Part 38 (1/2)

The lady pushes up her mosquito nettin' drop, like she wanted to see if I was unwindin' the string ball or not, and then for a minute she taps her chin with them foldin' eyegla.s.ses. I wanted to sing out to her that she'd dent the enamel if she didn't quit bein' so careless, but I held in. Say, what's the use eatin' carrots and takin' b.u.t.termilk baths, when you can have a mercerized complexion like that laid on at the shop?

All of a sudden she flashes up a little silver case, and pushes out a visitin' card.

”There's my name and address,” says she. ”If you should change your mind about using The Toreador, you may telephone me; and I hope you will.”

”Oh!” says I, spellin' out the old English letters. ”I've heard Pinckney speak of you. Well, say, seein' as you're so anxious, I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll just put you down for an in-vite. How does that hit you?”

I had an idea she might blow up, at that. But say, there was nothin' of the kind.

”Why,” says she, ”I'm not sure but that would be quite a novelty. Yes, you may count on me. Good day,” and she was gone without so much as a ”thank you kindly.”

When I came to, and had sized the thing all up, it looked like I'd got in over my head. I was due to stand for some kind of a racket, but whether it was a picnic, or a surprise party, I didn't know. What I wanted just then was information, and for certain kinds of knowledge there's n.o.body like Pinckney.

I was dead lucky to locate him, too; but I took a chance on his bein' in town, so I found him at his special corner table in the palm room, just lookin' a dry Martini in the face.

”h.e.l.lo, Shorty!” says he. ”Haven't lunched yet, have you? Join me.”

”I will,” says I, ”if you'll answer me two questions. First off, what is it that Mr. Ogden owns that he calls The Toreador?”

”Why,” says Pinckney, ”that's his steam yacht.”

”Steam yacht!” says I, gettin' a good grip on the chair, to keep from falling out. ”And me dead sure it was a bunch of six-room-and-baths!

Oh, well, let that pa.s.s. What's done is done. Now what's this evolution stunt they're pullin' off up at Newport next week?”

”The naval evolutions, of course,” says Pinckney. ”You should read the newspapers, Shorty.”

”I do,” says I, ”but I didn't see a word about it on the sportin' page.”

He gave me the program, though; how they was goin' to have a sham torpedo battle, windin' up with a grand illumination of the fleet.

”You ought to run up and see it,” says he.

”It looks like I had to,” says I.

”But what about The Toreador?” says he.

”Nothin' much,” says I,--”only I've bought the blamed thing.”

It was Pinckney's turn to grow bug-eyed; but when I'd told him all about the deal, and how the veiled lady had stung me into sayin' what I had, he's as pleased as if he'd been readin' the joke column.

”Shorty,” says he, ”you're a genius. Why, that's the very thing to do.

Get together your party, steam up there, anchor in the harbor, and see the show. It's deuced good form, you know.”

”That's all I want,” says I. ”Just so long's I'm sure I'm in good form, I'm happy. But say, I wouldn't dare tackle it unless you went along.”

I found out later that Pinckney'd turned down no less than three parties of that kind, but when I puts it up to him, he never fiddles short at all.

”Why, I'd be delighted,” says he.

With that we finishes our cold fried egg salad, or whatever fancy dish it was we had on the platter, and then we pikes off to the pier where he says the yacht's tied up. And say, she was somethin' of a boat. She made that Dixie Girl, that Woodie and me brought the Incubator kids down in, look like a canoe. She was white all over, except for a gold streak around her, and a couple of d.i.n.ky yellow masts.