Part 42 (1/2)

”What's that?” says he. ”Aloysius Dillon, did you say?”

”He's the one that's playin' the part of the missing prod.,” says I.

”What is he like?” says Pinckney, gettin' interested.

”Accordin' to descriptions,” says I, ”he's a useless little runt, about four feet nothin' high and as wide as a match, with the temper of a striped hornet and the instincts of a yellow kyoodle. But he's his mother's pet, just the same, and if he ain't found she threatens to throw fits. Don't happen to know him, do you?”

”Why,” says Pinckney, ”I'm not sure but I do.”

It looks like a jolly; but then again, you never can tell about Pinckney. He mixes around in so many sets that he's like to know 'most anybody.

”Well,” says I, ”if you run across Aloysius at the club, tell him what's on for Sunday afternoon.”

”I will,” says Pinckney, lettin' out a chuckle and climbin' into his cab.

I was hoping that maybe Sadie would renige before the time come; but right after dinner Sunday she makes up in her second best afternoon regalia, calls a hansom, and starts for Tenth-ave., leavin'

instructions how I was to show up in about an hour with Pinckney, and not to forget about handin' out our cards just as if this was a swell affair. I finds Pinckney got up in his frock coat and primrose pants, and lookin' mighty pleased about something or other.

”Huh!” says I. ”You seem to take this as a reg'lar cut-up act. I call it blamed nonsense, encouragin' folks like the Dillons to----”

But there ain't any use arguin' with Pinckney when he's feelin' that way. He only grins and looks mysterious. We don't have to hunt for the number of the Dillons' flat house, for there's a gang of kids on the front steps and more out in the street gawpin' up at the lighted windows. We makes a dive through them and tackles the four flights, pa.s.sin' inspection of the tenants on the way up, every door bein' open.

”Who's comin' now?” sings out a women from the Second floor back.

”Only a couple of w.i.l.l.i.e.s from the store,” says a gent in his s.h.i.+rt sleeves, givin' us the stare.

From other remarks we heard pa.s.sed, it was clear the Dillons had been tootin' this party as something fine and cla.s.sy, and that they wa'n't making good. The signs of frost grows plainer as we gets nearer the scene of the festivities. All the Dillon family was there, right enough, from the youngest kid up. Old Larry has had his face sc.r.a.ped till it s.h.i.+nes like a copper stewpan, and him and Mother Dillon is standin' under a green paper bell hung from a hook in the ceiling. I could spot Tom, the coal cart driver, by the ring of dust under his eyelashes; and there was no mistakin' lady Kate, the sales person, with the double row of coronet hair rolls pinned to the top of her head.

Over in the corner, too, was Sadie, talkin' to Father Kelley. But there wa'n't any great signs of joy.

The whole party sizes up me and Pinckney as if they was disappointed.

I can't say what they was lookin' for from us; but whatever it was, we didn't seem to fill the bill. And just when the gloom is settlin' down thickest, Mother Dillon begins to sniffle.

”Now, mother,” says Nora, soothin' like, ”remember there's company.”

”Ah, bad scran to the lot of yez!” says the old lady. ”Where's my Aloysius? Where is he, will ye tell me that?”

”Divvul take such a woman!” says old Larry.

”Tut, tut!” says Father Kelley.

”Will you look at the Bradys now!” whispers Maggie, hoa.r.s.elike.

It wa'n't easy guessin' which windows in the block was theirs, for every ledge has a pillow on it, and a couple of pairs of elbows on every pillow, but I took it that the Bradys was where they was grinnin'

widest. You could tell, though, that the merry laugh was bein' pa.s.sed up and down, and it was on the Dillons.

And then, as I was tryin' to give Sadie the get-away sign, we hears a deep honk outside, and I sees the folks across the way stretchin' their necks out. In a minute there's a scamperin' in the halls like a stampede at a synagogue, and we hears the ”Ah-h-hs!” coming up from below. We all makes a rush for the front and rubbers out to see what's happenin'. By climbin' on a chair and peekin' over the top of the lady Kate's hair puffs, I catches a glimpse of a big yellow and black bodied car, with a footman in a bearskin coat holdin' open the door.

”Oh-o-o-oh! look what's here?” squeals eight little Dillons in chorus.

You couldn't blame 'em, either, for the hat that was bein' squeezed out through the door of the car was one of these Broadway thrillers, four feet across, and covered with as many green ostrich feathers as you could carry in a clothes basket. What was under the feather lid we couldn't see. Followin' it out of the machine comes somethin' cute in a b.u.t.ter colored overcoat and a brown derby. In a minute more we gets the report that the procession is headed up the stairs, and by the time we've grouped ourselves around the room with our mouths open, in they floats.