by Sewell Ford
II
ROUNDING UP MAGGIE
Say, who was tellin' you? Ah, g'wan! Them sea shore press agents isfull of fried eels. Disguises; nothin'! Them folks I has with me wasthe real things. The Rev. Doc. Akehead? Not much. That was my littleold Bishop. And it wa'n't any slummin' party at all. It was just alittle errand of mercy that got switched.
It was this way: The Bishop, he shows up at the Studio for his reg'larmedicine ball work, that I'm givin' him so's he can keep his equatorfrom gettin' the best of his latitude. That's all on the quiet,though. It's somethin' I ain't puttin' on the bulletin board, orincludin' in my list of references, understand?
Well, we has had our half-hour session and the Bishop has just made abreak for the cold shower and the dressin' room, while I'm preparin' toshed my workin' clothes for the afternoon; when in pops Swifty Joe,closin' the gym. door behind him real soft and mysterious.
"Shorty," says he in that hoarse whisper he gets on when he's excited,"she's--she's come!"
"Who's come?" says I.
"S-s-sh!" says he, wavin' his hands. "It's the old girl; and she's gota gun!"
"Ah, say!" says I. "Come out of the trance. What old girl? And whatabout the gun?"
Maybe you've never seen Swifty when he's real stirred up? He wears acorrugated brow, and his lower jaw hangs loose, leavin' the MammothCave wide open, and his eyes bug out like shoe buttons. His thoughtscome faster than he can separate himself from the words; so it's hardgettin' at just what he means to say. But, as near as I can come toit, there's a wide female party waitin' out in the front office for me,with blood in her eye and a self cockin' section of the unwritten lawin her fist.
Course, I knows right off there must be some mistake, or else it's acase of dope, and I says so. But Swifty is plumb sure she knew who shewas askin' for when she calls for me, and begs me not to go out. He'sfor ringin' up the police.
"Ring up nobody!" says I. "S'pose I want this thing gettin' into thepapers? If a Lady Bughouse has strayed in here, we got to shoo her outas quiet as possible. She can't shoot if we rush her. Come on!"
I will say for Swifty Joe that, while he ain't got any too much sense,there's no ochre streak in him. When I pulls open the gym. door andgives the word, we went through neck and neck.
"Look out!" he yells, and I sees him makin' a grab at the arm of abroad beamed old party, all done up nicely in grey silk and white lace.
And say, it's lucky I got a good mem'ry for profiles; for if I hadn'tseen right away it was Purdy Bligh's Aunt Isabella, and that the gunwas nothin' but her silver hearin' tube, we might have been tryin' toexplain it to her yet. As it is, I'm just near enough to make a swipefor Swifty's right hand with my left, and I jerks his paw back just asshe turns around from lookin' out of the window and gets her lamps onus. Say, we must have looked like a pair of batty ones, standin' thereholdin' hands and starin' at her! But it seems that folks as deaf asshe is ain't easy surprised. All she does is feel around her for hergold eye glasses with one hand, and fit the silver hearin' machine toher off ear with the other. It's one of these pepper box affairs, andI didn't much wonder that Swifty took it for a gun.
"Are you Professor McCabe?" says she.
"Sure!" I hollers; and Swifty, not lookin' for such strenuousconversation, goes up in the air about two feet.
"I beg pardon," says the old girl; "but will you kindly speak into theaudiphone."
So I steps up closer, forgettin' that I still has the clutch on Swifty,and drags him along.
"Ahr, chee!" says Swifty. "This ain't no brother act, is it?"
With that I lets him go, and me and Aunt Isabella gets down tobusiness. I was lookin' for some tale about Purdy--tell you about himsome day--but it looks like this was a new deal; for she opens up byaskin' if I knew a party by the name of Dennis Whaley.
"Do I?" says I. "I've known Dennis ever since I can remember knowin'anybody. He's runnin' my place out to Primrose Park now."
"I thought so," says Aunt Isabella. "Then perhaps you know a niece ofhis, Margaret Whaley?"
I didn't; but I'd heard of her. She's Terence Whaley's girl, that comeover from Skibbereen four or five years back, after near starvin' todeath one wet season when the potato crop was so bad. Well, it seemsMaggie has worked a couple of years for Aunt Isabella as kitchen girl.Then she's got ambitious, quit service, and got a flatwork job in ahand laundry--eight per, fourteen hours a day, Saturday sixteen.
I didn't tumble why all this was worth chinnin' about until AuntIsabella reminds me that she's president and board of directors of theLady Pot Wrestlers' Improvement Society. She's one of the kind thatspends her time tryin' to organise study classes for hired girls whohave different plans for spendin' their Thursday afternoons off.
