Sandburrs and Others

It chanced recently that an opportunity opened like a gate for Mrs. B. to illustrate her doctrine that wives should proceed in a plain duty alone, without imposing needless anxiety on the head of the family.

Mrs. Binks had decided to visit her sister in Hoboken. She was to go Thursday, and Binks, who was paid his sweat-bought stipend on Monday, was to furnish the money Monday evening wherewith to make the trip.

It chanced, unfortunately, that pay-day this particular week was deferred. The head partner was sick, or out of town; checks could not be drawn, or something like that.

“But your money will come on Saturday, boys,” said the other partner.

Binks was obliged to wait.

The money was all right; it would be accurately on tap Saturday, so Binks took no fret on that point.

But what was he to do about Mrs. B.? That good woman was to go Thursday, and in order to organise for the descent upon her relative would need the money – $40 – on Tuesday. What was Binks to do?

Clearly he must do something. He could not ask Mrs. B. to put off her trip a week; indeed, his reluctance to take such course came almost to the point of superstition.

In his troubles Binks suddenly bethought him of a gold watch, once his father’s, with a rich chain and guard attached. These precious heirlooms had been given to Binks by the elder Binks’ executor, and were cherished accordingly.

Rather than disappoint Mrs. B. the worthy Binks decided, that just for once in his life he would seek a pawnbroker and do business with that common relative of all.

Binks felt timid and ashamed, but the case was urgent. There was no risk, for his money would float in all right on the tides of Saturday. Binks would then redeem these pledges from disgraceful hock; all would be well. Mrs. B. would be in Hoboken on redemption day, and it would not be necessary to tell her anything about the matter. It would save her pain, and Binks bravely determined to keep the whole transaction dark.

Again, if he told her he had not been paid at the store, the brave woman would indubitably wend to his employer’s house and demand the reason why. This would be useless and embarrassing. Therefore, Binks would say nothing. He would pawn the ancestral super, and get it again when his money came in, and his wife was away.

The watch and its appertainments were snug in the far corner of a bureau drawer; away over and behind Mrs. B.‘s lingerie. Binks had a watch of his own, a Waterbury, with a mainspring as endless as a chain pump. Mrs. B. saw, therefore, no reason why he should carry the gold watch of his progenitor. Binks might lose it. Mrs. Binks strongly advised that it be kept in the bureau where it would be safe and naturally, in an affair of that sort Binks took his wife’s advice.

Binks reflected that he must secure the watch and pawn it that night. To do this he must plot to get Mrs. B. out of the house. Binks thought deeply. At last he had it.

Binks sent a message home in the afternoon and asked Mrs. B. to meet him in a store down town at six o’clock. Then he had himself released at 5:30, and went hotfoot homeward.

The coast was clear; Mrs. B. was down town in deference to his stratagem, no doubt believing that Binks meditated soda water, or some other delicacy, as the cause of his sudden summons of the afternoon. She little wotted that she was the victim of deceit. If she had, there would have been woe.

Binks rushed at once to the bureau and secured the treasure. He did not wait a moment, but plunged off to a store where the three balls over the door bore testimony to the commerce within. Binks would explain to Mrs. B. on his return, how he had missed her and so failed to keep his date with her down town.

The merchant of loans and pledges looked over Binks’ timepiece, and then, as Binks requested, gave him a ticket for it and $40. It was to be redeemed in thirty days or sooner. And Binks was to pay $44 to get it again. Binks was very willing. Anything was wiser and better than to permit Mrs. B.‘s visit to her sister to be interrupted.

When Binks got home Mrs. B. had already returned.

There was a bad light in her eye. She accepted Binks’ excuses and explanations as to “how he missed her down town” with an evil grace. She as good as told Binks that he deceived her; that if the phenomenon were treed she would find another woman in the case.

However, Binks had the presence of mind to turn over the $40 he reaped on the watch; and as he expressed it later:

“That sort of hushed her up.”

