  Astride the ridgepole of his father's stable Sube Cane sat with the easy grace of a range-rider, gently rising in his stirrups in unison with the pounding of imaginary unshod hoofs on the soft turf of a dreamland prairie, as he conversed in low tones with a dark-haired maiden who rode in fancy beside him. And, as he rode, he gently rubbed his upper lip with an index finger. Nor was this rubbing the aimless wandering of an idle forefinger; it was persistent and purposeful. For although Sube was only twelve years of age and still in knickerbockers, he was set upon the propagation of a mustache. The desire and the opportunity of fulfillment had come to him at almost the same instant. Voices in the library had attracted his attention a few moments before, and pausing outside the door he had heard Dr. Richards jovially expounding to his father The doctor's intimation that the stuff would grow hair on the side of a house aroused Sube's interest. And soon after the doctor's departure the boy purloined the bottle from his father's medicine cabinet, and strictly in the interest of scientific investigation rubbed a small quantity on the side of the house. It was during this experiment that the big idea was born. If it would grow hair on the side of a house, why not—? A pleasant vision floated before Sube's eyes. He saw himself beneath the kindly disguise of a flowing mustache, mingling unrecognized among his friends. Then suddenly the adoring eyes of Nancy Guilford penetrated his mask. And she began to seek his forgiveness for having called him a kid; and with a continuous crossing of her heart she promised over and over that she would never again refer to the fact that she was two years older than he. "That's all right, Nance," he condescended to say; "we'll let that go. But if you want to have a man with a mustache for a fellow, you've got to But before Nancy's promise could be recorded, cruel footsteps intruded upon the vision. And slipping the bottle under his coat Sube retired to the barn, where he made the first fragrant application to his upper lip, and then retired to the roof, where there would be plenty of ventilation while he rubbed it in. And here Gizzard Tobin found him a short time afterwards, to Sube's intense discomfiture, for the young mustache-raiser was caught like a rat in a trap and with no adequate explanation for smelling to heaven. Sube did not overwhelm his caller with the warmth of his welcome. Gizzard noted the lack of cordiality, and with all the directness of his twelve years started in to probe it to the bottom. "Been gettin' a lickin'?" he inquired as he seated himself in front of his companion. "No, I ain't," grunted Sube. "Then what's the matter of you?" "Who said an'thing was?" At this moment Gizzard caught a whiff of the unspeakable aroma. His face lighted up at once. "Been hurt?" he asked eagerly. Sube shook his head. Obviously disappointed, Gizzard pursued his inquiries. "Then what makes you smell so much like a horse doctor?" he asked. Sube was in deep water. He couldn't tell Gizzard the truth about the mustache! But what could he tell? As nothing occurred to him, he made a bluff at mumbling that he didn't "smell nuthin'," thereby arousing Gizzard's compassionate derision. At this tense moment there popped into Sube's mind an interesting bit of news that he had gleaned from his eaves-dropping outside the library door during the doctor's visit, and thinking that he might, by telling it, distract Gizzard's attention from his quest of the engaging odor, Sube dramatically glanced around as if to make sure that nobody was near, and whispered behind his hand: "Hey, Giz, heard the news about ol' Whiting that lives nex' door to Doc Richards?" Gizzard shook his head skeptically. "Well, sir, when he went out on his porch to get his paper this morning, what do you s'pose he found there in a basket?" "Apples?" "I should say not! He found a little girl baby, as red as a beet!" Gizzard was inclined to belittle this announcement. "That's nuthin'," he muttered; "the folks who live 'cross the street from us had twins last week—" "But you don't understand!" cried Sube impatiently. "This was a founding!" "A what?" asked Gizzard with a blank stare. "A founding. It didn't have any mother or father, or an'thing 'xcept a 'nomynous letter." "A what letter?" demanded Gizzard. "A 'nomynous letter," Sube explained loftily. "A letter without any name signed to it but 'A Friend' or 'Taxpayer' or some'pm