Average Jones Read online

  Produced by Sean Pobuda

  AVERAGE JONES

  By Samuel Hopkins Adams

  CHAPTER I. THE B-FLAT TROMBONE

  Three men sat in the Cosmic Club discussing the question: "What's thematter with Jones?" Waldemar, the oldest of the conferees, was theowner, and at times the operator, of an important and decent newspaper.His heavy face wore the expression of good-humored power, characteristicof the experienced and successful journalist. Beside him sat RobertBertram, the club idler, slender and languidly elegant. The third memberof the conference was Jones himself.

  Average Jones had come by his nickname inevitably. His parents hadforedoomed him to it when they furnished him with the initials A. V. R.E. as preface to his birthright of J for Jones. His character apparentlyjustified the chance concomitance. He was, so to speak, a compositephotograph of any thousand well-conditioned, clean-living Americansbetween the ages of twenty-five and thirty. Happily, his otherwisecommonplace face was relieved by the one unfailing characteristic ofcomposite photographs, large, deep-set and thoughtful eyes. Otherwise hewould have passed in any crowd, and nobody would have noticed him pass.Now, at twenty-seven, he looked back over the five years since hisgraduation from college and wondered what he had done with them; and atthe four previous years of undergraduate life and wondered how he haddone so well with those and why he had not in some manner justified theparting words of his favorite professor.

  "You have one rare faculty, Jones. You can, when you choose, sharpenthe pencil of your mind to a very fine point. Specialize, my boy,specialize."

  If the recipient of this admonition had specialized in anything, it wasin life. Having twenty-five thousand a year of his own he might havecontinued in that path indefinitely, but for two influences. One was anirruptive craving within him to take some part in the dynamic activitiesof the surrounding world. The other was the "freak" will of his lateand little-lamented uncle, from whom he had his present income, and hisfuture expectations of some ten millions. Adrian Van Reypen Egerton had,as Waldemar once put it, "--one into the mayor's chair with a good nameand come out with a block of ice stock." In a will whose cynical humorwas the topic of its day, Mr. Egerton jeered posthumously at the publicwhich he had despoiled, and promised restitution, of a sort, through hisheir.

  "Therefore," he had written, "I give and bequeath to the said Adrian VanReypen Egerton Jones, the residue of my property, the principal to betaken over by him at such time as he shall have completed five years ofcontinuous residence in New York City. After such time the virus of themetropolis will have worked through his entire being. He will squanderhis unearned and undeserved fortune, thus completing the vicious circle,and returning the millions acquired by my political activities, in apoisoned shower upon the city, for which, having bossed, bullied andlooted it, I feel no sentiment other than contempt."

  "And now," remarked Waldemar in his heavy, rumbling voice, "you aspireto disappoint that good old man."

  "It's only human nature, you know," said Average Jones. "When a manputs a ten-million-dollar curse on you and suggests that you haven't thebackbone of a shrimp, you--you--"

  "--naturally yearn to prove him a liar," supplied Bertram.

  "Exactly. Anyway, I've no taste for dissipation, either moral orfinancial. I want action; something to do. I'm bored in this infernalcity."

  "The wail of the unslaked romanticist," commented Bertram.

  "Romanticist nothing!" protested the other. "My ambitions are practicalenough if I could only get 'em stirred up."

  "Exactly. Boredom is simply romanticism with a morning-after thirst.You're panting for romance, for something bizarre. Egypt and St.Petersburg and Buenos Ayres and Samoa have all become commonplace toyou. You've overdone them. That's why you're back here in New Yorkwaiting with stretched nerves for the Adventure of Life to cat-creep upfrom behind and toss the lariat of rainbow dreams over your shoulders."

  Waldemar laughed. "Not a bad diagnosis. Why don't you take up a hobby,Mr. Jones?"

  "What kind of a hobby?"

  "Any kind. The club is full of hobby-riders. Of all people that I know,they have the keenest appetite for life. Look at old Denechaud; he was amisanthrope until he took to gathering scarabs. Fenton, over there, hasthe finest collection of circus posters in the world. Bellerding's houseis a museum of obsolete musical instruments. De Gay collects venomousinsects from all over the world; no harmless ones need apply. Terriberryhas a mania for old railroad tickets. Some are really very curious. I'veoften wished I had the time to be a crank. It's a happy life."

  "What line would you choose?" asked Bertram languidly.

  "Nobody has gone in for queer advertisements yet, I believe," repliedthe older man. "If one could take the time to follow them up---but itwould mean all one's leisure."

  "Would it be so demanding a career?" said Average Jones, smiling.

  "Decidedly. I once knew a man who gave away twenty dollars daily onclues from the day's news. He wasn't bored for lack of occupation."

  "But the ordinary run of advertising is nothing more than an effort tosell something by yelling in print," objected Average Jones.