The next day Binks returned to his labours, while Mrs. B. repaired to the marts to plunge moderately on what truck she stood in want of for her trip.

When Mrs. B. got back to the house it chanced that the first thing she needed was in the fatal drawer. She opened it.

Horrors! The watch was gone!

There was naught of hesitation; Mrs. B. knew it had been stolen. Anybody could see that from the way every garment had been carefully laid back to hide the loss.

What should she do? The police must at once be notified. Mrs. B. pulled on her shaker and scooted for the police station. She told her story out of breath. She left her house at three o’clock and was back at four o’clock, and in that short hour her home had been entered and looted of its treasures. Made to be specific, Mrs. B. said the treasures were a watch and chain, and described them.

“What were they worth?” asked the sergeant of the detectives.

Mrs. B. considered a bit, and then said they would be dog cheap at $1,000. She reflected that the sum, if published in the papers, would be a source of pride.

The sergeant of detectives told Mrs. B. his men would look about for her property, and should they hear of it or find it they would at once notify her.

“You bet your gum boots! ma’am,” said the sleuth confidently, “whatever crook’s got your ticker, he’s due to soak it or plant it some’ers in a week. Mebby he’ll turn it over to his Moll. But the minute we springs it, ma’am, or turns it up, we’ll be dead sure to put you on in a jiff.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. B.

Then Mrs. Binks went home and, true to her determination to save Binks from unnecessary worry, she told him nothing of the loss nor of her arrangements for the watch’s recovery.

“What’s the use of bothering Binks?” she asked herself. “All he could do would be to notify the police, and I’ve done that.”

Thursday came and Mrs. B. set forth for Hoboken. No notice had come from the police. Binks was glad to see her go. He had lived in fear lest she come across the departure of the watch. He breathed easier when she was gone. As for Mrs. B., as she had not heard from the police, there was nothing to tell Binks; wherefore, like a self-reliant woman who did not believe in making her husband unhappy to no purpose, she left without word or sign as to her knowledge of the watch’s disappearance.

It was Friday; ever an unlucky day. Binks was walking swiftly homeward. Binks was thinking some idle thing when a hand came down on his shoulder, heavy as a ham.

“Hold on, me covey; I want you!”

Binks looked around, scared and startled. He had been halted by a stocky, bluff man in citizen’s clothes.

“What is it?” gasped Binks.

“Suttenly, sech a fly guy as you don’t know!” said the bluff man, with a glare. “Well! never mind why I wants you; I’m a detective, and you comes with me.”

And Binks went with him.

Not only that, Binks went in a noisy patrol wagon which the detective rang for; and it kept gonging its way along and attracting everybody’s attention.

The word went about among his friends that Binks was drunk and had been fighting.

“And to think a man would act like that,” said one lady, who knew Binks by sight, “just because his wife is away on a visit! If I were his wife I’d never come back to him!”

At the station Binks was solemnly looked over by the chief.

“He’s the duck!” said the chief at last. “Exactly old Goldberg’s description of the party who spouts the ticker. Where did you collar him, Bill?”

“I sees him paddin’ along on Broadway,” replied the bluff man, “and I tumbles to the sucker like a hod of brick. I knowed he was a sneak the first look I gives; and the second I says to meself, ‘he’s wanted for a watch!’ Then I nails him.”

“Do you know who he is?” asked the chief.

“My name,” said Binks, who was recovering from the awful daze that had seized him, “my name is B – ”

“Shet up!” roared the bluff man. “Don’t give us any guff! It’ll be the worse for you!”

“I know the mark,” said an officer looking on.

“His name is ‘Windy Joe, the Magsman.’ His mug’s in the gallery all right enough; number 38, I think.”

“That’s correct!” said the chief. “I knowed he was familiar to me, and I never forgets a face. Frisk him, Bill, and lock him up!”

“But my name’s Binks!” protested our hero. “I’m an innocent man!”

