Side-stepping with Shorty

by Sewell Ford

  XX

  THE CASE OF RUSTY QUINN

  Say, I ain't one of the kind to go around makin' a noise like a pickle,just because I don't happen to have the same talents that's been handedout to others. About all I got to show is a couple of punchdistributors that's more or less educated, and a block that's set onsome solid. Not much to get chesty over; but the combination has keptme from askin' for benefit performances, and as a rule I'm satisfied.

  There's times, though, when I wish--say, don't go givin' me the hee-hawon this--when I wish I could sing. Ah, I don't mean bein' no grandopera tenor, with a throat that has to be kept in cotton battin' and areputation that needs chloride of lime. What would suit me would bejust a plain, every day la-la-la outfit of pipes, that I could turnloose on coon songs when I was alone, or out with a bunch in themoonlight. I'd like to be able to come in on a chorus now and then,without havin' the rest of the crowd turn on me and call for the hook.

  What music I've got is the ingrowin' kind. When anybody starts up areal lively tune I can feel it throbbin' and bumpin' away in my head,like a blowfly in a milk bottle; but if ever I try uncorkin' one of mywarbles, the people on the next block call in the children, and thetruck drivers begin huntin' for the dry axle.

  Now look at what bein' musical did for Rusty Quinn. Who's Rusty?Well, he ain't much of anybody. I used to wonder, when I'd see himkickin' around under foot in different places, how it was he had thenerve to go on livin'. Useless! He appeared about as much good to theworld as a pair of boxin' gloves would be to the armless wonder.

  First I saw of Rusty was five or six years back, when he was hangin'around my trainin' camp. He was a long, slab sided, loose jointed,freckled up kid then, always wearin' a silly, good natured grin on hishomely face. About all the good you could say of Rusty was that hecould play the mouth organ, and be good natured, no matter how hard hewas up against it.

  If there was anything else he could do well, no one ever found it out,though he tried plenty of things. And he always had some great schemerattlin' round in his nut, something that was goin' to win him the bigstake. But it was a new scheme every other day, and, outside ofgrinnin' and playin' the mouth organ, all I ever noticed speciallybrilliant about him was the way he used cigarettes as a substitute forfood. Long's he had a bag of fact'ry sweepin's and a book of ricepapers he didn't mind how many meals he missed, and them long fingersof his was so well trained they could roll dope sticks while he slept.

  Well, it had been a year or so since I'd run across him last, and ifI'd thought about him at all, which I didn't, it would have been toguess what fin'lly finished him; when this affair out on Long Islandwas pulled off. The swells that owns country places along the southshore has a horse show about this time every year. As a rule they getsalong without me bein' there to superintend; but last week I happens tobe down that way, payin' a little call on Mr. Jarvis, an old reg'lar ofmine, and in the afternoon he wants to know if I don't want to climb upon the coach with the rest of the gang and drive over to see the sport.

  Now I ain't so much stuck on this four-in-hand business. It's joltykind of ridin', anyway, and if the thing upsets you've got a long waysto fall; but I always likes takin' a look at a lot of good horses, so Iplants myself up behind, alongside the gent that does the tara-tara-taact on the copper funnel, and off we goes.

  It ain't any of these common fair grounds horse shows, such as anyonecan buy a badge to. This is held on the private trottin' track atWindymere--you know, that big estate that's been leased by theTwombley-Cranes since they started makin' their splurge.

  And say, they know how to do things in shape, them folks. There's abig green and white striped tent set up for the judges at the homeplate, and banked around that on either side was the traps and cartsand bubbles of some of the crispest cracker jacks on Mrs. Astor's list.Course, there was a lot of people I knew; so as soon as our coach isbacked into position I shins down from the perch and starts in to dothe glad hand walk around.

  That's what fetches me onto one of the side paths leadin' up towardsthe big house. I was takin' a short cut across the grass, when I seesa little procession comin' down through the shrubbery. First off itlooks like some one was bein' helped into their coat; but then Inotices that the husky chap behind was actin' more vigorous thanpolite. He has the other guy by the collar, and was givin' him theknee good and plenty, first shovin' him on a step or two, and thenjerkin' him back solid. Loomin' up in the rear was a gent I spotsright off for Mr. Twombley-Crane himself, and by the way he follows Itakes it he's bossin' the job.

  "Gee!" says I to myself, "here's some one gettin' the rough chuck-outfor fair."

  And then I has a glimpse of a freckly face and the silly grin. Theparty gettin' the run was Rusty Quinn. He's lookin' just as seedy asever, being costumed in a faded blue jersey, an old pair of yellowridin' pants, and leggin's that don't match. The bouncer is a great,ham fisted, ruddy necked Britisher, a man twice the weight of Rusty,with a face shaped like a punkin. As he sees me slow up he snorts outsomethin' ugly and gives Quinn an extra hard bang in the back with hisknee. And that starts my temperature to risin' right off.

