diff options
Diffstat (limited to '78961-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 78961-0.txt | 1271 |
1 files changed, 1271 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/78961-0.txt b/78961-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ad7c75a --- /dev/null +++ b/78961-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1271 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78961 *** + + + Alias Whispering White + + by W. C. Tuttle + Author of “The Hand of Providence,” “Pie for Magpie,” etc. + + +Once in a while you’ll meet a feller that you couldn’t help liking, even +if he took a shot at you, and that’s how me and Magpie felt about +Franklyn Burt. He sure knowed minerals sixteen ways from the jack, but +he didn’t act like he knowed a whole lot more than the rest of us old +sourdoughs at that. + +His card said that he was a mining engineer. He just poked around our +prospect, putting me and Magpie wise to a lot of new things on timbering +and so forth, and what he didn’t find out about our mine wasn’t much. +Said he was from Redfield, that he was quite well, thank you, and we +made him as welcome as a mess of trout. + +One day Magpie has been to Piperock, and when he comes back he’s got a +letter for Franklyn. It’s the first one he’s got since he came, which is +more than Magpie and me gets in a whole year unless somebody sends us a +catalog, telling us where we can get a suit of clothes for seven dollars +and eighty-eight cents, and an extra pair of pants free. + +Franklyn peruses that letter, while me and Magpie throws a feed +together, and all of a sudden he groans and spits out a man-sized cuss +word. + +“I’d say that Frankie has been reading the news,” says Magpie to me. + +Frankie throws down the letter, disgusted like, and stares into space. + +“Uncinch, son,” advises Magpie. “There ain’t nothing broke so badly that +it can’t be helped. Give us a look at your cards.” + +“She’s going to marry a duke,” says he, in a far-away voice, “a blasted +duke, with one foot in the grave.” + +“Pshaw!” says Magpie. “Maybe we can push him the rest of the way.” + +“You don’t understand, boys,” says Frankie, shaking his head. “It isn’t +her so much—it’s her aunt.” + +“Yes’m,” says I, “her aunt is going to marry the duke.” + +“No, Ike, I wish she were. Marion White and I were raised together, went +to the same school and college, and we’ve—well, I wish you could see +her, and then you’d know why I don’t want her to marry a duke.” + +“Why specify any certain breed?” grins Magpie. “You means that you sort +of browses around the same range. I don’t blame you, son. I’d go back +there and scare him so bad that he’d swim back home without even taking +time to put on a bathing-suit. Does her folks cotton to this duke stuff, +and where does auntie horn into the game?” + +“Her family consists of Wilberforce Van Veen and wife, Marion’s uncle +and aunt. They are her mother’s sister and brother-in-law, and they act +as guardians to Marion, and run the household. The bread-winner of the +family is her father’s brother, Samuel White, known as ‘Whispering’ +White. + +“He made a mint of money down in Brazil, died and left it all to Marion. +Of course, being guardians for Marion, the Van Veens sure did horn into +society, and—well, they spoiled things for me. They filled Marion’s +curly head with foolish ideas, and——” + +“Left you holding the sack,” grins Magpie, sympathetic like. “Now this +Whispering White——” + +“He didn’t die,” states Frankie. “His wealth was practically all in the +States, and the estate was settled up right away after he was reported +dead by the Brazilian Government, and the Van Veens dove into society. +One day Marion got a letter from her uncle. He had seen the papers, in +which his obituary was printed, and the settlement of the estate. He +told her that he was so glad to be able to read the sad news that she +could keep the money—it would be hers, anyway. + +“He’s down there making another stake. It seems that a couple of natives +broke into his place and stole some clothes and some emeralds, or +something like that. He nailed the clothes thief, while he was after the +jewel robber, and the authorities, finding the body clothed in +Whispering’s clothes, took it for granted that it was he, reported the +death, and buried the remains. It was about two weeks after Whispering +had caught him, and they didn’t make a very thorough identification.” + +“He must think a heap of the girl,” says I, and Frankie nods. + +“Yes, I suppose he does, in a way. He never saw her in his life. In fact +he never saw either of the Van Veens. He’s been a rover all his life, +mostly in foreign lands and in the West, and he never was in Redfield.” + +“Now, about this here duke,” says Magpie, waving us up to the table. +“Where does he hail from, and why?” + +“The Duke of Northmore,” says Frankie. “Never saw him in my life, but I +know the type. A perfect lady, scented from his bawth, cawn’t stand +excitement, and thinks that everybody wild enough to eat meat is a +bounder and a beastly bore, don’t you know?” + +“Aw-w-w!” drawls Magpie, screwing a dollar into one eye, and twisting +his face out of plumb in order to hold it there. + +“That’s it!” whoops Frankie. “Where in the world did you ever see the +like, Magpie?” + +“Shot one once,” laughed Magpie. “Dang near got arrested for it, too. It +was closed season.” + + * * * * * + +Magpie Simpkins was built after the plans and specifications intended to +be used to build a memorial to a Norway spruce. He’s the longest, +boniest, wisest-looking person in seventeen States. He’s got a +rail-splitting face, a tired-looking mustache, and a desire to prove to +the world that when brains were passed around he got more than his +share. + +I was christened Ike Harper, and I ain’t never been ashamed enough or +scared enough to change it. I got bow-legs, make tracks in the sand like +an Injun, and the best disposition on earth. I know when I’m licked, and +there’s a lot of men who can pull quicker and shoot faster than I can. + +Me and Magpie have been puttering around our little mine for quite a +long time. She starts out to be a silver proposition, but after a +certain depth she turns yaller. We hammers out enough free-milling gold +to keep us in bacon and beans, and prays that some day a millionaire +will drive up in a shiny hack and offer to buy us out. + +Frankie don’t say much about our mine, but he puts in quite a lot of +time puttering around, and writing letters. A few days after he gets +that letter he borrows a burro to ride to Piperock. When he comes back +we’re eating supper, so he fills up a plate with bean soup, and then +hauls out a yaller sheet of