Local Color Part 32

"Why, I didn't know he sang," owned Mr. Birdseye, a mite puzzled.

"That's it--let a fellow do one thing better than anybody else, and they forget his other accomplishments. Sing? Well, rather! And punish old John J. Mandolin, too, if anybody should ask you."

So saying, the speaker drew forth a bulldog pipe and proceeded to load it from a leather tobacco case.

"I don't have to keep in condition, seeing as I'm merely running things," he explained. "But you bet I make my flock keep in condition--no boozing and mighty little cigarette smoking for them while their little papa's eye is on them."

"I've always heard you were strong for discipline," said Mr. Birdseye, plastering the flattering unction on thickly.

"I have to be, with a rowdy outfit like this one. Look yonder--that's a sample of the way they carry on when the bridle is off."

Three of these temporarily unhaltered colts had captured the car porter.

Two held him fast while the third ma.s.saged his woolly scalp with hard knuckles. Half a dozen more shouted advice to the operator. The porter broke away and fled, his expression betraying that he hardly knew whether to feel indignant or complimented. Mr. Birdseye saw that the volunteer ma.s.seur, now approaching them, had coal-black hair and snapping black eyes, and a skin the colour of polished cherry.

"That's the Chief coming, of course?" opined Mr. Birdseye. His tone was filled with reverence.

"Sh-h, don't let him hear you. If I had a big Indian whatyoumaycallim for a grandfather I'd advertise it, but he's a little touchy on the subject. Great boy though--one of the best."

"Part p.a.w.nee, ain't he?"

"No; Pa.r.s.ee, I think."

Mr. Birdseye was going to ask where that tribe lived, but skylarking broke out in a fresh quarter and he forgot it. They talked averages then, or started to. Mr. Birdseye was made proud to find his companion agreed with him that Tris Speaker undoubtedly had a shade on Joe Jackson, and then was just about to take up the question of Honus Wagner's ability to come back after his last season's slump--a vital issue and one upon which he entertained decided views in the affirmative--when something occurred. Without being able to comprehend exactly how it came about, he discovered himself all of a sudden forming one link in a human chain of which six or eight more were likewise component parts. With arms intertwined and heads bent toward a common centre, they all mingled their l.u.s.ty voices in s.n.a.t.c.hes of song and glee and roundelay, and he--he perforce joined with them. One moment Merrily They Rolled Along, Rolled Along, Rolled Along--indeed they did; the next, From Aunt Dinah's Quilting Party they were Seeing Nell-l-l-i-e Home. Then a single minstrel advanced the duly credited a.s.sertion of parties unnamed that A n.i.g.g.e.r Won't Steal, whereupon several others instantly and melodiously responded to the effect that be this as it may, I Caught Three in My Cornfield; One Had a Shovel and One Had a Hoe and if That Ain't Stealing I Don't Know! And so on without cessation for many fleeting, glorious, golden minutes. Once Mr. Birdseye, feeling certain he recognised the blithesome tenor whose wide shoulders his right arm encompa.s.sed, broke off his carolling long enough to say:

"Some doings, eh, Flying Jenny?"

Whereat the singer, thus jovially addressed, conferred a wink and a grin upon him and shouted back: "Don't be so blamed formal--just call me Jane!" and then skillfully picked up the tune again and kept right on tenoring. They were all still enmeshed and in all unison enriching the pent-up confines of their car with close harmonies when the train began to check up b.u.mpingly, and advised by familiar objects beginning to pa.s.s the windows Mr. Birdseye realised that they approached their destination. It didn't seem humanly possible that so much time had elapsed with such miraculous rapidity, but there was the indisputable evidence in Langford's Real Estate Division and the trackside warehouses of Brazzell Brothers' Pride of Dixie fertilizer works. From a chosen and accepted comrade he now became also a guide.

"Fellows!" he announced, breaking out of the ring, "we'll be in in just a minute--this is Anneburg!"

Coincidentally with this announcement the conductor appeared at the forward end of the car and in a word gave confirmatory evidence. Of the car porter there was no sign. Duty called him to be present, but prudence bade him nay. He had discretion, that porter.

The song that was being sung at that particular moment--whatever it was--was suffered to languish and die midway of a long-drawn refrain.

There was a scattering of the minstrels to s.n.a.t.c.h up suit cases, bags and other portable impedimenta.

"I'll ride up to the hotel with you," suggested Mr. Birdseye, laying a detaining hand upon the master's elbow. "If I get a chance there's something I want to tell you on the way." He was just remembering he had forgotten to mention that treacherous soft spot back of centre field.

"You bet your blameless young life you'll ride with us!" answered back the other, reaching for a valise.

"What? Lose our honoured and esteemed reception committee now? Not a chance!" confirmed an enormous youth whose ba.s.s tones fitted him for the life of a troubadour, but whose breadth of frame qualified him for piano-moving or centre-rus.h.i.+ng. With a great bear-hug he lifted Mr.

Birdseye in his arms, roughly fondling him.

"You're going to the Hotel Balboa, of course," added Mr. Birdseye, regaining his feet and his breath as the caressing grip of the giant relaxed.

"Hotel Balboa is right, old Pathfinder."

