“Now you know I’ve done more or less tra-la-la-work myself,” says he, “and the season I spent on the road as one of the merry villagers with an Erminie outfit put me wise to a few things. Course, this open air lecturing has spoiled my pipes for fair; but I’ve got my ear left, haven’t I? And say, Shorty, the minute I heard that voice of Hermy’s I knew he was the goods.”
So what does he do but go back later, after the noon rush was over, and get Hermy to tell him the story of his life. It wa’n’t what you’d call thrillin’. All there was to it was that Hermy was a double orphan who’d been brought up in Bridgeport, Conn., by an uncle who was a dancin’ professor. The only thing that saved Hermy from a bench in the brass works was his knack for poundin’ out twosteps and waltzes on the piano; but at that it seems he was such a soft head he couldn’t keep from watchin’ the girls on the floor and striking wrong notes. Then there was trouble with uncle. Snick didn’t get the full details of the row, or what brought it to a head; but anyway Hermy was fired from the academy and fin’lly drifted to New York, where he’d been close up against the bread line ever since.
“And when I found how he just naturally ate up music,” says Snick, “and how he’d had some training in a boy choir, and what a range he had, I says to him, ‘Hermy,’ says I, ‘you come with me!’ First I blows in ten good hard dollars getting a lawyer to draw up a contract. I thought it all out by myself; but I wanted the whereases put in right. And it’s a peach. It bound me to find board and lodging and provide clothes and incidentals for Hermy for the period of one year; and in consideration of which, and all that, I am to be the manager and sole business representative of said Hermy for the term of fifteen years from date, entitled to a fair and equal division of whatsoever profits, salary, or emoluments which may be received by the party of the second part, payable to me, my heirs, or assigns forever. And there I am, Shorty. I’ve done it! And I’m going to stay with it!”
“What!” says I. “You don’t mean to say you’ve invested a year’s board and lodgin’ and expenses in—in that?” and I gazes once more at this hundred and eighty-pound wrist slapper, who is standin’ there in front of the mirror pattin’ down a stray lock.
“That’s what I’ve done,” says Snick, shovin’ his hands in his pockets and lookin’ at the exhibit like he was proud of it.
“But how the—where in blazes did you get it?” says I.
“Squeezed it out,” says Snick; “out of myself, too. And you know me. I always was as good to myself as other folks would let me. But all that had to be changed. It come hard, I admit, and it cost more’n I figured on. Why, some of his voice culture lessons set me back ten a throw. Think of that! He’s had ’em, though. And me? Well, I’ve lived on one meal a day. I’ve done a double trick: on the wagon day times, night cashier in a drug store from nine till two a.m. I’ve cut out theaters, cigarettes, and drinks. I’ve made my old clothes last over, and I’ve pinched the dimes and nickels so hard my thumbprints would look like treasury dies. But we’ve got the goods, Shorty. Hermy may be the mushiest, sappiest, hen brained specimen of a man you ever saw; but when it comes to being a high class grand opera barytone, he’s the kid! And little Percival here is his manager and has the power of attorney that will fix him for keeps if I know anything!”
“Ye-e-es?” says I. “Reminds me some of the time when you was backin’ Doughnut to win the Suburban. Recollect how hard you scraped to get the two-fifty you put down on Doughnut at thirty to one, and how hard you begged me to jump in and pull out a bale of easy money? Let’s see; did the skate finish tenth, or did he fall through the hole in his name?”
“Ah, say!” says Snick. “Don’t go digging that up now. That was sport. This is straight business, on the level, and I ain’t asking you to put up a cent.”
“Well, what then?” says I.