“Reg’lar rough on rats carnival, eh?” says I. “Three hundred beautiful ladies and poor children, not to mention a few men, doin’ the agony act on the dinin’ room floor! There, Jarvis! How’d you like to carry round a movin’ picture film like that in your mem’ry? Course, I’ve tried to explain to Heiney that nothing of the kind ever took place; that the papers would have been full of it; and that he’d been in the jug long before this, if it had. But this is Heiney’s own particular pipe dream, and he can’t let go of it. It’s got tangled up in the works somehow, and nothing I can say will jar it loose. Poor cuss! Look at him! No doubt about its seemin’ real to him, is there? And how does your little collection of fleabites show up alongside it; eh, Jarvis?”
But Jarvis, he’s gazin’ at Heiney as if this lump of moldy sweitzerkase was fascinatin’ to look at.
“I beg pardon,” says he, “but you say this hotel was at Lake Como?”
Heiney nods his head, then covers his face with his hands, as if he was seein’ things again.
“And what was the date of this – this unfortunate occurrence?” says Jarvis.
“Year before the last, in Augoost,” says Heiney, shudderin’, – “Augoost seven.”
“The seventh of August!” says Jarvis. “And was your hotel the Occident?”
“Oui, oui!” says Heiney. “L’Hôtel Occident.”
“Guess he means Accident,” says I. “What do you know about it, Jarvis?”
“Why,” says he, “I was there.”
“What?” says I. “Here, Heiney, wake up! Here’s one of the victims of your rat poison soup. Does he look as though he’d been through that floor tweestin’ orgy?”
With that Heiney gets mighty interested; but he ain’t convinced until Jarvis gives him all the details, even to namin’ the landlord and describin’ the head waiter.
“But ze soup!” says Heiney. “Ze poi-zon-ed soup?”
“It was bad soup,” says Jarvis; “but not quite so bad as that. Nobody could eat it, and I believe the final report that we had on the subject was to the effect that a half intoxicated chef had seasoned it with the powdered alum that should have gone into the morning rolls.”
“Ze alum! Ze alum! Of zat I nevair think!” squeals Heiney, flopping down on his knees. “Ah, le bon Dieu! Le bon Dieu!”
He clasps his hands in front of him and rolls his eyes to the ceilin’. Say, it was the liveliest French prayin’ I ever saw; for Heiney is rockin’ back and forth, his pop eyes leakin’ brine, and the polly-voo conversation is bubblin’ out of him like water out of a bu’sted fire hydrant.
“Ah, quit it!” says I. “This is no camp meetin’.”
There’s no shuttin’ him off, though, and all the let-up he takes is to break off now and then to get Jarvis to tell him once more that it’s all true.
“You make certainement, eh?” says he. “Nobody was keel?”
“Not a soul,” says Jarvis. “I didn’t even hear of anyone that was made ill.”
“Ah, merci, merci!” howls Heiney, beginnin’ the rockin’ horse act again.
“Say, for the love of Pete, Heiney!” says I, “will you saw that off before you draw a crowd? I’m glad you believe Jarvis, and that Jarvis believes you; but hanged if I can quite swallow any such dopy yarn as that without somethin’ more convincin’! All I know about you is that you’re the worst floor scrubber I ever saw. And you say you was a cook, do you?”
“Cook!” says Heiney, swellin’ up his chest. “I am tell you zat I was ze premier chef. I have made for myself fame. Everywhere in l’Europe zey will tell you of me. For the king of ze Englise I have made a dinner. Moi! I have invent ze sauce Ravignon. From nozzing at all – some meat scraps, some leetle greens – I produce ze dish ravishment.”
“Yes, I’ve heard bluffs like that before,” says I; “but I never saw one made good. Tell you what I’ll do, though: In the far corner of the gym, there, is what Swifty Joe calls his kitchenet, where he warms up his chowder and beans. There’s a two-burner gas stove, an old fryin’ pan, and a coffee pot. Now here’s a dollar. You take that out on Sixth-ave. and spend it for meat scraps and leetle greens. Then you come back here, and while Jarvis and I are takin’ a little exercise, if you can hash up anything that’s fit to eat, I’ll believe your whole yarn. Do you make the try?”
