# Alias Whispering White

by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “The Hand of Providence,” “Pie for Magpie,” etc.

Once in a while you’ll meet a feller that you couldn’t help liking, even if he took a shot at you, and that’s how me and Magpie felt about Franklyn Burt. He sure knowed minerals sixteen ways from the jack, but he didn’t act like he knowed a whole lot more than the rest of us old sourdoughs at that.

His card said that he was a mining engineer. He just poked around our prospect, putting me and Magpie wise to a lot of new things on timbering and so forth, and what he didn’t find out about our mine wasn’t much. Said he was from Redfield, that he was quite well, thank you, and we made him as welcome as a mess of trout.

One day Magpie has been to Piperock, and when he comes back he’s got a letter for Franklyn. It’s the first one he’s got since he came, which is more than Magpie and me gets in a whole year unless somebody sends us a catalog, telling us where we can get a suit of clothes for seven dollars and eighty-eight cents, and an extra pair of pants free.

Franklyn peruses that letter, while me and Magpie throws a feed together, and all of a sudden he groans and spits out a man-sized cuss word.

“I’d say that Frankie has been reading the news,” says Magpie to me.

Frankie throws down the letter, disgusted like, and stares into space.

“Uncinch, son,” advises Magpie. “There ain’t nothing broke so badly that it can’t be helped. Give us a look at your cards.”

“She’s going to marry a duke,” says he, in a far-away voice, “a blasted duke, with one foot in the grave.”

“Pshaw!” says Magpie. “Maybe we can push him the rest of the way.”

“You don’t understand, boys,” says Frankie, shaking his head. “It isn’t her so much—it’s her aunt.”

“Yes’m,” says I, “her aunt is going to marry the duke.”

“No, Ike, I wish she were. Marion White and I were raised together, went to the same school and college, and we’ve—well, I wish you could see her, and then you’d know why I don’t want her to marry a duke.”

“Why specify any certain breed?” grins Magpie. “You means that you sort of browses around the same range. I don’t blame you, son. I’d go back there and scare him so bad that he’d swim back home without even taking time to put on a bathing-suit. Does her folks cotton to this duke stuff, and where does auntie horn into the game?”

“Her family consists of Wilberforce Van Veen and wife, Marion’s uncle and aunt. They are her mother’s sister and brother-in-law, and they act as guardians to Marion, and run the household. The bread-winner of the family is her father’s brother, Samuel White, known as ‘Whispering’ White.

“He made a mint of money down in Brazil, died and left it all to Marion. Of course, being guardians for Marion, the Van Veens sure did horn into society, and—well, they spoiled things for me. They filled Marion’s curly head with foolish ideas, and——”

“Left you holding the sack,” grins Magpie, sympathetic like. “Now this Whispering White——”

“He didn’t die,” states Frankie. “His wealth was practically all in the States, and the estate was settled up right away after he was reported dead by the Brazilian Government, and the Van Veens dove into society. One day Marion got a letter from her uncle. He had seen the papers, in which his obituary was printed, and the settlement of the estate. He told her that he was so glad to be able to read the sad news that she could keep the money—it would be hers, anyway.

“He’s down there making another stake. It seems that a couple of natives broke into his place and stole some clothes and some emeralds, or something like that. He nailed the clothes thief, while he was after the jewel robber, and the authorities, finding the body clothed in Whispering’s clothes, took it for granted that it was he, reported the death, and buried the remains. It was about two weeks after Whispering had caught him, and they didn’t make a very thorough identification.”

“He must think a heap of the girl,” says I, and Frankie nods.

“Yes, I suppose he does, in a way. He never saw her in his life. In fact he never saw either of the Van Veens. He’s been a rover all his life, mostly in foreign lands and in the West, and he never was in Redfield.”

“Now, about this here duke,” says Magpie, waving us up to the table. “Where does he hail from, and why?”

“The Duke of Northmore,” says Frankie. “Never saw him in my life, but I know the type. A perfect lady, scented from his bawth, cawn’t stand excitement, and thinks that everybody wild enough to eat meat is a bounder and a beastly bore, don’t you know?”

“Aw-w-w!” drawls Magpie, screwing a dollar into one eye, and twisting his face out of plumb in order to hold it there.

“That’s it!” whoops Frankie. “Where in the world did you ever see the like, Magpie?”

“Shot one once,” laughed Magpie. “Dang near got arrested for it, too. It was closed season.”

Magpie Simpkins was built after the plans and specifications intended to be used to build a memorial to a Norway spruce. He’s the longest, boniest, wisest-looking person in seventeen States. He’s got a rail-splitting face, a tired-looking mustache, and a desire to prove to the world that when brains were passed around he got more than his share.

I was christened Ike Harper, and I ain’t never been ashamed enough or scared enough to change it. I got bow-legs, make tracks in the sand like an Injun, and the best disposition on earth. I know when I’m licked, and there’s a lot of men who can pull quicker and shoot faster than I can.

Me and Magpie have been puttering around our little mine for quite a long time. She starts out to be a silver proposition, but after a certain depth she turns yaller. We hammers out enough free-milling gold to keep us in bacon and beans, and prays that some day a millionaire will drive up in a shiny hack and offer to buy us out.

Frankie don’t say much about our mine, but he puts in quite a lot of time puttering around, and writing letters. A few days after he gets that letter he borrows a burro to ride to Piperock. When he comes back we’re eating supper, so he fills up a plate with bean soup, and then hauls out a yaller sheet of paper.

“Take a look at this, boys,” says he, smoothing the sheet out on the table. “What shall I answer?”

It reads:

> Regarding Your Report Offer Fifteen Thousand Cash Limit Twenty. Adams.

“Just about what is the puzzle?” asks Magpie, and Frankie grins.

“That’s up to you, Magpie—you and Ike. That’s a bona fide offer for your little prospect. The wire is from Hartley Adams, the man I’m working for, and he offers you a limit of twenty thousand dollars for your mine, on my report.”

“Son,” says Magpie, “I’ll go back there and kill that duke for you. What’ll you do to please him, Ike?”

