DOWN THE BUMPS WITH CLIFFY

Say, if you read in the papers to-morrow about how the Chicago Limited was run on a siding and a riot call wired back to the nearest Chief of Police, you needn’t do any guessin’ as to what’s happened. It’ll be a cinch that Clifford’s gettin’ in his fine work; for the last I saw of him he was headed West, and where he is there’s trouble.

But you mustn’t tear off the notion that Clifford’s a Mr. Lush, that goes and gets himself all lit up like a birthday cake and then begins to mix it. That ain’t his line. He’s one of the camel brand. The nearest he ever gets to red liquor is when he takes bottled grape juice for a spring tonic; but for all that he can keep the cops busier’n any thirsty man I ever saw.

First glimpse I gets of him was when I looks up from the desk and sees him tryin’ to find a break in the brass rail. And say, there wa’n’t any doubt about his havin’ come in from beyond where they make up the milk trains. Not that he wears any R. Glue costume. From the nose pinchers, white tie, and black cutaway I might have sized him up as a cross between a travelin’ corn doctor and a returned missionary; but the ear muffs and the umbrella and the black felt lid with the four-inch brim put him in the tourist class. He was one of your skimpy, loose-jointed parties, with a turkey neck that had a lump in front and wa’n’t on good terms with the back of his coat collar. Two of his front teeth was set on a bias, givin’ him one of these squirrel mouths that keeps you thinkin’ he’s just goin’ to bite into an apple.

I watched him a minute or so without sayin’ anything, while he was pawin’ around for the gate sort of absent minded, and when I thinks it’s about time to wake him up I sings out:

“Say, Profess, you’re on the right side of the fence now; let it go at that.”

“Ah er I beg pardon,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “that’s a good start.”

“I er I beg ” says he.

“You’ve covered that ground,” says I. “Take a new lead.”

That seems to rattle him more’n ever. He hangs his umbrella over one arm, peels off a brown woolen mitt, and fishes a card out of his inside pocket. “This is the ah Corrugated Trust Building, is it not?” says he.

“It is, yes,” says I; “but the place where you cash in your scalper’s book ticket is down on the third floor.”

“Oh!” says he. “Thank you very much,” and he starts to trot out. He has his hand on the knob, when a new thought comes to him. He tiptoes back to the gate, pries off one of the ear muffs, and leans over real confidential. “I didn’t quite understand,” says he. “Did you say Cousin Robert’s was the third door?”

“Chee!” says I. “Willie, take off the other one, so you can get a good healthy circulation through the belfry.”

The words seemed to daze him some; but he tumbled to my motions and unstoppered his south ear.

“Now,” says I, “what’s this about your Cousin Bob? Where’d you lose him?”

Watcher think, though? I gets it out of him that he’s come all the way from Bubble Creek, Michigan, and is lookin’ for Mr. Robert Ellins. With that I lets him through, plants him in a chair, and goes in to the boss.

“Say,” says I to Mr. Robert, “there’s a guy, outside that’s just floated in from the breakfast food belt and is callin’ for Cousin Robert. Here’s his card.”

“Why, that must be Clifford!” says he.

“Then it’s true, is it, the cousin business?” says I.

“Certainly it is, Torchy,” says he. “Why not?”

“Oh, nothin’,” says I. “I wouldn’t have thought it, though.”

“It isn’t at all necessary,” says Mr. Robert. “Bring him in at once.”

“I guess I can spare him,” says I. Then I goes back and taps Cousin Clifford on the shoulder. “Cliffy,” says I, “you’re subpoened. Push through two doors and then make yourself right to home.”

Course anyone’s liable to have a freak cousin or so knockin’ round in the background, and I s’pose it was a star play of Mr. Robert’s, givin’ the glad hand to this one; but if I’d found Clifford hangin’ on my fam’ly tree I’d have felt like gettin’ out the prunin’ saw.

Maybe Mr. Robert was a little miffy because I hadn’t been a mind reader and played Clifford for a favorite from the start. Anyway, he jumps right in to feature him, lugs him off to the club for lunch, and does the honors joyous, just as though this was something he’d been lookin’ forward to for months.

I was beginnin’ to think I’d made a wrong guess on Clifford, and the awful thought that maybe for once I’d talked too gay was just tricklin’ through my thatch, when we gets our first bulletin. Cliffy was due back to the office about four-thirty, havin’ gone off by his lonesome after lunch; but at a quarter of five he don’t show up. It was near closin’ time when Mr. Robert gets a ’phone call, and by the worried look I knew something was up.

“Yes,” says he, “this is Robert Ellins. Yes, I know such a person. That’s right Clifford. He’s my cousin. No, is that so? Why, there must be some mistake. Oh, there must be! I’ll come up and explain. Yes, I’ll sign the bail bond.”

