# McClure's Magazine/Volume 29/Number 3/Patsy Moran and the Warnings

from McClure's magazine, July 1907, pp. 307–316. (Illustrations may be omitted)
PATSY MORAN AND THE WARNINGS
BY ARTHUR SULLIVANT HOFFMAN AUTHOR OF "PATSY MORAN AND THE LUNATICS," ETC
ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG
ONE of the first warm days of an early spring had tempted Patsy and Tim out into the sunshine even so far as across the Island to the North River, where they sat on an empty barge, their feet dangling over the waters of the Hudson.
"I think I will become a Turk," Patsy announced, after a silence to which even he had been a party.
"Phwat's thim?" grunted his companion.
"They is people what believes in fatality an' wears red pajamies," Moran explained, "an' other colors. Not that I'm caring annything about the pajamies, but there ain't nothin' on earth as sure as fatality. It's much the same as believin' in signs."
In the absence of any response. Patsy continued:
"Me an' Lucy had a fine lay worked up in the Fifties near the Avenue, whin she wint an' got sick. She waz all for us waitin' till she waz well, but with me man's sinse I put a stop to that notion.
"Says I, 'The doctor has been tellin' ye to stay in the house till Tuesday. Winsday they'll be after fixin' up the place for the family to come home to. Now think of this—Tuesday is the thirteenth. We'll take no fool's chanct on such date as that. Do ye stay here where ye should, an' I'll do the job on Monday night. I won't be needin' ye, annyways,' I says.
"'Oh,' she says. 'Well,' says she, 'it's an easy lift, an' I suppose ye can't go wrong,' she feelin' disagreeable be reason of bein' sick. Thin she begun tellin' me what I waz to do all over agin, an' I wint on home.
"The next day I had me first warnin'. Whin I waz drissin' mesilf, me mind waz so full of the driss-suit I waz to be after rintin', it bein' a issintial part of me plans, that I wint an' laced up me lift shoe before iver I put on the right wan. 'Faith,' says I. 'if I waz believin' in thim signs at all, this would be turnin' me back, for it's the worst of the whole lot.' So I took off me shoe agin, praise the saints for that much grace, an' begun over, hopin' the evil would fall on the driss-suit an' nothin' ilse beside.
"Well, it fell on the driss-suit, annyways. Whin Isaac Linsky begun puttin' thim clothes on me, me troubles come in a bunch. Sure, Tim, thim driss-suits is queer things. I wonder how folks iver waz so bad, the divil waz allowed to invint thim at all. Ye notice he goes naked himsilf. An' tight, is it? The vests of thim is intinded to fit ye under the skin instid of outside your shirt. Says I, 'How do ye eat without undrissin'?' 'Ye don't eat,' says Linsky. 'They have dinner-coats for that.' Whin I saw mesilf in the glass, it waz like lookin' at a big, black doughnut with legs to it an' a white hole in the middle. But I rinted the driss-suit an' wint home to practise.
"Monday night about eight o'clock I begun gettin' in it, an' at elivin-thirty, after a nip of the old stuff at O'Brien's place, I walked in the front door of the Eldeane as big as life. Owin' to me driss-suit, they asked me no quistions, an' at the fifth floor I lift the ilivator. Down the hall I wint to No. 509 an' wandered round thim impty rooms, till the lights I waz watchin' all wint out, an' I made ready to slip down on the roofs of the row of houses nixt the Eldeane.
"'Twas me good angel sint that cat to warn me right!'"
"As I waz hangin' from the windy an' feelin' for the roof with me feet, some spalpeen of a divil made me screw me head to see how the clouds waz obscurin' what moon there waz. They wazn't obscurin' it, an' it waz brand new, an' I waz lookin' at it over me lift shoulder. Ye may laugh at signs be daytime, but whin the night is around ye— But I hild me nerve an' wint on, walkin' the little wall at the idge for fear of cracklin' on the tin, an' wishin' I'd screwed me head the other way, me driss-suit makin' me feel like I waz canned.
