Lewis Alfred Henry
Sandburrs and Others
THE BETRAYAL
The boys had resolved on revenge, and nothing could turn them from their purpose. The trouble was this: Some one not otherwise engaged had fed the furnace an overshoe which it did not need. As incident to its consumption the overshoe had filled the building with an odour of which nothing favourable could be said. The professor afterwards, in denouncing the author of the outrage, had referred to it as “effluvia.” It had as a perfume much force of character, and was stronger and more devastating than the odour which goes with an egg in its old age, when it has begun to hate the world and the future holds nothing but gloom.
As stated, the schoolhouse reeked and reeled with this sublimated overshoe. It all pleased the boys excessively. They made as much as possible of the odour; they coughed, and sneezed, and worried the professor by holding up their hands one after the other with the remark:
“Teacher, may I go out?”
The professor, after several destructive whiffs of the overshoe, made a fiery speech. He said that could he once locate the boy who lavished this overshoe on mankind in a gaseous form, that boy’s person would experience a rear-end collision. He would be so badly telescoped that weeks would elapse before the boy could regard himself as being in old-time form. The professor said the boy who founded the overshoe odour was a “miscreant” and a “vandal.” He demanded his name of the boys collectively; and failing to get it, the professor said they were all miscreants and vandals, and that it would be as balm to his spirits were he to wade in and larrup the entire outfit.
After school the boys held a meeting.
Frank Payne, aged fourteen, the boy who could lick any boy in school, denounced the professor. He referred to the fact that his father was a school trustee; and that under the rules the professor had no right to bestow upon them the epithets of miscreants and vandals. Frank Payne advised that they whip the professor; who must, he said, while a large, muscular man, yield to mob violence.
The proposition to whip the professor was carried unanimously under a suspension of the rules.
In the ardour of this crusade for their rights the boys did not feel as if they could await the slow approach of trouble in the natural way. It was decided by them to bring matters to a focus. It was planned to have Tony Sanford stick a pin in John Dayton. That would be a splendid start! John Dayton, thus stuck, would yell; and when the professor asked the cause of his lamentations, John Dayton would point to Tony Sanford as his assassin. When the professor laid corrective hands on Tony all of the conspirators were to rush upon the professor and give him such a rough-and-tumble experience that succeeding ages would date time from the emeute. The boys were filled with glee; they regarded the business, so they said, as “a pushover.”
The hour for action had arrived.
Tony Sanford had no pin. But Tony was a fertile boy; if there was a picket off Tony’s mental fence at all, it was his foresight. Lacking a pin, the ingenious Tony stuck the small blade of his knife into John Dayton. The victim howled like a dog at night.
“Please, sir, Tony Sanford’s stabbed me,” was John Dayton’s explanation of his shrieks.
Tony Sanford was paraded for punishment. The cold-blooded enormity of the crime seemed to strike the professor dumb. He did not know how to take hold of the situation. But Tony pursued a course which not only invited but suggested action. As Tony approached, he dealt the professor an uppercut in the bread-basket, and with the cry, “Come on, boys!” closed doughtily with the foe.
The boys beheld the deeds of the intrepid Tony; they heard his cry and knew it for their cue. Nevertheless, notwithstanding, not a boy moved. They sat in their seats and gazed fixedly at Tony and the professor. With the call of Tony to his fellow-conspirators the professor saw it all.
“Tony Sanford,” quoth the professor, “we will adjourn to the library. When I get through, you will be of no further use to science.”
The door closed on Tony Sanford, and a professor weighing 211 pounds. The sounds which came welling from the library showed that some strong, emotional work was being done within. Tony and the professor sounded at times like a curlew at night, and anon like unto a man falling downstairs with a stove. Tony Sanford said afterward that he would never again attach himself to a plot which did not show two green lights on the rear platform of its caboose.
FOILED
(By the Office Boy)
CHAPTER I
DARLING, I fear that man! The cruel guy can from his place as umpire do you up.”
It was Gwendolin O’Toole who spoke. She was a beautiful blonde angel, and as she clung to her lover, Marty O’Malley, they were a picture from which a painter would have drawn an inspiration.
