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DIPPING IN WITH
Drawings by F. Vaux Wilson CHANNY BY SEW ELL FORD French governesses, and Swiss chauffeurs, and have their clothes made on Bond-st., is that some of us can't afford it. He's been readin' about how the tenement house children make paper flowers and do beadwork instead of playin' tag in the streets, and it's dawnin' on him that the poor dc>n't live that way because they're eccentric, but because they can't duck. "And, by George!" says he, "I want to help them. At least, 1 wish to do something?my share, you know." "There!"' says Pinckney, beamin' admirin'. "Isn't that splendid?" "Oh, stow it!" says Chandler. "It's nothing of the sort. I'm not posing as a public benefactor. I simply wish to do a little personal?er?well, you un derstand?" "I'm gettin' a hint," says I. "The uplift thing, eh?" "That's the word," says Pinckney. "To mark each day with one golden deed. That's why we've come to you." "To me?" says I. "Why The Gym Door Opens Abrupt and Out Walks Swlfty Joe. S I've said before maybe, in speakin' of batty enterprises, trust Pinckney! And yet, when he comes towin' this Chandler Fiske into the studio the other day, all I could forecast was that another delegate from the idle rich had got wise to his overweight and wanted to work off a few pounds. J. Chandler needed to be pared down, all right. One of these beefy, overfed young gents, he was, with logy motions, and sort of a dull, bored look about the eyes. He's been quite a sporting chappy up to wit hin a couple of years,?polo player, fox hunter, varsity stroke, and so on,?but when he quit and acquired the sittin' down habit so hard he just naturally piled on the weight. X< >t that he'd reached the pelican-chin stage, or carried much excess baggage in front yet; but you could see it comin'. Yes, J. Chandler was more or less imposin' in his fur lined overcoat and Scotch tweeds. You know, some of these yojng plutes are so insignificant you can hardly tell 'em from bank clerks. But Chandler not only looked the part, but dressed it; all expensive, imported stuff his costume was too. Nothing chesty or loud mouthed about him, though. He just looks comf'table and good natured and orna mental, a sort of prize sample of what we can really produce when all the conditions are just right. And of course everyone knows that there's been nothin' lac kin' in the Fiske fam'lv for sometime back, and that J. Chandler's sole job in life has been to invent new ways of disposin' of the surplus income. Honest, every time another trust is dissolved he has to sit up an hour later, thinkin' what's to be done with the extra dividends. So far as that part goes, him and Pinckney is a pair. T5Y Jove, Shorty!" says Pinckney, as they blows in, "you can't guess, though!" "If you're in it," says I, "I ain't tryin'. What's the d< >; >e ? " "iint. it's Channv, here," says he. "He's turned re former."' "< h, I say, now!" protests Chandler, droppin' into the nearest chair and arrangin' himself easy. "Not so strong as that, old man. Not reformer!" "Well, philanthropist, then," says Pinckney. "Above all things, no!" says Chandler. "That means getting one's name in the papers, and being flooded with begging letters. No philanthropy for mine!" "\Veil, it's something like that, anyway," goes on Pinckney. "He's been reading books, you see?books!" ( handler almost blushes. "Burgy Creighton talked me into it," he apologizes. "Oh, Burgy!" says Pinckney. "One expects that sort of thing from him. Almost an anarchist, isn't he.'" "Socialist," corrects Chandler. "Well, what's the difference?" comes back Pinckney. "Wears a red tie, makes public speeches, has imposs:ble persons in for dinner. Oh, he's gone the limit! But he always was different; while you?" "Hang it all!" breaks in Chandler, "a man can't help thinking things, can he?" "That's the surprising part of it," says Pinckney. "Isn't it, Shorty?" "In your case it would be a miracle," says I. "Course, I don't know how it is with Mr. Fiske." "It's amazing," says Pinckney. "But I think it's per fectly ripping too. Don't you, Shorty?" "1 might if I knew what it was all about," says I. And it's a simple enough proposition, when you come to simmer it down. Chandler has discovered that the reason everybody don't keep English butlers, and Copyright, by Seuell Ford. All rights reserved. me? "For the raw material," says Pinckney. "As I told Channy, you are in such close touch with that side of life that it will be no trouble at all f<?r you to lend him a few real wretched, deserving cases, you know, .now, there's Swifty?couldn't he begin with him?"