Free Grab Bag by Charlotte MacLeod Page B

club.”
    “Great. Where is it?”
    New Englanders love to look at photograph albums, for some reason. They spent quite a while over this one. Jem had each photograph neatly labeled. He himself appeared in most of them wearing various appurtenances of office. The latest showed the Great Chain of the Convivial Codfish adorning his well-padded front.
    “I’ll take this,” said Max.
    Egbert was alarmed. “Mr. Max, if anything should happen to that album, Mr. Jem would have a stroke.”
    “I’ll guard it with my life. Where’s his invitation to that ungodly revel he was supposed to go on?”
    “It’s a ticket. Mr. Tooter had them printed up special. Can’t ride the train without a ticket, you know.” Egbert produced the precious oblong. “Is it a clue, do you think?”
    “Who knows? Anyway, Jem won’t be needing it now. Sleep tight, Egbert. Sarah will be over to the hospital at crack of dawn, I expect, so take your time in the morning.
    Max took his leave, pondering deeply. The next day, leaving Sarah to comfort the afflicted, he first collected Jem’s whiskers from Fuzzly’s, dropped in on some pals at the Fraud Squad, lunched with a prominent member of the Securities and Exchange Commission who owed him a favor, had a chat with his Uncle Jake the lawyer, paid a call on a fair and buxom matron who was mystified, gratified, and eager to cooperate; and finally went home to placate his wife.
    “Sorry I can’t have dinner with you tonight, sweetie-pumpkin.”
    “And where are you off to, pray tell? What are you getting all dressed up for?”
    “A train ride,” he replied from the depths of a starched shirt. “Seen my studs lately?”
    “You might try your stud box. Uncle Jem wants to know when in blazes you’re going to catch his Codfish.”
    “Anon, I hope. One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m off for a prize tonight. With the voluptuous Mrs. White, in case some kind friend thinks you ought to know.”
    “In that disgusting clawhammer coat? Where on earth did you get it?”
    “Same place I got these.” He put on Jem’s Dundreary whiskers. “How do I look?”
    “Don’t ask. I’m going next door and cry on Cousin Theonia’s shoulder. Mrs. White, indeed! I hope she singes your whiskers.”
    Mrs. White was ready and waiting when he went to pick her up. They had some trouble stowing her into the taxi on account of her bustle, feather boa, and a hat freighted with a whole stuffed pheasant; but at last they were able to proceed.
    On Track Four at North Station, business was booming. A conductor in a stiff cap and brass-buttoned uniform was joyfully clipping tickets. Max recognized him from Jem’s album as Tom Tooter, their host. Up ahead in the engine cab, a melancholy individual wearing a high-rise cap of striped ticking, greasy striped overalls, and a tremendous scrubbing-brush mustache leaned out to survey the throng flocking aboard. This could be none other than Wouter Tooter, throwing himself into his role.
    Max himself received some puzzled glances as Mrs. White introduced him right and left as her dear, dear friend Mr. Jay Gould. People must either be putting him down as somebody they’d met before but couldn’t place, or else making mental notes to have a quiet chat with Mr. White when he got back from Nairobi.
    Mrs. Tom Tooter was doing the honours inside the parlor car, wearing silver lace over a straight-front corset, with white gloves up to her armpits and strings of pearls down to her knees. She looked a trifle nonplussed when Max made his bow, but pleased to have such a good-looking man aboard even if his ginger side whiskers did clash rather ferociously with his wavy dark hair. Luckily, Mr. Wripp tottered in just behind him and had to be fussed over, so Max escaped without a grilling.
    The lights were dim enough to make all the ladies look charming and all the men distinguished. There was no fountain splashing champagne, but they did have a swan carved out of ice to chill the caviar, and