The Neer-Do-Well | Page 9

ballad; Higgins and Locke were talking earnestly. It was the slackest, blackest hour in an all-night dive; the nocturnal habitues had slunk away, and the day's trade had not yet begun. Higgins, drawn and haggard beneath his drunken flush, was babbling incessantly; Locke, as usual, sat facing the entrance, his eyes watchful, his countenance alert. In spite of the fact that he had constantly plied his companion with liquor in the hope of stilling his tongue, Higgins seemed incapable of silence, and kept breaking forth into loud, garbled recitals of the scene at Padden's, which caused the Missourian to shiver with apprehension. To a sober eye it would have been patent that Locke was laboring under some strong excitement; for every door that opened caused him to start, every stranger that entered made him quake. He consulted his watch repeatedly, he flushed and paled and fidgeted, then lost himself in frowning meditation.
"Grandes' fellow I ever met," Higgins was saying for the hundredth time. "Got two faults, tha's all; he's modesht an' he's lazy--he won't work."
"Anthony?"
"Yes."
Locke stirred himself, and, leaning forward, said: "You and he are good friends, eh?"
"Best ever."
"Would you like to play a joke on him?"
"Joke? Can't be done. He's wises' guy ever. I've tried it an' always get the wors' of it. Yes, sir, he's wise guy. Jus' got two faults: he won't work an'--"
"Look here! Why don't you make him work?"
"Huh?" Higgins turned a pair of bleared, unfocusable eyes upon the speaker.
"Why don't somebody make him work?"
The lean-faced youth laughed moistly.
"Tha's good joke."
"I mean it."
"Got too much money. 'S old man puts up reg'lar."
"Listen! It's a shame for a fine fellow like him to go to the dogs." Higgins nodded heavily in agreement. "Why don't you send him away where he'll have to rustle? That's the joke I meant."
"Huh?" Again the listener's mind failed to follow, and Locke repeated his words, concluding: "It would make a new man of him."
"Oh, he wouldn't work. Too lazy."
"He'd have to if he were broke."
"But he AIN'T broke. Didn't I tell you 's old man puts up reg'lar? Fine man, too, Misser Anthony; owns railroads."
"I'll tell you how we can work it. I've got a ticket for Central America in my pocket. The boat sails at ten. Let's send him down there."
"Wha' for?"
Locke kept his temper with an effort. "To make a man of him. We'll go through his clothes and when he lands he'll be broke. He'll HAVE to work. Don't you see?"
"No." Anthony's friend did not see. "He don't want to go to Central America," he argued; "he's got a new autom'bile."
"But suppose we got him soused, went through his pockets, and then put him aboard the boat. He'd be at sea by the time he woke up; he couldn't get back; he'd have to work; don't you see? He'd be broke when he landed and have to rustle money to get back with. I think it's an awful funny idea."
The undeniable humor of such a situation finally dawned upon Higgins's mind, and he burst into a loud guffaw.
"Hey there! Shut up!" Anthony called from the piano. "Listen here! I've found the lost chord." He bore down with his huge hands upon the yellow keyboard, bringing forth a metallic crash that blended fearfully with the bartender's voice. "It's a great discovery."
"I'll get him full if you'll help manage him," Locke went on. "And here's the ticket." He tapped his pocket.
"Where'd you get it?"
"Bought it yesterday. It's first class and better, and he'll fit my description. We're about the same size."
"Ain't you goin'?"
"No. I've changed my mind. I may jump over to Paris. Come, are you on?"
Higgins giggled. "Darn' funny idea, if you can get him full."
"Wait." Locke rose and went to the bar, where he called loudly for the singer; then, when the bartender had deserted the piano, he spoke to Anthony: "Keep it up, old man, you're doing fine."
For some moments he talked earnestly to the man behind the bar; but his back was to Higgins, Anthony was occupied, and Ringold still slumbered; hence no one observed the transfer of another of those yellow bills of which he seemed to have an unlimited store.
Strangely enough, Mr. Jefferson Locke's plan worked without a hitch. Within ten minutes after Kirk Anthony had taken the drink handed him he declared himself sleepy, and rose from the piano, only to seek a chair, into which he flung himself heavily.
"It's all right," Locke told his drunken companion. "I've got a taxi waiting. We'll leave Ringold where he is."
Twenty-four hours later Adelbert Higgins undertook to recall what had happened to him after he left Muller's place on East Fourteenth Street, but his memory was tricky. He recollected a vaguely humorous discussion of some sort with a stranger, the details of which were almost entirely