paper. + +“Take a look at this, boys,” says he, smoothing the sheet out on the +table. “What shall I answer?” + +It reads: + + Regarding Your Report Offer Fifteen Thousand Cash Limit Twenty. + ADAMS. + +“Just about what is the puzzle?” asks Magpie, and Frankie grins. + +“That’s up to you, Magpie—you and Ike. That’s a bona fide offer for your +little prospect. The wire is from Hartley Adams, the man I’m working +for, and he offers you a limit of twenty thousand dollars for your mine, +on my report.” + +“Son,” says Magpie, “I’ll go back there and kill that duke for you. +What’ll you do to please him, Ike?” + +“Me? I’ll count a coup, and wear his hair for a watch-charm. When do we +paint up for the war trail?” + +“Thanks,” laughs Frankie, but there ain’t a lot of joy in his laugh. “I +appreciate the spirit, but you can’t shoot a man—not even a duke, just +because he wants to marry the same girl you do. That’s East, boys. It +isn’t fashionable to kill folks back there.” + +“Haw!” grunts Magpie, with his mouth full of beans, “sometimes a good +scare is better than a bullet. I sort of pines for the East like a bear +for a bee-tree. Let’s me and you go East, Ike. A change will do us a lot +of good. Let’s go with Frankie.” + +Frankie looks us over, and nods sort of pleased like. + +“Love to have you,” says he. “Why not go? I can wire for a draft on the +bank of Silver Bend, and we can settle up things later, in case you +accept.” + +“Accept?” asks Magpie, smoothing his mustache, and looking at me. + +“Does a trout accept a fly hook? No, sir, he jumps at it. Consider us as +having jumped, Mister Franklyn Burt.” + +“You and me both,” I agrees. “But what’ll we do back there, Magpie, and +where will we go? We ain’t got nobody to visit.” + +“I have,” says he, hitching his belt around, “I have.” He pats himself +on the chest, and twists his mustache. “Look at me. Give you three +guesses who I am, and bet you ten dollars per guess that you’re wrong. I +am Whispering White!” + +“My ——!” says I, and Frankie drops a cup of hot coffee on his knees. + +Magpie rubs the stubble on his chin, and grins— + +“Late of Brazil.” + +“But-but-but—” stutters Frankie. + +“Let the goats do it, son,” advises Magpie, and then he points at me. + +“This critter is my pardner, also from the nut country, and we’ve come +back to see if anything needs fixing. What do you think, Frankie?” + +“Well!” exclaims Frankie, wide-eyed. “Well, I don’t know whether you +could get away with it or not.” + +“Me?” asks Magpie. “Get away with it? Say, son, I’ve rustled cows and +hung rustlers; salted mines and bought salted ones; and I’ve bit, +fought, scratched and shot my way from the cradle up to date, and now +you asks me if I can adopt a name and get away with it where I ain’t +known. Consider yourself answered in the affirmative, and have some more +coffee. What you trying to do—irrigate your knee-caps?” + +The next day we takes our burros and pilgrims to Piperock, takes the +stage from there to Paradise, and draws five hundred each. That person +has wired us a thousand to cinch the deal, and we fixes things up at the +bank. + +“The feller what invented sleeping-cars was dying from insomnia,” states +Magpie, after he bumps his head a few times in his bunk. He crawls out +and yells for the porter to bring him an ax, so he can knock the head +out of his bunk. The porter refused to get him one, so he puts his +clothes back on. + +“What you going to do, Magpie?” I asks. + +“I’m going up to the rear end and set in the sight-seeing car,” says he. +“Paid money for a bed and all I draw is a bird’s nest.” + +“You-all can’t sleep in the observation cah,” objects the porter. +“You-all simply can’t do that.” + +Magpie reaches into his bunk, hauls out his old Colt, and shoves it +inside his waistband. + +“For why can’t I?” he asks, but the porter went away without making up +the bunk across from us, and didn’t show up until the party what owned +it yelled his head off for a place to sleep. + +The next morning, while I’m standing on one ear, trying to inch my pants +on, I hears Magpie’s voice. I peeks out, and here comes Magpie towing a +party down the car with him. This party wears a man-sized bunch of hair +on his face, a crooked nose and a pair of eyes what don’t match. He’s a +congenial looking Jasper, and he’s wearing a rubber collar just like me +and Magpie are. + +“Sleep well?” I asks. + +“Ike, I want you to meet Mr. Hobbs—knowed after a short acquaintance as +‘Homely.’ Homely, this is my pardner Ike Harper. We didn’t sleep. Me and +Homely bought a deck of cards from the porter, and we spent the night +pleasantly. Tonight we’re going to climb up on top of the car and sleep +in the open, eh, Homely?” + +“No argument,” agrees Homely. “Get into your pants, Ike, and we’ll all +eat breakfast.” + +“Where do we stop?” I asks. + +“We don’t stop to eat,” explains Homely. “We eat in the dining-car. This +here train don’t stop for no such things as eats. Sabe?” + +Homely points out a feller in the eating-car, and whispers to me: + +“I been associating with that feller for some time now, and I’d bet a +dobie dollar that he’s Jesse James.” + +He don’t look like a bad-man, and he ain’t got no visible guns, but when +he hands us our bill for breakfast I shakes hands with Homely and +congratulates him on his deductions. + +Homely can take the biggest drink of whisky you ever seen. Why, that +hombre can gasp and inhale a pint. Me and Magpie are temperance beside +him. We can’t help liking him, ’cause he fits in fine with us. Frankie +takes a liking to him, and we plays poker all the way to St. Paul. + +Homely can hold more assorted kinds of food on a knife blade than any +other living man. It sure takes a steady hand to balance peas, potatoes, +meat and bread and gravy on one blade and never spill a drop, but Homely +can do it. Everybody on the car watched him, and I’m betting they envied +him his ability. + + * * * * * + +We got off at St. Paul, ’cause we had to change trains. Frankie gets me +and Magpie to one side, and tells us that he ain’t going on to Redfield +with us, ’cause folks might think it’s a plant. He’ll show up later. Him +and Magpie have had some long talks, in which Magpie has learned more +about that family than the family knows. Frankie says for us to dress +befitting the occasion and our station in life. Of course it’s sort of +up to Magpie, more than it is me, so me and Homely takes in the town, +while Magpie goes shopping. + +We has some ham and eggs, and then inspects some of the places where +good cheer comes packed in glass. We meets a pleasant sort of a person, +who asks us, confidential like, if we’d care to mingle the pasteboards +in a nice quiet place. + +The