Kumpel nr 5 (243) MAJ 2019. Praca zbiorowa

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СКАЧАТЬ himself had been drinking. He always drank when preparing to cook.

      He turned and went into the kitchen now, rolling up his shirt sleeves and relighting his clay pipe.

      * * * * *

      IV

      By nine o'clock the noisy chicken supper had ended; the table had been cleared; Jim Hastings was tuning his fiddle in the big room; Eve had seated herself before the battered melodeon.

      "Ladies and gents," said Clinch in his clear, pleasant voice, which carried through the hubbub, "we're going to have dance—thanks and beholden to Jim Hastings and my daughter Eve. Eve, she don't drink and she don't dance, so no use askin' and no hard feelin' toward nobody.

      "So act up pleasant to one and all and have a good time and no rough stuff in no form, shape, or manner, but behave like gents all and swell dames, like you was to a swarry on Fifth Avenue. Let's go!"

      He went back to the pantry, taking no notice of the cheering. The fiddler scraped a fox trot, and Eve's melodeon joined in. A vast scuffling of heavily shod feet filled the momentary silence, accented by the shrill giggle of young girls.

      "They're off," remarked Clinch to Smith, who stood at the pantry shelf prepared to serve whiskey or beer upon previous receipt of payment.

      In the event of a sudden raid, the arrangements at Clinch's were quite simple. Two large drain pipes emerged from the kitchen floor beside Smith, and ended in Star Pond. In case of alarm the tub of beer was poured down one pipe; the whiskey down the other.

      Only the trout in Star Pond would ever sample that hootch again.

      Clinch, now slightly intoxicated, leaned heavily on the pantry shelf beside Smith, adjusting his pistol under his suspenders.

      "Young fella," he said in his agreeable voice, "you're dead right. You sure said a face-full when you says to me, `Eve's a lady, by God!' You oughta know. You was a gentleman yourself once. Even if you take to stickin' up the turn. She is a lady. All I'm livin' for is to get her down to the city and give her money to live like a lady. I'll do it yet. … Soon! … I'd do it to-morrow—to-night—if I dared … If I thought it sure fire. … If I was dead certain I could get away with it. … I've got money, Now! … Only it ain't in money … Smith?"

      "Yes, Mike."

      "You know me?"

      "Sure."

      "You size me up?"

      "I do."

      "All right. If you ever tell anyone I got money that ain't money I'll shoot you through the head."

      "Don't worry, Clinch."

      "I ain't. You're a crook; you won't talk. You're a gentleman, too. They don't sell out a pal. Say, Hal, there's only one fella I don't want to meet."

      "Who's that, Mike?"

      "Lemme tell you," continued Clinch, resting more heavily on the shelf while Smith, looking out through the pantry shutter at the dancing, listened intently.

      "When I was in France in a Forestry Rig'ment," went on Clinch, lowering his always pleasant voice, "I was to Paris on leave a few days before they sent us home."

      "I was in the washroom of a caffy—a-cleanin' up for supper, when dod-bang! into the place comes a-tumblin' a man with two cops pushing and kicking him.

      "They didn't see me in there for they locked the door on the man. He was a swell gent, too, in full dress and silk hat and all like that, and a opry cloak and white kid gloves, and mustache and French beard.

      "When they locked him up he stood stock still and lit a cigarette, as cool as ice. Then he begun walkin' around looking for a way to get out; but there wasn't no way.

      "Then he seen me and over he comes and talks English right away: `Want to make a thousand francs, soldier?' sez he in a quick whisper. `You're on,' sez I; `Show your dough.' `Them Flies has went to get the Commissaire for to frisk me,' sez he. `Go to 13 roo Quinze Octobre and give it to the concierge for Jose Quintana.' And he shoves the packet on me and a thousand-franc note.

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