A WHIRL WITH KAZEDKY

Chee! W’atcher think? I ain’t read an “Old Sleut’” for more’n a week, and there’s two murder myst’ries runnin’ in the sportin’ extras that I’m way behind on. You wouldn’t guess it in a month, but I’m takin’ a fall out of the knowledge game. Mr. Mallory says I’m part in the sixt’ grade and part in the eight’.

“I believe it,” says I; “my nut feels that way.”

Honest, I’m stowin’ away so much that I never knew before that I’m thinkin’ of wearin’ a leather strap around my head, same’s these strong boys wears ’em on their wrists.

“Ah! w’at’s the use?” says I. “Nobody’s ever goin’ to ask me what’s four per cent of thoity thousand plunks, an’ if I had that much I wouldn’t farm it out for less’n six, anyway. And I don’t see where this De Soto comes in. Sounds like he might have played first base for the Beanies; but he’s been dead too long for that. What odds does it make if I don’t know the capital of Nevada? I ain’t lookin’ for no divorce, am I?”

But there’s no shakin’ Mallory off. He’s dug up a lot of kid school books for me, and I got ’em stowed away in the desk here, like this was P. , ’stead of the front office of the Corrugated Trust. And when I ain’t takin’ cards into the main squeezes, or answerin’ fool questions over the ‘phone, or chasin’ out on errands for Piddie, I’m swallowin’ chunks of information about the times when G. Wash. was buildin’ forts in Harlem and makin’ good for a continuous in front of the Subtreasury.

Course, it’s a clean waste of time. Suppose I gets the run next week, could I win another head office boy job by spielin’ off a mess of guff about a lot of dead ones? Nit, never! But Mallory’s got the bug that it’ll all come in handy to me sometime, and I’m doin’ it just to keep him satisfied. We get together most every night in his room, and I has to cough up what I’ve got next to durin’ the day. And say, when I’ve been soldierin’, and try to run in a stiff bluff instead of the real goods, he looks as disappointed as if I’d done something real low down. So gen’rally I hits up the books when there’s nothin’ else doin’.

Mr. Robert’s on. He comes in one mornin’ and pipes off the ’rithmetic. “What’s this, Torchy?” says he. “Studying?”

“Yep,” says I. “When I went through Columbia College there wa’n’t anybody there but the janitor; so I’m takin’ a postprandial whirl at this number dope, and it’s fierce.”

“Whose idea?” says he.

“Mr. Mallory’s,” says I. “But I’ve laid it out flat to him that I draws the line at Greek. I’d never want to talk like them 23d-st. flower peddlers, not in a thousand years!”

Didn’t tell you, did I, about Mallory’s doin’ the skyrocket act? After Mr. Robert gets next to the fact that Mallory’s a two seasons’ old football hero from his old college he yanks him out of that twelve-dollar-a-week filin’ job and makes him a salaried gent, inside of two days.

“Which is something I owe chiefly to you, Torchy,” says Mallory.

“Honk, honk!” says I. “Them’s the kind of ideas that will get you run in for reckless thinkin’. You was winnin’ all that when you did that sprint for goal your friend Dicky was tellin’ about the other day. Now all you got to do is get up on your toes and make one or two touchdowns for old Corrugated.”

“I know,” says he; “but I’m afraid that in this game I’m outclassed.”

Honest, he was scared stiff; but he didn’t let anyone but me see it. Even a little thing like goin’ down to Wall Street and lookin’ up some securities gets him rattled. He hadn’t been gone more’n an’ hour ’fore he calls me up on the ’phone and says some broker’s clerk has asked him if our concern don’t want to bid on P. O. privileges at seven-eighths. “What are P. O. privileges?” says Mallory.

“Oh, tush!” says I. “And you let ’em hand you such a burry one? P. O. privileges is the right to lick stamps at the gen’ral post-office, and it’s a gag them curb shysters has wore to a frazzle. You go back and tell that fresh paper-chewer we’re only buyin’ options on July snow removals preferred.”

That’s what comes of foolin’ around at college. Mallory comes back lookin’ like some one had sold him a billboard seat to a free window show.

