Part 7 (1/2)

”He's nearly twenty-one,” says Sadie. ”And Mrs. Hollister's such a dear!”

”All of which leads up to what?” says I, tearin' my eyes from the sportin' page reluctant.

”Why,” says Sadie, cuddlin' up on the chair arm, ”Purdy-Pell suggests that, as Robin appeared to take such a fancy to you, perhaps you wouldn't mind----”

”Say,” I breaks in, ”he's a perfectly punk suggester! I'd mind a lot!”

Course that opened the debate, and while I begins by statin' flat-footed that Robin could come or go for all I cared, it ends in the usual compromise. I agrees to take the eight-forty-five into town and skirmish for Sonny. He'd be almost sure to show up at Purdy-Pell's to-night, Sadie says, and if I was on hand I might induce him to quit wreckin' the city and be good.

”Shouldn't I wear a nurse's cap and ap.r.o.n?” I remarks as I grabs my hat.

For, honest, so far as I've ever seen, this young Hollister was a nice, quiet, peaceable chap, with all the earmarks of a perfect gent. He'd been brought up from the South and put into Purdy-Pell's offices, and he'd made a fair stab at holdin' down his job. But of course, bein'

turned loose in New York for the first time, I expect he went out now and then to see what was goin' on under the white lights.

From some youngsters that might have called for such panicky protests as Mother and Mrs. Purdy-Pell put up; but young Robin had a good head on him, and didn't act like he meant to develop into a rounder. Course I didn't hear the details; but all of a sudden something happened that caused a grand howl. I know Sadie was consulted, then Mrs. Hollister was sent for, and it ended by Robin marchin' into the studio one mornin' to say good-by. He explains that he's bein' s.h.i.+pped home. They'd got a job for him with an uncle out in the country somewhere. That must have been a year or so ago, and now it looked like he'd slipped his halter and had headed back for Broadway.

I finds Purdy-Pell peeved and sarcastic. ”To be sure,” he says, ”I feel honored that the young man should make my house his headquarters whenever his fancy leads him to indulge his sportive instincts. Youth must be served, you know. But Mrs. Hollister has such a charmingly unreasonable way of holding me responsible for her son's conduct! And since she happens just now to be our guest--well, you get the idea, McCabe.”

”What do you think he's up to?” says I.

Purdy-Pell shrugs his shoulders. ”If he were the average youth, one might guess,” says he; ”but Robin Hollister is different. His mother is a Pitt Medway, one of the Georgia Medways.”

”You don't say!” says I. I expect I ought to know just how a Georgia Medway differs from a New Jersey Medway, or the Connecticut brand; but, sad to say, I don't. Purdy-Pell, though, havin' been raised in the South himself, seems to think that everyone ought to know the traits of all the leadin' fam'lies between the Potomac and the Chattahoochee.

”Last time, you know,” goes on Purdy-Pell, ”it was a Miss Maggie Toots, a restaurant cas.h.i.+er, and a perfectly impossible person. We broke that up, though.”

”Ye-e-es?” says I.

”Robin's mother seemed to think then,” says he, ”that it was largely my fault. I suppose she'll feel the same about whatever mischief he's in now. If I could only find the young scamp! But really I haven't time.

I'm an hour late at the Boomer Days' as it is.”

”Then toddle along,” says I. ”If I'm unanimously elected to do this kid-reformin' act, I expect I might as well get busy.”

So as soon as the butler's through loadin' Purdy-Pell into the limousine I cross-examines Jarvis about young Mr. Hollister's motions. Yes, he'd shown up at the house both nights. It might have been late, perhaps quite late. Then this afternoon he'd 'phoned to have his evenin' clothes sent uptown by messenger. No, he couldn't remember the number, or the name of the hotel.

”Ah, come, Jarvis!” says I. ”We know you're strong for the young man, and all that. But this is for the best. Dig it up now! You must have put the number down at the time. Where's the 'phone pad?”

He produces it, blank. ”You see, Sir,” says he, ”I tore off the leaf and gave it to the messenger.”

”But you're a heavy writer, ain't you?” says I. ”Find me a readin'

gla.s.s.”

And, sure enough, by holdin' the pad under the big electrolier in the lib'ry, we could trace out the address.

”Huh!” says I. ”The Maison Maxixe, one of them new trot palaces! Ring up a taxi, Jarvis.”

Didn't happen to be up around there yourself that night, did you? If you had, you couldn't missed seein' him,--the old guy with the Dixie lid and the prophet's beard, and the snake-killer staff in his fist,--for with that gold and green entrance as a background, and in all that glare of electric lights, he was some prominent.

Sort of a cross between Father Time and Santa Claus, he looks like, with his b.u.mper crop of white alfalfa, his rosy cheeks, and his husky build.

Also he's attired in a wide-brimmed black felt hat, considerable dusty, and a long black coat with a rip in the shoulder seam. I heard a couple of squabs just ahead of me giggle, and one of 'em gasps: