"Shorty," says Sadie, hangin' up the 'phone and turnin' to me excited, "what do you think? Young Hollister is back in town!"

"So are lots of other folks," says I, "and more comin' every day."

"But you know he promised to stay away," she goes on, "and his mother will feel dreadfully about it when she hears."

"I know," says I. "And a livelier widow never hailed from Peachtree street, Atlanta; which is sayin' a lot. Who sends in this bulletin about Sonny?"

"Purdy-Pell," says Sadie, "and he doesn't know what to do."

"Never does," says I.

Sadie flickers a grin. "It seems Robin came two days ago, and has hardly been seen about the house since. Besides, Purdy-Pell could do nothing with him when he was here before, you remember."

"Awful state of things, ain't it?" says I. "The youngster's all of nineteen, ain't he?"

"He's nearly twenty-one," says Sadie. "And Mrs. Hollister's such a dear!"

"All of which leads up to what?" says I, tearin' my eyes from the sportin' page reluctant.

"Why," says Sadie, cuddlin' up on the chair arm, "Purdy-Pell suggests that, as Robin appeared to take such a fancy to you, perhaps you wouldn't mind——"

"Say," I breaks in, "he's a perfectly punk suggester! I'd mind a lot!"

Course that opened the debate, and while I begins by statin' flat-footed that Robin could come or go for all I cared, it ends in the usual compromise. I agrees to take the eight-forty-five into town and skirmish for Sonny. He'd be almost sure to show up at Purdy-Pell's to-night, Sadie says, and if I was on hand I might induce him to quit wreckin' the city and be good.

"Shouldn't I wear a nurse's cap and apron?" I remarks as I grabs my hat.

For, honest, so far as I've ever seen, this young Hollister was a nice, quiet, peaceable chap, with all the earmarks of a perfect gent. He'd been brought up from the South and put into Purdy-Pell's offices, and he'd made a fair stab at holdin' down his job. But of course, bein' turned loose in New York for the first time, I expect he went out now and then to see what was goin' on under the white lights.

From some youngsters that might have called for such panicky protests as Mother and Mrs. Purdy-Pell put up; but young Robin had a good head on him, and didn't act like he meant to develop into a rounder. Course I didn't hear the details; but all of a sudden something happened that caused a grand howl. I know Sadie was consulted, then Mrs. Hollister was sent for, and it ended by Robin marchin' into the studio one mornin' to say good-by. He explains that he's bein' shipped home. They'd got a job for him with an uncle out in the country somewhere. That must have been a year or so ago, and now it looked like he'd slipped his halter and had headed back for Broadway.

I finds Purdy-Pell peeved and sarcastic. "To be sure," he says, "I feel honored that the young man should make my house his headquarters whenever his fancy leads him to indulge his sportive instincts. Youth must be served, you know. But Mrs. Hollister has such a charmingly unreasonable way of holding me responsible for her son's conduct! And since she happens just now to be our guest—well, you get the idea, McCabe."

"What do you think he's up to?" says I.

Purdy-Pell shrugs his shoulders. "If he were the average youth, one might guess," says he; "but Robin Hollister is different. His mother is a Pitt Medway, one of the Georgia Medways."

"You don't say!" says I. I expect I ought to know just how a Georgia Medway differs from a New Jersey Medway, or the Connecticut brand; but, sad to say, I don't. Purdy-Pell, though, havin' been raised in the South himself, seems to think that everyone ought to know the traits of all the leadin' fam'lies between the Potomac and the Chattahoochee.

"Last time, you know," goes on Purdy-Pell, "it was a Miss Maggie Toots, a restaurant cashier, and a perfectly impossible person. We broke that up, though."

"Ye-e-es?" says I.

"Robin's mother seemed to think then," says he, "that it was largely my fault. I suppose she'll feel the same about whatever mischief he's in now. If I could only find the young scamp! But really I haven't time. I'm an hour late at the Boomer Days' as it is."

"Then toddle along," says I. "If I'm unanimously elected to do this kid-reformin' act, I expect I might as well get busy."

So as soon as the butler's through loadin' Purdy-Pell into the limousine I cross-examines Jarvis about young Mr. Hollister's motions. Yes, he'd shown up at the house both nights. It might have been late, perhaps quite late. Then this afternoon he'd 'phoned to have his evenin' clothes sent uptown by messenger. No, he couldn't remember the number, or the name of the hotel.

"Ah, come, Jarvis!" says I. "We know you're strong for the young man, and all that. But this is for the best. Dig it up now! You must have put the number down at the time. Where's the 'phone pad?"

He produces it, blank. "You see, Sir," says he, "I tore off the leaf and gave it to the messenger."

"But you're a heavy writer, ain't you?" says I. "Find me a readin' glass."

And, sure enough, by holdin' the pad under the big electrolier in the lib'ry, we could trace out the address.

"Huh!" says I. "The Maison Maxixe, one of them new trot palaces! Ring up a taxi, Jarvis."

Didn't happen to be up around there yourself that night, did you? If you had, you couldn't missed seein' him,—the old guy with the Dixie lid and the prophet's beard, and the snake-killer staff in his fist,—for with that gold and green entrance as a background, and in all that glare of electric lights, he was some prominent.

Sort of a cross between Father Time and Santa Claus, he looks like, with his bumper crop of white alfalfa, his rosy cheeks, and his husky build. Also he's attired in a wide-brimmed black felt hat, considerable dusty, and a long black coat with a rip in the shoulder seam. I heard a couple of squabs just ahead of me giggle, and one of 'em gasps:

"Heavings, Lulu! Will you lamp the movie grandpop! I wonder if them lambrequins are real?"

She says it loud enough to be heard around on Broadway, and I looks to see how the old boy takes it; but he keeps right on beamin' mild and sort of curious at the crowds pushin' in. It was them calm, gentle old blue eyes of his, gazin' steady, like he was lookin' for someone, that caught me. First thing, I knew he was smilin' folksy straight at me, and liftin' one hand hesitatin', as if he wanted to give me the hail.

"Well, old scout?" says I, haltin' on the first step.

"Excuse me, Neighbor," says he, drawlin' it out deep and soft, "but be yo' goin' in thayah?"

"I don't say it boastin'," says I, "but that was the intention."

"We-e-e-ell," he drawls, half chucklin', half sing-songy, "I wisht I could get you to kind of look around for a young fellah in thayah,—sort of a well favored, upstandin' young man, straight as a cornstalk, and with his front haiah a little wavy. Would you?"

"I might find fifty that would answer to that description," says I.

"No, Suh, I reckon not," says he, waggin' his noble old head. "Not fifty like him, nor one! He'll have his chin up, Suh, and there'll be a twinkle in his brown eyes you can't mistake."

"Maybe so," says I. "I'll scout around a bit. And if I find him, what then?"

"Jes' give him the word, Neighbor," says he, "that Uncle Noah's a waitin' outside, wantin' to see him a minute when he gets through. He'll understand, Robin will."

"Eh?" says I. "Robin who?"

"Young Mistuh Hollister I should say, Suh," says he.

"Well, well!" says I, gawpin' at him. "You lookin' for Robin Hollister too? Why, so am I!"

"Then we ought to find him between us, hadn't we?" says he, smilin' friendly. "Lott's my name, Suh."

"Wha-a-at!" says I, grinnin' broad as the combination strikes me. "Not Uncle Noah Lott?"

"It's a powerful misleadin' name, I got to admit," says he, returnin' the grin; "but I reckon my folks didn't figure jes' how it was goin' to sound when they tacked the Noah onto me, or else they didn't allow for my growin' up so simple. But I've had it so long I'm used to it, and so is most everyone else down in my part of Jawgy."

"Ah!" says I. "Then you're from Georgia, eh? Down where they sent Robin, I expect?"

"That's right," says he. "I'm from Goober."

"Goober!" I echoes. "Say, that's a choice one too! No wonder Robin couldn't stand it! Sent you up to fetch him back, did they?"

"No, Suh," says he. "Mistuh Phil Hollister didn't send me at all. I jes' come, Suh, and I can't say if I'm goin' to carry him back or no. You see it's like this: Robin, he's a good boy. We set a heap by him, we do. And Robin was doin' well, keepin' the bale books, lookin' after the weighin', and takin' general charge around the cotton gin. Always had a good word for me in the mornin' when I hands over the keys, me bein' night watchman, Suh. 'Well, Uncle Noah,' it would be, 'didn't let anybody steal presses, did you?' 'No, Mistuh Robin,' I'd say, 'didn't lose nary press last night, and only part of the smokestack.' We was that way, me and Robin. And when Mistuh Phil and his folks started off to visit their married daughter, up in Richmond, he says to me, 'Uncle Noah, I expect you to look after Robin while I'm gone, and see that he don't git into no trouble.' Them was his very words, Suh."

"And Robin's kept you busy, eh?" says I.

"Well, he's a good boy, Robin is," insists Uncle Noah. "I reckon it took him sort of sudden, this wantin' to leave Goober. Just had to come to New York, it seems like. I dunno what for, and I ain't askin'; only I promised his Uncle Phil I'd see he didn't git into no trouble, and—well, I'm a waitin' around, you see, waitin' around."