“That’s what they all says,” replied the chief. “Go through him, Bill, and lock him up; I want to go to me grub.”

Binks was cast into a dungeon. Next door to him abode a lunatic, who reviled him all night. On the blotter the ingenuity of the chief detective inscribed: “Windy Joe, the Magsman, alias Binks. Housebreaking in daytime.”

There is scant need of spinning out the agony. Binks got free of the scrape some twelve hours later. But it was all very unfortunate. He came near dismissal at the store, and the neighbours don’t understand it yet. They shake their heads and say:

“It’s very strange if he’s so innocent, why he was locked up. When the police take a man, he’s generally done something.”

“I’m not sorry a bit!” said Mrs. B., when she was brought back from Hoboken on Saturday by a wire the police allowed Binks to send her. “And when I saw him with the officers, I was as good a mind to tell them to keep him as ever I had to eat. To think how he deceived me about that watch, allowing me to break my heart with thoughts of it being stolen! I guess the next time Binks sneaks off to pawn his dead father’s watch, he’ll let me know.”

ARABELLA WELD

(By the Office Boy)

I

It was a chill Harlem evening. The Undertaker sat in his easy chair smoking his pipe of clay. About him were ranged the tools and trappings of his gruesome art. On trestles, over in the corner’s gliding shadows, lay the remains he had just been monkeying with.

At last, as one who reviews his work, the Undertaker arose, and scanned the wan map of the Departed.

“He makes a great front,” mused the Undertaker. “He looks out of sight, and it ought to fetch her.”

Back to his chair roamed the Undertaker. As he seated himself he touched a bell. The Poet of the establishment glided dreamily in. The Undertaker, not only straightened the kinks out of corpses to the Queen’s taste, but he furnished epitaphs, and as well, verses for those grief-bitten. These latter were to run in the papers with the funeral notice.

“Have youse torn off that epitaph for his jiblets?” asked the Undertaker, nodding towards Deceased.

“What was it you listed for?” asked the Poet.

“D’ epitaph for William Henry Weld,” replied the Undertaker. The Poet passed over the desired epitaph.

William Henry Weld.(Aged 26 years.)His race he win with pain and sin,At Satan he did mock;St. Peter said as he let him in:“It’s Willie, in a walk!”

“You’re a wonder!” cried the Undertaker, when he had finished the perusal, and he gave the Poet the glad hand. “Here’s d’ price. Go and fill your tank.”

“That should win her,” reflected the Undertaker, when the poet had wended his way; “that ought to leave her on both sides of d’ road. What I’ve done for Deceased, and that epitaph should knock her silly. She shall be mine!”

II

PUBLIC interest having been aroused in the corpse, it may be well to tell how it became that way.

Deceased was William Henry Weld. Five days before the opening of our story, William donned his skates and lined out on one of his periodicals. For four days he debauched to beat four kings and an ace.

And William had adventures. He paid a fine; he fell down a coal hole; he invaded a laundry and administered the hot wallops to the presiding Chinaman. On the fourth day he declared himself in on a ball not far from Sixth Avenue.

“Ah, there!” quoth William, archly, to a beautiful being to whom he had not been introduced. “Ah, there! Tricksey; I choose youse for d’ next waltz.”

“Nit; not on your life!” murmured the beautiful one.

As William Henry Weld was about to make fitting response, a coarse, vulgar person approached.

“What for be youse jimmin’ ‘round me pick?” asked this person.

“That’s d’ stuff, Barney!” said the beautiful one. “Don’t do a t’ing to him!”

The next instant William Henry Weld was cast into outer darkness.

“It’s all right, Old Man!” said the friend who rescued William Henry Weld, “I’m goin’ to take youse home. Your wife ain’t on to me, an’ I’ll fake it I’m a off’cer, see! I’ll give her d’ razzle dazzle of her existence, an’ square youse wit’ her.”

