The House of Torchy
by Sewell Ford · English · Gutenberg #21882 · 375,789 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The House of Torchy
Author: Sewell Ford
Illustrator: Arthur William Brown
Release date: June 21, 2007 [eBook #21882]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21882
Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
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Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
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[Illustration: "'Don't!' says Vee. 'You'll spill the coffee.'"]
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THE HOUSE OF TORCHY
BY
SEWELL FORD
AUTHOR OF
TORCHY, TRYING OUT TORCHY, SHORTY MCCABE, Etc.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
ARTHUR WILLIAM BROWN
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS--NEW YORK
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Copyright, 1917, 1918, by
SEWELL FORD
Copyright 1918, by
EDWARD J. CLODE
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I Torchy and Vee on the Way 1
II Vee with Variations 12
III A Qualifying Turn for Torchy 25
IV Switching Arts on Leon 44
V A Recruit for the Eight-three 60
VI Torchy in the Gazinkus Class 79
VII Back with Clara Belle 96
VIII When Torchy got the Call 114
IX A Carry-on for Clara 134
X All the Way with Anna 152
XI At the Turn with Wilfred 172
XII Vee Goes Over the Top 193
XIII Late Returns on Rupert 214
XIV Forsythe at the Finish 232
XV The House of Torchy 250
XVI Torchy gets the Thumb Grip 272
XVII A Low Tackle by Torchy 288
XVIII Tag Day at Torchy's 307
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THE HOUSE OF TORCHY
CHAPTER I
TORCHY AND VEE ON THE WAY
Say, I thought I'd taken a sportin' chance now and then before; but I
was only kiddin' myself. Believe me, this gettin' married act is the big
plunge. Uh-huh! Specially when it's done offhand and casual, the way we
went at it.
My first jolt is handed me early in the mornin' as we piles off the
mountain express at this little flag stop up in Vermont, and a roly-poly
gent in a horse-blanket ulster and a coonskin cap with a badge on it
steps up and greets me cheerful.
"Ottasumpsit Inn?" says he.
"Why, I expect so," says I, "if that's the way you call it.
Otto--Otta--Yep, that listens something like it."
You see, Mr. Robert had said it only once, when he handed me the
tickets, and I hadn't paid much attention.
"Aye gorry!" says the chirky gent, gatherin' up our hand luggage. "Guess
you're the ones we're lookin' for. Got yer trunk-checks handy?"
With that I starts fishin' through my pockets panicky. I finds a
railroad folder, our marriage certificate, the keys to the studio
apartment I'd hired, the box the ring came in, and----
"Gosh!" says I, sighin' relieved. "Sure I got it."
The driver grins good-natured and stows us into a two-seated sleigh, and
off we're whirled, bells jinglin', for half a mile or so through the
stinging mornin' air. Next thing I know, I'm bein' towed up to a desk
and a hotel register is shoved at me. Just like an old-timer, I dashes
off my name--Richard T. Ballard.
The mild-eyed gent with the close-cropped Vandyke and the gold-rimmed
glasses glances over at Vee.
"Ah--er--I thought Mrs. Ballard was with you!" says he.
"That's so; she is," says I, grabbin' the pen again and tackin' "Mr. and
Mrs." in front of my autograph.
That's why, while we're fixin' up a bit before goin' down to breakfast,
I has this little confidential confab with Vee.
"It's no use, Vee," says I. "I'm a rank amateur. We might just as well
have rice and confetti all over us. I've made two breaks already, and
I'm liable to make more. We can't bluff 'em."
"Who wants to?" says Vee. "I'm not ashamed of being on my honeymoon; are
you?"
"Good girl!" says I. "You bet I ain't. I thought the usual line, though,
was to pretend you'd----"
"I know," says Vee. "And I always thought that was perfectly silly.
Besides, I don't believe we could fool anyone if we tried. It's much
simpler not to bother. Let them guess."
"And grin too, eh?" says I. "We'll grin back."
Say, that's the happy hunch. Leaves you with nothing to worry about. All
you got to do is go ahead and enjoy yourself, free and frolicsome. So
when this imposin' head waitress with the forty-eight bust and the grand
duchess air bears down on us majestic, and inquires dignified, "Two,
sir?" I don't let it stagger me.
"Two'll be enough," says I. "But whisper. Seein' as we're only startin'
in on the twosome breakfast game, maybe you could find something nice
and cheerful by a window. Eh?"
It's some breakfast. M-m-m-m! Cute little country sausages, buckwheat
cakes that would melt in your mouth, with strained honey to go on 'em.
"Have a fourth buckwheat," says I.
"No fair, keeping count!" says Vee. "I looked the other way when you
took your fifth."
Honest, I can't see where we acted much different than we did before.
Somehow, we always could find things to giggle over. We sure had a good
time takin' our first after-breakfast stroll together down Main Street,
Vee in her silver-fox furs and me in my new mink-lined overcoat that Mr.
Robert had wished on me casual just before we left.
"Cunnin' little town, eh?" says I. "Looks like a birthday cake."
"Or a Christmas card," says Vee. "Look at this old door with the brass
knocker and the green fan-light above. Isn't that Colonial, though?"
"It's an old-timer, all right," says I. "Hello! Here's a place worth
rememberin'--the Woman's Exchange. Now I'll know where to go in case I
should want to swap you off."
For which crack I gets shoved into a snowdrift.
It ain't until afternoon that I'm struck with the fact that neither of
us knows a soul up here. Course, the landlord nods pleasant to me, and
I'd talked to the young room clerk a bit, and the bell-hops had all
smiled friendly, specially them I'd fed quarters to. But by then I was
feelin' sort of folksy, so I begun takin' notice of the other guests and
plannin' who I should get chummy with first.
I drifts over by the fireplace, where two substantial old boys are
toastin' their toes and smokin' their cigars.
"Snappy brand of weather they pass out up here, eh?" I throws off,
pullin' up a rocker.
They turn, sort of surprised, and give me the once-over deliberate,
after which one of them, a gent with juttin' eyebrows, clears his throat
and remarks, "Quite bracing, indeed."
Then he hitches around until I'm well out of view, and says to the
other:
"As I was observing, an immediate readjustment of international trade
balances is inevitable. European bankers are preparing for it. We are
not. Only last month one of the Barings cabled----"
I'll admit my next stab at bein' sociable was kind of feeble. In front
of the desk is a group of three gents, one of 'em not over fifty or so;
but when I edges up close enough to hear what the debate is about, I
finds it has something to do with a scheme for revivin' Italian opera in
Boston, and I backs off so sudden I almost bumps into a hook-beaked old
dame who is waddlin' up to the letter-box.
"Sorry," says I. "I should have honked."
She just glares at me, and if I hadn't side-stepped prompt she might
have sunk that parrot bill into my shoulder.
After that I sidles into a corner where I couldn't be hit from behind,
and tries to dope out the cause of all this hostility. Did they take me
for a German spy or what? Or was this really an old folks' home
masqueradin' as a hotel, with Vee and me breakin' in under false
pretenses?
So far as I could see, the inmates was friendly enough with each other.
The old girls sat around in the office and parlors, chattin' over their
knittin' and crochet. The old boys paired off mostly, though some of
them only read or played solitaire. A few people went out wrapped up in
expensive furs and was loaded into sleighs. The others waved good-by to
'em. But I might have been built out of window-glass. They didn't act
as though I was visible.
"Huh!" thinks I. "I'll bet they take notice of Vee when she comes down."
If I'd put anything up on that proposition I'd owed myself money. They
couldn't see her any more'n they could me. When we went out for another
walk nobody even looked after us. I didn't say anything then, but I kept
thinkin'. And all that evenin' we sat around amongst 'em without bein'
disturbed.
About eight o'clock an orchestra shows up and cuts loose with music in
the ball-room, mostly classic stuff like the "Spring Song" and handfuls
plucked from "Aïda." We slips in and listens. Then the leader gets his
eye on us and turns on a fox-trot.
"Looks like they was waitin' for us to start something," says I.
"Let's."
We'd gone around three or four times when Vee balks. About twenty-five
old ladies, with a sprinklin' of white-whiskered old codgers, had filed
in and was watchin' us solemn and critical from the side-lines. Some was
squintin' disapprovin' through their lorgnettes, and I noticed a few
whisperin' to each other. Vee quits right in the middle of a reverse.
"Do they think we are giving an exhibition?" she pouts.
"Maybe we're breakin' some of the rules and by-laws," says I. "Anyway, I
think we ought to beat it before they call in the high sheriff."
Next day it was just the same. We was out part of the time, indulgin' in
walks and sleigh rides; but nobody seemed to see us, goin' or comin'.
And I begun to get good and sore.
"Nice place, this," says I to Vee, as we trails in to dinner that
evenin'. "Almost as sociable as the Grand Central station."
Vee tries to explain that it's always like this in these exclusive
little all-the-year-round joints where about the same crowd of people
come every season.
"Then you have to be born in the house to be a reg'lar person, I
suppose?" says I.
Well, it's about then I notices this classy young couple who are makin'
their way across the dinin'-room, bein' hailed right and left. And next
thing I know, the young lady gets her eye on Vee, stops to take another
look, then rushes over and gives her the fond clinch from behind.
"Why you dear old Verona!" says she.
"Judith!" gasps Vee, kind of smothery.
"Whatever are you doing up----" And then Judith gets wise to me sittin'
opposite. "Oh!" says she.
Vee blushes and exhibits her left hand.
"It only happened the other night," says she. "This is Mr. Ballard,
Judith. And you?"
"Oh, ages ago--last spring," says Judith. "Bert, come here."
It's a case of old boardin'-school friends who'd lost track of each
other. Quite a stunner, young Mrs. Nixon is, too, and Bert is a good
match for her. The two girls hold quite a reunion, with us men standin'
around lookin' foolish.
"We're living in Springfield, you know," goes on Judith, "where Bert is
helping to build another munition plant. Just ran up to spend the
week-end with Auntie. You've met her, of course?"
"We--we haven't met anyone," says Vee.
"Why, how funny!" exclaims Mrs. Nixon. "Please come over right now."
"My dear," says Auntie, pattin' Vee chummy on the hand, "we have all
been wondering who you two young people were. I knew you must be nice,
but--er---- Come, won't you join us at this table? We'll make just a
splendid little family party. Now do!"
Oh, yes, we did. And after dinner I'll be hanged if we ain't introduced
to almost everybody in the hotel. It's a reg'lar reception, with folks
standin' in line to shake hands with us. The old boy with the eye
awnin's turns out to be an ex-Secretary of the Treasury; an antique with
a patent ear-'phone has been justice of some State Supreme Court; and so
on. Oh, lots of class to 'em. But after I'd been vouched for by someone
they knew they all gives me the hearty grip, offers me cigars, and hopes
I'm enjoyin' my stay.
"And so you are a niece of dear Mrs. Hemmingway?" says old Parrot-Face,
when her turn comes. "Think of that! And this is your husband!" And then
she says how nice it is that some other young people will be up in the
mornin'.
That evenin' Judith gets busy plannin' things to do next day.
"You haven't tried the toboggan chute?" says she. "Why, how absurd!"
Yep, it was a big day, Saturday was. Half a dozen more young folks
drifted in, includin' a couple of Harvard men that Vee knew, a girl
she'd met abroad, and another she'd seen at a house-party. They was all
live wires, too, ready for any sort of fun. And we had all kinds. Maybe
we didn't keep that toboggan slide warm. Say, it's some sport, ain't it?
Anyway, our honeymoon was turnin' out a great success. The Nixons
concluded to stay over a few days, and three or four of the others
found they could too, so we just went on whooping things up.
Next I knew we'd been there a week, and was due to make a jump to
Washington for a few days of sight-seein'.
"I'm afraid that will not be half as nice as this has been," says Vee.
"It couldn't," says I. "It's the reg'lar thing to do, though."
"I hate doing the regular thing," says Vee. "Besides, I'm dying to see
our little studio apartment and get settled in it. Why not--well, just
go home?"
"Vee," says I, "you got more good sense than I have red hair. Let's!"
CHAPTER II
VEE WITH VARIATIONS
"But--but look here, Vee," says I, after I'd got my breath back, "you
can't do a thing like that, you know."
"But I have, Torchy," says she; "and, what is more, I mean to keep on
doing it."
She don't say it messy, understand--just states it quiet and pleasant.
And there we are, hardly at the end of our first month, with the rocks
loomin' ahead.
Say, where did I collect all this bunk about gettin' married, anyway? I
had an idea that after the honeymoon was over, you just settled down and
lived happy, or otherwise, ever after. But, believe me, there's nothing
to it. It ain't all over, not by a long shot. As a matter of fact,
you've just begun to live, and you got to learn how.
Here I am, discoverin' a new Vee every day or so, and almost dizzy
tryin' to get acquainted with all of 'em. Do I show up that way to her?
I doubt it. Now and then, though, I catch her watchin' me sort of
puzzled.
So there's nothing steady goin' or settled about us yet, thanks be. Home
ain't a place to yawn in. Not ours. We don't get all our excitement out
of changin' the furniture round, either. Oh, sure, we do that, too. You
know, we're startin' in with a ready-made home--a studio apartment that
Mr. Robert picked up for me at a bargain, all furnished.
He was a near-artist, if you remember, this Waddy Crane party, who'd had
a bale of coupon-bearin' certificates willed to him, and what was a
van-load of furniture more or less to him? Course, I'm no judge of such
junk, but Vee seems to think we've got something swell.
"Just look at this noble old davenport, will you!" says she. "Isn't it a
beauty? And that highboy! Real old San Domingo mahogany that is, with
perfectly lovely crotch veneer in the panels. See?"
"Uh-huh," says I.
"And this four-poster with the pineapple tops and the canopy," she goes
on. "Pure Colonial, a hundred years old."
"Eh?" says I, gazin' at it doubtful. "Course, I was lookin' for
second-hand stuff, but I don't think he ought to work off anything that
ancient on me, do you?"
"Silly!" says Vee. "It's a gem, and the older the better."
"We'll need some new rugs, won't we," says I, "in place of some of these
faded things?"
"Faded!" says Vee. "Why, those are Bokharas. I will say for Mr. Crane
that he has good taste. This is furnished so much better than most
studios--nothing useless, no mixing of periods."
"Oh, when I go out after a home," says I, "I'm some grand little
shopper."
"Pooh!" says Vee. "Who couldn't do it the way you did? Why, the place
looks as if he'd just taken his hat and walked out. There are even
cigars in the humidor. And his easel and paints and brushes! Do you know
what I'm going to do, Torchy?"
"Put pink and green stripes around the cigars, I expect," says I.
"Smarty!" says she. "I'm going to paint pictures."
"Why not?" says I. "There's no law against it, and here you got all the
tools."
"You know I used to try it a little," says she. "I took quite a lot of
lessons."
"Then go to it," says I. "I'll get a yearly rate from a pressing club
to keep the spots off me. I'll bet you could do swell pictures."
"I know!" says Vee, clappin' her hands. "I'll begin with a portrait of
you. Let me try sketching in your head now."
That's the way Vee generally goes at things--with a rush. Say, she had
me sittin' with my chin up and my arms draped in one position until I
had a neck-ache that ran clear to my heels.
"Hal-lup!" says I, when both feet was sound asleep and my spine felt
ossified. "Couldn't I put on a sub while I drew a long breath?"
At that she lets me off, and after a fifth-innin' stretch I'm called
round to pass on the result.
"Hm-m-m!" says I, starin' at what she's done to a perfectly good piece
of stretched canvas.
"Well, what does it look like?" demands Vee.
"Why," says I, "I should call it sort of a cross between the Kaiser and
Billy Sunday."
"Torchy!" says Vee. "I--I think you're just horrid!"
For a whole week she sticks to it industrious, jottin' down studies of
various parts of my map while I'm eatin' breakfast, and workin' over 'em
until I come back from the office in the afternoon. Did I throw out any
more comic cracks? Never a one--not even when the picture showed that
my eyes toed in. All I did was pat her on the back and say she was a
wonder. But say, I got so I dreaded to look at the thing.
"You know your hair isn't really red," says Vee; "it--it's such an odd
shade."
"Sort of triple pink, eh?" says I.
She squeezes out some more paints, stirs 'em vigorous, and makes another
stab. This time she gets a bilious lavender with streaks of fire-box red
in it.
"Bother!" says she, chuckin' away the brushes. "What's the use
pretending I'm an artist when I'm not? Look at that hideous mess! It's
too awful for words. Take away that fire-screen, will you, Torchy?"
And, with the help of a few matches and a sportin' extra, we made quite
a cheerful little blaze in the coal grate.
"There!" says Vee, as we watches the bonfire. "So that's over. And it's
rather a relief to find out that I haven't got to be a lady artist,
after all. What is more, I am positive I couldn't write a book. I'm
afraid, Torchy, that I am a most every-day sort of person."
"Maybe," says I, "you're one of the scarce ones that believes in home
and hubby."
"We-e-e-ell," says Vee, lockin' her fingers and restin' her chin on 'em
thoughtful, "not precisely that type, either. My mind may not be
particularly advanced, but the modified harem existence for women
doesn't appeal to me. And I must confess that, with kitchenette
breakfasts, dinners out, and one maid, I can't get wildly excited over a
wholly domestic career. Torchy, I simply must have something to do."
Me, I just sits there gawpin' at her.
"Why," says I, "I thought that when a girl got married she--she----"
"I know," says she. "You think you thought. So did I. But you really
didn't think about it at all, and I'm only beginning to. Of course, you
have your work. I suppose it's interesting, too. Isn't it?"
"It's a great game," says I. "Specially these days, when doin' any kind
of business is about as substantial as jugglin' six china plates while
you're balanced on top of two chairs and a kitchen table. Honest, we got
deals enough in the air to make you dizzy followin' 'em. If they all go
through we'll stand to cut a melon that would pay off the national debt.
If they should all go wrong--well, it would be some smash, believe me."
Vee's gray eyes light up sudden.
"Why couldn't you tell me all about some of these deals," she says, "so
that I could be in it too? Why couldn't I help?"
"Maybe you could," says I, "if you understood all the fine points."
"Couldn't I learn?" demands Vee.
"Well," says I, "I've been right in the thick of it for quite some
years. If you could pick up in a week or so what it's taken me years
to----"
"I see," cuts in Vee. "I suppose you're right, too. But I'm sure that I
should like to be in business. It must be fascinating, all that planning
and scheming. It must make life so interesting."
I nods. "It does," says I.
"Then why shouldn't I try something of the kind, all my very own?" she
asks. "Oh, in a small way, at first?"
More gasps from me. This was gettin' serious.
"You don't mean margin dabblin' at one of them parlor bucket-shops, do
you?" I demands.
"No fear," says Vee. "I think gambling is just plain stupid. I mean some
sort of legitimate business--buying and selling things."
"Oh!" says I. "Like real estate, or imported hats, or somebody's
home-made candy? Or maybe you mean startin' one of them Blue Goose
novelty shops down in Greenwich Village. I'll tell you. Why not
manufacture left-handed collar buttons for the south-paw trade? There's
a field."
Vee don't say any more. In fact, three or four days goes by without her
mentionin' anything about havin' nothing to do, and I'd 'most forgot
this batty talk of ours.
And then, one afternoon when I comes home after a busy day at doin'
nothing much and tryin' to look important over it, she greets me with a
flyin' tackle and drags me over to a big wingchair by the window.
"What do you think, Torchy?" says she. "I've found something!"
"That trunk key you've been lookin' for?" says I.
"No," says she. "A business opening."
"A slot-machine to sell fudge?" says I.
"You'd never guess," says she.
"Then shoot it," says I.
"I'm going to open a shoe-shinery," she announces.
"Wha-a-a-at!" says I.
"Only I'm not going to call it that," she goes on. "It isn't to be a
'parlor,' either, nor a 'shine shop.' It's to be just a 'Boots.' Right
here in the building. I've leased part of the basement. See?" And she
waves a paper at me.
"Quit your kiddin'," says I.
But she insists that it's so. Sure enough, that's the way the lease
reads.
And that's when, as I was tellin' you, I rises up majestic and announces
flat that she simply can't do a thing like that. Also she comes back at
me just as prompt by sayin' that she can and will. It's the first time
we've met head-on goin' different ways, and I had just sense enough to
throw in my emergency before the crash came.
"Now let's get this straight," says I. "I don't suppose you're plannin'
to do shoe-shinin' yourself?"
Vee smiles and shakes her head.
"Or 'tend the cash register and sell shoelaces and gum to gentlemen
customers?"
"Oh, it's not to be that sort of place," says she. "It's to be an
English 'boots,' on a large scale. You know what I mean."
"No," says I.
So she sketches out the enterprise for me. Instead of a reg'lar Tony
joint with a row of chairs and a squad of blue-shirted Greeks jabberin'
about the war, this is to be a chairless, spittoonless shine factory,
where the customer only steps in to sign a monthly contract or register
a kick. All the work is to be collected and delivered, same as laundry.
"I would never have thought of it," explains Vee, "if it hadn't been for
Tarkins. He's that pasty-faced, sharp-nosed young fellow who's been
helping the janitor recently. A cousin, I believe. He's a war wreck,
too. Just think, Torchy: he was in the trenches for more than a year,
and has only been out of a base hospital two months. They wouldn't let
him enlist again; so he came over here to his relatives.
"It was while he was up trying to stop that radiator leak the other day
that I asked him if he would take out a pair of my boots and find some
place where they could be cleaned. He brought them back inside of half
an hour, beautifully done. And when I insisted on being told where he'd
taken them, so that I might send them to the same place again, he
admitted that he had done the work himself. 'My old job, ma'am,' says
he. 'I was boots at the Argyle Club, ma'am, before I went out to strafe
the 'Uns. Seven years, ma'am. But they got a girl doin' it now, a
flapper. Wouldn't take me back.' Just fancy! And Tarkins a trench hero!
So I got to thinking."
"I see," says I. "You're going to set Tarkins up, eh?"
"I'm going to make him my manager," says Vee. "He will have charge of
the shop and solicit orders. We are going to start with only two
polishers; one for day work, the other for the night shift. And Tarkins
will always be on the job. They're installing a 'phone now, and he will
sleep on a cot in the back office. We will work this block first,
something like four hundred apartments. Later on--well, we'll see."
"I don't want to croak," says I, "but do you think folks will send out
their footwear that way? You know, New Yorkers ain't used to gettin'
their shines except on the hoof."
"I mean to educate them to my 'boots' system," says Vee. "I'm getting up
a circular now. I shall show them how much time they can save, how many
tips they can avoid. You see, each customer will have a delivery box,
with his name and address on it. No chance for mistakes. The boxes can
be set outside the apartment doors. We will have four collections,
perhaps; two in the daytime, two at night. And when they see the kind of
work we do---- Well, you wait."
