[{"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Sure, I was carryin' the banner. But say, I ain't one of them kids that gets callouses on the hands doin' it. When I'm handed the fresh air on payday, I don't choke to death over it. I goes out and rustles for another job. And I takes my pick, too. Why not? It's just as easy. This time I gets a bug that the new Octopus Buildin' might have been put up special for me. Anyway, it looked good from the outside, and I blows in through the plate glass merry go round. The arcade was all to the butterscotch, everything handy, from an A. D. T. stand to Turkish baths in the basement. \"Got any express elevators?\" says I to the starter guy. \"Think of buying the buildin', sonny?\" says he. \"There'd be room for you on the sidewalk if I did,\" says I. \"But say, if you can tear your eyes off the candy counter queen long enough, tell me who's got a sign out this mornin'.\" \"They're going to elect a second vice-president of the Interurban to-day. Would that suit you?\" says he, twistin' up his lip whisker and lookin' cute. \"Maybe,\" says I; \"but I'd take a portfolio as head office boy if I knew where to butt in.\" \"Then chase up to 2146,\" says he. \"You'll find 'em waitin' for you with a net. Here's your car. Up!\" and before I knows it I has done the skyrocket act up to floor twenty-one. Well say, you wouldn't have thought so many kids read the want ads. and had the courage to tackle an early breakfast. The corridor was full of 'em, all sizes, all kinds. It looked like recess time at a boys' orphan asylum, and with me against the field I stood to be a sure loser. I hadn't no more'n climbed out before they starts to throw the josh my way.", "words": 319}, {"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Hey, Reddy, get in line! The foot for yours, Peachblow!\" they yells at me. And then I comes back. \"Ah, flag it!\" says I. \"Do I look like I belonged in your class? Brush by, you three-dollar pikers, and give a salaried man a show!\" With that I makes a quick rush at 2146 and gets through the door before they has time to make a howl. The letterin' on the ground glass was what got me. It said as how this was the home office of the Glory Be Mining Company, and there was a string of high-toned names as long as your arm. But the minute I sizes up the inside exhibit I wasn't so anxious. I was lookin' for about a thousand feet of floor space; but all I could see was a couple of six by nines, includin' a clothes closet and a corner washbowl. There was a grand aggregation of two as an office force. One was a young lady key pounder, with enough hair piled on top of her head to stuff a mattress. The other was a long faced young feller with an ostrich neck and a voice that sounded like a squeaky door. \"Go outside!\" says he, wavin' his hands and puttin' on a weary look. \"Mr. Pepper can't see any of you until he has finished with the mail. Now run along.\" \"I can't,\" says I; \"my feet won't let me. Is that the Pepper box in there?\"", "words": 247}, {"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "The door was open a foot or two; so I steps up to take a peek at the main squeeze. And say, the minute I sees him I knew he'd do. He wa'n't one of these dried up whiskered freaks, nor he wa'n't any human hog, with no neck and three chins. He was the kind of a gent you see comin' out of them swell cafes, and he looked like a winner, Mr. Belmont Pepper did. His breakfast seemed to be settin' as well as his coat collar, and you could tell with one eye that he wouldn't come snoopin' around early in the day, nor hang around the shop after five. Pepper has his heels up on the rolltop, burnin' a real Havana. That's the kind of a boss I likes. I lays out to connect, too. \"Say,\" says I to the long faced duck, \"you hold your breath a minute and I'll be back!\" Then I steps outside, yanks the \"Boy Wanted\" sign off the nail, and says to the crowd good and brisk, just as though I come direct from headquarters: \"It's all over, kids, and unless you're waitin' to have a group picture taken you'd better hit the elevator.\" Wow! There was call for another sudden move just then. I was lookin' for that, though, and by the time the first two of 'em struck the door I was on the other side with the key turned. Riot? Well say, you'd thought I'd pinched the only job in New York! They kicked on the door and yelled through the transom and got themselves all worked up. The lady key pounder grabs hold of both sides of her table and almost swallows her tuttifrutti, the ostrich necked chap turns pea green, and Mr. Pepper swings his door open and sings out, real cheerful:", "words": 307}, {"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Mr. Sweetwater, can't you get yourself mobbed without being so noisy about it? What's up, anyway?\" But Sweetwater wasn't a lightnin' calculator. He stands there with his mouth open, gawpin' at me, and tryin' to figure out what's broke loose; so I pushes to the front and helps him out. \"There's a bunch of also rans out there, Mr. Pepper,\" says I, \"that don't know when to fade. They're just grouchy because I've swiped the job.\" I was lookin' for him to sit up at that; but he don't. \"What makes you think that you've got it!\" says he. \"'Cause I'm in and they're out,\" says I. \"Anyway, they're a lot of dopes, and a man like you wants a live one around. That's me. Where do I begin?\" And I chucks the sign into a waste basket and hangs my cap on a hook. Now, that ain't any system you can follow reg'lar. I don't often do it that way, 'cause I ain't any fonder of bein' thrown through a door than the next one. But this was a long shot and I was willin' to run the risk. That fat headed starter knew he was steerin' me up against a mob; so I was just achin' to squeeze the lemon in his eye by makin' good. For awhile, though, I couldn't tell whether I was up in a balloon or let in on the ground floor. Mr. Pepper was givin' me the search warrant look-over, and I see he's one of these gents that you can't jar easy. I hadn't rushed him off his feet by my through the center play. There was still plenty of chance of my gettin' the low tackle. \"If I might ask,\" says he, smooth as a silk lid, \"what is your name?\"", "words": 300}, {"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Ah, w'at's the use?\" says I, duckin' my head. \"Look at that hair! You might's well begin callin' me Torchy; you'd come to it.\" He didn't grin nor nothin'; but only I see his eyes wrinkle a little at the corners. \"Very well, Torchy,\" says he. \"I suppose you have your references?\" \"Nah, I ain't,\" says I. \"But if you're stuck on such things I can get 'em. There's a feller down on Ann-st. that'll write beauts for a quarter a throw.\" \"So?\" says he. \"Then we'll pass that point. Why did you leave your last place?\" \"By request,\" says I. \"The stiff gives me the fire. He said I was too fresh.\" \"He was mistaken, I suppose,\" says Mr. Pepper. \"You're not fresh, are you?\" \"Well say, I ain't no last year's limed egg,\" says I. \"If you're lookin' for somethin' that's been in the brine all winter, you'd better put the hook in again.\" He rubs his chin at that. \"Do you like hard work?\" says he. \"Think I'd be chasin' up an office boy snap, if I did?\" says I. He takes a minute or so to let that soak in, knockin' his cigar ashes off on the rug in that careless way a man that ain't married does, and then he springs another. \"I presume that if you were left alone in the office occasionally,\" says he, \"you could learn to run the business?\" \"Nix, not!\" says I. \"When I plays myself for a confidential manager I wants to pull down more than four per. Givin' book agents the quick back up and runnin' errands is my strong points. For tips on the market and such as that I charges overtime.\"", "words": 285}, {"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Course, I'd figured it was all off by then, seein' as how I hadn't rung the bell at any crack. That's why I was so free with the hot air. Mr. Pepper, he squints at me good and hard, and then pushes the call button. \"Mr. Sweetwater,\" says he, \"this young man's name is Torchy. I've persuaded him to assist us in running the affairs of the Glory Be Mining Company. Put him on the payroll at five a week, and then induce that mass meeting in the corridor to adjourn.\" \"Say,\" says I, \"does that mean I'm picked?\" \"You're the chosen one,\" says he. \"Gee!\" says I. \"You had me guessin', though! But you ain't drawn any blank. I'll shinny on your side, Mr. Pepper, as long's you'll let me--and that's no gust of wind, either.\" And say, inside of three days I'd got the minin' business down to a science. Course it was a cinch. All I has to do is fold bunches of circulars, stick stamps on the envelopes, and lug 'em up to the general P. O. once a day. That, and chasin' out after a dollar's worth of cigars now and then for Mr. Pepper, and keepin' Sweetie jollied along, didn't make me round shouldered. Sweetie was cut out for the undertakin' business, by rights. He took things hard, he did. Every tick of the clock was a solemn moment for him, and me gettin' a stamp on crooked was a case that called for a heart to heart talk. He used to show me the books he was keepin', and the writin' was as reg'lar as if it'd been done on a job press. \"You're a wonder, you are, Sweetie,\" says I; \"but some day your hand is going to joggle, and there'll be a blot on them pages, and then you'll die of heart disease.\"", "words": 312}, {"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Miss Allen, the typewriter fairy, was a good deal of a frost. She was one of the kind that would blow her lunch money on havin' her hair done like some actress, and worry through the week on an apple and two pieces of fudge at noon. I never had much use for her. She called me just Boy, as though I wa'n't hardly human at all. She'd sit and pat that hair of hers by the hour, feelin' to see if all the diff'rent waves and bunches was still there. It was a work of art, all right; but it didn't leave her time to think of much else. I used to get her wild by askin' how the six other sisters was comin' on these days. We didn't have any great rush of customers in the office. About twice a day some one would stray in; but gen'rally they was lookin' for other parties, and we didn't take in money enough over the counter to pay the towel bill. It had me worried some, until I tumbles that the Glory Be was a mail order snap. All them circulars we sent out told about the mine. And say, after I'd read one of 'em I didn't see how it was we didn't have a crowd throwin' money at us. It was good readin', too, almost as excitin' as a nickel lib'ry. I'd never been right next to a gold mine before, and it got me bug eyed just thinkin' about it.", "words": 253}, {"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Why, this mine of ours was one that the Injuns had kept hid for years and years, killin' off every white man that stuck his nose into the same county. But after awhile a feller by the name of Dakota Dan turned Injun, got himself adopted by the tribe, and monkeyed around until he found the mine. It near blinded him the first squint he got of them big chunks of gold. The Injuns caught him at it and finished the business with hot irons. Then they roasted him over a fire some and turned him loose to enjoy himself. He was tougher'n a motorman, though. He didn't die for years after that; but he never said nothin' about the gold mine until he was nearly all in. Then he told his oldest boy the tale and gave him a map of the place, makin' him swear he'd never go near it. The boy stuck to it, too. He grew up and kept a grocery store, and it wa'n't until after he'd died of lockjaw from runnin' a rusty nail in his hand and the widow had sold out the store to a Swede that the map showed up. The Swede swapped the map to a soap drummer for half a dozen cakes of scented shaving sticks, and the drummer goes explorin'.", "words": 222}, {"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "He had a soap drummer's luck. He didn't find any Injuns left. Most of 'em had died off and the rest had joined Wild West shows. The gold mine was there, though, with chunks of solid gold lyin' around as big as peach baskets. Mr. Drummer looks until his eyes ache, and then he hikes himself back East to get up a comp'ny to work the mine. He'd just made plans to build a solid gold mansion on Fifth-ave. and hire John D. Rockefeller for a butler, when he strays into one of these Gospel missions and gets religion so hard that he can't shake it. Then he sees how selfish it would be to keep all that gold for himself. \"But how'll I divvy it?\" says he. \"And who with?\" Then he decides that he'll divide with ministers, because they'll use it best. So he gets up this Glory Be Mining Company, and hires Mr. Pepper to sell the stock at twenty-five cents a share to all the preachers in the country. Blamed if it wa'n't straight goods! I looked on the letters we sent out, and every last one of 'em was to ministers. Talk about your easy money! This was like pickin' it off the bushes. Mr. Pepper shows 'em how they can put in fifty or a hundred dollars and in three or four years be pullin' out their thousands in dividends. You'd thought they'd came a runnin' at a chance like that, wouldn't you? There we was givin' 'em a private hunch on a proposition that was all velvet. But say, only about one in ten ever hands us a comeback. It was enough to make a man turn the hose on his grandmother.", "words": 289}, {"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Course, a few of 'em did loosen up and send on real money. I used to stand around and pipe off the boss while he shucked the mail, and I could tell whether it was fat or lean by the time it took him to eat lunch. The days when I was sent out to cash five or six money orders, and soak away a bunch of checks, he'd call a cab at twelve-thirty and wouldn't come back until near four; but when there wa'n't much doin' he'd send out for a tray and put in the afternoon dictatin' names and addresses to Miss Allen. Then there come a slack spell that lasted for a couple of weeks, and we didn't get hardly any mail at all, except from some crank out in Illinois that had splurged on a whole ten dollars' worth of shares, and wrote in about every other day wantin' to know when the dividends was goin' to begin comin' his way. I heard Miss Allen talkin' it over with Sweetie. It was along about then that this duck from the post-office buildin' showed up. He comes gumshoein' around one noon hour, while I was all by my lonesome, and he asks a whole lot of questions that I'd forgot the answer to. I was tellin' the boss about him that night around closin' up time. \"I sized him up for one of them cheap skates from the Marshal's office,\" says I. \"I didn't know what his game was and I wa'n't goin' to give up all I knew to him; so I tells him to call around to-morrow and you'll load him up with all the information his nut can hold. Was that right?\"", "words": 288}, {"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Mr. Pepper seems to be mighty int'rested for awhile; but then he grins, pats me on the shoulder, and says: \"That was just right, Torchy, exactly right. I couldn't have done it better myself.\" But half an hour later, after Miss Allen has stuck her gum on the paperweight and skipped, and Sweetwater has slid out too, and just as I was gettin' ready to call it a day, Mr. Pepper calls me in on the rug. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"during the brief period that we have been associated in business I have found your services very valuable and your society very cheering. In other words, Torchy, you're all right.\" \"There's a pair of us, then,\" says I. \"You're as good as they make them, Mr. Pepper.\" \"Thanks, Torchy,\" says he, \"thanks.\" Then he looks out of the window for a minute before he asks how I'd like a two-weeks' vacation with pay. \"Well,\" says I, \"seein' as how Coney's froze up, and Palm Beach don't agree with my health, I'd just as soon put them two weeks in storage until July.\" \"I see,\" says he; \"but the fact is, Torchy, I've had a sudden call to go West.\" \"Out to the Glory Be mine?\" says I. \"You've guessed it,\" says he. \"And I am taking this opportunity for releasing Sweetwater and Miss Allen.\" \"They ain't much use, anyway,\" says I. \"But you wouldn't shut up the shop for fair, would you? Don't you want some one on hand to answer fool questions, or steer cranks off like that post-office guy that's comin' to-morrow? Unless you think I'd hook the rolltop or pinch the letterpress, you'd better leave me sittin' on the lid.\"", "words": 283}, {"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Well, sir, he seemed to take to that notion, and the next thing I knows I'm tellin him about my scheme of wantin' to save up enough dough to pay for a little bunch of them Glory Be stocks. \"It's a shame to waste all that good money on people that don't know a cinch when it's passed out to 'em,\" says I, \"and I've been thinkin' that if I hung to the business long enough maybe I'd have a show to buy in.\" Say, you couldn't guess what Mr. Pepper up and does then. He opens the safe, counts out a hundred shares of Glory Be common, and fills out the transfer to me right on the spot. \"Now, Torchy,\" says he, \"it will cost you five weeks' salary to pay for these; but if I raise you a dollar a week and take it out a little at a time you'll never miss it. Anyway, you're a shareholder from now on.\" Did you ever get rich all of a sudden, like that! You feel it first up and down the small of your back, and then it goes to your knees. I couldn't say a blamed word that was sensible. I don't know just what I did say, and I never come to until after Mr. Pepper'd finished up and gone, leavin' me with two-weeks' pay in my pocket, and a big envelope full of them Glory Be shares, all printed in gold and purple ink, with a picture of Dakota Dan in the middle.", "words": 257}, {"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "I couldn't eat a bite of supper that night, and I puts in the evenin' readin' over them pamphlets we'd been sendin' out until I knew every word of it by heart. I'll bet I got up and hid them stocks in a dozen diff'rent places before mornin', and an hour before bankin' time I was sittin' on the steps of the Treasury Trust concern, waitin' to hire one of them steel pigeon-holes down in the vaults. After I'd got the envelope stowed away and tied the key around my neck with a string, I goes back to the office. Sweetie and Miss Allen was there, with their hammers goin'. They'd found their blue tickets and their week's pay and was just clearin' out. \"I'd been planning to make a change for the last two weeks,\" says Miss Allen. \"I was looking for something like this.\" \"Me too,\" says Sweetie. \"It's rough on Torchy, though.\" \"Say, don't you waste any sympathy on me,\" says I, \"and don't let off any more knocks at Mr. Pepper. I won't stand for it!\" With that they snickers and does a slow exit. That leaves me runnin' the gold minin' business single handed; but me bein' one of the firm, as you might say, it was all right. I'd always had a notion that I'd be a plute some day; but honest, I wa'n't expectin' it so sudden. I was just tryin' to get used to it, when the door opens and in drifts that guy from the Marshal's office. \"Where's Mr. Belmont Pepper?\" says he. \"Well,\" says I, \"the last time I saw him he was headed west.\" \"Skipped out!\" says the gent, doin' the foiled villyun stunt with his face. \"Skipped nothin',\" says I. \"Mr. Pepper's gone out to look after the mine.\"", "words": 301}, {"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Oh, he's gone to the mine, has he?\" says the duck. \"See here, kid, I'm a United States Deputy Marshal. Don't you try to tell me any fairy stories, or you'll pull down trouble. We want your Mr. Pepper, and we want him bad! He's a crook.\" Well say, it was a hot argument we had. He tries to tell me that this minin' business is all a bunko game, and that there's a paper out for the boss. Then he camps down in the private office and says he'll wait until Mr. Pepper shows up. He makes a stab at it, too, and a nice long wait he has. I stuck it out for two weeks with him, tryin' to beat it into his head that the Glory Be mine was a real gilt edged proposition. I'd have been there yet, only they comes and lugs off all the desks and things and makes me give up the keys. Say, it was a tough deal, all right. It was some jay that stirred up all the muss, howlin' for his coin that he thought he'd lost. But look at the hole I'm in, after bein' so brash to Mr. Pepper about stayin' on the lid, and him lettin' me write my own valuation ticket! How do I square it with him when he comes back and finds I've stood around and seen him closed out? Old Velvet Foot, the deputy, says if the boss comes back at all he'll be wearin' a diff'rent face and flaggin' under another name. But I know better. He's as square as a pavin' block. If he wa'n't, why was he distributin' Glory Be stocks among fool outsiders, instead of keepin' it in the fam'ly? \"Ah, brush your belfry!\" says I. \"Your mind needs chloride of lime on it.\"", "words": 305}, {"story": 0, "title": "Getting in with the Glory Be", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "But say, shareholder or not, I've got to plug the market for somethin' that'll pass with the landlady. I've been livin' on crullers and coffee for two days now, and that starter guy says if I don't quit hangin' around the arcade he'll have me pinched. I've wrote out a note to leave for Mr. Pepper, and I guess it's up to me to frisk another job. You don't know where they want a near-plute as temp'rary office boy, do you?", "words": 81}, {"story": 1, "title": "A Jolt for Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It's a case of \"comin' up, up\" with me. Sure as ever! Ain't I got stock in a gold mine? And now I'm in with the Corrugated Trust. Why, say, two moves more and I'll be first vice-president. There's only his door, and the general manager's, and then me. I'm behind the brass rail, next to the spring water. When you have the front to push through the plate glass, you see me first. If I likes your looks, and your card reads right, maybe I gives you a peek at Mr. Piddie. Anyone that gets past Piddie's a bird. He's the Inside Brother, Keeper of the Seal, Watch on the Rhine, and a lot more. He draws down salary for bein' confidential secretary to the G. M.; but Con. Sec. don't half cover it. He keeps the run of everything, from what the last quarterly dividend was down to how many tubs of pins is used by the office force every month. I'd never made good with Piddie in a month of Yom Kippurs if it hadn't been for Old Heavyweight, the main squeeze. Piddie had ten of us lined up for the elimination test, and was puttin' us through the catechism and the civil service, when in pads Mr. Ellins--you know, Hickory Ellins. Ever see our V. P.? Say, he uses up cloth enough in his vest to make me a whole suit. He's a ripe old sport, with a complexion like an Easter egg, and a pair o' blinks that'd look a hole through a chilled steel vault. He runs us over without losin' step, sticks out a finger as he goes by, and says over his shoulder, \"Piddie, take that one!\"", "words": 285}, {"story": 1, "title": "A Jolt for Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Me, I was in range. Piddie made a bluff at goin' on with the third degree business; but the other entries begins to edge for the door. I was the one best bet; so what was the use? See what it is to have a thirty-two candle power thatch? He couldn't have missed me, less'n he'd been color blind. There's worse things can happen to you than red hair, all right. Piddie was sore on me from the start, though. He'd made up his mind to tag a nice little mommer's boy, with a tow colored top and a girly voice. Them's the kind that forgets to bring back change and always has stamps to sell. Oh, I sized up Piddie for a two by four right at the get away; but I've been keepin' him jollied along just for the fun of it. \"J. Hemmingway Piddie\" is the way he has it printed. Think of wastin' all them letters, when just plain Piddie is as good as seein' a strip of pingpong pictures of him! He's mostly up and down, Piddie is, like he'd been pulled out of a bundle of laths, and he's got one of these inquisitive noses that's sharp enough to file bills on. Refined conversation is Piddie's strong hold. It bubbles out of him like steam out of the oatmeal kettle. Sounds that way, too. You know these mush eaters, with their, \"Ah, I'm su-ah, quite su-ah, doncher know\"? He's got that kind of lingo down to an art. I'll bet he could talk it in his sleep. I've heard 'em before; but I never looked to hold a sit. under one.", "words": 277}, {"story": 1, "title": "A Jolt for Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It's a privilege, though, bein' so close to Piddie. If I don't forget all the things he tells me, and follows 'em, I'll be made over new in a month more. He begins with my name. Torchy don't fit right with him. It might do for some places he didn't mention, but not for the home offices of the Corrugated Trust. \"Maybe you'd like Reginald better!\" says I. \"But--er--aw--is that your baptismal name, my boy?\" says he. \"Nix,\" says I. \"I'm no Baptist. And, anyway, I couldn't give up my real name, cause I'm travelin' incog., and me noble relatives would be shocked if they knew I was really workin'. You can call me Torchy, or Reginald, whichever you think of first, and if you be careful to say it real nice maybe I'll come.\" Every time I throws a jolt like that into J. Hemmingway, he looks kind of stunned and goes off to chew it over. But he gets even all right. Sometimes he'll take a whole forenoon to dig up somethin' he thinks is goin' to give me the double cross. Most of his spare time, though, he puts in tellin' me about how I'm to behave when Mr. Robert comes back. For the first few days I had an idea Mr. Robert was the pulley that carried the big belt, and that when he stopped there was a general shut down. I got nervous watchin' for him. Then I rounds up the fact that he's Bob Ellins, who cuts more ice in the society columns than he does in the Wall Street notes.", "words": 267}, {"story": 1, "title": "A Jolt for Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Piddie has him down for a little tin god, all right, and that wa'n't such a fool move of Piddie's, either. Some day Hickory Ellins will have to quit and take the hot baths regular, and then Mr. Robert will get acquainted with an eight o'clock breakfast. See where Piddie comes in? He's takin' out insurance on his job. He needs it bad enough. If I ever get to think as much of a job as Piddie does of his, I'll have some one nail me to the office chair. Rule No. 1 on my card was never to let anyone through the brass gate unless they belonged inside or had a special permit. Piddie wants to know if I've ever had any experience with that kind of work. \"Say, where do you think I've been!\" says I. \"Why, I did that trick for six months, shuntin' dopes away from the Sunday editor's door, and there was times when nothin' but a club would keep some of 'em out. Back to the bridge, Piddie! When I'm on the gate it's just as good as though you'd set the time lock.\" Well, I'd been there over one payday and halfway to the next, when one mornin' about ten-thirty the door comes open with a bang, and in steps a husky young gent, swingin' one of these dinky, leather-covered canes, and lookin' like money from the mint. He didn't make any play to draw a card, same's they generally does; but steers straight for the brass gate, full tilt. I never says a word; but just as he reaches over to spring the catch and break in, I shoves my foot out and blocks it at the bottom, bringin' him up all standin'. \"Say, this ain't no ferryhouse,\" says I. \"Hello!\" says he. \"A new one, eh?\"", "words": 305}, {"story": 1, "title": "A Jolt for Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"I ain't any Fourth-ave. antique,\" says I; \"but I'm over seven. Was you wantin' to see anyone special?\" He seems to think that's a joke. \"Why,\" says he, \"I am Mr. Ellins.\" \"G'wan!\" says I. \"You ain't half of him.\" That reaches his funnybone, too. \"You're perfectly right, young man,\" says he; \"but I happen to be his son. Now are you satisfied?\" \"Nope,\" says I. \"That bluff don't go either. If you was Mr. Robert I'd have been struck by lightnin' long 'fore this. You've got one more guess.\" Just then I hears a gurgle, like some one's bein' choked with a chicken bone, and I squints around behind. There was Piddie, lookin' like the buildin' was fallin' down and tryin' to uncork some remarks. \"Ah, Piddie!\" says the gent. \"Perhaps you will introduce me to your new sentry and give me the password.\" Well, Piddie did. He almost got on his hands and knees doin' it. And say, blamed if the duck wa'n't Mr. Robert, after all! \"Gee!\" says I, \"that was a bad break.\" That didn't soothe Piddie, though. He used up the best part of an hour tryin' to tell me what an awful thing I'd gone and done. \"This ends you, young man!\" he says. \"You're as good as discharged this very moment.\" \"Is that all?\" says I. \"Why, by the way you've been takin' on I figured on nothin' less than sudden death. But if it's only bein' fired, don't you worry. I've had that happen to me so often that I get uneasy without it. If I should wear a stripe for every time the can's been tied to me, my sleeves would look like a couple of barber's poles. Cheer up, Piddie! Maybe they'll let you pick out somethin' that suits you better next time.\"", "words": 303}, {"story": 1, "title": "A Jolt for Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "He couldn't get over it, though. Along about lunch time he comes out to me, as solemn as though he's servin' a warrant for homicide, and says that Mr. Robert will attend to my case now. \"Piddie,\" says I, givin' him the partin' grip, \"you've been a true friend of mine. When you hear me hit the asphalt, send out for a chocolate ice cream soda and drown your sorrow.\" Then I turns down a page in \"Old Sleuth's Revenge\" and goes to the slaughter. Mr. Robert has just talked about three cylinders full of answers to the letters that's piled up while he's been gone, and as the girl goes out with the records he whirls around in the mahogany easy-chair and takes a good long look at me. \"If it comes as hard as all that,\" says I, \"I'll write out my resignation.\" \"Mr. Piddie's been talking to you, I suppose?\" says he. \"He's done everything but say mass over me,\" says I. \"Piddie is a good deal of an----\" then he pulls up. \"Where the deuce did he find you?\" \"It wasn't him found me,\" says I; \"it was a case of me findin' him; but if it hadn't been for your old man's buttin' in, that's all the good it would have done me.\" \"Ah!\" says he. \"That explains the mystery. By the way, son, what do they call you?\" \"Guess,\" says I, and runs me fingers through it. \"Just Torchy, and it suits me as well as Percival or Montgomery.\" \"Torchy is certainly descriptive,\" says he. \"How long have you been doing office work?\" \"Ever since I could lift a waste basket,\" says I. \"Are you ambitious?\" says he. \"Sure!\" says I. \"I'm waitin' for some bank president to adopt me.\" \"You came in here expecting to be discharged, I presume?\" says he.", "words": 308}, {"story": 1, "title": "A Jolt for Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"What, me?\" says I. \"Nah! I thought you was goin' to ask me over to the Caffy Martang for lunch.\" For a minute or so after that he looks me straight in the eye, and I gives him the same. And say, for the kind, he ain't so worse. Course, I wouldn't swap him for Mr. Belmont Pepper, who's the only boss I ever had that I calls the real thing; but Mr. Robert would get a ratin' anywhere. \"Torchy,\" says he after a bit, \"I'm inclined to think that you'll do. Have a chair.\" \"Don't I get the blue ticket, then?\" says I. \"No,\" says he, \"not until you do something worse than obey orders. Besides you're the cheekiest youth that has ever graced the offices of the Corrugated Trust, and once in awhile we have use for just such a quality. For instance, I am tempted to send you on a very important errand of my own. Wait a moment while I think it over.\" \"Time out!\" says I. Well say, I didn't know what was comin', he took so long makin' up his mind. But Mr. Robert ain't one of the kind to go off half cocked. He's got somethin' on his shoulders besides tailor's paddin', and when he sets the wheels to movin' you can gamble that he's gettin' somewhere. After awhile he slaps his knee and says: \"No, there isn't another person around the place who would know how to go about it. Torchy, I'm going to try you out!\" It wasn't anything like I'd ever been up against before. He hands me an express receipt and says he wants me to go over to Jersey City and get what that calls for without landin' in jail.", "words": 292}, {"story": 1, "title": "A Jolt for Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"You'll see a bundle done up in burlap somewhere around the express office,\" says he, \"a big bundle. It looks like a side of veal; but it isn't. It's a deer, one that I shot four days ago up north. Torchy, did you know that it was illegal to shoot deer during certain months of the year?\" \"You can be pinched for shootin' craps any time,\" says I. \"Really?\" says he. Then he goes on with his tale, givin' me all the partic'lars, so I wouldn't make any batty moves. And say, they can think up some queer stunts, hangin' around the club of an afternoon and lookin' out at Fifth-ave. through the small end of a glass. This was one of them real clubby dreams. It started by Mr. Robert countin' himself in on a debate that he didn't know the beginning of. \"When they asked me if I could do it, I said, 'Of course I can,'\" says he, \"and then I asked what it was.\" The bunch had been gassin' about an old gun hangin' over the fireplace. It was one of these old-timers, like they tell about Daniel Boone's havin', in the Nickel Libr'ies, the kind you load with a stove poker. Flintlocks--that's it! They was wonderin' if there was anyone left that could take a relic like that out in the woods and hit anything besides the atmosphere. And the first thing Mr. Robert knows he has been joshed into bettin' a hatful of yellowbacks that he can take old Injun killer out and bring back enough deer meat to feed the crowd--and him knowin' no more about that sort of act than a one-legged man does about skatin'! They gives him two weeks to do it in.", "words": 293}, {"story": 1, "title": "A Jolt for Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "That wa'n't the worst of it, though, accordin' to him. They passes the word around until everyone that knows him is on the broad grin. The joke is handed across billiard tables between shots, and is circulated around the boxes at the opera. It's the best ever; for Mr. Robert has never hunted anything livelier than a Welsh rabbit, after the show. He's a boy that likes to make good, though. He never makes a brag; but he boxes up that old shootin' iron and drops out of sight. 'Way up in the woods somewhere he digs up an old b'gosh artist that was brought up with one of them guns in his hand, and he takes a private course. After he's used up a keg of powder shootin' at tin cans they start out to find where the deers roost. They find 'em, too. Mr. Robert is so rattled that he misses the one he aims at; but he bores a tunnel through another in the next lot. Course, he thinks he's got a cinch then. He hustles to the nearest flag station and spends eight dollars sendin' telegrams to the bunch, invitin' 'em to a venison feed at the club. Then he has his game sewed up neat in meal bags and expressed to John Doe, Jersey City. See how cute he was? He'd heard about the game laws by that time; so he lays his plans to duck any trouble. But he hadn't counted on that gang tippin' off the Jersey game wardens, nor on their trailin' the baggage and express bundles with huntin' dogs.", "words": 268}, {"story": 1, "title": "A Jolt for Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"The dogs had smelled it out just as I came in to claim it,\" says he; \"so all I could do was to keep my mouth closed, standing around and looking foolish until I got tired and came away. And that, Torchy, is the situation up to the present moment. My venison is under guard over in Jersey City, and if it isn't delivered at the club by six o'clock to-night I shall not only lose my bet, but have my life made miserable from cheap jokes for months to come. It occurred to me that if your wits were as bright as the hair that covers them, you might be able to help me out. What do you think?\" \"Chee!\" says I, scratchin' me bonfire, \"I guess I'm down the coal chute. I've rescued locked-in typewriter girls from fire escapes, and lied the boss out of a family row; but I never tried my hand at kidnappin' enough meat for a dinner party. How about buyin' off the game sleuth?\" \"He has been bought by the other side,\" says Mr. Robert. \"He wouldn't dare to sell them out.\" Well, I thunk some more thinks just as punky as that, and then we settles it that I'm to hike over and take a squint, anyway. I gets him to give me a line on what kind of a looker the warden was, and he throws me a couple of tens for campaign expenses. I was just stowin' away the green stuff as I goes through the outside office, and Piddie's eyebrows go up. \"They're goin' to let me finish out the week,\" says I. \"Ain't they the gentle things?\"", "words": 279}, {"story": 1, "title": "A Jolt for Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Then I skips out for the 23d-st. boat, leavin' Piddie with his mouth open, and Mr. Robert wrapped up with the idea that, some way or other, I'm goin' to talk that game cop into a dope dream and rescue the roast. But, say, I didn't need to look twice at that snoozer to see that no line of hot air I had in stock would soften him up. He had an undershot jaw, a pair of eyes that saw both sides of the street at once, and a head like a choppin' block. He was sittin' right alongside of that burlap bundle, waitin' to spring his tin badge on some one. \"Do they send such things as that through without cratin'?\" says I to a guy behind the chicken wire, jerkin' me thumb at Mr. Sleuth. \"What's the label on him?\" \"That's Mr. Hinkey Tolliver, special officer,\" says he. \"Better look out or he'll break a hand grenade on that still alarm of yours.\" \"Ah, back to the blotter!\" says I. \"Who gave you any license to make funny cracks on my Mrs. Leslie Carter disguise?\" We swapped a few more like that, while I sizes up Hinkey, tryin' to map out a way to brace him. But it was a losin' proposition. He has one of them eyes nailed to what I wanted to take away and the other trained on the door, and you could tell by the way he held his jaw that nothin' short of an earthquake would jar him loose. It was too much for me. If it hadn't been that Mr. Robert had put it up to me so flat, I'd have quit then. But I couldn't lay down with just a look; so I takes a turn around into the passenger waitin' room, battin' my head for a new line.", "words": 308}, {"story": 1, "title": "A Jolt for Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "I guess it was kind of second sight that steers me over into the corner where there is an A. D. T. branch. I wa'n't lookin' for anyone I knew, seein' it's been so long since I wore the cap; but who should I pipe off, sittin' on the call bench, but Hunch Leary! And, say, between the time I'd give him the nod to come out, and his askin' how it was I'd shook the red stripe, I'd framed up the whole scheme. First I goes over to the girl under the blue bell and rings up Mr. Robert. \"Hello,\" says I, \"this is Torchy.\" \"Good!\" says he. \"Have you got it?\" \"Got nothin'!\" says I. \"You must think I'm a writ of habeas corpus. I want to know who was the gent that most likely tipped off your warden friend.\" When I'd got that I asks the time of the next uptown boat, and makes a deal with one of them ferry hawks to back his chariot up near the express office door and be ready to make a swift move for the gangplank. Then me and Hunchy fakes up this little billy ducks to Mr. Hinkey Tolliver, tellin' him to chase to the nearest 'phone and call up the gent that Mr. Robert had put me wise to. It was worse'n playin' a three-ball combination for the side pocket, and I holds my breath while Hunch pokes his book at him and waits to see if there's any answer. Tolliver, he reads it over two or three times, first with one eye and then the other. One minute I thought he was goin', and the next he settles back like he'd made up his mind to balk. He squints at the burlap package, and then at the message, and all of a sudden he makes a break for the 'phone.", "words": 313}, {"story": 1, "title": "A Jolt for Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "He hadn't begun movin' before I was up to the window with my receipt, callin' for 'em to get a hustle on, as Mr. Doe had run out of veal and had to have it in a hurry. Ever try to poke up one of them box jugglers? They took their time about it--and me lookin' for trouble every tick of the clock! But I got an O. K. on it after awhile, and for a quarter I hired a wagon helper to drag the bundle out and chuck it into the hansom. Then I climbs in and we made the boat just as the bell rang. She was pullin' out of the slip when Tolliver rushes out about as calm as a bulldog chasin' a tramp. \"Say,\" says the driver, climbin' down to take a look at the baggage, \"who you got sewed in the sack!\" \"Get on your perch!\" says I. \"Ain't you makin' extra money on this? And when you fetch up at the club, do it like you was used to stoppin' at such places.\" It was a great ride that me and the deer meat had across town and up Fifth-ave. I'd stopped once to put Mr. Robert next; so he was waitin' for me out in front of the club, wearin' a grin that was better'n a breakfast food ad. But that wa'n't anything to the look on Piddie when Mr. Robert shows up next mornin' and pats me on the back like I was one of his old Hasty Puddin' chums. \"Piddie,\" says I, \"look what it is to be born handsome and lucky, all in one throw!\"", "words": 275}, {"story": 2, "title": "Meeting up with the Great Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Next time you nabs me writin' a form sheet on any unknown, you can hang out the waste paper sign and send me to the scows. Look at the mess I makes of this here Mallory business! Why, first off I has him billed for a Percy boy that had strayed into the general office from the drygoods district. He had a filin' job in the bond room, and when he drew his envelope on Saturdays it must have set the Corrugated Trust back for as much as twelve D. Course, I didn't pay no attention to him, until one noon I finds him in the next chair at the dairy lunch. He's got his mug of half white and half black, and his two corned beef splits, with plenty of mustard, and he's just squarin' off for a foodfest, when I squats down with two hunks of pie and all the cheese I could get at one grab. \"Hello, Algy!\" says I. \"Where's the charlotte russe and the cup of tea?\" \"Beg pardon,\" says he; \"were you speaking to me?\" \"Sure,\" says I. \"You didn't think I was makin' that crack at the armchair, did you? Maybe we ain't been introduced; but we're on the same payroll.\" \"Oh, yes,\" says he, \"I remember now. You're the--the----\" \"Go on, say it,\" says I. \"I don't mind if it is red, and I lets anybody call me Torchy that wants to, even Willies.\" \"Well, now, that's nice of you,\" says he, sidetrackin' a bite to look me over. Then he grins.", "words": 260}, {"story": 2, "title": "Meeting up with the Great Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Say, it was that open face movement that made me suspicious maybe he wa'n't one of the Algernon kind, after all. But he had most of the points, from the puff tie to the way he spoke. It wa'n't the hot potato dialect Piddie uses; but it leaned that way. If he'd been a real Willie boy, though, he'd gone up in the air, and maybe I'd got slapped on the wrist. His springin' that grin was a hunch for me to hold the decision. \"How long you been keepin' Corrugated stocks from goin' below par?\" says I. That stuns him for a minute, and then a light breaks. He throws another grin. \"Oh, about a year,\" he says. \"Chee!\" says I. \"And they ain't put you on the board of directors yet?\" \"I've managed to keep off so far,\" says he. \"Get a lift every quarter, though, I suppose?\" says I. \"I'm getting the same salary I began with, if that's what you mean,\" says he, tacklin' another sandwich that had got past the meat inspectors. \"Yours must be fatter'n most of the Saturday prize packages they hand out in the general office, or you wouldn't have kept satisfied so long,\" says I. He thinks that over for awhile, like it was a new proposition, and then he says, quiet and easy, \"I'm not at all sure, you see, that I am satisfied.\" \"Why not chuck it then and make another grab?\" says I. \"It's good luck sometimes to shake the bag.\" He swings his shoulders up at that,--and say, he's got a good pair, all right!--but he don't say a word. \"Ain't married the job, have you?\" says I. \"Or have you lost your nerve?\" \"Perhaps it's a lack of nerve, as you suggest,\" says he, more as if he was talkin' to himself than anything else. \"Don't think you could connect with another, eh?\" says I.", "words": 319}, {"story": 2, "title": "Meeting up with the Great Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "He shakes his head. \"I'm not exactly proud of the fact,\" says he; \"but I don't mind telling you in confidence that it required the combined efforts of my entire family and all my friends to get me into this job.\" \"Honest?\" says I. \"Chee! They picked a pippin for you, didn't they?\" \"It's a star,\" says he. \"So's a swift kick from the bottom of a well,\" says I. With that I shakes off the pie crumbs and takes a chase up around the Flatiron, to watch the kids collectin' cigar coupons and take a look at the folks from the goshfry-mighty belt shiverin' in the rubberneck buggies. Say, I never feel quite so much to home in this burg as when I watch them jays from the one-night stands payin' their coin to see things that I shut my eyes on every day. When I gets back on the gate I tries to figure out this Mallory gent; but I can't place him. He's no Willie, and he's no dope, I can see that. With his age and general get-up, though, he ought to be pullin' out fifty or so a week. What's he been at all this time? I was just curious enough to stroll over and take a look at him. He has his coat off, pluggin' away on the job and doin' the kind of work that I could learn to play with any time I had a day off. Not that I'm lookin' for it. Bein' head office boy suits me down to the ground. That's bein' somethin', even if they do pay you off with a five and a one. But if you're a live one you'll get tipped as much more. And you don't have cold chills up the spine every time the boss lugs down an after breakfast grouch.", "words": 308}, {"story": 2, "title": "Meeting up with the Great Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Course, a duck like Mallory can't get in any such game; so he's got to dig away at the filin' case and wear his last summer's suit until Christmas. Diggin' and keepin' quiet seemed to be his only play. Just as though he'd ever win any medals by the way he stacked papers away in little pasteboard boxes! He wins somethin' else, though. One day the general manager rushes into Mallory's corner after somethin' he wanted in a hurry, and by the time he'd found it he'd pied things from one end of the coop to the other. Mallory was just tryin' to straighten out the mess, when along comes Piddie, with that pointed nose of his in front. Piddie don't ask any questions; he throws a fit. Why, he had Mallory on the carpet for forty minutes by the clock, givin' him the grand roast, and the only time Mallory opens up to tell him how it was he shuts him off with a, \"That is sufficient, Mr. Mallory! I am here to get results, not excuses. Is that quite clear?\" \"Yes, sir,\" says Mallory. Say, but he did it well! He looks that peanut headed snipe straight in the eye all the time after that and takes what's comin' to him without turnin' a hair. It was \"Yes, Mr. Piddie,\" and \"No, Mr. Piddie\"; but nothin' else. And the cooler and politer he was, the wilder Piddie got. When I hears him tell Mallory that another such break will cost him his job, I was achin' to throw the letterpress at him and break him in two. I couldn't hardly wait for Mallory to shut the door before I let loose.", "words": 283}, {"story": 2, "title": "Meeting up with the Great Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Say, Piddie,\" says I, \"if you don't think you'll sleep easy to-night unless you give some one the bounce, why not fire me? Go on, now; I'll make out a case for you. Tell 'em I said you howled around like a pup with a sore ear.\" Piddie turns white and gives me the glassy eye--that's all. I couldn't tease a fire out of him with a box of matches. But that didn't make up for the way he'd roughed Mallory. I was still sore over it at closin' time; so I lays for Mallory and asks him why he didn't risk the job and take a crack at Piddie's jaw. He just laughs. \"Oh,\" says he, \"I couldn't pay him that compliment.\" Was that a joke, yes? Blamed if I could tell. Anyway, it wa'n't sense. And there's where I had the front to put it straight up to Mallory about his bein' stranded in a place where he had to take such pin jabbin' as that. \"Say,\" says I, \"is it hard luck, or a late start, or what?\" \"I fancy a late start would cover it,\" says he. \"Not college?\" says I. \"That's it,\" says he. \"Aw, fudge!\" says I. \"Honest, I didn't take you for one of them rah-rah boys. Well, if it's that ails you, you're up against it. I don't wonder you had to be jammed into a job with a flyin' wedge. Chee!\" I was sorry for him, though. Maybe it was somethin' he couldn't duck. Some of 'em I've known of couldn't. Oh, I've seen bunches of 'em, just turned out. Didn't we have more'n a dozen unloaded on us when me and Mr. Marshall was gettin' out the Sunday edition? And we didn't do a thing to 'em, either!", "words": 298}, {"story": 2, "title": "Meeting up with the Great Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "But it's a tough deal, after puttin' in all that time dodgin' the fool killer at some one else's expense, to be chucked into the grub game with nothin' but a lot of siss-boom yells for experience. I wouldn't have believed Mallory was that sort. Nice young feller, too. Never slung any of his Greek at me, nor flashed his college pins. Seemed to kind of like chinnin' to me at lunch; so I let him. You know how you'll get to gassin' and tellin' each other the story of your life. I lets out about Belmont Pepper and the minin' stocks he gave me, and Mallory drops hints about mother and sister, that was livin' off in Washington or somewhere with a brother that was in better luck. Mallory, he was doin' the hall bedroom act, livin' on that twelve per and keepin' out of sight of everyone he'd ever known until he'd made good. Guess he found it kind of a lonesome deal. Once when I was extra flush I offers to blow him to a fam'ly circle seat at \"The Bandit Queen\"; but he says he thinks he'd better not go. \"Plannin' to have a spin in your new car?\" says I. \"Hardly,\" says he. \"Well, how do you put in your off time, anyway?\" says I. And say, whatcher think? His programme is to light up the gas stove reg'lar after dinner and fill his head full of truck out of the trade monthlies and Wall Street columns, postin' himself on Corrugated business. \"Gettin' ready to give the old man a few private tips?\" says I. \"Not until he asks for them,\" says he. \"Then you've got lots of time,\" says I. \"But it's a punk way of enjoyin' yourself.\"", "words": 294}, {"story": 2, "title": "Meeting up with the Great Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Maybe it was thinkin' about what a dead slow time he was havin' that gives me the cue to stir up that lovely mess, or perhaps it was because the thing was sprung on me so unexpected. It come one day when I was busy drawin' pictures of Piddie on the blotter. I hears a giggle, and squints up to see a pair that looked as if they'd just broke away from an afternoon tea. He was a husky youth in a frock coat, with a face like a full moon and a voice that didn't call for any megaphone. The other was a her, and she was a bundle of tuttifrutti, the kind you see floatin' by in sixty horsepowers, all veils and furs and eyes. \"Hello, sonny,\" says he, swingin' up to the brass gate, wearin' a four-inch grin. \"Where's the Great Skid?\" \"Give it up,\" says I. \"Have you tried the Zoo?\" \"He-haw!\" says he, with the stops all out and a forced draft on. \"That's a good one, that is! But we haven't much time and we're looking for Skid. Where do you keep him?\" \"Say,\" says I, \"we've got a lot of freaks on tap; but we're just out of Skids. Anything else do?\" Then she comes to the front. \"Don't be such a silly, Dicky!\" says she. \"It isn't likely they call him that here. Tell the young man it's Bert Mallory we wish to see.\" \"You're right, Sis, right as usual,\" says Dick. \"It's Mallory we're looking for.\" \"Oh!\" says I. \"Mister Mallory?\" \"There now, Dicky!\" says she, pokin' him with her elbow and touchin' off another giggle. \"Didn't I tell you?\" \"He-haw!\" says Dicky. \"Mister Mallory, of course.\"", "words": 286}, {"story": 2, "title": "Meeting up with the Great Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "But I didn't feel he-hawy a bit; for it was up to me to tow Mallory's swell college chum and his sister in where the boy was jugglin' the file cases. And them lookin' for him to be sittin' in a swing chair with his name painted big on the door! That was when I dug up my fool thought. \"Cards!\" says I. \"I'll see if Mr. Mallory's got through consultin' with the general manager.\" \"Oh!\" gurgles Sis. \"Doesn't that sound business like, though? I suppose Skid--er--Mr. Mallory is quite a busy man, isn't he?\" \"Busy,\" says I. \"Say, you don't think he has all of us around here to play marbles, do you, miss?\" Sis, she gets mighty int'rested at that. \"He's a very important man now, isn't he?\" says she. \"Chee, yes!\" says I. \"He's I-double-it around here.\" \"Isn't that fine?\" says Sis. \"But I hope he can see us.\" \"Oh, I'll fix that all right,\" says I. With that I slides through two doors and into Mr. Robert's room. He's still out to lunch, of course, it bein' only about two o'clock; so I unlocks the corridor door that he don't use and skips across into the general offices. \"Say,\" says I to Mallory, \"you're wanted in the boss's office. No, not the old man's; Mr. Robert's. Skin into your coat and come along.\" Never fazes him a bit. He just hunches his shoulders, knocks the dust off his hands, and trots after. When I gets him in there I tells him to wait a minute, and then I goes out through the right way and lugs in Dicky and sister. Was it a surprise party? Well, say! Dicky lets out a roar, makes a plunge for him, hammers him on the back, works the pump handle, and talks a blue streak.", "words": 305}, {"story": 2, "title": "Meeting up with the Great Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Well, Skiddy, old man, here we are!\" says he. \"Thought you'd given us the shake for good, eh? But we heard you'd gone in with the Corrugated,--saw Blicky in Venice and he told us,--so when we came ashore we wired father to hold the car over one train for us while we hunted you up. Sis wouldn't let me come unless she could too. Here, Sis, it's your turn. Blaze ahead now and give the boy what you said you would. I'll turn my back.\" I didn't, though. Was there any hangin' off about Sis? Not so you'd notice it. She just steps up and makes a grab for Mallory and----Aw, say! One like that must be good for chapped lips. If I'm ever handed one of them kind I won't wash it off for a month. It tickles Dicky most to death. \"He-haw!\" says he, so's the window panes rattle. \"She said she'd do it. And she did, didn't she, eh, Skid?\" Mallory couldn't prove an alibi. He was the worst rattled man I ever see, and as for blushin'--he got up a color like the lady heroine in a biff-bang drama. He acted as though he didn't know whether he was loopin' the loops or having a dream that was too good to be true. Once or twice he tried to unloosen some remarks; but Sis and Dicky was both talkin' to once and he never got a show. They was tellin' him how glad they was to see him again, and what a great man he was, and how Sis was comin' back to town next month for the rest of the season, and all that--when right in the middle of it the door opens and in comes Mr. Robert.", "words": 293}, {"story": 2, "title": "Meeting up with the Great Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Say, I felt like a noon extra in a bunch of six o'clock editions. I'd balled things up lovely, I had! Why, the only times a general office hand ever gets a chance to stand on the Persian rug in the boss's office is just before he gets the run or is boosted into a five-figure salary. And here I has a twelve-dollar man usin' it like a public reception hall! It was what was goin' to happen to Mallory that gave me the shivers. \"Torchy,\" says Mr. Robert, \"what's all this?\" \"S-s-sh!\" says I. \"It's Old Home Day, and the lady is handin' out choc'late creams. Wait up; maybe it'll be your turn next.\" \"But, see here, I don't understand,\" says he. \"Who are these persons, and why----\" \"Ah, say!\" says I. \"Ain't you got any sportin' blood? Besides, I don't know the answer myself.\" I could of kept that up just about one more round before I'd fell through a crack; but just as Mr. Robert was framin' up another conundrum Dicky turns around and spots him. \"Why, hello, Bob!\" yells Dicky, as gentle as if he was hailin' someone across Broadway. \"By Jove, though, I forgot all about you being in the Corrugated too! But of course you are. Sis and I just ran in a minute to look up Skid. Good old Skid! Great boy, eh, Bob?\" Mr. Robert takes a look over by the window at Mallory, who wasn't seein' a thing but Sis and wasn't hearin' anything but what she was sayin'--and she was sayin' a lot. \"Is--is that Skid?\" says Mr. Robert.", "words": 269}, {"story": 2, "title": "Meeting up with the Great Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Oh, come along now, Bob,\" says Dicky, pokin' him in the vest playful. \"You don't mean to say you don't know Skid Mallory, the Great Skid, best quarterback we ever turned out, the one that went through Harvard for forty-five yards, and that with a broken ankle? Don't know Skid? Why, say!\" \"I take it all back,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Of course I know him; but not so well as you do, Dicky. I wasn't one of the coaches, you know, and I haven't kept the run of the team for the last year or two. But I'm glad to see the Great Skid. How the deuce does he happen to be up here, though?\" \"He-haw!\" says Dicky. \"That's rich, that is? Shows how much you know of Corrugated affairs, Bob. Why, man alive, Skid's one of the chaps that's runnin' your old gent's trust. This is his office you're in now.\" \"Really!\" says Mr. Robert. He takes another look at Mallory, who's deaf and dumb and blind to everything but Sis, and then he turns for a good hard look at me. I grins kind of foolish and nods. Then I jumps behind Dicky and begins to wigwag over his shoulder for Mr. Robert to keep it up. I didn't know whether he would or not. I wa'n't sure but what he'd think I'd turned batty, by the motions I was goin' through; but he's a sport, Mr. Robert is. He didn't know what was on the card; but he takes a chance.", "words": 254}, {"story": 2, "title": "Meeting up with the Great Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "So Dicky waltzes him over to the pair by the window, and makes Mr. Robert and Mallory acquainted, and jollies 'em both, and all three of 'em talk football to Mallory, who blushes worse than ever and don't know which way to turn. They keep that up until Dicky pulls out his watch, grabs Sis by the arm, and hollers that they've got to make a break for the Washington Limited. Sis is shakin' good-by with both of 'em at once, when she thinks of somethin' funny. \"Oh, Mr. Robert!\" says she. \"I want to know which of you is who here, don't you know. Is it you that works for Skid, or Skid that works for you?\" \"Chee!\" thinks I. \"That upsets the soup kettle.\" Mr. Robert looks at Mallory, and Mallory looks at him. There was no breakin' away; for she has hold of a hand apiece. Both of 'em makes a start; but Mr. Robert gets the floor. \"Why,\" says he, \"I guess we're both working for the Corrugated, only one of us works a little harder than the other.\" \"Ah!\" says Sis, givin' Mallory a smile that was worth payin' money to see. \"I thought so.\" The next minute they makes a dash for an elevator goin' down, and that part of it was over. We'd worked the bluff all the way through, and Sis has lugged off the idea that Mallory was at the top of the bunch. But there was Mr. Robert, waitin' to talk Dutch to us. Mallory he starts in to say that he's sorry for seemin' so cheeky; but that's about all he can say.", "words": 274}, {"story": 2, "title": "Meeting up with the Great Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Ah, cheese it!\" says I, buttin' in. \"What do you know about it? It was me put up the game, and if Mr. Robert had loafed another half an hour at the club like he usually does, there wouldn't have been any mix up. Say, you leave this to me.\" Mallory didn't want to leave it like that; but Mr. Robert was holdin' the door open for him, so he couldn't do anything else. When we had it all to ourselves, the boss ranges me up in front of him for the court of inquiry session. \"Well?\" says he, real solemn. I takes all that in and gives him the wink. \"Say,\" says I, \"didn't I have my nerve with me, though?\" He kind of blinks at that; but it don't fetch him. \"Who's Dicky, your whisperin' friend?\" says I. \"Nobody much,\" says he. \"His father's a Senator.\" \"Well, say, now,\" says I, \"you didn't want me to chase a Senator's son and a real swell girl like Sis off into a place like the general office reception room, did you! And wouldn't it have been a nice break if I'd let out that we was smotherin' the Great Skid under a twelve-dollar job?\" \"Was that why you had the impudence to appropriate my office?\" says he. \"That was part of it,\" says I. And that gives me an openin' to tell him the whole tale about Mallory, from the hall bedroom act to the way he'd been postin' himself. \"You think he's a valuable man, do you?\" says Mr. Robert. \"Valuable!\" says I. \"Why, he's all the goods. What if he did learn to talk Greek once? He's forgettin' it, ain't he? And look at the way he stands up to trouble! Don't that show there's good stuff in him?\" \"Well,\" says he, \"what would you suggest?\"", "words": 308}, {"story": 3, "title": "Frosting the Profess", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Chee! but I'm gettin' to be useful! Course, I don't figure out no awful slump in Corrugated stocks if I should get pettish some day and tell 'em they'd got to find a new office boy. That ain't the kind of shredded thought I'm feedin' on. I fit into a lot of places besides the chair behind the brass gate. Why, I have to put on a sub. three or four times a week, while I'm spreadin' myself out all over the lot. It all come of their makin' me special messenger to the boss; for since old Mr. Ellins has been laid up with toothache in his knee joints they've been chasin' me up to the Fift'-ave. ranch, with mail, and blank bonds to be signed, and such truck. And that's how I came to get so thick with Marjorie. I was waitin' in the front hall, pipin' off the gorgerifousness, when some one pushes in through the draperies L. U. E. and I'm discovered. And, say, she was a magnum, all right! You know the sort of pippins they pick out to hang up by a string in the fruit store window? Well, that was her style. Big? She'd fit close in a Morris chair! And she didn't look more'n eighteen or nineteen, either. For all her width, she was built on good lines, and if she'd been divided up right there'd been enough for a pair of as good lookers as you'd want to see. \"O-o-o-o!\" says she as she comes in. \"See who's here!\" I never says a word, but just twists my toes around the chair legs and looks into my hat. Not that I'm any afraid of girls; but I wa'n't feelin' so much to home there as I do in some places, and I didn't want to make any break. But she wouldn't let it go at that.", "words": 315}, {"story": 3, "title": "Frosting the Profess", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"O-o-o-o!\" says she again, and as I squints up at her I sees the reg-lar cut-up looks just bubblin' out. \"G'wan!\" says I. \"I ain't no curiosity.\" \"Oh, it is Torchy then, isn't it?\" says she. \"You don't think this is a wig I'm wearin', do you?\" says I. That's what I got to expect with hair like mine. The minute my description's given out everybody's on. She giggles and says that Brother Robert's been telling her about me. \"I'm Marjorie, you know,\" says she. \"Well,\" says I, lookin' her over careful, \"you'll do.\" I meant it. Mr. Robert's only fair sized; but old man Ellins is a whale, and I was thinkin' of him when I said that Marjorie was up to specifications. She seems to think I've handed out a lump of butterscotch, though, and we gets real chatty. I don't know what kind of fairy yarns Mr. Robert's been tearin' off at home about me; but from the start she treats me like I was one of the fam'ly. And Marjorie was just as nice as she was heavy. She didn't try to carry any dog; but just blazes ahead and spiels out the talk. I get next to the fact that she's just home from one of them swell boardin' schools, where they pump French and music into young lady plutesses at a dollar a minute, and throw in lessons on how to say \"Home, Francois!\" to the chaffeur. This was some kind of a vacation Marjorie was havin', and she was doin' her best to make every hour count. Knowin' all that helped me to keep from bein' so much jarred by her next move. It was a couple of days after, on a Wednesday, and we'd got real well acquainted, when Marjorie spots me as I was headin' back for the office after leavin' some things for the boss.", "words": 315}, {"story": 3, "title": "Frosting the Profess", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Torchy,\" says she, \"where's Robert? What was he doing when you left?\" \"Give it up,\" says I. \"And, anyway, I ain't supposed to know.\" \"I'll bet you do, though,\" says she. \"Couldn't you guess?\" \"If I did,\" says I, \"I'd guess that he'd just made a run of ten or twelve and was pushin' up the buttons on the string.\" \"I don't know what that means,\" says she. \"Well,\" says I, \"it means that maybe he's playin' billiards at the club.\" \"Oh, darn!\" says she, real wicked. It turns out that Brother Robert has said he'd take sister to the matinee that afternoon, and the date has got clean by him. She wants to go the worst way, too. Mother wasn't handy, Aunty May had the icebag on her head, and there wasn't anyone else within reach. Accordin' to the rules, there'd got to be some one. \"Torchy,\" says she, \"I don't see why you couldn't take me, as well as anyone else.\" \"Thanks,\" says I, \"but I don't want to earn my release that way. I've got 'em trained down to the office so they'll stand for a lot; but me ringin' in a matinee durin' business hours would sure break the spell.\" \"Oh, pshaw!\" says she. \"I can fix that part of it,\" and off she goes, up to see puppah. If she'd come back and said the old man was havin' a fit on the floor, I wouldn't have been any surprised. But, say, Marjorie must have a pull accordin' to her weight; for inside of four minutes she comes skippin' down the front stairs, makin' the gas globes rattle and jigglin' the pictures on the wall. \"It's all right,\" says she. \"Father says you're to telephone Mr. Piddie that you won't be back, and then you're to see that I get to the theater and home again without being kidnapped. I'll be ready in ten minutes.\"", "words": 320}, {"story": 3, "title": "Frosting the Profess", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It was a shame, though, that I missed seein' Piddie when he got the word. All I could hear was a gasp, like he'd been butted just above the belt, and then he hung up the receiver. I expect I'll send him to the nerve repair shop some day. But you should have seen me and Marjorie sittin' on the broadcloth cushions and bein' carted down to the theater. I swelled up all I could; but at that I wa'n't much more'n a dot on the landscape. There's times when I feel real chesty and can hear my feet make a noise when I walk; but this wa'n't one of 'em. And when it came to paradin' down the middle row after the usher, with Marjorie puffin' behind, I felt like one of them dinky little river tugs towin' a floatin' grain elevator. I was lookin' for the house to let loose a \"Ha-ha!\" It didn't, though. They expect most anything to drift into them afternoon shows. \"Say, Miss Ellins,\" says I, after she'd squeezed herself into her place, pinned her feather lid up in front of her, and opened the choc'late creams, \"I've been in such a dream I didn't look at the outside boards or get a programme. What's doin'--variety or a tumpy-tump show?\" \"Why,\" says she, \"this is Shakespeare's 'Romeo and Juliet.'\" \"Z-z-z-zing!\" says I. \"Stung again! Who unloaded the tickets on you?\" What d'ye think, though? She'd picked this show out all by herself, put up real money for it--and that with two Injun drammers runnin' right on Broadway! Said she'd seen the same thing half a dozen times before, too. Aw, say! I couldn't get next to any such batty move as that. And when I thought how this was my first plunge into a two-dollar chair, it made me sore.", "words": 306}, {"story": 3, "title": "Frosting the Profess", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Wake me up when it's all over,\" says I, and settles back for a real rest. There's where I hung out the wrong number. That wa'n't any dope drammer at all. Course, Shakespeare don't know how to ring in burnin' flat houses, or mill explosions, or any real thrillers like that; but there's somethin' doin' in his pieces. There was in this one, anyway. It was quite some time before I got any glimmer of what it was all about; but before the first act was over I was sittin' up, all right. \"What do you think of her?\" says Marjorie. \"The one with the Maxine Elliott eyes and the gushy voice?\" says I. \"Oh, I don't call her such a much; but if Romeo wants her as bad as he says he does, I hope it won't be a case of 'My pa won't let me.' But, say, what for did they kill off the only real live one they had, that Mr. Cuteo? Say, he was all to the good, and it was a shame to have him punctured so quick!\" The parts I liked, though, wa'n't the ones that Marjorie got herself worked up over. It was the balcony scene she'd come for. When they got to that she grips the seat in front and glues her eyes on them two that was swappin' the long, lingerin' breakaway tackles, and every once in awhile she heaves up a sigh like cuttin' out an airbrake. After it was all over, and most everybody that counted had swallowed knockout drops, Marjorie gives me a sidelight on what's been runnin' through her head. \"I could do that,\" says she. \"I just know I could!\" \"Do what?\" says I. \"Why, Juliet's part. I've been studying it for months, ever since our class gave it at school. They wouldn't give me a part then; but just you wait! I'll show them!\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 3, "title": "Frosting the Profess", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"You're joshin',\" says I. Honest, I didn't think she meant it. She didn't say any more about it, and all the way home she was as quiet as a bale of hay. That was the last I see of Marjorie for near a week. Then, one afternoon as I was goin' through Tinpan Alley on an errand, I sees the Ellins carriage pull up, and out she comes. Now, say, I knew in a minute that wa'n't any place for Marjorie. The buildin' she goes into is one of them old five-story brownstones, where they sell wigs in the basement, costumes on the first floor, have a theatrical agency on the second, and give voice culture and such stuff above. Among the other signs was one that read, \"School of Dramatic Art, Room 9, Fifth Floor.\" \"Chee!\" says I. \"You don't suppose Marjorie's got it that bad, do you?\" First off I thinks I'll chase along and forget I'd seen anything at all. Then I thinks of what Mr. Robert would say if he knew, and I stops. Sure, I hadn't been called to play any Buttinsky part; but somehow I didn't feel right about stayin' out, so the first thing I knows I'm trailin' up the stairs. There wa'n't any need to do the sleuth act after Marjorie got started. Anyone on the floor could have heard it; for she was spoutin' the Juliet lines like a carriage caller, and whenever she made a rush to the footlights the floor beams creaked. It was enough to drag a laugh out of a hearse driver. And guess what the guy was tellin' her!", "words": 273}, {"story": 3, "title": "Frosting the Profess", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Great!\" says he. \"You're almost as good as Mary Anderson was at her best, and as for Marlowe, she can't touch you. Excellent, that last speech! What fire, what expression, what talent! Why, young woman, all you need is a Broadway production to sweep 'em off their feet! I'll arrange it for you. It means money, of course; but after the first cost--fame, nothing but fame!\" Now, how was that for a hot-air blast? Wouldn't that make a short ice crop if you let it loose up the Hudson? But it wa'n't what he said, so much as how he was sayin' it, that got me int'rested. There's some voices you don't have to hear but once to remember a lifetime, an this was one of that kind. It was one of these husky baritones, like what does the coonsongs for the punky records they put into the music boxes at the penny arcades. That was as near as I could map it for a minute or so while I was tryin' to throw up the picture of the man behind the voice. And, then it hits me--Professor Booth McCallum! Oh, skincho, what a front! Why, when I was on the Sunday editor's door the professor used to show up reg'lar with some new scheme for winnin' space. Talk about your self-acting press agents! He had the bunch shoved to the curb. All he had to bank on was a ten-minute turn at a 14th-st. continuous house, fillin' in between the trained pig and the strong lady; but he wanted as much type set about himself as if he'd been Dave Warfield.", "words": 272}, {"story": 3, "title": "Frosting the Profess", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "When he couldn't get next to anybody else, he used to give me the earache tellin' of the times when he played stock in one of Daly's road comp'nies, and how he had to quit because John Drew was jealous of him. Then he'd leave his stuff with me and I'd promise to sneak it into the dramatic notes the first time I found the forms unlocked. And to think of a hamfatter like McCallum, who's come back from Buffalo on a brake beam so often that he always sleeps with one arm crooked around the bedpost, havin' the nerve to call himself a school of dramatic art! Course, I didn't think Marjorie was so easy as to fall for a fake like that. She must be stringin' him. But the minute I see her come out I knew she'd swallowed the hook. I'd dropped back into the far end of the hall, where it was dark; but as she walks under the skylight I sees the pleased look on her face, like she was havin' a view of her lithographs on all the gold frames in the subway. I waits until McCallum shuts himself in to throw bouquets at his picture in the glass, and then I slips down just in time to catch Marjorie as she's climbin' into the carriage. \"Is this the lady that's entered for the heavyweight Juliet championship?\" says I, tryin' to break the news to her gentle. It shook her up a good deal, just the same. Her face gets the color of an auction flag, and she jounces down on the seat in a way that makes the springs flat out like bed slats. \"Why, Torchy!\" says she. \"Where did you come from, and what do you mean?\" \"Oh, I've taken out a butt-in license,\" says I. \"I'm on, Miss Ellins. I wa'n't invited to the rehearsal; but I was there.\"", "words": 318}, {"story": 3, "title": "Frosting the Profess", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Listening outside?\" says she. \"Uh-huh,\" says I. \"Oh, Torchy!\" says she. \"Did you hear how lovely the professor talked of the way I did it?\" \"About your havin' Julia Marlowe sewed in a sack? Sure thing,\" says I. \"But you mustn't tell anyone,\" says she. \"I wouldn't want the job,\" says I. \"I can draw a diagram of the riot there'll be when mommer and popper get the bulletin.\" \"I don't care,\" says Marjorie. \"They never want me to do anything. It's always, 'Oh, Marjorie, you're too big.' In summer I can't go bathing because they say I'm a sight in a bathing suit, and in winter they won't let me skate because they're afraid I'll break through. The boys won't dance with me, and the girls shut me out of basketball. But Professor McCallum has been perfectly dear. He said right away that I wasn't a bit too stout to be an actress. I'm not, either! Why, I weigh less than two hundred, with my jacket off; honest, I do! He liked my voice, too. And this was only my third lesson. Anyway, I'd just love to play Juliet, and I mean to do it!\" Well, say, that was a proposition to give you a headache. I couldn't go runnin' to Mr. Robert or the boss with any tales about Miss Marjorie. That ain't what I'm on the payroll for. But I couldn't let McCallum play a friend of mine for a good thing; so I just opens up on him.", "words": 252}, {"story": 3, "title": "Frosting the Profess", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Why,\" says I, \"he's a never was. Maybe he used to carry a spear, or play double-up parts on the haymow circuit; but that's about all. He's a common, everyday, free lunch frisker, Mac is. I used to know all about him when I was in the newspaper business; so this is a straight steer. He's just tollin' you along because he's had a dream that if he gets you real stuck on yourself you'll come across with two or three thousand for expenses and will be too tender-hearted to squeal afterwards. That's his game, and all you've got to do to queer it is to send him ten and say the folks object.\" That's about the way I put it, drawin' it as strong as I knew how. Does Marjorie see the point and heave up any thanks about my bein' her true friend? Not her! She calls me impid'nt and says she's got a good mind to box my ears right there. So it was up to me to calm her down. \"All right, Miss Marjorie,\" says I. \"If I've said anything I can't prove, I'll take it back; but if you'll follow me upstairs again for a minute, and wait outside in the hall, I'll have a little talk with the professor that'll settle it one way or the other.\" No, she wouldn't do it, and she didn't want me ever to speak to her again. I was too fresh, I was! \"Then I guess I'll have to send Mr. Robert up to engage seats for that Juliet stab of yours,\" says I, makin' a play to move off.", "words": 272}, {"story": 3, "title": "Frosting the Profess", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It was a bluff; but it fetched her. She was willin' to do 'most anything if I wouldn't tell Brother Robert; so back we goes up to the acting school on the top floor. I left her leanin' up against the wall, right near the open transom, and makes a break for McCallum. He was right there, too. He's one of these short-legged, ham-faced gents that's almost as tall when he's sittin' down as when he's standin' up. A neck that takes a No. 18 turn-down collar goes with that. He has his hands in his pockets, an Egyptian joss-stick in his mouth, and he's straddlin' up and down, as satisfied with himself as if he'd just cashed a ticket on the right horse. \"Hello, profess!\" says I. \"I spots your name on the sign; so I takes the foot elevator up to see how you're comin' on.\" \"Quite right, son,\" says he, \"quite right.\" He didn't need any whizz plane then to beat the Curtiss record. He was soarin', soarin,' and too busy with it to take much notice of me. \"You ain't been round to the office lately,\" says I, lettin' on I was still with the paper. \"No, son,\" says he; \"but you can inform your dramatic man down there that if he wants an important piece of news he'd better come and see me,\" and with that he taps his chest like he was stunnin' the gallery. \"Thought you looked like happy days, professor,\" says I. \"What's it like? You ain't been takin' on any swell pupils, have you?\" \"Haven't I, though?\" says he, stickin' his thumbs in his vest pockets and comin' up on his toes as if he was goin' to crow. \"Haven't I?\" \"Say, Mac,\" says I confidential, \"that wasn't her I saw drivin' off in the private buggy as I come in, was it--the wide one?\"", "words": 314}, {"story": 3, "title": "Frosting the Profess", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"That was her,\" says he, \"the new Juliet.\" \"Juliet!\" says I. \"Aw, you're kiddin'! Honest, professor, do Juliets come as heavy as that?\" Then he winks. I could see he was just bustin' to let it out to some one, and here was his chance. \"Son,\" says he, \"when young ladies have the price to pay for such luxuries as the cultivation of a dramatic talent that doesn't exist, size doesn't count. I've coached a Hamlet with lop ears and a pug nose, a Lady of Lyons that had a face you could chop wood with, and I guess I'm not going to draw the line at a Juliet whose father is president of a trust, even if she is something of a baby elephant!\" I heard the wall crack at that, and I suspected Marjorie'd got a shock. \"Can she act any?\" says I. \"Act!\" says he. \"It's enough to make the angels weep to see her try. Imagine, my boy, a one hundred and thirty-pound Romeo trying to hug his way around a two hundred and fifty-pound Juliet! Why, we'd have to prop up the balcony with a structural iron pillar and----\"", "words": 194}, {"story": 3, "title": "Frosting the Profess", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It was too bad to have the flow stopped, for he was enjoyin' himself; but just then the door was jerked open and in rushes Marjorie, her eyes blazin', her face white, and so mad she couldn't speak. As she looms up in the door, lookin' bigger'n ever, she was diggin' somethin' out of her handbag, somethin' shiny. It wa'n't anything but a silver purse; but the professor must have thought it was somethin' else, for he gives only one look. Then he throws up both hands, hollers \"Don't shoot, don't shoot!\" and makes a dive under a desk in the corner. The hole under that desk wa'n't built for divin' through; so McCallum wedges himself in there like a cork in a bottle, wavin' his legs in the air, and callin' for help. \"There!\" says Marjorie, throwin' some bills on the floor. \"That's for what I owe you, you horrid old fraud! Baby elephant, am I? Oh, you wretch!\" With that she goes out and bangs the door behind her. It was all me and the cornet artist next door could do to separate McCallum from the desk, and even when we worked him loose he didn't want to come out. When we'd got him into a chair, and he'd felt himself all over careful, he says to me: \"Torchy, how--how many times did she shoot?\" And when I gets back to the office Mr. Robert wants to know why I didn't let 'em know I was goin' all the way to Washington after them stamps. \"Chee!\" says I, \"but you're gettin' restless! Maybe you think I oughter travel by pneumatic tube? Huh!\"", "words": 274}, {"story": 4, "title": "Where Mildred Got Next", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "There's nothin' wins out surer in this town of New York than puttin' up a good front. If you've got the fur coat and the goggles on your cap, you can walk or ride on a transfer, and folks'll take it as a cinch that your bubble's back in the garage bein' fitted with a new set of hundred-dollar tires. Why, just the smell of benzine on a suit you've had out to the cleaners will give 'em the dream, if you throw your chest out right. Look at the way Mildred has us goin'. Maybe you don't know about Mildred. Say, I'll bet if you met up with her on Fift'-ave. you'd hold your breath till she got by and wonder whether she was a Vanderbilt or one of the Goulds! But she floats into the Corrugated Trust offices more or less reg'lar every day, just the same, and does her little stunt on the typewriter at so much per. Honest, when I sees her sailin' in mornin's, with all her swell drygoods on, I'm just as liable as not to half break my neck openin' the door for her. That's what I did the first time I saw her, when I was new on the gate. \"This way, lady,\" says I, and when she pikes right by and heads for the cloakroom I almost has a fit. Maybe there's some hot ones down around Broad-st. that drives to business in cabs and pounds the keys durin' office hours; but for a genuine, mercerized near silk we stand ready to back Mildred against the field. She'd have an expert guessin', Mildred would. \"Miss Morgan\" is the way she figures on the payroll; but that never sounded rich enough for me.", "words": 291}, {"story": 4, "title": "Where Mildred Got Next", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It was the first week I was there that I begun to get a line on Mildred. One day the old man calls me in and hands me a letter that's been put on his desk for him to sign. He was plum color, Old Hickory was, so mad he could have chewed a file. \"Boy,\" says he, \"take this into the main office, find out who M. M. is, and bring her in here. Anybody that can spell in that fashion I want to take a good look at.\" Think of the shock I gets when Piddie tells me them letters stand for Mildred Morgan. \"Lady,\" says I, \"I hates to say it, but the boss is waitin' to hand out a call-down to you. Don't you go to gettin' scared stiff, though; for the first cussword he lets go of I'll chuck a chair at him.\" The smile I gets for that would have been worth half a dozen jobs. I was lookin' for her to go white and begin bitin' her upper lip, like they usually does; but she ain't that kind--not on your nameplate! She just peels off the sleeve protectors, sets her side combs in firm, gives her face a dab or so with the rabbit's foot, and starts along after me, with that new antelope walk of hers, as easy and pleased as if she'd been asked to come to the front and pour tea.", "words": 241}, {"story": 4, "title": "Where Mildred Got Next", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And she's got the costume the part calls for, mind you! They're the only clothes of the kind I ever see wore into this buildin'. I couldn't say what they was made of; but I know they're the button-up-the-back style, and that they stick to her as if they'd been put on by a paper-hanger. I guess you'd call Mildred a 1911 model. Anyway, she seems to bulge in the right places; though how anyone so long-waisted as that can get themselves into such a rig without callin' for help is somethin' I passes up. Well, I tows her into the boss's office, feelin' as mean as a welsher. The old man has settled back in his chair, a cigar pointin' out of one corner of his mouth, and a letter in one fist. While I'm gone he's run across another, worse than the first, by the marks he's made on it, and he's got to the point where a thermometer slipped down the back of his neck would go off like a cap pistol. \"See here!\" says he, growlin' it out grouchy, without lookin' up. \"I'd like to have you run your eye over that, and then tell me where in thunder you learned to spell such s-u-t-c-h!\" \"Why,\" says she, \"I always spell it that way; don't you?\" \"Don't I!\" roars the old man. \"Do you take me for a----\" Then he looks up. Well, say, you talk about your fadin' sunsets! Nothin' I ever see beat the way the boss lost his crushed raspb'rry face tint and bleached out salmon pink. \"Why--why--er--are you sure this is some of your work, young woman?\" \"Oh yes, indeed,\" says she, kind of gurgly and aristocratic and as sweet as pie, \"that's mine. But you've made so many horrid marks on it that I shall have to do it all over again.\"", "words": 311}, {"story": 4, "title": "Where Mildred Got Next", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Yes,\" says he, \"I'm afraid that's so. But we have a way here, you know, of spelling explicit with a C instead of an S.\" \"Ruhlly?\" says she. \"How odd!\" \"It's one of our fads, too,\" goes on the old man, \"not to spell Corrugated g-a-i-t-e-d. We've simplified it by leaving out the I. Of course, we don't expect you to learn all these things at once; but pick 'em up as fast as you can. That--that's all. Thank you very much, Miss--er----What's the name?\" \"Morgan,\" says she, \"Mildred Morgan.\" \"Ah,\" says the boss, \"very much obliged, Mil--er--Miss Morgan,\" and before I could get to the door he has hopped up and opened it for her. Then he turns around and sees me standin' there grinnin'. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"are there any more like that around the shop?\" \"None that I ever saw,\" says I. \"Thank Heaven!\" says he. \"Send in one of the other kind.\" \"Want a real ripe one?\" says I. He does. And say, we got plenty of them. I picks out one with washed-out eyes, front teeth that sticks out, and no shape to speak of. She could make the typewriter do a double shuffle, though, and there couldn't anybody around the place sling out words faster'n she could take 'em down on her pad, or any she couldn't spell right the first crack. The old man fixes it that she's to go over Mildred's work with an ink eraser before it comes to him. If Mildred knew about it, she never let on. Nothin' much bothered her. She'd come sailin' in any old time durin' the forenoon, lookin' as han'some as a florist's window and actin' as if she never heard of such a thing as a time clock. Piddie tackles her only once. \"Miss Morgan,\" says he, \"business begins here at nine o'clock promptly.\"", "words": 310}, {"story": 4, "title": "Where Mildred Got Next", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"How absurd!\" says Mildred, and Piddie don't get over the shock for an hour. About the second week all hands took a vote that Mildred wa'n't much of a success as a typewriter artist and that she ought to be fired. The old man put it up to Mr. Robert, and Mr. Robert shoves it back at him. Then they both loaded it onto Piddie and cleared out. When they come back they asks him if he's done it. \"Well,\" says he, colorin' up, \"not exactly.\" Come to make him own up, he'd gone at the job so easy and had been so polite about it that Miss Morgan has time to head him off with a strike for more pay, and before he can back out he's promised to see what can be done. \"Couldn't you talk to her, Mr. Ellins?\" says he. \"Great Scott, no!\" says the boss. \"Tell her she's raised, and let it go at that.\" For awhile, though, Mildred cost the firm a lot more money than her salary, if you reckon up as worth anything the time a lot of two-by-four ink-slingers spent makin' goo-goo eyes at her. It was a losin' game all around. Mildred didn't seem to be pinin' for any such honors, and after they got well acquainted with the fact that she wouldn't stand for lunch invites, or bids to the theater, and didn't want to be walked home with by a perfect gent, they let up on that foolishness. It leaves 'em dizzy, though. There's pinheads on our gen'ral office staff who believes they never missed breakin' a heart before, and they can't figure out just what's the matter with the combination.", "words": 283}, {"story": 4, "title": "Where Mildred Got Next", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "There was others, too, that couldn't place Mildred, until some one hints that maybe she's a sure enough swell whose folks had gone broke, and that she's picked out a typewriter job as a sort of trapdoor that would let her down out of sight and keep the meal ticket renewed. After that Mildred is as much of a myst'ry as why folks live in Brooklyn. We was all wise to the main proposition, though, and it was funny to hear 'em all sayin' that they'd known it right along. Kind of set us up some, too, havin' a real ex-ice cutter like her right on the floor with us. All the other key pounders, that had been givin' her the stary eye at first, flops around and uses the sugar shaker. There wasn't anything they wouldn't do for her, and they takes turns holdin' her jacket, so's to get a peek at the trademark on the inside of the collar. But Piddie is the most pleased of any. He thinks he's right to home among carriage folks, and every time she comes near he bows and scrapes and begins to shoot off the \"Aw, I'm suah's\" and the \"Don'tcher know's,\" until you'd think he was talkin' through a mouthful of hot breakfast food. \"Chee!\" says I to him. \"You act like you thought this was a five o'clock tea.\" \"I trust,\" says he, \"I know a lady when I see one, and that I know how to treat her too.\" \"That's so,\" says I. \"Too bad you wa'n't on the stage, Piddie, in one of them 'Me lu'd, the carriage waits' parts.\" That gives me a cue, and the next time she sends me for supplies I says to him, \"Mr. Piddie,\" says I, \"the Lady Mildred presents her compliments and says she wants a new paste brush.\"", "words": 309}, {"story": 4, "title": "Where Mildred Got Next", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Gets him wild, that does; so I sticks to it. The others hears it and picks it up too, and she wa'n't called anything but Lady Mildred from that on. First thing I knew I'd said it to her face; but she never so much as looks surprised. You'd thought she'd been called Lady Mildred all her life. \"Who knows?\" says Piddie. \"Perhaps she has.\" Honest, we was makin' up all kinds of pipe dreams about her, and believin' 'em as we went along. There was no findin' out from her what was so and what she wa'n't. She never gets real chummy with anyone; but keeps us jollied along about so much. It was dead easy. All she had to do was to throw a smile our way, and we was tickled for a week. Wasn't anyone around the place needed so much waitin' on as her; but no one ever minds. Gen'rally there was two or three on the jump for her, and others willin' to be. Course, that don't include Mr. Robert. He seems to think Lady Mildred was some kind of a joke; but, then, I expect he sees so many stunners like her every night, knockin' around at dinner parties and such, that he gets tired lookin' at 'em. I'd been carryin' it against him, though, and maybe that's what put it into my nut to get so gay with Louie.", "words": 236}, {"story": 4, "title": "Where Mildred Got Next", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Louie's the gent in the leather leggin's and north-pole outfit that comes around after Mr. Robert every night with the machine. Say, it's a reg'lar rollin' bay window, that car of Mr. Robert's! I wouldn't mind havin' one of that kind taggin' around after me. But if I was pickin' a shover I'd pass Louie by. He wears his nose too high in the air and is too friendly with himself to suit me. There's a lot of them honk-honk boys just like him; but he's the only one I ever has a chance to get real confidential with. It's like this: Mr. Robert says to me, \"Torchy, if I'm not back by five o'clock, you may tell Louie when he comes that he needn't wait.\" \"Sure thing,\" says I. Then, when Mr. Robert don't show up at closin' time, I chases down to the curb and sings out, \"Hey, Frenchy, you tip huntin' ex-waiter! It's back to the garage for yours! And say! After you've run your old coal cart into the shed you can go let yourself out as a sign for a fur store. Ah, that's right. Nothin' doin' here. Skidoo!\" Always makes me feel better after I've handed Louie one like that--his ears turns such a lovely pink, specially when there's a crowd around. When I has time to chew it over I can think up some beauts. But this night I was goin' to tell you about I didn't have any warnin' at all. Mr. Robert was right in the middle of a heart-to-heart talk with a Pittsburg man, when five o'clock comes and the word is sent up that Louie has came. \"Tell him to come back in about half an hour,\" says Mr. Robert to me. \"Repeat at five-thirt',\" says I, sliding out for the elevator.", "words": 303}, {"story": 4, "title": "Where Mildred Got Next", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It was an elegant afternoon,--for pneumonia,--slush and rain and ice-box zephyrs gallopin' up and down the street. Louie didn't look as though he was enjoyin' it any too much, for all his furs. I was just turnin' up my collar for a dash across the sidewalk and back, when out comes Lady Mildred in a raincoat that was a dream and carryin' a silver-handled umbrella such as you don't find on the bargain counters. And then I gets my funny thought. \"Carriage for you, miss,\" says I, grabbin' the rain tent and hoistin' it. \"Right this way, miss.\" Say, she's a dead game sport, Mildred is. Never stopped to ask any fool questions; but prances right out to the car, just as though she'd expected it to be there. \"Take the lady home, and be back after Mr. Robert in half an hour, Louie,\" says I, jerkin' open the door and handin' her in.", "words": 154}, {"story": 4, "title": "Where Mildred Got Next", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It was about then that I almost had heart failure. Stowed away in the further corner, as comf'table as if he was at the club, was Benny. I forget what the rest of his name is; Mr. Robert never calls him anything but Benny. They're chums from way back,--travel in the same push, live on the same block, and has the same ideas about killin' time. But that's as far as the twin description goes. Benny looks and acts about as much like Mr. Robert as a cream puff looks like a ham sandwich. All Benny ever does is put on more fat and grow more cushions on the back of his neck. He's about five foot three, both ways, one of these rolypoly boys, with dimples all over him, pink and white cheeks, and baby-blue eyes. Oh, he's cute, Benny is; but the bashfullest forty-four fat that ever carried a cane, a reg'lar Mr. Shy Ann kind of a duck. He has a lisp when he talks too, and that makes him seem cuter'n ever. About twice a week he drifts up to the brass gate and says to me, \"Thay, thonny, whereth Bob?\" Makes my mouth pucker up like I'd been suckin' a lemon, just to hear him. And if he sees one of the girls lookin' sideways at him he'll dodge behind a post. There he was, though, and there was Mildred pilin' in alongside of him. She didn't give any sign of backin' out, and it was too late for me to hedge; so I ups and does the honors. \"Mr. Benny,\" says I, \"Miss Morgan.\" \"Oh, I--I thay,\" splutters Benny, makin' a move to bolt, \"perhapth I'd better----\" \"Forget it!\" says I, slammin' the door. \"Ding, ding, Louie! Get a move on! If you don't fetch back here by five-thirt' you lose your job. See?\"", "words": 310}, {"story": 4, "title": "Where Mildred Got Next", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Frenchy didn't need any urgin', though, and he has the wheels goin' round in no time at all. I watched the car for a couple of blocks and didn't see anything of Benny jumpin' out of the window; so I reckons that he's too scared to make the break. I had a picture of him, squeezin' himself up against the side of the tonneau, lookin' at his thumbs, and turnin' all kinds of colors. \"If it don't give him apoplexy, maybe it'll do him good,\" thinks I. It was funny while it lasted; but when I thinks of what Mr. Robert'll say when the tale is doped out to him. I has a chill. First off I thought I'd go up and write out my resignation; but then I remembers how long it is since I've had the sport of bein' fired, and I makes up my mind to see the thing through. I was lookin' to be called up on the carpet first thing next mornin', but it don't come. Mr. Robert never says a word all day long, nor the next, and by that time the thing was gettin' on my nerves. Then Benny bobs up, as usual. I has my eye peeled from the minute he opens the door. He don't look warlike or anything; but you never can tell about these fat men, so when he hits the gate I dodges behind the water cooler. \"Wha--w'ath the matter, thonny?\" says he. \"G'wan!\" says I. \"Ithn't Bob in?\" says he. \"Go on in and tell Mr. Robert, if you want to,\" says I; \"but don't look for any openin' to sit on me. No pancake act for mine!\"", "words": 281}, {"story": 4, "title": "Where Mildred Got Next", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "He just grins at that; but goes on into the office without makin' a single pass at me. Course, I was sure the riot act was due inside of an hour. But never a word. Nor Mildred don't have anything to say, either. It was like waitin' for a blast that don't go off. Things went on that way for a couple of weeks, and I was forgettin' about it, when Piddie tells me one mornin' that Mildred's up and quit and nobody knows why. About an hour after that Mr. Robert sends for me. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"I'm tracing out a mystery, and as you seem to know about everything that's going on, I'm going to ask you to help me out.\" \"Ah, say,\" says I, \"w'at's the use stringin' out the agony? Benny's squealed, ain't he?\" \"No,\" says Mr. Robert. \"That's the point. Benny hasn't. All I've been able to get out of him is that a short time ago he met a very charming young woman--in my car.\" \"That's right,\" says I. \"It was me put her in.\" \"Ah!\" says Mr. Robert. \"Now we're getting somewhere.\" \"Oh, you've hit the trail,\" says I. \"Well,\" says he, \"who was she?\" \"Why,\" says I, \"the Lady Mildred.\" \"Whe-e-e-ew!\" says Mr. Robert, through his front teeth. \"Not the one that spells such with a T?\"", "words": 225}, {"story": 4, "title": "Where Mildred Got Next", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Ah, chee!\" says I. \"What's the odds how she spells, so long as she's got Lillian Russell in the back row? I didn't know your fat friend was in the car, anyway, and I thinks Frenchy might as well be cartin' her home in the rain as blockin' traffic on some side street. So I just loads her in and gives Louie the word. She never knew but what you had sense enough to do it yourself. Course, it was a fresh play for me to make; but I'll stand for it, and if Benny's feelin's was hurt, or yours was, you got an elegant show to take it out on me. Come on! Get out the can and the string!\" But you can't hustle Mr. Robert along that way. When he gets his programme laid out there ain't any use to try any broad jumps. He wants to know all about Mildred, who she is, where she comes from, and what's her class. \"You can take it from me,\" says I, \"that she's a star. She's been up in the top bunch too, I guess; anyone can see that. But so long as she's jumped the job, where's the sense in lookin' up her pedigree now?\" \"Well,\" says Mr. Robert, \"I am still more or less interested. You see, she and Benny are to be married next month.\" \"Honest?\" says I. \"I have it from Benny himself,\" says he. \"Did Benny tell you how he worked up the nerve to make such a swift job of it?\" says I. He hadn't. Near as I could make out, Benny hadn't told much of anything. \"Well,\" says I, \"he's picked a winner, ain't he?\" \"That,\" says Mr. Robert, \"is something I mean to find out.\"", "words": 294}, {"story": 4, "title": "Where Mildred Got Next", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And say, if you ever see that jaw of Mr. Robert's, you'll know he did. And she wa'n't an Astor or a Gould in disguise. She was just plain Miss Morgan, that had come on with her mother from Kansas City, or Omaha, or somewhere out there; put in six or eight months in a swell dressmaker's shop; learned how to make herself the kind of clothes that look like ready money; shuffled off her corn-belt accent; and then broke into the typewritin' game while she waited for somethin' better to turn up. \"And Benny was it, wa'n't he?\" says I to Mr. Robert. \"With your help, Torchy,\" says he, \"it appears that he was.\" \"Well,\" says I, \"he needed the push, all right, didn't he!\" Fired? Me? Ah, quit your kiddin'! Why, they're tickled to death now, all of 'em. They're beginnin' to find out that Mildred's quite a girl, even if she ain't got a lot of fat-wad folks back of her. And say, w'atcher think! Benny comes around here the other day wearin' a broad grin, lugs me out to his tailor's to have me taped for a whole outfit of glad rags, and says I've got to be one of the ushers at the weddin'. Wouldn't that sting you?", "words": 213}, {"story": 5, "title": "Shunting Brother Bill", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Don't talk to me about weddin's! Sure, I've been mixed up in one. Maybe there was orange blossoms and so on; but all that's handed me is a bunch of lemon buds. Not that I'm carryin' any grouch. I might have known better'n to butt into any such doin's. Long as I stick to bein' head office boy, I knows who's what, and what's which, and anyone that thinks they can give me the double cross is welcome to a try; but when it comes to sittin' in at a wilt-thou fest I'm a reg'lar Cousin Zeke from the red-mitten belt. Maybe I wouldn't have done so bad, though, if it hadn't been for Aunt Laura. And say, mark it up on the bulletin right here, she ain't my aunt! She's Benny's. I was tellin' you how I loaded Mildred, our lady typewriter that was, into Mr. Robert's car alongside of Bashful Benny, and what came of it, wa'n't I! And how Benny's so grateful that he says I've got to be one of the ushers? Well, it was all goin' lovely, and the gen'ral office force has chipped in and bought 'em a swell weddin' present, and Benny's tailor has built me a pair of striped pants and a John Drew coat, and Mr. Mallory's been coachin' me how to act when I chase the folks into their seats, and Piddie's been loadin' me up with polite conversation to fire off whenever I gets a show, and everything's as gay around the shop as though the directors had voted an extra dividend--when I'm stacked up against Aunt Laura and it begins to cloud in the west.", "words": 277}, {"story": 5, "title": "Shunting Brother Bill", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Aunt Laura is all Benny can show up for a fam'ly, and after you got to know her you couldn't blame him for wantin' to start in on a new deal. She's one of them narrow-eyed old girls that can look through a keyhole without turnin' her head, and can dig up more suspicions in a minute than most folks would in a month. I'll bet if the angel Gabriel should show up and send in his card she'd make him prove who he was by playin' the horn. It was a cinch she didn't mistake me for no angel, when Mr. Robert sends me up there to do an errand for Benny. I wa'n't callin' for no aunts, anyway, but just leavin' a note for Wilson--that's Benny's man--when this sharp-nosed old party comes rubberin' into the front hall. \"Marie,\" says she to the girl, \"what boy is this? Where did he come from? Who does he want to see? Don't you dare leave him alone for a minute!\" That last touch gets me in the short ribs. \"Ah, say,\" says I, \"do I look like a hallrack artist?\" \"That'll do, young man!\" says she. \"You may not be as bad as you look; but I have my doubts.\" \"Same to you, ma'am, and many of 'em,\" says I. \"Mercy!\" says she. \"What impertinence!\" \"Please, ma'am,\" says the girl, \"Mr. Ellins sent him up, and I----\" \"Oh!\" says the old one. Then she gives me another look. \"Boy,\" says she, \"what's your name!\" \"Torehy,\" says I. \"Ain't it a snug fit?\" \"Oh!\" says she again, and with the soft pedal on. \"You're Torchy, are you?\" \"There ain't any gettin' away from a name like that,\" says I. \"Why,\" says she, doin' her best to call up a smile, \"what a bright young man you are!\" \"Specially on top,\" says I, throwin' a wink at Marie.", "words": 315}, {"story": 5, "title": "Shunting Brother Bill", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Ye-es,\" says Aunt Laura, \"I always did think that copper-red shade of hair was real pretty. Come right in, Torchy, while Marie gets you some cake and a cup of tea.\" \"I ain't turnin' the shoulder to any cake,\" says I; \"but you can cut out the tea.\" Well, say, inside of three minutes from the start I'm planted comf'table in one of the libr'y chairs, eatin' frosted cake with both hands, while Marie's off hustlin' up lemonade and fancy crackers. Course, it was somethin' of a shock, such a quick shift as that. I ain't got a glimmer as to what Aunt Laura's end of the game was; but so long as the home-made pastry holds out I was as good as nailed to the spot. She seems to get a heap of satisfaction watchin' me eat, almost as much as though she was feedin' ground glass to her best enemy. You've seen that kind, that you can stand well enough until they begin to grin at you. Aunt Laura's bluff at smilin' was enough to make a cat get its back up, and you could tell she didn't really mean it, as well as if she'd said, \"Now I'm goin' to give you an imitation of somebody that's pleased.\" And all the time she was dealin' out a line of talk that was as smooth as wet asphalt. Most of it was hot air that she said Benny'd been givin' to her about me, and how sweet Mildred thought I was. That should have been my cue; but I was too busy with the cake. \"Miss Morgan is such a dear girl, isn't she?\" says Aunt Laura. \"Uh-huh,\" says I, pokin' in some frostin' that had lodged on the outside. \"You are quite well acquainted with her, aren't you?\" says she. \"Um-m-m-m,\" says I. \"Let's see,\" goes on Aunt Laura, \"what is it she did at the office!\"", "words": 320}, {"story": 5, "title": "Shunting Brother Bill", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Chickety-click, ding-g-g!\" says I, makin' motions with my fingers. \"Oh, typewriting!\" says she. \"But I suppose she was very skillful at it?\" \"Oh, she was a bird!\" says I. See what was happenin'? I was bein' pumped. It was more'n that too. Everything I knew about Mildred, and a lot I guessed at, was emptied out of me like she was usin' one of these vacuum cleaners on my head. When I gets to telling about the place out West where Mildred lived before she and her maw hit New York, Aunt Laura jumps up. \"Oh, I know some people who lived there once,\" says she. \"I wonder if any of them knew Miss Morgan?\" With that she picks up the desk 'phone and gives a call. Did they know any Miss Morgans out there? Yes, Mildred Morgan. Really! A brother too? How interesting! Who was he, and what was he doing last? What! In the State penitentiary! That was enough for Aunt Laura. She hangs up the receiver and says to me: \"Boy, when you get back to the office tell Mr. Robert I want to see him. Come, you'd better be going now.\" It was a case of \"Here's your hat--what's your hurry!\" \"Say,\" says I, \"don't you go to swallowin' any tale about the Lady Mildred havin' a brother that's a crook. There's lots of Morgans besides her and J. P.\" But all Aunt Laura does is hold the door open for me; so I beats it, feelin' about as chipper as though I'd been turnin' State's evidence. The more I thinks of it, the cheaper I feels. Here I'd been playin' myself for Mr. Foxy Cute, and had let an old lemon squeezer like Aunt Laura wring me dry!", "words": 293}, {"story": 5, "title": "Shunting Brother Bill", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Just what she's got up her sleeve about the penitentiary business, I didn't know; but I wa'n't long in findin' out. Next day there was all kinds of a row. Aunt Laura has looked up the invitation list for the weddin', and, sure enough, among the also rans was a Mr. William Morgan, with a State penitentiary address. With that, and what she'd heard over the 'phone, Aunt Laura makes out a strong case. Was she goin' to stand by and see her only nephew marry into a family of jailbirds? Not if she could help it! So she calls in Mr. Robert and puts the layout before him. It looks like a bad mess, with Mildred on the toboggan; for Mr. Robert has said he'd see what could be done. He don't promise anything; but Benny's always been such a willin' performer that he guesses maybe he can talk him out of wantin' to get married. He didn't know Benny, though. These short, fat, dimpled boys are just the ones to fool you, and when it came to tellin' Benny about Brother Bill, that was doin' time, Benny works his lips at high speed sayin' that he don't believe it. \"Anyway,\" says Benny, \"it ithn't Bill I'm marrying. I don't give a cuth for him. I'd juth ath thoon marry Mildred if her whole doothed family wath in jail.\" \"That settles it, Benny,\" says Mr. Robert. \"If that's the way you feel. I'll stand by you.\"", "words": 247}, {"story": 5, "title": "Shunting Brother Bill", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Maybe Aunt Laura wa'n't wild, though, when she finds she can't block the game. I was handlin' the office switchboard the afternoon she calls Mr. Robert up to give him the rake-over, and the old girl warms up the wires until she near has the lightnin' arresters out of business. It comes out too that she's sore on Benny's bein' married because she sees the finish of her steady job as boss of the house on the avenue. She can't queer Mr. Robert though. \"Benny seems to have a clear idea as to just whom he wants to marry,\" says he, \"and that's enough for me. If Miss Morgan has a brother in the penitentiary, and Benny doesn't mind, I'm sure I don't. I've known lots of fellows who wished their brothers-in-law were in the same place. Anyway, he'll not trouble us by showing up at the wedding, even if she did send him an invitation.\" That's the kind of a sport Mr. Robert is. He's dead game, and when you've got him for a friend you'll know who to send for if you should ever get run in. So we goes along gettin' ready for the weddin' same's if nothin's happened. It's billed for a church hitch; but there ain't been any advertisin' done, so they don't expect any crowd. Look when they has it too--right at lunch time! \"Chee!\" says I to Mr. Robert, who's running the thing, \"you must be playin' for a frost. Now if you'd hire one of them Third-ave. halls and band, you might give 'em somethin' of a send-off; but it'll be hard to tell this racket from one of these noonday prayin' bees they has down in the wholesale crock'ry district.\" Mr. Robert says that Benny bein' so bashful, and Mildred not knowin' many folks on East, they wanted to make it as quiet as they could.", "words": 315}, {"story": 5, "title": "Shunting Brother Bill", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"It'll have a pantomime show beat to death on quiet,\" says I. \"Put me on the door, will you, so's I can keep awake joshin' the sidewalk cop?