At the Old Ballgame (16 page)

We got by the outer door all right and into the main room where some old gentlemen were sitting round, smoking cigars and reading the newspapers. They seemed kind of annoyed about something and looked at us as if they took us for burglars in disguise, which they probably did. Up comes a flunky in uniform, knee-breeches and mutton-chop whiskers. Uncle Billy did the talking for the bunch.

“Tell Mr. Stringer that we're here,” says he.

“I—beg your pardon?” says the flunky.

“You don't need to do that,” says Uncle Billy. “Just run along and tell Mr. Stringer that his guests are here.”

The flunky seemed puzzled for a minute, and then he almost smiled.

“Ah!” says he. “The—Democratic Club is on the opposite corner, sir. Possibly there has been some mistake.”

Uncle Billy began to get sore. He flashed his invitation and waved it under the flunky's nose.

“It says here the Algonquin Club. You don't look it, but maybe you can read.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” says the flunky. He examined the invitation carefully and then he shook his head. “Very, very sorry, sir, says he, “but there is some mistake.”

“How can there be any mistake?” roars Uncle Billy. “Where is Mr. Stringer?”

“That is what I do not know, sir,” says the flunky. “We have no such member, sir.”

Well, that was a knock-out. Even Uncle Billy didn't know what to say to that. The rest of us stood round on one foot and then on the other like a lot of clothing-store dummies. One of the old gentlemen motioned to the flunky, who left us, but not without looking back every few seconds as if he expected us to start something.

“James,” pipes up the old gentleman, “perhaps they have been drinking. Have you telephoned for the police?”

“They don't seem to be violent yet, sir,” says James. Then he came back to us and explained again that he was very, very sorry, but there must be some mistake. No Mr. Stringer was known at the Algonquin Club.

“This way out, gentlemen,” says James.

I think I was the first one that tumbled to it. We were going down the steps when it struck me like a thousand of brick.

“Stringer!” says I. “We've been strung all right. Tom O'Connor has gone back to the legitimate!”

“No wonder he didn't want to come!” says everybody at once.

We stood on the corner under the lamppost and held an indignation meeting, the old gentlemen looking down at us from the windows as if they couldn't make up their minds whether we were dangerous or not. We hadn't decided what we ought to do with Tom when the reporters began to arrive. That cinched it. Every paper had been tipped off by telephone that there was a good josh story at the Algonquin Club, and the funny men had been turned loose on it. Uncle Billy grabbed me by the arm.

“Tip the wink to Dunphy and Parsons and let's get out of this,” says he. “I don't often dude myself up and it seems a shame to waste it. We will have dinner at the Casino and frame up a come-back on O'Connor.”

I've always said that, in spite of his queer notions about certain things, Uncle Billy is a regular human being. The dinner that he bought us that night proved it, and the idea that he got, along with the coffee, made it even stronger.

“Do you boys know any actresses?” said he. “I mean any that are working in town now?”

“I know Hazel Harrington,” says Parsons.

“Ah-hah,” says Uncle Billy. “That's the pretty one in Paris Up to Date, eh?” Why, the old rascal even had a line on the musical comedy stars! “Is she a good fellow?”

“Best in the world!” says Parsons. “And a strong baseball fan.”

“Fine!” says Uncle Billy and he snapped his fingers at a waiter. “Pencil and paper and messenger boy—quick! Now then, Peachy, write this lady a note and say that we will be highly honoured if she will join us here after the show to discuss a matter of grave importance to the Old Guard. Say that you will call in a taxi to get her.”

When the note had gone Uncle Billy lighted a fresh cigar and chuckled to himself.

“If she'll go through with it,” says he, “I'll guarantee to knock all the funny business out of Tom O'Connor for the rest of his natural life.”

Miss Harrington turned up about eleven-thirty, even prettier off the stage than on it, which is going some. She said that she had side-stepped a date with a Pittsburgh millionaire because we were real people. That was a promising start. She ordered a light supper of creamed lobster and champagne and then Uncle Billy began to talk.

He told her that as a manager he was in a bad fix. He said he had a new man on the payroll who was promoting civil war. He explained that unless he was able to tame this fellow the team would be crippled. Miss Harrington said that would be a pity, for she had bet on us to win the pennant. She wanted to know what was the matter. Uncle Billy told her all about Tom O'Connor and his practical jokes. Miss Harrington said it would be a good thing to give him a dose of his own medicine. It was like Uncle Billy to let her think that the idea belonged to her.

“Suppose,” says Uncle Billy, “you should get a note from him, asking you to meet him at the stage door some night next week. For the sake of the ball club, would you say ‘Yes'?”

“But—what would happen after that?” asked Miss Harrington. “I don't know the man at all and—”

Uncle Billy told her what would happen after that, and as it dawned on the rest of us we nearly rolled out of our chairs. Miss Harrington laughed too.

“It would be terribly funny,” said she, “and I suppose it would serve him right; but it might get into the papers and—”

Uncle Billy shook his head.

“My dear young lady,” says he, “the only publicity that you get in this town is the publicity that you go after. I am well and favourably known to the police. A lot of 'em get annual passes from me. Captain Murray at the Montmorency Street Station is my pal. He can see a joke without plans and specifications. I promise you that the whole thing will go off like clockwork. We'll suppose that you have attracted the young man's attention during the performance. You would attract any man's attention, my dear.”