  "Is it? Well perhaps you don't look in the right place."

  Waldemar reached for the morning's copy of the Universal and ran his eyedown the columns of "classified" matter. "Hark to this," he said, andread:

  "Is there any work on God's green earth for a man who has just got to have it?"

  "Or this:

  "WANTED--A venerable looking man with white beard and medical degree. Good pay to right applicant."

  "What's that?" asked Average Jones with awakened interest.

  "Only a quack medical concern looking for a stall to impress theircome-ons," explained Waldemar.

  Average Jones leaned over to scan the paper in his turn.

  "Here's one," said he, and read:

  WANTED--Performer on B-flat trombone. Can use at once. Apply with instrument, after 1 p. m. 300 East 100th Street.

  "That seems ordinary enough," said Waldemar.

  "What's it doing in a daily paper? There must be--er--technicalpublications--er--journals, you know, for this sort of demand."

  "When Average's words come slow, you've got him interested," commentedBertram. "Sure sign."

  "Nevertheless, he's right," said Waldemar. "It is rather misplaced."

  "How is this for one that says what it means?" said Bertram.

  WANTED--At once, a brass howitzer and a man who isn't afraid to handle it. Mrs. Anne Cullen, Pier 49 1/2 East River.

  "The woman who is fighting the barge combine," explained Waldemar. "Notso good as it looks. She's bluffing."

  "Anyway, I'd like a shy at this business," declared Average Jones withsudden conviction. "It looks to me like something to do."

  "Make it a business, then," advised Waldemar. "If you care really to goin for it, my newspaper would be glad to pay for information such as youmight collect. We haven't time, for example, to trace down fraudulentadvertisers. If you could start an enterprise of that sort, you'dcertainly find it amusing, and, at times, perhaps, even adventurous."

  "I wouldn't know how to establish it," objected Average Jones.

  The newspaper owner drew a rough diagram on a sheet of paper and filledit in with writing, crossing out and revising liberally. Divided, uponhis pattern, into lines, the final draft read:

  HAVE YOU BEEN STUNG?

  Thousands have. Thousands will be. They're Laying for You.

  WHO? The Advertising Crooks.

  A. JONES Ad-Visor Can Protect You Against Them.

  Before Spending Your Money Call on Him. Advice on all Subjects Connected with Newspaper, Magazine or Displa
y Advertising. Free Consultation to Persons Unable to Pay. Call or Write, Enclosing Postage. This Is On The Level.

  "Ad-Visor! Do you expect me to blight my budding career by a poisonouspun like that?" demanded Average Jones with a wry face.

  "It may be a poisonous pun, but it's an arresting catch-word," saidWaldemar, unmoved. "Single column, about fifty lines will do it in nice,open style. Caps and lower case, and black-faced type for the name andtitle. Insert twice a week in every New York and Brooklyn paper."

  "Isn't it--er--a little blatant?" suggested Bertram, with liftedeyebrows.

  "Blatant?" repeated its inventor. "It's more than that. It's howlinglyvulgar. It's a riot of glaring yellow. How else would you expect tocatch the public?"

  "Suppose, then, I do burst into flame to this effect?" queried theprospective "Ad-Visor." "Et apres? as we proudly say after spending aweek in Paris."

  "Apres? Oh, plenty of things. You hire an office, a clerk, twostenographers and a clipping export, and prepare to take care of thework that comes in. You'll be flooded," promised Waldemar.

  "And between times I'm to go skipping about, chasing long white whiskersand brass howitzers and B-flat trombones, I suppose."

  "Until you get your work systematized you'll have no time for skipping.Within six months, if you're not sandbagged or jailed on fake libelsuits, you'll have a unique bibliography of swindles. Then I'll begin tocome and buy your knowledge to keep my own columns clean."

  The speaker looked up to meet the gaze of an iron-gray man with a harsh,sallow face.

  "Excuse my interrupting," said the new-comer.

  "Just one question, Waldemar. Who's going to be the nominee?"

  "Linder."

  "Linder? Surely not! Why, his name hasn't been heard."

  "It will be."

  "His Federal job?"

  "He resigns in two weeks."

  "His record will kill him."

  "What record? You and I know he's a grafter. But can we prove anything?His clerk has always handled all the money."

  "Wasn't there an old scandal--a woman case?"' asked the questionervaguely.

  "That Washington man's wife? Too old. Linder would deny it flatly, andthere would be no witnesses. The woman is dead--killed by his brutaltreatment of her, they say. But the whole thing was hushed up at thetime by Linder's pull, and when the husband threatened to kill himLinder quietly set a commissioner of insanity on the case and hadthe man put away. He's never appeared since. No, that wouldn't bepolitically effective."

  The gray man nodded, and walked away, musing.