\" Mr. Robert says he thinks that'll be a good place for me, as they ain't goin' to let anyone in without a ticket and I'm used to shuntin' cranks. But say, I'm so rattled when I get inside of that suit they sent around for me to wear that I don't know whether I'm goin' up or comin' down. Honest, that coat made me feel like I was wearin' a dress. I didn't mind the striped pants,--they was all to the good,--but them skirts flappin' around my knees was the limit. Think I had the face to spring that outfit on the folks at the boardin' house? Never in a year! Why, some of them Lizzie girls rangin' the block would have guyed me out of the borough. I just folds the thing inside out over my arm, like it was some one's overcoat I was takin' around to have a button shifted, and when I gets to the church I slides up into the gallery and makes a quick change. Mr. Robert looks me over and says no one would guess it was me. \"I'm hopin' they don't,\" says I. But as soon as the carriages begun comin' and I gets busy callin' for the seat checks, I forgets how I looks and stops huntin' for some place to stow my hands. It was a cinch job. There was only a few lady butt-ins that had strayed over from the shoppin' district and smelled out a free show. \"We're intimate friends of the bride,\" says a pair of 'em; \"but we've forgotten our tickets.\" \"That's good, but musty. Butt out, please,\" says I.", "words": 302}, {"story": 5, "title": "Shunting Brother Bill", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Chee! but I ain't used up so much politeness since I can remember! It was wearin' them clothes did it, I guess. Well, I was gettin' to feel real gay, for most everyone that was due was inside, and I hadn't made any breaks to speak of, and it was near time for the Lady Mildred to be floatin' in, when I pipes off a tall, husky-lookin' gent, with a funny black lid and an umbrella tucked under one arm, gawpin' up at the sign on the church. \"Tourist from Punk Hollow lookin' for the Flatiron Buildin',\" says I to myself; but the next minute he comes meanderin' up the steps, fishin' a card out of his pocket. You can bet I plants myself in the door and calls for credentials! But, say, he had the goods. There was the ticket, all right, with the name wrote on it, and it didn't need but one squint at the pasteboard for me to break into a cold sweat. It wa'n't anybody else but Mr. William Morgan! \"Say,\" says I, as hoarse as a huckster, \"are you Brother Bill?\" \"Why,\" says he, kind of surprised, but not half so stunned as I thought he'd be,--\"why, I suppose I am.\"", "words": 207}, {"story": 5, "title": "Shunting Brother Bill", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "You wouldn't have guessed it. Not that he didn't look the brother part; for he did. He went Mildred two or three inches better in height, and he had snappy black eyes and black hair like hers. The points that goes with a striped suit and the lock step was missin', though. But how you goin' to tell, in these times when our toniest fatwads is sittin' around the mahogany votin' to raise the price of chewin' gum to-day, and gettin' a free haircut to-morrow? There wa'n't any time for me to stand there guessin' whether he'd been pardoned, or had slid down the rain pipe. Somethin' had to be done, and done quick. \"Dodge in here and wait a minute,\" says I. \"There's some word been left for you.\" With that I sneaks down the side aisle and into the little cloakroom, where Mr. Robert was keepin' Benny's mind off'n what was comin' to him by makin' him count the geranium leaves in the carpet. \"Mr. Robert,\" says I, luggin' him off to one side, \"you want to give up predictin' the future. Bill's come!\" \"What Bill?\" says he. \"The one from the rock pile, Brother Bill,\" says I. \"That's lovely!\" says he. \"It's all of that,\" says I. \"I hope he's not wearing his uniform still,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Not on the outside,\" says I. \"He looks like he'd pinched a minister's Monday suit somewhere. But it ain't the way he looks that's worryin' me; it's what he's liable to do any minute to put the show on the blink.\" \"That's so, Torchy,\" says he. \"Can't we get him out of the way somehow?\" \"It's a tough proposition,\" says I; \"but if you'll put on a sub for me at the door, and give me leave to make any play that I happens to think of, I'll tackle it.\"", "words": 311}, {"story": 5, "title": "Shunting Brother Bill", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Good!\" says Mr. Robert. \"And I'll make it worth a hundred to you to keep him away from here until it's all over.\" \"I'm on the job,\" says I. As I skips back I grabs my hat out from under a rear seat and makes straight for Brother Bill. \"Come on,\" says I. \"She's waitin' for you now. We've got just half an hour to do it in.\" Bill, he looks sort of jarred and reluctant; but I has him by the arm and is chasin' him down the steps before he can ask any dippy questions. First off I thought of runnin' him up the avenue until he's clean winded; but I see by the way he strikes out that it would take more lungs than I've got to do that. There was a lot of weddin' cabs and such waitin' round the corner, though; so I steers him into the first one that has the apron up, jumps in after him, shoves up the door in the roof, and sings out: \"Beat it! This ain't any dream carnival you're hired for!\" \"What number?\" says the bone thumper. For about two shakes I was up against it, and then the only place I could think of was Benny's house; so I give him that, and off we goes. \"But I say, young man,\" says Brother Bill, \"I came on to go to the wedding.\" \"Sure,\" says I; \"that'll be all right too. Didn't I tell you there was some word left for you?\" \"Yes,\" says he, \"I believe you did. Also you said something about her waiting----\" \"Right again,\" says I. \"She'll be tickled to death to see you too.\" \"Yes; but the wedding?\" says he. \"That'll be there when we get back--maybe,\" says I. \"You came on kind of unexpected, eh?\" \"Yes,\" says he. \"I didn't think I could get away at first; but I managed it.\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 5, "title": "Shunting Brother Bill", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"How'd you get out?\" says I. \"Was it a clean quit, or a little vacation?\" \"Why--er--why,\" says he,--\"yes, it was a--er--little vacation, as you say.\" \"Chee!\" thinks I. \"The nerve of him! Wonder if he sawed the bars, or sneaked out in a packin' case?\" But, say, I couldn't put it to him straight. When I gets these bashful fits on I ain't any use. \"How long you been in?\" says I. \"In?\" says he. \"Oh, I see! About five years.\" \"Honest?\" says I. Then I had another modest spell that won't let me ask him whether he'd been put away for givin' rebates, or grabbin' for graft. I knew it must have been somethin' respectable like that. Anyone could see he wa'n't one of your strong arms or till friskers. I was just wishin' I knew how to work the force pump like Aunt Laura, when we pulls up at the horse block, and it was up to me to think of some new move. \"She's here, is she?\" says Mr. William. \"You bet!\" says I, wondering who he thought I meant. And then I gets that funny feelin' I gen'rally has when I takes the high jump. \"Come on,\" says I. \"We'll give her a surprise.\" It wa'n't anything else. I knew she'd be to home, 'cause I'd heard she was too grouchy to go to the weddin' or have anything to do with it; so when Marie let us in I throws a tall bluff and says for her to tell Aunt Laura I've brought some one she wants to see very partic'lar. \"Why,\" says Mr. Morgan, \"there's been some mistake, hasn't there! I know no such person. Why should she wish to see me?\" \"Sh-h-h-h!\" says I. \"Maybe she'll feed you frosted cake. It's one of her tricks.\"", "words": 302}, {"story": 5, "title": "Shunting Brother Bill", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "She didn't, though. She looked about as smilin' as a dill pickle when she showed up, and she opened the ball by askin' what I meant, bringin' strangers there. \"Well,\" says I, \"you've been askin' a lot about him lately; so I thought I'd lug him around. This is Brother Bill.\" \"What!\" says she, squealin' it out like I'd said the house was afire. \"Not the brother of that--that Morgan girl?\" \"Ask him,\" says I. \"You're a star at that.\" Then I takes a peek at Bill. And say, I was almost sorry I'd done it. For a party that'd just broke jail, he could stand the least I ever saw. He looks as mixed up and helpless as a lady that's took a seat in the smokin' car by mistake. I'd have helped him out then if I could have thought how. It was too late, though, and Aunt Laura was no quitter. \"How long is it,\" says she, jerkin' her head back and throwin' a look out of her narrow eyes that must have gone clear through him, \"since you got out of the State penitentiary?\" \"Why--why--er--er----\" begins Brother Bill. Then he has the biggest stroke of luck that ever came his way; for Marie pushes in with the silver plate and a card on it. \"Thank goodness!\" says Aunt Laura, lookin' at the card. \"The very person I need! Ask Dr. Wackhorn to step in here.\" I thought he must be a germ chaser; but it was just a minister, a solid, prosperous lookin' old gent, with white billboards and a meat safe on him like a ten-dollar Teddy bear. He looks at Brother Bill, and Bill looks at him. \"Why, my dear William!\" sings out the Doc, rushin' over with the glad hand out.", "words": 298}, {"story": 5, "title": "Shunting Brother Bill", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "In two minutes it's all over. Dr. Wackhorn has introduced Bill as his ex-assistant, who's gone West and got himself a job as chaplain in a State prison, and Aunt Laura loses her breath tryin' to apologize to both of 'em at once. Think of that! We'd been playin' him for all kinds of a crook, and here he was a sure enough minister! Well, I gets him back to the church just in time for the last curtain, so he can see what a stunner Mildred was in her canopy-top outfit. He's all right, Brother Bill is. Never gives me any call-down for shuntin' him off the way I did and makin' him miss most of the show. As I says to him afterward: \"Bill,\" says I, \"that was one on me. But we did throw the hook into Aunt Laura some! What?\"", "words": 144}, {"story": 6, "title": "Keeping Tabs on Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Say, I thought I knew Piddie. If anybody'd asked me to pick a party for the Honest John act from among the crowd we got around the Corrugated Trust here, I'd made J. Hemmingway Piddie my one best bet. He's been with the concern ever since Old Hickory Ellins flim-flammed his partners out of their share of the business and took out a New Jersey chartered permit that allowed him to practice grand larceny. If Piddie hadn't been a pinhead, he'd had his name on the board of directors years ago. But there ain't no use tryin' to make parlor comp'ny out of kitchen help; so Piddie's just trailed along, bein' as useful as he knew how, and workin' up from ten a week to one fifty a month, just as satisfied as if he was gettin' his per cent. of the profits. What he does around the shop wouldn't turn anyone gray-headed; but he makes the most of it. He swells up more over orderin' a few office supplies than Mr. Robert would about signin' a million-dollar contract, and the way he keeps watch of the towels and soap and spring water you'd think our stock was fallin' below par, 'stead of payin' nine per cent, on common. Gen'rally Piddie don't handle anything but petty cash; but once in awhile, when no one else is handy, they chuck something big his way, and he never lets up until everyone knows all about it. You can tell how chesty he feels, just by his strut. Well, there'd been a big rush on, and they was usin' Piddie more or less frequent, so I was gettin' used to his makin' a noise like a balloon, when one mornin' he come turkeyin' out to the brass gate and says to me: \"Torchy, call up 0079 Broad and get the opening on Blitzen.\"", "words": 310}, {"story": 6, "title": "Keeping Tabs on Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Sure,\" says I. \"And if it touches seven-eighths don't you want to unload a couple of thousand shares?\" \"When I have any further orders,\" says he, puffin' out his face, \"you will get them!\" \"Oh, slush!\" says I. \"Don't play so rough, Piddie.\" I was onto him, all right. I've seen these hot-air plungers before. They follow up a stock for weeks, and buy and sell in six figures, and reckon up how they've hit the market for great chunks--but it's all under their lids. You can't spend pipe dreams, if you win; and if you lose, it don't shrink the size of your really truly roll. It's almost as satisfyin' as walkin by the back door of a bakery when you're hungry. That kind of game is about Piddie's size, too. All it calls for is plenty of imagination, and he's got that by the bale. I was kind of glad to see him enjoyin' himself so innocent, and now and then I'd help along the excitement. \"Heard about how Morgan's tryin' to get hold of Blitzen?\" I'd say, and Piddie would prick up his ears like a fox-terrier sightin' a rat. \"Who told you?\" Piddie'd ask. \"Why,\" I'd say, \"I got it straight from a delicatessen man that lives on the same block with a man that runs a hot dog cart in John-st. Don't want anything closer'n that, do you!\" Then Piddie'd look kind of foolish, and go off and call down some one good and hard, just to relieve his feelin's.", "words": 255}, {"story": 6, "title": "Keeping Tabs on Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "First thing I knew, though, Piddie was havin' star-chamber sessions with a seedy-lookin' piker that wore an actor's overcoat and a brunette collar that looked like it had been wished onto his neck about last Thanksgivin'. They'd get together in a corner of the reception room and whisper away for half an hour on a stretch. If it hadn't been Piddie, I'd put it down for a hard-luck tale with a swift touch for a curtain; but no one that ever took a second look at Piddie would ever waste their time tryin' a touch on him. So I guessed the gent was a bucketshop tout who was tryin' to interest Piddie in some kind of a deal. Still, I couldn't get any picture of Piddie takin' a chance with real money. It wa'n't until I seen him walkin' around stary-eyed one day, and gettin' nervous by the minute, that I could believe he's really been rung in. He was goin' through all the motions, though, of a man that's shoved everything, win or lose, on the red, and it was a circus to keep tabs on him. He makes a bluff at bein' awful busy with the billbook; but he couldn't stay at the desk more'n three minutes at a spell. Inside of an hour I counted four times that he washed his hands and six drinks of water that he had. \"You'll be damp enough to need wringin' out, if you keep that up,\" says I. \"Keep what up?\" says he. Honest, he was so rattled he didn't know whether he was usin' the roller towel or runnin' over the ticker tape. Half an hour before lunchtime he skips out and leaves word with me that maybe he'll be back late. \"All right,\" says I. \"If the boss calls for you I'll tell him he'll have to shut down the shop until you blow in again.\"", "words": 318}, {"story": 6, "title": "Keeping Tabs on Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Maybe you've seen symptoms like that in a hired man. It gen'rally means that there's somethin' doin' in ponies or margins, and that next payday is goin' to seem a long ways off. If I'd been asked to give a guess, I should have put it as about two hundred bucks that Piddie had thrown into the market. Anyway, it wa'n't enough to knock the props out of call-money quotations; so I was lettin' Piddie do all the worryin'. He didn't show back at twelve-thirty, nor at twelve-forty-five. Some one else did, though. She was a nice little lady, one of the smooth-haired, big-eyed kind, as soft talkin' and as gentle actin' as the heroine in \"No Weddin' Cake for Her'n,\" just before she gets to the weepy scenes. You could see by the punky mill'nery and the last season's drygoods that she'd just drifted in from Mortgagehurst, New Jersey. The little snoozer she has by the hand was a cute one, though. When he gets a glimpse of my sunset top piece he sings out: \"O-o-o-o, mama! Burny, burn!\" \"Why, Hemmingway!\" says she. \"I am surprised. Naughty, naughty!\" \"Don't worry, lady,\" says I. \"The kid's got it dead right--it's one of them kind.\" Then I wets my finger and shows him how it'll go \"S-z-z!\" when I touch it off. That gets a laugh out of little Hemmingway, and in a minute we're all good friends. She's Mrs. Piddie, of course, and she's a brick. Say, how is it these two-by-fours can pull out such good ones so often? Why, if she'd been got up accordin' to this year's models, and could have thrown the front she ought to, she'd have been fit for a first-tier box at the grand op'ra. \"Chee!\" thinks I. \"Did she pick Piddie in the dark?\"", "words": 302}, {"story": 6, "title": "Keeping Tabs on Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "She'd come in to drag him out shoppin' and hypnotize him into loosenin' up. It was a case of gettin' things for little Hemmingway. \"Me, I go have new s'oes, an' new coat wif pockets too,\" says he. Say, they wins me, kids like that do. There's some I ain't got any use for, the kind brought up in hotels and boardin' houses that learn to play to the gallery before they can feed themselves, and others I could name; but clean, grinnin' youngsters, with big eyes that take in everything, they're good to have around. And, little Hemmy was a star. I got so int'rested showin' him things in the office that I clean forgot about Piddie and what he was up to. \"He will be back soon, won't he?\" says Mrs. Piddie. Now if you give me time I can slick up an answer so it'll sound like the truth and mean something else; but as an offhand liar I'm a frost. Somehow I always has to swaller somethin' before I can push out a cold dope. Course, I knew he'd got to be back before long; but I see right off that this wa'n't any day for a fam'ly reunion. Piddle wa'n't goin' to be any too sociable by dinner time that night, 'less'n he'd hit up the bucketshop, which the chances was against. So it was my turn to make a foxy play. \"He's due here before long, that's a fact,\" says I, \"but there's no tellin'. You see, there's a big deal on, and Mr. Piddie's gone downtown, and----\" \"Oh!\" says Mrs. Piddle, her eyes shinin'. \"Then he has some important business engagement?\" You couldn't help seein' how she had it framed up,--the whole Corrugated Trust and half of Wall Street holdin' its breath while hubby, J. Hemmingway Piddie, Esq., worked his giant intellect for the good of the country.", "words": 315}, {"story": 6, "title": "Keeping Tabs on Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"That's it,\" says I. \"I couldn't say pos'tive that he'd be as late as four o'clock; but----\" \"Oh! then we'll not wait,\" says she, \"Come, Hemmingway, we must go home.\" \"Don't I det my new s'oes?\" says Hemmy. There was a proposition for you! The kid was runnin' true to form and stickin' to the main line. No side issues for him! Pop might be a big man, and all that; but his size didn't cut much ice alongside of the new-shoes prospect. Things was beginnin' to look squally, and Mrs. Piddie's mouth corners was saggin' some, when I has a thought. \"Hold on,\" says I. \"Maybe he's left a note or something for you.\" See what it is to have a little wad stowed away in the southwest corner of your jeans? I slips through into the main office, gets one of the typewriter girls to address an envelope to Mrs. Piddie, jams a sawbuck into it, and comes out smilin'. \"Maybe this'll do as well as Pop himself,\" says I. \"Feels like it had long green in it,\" and the last I heard of little Hemmy he was tellin' the elevator man about the \"new s'oes\" that was comin' to him. \"It's a fool way to lend out coin,\" thinks I; \"but what's the diff? That kid's got his hopes set on bein' shod to-day, and Piddie's bound to make good sometime.\" Piddie didn't look it, though, when he drifts in about one-thirty. If he'd had a load on his mind earlier in the day, he'd got somethin' more now. Just sittin' at the desk doin' nothin made the dew come out on his noble brow like it was the middle of August. He was too much of a wreck to stand any joshin'; so I let him alone, not even tellin' him about the fam'ly visit.", "words": 309}, {"story": 6, "title": "Keeping Tabs on Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "The first thing I knows he comes over to me, his jaw set firmer'n I ever see it shut before, and a kind of shifty look in his eyes. He hands me a letter and a package. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"take these down to that address just as soon as you can. You've got to go quick. Understand?\" \"Fourth speed, advanced spark, that's me!\" says I, grabbin' my hat and coat. \"Free track for the Piddie special! Honk, honk!\" and I jams him up against the letterpress as I makes a rush for the door. When I gets into the subway I sizes up the stuff I'm carryin'. Well say, it ain't often I gets real curious; but this was one of them times. I started in by rollin' a pencil under the envelope flap while the gum was moist. Not that I'd made up my mind to rubber; but just so's I could if I took the notion. And, sure enough, I got the notion, or it got me. Chee! I near slid off the rattan seat when I reads that note. Guess I must have sat there, starin' bug-eyed and lookin' batty, from 14th to Wall. Do you know what that mush-head of a Piddie was at? He was givin' an order to bolster up Blitzen by buyin' up to a hundred thousand shares, and in the package was a bunch of gilt-edged securities to cover the margins. Now wouldn't that jiggle the grapes on sister's new lid? Piddie, a narrow-gauge, dime-pinchin' ink-slinger, doin' the bull act like he was a sooty plute from Pittsburg! That's what comes of swallowin' the get-rich-fast bug.", "words": 275}, {"story": 6, "title": "Keeping Tabs on Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Well, when I gets out at the Street I didn't have any programme planned. First I strolls down to the number on the letter and takes a look at the buildin'. That was enough. There was some good names on the hall directory; but most of 'em was little, two-room, fly-by-night firms, with a party 'phone for a private wire and a mail-order list bought off'm patent medicine concerns. The people Piddie was doin' business with was that kind. Next I takes a walk around into Broad-st., where the mounted cops keep the big-wind bunch roped in so's they can't break loose and pinch the doorknobs off the Subtreasury. The ear-muff brigade was lettin' themselves out in fine style, tradin' in Ground Hog bonds, Hoboken gas, Moonshine preferred, and a whole lot of other ten-cent shares, as earnest as if they was under cover and biddin' on Standard Oil firsts. While I was lookin' 'em over, wonderin' what to do next, I spots Abey Winowski on the fringe of the push. And say, it wa'n't so long ago that Abey was wearin' sky-blue pants and a Postal shield, trottin' out with messages from District Ten. But here he is, with a checked ulster and a five-dollar hat, writin' figures on a pad. \"Hello, Motzie!\" says I. \"How long since they lets the likes of you inside the ropes?\" \"Hello, Torchy!\" says he. \"Got any orders?\" \"I'm lined with 'em,\" says I. \"What's good?\" \"Blitzen,\" says he. \"It's on the seesaw; but'll fetch fifty.\" \"Ain't it a wildcat?\" says I. \"Just from the menagerie,\" says he. \"Goin' to take a dollar flyer?\" \"Guess I'll see what my brokers has to say first,\" says I.", "words": 283}, {"story": 6, "title": "Keeping Tabs on Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "With that I goes around to a little joint I knows of, where they has a board for unlisted stocks, and I sets back and watches the curves Blitzen was makin'. First she'd jump four or five points, and then she'd settle back heavy. The Curb was playin' tag with it; that was all, so far as I could see. Nice lot of Hungry Jakes to feed with int'rest-bearin' securities! About fifteen minutes before the market closed I quit and moseyed along uptown, just killin' time and tryin' to figure out what ought to be done. Course, I didn't have any idea of playin' private detective and showin' Piddie up to Mr. Robert,--that's out of my line,--but I didn't like the scheme of just chuckin' the bonds back at him and let him get away with any bluff about my interferin' with something I didn't understand at all. Besides, if the returns showed that he'd have won on the deal, what was to hinder his tryin' the same trick again next time he got the chance? That wouldn't been a fair shake for the firm. Say, I worked my thinker overtime that trip; but I couldn't dig up a thing that was worth savin' from the scrap basket, and when I strolled into the office just about closin' time I wa'n't any nearer to knowin' what to do than when I started.", "words": 232}, {"story": 6, "title": "Keeping Tabs on Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Most everyone had left when I pushes through the gate and takes a peek into Piddie's office. He was there. And, say, for a speakin' likeness of a dropped egg that's hit the floor instead of the toast, he was it! He's slumped all over the desk, with his head in his hands, and his hair all mussed up, and his shoulders lopped. I always suspicioned he was built out with pneumatic pads, and blew himself up in the mornin' before he buttoned on the four-inch collar that kept his chin up; but I did'nt guess he had a rubber backbone. It was a case of fush with Piddie. He was all in. What I could see of his face had about as much color to it as a sheet of blottin' paper. Layin' on the floor was a map of the whole disaster. It was a Wall Street extra, with a scarehead story of how Blitzen had kept 'em guessin' all day and then, in the last quarter of an hour of tradin', had gone bumpin' the bumps from twenty-eight down to almost nothin' at all. I didn't stop to read the whole thing; but I read enough to find out that Blitzen had gone soarin' on a false alarm, and that when the facts was give out right the balloon had took fire. And there was Piddie, still fallin'! \"Hello,\" says I. \"You look like a boned ham that's in need of the acid bath and sawdust stuffin'. What's queered you so sudden?\" He jumps and tries to pull himself together when he first hears me; but after he finds who it is he goes to pieces again and flops back in the chair groanin'. \"Is it new mown hay of the lungs, or too many griddle cakes on the stomach?\" says I.", "words": 305}, {"story": 6, "title": "Keeping Tabs on Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "But he only gasps and groans some more. Maybe I should of felt sorry for him; but, knowin' the sort of sprung kneed near crook he was, I didn't. He was scared mostly, and he was doin' all the sympathizin' for himself that was needed. All of a sudden he braces up and looks at his watch. \"Perhaps you didn't get there in time?\" says he. \"With the letter and package?\" says I. \"Watcher take me for? Think I got mucilage on my shoes? I was there on time, all right.\" \"Oh, mercy!\" says he. \"Torchy, I'm a ruined man.\" \"You look it,\" says I; \"but cheer up. You never was much account anyway; so there's no great harm done.\" Then he begins to blubber, and leak brine, and take on like a woman with a sick headache. \"It wasn't my fault,\" says he. \"I was led into it. Torchy, tell them I was led into it! You'll believe that, won't you?\" \"Cert,\" says I. \"I'll make affidavit I seen 'em snap the ring in your nose. But what's it all about?\" \"Oh, it's something awful that's happened to me,\" he wails. \"It's too terrible to talk about. You'll know to-morrow. I sha'n't be alive then, Torchy.\" \"Ain't swallowed a buttonhook, have you?\" says I. Next he begins throwin' a fit about what's goin' to become of the missus and the kid. Say, I've been in at two or three acts like this before, and I gen'rally notice that at about such a stage they play that card, the wife and kid. Your real tough citizen don't, nor your real gent,--they shuts their mouths and takes what's comin' to 'em,--but Mr. Weakback has a sudden rush of mem'ry about the folks at home, and squeals like a pup with his tail shut in the door.", "words": 305}, {"story": 6, "title": "Keeping Tabs on Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Ah, say,\" says I, \"cut it out! You ought to move up to Harlem and learn to pound the pipes. You're a healthy plunger, you are, sneakin' bonds out of the safe to stack up against a crooked game, and then playin' the baby act when you lose out! Come now, ain't that the awful thing that's happened to you?\" He couldn't have opened up freer if he'd been put through the third degree. I gets the story of his life then, with a handkerchief accomp'niment,--all about the house he's tryin' to buy through the buildin' loan, and the second-hand bubble he wants to splurge on 'cause the neighbors have got 'em, and how he was tipped off to this sure thing in Blitzen by a party that had always been a friend of his but couldn't get hold of the stuff to turn the trick himself. He put in all the fine points, even to the way he came to have a chance at the safe. \"If I could only put them back!\" says he, sighin'. \"What then?\" says I. \"Next time I s'pose you'd swipe the whole series, wouldn't you?\" If you could have heard him tell how good he'd be you'd think practicin' a little crooked work now and then was the only sure way to learn how to keep straight. \"Piddie,\" says I, \"I don't want to hurt your feelin's, but you act to me like a weak sister. If I was to do what the case calls for, this thing ought to go to the boss.\" \"Please don't, Torchy! Please don't!\" says he, scrabblin' down on his hands and knees.", "words": 275}, {"story": 6, "title": "Keeping Tabs on Piddie", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Nix on that!\" says I. \"This is no carpet-layin' bee. I'm no squealer, anyway; besides, I had a little interview with Mrs. Piddie and the kid this noon, and after seein' them I can't rub it in like you deserve. What I've seen and heard I'm goin' to forget. Now sit up straight while I break the news to you gentle. I went down there to-day, just as you told me.\" \"Yes, I know,\" he groans, squirmin'. \"But I didn't like the looks of the joint; so I didn't dump the bonds. There they are. Now see they get back where you found 'em!\" Talk about your hallelujah praise meetin's! Piddie was havin' one, all by himself--when the inside door opens and Mr. Roberts steps out of his office. \"I'll take care of those bonds, Mr. Piddie,\" says he. Chee! what a stunner! Mr. Robert had been in there all the time, writin' private letters, and had took in the whole business. Did he give Piddie the fire on the spot? Nah! Mr. Robert carries around a frigid portico; but he's got a warm spot inside. He says he's mighty sorry to hear how near Piddie'd come to goin' wrong; but he's glad it turned out the way it did, and if Piddie'll say how much they rung him in for on Blitzen he'll be happy to make good right there. And how much do you guess? A pair of double X's! He'd worried himself near sick, worked himself up desp'rate, and had finished by doin' something that stood to get him put away for ten or fifteen years--all for forty bucks! \"Piddie,\" says I, \"for a tinhorn, you're a wonder! But, say, when you get home to-night tell that kid of yours I want to see them new shoes of his before he gets the toes all stubbed out.\"", "words": 310}, {"story": 7, "title": "A Whirl with Kazedky", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Chee! W'atcher think? I ain't read an \"Old Sleut'\" for more'n a week, and there's two murder myst'ries runnin' in the sportin' extras that I'm way behind on. You wouldn't guess it in a month, but I'm takin' a fall out of the knowledge game. Mr. Mallory says I'm part in the sixt' grade and part in the eight'. \"I believe it,\" says I; \"my nut feels that way.\" Honest, I'm stowin' away so much that I never knew before that I'm thinkin' of wearin' a leather strap around my head, same's these strong boys wears 'em on their wrists. \"Ah! w'at's the use?\" says I. \"Nobody's ever goin' to ask me what's four per cent of thoity thousand plunks, an' if I had that much I wouldn't farm it out for less'n six, anyway. And I don't see where this De Soto comes in. Sounds like he might have played first base for the Beanies; but he's been dead too long for that. What odds does it make if I don't know the capital of Nevada? I ain't lookin' for no divorce, am I?\" But there's no shakin' Mallory off. He's dug up a lot of kid school books for me, and I got 'em stowed away in the desk here, like this was P. S. 46, 'stead of the front office of the Corrugated Trust. And when I ain't takin' cards into the main squeezes, or answerin' fool questions over the 'phone, or chasin' out on errands for Piddie, I'm swallowin' chunks of information about the times when G. Wash. was buildin' forts in Harlem and makin' good for a continuous in front of the Subtreasury.", "words": 278}, {"story": 7, "title": "A Whirl with Kazedky", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Course, it's a clean waste of time. Suppose I gets the run next week, could I win another head office boy job by spielin' off a mess of guff about a lot of dead ones? Nit, never! But Mallory's got the bug that it'll all come in handy to me sometime, and I'm doin' it just to keep him satisfied. We get together most every night in his room, and I has to cough up what I've got next to durin' the day. And say, when I've been soldierin', and try to run in a stiff bluff instead of the real goods, he looks as disappointed as if I'd done something real low down. So gen'rally I hits up the books when there's nothin' else doin'. Mr. Robert's on. He comes in one mornin' and pipes off the 'rithmetic. \"What's this, Torchy?\" says he. \"Studying?\" \"Yep,\" says I. \"When I went through Columbia College there wa'n't anybody there but the janitor; so I'm takin' a postprandial whirl at this number dope, and it's fierce.\" \"Whose idea?\" says he. \"Mr. Mallory's,\" says I. \"But I've laid it out flat to him that I draws the line at Greek. I'd never want to talk like them 23d-st. flower peddlers, not in a thousand years!\" Didn't tell you, did I, about Mallory's doin' the skyrocket act? After Mr. Robert gets next to the fact that Mallory's a two seasons' old football hero from his old college he yanks him out of that twelve-dollar-a-week filin' job and makes him a salaried gent, inside of two days. \"Which is something I owe chiefly to you, Torchy,\" says Mallory.", "words": 273}, {"story": 7, "title": "A Whirl with Kazedky", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Honk, honk!\" says I. \"Them's the kind of ideas that will get you run in for reckless thinkin'. You was winnin' all that when you did that sprint for goal your friend Dicky was tellin' about the other day. Now all you got to do is get up on your toes and make one or two touchdowns for old Corrugated.\" \"I know,\" says he; \"but I'm afraid that in this game I'm outclassed.\" Honest, he was scared stiff; but he didn't let anyone but me see it. Even a little thing like goin' down to Wall Street and lookin' up some securities gets him rattled. He hadn't been gone more'n an' hour 'fore he calls me up on the 'phone and says some broker's clerk has asked him if our concern don't want to bid on P. O. privileges at seven-eighths. \"What are P. O. privileges?\" says Mallory. \"Oh, tush!\" says I. \"And you let 'em hand you such a burry one? P. O. privileges is the right to lick stamps at the gen'ral post-office, and it's a gag them curb shysters has wore to a frazzle. You go back and tell that fresh paper-chewer we're only buyin' options on July snow removals preferred.\" That's what comes of foolin' around at college. Mallory comes back lookin' like some one had sold him a billboard seat to a free window show. But that was nothin' to the down-and-out slump I found him in next night, when I goes around for my writin' lesson and so on. \"Is it the _spino comeandgetus_,\" says I, \"or has Miss Tuttifrutti sent back your Christmas card?\" \"It's worse than either,\" says he, with his chin on the top button of his vest. \"I guess I'm what you would call a false alarm, Torchy. I've been tried out and haven't made good.\"", "words": 306}, {"story": 7, "title": "A Whirl with Kazedky", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"G'wan!\" says I. \"Everyone gets a lemon now and then. Some tries to swaller it whole, and chokes to death; others mixes 'em up with eggs and things, and knocks out a pie, with meringue on top. Draw us a map of how you fell off the scaffold.\" Well, I jollied the hard luck tale out of him. It was a case of sendin' a boy with a pushcart to bring home a grand piano. The Old Man had done it. He's kind of sore on the way Mr. Robert lugged Mallory in by the hair, 'cause I heard him growlin' somethin' about makin' a kindergarten out of the Corrugated; so he springs this on him. He calls for Mallory and tells him there's a Russian gent down to the Waldorf that's come over to place a big Gover'ment contract. \"We've got to have a slice of that,\" says he. \"Just you run down and get it for us.\" Like that, offhand, as if it was somethin' you could do anytime between lunch and one-thirty. Near as I could make out, Mallory goes for it in his polite, standoff, after-you way, and the closest he gets to Russky is a minute with a cocky secretary that says his Excellency is very sorry, but he'll be too busy to see him this trip--maybe next time, about 1912, he'll have an hour off. \"And then you backs up the alley?\" says I. \"There was nothing else for me to do,\" says Mallory. \"He went off without giving me another chance.\" \"Say,\" says I, \"if I had all your parlor manners, I'd organize an English holdin' comp'ny for 'em, so's not to be jacked up for bein' a monopoly. Why didn't you give him the low tackle and sit on his head until he promised to behave? Was that the only try you made?\"", "words": 311}, {"story": 7, "title": "A Whirl with Kazedky", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"No, I sent up my card twice after that,\" says he, \"and it came back. So I've flunked. I think I'd better go down in the morning and resign.\" Now wouldn't that rust you? \"Then here goes the books,\" says I, chuckin' 'em into the corner. \"If doin' the knowledge stunt leaves you with a backbone like a piece of boiled spaghetti, I'm through.\" That makes Mallory sit up as if I'd jabbed him with a pin. \"Do I seem that way to you?\" says he. \"You don't think you're givin' any weight-liftin' exhibition, do you?\" says I. He lets that trickle through for a minute or so, and then he comes back to life. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"you're right. I'm acting like a quitter. But I don't mean to let go just yet. Hanged if I don't try to see that man to-night, now, as quick as I can get down there! He's got to see me, by Jove!\" \"There's more sense to that than anything else you've said in a week,\" says I. \"Wish I could be there to hold your hat.\" \"Why not?\" says he. \"Come on. I may need fresh inspiration.\" \"Whatever I gives you'll be fresh, all right,\" says I; \"but if I was you, and was goin' to butt into any Fifth-ave. hotel along about dinner-time, I'd wear the regalia. Yours ain't in on a ticket, is it?\" It wa'n't. Mallory had to go clear to the bottom of the trunk after it; but when he'd shook out the wrinkles and got himself inside the view was worth while. After he's blown up his op'ra hat and got out his stick you couldn't tell him from a three times winner. \"Chee!\" says I. \"You've got Silent Smith tied to a post. If you acts like you look, you don't need me.\"", "words": 307}, {"story": 7, "title": "A Whirl with Kazedky", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "He wouldn't have it that way, though. I'd got to go along and be ready to give him any points I thought of. We goes in a cab, too, in over the rubber mats to the carriage door, just like we'd come to hire the royal suite. \"The Baron Kazedky,\" says Mallory, shovin' his card across at the near plute behind the desk. Then the cold wave begun comin' our way. Mister Baron was out. Nobody knew where he'd gone. He hadn't left any word. And he didn't receive callers after four P.M., anyway. Mallory was gettin' his breath after stoppin' them body blows, when I pushes in. \"Say, Sir Wally,\" says I, leanin' over towards the clerk and speakin' confidential, \"lemme give you somethin' from the inside. If Kazedky misses seein' Mr. Mallory to-night, you'll be called up to-morrow to hear some Russian language that'll take all the crimp out of that Robert Mantell bang of yours. Now ring up one of them bench-warmers and show us the Baron!\" But, say, you might's well try bluffin' your way through the fire lines on a brass trunk check, \"You'll find the manager's office two doors to the left, gentlemen,\" says he. \"Much obliged for nothin',\" says I. Course, there wa'n't any use registerin' a kick. Orders is orders, and we was on the wrong side of the fence. Mallory and I takes a turn through the corridors and past the main dinin'-room, where they keeps an orchestra playin' so's the got-rich-quick folks won't hear each other eat their soup. We was tryin' to think up a new move. I was for goin' out somewhere and callin' for the Baron over the 'phone; but Mallory's got his jaw set now and says he don't mean to leave until he has some kind of satisfaction. He's kind of slow takin' hold; but when he gets his teeth in he's a stayer.", "words": 319}, {"story": 7, "title": "A Whirl with Kazedky", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "We knocks around half an hour, and nothin' happens. Then, just as we was pushin' through the mob into the Palm Room I runs into Whitey Buck. You know about Whitey, don't you? Well, you've seen his name printed across the top of the sportin' page that he runs. And say, Whitey's the smooth boy, all right! Him and me used to do some great old joshin' when I was on the Sunday editor's door. \"Hello, Whitey!\" says I. \"Who you been workin' for a swell feed now?\" \"That you, Torchy?\" says he. \"Why, I took your head for an exit light. How's tricks?\" \"On the blink,\" says I. \"We're up against a freeze out, Mr. Mallory and me. You know Mallory, don't you?\" \"What, Skid Mallory?\" says he, takin' another look. \"What a pipe! Why, say, old man, I want you the worst way. Got to hash up a full-page sympose knockin' reformed football, and if you'll take off a thousand-word opinion I'll blow you to anything on the bill of fare. Come on in here to a table while we chew it over. Torchy, grab a garcon. Sizzlin' sisters! but I'm glad to root you out, Skid!\" He was all of that; but it didn't mean anything more'n that Whitey sees an easy column comin' his way. Mr. Mallory wa'n't so glad. \"Sorry,\" says he, \"but whatever football reputation I ever had I'm trying to live down.\" \"What!\" says Whitey. \"Trying to make folks forget the nerviest quarterback that ever pranced down the turf with eleven men after him? Don't you do it. Besides, you can't. Why, that run of yours through the Reds has been immortalized in a whole library of kid story books, and they're still grinding 'em out!\"", "words": 293}, {"story": 7, "title": "A Whirl with Kazedky", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Mallory turns the color of the candleshades and shakes his head. \"You print any such rot as that about me,\" says he, \"and I'll come down and wreck the office. I'm out of all that now, and into something that has opened my eyes to what sort of useless individual I am. Behold, Whitey, one of the unfit!\" Then Whitey wants to know all about it. \"It's nothing much,\" says Mallory, \"only I've been sent out to do business with a Russian Baron, and I'm such a chump I can't even get within speaking distance of him.\" \"What Baron?\" says Whitey. \"Not Kazedky?\" \"That's the identical one,\" says Mallory. \"Don't happen to know him, do you?\" \"I sure do,\" says Whitey. \"Didn't he and I have a heart to heart session when that sporty Russian Prince was over here and got himself pinched at a prizefight? Kazedky was secretary of the legation then, and it was through me he got the story muffled.\" \"Wish you could find out where he is now,\" says Mallory. \"Don't have to,\" says Whitey; \"I know. He's up in private dining-room No. 9. Been captured by a gang of Chamber of Commerce men, who are feeding him ruddy duck and terrapin and ten-dollar champagne. He's got a lot of steel contracts up his sleeve, you know, and----\" \"Yes, I know,\" says Mallory; \"but how can I get to see him?\" \"Who are you with?\" says Whitey. \"Corrugated Trust,\" says Mallory. \"Wow!\" says Whitey, them skim-milk eyes of his gettin' big. \"They wouldn't let you within a mile of him if they knew. But say, suppose I could lug him outside, would I get that football story?\" \"You would,\" says Mallory. \"By to-morrow noon?\" says he. \"Before morning, if you'll stay at the office until I get through here,\" says Mallory.", "words": 305}, {"story": 7, "title": "A Whirl with Kazedky", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Good!\" says Whitey. \"Come on! I'll snake him out of there if I have to drag him by the collar. But he's a fussy old freak, and I don't guarantee he'll stay more than a minute.\" \"That's enough,\" says Mallory. \"He can talk French, I suppose?\" \"What's the matter with English?\" says Whitey. \"Now let's see what kind of hot air I'll give him.\" Whitey didn't say what it was he thinks up; but he was grinnin' all over his face when he leaves us outside of No. 9 and goes in where the corks was poppin'. It must have been a happy thought, though; for it wa'n't long before he comes out, towin' a dried-up little old runt with a full set of face lambrequins and a gold dog license hung round his neck from a red ribbon. He had his napkin in one hand and half a dinner roll in the other; so it didn't look like he meant to make any long stop. He was actin' kind of dazed, too, like he hadn't got somethin' clear in his mind, and he hung back as if he was expectin' some one to hand out a bomb. But Whitey rushes him right up to Mallory. \"Here's the chap, Baron!\" says he. \"I couldn't let you go back to Russia without shaking hands with the greatest quarterback America ever produced. Mr. Mallory, Baron Kazedky,\" and then he winks at Mallory, much as to say, \"Now jump in!\" And say, Mallory was Johnny on the spot. He grabs Kazedky's flipper like it was a life preserver. \"I--I--really, gentlemen, there's some mistake,\" says the Baron. \"A quarter what, did you say?\" \"Oh,\" says Mallory, \"that's some of Mr. Buck's tomfoolery--football term, you know.\" \"But I am not interested in football,\" says the Baron, tryin' to back towards the door, \"not in the least.\"", "words": 311}, {"story": 7, "title": "A Whirl with Kazedky", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Me either,\" says Mallory, gettin' a new grip on him. \"What I want to talk to you about is steel. Now, I represent the Corrugated Trust, and we----\" Well say, the old man himself couldn't have reeled it off better'n Mallory. Why, he had it as letter perfect as a panhandler does his tale about bein' in the hospital six weeks and havin' four hungry kids at home. I only hears the start of it; for as soon as he got well under way Mallory starts for the other end of the corridor, skatin' the little old Baron along with him like he was a Third-ave. clothing store dummy that was bein' hauled in at closin'-up time. Whitey didn't even wait for the overture. The minute he hands Kazedky over he fades towards the elevator. There's nothin' for me to do but wait; so I picks out a red velvet chair and camps down on it to watch the promenade. That's what it was, too; for Mallory acts like he'd forgot everything he ever knew except that he's got to talk steel into the Baron. I guess it was steel he was talkin'! Every time he passes me I hear him ringin' in Corrugated, and drop forged, and a lot of things like that. Mallory has a right-arm hook on Kazedky and is makin' motions with his left hand. Bein' so tall, he has to lean over to pump his speech into the old fellow's ear; but every now and then he gets excited and, 'stead of bendin' himself, he lifts the Baron clear off his feet. About the third lap some of the gents from the private dinin'-room pokes their heads out to see what's happened to the guest of the evenin'. They saw, all right! They must have been suspicious, too; for they were lookin' anxious, and begun signaling him to break away.", "words": 315}, {"story": 7, "title": "A Whirl with Kazedky", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "The Baron didn't have no time for watchin' signals just then. He was busy tryin' to keep his feet on the floor. First I knew there was a whole gang at the door watchin' 'em, and they was talkin' over makin' a rush for the Baron and rescuin' him, I guess, when Mallory leans him up against the wall, hauls out a pad and a fountain pen, and hands the things to Kazedky. The Baron drapes bis napkin over one arm, stuffs the piece of roll into his mouth, and scribbles off somethin'. When he's done that Mallory pockets the pad, leads the Baron back to his friends, shakes hands with him, motions to me, and pikes for the elevator. The last glimpse I has of Kazedky, he's bein' pulled into the private dinin'-room, with that half a roll stickin' out of his face like a bung in a beer keg. \"Well, Torchy,\" says Mallory to me, as the car starts down, \"I got it!\" \"Got what!\" says I. \"Why, the contract,\" says he. \"Chee!\" says I. \"Is that all? I thought you was pullin' one of his back teeth.\"", "words": 190}, {"story": 8, "title": "Down the Bumps with Cliffy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Say, if you read in the papers to-morrow about how the Chicago Limited was run on a siding and a riot call wired back to the nearest Chief of Police, you needn't do any guessin' as to what's happened. It'll be a cinch that Clifford's gettin' in his fine work; for the last I saw of him he was headed West, and where he is there's trouble. But you mustn't tear off the notion that Clifford's a Mr. Lush, that goes and gets himself all lit up like a birthday cake and then begins to mix it. That ain't his line. He's one of the camel brand. The nearest he ever gets to red liquor is when he takes bottled grape juice for a spring tonic; but for all that he can keep the cops busier'n any thirsty man I ever saw. First glimpse I gets of him was when I looks up from the desk and sees him tryin' to find a break in the brass rail. And say, there wa'n't any doubt about his havin' come in from beyond where they make up the milk trains. Not that he wears any R. Glue costume. From the nose pinchers, white tie, and black cutaway I might have sized him up as a cross between a travelin' corn doctor and a returned missionary; but the ear muffs and the umbrella and the black felt lid with the four-inch brim put him in the tourist class. He was one of your skimpy, loose-jointed parties, with a turkey neck that had a lump in front and wa'n't on good terms with the back of his coat collar. Two of his front teeth was set on a bias, givin' him one of these squirrel mouths that keeps you thinkin' he's just goin' to bite into an apple.", "words": 304}, {"story": 8, "title": "Down the Bumps with Cliffy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "I watched him a minute or so without sayin' anything, while he was pawin' around for the gate sort of absent minded, and when I thinks it's about time to wake him up I sings out: \"Say, Profess, you're on the right side of the fence now; let it go at that.\" \"Ah--er--I beg pardon,\" says he. \"Well,\" says I, \"that's a good start.\" \"I--er--I beg----\" says he. \"You've covered that ground,\" says I. \"Take a new lead.\" That seems to rattle him more'n ever. He hangs his umbrella over one arm, peels off a brown woolen mitt, and fishes a card out of his inside pocket. \"This is the--ah--Corrugated Trust Building, is it not?\" says he. \"It is, yes,\" says I; \"but the place where you cash in your scalper's book ticket is down on the third floor.\" \"Oh!\" says he. \"Thank you very much,\" and he starts to trot out. He has his hand on the knob, when a new thought comes to him. He tiptoes back to the gate, pries off one of the ear muffs, and leans over real confidential. \"I didn't quite understand,\" says he. \"Did you say Cousin Robert's was the third door?\" \"Chee!\" says I. \"Willie, take off the other one, so you can get a good healthy circulation through the belfry.\" The words seemed to daze him some; but he tumbled to my motions and unstoppered his south ear. \"Now,\" says I, \"what's this about your Cousin Bob? Where'd you lose him?\" Watcher think, though? I gets it out of him that he's come all the way from Bubble Creek, Michigan, and is lookin' for Mr. Robert Ellins. With that I lets him through, plants him in a chair, and goes in to the boss.", "words": 293}, {"story": 8, "title": "Down the Bumps with Cliffy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Say,\" says I to Mr. Robert, \"there's a guy, outside that's just floated in from the breakfast food belt and is callin' for Cousin Robert. Here's his card.\" \"Why, that must be Clifford!\" says he. \"Then it's true, is it, the cousin business?\" says I. \"Certainly it is, Torchy,\" says he. \"Why not?\" \"Oh, nothin',\" says I. \"I wouldn't have thought it, though.\" \"It isn't at all necessary,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Bring him in at once.\" \"I guess I can spare him,\" says I. Then I goes back and taps Cousin Clifford on the shoulder. \"Cliffy,\" says I, \"you're subpoened. Push through two doors and then make yourself right to home.\" Course anyone's liable to have a freak cousin or so knockin' round in the background, and I s'pose it was a star play of Mr. Robert's, givin' the glad hand to this one; but if I'd found Clifford hangin' on my fam'ly tree I'd have felt like gettin' out the prunin' saw. Maybe Mr. Robert was a little miffy because I hadn't been a mind reader and played Clifford for a favorite from the start. Anyway, he jumps right in to feature him, lugs him off to the club for lunch, and does the honors joyous, just as though this was something he'd been lookin' forward to for months. I was beginnin' to think I'd made a wrong guess on Clifford, and the awful thought that maybe for once I'd talked too gay was just tricklin' through my thatch, when we gets our first bulletin. Cliffy was due back to the office about four-thirty, havin' gone off by his lonesome after lunch; but at a quarter of five he don't show up. It was near closin' time when Mr. Robert gets a 'phone call, and by the worried look I knew something was up.", "words": 305}, {"story": 8, "title": "Down the Bumps with Cliffy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Yes,\" says he, \"this is Robert Ellins. Yes, I know such a person. That's right--Clifford. He's my cousin. No, is that so? Why, there must be some mistake. Oh, there must be! I'll come up and explain. Yes, I'll sign the bail bond.\" He didn't have a word to say when he turns around and catches me grinnin'; but grabs his hat and coat and pikes for the green lights. There wa'n't any call for me to do any rubberin' next day, or ask any questions. It was all in the mornin' papers: how a batty gent who looked like a disguised second story worker had collected a crowd and blocked traffic on Fifth Avenue by standin' on the curb in front of one of the Vanderbilt houses and drawin' plans of it on a pad. Course, he got run in as a suspect, and I guess Mr. Robert had his troubles showin' the desk sergeant that Clifford wa'n't a Western crook who was layin' pipes for a little jimmy work. Cliffy's architect tale wouldn't have got him off in a month, and if it hadn't been that Mr. Robert taps the front of his head they'd had Clifford down to Mulberry-st. and put his thumb print in the collection. He was givin' it to 'em straight, though. Architectin' was what Cliffy was aimin' at. He'd been studying that sort of thing out in Michigan, and now he was makin' a tour to see how it was done in other places, meanin' to polish off with a few months abroad. Then, after he'd got himself well soaked in ideas, maybe he'd go back to Bubble Creek, rent an office over the bank, and begin drawin' front elevations of iron foundries and double tenements.", "words": 293}, {"story": 8, "title": "Down the Bumps with Cliffy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "That's what comes of havin' rich aunts and uncles in the fam'ly, and duckin' real work while you wait for notice from the Surrogate to come on and take your share. It wa'n't a case of hustle with Clifford. I suspicioned that his bein' an architect was more or less of a fad; but he was makin' the most of it, there was no discountin' that. He'd laid out a week to put in seein' how New York was built, high spots and low, and he went at it like he was workin' by the piece. Now, say, there ain't no special harm in goin' around town gawpin' at lib'ries and office buildin's and churches. 'Most anyone could have done it without bumpin' into trouble; but not Cliffy. It was wonderful how he dug up ructions--and him the mildest lookin' four-eyed gent ever let loose. And green! Say, what sort of a flag station is Bubble Creek, anyway? Askin' fool questions was Cliffy's specialty. You see, he'd made out a list of buildin's he thought he wanted to take a look at; but he hadn't stopped to put down the street numbers or anything. And when he wants information does he hunt up a directory or a cop? Oh, no! He holds up anyone that's handy, from a white wings dodgin' trucks in the middle of Madison Square, to a Wall Street broker rushin' from 'Change out to a directors' meetin'. He seems to think anybody he meets knows all about New York, and has time to take him by the hand and lead him right where he wants to go, whether it's the new Custom House down town, or Grant's Tomb up on the drive. Throw downs don't discourage him any, either. Two minutes after he's been told to go chase himself he'll butt right in somewhere else and call for directions.", "words": 313}, {"story": 8, "title": "Down the Bumps with Cliffy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "The worst of it was that he couldn't remember what he was told for more'n three minutes on a stretch. We found out these little tricks of Clifford's after he'd been makin' the office his headquarters for a couple of days. First mornin' we started him out early for the Battery, to size up the Bowling Green Buildin' and the Aquarium. About noon he limps in with his hat all dirt and ashes up and down his back. From the description he gives we figure out that he's been somewhere up on Washington Heights and has got into an argument with a janitor that didn't like being rung up from the basement and asked how far it was to Whitehall-st. Well, we fixes him up, writes out all the partic'lars of his route on a card, and gives him a fresh send-off. It wa'n't more'n half an hour afterwards that I was out on an errand, and as I cut through 22d-st. back of the Flatiron I sees a crowd. Course, I pushes in to find out what was holdin' up all the carriages and bubbles that has to switch through there goin' north. Somehow I had a feelin' that it might be Clifford. And it was! He was in the middle of the ring, hoppin' around lively and wavin' that umbrella of his like a sword. The other party was the pilot of a hansom cab that had climbed down off his perch and was layin' on with his whip. I hated to disturb that muss; for I had an idea Cliffy was gettin' about what was comin' to him, and the crowd was enjoyin' it to the limit. But I see a couple of traffic cops comin' over from Broadway; so I breaks through, grabs Clifford by the arm, and chases him down the avenue, breathin' some hard but not much hurt.", "words": 314}, {"story": 8, "title": "Down the Bumps with Cliffy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Chee!\" says I, \"but you're a wonder! Was you tryin' to buy an eight-mile cab ride for a quarter?\" \"Why, no,\" says he. \"I merely stopped the man to ask him where the nearest subway station was, and before I knew it he became angry. I'm sure I didn't know----\" \"That's the trouble with you, Cliffy,\" says I, \"and if you don't get over it you'll be hurt bad. Where's that card we made out for you?\" \"I--I must have lost that,\" says he. \"What you need is a guide and an accident policy,\" says I. \"Better let me tow you back to the office, and you can talk it over with Mr. Robert.\" He was willin'. He'd had enough for one day, anyhow. By mornin' Mr. Robert has lost some of his joy over Cousin Clifford's visit. Come to find out, he'd never seen him before, and hadn't heard much about him, either. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"I shall be rather busy to-day; so I am going to put Cousin Clifford in your care.\" \"Ah, say!\" says I. \"Hand me an easier one. I couldn't keep him straight less'n I had him on a rope and led him around.\" \"Well, do that, then,\" says he, \"anyway you choose. You may take the day off, show him the buildings he wants to see, keep him out of trouble, and don't leave him until you have him safe inside my house to-night. I'll make it right with you.\" \"Seein' it's you,\" says I, \"I'll give it a whirl. But if Clifford wants to travel around town with me he's got to shake the ear pads.\"", "words": 273}, {"story": 8, "title": "Down the Bumps with Cliffy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Mr. Robert says he'll give him his instructions, and all that; but when it came to springin' the programme on Clifford he runs on a snag. Somewhere back of them squirrel teeth and under the soft hat there was a streak of mule. Cliffy balks at the whole business. He's a whole lot obliged, but he really don't care for comp'ny. Goin' around alone and not havin' his thoughts sidetracked by some one taggin' along is what he likes better'n anything else. He's always done it in Bubble Creek and never got into any trouble before--that is, none to speak of. But he'll promise to cut out janitors and cab drivers. As for the ear muffs, he couldn't think of partin' with them. For years he's been puttin' them on the first of December and wearin' 'em until the last of March, and he'd feel lost without 'em, just the same as he would without the umbrella. Yes, he knew it wa'n't common; but that didn't bother him at all. Right there I gets a new line on Clifford. He's one of these guys that throws a bluff at bein' modest; but when you scratch him deep you gets next to the fact that he's dead sure he's a genius and is anxious to prove it by the way he wears his clothes. There's a lot of that kind that shows themselves off every night at the fifty-cent table d'hote places; but I never knew any of 'em ever came in from so far west as Bubble Creek. Mr. Robert wa'n't on, though. He still freezes to the notion that Cousin Clifford's just a well-meanin', corn-fed innocent; so before he turns him loose again he gives him a lot of good advice about not gettin' tangled up with strangers. Cliffy smiles kind of condescendin' and tells Mr. Robert he needn't worry a bit.", "words": 313}, {"story": 8, "title": "Down the Bumps with Cliffy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "With that off he goes; but every time the telephone rings that forenoon me and Mr. Robert gets nervous. We don't hear a word from him, though, and by three o'clock we're hopin' for the best. Then Aunt Julie shows up. She's a large, elegant old girl, all got up in Persian lamb and a fur hat with seven kinds of sealin' wax fruit on it. She's just in from Palm Beach, and she's heard that Brother Henry's boy is here on a visit. \"He was such a cute little dear when he was a baby!\" says she. \"He's changed,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Of course,\" says Aunt Julie. \"I do want to see if he's grown up to look like Henry, as I said he would, or like his mother. Where is he now, Robert?\" \"Heaven only knows!\" says he. \"It would suit me best if he was on his way back to Michigan.\" \"Why, Robert!\" says Aunt Julie. \"And Clifford the only cousin you have in the world!\" \"One is quite enough,\" says he. That gives her another jolt, and she starts to lay out Mr. Robert good, for givin' the frosty paw to a relation that had come so far to see him. \"I shall stay right here,\" says she, \"until that poor, neglected young man returns, and then I shall try to make up for your heartless treatment.\" Aunt Julie didn't have a long wait. She hadn't more'n got herself settled, when the elevator stops at our floor and there breaks loose all kinds of a riot in the hall. There was a great jabberin' and foot scufflin', and I could hear Dennis, that juggles the lever, forkin' out the assault 'n' batt'ry language in a brogue that sounded like rippin' a sheet. \"What's up now?\" says Mr. Robert, pokin' his head out. \"Two to one that's Clifford!\" says I.", "words": 313}, {"story": 8, "title": "Down the Bumps with Cliffy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "There wa'n't any time to get a bet down, though; for just then the door slams open and we gets a view of things. Oh, it was Cliffy, all right! He was comin' in backwards, tryin' to wave off the gang that was follerin' him. \"Go away!\" says he, pushin' at the nearest of 'em. \"Please go away!\" \"Ah, it's you should be goin' away, ye shark-faced baboon, ye!\" says Dennis, hoppin' up and down in the door of the car. \"You an' yer Polack friends may walk down, or jump out the winder; but divvle a ride do yez get in this illyvator again. Do ye mind that, now?\" You couldn't blame him; for the bunch wa'n't fit for the ash hoist. They were Zinskis, about twenty of 'em, countin' women and kids. You didn't have to look at the tin trunks and roped bundles to know that they'd just finished ten days in the steerage. You could tell that by the bouquet. They didn't carry their perfume with 'em. It went on ahead, and they follered, backin' Cliffy clear in until he fetched up against the gate, and then jammin' in around him close. Chee! but they was a punky lot! They had jack lantern faces and garlic breaths, and they looked to know about as much as so many cigar store Injuns. \"Did you have your pick, Cliffy,\" says I, \"or was this a job lot you got cheap?\" \"Clifford,\" says Mr. Robert, \"what in thunder is the meaning of this performance of yours?\" But Clifford just keeps on tryin' to work his elbows clear and looks dazed. \"I don't know,\" says Cliffy, \"truly I don't, Cousin Robert. They've been following me for an hour, and I've had an awful time.\" \"Maybe you've been makin' a noise like a wienerwurst,\" says I.", "words": 305}, {"story": 8, "title": "Down the Bumps with Cliffy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "About that time Aunt Julie comes paddin' out. \"Did I hear some one say Clifford?\" says she. \"You did,\" says Mr. Robert. \"There he is, the one with the ear muffs. I haven't found out who the others are yet.\" \"Phe-e-e-ew!\" says she, takin' one sniff, and with that she grabs out her scent bottle and runs back, slammin' the door behind her. \"Cliffy,\" says I, \"you don't seem to be makin' much of a hit with your Ellis Island bunch.\" \"What I want to know,\" says Mr. Robert, \"is what this is all about!\" But Clifford didn't have the key. All he knew was that when he started to leave the subway train they had tagged after, and that since then he hadn't been able to shake 'em. Once he'd jumped on a Broadway car; but they'd all piled in too, and the conductor had made him shell out a nickel for every last one. Another time he'd dodged through one of them revolvin' doors into a hotel, and four of 'em had got wedged in so tight it took half a dozen porters to get 'em out; but the house detective had spotted Clifford for the head of the procession and held him by the collar until he could chuck him out to join his friends. \"It was simply awful!\" says he, throwin' up his hands. And then I notices the rattan cane. After that it was all clear. \"Where'd you cop the stick, Cliffy?\" says I. \"Stick!\" says he. \"Why, bless me! I must have taken this instead of my umbrella. It belongs to that gentleman who sat next to me in the subway train. You see he was leaning back taking a nap in the corner, and I was trying to talk to him, and when I left I suppose I took his cane by mistake.\" \"Well,\" says I, \"the Zinskis goes with the cane.\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 8, "title": "Down the Bumps with Cliffy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It's a fact, too. Most all them immigrant runners carries rattans when they're herdin' gangs of imported pick artists around to the railroad stations. It's kind of a badge and helps the bunch to keep track of their leader. Most likely them Zinskis had had their eyes glued to that cane for hours, knowin' that it was leadin' 'em to a job somewheres, and they wa'n't goin' to let it get away. \"Gimme it,\" says I; \"I'll show you how it works.\" Sure enough, soon's I took it and started for the door the whole push quits eatin' cheese and bread out of their pockets and falls in right after me. \"Fine!\" says Mr. Robert, grabbin' my hat and chuckin' it after me. \"Go on, Torchy! Keep going!\" \"Ah, say!\" says I. \"I ain't subbin' for Cliffy. This is his gang.\" But Mr. Robert only grins and motions me to be on my way. \"If you come back here before to-morrow morning,\" says he, \"I'll discharge you on the spot.\" Now wouldn't that bump you? \"All right,\" says I: \"but this'll cost Cliffy just twenty.\" \"I'll pay it,\" says Mr. Robert. \"It's a whizz,\" says I, wavin' the cane. \"Come on, you Sneezowskis! I'll show you where the one fifty per grows on bushes.\" What did I do with 'em? Ah, say, it was a cinch! I runs 'em down seven flights of stairs, marches 'em three blocks up town, and then rushes up to a big stiff in a green and gold uniform that's hired to stand outside a flower shop and open carriage doors. He and me had some words a couple of months ago, because I butted him in the belt when I was in a hurry once.", "words": 291}, {"story": 8, "title": "Down the Bumps with Cliffy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Here,\" says I, rushin' up and jammin' the cane into his hand, \"hold that till I come back!\" and before he has time to pipe off the bunch of Polackers that's come to a parade rest around us, I makes a dive in amongst the cars and beats it down Broadway. Nah, I don't know what becomes of him, or the Zinskis either. All I know is that I'm twenty to the good, and that Cousin Clifford's been shipped back to Bubble Creek, glad to get out of New York alive. But, as I says to Mr. Robert, \"What do you look for from a guy that buttons his ears up in flannel?\"", "words": 113}, {"story": 9, "title": "Backing out of a Fluff Riot", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "They will turn up, won't they? Here I was only yesterday noontime loafin' through the arcade, when who should I get the hail from but Hunch Leary, with a bookful of rush messages and his cap down over his ears. Now I ain't sayin' he's the toughest lookin' A. D. T. that ever sat on a call bench, for maybe I've seen worse; but with his bent-in nose, and his pop eyes, and that undershot jaw--well, he ain't one you'd send in to quiet a cryin' baby. Hunch didn't pose for that picture of the sweet youth on the blue signs outside the district offices. They don't pick him out for these theater-escort snaps, either. Which shows how far you can go on looks, anyway; for, if I was going to trust my safety-vault key with anyone, it would be Hunch. Not that they'll ever use him to decorate any stained-glass window; but I never look for him to land on the rock pile. Course, I don't see much of Hunch and the rest these days; but it ain't a case of dodgin' old friends on my part, so me and him hangs up against a radiator in the main corridor and talks it over. I wants to know if Stiff Miller is still manager down at No. 11 branch, and who's wearin' the red stripe yet; while Hunch he puts over a few polite quizzes as to how I'm gettin' on with the Corrugated people.", "words": 246}, {"story": 9, "title": "Backing out of a Fluff Riot", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "We hadn't been gassin' but five minutes or so, and there's ten more due on the clock before lunch hour is over, when I looks up to see our Mr. Piddie going by and givin' me the frown. I knew what that meant. It's another call-down. He has plenty of time to work up his case; for I takes the limit and don't hang up my hat until the life-insurance chimes has done their one-o'clock stunt. And I'm hardly settled behind the brass gate before Piddie is down on me with the old mushy-mouthed reproof. \"One is known,\" says he, \"by the company one keeps.\" \"I'm no New Theater manager,\" says I. \"What's the answer?\" \"I observed you loitering in the lower corridor,\" says he. \"That is all.\" \"Oh!\" says I. \"You seen me conversin' with Mr. Leary, eh?\" \"Mr. Leary!\" says Piddie, raisin' his eyebrows. \"Well, Hunch, then,\" says I. \"Tryin' to get up a grouch because you wa'n't introduced? Don't take it hard. He's kind of exclusive, Mr. Leary is.\" Piddie swallows that throat pippin of his two or three times before he can get a grip on his feelings enough to go on with the lesson of the day. \"I merely wish to remark,\" says he, \"that evil communications corrupt good manners.\" \"How about court Judges, then,\" says I, \"and these slum missionaries'? G'wan, Piddie! Back to the copybook with your mottoes! I'm a mixer, I am! Would I be chinnin' here with you if I wa'n't?\" He sighs, Piddie does, and struts away to freeze the soul of some new lady typist by looking over her shoulder. As an act of charity, they ought to let Piddie fire me about once a month. He'll die of grief if he don't get the chance sometime. And blamed if he don't come near gettin' his heart's desire before the day was over!", "words": 314}, {"story": 9, "title": "Backing out of a Fluff Riot", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It all begins about three o'clock, when Piddie comes turkeyin' out of the telephone booth all swelled up with importance and signals me to come on the carpet. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"I presume you know where the Metropolitan Building is?\" \"They ain't moved it since lunchtime, have they?\" says I. \"That will do!\" says he. \"Now listen very carefully.\" You'd thought from his preamble that I was going to be sent up to regulate the clock, or see if the tower was still plumb; but all it simmers down to is that I'm to take a leather document case, hunt up Mr. Ellins, who's attendin' a directors' meetin' over there, and deliver some papers that he's forgot to have his private secretary lug along. \"And kindly refrain,\" he tacks on at the last, \"from stopping to talk with any suspicious characters on the way.\" \"Say, Piddie,\" says I, \"if I was you I'd have that printed on a card. Some day you're going to forget to rub that in.\" Well, I hustles across the square, locates Old Hickory, and delivers the goods without droppin' 'em down a manhole or doin' any of the other awful things that Piddie would have warned me against if he'd had more time. I tucks the empty case under my arm and was for makin' a record trip back, just to surprise Piddie; but while I'm waitin' for that flossy lever juggler on the express elevator to answer my red-light signal I hears this riot break loose on the floor below.", "words": 256}, {"story": 9, "title": "Backing out of a Fluff Riot", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And say, I wa'n't missin' any lively disturbance like that; for it listens like a mob scene from one of them French guillotine plays. Mostly it's female voices that floats up, and they was all tuned to the saw-filin' pitch. A pasty-faced young gent wearin' a green eye-shade and an office coat comes beatin' it up the marble steps, and I fires a question at him on the fly. \"Is it a gen'ral rough-house number,\" says I, \"or have the suffragettes broke loose again?\" \"You're welcome to find out for yourself,\" he pants, dashin' up another flight. \"Thanks for the invite,\" says I. \"Guess I will.\" And, say, talk about your mass plays around a shirtwaist bargain counter! Why, the corridor was full of 'em, all tryin' to rush the door of 1,323 at once. For a guess I should say that half the manicure artists, lady demonstrators, and cloak models between 14th and 34th was on the spot. Oh, they was a swell bunch, with more fur turbans and Marie Antoinette ringlets on view than you could see collected anywhere outside of Murray's! They was sayin' things, too! I couldn't catch anything but odd words here and there; but the gen'ral drift of their remarks seems to be that someone has welshed on 'em. First off I thought it must be one of these skirt bucket-shops that has been closed out by the renting agent; but then I gets a look at the sign on the door and sees that it's the Peruvian Investment Company, which sounds like one of them common twenty per cent. a month games. And it's a case of lockout, with the lady customers ragin' on the outside, and nobody knows what's takin' place behind the ground glass. That wa'n't excitin' enough to lure me from a steady job for long, though, unless some one was goin' to do more'n look desp'rate and talk spiteful.", "words": 320}, {"story": 9, "title": "Backing out of a Fluff Riot", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Ah, why not smash something?\" I sings out. \"Didn't any lady think to bring a brick in her vanity bag?\" A couple turns around and glares at me; but it encourages one to begin hammerin' on the glass with her near-gold purse, and just as I'm about to leave this turns the trick. The door swings open all of a sudden, and there stands a tall, well-built gent, with a green felt hat pushed back on his head, a five-inch cigar juttin' out of one corner of his mouth, and his thumbs stuck in the pockets of a sporty striped vest. On account of the curly brown Vandyke, he's kind of a foreign-lookin' party; but someway them smilin', wide-open eyes of his has a sort of familiar look. For a high pressure storm center he seems mighty placid. As he throws open the door he steps back into the middle of the room, rests one elbow against the rail of a wired-in cashier's coop, and removes the cheroot so he can spring a comfortin' smile on the crowd. It's a brainy play. The rush line stops like it has gone up against a bridge pier, and then spreads out in a half-circle. \"Well, ladies,\" says he, \"what can we do for you to-day?\" Do I know who it is then? Well, do I! Maybe it has been months since I've heard the voice, and maybe he does wear a set of face herbage that I'd never seen before; but I ain't one to forget the only real A-1 classy boss I ever had; not that soon, anyway. It's Mr. Belmont Pepper, as sure as I've got a Titian thatch on my skull!", "words": 282}, {"story": 9, "title": "Backing out of a Fluff Riot", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Do I linger? That's what! Why, I've been waitin' for him to show up again like a hired girl waits for Thursday afternoon. It's Mr. Pepper, all right; but it looks like he's been let in bad, for after one or two gasps in chorus that bunch of lady grouches gets their second wind and closes in on him with a whoop. \"Where's my dividends? I want to draw out my money! Say, you give me back my eighteen dollars, or I'll----You'll try your bunko game on me, will you? Hey! I've been waiting since noon to catch you, you----\" My! but they did have their hammers out! They called him everything that a lady could, and a few names that wa'n't so ladylike as they might have been. They shook things at him, and promised to do him all sorts of damage, from bringin' lawsuits to scratchin' his eyes out. Mr. Pepper, though, he goes on smokin' and smilin', now and then throwin' in a shoulder shrug just to hint that there wa'n't any use in his tryin' to get in a word until they was all through. He almost acts like he enjoyed being mobbed; but of course he knew better'n to choke off a lot of women before they'd had their say out. He just let 'em jaw along and get it out of their systems. Fin'lly he raises his hand, takes off the green lid, and bows graceful. \"Ladies,\" says he, \"I fully sympathize with your impatience--fully.\" \"You look it, I don't think!\" sings out a big blonde, shakin' her willow plumes energetic. Mr. Pepper throws her a smile and spiels ahead. \"You will be pleased to hear, however,\" says he, \"that the board of directors, on the strength of cabled advices from our general manager in Peru, has just voted an extra dividend of ten per cent.\"", "words": 312}, {"story": 9, "title": "Backing out of a Fluff Riot", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"When do we get it? Show us some money!\" howls the kickers. \"I have been requested to announce,\" goes on Mr. Pepper, \"that payments from this office will be resumed promptly at noon--on the first day of next month.\" Does that satisfy 'em? Not so you'd notice it. A bigger squawk than ever goes up, and the jam around Mr. Pepper begins to look like rush hour at the Hudson Terminal. They starts clawin' at his elbows, and grabbin' his coat, and when I notices one wild-eyed brunette reachin' for a hatpin I knew it was a case of me to the rescue or sendin' in an ambulance call. Not that I had any notion what ought to be done in a case like this. I couldn't throw him a rope or shove out a plank; I ain't any expert woman trainer, either; but can I stand there with my mouth open and see an old friend get the hooks thrown into him by a class in hysterics? Not when the hookee happens to be one that once set me up as a stockholder in a gold mine. So I lets flicker with the first fool idea that comes into my head. \"Gangway!\" I shouts out, wedgin' my way in among 'em and usin' my elbows. \"Gangway for the bank messenger! Ah, don't shove, girls; he ain't the only man left in New York. One side for the real money bringer! One side now!\" And by holdin' the leather case high up where they could all see it, and hittin' the line like Coy does when it's three downs with ten yards to go, I manages to get through without losin' many coat buttons. \"Here you are, sir,\" says I, shovin' the case out to Mr. Pepper and givin' him the knowin' look. \"City National. Cashier wants a receipt.\"", "words": 309}, {"story": 9, "title": "Backing out of a Fluff Riot", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Does he need a diagram and a card of instructions? Trust Belmont Pepper! \"Ah, this way,\" says he. \"Pardon me a moment, ladies, only a moment. This way, young man.\" And almost before they know what has happened him and me are behind the partition with the gate locked. \"Let's see,\" says he, lookin' me over kind of puzzled, \"it's--er--Torchy, isn't it?\" \"There's the proof,\" says I, liftin' the cover off my danger signal. \"I might have known,\" says he, \"that no one else could have put up so good a bluff on the spur of the----\" \"Now that's all right, Mr. Pepper,\" says I; \"but the bluff won't hold 'em long. What you want to do is get busy and make a noise like hundred-dollar bills. I don't know what the trouble is; but it looks like the genuine goods to me.\" \"Diagnosis correct,\" says he. \"I'm boxed. Now if they were only men, I could----\" \"Oh, sure!\" says I. \"But a bunch of nutty fluffs is diff'rent. They never know what they want or why they want it. Say, ain't you got another exit?\" Mr. Pepper shakes his head. \"No, son,\" says he; \"but don't you worry about me. Your strategy thus far has been excellent; but I don't want you to get mixed up in this mess. Skip, Torchy, while the skipping is easy.\" \"Mr. Pepper,\" says I, \"do I look like a quitter? I ain't forgot what you did about givin' me them Glory Be stocks, either, and I'm goin' to hang around here until this little private cyclone of yours blows over.\" Mr. Pepper he looks at me a minute in that calm way of his, and then he shrugs his shoulders. \"All right,\" says he.", "words": 291}, {"story": 9, "title": "Backing out of a Fluff Riot", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Then we listens to the buzz outside. Some was explainin' to others how a bushel of money had just come in from the City National Bank, and some was insistin' that it was just a north-pole fake. It's a free-for-all debate with all rules in the discard. Then we hears one voice that's louder than the others calling out for a committee. \"We must organize!\" she says. \"Let's organize for action!\" \"Ah!\" observes Mr. Pepper. \"Now for feminine tactics! That looks better.\" A couple of minutes more and they've concluded to adjourn to the corridor. When they're all out and I can hear 'em down at the further end, I gives him the tip. \"Now's your chance!\" says I. \"Up one flight and you can get an express elevator. I'll show you.\" Mr. Pepper don't like the idea, though, of doin' the gumshoe sneak. He hates to run away from any kind of a fight, specially a lot of women. He don't run, either; but after awhile he consents to walk out, and we strolls towards the steps dignified and easy. It looked like a clean get-away for a minute, too; but I hadn't counted on their leavin' a picket to watch the elevator. She sees us and gives the alarm; so by the time we're up to the next floor the whole mob is after us, lettin' out the war cries as if it was a case of kidnappin'.", "words": 240}, {"story": 9, "title": "Backing out of a Fluff Riot", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "They struck the upper corridor just as I've got my finger on the button, and in the front ranks they're pushin' along the gray uniformed special cop that they've rung up from the first floor. Also who should step out into the midst of the riot but Old Hickory Ellins, just leavin' the directors' meeting. He goes purple-faced and bug-eyed, but before I can dodge out of sight of course he spots me. And that's the very minute when a couple of lady avengers points me and Mr. Pepper out to the cop and the pinch business is about to begin. \"Why, what's all the row about, Torchy?\" says he. \"And who is that with you?\" He gets answers from the anvil chorus. \"That's the swindler!\" they shouts. \"That's Prentice Owens! He's the one that took our money, and the boy is one of the gang! Nab 'em, Mr. Officer, please nab 'em!\" \"G'wan, you're a lot of flossy kikes!\" I throws back at 'em. \"Torchy,\" says Mr. Ellins, \"have you been up to any swindling game?\" \"Honest, I ain't, Mr. Ellins,\" says I. \"I am inclined to believe that,\" says he; \"but what about the other person? Is he a friend of yours?\" \"Sure,\" says I. \"And he's on the level too.\" \"He's Prentice Owens, is he?\" says he. \"Nah,\" says I. \"He's Mr. Belmont Pepper, he is, president of the Glory Be Mining Company. Why, I used to work for him! That aggregation of female dopes is full of prunes. Mr. Pepper's no crook.\" \"Hum!\" says Old Hickory, rubbin' his chin. \"A case of mistaken identity, eh? Officer, you know me, I suppose?\" \"Yes, Mr. Ellins,\" says the special, jerkin' off his cap, \"oh, yes, sir.\" \"Then drive these deluded women downstairs and tell them their mistake,\" says Old Hickory. \"Come, Mr. Pepper. Come, Torchy. In with you!\"", "words": 310}, {"story": 9, "title": "Backing out of a Fluff Riot", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And inside of two shakes we're shootin' down a one hundred and fifty foot shaft with no stops until the ground floor. Not until we gets outside and Mr. Ellins jumps into his cab does Mr. Pepper say a word. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"you're the real thing in the friendship line. I will admit that appearances are somewhat against me, but----\" \"Ah, say!\" I breaks in. \"Don't I know you, Mr. Pepper? Do I have to see any books to know that you're playin' a straight game? It was a matter of needin' a little time, wa'n't it, and bein' rushed off your feet when you didn't expect the move? I could guess that much from the start. All I want to ask is, how's the mine gettin' on, the Glory Be, you know?\" He looks at his feet for a second or so and kind of flushes. Then he straightens up, looks me level between the eyes, and reaches out a hand to give me the brotherhood grip. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"there is a mine, and the last I heard it was still there. Anyway, I'm dropping the investment business right here, and I'm going out to see what our property looks like. I'll let you know.\" With that he whirls and dashes off across the avenue. \"How is it,\" says Piddie when I gets back, \"that it takes you an hour and a quarter to go four blocks?\" \"Hookworms, Piddie,\" says I, \"hookworms. I had a sudden attack.\"", "words": 250}, {"story": 10, "title": "Rung in with the Gold Spooners", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "On the level now, what's a he Cinderella? And if your boss called you a name like that, would you resign, or throw out your chest and strike for a raise? But, then, maybe it was only some of Mr. Robert's fancy joshin'. Anyway, I'd stand in line waitin' for a thing like that to happen again. The way it begun was when I runs across this new girl in the filin' room and finds her snifflin' over one of the index cases. She's bitin' her lips to keep from doing it and she's red way up behind her ears; so I knows she's more mad than sorry. I could guess what's happened; for I'd just seen Piddie come out of there looking satisfied and important. \"Hello, sis!\" says I. \"Weepin' over your job so soon?\" \"Shut up!\" says she. \"Why, how pettish!\" says I. \"What was Piddie callin' you down for?\" \"What's that to you?\" says she. \"Who are you, anyway?\" \"Me?\" says I. \"Why, I'm the Corrugated's gen'ral grouch dispeller. I'm the official little ray of sunshine. See?\" and I bobs my head so she can get a good view of my red thatch. \"Huh!\" says she; but she can't help lettin' out a grin, so I sees the cure has begun. \"Don't you mind Piddie,\" says I. \"He don't dare tie the can to you without reportin' higher up. He likes to make a noise like a watchdog, that's all. Next time you give him the merry chuckle.\" And, honest, I'd done the same if she'd been wall-eyed and toggle-jointed, just for the sake of blockin' off his little game.", "words": 273}, {"story": 10, "title": "Rung in with the Gold Spooners", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It wa'n't until a couple of days later, when she shoots over a casual flashlight look as I'm strollin' past, that I takes any partic'lar notice of what a Daisy Maizie she is. There's more or less class to her lines, all right, not to mention a pair of rollin' brown eyes. Course, I sends back the roguish wink, and by the end of the week we was callin' each other by our pet names. Not that I'm entered reg'lar as a Percy boy, or that I takes this so serious as to miss any meals; but you know how it is. And what if she was a few years older? She seems to like it when I sing out, \"Oh, you Theresa!\" at her, and once she mussed up my hair when there wa'n't anybody lookin'. In fact, I was almost to the point of thinkin' that I'd been picked as somebody's honey boy when this Izzy Budheimer shows up as a late entry. Izzy, he's a third assistant in the stock department, and on twelve a week he sports one of those striped green overcoats and a plush hat with the bow behind. Maybe he wouldn't be listed as a home destroyer; but he has a flossy way with him and he goes around a lot. About the second week I sees him and the new girl gettin' chummier and chummier, and, while she still has a jolly for me now and then, I knows I'm only a side issue. That's what hurt most. So what fool play must I make but go and plunge on a sixty-cent box of mixed choc'lates for her! As luck would have it, Mr. Robert spots me comin' out of the 23d-st. candy shop with the package under my arm. You wouldn't think he'd notice a little clew like that, or pick me up on it; but he does.", "words": 317}, {"story": 10, "title": "Rung in with the Gold Spooners", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"How now, Torchy?\" says he. \"Sweets to the sweet, eh?\" \"Uh-huh,\" says I, and I guess I colors up some. \"What is the fair one's name?\" says he. \"Tessie,\" says I. \"Ah!\" says he. \"Thus were they ever named: Tessie, Juliet, and Helen of Troy. They're all one. My envious sympathy, Torchy, and may the gods be kind!\" Which is only the brand of hot air Mr. Robert blows off whenever he has a good lunch under his vest and nothin' heavy on his mind. It don't mean anything at all. \"Troy!\" says I. \"Can it! This ain't for no up-State laundry hand. She comes from Eighth-ave.\" Well, I stows the box away until closin' time, and then waits around the upper corridor for Tessie to show up. Izzy, he spots me and proceeds to improve the time by givin' me an earache about what an important party he is, how he expects to be jumped a notch soon, and about how much he makes nights on the outside, followin' up some checkroom snap or other. \"That's fine!\" says I. \"But won't you be late gettin' over to Grand-st.?\" Izzy was still explainin' how long it was since his folks moved to the West Side, and what swell things they had in the parlor, when Tessie floats out with her new spring lid and princess walkin' suit on. I'm just shovin' out the peace offerin' and gettin' ready to hand over my smoothest josh, when she brushes past like I was part of the wall decoration, squeals, \"Oh, Mr. Budheimer!\" and begins showin' Izzy some tickets for the grand annual benefit ball of the Shirtwaist Makers' Union, and tellin' him how she was sellin' 'em for her sister, and what a grand time it was goin' to be. \"How much?\" says Izzy, tryin' hard to choke it back, but losin' the struggle.", "words": 312}, {"story": 10, "title": "Rung in with the Gold Spooners", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Seventy-five for a double ticket,\" says Tessie. \"That's the kind you want.\" \"Maybe I would yet, if I could get a partner,\" says he. \"Ain't that an awful sad case?\" says Tessie. \"Nobody's teased me very hard, either.\" \"You'll go with me, yes?\" says Izzy. \"It's awful sudden,\" says she; \"but a chance is a chance. Don't send a cab; the folks in the block might think I was putting on.\" And me? Why, I don't show on the chart at all! Right under my nose she does it, and don't even give me a sideways glance. \"Pooh!\" says I. \"Pooh, pooh!\" \"What a cute little fellah!\" says Tessie to him as they crowds into the elevator with the rest of the push. \"Say,\" says I, making a jump for the grating, \"you don't need to----\" \"Next car!\" sings out the Johnny Flip, slammin' the door. Now wa'n't that rubbin' it in? \"Coises!\" says I. \"Deep coises!\" and walks down eleven flights with a temperature that would have got me condemned by any boiler inspector in the business. The candy? That goes to one of the pie-faced maids where I lives. The nerve of that Izzy, though! In the mornin' he comes around just like nothin' had happened and wants to know if I'll sub. for him on his evenin' job the night he goes to the ball. To show I don't carry any grouch, I says I will; but he offers only half-pay and makes me agree to split the tips with him. \"I couldn't afford it, at that,\" says he, \"only this is a kid session and the graft will be light.\"", "words": 274}, {"story": 10, "title": "Rung in with the Gold Spooners", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It's this checkroom work of his, you know, at one of them swell Fifth-ave. joints where they have an extra night force on call for coming-out parties and dinner dances and the like. So, while him and Tessie is enjoyin' themselves with the lady shirtwaist makers, I'm standin' behind the counter wearin' a braided jacket, givin' out check coupons, and stowin' away hats and top-coats for Master Reginald and other buddin' sports of the younger set. Seems this is the final blowout of Miss Somebody's afternoon dancin' class, and no one was allowed inside unless Father had his name printed in bright red ink in the social register. A hot lot of young gold spooners they was too; some of 'em not as old as me by a couple of years, and swellin' around in dinky Tuxes and white kids. One of 'em even hands me in a silver-headed cane. \"Careful of that stick, my man,\" says he. \"Oh, sure!\" says I. \"Puppah'd be wild if anything happened to it, wouldn't he?\" And you should have heard the talk they had as they loafs around the cloakroom between the numbers,--all about the awful things they did at prep school, how they bunked the masters, and smuggled brandied peaches up to their rooms, and rough-housed durin' mornin' prayers. Almost made your blood run cold--not. When they got to discussin' the girls, though, and sayin' how such a one was a \"jolly sort,\" and others was \"bloomin' rotters,\" it made me seasick and it was a relief when they took to whisperin' things I couldn't hear about the chaperons. After intermission they come sneakin' in by twos and threes to hit up their cigarettes.", "words": 282}, {"story": 10, "title": "Rung in with the Gold Spooners", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It was about eleven-thirty and there was four or five of 'em in the cloakroom, puffin' away languid like real clubmen, when in drifts a young lady all in pink silk and gold net and hails one of the wicked bunch. \"Bobby,\" says she, \"you ought to be ashamed of yourself!\" \"Run on now, Vee,\" says he. \"Told you when I asked you to come that I wasn't a dancing man, y'know.\" \"Fudge!\" says she, stampin' her foot. \"You think it's smart to take that pose, don't you? Well, you wait!\" And, say, you talk about your haughty beauts! Why, she was a little the silkiest young queen I ever had a real close view of,--the slimmest feet and ankles, reg'lar cameo-cut face all tinted up natural like a bunch of sweet peas, and a lot of straw-colored hair as fine as cobwebs. She was a thoroughbred stunner, this Miss Vee was, and mad all over. \"I haven't been on the floor for four numbers,\" she goes on. \"You just wait!\" \"You wouldn't be cad enough to peach on us for smokin', would you?\" says Bobby. \"Wouldn't I, though!\" says she. That starts a stampede. All but Bobby chucks away their cigarettes and beats it back to the ballroom. He turns sulky, though. \"Tell ahead,\" says he. \"Who cares? And let's see you get any more dances!\" He's a pasty-faced, weak-jawed youth with a chronic scowl and a sullen look in his eyes. I should say he was sixteen maybe, and the young lady a year older. She grips her fan hard and stands there starin' at him. I'm so much int'rested in the case that the first thing I know I've butted in with advice. \"Ah, be nice, Claude!\" says I. \"Dance with the young lady. I would if I was you.\"", "words": 303}, {"story": 10, "title": "Rung in with the Gold Spooners", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And you can't guess how fussy a little remark like that gets Bobby boy. He almost swallows his cigarette from the jar he gets, being spoken to by a common cloakroom checker. First off he jumps up and stalks over to me real majestic and threatenin'. \"You--you----How dare you?\" he splutters out. \"There, there!\" says I. \"Don't get bristle-spined over it. I wa'n't offerin' any deadly insult, and if it makes you feel as bad as all that I'll take it back.\" \"I--I'll have you dismissed!\" he growls. \"Can't do it, Bobby,\" says I. \"I'm no reg'lar tip-chaser. I'm here incog.--doing it for a lark, y'know. Back to your corner, now! There's a lady present.\" He glares at me for a minute or so, and then turns on the queen in pink. \"I hope you're satisfied, Vee,\" says he. \"You would come in here, though! I can't help it if the attendants are insolent to you.\" \"Pooh!\" says Miss Vee. \"The young man was only taking my part.\" \"So?\" sneers Bobbie. \"I congratulate you on your new champion.\" \"He acts more like a gentleman than you do, at any rate!\" she fires back at him. \"Does he?\" says Bobby. \"Then why don't you get him for a partner?\" \"If you don't ask me for this next waltz, I will,\" says she, tossin' up her chin. \"What a bluff!\" says Bobby. \"Well, Miss Vee, I'm not going to ask you. Now!\" Say, it was gettin' more or less personal by that time, and I was wonderin' just how the young lady was goin' to back out of the proposition that had been put up to her, when the first thing I know she's marchin' straight over to where I was. \"Will you give me this next waltz?\" says she. \"Say,\" I gasps, \"do you mean it?\" \"Certainly I do,\" says she. \"You can dance, can't you?\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 10, "title": "Rung in with the Gold Spooners", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"I don't know,\" says I; \"but I can do an East Side spiel.\" \"Good!\" says she. \"I know how to do that too. Come on.\" \"In a minute,\" says I. \"Just hold on until I borrow the young gentleman's evenin' coat.\" \"Wha--what's that?\" snorts Bobby. \"You can be usin' mine for a smokin' jacket,\" says I. \"Peel it off now, and let the fancy vest come along too!\" \"I--I won't do it!\" says Bobbie. \"Oh, yes, you will,\" says I, \"or else you and me will be mixed up in a rumpus that'll bring the chaperons and special cops in here on the run,\" and with that I proceeds to shed the braided coat and my black vest. \"You're insulting!\" says Bobby, gettin' wild-eyed. \"G'wan!\" says I. \"It's a fair swap. I'll leave it to the young lady.\" And when I'd sized her up for a thoroughbred I hadn't made any wild guess. There's a twinkle under them long eyelashes that's as good as a go-ahead signal. \"Of course,\" says she. \"It was you who suggested him as a partner, anyway. And hurry, Bobby, there goes the waltz!\" \"I--I----\" he begins. \"Ah, shuck 'em!\" says I, startin' for him hasty. I expects it was the prospects of gettin' rung into a rough and tumble, and having to explain to mother, that changed Bobby's mind so sudden. At any rate, inside of a minute more I'm wearin' the pearl-gray waistcoat and the silk-faced tuxedo, and out I sails onto the shiny floor of the green and gold ballroom with somebody's pink-costumed heiress hangin' to my left arm. \"One-two-three; one-two-three----Now!\" says she, countin' out the time so I shouldn't make any false start.", "words": 281}, {"story": 10, "title": "Rung in with the Gold Spooners", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "But, say, I didn't need that. Course, I'm no cotillion leader, and about all the dancin' I ever done was at chowder parties or in the Coney Island halls; but who couldn't keep step to a tune like \"Yip-I-Addy\" played by a twelve-piece goulash orchestra, specially with such a crackerjack partner as Miss Vee was? Could we spiel together? Why, say, we just floats along over the waxed maple boards like a pair of summer butterflies, pivotin' first one way and then the other, dodgin' in and out among the couples, and givin' an exhibition that had any other performance on the floor lookin' like a cripples' parade. First it got into my heels, and then it goes to my head. I didn't know whether I was waltzin', or havin' a joy ride with some biplane shuffer. I wa'n't sayin' a word in the way of language; but Miss Vee keeps up a string of chatter and giggles that's enough for both. You'd thought to see us, I expect, that we was carryin' on a real, rapid-fire, smart-set dialogue, when all the while it was only her tellin' me how the diff'rent parties was actin' when they first spotted her on the floor with a ringer, and how the chaperons were squintin' at us through their lorgnettes, tryin' to make out who I was. And the greatest shock I ever had was when the music stopped and I fell about a mile down through rosy clouds. \"Wait!\" says Miss Vee, squeezin' my arm. \"There'll be an encore. My aunt's over there, and she's just wild; but it doesn't matter.\" \"You're a good sport,\" says I, joinin' in the hand-clappin' to jog the orchestra into givin' us a repeat.", "words": 288}, {"story": 10, "title": "Rung in with the Gold Spooners", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And just as they starts up the tune again I happens to glance up into the little visitors' balcony at the end of the ballroom. Who do you guess I sees watchin' us bug-eyed and open-mouthed? Why, Izzy Budheimer and Miss Tessie! See? They've broke away from the lady shirtwaisters durin' the supper hour so Izzy can give his new girl a glimpse of what a real swell dance is like. Maybe he planned on stoppin' in at the cloakroom too, and seein' if I was holdin' down the job proper. Anyway, I can't blame him for doin' the open-face act when he discovers me out on the floor with the belle of the ball. But all I has time to do is send him up the chilly stare, and away we go again into another one-two-three dream--me and Miss Vee. \"I don't care what becomes of me,\" she hums over my shoulder. \"Me either,\" says I. \"Silly boy!\" says she. \"What's your name?\" \"Just Torchy,\" says I, \"after my hair.\" \"I think curly red hair is cute,\" says she. \"I could go hoarse sayin' things like that about you,\" says I. Maybe it was lucky, too, that this second installment was short, or I might have gone clean mushy; for the way she could look at me out of them big gray eyes of hers was--well, it was the real thing in thrills. The wind-up came just as we gets around near the cloakroom door and we stops. \"It was awfully good of you,\" says she. \"Gee!\" says I. \"Why, I could wear out all my old shoes doin' that, and if ever you need----\" \"S-s-sh!\" says she. \"Here comes my aunt!\"", "words": 283}, {"story": 10, "title": "Rung in with the Gold Spooners", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Not waitin' for any further diagram of the situation, I makes a dash into the cloakroom, where I finds Izzy Budheimer gazin' puzzled at Bobby, who's sittin' tilted back in his shirt sleeves with the braided coat slung on the floor. \"Look here, Torchy!\" begins Izzy. \"What the----\" \"On the job, Izzy, if you want to save it!\" says I, wigglin' out of Master Bobby's expensive clothes and chuckin' 'em at him. \"But why--what----\" says Izzy, tryin' again. \"Don't stop to ask fool questions of a busy society man,\" says I; \"but jump into your uniform, get in your coop there, and prepare to put the timelock on your conversation works. In about a minute there'll be a delegation of old hens in here lookin' for a mysterious young gent with incendiary hair who has disappeared. Your cue is to look innocent and not know anything about it. See? If there's any explainin' to be done, let Bobby do it.\" \"Oh, I say!\" groans Bobby, jumpin' up, and by the time I've struck the bottom stair on my way out he's grabbed his overcoat and is beatin' it down to find his carriage. How Miss Vee squared it with Aunty is a puzzle I never expect to find out the answer to; but I'll risk her. She's a pink queen, she is, and after that one waltz with her I can look cold-eyed at a row of Tessie girls stretchin' from here to the Battery!", "words": 245}, {"story": 11, "title": "Landing on a Side Street", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It was a little matter between me and Mother Sykes that starts me off to hunt a new boardin' place. Lovely old girl, Mother Sykes is, one of the kind that calls everybody \"Deary\" and collects in advance every Saturday night. She's got one of them inquisitive landlady noses that looks like it was made for pryin' up trunk covers and pokin' into bureau drawers. That don't bother me any, though. It's only when I misses my swell outfit, the one Benny had built for me to wear at his weddin', that I gets sore. Course, she'd only borrowed it for Pa Sykes to wear on a Sunday afternoon call, him bein' a little runt of a gent, with watery eyes and a red nose, that never does anything on his own hook. And if he hadn't denied it so brassy I shouldn't have called him down so hard, right in the front hall with half the roomers listenin'. \"Dreamed it, eh, did I?\" says I. \"Well, listen here, Sykesy! Next time I has an optical illusion of you paradin' out in any of my uniform, there'll be doin's before the Sergeant!\" Then Mother Sykes rushes up from the kitchen and saves the fam'ly honor by throwin' an indignation fit. I don't know how long it lasted; but she was gettin' purple clear up under her false front when I slid out the door and left her at it. Next day I noticed the sign hung up; but I didn't know which sky parlor was vacant until I strolls in at five-fifteen Friday night and finds my things out in the hall and a new lodger in my room. \"Oh, well,\" says I, \"what's a sudden move now and then to a free lance like me?\"", "words": 296}, {"story": 11, "title": "Landing on a Side Street", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And as there ain't anybody in sight to register my fond farewells with, I gathers up my suitcase and laundry bag, chucks the latchkey on the stand in the front hall, and beats it. Not until I'm three blocks away does I remember that all the cash I've got in my clothes is three quarters and a dime, which comes of my listenin' to Mallory's advice about soakin' my roll away in a bloomin' savings bank. \"Looks like I'd spend the night in a Mills hotel,\" says I, \"unless I find Mallory and make a touch.\" It was chasin' him up that fetches me over on the West Side and through one of them nice, respectable, private-house blocks just below 14th-st. You know the kind, that begin at Fifth-ave. with a double-breasted old brownstone, and end at Sixth with a delicatessen shop. Well, I was moseyin' along quiet and peaceful, wonderin' how long since anything ever really happened in that partic'lar section, when all of a sudden I feels about a cupful of cold water strike me in the back of the neck. \"Wow!\" says I. \"Who's playin' me for a goat now?\" With that I turns and inspects the windows of the house I'd just passed, knowin' it must be some kid gettin' gay with the passersby. There's no signs of any cut-up concealed behind the lace curtains, though, and none of the sashes was raised. If it hadn't been for the way things had been comin' criss-cross at me, I suppose I'd wiped off my collar and gone along, lettin' it pass as a joke; but I wa'n't feelin' very mirthful just then. I'm ready to follow up anything in the trouble line; so I steps into the area, drops my baggage, shins up over the side of the front steps, and flattens myself against the off side of the vestibule door. Then I waits.", "words": 317}, {"story": 11, "title": "Landing on a Side Street", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It ain't more'n a minute before I hears the door openin' cautious, and all I has to do is shove my foot out and throw my weight against the knob. Somebody lets out a howl of surprise, and in another minute I'm inside, facin' a twelve-year-old kid armed with a green tin squirt gun. He's one of these aristocratic-lookin' youngsters, with silky light hair, big dark eyes, and a sulky mouth. Also he's had somethin' of a scare thrown into him by being caught so unexpected; but some of his nerve is still left. \"You--you get out of here!\" he snarls. \"Not until you've had a dose of what you handed me, sonny,\" says I. \"Give it up now, Reggie boy!\" \"I won't!\" says he. \"I--I'll have you thrown out!\" \"You will, eh?\" says I, makin' a rush for him. \"O-o-o-oh, Aunty, Aunty!\" he squeals, dashin' down the hall. Now, say, the way I was feelin' then, I'd have gone up against a whole fam'ly, big brothers included; so a little thing like a call for Aunty don't stop me at all. As he turns into the room on the left I'm only a jump behind, and all that fetches me up is when he does a dive behind an old lady in a big leather chair. She's a wide, heavy old party, with a dinky white cap on her white hair, and kind of a resigned, patient look on her face. Someway, she acts like she was more or less used to surprises like this; for she don't seem much excited. \"Why, Hadley!\" she remarks. \"Whatever is the matter now?\" \"He--he chased me into the house!\" whines Master Hadley from behind the chair. \"Did you?\" says the old girl. \"Sure,\" says I. \"He's too blamed fresh!\" \"There, there!\" says she. \"You mustn't speak that way of Hadley. He is only a little boy, you know.\" \"Yes'm,\" says I.", "words": 319}, {"story": 11, "title": "Landing on a Side Street", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"And he was only indulging in innocent play,\" she goes on. \"Come, Hadley, untie me now. Please, Hadley!\" Say, I hadn't noticed it before, but the old girl is roped solid, feet and arms, to the chair legs, and it's clear that when nobody was goin' by for little Hadley to shoot at he'd been usin' Aunty for a target. The damp spots on the wall behind the chair and one or two on her dress showed that. \"I won't, unless you'll call Maggie and have her throw him out!\" growls Hadley. \"Oh, come, Hadley, be a good boy!\" coaxes Aunty. \"Sha'n't!\" says Hadley. \"And next time I'll shoot ink at you.\" \"Now, Hadley!\" protests Aunty. \"Excuse me, lady,\" says I, \"but it looks to me like there was something comin' to Hadley that I ought to tend to. This ain't on my account, either, but yours. Now watch. Hi, freshy!\" and I makes another dash for him. Well, he knows the lay of the land better'n I do, and he's quick on the dodge, so we has a lively time of it for a couple of minutes, him throwin' chairs in my way and hurdlin' sofas, Aunty beggin' us to quit and callin' for Maggie, and me keepin' right on the job. But at last I got him cornered. He makes a desp'rate duck and tries to butt me; but I catches his head under my arm and down he goes on the rug. I'd just yanked the squirt gun out of his hand and was emptyin' it down the back of his neck, with him hollerin' blue murder, and Aunty strugglin' to get loose, when the front door opens and in walks a couple of ladies, one old and the other young.", "words": 294}, {"story": 11, "title": "Landing on a Side Street", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And, say, you talk about your excitin' tableaux! In about two shakes there's all kinds of excitement; for it seems one of the new arrivals is Hadley's mommer, and she proceeds to join the riot. \"Oh, my darling boy! My darling!\" she sings out. \"What is happening! He is being killed! Oh, he is being killed!\" \"G'wan!\" says I, gettin' up and exhibitin' the squirt gun. \"I was only handin' him some of the same sport he's been dealin' out to others. It'll do him good.\" \"You--you young scoundrel!\" says mommer. Then, turnin' to the old lady who came in with her, she gasps out, \"Zenobia, telephone for the police!\" It's the real thing, too, and no flossy bluff about the lady's grouch. She's a swell, haughty-lookin' party, and she acts like she was used to havin' her own way about things. So the prospects begin to look squally. Not that I'm one to curl up and shiver at sight of a cop. Give me plenty of room to do the hotfoot act, and I don't mind guyin' any of them pavement-pounders; but with me shut up in a house where I hadn't been invited in, and a bunch of excited females as witnesses against me, it's a diff'rent proposition. This was no time to weaken, though. \"Go ahead,\" says I. \"Double six-O-four-two Gramercy; that's the green light number for this district. And Uncle Patrick'll be glad to see you. Tell him you got charges to make on his nephew. That'll tickle him to death. Maybe I'll have something to say when we all get there, too.\" \"What do you mean?\" says Hadley's mother. \"Counter complaint, that's all,\" says I. \"Your little darling soaked me first.\" \"It--it isn't true!\" says she. \"I don't believe it!\"", "words": 295}, {"story": 11, "title": "Landing on a Side Street", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And here Zenobia comes in with the soothin' advice. She's another whitehaired old lady, lookin' something like the one in the chair, only not so bulky and with more ginger about her. \"Now, Sally,\" says she, \"let's not talk of calling in the police over a trifle. Hadley doesn't appear to be hurt, and possibly he was somewhat at fault.