David Lannarck, Midget
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George S. Harney >> David Lannarck, Midget
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"Will Damino furnish a round trip ticket?" asked Shirley, as he arose
from his chair.
"I don't quite know what you mean," countered Anzio.
"Oh, yes you do," said Shirley emphatically. "Damino here is a
'one-way' man. It's his business to destroy opposition. I wouldn't
ride with him down State Street, let alone a country road. With him at
the wheel, we couldn't get past that thicket down by the bridge."
"Get him out of here," roared Anzio as he waved to Damino to obey his
commands.
Damino approached his quarry cautiously. With his right hand he
fingered an inside pocket of his coat; withdrew the hand to place it
on Shirley's shoulder. "Let's git goin'," he said as he shoved Shirley
toward the door.
Shirley had seen a move that he thought important. He grabbed the
extended right arm to give it a jujitsu move up and to the back of the
body. It made the assailant grunt and his left knee buckled in its
uncertain stance. Quickly Shirley reached in the inside pocket to
withdraw a lengthy Colt revolver. Shifting the weapon to his right
hand, he brought it down in a mighty blow on the temple of his
assailant. Damino fell to the floor. Carlin fled the room by the back
door. Shirley turned to find Anzio frantically searching the contents
of a drawer in the nearby cabinet. Placing the gun in his pocket,
Shirley seized a tall, steel-legged stool to bring it down on Anzio's
unprotected head. Anzio joined Damino on the floor. Shirley walked out
the front door.
On the sidewalk Shirley encountered the policeman. "What's going on in
there?" he demanded.
"Not much, just now," was the reply, "but I was certainly busy for a
short time. Why are you here?"
"Your friend, Fred Townsend, is responsible. Fred is seemingly not in
touch with our present city administration, but he sure has a strong
pull with our chief. Fred phoned him to send two or three of the force
down here to see that you were not killed or taken for a ride. We
don't know what it's all about, but we're here. Ah, here's company,"
the officer added as another policeman came out of the alley, shoving
Carlin in front of him.
"Is this the finish?" inquired the alley officer. "This fellow,"
pointing to Carlin, "came out of the back door rather hurriedly and
began searching in a pile of junk. I thought that was a part of that
play. What's it all about anyway?"
"This is the finish, my friends, and I am very much obliged for your
presence," said Shirley as he prepared to leave. "But there's a couple
in there that may need first aid. Go right in; give what assistance
you can, and call me if I'm needed."
Shirley watched the perplexed officers as they went into the front
office. Then he walked leisurely up the alley to Oak Street. Nearing
the railroad, he heard a freight train slowing down at the water-tank.
Now he hurried to pass down the train to a boxcar with an open door.
He crawled in. As the train pulled out, he went to a front corner, sat
down to pull off his shoe and place a neatly folded twenty-dollar bill
on the inner sole.
Whatever his future was to be, Shirley Wells was on his way.
PART THREE
21
David Lannarck arrived in Chicago in the late afternoon. Wanting to
see Bransford in the daylight hours, he stayed the night with a friend
at the Miami Patio to take a morning train to his destination. He had
never been in Bransford and he preferred to take an open cab to the
Grand Union so that he might look around. At the hotel he was assigned
the parlor suite with telephone and bath, probably because the clerk
had never before registered a three-footer with the face and voice of
an adult.
Davy was not yet ready to announce his plans for rehearsals. He wanted
to know more of local conditions. He phoned the Fred Townsend office.
"Mr. Townsend is in court this morning," the secretary reported, "but
he will be available this afternoon."
"Save me the first hour," said Davy. "It's important to both of us."
After luncheon Davy tipped the bellhop to accompany him. "I could
probably find the place," he explained, "but I go better if I am
haltered and led to the spot." As the caller hoped, Townsend was in.
The secretary ushered Davy into the private office.
"I was sent here by a Mister Sam Welborn," Davy explained. "He wants
to learn of the legal status and community standing of a former
resident by the name of Shirley Wells."
"Shirley Wells! Do you know Shirley Wells?" Townsend sprang to his
feet and walked around the desk. "Is Shirley Wells alive? Available?
Can I get in touch with him right away?"
"Say, Mister Townsend, out in my blessed locality, where men are men,
and the women are glad of it, they accuse me of asking eight or ten
questions before the first one is answered. I want to take you out
there to show 'em I am an amateur. For a year or more I have been
associated with an upstanding gent who gave out his name as Sam
Welborn. In all my public career I've never met a person more honest
in business or more fearless with thugs and undesirables. Ten devils
couldn't stop him if he thought he was right and even a midget could,
and did, shame him out of some of his atrocious efforts. When he
reached a certain goal in his persistent activities he disclosed to us
four at the home where he headquartered that he was going back to his
old home town to find out just where he stood--criminal or citizen. He
planned to go back there in disguise; to listen in, to read old
newspaper files, and to learn the truth.