“Me? I’ll count a coup, and wear his hair for a watch-charm. When do we paint up for the war trail?”

“Thanks,” laughs Frankie, but there ain’t a lot of joy in his laugh. “I appreciate the spirit, but you can’t shoot a man—not even a duke, just because he wants to marry the same girl you do. That’s East, boys. It isn’t fashionable to kill folks back there.”

“Haw!” grunts Magpie, with his mouth full of beans, “sometimes a good scare is better than a bullet. I sort of pines for the East like a bear for a bee-tree. Let’s me and you go East, Ike. A change will do us a lot of good. Let’s go with Frankie.”

Frankie looks us over, and nods sort of pleased like.

“Love to have you,” says he. “Why not go? I can wire for a draft on the bank of Silver Bend, and we can settle up things later, in case you accept.”

“Accept?” asks Magpie, smoothing his mustache, and looking at me.

“Does a trout accept a fly hook? No, sir, he jumps at it. Consider us as having jumped, Mister Franklyn Burt.”

“You and me both,” I agrees. “But what’ll we do back there, Magpie, and where will we go? We ain’t got nobody to visit.”

“I have,” says he, hitching his belt around, “I have.” He pats himself on the chest, and twists his mustache. “Look at me. Give you three guesses who I am, and bet you ten dollars per guess that you’re wrong. I am Whispering White!”

“My ——!” says I, and Frankie drops a cup of hot coffee on his knees.

Magpie rubs the stubble on his chin, and grins—

“Late of Brazil.”

“But-but-but—” stutters Frankie.

“Let the goats do it, son,” advises Magpie, and then he points at me.

“This critter is my pardner, also from the nut country, and we’ve come back to see if anything needs fixing. What do you think, Frankie?”

“Well!” exclaims Frankie, wide-eyed. “Well, I don’t know whether you could get away with it or not.”

“Me?” asks Magpie. “Get away with it? Say, son, I’ve rustled cows and hung rustlers; salted mines and bought salted ones; and I’ve bit, fought, scratched and shot my way from the cradle up to date, and now you asks me if I can adopt a name and get away with it where I ain’t known. Consider yourself answered in the affirmative, and have some more coffee. What you trying to do—irrigate your knee-caps?”

The next day we takes our burros and pilgrims to Piperock, takes the stage from there to Paradise, and draws five hundred each. That person has wired us a thousand to cinch the deal, and we fixes things up at the bank.

“The feller what invented sleeping-cars was dying from insomnia,” states Magpie, after he bumps his head a few times in his bunk. He crawls out and yells for the porter to bring him an ax, so he can knock the head out of his bunk. The porter refused to get him one, so he puts his clothes back on.

“What you going to do, Magpie?” I asks.

“I’m going up to the rear end and set in the sight-seeing car,” says he. “Paid money for a bed and all I draw is a bird’s nest.”

“You-all can’t sleep in the observation cah,” objects the porter. “You-all simply can’t do that.”

Magpie reaches into his bunk, hauls out his old Colt, and shoves it inside his waistband.

“For why can’t I?” he asks, but the porter went away without making up the bunk across from us, and didn’t show up until the party what owned it yelled his head off for a place to sleep.

The next morning, while I’m standing on one ear, trying to inch my pants on, I hears Magpie’s voice. I peeks out, and here comes Magpie towing a party down the car with him. This party wears a man-sized bunch of hair on his face, a crooked nose and a pair of eyes what don’t match. He’s a congenial looking Jasper, and he’s wearing a rubber collar just like me and Magpie are.

“Sleep well?” I asks.

“Ike, I want you to meet Mr. Hobbs—knowed after a short acquaintance as ‘Homely.’ Homely, this is my pardner Ike Harper. We didn’t sleep. Me and Homely bought a deck of cards from the porter, and we spent the night pleasantly. Tonight we’re going to climb up on top of the car and sleep in the open, eh, Homely?”

“No argument,” agrees Homely. “Get into your pants, Ike, and we’ll all eat breakfast.”

“Where do we stop?” I asks.

“We don’t stop to eat,” explains Homely. “We eat in the dining-car. This here train don’t stop for no such things as eats. Sabe?”

Homely points out a feller in the eating-car, and whispers to me:

“I been associating with that feller for some time now, and I’d bet a dobie dollar that he’s Jesse James.”

He don’t look like a bad-man, and he ain’t got no visible guns, but when he hands us our bill for breakfast I shakes hands with Homely and congratulates him on his deductions.

Homely can take the biggest drink of whisky you ever seen. Why, that hombre can gasp and inhale a pint. Me and Magpie are temperance beside him. We can’t help liking him, ’cause he fits in fine with us. Frankie takes a liking to him, and we plays poker all the way to St. Paul.

Homely can hold more assorted kinds of food on a knife blade than any other living man. It sure takes a steady hand to balance peas, potatoes, meat and bread and gravy on one blade and never spill a drop, but Homely can do it. Everybody on the car watched him, and I’m betting they envied him his ability.

We got off at St. Paul, ’cause we had to change trains. Frankie gets me and Magpie to one side, and tells us that he ain’t going on to Redfield with us, ’cause folks might think it’s a plant. He’ll show up later. Him and Magpie have had some long talks, in which Magpie has learned more about that family than the family knows. Frankie says for us to dress befitting the occasion and our station in life. Of course it’s sort of up to Magpie, more than it is me, so me and Homely takes in the town, while Magpie goes shopping.

We has some ham and eggs, and then inspects some of the places where good cheer comes packed in glass. We meets a pleasant sort of a person, who asks us, confidential like, if we’d care to mingle the pasteboards in a nice quiet place.

The quiet place don’t interest us none, ’cause we’re sufficiently organized to play in a boiler factory, so we bought him a drink and pilgrims away with him. I don’t know where he took us, but I do know that it would take six Injuns and a pack of bloodhounds to ever pick up our trail.

We got into a room full of smoke, and there’s a good game going. Five-dollar jack-pots, and no limit. The game is filled, so me and Homely joins the crowd around the table. There’s a feller right in front of us, wearing an ice-cream suit and big floppy straw hat, and he seems to be winning a-plenty. I can’t see his face, but from the way he folds his cards I can see he’s no infant at the game.

