Part 37 (1/2)

”They call you Tink for short, don't they?” says I, and he admits that they do. ”All right,” I goes on. ”Now the address, Tink. Jersey, eh?

Well, it's likely you'll hear from Mr. Ellins before the week's out. But don't get your hopes up; for he turns down enough propositions to fill a waste basket every day. Express elevator at No. 5. So long,” and I chokes off Mr. Tuttle's vote of thanks by wavin' him out the door.

It's well along in the afternoon before I sees an openin' to drop this option in front of Old Hickory, grabbin' a minute when his desk is fairly clear, and slammin' it down just as though it had been sent in through Piddie.

”Delivered on,” says I. ”Wants rush answer by mail.”

”Huh!” grunts Old Hickory, lightin' up a fresh Ca.s.sadora.

That's all I expected to hear of the transaction; so about an hour later, when Piddie comes out lookin' solemn and says I'm to report to Mr. Ellins, I don't know what's up.

”Is it a first degree charge, Piddie,” says I, ”or only for manslaughter?”

”I presume Mr. Ellins will discover what you have done,” says he.

”Well, hope for the worst, Piddie,” says I. ”Here goes!”

And the minute I sees what Old Hickory has in front of him, I'm wise.

”Torchy,” says he, givin' me the steely glitter out of them cold storage eyes of his, ”Mr. Piddie seems to know nothing about this Michigan option.”

”If he admits that much,” says I, ”it must be so. It's a record, though.”

”What I want to know,” goes on Mr. Ellins, ”is how in blue belted blazes it got here. You brought it in, didn't you?”

”Yep,” says I. ”It was this way, Mr. Ellins: Piddie had it put up to him and wouldn't even hang it on the hook; but the guy that brings it looked so mournful that I b.u.t.ts in and takes a chance on pa.s.sin' it along to you on my own hook.”

”Oh, you did, eh?” he snorts.

”Sure,” says I. ”I got to do the fresh act once in a while, ain't I?

Course, if you want a dead one on the gate, I can hand in my portfolio; but I thought all you had to do with punk options like this was to toss 'em in the basket and then have 'em fired back at----”

”Fire nothing back!” says Mr. Ellins. ”Why, you lucky young rascal, we've been trying to get hold of this very property for eight months!

And Piddie! Bah! Of all the pin-headed, jelly brained----”

”Second the motion,” says I, springin' the joyous grin.

”That will do,” says Old Hickory, catchin' himself up. ”Just you forget Mr. Piddie and listen to me. Know this Tuttle person by sight, don't you?”

”Couldn't forget him,” says I. ”Want him on the carpet?”

”I do,” says he. ”Have him here at ten-thirty to-morrow morning. But find him to-night, and see that you don't open your head about this business to anyone else.”

”I get you,” says I, doin' the West Point salute. ”It's me to trail and shut up Tuttle. He'll be here, if I have to bring him in an ambulance.”

That's why I jumps out before closin' time and mingles with the Jersey commuters in a lovely hot ride across the meadows. It's a scrubby station where I gets off, too; one of these fact'ry settlements where the whole population answers the seven o'clock whistle every mornin'.

There's a brick barracks half a mile long, where they make sewin'

machines or something, and snuggled close up around it is hundreds of these four-fam'ly wooden tenements, gettin' the full benefit of the soft coal smoke and makin' it easy for the hands to pike home for a noon dinner. Say, you talk about the East Side double deckers; but they're brownstone fronts compared to some of these corporation shacks across the meadows!

Seventeen dirty kids led me to the number Tuttle gave me, and in the right hand first floor kitchen I finds a red faced woman in a faded blue wrapper fryin' salt pork and cabbage.

”Mrs. Tinkham Tuttle?” says I, holdin' my breath.