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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

Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF TORCHY ***




Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net





[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 his
mother--well, I'd wait."

I passes this advice on to Mrs. Bliss.

"The idea!" says she. "I wish to see my noble soldier boy at once.
Come."

So we went. There was no scarcity of young fellows in olive drab. The
place was thick with 'em. Squads were drillin' every way you looked, and
out in the center of the field, where two or three hundred new
ambulances were lined up, more squads were studyin' the insides of the
motor, or practicin' loadin' in stretchers. Hundreds and hundreds of
young fellows in uniform, all lookin' just alike. I didn't wonder that
mother couldn't pick out sonny boy.

"What was it that man said?" she asks. "Wilfred on fatigue. Does that
mean he is resting?"

"Not exactly," says I.

About then sister Marion begins to exhibit jumpy emotions.

"Mother! Mother!" says she, starin' straight ahead. "Look!"

All I could see was a greasy old truck backed up in front of some low
windows under the grand stand, with half a dozen young toughs in smeary
blue overalls jugglin' a load of galvanized iron cans. Looked like
garbage cans; smelled that way too. And the gang that was handlin'
'em--well, most of 'em had had their heads shaved, and in that rig they
certainly did look like a bunch from Sing Sing.

I was just nudgin' sister to move along, when Mrs. Bliss lets out this
choky cry:

"Wilfred!" says she.

She hadn't made any mistake, either. It was sonny, all right. And you
should have seen his face as he swings around and finds who's watchin'
him. If it hadn't been for the bunkie who was helpin' him lift that can
of sloppy stuff on to the tail of the truck, there'd been a fine spill,
too.

"My boy! Wilfred!" calls Mrs. Stanton Bliss, holdin' out her arms
invitin' and dramatic.

Now, in the first place, Wilfred was in no shape to be the party of the
second part in a motherly clinch act. It's messy work, loadin' garbage
cans, and he's peeled down for it. He was costumed in a pair of overalls
that would have stood in the corner all by themselves, and an army
undershirt with one sleeve half ripped off.

In the second place, all the rest of the bunch was wearin' broad grins,
and he knew it. So he don't rush over at once. Instead he steps around
to the front of the truck and salutes a husky, freckled-necked young
sergeant who's sittin' behind the steerin' wheel.

"Family, sir," says Wilfred. "What--what'll I do?"

The sergeant takes one look over his shoulder.

"Oh, well," says he, "drop out until next load."

Not until Wilfred had led us around the corner does he express his
feelin's.

"For the love of Mike, mother!" says he. "Wasn't it bad enough without
your springin' that 'muh boy!' stuff? Right before all the fellows,
too. Good-night!"

"But, Wilfred," insists mother, "what does this mean? Why do I find
you--well, like this? Oh, it's too dreadful for words. Who has done this
to you--and why?"

Jerky, little by little, Wilfred sketches out the answer. Army life
wasn't what he'd expected. Not at all. He was sore on the whole
business. He'd been let in for it, that was all. It wasn't so bad for
some of the fellows, but they'd been lucky. As for him--well, he'd come
here to learn to be an ambulance driver, and he had spent his first week
in the kitchen, peelin' potatoes. Then, when they'd let him off that,
and given him his first pass to go to town, just because he'd been a
little late comin' back they'd jumped on him somethin' fierce. They'd
shoved him on this garbage detail. He'd been on it ever since.

"It's that mucker of a top sergeant, Quigley," says Wilfred. "He's got
it in for me."

Mrs. Stanton Bliss straightens out her chin dimple as she glares after
the garbage truck, which is rollin' away in the distance.

"Has he, indeed!" says she. "We will see about that, then."

"But you must handle him easy, mother," warns Wilfred.

"That person!" snorts mother. "I shall have nothing to do with him
whatever. I mean to get you out of this, Wilfred. I am going straight to
the general."

"Now, mother!" protests Wilfred. "Don't make a scene."

When she was properly stirred up, though, that was mother's long suit.
And she starts right in. Course, I tried to head her off, but it's no
use. As there wasn't a general handy, she had to be satisfied with a
major. Seemed like a mighty busy major, too; but when he heard his
orderly tryin' to shunt the ladies, he gives the signal to let 'em in.
You can bet I didn't follow. Didn't have to, for Mrs. Bliss wasn't doin'
any whisperin' about then.

And she sure made it plain to the major how little she thought of the U.
S. Army, and specially that part of it located at Allentown, Pa. Havin'
got that off her chest, and been listened to patient, she demands that
Wilfred be excused from all his disgustin' duties, and be allowed to go
home with her at once and for good.

The major shakes his head. "Impossible!" says he.

"Then," says Mrs. Stanton Bliss, tossin' her head, "I shall appeal to
the Secretary of War; to the President, if necessary."

The major smiles weary. "You'd best talk to his sergeant," says he. "If
he recommends your son's discharge it may go through."

"That person!" exclaims Mrs. Bliss. "Never! I--I might talk to his
captain."

"Useless, madam," says the major. "See his sergeant; he's the one."

And he signifies polite that the interview is over.

When mother tells sonny the result of this visit to headquarters, he
shrugs his shoulders.

"I knew it would be that way," says he. "They've got me, and I've got to
stand for it. No use askin' Quigley. You might as well go home."

"But at least you can get away long enough to have dinner with us," says
mother.

"Nothing doin'," says Wilfred. "Can't get out unless Quigley signs a
pass, and he won't."

"Oh, come!" says I. "He don't look so bad as all that. Let me see what I
can do with him."

Well, after I'd chased the ladies back to the hotel with instructions to
wait hopeful, I hunts up Top Sergeant Quigley. Had quite a revealin'
chat with him, too. Come to look at him close after he'd washed up, he's
rather decent appearin'. Face seems sort of familiar, too.

"Didn't you play first base for the Fordhams?" I asks.

"Oh, that was back in '14," says he.

"As I remember," says I, "you was some star on the bag, though. Now,
about young Bliss. Case of mommer's pet, you know."

"He had that tag all over him," says Quigley. "But we're knockin' a lot
of that out of him. He's comin' on."

"Good!" says I. "Would it stop the process to let him off for an evenin'
with the folks--dinner and so on?"

"Why, no; I guess not," says Quigley. "Might do him good. But he must
apply himself. Send him along."

So a half hour later I sat on a cot in the cow-barn and watched Wilfred,
fresh from the shower bath, get into his army uniform.

"Say," he remarks, strugglin' through his khaki shirt, "I didn't think
old Quig would do it."

"Seemed glad to," says I. "Said you was comin' on fine."

"He did?" gasps Wilfred. "Quigley? Well, what do you know!"

Not such a bad imitation of a soldier, Wilfred, when he'd laced up the
leggins and got the snappy-cut coat buttoned tight. He's some different
from what he was when sister first discovered him. And we had quite a
gay dinner together.

First off mother was for campin' right down there indefinitely, where
she could see her darlin' boy every day; but between Wilfred and me we
persuaded her different. I expect the hotel quarters had something to do
with it, too. Anyway, after Wilfred had promised to try for a couple of
days off soon, for a visit home, she consents to start back in the
mornin'.

"What I dread most, Wilfred," says she, "is leaving you at the mercy of
that horrid sergeant."

"Oh, I'll get along with him somehow," says Wilfred. "I'm goin' to try,
anyway."

And right there, as I understand it, Wilfred Stanton Bliss started to be
a man and a soldier. He had a long way to go, though, it seemed to me.

So here the other day, only a couple of weeks since we made our trip,
I'm some surprised to see who it is givin' me the zippy salute on the
station platform out home. Yes, it's Wilfred. And say, he's got his
shoulders squared, he's carryin' his chin up, and he's wearin' his
uniform like it grew on him.

"Well, well!" says I. "Got your furlough, eh?"

"Yes, sir," says he. "Seventy-two hours. Had a whale of a time, too. You
can't guess who I brought home with me, I'll bet."

I couldn't.

"Our top sergeant--Quigley," says he. "Say, he's all right. He's had us
transferred to the best barracks in camp. Guess we deserve it, too, for
we're on the way to bein' the crackerjack section of them all. You ought
to see us drill. Some class! And it's all due to Quigley. Do you know
what he thinks? That we're slated among the next lot to go over. How
about that, sir? Won't that be great?"

"Huh!" says I. "How long ago was it you signed up, Wilfred?"

"Just six weeks, sir," says he.

"Whiffo!" says I, gawpin' at him. "If we had about a hundred thousand
Quigleys!"




CHAPTER XII

VEE GOES OVER THE TOP


"But listen, Vee," says I. "If Hoover can't pull it off, with all the
backin' he's got, what's the use of a few of you women mixin' in?"

"At least we can try," says Vee. "The prices this Belcher person is
charging are something outrageous. Eggs ninety cents!"

"We should worry," says I. "Ain't we got nearly a hundred hens on the
job?"

"But others haven't," says Vee. "Those people in that row of little
cottages down by the station. The Walters, for instance. He can't get
more than twenty-five or thirty dollars a week, can he?"

"There's so many cases you can't figure out," says I. "Maybe he scrubs
along on small steaks or fried chicken."

"It's no joking matter," protests Vee. "Of course there are plenty of
people worse off then the Walters. That Mrs. Burke, whose two boys are
in the Sixty-ninth. She must do her marketing at Belcher's, too. Think
of her having to pay those awful prices!"

"I would," says I, "if workin'up a case of glooms was any use; but I
can't see----"

"We can see enough," breaks in Vee. "The new Belcher limousine, the
additions to their hideous big house. All made, too, out of food
profiteering right here. It's got to stop, that's all."

Which is where I should have shouted "Kamerad" and come runnin' out with
my hands up, but I tried to show her that Belcher was only playin' the
game like everyone else was playin' it.

"He ain't springin' anything new," says I. "He's just followin' the mob.
They're all doin' it, from the Steel Trust down to the push-cart men.
And when you come to interferin' with business--well, that's serious."

"Humph!" says Vee. "When it comes to taking advantage of poor people and
depriving them of enough to eat, I call it plain piracy. And you ought
to be ashamed of yourself, Torchy, standing up for such things."

So you see I was about as convincin' as a jazz band tryin' to imitate
the Metropolitan orchestra doin' the overture to "Lucia." If I hadn't
finally had sense enough to switch the subject a little, there might
have been a poutin' scene and maybe a double case of sulks. But when I
got to askin' where she'd collected all this grouch against our local
meat and provision octopus, she cheers up again.

Seems she'd been to a Red Cross meetin' that afternoon, where a lot of
the ladies was swappin' tales of woe about their kitchen expense
accounts. Some of 'em had been keepin' track of prices in the city
markets and was able to shoot the deadly parallel at Belcher. Anyway,
they ditched the sweater-knittin' and bandage-rollin' for the time
bein', and proceeded to organize the Woman's Economic League on the
spot.

"Sounds impressive," says I. "And what then? Did you try Belcher for
treason, find him guilty, and sentence him to be shot at sunrise?"

Vee proves that she's good-natured again by runnin' her tongue out at
me.

"We did not, Smarty," says she. "But we passed a resolution condemning
such extortion severely."

"How rough of you!" says I. "Anything else?"

"Yes," says Vee. "We appointed a committee to tell him he'd better
stop."

"Fine!" says I. "I expect he'll have everything marked down about forty
per cent. by to-morrow night."

Somehow, it didn't work out just that way. Next report I got from Vee
was that the committee had interviewed Belcher, but there was nothing
doin'. He'd been awfully nice to 'em, even if he had talked through his
cigar part of the time.

Belcher says he feels just as bad as they about havin' to soak on such
stiff prices. But how can he help it? The cold-storage people are
boostin' their schedules every day. They ain't to blame, either. They're
bein' held up by the farmers out West who are havin' their hair cut too
often. Besides, all the hens in the country have quit layin' and joined
the I. W. W., and every kind of meat is scarce on account of Pershing's
men developin' such big appetites. He's sorry, but he's doin' his best,
considerin' the war and everything. If people would only get the habit
of usin' corn meal for their pie crusts, everything would be lovely once
more.

"An alibi on every count," says I. "I expect the committee apologized."

"Very nearly that," says Vee. "The sillies! I just wish I'd been there.
I don't believe half of what he said is true."

"That's one thing," says I, "but provin' it on him would be another. And
there's where Belcher's got you."

Course, I like to watch Vee in action, for she sure is a humdinger when
she gets started. As a rule, too, I don't believe in tryin' to block her
off in any of her little enterprises.

But here was once where it seemed to me she was up against a hopeless
proposition. So I goes on to point out, sort of gentle and soothin', how
war prices couldn't be helped, any more'n you could stop the tide from
comin' in.

Oh, I'm some smooth suggester, I am, when you get into fireside
diplomacy. Anyway, the price of eggs wasn't mentioned again that
evenin'. As a matter of fact, Vee ain't troubled much with marketin'
details, for Madame Battou, wife of the little old Frenchman who does
the cheffing for us so artistic, attends to layin' in the supplies. And,
believe me, when she sails forth with her market basket you can be sure
she's goin' to get sixteen ounces to the pound and the rock bottom price
on everything. No 'phone orders for her. I don't believe Vee knew what
the inside of Belcher's store looks like. I'm sure I didn't.

So I thought the big drive on the roast beef and canned goods sector had
been called off. About that time, too, I got another inspection detail
handed me,--and I didn't see my happy home until another week-end.

I lands back on Broadway at 9 A.M. Havin' reported at the Corrugated
general offices and found Old Hickory out of town, I declares a special
holiday and beats it out to the part of Long Island I'm beginnin' to
know best. Struck me Professor Battou held his face kind of funny when
he saw me blow in; and as I asks for Vee, him and the madam swaps
glances. He say she's out.

"Oh," says I. "Mornin' call up at the Ellinses', eh? I'll stroll up that
way, myself, then."

Leon hesitates a minute, like he was chokin' over something, and then
remarks: "But no, M'sieur. Madame, I think, is in the village."

"Why," says I, "I just came from the station. I didn't see the car
around. How long has she been gone?"

Another exchange of looks, and then Battou answers:

"She goes at seven."

"Whaddye mean goes?" says I. "It ain't a habit of hers, is it?"

Leon nods.

"All this week," says he. "She goes to the meat and grocery
establishment, I understand."

"Belcher's?" says I. "But what--what's the idea?"

"I think it would be best if M'sieur asked Madame," says he.

"That's right, too," says I.

You can guess I was some puzzled. Was Vee doin' the spy act on Belcher,
watchin' him open the store and spendin' the forenoon concealed in a
crockery crate or something? No, that didn't sound reasonable. But what
the---- Meanwhile I was leggin' it down towards the village.

It's a busy place, Belcher's, specially on Saturday forenoon. Out front
three or four delivery trucks was bein' loaded up, and inside a lot of
clerks was jumpin' round. Among the customers was two Jap butlers, three
or four Swedish maids, and some of the women from the village. But no
Vee anywhere in sight.

Loomin' prominent in the midst of all this active tradin' is Belcher
himself, a thick-necked, ruddy-cheeked party, with bristly black hair
cut shoe-brush style and growing down to a point in front. His big,
bulgy eyes are cold and fishy, but they seem to take in everything
that's goin' on. I hadn't been standin' around more'n half a minute
before he snaps his finger, and a clerk comes hustlin' over to ask what
I'll have.

"Box of ginger-snaps," says I offhand; and a minute later I'm bein'
shunted towards a wire-cage with a cash slip in my hand.

I'd dug up a quarter, and was waitin' for the change to be passed out
through the little window, when I hears a familiar snicker. Then I
glances in to see who's presidin' at the cash register. And say, of all
the sudden jolts I ever got! It's Vee.

"Well, for the love of soup!" I gasps.

"Twelve out--thirteen. That's right, isn't it? Thank you so much, sir,"
says she, her gray eyes twinklin'.

"Quit the kiddin'," says I, "and sketch out the plot of the piece."

"Can't now," says Vee. "So run along. Please!"

"But how long does this act of yours last?" I insists.

"Until about noon, I think," says she. "It's such fun. You can't
imagine."

"What's it for, though?" says I. "Are you pullin' a sleuth stunt on----"

"S-s-s-sh!" warns Vee. "He's coming. Pretend to be getting a bill
changed or something."

It's while I'm fishin' out a ten that this little dialogue at the meat
counter begins to get conspicuous: A thin, stoop-shouldered female with
gray streaks in her hair is puttin' up a howl at the price of corned
beef. She'd asked for the cheapest piece they had, and it had been
weighed for her, but still she wasn't satisfied.

"It wasn't as high last Saturday," she objects.

"No, ma'am," says the clerk. "It's gone up since."

"Worse luck," says she, pokin' the piece with her finger. "And this is
nearly all bone and fat. Now couldn't you----"

"I'll ask the boss, ma'am," says the clerk. "Here he is."

Belcher has come over and is listenin', glarin' hostile at the woman.

"It's Mrs. Burke, the one whose sons are in the army," whispers Vee.

"Well?" demands Belcher.

"It's so much to pay for meat like that," says Mrs. Burke. "If you
could----"

"Take it or leave it," snaps Belcher.

"Sure now," says she, "you know I can't afford to give----"

"Then get out!" orders Belcher.

At which Vee swings open the door of the cage, brushes past me, and
faces him with her eyes snappin'.

"Pig!" says she explosive.

"Wha-a-a-at!" gasps Belcher, gawpin' at her.

"I--I beg pardon," says Vee. "I shouldn't have said that, even if it was
so."

"You--you're discharged, you!" roars Belcher.