I stands there and watches the draw on a pot what has been boosted enough to make it worth fighting for. Floppy hat draws one, and the dealer one. The rest petered out before the draw. Homely lights a cigar and says to the dealer—

“Mister, I’d be willing to pay you good wages to show me how you done that.”

“Done what?” snarls the feller, squinting up at Homely from under his eyeshade.

“Palm cards thataway,” grins Homely. “You’re setting on a queen that ought to be in your hand, and your hand shows a king what hadn’t come due yet, and you done it so slick that I almost missed it.”

All of which is a dangerous remark right at that time, if anybody should ask you. Nobody said a word or moved for a few seconds, and then I sees the dealer turn pale. The party in the big hat has sort of leaned back, and when I glances down over his shoulders I see the muzzle of a gun pointing right at the dealer’s stummick. The man behind the gun reaches out and begins to remove said pot into his coat pockets.

The party at the right, being out of line of the gun, opines that he’s got to exercise his lungs, and he does so with great cheer. He seems to want the police, fire department and a free passage out of there all to once, and just then some darn fool turned off the lights.

Man, there was some going on right there. I reckon there was at least a dozen men in that room, and when the lights went out I hopped back against the wall and let ’em stampede.

I hears the smash of glassware, when somebody tipped over the bar, and conversation consists of curses and yelps. Then comes the pop of a six-gun, and the bullet burnt my ear.

Believe me, Ike Harper ain’t no stranger to powder smoke, so I whoops loud and clear, hauls out my old Colt and takes a shot at anything that happens to be in my way. Across from me a gun pops and I gets my ears full of plaster.

Bing goes a gun from the other side, and she settles down to a steady battle. Every time I sees a flash I shoots at it, and I reckon the others were doing the same. I shoots six times, and then has to quit, and I reckon the others were in the same fix.

“I wish I knowed where that danged switch was,” I hears a voice complain, and then it says again, “Don’t shoot, you darn fools—I’ve found it,” and the lights comes on again.

There stands Homely, leaning against the wall, with an empty gun in his hand, and a foolish look on his face. We both looks across the room, where the table is laying on its side, and up over the edge comes a waving lock of hair, then a pair of squinty eyes, and a tired-looking mustache, and Magpie Simpkins breaks into a grin. He climbs to his feet, sets down on the edge of the table, and looks around on the floor.

“Anybody seen anything of that Brazil hat of mine?” he asks. “This sure is one dusty place for an ice-cream suit, if you asks me.”

We don’t have nothing to say, so he grins at Homely and says—

“Homely, you spoke just in time—all I had was a bob-tail.”

Homely scratches his head and shoves his empty gun in his pocket—

“Well, Magpie, you’re a rotten shot—that’s all I can say.”

“That goes triple, Homely,” grins Magpie. “You and Ike had an even break. Let’s get out of here. Them scared Jaspers will likely call the police.”

“Not them,” says Homely, “what they’d call a policeman for wouldn’t get nobody in jail but themselves.”

We had a fine time finding our way out of there, but we manages to get back to the hotel. Magpie is so happy over finding that hat that he forgets the condition of his clothes.

“Some hat,” says he. “I told the clerk that I was from Brazil and wanted a hat, and he told me that he had a hat that had been waiting for me a long time. I’m supposed to be from Brazil, Homely.”

“Supposed to be?” asks Homely, who ain’t wise to our pilgrimage, so Magpie sets down and tells him all about it.

Homely gets excited over it, and offers to help pull the stunt.

“I like Frankie,” says he, “and I hate dukes like ——! Let me have first shot at him and I’ll go along with you.”

“I know how you feel about it, Homely,” says Magpie. “If a feller ain’t never shot at one he naturally hankers for the experience. I shot at one once, and I know the sensation, but this is going to be a safe, sane and sanitary proposition. Sabe? Naturally I got a lot to say about who spends the money I earned, and I ain’t in the market for no shop-worn dukes, but I ain’t provoked enough to let you shoot him on sight. Come with us if you like, Homely, but don’t pack no gun.”

“I’ll come,” agrees Homely. “Me and Ike will sort of hang around as a body-guard, and shoot him when you throw him out.”

It’s quite some trip from St. Paul to Redfield, but the town was there when we arrived. Some say it was there before the war, which gave the inhabitants an alibi for fighting.

We climbs off the train and let it go on without us. We looks the place over from an unprejudiced standpoint and found her lacking.

There ain’t a hitching-rack in sight, and the only bronc we can see has got its tail cropped off short, and is being mishandled by a skinny-looking person, wearing panties, who bobs in the saddle like he had boils. He sure is careful of his saddle.

There’s quite a lot of folks at the depot and I’d reckon there ain’t many strangers stop there, ’cause everybody stares at us.

We sort of mills around, looking for a place to go, when a dude-looking feller busts out of that herd of inquisitives and pilgrims up to us.

“I beg your pardon,” says he to Magpie, “would you mind telling me who you are, and all that, don’t you know? I’m with the Clarion.”

“Real estate, roulette or religion?” asks Magpie.

“Beg pardon? Oh, I see you misunderstood me. I’m a reporter. I—I thought perhaps you—er—might be worth a story. You and your party are so—well, different, don’t you know?”

“Story and a half,” grins Homely, looking up at Magpie, “go on and tell the kid who you are, old-timer. Me and Harper will see that you get fair play.”

“I am Whispering White from Brazil, and other seaports,” says Magpie, and that feller’s eyebrows rise half an inch.

“Whispering White, the South American millionaire?” he gasps. “The man who died, and then came back to life? The uncle of Marion White, who is going to marry the duke?”

“No,” says Magpie, “who was going to marry him.”

The feller sure got busy on a piece of paper.

“When did you leave Brazil?” he asks.

Magpie scratches his head, and squints at me and Homely.

“When did we leave Brazil?” he asks. “In May, wasn’t it?”

“April first,” says I.

“And the rest of your party is?” he asks, indicating me and Homely.

