by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER IV
A GRANDMOTHER WHO GOT GOING
Ever go on a grandmother hunt through the Red Ink District? Well, itain't a reg'lar amusement of mine, but it has its good points. Maybe Iwouldn't have tackled it at all if I hadn't begun by lettin' myself getint'rested in Vincent's domestic affairs.
Now what I knew about this Vincent chap before we starts out on thegrandmother trail wouldn't take long to tell. He wa'n't any specialfriend of mine. For one thing, he wears his hair cut plush. Course, it'shis hair, and if he wants to train it to stand up on top like a clothesbrush or a blacking dauber, who am I that should curl the lip of scorn?
Just the same, I never could feel real chummy towards anyone that sportedone of them self raisin' crests. Vincent wa'n't one of the chummy kind,though. He's one of these stiff backed, black haired, brown eyed, quickmotioned, sharp spoken ducks, that wants what he wants when he wants it.You know. He comes to the studio reg'lar, does his forty-five minutes'work, and gets out without swappin' any more conversation than isstrictly necessary.
All the information I had picked up about him was that he hailed from upthe State somewhere, and that soon after he struck New York he marriedone of the Chetwood girls. And that takes more or less capital to startwith. Guess Vincent had it; for I hear his old man left him quite a wadand that now he's the main guy of a threshin' machine trust, or somethinglike that. Anyway, Vincent belongs in the four-cylinder plute class, andhe's beginnin' to be heard of among the alimony aristocracy.
But this ain't got anything to do with the way he happened to getconfidential all so sudden. He'd been havin' a kid pillow mix-up withSwifty Joe, just as lively as if the thermometer was down to thirtyinstead of up to ninety, and he's just had his rub down and got into hisfeatherweight serge, when in drifts this Rodney Kipp that's figurin' sostrong on the defense side of them pipe line cases.
"Ah, Vincent!" says he.
"Hello, Rodney!" says Vincent as they passes each other in the frontoffice, one goin' out and the other comin' in.
I'd never happened to see 'em meet before, and I'm some surprised thatthey're so well acquainted. Don't know why, either, unless it is thatthey're so different. Rodney, you know, is one of these light complectedheavyweights, and a swell because he was born so. I was wonderin' ifRodney was one of Vincent's lawyers, or if they just belonged to the sameclubs; when Mr. Kipp swings on his heel and says:
"Oh, by the way, Vincent, how is grammy?"
"Why!" says Vincent, "isn't she out with you and Nellie?"
"No," says Rodney, "she stayed with us only for a couple of days. Nelliesaid she hadn't heard from her for nearly two months, and told me to askyou about her. So long. I'm due for some medicine ball work," and withthat he drifts into the gym. and shuts the door.
Vincent, he stands lookin' after him with a kind of worried look on hisface that was comical to see on such a cocksure chap as him.
"Lost somebody, have you?" says I.
"Why--er--I don't know," says Vincent, runnin' his fingers through thebristles that waves above his noble brow. "It's grandmother. I can'timagine where she can be."
"You must have grandmothers to burn," says I, "if they're so plenty withyou that you can mislay one now and then without missin' her."
"Eh?" says he. "No, no! She is really my mother, you know. I've got intothe way of calling her grammy only during the last three or four years."
"Oh, I see!" says I. "The grandmother habit is something she's contractedcomparative recent, eh? Ain't gone to her head, has it?"
Vincent couldn't say; but by the time he's quit tryin' to explain whathas happened I've got the whole story. First off he points out thatRodney Kipp, havin' married his sister Nellie, is his brother-in-law,and, as they both have a couple of youngsters, it makes Vincent's mothera grammy in both families.
"Sure," says I. "I know how that works out. She stays part of the timewith you, and makes herself mighty popular with your kids; then she takesher trunk over to Rodney's and goes through the same performance there.And when she goes visitin' other places there's a great howl all round.That's it, ain't it?"
It wa'n't, not within a mile, and I'd showed up my low, common breedin'by suggesting such a thing. As gently as he could without hurtin' myfeelin's too much, Vincent explains that while my programme might bestrictly camel's foot for ordinary people, the domestic arrangements ofthe upper classes was run on different lines. For instance, his littleAlgernon Chetwood could speak nothing but French, that bein' the brand ofgoverness he'd always had, and so he naturally couldn't be very thickwith a grandmother that didn't understand a word of his lingo.
"Besides," says Vincent, "mother and my wife, I regret to say, have neverfound each other very congenial."
