's word. Ifshe says you're my Uncle Bill, that goes. Anyway, you can give me a lineon--on my folks, I suppose?"
Yes, he admits that he can; but he don't. And I will say for him that hestates his case smooth enough, smilin' that catchy smile of his, andtappin' me friendly on the knee. But when he's all through it amounts tothis: He needs the loan of a couple of hundred cash the worst way, andhe wants to be put next to a few plutes that are in the market for newtrolley franchises. If I can boost him along that way, it'll relieve hismind so much that he'll be in just the right mood to go into my personalhist'ry as deep as I care to dip.
"Gee!" says I. "But this raisin' a fam'ly tree comes high, don't it?Besides, I'd have to get Mother Leary's O. K. on you first, you know."
"Naturally," says he. "And any time within the next day or so willanswer. Suppose I drop around again, or look you up at your quarters?"
"Better make it at the house," says I. "Here's the street number. Someevenin' after seven-thirty. I--I'll be thinkin' things over."
And as I watches him swing jaunty through the door I remarks under mybreath to nobody in partic'lar: "Uncle Bill, eh? My Uncle Bill! Well,well!"
You can be sure too that my first move is to sound Mother Leary. Shesays he's the one, all right, and I gathers that she gave him thetongue-lashin' she'd been savin' up all these years. But I don't stopfor details. If I've really had an uncle wished on me, it's up to me tomake the best of it, or find out the worst. But somehow I ain't sochesty about havin' dug up a relation. I don't brag about it to Marthawhen I go home. In fact, Martha has fam'ly troubles of her own aboutnow, you remember. I finds her weepy-eyed and solemn.
"They've been gone more than a week," says she, "Zenobia and thatreckless Kyrle Ballard. Pretty soon they will be coming back, andthen----"
"Well, what then?" says I.
"I've been packing up to-day," says she, swabbin' off a stray tear fromthe side of her nose. "I have engaged rooms at the Lady Louise. Isuppose you will be leaving too."
"Me?" says I.
It hadn't struck me that Aunt Zenobia's getting married was goin' tothrow us all out on the street. But Aunt Martha had it doped diff'rent.
"Stay in the same house with that man?" says she. "Not I! And I am quitesure he will not want either of us around when he comes back here asZenobia's husband."
"If that's the case," says I, "it won't take me long to clear out; but Iguess I'll wait until I get the hint direct. You'd better wait too."
Martha'd made up her mind, though. She says she'd go right then if itwa'n't for leavin' the servants alone in the house; but the very minuteSister Zenobia arrives she means to beat it. And sure enough next dayshe has her trunk brought down into the front hall and begins wearin'her bonnet around the house. It's a little weird to see her pokin' aboutdressed that way, and her wraps and rubbers laid out handy, as if shebelonged to a volunteer hose comp'ny.
It was after the second day of this watchful waitin', and we're sittin'down to a six-forty-five dinner, when a big racket breaks loose outfront. The bell rings four times rapid, Lizzie the maid almost breaksher neck gettin' to the door, and in breezes the runaway pair with alltheir baggage, chucklin' and chatterin' like a couple of kids. Somestunnin' Aunt Zenobia looks, for all her gray hair; and Mr. Ballard, inhis Scotch tweed suit and with his ruddy cheeks, don't look a day overfifty. They're giggling merry over some remark of Lizzie's, and Zenobiacalls in through the draperies.
"Hello, Martha--Torchy--everybody!" she sings out. "Well, here we are,back from that absurd boardwalk resort, back to--well, for the love ofladies! Martha Hadley, why in the name of nonsense are you eating dinnerwith your hat on?"
"Because," says Martha, beginnin' to sniffle, "I--I'm going away."
"But where? Why?" demands Zenobia.
And between sobs Martha explains. She includes me in it too.
"Then why aren't you wearing your hat also, Torchy?" asks Zenobia.
"Well," says I, "I ain't so sure about quittin' as she is. I thought I'dstick around until I got the word to move."
"Which you're not at all likely to get, young man," says Zenobia. "Andas for you, Martha, you should have better sense. Trapsing off to ahotel, at your time of life! Rubbish! And why, please?"
Aunt Martha nods towards Ballard.
"Well, you're just going to get over that nonsense," says Zenobia."Kyrle, you know what you promised when you told me you'd make up withMartha? Now is the appointed time. Do it!"