“This one,” says Magpie, pointing at me, “this is ‘Bedrock’ Benson, mayor of Pecan Province, and this other one is Homely Hobbs, the greatest squirrel expert in South America, if not in the world.”

“Great stuff!” exclaims the feller. “What do you think of Redfield?”

“I knowed a man what got lynched for saying what he thought,” says Magpie, “so I’ll just keep my face shut.”

“I suppose you’ll miss the palms and coconuts,” says the reporter, grinning, and writing fast.

“The palms,” agrees Magpie. “Nuts are the same wherever you find them. What is the best hotel in the place?”

He showed us a hotel, and when we pilgrims up to the front door we gets assaulted by some fellers in band uniforms. Magpie chases one of them all over the house, trying to get his valise back. After he nails this feller he takes the valise away from him, picks him up and throws him out of the front door.

“If the boss is in I’d admire to have you ask him if we can have a room with a bed big enough for three men,” says Magpie to the person behind the counter, “and I don’t want one with a dirty white pitcher setting there in a cracked, white dishpan, either, and if the springs bust down like they did in Silver Bend I’ll come down and tie that bedstead around your darn neck. Sabe? Now do we connect with our desire or don’t we?”

“You-you-you—” stutters the feller, and he turns a big book around in front of Magpie, and hands him a pen.

“Register,” says he. Magpie looks at the pen and book, and then at the feller.

“I didn’t come here to vote,” says he, “I came here to sleep.”

“What name, please?” asks the feller, and Magpie gets mad.

“Young feller,” says he, “I don’t like this town. Folks want to know your name and occupation the minute they see you. I’m Whispering White, of Brazil. These two with me are Bedrock Benson and Homely Hobbs. We’re all from Brazil. Now, do we get that room?”

“Yes, Mr. White,” says he, getting friendly all at once, “surely you do. You’ll want rooms with bath?”

“Bath?” asks Magpie, turning to us, “you fellers dirty?”

“I got dusty crossing the ocean,” says I, and Homely speaks up:

“I’ll take a little bath with you, Whispering, if I lose. I’m game.”

A couple of fellers packs our grips over to a little room, and we all goes in with them, and that room goes skyhooting toward the sky. We found out later that they only built the stairs to keep folks from falling down the hole.

It was before noon when we gets there, and along about two o’clock the alarm rings. Homely sabes the thing, so he yells into the box on the wall—

“What do you want?”

Then he sort of grins at Magpie, and says—

“Mister Van Veen is down-stairs and wants to know if he can come up.”

“Tell him it’s a public place,” says Magpie, “and that I can’t stop him.”

He came. The first thing I noticed was that he’s got dimples where his knuckles ought to be, and his finger-nails are pink. His face is fat and pink, and he wears specs that would make good magnifying glasses, and he anchors them to his person with a yard of crape ribbon. He exudes a scent that you’d naturally connect with a lisp and he carries a cane.

He stands there in the doorway, peering at us like a dude owl, and pretty soon he hauls out a big silver case, takes out one of them cigarets what smell like a disinfectant, taps same three times on the case, and clears his throat. I names him “Pinky” right there.

“My ——!” snorts Magpie. “Am I related to that?”

“I am—er—looking for Samuel White,” says he. “Which one of you—er—gents are he?”

“I are he,” says Magpie. “But I’m no er-gent. What you selling?”

“Selling? Haw! I am your—er—relative. Mr. Wilberforce Van Veen, at your service.”

“Thanks,” says Magpie, “I don’t need you today. Come on in and rest your feet. How’s the folks?”

“Thank you. Very well, I thank you. I read in the Clarion of your arrival, and it was a great—er—surprise, I assure you. How do you find Redfield?”

“By getting on the right train and getting off at the right depot,” says Magpie. “Meet Bedrock Benson and Homely Hobbs, Van.”

“Aw! Pleasure, I assure you,” says he.

“Glad you think so,” says Homely.

“How’s your folks?”

“Well, I thank you,” and then he turns to Magpie: “May I have a few minutes’ private conversation with you, Samuel?”

“Shoot,” says Magpie, “don’t mind these hombres, Van. They know more about my business than I do, so don’t mind them in the least.”

“It is in regard to—er—Marion and the Duke of Northmore,” says he, nervous like, lighting another joss-stick. “You—er—must have intimated to the reporter that you were not in favor of the union, and—er—I came up to ask you to call them up and—er—sort of correct the error, don’t you know? They must have misunderstood you. The preparations for the wedding are under way, and such a report at this time might—er—well, prove embarrassing. You understand, don’t you?”

Magpie rolls a cigaret, and sort of grins under his mustache.

“How is the duke fixed?” he asks.

“You mean his financial standing? Really, you can’t figure things that way, old fellow. His title, the title he can give Marion, can not be summed up in dollars and cents. I dare say he’s comfortable.”

“Comfortable?” grins Magpie, “Maybe we can change that. Does my niece know I’m here?”

“No, she does not. She and the duke are motoring today. I shall have to do everything I can to block you in case you try to interfere in any way. My wife and I are her recognized guardians, remember.”

“Pinky,” says I, “don’t rile him. Whispering is a holy terror when he’s riled, and if you get too blasted tutty he’ll take your pocketbook away from you, and you’ll have to go to work. Sabe?”

“Them is words of wisdom,” agrees Homely. “A dollar in the hand is worth two dukes in the family, Van, old scout. Could you use a glass of milk and sugar if I was to offer to treat the crowd?”

“Why—er—really I don’t know,” says he, bewildered like. “I believe I must go now. I hope to see you all again. Pleased to have met you. Good afternoon,” and he softly closed the door.

“Magpie,” says Homely, “you ain’t no gentleman. Always take off your hat when a person like that talks to you. Ain’t you got no manners? You embarrassed him extremely.”

“Manners!” snorts Magpie. “No, I ain’t, Homely. I ain’t got no judgment, either, or I wouldn’t have picked that snow-shoe rabbit for a relative. I wonder what Marion is like?”

We found out the next day. The three of us walks out to the Van Veen residence. It sure looks like a lot of money surrounded by a brush fence, and when Homely sees it he says to Magpie:

“You must have made a lot of money in Brazil. Nice place to live.”

