Cupid in Uniform

T was the custom of the messenger-boys attached to the station in Blank Street to hold a grand Annual Sociable during the holiday season. Every messenger was in honor bound to turn over to the common fund all tips that came to him in the regular course of business for two months before the appointed day.

This momentous fact I should never have known if I had not cultivated the friendship of Mike. Mike was a descendant of Hibernian kings, wore freckles across his retroussé nose, and had a confidential air that to me was irresistible. Our acquaintance began with a wink I had bestowed upon him in an unguarded moment, a wink that put us on terms of easy comradeship ever after. This is not a plagiarism from Bret Harte, who once was the victim of a similar wink; we both had the same experience, that is all, and the results were alike.

After learning of the purpose to which the tips were to be devoted, I did my duty like a man and took a keen interest in the state of the Sociable’s finances. For a while all went on swimmingly, and we both were elated. Suddenly I learned from my friend Michael that there was a dark cloud on the horizon.

The trouble, it seems, was with Box No. 914S. Mike assured me that a long time a call from 9148 had meant a “socking good tip.” This box pertained to a certain howling swell (the reader will understand, I hope, that this description is Michael’s, not mine), whose name may be here put down as Walter Jackson, though the real name was intrusted to my discretion by my young informant with no inhibition as to its being made public. This party, Jackson, had made a free and lavish use of the messenger-service as an aid to his courtship of a delectable maiden whom we must fictitiously call Miss Anderson. Notes were frequent, bouquets not rare, and small, costly things from the jeweller’s far from unknown. Every call meant a tip, many were good for two. Naturally, 9148 stood for a good thing in the Sociable budget, and any interference with this source of revenue was a serious matter in the office. And the dark cloud to which I have referred had been lowering directly over that very spot.

One day when I had summoned Mike for an errand, I saw at a glance that he was bursting with importance, and it needed no question to induce him to tell me the whole story. As I was detained at home by a slight illness and was glad to be entertained, I agreed to mark his ticket: “Detained fifteen minutes.” Here is the thrilling tale:

“’Twas like this,” said Michael. “It was up to the new boy to get the next call. He got it, and he was gone till we all went crazy. For it was 9148, you know, and we was wild to know would he strike pay-dirt for the Sosh.”

“The what?”

“The Sociable. ‘What d’yer get?’ says we. ‘Nothin’,’ says he. ‘How’s that?’ says we. ‘Wasn’t it 9148?’ ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘And there’s something gone wrong. I didn’t get a living tip, and they was both cross and short. Her eyes was red, and he had a cigar without no light to it. It’s all off, you bet.’

“‘How many notes did they send?’ says the Dago. He isn’t really a Dago, you know, but that’s what we call him. He has big black eyes, an’ curly black hair, an’ is a kind of thin-faced chap. Smart? Well, I guess yes!

“‘Notes?’ says the new boy. ‘One, two—three each, makes six. They was six notes.’

“‘Gewhillikins!’ says the Dago. ‘That’s trouble, sure. An’ we had 9148 down good for four plunks. Say, Softy, they’ll call again as soon as they can catch their breath. Whose turn is it?’

“It was me next on the bench, an’ so I sings out: ‘Mine.’

“‘You’re not up to this,’ says the Dago. ‘This takes a S. Holmes. Mike, you let me go. There’s plunks in this, and it’s got to be handled careful. I think I’m on to this, and we want them to kiss and make it up, or we’ll be four out, an’ maybe no Sosh this year.’

“‘O. K.,’ I says; ‘if the manager don’t get on to it, I won’t peep.’

“‘Oh, he’ll never know,’ says the Dago; and he didn’t.

“Pretty soon we heard him say: ‘9148. Who goes?’

“‘Here you are,’ says the Dago, and he was outside before the manager could say a word. That got the manager all right, and he says to the outfit: ‘That is the way to answer a call! He wasn’t asleep!’

“The Dago was gone twict as long as Softy had been; ’bout two hours, I guess. An’ when he come back we didn’t lose no time askin’ for a bulletin.

“‘Did you fix it?’ says I.

“‘Did I?’ says he. ‘Like a breeze. But it’s lucky for the Sosh that I went. Some of you fellers would have balled the thing all up.’

“‘How’d you do it?’ asked the new boy.

“‘When they had fired off a note more apiece,’ the Dago says, ‘I saw it was no fake, but solid trouble. So I went back from the girl with a scheme all cooked.

“‘Mr. Jackson,’ says I, ‘excuse me, but’

“‘What’s that?’ he says, pretty sharp. And I was scared a little, but I thought of the four plunks, an’ I braced.

“‘Well, sir,’ says I, ‘I been to Miss Anderson’s a good lot of times for you, sir, an’ a nicer young lady there ain’t in our district, sir. So when I see her a-worryin’, I feel like sayin’ for myself an’ for the other boys on the station that we’d like to help her out, if it’s anything that we can do.’

“‘Worryin’? How do you mean?’ he says.

“‘Well, if you will excuse me, she must be gettin’ some awful bad news from your notes, or she wouldn’t be a-cryin’ her eyes out.’

“‘What do you mean?’ he asked me, mighty sharp, I can tell you.

“‘Maybe I oughtn’t to tell you,’ says I, '

but I heard her say to herself: “If I only could see Walter!” Your name is Walter, isn’t it?’ I asked him, mighty innocent.

“‘Did you really hear her say that?’ I asked the Dago.

“‘Well, she sighed, anyhow,’ says he. ‘Course that’s what she meant. She tore up two notes while I was there, an’ that means they don’t know what they want to say. So then Mr. Jackson he gave me a half-dollar—chuck it in the Sosh-box, Shorty—and then he says:

“‘You needn’t wait, messenger, I shall try to call on Miss Anderson very soon.’ An’ there is where I got in me fine work. ‘Better let me take the message, sir,’ says I; ‘it looks like rain.’ ‘No,’ he says, ‘I must go that way, anyhow.’ Then I slid.

“‘But maybe he won’t go,’ says the new boy.

“‘He went,’ says the Dago. ‘I seen him. I shaddered him the whole way to make sure.’

“‘But p’r’aps they won’t fix it up.’

“‘You make me loose-jointed,’ says the Dago, looking scornful on the kid. ‘Ain’t they spoons? An’ wasn’t she on the weeps? We’ll all be dealing out wed-tickets in a few weeks, sonny.’

“An’ the Dago was solid as a froze ham,” Michael concluded. “You had ought for to seen the scads we raked in for the when they two was hitched! We have the spread next Thursday, and it’s goin’ to be the best ever! How many tickets do you want?”

I wanted none. I took five, at a quarter each. Michael informs me that the Dago is expected to make a speech, and is sure to cover himself with glory. I cannot attend, but I should be glad to dispose of my tickets at a reasonable discount.