He didn’t have a word to say when he turns around and catches me grinnin’; but grabs his hat and coat and pikes for the green lights.

There wa’n’t any call for me to do any rubberin’ next day, or ask any questions. It was all in the mornin’ papers: how a batty gent who looked like a disguised second story worker had collected a crowd and blocked traffic on Fifth Avenue by standin’ on the curb in front of one of the Vanderbilt houses and drawin’ plans of it on a pad.

Course, he got run in as a suspect, and I guess Mr. Robert had his troubles showin’ the desk sergeant that Clifford wa’n’t a Western crook who was layin’ pipes for a little jimmy work. Cliffy’s architect tale wouldn’t have got him off in a month, and if it hadn’t been that Mr. Robert taps the front of his head they’d had Clifford down to Mulberry-st. and put his thumb print in the collection.

He was givin’ it to ’em straight, though. Architectin’ was what Cliffy was aimin’ at. He’d been studying that sort of thing out in Michigan, and now he was makin’ a tour to see how it was done in other places, meanin’ to polish off with a few months abroad. Then, after he’d got himself well soaked in ideas, maybe he’d go back to Bubble Creek, rent an office over the bank, and begin drawin’ front elevations of iron foundries and double tenements.

That’s what comes of havin’ rich aunts and uncles in the fam’ly, and duckin’ real work while you wait for notice from the Surrogate to come on and take your share. It wa’n’t a case of hustle with Clifford. I suspicioned that his bein’ an architect was more or less of a fad; but he was makin’ the most of it, there was no discountin’ that. He’d laid out a week to put in seein’ how New York was built, high spots and low, and he went at it like he was workin’ by the piece.

Now, say, there ain’t no special harm in goin’ around town gawpin’ at lib’ries and office buildin’s and churches. ’Most anyone could have done it without bumpin’ into trouble; but not Cliffy. It was wonderful how he dug up ructions and him the mildest lookin’ four-eyed gent ever let loose. And green! Say, what sort of a flag station is Bubble Creek, anyway?

Askin’ fool questions was Cliffy’s specialty. You see, he’d made out a list of buildin’s he thought he wanted to take a look at; but he hadn’t stopped to put down the street numbers or anything. And when he wants information does he hunt up a directory or a cop? Oh, no! He holds up anyone that’s handy, from a white wings dodgin’ trucks in the middle of Madison Square, to a Wall Street broker rushin’ from ’Change out to a directors’ meetin’. He seems to think anybody he meets knows all about New York, and has time to take him by the hand and lead him right where he wants to go, whether it’s the new Custom House down town, or Grant’s Tomb up on the drive. Throw downs don’t discourage him any, either. Two minutes after he’s been told to go chase himself he’ll butt right in somewhere else and call for directions.

The worst of it was that he couldn’t remember what he was told for more’n three minutes on a stretch. We found out these little tricks of Clifford’s after he’d been makin’ the office his headquarters for a couple of days.

First mornin’ we started him out early for the Battery, to size up the Bowling Green Buildin’ and the Aquarium. About noon he limps in with his hat all dirt and ashes up and down his back. From the description he gives we figure out that he’s been somewhere up on Washington Heights and has got into an argument with a janitor that didn’t like being rung up from the basement and asked how far it was to Whitehall-st.

Well, we fixes him up, writes out all the partic’lars of his route on a card, and gives him a fresh send-off. It wa’n’t more’n half an hour afterwards that I was out on an errand, and as I cut through 22d-st. back of the Flatiron I sees a crowd. Course, I pushes in to find out what was holdin’ up all the carriages and bubbles that has to switch through there goin’ north. Somehow I had a feelin’ that it might be Clifford. And it was!

He was in the middle of the ring, hoppin’ around lively and wavin’ that umbrella of his like a sword. The other party was the pilot of a hansom cab that had climbed down off his perch and was layin’ on with his whip.

I hated to disturb that muss; for I had an idea Cliffy was gettin’ about what was comin’ to him, and the crowd was enjoyin’ it to the limit. But I see a couple of traffic cops comin’ over from Broadway; so I breaks through, grabs Clifford by the arm, and chases him down the avenue, breathin’ some hard but not much hurt.

“Chee!” says I, “but you’re a wonder! Was you tryin’ to buy an eight-mile cab ride for a quarter?”

“Why, no,” says he. “I merely stopped the man to ask him where the nearest subway station was, and before I knew it he became angry. I’m sure I didn’t know ”

“That’s the trouble with you, Cliffy,” says I, “and if you don’t get over it you’ll be hurt bad. Where’s that card we made out for you?”

