A Man and His Money | Page 3

extending the tumbler.
The thin lips of the other moved, his hand quickly extended but was
drawn as suddenly back. "Thanks, but I'm on the water wagon, old
chap."
"Well, I'm not. Do you know you said that just like a gentleman--to the
manner born."

"A gentleman? A moment ago I was a reformed burglar."
"You might be both."
Mr. Heatherbloom looked into space; Mr. Mackintosh did not notice a
subtle change of expression. That latter gentleman's rapt gaze was
wholly absorbed by the half-tumblerful he held in mid air. But only for
a moment; the next, he was smacking his lips. "We'll have a bite to eat
and then go," he now said more cheerfully. "Ready for luncheon?"
"I could eat"
"Had anything to-day?"
"Maybe."
"And maybe, not!" Half jeeringly. "Why don't you say you've been
training down, taking the go-without-breakfast cure? Say, it must be
hell looking for a job when you've just 'got out'!"
"How do you know I just 'got out'?"
"You look it, and--there's a lot of reasons. Come on."
Half an hour or so later the covered wagon drove along Fourteenth
street. Near the curb, not far from the corner of Broadway, it separated
itself from the concourse of vehicles and stopped. Close by, nickel
palaces of amusement exhibited their yawning entrances, and into these
gilded maws floated, from the human current on the sidewalk, a stream
of men, women and children. Encamped at the edge of this eddy, Mr.
Mackintosh sounded on the nomadic piano, now ensconced within the
coach of concord, the first triumphal strains of the maternal tribute in
rag-time.
He and the conspiring instrument were concealed in the depths of the
vehicle from the gaze of the multitude, but Mr. Heatherbloom at the
back faced them on the little step which served as concert stage. There
were no limelights or stereopticon pictures to add to the illusion,--only

the disconcerting faces and the light of day. He never before knew how
bright the day could be but he continued to stand there, in spite of the
ludicrous and trying position. He sang, a certain daredevil light in his
eye now, a suspicion of a covert smile on his face. It might be rather
tragic--his position--but it was also a little funny.
His voice didn't sound any better out of doors than it did in; the "angel"
quality of the white-robed choir days had departed with the soul of the
boy. Perhaps Mr. Heatherbloom didn't really feel the pathos of the
selection; at any rate, those tears Mr. Mackintosh had prophesied would
be rolling down the cheeks of the listening multitude weren't
forthcoming. One or two onlookers even laughed.
"Pigs! Swine!" murmured the composer, now passing through the
crowd with copies of the song. He sold a few, not many; on the back
step Mr. Heatherbloom watched with faint sardonic interest.
"Have I earned my luncheon yet?" he asked the composer when that
aggrieved gentleman, jingling a few dimes, returned to the equipage of
melody.
"Haven't counted up," was the gruff reply. "Give 'em another verse!
They ain't accustomed to it yet. Once they git to know it, every
boot-black in town will be whistling that song. Don't I know? Didn't I
write it? Ain't they all had mothers?"
"Maybe they're all Topsies and 'just growed'," suggested Mr.
Heatherbloom.
"Patience!" muttered the other. "The public may be a little coy at first,
but once they git started they'll be fighting for copies. So encore, my
boy; hammer it into them. We'll get them; you see!"
But the person addressed didn't see, at least with Mr. Mackintosh's
clairvoyant vision. Mr. Heatherbloom's gaze wandering quizzically
from the little pool of mask-like faces had rested on a great shining
motor-car approaching--slowly, on account of the press of traffic. In
this wide luxurious vehicle reposed a young girl, slender, exquisite; at

her side sat a big, dark, distinguished-appearing man, with a closely
cropped black beard; a foreigner--most likely Russian.
The girl was as beautiful as the dainty orchids with which the superb
car was adorned, and which she, also, wore in her gown--yellow
orchids, tenderly fashioned but very insistent and bright. Upon this
patrician vision Mr. Heatherbloom had inadvertently looked, and the
pathetic plaint regarding "Mother" died on the wings of nothingness.
With unfilial respect he literally abandoned her and cast her to the
winds. His eyes gleamed as they rested on the girl; he seemed to lose
himself in reverie.
Did she, the vision in orchids, notice him? Perhaps! The chauffeur at
that moment increased the speed of the big car; but as it dashed past,
the crimson mouth of the beautiful girl tightened and hardened into a
straight line and those wonderful starlike eyes shone suddenly with a
light as hard as steel. Disdainful, contemptuous; albeit, perhaps,