“Take courage, love!” said Marty O’Malley tenderly; “I’m too swift for the duck.”
“I know, dearest,” murmured the fair Gwendolin, “but think what’s up on the game! Me brother, you know him well! the rooter prince, the bleachers’ uncrowned king! he is the guardian of me vast estates. If I do not marry as he directs, me lands and houses go to found an asylum for decrepit ball tossers. And to-day me brother Godfrey swore by the Banshee of the O’Tooles that me hand should belong to the man who made the best average in to-morrow’s game. Can you win me, love?”
“I will win you or break the bat!” said Marty O’Malley, as he folded his dear one in his arms.
CHAPTER II
WHEN that villain, O’Malley, goes to bat to-morrow, pitch the ball ten feet over his head. No matter where it goes I’ll call a ‘strike.’”
It was Dennis Mulcahey who spoke; the man most feared by Gwendolin O’Toole. He was to be the next day’s umpire, and as he considered how securely his rival was in his grasp, he laughed the laugh of a fiend.
Dennis Mulcahey, too, loved the fair Gwendolin, but the dear girl scorned his addresses. His heart was bitter; he would be revenged on his rival.
“You’ve got it in for the mug!” replied Terry Devine, to whom Dennis Mulcahey had spoken. Devine was the pitcher of the opposition, and like many of his class, a low, murdering scoundrel. “But, say! Denny, if you wants to do the sucker, why don’t youse give him a poke in d’ face? See!”
“Such suggestions are veriest guff,” retorted Dennis Mulcahey. “Do as I bid you, caitiff, an’ presume not to give d’ hunch to such as I! A wild pitch is what I want whenever Marty O’Malley steps to the plate. I’ll do the rest.”
“I’ll t’row d’ pigskin over d’ grand stand,” said Terry Devine as he and his fellow-plotter walked away.
As the conspirators drifted into the darkness a dim form arose from behind a shrub. It was Marty O’Malley.
“Ah! I’ll fool you yet!” he hissed between his clinched teeth, and turning in the opposite direction he was soon swallowed by the darkness.
CHAPTER III
You’ll not fail me, Jack!” said Marty O’Malley to Jack, the barkeeper of the Fielders’ Rest.
“Not on your sweater!” said Jack, “Leave it to me. If that snoozer pitches this afternoon I hopes d’ boss’ll put in a cash-register!”
Marty O’Malley hastened to the side of his love. Jack, the faithful barkeeper, went on cleaning his glasses.
“That hobo, Devine, will be here in a minute,” said Jack at last, “an’ I must organise for him.”
Jack took a shell glass and dipped it in the tank behind the bar. Taking his cigar from between his finely chiselled lips, he blew the smoke into the moistened interior of the glass. This he did several times.
“I’ll smoke a glass on d’ stiff,” said Jack softly. “It’s better than a knockout drop.”
It was a moment later when Terry Devine came in. With a gleam of almost human intelligence in his eye Jack, the barkeeper, set up the smoked glass. Terry Devine tossed off the fiery potation, staggered to a chair, and sat there glaring. A moment later his head fell on the table, while a stertorous snore proclaimed him unconscious.
“That fetched d’ sucker,” murmured Jack, the barkeeper, and he went on cleaning his glasses. “His light’s gone out for fourteen hours, an’ he don’t make no wild pitches at Marty O’Malley to-day, see!”
CHAPTER IV
Ten thousand people gathered to witness the last great contest between the Shamrocks and the Shantytowns.
Gwendolin O’Toole, pale but resolute, occupied her accustomed seat in the grand stand. Far away, and high above the tumult of the bleachers she heard the hoarse shouts of her brother, Godfrey O’Toole, the bleachers’ king.
“Remember, Gwendolin!” he had said, as they parted just before the game, “the mug who-makes the best average to-day wins your hand. I’ve sworn it, and the word of an O’Toole is never broken.”
“Make it the best fielding average, oh, me brother!” pleaded Gwendolin, while the tears welled to her glorious eyes.
“Never!” retorted Godfrey O’Toole, with a scowl; “I’m on to your curves! You want to give Marty O’Malley a better show. But if the butter-fingered muffer wants you, he must not only win you with his fielding, but with the stick.”
