Part 13

Eddie restrained them. "When time comes fo' beatin' up that no-good ol' buzzard," he said, "I'se gwine he'p, an' he'p a-plenty. Any man which would do what he has done ain't wuth plantin' lilies on. But meanwhile, Cæsar, you got mo' impawtant things to consider. In the fust place, you got to conwince Sicily that you ain't gallivantin'."

"Hmph!" mourned Clump, "is that all?"

"'Tain't hard! Where yo' brains is at, feller? Now listen: Sicily seen you in there an' you was behavin' proper. You says yo'se'f that you tol' the lady you-all was comin' back. Undoubtlessly, Sicily is waitin' fo' you to do same. All right: You an' Florian goes back an' I goes with you. You go in an' talk loud about how bored you is an' how you wish you was home with yo' wife. An' you makes loud speechments about you got to go on down to the water front an' git material. Sicily heahs all that, an' she don't know you know she's there an' right away she sees she's done you injustice an' gits sorry. Maybe she don't even leave you know she is there, but goes back to the hotel instead. Then you comes in about an hour fum now an' goes right to her an' says, 'Honey, I an' Florian had to go back to that dance place fo' a few minutes, but it was awful.' That puts you all clear and makes things happy."

Director J. Cæsar Clump was staring pop-eyed at his friend.

"Eddie," he declared solemnly, "you ain't no man! You is simply a genius!"

The trio marked time for perhaps ten minutes. Then, filled with high purpose, they returned to the dance house. Clump rapped on the door and they were admitted. They moved through the ill-lighted hallway into the large room. At sight of them the music of drum and flageolet and _derbuka_ immediately commenced and one of the Algerian ladies rose and commenced to undulate.

Wearing masks of innocence, the three gentlemen strode down the aisle. Cæsar surveyed the room out of the corners of his eyes. Then he stopped short and whispered uncertainly to Eddie Fizz.

"Eddie--where Sicily is at?"

From her post of vantage on the balcony, Mrs. Clump saw the three men glance affrightedly about the hall. But she did not hear the conversation.

"I dunno, Cæsar."

"She coul'n't of gone out, could she?"

"No. Nobody come out of heah, an' besides, wasn't Opus still sittin' outside in his taxi?"

"Then what----"

Florian Slappey had been gazing about with increasing fright. He clutched Mr. Clump's arm. "Cæsar--s'pose they 'scovered she wasn't no Arab lady an' done somethin' terrible to her?"

Genuine terror smote Mr. Clump. It was one thing for him to come down with his friend and enjoy a bit of dancing--and quite another to have his wife abducted.

And so--in this hour of danger--Mr. Clump became a very grim and determined man. He was convinced that Sicily was somewhere in the house, and he determined to know where--and to know promptly. His manner as he advanced to the stage was surcharged with hostility which those on the stage sensed.

Mr. Clump and his associates found themselves in a quandary. No one in the place could speak a word of English, and he knew practically no French. But a mere discrepancy in language could not affect his determination to save the fair Sicily from whatever trouble might have befallen her.

"Madame," he rasped, "_ou est mon femme?_"

The stout woman shook her head. On the balcony Sicily inquired of Fernand what Cæsar had said.

"I cannot comprehend way up here," answered M. Boutierre. "Also I do not know whether Mr. Clump speaks the French or the English."

"That's French," snapped Sicily.

Fernand shrugged. "I do not say. To me it sounds like English."

Cæsar was trying again. His voice barely carried to the balcony. "_Mon femme est ici,_" he asserted with decidedly American accent. "_Je demander ou est elle a!_"

The stout lady gestured hopelessly. Sicily again inquired of her guide what Cæsar was saying.

"I do not know, madame. The words they may be French but the sound is English and the meaning is absent."

Cæsar turned helplessly to Florian Slappey.

"You is smart, Florian--you try. An' tell her us ain't to be fooled with."

Mr. Slappey spoke without hesitation. "_Femme!_" he announced. "_Très bon femme! Vous cacher ou? Vous respondez_ or we _est_ going to staht somethin'. _Comprez?_"

The woman did not comprez. Neither did the bewildered Fernand on the balcony. "If they would not talk French!" he wailed. "I can speak French and therefore I cannot understand what they say."