Does he? Say, you never saw such a tickled Frenchy in your life. Before Jarvis and me had got nicely peeled down for our delayed boxin’ bout, Heiney is back with his bundles, has got the fryin’ pan scoured, the gas blazin’, and is throwin’ things together like a juggler doin’ a stage turn.
He sheds the blue jumper, ties a bath towel around him for an apron, makes a hat out of a paper bag, and twists some of that stringy lip decoration of his into a pointed mustache. Honest, he didn’t look nor act any more like the wreck that had dragged the mop in there half an hour before than I look like Bill Taft. And by the time we’ve had our three rounds and a rub down, he’s standin’ doubled up beside a little table that he’s found, with his arms spread out like he was goin’ to take a dive.
“Messieurs,” says he, “eet ees serve.”
“Good!” says I. “I’m just about up to tacklin’ a hot lunch. What kind of a mess have you got here, anyway, Heiney? Any alum in it? Blamed if I don’t make you put away the whole shootin’ match if it ain’t good!”
How’s that? Well, say, I couldn’t name it, or say whether it was a stew, fry or an omelet, but for an impromptu sample of fancy grub it was a little the tastiest article I ever stacked up against.
“Why!” says Jarvis, smackin’ his lips after the third forkful. “It’s ris de veau, isn’t it?”
“But yes, monsieur!” says Heiney, his face lightin’ up. “Eet ees ris de veau grillé, à la financier.”
“And what’s that in English?” says I.
“In Englise,” says Heiney, shruggin’ his shoulders, “eet ees not exist. Eet ees Parisienne.”
“Bully for Paris, then!” says I. “Whatever it might be if it could be naturalized, it touches the spot. I take it all back, Heiney. You’re the shiftiest chef that ever juggled a fryin’ pan. A refill on the riddy-voo, seal-voo-plate.”
Well, what do you guess! Jarvis engages Heiney on the spot, and an hour later they’ve started for Blenmont, both of ’em actin’ like they thought this was a good world to live in, after all.
Yesterday me and Sadie accepts a special invite out there to dinner; and it was worth goin’ out to get. From start to finish it was the finest that ever happened. Afterwards Jarvis has Heiney come up from the kitchen and show himself while we drinks his good health. And say, in his white togs and starched linen cap, he’s got the chef on the canned goods ads. lookin’ like a hash rustler in a beanery.
As for Jarvis, he’s got the pink back in his cheeks, and is holdin’ his chin up once more, and when we left in the mornin’ he was out bossin’ a couple of hundred lab’rers that was takin’ that hill in wheelbarrows and cartin’ it off where it wouldn’t interfere with the lake.
“Shorty,” says he, “I don’t know how you did it, but you’ve made me a sane man again, and I owe you more than – ”
“Ah, chuck it!” says I. “It was curin’ Heiney that cured you.”
“Really?” says he. “Then you are a believer in homeopathic psychotherapeutics?”
“Which?” says I. “Say, write that down on my cuff by syllables, will you? I want to spring it on Swifty Joe.”
CHAPTER XIV
A TRY-OUT FOR TOODLEISM
Eh? Yes, maybe I do walk a little stiff jointed; but, say, I’m satisfied to be walkin’ around at all. If I hadn’t had my luck with me the other day, I’d be wearin’ that left leg in splints and bein’ pushed around in a wheel chair. As it is, the meat is only a little sore, and a few more alcohol rubs will put it in shape.
What was it come so near gettin’ me on the disabled list? Toodleism! No, I expect you didn’t; but let me put you next, son: there’s more ’isms and ’pathys and ’ists floatin’ around these days, than any one head can keep track of. I don’t know much about the lot; but this Toodleism’s a punk proposition. Besides leavin’ me with a game prop, it come near bu’stin’ up the fam’ly.
Seems like trouble was lookin’ for me last week, anyway. First off, I has a run of old timers, that panhandles me out of all the loose coin I has in my clothes. You know how they’ll come in streaks that way, sometimes? Why, I was thinkin’ of havin’ ’em form a line, one while. Then along about Thursday one of my back fletchers develops a case of jumps. What’s a fletcher? Why, a steak grinder, and this one has a ripe spot in it. Course, it’s me for the nickel plated plush chair, with the footrest and runnin’ water attached; and after the tooth doctor has explored my jaw with a rock drill and a few other cute little tools, he says he’ll kill the nerve.