"I'll admit it don't listen so worse," says I. "The scheme has its good
points. But when you come to teachin' New York people new tricks, like
sendin' out their shoes, you're goin' to be up against it."
"Then you think I can't make 'boots' pay a profit?" asks Vee.
"That would be my guess," says I. "If it was a question of underwritin'
a stock issue for the scheme I'd have to turn it down."
"Good!" says Vee. "Now I shall work all the harder. Tarkins will be
around early in the morning to get you as our first customer."
Say, for the next few days she certainly was a busy party--plannin' out
her block campaign, lookin' over supply bills, and checkin' up Tarkins's
reports.
I don't know when I'd ever seen her so interested in anything, or so
chirky. Her cheeks were pink all the time and her eyes dancin'. And
somehow we had such a lot to talk about.
Course, though, I didn't expect it to last. You wouldn't look for a girl
like Vee, who'd never had any trainin' for that sort of thing, to start
a new line and make a go of it right off the bat. But, so long as she
wasn't investin' very heavy, it didn't matter.
And then, here last night, after she'd been workin' over her
account-books for an hour or so, she comes at me with a whoop, and waves
a sheet of paper under my nose excited.
"Now, Mister Business Man," says she, "what do you think of that?"
"Eh?" says I, starin' at the figures.
"One hundred and seventeen regular customers the first week," says she,
"and a net profit of $23.45. Now how about underwriting that stock
issue?"
Well, it was a case of backin' up. She had it all figured out plain.
She'd made good from the start. And, just to prove that it's real money
that she's made all by herself, she insists on invitin' me out to a
celebration dinner. It's a swell one, too, take it from me.
And afterwards we sits up until long past midnight while Vee plans a
chain of "boots" all over the city.
"Gee!" says I. "Maybe you'll be gettin' yourself written up as 'The
Shine Queen of New York' or something like that. Lucky Auntie's in
Jamaica. Think what a jolt it would give her."
"I don't care," says Vee. "I've found a job."
"Guess you have," says I. "And, as I've remarked once or twice before,
you're some girl."
CHAPTER III
A QUALIFYING TURN FOR TORCHY
And here all along I'd been kiddin' myself that I was a perfectly good
private sec. Also I had an idea the Corrugated Trust was one of the main
piers that kept New York from slumpin' into the North River, and that
the boss, Old Hickory Ellins, was sort of a human skyscraper who loomed
up as imposin' in the financial foreground as the Metropolitan Tower
does on the picture post-cards that ten-day trippers mail to the folks
back home.
Not that I'd been workin' up any extra chest measure since I've had an
inside desk and had connected with a few shares of our preferred stock;
I always did feel more or less that way about our concern. And the
closer I got to things, seein' how wide our investments was scattered
and how many big deals we stood behind, the surer I was that we was
important people.
And then, in trickles this smooth-haired young gent with the broad _a_'s
and the full set of _thé dansant_ manners, to show me where I'm wrong
on all counts. He'd succeeded in convincin' Vincent-on-the-gate that
nobody around the shop would do but Mr. Ellins himself, so here was Old
Hickory standin' in the door of his private office with the card in his
hand and starin' puzzled at this immaculate symphony in browns.
"Eh?" says he. "You're from Runyon, are you? Well, I wired him to stop
off on his way through and have luncheon with me at the Union League.
Know anything about that, do you?"
"Mr. Runyon regrets very much," says the young gent, "that he will be
unable to accept your kind invitation. He is on his way to Newport, you
know, and----"
"Yes, I understand all that," breaks in Old Hickory. "Daughter's
wedding. But that isn't until next week, and while he was in town I
thought we might have a little chat and settle a few things."
"Quite so," says the symphony. "Precisely why he sent me up, sir--to
talk over anything you might care to discuss."
"With you!" snorts Old Hickory. "Who the brocaded buckboards are you?"
"Mr. Runyon's secretary, sir," says the young gent. "Bixby's the name,
sir, as you will see by the card, and----"
"Ha!" growls old Hickory. "So that's Marc Runyon's answer to me, is it?
Sends his secretary! Very well; you may talk with _my_ secretary.
Torchy!"
"Right here!" says I, slidin' to the front.
"Take this person somewhere," says Mr. Ellins, jerkin' his thumb at
Bixby; "instruct him what to tell his master about how we regard that
terminal hold-up; then dust him off carefully and lead him to the
elevator."
"Got you!" says I, salutin'.
You might think that would have jolted Mr. Bixby. But no. He gets the
door shut in his face without even blinkin' or gettin' pink under the
eyes. Don't even indulge in any shoulder shrugs or other signs of
muffled emotion. He just turns to me calm and remarks businesslike:
"At your service, sir."
Now, say, this lubricated diplomacy act ain't my long suit as a general
thing, but I couldn't figure a percentage in puttin' over any more rough
stuff on Bixby. It rolled off him too easy. Course, it might be all
right for Mr. Ellins to get messy or blow a gasket if he wanted to; but
I couldn't see that it was gettin' us anywhere. He hadn't planned this
luncheon affair just for the sake of being sociable--I knew that much.
The big idea was to get next to Marcus T. Runyon and thresh out a
certain proposition on a face-to-face basis. And if he chucked that
overboard because of a whim, we stood to lose.
It was up to me now, though. Maybe I couldn't be as smooth as this Bixby
party, but I could make a stab along that line. It would be good
practice, anyhow. So I tows him over to my corner, and arranges him easy
in an armchair.
"As between private secs, now," says I, "what's puttin' up the bars on
this get-together motion, eh?"
Well, considerin' that Bixby is English and don't understand the
American language very well, we got along fine. Once or twice, there, I
thought I should have to call in an interpreter; but by bein' careful to
state things simple, and by goin' over some of the points two or three
times slow, we managed to make out what each other meant.
It seems that Marcus T. is more or less of a frail and tender party.
Dashin' out for a Union League luncheon, fillin' himself up on _poulet
en casserole_ and such truck, not to mention Martinis and demi-tasses
and brunette perfectos, was clean out of the question.
"My word!" says Bixby, rollin' his eyes. "His physician would never
allow it, you know."
"Suppose he took a chance and didn't tell the doc?" I suggests.
"Impossible," says Bixby. "He is with him constantly--travels with him,
you understand."
I didn't get it all at first, but I sopped it up gradual. Marcus T.
wasn't takin' any casual flit from his Palm Beach winter home to his
Newport summer place. No jumpin' into a common Pullman for him, joinin'
the smokin'-room bunch, and scrabblin' for his meals in the diner.
Hardly.
He was travelin' in his private car, with his private secretary, his
private physician, his trained nurse, his private chef, and most likely,
his private bootblack. And he was strictly under his doctor's orders. He
wasn't even goin' to have a peek at Broadway or Fifth Avenue; for,
although a suite had been engaged for him at the Plutoria, the Doc had
ruled against it only that mornin'. No; he had to stay in the private
car, that had been run on a special sidin' over in the Pennsylvania
yards.
"So you see," says Bixby, spreadin' out his varnished finger-nails
helpless. "And yet, I am sure he would very much like to have a chat
with his old friend Mr. Ellins."
I had all I could do to choke back a haw-haw. His old friend, eh? Oh, I
expect they might be called friends, in a way. They hadn't actually
stuck any knives into each other. And 'way back, when they was both
operatin' in Chicago, I understand they was together a good deal. But
since---- Well, maybe at a circus you've seen a couple of old tigers
pacin' back and forth in nearby cages and catchin' sight of one another
now and then? Something like that.
"Friend" wasn't the way Marcus T. was indexed on our books. If we
spotted any suspicious moves in the market, or found one of our
subsidiary companies being led astray by unseen hands, or a big contract
slippin' away mysterious, the word was always passed to "watch the
Runyon interests." And I'll admit that when the Corrugated saw an
openin' to put a crimp in a Runyon deal, or overbid 'em on a franchise,
or crack a ripe egg on one of their bond issues, we only waited long
enough for it to get dark before gettin' busy. Oh, yes, we was real
chummy that way.
And then again, with the Runyon system touchin' ours in so many spots,
we had a lot of open daylight dealin's. We interlocked here and there;
we had joint leases, trackage agreements, and so on, where we was just
as trustin' of each other as a couple of gentlemen crooks dividin' the
souvenirs after an early mornin' call at a country-house.
This terminal business Old Hickory had mentioned was a sample. Course, I
only knew about it in a vague sort of way: something about ore docks up
on the Lakes. Anyway, it was a case where the Runyon people had hogged
the waterfront and was friskin' us for tonnage charges on every steamer
we loaded.
I know it was something that had to be renewed annual, for I'd heard Mr.
Ellins beefin' about it more'n once. Last year, I remember, he was worse
than usual, which was accounted for later by the fact that the ton rate
had been jumped a couple of cents. And now it had been almost doubled.
No wonder he wanted a confab with Marcus T. on the subject. And, from
where I stood, it looked like he ought to have it, grouch or no grouch.
"Bixby," says I, "Mr. Ellins would just grieve himself sick if this
reunion he's planned don't come off. Now, what's the best you can do?"
"If Mr. Ellins could come to the private car----" begins Bixby.
"Say," I breaks in, "you wouldn't ask him to climb over freight-cars and
dodge switch-engines just for old times' sake, would you?"
Bixby holds up both hands and registers painful protest.
"By no means," says he. "We would send the limousine for Mr. Ellins,
have it wait his convenience, and drive him directly to the car steps. I
think I can arrange the interview for any time between two-thirty and
four o'clock this afternoon."
"Now, that's talkin'!" says I. "I'll see what I can do with the boss.
Wait, will you?"
Oh, boy, though! That was about as tough a job as I ever tackled. Old
Hickory still has his neck feathers ruffled, and he's chewin' savage on
a black cigar when I go in to slip him the soothin' syrup. First off I
explains elaborate what a sick man Mr. Runyon is, and all about the
trained nurse and the private physician.
"Bah!" says Old Hickory. "I'll bet he's no more an invalid than I am.
Just coddling himself, that's all. Got the private car habit, too! Why,
I knew Marc Runyon when he thought an upper berth was the very lap of
luxury; knew him when he'd grind his teeth over payin' a ten-dollar fee
to a doctor. And now he's trying to buy back his digestion by hiring a
private physician, is he? The simple-minded old sinner!"
"I expect you ain't seen much of him lately, Mr. Ellins?" I suggests.
Old Hickory hunches his shoulders careless.
"No," says he.
Then he gazes reminiscent at the ceilin'. I could tell by watchin' his
lower jaw sort of loosen up that he was thinkin' of the old days, or
something like that. It struck me as a good time to let things simmer. I
drops back a step and waits. All of a sudden he turns to me and demands:
"Well, son?"
"If you could get away about three," says I, "Mr. Runyon's limousine
will be waiting."
"Huh!" says he. "Well, I'll see. Perhaps."
"Yes, sir," says I. "Then you'll be wanting the dope on that terminal
lease. Shall I dig it up?"
"Oh, you might as well," says Old Hickory. "There isn't much, but bring
along anything you may find. You will have to serve as my entire
retinue, Torchy. I expect you to behave like a regular high-toned
secretary."
"Gee!" says I. "That's some order. Mr. Bixby'll have me lookin' like an
outside porter. But I'll go wind myself up."
All I could think of, though, was to post myself on that terminal stuff.
And, believe me, I waded into that strong. Inside of ten minutes after
I'd sent Bixby on his way I had Piddie clawin' through the record safe,
two stenographers searchin' the letter-files, and Vincent out buyin'
maps of Lake Superior. I had about four hours to use in gettin' wise to
the fine points of a deal that had been runnin' on for ten years; but I
can absorb a lot of information in a short time when I really get my
mind pores open.
At that, though, I expect my head would have been just a junk-heap of
back-number facts if I hadn't run across the name of this guy McClave in
some of the correspondence. Seems he'd been assistant traffic agent for
one of the Runyon lines, but had been dropped durin' a consolidation
shake-up. And now he happens to be holdin' down a desk out in our
general offices. Just on a chance, I pushes the button for him.
Well, say, talk about tappin' the main feedpipe! Why, that quiet little
Scotchman in the shiny black cutaway coat and the baggy plaid trousers,
he knew more about how iron ore gets from the mines to the smelters than
I do about puttin' on my own clothes. And as for the inside hist'ry of
how we got that tonnage charge wished onto us, why, McClave had been
called in when the merry little scheme was first plotted out.
I made him start at the beginning and explain every item, while we
munched fried-egg sandwiches as we went over reports, sorted out old
letters, and marked up a perfectly good map of Minnesota. But by three
P.M. I had a leather document case stuffed with papers and a cross-index
of 'em in my so-called brain.
"When you're ready, Mr. Ellins," says I, standin' by with my hat in my
hand.
"Oh, yes," says he, heavin' himself up reluctant from his desk chair.
And, sure enough, there's a silk-lined limousine and a French chauffeur
waitin' in front of the arcade. In no time at all, too, we're rolled
across Seventh Avenue, down through a tunnel, and out alongside a shiny
private car with a brass-bound bay-window on one end and flower-boxes
hung on the side. They even had a carpet laid on the steps. It's a happy
little home on wheels.
Also there is Bixby the Busy, with his ear out for us.
Talk about private seccing as a fine art! Why, say, I fairly held my
breath watchin' him operate. Every move is as smooth and silent as a
steel lathe runnin' in an oil bath. He don't exactly whisper, or give us
the hush-up sign, but somehow he gets me steppin' soft and talkin'
under my breath from the minute I hits the front vestibule.
"So good of you, Mr. Ellins," he coos soothin'. "Will you come right in?
Mr. Runyon will be with you in a moment. Just finishing a treatment, you
know. This way, gentlemen."
Say, it was like bein' ushered into church durin' the prayer. Once
inside, you'd never guess it was just a car. More like the corner of a
perfectly good drawin'-room--easy chairs, Turkish rugs, silver vases
full of roses, double hangin's at the windows.
"Will you sit here, Mr. Ellins?" murmurs Bixby. "And you here, sir.
Pardon me a moment."
Then he glides about, pullin' down a shade, movin' a vase, studyin' how
the light is goin' to strike in, pattin' a cushion, shovin' out a
foot-rest--like he was settin' the stage for the big scene. And right in
the midst of it I near spilled the beans by pullin' an afternoon edition
out of my pocket. Bixby swoops down on me panicky.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" says he, pluckin' the paper out of my fingers. "But
may I put this outside? Mr. Runyon cannot stand the rustling of
newspapers. Please don't mind. There! Now I think we are ready."
I wanted to warn him that I hadn't quite stopped breathin' yet, but he's
off to the other end of the room, where a nurse in a white cap is
peekin' through the draperies.
Bixby nods to her and stands one side. Then we waits a minute--two
minutes. And finally the procession appears.
First, a nurse carryin' a steamer rug; next, another nurse with a tray;
and after them a valet and the private physician with the great Marcus
T. walkin' slow between.
He ain't so imposin' when you get that close, though. Kind of a short,
poddy party, who looks like he'd been upholstered generous once but had
shrunk a lot. There are heavy bags under his eyes, dewlaps at his
mouth-corners, and deep seams across his clean-shaved face. He has sort
of a cigar-ash complexion. And yet, under them shaggy brows is a keen
pair of eyes that seem to take in everything.
Old Hickory gets up right off, with his hand out. But it's a social
error. Bixby blocks him off graceful. He's in full command, Bixby is.
With a one-finger gesture he signals the nurse to drape her rug over the
chair. Then he nods to the doctor and the valet to go ahead. They ease
Runyon into his seat. Bixby motions 'em to wrap up his knees. By an
eyelid flutter he shows the other nurse where to set her tray.
It's almost as complicated a process as dockin' an ocean liner. When
it's finished, Bixby waves one hand gentle, and they all fade back
through the draperies.
"Hello, Ellins," says Runyon. "Mighty good of you to hunt up a wreck
like me."
I almost gasped out loud. Somehow, after seem' him handled like a mummy
that way, you didn't expect to hear him speak. It's a shock. Even Old
Hickory must have felt something as I did.
"I--I didn't know," says he. "When did it happen, Runyon?"
"Oh, it's nothing," says Marcus T. "I am merely paying up for fifty-odd
years of hard living by--by this. Ever try to exist on artificial sour
milk and medicated hay, Ellins? Hope you never come to it. Don't look as
though you would. But you were always tougher than I, even back in the
State Street days, eh?"
First thing I knew, they were chattin' away free and easy. Course, there
was Bixby all the time, standin' behind watchful. And right in the
middle of a sentence he didn't hesitate to butt in and hand Mr. Runyon a
glass of what looked like thin whitewash. Marcus T. would take a sip
obedient and then go on with his talk. At last he asks if there's
anything special he can do for Mr. Ellins.
"Why, yes," says Old Hickory, settin' his jaw. "You might call off your
highwaymen on that Manitou terminal lease, Runyon. That is, unless you
mean to take all of our mining profits."
Marcus T.'s eyes brighten up. They almost twinkle.
"Bixby," says he, "what about that? Has there been an increase in the
tonnage rate to the Corrugated?"
"I think so, sir," says Bixby. "I can look it up, sir."
"Ah!" says Runyon. "Bixby will look it up."
"He needn't," says Old Hickory. "It's been doubled, that's all. We had
the notice last week. Torchy, did you----"
"Yep!" says I, shootin' the letter at him.
"Well, well!" says Runyon, after he's gazed at it. "There must have been
some well founded cause for such an advance. Bixby, you must----"
"It's because you think you've got us in a hole," breaks in Old Hickory.
"We've got to load our boats and you control the docks."
"Oh, yes!" chuckles Marcus T. "An unfortunate situation--for you. But I
presume there are other dockage facilities available."
"If there were," says Mr. Ellins sarcastic, "do you think we would be
paying you from three to five millions a year?"
"Bixby, I fear you must explain our position more fully," goes on Mr.
Runyon.
"Oh, certainly," says Bixby. "I will have a full report prepared
and----"
"Suppose you tell it to my secretary now," insists Old Hickory, glarin'
menacin' at him.
"Do so, Bixby," says Marcus T.
"Why--er--you see," says Bixby, turnin' to me, "as I understand the
case, the only outlet you have to deep water is over our tracks to----"
"What about them docks at Three Harbors?" I cuts in.
"Three Harbors?" repeats Bixby, starin' vague.
"Precisely," says Marcus T. "As the young man suggests, there is plenty
of unemployed dockage at that point. But your ore tracks do not connect
with that port."
"They would if we laid forty miles of rails, branchin' off at Tamarack
Junction," says I. "That spur has all been surveyed and the right of way
cleared."
"Ah!" exclaims Bixby, comin' to life again. "I remember now. Tamarack
Junction. We hold a charter for a railroad from there to Three Harbors."
"You mean you did hold it," says I.
"I beg pardon?" says Bixby, gawpin'.
"It lapsed," says I, "eighteen months ago. Here's a copy, O. K.'d by a
Minnesota notary public. See the date?"
"Allow me," says Mr. Runyon, reachin' for it.
Old Hickory gets up and rubbers over his shoulder. "By George!" says he.
"It has lapsed, Runyon. Torchy, where's a map of----"
"Here you are," says I. "You'll see the branch line sketched in there.
That would cut our haul about fifteen miles."
"And leave you with a lot of vacant ore docks on your hands, eh,
Runyon?" puts in Old Hickory. "We could have those rails laid by the
time the ice was out of the Soo. Well, well! Throws rather a new light
on the situation, doesn't it?"
Marcus T. turns slow and fixes them keen eyes of his on Bixby the Busy.
"Hm-m-m!" says he. "It seems that we have overlooked a point, Bixby.
Perhaps, though, you can offer----"
He can. Some shifty private sec, Bixby is.
"Your milk, sir," says he, grabbin' the tray and shovin' it in front of
Runyon.
For a second or so the great Marcus T. eyes it indignant. Then his
shoulders sag, the fire dies out of his eyes, and he takes the glass.
He's about the best trained plute I ever saw in captivity.
"And I think the doctor should take your temperature now," adds Bixby.
"I will call him."
As he slips off toward the back end of the car Mr. Runyon lets out a
sigh.
"It's no use, Ellins," says he. "One can't pamper a ruined digestion and
still enjoy these friendly little business bouts. One simply can't. Name
your own terms for continuing that terminal lease."
Old Hickory does prompt, for we don't want to buy rails at the price
they're bringin' now.
"And by the way, Runyon," says he, "may I ask what you pay your young
man? I'm just curious."
"Bixby?" says Runyon. "Oh, twenty-five hundred."
"Huh!" says Mr. Ellins. "My secretary forgets my milk now and then, but
he remembers such trifles as lapsed charters. He is drawing three
thousand."
I hope Marcus T. didn't hear the gasp I lets out--I tried to smother it.
And the first thing I does when we gets back into the limousine is to
grin at the boss.
"Whaddye mean, three thousand?" says I.
"Dollars," says he. "Beginning to-day."
"Z-z-z-zing!" says I. "Going up, up! And there I was plannin' to take a
special course in trained nursin', so I could hold my job."
CHAPTER IV
SWITCHING ARTS ON LEON
Oh, sure! We're coming along grand. Did you think we'd be heavin' the
blue willow-ware at each other by this time? No. We've hardly displayed
any before-breakfast dispositions yet.
Not that we confine ourselves to the coo vocabulary, or advertise any
continuous turtle-dove act. Gettin' married ain't jellied our brains, I
hope. Besides, we're busy. I've got a new gilt-edged job to fill, you
know; and Vee, she has one of her own, too.
Well, I can't say that her scheme of runnin' a Boots, Limited, has
mesmerized all New York into havin' its shoe-shinin' done out. There's
something about this cloth top and white gaiter craze that's puttin' a
crimp in her perfectly good plans. But she's doin' fairly well, and she
don't have to think up ways of killin' time.
Course, we have a few other things to think about, too. Just learnin'
how to live in New York is a merry little game all by itself. That's
one of my big surprises. I'd thought all along it was so simple.
But say, we've been gettin' wise to a few facts this last month or so,
for we've been tryin' to dope out which one of the forty-nine varieties
of New York's home-sweet-home repertoire was the kind for us. I don't
mean we've been changin' our street number, or testin' out different
four-room-and-bath combinations. The studio apartment I got at a bargain
suits first rate. It's the meal proposition.
First off, we decides gay and reckless that we'll breakfast and lunch in
and take our dinners out. That listened well and seemed easy
enough--until Vee got to huntin' up a two-handed, light-footed female
party who could boil eggs without scorchin' the shells, dish up such
things as canned salmon with cream sauce, and put a few potatoes through
the French fry process, doublin' in bed-makin' and dust-chasin' durin'
her spare time. That shouldn't call for any prize-winnin' graduate from
a cookin' college, should it?
But say, the specimens that go in for general housework in this burg are
a sad lot. I ain't goin' all through the list. I'll just touch lightly
on Bertha.