But that was nothin’ to the down-and-out slump I found him in next night, when I goes around for my writin’ lesson and so on.

“Is it the spino comeandgetus,” says I, “or has Miss Tuttifrutti sent back your Christmas card?”

“It’s worse than either,” says he, with his chin on the top button of his vest. “I guess I’m what you would call a false alarm, Torchy. I’ve been tried out and haven’t made good.”

“G’wan!” says I. “Everyone gets a lemon now and then. Some tries to swaller it whole, and chokes to death; others mixes ’em up with eggs and things, and knocks out a pie, with meringue on top. Draw us a map of how you fell off the scaffold.”

Well, I jollied the hard luck tale out of him. It was a case of sendin’ a boy with a pushcart to bring home a grand piano. The Old Man had done it. He’s kind of sore on the way Mr. Robert lugged Mallory in by the hair, ‘cause I heard him growlin’ somethin’ about makin’ a kindergarten out of the Corrugated; so he springs this on him. He calls for Mallory and tells him there’s a Russian gent down to the Waldorf that’s come over to place a big Gover’ment contract.

“We’ve got to have a slice of that,” says he. “Just you run down and get it for us.” Like that, offhand, as if it was somethin’ you could do anytime between lunch and one-thirty.

Near as I could make out, Mallory goes for it in his polite, standoff, after-you way, and the closest he gets to Russky is a minute with a cocky secretary that says his Excellency is very sorry, but he’ll be too busy to see him this trip maybe next time, about 1912, he’ll have an hour off.

“And then you backs up the alley?” says I.

“There was nothing else for me to do,” says Mallory. “He went off without giving me another chance.”

“Say,” says I, “if I had all your parlor manners, I’d organize an English holdin’ comp’ny for ’em, so’s not to be jacked up for bein’ a monopoly. Why didn’t you give him the low tackle and sit on his head until he promised to behave? Was that the only try you made?”

“No, I sent up my card twice after that,” says he, “and it came back. So I’ve flunked. I think I’d better go down in the morning and resign.”

Now wouldn’t that rust you?

“Then here goes the books,” says I, chuckin’ ’em into the corner. “If doin’ the knowledge stunt leaves you with a backbone like a piece of boiled spaghetti, I’m through.”

That makes Mallory sit up as if I’d jabbed him with a pin. “Do I seem that way to you?” says he.

“You don’t think you’re givin’ any weight-liftin’ exhibition, do you?” says I.

He lets that trickle through for a minute or so, and then he comes back to life. “Torchy,” says he, “you’re right. I’m acting like a quitter. But I don’t mean to let go just yet. Hanged if I don’t try to see that man to-night, now, as quick as I can get down there! He’s got to see me, by Jove!”

“There’s more sense to that than anything else you’ve said in a week,” says I. “Wish I could be there to hold your hat.”

“Why not?” says he. “Come on. I may need fresh inspiration.”

“Whatever I gives you’ll be fresh, all right,” says I; “but if I was you, and was goin’ to butt into any Fifth-ave. hotel along about dinner-time, I’d wear the regalia. Yours ain’t in on a ticket, is it?”

It wa’n’t. Mallory had to go clear to the bottom of the trunk after it; but when he’d shook out the wrinkles and got himself inside the view was worth while. After he’s blown up his op’ra hat and got out his stick you couldn’t tell him from a three times winner.

“Chee!” says I. “You’ve got Silent Smith tied to a post. If you acts like you look, you don’t need me.”

He wouldn’t have it that way, though. I’d got to go along and be ready to give him any points I thought of. We goes in a cab, too, in over the rubber mats to the carriage door, just like we’d come to hire the royal suite.

“The Baron Kazedky,” says Mallory, shovin’ his card across at the near plute behind the desk.

Then the cold wave begun comin’ our way. Mister Baron was out. Nobody knew where he’d gone. He hadn’t left any word. And he didn’t receive callers after four P.M., anyway. Mallory was gettin’ his breath after stoppin’ them body blows, when I pushes in.