“Yeah,” says Magpie, “nice but not homelike. Why, Homely, a lizard wouldn’t live in a place like this, and a rattlesnake would bite himself inside of a week. No sagebrush nor rocks, and I ain’t seen a man here what ain’t pink in the face. It sure does ruin the human race living in a place like this.”

We hammers on the front door, and a general opens the door for us. We all bows to him, and Magpie says:

“Colonel, we’re glad to meet you. I’m Whispering White, and this is Bedrock Benson and Homely Hobbs.”

We all shakes hands with him.

“How’s the army?” asks Homely.

“Beg pardon,” says he, with his nose in the air. “Who shall I announce?”

“Gosh,” snorts Magpie, “he’s going to make an announcement. Go ahead, Officer.”

“Beg pardon,” says he, getting red as a beet. “Who shall I announce?”

“Who have you got?” grins Magpie. “We came up to see Marion White, but if you got anything else we’ll look it over.”

“Ah!” says he. “Step into the drawing-room, and I will inform Miss Marion of your presence.”

“Merry Christmas,” says Homely, and we all follers the officer into a room what reminds me of molasses. Everything is dark and heavy, and your boots don’t even squeak on the floor. Some folks seem to be afraid of a little sunshine, so I goes over to let up a shade, when I hears a female voice say: “Quite a surprise!” and I turns just in time to see Magpie kiss her.

Magpie sure knows how to play a part, I can say that much for him, but his judgment is all wrong.

“Sir!” she yelps. “How dare you! I am Mrs. Van Veen,” and Magpie got his face slapped.

He goes plumb up to his ears in a soft chair, and Homely whistles—

“Set ’em up in the other alley!”

“My mistake, ma’am,” says Magpie. “It’s so blasted dark in here that I didn’t see who I was kissing. Now that I can see you I’m ashamed of myself.”

“Are you Samuel White?” she asks, and I can see the frost on her breath.

“Of Brazil, ma’am,” admits Magpie; “how’s the folks?”

“You wished to see Marion?”

“Gosh!” snorts Magpie. “I came all the way from Brazil, sent an army officer to tell her I was here, and now I got to wish. All right, auntie, I’ll wish. Now can I see her?”

“Uncle Samuel!” says the voice of a mocking bird behind me, and Ike Harper got his first free kiss. Man, I’d orate aloud that she’s some filly. Me and her exchanges hugs, and then I breaks the clinch.

“Ma’am,” says I, “you sure shows good judgment, but that long hombre over there is your uncle.”

Magpie meets her half-way, and I can hear auntie sniff. Pretty soon they breaks away, and looks foolish like at each other, and Magpie says:

“Ain’t you got no place where there’s light enough for us to see each other? I don’t like this cell.”

“Let’s go out on the porch,” she suggests. “I want to meet the rest of your friends.”

“I kissed your aunt,” says Magpie, apologetic like. “I’d have kissed your uncle, too, but he was smoking a vile cigaret.”

Marion laughs like she was amused, and we all goes out on the verandy, and gets used to each other’s looks. She’s some looker in the light, and I says to myself—

“I don’t blame Frankie, and I’m glad she made that mistake.”

Homely watches her while he rolls a cigaret. She must have attracted him some, ’cause he throws away his cigaret and puts the match in his mouth, and says—

“Say, you ain’t going to marry no duke, are you?”

Her eyebrows goes up about an inch, and she stares at Homely.

“Ex-cuse me!” he gasps, and puffs hard on the match.

“Why,” says she, offended like, “why ask that when the announcements are all out, and——”

“My ——!” says I. “More announcements, boys. When do we see the duke?”

“He’s at his hotel,” says Marion. “We are having a reception here tonight. Perhaps you can arrange a meeting tomorrow.” And then her and Magpie strolls away up the verandy for a personal visit, while me and Homely takes off our boots to rest our feet, and sets down to wait for him to break away.

We tells her we’re a heap glad to meet her, and then we goes back to the hotel. Magpie has a drink with us, and then orates that he’s going to buy some more clothes and get his hair cut. We don’t want to go with him, so me and Homely pokes around the streets. Watching a hair cut is my idea of nothing to see.

We’re standing on a corner when here comes Pinky in an automobile. He didn’t aim to see us, I reckon, so me and Homely both yelled at him to stop, and then we pilgrims out to his buggy. He didn’t tell us not to, so we climbs in with him, just as a policeman comes up. He tips his hat to Pinky, and says—

“Anything I can do for you, Mister Van Veen?”

Pinky looks at me and Homely, and his gills get sort of red, but then he shakes his head—

“Nothing, Officer, thank you.”

“You sure stand in with the law, Van,” says Homely. “Let’s all go have a drink. What do you say, Van?”

“Why—er—really, don’t you know, I’m afraid——”

“We’ll protect you with our lives,” states Homely. “Won’t we, Ike?”

“To the death,” says I. “Drive careful, ’cause I got a gun on my hip, and it might jolt off and ruin a cushion.”

Pinky didn’t seem in the best of spirits, but he took us out in the country to a place where they sells everything from soda water to souls. He wanted to drink mineral water, but we objects so hard that he decides in favor of real liquor.

Pinky is the hardest man I ever tried to get six drinks into, and after that he’s the hardest to choke off. He sure did surprise me.

“Reshepshun tonight,” says he, wise as a owl. “Bes’ people in the city. Duke’ll be there. Duke’s a lion—you know it?”

“Mostly all do lie more or less,” agrees Homely. “Are we invited?”

“Sure. Friends of mine—besshur life. Got evenin’ clothes?”

“Night-gown party, eh?” gulps Homely, along with a pint of liquor. “Pass. I’m a respectable person, Van.”

“Dresh shuit,” says Pinky. “Le’s all go to tailor, eh? Get shuited for party. What shay?”

“No argument,” agrees Homely. “If there’s any shooting going on you can count me in. Lead us to Mister Tailor, and may the Lord have mercy on his shoul.”

All of which shows that Homely is beginning to thicken. Me—I’m getting beautifully primed.

