Read Ebook: Shorty McCabe on the Job by Ford Sewell

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 1538 lines and 77679 words, and 31 pages

"It might give us some clew," says I, "as to what him and your paw has a run-in about" Frontispiece

FACING PAGE "I wouldn't have anything happen to you for the world," says I 8

"Now see hea-uh, Mistuh Constable," says he, "I wouldn't go for to do anything like that" 60

"Say, I'm a bear for Paris" 97

"Now, friends," he calls, "everybody in on the chorus" 124

"What's the idea," says Mabel, "wishin' this Rube stuff on us?" 157

He sidles up to the desk and proceeds to make some throaty noises 199

Blamed if Dudley don't have the nerve to tow Veronica into the next room, stretchin' on tiptoe to talk in her ear 298

SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB

WISHING A NEW ONE ON SHORTY

Do things just happen, like peculiar changes in the weather, or is there a general scheme on file somewhere? Is it a free-for-all we're mixed up in--with our Harry Thaws and our Helen Kellers; our white slavers, our white hopes, and our white plague campaigns; our trunk murders, and our fire heroes? Or are we runnin' on schedule and headed somewhere?

I ain't givin' you the answer. I'm just slippin' you the proposition, with the side remark that now and then, when the jumble seems worse than ever, you can get a glimpse of what might be a clew, or might not.

Anyway, here I was, busy as a little bee, blockin' right hooks and body jabs that was bein' shot at me by a husky young uptown minister who's a headliner at his job, I understand, but who's developin' a good, useful punch on the side. I was just landin' a cross wallop to the ribs, by way of keepin' him from bein' too ambitious with his left, when out of the tail of my eye I notices Swifty Joe edgin' in with a card in his paw.

"Time out!" says I, steppin' back and droppin' my guard. "Well, Swifty, what's the scandal?"

"Gent waitin' to see you," says he.

"Ah-r-r-r, but he's a reg'lar gent!" protests Swifty, fingerin' the card.

"It says J. B-a-y-a-r-d Ste--Steele," says Swifty.

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'. "Lemme see. Him! Say, Swifty, you go back and tell J. Bayard that if he's got nerve enough to want to see me, it'll be a case of wait. And if he's at all messy about it, I give you leave to roll him downstairs. The front of some folks! Come on now, Dominie! Cover up better with that right mitt: I'm goin' to push in a few on you this time."

And if you never saw a Fifth avenue preacher well lathered up you should have had a glimpse of this one at the end of the next round. He's game, though; even thanks me for it puffy.

So, without stoppin' to change, or even sheddin' the mitts, I walks into the front office, to discover this elegant party in the stream-line cutaway pacin' restless up and down the room. Yes, he sure is some imposin' to look at, with his pearl gray spats, and the red necktie blazin' brilliant under the close-clipped crop of Grand Duke whiskers. I don't know what there is special about a set of frosted face shubb'ry that sort of suggests bank presidents and so on, but somehow they do. Them and the long, thin nose gives him a pluty, distinguished look, in spite of the shifty eyes and the weak mouth lines. But I ain't in a mood to be impressed.

"Well?" says I snappy.

I expect my appearin' in a cut-out jersey, with my shoulder muscles still bunched, must have jarred him a little; for he lifts his eyebrows doubtful and asks, "Er--Professor McCabe, is it?"

"My name," says he, "is Steele."

But I might have known such crude stuff wouldn't get under the hide of a polished article like J. Bayard. He only shrugs his shoulders and smiles sarcastic.

"Ah, ditch the sarcasm," says I, "and spring your game! What is it this trip, a wire-tappin' scheme, or just plain green goods?"

"You flatter me," says J. Bayard. "No, my business of the moment is not to appropriate any of the princely profits of your--er--honest toil," and he stops for another of them acetic-acid smiles.

"Yes," says I, "it is a batty way of gettin' money--workin' for it, eh? But go on. Whatcher mean you lost your dog?"

