Shorty McCabe Part 39

"Oh!" says I. "She's that kind, is she? You'd think from her talk that she knew only two sorts of women: them that had been divorced, and them that ought to be."

"I'm afraid that's her specialty," says Sadie.

"Sort of a lady muck-raker, eh?" says I. "Well I hope all she says ain't so. How about it?"

Well, that was the beginnin' of a heart to heart talk that lasted for a good many miles. Somehow Sadie and I'd never had a real quiet chance like that before, and it came out that we had a lot to say to each other. I don't know how it was, but the rest of 'em seemed to let us alone. Some was back under the awnin' and others was down stairs, playin' whist. There was singin' too, but we couldn't make out just who was doin' it, and didn't care a whole lot.

Anyway, it was the bulliest ride I ever had. The moon come up over Long Island, as big as a bill board and as yellow as a chorus girl's hair; the air was kind of soft and warm, like you gets it in the front room of a Turkish bath place; and there wa'n't anything on either side nearer'n the sh.o.r.e lights, way off in the dark. It wa'n't any time for thinkin' hard of anyone, so we agrees that the lady muck-raker must have been born with a bad taste in her mouth and can't help it, lettin' her slide at that.

I forgot what it was we did talk about. It was each other mostly, I guess. You can do that when you've known anyone as long as we had; and it's a comfort, once in a while.

After a bit, though, we didn't say much of any thing. I was just lookin'

at Sadie. And say, I've seen her when I thought she looked mighty nice, but I'd never got just that view of her before, with the moon kind of touchin' up her red hair, and her cheeks and neck lookin' like white satin.

She has a way, too, of starin' off at nothin' at all, sometimes, and then there's a look in her eyes, and a little twist to her mouth corners, that just sets me tinglin' all over with the wantin' to put me arm around her and tell her that no matter who else goes back on her, there'll always be Shorty McCabe to fall back on. It wa'n't anything new or sudden for me. I'd felt like that many a time, and as far back as when her mother ran a prune dispensary next door to my house, and she an' I used to sit on the front steps after supper. She'd have spells of starin' that way then, 'choppin' off a laugh in the middle to do it, and maybe finis.h.i.+n' up with a giggle. I guess that's only the Irish in her, but it always caught me.

She must have been lookin' that way then, for the first thing I knows I'd reached out and pulled her up close. She never kicks, but just snuggles her head down on my shoulder, with them blue eyes turned so I could look way down into 'em. At that I draws a deep breath.

"Sadie," says I, husky like, "you're the best ever!"

She only smiles, kind of sober, but kind of contented, too.

"And if I had the nerve," says I, "I'd ask you to be Mrs. Shorty McCabe."

"It's too bad you've lost your nerve so sudden," says she.

"Wha-a-at!" says I. "Will you, Sadie; will you?"

"Silly!" says she. "Of course I will."

"Bless the saints!" says I. "When?"

"Any time, Shorty," says she. "You've been long enough about it, goodness knows."

Well say! You talk about your whirlwind finishes! I guess the crowd that was bunched there in the cabin, sayin' good night, must have thought I'd gone clear off my pivot, the way I comes down the stairs.

"Where's the bishop?" says I.

"Right here, my boy," says he. "What's the matter?"

"Matter?" says I. "Why, it's the greatest thing ever happened, and n.o.body to it. Folks," I says, "if the bishop is willin', and hasn't forgot his lines, there's goin' to be a weddin' take place right here in the main tent inside of fifteen minutes. Whoop-e-e!" I yells. "Sadie's said she would!"

That's the way we did it, too; and for a short notice affair, it was done in style; even to a weddin' march that someone feeds into the pianola and sets goin'. Pinckney digs up a ring, and the bishop gives us the nicest little off-hand talk you ever listens to. I blushes, and Sadie blushes, and Mrs. Twombley-Crane hugs both of us when it's over.

Then I has the steward lug up a lot of cold bottles and I breaks a ten year drouth with a whole gla.s.s of fizz water.

Right in the middle of the toast the sailin' master shows up on the stairs and says: "We're just makin' the harbor, sir."

"Forget it, Ba.s.sett," says I. "I want you to drink to the health of Mrs.

McCabe."

And when he hears what's been goin' on, he's the most flabbergasted sailor man I ever saw. After that we all has to go up and take a look at Newport and the wars.h.i.+ps, but they was all as black and quiet as a side street in Brooklyn after ten o'clock.

"Say, it's a shame all them folks ain't in on this," says I. "Ba.s.sett, can't you make a little noise, just to let 'em know we're celebratin'?"

Ba.s.sett thought he could. He hadn't made any mistake, either. In two shakes we had all the lights aboard turned on, and skyrockets whizzin'

up as fast as they could be touched off.

Did we wake up them wars.h.i.+ps? Well, rather. First we hears a lot of dinner gongs goin' off. Then colored lanterns was sent up, whistles blew, bugles bugled, and inside of three minutes by the watch there was guns bang-bangin' away like it was the Fourth of July.

"Great Scott!" says Pinckney, "I never knew before that the United States navy would turn out in the middle of the night to salute a private yacht."

"It depends on who owns the yacht. Eh, Sadie?" says I.

By the time the guns got through bangin' we had a dozen search-lights turned on us, and a strong lunged gent on the nearest wars.h.i.+p was yellin' things at us through a megaphone.

"He wants to know, sir," says Ba.s.sett, "if we've got the Secretary of the Navy on board."

"Tell him not guilty," says I, and Ba.s.sett did.

That didn't satisfy Mr. Officer though. "Then why in thunder," says he, "do you make such a fuss coming into the harbor at this time of night?"

"Because I've just been gettin' married," says I, in my Bosco voice.

"And who the blazes are you?" says he.

"Can't you guess?" says I. "I'm Shorty McCabe."

"Oh!" says he, and you could hear the ha-ha's come across the water from all along the line. There was a wait for a minute, and then he hails again. "Ahoy, Shorty McCabe!" says he. "The Commodore presents his compliments and says he hopes you liked your wedding salute; and if you don't mind, the gun crews want to give three cheers for Mrs. McCabe."

So Sadie and I stands up by the rail, with more lime light on us than we ever had before or since, and about six hundred Jackies gives us their college cry. There wa'n't anything slow about that as a send off for a weddin' tour, was there? But then, as I says to Sadie: "Look who we are."

And say, if you'll be on the dock when we come back from Bar Harbor, we'll take you along down to Old Point with us. Eh? Think it over.