Some fifteen minutes later, the boy Larry, stepping out of O’Rourke’s, was swung to the wall in Soapy’s grip.
“Aw—say, cheese it now! Is that you, Soapy?”
“‘S right, my bucko. Fork out that telegram—quick!”
“Aw, say, what yer mean—’n’ say, Bud told me to hustle, ‘n’ say—”
“Dig it out—quick!” said Soapy, the dangling cigarette glowing fiercely. “I want it—see?”
“But say—” whimpered Larry, “what’ll Bud say—”
“Nothin’! Bud ain’t goin’ t’ know. You take this instead—take it!” And Soapy thrust another folded paper into the boy’s limp hand, who took it whimpering.
“Bud tol’ me t’ bring it back.”
“Well, you tell him you lost it.”
“Not much—I’ll skin right back an’ tell him you pinched it.”
“You won’t, my sport, you won’t!” said Soapy, and speaking, moved suddenly; and the boy, uttering a gasp of terror, shrank cowering with the muzzle of Soapy’s deadly weapon against the pit of his stomach. “You ain’t goin’ t’ say a word t’ Bud nor nobody else, are ye, Larry boy, are ye?”
“No—no—”
“Because if ye ever did, old sport, I should give it ye there—right there in the tum-tum, see? Now chase off, an’ see ye get them addresses right. S’long, Larry boy, be good now!” When the boy had scudded away, Soapy opened the paper and scanned the words of M’Ginnis’s telegram and, being alone, smiled as he glanced through it.
“You got th’ Kid, Bud,” he murmured, “you got th’ Kid—but if th’ Kid gets the guy Geoff, why—I’ve sure got you, Bud—got ye sure as hell, Bud!”
CHAPTER XXXII
OF HARMONY AND DISCORD
Mr. Brimberly, comfortably ensconced in Young R.’s favourite armchair, nodded ponderously and beat time to the twang of Mr. Jenkins’s banjo, whereto Mr. Stevens sang in a high-pitched and rather shaky tenor the latest musical success yclept “Sammy.” Thus, Mr. Jenkins strummed, Mr. Stevens trilled, and Mr. Brimberly alternately beat the tempo with a plump white finger and sipped his master’s champagne until, having emptied his glass, he turned to the bottle on the table beside him, found that empty also, crossed to the two bottles on the mantel, found them likewise void and had tried the two upon the piano with no better success, when, the song being ended, Mr. Jenkins struck in with:
“All dead men, Brim! Six of ‘em between us—not bad going, what?”
“And very good fizz too, on the whole!” added Mr. Stevens. “I always sing better on champagne. But come, Brim my boy, I’ve obliged with everything I know, and Jenk, ‘e ‘s played everything ‘e knows, and I must say with great delicacy an’ feelin’—now it’s your turn—somethin’.”
“Well,” answered Mr. Brimberly, squinting at an empty bottle, “I used to know a very good song once, called ‘Let’s drownd all our sorrers and cares.’ But good ‘eavens! we can’t drownd ‘em in empty bottles, can we?”
“Oh, very good!” chuckled Mr. Jenkins, “oh, very prime! If I might suggest, there’s nothin’ like port—port’s excellent tipple for drowndin’ sorrer and downing care—what?”
“Port, sir?” repeated Mr. Brimberly, “we ‘ave enough port in our cellars to drownd every sorrer an’ care in Noo York City. I’m proud of our port, sir, and I’m reckoned a bit of a connysoor—”
“Ah, it takes a eddicated palate to appreciate good port!” nodded Mr. Jenkins loftily, “a eddicated palate— what?”
“Cert’nly!” added Mr. Stevens, “an’ here’s two palates waitin’, waitin’ an’ ready to appreciate till daylight doth appear.”
“There’s nothin’ like port!” sighed Mr. Brimberly, setting aside the empty champagne bottle, “nothin’ like port, and there’s Young Har ‘ardly can tell it from sherry—oh, the Goth! the Vandyle! All this good stuff would be layin’ idle if it wasn’t for me! Young Har ain’t got no right to be a millionaire; ‘is money’s wasted on ‘im—he neglects ‘is opportoonities shameful—eh, shameful! What I say is—what’s the use of bein’ a millionaire if you don’t air your millions?”
Hereupon Mr. Jenkins rocked himself to and fro over his banjo in a polite ecstasy of mirth.
“Oh, by Jove!” he gasped, “if that ain’t infernal clever, I’ll be shot! Oh, doocid clever I call it—what!”
“Er—by the way, Brim,” said Mr. Stevens, his glance roving toward the open window, “where does he happen to be to-night?”
“Where?” repeated Mr. Brimberly, fingering a slightly agitated whisker, “where is Young Har, sir? Lord, Mr. Stevens, if you ask me that, I throws up my ‘ands, and I answers you—’eavens knows! Young Har is a unknown quantity, sir—a will o’ the wisp, or as you might say, a ignus fattus. At this precise moment ‘e may be in Jerusalem or Jericho or—a-sittin’ outside on the lawn—which Gawd forbid! But there, don’t let’s talk of it. Come on down into the cellars, and we’ll bring up enough port to drownd sorrer an’ care all night.”
“With all my heart!” said Mr. Jenkins, laying aside his banjo.
“Ditto, indeed!” nodded Mr. Stevens, slipping a hand in his host’s arm, and thus linked together they made their way out of the room.
Scarcely had their hilarious voices died away when a muscular brown hand parted the hangings of an open window, and Geoffrey Ravenslee climbed into the room. His rough clothes and shabby hat were powdered with dust, and he looked very much out of place amid his luxurious surroundings as he paused to glance swiftly from the bottles that decorated the carved mantel to those on table and piano. Then, light-treading, he crossed the room, and as the hilarious three were heard approaching, vanished in his turn.
“‘Ere we are, Jubilee Port!” exclaimed Mr. Brimberly, setting down two cobwebbed bottles with elaborate care,