"And then I horned in. This man Welborn had saved my life; he got me
planted where I wanted to be; I owed him everything. I didn't ask--I
just told him--that I would go to his town and, under the pretext of
rehearsing a midget show, I would get the needed dope. He fell right
in with my proposal. He disclosed that his name was Shirley Wells,
that his home town was Bransford, and here I am."
Townsend went to the door of the office. "I will be busy for the next
hour," he said to the secretary as he closed the door.
"Just where, and how soon, can I contact this Shirley Wells?" Townsend
asked as he seated himself alongside of Davy. "This is really the only
time I've needed him since he left. Where is he? I'll send him all the
funds needed to get him home."
"He's in Denver, just temporarily. I do not have his address, but he
will be in this Chicago vicinity by the end of this week. Maybe he
will be disguised, but I hope not. He will phone me at the Grand Union
to know how he stands in his home town. That's what I've come here to
find out. Is he under indictment? Will he have to serve time? How much
money is needed to clean his slate? Will a mob form if he shows up on
your city streets? What was it he did, anyhow?"
Fred Townsend laughed quietly. "We are both so anxious to get
information that our cross-questioning is confusing. However, when you
described your man as honest, persistent, and fearless in dealing with
crooks and thugs, I would have known that you were talking about
Shirley Wells, even if you had omitted the name. He's just that!
"Shirley Wells is not under indictment, and when he returns the
general public will give him a hearty welcome. In fact, had he stayed
here for a day or two after the incident he would have been a hero.
Would have been carried at the head of the mob of women that paraded
the streets of our city in protest of conditions. He would have been a
part of the orderly crowd of men that went out to the old farm to
destroy the offending distillery. Shirley Wells started the clean-up
here, and it spread to all affected localities. This is the story."
Then Fred Townsend told the story, to include the history of the Wells
bank, of Shirley's army service, of Carson's banking relations with
the Chicago mobsters. "For nearly a decade this Shirley Wells was a
silent do-nothing. He seemingly hesitated to claim his property rights
and yet had nerve to invade the stronghold of these gangsters and tell
'em the truth. He nearly killed two of 'em and the other disappeared."
And then Townsend detailed what followed as the morning paper gave big
headlines of the desperate adventure. It not only recited that the two
were hospitalized in a critical condition but it gave inside
information as to the illegal business being conducted at the farm.
"That evening, nearly a thousand women paraded our streets to the
mayor's office, with banners flying, to insist that there be a
clean-up of the entire illegal business.
"The next day, fully fifty automobiles assembled at Fifth and Cedar
Streets to drive out to the farm and burn down the old shed where the
still was located. I was in that party and I easily persuaded them to
allow the house and big barn to remain unharmed, but all bottles,
labels, cans of liquids, crates, and containers were thrown in the
fire. The house-furnishings revealed that it was the headquarters for
the many employees, but none were present, either to welcome or
protest.
"On returning to town it was learned that Carson Wells had committed
suicide. His worthy wife was not at home, was not present at the
funeral. She is reported as living in Chicago, a housemother at a
sorority of one of the universities.
"The Wells National Bank was of course closed. I was appointed the
receiver. Things were in a terrible mess; negligence and forgeries
caused a lot of added work, but the bank had a valuable asset in that
the stock was held in one family--wasn't scattered to cause
contentions and delays. I recovered the farm, held on to the bank
building, and charged the forgeries and shortages to Carson's account.
Shirley is possessed of the remainder, but it's not enough to do
what's required.
"This city needs a bank. The nation is recovering from the depression
and very soon business will be back to normal. The Wells National must
be restored to service and Shirley Wells, the man who started the
clean-up, must be connected with it. His service in cleaning out those
crooks was, and is, the big asset.
"Here in my office I have prepared a list of names of those who can,
and should, take stock in a bank. With Shirley here, we can canvass
this list for the needed subscriptions. Surely we can...."
"Just how much money will it take to revive a bank?" asked Davy
quietly.
"Forty or fifty thousand dollars will be required to complete the
subscriptions and show a small surplus and I think we can----"
"Why, Shirley will have that much, and more, in his upper vest pocket
when he arrives," and then Davy told his lengthy story to an eager
listener.
