Shorty And The Stray

________________________________________________
Title:     Shorty And The Stray
Author: Sewell Ford [More Titles by Ford]

Say, I don't know whether I'll ever get to be a reg'lar week-ender or not, but I've been makin' another stab at it. What's the use ownin' property in the country house belt if you don't use it now and then? So last Saturday, after I shuts up the Studio, I scoots out to my place in Primrose Park.

Well, I puts in the afternoon with Dennis Whaley, who's head gardener and farm superintendent, and everything else a three-acre plot will stand for. Then, about supper time, as I'm just settlin' myself on the front porch with my heels on the stoop rail, wonderin' how folks can manage to live all the time where nothin' ever happens, I hears a chug-chuggin', and up the drive rolls a cute little one-seater bubble, with nobody aboard but a Boston terrier and a boy.

"Chee!" thinks I, "they'll be givin' them gasolene carts to babies next. Wonder what fetches the kid in here?"

Maybe he was a big ten or a small twelve; anyway, he wa'n't more. He's one of these fine haired, light complected youngsters, that a few years ago would have had yellow Fauntleroy curls, and been rigged out in a lace collar and a black velvet suit, and had a nurse to lead him around by the hand. But the new crop of young Astergould Thickwads is bein' trained on different lines. This kid was a good sample. His tow coloured hair is just long enough to tousle nice, and he's bare headed at that. Then he's got on corduroy knickers, a khaki jacket, black leather leggin's, and gauntlet gloves, and he looks almost as healthy as if he was poor.

"Hello, youngster!" says I. "Did you lose the shuffer overboard?"

"Beg pardon," says he; "but I drive my own machine."

"Oh!" says I. "I might have known by the costume."

By this time he's standin' up with his hand to his ear, squintin' out through the trees to the main road, like he was listenin' for somethin'. In a second he hears one of them big six-cylinder cars go hummin' past, and it seems to be what he was waitin' for.

"Goin' to stop, are you?" says I.

"Thank you," says he, "I will stay a little while, if you don't mind," and he proceeds to shut off the gasolene and climb out. The dog follows him.

"Givin' some one the slip?" says I.

"Oh, no," says he real prompt. "I--I've been in a race, that's all."

"Ye-e-es?" says I. "Had a start, didn't you?"

"A little," says he.

With that he sits down on the steps, snuggles the terrier up alongside of him, and begins to look me and the place over careful, without sayin' any more. Course, that ain't the way boys usually act, unless they've got stage fright, and this one didn't seem at all shy. As near as I could guess, he was thinkin' hard, so I let him take his time. I figures out from his looks, and his showin' up in a runabout, that he's come from some of them big country places near by, and that when he gets ready he'll let out what he's after. Sure enough, pretty soon he opens up.

"Wouldn't you like to buy the machine, sir?" says he.

"Selling out, are you?" says I. "Well, what's your askin' price for a rig of that kind?"

He sizes me up for a minute, and then sends out a feeler. "Would five dollars be too much?"

"No," says I, "I shouldn't call that a squeeze, providin' you threw in the dog."

He looks real worried then, and hugs the terrier up closer than ever. "I couldn't sell Togo," says he. "You--you wouldn't want him too, would you?"

When I sees that it wouldn't take much more to get them big blue eyes of his to leakin', I puts him easy on the dog question. "But what's your idea of sellin' the bubble?" says I.

"Why," says he, "I won't need it any longer. I'm going to be a motorman on a trolley car."

"That's a real swell job," says I. "But how will the folks at home take it?"

"The folks at home?" says he, lookin' me straight in the eye. "Why, there aren't any. I haven't any home, you know."

Honest, the way he passed out that whopper was worth watchin'. It was done as cool and scientific as a real estate man takin' oath there wa'n't a mosquito in the whole county.

"Then you're just travelin' around loose, eh?" says I. "Where'd you strike from to-day?"

"Chicago," says he.

"Do tell!" says I. "That's quite a day's run. You must have left before breakfast."

"I had breakfast early," says he.

"Dinner in Buffalo?" says I.

"I didn't stop for dinner," says he.

"In that case--er--what's the name?" says I.

"Mister Smith," says he.

"Easy name to remember," says I.

"Ye-e-es. I'd rather you called me Gerald, though," says he.

"Good," says I. "Well, Gerald, seein' as you've made a long jump since breakfast, what do you say to grubbin' up a little with me, eh?"

That strikes him favourable, and as Mother Whaley is just bringin' in the platter, we goes inside and sits down, Togo and all. He sure didn't fall to like a half starved kid; but maybe that was because he was so busy lookin' at Mrs. Whaley. She ain't much on the French maid type, that's a fact. Her uniform is a checked apron over a faded red wrapper, and she has a way of puggin' her hair up in a little knob that makes her face look like one of the kind they cut out of a cocoanut.

Gerald eyes her for a while; then he leans over to me and whispers, "Is this the butler's night off?"

"Yes," says I. "He has seven a week. This is one of 'em."

After he's thought that over he grins. "I see," says he. "You means you haven't a butler? Why, I thought everyone did."

"There's a few of us struggles along without," says I. "We don't brag about it, though. But where do you keep your butler now, Mr. Gerald?"

That catches him with his guard down, and he begins to look mighty puzzled.

"Oh, come," says I, "you might's well own up. You've brought the runaway act right down to the minute, son; but barrin' the details, it's the same old game. I done the same when I was your age, only instead of runnin' off in a thousand-dollar bubble, I sneaked into an empty freight car."

"Did you?" says he, his eyes openin' wide. "Was it nice, riding in the freight car?"

"Never had so much fun out of a car ride since," says I. "But I was on the war path then. My outfit was a blank cartridge pistol, a scalpin' knife hooked from the kitchen, and a couple of nickel lib'ries that told all about Injun killin'. Don't lay out to slaughter any redskins, do you?"

He looks kind of weary, and shakes his head.

"Well, runnin' a trolley car has its good points, I s'pose," says I; "but I wouldn't tackle it for a year or so if I was you. You'd better give me your 'phone number, and I'll ring up the folks, so they won't be worryin' about you."

But say, this Gerald boy, alias Mr. Smith, don't fall for any smooth talk like that. He just sets his jaws hard and remarks, quiet like, "I guess I'd better be going."

"Where to?" says I.

"New Haven ought to be a good place to sell the machine," says he. "I can get a job there too."

At that I goes to pumpin' him some more, and he starts in to hand out the weirdest line of yarns I ever listened to. Maybe he wa'n't a very skilful liar, but he was a willin' one. Quick as I'd tangle him up on one story, he'd lie himself out and into another. He accounts for his not havin' any home in half a dozen different ways, sometimes killin' off his relations one by one, and then bunchin' 'em in a railroad wreck or an earthquake. But he sticks to Chicago as the place where he lived last, although the nearest he can get to the street number is by sayin' it was somewhere near Central Park.

"That happens to be in New York," says I.

"There are two in Chicago," says he.

"All right, Gerald," says I. "I give up. We'll let it go that you're playin' a lone hand; but before you start out again you'd better get a good night's rest here. What do you say?"

He didn't need much urgin'; so we runs the bubble around into the stable, and I tucks him and Togo away together in the spare bed.

"Who's the little lad?" says Dennis to me.

"For one thing," says I, "he's an honourary member of the Ananias Club. If I can dig up any more information between now and mornin', Dennis, I'll let you know."

First I calls up two or three village police stations along the line; but they hadn't had word of any stray kid.

"That's funny," thinks I. "If he'd lived down in Hester-st., there'd be four thousand cops huntin' him up by this time."

But it wa'n't my cue to do the frettin'; so I lets things rest as they are, only takin' a look at the kid before I turns in, to see that he was safe. And say, that one look gets me all broke up; for when I tiptoes in with the candle I finds that pink and white face of his all streaked up with cryin', and he has one arm around Togo, like he thought that terrier was all the friend he had left.

Gee! but that makes me feel mean! Why, if I'd known he was goin' to blubber himself to sleep that way, I'd hung around and cheered him up. He'd been so brash about this runaway business, though, that I never suspicioned he'd go to pieces the minute he was left alone. And they look different when they're asleep, don't they? I guess I must have put in the next two hours' wonderin' how it was that a nice, bright youngster like that should come to quit home. If he'd come from some tenement house, where it was a case of pop bein' on the island, and maw rushin' the can and usin' the poker on him, you wouldn't think anything of it. But here he has his bubble, and his high priced terrier, and things like that, and yet he does the skip. Well, there wa'n't any answer.

Not hearin' him stirrin' when I gets up in the mornin', I makes up my mind to let him snooze as long as he likes. So I has breakfast and goes out front with the mornin' papers. It got to be after nine o'clock, and I was just thinkin' of goin' up to see how he was gettin' on, when I sees a big green tourin' car come dashin' down into the park and turn into my front drive. There was a crowd in it; but, before I can get up, out flips a stunnin' lookin' bunch of dry goods, all veils and silk dust coat, and wants to know if I'm Shorty McCabe: which I says I am.

"Then you have my boy here, have you?" she shoots out. And, say, by the suspicious way she looks at me, you'd thought I'd been breakin' into some nursery. I'll admit she was a beaut, all right; but the hard look I gets from them big black eyes didn't win me for a cent.

"Maybe if I knew who you was, ma'am," says I, "we'd get along faster."

That don't soothe her a bit. She gives me one glare, and then whirls around and shouts to a couple of tough lookin' bruisers that was in the car.

"Quick!" she sings out. "Watch the rear and side doors. I'm sure he's here."

And the mugs pile out and proceed to plant themselves around the house.

"Sa-a-ay," says I, "this begins to look excitin'. Is it a raid, or what? Who are the husky boys?"

"Those men are in my employ," says she.

"Private sleut's?" says I.

"They are," says she, "and if you'll give up the boy without any trouble I will pay you just twice as much as you're getting to hide him. I'm going to have him, anyway."

"Well, well!" says I.

And say, maybe you can guess by that time I was feelin' like it was a warm day. If I'd had on a celluloid collar, it'd blown up. Inside of ten seconds, I've shucked my coat and am mixin' it with the plug that's guardin' the side door. The doin's was short and sweet. He's no sooner slumped down to feel what's happened to his jaw than No. 2 come up. He acts like he was ambitious to do damage, but the third punch leaves him on the grass. Then I takes each of 'em by the ear, leads 'em out to the road, and gives 'em a little leather farewell to help 'em get under way.

"Sorry to muss your hired help, ma'am," says I, comin' back to the front stoop; "but this is one place in the country where private detectives ain't wanted. And another thing, let's not have any more talk about me bein' paid. If there's anyone here belongin' to you, you can have him and welcome; but cut out the hold up business and the graft conversation. Now again, what's the name?"

She was so mad she was white around the lips; but she's one of the kind that knows when she's up against it, too. "I am Mrs. Rutgers Greene," says she.

"Oh, yes," says I. "From down on the point?"

"Mr. Greene lives at Orienta Point, I believe," says she.

Now that was plain enough, wa'n't it? You wouldn't think I'd need postin' on what they was sayin' at the clubs, after that. But these high life break-aways are so common you can't keep track of all of 'em, and she sprung it so offhand that I didn't more'n half tumble to what she meant.

"I suppose I may have Gerald now?" she goes on.

"Sure," says I. "I'll bring him down." And as I skips up the stairs I sings out, "Hey, Mr. Smith! Your maw's come for you!"

There was nothin' doin', though. I knocks on the door, and calls again. Next I goes in. And say, it wa'n't until I'd pawed over all the clothes, and looked under the bed and into the closet, that I could believe it. He must have got up at daylight, slipped down the back way in his stockin' feet, and skipped. The note on the wash stand clinches it. It was wrote kind of wobbly, and the spellin' was some streaked; but there wa'n't any mistakin' what he meant. He was sorry he had to tell so many whoppers, but he wa'n't ever goin' home any more, and he was much obliged for my tip about the freight car. Maybe my jaw didn't drop.

"Thick head!" says I, catchin' sight of myself in the bureau glass. "You would get humorous!"

When I goes back down stairs I find Mrs. Greene pacin' the porch. "Well?" says she.

I throws up my hands. "Skipped," says I.

"Do you mean to say he has gone?" she snaps.

"That's the size of it," says I.

"Then this is Rutgers's work. Oh, the beast!" and she begins stampin' her foot and bitin' her lips.

"That's where you're off," says I; "this is a case of----"

But just then another big bubble comes dashin' up, with four men in it, and the one that jumps out and joins us is the main stem of the fam'ly. I could see that by the way the lady turns her back on him. He's a clean cut, square jawed young feller, and by the narrow set of his eyes and the sandy colour of his hair you could guess he might be some obstinate when it came to an argument. But he begins calm enough.

"I'm Rutgers Greene," says he, "and at the police station they told me Gerald was here. I'll take charge of him, if you please."

"Have you brought a bunch of sleut's too?" says I.

He admits that he has.

"Then chase 'em off the grounds before I has another mental typhoon," says I. "Shoo 'em!"

"If they're not needed," says he, "and you object to----"

"I do," says I.

So he has his machine run out to the road again.

"Now," says I, "seein' as this is a family affair----"

"I beg pardon," puts in Greene; "but you hardly understand the situation. Mrs. Greene need not be consulted at all."

"I've as much right to Gerald as you have!" says she, her eyes snappin' like a trolley wheel on a wet night.

"We will allow the courts to decide that point," says he, real frosty.

"I don't want to butt in on any tender little domestic scene," says I; "but if I was you two I'd find the kid first. He's been gone since daylight."

"Gone!" says Greene. "Where?"

"There's no tellin' that," says I. "All I know is that when he left here he was headed for the railroad track, meanin' to jump a freight train and----"

"The railroad!" squeals Mrs. Greene. "Oh, he'll be killed! Oh, Gerald! Gerald!"

