Page:The Popular Magazine v72 n1 (1924-04-20).djvu/84

 hills. How are you feeling, kid? You seemed to be lagging on the last mile.”

“What do you mean—lagging?” McFinn growled. 'How could I go faster when I was running up on the back wheel of your bike? Hey, ride that and don't ride me. I guess I didn't have to come up here to learn how to move my feet. I'm a New York boy and”

“Put a circuit breaker on that noise!” Pitz interrupted. “If conceit was consumption you'd be coughing your head off. I'm your manager—not no six-day bicycle rider. To-morrow you'll do your roadwork on the Tarrytown boulevard.”

“Like fun!” McFinn snapped. “I seen a Sunbonnet Sue doing some garden exercises down the road a piece and she looked pretty nifty. I like this route fine. If you don't, I'll ride the wheel and you do the running!”

With that he tottered away, leaving Ottie to snicker.

“Quite the comedian, eh, Looie? Where are you going to spring that baby—at the Palace?”

Pitz looked at his watch and then asked me the time.

“The Palace me eye—he's got too many queens on his mind as it is. He thinks he has Al Jolson tied for the laughs but a couple of good slappings will change his tunes. Really, I think I'll be able to cash in on this party. He punches like a slot machine, packs a kick like a guy looking for a raise in wages, never whines about punishment and has a greyhound looking slow when it comes to speed. I've got him on the docket for a prelim at College Point on the nineteenth of the month with a run-around who signs himself 'Nitric Acid' O'Neal. I look for him to go far.”

“He undoubtedly will,” Scandrel barked. “About six feet—down to kiss the canvas. I may be wrong but he don't look to me as if he could alarm a clock. And I know for a fact that most of those big gimicks [sic] haven't hardly any appetite for the ring refreshments.”

“How do you mean—ring refreshments?”

“Punch!” Ottie grinned. “Come on, bring your shoes inside, Joe, and I'll show you around.”

“You won't see much, O'Grady,” Pitz cut in. “The only health you'll get up here will come from not being able to overeat!”

Ottie's gym in the rear of the place was quite a landmark with its brand-new secondhand fixtures that ran from rings and swings to rowing, chest and weighing machines. I was presented to Master Tin Ear O'Brien, who held the portfolio of all-around assistant and to six or eight hard eggs who handled the rub-down end of it on a weekly salary that consisted of board and whatever pockets they could pick. O'Brien was a tall Scandinavian with one of those pans that made the visitor wonder how any one could be so ugly and still exist. He had formerly been in the belt business but had retired when some customer of his own weight had accidentally dropped a couple of gloves on the end of his chin.

After we watched Dangerous Dave McFinn cool out we gave the orchard a glance, counted the apples and took a look at the barns and outbuildings before returning to the main pavilion again.

We reached it as Tin Ear O'Brien shuffled out and spoke to Scandrel.

“Listen, boss. I disremembered to tell you, but between nine o'clock this morning they was a party looking for you on the telephone—now—the name sort of skips my mind, but he says for me to tell you that he's riding up here at five this afternoon. So you had better stick around.”

“It's a good thing ankles don't unhook,” Ottie snarled. “If they did you'd never be able to take a walk. How many times have I told you to write down the names of all the people who buzz me on the chicory? Honest, you'd make a false tooth ache. Get alone with yourself somewhere and think up the name before I slap the taste out of your mouth!”

Brain strain on O'Brien's part was unnecessary for at five o'clock promptly fifteen thousand dollars' worth of motor car rushed up to the front porch, a chauffeur and a footman in livery had a fist fight to see who would open the door first and out of the big truck alighted a stout gentleman who resembled money from the top of his high silk hat to the tips of his low, patent-leather scows.

He carried weight for age, a complexion that would have stopped a train and a walking stick with a platinum knob.

“I presume,” he puffed, once he had dropped anchor in the front parlor, “I am expected.”

Ottie dusted off a chair, passed a box of Corona—Long Island—cigars and snapped a speck of dust from his sleeve.