“He’s all in, sure enough,” says I; “but I can’t have him sawin’ wood here. Come, come, old scout,” I hollers in his ear, “you’ll have to camp somewhere else for this act!” I might as well have shouted into the safe, though. He never stirs.
“The thing to do,” says Tutwater, “is to discover his name, if we can, and then communicate with his friends or family.”
“Maybe you’re right, Tutwater,” says I. “And there’s a bunch of letters in his inside pocket. Have a look.”
“They all seem to be addressed to J. T. Fargo, Esq.,” says Tutwater.
“What!” says I. “Say, you don’t suppose our sleepin’ friend here is old Jerry Fargo, do you? Look at the tailor’s label inside the pocket. Eh? Jeremiah T. Fargo! Well, say, Tutty, that wa’n’t such an idle dream of his, about givin’ me the garden. Guess he could if he wanted to. Why, this old party owns more business blocks in this town than anybody I know of except the Astors. And I was for havin’ him carted off to the station! Lemme see that ’phone directory.”
A minute more and I had the Fargo house on the wire.
“Who are you?” says I. “Oh, Mr. Fargo’s butler. Well, this is Shorty McCabe, and I want to talk to some of the fam’ly about the old man. Sure, old Jerry. He’s here. Eh, his sister? She’ll do. Yes, I’ll hold the wire.”
I’d heard of that old maid sister of his, and how she was a queer old girl; but I didn’t have any idea what a cold blooded proposition she was. Honest, she seemed put out and pettish because I’d called her up.
“Jeremiah again, hey?” she squeaks. “Now, why on earth don’t he stay in that sanatorium where I took him? This is the fourth time he’s gone wandering off, and I’ve been sent for to hunt him up. You just tell him to trot back to it, that’s all.”
“But see here, Miss Fargo,” says I, “he’s been trottin’ around until you can’t tell him anything! He’s snoozin’ away here in my office, dead to the world.”