Speedy (Holman)/Chapter 5
And what, you ask, of Speedy Swift all this time that sinister clouds were gathering about the innocent heads of Jane and Pop Dillon?
On the morning of that same day when the Dillons discussed him at luncheon in the old horse car and the Inter-City directors met and Steven Carter changed his living quarters, Speedy Swift rode to work jammed in a subway car and in a very contrite and ambitious mood. Baseball, however, was not entirely absent from his mind. His paper was opened to the sporting page as he swayed on his subway strap and he eagerly absorbed the news of the previous day's game, which his favorite team, the Yankees, had won. A victory today, the paper declared, and the New York American Leaguers would be sure contenders in the World's Series.
Arrived at the Wall Street station, Speedy virtuously decided that the thing for him to do was to leave his paper in the subway car. But that, he told himself on second thought, would be wrong. It was wicked to litter up subway cars with newspapers. He stuffed the sheet into his pocket and allowed himself to be pushed out upon the subway platform with the other passengers whose destination was the same as his and who seemed to feel that the heavens would fall unless they were out of the train like a rifle shot.
Harold was wafted up the steps with the rest of the mob and into the sunshine of Broadway. Turning into Wall, he walked briskly to the Consolidated Building. In the elevator he had a chance to snatch a glance at his paper again. But, once inside the ante-office of the Consolidated, he flung the paper with the air of a martyr into the trash basket near the telephone switchboard. Then with a cheery "Good morning" to the telephone girl he hurried through the maze of desks toward the sanctum of the office manager.
A former fellow clerk hailed him. "Say, Swift, I thought you were fired," said this worthy.
"Oh, no," Speedy came back jauntily. "They can't fire me."
That model of efficiency, the office manager, did not put in an appearance until ten o'clock. Speedy greeted him with high ambitions.
"I thought I discharged you," said the office manager gruffly, to Speedy's deep chagrin.
"Oh, no," Speedy said, "you told me that you had some very important outside work which you wanted me to do."
"Oh, yes, I remember," Mr. Talbott conceded. "Well, we'll start you out delivering these papers. They're all in envelopes and marked where they're to go. You can put them in this wallet."
He went to a cabinet nearby an took out an oversized bill-fold with a chain fastened to it, such as bank runners carry.
"Hook this chain to your belt so you won't drop the wallet. And mind these papers—they're very valuable and they must be delivered promptly and to the right addresses."
"I'll be careful," Harold promised. "But don't I get a gun so I can protect myself from bandits? All the bank messengers carry guns."
"No, you won't need that," smiled Mr. Talbott, "though these papers are worth a lot of money. Now you'd better get going, and be back here as soon as you can and I'll have more work for you to do."
"O.K.," Speedy sang out and clipped the chain to his belt and placed the wallet carefully in his inside pocket.
Two of the addresses on the envelopes were uptown and it was noon before Harold again reported to Mr. Talbott. He had performed his tasks perfectly and was quite proud of himself.
"Get your lunch now and be back here in an hour," ordered Mr. Talbott.
On the way down Broad Street to his favorite cafeteria, Harold again bought a paper from the red-headed newsboy on the corner and read the baseball gossip over his pea soup and ham sandwich.
After lunch there was another flock of envelopes to deliver. Harold made good speed with these. At four o'clock he again stood in front of the office manager and inquired for more work.
"Good work," Mr. Talbott said heartily. "Keep that up and we'll soon have a more important assignment for you around here."
The office manager regarded Speedy thoughtfully. Then his cold gray eyes flitted to a daintily wrapped package reposing upon the chaste glass top of his desk. Mr. Talbott twinkled over to the desk, picked up the package and came back to Speedy. Could it be that the austere executive was blushing? He cleared his throat.
"I am going to ask you to do an important private errand for me, Swift," said the office manager in a lowered voice, as if he feared a score of ears were listening. "I—er—want you to deliver these flowers to a lady at the Hotel Envoy. The card is attached to the package here. Be very careful of them and be very prompt. They must be at the Envoy in fifteen minutes. The lady is leaving town. See that the flowers aren't crushed in the subway. Now—remember—fifteen minutes. I shall be calling the lady on the telephone at the end of that time. If those flowers haven't arrived, there'll be trouble—for you!"
"Yes, sir," grinned Speedy.
"Since it is already after four o'clock, you will not be performing a private service for me on the company's time," argued Mr. Talbott primly, seeking to absolve himself of any accusation of frivolity. "And here is five cents for your subway fare."