I might have guessed it if I'd stopped to think of how an old lady fromthe country would hitch with one of them high flyin' Chetwood girls.
"Then she hangs out with your sister, eh, and does her grandmother actthere?" says I.
"Well, hardly," says Vincent, colorin' up a little. "You see, Rodney hasnever been very intimate with the rest of our family. He's a Kipp,and---- Well, you can't blame him; for mother is rather old-fashioned. Ofcourse, she's good and kind-hearted and all that; but--but there isn'tmuch style about her."
"Still sticks to the polonaise of '81, and wears a straw lid she boughtdurin' the Centennial, eh?" says I.
Vincent says that about tells the story.
"And where is it she's been livin' all this time that you've been gettin'on so well in New York?" says I.
"In our old home, Tonawanda," says he, shudderin' some as he lets go ofthe name. "It's where she should have stayed, too!"
"So-o-o-o?" says I. I'd been listenin' just out of politeness up to thatpoint; but from then on I got int'rested, and I don't let up until I'vepumped out of him all the details about just how much of a nuisance anold, back number mother could be to a couple of ambitious young folksthat had grown up and married into the swell mob.
It was a case that ought to be held up as a warnin' to lots ofsuperfluous old mothers that ain't got any better taste than to keep onlivin' long after there's any use for 'em. Mother Vincent hadn't mademuch trouble at first, for she'd had an old maid sister to take care of;but when a bad case of the grip got Aunt Sophrony durin' the previouswinter, mother was left sort of floatin' around.
She tried visitin' back and forth between Vincent and Nellie just oneconsecutive trip, and the experiment was such a frost that it causedructions in both families. In her Tonawanda regalia mother wa'n't anexhibit that any English butler could be expected to pass the soup to andstill keep a straight face.
So Vincent thinks it's time to anchor her permanent somewhere. Accordin'to his notion, he did the handsome thing too. He buys her a nice littlefarm about a mile outside of Tonawanda, a place with a fine view of therailroad tracks on the west and a row of brick yards to the east, and helands mother there with a toothless old German housekeeper for company.He tells her he's settled a good comfortable income on her for life, andleaves her to enjoy herself.
But look at the ingratitude a parent can work up! She ain't been theremore'n a couple of months before she begins complainin' about bein'lonesome. She don't see much of the Tonawanda folks now, the housekeeperain't very sociable, the smoke from the brick yards yellows her Mondaywash, and the people she sees goin' by in the cars is all strangers.Couldn't Vincent swap the farm for one near New York? She liked the looksof the place when she was there, and wouldn't mind being closer.
"Of course," says he, "that was out of the question!"
"Oh, sure!" says I. "How absurd! But what's the contents of this latebulletin about her being a stray?"
It was nothing more or less than that the old girl had sold up the farm acouple of months back, fired the housekeeper, and quietly skipped for NewYork. Vincent had looked for her to show up at his house, and when shedidn't he figured she must have gone to Nellie's. It was only when RodneyKipp fires the grammy question at him that he sees he's made a wr
ongcalculation and begins havin' cold feet.
"If she's here, alone in New York, there's no knowing what may behappening to her," says he. "Why, she knows nothing about the city,nothing at all! She might get run over, or fall in with disreputablepeople, or----" The other pictures was so horrible he passes 'em up.
"Mothers must be a great care," says I. "I ain't had one for so long Ican't say on my own hook; but I judge that you and sister has had a hardtime of it with yours. Excuse me, though, if I don't shed any tears ofsympathy, Vincent."
He looks at me kind of sharp at that; but he's too busy with disturbin'thoughts to ask what I mean. Maybe he'd found out if he had. It's just aswell he didn't; for I was some curious to see what would be his nextmove. From his talk it's plain Vincent is most worried about the chancesof the old lady's doin' something that would get her name into thepapers, and he says right off that he won't rest easy until he's foundher and shooed her back to the fields.
"But where am I to look first?" says he. "How am I to begin?"
"It's a big town to haul a dragnet through, that's a fact," says I. "Whydon't you call in Brother-in-Law Rodney, for a starter?"
"No, no," says Vincent, glancin' uneasy at the gym. door. "I don't careto have him know anything about it."
"Maybe sister might have some information," says I. "There's the'phone."
"Thanks," says he. "If you don't mind, I will call her up at the Kippcountry place."
He does; but Nellie ain't heard a word from mother; thought she must bewith Vincent all this time; and has been too busy givin' house parties tofind out.
"Have her cross examine the maids," says I. "The old lady may have leftsome orders about forwardin' her mail."
