E-text prepared by Al Haines

YOU CAN SEARCH ME

BY HUGH McHUGH

AUTHOR OF

"JOHN HENRY," "DOWN THE LINE WITH JOHN HENRY," "IT'S UP TO YOU," "BACK TO THE WOODS," "OUT FOR THE COIN," "I NEED THE MONEY," "I'M FROM MISSOURI," ETC.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY GORDON H. GRANT

1905

CONTENTS

JOHN HENRY GETS A PARTNER

JOHN HENRY GETS A SUFFICIENCY

JOHN HENRY GETS BUSY

JOHN HENRY GETS A SHOCK

JOHN HENRY GETS EXCITED

JOHN HENRY GETS A SETBACK

JOHN HENRY GETS A SURPRISE

ILLUSTRATIONS

"BRING US A PLAIN OMELETTE AND ONE DISH OF PRUNES."

TWO AND A HALF POUNDS OF IRON LANDED ON MY INSTEP

"YOU BETCHER SWEET"

THE ANSWER WAS A CREAM-COLORED HORSE WHICH LOOKED AT ME SADLY

A PRETTY HOT LINE OF GOODS, EH?

I WAS SO SURPRISED I DROPPED THE EGG

CHAPTER I.

JOHN HENRY GETS A PARTNER.

"Seven weeks and then the wedding bells will get busy for you, eh,
Bunch?" I chuckled.

"Surest thing you know," my old pal Jefferson replied, somewhat dolefully.

"I must dig up a few old shoes and have a plate of cold rice pudding on the doorstep," I went on. "It's going to afford me a bunch of keen delight to soak you in the midriff with a rusty patent leather and then push a few rice fritters in under your coat collar, believe me!"

Bunch tried to pull a smile, but his face didn't feel like working, and the finish was a mournful sigh.

"John," he said, after the waiter had crowded the sizz-water into the wood alcohol, "I'm a plain case of shrimp!"

"Oh, sush!" I said; "you'll get over that, Bunch. Isn't it a hit how we young fellows begin to warm wise to ourselves the moment we get a flash of the orange blossoms. We think of the beautiful little lady we are leading to the altar and then we think of the many beautiful souses we have led by the hand, and we begin to ask ourselves if we are worthy. Before we can get the right answer the preacher has dropped the flag, the ceremonies are over, and after that the struggle to supply three squares a day puts the boots to every other worry; am I right, Gonsalvo?"

"I s'pose so, John," Bunch replied, "but it isn't a case of rattles with me. I'm shy with the mazume, and it looks now as if that little trip to the minister's will have to be postponed indefinitely."

"Skidoo, skidoo, and quit me, Mr. Josheimer!" I suggested.

"I mean it, John," Bunch came back. "I can't lead a girl like Alice Grey into the roped arena of matrimony when I haven't the price of an omelette for the wedding breakfast, now can I?"

"Great Scott, Bunch, have you been Chadwicked for your roll ?" I asked. "Are you the man from Ohio that was so polite he gave his bank to the lady? If you are, it serves you right."

"No, John," Bunch answered mournfully, "but I had to go to
Washington on a business trip, and while there——"

"Wait, Bunch," I chipped in; "I've got you sized. While in Washington you met a couple of wise voices who talked nothing but sure-things, so you for the Bennings race track to spill your coin, eh, Beau?"

"Well, John, I'll tell you how it was," Bunch tried to square himself. "My roll was just five thousand strong, and I began to wish for about two thousand more, so that I could take the little wife over the wild waves and point out Paris and the Riviera to her. In Washington I met a quick talker named Ike Gibson and he played me for a good, steady listener. Ike showered me with cinches and in short order I was down with Bennings fever. And then——"

"I know the answer, Bunch," I sighed, "You followed Ike's clues and finished fainting. I'm wise. But, say! Bunch, didn't you pipe me with the neck bruises often enough in the old days to profit by my experience? Didn't I go up against that horse game so hard that I shook the whole community, and aren't you on to the fact that the only sure thing about a race track is a seat on a trolley car going in the opposite direction?"

"I know, John," Bunch replied, "but this looked awfully good to me, and I went after it."

"Did they sting you for the whole bundle?" I asked.

"Not quite," Bunch answered sadly; "but they certainly put a crimp in my wallet. I'm only $1,500 strong now, and that's not enough to tip the porter on the honeymoon journey. You know, John, I'm only drawing $100 a week from the brokerage business, and I'll get nervous if I can't make up a purse quicker than that. I'll simply have to go to Alice and Uncle William Grey and get a set-back, and—say, John! I'm a polish, for fair! Alice is making all her preparations, and has her mind fastened to the date, and all that sort of thing, and like a chump I go up against that——"

"Oh, get back from the funeral, get back, Bunch!" I advised. "How often have I told you not to cut a beef about the has-happened? You went to Bennings, got dizzy, did a couple of Arabs and lose the price of a wedding trip—that's all. Now we must get that money back before the minister steps up to start the fight."

"How can I win out $3,500 in seven weeks, I'd like to know!" Bunch moaned.

"A cincherine," I came back. "I've got a scheme cooking that will put you and me all to the splendid in short order."

"Yes, but these schemes of yours sometimes get nervous prostration," Bunch began to fret.

