Side-stepping with Shorty Part 44

around, that Mr. Twombley-Crane gets the facts of the story. He didn't have much to say; but, knowin' what I did, and seein' how he looked, I could easy frame up what was on his mind. He gives orders that whatever was wanted should be handed out, and he was standin' by holdin' the brandy flask himself when them washed out blue eyes of Rusty's flickers open for the first time.

"I--I forgot my--mouth organ," says Rusty. "I wouldn't of come back--but for that."

It wa'n't much more'n a whisper, and it was a shaky one at that. So was Mr. Twombley-Crane's voice kind of shaky when he tells him he thanks the Lord he did come back. And then Rusty goes off in another faint.

Next a real doc. shows up, and he chases us all out while him and the student has a confab. In five minutes or so we gets the verdict. The doc. says Rusty is damaged pretty bad. Things have happened to his ribs and spine which ought to have ended him on the spot. As it is, he may hold out another hour, though in the shape he's in he don't see how he can. But if he could hold out that long the doc. knows of an A-1 sawbones who could mend him up if anyone could.

"Then telephone for him at once, and do your best meanwhile," says Mr.

Twombley-Crane.

By that time everyone on the place knows about Rusty and his stunt.

The front rooms was full of people standin' around whisperin' soft to each other and lookin' solemn,--swell, high toned folks, that half an hour before hardly knew such specimens as Rusty existed. But when the word is pa.s.sed around that probably he's all in, they takes it just as hard as if he was one of their own kind. When it comes to takin' the long jump, we're all pretty much on the same grade, ain't we?

I begun to see where I hadn't any business sizin' up Rusty like I had, and was workin' up a heavy feelin' in my chest, when the doc. comes out and asks if there's such a party as Shorty McCabe present. I knew what was comin'. Rusty has got his eyes open again and is callin' for me.

I finds him half propped up with pillows on a s.h.i.+ny mahogany table, his face all screwed up from the hurt inside, and the freckles showin' up on his dead white skin like peach stains on a table cloth.

"They say I'm all to the bad, Shorty," says he, tryin' to spring that grin of his.

"Aw, cut it out!" says I. "You tell 'em they got another guess.

You're too tough and rugged to go under so easy."

"Think so?" says he, real eager, his eyes lightin' up.

"Sure thing!" says I. Say, I put all the ginger and cheerfulness I could fake up into that lie. And it seems to do him a heap of good.

When I asks him if there's anything he wants, he makes another crack at his grin, and says:

"A paper pipe would taste good about now."

"Let him have it," says the doc. So the student digs out his cigarette case, and we helps Rusty light up.

"Ain't there somethin' more, Rusty?" says I. "You know the house is yours."

"Well," says he, after a few puffs, "if this is to be a long wait, a little music would help. There's a piano over in the corner."

I looks at the doc. and shakes my head. He shakes back.

"I used to play a few hymns," says the student.

"Forget 'em, then," says Rusty. "A hymn would finish me, sure. What I'd like is somethin' lively."

"Doc.," says I, "would it hurt?"

"Couldn't," says he. Also he whispers that he'd use chloroform, only Rusty's heart's too bad, and if he wants ragtime to deal it out.

"Wish I could," says I; "but maybe I can find some one who can."

With that I slips out and hunts up Mrs. Twombley-Crane, explainin' the case to her.

"Why, certainly," says she. "Where is Effie? I'll send her in right away."

She's a real damson plum, Effie is; one of the cute, fluffy haired kind, about nineteen. She comes in lookin' scared and sober; but when she's had a look at Rusty, and he's tried his grin on her, and said how he'd like to hear somebody tear off somethin' that would remind him of Broadway, she braces right up.

"I know," says she.

And say, she did know! She has us whirl the baby grand around so's she can glance over the top at Rusty, tosses her lace handkerchief into one corner of the keyboard, pushes back her sleeves until the elbow dimples show, and the next thing we know she's teasin' the tumpety-tum out of the ivories like a professor.

She opens up with a piece you hear all the kids whistlin',--something with a swing and a rattle to it, I don't know what. But it brings Rusty up on his elbow and sets him to keepin' time with the cigarette.

Then she slides off into "Poor John!" and Rusty calls out for her to sing it, if she can. Can she? Why, she's got one of them sterling silver voices, that makes Vesta Victoria's warblin' sound like blowin'

a fish horn, and before she's half through the first verse Rusty has joined in.

"Come on!" says he, as they strikes the chorus. "Everybody!"

Say, the doc. was right there with the goods. He roars her out like a good one; and the student chap wa'n't far behind, either. You know how it goes--

John, he took me round to see his moth-er, his moth-er, his moth-er!

And while he introduced us to each oth-er--

Eh? Well, maybe that ain't just the way it goes; but I can think the tune right. That was what I was up against then. I knew I couldn't make my voice behave; so all I does is go through the motions with my mouth and tap the time out with my foot. But I sure did ache to jump in and help Rusty out.

It was a great concert. She gives us all them cla.s.sic things, like "The Bird on Nellie's Hat," "Waiting at the Church," "No Wedding Bells for Me," and so on; her fingers just dancin', and her head noddin' to Rusty, and her eyes kind of encouragin' him to keep his grip.

Twice, though, he has to quit, as the pain twists him; and the last time, when he flops back on the pillows, we thought he'd pa.s.sed in for good. But in a minute or so he's up again' callin' for more. Say, maybe you think Miss Effie didn't have some grit of her own, to sit there bangin' out songs like that, expectin' every minute to see him keel over. But she stays with it, and we was right in the middle of that chorus that goes--

In old New York, in old New York, The peach crop's always fine--

when the foldin' doors was slid back, and in comes the big surgeon gent we'd been waitin' for. You should have seen the look on him too, as he sizes up them three singin', and Rusty there on the table, a cigarette twisted up in his fingers, fightin' down a spasm.

"What blasted idiocy is this?" he growled.

"New kind of pain killer, doc.," says I. "Tell you all about it later.

What you want to do now is get busy."

Well, that's the whole of it. He knew his book, that bone repairer did. He worked four hours steady, puttin' back into place the parts of Rusty that had got skewgeed; but when he rolls down his sleeves and quits he leaves a man that's almost as good as ever, barrin' a few months to let the pieces grow together.

I was out to see Rusty yesterday, and he's doin' fine. He's plannin', when he gets around again, to take the purse that was made up for him and invest it in airs.h.i.+p stock.

"And if ever I make a million dollars, Shorty," says he, "I'm goin' to hand over half of it to that gent that sewed me up."

"Good!" says I. "And if I was you I'd chuck the other half at the song writers."

ZANE GREY'S NOVELS

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