And Mr. Ballard, chuckin' his hat and overcoat on a chair, sails rightin. I expect it was the last thing in the world Martha was lookin' for;for she sits there gazin' at him sort of stupid until he's done thetrick. Uh-huh! No halfway business about it, either. He just naturallytakes her chubby old face between his two hands, tilts up her chin, andplants a reg'lar final curtain smack where I'll bet it's been fortyyears since the lips of man had trod before.
First off Martha flops her arms and squeals. Then, when she finds it'sall over and ain't goin' to be any continuous performance, she quietsdown and stares at the two of 'em, who are chucklin' away merry.
"Please, Sister Martha," says Ballard, "try to overlook that old affairof mine when I tried to cut out the Rev. Preble. I was ratherirresponsible then, I'll own; but I have steadied down a lot, althoughfor the last week or so--well, you know how giddy Zenobia is. But youwill help us. We can't either of us spare you, you see."
Maybe it was the jollyin' speech, or maybe it was the unexpected smack,but inside of five minutes Martha has shed her bonnet and we're allsittin' around the table as friendly and jolly as you please.
I suppose it was by way of makin' Martha feel comf'table and as if shewas really part of the game that they got to reminiscin' about old timesand the folks they used to know. I wa'n't followin' it very close untilMartha gets to askin' Ballard about some of his people, and he starts inon this story about his nephew.
"Poor Dick!" says he, pushin' back his demitasse and lightin' up a bigperfecto. "Now if he'd been my boy, things might have turned outdifferently. But my respected brother--well, you knew Richard, Martha.Not at all like me,--eminently respectable, a bit solemn, andtremendously stiff-necked on occasion. The way he took on about thatred-headed Irish girl, for instance. Irene, you know. Why, you mighthave thought, to have heard him storm around, that she was a veritablesorceress, or something of the kind; when, as a matter of fact, she wasjust a nice, wholesome, keen-witted young woman. Pretty as a picture,she was, and as true as gold too,--a lot too good for young DickBallard, even if she was merely a
girl in his father's office. Youcouldn't blame her for liking Dick, though. Everyone did--thescatter-brained scamp! And when my brother went through all thatmelodramatic folly of cutting him off with a thousand a year--well, wehad our big row over that. That was when I took my money out of thefirm. Lucky I did too. When the panic came I was safe."
"Let's see," says Zenobia, "Dick and the girl ran off and were married,weren't they?"
"Yes," says Ballard. "It's in the blood, you see. They went to Paris, tocarry out one of Dick's great schemes. He had persuaded some of hisfriends, big real estate dealers, to make him their foreign agent. Hisidea was, I believe, to catch Western millionaires abroad and sell 'emFifth-ave. mansions. Actually did land one or two customers, I think.But it was his wife's notion that turned out to be reallypractical,--leasing French and Italian villas to rich Americans.Something in that, you know, and if Dick had only stuck to it--but Dicknever could. He got in with some mine promoters, and after that nothingwould answer but that he must rush right back to Goldfield and look oversome properties that were for sale dirt cheap. As though Dick would havebeen any wiser after he'd seen 'em! But his biggest piece of folly wasin taking the little boy along with him."
"What! Away from his mother?" says Martha.
"Just like Dick," says Ballard. "They couldn't both leave the leasingbusiness, and as she knew more about it than he did--well, that's theway they settled it. He persuaded her it would be a fine thing for theyoungster. Huh! I came over on the same boat with them, and I want totell you that little chap simply owned the steamer! Bright? Why, he wasthe cutest kid you ever saw,--red-headed, like his mother, and with hisfather's laugh. Spent most of his time on the bridge with the firstofficer, or down in the engine room with the chief. Dick never knewwhere he was half the time.
"He was for taking the boy out into the mining country with him too. Isupposed he had until I got this frantic cable from Irene. They'd senther word about Dick's sudden end,--he always did have a weak heart, youknow,--and something about the high altitude got him. Went off likethat. But Irene was demanding of me to tell her where the boy was. Ofcourse I didn't know. I did my best to find him, hunted high and low. Itraced Dick to Goldfield. No use. The boy was not with him when he wentWest. Where he had left him was a mystery that----"
Buz-z-z-z! goes the front doorbell, right in the middle of Mr. Ballard'sstory, and in comes Lizzie sayin' it's someone to see me. For a second Icouldn't think who'd be huntin' me up here at this time of the evenin'.And then I remembered,--Dorsett.