quiet place don’t interest us none, ’cause we’re sufficiently +organized to play in a boiler factory, so we bought him a drink and +pilgrims away with him. I don’t know where he took us, but I do know +that it would take six Injuns and a pack of bloodhounds to ever pick up +our trail. + +We got into a room full of smoke, and there’s a good game going. +Five-dollar jack-pots, and no limit. The game is filled, so me and +Homely joins the crowd around the table. There’s a feller right in front +of us, wearing an ice-cream suit and big floppy straw hat, and he seems +to be winning a-plenty. I can’t see his face, but from the way he folds +his cards I can see he’s no infant at the game. + +I stands there and watches the draw on a pot what has been boosted +enough to make it worth fighting for. Floppy hat draws one, and the +dealer one. The rest petered out before the draw. Homely lights a cigar +and says to the dealer— + +“Mister, I’d be willing to pay you good wages to show me how you done +that.” + +“Done what?” snarls the feller, squinting up at Homely from under his +eyeshade. + +“Palm cards thataway,” grins Homely. “You’re setting on a queen that +ought to be in your hand, and your hand shows a king what hadn’t come +due yet, and you done it so slick that I almost missed it.” + +All of which is a dangerous remark right at that time, if anybody should +ask you. Nobody said a word or moved for a few seconds, and then I sees +the dealer turn pale. The party in the big hat has sort of leaned back, +and when I glances down over his shoulders I see the muzzle of a gun +pointing right at the dealer’s stummick. The man behind the gun reaches +out and begins to remove said pot into his coat pockets. + +The party at the right, being out of line of the gun, opines that he’s +got to exercise his lungs, and he does so with great cheer. He seems to +want the police, fire department and a free passage out of there all to +once, and just then some darn fool turned off the lights. + +Man, there was some going on right there. I reckon there was at least a +dozen men in that room, and when the lights went out I hopped back +against the wall and let ’em stampede. + +I hears the smash of glassware, when somebody tipped over the bar, and +conversation consists of curses and yelps. Then comes the pop of a +six-gun, and the bullet burnt my ear. + +Believe me, Ike Harper ain’t no stranger to powder smoke, so I whoops +loud and clear, hauls out my old Colt and takes a shot at anything that +happens to be in my way. Across from me a gun pops and I gets my ears +full of plaster. + +_Bing_ goes a gun from the other side, and she settles down to a steady +battle. Every time I sees a flash I shoots at it, and I reckon the +others were doing the same. I shoots six times, and then has to quit, +and I reckon the others were in the same fix. + +“I wish I knowed where that danged switch was,” I hears a voice +complain, and then it says again, “Don’t shoot, you darn fools—I’ve +found it,” and the lights comes on again. + +There stands Homely, leaning against the wall, with an empty gun in his +hand, and a foolish look on his face. We both looks across the room, +where the table is laying on its side, and up over the edge comes a +waving lock of hair, then a pair of squinty eyes, and a tired-looking +mustache, and Magpie Simpkins breaks into a grin. He climbs to his feet, +sets down on the edge of the table, and looks around on the floor. + +“Anybody seen anything of that Brazil hat of mine?” he asks. “This sure +is one dusty place for an ice-cream suit, if you asks me.” + +We don’t have nothing to say, so he grins at Homely and says— + +“Homely, you spoke just in time—all I had was a bob-tail.” + +Homely scratches his head and shoves his empty gun in his pocket— + +“Well, Magpie, you’re a rotten shot—that’s all I can say.” + +“That goes triple, Homely,” grins Magpie. “You and Ike had an even +break. Let’s get out of here. Them scared Jaspers will likely call the +police.” + +“Not them,” says Homely, “what they’d call a policeman for wouldn’t get +nobody in jail but themselves.” + +We had a fine time finding our way out of there, but we manages to get +back to the hotel. Magpie is so happy over finding that hat that he +forgets the condition of his clothes. + +“Some hat,” says he. “I told the clerk that I was from Brazil and wanted +a hat, and he told me that he had a hat that had been waiting for me a +long time. I’m supposed to be from Brazil, Homely.” + +“Supposed to be?” asks Homely, who ain’t wise to our pilgrimage, so +Magpie sets down and tells him all about it. + +Homely gets excited over it, and offers to help pull the stunt. + +“I like Frankie,” says he, “and I hate dukes like ——! Let me have first +shot at him and I’ll go along with you.” + +“I know how you feel about it, Homely,” says Magpie. “If a feller ain’t +never shot at one he naturally hankers for the experience. I shot at one +once, and I know the sensation, but this is going to be a safe, sane and +sanitary proposition. Sabe? Naturally I got a lot to say about who +spends the money I earned, and I ain’t in the market for no shop-worn +dukes, but I ain’t provoked enough to let you shoot him on sight. Come +with us if you like, Homely, but don’t pack no gun.” + +“I’ll come,” agrees Homely. “Me and Ike will sort of hang around as a +body-guard, and shoot him when you throw him out.” + + * * * * * + +It’s quite some trip from St. Paul to Redfield, but the town was there +when we arrived. Some say it was there before the war, which gave the +inhabitants an alibi for fighting. + +We climbs off the train and let it go on without us. We looks the place +over from an unprejudiced standpoint and found her lacking. + +There ain’t a hitching-rack in sight, and the only bronc we can see has +got its tail cropped off short, and is being mishandled by a +skinny-looking person, wearing panties, who bobs in the saddle like he +had boils. He sure is careful of his saddle. + +There’s quite a lot of folks at the depot and I’d reckon there ain’t +many strangers stop there, ’cause everybody stares at us. + +We sort of mills around, looking for a place to go, when a dude-looking +feller busts out of that herd of inquisitives and pilgrims up to us. + +“I beg your pardon,” says he to Magpie, “would you mind telling me who +you are, and all that, don’t you know? I’m with the _Clarion_.” + +“Real estate, roulette or religion?” asks Magpie. + +“Beg pardon? Oh, I see you misunderstood me. I’m a reporter. I—I thought +perhaps you—er—might be worth a story. You and your party are so—well, +different, don’t you know?” + +“Story and a half,” grins Homely, looking up at Magpie, “go on and tell +the kid who you