Читать книгу The Tennessee Shad - Owen Johnson - Страница 4

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Macnooder’s success in performing the impossible feat of circling the Circle smoking a genuine, bona fide non-cubeb cigarette, brought him at once the national reputation he had yearned for, but still left him short of his ambition. The Tennessee Shad had been too long entrenched in his own particular position of public admiration to relinquish a foot of his vantage simply because a new and ingenious claimant had arrived. He considered Macnooder carefully, even solicitously, and listened with deliberation to his crafty schemes of profitable promoting. He was interested but he was not convinced. Once or twice before he admitted Macnooder’s equality he would have put him to the test.

Such was the condition of affairs when one Sunday afternoon the House was gathered in Lovely Mead’s rooms recuperating from the fatigues of a categorical sermon preached that morning by a visiting missionary.

“Gee, Sunday’s a bore!” said the Egghead, on the window-seat, sticking a pin in Lovely Mead’s leg to make room for his own.

“Ouch!” said Lovely in surprised indignation. “I’ve a mind to lick you, Egghead.”

“Wish you would—anything for excitement!”

“What let’s do?” said Macnooder from under the desk-lamp, where he was pretending to read.

“Let’s do something devilish.”

“Ah, December’s too cold.”

“I have an idea,” drawled out the Tennessee Shad from the fire-rug, where he lay pillowed on the Gutter Pup’s sleepy form. “Let’s eat something.”

At this there was a mild commotion on the window-seat, where four forms lay curled, puppy fashion.

“Eat what?”

“I was sort of speculating on a Welsh rabbit,” said the Shad in a nasal drawl.

“That’s about up to your usual brand of ideas, you thin, elongated, bony Tennessee Shad,” said the Gutter Pup contemptuously. “Where are we going to get anything on a Sunday evening?”

“I have a hunch,” said the Tennessee Shad languidly. “I have a most particular hunch that Poler Fox was seen Saturday afternoon buying a luscious, fat and juicy piece of cheese at Doc Forman’s. Question to the jury: Is or is not that cheese?”

Four figures sat up.

“Poler Fox?”

“What right has he to a piece of cheese?”

“This should be investigated!”

“It should.”

“It will be!”

The Tennessee Shad and the Gutter Pup went softly down one flight of the House and along the corridor where Poler Fox burned the midnight oil. They paused and consulted.

“Had we better swipe it or invite him?”

“Let’s try to swipe it first—we can always invite him.”

“Who ever heard of keeping a cheese over night, anyway?”

“That’s right; it’s positively unhealthy.”

“We really ought to complain.”

“Who’ll swipe it?”

“I’ll get him out of his room,” said the Tennessee Shad, “and you rush in and capture the milkweed.”

The Gutter Pup, for good reason, did not trust to the purity of the Tennessee Shad’s intentions.

“Why don’t you do the lifting?” he said suspiciously.

“You ungrateful Gutter Pup, don’t you see?—you won’t be seen. He’ll know I was only a blind. But have it your own way.”

“No,” said the Gutter Pup. “You go ahead and get him out of the room.”

He waited, ensconcing himself on the shadowy steps, until he saw the Shad and Poler Fox emerge and disappear down the resounding corridor. Then, quickly gliding to the abandoned room, he stepped through the door, elevated his nose, sniffed and considered.

Cheeses are not usually left unexposed or permitted to lend their aroma to articles that are to be worn. He could discard the bureau drawers and the trunk. He peered through the window; it was not on the sill. He opened the closet and drew a long, ineffectual breath. Then getting down on his hands and knees he started under the bed.

At this moment the Tennessee Shad returned with Poler Fox.

“Why, Gutter Pup,” said the Shad blandly, “what are you doing under the bed?”

“I came down to borrow a trot,” said the Gutter Pup, looking steadily at the Shad; “and I dropped a dime. I think it rolled under the bed.”

“You weren’t trying to steal Poler’s cheese, were you?” said the Tennessee Shad reproachfully.

“Of course I wasn’t,” said the Gutter Pup indignantly.

“ ’Cause Poler wants to give a Welsh rabbit party,” said the Shad softly, “and he mightn’t feel like inviting you if you were abusing his confidence.”

The procession returned, the Tennessee Shad keeping a safe distance from the Gutter Pup, with Poler Fox clutching the cheese as his passport into the feast.

Then a crisis arose.

“What’re you going to put in it?” said the Egghead skeptically.

“You can’t make a Welsh rabbit without beer,” said Turkey Reiter.

“Rats!” said the Tennessee Shad. “That’s all you know. You can put a dozen things in.”

The assembly divided radically.

“Come off!”

“What else?”

“Who ever heard of a rabbit without beer?”

“I’ve eaten them with condensed milk.”

“We made ’em in the Dickinson with ginger pop.”

“Anything’ll do, so long as there’s alcohol in it.”

“Oh, murder!”

“Poison!”

“Not at all—they’re not half bad.”

“Order!” said the Tennessee Shad, rapping on the chafing-dish. “I guess I’ve eaten and made more Welsh rabbits than any one in this bunch of amateurs. Hungry Smeed is right—you can make them with anything that’s got a drop of alcohol in it.”

Turkey and the Egghead put up their noses and bayed at the ceiling.

