Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Dave Morgan and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team
A MAN AND HIS MONEY
_By_
FREDERIC S. ISHAM
_Author of_
Under the Rose, Half a Chance,The Social Bucaneer, Etc.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
MAX J. SPERO
1912
A MAN AND HIS MONEY
CHAPTER I
THE COACH OF CONCORD
"Well? What can I do for you?"
The speaker--a scrubby little man--wheeled in the rickety office chairto regard some one hesitating on his threshold. The tones were notagreeable; the proprietor of the diminutive, run-down establishment,"The St. Cecilia Music Emporium," was not, for certain well definedreasons, in an amiable mood that morning. He had been about to reachdown for a little brown jug which reposed on the spot usually allottedto the waste paper basket when the shadow of the new-comer fellobtrusively, not to say offensively, upon him.
It was not a reassuring shadow; it seemed to spring from anindeterminate personality. Mr. Kerry Mackintosh repeated his questionmore bruskly; the shadow (obviously not a customer,--no one ever soughtMr. Mackintosh's wares!) started; his face showed signs of a vacillatingpurpose.
"A mistake! Beg pardon!" he murmured with exquisite politeness and beganto back out, when a somewhat brutal command on the other's part to "shutthat d---- door d---- quick, and not let any more d---- hot air out"arrested the visitor's purpose. Instead of retreating, he advanced.
"I beg pardon, were you addressing me?" he asked. The half apologeticlook had quite vanished.
The other considered, muttered at length in an aggrieved tone somethingabout hot air escaping and coal six dollars a ton, and ended with: "Whatdo you want?"
"Work." The visitor's tone relapsed; it was now conspicuous for its wantof "success waves"; it seemed to imply a definite cognizance ofpersonal uselessness. He who had brightened a moment before now spokelike an automaton. Mr. Mackintosh looked at him and his shabby garments.He had a contempt for shabby garments--on others!
"Good day!" he said curtly.
But instead of going, the person coolly sat down. The proprietor of thelittle shop glanced toward the door and half started from his chair.Whereupon the visitor smiled; he had a charming smile in these momentsof calm equipoise, it gave one an impression of potential possibilities.Mr. Mackintosh sank back into his chair.
"Too great a waste of energy!" he murmured, and having thus defined hisattitude, turned to a "proof" of new rag-time. This he surveyeddiscontentedly; struck out a note here, jabbed in another there. Thestranger watched him at first casually. By sundry signs the caller'sfine resolution and assurance seemed slowly oozing from him; perhaps hebegan to have doubts as to the correctness of his position, thus tostorm a man in his own castle, or office--even if it were such adisreputable-appearing office!
He shifted his feet thoughtfully; a thin lock of dark hair drooped moreuncertainly over his brow; he got up. The composer dashed a blitheflourish to the tail of a note.
"Hold on," he said. "What's your hurry?" Sarcastically.
"Didn't know I was in a hurry!" There was no attempted levity in histone,--he spoke rather listlessly, as one who had found the world, orits problems, slightly wearisome. The composer-publisher now arose; anew thought had suddenly assailed him.
"You say you are looking for work. Why did you drift in here?"
"The place looked small. Those big places have no end of applicants--"
"Shouldn't think that would phase you. With _your_ nerve!"
The visitor flushed. "I seem to have made rather a mess of it," heconfessed. "I usually do. Good day."
"A moment!" said Mr. Mackintosh. "One of my men"--he emphasized "one,"as if their number were legion--"disappointed me this morning. I expecthe's in the lockup by this time. Have you got a voice?"
"A what?"
"Can you sing?"
"I really don't know; haven't ever tried, since"--a wonderfulretrospection in his tones--"since I was a little chap in church andwore white robes."
"Huh!" ejaculated the proprietor of the Saint Cecilia shop. "Mama'sangel boy! That must have been a long time ago." The visitor did notanswer; he pushed back uncertainly the uncertain lock of dark hair andseemed almost to have forgotten the object of his visit.
"Now see here"--Mr. Mackintosh's voice became purposeful, energetic; heseated himself before a piano that looked as if it had led a hardnomadic existence. "Now see here!" Striking a few chords. "Suppose youtry this stunt! _What's the Matter with Mother_? My own composition!Kerry Mackintosh at his best! Now twitter away, if you've any of thatangel voice left!"
The piano rattled; the new-comer, with a certain faint whimsical smileas if he appreciated the humor of his position, did "twitter away"; loudsounds filled the place. Quality might be lacking but of quantity therewas a-plenty.
"Bully!" cried Mr. Mackintosh enthusiastically. "That'll start the tearsrolling. _What's the Matter with Mother_? Nothing's the matter withmother. And if any one says there is--Will it go? With that voice?" Heclapped his hand on the other's shoulder. "Why, man, they could hear youacross Madison Square. You've a voice like an organ. Is it a 'go'?" hedemanded.
"I don't think I quite understand," said the new-comer patiently.
