Intrusion of Jimmy Read online

  Well, I'm off home. Glad it's all settled. Anybody coming my way?"

  "Yes," said Arthur Mifflin. "We'll walk. First nights always make me

  as jumpy as a cat. If I don't walk my legs off, I shan't get to

  sleep tonight at all."

  "If you think I'm going to help you walk your legs off, my lad,

  you're mistaken. I propose to stroll gently home, and go to bed."

  "Every little helps," said Mifflin. "Come along."

  "You want to keep an eye on Jimmy, Arthur," said Sutton. "He'll

  sand-bag you, and lift your watch as soon as look at you. I believe

  he's Arsene Lupin in disguise."

  CHAPTER II

  PYRAMUS AND THISBE

  The two men turned up the street. They walked in silence. Arthur

  Mifflin was going over in his mind such outstanding events of the

  evening as he remembered--the nervousness, the relief of finding

  that he was gripping his audience, the growing conviction that he

  had made good; while Jimmy seemed to be thinking his own private

  thoughts. They had gone some distance before either spoke.

  "Who is she, Jimmy?" asked Mifflin.

  Jimmy came out of his thoughts with a start.

  "What's that?"

  "Who is she?"

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "Yes, you do! The sea air. Who is she?"

  "I don't know," said Jimmy, simply.

  "You don't know? Well, what's her name?"

  "I don't know."

  "Doesn't the Lusitania still print a passenger-list?"

  "She does."

  "And you couldn't find out her name in five days?"

  "No."

  "And that's the man who thinks he can burgle a house!" said Mifflin,

  despairingly.

  They had arrived now at the building on the second floor of which

  was Jimmy's flat.

  "Coming in?" said Jimmy.

  "Well, I was rather thinking of pushing on as far as the Park. I

  tell you, I feel all on wires."

  "Come in, and smoke a cigar. You've got all night before you if you

  want to do Marathons. I haven't seen you for a couple of months. I

  want you to tell me all the news."

  "There isn't any. Nothing happens in New York. The papers say things

  do, but they don't. However, I'll come in. It seems to me that

  you're the man with the news."

  Jimmy fumbled with his latch-key.

  "You're a bright sort of burglar," said Mifflin, disparagingly. "Why

  don't you use your oxy-acetylene blow-pipe? Do you realize, my boy,

  that you've let yourself in for buying a dinner for twelve hungry

  men next week? In the cold light of the morning, when reason returns

  to her throne, that'll come home to you."

  "I haven't done anything of the sort," said Jimmy, unlocking the

  door.

  "Don't tell me you really mean to try it."

  "What else did you think I was going to do?"

  "But you can't. You would get caught for a certainty. And what are

  you going to do then? Say it was all a joke? Suppose they fill you

  full of bullet-holes! Nice sort of fool you'll look, appealing to

  some outraged householder's sense of humor, while he pumps you full

  of lead with a Colt."

  "These are the risks of the profession. You ought to know that,

  Arthur. Think what you went through tonight."

  Arthur Mifflin looked at his friend with some uneasiness. He knew

  how very reckless Jimmy could be when he had set his mind on

  accomplishing anything, since, under the stimulus of a challenge, he

  ceased to be a reasoning being, amenable to argument. And, in the

  present case, he knew that Willett's words had driven the challenge

  home. Jimmy was not the man to sit still under the charge of being a

  fakir, no matter whether his accuser had been sober or drunk.

  Jimmy, meanwhile, had produced whiskey and cigars. Now, he was lying

  on his back on the lounge, blowing smoke-rings at the ceiling.

  "Well?" said Arthur Mifflin, at length.

  "Well, what?"

  "What I meant was, is this silence to be permanent, or are you going

  to begin shortly to amuse, elevate, and instruct? Something's

  happened to you, Jimmy. There was a time when you were a bright

  little chap, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.

  Where be your gibes now; your gambols, your songs, your flashes of

  merriment that were wont to set the table in a roar when you were

  paying for the dinner? Yon remind me more of a deaf-mute celebrating

  the Fourth of July with noiseless powder than anything else on

  earth. Wake up, or I shall go. Jimmy, we were practically boys

  together. Tell me about this girl--the girl you loved, and were

  idiot enough to lose."

  Jimmy drew a deep breath.

  "Very well," said Mifflin complacently, "sigh if you like; it's

  better than nothing."

  Jimmy sat up.

  "Yes, dozens of times," said Mifflin.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You were just going to ask me if I had ever been in love, weren't

  you?"

  "I wasn't, because I know you haven't. You have no soul. You don't

  know what love is."

  "Have it your own way," said Mifflin, resignedly.

  Jimmy bumped back on the sofa.

  "I don't either," he said. "That's the trouble."

  Mifflin looked interested.

  "I know," he said. "You've got that strange premonitory fluttering,

  when the heart seems to thrill within you like some baby bird

  singing its first song, when--"

  "Oh, cut it out!"