are, old-timer. Me and Harper will see that you get fair +play.” + +“I am Whispering White from Brazil, and other seaports,” says Magpie, +and that feller’s eyebrows rise half an inch. + +“Whispering White, the South American millionaire?” he gasps. “The man +who died, and then came back to life? The uncle of Marion White, who is +going to marry the duke?” + +“No,” says Magpie, “who was going to marry him.” + +The feller sure got busy on a piece of paper. + +“When did you leave Brazil?” he asks. + +Magpie scratches his head, and squints at me and Homely. + +“When did we leave Brazil?” he asks. “In May, wasn’t it?” + +“April first,” says I. + +“And the rest of your party is?” he asks, indicating me and Homely. + +“This one,” says Magpie, pointing at me, “this is ‘Bedrock’ Benson, +mayor of Pecan Province, and this other one is Homely Hobbs, the +greatest squirrel expert in South America, if not in the world.” + +“Great stuff!” exclaims the feller. “What do you think of Redfield?” + +“I knowed a man what got lynched for saying what he thought,” says +Magpie, “so I’ll just keep my face shut.” + +“I suppose you’ll miss the palms and coconuts,” says the reporter, +grinning, and writing fast. + +“The palms,” agrees Magpie. “Nuts are the same wherever you find them. +What is the best hotel in the place?” + +He showed us a hotel, and when we pilgrims up to the front door we gets +assaulted by some fellers in band uniforms. Magpie chases one of them +all over the house, trying to get his valise back. After he nails this +feller he takes the valise away from him, picks him up and throws him +out of the front door. + +“If the boss is in I’d admire to have you ask him if we can have a room +with a bed big enough for three men,” says Magpie to the person behind +the counter, “and I don’t want one with a dirty white pitcher setting +there in a cracked, white dishpan, either, and if the springs bust down +like they did in Silver Bend I’ll come down and tie that bedstead around +your darn neck. Sabe? Now do we connect with our desire or don’t we?” + +“You-you-you—” stutters the feller, and he turns a big book around in +front of Magpie, and hands him a pen. + +“Register,” says he. Magpie looks at the pen and book, and then at the +feller. + +“I didn’t come here to vote,” says he, “I came here to sleep.” + +“What name, please?” asks the feller, and Magpie gets mad. + +“Young feller,” says he, “I don’t like this town. Folks want to know +your name and occupation the minute they see you. I’m Whispering White, +of Brazil. These two with me are Bedrock Benson and Homely Hobbs. We’re +all from Brazil. Now, do we get that room?” + +“Yes, Mr. White,” says he, getting friendly all at once, “surely you do. +You’ll want rooms with bath?” + +“Bath?” asks Magpie, turning to us, “you fellers dirty?” + +“I got dusty crossing the ocean,” says I, and Homely speaks up: + +“I’ll take a little bath with you, Whispering, if I lose. I’m game.” + +A couple of fellers packs our grips over to a little room, and we all +goes in with them, and that room goes skyhooting toward the sky. We +found out later that they only built the stairs to keep folks from +falling down the hole. + +It was before noon when we gets there, and along about two o’clock the +alarm rings. Homely sabes the thing, so he yells into the box on the +wall— + +“What do you want?” + +Then he sort of grins at Magpie, and says— + +“Mister Van Veen is down-stairs and wants to know if he can come up.” + +“Tell him it’s a public place,” says Magpie, “and that I can’t stop +him.” + +He came. The first thing I noticed was that he’s got dimples where his +knuckles ought to be, and his finger-nails are pink. His face is fat and +pink, and he wears specs that would make good magnifying glasses, and he +anchors them to his person with a yard of crape ribbon. He exudes a +scent that you’d naturally connect with a lisp and he carries a cane. + +He stands there in the doorway, peering at us like a dude owl, and +pretty soon he hauls out a big silver case, takes out one of them +cigarets what smell like a disinfectant, taps same three times on the +case, and clears his throat. I names him “Pinky” right there. + +“My ——!” snorts Magpie. “Am I related to that?” + +“I am—er—looking for Samuel White,” says he. “Which one of you—er—gents +are he?” + +“I are he,” says Magpie. “But I’m no er-gent. What you selling?” + +“Selling? Haw! I am your—er—relative. Mr. Wilberforce Van Veen, at your +service.” + +“Thanks,” says Magpie, “I don’t need you today. Come on in and rest your +feet. How’s the folks?” + +“Thank you. Very well, I thank you. I read in the _Clarion_ of your +arrival, and it was a great—er—surprise, I assure you. How do you find +Redfield?” + +“By getting on the right train and getting off at the right depot,” says +Magpie. “Meet Bedrock Benson and Homely Hobbs, Van.” + +“Aw! Pleasure, I assure you,” says he. + +“Glad you think so,” says Homely. + +“How’s your folks?” + +“Well, I thank you,” and then he turns to Magpie: “May I have a few +minutes’ private conversation with you, Samuel?” + +“Shoot,” says Magpie, “don’t mind these hombres, Van. They know more +about my business than I do, so don’t mind them in the least.” + +“It is in regard to—er—Marion and the Duke of Northmore,” says he, +nervous like, lighting another joss-stick. “You—er—must have intimated +to the reporter that you were not in favor of the union, and—er—I came +up to ask you to call them up and—er—sort of correct the error, don’t +you know? They must have misunderstood you. The preparations for the +wedding are under way, and such a report at this time might—er—well, +prove embarrassing. You understand, don’t you?” + +Magpie rolls a cigaret, and sort of grins under his mustache. + +“How is the duke fixed?” he asks. + +“You mean his financial standing? Really, you can’t figure things that +way, old fellow. His title, the title he can give Marion, can not be +summed up in dollars and cents. I dare say he’s comfortable.” + +“Comfortable?” grins Magpie, “Maybe we can change that. Does my niece +know I’m here?” + +“No, she does not. She and the duke are motoring today. I shall have to +do everything I can to block you in case you try to interfere in any +way. My wife and I are her recognized guardians, remember.” + +“Pinky,” says I, “don’t rile him. Whispering is a holy terror when he’s +riled, and if you get too blasted tutty he’ll take your pocketbook away +from you, and you’ll have to go to work. Sabe?” + +“Them is words of wisdom,” agrees Homely. “A dollar in the hand is worth +two dukes in the family, Van, old scout. Could you use a glass of milk +and sugar if I was to offer to treat the crowd?” + +“Why—er—really I don’t