"Isn't that nice?" says Vee, reachin' for her hat and coat. "Then I can
go home with my husband, I suppose. And if I have earned any of that
princely salary--five dollars a week, it was to be, wasn't it?--well,
you may credit it to my account: Mrs. Richard Tabor Ballard, you know.
Come, Torchy."

Say, I always did suspect there was mighty few things Vee was afraid of,
but I never thought she had so much clear grit stowed away in her
system. For to sail past Belcher the way he looked then took a heap of
nerve, believe me. But before he can get that thick tongue of his
limbered up we're outside, with Vee snuggled up mufflin' the giggles
against my coat sleeve.

"Oh, it's been such a lark, Torchy!" says she. "I've passed as Miss
Hemmingway for six days, and I don't believe more than three or four
persons have suspected. Thank goodness, Belcher wasn't one of them. For
I've learned--oh, such a lot!"

"Let's start at the beginning," says I. "Why did you do it at all?"

"Because the committee was so ready to believe the whoppers he told,"
says Vee. "And they wanted to disband the League, especially that Mrs.
Norton Plummer, whose husband is a lawyer. She was almost disagreeable
about it. Truly. 'But, my dear,' she said to me, 'one can't act merely
on rumor and prejudice. If we had a few facts or figures it might be
different.' And you know that sour smile of hers. Well! That's why I did
it. I asked them to give me ten days. And now----"

Vee finishes by squeezin' my arm.

"But how'd you come to break in so prompt?" I asks. "Did you mesmerize
Belcher?"

"I bought up his cashier--paid her to report that she was ill," says
Vee. "Then I smoothed back my hair, put on this old black dress, and
went begging for the job. That's when I began to know Mr. Belcher. He's
quite a different person when he is hiring a cashier from the one you
see talking to customers. Really, I've never been looked at that way
before--as if I were some sort of insect. But when he found I would work
cheap, and could get Mrs. Robert Ellins to go on my bond if I should
turn out a thief, he took me on.

"Getting up so early was a bit hard, and eating a cold luncheon harder
still; but worst of all was having to hear him growl and snap at the
clerks. Oh, he's perfectly horrid. I don't see how they stand it. Of
course, I had my share. 'Miss Blockhead' was his pet name for me."

"Huh!" says I, grittin' my teeth.

"Meaning that you'd like to tell Belcher a few things yourself?" asks
Vee. "Well, you needn't. I'd no right to be there, for one thing. And,
for another, this is my own particular affair. I know what I am going to
do to Mr. Belcher; at least, what I'm going to try to do. Anyway, I
shall have some figures to put before our committee Monday. Then we
shall see."

Yep, she had the goods on him. I helped her straighten out the evidence:
copies of commission-house bills showin' what he had paid for stuff, and
duplicates of sales-slips givin' the retail prices he got. And say, all
he was stickin' on was from thirty to sixty per cent. profit.

He didn't always wait for the wholesaler to start the boostin', either.
Vee points out where he has jacked up the price three times on the same
shipment--just as the spell took him. He'd be readin' away in his
_Morgen Blatherskite_, and all of a sudden he'd jump out of his chair.
I'm no expert on provision prices, but some of them items had me
bug-eyed.

"Why," says I, "it looks like this Belcher party meant to discourage
eatin' altogether. Couldn't do better if he was runnin' a dinin'-car."

"It's robbery, that's what it is," says Vee. "And when you think that
his chief victims are such helpless people as the Burkes and the
Walters--well, it's little less than criminal."

"It's a rough deal," I admits, "but one that's bein' pulled in the best
circles. War profits are what everybody seems to be out after these
days, and I don't see how you're going to stop it."

"I mean to try to stop Belcher, anyway," says Vee, tossin' her chin up.

"You ain't got much show," says I; "but go to it."

Just how much fight there was in Vee, though, I didn't have any idea of
until I saw her Monday evenin' after another meetin' of the League. It
seems she'd met this Mrs. Norton Plummer on her own ground and had
smeared her all over the map.

"What do you suppose she wanted to do?" demands Vee. "Pass more
resolutions! Well, I told her just what I thought of that. As well pin a
'Please-keep-out' notice on your door to scare away burglars as to send
resolutions to Belcher. And when I showed her what profits he was
making, item by item, she hadn't another word to say. Then I proposed my
plan."

"Eh?" says I. "What's it like?"

"We are going to start a store of our own," says Vee--just like that,
offhand and casual.

"You are!" says I. "But--but who's goin' to run it?"

"They made me chairman of the sub-committee," says Vee. "And then I made
them subscribe to a campaign fund. Five thousand. We raised it in as
many minutes. And now--well, I suppose I'm in for it."

"Listens that way to me," says I.

"Then I may as well begin," says she.

And say, there's nothin' draggy about Vee when she really goes over the
top. While I'm dressin' for dinner she calls up a real estate dealer and
leases a vacant store in the other end of the block from Belcher's.
Between the roast and salad she uses the 'phone some more and drafts
half a dozen young ladies from the Country Club set to act as relay
clerks. Later on in the evenin' she rounds up Major Percy Thomson, who's
been invalided home from the Quartermaster's Department on account of a
game knee, and gets him to serve as buyin' agent for a week or so. Her
next move is to charter a couple of three-ton motor-trucks to haul
supplies out from town; and when I went to sleep she was still jottin'
things down on a pad to be attended to in the mornin'.

For two or three days nothin' much seemed to happen. The windows of that
vacant store was whitened mysterious, carpenters were hammerin' away
inside, and now and then a truck backed up and was unloaded. But no
word was given out as to what was goin' to be sprung. Not until Friday
mornin'. Then the commuters on the 8.03 was hit bang in the eye by a
whalin' big red, white, and blue sign announcin' that the W. E. L.
Supply Company was open for business.

Course, it was kind of crude compared to Belcher's. No fancy counters or
showcases or window displays of cracker-boxes. And the stock was limited
to staples that could be handled easy. But the price bulletins posted up
outside was what made some of them gents who'd been doin' the fam'ly
marketin' stop and stare. A few of 'em turned halfway to the station and
dashed back to leave their orders. Goin' into town they spread the news
through the train. The story of that latest bag of U-boats, which the
mornin' papers all carried screamers about, was almost thrown into the
discard. If I hadn't been due for a ten o'clock committee meetin' at the
Corrugated, I'd have stayed out and watched the openin'. Havin' told Old
Hickory about it, though, I was on hand next mornin' with a whole day's
furlough.

"It ought to be our big day," says Vee.

It was. For one thing, everybody was stockin' up for over Sunday, and
with the backin' of the League the Supply Company could count on about
fifty good customers as a starter. Most of the ladies came themselves,
rollin' up in limousines or tourin' cars and cartin' home their own
stuff. Also the cottage people, who'd got wind of the big mark-down
bargains, begun to come in bunches, every woman with a basket.

But they didn't swamp Vee. She'd already added to her force of young
lady clerks a squad of hand-picked Boy Scouts, and it was my job to
manage the youngsters.

I'd worked out the system the night before. Each one had typed price
lists in his pocket, and besides that I'd put 'em through an hour's
drill on weights and measures before the show started.

I don't know when it was Belcher begun to get wise and start his
counter-attack; but the first time I had a chance to slip out and take a
squint his way, I saw this whackin' big sign in front of his place:
"Potatoes, 40 cents per peck." Which I promptly reports to Vee.

"Very well," says she; "we'll make ours thirty-five."

Inside of ten minutes we had a bulletin out twice as big as his.

"Now I guess he'll be good," says I.

But he had a scrap or two left in him, it seems. Pretty soon he cuts the
price to thirty.

"We'll make it twenty-five," says Vee.

And by eleven o'clock Belcher has countered with potatoes at twenty
cents.

"Why," gasps Vee, "that's far less than they cost at wholesale. But we
can't let him beat us. Make ours twenty, too."

"Excuse me, ma'am," puts in one of the Scouts, salutin', "but we've run
out of potatoes."

"Oh, boy!" says I. "Where do we go from here!"

Vee hesitates only long enough to draw a deep breath.

"Torchy," says she, "I have it. Form your boys into a basket brigade,
and buy out Belcher below the market."

Talk about your frenzied finance! Wasn't that puttin' it over on him!
For two hours, there, we went long on Belcher's potatoes at twenty,
until his supply ran out too. Then he switched to sugar and butter.
Quotations went off as fast as when the bottom drops out of a bull
market. All we had to do to hammer down the prices of anything in the
food line, whether we had it or not, was to stick out a cut-rate
sign--Belcher was sure to go it one better; and when Vee got it far
enough below cost, she started her buyin' corps, workin' in customers,
clerks, and anybody that was handy. And by night if every fam'ly within
five miles hadn't stocked up on bargain provisions it was their own
fault; for if they didn't have cash of their own Vee was right there
with the long-distance credit.

[Illustration: "Belcher has come over and is listenin', glarin' hostile
at the woman. 'It's Mrs. Burke, the one whose sons are in the army,'
whispers Vee."]

"I'll bet you've got old Belcher frothin' through his ears," says I.

"I hope so," says Vee.

The followin' Monday, though, he comes back at her with his big push. He
had the whole front of his store plastered with below-cost bulletins.

"Pooh!" says Vee. "I can have signs like that painted, too."

And she did. It didn't bother her a bit if her stock ran out. She kept
up on the cut-rate game, and when people asked for things she didn't
have she just sent 'em to Belcher's.

Maybe you saw what some of the papers printed. Course, they joshed the
ladies more or less, but also they played up a peppery interview with
Belcher which got him in bad with everybody. Vee wasn't so pleased at
the publicity stuff, but she didn't squeal.

What was worryin' me some was how soon the grand smash was comin'. I
knew that the campaign fund had been whittled into considerable, and now
that prices had been slashed there was no chance for profits.

It was botherin' Vee some, too, for she'd promised not to assess the
League members again unless she could show 'em where they were comin'
out. By the middle of the week things looked squally. Belcher had given
out word that he meant to bust up this fool woman's opposition, if it
took his last cent.

Then, here the other night, I comes home to find Vee wearin' a satisfied
grin. As I comes in she jumps up from her desk and waves a check at me.

"Look!" says she. "Five thousand! I've got it back, Torchy, every
dollar."

"Eh?" says I. "You ain't sold out to Belcher?"

"I should say not," says she. "To the Noonan chain. Mr. Noonan came
himself. He'd read about our fight in the newspapers, and said he'd be
glad to take it off our hands. He's been wanting to establish a branch
in this district. Five thousand for stock and good will. What do you
think of that?"

"I ain't thinkin'," says I. "I'm just gaspin' for breath. Noonan, eh?
Then I see where Belcher gets off. And if you don't mind my whisperin'
in your ear, Vee, you're some whizz."




CHAPTER XIII

LATE RETURNS ON RUPERT


Vee and I were goin' over some old snapshots the other night. It's done
now and then, you know. Not deliberate. I'll admit that's a pastime you
wouldn't get all worked up over plannin' ahead for. Tuesday mornin',
say, you don't remark breathless: "I'll tell you: Saturday night at
nine-thirty let's get out them last year's prints and give 'em the
comp'ny front."

It don't happen that way--not with our sketch. What I was grapplin' for
in the bottom of the window-seat locker was something different--maybe a
marshmallow fork, or a corn-popper, or a catalogue of bath-room
fixtures. Anyway, it was something we thought we wanted a lot, when I
digs up this album of views that Vee took durin' that treasure-huntin'
cruise of ours last winter on the old _Agnes_, with Auntie and Old
Hickory and Captain Rupert Killam and the rest of the bunch. I was just
tossin' the book one side when a picture slips out, and of course I has
to take a squint. Then I chuckles.

"Look!" says I, luggin' it over to where Vee is curled up on the
davenport in front of the fireplace. "Remember that?"

A giggle from Vee.

"'Auntie enjoying a half-hour eulogy of the dear departed, by Mrs.
Mumford,' should be the title," says she. "She'd been sound asleep for
twenty minutes."

"Which is what you might call good defensive," says I. "But who's this
gazin' over the rail beyond--J. Dudley Simms, or is that a ventilator?"

"Let's see," says Vee, reachin' for the readin' glass. "Why, you silly!
That's Captain Killam."

"Oh!" says I. "Reckless Rupert, the great mind-play hero."

"I wonder what has become of him?" puts in Vee, restin' her chin on the
knuckle of her forefinger and starin' into the fire.

"Him?" says I. "Most likely he's back in St. Petersburg, Florida, all
dolled in white flannels, givin' the tin-can tourists a treat. That
would be Rupert's game."

I don't know as you remember; but, in spite of Killam's havin' got
balled up on the location of this pirate island, and Vee and me havin'
to find it for him, he came in for his share of the loot. Must have been
quite a nice little pot for Rupert, too--enough to keep him costumed for
his mysterious hero act for a long time, providin' he don't overdress
the part.

Weird combination--Rupert: about 60 per cent. camouflage and the rest
solemn boob. An ex-school-teacher from some little flag station in
middle Illinois, who'd drifted down to the West Coast, and got to be a
captain by ownin' an old cruiser that he took fishin' parties out to the
grouper banks on. Them was the real facts in the life story of Rupert.

But the picture he threw on the screen of himself must have been
something else again--seasoned sailor, hardy adventurer, daredevil
explorer, and who knows what else? Catch him in one of his silent,
starey moods, with them buttermilk blue eyes of his opened wide and
vacant, and you had the outline. But that's as far as you'd get. I
always thought Rupert himself was a little vague about it, but he would
insist on takin' himself so serious. That's why we never got along well,
I expect. To me Rupert was a walkin' joke, except when he got to
sleuthin' around Vee and me and made a nuisance of himself.

"How completely people like that drop out of sight sometimes," says Vee,
shuttin' up the album.

"Yes," says I. "Contrary to old ladies who meet at summer resorts and in
department-stores, it's a sizable world we live in. Thanks be for that,
too."

But you never can tell. It ain't more'n three days later, as I'm breezin
through a cross street down in the cloak-and-suit and publishin' house
district, when a taxi rolls up to the curb just ahead, and out piles a
wide-shouldered gent with freckles on the back of his neck. Course, I
don't let on I can spot anybody I've ever known just by a sectional
glimpse like that. But this was no common case of freckles. This was a
splotchy, spattery system of rust marks, like a bird's-eye view of the
enemy's trenches after a week of drum fire. Besides, there was the pale
carroty hair.

Even then, the braid-bound cutaway and the biscuit-colored spats had me
buffaloed. So I slows up until I can get a front view of the party who's
almost tripped himself with the horn-handled walkin'-stick and is havin'
a few last words with someone in the cab. Then I sees the washed out
blue eyes, and I know there can't be any mistake. About then, too, he
turns and recognizes me.

"Well, for the love of beans!" says I. "Rupert!"

The funny part of it is that I gets it off as cordial as if I was
discoverin' an old trench mate. You know how you will. And, while I
can't say Captain Killam registered any wild joy in his greetin', still
he seemed pleased enough. He gives me a real hearty shake.

"And here is someone else you know," says he, wavin' to the cab: "Mrs.
Mumford."

Blamed if it ain't the cooin' widow. She's right there with the old
familiar purry gush, too, squeezin' my fingers kittenish and askin' me
how "dear, sweet Verona" is. I was just noticin' that she'd ditched the
half mournin' for some real zippy raiment when she leans back so as to
exhibit a third party in the taxi--a young gent with one of these
dead-white faces and a cute little black mustache--reg'lar lounge-lizard
type.

"Oh, and you must meet my dear friend, Mr. Vinton Bartley," she purrs.
"Vinton, this is the Torchy I've spoken about so often."

"Ah, ya-a-as," drawls Vinton, blowin' out a whiff of scented cigarette
smoke lazy. "Quite so. But--er--hadn't we best be getting on, Lorina?"

"Yes, yes," coos Mrs. Mumford. "By-by, Captain. Good-by, Torchy."

And off they whirls, leavin' me with my mouth open and Rupert starin'
after 'em gloomy.

"Lorina, eh?" says I. "How touchin'!"

Killam only grunts, but it struck me he has tinted up a bit under the
eyes.

"Say, Rupert," I goes on, "who's your languid friend with the
cream-of-cabbage complexion?"

"Bartley?" says he. "Oh, he's a friend of Mrs. Mumford; a drama-tist--so
he says."

Now, I might have let it ride at that and gone along about my own
affairs, which ain't so pressin' just then. Yes, I might. But I don't.
Maybe it was hornin' in where there was no welcome sign on the mat, and
then again perhaps it was only a natural folksy feelin' for an old
friend I hadn't seen for a long time. Anyway, I'm prompted sudden to
take Rupert by the arm and insist that he must come and have lunch with
me.

"Why--er--thanks," says the Captain; "but I have a little business to
attend to in here." And he nods to an office buildin'.

"That'll be all right, too," says I. "I'll wait."

"Will you?" says Rupert, beamin'. "I shall be pleased."

So in less'n half an hour I have Rupert planted cozy at a corner table
with a mixed grill in front of him, and I'm givin' him the cue for
openin' any confidential chat he may have on hand. He's a good deal of a
clam, though, Rupert. And suspicious! He must have been born lookin'
over his shoulder. But in my own crude way I can sometimes josh 'em
along.

"Excuse me for mentionin' it, Rupert," says I, "but there's lots of
class to you these days."

"Eh?" says he. "You mean----"

"The whole effect," says I, "from the gaiters to the new-model lid. Just
like you'd strolled out from some Fifth Avenue club and was goin' to
'phone your brokers to buy another block of Bethlehem at the market.
Honest!"

