Side-stepping with Shorty

by Sewell Ford

  X

  SHORTY AND THE STRAY

  Say, I don't know whether I'll ever get to be a reg'lar week-ender ornot, but I've been makin' another stab at it. What's the use ownin'property in the country house belt if you don't use it now and then?So last Saturday, after I shuts up the Studio, I scoots out to my placein Primrose Park.

  Well, I puts in the afternoon with Dennis Whaley, who's head gardenerand farm superintendent, and everything else a three-acre plot willstand for. Then, about supper time, as I'm just settlin' myself on thefront porch with my heels on the stoop rail, wonderin' how folks canmanage to live all the time where nothin' ever happens, I hears achug-chuggin', and up the drive rolls a cute little one-seater bubble,with nobody aboard but a Boston terrier and a boy.

  "Chee!" thinks I, "they'll be givin' them gasolene carts to babiesnext. Wonder what fetches the kid in here?"

  Maybe he was a big ten or a small twelve; anyway, he wa'n't more. He'sone of these fine haired, light complected youngsters, that a few yearsago would have had yellow Fauntleroy curls, and been rigged out in alace collar and a black velvet suit, and had a nurse to lead him aroundby the hand. But the new crop of young Astergould Thickwads is bein'trained on different lines. This kid was a good sample. His towcoloured hair is just long enough to tousle nice, and he's bare headedat that. Then he's got on corduroy knickers, a khaki jacket, blackleather leggin's, and gauntlet gloves, and he looks almost as healthyas if he was poor.

  "Hello, youngster!" says I. "Did you lose the shuffer overboard?"

  "Beg pardon," says he; "but I drive my own machine."

  "Oh!" says I. "I might have known by the costume."

  By this time he's standin' up with his hand to his ear, squintin' outthrough the trees to the main road, like he was listenin' forsomethin'. In a second he hears one of them big six-cylinder cars gohummin' past, and it seems to be what he was waitin' for.

  "Goin' to stop, are you?" says I.

  "Thank you," says he, "I will stay a little while, if you don't mind,"and he proceeds to shut off the gasolene and climb out. The dogfollows him.

  "Givin' some one the slip?" says I.

  "Oh, no," says he real prompt. "I--I've been in a race, that's all."

  "Ye-e-es?" says I. "Had a start, didn't you?"

  "A little," says he.

  With that he sits down on the steps, snuggles the terrier up alongsideof him, and begins to look me and the place over careful, withoutsayin' any more. Course, that ain't the way boys usually act, unlessthey've got stage fright, and this one didn't seem at all shy. As nearas I could guess, he was thinkin' hard, so I let him take his time. Ifigures out from his looks, and his showin' up in a runabout, that he'scome from some of them big country places near by, and that when hegets ready he'll let out what he's after. Sure enough, pretty soon heopens up.

  "Wouldn't you like to buy the machine, sir?" says he.

  "Selling out, are you?" says I. "Well, what's your askin' price for arig of that kind?"

  He sizes me up for a minute, and then sends out a feeler. "Would fivedollars be too much?"

  "No," says I, "I shouldn't call that a squeeze, providin' you threw inthe dog."

  He looks real worried then, and hugs the terrier up closer than ever."I couldn't sell Togo," says he. "You--you wouldn't want him too,would you?"

  When I sees that it wouldn't take much more to get them big blue eyesof his to leakin', I puts him easy on the dog question. "But what'syour idea of sellin' the bubble?" says I.

  "Why," says he, "I won't need it any longer. I'm going to be amotorman on a trolley car."

  "That's a real swell job," says I. "But how will the folks at hometake it?"

  "The folks at home?" says he, lookin' me straight in the eye. "Why,there aren't any. I haven't any home, you know."

  Honest, the way he passed out that whopper was worth watchin'. It wasdone as cool and scientific as a real estate man takin' oath therewa'n't a mosquito in the whole county.