"I have known him for nearly two years," said Davy in concluding his
lengthy recital, "and in that time he worked hard--too hard. I
upbraided him for it. Now, knowing why he was so continuously busy,
working to restore his family name and credit in his home town, I
should have kept my mouth shut."
"Do you think he will consent to taking charge of the restored family
bank?" asked Townsend. "Will he apply the money to that end?"
"I'll see that he puts up the money. He says that half of it is mine,
but he may balk on taking charge. And that's our present job. I have a
friend in Springfield that's the greatest little banker the world ever
produced. I'll get him here, or send Welborn--I mean Shirley--to him
to learn the game."
"This has certainly been my lucky day," said Townsend as the party
broke up. "This morning the judge approved my settlement of the
long-standing Norris case, I received a letter containing a draft of
an outstanding debt, and now the important Wells bank receivership
settles itself. Let me know the minute Shirley arrives."
Davy's hours of impatience were interrupted on Saturday morning by a
telephone call from Chicago. The booth at the Grand Union afforded the
privacy needed.
"If you are in your own clothes...."
Davy's directive was interrupted by a hearty laugh, and a prompt
inquiry: "Am I under indictment?"
"Naw! You're not under anything. You're at the top of the heap. Your
scrap started things. Get out here on the first train--there's a lot
to do and I've pledged you to carry out all the plans as proposed by
your friend Townsend. There's lots to do. Get here at once."
And Shirley Wells of the East, Sam Welborn of the West, did as he was
directed. He arrived in Bransford shortly after the noon hour. And the
rest of the afternoon he was listening to Davy's story and Davy's
plans. Sunday morning, at the Fourth Avenue Church, he was cordially
greeted by many, some of whom he had ridiculed at a former session.
Monday, the full day was spent in the office of his friend Townsend.
Tuesday, Ralph Gaynor of Springfield arrived in Bransford in response
to Davy's telegram, wherein it was suggested that "one carfare was
cheaper than two."
Shirley Wells admired Ralph Gaynor but he marveled at his methods.
Instead of taking him down to the bank building to review the former
methods of conducting the business, Gaynor persisted in interviewing
any and all with whom he came in contact: business and professional
men, farmers and laborers, women clerks and housewives. His questions
were casual, the extended answers were his reward. That evening, in
Townsend's office, he delivered his estimates and opinion.
"Banking service is badly needed in your city. Your present plans are
timely. A news story should go out tomorrow that the organization is
formed and will be functioning next week--this to prevent others from
invading this fine prospect. You have present opportunity to secure
the services of young Nelson, down at the Wide-Awake, as a receiving
teller. He is fast and accurate in money matters. The young lady that
compiled Mr. Townsend's reports can, and should, take care of the
growing bookkeeping. You will not make a great deal of money in this
first year of operation. After that, you will have the best banking
investment I know of."
"But what about our new cashier, Shirley Wells?" inquired Townsend.
"What's his job? He and his little friend here own practically all the
stock."
"The banking business," said Gaynor, "has its peculiarities. Back of
the counter, it's simply a matter of accuracy. In front of the
counter, however, it's a question of diplomacy and good judgment.
Shirley Wells is an asset. His business is in front of the counter,
greeting the trade and broadening the field for service. A bank must
have assets if it is to make loans."
The Wells National Bank, with its tidy and growing millions of assets,
is functioning at 201 North Oak Street, Bransford, U.S.A.
Just where should these ramblings end? A tragedy ends at the death of
any or all; a comedy ends with one of the revived jokes of former
years; a biography should terminate at the grave, and a romance
finishes as the groom carries his hard-won prize across the threshold
of the cottage or palace. What's the finish here?
A start was made to tell the life story of a midget, but complications
arose that could not be avoided. Instead of traveling the infrequent
paths of the Lilliputians the journey has, in many instances, swept
down the traffic-filled thoroughfare of the big adults. But midgets
are few in number, they have few contacts with each other. In most
every instance, their employment is to exhibit themselves to the
thousands and thousands who come to see and comment.
Midgets do not go to war, cannot win a prize fight, or bust one over
the right field fence for a home run. Their field for service is
limited to public exhibitions; their contacts wholly with the
questioning adult. The tragedies of a midget are of the lighter sort,
comedies prevail only in a minor degree, romance is a limited factor,
and in this particular instance, these ramblings cannot be classed as
biography--the principal characters are still alive.
And because they are still alive and functioning, the reader is
invited out to the Adot vicinity to see--and maybe participate--in the
continuing story.
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