Part 22 (1/2)

We stopped in front of the War Department and Alex says we better straighten up ourselves and the overcoats before callin' on Colonel Williams. At that, the mechanic falls off the seat and dives into a restaurant and we go back to look at the coats.

”If any of us had any brains,” says Alex, jerkin' a coat off the pile, ”we would all of worn one of these here things and kept nice and dry--_Sufferin mackerel_!” he winds up all of a sudden.

Me and the lovely Wilkinson swings around and there's Alex holdin' up the coat.

Oh, boy!!!!!

This here storm-proof army coat, which Wilkinson hoped to unload on the U. S. army, just simply fell apart in his hands! He grabbed another and another--and they're all alike. The rain has took all the color outa them, they have shrunk till they is hardly enough cloth to accommodate the b.u.t.tons and the linin's, which was supposed to be leather, has fell right to shreds from the water. All in all, they was nothin' but a mess of soggy, muddy rags which no self-respectin' junk dealer would of took for a gift!

The lovely Wilkinson's face is a picture. He's as pale as the mornin'

cream and I thought for a minute he was gonna bust out cryin'. I couldn't help feelin' sorry for the kid, but when I thought of that wild night ride through the rain and mud to bring this bunch of garbage to Was.h.i.+ngton, I wanted to laugh out loud! And then I remember Alex bettin' me Wilkinson would take the order, and I haw-hawed myself silly, right there in the street.

”Shut up!” barks Alex, swingin' around on me. ”This here is far from a laughin' matter. It's pretty serious business!” He turns to Wilkinson and shakes him by the shoulder. ”Young man,” he snaps, ”is that the kind of stuff you were goin' to put on our boys which fought for you in France?”

Wilkinson is lookin' at the coats like they fascinated him.

”Why--why this is terrible!” he stammers, fin'ly. ”They told me--why--Good Heavens, you don't think _I_ knew these things were made up like this, do you?”

Alex studies him for a minute.

”No,” he says, ”I don't! You don't look like you'd do that, anyways.

What's the name of your firm?”

”Gerhardt and Schmidt,” says Wilkinson. ”I know it sounds German, but both members of the firm have been naturalized and--”

”Never mind that,” says Alex. ”Even if it wasn't no worse than a scheme to clean up on a government contract, I think the Secret Service will be interested in seein' them coats!”

The lovely Wilkinson sits right down on the curb and buries his face in his hands.

”Good night!” he moans. ”I'm done for now. I thought this was going to be a big thing for me and--”

Alex slaps him on the back.

”No whinin',” he says. ”We're still in Was.h.i.+ngton--you can't tell what might happen yet.”

”You can gimme that fifteen hundred berries right now if you want, Alex,” I says, ”because I'm gonna grab the next train for Manhattan.

This is _one_ that beat you and--”

”Ss.h.!.+” says the lovely Wilkinson, jumpin' up suddenly. ”Here comes Colonel Williams himself!”

We looked around and sure enough there's two army officers walkin' over to the War Department. When they got opposite us, Wilkinson braces himself and steps forward.

”Pardon me, Colonel,” he says. ”I'm Mister Wilkinson of Gerhardt and Schmidt. I had an appointment with you to-day at five to show you those army coats.”

The Colonel looks at him.

”Oh, yes,” he says, very pleasant. ”Just step inside, Mister Wilkinson. I'll see you in my office. You are very prompt. You must have been caught in the downpour--you're soaking wet.”