"I--er--I beg pardon?" says he.

He gets that. And what do you guess comes next? Well, he hands over a note. It's from a lawyer's office, askin' him to call at two P.M. that day to meet with me, as it reads, "and discuss a matter of mutual interest and advantage." It's signed "R. K. Judson, Attorney."

"It is merely a question," says Steele, "of whether or not I shall go at all."

"It is only natural," says he. "I don't know this Mr.--er--Judson, or what he wants of me."

"And you are going?" says he.

"Ah! Gordon!" says Steele, his shifty eyes narrowin'. "Yes, yes! Died abroad a month or so ago, didn't he?"

"Indeed?" says Steele. "And was Gordon--er--a friend of yours, may I ask?"

Mr. Steele darts a quick glance at me. "Rather!" says he.

J. Bayard almost grins at that. "I have no good reason to doubt," says he, "that Pyramid Gordon hated me quite as thoroughly and actively as I disliked him."

"One that lasted something like twenty years," says Steele.

"Purely a business matter," says he. "It began in Chicago, back in the good old days when trade was unhampered by fool administrations. At the time, if I may mention the fact, I had some little prominence as a pool organizer. We were trying to corner July wheat,--getting along very nicely too,--when your friend Gordon got in our way. He had managed to secure control of a dinky grain-carrying railroad and a few elevators. On the strength of that he demanded that we let him in. So we were forced to take measures to--er--eliminate him."

J. Bayard shrugs his shoulders careless and spreads out his hands. "Gordon luck!" says he. "Of course we were unprepared for such methods as he employed against us. Up to that time no one had thought of stealing an advance copy of the government crop report and using it to break the market. However, it worked. Our corner went to smash. I was cleaned out. You might have thought that would have satisfied most men; but not Pyramid Gordon! Why, he even pushed things so far as to sell out my office furniture, and bought the brass signs, with my name on them, to hang in his own office, as a Sioux Indian displays a scalp, or a Mindanao head hunter ornaments his gatepost with his enemy's skull. That was the beginning; and while my opportunities for paying off the score have been somewhat limited, I trust I have neglected none. And now--well, I can't possibly see why the closing up of his affairs should interest me at all. Can you?"

"I quite understand," says he. "But about seeing this lawyer--do you advise me to go?"

He's squintin' at me foxy out of them shifty eyes of his, cagy and suspicious, like we was playin' some kind of a game. You know the sort of party J. Bayard is--if you don't, you're lucky. So what's the use wastin' breath? I steps over and opens the front office door.

J. Bayard, still smilin', takes the hint. "Oh, I may turn up, after all," says he as he leaves.

"Huh!" says I, indicatin' deep scorn.

But if I'd been curious before about this invite to the law office, I was more so now. So shortly after two I was on hand. And I find Mr. Steele has beat me to it by a minute or so. He's camped in the waitin' room, lookin' as imposin' and elegant as ever.

He glances around uneasy. "Mr. Judson is coming," says he. "They said he was--here he is!"

Nothin' terrifyin' about Judson, either. He's a slim-built, youngish lookin' party, with an easy, quiet way of talkin', a friendly, confidin' smile; but about the keenest, steadiest pair of brown eyes I ever had turned loose on me. He shakes us cordial by the hand, thanks us for bein' prompt, and tows us into his private office.

"I have the papers all ready," says he.

"At once," says he. "You are named as co-executors with me for the estate of the late Curtis B. Gordon."

At which J. Bayard gasps. "I?" says he. "An executor for Pyramid Gordon?"

Judson nods. "I understand," says he, "that you were--ah--not on friendly terms with Mr. Gordon. But he was a somewhat unusual man, you know. In this instance, for example, he has selected Professor McCabe, whom he designates as one of his most trusted friends, and yourself, whom he designates as his--ah--oldest enemy. No offense, I hope?"

"Quite accurate, so far as I am concerned," says Steele.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet