Part 2 (1/2)

”Oh, I can carry it,” I said. ”It's a mere nothing.”

”My dear fellow,” said Father Knickerbocker, a little testily I thought, ”I'm as democratic and as plain and simple as any man in this city. But when it comes to carrying a handbag in full sight of all this crowd, why, as I said to Peter Stuyvesant about--about”--here a misty look seemed to come over the old gentleman's face--”about two hundred years ago, I'll be hanged if I will. It can't be done. It's not up to date.”

While he was saying this, Father Knickerbocker had beckoned to a group of porters.

”Take this gentleman's handbag,” he said, ”and you carry his newspapers, and you take his umbrella. Here's a quarter for you and a quarter for you and a quarter for you. One of you go in front and lead the way to a taxi.”

”Don't you know the way yourself?” I asked in a half-whisper.

”Of course I do, but I generally like to walk with a boy in front of me.

We all do. Only the cheap people nowadays find their own way.”

Father Knickerbocker had taken my arm and was walking along in a queer, excited fas.h.i.+on, senile and yet with a sort of forced youthfulness in his gait and manner.

”Now then,” he said, ”get into this taxi.”

”Can't we _walk_?” I asked.

”Impossible,” said the old gentleman. ”It's five blocks to where we are going.”

As we took our seats I looked again at my companion; this time more closely. Father Knickerbocker he certainly was, yet somehow strangely transformed from my pictured fancy of the Sleepy Hollow days. His antique coat with its wide skirt had, it seemed, a.s.sumed a modish cut as if in imitation of the bell-shaped spring overcoat of the young man about town. His three-cornered hat was set at a rakish angle till it looked almost like an up-to-date fedora. The great stick that he used to carry had somehow changed itself into the curved walking-stick of a Broadway lounger. The solid old shoes with their wide buckles were gone.

In their place he wore narrow slippers of patent leather of which he seemed inordinately proud, for he had stuck his feet up ostentatiously on the seat opposite. His eyes followed my glance toward his shoes.

”For the fox-trot,” he said. ”The old ones were no good. Have a cigarette? These are Armenian, or would you prefer a Honolulan or a Nigerian? Now,” he resumed, when we had lighted our cigarettes, ”what would you like to do first? Dance the tango? Hear some Hawaiian music, drink c.o.c.ktails, or what?”

”Why, what I should like most of all, Father Knickerbocker--”

But he interrupted me.

”There's a devilish fine woman! Look, the tall blonde one! Give me blondes every time!” Here he smacked his lips. ”By gad, sir, the women in this town seem to get finer every century. What were you saying?”

”Why, Father Knickerbocker,” I began, but he interrupted me again.

”My dear fellow,” he said. ”May I ask you not to call me _Father_ Knickerbocker?”

”But I thought you were so old,” I said humbly.

”Old! Me _old_! Oh, I don't know. Why, dash it, there are plenty of men as old as I am dancing the tango here every night. Pray call me, if you don't mind, just Knickerbocker, or simply Knicky--most of the other boys call me Knicky. Now what's it to be?”

”Most of all,” I said, ”I should like to go to some quiet place and have a talk about the old days.”

”Right,” he said. ”We're going to just the place now--nice quiet dinner, a good quiet orchestra, Hawaiian, but quiet, and lots of women.” Here he smacked his lips again, and nudged me with his elbow. ”Lots of women, bunches of them. Do you like women?”

”Why, Mr. Knickerbocker,” I said hesitatingly, ”I suppose--I--”

The old man sn.i.g.g.e.red as he poked me again in the ribs.

”You bet you do, you dog!” he chuckled. ”We _all_ do. For me, I confess it, sir, I can't sit down to dinner without plenty of women, stacks of them, all round me.”

Meantime the taxi had stopped. I was about to open the door and get out.

”Wait, wait,” said Father Knickerbocker, his hand upon my arm, as he looked out of the window. ”I'll see somebody in a minute who'll let us out for fifty cents. None of us here ever gets in or out of anything by ourselves. It's bad form. Ah, here he is!”