\" \"The idea!\" says Sally. \"Why, I saw this young ruffian pommeling him. And look! Martha is bound in her chair. He's a burglar!\" Oh, they had a great debate amongst 'em, Aunt Martha fin'lly admittin' it was just a little prank of Hadley's, her being roped down; but she was sure I had tried to murder him, just for nothing at all. Hadley says so too. In fact, he tells seven diff'rent yarns in as many minutes, each one makin' me out worse than the last. \"There!\" says his mother. \"Now, Zenobia, will you send for an officer?\" Nope, Zenobia wouldn't; anyway, not until she had more facts to go on. She don't deny that maybe I'm kind of a suspicious-lookin' character, and says it ain't been explained what I was doin' in there holdin' little Hadley on the rug; but she don't want to ring up the cops unless it's a clear case. \"You know, my dear,\" she winds up with, \"Hadley is quite apt to get into trouble.\" \"Zenobia Preble!\" snorts Sally, her eyes blazin'. \"And he your own flesh and blood! Come, precious, mother will take you home, and you shall never, never come to this house again!\" \"There, Sally,\" begins Zenobia, \"don't fly into a----\" \"When my husband's mother chooses to insult me in her own home,\" says Sally, \"I hope I have spirit enough to resent it!\"", "words": 292}, {"story": 11, "title": "Landing on a Side Street", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Say, she had that and some left over. Inside of two minutes she's hustled little Hadley into his things, and out they sails to her carriage, leavin' the makin's of a first-class fam'ly row all prepared. In the meantime Zenobia is tyin' Aunt Martha loose, and I'm standin' around waitin' to see what's goin' to happen to me next. Course, I expects the third degree; but she begins with Martha. \"Now what mischief was Hadley up to this time?\" she asks. And Martha sticks to it that it was nothing at all. He merely found that old plant-sprayer and discovered that by unscrewing the nozzle it made a fine squirt gun. To be sure, she had asked him not to use the water from the goldfish globe; but he just would. Also he'd insisted on locking all the servants downstairs, and when she tried to amuse him in other ways he'd tied her to the chair. But it was just Hadley's innocent fun. He hadn't harmed anyone, even if he did squirt a little water on the postman and a delivery boy. She had not minded it herself, and no one had been rude to him until I'd come chasing in and handled him so rough. That was an outrage, and Martha thought I ought to get a life sentence for it. \"Humph!\" says Zenobia, turnin' to me. \"Now, young man, what have you got to say?\" \"Ah, what's the use?\" says I. \"You've got the whole story now. I'd do the same again.\" \"Relying on the fact that your uncle is a police captain?\" says she. \"Nah,\" says I. \"That was hot air.\" \"There, Zenobia!\" says Martha. \"I told you he was a bad boy.\" \"Are you?\" says Zenobia. \"Well,\" says I, \"that all depends on how you size me up. I ain't in the crook class, nor I don't wear any Sunday-school medals, either.\"", "words": 316}, {"story": 11, "title": "Landing on a Side Street", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Who are you?\" says she. \"Why, just Torchy,\" says I. \"See--torch, Torchy,\" and I points to my sunset coiffure. \"But who are your parents?\" she goes on. \"Don't own any,\" says I. \"I'm a double orphan and rustlin' for myself.\" \"Where do you live?\" says she. \"Why,\" says I, \"I don't live anywhere just now. I'm movin'; but I don't know where to.\" \"I suppose that is either impudence or epigram,\" says she; \"but never mind. Perhaps you will tell me where you work?\" \"I don't work at all,\" says I. \"I'm head office boy for the Corrugated Trust, and it's a cinch job.\" \"Indeed!\" says she. \"The Corrugated Trust? Let me see, who is at the head of that concern?\" \"Say,\" says I, \"you don't mean you never heard of Old Hickory Ellins or Mr. Robert, do you?\" She kind of smiles at that; but dodges makin' any answer. \"Well,\" says I, \"do I get pinched, or just given the run? Either way, I've got some baggage down by the area door that ought to be looked after.\" \"Why, certainly, I will have it----\" then she stops and looks me over sort of shrewd. \"Suppose,\" she starts in again, \"you go and get it yourself?\" \"Sure!\" says I, and it ain't until I'm outside that I sees this is just her way of tryin' me out; for I has a fine chance to beat it. \"Nix!\" thinks I. \"I might as well see this thing through and get a decision.\" So back I goes with the suitcase and laundry bag. She hadn't even followed me to the door. \"Ah!\" says she, lookin' up. \"You weren't afraid to come back, then. Why?\" \"Oh, I guess it was because I banked on your givin' me a square deal,\" says I.", "words": 299}, {"story": 11, "title": "Landing on a Side Street", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "That gets a grin out of her. \"Thank you very much for the compliment,\" says she. \"I may say that the inquisition is over. However, I should like to have you remain a little longer, if you care to. Won't you leave your things in the hall there? Your hat and overcoat too.\" \"Zenobia,\" says Martha, wakin' up, \"surely you are not going to----\" \"Precisely,\" says Zenobia. \"I am going to ask him to stay for dinner with us. Will you?\" \"Yep!\" says I. \"I never let any free eats get by me.\" \"But,\" gasps Martha, \"you don't know who he is?\" \"Neither does he know us,\" says Zenobia. \"Torchy, I am Mrs. Zenobia Preble. This is my sister, Miss Martha Hadley. She is very good, I am very wicked, and we are both women of mature years. You will probably find our society rather dull; but the dinner is likely to be fairly good. Besides, I am feeling somewhat indebted to you.\" \"It's a go,\" says I, \"if I can have a chance to wash up first.\" \"Of course,\" says she. Then she gives me a key and directions how to find a certain door on the third floor. \"My son's quarters,\" she goes on, \"that I have kept just as he left them twenty years ago. I shall expect you to make yourself quite at home there.\" Do I? Why, say, it's a back joint such as you might dream about: two rooms and bath across the front of the house, guns and swords and such knickknacks on the walls, a desk, a lot of books, and even a bathrobe and slippers laid out. Say, while I was scrubbin' off some of the inkstains and smoothin' down my hair with the silver-backed brushes I felt like a young blood gettin' ready for a party.", "words": 306}, {"story": 11, "title": "Landing on a Side Street", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Then after awhile I strolls down to the lib'ry and makes myself to home some more. It's a comf'table place, with lots of big easy-chairs, nice pictures on the wall, and no end of bookshelves. The old ladies has cleared out, not even lockin' up any of the curios or sendin' a maid to watch me. And when it comes to the feed--why, say, it's a reg'lar course dinner, such as you'd put up a dollar for at any of these high-class table dotty ranches. Funny old china they had too, and a big silver coffeepot right on the table. The only bad break I makes is just at the start, when I dives into the soup without noticin' that Aunt Martha has her head down and is mumblin' something about bein' thankful. \"Never mind,\" says Mrs. Preble. \"We aren't included in this, anyway.\" That begins the talk. I ain't put through the wringer, you understand, but just follows Zenobia while she goes from one thing to another, givin' her opinions of 'em and now and then callin' for mine. We got real chatty too, and once in awhile she stops to laugh real hearty, though I couldn't see where I'd got off any crack at all. Near as I can make out, Zenobia is a lively old girl for her age. She's seen all the best Broadway shows, knows what's goin' on in town, and reads the papers reg'lar. Also it comes out that she don't follow the kind of programme you generally look for antiques to stick to. She ain't got any use for churches, charity institutions, society, or the suffragettes. All of which seems to shock Sister Martha, who don't say much, but only shudders now and then.", "words": 291}, {"story": 11, "title": "Landing on a Side Street", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"You see, Torchy,\" says Zenobia, droppin' two lumps into her demitasse, \"I am an unbeliever. I don't even believe in growing old. When I hear of other persons who have come to disbelieve in established things, no matter what, I send for them and find out all about it across the dinner table. We discuss art, religion, politics, goodness knows what. We denounce things, from the existing social order, to the tariff on stockings. My sister, who believes in everything as it is, usually takes a nap and snores.\" \"Zenobia!\" says Martha. \"Oh, not in a disturbing way,\" says Zenobia. \"And I'm sure I almost do the same whenever your friend the rector is here. Torchy, have you ever been talked to about your soul?\" \"Once when I drifted into a mission a guy sprung that on me,\" says I. \"Yes?\" says Zenobia. \"What then?\" \"I told him to go chase himself,\" says I. Hearty chuckles from Zenobia, while Sister Martha turns pale and gasps. Next thing I know I'm tellin' Mrs. Preble about my fallin' out with Mother Sykes, and how I guess I'd better be pikin' up to engage a thirty-cent room until I can draw on my reserve and locate a new boardin' place. And, say, what do you guess that conversation leads up to? Well, it struck me all in a heap at the time, though I didn't let on; but I couldn't figure out the answer until I'd had a talk with Mr. Robert next day. \"Say, Mr. Robert,\" says I. \"You don't happen to know an old party by the name of Zenobia Preble, do you?\" \"I do,\" says he. \"It isn't exactly an accident, either. She is a cousin of my father.\" \"Gee!\" says I. \"Cousin to the old--to the boss! Wh-e-ew!\"", "words": 299}, {"story": 11, "title": "Landing on a Side Street", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Rather an original old lady, Zenobia,\" says Mr. Robert. \"And I understand, from a talk I had with her over the 'phone early last evening, that she was arbitrating the case of a young man who was in some danger of arrest in her home. How did it come out, Torchy?\" \"Ah, say, you're on, ain't you?\" says I. \"Well, it was a verdict for the defense, because I promised to do it again if I ever got the chance.\" Mr. Robert grins. \"That grandson of hers is certainly a holy terror,\" says he. \"You and Zenobia parted friends, then?\" \"Not yet,\" says I. \"We ain't parted at all. I'm stayin' as a trial boarder.\" \"What!\" says he, sittin' up. \"Oh, I see. An experiment in practical sociology, eh?\" \"Maybe that's it,\" says I. \"Anyway, it depends on whether or not I can stand Aunt Martha.\" And when I leaves Mr. Robert he still has his mouth open.", "words": 158}, {"story": 12, "title": "First Aid for the Main Stem", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Well, I ain't been adopted yet; but it's the next thing to it. Me and Zenobia are gettin' to understand each other better every day. And, say, for a ripe old party, she's younger in her mind than lots of folks I know who ain't lived half so long. Maybe she did do her first travelin' up and down Broadway in a horse stage; but that ain't the way she wants to cover the ground now. What do you think she springs at the dinner table the other night? Says she's goin' to the next aviation meet and hire some one to take her up for an aeroplane ride. \"Why, Zenobia!\" says Sister Martha, so shocked her white frizzes almost stand up and wiggle. That's Martha's cue, all right. She don't seem to get used to Zenobia's ways, although they've been livin' together all these years. A genuine, consistent antique, Sister Martha is, who still likes to talk about the time when Horace Greeley ran for President. Accordin' to her conversation the last real sensation that came her way was when she went over to Brooklyn and heard Henry Ward Beecher preach. But even Martha ain't no worse when you get to know her. She's a harmless, well meanin' old soul, and I'm 'most beginnin' to believe she's pretty near as pious as she thinks she is. Anyway, it ain't any Sunday pose with her. She lugs her religion right through the week, holidays and all, and spreads it around even. I got it straight from Zenobia that Martha's even begun ringin' me into her goodnight prayers, along with the cook and the President.", "words": 274}, {"story": 12, "title": "First Aid for the Main Stem", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Also Martha has started in on what she calls my moral trainin', which she dopes out as havin' been neglected somethin' shameful. Whenever Zenobia ain't around to interrupt, I get a Jonah story, or a Sampson and Delilah hair cuttin' yarn pumped into me, and if there ain't any cogs missin' in her scheme I ought to be buddin' a soul before long. \"Torchy,\" says she real solemn the other night, \"I hope you do not use profane language. Do you?\" \"Well,\" says I, \"when I was on the Sunday editor's door I did used to think I could put over a few gingery ones; but since I've been with the Corrugated Trust I've kind of got out of practice.\" \"Ah!\" says she, beamin'. \"That is good, very good! Your associations are better; is that it?\" \"Mainly it's on account of Mr. Ellins,\" says I. \"Maybe you never happened to hear him; but, say, you ought to be there some mornin' when he limps in with the gout in both feet and a hang-over grouch from the day before! Cuss! Why, after listenin' to him grow real enthusiastic once, I got discouraged. What's the use? thinks I.\" Well, someway that gives Martha an awful jolt; for maybe you remember my tellin' how it turns out that her and Zenobia are second cousins to Old Hickory. She says how she's pained and mortified beyond words to learn that Mr. Ellins should allow his employees to hear him use such language. \"Ah, that's all right,\" says I. \"As long as it ain't fired at 'em, nobody feels bad. Mostly they grins, except now and then a new lady typewriter who squirms and turns pale. He don't whisper when he's cussin', Mr. Ellins don't.\" \"Shocking!\" says Sister Martha. \"Does--does he do this often?\"", "words": 300}, {"story": 12, "title": "First Aid for the Main Stem", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"It all depends on how he's feelin',\" says I; \"but for the past week or ten days he's been at it pretty reg'lar. I expect he's been havin' a worse siege than usual.\" Oh, me and Martha had a real heart to heart talk that night, and when I fin'lly goes up to my top floor suite I leaves her fannin' herself and gaspin' for breath. But she'd asked for facts, and I'd handed 'em over. How was I to guess what was goin' to be the follow up on that? Not expectin' anything more'n instructions about some errand or other, I ain't any disturbed when Piddie comes up to the gate desk right after lunch next day, lookin' as stern and solemn as if he'd been sent to read a warrant. \"Boy,\" says he, \"Mr. Ellins, senior, wishes to see you in his private office!\" \"Well, that ain't surprisin', is it, Piddie?\" says I. \"You don't suppose we can talk over big affairs like ours out here, do you? Keep your ear off the keyhole, too!\" And with that I goes in chipper and cheerful. The minute I gets through the last door, though, I feels the frost in the air. Mr. Ellins, he lets me wait long enough for the chill to strike in, while he signs a basketful of letters. Then he swings around in his swivel chair and proceeds to size me up through them gunmetal gray eyes of his. Say, it was like standin' in front of a searchlight and under a cold shower, all at once. \"So, young man!\" says he. \"You have been hearing me swear, eh?\" That's enough for me. Just from that I can sketch the whole plot. And it don't take me a month to figure out the line of talk I'm goin' to use. What's the sense in playin' for time when your blue ticket's all made out.", "words": 319}, {"story": 12, "title": "First Aid for the Main Stem", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Heard you?\" says I. \"Think I wear my ears full of putty?\" \"Huh!\" he grunts. \"And do I understand that you disapprove of my profanity?\" \"Ah, who's been fillin' you up?\" says I. \"Why, you're an artist at it.\" \"Thanks,\" says he. \"And I suppose you felt it your duty to inform my relatives of the fact? Very thoughtful of you, I'm sure.\" \"Don't mention it,\" says I. \"You--you're an impertinent young whelp!\" says he, his cheeks gettin' purple and puffy. \"Ah, don't mind the frills,\" says I. \"Get out the can. I'm fired, ain't I?\" \"No!\" he shouts, bangin' his fist down on the desk. \"At least, not until I get through with you. What I want to know is why in blue belted blazes you did it!\" \"Well,\" says I, \"first off I guess it just naturally slipped out; then, when I saw what a hit I was makin' with Martha--why, I expect I sort of enjoyed givin' her the details.\" Somehow, that seems to graze his funnybone, and he has a struggle to keep a grin out of his mouth corners. \"Humph!\" says he. \"I--I'd like to have seen her then. So you went on to describe the general state of my health, did you?\" \"It was you we was chattin' about,\" says I. \"Fascinating topic, I've no doubt,\" he growls; \"but I hardly appreciate the attention. Understand?\" \"That's breakin' on me gradual,\" says I. \"Fortunately for you, though,\" he goes on, \"you didn't attempt to lie out of it. By the way, why didn't you?\" \"And her just after givin' you the whole game over the 'phone?\" says I. \"Ah, say!\"", "words": 275}, {"story": 12, "title": "First Aid for the Main Stem", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Young man,\" says he, shootin' over the quizzin' gaze, \"either you are too blickety blinked fresh to keep, or else you're too keen to lose; hanged if I know which! But--er--well, I'll take a chance. You may go out and report to Mr. Piddie for duty.\" \"It'll near break his heart,\" says I. It does, too. I expect from what he'd heard in the private office that he was figurin' on handin' me my hat as I was shot out and remarkin' that he knew all along it was comin' to me. Then there'd be a rollcall of new office boys, with him pickin' out one more to his taste than me. But no such luck for him. \"Cheer up, Piddie,\" says I. \"I'll have the warden send you an invitation when they fin'lly get me right.\" Course, I don't make any squeal at the house about my narrow escape; for I knew Martha only meant it for the best. Next day Mr. Ellins don't show up at the office at all, and that evenin' Martha is better posted on his condition than I am. She's been busy on the wire again, this time locatin' him at home. \"My poor cousin,\" says she, \"is in a wretched state. He has been overworking, I fear, and seems to be a nervous wreck. That will account, I have no doubt, for his recent lapses into profanity. He feels rather ashamed of himself; but perhaps I should make allowances. What he needs is rest and quiet. Luckily, I happened to know just the place for him and was able to persuade him to go there at once. He started this afternoon.\"", "words": 278}, {"story": 12, "title": "First Aid for the Main Stem", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It's called the Wesley Restorium, Martha says, and is run by an old friend of hers who used to be a missionary doctor in China. He's an awfully good man, and she's sure he'll help Mr. Ellins a lot. Besides, his place is only about fifty miles off, over in North Jersey; so Mr. Ellins could make the run easy in his limousine. Well, that leaves only Mr. Robert, Piddie, and me to manage the Corrugated, and we was all bearin' up under the load well enough except Piddie; when along about two o'clock there's a long distance call from the Main Stem, and a few minutes later Mr. Robert sends out for me. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"you seem to be elected. The governor wants you.\" \"Me?\" says I. \"Yes,\" says Mr. Robert. \"I don't exactly understand why. He is at a sanatorium, you know, and we had arranged to send up his private secretary with the important mail this afternoon; but he says he wants you. Says you're responsible for his being there--whatever that means.\" \"I'm on,\" says I. \"When do I start?\" There's a train at three-thirty-four; so that gives me time to chase around to the house after a grip, then back to the office to gather up a bundle of late letters, and pike for Jersey City. And at that it's five o'clock before I'm landed at a little flag station umpteen miles beyond nowhere. My! but the north end of Jersey has some up and down to it, though! From what I'd heard I thought the State was all meadows; but here I am carted in a four-horse bus up the side of a hill that's twice as tall as the Metropolitan tower.", "words": 288}, {"story": 12, "title": "First Aid for the Main Stem", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Say, I never saw so much country spread out all at once before--nothing but hills and trees, and no signs of houses anywhere. Made me so blamed lonesome lookin' at it that I had to shut my eyes for a spell. And when we gets to the top there's a big shack like a new set of car barns, with hundreds of windows, and big wide veranda all around. It looks as homy and cheerful as the Art Museum. The lawn is full of rocks and stumps, and the few little flowerbeds that have been laid out looked lost and homesick. Pacin' up and down the verandas, like animals in a cage, was about fifty people, and over at one end, all by himself, looms up Old Hickory, lookin' big and ugly and disgusted with life. \"Well!\" he growls. \"So you got here, eh? Hope you like it as well as I do. Bring that mail inside.\" While he's more or less grouchy, he don't act any more like a nervous wreck than usual. I take it that he was some tired when he got up here night before; but that he cut out dinner and turned in for a good twelve-hour snooze instead. Then he's had a quiet day, and I judge he was a lot better already. He's just got well into his letters, when an attendant guy in a white duck uniform steps in and taps him on the shoulder. \"Well?\" says Old Hickory. \"Vesper service is beginning in the chapel, sir,\" says the gent. \"Let it begin, then,\" says Mr. Ellins. \"But,\" says the gent, \"it is usual for guests to----\" \"It isn't for me!\" snaps Mr. Ellins. \"You get out!\" And the gent got out.", "words": 290}, {"story": 12, "title": "First Aid for the Main Stem", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "We could hear 'em singin' hymns and so on for half an hour; but Mr. Ellins keeps right on goin' through his mail and makin' notes on the envelops until six o'clock, when a big gong rings. \"Thank heaven! Dinner!\" says he. \"Come on, Torchy; I'm hungry enough to eat a bale of hay!\" Then he's hardly got into his chair in the dinin' room before he's snapping his fingers for a waiter. \"Hey!\" he sings out. \"Bring me a dry Martini right away, and a pint of Chateau Yquem with the fish.\" \"Excuse me,\" says the waiter, \"but there isn't anything like that on the bill of fare. If it's something to drink you want, you can order buttermilk, which is extra.\" \"Buttermilk!\" snorts Old Hickory. \"Say, where's the proprietor? Send him over here!\" He didn't have to call him twice; for the boss of the Restorium had heard the row and was glidin' our way as fast as his rubber heels would let him. He's a short legged, pop eyed, red faced party, wearin' cute white side whiskers, a black Prince Albert, and a minister's necktie. \"Gently, gently,\" says he, pattin' the air with his hands and puckering his mouth. \"Remember to speak softly in the dining room.\" \"All right, Doc,\" says Mr. Ellins; \"but I want a cocktail.\" \"Tut, tut, brother!\" says the Doc, liftin' a warnin' finger and raisin' his eyebrows. \"No intoxicating liquors served here, you know. Now a glass of nice buttermilk is just what----\" \"Bah! Buttermilk!\" snorts Hickory. \"Think I come from a dairy?\"", "words": 261}, {"story": 12, "title": "First Aid for the Main Stem", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "The Doc does his best to soothe him down and fin'lly persuades him to tackle his mutton broth without the Martini. It's a good enough feed; but kind of plain, about what you'd get in one of these Eighth-ave. joints, four courses for thirty-five cents. Mr. Ellins gets left again when he calls for a demitasse after the tapioca pudding. Nothing doing in the coffee line. \"Huh!\" he grunts. \"I suppose I may smoke, eh?\" \"On the north veranda, from seven until eight-fifteen,\" says the waiter. \"Well, I'll be--blistered!\" says Old Hickory. While he's burnin' a couple of black perfectos out on the smoke reservation, I roams around the Restorium. It's furnished neat and simple, with lots of varnished woodwork and a few framed railroad photos on the walls. In the parlor was four or five groups of women in rockin' chairs, talkin' low and doin' fancy-work. Most of the men were tiptoein' up and down the veranda. They was a stoop shouldered, dyspeptic lookin' lot. Down in the basement in a place labeled \"Recreation Room,\" a couple of checker games was in progress, and four gents was shovin' weights up and down the shuffleboard. Yes, it was a perfectly good place to be quiet in. I could guess why Hickory Ellins had begun to show signs of bein' restless. By eight o'clock he comes marchin' in and up to the office desk. \"Where's the billiard room?\" says he. \"There is no billiard room, brother,\" says the Doc, steppin' to the front. \"Here we have eliminated all of those things that might disturb our beautiful peace and quiet.\" \"Have, eh?\" grunts Hickory. \"Then where can I find three others to make up a bridge game?\" \"Card playing,\" says the Doc, putting his thumb and forefingers together, \"is not allowed in the Restorium.\"", "words": 302}, {"story": 12, "title": "First Aid for the Main Stem", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Sorrowing sisters by the sea!\" remarks Mr. Ellins. \"No billiards! No cards! Say, what the merry Mithridates do you think I'm going to do with myself from now until twelve o'clock, eh?\" \"By referring to the rules of this establishment, Mr. Ellins,\" says the Doc, speakin' cold and reprovin', \"you will see that the general retiring hour is fixed at nine-thirty. At nine-forty-five the gas is all turned off.\" \"What!\" roars Hickory. \"Think you're going to put me to bed at nine-thirty?\" \"You are at liberty to sit up in the dark, if you choose,\" the Doc comes back at him. \"Any guest who is dissatisfied with the manner in which the Restorium is conducted has the option of leaving.\" \"Well, say!\" says Mr. Ellins, thumpin' the desk earnest, \"I am dissatisfied! Buttermilk and vesper services! Huh! Do you suppose I've paid two weeks in advance for such a dose? Where's your 'phone?\" With that he calls up New York, gets his chauffeur on the wire, and orders him to have the car here first thing in the morning, even if he has to start before light. \"And what is more,\" says Mr. Ellins, walkin' back to the Doc, \"I propose to buy the rest of this hill and open a real live hotel as close to your place as I can put it. There'll be something going on in it all the time, if I have to make everything free, and you can bet your last dollar the wine list will have something besides buttermilk on it! There'll be billiard tables, bowling alleys, a dance hall, and a brass band playing all night. I'll fix your beautiful peace and quiet for you!\" The Doc, he smiles a kind of sanctified smile and points to the clock. \"In just forty-five minutes,\" says he, \"the lights go out.\"", "words": 307}, {"story": 12, "title": "First Aid for the Main Stem", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "That's all the satisfaction Mr. Ellins gets, too; so he takes me in tow and we beat it 'steen times around the verandas, him stating his opinions of restoriums in general, Cousin Martha in partic'lar, and now and then shootin' a sarcastic remark at me. But when he sees the other victims begin sneakin' off one by one he growls out: \"Well, son, I suppose they'll be locking us out if we don't follow suit. Get the keys to our rooms.\" First off I thought I could have a great snooze; but it's such a blamed quiet place that I found myself wide awake, with my ear strained to see if I couldn't hear something. After an hour or so of that, I gets up and sits by the open window; but as there ain't any moon or any street lights, it's like starin' down a coalhole. I was wondering if the country was always as black as that at night, and what would happen to anyone that strayed out into it, when all of a sudden I hears a window raised, and way down in the basement under the dining room I sees a bright light shinin' out. \"Hello!\" thinks I. \"Some of the help must be bustin' the rules and regulations.\" By leanin' out and rubberin' I could look down into the room. And, say, the shock almost tumbled me out. For there's the Doc sittin' in his shirtsleeves with four other gents around a green topped table decorated with stacks of chips. The Doc is just dealin', and before the shade is pulled down again I had time to see him reach under the lower deck and haul up a decanter that might have been full of cold tea.", "words": 292}, {"story": 12, "title": "First Aid for the Main Stem", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Well, say, I don't do a thing but hustle into my clothes and chase down the corridor to Mr. Ellins' room. Is he int'rested in the tale? He's all of that. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"if you can lead me down to that game, I--I'll forgive you. Perhaps I'll do better than that.\" I used up half a box of matches findin' the way; but at last we located the light comin' through the transom. \"Good work!\" he whispers. \"Now you go back to bed and enjoy a long night's rest.\" Sure I did--not. I wouldn't have missed hearin' that exchange of happy greetin's for a farm. And the way the Doc chokes up and splutters tryin' to explain things was somethin' lovely. He was gettin' himself as twisted as a pretzel, when Old Hickory breaks in. \"That's all right, Doc,\" says he. \"Innocent little relaxation. I understand perfectly. Now, what's the ante?\" Well, after that the conversation wasn't so excitin'; nothing but, \"I'll take three cards,\" or \"Raise you two more blues.\" So I sneaks back and falls into the hay once more. At breakfast Mr. Ellins shows up more smilin' and chipper than I'd ever seen him anywhere before. He puts away three soft boiled eggs, a couple of lamb chops, and two cups of coffee made special for him. The Doc he follows us out to the limousine. \"Sorry to have you go so soon, Mr. Ellins,\" says he, rubbin' one hand over the other, \"very sorry indeed, sir. And--er--about those memoranda from my assistants. I will see that they are redeemed, you know.\" \"Those I O U's?\" says Mr. Ellins. \"Oh, you tell the boys I tore 'em up. Yours, too, Doctor. I had my fun out of the game. So long.\" And for the next four miles Old Hickory don't do much but gaze out on the landscape and chuckle.", "words": 314}, {"story": 13, "title": "In on the Oolong", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Course it was a cinch; but Piddie ain't got done wonderin' yet how I did it. I can tell that by the puzzled way he has of lookin' me over when he thinks I ain't noticin'. You see, we'd been havin' a quiet week at the Corrugated. This fine spell of weather has braced Old Hickory up until he almost forgets how he's cast himself for the great grouch collector. Things must have been runnin' smooth, too; for he can even read about the Return from Elba plans without chuckin' the mornin' paper into the waste basket and gettin' purple behind the ears. Then, all of a sudden here the other afternoon, Piddie comes trottin' out of the private office all flustered up and begins pawin' excited through the big bond safe. He's hardly got started at that before there comes three rings on the buzzer for him, and he trots back to see what the old man wants now. Next there are hurry calls for the general auditor and the head of the contract department, and before Mr. Ellins gets through he's had every chief in the shop up on the carpet and put 'em through the third degree. Way out by my gate I could hear him layin' down the law to 'em, and they comes out lookin' wild and worried. Which don't get me excited any at all. I worked in the newspaper office too long and saw too many Sunday editions go to press for that. So when I hears him yell for me I don't jump over the desk and get goose flesh up the back. I keeps right on snappin' rubber bands at the spring water bottle until he's shouted a couple more times. Then I winks at the row of lady typists and strolls in, calm and easy. \"Yes, sir?\" says I.", "words": 309}, {"story": 13, "title": "In on the Oolong", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"See here, boy!\" says he. \"Do you happen by any chance to know where that son of mine might be found at this moment?\" \"Mr. Robert?\" says I. \"Nix.\" \"No, of course you don't!\" says Old Hickory, glarin' at me. \"No one around this precious asylum for undeveloped cerebellums seems to know anything they ought to. Bah!\" \"Yes, sir,\" says I. \"Don't grin at me that way!\" he snaps. \"Get out! No, stay where you are! If you don't know where Robert is, where do you think he might be found?\" \"Tried any of his clubs?\" says I. He had, all of 'em. Also he'd had him paged through four hotel grill rooms and called up three brokers' offices. \"Well, if he ain't havin' a late lunch, or playin' billiards, or watchin' the stock board, I give it up,\" says I. \"Maybe you've noticed that Mr. Robert ain't been in many afternoons lately.\" \"Huh! Perhaps I haven't, though!\" grunts Old Hickory. \"But this time it is important that he should be here. Young man, you seem to have less wool on your wits than most of the office force; so I am going to confide to you that unless we find Robert before four-thirty o'clock this afternoon the Corrugated Trust Company will lose a lot of money.\" \"Oh, if it's a case of savin' the next dividend,\" says I, \"I'll take another think. I expect you asked for him at the house?\" \"He was there at one-fifteen and left twenty minutes later,\" says Mr. Ellins. \"Yes; but what kind of clothes was he wearin'?\" says I. \"Clothes!\" snorts out Old Hickory. \"What the blithering----\"", "words": 274}, {"story": 13, "title": "In on the Oolong", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Lemme ask his man,\" says I, grabbin' the desk 'phone. \"Plaza--yes, Plaza, double O double three sixty-one. Sure! You got it. Say, Mr. Ellins, that butler of yours don't burn the carpet movin' fast, does he? He must----Hello! I want to talk to Walters. Ah, never mind who I am, switch him on!\" And inside of two minutes I have the report. \"Frock coat and silk lid,\" says I. \"See? Society date.\" \"Huh!\" says the old man. \"That settles it. He's tagging around after that young lady violinist again. Might have guessed; for since she's come back from Paris he has taken about as much interest in business as a cat does in astronomy. But to-morrow morning we'll----\" \"Say,\" I breaks in, \"if it's a case of young lady, why not locate her and then scout for Mr. Robert in the neighborhood? That ought to be easy.\" \"Think so?\" says he. \"Well, young man, you have my permission to tackle the job. Her name is Inez Webster. I don't know where she lives, or with whom she's staying; but she's somewhere in New York. Now, how will you begin?\" \"By rubberin' at Mr. Robert's date pad,\" says I. \"Good!\" says Old Hickory. \"No one else thought of that,\" and he leads the way in and unlocks Mr. Robert's rolltop. \"Now what do those scratches mean?\" \"I. W. 2:15,\" says I, readin' it off. \"The arrow points to Inez. He must be with her now.\" \"Wherever that is!\" growls Mr. Ellins. \"Go on.\" \"Say, lemme think a minute,\" says I, slippin' into the swing chair and doin' the Sherlock gaze at the desk. \"Oh, certainly!\" says he, snappy and sarcastic. \"Take a nap over it! Plenty of time!\" and with that he pads back into his office and slams the door.", "words": 300}, {"story": 13, "title": "In on the Oolong", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Now I didn't like pawin' through the pigeon-holes or drawers; but when I happens to glance at the waste basket I feels more at home. In a jiffy I has it dumped on the rug. There was an empty cigarette box, the usual collection of circulars, a dozen torn business letters, and so on. It looked like a hopeless hunt, too, until I runs across this invitation card announcin' that the Misses Pulsifer will be at home from two-fifteen until five-thirty. There's a Fort Washington Road address, and down in one corner it says \"music.\" Also to-day's the day. \"Whoop!\" says I, stowin' away the card. \"Me for the Misses Pulsifers' on a long shot. Hey, Mr. Ellins!\" I shouts, stickin' my head in the door. \"Can I draw two bones for expense money? I'm on the trail.\" \"The blazes you are!\" says he. \"Yep,\" says I. \"Mebbe it's a false scent; but if I find him what's the message?\" \"Just ask Robert,\" says he, \"if it has occurred to him that those P. K. & Q. contract copies have got to be filed with the bonding company this afternoon. That's all.\" \"Right!\" says I. \"P. K. & Q. contracts. I'm off.\" Ever get as far up into the northwest corner of the island as Fort Washington Road? Then you know how many blocks it is from the nearest subway station. Not havin' time for a half-hour stroll, I takes a Broadway express, jumps it at 157th, hunts up a taxi, and turns down the red flag. \"Now don't try zigzaggin' around to roll up mileage,\" says I to the shuffer; \"but beat it straight there.\"", "words": 276}, {"story": 13, "title": "In on the Oolong", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Some swell places up in that neck of Manhattan, what? Why, some of them folks has so much back yard they keep their own cow. When we rolls in through a pair of big stone gates I begin to suspect that the Misses Pulsifers was lady plutes for fair, and the size of the house had me stunned. \"I'm swell lookin' front door comp'ny, I am,\" thinks I, handin' over a dollar thirty to the taxi pirate and paradin' in across the red carpet. \"Now what is it I tell the butler when he pushes out his tray?\" All the guard they has on the door, though, is a French maid, and when she starts to look me over suspicious I shoves the invitation card at her. \"Say, Marie,\" says I, \"where's the doin's?\" \"Pardon?\" says she. \"What you wish?\" \"Ah, where do they keep the music?\" says I. \"Ze musicale?\" says she. \"It is commence. S-s-s-sh!\" and she points down the hallway. \"Yes, I was afraid I'd be late,\" says I. \"Glad they didn't wait. I'll sneak into a back seat.\" Did I? Well, say, I didn't know what I was runnin' into; for as I pushes through some draperies I finds myself on the side lines of the biggest herd of girls I ever saw collected in one room before. Why, there was rows and rows of 'em, all in white dresses, and the minute I steps in about two hundred pairs of eyes revolves my way. Talk about jumpin' into the limelight! I felt like I'd wandered out on the stage while the big scene was goin' on. Then comes the giggles, and business with the elbows of passin' the nudge along. They all forgets what's doin' up on the platform by the piano and pays strict attention to me. Blush? Say, I'll bet my ears ain't got back their reg'lar color yet!", "words": 316}, {"story": 13, "title": "In on the Oolong", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Seemed like my feet was stuck to the floor, too. Maybe it was an hour I stood there, and maybe it was only a minute; but at last I takes one wild look around over that girl convention and then I backs out. I'd seen him, though. Way over by an open window on the other side was Mr. Robert, one of the four men in that whole crowd. So out the front door I rushes and then tiptoes around the veranda until I came to him. And he wa'n't gazin' around watchin' for casual butters-in. Not Mr. Robert! All he's seein' is the slim young lady standin' up on the platform with the violin tucked under her chin. You couldn't blame him much, either; for, while I ain't any judge of the sort of music she was teasin' out of the strings, I'll say this much: The way she was doin' it was well worth watchin'. The swing of that elbow of hers, and the Isadora Duncan sway of her shoulders as she hits the high notes sure did have some class to it. He's so busy followin' her motions that he don't even know when I leans in within six inches of him and whispers. So I has to give him the gentle prod. \"Eh!\" says he, whirlin' around. \"Why, what the--Torchy!\" \"Uh-huh,\" says I. \"Crawl out backwards, can't you?\" \"Wha--what's that!\" says he, whisperin' sort of husky. \"You got to do it,\" says I. \"I was sent up special to get you.\" \"Why, what's the matter?\" says he. \"P. K. & Q. contracts,\" says I. \"Did you file 'em yet?\" \"By Jove, no!\" he groans under his breath. \"I--I forgot.\" \"Then it's a case of beat it,\" says I. \"But--but I can't!\" says Mr. Robert. \"I can't possibly leave now, right in the middle of----\"", "words": 308}, {"story": 13, "title": "In on the Oolong", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"That's so,\" says I. \"She's lookin' this way now. But where'd you stow the contracts? Remember that, do you?\" \"Why, of course,\" says he. \"Third left hand drawer of my desk, in a document box.\" \"'S enough!\" says I. \"I'll 'phone down and tell 'em. They'll fix it up. Don't move; she's lookin' your way again.\" \"Wait!\" says he, behind his hand. \"I must see you before you go back, after the concert is over. Wait for me in the garden.\" \"In the garden, Maud, it is,\" says I, and with that I slides back to the front entrance and gets Marie to lead me to the 'phone booth. Well, I'd got the joint all sized up now. It's one of these swell boardin' schools for girls, where they take piano lessons and are exposed to French and the German measles. And, now my knees has quit wabblin' and I was safe out of the hall, I was almost glad I'd come up and give the young ladies such a treat. I couldn't help admirin' Mr. Robert's nerve, though; for he must have known what he was lettin' himself in for when he follows Inez up there. But when they get it that bad there's no tellin' how reckless they'll be.", "words": 211}, {"story": 13, "title": "In on the Oolong", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "If it had been all the same to Mr. Robert, my next move would have been to get away from the spot as quick as my feet would let me; but so long as he'd assigned me a waiting part that's what it had to be. With Marie's help I finds the garden out at the back of the house and makes myself comf'table on a rustic seat. It's a flossy garden scene, all right, with winding paths, and flowerbeds, and cute little summer houses, and all sorts of bushes in bloom. Now and then I could hear music driftin' out, and when a piece was through the hand clappin' would commence, like a shower on a tin roof. Say, it had sittin' behind the brass rail in the office beat to a froth, and I was enjoyin' it, lazy and comf'table, with my feet up on the bench and my head back; when all at once there's a big spasm of applause, the doors openin' on the back veranda are swung open, everybody starts chatterin' together, there's a swish and a rustle and a clatter of high heels; and the next thing I knew the whole blamed garden was full of 'em. Girls! Say, all the fifty-seven varieties was represented,--tall ones, short ones, thin ones, plump ones, and plain fatties. There was aristocratic brunettes, and dimpled blondes, and every shade between. They ranged from fourteen up, and they sported all kinds of hair dressin', from double pleated braids to the latest thing in turban swirls. And there was little Willie, hemmed in by a twelve-foot wall on three sides and solid squads of girls on the fourth!", "words": 278}, {"story": 13, "title": "In on the Oolong", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "First they began sailin' by in groups of twos and threes and fours, all givin' me the goo-goo stare and snickerin'. Honest, you'd thought I was some kind of a humorous curiosity, specially exhibited for the occasion. Ain't they the limit, though? And the whispered remarks they passed! \"Why, Madge! Aren't you just killing! Whose brother did you say you thought----Yes, and so curly, too!\" I try to forget that red thatch of mine most of the time; but this was no place to practice bein' absent minded. It didn't seem to make any diff'rence whether I put my hat on or left it off, they were wise to the ruddy hair. All I could do was to squeeze myself into one corner of the seat and pretend not to notice 'em. What I wanted most was to stand up and holler for Mr. Robert. Why in blazes didn't he show up, anyway? I'd been enjoyin' this gen'ral inspection stunt for four or five minutes, when maids begun circulatin' among the mob with trays of sandwiches and plates of chicken salad, and every last one of 'em stopped at my station. \"No, thanks,\" says I. Think I wanted to give a food destroyin' performance before an audience like that? I was just wavin' away the fourth offer of picnic grub when I hears a little squeal come from a bunch of new recruits, and when I looks up to see what's happening now--well, you'd never guess. It's Miss Vee! You know, the pink and white queen I was tellin' you about meetin' at the swell dancin' class where I subbed for Izzie in the cloakroom and was invited out to join the merry throng.", "words": 284}, {"story": 13, "title": "In on the Oolong", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "She ain't got the ballroom costume on, of course; but I'd know them big gray eyes and that straw colored hair and that sweet pea complexion in any disguise. For a second she stands there gazin' at me sort of surprised and puzzled, like she didn't know whether to give me the nod or just put up her chin and sail by. If I could I'd looked the other way, so's to give her a chance to duck recognizin' me; but I couldn't do anything but stare back. And the next thing I knew she's comin' straight for me. \"Why, Torchy!\" says she, sort of purry and confidential. \"You!\" And blamed if she wa'n't holdin' out both hands. Well, say, you can't imagine what a diff'rence that makes to me. It was like fallin' off a roof and landin' in a hammock. What did I care for that push of young lady fluffs then? \"Sure thing, it's me,\" says I, grabbin' the hands before she could change her mind. \"Say, have a seat, won't you, Miss Vee?\" \"Oh, then you haven't forgotten?\" says she. \"Me? Forget?\" says I. \"Say, Miss Vee, I'll keep right on rememberin' that spiel we had together until breathin' goes out of fashion--and then some! Gee! but I'm glad you happened along!\" \"But how is it,\" says she, \"that you----\" \"Special commission,\" says I. \"I'm waitin' here for Mr. Robert Ellins.\" \"Oh!\" says she. \"And have you had some salad and sandwiches?\" \"No; but I'm ready for 'em now,\" says I. \"That is, if----Say, you don't mind doin' this, do you?\" \"Why should I?\" says she. \"Oh, well,\" says I, \"you see I ain't--well, I'm kind of outclassed here, and I didn't know but some of the other girls might----\"", "words": 294}, {"story": 13, "title": "In on the Oolong", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Let them dare!\" says Miss Vee, straightenin' up and glancin' around haughty. My! but she's a thoroughbred! There was one group standin' a little way off watchin' us; but that look of Miss Vee's scattered 'em as though she'd turned the hose on them. Next minute she was smilin' again. \"You see,\" she goes on, sittin' close, \"I'm not much afraid.\" \"You're a hummer, you are!\" says I, lookin' her over approvin'. \"There, there!\" says she. \"I see that you must have something to eat right away. Here, Hortense! There! Now you'll have a cup of tea, won't you?\" \"Anything you pass out goes with me,\" says I, \"even to tea.\" It was my first offense in the oolong line, and, honest, I couldn't tell now how it tasted; but I knew all about how Vee handles a cup and saucer, though, and the way she has of lookin' at you over the rim. Say, she's the only girl I ever knew who could talk more'n a minute to a feller without the aid of giggles. There's some sense to what she has to say, too, and all the way you can tell whether she's joshin' or not is by watchin' her eyes. And me, I wa'n't losin' any tricks. She tells me all about how she's been to school here ever since she was a little girl. Seems she's as shy on parents as I am; but she has an aunt that she lives with between school terms. This is her finishin' year, and as soon as the final doin's are over she and Aunty are due to sail for Europe. \"Coming back in September?\" says I. \"Oh, no indeed!\" says she. \"Perhaps not for two years.\" \"Gee!\" says I. \"Well?\" says she, and I finds myself lookin' square into them big gray eyes of hers.", "words": 307}, {"story": 13, "title": "In on the Oolong", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Oh, nothing,\" says I; \"only--only it sounds a long ways off. And, say, you don't happen to have a spare photo, do you, maybe one taken in that dress you wore the night of the ball?\" \"Silly!\" says she. \"But suppose I have?\" \"Why,\" says I,--\"why, I thought--well, say, it wouldn't do any harm to leave my new address, would it! That's the number, care of Mrs. Zenobia Preble.\" \"Zenobia!\" says she. \"Why, I know who she is. Do you live with----\" \"I'm half adopted already,\" says I. \"Bully old girl, ain't she? And say, Miss Vee----\" It was just about then I had the feelin' that some one was tryin' to butt in on this two-part dialogue of ours, and as I looks up, sure enough there's Mr. Robert, with his eyes wide and his mouth half open, watchin' us. \"Well, it's all over,\" says I. \"Mr. Robert's waitin' for me. Good luck and--and----Oh, what's the use? Give my regards to Europe, will you? Good-by!\" And with that we shakes hands and I breaks away. \"I don't wish to seem curious,\" says Mr. Robert, as we walks out to his cab, \"but--er--is this something recent?\" \"Not very,\" says I. \"We've met before.\" \"Then allow me,\" says he, \"to congratulate you on your good taste.\" \"Thanks!\" says I. \"Same to you; and I ain't got so much on you at that, eh?\" We drops the subject there; but Mr. Robert seems so pleased over something or other that we'd gone twenty blocks before he remembers what brought me up. \"Oh, by the way,\" says he, \"I suppose there'll be no end of row about my forgetting to send down those contracts. The Governor was wild, wasn't he?\" \"He was wild, all right,\" says I, \"without knowin' whether you'd forgot 'em or not.\" \"But when you 'phoned him,\" says Mr. Robert, \"of course he----\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 13, "title": "In on the Oolong", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Ah, say!\" says I. \"Do I look like a trouble hunter? I 'phoned Piddie--told him to sneak 'em out, send 'em down, and keep his mouth shut. All you got to do is act innocent.\" Never mind the hot air Mr. Robert passes out after that. What tickles me most is the package that came for me yesterday by messenger. I finds it on my plate at dinner time; so both the old ladies was on hand when I opens it. \"Why, Torchy!\" says Aunt Martha, lookin' at me shocked and scandalized. \"A young lady's picture!\" \"Yep,\" says I. \"Ain't she a dream, though?\" And, say, Martha'd been lecturin' me yet if it hadn't been for Zenobia breakin' in. \"Do remember, Martha,\" says she, \"that you were not always sixty-three years old, and that once----Why, bless me! This must be Alicia Vernon's child. Is there a name on the back? There is! Verona Ashton Hemmingway, heiress to all that is left of poor Dick's fortune. She's a beauty, just like her mother.\" \"She's all of that,\" says I. It didn't make any diff'rence to Aunt Martha who she was, though. She didn't think it right for young ladies to give away their pictures to young men. She was for askin' me how long I'd known Miss Vee, and---- \"There, now, Martha,\" said Zenobia, \"suppose we don't.\" That's how it is I can guess who it was blew themselves for a corkin' big silver frame, and put Vee's picture in it, and stood it on my bureau. Course, Vee's on her way to foreign parts now, and there's no tellin' when she's comin' back. Besides, there ain't anything in it, anyway. But somehow that picture in the silver frame seems to help some.", "words": 292}, {"story": 14, "title": "Batting it up to Torchy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Nobody had to point him out to me. I hadn't been holdin' down the chair behind the brass gate more'n two days before I knew who was the living joke on the Corrugated Trust Company's force. It's Uncle Dudley, of course. And, say, my coppin' that out don't go to prove I'm a Mr. Cute. Any mush-head could have picked him after one glimpse of the old vintage Prince Albert, the back number silk lid, and the white Chaunceys he wears on each side of his face. That get-up would be good for a quiet smile even over in Canarsie; but when you come to plant it in the midst of such a sporty aggregation as the Corrugated carries on the payroll--why, you've got the comic chuckles comin' over fast. \"Say, Piddie,\" says I the second morning, after watchin' it blow in, \"who's the seed, eh?\" \"That?\" says Piddie. \"Oh, that's old Dudley.\" \"Does he wear the uniform reg'lar,\" says I, \"or is he celebratin' some anniversary?\" And Piddie almost allows himself to grin as he explains how that's the same costume Dudley has come down to work in every day for the last fifteen years. \"Well, it's a flossy outfit, all right,\" says I. \"What is he, one of the directors?\" No, he wa'n't. He's some sort of subassistant auditor with a salary of eighteen per. You know the kind--one of these deadwood specimens that stand a show of gettin' the prunin' hook every time there's a shake-up. Most every office has a few of 'em, hangin on like last year's oak leaves in the park; but it ain't often they can qualify as comic supplements.", "words": 277}, {"story": 14, "title": "Batting it up to Torchy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Not that Uncle Dudley tries to be humorous. He's the quietest, meekest old relic you ever saw, slidin' in soft and easy with his hat off, and walkin' almost as though he had his shoes in his hand. But the faded umbrella under one arm and the big buttonhole bouquet he always wears puts him in the joke book class without takin' the face lambrequins into account at all. Can I let all that get by me without passin' out some josh? You can see me, can't you? Never mind all the bright and cunnin' remarks I sprung on Uncle Dudley now; but for awhile there I made a point of puttin' over something fresh every day. Why, it was a cinch! All the comeback I ever got out of him, though, was that batty old smile of his, kind of sad and gentle, as if I was remindin' him of times gone by. And there ain't a lot of satisfaction in that, you know. Now, I can chuck the giddy persiflage at Piddie day in and day out, and enjoy doin' it, because it always gets him so wild. Also there's more or less thrill to slippin' the gay retort across to Old Hickory Ellins now and then, because there's a giddy chance of gettin' fired for it. But to rub it into a non-resister like Uncle Dudley--well, what's the use?", "words": 232}, {"story": 14, "title": "Batting it up to Torchy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "So after awhile I cut it out altogether, leavin' him for such amateur cut-ups as Izzy Budheimer and Flannel Haggerty to practice on. Then little by little me and old Dudley got more or less chummy, what with me steerin' him around to my fav'rite dairy lunch joint and all that. And, say, we must have been a great pair, sittin' side by side in the armchairs, puttin' away sweitzer sandwiches and mugs of chickory blend; him in his tall lid, and with his quiet, old timy manners, and me--well, I guess you get the tableau. I used to like hearin' him talk, he uses such a soothin', genteel brand of conversation; nothing fancy, you know, but plain, straightaway goods. Mostly he tells me about his son, who's livin' out in California somewhere and is just branchin' out in the cement block buildin' business. Son is messin' in politics more or less too; mixin' it up with the machine, and gettin' the short end of the returns every trip. But it's on account of this reform stunt of his that the old gent seems to be so proud of him, not appearin' to care whether he ever got elected to anything or not. He don't say so much about the married daughter that he lives with over in Jersey; but I don't think much about that until after I've let him tow me over to dinner once and met Son in Law Bennett. He's a flashy proposition, this young Mr. Bennett is, havin' an interest in a curb brokerage firm that rents window space on Broad-st. and has desk room down on William. Let him tell it, though, and, providin' some of his deals go through, he's goin' to have Morgan squealin' for help before the year is out.", "words": 299}, {"story": 14, "title": "Batting it up to Torchy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And I find that at home Uncle Dudley is rated somewhere between the fam'ly cat and the front doormat. Mr. Bennett don't exactly gag the old man and lock him in the cellar. He ignores him when he can, and when he has to notice him he makes it plain that he's standin' the disgrace as well as he can. \"So you came over with the old sport, did you?\" says Bennett to me. \"Batty old duffer, eh? That comes of being a dead one for so long. Manages to hang on with the Corrugated, though, don't he? He'd better, too! I'm not running any old folks' home here.\" But it wa'n't to show off how he stood with his son in law that Uncle Dudley had lugged me along. He'd got so used to bein' dealt out for a twospot that he didn't seem to mind. He didn't claim to be anything more even at the office. It's his flower garden, out back of the house, that Uncle Dudley had got me 'way out there to see; and, while I ain't any expert on that line of displays, I should say this posy patch of his had some class to it. Anyway, seein' it, and findin' out how he rolls off the mattress at sunrise every mornin' to tend it, lets me in for a new view of him. It's this little garden patch and the son out West that makes life worth livin' for him, in spite of Son in Law Bennett. \"Say, Dudley,\" says I, \"why don't you work a combination of the two; go out where you can raise roses all winter, if the dope these railroad ads. sling out is straight, and be with your son too?\"", "words": 292}, {"story": 14, "title": "Batting it up to Torchy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"I--I can't do that, just yet,\" says he, sort of hesitatin'. \"You see, he hasn't seen me for twelve years, and since then I have--er--well, I've been slipping backward. He doesn't know what a failure I've made of life, and if I gave up here and went on to him--why----\" \"I'm on,\" says I. \"He'd spot you for one of the down-and-outers. But you do get it rubbed in here good and plenty, don't you?\" \"From Bennett?\" says he. \"Oh, he is right, I suppose. He knows how useless I am. But we cannot all succeed, can we? Some of us must stay at the bottom and prop the ladder.\" One thing about Uncle Dudley, he had no whine comin'. He takes it all meek and cheerful, and so far as I could make out he's most as useful around the office as a lot of others that gets chesty whenever they think what would happen to the concern if they should be sick for a week. Anyway, there's frequent calls for old Dudley to straighten out this or that; but somehow he never seems to get credit for bein' much more than a sort of a walkin' copybook that remembers what other people don't want to lumber up their valuable brains with. Maybe it's the white mud guards, or his habit of lettin' anyone boss him around, that keeps him down.", "words": 232}, {"story": 14, "title": "Batting it up to Torchy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And I expect things would have gone on that way, until he either dropped out or got the blue envelope some payday, if it hadn't been for this lid liftin' business up at Albany. Course, you've read how they uncovered first one lot of grafters and then another, and fin'lly, with that last swipe of the muck rake, got the Corrugated rung into the mess? And, say, anyone would think, from some of the papers, that we was all a bunch of crooks down here, spendin' our time feedin' wads of hundred-dollar bills to the yellow dog. Maybe it don't stir up Mr. Robert some thorough, though! \"Why,\" I heard him say to the old man, \"it's a beastly outrage, that's what it is! All the fellows at the club are chaffing me about it, you know. And besides it's disturbing business frightfully. Look at the tumble our shares took yesterday! I say, Governor, we must send out a denial.\" \"Huh!\" growls Old Hickory. \"Who cares a blinkety blanked blank what they say we did? Let 'em prove it!\" Then the next day them checks was sprung on the investigatin' committee, and it looked as though they'd made out their case against the Corrugated. Perhaps there wa'n't doin's on the seventeenth floor that mornin'! Clear out where I sat I could hear the boss callin' for first one man and then another, and Piddie is turkeyin' in and out so excited he don't know whether he's on duty or runnin' bases. Once, when he stops to lean against the spring-water bottle and wipe his dewy brow, I slips up behind and taps him quick on the shoulder. \"Ye-e-e-es, sir!\" says he, before he sees who it is. \"Never mind, Piddie,\" says I. \"I was goin' to ask you 'Guilty or not guilty?' But what's the use? Anyone can see it was you that did it.\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 14, "title": "Batting it up to Torchy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"You--you impudent young sauce box!\" he begins. \"How dare you----\" \"Ah, save that for the subpoena server,\" says I. \"He'll be in here after you in a minute. And, say, my guess is that you'll get about ten years on the rockpile.\" When the special directors' meetin' gets under way, though, and the big guns of the Corrugated law force got on the job, there was less noise and more electricity in the air. Honest, with all that tiptoein' and whisperin' and serious looks bein' passed around, I didn't even have the gall to guy one of the new typewriter girls. Kind of gets on your nerves, a thing of that kind does, and if a squad of reserves had marched in and pinched the whole outfit, I shouldn't have been so much surprised. Right in the midst of it too there comes my three rings on the buzzer, and in I sneaks where they're holdin' the inquest. Say, they're all sittin' around the big mahogany directors' table, with the old man at the head, lookin' black and ugly, and grippin' a half smoked cigar butt between his teeth. I could see at a glance they hadn't thrown any scare into him yet. He was just beginning to fight, that's all. \"Boy,\" says he, \"bring in Dudley.\" \"Yes, sir,\" says I. But, say, my heels dragged some as I went out. Course I didn't know what they wanted of the old boy; but it didn't look to be such a wild guess that they'd picked him to play the goat part. I finds him perched up on his stool, calm and serene, workin' away on the ledgers as industrious as if nothin' special was goin' on. \"Dudley,\" says I, \"are you feelin' strong?\" \"Why, Torchy,\" says he, \"I am feeling about as usual, thank you.\"", "words": 305}, {"story": 14, "title": "Batting it up to Torchy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Well, brace yourself then,\" says I; \"for there's rough goin' ahead. You're wanted in on the carpet.\" \"Me?\" says he. \"Mr. Ellins wants me?\" \"Uh-huh,\" says I, \"him and the rest of 'em. But don't let 'em put any spell on you. It's your cue now to forget the meek and lowly business. I know you ain't strong for bluffin' through a game; but for the love of soup put up a front to-day!\" Dudley, he only smiles and shakes his head. Then off he toddles, wearin' his old ink-stained office coat and even keepin' on the green eye-shade. Well, I don't know how long they had him on the grill; but it couldn't have been more'n half an hour, for along about three o'clock I strolls into the audit department, and there's old Dudley back on his perch writin' away again. \"Say, are you it?\" says I. \"Why, how is that?\" says he. \"Did they tie anything to you?\" says I. \"You know--con you into takin' the blame, or anything like that?\" \"Blame for what?\" says he. \"I don't believe I understand. But nothing of the sort was mentioned. I was merely given some instructions about my work.\" \"Oh!\" says I. \"That's all, eh? And you've gone right at it, have you?\" \"No,\" says he. \"The fact is, Torchy, I am writing out my resignation.\" \"What! Quittin'?\" says I. \"Say, don't you see what a hole that puts you in? Why, it makes you the goat for fair! If you do that you'll need bail inside of forty-eight hours--and you won't get it. Look here, Dudley, take my advice and tear that up.\" \"But I can't, Torchy,\" says he, \"really, I can't.\"", "words": 283}, {"story": 14, "title": "Batting it up to Torchy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Why not?\" says I. \"You've got a couple of hands, ain't you? And what'll you do for another job if you chuck this one? Say, why in blazes are you so anxious to take your chances between Sing Sing and the bread line?\" He's there with the explanation, all right, and here's the way it stands: Uncle Dudley has been called on because his partic'lar double-entry trick is to keep the run of the private accounts. All they want him to do is to take descriptions of a couple of checks, dig up the stubs, and juggle his books so the record will fit in with a nice new set of transactions that's just been invented for the purpose. \"But what checks?\" says I. \"The five thousand plunkers to Mutt & Mudd?\" \"Why, yes,\" says he. \"How did you know?\" \"Ah, how did I----Say, Dudley, ain't you been readin' the papers lately?\" says I. Would you believe it? He don't know any more about what's in the air than a museum mummy knows of Lobster Square. This little private cyclone that's been turnin' the office upside down ain't so much as ruffled his whiskers. Checks are checks to him, and these special trouble makers don't give him any chills up the back at all. He's been told, though, to use the acid bottle on his books and write in a new version. \"Well, why not do it?\" says I. \"What's that to you?\" \"Why, don't you see,\" says he, \"it would be making a false entry, and--I--I----Well, I've never done such a thing in my life, Torchy, and I can't begin now.\"", "words": 272}, {"story": 14, "title": "Batting it up to Torchy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And, say, what do you know about that, eh? Just a piece of phony bookkeepin' that he don't even have to put his name to, his job gone if he don't follow orders, and him almost to the age limit anyway, with Son in Law Bennett ready to shove him on the street the minute he gets the sack! \"Do you mean it?\" says I. He puts his signature to the resignation and hands it over for me to read. \"Say, Dudley,\" says I, lookin' him up and down, \"this listens to me like a bughouse play of yours; but I got to admit that you do it sporty. There's no ocher streak in you.\" \"I hoped you would understand,\" says he. \"In the circumstances, it was all I could do, you see.\" \"What I see plainer'n anything else,\" says I, \"is that if this goes through your career is bugged to the limit. When do you want this handed in?\" \"As soon as possible,\" says he. \"I suppose I ought to resign at once.\" \"Resign!\" says I. \"You'll be lucky if the old man don't have you chucked through the window. Better be waitin' down in the lower corridor when I spring this on Mr. Ellins.\" Nothin' of that kind for Uncle Dudley, though. He starts straightenin' up his desk as I goes out, as calm as though he was house cleanin' for a vacation. And while I'm tryin' to make up my mind how to deliver this document to the main stem and duck an ambulance ride afterwards, the directors' meetin' breaks up. So I finds Old Hickory alone in his private office and slips it casual on the pad in front of him.", "words": 286}, {"story": 14, "title": "Batting it up to Torchy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Here, what's this?\" he snorts, callin' me back as he opens up the sheet. \"Eh? Dudley! Resigns, does he! What, that dried up, goat faced, custard brained, old----Say, boy; ask him what the grizzly grindstones he means by----\" \"I did,\" says I, \"and, if you want to know, he's quittin' because he's too straight to cook up the books the way you told him.\" \"Cook up the books!\" gasps Old Hickory, gettin' raspb'ry tinted in the face and displayin' neck veins like a truck horse. \"He's been welshing, has he? Perhaps he'd like to turn State's witness? Well, by the great sizzling skyrockets, if that's his trick, I'll give him enough of----\" \"Excuse me, Mr. Ellins,\" I breaks in, \"but you're slippin' your clutch. Tricks! Why, he ain't even wise to what you want him to do it for. All he knows is that it's crooked, and he renigs on a general proposition. And, say, when a man's as straight as that, with the workhouse starin' him in the face, he's too valuable to lose, ain't he?\" \"Wha-a-at?\" gurgles Old Hickory. \"Besides,\" says I, hurryin' the words to get 'em all out before any violent scene breaks loose, \"knowin' all he does about them Mutt & Mudd checks, and with what he don't know about the case, it wouldn't be hardly safe to have him roamin' the streets, would it? Now I leave it to you.\" Say, I was lookin' Old Hickory right in the eye, ready to dodge the inkstand or anything else, while I was puttin' that over, and for a minute I thought it was comin' sure. But while he can get as hot under the collar as anyone I ever saw, and twice as quick, he don't go clear off his nut any of the time.", "words": 300}, {"story": 14, "title": "Batting it up to Torchy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Young man,\" says he, calmin' down and motionin' me to a chair, \"as usual, you seem to be more or less well informed on this matter yourself. Now let's have the rest of it.\" And just like that, all of a sudden, it's batted up to me. So I lets it come, with all the details about Uncle Dudley's frosty home life, and the reformer son out West that still thinks father is makin' good. He sits there and listens to every word too. Not that he comes in with the sympathetic sigh, or shows signs of being troubled by mist in the eye corners. He just throws in an occasional grunt now and then and drums his fat finger-tips on the chair arm. \"Huh!\" says he. \"Babes and sucklings! But I've had worse advice that has cost me a lot more. Well, I suppose an old fool like that is dangerous to have drifting around. But I don't want him here just now, either. Um-m-m! Where did you say this son of his lived?\" \"Just out of Los Angeles,\" says I. \"All right,\" says Old Hickory. \"Tell him he goes west Tuesday as traveling auditor to our second vice president. He'll bring up at Los Angeles about the middle of the month--and about that time it may happen that he'll be retired on full pay. But I'll keep this resignation, as a curiosity.\" Now don't ask me to describe how old Dudley takes it; for when he gets the full partic'lars of the decision it near keels him over. And what part of it do you say tickles him most? That the books don't have to be juggled! \"It wasn't like Mr. Ellins to countenance an act of that sort, not in the least,\" says he, \"and I am very glad that he has changed his mind.\" \"Say, Dudley,\" says I, \"you're a wonder, you are.\"", "words": 317}, {"story": 14, "title": "Batting it up to Torchy", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And it was all I could do to keep from askin' him if he thought he owned the only bottle of ink eradicator there was in New York. Do I know who did fix up them entries? Well, by the nervous motions of a certain party next mornin', I could give a guess. \"Piddie,\" says I, \"if they ever get you on the stand, you want to wear interferin' pads between your knees, so they won't hear the bones rattle.\"", "words": 80}, {"story": 15, "title": "Throwing the Line to Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Say, this is twice I've been let in wrong on Skid Mallory. Remember him, don't you? Well, he's our young college hick that I helped steer up against Baron Kazedky when he landed that big armor plate order. Did they make Skid a junior partner for that, or paint his name on a private office door? Not so you'd notice it. Maybe they was afraid a sudden boost like that would make him dizzy. But they promotes him to the sales department and adds ten to his pay envelope. I was most as tickled over it as Mallory was, too. \"Didn't I tell you?\" says I. \"You're a comer, you are! Why, I expect in ten or a dozen years more you'll be sharin' in the semi-annuals and ridin' down to the office in a taxi.\" \"Perhaps I may, Torchy--in ten or a dozen years,\" says he, kind of slow and sober. I could guess what he was thinking of then. It was the girl, that sweet young thing that Brother Dick towed in here along last winter, some Senator's daughter that Skid had got chummy with when he was doin' his great quarterback act and havin' his picture printed in the sportin' extras. \"How's that affair comin' on?\" says I; for I ain't heard him mention her in quite some time. \"It's all off,\" says he, shruggin' them wide shoulders of his. \"That is, there never was anything in it, you know, to begin with.\" \"Oh, there wa'n't, eh?\" says I. \"Forgot all about that picture you used to carry around in the little leather case, have you?\" Skid, he flushes up a bit at that, and one hand goes up to his left inside pocket. Then he laughs foolish. \"It isn't I who have forgotten,\" says he. \"Oh-ho!\" says I. \"Well, I wouldn't have thought her the kind to shift sudden, when she seemed so----\"", "words": 317}, {"story": 15, "title": "Throwing the Line to Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "But Mallory gives me the choke off sign, and as we walks up Broadway he gradually opens up more and more on the subject until I've got a fair map of the situation. Seems that Sis ain't exactly set him adrift without warnin'. He'd sort of helped cut the cable himself. She'd begun by writin' to him every week, tellin' him all about the lively season she was havin' in Washington, and how much fun she was gettin' out of life. She even put in descriptions of her new dresses, and some of her dance orders, and now and then a bridge score, or a hand painted place card from some dinner she'd been to. And Skid, thinkin' it all over in the luxury of his nine by ten boudoir, got to wonderin' what attractions along that line he could hold out to a young lady that was used to blowin' in more for one new spring lid than he could earn in a couple of weeks. \"And orchids are her favorite flowers!\" says he. \"Ever buy any orchids, Torchy?\" \"Not guilty,\" says I; \"but they ain't so high, are they, that you couldn't splurge on a bunch now and then? What's the tariff on 'em, anyway?\" \"At times you can get real nice ones for a dollar apiece,\" says he. \"Phe-e-e-ew!\" says I. \"She has got swell tastes.\" \"It isn't her fault,\" says he. \"She's never known anything different.\" So what does Skid do but slow up on the correspondence, skippin' an answer here and there, and coverin' only two pages when he did write. For one thing, he didn't have so much to tell as she did. I knew that; for I'd seen more or less of Mallory durin' the last few months, and I knew he was playin' his cards close to his vest.", "words": 307}, {"story": 15, "title": "Throwing the Line to Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Not that he was givin' any real lifelike miser imitation; but he didn't indulge in high priced cafe luncheons on Saturdays, like most of the bunch; he'd scratched his entry at the college club; and he was soakin' away his little surplus as fast as he got his fingers on it. Course, that programme meant sendin' regrets to most of the invites he got, and spendin' his evenin's where it didn't cost much to get in or out. One frivolous way he had of killin' time was by teachin' 'rithmetic to a class of new landed Zinskis at a settlement house over on the East Side. \"Ah, what's the use?\" I used to tell him. \"They'd learn to do compound interest on their fingers in a month, anyway, and the first thing you know you'll be payin' rent to some of 'em.\" But he was pretty level headed about most things, I will say that for Mallory, specially the way he sized up this girl business. Seems at last she got the idea he was grouchy at her about something; and when he didn't deny, or come to the front with any reason--why, she just quit sendin' the billy ducks. \"So you're never going to see her any more, eh?\" says I. \"Well,\" says he, \"I supposed until within an hour or so ago that I never should. And then----Well, she's here, Torchy; came yesterday, and I presume she expects to see me to-night.\" \"That's encouragin', anyway,\" says I. But Mallory don't seem so much cheered up. It turns out that Sis is spendin' a few days with friends here, waitin' for the rest of the fam'ly to come on and sail for Europe. They're givin' a farewell dinner dance for her, and Skid is on the list.", "words": 298}, {"story": 15, "title": "Throwing the Line to Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "The trouble is he can't make up his mind whether to go or stay away. One minute he's dead sure he won't, and the next minute he admits he don't see what harm there would be in takin' one last look. \"But, then,\" says Mallory, \"what good would that do?\" \"I know,\" says I. \"There's a young lady friend of mine on the other side too. Say, Mallory, I guess we belong in the lobster class.\" And when we splits up on the corner Skid has decided against the party proposition, and goes off towards his boardin' house with his chin down on his collar and his heels draggin'. So I wa'n't prepared for the joyous smile and the frock coat regalia that Mallory wears when he blows into the office about ten-forty-five next forenoon. He's sportin' a spray of lilies of the valley in his lapel, and swingin' his silver topped stick, and by the look on his face you'd think he was hearin' the birdies sing in the treetops. \"Tra-la-la, tra-la-lee!\" says I, throwin' open the brass gate for him. \"Is it a special holiday, or what?\" \"It's a very special one,\" says he, thumpin' me on the back and whisperin' husky in my ear. \"Torchy, I'm married!\" \"Wha-a-at!\" I splutters. \"Who to? When?\" \"To Sis,\" says he, \"half an hour ago.\" \"Eh?\" says I. \"Mean to say you've been and eloped with the Senator's daughter?\" \"Eloped!\" says he, as though he'd never heard the word before. \"Why, no--er--that is, we just went out and--and----\"", "words": 257}, {"story": 15, "title": "Throwing the Line to Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Oh, no, they hadn't eloped! They'd merely slid out of the ballroom about three A.M., after dancin' seventeen waltzes together, snuggled into a hansom cab, and rode around the park until daylight talkin' it over. Then she'd slipped back into the house, got into her travelin' dress while he was off changin' his clothes, met again at eight o'clock, chased down to City Hall after a license, and then dragged a young rector away from his boiled eggs and toast to splice 'em. But Skid didn't call that elopin'. Why, Sis had left word with the butler to tell her friends all about it, and the first thing they did after it was over was to send a forty-word collect telegram to papa. And Mallory, he'd just dropped around to arrange with Old Hickory for a little vacation before they beat it for Atlantic City. \"So that ain't elopin', eh?\" says I. \"I expect you'd call that a sixty-yard run on a forward pass, or something like that? Well, the old man's inside. Luck to you.\" Mallory wa'n't on the carpet long, and when he comes out I asks how he made back. \"Oh, bully!\" says he. \"I'm to have ten days.\" \"With or without?\" says I. \"Oh, I forgot to ask,\" says he. Little things like bein' on the payroll or not wa'n't botherin' him then. He gives me a bone crushin' grip and swings out to the elevator in a rush; for he's been away from Sis nearly half an hour now. Exceptin' a picture postcard or two, showin' the iron pier and a bathin' scene, I didn't hear from Mr. and Mrs. Mallory for more'n a week. And then one afternoon I gets a 'phone message from Skid, saying that they're all settled in a little flat up on Washington Heights and they'll be pleased to have me come up to dinner.", "words": 315}, {"story": 15, "title": "Throwing the Line to Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"It's our very first dinner, you know,\" says he, \"and Sis is going to get it all by herself. I suggested that we try the first one on you.\" \"That don't scare me any,\" says I. \"I've lived on sinkers and pie too long to duck amateur cookin'. I'll be there.\" I was on the grin all the afternoon too, thinkin' of the joshes I was goin' to hand him. At three minutes of closing time I was all ready to sneak out, with one eye on the clock and the other on Piddie, when in blows a ruby faced, thick waisted gent with partly gray hair, a heavyweight jaw, and a keen pair of twinklin' gray eyes. He looks prosperous and important, and he proceeds to act right to home. \"Boy,\" says he, pushin' through the gate, \"is this the general office of the Corrugated Trust Company?\" \"Yep,\" says I. \"That's what it says on the door.\" \"There is employed here, I understand,\" he goes on, \"a young man by the name of Mallory.\" Say, I was wide awake at that. \"Mallory?\" says I. \"I can find out. Did you want to see him on business?\" \"It is a personal matter,\" says he. \"Is he here?\" \"Now, let's not rush this,\" says I. \"My orders is to find out----\" \"Very well,\" says the gent, \"there is my card. And perhaps I should mention that I have the honor--er--I suppose, to be his father in law.\" Say, and here I was, up against the Senator himself. Course it was my cue to shrivel up and do the low salaam; but all I can think of at the minute is to look him over and grin. \"Gee!\" says I. \"Then you're on his trail, eh?\"", "words": 294}, {"story": 15, "title": "Throwing the Line to Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Maybe it was the grin fetched him; for them square mouth corners flickers a little and he don't throw any fit. \"Evidently you are somewhat familiar with the circumstances,\" says he. \"May I ask if you are sufficiently favored with the confidence of my new son in law to know where he and my--er--his wife happen, to be just now?\" \"I admit it,\" says I; \"but if you're thinkin' of springin' any hammer music on Skid, you can look for another party, for you won't get it out of me in a thousand years!\" \"Ah!\" says he. \"I see Young Lochinvar has at least one champion. Allow me to state that my intentions are pacific. My wife and I merely wish, before sailing, to pay a formal call on our daughter and her new husband. Now if you could give me their address----\" \"Why, say, Senator,\" says I, \"if you ain't lookin' to start anything, I can do better. I'm going right up there myself this minute, and if Mrs.----\" \"She is waiting downstairs in the cab,\" says he. \"Nothing would suit us better.\" And, say, maybe it wa'n't just what I should have done, but blamed if I could see how to dodge it when it's up to me that way. So it's me climbin' up on the front seat with the driver of a fancy hotel taxi, papa and mamma behind, and off rolls the surprise party. Well, you know them cut rate apartment houses, with a flossy reception room, all marble slabs and burlap panels and no elevator. The West Indian at the telephone exchange says we'll find the Mallorys on the top floor back to the left. That meant four flights to climb, which might account for the lack of conversation on the way up. Mallory, with his coat off, his cuffs rolled back, and his face steamed up, answers the ring himself.", "words": 317}, {"story": 15, "title": "Throwing the Line to Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Ah, that you, Torchy?\" says he. \"We were just wondering if you would----Why--er--ah----\" and as he gets sight of the old couple out in the dark hall he breaks off sudden. \"It's all right,\" says I. \"He's promised to give the peace sign. You know the Senator, don't you, Skid?\" \"The Senator!\" he gasps out. \"I believe I once had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Mallory,\" says the old boy, comin' to the front graceful. \"Hope you will pardon the intrusion; but----\" Just then, though, Sis appears from the kitchen, her face all pink and white, and her sleeves pushed up past the dimples in her elbows. Under a thirty-nine-cent blue and white checked apron she's wearin' a lace party dress that was a dream. It's an odd combination; but most anything would look well on a little queen like her. She takes one look at Skid, another at the Senator, and then behind the old man she spies Mother. Well, it's just a squeal from one, and a sigh from the other, and then they've made a rush to the center that wedges us all into that little three-foot hall like it was the platform of a subway car, and before anything more can be said they've gone to a fond clinch, each pattin' the other on the back and passin' appropriate remarks. Somehow, I guess the Senator hadn't quite figured on this part of the programme. I expect his plan was to be real polite and formal, stay only long enough to let the young people know he could stand it if they could, and then back out dignified.", "words": 271}, {"story": 15, "title": "Throwing the Line to Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Whatever Mother might have meant to do when she started, it was all off from the minute Sis let out that squeal. And no sooner had we got ourselves untangled and edged sideways into the cute little parlor, than Mother announces how she means to stay right here until it's time to start for the steamer. Did some one say dinner! Good! She'll stay to dinner, then. At that Sis looks at Skid and Skid he looks at Sis. There was some real worry exchanged in them looks too; but young Mrs. Mallory ain't one to be stumped as easy as that. \"Oh, goody!\" says she, clappin' her hands. \"But, Mother, what is it you do to make dumplings puff out after you've dropped them in the lamb stew?\" \"Dumplings! Lamb stew!\" says Mother. \"Gracious! Don't ask me, child. I haven't made any for years. Doesn't your cook know?\" \"She doesn't,\" says Sis. \"I am the cook, Mother.\" Well, that was only the beginning of the revelations; for while Sis and Mother was strugglin' with the receipt book, the Senator was makin' a tour of inspection around the apartment. It didn't take him so long, either. \"Ahem!\" says he to Mallory. \"Very cozy, indeed; but--er--not exactly spacious.\" \"Four rooms and bath,\" says Mallory. \"Was--er--that the bathtub in there?\" says the Senator, jerkin' his thumb at the bathroot door. \"I fancied it might be--er--a pudding dish. Might I inquire what rent you pay for--er--all this?\" \"Forty a month, sir,\" says Mallory. \"Ah! Economy, I see. Good way to begin,\" says he. \"And if it is not too personal a question, your present salary is----\" \"I'm getting twenty-five a week,\" says Skid, lookin' him straight between the eyes. \"Then you have a private income, I presume?\" says the Senator. \"Well,\" says Mallory, \"my aunt in Boston sends me fifty dollars every Christmas and advises me to invest my savings in Government bonds.\"", "words": 320}, {"story": 15, "title": "Throwing the Line to Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "At that the Senator drops into a chair and whistles. \"But--but how do you expect,\" he goes on, \"to--to----Pardon me, but I am getting interested. I should like to know what was your exact financial standing when you had the imp--er--when you married my daughter?\" He gets it, down to the last nickel. Skid begins with what he had in the bank when they starts for Atlantic City, shows the hole that trip made in his funds, produces the receipts for furniture, and announces that, after punglin' up a month's rent, there's something over seven dollars left in the treasury. \"Huh!\" grunts the Senator. \"Hence the lamb stew, eh? I don't wonder! So you and Sis have undertaken to live in a forty-dollar apartment on a twenty-five-dollar salary, have you?\" \"That's what it looks like, sir,\" says Mallory. \"And who is the financial genius that is to manage this enterprise?\" says he. \"Why,\" says Skid, \"Mrs. Mallory, I suppose. We have agreed that she should.\" \"Sis, eh?\" says the Senator, smilin' kind of grim. \"Well, you have my best wishes for your success.\" Skid he flushes some behind the ears; but he only bows and says he's much obliged. You couldn't blame him for feelin' cut up, either; for it's all clear how the Senator has doped out an appeal for help within thirty days, and is willin' to wait for the call. I'm no shark on the cost of livin' myself; but even I could figure out a deficit. There's a call to dinner just then, though, and we all gathers round the stew.", "words": 265}, {"story": 15, "title": "Throwing the Line to Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Anyway, it was meant for a lamb stew. The potatoes was some hard, the gravy was so thin you'd thought it had been put in from the tea kettle as an afterthought, and the dumplin's hadn't the puffin' out charm worked on 'em for a cent. But the sliced carrots was kind of tasty and went all right with the baker's bread if you left off the bargain butter. Sis she tried to laugh at it all; but her eyes got kind of dewy at the corners. \"Never mind, dear,\" says Mother. \"I'll telegraph for our old Martha to come on and cook for you.\" \"Why, certainly,\" says the Senator. \"She could sleep on the fire escape, you know.\" And say, that last comic jab of his, and the effect it had on Mr. and Mrs. Mallory, kind of got under my skin. I got to thinkin' hard and fast, and inside of five minutes I stumbles onto an idea. \"Excuse me,\" says I to Skid; \"but I guess I'll be on my way. I just thought of a date I ought to keep.\" And where do you expect I brings up? At the Ellins' mansion, down on the avenue. First time I'd ever been there out of office hours; but the maid says Mr. Ellins is takin' his coffee in the lib'ry and she'd see if he'd let me in. Ah, sure he did, and we gets right down to cases. \"Remember how that assistant general manager stiff of yours fell down on that public lands deal when you sent him to Washington last month?\" says I. Old Hickory chokes some on a swallow of black coffee he's just hoisted in; but he recovers enough to nod. \"Does he get the run?\" says I. \"I neglected consulting you about it, Torchy,\" says he; \"but his resignation has been called for.\" \"Filled the job yet?\" says I.", "words": 317}, {"story": 15, "title": "Throwing the Line to Skid", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Fortunately, no,\" says he, and I knew by the way he squints that he thought he was bein' mighty humorous. \"Possibly you could recommend his successor?\" \"Yep, I could,\" says I. \"Would it help any to have some one who was son in law to a Senator?\" \"That,\" says Old Hickory, \"would depend somewhat on which Senator was his father in law.\" \"Well,\" says I, \"there's his card.\" \"Eh?\" says he, readin' the name. \"Why--who----\" \"Mallory,\" says I. \"You know--hitched last week. He's got the old boy up there to dinner now. Maybe he'll be taken on as the Senator's secretary if you don't jump in quick. He's a hustler, Mallory is. Remember how he skinned that big order out of Kazedky? And as an A. G. M. he'd be a winner. Well, does he get it?\" \"Young man,\" says Old Hickory, catchin' his breath, \"if my mental machinery worked at the high pressure speed yours does, I could----But I am not noted for being slow. I've done things in a hurry before. I can yet. Torchy, he does get it.\" \"When?\" says I. \"To-morrow morning,\" says he. \"I'll start him at five thousand.\" \"Whoop!\" says I. \"Say, you're a sport! I'll go up and deliver the glad news. Guess he needs it now as much as he ever will.\" And, say, you should have seen the change of heart that comes over the Senator when he heard the bulletin. \"Mallory, my boy,\" says he, \"congratulations. And by the way, just remove that--er--imitation lamb stew. Then we'll all go down to some good hotel and have a real dinner.\"", "words": 269}, {"story": 16, "title": "Touching on Tink Tuttle", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"On your way, now, on your way!\" says I; gazin' haughty over the brass gate. \"No window cleanin' done here durin' office hours!\" \"But,\" says the specimen on the other side, \"I--I didn't come to clean the windows.\" \"Eh?\" says I, sizin' up the blue flannel shirt, the old leather belt, and other marks of them pail and sponge artists. \"Well, we don't want any sash cords put in, or wirin' fixed, or any kind of jobbin' done until after five. That's General Order No. 1. See?\" He nods in kind of a lifeless, unexcited way; but he don't make any motions towards beatin' it. \"I--I--the fact is,\" he begins, \"I wish to see some one connected with the Corrugated Trust Company.\" \"You've had your wish,\" says I. \"I'm Exhibit A. For a profile view of me step around to the left. Anything more?\" He don't get peeved at this, nor he don't grin. He just keeps on bein' serious and calm. \"If you don't mind,\" says he, \"I should like to see one of the higher officials.\" \"Say, that's almost neat enough to win out,\" says I. \"One of the higher officials, eh? How would the president suit you?\" \"If I might see him, I'd like it,\" says he. \"Wha-a-a-at!\" says I.", "words": 213}, {"story": 16, "title": "Touching on Tink Tuttle", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Honest, the nerve that's wasted on some folks is a shame. I had to sit up and give him the Old Sleuth stare at that. He's between twenty-five and thirty, for a guess; and, say, whatever he might have been once, he's a wreck now,--long, thin face, with the cheekbones almost stickin' through, slumped in shoulders, bony hands, and a three months' crop of mud colored hair stringin' damp over his ears and brushin' his coat collar. Why, he looked more like he ought to be sittin' around the waitin' room of some charity hospital, than tryin' to butt in on the time of one of the busiest men in New York. \"It's a matter that ought to go before the president,\" says he, \"and if he isn't busy I'd like very much to----\" \"Say, old scout,\" says I, \"you got about as much chance of bein' let in to see Mr. Ellins as I have of passin' for a brunette! So let's come down to cases. Now what's it all about?\" He ain't makin' any secret of it. He wants the concern to make him a bid on an option he holds on some coal and iron lands. Almost comes to life tellin' me about that option, and for the first time I notice what big, bright, deep sunk eyes he's got. \"Oh, a thing of that kind would have to go through reg'lar,\" says I. \"Wait; I'll call Mr. Piddie. He'll fix you up.\" Does he? Well, that's what Piddie's supposed to be there for; but he don't any more'n glance at the flannel shirt before he begins to swell up and frown and look disgusted. \"No, no, go away!\" says he. \"I've no time to talk to you, none at all.\" \"But,\" says the object, \"I haven't had a chance to tell you----\" \"Get out--you!\" snaps Piddie, turnin' on his heel and struttin' off.", "words": 317}, {"story": 16, "title": "Touching on Tink Tuttle", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It ain't the way he talks to parties wearin' imported Panamas and sportin' walkin' sticks; but, then, most of us has our little fads that way. What stirred me up, though, was the rough way he did it, and the hopeless sag to the wreck's chin after he's heard the decision. \"Sweet disposition he's got, eh?\" says I. \"But don't take him too serious. He ain't the final word in this shop, and there's nobody gets next to the big wheeze oftener durin' the day than yours truly. Maybe I could get that option of yours passed on. Got the document with you?\" He had and hands it over. With that he drops onto the reception room settee and says he'll wait. \"Better not,\" says I; \"for it might be quite a spell before I gets the right chance. We'll do this reg'lar, by mail. Now what's the name?\" \"Tuttle,\" says he, \"Tinkham J. Tuttle.\" \"They call you Tink for short, don't they?\" says I, and he admits that they do. \"All right,\" I goes on. \"Now the address, Tink. Jersey, eh? Well, it's likely you'll hear from Mr. Ellins before the week's out. But don't get your hopes up; for he turns down enough propositions to fill a waste basket every day. Express elevator at No. 5. So long,\" and I chokes off Mr. Tuttle's vote of thanks by wavin' him out the door. It's well along in the afternoon before I sees an openin' to drop this option in front of Old Hickory, grabbin' a minute when his desk is fairly clear, and slammin' it down just as though it had been sent in through Piddie. \"Delivered on,\" says I. \"Wants rush answer by mail.\" \"Huh!\" grunts Old Hickory, lightin' up a fresh Cassadora.", "words": 296}, {"story": 16, "title": "Touching on Tink Tuttle", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "That's all I expected to hear of the transaction; so about an hour later, when Piddie comes out lookin' solemn and says I'm to report to Mr. Ellins, I don't know what's up. \"Is it a first degree charge, Piddie,\" says I, \"or only for manslaughter?\" \"I presume Mr. Ellins will discover what you have done,\" says he. \"Well, hope for the worst, Piddie,\" says I. \"Here goes!\" And the minute I sees what Old Hickory has in front of him, I'm wise. \"Torchy,\" says he, givin' me the steely glitter out of them cold storage eyes of his, \"Mr. Piddie seems to know nothing about this Michigan option.\" \"If he admits that much,\" says I, \"it must be so. It's a record, though.\" \"What I want to know,\" goes on Mr. Ellins, \"is how in blue belted blazes it got here. You brought it in, didn't you?\" \"Yep,\" says I. \"It was this way, Mr. Ellins: Piddie had it put up to him and wouldn't even hang it on the hook; but the guy that brings it looked so mournful that I butts in and takes a chance on passin' it along to you on my own hook.\" \"Oh, you did, eh?\" he snorts. \"Sure,\" says I. \"I got to do the fresh act once in a while, ain't I? Course, if you want a dead one on the gate, I can hand in my portfolio; but I thought all you had to do with punk options like this was to toss 'em in the basket and then have 'em fired back at----\" \"Fire nothing back!\" says Mr. Ellins. \"Why, you lucky young rascal, we've been trying to get hold of this very property for eight months! And Piddie! Bah! Of all the pin-headed, jelly brained----\" \"Second the motion,\" says I, springin' the joyous grin.", "words": 306}, {"story": 16, "title": "Touching on Tink Tuttle", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"That will do,\" says Old Hickory, catchin' himself up. \"Just you forget Mr. Piddie and listen to me. Know this Tuttle person by sight, don't you?\" \"Couldn't forget him,\" says I. \"Want him on the carpet?\" \"I do,\" says he. \"Have him here at ten-thirty to-morrow morning. But find him to-night, and see that you don't open your head about this business to anyone else.\" \"I get you,\" says I, doin' the West Point salute. \"It's me to trail and shut up Tuttle. He'll be here, if I have to bring him in an ambulance.\" That's why I jumps out before closin' time and mingles with the Jersey commuters in a lovely hot ride across the meadows. It's a scrubby station where I gets off, too; one of these fact'ry settlements where the whole population answers the seven o'clock whistle every mornin'. There's a brick barracks half a mile long, where they make sewin' machines or something, and snuggled close up around it is hundreds of these four-fam'ly wooden tenements, gettin' the full benefit of the soft coal smoke and makin' it easy for the hands to pike home for a noon dinner. Say, you talk about the East Side double deckers; but they're brownstone fronts compared to some of these corporation shacks across the meadows! Seventeen dirty kids led me to the number Tuttle gave me, and in the right hand first floor kitchen I finds a red faced woman in a faded blue wrapper fryin' salt pork and cabbage. \"Mrs. Tinkham Tuttle?\" says I, holdin' my breath. \"No,\" says she, glancin' suspicious over her shoulder. \"I'm his sister.\" \"Oh!\" says I. \"Is Tink around?\" \"I don't know whether he is or not, and don't care!\" says she. \"Much obliged,\" says I; \"but I ain't come to collect for anything. Couldn't you give a guess?\"", "words": 306}, {"story": 16, "title": "Touching on Tink Tuttle", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"If I did,\" says she, \"I'd say he was over to the factory yard. That's where he stays most of the time.\" It's half-past five; but the fact'ry's runnin' full blast, and I has to jolly a timekeeper and the yard boss before I locates my man. Fin'lly, though, they point out a big storage shed in one corner of the coal cinder desert they has fenced in so careful. The wide double doors to the shed are shut; but after I've hammered for a while one of 'em is slid back a few inches and Tuttle peeks out. \"Oh!\" he gasps. \"You! Say, are they going to take it? Are they?\" \"Them's the indications,\" says I, \"providin' it's all O. K. and your price is right.\" \"Oh, I'll make the price low enough,\" says he. \"I'll sell out for two thousand, and it ought to be worth twice that. But two is all I need.\" \"Eh?\" says I. \"What kind of finance do you call that? Say, Tuttle, you know you can't work any 'phony deal on the Corrugated. Better give me the straight goods and save trouble.\" \"I will,\" says he. \"Come in, won't you!\" With that he leads the way through the dark shed to a sort of workshop at the back, where there's a window. There's a tool bench, a little hand forge with an old coffee pot and a fryin' pan on it, and a cot bed not ten feet away. \"Campin' out here?\" says I. \"I'm not supposed to,\" says he; \"but the yard superintendent lets me. This is where I've lived and worked for nearly two years, and until you came a minute ago it was where I expected to end. But now it's different.\" \"It is?\" says I. \"How's that?\"", "words": 298}, {"story": 16, "title": "Touching on Tink Tuttle", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Which is Tink Tuttle's cue to open up on the story of his life. It's a soggy, unexcitin' yarn, most of it. As I'd kind of guessed by the way he talked, he wa'n't just an ordinary fact'ry hand. He'd been through some high class scientific school up in Massachusetts, where he'd lived before his father lost his grip. Seems the old man was a crackerjack boss machinist; but he got to monkeyin' with fool inventions, drifted from place to place, got to be a lunger, and finally passed in. The last four years in the fact'ry here had finished him. Tink had worked there, too, and his sister had married one of the hands. \"It's the graveyard of the Tuttle family, this place is, I suppose,\" says Tink. \"It got father, and it has almost got me. Some folks can breathe brass filings and carbon dioxide and thrive on it; but we can't. So I gave up and hid myself away in here to work out one of my silly dreams. Last spring I caught a bad cold, and Sister sent me West. There we have an uncle. She thought the change of climate might help my cough. It didn't do a bit of good; but it was out there that I picked up this option. That was when I saw a chance of making my dream come true. You saw what I've been building, didn't you, as we came through?\" \"I didn't notice,\" says I. \"What is it, anyway?\" \"Wait until I light the lantern,\" says Tuttle. \"Now come. This way. Don't hit your head on those wings. There!\" And, say, it's a wonder I could walk right by a thing of that kind without gettin' next, even if it was kind of dark. But all I needs now is one glimpse of the outlines.", "words": 307}, {"story": 16, "title": "Touching on Tink Tuttle", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Oho!\" says I. \"A flyer! Say, every bughouse in the country is at work on one of them.\" \"I suppose so,\" says he. \"I may be as big a fool as any of them, too; but I think I know what I'm doing. At any rate, I've put my last dollar into it. That's why my sister is so----Well, she thinks I am----\" \"Yes, I suspicioned she was some sore on you,\" says I. \"But what sort of a flyer is this, double or single winger?\" \"It's a biplane,\" says Tuttle, \"on the Farnham type, only an improved model.\" \"Of course it's improved,\" says I. \"Tried her out yet!\" \"Hardly,\" says he. \"I couldn't buy an engine, you see. That's what I've been waiting for. Say, you really think the Corrugated will take that option, do you? If they only would!\" \"You must be in a hurry to break your neck,\" says I. Before I left, though, he'd shown me all over the thing, explained how it was goin' to work, and did his best to get me as excited as he was. Also I makes him give me the full details of how he come to get this option, and I advises him if he does manage to cash it in for two thousand, to take an ax to his flying machine and hike out for some lung preservin' climate where he'll have a chance to shake that cough. \"Thanks,\" says he, grippin' my hand and chokin' up. \"You--you've been mighty good to me. I'll remember it.\" Course, I gives Mr. Ellins the whole tale in the mornin', about Tuttle and his bum air pumps, and his batty scheme of buildin' the flyer; but all that interests Old Hickory is the option and the price.", "words": 296}, {"story": 16, "title": "Touching on Tink Tuttle", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Good work, Torchy,\" says he. \"I've wired our Western agents to investigate, and if they report an O. K., Tuttle shall have his two thousand to do what he likes with.\" It must have been two weeks later, and I'd almost forgot the case, when one mornin' I gets a note from Tinkham J., askin' me to come over to the shed as quick as I could. Well, I didn't know whether he was havin' a final spasm or not; but it seemed like I ought to go, so that night I does. I finds him waitin' for me at the yard gate. He don't look any worse than usual, either. \"Well,\" says I, \"didn't the deal go through?\" \"It did,\" says he, pattin' me on the back. \"Thanks to you, it did. The check came two days later, and I've spent it all.\" \"What!\" says I. \"You don't mean to say you blew all that in on an engine for that blamed----\" \"All but a few dollars that I put into oil and gasoline,\" says he. \"But the machine is all hooked up, Torchy, and it works. Do you hear that? It works! I've been up!\" \"Up?\" says I. \"Not far,\" says he; \"but enough to know what I can do. Started right here from the yard, just at daylight, and landed here again. I've told no one else, you know. Come in and see how smooth the engine works.\" And it was just while he was gettin' ready to start the wheels that these two strangers butts in on us. One is a husky, red faced, swell dressed young sport, and the other is a tall, swivel eyed, middle aged gent dressed in khaki. They walks around the machine without payin' any attention to me or Tuttle. \"Well, what do you think of it, Captain?\" says the young sport after a while.", "words": 314}, {"story": 16, "title": "Touching on Tink Tuttle", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "The Captain, he shakes his head. \"I can't tell positively,\" says he; \"but these planes seem to me to be set entirely wrong. I never saw deflectors worked on that principle before, either. The theory may be good; but in a practical test----\" \"They say he's made flight, though,\" breaks in the young sport. \"The night watchman saw him. Hey! You're the chap that built this aeroplane, aren't you?\" \"Yes, sir,\" says Tuttle. \"And didn't you make a flight?\" he wants to know. \"A short one,\" says Tuttle. \"That's enough for me,\" says the sport. \"Say, you know who I am, don't you?\" \"Oh, yes,\" says Tuttle. \"At least, I ought to. You're Bradish Jones, Jr., one of the owner's sons.\" \"That's right,\" says young Mr. Jones. \"And I know you. You're the son of old Tuttle, who used to be foreman of the machine shop when I was doing my apprentice work. Thought this little trick of yours was a secret, didn't you? But I heard about it. Lucky for you I did, too. I'm in the market. I don't care a hoot what the Captain says, either. I want a flyer, and I'm ready to take a chance on yours. What do you want for it?\" \"Why,\" says Tuttle, \"I don't believe I want to sell.\" \"What's that?\" snaps Bradish. \"Come, now! Don't try to bluff me! I'll admit I'm in a hurry. These Curtiss people have been holding me off for a month, and I want to begin flying right away. So name your price. How much?\" But Tuttle, he only shakes his head.", "words": 267}, {"story": 16, "title": "Touching on Tink Tuttle", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Oh, yes, you will,\" says Bradish. \"Why, you've hardly a dollar to your name. You can't afford to own a flyer, even if you did build it. You know you can't. Now show me what it cost you, and I'll give you a thousand for your work and a hundred a week until I learn to manage the thing. Is it a go?\" \"No!\" says Tuttle, sharp and quick, them big eyes of his fairly blazin'. \"This is my machine, and I'm going to fly it. I don't care how much money you've got. You've taken a sudden whim that you'd like to fly. It's been the one dream of my life. You've had your yachts and your racing cars. I've never had anything but hard work. My father wore himself out in your stinking old factory. I nearly did the same. But you can't rob me of this. You sha'n't, that's all!\" And for a minute them two stood there givin' each other the assault and batt'ry stare, without sayin' a word. A queer lookin' pair they made, too; this Bradish gent, big and beefy and prosperous, and Tink Tuttle, his greasy old coat hangin' loose on his skinny shoulders, and lookin' like he was on his way from the accident ward to the coroner's office. \"Five thousand cash, then,\" growls Mr. Jones. \"Not if you said fifty!\" Tink comes back at him. \"Bah!\" says Bradish. \"Why, I could have you and your machine thrown out in the road this minute. But I'll give you twenty-four hours to think it over. Remember, to-morrow night at six I'll be here with the money. Then it will be either sell or go. Come, Captain,\" and with that they pikes out. \"Say, Tink,\" says I, \"you got him comin', all right, and if you don't get that five thousand you're no good.\"", "words": 310}, {"story": 16, "title": "Touching on Tink Tuttle", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"I know I'm no good,\" says Tuttle. \"That's why I don't want his money.\" \"But see here, Tink,\" says I. \"You ain't goin' to turn down an offer like that, are you?\" \"I am,\" says he, \"and I'll tell you why. It's because I know I'm no good and never would be any good, even if I could live, which I can't. Oh, I don't need any doctor to tell me how much longer I've got. They gave me only three months over a year ago. I knew better. I knew I should hold out until I finished my flyer. Father didn't have anything like that to keep on for; so he went quicker. He didn't want to go, either. And it was awful to watch him, Torchy, just awful! But I'm not going to finish that way. No, not now,\" and he walks up to the machine and runs his hand loving along one of the smooth planes. \"How's that?\" says I. \"What are you drivin' at, Tink?\" \"I can't tell you how I shall do it exactly,\" says he; \"for I'm not sure. But I mean to go up once; way, way up, out over the ocean just at sunrise. Won't that be fine, eh? Just think! Sailing off up there into the blue; up, and up, and up; higher than anyone has ever dared to go before, higher and higher, until your gasoline gives out and you can't go any more!\" \"Yes; but what then?\" says I, beginnin' to feel some chilly along the spine. \"Why, that's enough, isn't it?\" says he. \"Anyway, it's all I ask. I'll call it all quits then.\"", "words": 276}, {"story": 16, "title": "Touching on Tink Tuttle", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Ah, say, cut out the tragedy!\" says I. \"You give me the creeps, talkin' that rot! What you want to do is to go up for a short sail if you can, forget to try any Hamilton stunts, and then beat it back to collect that five thousand while the collectin's good. Say, when do you try her again?\" \"At daylight to-morrow morning,\" says he. \"Gee!\" says I. \"I've got a notion to stick around and watch how you come out.\" \"No, don't,\" says he. \"I--I'll let you know. Yes, honest I will. Goodnight and--good-by.\" He kept his word as well as he could, too. The postmark on the card was six A.M.; but I guess it must have been dropped in the box earlier than that. All it says is: Twenty gallons in the tank, and I'm off at four o'clock. I shall go straight out to sea and then up, up. I've never been much good; but I mean to finish in style. T. T. Now, what would you say to a batty proposition like that? I couldn't tell whether it was a bluff, or what. And I waits four days before I had the nerve to go and see. Sister says she ain't seen him since last Monday. And there was no flyer in the shed. Nobody around the place knew what had become of it, either. Well, it's been two weeks since I got that postal. What do I think? Say, honest, I don't dare. But at night, when I'm tryin' to get to sleep, I can see Tink, sittin' in between all them wires and things, with the wheel in his hand, and them big eyes of his gazin' down calm and satisfied, down, down, down, and him ready to take that one last dip to the finish. And, say, about then I pull the sheets up over my eyes and shiver.", "words": 317}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Anybody might of thought, to see me sittin' there in the Ellins lib'ry, leanin' back luxurious in a big red leather chair lookin' over the latest magazines, that I'd been promoted from head office boy to heir apparent or something like that. I expect some kids would have stood on one leg in the front hall and held their breath; but why not make yourself to home when you get the chance? I knew the boss was takin' his time goin' through all them papers I'd brought up, and that when he finished he'd send down word if there was any instructions to go back. That's how I come to get the benefit of all this mushy conversation that begins to drift out from the next room. First off I couldn't make out whether it was some one havin' a tooth plugged, or if it was a case of a mouse bein' loose at a tea party. Course, the squeals and giggles I could place as comin' from Miss Marjorie Ellins. Maybe you remember about Mr. Robert's heavyweight young sister that wanted to play Juliet once? But who the other party was I didn't have an idea, except that from the \"you-alls\" she was usin' I knew she must hail from somewhere south of Baltimore. Anyway, they seemed to be too much excited to sit down while they talked, and the first thing I knew they'd drifted into the lib'ry, their arms twined around each other in a reg'lar schoolgirl clinch, and the conversation just bubblin' out of 'em free.", "words": 260}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Miss Marjorie was all got up classy in pink and white, and she sure does look like a wide, corn fed Venus. The other is a slim, willowy young lady with a lot of home grown blond hair, a cute chin dimple, and a pair of big dark eyes with a natural rovin' disposition. And she's hobble skirted to the point where her feet was about as much use as if they'd been tied in a bag. It was some kind of a long winded story she was tellin' very confidential, with Marjorie supplyin' the exclamation points. \"Really, now, was he, Mildred?