Sewell Ford - Odd Numbers

There ain’t anything pastoral about the tall one, though. She’s alive all the way from her runover heels to the wiggly end of the limp feather that flops careless like over one ear. She’s the long-waisted, giraffe-necked kind; but not such a bad looker if you can forget the depressin’ costume. It had been a blue cheviot once, I guess; the sort that takes on seven shades of purple about the second season. And it fits her like a damp tablecloth hung on a chair. Her runnin’ mate is all in black, and you could tell by the puckered seams and the twisted sleeves that it was an outfit the village dressmaker had done her worst on.

Not that they gives us much chance for a close size-up. The lengthy one pikes right into the middle of the room, brushes a stringy lock of hair off her face, and unlimbers her conversation works.

“Gosh!” says she, openin’ her eyes wide and lookin’ round at the rugs and furniture. “Hope we haven’t pulled up at the wrong ranch. Are you Shorty McCabe?”

“Among old friends, I am,” says I, “Now if you come under – ”

“It’s all right, Phemey,” says she, motionin’ to the short one. “Sit down.”

“Sure!” says I. “Don’t mind the furniture. Take a couple of chairs.”

“Not for me!” says the tall one. “I’ll stand in one spot and drip, and then you can mop up afterwards. But Phemey, she’s plumb tuckered.”

“It’s sweet of you to run in,” says I. “Been wadin’ in the park lake, or enjoyin’ the shower?”

“Enjoying the shower is good,” says she; “but I hadn’t thought of describing it that way. I reckon, though, you’d like to hear who we are.”

“Oh, any time when you get to that,” says I.

“That’s a joke, is it?” says she. “If it is, Ha, ha! Excuse me if I don’t laugh real hearty. I can do better when I don’t feel so much like a sponge. Maizie May Blickens is my name, and this is Euphemia Blickens.”

“Ah!” says I. “Sisters?”

“Do we look it?” says Maizie. “No! First cousins on the whiskered side. Ever hear that name Blickens before?”

“Why – er – why – ” says I, scratchin’ my head.

“Don’t dig too deep,” says Maizie. “How about Blickens’ skating rink in Kansas City?”

“Oh!” says I. “Was it run by a gent they called Sport Blickens?”

“It was,” says she.

“Why, sure,” I goes on. “And the night I had my match there with the Pedlar, when I’d spent my last bean on a month’s trainin’ expenses, and the Pedlar’s backer was wavin’ a thousand-dollar side bet under my nose, this Mr. Blickens chucked me his roll and told me to call the bluff.”

“Yes, that was dad, all right,” says Maizie.

“It was?” says I. “Well, well! Now if there’s anything I can do for – ”

“Whoa up!” says Maizie. “This is no grubstake touch. Let’s get that off our minds first, though I’m just as much obliged. It’s come out as dad said. Says he, ‘If you’re ever up against it, and can locate Shorty McCabe, you go to him and say who you are.’ But this isn’t exactly that kind of a case. Phemey and I may look a bit rocky and – Say, how do we look, anyway? Have you got such a thing as a – ”

“Tidson,” says Sadie, breakin’ in, “you may roll in the pier glass for the young lady.” Course, that reminds me I ain’t done the honors.

“Excuse me,” says I. “Miss Blickens, this is Mrs. McCabe.”

“Howdy,” says Maizie. “I was wondering if it wasn’t about due. Goshety gosh! but you’re all to the peaches, eh? And me – ”

Here she turns and takes a full length view of herself. “Suffering scarecrows! Say, why didn’t you put up the bars on us? Don’t you look, Phemey; you’d swallow your gum!”

But Euphemia ain’t got any idea of turnin’ her head. She has them peaceful eyes of hers glued to Sadie’s copper hair, and she’s contented to yank away at her cud. For a consistent and perseverin’ masticator, she has our friend Fletcher chewed to a standstill. Maizie is soon satisfied with her survey.

“That’ll do, take it away,” says she. “If I ever get real stuck on myself, I’ll have something to remember. But, as I was sayin’, this is no case of an escape from the poor farm. We wore these Hetty Green togs when we left Dobie.”

“Dobie?” says I.

“Go on, laugh!” says Maizie. “Dobie’s the biggest joke and the slowest four corners in the State of Minnesota, and that’s putting it strong. Look at Phemey; she’s a native.”

Well, we looked at Phemey. Couldn’t help it. Euphemia don’t seem to mind. She don’t even grin; but just goes on workin’ her jaws and lookin’ placid.

“Out in Dobie that would pass for hysterics,” says Maizie. “The only way they could account for me was by saying that I was born crazy in another State. I’ve had a good many kinds of hard luck; but being born in Dobie wasn’t one of the varieties. Now can you stand the story of my life?”

“Miss Blickens,” says I, “I’m willin’ to pay you by the hour.”

“It isn’t so bad as all that,” says she, “because precious little has ever happened to me. It’s what’s going to happen that I’m living for. But, to take a fair start, we’ll begin with dad. When they called him Sport Blickens, they didn’t stretch their imaginations. He was all that – and not much else. All I know about maw is that she was one of three, and that I was born in the back room of a Denver dance hall. I’ve got a picture of her, wearing tights and a tin helmet, and dad says she was a hummer. He ought to know; he was a pretty good judge.

“As I wasn’t much over two days old when they had the funeral, I can’t add anything more about maw. And the history I could write of dad would make a mighty slim book. Running roller skating rinks was the most genteel business he ever got into, I guess. His regular profession was faro. It’s an unhealthy game, especially in those gold camps where they shoot so impetuous. He got over the effects of two .38’s dealt him by a halfbreed Sioux; but when a real bad man from Taunton, Massachusetts, opened up on him across the table with a .45, he just naturally got discouraged. Good old dad! He meant well when he left me in Dobie and had me adopted by Uncle Hen. Phemey, you needn’t listen to this next chapter.”

Euphemia, she misses two jaw strokes in succession, rolls her eyes at Maizie May for a second, and then strikes her reg’lar gait again.

“Excuse her getting excited like that,” says Maizie; “but Uncle Hen – that was her old man, of course – hasn’t been planted long. He lasted until three weeks ago. He was an awful good man, Uncle Hen was – to himself. He had the worst case of ingrowing religion you ever saw. Why, he had a thumb felon once, and when the doctor came to lance it Uncle Hen made him wait until he could call in the minister, so it could be opened with prayer.

“Sundays he made us go to church twice, and the rest of the day he talked to us about our souls. Between times he ran the Palace Emporium; that is, he and I and a half baked Swede by the name of Jens Torkil did. To look at Jens you wouldn’t have thought he could have been taught the difference between a can of salmon and a patent corn planter; but say, Uncle Hen had him trained to make short change and weigh his hand with every piece of salt pork, almost as slick as he could do it himself.

“All I had to do was to tend the drygoods, candy, and drug counters, look after the post-office window, keep the books, and manage the telephone exchange. Euphemia had the softest snap, though. She did the housework, planted the garden, raised chickens, fed the hogs, and scrubbed the floors. Have I got the catalogue right, Phemey?”

Euphemia blinks twice, kind of reminiscent; but nothin’ in the shape of words gets through the gum.