by Sewell Ford
XV
SHORTY'S GO WITH ART
When me and art gets into the ring together, you might as well burn theform sheet and slip the band back on your bettin' roll, for there's notellin' who'll take the count.
It was Cornelia Ann that got me closer to art than I'd ever beenbefore, or am like to get again. Now, I didn't hunt her up, nor shedidn't come gunnin' for me. It was a case of runnin' down signals andcollidin' on the stair landin'; me makin' a grand rush out of theStudio for a cross town car, and she just gettin' her wind 'fore shetackled the next flight.
Not that I hit her so hard; but it was enough to spill the paperbundles she has piled up on one arm, and start 'em bouncin' down theiron steps. First comes a loaf of bread; next a bottle of pickles,that goes to the bad the third hop; and exhibit C was one of theseten-cent dishes of baked beans--the pale kind, that look like they'dfloated in with the tide. Course, that dinky tin pan they was in don'tland flat. It slips out of the bag as slick as if it was greased,stands up on edge, and rolls all the way down, distributin' the messfrom top to bottom, as even as if it was laid on with a brush.
"My luncheon!" says she, in a reg'lar me-che-e-ild voice.
"Lunch!" says I. "That's what I'd call a spread. This one's on thehouse, but the next one will be on me. Will to-morrow do?"
"Ye-es," says she.
"Sorry," says I, "but I'm runnin' behind sched. now. What's the name,miss?"
"C. A. Belter, top floor," says she; "but don't mind about----"
"That'll be all right, too," says I, skippin' down over the brokenglass and puntin' the five-cent white through the door for a goal.
It's little things like that, though, that keeps a man from forgettin'how he was brought up. I'm ready enough with some cheap jolly, butwhen it comes to throwin' in a "beg pardon" at the right place I'm alate comer. I thinks of 'em sometime next day.
Course, I tries to get even by orderin' a four-pound steak, withmushroom trimmin's, sent around from the hotel on the corner; but Icouldn't get over thinkin' how disappointed she looked when she sawthat pan of beans doin' the pinwheel act. I know I've seen the timewhen a plate of pork-and in my fist would have been worth all theturkey futures you could stack in a barn, and maybe it was that waywith her.
Anyway, she didn't die of it, for a couple of days later she knockseasy on the Studio door and gets her head in far enough to say how niceit was of me to send her that lovely steak.
"Forget it," says I.
"Never," says she. "I'm going to do a bas relief of you, in memory ofit."
"A barrel which?" says I.
Honest, I wa'n't within a mile of bein' next. It comes out that shedoes sculpturing and wants to make a kind of embossed picture of me inplaster of paris, like what the peddlers sell around on vacant stoops.
"I'd look fine on a panel, wouldn't I?" says I. "Much obliged, miss,but sittin' for my halftone is where I draws the line. I'll lend youSwifty Joe, though."
She ain't acquainted with the only registered assistant professor ofphysical culture in the country, but she says if he don't mind she'lltry her hand on him first, and then maybe I'll let her do one of me.Now, you'd thought Swifty, with that before-takin' mug of his, wouldhave hid in the cellar 'fore he'd let anybody make a cast of it; butwhen the proposition is sprung, he's as pleased as if it was for thefront page of Fox's pink.
That was what fetched me up to that seven by nine joint of hers, nextthe roof, to have a look at what she'd done to Swifty Joe. He tows meup there. And say, blamed if she hadn't got him to the life, brokennose, ingrowin' forehead, whopper jaw, and all!
"How about it?" says Joe, grinnin' at me as proud as if he'd broke intothe Fordham Heights Hall of Fame.
"I never see anything handsomer--of the kind," says I.
Then I got to askin' questions about the sculpturin' business, and howthe market was; so Miss Belter and me gets more or less acquainted.She was a meek, slimpsy little thing, with big, hungry lookin' eyes,and a double hank of cinnamon coloured hair that I should have thoughtwould have made her neck ache to carry around.
Judgin' by the outfit in her ranch, the sculp-game ain't one thatbrings in sable lined coats and such knickknacks. There was a bedcouch in one corner, a single burner gas stove on an upended trunk inanother, and chunks of clay all over the place. Light housekeepin' andart don't seem to mix very well. Maybe they're just as tasty, but I'das soon have my eggs cooked in a fryin' pan that hadn't been used for amortar bed.
We passed the time of day reg'lar after that, and now and then she'ddrop into the front office to show me some piece she'd made. I findsout that the C. A. in her name stands for Cornelia Ann; so I drops theMiss Belter and calls her that.
"Father always calls me that, too," says she.
"Yes?" says I.