She was a cheerful soul, even when she was servin' soggy potatoes or
rappin' me in the ear with her elbow as she reached across to fill my
water glass.
"He-he! Haw-haw! Oxcuse, Mister," was Bertha's repartee for such little
breaks.
Course, I could plead with her for the umpteenth time to try pourin'
from the button hand side, but it would have been simpler to have worn a
head guard durin' meals.
And who would have the heart to put the ban on a yodel that begins in
our kitchenette at 7 A.M., even on cloudy mornin's?
If Bertha had been No. 1, or even No. 2, she'd have had her passports
handed her about the second mornin'; but, as she was the last of a punk
half dozen, we tried not to mind her musical interludes. So at the end
of three weeks her friendly relations with us were still unbroken,
though most of the dishes were otherwise.
So you might have thought we'd been glad, when 6.30 P.M. came, to put on
our things and join about a million or so other New Yorkers in findin' a
dinner joint where the cooks and waiters made no claim to havin' an
amateur standin'.
But, believe me, while my domestic instincts may be sproutin' late,
they're comin' strong. I'm beginnin' to yearn for nourishment that I
don't have to learn the French for or pick off'm a menu. I'd like to eat
without bein' surrounded by three-chinned female parties with high blood
pressure, or bein' stared at by pop-eyed old sports who're givin' some
kittenish cloak model a bright evenin'. And Vee feels more or less the
same way.
"Besides," says she, "I wish we could entertain some of our friends."
"Just what I was wishin'," says I. "Say, couldn't we find a few simple
things in the cook-book that Bertha couldn't queer?"
"Such as canned baked beans and celery?" asks Vee, chucklin'. "And yet,
if I stood by and read the directions to her--who knows?"
"Let's try her on the Piddies," I suggests.
Well, we did. And if the potatoes had been cooked a little more and the
roast a little less, it wouldn't have been so bad. The olives were all
right, even if Bertha did forget to serve 'em until she brought in the
ice cream. But then, the Piddies are used to little slips like that,
havin' lived so long out in Jersey.
"You see," explains Vee to me afterwards, "Bertha was a bit flurried
over her first dinner-party. She isn't much used to a gas oven, either.
Don't you think we might try another?"
"Sure!" says I. "What are friends for, anyway? How about askin' Mr. and
Mrs. Robert Ellins?"
"Oh, dear!" sighs Vee, lookin' scared. Then she is struck with a bright
idea. "I'll tell you: we will rehearse the next one the night before."
"Atta girl!" says I. "Swell thought."
It was while she and Bertha was strugglin' over the cook-book, and
gettin' advice from various sources, from housekeepin' magazines to the
janitor's wife, that this Leon Battou party shows up with his sob
hist'ry.
"Oh, Torchy!" Vee hails me with, as I come home from the office here the
other evenin'. "What becomes of people when they're dispossessed--when
they're put out on the street with their things, you know?"
"Why," says I, "they generally stay out until they can find a place
where they can move in. Has anybody been threatenin' to chuck us out for
not----"
"Silly!" says she. "It's the Battous."
"Don't know 'em," says I.
"But surely," goes on Vee, "you've seen him. He's that funny little old
Frenchman who's always dodging in and out of the elevator with
odd-looking parcels under his arm."
"Oh, yes!" says I. "The one with the twinklin' eyes and the curly
iron-gray hair, who always bows so polite and shoots that bon-shure
stuff at you. Him?"
It was.
It seems the agent had served notice on 'em that mornin'. They'd been
havin' a grand pow-wow over it in the lower vestibule, when Vee had come
along and got mixed up in the debate. She'd seen Mrs. Battou doin' the
weep act on hubby's shoulder while he was tryin' to explain and makin'
all sorts of promises. I expect the agent had heard such tales before.
Anyway, he was kind of rough with 'em--at which Vee had sailed in and
told him just what she thought.
"I'm sure you would have done the same, Torchy," says she.
"I might," says I, "if he hadn't been too husky. But what now?"
"I told them not to worry a bit," says Vee, "and that when you came home
you would tell them what to do. You will, won't you, Torchy?"
Course, there was only one real sensible answer to that. Who was I, to
step in casual and ditch a court order? But say, when the only girl in
the universe tackles you with the clingin' clinch, hints that you're a
big, brainy hero who can handle any proposition that's batted up to
you--well, that's no time to be sensible.
"I'll do any foolish little thing you name," says I.
"Goody!" says Vee. "I just knew you would. We'll go right up and----"
"Just a sec," says I. "Maybe I'd better have a private talk with this
Mr. Battou first off. Suppose you run up and jolly the old lady while he
comes down here."
She agrees to that, and three minutes later I've struck a pose which is
sort of a cross between that of a justice of the supreme court and a
bush league umpire, while M. Leon Battou is sittin' on the edge of a
chair opposite, conversin' rapid with both hands and a pair of eloquent
eyebrows.
"But consider, monsieur," he's sayin'. "Only because of owing so little!
Can they not wait until I have found some good customers for my
paintings?"
"Oh! Then you're an artist, are you?"
"I have the honor," says he. "I should be pleased to have you inspect
some of my----"
"It wouldn't help a bit," says I. "All I know about art is that as a
rule it don't pay. Don't you do anything else?"
He hunches his shoulders and spreads out both hands.
"It is true, what you say of art," he goes on. "And so then I must do
the decorating of walls--the wreaths of roses on the ceiling. That was
my profession when we lived at Péronne. But here--there is trouble about
the union. The greasy plumber will not work where I am, it seems. _Eh
bien!_ I am forced out. So I return to my landscapes. Are there not many
rich Americans who pay well for such things?"
I waves him back into his chair.
"How'd you come to wander so far from this Péronne place?" says I.
"It was because of our son, Henri," says he. "You see, he preferred to
be as my father was, a chef. I began that way, too. The Battous always
do--a family of cooks. But I broke away. Henri would not. He became the
pastry chef at the Hotel Gaspard in Péronne. And who shall say, too,
that he was not an artist in his way? Yes, with a certain fame. At
least, they heard here, in New York. You would not believe what they
offered if he would leave Péronne. And after months of saying no he said
yes. It was true. They paid as they promised--more. So Henri sends for
us to come also. We found him living like a prince. Truly! For more than
three years we enjoyed his good fortune.
"And then--_la guerre_! Henri must go to join his regiment. True, he
might have stayed. But we talked not of that. It was for France. So he
went, not to return. Ah, yes! At Ypres, after only three months in the
trenches. Then I say to the little mother, 'Courage! I, Leon Battou, am
still a painter. The art which has been as a pastime shall be made to
yield us bread. You shall see.' Ah, I believed--then."
"Nothing doing, eh?" says I.
Battou shakes his head.
"Well," says I, "the surest bet just now would be to locate some
wall-frescoin'. I'll see what can be done along that line."
"Ah, that is noble of you, young man," exclaims Battou. "It is wonderful
to find such a friend. A thousand thanks! I will tell the little mother
that we are saved."
With that he shakes me by both hands, gives me a bear hug, and rushes
off.
Pretty soon Vee comes down with smiles in her eyes.
"I just knew you would find a way, Torchy," says she. "You don't know
how happy you've made them. Now tell me all about it."
And say, I couldn't convince her I hadn't done a blamed thing but shoot
a little hot air, not after I'd nearly gone hoarse explainin'.
"Oh, but you will," says she. "You'll do something."
Who could help tryin', after that? I tackles the agent with a
proposition that Battou should work out the back rent, but he's a
fish-eyed gink.
"Say," he growls out past his cigar, "if we tried to lug along every
panhandling artist that wanted to graft rent off us, we'd be in fine
shape by the end of the year, wouldn't we? Forget it."
"How about his art stuff?" I asks Vee, when I got back.
"Oh, utterly hopeless," says she. "But one can't tell him so. He doesn't
know how bad it is. I suppose he is all right as a wall decorator. Do
you know, Torchy, they must be in serious straits. Those two little
rooms of theirs are almost bare, and I'm sure they've been living on
cheese and crackers for days. What do you think I've done?"
"Sent 'em an anonymous ham by parcels post?" says I.
"No," says Vee. "I'm going to have them down to-night for the rehearsal
dinner."
"Fine dope!" says I. "And if they survive bein' practiced on----"
But Vee has skipped off to the kitchenette without waitin' to hear the
rest.
"Is this to be a reg'lar dress rehearsal?" I asks, when I comes home
again. "Should I doll up regardless?"
Yes, she says I must. I was just strugglin' into my dinner coat, too,
when the bell rings. I expect Vee had forgot to tell 'em that
six-forty-five was our reg'lar hour. And say, M. Leon was right there
with the boulevard costume--peg-top trousers, fancy vest, flowin' tie,
and a silk tile. As for Madame Battou, she's all in gray and white.
I'd towed 'em into the studio, and was havin' 'em shed their things,
when Vee bounces in out of the kitchenette and announces impetuous:
"Oh, Torchy! We've made a mess of everything. That horrid leg of lamb
won't do anything but sozzle away in the pan; the string-beans have been
scorched; and--oh, goodness!"
She'd caught sight of our guests.
"Please don't mind," says Vee. "We're not very good cooks, Bertha and I.
We--we've spoiled everything, I guess."
She's tryin' to be cheerful over it. And she sure is a picture, standin'
there with a big apron coverin' up most of her evenin' dress, and her
upper lip a bit trembly.
"Buck up, Vee," says I. "Better luck next time. Chuck the whole shootin'
match into the discards, and we'll all chase around to Roverti's
and----"
"Bother Roverti's!" breaks in Vee. "Can't we ever have a decent dinner
in our own home? Am I too stupid for that? And there's that perfectly
gug-good l-l-l-leg of--of----"
"Pardon," says M. Battou, steppin' to the front; "but perhaps, if you
would permit, I might assist with--with the lamb."
It's a novel idea, I admit. No wonder Vee gasps a little.
"Why not?" says I. "Course it ain't reg'lar, but if Mr. Battou wants to
do some expert coachin', I expect you and Bertha could use it."
"Do, Leon," urges Madame Battou. "Lamb, is it? Oh, he is wonderful with
lamb."
She hadn't overstated the case, either. Inside of two minutes he has his
coat off, a bath towel draped over his fancy vest, and has sent Bertha
skirmishin' down the avenue for garlic, cloves, parsley, carrots, and a
few other things that had been overlooked, it seems.
Well, we stands grouped around the kitchenette door for a while,
watchin' him resuscitate that pale-lookin' leg of lamb, jab things into
it, pour stuff over it, and mesmerize the gas oven into doin' its full
duty.
Once he gets started, he ain't satisfied with simply turnin' out the
roast. He takes some string-beans and cuts 'em into shoelaces; he
carves rosettes out of beets and carrots; he produces a swell salad out
of nothing at all; and with a little flour and whipped cream he throws
together some kind of puffy dessert that looked like it would melt in
your mouth.
And by seven-thirty we was sittin' down to a meal such as you don't meet
up with outside of some of them Fifth Avenue joints where you have to
own a head waiter before they let you in.
"Whisper, Professor," says I, "did you work a spell on it, or what?"
"Ah-h-h!" says Battou, chucklin' and rubbin' his hands together. "It is
cooked _à la Paysan_, after the manner of Péronne, and with it is the
sauce château."
"That isn't mere cookery," says Vee; "that's art."
It was quite a cheery evenin'. And after the Battous had gone, Vee and I
asked each other, almost in chorus: "Do you suppose he'd do it again?"
"He will if I'm any persuader," says I. "Wouldn't it be great to spring
something like that on Mr. Robert?"
And while I'm shavin' next mornin' I connect with the big idea. Do you
ever get 'em that way? It cost me a nick under the ear, but I didn't
care. While I'm usin' the alum stick I sketches out the scheme for Vee.
"But, Torchy!" says she. "Do you think he would--really?"
Before I can answer there's a ring at the door, and here is M. Leon
Battou.
"The agent once more!" says he, producin' a paper. "In three days, it
says. But you have found me the wall-painting, yes?"
"Professor," says I, "I hate to say it, but there's nothin' doing in the
free-hand fresco line--absolutely."
He slumps into a chair, and that pitiful, hunted look settles in his
eyes.
"Then--then we must go," says he.
"Listen, Professor," says I, pattin' him soothin' on the shoulder. "Why
not can this art stuff, that nobody wants, and switch to somethin'
you're a wizard at?"
"You--you mean," says he, "that I should--should turn chef? I--Leon
Battou--in a big noisy hotel kitchen? Oh, but I could not. No, I could
not!"
"Professor," says I, "the only person in this town that I know of who's
nutty enough to want to hire a wall decorator reg'lar is me!"
"You!" gasps Battou, starin' around at our twelve by eighteen
livin'-room.
I nods.
"What would you take it on for as a steady job?"
"Oh, anything that would provide for us," says he, eager. "But how----"
"That's just the point," says I. "When you wasn't paintin' could you
cook a little on the side? Officially you'd be a decorator, but between
times---- Eh?"
He's a keen one, Mr. Battou.
"For so charming young people," says he, bowin' low, "it would be a
great pleasure. And the little mother--ah, you should see what a manager
she is! She can make a franc go farther. Could she assist also?"
"Could she!" exclaims Vee. "If she only would!"
Well, say, inside of half an hour we'd fixed up the whole deal, I'd
armed Battou with a check to shove under the nose of that agent, and Vee
had given Bertha her permanent release. And believe me, compared to what
was put before Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ellins that evenin', the dress
rehearsal dinner looked like Monday night at an actors' boardin'-house.
"I say," whispers Mr. Robert, "your cook must be a real artist."
"That's how he's carried on the family payroll," says I.
"Of course," says Vee afterwards, "while we can afford it, I suppose, it
does seem scandalously extravagant for us to have cooking like that
every day."
"Rather than have you worried with any more Bunglin' Berthas," says I,
"I'd subsidize the whole of Péronne to come over. And just think of all
I'll save by not havin' to buy my hat back from the coat-room boys every
night."
CHAPTER V
A RECRUIT FOR THE EIGHT-THREE
Have you a shiny little set of garden tools in your home? Have we? Well,
I should seed catalogue. Honest to goodness! Here! I can show you a
local time-table and my commuter's ticket. How about that, eh, for me?
And I don't know now just what it was worked the sudden shift for
us--the Battous, or our visit to the Robert Ellinses', or meetin' up
with MacGregor Shinn, the consistent grouch.
It begun with window-boxes. Professor Leon Battou, our official wall
decorator and actin' cook, springs 'em on me timid one day after lunch.
It had been some snack, too--onion soup sprinkled with croutons and
sprayed with grated cheese; calf's brains _au buerre noir_; a mixed
salad; and a couple of gooseberry tarts with the demi-tasse. Say, I'm
gettin' so I can eat in French, even if I can't talk it.
And while all that may listen expensive, I have Vee's word for it that
since Madame Battou has been doin' the marketin' the high cost of
livin' has been jarred off the roost. I don't know how accurate
Professor Leon is at countin' up the calories in every meal, but I'm
here to announce that he always produces something tasty, with no
post-prandial regrets concealed in the bottom of the casserole.
"Professor," says I, "I've been a stranger to this burry brains style of
nourishment a long time, but you can ring an encore on that whenever you
like."
He smiles grateful, but shakes his head.
"Ah, Monsieur," says he,--oh, yes, just like that,--"but if I had the
fresh chives, the--the _fin herbes_--ah, then you should see!"
"Well, can't Madame get what you need at the stores?" says I.
"But at such a price!" says Leon. "And of so discouraging a quality.
While, if we had but a few handfuls of good soil in some small boxes by
the windows---- Come, I will show you. Here, and here, where the sun
comes in the morning. I could secure them myself if you would not think
them unlovely to have in view."
"How about it, Vee?" I asks. "Are we too proud to grow our soup greens
on the premises?"
She says we ain't, so I tells Leon to breeze ahead with his hangin'
garden. Course, I ain't lookin' for anything more'n a box on the ledge.
But he's an ingenious old boy, Leon. With a hammer and saw and a few
boxes from the grocery, he builds a rack that fits into one of the front
windows; and the first thing I know, he has the space chuckful of
shallow trays, and seeds planted in every one. A few days later, and the
other window is blocked off similar. Also I get a bill from the florist
for two bushels of dirt.
Well, our front windows did look kind of odd, and our view out was
pretty well barred off; but he had painted the things up neat, and he
did all his waterin' and fussin' around early in the mornin', so we let
it ride. When he starts in to use our bedroom windows the same way,
though, I has to call him off.
"See here, Professor," says I, "you ain't mistakin' this studio
apartment for a New Jersey truck-farm, are you! Besides, we have to keep
them windows open at night, and your green stuff is apt to get nipped."
"Oh, but the night air is bad to breathe, Monsieur," says he.
"Not for us," says I. "Anyway, we're used to it, so I guess you'll have
to lay off this bedroom garden business."
He takes away the boxes, but it's plain he's disappointed. I believe if
I'd let him gone on he'd had cabbages growin' on the mantelpiece, a
lettuce bed on the readin'-table, and maybe a potato patch on the
fire-escape. I never knew gardenin' could be made such an indoor sport.
"Poor chap!" says Vee. "He has been telling me what wonderful things he
used to raise when he lived in Péronne. Isn't there some way, Torchy,
that we could give him more room?"
"We might rent the roof and glass it in for him," I suggests, "or get a
permit to bridge over the street."
"Silly!" says she, rumplin' my red hair reckless.
That was about the time we was havin' some of that delayed winter
weather, and it was touchin' to see Professor Battou nurse along them
pale green shoots that he'd coaxed up in his window-boxes. Then it runs
off warm and sunny again, just as we gets this week-end invite from Mr.
Robert.
Course, I'd been out to his Long Island place before, but somehow I
hadn't got excited over it. This time it's different. Vee was goin'
along, for one thing. And I expect the fact that spring had come
bouncin' in on us after a hard winter had something to do with our
enthusiasm for gettin' out of town. You know how it is. For eleven
months you're absolutely sure the city's the only place to live in, and
you feel sorry for them near-Rubes who have to catch trains to get home.
And then, all of a sudden, about this time of year, you get that
restless feelin', and wonder what it is ails you. I think it struck Vee
harder than it did me.
"Goody!" says she, when I tell her we're expected to go out Saturday
noon and stay over until Monday mornin'. "It is real country out there,
too, isn't it?"
"Blamed near an hour away," says I. "Ought to be, hadn't it?"
"I hope they have lilac bushes in bloom," says Vee. "Do you know,
Torchy, if I lived in the country, I'd have those if nothing else.
Wouldn't you?"
"I expect so," says I, "though I ain't doped out just what I would do in
a case like that. It ain't seemed worth while. But if lilacs are the
proper stunt for a swell country place, I'll bet Mr. Robert's got 'em."
By the time we'd been shot out to Harbor Hills station, though, I'd
forgot whether it was lilacs or lilies-of-the-valley that Vee was
particular about; for Mr. Robert goes along with us, and he's joshin'
us about our livin' in a four-and-bath and sportin' a French chef.
"Really," says he, "to live up to him you ought to move into a brewer's
palace on Riverside Drive, at least."
"Oh, Battou would be satisfied if I'd lease Madison Square park for him,
so he could raise onions," says I.
Which reminds Mr. Robert of something.
"Oh, I say!" he goes on. "You must see my garden. I'm rather proud of
it, you know."
"Your garden!" says I, grinnin'. "You don't mean you've been gettin' the
hoe and rake habit, Mr. Robert?"
Honest, that's the last thing you'd look for from him, for until he got
married about the only times he ever strayed from the pavements was when
he went yachtin'. But by the way he talks now you'd think farmer was his
middle name.
"Now, over there," says he, after we've been picked up at the station by
his machine and rolled off three or four miles, "over there I am raising
a crop of Italian clover to plow in. That's a new hedge I'm setting out,
too--hydrangeas, I think. It takes time to get things in shape, you
see."
"Looks all right to me, as it is," says I. "You got a front yard big
enough to get lost in."
Also the house ain't any small shack, with all its dormers and striped
awnin's and deep verandas.
But it's too nice an afternoon to spend much time inside, and after
we've found Mrs. Robert, Vee asks to be shown the garden.
"Certainly," says Mr. Robert. "I will exhibit it myself. That is--er--by
the way, Gertrude, where the deuce is that garden of ours?"
Come to find out, it was Mrs. Robert who was the pie-plant and radish
expert. She could tell you which rows was beets and which was corn
without lookin' it up on her chart.
She'd been takin' a course in landscape-gardenin', too; and as she
pilots us around the grounds, namin' the different bushes and things,
she listens like a nursery pamphlet. And Vee falls for it hard.
"How perfectly splendid," says she, "to be able to plan things like
that, and to know so many shrubs by their long names. But haven't you
anything as common as lilacs!"
Mrs. Robert laughs and shakes her head.
"They were never mentioned in my course, you see," says she. "But our
nearest neighbor has some wonderful lilac bushes. Robert, don't you
think we might walk down the east drive and ask your dear friend Mr.
MacGregor Shinn if he'd mind----"
"Decidedly no," cuts in Mr. Robert. "I'd much prefer not to trouble Mr.
Shinn at all."
"Oh, very well," says Mrs. Robert. And then, turnin' to us: "We haven't
been particularly fortunate in our relations with Mr. Shinn; our fault,
no doubt."
But you know Vee. Half an hour later, when we've been left to ourselves,
she announces:
"Come along, Torchy. I am going to find that east drive."
"It's a case of lilacs or bust, eh?" says I. "All right; I'm right
behind you. But let's make it a sleuthy getaway, so they won't know."
We let on it was a risky stunt, slippin' out a side terrace door,
dodgin' past the garage, and finally strikin' a driveway different from
the one we'd come in by. We follows along until we fetches up by some
big stone gateposts.
"There they are!" exclaims Vee. "Loads of them. And aren't they
fragrant? Smell, Torchy."
"I am," says I, sniffin' deep. "Don't you hear me?"
"Yes; and that Mr. Shinn will too, if you're as noisy as that over it,"
says she. "I suppose that is where he lives. Isn't it the cutest little
cottage?"
"It needs paint here and there," says I.
"I know," says Vee. "But look at that old Dutch roof with the wide
eaves, and the recessed doorway, and the trellises on either side, and
that big clump of purple lilacs nestling against the gable end. Oh, and
there's a cunning little pond in the rear, just where it ought to be! I
do wish we might go in and walk around a bit."
"Why not?" says I. "What would it hurt?"
"But that Shinn person," protests Vee, "might--might not----"
"Well, he couldn't any more'n shoo us off," says I, "and if he's nutty
enough to do that after a good look at you, then he's hopeless."
"You absurd boy!" says Vee, squeezin' my hand. "Well, anyway, we might
venture in a step or two."
As a matter of fact, there don't seem to be anyone in sight. You might
almost think nobody lived there; for the new grass ain't been cut, the
flower beds are full of dry weeds left over from last fall, and most of
the green shutters are closed.
