Part 10 (1/2)
Once bitten, twice shy; and Gash Tuttle's fifteen-dollar bite was still raw and bleeding. He started to pull away.
”I wouldn't choose to invest in anything more until I'd looked it over,”
he began. The large man grasped him by his two lapels and broke in on him, drowning out the protest before it was well started.
”Who said anything about anybody investin' anything?” he demanded. ”Did I? No. Then listen to me a minute--just one minute. I'm in a hurry my own self and I gotta hand you this proposition out fast.”
Sincerity was in his tone; was in his manner too. Even as he spoke his gaze roved past Gash Tuttle toward the tarpaulin draperies which contributed to their privacy, and he sweat freely; a suetlike dew spangled his brow. There was a noise outside. He listened intently, then fixed a mesmerising stare on Gash Tuttle and spoke with great rapidity and greater earnestness:
”You see, I got some other interests here. Besides this pit show, I'm a partner in a store pitch and a mitt-joint; and, what with everything, I'm overworked. That's the G.o.d's truth--I'm overworked! What I need is a manager here. And soon as I seen how you handled yourself I says to myself, 'That's the party I want to hire for manager.' What did you say your name was?”
”Tuttle--Gashney P. Tut----”
”That's enough--the Tuttle part will do for me. Now, Tuttle, set down that there keister of yours--that gripsack--and listen. I gotta go down the street for a half hour--maybe an hour--and I want you to take charge. You're manager while I'm gone--the joint is yours till I git back. And to-night, later on, we'll fix up a deal together. If you think you like the job we'll make a reg'lar arrangement; we'll make it permanent instid of temporary. See?”
”But--but----”
”But nothin'! I want to find out if my first judgment about you is correct. See? I want to make a test. See? That's it--a test. You ain't goin' to have much to do, first off. The n.i.g.g.e.r is all right s'long as he gits his dope.” He motioned toward the canvas-lined retreat where Osay now dozed heavily among the coils of his somnolent pets. ”And Crummy--that's my outside man--kin handle the front and make the spiel, and take in what money comes in. I'll mention to him as I'm leavin' that you're in charge. Probably I'll be back before time for the next blow-off. All you gotta do is just be manager--that's all; and if anybody comes round askin' for the manager, you're him. See?”
His impetuosity was hypnotising--it was converting; nay, compelling. It was enough to sweep any audience off its feet, let alone an audience of one. Besides, where lives the male adult between the ages of nine and ninety who in his own mind is not convinced that he has within him the making of a great and successful amus.e.m.e.nt purveyor? Still, Gash Tuttle hesitated. The prospect was alluring, but it was sudden--so sudden.
As though divining his mental processes, the man Fornaro added a clinching and a convincing argument.
”To prove I'm on the dead level with you, I'm goin' to pay you for your time--pay you now, in advance--to bind the bargain until we git the details all fixed up.” He hauled out a fair-sized wad of currency and from the ma.s.s detached a frayed green bill. ”I'm goin' to slip you a she-note on the spot.”
”A which?”
”A she-note--two bones. See?”
He forced the money into the other's palm. As Gash Tuttle automatically pocketed the retainer he became aware that this brisk new a.s.sociate of his, without waiting for any further token of agreement on his part, already was preparing to surrender the enterprise into his keeping.
Fornaro backed away from him and dropped nimbly down off the back of the platform where there was a slit in the canvas wall; then turned and, standing on tiptoe to bring his mouth above the level of the planking, spoke the parting admonition in hasty tones:
”Remember now, you're the boss, the main guy, the whole cheese! If anybody asts you tell 'em you're the manager and stick to it.”
The canvas flapped behind him and he was gone. And Gash Tuttle, filled with conflicting emotions in which reawakened pride predominated, stood alone in his new-found kingdom.
Not for long was he alone, however. To be exact, not for more than half a minute at the very most. He heard what he might have heard before had his ears been as keenly attuned as the vanished Fornaro's were. He heard, just outside, voices lifted conflictingly in demand, in expostulation, in profane protest and equally profane denunciation of something or other. A voice which seemed to be that of the swarthy man denominated as Crummy gave utterance to a howl, then instantly dimmed out, as though its owner was moving or being moved from the immediate vicinity with unseemly celerity and despatch. Feet drummed on the wooden steps beyond the draperies. Something heavy overturned or was overthrown with a crash.
And as Mr. Tuttle, startled by these unseemly demonstrations, started toward the front entrance of his domain the curtain was yanked violently aside and a living tidal wave flowed in on him, das.h.i.+ng high and wide.
On its crest, propelled by irresistible cosmic forces, rode, as it were, a slouch-hatted man with a nickel-plated badge on his bosom, and at this person's side was a lanky countryman of a most threatening demeanour; and behind them and beyond them came a surging sea of faces--some hostile, some curious, and all excited.
”Who's in charge here?” shouted the be-badged man.
”Me--I am,” began Gash Tuttle. ”I'm the manager. What's wanted?”
”You are! I 'rest you in the name of the law for runnin' a skin game!”
the constable whooped gleefully--”on a warrant swore out less 'en a hour ago.”