Part 3 (2/2)

The Flopper's thumb and forefinger scratched desperately for a moment, then his face lighted with inspiration.

”Swipe me!” said he excitedly. ”I got it--Jimmy de Squirm.”

Doc Madison shook his head gravely.

”No, Flopper, I'm afraid not,” he said gently. ”That's another weak point in your interpretation of the role, that I'll come to in a minute.

We'll give you an Irish name by way of charity--it'll help to make your cla.s.sical English sound like brogue. We'll call you Coogan--Michael Coogan--that lets you off with plain Mike in times of stress.”

”Swipe me!” said the Flopper, with perfect complacence.

”Glad it pleases you,” smiled Doc Madison, ”Here's your lay, then.

You've got to remember that you were born crooked and--”

Helena giggled.

”I didn't mean it”--Doc Madison's gray eyes twinkled. ”You are waking up, too, Helena. I mean, Flopper, you've got to remember that you were born twisted up into the same shape you are in when you hit Needley. You come from--let's see--we'll have to have a big city where the next door neighbors pa.s.s each other with a vacant stare. Ever been in Chicago?”

”Naw! Wot fer?” said the Flopper, with withering spontaneity. ”Noo Yoik fer mine.”

”Well, all right--New York it is, then,” agreed Doc Madison. ”You're poor, but respectable--and that brings us to the other point. Before you go down there, Helena's going to start a little night-school with a grammar, and teach you to paddle along the fringe of the great American language so's you won't fall in and get wet all over every time you open your mouth.”

”My!” exclaimed Helena. ”Won't that be nice!”

”I hope so,” said Doc Madison drily. ”And don't run away with the idea that I'm joking about this--that goes. I don't expect to make a silver-tongued orator out of you, Flopper, and perhaps not even a purist--but I hope to eradicate a few minor touches of Bad Land vernacular from your vocabulary.”

”I've gotcher--swipe me!” grinned the Flopper. ”Me at school! Say, wouldn't that put a smile on de maps of de harness bulls, an' de dips, an' de lags doin' s.p.a.ces up de river!”

”Quite so,” admitted Doc Madison pleasantly.

”You won't laugh when I get through with you,” remarked Helena, her eyes on the curl of smoke from her cigarette.

”There's just one more thing,” went on Doc Madison, ”and I'm through with you, Flopper. Don't come down there looking like a skate--that's too raw. Get new clothes and a shave--and keep shaved. And from the minute you buy your ticket, you keep your bones, or whatever a beneficent nature has given you in place of them, out of joint--see?”

”I'm hip,” declared the Flopper--and the dog-like admiration for Doc Madison burned in his eyes. ”Say, Doc, youse are de--”

”Never mind, Flopper,” Madison cut in brightly. ”It's getting late. Now, Harry, about you. You've got a name, I believe. Evans, isn't it?

Yes--well, that will do. Now, don't kill yourself at it, but the more you work your dope needle overtime before you start, and the harder you cough when you first land there the better. We've got to have variety, you know. You're a physical wreck with the folks back home sending the casket and tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs after you on the next train in care of the station agent.”

”I guess,” coughed Pale Face Harry, with a sickly smile, ”I look the part.”

”You certainly do,” said Helena cheerfully, beating a tattoo with her heels on the end of the couch.

Pale Face Harry scowled.

”I ain't no artist with the paint,” he sniffed.

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