“Say, Sir Wally,” says I, leanin’ over towards the clerk and speakin’ confidential, “lemme give you somethin’ from the inside. If Kazedky misses seein’ Mr. Mallory to-night, you’ll be called up to-morrow to hear some Russian language that’ll take all the crimp out of that Robert Mantell bang of yours. Now ring up one of them bench-warmers and show us the Baron!”

But, say, you might’s well try bluffin’ your way through the fire lines on a brass trunk check, “You’ll find the manager’s office two doors to the left, gentlemen,” says he.

“Much obliged for nothin’,” says I.

Course, there wa’n’t any use registerin’ a kick. Orders is orders, and we was on the wrong side of the fence. Mallory and I takes a turn through the corridors and past the main dinin’-room, where they keeps an orchestra playin’ so’s the got-rich-quick folks won’t hear each other eat their soup.

We was tryin’ to think up a new move. I was for goin’ out somewhere and callin’ for the Baron over the ’phone; but Mallory’s got his jaw set now and says he don’t mean to leave until he has some kind of satisfaction. He’s kind of slow takin’ hold; but when he gets his teeth in he’s a stayer.

We knocks around half an hour, and nothin’ happens. Then, just as we was pushin’ through the mob into the Palm Room I runs into Whitey Buck. You know about Whitey, don’t you? Well, you’ve seen his name printed across the top of the sportin’ page that he runs. And say, Whitey’s the smooth boy, all right! Him and me used to do some great old joshin’ when I was on the Sunday editor’s door.

“Hello, Whitey!” says I. “Who you been workin’ for a swell feed now?”

“That you, Torchy?” says he. “Why, I took your head for an exit light. How’s tricks?”

“On the blink,” says I. “We’re up against a freeze out, Mr. Mallory and me. You know Mallory, don’t you?”

“What, Skid Mallory?” says he, takin’ another look. “What a pipe! Why, say, old man, I want you the worst way. Got to hash up a full-page sympose knockin’ reformed football, and if you’ll take off a thousand-word opinion I’ll blow you to anything on the bill of fare. Come on in here to a table while we chew it over. Torchy, grab a garcon. Sizzlin’ sisters! but I’m glad to root you out, Skid!”

He was all of that; but it didn’t mean anything more’n that Whitey sees an easy column comin’ his way.

Mr. Mallory wa’n’t so glad. “Sorry,” says he, “but whatever football reputation I ever had I’m trying to live down.”

“What!” says Whitey. “Trying to make folks forget the nerviest quarterback that ever pranced down the turf with eleven men after him? Don’t you do it. Besides, you can’t. Why, that run of yours through the Reds has been immortalized in a whole library of kid story books, and they’re still grinding ’em out!”

Mallory turns the color of the candleshades and shakes his head. “You print any such rot as that about me,” says he, “and I’ll come down and wreck the office. I’m out of all that now, and into something that has opened my eyes to what sort of useless individual I am. Behold, Whitey, one of the unfit!”

Then Whitey wants to know all about it.

“It’s nothing much,” says Mallory, “only I’ve been sent out to do business with a Russian Baron, and I’m such a chump I can’t even get within speaking distance of him.”

“What Baron?” says Whitey. “Not Kazedky?”

“That’s the identical one,” says Mallory. “Don’t happen to know him, do you?”

“I sure do,” says Whitey. “Didn’t he and I have a heart to heart session when that sporty Russian Prince was over here and got himself pinched at a prizefight? Kazedky was secretary of the legation then, and it was through me he got the story muffled.”

“Wish you could find out where he is now,” says Mallory.

“Don’t have to,” says Whitey; “I know. He’s up in private dining-room N. Been captured by a gang of Chamber of Commerce men, who are feeding him ruddy duck and terrapin and ten-dollar champagne. He’s got a lot of steel contracts up his sleeve, you know, and ”

“Yes, I know,” says Mallory; “but how can I get to see him?”

“Who are you with?” says Whitey.

“Corrugated Trust,” says Mallory.

“Wow!” says Whitey, them skim-milk eyes of his gettin’ big. “They wouldn’t let you within a mile of him if they knew. But say, suppose I could lug him outside, would I get that football story?”

“You would,” says Mallory.

“By to-morrow noon?” says he.