He pinks up and shakes his head, but I can see I've got the range.

"And here Vee and I had it doped out," I goes on, "how you'd be down on
the West Coast by this time, investin' your pile in orange groves and
corner lots."

"No," says Rupert; "I've been here all the while. You see, I--I've grown
rather fond of New York."

"You needn't apologize," says I. "There's a few million others with the
same weakness, not countin' the ones that sleep in New Jersey but always
register from here. Gone into some kind of business, have you?"

Rupert does some fancy side-steppin' about then; but all of a sudden he
changes his mind, and, after glancin' around to see that no one has an
ear out, he starts his confession.

"The fact is," says he, "I've been doing a little literary work."

"Writin' ads," says I, "or solicitin' magazine subscriptions?"

"I am getting out a book of poems," says Rupert, dignified.

"Wh-a-a-at?" I gasps. "Not--not reg'lar limerick stuff?"

I can see now that was a bad break. But Rupert was patient with me. He
explains that these are all poems about sailors and ships and so on;
real salt, tarry stuff. Also, he points out how it's built the new style
way, with no foolish rhymes at the end, and with long lines or short,
just as they happen to come. To make it clear, he digs up a roll of
galley proofs he's just collected from the publishers. And say, he had
the goods. There it was, yards of it, all printed neat in big fat type.
"Sea Songs" is what he calls 'em, and each one has a separate tag of its
own, such as "Kittywakes," "Close Hauled," and "Scuppers Under."

"Looks like the real stuff," says I. "Let's hear how it listens. Ah,
come on! Some of that last one, about scuppers, now."

With a little more urgin', Rupert reads it to me. I should call him a
good reader, too. Anyway, he can untie one of them deep, boomin' voices,
and with that long, serious face of his helpin' out the general
effect--well, it's kind of impressive. He spiels off two or three
stickfuls and then stops.

"Which way was you readin' that, backwards or forwards?" says I.

Rupert begins to stiffen up, and I hurries on with the apology. "My
mistake," says I. "I thought maybe you might have got mixed at the
start. No offense. But say, Cap'n, what's the big idea? What does it all
mean?"

In some ways Rupert is good-natured. He was then. He explains how in
this brand of verse you don't try to tell a story or anything like that.
"I am merely giving my impressions," says he. "That is all.
Interpreting my own feelings, as it were."

"Oh!" says I. "Then there's no goin' behind the returns. Who's to say
you don't feel that way? I get you now. But that ain't the kind of stuff
you can wish onto the magazines, is it?"

Which shows just how far behind the bass-drum I am. Rupert tells me the
different places where he's unloaded his pieces, most of 'em for real
money. Also, I pumps out of him how he came to get into the game. Seems
he'd been roomin' down in old Greenwich Village; just happened to drift
in among them long-haired men and short-haired girls. It turns out that
the book was a little enterprise that was being backed by Mrs. Mumford.
Yes, it's that kind of a book--so much down in advance to the Grafter
Press. You know, Mrs. Mumford always did fall for Rupert, and after
she's read one of his sea spasms in a magazine she don't lose any time
huntin' him out and renewin' their cruise acquaintance. A real poet!
Say, I can just see her playin' that up among her friends. And when she
finds he's mixin' in with all those dear, delightful Bohemians, she
insists that Rupert tow her along too.

From then on it was a common thing for her and Rupert to go browsin'
around among them garlic and red-ink joints, defyin' ptomaines and
learnin' to braid spaghetti on a fork. That was her idea of life. She
hires an apartment right off Washington Square and moves in from
Montclair for the winter. She begun to have what she called her "salon
evenings," when she collected any kind of near-celebrity she could get.

Mr. Vinton Bartley was generally one of the favored guests. I didn't
need any second sight, either, to suspect that Vinton was sort of
crowdin' in on this little romance of Rupert's. And by eggin' Rupert
along judicious I got the whole tale.

Seems it had been one of Mrs. Mumford's ambitions to spring Rupert on an
unsuspectin' public. Her idea is to have Rupert called on, some night at
the Purple Pup, to step up to the head of the long table and give one of
his sea songs. She'd picked Vinton to do the callin'. And Vinton had
balked.

"But say," says I, "is this Vinton gent the only one of her friends
that's got a voice? Why not pick another announcer?"

"I'm sure I don't know," says Rupert. "She--she hasn't mentioned the
subject recently."

"Oh!" says I. "Too busy listenin' to the voice of the viper, eh?"

Rupert nods and stares sad into his empty demi-tasse. And, say, when
Rupert gets that way he's an appealin' cuss.

"See here, Rupert," says I; "if you got a call of that kind, would you
come to the front and make a noise like a real poet?"

"Why," says he, "I suppose I ought to. It would help the sale of the
book, and perhaps----"

"One alibi is enough," I breaks in. "Now, another thing: How'd you like
to have me stage-manage this début of yours?"

"Oh, would you?" says he, beamin'.

"Providin' you'll follow directions," says I.

"Why, certainly," says Rupert. "Any suggestions that you may make----"

"Then we'll begin right now," says I. "You are to ditch that flossy
floor-walker outfit of yours from this on."

"You mean," says Rupert, "that I am not to wear these clothes?"

"Just that," says I. "When you get to givin' mornin' readin's at the
Plaza for the benefit of the Red Cross, you can dig 'em out again; but
for the Purple Pup you got to be costumed different. Who ever heard of a
goulash poet in a braid-bound cutaway and spats? Say, it's a wonder they
let you live south of the Arch."

"But--but what ought I to wear?" asks Rupert.

"Foolish question!" says I. "Who are you, anyway? Answer: the Sailor
Poet. There you are! Sea captain's togs for you--double-breasted blue
coat, baggy-kneed blue trousers, and a yachtin' cap."

"Very well," says Rupert. "But about my being asked to read. Just
how----"

"Leave it to me, Rupert," says I. "Leave everything to me."

Which was a lot simpler than tellin' him I didn't know.

You should have seen Vee's face when I tells her about Rupert's new
line.

"Captain Killam a poet!" says she. "Oh, really now, Torchy!"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "He's done enough for a book. Read me some of it,
too."

"But--but what is it like?" asks Vee. "How does it sound?"

"Why," says I, "it sounds batty to me--like a record made by a sailor
who was simple in the head and talked a lot in his sleep. Course, I'm
no judge. What's the difference, though? Rupert wants to spout it in
public."

"But the people in the restaurant," protests Vee. "Suppose they should
laugh, or do something worse?"

"That's where Rupert is takin' a chance," says I. "Personally, I think
he'll be lucky if they don't throw plates at him. But we ain't
underwritin' any accident policy; we're just bookin' him for a part he
claims he can play. Are you on?"

Vee gets that eye twinkle of hers workin'. "I think it will be perfectly
lovely."

I got to admit, too, that she's quite a help.

"We must be sure Mrs. Mumford and that Bartley person are both there,"
says she. "And we ought to have as many of Captain Killam's friends as
possible. I'll tell you. Let's give a dinner-party."

"Must we?" says I. "You know we ain't introducin' any London success.
This is Rupert's first stab, remember."

We set the date for the day the book was to be out, which gives Rupert
an excuse for celebratin'. He'd invited Mrs. Mumford and Vinton to be
his guests, and they'd promised to be on hand. As for us, we'd rounded
up Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ellins and J. Dudley Simms.

Well, everybody showed up. And as it happens, it's one of the big nights
at the Purple Pup. The long center table is surrounded by a gay bunch of
assorted artists who are bein' financed by an out-of-town buyer who
seems to be openin' Chianti reckless. We were over in one corner, as far
away from the ukulele torturers as we could get, while at the other end
of the room is Rupert with his two. I thought he looked kind of pallid,
but it might have been only on account of the cigarette smoke.

"Is it time yet, Torchy?" asks Mr. Robert, when we gets through to the
striped ice cream and chicory essence.

"Let's hold off," says I, "and see if someone else don't pull a
curtain-raiser."

Sure enough, they did. A bald-headed, red-faced old boy with a Liberty
Bond button in his coat-lapel insists on everybody's drinkin' to our
boys at the front. Followin' that, someone leads a slim, big-eyed young
female to the piano and announces that she will do a couple of Serbian
folk-songs. Maybe she did. I hope the Serbs forgive her.

"If they can take that without squirmin'," says I, "I guess they can
stand for Rupert. Go on, Mr. Robert. Shoot."

Course, he's no spellbinder, but he can say what he wants to in a few
words and make himself heard. And then, bein' in naval uniform helped.

"I think we have with us to-night," says he, "Captain Rupert Killam, the
sailor poet. I should like, if it pleases the company, to ask Captain
Killam to read for us some of his popular verses. Does anyone second the
motion?"

"Killam! Killam!" roars out the sporty wine-opener.

Others took up the chorus, and in the midst of it I dashes over to drag
Rupert from his chair if necessary.

But I wasn't needed. As a matter of fact, he beat me to it. Before I
could get half way to him, he is standin' at the end of the long table,
his eyes dropped modest, and a brand-new volume of "Sea Songs" held
conspicuous over his chest.

"This is indeed an unexpected honor," says Rupert, lyin' fluent. "I am a
plain sailor-man, as you know, but if you insist----"

And, before they could hedge, he has squared his shoulders, thrown his
head well back, and has cut loose with that boomin' voice of his. Does
he put it over? Say, honest, I finds myself listenin' with my mouth
open, just as though I understood every word. And the first thing I know
he's carryin' the house with him. Even some of the Hungarian waiters
stopped to see what it's all about.

                    Tides!
                    Little, rushing, hurrying tides
                    Along the sloping deck.
                    And the bobstay smashing the big blue deep,
                    While under my hand
                    The kicking tiller groans
                    Its oaken soul out in a gray despair.

That's part of it I copied down afterward. Yet that crowd just lapped it
up.

"Wow!" "Brava! Brava!" "What's the matter with Killam?" they yells.
"More!"

Rupert was flushin' clear up the back of his neck now. Also he was
fumblin' with the book, hesitatin' what to give 'em next, when I pushes
in and begins pumpin' his hand.

"Shall--shall I----" he starts to ask.

"No, you boob," I whispers. "Quit while the quittin's good. You got 'em
buffaloed, all right. Let it ride."

And I fairly shoves him over to his table, where Sister Mumford has
already split out a new pair of gloves and is beamin' joyous, while
Vinton is sittin' there with his chin on his necktie, lookin' like
someone had beaned him with a bung-starter.

But we wasn't wise just how strong Rupert had scored until we saw the
half page Whitey Weeks had gotten out of it for the Sunday paper. "New
Poet Captures Greenwich Village" is the top headline, and there's a
three-column cut showin' Rupert spoutin' his "Sea Songs" through the
cigarette smoke. Also, I gather from a casual remark Rupert let drop
yesterday that the prospects of him and Mrs. Mumford enterin' the mixed
doubles class soon are good. And, with her ownin' a big retail coal
business over in Jersey, I expect Rupert can go on writin' his pomes as
free as he likes.




CHAPTER XIV

FORSYTHE AT THE FINISH


I expect I wouldn't have noticed Forsythe particular if it hadn't been
for Mrs. Robert. It takes all kinds, you know, to make up a week-end
house-party bunch; and in these days, when specimens of the razor-usin'
sex are so scarce--well, that's when half portions like this T. Forsythe
Hurd get by as full orders.

Besides, Mrs. Robert had meant well. Her idea was to make the Captain's
48-hour shore leave as gay and lively as possible. She'd had a hard time
roundin' up any of his friends, too. Hence Forsythe. One of these slim,
fine-haired, well manicured parlor Pomeranians, Forsythe is--the kind
who raves over the sandwiches and whispers perfectly killin' things to
the ladies as he flits about at afternoon teas.

We were up at the Ellinses', Vee and me, fillin' out at Saturday
luncheon, when Mr. Robert drifts in, about an hour behind schedule. You
know, he's commandin' one of these coast patrol boats. Some of 'em are
converted steam yachts, some are sea-goin' tugs, and then again some
are just old menhaden fish-boats painted gray with a few three-inch guns
stuck around on 'em casual. And this last is the sort of craft Mr.
Robert had wished on him.

Seems there'd been some weather off the Hook for the last few days, and,
with a fresh U-boat scare on, him and his reformed glue barge had been
havin' anything but a merry time. I don't know how the old fish-boat
stood it, but Mr. Robert showed that he'd been on more or less active
service. He had a three days' growth of stubble on his face, his navy
uniform was wrinkled and brine-stained, and the knuckles on one hand
were all barked up.

"Why, Robert!" says young Mrs. Ellins, as she wriggles out of the clinch
and gives him the once-over. "You're a sight."

"Sorry, my dear," says Mr. Robert; "but the beauty parlor on the
_Narcissus_ wasn't working when I left. But if you can give me half an
hour to----"

He got it. And when he shows up again in dry togs and with his face
mowed he's almost fit to mingle with the guests. It was about then that
T. Forsythe was pullin' his star act at the salad bowl. Course, when you
have only ordinary people around, you let the kitchen help do such
things. But when Forsythe is present he's asked to mix the salad
dressin'.

So there is Forsythe, wearin' a jade-green tie to match the color of the
salad bowl, surrounded by cruets and pepper grinders and paprika
bottles, and manipulatin' his own special olivewood spoon and fork as
dainty and graceful as if he was conductin' an orchestra.

"Oh, I say, Jevons," says he, signalin' the Ellinses' butler, "have
someone conduct a clove of garlic to the back veranda, slice it, and
gently rub it on a crust of fresh bread. Then bring me the bread. And do
you mind very much, Mrs. Ellins, if I have those Papa Gontier roses
removed? They clash with an otherwise perfect color scheme, and you've
no idea how sensitive I am to such jarring notes. Besides, their perfume
is so beastly obtrusive. At times I've been made quite ill by them.
Really."

"Take them away, Jevons," says Mr. Robert, smotherin' a sarcastic smile.

"Huh!" grumbles Mr. Robert. "What a rotter you are, Forsythe. If I could
only get you aboard the _Narcissus_ for a ten-day cruise! I'd introduce
you to perfumes, the sort you could lean up against. You know, when a
boat has carried mature fish for----"

"Please, Bob!" protests Forsythe. "We admit you're a hero, and that
you've been saving the country, but don't let's have the disgusting
details; at least, not when the salad dressing is at its most critical
stage."

Havin' said which, Forsythe proceeds to finish what was for him a hard
day's work.

Discussin' his likes and dislikes was Forsythe's strong hold, and, if
you could believe him, he had more finicky notions than a sanatorium
full of nervous wrecks. He positively couldn't bear the sight of this,
the touch of that, and the sound of the other thing. The rustle of a
newspaper made him so fidgety he could hardly sit still. The smell of
boiled cabbage made him faint. Someone had sent him a plaid necktie for
Christmas. He had ordered his man to pick it up with the fire-tongs and
throw it in the ash-can. Things like that.

All through luncheon we listened while Forsythe described the awful
agonies he'd gone through. We had to listen. You can guess what a joy it
was. And, all the time, I could watch Mr. Robert gettin' sorer and
sorer.

"Entertainin' party, eh?" I remarks on the side, as we escapes from the
dinin'-room.

"Forsythe," says Mr. Robert, "is one of those persons you're always
wanting to kick and never do. I could generally avoid him at the club,
but here----"

Mr. Robert shrugs his shoulders. Then he adds:

"I say, Torchy, you have clever ideas now and then."

"Who, me?" says I. "Someone's been kiddin' you."

"Perhaps," says he; "but if anything should occur to you that might help
toward putting Forsythe in a position where real work and genuine
discomfort couldn't be dodged--well, I should be deeply grateful."

"What a cruel thought!" says I. "Still, if a miracle like that could be
pulled, it would be entertainin' to watch. Eh?"

"Especially if it had to do with handling cold, slippery things,"
chuckles Mr. Robert, "like iced eels or pickles."

Then we both grins. I was tryin' to picture Forsythe servin' a sentence
as helper in a fish market or assistant stirrer in a soap fact'ry. Not
that anything like that could happen through me. Who was I to interfere
with a brilliant drawin'-room performer like him? Honest, with Forsythe
scintillatin' around, I felt like a Bolsheviki of the third class. And
yet, the longer I watched him, the more I mulled over that hint Mr.
Robert had thrown out.

I was still wonderin' if I was all hollow above the eyes, when our
placid afternoon gatherin' is busted complete by a big cream-colored
limousine rollin' through the porte-cochère and a new arrival breezin'
in. From the way Jevons swells his chest out as he helps her shed the
mink-lined motor coat, I guessed she must be somebody important.

"Why, it's Miss Gorman!" whispers Vee.

"Not _the_ Miss Gorman--Miss Jane?" I says.

Vee nods, and I stretches my neck out another kink. Who wouldn't? Not
just because she's a society head-liner, or the richest old maid in the
country, but because she's such a wonder at gettin' things done. You
know, I expect--Red Cross work, suffrage campaignin', Polish relief.
Say, I'll bet if she could be turned loose in Mexico or Russia for a
couple of months, she'd have things runnin' as smooth as a directors'
meetin' of the Standard Oil.

Look at the things she's put through, since the war started, just by
crashin' right in and stayin' on the job. They say she keeps four
secretaries with their suitcases packed, ready to jump into their
travelin' clothes and slide down the pole when she pushes the buzzer
button.

And now she's makin' straight for Mr. Robert.