Cæsar was glaring hostilely at the proprietress. To his way of thinking, both he and Mr. Slappey had spoken clearly and perfectly in French. It was inconceivable that they should not be readily understood. Therefore he believed that her look of blankness was affected to trick him.

Mr. Clump tried again. He raised his fists and shook them in the startled face of the fat Algerian lady. French verbs and nouns and adjectives tumbled all over the room. Nobody understood what he was saying, but it was obvious that he was exceedingly wrathy and on the verge of precipitating trouble.

From the back of the stage the large gentleman uncoiled himself and ostentatiously placed his drum on the floor. Standing, he seemed even more formidable than when seated. His more-than-two-hundred pounds of sinew moved forward and hovered over the irate Cæsar.

He spoke in his native tongue. The words fell softly as snowflakes, but the eyes were level and cold. Ordinarily, the three colored gentlemen from Birmingham would have retreated in more or less good order, but now--confronted by the possibility of genuine danger to Sicily--no such thought entered their heads. Cæsar returned stare for stare.

"You long-drawed-out cracklin'!" he observed scathingly. "Thinkin' you can scare us!"

He stepped away and motioned the others into a conference. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"They is prob'ly holdin' Sicily prisoner," he announced. "I'se gwine find her, an' it'll take the whole Algiers army to stop me--let alone that tall boy. Is you-all with me, or does you crave to beat it befo' the action stahts?"

Florian hitched his belt together. "Reckon if you is boun' to git kilt, you could use a li'l comp'ny."

Mr. Fizz was equally ready, but his brain continued to function. "Befo' the row commences," he suggested, "le's go drag Opus Randall in heah. He's got plenty beef an' we can use him."

Cæsar grimaced. "He won't fight."

"Then," suggested Eddie calmly, "le's manslaughter him out yonder."

Still whispering, they moved into the alley. From the balcony Sicily and Fernand saw them go--apparently permanently. Sicily rose.

"Le's travel back to the hotel, Fernand."

M. Boutierre was quite willing. He started toward the stairway. Mrs. Clump restrained him.

"Ain't there another way out? My husban' will mos' likely be hangin' around that alley an' I don't crave fo' him to see me."

Fernand admitted that there was another exit, and through this he escorted Sicily from the house. But while they were reaching their decision and making their departure, much was happening in the alley.

The door of the taxi was flung violently open and the terrified Mr. Randall found himself staring into the frigid eyes of Director J. Cæsar Clump. Over Mr. Clump's shoulder he could glimpse the hostile countenances of Florian Slappey and Eddie Fizz. Cæsar spoke.

"Git out of that car, wuthless."

"Whaffo?"

"'Cause you stahted all this. It was you tol' Sicily where I was gwine be at tonight. If you hadn't of been suggestive, she never would of come. Now they has kidnapped her an' is holdin' her prisoner. Us four goes in an' commits a rescue."

Opus alighted, but exhibited marked reluctance. "I--I ain't yearnin' fo' no trouble."

"Boy! yo' yearns don't afflict me none whatsoever. You is in the middle of a whole mess of trouble right now. Inside that house there's li'ble to be a rough-house, an' you does yo' share. Otherwise us th'ee steps on you right heah an' now an' makes you into a pancake."

Opus considered flight and abandoned the idea. He stared at the three men and saw that they were determined and desperate. He tried to appear cheerful. "Well, if you really needs my he'p..."

"Come along. Keep yo' mouf an' yo' fists shut!"

They barged through the front door. The dancing girls were cowering on the stage. The proprietress of the place rushed forward, chattering hysterically in French. And immediately behind her towered the warlike figure of the monster drummer. Cæsar acted as spokesman.

"You got _mon femme en haute_ somewhere," he grated. "Us is gwine fetch her down. An' if this big hunk of cheese here tries to stop me, I'll----"

The Algerian gentleman and lady understood nothing of the situation. They did not connect the dark-skinned tourists with the veiled woman who had recently visited the place. All they could see was that these four men were obviously looking for trouble. Therefore the large man placed himself squarely across the path of J. Cæsar Clump.

To Mr. Clump this was a sinister maneuver. His voice came harshly.

"Out of my way, big boy! I'se gwine _en haute_----"

He put his foot on the first step. Iron fingers closed about his arm and he was jerked roughly aside.