know,” says he, bewildered like. “I believe I +must go now. I hope to see you all again. Pleased to have met you. Good +afternoon,” and he softly closed the door. + +“Magpie,” says Homely, “you ain’t no gentleman. Always take off your hat +when a person like that talks to you. Ain’t you got no manners? You +embarrassed him extremely.” + +“Manners!” snorts Magpie. “No, I ain’t, Homely. I ain’t got no judgment, +either, or I wouldn’t have picked that snow-shoe rabbit for a relative. +I wonder what Marion is like?” + + * * * * * + +We found out the next day. The three of us walks out to the Van Veen +residence. It sure looks like a lot of money surrounded by a brush +fence, and when Homely sees it he says to Magpie: + +“You must have made a lot of money in Brazil. Nice place to live.” + +“Yeah,” says Magpie, “nice but not homelike. Why, Homely, a lizard +wouldn’t live in a place like this, and a rattlesnake would bite himself +inside of a week. No sagebrush nor rocks, and I ain’t seen a man here +what ain’t pink in the face. It sure does ruin the human race living in +a place like this.” + +We hammers on the front door, and a general opens the door for us. We +all bows to him, and Magpie says: + +“Colonel, we’re glad to meet you. I’m Whispering White, and this is +Bedrock Benson and Homely Hobbs.” + +We all shakes hands with him. + +“How’s the army?” asks Homely. + +“Beg pardon,” says he, with his nose in the air. “Who shall I announce?” + +“Gosh,” snorts Magpie, “he’s going to make an announcement. Go ahead, +Officer.” + +“Beg pardon,” says he, getting red as a beet. “Who shall I announce?” + +“Who have you got?” grins Magpie. “We came up to see Marion White, but +if you got anything else we’ll look it over.” + +“Ah!” says he. “Step into the drawing-room, and I will inform Miss +Marion of your presence.” + +“Merry Christmas,” says Homely, and we all follers the officer into a +room what reminds me of molasses. Everything is dark and heavy, and your +boots don’t even squeak on the floor. Some folks seem to be afraid of a +little sunshine, so I goes over to let up a shade, when I hears a female +voice say: “Quite a surprise!” and I turns just in time to see Magpie +kiss her. + +Magpie sure knows how to play a part, I can say that much for him, but +his judgment is all wrong. + +“Sir!” she yelps. “How dare you! I am Mrs. Van Veen,” and Magpie got his +face slapped. + +He goes plumb up to his ears in a soft chair, and Homely whistles— + +“Set ’em up in the other alley!” + +“My mistake, ma’am,” says Magpie. “It’s so blasted dark in here that I +didn’t see who I was kissing. Now that I can see you I’m ashamed of +myself.” + +“Are you Samuel White?” she asks, and I can see the frost on her breath. + +“Of Brazil, ma’am,” admits Magpie; “how’s the folks?” + +“You wished to see Marion?” + +“Gosh!” snorts Magpie. “I came all the way from Brazil, sent an army +officer to tell her I was here, and now I got to wish. All right, +auntie, I’ll wish. Now can I see her?” + +“Uncle Samuel!” says the voice of a mocking bird behind me, and Ike +Harper got his first free kiss. Man, I’d orate aloud that she’s some +filly. Me and her exchanges hugs, and then I breaks the clinch. + +“Ma’am,” says I, “you sure shows good judgment, but that long hombre +over there is your uncle.” + +Magpie meets her half-way, and I can hear auntie sniff. Pretty soon they +breaks away, and looks foolish like at each other, and Magpie says: + +“Ain’t you got no place where there’s light enough for us to see each +other? I don’t like this cell.” + +“Let’s go out on the porch,” she suggests. “I want to meet the rest of +your friends.” + +“I kissed your aunt,” says Magpie, apologetic like. “I’d have kissed +your uncle, too, but he was smoking a vile cigaret.” + +Marion laughs like she was amused, and we all goes out on the verandy, +and gets used to each other’s looks. She’s some looker in the light, and +I says to myself— + +“I don’t blame Frankie, and I’m glad she made that mistake.” + +Homely watches her while he rolls a cigaret. She must have attracted him +some, ’cause he throws away his cigaret and puts the match in his mouth, +and says— + +“Say, you ain’t going to marry no duke, are you?” + +Her eyebrows goes up about an inch, and she stares at Homely. + +“Ex-cuse me!” he gasps, and puffs hard on the match. + +“Why,” says she, offended like, “why ask that when the announcements are +all out, and——” + +“My ——!” says I. “More announcements, boys. When do we see the duke?” + +“He’s at his hotel,” says Marion. “We are having a reception here +tonight. Perhaps you can arrange a meeting tomorrow.” And then her and +Magpie strolls away up the verandy for a personal visit, while me and +Homely takes off our boots to rest our feet, and sets down to wait for +him to break away. + +We tells her we’re a heap glad to meet her, and then we goes back to the +hotel. Magpie has a drink with us, and then orates that he’s going to +buy some more clothes and get his hair cut. We don’t want to go with +him, so me and Homely pokes around the streets. Watching a hair cut is +my idea of nothing to see. + + * * * * * + +We’re standing on a corner when here comes Pinky in an automobile. He +didn’t aim to see us, I reckon, so me and Homely both yelled at him to +stop, and then we pilgrims out to his buggy. He didn’t tell us not to, +so we climbs in with him, just as a policeman comes up. He tips his hat +to Pinky, and says— + +“Anything I can do for you, Mister Van Veen?” + +Pinky looks at me and Homely, and his gills get sort of red, but then he +shakes his head— + +“Nothing, Officer, thank you.” + +“You sure stand in with the law, Van,” says Homely. “Let’s all go have a +drink. What do you say, Van?” + +“Why—er—really, don’t you know, I’m afraid——” + +“We’ll protect you with our lives,” states Homely. “Won’t we, Ike?” + +“To the death,” says I. “Drive careful, ’cause I got a gun on my hip, +and it might jolt off and ruin a cushion.” + +Pinky didn’t seem in the best of spirits, but he took us out in the +country to a place where they sells everything from soda water to souls. +He wanted to drink mineral water, but we objects so hard that he decides +in favor of real liquor. + +Pinky is the hardest man I ever tried to get six drinks into, and after +that he’s the hardest to choke off. He sure did surprise me. + +“Reshepshun tonight,” says he, wise as a owl. “Bes’ people in the city. +Duke’ll be there. Duke’s a lion—you know it?” + +“Mostly all do lie more or less,” agrees Homely. “Are we invited?” + +“Sure. Friends of mine—besshur life. Got evenin’ clothes?” + +“Night-gown party, eh?” gulps Homely, along with a pint of liquor. +“Pass. I’m a respectable person, Van.” + +“Dresh shuit,” says