Odd Numbers. Ford Sewell

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       Sewell Ford

      Odd Numbers

      Being Further Chronicles of Shorty McCabe

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664566683

Table of Contents

       CHAPTER I

       GOLIAH AND THE PURPLE LID

       CHAPTER II

       HOW MAIZIE CAME THROUGH

       CHAPTER III

       WHERE SPOTTY FITTED IN

       CHAPTER IV

       A GRANDMOTHER WHO GOT GOING

       CHAPTER V

       A LONG SHOT ON DELANCEY

       CHAPTER VI

       PLAYING HAROLD BOTH WAYS

       CHAPTER VII

       CORNELIA SHOWS SOME CLASS

       CHAPTER VIII

       DOPING OUT AN ODD ONE

       CHAPTER IX

       HANDING BOBBY A BLANK

       CHAPTER X

       MARMADUKE SLIPS ONE OVER

       CHAPTER XI

       A LOOK IN ON THE GOAT GAME

       CHAPTER XII

       MRS. TRUCKLES’ BROAD JUMP

       CHAPTER XIII

       HEINEY TAKES THE GLOOM CURE

       CHAPTER XIV

       A TRY-OUT FOR TOODLEISM

       CHAPTER XV

       THE CASE OF THE TISCOTTS

       CHAPTER XVI

       CLASSING TUTWATER RIGHT

       CHAPTER XVII

       HOW HERMY PUT IT OVER

       CHAPTER XVIII

       JOY RIDING WITH AUNTY

       CHAPTER XIX

       TURNING A TRICK FOR BEANY

CHAPTER I

       Table of Contents

GOLIAH AND THE PURPLE LID

       Table of Contents

      One of my highbrow reg’lars at the Physical Culture Studio, a gent that mixes up in charity works, like organizin’ debatin’ societies in the deaf and dumb asylums, was tellin’ me awhile back of a great scheme of his to help out the stranger in our fair village. He wants to open public information bureaus, where a jay might go and find out anything he wanted to know, from how to locate a New Thought church, to the nearest place where he could buy a fresh celluloid collar.

      “Get the idea?” says he. “A public bureau where strangers in New York would be given courteous attention, friendly advice, and that sort of thing.”

      “What’s the use?” says I. “Ain’t I here?”

      Course, I was just gettin’ over a josh. But say, it ain’t all a funny dream, either. Don’t a lot of ’em come my way? Maybe it’s because I’m so apt to lay myself open to the confidential tackle. But somehow, when I see one of these tourist freaks sizin’ me up, and lookin’ kind of dazed and lonesome, I can’t chuck him back the frosty stare. I’ve been a stray in a strange town myself. So I gen’rally tries to seem halfway human, and if he opens up with some shot on the weather, I let him get in the follow-up questions and take the chances.

      Here the other day, though, I wa’n’t lookin’ for anything of the kind. I was just joltin’ down my luncheon with a little promenade up the sunny side of Avenue V, taking in the exhibits—things in the show windows and folks on the sidewalks—as keen as if I’d paid in my dollar at some ticket office.

      And say, where can you beat it? I see it ’most every day in the year, and it’s always new. There’s different flowers in the florists’ displays, new flags hung out on the big hotels, and even the chorus ladies in the limousines are changed now and then.

      I