Part 30 (1/2)
”Whoop!” says I, stowin' away the card. ”Me for the Misses Pulsifers' on a long shot. Hey, Mr. Ellins!” I shouts, stickin' my head in the door.
”Can I draw two bones for expense money? I'm on the trail.”
”The blazes you are!” says he.
”Yep,” says I. ”Mebbe it's a false scent; but if I find him what's the message?”
”Just ask Robert,” says he, ”if it has occurred to him that those P. K.
& Q. contract copies have got to be filed with the bonding company this afternoon. That's all.”
”Right!” says I. ”P. K. & Q. contracts. I'm off.”
Ever get as far up into the northwest corner of the island as Fort Was.h.i.+ngton Road? Then you know how many blocks it is from the nearest subway station. Not havin' time for a half-hour stroll, I takes a Broadway express, jumps it at 157th, hunts up a taxi, and turns down the red flag.
”Now don't try zigzaggin' around to roll up mileage,” says I to the shuffer; ”but beat it straight there.”
Some swell places up in that neck of Manhattan, what? Why, some of them folks has so much back yard they keep their own cow. When we rolls in through a pair of big stone gates I begin to suspect that the Misses Pulsifers was lady plutes for fair, and the size of the house had me stunned.
”I'm swell lookin' front door comp'ny, I am,” thinks I, handin' over a dollar thirty to the taxi pirate and paradin' in across the red carpet.
”Now what is it I tell the butler when he pushes out his tray?”
All the guard they has on the door, though, is a French maid, and when she starts to look me over suspicious I shoves the invitation card at her.
”Say, Marie,” says I, ”where's the doin's?”
”Pardon?” says she. ”What you wish?”
”Ah, where do they keep the music?” says I.
”Ze musicale?” says she. ”It is commence. S-s-s-s.h.!.+” and she points down the hallway.
”Yes, I was afraid I'd be late,” says I. ”Glad they didn't wait. I'll sneak into a back seat.”
Did I? Well, say, I didn't know what I was runnin' into; for as I pushes through some draperies I finds myself on the side lines of the biggest herd of girls I ever saw collected in one room before. Why, there was rows and rows of 'em, all in white dresses, and the minute I steps in about two hundred pairs of eyes revolves my way.
Talk about jumpin' into the limelight! I felt like I'd wandered out on the stage while the big scene was goin' on. Then comes the giggles, and business with the elbows of pa.s.sin' the nudge along. They all forgets what's doin' up on the platform by the piano and pays strict attention to me. Blush? Say, I'll bet my ears ain't got back their reg'lar color yet!
Seemed like my feet was stuck to the floor, too. Maybe it was an hour I stood there, and maybe it was only a minute; but at last I takes one wild look around over that girl convention and then I backs out. I'd seen him, though. Way over by an open window on the other side was Mr.
Robert, one of the four men in that whole crowd. So out the front door I rushes and then tiptoes around the veranda until I came to him.
And he wa'n't gazin' around watchin' for casual b.u.t.ters-in. Not Mr.
Robert! All he's seein' is the slim young lady standin' up on the platform with the violin tucked under her chin. You couldn't blame him much, either; for, while I ain't any judge of the sort of music she was teasin' out of the strings, I'll say this much: The way she was doin' it was well worth watchin'. The swing of that elbow of hers, and the Isadora Duncan sway of her shoulders as she hits the high notes sure did have some cla.s.s to it. He's so busy followin' her motions that he don't even know when I leans in within six inches of him and whispers. So I has to give him the gentle prod.
”Eh!” says he, whirlin' around. ”Why, what the--Torchy!”
”Uh-huh,” says I. ”Crawl out backwards, can't you?”
”Wha--what's that!” says he, whisperin' sort of husky.
”You got to do it,” says I. ”I was sent up special to get you.”
”Why, what's the matter?” says he.