Sewell Ford - Odd Numbers

“Why, howdy do, Mr. Cathaway?” says Duke. “Charmed to see you, by Jove!”

And it turns out he’s DeLancey Cathaway, the big noise in the philanthropy game, him that gets up societies for suppressin’ the poor and has his name on hospitals and iron drinkin’ fountains. After he’s been introduced all around he admits that he’s caught one or two remarks, and says he wants to congratulate Duke on givin’ up his idle ways and breakin’ into an active career.

Oh, he’s a smooth old party, Mr. Cathaway is! He don’t let on to be more’n moderately int’rested, and the next thing I know he’s sidled away from Duke and is walkin’ out alongside of me.

“Going down town?” says he. “Then perhaps you will allow me to give you a lift?” and he motions to his town car waiting at the curb.

“Gee!” thinks I. “I’m makin’ a hit with the nobility, me and my winnin’ ways!”

That don’t exactly state the case, though; for as soon as we’re alone DeLancey comes right to cases.

“I understand, Mr. McCabe,” says he, “that you are to visit Clam Creek.”

“Yep,” says I. “Sounds enticin’, don’t it?”

“Doubtless you will spend a day or so there?” he goes on.

“Over night, anyway,” says I.

“Hum!” says he. “Then you will hardly fail to meet my brother. He is living at Clam Creek.”

“What!” says I. “Not Broadway Bob?”

“Yes,” says he, “Robert and his wife have been there for nearly two years. At least, that is where I have been sending his allowance.”

“Mrs. Bob too!” says I. “Why – why, say, you don’t mean the one that – ”

“The same,” he cuts in. “I know they’re supposed to be abroad; but they’re not, they are at Clam Creek.”

Maybe you’ve heard about the Bob Cathaways, and maybe you ain’t. There’s so many new near-plutes nowadays that the old families ain’t getting the advertisin’ they’ve been used to. Anyway, it’s been sometime since Broadway Bob had his share of the limelight. You see, Bob sort of had his day when he was along in his thirties, and they say he was a real old-time sport and rounder, which was why he was let in so bad when old man Cathaway’s will was probated. All Bob pulls out is a couple of thousand a year, even that being handled first by Brother DeLancey, who cops all the rest of the pile as a reward for always having gone in strong for charity and the perfectly good life.

It’s a case where virtue shows up strong from the first tap of the bell. Course, Bob can look back on some years of vivid joy, when he was makin’ a record as a quart opener, buyin’ stacks of blues at Daly’s, or over at Monte Carlo bettin’ where the ball would stop. But all this ends mighty abrupt.

In the meantime Bob has married a lively young lady that nobody knew much about except that she was almost as good a sport as he was, and they were doin’ some great teamwork in the way of livenin’ up society, when the crash came.

Then it was the noble hearted DeLancey to the rescue. He don’t exactly take them right into the fam’ly; but he sends Mr. and Mrs. Bob over to his big Long Island country place, assigns ’em quarters in the north wing, and advises ’em to be as happy as they can. Now to most folks that would look like landin’ on Velveteen-st., – free eats, no room rent, and a forty-acre park to roam around in, with the use of a couple of safe horses and a libr’y full of improvin’ books, such as the Rollo series and the works of Dr. Van Dyke.

Brother Bob don’t squeal or whine. He starts in to make the best of it by riggin’ himself out like an English Squire and makin’ a stagger at the country gentleman act. He takes a real int’rest in keepin’ up the grounds and managin’ the help, which DeLancey had never been able to do himself.

It’s as dull as dishwater, though, for Mrs. Robert Cathaway, and as there ain’t anyone else handy she takes it out on Bob. Accordin’ to all accounts, they must have done the anvil chorus good and plenty. You can just see how it would be, with them two dumped down so far from Broadway and only now and then comp’ny to break the monotony. When people did come, too, they was DeLancey’s kind. I can picture Bob tryin’ to get chummy with a bunch of prison reformers or delegates to a Sunday school union. I don’t wonder his disposition curdled up.

If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Bob, though, they’d been there yet. She got so used to rowin’ with Bob that she kept it up even when Brother DeLancey and his friends came down. DeLancey stands for it until one morning at breakfast, when he was entertainin’ an English Bishop he’d corraled at some conference. Him and the Bishop was exchangin’ views on whether free soup and free salvation was a good workin’ combination or not, when some little thing sets Mr. and Mrs. Bob to naggin’ each other on the side. I forgot just what it was Bob shot over; but after standin’ her jabs for quite some time without gettin’ real personal he comes back with some stage whisper remark that cut in deep.

Mrs. Bob was right in the act of helpin’ herself to the jelly omelet, usin’ a swell silver servin’ shovel about half the size of a brick layer’s trowel. She’s so stirred up that she absentmindedly scoops up a double portion, and just as Bob springs his remark what does she do but up and let fly at him, right across the table. Maybe she’d have winged him too, – and served him right for saying what no gentleman should to a lady, even if she is his wife, – but, what with her not stoppin’ to take good aim, and the maid’s gettin’ her tray against her elbow, she misses Bob by about three feet and plasters the English Bishop square between the eyes.

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