"Sush, now!" I said; "this is the real goods. It can't go wrong. It's just like getting money from Carnegie. I've discovered a genius."

"A genius!" Bunch repeated; "what kind of a genius?"

"His name is Signor Beppo Petroskinski, an Illusionist," I answered. "And he's aces."

"What does he do?" asked Bunch; "spar eight rounds with the piano or sell Persian rugs?"

"Nix on the hurry talk, Bunch," I said. "Petroskinski is a discovery of mine, and he's all to the mustard. He's an Illusionist, and he can pull off some of the best tricks I ever blinked at. Say, he has Hermann and Keller and all those guys backed up in a corner yelling for help. Skinski is our mint, and we're going to take him out over the one-night stands and drag a fortune away from Mr. and Mrs. Reub."

"You mean you're going to finance a tour for this unknown magician and expect to win out? Say, John, don't let my troubles affect your brain; I'll be good and stop crying!"

"I mean, Bunch, that Skinski is the wonder of the age, and all we have to do is to show him to the public and they'll be handing us their jewelry. You know, Bunch, I'm a few chips shy myself on account of a side play which my wife knows nothing about. I promised her to make a first payment of $5,000 on that new home we're going to buy on the first of the year, and I fell down and broke my promise. I thought I could drag the homestead money away from the Street, so I took a few slices of Amalgamated Copper and burned my thumb. Old Colonel Frenzied Finance didn't do a thing to me. When I yelled for help my pocketbook looked like a last season's autumn leaf in the family Bible. Peaches isn't wise that I've lost my roll, so it's up to me to make good before she screams for a receiver."

"But this Skinski proposition," Bunch groaned; "isn't that taking a long chance? Clara J. was always bitterly opposed to you having anything to do with a theatrical venture—what will she say?"

"Peaches needn't be in on this at all," I said. "We'll simply put up a thousand each for the expense money, start Petroskinski, and after the opening night began to gather in the mazooboes. When we get all the money we need, we'll sell our interest and bow out. It's a pipe, Bunch. I tell you, this Skinski has them all faded to a whisper. He has a bunch of new illusions that will simply make the jay audiences sit up and throw money at us. And as for sleight-of-hand and card tricks, well, say! Skinski can throw a new pack of cards up in the air and bite his initials on the queen of diamonds before it hits the floor. He's a marvel."

"Where did you find him?" Bunch inquired.

"At a club smoker," I answered. "He was the hit of the evening. He pulled a few snake tricks down there and in five minutes he had all the members of the Highball Association climbing the water wagon. That was the same evening I took Clara J. to the St. Regis to dinner. Did I ever tell you about it, Bunch? Well, say, it may help you to forget your troubles. It's a swell joint, all right, O.K., is the St. Regis, but hereafter me for the beanery thing with the high stool and the low prices.

"In the St. Regis the faces of the clerks and the clocks gave token that much money changed hands while it was building.

"In the lobby the furniture was covered with men about town, who sat around with a checkbook in each hand and made faces at the cash registers.

"There are more bellboys than bedrooms in the hotel. They use them for change. Every time you give the cashier $15 he hands you back $1.50 and six bellboys.

"We took a peep at the diamond-backed dining-room and when I saw the waiters refusing everything but certified checks in the way of a tip, I said to Peaches, 'This is no place for us!' But she wouldn't let go, and we filed in to the appetite killery.

"A very polite lieutenant-waiter, with a sergeant-waiter and two corporal-waiters, greeted us and we gave the countersign, 'Abandon wealth, all ye who enter here.'

"Then the lieutenant-waiter and his army corps deployed by columns of four and escorted us to the most expensive looking trough I ever saw in a dining-room.

"'Peaches,' I said to my wife, 'I'm doing this to please you, but after I pay the check, it's me to file a petition in bankruptcy.'

"But she only grinned, picked up the point-lace napkin and began to admire the onyx furniture.

"'Que souhaitez vous?' said the waiter, bowing so low that I could feel a chill running through my little bank account.

"'I guess he means you,' I whispered to Peaches, but she looked very solemnly at the menu card and began to bite her lips.

"'Je suis tout a votre service,' the waiter cross-countered before I could recover, and he had me gasping. It never struck me that I had to take a course in French before entering the St. Regis hunger foundry, and there I sat making funny faces at the tablecloth, while my wife blushed crimson and the waiter kept on bowing like an animated jack-knife.

"'Say, Mike!' I ventured after a bit; 'tip us off to a quiet bunch of eating that will fit a couple of appetites just out seeing the sights. Nothing that will put a kink in a year's income, you know, Beau; just suggest some little thing that looks better than it tastes, but is not too expensive to keep down.'

"'Oui, oui!' His Marseillaise came back at me, 'un diner confortable doit se composer de potage, de volaille bouillie ou rotie, chaude ou froide, de gibier, de plats rares et distingues, de poissons, de sucreries, de patisseries et de fruits!'

"I looked at my wife, she looked at me, then we both looked out the window and wished we had never been born.

"'Say, Garsong,' I said, after we came to, 'my wife is a daughter of the American Revolution and she's so patriotic she eats only in United States, so cut out the Moulin Rouge lyrics and let's get down to cases. How much will it set me back if I order a plain steak—just enough to flirt with two very polite appetites?'