We went to the tailor’s about a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth. Pinky insists on dressing us right there, so we left our week day garments in his care, and got back in that machine.

We’re pretty dry, so we hunts a place to wet them new suits. I don’t like a coat you can’t button, and them pants are too tight to go over the tops of my boots, so I tucks them inside. Pinky’s crazy any time he thinks we’re going to dress up that much and then wear high collars and white ties.

We tore them off in that palace of vice, and then bought us each a red one, and two new rubber collars. Homely got a red four-in-hand, with black horseshoes on, while I got a pure red one of the kind you can cross and tie off each end to your suspenders.

I never felt so aristocratic in my life, and Homely looks like a actor. He feels so good that he stands on the sidewalk and sings:

“I’m a buckaroo from Bucktown and I drinks my whisky clear.
I’m a rearin’ rootin’ tooter, a son-of-a-gambolier.”

The same of which makes a hit with Pinky, and we has to stand right there and sing it until he learns the words. Then Pinky throws the quirt into that automobile, and we ambles for home. Pinky would sure make good on a cross-country drive after coyotes, but four wheels are too many, and the road ain’t wide enough, ’cause he ignores the road entirely, jumps a brush fence, skates all around over a nice grassy plot, and when I wakes up I got flowers in my mouth and dirt in my ears.

Homely is setting there in a fountain, splashing water, and Pinky is hugging a female statue, and whispering words of love into its ear. The hind end of the automobile is sticking out of the side of a little lath house covered with vines, and one wheel is still turning, and I wonders, foolish like, if it will stop on 00 or the red.

I wipes the dirt off my face, and walks over to the wreck. Homely swims to land, and Pinky gets disgusted when the lady don’t talk back to him, so we all goes over inside the little house.

“Tha’s shame,” says Pinky, “never went in here before. Wife’ll have shixteen fits—you know it? Peculiar woman is Louisa. Ever met her?”

“Whispering kissed her by mistake,” says I, and Pinky chuckles, and looks wise.

“Tha’s bes’ way. Married her by mistake myshelf. I’m always making mistakes—you know it? Have shixteen fits.”

“Bottle didn’t break,” announces Homely, fussing around inside the automobile. “Let’s all have a snort and take a nap. Nice and cool in here. Over the lips and through the gums: look out, Stummick, here she comes.”

“That’s shome toast,” applauds Pinky. “Mush tell that at club. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m!” and he went to sleep with his head through a busted wheel, while me and Homely curls up on the seats.

“Homely,” says I, “are you comfortable?”

“Am now,” says he, “the front of this blasted shirt kept doubling up and shutting off my wind, but now I got her bent out of the way. How do you like Pinky?”

“Just like a cucumber—pickled but not raw. They upset my stummick.”

I don’t know how long I slept but when I woke up I can see a light through the door of the shack, so I’d opine it’s after dark. Pinky and Homely are snoring, so I rolls a smoke. Pretty soon I hears voices, male and female.

“But my deah girl,” says the male voice, “you surely wouldn’t let a boundah like that interfere. Brazil, indeed! He’s not your parent, and when you are mine I’ll snap my fingers at him.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” says Marion’s voice. “I don’t think it would scare him in the least. He surely is unconventional, and has the quaintest pair of men with him.”

“Barbarians!” snorts this party, which I’d opine to be the duke, “fancy throwing a bellboy out of the hotel when he essays to carry your luggage. And they eat with their knives! Unconventional? I’d jolly well say that they’re uncivilized and uncouth. Shall we enter the Summer-house?”

“I wonder where uncle is?” says Marion. “He hasn’t been home since early this afternoon, and auntie is simply furious.”

They ambles inside. I reckon it must be dark to them, cause they stumbles over Pinky’s legs, and the duke sprawls all over a front wheel. Marion cuts loose a little squeak, and I hears Pinky’s voice softly singing:

“I’m a buckaroo from Bucktown, and I drinks my whisky clear.
I’m a rearin’, rootin’ tooter, a son-of-a-gambolier.”

“Uncle!” gasps Marion. “Uncle!”

“Say, what in —— is going on around here?” inquires Homely, sleepy like. “Busting into a man’s room this way.”

I see him rise up in the machine, grab at something, and I sees a man, with shiny hair, roll out of the doorway and weave toward the house. I reckon Homely cast him fairly hard.

“Tha’s good!” proclaims Pinky. “Marion, I’m ’shamed of you. Go in the house shooner or later. Homely, you old Injun, where’s that bottle?”

All of which shows that Pinky is getting civilized fast. Marion walks out of there, sort of dazed like, and follers the duke.

“The duke says that we’re barbarians, Homely,” says I, “he says we eat with our knives.”

“Huh! I’d rather be one than to eat with my fork—they leak.”

“Le’s go ’way,” says Pinky, “Marion will tell Louisa, and I’ll have to come in the house. Best time I ever had, and I hope you decide to remain here.”

“Not if I live,” says I, pushing my shirt down so I won’t look so chesty. “Let’s all go in the house.”

“That’s sensible,” agrees Homely. “Hear the music? Let’s all go in and sing a song.”

“Tha’s the stuff,” says Pinky; “all shing a shong. Don’t take a drink in there, ’cause they drink punch. I got some in my room, and when that’s gone we’ll kill the butler and rob the cellar. I’m a rearin’ rootin’ tooter—wish I lived in Brazil.”

“You’d do well there,” says Homely, “in fact, you’d flourish.”

We weaves around to the front door. Everything is decorated up, and some folks are getting out of an automobile on to a strip of carpet, which seems to lead into the door. We goes over and wipes our feet off, too, locks arms and goes for the doorway.

That blamed army officer is there again. I’ll bet that hombre has got an over-sized Adam’s apple or he’s studying the stars, ’cause he pokes his long nose in the air and looks right over our heads. Me and Homely shakes hands with him, and then gives his hand to Pinky, who shakes it, hearty like.

“Shimmons,” says Pinky, earnest like, “we’d like to be announshed and introdushed.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” says he, still looking up.

Homely looks him over, steps behind him and kicks him in the back of the knees. We left him setting on the steps, and walked on.