Cæsar struck. He struck straight and hard and his fist spanked against the face of the Algerian. That individual let loose a bellow of rage and astonishment and leaped toward Mr. Clump.

Florian Slappey swung into action. Swiftly and with genuine skill, he executed a flying tackle. Algerian and Birminghamite struck the floor together. At the same instant two flailing figures landed on top of the native. Cæsar and Eddie were small but enthusiastic.

It was then that the fight really started. The girls were shrieking. The fat proprietress flew howling into the street. On the floor four figures milled viciously.

Three against one, but the three were small and the one was a giant. Time after time he staggered to his feet with one or two men hanging to his arms and another punching viciously at his face. And in the background stood the terrified Opus Randall, too cowed to fight and entirely too scared to run. Once, from the melee, came Florian's voice----

"Git in heah, Opus. Us needs you!"

And Opus's honest answer. "I--I'se scared, Florian. You-all is doin' fine without me."

The voice of Mr. Fizz came back, expressing his opinion of Mr. Randall. Mr. Fizz was doing himself proud. He and his two friends were taking a fine beating, but they were inflicting more than a bit of punishment at the same time. They were now up, now down; benches and tables were knocked over; the native was roaring with rage ... the three slender Birmingham negroes fought silently and desperately.

The tide of battle ebbed and flowed. It was an epic encounter; numbers against might--a trio of Lilliputians at grips with a dark-skinned Gulliver. And just when the battle was at its fiercest, when it was anybody's victory--or nobody's--the door was flung open and a weeping proprietress entered in the wake of two businesslike gendarmes.

The voice of authority rang through the room. The two efficient figures surged into the middle of the battle and dragged the contestants apart. Then words began to fly.

The four men presented a sorry spectacle. Cæsar, Florian and Eddie were clad in rags, their faces resembled a boy's nightmare of a trip through an abattoir. The Algerian was scarcely any better. His clothing, too, was torn; his face pounded out of shape and his whole body bruised. Only Opus Randall showed no scars of battle ... and even in their rage Florian and Eddie found time to express their opinion of him.

The woman and the drummer explained that they knew no reason for the disturbance. J. Cæsar struggled in his best French to explain that his wife was being held prisoner in the house. But they could not understand him, and so--struggling and protesting--he and Eddie and Florian and Opus ... the latter screaming his innocence ... were dragged to the police station.

It was a sadly bedraggled trio which confronted the sergeant at headquarters. But fortunately an interpreter was on duty and through him Cæsar explained what it was all about. The interpreter had heard of the movie company and had no reason to doubt the story told, although he made it quite clear that the Americans were laboring under a misapprehension. The house, he affirmed, was eminently respectable and safe.

The quartet was dismissed from custody. Then the interpreter and a gendarme went with them to the dancing establishment. They searched the place and when the interpreter explained whom they were seeking, the fat woman told them she had long since departed. Cæsar assuaged her grief with two one-hundred franc notes and profound apologies. Then he caused the interpreter to question her. The result was somewhat startling.

"She say," explained the interpreter, "that the lady who was here is Arab lady and not no American."

Florian, Cæsar and Eddie exchanged significant glances. Opus caught their meaning and hastened to speak.

"That was Sicily," he announced. "I'se sure of it."

"How come you is so sure?"

Mr. Randall found himself between the devil and the deep sea. "I just got a hunch," he affirmed. "I don't know nothin' fo' certain, but I'se positive anyhow."

They took Opus with them into the alley and bundled him into the taxi. The machine bumped and rolled down the narrow, ill-lighted, cobblestoned thoroughfare and the three participants in the recent battle groaned with each agonizing jerk of the antiquated machine.

Opus cowered in the corner. He felt that all was not as it should be. Instinct informed him that the end was not yet, and that he had erred in attempting to wreak revenge on Cæsar.

During the ride through the French quarter and thence toward the upper reaches of the city where their hotel was located, the three battlers spoke little and groaned much, but such words as dropped from their lips were fraught with unpleasant promise for Mr. Randall.

Eventually they swung in through the big iron gates, rolled under the trees that lined the hotel garden and came to a stop before the front door.