"'Five houses out,' I says to mesilf. 'Now does that mean count five an' take the nixt wan, or count five an' don't take the nixt wan? I'll be takin' number five, an' trust the saints,' says I, an' just as I turned on me walls a great big scut of a black cat skinned rappity-hell across the roof afore me eyes. 'Faith, the nixt house it is!' I says, after nearly fallin' off the wall. 'Twaz me good angel sint that cat to warn me right!'
"Whin I had worked me way, cautious, across the nixt roof, I come to a man sittin' flat on it, leanin' aginst a chimney, with his legs stretched out as far as his toes, an' be all that waz amazin', he waz in one of thim driss-suits like me own! I spoke out afore I knew, him havin' done no more than turn his head whin I come.
"'The saints preserve us,' I says, tryin' to straighten me coat, 'what do ye think ye are doin' here?'
"I'm not thinkin',' says he, merely lookin' up at me, calm-like. 'I'm writin' a poem.' An' I seen he waz drunk.
"'Holy Mother!' says I, 'on a tin roof? I thought——'
"'On me lady's lashes,' says he, 'an' me cuff.'
"'It will be after spoilin' the whole shirt,' says I, remonstratin' with him. 'These attached cuffs is hell on the laundry bills.' An' I begun pushin' me own aginst each other to git thim up me sleeves.
"'It's only goin' to be a quat-rain,' says he.
"'Goin' to what?' I says. 'Rain?' says I. 'Rain? It's a clear sky, man! There ain't enough water in thim clouds to make a highball for a man that takes it straight.'
"'O lady fair,' says he, with his pencil dug into his cheek, 'O heart of mine. O soul of all the world——'
"'How did ye git here?' I inquires of him.
"'I met a frind of mine isn't isn't a poet, an' we had dinner,' he says, 'an' wine. A loaf of wine, a jug of bread, an" thou beloved beside me singing up in Paradise oh Paradise waz wilderness in now.'
"'Niver mind,' says I, soothin', 'niver mind. What I waz meanin' waz, do ye live here?'
"'Oh, no,' he says, 'I only come here to write po'try. I live somewheres in this block. I knew where it waz before dinner, an' whin I come out of it, but not now,' says he. 'Not now,' he says agin, pathetic, 'not now.'
"'Didn't ye leave the trap-floor open?' says I, keen-like.
"'Yis,' says he, 'but whin I wint back to all of thim, they waz shut,' says he, 'an' locked.' An' thin agin, 'An' locked.'
"'Here,' says I, 'stand up!' An' I took him be the shoulder. 'Stand up. It will be makin' ye feel better.'
"He come to his feet, mostly be himsilf. 'Oh, I'm all right,' he says, 'I'm all right. I waz just feelin' sad-like.' Thin he says, leanin' over to whisper it, 'Poets is queer,' says he, mysterious.
"'They sure is,' says I.
"'Oh, I'm all right,' says he. 'I waz just a bit drowsy.'
"An' faith, my makin' him stand up seemed to give him a new grip, for he sort of shook himsilf an' straightened out. Thin he begun walkin' slow but stidy, me with him, an' him cracklin' terrible as he wint.
"I begun debatin' with mesilf. 'The thing to do,' thinks I, 'is to put him up aginst his chimney agin, on the far side, an' let him go to sleep, while I open the trap-door an' pull off me job. He won't raymimber me from the chimney be marnin'.' An' I waz just after doin' it, whin the howl of a dog rose up from some of thim back yards an' sint the cold chills down me! 'Be the powers, it's death or the black luck to some wan if I do what I'm plannin'!' But he paid no heed to it, seemin' to be thinkin' up more po'try. 'Maybe it's nayther of us at all,' thinks I, an' looked away just in time to see that big gomerel of a cat prowlin' square atween us an' the place I had intinded takin' him to! I waz not the fool to throw away its warnin'. 'The man's poor, annyways,' thinks I, 'an' if he don't relapse, he can be helpin' me inside.' Whin wanct me mind is made up, it's no time is lost.
