"Cap'n Bill said I ought to," says he, "and live off'm the interest. He's a mighty smart business man, Cap'n Bill is. And I guess I'll find something before long."
"You can't miss it," says I, "specially if you keep on as you've started. But see here, Uncle Jimmy, while I ain't got any wonderful deal of my own for you to put your money in, I might throw out a useful hint or two as to other folk's plans. Suppose you just take my card, and before you tie up with any accommodatin' financiers drop in at the studio, and talk it over with me."
"Why, much obliged, Mr.—er—Professor McCabe," says he, readin' the name off the card. "Mebbe I will."
"Better make it a promise," says I. "I hate to knock our fair village; but now and then you might find a crook in New York."
"So I've heard," says he; "but I kind of think I'd know one if he run afoul of me. And everybody I've met so far has been mighty nice."
Well, what else was there for me to say? There wa'n't any more suspicion in them gentle blue eyes of his than in a baby's. Forty years in Pemaquid! Must be some moss-grown, peaceful spot, where a man can grow up so innocent and simple, and yet have the stuff in him Uncle Jimmy must have had. So I tows him back to 42d-st., points him towards the new lib'ry again, and turns him loose; him in his old blue suit and faded cap, with Cap'n Bill's antique dive chart and certified check for fifty thousand in his inside pocket.
I thought he might show up at the studio in a day or so, to submit some get-rich-quick fake to me. But he didn't. A couple of weeks goes by. Still no Uncle Jimmy. I was beginnin' to look for accounts in the papers of how an old jay from the coast of Maine had been bunkoed and gone to the police with his tale of woe; but nothin' of the kind appears. They don't always squeal, you know. Maybe he was that kind.
Then here the other day in that big storm we had, as I'm standin' in the doorway hesitatin' about dodgin' out into them slantwise sheets of rain, who should come paddlin' along, his coat collar turned up and his cap pulled down, but Uncle Jimmy Isham.
"Well, well!" says I, makin' room for him in the hallway. "Still here, eh? Gettin' to be a reg'lar Broadway rounder, I expect?"
"No," says he, shakin' the water off of him like a terrier, "I—I can't seem to get used to bein' a city man. Fact is, McCabe, I guess I begun too late. I don't like it at all."