  "Then you're just travelin' around loose, eh?" says I. "Where'd youstrike from to-day?"

  "Chicago," says he.

  "Do tell!" says I. "That's quite a day's run. You must have leftbefore breakfast."

  "I had breakfast early," says he.

  "Dinner in Buffalo?" says I.

  "I didn't stop for dinner," says he.

  "In that case--er--what's the name?" says I.

  "Mister Smith," says he.

  "Easy name to remember," says I.

  "Ye-e-es. I'd rather you called me Gerald, though," says he.

  "Good," says I. "Well, Gerald, seein' as you've made a long jump sincebreakfast, what do you say to grubbin' up a little with me, eh?"

  That strikes him favourable, and as Mother Whaley is just bringin' inthe platter, we goes inside and sits down, Togo and all. He suredidn't fall to like a half starved kid; but maybe that was because hewas so busy lookin' at Mrs. Whaley. She ain't much on the French maidtype, that's a fact. Her uniform is a checked apron over a faded redwrapper, and she has a way of puggin' her hair up in a little knob thatmakes her face look like one of the kind they cut out of a cocoanut.

  Gerald eyes her for a while; then he leans over to me and whispers, "Isthis the butler's night off?"

  "Yes," says I. "He has seven a week. This is one of 'em."

  After he's thought that over he grins. "I see," says he. "You meansyou haven't a butler? Why, I thought everyone did."

  "There's a few of us struggles along without," says I. "We don't bragabout it, though. But where do you keep your butler now, Mr. Gerald?"

  That catches him with his guard down, and he begins to look mightypuzzled.

  "Oh, come," says I, "you might's well own up. You've brought therunaway act right down to the minute, son; but barrin' the details,it's the same old game. I done the same when I was your age, onlyinstead of runnin' off in a thousand-dollar bubble, I sneaked into anempty freight car."

  "Did you?" says he, his eyes openin' wide. "Was it nice, riding in thefreight car?"

  "Never had so much fun out of a car ride since," says I. "But I was onthe war path then. My outfit was a blank cartridge pistol, a scalpin'knife hooked from the kitchen, and a couple of nickel lib'ries thattold all about Injun killin'. Don't lay out to slaughter any redskins,do you?"

  He looks kind of weary, and shakes his head.

  "Well, runnin' a trolley car has its good points, I s'pose," says I;"but I wouldn't tackle it for a year or so if I was you. You'd bettergive me your 'phone number, and I'll ring up the folks, so they won'tbe worryin' about you."

  But say, this Gerald boy, alias Mr. Smith, don't fall for any smoothtalk like that. He just sets his jaws hard and remarks, quiet like, "Iguess I'd better be going."

  "Where to?" says I.

  "New Haven ought to be a good place to sell the machine," says he. "Ican get a job there too."

  At that I goes to pumpin' him some more, and he starts in to hand outthe weirdest line of yarns I ever listened to. Maybe he wa'n't a veryskilful liar, but he was a willin' one. Quick as I'd tangle him up onone story, he'd lie himself out and into another. He accounts for hisnot havin' any home in half a dozen different ways, sometimes killin'off his relations one by one, and then bunchin' 'em in a railroad wreckor an earthquake. But he sticks to Chicago as the place where he livedlast, although the nearest he can get to the street number is by sayin'it was somewhere near Central Park.

  "That happens to be in New York," says I.

  "There are two in Chicago," says he.

  "All right, Gerald," says I. "I give up. We'll let it go that you'replayin' a lone hand; but before you start out again you'd better get agood night's rest here. What do you say?"

  He didn't need much urgin'; so we runs the bubble around into thestable, and I tucks him and Togo away together in the spare bed.

  "Who's the little lad?" says Dennis to me.

  "For one thing," says I, "he's an honourary member of the Ananias Club.If
I can dig up any more information between now and mornin', Dennis,I'll let you know."