"'Nine dollars and seventy cents,' said Joan of Arc's brother Bill; 'the seventy cents is for the steak and the nine dollars will help some to pay for the Looey the Fifteenth furniture in the bridal chamber.'

"'Save the money, John,' whispered Peaches; 'and we'll buy a cow with it.'

"'How about a sliver of roast beef with some slapped potatoes,' I said to the waiter. 'Is it a bull market for an order like that?'

"'Three dollars and forty-two cents,' answered Henri of Navarre; 'forty-two cents for the order and three dollars to help pay for the French velvet curtains in the golden suite on the second floor.'

"'Keep on guessing, John; you'll wear him out,' Peaches whispered.

"'Possibly a little cold lamb with a suggestion of potato salad on the side might satisfy us,' I said; 'make me an estimate.'

"'Four dollars and eighteen cents,' replied Patsey Boulanger; 'eighteen cents for the lamb and salad and the four dollars for the Looey the Fifteenth graperies in the drawing-room.'

"'Ask him if there's a bargain counter anywhere in the dining-room,' whispered Peaches.

"'My dear,' I said to Clara J., 'we have already displaced about sixty dollars' worth of space in this dyspepsia emporium, and we must, therefore, behave like gentlemen and order something, no matter what the cost. What are the savings of a life-time compared with our honor!'

"The waiter bowed so low that his shoulder blades cracked like a whip.

"'Bring us,' I said, 'a plain omelet and one dish of prunes.'

[Illustration: "Bring us a plain omelet and one dish of prunes.">[

"I waited till Peter Girofla translated this into French and then I added, 'And on the side, please, two glasses of water and three toothpicks. Have the prunes fricasseed, wash the water on both corners, and bring the toothpicks rare.'

"The waiter rushed away and all around us we could hear money talking to itself.

"Fair women sat at the tables picking dishes out of the bill of fare which brought the blush of sorrow to the faces of their escorts. It was a wonderful sight, especially for those who have a nervous chill every time the gas bill comes in.

"When we ate our modest little dinner the waiter presented a check which called for three dollars and thirty-three cents.

"'The thirty-three cents is for what you ordered,' Alexander J. Dumas explained, 'and the three dollars is for the French hangings in the parlor.'

"'Holy Smoke!' I cried; 'that fellow Looey the Fifteenth has been doing a lot of work around here hasn't he?' but the waiter was so busy watching the finish of the change he handed me that he didn't crack a smile.

"Then I got reckless and handed him a fifty-cent tip.

"The waiter looked at the fifty cents and turned pale.

"Then he looked at me and turned paler.

"Then he tried to thank me, but he caught another flash of that plebeian fifty and it choked him.

"Then he took a long look at the half-dollar and with a low moan he passed away.

"In the excitement I grabbed Peaches and we flew for home.

"Say! Bunch! the only time I'll ever go in the St. Regis again will be just after a hearty dinner."

"I guess you're right, John, but what about this scheme to win out my wedding money?" Bunch queried. "I'm dreadfully nervous about it."

"I know. Bunch, I know just how you feel. I'm quite a bit to the St. Vitus myself, because if Clara J. ever gets wise that I've been speculating again after faithfully promising her to cut out all the guessing contests, she's liable to say something unkind. I simply must get that money back, Bunch, before she knows I lost it, and Signor Petroskinski is the name of our paying teller. I tell you, Bunch, we can't lose if we handle this cinch right, and I've got it all framed up. It's good for a thousand plunks apiece every week, so cut out the yesterday gag and think of a fat to-morrow."

"I'd like to see this Petroskinski," said Bunch.

"I'll have him take luncheon with us to-morrow at the Hotel
Astor—twelve thirty. Are you for me to the finish, Bunch?"

"If you think it's all right I'll trail," said Bunch, and we shook hands.

"But not a word to the home folks," I cautioned him.

CHAPTER II.

JOHN HENRY GETS A SUFFICIENCY.

Since Uncle Peter Grant was elected Mayor of Ruraldene one book ago, our family group considers it extremely disloyal to stay in the big town for more than four hours at a time. So with us it is a case of catching those imitation railroad trains at all sorts of hours and commute to beat the band.

Since I became a confirmed commuter I have sprained three watches and two of my legs trying to catch trains that are wild enough to dodge a dog-catcher.

The commuters are divided into two classes: going and coming.

One of the first rules for a commuter to follow after he locates the railroad station, and hikes there a couple of times to get in training, is to get a red and pink and blue hammock.

A hammock is a necessary evil in the country, because only by this means can the insects become acquainted with the new commuter.

The day after we first put up our new hammock Uncle Peter came rubbering around to look it over. He was all swelled up over being elected Mayor, and he dropped in the hammock with a splash. Ten seconds later the rope exploded and Uncle Peter made a deep impression on the stone porch.

Every mosquito in the neighborhood rushed to his assistance and tried to lift him up with their teeth.

Then Uncle Peter ran home and told Aunt Martha that Cinders, our bulldog, had tried to bite him.

The national emblem of the commuter is the lawn-mower.

The lawn-mower was invented originally for the purpose of giving the lawn a quick shave, and because it can't talk like a barber it makes a noise like the fall of Port Arthur.