That was the clew. Inside of ten minutes Nellie 'phones back and gives anumber on West 21st-st.
"Gee!" says I. "A hamfatters' boardin'-house, I'll bet a bag of beans!Grandmother has sure picked out a lively lodgin'-place."
"Horrible!" says Vincent. "I must get her away from there at once. But Iwish there was someone who----Shorty, could I get you to go along with meand----"
"Rescuin' grandmothers ain't my long suit," says I; "but I'll admit I'msome int'rested in this case. Come on."
By the time our clockwork cab fetches up in front of the prunery it'safter six o'clock. There's no mistakin' the sort of histrionic asylum itwas, either. A hungry lookin' bunch of actorets was lined up on the frontsteps, everyone of 'em with an ear stretched out for the dinner bell. Inthe window of the first floor front was a beauty doctor's sign, a bullfiddle-artist was sawin' out his soul distress in the hall bedroom above,and up under the cornice the Chicini sisters was leanin' on the ledge andwishin' the folks back in Saginaw would send on that grubstake letterbefore the landlady got any worse. But maybe you've seen samples of realdogday tragedy among the profesh, when the summer snaps have busted andthe fall rehearsals have just begun. What, Mabel?
"It's a sure enough double-in-brass roost," says I. "Don't say anythingthat sounds like contract, or you'll be mobbed."
But they sizes Vincent up for a real estate broker, and gives him thechilly stare, until he mentions the old lady's name. Then they thaws outsudden.
"Oh, the Duchess!" squeals a couple in chorus. "Why, she always dinesout, you know. You'll find her around at Doughretti's, on 27th-st."
"Duchess!" says Vincent. "I--I'm afraid there's some mistake."
"Not at all," says one of the crowd. "We all call her that. She's gotLittle Spring Water with her to-night. Doughretti's, just in from theavenue, is the place."
And Vincent is the worst puzzled gent you ever saw as he climbs back intothe cab.
"It can't be mother they mean," says he. "No one would ever think ofcalling her Duchess."
"There's no accountin' for what them actorines would do," says I."Anyway, all you got to do is take a peek at the party, and if it's awrong steer we can go back and take a fresh start."
You know Doughretti's, if you don't you know a dozen just like it. It'sone of these sixty-cent table dotty joints, with an electric name sign, astriped stoop awnin', and a seven-course menu manifolded in pale purpleink. You begin the agony with an imitation soup that looks like Rockawaybeach water when the tide's comin' in, and you end with a choice ofpetrified cheese rinds that might pass for souvenirs from the Palisades.
If you don't want to taste what you eat, you let 'em hand you a freebottle of pure California claret, vatted on East Houston-st. It's amixture of filtered Croton, extra quality aniline dyes, and two kinds ofwood alcohol, and after you've had a pint of it you don't care whetherthe milk fed Philadelphia chicken was put in cold storage last winter, orback in the year of the big wind.
Madam Doughretti had just fed the Punk Lady waltz into the pianola forthe fourth time as we pulls up at the curb.
"It's no use," says Vincent. "She wouldn't be here. I will wait, though,while you take a look around; if you will, Shorty."
On the way over he's given me a description of his missin' parent; so Ipikes up the steps, pushes past the garlic smells, and proceeds toinspect the groups around the little tables. What I'm lookin' for is asquatty old party with gray hair pasted down over her ears, and a waistlike a bag of hay tied in the middle. She's supposed to be wearin' astring bonnet about the size of a saucer, with a bunch of faded velvetviolets on top, a coral brooch at her neck, and either a black alpaca ora lavender sprigged grenadine. Most likely, too, she'll be doin' theshovel act with her knife.
Well, there was a good many kinds of females scattered around the coffeestained tablecloths, but none that answers to these specifications. I wasjust gettin' ready to call off the search, when I gets my eye on a coupleover in one corner. The gent was one of these studio Indians, with hishair tucked inside his collar.
The old girl facin' him didn't have any Tonawanda look about her, though.She was what you might call a frosted pippin, a reg'lar dowager dazzler,like the pictures you see on fans. Her gray hair has been spliced outwith store puffs until it looks like a weddin' cake; her hat is one ofthe new wash basin models, covered with pink roses that just matches thecolor of her cheeks; and her peek-a-poo lace dress fits her like it hadbeen put onto her with a shoe horn.
Sure, I wa'n't lookin' for any such party as this; but I can't helptakin' a second squint. I notices what fine, gentle old eyes she has, andwhile I was doin' that I spots something else. Just under her chin is oneof them antique coral pins. Course, it looked like a long shot, but Isteps out to the door and motions Vincent to come in.