  "--when you ask yourself timidly, 'Is it? Can it really be?' and

  answer shyly, 'No. Yes. I believe it is!' I've been through it

  dozens of times; it is a recognized early symptom. Unless prompt

  measures are taken, it will develop into something acute. In these

  matters, stand on your Uncle Arthur. He knows."

  "You make me sick," Jimmy retorted.

  "You have our ear," said Mifflin, kindly. "Tell me all."

  "There's nothing to tell."

  "Don't lie, James."

  "Well, practically nothing."

  "That's better."

  "It was like this."

  "Good."

  Jimmy wriggled himself into a more comfortable position, and took a

  sip from his glass.

  "I didn't see her until the second day out."

  "I know that second day out. Well?"

  "We didn't really meet at all."

  "Just happened to be going to the same spot, eh?"

  "As a matter of fact, it was like this. Like a fool, I'd bought a

  second-class ticket."

  "What? Our young Rockerbilt Astergould, the boy millionaire,

  traveling second-class! Why?"

  "I had an idea it would be better fun. Everybody's so much more

  cheery in the second cabin. You get to know people so much quicker.

  Nine trips out of ten, I'd much rather go second."

  "And this was the tenth?"

  "She was in the first-cabin," said Jimmy.

  Mifflin clutched his forehead.

  "Wait!" he cried. "This reminds me of something--something in

  Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet? No. I've got it--Pyramus and Thisbe."

  "I don't see the slightest resemblance."

  "Read your 'Midsummer Night's Dream.' 'Pyramus and Thisbe,' says the

  story, 'did talk through the chink of a wall,'"
quoted Mifflin.

  "We didn't."

  "Don't be so literal. You talked across a railing."

  "We didn't."

  "Do you mean to say you didn't talk at all?"

  "We didn't say a single word."

  Mifflin shook his head sadly.

  "I give you up," he said. "I thought you were a man of enterprise.

  What did you do?"

  Jimmy sighed softly.

  "I used to stand and smoke against the railing opposite the barber's

  shop, and she used to walk round the deck."

  "And you used to stare at her?"

  "I would look in her direction sometimes," corrected Jimmy, with

  dignity.

  "Don't quibble! You stared at her. You behaved like a common rubber-

  neck, and you know it. I am no prude, James, but I feel compelled to

  say that I consider your conduct that of a libertine. Used she to

  walk alone?"

  "Generally."

  "And, now, you love her, eh? You went on board that ship happy,

  careless, heart-free. You came off it grave and saddened.

  Thenceforth, for you, the world could contain but one--woman, and

  her you had lost."

  Mifflin groaned in a hollow and bereaved manner, and took a sip from

  his glass to buoy him up.

  Jimmy moved restlessly on the sofa.

  "Do you believe in love at first sight?" he asked, fatuously. He was

  in the mood when a man says things, the memory of which makes him

  wake up hot all over for nights to come.

  "I don't see what first sight's got to do with it," said Mifflin.

  "According to your own statement, you stood and glared at the girl

  for five days without letting up for a moment. I can quite imagine

  that you might glare yourself into love with anyone by the end of

  that time."

  "I can't see myself settling down," said Jimmy, thoughtfully. "And,

  until you feel that you want to settle down, I suppose you can't be

  really in love."

  "I was saying practically that about you at the club just before you

  came in. My somewhat neat expression was that you were one of the

  gypsies of the world."

  "By George, you're quite right!"

  "I always am."

  "I suppose it's having nothing to do. When I was on the News, I was

  never like this."

  "You weren't on the News long enough to get tired of it."

  "I feel now I can't stay in a place more than a week. It's having

  this money that does it, I suppose."

  "New York," said Mifflin, "is full of obliging persons who will be

  delighted to relieve you of the incubus. Well, James, I shall leave

  you. I feel more like bed now. By the way, I suppose you lost sight

  of this girl when you landed?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, there aren't so many girls in the United States--only twenty

  million. Or is it forty million? Something small. All you've got to

  do is to search around a bit. Good-night."

  "Good-night."

  Mr. Mifflin clattered down the stairs. A minute later, the sound of

  his name being called loudly from the street brought Jimmy to the

  window. Mifflin was standing on the pavement below, looking up.

  "Jimmy."

  "What's the matter now?"

  "I forgot to ask. Was she a blonde?"

  "What?"

  "Was she a blonde?" yelled Mifflin.

  "No," snapped Jimmy.

  "Dark, eh?" bawled Mifflin, making night hideous.

  "Yes," said Jimmy, shutting the window.

  "Jimmy!"

  The window went up again.

  "Well?"

  "Me for blondes!"

  "Go to bed!"

  "Very well. Good-night."

  "Good-night."

  Jimmy withdrew his head, and sat down in the chair Mifflin had

  vacated. A moment later, he rose, and switched off the light. It was

  pleasanter to sit and think in the dark. His thoughts wandered off

  in many channels, but always came back to the girl on the Lusitania.