That leads up to the story of how the old folks out in Minnekeegan havebeen backin' her for a two years' stab at art in a big city. Seems ithas been an awful drain on the fam'ly gold reserve, and none of 'emtook any stock in such foolishness anyway, but she'd jollied 'em intolettin' her have a show to make good, and now the time was about up.
"Well," says I, "you ain't all in, are you?"
Her under lip starts to pucker up at that, and them hungry eyes getsfoggy; but she takes a new grip on herself, makes a bluff at grinnin',and says, throaty like, "It's no use pretending any longer, I--I'm afailure!"
Say, that makes me feel like an ice cream sign in a blizzard. I hadn'tbeen lookin' to dig up any private heart throbs like that. But thereit was; so I starts in to cheer her up the best I knew how.
"Course," says I, "it's a line I couldn't shake a nickel out of in ayear; but if it suited me, and I thought I was onto my job, I'd make ityield the coin, or go good and hungry tryin'."
"Perhaps I have gone hungry," says she, quiet like.
"Honest?" says I.
"That steak lasted me for a week," says she.
There was more particulars followed that throws Cornelia Ann on thescreen in a new way for me. Grit! Why, she had enough to sand atarred roof. She'd lived on ham knuckles and limed eggs and Swisscheese for months. She'd turned her dresses inside out and upsidedown, lined her shoes with paper when it was wet, and wore a longsleeved shirt waist when there wa'n't another bein' used this side ofthe prairies. And you can judge what that means by watchin' the womensize each other up in a street car.
"If they'd only given me half a chance to show what I could do!" saysshe. "But I didn't get the chance, and perhaps it was my fault. Sowhat's the use? I'll just pack up and go back to Minnekeegan."
"Minnekeegan!" says I. "That sounds tough. What then?"
"Oh," says she, "my brother is foreman in a broom factory. He will getme a job at pasting labels."
"Say," says I, gettin' a quick rush of blood to the head, "s'posen Ishould contract for a full length of Swifty Joe to hang here in----"
"No you don't!" says she, edgin' off. "It's good of you, but charitywork isn't what I want."
Say, it wa'n't any of my funeral, but that broom fact'ry propositionstayed with me quite some time. The thoughts of anyone havin' to goback to a place with a name like Minnekeegan was bilious enough; butfor a girl that had laid out to give Macmonnies a run for the goldmedal, the label pastin' prospect must have loomed up like a bad dream.
There's one good thing about other folks's troubles though--they'reeasy put on the shelf. Soon's I gets to work I forgets all aboutCornelia Ann. I has to run out to Rockywold that afternoon, to put Mr.Purdy Pell through his reg'lar course of stunts that he's been takin'since some one told him he was gettin' to be a forty-fat. There was awhole bunch of swells on hand; for it's gettin' so, now they can go andcome in their own tourin' cars, that winter house parties are just ascommon as in summer.
"Thank heaven you've come!" says Mr. Pell. "It gives me a chance toget away from cards for an hour or so."
"Guess you need it," says I. "You look like the trey of spades."
Then Pinckney shows u
p in the gym., and he no sooner sees us at workwith the basket ball than he begins to peel off. "I say there!" sayshe. "Count me in on some of that, or I'll be pulled into anotherrubber."
About an hour later, after they'd jollied me into stayin' all night, Iputs on a sweater and starts out for some hoof exercise in the youngblizzard that was makin' things white outside. Sadie holds me up atthe door. Her cheeks was blazin', and I could see she was holdin' theSullivan temper down with both hands.
"Hello!" says I. "What's been stirrin' you up?"
"Bridge!" snaps she. "I guess if you'd been glared at for two hours,and called stupid when you lost, and worse names when you won, you'dfeel like throwing the cards at some one."
"Well, why didn't you?" says I.
"I did," says she, "and there's an awful row on; but I don't care! Andif you don't stop that grinnin', I'll----"
Well, she does it. That's the way with Sadie, words is always too slowfor her. Inside of a minute she's out chasin' me around the front yardand peltin' me with snow balls.
"See here," says I, diggin' a hunk of snow out of one ear, "that kindof sport's all to the merry; but if I was you I'd dress for the part.Snowballin' in slippers and silk stockin's and a lace dress is apneumonia bid, even if you are such a warm one on top."
"Who's a red head?" says she. "You just wait a minute, Shorty McCabe,and I'll make you sorry for that!"
It wa'n't a minute, it was nearer fifteen; but when Sadie shows upagain she's wearin' the slickest Canuck costume you ever see, allblanket stripes and red tassels, like a girl on a gift calendar.
