"What's that?" says he. "Aloysius Dillon, did you say?"

"He's the one that's playin' the part of the missing prod.," says I.

"What is he like?" says Pinckney, gettin' interested.

"Accordin' to descriptions," says I, "he's a useless little runt, about four feet nothin' high and as wide as a match, with the temper of a striped hornet and the instincts of a yellow kyoodle. But he's his mother's pet, just the same, and if he ain't found she threatens to throw fits. Don't happen to know him, do you?"

"Why," says Pinckney, "I'm not sure but I do."

It looks like a jolly; but then again, you never can tell about Pinckney. He mixes around in so many sets that he's like to know 'most anybody.

"Well," says I, "if you run across Aloysius at the club, tell him what's on for Sunday afternoon."

"I will," says Pinckney, lettin' out a chuckle and climbin' into his cab.

I was hoping that maybe Sadie would renige before the time come; but right after dinner Sunday she makes up in her second best afternoon regalia, calls a hansom, and starts for Tenth-ave., leavin'

instructions how I was to show up in about an hour with Pinckney, and not to forget about handin' out our cards just as if this was a swell affair. I finds Pinckney got up in his frock coat and primrose pants, and lookin' mighty pleased about something or other.

"Huh!" says I. "You seem to take this as a reg'lar cut-up act. I call it blamed nonsense, encouragin' folks like the Dillons to----"

But there ain't any use arguin' with Pinckney when he's feelin' that way. He only grins and looks mysterious. We don't have to hunt for the number of the Dillons' flat house, for there's a gang of kids on the front steps and more out in the street gawpin' up at the lighted windows. We makes a dive through them and tackles the four flights, pa.s.sin' inspection of the tenants on the way up, every door bein' open.

"Who's comin' now?" sings out a women from the Second floor back.

"Only a couple of w.i.l.l.i.e.s from the store," says a gent in his shirt sleeves, givin' us the stare.

From other remarks we heard pa.s.sed, it was clear the Dillons had been tootin' this party as something fine and cla.s.sy, and that they wa'n't making good. The signs of frost grows plainer as we gets nearer the scene of the festivities. All the Dillon family was there, right enough, from the youngest kid up. Old Larry has had his face sc.r.a.ped till it shines like a copper stewpan, and him and Mother Dillon is standin' under a green paper bell hung from a hook in the ceiling. I could spot Tom, the coal cart driver, by the ring of dust under his eyelashes; and there was no mistakin' lady Kate, the sales person, with the double row of coronet hair rolls pinned to the top of her head.

Over in the corner, too, was Sadie, talkin' to Father Kelley. But there wa'n't any great signs of joy.

The whole party sizes up me and Pinckney as if they was disappointed.

I can't say what they was lookin' for from us; but whatever it was, we didn't seem to fill the bill. And just when the gloom is settlin' down thickest, Mother Dillon begins to sniffle.

"Now, mother," says Nora, soothin' like, "remember there's company."

"Ah, bad scran to the lot of yez!" says the old lady. "Where's my Aloysius? Where is he, will ye tell me that?"

"Divvul take such a woman!" says old Larry.

"Tut, tut!" says Father Kelley.

"Will you look at the Bradys now!" whispers Maggie, hoa.r.s.elike.

It wa'n't easy guessin' which windows in the block was theirs, for every ledge has a pillow on it, and a couple of pairs of elbows on every pillow, but I took it that the Bradys was where they was grinnin'

widest. You could tell, though, that the merry laugh was bein' pa.s.sed up and down, and it was on the Dillons.

And then, as I was tryin' to give Sadie the get-away sign, we hears a deep honk outside, and I sees the folks across the way stretchin' their necks out. In a minute there's a scamperin' in the halls like a stampede at a synagogue, and we hears the "Ah-h-hs!" coming up from below. We all makes a rush for the front and rubbers out to see what's happenin'. By climbin' on a chair and peekin' over the top of the lady Kate's hair puffs, I catches a glimpse of a big yellow and black bodied car, with a footman in a bearskin coat holdin' open the door.

"Oh-o-o-oh! look what's here?" squeals eight little Dillons in chorus.

You couldn't blame 'em, either, for the hat that was bein' squeezed out through the door of the car was one of these Broadway thrillers, four feet across, and covered with as many green ostrich feathers as you could carry in a clothes basket. What was under the feather lid we couldn't see. Followin' it out of the machine comes somethin' cute in a b.u.t.ter colored overcoat and a brown derby. In a minute more we gets the report that the procession is headed up the stairs, and by the time we've grouped ourselves around the room with our mouths open, in they floats.