"'Ye say ye are poor,' says I. 'Do ye need money?'
"'Money, is it? Look at me hair,' he says. 'Close cropped. Ye can tell how poor a poet is be how short his hair is. Some of thim is bald-headed,' says he, 'bald-headed.'
"'I thought they all wore it long,' says I.
"'Not thim,' he says. 'Whin they git real poor, they have to wear it short so people will give thim a job makin' a livin' be workin'. It's only whin they git rich enough to starve as a poet that they can afford to let it grow long. An' such of thim as sells enough po'try to the magazines to live on it ivery other week or so, keeps it long to prove they're poets in spite of the ividence aginst thim,' he says.
"'Ye're Irish,' says I.
"'I'm drunk,' says he. 'I always talk bist whin I'm drunk, an' thin I can't raymimber it whin I'm sober.' An' he begun makin' tearful sounds agin.
"'Are ye still drinkin'?' says I, loosenin' at me collar.
"'Hilp yoursilf,' says he, polite, passin' me a bottle from his back pocket. 'Ye're a humorist,' says he.
"'Me?' says I. 'An' why do ye call me that?'
"'They're the only wans poor enough to borrow of a poet,' he says.
"I looked at him a minute, severe, an' feelin' a bit hurt.
"'Oh, ye're welcome,' says he, laughin' some more—it waz either laughin' or weepin' he waz most of the time—'I'm not wantin' to get drunk, annyways,' he says.
"Faith, the spirit of him! I put it to him all to wanct:
"'I'm a burglar,' I says, 'an' I'm goin' to' clean out this house. If ye help me, there's a share comin' ye for the trouble. Do ye want the money?'
"'Oh,' says he, 'a burglar,' puttin' the ind of his pencil in his mouth an' lookin' at me thoughtful. 'Oh,' he says. 'In thim clothes? Do ye always wear thim?' he says.
"'Whin I'm with gintlemen,' says I, flatterin' him—that bein' good for thim as is drunker than yoursilf—an' feelin' proud I waz drissed with the best of thim. 'Will ye go with me?'
"'I would go annywherc so it's the other side of wan of thim trap-doors,' says he. Thin he comminced to laugh. 'Surely,' says he, an' thin he wint on laughin'. 'But ain't no wan to home?' he says, in the middle of it.
"'The family's out of town,' I says, not seein' the joke.
"'In we go, thin,' says he, sittin' down aginst the chimney wanct more.
"'Do ye understand,' says I, irritated, 'do ye understand that I'm not needin' ye at all for this, an' 'tis only through charity that ye come along?'
"'Niver mintion the word atween gintlemen,' says he. 'Your tie is up in the back.'
"'Oh, it is?' says I, still irritated, but reachin' for it. An' thin I opened me grip an' wint at the trap-door. Ye may know it took but a minute, for all that me clothes waz cuttin' me into sandwiches. It seemed to please him to see it come off, an' he come over an' look a look at the hole.
"'You first,' says I, polite, bein' too old a hand to take anny chances of him shuttin' the door on me an' goin' to sleep.
"Oh,' says he, as I come to me feet without bustin' me waistband, 'whin ye fixed your tie in the back, ye twisted it to wan side in front. To the right,' says he, 'to the right.'
In this small glass,' says I, 'I hold the curse of Cain and Adam, an' Eve.'"
"'Oh,' says he agin, 'ye shouldn't have put your fingers on it after handlin' the roof. Ye've soiled it now—all soiled. Permit me,' he says, an' begun fussin' with it dainty, me feelin' foolish. 'There,' says he, pattin' it with his hand, an' standin' back to look at me. 'There.' says he, proud an' smilin'. 'Excipt the spots,' he says, 'excipt the spots—the spots.'
