A Man and His Money. Frederic Stewart Isham
haven't ever tried, since"—a wonderful retrospection in his tones—"since I was a little chap in church and wore white robes."
"Huh!" ejaculated the proprietor of the Saint Cecilia shop. "Mama's angel boy! That must have been a long time ago." The visitor did not answer; he pushed back uncertainly the uncertain lock of dark hair and seemed almost to have forgotten the object of his visit.
"Now see here"—Mr. Mackintosh's voice became purposeful, energetic; he seated himself before a piano that looked as if it had led a hard nomadic existence. "Now see here!" Striking a few chords. "Suppose you try this stunt! What's the Matter with Mother? My own composition! Kerry Mackintosh at his best! Now twitter away, if you've any of that angel voice left!"
The piano rattled; the new-comer, with a certain faint whimsical smile as if he appreciated the humor of his position, did "twitter away"; loud sounds filled the place. Quality might be lacking but of quantity there was a-plenty.
"Bully!" cried Mr. Mackintosh enthusiastically. "That'll start the tears rolling. What's the Matter with Mother? Nothing's the matter with mother. And if any one says there is—Will it go? With that voice?" He clapped his hand on the other's shoulder. "Why, man, they could hear you across Madison Square. You've a voice like an organ. Is it a 'go'?" he demanded.
"I don't think I quite understand," said the new-comer patiently.
"You don't, eh? Look there!"
A covered wagon had at that moment stopped before the door. It was drawn by a horse whose appearance, like that of the piano, spoke more eloquently of services in the past than of hopeful promises for the future. On the side of the vehicle appeared in large letters: "What's the Matter with Mother? Latest Melodic Triumph by America's Greatest Composer, Mr. Kerry Mackintosh." A little to the left of this announcement was painted a harp, probably a reminder of the one Saint Cecilia was supposed to have played. This sentimental symbol was obviously intended to lend dignity and respectability to the otherwise disreputable vehicle of concord and its steed without wings, waiting patiently to be off—or to lie down and pay the debt of nature!
"Shall we try it again, angel voice?" asked Mr. Mackintosh, playing the piano, or "biffing the ivories," as he called it.
"Drop it," returned the visitor, "that 'angel' dope."
"Oh, all right! Anything to oblige."
Before this vaguely apologetic reply, the new-comer once more relapsed into thoughtfulness. His eye passed dubiously over the vehicle of harmony; he began to take an interest in the front door as if again inclined to "back out." Perhaps a wish that the horse might lie down and die at this moment (no doubt he would be glad to!) percolated through the current of his thoughts. That would offer an easy solution to the proposal he imagined would soon be forthcoming—that was forthcoming—and accepted. Of course! What alternative remained? Needs must when an empty pocket drives. Had he not learned the lesson—beggars must not be choosers?
"And now," said Mr. Mackintosh with the air of a man who had cast from his shoulders a distinct problem, "that does away with the necessity of bailing the other chap out. What's your name?"
The visitor hesitated. "Horatio Heatherbloom."
The other looked at him keenly. "The right one," he said softly.
"You've got the only one you'll get," replied the caller, after an interval.
Mr. Mackintosh bestowed upon him a knowing wink. "Sounds like a nom de plume," he chuckled. "What was your line?"
"I don't understand."
"What did you serve time for? Shoplifting?"
"Oh, no," said the other calmly.
"Burglarizing?" With more respect in his tones.
"What do you think?" queried the caller in the same mild voice.
"Not ferocious-looking enough for that lay, I should have thought.
However, you can't always tell by appearances. Now, I wonder—"
"What?" observed Mr. Heatherbloom, after an interval of silence.
"Yes! By Jove!" Mr. Mackintosh was speaking to himself. "It might work—it might add interest—" Mr. Heatherbloom waited patiently. "Would you have any objections," earnestly, "to my making a little addenda to the sign on the chariot of cadence? What's the Matter with Mother? 'The touching lyric, as interpreted by Horatio Heatherbloom, the reformed burglar'?"
"I should object," observed the caller.
"My boy—my boy! Don't be hasty. Take time to think. I'll go further; I'll paint a few iron bars in front of the harp. Suggestive of a prisoner in jail thinking of mother. Say 'yes'."
"No."
"Too bad!" murmured Mr. Mackintosh in disappointed but not altogether convinced tones. "You could use another alias, you know. If you're afraid the police might pipe your game and nab—"
"Drop it, or—"
"All right, Mr. Heatherbloom, or any other blooming name!" Recovering his jocular manner. "It's not for me to inquire the 'why,' or care a rap for the 'wherefore.' Ethics hasn't anything to do with the realm of art."
As he spoke he reached under the desk and took out the jug. "Have some?" extending the tumbler.
The thin lips of the other moved, his hand quickly extended but was drawn as suddenly back. "Thanks, but I'm on the water wagon, old chap."
"Well, I'm not. Do you know you said that just like a gentleman—to the manner born."
"A gentleman? A moment ago I was a reformed burglar."
"You might be both."
Mr. Heatherbloom looked into space; Mr. Mackintosh did not notice a subtle change of expression. That latter gentleman's rapt gaze was wholly absorbed by the half-tumblerful he held in mid air. But only for a moment; the next, he was smacking his lips. "We'll have a bite to eat and then go," he now said more cheerfully. "Ready for luncheon?"
"I could eat"
"Had anything to-day?"
"Maybe."
"And maybe, not!" Half jeeringly. "Why don't you say you've been training down, taking the go-without-breakfast cure? Say, it must be hell looking for a job when you've just 'got out'!"
"How do you know I just 'got out'?"
"You look it, and—there's a lot of reasons. Come on."
Half an hour or so later the covered wagon drove along Fourteenth street. Near the curb, not far from the corner of Broadway, it separated itself from the concourse of vehicles and stopped. Close by, nickel palaces of amusement exhibited their yawning entrances, and into these gilded maws floated, from the human current on the sidewalk, a stream of men, women and children. Encamped at the edge of this eddy, Mr. Mackintosh sounded on the nomadic piano, now ensconced within the coach of concord, the first triumphal strains of the maternal tribute in rag-time.
He and the conspiring instrument were concealed in the depths of the vehicle from the gaze of the multitude, but Mr. Heatherbloom at the back faced them on the little step which served as concert stage. There were no limelights or stereopticon pictures to add to the illusion—only the disconcerting faces and the light of day. He never before knew how bright the day could be but he continued to stand there, in spite of the ludicrous and trying position. He sang, a certain daredevil light in his eye now, a suspicion of a covert smile on his face. It might be rather tragic—his position—but it was also a little funny.
His voice didn't sound any better out of doors than it did in; the "angel" quality of the white-robed choir days had departed with the soul of the boy. Perhaps Mr. Heatherbloom didn't really feel the pathos of the selection; at any rate, those tears Mr. Mackintosh had prophesied would be rolling down the cheeks of the listening multitude weren't forthcoming. One or two onlookers even laughed.
"Pigs!