"Then we'd all better take the hotel bus uptown, hadn't we?"

"Just watch us take it."

"I'll lay eight to five that bus has never been properly taken before now."

"But it's about to be." He who uttered this prophecy was the brisk youngster who had objected to being designated by so elaborated a t.i.tle as Flying Jenny.

"All out!"

Like a chip on the crest of a mountain torrent Mr. Birdseye was borne down the car steps as the train halted beneath the shed of the Anneburg station. Across the intervening tracks, through the gate and the station and out again at the far side of the waiting room the living freshet poured. As he was carried along with it, the Indian being at his right hand, the orange thrower at his left, and behind him irresistible forces ramping and roaring, Mr. Birdseye was aware of a large crowd, of Nick Cornwall, of others locally a.s.sociated with the destinies of the Anneburg team, of many known to him personally or by name, all staring hard, with puzzled looks, as he went whirling on by. Their faces were visible a fleeting moment, then vanished like faces seen in a fitful dream, and now the human ground swell had surrounded and inundated a large motorbus, property of the Hotel Balboa.

Strong arms reached upward and, as though he had been a child, plucked from his perch the dumfounded driver of this vehicle, with a swing depositing him ten feet distant, well out of harm's way. A youth who plainly understood the mystery of motors clambered up, nimble as a monkey, taking seat and wheel. Another mounted alongside of him and rolled up a magazine to make a coaching horn of it. Another and yet another followed, until a cus.h.i.+oned s.p.a.ce designed for two only held four. As pirates aforetime have boarded a wallowing galleon the rest of the crew boarded the body of the bus. They entered by door or by window, whichever chanced to be handier, first firing their hand baggage in with a splendid disregard of consequences.

In less than no time at all, to tallyho tootings, to whoops and to yells and to s.n.a.t.c.hes of melody, the Hotel Balboa bus was rolling through a startled business district, bearing in it, upon it and overflowing from it full twice as many fares as its builder had imagined it conceivably would ever contain when he planned its design and its accommodations.

Side by side on the floor at its back door with feet out in s.p.a.ce, were jammed together Mr. J. Henry Birdseye and the aforesaid blocky chieftain of the band. Teams checked up as the caravan rolled on. Foot travellers froze in their tracks to stare at the spectacle. Birdseye saw them. They saw Birdseye. And he saw that they saw and felt that be the future what it might, life for him could never bring a greater, more triumphant, more exultant moment than this.

"Is that the opera house right ahead?" inquired his ill.u.s.trious mate as the bus jounced round the corner of Lattimer Street.

"No, that's the new Second National Bank," explained Mr. Birdseye between jolts. "The opera house is four doors further down--see, right there--just next to where that sign says 'Tascott & Nutt, Hardware.'"

Simultaneously those who rode in front and atop must likewise have read the sign of Tascott & Nutt. For the bus, as though on signal, swerved to the curb before this establishment and stopped dead short, and in chorus a dozen strong voices called for Mr. Nutt, continuing to call until a plump, middle-aged gentleman in his s.h.i.+rt sleeves issued from the interior and crossed the sidewalk, surprise being writ large upon his face. When he had drawn near enough, sinewy hands stretched forth and pounced upon him, and as the bus resumed its journey he most unwillingly was dragged at an undignified dogtrot alongside a rear wheel while strange, tormenting questions were shouted down at him:

"Oh, Mr. Nutt, how's your dear old coco?"

"And how's your daughter Hazel?--charming girl, Hazel!"

"And your son, Philip Bertram? Don't tell me the squirrels have been after that dear Phil Bert again!"

"You'll be careful about the chipmunks this summer, won't you, Mr.

Nutt--for our sakes?"

"Old Man Nutt is a good old soul."

But this last was part of a song, and not a question at all.

The victim wrested himself free at last and stood in the highroad speechless with indignation. Lack of breath was likewise a contributing factor. Mr. Birdseye observed, as they drew away from the panting figure, that the starting eyes of Mr. Nutt were fixed upon him recognisingly and accusingly, and realised that he was in some way being blamed for the discomfiture of that solid man and that he had made a sincere enemy for life. But what cared he? Meadow larks, golden breasted, sat in his short ribs and sang to his soul.

And now they had drawn up at the Hotel Balboa, and with Birdseye still in the van they had piled off and were swirling through the lobby to splash up against the bulkhead of the clerk's desk, behind which, with a wide professional smile of hospitality on his lips, Head Clerk Ollie Bates awaited their coming and their pleasure.

"You got our wire?" demanded of him the young manager. "Rooms all ready?"

"Rooms all ready, Mister----"

"Fine and dandy! We'll go right up and wash up for lunch. Here's the list--copy the names onto the register yourself. Where's the elevator?

Oh, there it is. All aboard, boys! No, wait a minute," countermanded this young commander who forgot nothing, as he turned and confronted Mr.

Birdseye. "Before parting, we will give three cheers for our dear friend, guide and well-wisher, Colonel Birdseye Maple. All together:

"Whee! _Whee!_ =Whee!="

The last and loudest Whee died away; the troupe charged through and over a skirmish line of darky bell hops; they stormed the elevator cage. Half in and half out of it their chief paused to wave a hand to him whom they had just honoured.