CHAPTER V
Terry Devine wasn’t in the box for the Shantytowns. With his head on the seven-up table, he snored on, watched over by the faithful barboy Jack. He still yielded to smoked glass and gave no sign of life.
“Curse him!” growled Umpire Mulcahey hoarsely beneath his breath “has he t’run me down? If I thought so, the world is not wide enough to save him from me vengeance.”
And the change pitcher took the box for the Shantytowns.
Marty O’Malley, the great catcher of the Shamrocks, stepped to the plate. Dennis Mulcahey girded up his false heart, and registered a black, hellish oath to call everything a strike.
“Never! never shall he win Gwendolin O’Toole while I am umpire!” he whispered, and his face was dark as a cloud.
It was the last word that issued from the clam-shell of Dennis Mulcahey for many a long and bitter hour; the last crack he made. Just as he offered his bluff, the first ball was pitched. It was as wild and high as a bird, as most first balls are. But Marty O’Malley was ready. He, too, had been plotting; he would fight Satan with fire!
As the ball sped by, far above his head, Marty O’Malley leaped twenty feet in the air. As he did this he swung his unerring timber. Just as he had planned, the flying, whizzing sphere struck the under side of his bat, and glancing downward with fearful force, went crashing into the dark, malignant visage of Dennis Mulcahey, upturned to mark its flight. The fragile mask was broken; the features were crushed into complete confusion with the awful inveteracy of the ball.
Dennis Mulcahey fell as one dead. As he was borne away another umpire was sent to his post. Marty O’Malley bent a glance of intelligence on the change pitcher of the Shantytowns, who had taken the place of the miscreant Dermis, and whispered loud enough to resell from plate to box:
“Now, gimme a fair ball!”
CHAPTER VI
And so the day was won; the Shamrocks basted the Shantytowns by the score of 15 to 2. As for Marty O’Malley, his score stood:
Ab. R. H. Po. A. E.
O’Malley, c…4 4 4 10 14 0
No such record had ever been made on the grounds. With four times at bat, Marty O’Malley did so well, withal, that he scored a base hit, two three-baggers and a home-run.
That night Marty O’Malley wedded the rich and beautiful Gwendolin O’Toole. Jack, the faithful bar-boy of the Fielders’ Rest, officiated as groomsman. Godfrey O’Toole, haughty and proud, was yet a square sport, and gave the bride away.
The rich notes of the wedding bells, welling and swelling, drifted into the open windows of the Charity Hospital, and smote on the ears of Dennis Mulcahey, where he lay with his face.
“Curse ‘em!” he moaned.
Then came a horrible rattle in his throat, and the guilty spirit of Dennis Mulcahey passed away.
Death caught him off his base.
POLITICS
(Annals of The Bend)
Nixie! I ain’t did nothin’, but all de same I’m feelin’ like a mut, see!”
Chucky was displeased with some chapter in his recent past. I could tell as much by the shifty, deprecatory way in which he twiddled and fiddled with his beer-stein.
“This is d’ way it all happens,” exclaimed Chucky. “Over be Washin’ton Square there’s an old soak, an’ he’s out to go into pol’tics – wants to hold office; Congress, I t’inks, is what this gezeybo is after. Anyhow he’s nutty to hold office.
“Of course, I figgers that a guy who wants to hold office is a sucker; for meself, I’d sooner hold a baby. Still, when some such duck comes chasin’ into pol’tics, I’m out for his dough like all d’ rest of d’ gang.
“So I goes an’ gets nex’ to this mucker an’ jollies his game. I tells him all he’s got to do is to fix his lamps on d’ perch that pleases him, blow in his stuff an’ me push’ll toin loose, an’ we’ll win out d’ whole box of tricks in a walk, see!
“That’s all right; d’ Washin’ton Square duck is of d’ same views. An’ some of it ain’t no foolish talk at that. I’m dead strong wit’ d’ Dagoes, an’ d’ push about d’ Bend, an’ me old chum – if he starts – is goin’ to get a run for his money.