There's smoke comin' from the kitchen chimney, though, so we wanders
around front, bringin' up under the big lilac bush. It's just covered
with blossoms--a truck-load, I should say; and it did seem a shame, Vee
bein' so strong for 'em, that she couldn't have one little spray.
"About a quarter a bunch, them would be on Broadway," says I, diggin' up
some change. "Well, here's where Neighbor Shinn makes a sale."
And, before Vee can object, I've snapped off the end of a twig.
I'd just dropped the quarter in an envelop and was stickin' it on the
end of the broken branch, when the front door opens, and out dashes this
tall gink with the rusty Vandyke and the hectic face. Yep, it's a lurid
map, all right. Some of it might have been from goin' without a hat in
the wind and weather, for his forehead and bald spot are just as
high-colored as the rest; but there's a lot of temper tint, too,
lightin' up the tan, and the deep furrows between the eyes shows it
ain't an uncommon state for him to be in. Quite a husk he is, costumed
in a plaid golf suit, and he bores down on us just as gentle as a
tornado.
"I say, you!" he calls out. "Stop where you are."
"Don't hurry," says I. "We'll wait for you."
"Ye will, wull ye!" he snarls, as he comes stampin' up in front of us.
"Ye'd best. And what have ye there, Miss? Hah! Pickin' me posies, eh?
And trespassin', too."
"That's right," says I. "Petty larceny and breakin' and enterin'. I'm
the guilty party."
"I'm sure there's nothing to make such a fuss about," says Vee, eyin'
him scornful.
"Oh, ho!" says he. "It's a light matter, I suppose, prowling around
private grounds and pilfering? I ought to be taking it as a joke, eh?
Don't ye know, you two, I could have you taken in charge for this?"
"Breeze ahead, then," says I. "Call the high sheriff. Only let's not get
all foamed up over it, Mr. MacGregor Shinn."
"Ha!" says he. "Then ye know who I am? Maybe you're stopping up at the
big house?"
"We are guests of Mr. Ellins, your neighbor," puts in Vee.
"He's no neighbor of mine," snaps Shinn. "Not him. His bulldog worries
me cat, his roosters wake me up in the morning, and his Dago workmen
chatter about all day long. No, I'll not own such a man as neighbor. Nor
will I have his guests stealing my posies."
"Then take it," says Vee, throwing the lilac spray on the ground.
"You'll find a quarter stuck on the bush," says I. "Sorry, MacGregor, we
couldn't make a trade. The young lady is mighty fond of lilacs."
"Is she, now?" says Shinn, still scowlin' at us.
"And she thinks your place here is pretty cute," I adds.
"It's a rotten hole," says he.
"Maybe you're a poor judge," says I. "If it was fixed up a bit I should
think it might be quite spiffy."
"What call has an old bachelor to be fixing things up?" he demands.
"What do I care how the place looks? And what business is it of yours,
anyway?"
"Say, you're a consistent grouch, ain't you?" says I, givin' him the
grin. "What's the particular trouble--was you toppin' your drive
to-day?"
"Slicin', mon," says he. "Hardly a tee shot found the fairway the whole
round. And then you two come breaking me bushes."
"My error," says I. "But you should have hung out a sign that you was
inside chewin' nails."
"I was doing nothing of the kind," says he. "I was waiting for that
grinning idiot, Len Hung, to give me me tea."
"Well, don't choke over it when you do get it," says I. "And if you
ain't ready to sic the police on us we'll be trotting along back."
"Ye wull not," says MacGregor; "ye'll have tea with me."
It sounds like a threat, and I can see Vee gettin' ready to object
strenuous. So I gives her the nudge.
I expect it's because I'm so used to Old Hickory's blowin' out a fuse
that I don't duck quicker when a gas-bomb disposition begins to sputter
around. They don't mean half of it, these furious fizzers.
Sometimes it's sciatica, more often a punk digestion, and seldom pure
cussedness. If you don't humor 'em by comin' back messy yourself, but
just jolly 'em along, they're apt to work out of it. And I'd seen sort
of a human flicker in them blue-gray eyes of MacGregor Shinn's.
"Vee," says I, "our peevish friend is invitin' us to take tea with him.
Shall we chance it?"
And you know what a good sport Vee is. She lets the curve come into her
mouth corners again, both of her cheek dimples show, and she shoots a
quizzin' smile at Mr. Shinn.
"Does he say it real polite?" she asks.
"Na," says MacGregor. "But there'll be hot scones and marmalade."
"M-m-m-m!" says Vee. "Let's, Torchy."
It's an odd finish to an affair that started so scrappy. Not that Shinn
reverses himself entirely, or turns from a whiskered golf grump into a
stage fairy in spangled skirts. He goes right on with his growlin' and
grumblin'--about the way his Chink cook serves the tea, about havin' to
live in a rotten hole like Harbor Hills, about everything in general.
But a great deal of it is just to hear himself talk, I judge.
We had a perfectly good high tea, and them buttered scones with
marmalade couldn't be beat. Also he shows us all over the house, and Vee
raves about it.
"Look, Torchy!" says she. "That glimpse of water from the living-room
windows. Isn't that dear? And one could have such a wonderful garden
beyond. Such a splendid big fireplace, too. And what huge beams in the
ceiling! It's a very old house, isn't it, Mr. Shinn?"
"The rascally agent who sold it to me said it was," says MacGregor, "but
I wouldn't believe a word of his on any subject. 'Did I ask you for an
old house, at all?' I tells him. For what I wanted was just a place
where I could live quiet, and maybe have me game of golf when I wanted
it. But here I've gone off me game; and, besides, the country's no place
to live quiet in. I should be in town, so I should, like any decent
white man. I've a mind to look up a place at once. Try another scone,
young lady."
So it was long after six before we got away, and the last thing
MacGregor does is to load Vee down with a whole armful of lilac
blossoms.
I suppose Mr. and Mrs. Robert thought we'd been makin' a wholesale raid
when they saw us comin' in with the plunder. Mrs. Robert almost turns
pale.
"Mercy!" says she. "You don't mean to say you got all those from our
neighbor's bushes, do you?"
"Uh-huh," says I. "We've been mesmerizin' MacGregor. He's as tame a
Scot now as you'd want to see."
They could hardly believe it, and when they heard about our havin' tea
with him they gasped.
"Of all persons!" says Mrs. Robert. "Why, he has been glaring at us for
a year, and sending us the most bristling messages. I don't understand."
Mr. Robert, though, winks knowin'.
"Some of Torchy's red-headed diplomacy, I suspect," says he. "I must
engage you to make our peace with MacGregor."
That's all we saw of him, though, durin' our stay. For one thing, we was
kept fairly busy. I never knew you could have so much fun in the
country. Ever watch a bunch of young ducks waddlin' about? Say, ain't
they a circus! And them fluffy little chicks squabblin' over worms.
Honest, I near laughed myself sick. Vee was for luggin' some of 'em home
to the apartment. But she was thrilled over 'most everything out there,
from the fat robins on the lawn to the new leaves on the trees.
And, believe me, when we gets back to town again, our studio apartment
seems cramped and stuffy. We talked over everything we'd seen and done
at the Ellinses'.
"That's really living, isn't it?" says Vee.
"Why not," says I, "with a twenty-room house, and grounds half as big as
Central Park?"
"I know," says Vee. "But a little place like Mr. Shinn's would be large
enough for us."
"I expect it would," says I. "You don't really think you'd like to live
out there, do you, though?"
"Wouldn't I!" says Vee, her eyes sparklin'. "I'd love it."
"What would you do all day alone?" I suggests.
"I'd raise ducks and chickens and flowers," says Vee. "And Leon could
have a garden. Just think!"
Yep--I thought. I must have kept awake hours that night, tryin' not to.
And the more I mulled it over---- Well, in the mornin' I had a talk with
Mr. Robert, after which I got busy with the long-distance 'phone. I
didn't say anything much at lunch about what I'd done, but around three
o'clock I calls up the apartment.
"I'm luggin' home someone to dinner," says I. "Guess who?"
Vee couldn't.
"MacGregor the grouch," says I.
"Really!" says Vee. "How funny!"
"It's part of the plot," says I. "Tell the Professor to spread himself
on the eatings, and have the rooms all fixed up slick."
Vee says she will. And she does. MacGregor falls for it, too. You should
have seen him after dinner, leanin' back comfortable in our biggest
chair, sippin' his coffee, and puffin' one of Old Hickory's special
perfectos that I'd begged for the occasion.
And still I didn't let on. What I'm after is to have him spring the
proposition on me. Just before he's ready to go, too, he does.
"I say," says he casual, "this isn't such a bad hole you have here."
"Perfectly rotten," says I.
"Then we might make a trade," says he. "What?"
"There's no tellin'," says I. "You mean a swap, as things stand?"
"That's it," says he. "I'm no hand for moving rubbish about."
"Me either," says I. "But if you mean business, suppose you drop in
to-morrow at the office, about ten-thirty, and talk it over."
"Very well," says MacGregor. "I'll stop in town to-night."
"Oh, Torchy!" says Vee, after he's gone. "Do--do you suppose he
will--really?"
"You're still for it, eh?" says I. "Sure, now?"
"Oh, it would be almost too good to be true," says she. "That could be
made just the dearest place!"
"Yes," says I; "but my job is to talk MacGregor into lettin' it go
cheap, or else we can't afford to touch it."
Well, I can't claim it was all my smooth work that did the trick, for
MacGregor had bought the place at a bargain first off, and now he was
anxious to unload. Still, he hadn't been born north of Glasgow for
nothing. But the figures Mr. Robert said would be about right I managed
to shade by twenty per cent., and my lump invoice of that old mahogany
of ours maybe was a bit generous. Anyway, when I goes home that night I
tosses Vee a long envelop.
"What's this?" says she.
"That's your chicken permit," says I. "All aboard for Lilac Lodge! Gee!
I wonder should I grow whiskers, livin' out there?"
CHAPTER VI
TORCHY IN THE GAZINKUS CLASS
I expect I'll get used to it all in time. This rural stuff, I mean. But
it ain't goin' to come easy. When you've been brought up to think of
home as some place where you've got a right to leave your trunk as long
as you pay the rent prompt,--a joint where you have so many square feet
of space on a certain floor, and maybe eight or ten inches of brick and
plaster between you and a lot of strangers,--and then all of a sudden
you switch to a whole house that's all yours, with gobs of land all
around it, and trees and bushes and things that you can do what you like
with--well, it's sort of staggerin' at first.
Why, the day Vee and I moved into this Harbor Hills place that I'd made
the swift trade for with MacGregor Shinn, we just had our baggage dumped
in the middle of the livin'-room, chucked our wraps on some chairs, and
went scoutin' around from one room to another for over an hour, kind of
nutty and excited.
"Oh, look, Torchy!" Vee would exclaim about twice a minute when she
discovered something new.
You know, we'd been in the house only once before, and then we'd looked
around just casual. And if you want to find out how little you really
see when you think you're lookin', you want to make a deal like that
once--buy a joint just as it stands, and then, a few days after, camp
down in it and tot up what you've really got. Why, say, you'd 'most
thought we'd been blindfolded that first time.
Course, this was different. Now we was takin' stock, you might say, of
the things we was goin' to live with. And, believe me, I never had any
idea I'd ever own such a collection, or so big a slice of the U. S. A.
"Only think, Torchy," says Vee, after we've made the rounds inside. "Ten
rooms, just for us!"
"Twelve, countin' the cellar and attic," says I. "But there's more
outside, ain't there?"
Yep, there was. There was an old stable that had been turned into a
garage, with a couple of rooms finished off upstairs. Then there was a
carriage shed, with more rooms over that, also a chicken house beyond.
And stowed away in odd corners was all kinds of junk that might be more
or less useful to have: a couple of lawn-mowers, an old sleigh hoisted
up on the rafters of the carriage house, a weird old buggy, a plow, a
grindstone, a collection of old chairs and sofas that had seen better
days, a birch-bark canoe--things like that.
Then there was our lily pond. We had to walk all round that, poke in
with a pole to see how deep it might be, and wonder if there was any
fish in it. On beyond was some trees--apple and pear and cherry,
accordin' to Vee, and 'way at the back a tall cedar hedge.
"Why, it's almost an estate," says Vee. "Nearly five acres, you know.
How does it seem, Torchy, to think that all this is ours?"
"How?" says I. "Why, I feel like I was the Grand Gazinkus of Gazook."
But, at that, my feelin's wa'n't a marker to the emotions Professor Leon
Battou, our artist-chef, manages to work up. He's so tickled at gettin'
back to the country and away from the city, where him and Madame Battou
come so near starvin' on the street, that he goes skippin' around like a
sunshine kid, pattin' the trees, droppin' down on his hands and knees in
the grass to dig up dandelions, and keepin' up a steady stream of
explosive French and rapid-fire English.
"Ah, but it is all so good!" says he. "_Le bleu ciel, les fleurs, les
oiseaux! C'est bonne, tres bonne. Ne c'est pas?_"
"I expect it is, Leon," says I. "Although I might not state it just that
way myself. Picked out a spot yet for your garden?"
Foolish question! That was his first move, after taking a glance at the
particular brand of cook-stove he'd got to wrestle with. Just to the
left of the kitchen wing is a little plot shut in by privet bushes and a
trellis, which is where he says the _fine herbes_ are meant to grow. He
tows us around there and exhibits it chesty. Mostly it's full of last
year's weeds; but he explains how he will soon have it in shape. And for
the next week the only way we ever got any meals cooked was because
Madame Battou used to go drag him in by the arm and make him quit
diggin' long enough to hash up some of them tasty dishes for us.
If all amateur gardeners are apt to go so dippy over it, I hope I don't
catch the disease. No danger, I guess. I made my stab at it about the
third day, when Vee wanted some ground spaded up for a pansy bed. And
say, in half an hour, there, I'd worked up enough palm blisters and
backache to last me a month. It may seem sport to some people, but to me
it has all the ear-marks of plain, hard work, such as you can indulge
in reg'lar by carryin' a foldin' dinner-pail and lettin' yourself out to
a padrone.
Leon, though, just couldn't seem to let it alone. He almost made a vice
of it, to my mind. Why, say, he's out there at first crack of day,
whenever that is; and in the evenin', as soon as he has served dinner,
he sneaks out to put in a few more licks, and stays until it's so dark
he can hardly find his way back.
You know all them window-boxes he had clutterin' up the studio
apartment. Well, he insists on cratin' every last one of 'em and
expressin' 'em along; and now he has all that alleged lettuce and
parsley and carrots and so on set out in neat little rows; and when he
ain't sprinklin' 'em with the hose or dosin' 'em with fertilizer, he's
out there ticklin' 'em with a rake.
"Gee!" says I. "I thought all you had to do to a garden was just to
chuck in the seeds and let 'em grow. But accordin' to your method it
would be less trouble bringin' up a pair of twins."
"Ah-h-h-h!" says he. "But monsieur has not the passion for growing green
things."
"Thanks be, then," says I. "It would land me in the liniment ward if I
had."
I must say, though, that Vee's 'most as bad with her flowers. Honest,
when she shows me where she's planned to have this and that, and hints
that I can get busy durin' my spare time with the spade, I almost wished
we was back in town.
"What?" I gasps. "Want me to excavate all that? Hal-lup!"
"Pooh!" says Vee. "It will do you good."
Maybe she thought so. But I knew it wouldn't. So I chases up the hill to
the Ellins place, and broke in on Mr. Robert just as he's finishin'
breakfast.
"Say," says I, "you ain't got a baby-grand steam-shovel or anything like
that around the place, have you?"
He says he's sorry, but he ain't. When he hears what I'm up against,
though, he comes to the rescue noble by lendin' me one of his expert
Dago soil-disturbers, at $1.75 per--and with Vee bossin' him she got the
whole job done in half a day. After that I begun to enjoy gardenin' a
bit more. I'm gettin' to be a real shark at it, too. And ambitious! You
ought to hear me.
"How about havin' a couple more lanes of string-beans laid out?" I
suggests. "And maybe a few hundred mounds of green corn, eh?"
And then I can watch Joe start the enterprise with a plow and an old
white horse, and I can go to the office feelin' that, no matter how much
I seem to be soldierin', as a matter of fact I'm puttin' in a full day's
work. When I get back in the afternoon, the first thing I want to see is
how much I've got done.
Not that I'm able to duck all kinds of labor that way. Believe me, a
country place is no loafin' spot, especially when it's new, or you're
new to it. Vee tends to that. Say, that girl can think up more odd forms
of givin' me exercise than a bunch of football coaches--movin' bureaus,
hangin' pictures, puttin' up curtain-rods, fixin' door-catches, and
little things like that.
Up to a few weeks ago all I knew about saws and screw-drivers and so on
was that they were shiny things displayed in the hardware store windows.
But if I keep on tacklin' all the odd jobs she sics me on to, I'll be
able to qualify pretty soon as a boss carpenter, a master plumber, and
an expert electrician.
Course, I gouge myself now and then. My knuckles look like I'd been
mixin' in a food riot, and I've spoiled two perfectly good suits of
clothes. But I can point with pride to at least three doors that I've
coaxed into shuttin', I've solved the mystery of what happens to a
window-weight when the sash-cord breaks, and I've rigged up two
drop-lights without gettin' myself electrocuted or askin' any advice
from Mr. Edison.
Which reminds me that what I can't seem to get used to about the country
is the poor way it's lighted up at night. You know, our place is out a
couple of miles from the village and the railroad station; and, while we
got electric bulbs enough in the house, outside there ain't a lamp-post
in sight. Dark! Say, after 8 P.M. you might as well be livin' in a
sub-cellar with the sidewalk gratin' closed. Honest, the only glim we
can see from our front porch is a flicker from the porte cochère at the
Ellinses' up on the hill, and most of that is cut off by trees and lilac
bushes.
Vee don't seem to mind, though. These mild evenin's recent, she's
dragged me out after dinner for a spell and made me sit with her
watchin' for the moon to come up. I do it, but it ain't anything I'm
strong for. I can't see the percentage in starin' out at nothing at all
but black space and guessin' where the driveway is or what them dark
streaks are. Then, there's so many weird sounds I can't account for.
"What's all that jinglin' going on?" I asks the other evenin'. "Sounds
like a squad of junkmen comin' up the pike."
"Silly!" says Vee. "Frogs, of course."
"Oh!" says I.
Then I listens some more, until something else breaks loose. It's sort
of a cross between the dyin' moan of a gyastacutus and the whine of a
subway express roundin' a sharp curve.
"For the love of Pete," I breaks out, "what do you call that?"
Vee chuckles. "Didn't you see the calf up at Mr. Robert's?" she asks.
"Well, that's the old cow calling to him."
"If she feels as bad as that," says I, "I wish she'd wait until mornin'
to express herself. That's the most doleful sound I ever heard. Come on;
let's go in while you tinkle out something lively and cheerin' on the
piano."
I never thought I was one of the timid kind, either. Course, I'm no
Carnegie hero, or anything like that; but I've always managed to get
along in the city without developin' a case of nerves. Out here, though,
it's different. Two or three evenin's now I've felt almost jumpy, just
over nothing at all, it seems.
Maybe that's why I didn't show up any better, here the other night, when
Vee rings in this silent alarm on me. I was certainly poundin' my ear
industrious when gradually I gets the idea that someone is shakin' me by
the shoulders. It's Vee.
"Torchy," she whispers husky. "Get up."
"Eh?" says I, pryin' my eyes open reluctant. "Get up? Wha-wha' for?"
"Oh, don't be stupid about it," says she. "I've been trying to rouse you
for five minutes. Please get up and come to the window."
"Nothing doing," says I snugglin' into the pillow again. "I--I'm busy."
"But you must," says she. "Listen. I think someone is prowling around
the house."
"Let 'em ramble, then," says I. "What do we care?"
"But suppose it's a--a burglar?" she whispers.
I'll admit that gives me a goose-fleshy feelin' down the spine. It's
such a disturbin' word to have sprung on you in the middle of the night.
"Let's not suppose anything of the sort," says I.
"But I'm sure I saw someone just now, when I got up to fix the shade,"
insists Vee. "Someone who stepped out into the moonlight right there,
between the shadows of those two trees. Then he disappeared out that
way. Come and look."
Well, I was up by then, and half awake, so I tries to peer out into the
back yard. I'm all for grantin' a general alibi, though.
"Maybe you was only dreamin', Vee," says I. "Anyway, let's wait until
mornin', and then----"
"There!" she breaks in excited. "Just beyond the garden trellis. See?"
Yep. There's no denyin' that someone is sneakin' around out there. First
off I thought it might be a female in a white skirt and a raincoat; but
when we gets the head showin' plain above some bushes we can make out a
mustache.
"It's a man!" gasps Vee, clutchin' me by the sleeve.
"Uh-huh," says I. "So it is."
"Well?" says Vee.
I expect that was my cue to come across with the bold and noble acts.
But, somehow, I didn't yearn to dash out into the moonlight in my
pajamas and mix in rough with a total stranger. But I didn't mean to
give it away if I could help it.
"Got a nerve, ain't he?" says I. "Let's wait; maybe he'll fall into the
pond."
"How absurd!" says Vee. "No; we must do something right away."
"Of course," says I. "I'll shout and ask him what the blazes he thinks
he's doin'."
"Don't," says Vee. "There may be others--in the house. And before you
let him know you see him, you ought to be armed. Get your revolver."
At that I just gawped at Vee, for she knows well enough I don't own
anything more deadly than a safety razor, and that all the gun-play I
ever indulged in was once or twice at a Coney Island shootin' gallery
where I slaughtered a clay pipe by aimin' at a glass ball.
"Whaddye mean, revolver?" I asks.
"S-s-s-sh!" says she. "There's that Turkish pistol, you know, that Mr.
Shinn left hanging over the mantel in the living-room."
"Think it's loaded?" I whispers.
"It might be," says Vee. "Anyway, it's better than nothing. Let's get
it."
"All right," says I. "Soon as I get something on. Just a sec."
So I jumps into a pair of trousers and a coat and some bath slippers,
while Vee throws on a dressin'-sack. We feels our way sleuthy
downstairs, and after rappin' my shins on a couple of rockers I gets
down the old pistol. It's a curious, wicked-lookin' antique about two
feet long, with a lot of carvin' and silver inlay on the barrel. I'd
never examined the thing to see how it worked, but it feels sort of
comfortin' just to grip it in my hand. We unlocks the back door easy.
"Now you stay inside, Vee," says I, "while I go scoutin' and----"
"No indeed," says Vee. "I am going too."
"But you mustn't," I insists.
"Hush!" says she. "I shall."
And she did. So we begins our first burglar hunt as a twosome, and I
must say there's other sports I enjoy more. Out across the lawn we
sneaks, steppin' as easy as we can, and keepin' in the shadow most of
the time.
