Side-stepping with Shorty. Ford Sewell

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СКАЧАТЬ shown in over the Turkish rugs to a solid gold passenger lift, set in a velvet arm chair, and shot up to the umpteenth floor.

      I was lookin' to find Mr. Dawes located in three or four rooms and bath, but from what I could judge of the size of his ranch he must pay by acreage instead of the square foot, for he has a whole wing to himself. And as for hired help, they was standin' around in clusters, all got up in baby blue and silver, with mugs as intelligent as so many frozen codfish. Say, it would give me chillblains on the soul to have to live with that gang lookin' on!

      I'm shunted from one to the other, until I gets to Dawes, and he leads the way into a big room with rubber mats, punchin' bags, and all the fixin's you could think of.

      "Will this do?" says he.

      "It'll pass," says I. "And if you'll chase out that bunch of employment bureau left-overs, we'll get down to business."

      "But," says he, "I thought you might need some of my men to – "

      "I don't," says I, "and while you're mixin' it with me you won't, either."

      At that he shoos 'em all out and shuts the door. I opens the window so's to get in some air that ain't been strained and currycombed and scented with violets, and then we starts to throw the shot bag around. I find Fletcher is short winded and soft. He's got a bad liver and a worse heart, for five or six years' trainin' on wealthy water and pâté de foie gras hasn't done him any good. Inside of ten minutes he knows just how punky he is himself, and he's ready to follow any directions I lay down.

      As I'm leavin', a nice, slick haired young feller calls me over and hands me an old rose tinted check. It was for five hundred and twenty.

      "Fifty-two minutes, professor," says he.

      "Oh, let that pyramid," says I, tossin' it back.

      Honest, I never shied so at money before, but somehow takin' that went against the grain. Maybe it was the way it was shoved at me.

      I'd kind of got interested in the job of puttin' Dawes on his feet, though, and Thursday I goes up for another session. Just as I steps off the elevator at his floor I hears a scuffle, and out comes a couple of the baby blue bunch, shoving along an old party with her bonnet tilted over one ear. I gets a view of her face, though, and I sees she's a nice, decent lookin' old girl, that don't seem to be either tanked or batty, but just kind of scared. A Willie boy in a frock coat was followin' along behind, and as they gets to me he steps up, grabs her by the arm, and snaps out:

      "Now you leave quietly, or I'll hand you over to the police! Understand?"

      That scares her worse than ever, and she rolls her eyes up to me in that pleadin' way a dog has when he's been hurt.

      "Hear that?" says one of the baby blues, shakin' her up.

      My fingers went into bunches as sudden as if I'd touched a live wire, but I keeps my arms down. "Ah, say!" says I. "I don't see any call for the station-house drag out just yet. Loosen up there a bit, will you?"

      "Mind your business!" says one of 'em, givin' me the glary eye.

      "Thanks," says I. "I was waitin' for an invite," and I reaches out and gets a shut-off grip on their necks. It didn't take 'em long to loosen up after that.

      "Here, here!" says the Willie that I'd spotted for Corson. "Oh, it's you is it, professor?"

      "Yes, it's me," says I, still holdin' the pair at arms' length. "What's the row?"

      "Why," says Corson, "this old woman – "

      "Lady," says I.

      "Aw – er – yes," says he. "She insists on fawcing her way in to see Mr. Dawes."

      "Well," says I, "she ain't got no bag of dynamite, or anything like that, has she?"

      "I just wanted a word with Fletcher," says she, buttin' in – "just a word or two."

      "Friend of yours?" says I.

      "Why – Well, we have known each other for forty years," says she.

      "That ought to pass you in," says I,

      "But she refuses to give her name," says Corson.

      "I am Mrs. Maria Dawes," says she, holdin' her chin up and lookin' him straight between the eyes.

      "You're not on the list," says Corson.

      "List be blowed!" says I. "Say, you peanut head, can't you see this is some relation? You ought to have sense enough to get a report from the boss, before you carry out this quick bounce business. Perhaps you're puttin' your foot in it, son."

      Then Corson weakens, and the old lady throws me a look that was as good as a vote of thanks. And say, when she'd straightened her lid and pulled herself together, she was as ladylike an old party as you'd want to meet. There wa'n't much style about her, but she was dressed expensive enough – furs, and silks, and sparks in her ears. Looked like one of the sort that had been up against a long run of hard luck and had come through without gettin' sour.

      While we was arguin', in drifts Mr. Dawes himself. I gets a glimpse of his face when he first spots the old girl, and if ever I see a mouth shut like a safe door, and a jaw stiffen as if it had turned to concrete, his did.

      "What does this mean, Maria?" he says between his teeth.

      "I couldn't help it, Fletcher," says she. "I wanted to see you about little Bertie."

      "Huh!" grunts Fletcher. "Well, step in this way. McCabe, you can come along too."

      I wa'n't stuck on the way it was said, and didn't hanker for mixin' up with any such reunions; but it didn't look like Maria had any too many friends handy, so I trots along. When we're shut in, with the draperies pulled, Mr. Dawes plants his feet solid, shoves his hands down into his pockets, and looks Maria over careful.

      "Then you have lost the address of my attorneys?" says he, real frosty.

      That don't chill Maria at all. She acted like she was used to it. "No," says she; "but I'm tired of talking to lawyers. I couldn't tell them about Bertie, and how lonesome I've been without him these last two years. Can't I have him, Fletcher?"

      About then I begins to get a glimmer of what it was all about, and by the time she'd gone on for four or five minutes I had the whole story. Maria was the ex-Mrs. Fletcher Dawes. Little Bertie was a grandson; and grandma wanted Bertie to come and live with her in the big Long Island place that Fletcher had handed her when he swapped her off for one of the sextet, and settled up after the decree was granted.

      Hearin' that brought the whole thing back, for the papers printed pages about the Daweses; rakin' up everything, from the time Fletcher run a grocery store and lodgin' house out to Butte, and Maria helped him sell flour and canned goods, besides makin' beds, and jugglin' pans, and takin' in washin' on the side; to the day Fletcher euchred a prospector out of the mine that gave him his start.

      "You were satisfied with the terms of the settlement, when it was made," says Mr. Dawes.

      "I know," says she; "but I didn't think how badly I should miss Bertie. That is an awful big house over there, and I am getting to be an old woman now, Fletcher."

      "Yes, you are," says he, his mouth corners liftin' a little. "But Bertie's in school, where he ought to be and where he is going to stay. Anything more?"

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