“It ain t this, however, what wilts me d’ way you sees to-night. It’s that I’m ‘shamed, see! In d’ foist place, I’m bashful. That’s straight stuff; I’m so bashful that if I’m in some other geezer’s joint – par-tic’ler if he’s a high roller an’ t’rowin’ on social lugs, like this Washin’ton Square party – I feels like creep-in’ under d’ door mat.
“D’ other night this can’date for office says, says he, ‘Chucky, I’m goin to begin my money-boinin’ be givin’ a dinner over be me house, an’ youse are in it, see! in it wit’ bot’ feet.*
“‘Be I comin’ to chew at your joint?’ I asts; ‘is that d’ bright idee?’
“‘That’s d’ stuff,’ he says; ‘youse are comin’ to eat wit’ me an’ me friends. An’ you can gamble your socks me friends is a flossy bunch at that.’
“I says I’ll assemble wit’ ‘em.
“Nit, I ain’t stuck on d’ play. I’d sooner eat be meself. But if I’m goin’ to catch up wit’ his Whiskers an’ sep’rate him from some of d’ long green, I’ve got to stay dost to his game, see!
“It’s at d’ table me troubles begins. I does d’ social double-shuffle in d’ hall all right. D’ crush parts to let me t’rough, an’ I woiks me way up to me can’date – who, of course, is d’ main hobo, bein’ he’s d’ architect of d’ blowout – an’ gives him d’ joyful mit; what you calls d’ glad hand.
“‘Glad to see youse, Chucky,’ says d’ old mark. ‘Tummas, steer Chucky to his stool be d’ table.’
“It’s at d’ table I’m rattled, wit’ all d’ glasses an’ dishes an ‘d’ lights overhead. But I’m cooney all d’ same. I ain’t onto d’ graft meself, but I puts it up on d’ quiet I’ll pick out some student who knows d’ ropes an’ string me bets wit’ his.
“As I sets there, I flashes me lamps along d’ line, an’ sort o’ stacks up d’ blokes, for to pick out d’ fly guys from d’ lobsters, see!
“Over’cross’d table I lights on an old stiff who looks like he could teach d’ game. T’inks I to meself, ‘There’s a mut who’s been t’rough d’ mill many a time an’ oft. All I got to do now is to pipe his play an’ never let him out o’ me sight. If I follows his smoke, I’ll finish in d’ front somewheres, an’ none of these mugs ‘ll tumble to me ignorance.’
“Say! on d’ level! there was no flies on that for a scheme, was there? An’ it would have been all right, me system would; only this old galoot I goes nex’ to don’t have no more sense than me. Why! he was d’ ass of d’ evening! d’ prize pig of d’ play, he was! Let me tell youse.
“D’ foist move, he spreads a little table clot’ across his legs. I ain’t missin’ no tricks, so I gets me hooks on me own little table clot’ and spreads it over me legs also.
“‘This is good enough for a dog, I t’inks, an’ easy money! Be keepin’ me eye on Mr. Goodplayer over there I can do this stunt all right.’
“An’ so I does. I never lets him lose me onct.
“‘How be youse makin’ it, Chucky?’ shouts me can’date from up be d’ end of d’ room.
“‘Out o’ sight!’ I says. ‘I’m winner from d’ jump; I’m on velvet.’
“‘Play ball!’ me can’date shouts back to encourage me, I suppose because he’s dead on I ain’t no Foxy Quiller at d’ racket we’re at; ‘play ball, Chucky, an’ don’t let ‘em fan youse out. When you can’t bat d’ ball, bunt it,’ says me can’date.
“Of course gettin ‘d’ gay face that way from d’ boss gives me confidence, an’ as a result it ain’t two seconts before I’m all but caught off me base. It’s in d’ soup innin’s an ‘d’ flunk slams down d’ consomme in a tea cup. It’s a new one on me for fair! I don’t at d’ time have me lamps on d’ mark ‘cross d’ way, who I’m understudyin’, bein’ busy, as I says, slingin ‘d’ bit of guff I tells of wit’ me can’date. An’ bein’ off me guard, I takes d’ soup for tea or some such dope, an’ is layin’ out to sugar it.
