They took him to one saloon after another, and in every place he was cheered and made much of.
Lastly, they took him to the train and saw that he was properly seated, giving the conductor and every other trainman they could buttonhole many solemn injunctions to take care of him properly. And as the train pulled out, they stood beneath his window or ran along the platform, shouting, laughing, tearfully drunken, wishing him good luck and begging him to come back.
He fell asleep sobbing over their goodness.
He was awakened at Lincoln, early the next morning, by the gentle shaking of the conductor.
“Had kind of a big one, eh, Senator?”
“I’ll say,” moaned Jeff.
“Well, get you some coffee and you’ll feel a lot better.”
The mention of coffee, which immediately reminded him of money, threw the attorney into a panic. Gingerly he drew out his long money purse with the snap-top, and opened it. Hands shaking, he counted the small store of bills.
It was all there. He sighed, then frowned as he noticed the bulge of his vest. He dug into that pocket and produced another tight roll of bills. There was a note under the rubber band:
From the boys, in appreciation, for a ticket back to see us.
“You get you some coffee,” the conductor repeated. “You’ll—”
“Coffee?” said Jeff blankly. “Gol-lee! I don’t need any coffee!”
Whistling, he picked up his carpetbag and strutted off the train.
He was ravenous, again, as he started off up O Street, but he decided to pass up the many restaurants that lined that thoroughfare. After all, he’d be checking into a hotel right away. He was a lot better fixed than he had expected to be, but there wasn’t any use in throwing money away. They’d have breakfast waiting at the hotel, and as long as it went with the room, he might as well eat it.
A few blocks up the street he found a hotel which seemed suitably magnificent for his new station in life. He entered, allowed the bellboy to take the bag from his hand, and signed the register with a flourish.
“I plan on being here for some time,” he announced. “What kind of rate can you give me?”
“Well…” The room clerk gave him a swift sizing-up. The young fellow didn’t look like much as to dress, but he had a manner about him; and in this country you couldn’t always tell a man by his clothes.
“Something about three dollars?” he suggested.
“Why that’ll be fine,” declared Jeff, delighted.
He had expected to pay all of four or five dollars a week for room and board. Maybe even seven. He certainly couldn’t kick on three.
The room clerk pulled a key from the rack and slid it across the counter to the bellboy.
“Show Mr. Parker to 914.”
“What time will breakfast be ready?” Jeff inquired.
“Why—uh—why it’s ready any time, Mr. Parker.”
“Well,” said the attorney brashly, “be sure and tell ’em to set a place for me.”
The room clerk laughed, and Jeff laughed, too; he had never got into trouble yet by laughing with someone else.
“Ha, ha. Very good, Mr. Parker. I’ll tell them.”
He looked, smiling, after the lawyer as he swaggered away behind the bellboy.
Jeff managed the ride upward on the elevator, being too astonished by it to be frightened. Nonchalantly he entered room 914, wiping his face with his handkerchief to conceal his amazement. He had been afraid that, for three dollars a week, they might put him up in the attic some place or give him a room with someone else. But this—gol-lee!
He turned importantly to the bellboy, determined to show him that he was a man of the world and used to the nicer things of life.
“Now, where’s the bathroom?” he demanded.
“Right here, sir!” The bellboy ceased fumbling with the window shades and hurried over to a door. He flung it open with a gesture that invited Jeff to inspect it.
Jeff did so. He looked at the immaculate tub and toilet, the tiled floors and walls, and he went back into the room, frowning. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like it a bit. Still, it didn’t look well to start complaining the first day you moved into a place.
“Is everything all right, sir?”
“It’ll have to do, I guess,” said Jeff, airily.
“Uh—was there anything else, sir?”
“I guess not,” Jeff began. Then, casting a quick glance at the servant and being quick to feel the moods of others, he saw that something was expected of him.
“Oh,” he said genially, “I expect you could use a little money, couldn’t you?”
