Alex the Great Part 8

With them few remarks he stamps off across the lawn, bellerin' like a bull.

"Well, Alex," I says, "at last you have hit somethin' in little old New York that you can't do, eh?"

"That old b.o.o.b gimme a pain anyways!" remarks the mechanic. "What does he know about machinery? Gimme a cigarette!"

Alex sits down on the runnin' board of the Gaflooey chummy roadster and lights a cigar. He puffs away, lookin' off in the air kinda sad and mournful, like he had just been handed a wire readin', "Father has told all. We are lost.--Agnes," or somethin' to that effect. Even though he was a relative of the wife's and had spent every minute since he hit New York confessin' to bein' a world beater, I felt sorry for him!

Runyon Q. Sampson was off the Gaflooey people for life, and Alex had fell down on the biggest thing he'd tried yet. I knew how he must of felt about it, so I went over and slapped him on the back.

"Cheer up, Alex," I says. "I know that was a tough one to lose, but a guy can't finish in front all the time! You know you ain't up in dear old Vermont now and this town's much harder to beat than the average.

I told you that when you first come here. I knowed it was only a question of time before you'd hit the b.u.mps--everybody does sooner or later in New York--and then you--"

Alex gets up and throws away the cigar.

"All I hope," he says. "All I hope is that the one they deliver to him works all right!"

"Deliver to who?" I says.

"Runyon Q. Sampson!" he comes back. "I come up here to sell that feller a Gaflooey chummy roadster and that's what I'm a goin' to dew!

I'll have his check before the end of the week. I don't know how I'm gonna do it now, but in some way this here sale is gonna occur, you can gamble on that! D'ye think a little thing like this can discourage me?

Why if the car had exploded and blowed us all up in the air while we was sittin' in it, I would of sold Sampson the speedometer for a watch before we had hit the ground again!" He turns around on the mechanic and rolls up his sleeves. "The faster you git away from here, the longer you'll live!" he snarls. "What art was you follerin' before you took up automobiles?"

"Well, to be on the level with you," says the mechanic, "I was second man in a cigar store on Twenty-third Street. I got fired because me and the cash register could never agree on the day's receipts. I seen an ad for a mechanic at the Gaflooey service station and I got took on there as a helper. A feller has got to do something don't he? Gimme a cigarette."

Alex makes a dash for him, but I hold him back.

"Fade!" I warns him. "You're gettin' away with murder as it is, and if I let this bird go they's no tellin' what'll happen to you!"

"What do I get for my mornin's work, heh?" he hollers.

"You're gettin' immunity!" I says. "Beat it!"

"All right!" he snarls. "I oughta knowed I'd only get the worst of it goin' out on a job with a coupla b.o.o.bs like you guys. This feller claims he's a salesman, hey? Well, I'll lay the world eight to five he couldn't sell ice cream sodas in Hades! Gimme a ciga--"

Alex throws the tool box at him, and he blows.

While we're standin' there tryin' to figure out some way to get this chummy roadster to make good, a guy steps out from behind a hedge and joins our little party. He had just about pa.s.sed the votin' age and he wore a raincoat with one of them cute little belts around it, a dare-devil soft hat and carried a suitcase. His feet dragged like they wasn't used to such heavy exercise as walkin' and he steps in front of us with a cigarette droopin' outa the corner of his mouth.

"Pardon me," he yawns. "Are you having some difficulty with the car?"

"Oh, fluently!" I says. "You must be a fortune teller. Some difficulty is right! We been attemptin' to get away from here all mornin' and it's the same as makin' the Russians think the Czar was a good feller--there's nothin' doin'. I don't think the motor is tryin'

and--"

He sets down the suitcase and yawns some more.

"I know something about autos," he says. "Have a couple of my own and occasionally I have to fuss around 'em a bit. Do you mind if I look at the motor?"

"We'd just love it!" I says. "Go to it."

He opens the hood, yawns a coupla times and monkeys around for a minute.

"Try her now," he says.

Alex gets in and pushes a b.u.t.ton with his foot.

I don't know what this handsome stranger did, but whatever else it was, it was a success, because the motor immediately begins to tear holes in the peace and quiet of the surroundin' country.

"She'll be all right as soon as she warms up now," says our savior.

"The gas was disconnected--coupling jolted off evidently--and one of the cylinders was missing. Must have given you trouble on hills, what?" he yawns some more. "Nice little bus," he says, "and, now, I wonder if you'd do a favor for me?"

"I only got four bucks on me," I says, "but you're welcome to that if you can use it."

He grins.

"It isn't money," he says. "It's something more important than that."

"Fudge!" says Alex. "There ain't no sich thing in this town!"

"Yes there is!" says the newcomer, steppin' back to a hedge, "and here it is!"

With that, out steps the Venus de Milo wearin' both arms and a set of scenery that must of enabled some Fifth Avenue store to move over to Easy Street. She looked like what the press agents claim is in the chorus of every musical comedy that hits Broadway and she's wearin'

enough diamonds to have keep the Alleys in tooth powder. After I had got over bein' dazzled by the first look, I give her the East and West again and recognize her. She's nothin' less than Margot Meringue, the big movie star.

"I'm Arnold Sampson," says the young feller, "and this is Mrs. Arnold Sampson. My wife was formerly--"

"I know," I b.u.t.ts in, "I seen her the week before last with the missus in Marvelous Margot's Mistake. She was vampirin' around and--"

"How did you like me?" smiles Margot.

"Well," I says, "we seen the pitcher three times runnin'--is that good enough?"

"We have just been married," goes on Arnold, throwin' out what chest he had with him.

"Congratulations!" pipes Alex, shakin' his hand.

"Pretty soft!" I says, doin' the same.

"I saw you and father in the car here," explains Arnold, "and as you appear to be friends of his, I wonder if you'd come up to the house with us? Father is less liable to make a scene, if there is some one else present. You see, he doesn't know that we're married as yet."

Alex suddenly looks interested and nudges me to keep quiet.

"I can see the whole thing in a nutsh.e.l.l," he says. "Your father objects to you--oh--now--marryin' an actress, heh?"

"No," yawns Arnold. "In this case the traditional is reversed. My father objects to the actress marrying me!" he bows to Margot. "He is personally quite fond of my wife and his objection is based solely upon his own unflattering opinion of me. He declares I'll never be able to support Mrs. Sampson in the manner she is accustomed to living, as her income is something like fifty thousand a year. Father allows me a bare five thousand and he refuses to increase it until I go to work in his office, or something equally as silly. Can you imagine anything more idiotic than that? Dad is worth millions and he expects me to work!"

"What an inhuman parent!" says Alex. "What have you got against work?"

"My dear fellow," says Arnold, "I don't really know. I don't seem able to get enthusiastic about it--that's all. I wouldn't mind going down to Dad's office and toying with an adding machine or driving nails in packing cases, but I'm sure I'd fall asleep on the job, or something idiotic like that! You might say I lack the urge," he yawns and grins.

"I guess I wasn't built to hustle. I haven't got the pep, as we used to say at--"