"What luck!" says she. "I wasn't at all sure of finding you. How much
leave have you? Only until Monday morning? Oh, you overworked naval
officers! But you must find some men for me, Robert; two, at least. I
need them at once."

"Might I ask, Miss Jane," says he, "if any particular qualifications
are----"

"What I would like," breaks in Miss Gorman, "would be two active,
intelligent young men with some initiative and executive ability. You
see, I am giving a going away dinner for some soldiers of the Rainbow
Division who are about to be sent to the transports. It's an official
secret, of course. No one is supposed to know that they are going to
sail soon, but everyone does know. None of their friends or relatives
are to be allowed to be there to wish them God-speed or anything like
that, and they need cheering up just now. So I arrange one of these
dinners when I can. My plans for this one, however, have been terribly
rushed."

"I see," says Mr. Robert. "And it's perfectly bully of you, Miss Jane.
Splendid! I suppose there'll be a hundred or so."

"Six eighty," says she, never battin' an eye. "We are not including the
officers--only privates. And we don't want one of them to lift a finger
for it. They've had enough fatigue duty. This time they're to be
guests--honored guests. I have permission from the Brigadier in command.
We are to have one of the mess halls for a whole day. The chef and
waiters have been engaged, too. And an orchestra. But there'll be so
many to manage--the telling of who to go where, and seeing that the
entertainers don't get lost, and that the little dinner favors are put
around, and all those details. So I must have help."

I could see Mr. Robert rollin' his eyes around for me, so I steps up.
Just from hearin' her talk a couple of minutes I'd caught the fever.
That's a way she has, I understand. So the next thing I knew I'd been
patted on the shoulder and taken on as a volunteer.

"Precisely the sort of assistant I was hoping for," says Miss Gorman. "I
can tell by his hair. I know just what I shall ask him to do. But
there'll be so much more; decorating the tables, and----"

Here I nudges Mr. Robert. "How about Forsythe?" I suggests.

"Eh?" says he. "Why--why---- By Jove, though! Why not? Oh, I say,
Forsythe! Just a moment."

Maybe the same thought struck him as had come to me, which is that
helpin' Miss Jane give a blowout to near seven hundred soldiers wouldn't
be any rest-cure stunt. She's rated at about ninety horse-power herself,
when she's speeded up, and anybody that happens to be on her staff has
got to keep movin' in high. They'd have to be ready to tackle anything
that turned up, too.

But, to hear Mr. Robert explain it to Forsythe, you'd think it was just
that his fame as an arranger of floral center-pieces had spread until
Miss Gorman has decided nobody else would do.

"Although, heaven knows, I never suspected you could be really useful,
Forsythe," says Mr. Robert. "But if Miss Jane thinks you'd be a
help----"

"Oh, I am sure Mr. Hurd would be the very one," puts in Miss Gorman.

"At last!" says Forsythe, strikin' a pose. "My virtues are about to be
discovered. I shall be delighted to assist you, Miss Gorman, in any
way."

"Tut, tut, Forsythe!" says Mr. Robert. "Don't be too reckless. Miss Jane
might take you at your word."

"Go on. Slander me," says Forsythe. "Say that, when enlisted in a noble
cause, I am a miserable shirker."

"Indeed, I shouldn't believe a word of it, even if I had time to listen
to him," declares Miss Jane. "And I must be at the camp within an hour.
I shall need one of you young men now. Let me see. Suppose I take this
one--Torchy, isn't it? Get your coat. I'll not promise to have you back
for dinner, but I'll try. Thank you so much, Robert."

And then it was a case of goin' on from there. Whew! I've sort of had
the notion now and then, when I've been operatin' with Old Hickory
Ellins at the Corrugated Trust on busy days, that I was some rapid
private sec. But say, havin' followed Miss Jane Gorman through them
dinner preliminaries, I know better.

While that French chauffeur of hers is rollin' us down Long Island at
from forty to fifty miles per hour, she has her note-book out and is
pumpin' me full of things I'm expected to remember--what train the
chef's gang is comin' on, how the supplies are to be carted over, who to
see about knockin' up a stage for the cabaret talent, and where the
buntin' has been ordered. I borrows a pad and pencil, and wishes I knew
shorthand.

By the time we lands at the camp, though, I have a fair idea of the job
she's tackled; and while she's havin' an interview with the C. O. I
starts explorin' the scene of the banquet. First off I finds that the
mess-hall seats less than five hundred, the way they got the tables
fixed; that there's no room for a stage without breakin' through one end
and tackin' it on; and that the camp cooks will have the range ovens
full of bread and the tops covered with oatmeal in double boilers as
usual. Outside of that and a few other things, the arrangements was
lovely.

Miss Jane ain't a bit disturbed when I makes my report.

"There!" says she. "Didn't I say you were just the assistant I needed?
Now, please tell all those things to the Brigadier. He will know exactly
what to do. Then you'd best be out here early Monday morning to see that
they're done properly. And I think, Torchy, I shall make you my general
manager for this occasion. Yes, I'll do it. Everyone will report first
to you, and you will tell them exactly where to go and what to do."

"You--you mean," says I, gaspin' a bit, "all the hired help?"

"And the volunteers too," says Miss Jane. "Everyone."

Maybe I grinned. I didn't know just how it was goin' to work out, but I
could feel something comin'. Forsythe was goin' to get his. He stood to
get it good, too. Not all on account of what I owed Mr. Robert for the
friendly turns he'd done me. Some of it would be on my own hook, to pay
up for the yawny half hours I'd had to sit through listenin' while
Forsythe discoursed about himself. You should have seen the satisfied
look on Mr. Robert's face when I hinted how Forsythe might be in line
for new sensations.

"If I could only be there to watch!" says he. "You must tell me all
about it afterwards. They'll enjoy hearing of it at the club."

But, at that, Forsythe wasn't the one to walk right into trouble. He's a
shifty party, and he ain't been duckin' work all these years without
gettin' expert at it. Accordin' to schedule he was to show up at the
camp about nine-thirty Monday morning; but it's nearer noon when he
rolls up in his car. And I don't hesitate a bit about givin' him the
call.

"You know it's this week, not next," says I, "that this dinner is comin'
off. And there's four bolts of buntin' waitin' to be hung up."

"Quite so," says Forsythe. "We must get to work right away."

I had to chase down to the station again then, to see that the chef's
outfit was bein' loaded on the trucks; but I was cheered up by the
thought of Forsythe balanced on top of a tall step-ladder with his mouth
full of tacks and his collar gettin' wilty.

It's near an hour before I gets back, though. Do I find Forsythe in his
shirt-sleeves climbin' around on the rafters? I do not. He's sittin'
comfortable in a camp-chair on a fur motor robe, smokin' a cigarette
calm, and surrounded by half a dozen classy young ladies that he's
rounded up by 'phone from the nearest country club. The girls and three
or four chauffeurs are doin' the work, while Forsythe is doin' the heavy
directin'.

He'd sketched out his decoratin' scheme on the back of an envelop, and
now he was tellin' 'em how to carry it out. The worst of it is, too,
that he's gettin' some stunnin' effects and is bein' congratulated
enthusiastic by the girls.

It's the same way with fixin' up the tables with ferns and flowers.
Forsythe plans it out with a pencil, and his crew do the hustlin'
around.

Course, I had to let it ride. Besides, there was a dozen other things
for me to look after. But I'm good at a waitin' game. I kept my eye on
Forsythe, to see that he didn't slip away. He was still there at
two-thirty, havin' organized a picnic luncheon with the young ladies,
when Miss Jane blew in. And blamed if she don't fall for Forsythe's
stuff, too.

"Why, you've done wonders, Mr. Hurd," says she. "What a versatile genius
you are?"

"Oh, that!" says he, wavin' a sandwich careless. "But it's an
inspiration to be doing anything at all for you, Miss Gorman."

And here he hasn't so much as shed his overcoat.

It must have been half an hour later when Sig. Zaretti, the head chef,
comes huntin' me out with a desperate look in his eyes. I was consultin'
Miss Jane about borrowin' a piano from the Y. M. C. A. tent, but he
kicks right in.

"Ah, I am distract," says he, puffin' out his cheeks. "Eet--eet ees too
mooch!"

"Go on," says I. "Shoot the tragedy. What's too much?"

"That Pedro and that Salvatore," says he. "They have become lost, the
worthless ones. They disappear on me. And in three hours I am to serve,
in this crude place, a dinner of six courses to seven hundred men. They
abandon me at such a time, with so much to be done."

"Well, that's up to you," says I. "Can't some of your crowd double in
brass? What about workin' in some of your waiters?"

"But they are all employed," says Zaretti. "Besides, the union does not
permit. If you could assist me with two men, even one. I implore."

"There ain't a cook in sight," says I. "Sorry, but----"

"Eet ees not for cook," he protests. "No; only to help make the peel
from those so many potatoes. One who could make the peel. Please!"

"Oh!" says I. "Peelin' potatoes! Why, 'most anybody could help out at
that, I guess. I would myself if----"

"No," breaks in Miss Jane. "You cannot be spared. And I'm sure I don't
know who could."

"Unless," I puts in, "Mr. Hurd is all through with his decoratin'."

"Why, to be sure," says she. "Just tell him, will you?"

"Suppose I send him over to you, Miss Gorman," says I, "while I hustle
along that piano?"

She nods, and I lose no time trailin' down Forsythe.

"Emergency call for you from Miss Jane," says I, edgin' in among his
admirers and tappin' him on the shoulder. "She's waitin' over by
headquarters."

"Oh, certainly," says Forsythe, startin' off brisk.

"And say," I calls after him, "I hope it won't be anything that'll make
you faint."

"Please don't worry about me," says he.

Well, I tried not to. In fact, I tried so hard that some folks might
have thought I'd heard good news from home. But I'd had a peek or two
into the camp kitchen since Zaretti's food construction squad had moved
in, and, believe me, it was no place for an artistic temperament,
subject to creeps up the back. There was about a ton of cold-storage
turkeys bein' unpacked, bushels of onions goin' through the shuckin'
process, buckets of soup stock standin' around, and half a dozen
murderous-lookin' assistant chefs was sharpenin' long knives and
jabberin' excited in four languages.

Oh, yes; Forsythe was goin' to need all the inspiration he'd collected,
if he lasted through.

I kind of wanted to stick around and cheer him up with friendly words
while he was fishin' potatoes out of the cold water and learnin' to use
a peelin'-knife, but my job wouldn't let me. After I'd seen the piano
landed on the new stage, there were chairs to be placed for the
orchestra, and then other things. So it was some little time before I
got around to the kitchen wing again, pretendin' to be lookin' for
Zaretti. But nowhere in that steamin', hustlin', garlic-smellin' bunch
could I see Forsythe.

"Hey, chef!" I sings out. "Where's that expert potato-peeler I sent
you?"

"Ah!" says he, rubbin' his hands enthusiastic. "The signor with the
yellow gloves? In the tent there you will find heem."

So I steps over to the door of a sort of canvas annex and peers in. And
say, it was a rude shock. Forsythe is there, all right. He's snuggled up
cozy next to an oil heater, holdin' a watch in one hand and a cigarette
in the other, while around him is grouped his faithful fluff
body-guard, each with a pan in her lap and the potato-peelin's comin'
off rapid. Forsythe? Oh, he seems to be speedin' 'em up and keepin'
tally.

I'd just let out my second gasp when I feels somebody at my elbow, and
glances round to find it's Miss Jane.

"Look!" says I, indicatin' Forsythe and his busy bees.

"What a picture!" says Miss Jane.

"Yes," says I, "illustratin' the manly art of lettin' the women do it."

Miss Jane laughs easy.

"It has been that way for ages," says she. "Mr. Hurd is only running
true to type. But see! The potatoes are nearly all peeled and our dinner
is going to be served on time. What splendid assistants you've both
been!"

At that, though, if there'd been a medal to be passed out, I guess it
would have been pinned on Forsythe.




CHAPTER XV

THE HOUSE OF TORCHY


This trip it was a matter of tanks. No, not the ice-water variety, or
the kind that absorbs high-balls. Army tanks--the sort that wallows out
at daybreak and gives the Hun that chilly feelin' down his spine.

Accordin' to my credentials, I was supposed to be inspectin' 'em for
weak spots in the armor or punk work on the gears. And I can tell you
now, on the side, that it was 90 per cent. bluff. What the Ordnance
Department really wanted to know was whether the work was bein' speeded
up proper, how many men on the shifts, and was the steel comin' through
from the rollin' mills all right. Get me? Sleuth stuff.

I'd been knockin' around there for four days, bein' towed about by the
reserve major, who had a face on him like a stuffed owl, a nut full of
decimal fractions, and a rubber-stamp mind. Oh, he was on the job, all
right. So was everybody else in sight. I could see that after the first
day. In fact, I coded in my O. K. the second noon and was plannin' to
slip back home.

But when I hinted as much to the Major he nearly threw a cat-fit. Why,
he'd arranged a demonstration at 10 A.M. Thursday, for my special
benefit. And there were the tests--horse-power, gun-ranges, resistance,
and I don't know what all; technical junk that I savvied about as much
as if he'd been tryin' to show me how to play the Chinese alphabet on a
piccolo.

Course, I couldn't tell him that, nor I didn't want to break his heart
by refusin'. So I agrees to stick around a while longer. But say, I
never enjoyed such a poor time doin' it. For there was just one spot on
the map where I was anxious to be for the next few days. That was at
home. It was one of the times when I ought to be there too, for----
Well, I'll get to that later.

Besides, this fact'ry joint where they were buildin' the tanks wasn't
any allurin' spot. I can't advertise just where it was, either; the
government wouldn't like it. But if there's any part of Connecticut
that's less interestin' to loaf around in, I never got stranded there.
You run a spur track out into the bare hills for fifteen miles from
nowhere, slap up a row of cement barracks, and a few acres of machine
shops, string a ten-foot barbed-wire fence around the plant, drape the
whole outfit in soft-coal smoke, and you ain't got any Garden of Eden
winter resort. Specially when it's full of low-brow mechanics who speak
in seven different lingos and subsist mainly on cut plug and garlic.

After I'd checked up all the dope I'd come for, and durin' the times
when the Major was out plannin' more inspection stunts for me, I was
left to drill around by myself. Hours and hours. And all there was to
read in the Major's office was engineerin' magazines and the hist'ry of
Essex County, Mass. Havin' been fed up on mechanics, I tackled the
hist'ry. One chapter had a corkin' good Indian scalpin' story in it,
about a Mrs. Hannah Dustin; and say, as a short-order hair remover she
was a lady champ, all right. But the rest of the book wasn't so
thrillin'.

So I tried chattin' with the Major's secretary, a Lieutenant Barnes. The
Major must have picked him out on account of that serious face of his.
First off, I had an idea Barnes was sad just because he was detailed at
this soggy place instead of bein' sent to France. I asks him sort of
sympathizin' how long he's been here. He says three months.

"In this hole?" says I. "How do you keep from goin' bug-house?"

"I don't mind it," says he. "I find the work quite interesting."

"But evenin's?" I suggests.

"I write to my wife," says he.

I wanted to ask him what about, but I choked it back. "Oh, yes," says I.
"Of course. Any youngsters at home!"

"No," says he prompt. "Life is complicated enough without children."

"Oh, I don't know," says I. "They'd sort of help, I should think."

He shakes his head and glares gloomy out of the window. "I cannot agree
with you," says he. "Perhaps you have never seriously considered just
what it means to be a parent."

"Maybe not," says I, "but----"

"Few seem to do so," he breaks in. "Just think: one begins by putting
two lives in jeopardy."

"Let's pass over that," I says hasty.

He sighs. "If we only could," says he. "And then---- Well, there you
are--saddled with the task of caring for another human being, of keeping
him in good health, of molding his character, of planning and directing
his whole career, from boyhood on."

"Some are girls, though," I suggests.

He shudders. "So much the worse," says he. "Girl babies are such
delicate creatures; all babies are, in fact. Do you know the average
rate of infant mortality in this country? Just think of the hundreds of
thousands who do not survive the teething period. Imagine the anxieties,
the sleepless nights, the sad little tragedies which come to so many
homes. Then the epidemic diseases--measles, scarlet fever, meningitis.
Let them survive all those, and what has the parent to face but the
battle with other plagues, mental and moral? Think of the number of
weak-minded children there are in the world; of perverts, criminally
inclined. It is staggering. But if you escape all that, if your children
are well and normal, as some are, then you must consider this: Suppose
anything should happen to either or both of the parents? What of the
little boy or girl? You have seen orphan asylums, I suppose. Have you
ever stopped to----"

And then, just as he had me feelin' like I ought to be led out and shot
at sunrise, the old Major comes bustlin' in fussy. I could have fallen
on his neck.

"All ready!" says he. "Now I'll show you a fighting machine, young man,
that is the last word in mechanical genius."

"You can show me anything, Major," says I, "so long as it ain't a morgue
or a State's prison."

And he sure had some boiler-plate bus out there champin' at the bit. It
looked just as frisky as the Flatiron Buildin', squattin' in the middle
of the field, this young Fort Slocum with the caterpillar wheels sunk in
the mud.

"Stuck, ain't she?" I asked the Major.

"We shall see," says he, noddin' to one of his staff, who proceeds to do
a semaphore act with his arms.

An answerin' snort comes from inside the thing, a purry sort of rumble
that grows bigger and bigger, and next I knew, it starts wallowin' right
at us. It keeps comin' and comin', gettin' up speed all the while, and
if there hadn't been a four-foot stone wall between us I'd been lookin'
for a tall tree. I thought it would turn when it came to the wall. But
it don't. It gives a lurch, like a cow playin' leap-frog, and over she
comes, still pointed our way.

