by Sewell Ford
V
PUTTING PINCKNEY ON THE JOB
Well, say, this is where we mark up one on Pinckney. And it's timetoo, for he's done the grin act at me so often he was comin' to think Iwas gettin' into the Slivers class. You know about Pinckney. He's thebubble on top of the glass, the snapper on the whip lash, the sunnyspot at the club. He's about as serious as a kitten playin' with astring, and the cares on his mind weigh 'most as heavy as an extrarooster feather on a spring bonnet.
That's what comes of havin' a self raisin' income, a small list ofrelatives, and a moderate thirst. If anything bobs up that needs to beworried over--like whether he's got vests enough to last through alittle trip to London and back, or whether he's doubled up on hisdates--why, he just tells his man about it, and then forgets. For atrouble dodger he's got the little birds in the trees carryin' weight.Pinckney's liable to show up at the Studio here every day for a week,and then again I won't get a glimpse of him for a month. It's alwayssafe to expect him when you see him, and it's a waste of time wonderin'what he'll be up to next. But one of the things I likes most aboutPinckney is that he ain't livin' yesterday or to-morrow. It's alwaysthis A. M. with him, and the rest of the calendar takes care of itself.
So I wa'n't any surprised, as I was doin' a few laps on the avenueawhile back, to hear him give me the hail.
"Oh, I say, Shorty!" says he, wavin' his stick.
"Got anything on?"
"Nothin' but my clothes," says I.
"Good!" says he. "Come with me, then."
"Sure you know where you're goin'?" says I.
Oh, yes, he was--almost. It was some pier or other he was headed for,and he has the number wrote down on a card--if he could find the card.By luck he digs it up out of his cigarette case, where his man has putit on purpose, and then he proceeds to whistle up a cab. Say, if itwa'n't for them cabbies, I reckon Pinckney would take root somewhere.
"Meetin' some one, or seein' 'em off?" says I, as we climbs in.
"Hanged if I know yet," says Pinckney.
"Maybe it's you that's goin'?" says I.
"Oh, no," says he. "That is, I hadn't planned to, you know. And cometo think of it, I believe I am to meet--er--Jack and Jill."
"Names sound kind of familiar," says I. "What's the breed?"
"What would be your guess?" says he.
"A pair of spotted ponies," says I.
"By Jove!" says he, "I hadn't thought of ponies."
"Say," says I, sizin' him up to see if he was handin' me a josh, "youdon't mean to give out that you're lookin' for a brace of something tocome in on the steamer, and don't know whether they'll be tame or wild,long haired or short, crated or live stock?"
"Live stock!" says he, beamin'. "That's exactly the word I have beentrying to think of. That's what I shall ask for. Thanks, awfully,Shorty, for the hint."
"You're welcome," says I. "It looks like you need all the help alongthat line you can get. Do you remember if this pair was somethin' yousent for, or is it a birthday surprise?"
With that he unloads as much of the tale as he's accumulated up todate. Seems he'd just got a cablegram from some firm in London thatsigns themselves Tootle, Tupper & Tootle, sayin' that Jack and Jillwould be on the _Lucania_, as per letter.
"And then you lost the letter?" says I.
No, he hadn't lost it, not that he knew of. He supposes that it's withthe rest of last week's mail, that he hasn't looked over yet. Thetrouble was he'd been out of town, and hadn't been back more'n a day orso--and he could read letters when there wa'n't anything else to do.That's Pinckney, from the ground up.
"Why not go back and get the letter now?" says I. "Then you'll knowall about Jack and Jill."
"Oh, bother!" says he. "That would spoil all the fun. Let's see whatthey're like first, and read about them afterwards."
"If it suits you," says I, "it's all the same to me. Only you won'tknow whether to send for a hostler or an animal trainer."
"Perhaps I'd better engage both," says Pinckney. If they'd been handy,he would have, too; but they wa'n't, so down we sails to the pier,where the folks was comin' ashore.
First thing Pinckney spies after we has rushed the gangplank is a gentwith a healthy growth of underbrush on his face and a lot of gold onhis sleeves. By the way they got together, I see that they was oldfriends.
"I hear you have something on board consigned to me, Captain?" saysPinckney. "Something in the way of live stock, eh?" and he pokes Capin the ribs with his cane.
"Right you are," says Cappie, chucklin' through his whiskers. "And theliveliest kind of live stock we ever carried, sir."
Pinckney gives me the nudge, as much as to say he'd struck it firstcrack, and then he remarks, "Ah! And where are they now?"
"Why," says the Cap, "they were cruising around the promenade deck aminute ago; but, Lor' bless you, sir! there's no telling where they arenow--up on the bridge, or down in the boiler room. They're a pair ofcolts, those two."