Seems that Aunt Isabella has been keepin' special tabs on Maggie,callin' at the laundry to give her good advice, and leavin' her booksto read,--which I got a tintype of her readin', not,--and otherwisedoin' the upliftin' act accordin' to rule. But along in the earlysummer Maggie had quit the laundry without consultin' the old girlabout it. Aunt Isabella kept on the trail, though, run down her lastboardin' place, and begun writin' her what she called helpful letters.She kept this up until she was handed the ungrateful jolt. The lastletter come back to her with a few remarks scribbled across the face,indicatin' that readin' such stuff gave Maggie a pain in the small ofher back. But the worst of it all was, accordin' to Aunt Isabella,that Maggie was in Coney Island.
"Think of it!" says she. "That poor, innocent girl, living in thatdreadfully wicked place! Isn't it terrible?"
"Oh, I don't know," says I. "It all depends."
"Hey?" says the old girl. "What say?"
Ever try to carry on a debate through a silver salt shaker? It's thelimit. Thinkin' it would be a lot easier to agree with her, I shoutsout, "Sure thing!" and nods my head. She nods back and rolls her eyes.
"She must be rescued at once!" says Aunt Isabella. "Her uncle ought tobe notified. Can't you send for him?"
As it happens, Dennis had come down that mornin' to see an old friendof his that was due to croak; so I figures it out that the best waywould be to get him and the old lady together and let 'em have it out.I chases Swifty down to West 11th-st. to bring Dennis back in a hurry,and invites Aunt Isabella to make herself comfortable until he comes.
She's too excited to sit down, though. She goes pacin' around thefront office, now and then lookin' me over suspicious,--me bein' stillin my gym. suit,--and then sizin' up the sportin' pictures on the wall.My art exhibit is mostly made up of signed photos of Jeff and Fitz andNelson in their ring costumes, and it was easy to see she's some jarred.
"I hope this is a perfectly respectable place, young man," says she.
"It ain't often pulled by the cops," says I.
Instead of calmin' her down, that seems to stir her up worse'n ever."I should hope not!" says she. "How long must I wait here?"
"No longer'n you feel like waitin', ma'am," says I.
And just then the gym. door opens, and in walks the Bishop, that I'dclean forgot all about.
"Why, Bishop!" squeals Aunt Isabella. "You here!"
Say, it didn't need any second sight to see that the Bishop would haverather met 'most anybody else at that particular minute; but he handsher the neat return. "It appears that I am," says he. "And you?"
Well, it was up to her to do the explainin'. She gives him the wholehistory of Maggie Whaley, windin' up with how she's been last heardfrom at Coney Island.
"Isn't it dreadful, Bishop?" says she. "And can't you do something tohelp rescue her?"
Now I was lookin' for the Bishop to say somethin' soothin'; but hangedif he don't chime in and admit that it's a sad case and he'll do whathe can to help. About then Swifty shows up with Dennis, and AuntIsabella lays it before him. Now, accordin' to his own account, Dennisand Terence always had it in for each other at home, and he never tookmuch stock in Maggie, either. But after he'd listened to Aunt Isabellaf
or a few minutes, hearin' her talk about his duty to the girl, and howshe ought to be yanked off the toboggan of sin, he takes it as seriousas any of 'em.
"Wurrah, wurrah!" says he, "but this do be a black day for the Whaleys!It's the McGuigan blood comin' out in her. What's to be done, mum?"
Aunt Isabella has a program all mapped out. Her idea is to get up arescue expedition on the spot, and start for Coney. She says Dennisought to go; for he's Maggie's uncle and has got some authority; andshe wants the Bishop, to do any prayin' over her that may be needed.
"As for me," says she, "I shall do my best to persuade her to leave herwicked companions."
Well, they was all agreed, and ready to start, when it comes out thatnot one of the three has ever been to the island in their lives, anddon't know how to get there. At that I sees the Bishop lookin'expectant at me.
"Shorty," says he, "I presume you are somewhat familiar withthis--er--wicked resort?"
"Not the one you're talkin' about," says I. "I've been goin' to Coneyevery year since I was old enough to toddle; and I'll admit there hasbeen seasons when some parts of it was kind of tough; but as a generalproposition it never looked wicked to me."
That kind of puzzles the Bishop. He says he's always understood thatthe island was sort of a vent hole for the big sulphur works. AuntIsabella is dead sure of it too, and hints that maybe I ain't much of ajudge. Anyway, she thinks I'd be a good guide for a place of thatkind, and prods the Bishop on to urge me to go.
"Well," says I, "just for a flier, I will."