“Don’t, Doc.!” says I. “That nerve’s always been a friend of mine until lately. Wouldn’t dopin’ it do?”
He says it wouldn’t, that nothin’ less’n capital punishment would reform a nerve like that; so I tells him to blaze away. No use goin’ into details. Guess you’ve been there.
“Say, Doc.,” says I once when he was fittin’ a fresh auger into the machine, “you ain’t mistakin’ me for the guilty party, are you?”
“Did I hurt?” says he.
“You don’t call that ticklin’, do you?” says I.
But he only grins and goes on with the excavation. After he’s blasted out a hole big enough for a terminal tunnel he jabs in a hunk of cotton soaked with sulphuric acid, and then tamps down the concrete.
“There!” says he, handin’ me a drug store drink flavored with formaldehyde. “In the course of forty-eight hours or so that nerve will be as dead as a piece of string. Meantime it may throb at intervals.”
That’s what it did, too! It dies as hard as a campaign lie. About every so often, just when I’m forgettin’, it wakes up again, takes a fresh hold, and proceeds to give an imitation of a live wire on an alternatin’ circuit.
“Ahr chee!” says Swifty Joe. “To look at the map of woe you’re carryin’ around, you’d think nobody ever had a bum tusk before.”
“Nobody ever had this one before,” says I, “and the way I look now ain’t chronic, like some faces I know of.”
“Ahr chee!” says Swifty, which is his way of bringin’ in a minority report.
The worst of it was, though, I’m billed to show up at Rockywold for a May party that Sadie and Mrs. Purdy-Pell was pullin’ off, and when I lands there Friday afternoon the jaw sensations was still on the job. I’m feeling about as cheerful and chatty as a Zoo tiger with ingrowin’ toenails. So, after I’ve done the polite handshake, and had a word with Sadie on the fly, I digs out my exercise uniform and makes a sneak down into their dinky little gym., where there’s a first class punchin’ bag that I picked out for Purdy-Pell myself.
You know, I felt like I wanted to hit something, and hit hard. It wa’n’t any idle impulse, either. That tooth was jumpin’ so I could almost feel my heels leave the floor, and I had emotions that it would take more than language to express proper. So I peels off for it, down to a sleeveless jersey and a pair of flannel pants, and starts in to drum out the devil’s tattoo on that pigskin bag.
I was so busy relievin’ my feelin’s that I didn’t notice anything float in the door; but after awhile I looks up and discovers the audience. She’s a young female party that I didn’t remember havin’ seen before at any of the Rockywold doin’s; but it looks like she’s one of the guests, all right.
Well, I hadn’t been introduced, and I couldn’t see what she was buttin’ into the gym. for, anyway, so I keeps right on punchin’ the bag; thinkin’ that if she was shocked any by my costume she’d either get over it, or beat it and have a fit.
She’s one of the kind you might expect ’most anything from, – one of these long, limp, loppy, droop eyed fluffs, with terracotta hair, and a prunes-and-prisms mouth all puckered to say something soulful. She’s wearin’ a whackin’ big black feather lid with a long plume trailin’ down over one ear, a strawb’ry pink dress cut accordin’ to Louis Catorz designs, – waist band under her armpits, you know, – and nineteen-button length gloves. Finish that off with a white hen feather boa, have her hands clasped real shy under her chin, and you’ve got a picture of what I sees there in the door. But it was the friendly size-up she was givin’ me, and no mistake. She must have hung up there three or four minutes too, before she quits, without sayin’ a word.
At the end of half an hour I was feelin’ some better; but when I’d got into my tailor made, I didn’t have any great enthusiasm for tacklin’ food.
“Guess I’ll appoint this a special fast day for mine,” says I to Sadie.