“I I must have lost that,” says he.

“What you need is a guide and an accident policy,” says I. “Better let me tow you back to the office, and you can talk it over with Mr. Robert.”

He was willin’. He’d had enough for one day, anyhow.

By mornin’ Mr. Robert has lost some of his joy over Cousin Clifford’s visit. Come to find out, he’d never seen him before, and hadn’t heard much about him, either. “Torchy,” says he, “I shall be rather busy to-day; so I am going to put Cousin Clifford in your care.”

“Ah, say!” says I. “Hand me an easier one. I couldn’t keep him straight less’n I had him on a rope and led him around.”

“Well, do that, then,” says he, “anyway you choose. You may take the day off, show him the buildings he wants to see, keep him out of trouble, and don’t leave him until you have him safe inside my house to-night. I’ll make it right with you.”

“Seein’ it’s you,” says I, “I’ll give it a whirl. But if Clifford wants to travel around town with me he’s got to shake the ear pads.”

Mr. Robert says he’ll give him his instructions, and all that; but when it came to springin’ the programme on Clifford he runs on a snag. Somewhere back of them squirrel teeth and under the soft hat there was a streak of mule. Cliffy balks at the whole business. He’s a whole lot obliged, but he really don’t care for comp’ny. Goin’ around alone and not havin’ his thoughts sidetracked by some one taggin’ along is what he likes better’n anything else. He’s always done it in Bubble Creek and never got into any trouble before that is, none to speak of. But he’ll promise to cut out janitors and cab drivers.

As for the ear muffs, he couldn’t think of partin’ with them. For years he’s been puttin’ them on the first of December and wearin’ ’em until the last of March, and he’d feel lost without ’em, just the same as he would without the umbrella. Yes, he knew it wa’n’t common; but that didn’t bother him at all.

Right there I gets a new line on Clifford. He’s one of these guys that throws a bluff at bein’ modest; but when you scratch him deep you gets next to the fact that he’s dead sure he’s a genius and is anxious to prove it by the way he wears his clothes. There’s a lot of that kind that shows themselves off every night at the fifty-cent table d’hote places; but I never knew any of ’em ever came in from so far west as Bubble Creek.

Mr. Robert wa’n’t on, though. He still freezes to the notion that Cousin Clifford’s just a well-meanin’, corn-fed innocent; so before he turns him loose again he gives him a lot of good advice about not gettin’ tangled up with strangers. Cliffy smiles kind of condescendin’ and tells Mr. Robert he needn’t worry a bit.

With that off he goes; but every time the telephone rings that forenoon me and Mr. Robert gets nervous. We don’t hear a word from him, though, and by three o’clock we’re hopin’ for the best.

Then Aunt Julie shows up. She’s a large, elegant old girl, all got up in Persian lamb and a fur hat with seven kinds of sealin’ wax fruit on it. She’s just in from Palm Beach, and she’s heard that Brother Henry’s boy is here on a visit.

“He was such a cute little dear when he was a baby!” says she.

“He’s changed,” says Mr. Robert.

“Of course,” says Aunt Julie. “I do want to see if he’s grown up to look like Henry, as I said he would, or like his mother. Where is he now, Robert?”

“Heaven only knows!” says he. “It would suit me best if he was on his way back to Michigan.”

“Why, Robert!” says Aunt Julie. “And Clifford the only cousin you have in the world!”

“One is quite enough,” says he.

That gives her another jolt, and she starts to lay out Mr. Robert good, for givin’ the frosty paw to a relation that had come so far to see him. “I shall stay right here,” says she, “until that poor, neglected young man returns, and then I shall try to make up for your heartless treatment.”

Aunt Julie didn’t have a long wait. She hadn’t more’n got herself settled, when the elevator stops at our floor and there breaks loose all kinds of a riot in the hall. There was a great jabberin’ and foot scufflin’, and I could hear Dennis, that juggles the lever, forkin’ out the assault ‘n’ batt’ry language in a brogue that sounded like rippin’ a sheet.

“What’s up now?” says Mr. Robert, pokin’ his head out.

“Two to one that’s Clifford!” says I.

There wa’n’t any time to get a bet down, though; for just then the door slams open and we gets a view of things. Oh, it was Cliffy, all right! He was comin’ in backwards, tryin’ to wave off the gang that was follerin’ him.

“Go away!” says he, pushin’ at the nearest of ’em. “Please go away!”

“Ah, it’s you should be goin’ away, ye shark-faced baboon, ye!” says Dennis, hoppin’ up and down in the door of the car. “You an’ yer Polack friends may walk down, or jump out the winder; but divvle a ride do yez get in this illyvator again. Do ye mind that, now?”