  "Why don't you hit him with a maul, you bloomin' aitch eater," says I."Hey, Rusty! what you been up to now?"

  "Your friend's been happre'ended a-sneak thievin', that's w'at!" growlsout the beef chewer.

  "G'wan," says I. "I wouldn't believe the likes of you under oath.Rusty, how about it?"

  Quinn, he gives me one of them batty grins of his and spreads out hishand. "Honest, Shorty," says he, "I was only after a handful ofTurkish cigarettes from the smokin' room. I wouldn't touched anotherthing; cross m' heart, I wouldn't!"

  "'Ear 'im!" says the Britisher. "And 'im caught prowlin' through the'ouse!" With that he gives Rusty a shake that must have loosened hisback teeth, and prods him on once more.

  "Ah, say," says I, "you ain't got no call to break his back even if hewas prowlin'. Cut it out, you big mucker, or----"

  Say, I shouldn't have done it, seein' where I was; but the ugly look onhis mug as he lifts his knee again seems to pull the trigger of myright arm, and I swings in one on that punkin head like I was choppin'wood. He drops Rusty and comes at me with a rush, windmill fashion,and I'm so happy for the next two minutes, givin' him what he needs,that I've mussed up his countenance a lot before I sends in the onethat finds the soft spot on his jaw and lands him on the grass.

  "Here, here!" shouts Mr. Twombley-Crane, comin' up just as his man doesthe back shoulder fall. "Why, McCabe, what does this mean?"

  "Nothin' much," says I, "except that I ain't in love with yourparticular way of speedin' the partin' guest."

  "Guest!" says he, flushin' up. "The fellow was caught prowling.Besides, by what right do you question my method of getting rid of asneak thief?"

  "Oh, I don't stop for rights in a case of this kind," says I. "I justnaturally butts in. I happens to know that Rusty here, ain't any moreof a thief than I am. If you've got a charge to make, though, I'll seethat he's in court when----"

  "I don't care to bother with the police," says he. "I merely want thefellow kicked off the place."

  "Sorry to interfere with your plans," says I; "but he's been kickedenough. I'll lead him off, though, and guarantee he don't come back,if that'll do?"

  We both simmered down after he agrees to that proposition. The beefeater picks himself up and limps back to the house, while I escortsRusty as far as the gates, givin' him some good advice on the way down.Seems he'd been workin' as stable helper at Windymere for a couple ofweeks, his latest dream bein' that he was cut out for a jockey; buthe'd run out of dope sticks and, knowin' they was scattered aroundreckless in the house, he'd just walked in lookin' for some.

  "Which shows you've lost what little sense you ever had," says I. "Nowhere's two whole dollars, Rusty. Go off somewheres and smoke yourselfto death. Nobody'll miss you."

  Rusty, he just grins and moseys down the road, while I goes back to seethe show, fe
elin' about as much to home, after that run in, as a straypup in church.

  It was about an hour later, and they'd got through the program as faras the youngsters' pony cart class, to be followed by an exhibit offancy farm teams. Well, the kids was gettin' ready to drive into thering. There was a bunch of 'em, mostly young girls all togged out inpink and white, drivin' dinky Shetlands in wicker carts covered withdaisies and ribbons. In the lead was little Miss Gladys, that theTwombley-Cranes think more of than they do their whole bank account.The rigs was crowded into the main driveway, ready to turn into thetrack as soon as the way was cleared, and it sure was a sight worthseein'.

  I was standin' up on the coach, takin' it in, when all of a suddenthere comes a rumblin', thunderin' sound from out near the gates, andfolks begins askin' each other what's happened. They didn't have towait long for the answer; for before anyone can open a mouth, aroundthe curve comes a cloud of dust, and out dashes a pair of big greyswith one of them heavy blue and yellow farm waggons rattlin' behind.It was easy to guess what's up then. One of the farm teams has beenscared.

  Next thing that was clear was that there wa'n't any driver on thewaggon, and that them crazy horses was headed straight for that snarlof pony carts. There wa'n't any yellin' done. I guess 'most everybody's throat was too choked up. I know mine was. I only hears onesound above the bang and rattle of them hoofs and wheels. That was akind of a groan, and I looks down to see Mr. Twombley-Crane standin' upin the seat of a tourin' car, his face the colour of a wax candle, andsuch a look in his eyes as I ain't anxious to see on any man again.