  "Egbert, the traction boss," explained Waldemar. "We're generally onopposite sides, but this time we're both against Linder. Egbert wants acheaper man for mayor. I want a straighter one. And I could get him thisyear if Linder wasn't so well fortified. However, to get back to ourproject, Mr. Jones--"

  Get back to it they did with such absorption that when the group brokeup, several hours later, Average Jones was committed, by plan and rote,to the new and hopeful adventure of Life.

  In the great human hunt which ever has been and ever shall be till "thelast bird flies into the last light"--some call it business, some callit art, some call it love, and a very few know it for what it is, thevery mainspring of existence--the path of the pursuer and the prey oftenrun obscurely parallel. What time the Honorable William Linder maturedhis designs on the mayoralty, Average Jones sat in a suite of officesin Astor Court, a location which Waldemar had advised as being central,expensive, and inspirational of confidence, and considered, with awhirling brain, the minor woes of humanity. Other people's troubleshad swarmed down upon him in answer to his advertised offer of help,as sparrows flock to scattered bread crumbs. Mostly these were of thelesser order of difficulties; but for what he gave in advice and helpthe Ad-Visor took payment in experience and knowledge of human nature.Still it was the hard, honest study, and the helpful toil which held himto his task, rather than the romance and adventure which he had hopedfor and Waldemar had foretold--until, in a quiet, street in Brooklyn, ofwhich he had never so much as heard, there befell that which, first ofmany events, justified the prophetic Waldemar and gave Average Jonesa part in the greater drama of the metropolis. The party of the secondpart was the Honorable William Linder.

  Mr., Linder sat at five P. m., of an early summer day, behind lock andbolt. The third floor front room of his ornate mansion on Brooklyn'sPark Slope was dedicated to peaceful thought. Sprawled in a huge andsoftly upholstered chair at the window, he took his ease in his house.The chair had been a recent gift from an anonymous admirer whosepolitical necessities, the Honorable Mr. Linder idly surmised, hadnot yet driven him to reveal his identity. Its occupant stretched hisshoeless feet, as was his custom, upon the broad window-sill, flooded bythe seasonable warmth of sunshine, the while he considered the ripeningmayoralty situation. He found it highly satisfactory. In the language ofhis inner man, it was a cinch.

  Below, in Kennard Street, a solitary musician plodded. Hispretzel-shaped brass rested against his shoulder. He appeared to be the"scout" of one of those prevalent and melancholious German bands, which,under Brooklyn's easy ordinances, are privileged to draw echoes of thepast writhing from their forgotten recesses. The man looked slowly abouthim as if apprising potential returns. His gravid glance encounteredthe prominent feet in the third story window of the Linder mansion, andrested. He moved forward. Opposite the window he paused. He raised themouthpiece to his lips and embarked on a perilous sea of notes fromwhich the tutored ear might have inferred that once popular ditty,Egypt.

  Love of music was not one of the Honorable William Linder's attributes.An irascible temper was. Of all instruments the B-flat trombonepossesses the most nerve-jarring tone. The master of the mansion leapedfrom his restful chair. Where his feet had ornamented the coping hisface now appeared. Far out he leaned, and roared at the musician below.The brass throat blared back at him, while the soloist, his eyes closedin the ecstasy of art, brought the "verse" part of his selection toan excruciating conclusion, half a tone below pitch. Before the chorusthere was a brief pause for effect. In this pause, from Mr. Linder'sopen face a voice fell like a falling star. Although it did not cry"Excelsior," its output of vocables might have been mistaken, bya casual ear, for that clarion call. What the Honorable Mr. Linderactually shouted was:

  "Getthehelloutofhere!"

  The performer upturned a mild and vacant face. "What you say?" heinquired in a softly Teutonic accent.

  The Honorable William Linder made urgent gestures, like a brakeman.

  "Go away! Move on!"

  The musician smiled reassuringly.

  "I got already paid for this," he explained.

  Up went the brass to his lips again. The tonal stairway which leads upto the chorus of Egypt rose in rasping wailfulness. It culminated in anexcessive, unendurable, brazen shriek--and the Honorable William Linderexperienced upon the undefended rear of his person the most violent kickof a lifetime not always devoted to the arts of peace. It projected himclear of the window-sill. His last sensible vision was the face ofthe musician, the mouth absurdly hollow and pursed above the suddenlyremoved mouthpiece. Then an awning intercepted the politician's flight.He passed through this, penetrated a second and similar stretch ofcanvas shading the next window below, and lay placid on his ownfront steps with three ribs caved in and a variegated fracture of thecollar-bone. By the time the descent was ended the German musician hadtucked his brass under his arm and was hurrying, in panic, down thestreet, his ears still ringing with the concussion which had blown theangry householder from his own front window. He was intercepted by arunning policeman.

  "Where was the explosion?" demanded the officer.

  "Explosion? I hear a noise in the larch house on the corner," repliedthe musician dully.