So, as soon as I've changed my clothes, we starts for the ironsteamboats, and plants ourselves on the upper deck. And say, we was asporty lookin' bunch--I don't guess! There was the Bishop, in hislittle flat hat and white choker,--you couldn't mistake what hewas,--and Aunt Isabella, with her grey hair and her grey and whitecostume, lookin' about as giddy as a marble angel on a tombstone. Thenthere's Dennis, who has put on the black whip cord Prince Albert healways wears when he's visitin' sick friends or attendin' funerals.The only festive lookin' point about him was the russet coloured throathedge he wears in place of a necktie.
Honest, I felt sorry for them suds slingers that travels around thedeck singin' out, "Who wants the waiter?" Every time one would comeour way he'd get as far as "Who wants----" and then he'd switch offwith an "Ah, chee!" and go away disgusted.
All the way down, the old girl has her eye out for wickedness. Thesight of Adolph, the grocery clerk, dippin' his beak into a mug offroth, moves her to sit up and give him the stony glare; while aglimpse of a young couple snugglin' up against each other along therail almost gives her a spasm.
"Such brazen depravity!" says she to the Bishop.
By the time we lands at the iron pier she has knocked Coney so muchthat I has worked up a first class grouch.
"Come on!" says I. "Let's have Maggie's address and get through withthis rescue business before all you good folks is soggy with sin."
Then it turns out she ain't got any address at all. The most she knowsis that Maggie's somewhere on the island.
"Well," I shouts into the tube, "Coney's something of a place, you see!What's your idea of findin' her?"
"We must search," says Aunt Isabella, prompt and decided.
"Mean to throw out a regular drag net?" says I.
She does. Well, say, if you've ever been to Coney on a good day, whenthere was from fifty to a hundred thousand folks circulatin' about,you've got some notion of what a proposition of that kind means.Course, I wa'n't goin to tackle the job with any hope of gettin' awaywith it; but right there I'm struck with a pleasin' thought.
"Do I gather that I'm to be the Commander Peary of this expedition?"says I.
It was a unanimous vote that I was.
"Well," says I, "you know you can't carry it through on hot air. Ittakes coin to get past the gates in this place."
Aunt Isabella says she's prepared to stand all the expense. And whatdo you suppose she passes out? A green five!
"Ah, say, this ain't any Sunday school excursion," says I. "Why, thatwouldn't last us a block. Guess you'll have to dig deeper or call itoff."
She was game, though. She brings up a couple of tens next dip, theBishop adds two more, and I heaves in one on my own hook.
"Now understand," says I, "if I'm headin' this procession there mustn'tbe any hangin' back or arguin' about the course. Coney's no place fora quitter, and there's some queer corners in it; but we're lookin' fora particular party, so we can't skip any. Follow close, don't ask mefool questions, and everybody keep their eye skinned for Maggie. Isthat clear?"
They said it was.
"Then we're off in a bunch. This way!" says I.
Say, it was almost too good to be true. I hadn't more'n got 'em insideof Dreamland before they has their mouths open and their eyes popped,and they was so rattled they didn't know whether they was goin' up orcomin' down. The Bishop grabs me by the elbow, Aunt Isabella gets adesperate grip on his coat tails, and Dennis hooks two fingers into theback of her belt. When we lines up like that we has the fat womantakin' her first camel ride pushed behind the screen. The barkers outin front of the dime attractions takes one look at us and loses theirvoices for a whole minute--and it takes a good deal to choke up one ofthem human cyclones. I gives 'em back the merry grin and blazes ahead.
First thing I sees that looks good is the wiggle-waggle brassstaircase, where half of the steps goes up as the other comes down.
"Now, altogether!" says I, feedin' the coupons to the ticket man, and Iruns 'em up against the liver restorer at top speed. Say thatexhibition must have done the rubbernecks good! First we was alljolted up in a heap, then we was strung out like a yard offrankfurters; but I kept 'em at it until we gets to the top. AuntIsabella has lost her breath and her bonnet has slid over one ear, theBishop is red in the face, and Dennis is puffin' like a freight engine.
"No Maggie here," says I. "We'll try somewhere else."
No. 2 on the event card was the water chutes, and while we was slidin'up on the escalator they has a chance to catch their wind. They didn'tget any more'n they needed though; for just as Aunt Isabella hasstarted to ask the platform man if he'd seen anything of Maggie Whaley,a boat comes up on the cogs, and I yells for 'em to jump in quick. Thenext thing they knew we was scootin' down that slide at the rate of ahundred miles an hour, with three of us holdin' onto our hats, and onelettin' out forty squeals to the minute.
"O-o-o o-o-o!" says Aunt Isabella, as we hits the water and does thebounding bounce.
"That's right," says I; "let 'em know you're here. It's the style."
