by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER III
WHERE SPOTTY FITTED IN
Also we have a few home-grown varieties that ain't listed frequent. Andthe pavement products are apt to have most as queer kinks to 'em as thosefrom the plowed fields. Now take Spotty.
"Gee! what a merry look!" says I to Pinckney as he floats into the studiohere the other day. He's holdin' his chin high, and he's got his sticktucked up under his arm, and them black eyes of his is just sparklin'."What's it all about?" I goes on. "Is it a good one you've justremembered, or has something humorous happened to one of your bestfriends?"
"I have a new idea," says he, "that's all."
"All!" says I. "Why, that's excuse enough for declarin' a gen'ralholiday. Did you go after it, or was it delivered by mistake? Can't yougive us a scenario of it?"
"Why, I've thought of something new for Spotty Cahill," says he,beamin'.
"G'wan!" says I. "I might have known it was a false alarm. Spotty Cahill!Say, do you want to know what I'd advise you to do for Spotty next?"
No, Pinckney don't want my views on the subject. It's a topic we'vethreshed out between us before; also it's one of the few dozen that wecould debate from now until there's skatin' on the Panama Canal, withoutgettin' anywhere. I've always held that Spotty Cahill was about the mostuseless and undeservin' human being that ever managed to exist withoutwork; but to hear Pinckney talk you'd think that long-legged,carroty-haired young loafer was the original party that philanthropy wasinvented for.
Now, doing things for other folks ain't one of Pinckney's strong points,as a rule. Not that he wouldn't if he thought of it and could find thetime; but gen'rally he has too many other things on his schedule toindulge much in the little deeds of kindness game. When he does start outto do good, though, he makes a job of it. But look who he picks out!
Course, I knew why. He's explained all that to me more'n once. Seemsthere was an old waiter at the club, a quiet, soft-spoken, bald-headedrelic, who had served him with more lobster Newburg than you could loadon a scow, and enough highballs to float the _Mauretania_ in. In fact,he'd been waitin' there as long as Pinckney had been a member. They'dbeen kind of chummy, in a way, too. It had always been "Good morning,Peter," and "Hope I see you well, sir," between them, and Pinckney neverhad to bother about whether he liked a dash of bitters in this, or ifthat ought to be served frappe or plain. Peter knew, and Peter neverforgot.
Then one day when Pinckney's just squarin' off to his lunch he noticesthat he's been given plain, ordinary salt butter instead of the sweetkind he always has; so he puts up a finger to call Peter over and have aswap made. When he glances up, though, he finds Peter ain't there atall.
"Oh, I say," says he, "but where is Peter?"
"Peter, sir?" says the new man. "Very sorry, sir, but Peter's dead."
"Dead!" says Pinckney. "Why--why--how long has that been?"
"Over a month, sir," says he. "Anything wrong, sir?"
To be sure, Pinckney hadn't been there reg'lar; but he'd been in off andon, and when he comes to think how this old chap, that knew all hiswhims, and kept track of 'em so faithful, had dropped out without hisever having heard a word about it--why, he felt kind of broke up. Yousee, he'd always meant to do something nice for old Peter; but he'd nevergot round to it, and here the first thing he knows Peter's been under thesod for more'n a month.
That's what set Pinckney to inquirin' if Peter hadn't left a fam'ly oranything, which results in his diggin' up this Spotty youth. I forgotjust what his first name was, it being something outlandish that don't gowith Cahill at all; but it seems he was born over in India, where oldPeter was soldierin' at the time, and they'd picked up one of the nativenames. Maybe that's what ailed the boy from the start.
Anyway, Peter had come back from there a widower, drifted to New Yorkwith the youngster, and got into the waiter business. Meantime the boygrows up in East Side boardin'-houses, without much lookin' after, andwhen Pinckney finds him he's an int'restin' product. He's twenty-odd,about five feet eleven high, weighs under one hundred and thirty, has ashock of wavy, brick-red hair that almost hides his ears, and his chiefaccomplishments are playin' Kelly pool and consumin' cigarettes. By wayof ornament he has the most complete collection of freckles I ever see ona human face, or else it was they stood out more prominent because theskin was so white between the splotches. We didn't invent the name Spottyfor him. He'd already been tagged that.