  Next minute he'd jumped. But it wa'n't any use. He was too far away,and there was too big a crowd to get through. Even if he could havegot there soon enough, he couldn't have stopped them crazy brutes anymore'n he could have blocked a cannon ball.

  I feels sick and faint in the pit of my stomach, and the one thing Iwants to do most just then is to shut my eyes. But I couldn't. Icouldn't look anywhere but at that pair of tearin' horses and thembroad iron wheels. And that's why I has a good view of something thatjumps out of the bushes, lands in a heap in the waggon, and thenscrambles toward the front seat as quick as a cat. I see the red hairand the blue jersey, and that's enough. I knows it's that uselessRusty Quinn playin' the fool.

  Now, if he'd had a pair of arms like Jeffries, maybe there'd been somehope of his pullin' down them horses inside the couple of hundred feetthere was between their front toe calks and where little Miss Gladyswas sittin' rooted to the cushions of her pony cart. But Rusty'smuscle development is about equal to that of a fourteen-year boy, andit looks like he's goin' to do more harm than good when he grabs thereins from the whip socket. But he stands up, plants his feet wide,and settles back for the pull.

  Almost before anyone sees his game, he's done the trick. There's asmash that sounds like a buildin' fallin' down, a crackin' andsplinterin' of oak wood and iron, a rattlin' of trace chains, a coupleof soggy thumps,--and when the dust settles down we sees a grey horserollin' feet up on either side of a big maple, and at the foot of thetree all that's left of that yellow and blue waggon. Rusty had putwhat strength he had into one rein at just the right time, and the polehad struck the trunk square in the middle.

  For a minute or so there was a grand hurrah, with mothers and fathersrushin' to grab their youngsters out of the carts and hug 'em; whichyou couldn't blame 'em for doin', either. As for me, I drops off theback of the coach and makes a bee line for that wreck, so I'm among thefirst dozen to get there. I'm in time to shove my shoulder under thecapsized waggon body and hold it up.

  Well, there ain't any use goin' into details. What we took from underthere didn't look much like a human bein', for it was as limp andshapeless as a bag of old rags. But the light haired young feller thatsaid he was a medical student guessed there might be some life left.He wa'n't sure. He held his ear down, and after he'd listened for aminute he said maybe something could be done. So we laid it on one ofthe side boards and lugged it up to the house, while some one jumpsinto a sixty-horse power car and starts for a sure enough doctor.

  It was durin' the next ten minutes, when the young student was cuttin'off the blue jersey and the ridin' pants, and pokin' and feelin'around, that Mr. Twombley-Crane gets the facts of the story. He didn'thave much to say; but, knowin' what I did, and seein' how he looked, Icould easy frame up what was on his mind. He gives orders thatwhatever was wanted should be handed out, and he was standin' byholdin' the brandy flask himself when them washed out blue eyes ofRusty's flickers open for the first time.

  "I--I forgot my--mouth organ," says Rusty. "I wouldn't of comeback--but for that."

  It wa'n't much more'n a whisper, and it was a shaky one at that. Sowas Mr. Twombley-Crane's voice kind of shaky when he tells him hethanks the Lord he did come back. And then Rusty goes off in anotherfaint.

  Next a real doc. shows up, and he chases us all out while him and thestudent has a confab. In five minutes or so we gets the verdict. Thedoc. says Rusty is damaged pretty bad. Things have happened to hisribs and spine which ought to have ended him on the spot. As it is, hemay hold out another hour, though in the shape he's in he don't see howhe can. But if he could hold out that long the doc. knows of an A-1sawbones who could mend him up if anyone could.

  "Then telephone for him at once, and do your best meanwhile," says Mr.Twombley-Crane.

  By that time everyone on the place knows about Rusty and his stunt.The front rooms was full of people standin' around whisperin' soft toeach other and lookin' solemn,--swell, high toned folks, that half anhour before hardly knew such specimens as Rusty existed. But when theword is passed around that probably he's all in, they takes it just ashard as if he was one of their own kind. When it comes to takin' thelong jump, we're all pretty much on the same grade, ain't we?

  I begun to see where I hadn't any business sizin' up Rusty like I had,and was workin' up a heavy feelin' in my chest, when the doc. comes outand asks if there's such a party as Shorty McCabe present. I knew whatwas comin'. Rusty has got his eyes open again and is callin' for me.

  I finds him half propped up with pillows on a shiny mahogany table, hisface all screwed up from the hurt inside, and the freckles showin' upon his dead white skin like peach stains on a table cloth.

  "They say I'm all to the bad, Shorty," says he, tryin' to spring thatgrin of his.

  "Aw, cut it out!" says I. "You tell 'em they got another guess.You're too tough and rugged to go under so easy."

