A Man and His Money | Page 2

long time ago." The visitor did not
answer; he pushed back uncertainly the uncertain lock of dark hair and
seemed almost to have forgotten the object of his visit.

"Now see here"--Mr. Mackintosh's voice became purposeful, energetic;
he seated himself before a piano that looked as if it had led a hard
nomadic existence. "Now see here!" Striking a few chords. "Suppose
you try this stunt! What's the Matter with Mother? My own
composition! Kerry Mackintosh at his best! Now twitter away, if
you've any of that angel voice left!"
The piano rattled; the new-comer, with a certain faint whimsical smile
as if he appreciated the humor of his position, did "twitter away"; loud
sounds filled the place. Quality might be lacking but of quantity there
was a-plenty.
"Bully!" cried Mr. Mackintosh enthusiastically. "That'll start the tears
rolling. What's the Matter with Mother? Nothing's the matter with
mother. And if any one says there is--Will it go? With that voice?" He
clapped his hand on the other's shoulder. "Why, man, they could hear
you across Madison Square. You've a voice like an organ. Is it a 'go'?"
he demanded.
"I don't think I quite understand," said the new-comer patiently.
"You don't, eh? Look there!"
A covered wagon had at that moment stopped before the door. It was
drawn by a horse whose appearance, like that of the piano, spoke more
eloquently of services in the past than of hopeful promises for the
future. On the side of the vehicle appeared in large letters: "What's the
Matter with Mother? Latest Melodic Triumph by America's Greatest
Composer, Mr. Kerry Mackintosh." A little to the left of this
announcement was painted a harp, probably a reminder of the one Saint
Cecilia was supposed to have played. This sentimental symbol was
obviously intended to lend dignity and respectability to the otherwise
disreputable vehicle of concord and its steed without wings, waiting
patiently to be off--or to lie down and pay the debt of nature!
"Shall we try it again, angel voice?" asked Mr. Mackintosh, playing the
piano, or "biffing the ivories," as he called it.

"Drop it," returned the visitor, "that 'angel' dope."
"Oh, all right! Anything to oblige."
Before this vaguely apologetic reply, the new-comer once more
relapsed into thoughtfulness. His eye passed dubiously over the vehicle
of harmony; he began to take an interest in the front door as if again
inclined to "back out." Perhaps a wish that the horse might lie down
and die at this moment (no doubt he would be glad to!) percolated
through the current of his thoughts. That would offer an easy solution
to the proposal he imagined would soon be forthcoming--that was
forthcoming--and accepted. Of course! What alternative remained?
Needs must when an empty pocket drives. Had he not learned the
lesson--beggars must not be choosers?
"And now," said Mr. Mackintosh with the air of a man who had cast
from his shoulders a distinct problem, "that does away with the
necessity of bailing the other chap out. What's your name?"
The visitor hesitated. "Horatio Heatherbloom."
The other looked at him keenly. "The right one," he said softly.
"You've got the only one you'll get," replied the caller, after an interval.
Mr. Mackintosh bestowed upon him a knowing wink. "Sounds like a
nom de plume," he chuckled. "What was your line?"
"I don't understand."
"What did you serve time for? Shoplifting?"
"Oh, no," said the other calmly.
"Burglarizing?" With more respect in his tones.
"What do you think?" queried the caller in the same mild voice.
"Not ferocious-looking enough for that lay, I should have thought.

However, you can't always tell by appearances. Now, I wonder--"
"What?" observed Mr. Heatherbloom, after an interval of silence.
"Yes! By Jove!" Mr. Mackintosh was speaking to himself. "It might
work--it might add interest--" Mr. Heatherbloom waited patiently.
"Would you have any objections," earnestly, "to my making a little
addenda to the sign on the chariot of cadence? What's the Matter with
Mother? 'The touching lyric, as interpreted by Horatio Heatherbloom,
the reformed burglar'?"
"I should object," observed the caller.
"My boy--my boy! Don't be hasty. Take time to think. I'll go further;
I'll paint a few iron bars in front of the harp. Suggestive of a prisoner in
jail thinking of mother. Say 'yes'."
"No."
"Too bad!" murmured Mr. Mackintosh in disappointed but not
altogether convinced tones. "You could use another alias, you know. If
you're afraid the police might pipe your game and nab--"
"Drop it, or--"
"All right, Mr. Heatherbloom, or any other blooming name!"
Recovering his jocular manner. "It's not for me to inquire the 'why,' or
care a rap for the 'wherefore.' Ethics hasn't anything to do with the
realm of art."
As he spoke he reached under the desk and took out the jug. "Have
some?"