Ganowoges leered as the medium extracted a pack of cards and a box of chips from the book-case, and Finch accepted an allotment. Sonia dealt: "The king, he bet," she pronounced.
Finch reflected that the lady knew her stud as Ganowoges tossed in a chip, remarking: "That's me, old stinky himself. Say, did you ever hear the one about the old maid and the tramp with the wooden leg?"
"Yes!" said Sonia and Calioster in unison, and the latter dealt another card.
"I check. The doc here ain't heard it, anyway, and it'll do him good. It seems there was—"
Finch felt himself flushing again under the impact of the more-than-Rabelasian anecdote. Calioster merely looked dogged and hiked a pot which the Indian presently gathered in, while Sonia looked sympathetically at the Master from large, liquid eyes.
The deal changed; Calioster won a pot, Finch won, and then the Indian again, the process accompanied by a flow of bawdy stories, gossip and profanity from the garrulous ghost, whose skill at the game did not seem in the least hampered by the activity of his tongue. He won steadily, mostly from Finch, who cursed himself for not resisting, but still could not resist, the temptation to call. The payoff came on a hand when Finch had been dealt aces back to back, with three diamonds to match the exposed ace. Ganowoges had a pair of jacks showing, and Finch, with as good a simulation of a man running a bluff as he could put on, piled in the rest of his chips. The Indian called, whooped with laughter as he turned over a third jack, and stood up.
"That's all today," he said. "You birds are too —ing easy. Why don't you bring around some real sharpies some time, Claude? I'm going on the town the next time you materialize me, only it's a damn shame that in my state the old fire-water don't do no good. Wooo-ooo-ooo!" Ganowoges gave a shrill yell, slapping his open mouth to make the loon-cry, and vanished. Breech-clout and leggings fell to the floor in a heap.
Finch stood up also and bowed to Dr. Calioster. "The demonstration of your powers," he said, "was completely convincing, even if the result -left something to be desired."
"Really, MMMM-Mr. Finch, I mmmmust apologize," said the little medium, with an expression of complete misery. "Ganowoges is never gentlemanly, but I have never seen him quite so bub-bad. I'm afraid it was the question. None of them like to give answers in the mm-mmaterial plane, you know. If it had bub-been what Miss Kisch wanted ... But he's really the only one with whom I hate a strong enough rapport to put on such a task."
" 'Never gentlemanly,' ranks with the second verse of the fourth chapter of Matthew as a masterpiece of understatement," said Finch, good-naturedly, reaching for his wallet. "Oh, damn! I'm afraid your Amerind friend has picked me as clean as Arion. Can you wait till Friday for your fee?"
"MMmmy dear sir! I wouldn't dud-dream of accepting your mmmoney. The experience was of no value to you. In fact, I insist you really mmmust take back the money you lost. I'll take care of Ganowoges."
"Oh, come, really," said Finch, "that's—"
"I bub-bub-beg you! My professional good name is at stake." The Master wrung his hands in an agony of apology and self-abasement. "Here—" he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and wrote on it. "Here is the address of another gentleman who c-can serve you, I'm sure. Dr. Joseph Dunninger of 4307 Grand Boulevard, St. Louis. A pseudonym, of course: his real name is Carteret-Jones. He has a mmmost remarkable series of rapports, especially among those who were in the cue-criminal classes in life, and I know he'll be able to find one to sssteal the sstone for you."
As they got into the lavender limousine at the door, Sonia dabbed at her eyes just enough to prevent a pair of tears from furrowing through her makeup.
"Pardon," she said. "I mus' weep for the poor Master. Always people are asking him to make a ghost to steal the papers or to frighten, but he is so gentle, he can have rapports only with spirits of love."
Yes, just like Ganowoges, thought Finch; and then remembered he had had no opportunity to say anything either to Sonia or Dr. Calioster about wishing to obtain possession of the carnelian cube, and certainly had not had time to mention it to the uninhibited Ganowoges. It occurred to him to wonder, as Sonia threw her arms around him, how the Doctor had known that he wanted to "steal the stone."
Twelve:
Farther north, one would have said there was a touch of autumn in the air—not cool, but with the stifling summer heat of Memphis a trifle lifted. Finch looked cheerfully along the line of his crew's massive shoulders, approaching and receding in unison as they loafed down to Harahan Bridge.
The St. Louis Rotarians, rowing out ahead, looked good, also—too good, thought Finch, with a qualm of doubt. Yet no; it would be all right. Colonel Lee's intelligence staff had obtained accurate figures on the time they made in their practice spins, and it was far poorer than that of his own eight. He had just been too long away from the undoubting, victorious energy of his college days. It occurred to him that a rational consideration of all the factors involved in a problem might not always be an advantage; he looked across the stream and felt good.
The "beauty and chivalry of Memphis" lined the bridge, waving as the shells slid through the arches. Someone tossed a handful of orange peels at the Rotarians, and when they missed a beat in dodging, there were hoots.
"Back water," Finch commanded, and they brought up smartly. The timekeeper's face, open-mouthed and inverted, hung twenty feet about his own.
"Ready?" called the mouth. "Git set—"
Finch felt tenseness creep along his muscles, watching Rhett's eyes fixed on his own, and there was a splash and surge of water to starboard. The Rotarians had jumped the gun—at least three of their rowers had. They stopped, their shell drifting a few yards, oars bumping and voices raised in the unmistakable note of recrimination, though they were too distant for the phrases to be heard clearly. Their cox was apparently engaged in prayer; at least the name of God was on his lips, and his expression bespoke a mind fixed on far-distant things. Finch saw grins and bobbing heads down the line of his own crew. "Eyes in the boat," he said.
"Ready?" repeated the timekeeper, and the gun went off with a shock. Out of the tail of his eye, he could see the St. Louis crew, keeping pace as perfectly as though both shells were driven by the same motor, as they flew past Riverside Park and took the left fork of the river around President Island.
His own men were pulling a good, even stroke, a nice thirty-four, and getting a good run. Side glances showed him the Rotarians holding even in what he judged to be a thirty-six, going a trifle ragged. They would have a break at that pace—and it would be needed, for now that the teams were closing the foot of the island rapidly, the St. Louis group had the time-saving inner lane.
Finch watched them; there was a sound of voices in the opposing boat, someone caught a crab, and the break he had been hoping for arrived, with their shell checking suddenly. Their cox cursed, his voice going shrill.
"Step it up, now!" cried Finch. "Stroke—stroke— stroke—longer reach, Howard—stroke—stroke—stroke ;—" and the shell came riding down the slant till his starboard oars just missed the water-plants at the bulge of the island. He dared a backward glance. St. Louis was all trim again, still looking ragged but strong, and so close astern that he half expected the referees' boat to call a foul. Out ahead, the right bank of the Mississippi, low and dark, came into sight. "Stroke—stroke—" called Finch and leaned hard on the tiller ropes.
Upstream their progress seemed cumbersome after the swift flight down. Hulbert crawled into sight and passed with people out in faded clothes to whoop languid encouragement to the representatives of Memphis. Through it the shout of the other cox sounded and a glance showed Finch the Rotarians had gained. They were a little rough still by the sound of their beat, but holding up to it through sheer grim strength. "Come on, gang," said he, "a little sprint will break the hearts of those birds," and he began to count, "one—two—three—"