"Don't worry, Mr. Talbott, I'll be there on time," assured Speedy. What sort of a lady could it be that this old fossil could be sending flowers to or who would be sore if they didn't arrive, Speedy asked himself.
He accepted the package and was off for the elevator like a Pony Express rider.
But when he reached the sidewalk, though his pace was rapid through the pedestrians, Speedy's mind was wavering from Consolidated Steel and the Envoy to Babe Ruth and the New York Yankees.
He edged through the mob held up at the next crossing by traffic. A steady stream of cars was passing in front of them. Though he edged skillfully through the crush of humans to the curb, carefully shielding the precious flowers from destruction, the broad back of the policeman in front of him prevented any break for freedom between the onward plunging motors.
The bluecoat had apparently forgotten that people were impatiently waiting to cross. Three minutes that seemed an eternity passed, and still the cars swept on. Speedy consulted his watch uneasily. He looked at the immense blue back in front of him. He glanced down at the little metallic whistle dangling on a leather strap from the cop's fingers. Then, with a daring born of necessity, he reached swiftly down, seized the whistle, put it to his own lips and blew lustily.
Brakes squealed and twenty automobiles stopped abruptly in their tracks. Speedy ducked around the pedestrians immediately near him and dashed swiftly across the street through the open space his strategy had won. The policeman was sputtering angrily, but he was unable to detect who had perpetrated the outrage. Speedy was half a block away.
Safe from discovery, Speedy slowed down. Again his mind wandered up to the Yankee Stadium. Perhaps Babe Ruth was coming to the bat this minute. Such a marvelous afternoon for it. Warm and sunshiny. Almost unconsciously his hurrying feet propelled him up Broad Street instead of over to Broadway to the subway. There was a scoreboard up near the World Building. He would just give it a glance as he passed and find out how the Yankees were doing. Then he would leap aboard an express and rush to the Envoy.
A dense mob packed the sidewalk in front of the scoreboard and surged out into the street, requiring the services of two harassed mounted policemen to keep them in order. Harold circled the outside of the crowd, just avoiding a police horse's prancing hoofs, and attempted to look up over the men in front of him at the scoreboard. It was impossible. The broad backs completely cut off his view. He pushed and prodded his way into the mass. But this was worse yet. He anxiously asked a tall man ahead of him how the game was going.
"Nothin' to nothin' in the fifth," was the answer.
Suddenly a groan swept the crowd.
"What happened?" Speedy cried out excitedly.
"Detroit scored a run," replied the tall man.
"That's a shame, but Babe'll show 'em," Speedy urged. Poor Mr. Talbott. Poor lady at the Hotel Envoy. The mind of the courier bearing the token from one to the other was now completely filled with nothing but baseball. The flowers hanging limply in his hand were forgotten. He tried to butt his way in toward a position that would enable him to get a clear view of the scoreboard. In vain. He looked around for a possible vantage spot. A broad glistening window in a building opposite caught his eye. It was a dentist's office. If he sat in that window he could see perfectly. There was even a chair just behind the glass.
Without a second thought, Speedy, trained by his New York street experiences to make use of every expedient that offered itself, dashed across the street and up the stairs to the dental emporium. He pushed open the door. The place seemed to be deserted. He almost ran through to the front of the establishment, spotted the chair in front of the window and climbed up into it. Eureka! He had a wonderfully clear view of the scoreboard.
And in their half of the sixth inning the Yankees had tied the score!
Harold glued his eyes on the board across the street. It was equipped with a mechanical device whereby a miniature reproduction of the game was played before your eyes. Tiny tin men represented the players, and there was a ball and everything.
Nothing of importance happened on the scoreboard in the seventh inning, but developments took place in the dental parlors. The proprietor appeared. He was a portly, distinguished-looking gentlemen. He glanced in surprise at the occupant of the chair, decided that the youth must be suffering violently from toothache and had rushed into the office to be ready for relief as quickly as possible.
"Where does it ache?" the dentist asked.
Speedy was startled. He looked quickly around. Not for the world would he be ousted out of the chair. Not if he had to have every tooth in his head pulled.
"I don't know which one hurts," Speedy said boldly. "They all hurt. Look them over."
The dentist had moved over in front of him and Speedy had to look around the tooth-jerker's bulky frame in order to maintain his sight of the precious scoreboard. Out of a corner of his eyes the youth now saw the white-coated dentist lift a small hand glass and a slim, wicked looking little steel instrument from the drawer of the near-by cabinet. He bade Harold open his mouth wide and began a careful examination of the boy's teeth, gazing through the glass and prodding with the sharp tool. Luckily the dentist stood to one side as he conducted his search, and Harold had carefully elevated his head so that he could follow the proxy baseball game across the street.
