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The auto had been brought to a stop, too, by his big panting leaders which had jammed against it. Before the chauffeur could back clear, an old Irishman, driving a rickety express waggon and lashing his one horse to a gallop, had locked wheels with the auto. Drummond recognized both horse and waggon, for he had driven them often himself. The Irishman was Pat Morrissey.
"Oh, well, I suppose I must not hope to combat such formidable rivals as walking-sticks, chamois gloves, and EYES. My business arguments are futile compared to those." Ethel Morrissey delivered herself of a last shot. "You're wrong, Emma. Those things helped him, but they didn't sell his line.
Miss Morrissey laughed her fat, comfortable chuckle. "I suppose you're right, and I guess I've been getting a lee-tle bit nosey; but I'm pretty nearly old enough to be your mother. The girls kind of come to me and I talk to 'em. I guess they've spoiled me. They " There came a smart rapping at the door, followed by certain giggling and swishing. Miss Morrissey smiled. "That'll be some of 'em now.
John Morrissey made his appearance, one day during the past week, in Madison Square, in full evening dress, including white gloves and cravat, and bearing a French dictionary under his arm, and that, being questioned by his friends as to the object of this display, he replied that he was going to see Major Wickham and ask him for an office in the only costume in which such an application would have a chance of success.
Emma, I'm old and fat and fifty, but when I had dinner with him at the Manitoba House that evening, I caught myself making eyes at him, knowing that every woman in the dining-room would have given her front teeth to be where I was." After which extensive period, Ethel Morrissey helped herself to her third cup of tea. Emma McChesney relaxed a little and laughed a tremulous little laugh.
Time was when a New York buying-trip was a vacation. Now it's a chore." She took Emma McChesney's hand and patted it. "If you've got something real nice for dinner, though, and feel like company, why don't you ask somebody else that's lonesome." After which, Ethel Morrissey laughed her wickedest and waved a sudden good-by with a last word about seeing her to-morrow.
Higginson, who played a gallant part in the Civil War, should have remembered what poor fighting material the country found in such men as formed the constituency of John Morrissey. The regiment of Zouaves raised in New York City by Billy Wilson, the pugilist, was found to be so mischievous, as well as worthless, that it was shipped to the Dry Tortugas in order to rid the army of a pest.
As an all-round newspaper writer and reporter many sorts of people, high and low, little and big, queer and commonplace, fell in my way; statesmen and politicians, artists and athletes, circus riders and prize fighters; the riffraff and the elite; the professional and dilettante of the world polite and the underworld. I knew Mike Walsh and Tim Campbell. I knew John Morrissey.
Max Tack, junior partner in the firm of Tack Brothers, Lingerie and Infants' Wear, New York, held out an eager hand. "Hello, Max!" said Miss Morrissey not too cordially. "My, aren't you dressy!" He was undeniably dressy not that only, but radiant with the self-confidence born of good looks, of well-fitting evening clothes, of a fresh shave, of glistening nails.
She entered Emma McChesney's office, now, in her quiet blue suit and her neat hat, and she looked very sane and cheerful and rosy-cheeked and dependable. At least, so Emma McChesney thought, as she kissed her, while the plump arms held her close. Ethel Morrissey, the hugging process completed, held her off and eyed her. "Well, Emma McChesney, flourish your Featherlooms for me.
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