The Neer-Do-Well | Page 3

enough, notwithstanding the
positiveness with which the newspapers spoke, the facts agreed
essentially with their statements. Darwin K. Anthony and his son had
quarrelled, they were estranged; the young man did prefer idleness to
industry. Exactly as the published narratives related, he toiled not at all,
he spun nothing but excuses, he arrayed himself in sartorial glory, and
drove a yellow racing-car beyond the speed limit.
It was all true, only incomplete. Kirk Anthony's father had even better
reasons for his disapproval of the young man's behavior than appeared.
The fact was that Kirk's associates were of a sort to worry any
observant parent, and, moreover, he had acquired a renown in that part
of New York lying immediately west of Broadway and north of
Twenty-sixth Street which, in his father's opinion, added not at all to
the lustre of the family name. In particular, Anthony, Sr., was
prejudiced against a certain Higgins, who, of course, was his son's boon
companion, aid, and abettor. This young gentleman was a lean,

horse-faced senior, whose unbroken solemnity of manner had more
than once led strangers to mistake him for a divinity student, though
closer acquaintance proved him wholly unmoral and rattle-brained. Mr.
Higgins possessed a distorted sense of humor and a crooked outlook
upon life; while, so far as had been discovered, he owned but two
ambitions: one to whip a policeman, the other to write a musical
comedy. Neither seemed likely of realization. As for the first, he was
narrow-chested and gangling, while a brief, disastrous experience on
the college paper had furnished a sad commentary upon the second.
Not to exaggerate, Darwin K. Anthony, the father, saw in the person of
Adelbert Higgins a budding criminal of rare precocity, and a menace to
his son; while to the object of his solicitude the aforesaid criminal was
nothing more than an entertaining companion, whose bizarre disregard
of all established rules of right and wrong matched well with his own
careless temper. Higgins, moreover, was an ardent follower of athletics,
revolving like a satellite about the football stars, and attaching himself
especially to Kirk, who was too good-natured to find fault with an
honest admirer.
It was Higgins this evening who, after the "cripples" had deserted and
the supper party had dwindled to perhaps a dozen, proposed to make a
night of it. It was always Higgins who proposed to make a night of it,
and now, as usual, his words were greeted with enthusiasm.
Having obtained the floor, he gazed owlishly over the flushed faces
around the table and said:
"I wish to announce that, in our little journey to the underworld, we
will visit some places of rare interest and educational value. First we
will go to the House of Seven Turnings."
"No poetry, Hig!" some one cried. "What is it?"
"It is merely a rendezvous of pickpockets and thieves, accessible only
to a chosen few. I feel sure you will enjoy yourselves there, for the
bartender has the secret of a remarkable gin fizz, sweeter than a
maiden's smile, more intoxicating than a kiss."
"Piffle!"
"It is a place where the student of sociology can obtain a world of
valuable information."
"How do we get in?"
"Leave that to old Doctor Higgins," Anthony laughed. "To get out is

the difficulty."
"Oh, I guess we'll get out," said the bulky Ringold.
"After we have concluded our investigations at the House of Seven
Turnings," continued the ceremonious Higgins, "we will go to the
Palace of Ebony, where a full negro orchestra--"
"The police closed that a week ago."
"But it has reopened on a scale larger and grander than ever."
"Let's take in the Austrian Village," offered Ringold.
"Patiently! Patiently, Behemoth! We'll take 'em all in. However, I wish
to request one favor. If by any chance I should become embroiled with
a minion of the law, please, oh please, let me finish him."
"Remember the last time," cautioned Anthony. "You've never come
home a winner."
"Enough! Away with painful memories! All in favor--"
"AYE!" yelled the diners, whereupon a stampede ensued that caused
the waiters in the main dining-room below to cease piling chairs upon
the tables and hastily weight their napkins with salt- cellars.
But the crowd was not combative. They poured out upon the street in
the best possible humor, and even at the House of Seven Turnings, as
Higgins had dubbed the "hide-away" on Thirty-second Street, they
made no disturbance. On the contrary, it was altogether too quiet for
most of them, and they soon sought another scene. But there were
deserters en route to the Palace of Ebony, and when in turn the joys of a
full negro orchestra had palled and a course was set for the Austrian
Village, the number of investigators had dwindled to a