"Hey-y-y!" suddenly yelled Speedy.
"Hurt you?" asked the dentist with the grim satisfaction of making a discovery. "Is that the one?"
"No—no," hastily answered Speedy. "Grabowski hit a three bagger!"
The tooth surgeon shot a quick, penetrating glance at Harold.
"Your teeth all seem to be in splendid condition," said the dentist with the air of dismissing his patient.
"Oh, they can't be!" cried Speedy, panic-stricken at the thought of being driven from his vantage point at this critical stage of the game. "O-o-oh, there it goes hurting me again," he fairly yelled, clutching at his jaw.
"Where?" asked the dentist, peering anxiously and closely at him.
"Here," said Harold, pointing at his right cheek but forgetting and dropping his hand in a gesture of disgust as he ejaculated, "Darn it, Shocker struck out and the inning's over."
Dubiously the dentist started over again on his survey among the molars and bicuspids, concentrating on the right side of Harold's mouth. While he was thus preoccupied, the Consolidate's star messenger boy was able to his satisfaction to see the Detroit team in the first half of the ninth inning go out in order. Now it was the Yankees' last turn at bat, if the game were not to go to extra innings. The heavy hitters at the head of the batting order were striding to the plate. But, alas, the two first men to face the Tiger twirler succumbed on strikes. And it was the turn of the mighty Babe Ruth to do or die.
"Sock it, Babe!" and "Knock a homer!" came faintly up through the plate glass window to Harold from the dense throng in the street below. They were stretching their necks in a great show of excitement. Harold was almost beside himself with the tenseness of the situation. He clutched the arms of the professional easy chair in which he was sitting and had to be admonished several times to keep his mouth open wide.
And then, miracle of miracles, Babe hit the first ball pitched to him for a home run, and the Yankees had won, 2 to 1!
"Hoo-o-ray!" yelled Harold, leaping from the chair, his action knocking the instruments out of his mouth and almost sending the dentist over backward. Before that worthy could protest or catch him, Speedy dashed wildly from the office and down the stairs and out into the street.
Only when he had gained the pavement and stood there for an instant to watch the mob dispersing in all directions from in front of the scoreboard did he remember the precious flowers for the Envoy lady that were still clutched in his hand. He turned pale. The flowers looked crushed and wilted. He set off rapidly up the street toward Broadway. But he had taken only a few steps when he became aware that a taxi had drawn close to the curb beside him and a man's angry voice was calling his name. He looked over into the stormy face of Mr. Talbott, who had opened the taxi door and was peering out at him.
"I—I was just going to deliver the flowers, Mr. Talbott,' Harold started to explain.
"Just an hour and a half too late," bellowed Talbott. "I thought I'd find you here, when I 'phoned and they said you hadn't arrived yet. Give me those flowers."
"But—but—sir—" Harold stammered, feeling something terrible would happen if he gave up the flowers. Nevertheless, as Talbott held out his hand demandingly, Speedy had to turn them over to him.
"Now I'll tell you that I had duplicates of these flowers sent from the Grand Central Florist Shop three quarters of an hour ago," said the office manager crisply. "As for you, Swift, you're fired. And don't come near the office again—I'll mail you your day's pay. Go ahead, driver."
The taxi door slammed and the machine started off, leaving Harold standing there, open-mouthed and deeply chagrined. He shook his head slowly. His weakness for baseball had lost him another job. For a second he felt like crying. Jane and Pop would be so disappointed. Then Speedy's buoyant good humor came rushing to his rescue. Well, it wasn't such a good job anyway—not worthy of his talents. He preferred something with more excitement in it, driving a racing car, for instance. His face recovered its usual cheerful, happy-go-lucky expression. There was nothing to do now but go home. Tomorrow he would look for another job. He walked up to Brooklyn Bridge and boarded a subway local uptown.
Ten minutes later he was walking up De Lacey Street and the sun was setting. He debated whether or not he should go to the Dillons for supper. They had their evening meal early, he knew, and he decided they would be finished and there was no use putting Jane to extra trouble. Besides, there might be plenty of meals for the next week or so that he might have to sponge upon them for—until he found a job. He stopped at the quick lunch emporium at De Lacey and Candler and had a plate of steaming beans and a cup of coffee.