\" says Marjorie. \"'Deed and 'deedy, he was!\" says Mildred. \"Positively the handsomest man I ever saw! I thought I could forget him; but I couldn't, Madge, I couldn't! And only think, he is coming this very night, and not a soul knows but just us two!\" \"Excuse me,\" says I; \"but I'm Number Three.\" \"Oh, oh!\" they both squeals at once. \"Who--who's that?\" whispers Mildred. \"Why it's only Torchy, from Papa's office,\" says Marjorie. \"And oh, Mildred! He is the very one to help us! You will now, won't you, Torchy? Come, that's a dear!\" \"Please do, Torchy!\" says Mildred, snugglin' up on the other side and pattin' my red hair soothin'. \"Ah, say, reverse English on the tootsy business!\" says I. \"This ain't any heart-throb matinee. G'wan!\" \"Why, Torchy!\" says Marjorie, real coaxin' \"I thought we were such good friends!\" \"Well, I'm willin' to let it go that far,\" says I; \"but don't try to ring in any folksy strangers. I'm here on business for the firm.\" Just then too down comes the maid sayin' there wa'n't anything to go back; so I starts to beat it. I didn't get far, though, with a hundred and ninety pound young lady blockin' the doorway.", "words": 306}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Torchy, you must help us!\" says Marjorie. \"There isn't anyone else we can ask. And you're always doing such clever things for Papa and Brother Bob!\" Say, it was a puffy lot of hot air she hands out; but I admit that after two or three more speeches like that, and with her promisin' to square anything Piddie might have to say about not comin' back, she had me goin'. \"Well, what's the proposition?\" says I. \"Let's tell him all, so he will understand just what he's to do,\" suggests Marjorie. And, say, you should have heard them two, with me pinned in between 'em on the couch, givin' me the tale in a sort of chorus, both talkin' to once and beginnin' at diff'rent ends. \"It's such a romance!\" squeals Marjorie. \"You see, he's coming to-night,\" says Mildred, \"and nobody knows.\" \"Yes, I got that all down,\" says I; \"but what's the first part? Who is he and where's he from?\" Well, it's some yarn, all right! Seems that Mildred was a boardin' school chum of Marjorie's who'd come up from Atlanta to spend the summer with friends in Newport. As a wind-up to the season they'd taken her on a yachtin' trip up the coast. Such a poky old trip, too! Nobody aboard but old married folks that played bridge all the time, and one bald headed bachelor who couldn't sit out in the moonlight with her unless he was wrapped up in a steamer rug.", "words": 248}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "So what was a girl with eyes like Mildred's to do, anyway? She was bein' bored to death, when, as luck would have it, something went wrong with the propeller shaft. The yacht was 'way up off the coast of Maine at the time, and the nearest place where it was safe to anchor was in the lee of a barren, dinky little island. And they stays there three whole days, while the crew tinkers things up below and the folks yawn their heads off. All but Millie. She got so desp'rate she rowed ashore all by herself. Accordin' to her description, that must have been a perfectly punk little island. It was all rock, except in a few spots where there was some scrub bushes and mangy grass. Plunk in the middle was an old shack of a house surrounded by lobster pots and racks of codfish spread out to dry, and she says it was the smelliest scenery she'd ever got real close to. But Mildred was sore on the yacht and all the stupid folks on it; so she wanders out to windward of the worst smells, plants herself on the flattest rock she can find, and prepares to read. That's her pose when she looks up and discovers this male party with the sun kissed locks and the dreamy eyes standin' there gazin' at her curious. \"It wasn't Adonis that I called him,\" says Mildred. \"Who was that stunning old Greek that we had the bust of in the school library, Madge?\" \"Hermes?\" says Marjorie. \"That's it!\" says Mildred. \"He was a perfect Hermes; only his curly hair was all sun bleached, and his face was tanned a lovely brown, and he had big, broad shoulders, and--and he was smoking a pipe.\" \"And about his eyes!\" prompts Marjorie. \"Oh, they were perfectly stunning,\" says she, \"real sea blue.\"", "words": 312}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Well, anybody that ever read a midsummer fiction number could have supplied the next chapters. Here's the lovely city girl, the noble browed but unsuspectin' native, golden summer days, and no competition. Why, with a catchy title and a few mushy pictures it would make a lovely contribution to one of the leadin' thirty-five-centers, just as it stood. And Mildred knew her cue, all right. She trains them front row eyes of hers on him, opens up with a few lines of lively chatter, and inside of half an hour she has him sittin' picturesque at her feet, callin' him Hermes of the Lobster Pots, and otherwise workin' the siren spell. \"You must have flirted horribly with him,\" says Marjorie, sighin' deep and admirin'. \"What else could one do?\" asks Mildred. \"And it was such fun! I could get him to say hardly anything about himself; but he was a charming listener. He would sit and gaze at me in the most soulful, appreciative way. Poor chap!\" He must have had her guessin' some at that; for she wa'n't dead sure whether he was a real native or not until the boss of the island shows up. He's a hump shouldered, leather faced, bushy browed old barnacle, with a Down East dialect that it was a dream to listen to, and it was only when Mildred heard Hermes call him Uncle Jerry that she could believe the two was any relation. Uncle Jerry didn't interfere, though He let 'em moon around on the rocks without disturbin' the game, and I judge from Millie's report that she wa'n't missin' any tricks. Yet she's right there with the heartless behavior when the time comes, sailin' away with a gay laugh and leavin' her blue eyed young lobster man to yearn and mourn there on his smelly little island. Anyway, that's how she had it doped out.", "words": 314}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And it wa'n't until weeks later, when she'd had her snapshots of him developed and printed, and got to summin' up the details in this case of Victim B-23, that she discovers how a few of her own heartstrings has been strained. Somehow she couldn't seem to tear them three August days completely off the calendar; and when the other chappies come buzzin' around, and she had a chance to frame 'em up alongside of this fish island hero, there wa'n't but one answer. It was Hermes for hers, every day in the week! There he was, though, out on that mussy rock; and here she was, visitin' in New York, leadin' the giddy life, and gettin' her gowns ready for the Horse Show. If Millie had passed out the heartaches casual along her former trails, here was where she gets at least one of 'em back on the rebound. You can guess how bad an attack she had when she crosses all the new Reggie boys off her string and cooks up this scheme of sendin' for Hermes to come to her. Her excuse is that she wants Uncle Jerry to have the trip of his life by coming to the great city; but incident'lly she urges him to bring his blue eyed nephew along, and the check she sends is big enough to cover expenses for both. Bein' one of the impulsive kind, she does it the minute the notion strikes her; and two days later comes this postal from Uncle Jerry, sayin' how he was much obliged, and him and his nevvy was takin' the boat for Bosting and expected to fetch up in New York sometime next afternoon by train. \"Which is now,\" says Mildred. \"But of course I can't go to the Grand Central to meet him.\" \"Why not?\" says I. \"Why balk at a little thing like that when you've been doin' so well?\"", "words": 320}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Oh, but, Torchy,\" chimes in Marjorie, \"you know you could do it so much better!\" And what with both of them coaxin', and stuffin' expense money into my pockets, the next thing I know I'm on my way down to where the Boston trains come in, and am campin' outside the gate. I nearly wore my eyes out, too, sizin' up the first trainload, and after an hour's wait I was gettin' dizzy keepin' track of the second lot, when all of a sudden I spots this old chap with the thick underbrush over his eyes and the sole leather complexion. \"Oh, you Uncle Jerry!\" I sings out, takin' a chance and pushin' through the crowd with my hand out. \"Wall, how be ye?\" says he, real hearty. \"Don't remember seein' you afore; but I s'pose it's all right.\" \"Sure it is, old scout,\" says I. \"If you're Uncle Jerry, I'm Miss Mildred's reception committee; but where's the nephew?\" \"That's him,\" says he, jerkin' his thumb at a big, overgrown, tow haired yawp that's trailin' along in the rear luggin' a canvas valise. \"You don't mean to tell me that's Hermes?\" says I. \"I dun'no 'bout any Hermes,\" says he; \"but this is my sister's boy Jake, the only nephew I got, and, bein' as how Miss Mildred asked so special, I brought him along.\"", "words": 225}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Course, there's no accountin' for tastes, specially in a romantic young lady like her; but, if this was her idea of livin' Greek statuary, she sure was easy pleased. Why, of all the rough necked Rubes! He's one of these loose jawed, open mouthed, lop sided youths that walks like he was afraid of steppin' on his own feet, and looks about as much alive as a tin rabbit that can wiggle its ears when you pull a string. His hair and complexion was accordin' to specifications, I admit, and his eyes were as blue as a new set of lunch counter crockery; and if he was all Uncle Jerry could show in the nephew line, then he must be it. \"All right,\" says I. \"It ain't me that's pickin' him. Now fall in line right behind me, and we'll work out where he won't get run down by baggage trucks or be mistaken by excursionists for a spray of autumn leaves.\" \"Young lady didn't come down to the train, hey?\" says Uncle Jerry. \"No, it makes her kind of nervous to see the cars come in,\" says I. \"You're due to meet her this evenin', Uncle, you and Hermes.\" You see, accordin' to the plan, I was to stow the pair to some hotel, see that they was fed, keep 'em busy durin' the early part of the evenin', and round 'em up at a big society crush where Marjorie knew the folks well enough so she could ask favors. If Mildred had 'em come where she was visitin', there'd be no end of questions asked; but if she sort of ran across 'em by accident at a place where there was a crowd, and could have a few words with Hermes in some quiet corner, nobody would be the wiser.", "words": 302}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "It was this last part of the programme I had in mind as I was sizin' up Jake's travelin' costume. And, say, how is it up there in the opodeldoc zone that they can get these high-water pant legs to fit so much like lengths of stovepipe? They was kind of a bilious brown and cut gen'rous in the seat; but, as far as real comic relief went, they wa'n't in it with the cute little short tailed cutaway that he sported above 'em. Honest, that coat was enough to make an eccentric song and dance artist green in the eyes! And you can believe me when I say I didn't lose any time in scootin' 'em down Fourth-ave. to a dollar a day house patronized by some of our swellest Texas buyers. My next move is to make a report over the 'phone. \"Yep, I got 'em both under lock and key,\" says I to Marjorie. \"Trouble to pick em out? Ah, it was a pipe! Specimens like that ain't so common anyone could get mixed if they knew what day to look for 'em. Yes, the nephew's along, all right. His real name is Jake. Well, Hermes if you insist. But, say, ask Miss Mildred if she wants him delivered in the original package, or should I hire some open face clothes for him.\" The decision is that Hermes must come in a dress suit, and if he ain't got any with him Marjorie will send down one of Mr. Robert's old ones. \"Oh, I'm just dying to see him in evening clothes!\" gushes Mildred over the wire. \"I know he'll be perfectly splendid!\" \"Maybe,\" says I. \"Only don't forget the collar buttons and studs for the dress shirt.\"", "words": 291}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Say, I won't dwell on the gay time I had tryin' to keep that pair out of sight until after dinner. Honest, if I'd been drivin' the monkey cage in a circus parade I'd felt a lot better; for every fresh gink that pipes off that vaudeville costume of Jake's has to have his say about it. At the hash house where I steers 'em up against a twenty-five-cent course dinner all the girl waiters got to gigglin' like they'd never seen a freak before. It wouldn't have been so bad with just Uncle Jerry, for he's wearin' an old black whipcord that would pass in the dark, and, outside the rubber collar and the plated watch chain looped across his vest, he didn't have the crossroads tag on him very plain; but Jake might as well have had cowbells tied to him. Maybe I wa'n't some relieved too when we got back to the hotel and found this outfit that the girls had scraped together and sent down. \"Now we'll fix you up for the theater and high society, Jake,\" says I. \"By rights you ought to have some of that neck hemp sheared off; but I don't dare let a barber loose at you, for fear Mildred wouldn't know you after he got through. She raved a lot about that hair of yours, Jake.\" \"You go on now, Smarty!\" says Jaky boy, grinnin' expansive. \"Think I'm goin' to wear duds like them?\" \"You do if you appear out again with me,\" says I. \"So peel the butternut regalia and lemme see if I can harness you up in these.\" \"Hee-haw!\" remarks Uncle Jerry. \"Let him fix you up real harnsome, Jake.\"", "words": 283}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Maybe that's what I did; but I wouldn't want to swear to it. Anyway, I got him into the dress shirt by main strength. That was the first struggle. Then, while Uncle Jerry held him gaspin' and groanin' on the floor, I buttoned the high collar on and fastened the white tie. Next we ended him up on his feet and pulled on the display vest and the long tailed coat. \"Ug-g-gh! It chokes somethin' awful!\" says Jake, gettin' purple faced and panicky. \"Ah, close that pie gangway of yours and breathe natural for a minute!\" says I. \"There, you're feelin' better already. Come, pull them knobby wrists back up into your sleeves. This ain't no swimmin' lesson, you know. Say, you wear a dress suit like it was so much tin armor. What's the matter with you, anyway!\" \"I--I don't know,\" says Jake, tryin' to stretch his head up like a turkey. \"I don't like this.\" \"You look it,\" says I. \"But think who's goin' to see you in it later! First off, though, you're goin' to a show with me. Come on, now; maybe you'll get used to bein' dressed up by eleven o'clock.\" \"'Leven o'clock!\" says Uncle Jerry. \"Look here, Son, I ain't in the habit of stayin' up all night, remember. I'll be droppin' off to sleep for sartin'.\" He don't, though. All through the play, which has been a two years' scream for Broadway, he sat as solemn as if he was on a coroner's jury in the presence of the remains. Play actin' was new to Uncle Jerry; but he wa'n't going to give himself away, and he was just as wide awake as anybody in the house.", "words": 284}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "With Jake it was diff'rent. I expect them washed out blue eyes of his had taken in so many new scenes since mornin' that they couldn't absorb any more. Anyway, he gets drowsy before the curtain goes up, and after he's twisted his neck until he's got it collar broken he settles back for a comf'table snooze. He looks so calm and peaceful I didn't have the heart to disturb him, and I only jabbed my elbows in his ribs when he got to tunin' up the nose music too loud. Besides, I was hopin' a little nap of two or three hours might leave him some refreshed and in better shape for exhibitin' to Miss Mildred. For the more I saw of Jake, the less I could understand how a real live one like Millie could stand for three days of him, even if she did, discover him on a desert island. And as for ravin' about him afterwards--well, you never can tell, can you? After the play it took Uncle Jerry shakin' on one side and me on the other to bring Jake back to life from his woodsawin' act. \"Ah, quit it and give the orchestra a chance!\" says I. \"And keep them elbows down! Don't try to stretch here; wait until you get back to the open fields for that. Yes, it's all over, and you're about to butt into society; so for Heaven's sake come out of the trance!\" Not havin' a stretcher handy, we drags him out to the curb, and I blows some more of my expense account against a taxi, which lands us safe and sound at this Fifth-ave. number up in the 70's. \"Guests of Miss Marjorie Ellins,\" was to be the password, and the flunky in satin pants at the door seems to have been well posted.", "words": 307}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Yes, sir; right this way, sir,\" says he, wavin' us down the hall and shootin' us into a little conservatory nook. \"The gentlemen from Maine are to wait here, and you are to meet Miss Ellins at the foot of the grand staircase. She will be down in a moment, sir.\" \"I get you,\" says I, and, after cautionin' Jake to keep on his feet until I came back, I slips out and posts myself behind a potted palm where I could watch the early arrivals comin' down from the cloakrooms. It wa'n't a long wait; for pretty soon down floats Mildred and Marjorie, all got up in flossy party dresses and fairly quiverin' with excitement. \"Oh, you dear boy!\" gushes Millie. \"And he is really here, is he? My splendid Hermes! Tell me, what did he have to say about it all?\" \"Who, Jake?\" says I. \"Mostly he was beefin' about the way his neck ached from the collar.\" \"Isn't that just like a man!\" says Marjorie. \"I don't care,\" says Mildred. \"I am just crazy to see him once more. I want to look into his eyes and----\" \"Then step lively,\" says I, \"before they get glued up for good. Down this way. Here you are, in there among the palms! See, there's Uncle Jerry rubberin' around!\" \"Oh, yes!\" squeals Millie, clappin' her hands. \"Dear old Uncle Jerry! But--but, Torchy, where is--er--his nephew?\" \"Eh?\" says I. \"Why, there on the bench, doin' the yawn act!\" \"Wha-a-a-at!\" gasps Millie, steppin' in for a closer look. \"Straight goods,\" says I. \"That's Hermes the lobster picker.\" \"That!\" says Mildred, shrinkin' back. \"Never!\" \"Huh!\" says I. \"I told him you wouldn't know him if he didn't keep that face cavity of his closed. He's been doin' that since eight o'clock. But he's the real article, serial number guaranteed by Uncle Jerry.\"", "words": 309}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"No, no!\" squeals Mildred, covering her face with her hands and backin' away. \"There's been some dreadful mistake! That isn't my Hermes. He wasn't at all like that, I tell you, not at all!\" Well, we was grouped there in the hall holdin' our foolish debate, when this strange gent strolls by huntin' for some place to light up his cigarette. And just as one of us mentions Hermes again I notices him turn and prick up his ears. Next thing I knew, he's stepped over and is lookin' kind of smilin' and expectant at Mildred. \"I beg pardon if I'm wrong,\" says he; \"but isn't this the--er--ah--the young lady whom I had the pleasure of----\" But that's enough for Millie, just hearin' his voice. Down comes her hands off her face. \"Oh, I knew it! I knew it!\" she squeals. \"Hermes!\" And, say, I don't know how that old Greek looked; but if he had the build and lines of this chap he sure was some ornamental. Anyway, the one we had with us would have been a medal winner in any kind of clothes. Also he had the light wavy hair and the dark blue eyes of Millie's description, with some of the vacation tan left on his cheeks. Marjorie's the next to be heard from. \"Why, Mr. Brooke Hartley!\" says she, stickin' out her hand. \"By Jove!\" says he. \"Bob Ellins' little sister, eh? Hello, Marjorie!\" \"Then--then----\" gasps Mildred, lookin' from one to the other kind of dazed, \"then you aren't a lobster man, after all?\" \"Nothing so useful as that, I'm afraid,\" says Hartley. \"But why were you there on that island?\" she insists. \"Well,\" says he, \"hay fever was my chief excuse. I pretend to paint marines, you know, and that's another; but really I suppose I was just being lazy and enjoying the society of Uncle Jerry.\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 17, "title": "Getting Hermes on the Bounce", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"But he isn't your uncle, truly?\" says Mildred. \"Well,\" says Hartley, \"it's a relationship I share with most of the summer people on that section of the Maine coast.\" Then a light seemed to break on Mildred. She blushes to her eartips and hides her face in her hands once more. \"Oh, oh!\" she groans. \"And I called you Hermes!\" \"You did,\" says he. \"And nothing ever tickled my vanity half so much. I've lived on that for the last two months. Please don't take it back!\" \"I--I won't,\" says Millie, lettin' loose one of them rovin' glances at him sort of shy and fetchin'. And, say, all tinted up that way, you could hardly blame him for grabbin' both her hands. Not knowin' what might happen next, I proceeds to break in. \"In the meantime,\" says I, \"what'll you have done with this perfectly good nephew we've got on our hands back there on the bench?\" \"That one!\" says Millie. \"Oh, I never want to see him again! Tell him to go away and--and go to bed.\" \"That'll be welcome news for Jaky, all right,\" says I.", "words": 188}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Say, I guess I might as well tell it right out; for, from all I hear about myself, my dome must have a glass top that puts all the inside works on exhibition. There's Zenobia, for instance, who's my half-step-adopted aunt, as you might say. Now, she ain't one to sleuth around, or cross-examine, or anything like that; but what she's missed of this little affair that I ain't breathed a word of to anybody is more'n I've got the nerve to ask. Course, it was her put that corkin' silver frame on Vee's picture in the first place. Just found it on my bureau, you know, and, without pumpin' me for any account of who and why, goes and unbelts reckless for the sterling decoration. A perfectly nice old girl, Zenobia is, if you ask me. More'n a year ago that was, and there hasn't been a word passed about that photo since. Yes, it's been on the bureau all the time. Why not? When a young lady friend of yours is dragged off to Europe by her aunt, and sends you a stunnin' picture of herself for you to remember her by, you don't turn it face to the wall or chuck it in the ashcan, do you? Maybe two years it would be, she said, before she came back. It ain't so long to look over your shoulder at; but when you come to try squintin' ahead that far it's diff'rent. I tried it and gave it up. A whole lot can happen in two years; so what was the use? Besides, look who she is, and then think of all I ain't!", "words": 276}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Couldn't help seein' the picture there night and mornin', though, could I? Nothin' mushy about glancin' casual at it now and then, was there? You know I ain't got any too many friends,--not so many I has to have a waitin' list,--and outside of Zenobia and Aunt Martha, and here and there one of the lady typewriters at the office that throws me a smile on and off, they're mostly men. And as for fam'ly, mother, or father, or sisters, or brothers, or real aunts--well, you know how I'm fixed. I'm the whole fam'ly myself. So you see, when I looks at Miss Vee there, and thinks how nice she was to me them two times when we met by accident,--once at the dance where I was subbin' in the cloakroom, and again at the tea where I'd been sent to trail Mr. Robert--well, even if she hadn't been such a queen, I don't think I'd forgot her right away. Course, though, as for figurin' out why she ever noticed me at all, that's a myst'ry I had to pass up.", "words": 181}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Must have been soon after she went away that I begun sizin' up some critical the gen'ral style and get up of the party whose hair I was combin' and whose face I was washin' more or less reg'lar. Startin' with the collar, I discovered that mine gen'rally had saw edges, gaped in the middle, and got some soiled about the third day. From then on I've been particular about havin' a close front collar and puttin' on a fresh one every mornin', whether I need it or not. Next I got wise to the fact that one tie wouldn't last more'n six months without showin' signs of wear, and it wa'n't long before I had quite a collection hangin' over the gasjet. Up to then I didn't have the tooth powder habit very strong; but it's chronic with me now. See the result? I didn't stop to give myself reasons for gettin' so finicky; but the one main fact loomin' up ahead seemed to be that some day or other Miss Vee would be comin' back, and that maybe I might be on hand to sort of--well, you know how you'll frame things up? I was to be vice president of the Corrugated by that time, most likely, and they'd be sendin' me abroad to look up important matters. That's how it was goin' to happen that I'd find out where Vee was stayin'. Not that I'd think of buttin' in on her and the aunt. Not much! Just remember I'd seen Aunty!", "words": 254}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "No, I was to be on the steamer, leanin' over the rail careless, when they came aboard to go home. I was to be costumed all in gray. I don't know just why; but it looks kind of distinguished, specially if you've got gray hair. Not that I could count on my ruddy thatch frostin' up much in a couple of years; but somehow nothing but gray seemed to fill the bill. I'd planned on gettin' one of them gray tweed suits such as Mr. Robert wears back from London, and a long gray ulster that'd make me look tall, and a gray cloth hat to match, and gray gloves. Get the picture? Well, there I am by the rail, lookin' sort of distinguished and bored and all that, when up comes Miss Vee and Aunty. All I could think of Vee wearin' was that pink silk affair she had on at the dance, which wouldn't be exactly what a young lady'd start out on an ocean trip with, would it? She'd be some jarred at seein' me, it's likely; but I'd lift the gray lid real dignified, throw back the ulster so she'd get the full effect of the tweed suit, and shoot off some remark about how \"one always meets one's most chawming friends when one travels.\" Then I'd be presented to the aunt; and after that was over, why it would be just a romp down the home stretch, with yours truly all the entry in sight. Simply a case of me and Vee promenadin' the deck by moonlight for hours and hours, and gettin' to be real old friends.", "words": 273}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "But pipe dreams like that don't often come true, do they? I ain't got so far as ownin' a pair of gray gloves, and not a word has been said about makin' me vice president, when along comes this foreign picture postcard, showin' the Boss de Bologna on one side, and on the other this scribbled message: We sail for home on the 10th. Rah! Rah! Count Schlegelhessen is coming over with us. He's a dear. V. A. H. Jolted! Say, I was up and down so many times durin' the next few hours I'd most meet myself comin' and goin'. Miss Vee was on her way over! I'd bounce at that thought, and get all kind of warmed up inside. Count Schutzenfest is coming with her, and he's a dear! Bang! I'd strike bottom again, with a chilly feelin' under my vest. Wa'n't anything more'n I might have looked for, of course. Aunty's one of the kind that would pick out a Count for Miss Vee, and there was plenty of Counts over there to be picked; but somehow I couldn't picture Vee goin' wild over one of them foreign ginks. It was clear she had, though. There it was on the postcard, \"He's a dear!\" \"Huh!\" thinks I. \"Most of 'em are dear--at any price.\" It wa'n't for hours, either, that I simmers down enough for the thought to strike me that I didn't have any special license to hold a court of inquiry over whether Miss Vee was comin' back with a Count or not. After that I had time to debate with myself whether I ought just to forgive and forget, goin' through life cold and sad; or if I should hide my busted heart the best way I could and pretend I didn't care.", "words": 299}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Was there any use in my goin' down to the pier and standin' in the background to watch her come ashore with her dear Count? I could see myself! Oh, yes, I had it all doped out along them lines! As Robert Mantell would put it over, \"She has went out of muh life for-r-r-rever.\" Ah yes! I could have stood for anything but one of them sausage Counts. So I stows her picture away in the bottom bureau drawer, burns the postcard, and dodges Zenobia's eye when she looks at me curious. It was all over. Yet I knew to an hour when her steamer would dock, and the mornin' of the day it was due I rolls out of the feathers at six A.M. Just as natural as could be too, I gets out the new safety razor I'd had hid away for a couple of months past, and inside of fifteen minutes I'd had my first shave. Does that get by them keen eyes of Zenobia! Not for a minute! \"Ah!\" says she, pattin' me sort of casual on one cheek as she comes down to breakfast. That's all; but she not only takes in the shave, but the best blue serge suit I've put on, and the birthday tie, and the Sunday shoes. I only grins sheepish and slides out as soon as I can. You see, accordin' to my plans, I wouldn't have gone near that steamer for any sum you could name. That being the case, it was odd I should call up the pier and find out if the boat was on time at Quarantine. Also it was some strange the way I opened up on Piddie. \"Say, Mr. Piddie,\" says I, \"any prospects of an outside run for me to-day?\"", "words": 298}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Not in the least,\" says he. \"I suppose, though, you would like a chance to waste some of the company's time on the street?\" \"Me?\" says I. \"Why, I'd hate it. I was only afraid I'd have to go, with all this inside work to be done.\" \"Humph!\" says he. \"You needn't fear. I shall see that nothing of the sort happens.\" \"Ah, you're a bird, you are!\" says I. \"Perhaps,\" says Piddie. \"Then climb a tree and twitter,\" says I; for it made me grouchy to think I'd let a bonehead like him get a rise out of me. The more I chewed it over, though, the stronger I was for breakin' loose about dockin' time. Maybe I didn't want to go to the pier; but if he was bent on throwin' the gate on me, that was another proposition. I got sorer and sorer and I was on the point of chuckin' the job at Piddie's head and walkin' out on my own hook, when who should come stormin' in, scowlin' and grumblin' to himself, but Mr. Robert. And he had a worse attack than I did. \"Torchy,\" says he, wheelin' around halfway to his office, \"ring up Pier Umpty-nine and find out when that blasted steamer is due.\" \"The Kaiser boat?\" says I. \"She'll dock about two-forty-five.\" \"Eh?\" says he, some startled. \"Now, how the----Never mind, though. Sure about the time, are you?\" \"Yep,\" says I. \"Dash it all!\" says he. \"That's Marjorie, though! Any word from the Consolidated Bridge people yet?\" \"Not yet,\" says I, and slam goes his door.", "words": 264}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Took me three minutes by the clock to dope out the combination too, which shows how gummed up my gears was. But when I'd fitted them two remarks together, about Marjorie and the bridge people, and had remembered the cablegram from Sister Marjorie sayin' how their party'd been broken up on account of sickness and she was comin' home alone--why, it was all like readin' it off a bulletin. Marjorie's arrivin' durin' business hours was likely to mess up the schedule. Course, if the bridge concern didn't send word---- I'd got to that point, when in drifts my old A. D. T. runnin' mate, Hunch Leary, draggin' his feet behind him and chewin' gum industrious. Now Hunch don't look like a tempter. He's plain homely, that's all. But comin' just as he did, with Piddie over there glarin' at me suspicious--well, I just had to do it. \"Sure I got blanks on me?\" says Hunch. \"Wot then?\" Right under Piddie's nose he fixes it up too, and waits while I takes the phony message in to Mr. Robert. It wa'n't such a raw one, either; not as if it had sent him off to wait at some hotel. \"Will try to get around about two-thirty Trimble,\" was all it said. And how did we know Trimble wouldn't try, anyway? \"That settles it,\" says Mr. Robert, crumplin' the yellow sheet. \"Torchy, you must do the family honors.\" \"Do which?\" says I, with business of great surprise. \"Meet my sister Marjorie, see that she gets through the customs without landing in jail, and take her home in a taxi. Think you're equal to it, eh?\" says he. \"I could make a stab,\" says I. \"I'll risk that much,\" says he.", "words": 288}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "And before there's any chance for a revise I've marched by Piddie with my tongue out and am pikin' towards the North River with a pier pass in one pocket and expense money in another, specially commissioned to meet the very steamer that's bringin' in Miss Vee and her Count. All of which shows how curious things will coincide if you use your bean a little to help 'em along. Well, you know how it is waitin' in a push of people for a steamer. Everybody's excited and anxious and keyed up, ready to jump at every whistle, and stretchin' their necks for a peek down the river. It's as catchin' as the baseball fever when you're in a mob watchin' the scores posted. I finds myself actin' just as eager as any, and me only doin' messenger work. Finally the boat shows up; but instead of sailin' in graceful and prompt, she shuts off steam and lays to out in the middle of the river, about as lifeless as a storage warehouse afloat, while a dozen or so dinky tugs begin pushin' and pullin' to get her somewhere near the pier. Then folks start makin' wild guesses as to which is their friends. \"There's Uncle Fred, Willie!\" squeals a fat woman next to me, proddin' me vigorous in the ribs. \"Not mine, ma'am,\" says I. \"Oh, excuse me,\" says she. \"Why, there's Willie, over there. Hey, Willie! See Uncle Fred?\" It was that way all around me, and me not even doin' the wave act. After awhile though, I spots Marjorie. There was no doubt about it being her; for she looms up among that crowd along the rail like a prize Florida orange in a basket of lemons. It's plain Marjorie ain't lost any weight by her trip abroad, and she looks more like a corn fed Juliet than ever.", "words": 312}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "As she wa'n't expectin' me, but was huntin' for Brother Robert, I didn't see the sense in shoutin'. I went on lookin' over the rest of the passengers, sort of bracin' myself for any discovery I might make. Would they show up arm in arm, or with their heads close together, or how? I'd looked the boat over from bow to stern and back again about three times before I happens to take another glance at Marjorie. And there, almost hid by one side of her, was a young lady in a white sailor hat with some straw colored hair showin' under the wide brim, and a pair of gray eyes that I couldn't mistake anywhere. It was Vee, all right; just as slim and graceful and classy as ever, with the same independent tilt to her chin, and the same Mayflower pink showin' in her cheeks. And, say, I want to tell you that about then I was glad I came! It didn't make any difference if there was half a dozen Counts, and a Duke and what not besides; just seein' her once more, even if I didn't get a chance to put over a word, was worth while. And right there I makes up my mind that, Count or no Count, I'm goin' to push to the front. \"Oh, you Miss Vee!\" I megaphones through my hands, just as enthusiastic as anybody on the pier.", "words": 238}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "About the third call catches her ear. She sort of starts and gazes at the crowd kind of puzzled. There's such a mob, though, she don't pick me out. I could see her turn to Marjorie and say something, and then I gets wise to the fact that the four-eyed gent with the bristly hair and the half gray set of shavin' brush mustaches, standin' next to Marjorie, was one of their party. Miss Vee leans over and passes along some remark to him, and he shrugs his shoulders and says something that makes 'em both laugh. \"If that's the Count,\" thinks I, \"he's a punk specimen.\" A couple of minutes later the boat comes alongside and the passengers break away from the rail to get in line for the gangplank. As I'm there to welcome Miss Marjorie Ellins, I has to post myself near the E section, and inside of fifteen minutes she's all through havin' her suitcase and steamer trunk pawed over, and leavin' the hold baggage to be claimed later, we streams out to where I had a cab waitin'. \"Is it all aboard, Miss Marjorie?\" says I. \"Not yet,\" says she. \"You see, I've asked Vee to come home with me for dinner--the girl I met on the steamer. You don't mind waiting, do you?\" Did I? Say, nobody would suspect it, I guess, by the grin I had on when she and Aunty and the four-eyed party comes trailin' out. \"Say, Miss Marjorie,\" says I, \"is that Count Schutzenbund?\" \"Schlegelhessen,\" says Marjorie, \"and he's a perfect----\" \"Yes, I've heard he was,\" says I. \"Little antique, though, ain't he?\" \"Why, he isn't forty!\" says Marjorie. \"And he's just too----\"", "words": 283}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "There wa'n't time for any more bouquets, though; for the trio was too close. Must have been some of a surprise for Vee to see me waitin' there, and for a bit she don't seem to make out just who it is. That only lasts a second, though. Then them gray eyes of hers lights up, and them thin lips curls into a smile, and she holds out both hands in that quick way of hers. \"Why, it's Torchy, isn't it?\" says she, half laughin'. \"Uh-huh,\" says I, lettin' the grin spread wider. \"Can't shake the name or the hair.\" \"Never try,\" says she. \"Look, Aunty, here's Torchy!\" \"Torchy?\" says the wide old girl, inspectin' me doubtful through her lorgnette. \"Why, Verona, I don't remember----\" \"Oh, yes, you do, Aunty,\" says Miss Vee. \"Anyway, I've told you about him, and it's so jolly to have some one to meet us. Thank you, Torchy. Now let's see, Marjorie, how do we divide up? Aunty goes to her hotel--and--and where do you go, Count?\" \"Me, I am--what you call--perplex,\" says the Count, and he sure looked it. \"But where the young ladies go, there I will follow. _Hein?_\" He shrugs his shoulders again and puts on such a comical face that it's no wonder the girls giggled. And that one act maps out the Count for me. He's just one of them middle aged cut-ups that's amusin' to have around, if the sessions ain't too frequent. Follow the young ladies, would he? Say, there was only three inside seats to my taxi, and I hadn't planned on ridin' with the driver. \"Lemme fix that for you, Count,\" says I. \"Hey, Cabby!\" and I whistles up a second taxi. \"What's the number, ma'am?\" I asks of Aunty. \"Oh, Perzazzer hotel. Get that, Mr. Shuffer? Here you are, Count, right in here!\"", "words": 308}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"But is it that--er--the young ladies, you see,\" he protests. \"I haf bromise myself the bleasure to----\" \"Yes, that'll be all right too,\" says I. \"They'll do the followin', though, about a block behind. In you go, now!\" and I shoves him alongside of Aunty, shuts the door, and gives the startin' signal. Maybe it was a nervy thing, shuntin' the Count off like that, and Marjorie seems sort of disappointed and dazed to find he ain't comin' with us, but by the twinkle in Miss Vee's eyes I guessed I hadn't overplayed my part. Anyway, we had a nice chatty ride on the way up, with Marjorie doin' most of the chattin'. Looked like that was going to be about as far as I'd figure too, for there wa'n't a chance of my gettin' a word in edgewise; but when we fetched up in front of the Ellins' house Miss Vee breaks in with delay orders. \"No, Marjorie,\" says she; \"you first. Run in and see if it's all right; and if there isn't a dinner party on, or a houseful of guests, I'll come. No, I shall wait until you do.\" Course, she didn't plan it that way; but it gives me about six minutes that was all to the good. \"You didn't mind my sidetrackin' the Count, eh?\" says I. \"It was lovely--and perfectly absurd!\" says Vee. \"You know he bores Aunty to death, and Aunty bores him. He had planned on meeting Marjorie's mother, too.\" \"Then I mussed things up, didn't I?\" says I. \"I believe you did it purposely, you wretch!\" says she, shakin' a finger at me. \"Who wouldn't?\" says I. \"See what I get by it!\" \"Silly!\" says she. \"I've a mind to rumple those red curls.\" \"Go on,\" says I, takin' my hat off. \"They'd wiggle for joy.\"", "words": 306}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Then I'll do nothing of the kind,\" says she. \"You haven't even said you were glad to see me.\" \"I'm keepin' it a dead secret,\" says I. \"What happened to Europe; was it on the fritz?\" \"Poky,\" says she. \"And they found out I was no musical genius, after all. Aunty's disgusted with me.\" \"She ought to take something for her taste,\" says I. \"Oh!\" says she, tiltin' her head on one side. \"Then you still approve of me?\" \"That's the only motto on my wall,\" says I, \"only I put it stronger.\" \"Silly!\" says she once more. And then--well, I was watchin' the pink spread up her cheeks, and was sort of gazin' into them big gray eyes, and gen'rally takin' one of them long, lingerin' looks; and we was both leanin' back not so very far apart, with the slides of the cab shuttin' everything else out--and then all of a sudden I heard her sort of whisper \"Well?\"--and--and--Ah, say! With a pair of cherry ripes as close as that, what else was there to do? \"Why, Torchy!\" says she, jumpin' away. \"What made you dare----Quick, now, here comes Marjorie. Over on the front seat! And--and perhaps I shall see you again sometime.\" \"Your eyesight'll be bad if you don't, Vee,\" says I. \"Good-by.\" Just before the Ellins' front door closed behind her I caught the wave of a handkerchief; so I guess she can't be so awful mad. Ride back to the office? Say, I paid off the taxi and floated down Fifth-ave. as light as if it was paved with gas balloons. \"Huh!\" grunts Mr. Robert, after I'd made my report. \"Brought home a steamer friend, did she? Who did you say it was?\" \"Well, between you and me,\" says I, \"it's Vee. You remember--the one at the girls' boardin' school tea party when----\"", "words": 308}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "\"Eh?\" says he. \"Ah, that one? Then it wasn't--er--exactly a hardship for you to meet this particular steamer, eh, Torchy?\" \"Do I look it?\" says I. And Mr. Robert he winks back; for, as I happen to know, he's been there himself. It's that friendly wink though, that makes me remember puttin' up that game on him with the fake message, and somehow I felt cheap and mean. Here he was, treatin' me white and square, and I'd been handin' him a piece of fresh bunk. \"Mr. Robert,\" says I, standin' pigeontoed and flushin' up some, \"you remember that message from the bridge people--Trimble, it was signed?\" \"Oh, yes,\" says he. \"He came, all right, about a quarter to three.\" \"Gee!\" says I, and walks out. For when things start comin' your way in clusters like that, what's the use tryin' to duck? ----------------------------------------------------------------------- EDGAR RICE BURROUGH'S NOVELS May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. TARZAN THE UNTAMED Tells of Tarzan's return to the life of the ape-man in his search for vengeance on those who took from him his wife and home. JUNGLE TALES OF TARZAN Records the many wonderful exploits by which Tarzan proves his right to ape kingship. A PRINCESS OF MARS Forty-three million miles from the earth--a succession of the weirdest and most astounding adventures in fiction. John Carter, American, finds himself on the planet Mars, battling for a beautiful woman, with the Green Men of Mars, terrible creatures fifteen feet high, mounted on horses like dragons. THE GODS OF MARS Continuing John Carter's adventures on the Planet Mars, in which he does battle against the ferocious \"plant men,\" creatures whose mighty tails swished their victims to instant death, and defies Issus, the terrible Goddess of Death, whom all Mars worships and reveres. THE WARLORD OF MARS", "words": 307}, {"story": 18, "title": "When Miss Vee Threw the Dare", "volume": "Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1911)", "text": "Old acquaintances, made in the two other stories, reappear, Tars Tarkas, Tardos Mors and others. There is a happy ending to the story in the union of the Warlord, the title conferred upon John Carter, with Dejah Thoris. THUVIA, MAID OF MARS The fourth volume of the series. The story centers around the adventures of Carthoris, the son of John Carter and Thuvia, daughter of a Martian Emperor. GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK ----------------------------------------------------------------------- JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD'S STORIES OF ADVENTURE May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. THE RIVER'S END A story of the Royal Mounted Police. THE GOLDEN SNARE Thrilling adventures in the Far Northland. NOMADS OF THE NORTH The story of a bear-cub and a dog. KAZAN The tale of a \"quarter-strain wolf and three-quarters husky\" torn between the call of the human and his wild mate. BAREE, SON OF KAZAN The story of the son of the blind Grey Wolf and the gallant part he played in the lives of a man and a woman. THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM The story of the King of Beaver Island, a Mormon colony, and his battle with Captain Plum. THE DANGER TRAIL A tale of love, Indian vengeance, and a mystery of the North. THE HUNTED WOMAN A tale of a great fight in the \"valley of gold\" for a woman. THE FLOWER OF THE NORTH The story of Fort o' God, where the wild flavor of the wilderness is blended with the courtly atmosphere of France. THE GRIZZLY KING The story of Thor, the big grizzly. ISOBEL A love story of the Far North. THE WOLF HUNTERS A thrilling tale of adventure in the Canadian wilderness. THE GOLD HUNTERS The story of adventure in the Hudson Bay wilds. THE COURAGE OF MARGE O'DOONE Filled with exciting incidents in the land of strong men and women. BACK TO GOD'S COUNTRY", "words": 318}, {"story": 19, "title": "Chancing It For Vee", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Say, what's next to knowin' when you're well off? Why, thinkin' you are. Which is a little nugget of wisdom I panned out durin' a chat I had not long ago with Mr. Quinn, that I used to work under when I was on the door of the Sunday sheet, three or four years back. \"Hail, Torchy!\" says he, as we meets accidental on Broadway. \"Still carrying the burning bush under your hat, aren't you?\" I grins good-natured at his old josh, just as I used to about twice a week regular, and admits that I am. \"You wa'n't lookin' for me to fade to an ash blond, was you?\" says I. \"Ah!\" says he. \"I see the brilliance is not all on the outside. Well, what use are you putting it to? Who are you with now?\" \"Same concern,\" says I. \"Corrugated Trust.\" \"As First, or Second Vice President?\" says he, cockin' his head on one side humorous. \"Add 'em together and multiply by three,\" says I, \"then you'll be warm.\" \"I don't quite get the result,\" says he. \"Ever hear of an office-boy-de-luxe?\" says I. \"They don't print it on the letter-heads yet, or paint it on the ground-glass, but that's my real label. I'm the only one in New York, too.\" Mr. Quinn chuckles and goes off shakin' his head. I expect he's disappointed that I've stuck so long in one shop without climbin' further up the ladder. That's what he was always preachin' at me, this ladder-climbin' advice. But say, hod carriers do that. Me for an express elevator when the time comes. But meanwhile, with a couple of bosses like Old Hickory Ellins and Mr. Robert, it ain't so worse sittin' behind the brass rail. That's one reason I ain't changed. Also there's that little mine enterprise me and Mr. Robert's mixed up in, which ain't come to a head yet.", "words": 316}, {"story": 19, "title": "Chancing It For Vee", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Then--well, then, there's Vee. Go on--hand me the jolly! And if you push me to it I'll admit I ain't any speedy performer at this \"Oh, you!\" game. Mr. Robert he thinks it's comic, when he has the kiddin' fit on, to remark chuckly, \"Oh, I say, Torchy, have you seen Miss Vee lately?\" There's others too, that seems to get a lot of satisfaction shootin' the same thing at me, and they sort of snicker when I get pink in the ears. But, say, there's a heap of difference between pickin' peaches from an easy chair under the tree, and when you have to shin the garden wall and reach through the barbed wire ornament on top. Course, I ain't comparin' anything--but there's Aunty. Dear old girl! Square as a brick, and about as yieldin'; good as gold too, but worth more per ounce than any coined at the mint; and as foxy in the mind as a corporation lawyer arguin' before the Rapid Transit Commission. Also I'm as welcome to Aunty's eyesight as Eugene V. Debs would be at the Union League Club--just about. That ain't any idle rumor, either, nor something that was hinted to me casual. It's first-hand information, hot off the bat. \"Boy,\" says she, glarin' at me through her gold lorgnette like I was some kind of insect specimen, \"do I understand that you come here to see my niece?\" \"Well,\" says I, \"there's you and her--guess!\" \"Humph!\" she snorts indignant. \"Then I wish you to know that your visits are most unwelcome. Is that quite clear?\" \"I get the outline,\" says I. \"But, you see----\" \"No qualifications, absolutely none!\" says she. \"Good afternoon, young man. I shall not expect you to return.\" \"Oh, well, in that case,\" says I, sidlin' off, \"why--I--I think I'll be goin'.\"", "words": 303}, {"story": 19, "title": "Chancing It For Vee", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "It was a smear, that's all. I felt about as thick through as a Saratoga chip, and not half so crisp. Encouragin' finish for an afternoon call that I'd been bracin' myself up to for weeks, wa'n't it? And from all I can gather from a couple of sketchy notes Vee gets about the same line of advice handed her. So there was a debate between her and Aunty. For I expect nobody can lay the law down flat to Vee without strikin' a few sparks from them big gray eyes. But of course Aunty wins out in the end. It's a cinch, with everything on her side. Anyway, the next thing I knows about their plans is when I finds their names in the sailin' list, bound for the Big Ditch, with most everyone else that could get away. And I makes my discovery about three hours after the boat has left. But that was in January. And I expect it was a fine thing for Vee, seein' the canal before it revised the geography, and dodgin' all kinds of grip weather, and meetin' a lot of new people. And if it's worth all that bother to Aunty just so anybody can forget a party no more important than me--why, I expect that's all right too. But it's just like some folks to remember what they're ordered to forget. Anyway, I got bulletins now and then, and I was fairly well posted as to when Aunty landed back in New York, and where she unpacked her trunks. That helped some; but it didn't cut the barbed wire exactly. And, say, I was gettin' some anxious to see Vee once more. Nearly two weeks she'd been home, and not so much as a glimpse of her! I'd doped out all kinds of brilliant schemes; but somehow they didn't work. No lucky breaks seemed to be comin' my way, either.", "words": 319}, {"story": 19, "title": "Chancing It For Vee", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "And then, here last Sunday after dinner, I just hauls out that church weddin' costume I'd collected once, brushes most of the kinks out of my red hair, sets my jaw solid, and starts to take a sportin' chance. On the way up I sketches out a scenario, which runs something like this: A maid answers the ring. I ask if Miss Vee is in. The maid goes to see, when the voice of Aunty is heard in the distance, \"What! A young gentleman asking for Verona? No card? Then get his name, Hortense.\" Me to the maid, \"Messenger from Mr. Westlake, and would Miss Vee care to take a short motor spin. Waiting below.\" Then more confab with Aunty, and five minutes later out comes Vee. Finale: Me and Vee climbin' to the top of one of them Riverside Drive busses, while Aunty dreams that she's out with Sappy Westlake, the chosen one. Some strategy to that--what? And, sure enough, the piece opens a good deal as I'd planned; only instead of me bein' alone when I pushes the button, hanged if two young chappies that had come up in the elevator with me don't drift along to the same apartment door. We swap sort of foolish grins, and when Hortense fin'ly shows up everyone of us does a bashful sidestep to let the others go first. So Hortense opens on what looks like a revolvin' wedge. But that don't trouble her at all. \"Oh, yes,\" says she, swingin' the door wide and askin' no questions. \"This way, please.\" Looked like we was expected; so there's no ducking and while we're drapin' our hats on the hall rack I'm busy picturin' the look on Aunty's face when she singles me out of the trio. They was panicky thoughts, them.", "words": 300}, {"story": 19, "title": "Chancing It For Vee", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "But a minute later the plot is still further mixed by the sudden swishy, swirly entrance of an entire stranger,--a tall, thin female with vivid pink cheeks, a chemical auburn tint to her raven tresses, and long jet danglers in her ears. She's draped in what looks like a black silk umbrella cover with rows of fringe and a train tacked to it, and she wears a red, red rose coquettish over one ear. As she swoops down on us from the drawin' room she cuts loose with the vivacious chatter. \"Ah, there you are, you dear, darling boys!\" says she. \"And the Princess Charming is holding court to-day. Ah, Reggy, you scamp! But you did come, didn't you? And dear Theodore too! Brave, Sir Knights! That's what you all shall be,--Knights come to woo the Princess!\" Honest, for awhile there, as this bughouse monologue was bein' put over, I figured I've made a mistake in the floor, and had been let into a private ward. But as soon as I gets next to the Georgia accent I suspects that it ain't any case of squirrels in the attic; but just a sample of sweet Southern gush. Next I gets a peek through the draperies at some straw-colored hair with a shell-pink ear peepin' from underneath, and I know that whatever else is wrong don't matter; for over there on the windowseat, surrounded by half a dozen young gents, is somebody very particular and special. Followin' this I does a hasty piece of scout work and draws a deep breath. No Aunty looms on the horizon--not yet, anyway. With the arrival of the new delegates the admirin' semicircle has to break up, and the three of us are towed to the bay window by Vivacious Vivian.", "words": 296}, {"story": 19, "title": "Chancing It For Vee", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Princess,\" says she, makin' a low duck, \"three other Knights who would do homage. Allow me first to present Mr. Reginald St. Claire Smith. Here Reggy. Also Mr. Theodore Braden. And next Mr.--Mr.--er----\" She's got to me. I expect her first guess was that I'd been dragged in by one of the other two; but as neither of 'em makes any sign she turns them black, dark-ringed lamps inquirin' on me and asks, \"Oh, I'm sure I beg pardon, but--but you are----\" Now who the blazes was I, anyway? It all depended on how well posted she was, whether I should admit I was Torchy the Banished, or invent an alias on the spot. \"Why,\" says I, draggin' it out to gain time, \"you see I'm a--that is, I'm a--a----\" \"Oh, hello!\" breaks in Vee, jumpin' up and holdin' out both hands just in the nick of time. \"Why, of course, Cousin Eulalia! This is a friend of mine, an old friend.\" \"Really!\" says Cousin Eulalia. \"And I may call him----\" \"Claude,\" I puts in, winkin' at Vee. \"Call me just Claude.\" \"Perfectly lovely!\" gushes Eulalia. \"An unknown knight. 'Deed and you shall be called Claude--Sir Claude of the Golden Crest. Gentlemen, I present him to you.\" We looks at each other sort of sheepish, and most of us grins. All but one, in fact. The blond string bean over in the corner, with the buttermilk blue eyes and the white eyebrows, he don't seem amused. For it's Sappy Westlake, the one I run on a siding once at a dance. Think of keepin' a peeve on ice all that time! It's quite a likely lookin' assortment on the whole, though, all costumed elegant and showin' signs of bein' fairly well parlor broke. \"What's the occasion?\" says I on the side to Miss Vee. \"Reunion of somebody's Sunday school class?\"", "words": 310}, {"story": 19, "title": "Chancing It For Vee", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "She gives me a punch and smothers a snicker, \"Don't let Cousin Eulalia hear you say such a thing,\" says she. We only had a minute; but from what she manages to whisper durin' the general chatter I makes out that this is a little scheme Eulalia'd planned to sort of launch Vee into the younger set. She's from Atlanta, Cousin Eulalia is, one of the best fam'lies, and kind of a perennial society belle that's tinkled through quite some seasons, but refuses to quit. Just now she's spendin' a month with Fifth-ave. friends, and has just discovered that Vee and her are close connected through a step-uncle marryin' a half-sister of Eulalia's brother-in-law, or something like that. Anyhow, she insists on the cousin racket, and has started right in to rush Vee to the front. She's some rasher, Eulalia is, too. No twenty-minutes-to-or-after silences while she's conductin' affairs. Course, it's kind of frothy stuff to pass for conversation; but it bubbles out constant, and she blows it around impartial. Her idea of giving Cousin Vee a perfectly good time seems to be to have us all grouped around that windowseat and take turns shootin' over puffs of hot air; sort of a taffy-throwin' competition, you know, with Vee as the mark. But Vee don't seem tickled to death over it. She ain't fussed exactly, as Eulalia rounds us up in a half-circle; but she colors up a little and acts kind of bored. She's some picture, though. M-m-m-m! And it was worth while bein' one of a mob, just to stand there watchin' her.", "words": 265}, {"story": 19, "title": "Chancing It For Vee", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "I expect the young college hicks felt a good deal the same about it as me, even if they was havin' hard work diggin' up appropriate remarks when Eulalia swings the arrow so it points to them. Anyway, they does their best to come up with the polite jolly, and nobody makes a break to quit. It's durin' the tea and sandwich scramble, though, that Cousin Eulalia gets her happy hunch. Seems that Sappy Westlake has come forward with an invite to a box party just as Vee is tryin' to make up her mind whether she'll go with Teddy Braden to some cotillion capers, or accept a dinner dance bid from one of the other young gents. \"And all for Wednesday night!\" says she. \"How stupid of you, with the week so long!\" \"But I'd planned this box party especially for you,\" protests Sappy. \"Oh, give someone else a chance, Westlake,\" cuts in Reggy. \"That's the night of our frat dance, and I want to ask Miss Vee if----\" \"What's this all about?\" demands Eulalia, dancin' kittenish into the limelight. \"Rivalry among our gallant knights? Then the Princess Charming must decide.\" \"Oh, don't, Cousin Eulalia,\" says Vee, wrinklin' her nose the least bit. \"Please!\" \"Don't what?\" says Eulalia, raisin' her long arms flutterin'. \"My dear, I don't understand.\" \"Ah, she's hintin' for you to ditch the Princess stuff,\" I puts in. \"Ain't that it?\" and Vee nods emphatic. Eulalia lets on that she don't know. \"Ditch the--why, what can he mean by that?\" says she. \"And you are a Princess Charming; isn't she, boys?\" Course the bunch admits that she is. \"There, you see?\" goes on Eulalia. \"Your faithful knights acclaim you. Who says that the age of chivalry has passed? Why, here they are, everyone of them ready to do your lightest bidding. Now, aren't you, Sir Knights?\"", "words": 310}, {"story": 19, "title": "Chancing It For Vee", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "It's kind of a weak chorus; but the ayes seem to have it. What other answer could there be, with Vee gazin' flushed and pouty at 'em over the tea urn? \"Really, Eulalia, I wish you wouldn't be so absurd,\" says Vee. \"My dear Cousin Verona,\" coos Eulalia, glidin' up and huggin' her impetuous, \"how could anyone keep their heads straight before such absolutely distracting beauty? See, you have inspired them all with the spirit of chivalry. And now you must put them to the test. Name some heroic deed for each to perform. Begin with Reggy. Now what shall it be?\" \"Fudge!\" says Vee, tossin' her head. \"I'll do nothing so perfectly mushy.\" But Cousin Eulalia wa'n't to be squelched, nor have her grand scheme sidetracked. \"Then I declare myself Mistress of the Lists,\" says she, \"and I shall open the tournament for you. Ho, Trumpeter, summon the challengers! And--oh, I have it. Each of you Sir Knights must choose his own task, whatever he deems will best please our Princess Charming. What say you to that?\" There's a murmur of \"Good business!\" \"Bully dope!\" and the young gents begin to prick up their ears. \"Then this is how it stands,\" goes on Eulalia, beamin' delighted. \"Between now and eight o'clock this evening each knight must do his valorous best to win the approval of our Princess. Hers it shall be to decide, the prize her gracious company for next Wednesday night. Come now, who enters the lists?\" There's some snickerin' and hangin' back; but fin'ly they're all in. \"All save the Unknown Knight,\" pipes up Eulalia, spottin' me in the rear. \"How now, you of the Crimson Crest? Not showing the white feather, are you?\" \"Me?\" says I. \"Well, I don't quite get the drift of the game; but if it'll make you feel any better, you can count me in.\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 19, "title": "Chancing It For Vee", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Good!\" says she, clappin' her hands. \"And while you are afield I must leave too--another tea, you know. But we all meet here again at eight sharp, with proof or plunder. Teddy, have you decided what to attempt?\" \"Sure,\" says he. \"Me to find the biggest box of candy that can be bought in New York Sunday evening.\" \"Oh, splendid!\" gurgles Eulalia. \"And you, Mr. Westlake?\" \"Orchids,\" says Sappy. \"Grandmother has dandy ones at her place up in Westchester, and I can make there and back in my roadster if I'm not pinched for speeding. I'm going to have a try, and maybe I'll have to steal the flowers too.\" \"There!\" says Eulalia, pattin' him on the back. \"That's a knightly spirit. But what of Crimson Crest? What will you do?\" \"The game is to spring something on Miss Vee better'n what the others put over, is it?\" says I. \"Precisely,\" says Eulalia, allowin' two of the young gents to help her on with her wraps. \"Have you thought what your offering is to be?\" \"Not yet,\" says I. \"I may take a chance on something fresh.\" They was all pilin' out eager by that time, each one anxious to get started on his own special fool stunt, so, while I was mixed up in the gen'ral push, with my hat in my hand and my coat over my arm, it didn't strike me how I could bolt the programme until I'm half crowded behind the open hall door. Then I gets a swift thought. Seein' I wouldn't be missed, and that Vee has her back to me, I simply squeezes in out of sight and waits while she says by-by to the last one; so, when she fin'ly shuts the door, there I am. \"Why, Torchy!\" says she. \"I thought you had gone.\" \"But it wa'n't a wish, was it?\" says I.", "words": 313}, {"story": 19, "title": "Chancing It For Vee", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Humph!\" says she, flashin' a teasin' glance. \"Suppose I don't tell that?\" \"My nerve is strong today,\" says I, chuckin' my hat back on the rack; \"so I'll take the benefit of the doubt.\" \"But all the others have gone to--to do things that will please me,\" she adds. \"That's why I'm takin' a chance,\" says I, \"that if I stick around I might--well, I'm shy of grandmothers to steal orchids from, anyway.\" Vee chuckles at that. \"Isn't Cousin Eulalia too absurd?\" says she. \"And since you're still here--why--well, let's not stand in the hall. Come in.\" \"One minute,\" says I. \"Where's Aunty?\" \"Out,\" says she. \"What a pity!\" says I, takin' Vee by the arm. \"Tell her how much I missed her.\" \"But how did you happen to come up today?\" asks Vee. \"There wa'n't any happenin' to it,\" says I. \"I'd got to my limit, that's all. Honest, Vee, I just had to come. I'd have come if there'd been forty Aunties, each armed with a spiked club. It's been months, you know, since I've had a look at you.\" \"Yes, I know,\" says she, gazin' at the rug. \"You--you've grown, haven't you?\" \"Think so?\" says I. \"Maybe it's the cut-away coat.\" \"No,\" says she; \"although that helps. But as we walked in I thought you seemed taller than I. Let's measure, here by the pier glass. Now, back to back. Well, if I ever! Look where your shoulders come!\" \"No more than an inch or so,\" says I, gazin' sideways at the mirror; and then I lets slip, half under my breath, a sort of gaspy \"Gee!\" \"Why the 'Gee'?\" says she, glancin' over her shoulder into the glass. \"Oh, I don't know,\" says I; \"only I don't mind bein' grouped like this, not a bit.\" \"Pooh!\" says she, but still holdin' the pose.", "words": 307}, {"story": 19, "title": "Chancing It For Vee", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Seems to me,\" says I, \"that Cousin Eulalia is a slick describer. That Princess Charming business ain't so wide.\" \"Silly!\" says she. \"Come and sit down.\" She was steerin' for the windowseat; but I picks out a cozy little high-backed davenport and, reachin' for one of her hands, swings her into that. \"Just room for two here,\" says I. \"But you needn't keep my hand,\" says she. \"No trouble,\" says I. \"Besides, I thought I'd inspect what kind of a manicure you take of. M-m-m-m! Pretty fair, no hangnails, all the half-moons showin' proper, an----\" I broke off sudden at that and sat starin' blank. \"Well, anything else?\" says she. \"I--I guess not,\" says I, lettin' her hand slip. \"You've chucked it, eh?\" \"Chucked what?\" says she. \"Nothing much,\" says I. \"But for awhile there, you know, just for fun you was wearin' something of mine.\" \"Oh!\" she flashes back. \"Then at last you've missed it, have you?\" \"With so much else worth lookin' at,\" says I, \"is it a wonder?\" \"Blarney!\" says she, stickin' out her tongue. \"Did Aunty capture it?\" says I. Vee shakes her head. \"Maybe you lost it?\" I goes on. \"It wa'n't much.\" \"Then you wouldn't care if I had?\" says she. \"I wanted you to keep it,\" says I; \"but of course, after all the row Aunty raised over it, I knew you couldn't.\" \"Couldn't I, though?\" says she, and with that she fishes up the end of a little gold neck chain from under some lace--and hanged if there ain't the ring! \"Vee!\" says I, sort of tingly all over as I gazes at her. \"Say, you're a corker, though! Why, I thought sure you'd----\" \"Silly boy!\" says she. \"I'll just have to pay you for that. You will think horrid things of me, will you? There!\"", "words": 304}, {"story": 19, "title": "Chancing It For Vee", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "She does things in a flash when she cuts loose too. Next I knew she has her fingers in what Eulalia calls my crimson crest and is rumplin' up all them curls I'd been so careful to slick back. I grabbed her wrists, and it was more or less of a rough-house scene we was indulgin' in, when all of a sudden the draperies are brushed back, and in stalks Aunty, with Cousin Eulalia trailin' behind. \"Ver-ona!\" Talk about havin' a pitcher of cracked ice slipped down your back! Say, there was more chills in that one word than ever blew down from Medicine Hat. \"What,\" goes on Aunty, \"does this mean?\" \"It--it's a new game,\" says I, grinnin' foolish. \"As old as Satan, I should say!\" raps out Aunty. \"Why,\" squeals Cousin Eulalia gushy, \"here is our Unknown Knight, the first to come back with his tribute! Let's see, what was it you said you were going to do? Oh, I know--take a chance on something fresh, wasn't it? Well?\" \"Ye-e-es,\" says I. \"And I guess I did.\" \"Trust him for that!\" snorts Aunty. \"Young man, at our last interview I thought I made it quite clear that I should not expect you to return?\" \"That's right,\" says I, edgin' around her towards the door. \"And you wa'n't, was you?\" Some glance she shot over; but it didn't prove fatal. And as I rides down I couldn't help swappin' a wink with the elevator boy. \"Feelin' frisky, eh?\" says he. \"So was them other young guys. One of 'em tipped me a half.\" \"That kind would,\" says I. \"They're comin' back. I'm escapin'.\"", "words": 274}, {"story": 20, "title": "Pulling A Sleuth Stunt", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Trust Piddie for workin' up wild suspicions. Say, he can't find a stray sheet of scribblin' paper on the floor without pouncin' sleuthy on it and tryin' to puzzle out the hidden meanin'. So when I get the buzzer call to Old Hickory's private office and finds him and the main stem waitin' in solemn conclave there, I guesses right off that Piddie's dug up a new one that he hopes to nail me with. Just now he's holdin' a little bunch of wilted field flowers in one hand, and as I range up by the desk he shoots over the accusin' glance. \"Boy,\" says he, \"do you know anything about these?\" \"Why, sure,\" says I. \"They're pickled pigs' feet, ain't they?\" \"No impudence, now!\" says he. \"Where did they come from?\" \"Off'm Grant's Tomb, if I must guess,\" says I. \"Anyway, I wouldn't think they was picked in the Subway.\" And at this Old Hickory sniffs impatient. \"That is quite enough comic diversion, young man!\" he puts in. \"Do you or don't you know anything about how those things happened to get on my desk?\" \"Me?\" says I. \"Why, I never saw 'em before! What's the dope?\" \"Huh!\" he grunts. \"I didn't think this was any of your nonsense: too tame. And I suppose you might as well know what's afoot. Tell him, Mr. Piddie.\"", "words": 226}, {"story": 20, "title": "Pulling A Sleuth Stunt", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Did you ever see a pinhead but what just dotes on springin' a sensation? Piddie fairly gloats over unloadin' it. \"This,\" says he, holdin' up the wilted bunch, \"is the unaccountable. For the fourth time flowers of this description have been mysteriously left on Mr. Ellins' desk. It is not done after hours, or during the night; but in broad day, sometimes when Mr. Ellins is sitting just where he is now, and by a hand unseen. Watch has been kept, yet no one has been detected; and, as you know, only a few persons have free access here. Still the thing continues. At regular periods these absurd bouquets appear on this desk, seemingly from nowhere at all. Hence this inquiry.\" I'd heard Piddie spout a good many times before, but never quite so eloquent, and I expect I was gawpin' at him some dazed and admirin'. \"Well,\" says Old Hickory, squintin' sharp at me from under his bushy eyebrows, \"what have you to offer?\" \"It's by me,\" says I, shruggin' my shoulders. \"Oh, come now!\" he goes on. \"With that high tension brain of yours, surely you can advance some idea.\" \"Why,\" says I, \"offhand I should say that some of them mushy lady typists out there might be smugglin' in floral tributes to you, Sir.\" Old Hickory grins sarcastic. \"Without going into the question of motive,\" says he, \"that suggestion may be worth considering. What say, Mr. Piddie?\" \"It might be that Miss Smicks,\" says Piddie. \"She's quite sentimental, Sir, and I've thought at times she----\" \"Stop!\" roars Old Hickory, almost workin' up a blush. \"Mr. Piddie, I am a fat, cross-grained old man, about as attractive personally as a hippopotamus. Great stuttering tadpoles! Can't you think of anything but sappy romance? More likely someone wants a raise.\"", "words": 300}, {"story": 20, "title": "Pulling A Sleuth Stunt", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Very true, Sir; I hadn't thought of that,\" chimes in Piddie. \"Shall we call them all in, one at a time, Sir, and----\" \"And what?\" snaps Old Hickory. \"Think I'm going to ask all those young women if they've been leaving flowers on my desk?\" \"Couldn't you fake up some job for each one,\" says I, \"and when they came in be wearin' the flowers conspicuous, and watch if they----\" \"Bah!\" breaks in Old Hickory. \"What driveling tommyrot! Besides, I don't believe any of them had a hand in this. How could they? Why, I tell you, there wasn't a soul in this room between noon and twelve forty-five to-day; and yet, with me facing that door, these things appear right at my elbow. It--it's getting on my nerves, and, by the seven sizzling sisters, I want to know what it all means!\" \"We could have in the detectives,\" suggests Piddie. \"If it was a bomb or an infernal machine, I might,\" says Mr. Ellins scornful; \"but to trace a few dad-blistered flowers--no, thank you! It's foolish enough as it stands.\" \"But there is something behind all this, I'm sure,\" insists Piddie, \"and if you will allow me to do it, I shall send at once for Dr. Rudolph Bingstetter.\" \"Who's he?\" demands Old Hickory. \"A distinguished scientist who is a friend and neighbor of mine,\" says Piddie, swellin' up important. \"He was formerly a dentist, I believe; but now he devotes himself to research and literature. He writes magazine articles on psychological phenomena, crime mysteries, and so on. Dr. Bingstetter has a wonderful mind, and is often called on to unravel baffling cases. It was only a few months ago that he successfully investigated a haunted house out our way and found----\" \"But I'm not accusing ghosts of this,\" says Old Hickory.", "words": 303}, {"story": 20, "title": "Pulling A Sleuth Stunt", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Of course not, Sir,\" says Piddie; \"but I'm sure Dr. Bingstetter could find out just how those flowers come here. He's an extremely brilliant man, Sir, and I'm quite positive he could----\" \"Well, well, send for him, then,\" says Old Hickory. \"Only see that you keep still about it outside there, both of you. I don't care to have the whole office force chattering and snickering over this affair. Understand?\" You bet we did; for when the boss gets real peevish about anything it's not safe to get your signals mixed! I stands guard on the 'phone booth while Piddie was sendin' the message, and for once we plots away together real chummy. \"He's coming right over this afternoon,\" whispers Piddie, as he slides out of the booth. \"You're to take him directly into Mr. Ellins' office,--a large, impressive looking man, you know, with a full round face and wearing eye-glasses.\" Piddie forgets to mention the shiny frock coat and the forty-four-inch waist line; but for all that I spots him the minute he hits the brass gate, which he does about ten minutes before closin' time. \"Dr. Bingstetter?\" says I cautious. \"I am he,\" is the answer. \"S-s-s-s-sh!\" says I, puttin' a forefinger to my lips warnin'. \"S-s-s-s-sh!\" echoes the Doc, tiptoein' through the gate. Then up comes Piddie, walkin' on his toes too, and the three of us does a footpad sneak into Old Hickory's office. There wa'n't any wild call for me to stay as I knows of; but as long as no one threw me out I thought I'd stick around.", "words": 265}, {"story": 20, "title": "Pulling A Sleuth Stunt", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "I must say too the Doc looked and acted the part. First off he sits there blinkin' wise behind his glasses, and not a sign on his big, heavy face as he listens to all Piddie and Mr. Ellins can tell him about the case. Also when he starts askin' questions on his own hook he makes a noise like a mighty intellect changin' gears. \"M-m-m-m!\" says he, pursin' up his lips and studyin' the bouquet thoughtful. \"Six ox-eyed daisies, four sprays of goldenrod, and three marshmallow blooms,--thirteen in all. And this is the fourth bunch. Now, the others, Mr. Ellins, they were not precisely like this one, were they?\" \"Blessed if I know!\" says Old Hickory. \"No, come to think of it, they were all different.\" \"Ah, I thought so!\" says the Doc, sort of suckin' in his breath satisfied. \"Now, just what flowers did the first one contain, I should like to know.\" \"Why, hang it all, man, I can't remember!\" says Old Hickory. \"I threw the things into the waste basket.\" \"Ah, that was careless, very careless,\" says the Doc. \"It would have helped. One ought to cultivate, Mr. Ellins, the habit of accurately observing small details. However, we shall see what can be done with this,\" and once more he puckers his lips, furrows up his noble brow, and gazes steady at floral exhibit No. 4, turnin' it round slow between his fat fingers and almost goin' into a trance over it. \"Hadn't you better take a look around the offices,\" suggests Old Hickory, \"examine the doors, and so on?\" \"No, no!\" says Bingstetter, wavin' away the interruption. \"No bypaths. The trained mind rejects everything contributory, subordinate. It refuses to be led off into a maze of unsupported conjecture. It seeks only the vital, primogenitive fact, the hidden truth at the heart of things. And that is all here--here!\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 20, "title": "Pulling A Sleuth Stunt", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Piddie leans forward for another look at the flowers, and wags his head solemn, I edges around for a closer view myself, and Old Hickory stares puzzled. \"You don't mean to say,\" says he, \"that just by gazing at a few flowers you can----\" \"S-s-s-sh!\" breaks in the Doc, holdin' up a warnin' hand. \"It is coming. I am working outward from the primal fact toward the objective. It is evolving, taking on definite proportions, assuming shape.\" \"Well, what's the result?\" demands the boss, hitchin' restless in his chair. \"Patience, my dear Sir, patience,\" says the Doc soothin'. \"The introdeductive method cannot be hurried. It is an exact process, requiring utmost concentration, until in the fullness of the moment---- Ah, I have it!\" \"Eh?\" says Old Hickory. \"One moment,\" says the Doc. \"A trifling detail is still missing,--the day of the week. To-day is Wednesday, is it not? Now, on what day of last week did you receive a--er--similar token?\" Old Hickory finally reckons up that it must have been last Wednesday. \"And the week before?\" goes on the Doc. \"The bunch of flowers appeared then on Wednesday, did it not?\" Yes, he was pretty sure it did. \"Ah!\" says Bingstetter, settlin' back in his chair like it was all over, \"then the cumulative character is established. And such exact recurrence cannot be due to chance. No, it has all been nicely calculated, carried out with relentless precision. Four Wednesdays, four floral threats!\" \"Threats?\" says Mr. Ellins, sittin' up prompt.", "words": 250}, {"story": 20, "title": "Pulling A Sleuth Stunt", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"You failed to read them,\" says the Doc. \"That is what comes of neglecting minor details. But fortunately I came in time to decipher this one. Observe the fateful number,--thirteen. Note the colors here,--brown, golden, pink. The pink of the mallow means youth, the goldenrod stands for hoarded wealth, the brown for age. And all are bound together by wire grass, which is the tightening snare. A menacing missive! There will come another on Wednesday next.\" \"Think so?\" says Old Hickory. \"I am positive,\" says the Doc. \"One more. We will allude to it for the present, if you choose, as the fifth bouquet. And this fifth token will be red, blood red! Mr. Ellins, you are a marked man!\" \"The blazes you say!\" snorts Old Hickory. \"Well, it won't be the first time. Who's after me now, though?\" \"Five desperate men,\" says the Doc, countin' 'em off on his fingers. \"Four have given evidence of their subtle daring. The fifth is yet to appear. He will come on Wednesday next, and then--he will find that his coming has been anticipated. I shall be here in person. Now, let me see--there is a room connecting with this? Ah, very well. Have three policemen in readiness there. I think it can be arranged so that our man will walk in among them of his own accord. That is all. Give yourself no uneasiness, Mr. Ellins. For a week you will be undisturbed. Until then, Sir, au revoir.\"", "words": 246}, {"story": 20, "title": "Pulling A Sleuth Stunt", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "With that he bows dignified and motions Piddie to lead the way out. I slides out too, leavin' Old Hickory sittin' there starin' sort of puzzled and worried at the wall. And, honest, whether you took any stock in the Doc's yellow forecast or not, it listens kind of creepy. Course, with him usin' all that highbrow language, I couldn't exactly follow how he gets to it; but there's no denyin' that it sounds mighty convincin'. And yet--well, I can't say just what there was about Bingstetter that got me leery; but somehow he reminds me of a street faker or a museum lecturer. And it does seem sort of fishy that, just by gazin' at a bunch of flowers, he could dope out all this wild tale about five desp'rate men. Still, there was no gettin' away from the fact that he had hit it right about the bouquets appearin' reg'lar every Wednesday. That must mean something. But why Wednesdays? Now, what was there that happens on Wednesday that don't---- Say, you know how you'll get a fool hunch sometimes, that'll seem such a nutty proposition first off that you'll almost laugh at yourself for havin' it; and yet how it'll rattle around in your bean persistent, until you quit tryin' to get rid of it? Well, this one of mine strikes me about as I'm snugglin' down into the hay that night, and there was no gettin' away from it for hours.", "words": 244}, {"story": 20, "title": "Pulling A Sleuth Stunt", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "I expect I did tear off a few chunks of slumber between times; but I was wide awake long before my regular hour for rollin' out, and after makin' three or four stabs at a second nap I gives it up, slips down for an early breakfast, and before eight A.M. I'm down in the basement of the Corrugated Buildin' interviewin' the assistant superintendent in his little coop of an office. I comes out whistlin' and lookin' wise. And that night after I'd made a trip over to Long Island across the Queensboro Bridge I looks wiser still. Nothin' to do until next Wednesday. And when it comes it sure opens up like it's goin' to be a big day, all right! At first Old Hickory announces that he ain't goin' to have any cops campin' around in the directors' room. It was all blithering nonsense! Hadn't he lived through all sorts of warnin's before? And he'd be eternally blim-scuttled if he was goin' to get cold feet over a few faded flowers! There was Piddie, though, with his say. His idea is to have the reserves from two precincts scattered all over the shop, and he lugs around such a serious face and talks so panicky that at last the boss compromises on havin' two of the buildin' specials detailed for the job. We smuggles 'em into the big room at eleven o'clock, and tells 'em to lay low until they gets the word. Next comes Bingstetter, blinkin' mysterious, and has himself concealed behind a screen in the private office. By that time Old Hickory is almost as nervous as anybody. \"Fine state of affairs, things are at now,\" he growls, \"when a man isn't safe unless he has a bodyguard! That's what comes of all this political agitation!\"", "words": 300}, {"story": 20, "title": "Pulling A Sleuth Stunt", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Have no fear,\" says the Doc; \"you will not receive the fifth bouquet. Boy, leave that door into the next room slightly ajar. He will try to escape that way.\" \"Ajar she is,\" says I, proppin' it open with a 'phone directory. \"'Tis well,\" says the Doc. \"Now leave us.\" I was goin' to, anyway; for at exactly noon I had a date somewhere else. There was a window openin' off the bondroom that was screened by a pile of cases, and out from that was an iron fire escape runnin' along the whole court side on our floor. I'd picked that window out as bein' a good place to scout from. And I couldn't have been better placed; for I saw just who I was expectin' the minute he heaves in sight. I'd like to have had one glimpse, though, of Old Hickory and the Doc and Piddie while they was watchin' and listenin' and holdin' their breath inside there. But I'm near enough when the time comes, to hear that chorus of gasps that's let loose at twelve-twenty-six exact. \"Ha!\" says the Doc. \"As I told you--a red rose!\" \"Well, I'll be slam-whizzled!\" explodes Old Hickory. \"But--but where did it come from?\" pants Piddie. \"Who--who could have----\" And that's just when little Willie, after creepin' cautious along the fire escape, gives his unsuspectin' victim the snappy elbow tackle from behind and shoves him into view. \"Here's your desperado!\" says I, givin' my man the persuadin' knee in the small of his back. \"Ah, scramble in there, Old Top! You ain't goin' to be hurt. In with you now!\" \"Look out!\" squeals Piddie. \"Police, police!\" \"Ah, can that!\" I sings out, helpin' my prisoner through the window and followin' after. \"Police nothin'! Shoo 'em back, will you? He's as harmless as a kitten.\"", "words": 304}, {"story": 20, "title": "Pulling A Sleuth Stunt", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Torchy,\" calls Old Hickory, recoverin' his nerve a little, \"what is the meaning of this, and who have you there?\" \"This,\" says I, straightenin' my man up with a shoulder slap, \"is the bearer of the fifth bouquet--also the fourth, and the third, and so on. This is Mr. Cubbins of the Consolidated Window Cleanin' Company. Ain't that right, eh, old sport?\" \"'Enery Cubbins, Sir,\" says he, scrapin' his foot polite and jerkin' off his old cap. \"And was it you who just threw this thing on my desk?\" demands Old Hickory, pointin' to the red rose. \"Meanin' no 'arm at all, Sir, no 'arm at all,\" says Cubbins. \"And do I understand that you brought those other flowers in the same way?\" goes on Mr. Ellins. \"Not thinkin' you'd mind, Sir,\" says Cubbins; \"but if there's henny hoffense given, I asks pardon, Sir.\" And there couldn't be any mistakin' the genuine tremble in that weak, pipin' voice, or the meek look in them watery old eyes. For Cubbins is more or less of a human wreck, when you come to size him up close,--a thin, bent-shouldered, faded lookin' old party, with wispy, whitish hair, a peaked red nose, and a peculiar, whimsical quirk to his mouth corners. Old Hickory looks him over curious for a minute or so. \"Huh!\" he grunts at last. \"So you're the one, eh? But why the blue-belted blazes did you do it?\" All Cubbins does, though, is to finger his cap bashful. \"Well, Torchy,\" says Mr. Ellins, \"you seem to be running this show. Perhaps you'll tell us.\" \"That's further'n I've got,\" says I. \"You see, when I traced this floral tribute business down to a window washer, I----\" \"In the name of all that's brilliant,\" breaks in Old Hickory, \"how did you ever do that?\"'", "words": 302}, {"story": 20, "title": "Pulling A Sleuth Stunt", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Why, I got to thinkin' about it,\" says I, \"and it struck me that we had our glass cleaned every Wednesday, and if there was no way of anyone smugglin' flowers in through the doors, the windows was all there was left, wa'n't it? Also who's most likely to be monkeyin' around outside, fifteen stories up, but a window washer?\" \"Ha!\" says Old Hickory through his teeth. \"And did you do that by the introdeductive process, may I ask?\" \"No such bunk as that,\" says I. \"Just used my bean, that's all. Then I got Mac, the assistant buildin' super, to put me wise as to who had the windows on our floor, and by throwin' a bluff over the 'phone I made the Consolidated people locate Mr. Cubbins for me. Found him putterin' round in his garden over in Astoria, and pumped more or less out of him; but when it come to gettin' him to explain why it was he'd picked you out, Mr. Ellins, as a mark for his bouquets, I fell down complete. Mr. Cubbins is English, as maybe you noticed by his talk, and he used to be a house painter before his health got so bad. Now he lives with his son-in-law, who tells me that the old gent----\"", "words": 215}, {"story": 20, "title": "Pulling A Sleuth Stunt", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"'E's a bit of a liar, my son-in-law is,\" pipes up Cubbins; \"a bally Socialist, Sir, and I'm ashymed to s'y 'as 'ow 'e's fond of abusin' 'is betters. Thet's 'ow it all come abaht, Sir. Alw'ys tykin' on over the rich, 'e is; and 'e's most fond of s'yin' wrong things abaht you special, Sir; callin' you a bloodsucking predatory person, Sir, and himpolite nimes like thet. 'Ah, stow thet, Jimmy!!' says I. 'All bloomin' lies, they are. There ayn't a finer man lives than Mr. Ellins,' says I. ''Ow do you know?' says 'e. ''Ow?' says I. 'Don't I wash 'is hoffice windows?' But 'e keeps at it of evenin's, s'yin' as 'ow you do this and that, an' 'e fair talks me down, Jimmy does. But I know w'at I knows; so to relieve my feelin's a bit I've been bringin' you the flowers on the sly, Sir; meanin', as I says before, no 'arm at all, Sir.\" \"Well, I'll be dashed!\" says Old Hickory, squintin' at Cubbins humorous. \"So you think I'm a good man, eh?\" \"I'm quite sure of it, Sir,\" says he. \"As I was tellin' Jimmy only last night, 'W'y, at 'ome 'e'd be a Lord!' And so you would, Sir. But, as I sees it, you're just as much 'ere, Sir. You build things up, and keep things goin',--big things, such as the likes of me and Jimmy mykes our livin' from. And it ayn't just your money mykes you a gryte man; it's your brains and your big 'eart. I know w'at I knows, Sir, an' I 'opes as 'ow you'll tyke no hoffense at the flowers, Sir.\" \"Not a bit, Cubbins,\" says Old Hickory, smilin' grim. \"In fact, that's a first rate idea of yours. We ought to have some sort of flowers here all the time. Got many left in your garden, have you, Cubbins?\"", "words": 316}, {"story": 20, "title": "Pulling A Sleuth Stunt", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Plenty, Sir,\" says Cubbins. \"The roses'll be gone soon now, Sir; but there's golden glow, and hasters comin' on, and zinnias, and----\" \"Then you're engaged, Cubbins,\" says Old Hickory, \"to supply the office with fresh ones every day. When yours give out we'll have to buy some, I suppose. And you'll give up this window cleaning job at once. It's too dangerous. I can't afford to have the only man in the United States who holds a good opinion of me risking his neck like that.\" \"Thankee kindly, Sir,\" says Cubbins, beamin' grateful. \"And we'll see w'at Jimmy 'as to s'y to that, so we will!\" \"Report that in full,\" says Old Hickory. \"And, Mr. Piddie, see that Mr. Cubbins' name goes on the payroll from today. But, by the way, where is your distinguished friend, the scientific investigator?\" \"Why--er--why----\" says Piddie, flushin' up and swallowin' hard, \"Dr. Bingstetter left a moment ago.\" \"Did, eh?\" grunts Old Hickory. \"He should have stayed awhile and allowed Torchy to give him a few pointers on evolving things from primal facts.\" \"Ye-e-e-es, Sir,\" says Piddie, his face all tinted up lovely. Which winds up, as you might say, the Mystery of the Fifth Bouquet. But, believe me, there ain't any tamer party around the shop these days than this same J. Hemmingway Piddie. And if the old habits get to croppin' out any time, all I got to do is shut one eye, put my finger to my lips, and whisper easy, \"Ah, go tell that to Doc Bungstarter!\" That gets him behavin'. And Cubbins, why--he's blossomed out in a new fall suit, and he stops at the desk every few days to tell me how he put it all over Jimmy the night before. So that was some stroke, what?", "words": 298}, {"story": 21, "title": "When Ira Showed Some Pep", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "It was good domework of Mr. Robert's to tip me off about this Higgins party, or there's no knowin' how hard a time he might have had gettin' through the brass gate. As it is, the minute I spots the watch chain and the round cuffs and the neck freckles, I sizes him up as the expected delegate from the fresh mackerel and blueberry pie district. One of these long, lanky specimens, he is, with a little stoop to his shoulders, ginger-colored hair and mustache, and a pair of calm, sea-blue eyes that look deep and serious. I finds him pacin' deliberate up and down the waitin' room at eight-fifty-three A.M., which is two minutes ahead of my schedule for openin' the Corrugated for gen'ral business. His overcoat and a crumpled mornin' paper are on the bench; so I figures he's been there quite some time. Course, it might have been a stray Rube of most any name; but I thinks I'll take a chance. \"Mornin', Ira,\" says I. \"Howdy,\" says he, as natural as if this was a reg'lar habit of ours. Which puts it up to me to find out if I'm right, after all. \"Mr. Higgins, ain't it?\" says I. He nods. \"When did you get in?\" says I. \"About six,\" says he. \"Come down by train or boat?\" says I. \"Train,\" says he. \"You've had breakfast, I suppose?\" I goes on.", "words": 235}, {"story": 21, "title": "When Ira Showed Some Pep", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Another nod. Oh, yes, for an economical converser, he was about the most consistent breath saver I ever tackled. You could easy go hoarse havin' a little chat with him. You'd need lots of time too; for after every one of my bright little sallies Ira looks me over in that quiet, thoughtful way of his, then counts fifty to himself, and fin'lly decides whether it'll be a grunt or just a nod. Gettin' information out of him was like liftin' a trunk upstairs one step at a time. I manages to drag out, though, that he'd been hangin' around ever since the buildin' was opened by the day watchman at seven o'clock. \"Well,\" says I, \"Mr. Robert was lookin' for you to blow in today; but not quite so early. It'll be near ten before he shows up. Better come inside and have a comf'table chair.\" He takes that proposition up with himself, fin'lly passin' on it favorable; and from then on he sits there, with never a move or a blink, watchin' solemn all the maneuvers that a battery of lady typists has to go through before settlin' down for a forenoon's work. I'll bet he could tell you too, a month from now, just how many started with gum, and which ones renewed their facial scenery with dabs from the chamois. So you can see why I was some relieved when Mr. Robert arrives and takes him off my hands. I knew from what he'd said the day before that he'd planned to have about a half-hour interview with Mr. Higgins; but when the noon hour struck: Ira was still there. At one-fifteen they goes out to lunch together, and at two-thirty they comes back. It's after four when Mr. Robert fin'lly comes out to the gate with his brow wrinkled up. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"how is your bump of diplomacy today?\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 21, "title": "When Ira Showed Some Pep", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"It's a dimple, I expect,\" says I. \"You're entirely too modest,\" says he. \"Now, I remember several occasions when you have----\" \"Oh, I gen'rally have my nerve with me, if that's what you mean,\" says I. \"But I don't mean that,\" says he. \"Perhaps finesse is the better word.\" \"It's all the same to me,\" says I. \"If I've got it in stock, it's yours. What do I work it on?\" \"Mr. Higgins,\" says he. \"Then score up a goose egg in advance,\" says I. \"It would take a strong-arm hypnotizer to put the spell on Ira.\" Mr. Robert grins. \"Then you have already tested Mr. Higgins' conversational powers?\" says he. \"Almost lost my voice gettin' him to say good mornin',\" says I. \"Say, you'd think he'd done all his talkin' by cable, at a dollar a word. Where'd he drift in from, anyway?\" \"Boothbay Harbor,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Is that a foreign country,\" says I, \"or a nickname for some flag station?\" \"It's quite a lively little seaport, I believe,\" says Mr. Robert, \"up on the coast of Maine.\" \"Oh, Maine!\" says I. \"Up there they're willin' to call a town anything that'll get a laugh. But what's the rest of the scandal?\"", "words": 204}, {"story": 21, "title": "When Ira Showed Some Pep", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "It wasn't any thrillin' tale, though. Seems Mr. Robert had gone into the yachtin' regattas as usual this last summer; but, instead of liftin' the mugs, as he'd been in the habit of doin', he'd been beat out by a new entry,--beat bad too. But he wouldn't be an Ellins if he let it go at that. Not much! His first move is to find out who built the Stingaree, and his next is to wire in an order to the same firm to turn out a sixty-footer that'll go her just one better. Not gettin' any straight answer to that, he sends word for the head of the yacht works to come on at his expense. Mr. Higgins is the result. \"But the deuce of it is,\" says Mr. Robert, \"that, while I'm convinced he is the cleverest designer of racing yawls that we have in the whole country, and while he admits quite cheerfully that he can improve on this year's model, I can't get him to say positively that he will build such a boat for me.\" \"Yes, I should expect that would be more'n he'd let go of all in one day,\" says I. \"But, confound it all!\" says Mr. Robert, \"I want to know now. All I can get out of him, though, is that he can't decide for a while. Seems to have something or other on his mind. Now, if I knew what was bothering him, you see, I might--well, you get the point, Torchy. I'm going to leave it to you to find out.\" \"Me!\" says I. \"Gee! I ain't any thought extractor, Mr. Robert.\"", "words": 273}, {"story": 21, "title": "When Ira Showed Some Pep", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"But you have rather a knack of getting to the bottom of things,\" he insists, \"and if I should explain to Mr. Higgins my regret at being unable to take him out to dinner, and should present you as my substitute for the evening--why, you might get some hint, you see. At least, I wish you'd try it.\" \"Bring him on, then,\" says I; \"but it's like playin' a 30 to 1 shot. Oh, sure, a couple of tens'll be more'n enough for all the expense account we can cook up.\" And you should have seen me towin' this Down East sphinx around town, showin' him the sights, and tryin' to locate his chummy streak. It was most like makin' a long distance call over a fuzzy wire; me strainin' my vocal chords bein' chatty, and gettin' back only now and then a distant murmur. It was Ira's first trip to a real Guntown, where we have salaried crooks and light up our Main-st. with whisky signs; but he ain't got any questions to ask or any comments to pass. He just allows them calm eyes of his to wander placid here and there over the passersby, almost like he was expectin' to see someone he knew, and takin' mighty little notice of anything in partic'lar. \"That's the Metropolitan tower over there, Mr. Higgins,\" says I. \"See the big clock?\" Ira takes one glance and nods his head. \"And here comes one of them new double-decker Broadway cars they're tryin' out,\" I goes on. \"How's that?\" But no enthus'm from Ira. Must be a hot town, that Boothbay joint! Along about six-thirty I suggests that it's time for the big eats, and tries to sound him on his partic'lar fancy in the food line. \"Plate of fish chowder would suit me,\" says Ira after due contemplation.", "words": 306}, {"story": 21, "title": "When Ira Showed Some Pep", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Fish what?\" says I. \"'Fraid we don't grow anything like that on Broadway. Nix on the shore dinner! You trust it to me, Mr. Higgins, and I'll steer you up against some appetite teasers that'll make you forget all the home cookin' you ever met.\" With that I leads him to the flossiest French cafe I knew of, got him planted comf'table under an illuminated grape arbor, signals Francois-with-the-gold-chain-around-his-neck to stand by, and remarks casual, \"Wine list for this gentleman. Cut loose, Mr. Higgins. This is on the boss, you know.\" \"What say?\" says he, runnin' his eye over the book that the waiter holds out. \"Rum? No, Sir!\" \"Flit then, Francois,\" says I. \"We're two dry ones.\" And my hope of gettin' a tongue loosener into Ira goes glimmerin'. When it comes to tacklin' strange dishes, though, he was no quitter, followin' me from bouillabaisse to cafe parfait without battin' an eyelash, and me orderin' reckless from the card just to see what the things looked like. I don't know whether it was the fancy rations, or the sporty crowd around us, or the jiggly music, or a combination of all three; but by the time I've induced Mr. Higgins to tackle a demitasse and light up a seven-inch Havana he mellows enough so that he's almost on the point of makin' a remark all by himself. \"Well,\" says I encouragin', \"why not let it come?\" And it does. \"By gorry!!\" says he. \"It's most eight o'clock. What time do the shows begin?\" \"I was just go in' to mention that,\" says I. \"Plenty of time, though. Anything special you'd like to see?\" \"Why, yes,\" says he. And then, glancin' around cautious, he leans across the table and asks mysterious, \"Say, where's Maizie Latour actin'?\"", "words": 296}, {"story": 21, "title": "When Ira Showed Some Pep", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Honest, it comes out so unexpected he had me gaspin'. \"Oh, you Boothbay ringer!\" says I. \"Maizie, eh? Now, who would have thought it? And you only landed this mornin'! Maizie--er--what was that again?\" \"Latour,\" says he, flushin' up some and tryin' not to notice my josh. \"It's by me,\" says I. \"Sounds like musical comedy, though. Is she a showgirl, or one of the chicken ballet?\" Ira shakes his head puzzled. \"All I know,\" says he, \"is that she's actin' somewhere in New York, and--and I'd like to find out where. I--I got to!\" he adds emphatic. \"Then you ought to have said that before,\" says I, \"and Mr. Robert would have put one of his chappy friends on the job. Sorry, but when it comes to chorus girls, I ain't----\" \"Hold on!\" he breaks in. \"You're sort of jumpin' at things, Son. The fact is I--well, I guess I might's well tell you as anyone. I--I got to tell someone.\" \"Help!\" thinks I. \"The dam's goin' to give way.\" \"You see,\" he goes on, \"it's like this: Nellie's an old friend of mine, and----\" \"Nellie!\" says I. \"You just said Maizie.\" \"That's what I hear she goes by on the stage,\" says he. \"She was Nellie Mason up to the Harbor.\" \"You don't mean it?\" says I. \"What was she doin' there?\" \"She was table girl at the Mansion House,\" says he. \"Which?\" says I. \"Oh, dish juggler, eh? And now she's on the stage? Some jump for Nellie! But, honest now, Higgins, you don't mean to spring one of them mossy 'Way Down East drammers on me as the true dope? Come now, don't tell me you and she used to go to school together, and all that!\"", "words": 291}, {"story": 21, "title": "When Ira Showed Some Pep", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "No, it wa'n't quite on that line. She was only one of Boothbay's fairest daughters by adoption, havin' drifted in from some mill town--Biddeford, I think it was--where a weaver's strike had thrown her out of a job. She was half Irish and half French-Canadian, and, accordin' to Ira's description, she was some ornamental. Anyway, she had the boys all goin' in no time at all. Ira was mealin' at the Mansion House just then, though; so he was in on the ground floor from the start. Even at that, how he managed to keep the rail with so much competition is more'n I can say; but there's something sort of clean and wholesome lookin' about him, and I expect them calm, sea-blue eyes helped along. Anyway, him and Nellie kept comp'ny there, I take it, for three or four months quite steady, and Ira admits that he was plumb gone on her. \"Well, what was the hitch?\" says I. \"Wouldn't she be Mrs. Higgins?\" \"Guess she would if I had asked her,\" says he; \"but I didn't get around to it quick enough. Fact is, I'd just bought out the boat shop, and I had fifteen or twenty men to work for me, with four new keels laid down at once, and--well, I was mighty rushed with work just then and----\" \"I get you,\" says I. \"While you was makin' up your mind what to say, some wholesale drug drummer with a black mustache won her away.\"", "words": 248}, {"story": 21, "title": "When Ira Showed Some Pep", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "It's more complicated than that, though. One of the chambermaids had a cousin who was assistant property man with a Klaw & Erlanger comp'ny, and he'd sent on the tip how some enterprisin' manager was lookin' for fifty new faces for a Broadway production; and so, if Cousin Maggie wanted to shake the hotel business, here was her chance. Maggie wanted to, all right; but she lacked the nerve to try it alone. Now, if Nellie would only go along too--why---- And it happens this was one night when Ira had overlooked a date he had with Nellie, and that while he was doin' overtime at the boatworks Nellie was waitin' lonesome on the corner all dressed to go over to South Bristol to a dance. So this bulletin from the great city finds her in a state of mind. \"Course,\" says Maggie, \"you got a feller, and all that.\" \"Humph!\" says Nellie. \"And there's no tellin',\" Maggie goes on, glancin' at her critical, \"if your figure would suit.\" \"If they can stand for yours,\" says Nellie, \"I guess I'll take a chance too. Come on. We'll take the early morning boat.\" And they did. Ira didn't get the details until about a month later, when who should drift back to the Mansion House but Maggie. Along with two or three hundred other brunettes and imitation blondes, she'd been shuffled into the discard. But Nellie had been signed up first rattle out of the box, and accordin' to the one postcard that had come back from her since she was now flaggin' as Maizie Latour. But no word at all had come to Ira. \"If I'd only bought that ring sooner!\" he sighs. \"I've got it now, though. Bought it in Portland on my way down. See?\" and he snaps open a white satin box, disclosin' a cute little pearl set in a circle of chip diamonds.", "words": 317}, {"story": 21, "title": "When Ira Showed Some Pep", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"That's real dainty and classy,\" says I. \"Ought to be,\" says Ira. \"It cost me seventeen-fifty. But there's so blamed much to this place that I don't see just how I'm goin' to find her, after all.\" \"Ah, cheer up, Ira!\" says I. \"You've got me int'rested, you have, and, while I ain't any theatrical directory, I expect I could think up some way to---- Why, sure! There's a Tyson stand up here a few blocks, where they have all the casts and programmes. Let's go have a look.\" It wa'n't a long hunt, either. The third one we looked at was \"Whoops, Angelina!\" and halfway down the list of characters we finds this item: \"Sunflower Girls--Tessie Trelawney, Mae Collins, Maizie Latour----\" \"Here we are!\" says I. \"And there's just time to get in for the first curtain.\" Say, I expect you've seen this \"Whoops, Angelina!\" thing. Just punk enough to run a year on Broadway, ain't if? And do you remember there along towards the end of the first spasm where they ring in that \"Field Flowers Fair\" song, with a deep stage and a diff'rent chorus for each verse? Well, as the Sunflowers come on, did you notice special the second one from the right end? That's Maizie. And, believe me, she's some queen! Course, it's a bunch of swell lookers all around, or they wouldn't be havin' the S.R.O. sign out so often; but got up the way she was, with all them yellow petals makin' a sort of frame for her, and them big dark eyes rollin' bold and sassy, this ex-table girl from the Mansion House stands out some prominent. \"By gorry!\" explodes Ira, as he gets his first glimpse. And from then on he sits with his eyes glued on her as long as she's on the stage.", "words": 304}, {"story": 21, "title": "When Ira Showed Some Pep", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "He had a good view too; for comin' late all I could get was upper box seats at three a throw, and I shoves Ira close up to the rail. That one remark is all he has to unload durin' the whole performance, and somehow I didn't have the heart to break in with any comments. You see, I wa'n't sure how he might be takin' it; so I waits until the final curtain, and then nudges him out of his dream. \"Well, how about it?\" says I. \"Ready to scratch your entry now, are you?\" \"Eh?\" says he, rousin' up. \"Pull out? No, Sir! I--I'm going to give her a chance to take that ring.\" \"You are?\" says I. \"Well, well! Right there with the pep, ain't you? But how you goin' to manage it?\" \"Why, I--I don't know,\" says he, lookin' blank. \"Say, Son, can't you fix it for me some way? I--I want Nellie to go back with me. If I could only see her for a minute, and explain how it was I couldn't----\" \"You win, Ira!\" says I. \"Hanged if there ain't Tucky Moller down there in an usher's uniform. He's an old friend of mine. We'll see what he can do.\" Tucky was willin' enough too; but the best he can promise is to smuggle a note into the dressin' rooms. We waits in the lobby for the answer, and inside of five minutes we has it. \"Ain't they the limit, these spotlight chasers?\" says Tucky. \"She tells me to chuck it in the basket with the others, and says she'll read it to-morrow. Huh! And only a quarter tip after the second act when I lugs her in a bid to a cabaret supper!\" \"Tonight?\" says I. \"Where at, Tucky?\" \"Looey's,\" says he, \"with a broker guy that's been buyin' B-10 every night for a week.\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 21, "title": "When Ira Showed Some Pep", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "But when I leads Ira outside and tries to explain how the case stands, and breaks it to him gentle that his stock has taken a sudden slump, it develops that he's one of these gents who don't know when they're crossed off. \"I've got to see her tonight, that's all,\" says he. \"What's the matter with our going to the same place?\" \"For one thing,\" says I, \"they wouldn't let us in without our open-faced clothes on. Got yours with you?\" \"Full evenin' dress?\" says Ira, with his eyes bugged. \"Why, I never had any.\" \"Then it's by-by, Maizie,\" says I. \"Dog-goned if it is!\" says he. \"Guess I can wait around outside, can't I?\" \"Well, you have got sportin' blood, Ira,\" says I. \"Sure, there's nothin' to stop your waitin' if you don't block the traffic. But maybe it'll be an hour or more.\" \"I don't care,\" says he. \"And--and let's go and have a glass of soda first.\" Course, I couldn't go away and leave things all up in the air like that; so after Ira'd blown himself we wanders up to the cabaret joint and I helps him stick around. It's some lively scene in front of Looey's at that time of night too; with all the taxis comin' and goin' and the kalsomined complexions driftin' in and out, and the head waiters coppin' out the five-spots dexterous. And every little while there's something extra doin'; like a couple of college hicks bein' led out by the strong-arm squad for disputin' a bill, or a perfect gent all ablaze havin' a debate with his lady-love, or a bunch of out-of-town buyers discoverin' the evenin' dress rule for the first time and gettin' peeved over it.", "words": 289}, {"story": 21, "title": "When Ira Showed Some Pep", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "But nothin' can drag Ira's gaze from that revolvin' exit door for more'n half a minute. There he stands, watchin' eager every couple that comes out; not excited or fidgety, you understand, but calm and in dead earnest. It got to be midnight, then half past, then quarter to one; and then all of a sudden there comes a ripplin', high-pitched laugh, and out trips a giddy-dressed fairy in a gilt and rhinestone turban effect with a tall plume stickin' straight up from the front of it. She's one of these big, full-curved, golden brunettes, with long jet danglers in her ears and all the haughty airs of a grand opera star. I didn't dream it was the one we was lookin' for until I sees Ira straighten up and step out to meet her. \"Nellie,\" says he, sort of choky and pleadin'. It's a misfire, though; for just then she's turned to finish some remark to a fat old sport with flat ears and bags under his eyes that's followin' close behind. So it ain't until she's within a few feet of Higgins that she sees him at all. Then she stares at him sort of doubtful, like she could hardly believe her eyes. \"Nellie,\" he begins again, \"I've been wanting to tell you how it was that----\" \"You!\" she breaks in. And with that she throws her head back and laughs. It wa'n't what you might call a pleasant laugh, either. It sounds cold and hard and bitter.", "words": 250}, {"story": 21, "title": "When Ira Showed Some Pep", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "That's the extent of the reunion too. She's still laughin' as she brushes by him and lets the old sport help her into the taxi; and a second later we're left standin' there at the edge of the curb with another taxi rollin' up in front of us. I notices that Ira's holdin' something in his hand that he's starin' at foolish. It's the satin box with the seventeen-fifty ring in it. \"Well,\" says I, as we steps back, \"returns all in, ain't they?