“I’ll announsh us,” says Pinky. “Forward, marsh!”

Say, there was some herd in that room. I never seen so much of so many ladies in my life, and I’d ’a’ likely went right out if I had been sober. The men are all wearing unbuttoned coats like ours, so I feels sort of at home. They all turns as we comes in, and Pinky waves his arms like a windmill.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says he, loud like, “Mister Bedrock Benshon, and Homely Hobbs, late of Brazil. Boys thish aggregation is all folks that know me. They never had a good time in their lives, ’cause they’re afraid to. Shake hands with ’em.”

Homely gathers in the hands of a tall, skinny dame, and it scared her plumb sick.

I reckon she never shook hands with a man before. A feller tried to dodge me, but I beat him to it, and give him some grip. He sure is a lily-white person, with one weak eye, which he advertises by wearing glass over it. When I shook his hand he almost wiggled out of his pants.

“Howdy,” says I; “how’s your folks?”

I reckon he’s hard of hearing, ’cause he just stares at me, so I hauls him up close and yells in his ear—

“How’s your folks!”

He fainted in a chair.

“Mr. Benson!” says Marion’s voice, chiding like, and I turns.

She’s standing there looking at the feller in the chair, and then says to me:

“Why—why, that’s the Duke of Northmore. Where is my uncle?”

Everybody is quiet for a second, and we hears Pinky’s voice:

“You can’t, eh? Shay you can’t play it? Oh, Homely! Thish orchestra can’t play our song. Let’s shing without the music, eh?”

Auntie is standing there as white as a statue, and her eyes are as round as saucers. She sure is frozen stiff, and just then I hears a voice that I know. It’s Frankie Burt.

“My dear Mrs. Van Veen,” says he, low like, “let me handle the situation, please. You don’t want a scene.” Then he turns to me, and whispers: “Ike, get Homely and Van Veen, and I’ll show you where Van Veen’s room is.”

I walks right over to Pinky, and whispers in his ear—

“I’m dry as ——.”

“So’m I, Bedrock,” says he, loud like. “Thish ain’t no fun. Let’s me and you and Homely go up to my room and wet our necks. Come on, Homely, you old rootin’ tooter.”

Frankie led the procession up them winding stairs. I looks down from the top, and notices that a lot of them folks ain’t got their mouths shut yet. The duke is being drenched with a glass of punch, and seems on the road to recovery.

“Pinky,” says I, “you ain’t going to let Marion marry the duke, are you?”

“Shush,” says Pinky, shaking up a bottle; “my wife’s doing it. I ain’t nothing but a crawling worm in thish house. Wife’s crazy over titles. Crazy over everything but me, and I’m glad she draws the line some place. Feel shorry for Marion, but I feel more shorry for me. Have to do everything I don’ want to do—except tonight. Man or moush? Which’re you goin’ to be? Man’r moush? Going ri’ down and tell that bunch that I’m a wolf and it’s my evening to bark.”

“No, you’re not, either,” says Frankie from the doorway. “For Heaven’s sake, Van Veen, have a little sense.” Then he turns to me: “Have you seen Mag—er—Whispering tonight?”

“Nope. Is he coming here?”

“Said he was,” says Frankie, and just then Pinky sighs deep like and rolls over on the bed.

Homely inhales another pint, and lays down with Pinky.

“Ike,” says Frankie, “let’s you and I go down and wait for Magpie.”

“You go first,” says I, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

I searched Homely for a gun, but didn’t find one. You never can tell what he might do—loaded thataway. I went out of the door, and got almost to the top of the stairs, when I hears Marion and Frankie talking low.

“Marion, for God’s sake, don’t throw yourself away on that fellow,” pleads Frankie. “Wake up, girl. Everybody, except your aunt is laughing at you. Your new uncle is dead against it. Why, Marion, the duke hasn’t a cent, and he’s a mighty poor specimen of humanity. You’ll have to agree to that.”

“Franklyn,” says she, sort of sobbing like, “it’s all settled, and it must go through.”

“Has Whispering White met the duke yet?” asks Frankie.

“No. He will meet him tomorrow. Excuse me, I must go back to my guests.” And I hears her go down the stairs.

I pokes around the corner, and runs into Frankie.

“Cheer up, son,” says I. “She ain’t married yet. Never give up, not even when they faces the preacher—somebody might shoot him.”

“Ike, you’re a philosopher,” says he, shaking his head, “but I’m afraid it’s a hopeless hope for me. Let’s go down-stairs.”

We went down. Frankie drifted away from me, and I sort of got lost. I wandered around by myself, getting sorer and sorer all the time. Everybody acts like I got the smallpox. I tried to talk to the fiddler, but he’s deaf and dumb, and when I asks a lady how her kids are she sticks her nose in the air, and drifts.

I tries to get near enough to that army officer to ask him where the water-bucket is but he sees me and lopes out of sight. Auntie passes me once, but I reckon she figured me a white chip in a big stack of blues, ’cause she didn’t see me at all. I found Marion after while. She’s surrounded with the duke and a lot of other smaller cards, and that duke stared hard at me again.

“Take a look, you poor hunk of hash,” says I.

I’m getting tired of being stared at, and I don’t even care about Marion, ’cause I’m beginning to think she don’t assay any more on brains than the rest. The duke walks like he’d wintered in a hard pasture and cracked his hoofs. When I snapped at him, his lower jaw sags, and he feels to see if his tooth-brush mustache is still with him.

“Aw!” says he. “Cattle!”

“You dang well know it!” says I. “Where your kind would last about as long as a snowball in ——! Where there’s a strong distinction drawn between male and female.”

“Mr. Benson!” says Marion, shocked like, but dang me if I don’t think she winked one eye.

We must have been talking loud, ’cause when I looks around, ’most everybody is listening.

“Heavens!” I hears auntie gasp. “I’ll have him removed at once. Simmons!” she yelps. “Simmons!”

“You don’t need to yelp for help,” says I; “I’ll remove him.”

“Mr. Whispering White,” announces that army officer, in a loud voice just then, and we all turns.

There stands Magpie, with one hand twisted in the army officer’s collar, and a grin on his face.