"Guess he must have skipped," says I.
"But he was here only a moment ago," says Vee. "Don't you know, we saw
him---- Oh, oh!"
I don't blame her for gaspin'. Not twenty feet ahead of us, crouchin'
down in the cabbage patch, is the villain. Just why he should be tryin'
to hide among a lot of cabbage plants not over three inches high, I
don't stop to think. All I knew was that here was someone prowlin'
around at night on my premises, and all in a flash I begins to see red.
Swingin' Vee behind me, I unlimbers the old pistol and cocks it. I
didn't care whether this was the open season for burglars or not. I
wanted to get this one, and get him hard.
Must have been a minute or more that I had him covered, tryin' to steady
my arm so I could keep the muzzle pointed straight at his back, when all
of a sudden he lifts his right hand and begins scratchin' his ear.
Somehow, that breaks the spell. Why should a burglar hump himself on his
hands and knees in a truck patch and stop to scratch his ear?
"Hey, you!" I sings out real crisp.
Maybe that ain't quite the way to open a line of chat with a midnight
marauder. I've been kidded about it some since; but at the time it
sounded all right. And it had the proper effect. He comes up on his toes
with his hands in the air, like he was worked by springs.
"That's right; keep your paws up," says I. "And, remember, if you go to
makin' any funny moves----"
"Why, Torchy!" exclaims Vee, grabbin' my shootin' arm. "It's Leon!"
"Wha-a-a-at!" says I, starin' at this wabbly party among the coldslaw.
But it's Professor Battou, all right. He's costumed in a night-shirt, an
old overcoat, and a pair of rubbers; and he certainly does look odd,
standin' there in the moonlight with his elbows up and his knees
knockin' one another.
"Well, well, Leon!" says I, sighin' relieved. "So it's you, is it? And
we had you all spotted as a second-story worker. All right; you don't
need to hold the pose any longer. But maybe you'll tell us what you're
crawlin' around out here in the garden for at this time of night."
He tried to, but he's had such a scare thrown into him that his
conversation works are all gummed up. After we've led him into the
house, though, and he's had a drink of spring water, he does a little
better.
"It was to protect the cabbages, monsieur," says he.
"Eh?" says I. "Protect 'em from what?"
"There is a wicked worm," says Leon, "which does his evil work in the
night. Ah, such a sly beast! And so destructive! Just at the top of the
young root he eats--snip, snip! And in the morning I find that two,
four, sometimes six tender plants he has cut off. I am enrage. 'Ha!' I
say. 'I will discover you yet at your mischief.' So I cannot sleep for
thinking. But I had found him; yes, two. And I was searching for more
when monsieur----"
"Yes, I know," says I. He's glancin' worried at the old pistol I'm still
holdin' in my hand. "My error, Leon. I might have guessed. And as the
clock's just strikin' three, I think we'd all better hit the hay again.
Come on, Vee; it's all over."
And, in spite of that half hour or so of time out, I was up earlier than
usual in the mornin'. I had a little job to do that I'd planned out
before I went to sleep again. As soon as I'm dressed I slips downstairs,
takes that Turkish pistol, and chucks it into the middle of the pond.
I'll never know whether it was loaded or not. I don't want to know. For
if it had been---- Well, what's the use?
Comin' back in through the kitchen, I finds Leon busy dishin' up toast
and eggs. He glances at me nervous, and then hangs his head. But he gets
out what he has to say man fashion.
"I trust monsieur is not displeased," says he. "It was not wise for me
to walk about at night. But those wicked worms! Still, if monsieur
desires, it shall not occur again. I ask pardon."
"Now, that's all right, Leon," says I soothin'. "Don't worry. When it
comes to playin' the boob act, I guess we split about fifty-fifty. I'd a
little rather you didn't, but if you must hunt the wicked worm at night,
why, go to it. You won't run any more risk of being shot up by me. For
I've disarmed."
CHAPTER VII
BACK WITH CLARA BELLE
And me kiddin' myself I was fairly well parlor-broke. It seems not.
You'd 'most think, though, I'd had enough front-room trainin' to stand
me through in a place like Harbor Hills. I had a wild idea, too, that
when we moved into the country we'd tagged the reg'lar social stuff
good-by.
That was a poor hunch. I'm just discoverin' that there's more tea fights
and dinner dances and such goin's on out here in the commuter zone than
in any five blocks of Fifth Avenue you can name. And it seems that
anywhere within ten miles of this Piping Rock Club brings you into the
most active sector. So here we are, right in the thick of things.
At that, I expect it might have been quite some time before we was
bothered any if it hadn't been for our bein' sort of backed by the
Robert Ellinses. As their friends we're counted in right off the reel.
I've been joshed into lettin' my name go on the waitin' list at the
Country Club; I'm allowed to subscribe to this and that; some of the
neighbors have begun payin' first calls on Vee.
So I might have had sense enough to watch my step. Yet, here the other
afternoon, when I makes an early getaway from the Corrugated and hops
off the 5:17, I dashes across the back lots and comes into our place by
the rear instead of the front drive. You see, I'd been watchin' a row of
string-beans we had comin' along, and I wanted to spring the first ones
on Vee. Sure enough, I finds three or four pods 'most big enough to eat;
so I picks 'em and goes breezin' into the house, wavin' em gleeful.
"Oh, Vee!" I sings out, openin' the terrace door. "Come have a look."
And, as she don't appear on the jump, I keeps on into the livin'-room
and calls:
"Hey! What do you know about these? Beans! Perfectly good----"
Well, that's as far as I gets, for there's Vee, sittin' behind the
silver tea-urn, all dolled up; and Leon, in his black coat, holdin' a
plate of dinky little cakes; and a couple of strange ladies starin' at
me button-eyed. I'd crashed right into the midst of tea and callers.
Do I pull some easy johndrew lines and exit graceful? Not me. My feet
was glued to the rug.
"Beans!" says I, grinnin' simple and danglin' the specimens. "Perfectly
good string----"
Then I catches the eye of the stiff-necked dame with the straight nose
and the gun-metal hair. No, both eyes, it was; and a cold, suspicious,
stabby look is what they shoots my way. No wonder I chokes off the
feeble-minded remarks and turns sort of panicky to Vee, half expectin'
to find her blushin' painful or signalin' me to clear out. Nothing like
that from Vee, though.
"Not ours, Torchy?" says she, slidin' out from behind the tea-table and
rushin' over. "Not our very own?"
"Uh-huh!" says I. "Just picked 'em."
At which the other caller joins in unexpected.
"From your own garden?" says she. "How interesting! Oh, do show them to
me."
"Why, sure," says I. "Guess we're doin' our bit, ain't we?"
She's a wide, dumpy-built old girl, and dressed sort of freaky. Also her
line of talk is a kind of purry, throaty gush that's almost too soothin'
to be true. But anybody who makes only half a bluff at being interested
in our garden wins us. And not until she's inspected our first
string-beans through her gold lorgnette, and remarked twice more how
wonderful it was for us to raise anything like that, does it occur to
Vee to introduce me proper to both ladies.
The tall, stiff-necked dame turns out to be Mrs. Pemberton Foote.
Honest! Could you blame her for bein' jarred when I come bouncin' in
with garden truck?
Think of it! Why, she's one of the super-tax brigade and moves among the
smartest of the smart-setters. And Pemmy, he's on the polo team, you
know.
Oh, reg'lar people, the Pembroke Footes are. And the very fact that Mrs.
Foote is here callin' on Vee ought to have me thrilled to the bone.
Yet all I got sense enough to do is wave half-grown string-beans at her,
and then sit by gawpy, balancin' a cup of tea on my knee, and watch her
apply the refrigeratin' process to the dumpy old girl whose name I
didn't quite catch. Say, but she does it thorough and artistic. Only two
or three times did the dumpy one try to kick in on the chat, and when
she does, Mrs. Pemmy rolls them glittery eyes towards her slow, givin'
her the up-and-down like she was some kind of fat worm that had strayed
in from the cucumber bed.
Can't these women throw the harpoon into each other ruthless, though?
Why, you could see that old girl fairly squirm when she got one of them
assault-and-battery glances. Her under lip would quiver a bit, she'd
wink hard three or four times, and then she'd sort of collapse,
smotherin' a sigh and not finishin' what she'd started out to say. She
did want to be so folksy, too.
Course, she's an odd-lookin' party, with that bucket-shaped lid
decorated with pale green satin fruit, and the piles of thick blondine
hair that was turnin' gray, and her foolish big eyes with the puffy
rolls underneath and the crows'-feet in the corners. And of course
anybody with ankles suggestin' piano legs really shouldn't go in for
high-tide skirts and white silk stockin's with black butterflies worked
on 'em. Should they?
Still, she'd raved over our string-beans, so when she makes a last
fluttery try at jimmyin' her way into the conversation, and Mrs. Foote
squelches her prompt again, and she gives up for good, it's me jumpin'
snappy to tow her out and tuck her in the limousine. Havin' made my
escape, I stays outside until after Mrs. Pemmy has gone too, which
don't happen for near half an hour later. But when I hears the front
door shut on her, I sidles in at the back.
"Zowie!" says I. "You must have made more of a hit with our swell
neighbor than I did, Vee."
Vee smiles quizzin' and shrugs her shoulders.
"I'm not so sure," says she. "I almost feel as though we had been
visited by the Probation Officer, or someone like that."
"How do you mean?" says I.
"Of course," she goes on, "Mrs. Foote did not actually say that we were
on trial socially, but she hinted as much. And she made it quite plain
that unless we got started in the right set our case would be utterly
hopeless."
"Just think of that!" says I. "Real sweet of her, eh? Sort of inspector
general, is she? You should have asked her to show her badge, though."
"Oh, there's no doubt that she speaks with authority," says Vee. "She
wasn't snippy about it, either. And chiefly she was trying to warn me
against Mrs. Ben Tupper."
"The old girl with the pelican chin and the rovin' eyes?" I asks.
"What's the matter with her besides her looks?"
Well, accordin' to Mrs. Pemmy Foote, there was a lot. She had a past,
for one thing. She was a pushing, presumptuous person, for another. And,
besides, this Benjamin Tupper party--the male of the species--was wholly
impossible.
"You know who he is," adds Vee. "The tablet man."
"What?" says I. "'Tupper's Tablets for Indigestion--on Everybody's
Tongue.' Him?"
Vee nods. "And they live in that barny stucco house just as you turn off
Sagamore Boulevard--the one with the hideous red-tiled roof and the
concrete lions in front."
"Goodness Agnes!" says I. "Folks have been indicted for less than that.
I've seen Tupper, too; someone pointed him out goin' in on the express
only the other mornin'. Looks like a returned Nihilist who'd been
nominated in one of the back wards of Petrograd to run for the Duma on a
free-vodka platform. He's got wiry whiskers that he must trim with a
pair of tin-shears, tufts in his ears, and the general build of a
performin' chimpanzee. Oh, he's a rare one, Tupper."
"Then," says Vee, sort of draggy, "I--I suppose Mrs. Foote is right.
It's too bad, for that Mrs. Tupper did seem such a friendly old soul.
And I shall feel so snobbish if I don't return her call."
"Huh!" says I. "I don't see why Mrs. Pemmy couldn't let you find out
about her for yourself. Even if the old girl don't belong, what's the
use bein' so rough with her?"
"Do you know, Torchy," says Vee, "I felt that way about it when Mrs.
Foote was snubbing her. And yet--well, I wish I knew just what to do."
"Clean out of my line," says I.
I expect it was the roses that set me mullin' the case over again. They
was sent over for Vee a couple of days later--half a dozen great
busters, like young cabbages, with stems a yard long. They come with the
compliments of Mrs. Ben Tupper.
"I simply couldn't send them back," says Vee; "and yet----"
"I get you," says I. "But don't worry. Let the thing ride a while. I got
an idea."
It wasn't anything staggerin'. It had just struck me that if Vee had to
hand out any social smears she ought to do it on her own dope, and not
accordin' to Mrs. Pemmy Foote's say-so. Which is why I begins pumpin'
information out of anybody that came handy. Goin' into town next
mornin', I tackled three or four on the 8:03 in an offhand way.
Oh, yes, the Ben Tuppers! Business of hunchin' the shoulders. No, they
didn't belong to the Country Club, nor the Hunt Association, nor figure
on the Library or Hospital boards, or anything else. In fact, they don't
mingle much. Hadn't made the grade. Barred? We-e-ell, in a way, perhaps.
Why? Oh, there was Mrs. Ben. Wasn't she enough? An ex-actress with two
or three hubbys in the discard! Could she expect people to swallow that?
Only one gent, though, had anything definite to offer. He's a
middle-aged sport that seems to make a specialty of wearin' checked
suits and yellow gloves. He chuckles when I mentions Mrs. Tupper.
"Grand old girl, Clara Belle," says he.
"Eh?" says I. "Shoot the rest."
"Couldn't think of it, son," says he. "You're too young. But in my day
Clara Belle Kinney was some queen."
And that's all I can get out of him except more chuckles. I files away
the name, though; and that afternoon, while we was waitin' for a quorum
of directors to straggle into the General Offices, I springs it on Old
Hickory.
"Mr. Ellins," says I, "did you ever know of a Clara Belle Kinney?"
"Wha-a-at?" he gasps, almost swallowin' his cigar. "Listen to that,
Mason. Here's a young innocent asking if we ever knew Clara Belle
Kinney. Did we?"
And old K. W. Mason, what does he do but throw back his shiny dome, open
his mouth, and roar out:
"Yure right fut is crazy,
Yure left fut is lazy,
But if ye'll be aisy
I'll teach ye to waltz!"
After which them two old cut-ups wink at each other rakish and slap
their knees. All of which ain't so illuminatin'. But they keep on,
mentionin' Koster Bial's and the Cork Room, until I can patch together
quite a sketch of Mrs. Tupper's early career.
Seems she'd made her first hit in this old-time concert-hall when she
was a sweet young thing in her teens. One of her naughty stunts was
kickin' her slipper into an upper box, and gettin' it tossed back with a
mash note in it, or maybe a twenty-dollar bill. Then she'd graduated
into comic opera.
"Was there ever a Katishaw like her?" demands Old Hickory of K. W., who
responds by hummin' husky:
"I dote upon a tiger
From the Congo or the Niger,
Especially when lashing of his tail."
And, while they don't go into details, I gathered that they'd been Clara
Belle fans--had sent her orchids on openin' nights, and maybe had set up
wine suppers for her and her friends. They knew about a couple of her
matrimonial splurges. One was with her manager, of course; the next was
a young broker whose fam'ly got him to break it off. After that they'd
lost track of her.
"It seems to me," says Old Hickory, "that I heard she had married
someone in Buffalo, or Rochester, and had quit the stage. A patent
medicine chap, I think he was, who'd made a lot of money out of
something or other. I wonder what has become of her?"
That was my cue, all right, but I passes it up. I wasn't talkin' just
then; I was listenin'.
"Ah-h-h!" goes on Mr. Mason, foldin' his hands over his forward sponson
and rollin' his eyes sentimental. "Dear Clara Belle! I say, Ellins,
wouldn't you like to hear her sing that MacFadden song once more?"
"I'd give fifty dollars," says Old Hickory.
"I'd make it a hundred if she'd follow it with 'O Promise Me,'" says K.
W. "What was her record--six hundred nights on Broadway, wasn't it?"
Say, they went on reminiscin' so long, it's a wonder the monthly meetin'
ever got started at all. I might have forgot them hot-air bids of
theirs, too, if it hadn't been for something Vee announces that night
across the dinner-table.
Seems that Mrs. Robert Ellins had been rung into managin' one of these
war benefit stunts, and she's decided to use their new east terrace for
an outdoor stage and the big drawin'-room it opens off from as an
auditorium. You know, Mrs. Robert used to give violin recitals and do
concert work herself, so she ain't satisfied with amateur talent.
Besides, she knows so many professional people.
"And who do you think she is to have on the program?" demands Vee.
"Farrar!"
"Aw, come!" says I.
"And perhaps Mischa Elman," adds Vee. "Isn't that thrilling?"
I admits that it is.
"But say," I goes on, "with them big names on the bill, what does she
expect to tax people for the best seats?"
Vee says how they'd figured they might ask ten dollars for a few choice
chairs.
"Huh!" says I. "That won't get you far. Why don't you soak 'em proper?"
"But how?" asks Vee.
"You put in a bald-headed row," says I, "and I'll find you a party
who'll fill it at a hundred a throw."
Vee stares at me like she thought I'd been touched with the heat, and
wants to know who.
"Clara Belle Kinney," says I.
"Why, I never heard of any such person," says she.
"Oh, yes, you have," says I. "Alias Mrs. Ben Tupper."
Course, I had some job convincin' her I wasn't joshin'; and even after
I'd sketched out the whole story, and showed her that Clara Belle's past
wasn't anything to really shudder over, Vee is still doubtful.
"But can she sing now?" she asks.
"What's the odds," says I, "if a lot of them old-timers are willin' to
pay to hear her try?"
Vee shakes her head and suggests that we go up and talk it over with Mr.
and Mrs. Robert. Which we does.
"But if she has been off the stage for twenty years," suggests Mrs.
Robert, "perhaps she wouldn't attempt it."
"I'll bet she would for Vee," says I. "Any way, she wouldn't feel sore
at being asked And if you could sting a bunch of twenty or thirty for a
hundred apiece----"
"Just fancy!" says Mrs. Robert, drawin' in a long breath and doin'
rapid-fire mental arithmetic. "Verona, let's drive right over and see
her at once."
They're some hustlers, that pair. All I have to do is map out the
scheme, and they goes after it with a rush.
And say, I want to tell you that was a perfectly good charity concert,
judged by the box-office receipts or any way you want to size it up.
Bein' the official press-agent, who's got a better right to admit it?
True, Elman didn't show up, but his alibi was sound. And not until the
last minute was we sure whether the fair Geraldine would get there or
not. But my contribution to the headliners was there from the first tap
of the bell.
Vee says she actually wept on her shoulder when the proposition was
sprung on her. Seems she'd been livin' in Harbor Hills for nearly three
years without havin' been let in on a thing--with nobody callin' on her,
or even noddin' as she drove by. Most of her neighbors was a lot
younger, folks who barely remembered that there had been such a party as
Clara Belle Kinney, and who couldn't have told whether she'd been a
singer or a bareback rider. They only knew her as a dumpy freakish
dressed old girl whose drugged hair was turnin' gray.
"Of course," she says, sort of timid and trembly, "I have kept up my
singing as well as I could. Mr. Tupper likes to have me. But I know my
voice isn't what it was once. It's dear of you to ask me, though,
and--and I'll do my best."
I don't take any credit for fillin' that double row of wicker chairs we
put down front and had the nerve to ask that hold-up price for. When the
word was passed around that Clara Belle Kinney was to be among the
performers, they almost mobbed me for tickets. Why, I collected from
two-thirds of the Corrugated directors without turnin' a hand, and for
two days there about all I did was answer 'phone calls from Broad Street
and the clubs--brokers, bank presidents, and so on, who wanted to know
if there was any left.
A fine bunch of silver-tops they was, too, when we got 'em all lined up.
You wouldn't have suspected it of some of them dignified old scouts,
either. Back of 'em, fillin' every corner of the long room and spillin'
out into the big hall, was the top crust of our local smart set, come to
hear Farrar at close range.
Yep, Geraldine made quite a hit. Nothing strange about that. And that
piece from "Madame Butterfly" she gave just brought 'em right up on
their toes. But say, you should hear what breaks loose when it's
announced that the third number will be an old favorite revival by Clara
Belle Kinney. That's all the name we gave. What if most of the audience
was simply starin' puzzled and stretchin' their necks to see who was
comin'? Them old boys down front seemed to know what they was howlin'
about.
Yes, Clara Belle does show up a bit husky in evenin' dress. Talk about
elbow dimples! And I was wishin' she'd forgot to do her hair that
antique way, all piled up on her head, with a few coy ringlets over one
ear. But she'd landscaped her facial scenery artistic, and she sure does
know how to roll them big eyes of hers.
I didn't much enjoy listenin' through them first few bars, though. There
wasn't merely a crack here and there. Her voice went to a complete smash
at times, besides bein' weak and wabbly. It's like listenin' to the
ghost of a voice. I heard a few titters from the back rows.
But them old boys don't seem to mind. It was a voice comin' to them from
'way back in the '90's. And when she struggles through the first verse
of "O Promise Me," and pauses to get her second wind, maybe they don't
give her a hand. That seemed to pep her up a lot. She gets a better grip
on the high notes, the tremolo effect wears off, and she goes to it like
a winner. Begins to get the crowd with her, too. Why, say, even Farrar
stands up and leads in the call for an encore. She ain't alone.
"MacFadden! MacFadden!" K. W. Mason is shoutin'.
So in a minute more Clara Belle, her eyes shinin', has swung into that
raggy old tune, and when she gets to the chorus she beckons to the front
rows and says: "Now, all together, boys!
"Wan--two--three!
Balance like me----"
Did they come in on it? Say, they roared it out like so many young
college hicks riotin' around the campus after a session at a
rathskeller. You should have seen Old Hickory standin' out front with
his arms wavin' and his face red.
Then they demands some of the Katishaw stuff, and "Comrades," and
"Little Annie Rooney." And with every encore Clara Belle seems to shake
off five or ten years, until you could almost see what a footlight
charmer she must have been.
In the midst of it all Vee gives me the nudge.
"Do look at Mr. Tupper, will you!"
Yes, he's sittin' over in a corner, with his white shirt-front bulgin',
his neck stretched forward eager, and his big hairy paws grippin' the
chair-back in front. And hanged if a drop of brine ain't tricklin' down
one side of his nose.
"Gosh!" says I. "His emotions are leakin' into his whiskers. Maybe the
old boy is human, after all."
A minute later, as I slides easy out of my end seat, Vee asks:
"Where are you going, Torchy?"
"I want a glimpse of Mrs. Pemmy Foote's face, that's all," says I.
CHAPTER VIII
WHEN TORCHY GOT THE CALL
No, I ain't said much about it before. There are some things you're apt
to keep to yourself, specially the ones that root deep. And I'll admit
that at first there I don't quite know where I was at. But as affairs
got messier and messier, and the U-boats got busier, and I heard some
first-hand details of what had happened to the Belgians--well, I got
mighty restless. I expect I indulged in more serious thought stuff than
I'd ever been guilty of.
You see, it was along back when we were gettin' our first close-ups of
the big scrap--some of our boats sunk, slinkers reported off Sandy Hook,
bomb plots shown up, and Papa Joffre over here soundin' the S. O. S.
earnest.
Then there was Mr. Robert joinin' the Naval Reserves, and two young
hicks from the bond room who'd volunteered. We'd had postals from 'em at
the trainin' camp. Even Vee was busy with a first-aid class, learnin'
how to tie bandages and put on splints.
