Odd Numbers. Ford Sewell
the Duchess!” squeals a couple in chorus. “Why, she always dines out, you know. You’ll find her around at Doughretti’s, on 27th-st.”
“Duchess!” says Vincent. “I—I’m afraid there’s some mistake.”
“Not at all,” says one of the crowd. “We all call her that. She’s got Little Spring Water with her to-night. Doughretti’s, just in from the avenue, is the place.”
And Vincent is the worst puzzled gent you ever saw as he climbs back into the cab.
“It can’t be mother they mean,” says he. “No one would ever think of calling her Duchess.”
“There’s no accountin’ for what them actorines would do,” says I. “Anyway, all you got to do is take a peek at the party, and if it’s a wrong steer we can go back and take a fresh start.”
You know Doughretti’s, if you don’t you know a dozen just like it. It’s one of these sixty-cent table dotty joints, with an electric name sign, a striped stoop awnin’, and a seven-course menu manifolded in pale purple ink. You begin the agony with an imitation soup that looks like Rockaway beach water when the tide’s comin’ in, and you end with a choice of petrified cheese rinds that might pass for souvenirs from the Palisades.
If you don’t want to taste what you eat, you let ’em hand you a free bottle of pure California claret, vatted on East Houston-st. It’s a mixture of filtered Croton, extra quality aniline dyes, and two kinds of wood alcohol, and after you’ve had a pint of it you don’t care whether the milk fed Philadelphia chicken was put in cold storage last winter, or back in the year of the big wind.
Madam Doughretti had just fed the Punk Lady waltz into the pianola for the fourth time as we pulls up at the curb.
“It’s no use,” says Vincent. “She wouldn’t be here. I will wait, though, while you take a look around; if you will, Shorty.”
On the way over he’s given me a description of his missin’ parent; so I pikes up the steps, pushes past the garlic smells, and proceeds to inspect the groups around the little tables. What I’m lookin’ for is a squatty old party with gray hair pasted down over her ears, and a waist like a bag of hay tied in the middle. She’s supposed to be wearin’ a string bonnet about the size of a saucer, with a bunch of faded velvet violets on top, a coral brooch at her neck, and either a black alpaca or a lavender sprigged grenadine. Most likely, too, she’ll be doin’ the shovel act with her knife.
Well, there was a good many kinds of females scattered around the coffee stained tablecloths, but none that answers to these specifications. I was just gettin’ ready to call off the search, when I gets my eye on a couple over in one corner. The gent was one of these studio Indians, with his hair tucked inside his collar.
The old girl facin’ him didn’t have any Tonawanda look about her, though. She was what you might call a frosted pippin, a reg’lar dowager dazzler, like the pictures you see on fans. Her gray hair has been spliced out with store puffs until it looks like a weddin’ cake; her hat is one of the new wash basin models, covered with pink roses that just matches the color of her cheeks; and her peek-a-poo lace dress fits her like it had been put onto her with a shoe horn.
Sure, I wa’n’t lookin’ for any such party as this; but I can’t help takin’ a second squint. I notices what fine, gentle old eyes she has, and while I was doin’ that I spots something else. Just under her chin is one of them antique coral pins. Course, it looked like a long shot, but I steps out to the door and motions Vincent to come in.
“I expect we’re way off the track,” says I; “but I’d like to have you take a careless glance at the giddy old party over under the kummel sign in the corner; the one facin’ this way—there.”
Vincent gives a jump at the first look. Then he starts for her full tilt, me trailin’ along and whisperin’ to him not to make any fool break unless he’s dead sure. But there’s no holdin’ him back. She’s so busy chattin’ with the reformed Sioux in store clothes that she don’t notice Vincent until he’s right alongside, and just as she looks up he lets loose his indignation.
“Why, grandmother!” says he.
She don’t seem so much jarred as you might think. She don’t even drop the fork that she’s usin’ to twist up a gob of spaghetti on. All she does is to lift her eyebrows in a kind of annoyed way, and shoot a quick look at the copper tinted gent across the table.
“There, there, Vincent?” says she. “Please don’t grandmother me; at least, not in public.”
“But,” says he, “you know that you are a——”
“I admit nothing of the kind,” says she. “I may be your mother; but as for being anybody’s grandmother, that is an experience I know nothing about. Now please run along, Vincent, and don’t bother.”
That leaves Vincent up in the air for keeps. He don’t know what to make of this reception, or of the change that happened to her; but he feels he ought to register some sort of a kick.
“But, mother,” says he, “what does this mean? Such clothes! And such—such”—here he throws a meanin’ look at the Indian gent.
“Allow me,” says grandmother, breakin’ in real dignified, “to introduce Mr. John Little Bear, son of Chief Won-go-plunki. I am very sorry to interrupt our talk on art, John; but I suppose I must say a few words to Vincent. Would you mind taking your coffee on the back veranda?”
He was a well-trained red man, John was, and he understands the back out sign; so inside of a minute the crockery has been pushed away and I’m attendin’ a family reunion that appears to be cast on new lines. Vincent begins again by askin’ what it all means.
“It means, Vincent,” says she, “that I have caught up with the procession. I tried being the old-fashioned kind of grandmother, and I wasn’t a success. Now I’m learning the new way, and I like it first rate.”
“But your—your clothes!” gasps Vincent.
“Well, what of them?” says she. “You made fun of the ones I used to wear; but these, I would have you know, were selected for me by a committee of six chorus ladies who know what is what. I am quite satisfied with my clothes, Vincent.”
“Possibly they’re all right,” says he; “but how—how long have you been wearing your hair that way?”
“Ever since Madam Montrosini started on my improvement course,” says she. “I am told it is quite becoming. And have you noticed my new waist line, Vincent?”
Vincent hadn’t; but he did then, and he had nothin’ to say, for she has an hourglass lookin’ like a hitchin’ post. Not bein’ able to carry on the debate under them headings, he switches and comes out strong on what an awful thing it was for her to be livin’ among such dreadful people.
“Why,” says grandmother, “they’re real nice, I’m sure. They have been just as good to me as they could be. They take turns going out to dinner with me and showing me around the town.”
“Good heavens!” says Vincent. “And this—this Bear person, does he——”
“He is an educated, full blooded Sioux,” says grandmother. “He has toured Europe with Buffalo Bill, and just now he is an artists’ model. He is very entertaining company, Johnny is.”
“Johnny!” gasps Vincent under his breath. That’s the last straw. He lays down the law then and there to grandmother. If she ever expects him to recognize her again, she must shake this whole crowd and come with him.
“Where to, Vincent?” says she.
“Why, to my home, of course,” says he.
“And have your wife’s maid speak of me as a dumpy old scarecrow? No, thank you!” and she calls the waiter to bring a demitasse with cognac.