"Hey, Major!" I calls out above the roar. "Can they see where they're
goin' in there? Hadn't we better give 'em room?"

"Don't move, please," says he.

"Just as you say," says I; "only I ain't strong for bein' rolled into
pie-crust."

"There's no danger," says he. "I merely wish you to see how---- There!
Look!"

And say, within twenty feet of us the blamed thing rears up on its
haunches, its ugly nose high as a house above us, and, while I'm still
holdin' my breath, it pivots on its tail and lumbers back, leavin' a
path that looks like it had been paved with Belgian blocks.

Course, that's only part of the performance. We watched it wallow into
deep ditches and out, splash through a brook, and mow down trees more'n
a foot thick. And all the time the crew were pokin' out wicked-lookin'
guns, big and little, that swung round and hunted us out like so many
murderous eyes.

"Cute little beast, ain't it?" says I. "You got it trained so it'll
almost do a waltz. If I was to pick my position, though, I think I'd
rather be on the inside lookin' out."

"Very well," says the Major. "You shall have a ride in it."

"Excuse me," says I. "I was only foolin'. Honest, Major, I ain't
yearnin'."

"Telegram for you," breaks in Barnes, the secretary.

"Oh!" says I, a bit gaspy, as I rips open the envelop.

It's the one I'd been espectin'. All it says is: "Come at once. VEE."
But I knew what that meant.

"Sorry, Major," says I, "but I'll have to pass up the rest of the show.
I--I'm called back."

"Ah! To headquarters?" says he.

"No," says I. "Home."

He shakes his head and frowns. "That is a word which no officer is
supposed to have in his vocabulary," says he.

"It's in mine, all right," says I. "But then, I'm not much of an army
officer, anyway. I'm mostly a camouflaged private sec. Besides, this
ain't any ordinary call. It's a domestic S. O. S. that I've been sort of
lookin' for."

"I understand," says he. "The--the first?"

I nods. Then I asks: "What's the quickest way across to Long Island?"

"There isn't any quick way," says he, "unless you have wings. You can't
even catch the branch line local that connects with the New York
express now. There'll be one down at 8:36 to-morrow morning, though."

"Wha-a-at!" says I, gawpin' at him. "How about gettin' a machine and
shootin' down to the junction?"

"My car is the only one here," says he, "and that is out of commission
to-day--valves being ground."

"But look," says I; "you got three or four of those motor-cycles with a
bath-tub tacked on the side. Couldn't you let one of your sergeants----"

"Strictly against orders," says he, "except for military purposes."

"Ah, stretch it, Major," I goes on. "Have a heart. Just think! I want to
get there to-night. Got to!"

"Impossible," says he.

"But listen----" I keeps on.

Well, it's no use rehearsin' the swell arguments I put up. I said he had
a rubber-stamp mind, didn't I? And I made about as much headway talkin'
to him as I would if I'd been assaultin' that tank with a tack-hammer.
He couldn't see any difference between havin' charge of a string of
machine shops in Connecticut and commandin' a regiment in the front-line
trenches. Besides, he didn't approve of junior officers bein' married.
Not durin' war-time, anyway.

And the worst of it was, I couldn't tell him just the particular kind of
ossified old pinhead I thought he was. All I could do was grind my
teeth, say "Yes, sir," and salute respectful.

Also there was that undertaker-faced secretary standin' by with his ear
out. The prospect of sittin' around watchin' him for the rest of the day
wasn't fascinatin'. No; I'd had about all of Barnes I could stand. A few
more of his cheerin' observations, and I'd want to jam his head into his
typewriter and then tread on the keys. Nor I wasn't goin' to be fed on
any more cog-wheel statistics by the Major, either.

All I could keep on my mind then was this one thing: How could I get
home? Looked like I was up against it, too. The nearest town was twelve
miles off, and the main-line junction was some thirty-odd miles beyond
that. Too far for an afternoon hike. But I couldn't just sit around and
wait, or pace up and down inside the barbed-wire fence like an enemy
alien that had been pastured out. So I wanders through the gate and down
a road. I didn't know where it led, or care. Maybe I had a vague idea a
car would come along. But none did.

I must have been trampin' near an hour, with my chin down and my fists
jammed into my overcoat pockets, when I catches a glimpse, out of the
tail of my eye, of something yellow dodgin' behind a clump of cedars at
one side of the road. First off I thought it might be a cow, as there
was a farm-house a little ways ahead. Then it struck me no cow would
move as quick as that, or have such a bright yellow hide. So I turns and
makes straight for the cedars.

It was a thick, bushy clump. I climbed the stone wall and walked all the
way round. Nothin' in sight. Seemed as if I could see branches movin' in
there, though, and hear a sound like heavy breathin'. Course, it might
be a deer, or a fox. Then I remembered I had half a bag of peanuts
somewhere about me. Maybe I could toll the thing out with 'em. I was
just fishin' in my pockets when from the middle of the cedars comes this
disgusted protest.

"Oh, I say, old man," says a voice. "No shooting, please."

And with that out steps a clean-cut, cheerful-faced young gent in a
leather coat, goggled helmet, and spiral puttees. No wonder I stood
starin'. Not that I hadn't seen plenty like him before, but I didn't
know the woods was so full of 'em.

"You were out looking for me, I suppose?" he goes on.

"Depends on who you are," says I.

"Oh, we might as well come down to cases," says he. "I'm the enemy."

"You don't look it," says I, grinnin'.

He shrugs his shoulders.

"Fact, old man," says he. "I'm the one you were sent to watch
for--Lieutenant Donald Allen, 26th Flying Corps Division, Squadron B."

"Pleased to meet you," says I.

"No doubt," says he. "Have a cigarette?" We lights up from the same
match. "But say," he adds, "it was just a piece of tough luck, your
catching me in this fix."

"Oh, I ain't so sure," says I.

"Of course," he says, "it won't go with the C. O. But really, now, what
are you going to do when your observer insists that he's dying? I
couldn't tell. Perhaps he was. Right in the middle of a perfect flight,
too, the chump! Motor working sweet, air as smooth as silk, and no cross
currents to speak of. But, with him howling about this awful pain in
his tummy, what else could I do? Had to come down and---- Well, here we
are. I'm behind the lines, I suppose, and you'll report my surrender."

"Then what?" I asks.

"Oh," says Allen, "as soon as I persuade this trolley-car aviator,
Martin, that he isn't dead, I shall load him into the old bus and cart
him back to Mineola."

"Wha-a-t!" says I. "You--you're goin' back to Mineola--to-night?"

"If Martin can forget his tummy," says he. "How I'll be guyed! Go to the
foot of the eligible list too, and probably miss out on being sent over
with my division. Oh, well!"

I was beginning to dope out the mystery. More'n that, I had my fingers
on the tail feathers of a hunch.

"Why not leave Martin here?" I suggests. "Couldn't you show up in time?"

"It wouldn't count," says the Lieutenant. "You must have an observer all
the way."

"How about me subbin' in?" says I.

"You?" says he. "Why, you're on the other side."

"That's where you're mixed," says I. "I'm on the wrong side of Long
Island Sound, that's all."

"Why," says he, "weren't you sent out to----"

"No," I breaks in; "I'm no spotter. I'm on special detail from the
Ordnance Department. And a mighty punk detail at that, if you ask me.
The party who's sleuthin' for you, I expect, is the one I saw back at
the plant, moonin' around with a pair of field glasses strapped to him.
You ain't captured yet; not by me, anyway."

"Honest?" says he. "Why, then--then----"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "And if you can make it back to Mineola with a
perfectly good passenger in the extra seat you'll qualify for scout work
and most likely be over pluggin' Huns within a month or so. That won't
tickle you a bit more'n it will me to get to Long Island to-night,
for----"

Well, then I tells him about Vee, and everything.

"By George!" says he. "You're all right, Lieutenant--er----"

"Ah, between friends, Donald," says I, "it's Torchy."

At which we links arms chummy and goes marchin' close order down to the
farm-house to see how this Martin party was gettin' on. We finds him
rolled up in quilts on an old sofa that the folks had shoved up in front
of the stove--a slim, nervous-lookin' young gink with sandy hair and a
peaked nose.

"Well, how about you?" asks Allen.

Martin he only moans and reaches for a warm flat-iron that he'd been
holdin' against his stomach.

"Still dying, eh?" says Allen. "Why didn't you report sick this morning,
instead of letting them send you up with me?"

"I--I was all right then," whines Martin. "It--it must have been the
altitude got me. I--I'd never been that high before, you know."

"Bah!" says the Lieutenant. "Not over thirty-five hundred at any time.
How do you expect me to take you back--on the hundred-foot level? You'll
make a fine observer, you will!"

"I've had enough observing," says Martin. "I--I'm going to get
transferred to the mechanical department."

"Oh, are you?" says Allen. "Then you'll be just as satisfied to make the
trip back by rail."

Martin nods.

"And you won't be needing your helmet and things, eh?" goes on the
Lieutenant. "I'll take those along, then," and he winks at me.

All of a sudden, though, the sparkles fade out of his eyes. "Jinxed
again!" says he. "There'd be no blessed map to hand in."

"Eh?" says I. "Map of what!"

He explains jerky. This scoutin' stunt of his was to locate the tank
works and get close enough for an observer to draw a plan of it--all of
which he'd done, only by then Martin had got past the drawin' stage.

"So it's no use going back to-night."

"Ain't it?" says I. "Say, if a map of that smoky hole is all you need, I
guess I can produce that easy enough."

"Can you?" he asks.

"Why not?" says I. "Ain't I been cooped up there for nearly a week? I
can put in a bird's-eye view of the Major in command; one of his
secretary, too, if you like. Gimme some paper."

And inside of five minutes I'd sketched out a diagram of the buildin's
and the whole outfit. Then we poked Martin up long enough for him to
sign it.

"Fine work!" says Donald. "That earns you a hop, all right. Now buckle
yourself into that cloud costume and I'll show you how a 110-horse-power
crow would go from here to the middle of Long Island if he was in a
hurry."

"You can't make it any too speedy for me," says I, slippin' into the
sheepskin jacket.

"Ever been up before?" he asks.

"Only once--in a hydro," says I; "but I ain't missed any chances."

"That's the spirit!" says he. "Come along. The old bus is anchored down
the field a ways."

I couldn't hardly believe I was actually goin' to pull it off until he'd
got the motor started and we went skimmin' along the ground. But as soon
as we shook off the State of Connecticut and began climbin' up over a
strip of woods, I settles back in the little cockpit, buttons the
wind-shield over my mouth, and sighs contented.

Allen and I didn't exchange much chat. You don't with an engine of that
size roarin' a few feet in front of you and your ears buttoned down by
three or four layers of wool and leather. Once he points out ahead and
tries to shout something, I don't know what. But I nods and waves
encouragin'. Later he points down and grins. I grins back.

Next thing I knew, he's shut off the motor, and I gets a glimpse of the
whole of Long Island behavin' odd. Seems as if it's swellin' and
widenin' out, like one of these freaky toy balloons you blow up. It
didn't seem as if we was divin' down--more like the map was rushin' up
to meet us. Pretty soon I could make out a big open space with a lot of
squatty buildin's at one end, and in a couple of minutes more the
machine was rollin' along on its wheels and we taxied graceful up
towards the hangars.

It was just gettin' dusk as we piles out, and the first few yards I
walked I felt like I was dressed in a divin' suit with a pair of lead
boots on my feet. I saw Allen salute an officer, hand over the map, and
heard him say something about Observer Martin wantin' to report sick.
Then he steers me off toward the barracks, circles past' em, and leads
me through a back gate.

"I think we've put it over, old man," says he, givin' me the cordial
grip. "I can't tell you what a good turn you've done me."

"It's fifty-fifty," says I. "Where do I hit a station?"

"You take this trolley that's coming," says he. "That junk you have on
you can send back to-morrow, in my care. And I--I trust you'll find
things all right at home."

"Thanks," says I. "Hope you'll have the same luck yourself some day."

"Oh, perhaps," says he, shakin' his head doubtful. "If I ever get back.
But not until I'm past thirty, anyway."

"Why so late?" asks I.

"What would get my goat," says he, "would be the risk of breakin' into
the grandfather class before I got ready."

"Gee!" I gasps. "I hadn't thought of that."

So, with this new idea, and the cheerin' views Barnes had pumped into
me, I has plenty to chew over durin' the next hour or so that I'm
speedin' towards home. I expect that accounts some for the long face I
must have been wearin' when I finally dashes through the front gate of
the Lilacs and am let into the house by Leon Battou, the little old
Frenchman who cooks and buttles for us.

"Ah, _mon Dieu!_" says Leon, throwin' up his hands and starin' at me
bug-eyed. "Monsieur!"

"Go on," says I. "Tell me the worst. What is it?"

"But no, M'sieur," says he. "It is only that M'sieur appears in so
strange attire."

"Oh! These?" says I. "Never mind my costume, Leon. What about Vee?"

"Ah!" says he, his eyes beamin' once more and his hands washin' each
other. "Madame is excellent. She herself will tell you. Come!"

Upstairs I went, two steps at a time.

"S-s-sh!" says the nurse, meetin' me at the door.

But I brushes past her, and the next minute I'm over by the bed and Vee
is smilin' up at me. It's only the ghost of a smile, but it means a lot
to me. She slips one of her hands into mine.

"Torchy," she whispers, "did you drop down out of--of the air?"

"That was about it," says I. "I got here, though. Are you all right,
girlie?"

She nods and gives me another of them sketchy, happy smiles.

"And how about the--the----" I starts to ask.

She glances towards the corner where the nurse is bendin' over a pink
and white basket. "He's splendid," she whispers.

"He?" says I. "Then--then it's a boy?"

She gives my hand a little squeeze.

And ten minutes later, when I'm shooed out, I'm feelin' so chesty and
happy that I'm tingly all over.

Down in the livin'-room Leon is waitin' for me, wearin' a broad grin. He
greets me with his hand out. And then, somehow, because he's so
different, I expect, I remembers Barnes. I was wonderin' if Leon was
just puttin' on.

"Well," says I, "how about it?"

"Ah, Monsieur!" says he, givin' me the hearty grip. "I make to you my
best congratulations."

"Then you don't feel," says I, "that bein' a parent is kind of a sad and
solemn business?"

"Sad!" says he. "_Non, non!_ It is the grand joy of life. It is when you
have the best right to be proud and glad, for to you has come _la bonne
chance_. Yes, _la bonne chance!_"

And say, there's no mistakin' that Leon means every word of it, French
and all.

"Thanks, Leon," says I. "You ought to know. You've been through it
yourself. I'll bet you wouldn't even feel bad at being a grandfather.
No? Well, I guess I'll follow through on that line. Maybe I don't
deserve so much luck, but I'm takin' it just as though I did. And say,
Leon, let's us go out in the back yard and give three cheers for the son
and heir of the house of Torchy."




CHAPTER XVI

TORCHY GETS THE THUMB GRIP


I expect a lot of people thought it about me; but the one who really
registered the idea was Auntie. Trust her. For of course, with an event
of this kind staged in the house we couldn't expect to dodge a visit
from the old girl. She came clear up from Miami--although, with so much
trouble about through sleepers and everything, I kept tellin' Vee I was
afraid she wouldn't think it worth while makin' the trip.

"How absurd, Torchy!" says Vee. "Not want to see baby? To be sure, she
will."

You see, Vee had the right hunch from the very first--about the
importance of this new member of the fam'ly, I mean. She took it as a
matter of course that everybody who'd ever known or heard of us would be
anxious to rush in and gaze awe-struck and reverent at this remarkable
addition we'd made to the population of Long Island. Something like
that. She don't have to work up to it. Seems to come natural. Why, say,
she'd sit by and listen without crackin' a smile to these regular
gushers who laid it on so thick you'd 'most thought the youngster
himself would have turned over and run his tongue out at 'em.

"Oh, the dear, darling 'ittle cherub!" they'd squeal. "Isn't he simp-ly
the most won-der-ful baby you ev-er saw?"

And Vee would never blink an eye. In fact, she'd beam on 'em grateful,
and repeat to me afterwards what they'd said, like it was just a case of
the vote bein' made unanimous, as she knew it was bound to be all along.

Which wasn't a bit like any of the forty-seven varieties of Vee I
thought I was so well acquainted with. No. I'll admit she'd shown whims
and queer streaks now and then, and maybe a fault or so; but nothing
that had anything to do with any tendency of the ego to stick its elbows
out. Yet, when it comes to listenin' to flatterin' remarks about our son
and heir--well, no Broadway star readin' over what his press-agent had
smuggled into the dramatic notes had anything on her. She couldn't have
it handed to her too strong.

As for me, I guess I was in sort of a daze there for a week or so.
Gettin' to be a parent had been sprung on me so sudden that it was sort
of confusin'. I couldn't let on to be a judge of babies myself. I don't
know as I'd ever examined one real near to before, anyway--not such a
new one as this.

And, between me and you, when I did get a chance to size him up real
close once,--they'd all gone out of the room and left me standin' by the
crib,--I was kind of disappointed. Uh-huh. No use kiddin' yourself. I
couldn't see a thing wonderful about him, or where he was much different
from others I'd glanced at casual. Such a small party to have so much
fuss made over! Why, one of his hands wasn't much bigger'n a cat's paw.
And his face was so red and little and the nose so sketchy that it
didn't seem likely he'd ever amount to much. Here he'd had more'n a week
to grow in, and I couldn't notice any change at all.