“Well…” The boy smirked.
“You should speak up!” the attorney declared. And digging into his pocket, he brought out a fifty-cent piece and tossed it to him.
“Thank you, sir!” said the boy, bowing out.
“Well…uh…that’s all right,” said Jeff, somewhat discomfited.
He had expected some change, since three dollars a week did not cipher out to fifty cents a day. But perhaps the boy didn’t have any or would bring it up later.
The bellboy went back downstairs avowing that Mr. Parker was a spender. The room clerk added his comment that Mr. Parker was a card. Throughout the hotel the news spread quickly, and with it, his description.
Meanwhile, Jeff was again examining the bathroom with distaste.
It was not very considerate of the management, he felt, to put the bath in one of the boarder’s rooms. It should have been in the hall. Now, people would be running in to use it at all hours of the day and night. He wouldn’t be able to lock his door, since they, doubtless, would not be equipped with a key. He’d have to be careful about changing clothes, too.
Very much put out, he opened the carpetbag and took out a clean pair of socks and a bar of strong yellow soap. He sat down on the bed, took off his shoes and socks, and, bending, sniffed his feet. Yep. They could stand washing all right. Maybe even…
Watching the door apprehensively, he took off his coat and shirt and slid the underwear off his frail shoulders. He sniffed again. Shaking his head, regretfully, he came to a decision. He would have to take a bath. He smelled vastly of beer and sweat and tobacco. He would have to.
But how could he manage it?
Suppose someone wanted in while he was in there?
After some moments of worried pondering, he stepped to the writing desk and scrawled a sign on the reverse side of a sheet of stationery:
TAKING BATH. COME IN
U-R-Next
He held the legend out in front of him, studied it, then inked out the bottom line. It was unnecessary and it crowded the main part of the message. Going to the door, he attached the paper to the exterior by means of the little clip which held the number plate.
He left the door open a hospitable two inches, hastily threw off his clothes, and ran into the bathroom. A moment later he dashed out, grabbed his trousers and underwear, and ran back in again.
Although he kept an ear cocked, he heard no one come in, and he spent a full half-hour in the tub. It was a much better tub than they had at the Verdon hotel or barber shop. In Verdon the water was heated by means of a flame beneath the tub itself, and a man kind of had to swing himself on the sides and dance around all the time he was washing. But the water came right out of the pipes here.
At last he stepped out upon the tile floor, pulled on the underwear and pants, and entered the bedroom whistling.
He stopped, the shrill notes dying on his lips. He gulped.
“Gosh,” he said, apologetically, “have you been waiting very long?”
“Oh, a few minutes.”
His guest was the fattest man Jeff Parker had ever seen. He was fatter, even, than Josephine Fargo. The hat, perched on his massive head, reminded Jeff of the old saw about a peanut on an elephant. But he did not smile, for the man was obviously one of substance. He shifted his cigar between his stubby fingers, and, without arising, extended a hand.
r /> “I’m Cassidy, Senator. Most of the boys call me Jiggs.”
Jeff stepped forward and gripped the hand. “Glad to know you, Jiggs,” he said airily. “Go right on in.”
“Go right in where?” Cassidy’s eyes blinked.
“Don’t you want to use the bathroom?”
“Well, not right now,” the fat man said. “Maybe later.” His eyes blinked again, and he looked down at his cigar. “This is the damnedest hotel I ever saw, Senator. They’ve got baths in every room.”
“Oh,” said Jeff. “I just thought—”
“That’s what I thought the first time I stopped here…I hear you had quite a time for yourself in Grand Island yesterday.”
Jeff blushed. “Golly! I was hoping no one would hear about that.”
“You ought to be proud of it. A man that can make friends as readily as that has got a lot to him.”
“Yes, but—uh—how did you happen to know about it, Jiggs?”
“Oh, it’s my business to know those things.” He motioned with his cigar, and Jeff somehow had the feeling that it was the fat man’s room instead of his own. “Just sit down and make yourself comfortable, Senator. I want to talk to you.”