* "Gwan!" says I. "Swifty's all right as he is. He's settled and contented, and drawin' down good money reg'lar. You got no call to go disturbin' him." "Well, someone else then," says Pinckney, "some poor devil that's down and out; you know, the worse off he is the better. Come now, a real wretched one for a starter." "Say, I'm no charity bureau," says I. "I ain't got any card index of the unfit." "()h, but you know what we mean," insists Pinckney; "the kind that you're always getting interested in and helping along. Don't oe mean: lend C"hanny one or two." Honest, you'd think I'd been makin' a collection of rare bums and didn't want to break the set. Couldn't seem to get that fuzzy notion out of his head, either. I tries to tell him that, since I've been runnin' the Physical Culture Studio and commutin' to Rockhurst-on-the Sound, my line of acquaintances was almost as respect able as his, if not more so. E was still debatin* the subject, without gettin' any decision either way, when the gym door opens abrupt and out walks Swifty Joe, grippin' by the scruff of the neck and marchin' along determined in front of him a shrimpy lookin' specimen that I'd noticed followin' him in from lunch. It's kind of an odd performance; for neither of 'em is makin' a peep, and as they parades across the office before us they don't even lock our way. Swifty's got his eyes fixed on the door, for one thing, and the victim has his rolled around tryin' to glare at Swifty. It's a clear case of a sudden chuck out; but what for is more'n I can guess. Course, we're all watchin' the march past sort of bug eyed, and I was just preparin' to call for an account from Swifty, when Pinckney breaks the spell. "There, by Jove!" says he. "Didn't 1 tell you, Chan ny? Here's one, now!" "Eh?" says I, still gazin'*at the pair. "Let's have that one," goes on I inckney. "Oh, come. Shorty, be generous!" And that gives me this fool hunch of mine. "Just as you say," says I. "Hey, Swifty! Bring it back." '1 hen it's Swifty's turn to gawp. "Bring w'at back?" says he. "The specimen you've got there," says I. "Chase it up for inspection. The gentlemen would like a look." "Ahr-r-r chee!" remarks Swifty, indicatin' that he's some annoyed. But he's well trained, Swifty is. He 'bout faces and drags his man back into the middle of the room. And, say, of all the mean-faced, rat-eyed little guttersnipes, this one that Swifty is holdin' so se cure is about the worst I ever saw. He might have been anywhere from eighteen to thirty-five; for while there's some traces of youth about him, his shoulders are slumped forward and his face has that peaked, oldish look that sometimes comes from age, and then again from other things. But by the fuzz on his chin and upper lip I shouldn't have placed him as more'n twenty, or twenty-two at most. "Well, what about him?" says I. "Friend of yours?" "N'ah!" grunts Swifty. "He ain't no friend of no body's, Weasel ain't. I told him I couldn't have him hangin' around here; but he puts up such a whine about the cops houndin' him, and how he's been chased around for days, with no place to rest or get warm in, and so I lets him stick around a bit. Wat's he do too? Coes snoopin' through the lockers the minute my back's turned. So I'm givin' him the run." "You see, Gentlemen," says I to Pinckney and Chr-nd ler. "That'll be about all, eh?" "^f/HY, this is perfectly ripping!" says Pinckney. "Rather interesting, I think," says Chancier. "And, with your permission, I should like to?" "Wha-a-at?" says I. "You ain't thinkin' of practisin* on this?" "Why not?" says Chandler. "Exactly what I had in mind." "Then go to it," says I. "Swifty, turn him loose." "Ahr-r-r chee!" says Swifty, indicatin' deep chagrin. "Wa'n't I tellin' you how I caught him?" "Quite circumstantial," breaks in Pinckney. "He may have been hunting for a piece of soap, you know." "Soap!" growls Swifty. "Him!" "Anyway," adds Chandler, "who knows what bitter necessity and?er?all that sort of thing. What did you say the young man's name was?" "His gang calls him the Weasel," says Swifty. "He's a trolley dip." "A?a what?" gasps Chandler. "Pickpocket." I translates. "Works the trolley cars." At which the Weasel glares murderous, curls his upper The Door Is Barred Till Mr. Kreiger's Well on His Way.