"Colts!" says Pinckney, gaspin'. "You mean ponies, don't you?"
"Well, well, ponies or colts, it's all one. They're lively enough foreither, and--Heigho! Here they come, the rascals!"
There's whoop and a scamper, and along the deck rushes a couple of six-or seven-year old youngsters, that makes a dive for the Cap'n, catcheshim around either leg, and almost upsets him. They was twins, and itdidn't need the kilt suits just alike and the hair boxed just the sameto show it, either. They couldn't have been better matched if they'dbeen a pair of socks, and the faces of 'em was all grins and mischief.Say, anyone with a heart in him couldn't help takin' to kids like that,providin' they didn't take to him first.
"Here you are, sir," says the Cap'n,--"here's your Jack and Jill, and Iwish you luck with them. It'll be a good month before I can get backdiscipline aboard; but I'm glad I had the bringing of 'em over. Hereyou are, you holy terrors,--here's the Uncle Pinckney you've beenhowling for!"
At that they let loose of the Cap, gives a war-whoop in chorus, andlands on Pinckney with a reg'lar flyin' tackle, both talkin' to once.Well say, he didn't know whether to holler for help or laugh. He juststands there and looks foolish, while one of 'em shins up and gets anoverhand holt on his lilac necktie.
About then I notices some one bearin' down on us from the other side ofthe deck. She was one of these tall, straight, deep chested, wide eyedgirls, built like the Goddess of Liberty, and with cheeks like a bunchof sweet peas. Say, she was all right, she was; and if it hadn't beenfor the Paris clothes she was wearin' home I could have made a guesswhether she come from Denver, or Dallas, or St. Paul. Anyway, we don'traise many of that kind in New York. She has her eyes on theyoungsters.
"Good-bye, Jack and Jill," says she, wavin' her hand at 'em.
But nobody gets past them kids as easy as that. They yells "MissGertrude!" at her like she was a mile off, and points to Pinckney, andinside of a minute they has towed 'em together, pushed 'em up againstthe rail, and is makin' 'em acquainted at the rate of a mile a minute.
"Pleased, I'm sure," says Miss Gerty. "Jack and Jill are great friendsof mine. I suppose you are their Uncle Pinckney."
"I'm almost beginning to believe I am," says Pinckney.
"Why," says she, "aren't you----"
"Oh, that's my name," says he. "Only I didn't know that I was anuncle. Doubtless it's all right, though. I'll look it up."
With that she eyes him like she thought he was just out of the nutfactory, and the more Pinckney tries to explain, the worse he getstwisted. Finally he turns to the twins. "See here, youngsters," sayshe, "which one of you is Jack?"
"Me," says one of 'em. "I'se Jack."
"Well, Jack," says Pinckney, "what is your last name?"
"Anstruther," says the kid.
"The devil!" says Pinckney, before he could stop it. Then he begspardon all around. "I see," says he. "I had almost forgotten aboutJack Anstruther, though I shouldn't. So Jack is your papa, is he? Andwhere is Jack now?"
&n
bsp; Some one must have trained them to do it, for they gets their headstogether, like they was goin' to sing a hymn, rolls up their eyes, andpipes out, "Our--papa--is--up--there."
"The deuce you say! I wouldn't have thought it!" gasps Pinckney. "No,no! I--I mean I hadn't heard of it."
It was a bad break, though; but the girl sees how cut up he is aboutit, and smooths everything out with a laugh.
"I fancy Jack and Jill know very little of such things," says she; "butthey can tell you all about Marie."
"Marie's gone!" shouts the kids. "She says we drove her crazy."
That was the way the story come out, steady by jerks. The meat of itwas that one of Pinckney's old chums had passed in somewhere abroad,and for some reason or other these twins of his had been shipped overto Pinckney in care of a French governess. Between not knowing how toherd a pair of lively ones like Jack and Jill, and her gettin'interested in a tall gent with a lovely black moustache, Marie had kindof shifted her job off onto the rest of the passengers, speciallyGerty, and the minute the steamer touched the dock she had rolled herhoop.
"Pinckney," says I, "it's you to the bat."
He looks at the twins doubtful, then he squints at me, and next helooks at Miss Gertrude. "By Jove!" says he. "It appears that way,doesn't it? I wonder how long I am expected to keep them?"
The twins didn't know; I didn't; and neither does Gerty.
"I had planned to take a noon train west," says she; "but if you thinkI could help in getting Jack and Jill ashore, I'll stay over for a fewhours."
"Will you?" says he. "That's ripping good of you. Really, you know, Inever took care of twins before."