Jeff sat down and began drawing on his shoes. “I expect,” he said politely, “I’ll have to be getting out to the capitol pretty quick.”
“You don’t want to go out there,” said Cassidy.
“I—don’t?”
“Huh-uh. They won’t do anything today.”
“Well—uh—how do you know, Jiggs? I mean they might.”
“Huh-uh,” the fat man repeated flatly. “There’ll be just two bills introduced. One’ll be a bill to outlaw theatrical performances on Sunday. The other one will increase taxes on the saloon industry.”
“Well, gosh!” said Jeff. “That’s pretty important.”
“Both bills will be tabled, Senator.”
“Be tabled! How do you—”
“Um-hmm. They’re always introduced and always tabled.” He sighed and motioned again as Jeff started to speak. “Y’see, Senator, those bills aren’t meant to pass. They’re just a gesture. The legislature just wants to show the theatrical and beverage industry that they’re interested in their affairs.”
“Oh,” said Jeff.
“Um-hmm. You could use a few cases of good whisky, couldn’t you, Senator? You wouldn’t mind having season passes to all the shows?…Well…”
He shrugged and folded his hands across his belly.
“So you see you’d just be wasting your time going out there today. What I’ve got to talk about is much more important. Y’know, I represent, in an unofficial way, one of your largest constituents.”
“Who do you mean?”
“The railroad, naturally.” The fat man seemed annoyed at being obliged to answer a question so obvious. “Yes, I represent one of your largest constituents, Senator. And knowing you to be an attorney of great talent—by the way, I read that complaint of yours in Fargo vs. God.…”
“Did you?” Jeff grinned.
“I certainly did. It was great.…But, as I was about to say, the railroad has delegated me to consult you on certain legal matters. They have asked me to obtain your opinion—your private opinion—on several problems which are pending in your district. And they have authorized me to reimburse you substantially for your services.…Does the proposition interest you, Senator?”
“No,” said Jeff.
“Now, let’s not be hasty—”
“Get out or I’ll throw you out!”
He started to advance upon the lobbyist; then the ridiculousness of the threat struck him and the fat man at the same time. They burst out laughing; and before Jeff had stopped, the fat man was talking again.
“You’ve got me all wrong, Senator. Look here now. I’m not trying to bribe you. A bribe is what you pay to have someone do something for you, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. But—”
The fat man reached into his inside pocket and withdrew an envelope. He tossed it onto the dresser. “That envelope has a thousand dollars in it—now, hold on! Listen to what I’ve got to say. That money is yours no matter what kind of opinion you give me. If it’s adverse to the railroad’s interests, it’s still yours. I’ll leave it there, and thank you, and get up and walk out. Now, that’s not bribery, is it?”
Jeff grinned. “Sure, it is.”
“No, it’s not, Senator. It’s merely a retainer for interest—adverse or favorable—in the railroad’s affairs. I’m not going to force it on you; but I am going to ask you a question: How do you expect to live on your salary as a legislator?”
“Why, I’ll get by all right,” the attorney declared.
“How? What are you paying for this room—three or four dollars a day?”
“Three or four dollars a day!” Jeff exclaimed. “O’ course not. I’m paying—”
He choked, suddenly, as a hideous fear billowed over him. Livid and shaking, he sank down upon the bed.
“Umm-hmm,” said Cassidy. “A lot of the boys make that mistake.”
“I’ve got to get out of here!”
“Where you going to? What’s a prominent man, a man of affairs like you, going to do—stop in a flop house? That’s just about what your salary would pay for. You’d probably have to do your own washing, at that.”
“Well—how do all the other legislators get by?”
Cassidy spread his hands. “How do you think?”
“Are you sure,” said Jeff, miserably, “that they’re charging me three dollars a day?”