\" \"Not by a long shot!\" says Ira. \"Dinged if I don't know someone that'll be glad to take a ring from me, and that's Maggie!\" \"Whew!\" says I. \"Well, that's some quick shift. Then you ain't goin' to linger round with a busted heart?\" \"Not much!\" says Ira. \"Guess I've played fool about long enough. I'm goin' home.\" \"That's gen'rally a safe bet too,\" says I. \"But how about buildin' that boat for Mr. Robert?\" \"I'll build it,\" says he; \"that is, soon as I can fix it up with Maggie.\" \"Then it's a cinch,\" says I; \"for you look to me, Ira, like one of the kind that can come back strong.\" So, you see, I had somethin' definite to report next mornin'. \"He will, eh? Bully!\" says Mr. Robert. \"But why couldn't he have said as much to me yesterday? What was the trouble?\" \"Case of moth chasin',\" says I, \"from the kerosene circuit to the white lights. But, say, I didn't know before that Broadway had so many recruitin' stations. They ought to put Boothbay Harbor on the map for this.\"", "words": 268}, {"story": 22, "title": "Torchy Bugs The System", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Guess I ain't mentioned Mortimer before. Didn't seem hardly worth while. You know--there are parties like that, too triflin' to do any beefin' about. But, honest, for awhile there first off this young shrimp that was just makin' his debut as one of Miller's subslaves in the bondroom did get on my nerves more or less. He's a slim, fine-haired, fair-lookin' young gent, with quick, nervous ways and a habit of holdin' his chin well up. No boob, you understand. He was a live one, all right. And it wa'n't his havin' his monogram embroidered on his shirt sleeves or his wearin' a walkin' stick down to work that got me sore. But you don't look for the raw rebuff from one of these twelve-dollar file jugglers. That's what he slips me, though, and me only tryin' to put across the cheery greetin'! \"Well, Percy,\" says I, seein' him wanderin' around lonesome durin' lunch hour, \"is it you for the Folies today, or are you takin' a chance on one of them new automatic grub factories with me?\" \"Beg pardon?\" says he, givin' me that frigid, distant look. \"Ah, can the hauteur!\" says I. \"We're on the same payroll. Maybe you didn't notice me before, though. Well, I'm the guardian of the gate, and I'm offerin' to tow you to a new sandwich works that's quite popular with the staff.\" \"Thanks,\" says he. \"I am lunching at my club.\" And with that he does a careless heel-spin, leavin' me stunned and gawpin'. \"Slap!\" thinks I. \"You will go doin' the little ray of sunshine act, will you? Lunchin' at his club! Now there's a classy comeback for you! Guess I'll spring that myself sometime. Score up for Percy!\"", "words": 288}, {"story": 22, "title": "Torchy Bugs The System", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "But I wa'n't closin' the incident at that, and, while in my position it wouldn't have been hardly the thing for me to get out the war club and camp on his trail,--him only a four-flushin' bond clerk,--I was holdin' myself ready for the next openin'. It comes only a few mornin's later when he strolls in casual about nine-thirty and starts to pike by into the cloakroom. But I had my toe against the brass gate. \"What name?\" says I. \"Why,\" says he, flushin' up, \"I--er--I work here.\" \"Excuse,\" says I, drawin' back the foot. \"Mistook you for Alfy Vanderbilt come to buy us out.\" \"Puppy!\" says he explosive through his front teeth. \"Meanin' me?\" says I. \"Why, Algernon! How rough of you!\" He just glares hack over his shoulder and passes on for his session with Miller. I'll bet he got it too; for here in the Corrugated we don't stand for any of that nine-thirty dope except from Mr. Robert. It's only the next week, though, that Mortimer pulls a couple more delayed entrances in succession, and I sure was lookin' to see him come out with a fresh-air pass in his hand. But it didn't happen. Instead, as I'm in Old Hickory's office a few days later, allowin' him to give me a few fool directions about an errand, in breaks Miller all glowin' under the collar. \"Mr. Ellins,\" says he, \"I can't stand that young Upton. He's got to go!\" \"That's too bad,\" says Old Hickory, shiftin' his cigar to port. \"I'd promised his father to give the boy a three months' trial at least. One of our big stockholders, Colonel Upton is, you know. But if you say you can't----\"", "words": 286}, {"story": 22, "title": "Torchy Bugs The System", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Oh, I suppose I can, Sir, in that case,\" says Miller; \"but he's worse than useless in the department, and if there's no way of getting him to observe office hours it's going to be bad for discipline.\" \"Try docking him, Miller,\" suggests Mr. Ellins. \"Dock him heavy. And pile on the work. Keep him on the jump.\" \"Yes, Sir,\" says Miller, grinnin' at me' as he goes out. And of course this throws a brighter light on Mortimer's case,--pampered son takin' his first whirl at honest toil, and all that. Then later in the day I gets a little private illumination. Mother arrives. Rather a gushy, talky party she is, with big, snappy eyes like Mortimer's, and the same haughty airs. Just now, though, she's a little puffy from excitement and deep emotion. Seems Mother and Sister Janice are on their way to the steamer, billed to spend the winter abroad. Also it develops that stern Father, standin' grim and bored in the background, has ruled that Son mustn't quit business for any farewell lallygaggin' at the pier. Hence the fam'ly call. As the touchin' scene all takes place in the reception room, just across the brass rail from my desk, I'm almost one of the party. \"Oh, my darling boy!\" wails Ma, pushin' back her veils and wrappin' him in the fond clinch. \"Aw, Mother!\" protests Mortimer. \"But we are to be so far apart,\" she goes on, \"and with your father in California you are to be all alone! And I just know you'll be forlorn and lonesome in that dreadful boarding house! Oh, it is perfectly awful!\" \"Oh, quit it, Mother. I'll be all right,\" says Mortimer. \"But the work here,\" comes back Mother. \"Does it come so hard? How are you to stand it? Oh, if you had only kept on at college, then all this wouldn't have been necessary.\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 22, "title": "Torchy Bugs The System", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Well, I didn't, that's all,\" says Mortimer; \"so what's the use?\" \"I shall worry about you all the time,\" insists Mother. \"And you are so careless about writing! How am I to know that you are not ill, or in trouble? Now promise me, if you should break down under the strain, that you will cable me at once.\" \"Oh, sure!\" says Mortimer. \"But time's up, Mother. I must be getting back. Good-by.\" I had to turn my shoulder on the final break-away, and I thought the whole push had cleared out, when I hears a rustle at the gate, and here's Mother once more, with her eyes fixed investigatin' on me. \"Boy,\" says she, \"are you employed here regularly?\" \"I'm one of the fixtures, Ma'am,\" says I. \"Very well,\" says she. \"I am glad to hear it. And you have rather an intelligent appearance.\" \"Mostly bluff, though,\" says I. \"You mustn't bank too much on looks.\" \"Ah, but I can tell!\" says she, noddin' her head and squintin' shrewd. \"You have a kind face too.\" \"Ye-e-es?\" says I. \"But what's this cue for?\" \"I will tell you, Boy,\" says she, comin' up confidential. \"You see, I must trust someone in this matter. And you will be right here, where you can see him every day, won't you--my son Mortimer, I mean?\" \"I expect I'll have to,\" says I, \"if he sticks.\" \"Then you must do this for me,\" she goes on. \"Keep close to him. Make yourself his friend.\" \"Me?\" says I. \"Well, there might be some trouble about that.\"", "words": 261}, {"story": 22, "title": "Torchy Bugs The System", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"I understand,\" says she. \"It will be difficult, under the circumstances. And Mortimer has such a proud, reserved nature! He has always been that way. But now that he is thrown upon his own resources, and if you could once gain his confidence, he might allow you to--well, you'll try, won't you? And then I shall depend upon you to send word to me once every week as to how he looks, if he seems happy, how he is getting on in business, and so on. Come, do you promise?\" \"Is this a case of philanthropy, or what?\" says I. \"Oh, I shall see that you are well repaid,\" says she. \"That listens well,\" says I; \"but it's kind of vague. Any figures, now?\" \"Why--er--yes,\" says she, hesitatin'. \"Suppose I should send you, say, five dollars for every satisfactory report?\" \"Then I'm on the job,\" says I. And in two minutes more she's left me the address of her London bankers, patted me condescendin' on the shoulder, and has flitted. So here I am with a brand new side line,--an assignment to be friendly at so much per. Can you beat that? It wa'n't until afterwards, either, when I'm busy throwin' on the screen pictures of how that extra five'll fat up the Saturday pay envelope, that I remembers the exact wordin' of the contract. Five for every satisfactory report. Gee! that's different! Then here's where I got to see that Mortimer behaves, or else I lose out. And I don't waste any time plannin' the campaign. I tackles him as he strolls out thirty seconds ahead of the twelve o'clock whistle. \"After another one of them clubby lunches?\" says I. \"What's that to you?\" he growls. \"I'm interested, that's all,\" says I. \"Oh, no, you're not,\" says he; \"you're just fresh.\"", "words": 302}, {"story": 22, "title": "Torchy Bugs The System", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Ah, come now, Morty,\" says I. \"This ain't no reg'lar feud we're indulgin' in, you know. Ditch the rude retort and lemme tow you to a joint where for----\" \"Thanks,\" says Mortimer. \"I prefer my own company.\" \"Gee! what poor taste!\" says I. And it looked like I'd gone and bugged any five-spot prospects with my first try. So I lets Mortimer simmer for a few days, not makin' any more cracks, friendly or otherwise. I was about to hand in a blank report too, when one noon he sort of hesitates as he passes the desk, and then stops. \"I say,\" he begins, \"show me that cheap luncheon place you spoke of, will you?\" It's more of an order than anything else; but that only makes this sudden shift of his more amusin'. \"Why, sure,\" says I. \"Soured on the club, have you?\" \"Not exactly,\" says he; \"but--well, the fact is, Father must have forgotten to send a check for last month's bill, and I'm on the board--posted, you know.\" \"Then that wa'n't any funny dream of yours, eh,\" says I, \"this club business? Which is it, Lotos or the Union League?\" \"It's my frat club, of course,\" says Mortimer. \"And I don't mind saying that it's a deucedly expensive place for me to go, even when I can sign checks for my meals. I'm always being dragged into billiards, dollar a corner, and that sort of thing. It counts up, and I--I'm running rather close to the wind just now.\" \"What! And you gettin' twelve?\" says I. \"Why, say, some supports fam'lies on that. Takes managin', though. But I'll steer you round to Max's, where for a quarter you can----\" \"A quarter!\" breaks in Mortimer. \"But--but that's more than I have left.\" \"And this only Wednesday!\" says I. \"Gee! but you have been goin' the pace, ain't you? What is the sum total of the reserve, anyway?\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 22, "title": "Torchy Bugs The System", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Mortimer scoops into his trousers pockets, fishin' up a silver knife, a gold cigar clipper, and seventeen cents cash. \"Well, well!\" says I. \"That is gettin' down to hardpan! It's breakin' one of my business rules, but I see where I underwrite your lunch ticket for the next few days.\" \"You mean you're going to stake me?\" says he. \"But why?\" \"Well, it ain't on account of your winnin' ways,\" says I. \"Humph!\" says he. \"Here! You may have this stickpin as security.\" \"Gwan!\" says I. \"I ain't no loan shark. Maybe I'm just makin' an investment in you. Come on to Max's.\" I could see Mortimer's nose begin to turn up as we crowds in at a table where a couple of packers from the china store next door was doin' the sword swallowin' act. \"What a noisy, messy place!\" says he. \"The service ain't quite up to Louis Martin's, that's a fact,\" says I; \"but then, there's no extra charge for the butter and toothpicks.\" We tried the dairy lunch next time; but he don't like that much better. Pushin' up to the coffee urn with the mob, and havin' a tongue sandwich slammed down in front of him by a grub hustler that hadn't been to a manicure lately was only a couple of the details Mortimer shies at. \"Ah, you'll soon get to overlook little things like that,\" says I. Mortimer shakes his head positive. \"It's the disgusting crowd one has to mingle with,\" says he. \"Such a cheap lot of--of roughnecks!\" \"Huh!\" says I. \"Lots of 'em are pullin' down more'n you or me. Some of 'em are almost human too.\" \"I don't care,\" says he. \"I dislike to mix with them. It's bad enough at the boarding house.\" \"None of the aristocracy there, either?\" says I.", "words": 302}, {"story": 22, "title": "Torchy Bugs The System", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"They're freaks, all of them,\" says he. \"What do you think--one fellow wears an outing shirt in to dinner! Then there's an old person with gray whiskers who--well, I can't bear to watch him. The others are almost as bad.\" \"When you get to know the bunch you won't mind,\" says I. \"But I don't care to know them,\" says Mortimer. \"I haven't spoken to a soul, and don't intend to. They're not my kind, you see.\" \"Are you boastin', or complainin'?\" says I. \"Anyway, you're in for a lonesome time. What do you do evenin's?\" \"Walk around until I'm tired, that's all,\" says he. \"That's excitin'--I don't think,\" says I. Next he branches off on Miller, and starts tellin' me what a deep and lastin' grouch he'd accumulated against his boss. But I ain't encouragin' any hammer play of that kind. \"Stow it, Morty,\" says I. \"I'm wise to all that. Besides, you ought to know you can't hold a job and come floatin' in at any old hour. No wonder you got in Dutch with him! Say, is this your first stab at real work?\" He admits that it is, and when I gets him to describe how he's been killin' time when he wa'n't in college it develops that one of his principal playthings has been a six-cylinder roadster,--mile-a-minute brand, mostly engine and gastank, with just space enough left for the driver to snuggle in among the levers on the small of his back. \"I've had her up to sixty-five an hour on some of those Rhode Island oiled stretches,\" says Mortimer. \"I expect,\" says I. \"And what was it you hit last?\"", "words": 276}, {"story": 22, "title": "Torchy Bugs The System", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Eh?\" says he. \"Oh, I see! A milk wagon. Rather stiff damages they got out of us, with the hospital and doctor's bills and all that. But it was more the way I was roasted by the blamed newspapers that made Father so sore. Then my being canned from college soon after--well, that finished it. So he sends Mother and Sis off to Europe, goes on a business trip to California himself, closes the house, and chucks me into this job.\" \"Kind of poor trainin' for it, I'll admit,\" says I. \"But buck up, Morty; we'll do our best.\" \"We?\" says he, liftin' his eyebrows. \"Uh-huh,\" says I. \"Me and you.\" \"What's it got to do with you? I'd like to know!\" he demands. \"I've been retained,\" says I. \"Never you mind how, but I'm here to pass out the friendly shove, coach you along, see that you make good.\" \"Well, I like your nerve!\" says he, stoppin' short as we're crossin' Broadway. \"A young mucker like you help me make good! Say, that's rich, that is! Huh! But why don't you? Come ahead with it, now, if you're such an expert!\" It was a dare, all right. And for a minute there we looked each other over scornful, until I decides that I'll carry on the friend act if I have to risk gettin' my head punched. \"First off, Mortimer,\" says I, \"forgettin' what a great man you are so long as Father's payin' the bills, let's figure on just what your standin' is now. You're a bum bond clerk, on the ragged edge of bein' fired, ain't you?\" He winces some at that; but he still has a comeback. \"If it wasn't for that bonehead Miller, I'd get on,\" he growls. \"Bah!\" says I. \"He's only layin' down the rules of the game; so it's up to you to follow 'em.\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 22, "title": "Torchy Bugs The System", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"But he's unreasonable,\" whines Mortimer. \"He snoops around after me, finds fault with everything I do, and fines me for being a little late mornings.\" I takes a long breath and swallows hard. Next I tries to strike the saintly pose, and then I unreels the copybook dope just like I believed it myself. \"He does, eh?\" says I. \"Then beat him to it. Don't be late. Show up at eight-thirty instead of nine. That extra half-hour ain't goin' to kill you. Be the last to quit too. Play up to Miller. Do things the way he wants 'em done, even if you have to do 'em over a dozen times. And use your bean.\" \"But it's petty, insignificant work,\" says Mortimer. \"All the worse for you if you can't swing it,\" says I. \"See here, now--how are you goin' to feel afterwards if you've always got to look back on the fact that you begun by fallin' down on a twelve-dollar job?\" Must have got Mortimer in the short ribs, that last shot; for he walks all the rest of the way back to the Corrugated without sayin' a word. Then, just as we gets into the elevator, he unloosens. \"I don't believe it will do any good to try,\" says he; \"but I've a mind to give it a whirl.\" I didn't say so, but that was the first thing we'd agreed on that day. So that night I has to send off a report which reads like this: Mortimer's health O. K.; disposition ragged; business prospects punk. Hoping you are the same, TORCHY.", "words": 266}, {"story": 22, "title": "Torchy Bugs The System", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "It's a wonder Mortimer didn't have mental indigestion, with all that load of gilt-edged advice on his mind, and I wa'n't lookin' for him to lug it much further'n the door; but, if you'll believe me, he seems to take it serious. Every mornin' after that I finds his hat on the hook when I come in, and whenever I gets a glimpse of him durin' the day he has his coat off and is makin' a noise like the busy bee. At this it takes some time before he makes an impression on Miller; but fin'lly Morty comes out to me with a bulletin that seems to tickle him all over. \"What do you know?\" says he. \"When Miller was looking over some of my work to-day he breaks out with, 'Very good, Upton. Keep it up.'\" \"Well, I expect you told him to chase himself, eh?\" says I. \"No,\" says Mortimer. \"I sprung that new scheme of mine for filing the back records, and perhaps he's going to adopt it.\" \"Think of that!\" says I. \"Say, you keep on, and you'll be presented with that job for life. But, honest, you don't find Miller such a fish, do you?\" \"Oh, I guess he's all right in his way,\" says Mortimer. \"Then brace yourself, Morty,\" says I, \"while I slip you some more golden words. Tackle that boardin' house bunch of yours. Ah, hold your breath while you're doin' it, if you want to, and spray yourself afterwards with disinfectant, but see if you can't learn to mix in.\" \"But why?\" says he. \"I can't see the use.\" \"Say, for the love of Pete,\" says I, \"ain't it hard enough for me to press out all this wise dope without drawin' diagrams? I don't know why, only you should. Go on now, take it from me.\"", "words": 307}, {"story": 22, "title": "Torchy Bugs The System", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Maybe it was followin' my hunch, or maybe there wa'n't anything else for him to do, but blamed if this didn't work too. Inside of two weeks he gives me the whole tale, one day as we're sittin' in the armchairs at the dairy lunch. \"Remember my telling you about the fellow who wore the outing shirt?\" says he. \"Well, say, he's quite a chap, you know. He's from some little town out in Wyoming, and he's on here trying to be a cartoonist--runs a hoisting engine day times and goes to an art school evenings. How's that, eh?\" \"Sounds batty,\" says I. \"There's most as many would-be cartoonists as there are nutty ones tryin' to write plays for Belasco.\" \"But this Blake's going to get there,\" says Mortimer. \"I was up in his room Sunday, and he showed me some of his work. Clever stuff, a lot of it. He's landed a couple of things already. Then there's old man McQuade, the one with the whiskers. Say, he's been all over the world,--Siberia, Africa, Japan, South America. Used to be selling agent for a mill supply firm. He has all his savings invested in an Egyptian cotton plantation that hasn't begun to pay yet, but he thinks it will soon. You ought to hear the yarns he can spin, though!\" \"So-o-o?\" says I.", "words": 224}, {"story": 22, "title": "Torchy Bugs The System", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"But Aronwitz is the fellow I'm traveling' around with most just now,\" goes on Mortimer enthusiastic. \"Say, he's a wonder! Been over here from Hungary only six years, worked his way through Columbia, copping an A. M. and an A. B., and sending back money to his old mother right along. He's a Socialist, or something, and writes for one of those East Side papers. Then evenings he teaches manual training in a slum settlement house. He took me over with him the other night and got me to help him with his boys. My, but they're a bright lot of youngsters--right off the street too! I've promised to take a class myself.\" \"In what,\" says I, \"table etiquette?\" \"I'm going to start by explaining to them how a gasolene engine works,\" says Mortimer. \"They're crazy to learn anything like that. It will be great sport.\" \"Mortimer,\" says I, \"a little more of that, and I'll believe you're the guy that put the seed in succeed. Anyone wouldn't guess you was doin' penance.\" \"I feel that I'm really living at last,\" says he in earnest. So in that next report to Mother, after I'd thanked her for the last check and filled in the usual health chart and so on, I proceeds to throw in a few extras about how Son was makin' the great discovery that most folks was more or less human, after all. Oh, I spread myself on that part of it, givin' full details! \"And if that don't charm an extra five out of the old girl,\" thinks I, \"I miss my guess.\"", "words": 267}, {"story": 22, "title": "Torchy Bugs The System", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Does it? Well, say, that happy thought stays with me for about ten days. At times I figured the bonus might be as high as a fifty. And then one mornin' here comes a ruddy-faced old party that I spots as Colonel Upton. He calls for Mortimer, and the two of 'em has a ten-minute chat in the corridor. Afterwards Morty interviews Miller, and when he comes out next he has his hat and overcoat with him. \"So long, Torchy,\" says he. \"I'm leaving.\" \"Not for good!\" says I. \"What's wrong?\" \"Mother,\" says he. \"In some way she's found out about the sort of people I've been going around with, and she's kicked up a great row, got Father on the cable, and--well, it's all off. I'm to travel abroad for a year or so to get it out of my system.\" \"Gee!\" says I as he goes out to join the Colonel. \"Talk about boobing a swell proposition! But that was too good to last, anyway. And, believe me, if I'm ever asked again to be friendly on a salary, I bet I don't overdo the thing.\"", "words": 188}, {"story": 23, "title": "Breezing By With Peggy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "He's a great old scout, Mr. Ellins. But he always knows where he wants to get off, all right. He don't whisper his ideas on the subject, either. \"Boy,\" says he the other mornin' as I answers the buzzer, \"I am expecting two young persons to call this forenoon, two young wards of mine. Huh! Wards! As though I wasn't busy enough with my own affairs without---- But never mind. Chandler is the name.\" \"Yes, Sir,\" says I. \"Chandler. Rush 'em right in, shall I?\" \"No!\" snorts Old Hickory. \"What I want you to do is to use a little sense, if you have any. Now, here! I have a committee meeting at ten; those K. & T. people will be here at ten-forty-five; and after that I can't say whether I'll be free or not. Of course I must see the young nuisances; but meantime I want to forget 'em. I am trusting to you to work 'em in when they'll be the least bother.\" \"Got you,\" says I. \"Chink in with Chandlers. Yes, Sir. Anything more?\" \"No. Get out!\" he snaps. Fair imitation of a grouch, eh? But you got to get used to Old Hickory. Besides, there was some excuse for his bein' peeved, havin' a pair of kids camp down on him this way. Course I was wise to the other details. Didn't I take their 'phone message to Mr. Robert only the day before, and send back the answer for 'em to come on?", "words": 249}, {"story": 23, "title": "Breezing By With Peggy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Seems this was a case of a second cousin, or something like that, a nutty college professor, who'd gone and left a will makin' Mr. Ellins a guardian without so much as askin' by your leave. There was a Mrs. Chandler; but she don't figure in the guardianship. The youngsters had been in school somewhere near Boston; but, this bein' the holidays, what do they do but turn up in New York and express a wild desire to see dear old Guardy. \"Gee!\" thinks I. \"They don't know when they're well off.\" For Old Hickory ain't got a lot of use for the average young person. I've heard him express his sentiments on that point. \"Impudent, ill-mannered, selfish, spoiled young barbarians, the boys,\" says he, \"and the girls aren't much better,--silly, giggling young chatterboxes!\" And the way I has it framed up, this was rather a foxy move of the young Chandlers, discoverin' their swell New York relations just as the holiday season was openin'. So I don't figure that the situation calls for any open-arm motions on my part. No, nothin' like that. I'm here to give 'em their first touch of frost. So about eleven-fifteen, as I glances across the brass rail and sees this pair advancin' sort of uncertain, I'm all prepared to cause a drop in the mercury. They wa'n't exactly the type I had in mind, though. What I'd expected was a brace of high school cutups. But these two are older than that.", "words": 249}, {"story": 23, "title": "Breezing By With Peggy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "The young fellow was one of these big-boned, wide-shouldered chaps, with a heavy, serious look to his face, almost dull. I couldn't tell at first look whether he was a live wire or not. No such suspicions about the girl. She ain't what you'd call a queen, exactly. She's too tall and her face is too long for that. Kind of a cute sort of face, though, with rather a wide mouth that she can twist into a weird, one-sided smile. But after one look at them lively blue eyes you knew she wasn't walkin' in her sleep. It's my cue, though, to let 'em guess what nuisances they were. \"May I see Mr. Ellins?\" says the young chap. \"Cards,\" says I. He produces the pasteboards. \"Oh, yes!\" I goes on. \"The wards, eh? Marjorie Chandler, Dudley Winthrop Chandler. Well, you've picked out a busy day, you know.\" \"Oh, have we?\" says Marjorie. \"There, Dud! I was afraid we might. Perhaps we'd better not call, after all.\" \"Good!\" says Dudley. \"I didn't want to, anyway. We can just send in our cards and leave word that we----\" \"Ah, can it!\" says I. \"Mr. Ellins is expectin' you; only he ain't a man you can walk in on casual.\" \"But really,\" puts in Marjorie, \"it's just as well if we don't see him.\" \"Yes, and get me fired for not carryin' out instructions,\" says I. \"My orders are to work you in when there's a chance.\" \"Oh, in that case,\" says Marjorie, \"perhaps we had better wait. We don't wish to cause trouble for anyone, especially such a bright, charming young----\" \"Nix on the josh,\" says I. \"And have a seat while I skirmish.\" \"Very well, then,\" says she, screwin' her face up cunnin' and handin' me one of them crooked smiles.", "words": 301}, {"story": 23, "title": "Breezing By With Peggy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Say, she pretty near had me goin' right from the start. And as I tiptoes into the boss's room I sees he ain't doin' anything more important than signin' letters. \"They're here,\" says I, \"the wards. Is it all right to run 'em in now?\" He grunts, nods his head, and keeps on writin'. So I strolls back to the reception room. \"All right,\" says I. \"I've fixed it up for you.\" \"Now, wasn't that sweet in you?\" gurgles Marjorie, glancin' sideways at Brother. I couldn't swear it was a wink, either; but it's one of them knowin' fam'ly looks, and she follows it up with a ripply sort of a giggle. \"That's right!\" says I. \"Have all the fun you want with me; but I'd warn you to ditch the mirth stuff while you're on the carpet. Mr. Ellins don't like it.\" \"How interesting!\" says Marjorie. \"Dudley, I hope you understand. We must ditch the mirth stuff.\" They swaps another grin at that, and I have a suspicion I'm bein' kidded. Just for that too I decides to stick around while they're gettin' theirs from Old Hickory. \"This way,\" says I cold and haughty, as I tows 'em into the private office. Mr. Ellins lets 'em stand there a minute or so without sayin' a word, and then he turns and looks 'em over deliberate. \"Humph!\" he grunts. \"Thought you were younger.\" \"Yes, Sir,\" says Marjorie, \"we--er--we were at one time.\" Old Hickory shoots a quizzin' glance at her; but there ain't the ghost of a smile on her face. \"Huh!\" says he. \"I've no doubt. And I presume that in due course you'll be older. Having agreed on that, perhaps you will tell me what you're doing in New York?\"", "words": 292}, {"story": 23, "title": "Breezing By With Peggy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Marjorie starts in to give him the answer to that; but Dudley shakes his head at her and takes the floor himself. \"You see, Sir,\" says he real respectful, \"Mother's abroad this winter, and when we were asked to visit friends on Long Island we thought----\" \"Amy abroad, is she?\" breaks in Mr. Ellins. \"How does that happen?\" \"The Adamses took her with them to Egypt,\" says Dudley. \"They are old friends of ours.\" \"Humph!\" says Old Hickory. \"Your mother must be rather popular?\" \"Oh, everyone likes Mama,\" put in Marjorie. \"She's asked around everywhere.\" \"Yes, yes, I've no doubt,\" says he. \"As I remember her, she was rather a--but we won't go into that. Did you come to consult me about anything in particular?\" \"No indeed,\" says Marjorie. \"But you've been so good to bother about our affairs, and you've done such wonders with the little property poor Dad left, that we thought, as we were so near, we ought to----\" \"We wanted,\" breaks in Dudley, \"to call and thank you personally for your kindness. You have been awfully kind, Sir.\" \"Think so, do you?\" says Mr. Ellins. \"Well, is that all?\" \"Yes,\" says Marjorie; \"only--only--oh, Dud, I'm going to do it!\" And with that she makes a rush, lets out a giggle or two, grabs Old Hickory in a perfectly good hug, and kisses him twice on his bald spot. He don't even have a chance to struggle, and before he can get out a word it's all over and she has backed off, givin' him the full benefit of one of them twisty smiles. I was lookin' for him to blow up for fair at that. He don't though. \"There, there!\" says he. \"Not in the least necessary, you know. But if it was something you had to get out of your system, all right. So you've been visiting, eh? Now, what?\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 23, "title": "Breezing By With Peggy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Why, Marjorie's going back to her school, Sir,\" says Dudley, \"and I to college.\" \"Before the holidays are over?\" says Mr. Ellins. \"Oh, we don't mind,\" says Marjorie. \"We don't want to go home and open up the house; for we should miss Mother so much.\" \"Suppose you finish out your vacation with us, then?\" suggests Old Hickory. \"Oh, thank you, Sir,\" says Dudley; \"but we----\" \"Mother wrote us, you see,\" breaks in Marjorie, \"that we mustn't think of bothering you another bit.\" \"Who says you're a bother?\" he demands. \"At this time of year I like to have young folks around--if they're the right kind.\" \"But I'm not sure we are the right kind,\" says Marjorie. \"I--I'm not very serious, you know; and Dud's apt to be noisy. He thinks he can sing.\" At which Dudley gets fussed and Old Hickory chuckles. \"I'll take a chance,\" says Mr. Ellins. \"If I'm to be your guardian, I ought to know you better. So you two trot right up to the house and prepare to stay the week out. Here, Torchy! 'Phone for the limousine. No, not a word, young woman! I haven't time to discuss it. Clear out, both of you! See you at dinner.\" \"There!\" says Marjorie as a partin' shot. \"I just knew you were an old dear!\" \"Stuff!\" protests Mr. Ellins. \"'Old bear,' is more like it.\" And me, I picks up a new cue. I escorts 'em out to the gen'ral office with all the honors. \"I'll have that car down in a jiffy, Miss,\" says I. \"Oh, thank you,\" says Marjorie. \"And if you think of anything we ought to ditch in the meantime--\" \"Ah, what's the use rubbin' it in on me,\" says I, \"after the way you put it over Mr. Ellins? I don't count. Besides, anybody that fields their position like you do has got me wearin' their button for keeps.\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 23, "title": "Breezing By With Peggy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Really?\" says she. \"I shall remember that, you know; and there's no telling what dreadful thing I may do before I go. Is there, Dud?\" \"Oh, quit it, Peggy!\" says he. \"Behave, can't you?\" \"Certainly, Brother dear,\" says she, runnin' her tongue out at him. Ever see anyone who could make a cute play of that? Well, Marjorie could, believe me! Funny, though, the sudden hit them two seemed to make with Old Hickory. Honest, the few days they was around the house his disposition clears up like coffee does when you stir in the egg. I heard him talkin' to Mr. Robert about 'em, how well brought up and mannerly they was. He even unloads some of it on me, by way of suggestin' 'em as models. You'd most think he'd trained 'em himself. Bein' chased up to the house on so many errands, I had a chance to get the benefit of some of this improvin' influence. And it was kind of good, I admit, to watch how prompt Dudley hops up every time any older party comes into the room; and how sweet Marjorie is to everybody, even the butler. They was just as nice to each other too,--Brother helpin' Sister on with her wraps, and gettin' down on his knees to put on her rubbers; while Marjorie never forgets to thank him proper, and pat him chummy on the cheek. \"Gee!\" thinks I. \"A sister like that wouldn't be so bad to have around.\" Course, I knew this was comp'ny manners, exhibition stuff; but all the same it was kind of inspirin' to see. It's catchin' too. I even finds myself speakin' gentle to Piddie, and offerin' to help Mr. Ellins with his overcoat.", "words": 288}, {"story": 23, "title": "Breezing By With Peggy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "All of which lasts until here one afternoon, as I'm waitin' in the Ellins' lib'ry for some presents I'm to deliver, when the spell is shattered. I'd heard 'em out in the hall, talkin' low and earnest, and next thing I know they've drifted in where I am and have opened up a lively debate. \"Pooh!\" says Marjorie. \"You can't stop me.\" \"See here, Peggy!\" comes back Dudley. \"Didn't Mother say I was to look after you?\" \"She didn't tell you to be so everlasting bossy,\" says Sister. \"I'm not bossy,\" comes back Dudley. \"You are so!\" says she. \"Old fuss budget! Stewcat!\" \"Rattlehead!\" says Dudley. \"Don't mind me,\" I breaks in. \"I'm havin' my manners improved.\" All that brings out, though, is a glance and a shoulder shrug, and they proceed with the squabble. \"Dud Chandler,\" says Marjorie determined, \"I am going to drive the car today! You did yesterday for an hour.\" \"That's entirely different,\" says Dudley. \"I'm used to it, and Henry said I might.\" \"And Henry says I may too--so there!\" says Marjorie. \"And you know I'm just crazy to try it on Fifth Avenue.\" \"You'd look nice, wouldn't you?\" says Brother scornful. \"A limousine!\" \"But Bud Adams let me drive theirs; in Boston too,\" protests Marjorie. \"Bud Adams is a bonehead, then,\" says Dudley. \"Dudley Chandler,\" snaps Sister, her eyes throwin' off sparks, \"don't you dare talk that way about my friends!\" \"Huh!\" says Brother. \"If there ever was a boob, that Bud Adams is----\" Say, there's only a flash and a squeal before Sister has landed a smack on his jaw and has both hands in his hair. Looked like a real rough-house session, right there in the lib'ry, when there comes a call for me down the stairs from Mrs. Ellins. She wants to know if I'm ready. \"Waitin' here, Ma'am,\" says I, steppin' out into the hall.", "words": 315}, {"story": 23, "title": "Breezing By With Peggy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"And Marjorie and Dudley?\" says she. \"Are the dear young folks ready too?\" \"I'll ask 'em,\" says I. And with that I dodges hack where they're standin' glarin' at each other. \"Well,\" says I, \"is it to be a go to a finish, or----\" \"Come, Marjorie,\" says Dudley, \"be decent.\" \"I--am going to do it!\" announces Marjorie. \"Mule!\" hisses Dudley. And that's the status quo between these two models when we starts for the car. Marjorie makes a quick break and plants herself in front by the chauffeur, leavin' Brother to climb inside with me and the bundles. He grits his teeth and murmurs a few remarks under his breath. \"Some pep to that sister of yours, eh?\" says I. \"She's an obstinate little fool!\" says Dudley. \"Look at that, now! I knew she would!\" Yep, she had. We're no sooner under way than the obligin' Henry slides out of his seat and lets Miss Marjorie slip in behind the wheel. She can drive a car all right too. You ought to see her throw in the high and go beatin' it down the avenue, takin' signals from the traffic cops at crossing, skinnin' around motor busses, and crowdin' out a fresh taxi driver that tried to hog a corner on her. Nothin' timid or amateurish either about the way she handled that ten-thousand-dollar gas wagon of Old Hickory's. Where I'd be jammin' on both brakes and callin' for help, she just breezes along like she had the street all to herself.", "words": 252}, {"story": 23, "title": "Breezing By With Peggy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Meantime Brother is sittin' with both feet braced and one hand on the door, now and then sighin' relieved as we scrape through a tight place. But we'd been down quite a ways and was part way back, headed for Riverside Drive, and was rollin' along merry too, when all of a sudden a fruit faker's wagon looms up out of a side street unexpected, there's a bump and a crash, and there we are, with a spokeless wooden wheel draped jaunty over one mud guard, the asphalt strewed with oranges, and int'rested spectators gatherin' gleeful from all quarters. Looks like a bad mess too. The old plug of a horse is down, kickin' the stuffin' out of the harness, and a few feet off is the huckster, huddled up in a heap like a bag of meal. Course, there's a cop on the spot. He pushes in where Dudley is tryin' to help the wagon driver up, takes one look at the wreck, and then flashes his little notebook. He puts down our license number, calls for the owner's name, prods the wagon man without result, tells us we're all pinched, and steps over to a convenient signal box to ring up an ambulance. Inside of three minutes we're the storm center of a small mob, and there's two other cops lookin' us over disapprovin'. \"Take 'em all to the station house,\" says one, who happens to be a roundsman. That didn't listen good to me; so I kind of sidles off from our group. It just struck me that it might be handy to have someone on the outside lookin' in. But at that I got to the station house almost as soon as they did. The trio was lined up before the desk Sergeant. Miss Marjorie's kind of white, but keepin' a stiff lip over it; while Dudley is holdin' one hand and pattin' it comfortin'.", "words": 319}, {"story": 23, "title": "Breezing By With Peggy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Well, who was driving?\" is the first thing the Sergeant wants to know. \"If you please, Sir,\" speaks up Dudley, \"I was.\" \"Why, Dudley!\" says Peggy, openin' her eyes wide. \"You know----\" \"Hush up!\" whispers Brother. \"Sha'nt!\" says Marjorie. \"I was driving, Mr. Officer.\" \"Rot!\" says Dudley. \"Pay no attention to her, Sergeant.\" \"Suit yourself,\" says the Sergeant. \"I'd just as soon lock up two as one. Then we'll be sure.\" \"There! You see!\" says Brother. \"You aren't helping any. Now keep out, will you?\" \"But, Dudley----\" protests Marjorie. \"That'll do,\" says the Sergeant. \"You'll have plenty of time to talk it over afterwards. Hospital case, eh? Then we can't take bail. Names, now!\" And it's while their names are bein' put on the blotter that I slides out, hunts up a pay station, and gets Mr. Robert on the 'phone. \"Better lug along a good-sized roll,\" says I, after I've explained the case, \"and start a lawyer or two this way. You'll need 'em.\" \"I will,\" says Mr. Robert. \"And you'll meet me at the station, will you?\" \"Later on,\" says I. \"I want to try a little sleuthin' first.\" You see, I'd spotted the faker's name on the wagon license, and it occurs to me that before any of them damage-suit shysters get to him it would be a good scheme to discover just how bad he was bunged up. So my bluff is that it's an uncle of mine that's been hurt. By pushin' it good and hard too, and insistin' that I'd got to see him, I gets clear into the cot without bein' held up. And there's the victim, snoozin' peaceful. \"Gee!\" says I to the nurse, sniffin' the atmosphere. \"Had to brace him up with a drink, did you?\" She smiles at that. \"Hardly,\" says she. \"He had attended to that, or he wouldn't be in here. This is the alcoholic ward, you know.\"", "words": 320}, {"story": 23, "title": "Breezing By With Peggy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Huh!\" says I. \"Pickled, was he? But is he hurt bad?\" \"Not at all,\" says she. \"He will be all right as soon as he's sober.\" Did I smoke it back to the station house? Well, some! And Mr. Robert was there, talkin' to two volunteer witnesses who was ready to swear the faker was drivin' on the wrong side of the street and not lookin' where he was goin'. \"How could he,\" says I, \"when he was soused to the ears?\" Course, it took some time to convince the Sergeant; but after he'd had word from the hospital he concludes to accept a hundred cash, let Dudley go until mornin', and scratch Marjorie's name off the book. Goin' back to the house we four rides inside, with Henry at the wheel. \"I'm awfully sorry, Dud,\" says Marjorie, snugglin' up to Brother, \"but--but it was almost worth it. I didn't know you could be so--so splendid!\" \"Stow it, Peggy,\" says Dudley. \"You're a regular brick!\" \"No, I'm not,\" says she. \"And think what Mr. Ellins will say! \"There, there!\" says Mr. Robert soothin'. \"You were not to blame. I will have someone see the fellow in the morning and settle the damage, however. There's no need to trouble Father about it, none in the least.\" \"Besides, Peggy,\" adds Dudley, \"I'm the one the charge is made against. So butt out.\" Looked like it was all settled that way too, and that Old Hickory's faith in his model wards wa'n't to be disturbed. But when we pulls up at the house there he is, just goin' up the front steps. \"Ah!\" says he, beamin'. \"There you are, eh? And how has my little Peggy been enjoying herself today?\" \"Mr. Ellins,\" says she, lookin' him square in the eye, \"you mustn't call me your Peggy any more. I've just hit a man. He's in the hospital.\"", "words": 314}, {"story": 23, "title": "Breezing By With Peggy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"You--you hit someone!\" gasps Old Hickory, starin' puzzled at her. \"What with?\" \"Why, with the car,\" says she. \"I was driving. Dudley tried to stop me; but I was horrid about it. We had a regular fight over it. Then I coaxed Henry to let me, and--and this happened. Don't listen to Dudley. It was all my fault.\" \"Wow!\" I whispers to Mr. Robert. \"Now she's spilled the beans!\" Did she? Say, I wa'n't in on the fam'ly conference that follows, but I gets the result from Mr. Robert next day, after he's been to court and seen Dudley's case dismissed. \"No, the young folks haven't been sent away,\" says he. \"In fact, Father thinks more of them than ever. He's going to take 'em both abroad with him next summer.\" Wouldn't that smear you, though? Say, I wish someone would turn me loose with a limousine!", "words": 147}, {"story": 24, "title": "Gloom Shunting For The Boss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Trouble? Say, it was comin' seven diff'rent ways there for awhile,--our stocks on the slump, a quarterly bein' passed, Congress actin' up, a lot of gloom rumors floatin' around about what was goin' to happen to the tariff on steel, and the I Won't Workers pullin' off a big strike at one of our busiest plants. But all these things was side issues compared to this scrap that develops between Old Hickory and Peter K. Groff. Maybe you don't know about Peter K.? Well, he's the Mesaba agent of Corrugated affairs, the big noise at the dirt end of the dividends. It's Groff handles the ore proposition, you understand, and it's his company that does the inter-locking act between the ore mines and us and the railroads. Course, I can't give you all the details without pullin' down a subpoena from the Attorney-General's office, and I ain't anxious to crowd Willie Rockefeller, or anybody like that, out of the witness chair. But I can go as far as to state that, as near as I could dope it out, Peter K. was only standin' on his rights, and if only him and Mr. Ellins could have got together for half an hour peaceable-like things could have been squared all around. We needed Groff every tick of the clock, and just because he ain't always polite in statin' his views over the wire wa'n't any first-class reason for us extendin' him an official invitation to go sew his head in a bag. Uh-huh, them was Old Hickory's very words. I stood by while he writes the message. Then I takes it out and shows it to Piddie and grins. You should have seen Piddie's face. He turns the color of green pea soup and gasps. He's got all the fightin' qualities of a pet rabbit in him, Piddie has.", "words": 308}, {"story": 24, "title": "Gloom Shunting For The Boss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"But--but that is a flat insult,\" says he, \"and Mr. Groff is a very irascible person!\" \"A which?\" says I. \"Never mind, though. If he's got anything on Old Hickory when it comes to pep in the disposition, he's the real Tabasco Tommy.\" \"But I still contend,\" says Piddie, \"that this reply should not be sent.\" \"Course it shouldn't,\" says I. \"But who's goin' to point that out to the boss? You?\" Piddie shudders. I'll bet he went home that night and told Wifey to prepare for the end of the world. Course, I knew it meant a muss. But when Old Hickory's been limpin' around with a gouty toe for two weeks, and his digestion's gone on the fritz, and things in gen'ral has been breakin' bad--well, it's a case of low barometer in our shop, and waitin' to see where the lightnin' strikes first. Might's well be pointed at Peter K., thinks I, as at some Wall Street magnate or me. Course, Groff goes up in the air a mile, threatens to resign from the board, and starts stirrin' up a minority move that's liable to end most anywhere. Then, right in the midst of it, Old Hickory accumulates his annual case of grip, runs up a temperature that ain't got anything to do with his disposition, and his doctor gives orders for him not to move out of the house for a week. So that throws the whole thing onto me and Mr. Robert. I was takin' it calm enough too; but with Mr. Robert it's different. He has his coat off that mornin', and his hair mussed up, and he's smokin' long brunette cigars instead of his usual cigarettes. He was pawin' over things panicky.", "words": 289}, {"story": 24, "title": "Gloom Shunting For The Boss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Hang it all!\" he explodes. \"Some of these papers must go up to the Governor for his indorsement. Perhaps you'd better take them, Torchy. But you're not likely to find him in a very agreeable mood, you know.\" \"Oh, I can dodge,\" says I, gatherin' up the stuff. \"And what's the dope? Do I dump these on the bed and make a slide for life, or so I take out accident insurance and then stick around for orders?\" \"You may--er--stick around,\" says Mr. Robert. \"In fact, my chief reason for sending you up to the house is the fact that at times you are apt to have a cheering effect on the Governor. So stay as long as you find any excuse. \"Gee!\" says I. \"I don't know whether this is a special holiday, or a sentence to sudden death. But I'll take a chance, and if the worst happens, Mr. Robert, see that Piddie wears a black armband for me.\" He indulges in the first grin he's had on for a week, and I makes my exit on that. The science of bein' fresh is to know where to quit. But, say, that wa'n't all guff we was exchangin' about Old Hickory. I don't find him tucked away under the down comf'tables, like he ought to be. Marston, the butler, whispers the boss is in the lib'ry, and sort of shunts me in without appearin' himself. A wise guy, Marston. For here's Mr. Ellins, wearin' a padded silk dressin' gown and old slippers, pacin' back and forth limpy and lettin' out grunts and growls at every turn. Talk about your double-distilled grouches! He looks like he'd been on a diet of mixed pickles and scrap iron for a month, and hated the whole human race. \"Well?\" he snaps as he sees me edgin' in cautious. \"Papers for your O. K,\" says I, holdin' the bunch out at arm's length.", "words": 320}, {"story": 24, "title": "Gloom Shunting For The Boss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"My O. K.?\" he snarls. \"Bah! Now what the zebra-striped Zacharias do they send those things to me for? What good am I, anyway, except as a common carrier for all the blinkety blinked aches and pains that ever existed? A shivery, shaky old lump of clay streaked with cussedness, that's all I am!\" \"Yes, Sir,\" says I, from force of habit. \"Eh?\" says he, whirlin' and snappin' his jaws. \"N-n-no, Sir,\" says I, sidesteppin' behind a chair. \"That's right,\" says he. \"Dodge and squirm as if I was a wild animal. That's what they all do. What are you afraid of, Boy?\" \"Me?\" says I. \"Why, I'm havin' the time of my life. I don't mind. It only sounds natural and homelike. And it's mostly bluff, ain't it, Mr. Ellins?\" \"Discovered!\" says he. \"Ah, the merciless perspicacity of youth! But don't tell the others. And put those papers on my desk.\" \"Yes, Sir,\" says I, and after I've spread 'em out I backs into the bay window and sits down. \"Well, what are you doing there?\" says he. \"Waiting orders,\" says I. \"Any errands, Mr. Ellins?\" \"Errands?\" says he. Then, after thinkin' a second, he raps out, \"Yes. Do you see that collection of bottles and pills and glasses on the table? Enough to stock a young drugstore! And I've been pouring that truck into my system by wholesale,--the pink tablets on the half-hour, the white ones on the quarter, a spoonful of that purple liquid on the even hour, two of the greenish mixtures on the odd, and getting worse every day. Bah! I haven't the courage to do it myself, but by the blue-belted blazes if---- See here, Boy! You're waiting orders, you say?\" \"Uh-huh!\" says I. \"Then open that window and throw the whole lot into the areaway,\" says he. \"Do you mean it, Mr. Ellins?\" says I.", "words": 312}, {"story": 24, "title": "Gloom Shunting For The Boss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Do I--yah, don't I speak plain English?\" he growls. \"Can't you understand a simple----\" \"I got you,\" I breaks in. \"Out it goes!\" I don't drop any of it gentle, either. I slams bottles and glasses down on the flaggin' and chucks the pills into the next yard. I makes a clean sweep. \"Thanks, Torchy,\" says he. \"The doctor will be here soon. I'll tell him you did it.\" \"Go as far as you like,\" says I. \"Anything else, Sir?\" \"Yes,\" says he. \"Provide me with a temporary occupation.\" \"Come again,\" says I. \"I want something to do,\" says he. \"Here I've been shut up in this confounded house for four mortal days! I can't read, can't eat, can't sleep. I just prowl around like a bear with a sore ear. I want something that will make me forget what a wretched, futile old fool I am. Do you know of anything that will fill the bill?\" \"No, sir,\" says I. \"Then think,\" says he. \"Come, where is that quick-firing, automatic intellect of yours? Think, Boy! What would you do if you were shut up like this?\" \"Why,\" says I, \"I--I might dig up some kind of games, I guess.\" \"Games!\" says he. \"That's worth considering. Well, here's some money. Go get 'em.\" \"But what kind, Sir?\" says I. \"How the slithering Sisyphus should I know what kind?\" he snaps. \"Whose idea is this, anyway? You suggested games. Go get 'em, I tell you! I'll give you half an hour, while I'm looking over this stuff from the office. Just half an hour. Get out!\"", "words": 265}, {"story": 24, "title": "Gloom Shunting For The Boss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "It's a perfectly cute proposition, ain't it? Games for a heavy-podded old sinner like him, who's about as frivolous in his habits as one of them stone lions in front of the new city lib'ry! But here I was on my way with a yellow-backed twenty in one hand; so it's up to me to produce. I pikes straight down the avenue to a joint where they've got three floors filled with nothin' but juvenile joy junk, blows in there on the jump, nails a clerk that looks like he had more or less bean, waves the twenty at him, and remarks casual: \"Gimme the worth of that in things that'll amuse a fifty-eight-year-old kid who's sick abed and walkin' around the house.\" Did I say clerk? I take it back. He was a salesman, that young gent was. Never raised an eyebrow, but proceeded to haul out samples, pass 'em up to me for inspection, and pile in a heap what I gives him the nod on. If I established a record for reckless buyin', he never mentions it. Inside of twenty minutes I'm on my way back, followed by a porter with both arms full. \"The doctor has come,\" says Marston. \"He's in with Mr. Ellins now, Sir.\" \"Ob, is he?\" says I. \"Makes it very nice, don't it?\" And, bein' as how I was Old Hickory's alibi, as you might say, I pikes right to the front. \"Here he is now,\" says Mr. Ellins. And the Doc, who's a chesty, short-legged gent with a dome half under glass,--you know, sort of a skinned diamond with turf outfield effect,--he whirls on me accusin'. \"Young man,\" says he, \"do I understand that you had the impudence to----\" \"Well, well!\" breaks in Old Hickory, gettin' a glimpse of what the porter's unloading \"What have we here? Look, Hirshway,--Torchy's drug substitute!\" \"Eh?\" says the Doc, starin' puzzled.", "words": 316}, {"story": 24, "title": "Gloom Shunting For The Boss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Games,\" says Mr. Ellins, startin' to paw over the bundles. \"Toys for a weary toiler. Let's inspect his selection. Now what's this in the box, Torchy?\" \"Cut-up picture puzzle,\" says I. \"Two hundred pieces. You fit 'em together.\" \"Fine!\" says Old Hickory. \"And this?\" \"Ring toss,\" says I. \"You try to throw them rope rings over the peg.\" \"I see,\" says he. \"Excellent! That will be very amusing and instructive. Here's an airgun too.\" \"Ellins,\" says Doc Hirshway, \"do you mean to say that at your age you are going to play with such childish things?\" \"Why not?\" says Old Hickory. \"You forbid business. I must employ myself in some way, and Torchy recommends these.\" \"Bah!\" says the Doc disgusted. \"If I didn't know you so well, I should think your mind was affected.\" \"Think what you blamed please, you bald-headed old pill peddler!\" raps back the boss, pokin' him playful in the ribs. \"I'll bet you a fiver I can put more of these rings over than you can.\" \"Humph!\" says the Doc. \"I've no time to waste on silly games.\" And he stands by watchin' disapprovin' while Old Hickory makes an awkward stab at the peg. The nearest he comes to it is when he chucks one through the glass door of a curio cabinet, with a smash that brings the butler tiptoein' in. \"Did you ring, Sir?\" says Marston. \"Not a blamed one!\" says Mr. Ellins. \"Take it away, Marston. And then unwrap that large package. There! Now what the tessellated teacups is that!\" It's something I didn't know anything about myself; but the young gent at the store had been strong for puttin' it in, so I'd let it slide. It's a tin affair, painted bright green, with half a dozen little brass cups sunk in it. Some rubber balls and a kind of croquet mallet goes with it.", "words": 313}, {"story": 24, "title": "Gloom Shunting For The Boss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Indoor golf!\" says Old Hickory, readin' the instruction pamphlet. \"Oh, I see! A putting green. Set it there on the rug, Marston. Now, let's see if I've forgotten how to putt.\" We all gathers around while he tries to roll the balls into the cups. Out of six tries he lands just one. Next time he don't get any at all. \"Pooh!\" says the Doc edgin' up int'rested. \"Wretched putting form, Ellins, wretched! Don't tap it that way: sweep it along---follow through, with your right elbow out. Here, let me show you!\" But Hirshway don't do much better. He manages to get two in; but one was a rank scratch. \"Ho-ho!\" cackles Old Hickory. \"Isn't so easy as it looks, eh, Hirshway? Now it's my turn again, and I'm betting ten I beat you.\" \"I take you,\" says the Doc. And blamed if Old Hickory don't pull down the money! Well, that's what started things. Next I knew they'd laid out a regular golf course, drivin' off from the rug in front of the desk, through the double doors into the drawin' room, then across the hall into the music room, around the grand piano to the left, through the back hall, into the lib'ry once more, and onto the tin green. Marston is sent to dig out a couple sets of old golf clubs from the attic, and he is put to caddyin' for the Doc, while I carries the bag for the boss. Course they was usin' putters mostly, except for fancy loftin' strokes over bunkers that they'd built out of books and sofa pillows. And as the balls was softer than the regulation golf kind, with more bounce to 'em, all sorts of carom strokes was ruled in. \"No moving the chairs,\" announces Old Hickory. \"All pieces of furniture are natural hazards.\" \"Agreed,\" says the Doc. \"Playing stimies too, I suppose?\" \"Stimies go,\" says the boss.", "words": 319}, {"story": 24, "title": "Gloom Shunting For The Boss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Say, maybe that wa'n't some batty performance, with them two old duffers golfin' all over the first floor of a Fifth-ave. house, disputin' about strokes, pokin' balls out from under tables and sofas, and me and Marston followin' along with the bags. They got as excited over it as if they'd been playin' for the International Championship, and when Old Hickory loses four strokes by gettin' his ball wedged in a corner he cuts loose with the real golfy language. We was just finishin' the first round, with the score standin' fourteen to seventeen in favor of the Doc, when the front doorbell rings and a maid comes towin' in Piddie. Maybe his eyes don't stick out some too, as he takes in the scene, But Mr. Ellins is preparin' to make a shot for position in front of the green and he don't pay any attention. \"It's Mr. Piddie, Sir,\" says I. \"Hang Mr. Piddie!\" says Old Hickory. \"I can't see him now.\" \"But it's very important,\" says Piddie. \"There's someone at the office who----\" \"No, no, not now!\" snaps the boss impatient. And I gives Piddie the back-out signal. But you know how much sense he's got. \"I assure you, Mr. Ellins,\" he goes on, \"that this is----\" \"S-s-s-st!\" says I. \"Boom-boom! Outside!\" and I jerks my thumb towards the door. That settles Piddie. He fades. A minute later Old Hickory gets a lucky carom off a chair leg and holes out in nineteen, with the Doc playin' twenty-one. \"Ha, ha!\" chuckled the boss. \"What's the matter with my form now, Hirshway? I'll go you another hole for the same stake.\" The Doc was sore and eager to get back. They wa'n't much more'n fairly started, though, before there's other arrivals, that turns out to be no less than two of our directors, lookin' serious and worried. \"Mr. Rawson and Mr. Dunham,\" announces the maid.", "words": 317}, {"story": 24, "title": "Gloom Shunting For The Boss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Here, Boy!\" says the boss, catchin' me by the elbow. \"What was that you said to Mr. Piddie,--that 'Boom-boom!' greeting?\" I gives it to him and the Doc in a stage whisper. \"Good!\" says he. \"Get that, Hirshway? Now let's spring it on 'em. All together now--S-s-s-st! Boom-boom! Outside!\" Say, it makes a hit with the directors, all right. First off they didn't seem to know whether they'd strayed into a bughouse, or were just bein' cheered; but when they sees Old Hickory's mouth corners they concludes to take it as a josh. It turns out that both of 'em are golf cranks too, and inside of three minutes they've forgot whatever it was they'd come for, they've shed their coats, and have been rung into a foursome. Honest, of all the nutty performances! For there was no tellin' where them balls would roll to, and wherever they went the giddy old boys had to follow. I remember one of 'em was stretched out full length on his tummy in the front hall, tryin' to make a billiard shot from under a low hall seat, when there's another ring at the bell, and Marston, with a golf bag still slung over his shoulder, lets in a square-jawed, heavy-set old gent who glares around like he was lookin' for trouble and would be disappointed if he didn't find it. \"Mr. Peter K. Groff,\" announces Marston. \"Good night!\" says I to myself. \"The enemy is in our midst.\" But Old Hickory never turns a hair. He stands there in his shirt sleeves gazin' calm at this grizzly old minin' plute, and then I sees a kind of cut-up twinkle flash in them deep-set eyes of his as he summons his foursome to gather around. I didn't know what was coming either, until they cuts loose with it. And for havin' had no practice they rips it out strong.", "words": 316}, {"story": 24, "title": "Gloom Shunting For The Boss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"S-s-s-st! Boom-boom! Outside!\" comes the chorus. It gets Peter K.'s goat too. His jaw comes open and his eyes pop. Next he swallows bard and flushes red behind the ears. \"Ellins,\" says he, \"I've come fifteen hundred miles to ask what you mean by telling me----\" \"Oh, that you, Groff?\" breaks in the boss. \"Well, don't interrupt our game. Fore! You, I mean. Fore, there! Now go ahead, Rawson. Playing eleven, aren't you?\" And Rawson's just poked his ball out, makin' a neat carom into the music room, when the hall clock strikes five. \"By Jove, gentlemen!\" exclaims Doc Hirshway. \"Sorry, but I must quit. Should have been in my office an hour ago. I really must go.\" \"Quitter!\" says Mr. Ellins. \"But all right. Trot along. Here, Groff, you're a golfer, aren't you?\" \"Why--er--yes,\" says Peter K., actin' sort of dazed; \"but I----\" \"That's enough,\" says Old Hickory. \"You take Hirshway's place. Dunham's your partner. We're playing Nassau, ten a corner. But I'll tell you,--just to make it interesting, I'll play you on the side to see whether or not we accept that proposition of yours. Is it a go?\" \"But see here, Ellins,\" conies back Peter K. \"I want you to understand that you or any other man can't tell me to sew my head in a bag without----\" \"Oh, drop that!\" says Old Hickory. \"I withdraw it--mostly gout, anyway. You ought to know that. And if you can beat me at this game I'll agree to let you have your own way out there. Are you on, or are you too much of a dub to try it?\" \"Maybe I am a dub, Hickory Ellins,\" says Peter K., peelin' off his coat, \"but any game that you can play--er---- Which is my ball?\"", "words": 296}, {"story": 24, "title": "Gloom Shunting For The Boss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Well, it was some warm contest, believe me, with them two joshin' back and forth, and at the game time usin' as much foxy strategy as if they was stealin' railroads away from each other! They must have been at it for near half an hour when a maid slips in and whispers how Mr. Robert is callin' for me on the wire. So I puts her on to sub for me with the bag while I slides into the 'phone booth. \"Sure, Mr. Robert,\" says I, \"I'm still on the job.\" \"But what is happening?\" says he. \"Didn't Groff come up?\" \"Yep,\" says I. \"He's here yet.\" \"You don't say!\" says Mr. Robert. \"Whe-e-ew! He and the governor having it hot and heavy, I suppose?\" \"And then some,\" says I. \"Peter K. took first round 12-17, he tied the second, and now he's trapped in the fireplace on a bad ten.\" \"Wha-a-at?\" gasps Mr. Robert. \"Uh-huh,\" says I. \"Mr. Ellins is layin' under the piano,--only seven, but stimied for an approach.\" \"In Heaven's name, Torchy,\" says Mr. Robert, \"what do you mean? Mr. Groff trapped in the fireplace, father lying under the piano--why----\" \"Ah, didn't Piddie tell you? The boob!\" says I. \"It's just golf, that's all--indoor kind--a batty variation that they made up themselves. But don't fret. Everything's all lovely, and I guess the Corrugated is saved. Come up and look 'em over.\" Yep! Peter K. got the decision by slipping over a smear in the fourth, after which him and Old Hickory leans up against each other and laughs until their eyes leak. Then Marston wheels in the tea wagon full of decanters and club soda, and when I left they was clinkin' glasses real chummy. \"Son,\" says Old Hickory, as he pads into the office about noon next day, \"I believe I forgot the usual caddie fee. There you are.\"", "words": 314}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Nothin' like bein' a handy man around the shop. Here at the Corrugated I'm worked in for almost any old thing, from seein' that Mr. Ellins takes his gout tablets regular, to arrangin' the directors' room for the annual meeting and when it comes to subbin' for Mr. Robert--say, what do you guess is the latest act he bills me for? Art expert! Yep, A-r-t, with a big A! Sounds foolish, don't it? But at that it wa'n't such a bad hunch on his part. He's a rash promiser, Mr. Robert is; but a shifty proposition when you try to push a programme on him, for the first thing you know he's slid from under. I suspicioned some play like that was comin' here the other afternoon when Sister Marjorie shows up at the general offices and asks pouty, \"Where's Robert?\" \"On the job,\" says I. \"Session of the general sales agents today, you know.\" \"But he was to meet me at the Broadway entrance half an hour ago,\" says she, \"and I've been sitting in the car waiting for him. Call him out, won't you, Torchy?\" \"Won't do any good,\" says I. \"He's booked up for the rest of the day.\" \"The idea!\" says Marjorie. \"And he promised faithfully he would go up with me to see those pictures! You just tell him I'm here, that's all.\" There's more or less light of battle in them bright brown eyes of Marjorie's, and that Ellins chin of hers is set some solid. So when I tiptoes in where they're dividin' the map of the world into sellin' areas, and whispers in Mr. Robert's ear that Sister Marjorie is waitin' outside, I adds a word of warnin'. \"It's a case of pictures, you remember,\" says I. \"Oh, the deuce!\" says Mr. Robert. \"Hang Brooks Bladen and his paintings! I can't go, positively. Just explain, will you, Torchy?\"", "words": 316}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Sure; but I'd go hoarse over it,\" says I. \"You know Marjorie, and if you don't want the meetin' broke up I expect you'd better come out and face the music.\" \"Oh, well, then I suppose I must,\" says he, leadin' the way. And Marjorie wa'n't in the mood to stand for any smooth excuses. She didn't care if he had forgotten, and she guessed his old business affairs could be put off an hour or so. Besides, this meant so much to poor Brooks. His very first exhibit, too. Ferdy couldn't go, either. Another one of his sick headaches. But he had promised to buy a picture, and Marjorie had hoped that Robert would like one of them well enough to---- \"Oh, if that's all,\" puts in Mr. Robert, \"then tell him I'll take one, too.\" \"But you can't buy pictures without seeing them,\" protests Marjorie. \"Brooks is too sensitive. He wants appreciation, encouragement, you see.\" \"A lot I could give him,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Why, I know no more about that sort of thing than--well, than----\" And just here his eye lights on me. \"Oh, I say, though,\" he goes on, \"it would be all right, wouldn't it, if I sent a--er--a commissioner?\" \"I suppose that would do,\" says Marjorie. \"Good!\" says Mr. Robert. \"Torchy, go with Marjorie and look at that lot. If they're any good, buy one for me.\" \"Wha-a-at!\" says I. \"Me buy a picture?\" \"Full power,\" says he, startin' back towards the meetin'. \"Pick out the best, and tell Bladen to send me the bill.\" And there we're left, Marjorie and me, lookin' foolish at each other. \"Well, he's done a duck,\" says I. \"If you mean he's got himself out of buying a picture, you're mistaken,\" says she. \"Come along.\"", "words": 297}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "She insists on callin' the bluff, too. Course, I tries to show her, all the way up in the limousine, how punk a performer I'd be at a game like that, and how they'd spot me for a bush leaguer the first stab I made. \"Not at all,\" says Marjorie, \"if you do as I tell you.\" With that she proceeds to coach me in the art critic business. The lines wa'n't hard to get, anyway. \"For some of them,\" she goes on, \"you merely go 'Um-m-m!' under your breath, you know, or 'Ah-h-h-h!' to yourself. Then when I give you a nudge you may exclaim, 'Fine feeling!' or 'Very daring!' or 'Wonderful technic, wonderful!'\" \"Yes; but when must I say which?\" says I. \"It doesn't matter in the least,\" says Marjorie. \"And you think just them few remarks,\" says I, \"will pull me through.\" \"Enough for an entire exhibit at the National Academy,\" says she. \"And when you decide which you like best, just point it out to Mr. Bladen.\" \"Gee!\" says I. \"Suppose I pick a lemon?\" \"Robert won't know the difference,\" says she, \"and it will serve him right. Besides, poor Brooks needs the encouragement.\" \"Kind of a dub beginner with no backing is he?\" says I. Marjorie describes him different. Accordin' to her, he's a classy comer in the art line, with all kinds of talent up his sleeve and Fame busy just around the corner on a laurel wreath exactly his size. Seems Brooks was from a good fam'ly that had dropped their bundle somewhere along the road; so this art racket that he'd taken up as a time killer he'd had to turn into a steady job. He wa'n't paintin' just to keep his brushes soft. He was out to win the kale.", "words": 299}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Between the lines I gathers enough to guess that before she hooked up with Ferdy, the head-achy one, Marjorie had been some mushy over Brooks boy herself. He'd done a full length of her, it appears, and was workin' up quite a portrait trade, when all of a sudden he ups and marries someone else, a rank outsider. \"Too bad!\" sighs Marjorie. \"It has sadly interfered with his career, I'm afraid.\" \"Ain't drivin' him to sign work, is it?\" says I. \"Goodness, no!\" says Marjorie. \"Just the opposite. Of course, Edith was a poor girl; but her Uncle Jeff is ever so rich. They live with him, you know. That's the trouble--Uncle Jeff.\" She's a little vague about this Uncle Jeff business; but it helps explain why we roll up to a perfectly good marble front detached house just off Riverside Drive, instead of stoppin' at one of them studio rookeries over on Columbus-ave. And even I'm wise to the fact that strugglin' young artists don't have a butler on the door unless there's something like an Uncle Jeff in the fam'ly. From the dozen or more cars and taxis hung up along the block I judge this must be a regular card affair, with tea and sandwich trimmin's. It's a good guess. A maid tows us up two flights, though, before we're asked to shed anything; and before we lands Marjorie is gaspin' some, for she ain't lost any weight since she collected Ferdy. Quite a studio effect they'd made too, by throwin' a couple of servants' rooms into one and addin' a big skylight. There was the regulation fishnet draped around, and some pieces of tin armor and plaster casts, which proves as well as a court affidavit that here's where the real, sure-fire skookum creative genius holds forth.", "words": 301}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "It's a giddy bunch of lady gushers that's got together there too, and the soulful chatter is bein' put over so fast it sounds like intermission at a cabaret show. I'm introduced proper to Brooks boy and Wifey; but I'd picked 'em both out at first glimpse. No mistakin' him. He's got on the kind of costume that goes with the fishnet and brass tea machine,--flowin' tie, velvet coat, baggy trousers, and all, even to the Vandyke beard. It's kind of a pale, mud-colored set of face alfalfa; but, then, Brooks boy is sort of that kind himself--that is, all but his eyes. They're a wide-set, dreamy, baby-blue pair of lamps, that beams mild and good-natured on everyone. But Mrs. Brooks Bladen is got up even more arty than Hubby. Maybe it wa'n't sugar sackin' or furniture burlap, but that's what the stuff looked like. It's gathered jaunty just under her armpits and hangs in long folds to the floor, with a thick rope of yellow silk knotted careless at one side with the tassels danglin' below her knee, while around her head is a band of tinsel decoration that might have been pinched off from a Christmas tree. She's a tall, willowy young woman, who waves her bare arms around vivacious when she talks and has lots of sparkle to her eyes. \"You dear child!\" is her greetin' to Marjorie. \"So sweet of you to attempt all those dreadful stairs! No, don't try to talk yet. We understand, don't we, Brooks? Nice you're not sensitive about it, too.\" I caught the glare Marjorie shoots over, and for a minute I figured how the picture buyin' deal had been queered at the start; but the next thing I knew Brooks boy is holdin' Marjorie's hand and beamin' gentle on her, and she is showin' all her dimples once more. Say, they're worth watchin', some of these fluff encounters.", "words": 318}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "My act? Ah, say, most of that good dope is all wasted. Nobody seems excited over the fact that I've arrived, even Brooks Bladen. As a salesman he ain't a great success, I judge. Don't tout up his stuff any, or try to shove off any seconds or shopworn pieces. He just tells me to look around, and half apologizes for his line in advance. Well, for real hand-painted stuff it was kind of tame. None of this snowy-mountain-peak or mirror-lake business, such as you see in the department stores. It's just North River scenes; some clear, some smoky, some lookin' up, some lookin' down, and some just across. In one he'd done a Port Lee ferryboat pretty fair; but there's another that strikes me harder. It shows a curve in the drive, with one of them green motor busses goin' by, the top loaded, and off in the background to one side the Palisades loomin' up against a fair-weather sunset, while in the middle you can see clear up to Yonkers. Honest, it's almost as good as some of them things on the insurance calendars, and I'm standin' gawpin' at it when Brooks Bladen and Marjorie drifts along. \"Well?\" says he, sort of inquirin'. \"That must be one of the Albany night boats goin' up,\" says I. \"She'll be turnin' her lights on pretty quick. And it's goin' to be a corkin' evenin' for a river trip. You can tell that by----\" But just here Marjorie gives me a jab with her elbow. \"Ow, yes!\" says I, rememberin' my lines. \"Um-m-m-m-m! Fine feelin'. Very darin' too, very! And when it comes to the tech stuff--why, it's there in clusters. Much obliged--er--that is, I guess you can send this one. Mr. Robert Ellins. That's right. Charge and send.\"", "words": 298}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Maybe he wasn't used to makin' such quick sales; for he stares at me sort of puzzled, and when I turns to Marjorie she's all pinked up like a strawberry sundae and is smotherin' a giggle with her mesh purse. I don't know why, either. Strikes me I'd put it over kind of smooth; but as there seems to be a slip somewhere it's me for the rapid back-away. \"Thanks, that'll be all to-day,\" I goes on, \"and--and I'll be waitin' downstairs, Marjorie.\" She don't stop me; so I pushes through the mob at the tea table, collects my coat and lid, and slips down to the first floor, where I wanders into the drawin' room. No arty decorations here. Instead of pictures and plaster casts, the walls are hung with all kinds of mounted heads and horns, and the floor is covered with odd-lookin' skin rugs,--tigers, lions, and such. I'd been waitin' there sometime, inspectin' the still life menagerie, when all of a sudden in from the hall rolls one of these invalid wheeled chairs with a funny little old bald-headed gent manipulatin' levers. What hair he has left is real white, and most of his face is covered with a thin growth of close-cropped white whiskers; but under the frosty shrubb'ry, as well as over all the bare space, he's colored up as bright as a bottle of maraschino cherries. It's the sort of sunburn a sandy complexion gets on; but not in a month or a year. You know? One of these blond Eskimo tints, that seems to go clear through the skin. How he could get it in a wheel chair, though, I couldn't figure out. Anyway, there wasn't time. Quick as he sees me he throws in his reverse gear and comes to a stop between the portieres. \"Well, young man,\" he raps out sharp and snappy, \"who the particular blazes are you?\"", "words": 318}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "But, say, I've met too many peevish old parties to let a little jab like that tie up my tongue. \"Me?\" says I, settin' back easy in the armchair. \"Oh, I'm a buyer representin' a private collector.\" \"Buyer of what?\" says he. \"Art,\" says I. \"Just picked up a small lot,--that one with the Albany night boat in it, you know.\" He stares like he thought I was batty, and then rolls his chair over closer. \"Do I understand,\" says he, \"that you have been buying a picture--here?\" \"Sure,\" says I. \"Say, ain't you on yet, and you right in the house? Well, you ought to get next.\" \"I mean to,\" says he. \"Bladen's stuff, I suppose?\" \"Uh-huh,\" says I. \"And, believe me, Brooksy is some paint slinger; that is, fine feelin', darin' technic, all that sort of dope.\" \"I see,\" says he, noddin' his head. \"Holding a sale, is he? On one of the upper floors?\" \"Top,\" says I. \"Quite a classy little studio joint he's made up there.\" \"Oh, he has, has he?\" says the old boy, snappin' his eyes. \"Well, of all the confounded--er--young man, ring that bell!\" Say, how was I goin' to know? I was beginnin' to suspect that this chatty streak of mine wa'n't goin' to turn out lucky for someone; but it's gone too far to hedge. I pushes the button, and in comes the butler. \"Tupper,\" says the old man, glarin' at him shrewd, \"you know where the top-floor studio is, don't you?\" \"Ye-e-es, Sir,\" says Tapper, almost chokin' over it. \"You'll find Mr. and Mrs. Bladen there,\" goes on old Grouchy. \"Ask them to step down here for a moment at once.\" Listened sort of mussy from where I sat, and I wa'n't findin' the armchair quite so comf'table. \"Guess I'll be loafin' along,\" says I, casual.", "words": 306}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"You'll stay just where you are for the present!\" says he, wheelin' himself across the door-way. \"Oh, well, if you insist,\" says I. He did. And for two minutes there I listens to the clock tick and watches the old sport's white whiskers grow bristly. Then comes the Bladens. He waves 'em to a parade rest opposite me. \"What is it, Uncle Jeff?\" says Mrs. Bladen, sort of anxious. And with that I begins to piece out the puzzle. This was Uncle Jeff, eh, the one with the bank account? \"So,\" he explodes, like openin' a bottle of root beer, \"you've gone back to your paint daubing, have you? And you're actually trying to sell your namby-pamby stuff on my top floor? Come now, Edith, let's hear you squirm out of that!\" Considerable fussed, Edith is. No wonder! After one glance at me she flushes up and begins twistin' the yellow silk cord nervous; but nothin' in the way of a not guilty plea seems to occur to her. As for Hubby, he blinks them mild eyes of his a couple of times, and then stands there placid with both hands in the pockets of his velvet coat, showin' no deep emotion at all. \"It's so, isn't it?\" demands Uncle. \"Ye-e-es, Uncle Jeff,\" admits Edith. \"But poor Brooks could do nothing else, you know. If he'd taken a studio outside, you would have wanted to know where he was. And those rooms were not in use. Really, what else could he do?\" \"Mean to tell me he couldn't get along without puttering around with those fool paints and brushes?\" snorts Uncle Jeff. \"It--it's his life work, Uncle Jeff,\" says Mrs. Bladen.", "words": 281}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Rubbish!\" says the old boy. \"In the first place, it isn't work. Might be for a woman, maybe, but not for an able-bodied man. You know my sentiments on that point well enough. In the second place, when I asked you two to come and live with me, there was no longer any need for him to do that sort of thing. And you understood that too.\" Edith sighs and nods her head. \"But still he goes on with his sissy paint daubing!\" says Uncle. \"They're not daubs!\" flashes back Edith. \"Brooks has been doing some perfectly splendid work. Everyone says so.\" \"Humph!\" says Uncle Jeff. \"That's what your silly friends tell you. But it doesn't matter. I won't have him doing it in my house. You thought, just because I was crippled and couldn't get around or out of these confounded four rooms, that you could fool me. But you can't, you see. And now I'm going to give you and Brooks your choice,--either he stops painting, or out you both go. Now which will it be?\" \"Why, Sir,\" says Brooks, speakin' up prompt but pleasant, \"if that is the way you feel about it, we shall go.\" \"Eh?\" says Uncle Jeff, squintin' hard at him. \"Do you mean it? Want to leave all this for--for the one mean little room I found you in!\" \"Under your conditions, most certainly, Sir,\" says Brooks. \"I think Edith feels as I do. Don't you, Edith?\" \"Ye-e-es, of course,\" says Mrs. Bladen. Then, turnin' on Uncle Jeff, \"Only I think you are a mean, hard-hearted old man, even if you are my uncle! Oh, you don't know how often I've wanted to tell you so too,--always prying into this, asking questions about that, finding fault, forever cross and snappish and suspicious. A waspish, crabbed old wretch, that's what you are! I just hate you! So there!\"", "words": 314}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Uncle Jeff winces a little at these last jabs; but he only turns to Brooks and asks quiet, \"And I suppose those are your sentiments too?\" \"Edith is a little overwrought,\" says Brooks. \"It's true enough that you're not quite an agreeable person to live with. Still, I hardly feel that I have treated you just right in this matter. I shouldn't have deceived you about the studio. When I found that I couldn't bear to give up my work and live like a loafer on your money, I should have told you so outright. I haven't liked it, Sir, all this dodging and twisting of the truth. I'm glad it's over. Would you prefer to have us go tonight or in the morning?\" \"Come now, that's not the point,\" says Uncle Jeff. \"You hate me, too, don't you?\" \"No,\" says Brooks, \"and I'm sure Edith doesn't either.\" \"Yes I do, Brooks,\" breaks in Edith. Brooks shrugs his shoulders sort of hopeless. \"In that case,\" says he, \"we shall leave at once--now. I will send around for our traps later. You have been very generous, and I'm afraid I've shown myself up for an ungrateful ass, if not worse. Goodby, Sir.\" He stands there holdin' out his hand, with the old gent starin' hard at him and not movin'. Fin'lly Uncle Jeff breaks the spell.", "words": 225}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Well, I'll be hanged!\" says he. \"Bladen, I didn't think it was in you. I took you for one of the milksop kind; which shows just how big a fool an old fool can be. And Edith is right. I'm a crazy, quarrelsome old wretch. It isn't all rheumatism, either. Some of it is disposition. And don't you go away thinking I've been generous, trying to tie you two young people down this way. It was rank selfishness. But you don't know how hard it comes, being shut up like this and able only to move around on wheels--after the life I've led too! I suppose I ought to be satisfied. I've had my share--nearly thirty years on the go, in jungle, forest, mountains, all over the globe. I've hunted big game in every--but you know all about that. And now I suppose I'm worn out, useless. I was trying to get used to it, and having you young folks around has helped a lot. But it hasn't been fair to you--not fair.\" He sort of chokes up at the end, and his lower lip trembles some; but only for a second. He straightens up once more in his chair. \"You must try to make allowances, Edith,\" he goes on. \"Don't--don't hate the old wretch too hard!\" That got to her, all right. She' wa'n't gush all the way through, any more'n Uncle Jeff was all crust. Next thing he knew she was givin' him the fond tackle and sobbin' against his vest. \"There, there!\" says he, pattin' her soothin'. \"We all make our mistakes, old and young; only us old fellows ought to know better.\" \"But--but they aren't daubs!\" sobs out Edith. \"And--and you said they were, without even seeing them.\"", "words": 292}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Just like me,\" says he. \"And I'm no judge, anyway. But perhaps I'd better take a look at some of them. How would that be, eh? Couldn't Tupper bring a couple of them down now?\" \"Oh, may he?\" says Edith, brightenin' up and turnin' off the sprayer. \"I have wished that you could see them, you know.\" So Tupper is sent for a couple of paintings, and Brooks chases along to bring down two more. They ranges 'em on chairs, and wheels Uncle Jeff into a good position. He squints at 'em earnest and tries hard to work up some enthusiasm. \"Ferryboats, sugar refineries, and the North River,\" says he. \"All looks natural enough. I suppose they're well done too; but--but see here, young man, couldn't you find anything better to paint?\" \"Where?\" says Brooks. \"You see, I was able to get out only occasionally without----\" \"I see,\" says Uncle Jeff. \"Tied to a cranky old man in a wheel chair. But, by George! I could take you to places worth wasting your paint on. Ever heard of Yangarook? There's a pink mountain there that rises up out of a lake, and on still mornings--well, you ought to see it! I pitched my camp there once for a fortnight. I could find it again. You go in from Boola Bay, up the Zambesi, and through the jungle. Then there's the Khula Klaht valley. That's in the Himalayas. Pictures? Why, you could get 'em there!\" \"I've no doubt I could, Sir,\" says Brooks. \"I've dreamed of doing something like that some day, too. But what's the use?\"", "words": 266}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Eh?\" says Uncle Jeff, almost standin' up in his excitement. \"Why not, my boy? I could take you there, chair or no chair. Didn't I go in a litter once, halfway across Africa, when a clumsy Zulu beater let a dying rhino gore me in the hip? Yes, and bossed a caravan of sixty men, and me flat on my back! I'm better able to move now than I was then, too. And I'm ready to try it. Another year of this, and I'd be under the ground. I'm sick of being cooped up. I'm hungry for a breath of mountain air, for a glimpse of the old trails. No use taking my guns; but you could lug along your painting kit, and Edith could take care of both of us. We could start within a week. What do you say, you two?\" Brooks he looks over at Edith. \"Oh, Uncle Jeff!\" says she, her eyes sparklin'. \"I should just love it!\" \"I could ask for nothing better,\" says Brooks. \"Then it's settled,\" says Uncle Jeff, reachin' out a hand to each of 'em. \"Hurrah for the long trail! We're off!\" \"Me too,\" says I, \"if that's all.\" \"Ah!\" says Uncle Jeff. \"Our young friend who's at the bottom of the whole of this. Here, Sir! I'm going to teach you a lesson that will make you cautious about gossiping with strange old men. Pick up that leopard skin at your feet.\" \"Yes, Sir,\" says I, holdin' it out to him. \"No, examine it carefully,\" says he. \"That came from a beast I shot on the shores of Lake Tanganyika. It's the finest specimen of the kind in my whole collection. Throw it over your arm, you young scamp, and get along with you!\" And they're all grinnin' amiable as I backs out with my mouth open.", "words": 307}, {"story": 25, "title": "Torchy In On The Draw", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"What the deuce!\" says Mr. Robert after lunch next day, as he gazes first at a big package a special messenger has just left, and then at a note which comes with it. \"'The Palisades at Dusk'--five hundred dollars?\" \"Gee!\" I gasps. \"Did he sting you that hard?\" \"But it's receipted,\" says he, \"with the compliments of Brooks Bladen. What does that mean?\" \"Means I'm some buyer, I guess,\" says I. \"Souvenir of a little fam'ly reunion I started, that's all. But you ain't the only one. Wait till you see what I drew from Uncle Jeff.\"", "words": 97}, {"story": 26, "title": "Gladys In A Double Bill", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "He meant well, Mr. Robert did; but, say, between you and me, he come blamed near spillin' the beans. Course, I could see by the squint to his eyelids that he's about to make what passes with him for a comic openin'. \"I hate to do it, Torchy,\" says he, \"especially on such a fine afternoon as this.\" \"Go on,\" says I, \"throw the harpoon! Got your yachtin' cap on, ain't you? Well, have I got to sub for you at a directors' meeting or what?\" \"Worse than that,\" says he. \"You see, Marjorie and Ferdy are having a veranda tea this afternoon, up at their country house.\" \"Help!\" says I. \"But you ain't billin' me for any such----\" \"Oh, not exactly that,\" says he. \"They can get along very well without me, and I shall merely 'phone out that Tubby Van Orden has asked me to help try out his new forty-footer. But there remains little Gladys. I'd promised to bring her out with me when I came.\" \"Ye-e-e-es?\" says I doubtful. \"She's a little joker, eh?\" \"Why, not at all,\" says he. \"Merely a young school friend of Marjorie's. Used to be in the kindergarten class when Marjorie was a senior, and took a great fancy to her, as little girls sometimes do to older ones, you know.\" Also it seems little Gladys had been spendin' a night or so with another young friend in town, and someone had to round her up and deliver her at the tea, where her folks would be waitin' for her. \"So I'm to take her by the hand and tow her up by train, am I?\" says I. \"I had planned,\" says Mr. Robert, shakin' his head solemn, \"to have you go up in the machine with her, as Marjorie wants to send someone back in it--Miss Vee, by the way. Sure it wouldn't bore you?\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 26, "title": "Gladys In A Double Bill", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Z-z-z-ing!\" says I. \"Say, if it does you'll never hear about it, believe me!\" Mr. Robert chuckles. \"Then take good care of little Gladys,\" says he. \"Won't I, though!\" says I. \"I'll tell her fairy tales and feed her stick candy all the way up.\" Honest, I did blow in a quarter on fancy pink gumdrops as I'm passin' through the arcade; but when I strolls out to the limousine Martin touches his hat so respectful that I gives him a dip into the first bag. \"Got your sailin' orders, ain't you, Martin?\" says I. \"You know we collect a kid first.\" \"Oh, yes, Sir,\" says he. \"Madison avenue. I have the number, Sir.\" Just like that you know. \"I have the number, Sir\"--and more business with the cap brim. Awful bore, ain't it, specially right there on Broadway with so many folks to hear? \"Very well,\" says I, languid. Then it's me lollin' back on the limousine cushions and starin' haughty at the poor dubs we graze by as they try to cross the street. Gee, but it's some different when you're inside gazin' out, than when you're outside gawpin' in! And even if you don't have the habit reg'lar, but are only there just for the time bein', you're bound to get that chesty feelin' more or less. I always do. About the third block I can look slant-eyed at the cheap skates ridin' in hired taxis and curl the lip of scorn. I've noticed, though, that when I work up feelin's like that there's bound to be a bump comin' to me soon. But I wasn't lookin' for this one until it landed. Martin pulls up at the curb, and I hops out, rushes up the steps, and rings the bell. \"Little Miss Gladys ready?\" says I to the maid.", "words": 303}, {"story": 26, "title": "Gladys In A Double Bill", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "She sort of humps her eyebrows and remarks that she'll see. With that she waves me into the reception hall, and pretty soon comes back to report that Miss Gladys will be down in a few minutes. She had the real skirt notion of time, that maid. For more'n a solid half-hour I squirms around on a chair wonderin' what could be happenin' up in the nursery. Then all of a sudden a chatter of goodbys comes from the upper hall, a maid trots down and hands me a suitcase, and then appears this languishin' vision in the zippy French lid and the draped silk wrap. It's one of these dinky brimless affairs, with skyrocket trimmin' on the back, and it fits down over her face like a mush bowl over Baby Brother; but under the rim you could detect some chemical blonde hair and a pair of pink ears ornamented with pearl pendants the size of fruit knife handles. She has a complexion to match, one of the kind that's laid on in layers, with the drugstore red only showing through the whitewash in spots, and the lips touched up brilliant. Believe me, it was some artistic makeup! Course, I frames this up for the friend; so I asks innocent, \"Excuse me, but when is little Miss Gladys comin'?\" \"Why, I'm Gladys!\" comes from between the carmine streaks. I gawps at her, then at the maid, and then back at the Ziegfeld vision again. \"But, see here!\" I goes on. \"Mr. Robert he says how----\" \"Yes, I know,\" she breaks in. \"He 'phoned. The stupid old thing couldn't come himself, and he's sent one of his young men. That's much nicer. Torchy, didn't he say? How odd! But come along. Don't stand there staring. Good-by, Marie. You must do my hair this way again sometime.\"", "words": 306}, {"story": 26, "title": "Gladys In A Double Bill", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "And next thing I know I'm helpin' her into the car, while Martin tries to smother a grin. \"There you are!\" says I, chuckin' her suitcase in after her. \"I--I guess I'll ride in front.\" \"What!\" says she. \"And leave me to take that long ride all alone? I'll not do it. Come in here at once, or I'll not go a step! Come!\" No shrinking violet about Gladys, and as I climbs in I shakes loose the last of that kindergarten dope I'd been primed with. I'll admit I was some fussed for awhile too, and I expect I does the dummy act, sittin' there gazin' into the limousine mirror where she's reflected vivid. I was tryin' to size her up and decide whether she really was one of the chicken ballet, or only a high school imitation. I'm so busy at it that I overlooks the fact that she has the same chance of watchin' me. \"Well?\" says she, as we swings into Central Park. \"I trust you approve?\" \"Eh?\" says I, comin' out of the trance. \"Oh, I get you now. You're waitin' for the applause. Let's see, are you on at the Winter Garden, or is it the Casino roof?\" \"Now don't be rude,\" says she. \"Whatever made you think I'd been on the stage?\" \"I was only judgin' by the get-up,\" says I. \"It's fancy, all right.\" \"Pooh!\" says she. \"I've merely had my hair done the new way. I think it's perfectly dear too. There's just one little touch, though, that Marie didn't quite get. I wonder if I couldn't--you'll not care if I try, will you?\" \"Oh, don't mind me,\" says I. She didn't. She'd already yanked out three or four hatpins and has pried off the zippy lid.", "words": 296}, {"story": 26, "title": "Gladys In A Double Bill", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"There, hold that, will you?\" says she, crowdin' over into the middle of the seat so's to get a good view in the mirror, and beginnin' to revise the scenic effect on her head. Near as I can make out, the hair don't come near enough to meetin' her eyebrows in front or to coverin' her ears on the side. Meanwhile she goes on chatty, \"I suppose Mother'll be wild again when she sees me like this. She always does make such a row if I do anything different. There was an awful scene the first time I had my hair touched up. Fancy!\" \"I was wonderin' if that was the natural tint?\" says I. \"Goodness, no!\" says Gladys. \"It was a horrid brown. And when I used to go to the seminary they made me wear it braided down my back, with a bow on top. I was a sight! The seminary was a stupid place, though. I was always breaking some of their silly rules; so Mummah sent me to the convent. That was better. Such a jolly lot of girls there, some whose mothers were great actresses. And just think--two of my best chums have gone on the stage since! One of them was married and divorced the very first season too. Now wasn't that thrilling? Mother is furious because she still writes to me. How absurd! And some of the others she won't allow me to invite to the house. But we meet now and then, just the same. There were two in our box party last night, and we had such a ripping lark afterward!\"", "words": 270}, {"story": 26, "title": "Gladys In A Double Bill", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Gladys was runnin' on as confidential as if she'd known me all her life, interruptin' the flow only when she makes a jab with the powder-puff and uses the eyebrow pencil. And bein' as how I'd been cast for a thinkin' part I sneaks out the bag of gumdrops and tucks one into the off side of my face. The move don't escape her, though. \"Candy?\" says she, sniffin'. \"Sorry I can't offer you a cigarette,\" says I, holdin' out the bag. \"Humph!\" says she. \"I have smoked them, though. M-m-m-m! Gumdrops! You dear boy!\" Yes, Gladys and me had a real chummy time of it durin' that hour's drive, and I notice she put away her share of the candy just as enthusiastic as if she'd been a kid in short dresses. As a matter of fact, she acts and talks like any gushy sixteen-year-old. That's about what she is, I discovers; though I wouldn't have guessed it if she hadn't let it out herself. But, say, she's some wise for her years, little Gladys is, or else she's a good bluffer! She had me holdin' my breath more'n once, as she opens up various lines of chatter. She'd seen all the ripe problem plays, was posted on the doin's of the Reno colony, and read the Robert Chambers stuff as fast as it came out.", "words": 227}, {"story": 26, "title": "Gladys In A Double Bill", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "And all the time she talks she's goin' through target practice with her eyes, usin' me as the mark. A lively pair of lamps Gladys has too, the big, innocent, baby-blue kind that sort of opens up wide and kind of invites you to gaze into the depths until you get dizzy. Them and the little, openin' rosebud mouth makes a strong combination, and if it hadn't been for the mural decorations I might have fallen hard for Gladys; but ever since I leaned up against a shiny letterbox once I've been shy of fresh paint. So I proceeds to hand out the defensive josh. \"Roll 'em away, Sis,\" says I, \"roll 'em the other way!\" \"Pooh!\" says she. \"Can't a person even look at you?\" \"You're only wastin' ammunition,\" says I. \"You can't put any spell on me, you know.\" \"Oh, really!\" says she, rakin' me with a quick broadside. \"Do you mean that you don't like me at all?\" \"Since you've called for it,\" says I, \"I'll admit I ain't strong for these spotlight color schemes, specially on kids.\" \"Kids!\" she sputters. \"I think you're perfectly horrid, so there!\" \"Stick to it,\" says I. \"Makes me feel better satisfied with myself.\" \"Redhead!\" says she, runnin' her tongue out. \"Yes, clear to the roots,\" says I, \"and the tint didn't come out of a bottle, either.\" \"I don't care,\" says she. \"All the girls do it.\" \"Your bunch, maybe,\" says I; \"but there's a few that don't.\" \"Old sticks, yes,\" says she. \"I'm glad you like that kind. You're as bad as Mummah.\" \"Is that the worst you can say of me?\" says I. \"How that would please Mother!\" Oh, sure, quite a homelike little spat we had, passin' the left handers back and forth--and inside of five minutes she has made it all up again and is holdin' out her hand for the last gumdrop.", "words": 317}, {"story": 26, "title": "Gladys In A Double Bill", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"You're silly; but you're rather nice, after all,\" says she, poutin' her lips at me. \"Now quit that,\" says I. \"I got my fingers crossed.\" \"'Fraid cat!\" says she. \"But here's the house, and we're frightfully early. Now don't act as though you thought I might bite you. I'm going to take your arm.\" She does too, and cuddles up kittenish as we lands at the porte cochere. I gets the idea of this move. She's caught a glimpse of a little group over by the front door, and she wants to make a showy entrance. And who do you guess it is we finds arrangin' the flower vases? Oh, only Marjorie and Miss Vee. Here I am too, with giddy Gladys, the imitation front row girl, clingin' tight to my right wing. You should have seen Vee's eyebrows go up, also Marjorie's stare. It's a minute or so before she recognizes our little friend, and stands there lookin' puzzled at us. Talk about your embarrassin' stage waits! I could feel my face pinkin' up and my ears tinglin'. \"Ah, say,\" I breaks out, \"don't tell me I've gone and collected the wrong one!\" At that there comes a giggle from under the zippy lid. \"Why, it's Gladys!\" says Marjorie. \"Well, I never!\" \"Of course, you dear old goose!\" says Gladys, and rushes to a clinch. \"But--but, Gladys!\" says Marjorie, holdin' her off for another inspection. \"How you have--er--grown up! Why, your mother never told me a word!\" \"Oh, Mummah!\" says she, indicatin' deep scorn. \"Besides, she hasn't seen me for nearly two days, and--well, I suppose she will fuss, as usual, about the way I'm dressed. But I've had a perfectly glorious visit, and coming up in the car with dear Torchy was such sport. Wasn't it, now?\" With which she turns to me. \"Was it?\" says I, and I notices both Vee and Marjorie gazin' at me int'rested.", "words": 320}, {"story": 26, "title": "Gladys In A Double Bill", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Of course,\" says Gladys, prattlin' on, \"we quarreled all the way up; but it was all his fault, and he--oh, phsaw! Here come my dear parents.\" Takin' Gladys as a sample, you'd never guessed it; for Mother is a quiet, modest appearin' little party, with her wavy brown hair parted in the middle and brushed back low. She's wearin' her own complexion too, and, while she's dressed more or less neat and stylish, she don't sport ear danglers, or anything like that. With Father in the background she comes sailin' up smilin', and it ain't until she gets a peek under the mush-bowl lid that her expression changes. \"Why, Gladys!\" she gasps. \"Now, Mummah!\" protests Gladys peevish. \"For goodness sake don't begin--anyway, not here!\" \"But--but, my dear!\" goes on Mother, starin' at her shocked. \"That--that hat! And your hair! And--and your face!\" \"Oh, bother!\" says Gladys, stampin' her high-heeled pump. \"You'd like to have me dress like Cousin Tilly, I suppose?\" \"But you know I asked you not to--to have that done to your hair again,\" says Mother. \"And I said I would, so there!\" says Gladys emphatic. Mother sighs and turns to Father, who is makin' his inspection with a weary look on his face. He's just an average, stout-built, good-natured lookin' duck, Father is, a little bald in front, and just now he's rubbin' the bald spot sort of aimless. \"You see, Arthur,\" says Mother. \"Can't you do something?\" First Father scowls, and then he flushes up. \"Why--er--ah--oh, blast it all, Sallie, don't put it up to me!\" says he. Then he pulls out a long black cigar, bites the end off savage, and beats it around the corner.", "words": 281}, {"story": 26, "title": "Gladys In A Double Bill", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "That was a brilliant move of his; for Mother turns out to be one of the weepy kind, and in a minute more she's slumped into a chair and is sobbin' away. She's sure she don't know why Gladys should do such things. Hadn't she forbid her to use so much rouge and powder? Hadn't she asked her not to wear those hideous ear jewels? And so on and so on, with Gladys standin' back poutin' defiant. But, say, when they get too big to spank, what else can Father and Mother do? Fin'lly Vee seems to have an idea. She whispers it into Marjorie's ear, slips into the house, and comes back with a hand mirror and a damp washcloth, which she proceeds to offer to Gladys, suggestin' that she use it. \"Indeed I sha'n't!\" says Gladys, her big eyes flashin' scrappy. \"I shall stay just as I am, and if Mother wants to be foolish she can get over it, that's all!\" And Gladys switches over to a porch chair and slams herself into it. Vee looks at her a minute, and then bites her upper lip like she was keepin' back some remarks. Next she whispers again to Marjorie, who passes it on to Mother, and then the three of 'em disappears in the house, leavin' Gladys poutin' on one side of the front door, and me in a porch swing on the other waitin' for the next act.", "words": 242}, {"story": 26, "title": "Gladys In A Double Bill", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Must have been ten minutes or more before the two plotters appears again, chattin' away merry with Mother, who's between 'em. And, say, you should have seen Mother! Talk about your startlin' changes! They'd been busy with the make-up box, them two had, and now Mother's got on just as much war paint as Daughter--maybe a little more. Also they've dug up a blond transformation somewhere, which covers up all the brown hair, and they've fitted her out with long jet earrings, and touched up her eyebrows--and, believe me, with all that yellow hair down over her eyes, and the rouged lips, she looks just like she'd strayed in from the White Light district! You wouldn't think just a little store hair and face calcimine could make such a change in anybody. Honest, when I tumbles to the fact that this sporty lookin' female is only Mother fixed up I almost falls out of the swing! That's nothin' to the jolt that gets to Gladys. \"Mother!\" she gasps. \"Wha--what have you been doing?\" \"Why, I've been getting ready for the tea, Gladys,\" says she. \"But--but, Mother,\" says Gladys, \"you're never going to let people see you like that, are you?\" \"Why not, my dear?\" says Mother. \"But your face--ugh!\" says Gladys. \"Oh, bother!\" says Mother. \"I suppose you'd like to have me look like Aunt Martha?\" Gladys stares at her for awhile with her eyes wide and set, like she was watchin' somethin' horrible that she couldn't turn away from, and then she goes to pieces in a weepin' fit of her own. Nobody interferes, and right in the midst of it she breaks off, marches over to a wicker porch table where the mirror and washcloth had been left, props the glass up against a vase, and goes to work. First off she sheds the pearl earrings.", "words": 308}, {"story": 26, "title": "Gladys In A Double Bill", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "At that Mother sits down opposite and follows suit with her jet danglers. Next Gladys mops off the scenic effect. Marjorie produces another washcloth, and Mother makes a clean sweep too. Gladys snatches out a handful of gold hairpins, destroys the turban twist that Marie had spent so much time buildin' up, and knots 'er hair simple in the back. Mother caps this by liftin' off the blond transformation. And as I left for a stroll around the grounds they'd both got back to lookin' more or less nice and natural. They had gone to a close clinch and was sobbin' affectionate on each other's shoulders. Later the tea got under way and went on as such things generally do, with folks comin' and goin', and a buzz of chin music that you could hear clear out to the gate, where I was waitin' with Martin until we should get the signal to start back. I didn't know just how it would be, but I suspected I might be invited to ride in front on the home trip. I'd made up my mind to start there, anyway. But, say, when the time comes and Vee trips out to the limousine, where I'm holdin' the door open and lookin' sheepish, I takes a chance on a glance into them gray eyes of hers. I got a chill too. It's only for a second, though. She was doing her best to look cold and distant; but behind that I could spot a smile. So I changes the programme. \"Say,\" says I, followin' her in and shuttin' the door, \"wa'n't that kid Gladys the limit, though?\" \"Why,\" says she, givin' me the quizzin' stare, \"I thought you had just loads of fun coming up.\" \"Hearing which cruel words,\" says I, \"our hero strode moodily into his castle.\"", "words": 304}, {"story": 26, "title": "Gladys In A Double Bill", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Vee snickers at that. \"And locked the haughty maiden out in the cold, I suppose?\" says she. \"If it was you,\" says I, \"I'd take the gate off the hinges.\" \"Silly!\" says she. \"Do you know, Gladys looked real sweet afterward.\" \"I'll bet the reform don't last, though,\" says I. \"But that was a great scheme of yours for persuadin' her to scrub off the stencil work. There's so many of that kind nowadays, maybe the idea would be worth copyrightin'. What do you think, Vee?\" Never mind the rest, though. We had a perfectly good ride back, and up to date Aunty ain't wise to it. Of course by next mornin' too Mr. Robert has forgot all about the afternoon before, and he seems surprised when I puts in an expense bill of twenty-five cents. \"What's this for?\" says he. \"Gumdrops for little Gladys,\" says I, and as he forks over a quarter I never cracks a smile. Wait until he hears the returns from Marjorie, though! I'll give him some string to pay up for that kindergarten steer of his. Watch me!", "words": 184}, {"story": 27, "title": "Late Returns On Popover", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Well?\" says I, keepin' my feet up on the desk and glancin' casual over the brass rail. \"What's your complaint, Spaghetti?\" It's a wrong guess, to begin with; but I wa'n't even takin' the trouble to place him accurate. He's some kind of a foreigner, and that's enough. Besides, from the fidgety way he's grippin' his hat in both hands, and the hesitating sidlin' style he has of makin' his approach, I figured he must be a stray that had got the wrong number. \"If--if you please, Sir,\" says he, bowin' elaborate and humble, \"Mr. Robert Ellins.\" \"Gwan!\" says I. \"You read that on the floor directory. You don't know Mr. Robert.\" \"But--but if you please, Sir,\" he goes on, \"I wish to speak with him.\" \"You do, eh?\" says I. \"Now, ain't that cute of you? Think you can pick out any name on the board and drift in for a chat, do you? Come now, what you peddlin'--dollar safety-razors, bullpups, or what?\" He ain't a real live wire, this heavy-faced, wide-shouldered, squatty-built party with the bumper crop of curly black hair. He blinks his big, full eyes kind of solemn, starin' at me puzzled, and about as intelligent as a cow gazin' over a fence. An odd lookin' gink he was, sort of a cross between a dressed up bartender on his day off and a longshoreman havin' his picture taken. \"Excuse,\" says he, rousin' a little, \"but--but it is not to peddle. I would wish to speak with Mr. Robert Ellins.\" \"Well, then, you can't,\" says I, wavin' towards the door; \"so beat it!\" This don't make any more impression than as if I'd tried to push him over with one finger. \"I would wish,\" he begins again, \"to speak with----\" \"Say, that's all on the record,\" says I, \"and the motion's been denied.\" \"But I----\" he starts in once more, \"I have----\"", "words": 316}, {"story": 27, "title": "Late Returns On Popover", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Just then Piddie comes turkeyin' over pompous and demands to know what all the debate is about. \"Look what wants to see Mr. Robert!\" says I. \"Impossible!\" says Piddie, takin' one look. \"Send him away at once!\" \"Hear that?\" says I to Curlylocks. \"Not a chance! Fade, Spaghetti, fade!\" The full force of that decision seems to penetrate his nut; for he gulps hard once or twice, the muscles on his thick throat swells up rigid, and next a big round tear leaks out of his off eye and trickles down over his cheek. Maybe it don't look some absurd too, seein' signs of such deep emotion on a face like that. \"Now, none of that, my man!\" puts in Piddie, who's as chicken hearted as he is peevish. \"Torchy, you--you attend to him.\" \"What'll I do,\" says I, \"call in a plumber to stop the leak?\" \"Find out who he is and what he wants,\" says he, \"and then pack him off. I am very busy.\" \"Well,\" says I, turnin' to the thick guy, \"what's the name?\" \"Me?\" says he. \"I--I am Zandra Popokoulis.\" \"Help!\" says I. \"Popo--here, write it on the pad.\" But even when he's done that I can't do more than make a wild stab at sayin' it. \"Oh yes, thanks,\" I goes on. \"Popover for short, eh? Think Mr. Robert would recognise you by that?\" \"Excuse, Sir,\" says he, \"but at the club he would speak to me as Mike.\" \"Oh, at the club, eh?\" says I. \"Say, I'm beginnin' to get a glimmer. Been workin' at one of Mr. Robert's clubs, have you?