The trio of battered figures dragged themselves up the steps, completely surrounding the harried Opus. They moved into the lobby--where a picture of utter serenity presented itself.

Seated in an easy-chair, immersed in a London magazine, was Sicily Clump. She was calm and quiet and unruffled as she swept the newcomers with a curious gaze.

Cæsar started forward, his tone indicative of relief.

"Honeybunch!" he exulted, "you is safe!"

"What you mean, Cæsar? Safe?"

"Nothin' happened to you, did it?"

A slow smile creased Sicily's lips. She had determined to torture her husband with uncertainty.

"How come anythin' should occur to me, Mistuh Clump?"

Cæsar frowned. "Has you been out anywhere?"

And Sicily, mistress of the situation, shook her head.

"Goodness, no! I ain't been out of this hotel all evenin'."

A solemn and terrible hush fell upon the trio of slim young men who had lately been locked in deadly combat with a large and muscular drum-beater.

With one accord they turned and inspected the cringing Opus Randall. He started to speak, but before the words came, the others acted.

They acted efficiently, positively and immediately. Two arms hooked into Opus's and he found himself propelled into the darkness of the hotel gardens. An awful thought occurred to him--there swept over him the knowledge that no matter what developed he was in a horrid predicament.

They escorted him outside and surrounded him. Then, with ghastly ostentation, Cæsar, Eddie and Florian shed their torn coats and rolled up their sleeves.

Their eyes blazed with a fine and righteous light.

"Us is about to pufform a sweet duty," remarked Mr. Slappey casually.

Mr. Clump's voice carried slightly more bitterness. "An' all on account of this feller," he grated. "It was bad enough when us thought we was rescuin' Sicily. But to find out she never lef' this hotel, an' that we got beat up over some woman we don't even know..."

Opus stared wild-eyed from one to the other. He felt that it were better that the truth be known--far better than that they should think he had invented the entire story.

He knew he must convince them that Sicily had actually left the hotel to visit the dancing establishment.

His eye lighted on the bruised figure of Director Edwin Boscoe Fizz. Mr. Fizz could prove his case....

"Eddie!" he wailed, "you know good an' well Sicily lef' this hotel tonight. You seen her go! Please, suh, tell these fellers that you know I is speakin' the truth."

Mr. Fizz caressed his biceps. Terror still sat largely upon him and he burned with indignation. The others moved closer. It became terribly apparent to Mr. Randall that his only hope for mercy lay with Mr. Fizz. If Eddie chose to testify that he spoke the truth about Sicily's absence ...

"Eddie! Please... Don't you remember seein' Sicily Clump leave the hotel in the taxi?"

Eddie stared thoughtfully.

Then he doubled his fists and nodded to Cæsar and Florian.

He addressed the cringing Mr. Randall--and his words shattered that gentleman's last forlorn hope.

"When that big drummer walloped me on the jaw," announced Mr. Fizz, "he knocked my memory plumb loose!"

THE SIXTH McNALLY

_By_ Montague Glass

MONTAGUE GLASS

I think it is not generally known that Montague (Marsden) Glass was born in Manchester, England, on July 23, 1877, and came to America at the age of thirteen. Once here, he was educated at the College of the City of New York and New York University, and in a dozen more years or so was famous as the author of the Potash and Perlmutter stories. Perhaps no fictional characters of our generation have enjoyed so extensive a popularity.

"The Sixth McNally" is from Mr. Glass's book, _Y' Understand_.

THE SIXTH McNALLY[1]

[1] Copyright, 1925, by Doubleday, Page & Company. Copyright, 1921, by International Publications, Inc.

"Yes, Mr. Leonard," Gershon Danowitz said as he sat in the office of J.J. Leonard, manager, producer, and personal director of the "Comics of 1913 to 1919," both inclusive--"yes, Mr. Leonard, your poor father _olav hasholom_, Sam Lippmann, had me down right. 'Danowitz,' he used to say, 'the trouble with you is that you are all heart,' he used to say. 'If some one is in trouble or misfortune,' he used to say, 'you are right there,' he used to say, and certainly he was right."

Mr. Leonard nodded perfunctorily.

"The old man was a big jollier," he said.

