Free Tales From Gavagan's Bar by L. Sprague de Camp, Fletcher Pratt Page A

I'm not married; I never have been; and I had just been away on a long trip. I could see a perfect scandal starting up as soon as it became known that I had come back with a baby. I suppose I ought to be strong-minded and pay no attention, but the people who buy my poems are church-and-home folks, and I have to think of that.
     
                  In the second place, the brat had to be taken care of. Excuse me, I suppose it's really a very sweet, lovely baby, just the kind I've been writing about. But I don't know anything about the creatures; when my friends have them, I'm afraid to pick them up. I managed to get this one into my bed and began telephoning for a registered nurse to come and help me, meanwhile trying to figure out a story that would account for the baby. It seemed that all the nurses in town were busy, but I finally did get one. While I was about it, though, the oriole flew out the window and I noticed my clock. It was exactly one hour from the time when I had come in, and I remembered that was the time I had just put in the poem.
     
                  When the nurse came, it was worse than ever. I had to spend half the afternoon buying things for the baby—it wet my bed, incidentally—and I couldn't think of any better story than that the child was left on my doorstep. The nur se evidently didn't believe me—she probably thinks I kidnapped it somewhere—and says I'll have to register it. I finally got away, but the apartment is a shambles and Lord knows what I'm going to do now.
     
    # ★ #
     
                  "When did this happen?" asked Gross in an awe d voice. "Today. Why do you think I'm here?"
     
                  Mr. Cohan, who had been talking with someone down at the end of the bar, interrupted. "Miss Millard, there's a felly here looking for you."
     
                  She turned around to face a man in dungarees and a hard hat. "I'm Miss Millard. What is it?"
     
                  "Plumber for the building at 415 Henry, Miss Millard. Sorry to come in here and bother you; but it seems like you got some kind of tree in your place; and it must have grown through the bottom of the tub, because the roots are breaking into the gas lines in the ceiling of the floor below; and I had to cut some of them off. They told me—"

                  Miss Millard gripped the edge of the bar. "God give me strength," she said.
     
                  Under her fingers, the small section of wood crumbled as though it were tissue paper; and a shower of little dusty fragments drifted to the floor.
     
                  "Them damn termites!" said Mr. Cohan. "I told Gavagan about them a dozen times, and he just won't do nothing till the whole place falls down."              
     
    -
     
THE BETTER MOUSETRAP
     
                  The taxidermist had imparted a drunken wink to the stuffed owl over the bar. Mr. Witherwax returned the wink and kept his gaze fixed resolutely aloft, well aware that if he lowered it, Mr. Gross would burst into anecdote. Considering the quality of the anecdotes, this was something to be avoided at any cost; but there must come the moment when the glass was empty; and Mr. Witherwax must look down to have it refilled. Beside him Mr. Gross cleared his throat ominously. Mr. Witherwax deliberately turned his back to the sound, looked along the mahogany terrain toward the door, and beckoned to the bartender.
     
                  "Who's that, drinking by himself down there?" he asked. "Maybe he'd like to join us; a man shouldn't be a solitary drinker. You can leave the cherry out of mine this time, Mr. Co -han."
     
                  "Co-han, by God!" the bartender corrected. "Him? His name is Murdoch, or maybe it's Mud, and I'm thinking he's not a lucky man for you to know. He may be having murder done on him. . . . What'll you be having, Mr.