  The policeman grabbed his arm. "Come along back. You fer a witness! Comeon; you an' yer horn."

  "It iss not a horn," explained the German patiently, "'it iss a B-flattrombone."

&nb
sp; Along with several million other readers, Average Jones followed theLinder "bomb outrage" through the scandalized head-lines of the localpress. The perpetrator, declared the excited journals, had been skilful.No clue was left. The explosion had taken care of that. The police (withthe characteristic stupidity of a corps of former truck-drivers andbartenders, decorated with brass buttons and shields and without furtherqualification dubbed "detectives") vacillated from theory to theory.Their putty-and-pasteboard fantasies did not long survive the HonorableWilliam Linder's return to consciousness and coherence. An "inside job,"they had said. The door was locked and bolted, Mr. Linder declared,and there was no possible place for an intruder to conceal himself.Clock-work, then.

  "How would any human being guess what time to set it for," demanded thepolitician in disgust, "when I never know, myself, where I'm going to beat any given hour of any given day?"

  "Then that Dutch horn-player threw the bomb," propounded the head of the"Detective Bureau" ponderously.

  "Of course; tossed it right up, three stories, and kept playing hisinfernal trombone with the other hand all the time. You ought to becarrying a hod!"

  Nevertheless, the police hung tenaciously to the theory that themusician was involved, chiefly because they had nothing else to hang to.The explosion had been very localized, the room not generally wrecked;but the chair which seemed to be the center of disturbance, and fromwhich the Honorable William Linder had risen just in time to save hislife, was blown to pieces, and a portion of the floor beneath it wasmuch shattered. The force of the explosion had been from above the floordownward; not up through the flooring. As to murderously inclined foes,Mr. Linder disclaimed knowledge of any. The notion that the trombonisthad given a signal he derided as an "Old Sleuth pipe-dream."

  As time went on and "clues" came to nothing, the police had no greaterconcern than quietly to forget, according to custom, a problem beyondtheir limited powers. With the release of the German musician, whowas found to be simple-minded to the verge of half-wittedness, publicinterest waned, and the case faded out of current print.

  Average Jones, who was much occupied with a pair of blackmailersoperating through faked photographs, about that time, had almostforgotten the Linder case, when, one day, a month after the explosion,Waldemar dropped in at the Astor Court offices. He found a changedJones; much thinner and "finer" than when, eight weeks before, he hadembarked on his new career, at the newspaper owner's instance. The youngman's color was less pronounced, and his eyes, though alert and eager,showed rings under them.

  "You have found the work interesting, I take it," remarked the visitor.

  "Ra--ather," drawled Average Jones appreciatively.

  "That was a good initial effort, running down the opium pill mail-orderenterprise."

  "It was simple enough as soon as I saw the catchword in the 'Wanted'line."

  "Anything is easy to a man who sees," returned the older mansententiously. "The open eye of the open mind--that has more to do withreal detective work than all the deduction and induction and analysisever devised."

  "It is the detective part that interests me most in the game, but Ihaven't had much of it, yet. You haven't run across any promising adslately, have you?"

  Waldemar's wide, florid brow wrinkled.

  "I haven't thought or dreamed of anything for a month but this infernalbomb explosion."

  "Oh, the Linder case. You're personally interested?"

  "Politically. It makes Linder's nomination certain. Persecution.Attempted assassination. He becomes a near-martyr. I'm almost ready tobelieve that he planted a fake bomb himself."

  "And fell out of a third-story window to carry out the idea? That'spushing realism rather far, isn't it?"

  Waldemar laughed. "There's the weakness. Unless we suppose that heunder-reckoned the charge of explosive."

  "They let the musician go, didn't they?"

  "Yes. There was absolutely no proof against him, except that he was inthe street below. Besides, he seemed quite lacking mentally."

  "Mightn't that have been a sham?"

  "Alienists, of good standing examined him. They reported him just ashade better than half-witted. He was like a one-ideaed child, hiswhole being comprised in his ability, and ambition to play his B-flattrombone."

  "Well, if I needed an accomplice," said Average Jones thoughtfully, "Iwouldn't want any better one than a half-witted man. Did he play well?"

  "Atrociously. And if you know what a soul-shattering blare exudes from aB-flat trombone--" Mr. Waldemar lifted expressive hands.

  Within Average Jones' overstocked mind something stirred at therepetition of the words "B-flat trombone." Somewhere they had attractedhis notice in print; and somehow they were connected with Waldemar.Then from amidst the hundreds of advertisements with which, in the pastweeks, he had crowded his brain, one stood out clear. It voiced thedesire of an unknown gentleman on the near border of Harlem for theservices of a performer upon that semi-exotic instrument. One amongseveral, it had been cut from the columns of the Universal, on theevening which had launched him upon his new enterprise. Average Jonesmade two steps to a bookcase, took down a huge scrap-book from analphabetized row, and turned the leaves rapidly.

