Page:The Popular Magazine v72 n1 (1924-04-20).djvu/87

 as light wines and beer, as free with his money as Monte Carlo and a bigger sport than either baseball or horse racing.

“Now that we're all friends,” he wound up, “be through with the dishes at eight o'clock punctual. I'm coming to take you buggy riding if you can stand this bus.”

Miss Biggs registered enthusiasm.

“Won't that be fun! I'd love to go. And that reminds me. Who's that big boy in the white sweater I see passing along here every day?”

Ottie looked at me.

“Grab that one while it's hot, Joe. Who's the big boy in the white sweater? Listen, Delicious,” he said to the girl, “that party is only a goofy box fighter who'll be on crutches any time after the nineteenth. He's so rough that he uses a rake as a side comb and he's got a personality as thrilling as a hangnail. Not only that but he's so mean that his knees are the only thing that give. Dismiss the idea instantly.”

“I was just wondering,” the girl giggled. “For the last few days he's been chasing a man on a bicycle and he hasn't caught him yet.”

Equal that!

A week later Tarkington van Riker, with valet, motor and more luggage than a musical show, reached the Scandrel layout and caused some eye widening.

The Captain Kidd of Wall Street turned out to be everything we hadn't expected him to be. Van Riker was short, plump and smug—a quiet, taciturn individual with a round, moon face, a habit of coughing and a pair of feet that could have been used for transporting freight if they had been floated.

“I am Tarkington van Riker,” he said the minute he alighted, waving a hand at a young man who began throwing valises out of the car. “And this is Jepson, my faithful valet.”

“One of the Westchester valleys, hey?” Ottie snickered. “Break out all the luggage, Jep, and get it up to Suite 13. Make it fast!”

“Yes, sir. Directly, sir,” the valet answered, picking up four bags and turning so we had a look at him.

Sweet lavender!

Jepson, in his way, was as good looking as the fair Miss Biggs of the cabbage patch. He was young, he was well built, he looked like the best part of Park Avenue and he had a face that any movie director would have been glad to put on the screen.

In fact he was so handsome that Scandrel stared with open mouth until he and the luggage had vanished together.

“What male chorus did he use to work in, Van?”

The terror of the Stock Exchange coughed and turned his eyes from the doorway.

“Oh, Jepson, you mean? Yes, he was formerly a haberdashery salesman on Fifth Avenue. I rather liked his looks and so I took him on. He's very meek and he's proved very satisfactory. If you'll pardon me I'll go upstairs and see if he's getting things to rights.”

A half hour after that I wandered into the gym and found the loungers talking Van Riker and valet over.

“Lovely roses!” Dangerous Dave McFinn was sneering. “The ticker tramp looks halfway human but his man servant girl is twice as sweet as candy. When I seen him I couldn't figure out if I ought to slap him on the wrist or the jaw. He's one of them sweet young things that always makes it a case of hate at first sight. I only wish he would touch my necktie. I'd knock him so hard that he'd wake up with a French accent!”

“Yes, you would,” Tin Ear O'Brien cut in quickly. “Lay a finger on any of the boss' boarders and we'll ship you out to College Point in pine. Leave me hear you open that thing you call a mouth and I'll break you in half!”

“Like heck you will!” McFinn shrieked. “You couldn't punch the icing off a layer cake! Come on—make good!”

Without waiting for a second invitation O'Brien shot over a couple of fast ones which the other blocked. What bore all the earmarks of exciting fisticuffs was ended by the appearance of Looie Pitz who, taking a couple of stray punches in the ear, got in between them.

“You witless half-wit, you!” Pitz screamed at his protégé. “Is this where you leave your fight with O'Neal—after me spending my money and losing fourteen pounds riding the bicycle? I ought to have left you stoking the boiler in that apartment house”

“Speak to him!” McFinn mumbled, giving O'Brien a look as sharp as cutlery. “Sure, he should give me a black eye! What do you care? You ain't got a date with a