He wa'n't mine, to begin with. I got him second hand. You see, he come along just as I was havin' a slack spell. Mr. Gordon—yes, Pyramid Gordon—he calls up on the 'phone and says he's in a hole. Seems he's got a nephew that's comin' on from somewhere out West to take a look at New York, and needs some one to keep him from fallin' off Brooklyn Bridge.
"How's he travellin'," says I; "tagged, in care of the conductor?"
"Oh, no," says Mr. Gordon. "He's about twenty-two, and able to take care of himself anywhere except in a city like this." Then he wants to know how I'm fixed for time.
"I got all there is on the clock," says I.
"And would you be willing to try keeping Bentley out of mischief until I get back?" says he.
"Sure as ever," says I. "I don't s'pose he's any holy terror; is he?"
Pyramid said he wa'n't quite so bad as that. He told me that Bentley'd been brought up on a big cattle ranch out there, and that now he was boss.
"He's been making a lot of money recently, too," says Mr. Gordon, "and he insists on a visit East. Probably he will want to let New York know that he has arrived, but you hold him down."
"Oh, I'll keep him from liftin' the lid, all right," says I.
"That's the idea, Shorty," says he. "I'll write a note telling him all about you, and giving him a few suggestions."