“Why, Shorty!” says she. “Whatever is the matter?” And she has no sooner heard about the touchy tusk than she says, “Oh, pooh! Just say there isn’t any such thing as toothache. Pain, you know, is only a false mental photograph, an error of the mind, and – ”
“Ah, back up, Sadie!” says I. “Do you dream I don’t know whether this jump is in my brain or my jaw? This is no halftone; it’s the real thing.”
“Nonsense!” says she. “You come right downstairs and see Dr. Toodle. He’ll fix it in no time.”
Seems this Toodle was the one the party had been arranged for, and Sadie has to hunt him up. It didn’t take long to trail him down; for pretty soon she comes towin’ him into the drawin’-room, where I’m camped down on a sofa, holdin’ on with both hands.
“Dr. Toodle,” says she, “I want to present Mr. McCabe.”
Now, I don’t claim any seventh-son powers; but I only has to take one look at Toodle to guess that he’s some sort of a phony article. No reg’lar pill distributor would wear around that mushy look that he has on. He’s a good sized, wide shouldered duck, with a thick crop of long hair that just clears his coat collar, and one of these smooth, soft, sentimental faces the women folks go nutty over, – you know, big nose, heavy chin, and sagged mouth corners. His get-up is something between a priest’s and an actor’s, – frock coat, smooth front black vest, and a collar buttoned behind. He gurgles out that he’s charmed to meet Mr. McCabe, and wants to know what’s wrong.
“Nothin’ but a specked tooth,” says I. “But I can stand it.”
“My de-e-ear brother,” says Toodle, puttin’ his fingers together and gazin’ down at me like a prison chaplain givin’ a talk to murderers’ row, “you are possessed of mental error. Your brain focus has been disturbed, and a blurred image has been cast on the sensitive retina of the – ”
“Ah, say, Doc.,” says I, “cut out the preamble! If you’ve got a cocaine gun in your pocket, dig it up!”
Then he goes off again with another string of gibberish, about pain bein’ nothin’ but thought, and thought bein’ something we could steer to suit ourselves. I can’t give you the patter word for word; but the nub of it was that I could knock that toothache out in one round just by thinkin’ hard. Now wouldn’t that peeve you? What?
“All right, Doc.,” says I. “I’ll try thinkin’ I ain’t got any ache, if you’ll sit here and keep me comp’ny by thinkin’ you’ve had your dinner. Is it a go?”
Well, it wa’n’t. He shrugs his shoulders, and says he’s afraid I’m a difficult subject, and then he teeters off on his toes. Sadie tells me I ought to be ashamed of myself for tryin’ to be so fresh.
“He’s a very distinguished man,” she says. “He’s the founder of Toodleism. He’s written a book about it.”
“I thought he looked like a nutty one,” says I. “Keep him away from me; I’ll be all right by mornin’.”
The argument might have lasted longer; but just then comes the dinner call, and they all goes in where the little necks was waitin’ on the cracked ice, and I’m left alone to count the jumps and enjoy myself. Durin’ one of the calm spells I wanders into the lib’ry, picks a funny paper off the table, and settles down in a cozy corner to read the jokes. I must have been there near an hour, when in drifts the loppy young lady in the pink what-d’ye-call-it, – the one I’d made the silent hit with in the gym., – and she makes straight for me.
“Oh, here you are!” says she, like we was old friends. “Do you know, I’ve just heard of your – your trouble.”
“Ah, it ain’t any killin’ matter,” says I. “It don’t amount to much.”
“Of course it doesn’t!” says she. “And that is what I came to talk to you about. I am Miss Lee, – Violet Lee.”
“Ye-e-es?” says I.
“You see,” she goes on, “I am Dr. Toodle’s secretary and assistant.”
“Oh!” says I. “He’s in luck, then.”
“Now, now!” says she, just like that, givin’ me a real giddy tap with her fan. “You must be real serious.”
“I’m in condition to be all of that,” says I. “Are you plannin’ to try the – ”
“I am going to help you to banish the imaginary pains, Mr. McCabe,” says she. “Now first you must repeat after me the summum bonum.”
“Eh?” says I.
“It’s very simple,” says she, floppin’ down on the cushions alongside and reachin’ out for one of my hands. “It begins this way, ‘I am a child of light and goodness.’ Now say that.”