  "Think so?" says he, real eager, his eyes lightin' up.

  "Sure thing!" says I. Say, I put all the ginger and cheerfulness Icould fake up into that lie. And it seems to do him a heap of good.When I asks him if there's anything he wants, he makes another crack athis grin, and says:

  "A paper pipe would taste good about now."

  "Let him have it," says the doc. So the student digs out his cigarettecase, and we helps Rusty light up.

  "Ain't there somethin' more, Rusty?" says I. "You know the house isyours."

  "Well," says he, after a few puffs, "if this is to be a long wait, alittle music would help. There's a piano over in the corner."

  I looks at the doc. and shakes my head. He shakes back.

  "I used to play a few hymns," says the student.

  "Forget 'em, then," says Rusty. "A hymn would finish me, sure. WhatI'd like is somethin' lively."

  "Doc.," says I, "would it hurt?"

  "Couldn't," says he. Also he whispers that he'd use chloroform, onlyRusty's heart's too bad, and if he wants ragtime to deal it out.

  "Wish I could," says I; "but maybe I can find some one who can."

  With that I slips out and hunts up Mrs. Twombley-Crane, explainin' thecase to her.

  "Why, certainly," says she. "Where is Effie? I'll send her in rightaway."

  She's a real damson plum, Effie is; one of the cute, fluffy hairedkind, about nineteen. She comes in lookin' scared and sober; but whenshe's had a look at Rusty, and he's tried his grin on
her, and said howhe'd like to hear somebody tear off somethin' that would remind him ofBroadway, she braces right up.

  "I know," says she.

  And say, she did know! She has us whirl the baby grand around so's shecan glance over the top at Rusty, tosses her lace handkerchief into onecorner of the keyboard, pushes back her sleeves until the elbow dimplesshow, and the next thing we know she's teasin' the tumpety-tum out ofthe ivories like a professor.

  She opens up with a piece you hear all the kids whistlin',--somethingwith a swing and a rattle to it, I don't know what. But it bringsRusty up on his elbow and sets him to keepin' time with the cigarette.Then she slides off into "Poor John!" and Rusty calls out for her tosing it, if she can. Can she? Why, she's got one of them sterlingsilver voices, that makes Vesta Victoria's warblin' sound like blowin'a fish horn, and before she's half through the first verse Rusty hasjoined in.

  "Come on!" says he, as they strikes the chorus. "Everybody!"

  Say, the doc. was right there with the goods. He roars her out like agood one; and the student chap wa'n't far behind, either. You know howit goes--

  John, he took me round to see his moth-er, his moth-er, his moth-er! And while he introduced us to each oth-er--

  Eh? Well, maybe that ain't just the way it goes; but I can think thetune right. That was what I was up against then. I knew I couldn'tmake my voice behave; so all I does is go through the motions with mymouth and tap the time out with my foot. But I sure did ache to jumpin and help Rusty out.

  It was a great concert. She gives us all them classic things, like"The Bird on Nellie's Hat," "Waiting at the Church," "No Wedding Bellsfor Me," and so on; her fingers just dancin', and her head noddin' toRusty, and her eyes kind of encouragin' him to keep his grip.

  Twice, though, he has to quit, as the pain twists him; and the lasttime, when he flops back on the pillows, we thought he'd passed in forgood. But in a minute or so he's up again' callin' for more. Say,maybe you think Miss Effie didn't have some grit of her own, to sitthere bangin' out songs like that, expectin' every minute to see himkeel over. But she stays with it, and we was right in the middle ofthat chorus that goes--

  In old New York, in old New York, The peach crop's always fine--

  when the foldin' doors was slid back, and in comes the big surgeon gentwe'd been waitin' for. You should have seen the look on him too, as hesizes up them three singin', and Rusty there on the table, a cigarettetwisted up in his fingers, fightin' down a spasm.

  "What blasted idiocy is this?" he growled.

  "New kind of pain killer, doc.," says I. "Tell you all about it later.What you want to do now is get busy."

  Well, that's the whole of it. He knew his book, that bone repairerdid. He worked four hours steady, puttin' back into place the parts ofRusty that had got skewgeed; but when he rolls down his sleeves andquits he leaves a man that's almost as good as ever, barrin' a fewmonths to let the pieces grow together.

  I was out to see Rusty yesterday, and he's doin' fine. He's plannin',when he gets around again, to take the purse that was made up for himand invest it in airship stock.

  "And if ever I make a million dollars, Shorty," says he, "I'm goin' tohand over half of it to that gent that sewed me up."

  "Good!" says I. "And if I was you I'd chuck the other half at the songwriters."