So private seccing seemed sort of tame and useless--like keepin' on
sprinklin' the lawn after your chimney was bein' struck by lightnin'. I
felt like I ought to be gettin' in the game somehow. Anyway, it seemed
as if it was my ante.
Not that I'd been rushed off my feet by all this buntin'-wavin' or
khaki-wearin'. I'm no panicky Old Glory trail-hitter. Nor I didn't lug
around the idea I was the missin' hero who was to romp through the
barbed wire, stamp Hindenburg's whiskers in the mud, and lead the Allies
across the Rhine. I didn't even kid myself I could swim out and kick a
hole in a submarine, or do the darin' aviator act after a half-hour
lesson at Mineola.
In fact, I suspected that sheddin' the enemy's gore wasn't much in my
line. I knew I should dislike quittin' the hay at dawn to sneak out and
get mixed up with half a bushel of impetuous scrap-iron. Still, if it
had to be done, why not me as well as the next party?
I'd been meanin' to talk it over with Vee--sort of hint around, anyway,
and see how she'd take it. But as a matter of fact I never could seem to
find just the right openin' until, there one night after dinner, as she
finishes a new piece she's tryin' over on the piano, I wanders up
beside her and starts absent-minded tearin' little bits off a corner of
the music.
"Torchy!" she protests. "What an absurd thing to do."
"Eh?" says I, twistin' it into a cornucopia. "But you know I can't go on
warmin' the bench like this."
She stares at me puzzled for a second.
"Meaning what, for instance?" she asks.
"I got to go help swat the Hun," says I.
The flickery look in them gray eyes of hers steadies down, and she
reaches out for one of my hands. That's all. No jumpy emotions--not even
a lip quiver.
"Must you?" says she, quiet.
"I can't take it out in wearin' a button or hirin' someone to hoe
potatoes in the back lot," says I.
"No," says she.
"Auntie would come, I suppose?" says I.
Vee nods.
"And with Leon here," I goes on, "and Mrs. Battou, you could----"
"Yes, I could get along," she breaks in. "But--but when?"
"Right away," says I. "As soon as they can use me."
"You'll start training for a commission, then?" she asks.
"Not me," says I. "I'd be poor enough as a private, but maybe I'd help
fill in one of the back rows. I don't know much about it. I'll look it
up to-morrow."
"To-morrow? Oh!" says Vee, with just the suspicion of a break in her
voice.
And that's all we had to say about it. Every word. You'd thought we'd
exhausted the subject, or got the tongue cramp. But I expect we each had
a lot of thoughts that didn't get registered. I know I did. And next
mornin' the breakaway came sort of hard.
"I--I know just how you feel about it," says Vee.
"I'm glad somebody does, then," says I.
Puttin' the proposition up to Old Hickory was different. He shoots a
quick glance at me from under them shaggy eyebrows, bites into his cigar
savage, and grunts discontented.
"You are exempt, you know," says he.
"I know," says I. "If tags came with marriage licenses I might wear one
on my watch-fob to show, I expect."
"Huh!" says he. "It seems to me that rapid-fire brain of yours might be
better utilized than by hiding it under a trench helmet."
"Speedy thinkers seem to be a drug on the market just now," says I.
"Anyway, I feel like it was up to me to deliver something--I can't say
just what. But campin' behind a roll-top here on the nineteenth floor
ain't going to help much, is it?"
"Oh, well, if you have the fever!" says he.
And half an hour later I've pushed in past the flag and am answerin'
questions while the sergeant fills out the blank.
Maybe you can guess I ain't in any frivolous mood. I don't believe I
thought I was about to push back the invader, or turn the tide for
civilization. Neither was I lookin' on this as a sportin' flier or a
larky excursion that I was goin' to indulge in at public expense. My
idea was that there'd been a general call for such as me, and that I was
comin' across. I was more or less sober about it.
They didn't seem much impressed at the recruitin' station. Course, you
couldn't expect the sergeant to get thrilled over every party that
drifted in. He'd been there for weeks, I suppose, answerin' the same
fool questions over and over, knowin' all the time that half of them
that came in was bluffin' and that a big per cent. of the others
wouldn't do.
But this other party with the zippy waistline, the swellin' chest, and
the nifty shoulder-straps--why should he glare at me in that cold,
suspicious way? I wasn't tryin' to break into the army with felonious
intent. How could he be sure, just from a casual glance, that I was such
vicious scum?
Oh, yes; I've figured out since that he didn't mean more'n half of it,
or couldn't help lookin' at civilians that way after four years at West
Point, or thought he had to. But that's what I get handed to me when
I've dropped all the little things that seemed important to me and walks
in to chuck what I had to offer Uncle Sam on the recruitin' table.
Some kind of inspectin' officer, I've found out he was, makin' the
rounds to see that the sergeants didn't loaf on the job. And, just to
show that no young patriot in a last year's Panama and a sport-cut suit
could slip anything over on him, he shoots in a few crisp questions on
his own account.
"Married, you say?" says he. "Since when?"
"Oh, this century," says I. "Last February, to get it nearer."
He sniffs disagreeable without sayin' why. Also he takes a hand when it
comes to testin' me to see whether I'm club-footed or spavined. Course,
I'm no perfect male like you see in the knit underwear ads, but I've got
the usual number of toes and teeth, my wind is fairly good, and I don't
expect my arteries have begun to harden yet. He listens to my heart
action and measures my chest expansion. Then I had to name the different
colors and squint through a tube at some black dots on a card.
And the further we went the more he scowled. Finally he shakes his head
at the sergeant.
"Rejected," says he.
"Eh?" says I. "You--you don't mean I'm--turned down?"
He nods. "Underweight, and your eyes don't focus," says he snappy.
"Here's your card. That's all."
Yes, it was a jolt. I expect I stood there blinkin' stupid at him for a
minute or so before I had sense enough to drift out on the sidewalk. And
I might as well admit I was feelin' mighty low. I didn't know whether to
hunt up the nearest hospital, or sit down on the curb and wait until
they came after me with the stretcher-cart. Anyway, I knew I must be a
physical wreck. And to think I hadn't suspected it before!
Somehow I dragged back to the office, and a while later Mr. Ellins
discovers me slumped in my chair with my chin down.
"Mars and Mercury!" says he. "You haven't been through a battle so soon,
have you?"
At that, I tries to brace up a bit and pass it off light.
"Why didn't someone tell me I was a chronic invalid?" says I, after
sketchin' out how my entry had been scratched by the chesty one. "I
wonder where I could get a pair of crutches and a light-runnin' wheel
chair?"
"Bah!" says he. "Some of those army officers have red-tape brains and no
more common sense than he guinea-pigs. What in the name of the Seven
Shahs did he think was the matter with you?"
"My eyes don't track and I weigh under the scale," says I. "I expect
there's other things, too. Maybe my floatin' ribs are water-logged and
my memory muscle-bound. But I'm a wreck, all right."
"We'll see about that," says Old Hickory, pushin' a buzzer.
And inside of an hour I felt a lot better. I'd been gone over by a life
insurance expert, who said I hadn't a soft spot on me, and an eye
specialist had reported that my sight was up to the average. Oh, the
right lamp did range a little further, but he claims that's often the
case.
"Maybe my hair was too vivid for trench work," says I, "or else that
captain was luggin' a grouch. Makes me feel like a wooden nickel at the
bottom of the till, just the same; for I did hope I might be useful
somehow. I'll look swell joinin' the home guards, won't I?"
"Don't overlook the fact, young man," puts in Old Hickory, "that the
Corrugated Trust is not altogether out of this affair, and that we are
running short-handed as it is."
I was too sore in my mind to be soothed much by that thought just then,
though I did buckle into the work harder than ever.
As for Vee, she don't have much to say, but she gives me the close
tackle when she hears the news.
"I don't care!" says she. "It was splendid of you to want to go. And I
shall be just as proud of you as though you had been accepted."
"Oh, sure!" says I. "Likely I'll be mentioned in despatches for the
noble way I handled the correspondence all through a hot spell."
That state of mind I didn't shake loose in a hurry, either. For three or
four weeks, there, I was about the meekest commuter carried on the
eight-three. I didn't do any gloatin' over the war news. I didn't join
any of the volunteer boards of strategy that met every mornin' to tell
each other how the subs ought to be suppressed, or what Haig should be
doin' on the West front. I even stopped wearin' an enameled flag in my
buttonhole. If that was all I could do, I wouldn't fourflush.
The Corrugated was handlin' a lot of war contracts, too. Course, we was
only gettin' our ten per cent., and from some we'd subbed out not even
that. It didn't strike me there was any openin' for me until I'd heard
Mr. Ellins, for about the fourth time that week, start beefin' about the
kind of work we was gettin' done.
"But ain't it all O. K.'d by government inspectors?" I asks.
"Precisely why I am suspicious," says he. "Not three per cent. turned
back! And on rush work that's too good to be true. Looks to me like
careless inspecting--or worse. Yet every man I've sent out has brought
in a clean bill; even for the Wonder Motors people, who have that
sub-contract for five hundred tanks. And I wouldn't trust that crowd to
pass the hat for an orphans' home. I wish I knew of a man who
could--could---- By the Great Isosceles! Torchy!"
I knew I was elected when he first begun squintin' at me that way. But I
couldn't see where I'd be such a wonderful find.
"A hot lot I know about buildin' armored motor-trucks, Mr. Ellins," says
I. "They could feed me anything."
"You let 'em," says he; "and meanwhile you unlimber that high-tension
intellect of yours and see what you can pick up. Remember, I shall
expect results from you, young man. When can you start for Cleveland?
To-night, eh? Good! And just note this: It isn't merely the Corrugated
Trust you are representing: it's Uncle Sam and the Allies generally. And
if anything shoddy is being passed, you hunt it out. Understand?"
Yep. I did. And I'll admit I was some thrilled with the idea. But I felt
like a Boy Scout being sent to round up a gang of gunfighters. I skips
home, though, packs my bag, and climbs aboard the night express.
When I'd finally located the Wonder works, and had my credentials read
by everyone, from the rookie sentry at the gate to the Assistant General
Manager, and they was convinced I'd come direct from Old Hickory Ellins,
they starts passin' out the smooth stuff. Oh, yes! Certainly! Anything
special I wished to see?
"Thanks," says I. "I'll go right through."
"But we have four acres of shops, you know," suggests the A. G. M.,
smilin' indulgent.
"Maybe I can do an acre a day," says I. "I got lots of time."
"That's the spirit," says he, clappin' me friendly on the shoulder.
"Walter, call in Mr. Marvin."
He was some grand little demonstrator, Mr. Marvin--one of these
round-faced, pink-cheeked, chunky built young gents, who was as chummy
and as entertainin' from the first handshake as if we'd been room-mates
at college. I can't say how well posted he was on what was goin' on in
the different departments he hustled me through, but he knew enough to
smother me with machinery details.
"Now, here we have a battery of six hogging machines," he'd say. "They
cut the gears, you know."
"Oh, yes," I'd say, tryin' to look wise.
It was that way all through the trip. I saw two or three thousand sweaty
men in smeared overalls and sleeveless undershirts putterin' around
lathes and things that whittled shavings off shiny steel bars, or
hammered red-hot chunks of it into different shapes, or bit holes in
great sheets of steel. I watched electric cranes the size of trolley
cars juggle chunks of metal that weighed tons. I listened to the roar
and rattle and crash and bang, and at the end of two hours my head was
whirlin' as fast as some of them big belt wheels; and I knew almost as
much about what I'd seen as a two-year-old does about the tick-tock
daddy holds up to her ear.
Young Mr. Marvin don't seem discouraged, though. He suggests that we
drive into town for lunch. We did, in a canary-colored roadster that
purred along at about fifty most of the way. We fed at a swell club,
along with a bunch of cheerful young lieutenants of industry who didn't
seem worried about the high cost of anything. I gathered that most of
'em was in the same line as Mr. Marvin--supplies or munitions. From the
general talk, and the casual way they ordered pink cocktails and
expensive cigars, I judged it wasn't exactly a losin' game.
Nor they didn't seem anxious about gettin' back to punch in on the
time-clocks. About two-thirty we adjourns to the Country Club, and if
I'd been a mashie fiend I might have finished a hard day's work with a
game of golf. I thought I ought to do some more shops, though. Why, to
be sure! But at five we knocked off again, and I was towed to another
club, where we had a plunge in a marble pool so as to be in shape for a
little dinner Mr. Marvin was gettin' up for me. Quite some dinner! There
was a jolly trip out to an amusement park later on. Oh, the Wonder folks
were no tightwads when it came to showin' special agents of the
Corrugated around.
I tried another day of it before givin' up. It was no use. They had me
buffaloed. So I thanked all hands and hinted that maybe I'd better be
goin' back. I hope I didn't deceive anyone, for I did go back--to the
hotel. But by night I'd invested $11.45 in a second-hand
outfit--warranted steam-cleaned--and I had put up $6. more for a week's
board with a Swede lady whose front porch faced the ten-foot fence
guardin' the Wondor Motors' main plant. Also, Mrs. Petersen had said it
was a cinch I could get a job. Her old man would show me where in the
mornin'.
And say, mornin' happens early out in places like that. By 5:30 A.M. I
could smell bacon grease, and by six-fifteen breakfast was all over and
Petersen had lit his corn-cob pipe.
"Coom!" says he in pure Scandinavian.
This trip, I didn't make my entrance in over the Turkish rugs of the
private office. I was lined up with a couple of dozen others against a
fence about tenth from a window where there was a "Men Wanted" sign out.
Being about as much of a mechanic as I am a brunette, I made no wild
bluffs. I just said I wanted a job. And I got it--riveter's helper,
whatever that might be. By eight-thirty my name and number was on the
payroll, and the foreman of shop No. 19 was introducin' me to my new
boss.
"Here, Mike," says he. "Give this one a try-out."
His name wasn't Mike. It was something like Sneezowski. He was a Pole
who'd come over three years ago to work for John D. at Bayonne, New
Jersey, but had got into some kind of trouble there. I didn't wonder. He
had wicked little eyes, one lopped ear, and a ragged mustache that stood
out like tushes. But he sure could handle a pneumatic riveter rapid, and
when it came to reprovin' me for not keepin' the pace he expressed
himself fluent.
In the course of a couple of hours, though, I got the hang of how to
work them rivet tongs without droppin' 'em more 'n once every five
minutes. But I think it was the grin I slipped Mike now and then that
got him to overlookin' my awkward motions. Believe me, too, by six
o'clock I felt less like grinnin' than any time I could remember. I
never knew you could ache in so many places at once. From the ankles
down I felt fine. And yet, before the week was out I was helpin' Mike
speed up.
It didn't look promisin' for sleuth work at first. Half a dozen times I
was on the point of chuckin' the job. But the thoughts of havin' to face
Old Hickory with a blank report kept me pluggin' away. I begun to get my
bearin's a bit to see things, to put this and that together.
We was workin' on shaped steel plates, armor for the tanks. Now and then
one would come through with some of the holes only quarter or half
punched. Course, you couldn't put rivets in them places.
"How about these?" I asks.
"Aw, wottell!" says Mike. "Forget it."
"But what if the inspector sees?" I insists.
Mike gurgles in his throat, indicatin' mirth.
"Th' inspec'!" he chuckles. "Him wink by his eye, him. Ya! You see! Him
coom Sat'day."
And I swaps chuckles with Mike. Also, by settin' up the schooners at
Carlouva's that evenin', I got Mike to let out more professional
secrets along the same line. There was others who joined in. They
bragged of chipped gears that was shipped through with the bad cogs
covered with grease, of flawy drivin' shafts, of cheesy armor-plate that
you could puncture with a tack-hammer.
While it was all fresh that night I jotted down pages of such gossip in
a little red note-book. I had names and dates. That bunch of
piece-workers must have thought I was a bear for details, or else nutty
in the head; but they was too polite to mention it so long as I insisted
each time that it was my buy.
Anyway, I got quite a lot of first-hand evidence as to the kind of
inspectin' done by the army officer assigned to this particular plant. I
had to smile, too, when I saw Mr. Marvin towin' him through our shop
Saturday forenoon. Maybe they was three minutes breezin' through. And I
didn't need the extra smear of smut on my face. Marvin never glanced my
way. This was the same officer who'd been in on our dinner party, too.
Yes, I found chattin' with Mike and his friends a lot more illuminatin'
than listenin' to Mr. Marvin. So, when I drew down my second pay
envelop, I told the clerk I was quittin'. I don't mind sayin', either,
that it seemed good to splash around in a reg'lar bath-tub once more and
to look a sirloin steak in the face again. A stiff collar did seem odd,
though.
Me and Mr. Ellins had some session. We went through that red note-book
thorough. He was breathin' a bit heavy at times, and he chewed hard on
his cigar all the way; but he never blew a fuse until forty-eight hours
later. The General Manager of Wonder Motors, four department heads, and
the army officer detailed as inspector was part of the audience. They'd
been called on the carpet by wire, and was grouped around one end of our
directors' table. At the other end was Old Hickory, Mr. Robert, Piddie,
and me.
Item by item, Mr. Ellins had sketched out to the Wonder crowd the bunk
stuff they'd been slippin' over. First they tried protestin' indignant;
then they made a stab at actin' hurt; but in the end they just looked
plain foolish.
"My dear Mr. Ellins," put in the General Manager, "one cannot watch
every workman in a plant of that magnitude. Besides," here he hunches
his shoulders, "if the government is satisfied----"
"Hah!" snorts Old Hickory. "But it isn't. For I'm the government in this
instance. I'm standing for Uncle Sam. That's what I meant when I took
those ten per cent. contracts. I'm too old to go out and fight his
enemies abroad, but I can stay behind and watch for yellow-livered
buzzards such as you. Call that business, do you? Fattening your
dividends by sending our boys up against the Prussian guns in junky
motor-tanks covered with tin armor! Bah! Your ethics need chloride of
lime on them. And you come here whining that you can't watch your men!
By the great sizzling sisters, we'll see if you can't! You will put in
every missing rivet, replace every flawy plate, and make every machine
perfect, or I'll smash your little two-by-four concern so flat the
bankruptcy courts won't find enough to tack a libel notice on. Now go
back and get busy."
They seemed in a hurry to start, too.
An hour or so later, when Old Hickory had stopped steaming, he passes
out a different set of remarks to me. Oh, the usual grateful boss stuff.
Even says he's going to make the War Department give me a commission,
with a special detail.
"Wouldn't that be wonderful!" says Vee, clappin' her hands. "Do you
really think he will? A lieutenant, perhaps?"
"That's what he mentioned," says I.
"Really!" says Vee, makin' a rush at me.
"Wait up!" says I. "Halt, I mean. Now, as you were! Sal-ute!"
"Pooh!" says Vee, continuin' her rush.
But say, she knows how to salute, all right. Her way would break up an
army, though. All the same, I guess I've earned it, for by Monday night
I'll be up in a Syracuse shovel works, wearin' a one-piece business suit
of the Never-rip brand, and I'll likely have enough grease on me to
lubricate a switch-engine.
"It's lucky you don't see me, Vee," says I, "when I'm out savin' the
country. You'd wonder how you ever come to do it."
CHAPTER IX
A CARRY-ON FOR CLARA
"Now turn around," says Vee. "Oh, Torchy! Why, you look perfectly----"
"Do I?" I cuts in. "Well, you don't think I'm goin' to the office like
this, do you?"
She does. Insists that Mr. Ellins will expect it.
"Besides," says she, "it is in the army regulations that you must. If
you don't--well, I'm not sure whether it is treason or mutiny."
"Hal-lup!" says I. "I surrender."
So I starts for town lookin' as warlike as if I'd just come from a front
trench, and feelin' like a masquerader who'd lost his way to the
ball-room.
In the office, Old Hickory gives me the thorough up-and-down. It's a
genial, fatherly sort of inspection, and he ends it with a satisfied
grunt.
"Good-morning, Lieutenant," says he. "I see you have--er--got 'em on.
And, allow me to mention, rather a good fit, sir."
I gasps. Sirred by Old Hickory! Do you wonder I got fussed? But he only
chuckles easy, waves me to take a chair, and goes on with:
"What's the word from the Syracuse sector?"
At that, I gets my breath back.
"Fairly good deal up there, sir," says I. "They're workin' in a carload
or so of wormy ash for the shovel handles, and some of the steel runs
below test; but most of their stuff grades well. I'll have my notes
typed off right away."
After I've filed my report I should have ducked. But this habit of
stickin' around the shop is hard to break. And that's how I happen to be
on hand when the lady in gray drifts in for her chatty confab with Mr.
Ellins.
Seems she held quite a block of our preferred, for when Vincent lugs in
her card Old Hickory spots the name right away as being on our
widow-and-orphan list that we wave at investigatin' committees.
"Ah, yes!" says he. "Mrs. Parker Smith. Show her in, boy."
Such a quiet, gentle, dignified party she is, her costume tonin' in with
her gray hair, and an easy way of speakin' and all, that my first guess
is she might be the head of an old ladies' home.
"Mr. Ellins," says she, "I am looking for my niece."
"Are you?" says Mr. Ellins, "Humph! Hardly think we could be of service
in such a case."
"Oh!" says she. "I--I am so sorry."
"Lost, is she?" suggests Mr. Ellins, weakenin'.
"She is somewhere in New York," goes on Mrs. Parker Smith. "Of course, I
know it is an imposition to trouble you with such a matter. But I
thought you might have someone in your office who--who----"
"We have," says he. "Torchy,--er--I mean, Lieutenant,--Mrs. Parker
Smith. Here, madam, is a young man who will find your niece for you at
once. In private life he is my secretary; and as it happens that just
now he is on special detail, his services are entirely at your
disposal."
She looks a little doubtful about bein' shunted like that, but she
follows me into the next room, where I produces a pencil and pad and
calls for details businesslike.
"Let's see," says I. "What's the full description? Age?"
"Why," says she, hesitatin', "Claire is about twenty-two."
"Oh!" says I. "Got beyond the flapper stage, then. Height--tall or
short?"
Mrs. Parker Smith shakes her head.
"I'm sure I don't know," says she. "You see, Claire is not an own niece.
She--well, she is a daughter of my first husband's second wife's
step-sister."
"Wha-a-at?" says I, gawpin' at her. "Daughter of your---- Oh, say, let's
not go into it as deep as that. I'm dizzy already. Suppose we call her
an in-law once removed and let it go at that?"
"Thank you," says Mrs. Parker Smith, givin' me a quizzin' smile.
"Perhaps it is enough to say that I have never seen her."
She does go on to explain, though, that when Claire's step-uncle, or
whatever he was, found his heart trouble gettin' worse, he wrote to Mrs.
Parker Smith, askin' her to forget the past and look after the orphan
girl that he's been tryin' to bring up. It's just as clear to me as the
average movie plot, but I nods my head.