  "Three Hundred East One Hundredth Street," said he, slamming the bookshut again. "Three Hundred East One Hundredth. You won't mind, willyou," he said to Waldemar, "if I leave you unceremoniously?"

  "Recalled a forgotten engagement?" asked the other, rising.

  "Yes. No. I mean I'm going to Harlem to hear some music. Thirty-fourth'sthe nearest station, isn't it? Thanks. So long."

  Waldemar rubbed his head thoughtfully as the door slammed behind thespeeding Ad-Visor.

  "Now, what kind of a tune is he on the track of, I wonder?" he mused."I wish it hadn't struck him until I'd had time to go over the Linderbusiness with him."

  But while Waldemar rubbed his head in cogitatation and the HonorableWilliam Linder, in his Brooklyn headquarters, breathed charily, out ofrespect to his creaking rib, Average Jones was following fate northward.

  Three Hundred East One Hundredth Street is a house decrepit with adisease of the aged. Its windowed eyes are rheumy. It sags backward ongnarled joints. All its poor old bones creak when the winds shake it. ToAverage Jones' inquiring gaze on this summer day it opposed the secrecyof a senile indifference. He hesitated to pull at its bell-knob, lestby that act he should exert a disruptive force which might bring allthe frail structure rattling down in ruin. When, at length, he forcedhimself to the summons, the merest ghost of a tinkle complainedpetulantly from within against his violence.

  An old lady came to the door. She was sleek and placid, round andcomfortable. She did not seem to belong in that house at all. AverageJones felt as if he had cracked open one of the grisly locust shellswhich cling lifelessly to tree trunks, and had found within a plump andprosperous beetle.

  "Was an advertisement for a trombone player inserted from this house,ma'am?" he inquired.

  "Long ago," said she.

  "Am I too late, then?"

  "Much. It was answered nearly two months since. I have never," said theold lady with conviction, "seen such a frazzled lot of folks as B-flattrombone players."

  "The person who inserted the advertisement--?"

  "Has left. A month since."

  "Could you tell where he went?"

  "Left no address."

  "His name was Telford, wasn't it?" said Average Jones strategically.

  "Might be," said the old lady, who had evidently formed no favorableimpression of her ex-lodger. "But he called himself Ransom."

  "He had a furnished room?"

  "The whole third floor, furnished."

  "Is it let now?"

  "Part of it. The rear."

  "I'll take the front room."

  "Without even looking at it?"

  "Yes."

  "You're a queer young man. As to price?"

  "Whatever you choose."

  "You're a very queer young man. Are you a B-fla
t trombone player?"

  "I collect 'em," said Average Jones.

  "References?" said the old lady abruptly and with suspicion.

  "All varieties," replied her prospective lodger cheerfully. "I willbring 'em to-morrow with my grip."

  For five successive evenings thereafter Average Jones sat in the senilehouse, awaiting personal response to the following advertisement whichhe had inserted in the Universal:

  WANTED--B-flat trombonist. Must have had experience as street player. Apply between 8 and 10 p. m. R--, 300 East 100th Street.

  Between the ebb and flow of applicant musicians he read exhaustivelyupon the unallied subjects of trombones and high explosives, or talkedwith his landlady, who proved to be a sociable person, not disinclinedto discuss the departed guest. "Ransom," his supplanter learned, hadcome light and gone light. Two dress suit cases had sufficed to bring inall his belongings. He went out but little, and then, she opined with adisgustful sniff, for purposes strictly alcoholic. Parcels came for himoccasionally. These were usually labeled "Glass. Handle with care." Oh!there was one other thing. A huge, easy arm-chair from Carruthers andCompany, mighty luxurious for an eight-dollar lodger.

  "Did he take that with him?" asked Average Jones.

  "No. After he had been here a while he had a man come in and box it up.He must have sent it away, but I never saw it go."

  "Was this before or after the trombone players came?"

  "Long after. It was after he had picked out his man and had him up herepracticing."

  "Did--er--you ever--er--see this musician?" drawled Average Jones in theslow tones of his peculiar excitement.

  "Bless you, yes! Talked with him."

  "What was he like?"

  "He was a stupid old German. I always thought he was a sort of anatural."

  "Yes?" Average Jones peered out of the window. "Is this the man, comingup the street?"

  "It surely is," said the old lady. "Now, Mister Jones, if he commenceshis blaring and blatting and--".

  "There'll be no more music, ma'am," promised the young man, laughing, asshe went out to answer the door-bell.

  The musician, ushered in, looked about him, an expression of bewilderedand childish surprise on his rabbit-like face.

  "I am Schlichting," he murmured; "I come to play the B-flat trombone."

  "Glad to see you, Mr. Schlichting," said Average Jones, leading the wayup-stairs. "Sit down."

