The Best Short Stories of 1917 | Page 9

his swing; he looked
dangerous, repeating, "Rubberneck."
At this an interested group gathered around Mrs. Tuttle, who, affable
and indulgent, attempted by coaxings and flirtings of a fat
bediamonded finger to show Romeo off, but the pampered bird saw
further opportunity to offend.

"Rubberneck," screamed Romeo again. He ruffled up his neck feathers,
repeating "Rubberneck, I'm cold as the deuce; what's the matter with
Hannah; let 'em all go to grass."
Several of the youths with ivory-headed canes now forsook their
contemplations to draw near, grinning, to the parrot-cage.
Stimulated by these youths, Romeo reeled off more ribald remarks,
things that created a sudden chill among the passengers on the Fall of
Rome. Mrs. Tinneray, looked upon as a leader, called up a shocked face
and walked away; Mrs. Mealer after a faint "Excuse me," also
abandoned the parrot-cage; and Mrs. Bean, a small stout woman with a
brown false front, followed the large lady with blue spectacles and the
tan linen duster. On some mysterious pretext of washing their hands,
these two left the upper deck and sought the calm of the white and gold
passenger saloon. Here they trod as in the very sanctities of luxury.
"These carpets is nice, ain't they?" remarked Mrs. Bean.
Then alluding to the scene they had just left: "Ain't it comical how she
idolizes that there bird?"
Mrs. Tinneray sniffed. "And what she spends on him! 'Nitials on his
seed-cup--and some says the cage itself is true gold."
Mrs. Bean, preparing to wash her hands, removed her black skirt and
pinned a towel around her waist. "This here liquid soap is
nice"--turning the faucets gingerly--"and don't the boat set good onto
the water?" Then returning to the rich topic of Mrs. Tuttle and her
pampered bird, "Where's she get all her money for her ottermobile and
her gold cage?"
Mrs. Tinneray at an adjacent basin raised her head sharply, "You ain't
heard about the Tuttle money? You don't know how Mabel Hutch that
was, was hair to everything?"
Mrs. Bean confessed that she had not heard, but she made it evident
that she thirsted for information. So the two ladies, exchanging remarks

about sunburn and freckles, finished their hand-washing and proceeded
to the dark-green plush seats of the saloon, where with appropriate
looks of horror and incredulity Mrs. Bean listened to the story of the
hairs to the Hutches' money.
"Mabel was the favorite; her Pa set great store by her. There was
another sister--consumpted--she should have been a hair, but she died.
Then the youngest one, Hetty, she married my second cousin Hen
Cronney--well it seemed like they hadn't nothing but bad luck and her
Pa and Mabel sort of took against Hetty."
Mrs. Bean, herself chewing calculatingly, handed Mrs. Tinneray a bit
of sugared calamus-root.
"Is your cousin Hen dark-complexioned like your folks?" she asked
scientifically.
Mrs. Tinneray, narrowing both eyes, considered. "More
auburn-inclined, I should say--he ain't rill smart, Hen ain't, he gets took
with spells now and then, but I never held that against him."
"Uh-huh!" agreed Mrs. Bean sympathetically.
"Well, then, Mabel Hutch and her Popper took against poor little Hetty.
Old man Hutch he died and left everything to Mabel, and she never
goes near her own sister!"
Mrs. Bean raised gray-cotton gloved hands signifying horror.
"St--st--st----!" she deplored. She searched in her reticule for more
calamus-root. "He didn't leave her nothing?"
"No, ma'am! This one!" With a jerk of the head, Mrs. Tinneray
indicated a dashing blue feather seen through a distant saloon window.
"This one's got it all; hair to everything."
"And what did she do--married a traveling salesman and built a tony
brick house. They never had no children, but when he was killed into a

railway accident she trimmed up that parrot's cage with crape--and
now,"--Mrs. Tinneray with increasing solemnity chewed her
calamus-root--"now she's been and bought one of them ottermobiles
and runs it herself like you'd run your sewin'-machine, just as
shameless--"
Both of the ladies glared condemnation at the distant blue feather.
Mrs. Tinneray continued, "Hetty Cronney's worth a dozen of her. When
I think of that there bird goin' on this excursion and Hetty Cronney
stayin' home because she's too poor, I get nesty, Mrs. Bean, yes, I do!"
"Don't your cousin Hetty live over to Chadwick's Harbor," inquired
Mrs. Bean, "and don't this boat-ride stop there to take on more folks?"
Mrs. Tinneray, acknowledging that these things were so, uncorked a
small bottle of cologne and poured a little of it on a handkerchief
embroidered in black forget-me-nots. She handed the bottle to Mrs.
Bean who took three polite sniffs and closed her eyes. The two ladies
sat silent for a moment. They experienced a detachment of luxurious
abandon filled with the poetry of the steamboat saloon. Psychically
they were affected