“It’s Willie!” said the friend to Arabella Weld, as he supported her husband into the sitting-room. “It’s Willie, an’ he’s feelin’ O. K. but weedy. Me name, madam, is Jackson – Jackson, of d’ secret p’lice. Willie puts himse’f in me hands as a sacred trust to bring him home.”

“Is he sick?” moaned Arabella Weld, as she began to let her hair down, preparatory to a yell.

“Never touched him!” assured the friend. “Naw; Willie’s off his feed a bit. You sees, madam, Willie hired out to a hypnotist purely in d’ interest of science, an’ he’s been in a trance four days, see! That’s why he ain’t home. Bein’ in a trance, he couldn’t send woid. Now all he needs is a rest for, say, a week. Oughtn’t to let him get out of his crib for a week.”

At 4 o’clock the next morning William Henry Weld began to see blue-winged goats. Arabella Weld “sprung” a glass of water on him.

“Give it a chase!” shrieked William Henry Weld, wildly waving the false beverage aside.

In his ratty condition he didn’t tumble to the pure element’s identity, but thought it was one of those Things.

At 5 o’clock A. M. William Henry Weld didn’t do a thing but perish. When the glorious sun again poured down its golden mellow beams, the Undertaker had his hooks on him and Arabella Weld was a widow.

III

BUT to return to the Undertaker, the real hero of our tale. We left him in his studio poring over the epitaph of William Henry Weld, while Departed rehearsed his dumb and silent turn for eternity in the corner’s lurking shadow. At last the Undertaker roused himself from his reveries.

“I must to bed!” he said; “it waxeth late, and tomorrow I propose for her in wedlock.”

Next morning the Undertaker arose refreshed. He had smote his ear for full eight hours. He felt fit to propose for his life, let alone the delicate duke of Arabella Weld.

The Undertaker’s adored one was to come at noon. She wanted to size up Departed prior to the obsequies.

Although it was but 9 o’clock, the Undertaker had to get a curve on himself to keep his date with Arabella Weld at midday. He had an invalid to measure for a coffin – it was a riveted cinch the party would die – and then there was a corpse to shave in the next block. These duties were giving him the crowd.

But our hero made it; played every inning without an error, and was organised for Arabella Weld when she arrived.

As they stood together – Arabella and the man who, all unknown to her, loved her so madly – looking down at Deceased, she could not repress her admiration.

“On d’ dead! I never saw Willie look so well,” she said. “He’s very much improved. You must have taken a woild of pains wit’ Willie.”

The Undertaker was silent.

Struck by this, Arabella Weld turned her full lustrous lamps on the Undertaker and saw it all. It was for her, the loving heart beside her had toiled over Deceased like an artist over a picture.

Swift is Love, and the Undertaker, quivering with his great passion, twigged in an instant that Arabella was onto him. A vast joy swept his heart like a torrent.

“I wanted him to make a hit for your sake,” he whispered, stealing his arm about her.

Arabella softly put his arm away.

“Not now,” she sighed. “It would be too soon a play. We must wait until we’ve got Willie off our hands – we must wait a year.”

“Wait a year!” and the pain of it bent the Undertaker like a willow. “Wait a year, dearest! Now, what’s d’ fun of that? You must take me for a farmer!” and his tones showed that the Undertaker was hurt.

“But in Herkimer County they wait a year,” faltered Arabella, wistfully.

“Sure! in Herkimer!” consented the Undertaker; “but that’s Up-the-state. A week in Harlem is equal to a year in Herkimer. Let it be a week, love!”

“This isn’t a game for Willie’s life insurance?” and great crystals of pain and doubt swam in Arabella’s glorious eyes.

“Oh, me love!” cried the Undertaker, fondly, yet desperately, “plant d’ policy wit’ Willie! Send it back to d’ company if youse doubts me, an’ tell ‘em to call d’ whole bluff a draw.”