  The visitor put his trombone down and shook his head with conviction.

  "It iss the same room, yes," he observed. "But it iss not the same gent,no."

  "You expected to find Mr. Ransom here?"

  "I don't know Mr. Ransom. I know only to play the B-flat trombone."

  "Mr. Ransom, the gentleman who employed you to play in the street inBrooklyn."

  Mr. Schlichting made large and expansive gestures. "It iss a pleasure toplay for such a gent," he said warmly. "Two dollars a day."

  "You have played often in Kennard Street?"

  "I don't know Kennard Street. I know only to play the B-flat trombone."

  "Kennard Street. In Brooklyn. Where the fat gentleman told you to stop,and fell out of the window."

  A look of fear overspread the worn and innocent face.

  "I don't go there no more. The po-lice, they take there."

  "But you had gone there before?"

  "Not to play; no."

  "Not to play? Are you sure?"

  The German considered painfully. "There vass no feet in the window," heexplained, brightening.

  Upon that surprising phrase Average Jones pondered. "You were not toplay unless there were feet the window," he said at length. "Was thatit?"

  The musician assented.

  "It does look like a signal to show that Linder was in," mused theinterrogator. "Do you know Linder?"

  "I don't know nothing only to play the B-flat trombone," repeated theother patiently.

  "Now, Schlichting," said Average Jones, "here is a dollar. Every eveningyou must come here. Whether I am here or not, there will be a dollar foryou. Do you understand?"

  By way of answer the German reached down and listed his instrument tohis lips.

  "No, not that," forbade Average Jones. "Put it down."

  "Not to play my B-flat trombone?" asked the other, innocently hurt. "Theother gent he make play here always."

  "Did he?" drawled Average Jones. "And he--er--listened?"

  "He listened from out there." The musician pointed to the other room.

  "How long?"

  "Different times," was the placid reply.

  "But he was always in the other room."

  "Always. And I play Egypt. Like this."

  "No!" said Average Jones, as the other stretched out a hopeful hand.

  "He liked it--Egypt," said the German wistfully. "He said: 'Bravo!Encore! Bis!' Sometimes nine, sometimes ten times over I play it, thechorus."

  "And then he sent you home?"

  "Then sometimes something goes 'sping-g-g-g-g!' like that in the backroom. Then he comes out and I may go home."

  "Um--m," muttered Average Jones discontentedly. "When did you begin toplay in the street?"

  "After a long time. He take me away to Brooklyn and tell me, 'When yousee the feet iss in the window you play hard!"'

  There was a long pause. Then Average Jones asked casually:

  "Did you ever notice a big easy chair here?"

  "I do not notice nothing. I play my B-flat trombone."

  And there his limitations were established. But the old lady hadsomething to add.

  "It's all true that he said," she confirmed. "I could hear his racketin the front room and Mr. Ransom working in the back and then, after theold man was gone, Mr. Ransom sweeping up something by himself."

  "Sweeping? What--er--was he--er--sweeping?"

  "Glass, I think. The girl used to find little slivers of it first in onepart of the room, then in another. I raised the rent for that and forthe racket."

  "The next thing," said Average Jones, "is to find out where that bigeasy chair went from here. Can you help me there?"

  The old lady shook her head. "All I can do is to tell you the near-bytruck men."

  Canvass of the local trucking industry brought to light the conveyor ofthat elegant article of furniture. It had gone, Average Jones learned,not to the mansion of the Honorable William Linder, as he had fondlyhoped, but to an obscure address not far from the Navy Yard in Brooklyn.To this address, having looked up and gathered in the B-flat trombonist,Average Jones led the way. The pair lurked in the neighborhood of theramshackle house watching the entrance, until toward evening, as thedoor opened to let out a tremulous wreck of a man, palsied with debauch,Schlichting observed:

  "That iss him. He hass been drinking again once."

  Average Jones hurried the musician around the corner into concealment."You have been here before to meet Mr. Ransom?"

  "No."

  "Where did he meet you to pay you your wages?"

  "On some corner," said the other vaguely.

  "Then he took you to the big house and left you there," urged Jones.

  "No; he left me on the street corner. 'When the feet iss in the window,'he says, 'you play.'"

  "It comes to this," drawled Average Jones intently, looking the employeebetween his vacuous eyes. "Ransom shipped the chair to Plymouth Streetand from there to Linder's house. He figured out that Linder would putit in his study and do his sitting at the window in it. And you were toknow when he was there by seeing his feet in the window, and give thesignal when you saw him. It must have been a signal to somebody prettyfar off, or he wouldn't have chosen so loud an instrument as a B-flattrombone."

  "I can play the B-flat trombone louder as any man in the business,"asserted Schlichting with proud conviction.

  "But what gets me," pursued Average Jones, "is the purpose of thesignal. Whom was it for?"