"Whe-e-e!" says she, and the snow begins to fly in chunks. It was thedamp, packy kind that used to make us go out and soak the tall hatswhen we was kids. And Sadie hasn't forgot how to lam 'em in, either.We was havin' it hot and lively, all over the lawn, when the firstthing I knows out comes Mrs. Purdy Pell and Pinckney and a lot ofothers, to join in the muss. They'd dragged out a whole raft oftoboggan outfits from the attic, and the minute they gets 'em on theybegins to act as coltish as two-year-olds.
Well say, you wouldn't have thought high rollers like them, that getstheir fun out of playin' the glass works exhibit at the op'ra, andeatin' one A. M. suppers at Sherry's, and doublin' no trumps at aquarter a point, could unbuckle enough to build snow forts, and yelllike Indians, and cut up like kids generally. But they does--washedeach other's faces, and laughed and whooped it up until dark. Didn'tneed the dry Martinis to jolly up appetites for that bunch when dinnertime come, and if there was anyone awake in Rockywold after ten o'clockthat night it was the butler and the kitchen help.
I looked for 'em to forget it all by mornin' and start in again ontheir punky card games; but they was all up bright and early, plannin'out new stunts. There'd been a lot of snow dropped durin' the night,and some one gets struck with the notion that buildin' snow men wouldbe the finest sport in the world. They couldn't hardly wait to eatbreakfast before they gets on their blanket clothes and goes at it.They was rollin' up snow all over the place, as busy as'longshoremen--all but Pinckney. He gives out that him and me has beenappointed an art committee, to rake in an entrance fee of ten boneseach and decide who gets the purse for doin' the best job.
"G'wan!" says I. "I couldn't referee no such fool tournament as this."
"That's right, be modest!" says he. "Don't mind our feelings at all."
Then Sadie and Mrs. Pell butts in and says I've just got to do it; so Idoes. We gives 'em so long to pile up their raw material, and half anhour after that to carve out what they thinks they can do best, nothin'barred. Some starts in on Teddy bears, one gent plans out a cop; butthe most of 'em don't try anything harder'n plain snow men, with lumpsof coal for eyes, and pipes stuck in to finish off the face.
It was about then that Count Skiphauser moves out of the background andbegins to play up strong. He's one of these big, full blooded pretzelsthat's been everywhere, and seen everything, and knows it all, andthinks there ain't anything but what he can do a little better'nanybody else.
"Oh, well," says he, "I suppose I must show you what snow carvingreally is. I won a prize for this sort of thing in Berlin, you know."
"It's all over now," says I to Pinckney. "You heard Skippy pickin'himself for a winner, didn't you?"
"He's a bounder," says Pinckney, talkin' corner-wise--"lives on hisbridge and poker winnings. He mustn't get the prize."
But Skiphauser ain't much more'n blocked out a head and shoulders 'foreit was a cinch he was a ringer, with nothin' but a lot of rank amateursagainst him. Soon's the rest saw what they was up against they alllaid down, for he was makin' 'em look like six car fares. Course,there wa'n't nothin' to do but join the gallery and watch him win in awalk.
"Oh, it's a bust of Bismarck, isn't it?" says one of the women. "Howclever of you, Count!"
At that Skippy throws out his chest and begins to chuck in theflourishes. That kind of business suited him down to the ground. Hecocks his head on one side, twists up his lip whiskers like Billy theTooth, and goes through all the motions of a man that knows he's givin'folks a treat.
"Hates himself, don't he?" says I. "He must have graduated from sometombstone foundry."
Pinckney was wild. So was Sadie and Mrs. Purdy Pell, on account of thefree-for-all bein' turned into a game of solitaire.
"I just wish," says Sadie, "that there was some way of taking him downa peg. If I only knew of someone who----"
"I do, if you don't," says I.
Say, what do you reckon had been cloggin' my thought works all thattime. I takes the three of 'em to one side and springs my proposition,tellin' 'em I'd put it through if they'd stand for it. Would they?They're so tickled they almost squeals.
I gets Swifty Joe at the Studio on the long distance and gives him hisinstructions. It was a wonder he got it straight, for sometimes youcan't get an idea into his head without usin' a brace and bit, but thistrip he shows up for a high brow. Pretty quick we gets word that it'sall O. K. Pinckney bulletins it to the crowd that, while Sadie'spulled out of the competition, she's asked leave to put on a sub, andthat the prize awardin' will be delayed until after the returns are allin.
Meantime I climbs into the sleigh and goes down to meet the express.Sure enough, Cornelia Ann was aboard, a bit hazy about the kind of astunt that's expected of her, but ready for anything. I don't go intomany details, for fear of givin' her stage fright; but I lets her knowthat if she's got any sculpturin' tricks up her sleeve now's the timeto shake 'em out.