Not that I was nutty enough to report any such thoughts. Hardly. I felt
kind of guilty at just havin' 'em in my head. How was it, I asked
myself, that I couldn't stand around with my hands clasped and my eyes
dimmed up, as a perfectly good parent should when he gazes at his first
and only chee-ild! Wasn't I human?

All the alibi I can put up is that I wasn't used to bein' a father.
Ain't there something in that? Just think, now. Why, I'd hardly got
used to bein' married. Here, only a little over a year ago, I was
floatin' around free and careless. And then, first thing I know, without
any special coachin' in the act, I finds myself pushed out into the
center of the stage with the spot-light on me, and I'm introduced as a
daddy.

The only thing I could do was try to make a noise like one. I didn't
feel it, any more'n I felt like a stained-glass saint in a church
window. And I didn't know the lines very well. But there was everybody
watching,--Vee, and the nurse, and Madame Battou, and occasional
callers,--so I proceeds to bluff it through the best I could.

My merry little idea was to be familiar with the youngster, treat him as
if he'd been a member of the fam'ly for a long time, and hide any
embarrassin' feelin's I might have by addressin' him loud and joshin'. I
expect it was kind of a poor performance, at that. But I seemed to be
gettin' away with it, so I stuck to that line. Vee appears to take it
all right, and, as nobody else gave me the call, I almost got to believe
it was the real thing myself.

So this particular afternoon, when I came breezin' in from town, I
chases right up to the nursery, where I knew I'd find Vee, gives her
the usual hail just behind the ear, and then turns hasty to the crib to
show I haven't forgot who's there.

"Hello, old sport!" says I, ticklin' him in the ribs. "How you hittin'
'em, hey? Well, well! Look at the fistses doubled up! Who you goin' to
hand a wallop to now? Oh, tryin' to punch yourself in the eye, are you?
Come there, you young rough-houser, lay off that grouchy stuff and speak
some kind words to your daddy. You won't, eh? Goin' to kick a little
with the footsies. That's it. Mix in with all fours, you young----"

And just then I hears a suppressed snort that sounds sort of familiar. I
glances around panicky, and gets the full benefit of a disgusted glare
from a set of chilled steel eyes, and discovers that there's someone
besides Vee and the nurse present. Yep. It's Auntie.

"May I ask," says she, "if this is your usual manner of greeting your
offspring?"

"Why," says I, "I--I expect it is."

"Humph!" says she. "I might have known."

"Now, Auntie," protests Vee, "you know very well that Torchy means----"

"Whatever he means or doesn't mean," breaks in Auntie, "I am sure he
has an astonishing way of showing parental affection. Calling the child
an 'old scout,' a 'young rough-houser'! It's shocking."

"Sorry," says I; "but I ain't taken any lessons in polite baby talk yet.
Maybe in time I could learn this ittums-tweetums stuff, but I doubt it.
Always made me sick, that did; and one of the things Vee and I agreed on
was that----"

"Oh, very well," says Auntie. "I do not intend to interfere in any way."

As if she could help it! Why, say, she'd give St. Peter advice on
gate-keepin'. But for the time bein', each of us havin' had our say, we
calls it a draw and gets back to what looks like a peace footin'. But
from then on I knew she had her eyes out at me. Every move I made was
liable to get her breathin' short or set her squirmin' in her chair. And
you know how it's apt to be in a case like that. I made more breaks than
ever. I'd forget about the youngster bein' asleep and cut loose with
something noisy at the wrong time. Or I'd jolt her some other way.

But she held in until, one night after dinner, when the baby had
indulged in too much day sleepin' and was carryin' on a bit, I takes a
notion to soothe him with a few humorous antics while Auntie is safe
downstairs. You see, I'd never been able to get him to take any notice
of me before; but this time, after I'd done a swell imitation of a Fred
Stone dance, I had him cooin' approvin', the nurse smotherin' a smile,
and Vee snickerin'.

Naturally, I has to follow it up with something else. I was down on my
hands and knees doin' a buckin' bronco act across the floor, when there
comes this gasp from the doorway. It seems Auntie was passin' by, and
peeked in. Her eyebrows go up, her mouth corners come down, and she
stiffens like she'd grabbed a high-voltage feed wire. I saw it comin',
but the best I can do is steady myself on my fingers and toes and wish I
had cotton in my ears.

"Really!" says she. "Are you never to realize, young man, that you are
now supposed to be a husband and a father?"

And, before I can shoot back a word, she's sailed on, her chin in the
air and her mouth about as smilin' as a crack in a vinegar bottle. But
she'd said it. She'd pushed it home, too. And the worst of it was, I
couldn't deny that she had the goods on me. I might pass as a husband,
if you didn't expect too much. But as for the rest--well, I knew I
wasn't meetin' the specifications.

The only model I could think of was them fond parent groups you see in
the movie close-ups--mother on the right, father at the left, and Little
Bright Eyes squeezed in between and bein' mauled affectionate. Had we
ever indulged in any such family clinch? Not up to date. Why? Was it
because I was a failure as a daddy? Looked so. And here was Auntie
taxin' me with it. Would other folks find out, too?

I begun thinkin' over the way different ones had taken the news. Old
Hickory, for instance. I was wearin' a wide grin and still feelin' sort
of chesty when I broke into his private office and handed him the
bulletin.

"Eh?" he grunts, squintin' at me from under them bushy eyebrows. "A
father! You? Good Lord!"

"Why not?" says I. "It's still being done, ain't it?"

"Oh, I suppose so. Yes, yes," he goes on, starin' at me. "But somehow,
young man, I can hardly think of you as--as---- Well, congratulations,
Torchy. You have frequently surprised me by rising to the occasion.
Perhaps you will in this also."

"Thanks, Mr. Ellins," says I. "It's nice of you to cheer me up that
way."

Piddie, of course, said the right and elegant thing, just as if he'd
learned it out of a book. He always does, you know. Makes a reg'lar
little speech, and finishes by givin' me the fraternal handclasp and a
pat on the shoulder.

But a minute after I caught him gazin' at me wonderin', and he goes off
shakin' his head.

Then I runs across my newspaper friend Whitey Weeks, who used to know me
when I was a cub office-boy on the Sunday editor's door.

"Well, Torchy," says he, "what you got on your mind?"

"Nothing you could make copy out of," says I, "but it's a whale of an
event for me."

"You don't say," says he. "Somebody died and left you the business?"

"Just the opposite," says I.

"I don't get you," says he.

"Ah, what's usually in the next column?" says I. "It's a case of
somebody bein' born."

"Why--why," says he, openin' his mouth, "you don't mean that----"

"Uh-huh," says I, tryin' to look modest.

[Illustration: "I was down on my knees doin' a buckin' bronco act, when
there comes a gasp from the doorway."]

"Haw-haw!" roars Whitey, usin' the steam siren effect. And, as it's
right on the corner of Forty-second and Broadway, he comes near
collectin' a crowd. Four or five people turn around to see what the
merriment is all about, and a couple of 'em stops short in their tracks.
One guy I spotted for a vaudeville artist lookin' for stuff that might
fat up his act.

"Say," Whitey goes on, poundin' me on the back jovial, "that's rich,
that is!"

"Glad it amuses you," says I, startin' to move off.

"Oh, come, old chap!" says he, followin' along. "Don't get crabby.
What--what is it, anyway?"

"It's a baby," says I. "Quite a young one. Now go laugh your fat head
off, you human hyena."

With that shot I dashes through the traffic and catches a downtown car,
leavin' him there with his silly face unhinged. And I did no more
announcin' to anybody. I was through advertisin'. When some of the
commuters on the eight-three heard the news and started springin' their
comic tricks on me, I pretended I didn't understand.

I don't know what they thought. I didn't give a whoop, either. I wasn't
demandin' that anybody should pass solemn resolutions thankin' me for
what I'd done for my country, or stand with their hats off as I went by.
But I was overstocked on this joke-book junk.

Maybe I didn't look like a father, or act like one; but I was doin' my
best on the short notice I'd had.

I will say for Vee that she stood by me noble. She seemed to think
whatever I did was all right, even when I shied at holdin' the youngster
for the first time.

"I'm afraid I'll bend him in the wrong place," I protests.

"Goose!" says she. "Of course you won't."

"Suppose I should drop him?" says I.

"You can't if you take him just as I show you," she goes on patient.
"Now, sit down in that chair. Crook your left arm like this. Now hold
your knees together, and we'll just put the little precious right in
your---- There! Why, you're doing it splendidly."

"Am I?" says I.

I might have believed her if I hadn't caught a glimpse of myself in the
glass. Say, I was sittin' there as easy and graceful as if I'd been made
of structural iron and reinforced concrete. Stiff! Them stone lions in
front of the Public Lib'ry was frolicsome lambs compared to me. And I
was wearin' the same happy look on my face as if I was havin' a tooth
plugged.

Course that had to be just the time when Mr. Robert Ellins happened in
for his first private view. Mrs. Robert had towed him down special. He's
a reg'lar friend, though, Mr. Robert is. I can't say how much of a
struggle he had to keep his face straight, but after the first spasm has
worn off he don't show any more signs of wantin' to cackle. And he don't
pull any end-man stuff.

"Well, well, Torchy!" says he. "A son and heir, eh? I salute you."

"Same to you and many of 'em," says I, grinnin' simple.

It was the first thing that came into my head, but I guess I'd better
not have let it out. Mrs. Robert pinks up, Vee snickers, and they both
hurries into the next room.

"Thank you, Torchy," says Mr. Robert. "Within certain limitations, I
trust your wish comes true. But I say--how does it feel, being a
father?"

"Just plain foolish," says I.

"Eh?" says he.

"Honest, Mr. Robert," says I, "I never felt so much like a ham sandwich
at a Chamber of Commerce banquet as I do right now. I'm beginnin' to
suspect I've been miscast for the part."

"Nonsense!" says he soothin'. "You appear to be getting along
swimmingly. I'm sure I wouldn't know how to hold a baby at all."

"You couldn't know less'n I do about it at present writing," says I. "I
don't dare move, and both my legs are asleep from the knees down. Do me
a favor and call for help, won't you?"

"Oh, I say!" he calls out. "The starboard watch wants to be relieved."

So Vee comes back and pries the baby out of my grip.

"Isn't he absurd!" says she. "But he will soon learn. All men are like
that at first, I suppose."

"Hear that, Mr. Robert?" says I. "That's what I call a sun-cured
disposition."

She'd make a good animal-trainer, Vee; she's so persistent and patient.
After dinner she jollies me into tryin' it again.

"You needn't sit so rigid, you know," she coaches me. "Just relax
naturally and let his little head rest easy in the hollow of your arm.
No, you don't have to grab him with the other hand. Let him kick his
legs if he wants to. See, he is looking up at you! Yes, I believe he
is. Do you see Daddy? Do you, precious?"

"Must be some sight," I murmurs. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Oh, you may rock him gently, if you like," says Vee. "And I don't
suppose he'd mind if you sang a bit."

"Wouldn't that be takin' a mean advantage?" says I.

Vee laughs and goes off so I can practice alone, which was thoughtful of
her.

I didn't find it so bad this time. I discovers I can wiggle my toes
occasionally without lettin' him crash on to the floor. And I begun to
get used to lookin' at him at close range, too. His nose don't seem
quite so hopeless as it did. I shouldn't wonder but what he'd grow a
reg'lar nose there in time. And their little ears are cute, ain't they?
But say, it was them big blue eyes that got me interested. First off
they sort of wandered around the room aimless; but after a while they
steadies down into gazin' at me sort of curious and admirin'. I rather
liked that.

"How about it, Snookums?" says I. "What do you think of your amateur
daddy? Or are you wonderin' if your hair'll be as red as mine? Don't you
care. There's worse things in life than bein' bright on top. Eh? Think
you'd like to get your fingers in it? Might burny-burn. Well, try it
once, if you like." And I ducks my head so he can reach that wavin'
forelock of mine.

"Googly-goo!" remarks Sonny, indicatin' 'most anything you're a mind to
call it.

Anyway, he seems to be entertained. We was gettin' acquainted fast.
Pretty soon he pulls a smile on me. Say, it's the real thing in the
smile line, too--confidential and chummy. I has to smile back.

"That's the trick, Buster!" says I. "Friendly face motions is what wins."

"Goo-oogly-goo!" says he.

"True words!" says I. "I believe you."

We must have kept that up for near half an hour, until he shows signs of
gettin' sleepy. Just before he drops off, though, he was wavin' one of
his hands around, and the first thing I know them soft little pink
fingers has circled about my thumb.

Say, that turned the trick--just that. Ever had a baby grip you that
way? Your own, I mean? If you have, I expect you'll know what I'm
drivin' at. And if you ain't--well, you got something comin' to you.
It's a thing I couldn't tell you about. It's a gentle sort of thrill,
that spreads and spreads until it gets 'way inside of you--under your
vest, on the left side.

When Vee finally comes in to see how we're gettin' along, he's snoozin'
calm and peaceful, with a sketchy smile kind of flickerin' on and off
that rosebud mouth of his, like he was indulgin' in pleasant dreams.
Also, them little pink fingers was still wrapped around my thumb.

"Well, if you aren't a picture, you two!" says Vee, bendin' over and
whisperin' in my ear.

"This ain't a pose," says I. "It's the real thing."

"You mean----" begins Vee.

"I mean I've qualified," says I. "Maybe I didn't show up so strong
durin' the initiation, but I squeaked through. I'm a reg'lar daddy now.
See! He's givin' me the inside brother grip--on my thumb. You can call
Auntie in, if you like."




CHAPTER XVII

A LOW TACKLE BY TORCHY


What I like about livin' out in the forty-minute-if-you're-lucky sector
is that, once you get here, it's so nice and quiet. You don't have to
worry, when you turn in at night, about manhole covers bein' blown
through your front windows, or whether the basement floor will drop into
the subway, or if some gun gang is going to use your street for a
shootin' gallery. All you do is douse the lights and feel sure nothin's
going to happen until breakfast.

We were talkin' something along this line the other evenin', Vee and me,
sayin' how restful and soothin' these spring nights in the country
was--you know, sort of handin' it to ourselves. And it couldn't have
been more'n two hours later that I'm routed rude out of the downy by the
'phone bell. It's buzzin' away frantic. I scrambles out and fits the
receiver to my ear just in time to get the full benefit of the last half
of a long ring.

"Ah, take your thumb off," I sings out to the night operator. "Who you
think you're callin'--the fire house or some doctor?"

"Here's your party," I hears her remark cheerful, and then this other
voice comes in.

Well, it's Norton Plummer, that fussy little lawyer neighbor of ours who
lives about half a mile the other side of the railroad. Since he's been
made chairman of the local Council of Defense and put me on as head of
one of his committees, he's rung me up frequent, generally at
dinner-time, to ask if I have anything to report. Seems to think, just
because I'm a reserve lieutenant on special detail, that I ought to be
discoverin' spies and diggin' out plots every few minutes.

"Yes, yes," says I. "This is me. What then?"

"Did you read about that German naval officer who escaped from an
internment camp last week?" he asks.

"But that was 'way down in North Carolina or somewhere, wasn't it?" says
I.

"Perhaps," says Plummer. "But he isn't there now. He's here."

"Eh?" says I. "Where?"

"Prowling around my house," says Plummer. "That is, he was a few moments
ago. My chauffeur saw him. So did I. He's on his way down towards the
trolley line now."

"Why didn't you nab him?" I asks.

"Me?" says Plummer. "Why, he's a huge fellow, and no doubt a desperate
man. I presume he was after me: I don't know."

"But how'd you come to spot him as a Hun officer?" says I.

"By the description I read," says he. "It fits perfectly. There's no
telling what he's up to around here. And listen: I have telephoned to
the Secret Service headquarters in town for them to send some men out in
a machine. But they'll be nearly an hour on the road, at best.
Meanwhile, what we must do is to prevent him from catching that last
trolley car, which goes in about twelve-fifteen. We must stop him, you
see."

"Oh, must we?" says I. "Listens to me like some he-sized job."

"That's why I called you up," says Plummer. "You know where the line
crosses the railroad? Well, he'll probably try to get on there. Hurry
down and prevent him."

"Is that all I have to do?" says I. "What's the scheme--do I trip him up
and sit on his head?"

"No, no!" says Plummer. "Don't attempt violence. He's a powerful man.
Why, my chauffeur saw him break the chain on our back gate as if it had
been nothing but twine. Just gave it a push--and snap it went. Oh, he's
strong as a bull. Ill-tempered, too."

"Huh!" says I. "And I'm to go down and---- Say, where do you come in on
this?"

"I'll be there with John just as soon as we can quiet Mrs. Plummer and
the maids," says he. "They're almost in hysterics. In the meantime,
though, if you could get there and---- Well, use strategy of some kind.
Anything to keep him from catching that car. You understand?"

"I get you," says I. "And it don't sound enticin' at all. But I'll see
what I can do. If you find me smeared all over the road, though, you'll
know I didn't pull it off. Also, I'd suggest that you make that soothin'
act of yours speedy."

Course this wakes Vee up, and she wants to know what it's all about.

"Oh, a little private panic that Norton Plummer is indulgin' in," says
I. "Nothin' to get fidgety over. I'll be back soon."

"But--but you won't be reckless, will you, Torchy?" she asks.

"Who, me?" says I. "How foolish. Why, I invented that 'Safety First'
motto, and side-steppin' trouble is the easiest thing I do. Trust me."

