Shorty McCabe on the Job. Ford Sewell
on account of our bein' mixed up in carryin' out this batty will of Pyramid Gordon's. First off I didn't think I'd have to see him more'n once a month, and then only for a short session; but since he put through that first deal and collected his twenty-four hundred commission, he's been showin' up at the studio frequent, with next to no excuse for comin'.
You remember how he drew Twombley-Crane as the first one that he had to unload a kind and gen'rous act on, and how I made him give up the picture that he'd gloated over so long? Well, J. Bayard can't seem to get over the way that turned out. Here he'd been forced into doin' something nice for a party he had a grudge against, has discovered that Twombley-Crane ain't such a bad lot after all, and has been well paid for it besides, out of money left by his old enemy.
"Rather a remarkable set of circumstances, eh, Shorty?" says he, tiltin' back comf'table in one of my front office chairs and lightin' up a fresh twenty-five-cent cigar. "An instance of virtue being rewarded on a cash basis. Not only that, but I was royally entertained down at Twombley-Crane's the other night, you know. I think too I interested him in a little development scheme of mine."
"Jump off!" says I. "You're standin' on your foot. If you dream you can slip any of your fake stock onto him, you're due to wake up. Better stick to widows and orphans."
At which jab Mr. Steele only chuckles easy. "What an engagingly frank person you are!" says he. "As though rich widows weren't fair game! But with the practice of philanthropy so liberally compensated I'm not troubling them. Your friend, the late Mr. Gordon, has banished the wolf from my door; for the immediate present, at least. I wonder if he anticipated just how much I should enjoy his post-mortem munificence?"
And here J. Bayard gives a caressin' pat to his Grand Duke whiskers and glances approvin' down at the patent leathers which finish off a costume that's the last word in afternoon elegance. You've seen a pet cat stretch himself luxurious after a full meal? Well, that's J. Bayard. He'd hypothecated the canary. If he hadn't been such a dear friend of mine too, I could have kicked him hearty.
"Say, you're a wonder, you are!" says I. "But I expect if your kind was common, all the decent people would be demandin' to be jailed, out of self-respect."
Another chuckle from J. Bayard. "Is that envy," says he, "or merely epigram? But at least we will agree that our ethical standards vary. You scorn mine; I find yours curiously entertaining. The best thing about you is that you seem to bring me good luck."
"Don't trust that too far," says I. "I'm neither hump-backed, nor a live Billiken. How soon are you going to start on proposition Number Two?"
"Ah!" says he, straightenin'. "That is the real business of the moment, isn't it? As a matter of fact, I was just about to seek your valuable advice on the subject."
"Shoot it, then," says I. "Who's the party?"
He explores his inside pockets, fishes out an envelop, and inspects it deliberate. It's sealed; but he makes no move to open it. "My next assignment in altruism," says he, holdin' it to the light. "Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief—I wonder?"
"Ah, come!" says I, handin' him a paper knife.
"But there's no need for haste," says J. Bayard. "Just consider, Shorty: In this envelop is the name of some individual who was the victim of injustice, large or small, at the hands of Pyramid Gordon, someone who got in his way, perhaps years ago. Now I am to do something that will offset that old injury. While the name remains unread, we have a bit of mystery, an unknown adventure ahead of us, perhaps. And that, my dear McCabe, is the salt of life."
"Say, you ought to take that lecture out on the Chautauqua," says I. "Get busy—slit or quit!"
"Very well," says he, jabbin' the knife under the flap. "To discover the identity of the next in line!"
"Well?" says I, as he stares at the slip of paper. "Who do you pluck this time?"
"An enigma, so far as I am concerned," says he. "Listen: 'John Wesley Pedders, in 1894 cashier of the Merchants' Exchange Bank, at Tullington, Connecticut.' Ever hear of such a person, Shorty!"
"Not me," says I, "nor the place either."
"Then it remains to be discovered first," says Steele, "whether for twenty years Pedders has stayed put or not. Haven't a Pathfinder handy, have you? Never mind, there are plenty at the hotel. And if to-morrow is such another fine spring day as this, I'll run up there. I'll let you know the results later; and then, my trusty colleague, we will plot joyously for the well-being of John Wesley Pedders."
"Huh!" says I. "Don't try to pull any steam yachts or French limousines on me this time. The kind stuff goes, remember."
"To your acute sense of fitness in such matters, McCabe," says he, "I bow profoundly," and with a jaunty wave of his hand he drifts out.
Honest, compared to the shifty-eyed, suspicious-actin' party that blew into my studio a few weeks back, he seems like a kid on a Coney Island holiday. I expect it's the prospects of easy money that's chirked him up so; but he sure is a misfit to be subbin' on a deeds-of-kindness job. That ain't my lookout, though. All I got to do is pass on his plans and see that he carries 'em out accordin' to specifications. So I don't even look up this tank station on the map.
A couple of days go by, three, and no bulletin from J. Bayard. Then here the other mornin' I gets a long distance call. It's from Steele.
"Eh?" says I. "Where the blazes are you?"
"Tullington," says he.
"Oh!" says I. "Still there, are you? Found Pedders?"
"Ye-e-es," says he; "but I am completely at a loss to know what to do for him. I say, McCabe, couldn't you run up here? It's a curious situation, and I—well, I need your advice badly. There's a train at eleven-thirty that connects at Danbury. Couldn't you?"
Well, I hadn't figured on bein' any travelin' inspector when I took this executor job; but as J. Bayard sends out the S O S so strong I can't very well duck. Besides, I might have been a little int'rested to know what he'd dug up.
So about three-fifteen that afternoon finds me pilin' off a branch accommodation at Tullington. Mr. Steele is waitin' on the platform to meet me, silk lid and all.
"What about Pedders?" says I.
"I want you to see him first," says J. Bayard.
"On exhibition, is he?" says I.
"In a town of this size," says he, "everyone is on exhibition continuously. It's the penalty one pays for being rural, I suppose. I've been here only two days; but I'll venture to say that most of the inhabitants know me by name and have made their guess as to what my business here may be. It's the most pitiless kind of publicity I ever experienced. But come on up to the postoffice, and I'll show you Pedders."
"Fixture there, is he?" says I.
"Twice a day he comes for the mail," says J. Bayard. "Your train brought it up. He'll be on hand."
So we strolls up Main street from the station, while Steele points out the brass works, the carpet mill, the opera house, and Judge Hanks' slate-roofed mansion. It sure is a jay burg, but a lively one. Oh, yes! Why, the Ladies' Aid Society was holdin' a cake sale in a vacant store next to the Bijou movie show, and everybody was decoratin' for a firemen's parade to be pulled off next Saturday. We struck the postoffice just as they brought the mail sacks up in a pushcart and dragged 'em in through the front door.
"There he is," says Steele, nudgin' me, "over in the corner by the writing shelf!"
What he points out is a long-haired, gray-whiskered old guy, with a faded overcoat slung over his shoulders like a cape, and an old slouch hat pulled down over his eyes. He's standin' there as still and quiet as if his feet was stuck to the floor.
"Kind of a seedy old party, eh?" says I.
"Why not?" says J. Bayard. "He's an ex-jailbird."
"You don't say!" says I. "What brand?"
"Absconder,"