I remember the first day I decided I would trim the vandyke beard on our lawn. Of course I got all mine, and I got it good. The result will always live in history side by side with the battle of Gettysburg.

The lawn-mower was sleeping peacefully in the barn when I rushed in and dragged it shriekingly from its slumbers.

Perhaps it was because I forgot to lather the lawn, but any way it was the hardest shave I ever had anything to do with.

That lawn-mower began to complain so loudly that the neighbors for miles around rushed to the rock pile and armed themselves for the fray.

The committee of citizens attracted by the screams of the lawn-mower came over to see if I was killing a member of the family or only a distant relative.

When they saw me boxing the ears of a stubborn lawn-mower they said my punishment was heavy enough, so they threw away the lynching rope and left me at the post.

Clara J. came out on the porch and said, "John, perhaps that lawn-mower would stop screaming if you used a little axle grease!"

"All right," I came back at her, "but it will take me an hour and a half to find out which part of the lawnmower will fit the axle grease."

Then I lifted the machinery up to examine its constitution and by-laws, and about two and a half pounds of wrought iron fell off and landed on my instep.

The wrought iron made good.

Then I tried to stand on the other foot, but I lost my balance and fell on the lawn-mower's third rail.

I never was so mortified in my life as when that lawn-mower began to saw its initials on my shin bones.

Every time I tried to get up I lost my balance, and every time I lost my balance the lawn-mower would leap up in the air and fall on my wish-bone.

When loving hands finally pulled us apart I was two doors and a half below unconsciousness, while the lawnmower had recovered its second wind and was wagging its tail with excitement.

After waiting for about ten minutes for me to come back in the
ring, the lawn-mower got impatient and began to bark at me in
Yiddish, so I decided that our lawn could grow whiskers like a
Populist farmer and be hanged to it.

Another splendid bit of local color in the life of some commuters is the tunnel which runs from Forty-second Street up as far as One Hundred and Fifty in the shade.

A ride through this tunnel on a hot day will put you over on Woosey
Avenue quicker than a No. 9 pill in Hop Lee's smoke factory.

In order to get out to Ruraldene I have to use the tunnel, and every time I use it it leaves something which looks like the mark of Cain across my brow.

The first day I went through that tunnel will always remain one of my hottest memories.

I lost nine pounds of solid flesh somewhere between my shoulder blade and Seventy-ninth Street.

The sensation is the same as a Bad Man's hereafter, including the sulphur.

First I choked up a little, then I coughed, then I stirred uneasily, and then I looked out the window and prayed for the daylight, and then I looked at my newspaper, but I couldn't read it, because the railroad company had found the gas bill pretty heavy last month and they were cutting down expenses.

Then I lost my breath, and when I got it back I found it wasn't mine.

Then I began to fan myself with my hat, but I stopped when the man behind me began to kick because I was handing him more than his just share of the tunnel gas.

Then I began, to choke up again, and then I coughed, and then I could feel something fat and mysterious playing hide and go seek around my brain, but outside all was black as ink, and only from the noise could I tell that the road was still paying dividends.

The air began to get close and thick like a porterhouse steak in a
St. Louis hotel.

I began to breathe like my wife crochets an open-faced stocking—one, two, three, drop one; one, two, three, four, drop one.

Then my blood began to curdle and cold chills ran up my back and liked it so well they ran down again.

My respiration was 8 to 1, my inspiration was 9 to 6 for a place, and my perspiration was like a cloudburst.

I had made my will with a few mental and Indian reservations, and was choking up for the last time when, with one mighty jump forward, the train shook itself free from the tunnel and once more we were out in the sunlight.

After picking enough sulphur off my clothes to make a box of matches, I reached gently over and tried to put the window up, but it was closed tighter than a sacred saloon on Sunday.

I gave the window-sash a couple of upper-cuts and a few short-arm punches, but it sat there and laughed in my face.

The brakeman came through, and I spoke to him about the window. He said, "The first time I see the president of the road I'll tell him about it!" and left me flat.

Once more I tried to open that window, but I only succeeded in opening my collar; so then I opened my mouth and made a short but spicy announcement, whereupon the old lady in the seat ahead of me got up and left the car.

Just then the train pulled into a station which I hadn't paid for, but I went out and took it, because it contained a little fresh air.

Some day I will mention the name of this railroad company and make them blush.

Well, after I left Bunch that afternoon, I ducked for the depot, and reached Ruraldene just in time to witness the beginning of a most painful episode.

The house was lighted up from cellar to attic. As soon as I opened the door I found our respected Mayor, Uncle Peter, and he was also lit up.

"It's a surprise, Johnny," he whispered hoarsely. "Clara J. is giving an entertainment for the benefit of the Christian Soldiers' League, and it's going to cost you two dollars to come into your own house."

It made an awful hit with Uncle Peter to see me cough up those two bones, but I said nothing and made good.

My wife called it a musicale, but to me it looked more like a fight.

With the help of Aunt Martha and Alice Grey, my wife arranged the programme and kept it dark to surprise the rest of the family.

It was such a surprise to me that I felt like doing a glide to the woodlands.

It was my second experience with a musicale, and this one cured me all right.

You know I don't care much for society—especially when it breaks into our bungalow and begins to scratch my furniture with its high-heeled shoes. But just to please Peaches I promised to go in the parlor and not be an insult to those present.