I expect she was some nervous, at that. But she's a good sport, Vee.

"If you're needed," says she, "of course I want you to go. But do be
careful."

I didn't need any coaxin'. Somehow, I never could get used to roamin'
around in the country after dark. Always seemed sort of spooky. Bein'
brought up in the city, I expect, where the scenery is illuminated
constant, accounts for that. So, as I slips out the front gate and down
towards the station, I keeps in the middle of the road and glances
suspicious at the tree shadows.

Not that I was takin' Plummer's Hun scare real serious. He'd had a bad
case of spy fever recent. Why, only last week he got all stirred up over
what he announced was a private wireless outfit that he'd discovered
somewhere in the outskirts of Flushing; and when they came to trail it
down it turns out to be some new wire clothes-line strung up back of a
flat buildin'.

Besides, what would an escaped German naval officer be doin' up this
way? He'd be more apt to strike for Mexico, wouldn't he? Still, long as
I'd let Plummer put me on the committee, it was up to me to answer any
calls. Might be entertainin' to see who he'd mistaken for an enemy alien
this time. And if all I was expected to do was spill a little impromptu
strategy--well, maybe I could, and then again maybe I couldn't. I'd take
a look, anyway.

It was seein' a light in Danny Shea's little cottage, back on a side
lane, that gave me my original hunch. Danny is one of the important
officials of the Long Island Railroad, if you let him tell it. He's the
flagman down where the highway and trolley line cross the tracks at
grade, and when his rheumatism ain't makin' him grouchy he's more or
less amusin' to chin with.

Danny had pestered the section boss until he'd got him to build a little
square coop for him, there by the crossin'--a place where he could crawl
in between trains, smoke his pipe, and toast himself over a sheet-iron
stove about as big as a picnic coffee-pot.

And that sentry-box effect was the pride of Danny's heart. Most of his
spare time and all the money he could bone out of the commuters he spent
in improvin' and decoratin' it. He'd cut a couple of round windows,
like port-holes, and fitted 'em with swingin' sashes. Then he'd tacked
on some flower-boxes underneath and filled 'em with geraniums.

When he wasn't waterin' his flowers or coaxin' along his little
grass-plot or addin' another shelf inside, he was paintin' the outside.
Danny's idea of a swell color scheme seemed to be to get on as many
different shades as possible. The roof was red, the sides a bright blue.
But where he spread himself was on the trim. All you had to do to get on
the right side of Danny was to lug him out a half-pound can of paint
different from any he'd applied so far. He'd use it somehow.

So the window-sashes was picked out in yellow, the side battens loomed
up prominent as black lines, and the door-panels was a pale pink. Nearly
all the commuters had been touched by Danny for something or other that
could be added to the shack. Only a week or so before, I'd got in strong
with him by contributin' a new padlock for the door--a vivid red one,
like they have on the village jail in vaudeville plays.

And it struck me now that if I had the key to that little box of Danny's
it would make a perfectly good listenin'-post for any midnight
sleuthin' I had to do. Most likely he was up dosin' himself or bathin'
his joints.

Well, he was. He didn't seem any too enthusiastic about lettin' me have
the key, though.

"I dunno," says he. "'Tis railroad property, y' understand, and I'd be
afther riskin' me job if any thin' should----"

"I know, Danny," says I. "But you tell 'em it was commandeered by the U.
S. Army, which is me; and if that don't square you I'll have Mr. Baker
come on and tell the section boss where he gets off."

"Verra well," says Danny. And in less than five minutes more I'm down
there at the crossin', all snug and cozy, peekin' out of them round
windows into No Man's Land.

For a while it was kind of excitin'; but after that it got sort of
monotonous. There was about half of an old moon in the sky, and only a
few clouds, so you could see fairly well--if there'd been anything to
see. But nothing seemed to be stirrin', up or down the road.

What a nut that Norton Plummer was, anyway, feedin' me up with his wild
tales in the middle of the night! And why didn't he show up? Finally I
got restless, and walked out where I could rubber up the trolley track.
No sign or sound of a car. Then I looks at my watch again, and figures
out it ain't due for twenty minutes or so. Next I strolls across the
railroad to look for Plummer. And, just as I'm passin' a big maple tree,
out steps this huge party with the whiskers. I nearly jumped out of my
puttees.

"Eh?" says I gaspy.

"Gotta match?" says he.

"I--I guess so," says I.

I reached as far as I could when I hands him the box, too. He's a whale
of a man, tall and bulky. And his whiskers are the bristly
kind--straw-colored, I should say. He's wearin' a double-breasted blue
coat and a sort of yachtin' cap. Uh-huh! Plummer must have been right.
If this gink wasn't a Hun naval officer, then what was he? The ayes had
it.

He produces a pipe and starts to light up. One match broke, the second
had no strikin' head on it, the third just fizzed.

"Gr-r-r-r!" says he.

Then he starts for the crossin', me trailin' along. I saw he had his eye
on Danny's sentry-box, meanin' to get in the lee of it. Even then I
didn't have any bright little idea.

"Waitin' for the trolley?" I throws out.

"What of it?" he growls.

"Oh, no offense," says I hasty. "Maybe there are others."

He just lets out another grunt, and tries one more match with his face
up against the side of the shanty. And then, all in a jump, my bean got
into gear.

"You might have better luck inside," says I, swingin' open the door
invitin'.

He don't even say thank you. He ain't one of that kind. For a second or
so I thought he wasn't goin' to take any notice; but after one more
failure he steps around, inspects the inside of the shanty, and then
squeezes himself through the door. At that, he wasn't all the way in,
but by the time he had a match goin' I'd got my nerve back.

"Ah, take the limit, Cap'n," says I.

With that I plants one foot impulsive right where he was widest, gives a
quick shove, slams the door shut behind him, and snaps the big padlock
through the hasp.

"Hey!" he sings out startled. "What the----"

"Now, don't get messy, Cap'n," says I. "You're in, ain't you? Smoke up
and be happy."

"You--you loafer!" he gurgles throaty. "What do you mean?"

"Just a playful little prank, Cap," says I. "Don't get excited. You're
perfectly safe."

Maybe he was. But some folks don't appreciate little attentions like
that. The Cap'n starts in bumpin' and thrashin' violent in there, like a
pup that's crawled into a drainpipe and got himself stuck. He hammers on
the walls with his fists, throws his weight against the door, and tries
to kick his way out.

But the section boss must have used rail spikes and reinforced the
studdin' with fishplates when he built that coop for Danny, or else the
big Hun was too tight a fit to get full play for his strength. Anyway,
all he did was make the little house rock until you'd thought Long
Island was enjoyin' a young earthquake. Meanwhile I stands by, ready to
do a sprint if he should break loose, and offers more or less cheerin'
advice.

"Easy with your elbows in there, Cap," says I. "You're assaultin'
railroad property, you know, and if you do any damage you can be pinched
for malicious mischief."

"You--you better let me out of here quick!" he roars. "I gotta get
back."

"Oh, you'll get to town all right," says I. "I'll promise you that."

"Loafer!" he snorts.

"Say, how do you know I ain't sensitive on that point?" says I. "You
might hurt my feelin's."

"Gr-r-r!" says he. "I would wring your neck."

"Such a disposition!" says I.

Oh, yes, we swapped quite a little repartee, me and the Cap'n, or
whatever he was. But, instead of his bein' soothed by it he gets more
strenuous every minute. He had that shack rockin' like a boat.

Next thing I saw was one of his big feet stickin' out under the bottom
sill. Then I remembers that the sentry-box has only a dirt floor--on
account of the stove, I expect. Course Danny has banked the outside up
with sod for five or six inches, but that ain't enough to hold it down
with a human tornado cuttin' loose inside. A minute more and another
foot appears on the other side, and the next I knew the whole shootin'
match begins to rise, wabbly but sure, until he's lifted it almost to
his knees.

Looked like the Cap'n was goin' to shed the coop over his head, as you'd
shuck a shirt, and I was edgin' away prepared to make a run for it. But
right there the elevatin' process stops, and after some violent squirms
there comes an outburst of language that would only get the delete sign
if I should give it. I could dope out what had happened. That plank seat
across one side had caught the Cap'n about where he buckles his belt,
and he couldn't budge it any further.

"Want a shoe-horn, Cap'n?" I asks. "Say, next time you try wearin' a
kiosk as a slip-on sweater you'd better train down for the act."

"Gr-r-r-r!" says he. "I--I will teach you to play your jokes on me,
young whipper-snap."

He does some more writhin', and pretty soon manages to swing open one of
the port-holes. With his face up to that, like a deep-sea diver peekin'
out o' his copper bonnet, he starts for me, kickin' over the little
stove as he gets under way, and tearin' the whole thing loose from the
foundation.

Course he's some handicapped by the hobble-skirt effect around his
knees, and the weight above his shoulders makes him a bit topheavy; but,
at that, he can get over the ground as fast as I can walk backwards.

Must have been kind of a weird sight, there in the moonlight--me bein'
pursued up the road by this shack with legs under it, the little tin
smoke-pipe wavin' jaunty about nine feet in the air, and the geraniums
in the flower-boxes noddin' jerky.

"Say, what do you think you are?" I calls out. "A wooden tank goin' over
the top?"

I was sort of wonderin' how long he could keep this up, and what would
be the finish, when from behind me I hears this spluttery line of
exclamations indicatin' rage. It's Danny, who's got anxious about
lettin' me have the use of his coop and has come down to see what's
happenin' to it. Well, he saw.

"Hey! Stop him, stop him!" he yells.

"Stop him yourself, Danny," says I.

"But he's runnin' away with me little flag-house, thief of the worruld!"
howls Danny. "It's breakin' and enterin' and carryin' away th' property
of the Long Island Railroad that he's guilty of."

"Yes; I've explained all that to him," says I.

"Go back and come'out of that, ye thievin' Dutchman!" orders Danny,
rushin' up and bangin' on the door with his fists.

"Just let me out, you Irish shrimp!" snarls the Cap'n.

"Can't be done--not yet, Danny," says I.

"But--but he's destroyin' me flowers and runnin' off with me little
house," protested Danny. "I'll have the law on him, so I will."

"Get out, Irisher, or I'll fall on you," warns the Cap'n.

And right in the midst of this debate I sees Norton Plummer and his
chauffeur hurryin' up from across the tracks. I skips back to meet 'em.

"Well," says Plummer, "have you seen anything of the escaped prisoner?"

"That's him," says I, pointin' to the wabblin' shack.

"Whaddye mean?" says Plummer, starin' puzzled.

"He's inside," says I. "You said use strategy, didn't you? Well, that's
the best I had in stock. I got him boxed, all right, but he won't stay
put. He insists on playin' the human turtle. What'll we do with him now?
Come see."

"My word!" says Plummer, as he gets a view of the Cap'n's legs and the
big whiskered face at the little window. "So there you are, eh, you
runaway Hun?"

"Bah!" says the Cap'n. "Why do you call me Hun?"

"Because I've identified you as an escaped German naval officer," says
Plummer. "Do you deny it?"

"Me?" says the Cap'n. "Bah!"

"Who do you claim to be, then?" says I. "A tourist Eskimo or an
out-of-town buyer from Patagonia?"

"I'm Nels Petersen, that's who I am," says he, "and I'm chief engineer
of a ferry-boat that's due to make her first run at five-thirty-three."

"What!" says Plummer. "Are you the Swede engineer who has been writing
love letters to---- Say, what is the name of Mrs. Plummer's maid?"

"Selma," says the Cap'n.

"By George!" says Plummer. "I believe the man's right. But see here:
what were you doing prowling around my back yard to-night! Why didn't
you go to the servants' entrance and ask the cook for Selma, if you're
as much in love with her as you've written that you are?"

"What do you know about it?" demands Petersen.

"Good Lord!" gasps Plummer. "Haven't I had to puzzle out all those
wretched scrawls of yours and read 'em to her? Such mushy letters, too!
Come, if you're the man, why didn't you call Selma out and tell her all
that to her face?"

Nothing but heavy breathing from inside the shack.

"You don't mean to say you were too bashful!" goes on Plummer. "A great
big fellow like you!"

If it hadn't been for the whiskers I believe we could have seen him
blush.

"Look here," says Plummer. "You may be what you say you are, and then
again you may not. Perhaps you just guessed at the girl's name. We can't
afford to take any chances. The only way to settle it is to send for
Selma."

"No, no!" pleads the big gink. "Please! Not like this."

"Yes, just like that," insists Plummer. "Only, if you'd rather, you can
carry your house back where it belongs and sit down. John, run home and
bring Selma here."

Well, we had our man nicely tamed now. With Selma liable to show up, he
was ready to do as he was told. Just why, we couldn't make out. Anyway,
he hobbles back to the crossin' and eases the shack down where he found
it. Also, he slumps inside on the bench and waits, durin' which
proceedin' the last trolley goes boomin' past.

Inside of ten minutes John is back with the maid. Kind of a slim,
classy-lookin' girl she is, too. And when Selma sees that big face at
the round window there's no doubt about his being the chosen one.

"Oh, Nels, Nels!" she wails out. "Vy you don'd coom by the house yet?"

"I was scart, Selma," says Nels, "for fear you'd tell me to go away."

"But--but I don'd, Nels," says Selma.

"Shall I let him out for the fade-away scene?" says I.

Plummer nods. And we had to turn our backs as they go to the fond
clinch.

Accordin' to Plummer, Selma had been waitin' for Nels to say the word
for more'n a year, and for the last two months she'd been so
absent-minded and moody that she hadn't been of much use around the
house. But him gettin' himself boxed up as an escaped Hun had sort of
broken the ice.

"There, now!" says Plummer. "You two go back to the house and talk it
over. You may have until three-fifteen to settle all details, and then
I'll have John drive Petersen down to his ferry-boat. Be sure and fix
the day, though. I don't want to go through another night like this."

"But what about me little lawn," demands Danny, "that's tore up
entirely? And who's to mend me stove-pipe and all?"

"Oh, here's something that will cover all that, Danny," says Plummer,
slippin' him a ten-spot. "And I've no doubt Petersen will contribute
something, too."

"Sure!" says Nels, fishin' in his pockets.

"Two bits!" says Danny, pickin' up the quarter scornful. "Thim Swedes
are the tightwads! And if ever I find this wan kidnappin' me little
house again----"

At which Danny breaks off and shakes his fist menacin'.

When I gets back home I tiptoes upstairs; but Vee is only dozin', and
wakes up with a jump.

"Is that you, Torchy?" says she. "Has--has anything dreadful happened?"

"Yes," says I. "I had to pull a low tackle, and Danny Shea's declared
war on Sweden."




CHAPTER XVIII

TAG DAY AT TORCHY'S


Course, in a way, it was our fault, I expect. We never should have let
on that there was any hitch about what we was goin' to name the baby.
Blessed if I know now just how it got around. I remember Vee and I
havin' one or two little talks on the subject, but I don't think we'd
tackled the proposition real serious.

You see, at first we were too busy sort of gettin' used to havin' him
around and framin' up a line on this parent act we was supposed to put
over. Anyway, I was. And for three or four weeks, there, I called him
anything that came handy, from Young Sport to Old Snoodlekins. Vee she
sticks to Baby. Uh-huh--just plain Baby. But the way she says it,
breathin' it out kind of soft and gentle, sounded perfectly all right to
me.

And the youngster didn't seem to have any kick comin'. He was gettin' so
he'd look up and coo real intelligent when she speaks to him in that
fashion. You couldn't blame him, for it was easy to listen to.

As for the different things I called him--well, he didn't mind them,
either. No matter what it was,--Old Pink Toes or Wiggle-heels,--he'd
generally pass it off with a smile, providin' he wasn't too busy with
his bottle or tryin' to get hold of his foot with both of his hands.

Then one day Auntie, who's been listenin' disapprovin' all the while,
just can't hold in any longer.

"Isn't it high time," says she, "that you addressed the child properly
by his right name?"

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'. "Which one?"

"You don't mean to say," she goes on, "that you have not yet decided on
his baptismal name?"

"I didn't know he was a Baptist," says I feeble.

"We hadn't quite settled what to call him," says Vee.

"Besides," I adds, "I don't see the use bein' in a rush about it. Maybe
were're savin' that up."

"Saving!" says Auntie. "For what reason?"

"Oh, general conservation," says I. "Got the habit. We've had heatless
Mondays and wheatless Wednesdays and fryless Fridays and sunless
Sundays, so why not nameless babies?"

Auntie sniffs and goes off with her nose in the air, as she always does
whenever I spring any of my punk persiflage on her.

But then Vee takes it up, and says Auntie is right and that we really
ought to decide on a name and begin using it.

"Oh, very well," says I. "I'll be thinking one up."

Seemed simple enough. Course, I'd never named any babies before, but I
had an idea I could dig out half a dozen good, serviceable monickers
between then and dinner-time.

Somehow, though, I couldn't seem to hit on anything that I was willing
to wish on to the youngster offhand. When I got right up against the
problem, it seemed kind of serious.

Why, here was something he'd have to live with all his life; us, too.
We'd have to say it over maybe a hundred times a day. And if he grew up
and amounted to anything, as we was sure he would, it would mean that
this front name of his that I had to pick out might be displayed more or
less prominent. It would be on his office door, on his letterheads, on
his cards. He'd sign it to checks.

Maybe it would be printed in the newspapers, used in headlines, or
painted on campaign banners. Might be displayed on billboards. Who could
tell?