"How odd!" says she, tearin' off a little laugh that sounds as if itcome out of a music box. "I suppose you will take them home?"
"Home!" says Pinckney. Say, you'd thought he never heard the wordbefore. "Why--ah--er--I live at the club, you know."
"Oh," says she.
"Would a hotel do?" says Pinckney.
"You might try it," says she, throwin' me a look that was all twinkles.
Then we rounds up the kids' traps, sees to their baggage, and callsanother cab. Pinckney and the girl takes Jill, I loads Jack in withme, and off we starts. It was a great ride. Ever try to answer allthe questions a kid of that age can think up? Say, I was three behindand short of breath before we'd gone ten blocks.
"Is all this America?" says Mr. Jack, pointin' up Broadway.
"No, sonny," says I; "this is little old New York."
"Where's America, then?" says he.
"Around the edges," says I.
"I'm goin' to be president some day," says he. "Are you?"
"Not till Teddy lets go, anyway," says I.
"Who's Teddy?" says he.
"The man behind the stick," says I.
"I wish I had a stick," says Jack; "then I could whip the hossie. Iwish I had suffin' to eat, too."
"I'd give a dollar if you had," says I.
It seems that Jill has been struck with the same idea, for pretty soonwe comes together, and Pinckney shouts that we're all goin' to havelunch. Now, there's a lot of eatin' shops in this town; but I'll betPinckney couldn't name more'n four, to save his neck, and theFifth-ave. joint he picks out was the one he's most used to.
It ain't what you'd call a fam'ly place. Mostly the people who hangout there belong to the Spender clan. It's where the thousand-dollartenors, and the ex-steel presidents, and the pick of the pony balletcome for broiled birds and bottled bubbles. But that don't botherPinckney a bit; so we blazes right in, kids and all. The head waitermost has a fit when he spots Pinckney towin' a twin with each hand; buthe plants us at a round table in the middle of the room, turns on theelectric light under the seashell shades, and passes out the foodprograms. I looks over the card; but as there wa'n't anything enteredthat I'd ever met before, I passes. Gerty, she takes a look around,and smiles. But the twins wa'n't a bit fazed.
"What will it be, youngsters?" says Pinckney.
"Jam," says they.
"Jam it is," says Pinckney, and orders a couple of jars.
"Don't you think they ought to have something besides sweets?" saysMiss Gerty.
"Blessed if I know," says Pinckney, and he puts it up to the kids ifthere wa'n't anything else they'd like.
"Yep!" says they eagerly. "Pickles."
That's what they had too, jam and pickles, with a little bread on theside. Then, while we was finishin' off the grilled bones, or whateverit was Pinckney had guessed at, they slides out of their chairs andorganises a game of tag. I've heard of a lot of queer doin's bein'pulled off in that partic'lar caffy, but I'll bet this was the firstgame of cross tag ever let loose there. It was a lively one, for thetables was most all filled, and the tray jugglers was skatin' aroundthick. That only made it all the more interestin' for the kids.Divin' between the legs of garcons loaded down with silver and chinadishes was the best sport they'd struck in a month, and they justwhooped it up.
THE TWINS ORGANIZE A GAME OF TAG]
I could see the head waiter, standin' on tiptoes, watchin' 'em andholdin' his breath. Pinckney was beginnin' to look worried too, butGerty was settin' there, as calm and smilin' as if they was playin' ina vacant lot. It was easy to see she wa'n't one of the worryin' kind.
"I wonder if I shouldn't stop them?" says Pinckney.
Before he's hardly got it out, there comes a bang and a smash, and afat French waiter goes down with umpteen dollars' worth of fancy gruband dishes.
"Perhaps you'd better," says Gerty.
"Yes," says I, "some of them careless waiters might fall on one of 'em."
With that Pinckney starts after 'em, tall hat, cane, and all. The kidssee him, and take it that he's joined the game.
"Oh, here's Uncle Pinckney!" they shouts. "You're it, Uncle Pinckney!"and off they goes.
That sets everybody roarin'--except Pinckney. He turns a nice shade ofred, and gives it up. I guess they'd put the place all to the bad, ifMiss Gerty hadn't stood up smilin' and held her hands out to them.They come to her like she'd pulled a string, and in a minute it was allover.
"Pinckney," says I, "you want to rehearse this uncle act some beforeyou spring it on the public again."
"I wish I could get at that letter and find out how long this is goingto last," says he, sighin' and moppin' his noble brow.