The bit of paper, containing the epitaph, fluttered to the floor from her nerveless mits, her beautiful head sank on the broad shoulder of the Undertaker, and her tears flowed unrestrained.

IV

One week had passed since William Henry Weld was solemnly pigeon-holed for eternal reference.

The preacher received the couple in his study.

“Shall I marry you with the prayer-book, or would youse prefer the short cut?” he asked.

“Marry us on a deck of cards, if you choose!” faltered Arabella. Her eyes sought the floor, while the tell-tale blushes painted her lovely prospectus. “Only cinch the play, an’ do it quick!”

THE WEDDING

(Annals of The Bend)

Naw; I’m on I’m late all right, all right; but I couldn’t help it, see!”

Chucky was thirty minutes behind our hour. I’d been sitting in the little bar in sickening controversy with one of the vile cigars of the place waiting for Chucky. For which cause I was moved to mention his dereliction sharply.

“Sorry to keep an old pal playin’ sol’taire, wit’ nothin’ better to amuse him than d’ len’th of rope youse is puffin’,” continued Chucky in furtive excuse, “but I was to a weddin’ an’ couldn’t breakaway. That’s w’y I’ve got on me dress soote.

“Say! on d’ dead! of course I ain’t in on many nuptials; but all d’ same I likes to go. I always comes away feelin’ so wise an* flossy an* cooney. Why, I don’t know, unless it’s ‘cause d’ guys gettin’ hitched looks so much like a couple of come-ons – so dead sure life is such a cinch, such a sight of confidence like one sees at a weddin’, be d’ parts of d’ two suckers who’s bein’ starred, never omits to make me feel too cunnin’ to live for d’ whole week after.

“Sure! this weddin’ was a good t’ing; what youse might call d’ real t’ing; an’ it’s a spark to a rhinestone it toins out all hunk for d’ folks involved. Who’s d’ two gezebos who gets nex’ to each other? D’ groom is d’ boss gunner of one of our war boats, an ‘d’ skirt is d’ cash goil in d’ anti-Chink laundry on Great Jones street.

“An’ say! that little skirt’s a wonder, an’ don’t youse forget it! She’s good any day for any old t’ing I’ve got; an’ all she’s got to do is just rap, an’ she takes it, see! It was me Rag sees d’ goil foist one time when she’s down be d’ laundry puttin’ in me t’ree-sheets for their weekly dose of suds.

“Is me Rag an’ me married? Say! I likes that, I don’t t’ink! Youse is gettin’ fanciful in your cupolo. 4 Be me little Bundle an’ me married?’ says you. Well, I should kiss a pig! Youse can take me tip for it, if we ain’t man an’ wife be d’ longest system d’ Cat’lic Choich could play – for me Rag told d’ father who ‘fficiates that we’re out for d’ limit – then all I got to stutter is there ain’t a mug who’s married in d’ entire city of Noo York.

“Cert! we’re married!” Chucky went on after cheering himself with the tankard which the barkeeper placed before him. “If youse had let your lamps repose on this horseshoe scar over d’ bridge of me smeller, youse would have tumbled to d’ fac wit’out astin’.

“How do I win it? I’m comin’ up d’ stairs like a sucker, just followin’ a difference of opinion between me an’ me loidy (I soaked her a little one, an’ that’s for fair! to show her she’s off her trolley about d’ subject in dispoote), when she cuts loose d’ coal bucket at me. Say! she spoiled me map for a mont’.

“But to get back to d’ little laundry goil. Me Rag, as I says, was in this tub-joint where d’ goil woikswit’ me linen one day; an’ just as she chases in, a fresh stiff who’s standin’ there t’run some raw bluff at d’ little laundry goil she couldn’t stand for, see! an’ she puts up a damp eye an’ does d’ weep act.

“This little laundry goil is one of them meek, harmless people – rabbits is bull-terriers to ‘em – an’ so when me onliest own beholds d’ tears come chasin down her nose at d’ remarks of this fly guy, she chucks me shirts in d’ corner an’ mounts him in a hully secont.