"How'd you come to locate him, Uncle?" says I.

"We-e-ell," says he, "I reckon I shouldn't a done it nohow, but he left the envelope to her letter on his desk,—a Miss Toots it come from,—and the address was on the back. It was directly afterwards that Robin quits Goober so sudden."

"Ah-ha!" says I. "Maggie Toots again, eh?"

Looked like the myst'ry was solved too, and while I wa'n't plannin' to restrict any interstate romance, or throw the switch on love's young dream, I thought as long as I'd gone this far I might as well take a look.

"Maybe he'll be too busy to receive any home delegation just now," says I; "but if you want to stick around while I do a little scoutin' inside, Uncle, I'll be out after a bit."

"I'll be a waitin'," says Uncle Noah, smilin' patient, and I leaves him backed up against the front of the buildin' with his hands crossed peaceful on the top of his home-made walkin' stick.

It's some giddy push I gets into after I've put up my dollar for a ballroom ticket and crowded in where a twenty-piece orchestra was busy with the toe-throbby stuff. And there's such a mob on the floor and along the side lines that pickin' out one particular young gent seems like a hopeless job.

I drifts around, though, elbowin' in and out, gettin' glared at by fat old dames, and bein' bumped by tangoin' couples, until I finds a spot in a corner where I could hang up and have a fair view. About then someone blows a whistle, and out on the platform in front of the orchestra appears a tall, bullet-headed, pimple-faced young gent, wearin' white spats with his frock-coat costume, and leadin' by the hand a zippy young lady who's attired mostly in black net and a pair of gauze wings growin' out between her shoulder blades. It's announced that they will do a fancy hesitation.

Take it from me, I never saw it danced like that before! It was more'n a dance: it was an acrobatic act, an assault with intent to maim, and other things we won't talk about. The careless way that young sport tossed around this party with the gauze wings was enough to make you wonder what was happenin' to her wishbone. First he'd swing her round with her head bent back until her barrette almost scraped the floor; then he'd yank her up, toss her in the air, and let her trickle graceful down his shirt front, like he was a human stair rail. Next, as the music hit the high spots, they'd go to a close clinch, and whirl and dip and pivot until she breaks loose, takes a flyin' leap, and lands shoulder high in his hands, while he walks around with her like she was something he was bringin' in on a tray.

The hesitation, eh? Say, that's what Mrs. McCabe has been at me to take lessons in. I can see myself, with Sadie tippin' the scales at one hundred and sixty-eight! But when I go home to-night I'll agree to try it if she's willin' to have her spine removed first.

The young lady in black, though, don't seem to mind. She bows smilin' at the finish, and then trips off with Pimple Face, lookin' whole and happy. I was watchin' 'em as they made their way out towards the front. Seemed to be gen'ral fav'rites with the crowd, for they were swappin' hails right and left, and she was makin' dates for the next ground and lofty number, I expect; when all of a sudden they're stopped by someone, there's a brief but breezy little argument, and I hears a soft thud that listens like a short arm jab bein' nestled up against a jawbone. And there's Pimple Face doin' a back flip that ain't in his repertoire at all.

Course that spilled the beans. There was squeals, and shrieks, and a gen'ral mixup; some tryin' to get closer, others beatin' it to get away, and all the makin's of a young riot. But the management at the Maison Maxixe don't stand for any rough stuff. In less than a minute a bunch of house detectives was on the spot, the young hesitationer was whisked into a cloakroom, and the other gent was bein' shot towards the fresh air.

Just a glimpse that I caught of his flushed face as it was bein' tucked under a bouncer's arm set me in action. I made a break for a side exit; but there's such a jam everywhere that it's two or three minutes before I can get around to the front.

And there's young Hollister, with an end of his dress collar draped jaunty over his right ear, tryin' to kick the belt buckle off a two-hundred-pound cop who's holdin' him at arm's length with one hand and rappin' his nightstick for help with the other; while Uncle Noah stands one side, starin' some disturbed at the spectacle. I knew that was no time to butt in!

In that section of the White Light district too you can call up plenty of help by a few taps from the locust. Cops came on the jump from two adjoinin' posts,—big husky Broadway cops,—and they swoops down on young Robin like a bunch of Rockefeller deacons on a Ferrer school graduate who rises in prayer meetin' to ask the latest news from Paint Creek.

"What you got, Jim?" puffs one.

"Young hick that got messy in the tango joint," says Jim.

"Ah, fan him a few!" remarks the other. "Hold him still now while I——"

At which Uncle Noah pushes in and holds up a protestin' hand. "Now see heah, Mistuh Constable," says he, "I wouldn't go for to do anything like that!"