"So for three years," says she, "while Claire was in boarding-school, I
acted as her guardian; but since she has come of age I have been merely
the executor of her small estate."
"Oh, yes!" says I. "And now she's come to New York, and forgot to send
you her address?"
It was something like that. Claire had gone in for art. Looked like
she'd splurged heavy on it, too; for the drain on her income had been
something fierce. Meanwhile, Mrs. Parker Smith had doped out an entirely
different future for Claire. The funds that had been tied up in a
Vermont barrel-stave fact'ry, that was makin' less and less barrel
staves every year, Auntie had pulled out and invested in a model dairy
farm out near Rockford, Illinois. She'd made the capital turn over from
fifteen to twenty per cent., too, by livin' right on the job and cashin'
in the cream tickets herself.
"You have!" says I. "Not a reg'lar cow farm?"
She nods.
"It did seem rather odd, at first," says she. "But I wanted to get away
from--from everything. But now---- Well, I want Claire. I suppose I am a
little lonesome. Besides, I want her to try taking charge. Recently,
when she had drawn her income for half a year in advance and still
asked for more, I was obliged to refuse."
"And then?" says I.
Mrs. Parker Smith shrugs her shoulders.
"The foolish girl chose to quarrel with me," says she. "About ten days
ago she sent me a curt note. I could keep her money; she was tired of
being dictated to. I needn't write any more, for she had moved to
another address, had changed her name."
"Huh!" says I. "That does make it complicated. You don't know what she
looks like, or what name she flags under, and I'm to find her in little
New York?"
But I finds myself tacklin this hopeless puzzle from every angle I could
think of. I tried 'phonin' to Claire's old street number. Nothin' doin'.
They didn't know anything about Miss Hunt.
"What brand of art was she monkeyin' with?" I asks.
Mrs. Parker Smith couldn't say. Claire hadn't been very chatty in her
letters. Chiefly she had demanded checks.
"But in one she did mention," says the lady in gray, "that---- Now, what
was it! Oh, yes! Something about 'landing a cover.' What could that
mean?"
"Cover?" says I. "Why, for a magazine, maybe. That's it. And if we only
knew what name she'd sign, we might---- Would she stick to the Claire
part? I'll bet she would. Wait. I'll get a bunch of back numbers from
the arcade news-stand and we'll go through 'em."
We'd hunted through an armful, though, before we runs across this freaky
sketch of a purple nymph, with bright yellow hair, bouncin' across a
stretch of dark blue lawn.
"Claire Lamar!" says I. "Would that be---- Eh? What's wrong?"
Mrs. Parker Smith seems to be gettin' a jolt of some kind, but she
steadies herself and almost gets back her smile.
"I--I am sure it would," says she. "It's very odd, though."
"Oh, I don't know," says I. "Listens kind of arty--Claire Lamar. Lemme
see. This snappy fifteen-center has editorial offices on Fourth Avenue
and---- Well, well! Barry Frost, ad. manager! Say, if I can get him on
the wire----"
Just by luck, I did. Would he pry some facts for me out of the art
editor, facts about a certain party? Sure he would. And inside of ten
minutes, without leavin' the Corrugated General Offices, I had a full
description of Claire, includin' where she hung out.
"Huh!" says I. "Greenwich Village, eh? You might know."
"My dear Lieutenant," says Mrs. Parker Smith, "I think you are perfectly
wonderful."
"Swell thought!" says I. "But you needn't let on to Mr. Ellins how
simple it was. And now, all you got to do is----"
"I know," she cuts in. "And I really ought not to trouble you another
moment. But, since Mr. Ellins has been so kind--well, I am going to ask
you to help me just a trifle more."
"Shoot," says I, unsuspicious.
It ain't much, she says. But she's afraid, if she trails Claire to her
rooms, the young lady might send down word she was out, or make a quick
exit.
"But if you would go," she suggests, "with a note from me asking her to
join us somewhere at dinner----"
I holds up both hands.
"Sorry," says I, "but I got to duck. That's taking too many chances."
Then I explains how, although I may look like a singleton, I'm really
the other half of a very interestin' domestic sketch, and that Vee's
expectin' me home to dinner.
"Why, all the better!" says Mrs. Parker Smith. "Have her come in and
join us. I'll tell you: we will have our little party down at the old
Napoleon, where they have such delicious French cooking. Now, please."
As I've hinted before, she is some persuader. I ain't mesmerized so
strong, though, but what I got sense enough to play it safe by callin'
up Vee first. I don't think she was strong for joinin' the reunion until
I points out that I might be some shy at wanderin' down into the
art-student colony and collectin' a strange young lady illustrator all
by myself.
"Course, I could do it alone if I had to," I throws in.
"H-m-m-m!" says Vee. "If that bashfulness of yours is likely to be as
bad as all that, perhaps I'd better come."
So by six o 'clock Vee and I are in the dinky reception-room of one of
them Belasco boardin'-houses, tryin' to convince a young female in a
paint-splashed smock and a floppy boudoir cap that we ain't tryin' to
kidnap or otherwise annoy her.
"What's the big idea?" says she. "I don't get you at all."
"Maybe if you'd read the note it would help," I suggests.
"Oh!" says she, and takes it over by the window.
She's a long-waisted, rangy young party, who walks with a Theda Bara
slouch and tries to talk out of one side of her mouth. "Hello!" she goes
on. "The Parker Smith person. That's enough. It's all off."
"Just as you say," says I. "But, if you ask me, I wouldn't pass up an
aunt like her without takin' a look."
"Aunt!" says Claire Lamar, _alias_ Hunt. "Listen: she's about as much an
aunt to me as I am to either of you. And I've never shed any tears over
the fact, either. The only aunt that I'd ever own was one that my family
would never tell me much about. I had to find out about her for myself.
Take it from me, though, she was some aunt."
"Tastes in aunts differ, I expect," says I. "And Mrs. Parker Smith don't
claim to be a reg'lar aunt, anyway. She seems harmless, too. All she
wants is a chance to give you a rosy prospectus of life on a cow farm
and blow you to a dinner at the Napoleon."
"Think of that!" says Claire. "And I've been living for weeks on
window-sill meals, with now and then a ptomaine-defying gorge at the
Pink Poodle's sixty-cent table d'hôte. Oh, I'll come, I'll come! But I
warn you: the Parker Smith person will understand before the evening is
over that I was born to no cow farm in Illinois."
With that she glides off to do a dinner change.
"I believe it is going to be quite an interesting party, don't you?"
says Vee.
"The signs point that way," says I. "But the old girl really ought to
wear shock-absorbers if she wants to last through the evenin'. S-s-s-sh!
Claire is comin' back."
This time she's draped herself in a pale yellow kimono with blue
triangles stenciled all over it.
"Speaking of perfectly good aunts," says she, "there!" And she displays
a silver-framed photo. It's an old-timer done in faded brown, and shows
a dashin' young party wearin' funny sleeves, a ringlet cascade on one
side of her head, and a saucy little pancake lid over one ear.
"That," explains Claire, "was my aunt Clara Lamar; not my real aunt, you
know, but near enough for me to claim her. This was taken in '82, I
believe."
"Really!" says Vee. "She must have been quite pretty."
"That doesn't half tell it," says Claire. "She was a charmer, simply
fascinating. Not beautiful, you know, but she had a way with her. She
was brilliant, daring, one of the kind that men raved over. At twenty
she married a Congressman, fat and forty. She hadn't lived in Washington
six months before her receptions were crushes. She flirted
industriously. A young French aide and an army officer fought a duel
over her. And, while the capital was buzzing with that, she eloped with
another diplomat, a Russian. For a year or two they lived in Paris. She
had her salon. Then the Russian got himself killed in some way, and she
soon married again--another American, quite wealthy. He brought her back
to New York, and they lived in one of those old brown-stone mansions on
lower Fifth Avenue. Her dinner parties were the talk of the
town--champagne with the fish, vodka with the coffee, cigarettes for the
women, cut-up stunts afterwards. I forget just who No. 3 was, but he
succumbed. Couldn't stand the pace, I suppose. And then---- Well, Aunt
Clara disappeared. But, say, she was a regular person. I wish I could
find out what ever became of her."
"Maybe Mrs. Parker Smith could give you a line," I suggests.
"Her!" says Claire. "Fat chance! But I must finish dressing. Sorry to
keep you waiting."
We did get a bit restless durin' the next half hour, but the wait was
worth while. For, believe me, when Claire comes down again she's some
dolled.
I don't mean she was any home-destroyer. That face of hers is too long
and heavy for the front row of a song review. But she has plenty of zip
to her get-up. After one glance I calls a taxi.
The way I'd left it with Mrs. Parker Smith, we was to land Claire at the
hotel first; then call her up, and proceed to order dinner. So we had
another little stage wait, with only the three of us at the table.
"I hope you don't mind if I have a puff or two," says Claire. "It goes
here, you know."
"Anything to make the evenin' a success," says I, signalin' a garçon.
"My khaki lets me out of followin' you."
So, when the head waiter finally tows in Mrs. Parker Smith, costumed in
the same gray dress and lookin' meeker and gentler than ever, she is
greeted with a sporty tableau. But she don't faint or anything. She just
springs that twisty smile of hers and comes right on.
"The missing one!" says I, wavin' at Claire.
"Ah!" says Mrs. Parker Smith, beamin' on her. "So good of you to come!"
"Wasn't it?" says Claire, removin' the cork tip languid.
Well, as a get-together I must admit that the outlook was kind of
frosty. Claire showed plenty of enthusiasm for the hors d'oeuvres
and the low-tide soup and so on, but mighty little for this volunteer
auntie, who starts to describe the subtle joys of the butter business.
"Perhaps you have never seen a herd of registered Guernseys," says Mrs.
Parker Smith, "when they are munching contentedly at milking time, with
their big, dreamy eyes----"
"Excuse me!" says Claire. "I don't have to. I spent a whole month's
vacation on a Vermont farm."
Mrs. Parker Smith only smiles indulgent.
"We use electric milkers, you know," says she, "and most of our young
men come from the agricultural colleges."
"That listens alluring--some," admits Claire. "But I can't see myself
planted ten miles out on an R. F. D. route, even with college-bred help.
Pardon me if I light another dope-stick."
I could get her idea easy enough, by then. Claire wasn't half so sporty
as she hoped she was. It was just her way of doing the carry-on for Aunt
Clara Lamar. But, at the same time, we couldn't help feelin' kind of
sorry for Mrs. Parker Smith. She was tryin' to be so nice and friendly,
and she wasn't gettin' anywhere.
It was by way of switchin' the line of table chat, I expect, that Vee
breaks in with that remark about the only piece of jewelry the old girl
is wearin'.
"What a duck of a bracelet!" says Vee. "An heirloom, is it?"
"Almost," says Mrs. Parker Smith. "It was given to me on my
twenty-second birthday, in Florence."
She slips it off and passes it over for inspection. The part that goes
around the wrist is all of fine chain-work, silver and gold, woven
almost like cloth, and on top is a cameo, 'most as big as a clam.
"How stunning! Look, Torchy. O-o-oh!" says Vee, gaspin' a little.
In handling the thing she must have pressed a catch somewhere, for the
cameo springs back, revealin' a locket effect underneath with a picture
in it. Course, we couldn't help seein'.
"Why--why----" says Vee, gazin' from the picture to Mrs. Parker Smith.
"Isn't this a portrait of--of----"
"Of a very silly young woman," cuts in Auntie. "We waited in Florence a
week to have that finished."
"Then--then it is you!" asks Vee.
The lady in gray nods. Vee asks if she may show it to Claire.
"Why not?" says Mrs. Parker Smith, smilin'.
We didn't stop to explain. I passes it on to Claire, and then we both
watches her face. For the dinky little picture under the cameo is a dead
ringer for the one Claire had shown us in the silver frame. So it was
Claire's turn to catch a short breath.
"Don't tell me," says she, "that--that you are Clara Lamar?"
Which was when Auntie got her big jolt. For a second the pink fades out
of her cheeks, and the salad fork she'd been holdin' rattles into her
plate. She makes a quick recovery, though.
"I was--once," says she. "I had hoped, though, that the name had been
forgotten. Tell me, how--how do you happen to----"
"Why," says Claire, "uncle had the scrapbook habit. Anyway, I found this
one in an old desk, and it was all about you. Your picture was in it,
too. And say, Auntie, you were the real thing, weren't you?"
After that it was a reg'lar reunion. For Claire had dug up her heroine.
And, no matter how strong Auntie protests that she ain't that sort of a
party now, and hasn't been for years and years, Claire keeps right on.
She's a consistent admirer, even if she is a little late.
"If I had only known it was you!" says she.
"Then--then you'll come to Meadowbrae with me?" asks Mrs. Parker Smith.
"You bet!" says Claire. "Between you and me, this art career of mine has
rather fizzled out. Besides, keeping it up has got to be rather a bore.
Honest, a spaghetti and cigarette life is a lot more romantic to read
about than it is to follow. Whether I could learn to run a dairy farm or
not, I don't know; but, with an aunt like you to coach me along, I'm
blessed if I don't give it a try. When do we start?"
"But," says Vee to me, later, "I can't imagine her on a farm."
"Oh, I don't know," says I. "Didn't you notice she couldn't smoke
without gettin' it up her nose?"
CHAPTER X
ALL THE WAY WITH ANNA
Believe me, Belinda, this havin' a boss who's apt to stack you up casual
against stuff that would worry a secret service corps recruited from
seventh sons is a grand little cure for monotonous moments. Just because
I happen to get a few easy breaks on my first special details seems to
give Old Hickory the merry idea that when he wants someone to do the
wizard act, all he has to do is press the button for me. I don't know
whether my wearin' the khaki uniform helps out the notion or not. I
shouldn't wonder.
Now, here a week or ten days ago, when I leaves Vee and my peaceful
little home after a week-end swing, I expects to be shot up to Amesbury,
Mass., to inspect a gun-limber factory. Am I? Not at all. By 3 P.M. I'm
in Bridgeport, Conn., wanderin' about sort of aimless, and tryin' to
size up a proposition that I'm about as well qualified to handle as a
plumber's helper called in to tune a pipe organ.
Why was it that some three thousand hands in one of our sub-contractin'
plants was bent on gettin' stirred up and messy about every so often, in
spite of all that had been done to soothe 'em?
Does that listen simple, or excitin', or even interestin'? It didn't to
me. Specially after I'd given the once-over to this giddy mob of Wops
and Hunkies and Sneezowskis.
The office people didn't know how many brands of Czechs or Magyars or
Polacks they had in the shops. What they was real sure of was that a
third of the bunch had walked out twice within the last month, and if
they quit again, as there was signs of their doin', we stood to drop
about $200,000 in bonuses on shell contracts.
It wasn't a matter of wage scales, either. Honest, some of them ginks
with three z's in their names was runnin' up, with over-time and all,
pay envelops that averaged as much as twelve a day. Why, some of the
women and girls were pullin' down twenty-five a week. And they couldn't
kick on the workin' conditions, either. Here was a brand-new concrete
plant, clean as a new dish-pan, with half the sides swingin' glass
sashes, and flower beds outside.
"And still they threaten another strike," says the general manager. "If
it comes, we might as well scrap this whole plant and transfer the
equipment to Pennsylvania or somewhere else. Unless"--here he grins
sarcastic--"you can find out what ails 'em, Lieutenant. But you are only
the third bright young man the Corrugated has sent out to tell us what's
what, you know."
"Oh, well," says I. "There's luck in odd numbers. Cheer up."
It was after this little chat that I sheds the army costume and wanders
out disguised as a horny-handed workingman.
Not that I'd decided to get a job right away. After my last stab I ain't
so strong for this ten-hour cold-lunch trick as I was when I was new to
the patriotic sleuthin' act. Besides, bein' no linguist, I couldn't see
how workin' with such a mixed lot was goin' to get me anywhere. If I
could only run across a good ambidextrous interpreter, now, one who
could listen in ten languages and talk in six, it might help. And who
was it I once knew that had moved to Bridgeport?
I'd been mullin' on that mystery ever since I struck the town. Just a
glimmer, somewhere in the back of my nut, that there had been such a
party some time or other. I'll admit that wasn't much of a clue to start
out trailin' in a place of this size, but it's all I had.
I must have walked miles, readin' the signs on the stores, pushin' my
way through the crowds, and finally droppin' into a fairly clean-lookin'
restaurant for dinner. Half way through the goulash and noodles, I had
this bright thought about consultin' the 'phone book. The cashier that
let me have it eyed me suspicious as I props it up against the sugar
bowl and starts in with the A's.
Ever try readin' a telephone directory straight through? By the time I'd
got through the M's I'd had to order another cup of coffee and a second
piece of lemon pie. At that, the waitress was gettin' uneasy. She'd just
shoved my check at me for the third time, and was addin' a glass of
wooden tooth-picks, when I lets out this excited stage whisper.
"Sobowski!" says I, grabbin' the book.
The young lady in the frilled apron rests her thumbs on her hips
dignified and shoots me a haughty glance. "Ring off, young feller," says
she. "You got the wrong number."
"Not so, Clarice," says I. "His first name is Anton, and he used to run
a shine parlor in the arcade of the Corrugated buildin', New York, N. Y."
"It's a small world, ain't it?" says she. "You can pay me or at the
desk, just as you like."
Clarice got her tip all right, and loaned me her pencil to write down
Anton's street number.
A stocky, bow-legged son of Kosciuszko, built close to the ground, and
with a neck on him like a truck-horse, as I remembered Anton. But the
hottest kind of a sport. Used to run a pool on the ball-games, and made
a book on the ponies now and then. Always had a roll with him. He'd take
a nickel tip from me and then bet a guy in the next chair fifty to
thirty-five the Giants would score more'n three runs against the Cubs'
new pitcher in to-morrow's game. That kind.
Must have been two or three years back that Anton had told me about some
openin' he had to go in with a brother-in-law up in Bridgeport. Likely I
didn't pay much attention at the time. Anyway, he was missin' soon
after; and if I hadn't been in the habit of callin' him Old Sobstuff I'd
have forgotten that name of his entirely. But seein' it there in the
book brought back the whole thing.
"Anton Sobowski, saloon," was the way it was listed. So he was runnin' a
suds parlor, eh? Well, it wasn't likely he'd know much about labor
troubles, but it wouldn't do any harm to look him up. When I came to
trail down the street number, though, blamed if it ain't within half a
block of our branch works.
And, sure enough, in a little office beyond the bar, leanin' back
luxurious in a swivel-chair, and displayin' a pair of baby-blue armlets
over his shirt sleeves, I discovers Mr. Sobowski himself. It ain't any
brewery-staked hole-in-the-wall he's boss of, either. It's the Warsaw
Café, bar and restaurant, all glittery and gorgeous, with lace curtains
in the front windows, red, white, and blue mosquito nettin' draped
artistic over the frosted mirrors, and three busy mixers behind the
mahogany bar.
Anton has fleshed up considerable since he quit jugglin' the brushes,
and he's lost a little of the good-natured twinkle from his wide-set
eyes. He glances up at me sort of surly when I first steps into the
office; but the minute I takes off the straw lid and ducks my head at
him, he lets loose a rumbly chuckle.
"It is that Torchy, hey?" says he. "Well, well! It don't fade any, does
it?"
"Not that kind of dye," says I. "How's the boy?"
"Me," says Anton. "Oh, fine like silk. How you like the place, hey?"
I enthused over the Warsaw Café; and when he found I was still with the
Corrugated, and didn't want to touch him for any coin, but had just
happened to be in town and thought I'd look him up for old times'
sake--well, Anton opened up considerable.
"What!" says he. "They send you out? You must be comin' up?"
"Only private sec. to Mr. Ellins," says I, "but he chases me around a
good deal. We're busy people these days, you know."
"The Corrugated Trust! I should say so," agrees Anton, waggin' his head
earnest. "Big people, big money. I like to have my brother-in-law meet
you. Wait."
Seemed a good deal like wastin' time, but I spent the whole evenin' with
Anton. I met not only the brother-in-law, but also Mrs. Sobowski, his
wife; and another Mrs. Sobowski, an aunt or something; and Miss Anna
Sobowski, his niece. Also I saw the three-story Sobowski boardin'-house
that Anton conducted on the side; and the Alcazar movie joint, another
Sobowski enterprise.
That's where this Anna party was sellin' tickets--a peachy-cheeked,
high-chested young lady with big, rollin' eyes, and her mud-colored hair
waved something wonderful. I was introduced reg'lar and impressive.
"Anna," says Anton, "take a good look at this young man. He's a friend
of mine. Any time he comes by, pass him in free--any time at all. See?"
And Anna, she flashes them high-powered eyes of hers at me kittenish.
"Aw ri'," says she. "I'm on, Mr. Torchy."
"That girl," confides Anton to me afterwards, "was eating black bread
and cabbage soup in Poland less than three years ago. Now she buys high
kid boots, two kinds of leather, at fourteen dollars. And makes goo-goo
eyes at all the men. Yes, but never no mistakes with the change. Not
Anna."
All of which was interestin' enough, but it didn't seem to help any. You
never can tell, though, can you? You see, it was kind of hard, breakin'
away from Anton once he'd started to get folksy and show me what an
important party he'd come to be. He wanted me to see the Warsaw when it
was really doin' business, about ten o'clock, after the early
picture-show crowds had let out and the meetin' in the hall overhead was
in full swing.
"What sort of meetin'?" I asks, just as a filler.
"Oh, some kind of labor meetin'," says he. "I d'know. They chin a lot.
That's thirsty work. Good for business, hey?"
"Is it a labor union?" I insists.
Anton shrugs his shoulders.
"You wait," says he. "Mr. Stukey, he'll tell you all about it. Yes, an
ear-full. He's a good spender, Stukey. Hires the hall, too."
Somehow, that listened like it might be a lead. But an hour later, when
I'd had a chance to look him over, I was for passin' Stukey up. For he
sure was disappointin' to view. One of these thin, sallow, dyspeptic
parties, with deep lines down either side of his mouth, a bristly, jutty
little mustache, and ratty little eyes.
I expect Anton meant well when he brings out strong, in introducin' me,
how I'm connected with the Corrugated Trust. In fact, you might almost
gather I _was_ the Corrugated. But it don't make any hit with Stukey.
"Hah!" says he, glarin' at me hostile. "A minion."
"Solid agate yourself," says I. "Wha'd'ye mean--minion?"
"Aren't you a hireling of the capitalistic class?" demands Stukey.
"Maybe," says I, "but I ain't above mixin' with lower-case minds now and
then."
"Case?" says he. "I don't understand."
"Perhaps that's your trouble," says I.
"Bah!" says he, real peevish.
"Come, come, boys!" says Anton, clappin' us jovial on the shoulders.
"What's this all about, hey? We are all friends here. Yes? Is it that
the meetin' goes wrong, Mr. Stukey? Tell us, now."