"He waz losin' interist agin, an" begun lookin' at the chimney, but I pointed to the hole. 'Git in,' says I.
"'Of course.' says he, as if it had slipped his mind, an' he laughed some more.
"'I've been thinkin',' he says, as he put wan leg down the hole to the ladder an' begun workin' the other like a pump-handle, "I've been thinkin' it over.' says he. 'an' if ye are to go on keepin' the bottle an' I——'
"'Go wan down!' says I. 'This is no time for thinkin'. Ye might as well be writin' po'try. 'Tind to your duty,' I says, 'an' don't talk so much.'
"'That is a beautiful thing,' says he, an' he stopped pumpin' with his leg an' looked up at me like a dyin' calf; 'I could not love the deer so much loved I not duty—honor—duty——'
"But I put me foot aginst his fingers, an' he wint down sayin' it waz a beautiful thing. Whin I reached the bottom of the ladder, he waz sittin' on the floor an' still sayin' it.
"Well, for a house wid the owners of it away, the haul waz a fine wan, they seemin' to have gone in a hurry, leavin' much behind thim. Wan of the things they lift waz different kinds of liquor, enough to make sinsible people of all the fools, to say nothin' of makin' what sinsible people they is foolish. I tried some of those that waz new to me, holdin' him back from havin' too much. Thin we filled me grip an' wan we found for him an' all our pockets widout bulgin' thim too much, an' thin I says to him, kind-like:
"'I think we will be goin' home now.' says I, buttonin' up me vest an' makin' tidy to pass the Eldeane people like gintlemen. We waz in the library-room, an' him sittin' on the floor with the grip atween his legs an' croonin' to himsilf.
"'Home?' says he. 'Me?' he says, an' begun bein' sad. 'Home,' says he pathetic, wavin' a soup-ladle in front of him, 'Home?' Thin he looked me in the eye: 'Home they brought her warrior dead, Sheener weptner uttercry——'
"'For God's sake, talk sinse,' says I, 'an' come with me where ye can sleep it off!' I says, takin' him be the shoulder agin. He come up all right—he niver had no trouble walkin' wanct he waz started—an' we made for the door.
"I give a last look around, an' the first thing that come to me eyes waz the new moon through the windy! It waz over me right shoulder this time, praise be, but I'd seen it through glass!
"'Tis not the time for leavin' now, asthore!' thinks I quick. '’Twas a warnin' to me!'
"An' just thin he sat down agin. 'That's another sign,' thinks I, but he didn't recite nothin', Instid of that he looked up at me, smilin' that little girl smile, an' he says:
"'I will just be settin' here,' says he, peaceful, 'till I git wan more drink,' he says. 'Just wan, on me word as a gintlemen. Be yonder moon I swear——'
"That waz enough. I niver heard what come after him sayin' 'moon'!
"Whin I handed him a bottle, me frind got up without anny hilp, but they waz no pleasure showin' in his face.
"'There,' he says, solemn, 'there lies the whole hist'ry of the human race, past, prisint, future, an' what comes after that. There is more unhappiness in thim bottles than there is outside of thim. In this small glass,' says he, 'I hold the curse of Cain, an' Adam, an' Eve, an' Joshwah, an' Job, an' Joseph, an' all the rist of thim down to Noah, an' up to us. Yis,' he says, sighin', 'it's up to us. Here's lookin' at ye.'
"He waz so sad be this time it made me own liquor taste bad, like they waz tears in it. 'I'll be watchin' him close,' thinks I to mesilf. 'Be the time that wan drink works in to where his thoughts waz intinded to come from, he's like to die of grief. The poor young fool, he oughht niver to be after touchin' it at all.'
"But he didn't git no worse to speak of, an' pretty soon I begun gittin' interisted in his po'try mesilf, an' it wazn't many drinks after that afore i waz recitin' him some things I knew whin I waz a lad.
