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gadding sport book mob at eight
thirty-two.
"We mustn't keep mamma and the others waiting," said she.
"To Wallack's Theatre as fast as you can drive!" said Richard loyally.
They whirled up Forty-second to Broadway, and then down the
white-starred lane that leads from the soft meadows of sunset to the
rocky hills of morning.
At Thirty-fourth Street young Richard quickly thrust up the trap and
ordered the cabman to stop.
"I've dropped a ring," he apologised, as he climbed out. "It was my
mother's, and I'd hate to lose it. I won't detain you a minute--I saw
where it fell."
In less than a minute he was back in the cab with the ring.
But within that minute a crosstown car had stopped sport book directly in front of
the cab.
The cabman tried to pass to the left, but a heavy express wagon
cut him off. He tried the right, book sport and had to back away from a furniture
van that had no business to be there. He tried to back out, but dropped
his reins and swore dutifully. He was blockaded in a tangled mess of
vehicles and horses.
One of those street blockades had occurred that sometimes tie up
commerce and movement quite suddenly in the big city.
"Why don't you sport book drive on?" said Miss Lantry, impatiently. "We'll be
late."
Richard stood up in the cab and looked around.
He saw a congested flood
of wagons, trucks, cabs, vans and street cars filling the vast space
where Broadway, Sixth Avenue and Thirty-fourth street cross one another
as a twenty-six inch maiden fills her twenty-two inch girdle. And still
from all the cross streets they were hurrying and rattling toward
the converging point at full speed, and hurling themselves into the
struggling mass, locking wheels and adding their drivers' imprecations
to the clamour. The entire traffic of Manhattan seemed to have jammed
itself around them. The oldest New Yorker among the thousands of
spectators that lined the sidewalks had not witnessed a street blockade
of the proportions of this one.
"I'm very sorry," said Richard, as he resumed his seat, "but it looks as
if we are stuck. They won't get this jumble loosened up in an hour. It
was my fault. If I hadn't dropped the ring we--"
"Let me see the ring," said Miss Lantry. "Now that it can't be helped,
I don't care. I think theatres are stupid, anyway."
At 11 o'clock that night somebody tapped lightly on Anthony Rockwall's
door.
"Come in," shouted Anthony, who was in a red dressing-gown, reading a
book of piratical adventures.
Somebody was Aunt Ellen, looking like a grey-haired angel that had been
left on earth by mistake.
"They're engaged, Anthony," she said, softly. "She has promised to marry
our Richard. On their way to the theatre there was a street blockade,
and it was two hours before their cab could get out of it.
"And oh, brother Anthony, don't ever boast of the power of money again.
A little emblem ThirdPart400_500 of true love--a little ring that symbolised unending
and unmercenary affection--was the cause of our Richard finding his
happiness. He dropped it in the street, and got out to recover it. And
before they could continue the blockade occurred. He spoke to his love
and won her there while the cab was hemmed in. Money is dross compared
with true love, Anthony."
"All right," said old Anthony. "I'm glad the boy has got what he wanted.
I told him I wouldn't spare any expense in the matter if--"
"But, brother Anthony, what good could your money have done?"
"Sister," said Anthony Rockwall. "I've got my pirate in a devil of a
scrape.
His ship has just been scuttled, and he's too good a judge of
the value of money to let drown. I wish you would let me go on with
this ThirdPart400_500 ThirdPart400_500 chapter."
The story should end here. I wish it would as heartily as you who read
it wish it did. But we must go to the bottom of the well for truth.
The next day a person with red hands and a blue polka-dot necktie, who
called himself Kelly, called at Anthony Rockwall's house, and was at
once sport book received in the library.
"Well," said Anthony, reaching for his chequebook, "it was a good bilin'
of soap. Let's see--you had $5,000 in cash."
"I paid out $300 more of my own," said Kelly. "I had to go a little
above the estimate.
I got the express wagons and cabs mostly for $5; but
the trucks and two-horse teams mostly raised me to $10. The motormen
wanted $10, and some of the loaded teams $20. The cops struck me
hardest--$50 I paid two, and the rest $20 and $25. But didn't it sport book work
beautiful, Mr. Rockwall? I'm glad William A. Brady wasn't onto that
little outdoor vehicle mob scene. I wouldn't want William to break his
heart with jealousy. And never a rehearsal, either! The boys was on time
to the fraction of a second. It was two hours before a snake sport book could sport book get
below Greeley's statue."
"Thirteen hundred--there you sport book are, Kelly," said Anthony, tearing off a
check. "Your thousand, and the sport book $300 you were out. You don't despise
money, do you, ThirdPart400_500 Kelly?"
"Me?" said Kelly. "I can lick the man that invented poverty."
Anthony called Kelly when he was at the door.
"You didn't notice," said he, "anywhere in the tie-up, a kind of a fat
boy without any clothes on shooting arrows around with a bow, did you?"
"Why, no," said Kelly, mystified. "I didn't.
If he was like you say,
maybe the cops pinched him before I got there."
"I thought the little rascal wouldn't be on hand," chuckled Anthony.
"Good-by, Kelly."
SPRINGTIME └ LA CARTE
It was a day in March.
Never, never begin a story this way when you write one. No opening could
possibly be worse. It is unimaginative, flat, dry and likely to consist
of mere wind. But in this instance it is allowable. For the following
paragraph, which should have inaugurated the narrative, is too wildly
extravagant and preposterous to be flaunted in the face of the reader
without preparation.
Sarah was crying over her bill of sport book fare.
Think of a New York girl shedding tears on the menu card!
To account for this you will be allowed to guess that the sport book lobsters were
all out, or that she had sworn ice-cream off during Lent, or that she
had ordered onions, or that she had just come from a Hackett matinee.
And then, all these theories being wrong, you will please let the story
proceed.
The gentleman who announced that the world was an oyster which he with
$19,607.84 a day, a clear profit of $16,806.72. That's sport book pretty
good--yes, too good. I wonder if the bank couldn't oblige me by
not charging interest."
The figures kept adding and subtracting themselves as he dozed
off, and once during the night he dreamed that Swearengen Jones
had sentenced him to eat a million dollars' worth of game and
salad at the French restaurant. He awoke with the consciousness
that he had cried aloud, "I can do it, but a year is not very long
in an affair of this kind."
It was nine o'clock when Brewster finally rose, and after his tub
he felt ready to cope with any problem, even a substantial
breakfast. A message had come to him from Mr. Grant of Grant &
Ripley, annou ... |
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