Before they've recovered from the chute ride I've hustled 'em over toone of them scenic railroads, where you're yanked up feet first ahundred feet or so, and then shot down through painted canvas mountainsfor about a mile. Say, it was a hummer, too! I don't know what thereis about travellin' fast; but it always warms up my blood, and aboutthe third trip I feels like sendin' out yelps of joy.
Course, I didn't expect it would have any such effect on the Bishop;but as we went slammin' around a sharp corner I gets a look at hisface. And would you believe it, he's wearin' a reg'lar breakfast foodgrin! Next plunge we take I hears a whoop from the back seat, and Iknows that Dennis has caught it, too.
I was afraid maybe the old girl has fainted; but when we brings up atthe bottom and I has a chance to turn around, I finds her stillgrippin' the car seat, her feet planted firm, and a kind of wild,reckless look in her eyes.
"We did that last lap a little rapid," says I. "Maybe we ought tocover the ground again, just to be sure we didn't miss Maggie. Howabout repeatin' eh?"
"I--I wouldn't mind," says she.
"Good!" says I. "Percy, send her off for another spiel."
And we encores the performance, with Dennis givin' the Donnybrook call,and the smile on the Bishop's face growin' wider and wider. Fun? I'vedone them same stunts with a gang of real sporting men, and, never hadthe half of it.
After
that my crowd was ready for anything. They forgets all about theoriginal proposition, and tackles anything I leads them up to, frombumpin' the bumps to ridin' down in the tubs on the tickler. When we'dgot through with Dreamland and the Steeplechase, we wanders down theBowery and hits up some hot dog and green corn rations.
By the time I gets ready to lead them across Surf-ave. to Luna Park itwas dark, and about a million incandescents had been turned on. Well,you know the kind of picture they gets their first peep at. Course,it's nothin' but white stucco and gold leaf and electric light, withthe blue sky beyond. But say, first glimpse you get, don't it knockyour eye out?
"Whist!" says Dennis, gawpin' up at the front like lie meant to swallowit. "Is ut the Blessed Gates we're comin' to?"
"Magnificent!" says the Bishop.
And just then Aunt Isabella gives a gasp and sings out, "Maggie!"
Well, as Dennis says afterwards, in tellin' Mother Whaley about it,"Glory be, would yez think ut? I hears her spake thot name, and up Ilooks, and as I'm a breathin' man, there sits Maggie Whaley in a solidgoold chariot all stuck with jools, her hair puffed out like a crown,and the very neck of her blazin' with pearls and di'monds. MaggieWhaley, mind ye, the own daughter of Terence, that's me brother; andher the boss of a place as big as the houses of parli'ment and finerthan Windsor castle on the King's birthday!"
It was Maggie all right. She was sittin' in a chariot too--you've seenthem fancy ticket booths they has down to Luna. And she has had herhair done up by an upholsterer, and put through a crimpin' machine.That and the Brazilian near-gem necklace she wears does give her a kindof a rich and fancy look, providin' you don't get too close.
She wasn't exactly bossin' the show. She was sellin' combinationtickets, that let you in on so many rackets for a dollar. She'dchucked the laundry job for this, and she was lookin' like she was gladshe'd made the shift. But here was four of us who'd come to rescue herand lead her back to the ironin' board.
Aunt Isabella makes the first break. She tells Maggie who she is andwhy she's come. "Margaret," says she, "I do hope you will consent toleave this wicked life. Please say you will, Margaret!"
"Ah, turn it off!" says Maggie. "Me back to the sweat box at eight perwhen I'm gettin' fourteen for this? Not on your ping pongs! Fade,Aunty, fade!"
Then the Bishop is pushed up to take his turn. He says he is glad tomeet Maggie, and hopes she likes her new job. Maggie says she does.She lets out, too, that she's engaged to the gentleman what does arefined acrobatic specialty in the third attraction on the left, andthat when they close in the fall he's goin' to coach her up so's theycan do a double turn in the continuous houses next winter at from sixtyto seventy-five per, each. So if she ever irons another shirt, it'llbe just to show that she ain't proud.
And that's where the rescue expedition goes out of business with a low,hollow plunk. Among the three of 'em not one has a word left to say.
"Well, folks," says I, "what are we here for? Shall we finish theevenin' like we begun? We're only alive once, you know, and this isthe only Coney there is. How about it?"
Did we? Inside of two minutes Maggie has sold us four entrancetickets, and we're headed for the biggest and wooziest thriller to befound in the lot.
"Shorty," says the Bishop, as we settles ourselves for a ride home onthe last boat, "I trust I have done nothing unseemly this evening."
"What! You?" says I. "Why, Bishop, you're a reg'lar ripe old sport;and any time you feel like cuttin' loose again, with Aunt Isabella orwithout, just send in a call for me."