

                         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.]