Pinky. “Le’s all go to tailor, eh? Get shuited for +party. What shay?” + +“No argument,” agrees Homely. “If there’s any shooting going on you can +count me in. Lead us to Mister Tailor, and may the Lord have mercy on +his shoul.” + +All of which shows that Homely is beginning to thicken. Me—I’m getting +beautifully primed. + +We went to the tailor’s about a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth. Pinky +insists on dressing us right there, so we left our week day garments in +his care, and got back in that machine. + +We’re pretty dry, so we hunts a place to wet them new suits. I don’t +like a coat you can’t button, and them pants are too tight to go over +the tops of my boots, so I tucks them inside. Pinky’s crazy any time he +thinks we’re going to dress up that much and then wear high collars and +white ties. + +We tore them off in that palace of vice, and then bought us each a red +one, and two new rubber collars. Homely got a red four-in-hand, with +black horseshoes on, while I got a pure red one of the kind you can +cross and tie off each end to your suspenders. + +I never felt so aristocratic in my life, and Homely looks like a actor. +He feels so good that he stands on the sidewalk and sings: + + “I’m a buckaroo from Bucktown and I drinks my whisky clear. + I’m a rearin’ rootin’ tooter, a son-of-a-gambolier.” + +The same of which makes a hit with Pinky, and we has to stand right +there and sing it until he learns the words. Then Pinky throws the quirt +into that automobile, and we ambles for home. Pinky would sure make good +on a cross-country drive after coyotes, but four wheels are too many, +and the road ain’t wide enough, ’cause he ignores the road entirely, +jumps a brush fence, skates all around over a nice grassy plot, and when +I wakes up I got flowers in my mouth and dirt in my ears. + +Homely is setting there in a fountain, splashing water, and Pinky is +hugging a female statue, and whispering words of love into its ear. The +hind end of the automobile is sticking out of the side of a little lath +house covered with vines, and one wheel is still turning, and I wonders, +foolish like, if it will stop on 00 or the red. + +I wipes the dirt off my face, and walks over to the wreck. Homely swims +to land, and Pinky gets disgusted when the lady don’t talk back to him, +so we all goes over inside the little house. + +“Tha’s shame,” says Pinky, “never went in here before. Wife’ll have +shixteen fits—you know it? Peculiar woman is Louisa. Ever met her?” + +“Whispering kissed her by mistake,” says I, and Pinky chuckles, and +looks wise. + +“Tha’s bes’ way. Married her by mistake myshelf. I’m always making +mistakes—you know it? Have shixteen fits.” + +“Bottle didn’t break,” announces Homely, fussing around inside the +automobile. “Let’s all have a snort and take a nap. Nice and cool in +here. Over the lips and through the gums: look out, Stummick, here she +comes.” + +“That’s shome toast,” applauds Pinky. “Mush tell that at club. Ho, +hum-m-m-m-m!” and he went to sleep with his head through a busted wheel, +while me and Homely curls up on the seats. + +“Homely,” says I, “are you comfortable?” + +“Am now,” says he, “the front of this blasted shirt kept doubling up and +shutting off my wind, but now I got her bent out of the way. How do you +like Pinky?” + +“Just like a cucumber—pickled but not raw. They upset my stummick.” + +I don’t know how long I slept but when I woke up I can see a light +through the door of the shack, so I’d opine it’s after dark. Pinky and +Homely are snoring, so I rolls a smoke. Pretty soon I hears voices, male +and female. + +“But my deah girl,” says the male voice, “you surely wouldn’t let a +boundah like that interfere. Brazil, indeed! He’s not your parent, and +when you are mine I’ll snap my fingers at him.” + +“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” says Marion’s voice. “I don’t think +it would scare him in the least. He surely is unconventional, and has +the quaintest pair of men with him.” + +“Barbarians!” snorts this party, which I’d opine to be the duke, “fancy +throwing a bellboy out of the hotel when he essays to carry your +luggage. And they eat with their knives! Unconventional? I’d jolly well +say that they’re uncivilized and uncouth. Shall we enter the +Summer-house?” + +“I wonder where uncle is?” says Marion. “He hasn’t been home since early +this afternoon, and auntie is simply furious.” + +They ambles inside. I reckon it must be dark to them, cause they +stumbles over Pinky’s legs, and the duke sprawls all over a front wheel. +Marion cuts loose a little squeak, and I hears Pinky’s voice softly +singing: + + “I’m a buckaroo from Bucktown, and I drinks my whisky clear. + I’m a rearin’, rootin’ tooter, a son-of-a-gambolier.” + +“Uncle!” gasps Marion. “Uncle!” + +“Say, what in —— is going on around here?” inquires Homely, sleepy like. +“Busting into a man’s room this way.” + +I see him rise up in the machine, grab at something, and I sees a man, +with shiny hair, roll out of the doorway and weave toward the house. I +reckon Homely cast him fairly hard. + +“Tha’s good!” proclaims Pinky. “Marion, I’m ’shamed of you. Go in the +house shooner or later. Homely, you old Injun, where’s that bottle?” + +All of which shows that Pinky is getting civilized fast. Marion walks +out of there, sort of dazed like, and follers the duke. + +“The duke says that we’re barbarians, Homely,” says I, “he says we eat +with our knives.” + +“Huh! I’d rather be one than to eat with my fork—they leak.” + +“Le’s go ’way,” says Pinky, “Marion will tell Louisa, and I’ll have to +come in the house. Best time I ever had, and I hope you decide to remain +here.” + +“Not if I live,” says I, pushing my shirt down so I won’t look so +chesty. “Let’s all go in the house.” + +“That’s sensible,” agrees Homely. “Hear the music? Let’s all go in and +sing a song.” + +“Tha’s the stuff,” says Pinky; “all shing a shong. Don’t take a drink in +there, ’cause they drink punch. I got some in my room, and when that’s +gone we’ll kill the butler and rob the cellar. I’m a rearin’ rootin’ +tooter—wish I lived in Brazil.” + +“You’d do well there,” says Homely, “in fact, you’d flourish.” + +We weaves around to the front door. Everything is decorated up, and some +folks are getting out of an automobile on to a strip of carpet, which +seems to lead into the door. We goes over and wipes our feet off, too, +locks arms and goes for the doorway. + +That blamed army officer is there again. I’ll bet that hombre has got an +over-sized Adam’s apple or he’s studying the stars, ’cause he pokes his +long nose in the air and looks right over our heads. Me and Homely +shakes hands with him, and then gives