  "I don't know nothing," said the other complacently. "I only know toplay the B-flat tr
ombone louder as any man in the world."

  Average Jones paid him a lump sum, dismissed him and returned to theCosmic Club, there to ponder the problem. What next? To accuse Ransom,the mysterious hirer of a B-flat trombone virtuosity, without sufficientproof upon which to base even a claim of cross-examination, would beto block his own game then and there, for Ransom could, and very likelywould, go away, leaving no trace. Who was Ransom, anyway? And whatrelation, if any, did he bear to Linder?

  Absorbed in these considerations, he failed to notice that the club wasfilling up beyond its wont. A hand fell on his shoulder.

  "Hello, Average. Haven't seen you at a Saturday special night since youstarted your hobby."

  It was Bertram. "What's on?" Average Jones asked him, shaking hands.

  "Freak concert. Bellerding has trotted out part of his collection ofmediaeval musical instruments, and some professionals are going to playthem. Waldemar is at our table. Come and join us."

  Conversation at the round-table was general and lively that evening,and not until the port came on--the prideful club port, served only onspecial occasions and in wonderful, delicate glasses--did Average Jonesget an opportunity to speak to Waldemar aside.

  "I've been looking into that Linder matter a little."

  "Indeed. I've about given up hope."

  "You spoke of an old scandal in Linder's career. What was the husband'sname?"

  "Arbuthnot, I believe."

  "Do you know what sort of looking man he was?"

  "No. I could find out from Washington."

  "What was his business?"

  "Government employment, I think."

  "In the--er--scientific line, perhaps?" drawled Jones.

  "Why, yes, I believe it was."

  "Um-m. Suppose, now, Linder should drop out of the combination. Whowould be the most likely nominee?"

  "Marsden--the man I've been grooming for the place. A first-class,honorable, fearless man."

  "Well, it's only a chance; but if I can get one dark point cleared up--"

  He paused as a curious, tingling note came from the platform where themusicians were tuning tip.

  "One of Bellerding's sweet dulcets," observed Bertram.

  The Performer nearest them was running a slow bass scale on a sortof two-stringed horse-fiddle of a strange shape. Average Jones' stilluntouched glass, almost full of the precious port, trembled and sanga little tentative response. Up-up-up mounted the thrilling notes, increscendo force.

  "What a racking sort of tone, for all its sweetness!" said AverageJones. His delicate and fragile port glass evidently shared the opinion,for, without further warning, it split and shivered.

  "They used to show that experiment in the laboratory," said Bertram."You must have had just the accurate amount of liquid in the glass,Average. Move back, you lunatic, it's dripping all over you."

  But Average Jones sat unheeding. The liquor dribbled down into hislap. He kept his fascinated gaze fixed on the shattered glass. Bertramdabbed him with a napkin.

  "Tha--a--anks, Bertram," drawled the beneficiary of this attention."Doesn't matter. Excuse me. Good night."

  Leaving his surprised companions, he took hat and cane and caught aThird Avenue car. By the time he had reached Brooklyn Bridge he had hiscampaign mapped out. It all depended upon the opening question. AverageJones decided to hit out and hit quick.

  At the house near the Navy Yard he learned that his man was out. So hesat upon the front steps while one of the highest-priced wines in NewYork dried into his knees. Shortly before eleven a shuffling figurepaused at the steps, feeling for a key.

  "Mr. Arbuthnot, otherwise Ransom?" said Average Jones blandly.

  The man's chin jerked back. His jaw dropped.

  "Would you like to hire another B-flat trombonist?" pursued the youngman.

  "Who are you?" gasped the other. "What do you want?"

  "I want to know," drawled Average Jones, "how--er-you planted the glassbulb--er--the sulphuric acid bulb, you know--in the chair that yousent--er--to the Honorable William Linder, so that--er--it wouldn't beshattered by anything but the middle C note of a B-flat trombone?"

  The man sat down weakly and bowed his face in his hands. Presently helooked up.

  "I don't care," he said. "Come inside."

  At the end of an hour's talk Arbuthnot, alias Ransom, agreed toeverything that Average Jones proposed.

  "Mind you," he said, "I don't promise I won't kill him later. Butmeantime it'll be some satisfaction to put him down and out politically.You can find me here any time you want me. You say you'll see Linderto-morrow?"

  "To-morrow," said Average Jones. "'Look in the next day's papers for theresult."

  Setting his telephone receiver down the Honorable William Linder losthimself in conjecture. He had just given an appointment to his tried andtrue, but quite impersonal enemy, Mr. Horace Waldemar.

  "What can Waldemar want of me?" ran his thoughts. "And who is thisfriend, Jones, that he's bringing? Jones? Jones! Jones?!" He tried itin three different accents, without extracting any particular meaningtherefrom. "Nothing much in the political game," he decided.

