Shorty McCabe on the Job | Page 9

a hundred and fifty thousand apiece, with no rakeoff
for you--why, that's your business. But I'd think it over."
"Ye-e-es," says he draggy. "I--I suppose I must."
With that he shakes his shoulders, gets on his feet, and walks out with
his chin well up; leavin' me feelin' like I'd been tryin' to wish a dose of
castor oil on a bad boy.
"Huh!" thinks I. "I wonder if Pyramid guessed all he was lettin' me in
for?"
What J. Bayard would decide to do--drop the whole shootin' match, or
knuckle under in this case in the hopes of gettin' a fat commission on
the next--was more'n I could dope out. But inside of an hour I had the
answer. A messenger boy shows up with a package. It's the sketch from
Steele, with a note sayin' I might send it to Twombley-Crane, if that
would answer. He'd be hanged if he would! So I rings up another boy
and ships it down to Twombley-Crane's office, as the easiest way of
gettin' rid of it. I didn't know whether he was in town or not. If he wa'n't,
he'd find the thing when he did come in. And while maybe that don't
quite cover all the specifications, it's near enough so I can let it pass.
Then I goes out to lunch.
Must have been about three o'clock that afternoon, and I'd just finished
a session in the gym, when who should show up at the studio but
Twombley-Crane. What do you suppose? Why, in spite of the fact that
I'd sent the picture without any name or anything, he'd been so excited
over gettin' it that he'd rung up the messenger office and bluffed 'em
into tellin' where the call had come in from. And as long as I'd known
him I've never seen Twombley-Crane thaw out so much. Why, he acts
almost human as he shakes hands! Then he takes the package from

under his arm and unwraps it.
"The Whistler that I'd given up all hope of ever getting!" says he, gazin'
at it admirin' and enthusiastic.
"So?" says I, non-committal.
"And now it appears mysteriously, sent from here," says he. "Why, my
dear fellow, how can I ever----"
"You don't have to," I breaks in, "because it wa'n't from me at all."
"But they told me at the district office," he goes on, "that the call came
from----"
"I know," says I. "That's straight enough as far as it goes. But you know
that ain't in my line. I was only passin' it on for someone else."
"For whom?" he demands.
"That's tellin'," says I. "It's a secret."
"Oh, but I must know," says he, "to whom I am indebted so deeply.
You don't realize, McCabe, how delighted I am to get hold of this gem
of Whistler's. Why, it makes my collection the most complete to be
found in any private gallery!"
"Well, you ought to be satisfied then," says I. "Why not let it go at
that?"
But not him. No, he'd got to thank somebody; to pay 'em, if he could.
"How much, for instance?" says I.
"Why, I should readily have given five thousand for it," says he; "ten, if
necessary."
"Not fifteen?" says I.

"I think I would," says he.
"Huh!" says I. "Some folks don't care what they do with money. We'll
split the diff'rence though, and call it twelve and a half. But it don't cost
you a cent. It's yours because you wanted it, that's all; and maybe the
one that sent it is glad you've got it. That's as far as I can go."
"But see here, McCabe!" he insists. "Delighted as I am, I must know
who it is that----"
Just here the front office door opens, and in walks J. Bayard. For a
second he don't notice Twombley-Crane, who's standin' between me
and the window.
"Oh, I say!" says Steele, sort of breathless and hasty. "Have you sent
that away yet?"
A freak hunch hit me and I couldn't shake it: I guess I wanted to see
what would happen. So I nudges Twombley-Crane.
"Here's the party now, if you must know," says I. "This is Mr. J. Bayard
Steele."
"Eh?" says he, steppin' forward. "Steele, did you say? Why, my dear Sir,
although I must admit that I am stupid enough not to remember you, I
must express my most----"
Say, he did it handsome too. He grabs J. Bayard brotherly by the mitt,
and passes him an enthusiastic vote of thanks that don't leave out a
single detail. Yes, he sure did unload the gratitude; with J. Bayard
standin' there, turnin' first one color and then another, and not bein' able
to get out a word.
"And surely, my dear Sir," he winds up, "you