  It was absurd, of course. He didn't wonder that Arthur Mifflin had

  treated the thing as a joke. Good old Arthur! Glad he had made a

  success! But was it a joke? Who was it that said, the point of a

  joke is like the point of a needle, so small that it is apt to

  disappear entirely when directed straight at oneself? If anybody

  else had told him such a limping romance, he would have laughed

  himself. Only, when you are the center of a romance, however

  limping, you see it from a different angle. Of course, told badly,

  it was absurd. He could see that. But something away at the back of

  his mind told him that it was not altogether absurd. And yet--love

  didn't come like that, in a flash. You might just as well expect a

  house to spring into being in a moment, or a ship, or an automobile,

  or a table, or a--He sat up with a jerk. In another instant, he

  would have been asleep.

  He thought of bed, but bed seemed a long way off--the deuce of a

  way. Acres of carpet to be crawled over, and then the dickens of a

  climb at the end of it. Besides, undressing! Nuisance--undressing.

  That was a nice dress the girl had worn on the fourth day out.

  Tailor-made. He liked tailor-mades. He liked all her dresses. He

  liked her. Had she liked him? So hard to tell if you don't get a

  chance of speaking! She was dark. Arthur liked blondes, Arthur was a

  fool! Good old Arthur! Glad he had made a success! Now, he could

  marry if he liked! If he wasn't so restless, if he didn't feel that

  he couldn't stop more than a day in any place! But would the girl

  have him? If they had never spoken, it made it so hard to--

  At this point, Jimmy went to sleep.

  CHAPTER III

  MR. McEACHERN

  At about the time when Jimmy's meditations finally merged themselves

  in dreams, a certain Mr. John McEachern, Captain of Police, was

  seated in the parlor of his up-town villa, reading. He was a man

  built on a large scale. Everything about him was large--his hands,

  his feet, his shoulders, his chest, and particularly his jaw, which

  even in his moments of calm was aggressive, and which stood out,

  when anything happened to ruffle him, like the ram of a battle-ship.

  In his patrolman days, which had been passed mainly on the East

  side, this jaw of his had acquired a reputation from Park Row to

  Fourteenth Street. No gang-fight, however absorbing, could retain

  the undivided attention of the young blood of the Bowery when Mr.

  McEachern's jaw hove in sight with the rest of his massive person in

  close attendance. He was a man who knew no fear, and he had gone

  through disorderly mobs like an east wind.

  But there was another side to his character. In fact, that other

  side was so large that the rest of him, his readiness in combat and

  his zeal in breaking up public disturbances, might be said to have

  been only an off-shoot. For his ambition was as large as his fist

  and as aggressive as his jaw. He had entered the force with the

  single idea of becoming rich, and had set about achieving his object

  with a strenuous vigor that was as irresistible as his mighty

  locust-stick. Some policemen are born grafters, some achieve graft,

  and some have graft thrust upon them. Mr. McEachern had begun by<
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  being the first, had risen to the second, and for some years now had

  been a prominent member of the small and hugely prosperous third

  class, the class that does not go out seeking graft, but sits at

  home and lets graft come to it.

  In his search for wealth, he had been content to abide his time. He

  did not want the trifling sum that every New York policeman

  acquires. His object was something bigger, and he was prepared to

  wait for it. He knew that small beginnings were an annoying but

  unavoidable preliminary to all great fortunes. Probably, Captain

  Kidd had started in a small way. Certainly, Mr. Rockefeller had. He

  was content to follow in the footsteps of the masters.

  A patrolman's opportunities of amassing wealth are not great. Mr.

  McEachern had made the best of a bad job. He had not disdained the

  dollars that came as single spies rather than in battalions. Until

  the time should arrive when he might angle for whales, he was

  prepared to catch sprats.

  Much may be done, even on a small scale, by perseverance. In those

  early days, Mr. McEachern's observant eye had not failed to notice

  certain peddlers who obstructed the traffic, divers tradesmen who

  did the same by the side-walk, and of restaurant keepers not a few

  with a distaste for closing at one o'clock in the morning. His

  researches in this field were not unprofitable. In a reasonably

  short space of time, he had put by the three thousand dollars that

  were the price of his promotion to detective-sergeant. He did not

  like paying three thousand dollars for promotion, but there must be

  sinking of capital if an investment is to prosper. Mr. McEachern

  "came across," and climbed one more step up the ladder.

  As detective-sergeant, he found his horizon enlarged. There was more

  scope for a man of parts. Things moved more rapidly. The world

  seemed full of philanthropists, anxious to "dress his front" and do

  him other little kindnesses. Mr. McEachern was no churl. He let them

  dress his front. He accepted the little kindnesses. Presently, he

  found that he had fifteen thousand dollars to spare for any small

  flutter that might take his fancy. Singularly enough, this was the

  precise sum necessary to make him a captain.

  He became a captain. And it was then that he discovered that El

  Dorado was no mere poet's dream, and that Tom Tiddler's Ground,

  where one might stand picking up gold and silver, was as definite a