“Before morning, if you’ll stay at the office until I get through here,” says Mallory.

“Good!” says Whitey. “Come on! I’ll snake him out of there if I have to drag him by the collar. But he’s a fussy old freak, and I don’t guarantee he’ll stay more than a minute.”

“That’s enough,” says Mallory. “He can talk French, I suppose?”

“What’s the matter with English?” says Whitey. “Now let’s see what kind of hot air I’ll give him.”

Whitey didn’t say what it was he thinks up; but he was grinnin’ all over his face when he leaves us outside of N and goes in where the corks was poppin’. It must have been a happy thought, though; for it wa’n’t long before he comes out, towin’ a dried-up little old runt with a full set of face lambrequins and a gold dog license hung round his neck from a red ribbon. He had his napkin in one hand and half a dinner roll in the other; so it didn’t look like he meant to make any long stop. He was actin’ kind of dazed, too, like he hadn’t got somethin’ clear in his mind, and he hung back as if he was expectin’ some one to hand out a bomb. But Whitey rushes him right up to Mallory.

“Here’s the chap, Baron!” says he. “I couldn’t let you go back to Russia without shaking hands with the greatest quarterback America ever produced. Mr. Mallory, Baron Kazedky,” and then he winks at Mallory, much as to say, “Now jump in!”

And say, Mallory was Johnny on the spot. He grabs Kazedky’s flipper like it was a life preserver.

“I I really, gentlemen, there’s some mistake,” says the Baron. “A quarter what, did you say?”

“Oh,” says Mallory, “that’s some of Mr. Buck’s tomfoolery football term, you know.”

“But I am not interested in football,” says the Baron, tryin’ to back towards the door, “not in the least.”

“Me either,” says Mallory, gettin’ a new grip on him. “What I want to talk to you about is steel. Now, I represent the Corrugated Trust, and we ”

Well say, the old man himself couldn’t have reeled it off better’n Mallory. Why, he had it as letter perfect as a panhandler does his tale about bein’ in the hospital six weeks and havin’ four hungry kids at home. I only hears the start of it; for as soon as he got well under way Mallory starts for the other end of the corridor, skatin’ the little old Baron along with him like he was a Third-ave. clothing store dummy that was bein’ hauled in at closin’-up time.

Whitey didn’t even wait for the overture. The minute he hands Kazedky over he fades towards the elevator. There’s nothin’ for me to do but wait; so I picks out a red velvet chair and camps down on it to watch the promenade. That’s what it was, too; for Mallory acts like he’d forgot everything he ever knew except that he’s got to talk steel into the Baron. I guess it was steel he was talkin’! Every time he passes me I hear him ringin’ in Corrugated, and drop forged, and a lot of things like that.

Mallory has a right-arm hook on Kazedky and is makin’ motions with his left hand. Bein’ so tall, he has to lean over to pump his speech into the old fellow’s ear; but every now and then he gets excited and, ’stead of bendin’ himself, he lifts the Baron clear off his feet.

About the third lap some of the gents from the private dinin’-room pokes their heads out to see what’s happened to the guest of the evenin’. They saw, all right! They must have been suspicious, too; for they were lookin’ anxious, and begun signaling him to break away.

The Baron didn’t have no time for watchin’ signals just then. He was busy tryin’ to keep his feet on the floor. First I knew there was a whole gang at the door watchin’ ’em, and they was talkin’ over makin’ a rush for the Baron and rescuin’ him, I guess, when Mallory leans him up against the wall, hauls out a pad and a fountain pen, and hands the things to Kazedky. The Baron drapes bis napkin over one arm, stuffs the piece of roll into his mouth, and scribbles off somethin’.

When he’s done that Mallory pockets the pad, leads the Baron back to his friends, shakes hands with him, motions to me, and pikes for the elevator. The last glimpse I has of Kazedky, he’s bein’ pulled into the private dinin’-room, with that half a roll stickin’ out of his face like a bung in a beer keg.

“Well, Torchy,” says Mallory to me, as the car starts down, “I got it!”

“Got what!” says I.

“Why, the contract,” says he.

“Chee!” says I. “Is that all? I thought you was pullin’ one of his back teeth.”