“There’s a rate card on the door, if you want to check it. And that doesn’t include meals; it’s actually the smallest part of your expenses. I suppose”—he squinted thoughtfully—“you might live on twice your salary. If you were very careful.”
Jeff groaned; and the fat man raised his eyebrows.
“Why feel bad about it, Senator? Everything’s quite in order. Your voters don’t pay you enough to live on because they’re confident that you’ll make up the difference. I’m offering you the opportunity. I’m showing you how a man of your standing may maintain himself and at the same time lay a foundation for his re-election. You’re a brilliant man. You can go a long ways. I’m surprised that you’ve let this little affair upset you.”
The attorney smiled weakly.
“Uh…just what was it you wished to consult me about?”
“Well, now, it’s quite a simple problem, today.” He wagged a finger. “Simple, but important. I won’t say, of course, that we won’t have something more difficult later on.”
“I see,” Jeff nodded. “But what was it today?”
“Do you think it will rain?”
“Why, no.” Jeff looked at him blankly. “I don’t think it will.”
“Thank you very much,” said the fat man.
He hoisted himself from the chair, shook Jeff’s limp hand warmly, and waddled out.
The envelope remained on the dresser.
17
The chief of police himself escorted Alfred Courtland to the railway station. He had been apologizing ever since he had talked to Philo Barkley, and he was still hard at it as the Omaha train pulled in.
“I surely hope you won’t hold this against us,” he repeated, for perhaps the fiftieth time.
“That’s quite all right,” said Courtland.
“It was kind of a natural mistake, you know, and—well, come back and see us some time.”
“I’ll do that,” said Courtland.
“Uh—well, I’m sure sorry, like I said, but you know how those things are, and it wouldn’t ever happen again, and—”
“I understand,” said Courtland. He picked up his grip as the train came to a halt, and nodded curtly. “I’ll have to be getting on. Good-by.”
“Good-by and good luck,” said the chief, with humble heartiness. He made as if to put out his hand, but the Englishman had already turned away.
For his part, despite his attitude,
Courtland was well pleased with the outcome of the affair. He could have had no better piece of luck than to have been arrested. The police had called Barkley, demanding information and refusing to give any, in the way of all police since the beginning of time. And the slow-thinking banker had stated definitely and emphatically that the money was Courtland’s. He could never retract, now. Courtland had the law itself as his witness. If Barkley were so lacking in pride as to air his stupidity in court, he would not have a leg to stand on.
So that was all right. If only everything else could be settled as simply. Courtland lay back in the seat, thinking, trying to sleep.
Well, maybe everything else would turn out all right. Perhaps he could hit upon some way of squaring himself with Jeff. Perhaps the doctors…
He fell asleep, hoping.
He arrived at Omaha early that evening and registered at the best hotel in town. After dinner, he went to a show and, upon returning to the hotel, had several drinks in the bar. They apparently had no bad consequences upon him whatsoever. In fact, they affected him only pleasantly, as drink had in the old days.
He had a good night’s sleep, ate a hearty breakfast, and presented himself to the manager of the hotel. The manager was respectful to the point of being obsequious. (The room clerk had told him of the money which Courtland had left in the hotel’s vault.)
“I’m here on some business matters which haven’t quite matured,” the Englishman explained, “and I want to use my free time in getting a thorough medical check-up. Can you recommend a good physician?”
“I can do better than that,” the manager avowed. “Drs. McClintic and Tower have a clinic right here in the hotel. You’re familiar with their reputation, I suppose?”
“Why, yes. I believe I am.”
“They’re the men for you to see. I can recommend them without reservation. Shall I see if I can get you an appointment?”
“If you would, please.”
The manager picked up his desk phone, gave a number, and talked into the mouthpiece for several minutes. He hung up smiling, proud.
“I’ve got them to receive you right away,” he said, taking Courtland’s arm and leading him toward the elevator. “They’re on the top floor. Drs. McClintic and Tower, in the tower. Ha, ha!”