"You don't, eh? Look there!"
A covered wagon had at that moment stopped before the door. It was drawnby a horse whose appearance, like that of the piano, spoke moreeloquently of services in the past than of hopeful promises for thefuture. On the side of the vehicle appeared in large letters: "_What'sthe Matter with Mother_? Latest Melodic Triumph by America's GreatestComposer, Mr. Kerry Mackintosh." A little to the left of thisannouncement was painted a harp, probably a reminder of the one SaintCecilia was supposed to have played. This sentimental symbol wasobviously intended to lend dignity and respectability to the otherwisedisreputable vehicle of concord and its steed without wings, waitingpatiently to be off--or to lie down and pay the debt of nature!
"Shall we try it again, angel voice?" asked Mr. Mackintosh, playing thepiano, or "biffing the ivories," as he called it.
"Drop it," returned the visitor, "that 'angel' dope."
"Oh, all right! Anything to oblige."
Before this vaguely apologetic reply, the new-comer once more relapsedinto thoughtfulness. His eye passed dubiously over the vehicle ofharmony; he began to take an interest in the front door as if againinclined to "back out." Perhaps a wish that the horse _might_ lie downand die at this moment (no doubt he would be glad to!) percolatedthrough the current of his thoughts. That would offer an easy solutionto the proposal he imagined would soon be forthcoming--that _was_forthcoming--and accepted. Of course! What alternative remained? Needsmust when an empty pocket drives. Had he not learned the lesson--beggarsmust not be choosers?
"And now," said Mr. Mackintosh with the air of a man who had cast fromhis shoulders a distinct problem, "that does away with the necessity ofbailing the other chap out. What's your name?"
The visitor hesitated. "Horatio Heatherbloom."
The other looked at him keenly. "The right one," he said softly.
"You've got the only one you'll get," replied the caller, after aninterval.
Mr. Mackintosh bestowed upon him a knowing wink. "Sounds like a _nom deplume_," he chuckled. "What was your line?"
"I don't understand."
"What did you serve time for? Shoplifting?"
"Oh, no," said the other calmly.
"Burglarizing?" With more respect in his tones.
"What do you think?" queried the caller in the same mild voice.
"Not ferocious-looking enough for that lay, I should have thought.However, you can't always tell by appearances. Now, I wond
er--"
"What?" observed Mr. Heatherbloom, after an interval of silence.
"Yes! By Jove!" Mr. Mackintosh was speaking to himself. "It mightwork--it might add interest--" Mr. Heatherbloom waited patiently. "Wouldyou have any objections," earnestly, "to my making a little addenda tothe sign on the chariot of cadence? _What's the Matter with Mother_?'The touching lyric, as interpreted by Horatio Heatherbloom, thereformed burglar'?"
"I _should_ object," observed the caller.
"My boy--my boy! Don't be hasty. Take time to think. I'll go further;I'll paint a few iron bars in front of the harp. Suggestive of aprisoner in jail thinking of mother. Say 'yes'."
"No."
"Too bad!" murmured Mr. Mackintosh in disappointed but not altogetherconvinced tones. "You could use another alias, you know. If you'reafraid the police might pipe your game and nab--"
"Drop it, or--"
"All right, Mr. Heatherbloom, or any other blooming name!" Recoveringhis jocular manner. "It's not for me to inquire the 'why,' or care a rapfor the 'wherefore.' Ethics hasn't anything to do with the realm ofart."
As he spoke he reached under the desk and took out the jug. "Have some?"extending the tumbler.
The thin lips of the other moved, his hand quickly extended but wasdrawn as suddenly back. "Thanks, but I'm on the water wagon, old chap."
"Well, I'm not. Do you know you said that just like a gentleman--to themanner born."
"A gentleman? A moment ago I was a reformed burglar."
"You might be both."
Mr. Heatherbloom looked into space; Mr. Mackintosh did not notice asubtle change of expression. That latter gentleman's rapt gaze waswholly absorbed by the half-tumblerful he held in mid air. But only fora moment; the next, he was smacking his lips. "We'll have a bite to eatand then go," he now said more cheerfully. "Ready for luncheon?"
"I could eat"
"Had anything to-day?"
"Maybe."
"And maybe, not!" Half jeeringly. "Why don't you say you've beentraining down, taking the go-without-breakfast cure? Say, it must behell looking for a job when you've just 'got out'!"
"How do you know I just 'got out'?"
"You look it, and--there's a lot of reasons. Come on."
Half an hour or so later the covered wagon drove along Fourteenthstreet. Near the curb, not far from the corner of Broadway, it separateditself from the concourse of vehicles and stopped. Close by, nickelpalaces of amusement exhibited their yawning entrances, and into thesegilded maws floated, from the human current on the sidewalk, a stream ofmen, women and children. Encamped at the edge of this eddy, Mr.Mackintosh sounded on the nomadic piano, now ensconced within the coachof concord, the first triumphal strains of the maternal tribute inrag-time.