For awhile everybody sat around and sized up what everybody else was wearing.

Then they gave each other the silent double-cross.

Presently my wife whispered to Miss Cleopatra Hungerschnitz, whereupon that young lady giggled her way over to the piano and began to knock its teeth out.

The way Cleopatra went after one of Beethoven's sonatas and slapped its ears was pitiful.

Cleopatra learned to injure a piano at a conservatory of music, and she could take a fugo by Victor Hugo and leave it for dead in about thirty-two bars.

At the finish of the sonata we all applauded Cleopatra just as loudly as we could, in the hope that she would faint with surprise and stop playing, but no such luck.

She tied a couple of chords together and swung that piano like a pair of Indian clubs.

First she did "My Old Kentucky Home," with variations, until everybody who had a home began to weep for fear it might get to be like her Kentucky home.

The variations were where she made a mistake and struck the right note.

Then Cleopatra moved up to the squeaky end of the piano and gave an imitation of a Swiss music box.

It sounded to me like a Swiss cheese.

Presently Cleopatra ran out of raw material and subsided, while we all applauded her with our fingers crossed, and two very thoughtful ladies began to talk fast to Cleopatra so as to take her mind off the piano.

Then the Bingledingle brothers, known as Oscar and Victor, opened fire on us with a couple of mandolins.

Oscar and Victor play entirely by hand. They don't know one note from another, and they can prove it when they begin to play.

Their mother believes them to be prodigies of genius. She is alone in her belief.

After Oscar and Victor had chased one of Sousa's marches all over the parlor and finally left it unconscious under the sofa, they bowed and ceased firing, and then they went out in the dining-room and filled their storage batteries with ice cream and cake.

This excitement was followed by another catastrophe named Minnehaha Jones, who picked up a couple of soprano songs and screeched them at us.

Minnehaha is one of those fearless singers who vocalize without a safety valve. She always keeps her eyes closed, so she can't tell just when her audience gets up and leaves the room.

The next treat was a mixed duet on the flute and trombone between Clarence Smith and Lancelot Diffenberger, with a violin obligate on the side by Hector Tompkins.

Never before have I seen music so roughly handled.

It looked like a walk-over for Clarence, but in the fifth round he blew a couple of green notes and Lancelot got the decision.

Then, for a consolation prize, Hector was led out in the middle of the room, where he assassinated Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana so thoroughly that it will never be able to enter a fifty-cent table d'hote restaurant again.

Then Cornucopia Coogan arose and gave us a few select recitations.
She weighs 295 pounds and she was immense.

Just as she started to tell us that curfew would not ring to-night Uncle Peter winked at me, and we sneaked out and began to drown our sorrow.

Those musicales would be all to the good if the music didn't suffocate them.

After the crowd had left that night Peaches said to me, "John, Uncle Peter and Aunt Martha and I have been talking matters over to-day, and we've arranged a most delightful surprise for you!"

"What is it, another one of those parlor riots?" I asked, "If so, I want to tell you right now that you couldn't surprise me if Uncle Peter and Aunt Martha stepped out and did a song and dance in black face."

Peaches laughed.

"Oh! that isn't it," she chuckled. "It has something to do with the $5,000 you've saved."

"Oh! it has," I muttered faintly.

"Yes, Uncle Peter thinks we better not invest it in that house just now," she went on. "He has a better plan. You are to give him the money and he will invest it for you."

"Ah!" I said.

"But that isn't the real surprise," she cooed.

"It will do," I answered.

"Uncle Peter is so delighted that you have kept your promise to me not to speculate any more that he has planned—oh! I nearly told, and it's such a secret!"

Then I went over into a corner and got busy with my thoughts.

Bunch and I would have to get Petroskinski to work in a hurry.

We both needed the money.

CHAPTER III.

JOHN HENRY GETS BUSY.

We were a half-hour early for my appointment with Signor
Petroskinski when Bunch and I strolled into the cafe of the Hotel
Astor the next day.

"Bunch," I said, when the waiter had forced a confession from us, "there's doings out home. Clara J. tipped me off last night that I must hand over my five thousand plunks to be properly invested by the Mayor of Ruraldene."

"Uncle Peter!" chuckled Bunch.

"Now I can't tip my hand to the old gentleman and have him lecture me all over the place, can I, Bunch?"

"Not unless you want your wife to know that you sprained your promise."

"Then it's up to me to press the button and start my get-rich-quick concern," I said. "I simply can't go home and hand them a sad drool about being coaxed into the Street and being trimmed for my coin—nix! The only thing to do is to go out and get it back, and get it quick, eh, Bunch?"

"You bet, John," Bunch agreed. "I spent last evening with Alice and I felt like phony money all the time. She's going right ahead with the wedding preparations and I simply hadn't the nerve to tell her that I lost nearly every penny I had. Uncle William Grey tiptoed into the parlor for a few moments and began to congratulate me on the good reports he had had from Alice with regard to my ability to save a bit of money. I could feel myself shrivelling up as he talked and the parlor began to turn around and start for the Bennings track."

"I know the feeling," I said earnestly. "There was a time, Bunch, that whenever my wife mentioned the word money to me I could see a horse come into the room and shake his mane at me."

