



Produced by Al Haines









[Frontispiece: THEY TACKLES ANYTHING I LEADS 'EM UP TO]





Side-stepping

with Shorty



_By_


Sewell Ford



_Illustrated by_

_Francis Vaux Wilson_




NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS




_Copyright, 1908, by Mitchell Kennerley_




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

     I.  SHORTY AND THE PLUTE
    II.  ROUNDING UP MAGGIE
   III.  UP AGAINST BENTLEY
    IV.  THE TORTONIS' STAR ACT
     V.  PUTTING PINCKNEY ON THE JOB
    VI.  THE SOARING OF THE SAGAWAS
   VII.  RINKEY AND THE PHONY LAMP
  VIII.  PINCKNEY AND THE TWINS
    IX.  A LINE ON PEACOCK ALLEY
     X.  SHORTY AND THE STRAY
    XI.  WHEN ROSSITER CUT LOOSE
   XII.  TWO ROUNDS WITH SYLVIE
  XIII.  GIVING BOMBAZOULA THE HOOK
   XIV.  A HUNCH FOR LANGDON
    XV.  SHORTY'S GO WITH ART
   XVI.  WHY WILBUR DUCKED
  XVII.  WHEN SWIFTY WAS GOING SOME
 XVIII.  PLAYING WILBUR TO SHOW
   XIX.  AT HOME WITH THE DILLONS
    XX.  THE CASE OF RUSTY QUINN




ILLUSTRATIONS


THEY TACKLES ANYTHING I LEADS 'EM TO...... _Frontispiece_

THE TWINS ORGANIZE A GAME OF TAG

"WE--E--E--OUGH! GLORY BE!" YELLS HANK, LETTIN' OUT AN EARSPLITTER

HE HAS THE PO'TRY TAP TURNED ON FULL BLAST




I

SHORTY AND THE PLUTE

Notice any gold dust on my back?  No?  Well it's a wonder there ain't,
for I've been up against the money bags so close I expect you can find
eagle prints all over me.

That's what it is to build up a rep.  Looks like all the fat wads in
New York was gettin' to know about Shorty McCabe, and how I'm a sure
cure for everything that ails 'em.  You see, I no sooner take hold of
one down and outer, sweat the high livin' out of him, and fix him up
like new with a private course of rough house exercises, than he passes
the word along to another; and so it goes.

This last was the limit, though.  One day I'm called to the 'phone by
some mealy mouth that wants to know if this is the Physical Culture
Studio.

"Sure as ever," says I.

"Well," says he, "I'm secretary to Mr. Fletcher Dawes."

"That's nice," says I.  "How's Fletch?"

"Mr. Dawes," says he, "will see the professah at fawh o'clock this
awfternoon."

"Is that a guess," says I, "or has he been havin' his fortune told?"

"Who is this?" says the gent at the other end of the wire, real sharp
and sassy.

"Only me," says I.

"Well, who are you?" says he.

"I'm the witness for the defence," says I.  "I'm Professor McCabe, P.
C. D., and a lot more that I don't use on week days."

"Oh!" says he, simmerin' down a bit.  "This is Professor McCabe
himself, is it?  Well, Mr. Fletcher Dawes requiahs youah services.  You
are to repawt at his apartments at fawh o'clock this awfternoon--fawh
o'clock, understand?"

"Oh, yes," says I.  "That's as plain as a dropped egg on a plate of
hash.  But say, Buddy; you tell Mr. Dawes that next time he wants me
just to pull the string.  If that don't work, he can whistle; and when
he gets tired of whistlin', and I ain't there, he'll know I ain't
comin'.  Got them directions?  Well, think hard, and maybe you'll
figure it out later.  Ta, ta, Mister Secretary."  With that I hangs up
the receiver and winks at Swifty Joe.

"Swifty," says I, "they'll be usin' us for rubber stamps if we don't
look out."

"Who was the guy?" says he.

"Some pinhead up to Fletcher Dawes's," says I.

"Hully chee!" says Swifty.

Funny, ain't it, how most everyone'll prick up their ears at that name?
And it don't mean so much money as John D.'s or Morgan's does, either.
But what them two and Harriman don't own is divided up among Fletcher
Dawes and a few others.  Maybe it's because Dawes is such a free
spender that he's better advertised.  Anyway, when you say Fletcher
Dawes you think of a red-faced gent with a fistful of thousand-dollar
bills offerin' to buy the White House for a stable.

But say, he might have twice as much, and I wouldn't hop any quicker.
I'm only livin' once, and it may be long or short, but while it lasts I
don't intend to do the lackey act for anyone.

Course, I thinks the jolt I gave that secretary chap closes the
incident.  But around three o'clock that same day, though, I looks down
from the front window and sees a heavy party in a fur lined overcoat
bein' helped out of a shiny benzine wagon by a pie faced valet, and
before I'd done guessin' where they was headed for they shows up in the
office door.

"My name is Dawes.  Fletcher Dawes," says the gent in the overcoat.

"I could have guessed that," says I.  "You look somethin' like the
pictures they print of you in the Sunday papers."

"I'm sorry to hear it," says he.

But say, he's less of a prize hog than you'd think, come to get
near--forty-eight around the waist, I should say, and about a number
sixteen collar.  You wouldn't pick him out by his face as the kind of a
man that you'd like to have holdin' a mortgage on the old homestead,
though, nor one you'd like to sit opposite to in a poker game--eyes
about a quarter of an inch apart, lima bean ears button