“An’ say! me Rag can scrap, an’ that’s no dream! I don’t want none of it. When she an’ me has carried d’ conversation to d’ point where she takes out her hairpins, an’ gives her mane to d’ breeze, that’s me cue to cork. Youse can’t get another rise out of me after that: I knows her.

“Well! me Rag lights into this hobo who’s got gay wit ‘d’ little goil, an’ when she takes her hooks out of his make-up, an’ he goes surgin’ into d’ street, honest! he looks like he’s been fightin’ a dog. Some lovers of true sport who’s there an’ payin’ attention to d’ mill, says this galoot wasn’t in it wit’ me Rag. She has him on d’ blink from d’ jump; she win in a loiter.

“Takin’ her part that way makes d’ little laundry goil confidenshul wit’ me Rag. It’s about two weeks later when she sprints over an’ tells Missus Chuck (she makes her promise to lay dead about it, too, but still she passes d’ woid to me) – she tells me Rag, as I’m sayin’, that she’s in trouble. Her steady, she says, is one of d’ top notch gunners of one of our big boats; he’s d’ main squeeze in histurrent, see! an’ way up in d’ paint. His boat’s been layin’ at d’ Navy Yard, an’ now he’s ordered to sail for Cuba in a week an’ help straighten up d’ Dagoes we’re havin’ d’ recent run in wit’. Meanwhiles, she says, dey won’t let her beloved have shore leave; an’ neither dey won’t stand for her to come aboard an’ see him. There youse be! a case of dead sep’ration between two lovin’ hearts.

“D’ little laundry goil gives it out cold, she’ll croak if she don’t get to see her Billy before he skates off for d’ wars. She says she knows he’s out to be killed anyhow. D’ question wit’ her is – what’s she goin’ to do? Dey won’t let her aboard d’ boat, an’ dey won’t let him aboard d’ land; now, what’s d’ soon move for her to make?

“Well, me Rag – who’s got a nut on her for cert – says for her to skip down to Washin’ton an’ go ag’inst d’ Sec’tary himself.

“‘Make him a strong talk,’ says me Rag; ‘give him a reg’lar razzle-dazzle, an’ he’ll write youse a poiper to them blokes aboard d’ boat to let youse see your Billy.’

“‘Do youse t’ink for sure he will?’ says d’ little laundry goil.

“‘Why, it’s a walkover!’ says me Rag. ‘If he toins out a hard game, give him d’ tearful eye, see! an’ cough a sob or two, an’ he’ll weaken! You can’t miss it,’ says me ownliest; ‘it’s easy money.’

“But d’ little goil was awful leary of d’ play.

“’ Washin’ton is so far away,’ she says.

“’ It’s like goin’ to Harlem,’ says me Rag. ‘All youse has to do to go, is to take some sandwidges an’ apples to sort o’ jolly d’ trip, an’ then climb onto d’ cars an’ go. When d’ Con. comes t’rough, pass him your pasteboard, see! an’ if any of them smooth marks try to make a mash, t’run ‘em down an’ t’run ‘em hard. I’ll go over an’ do your stunt at d’ laundry, so that needn’t give youse a scare. An’ be d’ way! if that lobster I win from d’ other day shows up, I’ll make a monkey of him ag’in. I didn’t spend enough time wit’ him on d’ occasion of our mix-up, anyway.’

“At last d’ little laundry goil makes d’ brace of her life. She’s so bashful an’ timid she can’t live; but she’s dead stuck on seein’ her Billy before he sails away, an’ it gives her nerve. As I says, she takes me Rag’s steer an’ skins out for d’ Cap’tal.

“An’ what do youse t’ink? D’ old mut who’s Sec’tary won’t chin wit’ her. Toins her down cold, he does; gives her d’ grand rinky-dink wit’out so much as findin’ out what’s her racket at all.