"And then," Bunch continued, "Uncle William said to me, 'Jefferson, my boy, Alice tells me you've already saved up five thousand, and I'm proud of you. I didn't like you at first, because I thought you were a harum scarum like your friend, John Henry; but now that you've developed such manly traits of character I'm going to take four thousand of your money, put the same amount in for Alice, and start you in business.' Say, John, I wanted to go through the parlor floor and on through the earth and then out through the busiest fort at Port Arthur, and let a Jap shell knock my silly head off."

"We're both up against it for fair," I said; "and we'll have to get in the ice-cutting business right away. As I told you, this Signor Petroskinski is the marvel of the age, and we can simply coin money with him. Two thousand dollars will start the driving wheels—gi' me your thousand and I'll put it with mine."

Bunch dug out his last bundle of big bills and I gave him the partnership articles I had framed up.

"We'll open up in New Rochelle," I said, "next Thursday night.
Charlie Osgood is a friend of mine and he's laid out a gilt-edged
route for me. Mamaroneck Friday night, and then into Cos Cob for
Saturday matinee and night."

"That doesn't sound like a glad hosannah to me!" Bunch grumbled.

"What, Cos Cob!" I answered. "It's aces. Charlie Osgood says Cos Cob is a great Saturday night town because it's pay-day at the gas works. From there we jump to Green's Farms for the Monday night show."

"Is that place really on the map?" Bunch asked.

"Sure it is," I said. "Charlie says it's a good Monday night town because two through freights lay over there till daylight. Tuesday night we have to double back to Greenwich, and that's where Charlie gave us the bum deal. This gag of chasing us back over the same route is rotten, because somebody may be sitting up for us with a rock. But Charlie says Greenwich has developed into a great show town since five new families' moved there last summer. Wednesday we get into Stamford for a run—two performances. Friday we are booked at South Norwalk and Saturday we play matinee and night at Saugatuck Junction. Charlie says Saugatuck is a cinch money-maker because it's a Junction. When I asked him what there is about a Junction that makes it a safe play Charlie excused himself and went to lunch. After Saugatuck we are not booked, because Charlie says something may fall down in New York and he may want to yank us right in. And, say, if Signor Petroskinski, the Illusionist and Worker of Mystical Magic, ever gets a crack at a Broadway audience it'll be a case of us matching John D. Rockefeller to see who has the most money."

"No, we better not bring Skinski into New York," Bunch advised.
"I'm afraid of the critics."

"What critics?" I inquired. "There are only four people in New York city who can write criticisms—the rest of the bunch are slush-dealers, and a knock from any one of them is a boost."

"I mean Mr. Stale," Bunch put in. "If he were to roast our Skinski it might hurt our business."

"It would—among the Swedes and Hungarians," I cross-countered. "I'm wise to Mr. Stale, nee Cohenheimer, the Human Harpoon! Say, Bunch! he's a joke. I caught him the day he first left the blacksmith shop, some ten years ago, with a boathook in each hand and a toasting fork between his teeth. That duck isn't a critic, he's only a Foofoo."

"What the devil is a Foofoo?" Bunch asked.

"A Foofoo is something that tried to happen and then lost the address," I explained. "Did you ever pipe Stale's cheery bits of humor as exemplified in one of his burning criticisms? Well, I'll put you wise, Bunch:

"I went to the Kookoo theatre last night, I and myself. Voila! tout bien! I have seen lots of shows before, I have, but I have never, I solemnly declare, seen any show so utterly banal as this. The libretto was written by some obscure person who never reads my criticisms for if he did he would know that I abhor Dutch dialect. One reason I hate it so much is that some people can write it so well that they make more money than I do writing English undefiled—oh! the shame of it! Voila! tout suite! But to return to our muttons, as we say in Paris whenever I go there. Tottie Coughdrop played the principal part but a merciful Providence gave me a cold in the head so I couldn't hear what she said! Voila! tout fromage de Brie! To my mind Tottie looked like one of yesterday's ham sandwiches, and a 'gent' sitting near me said she was all to the mustard, so you see great minds run in the same channel—oh! la, la, la! But to return to our muttons. The show is said to have cost $25,000, but what care I? Voila! tout coalscuttle! I'd roast it if it cost $50,000, otherwise how could I make good? Voila! tout blatherskite! But to return to our muttons. I went out after the first act and never did go back—great joke on the show, wasn't it? Oh! la, la, la! Still I insist that Tottie Coughdrop looked like a ham sandwich. Voila! tout fudge!"

"So that's the kind of piffle that managers and actors have to go up against," laughed Bunch.

"They don't go up against it any more, Bunch," I said. "They are shifty young guys in the theatrical business nowadays, and they sidestep the hammer-throwers. Mr. Stale is a back number, and his harpoon can't stop a dollar bill from flutering into any man's box office."

"He thinks he can, all right," Bunch muttered.

"Well, there are two thinks and a half still due him," I said. "Who ever gave that guy a license to splash ink all over a production and hold actors, authors and managers up to ridicule? Did you ever hear of an actor or an author or a manager getting out a three-sheet which held a newspaper up to ridicule?"

"Not on your endowment policy," Bunch chimed in.

