summary="Illustrations" class="c21">

"It might give us some clew," says I, "as to what him and your paw had a run-in about." Frontispiece FACING PAGE "I wouldn't have anything happen to you for the world," says I. 6 "Now see hea-uh, Mistuh Vonstable," says he, "I wouldn't go for to do anything like that." 62 "Say, I'm a bear for Paris." 94 "Now, friends!" he calls, "everybody in on the chorus." 127 "What's the idea," says Mabel, "wishin' this Rube stuff on us?" 158 He sidles up to the desk and proceeds to make some throaty noises. 198 Blamed if Dudley don't have the nerve to tow Veronica into the next room, stretchin' on tiptoe to talk in her ear. 298

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SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB

Do things just happen, like peculiar changes in the weather, or is there a general scheme on file somewhere? Is it a free-for-all we're mixed up in—with our Harry Thaws and our Helen Kellers; our white slavers, our white hopes, and our white plague campaigns; our trunk murders, and our fire heroes? Or are we runnin' on schedule and headed somewhere?

I ain't givin' you the answer. I'm just slippin' you the proposition, with the side remark that now and then, when the jumble seems worse than ever, you can get a glimpse of what might be a clew, or might not.

Anyway, here I was, busy as a little bee, blockin' right hooks and body jabs that was bein' shot at me by a husky young uptown minister who's a headliner at his job, I understand, but who's developin' a good, useful punch on the side. I was just landin' a cross wallop to the ribs, by way of keepin' him from bein' too ambitious with his left, when out of the tail of my eye I notices Swifty Joe edgin' in with a card in his paw.

"Time out!" says I, steppin' back and droppin' my guard. "Well, Swifty, what's the scandal?"

"Gent waitin' to see you," says he.

"Let him wait, then," says I.

"Ah-r-r-r, but he's a reg'lar gent!" protests Swifty, fingerin' the card.

"Even so, he'll keep five minutes more, won't he?" says I.

"But he—he's——" begins Swifty, strugglin' to connect that mighty intellect of his with his tongue.

"Ah, read off the name," says I. "Is it Mayor Mitchel, Doc Wilson, or who?"

"It says J. B-a-y-a-r-d Ste—Steele," says Swifty.

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'. "Lemme see. Him! Say, Swifty, you go back and tell J. Bayard that if he's got nerve enough to want to see me, it'll be a case of wait. And if he's at all messy about it, I give you leave to roll him downstairs. The front of some folks! Come on now, Dominie! Cover up better with that right mitt: I'm goin' to push in a few on you this time."

And if you never saw a Fifth avenue preacher well lathered up you should have had a glimpse of this one at the end of the next round. He's game, though; even thanks me for it puffy.

"You're welcome," says I. "Maybe I did steam 'em in a bit; but I expect it was because I had my mind on that party out front. While you're rubbin' down I'll step in and attend to his case. If I could only wish a pair of eight-ounce gloves on him for a few minutes!"

So, without stoppin' to change, or even sheddin' the mitts, I walks into the front office, to discover this elegant party in the stream-line cutaway pacin' restless up and down the room. Yes, he sure is some imposin' to look at, with his pearl gray spats, and the red necktie blazin' brilliant under the close-clipped crop of Grand Duke whiskers. I don't know what there is special about a set of frosted face shubb'ry that sort of suggests bank presidents and so on, but somehow they do. Them and the long, thin nose gives him a pluty, distinguished look, in spite of the shifty eyes and the weak mouth lines. But I ain't in a mood to be impressed.

"Well?" says I snappy.

I expect my appearin' in a cut-out jersey, with my shoulder muscles still bunched, must have jarred him a little; for he lifts his eyebrows doubtful and asks, "Er—Professor McCabe, is it?"

"Uh-huh," says I. "What'll it be?"

"My name," says he, "is Steele."

"I know," says I. "Snug fit too, I judge."

He flushes quick and stiffens. "Do you mean to infer, Sir, that——"

"You're on," says I. "The minute I heard your name I placed you for the smooth party that tried to unload a lot of that phony Radio stock on Mrs. Benny Sherwood. Wanted to euchre her out of the twenty thousand life insurance she got when Benny took the booze count last winter, eh? Well, it happens she's a friend of Mrs. McCabe, and it was through me your little scheme was blocked. Now I guess we ought to be real well acquainted."

But I might have known such crude stuff wouldn't get under the hide of a polished article like J. Bayard. He only shrugs his shoulders and smiles sarcastic.

"The pleasure seems to be all mine," says he. "But as you choose. Who am I to contend with the defender of the widow and the orphan that between issuing a stock and trading in it there is a slight difference? However deeply I am distressed by your private opinion of me, I shall try to——"

"Ah, ditch the sarcasm," says I, "and spring your game! What is it this trip, a wire-tappin' scheme, or just plain green goods?"

"You flatter me," says J. Bayard. "No, my business of the moment is not to appropriate any of the princely profits of your—er—honest toil," and he stops for another of them acetic-acid smiles.

"Yes," says I, "it is a batty way of gettin' money—workin' for it, eh? But go on. Whatcher mean you lost your dog?"

"I—er—I beg pardon?" says he.

"Ah, get down to brass tacks!" says I. "You ain't payin' a society call, I take it?"

He gets that. And what do you guess comes