And the deeper I got into the thing the more I wabbled about from one
name to another, until I wondered how people had the nerve to give their
children some of the tags you hear--Percy, Isadore, Lulu, Reginald, and
so on. And do it so casual, too. Why, I knew of a couple who named their
three girls after parlor-cars; and a gink in Brooklyn who called one of
his boys Prospect, after the park. Think of loadin' a helpless youngster
with anything freaky like that!

Besides, how were you going to know that even the best name you could
pick wouldn't turn out to be a misfit? About the only Percy I ever knew
in real life was a great two-fisted husk who was foreman of a
stereotypin' room; and here in the Corrugated Buildin', if you'll come
in some night after five, I can show you a wide built scrub lady, with
hair redder'n mine and a voice like a huckster--her front name is
Violet. Yet I expect, when them two was babies, both those names sounded
kind of cute. I could see where it would be easy enough for me to make
a mistake that it would take a court order to straighten out.

So, when Vee asks if I've made any choice yet I had to admit that I'm
worse muddled up on the subject than when I started in. All I can do is
hand over a list I've copied down on the back of an envelop with every
one of 'em checked off as no good.

"Let's see," says Vee, glancin' 'em over curious. "Lester. Why, I'm sure
that is rather a nice name for a boy."

"Yes," says I; "but after I put it down I remembered a Lester I knew
once. He was a simp that wore pink neckties and used to write
love-letters to Mary Pickford."

"What about Earl?" she asks.

"Too flossy," says I. "Sounds like you was tryin' to let on he belonged
to the aristocracy."

"Well, Donald, then," says she. "That's a good, sensible name."

"But we ain't Scotch," I objects.

"What's the matter with Philip?" says Vee.

"I can never remember whether it has one _l_ and two _p_'s or the other
way round."

"But you haven't considered any of the common ones," goes on Vee, "such
as John or William or Thomas or James or Arthur."

"Because that would mean he'd be called Bill or Tom or Art," says I.
"Besides, I kind of thought he ought to have something out of the usual
run--one you wouldn't forget as soon as you heard it."

"If I may suggest," breaks in Auntie, "the custom of giving the eldest
son the family name of his mother is rather a good one. Had you
considered Hemmingway?"

I just gasps and glances at Vee. What if she should fall for anything
like that! Think of smotherin' a baby under most of the alphabet all at
one swoop! And imagine a boy strugglin' through schooldays and vacations
with all that tied to him.

Hemmingway! Why, he'd grow up round-shouldered and knock-kneed, and most
likely turn out to be a floor-walker in the white goods department, or
the manager of a gift-shop tearoom. Hemmingway!

Just the thought of it made me dizzy; and I begun breathin' easier when
I saw Vee shake her head.

"He's such a little fellow, Auntie," says she. "Wouldn't that be--well,
rather topheavy?"

Which disposes of Auntie. She admits maybe it would. But from then on,
as the news seems to spread that we was havin' a kind of deadlock with
the namin' process, the volunteers got busy. Old Leon Battou, our
butler-cook, hinted that his choice would be Emil.

"For six generations," says he, "Emil has been the name of the
first-born son in our family."

"That's stickin' to tradition," says I. "It sounds perfectly swell, too,
when you know how to pronounce it. But, you see, we're foundin' a new
dynasty."

Mr. Robert don't say so outright, but he suggests that Ellins Ballard
wouldn't be such a bad combination.

"True," he adds, "the governor and I deserve no such distinction; but
I'm sure we would both be immensely flattered. And there's no telling
how reckless we might be when it come to presenting christening cups and
that sort of thing."

"That's worth rememberin'," says I. "And I expect you wouldn't mind, in
case you had a boy to name later on, callin' him Torchy, eh!"

Mr. Robert grins. "Entry withdrawn," says he.

How this Amelia Gaston Leroy got the call to crash in on our little
family affair, though, I couldn't quite dope out. We never suspected
before that she was such an intimate friend of ours. Course, since we'd
been livin' out in the Piping Rock section we had seen more or less of
her--more, as a rule. She was built that way.

Oh, yes. Amelia was one of the kind that could bounce in among three or
four people in a thirty by forty-five living-room and make the place
seem crowded. Mr. Robert's favorite description of her was that one half
of Amelia didn't know how the other half lived. To state it plain,
Amelia was some whale of a girl. One look at her, and you did no more
guessin' as to what caused the food shortage.

I got the shock of my life, too, when they told me she was the one that
wrote so much of this mushy magazine poetry you see printed. For all the
lady poetesses I'd ever seen had been thin, shingled-chested parties
with mud-colored hair and soulful eyes.

There was nothing thin about Amelia. Her eyes might have been soulful
enough at times, but mostly I'd seen 'em fixed on a tray of sandwiches
or a plate of layer cake.

They'd had her up at the Ellinses' once or twice when they were givin'
one of their musical evenin's, and she'd spouted some of her stuff.

Her first call on us, though, was when she blew in last Sunday afternoon
and announced that she'd come to see "that dear, darling man child" of
ours. And for a girl of her size Amelia is some breeze, take it from me.
Honest, for the first ten minutes or so there I felt like our happy
little home had been hit by a young tornado.

"Where is he?" she demands. "Please take me at once into the regal
presence of his youthful majesty."

I noticed Vee sizin' her up panicky, and I knew she was thinkin' of what
might happen to them spindle-legged white chairs in the nursery.

"How nice of you to want to see him!" says Vee. "But let me have Baby
brought down here. Just a moment."

And she steers her towards a solid built davenport that we'd been
meanin' to have reupholstered anyway. Then we was treated to a line of
high-brow gush as Amelia inspects the youngster through her shell
lorgnette and tries to tell us in impromptu blank verse how wonderful he
is.

"Ah, he is one of the sun children, loved of the high gods," says she,
rollin' her eyes. "He comes to you wearing the tints of dawn and
trailing clouds of glory. You remember how Wordsworth puts it?"

As she fires this straight at me, I has to say something.

"Does he?" I asks.

"I am always impressed," she gurgles on, "by the calm serenity in the
eyes of these little ones. It is as if they----"

But just then Snoodlekins begins screwin' up his face. He's never been
mauled around by a lady poetess before, or maybe it was just because
there was so much of her. Anyway, he tears loose with a fine large howl
and the serenity stuff is all off. It takes Vee four or five minutes to
soothe him.

Meanwhile Miss Leroy gets around to statin' the real reason why we're
bein' honored.

"I understand," says she, "that you have not as yet chosen a name for
him. So I am going to help you. I adore it. I have always wanted to name
a baby, and I've never been allowed. Think of that! My brother has five
children, too; but he would not listen to any of my suggestions.

"So I am aunt to a Walter who should have been called Clifford, and a
Margaret whom I wanted to name Beryl, and so on. Even my laundress
preferred to select names for her twins from some she had seen on a
circus poster rather than let me do it for her.

"But I am sure you are rational young people, and recognize that I have
some natural talent in that direction. Names! Why, I have made a study
of them. I must, you see, in my writing. And this dear little fellow
deserves something fitting. Now let me see. Ah, I have it! He shall be
Cedric--after Cedric the Red, you know."

Accordin' to her, it was all settled. She heaves herself up off the
davenport, straightens her hat, and prepares to leave, smilin'
satisfied, like an expert who's been called in and has finished the job.

"We--we will consider Cedric," says Vee. "Thank you so much."

"Oh, not at all," says Amelia. "Of course, if I should happen to think
of anything better within the next few days I will let you know at
once." And out she floats.

Vee gazes after her and sighs.

"I suppose Cedric is rather a good name," says she, "but somehow I don't
feel like using one that a stranger has picked out for us. Do you,
Torchy?"

"You've said it," says I. "I'd sooner let her buy my neckties, or tell
me how I should have my eggs cooked for breakfast."

"And yet," says Vee, "unless we can think of something better----"

"We will," says I. "I'm goin' through them pages in the back of the big
dictionary."

In less'n half an hour there's a knock at the door, and here's a
chauffeur come with a note from Amelia. On the way home she's had
another hunch.

"After all," she writes, "Cedric seems rather too harsh, too rough-shod.
So I have decided on Lucian."

"Huh!" says I. "She's decided, has she? Say, whose tag day is this,
anyway--ours or hers?"

Vee shrugs her shoulders.

"I'm not sure that we should like calling him Lucian; it's so--so----"

"I know," says I, "so perfectly sweet. Say, can't we block Amelia off
somehow? Suppose I send back word that a rich step-uncle has promised to
leave him a ton of coal if we call the baby Ebenezer after him?"

Vee chuckles.

"Oh, no doubt she'll forget all about it by morning," says she.

Seems we'd just begun hearin' from the outside districts, though, or
else they'd been savin' up their ideas for this particular afternoon and
evenin'; for between then and nine o'clock no less'n half a dozen
different parties dropped in, every last one of 'em with a name to
register. And their contributions ranged all the way from Aaron to Xury.
There were two rooters for Woodrow and one for Pershing.

Some of the neighbors were real serious about it. They told us what a
time they'd had namin' some of their children, brought up cases where
families had been busted up over such discussions, and showed us where
their choice couldn't be beat. One merry bunch from the Country Club
thought they was pullin' something mighty humorous when they stopped in
to tell us how they'd held a votin' contest on the subject, and that the
winnin' combination was, Paul Roger.

"After something you read on a cork, eh?" says I. "Much obliged. And I
hope nobody strained his intellect."

"The idea!" says Vee, after they've rolled off. "Voting on such a thing
at a club! Just as if Baby was a battleship, or a--a new moving-picture
place. I think that's perfectly horrid of them."

"It was fresh, all right," says I. "But I expect we got to stand for
such guff until we can give out that we've found a name that suits us.
Lemme tackle that list again. Now, how would Russell do? Russell
Ballard? No; too many _l_'s and _r_'s. Here's Chester. And I expect the
boys would call him Chesty. Then there's Clyde. But there's steamship
line by that name. What about Stanley? Oh, yes; he was an explorer."

I admit I was gettin' desperate about then. I was flounderin' around in
a whole ocean of names, long ones and short ones, fancy and plain, yet I
couldn't quite make up my mind. I'd mussed my hair, shed my collar, and
scribbled over sheets and sheets of paper, without gettin' anywhere at
all. And when I gave up and turned in about eleven-thirty, my head was
so muddled I wouldn't have had the nerve to have named a pet kitten.

I must have just dozed off to sleep when I hears this bell ringin'
somewhere. I couldn't quite make out whether it was a fire alarm, or the
_z_'s in the back of the dictionary goin' off, when Vee calls out that
it's the 'phone.

I tumbles out and paws around for the extension.

"Wha-what?" says I. "What the blazes! Ye-uh. This is me. Wha-wha's
matter?"

And then comes this gurgly voice at the other end of the wire. It's our
old friend Amelia.

"Do you know," says she, "I have just thought of the loveliest name for
your dear baby."

"Oh, have you?" says I, sort of crisp.

"Yes," says she, "and I simply couldn't wait until morning to tell you.
Now listen--it's Ethelbert."

"Ethel-Bert!" says I, gaspy. "Say, you know he's no mixed foursome."

"No, no," says she. Ethelbert--one name, after the old Saxon king.
Ethelbert Ballard. "Isn't that just perfect? And I am so glad it came to
me."

I couldn't agree with her real enthusiastic, so it's lucky she hung up
just as she did.

"Huh!" I remarks to Vee. "Why not Maryjim or Daisybill? Say, I think our
friend Amelia must have gone off her hinge."

But Vee only yawns and advises me to go to sleep and forget it. Well, I
tried. You know how it is, though, when you've been jolted out of the
feathers just as you're halfway through the first reel of the slumber
stuff. I couldn't get back, to save me.

I counted sheep jumpin' over a wall, I tried lookin' down a railroad
track until I could seen the rails meet, and I spelled Constantinople
backwards. Nothing doing in the Morpheus act.

I was wider awake then than a new taxi driver makin' his first trip up
Broadway. I could think of swell names for seashore cottages, for new
surburban additions, and for other people's babies. I invented an
explosive pretzel that would win the war. I thought of bills I ought to
pay next week sure, and of what I meant to tell the laundryman if he
kept on making hash of my pet shirts.

Then I got to wonderin' about this old-maid poetess. Was she through for
the night, or did she work double shifts? If she wasn't any nearer sleep
than I was she might think up half a dozen substitutes for Ethelbert
before mornin'. Would she insist on springin' each one on me as they hit
her?

Maybe she was gettin' ready to call me again now. Should I pretend not
to hear and let her ring, or would it be better to answer and let on
that this was Police Headquarters?

Honest, I got so fidgety waitin' for that buzzer to go off that I could
almost hear the night operator pluggin' in on our wire.

And then a thought struck me that wouldn't let go. So, slippin' out easy
and throwin' on a bath-robe, I sneaked downstairs to the back hall
'phone, turned on the light, and hunted up Miss Leroy's number in the
book.

"Give her a good strong ring, please," says I to Exchange, "and keep it
up until you rouse somebody."

"Leave it to me," says the operator. And in a minute or so I gets this
throaty "Hello!"

"Miss Leroy?" says I.

"Yes," says she. "Who is calling?"

"Ballard," says I. "I'm the fond parent of the nameless baby. And say,
do you still stick to Ethelbert?"

"Why," says she, "I--er----"

"I just wanted to tell you," I goes on, "that this guessin' contest
closes at 3 A.M., and if you want to make any more entries you got only
forty minutes to get 'em in. Nighty-night."

And I rings off just as she begins sputterin' indignant.

That seems to help a lot, and inside of five minutes I'm snoozin'
peaceful.

It was next mornin' at breakfast that Vee observes offhand, as though
the subject hadn't been mentioned before:

"About naming the baby, now."

"Ye-e-es?" says I, smotherin' a groan.

"Why couldn't we call him after you?" she asks.

"Not--not Richard Junior?" says I.

"Well, after both of us, then," says she. "Richard Hemmingway. It--it is
what I've wanted to name him all along."

"You have?" says I. "Well, for the love of----"

"You didn't ask me, that's why," says she.

"Why--why, so I didn't," says I. "And say, Vee, I don't know who's got a
better right. As for my part of the name, I've used it so little it's
almost as good as new. Richard Hemmingway Ballard it shall be."

"Oh, I'm so glad," says she. "Of course, I did want you to be the one to
pick it out; but if you're satisfied with----"

"Satisfied!" says I. "Why, I'm tickled to pieces. And here you had that
up your sleeve all the while!"

Vee smiles and nods.

"We must have the christening very soon," says she, "so everyone will
know."

"You bet!" says I. "And I've a good notion to put it on the train
bulletin down at the station, too. First off, though, we'd better tell
young Richard himself and see how he likes it. I expect, though, unless
his next crop of hair comes out a different tint from this one, that
he'll have to answer to 'Young Torchy' for a good many years."

"Oh, yes," says Vee; "but I'm sure he won't mind that in the least."

"Good girl!" says I, movin' round where I can express my feelin's
better.

"Don't!" says Vee. "You'll spill the coffee."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

SEWELL FORD'S STORIES

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.


SHORTY McCABE. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.

A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker,
sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way.


SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.

Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with human
nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for
"side-stepping with Shorty."


SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.

Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to
the minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund,"
and gives joy to all concerned.


SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NUMBERS. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.

These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio for
physical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and at
swell yachting parties.


TORCHY. Illus, by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg.

A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the
youths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of his
experiences.


TRYING OUT TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.

Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the
previous book.


ON WITH TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.

Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," but
that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart,
which brings about many hilariously funny situations.


TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.

Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for
the Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectious
American slang.


WILT THOU TORCHY. Illus. by F. Snapp and A. W. Brown.

Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast,
in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with his
friend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to place
an engagement ring on Vee's finger.


GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.


MOTHER. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

This book has a fairy-story touch, counterbalanced by the sturdy reality
of struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace and power of a mother's
experiences.


SATURDAY'S CHILD. Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes.

Out on the Pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, makes a
quest for happiness. She passes through three stages--poverty, wealth
and service--and works out a creditable salvation.


THE RICH MRS. BURGOYNE. Illustrated by Lucius H. Hitchcock.

The story of a sensible woman who keeps within her means, refuses to be
swamped by social engagements, lives a normal human life of varied
interests, and has her own romance.


THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. Frontispiece by Allan Gilbert.

How Julia Page, reared in rather unpromising surroundings, lifted
herself through sheer determination to a higher plane of life.


THE HEART OF RACHAEL. Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers.

Rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and in working out these,
there is shown the beauty and strength of soul of one of fiction's most
appealing characters.


Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.


SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.

No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young
people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the
time when the reader was Seventeen.


PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant.

This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous,
tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a
finished, exquisite work.


PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm.

Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases
of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness
that have ever been written.


THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.

Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his
father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a
fine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success.


THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece.

A story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a country
editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love
interest.


THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.

The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement,
drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another
to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising
suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister.


Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE

HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED.

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.


MAVERICKS.

A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations
are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. One
of the sweetest love stories ever told.


A TEXAS RANGER.

How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into
the mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of
thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed
through deadly peril to ultimate happiness.


WYOMING.

In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured the
breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the
frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor.


RIDGWAY OF MONTANA.

The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and
mining industries are the religion of the country. The political
contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story
great strength and charm.


BUCKY O'CONNOR.

Every chapter teems with "wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with
the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing
fascination of style and plot.


CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT.

A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter
feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusual
woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly
characteristic of the great free West.


BRAND BLOTTERS.

A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid life of
the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love
interest running through its 320 pages.


GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK







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