Say, how would you duck a proposition of that kind? There was Violet, with her big eyes rolled at me real pleadin’, and her mouth puckered up real cunning, and the soft, clingin’ grip on my right paw. Well, I says it over.
“That’s it!” she purrs. “Now, ‘Evil and fear and pain are the creatures of darkness.’ Go on!”
“Sure thing!” says I. “‘Evil and fear and – Ouch!”
Ever feel one of them last gasps that a nerve gives when it goes out of business? I thought the top of my head was comin’ off. But it didn’t, and a couple of seconds later I knew the jumpin’ was all over; so I straightens my face out, and we proceeds with the catechism.
It was a bird, too. I didn’t mind doin’ it at all with Miss Lee there to help; for, in spite of her loppy ways, she’s more or less of a candy girl. There was a good deal to it, and it all means the same as what Toodle was tryin’ to hand out; but now that the ache has quit I’m ready for any kind of foolishness.
Violet had got to the point where she has snuggled up nice and close, with one hand still grippin’ mine and the other smoothin’ out my jaw while she told me again how pain was only a pipe dream, – when I glances over her shoulder and sees Sadie floatin’ in hangin’ to Dr. Toodle’s arm.
And does Sadie miss the tableau in our corner? Not to any extent! Her eyebrows go up, and her mouth comes open. That’s the first indication. Next her lips shut tight, and her eyes narrow down, and before you could count three she’s let go of Toodle as if he was a hot potato, and she’s makin’ a bee line for the cozy corner.
“Why!” says Miss Lee, lookin’ up and forecastin’ the comin’ conditions in a flash. “Is dinner over? Oh, and there’s Dr. Toodle!” and off she trips, leavin’ the McCabe fam’ly to hold a reunion.
“Well, I never!” says Sadie, givin’ me the gimlet gaze. And say, she puts plenty of expression into them three words.
“Me either,” says I. “Not very often, anyway. But a chance is a chance.”
“I hope I didn’t intrude?” says she, her eyes snappin’.
“There’s no tellin’,” says I.
“It was a very touching scene!” says she. “Very!”
“Wa’n’t it?” says I. “Nice girl, Violet.”
“Violet! Humph!” says she. “There’s no accounting for tastes!”
“Just what I was thinkin’ when I see you with the timelock clutch on that freak doctor’s south wing,” says I.
“Dr. Toodle,” says she, “was explaining to me his wonderful self healing theories.”
“And dear Violet,” says I, “was puttin’ me through a course of sprouts in the automatic toothache cure.”
“Oh, indeed!” says Sadie. “Was patting your cheek part of it?”
“I hope so,” says I.
“Huh!” says she. “I suppose it worked?”
“Like a charm,” says I. “All that bothers me now is how I can dig up another pain.”
“You might have your dear Violet see what can be done for that soft spot in your head!” she snaps. “Only next time take her off out of sight, please.”
“Oh, we’ll attend to that, all right,” says I. “This havin’ a green eyed wife buttin’ in just at the interestin’ point is something fierce!” And that’s where I spread it on too thick.
“Don’t be a chump, Shorty!” says Sadie, lettin’ loose a sudden giggle and mussin’ my hair up with both hands. It’s a way she has of gettin’ out of a corner, and she’s skipped off before I’m sure whether she’s still got a grouch, or is only lettin’ on.
By that time my appetite has come back; so I holds up the butler and has him lay out a solitaire feed. And when I goes back to the crowd again I finds Toodle has the center of the stage, with the spotlight full on him. All the women are gathered round, listening to his guff like it was sound sense. Seems he’s organized a new deal on the thought cure stunt, and he’s workin’ it for all it’s worth. The men, though, don’t appear so excited over what he’s sayin’.
“Confounded rubbish, I call it!” says Mr. Purdy-Pell.
“You ought to hear it from Violet,” says I. “She’s the star explainer of that combination.”
But Violet seems to have faded into the background. We don’t see anything more of her that evenin’, nor she wa’n’t in evidence next mornin’. Doc. Toodle was, though. He begins by tellin’ how he never takes anything but hot water and milk on risin’; but that in the middle of the forenoon he makes it a point to put away about three fresh laid eggs, raw, in a glass of sherry.
