So Mr. Wells and his woe drops out of sight. He's managed to keep hold of a little property that brings him in just enough to scrub along on, and he joins that hungry-eyed, trembly-fingered fringe of margin pikers that hangs around every hotel broker's branch in town, takin' a timid flier now and then, but tappin' the free lunch hard and reg'lar. You know the kind,—seedy hasbeens, with their futures all behind 'em.
And in time, broodin' over things in gen'ral, it got to Hackett Wells in his weak spot,—heart, or liver, or something. Didn't quite finish him, you understand, but left him on the scrapheap, just totterin' around and stavin' off an obituary item by bein' mighty careful.
"I suppose Gordon must have heard something of the shape he was in," says J. Bayard, "when he included him in his list. Well, I hunted him up the other day, in a cheap, messy flat-house to the deuce and gone up Eighth avenue, got his story from him, and decided on a way of helping him out."
"Want to buy him a coal mine, or something like that?" says I.
J. Bayard refuses to notice my little sarcastic play. "I am sure Pyramid would have wanted this worn-out, cast-off tool of his to end his days decently," goes on Mr. Steele; "but to give him a lump sum would be worse than useless. Two or three plunges, and it would be all gone."
"Think of puttin' him in a home somewhere?" says I.
"That might be a good plan," says Steele, "if he was still a widower; but it appears that he has married again,—a young woman too, some waitress that he met in a quick-lunch place. I saw her. Bah! One of these plump, stupid young females, who appeared in a dingy dressing gown with her hair down. What an old fool! But I suppose she takes care of him, in a way. So I thought that an annuity, of say a thousand or two, paid in monthly installments, would be the wisest. That would enable them to move out into the country, get a nice little house, with a garden, and really live. It was pathetic to see how grateful he was when I told him of my scheme. Of course, McCabe, all this is subject to your indorsement. Thought you might like to have a talk with them first, and see for yourself; so I asked them to meet me here about——"
"Guess they're right on time," says I as the studio door opens, and in drifts a December-and-May pair that answers all the details of his description.
The old boy might have been still in the sixties; but with his remnant of white hair, watery eyes, and ashy cheeks he looks like a reg'lar antique. Must have been one of these heavy-set sports in his day, a good feeder, and a consistent drinker; but by the flabby dewlaps and the meal-bag way his clothes hang on him I judge he's slumped quite a lot. Still, he's kind of a dignified, impressive old ruin, which makes the contrast with the other half of the sketch all the more startlin'.
She's a bunchy blonde, she is, about four foot six in her French heels, with yellow hair, China-doll eyes, a snub nose, and a waxy pink and white complexion like these show-window models you see in department stores. She's costumed cheap but gaudy in a wrinkled, tango-colored dress that she must have picked off some Grand street bargain counter late last spring. The ninety-nine-cent soup-plate lid cocked over one ear adds a rakish touch that almost puts her in the comic valentine class.