A Good Samaritan | Page 8

the almost empty car, and sat
down in Strong's seat, while that soul of chivalry put his hand through a
strap and so stood till his ministering angel extracted him from the train
at Seventy-second Street.
With a sigh of heartfelt relief, Rex put his arm in the big fellow's at the
foot of the steps. Freedom must now be at hand, for Billy's home was in
a great apartment building not ten minutes' walk away. The culprit
himself seemed to realize that his fling was over.
"Raished Cain t'night, didn' we, ol' pal?" he inquired, and squeezed
Rex's guiding arm with affection. "I'll shay this for you, Rex--you may
be soft-hearted ol' slob, you may be half-witted donkey--I'm not denyin'
all that 'n more, but I'll shay thish--you're the bes' man to go on a drunk
with in--in--in The'logican Sem'nary. I'm not 'xceptin' th'----"
"Shut up, Billy," remarked Rex, not for the first time that night. "I'd get
myself pulled together a bit if I were you," he advised. "You're going to
see your family in a minute."
"M' poor fam'ly!" mourned Strong, shaking his head. "M' poor fam'ly!
Thish'll be awful blow to m' fam'ly, Recky. They all like so mush to see
me sober--always--'s their fad, Recky. Don't blame 'em, Recky, 's
natural to 'em. Some peop' born that way. M' poor fam'ly."
They stood in front of the broad driveway which swept under lofty
arches into the huge apartment house. Strong stopped and gazed
upwards mournfully. "Right up there," he murmured, pointing
skywards--"M' fam'ly." The tears were streaming down his face frankly
now. "I can't face 'em Recky, 'n this condition you've got me in," he
said more in sorrow than in anger. At that second the last inspiration of
the evening caught him. Across the street arose the mighty pile of an
enormous uptown hotel. Strong jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
"Go'n' break it to m' fam'ly by telegraph' 'em," he stated, and bitterly

Rex repented of that thoughtless mention of the Strongs to their son and
heir.
Good-naturedly as he had done everything, but relentlessly, he dragged
his victim over the way, and direct to the Western Union office of the
hotel--"Webster's Union" he preferred to call it. His first telegram read:
"Rex Fairfax got me drunk. Don't blame him. It's natural to him."
That one was confiscated, Strong complaining gently that his friend
was all "fads."
The second message was this:
"Dear Mama: Billy's intoxicated. Awfully sorry. Couldn't be helped.
Home soon."
That one went in spite of Fairfax's efforts, with two cents extra to pay,
which item was the first event of the evening to ruffle Strong's temper.
"Shame, shame on rich cap'talists like Webster's Union to wring two
cents from poor drunk chap, for lil' word like 'soon'," he growled, and
appealed to the operator. "Couldn't you let me off that two cents?" he
asked winningly. "You're good fellow--good lookin' fellow too"--which
was the truth. "Well, then, can I get 'em cheaper 'f I sen 'em by quantity?
I'll do that--how many for dollar, hey?"
"Five," said the grinning operator, troubled by the irregularity, but
taken by this highly entertaining scheme of telegraphing across the
street. And Rex, his arts exhausted in vain, watched hopelessly while,
one after another, five telegrams were sent to The Montana, a hundred
feet away. The first being short two of the regulation ten words. Strong
finished with a cabalistic phrase: "Rectangular parallelopipedon."
"That'll get even Webster's Union for chargin' me two cents for 'soon',"
he chuckled. "Don't y' wish y' hadn' charged me that two cents, hey?"
he demanded of the operator, laughing joyfully and cocking his hat
over one ear, and the operator and two or three men who stood near

could do no otherwise than laugh joyfully too. Strong straightened his
face into a semblance of deep gravity. "Thish next one's important," he
announced, and put the end of the pencil in his mouth and meditated,
while his fascinated audience watched him. He was lost in thought for
perhaps two minutes, and then scribbled madly, and as he ended the
little bunch of men crowded frankly to look at what he had written. He
pushed it toward them with charming unreserve, and the bewilderment
with which it was read seemed to please him.
"Dear Papa": it ran. "I'm Calymene Blumembachii, a trilobite, one of
the crustaceans related to the emtomostracans, but looking more like a
tetradecapod, but always your affectionate--Billy."
He pushed it to the operator. "Split that in three," he ordered. "Don't
want ruin the wires I'm careful 'bout wires. Big fall snow wouldn't do
more damage 'n heavy words like that," he explained to the listening
circle. "Think I look like tetradecapod?" he asked of them as one who
makes conversation. "Had