Greene don't say a word, but he turns the colour of a slice of Swiss cheese.

"Oh, what can we do?" says the lady, wringin' her hands.

"Any of them detectives of yours know the kid by sight?" says I.

They didn't. Neither did Greene's bunch. They was both fresh lots.

"Well," says I, "I'll own up that part of this is up to me, and I won't feel right until I've made a try to find him. I'm goin' to start now, and I don't know how long I'll be gone. From what I've seen I can guess that this cottage will be a little small for you two; but if you're anxious to hear the first returns, I'd advise you to stay right here. So long!"

And with that I grabs my hat and makes a dash out the back way, leavin' 'em standin' there back to back. I never tracked a runaway kid along a railroad, and I hadn't much notion of how to start; but I makes for the rock ballast just as though I had the plan all mapped out.

The first place I came across was a switch tower, and I hadn't chinned the operators three minutes before I gets on to the fact that an east bound freight usually passed there about six in the mornin', and generally stopped to drill on the siding just below. That was enough to send me down the track; but there wa'n't any traces of the kid.

"New Haven for me, then," says I, and by good luck I catches a local. Maybe that was a comfortable ride, watchin' out of the rear window for somethin' I was hopin' I wouldn't see! And when it was over I hunts up the yard master and finds the freight I was lookin' for was just about due.

"Expectin' a consignment?" says he.

"Yes," says I. "I'm a committee of one to receive a stray kid."

"Oh, that's it, eh?" says he. "We get 'em 'most every week. I'll see that you have a pass to overhaul the empties."

After I'd peeked into about a dozen box cars, and dug up nothin' more encouraging than a couple of boozy 'boes, I begun to think my calculations was all wrong. I was just slidin' another door shut when I notices a bundle of somethin' over in the far corner. I had half a mind not to climb in; for it didn't look like anything alive, but I takes a chance at it for luck, and the first thing I hears is a growl. The next minute I has Togo by the collar and the kid up on my arm. It was Gerald, all right, though he was that dirty and rumpled I hardly knew him.

He just groans and grabs hold of me like he was afraid I was goin' to get away. Why, the poor little cuss was so beat out and scared I couldn't get a word from him for half an hour. But after awhile I coaxed him to sit up on a stool and have a bite to eat, and when I've washed off some of the grime, and pulled out a few splinters from his hands, we gets a train back. First off I thought I'd 'phone Mr. and Mrs. Greene, but then I changes my mind. "Maybe it'll do 'em good to wait," thinks I.

We was half way back when Gerald looks up and says, "You won't take me home, will you?"

"What's the matter with home, kid?" says I.

"Well," says he, and I could see by the struggle he was havin' with his upper lip that it was comin' out hard, "mother says father isn't a nice man, and father says I mustn't believe what she says at all, and--and--I don't think I like either of them well enough to be their little boy any more. I don't like being stolen so often, either."

"Stolen!" says I.

"Yes," says he. "You see, when I'm with father, mother is always sending men to grab me up and take me off where she is. Then father sends men to get me back, and--and I don't believe I've got any real home any more. That's why I ran away. Wouldn't you?"

"Kid," says I, "I ain't got a word to say."

He was too tired and down in the mouth to do much conversing either. All he wants is to curl up with his head against my shoulder and go to sleep. After he wakes up from his nap he feels better, and when he finds we're goin' back to my place he gets quite chipper. All the way walkin' up from the station I tries to think of how it would be best to break the news to him about the grand household scrap that was due to be pulled off the minute we shows up. I couldn't do it, though, until we'd got clear to the house.

"Now, youngster," says I, "there's a little surprise on tap for you here, I guess. You walk up soft and peek through the door."

For a minute I thought maybe they'd cleared out, he was so still about it, so I steps up to rubber, too. And there's Mr. and Mrs. Rutgers Greene, sittin' on the sofa about as close as they could get, her weepin' damp streaks down his shirt front, and him pattin' her back hair gentle and lovin'.

"Turn off the sprayer!" says I. "Here's the kid!"

Well, we was all mixed up for the next few minutes. They hugs Gerald both to once, and then they hugs each other, and if I hadn't ducked just as I did I ain't sure what would have happened to me. When I comes back, half an hour later, all I needs is one glance to see that a lot of private sleut's and court lawyers is out of a job.

"Shorty," says Greene, givin' me the hearty grip, "I don't know how I'm ever goin' to----"

"Ah, lose it!" says I. "It was just by a fluke I got on the job, anyway. That's a great kid of yours, eh?"

Did I say anything about Primrose Park bein' a place where nothin' ever happened? Well, you can scratch that.

[The end]
Sewell Ford's short story: Shorty And The Stray

________________________________________________



GO TO TOP OF SCREEN