  It was with a mingling of gruffness and dignity that he greetedMr. Waldemar an hour later. The introduction to Average Jones heacknowledged with a curt nod.

  "Want a job for this young man, Waldemar?" he grunted.

  "Not at present, thank you," returned the newspaper owner. "Mr. Joneshas a few arguments to present to you."

  "Arguments," repeated the Honorable William Lender contemptuously. "Whatkind of arguments?"

  "Political arguments. Mayoralty, to be specific. To be more specificstill, arguments showing why you should drop out of the race."

  "A pin-feather reformer, eh?"

  The politician turned to meet Average Jones' steady gaze and mildlyinquiring smile.

  "Do you--er--know anything of submarine mines, Mr. Linder?" drawled thevisitor.

  "Huh?" returned the Honorable William Linder, startled.

  "Submarine mines," explained the other., "Mines in the sea, if you wishwords of one syllable."

  The lids of the Honorable Linder contracted.

  "You're in the wrong joint," he said, "this ain't the Naval College."

  "Thank you. A submarine mine is a very ingenious affair. I've recentlybeen reading somewhat extensively on the subject. The main charge issome high explosive, usually of the dynamite type. Above it is a smalljar of sulphuric acid. Teeth, working on levers, surround this jar. Thelevers project outside the mine. When a ship strikes the mine, oneor more of the levers are pressed in. The teeth crush the jar. Thesulphuric acid drops upon the main charge and explodes it. Do you followme."

  "I'll follow you as far as the front door," said the politicianbalefully. He rose.

  "If the charge were in a chair, in the cushion of an easy chair, we'llsay, on the third floor of a house in Brooklyn--"

  The Honorable William Linder sat down again. He sat heavily.

  "--the problem would be somewhat different. Of course, it would be easyto arrange that the first person to sit down in the chair would, by hisown weight, blow himself up. But the first person might not be the rightperson, you know. Do you still follow me?"

  The Honorable William Linder made a remark like a fish.

  "Now, we have, if you will forgive my professorial method," continuedAverage Jones, "a chair sent to a gentleman of prominence from ananonymous source. In this chair is a charge of high explosive and aboveit a glass bulb containing sulphuric acid. The bulb, we will assume, isso safe-guarded as to resist any ordinary shock of moving. But when thisgentleman, sitting at ease in his chair, is noticed by a trombonist,placed for that purpose In the street, below--"

  "The Dutch horn-player!" cried the politician. "Then it was him; andI'll--"

  "Only an innocent tool," interrupted Average Jones, in his turn. "Hehad no comprehension of what he was doing. He didn't understand that thevibration from his trombone on one particular note by the slide up thescale--as in t
he chorus of Egypt--would shiver that glass and set offthe charge. All that he knew was to play the B-flat trombone and takehis pay."

  "His pay?" The question leaped to the politician's lips. "Who paid him?"

  "A man--named--er--Arbuthnot," drawled Average Jones.

  Linder's eyes did not drop, but a film seemed to be drawn over them.

  "You once knew--er--a Mrs. Arbuthnot?"

  The thick shoulders quivered a little.

  "Her husband--her widower--is in Brooklyn. Shall I push the argumentany further to convince you that you'd better drop out of the mayoraltyrace?"

  Linder recovered himself a little. "What kind of a game are you ringingin on me?" he demanded.

  "Don't you think," suggested Average Jones sweetly, "that considered asnews, this--"

  Linder caught the word out of his mouth. "News!" he roared. "A fakestory ten years old, news? That ain't news! It's spite work. Even yourdirty paper, Waldemar, wouldn't rake that kind of muck up after tenyears. It'd be a boomerang. You'll have to put up a stronger line ofblackmail and bluff than that."

  "Blackmail is perhaps the correct word technically," admitted thenewspaper owner, "but bluff--there you go wrong. You've forgotten onething; that Arbuthnot's arrest and confession would make the wholestory news. We stand ready to arrest Arbuthnot, and he stands ready toconfess."

  There was a long, tense minute of silence. Then--

  "What do you want?" The straight-to-the-point question was an admissionof defeat.

  "Your announcement of withdrawal. I'd rather print that than theArbuthnot story."

  There was a long silence. Finally the Honorable Linder dropped his handon the table. "You win," he declared curtly. "But you'll give me thebenefit, in the announcement, of bad health caused by the shock of theexplosion, to explain my quitting, Waldemar?"

  "It will certainly make it more plausible," assented the newspaper ownerwith a smile.

  Linder turned on Average Jones.

  "Did you dope this out, young fellow?" he demanded.

  "Yes."

  "Well, you've put me in the Down-and-Out-Club, all right. And I'm justcurious enough to want to know how you did it."

  "By abstaining," returned Average Jones cryptically, "from the best winethat ever came out of the Cosmic Club cellar."