like that." "What'd the letter say in it?" "Oh, nuthin' 'xcept would ol' Whiting bring up the kid, and a verse from the Bible about sufferin' little children. And, Giz—" Sube lowered his voice to a strained whisper—"I know who the mother is!" "What of it?" grunted Gizzard. "Don't I know who the mother of them twins is?" "Huh!" snorted Sube. "I guess you don't know it's against the law to leave founding babies around like that! Why, every officer in this town is tryin' to find out who the mother is, and I'm the only one who knows!" That gave the matter an entirely different complexion. And Gizzard's eyes were bright as he asked in an eager whisper, "Who is it?" "Figger it out for yourself," responded Sube gravely. "Who do you know that's got a face as red as a beet? That's the first thing. And don't girl babies always look like their mothers? That's the second thing. And who sat there in Sunday School a couple of Sundays ago and said that verse about sufferin' little children more'n a dozen times?" Gizzard gasped. "Her!" he cried. "Aw, you're way off! She ain't got any children!" Sube smiled tolerantly. "It was her, all right, and I can prove it," he asserted; and then, perceiving that Gizzard was again beginning to sniff questioningly at the atmosphere, Sube proceeded to introduce his proof. Of course, the greater part of this talk was mere subterfuge to gain time; he had already told Gizzard all he knew. And the situation was becoming desperate. With grownups any old explanation would have gone. But with Gizzard it was different; the explanation of that odor must sound true. So Sube vapored on hoping wildly that something would occur to him. He kept on talking about the foundling and her putative mother simply because he couldn't think of anything else. And he had just reached the point where he was explaining that a little detective work would be required to bring the cruel mother to justice, when a great light broke over him. He saw a very simple way out of his predicament; he could tell Gizzard that he was raising the mustache for detective purposes, and Gizzard would never suspect that Nancy Guilford was at the bottom of it. For a moment he paused, his eyes squinted for serious effect, then said in a tone of the strictest confidence, "Giz, if a feller's goin' to do good detective work, he's got to have a good disguise. And I'm goin' to have a blinger!" He moved closer to Gizzard as he asked, "Don't you smell some'pm?" Gizzard rather thought he did. Sube nodded significantly. "Well, that's it! I'm raisin' a mustache!" Gizzard was thrilled. And as Sube eloquently unfolded the tale of the magic bottle, his audience was aroused to a pitch of boisterous enthusiasm. Then followed complications that Sube had not anticipated; Gizzard, too, wanted to raise whiskers and become a detective. And as there appeared to be no way to prevent it without risk of exposure, Sube reluctantly took him in as a sort of Dr. Watson, and duly anointed his cheeks in the interest of a pair of long, flowing side-whiskers. A bristling mustache rather appealed to Gizzard, but was denied him on the ground of priority. Sube had already started a mustache, and there must be no duplications. Boon for Baldness promised nothing within a week; and for the first time in their life the boys found the spring vacation beginning to drag. They A careful log of the suspect's movements was kept in a pocket memorandum book that came in the carton with the Boon for Baldness. The entries were masterpieces of brevity. Monday April 10 WHY BE BALD WHEN BOON FOR BALDNESS WILL COVER YOUR SCALP WITH LUXURIANT SILKY HAIR?Tuesday April 11 SEE THAT DANDRUFF ON YOUR COAT COLLAR! BOON FOR BALDNESS WILL PREVENT IT.Wednesday April 12 BE MANLY! RAISE A BEARD! LET BOON FOR BALDNESS DO IT FOR YOU. RESULTS GUARANTEED.The next few pages in addition to various suggestions for the production and preservation of human hair, set forth the damning fact that the suspect visited the foundling every day. And the boys continued to watch; and as they watched, they attended to their hirsutoculture with infinite pains. In the public use of the tiny pocket phials they had This was especially true in the case of Sube. For although the members of his family were wholly unaware of his secret ambitions they took a violent dislike to the scent he wore, and did everything in their power to discourage his indulgence in it. As he sought to seat himself at the table for his midday meal