Shorty McCabe on the Job Part 34

strictly to business at mealtime.

But when he's finished off with a section of deep-dish apple pie and a big cup of coffee he sighs satisfied, unhooks the napkin, lights up a perfecto I've ordered for him, and resumes where he left off.

"It's a heap of money ain't it?" says he. "I didn't know at first whether or no I ought to take it. That's one thing I come on for."

"Ye-e-es?" says I, a little sarcastic maybe. "Had to be urged, did you?"

"Wall," says he, "I wa'n't sure the fam'ly could afford it exactly."

"It was a gift, then?" says I.

"Willed to me," says he. "Kind of curious too. Shucks! when I took them folks off the yacht that time I wa'n't thinkin' of anything like this.

Course, the young feller did offer me some bills at the time; but he did it like he thought I was expectin' to be paid, and I--well, I couldn't take it that way. So I didn't git a cent. I thought the whole thing had been forgotten too, when that letter from the lawyers comes sayin' how this Mr. Fowler had----"

"Not Roswell K.?" I breaks in.

"Yes, that's the man," says he.

"Why, I remember now," says I. "It was the yacht his son and his new wife was takin' a honeymoon trip on. And she went on some rocks up on the coast of Maine durin' a storm. The papers was full of it at the time. And how they was all rescued by an old lobsterman who made two trips in a leaky tub of a motorboat out through a howlin' northeaster.

And--why, say, you don't mean to tell me you're Uncle Jimmy Isham, the hero?"

"Sho!" says he. "Don't you begin all that nonsense again. I was pestered enough by the summer folks that next season. You ought to see them schoolma'ams takin' snapshots of me every time I turned around. And gus.h.i.+n'! Why, it was enough to make a dog laugh! Course I ain't no hero."

"But that must have been some risky stunt of yours, just the same," I insists.

"Wall," he admits, "it wa'n't just the weather I'd pick to take the old Curlew out in; but when I see through the gla.s.ses what the white thing was that's poundin' around on Razor Back Ledges, and seen the distress signal run up--why, I couldn't stay ash.o.r.e. There was others would have gone, I guess, if I hadn't. But there I was, an old bach, and not much good to anybody anyway, you know."

"Come, come!" says I. "Why wa'n't you as good as the next?"

"I dun'no," says he, sighin' a little. "Only--only you know the kind of a chap that everybody calls Uncle Jimmy? That--that's me."

"But you went out and got 'em!" I goes on.

"Yes," says he. "It wa'n't so much, though. You know how the papers run on?"

I didn't say yes or no to that. I was sittin' there starin' across the table, tryin' to size up this leather-faced old party with the bashful ways and the simple look in his steady eyes. The grizzled mustache curlin' close around his mouth corners, the heavy eyebrows, and the thick head of gray hair somehow reminds me of Mark Twain, as we used to see him a few years back walkin' up Fifth-ave. Only Uncle Jimmy was a little softer around the chin.

"Let's see," says I, "something like three summers ago, that was, wa'n't it?"

"Four," says he, "the eighteenth of September."

"And since then?" says I.

"Just the same as before," says he. "I've been right at Pemaquid."

"At what?" says I.

"Pemaquid," he repeats, leanin' hard on the "quid." "I've been there goin' on forty years, now."

"Doin' what?" says I.

"Oh, lobsterin' mostly," says he. "But late years they've been runnin'

so scurce that summers I've been usin' the Curlew as a party boat.

Ain't much money in it, though."

"How much, for instance?" says I.

"Wall, this season I cleaned up about one hundred and twenty dollars from the Fourth to Labor Day," says he. "But there was lots of good days when I didn't git any parties at all. You see, I look kind of old and shabby. So does the Curlew; and the spruce young fellers with the new boats gits the cream of the trade. But it don't take much to keep me."

"I should say not," says I, "if you can winter on that!"

"Oh, I can pick up a few dollars now and then lobsterin' and fis.h.i.+n',"

says he. "But it's rough work in the winter time."

"And then all of a sudden, you say," says I, "you get fifty thousand."

"I couldn't believe it at fust," says he. "Neither did Cap'n Bill Logan.

He was the only one I showed the letter to. 'Mebbe it's just some fake,'

says he, 'gittin' you on there to sign papers. Tell 'em to send twenty dollars for travelin' expenses.' Wall, I did, and what do you think?

They sends back two hundred, b'gum! Yes, Sir, Cap'n Bill took the check up to Wisca.s.set and got the money on it from the bank. Two hundred dollars! Why, say, that would take me putty nigh round the world, I guess. I left part of it with the Cap'n, and made him promise not to tell a soul. You see, I didn't want Cynthy to git wind of it."

"Oh-ho!" says I. "Some relation, is she?"

"Cynthy? Land, no!" says he. "She's just the Widow Allen, over to the Neck--Cynthy Hamill that was. I've known her ever since she taught school at Bristol Mills. She's been a widow goin' on twenty years now, and most of that time we've been--well, I ain't missed goin' across the bay once or twice a week in all that time. You see, Cynthy not havin'

any man, I kind of putter around for her, see that she has plenty of stovewood and kindlin' chopped, and so on. She's real good company, Cynthy is,--plays hymns on the organ, knits socks for me, and hanged if she can't make the best fish chowder I ever e't! Course, I know the neighbors laugh some about Cynthy and me; but they're welcome. Always askin' me when the weddin's comin' off. But sho! They know well enough I never had the money to git married on."

"Got enough now, though, ain't you, Uncle Jimmy?" says I, winkin'.

"Too blamed much," says he. "Cap'n Bill showed me that plain at our last talk. 'Why, you old fool,' says he, 'if it turns out true, then you're a mighty rich man, 'most a millionaire! You can't stay on livin' here in your old shack at Pemaquid. You got to have the luxuries and the refinements of life now,' says he, 'and you got to go to the city to git 'em. Boston might do for some; but if it was me I'd camp right down in New York at one of them swell hotels, and just enjoy myself to the end of my days.' Wall, here I be, and I'm gittin' used to the luxuries gradual."

"How hard have you splurged?" says I.

"Had two sodas yesterday," says he, "and maybe I'll tackle one of them movin' picture shows to-morrow. I been aimin' to. It'd be all right, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, I wouldn't call that any wild extravagance, with fifty thousand to draw on," says I. "How have you got it?"

He fishes out an old wallet, unstraps it careful, and shoves over a cas.h.i.+er's check. No bluff about it. He had the goods.

"Said you was goin' to invest it, didn't you?" I suggests cautious.

"That's what's botherin' me most about this whole business," says Uncle Jimmy. "It's an awful lot of money for an old codger like me to handle.

I tried to git young Mr. Fowler to take half of it back; but he only laughs and says he couldn't do that, and guessed how he and the wife was worth that much, anyway. Besides, I expect he don't need it."

"I should say that was a safe bet," says I. "If I remember right, his share of the estate was ten or twelve millions."

"Gorry!" says Uncle Jimmy. "No wonder he couldn't tell me what to put it into, either. Maybe you could give me an idea, though."

"Me?" says I. "Why, you don't know me, Uncle Jimmy. You wouldn't want to take a stranger's advice about investin' your money."