“‘Stan’ your hand!’ says a dub who’s organised be me right elbow, an’ who’s feedin’ his face wit’ both mits; ‘set a brake!’ he says. ‘That’s soup. Did youse t’ink it was booze?’
“After that I fastens to d’ old skate across d’ table to note where he’s at wit’ his game. He’s doin’ his toin on d’ consomme wit’ a spoon, so I gets a spoon in me hooks, goes to mixin’ it up wit ‘d’ soup as fast as ever, an’ follows him out.
“An’ say! I’m feelin’ dead grateful to this snoozer, see! He was d’ ugliest mug I ever meets, at that. Say! he was d’ limit for looks, an’ don’t youse doubt it. As I sizes him up I was t’inking to meself, what a wonder he is! Honest! if I was a lion an’ that old party comes into me cage, do youse know what I’d do? Nit; you don’t. Well, I’ll tip it to youse straight. If any such lookin’ monster showed up in me cage, if d’ door was open, I’d get out. That’s on d’ square, I’d simply give him d’ cage an’ go an’ board in d’ woods. An’ if d’ door was locked an’ I couldn’t get out, I’d t’row a fit from d’ scare. Oh! he was a dream! He’s one of them t’ings a mark sees after he’s been hittin’ it up wit ‘d’ lush for a mont’.
“‘But simply because he looks like a murderer,’ I reflects, ‘that’s no reason why he ain’t wise. He knows his way t’rough this dinner like a p’liceman does his beat, an’ I’ll go wit’ him.’
“It’s a go! When he plays a fork, I plays a fork; when he boards a shave, I’m only a neck behint him. When he shifts his brush an’ tucks his little table clot’ over his t’ree-sheet, I’m wit’ him. I plays nex’ to him from soda to hock.
“An’ every secont I’m gettin’ more confidence in this gezebo, an’ more an’ more stuck on meself. On d’ dead! I was farmer enough to t’ink I’d t’ank him for bein’ me guide before I shook d’ push an’ quit. Say! he’d be a nice old dub for me to be t’ankin ‘d’ way it toins out. I was a good t’ing to follow him, I don’t t’ink.
“If I was onto it early that me old friend across d’ table had w’eels an’ was wrong in his cocoa, I wouldn’t have felt so bad, see! But I’d been playin’ him to win, an’ followin’ his lead for two hours. An’ I was so sure I was trottin’ in front, that all d’ time I was jollyin’ meself, an’ pattin’ meself on d’ back, an’ tellin’ meself I was a corker to be gettin’ an even run wit ‘d’ 400 d’ way I was, d’ foist time I enter s’ciety. An’ of course, lettin’ me nut swell that way makes it all d’ harder when I gets d’ jolt.
“It’s at d’ finish. I’d gone down d’ line wit’ this sucker, when one of them waiter touts, who’s cappin’ d’ play for d’ kitchen, shoves a bowl of water in front of him. Now, what do youse t’ink he does? Drink it? Nit; that’s what he ought to have done. I’m Dutch if he don’t up an’ sink his hooks in it. An’ then he swabs off his mits wit’ d’ little table clot’. Say! an’ to t’ink I’d been takin’ his steer t’rough d’ whole racket! It makes me tired to tell it!
“‘W’at th’ ‘ell!’ I says to meself; ‘I’ve been on a dead one from d’ start. This stiff is a bigger mut than I be.’
“It let me out. Me heart was broke, an’ I ain’t had d’ gall to hunt up me can’date since. Nit; I don’t stay to say no ‘good-byes.’ I’m too bashful, as I tells you at d’ beginnin’. As it is, I cops a sneak on d’ door, side-steps d’ outfit, an’ screws me nut. The can’date sees me oozin’ out, however, an’ sends a chaser after me in d’ shape of one of his flunks. He wants me to come back. He says me can’date wants to present me to his friends. I couldn’t stan’ for it d’ way I felt, an’ as d’ flunk shows fight an’ is goin’ to take me back be force, I soaks him one an’ comes away. On d’ dead! I feels as’shamed of d’ entire racket as if some sucker had pushed in me face.”