\" \"I am his waiter for long time, Sir,\" says Popover.", "words": 279}, {"story": 27, "title": "Late Returns On Popover", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Course, the rest was simple. He'd quit two or three months ago to take a trip back home, havin' been promised by the head steward that he could have his place again any time inside of a year. But imagine the base perfidy! A second cousin of the meat chef has drifted in meanwhile, been set to work at Popover's old tables, and the result is that when Mike reports to claim his job he gets the cold, heartless chuck. \"Why not rustle another, then?\" says I. You'd thought, though, to see the gloomy way he shakes his head, that this was the last chance he had left. I gather too that club jobs are fairly well paid, steadier than most kinds of work, and harder to pick up. \"Also,\" he adds, sort of shy, \"there is Armina.\" \"Oh, always!\" says I. \"Bunch of millinery in the offing. It never fails. You're her steady, eh?\" Popover smiles grateful and pours out details. Armina was a fine girl, likewise rich--oh, yes. Her father had a flower jobbin' business on West 28th-st.--very grand. For Armina he had ideas. Any would-be son-in-law must be in business too. Yet there was a way. He would take in a partner with two hundred and fifty dollars cash. And Mr. Popokoulis had saved up nearly that much when he'd got this fool notion of goin' back home into his head. Now here he was flat broke and carryin' the banner. It was not only a case of goin' hungry, but of losin' out on the fair Armina. Hence the eye moisture.", "words": 265}, {"story": 27, "title": "Late Returns On Popover", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Yes, yes,\" says I. \"But the weeps won't help any. And, even if Mr. Robert would listen to all this sad tale, it's ten to one he wouldn't butt in at the club. I might get a chance to put it up to him, though. Suppose you drop in to-morrow sometime, and I'll let you know.\" \"But I would wish,\" says Popover, \"to speak with----\" \"Ah, ditch it!\" I breaks in weary. \"Say, you must have been takin' militant lessons from Maud Malone. Look here! If you're bound to stick around and take a long chance, camp there on the bench. Mr. Robert's busy inside, now; but if he should get through before lunch--well, we'll see. But don't go bankin' on anything.\" And it was a lovely sample of arrested mental anguish that I has before me for the next hour or so,--this Popokoulis gent, with his great, doughy face frozen into a blank stare, about as expressive as a half-baked squash pie, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall, and only now and then a spasm in his throat showin' that he was still thinkin' an occasional thought. Course, Piddie discovers him after a while and demands pettish, \"That person still here! Who is he?\" \"Club waiter with a mislaid job,\" says I. \"What!\" says Piddie. \"A waiter? Just a common waiter?\" I couldn't begin to put in all the deep disgust that Piddie expresses; for, along with his fondness for gettin' next to swell people, he seems to have a horror of mixin' at all with the common herd. \"Waiters!\" he sniffs. \"The scum of mankind. If they had a spark of courage, or a gleam of self respect, or a teaspoonful of brains, they wouldn't be waiters. Bah!\" \"Also I expect,\" says I, \"if they was all noble specimens of manhood like us, Sherry's and Rector's would have to be turned into automatic food dispensaries, eh?\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 27, "title": "Late Returns On Popover", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"No fear!\" says Piddie. \"The lower classes will always produce enough spineless beings to wear aprons and carry trays. Look at that one there! I suppose he never has a thought or an ambition above----\" Bz-z-z-zt! goes the buzzer over my desk, and I'm off on the jump for Mr. Robert's room. I wa'n't missin' any of his calls that mornin'; for a partic'lar friend of mine was in there--Skid Mallory. Remember Skid, the young college hick that I helped find his footin' when he first hit the Corrugated? You know he married a Senator's daughter, and got boosted into an assistant general manager's berth. And Skid's been making good ever since. He'd just come back from a little trip abroad, sort of a delayed weddin' tour, and you can't guess what he'd pulled off. I'd only heard it sketched out so far, but it seems while him and young Mrs. Mallory was over there in Athens, or some such outlandish place, this late muss with the Turks was just breakin' loose. Skid he leaves Wifey at the hotel one mornin' while he goes out for a little stroll; drifts down their Newspaper Row, where the red ink war extras are so thick the street looks like a raspberry patch; follows the drum music up as far as City Hall, where the recruits are bein' reviewed by the King; listens to the Greek substitute for \"Buh-ruh-ruh! Soak 'em!\" and the next thing he knows he's wavin' his lid and yellin' with the best of 'em.", "words": 255}, {"story": 27, "title": "Late Returns On Popover", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "It must have stirred up some of that old football fightin' blood of his; for he'd organized a regular cheerin' section, right there opposite to the royal stand, and was whoopin' things up like it was fourth down and two to go on the five-yard line, when all of a sudden over pikes a Colonel or something from the King's staff and begins poundin' Skid on the back gleeful. It's a young Greek that used to be in his engineerin' class, back in the dear old college days. He says Skid's just the man he wants to come help him patch up the railroad that the Turks have been puttin' on the blink as they dropped back towards headquarters. Would he? Why, him bein' railroad construction expert of the Corrugated, this was right in his line! Sure he would! And when Mrs. Mallory sees him again at lunchtime he's all costumed as a Major in the Greek army, and is about to start for the scene of atrocities. That's Skid, all over. He wasn't breathin' out any idle gusts, either. He not only rebuilds their bloomin' old line better'n new, so they can rush soldiers and supplies to the front; but after the muss is all over he springs his order book on the gover'ment and lands such a whackin' big contract for steel rails and girders that Old Hickory decides to work day and night shifts in two more rollin' mills. Course, since it was Mr. Robert who helped me root for Skid in the first place, he's tickled to death, and he tells me confidential how they're goin' to get the directors together at a big banquet that evenin' and have a reg'lar lovefeast, with Skid at the head of the table.", "words": 294}, {"story": 27, "title": "Late Returns On Popover", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Just now I finds Mr. Robert pumpin' him for some of the details of his experience over there, and after I lugs in an atlas they sent me out for, so Skid can point out something on the map, I just naturally hangs around with my ear stretched. \"Ah, that's the place,\" says Skid, puttin' his finger on a dot, \"Mustapha! Well, it was about six miles east from there that we had our worst job. Talk about messes! Those Turks may not know how to build a decent railroad, but believe me they're stars at wrecking a line thoroughly! At Mustapha they'd ripped up the rails, burned the ties, and blown great holes in the roadbed with dynamite. But I soon had a dozen grading gangs at work on that stretch, and new bridges started, and then I pushed on alone to see what was next. \"That was when I got nearest to the big noise. Off across the hills the Turks were pounding away with their heavy guns, and I was anxious for a look. I kept going and going; but couldn't find any of our people. Night was shutting in too, and the first thing I knew I wasn't anywhere in particular, with nothing in sight but an old sheep pen. I tried bunking there; but it wasn't restful, and before daylight I went wandering on again. I wanted to locate our advance and get a cup of coffee.", "words": 242}, {"story": 27, "title": "Late Returns On Popover", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"I must have gone a couple of miles farther, and it was getting light, when a most infernal racket broke loose not one hundred yards ahead. Really, you know, I thought I'd blundered into the midst of a battle. Then in a minute the noise let up, and the smoke blew away, and there, squatting behind a machine gun up on the side of a hill, was one lone Greek soldier. Not another soul in sight, mind you; just this absurd, dirty, smoke-stained person, calmly feeding another belt of cartridges into his gun! \"'Hello!' says I. 'What the deuce are you doing here?'--'Holding the hill, Sir,' says he, in good United States. 'Not all alone?' says I. He shrugs his shoulders at that. 'The others were killed or hurt,' says he. 'The Red Cross people took them all away last night,--Lieutenant, Sergeant, everyone. But our battery must keep the hill.' 'Where's the rest of the advance, though?' says I. 'I don't know,' says he. 'And you mean to say,' says I, 'you've been here all night with the Turkish artillery hammering away at you?' 'They are bad shots, those Turks, very bad,' says he. 'Also they send infantry to drive me away, many times. See! There come some more. Down there! Ah-r-r-r! You will, will you?' And with that he turns loose his big pepperbox on a squad that had just started to dash out of a ravine and rush him. They were coming our way on the jump. Scared? Say, if there'd been anything to have crawled into, I'd have been in it! As there wasn't, I just flattened myself on the ground and waited until it was all over.", "words": 281}, {"story": 27, "title": "Late Returns On Popover", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Oh, he crumpled 'em up, all right! He hadn't ground out one belt of cartridges before he had 'em on the run. But I want to tell you I didn't linger around to see how the next affair would turn out. I legged it back where I'd come from, and by nine o'clock I was behind our own lines, trying to find out what sort of campaign this was that left one machine gun to stave off the whole Turkish army. Of course no one knew anything very definite. The best guess was that our advance had been swung off for a flank movement, and that this particular one-man battery had been overlooked. I don't even know whether he was picked up again, or whether the Turks finally got him; but let me tell you, talk as much about your gallant Bulgarians as you like, some of those little Greeks were good fighters too. Anyway, I'll take off my hat any day to that one on the hill.\" \"Gee!\" I breaks out. \"Some scrapper, what?\" At which Mr. Robert swings around and gives me a look. \"Ah!\" says he. \"I hadn't realized, Torchy, that we still had the pleasure of your company.\" \"Don't mention it,\" says I. \"I was just goin' to--er--by the way, Mr. Robert, there's a poor scrub waitin' outside for a word with you, an old club waiter. Says you knew him as Mike.\" \"Mike?\" says he, looking blank. \"His real name sounds like Popover,\" says I. \"It's a case of retrievin' a lost job.\" \"Oh, very well,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Perhaps I'll see him later. Not now. And close the door after you, please.\"", "words": 278}, {"story": 27, "title": "Late Returns On Popover", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "So I'm shunted back to the front office, so excited over that war story that I has to hunt up Piddie and pass it on to him. It gets him too. Anything in the hero line always does, and this noble young Greek doin' the come-one-come-all act was a picture that even a two-by-four imagination like Piddie's couldn't fail to grasp. \"By Jove, though!\" says he. \"The spirit of old Thermopylae all over again! I wish I could have seen that!\" \"As close as Skid did?\" says I. \"Ah, you'd have turned so green they'd taken you for a pickled string bean.\" \"Oh, I don't pretend to be a daredevil,\" admits Piddie, with a sudden rush of modesty. \"Still, it is a pity Mr. Mallory did not stay long enough to find out the name of this unknown hero, and give it to the world.\" \"The moral of which is,\" says I, \"that all heroes ought to carry their own press agents with 'em.\" We'd threshed it all out, Piddie and me, and I'd gone back to my desk some reluctant, for this jobless waiter was still sheddin' his gloom around the reception room, and I was just thinkin' how it would be to put a screen in front of him, when Mr. Robert and Skid comes out arm in arm, swappin' josh about that banquet that was to be pulled off. \"Of course you'll come.\" Mr. Robert is insistin'. \"Only a few directors, you know. No, no set speeches, or anything like that. But they'll want to hear how you came to get that big order, and about some of the interesting things you saw over there, just as you've told me.\"", "words": 283}, {"story": 27, "title": "Late Returns On Popover", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "I had hopped up and was holdin' the gate wide open, givin' Skid all the honors, and Mr. Robert was escortin' him out to the elevator, when I notices that this Popover party has got his eye on the boss and is standin' right where he's blockin' the way. \"Hey, Poppy!\" says I in a stage whisper. \"Back out! Reverse yourself! Take a sneak!\" But of all the muleheads! There he stands, grippin' his hat, and thinkin' only of that lost job. \"All right,\" Skid is saying; \"but remember now, no floral tributes, or gushy introductions, or sitting in the spotlight for me at this--er--er---- Well, as I'm a living mortal!\" He gets this last out after a gasp or two, and then stops stock still, starin' straight in front of him. \"What is it?\" says Mr. Robert. \"What's up?\" And we sees that Skid Mallory has his eyes glued to this waiter shrimp. \"In the name of all that's good,\" says he, \"where did you come from?\" You can't jar Popover, though, by any little thing like that. When he gets an idea in his dome it's a fixture there. \"I would wish to speak,\" says he, \"with Mr. Ellins.\" \"Yes, yes, another time,\" says Mr. Robert hasty. \"But see here!\" says Skid, still gazin' steady. \"Don't you remember me? Take a good look now.\" Popover gives him a glance and shakes his head. \"Maybe I serve you at the club, Sir,\" says he. \"Club be blowed!\" says Skid. \"The last time I saw you you were serving a machine gun, six miles east of Mustapha. Isn't that so?\" \"Oh, Mustapha!\" says Popover, his eyes lightin' up a little. \"On the hill just beyond where the bridge was blown up? You came at the night's end. Oh, yes!\"", "words": 299}, {"story": 27, "title": "Late Returns On Popover", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"I knew it!\" exclaims Skid. \"I'd have bet a thousand--same curly hair, same shoulders, same eyes. Ellins, here's that lone hero I was telling you about. Here!\" \"But--hut that's only Mike,\" says Mr. Robert, gazin' from one to the other. \"Used to be a waiter at the club, you know.\" \"I don't care what he used to be,\" says Skid, \"or what he is now, I want to shake hands with him.\" Popover he pinks up and acts foolish about swappin' grips; but Skid insists. \"So you beat 'em out in the end, did you?\" Skid goes on. \"Just naturally put it all over that whole bunch of Turks, didn't you? But how did it happen?\" \"I don't know,\" says Popover, fingerin' his hat nervous. \"I am very busy all the time, and--and I have nothing to eat all night. You see, all other Greek soldiers was hurt; and me, I must stay to keep the Turks from the hill. Very busy time, Sir. And I am not much for fight, anyway.\" \"Great Scott!\" says Skid. \"He says he's not much for--but see here, how did it end?\" Popover gives a shoulder shrug. \"Once more they run at me after you go,\" says he, \"and then come our brave Greek General with big army and chase Turks away. And the Captain say why am I such big fool as to stay behind. That is all I know. Three weeks ago I am discharged from being soldier. Now I come back here, and I have no more my good job. I am much sorry.\" \"Think of that!\" breaks out Skid. \"Talk about the ingratitude of Republics! Why, England would have given him the Victoria Cross for that! But can't something or other be done about this job of his?\" \"Why, certainly,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Here, let's go back into my office.\"", "words": 310}, {"story": 27, "title": "Late Returns On Popover", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Hey, Popover,\" says I, steerin' him respectful through the gate. \"Don't forget to tell them about Armina too.\" And as the three of 'em streams in, with the waiter in the middle, I turns to find Piddie gazin' at the sight button-eyed. \"Wa'n't you sayin' how much you'd like to see the lone hero of the hill?\" says I. \"Well, take a good look. That's him, the squatty one. Uh-huh. Mike, alias Popover, who quit bein' a waiter to fight for his country, and after he'd licked all the Turks in sight comes pikin' back here to hunt around for his tray again. Say, all of 'em ain't such scum, are they?\" It was a great old banquet too; for Skid insists that if they must have a conquerin' hero to drink to Mr. Popokoulis is the only real thing in sight. Mike wouldn't stand for a seat at the table, though; so they compromised by havin' him act as head waiter. Skid tells the story just the same, and makes him stand out where they can all see him. There was some cheerin' done too. Mr. Robert was tellin' me about it only this mornin'. \"And you've got him his old place at the club, eh?\" says I. \"No,\" says he. \"I've arranged to buy out a half interest in a florist's shop for Mr. Popokoulis.\" \"Oh!\" says I. \"Backin' him for the Armina handicap, eh? It ought to be a cinch. Some chap, that Popover, even if he was a waiter, eh? It's tough on Piddie, though. This thing has tied all his ideas in double bow-knots.\"", "words": 269}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Somehow I sensed it as a kind of a batty excursion at the start. You see, he'd asked me offhand would I come, and I'd said \"Sure, Bo,\" careless like, not thinkin' any more about it until here Saturday afternoon I finds myself on the way to spend the week-end with J. Meredith Stidler. Sounds imposing don't it? But his name's the weightiest part of J. Meredith. Course, around the Corrugated offices we call him Merry, and some of the bond clerks even get it Miss Mary; which ain't hardly fair, for while he's no husky, rough-neck specimen, there's no sissy streak in him, either. Just one of these neat, finicky featherweights, J. Meredith is; a well finished two-by-four, with more polish than punch. You know the kind,--fussy about his clothes, gen'rally has a pink or something in his coat lapel, hair always just so, and carries a vest pocket mirror. We ain't got a classier dresser in the shop. Not noisy, you understand: quiet grays, as a rule; but made for him special and fittin' snug around the collar. Near thirty, I should guess Merry was, and single, of course. No head of a fam'ly would be sportin' custom-made shoes and sleeve monograms, or havin' his nails manicured reg'lar twice a week. I'd often wondered how he could do it too, on seventy-five dollars a month. For J. Meredith wa'n't even boss of his department. He just holds down one of the stools in the audit branch, where he has about as much show of gettin' a raise as a pavin' block has of bein' blown up Broadway on a windy day. We got a lot of material like that in the Corrugated,--just plain, simple cogs in a big dividend-producin' machine, grindin' along steady and patient, and their places easy filled when one wears out. A caster off one of the rolltop desks would be missed more.", "words": 318}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Yet J. Meredith takes it cheerful. Always has a smile as he pushes through the brass gate, comin' or goin', and stands all the joshin' that's handed out to him without gettin' peevish. So when he springs this over-Sunday invite I don't feel like turnin' it down. Course, I'm wise that it's sort of a charity contribution on his part. He puts it well, though. \"It may be rather a dull way for you to pass the day,\" says he; \"but I'd like to have you come.\" \"Let's see,\" says I. \"Vincent won't be expectin' me up to Newport until later in the season, the Bradley Martins are still abroad, I've cut the Reggy Vanderbilts, and--well, you're on, Merry. Call it the last of the month, eh?\" \"The fourth Saturday, then,\" says he. \"Good!\" I was blamed near lettin' the date get past me too, when he stops me as I'm pikin' for the dairy lunch Friday noon. \"Oh, I say, Torchy,\" says he, \"ah--er--about tomorrow. Hope you don't mind my mentioning it, but there will be two other guests--ladies--at dinner tomorrow night.\" He seemed some fussed at gettin' it out; so I catches the cue quick. \"That's easy,\" says I. \"Count me out until another time.\" \"Oh, not at all,\" says he. \"In fact, you're expected. I merely wished to suggest, you know, that--er--well, if you cared to do so, you might bring along a suit of dark clothes.\" \"I get you,\" says I. \"Swell comp'ny. Trust me.\"", "words": 249}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "I winks mysterious, and chuckles to myself, \"Here's where I slip one on J. Meredith.\" And when I packs my suitcase I puts in that full evenin' regalia that I wins off'm Son-in-Law Ferdy, you remember, in that real estate deal. Some Cinderella act, I judged that would be, when Merry discovers the meek and lowly office boy arrayed like a night-bloomin' head waiter. \"That ought to hold him for a spell,\" thinks I. But, say, you should see the joint we fetches up at out on the south shore of Long Island that afternoon. Figurin' on a basis of seventy-five per, I was expectin' some private boardin' house where Merry has the second floor front, maybe, with use of the bath. But listen,--a clipped privet hedge, bluestone drive, flower gardens, and a perfectly good double-breasted mansion standin' back among the trees. It's a little out of date so far as the lines go,--slate roof, jigsaw work on the dormers, and a cupola,--but it's more or less of a plute shack, after all. Then there's a real live butler standin' at the carriage entrance to open the hack door and take my bag. \"Gee!\" says I. \"Say, Merry, who belongs to all this?\" \"Oh! Hadn't I told you?\" says he. \"You see, I live with my aunt. She is--er--somewhat peculiar; but----\" \"I should worry!\" I breaks in. \"Believe me, with a joint like this in her own name, I wouldn't kick if she had her loft full of hummin' birds. Who's next in line for it?\" \"Why, I suppose I am,\" says J. Meredith, \"under certain conditions.\" \"Z-z-zin'!\" says I. \"And you hangin' onto a cheap skate job at the Corrugated!\"", "words": 281}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Well, while he's showin' me around the grounds I pumps out the rest of the sketch. Seems butlers and all that was no new thing to Merry. He'd been brought up on 'em. He'd lived abroad too. Studied music there. Not that he ever meant to work at it, but just because he liked it. You see, about that time the fam'ly income was rollin' in reg'lar every month from the mills back in Pawtucket, or Fall River, or somewhere. Then all of a sudden things begin to happen,--strikes, panics, stock grabbin' by the trusts. Father's weak heart couldn't stand the strain. Meredith's mother followed soon after. And one rainy mornin' he wakes up in Baden Baden, or Monte Carlo, or wherever it was, to find that he's a double orphan at the age of twenty-two, with no home, no cash, and no trade. All he could do was to write an S. O. S. message back to Aunt Emma Jane. If she hadn't produced, he'd been there yet. But Aunty got him out of pawn. Panics and so on hadn't cleaned out her share of the Stidler estate--not so you'd notice it! She'd been on the spot, Aunt Emma had, watchin' the market. Long before the jinx hit Wall Street she'd cashed in her mill stock for gold ballast, and when property prices started tumblin' she dug up a lard pail from under the syringa bush and begun investin' in bargain counter real estate. Now she owns business blocks, villa plots, and shore frontage in big chunks, and spends her time collectin' rents, makin' new deals, and swearin' off her taxes.", "words": 272}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "You'd most thought, with a perfectly good nephew to blow in some of her surplus on, she'd made a fam'ly pet of J. Meredith. But not her. Pets wasn't in her line. Her prescription for him was work, something reg'lar and constant, so he wouldn't get into mischief. She didn't care what it brought in, so long as he kept himself in clothes and spendin' money. And that was about Merry's measure. He could add up a column of figures and put the sum down neat at the bottom of the page. So he fitted into our audit department like a nickel into a slot machine. And there he stuck. \"But after sportin' around Europe so long,\" says I, \"don't punchin' the time clock come kind of tough?\" \"It's a horrible, dull grind,\" says he. \"Like being caught in a treadmill. But I suppose I deserve nothing better. I'm one of the useless sort, you know. I've no liking, no ability, for business; but I'm in the mill, and I can't see any way out.\" For a second J. Meredith's voice sounds hopeless. One look ahead has taken out of him what little pep he had. But the next minute he braces up, smiles weary, and remarks, \"Oh, well! What's the use?\" Not knowin' the answer to that I shifts the subject by tryin' to get a line on the other comp'ny that's expected for dinner. \"They're our next-door neighbors,\" says he, \"the Misses Hibbs.\" \"Queens?\" says I. He pinks up a little at that. \"I presume you would call them old maids,\" says he. \"They are about my age, and--er--the truth is, they are rather large. But really they're quite nice,--refined, cultured, all that sort of thing.\" \"Specially which one?\" says I, givin' him the wink.", "words": 297}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Now, now!\" says he, shakin' his head. \"You're as bad as Aunt Emma. Besides, they're her guests. She asks them over quite often. You see, they own almost as much property around here as she does, and--well, common interests, you know.\" \"Sure that's all?\" says I, noticin' Merry flushin' up more. \"Why, of course,\" says he. \"That is--er--well, I suppose I may as well admit that Aunt Emma thinks she is trying her hand at match-making. Absurd, of course.\" \"Oh-ho!\" says I. \"Wants you to annex the adjoinin' real estate, does she?\" \"It--it isn't exactly that,\" says he. \"I've no doubt she has decided that either Pansy or Violet would make a good wife for me.\" \"Pansy and Violet!\" says I. \"Listens well.\" \"Perhaps their names are hardly appropriate; but they are nice, sensible, rather attractive young women, both of them,\" insists Merry. \"Then why not?\" says I. \"What's the matter with the Hymen proposition?\" \"Oh, it's out of the question,\" protests J. Meredith, blushin' deep. \"Really I--I've never thought of marrying anyone. Why, how could I? And besides I shouldn't know how to go about it,--proposing, and all that. Oh, I couldn't! You--you can't understand. I'm such a duffer at most things.\" There's no fake about him bein' modest. You could tell that by the way he colored up, even talkin' to me. Odd sort of a gink he was, with a lot of queer streaks in him that didn't show on the outside. It was more or less entertainin', followin' up the plot of the piece; but all of a sudden Merry gets over his confidential spasm and shuts up like a clam. \"Almost time to dress for dinner,\" says he. \"We'd best be going in.\" And of course my appearin' in the banquet uniform don't give him any serious jolt.", "words": 303}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Well, well, Torchy!\" says he, as I strolls into the parlor about six-thirty, tryin' to forget the points of my dress collar. \"How splendid you look!\" \"I had some battle with the tie,\" says I. \"Ain't the bow lopsided?\" \"A mere trifle,\" says he. \"Allow me. There! Really, I'm quite proud of you. Aunty'll be pleased too; for, while she dresses very plainly herself, she likes this sort of thing. You'll see.\" I didn't notice any wild enthusiasm on Aunty's part, though, when she shows up. A lean, wiry old girl, Aunty is, with her white hair bobbed up careless and a big shell comb stickin' up bristly, like a picket fence, on top. There's nothin' soft about her chin, or the square-cut mouth, and after she'd give me one glance out of them shrewd, squinty eyes I felt like she'd taken my number,--pedigree, past performances, and cost mark complete. \"Howdo, young man?\" says she, and with out wastin' any more breath on me she pikes out to the front door to scout down the drive for the other guests. They arrives on the tick of six-forty-five, and inside of three minutes Aunty has shooed us into the dinin' room. And, say, the first good look I had at Pansy and Violet I nearly passed away. \"Rather large,\" Merry had described 'em. Yes, and then some! They wa'n't just ordinary fat women; they was a pair of whales,--big all over, tall and wide and hefty. They had their weight pretty well placed at that; not lumpy or bulgy, you know, but with them expanses of shoulder, and their big, heavy faces--well, the picture of slim, narrow-chested Merry Stidler sittin' wedged in between the two, like the ham in a lunch counter sandwich, was most too much for me. I swallows a drink of water and chokes over it.", "words": 308}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "I expect Merry caught on too. I'd never seen him so fussed before. He's makin' a brave stab at bein' chatty; but I can tell he's doin' it all on his nerve. He glances first to the right, and then turns quick to the left; but on both sides he's hemmed in by them two human mountains. They wa'n't such bad lookers, either. They has good complexions, kind of pleasant eyes, and calm, comf'table ways. But there was so much of 'em! Honest, when they both leans toward him at once I held my breath, expectin' to see him squeezed out like a piece of lead pipe run through a rollin' machine. Nothin' tragic like that happens, though. They don't even crowd him into the soup. But it's an odd sort of a meal, with J. Meredith and the Hibbs sisters doin' a draggy three-handed dialogue, while me and Aunty holds down the side lines. And nothin' that's said or done gets away from them narrow-set eyes, believe me! Looked like something wa'n't goin' just like she'd planned; for the glances she shoots across the table get sharper and sourer, and finally, when the roast is brought in, she whispers to the butler, and the next thing J. Meredith knows, as he glances up from his carvin', he sees James uncorkin' a bottle of fizz. Merry almost drops his fork and gawps at Aunty sort of dazed. \"Meredith,\" says she, snappy, \"go on with your carving! Young man, I suppose you don't take wine?\" \"N-n-no, Ma'am,\" says I, watchin' her turn my glass down. I might have chanced a sip or two, at that; but Aunty has different ideas. I notice that J. Meredith seems to shy at the bubbly stuff, as if he was lettin' on he hated it. He makes a bluff or two; but all he does is wet his lips. At that Aunty gives a snort.", "words": 320}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Meredith,\" says she, hoistin' her hollow-stemmed glass sporty, \"to our guests!\" \"Ah, to be sure,\" says Merry, and puts his nose into the sparkles in dead earnest. Somehow the table chat livens up a lot soon after that. It was one of the Miss Hibbs askin' him something about life abroad that starts Merry off. He begins tellin' about Budapest and Vienna and a lot more of them guidebook spots, and how comf'table you can live there, and the music, and the cafes, and the sights, gettin' real enthusiastic over it, until one of the sisters breaks in with: \"Think of that, Pansy! If we could only do such things!\" \"But why not?\" says Merry. \"Two women alone?\" says a Miss Hibbs. \"True,\" says J. Meredith. \"One needs an escort.\" \"Ah-h-h-h, yes!\" sighs Violet. \"Ah-h-h, yes!\" echoes Pansy. \"James,\" puts in Aunty just then, \"fill Mr. Stidler's glass.\" Merry wa'n't shyin' it any more. He insists on clickin' rims with the Hibbs sisters, and they does it real kittenish. Merry stops in the middle of his salad to unload that old one about the Irishman that the doctor tried to throw a scare into by tellin' him if he didn't quit the booze he'd go blind within three months. You know--when Mike comes back with, \"Well, I'm an old man, and I'm thinkin' I've seen most everything worth while.\" Pansy and Violet shook until their chairs creaked, and one of 'em near swallows her napkin tryin' to stop the chuckles. In all the time I've known J. Meredith I'd never heard him try to spring anything comic before; but havin' made such a hit with this one he follows with others, robbin' the almanac regardless. \"Oh, you deliciously funny man!\" gasps Pansy, tappin' him playful on the shoulder.", "words": 298}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Course, it wa'n't any cabaret high jinks, you understand. Meredith was just limbered up a little. In the parlor afterwards while we was havin' coffee he strings off quite a fancy line of repartee, fin'lly allowin' himself to be pushed up to the piano, where he ripples through a few things from Bach and Beethoven and Percy Moore. It's near eleven o'clock when the Hibbs sisters get their wraps on and Merry starts to walk home with 'em. \"You might wait for me, Torchy,\" says he, pausin' at the door. \"Nonsense!\" says Aunt Emma Jane. \"Time young people were in bed. Good night, young man.\" There don't seem to be any chance for a debate on the subject; so I goes up to my room. But it's a peach of a night, warm and moony; so after I turns out the light I camps down on the windowseat and gazes out over the shrubby towards the water. I could see the top of the Hibbs house and a little wharf down on the shore. I don't know whether it was the moonlight or the coffee; but I didn't feel any more like bed than I did like breakfast. Pretty soon I hears Merry come tiptoein' in and open his door, which was next to mine. I was goin' to hail him and give him a little josh about disposin' of the sisters so quick; but I didn't hear him stirrin' around any more until a few minutes later, when it sounds as if he'd tiptoed downstairs again. But I wasn't sure. Nothin' doin' for some time after that. And you know how quiet the country can be on a still, moonshiny night.", "words": 282}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "I was gettin' dopy from it, and was startin' to shed my collar and tie, when off from a distance, somewhere out in the night, music breaks loose. I couldn't tell whether it was a cornet or a trombone; but it's something like that. Seems to come from down along the waterfront. And, say, it sounds kind of weird, hearin' it at night that way. Took me sometime to place the tune; but I fin'lly makes it out as that good old mush favorite, \"O Promise Me.\" It was bein' well done too, with long quavers on the high notes and the low ones comin' out round and deep. Honest, that was some playin'. I was wide awake once more, leanin' out over the sill and takin' it all in, when a window on the floor below goes up and out bobs a white head. It's Aunty. She looks up and spots me too. \"Quite some concert, eh?\" says I. \"Is that you, young man?\" says she. \"Uh-huh,\" says I. \"Just takin' in the music.\" \"Humph!\" says she. \"I believe it's that fool nephew of mine.\" \"Not Merry?\" says I. \"It must be,\" says she. \"And goodness knows why he's out making an idiot of himself at this time of night! He'll arouse the whole neighbourhood.\" \"Why, I was just thinkin' how classy it was,\" says I. \"Bah!\" says Aunty. \"A lot you know about it. Are you dressed, young man?\" I admits that I am. \"Then I wish you'd go down there and see if it is Merry,\" says she. \"If it is, tell him I say to come home and go to bed.\" \"And if it ain't?\" says I. \"Go along and see,\" says she.", "words": 287}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "I begun to be sorry for Merry. I'd rather pay board than live with a disposition like that. Down I pikes, out the front door and back through the shrubby. Meantime the musician has finished \"Promise Me\" and has switched to \"Annie Laurie.\" It's easy enough to get the gen'ral direction the sound comes from; but I couldn't place it exact. First off I thought it must be from a little summer house down by the shore; but it wa'n't. I couldn't see anyone around the grounds. Out on the far end of the Hibbs's wharf, though, there was somethin' dark. And a swell time I had too, buttin' my way through a five-foot hedge and landin' in a veg'table garden. But I wades through tomatoes and lettuce until I strikes a gravel path, and in a couple of minutes I'm out on the dock just as the soloist is hittin' up \"Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms.\" Aunty had the correct dope. It's Merry, all right. The first glimpse he gets of me he starts guilty and tries to hide the cornet under the tails of his dress coat. \"No use, Merry,\" says I. \"You're pinched with the poultry.\" \"Wha-a-at!\" says he. \"Oh, it's you, is it, Torchy? Please--please don't mention this to my aunt.\" \"She beat me to it,\" says I. \"It was her sent me out after you with a stop order. She says for you to chop the nocturne and go back to the hay.\" \"But how did she---- Oh, dear!\" he sighs. \"It was all her fault, anyway.\" \"I don't follow you,\" says I. \"But what was it, a serenade?\" \"Goodness, no!\" gasps J. Meredith. \"Who suggested that?\" \"Why, it has all the earmarks of one,\" says I. \"What else would you be doin', out playin' the cornet by moonlight on the dock, if you wa'n't serenadin' someone?\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"But I wasn't, truly,\" he protests. \"It--it was the champagne, you know.\" \"Eh?\" says I. \"You don't mean to say you got stewed? Not on a couple of glasses!\" \"Well, not exactly,\" says he. \"But I can't take wine. I hardly ever do. It--it goes to my head always. And tonight--well, I couldn't decline. You saw. Then afterward--oh, I felt so buoyant, so full of life, that I couldn't go to sleep. I simply had to do something to let off steam. I wanted to play the cornet. So I came out here, as far away from anyone as I could get.\" \"Too thin, Merry,\" says I. \"That might pass with me; but with strangers you'd get the laugh.\" \"But it's true,\" he goes on. \"And I didn't dream anyone could hear me from here.\" \"Why, you boob,\" says I, \"they could hear you a mile off!\" \"Really?\" says he. \"But you don't suppose Vio--I mean, the Misses Hibbs could hear, do you?\" \"Unless it's their habit to putty up their ears at night,\" says I. \"But--but what will they think?\" he gasps breathless. \"That they're bein' serenaded by some admirin' friend,\" says I. \"What's your guess?\" \"Oh--oh!\" says Merry, slumpin' down on a settee. \"I--I had not thought of that.\" \"Ah, buck up!\" say I. \"Maybe you can fake an alibi in the mornin'. Anyway, you can't spend the night here. You got to report to Aunty.\" He lets out another groan, and then gets on his feet. \"There's a path through the bushes along here somewhere,\" says he. \"No more cross country work in full dress clothes for me,\" says I. \"We'll sneak down the Hibbs's drive where the goin's easy.\"", "words": 283}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "We was doin' it real sleuthy too, keepin' on the lawn and dodgin' from shadow to shadow, when just as we're passin' the house Merry has to stub his toe and drop his blamed cornet with a bang. Then out from a second story window floats a voice: \"Who is that, please?\" Merry nudges me in the ribs. \"Tell them it's you,\" he whispers. \"Why, it's--it's me--Torchy,\" says I reluctant. \"Oh! Ah!\" says a couple of voices in chorus. Then one of 'em goes on, \"The young man who is visiting dear Meredith?\" \"Yep,\" says I. \"Same one.\" \"But it wasn't you playing the cornet so beautifully, was it?\" comes coaxin' from the window. \"Tell them yes,\" whispers Merry, nudgin' violent. \"Gwan!\" I whispers back. \"I'm in bad enough as it is.\" With that I speaks up before he can stop me, \"Not much!\" says I. \"That was dear Meredith himself.\" \"Oh-oh!\" says the voices together. Then there's whisperin' between 'em. One seems urgin' the other on to something, and at last it comes out. \"Young man,\" says the voice, smooth and persuadin', \"please tell us who--that is--which one of us was the serenade intended for?\" This brings the deepest groan of all from J. Meredith. \"Come on, now,\" says I, hoarse and low in his ear. \"It's up to you. Which?\" \"Oh, really,\" he whispers back, \"I--I can't!\" \"You got to, and quick,\" says I. \"Come now, was it Pansy?\" \"No, no!\" says he, gaspy. \"Huh!\" says I. \"Then Violet gets the decision.\" And I holds him off by main strength while I calls out, \"Why, ain't you on yet? It was for Violet, of course.\" \"Ah-h-h-h! Thank you. Good night,\" comes a voice--no chorus this time: just one--and the window is shut. \"There you are, Merry,\" says I. \"It's all over. You're as good as booked for life.\"", "words": 310}, {"story": 28, "title": "Merry Dodges A Dead Heat", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "He was game about it, though, Merry was. He squares it with Aunty before goin' to bed, and right after breakfast next mornin' he marches over to the Hibbses real business-like. Half an hour later I saw him strollin' out on the wharf with one of the big sisters, and I knew it must be Violet. It was his busy day; so I says nothin' to anybody, but fades. And you should have seen the jaunty, beamin' J. Meredith that swings into the Corrugated Monday mornin'. He stops at the gate to give me a fraternal grip. \"It's all right, Torchy,\" says he. \"She--she'll have me--Violet, you know. And we are to live abroad. We sail in less than a month.\" \"But what about Pansy?\" says I. \"Oh, she's coming with us, of course,\" says he. \"Really, they're both charming girls.\" \"Huh!\" says I. \"That's where you were when I found you. You're past that point, remember.\" \"Yes, I know,\" says he. \"It was you helped me too, and I wish in some way I could show my----\" \"You can,\" says I. \"Leave me the cornet. I might need it some day myself.\"", "words": 193}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "It's a shame the way some of these popular clubmen is bothered with business. Here was Mr. Robert, only the other day, with an important four-cue match to be played off between four-thirty and dinnertime; and what does the manager of our Chicago branch have to do but go and muss up the schedule by wirin' in that he might have to call for headquarters' advice on that Burlington order maybe after closin' time. \"Oh, pshaw!\" remarks Mr. Robert, after he's read the message. \"The simp!\" says I. \"Guess he thinks the Corrugated gen'ral offices runs night and day shifts, don't he?\" \"Very well put,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Still, it means rather a big contract. But, you see, the fellows are counting on me for this match, and if I should---- Oh, but I say, Torchy,\" he breaks off sudden, \"perhaps you have no very important engagement for the early evening?\" \"Me?\" says I. \"Nothing I couldn't scratch. I can shoot a little pool too; but when it comes to balk line billiards I expect I'd be a dub among your crowd.\" \"Refreshing modesty!\" says Mr. Robert. \"What I had in mind, however, was that you might wait here for the message from Nixon, while I attend to the match.\" \"Oh, any way you choose,\" says I. \"Sure I'll stay.\" \"Thanks,\" says he. \"You needn't wait longer than seven, and if it comes in you can get me on the 'phone and---- No, it will be in code; so you'd best bring it over.\"", "words": 254}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "And it wa'n't so much of a wait, after all, not more'n an hour; for at six-fifteen I've been over to the club, had Mr. Robert called from the billiard room, got him to fix up his answer, and am pikin' out the front door with it when he holds me up to add just one more word. Maybe we was some conspicuous from Fifth-ave., him bein' still in his shirt sleeves and the steps bein' more or less brilliant. Anyway, I'd made another start and was just gettin' well under way, when alongside scuffs this hollow-eyed object with the mangy whiskers and the mixed-ale breath. \"Excuse me, young feller,\" says he, \"but----\" \"Ah, flutter by, idle one!\" says I. \"I'm no soup ticket.\" \"But just a word, my friend,\" he insists. \"Save your breath,\" says I, \"and have it redistilled. It's worth it.\" \"Thanks,\" he puffs out as he shuffles along at my elbow; \"but--but wasn't that Bob Ellins you were just talking to?\" \"Eh?\" says I, glancin' at him some astonished; for a seedier specimen you couldn't find up and down the avenue. \"What do you know about him, if it was?\" \"More than his name,\" says the wreck. \"He--he's an old friend of mine.\" \"Oh, of course,\" says I. \"Anyone could tell that at a glimpse. I expect you used to belong to the same club too?\" \"Is old Barney still on the door?\" says he. And, say, he had the right dope on that. Not three minutes before I'd heard Mr. Robert call the old gink by name. But that hardly proved the case. \"Clever work,\" says I. \"What was it you used to do there, take out the ashes.\" \"I don't wonder you think so,\" says he; \"but it's a fact that Bob and I are old friends.\"", "words": 303}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Why don't you tackle him, then,\" says I, \"instead of botherin' a busy man like me? Go back and call him out.\" \"I haven't the face,\" says he. \"Look at me!\" \"I have,\" says I, \"and, if you ask me, you look like something the cat brought in.\" He winces a little at that. \"Don't tell Bob how bad it was, then,\" says he. \"Just say you let me have a fiver for him.\" \"Five bucks!\" says I. \"Say, I'm Mr. Robert's office boy, not his bank account.\" \"Two, then?\" he goes on. \"My, but I must have the boob mark on me plain!\" says I. \"Couldn't you spare a half,\" he urges, \"just a half, to get me a little something to eat, and a drink, and pay for a bed?\" \"Oh, sure!\" says I. \"I carry a pocketful of halves to shove out to all the bums that presents their business cards.\" \"But Bob would give it back to you,\" he pleads. \"I swear he would! Just tell him you gave it to--to----\" \"Well?\" says I. \"Algernon who?\" \"Tell him it was for Melville Slater,\" says he. \"He'll know.\" \"Melly Slater, eh?\" says I. \"Sounds all aright. But I'd have to chew it over first, even for a half. I have chances of gettin' stung like this about four times a day, Melly. And, anyway, I got to file a message first, over at the next corner.\" \"I'll wait outside,\" says he. \"That's nice of you,\" says I. \"It ain't any cinch you'll connect, though.\" But as I dashes into a hotel where there's a blue sign out he leans up against a window gratin', sort of limp and exhausted, and it looks like he means to take a sportin' chance.", "words": 293}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "How you goin' to tell, anyway? Most of 'em say they've been thrown out of work by the trusts, but that they've heard of a job in Newark, or Bridgeport, or somewhere, which they could get if they could only rustle enough coin to pay the fare. And they'll add interestin' details about havin' a sick wife, or maybe four hungry kids, and so on. But this rusty bunch of works has a new variation. He's an old friend of the boss. Maybe it was partly so too. If it was--well, I got to thinkin' that over while the operator was countin' the words, and so the next thing I does is to walk over to the telephone queen and have her call up Mr. Robert. \"Well?\" says he, impatient. \"It's Torchy again,\" says I. \"I've filed the message, all right. But, say, there's a piece of human junk that I collected from in front of the club who's tryin' to panhandle me for a half on the strength of bein' an old chum of yours. He says his name's Melville Slater.\" \"Wha-a-at!\" gasps Mr. Robert. \"Melly Slater, trying to borrow half a dollar from you?\" \"There's no doubt about his needin' it,\" says I. \"My guess is that a half would be a life saver to him just now.\" \"Why, it doesn't seem possible!!\" says Mr. Robert. \"Of course, I haven't seen Melly recently; but I can't imagine how---- Did you say he was still there?\" \"Hung up on the rail outside, if the cop ain't shooed him off,\" says I. \"Then keep him there until I come,\" says Mr. Robert. \"If it's Melly, I must come. I'll be right over. But don't say a word to him until I get there.\" \"Got you,\" says I. \"Hold Melly and keep mum.\"", "words": 302}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "I could pipe him off through the swing door vestibule; and, honest, from the lifeless way he's propped up there, one arm hangin' loose, his head to one side, and that white, pasty look to his nose and forehead--well, I didn't know but he'd croaked on the spot. So I slips through the cafe exit and chases along the side street until I meets Mr. Robert, who's pikin' over full tilt. \"You're sure it's Melly Slater, are you?\" says he. \"I'm only sure that's what he said,\" says I. \"But you can settle that soon enough. There he is, over there by the window.\" \"Why!\" says Mr. Robert. \"That can never be Melly; that is, unless he's changed wonderfully.\" With that he marches up and taps the object on the shoulder. \"I say,\" says he, \"you're not really Melly Slater, are you?\" There's a quick shiver runs through the man against the rail, and he lifts his eyes up cringin', like he expected to be hit with a club. Mr. Robert takes one look, and it almost staggers him. Next he reaches out, gets a firm grip on the gent's collar, and drags him out into a better light, twistin' the whiskered face up for a close inspection. \"Blashford!\" says he, hissin' it out unpleasant. \"Bunny Blashford!\" \"No, no!\" says the gent, tryin' to squirm away. \"You--you've made a mistake.\" \"Not much!\" says Mr. Robert. \"I know those sneaking eyes of yours too well.\" \"All right,\" says he; \"but--but don't hit me, Bob. Don't.\" \"You--you cur!\" says Mr. Robert, holding him at arm's length and glarin' at him hostile. \"A ringer, eh?\" says I. \"Worse than that,\" says Mr. Robert, \"a sneaking, contemptible hound! Trying to pass yourself off for Melly, were you?\" he goes on. \"Of all men, Melly! What for?\"", "words": 302}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"I--I didn't want you to know I was back,\" whines Bunny. \"And I had to get money somehow, Bob--honest, I did.\" \"Bah!\" says Mr. Robert. \"You--you----\" But he ain't got any such vocabulary as old Hickory Ellins has; so here, when he needs it most, all he can do is express his deep disgust by shakin' this Bunny party like a new hired girl dustin' a rug. He jerks him this way and that so reckless that I was afraid he'd rattle him apart, and when he fin'lly lets loose Bunny goes all in a heap on the sidewalk. I'd never seen Mr. Robert get real wrathy before; but it's all over in a minute, and he glances around like he was ashamed. \"Hang it all!\" says he, gazin' at the wreck. \"I didn't mean to lay my hands on him.\" \"He's in punk condition,\" says I. \"What's to be done, call an ambulance?\" That jars Mr. Robert a lot. I expect he was so worked up he didn't know how rough he was handlin' him, and my suggestin' that he's qualified Bunny for a cot sobers him down in a minute. Next thing I knows he's kneelin' over the Blashford gent and liftin' his head up. \"Here, what's the matter with you?\" says Mr. Robert. \"Don't! Don't strike me again,\" moans Bunny, cringin'. \"No, no, I'm not going to,\" says Mr. Robert. \"And I apologize for shaking you. But what ails you?\" \"I--I'm all in,\" says Bunny, beginnin' to sniffle. \"Don't--don't beat me! I--I'm going to die; but--but not here, like--like this. I--I don't want to live; but--but I don't want to finish this way, like a rat. Help me, Bob, to--to finish decent. I know I don't deserve it from you; but--but you wouldn't want to see me go like this--dirty and ragged? I--I want to die clean and--and well dressed. Please, Bob, for old time's sake?\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Nonsense, man!\" says Mr. Robert. \"You're not going to die now.\" \"Yes, I am, Bob,\" says Bunny. \"I--I can tell. I want to, anyway. I--I'm no good. And I'm in rotten shape. Drink, you know, and I've a bad heart. I'm near starved too. It's been days since I've eaten anything--days!\" \"By George!\" says Mr. Robert. \"Then you must have something to eat. Here, let me help you up. Torchy, you take the other side. Steady, now! I didn't know you were in such a condition; really, I didn't. And we'll get you filled up right away.\" \"I--I couldn't eat,\" says Bunny. \"I don't want anything. I just want to quit--only--not like this; but clean, Bob, clean and dressed decent once more.\" Say, maybe you can guess about how cheerin' it was, hearin' him say that over and over in that whiny, tremblin' voice of his, watchin' them shifty, deep-set eyes glisten glassy under the light. About as comfortin' a sight, he was, as a sick dog in a corner. And of all the rummy ideas to get in his nut--that about bein' dressed up to die! But he keeps harpin' away on it until fin'ly Mr. Robert takes notice. \"Yes, yes!\" says the boss. \"We'll attend to that, old man. But you need some nourishment in you first.\" So we drags him over to the opposite corner, where there's a drugstore, and got a glass of hot milk under his vest. Then I calls a taxi, and we all starts for the nearest Turkish bath joint. \"That's all, Torchy,\" says Mr. Robert. \"I won't bother you any more with this wretched business. You'd best go now.\" \"Suppose something happens to him?\" says I. \"You'll need a witness, won't you?\" \"I hadn't thought of that,\" says he. \"There's no tellin',\" says I. \"Them coroners deputies are mostly boneheads. I'd better stay on the job.\"", "words": 314}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"I know of no one I'd rather have, Torchy,\" says he. Course, he was stretchin' it there. But we fixes it up that while Bunny is bein' soaked out I'll have time to pluck some eats. Meanwhile Mr. Robert will 'phone his man to dig out one of his old dress suits, with fixin's, which I'm to collect and have waitin' for Blashford. \"Better have him barbered some too, hadn't I?\" says I. \"A lot,\" says Mr. Robert, slippin' me a couple of tens for expenses. \"And when he's all ready call me at the club.\" So, take it all around, I has quite some busy evenin'. I stayed long enough to see Bunny wrapped in a sheet and helped into the steam-room, and then I hustles out for a late dinner. It's near nine-thirty before I rings Mr. Robert up again, and reports that Bunny would pass a Board of Health inspection now that he's had the face herbage removed, that he's costumed proper and correct, and that he's decided not to die immediate. \"Very well,\" says Mr. Robert. \"What does he want to do now?\" \"He wants to talk to you,\" says I. \"The deuce he does!\" says Mr. Robert. \"Well, I suppose we might as well have it out; so bring him up here.\" That's how it happens I'm rung in on this little club corner chat; for Mr. Robert explains that whatever passes between 'em it might be as well to have someone else hear.", "words": 249}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "And, say, what a diff'rence a little outside upholstery can make, eh? The steamin' out had helped some, I expect, and a couple more glasses of hot milk had braced him up too; but blamed if I'd expect just a shave and a few open-face clothes could change a human ruin into such a perky lookin' gent as this that leans back graceful against the leather cushions and lights up one of Mr. Robert's imported cigarettes. Course, the eye hollows hadn't been filled in, nor the face wrinkles ironed out; but somehow they only gives him a sort of a distinguished look. And now that his shoulders ain't slumped, and he's holdin' his chin up once more, he's almost ornamental. He don't even seem embarrassed at meetin' Mr. Robert again. If anyone was fussed, it was the boss. \"Well?\" says he, as we gets settled in the cozy corner. \"Seems natural as life here; eh, Bob?\" says Bunny, glancin' around approvin'. \"And it's nearly four years since I--er----\" \"Since you were kicked out,\" adds Mr. Robert. \"See here, Bunny--just because I've helped you out of the gutter when I thought you were half dead, don't run away with the idea that I've either forgotten or forgiven!\" \"Oh, quite so,\" says he. \"I'm not asking that.\" \"Then you've no excuse,\" goes on Mr. Robert, \"for the sneaking, cowardly way in which you left little Sally Slater waiting in her bridal gown, the house full of wedding guests, while you ran off with that unspeakable DeBrett person?\" \"No,\" says Bunny, flippin' his cigarette ashes off jaunty, \"no excuse worthy of the name.\" \"Cad!\" says Mr. Robert.", "words": 274}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Bunny shrugs his shoulders. \"Precisely,\" says he. \"But you are not making the discovery for the first time, are you? You knew Sally was far too good for me. Everyone did, even Brother Melly. It couldn't have been much of a secret to either of you how deep I was with the DeBrett too. Yet you wanted me to go on with Sally. Why? Because the governor hadn't chucked me overboard then, because I could still keep up a front?\" \"You might have taken a brace,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Not I!\" says Bunny. \"Anyway, not after Trixie DeBrett got hold of me. The trouble was, Bob, you didn't half appreciate her. She had beauty, brains, wit, a thousand fascinations, and no more soul than a she boa constrictor. I was just a rabbit to her, a meal. She thought the governor would buy her off, say, for a couple hundred thousand or so. I suppose he would too, if it hadn't been for the Sally complication. He thought a lot of little Sally. And the way it happened was too raw. I don't blame him, mind you, nor any of you. I don't even blame Trixie. That was her game. And, by Jove! she was a star at it. I'd go back to her now if she'd let me.\" \"You're a fool!\" snorts Mr. Robert. \"Always was, my dear Bob,\" says Bunny placid. \"You often told me as much.\" \"But I didn't think,\" goes on Mr. Robert, \"you'd get as low as--as tonight--begging!\"", "words": 253}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Quite respectable for me, I assure you,\" says Bunny. \"Why, my dear fellow, during the last few years there's been hardly a crime on the calendar I shouldn't have committed for a dollar--barring murder, of course. That requires nerve. How long do you suppose the few thousands I got from Aunt Eunice lasted? Barely six months. I thought I knew how to live rather luxuriously myself. But Trixie! Well, she taught me. And we were in Paris, you know. I didn't cable the governor until I was down to my last hundred-franc note. His reply was something of a stinger. I showed it to Trixie. She just laughed and went out for a drive. She didn't come back. I hear she picked up a brewer's son at Monte Carlo. Lucky devil, he was! \"And I? What would you expect? In less than two weeks I was a stowaway on a French liner. They routed me out and set me to stoking. I couldn't stand that, of course; so they put me to work in the kitchens, cleaning pots, dumping garbage, waiting on the crew. I had to make the round trip too. Then I jumped the stinking craft, only to get a worse berth on a P. & O. liner. I worked with Chinese, Lascars, coolies, the scum of the earth; worked and ate and slept and fought with them. I crawled ashore and deserted in strange ports. I think it was at Aden where I came nearest to starving the first time. And I remember the docks at Alexandria. Sometimes the tourists threw down coppers for the Arab and Berber boys to scrabble for. It's a pleasant custom. I was there, in that scrabbling, cursing, clawing rabble. And when I'd had a good day I spent my coppers royally in a native dance-hall which even guides don't dare show to the trippers.", "words": 313}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Respectability, my dear Bob, is all a matter of comparison. I acquired a lot of new standards. As a second cabin steward on a Brazos liner I became quite haughty. Poverty! You don't know what it means until you've rubbed elbows with it in the Far East and the Far South. Here you have the Bowery Mission bread line. That's a fair sample, Bob, of our American opulence. Free bread!\" \"So you've been in that, have you?\" asks Mr. Robert. \"Have I?\" says Bunny. \"I've pals down there tonight who will wonder what has become of me.\" Mr. Robert shudders. And, say, it made me feel chilly along the spine too. \"Well, what now?\" says Mr. Robert. \"I suppose you expect me to find you some sort of work?\" \"Not at all,\" says Bunny. \"Another of those cigarettes, if you don't mind. Excellent brand. Thanks. But work? How inconsiderate, Bob! I wasn't born to be useful. You know that well enough. No, work doesn't appeal to me.\" Mr. Robert flushes up at that. \"Then,\" says he, pointin' stern, \"there's the door.\" \"Oh, what's the hurry?\" says Bunny. \"This is heaven to me, all this,--the old club, you know, and good tobacco, and--say, Bob, if I might suggest, a pint of that '85 vintage would add just the finishing touch. Come, I haven't tasted a glass of fizz since--well, I've forgotten. Just for auld lang syne!\" Mr. Robert gasps, hesitates a second, and then pushes the button. Bunny inspects the label critical when it's brought in, waves graceful to Mr. Robert, and slides the bottle back tender into the cooler. \"Ah-h-h!\" says he. \"And doesn't Henri have any more of those dainty little caviar canapes on hand? They go well with fizz.\" \"Canapes,\" says Mr. Robert to the waiter. \"And another box of those gold-tipped Russians.\"", "words": 305}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"_A vous_!\" says Bunny, raisin' a glassful of bubbles and salutin'. \"I'm as thirsty as a camel driver.\" \"But what I'd like to know,\" says Mr. Robert, \"is what you propose doing.\" \"You, my dear fellow,\" says Bunny, settin' down the glass. \"Truly enterprising!\" says Mr. Robert. \"But you're going to be disappointed. In just ten minutes I mean to escort you to the sidewalk, and then wash my hands of you for good.\" Bunny laughs. \"Impossible!\" says he. \"In the first place, you couldn't sleep tonight, if you did. Secondly, I should hunt you up tomorrow and make a nuisance of myself.\" \"You'd be thrown out by a porter,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Perhaps,\" says he; \"but it wouldn't look nice. I'd be in evening clothes, you see. The crowd would know at once that I was a gentleman. Reporters would come. I should tell a most harrowing tale. You'd deny it, of course; but half the people would believe me. No, no, Bob! Three hours ago, in my old rags, you might have kicked me into the gutter, and no one would have made any fuss at all. But now! Why, it would be absurd! I should make a mighty row over it.\" \"You threaten blackmail?\" says Mr. Robert, leanin' towards him savage. \"That is one of my more reputable accomplishments,\" says Bunny. \"But why force me to that? I have quite a reasonable proposal to submit.\" \"If it has anything to do with getting you so far away from New York that you'll never come back, I'll listen to it,\" says Mr. Robert.", "words": 265}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"You state the case exactly,\" says Bunny. \"In Paris I got to know a chap by the name of Dick Langdon; English, you know, and a younger son. His uncle's a Sir Something or Other. Dick was going the pace. He'd annexed some funds that he'd found lying around loose. Purely a family affair; no prosecution. A nice youth, Langdon. We were quite congenial. \"A year or so ago I ran across him again, down in Santa Marta. He was wearing a sun helmet and a white linen suit. He said he'd been shipped down there as superintendent of a banana plantation about twenty miles back from the port. He had half a hundred blacks and as many East Indian coolies under him. There was no one else within miles. Once a month he got down to see the steamer load and watch the white faces hungrily. I was only a cabin steward leaning over the rail; but he was so tickled to see me that he begged me to quit and go back to the plantation with him. He said he'd make me assistant superintendent, or permanent guest, or anything. But I was crazy to see New York once more. I wouldn't listen. Well, I've seen New York, seen enough of it to last a lifetime. What do you say?\" \"When could you get a steamer?\" asks Mr. Robert. \"The Arapequa sails at ten in the morning,\" says Bunny eager. \"Fare forty-eight dollars one way. I could go aboard now. Dick would hail me as a man and a brother. I'm his kind. He'd see that I never had money enough to get away. I think I might possibly earn my keep bossing coolies too. And the pulque down there helps you to forget your troubles.\" \"Torchy,\" says Mr. Robert, \"ask Barney to call a cab.\"", "words": 307}, {"story": 29, "title": "The Passing By Of Bunny", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"And, by the way,\" Bunny is sayin' as I come back, \"you might chuck in a business suit and a few white flannels into a grip, Bob. You wouldn't want me to arrive in South America dressed like this, would you?\" \"Very well,\" says Mr. Robert. \"But what I'm most concerned about is that you do arrive there.\" \"But how do you know, Mr. Robert,\" says I next mornin', \"that he will?\" \"Because I locked him in his stateroom myself,\" says he, \"and bribed a steward not to let him out until he could see Barnegat light over the stern.\" \"Gee!\" says I. \"That's one way of losin' a better days' proposition. And in case any others like him turns up, Mr. Robert, have you got any more old dress suits?\" \"If I have,\" says he, \"I shall burn them.\"", "words": 140}, {"story": 30, "title": "The Glad Hail For Torchy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "I'll say this for Aunty: She's doin' her best. About all she's omitted is lockin' Vee in a safety deposit vault and forgettin' the combination. Say, you'd most think I was as catchin' as a case of measles. I wish it was so; for once in awhile, in spite of Aunty, Vee gets exposed. That's all the good it does, though. What's a few minutes' chat with the only girl that ever was? It's a wonder we don't have to be introduced all over again. That would be the case with some girls. But Vee! Say, lemme put you wise--Vee's different! Uh-huh! I found that out all by myself. I don't know just where it comes in, or how, but she is. All of which makes it just so much worse when she and Aunty does the summer flit. Course, I saw it comin' 'way back early in June, and then the first thing I know they're gone. I gets a bulletin now and then,--Lenox, the Pier, Newport, and so on,--sometimes from Vee, sometimes by readin' the society notes. Must be great to have the papers keep track of you, the way they do of Aunty. And it's so comfortin' to me, strayin' lonesome into a Broadway movie show of a hot evening to know that \"among the debutantes at a tea dance given in the Casino by Mrs. Percy Bonehead yesterday afternoon was Miss Verona Hemmingway.\" Oh, sure! Say, how many moves am I from a tea dance--me here behind the brass rail at the Corrugated, with Piddie gettin' fussy, and Old Hickory jabbin' the buzzer?", "words": 267}, {"story": 30, "title": "The Glad Hail For Torchy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "And then, just when I'm peevish enough to be canned and served with lamb chops, here comes this glad word out of the State of Maine. \"It's nice up here,\" says she; \"but awfully stupid. VEE.\" That's all--just a picture postcard. But, say, I'd have put it in a solid gold frame if there'd been one handy. As it is, I sticks the card up on the desk in front of me and gazes longin'. Some shack, I should judge by the picture,--one of these low, wide affairs, all built of cobblestones, with a red tile roof and yellow awnin's. Right on the water too. You can see the waves frothin' almost up to the front steps. Roarin' Rocks, Maine, is the name of the place printed underneath. \"Nice, but stupid, eh?\" says I confidential to myself. \"That's too bad. Wonder if I'd be bored to death with a week or so up there? I wonder what she'd say if----\" B-r-r-r-r! B-r-r-r-r-r! That's always the way! I just get started on some rosy dream, and I'm sailin' aloft miles and miles away, when off goes that blamed buzzer, and back I flop into this same old chair behind the same old brass rail! All for what? Why, Mr. Robert wants a tub of desk pins. I gets 'em from Piddie, trots in, and slams 'em down snappy at Mr. Robert's elbow. \"Eh?\" says he, glancin' up startled. \"Said pins, dintcher?\" says I. \"Why--er--yes,\" says he, \"I believe I did. Thank you.\" \"Huh!\" says I, turnin' on my heel. \"Oh--er--Torchy,\" he adds. \"Well?\" says I over my shoulder. \"Might one inquire,\" says he, \"is it distress, or only disposition?\" \"It ain't the effect of too much fresh air, anyway,\" says I. \"Ah!\" says he, sort of reflective. \"Feeling the need of a half holiday, are you?\" \"Humph!\" says I. \"What's the good of an afternoon off?\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 30, "title": "The Glad Hail For Torchy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "He'd just come back from a two weeks' cruise, Mr. Robert had, lookin' tanned and husky, and a little later on he was goin' off on another jaunt. Course, that's all right, too. I'd take 'em oftener if I was him. But hanged if I'd sit there starin' puzzled at any one else who couldn't, the way he was doin' at me! \"Mr. Robert,\" says I, spunkin' up sudden, \"what's the matter with me takin' a vacation?\" \"Why,\" says he, \"I--I presume it might be arranged. When would you wish to go?\" \"When?\" says I. \"Why, now--tonight. Say, honest, if I try to stick out the week I'll get to be a grouch nurser, like Piddie. I'm sick of the shop, sick of answerin' buzzers, sick of everything!\" It wasn't what you might call a smooth openin', and from most bosses I expect it would have won me a free pass to all outdoors. But I guess Mr. Robert knows what these balky moods are himself. He only humps his eyebrows humorous and chuckles. \"That's rather abrupt, isn't it?\" says he. \"But perhaps--er--just where is she now, Torchy?\" I grins back sheepish. \"Coast of Maine,\" says I. \"Well, well!\" says he. \"Then you'll need a two weeks' advance, at least. There! Present this to the cashier. And there is a good express, I believe, at eight o'clock tonight. Luck to you!\" \"Mr. Robert,\" says I, choky, \"you--you're I-double-It with me. Thanks.\" \"My best regards to Kennebunk, Cape Neddick, and Eggemoggen Reach,\" says he as we swaps grips. Say, there's some boss for you, eh? But how he could dope out the symptoms so accurate is what gets me. Anyhow, he had the answer; for I don't stop to consult any vacation guidebook or summer tours pamphlet. I beats it for the Grand Central, pushes up to the ticket window, and calls for a round trip to Roaring Rocks.", "words": 318}, {"story": 30, "title": "The Glad Hail For Torchy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Nothing doing,\" says the guy. \"Give you Bass Rocks, Seal Rocks, or six varieties of Spouting Rocks; but no Roaring ones on the list. Any choice?\" \"Gwan, you fresh Mellen seed!\" says I. \"You got to have 'em. It says so on the card,\" and I shoves the postal at him. \"Ah, yes, my young ruddy duck,\" says he. \"Postmarked Boothbay Harbor, isn't it? Bath for yours. Change there for steamer. Upper's the best I can do for you--drawing rooms all gone.\" \"Seein' how my private car's bein' reupholstered, I'll chance an upper,\" says I. \"Only don't put any nose trombone artist underneath.\" Yes, I was feelin' some gayer than a few hours before. What did I care if the old town was warmin' up as we pulls out until it felt like a Turkish bath? I was bound north on the map, with my new Norfolk suit and three outing shirts in my bag, a fair-sized wad of spendin' kale buttoned into my back pocket, and that card of Vee's stowed away careful. Say, I should worry! And don't they do some breezin' along on that Bar Harbor express while you sleep, though? \"What cute little village is this?\" says I to Rastus in the washroom next mornin' about six-thirty A. M. \"Pohtland, Suh,\" says he. \"Breakfast stop, Suh.\" \"Me for it, then,\" says I. \"When in Maine be a maniac.\" So I tackles a plate of pork-and on its native heath; also a hunk of pie. M-m-m-m! They sure can build pie up there!", "words": 256}, {"story": 30, "title": "The Glad Hail For Torchy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "It's quite some State, Maine. Bath is several jumps on, and that next joint---- Say, it wa'n't until I'd changed to the steamer and was lookin' over my ticket that I sees anything familiar about the name. Boothbay! Why, wa'n't that the Rube spot this Ira Higgins hailed from? Maybe you remember,--Ira, who'd come on to see Mr. Robert about buildin' a new racin' yacht, the tall, freckled gink with a love affair on his mind? Why, sure, this was Ira's Harbor I was headed for. And, say, I didn't feel half so strange about explorin' the State after that. For Ira, you know, is a friend of mine. Havin' settled that with myself, I throws out my chest and roams around the decks, climbin' every flight of stairs I came to, until I gets to a comfy little coop on the very top where a long guy wearin' white suspenders over a blue flannel shirt is jugglin' the steerin' wheel. \"Hello, Cap!\" says I. \"How's she headin'?\" He ain't one of the sociable kind, though. You'd most thought, from the reprovin' stare he gives me, that he didn't appreciate good comp'ny. \"Can't you read?\" says he. \"Ah, you mean the Keep-Out sign? Sure, Pete,\" says I; \"but I can't see it from in here.\" \"Then git out where you can see it plainer,\" says he. \"Ah, quit your kiddin'!\" says I. \"That's for the common herd, ain't it? Now, I---- Say, if it'll make you feel any better, I'll tell you who I am.\" \"Say it quick then,\" says he. \"Are you Woodrow Wilson, or only the Secretary of the Navy?\" \"You're warm,\" says I. \"I'm a friend of Ira Higgins of Boothbay Harbor.\" \"Sho!\" says he, removin' his pipe and beginnin' to act human. \"Happen to know Ira?\" says I. \"Ought to,\" says he. \"First cousins. You from Boston?\"", "words": 311}, {"story": 30, "title": "The Glad Hail For Torchy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Why, Cap!\" says I. \"What have I ever done to you? Now, honest, do I look like I--but I'll forgive you this time. New York, Cap: not Brooklyn, or Staten Island or the Bronx, you know, but straight New York, West 17th-st. And I've come all this way just to see Mr. Higgins.\" \"Gosh!\" says he. \"Ira always did have all the luck.\" Next crack he calls me Sorrel Top, and inside of five minutes we was joshin' away chummy, me up on a tall stool alongside, and him pointin' out all the sights. And, believe me, the State of Maine's got some scenery scattered along the wet edge of it! Honest, it's nothin' but scenery,--rocks and trees and water, and water and trees and rocks, and then a few more rocks. \"How about when you hit one of them sharp ones?\" says I. \"Government files a new edge on it,\" says he. \"They keep a gang that does nothin' else.\" \"Think of that!\" says I. \"I don't see any lobsters floatin' around, though.\" \"Too late in the day,\" says he. \"'Fraid of gittin' sunburned. You want to watch for 'em about daybreak. Millions then. Travel in flocks.\" \"Ye-e-es?\" says I. \"All hangin' onto a string, I expect. But why the painted posts stickin' up out of the water?\" \"Hitchin' posts,\" says he, \"for sea hosses.\" Oh, I got a bunch of valuable marine information from him, and when the second mate came up he added a lot more. If I hadn't thought to tell 'em how there was always snow on the Singer and Woolworth towers, and how the East Side gunmen was on strike to raise the homicide price to three dollars and seventy-five cents, they'd had me well Sweeneyed. As it was, I guess we split about even.", "words": 301}, {"story": 30, "title": "The Glad Hail For Torchy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Him findin' Boothbay Harbor among all that snarl of islands and channels wasn't any bluff, though. That was the real sleight of hand. As we're comin' up to the dock he points out Ira's boatworks, just on the edge of the town. Half an hour later I've left my baggage at the hotel and am interviewin' Mr. Higgins. He's the same old Ira; only he's wearin' blue overalls and a boiled shirt with the sleeves rolled up. \"Roarin' Rocks, eh?\" says he. \"Why, that's the Hollister place on Cunner Point, about three miles up.\" \"Can I get a trolley?\" says I. \"Trolley!\" says he. \"Why, Son, there ain't any 'lectric cars nearer'n Bath.\" \"Gee, what a jay burg!\" says I. \"How about a ferry, then?\" Ira shakes his head. Seems Roarin' Rocks is a private joint, the summer place of this Mr. Hollister who's described by Ira as \"richer'n Croesus\"--whatever that might mean. Anyway, they're exclusive parties that don't encourage callers; for the only way of gettin' there is over a private road around the head of the bay, or by hirin' a launch to take you up. \"Generally,\" says Ira, \"they send one of their boats down to meet company. Now, if they was expectin' you----\" \"That's just it,\" I breaks in, \"they ain't. Fact is, Ira, there's a young lady visitin' there with her aunt, and--and--well, Aunty and me ain't so chummy as we might be.\" \"Just so,\" says Ira, noddin' wise. \"Now my plan was to go up there and kind of stick around, you know,\" says I, \"sort of in the shade, until the young lady strolled out.\" Ira shakes his head discouragin'. \"They're mighty uppish folks,\" says he. \"Got 'No Trespass' signs all over the place--dogs too.\" \"Hellup!\" says I. \"What am I up against? Why don't Aunty travel with a bunch of gumshoe guards and be done with it?\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 30, "title": "The Glad Hail For Torchy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Tell you what,\" says Ira, struck by a stray thought, \"if lookin' the place over'll do any good, you might go out with Eb Westcott this afternoon when he baits. He's got pots all around the point.\" That don't mean such a lot to me; but my middle name is Brodie. \"Show me Eb,\" says I. He wa'n't any thrillin' sight, Eb; mostly rubber hip boots, flannel shirt, and whiskers. He could have been cleaner. So could his old tub of a lobster boat; but not while he stuck to that partic'lar line of business, I guess. And, say, I know now what baitin' is. It's haulin' up lobster pots from the bottom of the ocean and decoratin' 'em inside with fish--ripe fish, at that. The scheme is to lure the lobsters into the pot. Seems to work too; but I guess a lobster ain't got any sense of smell. \"Better put on some old clothes fust,\" advised Eb, and as I always like to dress the part I borrows a moldy suit of oilskins from Ira, includin' one of these yellow sea bonnets, and climbs aboard. It's a one-lunger putt-putt--and take it from me the combination of gasolene and last Tuesday's fish ain't anything like _Eau d'Espagne_! Quite different! Also I don't care for that jumpy up and down motion one of these little boats gets on, specially after pie and beans for breakfast. Then Eb hands me the steerin' ropes while he whittles some pressed oakum off the end of a brunette plug and loads his pipe. More perfume comin' my way! \"Ever try smokin' formaldehyde?\" says I. \"Gosh, no!\" says Eb. \"What's it like?\" \"You couldn't tell the difference,\" says I. \"We git tin tags off'm Sailor's Pride,\" says Eb. \"Save up fifty, and you git a premium.\" \"You ought to,\" says I, \"and a pension for life.\"", "words": 311}, {"story": 30, "title": "The Glad Hail For Torchy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Huh!\" says Eb. \"It's good eatin' too, Ever chaw any?\" and he holds out the plug invitin'. \"Don't tempt me,\" says I. \"I promised my dear old grandmother I wouldn't.\" \"Lookin' a little peaked, ain't you!\" says he. \"Most city chaps do when they fust come; but after 'bout a month of this----\" \"Chop it, Eb!\" says I. \"I'm feelin' unhappy enough as it is. A month of this? Ah, say!\" After awhile we begun stoppin' to bait. Eb would shut off the engine, run up to a float, haul in a lot of clothesline, and fin'lly pull up an affair that's a cross between a small crockery crate and an openwork hen-coop. Next he'd grab a big needle and string a dozen or so of the gooey fish on a cord. I watched once. After that I turned my back. By way of bein' obligin', Eb showed me how to roll the flywheel and start the engine. He said I was a heap stronger in the arms than I looked, and he didn't mind lettin' me do it right along. Friendly old yap, Eb was. I kept on rollin' the wheel. So about three P. M., as we was workin' our way along the shore, Eb looks up and remarks, \"Here's the Hollister place, Roarin' Rocks.\" Sure enough there it was, almost like the postcard picture, only not colored quite so vivid. \"Folks are out airin' themselves too,\" he goes on.", "words": 242}, {"story": 30, "title": "The Glad Hail For Torchy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "They were. I could see three or four people movin' about on the veranda; for we wa'n't more'n half a block away. First off I spots Aunty. She's paradin' up and down, stiff and stately, and along with her waddles a wide, dumpy female in pink. And next, all in white, and lookin' as slim and graceful as an Easter lily, I makes out Vee; also a young gent in white flannels and a striped tennis blazer. He's smokin' a cigarette and swingin' a racket jaunty. I could even hear Vee's laugh ripple out across the water. You remember how she put it too, \"nice, but awfully stupid.\" Seems she was makin' the best of it, though. And here I was, in Ira's baggy oilskins, my feet in six inches of oily brine, squattin' on the edge of a smelly fish box tryin' to hold down a piece of custard pie! No, that wa'n't exactly the rosy picture I threw on the screen back in the Corrugated gen'ral offices only yesterday. Nothing like that! I don't do any hoo-hooin', or wave any private signals. I pulls the sticky sou'wester further down over my eyes and squats lower in the boat. \"Look kind o' gay and festive, don't they?\" says Eb, straightenin' up and wipin' his hands on his corduroys. \"Who's the party in the tennis outfit?\" says I. \"Him?\" says Eb, gawpin' ashore. \"Must be young Hollister, that owns the mahogany speed boat. Stuck up young dude, I guess. Wall, five more traps to haul, and we're through, Son.\" \"Let's go haul 'em, then,\" says I, grabbin' the flywheel.", "words": 269}, {"story": 30, "title": "The Glad Hail For Torchy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Great excursion, that was! Once more on land, I sneaked soggy footed up to the hotel and piked for my room. I shied supper and went to the feathers early, trustin' that if I could get stretched out level with my eyes shut things would stop wavin' and bobbin' around. That was good dope too. I rolled out next mornin' feelin' fine and silky; but not so cocky by half. Somehow, I wa'n't gettin' any of the lucky breaks I'd looked for. My total programme for the day was just to bat around Boothbay. And, say, of all the lonesome places for city clothes and a straw lid! Honest, I never saw so many yachty rigs in my life,--young chaps in white ducks and sneakers and canvas shoes, girls in middie blouses, old guys in white flannels and yachtin' caps, even old ladies dressed sporty and comf'table--and more square feet of sunburn than would cover Union Square. I felt like a blond Eskimo at a colored camp meetin'. As everyone was either comin' from or goin' to the docks, I wanders down there too, and loafs around watchin' the steamers arrive, and the big sailin' yachts anchored off in the harbor, and the little boats dodgin' around in the choppy water. There's a crisp, salty breeze that's makin' the flags snap, the sun's shinin' bright, and take it altogether it's some brilliant scene. Only I'm on the outside peekin' in. \"What's the use?\" thinks I. \"I'm off my beat up here.\"", "words": 251}, {"story": 30, "title": "The Glad Hail For Torchy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Fin'lly I drifts down to the Yacht Club float, where the launches was comin' in thick. I must have been there near an hour, swappin' never a word with anybody, and gettin' lonesomer by the minute, when in from the harbor dashes a long, low, dark-colored boat and comes rushin' at the float like it meant to make a hydroplane jump. At the wheel I gets sight of a young chap who has sort of a worried, scared look on his face. Also he's wearin' a striped blazer. \"Young Hollister, maybe,\" thinks I. \"And he's in for a smash.\" Just then he manages to throw in his reverse; but it's a little late, for he's got a lot of headway. Honest, I didn't think it out. And I was achin' to butt into something. I jumped quick, grabbed the bow as it came in reach, shoved it off vigorous, and brought him alongside the fenders without even scratchin' the varnish. \"Thanks, old chap,\" says he. \"Saved me a bad bump there. I--I'm greatly obliged.\" \"You're welcome,\" says I. \"You was steamin' in a little strong.\" \"I haven't handled the Vixen much myself,\" says he. \"You see, our boatman's laid up,--sprained ankle,--and I had to come down from the Rocks for some gasolene.\" \"Oh! Roarin' Rocks?\" says I. \"Yes,\" says he. \"Where's that fool float tender?\" \"Just gone into the clubhouse,\" says I. \"Maybe I could keep her from bumpin' while you're gone.\" \"By Jove! would you?\" says he, handin' over a boathook. Even then I wasn't layin' any scheme. I helps when they puts the gas in, and makes myself generally useful. Also I'm polite and respectful, which seems to make a hit with him. \"Deuced bother,\" says he, \"not having any man. I had a picnic planned for today too.\"", "words": 301}, {"story": 30, "title": "The Glad Hail For Torchy", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"That so?\" says I. \"Well, I'm no marine engineer, but I'm just killin' time around here, and if I could help any way----\" \"Oh, I say, but that's jolly of you,\" says he, \"I wonder if you would, for a day or so? My name's Hollister, Payne Hollister.\" He wasn't Payne to me. He was Joy. Easy? Why, he fairly pushes me into it! Digs a white jumper out of a locker for me, and a little round canvas hat with \"Vixen\" on the front, and trots back uptown to buy me a swell pair of rubber-soled deck shoes. Business of quick change for yours truly. Then look! Say, here I am, just about the yachtiest thing in sight, leanin' back on the steerin' seat cushions of a classy speed boat that's headed towards Vee at a twenty-mile clip.", "words": 139}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Lemme see, I was headed out of Boothbay Harbor, Maine, bound for Roarin' Rocks, wa'n't I? Hold the picture,--me in a white jumper and little round canvas hat with \"Vixen\" printed across the front, white shoes too, and altogether as yachty as they come. Don't forget young Mr. Payne Hollister at the wheel, either; although whether I'd kidnapped him, or he'd kidnapped me, is open for debate. Anyway, here I was, subbin' incog for the reg'lar crew, who was laid up with a sprained ankle. All that because I'd got the happy hail from Vee on a postcard. It wa'n't any time for unpleasant thoughts then; but I couldn't help wonderin' how soon Aunty would loom on the horizon and spoil it all. \"So there's a picnic on the slate, eh?\" I suggests. Young Mr. Hollister nods. \"I'd promised some of the folks at the house,\" says he. \"Guests, you know.\" \"Oh, yes,\" says I, feelin' a little shiver flicker down my spine. I knew. Vee was a guest there. So was Aunty. The picnic prospects might have been more allurin'. But I'd butted in, and this was no time to back out. Besides, I was more or less interested in sizin' up Payne Hollister. Tall, slim, young gent; dark, serious eyes; nose a little prominent; and his way of speakin' and actin' a bit pompous,--one of them impatient, quick-motioned kind that wants to do everything in a minute. He keeps gettin' up and starin' ahead, like he wa'n't quite sure where he was goin', and then leanin' over to squint at the engine restless. \"Just see if those forward oil cups are full, will you?\" says he. I climbs over and inspects. Everything seems to be O. K.; although what I don't know about a six-cylinder marine engine is amazin'. \"We're slidin' through the water slick,\" says I.", "words": 309}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"She can turn up much faster than this,\" says he; \"only I don't dare open her wide.\" I was satisfied. I could use a minute or so about then to plot out a few scenarios dealin' with how a certain party would act in case of makin' a sudden discovery. But I hadn't got past picturin' the cold storage stare before the Hollister place shows up ahead, Payne throttles the Vixen down cautious, shoots her in between a couple of rocky points, and fetches her up alongside a rope-padded private float. There's some steps leadin' up to the top of the rocks. \"Do you mind running up and asking if they're ready?\" says Payne. \"Why, no,\" says I; \"but--but who do I ask?\" \"That's so,\" says he. \"And they'll not know who you are, either. I'll go. Just hold her off.\" Me with a boathook, posin' back to for the next ten minutes, not even darin' to rubber over my shoulder. Then voices, \"Have you the coffee bottles?\"--\"Don't forget the steamer rugs.\"--\"I put the olives on the top of the sandwiches.\"--\"Be careful when you land, Mabel dear.\"--\"Oh, we'll be all right.\" This last from Vee. Another minute and they're down on the float, with Payne Hollister explainin', \"Oh, I forgot. This is someone who is helping me with the boat while Tucker's disabled.\" I touches my hat respectful; but I'm too busy to face around--much too busy! \"Now, Cousin Mabel,\" says young Hollister, \"right in the middle of that seat! Easy, now!\"", "words": 252}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "A squeal from Mabel. No wonder! I gets a glimpse of her as she steps down, and, believe me, if I had Mabel's shape and weight you couldn't tease me out on the water in anything smaller'n the Mauretania! All the graceful lines of a dumplin', Mabel had; about five feet up and down, and 'most as much around. Vee is on one side, Payne on the other, both lowerin' away careful; but as she makes the final plunge before floppin' onto the seat she reaches out one paw and annexes my right arm. Course that swings me around sudden, and I finds myself gazin' at Vee over Payne Hollister's shoulders, not three feet away. \"Oh!\" says she, startled, and you couldn't blame her. I just has to lay one finger on my lips and shake my head mysterious. \"All right!\" sings out Payne, straightenin' up. \"Always more or less exciting getting Cousin Mabel aboard; but it's been accomplished. Now, Verona!\" As he gives her a hand she floats in as light as a bird landin' in a treetop. I could feel her watchin' me curious and puzzled as I passes the picnic junk down for Hollister to stow away. Course, it wa'n't any leadin'-heavy, spotlight entrance I was makin' at Roarin' Rocks; but it's a lot better, thinks I, than not bein' there at all. \"Oh, dear,\" sighs Mabel, \"what a narrow, uncomfortable seat!\" \"Is it, really?\" asks Vee. \"Can't it be fixed someway, Payne?\" \"Lemme have a try?\" says I. With that I stuffs extra cushions around her, folds up a life preserver to rest her feet on, and drapes her with a steamer rug. \"Thanks,\" says she, sighin' grateful and rewardin' me with a display of dimples. \"What is your name, young man?\" \"Why,\" says I, with a glance at Vee, \"you can just call me Bill.\" \"Nonsense!\" says Mabel. \"Your name is William.\"", "words": 317}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"William goes, Miss,\" says I; and as she snuggles down I chances a wink Vee's way. No response, though. Vee ain't sure yet whether she ought to grin or give me the call-down. \"Cast off!\" says Payne, and out between the rocks we shoot, with Aunty and Mrs. Hollister wavin' from the veranda. Anyway, that was some relief. This wa'n't Aunty's day for picnickin'. She didn't know what she was missin', I expect; for, say, that's good breathin' air up off Boothbay. There's some life and pep to it, and rushin' through it that way you can't help pumpin' your lungs full. Makes you glow and tingle inside and out. Makes you want to holler. That, and the sunshine dancin' on the water, and the feel of the boat slicin' through the waves, the engine purrin' away a sort of rag-time tune, and the pennants whippin', and all that scenery shiftin' around to new angles, not to mention the fact that Vee's along--well, I was enjoyin' life about then. Kind of got into my blood. Everything was lovely, and I didn't care what happened next. Me bein' the crew, I expect I should have been fussin' around up front, coilin' ropes, or groomin' the machinery. But I can't make my eyes behave. I has to turn around every now and then and grin. Mabel don't seem to mind. \"William,\" says she, signalin' me, \"see if you can't find a box of candy in that basket.\" I hops over the steerin' seat back into the standin' room and digs it out. Also I lingers around while Mabel feeds in a few pieces. \"Have some?\" says she. \"You're so good-natured looking.\" \"That's my long suit,\" says I. Then I see Vee's mouth corners twitching and she takes her turn. \"You live around here, I suppose, William?\" says she. \"No such luck,\" says I. \"I come up special to get this job.\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"But,\" puts in Mabel, holdin' a fat chocolate cream in the air, \"Tucker wasn't hurt until yesterday.\" \"That's when I landed,\" says I. \"Someone must have sent you word then,\" says Vee, impish. \"Uh-huh,\" says I. \"Someone mighty special too. Sweet of her, wa'n't it?\" \"Oh! A girl?\" asks Mabel, perkin' up. \"_The_ girl,\" says I. \"Tee-hee!\" snickers Mabel, nudgin' Vee delighted. \"Is--is she very nice, William? Tell us about her, won't you?\" \"Oh, do!\" says Vee, sarcastic. \"Well,\" says I, lookin' at Vee, \"she's about your height and build.\" \"How interesting!\" says Mabel, with another nudge. \"Go on. What kind of hair?\" \"Never was any like it,\" says I. \"But her complexion,\" insists Mabel, \"dark or fair?\" \"Pink roses in the mornin', with the dew on,\" says I. \"Bravo!\" says Mabel, clappin' her hands. \"And her eyes?\" \"Why,\" says I, \"maybe you've looked down into deep sea water on a still, gray day? That's it.\" \"She must be a beauty,\" says Mabel. \"Nothing but,\" says I. \"I hope she has a nice disposition too,\" says she. \"Nope,\" says I, shakin' my head solemn. \"Humph! What's the matter with that?\" says Vee. \"Jumpy,\" says I. \"Red pepper and powdered sugar; sometimes all sugar, sometimes all pepper, then again a mixture. You never can tell.\" \"Then I'd throw her over,\" says Vee. \"Honest, would you?\" says I, lookin' her square in the eye. \"If I didn't like her disposition, I would,\" says she. \"But that's the best part of her to me,\" says I. \"Adds variety, you know, and--well, I expect it's about the only way I'm like her. Mine is apt to be that way too.\" \"Why, of course,\" comes in Mabel. \"If she was as pretty as all that, and angelic too----\" \"You got the idea,\" says I. \"She'd be in a stained glass window somewhere, eh?\" \"You're a silly boy!\" says Vee.", "words": 314}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"That sounds natural,\" says I. \"I often get that from her.\" \"And is she living up here?\" asks Mabel. \"Visiting,\" says I. \"She's with her----\" \"William,\" breaks in Vee, \"I think Mr. Hollister wants you.\" I'd most forgot about Payne; for, while he's only a few feet off, he's as much out of the group as if he was ashore. You know how it is in one of them high-powered launches with the engine runnin'. You can't hear a word unless you're right close to. And Payne's twistin' around restless. \"Yes, Sir?\" says I, goin' up and reportin'. \"Ask Miss Verona if she doesn't want to come up here,\" says he. \"I--I think it will trim the boat better.\" \"Sure,\" says I. But when I passes the word to Vee I translates. \"Mr. Hollister's lonesome,\" says I, \"and there's room for another.\" \"I've been wondering if I couldn't,\" says Vee. \"You can,\" says I. \"Lemme help you over.\" Gives me a chance for a little hand squeeze and another close glimpse into them gray eyes. I don't make out anything definite, though. But as she passes forward she puckers her lips saucy and whispers, \"Pepper!\" in my ear. I guess, after all, when you're doin' confidential description you don't want to stick too close to facts. Makin' it all stained glass window stuff is safer. I goes back to Mabel and lets her demand more details. She's just full of romance, Mabel is; not so full, though, that it interferes with her absorbin' a few eats now and then. Between answerin' questions I'm kept busy handin' out crackers, oranges, and doughnuts, openin' the olive bottle, and gettin' her drinks of water. Reg'lar Consumers' League, Mabel. I never run a sausage stuffin' machine; but I think I could now.", "words": 298}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"You're such a handy young man to have around,\" says Mabel, after I've split a Boston cracker and lined it with strawb'ry jam for her; \"so much better than Tucker.\" \"That's my aim,\" says I, \"to make you forget Tucker.\" Yes, I was gettin' some popular with Mabel, even if I was in wrong with Vee. They seems to be havin' quite a chatty time of it, Payne showin' her how to steer, and lettin' her salute passin' launches, and explainin' how the engine worked. As far as them two went, Mabel and me was only so much excess baggage. \"Why, we're clear out beyond Squirrel!\" exclaims Mabel at last. \"Ask Payne where we're going to stop for our picnic. I'm getting hungry.\" \"Oh, yes,\" says Payne, \"we must be thinking about landing. I had planned to run out to Damariscove; but that looks like a fog bank hanging off there. Perhaps we'd better go back to Fisherman's Island, after all. Tell her Fisherman's.\" I couldn't see what the fog bank had to do with it--not then, anyway. Why, it was a peach of a day,--all blue sky, not a sign of a cloud anywhere, and looked like it would stay that way for a week. He keeps the Vixen headed out to sea for awhile longer, and then all of a sudden he circles short and starts back. \"Fog!\" he shouts over his shoulder to Mabel. \"Oh, bother!\" says Mabel. \"I hate fog. And it is coming in too.\"", "words": 250}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Yes, that bank did seem to be workin' its way toward us, like a big, gray curtain that's bein' shoved from the back drop to the front of the stage. You couldn't see it move, though; but as I watched blamed if it don't creep up on an island, a mile or so out, and swallow it complete, same as a picture fades off a movie screen when the lights go wrong. Just like that. Then a few wisps of thin mist floats by, makin' things a bit hazy ahead. Squirrel Island, off to the left, disappears like it had gone to the bottom. The mainland shore grows vague and blurred, and the first thing we know we ain't anywhere at all, the scenery's all smudged out, and nothin' in sight but this pearl-gray mist. It ain't very thick, you know, and only a little damp. Rummy article, this State of Maine fog! Young Hollister is standin' up now, tryin' to keep his bearin's and doin' his best to look through the haze. He slows the engine down until we're only just chuggin' along. \"Let's see,\" says he, \"wasn't Squirrel off there a moment ago?\" \"Why, no,\" says Vee. \"I thought it was more to the left.\" \"By Jove!\" says he. \"And there are rocks somewhere around here too!\" Funny how quick you can get turned around that way. Inside of three minutes I couldn't have told where we were at, any more'n if I'd been blindfolded in a cellar. And I guess young Hollister got to that condition soon after. \"We ought to be making the south end of Fisherman's soon,\" he observes.", "words": 274}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "But we didn't. He has me climb out on the bow to sing out if I see anything. But, say, there was less to see than any spot I was ever in. I watched and watched, and Payne kept on gettin' nervous. And still we keeps chuggin' and chuggin', steerin' first one way and then the other. It seemed hours we'd been gropin' around that way when---- \"Rocks ahead!\" I sings out as something dark looms up. Payne turns her quick; but before she can swing clear bang goes the bow against something solid and slides up with a gratin' sound. He tries backin' off; but she don't budge. \"Hang it all!\" says Payne, shuttin' off the engine. \"I guess we're stuck.\" \"Then why not have the picnic right here?\" pipes up Mabel. \"Here!\" snaps Payne. \"But I don't know where we are.\" \"Oh, what's the difference?\" says Mabel. \"Besides, I'm hungry.\" \"I want to get out of this, though,\" says Payne. \"I mean to keep going until I know where I am.\" \"Oh, fudge!\" says Mabel. \"This is good enough. And if we stay here and have a nice luncheon perhaps the fog will go away. What's the sense in drifting around when you're hungry?\" That didn't seem such bad dope, either. Vee sides with Mabel, and while Payne don't like the idea he gives in. We seem to have landed somewhere. So we carts the baskets and things ashore, finds a flat place up on the rocks, and then the three of us tackles the job of hoistin' Mabel onto dry land. And it was some enterprise, believe me! \"Goodness!\" pants Mabel, after we'd got her planted safe. \"I don't know how I'm ever going to get back.\"", "words": 290}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "We didn't, either; but after we'd spread out five kinds of sandwiches within her reach, poured hot coffee out of the patent bottles, opened the sardines and pickles, set out the cake and doughnuts, Mabel ceases to worry. Payne don't, though. He swallows one sandwich, and then goes back to inspect the boat. He announces that the tide is comin' in and she ought to float soon; also that when she does he wants to start back. \"Now, Payne!\" protests Mabel. \"Just when I'm comfortable!\" \"And there isn't any hurry, is there?\" asks Vee. I wa'n't so stuck on buttin' around in the fog myself; so when he asks me to go down and see if the launch is afloat yet, and I finds that she can be pushed off easy, I don't hurry about tellin' him so. Instead I climbs aboard and develops an idea. You see, when I was out with Eb Westcott in his lobster boat the day before I'd noticed him stop the engine just by jerkin' a little wire off the spark plug. Here was a whole bunch of wires, though. Wouldn't do to unhitch 'em all. But along the inside of the boat is a little box affair that they all lead into, with one big wire leadin' out. Looked kind of businesslike, that one did. I unhitches it gentle and drapes it over a nearby screwhead. Then I strolls back and reports that she's afloat. \"Good!\" says Payne. \"I'll just start the engine and be tuning her up while the girls finish luncheon.\" Well, maybe you can guess. I could hear him windin' away at the crankin' wheel, windin' and windin', and then stoppin' to cuss a little under his breath. \"What's the matter?\" sings out Mabel. She was one of the kind that's strong on foolish questions.", "words": 305}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"How the blazes should I know?\" raps back young Hollister. \"I can't start the blasted thing.\" \"Never mind,\" says Mabel cheerful. \"We haven't finished the sandwiches yet.\" Next time I takes a peek Payne has his tool kit spread out and is busy takin' things apart. He's getting' himself all smeared up with grease and oil too. Pity; for he'd started out lookin' so neat and nifty. Meanwhile we'd fed Mabel to the limit, got her propped up with cushions, and she's noddin' contented. \"Guess I'll do some exploring\" says I. \"But I've been wanting to do that this half-hour,\" says Vee. \"Well, let's then,\" says I. \"Go on,\" says Mabel, \"and tell me about it afterward.\" Oh, yes, we explores. Say, I'm a bear for that too! You have to go hand in hand over the rocks, to keep from slippin'. And the fog makes it all the nicer. We didn't go far before we came to the edge. Then we cross in another direction, and comes to more edge. \"Why, we're on a little island!\" says Vee. \"Big enough for us,\" says I. \"Here's a good place to sit down too.\" We settles ourselves in a snug little corner that gives us a fine view of the fog. \"How silly of you to come away up here,\" says Vee, \"just because--well, just because.\" \"It's the only wise move I was ever guilty of,\" says I. \"I feel like I had Solomon in the grammar grade.\" \"But how did you happen to get here--with Payne?\" says she. \"Hypnotized him,\" says I. \"That part was a cinch.\" \"And until to-day you didn't know where we were, or anything,\" says she. \"I scouted around a bit yesterday afternoon,\" says I. \"Saw you too.\" \"Yesterday!\" says she. \"Why, no one came near all the afternoon; that is, only a couple of lobstermen in a horrid, smelly old boat.\"", "words": 316}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Uh-huh,\" says I. \"One was me, in disguise.\" \"Torchy!\" says she, gaspin'. And somehow she snuggles up a little closer after that. \"I didn't think when I wrote,\" she goes on, \"that you would be so absurd.\" \"Maybe I was,\" says I. \"But I took it straight, that part about it bein' stupid up here. I was figurin' on liftin' the gloom. I hadn't counted on Payne.\" \"Well, what then?\" says she, tossin' her chin up. \"Nothin',\" says I. \"Guess you were right, too.\" \"He only came the other day,\" says Vee; \"but he's nice.\" \"Aunty thinks so too, don't she?\" says I. \"Why, yes,\" admits Vee. \"Another chosen one, is he?\" says I. Vee flushes. \"I don't care!\" says she. \"He is rather nice.\" \"Correct,\" says I. \"I found him that way too; but ain't he--well, just a little stiff in the neck?\" That brings out a giggle. \"Poor Payne!\" says Vee. \"He is something of a stick, you know.\" \"We'll forgive him for that,\" says I. \"We'll forgive Mabel. We'll forgive the fog. Eh?\" Then my arm must have slipped. \"Why, Torchy!\" says she. \"Oh!\" says I. \"Thought you were too near the edge.\" And the side clinch wa'n't disturbed. Some chat too! I don't know when we've had a chance for any such a good long talk as that, and we both seemed to have a lot of conversation stored up. Then we chucked pebbles into the water, and Vee pulls some seaweed and decorates my round hat. You know? It's easy killin' time when you're paired off right. And the first thing we knows the fog begins to lighten and the sun almost breaks through. We hurries back to where Mabel's just rousin' from a doze. \"Well?\" says she. \"It's a tiny little island we're on,\" says Vee. \"Nice little island, though,\" says I.", "words": 308}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Hey!\" sings out Payne, pokin' his head up over the rocks. \"I've been calling and calling.\" \"We've been explorin',\" says I. \"Got her fixed yet?\" \"Hang it, no!\" growls Payne, scrubbin' cotton waste over his forehead. \"And the fog's beginning to lift. Why, there's the shore, and--and--well, what do you think of that? We're on Grampus Ledges, not a mile from home!\" Sure enough, there was Roarin' Rocks just showin' up. \"Now if I could only start this confounded engine!\" says he, starin' down at it puzzled. By this time Vee and Mabel appears, and of course Mabel wants to know what's the matter. \"I'm sure I can't tell,\" says Payne, sighin' hopeless. \"Wirin' all right, is it?\" says I, climbin' in and lookin' scientific. And--would you believe it?--I only paws around a minute or so before I finds a loose magneto connection, hooks it up proper, and remarks casual, \"Now let's try her.\" Pur-r-r-r-r! Off she goes. \"There!\" exclaims Mabel. \"I shall never go out again unless William is along. He's so handy!\" Say, she stuck to it. Four days I was chief engineer of the Vixen--and, take it from me, they was perfectly good days. No more fog. No rain. Just shoolin' around in fair weather, makin' excursions here and there, with Vee trippin' down to the dock every day in a fresher and newer yachtin' costume, and lookin' pinker and sweeter every trip.", "words": 236}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Course, as regards a certain other party, it was a case of artistic dodgin' for me between times. You got to admit, though, that it wa'n't a fair test for Aunty. I had her off her guard. Might have been diff'rent too, if she'd cared for motorboatin'. So maybe I got careless. I remember once passin' Aunty right in the path, as I'm luggin' some things up to the house, and all I does is to hoist the basket up on my shoulder between me and her and push right along. Then here the last morning just as we got under way for a run to Damariscotta, she and Mrs. Hollister was up on the cliff seein' us off. All the rest was wavin'; so just for sport I takes off my hat and waves too, grinnin' humorous at Vee as I makes the play. But, say, next time I looks back she's up on the veranda with the fieldglasses trained on us. I keeps my hat on after that. My kind of red hair is prominent enough to the naked eye at almost any distance--but with fieldglasses! Good night! It was a day for forgettin' things, though. Ever sailed up the Scotty River on a perfect August day, with the sun on the green hills, a sea breeze tryin' to follow the tide in, and the white gulls swingin' lazy overhead? It's worth doin'. Then back again, roundin' Ocean Point about sunset, with the White Islands all tinted up pink off there, and the old Atlantic as smooth as a skatin' rink as far out as you can see, and streaked with more colors than a crazy cubist can sling,--some peaceful picture. But what a jar to find Aunty, grim and forbidding waitin' on the dock. She never says a word until we'd landed and everyone but me had started for the house. Then I got mine.", "words": 318}, {"story": 31, "title": "Aunty Flags A Rosy One", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Boy,\" says she icy, \"take off that hat!\" I does it reluctant. \"Humph!\" says she. \"William! I thought so.\" That's all; but she says it mighty expressive. The programme for the followin' day included a ten o'clock start, and I'd been down to the boat ever since breakfast, tidyin' things up and sort of wonderin'. About nine-fifteen, though, young Hollister comes wanderin' down by his lonesome. \"It's all off,\" says he. \"Miss Verona and her aunt have gone.\" \"Eh?\" says I, gawpin'. \"Gone?\" \"Early this morning,\" says he. \"I don't quite understand why; something about Verona's being out on the water so much, I believe. Gone to the mountains. And--er--by the way, Tucker is around again. Here he comes now.\" \"He gets the jumper, then,\" says I, peelin' it off. \"I guess I'm due back on Broadway.\" \"It's mighty good of you to help out,\" says Payne, \"and I--I want to do the right thing in the way of----\" \"You have,\" says I. \"You've helped me have the time of my life. Put up the kale, Hollister. If you'll land me at the Harbor, I'll call it square.\" He don't want to let it stand that way; but I insists. As I climbs out on the Yacht Club float, where he'd picked me up, he puts out his hand friendly. \"And, say,\" says I, \"how about Miss Vee?\" \"Why,\" says he, \"I'm very sorry she couldn't stay longer.\" \"Me too,\" says I. \"Some girl, eh?\" Payne nods hearty, and we swaps a final grip. Well, it was great! My one miscue was not wearin' a wig.", "words": 266}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "We thought it was all over too. That's the way it is in plays and books, where they don't gen'rally take 'em beyond the final clinch, leavin' you to fill in the bliss _ad lib_. But here we'd seen 'em clear through the let-no-man-put-asunder stage, even watched 'em dodge the rice and confetti in their dash to the limousine. \"Thank goodness that's through with!\" remarks Mother, without makin' any bones of it. Course, her reg'lar cue was to fall on Father's neck and weep; but, then, I expect Mrs. Cheyne Ballard's one of the kind you can't write any form sheet for. She's a lively, bunchy little party, all jump and go and jingle, who looks like she might have been married herself only day before yesterday. \"I hope Robbie knows where she put those trunk checks,\" says Father, at the same time sighin' sort of relieved. From where I stood, though, the guy who was pushin' overboard the biggest chunk of worry was this I-wilt boy, Mr. Nicholas Talbot. He'd got her at last! But, z-z-z-zingo! it had been some lively gettin'. Not that I was all through the campaign with him; but I'd had glimpses here and there. You see, Robbie's almost one of the fam'ly; for Mr. Robert's an old friend of the Ballards, and was bottle holder or something at the christenin'. As a matter of fact, she was named Roberta after him. Then he'd watched her grow up, and always remembered her birthdays, and kept her latest picture on his desk. So why shouldn't he figure more or less when so many others was tryin' to straighten out her love affairs? They was some tangled there for awhile too.", "words": 284}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Robbie's one of the kind, you know, that would have Cupid cross-eyed in one season. A queen? Well, take it from me! Say, the way her cheeks was tinted up natural would have a gold medal rose lookin' like it come off a twenty-nine-cent roll of wall paper. Then them pansy-colored eyes! Yes, Miss Roberta Ballard was more or less ornamental. That wa'n't all, of course. She could say more cute things, and cut loose with more unexpected pranks, than a roomful of Billie Burkes. As cunnin' as a kitten, she was. No wonder Nick Talbot fell for her the first time he was exposed! Course, he was half engaged to that stunnin' Miss Marian Marlowe at the time; but wa'n't Robbie waverin' between three young chaps that all seemed to be in the runnin' before Nick showed up? Anyway, Miss Marlowe should have known better than to lug in her steady when she was visitin'. She'd been chummy with Robbie at boardin' school, and should have known how dangerous she was. But young Mr. Talbot had only two looks before he's as strong for Robbie as though it had been comin' on for years back. Impetuous young gent that way he was too; and, bein' handicapped by no job, and long on time and money, he does some spirited rushin'. Seems Robbie Ballard didn't mind. Excitement was her middle name, novelty was her strong suit, and among Nick's other attractions he was brand new. Besides, wa'n't he a swell one-stepper, a shark at tennis, and couldn't he sing any ragtime song that she could drum out? The ninety-horse striped racin' car that he came callin' in helped along some; for one of Robbie's fads was for travelin' fast. Course, she'd been brought up in limousines; but the mile in fifty seconds gave her a genuine thrill.", "words": 307}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "When it come to holdin' out her finger for the big solitaire that Nick flashed on her about the third week, though, she hung back. The others carried about the same line of jew'lry around in their vest pockets, waitin' for a chance to decorate her third finger. One had the loveliest gray eyes too. Then there was another entry, with the dearest little mustache, who was a bear at doin' the fish-walk tango with her; not to mention the young civil engineer she'd met last winter at Palm Beach. But he didn't actually count, not bein' on the scene. Anyway, three was enough to keep guessin' at once. Robbie was real modest that way. But she sure did have 'em all busy. If it was a sixty-mile drive with Nick before luncheon, it was apt to be an afternoon romp in the surf with the gray-eyed one, and a toss up as to which of the trio took her to the Casino dance in the evenin'. Mother used to laugh over it all with Mr. Robert, who remarked that those kids were absurd. Nobody seemed to take it serious; for Robbie was only a few months over nineteen.", "words": 199}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "But young Mr. Talbot had it bad. Besides, he'd always got about what he wanted before, and this time he was in dead earnest. So the first thing Mother and Father knew they were bein' interviewed. Robbie had half said she might if there was no kick from her dear parents, and he wanted to know how about it. Mr. Cheyne Ballard supplied the information prompt. He called Nick an impudent young puppy, at which Mother wept and took the young gent's part. Robbie blew in just then and giggled through the rest of the act, until Father quit disgusted and put it square up to her. Then she pouted and locked herself in her room. That's when Mr. Robert was sent for; but she wouldn't give him any decision, either. So for a week there things was in a mess, with Robbie balkin', Mother havin' a case of nerves, Father nursin' a grouch, and Nick Talbot mopin' around doleful. Then some girl friend suggested to Robbie that if she did take Nick they could have a moonlight lawn weddin', with the flower gardens all lit up by electric bulbs, which would be too dear for anything. Robbie perked up and asked for details. Inside of an hour she was plannin' what she would wear. Late in the afternoon Nick heard the glad news himself, through a third party. First off the date was set for early next spring, when she'd be twenty. That was Father's dope; although Mother was willin' it should be pulled off around Christmas time. Nick, he stuck out for the first of October; but Robbie says: \"Oh, pshaw! There won't be any flowers then, and we'll be back in town. Why not week after next?