shortly after the first application, his father detained him, and without asking or permitting explanations, sent him back to wash his hands and face thoroughly with soap and hot water. The boy went, muttering and rebellious; and by the time that he had returned to the table his father had finished eating, and had gone into the library, where he lighted a cigar and puffed furiously as he waited for his fragrant son to finish his meal and report to him for investigation. Sube tarried at the table as long as was humanly possible in the hope that his father would forget his appointment and go back to the office. Mr. Cane was very far from doing any such thing. He had Mr. Cane was a lawyer of parts—none of them missing. He had been overworking for years, and the long strain on his nerves had affected him in a most peculiar way. It had made him super-sensitive to any strong or unpleasant odor. He would go blocks out of his way to avoid passing a livery stable. He had been known to get off from a trolley and take the next car because of the presence among the passengers of a man with his hand swathed with iodoform. He had refused even to consider the purchase of an automobile on account of the reputed odor of gasoline. And before such a tribunal came Sube, reeking of the unspeakable fumes of the Boon, and clutching in the hand thrust deep down in his coat pocket his emergency phial of the same, which he was determined to defend with the last drop of his blood. Mr. Cane motioned to a chair and cleared his throat. "Seward," he began— And at that moment the boy's memory performed a queer prank. It flashed back to the day in Sunday School when he and his little classmate had "—you are twelve years old. You are at the portal of manhood. You are old enough to take a little pride in your personal appearance, and your personal—ah—your personal—well, you should be careful never to permit yourself to become in any way offensive to others. You should take pride in keeping sweet and clean. Now, my son, you got into something this morning that has made you very distasteful company for man or beast. Have you any idea what it is?" As Mr. Cane resumed the vigorous puffing of his cigar, Sube's heart gave a leap; his father hadn't recognized the smell! His mustache was safe! "Why," the boy romanced easily, "if you mean the linimunt I put on my leg, I know what that is." "Great heavens!" his father burst out. "Do you mean to say that you intentionally contaminated Sube quailed before his father's accusing stare and his more accusing gestures. "I guess I hurt it, didn't I?" he mumbled defensively. "And didn't I have to put some'pm on it? And that was the only linimunt—" "Liniment!" snorted Mr. Cane. "Where did you ever get any such 'liniment' as that?" "Sir?— Why, out of a bottle," Sube managed to squirm out at last. "Out of a bottle, eh? Well, bring me the bottle!" Sube half started for the door, then halted. "I can't," he whimpered. "Can't? Why not?" demanded his father. "'Cause I dropped it and broke it," Sube faltered. Mr. Cane was obviously relieved. "Oh, well," he said, "if that's the case, never mind. But just as soon as one hour has elapsed I want you to take a good hot bath. Now don't forget it!" As Sube uttered a scowling but respectful "No, sir," and started to leave the room his father noticed for the first time that he was limping badly. "Is your leg really hurt, my son?" he asked more kindly. Sube's face was a study of excruciating pain as he paused to reply that it was pretty bad and he was afraid a bath would make it a good deal worse. Mr. Cane was not a hard man. He wished to inflict no unnecessary suffering on any one. Perhaps the application of hot water would be painful. And doubtless the odor of the liniment would evaporate in an hour or two. "Never mind about the bath," he remitted as he began to gather up his papers in preparation for going back to his office. As he went down the front steps a few moments later, Mr. Cane narrowly missed being run down by a youth who came bursting round the corner of the house in pursuit of a fleeing cat; and recognizing the fleet-footed pursuer as the erstwhile cripple, he scowled at the deception that had been practiced on him. Then he was struck with humor of the situation, and smiled in spite of himself. "Miraculous liniment," he chuckled as he started down the street; "but I'm mighty glad the bottle's been broken." |
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