  First I calls up two or three village police stations along the line;but they hadn't had word of any stray kid.

  "That's funny," thinks I. "If he'd lived down in Hester-st., there'dbe four thousand cops huntin' him up by this time."

  But it wa'n't my cue to do the frettin'; so I lets things rest as theyare, only takin' a look at the kid before I turns in, to see that hewas safe. And say, that one look gets me all broke up; for when Itiptoes in with the candle I finds that pink and white face of his allstreaked up with cryin', and he has one arm around Togo, like hethought that terrier was all the friend he had left.

  Gee! but that makes me feel mean! Why, if I'd known he was goin' toblubber himself to sleep that way, I'd hung around and cheered him up.He'd been so brash about this runaway business, though, that I neversuspicioned he'd go to pieces the minute he was left alone. And theylook different when they're asleep, don't they? I guess I must haveput in the next two hours' wonderin' how it was that a nice, brightyoungster like that should come to quit home. If he'd come from sometenement house, where it was a case of pop bein' on the island, and mawrushin' the can and usin' the poker on him, you wouldn't think anythingof it. But here he has his bubble, and his high priced terrier, andthings like that, and yet he does the skip. Well, there wa'n't anyanswer.

  Not hearin' him stirrin' when I gets up in the mornin', I makes up mymind to let him snooze as long as he likes. So I has breakfast andgoes out front with the mornin' papers. It got to be after nineo'clock, and I was just thinkin' of goin' up to see how he was gettin'on, when I sees a big green tourin' car come dashin' down into the parkand turn into my front drive. There was a crowd in it; but, before Ican get up, out flips a stunnin' lookin' bunch of dry goods, all veilsand silk dust coat, and wants to know if I'm Shorty McCabe: which Isays I am.

  "Then you have my boy here, have you?" she shoots out. And, say, bythe suspicious way she looks at me, you'd thought I'd been breakin'into some nursery. I'll admit she was a beaut, all right; but the hardlook I gets from them big black eyes didn't win me for a cent.

  "Maybe if I knew who you was, ma'am," says I, "we'd get along faster."

  That don't soothe her a bit. She gives me one glare, and then whirlsaround and shouts to a couple of tough lookin' bruisers that was in thecar.

  "Quick!" she sings out. "Watch the rear and side doors. I'm sure he'shere."

  And the mugs pile out and proceed to plant themselves around the house.

  "Sa-a-ay," says I, "this begins to look excitin'. Is it a raid, orwhat? Who are the husky boys?"

  "Those men are in my employ," says she.

  "Private sleut's?" says I.

  "They are," says she, "and if you'll give up the boy without anytrouble I will pay you just twice as much as you're getting to hidehim. I'm going to have him, anyway."

  "Well, well!" says I.

  And say, maybe you can guess by that time I was feelin' like it was awarm day. If I'd had on a celluloid collar, it'd blown up. Inside often seconds, I've shucked my coat and am mixin' it with the plug that'sguardin' the side door. The doin's was short and sweet. He's nosooner slumped down to feel what's happened to his jaw than No. 2 comeup. He acts like he was ambitious to do damage, but the third punchleaves him on the grass. Then I takes each of 'em by the ear, leads'em out to the road, and gives 'em a little leather farewell to help'em get under way.

  "Sorry to muss your hired help, ma'am," says I, comin' back to thefront stoop; "but this is one place in the country where privatedetectives ain't wanted. And another thing, let's not have any moretalk about me bein' paid. If there's anyone here belongin' to you, youcan have him and welcome; but cut out the hold up business and thegraft conversation. Now again, what's the name?"

  She was so mad she was white around the lips; but she's one of the kindthat knows when she's up against it, too. "I am Mrs. Rutgers Greene,"says she.

  "Oh, yes," says I. "From down on the point?"

  "Mr. Greene lives at Orienta Point, I believe," says she.