“Contrary-minded can exit.”

The protest subsided at once.

“The next best thing to beer is imported ginger ale,” said, the Tennessee Shad. “Who’s got ginger ale?”

A silence.

“Who’s got ginger pop?”

Another silence.

“Root beer?”

More silence.

“Sarsaparilla?”

“I have,” said the Gutter Pup, jumping up and disappearing under the window-seat.

A cheer went up.

Suddenly the Gutter Pup bounded out.

“I put three bottles of sarsaparilla there Friday night,” he said wrathfully. “If I knew the low-livered sneak that would steal—”

“Stealing is contemptible,” said the Tennessee Shad softly, while every one looked indignant. “I continue, who’s got any cider? Who’s got any lemon squash?”

“It’s no use,” said the gloomy Egghead. “No rabbit for us!”

“We have still our friends,” said the persistent Shad. “I move we begin to sleuth. Remember, ginger ale first—but anything after.”

The party went off in couples, all except the Tennessee Shad, the Gutter Pup, who didn’t trust the Shad, and Poler Fox, who didn’t trust the Gutter Pup.

In ten minutes the Triumphant Egghead and Hungry Smeed returned.

“Anything?” said the Tennessee Shad, ceasing to coax the melting mass of cheese.

“Nope.”

Lovely Mead came back, and then Macnooder and Turkey Reiter empty-handed. The gloom spread.

“What a beastly shame!”

“And such a sweet cheese!”

“My, what a lovely smell!”

“Well, we’re beaten—that’s all.”

“I have an idea,” said the Tennessee Shad. “Let’s try witch-hazel.”

A howl went up.

“You Indian!”

“You assassin!”

“Eat it yourself!”

“Witch-hazel hasn’t got alcohol in it, you ignoramus!”

“Why not?” said the Tennessee Shad militantly.

Every one looked at the Egghead.

“Why not?”

The Egghead found the answer too difficult and remained silent.

“Give me the witch-hazel,” said the Tennessee Shad stirring the rabbit with determined swoops. “Now just let me give you a point or two. It’s only the alcohol that counts, you jay-hawkers; the rest evaporates—goes up in steam.”

“Hold up,” said the Egghead, who had recovered.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t stand for that scientific explanation of yours.”

“Nor I,” said Lovely Mead, whose father was a chemist. “Say, Doc, you ought to know. How about it?”

Now Doc Macnooder had more than a doubt, but he worshipped the fertility of the Tennessee Shad and moreover was seeking an opportunity to make a direct offer of partnership. So he looked wise and said:

“The Tennessee Shad is right with this important distinction. The witch hazel will resolve itself into a modicum, ahem, of alcohol if heated separately and kept from contact with the cheese which you understand, in a state of transmutation, has certain lacto-basilic qualities that arrest vaporization. It’s quite simple if you understand it.”

The Tennessee Shad gave him a grateful look.

“Say, Sport,” said Turkey, only half reassured, “you may be right, but go slow—sort of coddle that witch-hazel. Let it taste more of Doe Forman’s grocery, if it’s the same to you.”

“Sure!” said the Tennessee Shad. “I’ll put in an extra load of mustard and cayenne. Get those plates ready, you loafers. Dish out the crackers. Here goes!”

Eight plates stood untasted.

“Strange how my appetite’s gone,” said the Egghead dreamily.

“I don’t feel a bit hungry.”

“Some one taste it.”

“Taste it yourself.”

“Here, this won’t do,” said the Shad, frowning. “Let’s all begin together.”

Eight spoons made a feint toward the new species of rabbit.

The Tennessee Shad looked thoughtful, then spoke.

“Fellows, I’ve got an idea! Let’s make it sweepstakes.”

“Good idea.”

“Why, Shad, you’re getting intelligent.”

“We’ll each chip in a nickel and the first one through takes the pot,” said the Shad. “Hungry, pass the tooth-mug.”

The nickels fell noisily.

“One, two, three!” said the Tennessee Shad.

Eight spoons brandished in the air and rose again empty.

“Well, let’s make it worth while,” said the Shad. “Let’s sweeten it with a quarter apiece. Sweepstakes, two dollars and forty cents. Hungry, lead the mug around again.”

Each, as he dropped in a quarter, gazed deep into the mug, drew a breath and set his teeth—two dollars and forty cents was a fortune, two weeks before Christmas.

“Every one in?” said the Tennessee Shad. “No hunchin’, Gutter Pup and Hungry, start fair—one, two, three, go!”

Not a boy faltered—Hungry Smeed won from the Gutter Pup by several strings and dove for the pot.

Then they sat and looked at one another.

“Gee, I feel queer!” said Turkey, with an expression of inward searching on his face.

“So do I.”

“I believe we’re poisoned.”

“I know I am!”

“Honest, no joking, I do feel devilish queer.”

“What in the deuce did we do it for?”

“Who suggested witch-hazel?” said the Gutter Pup, clutching at his indignant digestion. “I’ll fix him.”

“Yes, who did?” said Turkey, rising with difficult wrath.

“Tennessee Shad!”

Seven writhing forms sprang up furiously.

The Tennessee Shad, with a perfect comprehension of dramatic values, had slipped away, leaving his plate untouched.