The Cleve Cartmill Omnibus - Volume 2 by Cleve Cartmill

Author:Cleve Cartmill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-02-18T16:00:00+00:00

“Scotty’s.”

“I thought so,” Cynthia said grimly. “I’ll be right over.”

He went back to the bar and found Number Nine semicircled by a small group of patrons.

“If I didn’t know better,” a tall man said, “I’d say that rabbit was reading the paper.”

“It sure is a good trick,” admitted a truck driver. “Oh, here comes the guy what belongs to it. I never heard of a rabbit doin’ tricks. Thought they was too dumb.”

“It’s no trick,” Jackson said, swallowing half his rum.

“Don’t gimme that. He ain’t really readin’.”

“She,” Jackson corrected. He glanced at the paper. “Show the man the word ‘Russia’ in that top headline,” he said.

Number Nine, munching a leaf of lettuce, put a paw on the word.

Dead silence fell, except for Scotty’s washing of glasses at the far end of the bar.

“Signals yet,” the tall man said in disgust.

“You try it,” Jackson invited.

The tall man showed Number Nine a press card. He looked up at the ceiling and said in a bored voice, “All right, show me the paragraph which says, ‘Sources close to administration leaders, who declined to be quoted, said the impending crisis is one which will—’ ”

Number Nine put her paw on a paragraph in the middle of the right-hand column.

“Coincidence,” the tall man said, but in a shaken voice. “Let’s try again. Show me the item which says, ‘Vivisection Held Boon To Science.’ ”

Number Nine looked up at the tall man, then turned her back on him with a shudder.

“You hurt her feelings,” Jackson said sharply.

“Yeah,” said a red-haired man who seemed to be holding up the bar with his paunch. “Talking about that Vivian. She’s jealous.”

Scotty came down the bar with his lopsided smile. “Another round, gents ?”

“I’ll try,” the newspaper man said. “Put it down, Scotty, till pay day. And give the lady another lettuce.”

“Did you see that rabbit read, Scotty?” the truck driver asked.

“I got no time for reading,” Scotty said. “Except the sport pages.”

“She’s awful sensitive,” the red-haired man said, “and any guy that’d make her feel bad ought to be’ ashamed.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” the newspaper man said. “No offense intended.”

Number Nine turned around at this, and put a shy paw on the vivisection item.

“I’m forgiven!” the newspaper man crowed. “I won’t do it again, old girl. Now show me the paragraph—”

“Dr. Andrews,” said a cold voice, obviously sifted between clenched teeth.

The semicircle parted for Cynthia. She looked at the rabbit, the rum, the men, and finally at Jackson.

“You called me?”

The onlookers, who had apparently heard this tone before, drifted away.

Both persuasive endearments and demonstrations by Number Nine were required to mollify Cynthia. But when she comprehended, her dark eyes sparkled and she consented to a rum collins. Number Nine thumped the paper.

“What’s the matter?” Jackson asked.

Number Nine placed a paw on an item which had to do with driving.

Jackson sighed. “No drink for you, I guess.” He picked up the rabbit. “Bluenose,” he snorted. “Let’s go.”

“So long, Miss Rabbitt,” the newspaper man, called.

Cynthia chattered away about a church wedding and houses in the country, with scads of money earned by Number Nine, on the way to Trans-America.

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