You couldn’t blame him; for the bunch wa’n’t fit for the ash hoist. They were Zinskis, about twenty of ’em, countin’ women and kids. You didn’t have to look at the tin trunks and roped bundles to know that they’d just finished ten days in the steerage. You could tell that by the bouquet. They didn’t carry their perfume with ’em. It went on ahead, and they follered, backin’ Cliffy clear in until he fetched up against the gate, and then jammin’ in around him close. Chee! but they was a punky lot! They had jack lantern faces and garlic breaths, and they looked to know about as much as so many cigar store Injuns.

“Did you have your pick, Cliffy,” says I, “or was this a job lot you got cheap?”

“Clifford,” says Mr. Robert, “what in thunder is the meaning of this performance of yours?”

But Clifford just keeps on tryin’ to work his elbows clear and looks dazed. “I don’t know,” says Cliffy, “truly I don’t, Cousin Robert. They’ve been following me for an hour, and I’ve had an awful time.”

“Maybe you’ve been makin’ a noise like a wienerwurst,” says I.

About that time Aunt Julie comes paddin’ out. “Did I hear some one say Clifford?” says she.

“You did,” says Mr. Robert. “There he is, the one with the ear muffs. I haven’t found out who the others are yet.”

“Phe-e-e-ew!” says she, takin’ one sniff, and with that she grabs out her scent bottle and runs back, slammin’ the door behind her.

“Cliffy,” says I, “you don’t seem to be makin’ much of a hit with your Ellis Island bunch.”

“What I want to know,” says Mr. Robert, “is what this is all about!”

But Clifford didn’t have the key. All he knew was that when he started to leave the subway train they had tagged after, and that since then he hadn’t been able to shake ’em. Once he’d jumped on a Broadway car; but they’d all piled in too, and the conductor had made him shell out a nickel for every last one. Another time he’d dodged through one of them revolvin’ doors into a hotel, and four of ’em had got wedged in so tight it took half a dozen porters to get ’em out; but the house detective had spotted Clifford for the head of the procession and held him by the collar until he could chuck him out to join his friends.

“It was simply awful!” says he, throwin’ up his hands.

And then I notices the rattan cane. After that it was all clear. “Where’d you cop the stick, Cliffy?” says I.

“Stick!” says he. “Why, bless me! I must have taken this instead of my umbrella. It belongs to that gentleman who sat next to me in the subway train. You see he was leaning back taking a nap in the corner, and I was trying to talk to him, and when I left I suppose I took his cane by mistake.”

“Well,” says I, “the Zinskis goes with the cane.”

It’s a fact, too. Most all them immigrant runners carries rattans when they’re herdin’ gangs of imported pick artists around to the railroad stations. It’s kind of a badge and helps the bunch to keep track of their leader. Most likely them Zinskis had had their eyes glued to that cane for hours, knowin’ that it was leadin’ ’em to a job somewheres, and they wa’n’t goin’ to let it get away.

“Gimme it,” says I; “I’ll show you how it works.”

Sure enough, soon’s I took it and started for the door the whole push quits eatin’ cheese and bread out of their pockets and falls in right after me.

“Fine!” says Mr. Robert, grabbin’ my hat and chuckin’ it after me. “Go on, Torchy! Keep going!”

“Ah, say!” says I. “I ain’t subbin’ for Cliffy. This is his gang.”

But Mr. Robert only grins and motions me to be on my way. “If you come back here before to-morrow morning,” says he, “I’ll discharge you on the spot.”

Now wouldn’t that bump you?

“All right,” says I: “but this’ll cost Cliffy just twenty.”

“I’ll pay it,” says Mr. Robert.

“It’s a whizz,” says I, wavin’ the cane. “Come on, you Sneezowskis! I’ll show you where the one fifty per grows on bushes.”

What did I do with ’em? Ah, say, it was a cinch! I runs ’em down seven flights of stairs, marches ’em three blocks up town, and then rushes up to a big stiff in a green and gold uniform that’s hired to stand outside a flower shop and open carriage doors. He and me had some words a couple of months ago, because I butted him in the belt when I was in a hurry once.

“Here,” says I, rushin’ up and jammin’ the cane into his hand, “hold that till I come back!” and before he has time to pipe off the bunch of Polackers that’s come to a parade rest around us, I makes a dive in amongst the cars and beats it down Broadway.

Nah, I don’t know what becomes of him, or the Zinskis either. All I know is that I’m twenty to the good, and that Cousin Clifford’s been shipped back to Bubble Creek, glad to get out of New York alive. But, as I says to Mr. Robert, “What do you look for from a guy that buttons his ears up in flannel?”