Stukey shakes his head at him warnin'. "What meetin'?" says he. "Don't
be foolish. What time is it? Ten-twenty! I have an engagement."
And with that he struts off important.
Anton hunches his shoulders and lets out a grunt.
"He has it bad--Stukey," says he. "It is that Anna. Every night he must
walk home with her."
"She ain't particular, is she?" I suggests.
"Oh, I don't know," says Anton. "Yes, he is older, and not a strong
hearty man, like some of these young fellows. But he is educated; oh,
like the devil. You should hear him talk once."
But Stukey had stirred up a stubborn streak in me.
"Is he, though," says I, "or do you kid yourself?"
I thought that would get a come-back out of Anton. And it does.
"If I am so foolish," says he, "would I be here, with my name in gold
above the door, or back shining shoes in the Corrugated arcade yet? Hey?
I will tell you this. Nobodies don't come and hire my hall from me,
fifty a week, in advance."
"Cash or checks?" I puts in.
"If the bank takes the checks, why should I worry?" asks Anton.
"Oh, the first one might be all right," says I, "and the second;
but--well, you know your own business, I expect."
Anton gazes at me stupid for a minute, then turns to his desk and fishes
out a bunch of returned checks. He goes through 'em rapid until he has
run across the one he's lookin' for.
"Maybe I do," says he, wavin' it under my nose triumphant.
Which gives me the glimpse I'd been jockeyin' for. The name of that
bank was enough. From then on I was mighty interested in this Mortimer
J. Stukey; and while I didn't exactly use the pressure pump on Anton, I
may have asked a few leadin' questions. Who was Stukey, where did he
come from, and what was his idea--hirin' halls and so on? While Anton
could recognize a dollar a long way off, he wasn't such a keen observer
of folks.
"I don't worry whether he's a Wilson man or not," says Anton, "or which
movie star he likes best after Mary Pickford. If I did I should ask
Anna."
"Eh?" says I, sort of eager.
"He tells her a lot he don't tell me," says Anton.
"That's reasonable, too," says I. "Ask Anna. Say, that ain't a bad
hunch. Much obliged."
It wasn't so easy, though, with Stukey on the job, to get near enough to
ask Anna anything. When they came in, and Anton invites me to join the
fam'ly group in the boardin'-house dinin'-room while the cheese
sandwiches and pickles was bein' passed around, I finds Stukey blockin'
me off scientific.
As Anton had said, he had it bad. Never took his eyes off Anna for a
second. I suppose he thought he was registerin' tender emotions, but it
struck me as more of a hungry look than anything else. Miss Sobowski
seemed to like it, though.
I expect a real lady's man wouldn't have had much trouble cuttin' in on
Stukey and towin' Anna off into a corner. But that ain't my strong suit.
The best I could do was to wait until the next day, when there was no
opposition. Meantime I'd been usin' the long-distance reckless; so by
the time Anna shows up at the Alcazar to open the window for the evenin'
sale, I was primed with a good many more facts about a certain party
than I had been the night before. Stukey wasn't quite such a man of
mystery as he had been.
Course, I might have gone straight to Anton; but, somehow, I wanted to
try out a few hints on Anna. I couldn't say just why, either. The line
of josh I opens with ain't a bit subtle. It don't have to be. Anna was
tickled to pieces to be kidded about her feller. She invites me into the
box-office, offers me chewin' gum, and proceeds to get quite frisky.
"Ah, who was tellin' you that?" says she. "Can't a girl have a gentleman
frien' without everybody's askin' is she engaged? Wotcher think?"
"Tut-tut!" says I. "I suppose, when you two had your heads together so
close, he was rehearsin' one of his speeches to you--the kind he makes
up in the hall, eh?"
"Mr. Stukey don't make no speeches there," says Anna. "He just tells the
others what to say. You ought to hear him talk, though. My, sometimes
he's just grand!"
"Urgin' 'em not to quit work, I suppose?" says I.
"Him?" says Anna. "Not much. He wants 'em to strike, all the time
strike, until they own the shops. He's got no use for rich people. Calls
'em blood-suckers and things like that. Oh, he's sump'n fierce when he
talks about the rich."
"Is he?" says I. "I wonder why?"
"All the workers get like that," says Anna. "Mr. Stukey says that pretty
soon everybody will join--all but the rich blood-suckers, and they'll be
in jail. He was poor himself once. So was I, you know, in Poland. But we
got along until the Germans came, and then---- Ugh! I don't like to
remember."
"Anton was tellin' me," says I. "You lost some of your folks."
"Lost!" says Anna, a panicky look comin' into her big eyes. "You call it
that? I saw my father shot, my two brothers dragged off to work in the
trenches, and my sister--oh, I can't! I can't say it!"
"Then don't tell Stukey," says I, "if you want to keep stringin' him
along."
"But why?" demands Anna.
"Because," says I, "the money he's spendin' so free around here comes
from them--the Germans."
"No, no!" says Anna, whisperin' husky. "That--that's a lie!"
"Sorry," says I; "but I got his number straight. He was workin' for a
German insurance company up to 1915, bookkeepin' at ninety a month. Then
he got the chuck. He came near starvin'. It was when he was almost in
that he went crawlin' back to 'em, and they gave him this job. If you
don't believe it's German money he's spendin' ask Anton to show you some
of Stukey's canceled checks."
"But--but he's English," protests Anna. "Anyway, his father was."
"The Huns don't mind who they buy up," says I.
She's still starin' at me, sort of stunned.
"German money!" she repeats. "Him!"
"Anton will show you the checks," says I. "He don't care where they
come from, so long as he can cash 'em. But you might hint to him that if
another big strike is pulled it's apt to be a long one, and in that case
the movie business will get a crimp put in it. The Warsaw receipts, too.
I take it that Stukey's tryin' to work the hands up to a point where
they'll vote for----"
"To-night they vote," breaks in Anna. "In two hours."
I lets out a whistle. "Zowie!" says I. "Guess I'm a little late. Say,
you got a 'phone here. Would it do any good if you called Anton up
and----"
"No," snaps Anna. "He thinks too slow. I must do this myself."
"You?" says I. "What could you do?"
"I don't know," says Anna. "But I must try. And quick. Hey, Marson!
You--at the door. Come here and sell the tickets. Put an usher in your
place."
With that she bounces down off the tall chair, shoves the substitute
into her place, and goes streamin' out bare-headed. I decides to follow.
But she leaves me behind as though I'd been standin' still.
At the Warsaw I finds Anton smokin' placid in his little office.
"Seen Anna?" I asks.
"Anna!" says he. "She should be selling tickets at the----"
"She was," says I; "but just now she's upstairs in the hall."
"At the meetin'?" gasps Anton. "Anna? Oh, no!"
"Come, take a look," says I.
And, for once in his life, Anton got a quick move on. He don't ask me to
follow, but I trails along; and just as we strikes the top stair we
hears a rousin' cheer go up. I suppose any other time we'd been barred
out, but there's nobody to hold us up as we pushes through, for everyone
has their eyes glued on the little stage at the far end of the hall.
No wonder. For there, standin' up before more than three hundred yellin'
men, is this high-colored young woman.
Course, I couldn't get a word of it, my Polish education havin' been
sadly neglected when I was young. But Anna seems to be tellin' some sort
of story. My guess was that it's the one she'd hinted at to me--about
her father and brothers and sister. But this time she seems to be
throwin' in all the details.
[Illustration: "Quick as a flash, Anna turns and points to Stukey. I
caught his name as she hisses it out. Stukey, turnin' a sickly yellow,
slumps in his chair."]
There was nothin' frivolous about Anna's eyes now. It almost gave me a
creepy feelin' to watch 'em--as if she was seein' things again that
she'd like to forget--awful things. And she was makin' those three
hundred men see the same things.
All of a sudden she breaks off, covers her face with her hands, and
shivers. Then, quick as a flash, she turns and points to Stukey. I
caught his name as she hisses it out. Stukey, turnin' a sickly yellow,
slumps in his chair. Another second, and she's turned back to the men
out front. She is puttin' something up to them--a question, straight
from the shoulder.
The first to make a move is a squatty, thick-necked gent with one eye
walled out. He jumps on a chair, shouts a few excited words, waves his
long arms, and starts for the stage businesslike. The next thing I knew
the riot was on, with Mortimer J. Stukey playin' the heavy lead and
bein' tossed around like a rat.
It must have been Anton that switched off the lights and sent for the
police. I didn't stop to ask. Bein' near the door, I felt my way
downstairs and made a quick exit. Course, the ceremonies promised to
continue interestin', but somehow this struck me as a swell time for me
to quit. So I strolls back to the hotel and goes to bed.
Yes, I was some curious to know how the muss ended, but I didn't hurry
around next mornin'. As a matter of fact, I'd enjoyed the society of the
Sobowskis quite a lot durin' the past two days, and I thought I'd better
stay away for a while. They're a strenuous bunch when they're stirred
up--even a kittenish young thing like Anna.
About noon I 'phoned the works, and found that all was serene there,
with no signs of a strike yet.
"No, and I got a hunch there won't be any, either," says I.
I was plannin' to linger in Bridgeport another day or so; but when the
afternoon paper came out I changed my mind. Accordin' to the
police-court reporter's account, there'd been some little disturbance in
Warsaw Hall the night before. Seems a stranger by the name of Stukey had
butted into a meetin' of the Pulaski Social Club, and had proceeded to
get so messy that it had been found necessary to throw him out. Half a
dozen witnesses told how rude he'd been, includin' the well-known
citizen, Mr. Anton Sobowski, who owned the premises. The said Stukey had
been a bit damaged; but after he'd been patched up at the City Hospital
he'd been promised a nice long rest--thirty days, to be exact.
So I jumps the next train back to Broadway.
"Ah, Lieutenant!" says Mr. Ellins, glancin' up from his desk. "Find
anything up there?"
"Uh-huh," says I. "His name was Stukey. Another case of drawin' his pay
from Berlin."
"Hah!" grunts Old Hickory, bitin' into his cigar. "The long arm again.
But can't you recommend something?"
"Sure!" says I. "If we could find a pair of gold boots about eighteen
buttons high, we ought to send 'em to Anna Sobowski."
CHAPTER XI
AT THE TURN WITH WILFRED
I expect Mr. Robert overstated the case a bit. He was more or less
hectic back of the ears about then, havin' just broken away after a
half-hour session with Mrs. Stanton Bliss.
"That woman," says he, slumpin' into a chair and moppin' his brow, "has
the mental equipment of a pet rabbit and the disposition of a setting
hen. Good Lord!"
I looks over at Vee and grins. Had to. It ain't often you see Mr. Robert
like that. And him bein' all dolled up in his nifty navy uniform made it
seem just that much funnier. But Vee don't grin back. She'd sympathize
with 'most anybody. At that exact minute, I'll bet she was bein' sorry
for both of 'em all in the same breath, as you might say.
"But can't something be done--somehow?" she asks.
"Not by me," says Mr. Robert, decided. "Great marlinspikes! I'm not the
war department, am I? I'm only a first-grade lieutenant in command of a
blessed, smelly old menhaden trawler that's posing as a mine-sweeper. I
am supposed to be enjoying a twenty-four hour shore leave in the peace
and quiet of my home, and I get--this."
He waves his hand toward the other room, where the afore-mentioned Mrs.
Stanton Bliss is sobbin, sniffin', and otherwise registerin' deep
emotion by clawin' Mrs. Robert about the shoulders and wavin' away the
smellin' salts.
"If it was the first time," growls Mr. Robert. "But it isn't."
That was true, too. You see, we'd heard somethin' about the other
spasms. They'd begun along in July, when the awful news came out that
Wilfred's red ink number had been plucked from the jar. Now you get it,
don't you? Nothing unique. The same little old tragedy that was bein'
staged in a million homes, includin' four-room flats, double-decker
tenements, and boardin'-houses.
Only this happened to hit the forty-room country house of the Stanton
Blisses. Course, it was different. Look who was bein' stirred up by it.
So mother had begun throwin' cat-fits. She'd tackled everyone she knew,
demandin' to know what was to be done to keep Wilfred out of it. Among
others, of course, she'd held up Mr. Robert. Wasn't he their nearest
neighbor, and hadn't the Blisses entertained the Ellinses a lot? Not
that she put it that way, exactly. But when she came with this hunch
about gettin' sonny a snap job on some sort of naval construction work,
why, of course, Mr. Robert couldn't duck. Yes, he thought he could place
Wilfred. And he did--time-keeper, six-hour shift, and near enough so he
could run back and forth every day in his machine.
That might have been good enough for some folks. It meant dodgin' the
draft for Wilfred, dead sure. But mother didn't stay satisfied long. She
went investigatin' around the plant. She found the office stuffy,
Wilfred's desk had no electric fan on it, she wasn't sure of the
drinkin' water, and the foreman was quite an impossible sort of person
who always sneered when he had anything to say to Wilfred. Couldn't Mr.
Robert attend to some of these things? Mr. Robert said he'd try--if he
had time. He didn't get the time. More visits from mother.
Then this latest catastrophe. The Stanton Blisses had been away from
home for three weeks or more, house-partyin' and motorin' through the
mountains. Poor Wilfred had had to stay behind. What a stupidly
distressin' thing war was, wasn't it? But he had been asked to spend his
nights and Sundays with a college chum whose home was several miles
nearer the works.
And then they had come back to find this scribbled note. Things had been
gettin' worse and worse, Wilfred wrote. Some young hoodlums around the
plant had shouted after him as he drove off in his car. Even young
girls. The men had been surly to him, and that beastly foreman---- Well,
he wasn't goin' to stand for it, that was all. He didn't know just what
he was goin' to do, but he was clearin' out. They'd hear from him later.
They had. This six-word message from Philadelphia, dated nearly two
weeks ago, was also waitin'. It said that he'd enlisted, was all right,
and for them not to worry. Nothin' more.
You couldn't blame mother for bein' stirred up. Her Wilfred had gone.
Somewhere in some army camp or other, or at some naval trainin' station,
the son and heir of the house of Bliss was minglin' with the coarse sons
of the common people, was eatin' common food, was wearin' common
clothes, was goin' up against the common thing generally. And that
wasn't the worst of it. Where? Why didn't Mr. Robert tell her where? And
couldn't he get him away at once? Mr. Robert had almost gone hoarse
tryin' to explain why he couldn't. But after every try she'd come back
with this wail:
"Oh, but you don't understand what it is to be a mother!"
"Thank the stars I don't!" says he, as he marches out of the room.
I was for clearin' out so he'd be free to shoo her in any style he
wanted to. We'd been havin' dinner with the Ellinses, Vee and I, and it
was time to go home anyway. But there's no budgin' Vee.
"Don't you think Torchy might find out where he is?" she suggests.
"Bein' in the army himself, you know, and so clever at that sort of
thing, I should think----"
"Why, to be sure," breaks in Mr. Robert, perkin' up all of a sudden and
starin' at me. "Lieutenant Torchy to the rescue, of course. He's the
very one."
"Ah, say, how'd you get that way?" says I. "Back up!"
He's off, though, callin' Mrs. Stanton Bliss. And before I can escape
he's sickin' her on real enthusiastic. Also there's Vee urgin' me to
see if I can't do something to locate Wilfred. So I had to make the
stab.
"Got that wire with you?" I asks.
Yes, Mrs. Bliss had all the documents right handy. I takes the yellow
sheet over under the readin' lamp and squints at it sleuthy, partly to
kill time, and partly because I couldn't think of anything else to do.
And of course they all have to gather round and watch me close, as if I
was about to pull some miracle. Foolish! It was a great deal worse than
that.
"H-m-m-m-m!" says I. "Philadelphia. I suppose there's some sort of naval
trainin' station there, eh?"
Mr. Robert says there is.
"But if Wilfred was at it," I goes on, "and didn't want you to find him,
he wouldn't have sent this from there, would he?"
Mrs. Stanton Bliss sighs. "I'm sure I don't know," says she. "I--I
suppose not."
"Must be somewhere within strikin' distance of Philadelphia, though,"
says I. "Now, what camp is near?"
"Couldn't we wire someone in Washington and find out?" asks Mrs. Bliss.
"Sure," says I. "And we'd get an official answer from the Secretary of
War about 11 A.M. next spring. It'll be a lot quicker to call up Whitey
Weeks."
They don't know everything in newspaper offices, but there are mighty
few things they can't find out. Whitey, though, didn't even have to
consult the copy desk or the clippin' bureau.
"About the nearest big one," says he, "is the Ambulance Corps Camp at
Allentown. Somewhere up on the Lehigh. S'long."
Here was another jolt for Mrs. Stanton Bliss. The Ambulance Corps! She
near keeled over again, just hearin' me say it. Oh, oh! Did I really
believe Wilfred could have been as rash as that?
"Why," says she, "they drive right up to the trenches, don't they? Isn't
that fearfully dangerous?"
"War isn't a parlor pastime," puts in Mr. Robert. "And the ambulance
drivers take their chances with the rest of the men. But there's no
fightin' going on at Allentown. If Wilfred is there----"
"If he is," cuts in Mrs. Bliss, "I must go to him this very moment."
Some way that statement seemed to cheer Mr. Robert up a lot.
"Naturally," says he. "I'll look up a train for you. Just a second. In
the A's. Allentown--Allen. Ah, page 156. M-m-m. Here you are. First one
starts at 2 A.M. and gets you in at 5.15. Will that do?"
Mrs. Bliss turns on him sort of dazed, and blinks them round eyes of
hers. She's a fairly well put up old girl, you know, built sort of on
the pouter-pigeon type, but with good lines below the waist, and a
complexion that she's taken lots of pains with. Dresses real classy,
and, back to, she's often mistaken for daughter Marion. Travels in quite
a gay bunch, I understand, with Mr. Stanton Bliss kind of trailin' along
behind. Usually, when she ain't indulgin' in hysterics, she has very
fetchin' kittenish ways. You know the kind. Their specialty's makin' the
surroundin' males jump through the hoop for 'em. But when it comes to
arrivin' anywhere at 5.15 A.M.--well, not for her.
"I should be a sight," says she.
"You'd still be a mother, wouldn't you?" asks Mr. Robert.
It was rough of him, as he was given to understand by the looks of all
three ladies present, includin' Mrs. Robert; so he tries to square
himself by lookin' up a ten o'clock train, all Pullman, with diner and
observation.
"I would gladly take you up myself," says he, lyin' fluent, "if I
didn't have to go back to my boat. But here is Torchy. He'll go, I
suppose."
"Of course," says Vee.
And that's how I came to be occupyin' drawin'-room A, along with mother
and sister Marion, as we breezes up into the Pennsylvania hills on this
Wilfred hunt. A gushy, giggly young party Marion is, but she turns out
to be quite a help. It was her who spots the two young soldiers driftin'
through towards the smokin' compartment, and suggests that maybe they're
goin' to the same camp.
"And they would know if Wilfred was there, wouldn't they?" she adds.
"Maybe," says I. "I'll go ask."
Nice, clean-cut young chaps they was. They'd stretched out comfortable
on the leather seats, and was enjoyin' a perfectly good smoke, until I
shows up. The minute I appears, though, they chucks their cigars and
jumps up, heels together, right hand to the hat-brim. That's what I get
by havin' this dinky bar on my shoulders.
"Can it, boys," says I. "This is unofficial."
"At ease, sir?" suggests one.
"As easy as you know how," says I.
Yes, they says they're ambulancers; on their way back to Allentown,
too. But they didn't happen to know of any Wilfred Stanton Bliss there.
"You see, sir," says one, "there are about five thousand of us, so he
might----"
"Sure!" says I. "But mother'll want an affidavit. Would you mind
droppin' in and bein' cross-examined? There's sister Marion, too."
Obligin' chaps, they were; let me tow 'em into the drawin'-room,
listened patient while Mrs. Bliss described just how Wilfred looked, and
tried their best to remember havin' seen such a party. Also they gave
her their expert opinion on how long the war was goin' to last, when
Wilfred would be sent over, and what chances he stood of comin' back
without a scratch.
Once more it was Marion who threw the switch.
"Tell me," says she, "will he be wearing a uniform just like yours?"
They said he would.
"Oh!" gurgles Marion, "I think it is perfectly spiffy. Don't you,
mother? I'm just crazy to see Wilfred in one."
Mother catches the enthusiasm. "My noble boy!" says she, rollin' her
eyes up.
From then on she's quite chipper. The idea of findin' sonny made over
into a smart, dashin' soldier seemed to crowd out all the panicky
thoughts she'd been havin'. From little hints she let drop, I judged
that she was already picturin' him as a gallant hero, struttin' around
haughty and givin' off stern commands. Maybe he'd been made a captain or
something. Surely they would soon see that her Wilfred ought to be an
officer of some kind.
"And we must have his portrait painted," she remarks, claspin' her hands
excited as the happy thought strikes her.
The boys looked steady out of the window and managed to smother the
smiles. I imagine they'd seen all sorts of mothers come to camp.
It's a lively little burg, Allentown, even if I didn't know it was on
the map before. At the station you take a trolley that runs straight
through the town and out to the fair grounds, where the camp is located.
Goin' up the hill, you pass through the square and by the Soldiers'
Monument. Say, it's some monument, too. Then out a long street lined
with nice, comfortable-lookin' homes, until you get a glimpse of blue
hills rollin' away as far as you can see, and there you are.
The boys piloted us past the guard at the gates, through a grove of
trees, and left us at the information bureau, where a soldier wearin'
shell-rimmed glasses listened patient while mother and sister both
talked at once.
"Bliss? Just a moment," says he, reachin' for a card-index box. "Yes,
ma'am. Wilfred Stanton. He's here."
"But where?" demands Mrs. Bliss.
"Why," says the soldier, "he's listed with the casuals just now.
Quartered in the cow-barn."
"The--the cow-barn!" gasps Mrs. Bliss.
The soldier grins.
"It's over that way," says he, wavin' his hand. "Anyone will tell you."
They did. We wandered on and on, past the parade ground that used to be
the trottin' track, past new barracks that was being knocked together
hasty, until we comes to this dingy white buildin' with all the
underwear hung up to dry around it. I took one glance inside, where the
cots was stacked in thick and soldiers was loafin' around in various
stages of dress and undress, and then I shooed mother and sister off a
ways while I went scoutin' in alone. At a desk made out of a
packin'-box I found a chap hammerin' away at a typewriter. He salutes
and goes to attention.
"Yes, sir," says he, when I've told him who I'm lookin' for. "Squeaky
Bliss. But he's on duty just now, sir."
I suggests that his mother and sister are here and would like to have a
glimpse of him right away.
"They'd better wait until after five, sir," says he.
"I wouldn't like to try holdin' 'em in that long," says I.
"Very well, sir," says he. "Squeaky's on fatigue. Somewhere down at the
further end of the grand stand you might catch him. But if it's
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