his hand to Pinky, who shakes it, +hearty like. + +“Shimmons,” says Pinky, earnest like, “we’d like to be announshed and +introdushed.” + +“Beg pardon, sir,” says he, still looking up. + +Homely looks him over, steps behind him and kicks him in the back of the +knees. We left him setting on the steps, and walked on. + +“I’ll announsh us,” says Pinky. “Forward, marsh!” + + * * * * * + +Say, there was some herd in that room. I never seen so much of so many +ladies in my life, and I’d ’a’ likely went right out if I had been +sober. The men are all wearing unbuttoned coats like ours, so I feels +sort of at home. They all turns as we comes in, and Pinky waves his arms +like a windmill. + +“Ladies and gentlemen,” says he, loud like, “Mister Bedrock Benshon, and +Homely Hobbs, late of Brazil. Boys thish aggregation is all folks that +know me. They never had a good time in their lives, ’cause they’re +afraid to. Shake hands with ’em.” + +Homely gathers in the hands of a tall, skinny dame, and it scared her +plumb sick. + +I reckon she never shook hands with a man before. A feller tried to +dodge me, but I beat him to it, and give him some grip. He sure is a +lily-white person, with one weak eye, which he advertises by wearing +glass over it. When I shook his hand he almost wiggled out of his pants. + +“Howdy,” says I; “how’s your folks?” + +I reckon he’s hard of hearing, ’cause he just stares at me, so I hauls +him up close and yells in his ear— + +“How’s your folks!” + +He fainted in a chair. + +“Mr. Benson!” says Marion’s voice, chiding like, and I turns. + +She’s standing there looking at the feller in the chair, and then says +to me: + +“Why—why, that’s the Duke of Northmore. Where is my uncle?” + +Everybody is quiet for a second, and we hears Pinky’s voice: + +“You can’t, eh? Shay you can’t play it? Oh, Homely! Thish orchestra +can’t play our song. Let’s shing without the music, eh?” + +Auntie is standing there as white as a statue, and her eyes are as round +as saucers. She sure is frozen stiff, and just then I hears a voice that +I know. It’s Frankie Burt. + +“My dear Mrs. Van Veen,” says he, low like, “let me handle the +situation, please. You don’t want a scene.” Then he turns to me, and +whispers: “Ike, get Homely and Van Veen, and I’ll show you where Van +Veen’s room is.” + +I walks right over to Pinky, and whispers in his ear— + +“I’m dry as ——.” + +“So’m I, Bedrock,” says he, loud like. “Thish ain’t no fun. Let’s me and +you and Homely go up to my room and wet our necks. Come on, Homely, you +old rootin’ tooter.” + +Frankie led the procession up them winding stairs. I looks down from the +top, and notices that a lot of them folks ain’t got their mouths shut +yet. The duke is being drenched with a glass of punch, and seems on the +road to recovery. + +“Pinky,” says I, “you ain’t going to let Marion marry the duke, are +you?” + +“Shush,” says Pinky, shaking up a bottle; “my wife’s doing it. I ain’t +nothing but a crawling worm in thish house. Wife’s crazy over titles. +Crazy over everything but me, and I’m glad she draws the line some +place. Feel shorry for Marion, but I feel more shorry for me. Have to do +everything I don’ want to do—except tonight. Man or moush? Which’re you +goin’ to be? Man’r moush? Going ri’ down and tell that bunch that I’m a +wolf and it’s my evening to bark.” + +“No, you’re not, either,” says Frankie from the doorway. “For Heaven’s +sake, Van Veen, have a little sense.” Then he turns to me: “Have you +seen Mag—er—Whispering tonight?” + +“Nope. Is he coming here?” + +“Said he was,” says Frankie, and just then Pinky sighs deep like and +rolls over on the bed. + +Homely inhales another pint, and lays down with Pinky. + +“Ike,” says Frankie, “let’s you and I go down and wait for Magpie.” + +“You go first,” says I, “I’ll be out in a minute.” + +I searched Homely for a gun, but didn’t find one. You never can tell +what he might do—loaded thataway. I went out of the door, and got almost +to the top of the stairs, when I hears Marion and Frankie talking low. + +“Marion, for God’s sake, don’t throw yourself away on that fellow,” +pleads Frankie. “Wake up, girl. Everybody, except your aunt is laughing +at you. Your new uncle is dead against it. Why, Marion, the duke hasn’t +a cent, and he’s a mighty poor specimen of humanity. You’ll have to +agree to that.” + +“Franklyn,” says she, sort of sobbing like, “it’s all settled, and it +must go through.” + +“Has Whispering White met the duke yet?” asks Frankie. + +“No. He will meet him tomorrow. Excuse me, I must go back to my guests.” +And I hears her go down the stairs. + +I pokes around the corner, and runs into Frankie. + +“Cheer up, son,” says I. “She ain’t married yet. Never give up, not even +when they faces the preacher—somebody might shoot him.” + +“Ike, you’re a philosopher,” says he, shaking his head, “but I’m afraid +it’s a hopeless hope for me. Let’s go down-stairs.” + +We went down. Frankie drifted away from me, and I sort of got lost. I +wandered around by myself, getting sorer and sorer all the time. +Everybody acts like I got the smallpox. I tried to talk to the fiddler, +but he’s deaf and dumb, and when I asks a lady how her kids are she +sticks her nose in the air, and drifts. + +I tries to get near enough to that army officer to ask him where the +water-bucket is but he sees me and lopes out of sight. Auntie passes me +once, but I reckon she figured me a white chip in a big stack of blues, +’cause she didn’t see me at all. I found Marion after while. She’s +surrounded with the duke and a lot of other smaller cards, and that duke +stared hard at me again. + +“Take a look, you poor hunk of hash,” says I. + +I’m getting tired of being stared at, and I don’t even care about +Marion, ’cause I’m beginning to think she don’t assay any more on brains +than the rest. The duke walks like he’d wintered in a hard pasture and +cracked his hoofs. When I snapped at him, his lower jaw sags, and he +feels to see if his tooth-brush mustache is still with him. + +“Aw!” says he. “Cattle!” + +“You dang well know it!” says I. “Where your kind would last about as +long as a snowball in ——! Where there’s a strong distinction drawn +between male and female.” + +“Mr. Benson!” says Marion, shocked like, but dang me if I don’t think +she winked one eye. + +We must have been talking loud, ’cause when I looks around, ’most +everybody is listening. + +“Heavens!” I hears auntie gasp. “I’ll have him removed at once. +Simmons!” she yelps. “Simmons!” + +“You don’t need to yelp for help,” says I; “I’ll remove him.” + +“Mr. Whispering White,” announces that army officer, in a loud voice +just then, and we all turns. + + * * * * * + +There stands Magpie, with one