Part 32 (1/2)
BATTING IT UP TO TORCHY
n.o.body had to point him out to me. I hadn't been holdin' down the chair behind the bra.s.s gate more'n two days before I knew who was the living joke on the Corrugated Trust Company's force. It's Uncle Dudley, of course.
And, say, my coppin' that out don't go to prove I'm a Mr. Cute. Any mush-head could have picked him after one glimpse of the old vintage Prince Albert, the back number silk lid, and the white Chaunceys he wears on each side of his face. That get-up would be good for a quiet smile even over in Canarsie; but when you come to plant it in the midst of such a sporty aggregation as the Corrugated carries on the payroll--why, you've got the comic chuckles comin' over fast.
”Say, Piddie,” says I the second morning, after watchin' it blow in, ”who's the seed, eh?”
”That?” says Piddie. ”Oh, that's old Dudley.”
”Does he wear the uniform reg'lar,” says I, ”or is he celebratin' some anniversary?”
And Piddie almost allows himself to grin as he explains how that's the same costume Dudley has come down to work in every day for the last fifteen years.
”Well, it's a flossy outfit, all right,” says I. ”What is he, one of the directors?”
No, he wa'n't. He's some sort of suba.s.sistant auditor with a salary of eighteen per. You know the kind--one of these deadwood specimens that stand a show of gettin' the prunin' hook every time there's a shake-up.
Most every office has a few of 'em, hangin on like last year's oak leaves in the park; but it ain't often they can qualify as comic supplements.
Not that Uncle Dudley tries to be humorous. He's the quietest, meekest old relic you ever saw, slidin' in soft and easy with his hat off, and walkin' almost as though he had his shoes in his hand. But the faded umbrella under one arm and the big b.u.t.tonhole bouquet he always wears puts him in the joke book cla.s.s without takin' the face lambrequins into account at all.
Can I let all that get by me without pa.s.sin' out some josh? You can see me, can't you? Never mind all the bright and cunnin' remarks I sprung on Uncle Dudley now; but for awhile there I made a point of puttin' over something fresh every day. Why, it was a cinch!
All the comeback I ever got out of him, though, was that batty old smile of his, kind of sad and gentle, as if I was remindin' him of times gone by. And there ain't a lot of satisfaction in that, you know. Now, I can chuck the giddy persiflage at Piddie day in and day out, and enjoy doin' it, because it always gets him so wild. Also there's more or less thrill to slippin' the gay retort across to Old Hickory Ellins now and then, because there's a giddy chance of gettin' fired for it. But to rub it into a non-resister like Uncle Dudley--well, what's the use?
So after awhile I cut it out altogether, leavin' him for such amateur cut-ups as Izzy Budheimer and Flannel Haggerty to practice on. Then little by little me and old Dudley got more or less chummy, what with me steerin' him around to my fav'rite dairy lunch joint and all that. And, say, we must have been a great pair, sittin' side by side in the armchairs, puttin' away sweitzer sandwiches and mugs of chickory blend; him in his tall lid, and with his quiet, old timy manners, and me--well, I guess you get the tableau.
I used to like hearin' him talk, he uses such a soothin', genteel brand of conversation; nothing fancy, you know, but plain, straightaway goods.
Mostly he tells me about his son, who's livin' out in California somewhere and is just branchin' out in the cement block buildin'
business. Son is messin' in politics more or less too; mixin' it up with the machine, and gettin' the short end of the returns every trip.
But it's on account of this reform stunt of his that the old gent seems to be so proud of him, not appearin' to care whether he ever got elected to anything or not.
He don't say so much about the married daughter that he lives with over in Jersey; but I don't think much about that until after I've let him tow me over to dinner once and met Son in Law Bennett. He's a flashy proposition, this young Mr. Bennett is, havin' an interest in a curb brokerage firm that rents window s.p.a.ce on Broad-st. and has desk room down on William. Let him tell it, though, and, providin' some of his deals go through, he's goin' to have Morgan squealin' for help before the year is out.
And I find that at home Uncle Dudley is rated somewhere between the fam'ly cat and the front doormat. Mr. Bennett don't exactly gag the old man and lock him in the cellar. He ignores him when he can, and when he has to notice him he makes it plain that he's standin' the disgrace as well as he can.
”So you came over with the old sport, did you?” says Bennett to me.
”Batty old duffer, eh? That comes of being a dead one for so long.
Manages to hang on with the Corrugated, though, don't he? He'd better, too! I'm not running any old folks' home here.”
But it wa'n't to show off how he stood with his son in law that Uncle Dudley had lugged me along. He'd got so used to bein' dealt out for a twospot that he didn't seem to mind. He didn't claim to be anything more even at the office.
It's his flower garden, out back of the house, that Uncle Dudley had got me 'way out there to see; and, while I ain't any expert on that line of displays, I should say this posy patch of his had some cla.s.s to it.
Anyway, seein' it, and findin' out how he rolls off the mattress at sunrise every mornin' to tend it, lets me in for a new view of him. It's this little garden patch and the son out West that makes life worth livin' for him, in spite of Son in Law Bennett.
”Say, Dudley,” says I, ”why don't you work a combination of the two; go out where you can raise roses all winter, if the dope these railroad ads. sling out is straight, and be with your son too?”
”I--I can't do that, just yet,” says he, sort of hesitatin'. ”You see, he hasn't seen me for twelve years, and since then I have--er--well, I've been slipping backward. He doesn't know what a failure I've made of life, and if I gave up here and went on to him--why----”