Well, Pinckney discovers that Spotty has been livin' on the few dollarsthat was left after payin' old Peter's plantin' expenses; that he didn'tknow what he was goin' to do after that was gone, and didn't seem tocare. So Pinckney jumps in, works his pull with the steward, and hasSpotty put on reg'lar in the club billiard room as an attendant. All hehas to do is help with the cleanin', keep the tables brushed, and set upthe balls when there are games goin' on. He gets his meals free, and sixdollars a week.
Now that should have been a soft enough snap for anybody, even the borntired kind. There wa'n't work enough in it to raise a palm callous on ababy. But Spotty, he improves on that. His idea of earnin' wages is tocurl up in a sunny windowseat and commune with his soul. Wherever youfound the sun streamin' in, there was a good place to look for Spotty. Hejust seemed to soak it up, like a blotter does ink, and it didn't disturbhim any who was doin' his work.
Durin' the first six months Spotty was fired eight times, only to havePinckney get him reinstated, and it wa'n't until the steward went to theboard of governors with the row that Mr. Cahill was given his permanentrelease. You might think Pinckney would have called it quits then; butnot him! He'd started out to godfather Spotty, and he stays right withthe game. Everybody he knew was invited to help along the good work ofgivin' Spotty a lift. He got him into brokers' offices, tried him out asbellhop in four diff'rent hotels, and even jammed him by main strengthinto a bank; but Spotty's sun absorbin' habits couldn't seem to be madeuseful anywhere.
For one while he got chummy with Swifty Joe and took to sunnin' himselfin the studio front windows, until I had to veto that.
"I don't mind your friends droppin' in now and then, Swifty," says I;"but there ain't any room here for statuary. I don't care how gentle youbreak it to him, only run him out."
So that's why I don't enthuse much when Pinckney says he's thought upsome new scheme for Spotty. "Goin' to have him probed for hookworms?"says I.
No, that ain't it. Pinckney, he's had a talk with Spotty and discoveredthat old Peter had a brother Aloysius, who's settled somewhere up inCanada and is superintendent of a big wheat farm. Pinckney's had hislawyers trace out this Uncle Aloysius, and then he's written him allabout Spotty, suggestin' that he send for him by return mail.
"Fine!" says I. "He'd be a lot of use on a wheat farm. What does Aloysiushave to say to the proposition?"
"Well, the fact is," says Pinckney, "he doesn't appear at allenthusiastic. He writes that if the boy is anything like Peter when heknew him he's not anxious to see him. However, he says that if Spottycomes on he will do what he can for him."
"It'll be a long walk," says I.
"There's where my idea comes in," says Pinckney. "I am going to financethe trip."
"If it don't cost too much," says I, "it'll be a good investment."
Pinckney wants to do the thing right away, too. First off, though, he hasto locate Spotty. The youth has been at large for a week or more now,since he was last handed the fresh air, and Pinckney ain't heard a wordfrom him.
"Maybe Swifty knows where he roosts," says I.
It was a good guess. Swifty gives us a number on Fourth-ave. where he'dseen Spotty hangin' around lately, and he thinks likely he's there yet.
So me and Pinckney starts out on the trail. It leads us to one of themTurkish auction joints where they sell genuine silk oriental prayer rugs,made in Paterson, N. J., with hammered brass bowls and antique guns as aside line. And, sure enough, camped down in front on a sample rug, withhis hat off and the sun full on him, is our friend Spotty.
"Well, well!" says Pinckney. "Reg
ularly employed here, are you, Spotty?"
"Me? Nah!" says Spotty, lookin' disgusted at the thought. "I'm onlystayin' around."
"Ain't you afraid the sun will fade them curly locks of yours?" says I.
"Ah, quit your kiddin'!" says Spotty, startin' to roll a freshcigarette.
"Don't mind Shorty," says Pinckney. "I have some good news for you."
That don't excite Spotty a bit. "Not another job!" he groans.
"No, no," says Pinckney, and then he explains about finding UncleAloysius, windin' up by askin' Spotty how he'd like to go up there andlive.
"I don't know," says Spotty. "Good ways off, ain't it!"
