Though you may not know it, Grogan's saloon stands near the river and near the foot of the street down which Fuzzy traveled.In Grogan's, Christmas cheer was already rampant.
Fuzzy entered with his doll.He fancied that as a mummer at the feast of Saturn he might earn a few drops from the wassail cup.
He set Betsy on the bar and addressed her loudly and humorously, seasoning his speech with exaggerated compliments and endearments, as one entertaining his lady friend.The loafers and bibbers around caught the farce of it, and roared.The bartender gave Fuzzy a drink.Oh, many of us carry rag-dolls.
"One for the lady?" suggested Fuzzy impudently, and tucked another contribution to Art beneath his waistcoat.
He began to see possibilities in Betsy.His first-night had been a success.Visions of a vaudeville circuit about town dawned upon him.
In a group near the stove sat "Pigeon" McCarthy, Black Riley, and "One-ear" Mike, well and unfavorably known in the tough shoestring district that blackened the left bank of the river.They passed a newspaper back and forth among themselves.The item that each solid and blunt forefinger pointed out was an advertisement headed "One Hundred Dollars Reward." To earn it one must return the rag-doll lost, strayed, or stolen from the Millionaire's mansion.
It seemed that grief still ravaged, unchecked, in the bosom of the too faithful Child.Flip, the terrier, capered and shook his absurd whisker before her, powerless to distract.She wailed for her Betsy in the faces of walking, talking, mama-ing, and eye-closing French Mabelles and Violettes.The advertisement was a last resort.
Black Riley came from behind the stove and approached Fuzzy in his one-sided parabolic way.
The Christmas mummer, flushed with success, had tucked Betsy under his arm, and was about to depart to the filling of impromptu dates elsewhere.
"Say, 'Bo," said Black Riley to him, "where did you cop out dat doll?""This doll?" asked Fuzzy, touching Betsy with his forefinger to be sure that she was the one referred to.his doll was presented to me by the Emperor of Beloochistan.I have seven hundred others in my country home in Newport.This doll--""Cheese the funny business," said Riley."You swiped it or picked it up at de house on de hill where--but never mind dat.You want to take fifty cents for de rags, and take it quick.Me brother's kid at home might be wantin' to play wid it.Hey--what?"He produced the coin.
Fuzzy laughed a gurgling, insolent, alcoholic laugh in his face.
Go to the office of Sarah Bernhardt's manager and propose to him that she be released from a night's performance to entertain the Tackytown Lyceum and Literary Coterie.You will hear the duplicate of Fuzzy's laugh.
Black Riley gauged Fuzzy quickly with his blueberry eye as a wrestler does.His hand was itching to play the Roman and wrest the rag Sabine from the extemporaneous merry-andrew who was entertaining an angel unaware.But he refrained.Fuzzy was fat and solid and big.Three inches of well-nourished corporeity, defended from the winter winds by dingy linen, intervened between his vest and trousers.Countless small, circular wrinkles running around his coat-sleeves and knees guaranteed the quality of his bone and muscle.His small, blue eyes, bathed in the moisture of altruism and wooziness, looked upon you kindly, yet without abashment.He was whiskerly, whiskyly, fleshily formidable.So, Black Riley temporized.
"Wot'll you take for it, den?" he asked.
"Money," said Fuzzy, with husky firmness, "cannot buy her."He was intoxicated with the artist's first sweet cup of attainment.
To set a faded-blue, earth-stained rag-doll on a bar, to hold mimic converse with it, and to find his heart leaping with the sense of plaudits earned and his throat scorching with free libations poured in his honor--could base coin buy him from such achievements? You will perceive that Fuzzy had the temperament.
Fuzzy walked out with the gait of a trained sea-lion in search of other caf'es to conquer.
Though the dusk of twilight was hardly yet apparent, lights were beginning to spangle the city like pop-corn bursting in a deep skillet.Christmas Eve, impatiently expected, was peeping over the brink of the hour.Millions had prepared for its celebration.
Towns would be painted red.You, yourself, have heard the horns and dodged the capers of the Saturnalians.
"Pigeon" McCarthy, Black Riley, and "One-ear" Mike held a hasty converse outside Grogan's.They were narrow-chested, pallid striplings, not fighters in the open, but more dangerous in their ways of warfare than the most terrible of Turks.Fuzzy, in a pitched battle, could have eaten the three of them.In a go-as-you-please encounter he was already doomed.
They overtook him just as he and Betsy were entering Costigan's Casino.They deflected him, and shoved the newspaper under his nose.Fuzzy could read--and more.
"Boys," said he, "you are certainly damn true friends.Give me a week to think it over."The soul of a real artist is quenched with difficulty.
The boys carefully pointed out to him that advertisements were soulless, and that the deficiencies of the day might not be supplied by the morrow.
"A cool hundred," said Fuzzy thoughtfully and mushily.
"Booys," said he, "you are true friends.I'll go up and claim the reward.The show business is not what it used to be."Night was falling more surely.The three tagged at his sides to the foot of the rise on which stood the Millionaire's house.There Fuzzy turned upon them acrimoniously.
"You are a pack of putty-faced beagle-hounds," he roared."Go away."They went away--a little way.
In "Pigeon" McCarthy's pocket was a section of one-inch gas-pipe eight inches long.In one end of it and in the middle of it was a lead plug.One-half of it was packed tight with solder.Black Riley carried a slung-shot, being a conventional thug."One-ear"Mike relied upon a pair of brass knucks--an heirloom in the family.
