Part 8 (1/2)

With them few remarks he stamps off across the lawn, bellerin' like a bull.

”Well, Alex,” I says, ”at last you have hit somethin' in little old New York that you can't do, eh?”

”That old b.o.o.b gimme a pain anyways!” remarks the mechanic. ”What does he know about machinery? Gimme a cigarette!”

Alex sits down on the runnin' board of the Gaflooey chummy roadster and lights a cigar. He puffs away, lookin' off in the air kinda sad and mournful, like he had just been handed a wire readin', ”Father has told all. We are lost.--Agnes,” or somethin' to that effect. Even though he was a relative of the wife's and had spent every minute since he hit New York confessin' to bein' a world beater, I felt sorry for him!

Runyon Q. Sampson was off the Gaflooey people for life, and Alex had fell down on the biggest thing he'd tried yet. I knew how he must of felt about it, so I went over and slapped him on the back.

”Cheer up, Alex,” I says. ”I know that was a tough one to lose, but a guy can't finish in front all the time! You know you ain't up in dear old Vermont now and this town's much harder to beat than the average.

I told you that when you first come here. I knowed it was only a question of time before you'd hit the b.u.mps--everybody does sooner or later in New York--and then you--”

Alex gets up and throws away the cigar.

”All I hope,” he says. ”All I hope is that the one they deliver to him works all right!”

”Deliver to who?” I says.

”Runyon Q. Sampson!” he comes back. ”I come up here to sell that feller a Gaflooey chummy roadster and that's what I'm a goin' to dew!

I'll have his check before the end of the week. I don't know how I'm gonna do it now, but in some way this here sale is gonna occur, you can gamble on that! D'ye think a little thing like this can discourage me?

Why if the car had exploded and blowed us all up in the air while we was sittin' in it, I would of sold Sampson the speedometer for a watch before we had hit the ground again!” He turns around on the mechanic and rolls up his sleeves. ”The faster you git away from here, the longer you'll live!” he snarls. ”What art was you follerin' before you took up automobiles?”

”Well, to be on the level with you,” says the mechanic, ”I was second man in a cigar store on Twenty-third Street. I got fired because me and the cash register could never agree on the day's receipts. I seen an ad for a mechanic at the Gaflooey service station and I got took on there as a helper. A feller has got to do something don't he? Gimme a cigarette.”

Alex makes a dash for him, but I hold him back.

”Fade!” I warns him. ”You're gettin' away with murder as it is, and if I let this bird go they's no tellin' what'll happen to you!”

”What do I get for my mornin's work, heh?” he hollers.

”You're gettin' immunity!” I says. ”Beat it!”

”All right!” he snarls. ”I oughta knowed I'd only get the worst of it goin' out on a job with a coupla b.o.o.bs like you guys. This feller claims he's a salesman, hey? Well, I'll lay the world eight to five he couldn't sell ice cream sodas in Hades! Gimme a ciga--”

Alex throws the tool box at him, and he blows.

While we're standin' there tryin' to figure out some way to get this chummy roadster to make good, a guy steps out from behind a hedge and joins our little party. He had just about pa.s.sed the votin' age and he wore a raincoat with one of them cute little belts around it, a dare-devil soft hat and carried a suitcase. His feet dragged like they wasn't used to such heavy exercise as walkin' and he steps in front of us with a cigarette droopin' outa the corner of his mouth.

”Pardon me,” he yawns. ”Are you having some difficulty with the car?”

”Oh, fluently!” I says. ”You must be a fortune teller. Some difficulty is right! We been attemptin' to get away from here all mornin' and it's the same as makin' the Russians think the Czar was a good feller--there's nothin' doin'. I don't think the motor is tryin'

and--”

He sets down the suitcase and yawns some more.

”I know something about autos,” he says. ”Have a couple of my own and occasionally I have to fuss around 'em a bit. Do you mind if I look at the motor?”

”We'd just love it!” I says. ”Go to it.”

He opens the hood, yawns a coupla times and monkeys around for a minute.