Coming out, feeling at peace with the world, he thought he might as well get the bad news for the evening over with and tell the Dillons that he had lost his job again.
It was about this time that Steven Carter, having dined at his new boarding house, was just setting out for his post-prandial visit to the corner telephone booth. A few feet from the Dillon door Speedy passed him, though neither appreciated at the time the parts they would play in each other's lives and did not even exchange glances.
Harold let himself into the Dillon front entrance, which was not locked, and walked into the living room.
"Hello, Jane. Hello, Pop," he sang out cheerfully.
"Oh, how did you make out at the office today, Harold?" asked Jane at once. She had been doing something for Pop's aching back.
"I got fired," Harold said flatly. He hung his head a little. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself, though only because of the obvious dismay of the Dillons.
"No-o!" said both Jane and her grandfather at the same time.
"Yep, I stopped to look at the scoreboard when I should have been delivering an important message for old Talbott."
"Dang you, boy, that baseball is ruining you," sputtered Pop Dillon irascibly.
"Harold, you shouldn't have done it. Your work should always come first," Jane reproved gently. "What are you going to do now?"
"Look for another job," replied Harold with confidence.
"And git fired from that one too, I suppose," said Pop. He was in his undershirt. Jane had been treating his back with an electric vibrator, purchased that day in the effort to help Pop's rheumatism. She now resumed her massaging of the old man's ailing muscles.
"Let me work that thing, Jane. I'm stronger," Harold offered.
"Do you suppose you can?" Pop asked sarcastically. "Maybe you'd rather be reading the paper about the ball game."
"Don't need to," Speedy returned good-naturedly. "I saw it all on the mechanical scoreboard—almost as well as if I'd been at the game. The Yanks won, 2 to 1."
"That so?" Pop evinced a mild interest. "That puts them in the World's Series. Don't suppose you'd interrupt yourself to look for a job while the Series was on."
"Sure. I got to find work. I'm broke," Speedy replied, all the while gently kneading Pop with the vibrator, which he had taken from the hands of Jane.
They were thus engaged when a suave voice from the hallway said, "May I see you a minute, Miss Dillon?" Carter was standing there smiling.
Jane arose and went to him. They adjourned to the hall and talked in low tones. Harold's manipulation of the vibrator ceased. He stared out toward Jane and the stranger. His first glance at the newcomer was a puzzled one. Then he frowned. He had taken in Carter's dark, sharp visage and he didn't like it. Besides, what right did the fellow have to take his Jane out into the hall privately to talk to her! Who was he anyway?
He turned to ask Pop Dillon. The old man, finding Harold was shirking his task again, had got up disgustedly and left the room. In a few minutes Jane returned again, flushed and smiling.
"Who was that fellow?" Harold asked at once in a not-too-pleasant voice.
Jane pouted. "He's rented your old room, if you want to know. His name is Steven Carter and he's going to sleep and eat here."
"Where did he come from?"
"He's a very prominent Wall Street man. Rich too."
"Then what's he doing here?"
"How do I know? It's enough for me that he paid two weeks' board in advance—cash. He's a very nice man. He just gave me two tickets for Coney Island, one for Luna Park and one for Steeplechase. And if you're going to be so surly about him, Harold, I won't invite you to go there tomorrow with me and use them."
"I couldn't go anyway. I've got to look for a job."
"You mean you've got to go up to the ball game," said Jane with unaccustomed tartness. Then, attempting to hide her disappointment with an airy threat, "Maybe I can get somebody else to go with me. Mr. Carter said he'd be glad to go himself if he wasn't going to be so busy tomorrow on a very special matter. But I guess I can coax him to—"
"I'll go," Speedy cut in quickly.
Soon he was warming up enthusiastically to the prospect of the adventure. He had not been to Coney Island since the previous summer. An occasional movie, a ball game and, once in a great while, a show viewed from a second balcony seat constituted the round of pleasure of the nearly always moneyless Speedy. Jane's excursions into the world of entertainment were even more limited. The tickets to Coney Island were like unexpected manna from Heaven. The contemplated trip to New York's most garish and most convenient resort was an event of tremendous importance to both. Carter, whose enterprises required him to have a supply of theatre tickets, passes and similar largess on hand for distribution, had given the tickets to Jane with the idea of getting her out of the neighborhood the next day. His scheme was working with perfect success.
"I'll wear that new gray suit that I bought with my first week's pay from the Consolidated—the suit you picked out," said Speedy enthusiastically.
"And I'll wear my new dress that granddad gave me for my birthday," countered Jane.