\" So that's the compromise fin'lly agreed on. The moonlight stunt had to be scratched; but the outdoor part was stuck to--and believe me it was some classy hitchin' bee!", "words": 319}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "They'd been gone about two weeks, I guess, with everybody contented except maybe the three losers, and all hands countin' the incident closed; when one forenoon Mother shows up at the general offices, has a long talk with Mr. Robert, and goes away moppin' her eyes. Then there's a call for Mr. Cheyne Ballard's downtown number, and Mr. Robert has a confab with him over the 'phone. Next comes three lively rings for me on the buzzer, and I chases into the private office. Mr. Robert is sittin' scowlin', makin' savage' jabs with a paper knife at the blotter pad. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"I find myself in a deucedly awkward fix.\" \"Another lobbyist been squealin'?\" says I. \"No, no!\" says he. \"This is a personal affair, and--well, it's embarrassing, to say the least.\" \"Another lobbyist been squealin'?\" says I. \"It's about Roberta,\" says he. \"What--again?\" says I. \"But I thought they was travelin' abroad?\" \"I wish they were,\" says he; \"but they're not. At the last moment, it seems, Robbie decided she didn't care for a foreign trip,--too late in the season, and she didn't want to be going over just when everyone was coming back, you know. So they went up to Thundercaps instead.\" \"Sounds stormy,\" says I. \"You're quite right,\" says he. \"But it's a little gem of a place that young Talbot's father built up in the Adirondacks. I was there once. It's right on top of a mountain. And that's where they are now, miles from anywhere or anybody.\" \"And spoony as two mush ladles, I expect,\" says I.", "words": 263}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Humph!\" says he, tossin' the brass paper knife reckless onto the polished mahogany desk top. \"They ought to be, I will admit; but--oh, hang it all, if you're to be of any use in this beastly affair, I suppose you must be told the humiliating, ugly truth! They are not spooning. Robbie is very unhappy. She--she's being abused.\" \"Well, what do you know!\" says I. \"You don't mean he's begun draggin' her around by the hair, or----\" \"Don't!\" says Mr. Robert, bunchin' his fists nervous. \"I can't tell. Robbie hasn't gone into that. But she has written her mother that she is utterly wretched, and that this precious Nick Talbot of hers is unbearable. The young whelp! If I could only get my hands on him for five minutes! But, blast it all! that's just what I mustn't do until--until I'm sure. I can't trust myself to go. That is why I must send you, young man.\" \"Eh?\" says I, starin'. \"Me? Ah, say, Mr. Robert, I wouldn't stand any show at all mixin' it with a young husk like him. Why, after the first poke I'd be----\" \"You misunderstand,\" says he. \"That poke part I can attend to very well myself. But I want to know the worst before I start in, and if I should go up there now, feeling as I do, I--well, I might not be a very patient investigator. You see, don't you?\" \"Might blow a gasket, eh?\" says I. \"And you want me to go up and scout around. But what if I'm caught at it--am I peddlin' soap, or what?\" \"A plausible errand is just what I've been trying to invent,\" says he. \"Can you suggest anything?\" \"Why,\" says I, \"I might go disguised as a lone bandit who'd robbed a train and was----\" \"Too theatrical,\" objects Mr. Robert. \"Or a guy come to test the gas meter,\" I goes on.", "words": 318}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Nonsense!\" says he. \"No gas meters up there. Forget the disguise. They both know you, remember.\" \"Oh, well,\" says I, \"if I can't wear a wig, then I expect I'll have to go as special messenger sent up with some nutty present or other,--a five-pound box of candy, or flowers, or----\" \"That's it--orchids!\" breaks in Mr. Robert. \"Robbie expects a bunch from me about every so often. The very thing!\" So less'n an hour later I'm on my way, with fifty dollars' worth of freak posies in a box, and instructions to stick around Thundercaps as long as I can, with my eyes wide open and my ears stretched. Mr. Robert figures I'll land there too late for the night train back, anyway, and after that I'm to use my bean. If I finds the case desp'rate, I'm to beat it for the nearest telegraph office and wire in. \"Poor little girl!\" is Mr. Robert's closin' remark. \"Poor little Robbie!\" Cheerful sort of an errand, wa'n't it, bein' sent to butt in on a Keno curtain raiser? Easy enough workin' up sympathy for the abused bride. Why, she wa'n't much more'n a kid, and one who'd been coddled and petted all her life, at that! And here she ups and marries offhand this two-fisted young hick who turns out to be bad inside. You wouldn't have guessed it, either; for, barrin' a kind of heavy jaw and deep-set eyes, he had all the points of a perfectly nice young gent. Good fam'ly too. Mr. Robert knew two of his brothers well, and durin' the coo campaign he'd rooted for Nick. Then he had to show a streak like this! \"But wait!\" thinks I. \"If I can get anything on him, he sure will have it handed to him hot when Mr. Robert arrives. I want to see it done too.\"", "words": 310}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "You don't get to places like Thundercaps in a minute, though. It's the middle of the afternoon before I jumps the way train at a little mountain station, and then I has to hunt up a jay with a buckboard and take a ten-mile drive over a course like a roller coaster. They ought to smooth that Adirondack scenery down some. Crude stuff, I call it. But, say, the minute we got inside Thundercaps' gates it's diff'rent--smooth green lawns, lots of flowerbeds, a goldfish pool,--almost like a chunk of Central Park. In the middle is a white-sided, red-tiled shack, with pink and white awnings, and odd windows, and wide, cozy verandas,--just the spot where you'd think a perfectly good honeymoon might be pulled off. I'm just unloadin' my bag and the flowerbox when around a corner of the cottage trips a cerise-tinted vision in an all lace dress and a butterfly wrap. Course, it's Robbie. She's heard the sound of wheels, and has come a runnin'. \"Oh!\" says she, stoppin' sudden and puckerin' her baby mouth into a pout. \"I thought someone was arriving, you know.\" Which was a sad jolt to give a rescuer, wa'n't it? \"Sorry,\" says I; \"but I'm all there is.\" \"You're the boy from Uncle Robert's office--Torchy, isn't it?\" says she. \"It is,\" says I. \"Fired up with flowers and Mr. Robert's compliments.\" \"The old dear!\" says she, grabbin' the box, slippin' off the string and divin' into the tissue paper. \"Orchids, too! Oh, goody! But they don't go with my coat. Pooh! I don't need it, anyway.\" With that she, sheds the butterfly arrangement, chuckin' it casual on the steps, and jams the whole of that fifty dollars' worth under her sash. \"There, how does that look, Mr. Torchy?\" says she, takin' a few fancy steps back and forth. \"All right, I guess,\" says I.", "words": 311}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Stupid!\" says she, stampin' her double A-1 pump peevish. \"Is that the prettiest you can say it? Come, now--aren't they nice on me?\" \"Nice don't cover it,\" says I. \"I was only wonderin' whether orchids was invented for you, or you for orchids.\" This brings out a frilly little laugh, like jinglin' a string of silver bells, and she shows both dimples. \"That's better,\" says she. \"Almost as good as some of the things Bud Chandler can say. Dear old Bud! He's such fun!\" \"He was the gray-eyed one, wa'n't he?\" says I. \"Why, yes,\" says she. \"He was a dear. So was Oggie Holcomb. I wish Nick would ask them both up.\" \"Eh?\" says I. \"The also rans? Here?\" \"Pooh!\" says she. \"Why not? It's frightfully dull, being all alone. But Nick won't do it, the old bear!\" Which reminds me that I ought to be scoutin' for black eyes, or wrist bruises, or finger marks on her neck. Nothin' of the kind shows up, though. \"Been kind of rough about it, has he?\" says I. \"He's been perfectly awful!\" says she. \"Sulking around as though I'd done something terrible! But I'll pay him up. Come, you're not going back tonight, are you?\" \"Can't,\" says I. \"No train.\" \"Then you must play with me,\" says she, grabbin' my hand kittenish and startin' to run me across the yard. \"But, see here,\" says I, followin' her on the jump. \"Where's Hubby?\"", "words": 241}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Oh, I don't know,\" says she. \"Off tramping through the woods with his dog, I suppose. He's sulking, as usual. And all because I insisted on writing to Oggie! Then there was something about the servants. I don't know, only things went wrong at breakfast, and some of them have threatened to leave. Who cares? Yesterday it was about the tennis court. What if he did telegraph to have it laid out? I couldn't play when I found I hadn't brought any tennis shoes, could I? Besides, there's no fun playing against Nick, he's such a shark. He didn't like it, either, because I wouldn't use the baby golf course. But I will with you. Come on.\" \"I never did much putting,\" says I. \"Nor I,\" says she; \"but we can try.\" Three or four holes was enough for her, though, and then she has a new idea. \"You rag, don't you?\" says she. \"Only a few tango steps,\" says I. \"My feet stutter.\" \"Then I'll show you how,\" says she. \"We have some dandy records, and the veranda's just right.\" So what does she do but tow me back to the house, ring up a couple of maids to clear away all the rugs and chairs, and push the music machine up to the open window. \"Put on that 'Too Much Mustard,' Annette,\" says she, \"and keep it going.\" Must have surprised Annette some, as I hadn't been accounted for; but a little thing like that don't bother Robbie. She gives me the proper grip for the onestep,--which is some close clinch, believe me!--cuddles her fluffy head down on my necktie, and off we goes. \"No, don't try to trot,\" says she. \"Just balance and keep time, and swing two or three times at the turn. Keep your feet apart, you know. Now back me. Swing! There, you're getting it. Keep on!\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Some spieler, Robbie; and whether or not that was just a josh about orchids bein' invented for her, there's no doubt but what ragtime was. Yes, yes, that's where she lives. And me? Well, I can't say I hated it. With her coachin' me, and that snappy music goin', I caught the idea quick enough, and first I knew we was workin' in new variations that she'd suggest, doin' the slow toe pivot, the kitchen sink, and a lot more. We stopped long enough to have tea and cakes served, and then Robbie insists on tryin' some new stunts. There's a sidewise dip, where you twist your partner around like you was tryin' to break her back over a chair, and we was right in the midst of practisin' that when who should show up but the happy bridegroom. And someway I've seen 'em look more pleased. \"Oh, that you, old Grumpy?\" says young Mrs. Talbot, stoppin' for a minute. \"You remember Torchy, from Uncle Robert's office, don't you? He came up with some orchids. We're having such fun too.\" \"Looks so,\" says Nick. \"Can't I cut in?\" \"Oh, bother!\" says Robbie. \"No, I'm tired now.\" \"Just one dance!\" pleads Nick. \"Oh, afterward, perhaps,\" says she. \"There! Just look at those silly orchids! Aren't they sights?\" With that she snakes 'em out and tosses the wilted bunch careless over the veranda rail. \"And now,\" she adds, \"I must dress for dinner.\" \"You've nearly two hours, Pet,\" protests Nick. \"Come to the outlook with me and watch the sunset.\" \"It's too lonesome,\" says Robbie, and off she goes.", "words": 267}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "It should have happened then, if ever. I was standin' by, waitin' for him to cut loose with the cruel words, and maybe introduce a little hair-draggin' scene. But Nick Talbot just stands there gazin' after her kind of sad and mushy, not even grindin' his teeth. Next he sighs, drops his chin, and slumps into a chair. Honest, that got me; for it was real woe showin' on his face, and he seems to be strugglin' with it man fashion. Somehow it seemed up to me to come across with a few soothin' remarks. \"Sorry I butted in,\" says I; \"but Mr. Robert sent me up with the flowers.\" \"Oh, that's all right,\" says he. \"Glad you came. I--I suppose she needed someone else to--to talk to.\" \"But you wouldn't stand for invite the leftovers on your honeymoon, eh?\" I suggests. \"No, hang it all!\" says he. \"That was too much. She--she mentioned it, did she?\" \"Just casual,\" says I. \"I take it things ain't been goin' smooth gen'rally?\" He nods gloomy. \"You were bound to notice it,\" says he. \"Anyone would. I haven't been able to humor all her whims. Of course, she's been used to having so much going on around her that this must seem rather tame; but I thought, you know, that when we were married--well, she doesn't seem to realize. And I've offered to take her anywhere,--to Newport, to Lenox, to the White Mountains, or touring. Three times this week we've packed to go to different places, and then she's changed her mind. But I can't take her back to Long Island, to her mother's, so soon, or ask a lot of her friends up here. It would be absurd. But things can't go on this way, either. It--it's awful!\"", "words": 296}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "I leaves him with his chin propped up in his hands, starin' gloomy at the floor, while I wanders out and pipes off the sun dodgin' behind the hills. Later on Robbie insists on draggin' me in for dinner with 'em. She's some dream too, the way she's got herself up, and lighted up by the pink candleshades, with them big pansy eyes sparkling and the color comin' and goin' in her cheeks--say, it most made me dizzy to look. Then to hear her rattle on in her cute, kittenish way was better'n a cabaret show. Mostly, though, it's aimed at me; while Nick Talbot is left to play a thinkin' part. He sits watchin' her with sort of a dumb, hungry look, like a big dog. And it was a punk dinner in other ways. The soup was scorched somethin' fierce; but Robbie don't seem to notice it. The roast lamb hadn't had the red cooked out of it; but Robbie only asks what kind of meat it is and remarks that it tastes queer. She has a reg'lar fit, though, because the dessert is peach ice-cream with fresh fruit flavorin'. \"And Cook ought to know that I like strawberry better,\" says she. \"But it's too late for strawberries,\" explains Nick. \"I don't care!\" pouts Robbie. \"I don't like this, and I'm going to send it all back to the kitchen.\" She does it too, and the maid grins impudent as she lugs it out. That was a sample of the way Robbie behaved for the rest of the evenin',--chatterin' and laughin' one minute, almost weepin' the next; until fin'lly she slams down the piano cover and flounces off to her room. Nick Talbot sits bitin' his lips and lookin' desp'rate. \"I'm sure I don't know what to do,\" says he half to himself.", "words": 305}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "At that I can't hold it any longer. \"Say, Talbot,\" says I, \"before we get any further I got to own up that I'm a ringer.\" \"A--a what!\" says he, starin' puzzled. \"I'm supposed to be here just as a special messenger,\" says I; \"but, on the level, I was sent up here to sleuth for brutal acts. Uh-huh! That's what the folks at home think, from the letters she's been writin'. Mr. Robert was dead sure of it. But I see now they had the wrong dope. I guess I've got the idea. What you're up against is simply a spoiled kid proposition, and if you don't mind my mixin' in I'd like to state what I think I'd do if it was me.\" \"Well, what?\" says he. \"I'd whittle a handle on a good thick shingle,\" says I, \"and use it.\" He stiffens a little at that first off, and then looks at me curious. Next he chuckles. \"By Jove, though!\" says he after awhile. Yes, we had a long talk, chummy and confidential, and before we turns in Nick has plotted out a substitute for the shingle programme that he promises to try on first thing next morning I didn't expect to be in on it; but we happens to be sittin' on the veranda waitin' for breakfast, when out comes Robbie in a pink mornin' gown with a cute boudoir cap on her head. \"Why haven't they sent up my coffee and rolls?\" she demands. \"Did you order them, Robbie?\" says Nick. \"Why no,\" says she. \"Didn't you?\" \"No,\" says Nick. \"I'm not going to, either. You're mistress of the house, you know, Robbie, and from now on you are in full charge.\" \"But--but I thought Mrs. Parkins, the housekeeper, was to manage all those things,\" says she.", "words": 302}, {"story": 32, "title": "Cutting In On The Bliss", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"You said yesterday you couldn't bear Mrs. Parkins,\" says Nick; \"so I'm sending her back to town. She's packing her things now. There are four servants left, though, which is enough. But they need straightening out. They are squabbling over their work, and neglecting it. You will have to settle all that.\" \"But--but, Nick,\" protests Robbie, \"I'm sure I know nothing at all about it.\" \"As my wife you are supposed to,\" says Nick. \"You must learn. Anyway, I've told them they needn't do another stroke until they get orders from you. And I wish you'd begin. I'd rather like breakfast.\" He's real calm and pleasant about it; but there's somethin' solid about the way his jaw is set. Robbie eyes him a minute hesitatin' and doubtful, like a schoolgirl that's bein' scolded. Then all of a sudden there's a change. The pout comes off her lips, her chin stops trembling and she squares her shoulders. \"I'm--I'm sorry, Nicholas,\" says she. \"I--I'll do my best.\" And off she marches to the kitchen. And, say, half an hour later we were all sittin' down to as good a ham omelet as I ever tasted. When I left with Nick to catch the forenoon express, young Mrs. Talbot was chewin' the end of a lead pencil, with them pansy eyes of hers glued on a pad where she was dopin' out her first dinner order. She would break away from it only long enough to give Hubby a little bird peck on the cheek; but he seems tickled to death with that. So it wa'n't any long report I has to hand in to Mr. Robert that night. \"All bunk!\" says I. \"Just a case of a honeymoon that rose a little late. It's shinin' steady now, though. But, say, I hope I'm never batty enough to fall for one of the butterfly kind. If I do--good night!\"", "words": 316}, {"story": 33, "title": "Being Sicced On Percey", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Maybe it ain't figured in the headlines, or been noised around enough for the common stockholders to get panicky over it, but, believe me, it was some battle! Uh-huh! What else could you expect with Old Hickory Ellins on one side and George Wesley Jones on the other? And me? Say, as it happens, I was right on the firin' line. Talk about your drummer boys of '61--I guess the office boy of this A. M. ain't such a dead one! Course I knew when Piddie begins tiptoein' around important, and Mr. Robert cuts his lunchtime down to an hour, that there's something in the air besides humidity. \"Boy,\" says Old Hickory, shootin' his words out past the stub of a thick black cigar, \"I'm expecting a Mr. Jones sometime this afternoon.\" \"Yes, Sir,\" says I. \"Any particular Jones, Sir?\" \"That,\" says he, \"is a detail with which you need not burden your mind. I am not anticipating a convention of Joneses.\" \"Oh!\" says I. \"I was only thinkin' that in case some other guy by the same names should----\" \"Yes, I understand,\" he breaks in; \"but in that remote contingency I will do my best to handle the situation alone. And when Mr. Jones comes show him in at once. After that I am engaged for the remainder of the day. Is that quite clear?\" \"I'm next,\" says I. \"Pass a Jones, and then set the block.\"", "words": 238}, {"story": 33, "title": "Being Sicced On Percey", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "If he thought he could mesmerize me by any such simple motions as that he had another guess. Why, even if it had been my first day on the job, I'd have been hep that it wa'n't any common weekday Jones he was expectin' to stray in accidental. Besides, the minute I spots that long, thin nose, the close-cropped, grizzly mustache, and the tired gray eyes with the heavy bags underneath, I knew it was George Wesley himself. Ain't his pictures been printed often enough lately? He looks the part too, and no wonder! If I'd been hammered the way he has, with seventeen varieties of Rube Legislatures shootin' my past career as full of holes as a Swiss cheese, grand juries handin' down new indictments every week end, four thousand grouchy share-holders howlin' about pared dividends, and twice as many editorial pens proddin' 'em along----well, take it from me, I'd be on my way towards the tall trees with my tongue hangin' out! Here he is, though, with his shoulders back and a sketchy, sarcastic smile flickerin' in his mouth corners as he shows up for a hand-to-hand set-to with Old Hickory Ellins. Course it's news to me that the Corrugated interests and the P., B. & R. road are mixed up anywhere along the line; but it ain't surprisin'.", "words": 221}, {"story": 33, "title": "Being Sicced On Percey", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Besides mines and rollin' mills, we do a wholesale grocery business, run a few banks, own a lot of steam freighters, and have all kinds of queer ginks on our payroll, from welfare workers to would-be statesmen. We're always ready to slip one of our directors onto a railroad board too; so I takes it that the way P., B. & R. has been juggled lately was a game that touches us somewhere on the raw. Must be some kind of a war on the slate, or Old Hickory'd never called for a topliner like George Wesley Jones to come on the carpet. If it had been a case of passin' the peace pipe, Mr. Ellins would be goin' out to Chicago to see him. \"Mr. Jones, Sir,\" says I, throwin' the private office door wide open so it would take me longer to shut it. But Old Hickory don't intend to give me any chance to pipe off the greetin'. He just glances casual at Mr. Jones, then fixes them rock-drill eyes of his on me, jerks his thumb impatient over his shoulder, and waits until there's three inches of fireproof material between me and the scene of the conflict. So I strolls back to my chair behind the brass rail and winks mysterious at the lady typists. Two of 'em giggles nervous. Say, they got more curiosity, them flossy key pounders! Not one of the bunch but what knew things was doin'; but what it was all about would have taken me a week to explain to 'em, even if I'd known myself.", "words": 265}, {"story": 33, "title": "Being Sicced On Percey", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "And I expect I wouldn't have had more'n a vague glimmer, either, if it hadn't been for Piddie. You might know he'd play the boob somehow if anything important was on. Say, if he'd trotted in there once durin' the forenoon he'd been in a dozen times; seein' that the inkwells was filled, puttin' on new desk blotters, and such fool things as that. Yet about three-fifteen, right in the middle of the bout, he has to answer a ring, and it turns out he's forgotten some important papers. \"Here, Boy,\" says he, comin' out peevish, \"this must go to Mr. Ellins at once.\" \"Huh!\" says I, glancin' at the file title. \"Copy of charter of the Palisades Electric! At once is good. Ought to have been on Mr. Ellins's desk hours ago.\" \"Boy!\" he explodes threatenin'. \"Ah, ditch the hysterics, Peddie!\" says I. \"It's all right now I'm on the job,\" and with a grin to comfort him I slips through Mr. Robert's room and taps on the door of the boss's private office before blowin' in. And, say, it looks like I've arrived almost in time for the final clinch. Old Hickory is leanin' forward earnest, his jaw shoved out, his eyes narrowed to slits, and he's poundin' the chair arm with his big ham fist. \"What I want to know, Jones,\" he's sayin', \"is simply this: Are your folks going to drop that Palisades road scheme, or aren't you?\" Course, I can't break into a dialogue at a point like that; so I closes the door gentle behind me and backs against the knob, watchin' George Wesley, who's sittin' there with his chin down and his eyes on the rug. \"Really, Ellins,\" says he, \"I can't give you an answer to that. I--er--I must refer you to our Mr. Sturgis.\" \"Eh?\" snaps old Hickory. \"Sturgis! Who the syncopated sculping is Sturgis?\"", "words": 314}, {"story": 33, "title": "Being Sicced On Percey", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Why,\" says Mr. Jones, \"Percey J. Sturgis. He is my personal agent in all such matters, and this--well, this happens to be his pet enterprise.\" \"But it would parallel our proposed West Point line,\" says Mr. Ellins. \"I know,\" says G. Wesley, sighin' weary. \"But he secured his charter for this two years ago, and I promised to back him. He insists on pushing it through too. I can't very well call him off, you see.\" \"Can't, eh?\" raps out Old Hickory. \"Then let me try. Send for him.\" \"No use,\" says Mr. Jones. \"He understands your attitude. He wouldn't come. I should advise, if you have any proposal to make, that you send a representative to him.\" \"I go to him,\" snorts Mr. Ellins, \"to this understrapper of yours, this Mr. Percey--er----\" \"Sturgis,\" puts in George Wesley. \"He has offices in our building. And, really, it's the only way.\" Old Hickory glares and puffs like he was goin' to blow a cylinder head. But that's just what Hickory Ellins don't do at a time like this. When you think he's nearest to goin' up with a bang, that's the time when he's apt to calm down sudden and shift tactics. He does now. Motionin' me to come to the front, he takes the envelope I hands over, glances at it thoughtful a second, and then remarks casual: \"Very well, Jones. I'll send a representative to your Mr. Sturgis. I'll send Torchy, here.\" I don't know which of us gasped louder, me or George Wesley. Got him in the short ribs, that proposition did. But, say, he's a game old sport, even if the papers are callin' him everything from highway robber to yellow dog. He shrugs his shoulders and bows polite. \"As you choose, Ellins,\" says he. Maybe he thinks it's a bluff; but it's nothing like that.", "words": 309}, {"story": 33, "title": "Being Sicced On Percey", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Boy,\" says Old Hickory, handin' back the envelope, \"go find Mr. Percey J. Sturgis, explain to him that the president of the P., B. & R. is bound under a personal agreement not to parallel any lines in which the Corrugated holds a one-third interest. Tell him I demand that he quit on this Palisades route. If he won't, offer to buy his blasted charter. Bid up to one hundred thousand, then 'phone me. Got all that?\" \"I could say it backwards,\" says I. \"Shake the club first; then wave the kale at him. Do I take a flyin' start?\" \"Go now,\" says Old Hickory. \"We will wait here until five. If he wants to know who you are, tell him you're my office boy.\" Wa'n't that rubbin' in the salt, though? But it ain't safe to stir up Hickory Ellins unless you got him tied to a post, and even then you want to use a long stick. As I sails out and grabs my new fall derby off the peg Piddie asks breathless: \"What's the matter now, and where are you off to?\" \"Outside business for the boss,\" says I. \"Buyin' up a railroad for him, that's all.\" I left him purple in the face, dashes across to the Subway, and inside of fifteen minutes I'm listenin' fidgety while a private secretary explains how Mr. Sturgis is just leavin' town on important business and can't possibly see me today. \"Deah-uh me!\" says I. \"How distressin'! Say, you watch me flag him on the jump.\" \"But I've just told you,\" insists the secretary, \"that Mr. Sturgis cannot----\" \"Ah, mooshwaw!\" says I. \"This is a case of must--see? If you put me out I'll lay for him on the way to the elevator.\"", "words": 293}, {"story": 33, "title": "Being Sicced On Percey", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Course with some parties that might be a risky tackle; but anyone with a front name like Percey I'm takin' a chance on. Percey! Listens like one of the silky-haired kind that wears heliotrope silk socks, don't it? But, say, what finally shows up is a wide, heavy built gent with a big, homespun sort of face, crispy brown hair a little long over the ears, and the steadiest pair of bright brown eyes I ever saw. Nothing fancy or frail about Percey J. Sturgis. He's solid and substantial, from his wide-soled No. 10's up to the crown of his seven three-quarter hat. He has a raincoat thrown careless over one arm, and he's smokin' a cigar as big and black as any of Old Hickory's. \"Well, what is it, Son?\" says he in one of them deep barytones that you feel all the way through to your backbone. And this is what I've been sent out either to scare off or buy up! Still, you can't die but once. \"I'm from Mr. Ellins of the Corrugated Trust,\" says I. \"Ah!\" says he, smilin' easy. Well, considerin' how my knees was wabblin', I expect I put the proposition over fairly strong. \"You may tell Mr. Ellins for me,\" says he, \"that I don't intend to quit.\" \"Then it's a case of buy,\" says I. \"What's the charter worth, spot cash?\" \"Sorry,\" says he, \"but I'm too busy to talk about that just now. I'm just starting for North Jersey.\" \"Suppose I trail along a ways then?\" says I. \"Mr. Ellins is waitin' for an answer.\"", "words": 265}, {"story": 33, "title": "Being Sicced On Percey", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Is he?\" says Percey J. \"Then come, if you wish.\" And what does he do but tow me down to a big tourin' car and wave me into one of the back seats with him. Listens quiet to all I've got to say too, while we're tearin' uptown, noddin' his head now and then, with them wide-set brown eyes of his watchin' me amused and curious. But the scare I'm tryin' to throw into him don't seem to take effect at all. \"Let's see,\" says he, as we rolls onto the Fort Lee ferry, \"just what is your official position with the Corrugated?\" I'd planned to shoot it at him bold and crushin'. But somehow it don't happen that way. \"Head office boy,\" says I, blushin' apologizin'; \"but Mr. Ellins sent me out himself.\" \"Indeed?\" says he. \"Another of his original ideas. A brilliant man, Mr. Ellins.\" \"He's some stayer in a scrap, believe me!\" says I. \"And he's got the harpoon out for this Palisades road.\" \"So have a good many others,\" says Mr. Sturgis, chucklin'. \"In fact, I don't mind admitting that I am as near to being beaten on this enterprise as I've ever been on anything in any life. But if I am beaten, it will not be by Mr. Ellins. It will be by a hard-headed old Scotch farmer who owns sixty acres of scrubby land which I must cross in order to complete my right of way. He won't sell a foot. I've been trying for six months to get in touch with him; but he's as stubborn as a cedar stump. And if I don't run a car over rails before next June my charter lapses. So I'm going up now to try a personal interview. If I fail, my charter isn't worth a postage stamp. But, win or lose, it isn't for sale to Hickory Ellins.\"", "words": 314}, {"story": 33, "title": "Being Sicced On Percey", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "He wa'n't ugly about it. He just states the case calm and conversational; but somehow you was dead sure he meant it. \"All right,\" says I. \"Then maybe when I see how you come out I'll have something definite to report.\" \"You should,\" says he. That's where we dropped the subject. It's some swell ride we had up along the top of the Palisades, and on and on until we're well across the State line into New York. Along about four-thirty he says we're most there. We was rollin' through a jay four corners, where the postoffice occupies one window of the gen'ral store, with the Masonic Lodge overhead, when alongside the road we comes across a little tow-headed girl, maybe eight or nine, pawin' around in the grass and sobbin' doleful. \"Hold up, Martin,\" sings out Mr. Sturgis to the chauffeur, and Martin jams on his emergency so the brake drums squeal. What do you guess? Why Percey J. climbs out, asks the kid gentle what all the woe is about, and discovers that she's lost a whole nickel that Daddy has given her to buy lolly-pops with on account of its bein' her birthday. \"Now that's too bad, isn't it, little one?\" says Mr. Sturgis. \"But I guess we can fix that. Come on. Martin, take us back to the store.\" Took out his handkerchief, Percey did, and swabbed off the tear stains, all the while talkin' low and soothin' to the kid, until he got her calmed down. And when they came out of the store she was carryin' a pound box of choc'late creams tied up flossy with a pink ribbon. With her eyes bugged and so tickled she can't say a word, she lets go of his hand and dashes back up the road, most likely bent on showin' the folks at home the results of the miracle that's happened to her.", "words": 317}, {"story": 33, "title": "Being Sicced On Percey", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "That's the kind of a guy Percey J. Sturgis is, even when he has worries of his own. You'd most thought he was due for a run of luck after a kind act like that. But someone must have had their fingers crossed; for as Martin backs up to turn around he connects a rear tire with a broken ginger ale bottle and--s-s-s-sh! out goes eighty-five pounds' pressure to the square inch. No remark from Mr. Sturgis. He lights a fresh cigar and for twenty-five minutes by the dash clock Martin is busy shiftin' that husky shoe. So we're some behind schedule when we pulls up under the horse chestnut trees a quarter of a mile beyond in front of a barny, weather-beaten old farmhouse where there's a sour-faced, square-jawed old pirate sittin' in a home made barrel chair smokin' his pipe and scowlin' gloomy at the world in gen'ral. It's Ross himself. Percey J. don't waste any hot air tryin' to melt him. He tells the old guy plain and simple who he is and what he's after. \"Dinna talk to me, Mon,\" says Ross. \"I'm no sellin' the farm.\" \"May I ask your reasons?\" says Mr. Sturgis. Ross frowns at him a minute without sayin' a word. Then he pries the stubby pipe out from the bristly whiskers and points a crooked finger toward a little bunch of old apple trees on a low knoll. \"Yon's my reason, Mon,\" says he solemn. \"Yon wee white stone. Three bairns and the good wife lay under it. I'm no sae youthful mysel'. And when it's time for me to go I'd be sleepin' peaceful, with none o' your rattlin' trolley cars comin' near. That's why, Mon.\"", "words": 286}, {"story": 33, "title": "Being Sicced On Percey", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Thank you, Mr. Ross,\" says Percey J. \"I can appreciate your sentiments. However, our line would run through the opposite side of your farm, away over there. All we ask is a fifty-foot strip across your----\" \"You canna have it,\" says Ross decided, insertin' the pipe once more. Which is where most of us would have weakened, I expect. Not Mr. Sturgis. \"Just a moment, Friend Ross,\" says he. \"I suppose you know I have the P., B. & R. back of me, and it's more than likely that your neighbors have said things about us. There is some ground for prejudice too. Our recent stock deals look rather bad from the outside. There have been other circumstances that are not in our favor. But I want to assure you that this enterprise is a genuine, honest attempt to benefit you and your community. It is my own. It is part of the general policy of the road for which I am quite willing to be held largely responsible. Why, I've had this project for a Palisades trolley road in mind ever since I came on here a poor boy, twenty-odd years ago, and took my first trip down the Hudson. This ought to be a rich, prosperous country here. It isn't. A good electric line, such as I propose to build, equipped with heavy passenger cars and running a cheap freight service, would develop this section. It would open to the public a hundred-mile trip that for scenic grandeur could be equaled nowhere in this country. Are you going to stand in the way, Mr. Ross, of an enterprise such as that?\" Yep, he was. He puffs away just as mulish as ever.", "words": 284}, {"story": 33, "title": "Being Sicced On Percey", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Of course,\" goes on Percey, \"it's nothing to you; but the one ambition of my life has been to build this road. I want to do for this district what some of our great railroad builders did for the big West. I'm not a city-bred theorist, nor a Wall Street stock manipulator. I was born in a one-story log house on a Minnesota farm, and when I was a boy we hauled our corn and potatoes thirty miles to a river steamboat. Then the railroad came through. Now my brothers sack their crops almost within sight of a grain elevator. They live in comfortable houses, send their children to good schools. So do their neighbors. The railroad has turned a wilderness into a civilized community. On a smaller scale here is a like opportunity. If you will let us have that fifty-foot strip----\" \"Na, Mon, not an inch!\" breaks in Ross. How he could stick to it against that smooth line of talk I couldn't see. Why, say, it was the most convincin', heart-throbby stuff I'd ever listened to, and if it had been me I'd made Percey J. a present of the whole shootin' match. \"But see here, Mr. Ross,\" goes on Sturgis, \"I would like to show you just what we----\" \"Daddy! Daddy!\" comes a pipin' hail from somewhere inside, and out dances a barefooted youngster in a faded blue and white dress. It's the little heroine of the lost nickel. For a second she gawps at us sort of scared, and almost decides to scuttle back into the house. Then she gets another look at Percey J., smiles shy, and sticks one finger in her mouth. Percey he smiles back encouragin' and holds out a big, friendly hand. That wins her. \"Oh, Daddy!\" says she, puttin' her little fist in Percey's confidential. \"It's the mans what gimme the candy in the pitty box!\"", "words": 316}, {"story": 33, "title": "Being Sicced On Percey", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "As for Daddy Ross, he stares like he couldn't believe his eyes. But there's the youngster cuddled up against Percey J.'s knee and glancin' up at him admirin'. \"Is ut so, Mon?\" demands Ross husky, \"Was it you give the lass the sweeties?\" \"Why, yes,\" admitted Sturgis. \"Then you shall be knowin',\" goes on Ross, \"that yon lassie is all I have left in the world that I care a bawbee for. You've done it, Mon. Tak' as much of the farm as you like at your own price.\" Well, that's the way Percey J. Sturgis won out. A lucky stroke, eh? Take it from me, there was more'n that in it. Hardly a word he says durin' the run back; for he's as quiet and easy when he's on top as when he's the under dog. We shakes hands friendly as he drops me uptown long after dark. I had all night to think it over; but when I starts for Old Hickory's office next mornin' I hadn't doped out how I was goin' to put it. \"Well, what about Percey?\" says he. \"He's the goods,\" says I. \"Couldn't scare him, eh?\" says Old Hickory. \"Not if I'd been a mile high,\" says I. \"He won't sell, either. And say, Mr. Ellins, you want to get next to Percey J. The way I look at it, this George Wesley Jones stiff ain't the man behind him; Percey is the man behind Jones.\" \"H-m-m-m-m!\" says Old Hickory. \"I knew there was someone; but I couldn't trace him. So it's Sturgis, eh? That being so, we need him with us.\" \"But ain't he tied up with Jones?\" says I. \"Jones is a dead dog,\" says Old Hickory. \"At least, he will be inside of a week.\"", "words": 295}, {"story": 33, "title": "Being Sicced On Percey", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "That was some prophecy, eh? Read in the papers, didn't you, how G. Wesley cables over his resignation from Baden Two Times? Couldn't stand the strain. The directors are still squabblin' over who to put in as head of the P., B. & R.; but if you want to play a straight inside tip put your money on Percey J. Uh-huh! Him and Old Hickory have been confabbin' in there over an hour now, and if he hadn't flopped to our side would Mr. Ellins be tellin' him funny stories? Anyway, we're backin' that Palisades line now, and it's goin' through with a whoop. Which is earnin' some int'rest on a pound of choc'lates and a smile. What?", "words": 118}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "I knew something or other outside of business was puttin' hectic spots in Old Hickory's disposition these last few days; but not until late yesterday did I guess it was Cousin Inez. I expect the Ellins family wasn't any too proud of Cousin Inez, to start with; for among other things she's got a matrimonial record. Three hubbies so far, I understand, two safe in a neat kept plot out in Los Angeles; one in the discards--and she's just been celebratin' the decree by travelin' abroad. They hadn't seen much of her for years; but durin' this New York stopover visit she seemed to be makin' up for lost time. About four foot eight Cousin Inez was in her French heels, and fairly thick through. Maybe it was the way she dressed, but from just below her double chin she looked the same size all the way down. Tie a Bulgarian sash on a sack of bran, and you've got the model. Inez was a bear for sashes too. Another thing she was strong on was hair. Course, the store blond part didn't quite match the sandy gray that grew underneath, and the near-auburn frontispiece was another tint still; but all that added variety and quantity--and what more could you ask? Her bein' some pop-eyed helped you to remember Inez the second time. About the size of hard-boiled eggs, peeled, them eyes of hers was, and most the same color. They say she's a wise old girl though,--carries on three diff'rent business propositions left by her late string of husbands, goes in deep for classical music, and is some kind of a high priestess in the theosophy game. A bit faddy, I judged, with maybe a few bats in her belfry.", "words": 291}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "But when it comes to investin' some of her surplus funds in Corrugated preferred she has to have a good look at the books first, and makes Cousin Hickory Ellins explain some items in the annual report. Three or four times she was down to the gen'ral offices before the deal went through. This last visit of hers was something diff'rent, though. I took the message down to Martin, the chauffeur myself. It was a straight call on the carpet. \"Tell Cousin Inez the boss wants to see her before she goes out this afternoon,\" says I, \"and wait with the limousine until she comes.\" Old Hickory was pacin' his private office, scowlin' and grouchy, as he sends the word, and it didn't take any second sight to guess he was peeved about something. I has to snicker too when Cousin Inez floats in, smilin' mushy as usual. She wa'n't smilin' any when she drifts out half an hour later. She's some flushed behind the ears, and her complexion was a little streaked under the eyes. She holds her chin up defiant, though, and slams the brass gate behind her. She'd hardly caught the elevator before there comes a snappy call for me on the buzzer. \"Boy,\" says Old Hickory, glarin' at me savage, \"who is this T. Virgil Bunn?\" Almost had me tongue-tied for a minute, he shoots it at me so sudden. \"Eh?\" says I. \"T. Virgil? Why, he's the sculptor poet.\" \"So I gather from this thing,\" says he, wavin' a thin book bound in baby blue and gold. \"But what in the name of Sardanapalus and Xenophon is a sculptor poet, anyway?\" \"Why, it's--it's--well, that's the way the papers always give it,\" says I. \"Beyond that I pass.\" \"Humph!\" grunts Old Hickory. \"Then perhaps you'll tell me if this is poetry. Listen!", "words": 306}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"'Like necklaces of diamonds hung About my lady sweet, So do we string our votive area All up and down each street. They shine upon the young and old, The fair, the sad, the grim, the gay; Who gather here from far and near To worship in our Great White Way.' \"Now what's your honest opinion of that, Son? Is it poetry? \"Listens something like it,\" says I; \"but I wouldn't want to say for sure.\" \"Nor I,\" says Mr. Ellins. \"All I'm certain of is that it isn't sculpture, and that if I should read any more of it I'd be seasick. But in T. Virgil Bunn himself I have an active and personal interest. Anything to offer?\" \"Not a glimmer,\" says I. \"And I suppose you could find nothing out?\" he goes on. \"I could make a stab,\" says I. \"Make a deep one, then,\" says he, slippin' over a couple of tens for an expense fund. And, say, I knew when Old Hickory begins by unbeltin' so reckless that he don't mean any casual skimmin' through club annuals for a report. \"What's the idea?\" says I. \"Is it for a financial rating or a regular dragnet of past performances?\" \"Everything you can discover without taking him apart,\" says Old Hickory. \"In short, I want to know the kind of person who can cause a fifty-five-year-old widow with grown sons to make a blinkety blinked fool of herself.\" \"He's a charmer, eh?\" says I. \"Evidently,\" says Mr. Ellins. \"Behold this inscription here, 'To dear Inez, My Lady of the Unfettered Soul--from Virgie.' Get the point, Son? 'To dear Inez'! Bah! Is he color blind, or what ails him? Of course it's her money he's after, and for the sake of her boys I'm going to block him. There! You see what I want?\"", "words": 305}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Sure!\" says I. \"You got to have details about Virgie before you can ditch him. Well, I'll see what I can dig up.\" Maybe it strikes you as a chesty bluff for a juvenile party like me to start with no more clew than that to round up in a few hours what a high-priced sleuth agency would take a week for. But, say, I didn't stand guard on the Sunday editor's door two years with my eyes and ears shut. Course, there's always the city and 'phone directories to start with. Next you turn to the Who book if you suspect he's ever done any public stunt. But, say, swallow that Who dope cautious. They let 'em write their own tickets in that, you know, and you got to make allowances for the size of the hat-band. I'd got that far, discovered that Virgie owned up to bein' thirty-five and a bachelor, that he was born in Schoharie, son of Telemachus J. and Matilda Smith Bunn, and that he'd once been president of the village literary club, when I remembers the clippin' files we used to have back on Newspaper Row. So down I hikes--and who should I stack up against, driftin' gloomy through the lower lobby, but Whity Meeks, that used to be the star man on the Sunday sheet. Course, it wa'n't any miracle; for Whity's almost as much of a fixture there as Old Gluefoot, the librarian, or the finger marks on the iron pillars in the press-room.", "words": 252}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "A sad example of blighted ambitions, Whity is. When I first knew him he had a fresh one every Monday mornin', and they ranged all the way from him plannin' to be a second Dicky Davis to a scheme he had for hookin' up with Tammany and bein' sent to Congress. Clever boy too. He could dash off ponies that was almost good enough to print, dope out the first two acts of a play that was bound to make his fortune if he could ever finish it, and fake speeches that he'd never heard a word of. When he got to doin' Wall Street news, though, and absorbed the idea that he could stack his little thirty per against the system and break the bucketshops--well, that was his finish. Two killings that he made by chance, and he was as good as chained to the ticker for life. No more new rosy dreams for him: always the same one,--of the day when he was goin' to show Sully how a cotton corner really ought to be pulled off, a day when the closin' gong would find him with the City Bank in one fist and the Subtreasury in the other. You've met that kind, maybe. Only Whity always tried to dress the part, in a sporty shepherd plaid, with a checked hat and checked silk socks to match. He has the same regalia on now, with a carnation in his buttonhole. \"Well, mounting margins!\" says he, as I swings him round by the arm. \"Torchy! Whither away? Come down to buy publicity space for the Corrugated, have you?\" \"Not in a rag like yours, Whity,\" says I, \"when we own stock in two real papers. I'm out on a little private gumshoe work for the boss.\" \"Sounds thrilling,\" says he. \"Any copy in it?\"", "words": 305}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"I'd be chatterin' it to you, wouldn't I?\" says I. \"Nix! Just plain fam'ly scrap over whether Cousin Inez shall marry again or not. My job is to get something on the guy. Don't happen to have any special dope on T. Virgil Bunn, the sculptor poet, do you?\" Whity stares at me. \"Do I?\" says he. \"Say!\" Then he leads me over between the 'phone booth and the cigar stand, flashes an assignment pad, and remarks, \"Gaze on that second item, my boy.\" \"Woof! That's him, all right,\" says I. \"But what's a bouillabaisse tea?\" \"Heaven and Virgil Bunn only know,\" says Whity. \"But that doesn't matter. Think of the subtle irony of Fate that sends me up to make a column story out of Virgie Bunn! Me, of all persons!\" \"Well, why not you?\" says I. \"Why?\" says Whity. \"Because I made the fellow. He--why, he is my joke, the biggest scream I ever put over--my joke, understand? And now this adumbrated ass of a Quigley, who's been sent on here from St. Louis to take the city desk, he falls for Virgie as a genuine personage. Not only that, but picks me out to cover this phony tea of his. And the stinging part is, if I don't I get canned, that's all.\" \"Ain't he the goods, then?\" says I. \"What about this sculptor poet business?\" \"Bunk,\" says Whity, \"nothing but bunk. Of course, he does putter around with modeling clay a bit, and writes the sort of club-footed verse they put in high school monthlies.\" \"Gets it printed in a book, though,\" says I. \"I've seen one.\"", "words": 271}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Why not?\" says Whity. \"Anyone can who has the three hundred to pay for plates and binding. 'Sonnets of the City,' wasn't it? Didn't I get my commission from the Easy Mark Press for steering him in? Why, I even scratched off some of those things to help him pad out the book with. But, say, Torchy, you ought to remember him. You were on the door then,--tall, wide-shouldered freak, with aureole hair, and a close cropped Vandyke?\" \"Not the one who wore the Wild West lid and talked like he had a mouthful of hot oatmeal?\" says I. \"Your description of Virgie's English accent is perfect,\" says Whity. \"Well, well!\" says I. \"The mushbag, we used to call him.\" \"Charmingly accurate again!\" says Whity. \"Verily beside him the quivering jellyfish of the salt sea was as the armored armadillo of the desert. Soft? You could poke a finger through him anywhere.\" \"But what was his game?\" says I.", "words": 159}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"It wasn't a game, my son,\" says Whity. \"It was a mission in life,--to get things printed about himself. Had no more modesty about it, you know, than a circus press agent. Perfectly frank and ingenuous, Virgie was. He'd just come and ask you to put it in that he was a great man--just like that! The chief used to froth at the mouth on sight of him. But Virgie looked funny to me in those days. I used to jolly him along, smoke his Coronas, let him take me out to swell feeds. Then when they gave Merrow charge of the Sunday side, just for a josh I did a half-page special about Virgie, called him the sculptor poet, threw in some views of him in his studio, and quoted some of his verse that I'd fixed up. It got by. Virgie was so pleased he wanted to give a banquet for me; but I got him to go in on a little winter wheat flier instead. He didn't drop much. After that I'd slip in a paragraph about him now and then, always calling him the sculptor poet. The tag stuck. Other papers began to use it; until, first thing I knew, Virgie was getting away with it. Honest, I just invented him. And now he passes for the real thing!\" \"Where you boobed, then, was in not filin' copyright papers,\" says I. \"But how does he make it pay?\"", "words": 242}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"He doesn't,\" says Whity. \"Listen, Son, and I will divulge the hidden mystery in the life of T. Virgil Bunn. Cheese factories! Half a dozen or more of 'em, up Schoharie way. Left to him, you know, by Pa Bunn; a coarse, rough person, I am told, who drank whey out of a five-gallon can, but was cute enough to import Camembert labels and make his own boxes. He passed on a dozen years ago; but left the cheese factories working night shifts. Virgie draws his share quarterly. He tried a year or two at some Rube college, and then went abroad to loiter. While there he exposed himself to the sculptor's art; but it didn't take very hard. However, Virgie came back and acquired the studio habit. And you can't live for long in a studio, you know, without getting the itch to see yourself in print. That's what brought Virgie to me. And now! Well, now I have to go to Virgie.\" \"Ain't as chummy with him as you was, I take it?\" says I. Whity shrugs his shoulders disgusted. \"The saphead!\" says he. \"Just because we slipped up on a few stock deals he got cold feet. I haven't seen him for a year. I wonder how he'll take it? But you mentioned a Cousin Inez, didn't you?\" I gives Whity a hasty sketch of the piece, mentionin' no more names, but suggestin' that Virgie stood to connect with an overgrown widow's mite if there wa'n't any sudden interference. \"Ha!\" says Whity, speakin' tragic through his teeth. \"An idea! He's put the spell on a rich widow, has he? Now if I could only manage to queer this autumn leaf romance it would even up for the laceration of pride that I see coming my way tonight. Describe the fair one.\" \"I could point her out if you could smuggle me in,\" I suggests.", "words": 317}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"A cinch!\" says he. \"You're Barry of the City Press. Here, stick some copy paper in your pocket. Take a few notes, that's all.\" \"It's a fierce disguise to put on,\" says I; \"but I guess I can stand it for an evenin'.\" So about eight-thirty we meets again, and' proceeds to hunt up this studio buildin' over in the East 30's. It ain't any bum Bohemian ranch, either, but a ten-story elevator joint, with clipped bay trees on each side of the front door. Virgie's is a top floor suite, with a boy in buttons outside and a French maid to take your things. \"Gee!\" I whispers to Whity as we pushes in. \"There's some swell mob collectin', eh?\" Whity is speechless, though, and when he gets his breath again all he can do is mumble husky, \"Teddy Van Alstyne! Mrs. Cromer Paige! The Bertie Gardiners!\" They acted like a mixed crowd, though, gazin' around at each other curious, groupin' into little knots, and chattin' under their breath. Bein' gents of the press, we edges into a corner behind a palm and waits to see what happens. \"There comes Cousin Inez!\" says I, nudgin' Whity. \"See? The squatty dame with the pearl ropes over her hair.\" \"Sainted Billikens, what a make-up!\" says Whity. And, believe me, Cousin Inez was dolled for fair. She'd peeled for the fray, as you might say. And if the dinky shoulder straps held it was all right; but if one of 'em broke there'd sure be some hurry call for four yards of burlap to do her up in. She seems smilin' and happy, though, and keeps glancin' expectant at the red velvet draperies in the back of the room.", "words": 286}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Sure enough, exactly on the tick of nine, the curtains part, and in steps the hero of the evenin'. Dress suit? Say, you don't know Virgie. He's wearin' a reg'lar monk's outfit, of some coarse brown stuff belted in with a thick rope and open wide at the neck. \"For the love of beans, look at his feet!\" I whispers. \"Sandals,\" says Whity, \"and no socks! Blessed if Virgie isn't going the limit!\" There's a chorus of \"Ah-h-h-h's!\" as he steps out, and then comes a buzz of whispers which might have been compliments, and might not. But it don't faze Virgie. He goes bowin' and handshakin' through the mob, smilin' mushy on all and several, and actin' as pleased with himself as if he'd taken the prize at a fancy dress ball. You should have seen Cousin Inez when he gets to her! \"Oh, you utterly clever man!\" she gushes. \"What a genuine genius you are!\" \"Dear, sweet lady!\" says he. \"It is indeed gracious of you to say so.\" \"Help!\" groans Whity, like he had a pain. \"Ah, buck up!\" says I. \"It'll be your turn soon.\" I was wonderin' how Virgie was goin' to simmer down enough to pass Whity the chilly greetin'; for he's just bubblin' over with kind words and comic little quips. But, say, he don't even try to shade it. \"Ah, Whity, my boy!\" says he, extendin' the cordial paw. \"Charming of you to look me up once more, perfectly charming!\" \"Rot!\" growls Whity. \"You know I was sent up here to do this blooming spread of yours. What sort of fake is it, anyway?\"", "words": 272}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Ha, ha! Same old Whity!\" says Virgil, poundin' him hearty on the shoulder. \"But you're always welcome, my boy. As for the tea--well, one of my little affairs, you know,--just a few friends dropping in--feast of reason, flow of wit, all that sort of thing. You know how to put it. Don't forget my costume--picked it up at a Trappist monastery in the Pyrenees. I must give you some photos I've had taken in it. Ah, another knight of the pencil?\" and he glances inquirin' at me. \"City Press,\" says Whity. \"Fine!\" says Virgie, beamin'. \"Well, you boys make yourselves quite at home. I'll send Marie over with cigars and cigarettes. She'll help you to describe any of the ladies' costumes you may care to mention. Here's a list of the invited guests too. Now I must be stirring about. _Au revoir_.\" \"Ass!\" snarls Whity under his breath. \"If I don't give him a roast, though,--one of the veiled sarcastic kind that will get past! And we must find some way of queering him with that rich widow.\" \"Goin' to be some contract, Whity, believe me!\" says I. \"Look how she's taggin' him around!\" And, say, Cousin Inez sure had the scoopnet out for him! Every move he makes she's right on his heels, gigglin' and simperin' at all his sappy speeches and hangin' onto his arm part of the time. Folks was nudgin' each other and pointin' her out gleeful, and I could easy frame up the sort of reports that had set Old Hickory's teeth on edge.", "words": 259}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "T. Virgil, though, seems to be havin' the time of his life. He exhibits some clay models, either dancin' girls or a squad of mounted cops, I couldn't make out which, and he lets himself be persuaded to read two or three chunks out of his sonnets, very dramatic. Cousin Inez leads the applause. Then, strikin' a pose, he claps his hands, the velvet curtains are slid one side, and in comes a French chef luggin' a tray with a whackin' big casserole on it. \"_Voila_!\" sings out Virgie. \"The bouillabaisse!\" Marie gets busy passin' around bowls and spoons, and the programme seems to be for the guests to line up while Virgie gives each a helpin' out of a long-handled silver ladle. It smells mighty good; so I pushes in with my bowl. What do you guess I drew? A portion of the tastiest fish soup you ever met, with a lobster claw and a couple of clams in it. M-m-m-m! \"He may be a punk poet,\" says I to Whity; \"but he's a good provider.\" \"Huh!\" growls Whity, who seems to be sore on account of the hit Virgie's makin'. Next thing I knew along drifts Cousin Inez, who has sort of been crowded away from her hero, and camps down on the other side of Whity. \"Isn't this just too unique for words?\" she gushes. \"And is not dear Virgil perfectly charming tonight?\" \"Oh, he's a bear at this sort of thing, all right,\" says Whity, \"this and making cheese.\" \"Cheese!\" echoes Cousin Inez. \"Sure!\" says Whity. \"Hasn't he told you about his cheese factories? Ask him.\" \"But--but I understood that--that he was a poet,\" says she, \"a sculptor poet.\" \"Bah!\" says Whity. \"He couldn't make his salt at either. All just a pose!\" \"Why, I can hardly believe it,\" says Cousin Inez. \"I don't believe it, either.\"", "words": 311}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Then read his poetry and look at his so called groups,\" goes on Whity. \"But he's such a talented, interesting man,\" insists Inez. \"With such an interesting family too,\" says Whity, winkin'. \"Family!\" gasps Cousin Inez. \"Wife and six children,\" says Whity, lyin' easy. \"Oh--oh!\" squeals Inez in that shrill, raspy voice of hers. \"They say he beats his wife, though,\" adds Whity. \"Oh!--oh!\" squeals Inez, again, higher and shriller than ever. I expect she'd been more or less keyed up before; but this adds the finishin' touch. And she lets 'em out reckless. Course, everyone stops chatterin' and looks her way. No wonder! You'd thought she was havin' a fit. Over rushes Virgil, ladle in hand. \"My dear Inez!\" says he. \"What is it? A fishbone?\" \"Monster!\" she bowls. \"Deceiver! Leave me, never let me see your face again! Oh--oh! Cheese! Six children! Oh--oh!\" With that she tumbles over on Whity and turns purple in the face. Say, it was some sensation we had there for a few minutes; but after they'd sprinkled her face, and rubbed her wrists, and poured a couple of fingers of brandy into her, she revives. And the first thing she catches sight of is Virgie, standin' there lookin' puzzled, still holdin' the soup ladle. \"Monster!\" she hisses at him. \"I know all--all! And I quit you forever!\" With that she dashes for the cloakroom, grabs her opera wrap, and beats it for the elevator. Course, that busts up the show, and inside of half an hour everybody but us has left, and most of 'em went out snickerin'. \"I--I don't understand it at all,\" says Virgie, rubbin' his eyes dazed. \"She was talking with you, wasn't she, Friend Whity? Was it something you said about me?\"", "words": 293}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Possibly,\" says Whity, \"I may have mentioned your cheese factories; and I'm not sure but what I didn't invent a family for you. Just as a joke, of course. You don't mind, I hope?\" And at that I was dead sure someone was goin' to be slapped on the wrist. But, say, all Virgie does is swallow hard a couple of times; and then, as the full scheme of the plot seems to sink in, he beams mushy. \"Mind? Why, my dear boy,\" says he, \"you are my deliverer! I owe you more than I can ever express. Really, you know, that ridiculous old person has been the bane of my existence for the last three weeks. She has fairly haunted me, spoiled all my receptions, and--disturbed me greatly. Ever since I met her in Rome last winter she has been at it. Of course I have tried to be nice to her, as I am to everyone who--er--who might help. But I almost fancy she had the idea that I would--ah--marry her. Really, I believe she did. Thank you a thousand times, Whity, for your joke! If she comes back, tell her I have two wives, a dozen. And have some cigars--oh, fill your pockets, my boy. And here--the photos showing me in my monk's costume. Be sure to drop in at my next tea. I'll send you word. Good night, and bless you!\" He didn't push us out. He just held the door open and patted us on the back as we went through. And the next thing we knew we was down on the sidewalk. \"Double crossed!\" groans Whity. \"Smothered in mush!\"", "words": 275}, {"story": 34, "title": "How Whity Gunked The Plot", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"As a plotter, Whity,\" says I, \"you're a dub. But if you gunked it one way, you drew a consolation the other. At this stage of the game I guess I'm commissioned by a certain party to hand over to you a small token of his esteem.\" \"Eh?\" says Whity. \"Twenty? What for?\" \"Ah, go bull the market with it, and don't ask fool questions!\" says I. Say, it was a perfectly swell story about Virgie's bouillabaisse function on today's society page, double-column half-tone cut and all. I had to grin when I shows it to Mr. Ellins. \"Were you there, young man?\" says he, eyin' me suspicious. \"Yep!\" says I. \"I thought so,\" says he, \"when Cousin Inez came home and began packing her trunks. I take it that affair of hers with the sculptor poet is all off??' \"Blew up with a bang about ten-thirty P. M.,\" says I. \"Your two tenspots went with it.\" \"Huh!\" he snorts. \"That's as far as I care to inquire. Some day I'm going to send you out with a thousand and let you wreck the administration.\"", "words": 185}, {"story": 35, "title": "Torchy Gets A Through Wire", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "First off, when I pipes the party in the pale green lid and the fuzzy English topcoat, I thought it was some stray from the House of Lords; but as it drifts nearer to the brass rail and I gets a glimpse of the mild blue eyes behind the thick, shell-rimmed glasses, I discovers that it's only Son-in-law Ferdy; you know, hubby to Marjorie Ellins that was. \"Wat ho!\" says I. \"Just in from Lunnon?\" \"Why, no,\" says Ferdy, gawpin' foolish. \"Whatever made you think that?\" \"Then it's a disguise, is it?\" says I, eyin' the costume critical. \"Oh, bother!\" says Ferdy peevish. \"I told Marjorie I should be stared at. And I just despise being conspicuous, you know! Where's Robert?\" \"Mr. Robert ain't due back for an hour yet,\" says I. \"You could catch him at the club, I expect.\" \"No, no,\" protests Ferdy hasty. \"I--I wouldn't go to the club looking like this. I--I couldn't stand the chaff I'd get from the fellows. I'll wait.\" \"Suit yourself,\" says I, towin' him into Mr. Robert's private office. \"You can shed the heather wrap in here, if you like.\" \"I--I wish I could,\" says he. \"Wha-a-at!\" says I. \"She ain't sewed you into it, has she? Anyhow, you don't have to keep it buttoned tight under your chin with all this steam heat on.\" \"I know,\" says Ferdy, sighin'. \"I nearly roasted, coming down in the train. But, you see, it--it hides the tie.\" \"Eh?\" says I. \"Something else Marjorie picked out? Let's have a peek.\" Ferdy blushes painful. \"It's awful,\" he groans, \"perfectly awful!\" \"Not one of these nutty Futurist designs, like a scrambled rainbow shot full of pink polliwogs?\" says I. \"Worse than that,\" says Ferdy, unbuttonin' the overcoat reluctant. \"Look!\" \"Zowie! A plush one!\" says I.", "words": 299}, {"story": 35, "title": "Torchy Gets A Through Wire", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Course, they ain't so new. I'd seen 'em in the zippy haberdashers' windows early in the fall; but I don't remember havin' met one out of captivity before. And this is about the plushiest affair you could imagine; bright orange and black, and half an inch thick. \"Whiffo!\" says I. \"That is something to have wished onto you! Looks like a caterpillar in a dream.\" \"That's right,\" says Ferdy. \"It's been a perfect nightmare to me ever since Marjorie bought it. But I can't hurt her feelings by refusing to wear it. And this silly hat too--a scarf instead of a band!\" It's almost pathetic the way Ferdy holds the lid off at arm's length and gazes indignant at it. \"Draped real sweet, ain't it?\" says I. \"But most of the smart chappies are wearin' 'em that way, you know.\" \"Not this sickly green shade, though,\" says Ferdy plaintive. \"I wish Marjorie wouldn't get such things for me. I--I've always been rather particular about my hats and ties. I like them quiet, you understand.\" \"You would get married, though,\" says I. \"But, say, can't you do a duck by changing after you leave home?\" Seems the idea hadn't occurred to Ferdy. \"But how? Where?\" says he, brightenin' up. \"In the limousine as you're drivin' down to the station,\" says I. \"You could keep an extra outfit in the car.\" \"By Jove!\" says Ferdy. \"Then I could change again on the way home, couldn't I? And if Marjorie didn't know, she wouldn't----\" \"You've surrounded the plot of the piece,\" says I. \"Now go to it. There's a gents' furnisher down in the arcade.\" He's halfway out to the elevator before it occurs to him that he ain't responded with any grateful remarks; so back he comes to tell how much obliged he is.", "words": 302}, {"story": 35, "title": "Torchy Gets A Through Wire", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"And, Torchy,\" he adds, \"you know you haven't been out to see baby yet. Why, you must see little Ferdinand!\" \"Ye-e-es, I been meanin' to,\" says I, maybe not wildly enthusiastic. \"I expect he's quite a kid by this time.\" \"Eleven months lacking four days,\" says Ferdy, his face beamin'. \"Wait! I want to show you his latest picture. Really wonderful youngster, I tell you.\" So I has to inspect a snapshot that Ferdy produces from his pocketbook; and, while it looks about as insignificant as most of 'em, I pumps up some gushy remarks which seem to make a hit with Ferdy. \"Couldn't you come out Sunday?\" says he. \"'Fraid not,\" says I. \"In fact, I'm booked up for quite a spell.\" \"Too bad,\" says Ferdy, \"for we're almost alone now,--only Peggy and Jane--my little nieces, you know--and Miss Hemmingway, who----\" \"Vee?\" says I, comin' straight up on my toes. \"Say, Ferdy, I think I can break away Sunday, after all. Ought to see that youngster of yours, hadn't I? Must be mighty cute by now.\" \"Oh, he is,\" says Ferdy; \"but if you can't come this week----\" \"Got to,\" says I. \"'Leven months, and me never so much as chucked him under the chin once! Gee! how careless of me!\" \"All right, Sunday next,\" says Ferdy. \"We shall look for you.\" That was throwin' in reverse a little sudden, I admit; but my chances of gettin' within hailin' distance of Vee ain't so many that I can afford to overlook any bets. Besides, up at Marjorie's is about the only place where I don't have to run the gauntlet goin' in, or do a slide for life comin' out. She'll shinny on my side every trip, Marjorie will--and believe me I need it all!", "words": 296}, {"story": 35, "title": "Torchy Gets A Through Wire", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Looked like a special dispensation too, this bid of Ferdy's; for I wanted half an hour's private chat with Vee the worst way just then, to clear up a few things. For instance, my last two letters had come back with \"Refused\" scratched across the face, and I didn't know whether it was some of Aunty's fine work, or what. Anyway, it's been a couple of months now that the wires have been down between us, and I was more or less anxious to trace the break. So Sunday afternoon don't find me missin' any suburban local. Course, Ferdy's mighty intellect ain't suggested to him anything about askin' me out for a meal; so I has to take a chance on what time to land there. But I strikes the mat about two-thirty P. M., and the first one to show up is Marjorie, lookin' as plump and bloomin' a corn-fed Venus as ever. \"Why, Torchy!\" says she, with business of surprise. \"Uh-huh,\" says I. \"Special invite of Ferdy's to come see the heir apparent. Didn't he mention it?\" \"Humph! Ferdy!\" says Marjorie. \"Did you ever know of him remembering anything worth while?\" \"Oh, ho!\" says I. \"In disgrace, is he?\" \"He is,\" says Marjorie, sniffin' scornful. \"But it's nice of you to want to see baby. The dear little fellow is just taking his afternoon nap. He wakes up about four, though.\" \"Oh, I don't mind waitin' a bit,\" says I. \"You know, I'm crazy to see that kid.\" \"Really!\" says Marjorie, beamin' delighted. \"Then you shall go right up now, while he is----\" \"No,\" says I, holdin' up one hand. \"I might sneeze, or something. I'll just stick around until he wakes up.\" \"It's too bad,\" says Marjorie; \"but Verona is dressing and----\" \"What!\" says I. \"Vee here?\" \"Just going,\" says Marjorie. \"Her aunty is to call for her in about an hour.\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 35, "title": "Torchy Gets A Through Wire", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Say, then was no time for wastin' fleetin' moments on any bluff. \"Say, Marjorie,\" says I, \"couldn't you get her to speed up the toilet motions a bit and shoo her downstairs? Don't say who; but just hint that someone wants to see her mighty special for a few moments. There's a good girl!\" Marjorie giggles and shows her dimples. \"I might try,\" says she. \"Suppose you wait in the library, where there's a nice log fire.\" So it's me for an easy chair in the corner, where I can watch for the entrance. Five minutes by the clock on the mantel, and nothing happens. Ten minutes, and no Vee. Then I hears a smothered snicker off to the left. I'd got my face all set for the cheerful greetin' too, when I discovers two pairs of brown eyes inspectin' me roguish, through the parted portieres. And neither pair was any I'd ever seen before. \"Huh!\" thinks I. \"Nice way to treat guests!\" and I pretends not to notice. I've picked up a magazine and am readin' the pictures industrious, when there's more snickers. I scowls, fidgets around some, and fin'lly takes another glance. The brown eyes are twinklin' mischievous, all four of 'em. \"Well,\" says I, \"what's the joke? Shoot it!\" At that into the room bounces a couple of girls, somewhere around ten and twelve, I should judge; tall, long-legged kids, but cute lookin', and genuine live wires, from their toes up. They're fairly wigglin' with some kind of excitement. \"We know who you are!\" singsongs one, pointin' the accusin' finger. \"You're Torchy!\" says the other. \"Then I'm discovered,\" says I. \"How'd you dope it out?\" \"By your hair!\" comes in chorus, and then they goes to a panicky clinch and giggles down each other's necks. \"Hey, cut out the comic relief,\" says I, \"and give me a turn. Which one of you is Peggy?\"", "words": 317}, {"story": 35, "title": "Torchy Gets A Through Wire", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Why, who told you that?\" demands the one with the red ribbon. \"Oh, I'm some guesser myself,\" says I. \"It's you.\" \"Pooh! I bet it was Uncle Ferdinand,\" says she. \"Good sleuth work!\" says I. \"He's the guy. But I didn't know he had such a cunnin' set of nieces. Most as tall as he is, ain't you, Peggy?\" But that don't happen to be the line of dialogue they're burnin' to follow out. Exchangin' a look, they advance mysterious until there's one on each side of me, and then Peggy whispers dramatic: \"You came to see Miss Vee, didn't you?\" \"Vee?\" says I, lookin' puzzled. \"Vee which?\" \"Oh, you know, now!\" protests Jane, tappin' me playful. \"Sorry,\" says I, \"but this is a baby visit I'm payin'. Ask Uncle Ferdinand if it ain't.\" \"Humph!\" says Peggy. \"Anyone can fool Uncle Ferdy.\" \"Besides,\" says Jane, \"we saw a picture on Vee's dressing table, and when we asked who it was she hid it. So there!\" \"Not a picture of me, though,\" says I. \"Couldn't be.\" \"Yes, it was,\" insists Jane. \"A snapshot of you,\" says Peggy, \"taken in a boat.\" I won't deny that was some cheerful bulletin; but somehow I had a hunch it might be best not to let on too much. Course, I could locate the time and place. I must have got on the film durin' my stay up at Roarin' Rocks last summer. \"In a boat!\" says I. \"Of all things!\" \"And Vee doesn't want anyone to know about it,\" adds Jane, \"specially her aunty.\" \"Why not?\" comes in Peggy, lookin' me straight in the eye. \"Very curious!\" says I, shakin' my head. \"What else did Vee have to say about me?\" \"M-m-m-m!\" says Peggy. \"We can't tell.\" \"We promised not to,\" says Jane. \"You're a fine pair of promisers!\" says I. \"I expect you hold secrets like a wire basket holds water.\"", "words": 318}, {"story": 35, "title": "Torchy Gets A Through Wire", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"We never said a word, did we, Peggy?\" demands Jane. \"Nope!\" says Peggy. \"Maybe he's the one Vee's aunty doesn't like.\" \"Are you?\" says Jane, clawin' my shoulder excited. \"How utterly thrillin'!\" says I. \"Say, you're gettin' me all tittered up. Think it's me Aunty has the war club out for, do you?\" \"It's someone with hair just like yours, anyway,\" says Peggy. \"Think of that!\" says I. \"Does red hair throw Aunty into convulsions, or what?\" \"Aunt Marjorie says it's because you--that is, because the one she meant isn't anybody,\" says Jane. \"He's poor, and all that. Are you poor?\" \"Me?\" says I. \"Why--say, what is this you're tryin' to pull off on me, impeachment proceedings? Come now, don't you guess your Aunt Marjorie'll be wantin' you?\" \"No,\" says Peggy. \"She told us for goodness sake to run off and be quiet.\" \"What about this Miss Vee party, then?\" says I. \"Don't she need you to help her hook up?\" \"We just came from her room,\" says Peggy. \"She pushed us out and locked the door,\" adds Jane. \"Great strategy!\" says I. \"Show me a door with a key in it.\" \"Pooh!\" says Peggy. \"You couldn't put us both out at once.\" \"Couldn't I?\" says I. \"Let's see.\" With that I grabs one under each arm, and with the pair of 'em strugglin' and squealin' and rough housin' me for all they was worth, I starts towards the livin' room. We was right in the midst of the scrimmage when in walks Vee, with her hat and furs all on, lookin' some classy, take it from me. But the encouragin' part of it is that she smiles friendly, and I smiles back. \"Well, you found someone, didn't you, girls?\" says she. \"Oh, Vee, Vee!\" sings out Peggy gleeful. \"Isn't this Torchy?\" \"Your Torchy?\" demands Jane.", "words": 306}, {"story": 35, "title": "Torchy Gets A Through Wire", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "I tips Vee the signal for general denial and winks knowin'. But, say, you can't get by with anything crude on a pair of open-eyed kids like that. \"Oh, I saw!\" announces Jane. \"And you do know him, don't you, Vee?\" \"Why, I suppose we have met before?\" says she, laughin' ripply. \"Haven't we, Torchy?\" \"Now that you mention it,\" says I, \"I remember.\" And we shakes hands formal. \"Came to see the baby, I hear,\" says Vee. \"Oh, sure!\" says I. \"Maybe you could tell me about him first, though, if we could find a quiet corner.\" \"Oh, we'll tell you,\" chimes in Peggy. \"We know all about Baby. He has a tooth!\" \"Say,\" says I, wigglin' away from the pair, \"couldn't you go load up someone else with information, just for ten minutes or so?\" \"What for?\" says Jane, eyin' me suspicious. \"We'd rather stay here,\" says Peggy decided. I catches a humorous twinkle in Vee's gray eyes as she holds out her hands to the girls. \"Listen,\" says she confidential. \"You know those hermit cookies you're so fond of? Well, Cook made a whole jarful yesterday. They're in the pantry.\" \"I know,\" says Jane. \"We found 'em last night.\" \"The Glue Sisters!\" says I. \"Now see here, Kids, I've just thought of a message I ought to give to Miss Vee.\" \"Who from?\" demands Peggy. \"From a young chap I know who thinks a lot of her,\" says I. \"It's strictly private too.\" \"What's it about?\" says Jane. Which was when my tactics gave out. \"Say, you two human question marks,\" says I, \"beat it, won't you?\" No, they just wouldn't. The best they would do for me was to back off to the other side of the room, eyes and ears wide open, and there they stood. \"Go on!\" whispers Vee. \"What was it he wanted to say?\"", "words": 312}, {"story": 35, "title": "Torchy Gets A Through Wire", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"It was about a couple of notes he wrote,\" says I. \"Yes?\" says Vee. \"What happened?\" \"They came back,\" says I, \"without being opened.\" \"Oh,\" says Vee, \"those must have been the ones that----\" \"Vee, Vee!\" breaks in Peggy from over near the window. \"Here comes your aunty.\" \"Good night, nurse!\" says I. \"Tell him it's all right,\" says Vee hasty. \"He might send the next ones in care of Marjorie; then I'll be sure of getting them. By-by, Peggy. Don't squeeze so hard, Jane. No, please don't come out, Torchy. Goodby.\" And in another minute I'm left to the mercy of the near-twins once more. I camps down in the easy chair again, with one on each side, and the cross examination proceeds. Say, they're a great pair too. \"Didn't Vee want you to go out 'cause her aunty would see you?\" asks Peggy. \"There!\" says I. \"I wonder?\" \"I'm glad she isn't my aunty,\" says Jane. \"She looks too cross.\" \"If I was Vee's aunty,\" puts in Peggy, \"I wouldn't be mad if she did have your picture in a silver frame.\" \"Honest?\" says I. \"How's that?\" \"'Cause I don't think you're so awful horrid, even if you aren't anybody,\" says Peggy. \"Do you, Jane?\" \"I like him,\" says Jane. \"I think his hair's nice too.\" \"Well, well!\" says I. \"Guess I got some gallery with me, anyway. And how does Vee stand with you?\" \"Oh, she's just a dear!\" says Peggy, clappin' her hands. \"M-m-m-m!\" echoes Jane. \"She's going to take us to see Maude Adams next Wednesday too.\" \"Huh!\" says I, indicatin' deep thought. \"So you'll see her again soon?\" \"I wish it was tomorrow,\" says Jane. \"Mr. Torchy,\" says Peggy, grabbin' me impulsive by one ear and swingin' my face around, \"truly now, aren't you awfully in love with Vee?\"", "words": 305}, {"story": 35, "title": "Torchy Gets A Through Wire", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "Say, where do they pick it up, youngsters of that age? Her big brown eyes are as round and serious as if she knew all about it; and on the other side is Jane, fairly holdin' her breath. \"Whisper!\" says I. \"Could you two keep a secret?\" \"Oh, yes!\" comes in chorus. \"Well, then,\" says I, \"I'm going to hand you one. I think Vee is the best that ever happened.\" \"Oh, goody!\" exclaims Peggy. \"Then you do love her awfully! But why don't you----\" \"Wait!\" says I. \"When I get to be a little older, and some bigger, and after I've made heaps and heaps of money, and have a big, black automobile----\" \"And a big, black mustache,\" adds Peggy. \"No,\" says I. \"Cut out the miracles. Call it when I'm in business for myself. Then, if somebody'll only choke off Aunty long enough, I may--well, some fine moonlight night I may tell her all about it.\" \"Oh!\" gasps Jane. \"Mayn't we be there to hear you do it?\" \"Not if I can bar you out,\" says I. \"Please!\" says Peggy. \"We would sit just as still and not---- Oh, here's Aunt Marjorie. Aunty, what do you think? Mr. Torchy's been telling us a secret.\" \"There, there, Peggy,\" says Marjorie, \"don't be silly. Torchy is waiting to see Baby. Come! He's awake now.\" Yep, I had to do the inspection act, after all. And I must say that most of these infant wonders look a good deal alike; only Ferdinand, Jr., has a cute way of tryin' out his new tooth on your thumb. Goin' back towards the station I meets Ferdy, himself, trampin' in lonesome from a long walk, and lookin' mighty glum. \"Of all the gloom carriers!\" says I. \"What was it let you in bad this time?\" \"You ought to know,\" says he. \"For why?\" says I.", "words": 311}, {"story": 35, "title": "Torchy Gets A Through Wire", "volume": "On With Torchy (Sewell Ford, 1914)", "text": "\"Oh, fudge!\" says he. \"I suppose you didn't put me up to that silly business of changing neckties!\" \"Chinked it, did you?\" says I. \"But how?\" \"If you must know,\" says he, \"I forgot to change back on my way home, and Marjorie's still furious. She simply won't let me explain, refuses to listen to a word. So what can I do?\" \"A cinch!\" says I. \"You got a pair of livin' dictaphones in the house, ain't you? Work it off on Peggy and Jane as a secret, and you'll have your defense on record inside of half an hour. Cheer up, Ferdy. Ishkabibble!\"", "words": 104}, {"story": 36, "title": "The Up Call for Torchy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Well, it's come! Uh-huh! And sudden, too, like I knew it would, if it came at all. No climbin' the ladder for me, not while they run express elevators. And, believe me, when the gate opened, I was right there with my foot out. It was like this: One mornin' I'm in my old place behind the brass rail, at the jump-end of the buzzer. I'm everybody's slave in general, and Piddie's football in particular. You know--head office boy of the Corrugated Trust. That's description enough, ain't it? And I'd been there so long---- Honest, when I first went on the job I used to sneak the city directory under the chair so my toes could touch. Now my knees rub the under-side of the desk. Familiar with the place? Say, there are just seventeen floor cracks between me and the opposite wall; it's fifty-eight steps through into Old Hickory's roll-top and back; and the ink I've poured into all them desk-wells would be enough to float a ferry-boat. At 8.30 on this special mornin' there I am, as I said; and at 2.21 P.M. the same day I'm---- Well, of course, there was a few preliminaries, though I didn't tag 'em as such when they come along. I expect the new spring costume helped some. And the shave--oh, I was goin' it strong! No cut-price, closing-out, House-of-Smartheimer bargain, altered free to fit--not so, Lobelia! Why, I pawed over whole bales of stuff in a sure-enough Fifth-ave. tailor works; had blueprint plans of the front and side elevations drawn, even to the number of buttons on the cuffs, and spent three diff'rent noon hours havin' it modeled on me before they could pull a single bastin' thread.", "words": 287}, {"story": 36, "title": "The Up Call for Torchy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "But it's some stream line effect at the finish, take it from me! Nothing sporty or cake-walky, you understand: just quiet and dignified and rich-like, same as any second vice or gen'ral manager would wear. Two-button sack with wide English roll and no turn-up to the trousers--oh, I should ripple! The shave was an afterthought. I'd worked up to it by havin' some of my lurid locks trimmed, and as Giuseppe quits shearin' and asks if there'll be anything else I rubs my hand casual across my jaw and remarks: \"Could you find anything there to mow with a razor?\" Could he? He'd go through the motions on a glass doorknob! Then it's me tilted back with my heels up and the suds artist decoratin' my map until it looks like a Polish weddin' cake. Don't it hit you foolish the first time, though? I felt like everybody in the shop, includin' the brush boy and the battery of lady manicures, was all gathered around pipin' me off as a raw beginner. So I stares haughty at the ceilin' and tries to put on a bored look. I'd been scraped twice over, and was just bein' unwrapped from the hot towel, when I turns to see who it is has camped down in the next chair, and finds Mr. Robert gazin' at me curious. \"Why!\" says he, chucklin'. \"If it isn't Torchy! Indulging in a shave, eh?\" \"Oh, no, Sir,\" says I. \"Been havin' my eye teeth tested for color blindness, that's all.\" Mr. Robert grins amiable and reaches out for the check. \"This is on me then,\" says he. \"I claim the privilege.\" As he comes in after luncheon he has to stop and grin again; and later on, when I answers the buzzer, he makes me turn clear around so he can inspect the effect and size up the new suit.", "words": 313}, {"story": 36, "title": "The Up Call for Torchy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Excellent, Torchy!\" says he. \"Whoever your tailor may be, you do him credit.\" \"This trip I paid cash, though,\" says I. \"It's all right, is it?\" \"In every particular,\" says he. \"Why, you look almost grown up. May I ask the occasion? Can it be that Miss Verona is on the point of returning from somewhere or other?\" \"Uh-huh,\" says I. \"Bermuda. Got in yesterday.\" \"And Aunty, I trust,\" goes on Mr. Robert, \"is as well as usual?\" \"I'm hoping for the worst,\" says I; \"but I expect she is.\" We swaps merry expressions again, and Mr. Robert pats me chummy on the shoulder. \"You're quite all right, Torchy,\" says he, \"and I wish you luck.\" Then the twinkle fades out of his eyes and he turns serious. \"I wish,\" he goes on, \"that I could do more than just--well, some time, perhaps.\" And with another friendly pat he swings around to his desk, where the letters are stacked a foot high. Say, he's the real thing, Mr. Robert is, no matter if he does take it out in wishin'! It ain't every boss would do that much, specially with the load he's carryin'. For you know since Old Hickory's been down South takin' seven kinds of baths, and prob'ly cussin' out them resort doctors as they was never cussed before, Mr. Robert Ellins has been doin' a heap more than give an imitation of bein' a busy man. But he's there with the wallop, and I guess it's goin' to take more'n a commerce court to put the Corrugated out of business.", "words": 263}, {"story": 36, "title": "The Up Call for Torchy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Too bad, though, that Congress can't spare the time from botherin' about interlockin' directors to suppress a few padlockin' aunties. Say, the way that old girl does keep the bars up against an inoffensive party like me is something fierce! I tries to call Vee on the 'phone as soon as I've discovered where she is, and all the satisfaction I get is a message delivered by a French maid that \"Miss Hemmingway is otherwise engaged.\" Wouldn't that crust you? But I've been up against this embargo game before, you know; so the first chance I gets I slips uptown to do a little scoutin' at close range. It's an apartment hotel this time, and I hangs around the entrance, inspectin' the bay trees out front for half an hour, before I can work up the nerve to make the Brodie break. Fin'lly I marches in bold and calls for Aunty herself. \"Is she in, Cephas?\" says I to the brunette Jamaican in the olive-green liv'ry who juggles the elevator. \"I don't rightly know, Suh,\" says he; \"but you can send up a call, Suh, from the desk there, and----\" \"Ah, let's not disturb the operator,\" says I. \"Give a guess.\" \"I'm thinking she'll be taking her drive, Suh,\" says Cephas, blinkin' stupid. \"Then I'll have to go up and wait,\" says I. \"She'd be mighty sore on us both if she missed me. Up, Cephas!\" \"Yes, Suh,\" says he, pullin' the lever. I should have known, though, from one look at that to-let expression of his, that his ideas on any subject would be vague. And this was a bum hunch on Aunty. Out? Why, she was propped up in an easy-chair with a sprained ankle, and had been for three days! And you should have seen the tight-lipped, welcome-to-our-grand-jury-room smile that she greets me with. \"Humph!\" she says. \"You! Well, young man, what is your excuse this time?\"", "words": 320}, {"story": 36, "title": "The Up Call for Torchy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I grins sheepish and shuffles my feet. \"Same old excuse,\" says I. \"Do you mean to tell me,\" she gasps, \"that you have the impudence to try to see my niece, after all I have----\" \"Uh-huh,\" I breaks in. \"Don't you ever take a sportin' chance yourself?\" She gurgles somethin' throaty, goes purple in the gills, and prepares to smear me on the spot; but I gives her the straight look between the eyes and hurries on. \"Oh, I know where you stand, all right,\" says I; \"but ain't you drawin' it a little strong? Say, where's the harm in me takin' Verona out for a half-hour walk along the Drive? We ain't had a chat for over two months, you know, not a word, and I'd kind of like to----\" \"No doubt,\" says Aunty. \"Are you quite certain, however, that Verona would like it too?\" \"I'm always guessin' where Vee is concerned,\" I admits; \"but by the latest dope I had on the subject, I expect she wouldn't object strenuous.\" Aunty sniffs. \"It is quite possible,\" says she. \"Verona is a whimsical, wilful girl at times, just as her poor mother was. Keeping up this pretense of friendship for you is one of her silly notions.\" \"Thanks awfully, Ma'am,\" says I. \"Let me see,\" goes on Aunty, squintin' foxy at me, \"you are employed in Mr. Ellins's office, I believe?\" I nods. \"As office boy, still?\" says she. \"No, as a live one,\" says I. \"Anybody that stays still very long at the Corrugated gets canned.\" \"Please omit meaningless jargon,\" says Aunty. \"Does my niece know just how humble a position you occupy? Have you ever told her?\" \"Why,\" says I, \"I don't know as I've ever gone into details.\"", "words": 291}, {"story": 36, "title": "The Up Call for Torchy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Ah-h-h!\" says she. \"I was certain that Verona did not fully realize. Perhaps it would be as well that she----\" and here she breaks off sudden, like she'd been struck with a new idea. For a second or so she gazes blank over the top of my head, and then she comes to with a brisk, \"That will do, young man! Verona is not at home. You need not trouble to call again. The maid will show you out. Celeste!\" And the next thing I knew I was ridin' down again with Cephas. I'm some shunter myself; but I dip the colors to Aunty: she does it so neat and sudden! It must be like the sensation of havin' a flight of trick stairs fold up under you,--one minute you're most to the top, the next you're pickin' yourself up at the bottom. What worries me most, though, is this hint she drops about Vee. Looks like the old girl had something up her sleeve; but what it is I can't dope out. So all I can do is keep my eyes open and my ear stretched for the next few days, watchin' for something to happen. Course, I had one or two other things on my mind meanwhile; for down at the gen'ral offices we wa'n't indulgin' in any spring-fever symptoms,--not with three big deals under way, all this income mess of deductin' at the source goin' on, and Mr. Robert's grand scheme for dissolvin' the Corrugated--on paper--bein' worked out. Oh, sure, that's the easiest thing we do. We've split up into nineteen sep'rate and distinct corporations, with a diff'rent set of directors for each one, and if the Attorney General can sleuth out where they're tied together he's got to do some high-class snoopin' around.", "words": 297}, {"story": 36, "title": "The Up Call for Torchy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Maybe you think too, that little Sunny Haired Hank, guardin' the brass gate, ain't wise to every move. Say, I make that part of my job. If I didn't, I'd be towin' a grouchy bunch of minority kickers in where the reorganization board was cookin' up a new stock-transfer game, or make some other fool break that would spill the beans all over the pantry floor. \"Torchy,\" says Mr. Robert, chewin' his cigar nervous and pawin' through pigeonholes, \"ask Mr. Piddie what was done with those Mesaba contracts.\" \"Filed under Associated Developments,\" says I. \"Oh, yes, so they were,\" says he. \"Thanks. And could you find out for me when we organized General Transportation?\" \"Wa'n't that pulled off the day you waited for that Duluth delegation to show up, just after Easter?\" says I. \"That's it,\" says he, \"the fifteenth! Has Marling of Chicago been called up yet?\" \"Nope,\" says I. \"He'll be waitin' for the closing quotations, won't he? But there's that four-eyed guy with the whiskers who's been hangin' around a couple of hours.\" \"Ah!\" says Mr. Robert, huntin' out a card on his desk. \"That Rowley person! I'd forgotten. What does he want?\" \"Didn't say,\" says I. \"Got a roll of something under one arm--crank promoter, maybe. Will I ditch him?\" \"Not without being heard,\" says Mr. Robert. \"I haven't time myself, though. Perhaps Mr. Piddie might interview him and----\" \"Ah, Piddie!\" says I. \"He'd take one look at the old gink's round cuffs and turn him down haughty. You know Piddie?\" Mr. Robert smiles. \"Then suppose you do it,\" says he. \"Go ahead--full powers. Only remember this: My policy is to give everyone who has a proposition to submit to the Corrugated a respectful and adequate hearing. Get the idea?\" \"I'm right behind you,\" says I. \"The smooth stuff goes; and if we must spill 'em, grease the skids. Me for Rowley!\"", "words": 316}, {"story": 36, "title": "The Up Call for Torchy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "And, say, you should have heard me shove over the diplomacy, tellin' how sorry Mr. Robert was he couldn't see him in person; but wouldn't he please state the case in full so no time might be lost in actin' one way or the other? Inside of three minutes too, he has his papers spread out and is explainin' his by-product scheme for mill tailings, with me busy takin' notes on a pad. He had it all figured out into big money; but of course I couldn't tell whether he had a sure thing, or was just exercisin' squirrels in the connin' tower. \"Ten millions a year,\" says he, \"and I am offering to put this process in operation for a five-per-cent. royalty! I've been a mine superintendent for twenty years, young man, and I know what I'm talking about.\" \"Your spiel listens like the real thing, Mr. Rowley,\" says I; \"only we can't jump at these things offhand. We have to chew 'em over, you know.\" Rowley shakes his head decided. \"You can't put me off for six months or a year,\" says he. \"I've been through all that. If the Corrugated doesn't want to go into this----\" \"Right you are!\" I breaks in. \"Ten days is enough. I'll put this up to the board next Wednesday week and get a decision. Much obliged to you, Mr. Rowley, for givin' us first whack at it. We 're out for anything that looks good, and we always take care of the parties that put us next. That's the Corrugated way. Good afternoon, Mr. Rowley. Drop in again. Here's your hat.\" And as he drifts out, smilin', pleased and hopeful, I glances over the spring-water bottle, to see Mr. Robert standin' there listenin' with a grin on.", "words": 296}, {"story": 36, "title": "The Up Call for Torchy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Congratulations!\" says he. \"That peroration of yours was a classic, Torchy; the true Chesterfield spirit, if not the form. I am tempted to utilize your talent for that sort of thing once more. What do you say?\" \"Then put it over the plate while I'm on my battin' streak,\" says I. \"Who's next?\" \"A lady this time,\" says he; \"perchance two ladies.\" And he develops that eye twinkle of his. \"Huh!\" says I, twistin' my neck and feelin' of my tie. \"You ain't springin' any tea-pourin' stunt, are you?\" \"Strictly business,\" says he; \"at least,\" he adds, chucklin', \"that is the presumption. As a matter of fact, I've just been called over the 'phone by Miss Verona Hemmingway's aunt.\" \"Eh!\" says I, gawpin'. \"She holds some of our debenture bonds, you know,\" says Mr. Robert, \"and I gather that she has been somewhat disturbed by these reorganization rumors.\" \"But she ought to know,\" says I, \"that our D.B.'s. are as solid as----\" \"The feminine mind,\" cuts in Mr. Robert, \"does not readily grasp such simple facts. But I haven't half an hour or more to devote to the process of soothing her alarm; besides, you could do it so much more gracefully.\" \"Mooshwaw!\" says I. \"Maybe I could. But she's only one. Who's the other?\" \"She failed to state,\" says Mr. Robert. \"She merely said, 'We shall be down about three o'clock.'\" \"We?\" says I. Then I whistles. So that was her game! It was Vee she was bringin' along! \"Well?\" says Mr. Robert. I expect I was some pinked up, and fussed, too, at the prospect. \"Excuse me,\" says I, \"but I got to sidestep.\" \"Why,\" says he, \"I rather thought this assignment might be somewhat agreeable.\"", "words": 288}, {"story": 36, "title": "The Up Call for Torchy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"I know,\" says I. \"You mean well enough; but, honest, Mr. Robert, if that foxy old dame's comin' down here with Miss Vee, I'm--well, I don't stand for it, that's all! I'm off; with a blue ticket or without one, just as you say.\" I was reachin' for my new lid too, when Mr. Robert puts out his hand. \"Wouldn't that be--er--rather a serious breach of office discipline?\" says he. \"Surely, without some good reason----\" \"Ah, say!\" says I. \"You don't think I'm springin' any prima donna whim, do you? It's this plot to show me up through the wrong end of the telescope that gets me sore.\" \"Scarcely lucid,\" says he, lookin' puzzled. \"Could you put it a little simpler?\" \"I'll make it long primer,\" says I. \"How do I stand here in the Corrugated? You know, maybe, and sometimes I give a guess myself; but on the books, and as far as outsiders go, I'm just plain office boy, ain't I, like 'steen thousand other four-dollar-a-week kids that's old enough to have work papers? I've been here goin' on four years now, and I ain't beefed much about it, have I? That's because I've been used white and the pay has been decent. Also I'm strong for you and Mr. Ellins. I expect you know that, Mr. Robert. Maybe I ain't got it in me to be anything but an office boy, either; but when it comes to goin' on exhibition before certain parties as the double cipher on the east side of the decimal--well, that's where I make my foolish play.\"", "words": 264}, {"story": 36, "title": "The Up Call for Torchy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Ah!\" says he, rubbin' his chin thoughtful. \"Now I fully understand. And, as you suggest, there has been for some time past something--er--equivocal about your position here. However, just at this moment I have hardly time to---- By Jove!\" Here he breaks off and glances at the clock. \"Two-fifteen, and a general council of our attorneys called for half-past in the directors' room! Someone else must attend to Miss Verona's estimable aunt--positively! Now if there was anyone who could relieve you from the gate----\" \"Heiny, the bondroom boy,\" says I. \"Why not?\" says Mr. Robert. \"Then, if you should choose to stay and prime yourself with facts about those debentures, there is that extra desk in my office, you know. Would you mind using that?\" \"But see here, Mr. Robert,\" says I, \"I wa'n't plannin' any masquerade, either.\" \"Quite so,\" says he; \"nor I. It so happens, though, that the gentleman whose name appears as president of our Mutual Funding Company is--well, hardly in active business life. It is necessary that he be represented here in some nominal capacity. The directors are now meeting in Room 19. I have authority to name a private secretary pro tem. Do you accept the position?\" \"With a pro-tem. salary, stage money barred?\" says I. \"Oh, most certainly,\" says he. \"Then I'm the guy,\" says I. \"Good!\" says Mr. Robert. \"These debentures come in your department. I will notify Mr. Piddie that----\" \"Say, Mr. Robert,\" says I, grinnin' once more, \"I'd break it gentle to Piddie.\" I don't know whether he did or not; for five minutes after that Heiny has my old seat, and I'm inside behind the ground-glass door, sittin' at a reg'lar roll-top, with a lot of file cases spread out, puzzlin' over this incorporation junk that makes the Fundin' Comp'ny the little joker in the Corrugated deck.", "words": 307}, {"story": 36, "title": "The Up Call for Torchy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "And next thing I know in comes Heiny, gawpin' foolish, and trailin' behind him Aunty and Vee. I wa'n't throwin' any bluff about tryin' to look busy, either. I was elbow-deep in papers, with a pen behind one ear and ink on three fingers. You should have heard the gasp that comes from Aunty as she pipes off who it is at the desk. My surprise as I'm discovered is the real thing too. \"Chairs, Boy!\" says I, snappin' my fingers at Heiny. But Aunty catches her breath, draws herself up stiff, and waves away the seats. \"Young man,\" says she, \"I came here to consult with Mr. Robert Ellins about----\" \"Yes'm,\" says I, \"I understand. Debenture six's, ain't they? Not affected by the reorganization, Ma'am. You see, it's like this: Those bonds were issued in exchange for----\" \"Young man,\" she breaks in, aimin' her lorgnette at me threatenin', \"I prefer to discuss this matter with Mr. Robert.\" \"Sorry,\" says I, \"but as he's very busy he asked me to----\" \"And who, pray,\" snaps the old girl, \"are you?\" \"Representin' the president of the Mutual Funding Comp'ny,\" says I. \"Just how?\" she demands. \"Private secretary, Ma'am,\" says I. \"Humph!\" she snorts. \"This is too absurd of Mr. Robert--wholly absurd! Come, Verona.\" And as she sails out I just has time for a glance at Vee, and catches a wink. Believe me, though, a friendly wink from one of them gray eyes is worth waitin' for! She follows Aunty through the door with a handkerchief stuffed in her mouth like she was smotherin' a snicker; so I guess Vee was on. And I'm left feelin' all warmed up and chirky. Mr. Robert comes in from his lawyer session just before closin' time; rubbin' his hands sort of satisfied too. \"Well,\" says I, jumpin' up from the swing-chair, \"it was some jolt you slipped Aunty. I expect I can resign now?\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 36, "title": "The Up Call for Torchy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Oh, I trust not,\" says he. \"The board indorsed your appointment an hour ago. Keep your desk, Torchy. It is to be yours from now on.\" \"Wh-a-a-at?\" says I, my eyes bugged. \"Off the gate for good, am I?\" \"We are hoping,\" says he, \"that the gate's loss will be the Funding Company's gain.\" I gurgles gaspy a couple of times before I catches my breath. \"Will it?\" says I. \"Say, just watch me! I'm goin' to show you that fundin' is my long suit!\"", "words": 85}, {"story": 37, "title": "Torchy Makes the Sir Class", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Say, it's all right, gettin' the quick boost up the ladder, providin' you don't let it make you dizzy in the head. And, believe me, I was near it! You see, bein' jumped from office boy to private sec, all in one afternoon, was some breath-takin' yank. I expect the full force of what had happened didn't hit me until here the other mornin' when I strolls into the Corrugated gen'ral offices on the new nine o'clock schedule and finds this raw recruit holdin' down my old chair behind the rail. Nice, smooth-haired, bright-eyed youngster, with his ears all scoured out pink and his knickerbocker suit brushed neat. He hops up and opens the gate real respectful for me. \"Well, Son,\" says I, \"what does Mother call you?\" \"Vincent, Sir,\" says he. \"Some class to that, too,\" says I. \"But how do you know, Vincent, that I'm one of the reg'lar staff and not canvassin' for something?\" \"I don't, Sir,\" says he, \"until I see if you know where to hang your hat.\" \"Good domework, Vincent,\" says I. \"On that I'm backin' you to hold the job.\" \"Thank you, Sir,\" says he. \"I told Mother I'd do my best.\" And with that he springs a bashful smile. It was the \"Sir\" every time that caught me, though. For more'n four years I'd been just Torchy or Boy to all hands in the shop, from Old Hickory down; and now all of a sudden I finds there's one party at least that rates me in the Sir class. Kind of braced me for swingin' past all that row of giggly lady typists and on into Mr. Robert's private office.", "words": 278}, {"story": 37, "title": "Torchy Makes the Sir Class", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Thrill No. 2 arrived half an hour later. In postin' myself as to what this Mutual Fundin' Company really is that I'm supposed to be workin' for, I needed some papers from the document safe. And for the first time I pushes the buzzer button. Prompt and eager in comes Vincent, the fair haired. \"Know which is Mr. Piddie, do you?\" says I. \"Oh, yes, Sir,\" says he. \"Well,\" says I, \"tell him I need those--no, better ask him to step in here a minute.\" Honest, I wa'n't plannin' to rub it in, either. Course, I'd done a good deal of trottin' for Piddie, and a lot of it wa'n't for anything else than to let him show his authority; but I didn't hold any grudge. I'd squared the account in my own way. How he was goin' to take it now I was the one to send for him, I didn't know; but there wa'n't any use dodgin' the issue. And you should have seen Piddie make his first official entrance! You know how stiff and wooden he is as a rule? Well, as he marches in over the rug and comes to a parade rest by the desk, he's about as limber as a length of gas pipe. And solemn? That long face of his would have soured condensed milk! \"Yes, Sir?\" says he. And to me, mind you! It come out a little husky, like it was bein' filtered through strong emotions; but there it is. Piddie has sirred me his first \"Sir.\"", "words": 256}, {"story": 37, "title": "Torchy Makes the Sir Class", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "He knows a roll-top when he sees one, Piddie does, and he ain't omittin' any deference due. You know the type? He's one of the kind that was born to be \"our Mr. Piddie\"; the sort that takes off his hat to a vice-president, and holds his breath in the presence of the big wheeze. But, say, I don't want any joss-sticks burned for me. \"Ditch it, Piddie,\" says I, \"ditch it!\" \"I--er--I beg pardon?\" says he. \"The Sir stuff,\" says I. \"Just because I'm behind the ground glass instead of the brass rail don't make me a sacred being, or you a lobbygow, does it? I guess we've known each other too long for that, eh?\" And I holds out the friendly mitt. Honest, he's got a human streak in him, Piddie has, if you know where to strike it. The cast-iron effect comes out of his shoulders, the wooden look from his face. He almost smiles. \"Thank you, Torchy,\" says he. \"I--er--my congratulations on your new----\" \"We'll spread 'em on the minutes,\" says I, \"and proceed to show the Corrugated some teamwork that mere salaries can't buy. Are you on?\" He was. Inside of three minutes he'd chucked that stiff-necked, flunky pose and was coachin' me like a big brother, and by the time he'd beat into my head all he knew about the Fundin' Comp'ny we was as chummy as two survivors of the same steamer wreck. Simple, I know; but this little experience made me feel like I'd signed a gen'ral peace treaty with the world at large. I hadn't, though. An hour later I runs up against Willis G. Briscoe. He's kind of an outside development manager, who makes preliminary reports on new deals. One of these cold-eyed, chesty parties, Willis G. is; tall and thin, and with a big, bowwow voice that has a rasp to it.", "words": 313}, {"story": 37, "title": "Torchy Makes the Sir Class", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Huh!\" says he, as he discovers me busy at the desk. \"I heard of this out in Chicago three days ago; but I thought it must be a joke.\" \"Them reporters do get things straight now and then, don't they?\" says I. \"Reporters!\" he snorts. \"Philip wrote me about it.\" \"Oh!\" says I. \"Cousin Philip, eh?\" And that gave me the whole plot of the piece. Cousin Phil was a cigarette-consumin' college discard that Willis G. had been nursin' along in the bondroom, waitin' for a better openin'; and this jump of mine had filled a snap job that he'd had his eyes on for Cousin. \"I suppose you're only temporary, though,\" says he. \"That's all,\" says I. \"Mr. Ellins will be resignin' in eight or ten years, I expect, and then they'll want me in his chair. Nice mornin', ain't it?\" \"Bah!\" says he, registerin' deep disgust, as they say in the movie scripts. \"You'll do well if you last eight or ten days.\" \"How cheerin'!\" says I, and as he swings off with a final glare I tips him the humorous wink. Why not? No young-man-afraid-of-his-job part for me! Briscoe might get it away from me, or he might not; but I wa'n't goin' to get panicky over it. Let him do his worst! He didn't need any urgin'. With a little scoutin' around he discovers that about the only assignment on my hook so far is this Rowley matter: you know, the old inventor guy with the mill-tailings scheme. And the first hint I had that he was wise to that was when Mr. Robert calls me over after lunch and explains how this Rowley business sort of comes in Mr. Briscoe's department. \"So I suppose you'd better turn it over to him,\" says he. \"Just as you say,\" says I. \"The old gent is due at two-fifteen, and I'll shunt him onto Briscoe.\"", "words": 317}, {"story": 37, "title": "Torchy Makes the Sir Class", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Which I did. And at two-thirty-five Briscoe breezes in with his report. \"Nothing to it,\" says he. \"This Rowley person has a lot of half-baked ideas about briquets and retort recoveries, and talks vaguely of big profits; but he's got nothing practical. I shipped him off.\" \"But,\" says Mr. Robert, \"I think he was promised that his schemes should have a consideration by the board.\" \"Very well,\" says Willis G. jaunty. \"I'll give 'em a report next meeting. Wednesday, isn't it? Hardly worth wasting their time over, though.