"Well, isn't a newspaper just as much of a public institution as a theatre? Suppose a manager were to call in a rubberneck, hand him a tool box and send him to a newspaper office to look for a splashy production on a busy night. Suppose, further, that after the paper went to press Mr. Rubberneck opened up his tool box and began to pound on the leading man in the print shop for having a bunch of bad grammar in his editorial column, and after that, suppose our friend with the glistening eyes jumped on one of the sub-editors because the woman's page was out of alignment, or made a rave because the jokes in the funny column were all to the ancient, what would happen to Mr. Rubberneck, eh, what? Sixteen editors, fourteen reporters and twenty-three linotype men would take a running kick at old Buttinski, and there wouldn't be enough of him left to give the coroner an excuse to look solemn."

"I thought Stale used to write books," Bunch put in.

"He thought so, too, but the public passed him the ice pitcher," I said. "He started in to be a successful author and then he bit his tongue."

"He'll get after you good and hard if he hears you talking this way," Bunch admonished.

"Say! Bunch! he's been after me for five years and he hasn't caught up with me yet. Every time he's had a chance he's tossed a few sneers in my direction, so I made up my mind the other day I'd coax him down to the foundry and throw the anvil at him. If ever I do cut loose on that Birmingham gent he'll think he has swallowed one of his own harpoons. He's a case of Perpetual Grouch because it gets the dough for him on pay-day.

"If somebody ever steals his hammer he'll be doing hotfoots for the handout thing and he'll eat about once a week.

"It's a brave and glorious spectacle, isn't it, Bunch, to watch this mouldy writer, with a big newspaper behind him and columns of space at his command, throwing his hooks into actors and actresses who haven't a chance on earth to get back."

"I'd hate to have to make my living by trying to drag the bread and butter away from other people," Bunch butted in.

"Yes, and the nickel-plated nerve that goes with it," I went on. "Every time this Stale guy goes to a theatre he makes it appear that he was forced into a den of thieves and everybody he can point out with his fountain pen is either a criminal or a dirty deuce. What has he ever done that finished one, two, nine?"

"He's been fourflushing around for years about the pitiful condition of the 'drammer,' but did he ever write a play that saw the light of day? Nix.

"I'll bet eight dollars if he ever does get a play produced there'll be nobody left in the theatre but the ushers and the spot light after the first act."

"Lots of people think he is very clever," Bunch suggested,

"So is a trained goat," I came back. "If you stood a crowd of handcuffed actors and authors and managers up in a corner and made faces at them and called them names and blew spitballs in their eyes you could get a laugh from the low foreheads, couldn't you, Bunch?"

"Surest thing you know, John."

"Well, that's Grouchy Stale's line of endeavor. Say, Bunch, if it were not for the knocks contained therein one of that guy's essays would read like the maiden effort of a lovesick jellyfish.

"Did you ever pipe the pure and lofty and highly ennobling sentiments, the spiritually beautiful inspiration which characterizes that book of his—that deft little dip into degeneracy—something about a frozen wedding! Oh, slush! Percy, pass the cigarettes!"

"There must be a certain class of people who read that kind of criticism," Bunch said.

"That windy stuff Stale hands out is supposed to be criticism,
Bunch, but it isn't—it's typewritten egotism."

"Yes, but it's useless for you to go after him, John; he'll only hand you another javelin."

"Well, the next time that dub throws the gaff into me I'll know he has a reason for it. Hereafter, every time he bats an eye in my direction it's me for a swift get-back, I'll tell you those!"

"You should bear the ills of the flesh with Christian fortitude," grinned Bunch.

"Nix," I said. "I'm tired holding up something fat for a mutt like that to paddle with a slapstick!"

CHAPTER IV.

JOHN HENRY GETS A SHOCK.

A few minutes later we went into the general restaurant and found
Signor Petroskinski waiting for us.

His right name was Jeff Mulligan, but Petroskinski sounded more foreign, and he fell for it.

I introduced Skinski to Bunch, and in five minutes all the business details were settled.

Skinski needed about $900 to pay for a couple of new illusions which were being built for him, and Bunch was appointed a committee to go down to Sixth Avenue and disburse the funds.

"I think we've got the real graft, don't you, Skinski?" I said, after the luncheon had been ordered.

"It's a pipe!" Skinski replied in pure United States, much to
Bunch's surprise. From the name and the make-up I suppose Bunch
expected Skinski to yelp in Bulgarian or throw out signals in
Graeco-Roman.

Skinski was a warm member with the gab thing.

He got his start in life travelling with a medicine wagon in the West, and what he didn't know about the show business wasn't necessary.

"Say, people!" our star went on, "I've a couple of new card tricks up my sleeve that will leave the Reubens gasping for air. And when I pull my new illusion, entitled, 'Keno, or the Curious Cage,' on the public it will be a case of counting easy coin. Say! did I ever tell you about that gold mine I won in the West many moons ago?"

"Nix on the dream work, Skinski," I cut in. "We've put up our good money to start you, so let's get down to the programme."

"Oh! very well," said Skinski; "but I was down to see my brokers to-day in Wall Street and there are doings. I've got a plantation full of gold out near the Blue Hills, and——"

"Please don't smoke, there are ladies present!" admonished Bunch.

"Oh, very well!" said Skinski, and forthwith he launched into a description of his various tricks.