He and the conspiring instrument were concealed in the depths of thevehicle from the gaze of the multitude, but Mr. Heatherbloom at the backfaced them on the little step which served as concert stage. There wereno limelights or stereopticon pictures to add to the illusion,--only thedisconcerting faces and the light of day. He never before knew howbright the day could be but he continued to stand there, in spite of theludicrous and trying position. He sang, a certain daredevil light inhis eye now, a suspicion of a covert smile on his face. It might berather tragic--his position--but it was also a little funny.
His voice didn't sound any better out of doors than it did in; the"angel" quality of the white-robed choir days had departed with the soulof the boy. Perhaps Mr. Heatherbloom didn't really feel the pathos ofthe selection; at any rate, those tears Mr. Mackintosh had prophesiedwould be rolling down the cheeks of the listening multitude weren'tforthcoming. One or two onlookers even laughed.
"Pigs! Swine!" murmured the composer, now passing through the crowd withcopies of the song. He sold a few, not many; on the back step Mr.Heatherbloom watched with faint sardonic interest.
"Have I earned my luncheon yet?" he asked the composer when thataggrieved gentleman, jingling a few dimes, returned to the equipage ofmelody.
"Haven't counted up," was the gruff reply. "Give 'em another verse! Theyain't accustomed to it yet. Once they git to know it, every boot-blackin town will be whistling that song. Don't I know? Didn't I write it?Ain't they all had mothers?"
"Maybe they're all Topsies and 'just growed'," suggested Mr.Heatherbloom.
"Patience!" muttered the other. "The public may be a little coy atfirst, but once they git started they'll be fighting for copies. Soencore, my boy; hammer it into them. We'll get them; you see!"
But the person addressed didn't see, at least with Mr. Mackintosh'sclairvoyant vision. Mr. Heatherbloom's gaze wandering quizzically fromthe little pool of mask-like faces had rested on a great shiningmotor-car approaching--slowly, on account of the press of traffic. Inthis wide luxurious vehicle reposed a young girl, slender, exquisite; ather side sat a big, dark, distinguished-appearing man, with a closelycropped black beard; a foreigner--most likely Russian.
The girl was as beautiful as the dainty orchids with which the superbcar was adorned, and which she, also, wore in her gown--yellow orchids,tenderly fashioned but very insistent and bright. Upon this patricianvision Mr. Heatherbloom had inadvertently looked, and the patheticplaint regarding "Mother" died on the wings of nothingness. Withunfilial respect he literally abandoned her and cast her to the winds.His eyes gleamed as they rested on the girl; he seemed to lose himselfin reverie.
Did she, the vision in orchids, notice him? Perhaps! The chauffeur atthat moment increased the speed of the big car; but as it dashed past,the crimson mouth of the beautiful girl tightened and hardened into astraight line and those wonderful starlike eyes shone suddenly with alight as hard as steel. Disdainful, contemptuous; albeit, perhaps,passionate! Then she, orchids, shining car and all were whirled on.
Rattle! bang! went the iron-rimmed wheels of other rougher vehicles.Bing! bang! sounded the piano like a soul in torment.
Horatio Heatherbloom stood motionless; then his figure swayed slightly.He lifted the music, as if to shield his features from the others--hismany auditors; but they didn't mind that brief interruption; it affordeda moment for that rough and ready dialogue which a gathering of thiskind finds to its liking.
"Give him a trokee! Anybody got a cough drop?"
"It's soothing syrup he wants."
"No; it's us wants that."
"What the devil--" Mr. Mackintosh looked out of the wagon.
Mr. Heatherbloom suddenly laughed, a forced reckless laugh. "Guess itwas the dampness. I'm like some artists--have to be careful where Ising."
"Have a tablet, feller, do!" said a man in the audience.
Horatio looked him in the eye. "Maybe it's you want something."
The facetious one began to back away; he had seen that look before, thesteely glint that goes before battle.
"The chord now, if you please!" said Mr. Heatherbloom to the composerin a still quiet voice.
Mr. Mackintosh hit viciously; Mr. Heatherbloom sang again; he did morethan that. He outdid himself; he employed bombast,--some thought itpathos. He threw a tremolo into his voice; it passed for emotion. He"caught 'em", in Mr. Mackintosh's parlance, and "caught 'em hard". Somemore people bought copies. The alert Mr. Mackintosh managed to gather inabout a dollar, and saw, in consequence, great fortune "coming his way"at last; the clouds had a golden lining.
"Say, you're the pard I've been a-looking for!" he jubilantly told Mr.Heatherbloom as they prepared to move on. "We'll make a beautiful team.Isn't it a peach?"
"What?"
"That song. It made them look like a rainy day. Git up!" And Mr.Mackintosh prodded the bony ribs of their steed.
Mr. Heatherbloom absent-mindedly gazed in the direction the big shiningmotor had vanished.
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