"It--it's an uncle of mine," says I to Zenobia, "a reg'lar uncle."
"Why," says she, "I didn't know you had one."
"Me either," says I, "until the other day. He just turned up. Could Itake him into the libr'y?"
"Of course," says Zenobia.
I was kind of sorry he'd come. I hadn't been so chesty over Uncle Billat the office; but here, where things are sort of quiet andclassy--well, I could see where he wouldn't show up so strong. Besides,I hadn't made up my mind just how I was goin' to turn down hisproposition.
I towed him in, though. He was glancin' around the room approvin', andmakin' a few openin' remarks, when the folks come strollin' out from thedinin'-room. I glances up, and sees Mr. Ballard just as he's about topass the door. So does Dorsett. And, say, the minute them two spots eachother things sort of hung fire and stopped. Dorsett he breaks short offwhat he's sayin', and Mr. Ballard comes to a halt and stands starin' inthe room. Next I know he's pushed in, and they're facin' each other.
"Pardon me, Sir," says Ballard, "but didn't you cross with me on the_Lucania_ once? And weren't you thick with Dick Ballard?"
Course I could see something coming right then; but I didn't know whatit was. Mr. Dorsett's shifty eyes take another look at Ballard, and thenhe hitches uneasy in his chair.
"Rather an odd coincidence, isn't it?" says he. "Yes, I was on boardthat trip."
"Then you're one of the men I've been looking for a good many years,"says Ballard. "You knew Dick very well, didn't you? Then perhaps youcan tell me who he left that boy of his with when he went West?"
"Why, yes," says Dorsett, smilin' fidgety. "He--er--the fact is, he lefthim with me."
"With you, eh?" says Ballard. "I might have guessed as much. Well, Sir,where's the boy now?"
"Wha-a-at?" gasps Dorsett, lookin' from me to Mr. Ballard. "Where, didyou say?"
"Yes, Sir," comes back Ballard snappy. "Where?"
More gasps from Dorsett. But he's good at duckin' trouble. With a winkat me and a chuckle he remarks: "Torchy, suppose you tell the gentlemanwhere you are?"
Well, say, it was some complicated unravelin' we did durin' the next fewminutes, believe me; but after Zenobia and Martha had been called in,and Dorsett has done some more of his smooth explainin', we all begun tosee where we were at.
"Torchy," says Zenobia at last, "bring down from your room that littlegold locket you've always had."
And when Mr. Ballard has opened it and held the picture under thereadin' light, he winds up the whole debate as to who's who.
"It's Irene, of course," says he. "Poor girl! But she had her day, afterall. Married a French army officer, you know, and for a while they werehappy together. Then the war. He was dropped somewhere around Rheims, Ibelieve. Then I heard of her doing volunteer work at a field hospital.She lasted a month or so at that--typhus, or a German shell, I don'tknow which. But she's gone too."
And me, I stands there, listenin' gawpy, with my eyes beginnin' to blur.It's Zenobia, you might know, who notices first. She steps over andgathers me in motherly. Not that I needs it, as I know of, but--well, itwas kind of good to feel her arm around me just then.
"We'll find out all about it later; won't we, Torchy?" she whispers.
Meanwhile Mr. Ballard has swung on Dorsett. "So you were trying to poseas Uncle Bill, were you?" he demands. "Well, Sir, you're just about thecaliber of man Dick would choose to put his trust in! But I'll bet athousand you were not finding it so easy to fool his boy here! Going,are you? This way, Sir."
"At that, though," says I, as the door shuts after Dorsett, "he had meguessin'."
"Yes," says Mr. Ballard, "he would, any of us."
"And I don't see," I goes on, "as I got any fam'ly left, after all."
"You--you don't, eh, you young scamp?" says Mr. Ballard. "Well, asthere's no doubt about your being my nephew's boy, I'd like to know whyI don't qualify as a perfectly good great-uncle to you!"
"Why, that's so!" says I, grinnin' at him. "I--I guess you do. And, say,if you don't mind my sayin' so, you'll do fine!"
So what if Uncle Bill did turn out a ringer! He was more or less useful,even if he did gum up the plot there for a while. Uh-huh! Mighty useful!For there's nothin' phony about my new Uncle Kyrle, take it from me!