  Now that was plain enough, wa'n't it? You wouldn't think I'd needpostin' on what they was sayin' at the clubs, after that. But thesehigh life break-aways are so common you can't keep track of all of 'em,and she sprung it so offhand that I didn't more'n half tumble to whatshe meant.

  "I suppose I may have Gerald now?" she goes on.

  "Sure," says I. "I'll bring him down." And as I skips up the stairs Isings out, "Hey, Mr. Smith! Your maw's come for you!"

  There was nothin' doin', though. I knocks on the door, and callsagain. Next I goes in. And say, it wa'n't until I'd pawed over allthe clothes, and looked under the bed and into the closet, that I couldbelieve it. He must have got up at daylight, slipped down the back wayin his stockin' feet, and skipped. The note on the wash stand clinchesit. It was wrote kind of wobbly, and the spellin' was some streaked;but there wa'n't any mistakin' what he meant. He was sorry he had totell so many whoppers, but he wa'n't ever goin' home any more, and hewas much obliged for my tip about the freight car. Maybe my jaw didn'tdrop.

  "Thick head!" says I, catchin' sight of myself in the bureau glass."You would get humorous!"

  When I goes back down stairs I find Mrs. Greene pacin' the porch."Well?" says she.

  I throws up my hands. "Skipped," says I.

  "Do you mean to say he has gone?" she snaps.

  "That's the size of it," says I.

  "Then this is Rutgers's work. Oh, the beast!" and she begins stampin'her foot and bitin' her lips.

  "That's where you're off," says I; "this is a case of----"

  But just then another big bubble comes dashin' up, with four men in it,and the one that jumps out and joins us is the main stem of the fam'ly.I could see that by the way the lady turns her back on him. He's aclean cut, square jawed young feller, and by the narrow set of his eyesand the sandy colour of his hair you could guess he might be someobstinate when it came to an argument. But he begins calm enough.

  "I'm Rutgers Greene," says he, "and at the police station they told meGerald was here. I'll take charge of him, if you please."

  "Have you brought a bunch of sleut's too?" says I.

  He admits that he has.

  "Then chase 'em off the grounds before I has another mental typhoon,"says I. "Shoo 'em!"

  "If they're not needed," says he, "and you object to----"

  "I do," says I.

  So he has his machine run out to the road again.

  "Now," says I, "seein' as this is a family affair----"

  "I beg pardon," puts in Greene; "but you hardly understand thesituation. Mrs. Greene need not be consulted at all."

  "I've as much right to Gerald as you have!" says she, her eyes snappin'like a trolley wheel on a wet night.

  "We will allow the courts to decide that point," says he, real frosty.

  "I don't want to butt in on any tender little domestic scene," says I;"but if I was you two I'd find the kid first. He's been gone sincedaylight."

  "Gone!" says Greene. "Where?"

  "There's no tellin' that," says I. "All I know is that when he lefthere he was headed for the railroad track, meanin' to jump a freighttrain and----"

  "The railroad!" squeals Mrs. Greene. "Oh, he'll be killed! Oh,Gerald! Gerald!"

  Greene don't say a word, but he turns the colour of a slice of Swisscheese.

  "Oh, what can we do?" says the lady, wringin' her hands.

  "Any of them detectives of yours know the kid by sight?" says I.

  They didn't. Neither did Greene's bunch. They was both fresh lots.

  "Well," says I, "I'll own up that part of this is up to me, and I won'tfeel right until I've made a try to find him. I'm goin' to start now,and I don't know how long I'll be gone. From what I've seen I canguess that this cottage will be a little small for you two; but ifyou're anxious to hear the first returns, I'd advise you to stay righthere. So long!"

 
; And with that I grabs my hat and makes a dash out the back way, leavin''em standin' there back to back. I never tracked a runaway kid along arailroad, and I hadn't much notion of how to start; but I makes for therock ballast just as though I had the plan all mapped out.

