Sewell Ford - Odd Numbers

“Well, what of them?” says she. “You made fun of the ones I used to wear; but these, I would have you know, were selected for me by a committee of six chorus ladies who know what is what. I am quite satisfied with my clothes, Vincent.”

“Possibly they’re all right,” says he; “but how – how long have you been wearing your hair that way?”

“Ever since Madam Montrosini started on my improvement course,” says she. “I am told it is quite becoming. And have you noticed my new waist line, Vincent?”

Vincent hadn’t; but he did then, and he had nothin’ to say, for she has an hourglass lookin’ like a hitchin’ post. Not bein’ able to carry on the debate under them headings, he switches and comes out strong on what an awful thing it was for her to be livin’ among such dreadful people.

“Why,” says grandmother, “they’re real nice, I’m sure. They have been just as good to me as they could be. They take turns going out to dinner with me and showing me around the town.”

“Good heavens!” says Vincent. “And this – this Bear person, does he – ”

“He is an educated, full blooded Sioux,” says grandmother. “He has toured Europe with Buffalo Bill, and just now he is an artists’ model. He is very entertaining company, Johnny is.”

“Johnny!” gasps Vincent under his breath. That’s the last straw. He lays down the law then and there to grandmother. If she ever expects him to recognize her again, she must shake this whole crowd and come with him.

“Where to, Vincent?” says she.

“Why, to my home, of course,” says he.

“And have your wife’s maid speak of me as a dumpy old scarecrow? No, thank you!” and she calls the waiter to bring a demitasse with cognac.

“But no one could call you that now, mother,” says Vincent. “You – you’re different, quite different.”

“Oh, am I?” says she.

“To be sure you are,” says he. “Julia and I would be glad to have you with us. Really, we would.”

She was a good natured old girl, grandmother was. She says she’ll try it; but only on one condition. It was a corker, too. If she’s going to give all her good friends at the actors’ boardin’ house the shake, she thinks it ought to be done at a farewell dinner at the swellest place in town. Vincent groans; but he has to give in. And that’s how it happens the other night that about two dozen liberty people walked up from Appetite Row and fed themselves off Sherry’s gold plates until the waiters was weak in the knees watchin’ ’em.

“Is the old lady still leadin’ the band wagon, Vincent!” says I to him yesterday.

“She is,” says he, “and it is wonderful how young she has grown.”

“New York is a great place for rejuvenatin’ grandmothers,” says I, “specially around in the Red Ink Zone.”

Well, I’ve been slummin’ up again. It happens like this: I was just preparin’, here the other noontime, to rush around the corner and destroy a plate of lunch counter hash decorated with parsley and a dropped egg, when I gets this ’phone call from Duke Borden, who says he wants to see me the worst way.

“Well,” says I, “the studio’s still here on 42d-st., and if your eyesight ain’t failed you – ”

“Oh, chop it, can’t you, Shorty?” says he. “This is really important. Come right up, can’t you!”

“That depends,” says I. “Any partic’lar place?”

“Of course,” says he. “Here at the club. I’m to meet Chick Sommers here in half an hour. We’ll have luncheon together and – ”

“I’m on,” says I. “I don’t know Chick; but I’m a mixer, and I’ll stand for anything in the food line but cold egg. Scratch the chilled hen fruit and I’m with you.”

Know about Duke, don’t you? It ain’t much to tell. He’s just one of these big, handsome, overfed chappies that help the mounted traffic cops to make Fifth-ave. look different from other Main-sts. He don’t do any special good, or any partic’lar harm. Duke’s got just enough sense, though, to have spasms of thinkin’ he wants to do something useful now and then, and all I can dope out of this emergency call of his is that this is a new thought.

That’s the answer, too. He begins tellin’ me about it while the head waiter’s leadin’ us over to a corner table. Oh, yes, he’s going in for business in dead earnest now, y’know, – suite of offices, his name on the letterheads, and all that sort of thing, bah Jove!

All of which means that Mr. Chick Sommers, who was a star quarterback in ’05, when Duke was makin’ his college bluff on the Gold Coast, has rung him into a South Jersey land boomin’ scheme. A few others, friends of Chick’s, are in it. They’re all rippin’ good fellows, too, and awfully clever at planning out things. Chick himself, of course, is a corker. It was him that insisted on Duke’s bein’ treasurer.

“And really,” says Duke, “about all I have to do is drop around once or twice a week and sign a few checks.”

“I see,” says I. “They let you supply the funds, eh?”

“Why, yes,” says Duke. “I’m the only one who can, y’know. But they depend a great deal on my judgment, too. For instance, take this new deal that’s on; it has all been left to me. There are one hundred and eighteen acres, and we don’t buy a foot unless I say so. That’s where you come in, Shorty.”

“Oh, do I?” says I.

“You see,” Duke goes on, “I’m supposed to inspect it and make a decision before the option expires, which will be day after to-morrow. The fact is, I’ve been putting off going down there, and now I find I’ve a winter house party on, up in Lenox, and – Well, you see the box I’m in.”

“Sure!” says I. “You want me to sub for you at Lenox?”

“Deuce take it, no!” says Duke. “I want you to go down and look at that land for me.”

“Huh!” says I. “What I know about real estate wouldn’t – ”

“Oh, that’s all right,” says Duke. “It’s only a matter of form. The boys say they want it, and I’m going to buy it for them anyway; but, just to have it all straight and businesslike, either I ought to see the land myself, or have it inspected by my personal representative. Understand?”

“Duke,” says I, “you’re a reg’lar real estate Napoleon. I wouldn’t have believed it was in you.”

“I know,” says he. “I’m really surprised at myself.”

Next he explains how he happened to think of sendin’ me, and casually he wants to know if a couple of hundred and expenses will be about right for spoilin’ two days of my valuable time. How could I tell how much it would lose me? But I said I’d run the chances.

Then Chick shows up, and they begin to talk over the details of this new bungalow boom town that’s to be located on the Jersey side.

“I tell you,” says Chick, “it’ll be a winner from the start. Why, there’s every advantage anyone could wish for, – ocean breezes mingled with pine scented zephyrs, magnificent views, and a railroad running right through the property! The nearest station now is Clam Creek; but we’ll have one of our own, with a new name. Clam Creek! Ugh! How does Pinemere strike you?”

“Perfectly ripping, by Jove!” says Duke, so excited over it that he lights the cork end of his cigarette. “Shorty, you must go right down there for me. Can’t you start as soon as you’ve had your coffee?”

Oh, but it was thrillin’, listenin’ to them two amateur real estaters layin’ plans that was to make a seashore wilderness blossom with surveyors’ stakes and fresh painted signs like Belvidere-ave., Ozone Boulevard, and so on.

It struck me, though, that they was discussin’ their scheme kind of free and public. I spots one white haired, dignified old boy, doing the solitaire feed at the table back of Duke, who seems more or less int’rested. And I notices that every time Clam Creek is mentioned he pricks up his ears. Sure enough, too, just as we’re finishing, he steps over and taps Duke on the shoulder.