“How interesting!” says Mrs. Purdy-Pell. “Then we must drive over to Fernbrook Farm, right after breakfast, and get some of their lovely White Leghorn eggs.”
That was the sort of excursion I was rung into; so the bunch of us piles into the wagonette and starts for a fresh supply of hen fruit. When we gets to the farm the superintendent invites us to take a tour through the incubator houses, and of course they all wants to see the dear little chickies and so on. All but me. I stays and chins with the coachman while he walks the horses around the driveway.
In about half an hour they comes troopin’ back, Toodle in the lead, luggin’ a paper bag full of warm eggs. He don’t wait for the others, but pikes for the wagonette and climbs in one of the side seats facin’ me. We was just turnin’ to back up to the block for the ladies, when a yellow kyoodle dashes around the corner after a cat. Them skittish horses was just waitin’ for some such excuse as that, and before Mr. Driver can put the curb bit on ’em hard enough they’ve done a quick pivot, cramped the wheels, and turned us over on the soggy grass as neat as anything you ever see.
Me bein’ on the low side, I strikes the ground first; but before I can squirm out, down comes Toodle on top, landin’ his one hundred and ninety pounds so sudden that it knocks the wind clear out of me. He’s turned over on the way down, so I’ve got his shoulder borin’ into my chest and the heavy part of him on my leg.
Course, the women squeals, and the horses cut up some; but the driver has landed on his feet and has them by the head in no time at all, so we wa’n’t dragged around any. Noticin’ that, I lays still and waits for Toodle to pry himself loose. But the Doc. don’t seem in any hurry to move, and the next thing I know I hear him groanin’ and mumblin’ under his breath. Between groans he was tryin’ to say over that rigmarole of his.
“I am a child of light – Oh, dear me! – of light and goodness!” he was pantin’ out. “Evil and fear and – Oh, my poor back! – and pain are creatures of – Oh my, oh my! – of darkness! Nothing can harm me!”
“Say, something is goin’ to harm you mighty sudden,” says I, “if you don’t let me up out of this.”
“Oh, my life blood!” he groans. “I can feel my life blood! Oh, oh! I am a child of – ”
“Ah, slush!” says I. “Get up and shake yourself. Think I’m a bloomin’ prayer rug that you can squat on all day? Roll over!” and I manages to hand him a short arm punch in the ribs that stirs him up enough so I can slide out from under. Soon’s I get on my feet and can hop around once or twice I finds there’s no bones stickin’ through, and then I turns to have a look at him.
And say, I wouldn’t have missed that exhibition for twice the shakin’ up I got! There he is, stretched out on the wet turf, his eyelids flutterin’, his breath comin’ fast, and his two hands huggin’ tight what’s left of that bu’sted paper bag, right up against the front of his preacher’s vest. And can you guess what’s happened to them eggs?
“Oh, my life blood!” he keeps on moanin’. “I can feel it oozing through – ”
“Ah, you’re switched, Toodle!” says I. “Your brain kodak is out of register, that’s all. It ain’t life blood you’re losin’; it’s only your new laid omelet that’s leakin’ over your vest front.”
About then I gets a squint at Sadie and Mrs. Purdy-Pell, and they’re almost chokin’ to death in a funny fit.
Well, say, that was the finish of Toodleism with the Rockywold bunch. The Doc. didn’t have a scratch nor a bruise on him, and after he’d been helped up and scraped off, he was almost as good as new. But his conversation works is clogged for good, and he has his chin down on his collar. They sends him and Violet down to catch the next train, and Sadie and Mrs. Purdy-Pell spends the rest of the day givin’ imitations of how Toodle hugged up the eggs and grunted that he was a child of light.
“Not that I don’t believe there was something in what he said,” Sadie explains to me afterwards; “only – only – ”
“Only he was a false alarm, eh?” says I. “Well, Violet wa’n’t that kind, anyway.”
“Pooh!” says she. “I suppose you’ll brag about Violet for the rest of your life.”
Can you keep ’em guessin’ long, when it comes to things of that kind? Not if they’re like Sadie.