  The first place I came across was a switch tower, and I hadn't chinnedthe operators three minutes before I gets on to the fact that an eastbound freight usually passed there about six in the mornin', andgenerally stopped to drill on the siding just below. That was enoughto send me down the track; but there wa'n't any traces of the kid.

  "New Haven for me, then," says I, and by good luck I catches a local.Maybe that was a comfortable ride, watchin' out of the rear window forsomethin' I was hopin' I wouldn't see! And when it was over I hunts upthe yard master and finds the freight I was lookin' for was just aboutdue.

  "Expectin' a consignment?" says he.

  "Yes," says I. "I'm a committee of one to receive a stray kid."

  "Oh, that's it, eh?" says he. "We get 'em 'most every week. I'll seethat you have a pass to overhaul the empties."

  After I'd peeked into about a dozen box cars, and dug up nothin' moreencouraging than a couple of boozy 'boes, I begun to think mycalculations was all wrong. I was just slidin' another door shut whenI notices a bundle of somethin' over in the far corner. I had half amind not to climb in; for it didn't look like anything alive, but Itakes a chance at it for luck, and the first thing I hears is a growl.The next minute I has Togo by the collar and the kid up on my arm. Itwas Gerald, all right, though he was that dirty and rumpled I hardlyknew him.

  He just groans and grabs hold of me like he was afraid I was goin' toget away. Why, the poor little cuss was so beat out and scared Icouldn't get a word from him for half an hour. But after awhile Icoaxed him to sit up on a stool and have a bite to eat, and when I'vewashed off some of the grime, and pulled out a few splinters from hishands, we gets a train back. First off I thought I'd 'phone Mr. andMrs. Greene, but then I changes my mind. "Maybe it'll do 'em good towait," thinks I.

  We was half way back when Gerald looks up and says, "You won't take mehome, will you?"

  "What's the matter with home, kid?" says I.

  "Well," says he, and I could see by the struggle he was havin' with hisupper lip that it was comin' out hard, "mother says father isn't a niceman, and father says I mustn't believe what she says at all,and--and--I don't think I like either of them well enough to be theirlittle boy any more. I don't like being stolen so often, either."

  "Stolen!" says I.

  "Yes," says he. "You see, when I'm with father, mother is alwayssending men to grab me up and take me off where she is. Then fathersends men to get me back, and--and I don't believe I've got any realhome any more. That's why I ran away. Wouldn't you?"

  "Kid," says I, "I ain't got a word to say."

  He was too tired and down in the mouth to do much conversing either.All he wants is to curl up with his head against my shoulder and go tosleep. After he wakes up from his nap he feels better, and when hefinds we're goin' back to my place he gets quite chipper. All the waywalkin' up from the station I tries to think of how it would be best tobreak the news to him about the grand household scrap that was due tobe pulled off the minute we shows up. I couldn't do it, though, untilwe'd got clear to the house.

  "Now, youngster," says I, "there's a little surprise on tap for youhere, I guess. You walk up soft and peek through the door."

  For a minute I thought maybe they'd cleared out, he was so still aboutit, so I steps up to rubber, too. And there's Mr. and Mrs. RutgersGreene, sittin' on the sofa about as close as they could get, herweepin' damp streaks down his shirt front, and him pattin' her backhair gentle and lovin'.

  "Turn off the sprayer!" says I. "Here's the kid!"

  Well, we was all mixed up for the next few minutes. They hugs Geraldboth to once, and then they hugs each other, and if I hadn't duckedjust as I did I ain't sure what would have happened to me. When Icomes back, half an hour later, all I needs is one glance to see that alot of private sleut's and court lawyers is out of a job.

  "Shorty," says Greene, givin' me the hearty grip, "I don't know how I'mever goin' to----"

  "Ah, lose it!" says I. "It was just by a fluke I got on the job,anyway. That's a great kid of yours, eh?"

  Did I say anything about Primrose Park bein' a place where nothin' everhappened? Well, you can scratch that.