But if Pinckney was shy on time for letter readin' before, he had lessof it now. The three of us put in the afternoon lookin' after thatpair of kids, and we was all busy at that. Twice Miss Gerty started tobreak away and go for a train; but both times Pinckney sent me to callher back. Soon's she got on the scene everything was lovely.
Pinckney had picked out a suite of rooms at the Waldorf, and he thoughtas soon as he could get hold of a governess and a maid his troubleswould be over. But it wa'n't so easy to pick up a pair of twintrainers. Three or four sets shows up; but when they starts to askquestions about who the twins belongs to, and who Pinckney was, andwhere Miss Gerty comes in, and what was I doin' there they gets a touchof pneumonia in the feet.
"I ain't casting any insinuations," says one; "but I never have beenmixed up in a kidnapping case before, and I guess I won't begin now."
"The sassy thing!" says I, as she bangs the door.
Pinckney looks stunned; but Miss Gerty only laughs.
"Perhaps you'd better let me go out and find some one," says she. "Andmaybe I'll stay over for a day."
While she was gone Pinckney gets me to take a note up to his man,tellin' him to overhaul the mail and send all the London letters down.That took me less'n an hour, but when I gets back to the hotel I findsPinckney with furrows in his brow, tryin' to make things right with themanager. He'd only left the twins locked up in the rooms for tenminutes or so, while he goes down for some cigarettes and the afternoonpapers; but before he gets back they've rung up everything, from thehall maids to the fire department, run the bath tub over, and riggedthe patent fire escapes out of the window.
"Don't rub it in, Shorty," says he. "Did you get that blamed Tootleletter?"
He grabs it eager. "Now," says he, "we'll see who these youngsters areto be handed over to, and when."
The twins had got me harnessed up to a chair, and we was havin' anelegant time, when Pinckney gives a groan and hollers for me to come inand shut the door.
"Shorty," says he, "what do you think? There isn't anyone else. I'vegot to keep them."
Then he reads me the letter, which is from some English lawyers, sayin'that the late Mr. Anstruther, havin' no relations, has asked that histwo children, Jack and Jill, should be sent over to his old and dearfriend, Mr. Lionel Ogden Pinckney Bruce, with the request that he actas their guardian until they should come of age. The letter also saysthat there's a wad of money in the bank for expenses.
"And the deuce of it is, I can't refuse," says Pinckney. "Jack oncedid me a good turn that I can never forget."
"Well, this makes twice, then," says I. "But cheer up. For abachelor, you're doin' well, ain't you? Now all you need is an accountat the grocer's, and you're almost as good as a fam'ly man."
"But," says he, "I know nothing about bringing up children."
"Oh, you'll learn," says I. "You'll be manager of an orphan asylumyet."
It wa'n't until Miss Gerty shows up with a broad faced Swedish nursethat Pinckney gets his courage back. Gerty tells him he can take thenight off, as she'll be on the job until mornin'; and Pinckney says thethoughts of goin' back to the club never seemed quite so good to him asthen.
"So long," says I; "but don't forget that you're an uncle."
I has a picture of Pinckney takin' them twins by the hand, about thesecond day, and headin' for some boardin' school or private home. Icouldn't help thinkin' about what a shame it was goin' to be too, forthey sure was a cute pair of youngsters--too cute to be farmed outreckless.
Course, though, I couldn't see Pinckney doin' anything else. Even ifhe was married to one of them lady nectarines in the crowd he travelswith, and had a kid of his own, I guess it would be a case of mama andpapa havin' to be introduced to little Gwendolyn every once in awhileby the head of the nursery department.
Oh, I has a real good time for a few days, stewin' over them kids, andwonderin' how they and Pinckney was comin' on. And then yesterday Iruns across the whole bunch, Miss Gerty and all, paradin' down theavenue bound for a candy shop, the whole four of 'em as smilin' as ifthey was startin' on a picnic.
"Chee, Pinckney!" says I, "you look like you was pleased with theamateur uncle business."
"Why not?" says he. "You ought to see how glad those youngsters are tosee me when I come in. And we have great sport."
"Hotel people still friendly?" says I.
"Why," says he, "I believe there have been a few complaints. But we'llsoon be out of that. I've leased a country house for the summer, youknow."
"A house!" says I. "You with a house! Who'll run it?"
"S-s-s-sh!" says he, pullin' me one side and talkin' into my ear. "I'mgoing West to-night, to bring on her mother, and----"
"Oh, I see," says I. "You're goin' to offer Gerty the job?"
Pinckney gets a colour on his cheek bones at that. "She's a charminggirl, Shorty," says he.
"She's nothin' less," says I; "and them twins are all right too. Butsay, Pinckney, I'll bet you never meet a steamer again without knowin'all about why you're there. Eh?"