"Wha-a-at?" snarls the copper. "Say, you old billy-goat, beat it!" And he proceeds to clip young Mr. Hollister a glancin' blow on the side of the bead. His next aim was better; but this time the nightstick didn't connect.

There's been let loose a weird, high-pitched howl, which I didn't recognize at the time as the old Rebel yell, but know now that it was. Uncle Noah had gone into action. That walkin' stick of his was a second-growth hickory club as thick as your wrist at the big end. He swung it quick and accurate, and if that cop ain't nursin' a broken forearm to-day he's lucky. I expect his dome was solid iv'ry,—most of them sluggers have that kind,—and in this case he needed it; for, once he gets goin', Uncle Noah makes a thorough job of it. He lands his next swipe square on the copper's head and tumbles him to the sidewalk like a bag of meal. The other two was at him with their clubs by this time, swingin' on him vicious; but somehow they couldn't get in anything but body blows that echoed on Uncle Noah's ribs like thumpin' a barrel. Must have been a tough old boy; for that never fazed him. And the crowd, that was a block deep by this time, seemed to be right with him.

"Slug the clubbers!" they yelled. "Knock their blocks off! Go to it, old man!"

He didn't need that to encourage him; for he wades in lively, raps first one head and then the other, until he had 'em all three on the pavement. That set the crowd wild.

"Now sneak while the sneakin's good, old top!" shouts one.

"Jump a cab!" sings out another.

Say, the idea that either of 'em might get out of this muss without goin' to the station house hadn't occurred to me before. But here was a taxi, jam up against the curb not a dozen feet off, with the chauffeur swingin' his cap enthusiastic.

"Quick, Uncle!" says I, gettin' him by the arm. "It's your one chance. You too, Robin. But show some speed about it."

At that, if it hadn't been for half a dozen chaps in the front row of the crowd that helped me shove 'em in, and the others that blocked off the groggy coppers who were wabblin' to their feet, we couldn't have pulled it off. But we piled 'em in, I gave the cabby the Purdy-Pells' street number, and away they was whirled. And you can bet I didn't linger in front of the Maison Maxixe long after that.

Twenty minutes later we had a little reunion in the Purdy-Pell lib'ry. Robin was holdin' some cracked ice to a lump on his forehead, and Uncle Noah was sittin' uncomf'table on the edge of a big leather chair.

"How cheery!" says I. "But take it from me, Uncle, you're some two-fisted scrapper! I didn't think it was in you."

"We-e-ell," he drawls out, still breathin' a bit hard, but gettin' back his gentle smile, "I didn't want to do no fursin' with them constables; but you know Mistuh Phil he told me to see that Robin didn't git into no trouble, and—and—we-e-ell, I didn't care for their motions none at all, I didn't. So I jes' had to tap 'em a little."

"Tappin' is good!" says I. "And how about you, Robin? How do you come to be mixin' it up so conspicuous?"

"I'm sorry," says he. "I suppose I made an awful ass of myself. But even if she is a public dancer, that snipe shouldn't have insulted her. Of course I'd found out long before that Miss Toots was no longer anything to me; but——"

"Then that was the famous Maggie, was it?" I breaks in. "The one that lured you up from Dixie?"

"Not exactly a lure," says he. "She didn't think I'd be chump enough to come. But that's all off now."

"I ain't curious," says I, "but the fam'ly has sort of delegated me to keep track of your moves. What's next, if you know?"

Robin shrugs his shoulders sort of listless. "I don't know," says he. Then he turns to Uncle Noah. "Uncle," says he, "how will those scuppernongs be about now on the big arbor in front of Uncle Phil's?"

"Bless you, Mistuh Robin," says old Noah, "they'll be dead ripe by now, and there's jes' doodlins of 'em. Miss Peggy Culpepper, she'll be mighty lonesome, a pickin' of 'em all by herself."

"Humph!" says Robin, tintin' up. "Think so, do you?"

"I don't have to think, Mistuh Robin," says Uncle Noah. "Miss Peggy told me that herself the mornin' I come away."

Young Mr. Hollister gazes earnest into them gentle old blue eyes for a second, then he takes a turn or two up and down the lib'ry, and fin'lly claps Uncle Noah on the shoulder. "I've been waiting all summer for a taste of those grapes," says he. "Come, we can just catch the midnight. I've had enough of Broadway to last me for a long time."

And my partin' glimpse of 'em was at eleven-fifty-six, when they pushed through the gate bound for Goober, Georgia.

"After all," thinks I, "it may not be so bad as it sounds."