"I've been tellin' some friends of mine," says I, "that when it comesto clay art, or plaster of paris art, you was the real lollypop; and Ireckoned that if you could do pieces in mud, you could do 'em just aswell in snow."
"Snow!" says she. "Why, I never tried."
Maybe I'd banked too much on Cornelia, or perhaps she was right insayin' this was out of her line. Anyway, it was a mighty disappointedtrio that sized her up when I landed her under the porte cochere.
When she's run her eye over the size and swellness of the place I'vebrought her to, and seen a sample of the folks, she looks half scaredto death. And you wouldn't have played her for a fav'rite, either, ifyou'd seen the cheap figure she cut, with them big eyes rollin' around,as if she was huntin' for the nearest way out. But we give her a cupof hot tea, makes her put on a pair of fleece lined overshoes andsomebody's Persian lamb jacket, and leads her out to make a try for thechampionship.
Some of 'em was sorry of her, and tried to be sociable; but others juststood around and snickered and whispered things behind their hands.Honest, I could have thrown brickbats at myself for bein' such a mushhead. That wouldn't have helped any though, so I gets busy and rollstogether a couple of chunks of snow about as big as flour barrels andpiles one on top of the other.
"It's up to you, Cornie," says I. "Can't you dig something or otherout of that?"
She don't say whether she can or can't, but just walks around it two orthree times, lookin' at it dreamy, like she was in a trance.
Next shebraces up a bit, calls for an old carvin' knife and a kitchen spoon,and goes to work, the whole push watchin' her as if she was some freakin a cage.
I pipes off her motions for awhile real hopeful, and then I edges outwhere I could look the other way. Why say, all she'd done was to hewout something that looks like a lot of soap boxes piled up for abonfire. It was a case of funk, I could see that; and maybe I wa'n'tfeelin' like I'd carried a gold brick down to the subtreasury and askedfor the acid test.
Then I begins to hear the "Oh's!" and "Ah's!" come from the crowd.First off I thought they was guyin' her, but when I strolls back nearenough for a peek at what she was up to, my mouth comes open, too.Say, you wouldn't believe it less'n you'd seen it done, but she wasjust fetchin' out of that heap of snow, most as quick and easy as ifshe was unpackin' it from a crate, the stunningest lookin' altogethergirl that I ever see outside a museum.
I don't know who it was supposed to be, or why. She's holdin' up withone hand what draperies she's got--which wa'n't any too many--an' withthe other she's reachin' above her head after somethin' or other--maybethe soap on the top shelf. But she was a beaut, all right. And allCornelia was doin' to bring her out was just slashin' away carelesswith the knife and spoon handle, hardly stoppin' a second betweenstrokes. She simply had 'em goggle eyed. I reckon they'd seen thingsjust as fine and maybe better, but they hadn't had a front seat before,while a little ninety-pound cinnamon top like Cornelia Ann stepped upand yanked a whitewashed angel out of a snow heap.
"It's wonderful!" says Mrs. Purdy Pell.
"Looks to me like we had Skippy fingerin' the citrus, don't it?" says I.
The Count he's been standin' there with his mouth open, like the restof us, only growin' redder 'n' redder.
But just then Cornelia makes one last swipe, drops her tools, and stepsback to take a view. We all quits to see what's comin' next. Well,she looks and looks at that Lady Reacher she's dug out, never sayin' aword; and before we knows it she's slumped right down there in thesnow, with both hands over her face, doin' the weep act like a kid.
In two shakes it was Sadie and Mrs. Purdy Pell to the rescue, one oneach side, while the rest of us gawps on and looks foolish.
"What is it, you poor darling?" says Sadie.
Finally, after a good weep, Cornie unloosens her trouble. "Oh, oh!"says she. "I just know it's going to rain to-morrow!"
Now wouldn't that give you a foolish fit?
"What of it?" says Sadie.
"That," says she, pointin' to the snow lady. "She'll be gone forever.Oh, it's wicked, wicked!"
"Well," says I, "she's too big to go in the ice box."
"Never mind, dear," says Mrs. Purdy Pell; "you shall stay right hereand do another one, in solid marble. I'll give you a thousand for aduplicate of that."
"And then you must do something for me," says Sadie.
"And me, too," says Mrs. Dicky Madison.
I didn't wait to hear any more, for boostin' lady sculpturesses ain'tmy reg'lar work. But, from all I hear of Cornelia Ann, she won't pastelabels in any broom fact'ry.
For your simple liver and slow quitter, art's all right; but it's along shot, at that. What?
