Part 19 (1/2)

I tried to; but it was a strain. If anyone else had put it up to me that Sadie Sullivan, with a roll of real money as big as a bale of cotton, could lose her nerve just because she didn't have a visitin'-list, I'd have told 'em to drop the pipe. She was giving me straight goods, though. Why, her lip was tremblin' like a lost kid's.

”Chuck it!” says I. ”For a girl that had a whole bunch of Johnnies on the waitin' list, and her with only one best dress to her name at the time, you give me an ache. I don't set up for no great judge of form and figure; but my eyesight's still good, I guess, and if I was choosin' a likely looker, I'd back you against the field.”

That makes her grin a little, and she pats my hand kind of sisterly like. ”It isn't men I want, you goose; it's women--my own kind,” says she, and the next minute she gives me the nudge and whispers: ”Now, watch--the one in the chiffon Panama.”

”s.h.i.+ff which?” says I. But I sees the one she means--a heavy-weight person, rigged out like a dry-goods exhibit and topped off with millinery from the spring openin', coming toward us behind a pair of nervous steppers. She had her lamps turned our way, and I hears Sadie give her the time of day as sweet as you please. She wasn't more'n six feet off, either; but it missed fire. She stared right through Sadie, just as if there'd been windows in her, and then turned to cuddle a brindle pup on the seat beside her.

”Acts like she owed you money,” says I.

”We swapped tales of domestic woe for two weeks at Colorado Springs season before last,” said Sadie; ”but it seems that she's forgotten.

That's Mrs. Morris Pettigrew, whose husband--”

”That one?” says I. ”Why, she ain't such a much, either. I know folks that think she's a joke.”

”She feels that she can't afford to recognize me on Fifth-ave., just the same. That's where I stand,” says Sadie.

”It's a crooked deal, then,” says I.

And right there I began to get a glimmer of the kind of game she was up against. Talk about freeze-outs!

”I'll show her, though, and the rest of 'em!” says Sadie, stickin' out her cute little chin. ”I'm not going to quit yet.”

”Good for you!” says I. ”It's a pastime I ain't up in at all; but if you can ever find use for me behind the scenes anywhere, just call on.”

”I will, Shorty,” says she, ”and right now. Come on down to Sherry's with me for luncheon.”

”Quit your kiddin',” says I. ”You don't want to queer the whole program at the start. I'd be lost in a place like that--me in a sack suit and round-top dicer! Why, the head waiter'd say 'Scat!' and I'd make a dive under the table.”

She said she didn't care a red apple for that. She wanted to sail in there and throw a bluff, only she couldn't go alone, and she guessed I'd do just as I was.

Course, I couldn't stand for no fool play of that kind; but seein' as she was so dead set on the place, I said we'd make it a 'leven-o'clock supper, after the theatre; but it must be my blow.

”I've got the clothes that'll fit into a night racket,” says I, ”and besides, I've got to get a few points first.”

”It's a go,” says she.

So we made a date, and Sadie drops me at the Studio. I goes right to the 'phone and calls up Pinckney at the club. Didn't I tell you about him?

Sure, that's the one. You wouldn't think though, to see him and me tappin' each other with the mitts, that he was a front ranker in the smart push. But he's all of that. He's a pacemaker for the swiftest bunch in the world. Say, if he should take to walkin' on his hands, there wouldn't be no men's shoes sold on Fifth-ave. for a year.

Well, he shows up here about an hour later, lookin' as fresh as though he'd just come off the farm. ”Did you say something about wanting advice, Shorty?” says he.

”I did,” says I.

”Religious, or otherwise?” says he. ”But it makes no difference; I'm yours to command.”

”I don't ask you to go beyond your depth,” says I. ”It's just a case of orderin' fancy grub. I'm due to blow a lady friend of mine to the swellest kind of a supper that grows in the borough; no two-dollar tabble-doty, understand; but a special, real-lace, eighteen-carat feed, with nothing on the bill of fare that ain't spelled in French.”

”Ah!” says he, ”something like _Barquettes Bordellaise_, _poulet en ca.s.serole_, _fraises au champagne_, and so on, eh?”

”I was about to mention them very things,” says I. ”But my memory's on the blink. Couldn't you write 'em down, with a diagram of how they look, and whether you spear 'em with a fork, or take 'em in through a straw?”