Good Men and True; and, Hit the Line Hard/Hit the Line Hard/Chapter 3
Chapter III
Ducky Drake—Roger Olcott Drake, Second—dawdled over a four-o'clock breakfast. He was in bathrobe and slippers, his feet on a second chair; the morning paper was propped before him and the low western sun peeped through his windows.
The room phone rang. "Hel-lo-o! Gentleman to see Mr. Drake—shall we show him up?" … "Use your own judgment; the last time I tried to show a man up he worked my face over." Bring him up, the telephone meant. Mr. Drake desired particulars: "What is the gentleman's silly name?" … "Jones. Cowpunch; six or seven feet up; incredibly sober." … "Sure, Moike! Bring him along! Say, send some good smokes, will you?—and some swipes. What's that? What do I mean, swipes? Beer, you idiot—beer!"
A clear eye, bright and black; a clean, fresh-colored skin; a frank and pleasant face—that was Ducky. He met his visitor at the door.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Neighbor—welcome to our well-known midst! Weather! Chair! How's every little thing? You look chirpy enough. Shan't I have breakfast sent up for you?"
"No, thank you; I got up at noon. You can give me a little help though."
"Put it on the table, George. That's all." George, known in private life as Gregorio, departed, and Ducky turned to his guest. "Whaddy you mean—help?" he demanded, grinning sympathetically. "Did they put the kibosh on you good and proper after I quit last night?" He pushed the cigars over and began operations with a corkscrew.
"Oh, no—nothing like that. I want some advice."
"Advice? This is the right shop." Roger struck a Pecksniff pose, waved the corkscrew aloft, and declaimed grandly: "Put your eggs in one basket. Get on the wagon. Hitch your wagon to a star. Mind your step! When in doubt, play trumps. Be sure you're ahead and then go right home."
"Not advice exactly—information."
"Oh!" said Ducky. "A straight line is the shortest distance between two points; the woman who hesitations is lost; a Cobb in the club is worth two in the bush; lead-pencil signatures are good in law; a receiver is as bad as a promoter; hospitality is the thief of time; absinthe makes the heart grow fonder."
Neighbor shoved a bottle of beer into his host's hand.
"Drink, pretty creature, drink! Let me explain: What I want is to ask some questions—about words, and so on. You're a college Johnny, ain't you?"
"Booze Arts, Harvard," said Ducky. "Not graduated yet"
"Man staying here in the Windsor with you—was staying here, gone now—used a lot of words I don't quite savvy." Neighbor leaned forward, blinking earnestly. "What is the precise distinction between a mutt, a simp, a gink and a boob? And what did he mean by saying all the time, 'I should worry!'?"
Ducky placed the tips of his fingers accurately together, and held his head on one side, birdwise, pursing his lips precisely.
"The phrase I should worry is derived from the Hebrew verb to bibble, meaning to worry—I should bibble; you should bibble; he or she should bibble. Plural: we should bibble; ye should bibble; they should bibble.
"Mutt, simp, gink and boob are scientific terms employed rather indiscriminately by philosophers of an idealistic tendency. Broadly speaking, the words denote one whose speech, manner, education, habits or clothes differ in any respect from your own; categorically, a thinker whose opinions and ideals do not correspond in every particular with your own. Exactly equivalent terms are—in religion, heretic or infidel; in politics, demagogue, blatherskite!"
"Thank you," said Neighbor humbly. "Myself, I understood him to mean almost the same thing as a sucker; because this fellow—it was the K. C. Kid, that sat on your left—he spoke of you and me being mutts and simps, and all them things; and at the same time he said we d been swindled, cheated or skinned in that little poker game."
Ducky made a passionate comment.
"That alley-goat could sure stack the cards. He showed me that," said Neighbor, and related the painful story of the K. C. Kid's flitting.
"We are the victims of the highly accomplished fact," said Roger. "We can't very well squeal; but can they do this to us with the well-known impunity?"
"No," said Neighbor; "they cannot. I'll make a note of it. We'll not squeal and we'll not cheat; but we'll give 'em their comeuppances someway. I do not, as a general thing, hold myself up for the admiration of the good and wise; but I must say that I've always got what I went after if I wanted it hard enough."
"Don't flinch; don't foul; hit the line hard!" said Roger. The words snapped like a lash.
"Who said that? He did? Good for him once! And I want this, hard. When I get my auger in I'll give it another twist for you, Mr. Ducky, in case you are not here. You haven't lost much anyhow. That's funny too! Huh! Our tinhorn friend noticed that. Seems like they didn't want to rob you; and yet your wool was enough sight longer'n mine. I don't get the idea. I like to understand things as I go along."
"I won away quite a wad, all right; but you might say I wasn't a loser at all compared to what I was two or three nights ago. I was certain-lee in bad!" Ducky performed a hospitable rite. "Well, we'll have to give up poker at Beck's. Here's how!"
"That brings me up to the main point," said Neighbor casually. "What have you been and gone and done? Because a gentleman just offered me the highest market price for your scalp."
"What?"
"He wanted me to abate you—to abolish you—to beef you—to murder you! Don't be so dumb! So I thought I'd drop in and get your views."
"What's the joke?"
"It's no joke. This hombre sure wants you killed off. You'll save time by taking that for proved. And," said Neighbor wistfully, "I needed the money too."
"But who—who"
"Not at all," said Jones. "Why—why? You tell me why, why, first, and see how well it fits in with who, who. I know the answer all right but I haven't heard the riddle yet.
"Oi, yoi, yoi!" Young Drake sat up with a sudden alertness and stared hard at his visitor. "It's Uncle Ducky's money—that's why—I'll bet a cooky!"
"Not with me, you won't," said Neighbor; "for if your Uncle Ducky left any worldly goods the gentleman that offers a bounty for you is the very man to covet those goods. Just how getting you killed would bring him in anything I don't almost see."
"That's just it!" cried Roger Drake. "He's got the money now—or somebody has; I haven't. I'm trying to find it."
"Son," said Neighbor judicially, "this sounds real thrillin'. Tell it to me."
Young Drake hesitated.
"No offense, Mr. Jones; but I have been strongly advised to say nothing."
Neighbor nodded eagerly.
"Yes, yes! Mystery; sorcery; silence; wisdom! 'But how do you know I'm honest?' says the lad in the story. 'Why,' says the other chap, 'didn't you just tell me so?' Well, I'm honest. Go on! Also curious. That's why I want to be told; but here is why you should want to tell me: If we were back in New York town you'd understand the ins and outs of things that I couldn't make a guess at, and that it would take you large, dreary centuries to tell me about. Ever think of that?"
"I gotcha!" said Roger joyously. "And this is your country, you mean; while I'm a mere stranger"
"Correct! Move up one girl! I never saw a merer stranger than you, Mr. Ducky. You're so mere that none know you but to love you. Why, the boys you've met up with out on the range couldn't even be hired to kill you, and they had to offer me the chance. Durned if I believe I'm going to do it myself! G'wan now; let's hear the sad story of your life."