The waiter had just brought our luncheon when a large blondined shadow fell across the festive board, and Skinski jumped to his feet, followed by Bunch and yours surprisedly.

"Permit me!" Skinski said; "our new backers, Mr. Jefferson and Mr. John Henry! this is Mademoiselle Dodo, the Human Guessworks. She's my assistant in the mind-reading tests, and she's all to the elegant. Will you feed the face, Dodey?"

"You betcher sweet!" Dodo replied, as she splashed into the chair provided by the waiter, while I glanced at Bunch sideways and found him on the verge of a fainting fit.

[Illustration: "You betcher sweet!">[

"I've told Dodey all about you two glad boys," Skinski went on, "and she's for you, ain't you, Dodey?"

"You betcher sweet!" Dodo chimed in, with a hungry glance at the cooked stuff.

"I told her we had a business meet on here, but if she wanted to squeeze in she wouldn't be in nobody's way," Skinski continued. "Dodey's an awful clever girl, and she wouldn't be in this biz eight hours if that gold mine——"

"Sure, I know!" I interrupted; "possibly Mademoiselle is thirsty—a little wine, eh?"

"You betcher sweet!" the stout person replied, with a celerity that made Bunch sit up and look about the room to see if anyone suspected him.

"Dodey is always for the suds thing," Skinski chipped in. "But never to excess, never to excess. I never see Dodey lit up but once, and that was in Dayton, Ohio, the night we played to the janitor of the hall and his four children. When we came to the place where Dodey is blindfolded and does the decimal fractions stunt on the blackboard the janitor's oldest child fooled Dodey into doing all next week's lessons in arithmetic and Dodey fretted over it, didn't you, Dodey?"

"You betcher sweet!" the leading lady replied, with both eyes following the efforts of the waiter, who was opening a bottle of Pommery.

Bunch was beginning to get uneasy and I had a bad attack of fidgets.

"Say, Dodey!" our bright and shining light went on, "I want you to make a fuss over these two young gents, because they are the only nearly silk on the counter. They've put up their good cush to send me on tour without ever dragging me before a Police Justice to swear that I'm on the level, and if ever that gold mine——"

"Tush!" I interrupted. "I saw you work, Skinski, and you're a wonder; that's good enough for my money."

"Yes, but you never once put a sleuth over the back trail to throw the spot light on my past life," Skinski babbled on. "You're the first white man that ever took a chance with me without lashing me to the medicine ball, and I'll make good for you, all right, won't I, Dodey?"

"You betcher sweet!" she mumbled, with a mouth full of Pommery.

"Say!" said Skinski to me, after we had ordered some breadstuff for the leading lady, "you're not such a late train with the sleight-of-hand gag yourself, Mr. Manager!"

"Oh! I'm only a piker at it," I replied, modestly. "I can do a few moth-eaten tricks with the cards and I've studied out a few of the illusions, enough to know how to do them without breaking an ankle, but I'm not cute enough to be on the stage."

Skinski laughed, and Dodo looked over another glass of Pommery long enough to say, "You betcher sweet!"

"Well," said Skinski, leading a bevy of French-fried potatoes up to his moustache, "you'll know enough about it after I rehearse you to go on and do the show when we hit a fried-egg burg, where there's only a Mr. and Mrs. Audience to greet our earnest endeavors. Say, boys, you'll get a lot of fricasseed experience trailing with this troupe, believe me!"

"I'm only going to be with you for a few days," I answered. "Mr.
Jefferson will be your permanent manager."

"The hell I will!" spluttered Bunch. Then he got red in the face, glared at Dodo, and grouched out a "beg pardon!"

"You betcher sweet!" she replied, patting the Pommery.

"Say, John! you know well enough I can't leave New York for more than two or three days just at this time without having a good excuse to give Alice," Bunch growled, while Skinski and the Circassian lady put the knives to the chicken livers en brochette.

"How about me!" I snapped back. "I can't go out of town at all, except in the day-time. I'll have to duck back to Ruraldene after the show every evening or lose my card in the Happy Husbands' Union. It's different with you, Bunch; you're not married yet."

"It isn't different at all," Bunch whipsawed me. "And you haven't any business to expect me to hike over the country with this outfit while you stay at home and read Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress."

"I won't read that at all," I countered; "I'll read nothing but the ship news to see if you are stranded."

"Well, I won't do it!" snorted Bunch.

"You'll have to do it if you want to win out that wedding money," I retorted. "Is this the way you thank me for what I've done for you?"

"Done for me, nothing!" Bunch bit back. "I put up as much coin as you did, and now you want me to do all the work!"

"Work!" I echoed; "what work is it to count money, eh, Skinski?"

"Counting money is a hot pastime, isn't it, Dodey?" he answered.

"You betcher sweet!" responded the fair lady, gazing dreamily at the empty flagon of Pommery.

"Well, take my word for it," snarled Bunch, "I don't hanker for that sort of amusement. If there's any train-hopping to be done, it's up to you, John. It's your game, not mine."

"Say, are you going to welsh on me now that we've passed over our contract to Skinski?" I asked hotly.

"No, I'm not going to welsh," Bunch came right back, "but I'm only a silent partner in this concern, so you for the Bad Lands to do the barking for the show."