"After while he begun cryin' an' laid his head down sideways on the shiny table, holdin' his hands togither behind his back an' twistin' his fingers. I sat there contemplatin' him, an' he wint right on sobbin', just turnin' his head over on the other side. Ivery time he sobbed, his head worked back an' forth on the table, his ear stickin' where it waz.
"At last he unhooked his hands an' begun gropin' out over his head amongst the bottles, me pickin' thim up after him, till he found wan that waz a comfortable size an' begun pourin' it on the table, dainty. I took it from him, but he wint right on pourin' without it, still sobbin'.
"'To him,' says he from the table, chokeful. 'To him,' he says, 'Yisterday he waz with me. To-day he is no more. To-morrow,' he says, 'to-morrow he ain't either. He ain't either,' he says, 'he ain't either.'
"'No,' says I, 'he ain't, me poor frind. Who waz he?'
"I niver hit anything I shoot at whin I'm sober,' says the poet, 'but I'm not sober.'"
"'His hair waz white,' says he, 'an' curly,' says he. 'An' curly. With little bunches at the knee. Four of thim,' he says, 'at the knee.'
'Four?' says I. 'Four what?'
'Bunches,' says he, melancholy.
"'Waz they two on each knee?' says I.
"'Oh, no, no, no!' he says, cryin' bitter. 'They waz four knees,' says he, 'only the wans on his legs wazn't knees, an' the other wans waz elbows. Oh, no, no! They wazn't two bunches on anny of thim. Just wan,' he says, 'just wan.'
"'Thin they waz four knees on him,' says I, irritated. 'That's what you said. With wan bunch on each of thim, makin' four bunches altogither.'
"'Yis,' says he, 'an' wan on his tail,' he says. 'Tail.'
"'Holy saints,' says I, seein' through it at wanct, 'thin he waz a dog, him an' his bunches! Preserve us! An' you weepin' round here for a blamed dog that's dead an' buried, an' him a poodle at that!'
"'He ain't buried!' says he, fierce, an' raisin' up his head off the table.
"'He aint!' says I.
"'No,' says he, sad agin. 'How could they bury him? He waz only in wan of me poems,' he says. 'In wan of——'
"'Served him right,' I says, havin' lost me timper.
"'Brute!' says he.
"'Not him,' says I. 'He waz just a poodle, an' they wazn't anny of him annyways, him with his knees that waz elbows.'
"'Do you like ridin' in a hansom?' says he. 'I do.'
"'Who?' says I.
"'On a wintry evenin',' he says, smilin' through his tears an' stretchin' out his arm, 'with the snow siftin' down an' layin' quiet while they walk on it, all thim people on the Avenue, with the lights shinin' on thim as they pass. An' all the other hansoms. Me mother don't care for it in summer, but I like it in the spring. A carriage won't do,' says he, 'a carriage won't do. Won't do.'
"'Now ain't that like you rich folk,' says I, me dander up, 'not carin' for carriages in the spring, an' we poor wans trampin' our way in the dirty snow! What did ye want to put a poem in the poor dog for? I niver did the like of that be anny dumb beast, the faithful f rinds they are,' says I, thinkin' mournful-like of all the men an' women what had been cruel to me. 'Why 'twas only Winsday a week gone I come on Flaherty's little Mike throwin' boards at wan of thim little black dogs with three legs, an' I——'
"Just thin a man stood up in the door in front of me! A little man with a black beard, wearin' a high hat, an' a overcoat, an' pointin' a gun straight into me eyes!
"'It's bad enough,' says the little man, 'to come home an' find a pair of thieves with all me valuables, but to have thim make a night of it with me choicest wines—turnin' over to the police is too good for ye.'
"Me driss-suit begun fittin' me tighter than what it had, which waz tighter than annything ilse in the world up to thin. I comminced debatin' with mesilf, but just thin the poet started to laughin' at God knows what, he bein' drunk, an' begun tryin' to stand up.