"And a wonderful judge from character," Danowitz added, "which when he resigned from the presidency of the Bella Hirschkind Home for Indignant Females, Mr. Leonard, he says to me, 'Danowitz,' he says to me, 'you are my successor,' he says to me, 'and I know how it is with a man like you,' he says. 'You will want to do the whole thing yourself,' he says. 'You will be giving a thousand dollars _here_, a thousand dollars _there_, and the first thing you know, you will be practically supporting that Home out of your own pocket,' he says. 'So don't be afraid to ask my son to get up an annual benefit,' he says, and I says that while it ain't in my nature to ask favors for myself, y'understand, if that was his wish and desire, I says, _auch recht_, I says, which if Sunday evening February eleventh would be convenient to you, Mr. Leonard, it would be convenient to me."

Mr. Leonard sighed heavily. "This'll be the fifth annual benefit I give for them rotten females," he declared.

"And you could depend on it, Mr. Leonard," Danowitz said, piously, "that your poor father, _olav hasholom_, which when he was alive was a _tzadik_ if ever there was one, knows about these here benefits you are giving for the Home, and appreciates it."

"Maybe he appreciates that it has cost me on an average, $425.20 for lights, ushers, orchestra, and advertising," Leonard retorted, "not to say nothing about cleaning the theater and a full stage crew at regular union rates. So I am giving you this straight, Mr. Danowitz; next year you've got to get some one else to get up this here benefit, because this is positively the last time I am going to get stung for it."

He lifted the receiver from the telephone. "See if Al Sands of Sands & McNally is out there, and don't let nobody else in till you find who they are first. That was what my instructions was the first day I hired you.... What's that? ... Is _that_ so! I suppose you didn't let in a party a few minutes ago what I thought was Manowitz the _costoomer_, and it turns out to be somebody else."

As he banged the receiver back on its hook, he fixed Danowitz with a venomous glare. It did not, however, noticeably disturb the expression of benevolence which, as president of the Bella Hirschkind Home for Indigent Females, Danowitz habitually wore.

"Well, I guess I would be moving on," the philanthropist remarked, with precisely the same inflection as though he anticipated being pressed to remain for anyhow twenty minutes; "which if there is anything you would like to ring me up about, don't hesitate to trespass on my time."

His manner was graciousness itself as he cuddled Leonard's resisting hand in a warm clasp of farewell, and when he passed out of the room, a less adamant person than Leonard might have been left with the impression that to share in benevolent enterprises of so admirable a character, even to the extent of $425.20, was a privilege and an honor. Leonard, however, did not see it that way, and he was still muttering to himself when Al Sands, the male partner of the old-established team of Sands & McNally, entered the room.

"You ain't got no objections if I bring a couple of sandwiches along the next time, J.J.?" Al said, by way of giving himself what he considered to be a good speech to come on with. "I've been waiting outside since ten o'clock."

"Always clowning, ain't you, Al?" Leonard retorted. "Why don't you get some of that comedy into your performance? Because if you don't get no more laughs in this year's 'Comics' than you did in last year's, I've got to make some different arrangements, that's all. And as for McNally----"

"I know, I know," Sands interrupted. "But I ain't got that McNally no longer. The McNally I've got this year is a wonder."

"That's what you said last year," Leonard declared. "In fact, this'll be the sixth McNally you've had since you and me has been doing business together, Al, and they've been going down steadily. The one you had last year was the worst of the bunch."

"Sure, I know, but _that_ McNally was Irish," Sands explained. "She's the only Irish McNally I ever had, and that's where I made a big mistake. The McNally I've got this year is all right, J. J. She's got a wonderful voice, good dancer, and she's right there in three dialects."

"And on your say-so, unsight unseen, without letting the cat out of the bag or nothing, you want me to give you a contract, I suppose," Leonard said.

"I ain't trying to keep no cat in a bag," Al said. "When do you want me to bring her up here?"

"I don't want you to bring her up here never," Leonard replied. "I'm giving a benefit for a home for females--the one I always give the benefit for, on account of my father once being the president of it, on Sunday night February eleventh--and if _they_ like her, _I'll_ like her."

"You couldn't tell nothing by a benefit audience," Al Sands protested.

"Benefit or no benefit," Leonard declared, "if the people out front pays three dollars apiece for an orchestra seat, y'understand, they ain't going to laugh unless the laugh is there."