"I expect we're way off the track," says I; "but I'd like to have youtake a careless glance at the giddy old party over under the kummel signin the corner; the one facin' this way--there."
Vincent gives a jump at the first look. Then he starts for her full tilt,me trailin' along and whisperin' to him not to make any fool break unlesshe's dead sure. But there's no holdin' him back. She's so busy chattin'with the reformed Sioux in store clothes that she don't notice Vincentuntil he's right alongside, and just as she looks up he lets loose hisindignation.
"Why, grandmother!" says he.
She don't seem so much jarred as you might think. She don't even drop thefork that she's usin' to twist up a gob of spaghetti on. All she does isto lift her eyebrows in a kind of annoyed way, and shoot a quick look atthe copper tinted gent across the table.
"There, there, Vincent?" says she. "Please don't grandmother me; atleast, not in public."
"But," says he, "you know that you are a----"
"I admit nothing of the kind," says she. "I may be your mother; but asfor being anybody's grandmother, that is an experience I know nothingabout. Now please run along, Vincent, and don't bother."
That leaves Vincent up in the air for keeps. He don't know what to makeof this reception, or of the change that happened to her; but he feels heought to register some sort of a kick.
"But, mother," says he, "what does this mean? Such clothes! Andsuch--such"--here he throws a meanin' look at the Indian gent.
"Allow me," says g
randmother, breakin' in real dignified, "to introduceMr. John Little Bear, son of Chief Won-go-plunki. I am very sorry tointerrupt our talk on art, John; but I suppose I must say a few words toVincent. Would you mind taking your coffee on the back veranda?"
He was a well-trained red man, John was, and he understands the back outsign; so inside of a minute the crockery has been pushed away and I'mattendin' a family reunion that appears to be cast on new lines. Vincentbegins again by askin' what it all means.
"It means, Vincent," says she, "that I have caught up with theprocession. I tried being the old-fashioned kind of grandmother, and Iwasn't a success. Now I'm learning the new way, and I like it firstrate."
"But your--your clothes!" gasps Vincent.
"Well, what of them?" says she. "You made fun of the ones I used to wear;but these, I would have you know, were selected for me by a committee ofsix chorus ladies who know what is what. I am quite satisfied with myclothes, Vincent."
"Possibly they're all right," says he; "but how--how long have you beenwearing your hair that way?"
"Ever since Madam Montrosini started on my improvement course," says she."I am told it is quite becoming. And have you noticed my new waist line,Vincent?"
Vincent hadn't; but he did then, and he had nothin' to say, for she hasan hourglass lookin' like a hitchin' post. Not bein' able to carry on thedebate under them headings, he switches and comes out strong on what anawful thing it was for her to be livin' among such dreadful people.
"Why," says grandmother, "they're real nice, I'm sure. They have beenjust as good to me as they could be. They take turns going out to dinnerwith me and showing me around the town."
"Good heavens!" says Vincent. "And this--this Bear person, does he----"
"He is an educated, full blooded Sioux," says grandmother. "He has touredEurope with Buffalo Bill, and just now he is an artists' model. He isvery entertaining company, Johnny is."
"Johnny!" gasps Vincent under his breath. That's the last straw. He laysdown the law then and there to grandmother. If she ever expects him torecognize her again, she must shake this whole crowd and come with him.
"Where to, Vincent?" says she.
"Why, to my home, of course," says he.
"And have your wife's maid speak of me as a dumpy old scarecrow? No,thank you!" and she calls the waiter to bring a demitasse with cognac.
"But no one could call you that now, mother," says Vincent. "You--you'redifferent, quite different."
"Oh, am I?" says she.
"To be sure you are," says he. "Julia and I would be glad to have youwith us. Really, we would."
She was a good natured old girl, grandmother was. She says she'll try it;but only on one condition. It was a corker, too. If she's going to giveall her good friends at the actors' boardin' house the shake, she thinksit ought to be done at a farewell dinner at the swellest place in town.Vincent groans; but he has to give in. And that's how it happens theother night that about two dozen liberty people walked up from AppetiteRow and fed themselves off Sherry's gold plates until the waiters wasweak in the knees watchin' 'em.
"Is the old lady still leadin' the band wagon, Vincent!" says I to himyesterday.
"She is," says he, "and it is wonderful how young she has grown."
"New York is a great place for rejuvenatin' grandmothers," says I,"specially around in the Red Ink Zone."