"'While the two of ye are listenin',' says he, pleasant, 'I will be gittin' a book down from the shelves an' readin' some po'try to ye—from the shelves.' An' be all that's holy, he begun walkin', him that couldn't set up in his chair a bit gone! For wan that's drunk, he waz most unreliable. But the man in the door niver took his eyes from me, knowin' me for the thinkin' an' dangerous wan of the two an' havin' no regard for the way me clothes felt on me.
"'Now,' he says to me, 'I will keep this gun on ye till ye collect all your plunder in wan place. After that I will attind to ye both!'
"I waz turnin' me wits inside out be this time, but for the wanct there waz nothin' in thim, an' me driss-suit bosom was pushin' me under the chin most distractin'. Excipt for the poet rummagin' around just beyant the corner of me eye where I couldn't see him, they waz nothin' but silence in that room, the man in the door furnishin' most of it. We waz nayther of us givin' anny heed to the poet chap, whin he comminced laughin' to himsilf tremindous an' maunderin' some more po'try. It's funny how thim words stuck in me raymimbrance whin I wazn't listenin' to thim:
"'An' no wan shall work for money, an' no wan shall work for fame, but each,' says he, 'each—an' no wan shall work for money—' an' he begun draggin' a chair over the floor an' thin another wan, '—work for money—said it waz a nice thing to come home to, an' called me a pair of thieves—me! Oh, all of thim work for money,' he begun agin, jiggin' it out like he waz dancin' to it, only I knew he couldn't, 'an' none of thim work for fame, an' each-of-thim-each-of-thim-each-of-thim—now I'm ready,' says he, sudden an' continted. 'Now I'm goin' to shoot the new gintlemin!'
"For the risk of the life of me I couldn't help rollin' me eyes round to him an' turnin' me head, an' so help me God, he waz settin' comfortable in a chair, holdin' another wan in front of him with his feet, an' restin' a gun on the back of it! Both hands waz wrapped round the handle of it, an' all the fingers of thim waz squirmin' over the trigger most alarmin'.
"'I niver hit anny thing I shoot at whin I'm sober,' says the poet, 'but I'm not sober. Not me,' he says, 'not me. An' whin I begin shootin', I'm goin' to keep right on till I hit you. I have another gun in me lap,' he says, 'an' I'm awful drunk,' says he, 'awful drunk, awful drunk. Oh, each-of-thim-each-of-thim-each-of-thim, an' a hay nunny, nunny!'
"Did ye iver hear such nonsinse even from a sober man! But the other wan hild his gun on me an' kept the two of us in his eye, while he talked to the poet.
"'Lay it down!' says he, fierce-like. 'Lay it down, or I'll blow the head off your frind, ye drunken fool!'
"'Oh,' says the poet, gintle, 'blow ahead. I niver laid eyes on him till this evenin'. Blow,' says he, 'blow, blow, thou winter wind, thou are a nut—an' ye can't hit me because of me swimmin' about so,' he says, 'with both of these guns. Both-of-thim-both-of-thim-both-of-thim, an' a hay nunny, nunny! Shall I begin doin' of it?' says he.
"I bowed graceful an' encouragin'."
"For wanct me wits wint back on me, an' I begun wishin' me collar would finish chokin' me to death an' ind it all, for with the little wan aimin' at me, an' that drunken fool of a poet tryin' not to, me chances waz black as the divil's soul at eliction time. Thin out of the million things I waz seein', the man's face come workin' out prominint, an' twaz plain he waz thinkin' hard himsilf. Be the same token he waz lookin' worried. I waz thirty-two whin the poet quit talkin', an' whin I was about forty-six, the man says to me all of a sudden, so quick it made me jump:
"'Moran!' says he, me hair standin' up on tiptoes at him knowin' me name, 'Moran, the frind that saved me from thim ruffians down on the Bowery last summer! I niver knew ye. Ye have no need to rob my house!' he says. 'If ye wanted money, why didn't ye come to me? Ye will stay here the night, an' in the marnin' I will give ye a blank check with me name on it for what ye please. Tell your frind it's all right, an' we'll drink to another happy meetin’' he says. 'Are ye still livin' up over Noonan's bake-shop?'
