All Story Magazine, December 1913 — page 27: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A THIEVES’ bold, was unquestionably masculine, but the construction of the invitation struck me as being somewhat peculiar —for a butler. Either the gentleman with the limp was an impudent beg- gar or I was guessing wrong. I lay awake most of the night puz- zling over the matter, and it is suffi- cient to say that I arrived nowhere— not even in a continued effort to re- member where I had seen the butler before. The man’s face was not at all fa- miliar—just his rather odd limp. I awoke next morning still in the dark about him and in a wretched humor. There was no music in my _ soul while I tubbed that morning. Sysonsby’s dream had gone to the dickens; Campbell was too uncertain a quantity to rely upon, and his pe- culiar action in tying me to Rollins’s coat-tails irritated’ me. I detested mystery. The police, according to that morn- ing’s paper, were quite at sea regard- ing the Berman robbery, and New York was told by Yonkers to keep its gangsters to itself. Some people wrote letters about it: indignant, amu- sing, critical. But they didn’t teach me anything. Rollins was to call for me in his car at ten, and I would have enjoyed sending down word that I was not at home had it not been for the fact that I had nothing better to do and thought I might as well suffer him for a day or two just to see if anything worth while would happen. His intention for that morning was to have me compare the Metropolitan Museum with the National Gallery. I did not know whether we had any- thing resembling Grant’s Tomb or not, but as I dressed I made up my mind that our itinerary for that day should embrace it. Tio me, at that stage of my acquaintance with New York, a tomb sounded rather funereal as a retidezvous, and I thought I would like to look it and its surround- ings over in the daylight before I 25 COMEDY. 737 should decide whether or not to ac- cept the anonymous invitation. When Rollins called I thought he was disgustingly — pleasant. He gushed, and a woman who does that is bad enough. I insinuated that I would like to see Grant’s Tomh, and he declared at once that my sugges- tion was splendid, and added: “Riverside Drive has been com- pared favorably by a few as being the equal of if not an improvement upon the Embankment; but’—with a smile that pitied the critics referred to—“ of course we know better, just as we know that cricket is a much more gentlemanly game than _ base- ball.” I did not know anything about it then — baseball, I mean—and I have always been very fond of cricket, so I did not argue the point. I had the good fortune, however, to see a World’s Series game last year, and Jove! it was a scorcher! In the seventh inning the—but I mustn’t do that sort of thing. I am not a base- ball reporter; and since you can read a guide-book of New York anywhere, at any time, you will please take the Metropolitan Museum of Art, et cetera, ct cetera, for granted. Rojlins clung to me like a leech, hustling me about for all the world like a Cook’s tourist, till I had given up hope of being able to get rid of him, so that I might have a chance to satisfy myself upon the authorship of the mysterious note. About six-thirty on Saturday eve- ning, seated in his car, we were cross- ing the East River in a ferryboat to Thirty-Fourth Street on our return from some aviation trials at Mineola, Long Island. Rollins had lapsed into silence, and as I was considering how I could tell him that I should like very much to be alone that evening, he surprised me by becoming suddenly apologetic—be- cause he found it impossible to dine with me! “T got a telegram this morning,” comicloooks.com