“I don’t have to keep in condition, seeing as I’m merely running things,” he explained. [397] “But you bet I make my flock keep in condition—no boozing and mighty little cigarette smoking for them while their little papa’s eye is on them.”
“I’ve always heard you were strong for discipline,” said Mr. Birdseye, plastering the flattering unction on thickly.
“I have to be, with a rowdy outfit like this one. Look yonder—that’s a sample of the way they carry on when the bridle is off.”
Three of these temporarily unhaltered colts had captured the car porter. Two held him fast while the third massaged his woolly scalp with hard knuckles. Half a dozen more shouted advice to the operator. The porter broke away and fled, his expression betraying that he hardly knew whether to feel indignant or complimented. Mr. Birdseye saw that the volunteer masseur, now approaching them, had coal-black hair and snapping black eyes, and a skin the colour of polished cherry.
“That’s the Chief coming, of course?” opined Mr. Birdseye. His tone was filled with reverence.
“Sh-h, don’t let him hear you. If I had a big Indian whatyoumaycallim for a grandfather I’d advertise it, but he’s a little touchy on the subject. Great boy though—one of the best.”
“Part Pawnee, ain’t he?”
“No; Parsee, I think.”
Mr. Birdseye was going to ask where that [398] tribe lived, but skylarking broke out in a fresh quarter and he forgot it. They talked averages then, or started to. Mr. Birdseye was made proud to find his companion agreed with him that Tris Speaker undoubtedly had a shade on Joe Jackson, and then was just about to take up the question of Honus Wagner’s ability to come back after his last season’s slump—a vital issue and one upon which he entertained decided views in the affirmative—when something occurred. Without being able to comprehend exactly how it came about, he discovered himself all of a sudden forming one link in a human chain of which six or eight more were likewise component parts. With arms intertwined and heads bent toward a common centre, they all mingled their lusty voices in snatches of song and glee and roundelay, and he—he perforce joined with them. One moment Merrily They Rolled Along, Rolled Along, Rolled Along—indeed they did; the next, From Aunt Dinah’s Quilting Party they were Seeing Nell-l-l-i-e Home. Then a single minstrel advanced the duly credited assertion of parties unnamed that A Nigger Won’t Steal, whereupon several others instantly and melodiously responded to the effect that be this as it may, I Caught Three in My Cornfield; One Had a Shovel and One Had a Hoe and if That Ain’t Stealing I Don’t Know! And so on without cessation for many fleeting, glorious, golden minutes. Once Mr. Birdseye, feeling certain he recognised the [399] blithesome tenor whose wide shoulders his right arm encompassed, broke off his carolling long enough to say:
“Some doings, eh, Flying Jenny?”