"If I had been starin' at him before, it waz fair out of me head me eyes wint now, an' me brains tied thimsilves in a hard knot. 'Twas plain he knew me, but I couldn't raymimber iver havin' laid eyes on the face of him, an' I begun wonderin', waz I drunk mesilf. What he said didn't seem to mean annything, though he was puttin' his gun away an' comin' toward me peaceable. 'Thin,' says I, for I may as well confiss me wits waz not quick on their feet for the wanct, 'thin' says I, 'I'll be loosenin' this collar from inside me neck. Me teeth is catchin' on it.' Which I done, dreamy-like, whilst he come to the table, bringin' a chair with him.
"Thin I raymimbered the poet an' lost no time lookin' to see how he was takin' it all. There he sat with a gun in each hand, pointin' thim togither an' rubbin' the muzzles round and round aginst each other, peaceful and contint, an' still callin', 'Hay!' to thim nuns, like they waz rabbits. An' all this time the other man waz implorin' of me to sit down an' drink with him. So I done it, for a drink's a drink at anny time, an' he wint right on askin' me quistions about mesilf.
"But me wits was workin' agin be this time, an' better than iver. Says I to mesilf, 'He's either crazy or drunk, or ilse he ain't. If he's crazy, shoot him. If he's drunk, shoot him. An' if he ain't, shoot him. Or anny ways, git the drop on him. There's but two things for me to do—wan of thim is to git out of here, an' the other wan is to git out of here quick! The poet is drunk enough to prove an alibi, an' annyways he couldn't git out of the house if you waz to start him on a toboggan-slide. I will be takin' just wan more drink with this amazin' lunytic, frindly-like, an' thin—' But as I was reachin' for a green bottle bulgin' in at the middle, me arm knocked over a glass, an' the red wine in the bottom of it wint out on the table!
"'A warnin'! A warnin'!' says I, chokin', to mesilf, though I niver opened me mouth. 'Wirra, wirra, can't I as much as draw me breath this evenin', without wan of thim signs raisin' its head? But the saints forgive me for what might have come to me but for thim warnin's. I will stay here an' be a whole rigimint of gallant preservers, bad cess to thim, an' thank ye for the hint I says to mesilf.
"So I begun doin' of it an' asked him if he raymimbered how one of thim ruffians waz just ready to do for him whin I rushed in promiscuous an' begun savin' his life. He said he did, an' we took another drink, an' thin I begun to raymimber it mesilf. But niver a moment that I didn't have me eyes an' ears open for more of thim guidin' signs. The poet, he wouldn't join us, sittin' over in his chair croonin' to himsilf an' playin' with thim guns. He said he didn't care for drink.
"Well, after we had opened a bottle containin' yellow liquor that wazn't hot, but seemed to be still boilin', me grateful frind said he would just be gatherin' the silver an' puttin' it in the little alcove openin' off the library-room for the night. I wint right on drinkin' that yellow liquor with pins in it, an' pretty soon he wint into the alcove, an' I heard him pilin' the silver away on the shelf. Whilst I waz waitin' for him an' ruminatin' at the poet, wonderin' which of thim guns would go off first, there waz a rustlin' behind me, an' I screwed round in me chair to listen to it. Be all the saints, there waz two women standin' there, an old wan an' a young wan, with their hats on, an' each of thim lookin' more surprised an' sorrowful than the other! It waz the poet they waz lookin' at mostly, an' I raymimber feelin' kindly to thim for it. Thin both of thim women blowed up to wanct, abusin' the poet an' weepin' over him stupendous. I couldn't make nothin' out of it excipt they waz glad the auto had broke down near enough a trolley-line for thim to git home afore marnin', an' they waz sorry to git there. The poet, he waz smilin' up at thim, pleasant, layin' down his guns, an' pretty soon he says to thim like they had just come in:
"'Well, Mother,' says he cheerful, 'did you an' Sis have a jolly ride?' he says, 'a jolly ride?'