“I would stand up and bow for that compliment,” said Miss Harrington, “but the waiter is looking. Go on.”

“We will suppose that you have received a note from him,” said Uncle Billy. “He is to meet you at the stage door. . . . One tiny little scream—just one. . . . Would you do that—for the sake of the ball club?”

Miss Harrington giggled.

“If you're sure that you can keep me out of it,” said she, “I'll do it for the sake of the joke!”

Uncle Billy was a busy man for a few days, but he found time to state that he didn't believe that Tom O'Connor had anything to do with the Algonquin Club thing. He said it was so clever that Tom couldn't have thought of it, and he said it in the dressing room so loud that everybody heard him. Maybe that was the reason why Tom didn't suspect anything when he was asked to fill out a box party.

Pat Dunphy, Peachy Parsons and some of the rest of us were in on the box party, playing thinking parts mostly. Uncle Billy and Tom O'Connor had the front seats right up against the stage.

Miss Harrington was immense. If she'd had forty rehearsals she couldn't have done it any better. Before she'd been on the stage three minutes Tom was fumbling round for his programme trying to find her name. Pretty soon he began to squirm in his chair.

“By golly, that girl is looking at me all the time!” says he.

“Don't kid yourself!” said Uncle Billy.

“But I tell you she is! There—did you see that?”

“Maybe she wants to meet you,” says Uncle Billy. I've seen her at the ball park a lot of times.”

“You think she knows who I am?” asks Tom.

“Shouldn't wonder. You're right, Tom. She's after you, that's a fact.”

“Oh, rats!” says O'Connor. “Maybe I just think so. No, there it is again! Do you suppose, if I sent my card back—”

“I'm a married man,” says Uncle Billy. “I don't suppose anything. But if a girl as pretty as that—”

Tom went out at the end of the first act. I saw him write something on a card and slip it to an usher along with a dollar bill.

When the second act opened Tom was so nervous he couldn't sit still. It was easy to see that he hadn't received any answer to his note and was worrying about it. Pretty soon Miss Harrington came on to sing her song about the moon—they've always got to have a moon song in musical comedy or it doesn't go—and just as the lights went down she looked over toward our box and smiled, the least little bit of a smile, and then she nodded her head. The breath went out of Tom O'Connor in a long sigh.

“Somebody lend me twenty dollars,” says he.

“I'm going to meet her at the stage door after the show,” says Tom, “and she won't think I'm a sport unless I open wine.”

Well, he met her all right enough. The whole bunch of us can swear to that because we were across the street, hiding in a doorway. When she came out Tom stepped up, chipper as a canary bird, with his hat in his hand. We couldn't hear what he said, but there was no trouble in hearing Miss Harrington.

“How dare you, sir!” she screams. “Help! Police! Help!”

Two men, who had been loafing round on the edge of the sidewalk, jumped over and grabbed Tom by the arms. He started in to explain matters to 'em, but the men dragged him away down the street and Miss Harrington went in the other direction.

“So far, so good,” says Uncle Billy. “Gentlemen, the rest of the comedy will be played out at the Montmorency Street Police Station. Reserved seats are waiting for us. Follow me.”

You can say anything you like, but it's a pretty fine thing to be in right with the police. You never know when you may need 'em, and Uncle Billy certainly was an ace at the Montmorency Street Station. We went in by the side door and were shown into a little narrow room with a lot of chairs in it, just like a moving-picture theatre, except that instead of a curtain at the far end there was a tall Japanese screen. What was more, most of the chairs were occupied. Every member of the Old Guard ball club was there, and so was Al Jorgenson and Lije, the rubber.

“Boys,” says Uncle Billy, “we are about to have the last act of the thrilling drama entitled The Kidder Kidded, or The Old Guard's Revenge. The first and second acts went off fine. Be as quiet as you can and don't laugh until the blow-off. Not a whisper—not a sound—s-s-sh! They're bringing him in now!”

There was a scuffling of feet and a scraping of chair-legs on the other side of the screen. We couldn't see O'Connor and he couldn't see us, but we could hear every word he said. He was still trying to explain matters.

“But I tell you,” says Tom, “I had a date with her.”

“Yeh,” says a gruff voice, “she acted like it! Don't tell us your troubles. Tell 'em to Captain Murray. Here he comes now.”

A door opened and closed and another voice cut in:

“Well, boys, what luck?”

“We got one, cap,” says the gruff party. “Caught him with the goods on—”

“It's all a mistake, sir—captain!” Tom breaks in. “I give you my word of honour as a gentleman—”

“Shut up!” says Captain Murray. “Your word of honour as a gentleman! That's rich, that is! You keep your trap closed for the present—understand? Now, boys, where did you get him?”

“At the stage door of the Royal Theatre,” says the plain-clothes man, who did the talking for the two who made the pinch. “Duffy and me, we saw this bird kind of slinking round, and we remembered that order about bringing in all mashers, so we watched him. A girl came out of the stage door and he braced her. She hollered for help and we grabbed him. Oh, there ain't any question about it, cap; we've got him dead to rights. We don't even need the woman's testimony.”

“Good work, boys!” says the captain. “We'll make an example of this guy!”