Side-stepping with Shorty. Ford Sewell
of it!" says she. "That poor, innocent girl, living in that dreadfully wicked place! Isn't it terrible?"
"Oh, I don't know," says I. "It all depends."
"Hey?" says the old girl. "What say?"
Ever try to carry on a debate through a silver salt shaker? It's the limit. Thinkin' it would be a lot easier to agree with her, I shouts out, "Sure thing!" and nods my head. She nods back and rolls her eyes.
"She must be rescued at once!" says Aunt Isabella. "Her uncle ought to be notified. Can't you send for him?"
As it happens, Dennis had come down that mornin' to see an old friend of his that was due to croak; so I figures it out that the best way would be to get him and the old lady together and let 'em have it out. I chases Swifty down to West 11th-st. to bring Dennis back in a hurry, and invites Aunt Isabella to make herself comfortable until he comes.
She's too excited to sit down, though. She goes pacin' around the front office, now and then lookin' me over suspicious, – me bein' still in my gym. suit, – and then sizin' up the sportin' pictures on the wall. My art exhibit is mostly made up of signed photos of Jeff and Fitz and Nelson in their ring costumes, and it was easy to see she's some jarred.
"I hope this is a perfectly respectable place, young man," says she.
"It ain't often pulled by the cops," says I.
Instead of calmin' her down, that seems to stir her up worse'n ever. "I should hope not!" says she. "How long must I wait here?"
"No longer'n you feel like waitin', ma'am," says I.
And just then the gym. door opens, and in walks the Bishop, that I'd clean forgot all about.
"Why, Bishop!" squeals Aunt Isabella. "You here!"
Say, it didn't need any second sight to see that the Bishop would have rather met 'most anybody else at that particular minute; but he hands her the neat return. "It appears that I am," says he. "And you?"
Well, it was up to her to do the explainin'. She gives him the whole history of Maggie Whaley, windin' up with how she's been last heard from at Coney Island.
"Isn't it dreadful, Bishop?" says she. "And can't you do something to help rescue her?"
Now I was lookin' for the Bishop to say somethin' soothin'; but hanged if he don't chime in and admit that it's a sad case and he'll do what he can to help. About then Swifty shows up with Dennis, and Aunt Isabella lays it before him. Now, accordin' to his own account, Dennis and Terence always had it in for each other at home, and he never took much stock in Maggie, either. But after he'd listened to Aunt Isabella for a few minutes, hearin' her talk about his duty to the girl, and how she ought to be yanked off the toboggan of sin, he takes it as serious as any of 'em.
"Wurrah, wurrah!" says he, "but this do be a black day for the Whaleys! It's the McGuigan blood comin' out in her. What's to be done, mum?"
Aunt Isabella has a program all mapped out. Her idea is to get up a rescue expedition on the spot, and start for Coney. She says Dennis ought to go; for he's Maggie's uncle and has got some authority; and she wants the Bishop, to do any prayin' over her that may be needed.
"As for me," says she, "I shall do my best to persuade her to leave her wicked companions."
Well, they was all agreed, and ready to start, when it comes out that not one of the three has ever been to the island in their lives, and don't know how to get there. At that I sees the Bishop lookin' expectant at me.
"Shorty," says he, "I presume you are somewhat familiar with this – er – wicked resort?"
"Not the one you're talkin' about," says I. "I've been goin' to Coney every year since I was old enough to toddle; and I'll admit there has been seasons when some parts of it was kind of tough; but as a general proposition it never looked wicked to me."
That kind of puzzles the Bishop. He says he's always understood that the island was sort of a vent hole for the big sulphur works. Aunt Isabella is dead sure of it too, and hints that maybe I ain't much of a judge. Anyway, she thinks I'd be a good guide for a place of that kind, and prods the Bishop on to urge me to go.
"Well," says I, "just for a flier, I will."
So, as soon as I've changed my clothes, we starts for the iron steamboats, and plants ourselves on the upper deck. And say, we was a sporty lookin' bunch – I don't guess! There was the Bishop, in his little flat hat and white choker, – you couldn't mistake what he was, – and Aunt Isabella, with her grey hair and her grey and white costume, lookin' about as giddy as a marble angel on a tombstone. Then there's Dennis, who has put on the black whip cord Prince Albert he always wears when he's visitin' sick friends or attendin' funerals. The only festive lookin' point about him was the russet coloured throat hedge he wears in place of a necktie.
Honest, I felt sorry for them suds slingers that travels around the deck singin' out, "Who wants the waiter?" Every time one would come our way he'd get as far as "Who wants – " and then he'd switch off with an "Ah, chee!" and go away disgusted.
All the way down, the old girl has her eye out for wickedness. The sight of Adolph, the grocery clerk, dippin' his beak into a mug of froth, moves her to sit up and give him the stony glare; while a glimpse of a young couple snugglin' up against each other along the rail almost gives her a spasm.
"Such brazen depravity!" says she to the Bishop.
By the time we lands at the iron pier she has knocked Coney so much that I has worked up a first class grouch.
"Come on!" says I. "Let's have Maggie's address and get through with this rescue business before all you good folks is soggy with sin."
Then it turns out she ain't got any address at all. The most she knows is that Maggie's somewhere on the island.
"Well," I shouts into the tube, "Coney's something of a place, you see! What's your idea of findin' her?"
"We must search," says Aunt Isabella, prompt and decided.
"Mean to throw out a regular drag net?" says I.
She does. Well, say, if you've ever been to Coney on a good day, when there was from fifty to a hundred thousand folks circulatin' about, you've got some notion of what a proposition of that kind means. Course, I wa'n't goin to tackle the job with any hope of gettin' away with it; but right there I'm struck with a pleasin' thought.
"Do I gather that I'm to be the Commander Peary of this expedition?" says I.
It was a unanimous vote that I was.
"Well," says I, "you know you can't carry it through on hot air. It takes coin to get past the gates in this place."
Aunt Isabella says she's prepared to stand all the expense. And what do you suppose she passes out? A green five!
"Ah, say, this ain't any Sunday school excursion," says I. "Why, that wouldn't last us a block. Guess you'll have to dig deeper or call it off."
She was game, though. She brings up a couple of tens next dip, the Bishop adds two more, and I heaves in one on my own hook.
"Now understand," says I, "if I'm headin' this procession there mustn't be any hangin' back or arguin' about the course. Coney's no place for a quitter, and there's some queer corners in it; but we're lookin' for a particular party, so we can't skip any. Follow close, don't ask me fool questions, and everybody keep their eye skinned for Maggie. Is that clear?"
They said it was.
"Then we're off in a bunch. This way!" says I.
Say, it was almost too good to be true. I hadn't more'n got 'em inside of Dreamland before they has their mouths open and their eyes popped, and they was so rattled they didn't know whether they was goin' up or comin' down. The Bishop grabs me by the elbow, Aunt Isabella gets a desperate grip on his coat tails, and Dennis hooks two fingers into the back of her belt. When we lines up like that we has the fat woman takin' her first camel ride pushed behind the screen. The barkers out in front of the dime attractions takes one look at us and loses their voices for a whole minute – and it takes a good deal to choke up one of them human cyclones. I gives 'em back the merry grin and blazes