"'Mother!' gasps me brains to me. 'It's his own house he's been robbin', that scut of a poet! Thin,' says me brains agin, keen as a steel-trap, 'thin the other wan—thin who—thin what—thin where—' an' I stood up where I waz an' begun speakin' out loud. Me collar waz still on in the back, an' the inds of it stuck up in front of me eyes with the tie hangin' from thim most confusin'. 'Thin,' says I, 'thin——'
"There ain't no argymint at all," growled Tim. "It was Lucy took the swag!"
"'An' who is this disriputable character?' the old lady says, meanin' me, most impolite.
"'Oh—' says the poet, easy-like, an' I forgive him thin and there—'Oh,' says he, 'that's me old frind, Moran, what saved me life wanct from some ruffians.'
"I bowed graceful an' encouragin'.
"'Umph!' says the old lady, like she had bit into something bad.
"'I had dinner with him,' says the poet, 'at his club this evenin' an' brung him home. An' brung him home,' he says, 'an' brung him home.'
"'An' what a room!' says she, payin' no heed to him. 'What a room!'
"While she was noticin' of it, I wint for the alcove, lookin' for me grateful frind an' the silver. So hilp me, the shelves waz impty, an' the door to the nixt room stood open! Stickin' to it be means of a fork waz a scrap of paper with writin' on it. I leaned aginst the wall, an' prisintly I read it, the handwritin' bein' bad. It says:
"'Wine in, wit out. Thanks for collectin' the silver.'
"Think of the conceit of the impidint scum, an' him niver suspjctin' that but for the warnin' sint me be means of the spilled wine, I'd 'a' had a hole in him ye could 'a stuck a bottle into!
"I put, the insultin' thing in me pocket, an' they waz little trouble in makin' me ixcuses to the rist of thim, they havin' gone back to bullyraggin' the poet, an' him bein' asleep. The old lady herself let me out the front door, lockin' it after me.
"Just as I was walkin' down the steps, close to the railin', an' carryin' me high hat in me hands, I heard a big clock strikin' the hour. I counted up to three, an' thin all to wanct it come over me,—the secret of the whole thing,—an' I blissed the saints an' angels I waz out of that house alive an' not arristed or in the hospital or me waitin' grave. It waz late in the early mamin' of Tuesday, an' Tuesday waz the thirteenth!
"An' that's why," said Moran, settling back against his post once more, "that's why I believe in all the signs they is an' am be way of becomin' a fatalitist. If it hadn't been for thim signs, like as not I'd not be here this minute watchin' of the boats an' the glue factory, an' swingin' me feet comfortable."
"Do yez listen," said Tim, in his thunderous monotone, "ye and yer fool's signs! Ivery time ye changed yer plans for wan av thim warnin's, ye made a bigger fool av yersilf than ye waz born. Widout thim signs ye might 'a' got what ye wint for, drunk as ye waz."
Moran put down his unlighted pipe, scorn and dignity in his every move. "The bist answer to such a argymint as that wan——"
"There ain't no argymint at all," growled Tim. "It waz Lucy took the swag!"
"Holy Mother!" said Moran, and his jaw dropped open. Then he recovered himself manfully:
"With a beard?" he said. "Ye're a lunytic! An' wouldn't I be knowin' her voice annywheres?"
"Thim things is easy fixed," Tim answered in disgust, "an' ye so drunk ye couldn't tell a tug whistle from a trolley-car. An' annyways, it waz."
"Well," replied Moran, "it just shows what fool plans a woman makes whin there's no man to keep her sinsible. I might 'a' shot the lunytic."
"Umph!" said Tim.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1966, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 57 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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