"It is, rather," admits Pinckney; "but that need not trouble you. What doyou think I am going to do for you, Spotty?"
"Give it up," says he, calmly lightin' a match and proceedin' with thesmoke.
"Well," says Pinckney, "because of the long and faithful service of yourfather, and the many little personal attentions he paid me, I am going togive you---- Wait! Here it is now," and hanged if Pinckney don't forkover ten new twenty-dollar bills. "There!" says he. "That ought to beenough to fit you out well and take you there in good shape. Here's theaddress too."
Does Spotty jump up and crack his heels together and sputter out howthankful he is? Nothin' so strenuous. He fumbles the bills over curiousfor a minute, then wads 'em up and jams 'em into his pocket. "Muchobliged," says he.
"Come around to Shorty's with your new clothes on to-morrow afternoonabout four o'clock," says Pinckney, "and let us see how you look.And--er--by the way, Spotty, is that a friend of yours?"
I'd been noticin' her too, standin' just inside the doorway pipin' usoff. She's a slim, big-eyed, black-haired young woman, dressed in theheight of Grand-st. fashion, and wearin' a lot of odd, cheap lookin'jewelry. If it hadn't been for the straight nose and the thin lips youmight have guessed that her first name was Rebecca.
"Oh, her?" says Spotty, turnin' languid to see who he meant. "That'sMareena. Her father runs the shop."
"Armenian?" says I.
"No, Syrian," says he.
"Quite some of a looker, eh?" says I, tryin' to sound him.
"Not so bad," says Spotty, hunchin' his shoulders.
"But--er--do I understand," says Pinckney, "that there is--ah--someattachment between you and--er--the young lady?"
"Blamed if I know," says Spotty. "Better ask her."
Course, we couldn't very well do that, and as Spotty don't seem bubblin'over with information he has to chop it off there. Pinckney, though, ismore or less int'rested in the situation. He wonders if he's done justright, handin' over all that money to Spotty in a place like that.
"It wa'n't what you'd call a shrewd move," says I. "Seems to me I'dbought his ticket, anyway."
"Yes; but I wanted to get it off my mind, you know," says he. "Odd,though, his being there. I wonder what sort of persons those Syriansare!"
"You never can tell," says I.
The more Pinckney thinks of it, the more uneasy he gets, and when fouro'clock comes next day, with no Spotty showin' up, he begins to havefurrows in his brow. "If he's been done away with, it's my fault," saysPinckney.
"Ah, don't start worryin' yet," says I. "Give him time."
By five o'clock, though, Pinckney has imagined all sorts ofthings,--Spotty bein' found carved up and sewed in a sack, and him calledinto court to testify as to where he saw him last. "And all because Igave him that money!" he groans.
"Say, can it!" says I. "Them sensation pictures of yours are makin' menervous. Here, I'll go down and see if they've finished wipin' off thedaggers, while you send Swifty out after something soothin'."
With that off I hikes as a rescue expedition. I finds the red flag stillout, the sample rug still in place; but there's no Spotty in evidence.Neither is there any sign of the girl. So I walks into the store, gazin'around sharp for any stains on the floor.
Out from behind a curtain at the far end of the shop comes a fat, wickedlookin' old pirate, with a dark greasy face and shiny little eyes like apair of needles. He's wearin' a dinky gold-braided cap, baggy trousers,and he carries a long pipe in one hand. If he didn't look like he'd doextemporaneous surgery for the sake of a dollar bill, then I'm no judge.I've got in too far to look up a cop, so I takes a chance on a strongbluff.
"Say, you!" I sings out. "What's happened to Spotty?"
"Spot-tee?" says he. "Spot-tee?" He shrugs his shoulders and pretends tolook dazed.
"Yes, Spotty," says I, "red-headed, freckle-faced young gent. You knowhim."
"Ah!" says he, tappin' his head. "The golden crowned! El SareefKa-heel?"
"That's the name, Cahill," says I. "He's a friend of a friend of mine,and you might as well get it through your nut right now that ifanything's happened to him----"
"You are a friend of Sareef Ka-heel?" he breaks in, eyin' me suspicious.
"Once removed," says I; "but it amounts to the same thing. Now where ishe?"