“Thanks, Colonel,” says he, shoving him away. “Maybe the next time you see a man at the door you won’t stick your blasted nose in the air and refuse him admittance.”

Magpie is still wearing that ice-cream suit and big hat. He hitches up his hip pocket and grins at everybody.

“Howdy, folks,” says he.

He grins and winks at Marion, and just then I hears a gasp behind me, and I turns. There stands the duke, staring at Magpie, like he was a ghost, and Magpie is staring right back at him.

“Holy horned toads!” grunts Magpie, and reaches for his hip.

The duke moved. The dignity all left that jasper, and he turns coyote for fair. He ducked behind a lot of half-dressed ladies, and went up them stairs like a bear.

Magpie is sort of handicapped, with so many folks around, but I think his bullet cut the duke’s necktie off, ’cause we found it on the stairs. Just as the duke turned the corner he runs slap into Pinky and Pinky came rolling down-stairs just in time to keep Magpie from going up fast. Pinky lights setting up, and Magpie races past him. I hops half-way up them stairs, and pulls a gun, so nobody can interfere with Magpie, but nobody wanted to go up, I reckon.

“Good evening, folks,” grins Pinky, looking around, foolish like, but nobody paid any attention to him.

Auntie has fainted flat, and a fat little hombre is fanning her with a glass of punch. Marion is backed against the wall, and Frankie is trying to shake hands with her.

Comes a —— of a racket upstairs, and here comes the duke, Magpie and Homely. Magpie and Homely have each got hold of a coat-tail, and right at the top step the duke shucks his coat, and comes down like a pin-wheel, and into that crowd he goes.

Homely slips on the top steps and don’t hit again until he sets down beside me, halfway down. The duke cuts a swath through the crowd, and goes out through an open window like a prairie-dog going into his own home.

Bang goes a gun beside me, and the top pane of the window is busted into a million pieces. I reckon it caused several ladies to foller auntie’s example. I turns around and there sets Homely, with a big Colt in his hand, and a scowl on his face.

“Missed!” he wails. “Might ’a’ knowed he wouldn’t go so high. Allowed too much, and over-shot.”

“Where did you have that gun?” I asked. “I searched you.”

“In my boot, Ike. No pocket in these pants, and the waist is too tight.”

Magpie throws that coat down, disgusted like, and puts his gun back in his pocket.

“Dang the luck!” he snorts. “Lost him again!”

“Again?” I asks. “Did you say again?”

Magpie leans against the corner-post of the stairs, and smooths out his necktie.

“That was the feller what we used to know as ‘Diamond Duke,’ down in Mesquite,” says he. “He’s a duke, I reckon, and one of the slickest card sharks on earth. He’s a crook from his belt both ways, and ain’t got the nerve of a rabbit. Hellwinder with fool women, and talks like a dictionary. Rung in a cold deck on me one night, in a big pot, and was foolish enough to reach for a gun, when I called him. We both shot. I killed him dead, and his bullet went into the ceiling. I went over and gave myself up to the sheriff, and when he went back over there the duke had gone. He’d fainted—that’s all. Somehow I can’t seem to kill the breed.”

“Same here!” grunts Homely, disgusted like. “Allowed too much for the rise.”

Auntie has recovered from her faint, and hears Magpie’s testimony. She drops like a wilted lily, and looks a million years old.

“Ruined!” says she, wailing like. “Everything is ruined.” Then she turns to Magpie, and says in a weak voice: “Samuel, will you leave us, please? Tomorrow we will talk things over.”

“Yes’m,” agrees Magpie. “Come on, Ike.”

Everybody is either left or leaving, and there don’t seem to be much animation left in the party.

“Our hats are in that shack where we left the automobile,” states Homely. “Let’s get them and go home.”

When we went out of the door we looked back. There sets auntie, sad and deserted like, and over in the corner by the music-stand is Pinky. He’s got a fiddle that somebody forgot, and he’s discording something awful, and singing:

“I’m a buckaroo from Bucktown, and I drinks my whisky clear.
I’m a rearin’, tootin’ tooter, a son-of-a-gambolier.”

It sure was a grand night for Pinky Van Veen. We went out to that house, and started to scratch a match to locate them hats, when we hears a noise.

“Sounds like somebody walking in mud,” chuckles Magpie, and then we hears Frankie say:

“Boys, I never can thank you. Have you fellers got time to shake hands with the future Mrs. Franklyn Burt?”

We sure took time.

“That money is in the bank at Silver Bend,” whispers Frankie. “Maybe some day I can do something for you to pay you for this.”

“Had a lovely time at your party,” says Homely. “Enjoyed it fine, and I sure wish you a lot of luck. Sorry I held that gun too high, but a feller can’t be lucky all the time.”

We tells them good-by, and goes back to the hotel. Magpie walks up to the counter, and says to the man—

“When do we get a train going West?”

“Ten-thirty,” says he, and we all goes upstairs. Magpie begins to pack his valise.

“Where you going?” asks Homely. “Ain’t leaving, are you?”

“On that train. Pack up, Ike. I don’t like this town, and I’ll be danged if I talks things over with auntie, ’cause there ain’t nothing left to talk about except the weather. I’m sick for the smell of sagebrush, and I’m sick of the smell of perfume.”

Homely packed up, too, and went to the depot with us.

“Come on back to Piperock with us, Homely,” says Magpie. “Dang your old hide, you’d fit in fine with the rest of us old pelicans.”

“Sure like to,” says he, “but I can’t. I got to go East on business, but likely some day I’ll see you both again. Sure hope so.”

We climbs on the steps of the car, and shakes hands with him.

“Come out our way, Homely,” says I. “Dog-gone, I’d sure like to see your homely old face out there. The cabin door is open.”

“I know it is, Ike,” says he. “If you fellers ever get as far south as Brazil look me up, will you?”

“Brazil?” wonders Magpie. “Did you say Brazil, Homely?”

“Uh-huh,” yelps Homely, as our train rolls away, “Pernambuco, Brazil. Ask for Whispering White—that’s me.”

Transcriber’s Note
This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, December 3, 1918. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.