In the lead, wearin' the oleo coat with yellow silk facin's, was a squizzled up little squirt with rat eyes and a mean little face about as thick as a slice of toast, and the same colour. His clothes, though, is a pome in browns and yellows, from the champagne tinted No.

3 shoes to the tobacco coloured No. 5 hat, leavin' out the necktie, which was a shade somewhere between a blue store front and a bottle of purple ink.

Even if I hadn't seen the face, I could have guessed who it was, just by the get-up. Course, there's been a good many noisy dressers floatin' around the grill room district this winter, but there always has to be one real scream in every crowd; and this was it.

"If it ain't Shrimp!" says I.

"h.e.l.lo, Shorty!" says he, in that little squeak of his.

And at that some one swoops past me. There's a flapping of green silk skirt, and Mother Dillon has given him the high tackle.

"Aloysius! My little 'Loyshy!" she squeals.

And say, you could have pushed me over with one finger. Here I'd been hearin' for the last two seasons about this jock that had come up from stable helper in a night, and how he'd been winning on nine out of every ten mounts, and how all the big racing men was overbiddin' each other to get him signed for their stables. Some of Pinckney's sportin'

friends had towed Shrimp into the Studio once or twice, and besides that I'd read in the papers all about his giddy wardrobe, and his big Swede valet, and the English chorus girl that had married him. But in all this talk of Sadie's about the Dillon fam'ly, I'd never so much as guessed that Aloysius, the stray, was one and the same as Shrimp Dillon.

Here he was, though, in the Dillon flat, with Mother Dillon almost knockin' his breath out pattin' him on the back, and all the little Dillons jumpin' around and yellin', "Uncle 'Loyshy, Uncle 'Loyshy!" and Kate and Maggie and Nora waitin' their turns; and the rest of us, includin' old Larry and me and Sadie, lookin' foolish. The only one that acts like he wa'n't surprised is Pinckney.

Well, as soon as Shrimp can wiggle himself clear, and shake the little Dillons off his legs, he hauls Mrs. Shrimp to the front and does the honours. And say, they make a pair that would draw a crowd anywhere!

You know the style of chorus ladies the Lieblers bring over,--the lengthy, high chested, golden haired kind? Well, she's one of the dizziest that ever stood up to make a background for the pony ballet.

And she has on a costume--well, it goes with the hat, which it puttin'

it strong.

If the sight of her and the circus coloured car wa'n't enough to stun the neighbours and send the Bradys under the bed, they had only to wait till the Swede valet and the footman began luggin' up the sheaf of two-dollar roses and the basket of champagne.

I was watchin' old Larry to see how he was takin' it. First he looks Shrimp up and down, from the brown hat to the yellow shoes, and then he gazes at Mrs. Shrimp. Then his stiff lower jaw begins saggin' down, and his k.n.o.bby old fingers unloosens from the grip they'd got into at first sight of 'Loyshy. It's plain that he was some in doubt about that chuckin' out programme he'd had all framed up. What Larry had been expectin' should the boy turn up at all, was something that looked like it had been picked out of the bread line. And here was a specimen of free spender that had "Keep the change!" pasted all over him. Then, before he has it half figured out, they're lined up in front of each other. But old Larry ain't one to do the sidestep.

"Aloysius," says he, scowlin' down at him, "where do ye be afther gettin' ut?"

"Out of the ponies, old stuff. Where else?" says Shrimp.

"Bettin'?" says Larry.

"Bettin' nothin'!" says Shrimp. "Mud ridin'."

"Allow me," says Pinckney, pushin' in, "to introduce to you all, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Shrimp Dillon, one of the best paid jockeys in America."

"And what might they be payin' the likes of him for bein' a jockey?"

says old Larry.

"Why," says Pinckney, "it was something like twenty thousand this season, wasn't it, Shrimp?"

"Countin' bonuses and all," says Shrimp, "it was nearer thirty-two."

"Thirty-two thou----" But Larry's mouth is open so wide he can't get the rest out. He just catches his breath, and then, "'Loyshy, me lad, give us your hand on it."

"Ahem!" says Father Kelley, pickin' up his hat, "this seems to be a case where the prodigal has returned--and brought his veal with him."