"For a friend--well, I know not," says the old boy, kind of hesitatin'.Then, with another shrug, he makes up his mind. "So it shall be. Come.You shall see the Sareef."
At that he beckons me to follow and starts towards the back. I wentthrough one dark room, expectin' to feel a knife in my ribs every minute,and then we goes through another. Next thing I knew we're out in a littleback yard, half full of empty cases and crates. In the middle of a clearspace is a big brown tent, with the flap pinned back.
"Here," says the old gent, "your friend, the Sareef Ka-heel!"
Say, for a minute I thought it was a trap he's springin' on me; but afterI'd looked long enough I see who he's pointin' at. The party inside issquattin' cross-legged on a rug, holdin' the business end of one of thesewater bottle pipes in his mouth. He's wearin' some kind of a long bathrobe, and most of his red hair is concealed by yards of white clothtwisted round his head; but it's Spotty all right, alive, uncarved, andlookin' happy and contented.
"Well, for the love of soup!" says I. "What is it, a masquerade?"
"That you, McCabe?" says he. "Come in and--and sit on the floor."
"Say," says I, steppin' inside, "this ain't the costume you're going tostart for Canada in, is it?"
"Ah, forget Canada!" says he. "I've got that proposition beat a mile.Hey, Hazzam," and he calls to the old pirate outside, "tell Mrs. Cahillto come down and be introduced!"
"What's that?" says I. "You--you ain't been gettin' married, have you?"
"Yep," says Spotty, grinnin' foolish. "Nine o'clock last night. We'regoin' to start on our weddin' trip Tuesday, me and Mareena."
"Mareena!" I gasps. "Not the--the one we saw out front? Where you going,Niagara?"
"Nah! Syria, wherever that is," says he. "Mareena knows. We're goin' tolive over there and buy rugs. That two hundred was just what we needed toset us up in business."
"Think you'll like it?" says I.
"Sure!" says he. "She says it's fine. There's deserts over there, and youtravel for days and days, ridin' on bloomin' camels. Here's the tentwe're goin' to live in. I'm practisin' up. Gee! but this pipe issomethin' fierce, though! Oh, here she is! Say, Mareena, this is Mr.McCabe, that I was tellin' you about."
Well, honest, I wouldn't have known her for the same girl. She's changedthat Grand-st. uniform for a native outfit, and while it's a little gaudyin color, hanged if it ain't becomin'! For a desert bride I should sayshe had some class.
"Well," says I, "so you and Spotty are goin' to leave us, eh?"
"Ah, yes!" says she, them big black eyes of hers lightin' up. "We gowhere the sky is high and blue and the sun is big and hot. We go back tothe wide white desert where I was born. All day we shall ride toward thepurple hills, and sleep at night under the still stars. He knows. I havetold him."
"That's right," says Spotty. "It'll be all to the good, that. Mareena cancook too."
To prove it, she makes coffee and hands it around in little brass cups.Also there's cakes, and the old man comes in, smilin' and rubbin' hishands, and we has a r
eal sociable time.
And these was the folks I'd suspected of wantin' to carve up Spotty! Why,by the looks I saw thrown at him by them two, I knew they thought him thefinest thing that ever happened. Just by the way Mareena reached out slyto pat his hair when she passed, you could see how it was.
So I wished 'em luck and hurried back to report before Pinckney sent asquad of reserves after me.
"Well!" says he, the minute I gets in. "Let me know the worst at once."
"I will," says I. "He's married." It was all I could do, too, to make himbelieve the yarn.
"By Jove!" says he. "Think of a chap like Spotty Cahill tumbling into aromance like that! And on Fourth-ave!"
"It ain't so well advertised as some other lanes in this town," says I;"but it's a great street. Say, what puzzled me most about the wholebusiness, though, was the new name they had for Spotty. Sareef! What inblazes does that mean?"
"Probably a title of some sort," says Pinckney. "Like sheik, I suppose."
"But what does a Sareef have to do?" says I.
"Do!" says Pinckney. "Why, he's boss of the caravan. He--he sits aroundin the sun and looks picturesque."
"Then that settles it," says I. "Spotty's qualified. I never thoughtthere was any place where he'd fit in; but, if your description'scorrect, he's found the job he was born for."