hand twisted in the army officer’s collar, +and a grin on his face. + +“Thanks, Colonel,” says he, shoving him away. “Maybe the next time you +see a man at the door you won’t stick your blasted nose in the air and +refuse him admittance.” + +Magpie is still wearing that ice-cream suit and big hat. He hitches up +his hip pocket and grins at everybody. + +“Howdy, folks,” says he. + +He grins and winks at Marion, and just then I hears a gasp behind me, +and I turns. There stands the duke, staring at Magpie, like he was a +ghost, and Magpie is staring right back at him. + +“Holy horned toads!” grunts Magpie, and reaches for his hip. + +The duke moved. The dignity all left that jasper, and he turns coyote +for fair. He ducked behind a lot of half-dressed ladies, and went up +them stairs like a bear. + +Magpie is sort of handicapped, with so many folks around, but I think +his bullet cut the duke’s necktie off, ’cause we found it on the stairs. +Just as the duke turned the corner he runs slap into Pinky and Pinky +came rolling down-stairs just in time to keep Magpie from going up fast. +Pinky lights setting up, and Magpie races past him. I hops half-way up +them stairs, and pulls a gun, so nobody can interfere with Magpie, but +nobody wanted to go up, I reckon. + +“Good evening, folks,” grins Pinky, looking around, foolish like, but +nobody paid any attention to him. + +Auntie has fainted flat, and a fat little hombre is fanning her with a +glass of punch. Marion is backed against the wall, and Frankie is trying +to shake hands with her. + +Comes a —— of a racket upstairs, and here comes the duke, Magpie and +Homely. Magpie and Homely have each got hold of a coat-tail, and right +at the top step the duke shucks his coat, and comes down like a +pin-wheel, and into that crowd he goes. + +Homely slips on the top steps and don’t hit again until he sets down +beside me, halfway down. The duke cuts a swath through the crowd, and +goes out through an open window like a prairie-dog going into his own +home. + +_Bang_ goes a gun beside me, and the top pane of the window is busted +into a million pieces. I reckon it caused several ladies to foller +auntie’s example. I turns around and there sets Homely, with a big Colt +in his hand, and a scowl on his face. + +“Missed!” he wails. “Might ’a’ knowed he wouldn’t go so high. Allowed +too much, and over-shot.” + +“Where did you have that gun?” I asked. “I searched you.” + +“In my boot, Ike. No pocket in these pants, and the waist is too tight.” + +Magpie throws that coat down, disgusted like, and puts his gun back in +his pocket. + +“Dang the luck!” he snorts. “Lost him again!” + +“Again?” I asks. “Did you say again?” + +Magpie leans against the corner-post of the stairs, and smooths out his +necktie. + +“That was the feller what we used to know as ‘Diamond Duke,’ down in +Mesquite,” says he. “He’s a duke, I reckon, and one of the slickest card +sharks on earth. He’s a crook from his belt both ways, and ain’t got the +nerve of a rabbit. Hellwinder with fool women, and talks like a +dictionary. Rung in a cold deck on me one night, in a big pot, and was +foolish enough to reach for a gun, when I called him. We both shot. I +killed him dead, and his bullet went into the ceiling. I went over and +gave myself up to the sheriff, and when he went back over there the duke +had gone. He’d fainted—that’s all. Somehow I can’t seem to kill the +breed.” + +“Same here!” grunts Homely, disgusted like. “Allowed too much for the +rise.” + +Auntie has recovered from her faint, and hears Magpie’s testimony. She +drops like a wilted lily, and looks a million years old. + +“Ruined!” says she, wailing like. “Everything is ruined.” Then she turns +to Magpie, and says in a weak voice: “Samuel, will you leave us, please? +Tomorrow we will talk things over.” + +“Yes’m,” agrees Magpie. “Come on, Ike.” + +Everybody is either left or leaving, and there don’t seem to be much +animation left in the party. + +“Our hats are in that shack where we left the automobile,” states +Homely. “Let’s get them and go home.” + +When we went out of the door we looked back. There sets auntie, sad and +deserted like, and over in the corner by the music-stand is Pinky. He’s +got a fiddle that somebody forgot, and he’s discording something awful, +and singing: + + “I’m a buckaroo from Bucktown, and I drinks my whisky clear. + I’m a rearin’, tootin’ tooter, a son of a gambolier.” + +It sure was a grand night for Pinky Van Veen. We went out to that house, +and started to scratch a match to locate them hats, when we hears a +noise. + +“Sounds like somebody walking in mud,” chuckles Magpie, and then we +hears Frankie say: + +“Boys, I never can thank you. Have you fellers got time to shake hands +with the future Mrs. Franklyn Burt?” + +We sure took time. + +“That money is in the bank at Silver Bend,” whispers Frankie. “Maybe +some day I can do something for you to pay you for this.” + +“Had a lovely time at your party,” says Homely. “Enjoyed it fine, and I +sure wish you a lot of luck. Sorry I held that gun too high, but a +feller can’t be lucky all the time.” + +We tells them good-by, and goes back to the hotel. Magpie walks up to +the counter, and says to the man— + +“When do we get a train going West?” + +“Ten-thirty,” says he, and we all goes upstairs. Magpie begins to pack +his valise. + +“Where you going?” asks Homely. “Ain’t leaving, are you?” + +“On that train. Pack up, Ike. I don’t like this town, and I’ll be danged +if I talks things over with auntie, ’cause there ain’t nothing left to +talk about except the weather. I’m sick for the smell of sagebrush, and +I’m sick of the smell of perfume.” + +Homely packed up, too, and went to the depot with us. + +“Come on back to Piperock with us, Homely,” says Magpie. “Dang your old +hide, you’d fit in fine with the rest of us old pelicans.” + +“Sure like to,” says he, “but I can’t. I got to go East on business, but +likely some day I’ll see you both again. Sure hope so.” + +We climbs on the steps of the car, and shakes hands with him. + +“Come out our way, Homely,” says I. “Dog-gone, I’d sure like to see your +homely old face out there. The cabin door is open.” + +“I know it is, Ike,” says he. “If you fellers ever get as far south as +Brazil look me up, will you?” + +“Brazil?” wonders Magpie. “Did you say Brazil, Homely?” + +“Uh-huh,” yelps Homely, as our train rolls away, “Pernambuco, Brazil. +Ask for Whispering White—that’s me.” + + +[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, +December 3, 1918. It is believed to be in the public domain in the +United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.] + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78961 *** |