\" And here I'd been boostin' the Rowley proposition to Mr. Robert good and hard, almost gettin' him enthusiastic over it! I was smeared, that's all! My first stab at makin' myself useful in my new swing-chair job has been brushed aside as a beginner's bungle; and there sits Mr. Robert, prob'ly wonderin' if he hadn't made a mistake in takin' me off the gate! I stares at a row of empty pigeonholes for a solid hour after that, not doin' a blamed thing but race my thinkin' gears tryin' to find out where I was at. This dummy act that I'd been let in for might be all right for some; but it didn't suit me. I've got to have action in mine.", "words": 211}, {"story": 37, "title": "Torchy Makes the Sir Class", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "So, long before quittin' time, I slams the desk cover down and pikes out on Rowley's trail. He might be a dead duck; but I wanted to know how and why. I had his address all right, and it didn't take me long to locate him in a fifth-story loft down on lower Sixth-ave. It's an odd joint too, with a cot bed in one corner, a work bench along the avenue side, a cook-stove in the middle, and a kitchen table where the coffeepot was crowded on each side by a rack of test tubes. Old Rowley himself, with his sleeves rolled up, is sittin' in a rickety arm chair peelin' potatoes. He's grouchy too. \"Oh, it's you, is it?\" says he. \"Well, you might just as well trot right back to the Corrugated Trust and tell 'em that Old Hen Rowley don't give two hoots for their whole outfit.\" \"I take it you didn't get on so well with Mr. Briscoe?\" says I. \"Briscoe!\" he grunts savage. \"Who could talk business to a smart Alec like that! He knew it all before I'd begun. You'd think I was trying to sell him a gold brick. All right! We'll see what the Bethlehem people have to say.\" \"What?\" says I. \"Before you get the final word from us?\" \"I've had it,\" says he. \"Briscoe is final enough for me.\" \"You're easy satisfied,\" says I, \"or else you're easy beat. I didn't take you for a quitter, either.\"", "words": 248}, {"story": 37, "title": "Torchy Makes the Sir Class", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Say, that got to him. \"Quitter, eh!\" says he. \"See here, Son, how long do you think I've been plugging at this thing? Nine years. And for the last four I've been giving it all my time, day in and day out, and many a night as well. I've been living with it, in this loft here, like a blessed hermit; testing and perfecting, trying out my processes, and fighting the Patent Office sharks between times. Nine years--the best of my life! Call that quitting, do you?\" \"Well, that is sticking around some,\" says I. \"Think you've got your schemes so they'll work?\" \"I don't think,\" says he; \"I know.\" \"But what's the good,\" I goes on, \"if you can't make other folks see you've got a good thing?\" \"I can, though,\" he says. \"Why, any person with even ordinary intelligence can----\" \"That's me,\" says I. \"My nut is just about a stock pattern size, six and seven-eighths, or maybe seven. Come, try it on me, if it's so simple. Now what about this retort business?\" That got him goin'. Rowley drops the potatoes, and in another minute we're neck-deep in the science of makin' an ore puddin', doin' stunts with the steam, skimmin' dividends off the pot, and coinin' the slag into dollars. I ain't lettin' him slip over any gen'ral propositions on me, either. I'm right there with the Missouri stuff. He has to go clear back to first principles every time he makes a statement, and work up to it gradual. Course, I was keepin' him jollied along too, and while it must have been sort of hopeless at the start, inoculatin' a cauliflower like mine with higher chemistry, I fin'lly showed one or two gleams that encouraged him to keep on. Anyway, we hammered away at the subject, only stoppin' to make coffee and sandwiches, until near two o'clock in the mornin'.", "words": 316}, {"story": 37, "title": "Torchy Makes the Sir Class", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Help!\" says I, glancin' at the nickel alarm clock. \"My head feels like a stuffed sausage. A little more, and I won't know whether I'm a nitrous sulphide or a ferrous oxide of bromo seltzer. Let's take the rest in another dose.\" Rowley chuckles and agrees to call it a day, I didn't let on anything at the office next morning; but by eight A.M. I was planted at the roll-top with my elbows squared, tryin' to write out as much of that chemistry dope as I could remember. And it's surprising ain't it, what a lot of information you can sop up when you do the sponge act in earnest? I found there was a lot of points, though, that I was foggy on; so I makes an early getaway and puts in another long session with Rowley. And, take it from me, by Tuesday I was well loaded. Also I had my plan of campaign all mapped out; for you mustn't get the idea I was packin' my bean full of all this science dope just to see if it would stand the strain. Not so, Clarice! I'd woke up to the fact that I was bein' carried along by the Corrugated as a sort of misfit inner tube stowed in the bottom of the tool-box, and that it was up to me to make good. So the first openin' I has I tackles Mr. Robert on the side. \"About that Rowley proposition?\" says I. \"Oh, yes,\" says he. \"I fear Mr. Briscoe thinks unfavorably of it.\" \"Then he's fruity in the pan,\" says I. \"We have been in the habit of accepting his judgment in such matters,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Maybe,\" says I; \"but here's once when he's handin' you a stall. And you're missin' out on something good too.\" Mr. Robert smiles skeptical. \"Really?\" says he. \"Perhaps you would like to present a minority report?\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 37, "title": "Torchy Makes the Sir Class", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Nothin' less,\" says I. \"Oh, it may listen like a joke, but that's just what I got in mind.\" \"H-m-m-m!\" says Mr. Robert. \"You realize that Briscoe is one of the leading mining authorities in the country, I suppose, and that we pay him a large salary as consulting engineer?\" I nods. \"I know,\" says I. \"And the nearest I ever got to seein' a mine was watchin' 'em excavate for the subway. I'm admittin' all that.\" \"I may add too,\" goes on Mr. Robert, \"that he has a way of stating his opinions quite convincingly.\" \"Yep,\" says I, \"I should judge that. But if I think he's bilkin' you on this, is it my play to sit behind and chew my tongue?\" \"By Jove!\" says Mr. Robert, his sportin' instincts comin' to the top. \"You shall have your chance, Torchy. The directors shall hear your views; to-morrow, at two-thirty. You will follow Briscoe.\" \"Let's not bill it ahead, then,\" says I, \"if it'll be fair to spring it on him.\" \"Quite,\" says Mr. Robert; \"and rather more amusing, I fancy. I will arrange it.\" \"I'd like to have old Rowley on the side lines, in case I get stuck,\" says I. \"Oh, certainly,\" says he. \"Bring Mr. Rowley if you wish. And if there are any preparations you would like to make----\" \"I got one or two,\" says I, startin' for the door; \"so mark me off until about to-morrow noon.\" Busy? Well, say, a kitten with four feet stuck in the flypaper didn't have anything on me. I streaks it for Sixth-ave. and lands in Rowley's loft all out of breath. \"What's up?\" says he. \"The case of Briscoe _et al. vs._ Rowley,\" says I. \"It's to be threshed out before the full Corrugated board to-morrow at two-thirty. I'm the counsel for the defense.\" \"Well, what of it?\" says he.", "words": 312}, {"story": 37, "title": "Torchy Makes the Sir Class", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"I want to use you as Exhibit A,\" says I, \"in case of an emergency.\" \"All right,\" says he. \"I'll go along if you say so.\" \"Good!\" says I. And then came the hard part. \"Rowley,\" I goes on, \"what size collar do you wear?\" \"But what has that to do with it?\" says he. \"Now don't get peeved,\" says I; \"but you know the kind our directors are,--flossy, silk-lined old sports, most of 'em; and they're apt to size up strangers a good deal by their haberdashery. So I was wonderin' if I couldn't blow you to a neat, pleated bosom effect with attached cuffs.\" \"Oh, I see,\" says Rowley, glancin' at his gray flannel workin' shirt. \"Anything else?\" \"I don't expect you'd want to part with that face shrubbery, or have it landscaped into a Vandyke, eh?\" says I. \"You know they ain't wearin' the bushy kind now in supertax circles.\" \"Would you insist on my being manicured too?\" says he, chucklin' easy. \"It would help,\" says I. \"And this would be my buy all round.\" \"That's a generous offer, Son,\" says he, \"and I don't know how long it's been since anyone has taken so much personal interest in Old Hen Rowley. Seems nice too. I suppose I am rather a shabby old duffer to be visiting the offices of great and good corporations. Yes, I'll spruce up a bit; and if I find it costs more than I can afford--now let's see how my cash stands.\" With that he digs into a hip pocket and unlimbers a roll of corn-tinted kale the size of your wrist. Maybe they wa'n't all hundreds clear to the core, but that's what was on the outside. \"Whiffo!\" says I. \"Excuse me for classin' you so near the bread line; but by your campin' in a loft, and the longshoreman's shirt, and so on----\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 37, "title": "Torchy Makes the Sir Class", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Very natural, Son,\" he breaks in. \"And I see your point all the clearer. I've no business going about so. The whiskers shall be trimmed. But your people up at the Corrugated have evidently made up their minds to turn us down.\" \"Maybe,\" says I; \"but if they do, it won't be on any snap decision of Briscoe's. And unless I get tongue tied at the last minute we're goin' to have a run for our money.\" That was what worried me most,--could I come across with the standin' spiel? But, believe me, I wa'n't trustin' to any offhand stuff! I'd got to know in advance what I meant to feed 'em, line for line and word for word. By ten o'clock that night I had it all down on paper too--and perhaps I didn't chew the penholder and leak some from the brow while I was doin' it! Then came the rehearsin'. Say, you should have seen me risin' dignified behind the washstand in my room, strikin' a Bill Bryan pose, and smilin' calm at the bedposts as I launched out on my speech. Not that I was tryin' to chuck any flowers of oratory. What I aimed to do was to tell 'em about Rowley's schemes as simple and straight away as I could, usin' one-syllable words for the most part, cannin' the slang, and soundin' as many final G's as my tongue would let me. Before I turned in too, I had it almost pat; but I hardly dared to go to sleep for fear it would get away from me.", "words": 264}, {"story": 37, "title": "Torchy Makes the Sir Class", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Say, but it ain't any cinch, this breakin' into public life, is it? The obscure guy with the dinner pail and the calloused palms thinks he has hard lines; but when the whistle blows he can wipe his trowel on his overalls and forget it all until next day. But here I tosses around restless in the feathers, and am up at daybreak goin' over my piece again, trembly in the knees, with a vivid mental picture of how cheap I'd feel if I should go to pieces when the time came. A good breakfast pepped me up a lot, though, and by noon I had them few remarks of mine so I could say 'em backwards or forwards. How they was goin' to sound outside of my room was another matter. I had my doubts along that line; but I was goin' to give 'em the best I had in stock. It was most time for the session to begin when Vincent boy trots in with a card announcin' Mr. Henry Clay Rowley. And, say, when this smooth-faced party in the sporty Scotch tweed suit and the new model pearl gray lid shows up, I has to gasp! He's had himself tailored and barbered until he looks like an English investor come over huntin' six per cent. dividends for a Bank of England surplus. \"Zowie!\" says I. \"Some speed to you, Mr. Rowley. And class? Say, you look like you was about to dump a trunkful of Steel preferred on the market, instead of a few patents.\" \"I'm giving your advice a thorough trial, you see,\" says he. \"That's the stuff!\" says I. \"It's the dolled up gets the dollars these days. Be sure and sit where they'll get a good view.\"", "words": 293}, {"story": 37, "title": "Torchy Makes the Sir Class", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Then we went into the directors' room and heard Willis G. Briscoe deliver his knock. He does it snappy and vigorous, and when he's through it didn't listen like anything more could be said. He humps his eyebrows humorous when Mr. Robert announces that perhaps the board might like to hear another view of the subject. \"Torchy,\" goes on Mr. Robert, \"you have the floor.\" For a second or so, though, I felt like spreadin' out so I wouldn't slip through a crack. All of a sudden too, my mouth had gone dry and I had a panicky notion that my brain had ossified. Then I got a glimpse of them shrewd blue eyes of Rowley's smilin' encouragin' at me, the first few sentences of my speech filtered back through the bone, I got my tongue movin', and I was off. Funny how you can work out of a scare that way, ain't it? Why, say, the first thing I knew I'd picked out old D. K. Rutgers, the worst fish-face in the bunch, and was throwin' the facts into him like I was shovelin' coal into a cellar chute. Beginnin' with Rowley's plan for condensin' commercial acids from the blast fumes, explainin' the chemical process that produced 'em, and how they could be caught on the fly and canned in carboys for the trade, I galloped through the whole proposition, backin' up every item with figures and formulas; until I showed 'em how the slag that now cost 'em so much to get rid of could be sold for road ballastin' and pressed into buildin' blocks at a profit of twenty dollars a ton. I didn't let anything go just by statin' it bald. I took Briscoe's objections one by one, shot 'em full of holes with the come-backs Rowley had coached me on, and then proceeded to clinch the argument until I had old Rutgers noddin' his head.", "words": 320}, {"story": 37, "title": "Torchy Makes the Sir Class", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"And these, Gentlemen,\" I winds up with, \"are what Mr. Briscoe calls the vague, half-baked ideas of an unpractical inventor. He's an expert, Mr. Briscoe is! I'm not. I wouldn't know a supersaturated solution of methylcalcites from a stein of Hoboken beer; but I'm willin' to believe there's big money in handling either, providing you don't spill too much on the inside. Mr. Rowley claims you're throwing away millions a year. He says he can save it for you. He wants to show you how you can juggle ore so you can save everything but the smell. He's here on the spot, and if you want to quiz him about details, go as deep as you like.\" Did they? Say, that seance didn't break up until six-fifteen, and before the board adjourns Rowley had a whackin' big option check in his fist, and a resolution had gone through to install an experiment plan as soon as it could be put up. An hour before that Willis G. Briscoe had done the silent sneak, wearin' his mouth droopy. Mr. Robert meets me outside with the fraternal grip and says he's proud of me. \"Thanks, Mr. Robert,\" says I. \"It was a case of framin' up a job for myself, or else four-flushin' along until you tied the can to me. And I need the Corrugated just now.\" \"No more, I'm beginning to suspect,\" says he, \"than the Corrugated needs you.\" Which was some happy josh for an amateur private sec to get from the boss! Eh?", "words": 255}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Say, I expected that after I got to be a salaried man, with a swing-chair in Mr. Robert's private office, I'd be called on only to pull the brainy stuff, calm and dignified, without any outside chasin' around. I had a soothin' idea it would be a case of puttin' in my mornin's dictatin' letters to gen'ral managers, and my afternoons to holdin' interviews with the Secretary of the Treasury, and so on. I was lookin' for plenty of high-speed domework, but nothin' more wearin' on the arms than pushin' a call button or usin' a rubber stamp. But somehow I can't seem to do finance, or anything else, without throwin' in a lot of extra pep. No matter how I start, first thing I know I'm mixed up with quick action, and as likely as not gettin' my clothes mussed. This last stunt, though--believe me I couldn't have got more thrills if I'd joined a circus! It opens innocent enough too. I was moochin' around the bondroom when I happens to glance over the transfer book and notices that a big block of our debenture 6's are listed as goin' to the Federated Tractions. And the name of the party who's about to swap the 6's for Tractions preferred is a familiar one. It's Aunty's. Uh-huh--Vee's! Maybe you remember how Aunty played up her skittish symptoms about them same bonds a few weeks back, the time she planned to exhibit me to Vee in my office boy job and got so badly jolted when she finds me posin' as a private sec instead? Went away real peeved, Aunty did that time. And now it looks like she was takin' it out by unloadin' her bond holdin's. It's to be some swap too, runnin' up into six figures. \"Chee!\" thinks I. \"That's an income, all right, with Tractions payin' between 7 and 9, besides cuttin' a melon now and then.\"", "words": 320}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "They have their gen'ral offices three floors below us, you know. Not that I wouldn't have had a line on 'em anyway; for whatever that bunch of Philadelphia live wires gets hold of is worth watchin'. Say, they'd consolidate city breathin' air if they could, and make it pay dividends. It's important to note too, that they're buyin' into Corrugated so deep. I mentions the fact casual to Mr. Robert. \"Really,\" says he, liftin' his eyebrows surprised. \"Federated Tractions! Are you certain?\" \"Unless our registry clerk has had a funny dream,\" says I. \"The notice was listed yesterday. And you know how grouchy the old girl was on us.\" \"H-m-m-m!\" says he, drummin' his fingers nervous. \"Thanks, Torchy. I must look into this.\" Seemed to worry Mr. Robert a bit; so maybe that's why I had my ears stretched wider'n usual. It wa'n't an hour later that I runs across Izzy Budheimer down in the Arcade. He's on the Curb now, Izzy is, and by the size of the diamond horseshoe decoratin' the front of his silk shirt he must be tradin' some in wildcats. Hails me like a friend and brother, Izzy does, tries to wish a tinfoil Fumadora on me, and gives me the happy josh about bein' boosted off the gate. \"You'll be gettin' wise to all the inside deals now, eh?\" says he, winkin' foxy. \"And maybe we might work off something together. Yes?\" \"Sure!\" says I. \"I'll come down every noon with the office secrets and let you peddle 'em around Broad street from a pushcart. Gwan, you parrot-beaked near-broker! Why, I wouldn't trust tellin' you the time of day!\" Izzy grins like I'd paid him a compliment. \"Such a joker!\" says he. \"But listen! Which side do the Tractions people come down on?\" \"Federated?\" says I. \"North corridor, just around the corner. Sleuthin' around that bunch, are you? What's doing in Tractions?\"", "words": 318}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"How should I know?\" protests Izzy, openin' his eyes innocent. \"Maybe I got a customer on the general staff, ain't it?\" \"You'd be scoutin' up here at this time of day after a ten-dollar commission, wouldn't you?\" says I. \"And with that slump in Connecticut Gas in full blast! Can it, Izzy! I know a thing or two about Tractions myself.\" \"Yes?\" he whispers persuasive, almost holdin' his breath. \"What do you hear, now?\" \"Don't say I told you,\" says I, \"but they're thinkin' of puttin' in left-handed straps for south-paw passengers.\" Izzy looks pained and disgusted. He's got a serious mind, Izzy has, and if you could take a thumbprint of his brain, it would be all fractions and dollar signs. \"I have to meet my cousin Abie Moss,\" says he, edgin' away. \"He has a bookkeeper's job with Tractions for a month now, and I promised his aunt I would ask how he's comin'.\" \"How touchin'!\" says I as he moves off.", "words": 164}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I gazes after him curious a minute, and then follows a sudden hunch. Why not see just how much of a bluff this was about Cousin Abie? So I slips around by the cigar stand, steps behind a pillar, and keeps him in range. Three or four minutes I watched Izzy waitin' at the elevator exit, without seein' him give anyone the fraternal grip. Then he seems to quit. He drifts back towards the Arcade with the lunch crowd, and I was about to turn away when I lamps him bein' slipped a piece of paper by a short, squatty-built guy who brushes by him casual. Izzy gathers it in with never a word and strolls over to the 'phone booths, where he lets on to be huntin' a number in the directory. All he does there, though, is spread out that paper, read it through hasty, and then tear it up and chuck it in the waste basket. \"Huh!\" says I, seein' Izzy scuttle off towards Broadway. \"Looks like there was a plot to the piece. I wonder?\" And just for the fun of the thing I collected them twenty-eight pieces of yellow paper, carried 'em over to my lunch place, and spent the best part of my noon-hour piecin' 'em together. What I got was this, scribbled in lead pencil: Grebel out. Larkin melding. Teg morf rednu. \"Whiffo!\" thinks I. \"What kind of a Peruvian dialect is this?\" Course the names was plain enough. Everybody knows Grebel and Larkin, and that they're the big wheezes in that Philly crowd. But what then? Had Grebel gone out to lunch? And was Larkin playin' penuchle? Thrillin', if true. Then comes this \"Teg morf rednu\" stuff. Was that Russian, or Chinese? \"Heiney,\" says I, callin' the dough-faced food juggler. \"Heiney,\" I repeats solemn, \"Teg morf rednu.\"", "words": 305}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Not a smile from Heiney. He grabs the bill of fare and begins to hunt through the cheese list panicky. \"Never mind,\" says I, \"you won't find it there. But here's another: What do you do when you meld a hundred aces, say?\" A look of almost human intelligence flickers into Heiney's face. \"_Ach!_\" says he. \"By the table you pud 'em--so!\" \"Thanks, Heiney,\" says I. \"That helps a little.\" So Larkin was chuckin' something on the table, was he! But this other dope, \"Teg morf rednu?\" Say, I'd come back to that after every bite. I wrote it out on an envelope, tried runnin' it together and splittin' it up diff'rent, and turned it upside down. Then in a flash I got it. When Mr. Robert sails in from the club I was waitin' for him. He'd heard a rumor that Grebel was to retire soon. Also he'd met young Larkin in the billiard room, and found that the fam'ly was goin' abroad for the summer. \"But all that may mean nothing at all, you know,\" says Mr. Robert. \"And then again,\" says I. \"Study that out and see if it don't tally with your dope,\" and I produces a copy of Izzy's wireless. Mr. Robert wrinkles his forehead over it without any result. \"What is it?\" says he. \"An inside tip on Tractions,\" says I, and sketches out how I'd got it. \"Oh, I see now,\" says he. \"That about Grebel? But what is melding? And this last--'Teg morf rednu'? I can make no sense of that.\" \"Try it backwards,\" says I. \"Why--er--by Jove!\" says he. \"Get from under, eh? Then--then there is a slump coming. And with all that new stock issue, I'm not surprised. But that hits Miss Vee's aunt rather heavily, doesn't it? That is, if the deal has gone through.\" \"Who's her lawyers?\" says I. \"They ought to know.\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Of course,\" says Mr. Robert, reachin' for the 'phone. \"Winkler, Burt & Winkler. Look up the number, will you? Eh? Broad, did you say?\" And inside of three minutes he has explained the case and got the verdict. \"They don't know,\" says he. \"The transfer receipts were sent for her to sign last night. If she's signed them, there's nothing to be done.\" \"But if she hasn't?\" says I. \"Then she mustn't,\" says Mr. Robert. \"It would mean letting that crowd get a foothold in Corrugated, and a loss of thousands to her. See if the tape shows any recent fluctuations.\" \"Bluey-ooey!\" says I, runnin' over the mornin' sales hasty. \"Opened at seven-eighths, then 500 at three-quarters, another block at a half, 300 at a quarter--why, it's on the toboggan!\" \"She must be found and warned at once,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Am I the guy?\" says I. \"You are,\" says he. \"And minutes may count. I'll get the address for you. It's in that----\" \"Say,\" I throws over my shoulder on my way to the door, \"whose aunt is this, anyway?\" Looked like a simple matter for me to locate Aunty. And if she was out takin' her drive or anything--why, I could be explainin' to Vee while I waited. That would be tough luck, of course; but I could stand it for once. At their apartment hotel I finds nobody home but Celeste, the maid, all dolled up like Thursday afternoon. She hands it to me cold and haughty that Madame and Ma'mselle are out. \"I could almost guess that from the lid you're wearin',\" says I. \"One of Miss Vee's, ain't it?\" She pinks up and goes gaspy at that. \"Please,\" she begins pleadin', \"if you would not mention----\" \"I might forget to,\" I breaks in, \"if you'll tell me where I can find 'em quickest.\"", "words": 308}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "And Celeste gets the information out rapid. They're house-partyin' at the Morley Beckhams, over at Quehassett, Long Island. \"Rosemere\" is the name of the joint. \"Me for Quehassett!\" says I, dashin' for the elevator. But, say, I needn't have lost my breath. Parts of Long Island you can get to every half-hour or so; but Quehassett ain't one of 'em. Huntin' it up on the railroad map, I discovers that it's 'way out to the deuce and gone on the north shore, and the earliest start I can get is the four o'clock local. Ever cruise around much on them Long Island branch lines? Say, it must be int'restin' sport, providin' you don't care whether you get there this week or next. I missed one connection by waitin' for the brakeman to call out the change. And when I'd caught another train back to the right junction I got the pleasin' bulletin that the next for Quehassett is the theater train, that comes along somewhere about midnight. So there I was hung up in a rummy little commuter town where the chief industry is sellin' bungalow sites on the salt marsh. Then I tackles the 'phone, which results in three snappy conversations with a grouchy butler at sixty cents a throw, but no real dope on the Beckhams or their guests. Well, it's near two A.M. when I fin'lly lands in Quehassett, which is no proper time to call on anybody's aunt. Everything is shut tight too; so I spreads out an evenin' edition on a baggage truck and turns in weary. I'd overlooked pullin' down the front shades to the station, though, and the next thing I knew the sun was hittin' me square in the face.", "words": 288}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I wanders around Quehassett until a Dago opens up a little fruitstand. He sold me some bananas and a couple of muskmelons for breakfast, and points out which road leads to Rosemere. It's down on the shore about a mile and a half, and I strolls along, eatin' fruit and enjoyin' the early mornin' air. Some joint Rosemere turns out to be,--acres of lawn, and rows of striped awnin's at the windows. The big iron gates was locked, with nobody in sight; so I has plenty of time to write a note to Vee, beggin' her for the love of soup, if Aunty hasn't signed the transfer papers, not to let her do it until she hears from me. My scheme was to get one of the help to take the message to Vee before she got up. Must have been near seven o'clock when I gets hold of one of the gardeners, tips him a dollar, and drags out of him the fact that cook says how all the folks are off on the yacht, which is gen'rally anchored off the dock. He don't know if it's there now or not. It was last night. I can tell by goin' down. The road follows that little creek. So I gallops down to the shore. No yacht in sight. There's a point of land juts out to the left. Maybe she's anchored behind that. Comin' down along the creek too, I'd seen an old tub of a boat tied up. Back I chases for it.", "words": 255}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Looked simple for me to keep on; but when I get started on a trail I never know when to stop. I was paddlin' down the creek, bound for nowhere special, when along comes a sporty-dressed young gent, wearin' puttee leggin's and a leather cap with goggles attached. He's luggin' a five-gallon can of gasoline, and strikes me for a lift down the shore a bit. \"Keepin' your car in the Sound, are you?\" says I, shovin' in towards the bank. \"It's an aerohydro,\" says he. \"Eh?\" says I. \"A--a which?\" \"An air boat, you know,\" says he. \"I'm going to try her out. Bully morning for a flight, isn't it?\" \"Maybe,\" says I. \"Get aboard. Always have to cart your gas down this way?\" At that he grows real chatty. Seems this is a brand-new machine, just delivered the night before, and he's keepin' it a dead secret from the fam'ly, so Mother won't worry. He says that's all nonsense, though; for he's been takin' lessons on the quiet for more than a year, has earned his pilot's license, and can handle any kind of a plane. \"Just straight driving, of course,\" he goes on. \"I don't attempt spiral dips, or exhibition work. I've never been up more than five hundred feet. And this is such a safe type. Oh, the folks will come around to it after they've seen me up once or twice. I want to surprise 'em. There she is, up the shore. See!\" Hanged if I hadn't missed it before, when I was lookin' for the yacht! Spidery lookin' affairs, ain't they, when you get close to, with all them slim wire guys? And the boat part is about as substantial as a pasteboard battleship. While he's pourin' in the gasoline I paddles around and inspects the thing. \"Five hundred feet up?\" says I. \"Excuse me!\"", "words": 311}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "He grins good natured. \"Think you wouldn't like it, eh?\" says he. \"Why?\" \"Too cobwebby,\" says I. \"Why, them wings are nothin' but cloth.\" \"Best quality duck, two layers,\" says he. \"And the frame has a tensile strength of three hundred and fifty pounds to the square foot. Isn't that motor a beauty? Ninety-horse.\" \"Guess I'll take my joy ridin' closer to the turf, though,\" says I. \"Course, I've always had a batty notion I'd like to fly some time; but----\" \"Hello!\" he breaks in. \"There goes the Katrina!\" and he points out a big white yacht that's slippin' along through the water about half a mile off. \"It's the Beckhams',\" he goes on. \"They're our neighbors here at Rosemere, you know. They have guests from town, and my folks are aboard. By Jove! Here's my chance to surprise 'em. I say, would you mind paddling around and giving me a shove off?\" But I stands gawpin' out at the yacht. \"The Morley Beckhams?\" says I. \"Yes, yes!\" says he. \"But hurry, please. I want to catch them.\" \"You--you----?\" But I was thinkin' too rapid to talk much. Vee and Aunty was out on that boat, and maybe at the next landin' Aunty would mail them transfers. If it was goin' to hit her alone, I might have stood it calmer; but there was Vee. \"Say,\" I sputters out, \"ain't there room for two?\" \"Why, ye-e-e-es,\" says he sort of draggy. \"I've never taken up a passenger, though; but I've thought that----\" \"Then why not now?\" says I. \"I want to go the worst way.\" \"But a moment ago,\" he protests, \"you----\" \"It's different now,\" says I. \"There's a party on that yacht I want to get word to,--Miss Hemmingway. I got to, that's all! And what's a neck more or less? I'll take the chance if you will.\"", "words": 309}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"By Jove!\" says he. \"I'll do it. Shove off. Here, stick your oar into the mud and push. That's it! Now climb in and give that old tub of yours a shove so she'll clear that left plane. Good work! Here's your seat, beside me. Don't get your knees in the way of that lever, please, or put your feet on that cross bar. That's my rudder control. Now! Are you ready? Then I'll start her.\" Say, I didn't have time to work up any spine chills, or even say a \"Now-I-lay-me.\" He reaches up behind him, gives the crank a whirl, and the next thing I know we're shootin' over the water like an express train, with the spray flyin', the wind whistlin' in my ears, and eight cylinders exhaustin' direct within two feet of the back of my neck. Talk about speedin'! When you're travelin' through the water at a forty-mile-an-hour gait, and so close you can trail your fingers, you know all about it. Although it's a calm mornin', with hardly a ripple, the motion was a little bumpy. No wonder! Then all of a sudden I has a sinkin' sensation somewhere under my vest, the bumpin' stops, and I feels like I'd shuffled off somethin' heavy. I had--a billion tons or more! Glancin' over the side, I sees the water ten or a dozen feet below us. We were in the air. And, believe me, I reaches out for something solid to hold onto! All I could find was a two-inch upright, and I takes a fond grip on that. If it had been a telephone pole, I'd felt better.", "words": 274}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "My sporty-dressed friend smiles encouragin' over his shoulder. I hope I smiled back; but I wouldn't swear to it. Not that I'm scared. Hush, hush! But I wa'n't used to bein' shot through the air so impetuous. I takes another glance overboard. Hel-lup! Someone's pullin' Long Island Sound from under us. The water must have been fifty or sixty feet down, and gettin' more so. For a while after that I looks straight ahead. What's the use keepin' track of how high you are, anyway? You'll only bore just so big a hole in the water if you fall. But it's funny how soon you can get over feelin's like that. Inside of three minutes I'd quit grippin' the stanchion and was sittin' there peaceful, enjoyin' the ride. We seemed to be sailin' along on a level now, about housetop high, and so far as I could see we was as steady as if we'd been on a front veranda. There's no sway or rock to the machine at all. I'd been holdin' myself as rigid as if I'd been in a tippy canoe; but now I took a chance on shiftin' my position a little. I even leaned over the side. Nothing happened. That was comfortin'. How easy and smooth it was, glidin' along up there! Meanwhile we'd taken a wide sweep and was leavin' the yacht far behind. \"Say,\" I shouts to my aviatin' friend, \"how do we get to her?\" But it's no use tryin' to converse with that roar in your ears. I points back to the boat. He nods and smiles. \"Wait!\" he yells at me.", "words": 271}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "With that he pulls his plane lever and we begins to climb some more. You hardly know you're doin' it, though. Up or down don't mean anything in the air, where the goin' is all the same. Only as we gets higher the Sound narrows and Long Island stretches further and further. And, take it from me, that's the way to view scenery! Up and up we slid, just soarin' free and careless. He turns to me with another grin, to see how I'm takin' it. And this time I grins back. \"About three hundred!\" he shouts, puttin' his mouth close. \"Eighty an hour too!\" \"Zippy stuff!\" says I. Then he gives me a nudge, juggles his deflectors, and down we shoots. I never had any part of the map come at me so fast. Seemed like the Sound was just rushin' at us, and I was tryin' to guess how far into the bottom we'd go, when he pulls the lever again and we skims along just above the surface. Shootin' the chutes--say, that Coney stunt seems tame compared to this! In no time at all we've made a circle around the yacht and are comin' up behind her once more. We could see the people pilin' out on deck to rubber at us. In a minute more we'd be even with 'em. And how was I goin' to deliver that message to Vee? Just then I looks in my lap, where I was grippin' my straw lid between my knees, and discovers that I've lugged along one of them muskmelons in a paper bag. That gives me my hunch. Fishin' out the note I'd written, I slits the melon with my knife and jabs it in. Then I shows the breakfast bomb to my friend and points to the yacht. He nods. Some bean, that guy had!", "words": 309}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"I'll sail over her,\" he howls in my ear. \"You can drop it on the deck.\" There was no time for gettin' ready or takin' practice shots. Up we glides into the air right over the white wake she was leavin'. The folks on her was wavin' to us. First I made out Vee, standin' on the little bridge amidships, lookin' cute and classy in white serge. Then I spots Aunty, who's tumbled out in her boudoir cap and kimono. I leans over and waves enthusiastic. \"Hey, Vee!\" I shouts. \"Watch this!\" I'd picked out the widest part of the deck forward, where there's no awnin' up, and when it was exactly underneath I lets the melon go, hard as I could shoot it. Some shot that was too! I saw it smash on the deck, watched one of the sailors stare at it stupid, and then caught a glimpse of Vee rushin' towards the spot. Course I wa'n't sure she knew me at that distance, or had heard what I said; but trust her for doin' the right thing at the right time! \"There's Mother!\" I hears my sporty friend roar out. \"I say! Mother! It's Billy, you know.\" No doubt about Mother's catchin' on. Maybe she'd suspicioned, anyway; but the last I saw of her she was slumpin' into the arms of a white-haired old gent behind her. Another minute and we'd left the Katrina behind like she had seven anchors out. On we went and up once more, turnin' with a dizzy swoop and skimmin' past her, back towards where we started from. And just as I was wishin' he'd go faster and higher we settles down on the water, dashes in behind the dock, the motor slows up, the plane floats drag in the mud, and it's all over.", "words": 303}, {"story": 38, "title": "Torchy Takes a Chance", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Took the yacht near an hour to get back to us. Mother had insisted, and when she found Billy all safe and sound she fell on his neck and forgave him. As for me? Well, maybe I didn't have some swell report to turn in to Mr. Robert! I had him listenin' with his mouth open before I got through too. \"Aunty was mighty suspicious first off,\" says I; \"but after she'd used the long distance and got a line on how Tractions was waverin', she warms up quite a lot, for her. Uh-huh! Gives me a vote of thanks, and says she'll call off the deal.\" \"Torchy,\" says Mr. Robert, \"I am speechless with admiration. Your business methods are certainly advanced. I had not thought of flying as a modern requisite for a commercial career.\" \"The real thing in high finance, eh?\" says I. \"And, say, me for the air after this! I've swallowed the bug. I know how a bloomin' seagull feels when he's on the wing; and, believe me, it's got everything else in the sport line lookin' like playin' tag with your feet tied!\"", "words": 188}, {"story": 39, "title": "Breaking It to the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I don't admit it went to my head,--not so bad as that,--only maybe my chest measure had swelled an inch or so, and I wouldn't say my heels wa'n't hittin' a bit hard as I strolls dignified up and down the private office. You see, Mr. Robert was snitchin' a couple of days off for the Newport regatta, and he'd sort of left me on the lid, as you might say. So far as there bein' any real actin' head of the Corrugated Trust for the time being--well, I was it. Anyway, I'd passed along some confidential dope to our Western sales manager, stood by to take a report from the special audit committee, and had an interview with the president of a big bond house, all in one forenoon. That was speedin' up some for a private sec, wa'n't it? And now I was just markin' time, waitin' for what might turn up, and feelin' equal to pullin' off any sort of a deal, from matchin' Piddie for the lunches to orderin' a new stock issue. What if the asphalt over on Fifth-ave. was softenin' up, with the mercury hittin' the nineties, and half the force off on vacations? I had a real job to attend to. I was doin' things! And as I stops by the roll-top to lean up against it casual I had that comf'table, easy feelin' of bein' the right man in the right place. You know, I guess? You're there with the goods. You ain't the whole works maybe; but you're a special, particular party, one that can push buttons and have 'em answered, paw over the mail, or put your initials under a signature.", "words": 281}, {"story": 39, "title": "Breaking It to the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "And right in the midst of them rosy reflections the door to the private office swings open abrupt and in pads a stout old party wearin' a generous-built pongee suit and a high-crowned Panama. Also there's something familiar about the bushy eyebrows and the lima bean ears. It's Old Hickory himself. I chokes down a gasp and straightens up. \"Gee, Mr. Ellins!\" says I. \"I thought you was down at the Springs?\" \"Didn't think I'd been banished for life, did you?\" says he. \"But Mr. Robert,\" I goes on, \"didn't look for you until----\" \"No doubt,\" he breaks in. \"Robert and those fool doctors would have kept me soaking in those infernal mud baths until I turned into a crocodile. I know. I'm a gouty, rheumatic old wreck, I suppose; but I'll be dad blistered if I'm going to end my days wallowing in medicated mud! I've had enough. Where is everybody?\" So I has to account for Mr. Robert, tell how Mrs. Ellins and Marjorie and Son-in-Law Ferdie are up to Bar Harbor, and hint that they're expectin' him to come up as soon as he lands. \"That's their programme, is it?\" he growls. \"Think I'm going to spend the rest of the season sitting on a veranda taking pills, do they? Well, they're mistaken!\" And off he goes into his own room. I don't know what he thought he was goin' to do there. Just habit, I expect. For we've been gettin' along without Old Hickory for quite some time now, while he's been away. First off he tried to keep in touch with things by night letters, then he had a weekly report sent him; but gradually he lost the run of the new deals, and for the last month or so he'd quit firin' over any orders at all.", "words": 303}, {"story": 39, "title": "Breaking It to the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Through the open door I could see him sittin' at his big, flat-topped mahogany desk, starin' around sort of aimless. Then he pulls out a drawer and shuffles over some old papers that had been there ever since he left. Next he picks up a pen and starts to make some notes. \"Boy!\" he sings out. \"Ink!\" Course I could have pushed the buzzer and had Vincent do it; but seein' how nobody had put him wise to the change, I didn't feel like announcin' it myself. So I fills the inkwell, chases up a waste basket for him, and turns on the electric fan. \"Now bring the mail!\" says he snappy. He was back to; so it was safe to smile. You see, I'd attended to all the mornin' deliveries, sorted out what I knew had to be held over for Mr. Robert, opened what was doubtful, and sent off a few answers accordin' to orders. But, after all, he was the big boss. He had a right to go through the motions if he wanted to. So I lugs in the mail, dumps it in the tray, and leaves him with it. Must have been half an hour later, and I was back at my own desk doping out a schedule I'd promised to fix up for Mr. Robert, when I glances up to find Old Hickory wanderin' around the room absent-minded. He's starin' hard at a letter he holds in one paw. All of a sudden he discovers me at the roll-top. For a second he scowls at me from under the bushy eyebrows, and then comes the explosion. \"Boy!\" he sings out. \"What the hyphenated maledictions are you doing there?\" Well, I broke it to him as gentle as I could. \"Promoted, eh?\" he snorts. \"To what?\" And I explains how I'm private secretary to the president of the Mutual Funding Company.", "words": 316}, {"story": 39, "title": "Breaking It to the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Never heard of such an organization,\" says he. \"What is it, anyway?\" \"Dummy concern mostly,\" says I, \"faked up to stall off the I. C. C.\" \"Eh?\" he gawps. \"Interstate Commerce Commission,\" says I. \"We beat 'em to it, you know, by dissolvin'--on paper. Had to have somebody to use the rubber stamp; so they picked me off the gate.\" \"Humph!\" he grunts. \"So you're no longer an office boy, eh? But I had you hopping around like one. How was that?\" \"Guess I got a hop or two left in me,\" says I, \"specially for you, Mr. Ellins.\" \"Hah!\" says he. \"Also more or less blarney left on the tongue. Well, young man, we'll see. As office boy you had your good points, I remember; but as----\" Then he breaks off and repeats, \"We'll see, Son.\" And he goes to studyin' the letter once more. Fin'lly he sends for Piddie. They confabbed for a while, and as Piddie comes out he's still explainin' how he's sure he don't know, but most likely Mr. Robert understands all about it. \"Hang what Robert understands!\" snaps Old Hickory. \"He isn't here, is he? And I want to know now. Torchy, come in here!\" \"Yes, Sir,\" says I, scentin' trouble and salutin' respectful. \"What about these Universal people refusing to renew that Manistee terminal lease?\" he demands. And if he'd asked how many feathers in a rooster's tail I'd been just as full of information. But from what Piddie's drawn by declarin' an alibi, it didn't look like that was my cue. \"Suppose I get you the correspondence on that?\" says I, and rushes out after the copybook.", "words": 275}, {"story": 39, "title": "Breaking It to the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "But the results wa'n't enlightenin'. We'd applied for renewal on the old terms, the Universal folks had sent back word that in due course the matter would be taken up, and that's all until this notice comes in that there's nothin' doin'. \"Inexpedient under present conditions,\" was the way they put it. \"I expect Mr. Robert will be back Monday,\" I suggests cautious. \"Oh, do you?\" raps out Old Hickory. \"And meanwhile this lease expires to-morrow noon, leaving us without a foot of ore wharf anywhere on the Great Lakes. What does Mr. Robert intend to do then--transport by aeroplane? Just asked pleasant and polite for a renewal, did he? And before I could make 'em grant the original I all but had their directors strung up by the thumbs! Hah!\" He settles back heavy in his chair and sets them cut granite jaws of his solid. He don't look so much like an invalid, after all. There's good color in his cheeks, and behind the droopy lids you could see the fighting light in his eyes. He glances once more at the letter. \"Hello!\" says he. \"I thought their main offices were in Chicago. This is from Broadway, International Utilities Building. Perhaps you can tell me what they're doing down there?\" \"Subsidiary of I. U.,\" says I. \"Been listed that way all summer.\" \"Then,\" says Old Hickory, smilin' grim, \"we have to do once more with no less a personage than Gedney Nash. Well, so be it. He and I have fought out other differences. We'll try again. And if I'm a back number, I'll soon know it. Now get me a list of our outside security holdings.\"", "words": 279}, {"story": 39, "title": "Breaking It to the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "That was his first order; but, say, inside of half an hour he had everybody in the shop, from little Vincent up to the head of the bond department, doin' flipflops and pinwheels. Didn't take 'em long to find out that he was back on the job, either. \"Breezy with that now!\" I'd tell 'em. \"This is a rush order for the old man. Sure he's in there. Can't you smell the sulphur?\" In the midst of it comes a hundred-word code message from Dalton, our traffic superintendent, sayin' how he'd been notified to remove his wharf spurs within twenty-four hours and askin' panicky what he should do about it. \"Tell him to hold his tracks with loaded ore trains, and keep his shirt on,\" growls Old Hickory over his shoulder. \"And 'phone Peabody, Frost & Co. to send up their railroad securities expert on the double quick.\" That's the way it went from eleven A.M. until two-thirty, and all the lunch I indulged in was two bites of a cheese sandwich that Vincent split with me. At two-thirty-five Old Hickory jams on his hat and signals for me. \"Gather up those papers and come along,\" says he. \"I think we're ready now to talk to Gedney Nash.\"", "words": 208}, {"story": 39, "title": "Breaking It to the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I smothered a gasp. Was he nutty, or what? You know you don't drop in offhand on a man like Gedney Nash, same as you would on a shrimp bank president, or a corporation head. You hear a lot about him, of course,--now givin' a million to charity, then bein' denounced as a national highway robber,--but you don't see him. Anyway, I never knew of anyone who did. He's the man behind, the one that pulls the strings. Course, he's supposed to be at the head of International Utilities, but he claims not to hold any office. And you know what happened when Congress tried to get him before an investigatin' committee. All that showed up was a squad of lawyers, who announced they was ready to answer any questions they couldn't file an exception to, and three doctors with affidavits to prove that Mr. Nash was about to expire from as many incurable diseases. So Congress gave it up. Yet here we was, pikin' downtown without any notice, expectin' to find him as easy as if he was a traffic cop on a fixed post. Well, we didn't. The minute we blows into the arcade and begins to ask for him, up slides a smooth-talkin' buildin' detective who listens polite what I feed him and suggests that if we wait a minute he'll call up the gen'ral offices. Which he does and reports that they've no idea where Mr. Nash can be found. Maybe he's gone to the mountains, or over to his Long Island place, or abroad on a vacation. \"Tommyrot!\" says Old Hickory. \"Gedney Nash never took a vacation in his life. I know he's in New York now.\"", "words": 282}, {"story": 39, "title": "Breaking It to the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "The gentleman sleuth shrugs his shoulders and allows that if Mr. Ellins ain't satisfied he might go up to Floor 11 and ask for himself. So up we went. Ever in the Tractions Buildin'? Say, it's like bein' caught in a fog down the bay,--all silence and myst'ry. I expect it's the headquarters of a hundred or more diff'rent corporations, all tied up some way or other with I. U. interests; but on the doors never the name of one shows: just \"Mr. So-and-So,\" \"Mr. Whadye Callum,\" \"Mr. This-and-That.\" Clerks hurry by you with papers in their hands, walkin' soft on rubber heels. They tap respectful on a door, it opens silent, they disappear. When they meet in the corridors they pass without hailin', without even a look. You feel that there's something doin' around you, something big and important. But the gears don't give out any hum. It's like a game of blind man's bluff played in the dark. And the sharp-eyed, gray-haired gent we talked to through the brass gratin' acted like he'd never heard the name Gedney Nash before. When Old Hickory cuts loose with the tabasco remarks at him he only smiles patient and insists that if he can locate Mr. Nash, which he doubts, he'll do his best to arrange an interview. It may take a day, or a week, or a month, but---- \"Bah!\" snorts Old Hickory, turnin' on his heel, and he cusses eloquent all the way down and out to the taxi. \"Seems to me I've heard how Mr. Nash uses a private elevator,\" I suggests. \"Quite like him,\" says Old Hickory. \"Think you could find it?\" \"I could make a stab,\" says I.", "words": 282}, {"story": 39, "title": "Breaking It to the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "But at that I knew I was kiddin' myself. Why not? Ain't there been times when whole bunches of live-wire reporters, not to mention relays of court deputies, have raked New York with a fine-tooth comb, lookin' for Gedney Nash, without even gettin' so much as a glimpse of his limousine rollin' round a corner. \"Suppose we circle the block once or twice, while I tear off a few Sherlock Holmes thoughts?\" says I. Mr. Ellins sniffs scornful; but he'd gone the limit himself, so he gives the directions. I leaned back, shut my eyes, and tried to guess how a foxy old guy like Nash would fix it up so he could do the unseen duck off Broadway into his private office. Was it a tunnel from the subway through the boiler basement, or a bridge from the next skyscraper, or---- But the sight of a blue cap made me ditch this dream stuff. Funny I hadn't thought of that line before--and me an A. D. T. once myself! \"Hey, you!\" I calls out the window. \"Wait up, Cabby, while we take on a passenger. Yes, you, Skinny. Hop in here. Ah, what for would we be kidnappin' a remnant like you? It's your birthday, ain't it? And the gentleman here has a present for you--a whole dollar. Eh, Mr. Ellins?\" Old Hickory looks sort of puzzled; but he forks out the singleton, and the messenger climbs in after it. A chunky, round-faced kid he was too. I pushed him into one of the foldin' front seats and proceeds to apply the pump. \"What station do you run from, Sport?\" says I. \"Number six,\" says he. \"Oh, yes,\" says I. \"Just back of the Exchange. And is old Connolly chief down there still?\" \"Yes, Sir,\" says he. \"Give him my regards when you get back,\" says I, \"and tell him Torchy says he's a flivver.\" The kid grins enthusiastic.", "words": 320}, {"story": 39, "title": "Breaking It to the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"By the way,\" I goes on, \"who's he sendin' out with the Nash work--Gedney Nash's, you know?\" \"Number 17,\" says he, \"Loppy Miller.\" \"What!\" says I. \"Old Loppy carryin' the book yet? Why, he had grown kids when I wore the stripes. Well, well! Cagy old duffer, Loppy. Ever ask him where he delivers the Nash business?\" \"Yep,\" says the youngster, \"and he near got me fired for it.\" \"But you found out, didn't you?\" says I. He glances at me suspicious and rolls his eyes. \"M-m-m-m,\" says he, shakin' his head. \"Ah, come!\" says I. \"You don't mean that a real sure-fire like you could be shunted that way? There'd be no harm in your givin' a guess, and if it was right--well, we could run that birthday stake up five more; couldn't we, Mr. Ellins?\" Old Hickory nods, and passes me a five-spot prompt. \"Well?\" says I, wavin' it careless. The kid might have been scared, but he had the kale-itch in his fingers. \"All I know,\" says he, \"is that Loppy allus goes into the William Street lobby of the Farmers' National.\" \"Go on!\" says I. \"That don't come within two numbers of backin' against the Traction Buildin'.\" \"But Loppy allus does,\" he insists. \"There's a door to the right, just beyond the teller's window. But you can't get past the gink in the gray helmet. I tried once.\" \"Secret entrance, eh?\" says I. \"Sounds convincin'. Anyway, I got your number. So here's your five. Invest it in baby bonds, and don't let on to Mother. You're six to the good, and your job safe. By-by!\" \"What now?\" says Old Hickory. \"Shall we try the secret door?\" \"Not unless we're prepared to do strong arm work on the guard,\" says I. \"No. What we got to frame up now is a good excuse. Let's see, you can't ring in as one of the fam'ly, can you?\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 39, "title": "Breaking It to the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Not as any relative of Gedney's,\" says Old Hickory. \"I'm not built right.\" \"How about his weak points?\" says I. \"Know of any fads of his?\" \"Why,\" says Mr. Ellins, \"he is a good deal interested in landscape gardening, and he goes in for fancy poultry, I believe.\" \"That's the line!\" says I. \"Poultry! Ain't there a store down near Fulton Market where we could buy a sample?\" I was in too much of a rush to go into details, and it must have seemed a batty performance to Old Hickory; but off we chases, and when we drove up to the Farmers' National half an hour later I has a wicker cage in each hand and Mr. Ellins has both fists full of poultry literature displayed prominent. Sure enough too, we finds the door beyond the teller's window, also the gink in the gray helmet. He's a husky-built party, with narrow-set, suspicious eyes. \"Up to Mr. Nash's,\" says I casual, makin' a move to walk right past. \"Back up!\" says he, steppin' square across the way. \"What Mr. Nash?\" \"Whadye mean, what Mr. Nash?\" says I. \"There ain't clusters of 'em, are there? Mr. Gedney Nash, of course.\" \"Wrong street,\" says he. \"Try around on Broadway.\" \"What a kidder!\" says I. \"But if you will delay the champion hen expert of the country,\" and I nods to Old Hickory, \"just send word up to Mr. Nash that Mr. Skellings has come with that pair of silver-slashed blue Orpingtons he wanted to see.\" \"Blue which?\" says the guard. \"Ah, take a look!\" says I. \"Ain't they some birds? Gold medal winners, both of 'em.\" I holds open the paper wrappings while he inspects the cacklers. And, believe me, they was the fanciest poultry specimens I'd ever seen! Honest, they looked like they'd been got up for the pullets' annual costume ball.", "words": 311}, {"story": 39, "title": "Breaking It to the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"And Mr. Nash,\" I goes on, \"said Mr. Skellings was to bring 'em in this way.\" The guard takes another glance at Old Hickory, and that got him; for in his high-crowned Panama the boss does look more like a fancy farmer than he does like the head of the Corrugated. \"I'll see,\" says he, openin' a little closet and producin' a 'phone. He was havin' some trouble too, tellin' someone just who we was, when I cuts in. \"Ah, just describe the birds,\" says I. \"Silver-slashed blue Orpingtons, you know.\" Does it work? Say, in less than two minutes we was being towed through a windin' passage that fin'lly ends in front of a circular shaft with a cute little elevator waitin' at the bottom. \"Pass two,\" says the guard. Another minute and we're bein' shot up I don't know how many stories, and are steppin' out into the swellest set of office rooms I was ever in. A mahogany door opens, and in comes a wispy, yellow-skinned, dried-up little old party with eyes like a rat. Didn't look much like the pictures they print of him, but I guessed it was Gedney. \"Some prize Orpingtons, did I understand?\" says he, in a soft, purry voice. \"I don't recall having----\" Then he gets a good look at Old Hickory, and his tone changes sudden. \"What!\" he snaps. \"You, Ellins? How did you get in here?\" \"With those fool chickens,\" says the boss. \"But--but I didn't know,\" goes on Mr. Nash, \"that you were interested in that sort of thing.\" \"Glad to say I'm not,\" comes back Old Hickory. \"Just a scheme of my brilliant-haired young friend here to smuggle me into the sacred presence. Great Zacharias, Nash! why don't you shut yourself in a steel vault, and have done with it?\"", "words": 302}, {"story": 39, "title": "Breaking It to the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Gedney bites his upper lip, annoyed. \"I find it necessary,\" says he, \"to avoid interruptions. I presume, however, that you came on some errand of importance?\" \"I did,\" says Old Hickory. \"I want to get a renewal of that Manistee terminal lease.\" Say, of all the scientific squirmin', Gedney Nash can put up the slickest specimen. First off he lets on not to know a thing about it. Well, perhaps it was true that International Utilities did control those wharves: he really couldn't say. And besides that matter would be left entirely to the discretion of---- \"No, it won't,\" breaks in Old Hickory, shakin' a stubby forefinger at him. \"It's between us, Nash. You know what those terminal privileges mean to us. We can't get on without them. And if you take 'em away, it's a fight to a finish--that's all!\" \"Sorry, Ellins,\" says Mr. Nash, \"but I can do nothing.\" \"Wait,\" says Old Hickory. \"Did you know that we held a big block of your M., K. & T.'s? Well, we do. They happen to be first lien bonds too. And M., K. & T. defaulted on its last interest coupons. Entirely unnecessary, I know, but it throws the company open to a foreclosure petition. Want us to put it in?\" \"H-m-m-m!\" says Mr. Nash. \"Er--won't you sit down?\" Now if it had been two common, everyday parties, debatin' which owned a yellow dog, they'd gone hoarse over it; but not these two plutes. Gedney Nash asks Old Hickory only three more questions before he turns to the wicker cages and begins admirin' the fancy poultry. \"Excellent specimens, excellent!\" says he. \"And in the pink of condition too. I have a few Orpingtons on my place; but--oh, by the way, Ellins, are these really intended for me?\" \"With Torchy's compliments,\" says Old Hickory.", "words": 304}, {"story": 39, "title": "Breaking It to the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"By Jove!\" says Gedney. \"I--I'm greatly obliged--truly, I am. What plumage! What hackles! And--er--just leave that terminal lease, will you? I'll have it renewed and sent up. Would you mind too if I sent you out by the Broadway entrance?\" I didn't mind, for one, and I guess the boss didn't; for the last office we passes through was where the gray-haired gent camped watchful behind the brass gratin'. \"Well, wouldn't that crimp you?\" I remarks, givin' him the passin' grin. \"Our old friend Ananias, ain't it?\" And he never bats an eyelash. But Gedney wa'n't in that class. Before closin' time up comes a secretary with the lease all signed. I was in the boss's room when it's delivered. \"Gee, Mr. Ellins!\" says I. \"You don't need any more mud baths, I guess.\" All the rise that gets out of him is a flicker in the mouth corners. \"Young man,\" says he, \"whose idea was it, taking you off the gate?\" \"Mr. Robert's,\" says I. \"I am glad to learn,\" says he, \"that Robert had occasional lapses into sanity while I was away. What about your salary? Any ambitions in that direction?\" \"I only want what I'm worth,\" says I. \"Oh, be reasonable, Son,\" says he. \"We must save something for the stockholders, you know. Suppose we double what you're getting now? Will that do?\" And the grin I carries out is that broad I has to go sideways through the door.", "words": 243}, {"story": 40, "title": "Showing Gilkey the Way", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I got to say this about Son-in-Law Ferdie: He's a help! Not constant, you know; for there's times when it seems like his whole scheme of usefulness was in providin' something to hang a pair of shell-rimmed glasses on, and givin' Marjorie Ellins the right to change her name. But outside of that, and furnishin' a comic relief to the rest of the fam'ly, blamed if he don't come in real handy now and then. Last Friday was a week, for a sample. I meets up with him as he's driftin' aimless through the arcade, sort of caromin' round and round, bein' bumped by the elevator rushers and watched suspicious by the floor detective. \"What ho, Ferdie!\" I sings out, grabbin' him by the elbow and swingin' him out of the line of traffic. \"This ain't no place to practice the maxixe.\" \"I--I beg--oh, it's you, Torchy, is it?\" says he, sighin' relieved. \"Where do I go to send a telegram?\" \"Why,\" says I, \"you might try the barber shop and file it with the brush boy, or you could wish it on the candy-counter queen over there and see what would happen; but the simple way would be to step around to the W. U. T. window, by the north exit, and shove it at Gladys.\" \"Ah, thanks,\" says he, \"North exit, did you say? Let's see, that is--er----\" \"'Bout face!\" says I, takin' him in tow. \"Now guide right! Hep, hep, hep--parade rest--here you are! And here's the blank you write it on. Now go to it!\" \"I--er--but I'm not quite sure,\" protests Ferdie, peelin' off one of his chamois gloves, \"I'm not quite sure of just what I ought to say.\" \"That bein' the case,\" says I, \"it's lucky you ran into me, ain't it? Now what's the argument?\"", "words": 302}, {"story": 40, "title": "Showing Gilkey the Way", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Course it was a harrowin' crisis. Him and Marjorie had got an invite some ten days ago to spend the week-end at a swell country house over on Long Island. They'd hemmed and hawed, and fin'lly ducked by sendin' word they was so sorry, but they was expectin' a young gent as guest about then. The answer they got back was, \"Bring him along, for the love of Mike!\" or words to that effect. Then they'd debated the question some more. Meanwhile the young gent had canceled his date, and the time has slipped by, and here it was almost Saturday, and nothin' doing in the reply line from them. Marjorie had thought of it while they was havin' lunch in town, and she'd chased Ferdie out to send a wire, without tellin' him what to say. \"And you want someone to make up your mind for you, eh?\" says I. \"All right. That's my long suit. Take this: 'Regret very much unable to accept your kind invitation'--which might mean anything, from a previous engagement to total paralysis.\" \"Ye-e-es,\" says Ferdie, hangin' his bamboo stick over his left arm and chewin' the penholder thoughtful, \"but Marjorie'll be awfully disappointed. I think she really does want to go.\" \"Ah, squiffle!\" says I. \"She'll get over it. Whose joint is it, anyway?\" \"Why,\" says he, \"the Pulsifers', you know.\" \"Eh?\" says I. \"Not the Adam K.'s place, Cedarholm?\" Ferdie nods. And, say, it was like catchin' a chicken sandwich dropped out of a clear sky. The Pulsifers! Didn't I know who was there? I did! I'd had a bulletin from a very special and particular party, sayin' how she'd be there for a week, while Aunty was in the Berkshires. And up to this minute my chances of gettin' inside Cedarholm gates had been null and void, or even worse. But now--say, I wanted to be real kind to Ferdie!", "words": 318}, {"story": 40, "title": "Showing Gilkey the Way", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"One or two old friends of Marjorie's are to be there,\" he goes on dreamy. \"They are?\" says I. \"Then that's diff'rent. You got to go, of course.\" \"But--but,\" says he, \"only a moment ago you----\" \"Ah, mooshwaw!\" says I. \"You don't want Marjorie grumpin' around for the next week, do you, wishin' she'd gone, and layin' it all to you?\" Ferdie blinks a couple of times as the picture forms on the screen. \"That's so,\" says he. \"She would.\" \"Then gimme that blank,\" says I. \"Now here, how's this, 'Have at last arranged things so we can come. Charmed to accept'? Eh?\" \"But--but there's Baby's milk,\" objects Ferdie. \"Marjorie always watches the nurse sterilize it, you know.\" \"Do up a gallon before you leave,\" says I. \"It's such a puzzling place to get to, though,\" says Ferdie. \"I'm sure we'd never get on the right train.\" \"Whadye mean, train,\" says I. \"Ah, show some class! Go in your limousine.\" \"So we could,\" says Ferdie. \"But then, you know, they'll be expectin' us to bring an extra young man.\" \"They needn't be heartbroken over that,\" says I. \"You didn't say who he was, did you?\" \"Why, no,\" says Ferdie; \"but----\" \"Since you press me so hard,\" says I, \"I'll sub for him. Guess you need me to get you there, anyway.\" \"By Jove!\" says Ferdie, as the proposition percolates through the hominy. \"I wonder if----\" \"Never waste time wonderin',\" says I. \"Take a chance. Here, sign your name to that; then we'll go hunt up Marjorie and tell her the glad news.\" Ferdie was still in a daze when we found the other three-quarters of the sketch, and Marjorie was some set back herself when I springs the scheme. But she's a good sport, Marjorie is, and if she was hooked up to a live one she'd travel just as lively as the next heavyweight.", "words": 315}, {"story": 40, "title": "Showing Gilkey the Way", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Oh, let's!\" says she, clappin' her hands. \"You know we haven't been away from home overnight for an age. And Edna Pulsifer's such a dear, even if her father is a grouchy old thing. We'll take Torchy along too. What do you say, Ferdie?\" Foolish question! Ferdie was still dazed. And anyhow she had said it herself. So that's how it happens I'm one of the chosen few to be landed under the Cedarholm porte-cochere that Saturday afternoon. Course the Pulsifers ain't reg'lar old fam'ly people, like Ferdie's folks. They date back to about the last Broadway horse-car period, I understand, when old Adam K. begun to ship his Cherryola dope in thousand-case lots. Now, you know, it's all handled for him by the drug trust, and he only sits by the safety-vault door watchin' the profits roll in. But with his name still on every label you could hardly expect the Pulsifers to qualify for Mrs. Astor's list. Seems Edna went to the same boardin' school as Marjorie and Vee, though, and neither of 'em ever thinks of throwin' Cherryola at her. And as far as an establishment goes, Cedarholm is the real thing. Gave me quite some thrill to watch two footmen in silver and baby blue pryin' Marjorie out of the limousine. \"Gee!\" thinks I, glancin' around at the deep verandas, the swing seats, and the cozy corner nooks. \"If Vee and I can't get together for a few chatty words among all this, then I'm a punk plottist!\"", "words": 252}, {"story": 40, "title": "Showing Gilkey the Way", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "These country house joints are so calm and peaceful too! It's a wonder anybody could work up a case of nerves, havin' this for a steady thing. But Edna and Mrs. Pulsifer acted sort of restless and jumpy. She's a tall, thin, hollow-eyed dame, Mrs. Pulsifer is, with gray hair and a smooth, easy voice. Miss Edna must take more after her Pa; for she's filled out better, and while she ain't what you'd call mug-mapped, she has one of these low-bridge noses and a lot of oily, dark red hair that she does in a weird fashion of her own with a side part. Seems shy and bashful too, except when she snuggles up on the lee side of Marjorie and trails off with her. The particular party I was strainin' my eyesight for ain't in evidence, though, and all the hint I gets of her bein' there was hearin' a ripply laugh at the far end of the hallway when she and Marjorie go to a fond clinch. That was some comfort, though,--she was in the house! As I couldn't very well go scoutin' around whistlin' for her to come out, I does the next best thing. After bein' shown my room I drifts downstairs and out on the lawn where I'd be some conspicuous. Course I wa'n't suggestin' anything, but if somebody should happen to see me and judge that I was lonesome, they might wander out that way too. Sure enough somebody did,--Ferdie. \"I thought you had to take a nap before dinner,\" says I, maybe not so cordial. \"Bother!\" says he. \"There's no such thing as that possible with those three girls chattering away in the next room.\" \"Well, they ain't been together for some time, I expect,\" says I. \"It's worse than usual,\" says Ferdie. \"A man in the case, you might know.\" \"Eh?\" says I, prickin' up my ears. \"Whose man?\"", "words": 318}, {"story": 40, "title": "Showing Gilkey the Way", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Oh, Edna Pulsifer's absurd ditch digger,\" says Ferdie. \"He's a young engineer, you know, that she's been interested in for a couple of years. Her father put a stop to it once; kept her in Munich for ten months--and that's a perfectly deadly place out of season, you know. But it doesn't seem to have done much good.\" I grins. Surprisin' how cheerful I could be so long as it was a case of Miss Pulsifer's young man. I pumps the whole tale out of Ferdie,--how this Mr. Bert Gilkey--cute name too--had been writin' her letters all the time from out West, how he'd been seized with a sudden fit, wired on that he must see her once more, and had rushed East. Then how Pa Pulsifer had caught 'em lalligaggin' out by the hedge, had talked real rough to Gilkey, and ordered him never to muddy his front doormat again. \"And now,\" goes on Ferdie, \"he sends word to Edna that he means to try it once more, no matter what happens, and everyone is all stirred up.\" \"So that accounts for the nervous motions, eh?\" says I. \"What does Pa Pulsifer have to say to this defi?\" \"Goodness!\" says Ferdie, shudderin'. \"He doesn't know. No one dares tell him a word. If he found out--well, it would be awful!\" \"Huh!\" says I. \"One of these fam'ly ringmasters, is he?\" That was it, and from Ferdie's description I gathered that old Adam K. was a reg'lar domestic tornado, once he got started. Maybe you know the brand? And it seems Pa Pulsifer was the limit. So long as things went his way he was a prince,--right there with the jolly haw-haw, fond of callin' wifey pet names before strangers, and posin' as an easy mark,--but let anybody try to pull off any programme that didn't jibe with his, and black clouds rolled up sudden in the West.", "words": 318}, {"story": 40, "title": "Showing Gilkey the Way", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"I do hope,\" goes on Ferdie, \"that nothing of that sort occurs while we are here.\" So did I, for more reasons than one. What I wanted was peace, and plenty of it, with Vee more or less disengaged. Nothin' could have been more promisin' either than the openin' of that first dinner party. Pa Pulsifer had showed up about six o'clock from the Country Club, with his rugged, hand-hewed face tinted up cheery. Some of it was sunburn, and some of it was rye, I expect, but he was glad to see all of us. He patted Marjorie on the cheek, pinched Vee by the ear, and slapped Ferdie on the back so hearty he near knocked the breath out of him. So far as our genial host could make it, it was a gay and festive scene. Best of all too, I'd been put next to Vee, and I was just workin' up to exchangin' a hand squeeze under the tablecloth when, right in the middle of one of Pa Pulsifer's best stories, there floats in through the open windows a crash that makes everybody sit up. It sounds like breakin' glass. \"Hah!\" snorts Pulsifer, scowlin' out into the dark. \"Now what in blazes was that?\" \"I--I think it must have been something in the kitchen, Dear,\" says Mrs. Pulsifer. \"Don't mind.\" \"But I do mind,\" says he. \"In the first place, it wasn't in the kitchen at all, and if you'll all excuse me, I'll just see for myself.\" Meanwhile Edna has turned pale, Marjorie has almost choked herself with a bread stick, and Ferdie has let his fork clatter to the floor. Ma Pulsifer is bitin' her lip; but she's right there with the soothin' words. \"Please, Dear,\" says she, \"let me go. They want you to finish your story.\"", "words": 304}, {"story": 40, "title": "Showing Gilkey the Way", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "It was a happy touch, that last. Pa Pulsifer recovers his napkin, settles back in his chair, and goes on with the tale, while Mother slips out quiet. She comes back after a while, springs a nervous little laugh, and announces that it was only the glass in one of the hotbed frames. \"Some stupid person taking a short cut across the grounds, I suppose,\" says she. Didn't sound very convincin' to me; but Pulsifer had got started on another boyhood anecdote, and he let it pass. I had a hunch, though, that Mrs. Pulsifer hadn't told all. I caught a glance between her and Edna, and some flashes between Edna and Vee, and I didn't need any sixth sense to feel that something was in the air. No move was made, though, until after coffee had been served in the lib'ry and Pa Pulsifer was fittin' his fav'rite Harry Lauder record on the music machine. First Mrs. Pulsifer slips out easy. Next Edna follows her, and after them Marjorie and Vee, havin' exchanged some whispered remarks, disappears too. Maybe it was my play to stick it out with Ferdie and the old boy, but I couldn't see any percentage in that, with Vee gone; so I wanders casual into the hall, butts around through the music room, follows a bright light at the rear, and am almost run down by Marjorie hurrying the other way sleuthy. \"Oh!\" she squeals. \"It's you, is it, Torchy? S-s-s-sh!\" \"What you shushin' about?\" says I. \"Oh, it's dreadful!\" puffs Marjorie. \"He--he's come!\" \"That Gilkey guy?\" says I. \"Ye-e-es,\" says she. \"But--but how did you know?\" \"I'm a seventh son, born with a cowlick,\" says I. \"Was it Gilkey made his entrance through the cucumber frame?\"", "words": 292}, {"story": 40, "title": "Showing Gilkey the Way", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "It was. Also he'd managed to cut himself in the ankles and right wrist. They had him in the kitchen, patchin' him up now, and they was all scared stiff for fear Pa Pulsifer would discover it before they could send him away. \"He'll be a nut if he don't,\" says I, \"with all you women out here. Your game is to chase back and keep Pulsifer interested.\" \"I suppose you're right,\" says Marjorie. \"Let's tell them.\" So I follows into the big kitchen, where I finds the disabled Romeo propped up in a chair, with the whole push of 'em, includin' the fat cook, a couple of maids, and the butler, all tryin' to bandage him in diff'rent spots. He's a big, gawky-lookin' young gent, with a thick crop of pale hair and a solemn, serious look on his face, like he was one of the kind that took everything hard. As soon as Marjorie gives 'em my hint about goin' back to Father there's a gen'ral protest. \"Oh, I can't do it!\" says Edna. \"He would notice at once how nervous I am,\" groans Mrs. Pulsifer. \"But you don't want him walking out here, do you?\" demands Marjorie. That settled 'em. They bunched together panicky and started back for the lib'ry. \"I'll stay and attend to the getaway,\" says I. \"Nobody'll miss me.\" \"Thank you,\" says Gilkey; \"but I'm not sure I wish to go away. I came to see Edna, you know.\" \"So I hear,\" says I. \"Unique idea of yours too, rollin' in the hotbeds first.\" \"I--I was only trying to avoid meeting Mr. Pulsifer,\" says he; \"exploring a bit, you see. I could hear voices in the dining-room; but I couldn't quite look in. There was a little shed out there, though, and by climbing on that I could get a view. That was how I lost my balance.\"", "words": 314}, {"story": 40, "title": "Showing Gilkey the Way", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Before you go callin' again,\" says I, \"you ought to practice roostin' in the dark. Say, the old man must have thrown quite a scare into you last time.\" \"I am not afraid of Mr. Pulsifer, not a bit,\" says he. \"Well, well!\" says I. \"Think of that!\" \"Anyway,\" says he, \"I just wasn't goin' to be driven off that way. It--it isn't fair to either of us.\" \"Then it's a clear case with both of you, is it?\" says I. \"We are engaged,\" says Gilkey, \"and I don't care who knows it! It's not her money I'm after, either. We don't want a dollar from Mr. Pulsifer. We--we just want each other.\" \"Now you're talkin'!\" says I; for, honest, the simple, slushy way he puts it across sort of wins me. And if that was how the case stood, with Edna longin' for him, and him yearnin' for Edna, why shouldn't they? If I'm any judge, Edna wouldn't find another right away who'd be so crazy about her, and anyone who could discover charms about Gilkey ought to be rewarded. \"See here!\" says I. \"Why not sail right in there, look Father between the eyes, and hand that line of dope out to him as straight as you gave it to me?\" He gawps at me a second, like I'd advised him to jump off the roof. \"Do--do you think I ought?\" says he. I has to choke back a chuckle. Wanted my advice, did he? Well, say, I could give him a truckload of that!", "words": 257}, {"story": 40, "title": "Showing Gilkey the Way", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"It depends,\" says I, \"on how deep the yellow runs in you. Course it's all right for you to register this leader about not bein' scared of him. You may think you ain't, but you are all the same; and as long as you're in that state you're licked. That's the big trouble with most of us,--bein' limp in the spine. We're afraid of our jobs, afraid of what the neighbors will say, afraid of our stomachs, afraid of to-morrow. And here you are, prowlin' around on the outside, gettin' yourself messed up, and standin' to lose the one and only girl, all because an old stuff like Pulsifer says 'Boo!' at you and tells you to 'Scat!' Come on now, better let me lead you out and see you safe through the gate.\" Course that was proddin' him a little rough, but I wanted to bring this thing to a head somehow. Made Gilkey squirm in his chair too. He begins rollin' his trousers down over the bandages and struggles into his coat. \"I suppose you're right,\" says he. \"I--I think I will go in and see Mr. Pulsifer.\" \"Wha-a-at?\" says I. \"Now?\" \"Why not?\" says he, pushin' through the swing door. \"Hey!\" I calls out, jumpin' after him. \"Better let me break it to 'em in there.\" \"As you please,\" says Gilkey; \"only let's have no delay.\" So I skips across the hall and into the lib'ry, where they're all makin' a stab at bein' chatty and gay, with Pa Pulsifer in the center. \"Excuse me,\" says I, \"but there's a young gent wants a few words with Mr. Pulsifer.\" \"What's that?\" growls Adam K., glarin' about suspicious at the gaspy circle. \"What young man?\" \"Why,\" says I, \"it's----\" But then in he stalks. \"Oh, Herbert!\" sobs Edna, makin' a wild grab at Marjorie for support.", "words": 308}, {"story": 40, "title": "Showing Gilkey the Way", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "As for Pa Pulsifer, his eyes get stary, the big vein in the middle of his forehead swells threatenin', and his bushy white eyebrows seem to bristle up. \"You!\" he snorts. \"How did you get in here, Sir?\" \"Through the kitchen,\" says Gilkey. \"I came to tell you that----\" \"Stop!\" roars Pulsifer, stampin' his foot and bunchin' his fists menacin'. \"You can't tell me anything, not a word, you--you good-for-nothing young scoundrel! Haven't I warned you never to step foot in my house again? Didn't I tell you----\" Well, it's the usual irate parent stuff, only a little more wild and ranty than anything Belasco would put over. He abuses Gilkey up and down, threatens him with all kinds of things, from arrest to sudden death, and gets purple in the face doin' it. While Gilkey, he just stands there, takin' it calm and patient. Then, when there comes a lull, he remarks casual: \"If that is all, Sir, I wish to say to you that Edna and I are engaged, and that I intend to marry her early next week.\" Wow! That's the cue for another explosion. It starts in just as fierce as the first; but it don't last so long, and towards the end Pa Pulsifer is talkin' husky and puffing hard. \"Go!\" he winds up. \"Get out of my house before I--I----\" \"Oh, I say,\" breaks in Gilkey, \"before you do what?\" \"Throw you out!\" bellows Pulsifer. \"Don't be absurd,\" says Gilkey, statin' it quiet and matter of fact. \"You couldn't, you know. Besides, it isn't being done.\" And it takes Pa Pulsifer a full minute before he can choke down his temper and get his wind again. Then he advances a step or so, points dramatic to the door, and gurgles throaty: \"Will--you--get--out?\" \"No,\" says Gilkey. \"I came to see Edna. I've had no dinner either, and I'd like a bite to eat.\"", "words": 318}, {"story": 40, "title": "Showing Gilkey the Way", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Pulsifer stood there, not two feet from him, glarin' and puffin', and tryin' to decide what to do next; but it's no use. He'd made his grand roarin' lion play, which had always scared the tar out of his folks, and he'd responded to an encore. Yet here was this mild-eyed young gent with the pale hair and the square jaw not even wabbly in the knees from it. \"Come, Edna,\" says Gilkey, holdin' out a hand to her. \"Let's go into the dining-room.\" \"But--but see here!\" gasps Pa Pulsifer, makin' a final effort. \"I--I----\" \"Oh, hush up!\" says Gilkey, turnin' away weary. \"Come, Edna.\" And Edna, she went; also Mrs. Pulsifer; likewise Vee and Marjorie. Trust women for knowin' when a bluff has been called. I expect they was wise, two or three minutes before either me or Gilkey, that Pa Pulsifer was beat. I stayed long enough to see him slump into an easy-chair, his under lip limp and a puzzled look in his eyes, like he was tryin' to figure out just what had hit him. And over by the fireplace is Ferdie, gawpin' at him foolish, and exercisin' his gears, I expect, on the same problem. Neither of them had said a word up to the time I left. It took the women half an hour or more to feed Herbert up proper with all the nice things they could drag from the icebox. Then Mother Pulsifer patted him on the shoulder and shooed Edna and him through the French doors out on the veranda. And what do you guess is Mrs. Pulsifer's openin' as we drifts back towards the scene of the late conflict? \"Why, Deary!\" says she. \"You haven't your cigars, have you? Here they are--and the matches. There! Now for the surprise. Our young people have decided--that is, Edna has--not to be married until two weeks from next Wednesday.\"", "words": 316}, {"story": 40, "title": "Showing Gilkey the Way", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Does Pa Pulsifer rant any more rants? No. He gets his perfecto goin' nicely, blows a couple of smoke rings up towards the ceilin', and then remarks in sort of a weak growl: \"Hanged if I'll walk down a church aisle, Maria--hanged if I do!\" \"I told them you wouldn't,\" says Ma Pulsifer, smoothin' the hair back over his ears soothin'; \"so they've agreed on a simple home wedding, with only four bridesmaids.\" \"Huh!\" says he. \"It's lucky they did.\" But, say, take it from me, his days of crackin' the whip around that joint are over. I'm beginnin' to believe too how some of that dope I fed to Herbert must have been straight goods. Vee insists on talkin' it over later, as we are camped in one of them swing seats out on the veranda. \"Wasn't he just splendid,\" says she: \"standing up to Mr. Pulsifer that way, you know?\" \"Some hero!\" says I. \"I wonder would he give me a few lessons, in case I should run across your Aunty some day?\" \"Pooh!\" says Vee. \"Just as though I didn't go back to see if he'd gone and hear you putting him up to all that yourself! It was fine of you to do it too, Torchy.\" \"Right here, then!\" says I. \"Place the laurel wreath right here.\" \"Silly!\" says she, givin' me a reprovin' pat. \"Besides, that porch light is on.\" Which was one of the reasons why I turned it off, and maybe accounts for our sudden break when Marjorie comes out to tell us it's near twelve o'clock. Yes, indeed, though he may not look it, Ferdie is more or less of a help.", "words": 280}, {"story": 41, "title": "When Skeet Had His Day", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "There's one thing about bein' a private sec,--you stand somewhere on the social list. It may be down towards the foot among the discards; but you're in the running. Not that I'm thinkin' of havin' a fam'ly crest worked on my shirt sleeves, or that I'm beginnin' to sympathize with the lower clawsses. Nothing like that! Only it does help, when Marjorie, the boss's married daughter, has planned some social doin's, to get an invite like a reg'lar guy. What do you know too? It's dance! Not out at their country place, either. She'd dragged Ferdie into town for a couple of weeks, and they'd been stayin' at the Ellins's Fifth-ave. house, just visitin' and havin' a good time. That is, Marjorie had. Ferdie, he spends his days mopin' about the club and taggin' Mr. Robert. \"Better sneak off up to the Maison Maxixe with me,\" says I, \"and brush up on your hesitation.\" A look of deep disgust from Ferdie. \"I'm not a dancing man, you know,\" says he. \"Both feet Methodists, eh?\" says I. Ferdie stares puzzled. \"It's only that I'm sure I'd look absurd,\" says he. \"For once,\" says I, \"you ain't so far from wrong. I expect you would.\" Even that don't seem to please him, and he refuses peevish to trail along and watch me blow myself to a pair of dancin' pumps. Gee! but this society life runs into coin, don't it? I'd dropped into one of them swell booterers and was beefin' away at the clerk about havin' to pay six-fifty just for a pair of tango moccasins, when I hears someone on the bench back of me remark casual: \"Nine dollars? Very well. Send them up to my hotel. Here's my card.\"", "words": 290}, {"story": 41, "title": "When Skeet Had His Day", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "And as there's somethin' familiar about the voice I takes a peek over my shoulder. But neither the braid-bound cutaway fittin' so snug at the waist, nor the snappy fall derby snuggled down over the lop ears, suggested any old friends. Not until he swings around and I gets a view of that nosy profile do I gasp any gasps. \"Sizzlin' Stepsisters!\" says I. \"If it ain't Skeet Keyser!\" \"I--ah--I beg pardon?\" says he, doin' it cold and haughty. Blamed if I don't think he meant to hand me the mistaken identity dope first off; but after another glance he thinks better of it. \"Oh, yes,\" says he, sort of languid, \"Torchy, isn't it?\" \"Good guess, Skeet,\" says I, \"seein' it's been all of two years since you used to shove me my coffee reg'lar at the----\" \"Yes, yes,\" he breaks in hasty; \"but--I--ah--I have an appointment. Glad to have seen you again.\" \"You act it,\" says I. And then, grabbin' him by the sleeve as he's backin' off, I whispers, \"What's the disguise, Skeet?\" \"Really, now!\" he protests indignant. \"Oh, very well, very well!\" says I. \"But how should I know if someone has wished a life income on you? Congrats.\" \"Ah--er--thanks,\" says he. \"I--I'll see you again--perhaps.\" I loved the way he puts that last touch on too, and you could almost hear the sigh of relief as he fades down the aisle, leavin' me in one stockin' foot gawpin' after him.", "words": 244}, {"story": 41, "title": "When Skeet Had His Day", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "No wonder I'm left open faced! Skeet Keyser in a tail coat, orderin' nine-dollar pumps sent to his hotel! Why, say, more'n once I've staked him to the price of a twenty-cent lodgin', and the only way I ever got any of it back was by tippin' him off to this vacancy on the coffee urn at the dairy lunch. Used to be copy boy on the Sunday, Skeet did; but that was 'way back. It didn't last long either; for he was just as punk a performer at that as he ever was at any of the other things he's tackled. Gettin' the can tied to him was always Skeet's specialty. No mystery about that, either; for of all the useless specimens that ever grafted cigarettes he was about the limit. All he lacks is pep and bean and a few other trifles. You wouldn't exactly call him ornamental, either. No, him and that Apolloniris guy was quite diff'rent in their front and side elevation. Mostly arms and legs, Skeet is, and sort of swivel-jointed all over, with a back slope to his forehead and an under-cut chin. Nothin' reticent about his beak, though. It juts out from the middle of his face like the handle of a lovin' cup, and with his habit of stretchin' his neck forward he always seems to be followin' a scent, like one of these wienerwurst retrievers. Brought up somewhere back of Jefferson Market, down in old Greenwich Village--if you know where that is. He's the only boy in a fam'ly of five, and I understand all the Keyser girls have done first rate; one bein' forelady in a big hair-dressin' joint, another married to the lieutenant of a hook and ladder company, and two well placed in service.", "words": 296}, {"story": 41, "title": "When Skeet Had His Day", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "It was through bein' in on a little mix-up Skeet had with one of his sisters that I got so well posted on the fam'ly hist'ry. Must have been more'n a year ago, while Old Hickory was laid up at home there for a spell, and I was chasin' back and forth from the Corrugated to the Ellins house most every day. This time I hears a debate goin' on down at the area door, and the next thing I knows out comes Skeet, assisted active by the butler. Seems that one of the new maids is his sister Maggie, and he'd just been callin' friendly in the hopes of sep'ratin' her from a dollar or so. It wa'n't Maggie's day for contributin' to the prodigal son fund, though, and Skeet was statin' his opinion of her reckless when the butler interfered. Come near losin' Maggie her job, that little scene did; but she promises faithful it sha'n't happen again, and was kept on. \"Blast her!\" says Skeet to me later. \"She's just as bad as the rest of 'em. They're all tightwads. Why, even the old lady runs me out now when I happen to be carryin' the banner and can't come across with my little old five of a Saturday night! I might starve in the streets for all they care. But I'll show 'em some day. You'll see!\"", "words": 231}, {"story": 41, "title": "When Skeet Had His Day", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Hanged if it don't look like he'd turned the trick too; for, as I've hinted, Skeet is costumed like a lily of the field. But how he'd managed to do it is what gets me. And for two days after that I wasted valuable time tryin' to frame up just where in the gen'ral scheme of things a party like Skeet Keyser could connect with real money. After that I gave up the myst'ry and spent my spare minutes wonderin' if I could do this \"One-two-three--hold!\" business as successful in public as I could while them dancin' school fairies was drillin' it into my nut at one-fifty per throw. That's right, grin! But if you're billed to mingle in the merry throng at a dance fest, you ain't goin' to trot out on the floor with any such antique act as last season's Boston dip, are you? Might as well spring the minuet. And specially when I'd had word that among others was to be a certain party. Uh-huh! You can play it both ways too that Vee would be up on the very latest, and if it was in me I meant to be right behind her. Was I? Say, maybe if I wa'n't so blamed modest I could give you an idea of how Vee and I just naturally--but I can't do it. Besides, there's other matters; the grand jolt that come early in the evenin', for instance. It was after the second number, and I'd made a dash into the gents' dressin' room to see if my white tie showed any symptoms of ridin' up in the back, and I'd just strolled out into the entrance hall again, watchin' the push straggle in, when who should show up through the double doors but a tall, lanky young chap with lop ears and a nose one was bound to remember.", "words": 312}, {"story": 41, "title": "When Skeet Had His Day", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "It's Skeet Keyser; Skeet in shiny, thin-soled pumps, a pleated dress shirt, black silk vest, and a top hat! He's bein' bowed in dignified by the same butler, and is passed on to--well, it's a funny world, ain't it? The maid on duty just inside the door happens to be Sister Maggie. She has the respectful bow all ready when she gets a full-face view. \"Aloysius!\" says she, scared and husky. I got to hand it to Skeet, though, that he bears up noble. All he does is to try to swallow his throat apple a couple of times, and then he stares at her stern and distant. Also Maggie makes a quick recovery. \"Gentlemen this way, Sir,\" says she, and waves Skeet into the dressin' room. I wanted to follow him up and tip him off that there's one or two other reasons why this was the wrong house to put over any sporty bluff in; but as it was I'm overdue in another quarter. You see, Marjorie has been sittin' out on the side lines, as usual, and Vee has hinted how it would be nice and charitable of me to brace her for a spiel. I'd sort of been workin' myself up to the sacrifice, for you know Marjorie's some hefty partner for anybody not in trainin' to steer around a ballroom floor; but I'd figured out that the longer I put it off the worse it would be. So off I trails with my heels draggin' a little heavy. \"Why, thanks ever so much, Torchy,\" says she, \"but I think I have a partner for the first four or five. After that, though----\" \"Don't mention it,\" says I. \"I mean, much obliged,\" and I backs off hasty before she can change her mind.", "words": 297}, {"story": 41, "title": "When Skeet Had His Day", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I had to kill time while Vee was dividin' a couple dances between two young shrimps; so I sidles into a corner where Ferdie sits behind his shell-rimmed glasses, lookin' bored and lonesome. \"Now don't you wish you'd gone and had your feet educated?\" says I. Ferdie yawns. \"I think it quite sufficient,\" says he, \"that one of us intends making an exhibition. Marjorie has been taking lessons, you know.\" \"So I hear,\" says I. \"And it's all right if she don't tackle the maxixe. Hello! There it goes. Now you will see some stunts!\" Yep, we did! And among the first couples to sail out on the floor, if you'll believe it, was none other than Marjorie and our lop-eared young hero, Skeet Keyser. \"Oh, Gosh!\" I groans. \"Don't look, Ferdie!\" I meant well too; It was goin' to be bad enough to see a corn-fed young matron the size of Marjorie, who can spin the arrow well up to the hundred and eighty mark, monkey with them twisty evolutions; but to have her get let in for it with a roughneck ringer like Skeet--well, that was goin' to be a real tragedy. How he'd worked it, or what his excuse was for bein' here at all, was useless questions to ask then. What was comin' next was the thing to watch for. As for Ferdie, he just sits there and blinks, followin' 'em through his spare panes. Course I could guess he wa'n't hep to any facts about Skeet. He was just a strange young gent to him, and it wa'n't up to me to add any details. So I settles back and watches 'em too.", "words": 278}, {"story": 41, "title": "When Skeet Had His Day", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "And, say, you know how surprised you'd be to see any fat friend of yours buckle on a pair of ice skates and do the double grapevine up and down the rink? Well, that's the identical kind of jar I got when Marjorie begins that willowy bendy figure. It ain't any waddly caricature of it, either. It's the real thing. Honest, she's as light on her feet as if her middle name was Pavlowa! At the same time it's lucky Skeet has arms, long enough to reach 'way round when he's steerin' her. If they'd been an inch or so shorter, he'd have had to break his clinch in some of them whirls, and then there'd been a big dent in the floor. He seems just built for the job, though. In and out, round and round, through the Parisienne, the flirtation, and all the other frills, he pilots her safe, bendin' and swayin' to the music, his number ten feet glidin' easy, and kind of a smirky, satisfied look on that sappy mug of his; while Marjorie, she simply lets herself go for all she's worth, her eyes sparklin', and the pink and white in her cheeks showin' clear and fresh. Take it from me too, it's some swell exhibit! There was four or five other couples on at the same time, the girls all slender, wispy young things, that never split out a waist seam in their lives; but Marjorie and her partner had the gallery right with 'em. Two or three times durin' the dance they got scatterin' applause, and when the music fin'lly stops, leavin' 'em alone in the middle of the floor, they got a reg'lar big hand. \"I take it all back,\" says I to Ferdie. \"That was real classy spielin'. Now wa'n't it?.\"", "words": 300}, {"story": 41, "title": "When Skeet Had His Day", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"No doubt,\" he grunts. \"And I suppose I should be thankful that Marjorie didn't try to jump through a paper hoop. I trust, however, that this concludes the performance.\" It did not! Next on the card was a onestep, with Marjorie and her unknown goin' to it like professionals; and if they omitted any fancy waves, you couldn't prove it by me. By this time too, Ferdie was sittin' up and takin' notice. \"Oh, I say,\" says he, \"isn't that the same fellow she danced with before?\" \"You don't think a bunch of works like that could be twins, do you?\" says I. \"But--but I'm sure I don't remember having met him, you know,\" says Ferdie, rubbin' his chin thoughtful. \"Then maybe you ain't,\" says I. When they comes on for a third time, though, and prances through about as flossy a half-and-half as I've ever seen pulled at a private dance, Ferdie is some agitated in the mind. He ain't exactly green-eyed, but he's some disturbed. Yes, all of that! \"I--I think I'd best speak to Marjorie,\" says he. \"You'll have plenty of competition,\" says I. \"Look!\" For the young chappies are crowdin' around her two deep, makin' dates for the next numbers. \"Ferdie stares at the spectacle puzzled. He's a persistent messer, though. \"But really,\" he goes on, \"I think I ought to meet that young fellow and find out who he is.\" \"Ah, bottle it up until afterwards!\" says I. \"Don't rock the skiff.\" But there's a streak of mule in Ferdie a foot wide. \"People will be asking me who he is!\" he insists, \"and if I don't know, what will they think? See, isn't that he, standing just over there?\" And then Mr. Robert has to drift along and complicate matters by joshin' brother-in-law a little. \"Congratulations on your substitute, Ferdie,\" says he. \"Where did he come from?\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 41, "title": "When Skeet Had His Day", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Which brings a ruddy tint into Ferdie's ears. \"Ask Marjorie,\" says he. \"I'm sure he's an utter stranger to me.\" \"Wha-a-at?\" says Mr. Robert, and when he's had the full situation mapped out for him blamed if he don't begin to take it serious too. \"To be sure, Ferdie,\" says he. \"Everyone seems to think he must be a guest of yours; but as he isn't--well, it's quite time someone discovered. Let's go over and introduce ourselves.\" And somehow that didn't listen good to me, either. Marjorie's done a lot of nice turns for me, and this looked like it was my play to lend a hand. \"With two or three more,\" says I, \"you could form a perfectly good mob, couldn't you?\" Mr. Robert whirls and demands sarcastic, \"Well, what would you suggest, young man?\" \"He's got all the earmarks of a reg'lar invited guest, ain't he?\" says I. \"And unless you're achin' to start somethin', why not let me handle this 'Who the blazes are you?' act?\" He sees the point too, Mr. Robert does. He shrugs his shoulders and grins. \"That's so,\" says he. \"All right, Torchy. Full diplomatic powers, and if necessary I shall restrain Ferdie by the collar.\" I wa'n't wastin' time on any subtle strategy, though. Walkin' over to Skeet I taps him on the shoulder, and then it's his turn to gawp at my costume. \"Why,\" he gasps, \"how--er--where did you----\" \"Oh, I brought myself out last season,\" says I. \"But just a minute, if you don't mind,\" and I jerks my thumb towards the dressin' room. \"But, you know,\" he begins, \"I--I----\" \"Ah, ditch the shifty stuff!\" says I. \"This is orders from headquarters. Come!\" And he trots right along. Once I gets him behind the draperies I shoots it at him straight. \"Who'd you pinch the invite from?\" says I.", "words": 309}, {"story": 41, "title": "When Skeet Had His Day", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"See here, now!\" he comes back peevish. \"You have no call to say that. I had a bid, all right; got it with me. There! What about that?\" And he flashes a card on me. It's one of Marjorie's! \"Huh!\" says I. \"Met her at Mrs. Astor's, I expect?\" Skeet shuffles his feet and tries to look indignant. \"Come on, give us the plot of the piece,\" says I, \"or I'll call up Sister Maggie and put her on the stand. Where was it, now?\" \"If you must know,\" says Skeet sulky, \"it was at Roselle's.\" \"The tango factory?\" says I. \"Oh, I'm beginnin' to get the thread. The place where she's been takin' lessons, eh?\" Skeet nods. \"Is this romance, or business, then?\" says I. \"Think I'm a fathead?\" says he. \"I'm gettin' fifteen for this, and I'm earnin' the money too. It's a regular thing. Last night I was Cousin Harry for an old maid from Washington--went to a swell house dance up on Riverside Drive. She came across with twenty for that, and paid for the taxi.\" \"Well, well!\" says I. \"Then them long legs of yours has turned out a good asset after all. What you pullin' down, Skeet, on an average?\"", "words": 206}, {"story": 41, "title": "When Skeet Had His Day", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Twenty regular, and a hundred or so on the side,\" says he, swellin' his chest out. \"And, say, I guess I got it some on the rest of the family. You know how they used me,--like dirt, the old lady callin' me a loafer, and Annie so stuck up on livin' in an elevator apartment she wouldn't have me around. Maggie too! Didn't I hand it to her, though? Notice me frost her, eh? But I said I'd show 'em some day. Guess I've delivered the goods. Look at me now, all dolled up every night, and mixin' with the best people! Say, you watch me! Why, I can go out there and pick any queen you want to name. They're crazy about me. I could show you mash notes and photos too. Oh, I'm Winning Willie with the fluffs, I am!\" Well, it was worth listenin' to. He struts around waggin' his silly head, until I can hardly keep from throwin' a chair at him. Course something had to be dealt out. He needed it bad. So I sizes him up rapid and makes the first play that comes into my head. \"You're a wonder, Skeet,\" says I. \"And it's a great game as long as you can get away with it. But whisper!\" Here I glances around cautious. \"You know I'm a friend of yours.\" \"Oh, sure,\" says he careless. \"What then?\" \"Only this,\" says I. \"Here's once when I'm afraid you're about to pull down trouble.\" \"How's that?\" says he, twistin' his neck uneasy. \"Notice the two gents I was just talkin' with,\" I goes on, \"specially the savage-lookin' one with the framed lamps? Well, that was Hubby. He's got one of these hair-trigger dispositions too.\" \"Pooh!\" says Skeet. But he's listenin' close. \"I'm only tellin' you,\" says I. \"Then the big one with the wide shoulders--that's Brother. Reg'lar brute, he is, and a temper----\"", "words": 318}, {"story": 41, "title": "When Skeet Had His Day", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "That gets him stary eyed. \"You--you don't mean,\" says he, \"that----\" \"Uh-huh!\" says I. \"You know you and the young lady was some conspicuous. There's been talk all round the room. They've both heard, and they're beefin' something awful. Course I ain't sayin' they'll spring any gunplay right in the house; but--why, what's wrong, Skeet?\" Honest, he's gone putty faced and panicky. He begins pawin' around for his overcoat. \"Ain't goin' so soon, are you,\" says I, \"without breakin' a few more hearts?\" \"I--I'm goin' to get out of here!\" says he, his teeth chattery. He'd grabbed his silk lid and was makin' a dash for the front door when I stopped him. \"Not that way, for the love of soup!\" says I. \"They'll be layin' for you there. Why not bluff it out and cut up with some of the other queens?\" \"I'm not feeling well,\" says he. \"I--I'm going, I tell you!\" \"If you insist, then,\" says I, \"perhaps I can sneak you out. Here, this way. Now slide in behind that portiere until I find one of the maids. Oh, here's one now. S-s-s-t! That you, Maggie? Well, smuggle Mr. Keyser out the back way, will you? And if you don't want to witness bloodshed, do it quick!\" I tipped her the wink over his shoulder, and the last glimpse I had of Skeet he was bein' hustled and shoved towards the back way by willin' hands. By the time I gets back into the ballroom I finds Marjorie right in the midst of a fam'ly court martial. She's makin' a full confession. \"Of course I hired him,\" she's sayin' to Brother Robert. \"Why? Because I've been a wall flower at too many dances, and I'm tired of it. No, I don't know who he is, I'm sure; but he's a perfectly lovely dancer. I wonder where he's disappeared to?\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 41, "title": "When Skeet Had His Day", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Which seemed to be my cue to report. \"Mr. Keyser presents his compliments,\" says I, \"and begs to be excused for the rest of the evenin' on account of feelin' suddenly indisposed. He says you can send him that fifteen by mail, if you like.\" \"Well, the idea!\" gasps Marjorie. As for Mr. Robert, he chuckles. Takin' me one side, he asks confidential, \"What did you use on our young friend, persuasion, or assault with intent?\" \"On a fish-face like that?\" says I. \"Nope. This was just a simple case of spill.\"", "words": 92}, {"story": 42, "title": "Getting a Jolt from Westy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "You might call it time out, or suspended hostilities durin' peace negotiations, or anything like that. Anyway, Aunty has softened up to the extent of lettin' me come around once a week without makin' me assume a disguise, or crawl in through the coal chute. Course I'm still under suspicion; but while the ban ain't lifted complete she don't treat me quite so much like a porch climber or a free speech agitator. \"Remember,\" says she, \"Friday evenings only, from half after eight until not later than ten.\" \"Yes'm,\" says I, \"and it's mighty----\" \"Please!\" she breaks in. \"No grotesquely phrased effusions of gratitude. I am merely indulging Verona in one of her absurd whims. You understand that, I trust?\" \"I get your idea,\" says I, \"and even if it don't swell my chest any, I'm----\" \"Kindly refrain from using such patois,\" says Aunty. \"Eh?\" says I. \"You mean ditch the gabby talk? All right, Ma'am.\" Aunty rolls her eyes and sighs hopeless. \"How my niece can find entertainment in such----\" Here Aunty stops and shrugs her shoulders. \"Well,\" she goes on, \"it is a mystery to me.\" \"Me too,\" says I; \"so for once we're playin' on the same side of the net, ain't we! Say, but she's some girl though!\" Aunty's mouth corners wrinkle into one of them sarcastic smiles that's her specialty, and she remarks careless: \"Quite a number of young men seem to have discovered that Verona is rather attractive.\" \"They'd have to be blind in both eyes and born without ears if they didn't,\" says I, \"believe me!\"", "words": 263}, {"story": 42, "title": "Getting a Jolt from Westy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Oh, yes, we had a nice confidential little chat, me and Aunty did,--almost chummy, you know,--and as it breaks up and I backs out into the hall, givin' her the polite \"Good evenin', Ma'am,\" I thought I heard a half-smothered snicker behind the draperies. Maybe it was that flossy French maid of theirs. But I floats downtown as gay and chirky as though I'd been promoted to first vice-president of something. Course I was wise to the fact that Aunty wa'n't arrangin' any duo act with the lights shaded soft. Not her! Even if I had an official ratin' in the Corrugated now, and a few weeks back had shunted her off from a losin' stock deal, she wa'n't tryin' to decoy me into the fam'ly. Hardly! I could guess how she'd set the stage for my weekly call, and if I found myself with anything more than a walk-on part in a mob scene I'd be lucky. You know she's taken a house for the winter, one of them old-fashioned brownstone fronts up on Madison-ave. that some friends of hers was goin' to close durin' a tour abroad. Nothin' swell, but real comfy and substantial, and as I marches up bold for my first push at the bell button I'm kind of relieved that I don't have to stand in line. Who should I get a glimpse of, though, as I'm handin' my things to the butler, but the favored candidate, Sappy Westlake? Yep, big as life, with his slick, pale hair, his long legs, and his woodeny face! Looked like his admission card must have been punched for eight P.M., or else he'd been asked for dinner. Anyway, he was right on the ground, thumpin' out a new rag on the piano, and enjoyin' the full glare of the limelight. The only other entry I can discover is a girl. \"My friend Miss Ull,\" explains Vee.", "words": 318}, {"story": 42, "title": "Getting a Jolt from Westy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "A good deal of a queen Miss Ull is too, tall and slim and tinted up delicate, but one of these poutin', peevish beauts that can look you over cold and distant and say \"Howdy do\" in such a bored, tired tone that you feel like apologizin' for the intrusion. They didn't get wildly enthusiastic over my entrance, Miss Ull and Westy. In fact, almost before the honors are done they turns their backs on me and drifts to the piano once more. \"Do play that 'Try-trimmer-Traeumerei' thing again,\" urges Miss Ull, and begins to hum it as Westy proceeds to bang it out. But there's Vee, her wheat-colored hair fluffin' about her seashell ears and her big gray eyes watchin' me sort of quizzin' and impish. \"Well, Mr. Private Secretary?\" says she. \"When does the rest of the chorus come on?\" says I. \"The what?\" says Vee. \"The full panel,\" says I. \"Aunty's planned to have the S. R. O. sign out on my evenin's, ain't she?\" At which Vee tosses her head. \"How silly!\" says she. \"No one else is expected that I know of. Why?\" \"Oh, she might think we'd be lonesome,\" says I. \"Honest, I was lookin' for a bunch; but if it's only a mixed foursome, that ain't so bad. I got the scheme, though. She counts Westy as better than a crowd. 'Safety First' is her motto. But who's the Peevish Priscilla here, that's so tickled to see me come in she has to turn away to hide her emotion?\" \"Doris?\" says Vee. \"Oh, we got to know her on the steamer coming back from the Mediterranean last winter. Stunning, isn't she?\" \"Specially her manners,\" says I. \"Almost paralyzin'.\"", "words": 285}, {"story": 42, "title": "Getting a Jolt from Westy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Oh, that's just her way,\" says Vee. \"Really, she's very nice when you get to know her. I'm rather sorry for her too. Her home life is--well, not at all congenial. That's one reason why I asked her to visit me for a week or so.\" \"That's the easiest thing you do, ain't it,\" says I, \"bein' nice to folks that ain't used to it?\" \"Thank goodness,\" says Vee, \"someone has discovered my angelic qualities at last! Go on, Torchy, think of some more, can't you?\" And she claps her hands enthusiastic. \"Quit your spoofin',\" says I, \"or I'll ring for Aunty and tell how you've been kiddin' the guest of honor. I might talk easier too, if we could adjourn to the window alcove over there. No rule against that, is there?\" Didn't seem to be. And we'd have had a perfectly good chat if it hadn't been for Doris. Such a restless young female! First she wants to drum something out on the piano herself. Then she must have Vee come show her how it ought to go. Next she wants to practice a new fancy dance, and so on. She keeps Westy trottin' around, and Vee comin' and goin', and things stirred up gen'rally. One minute she's gigglin' hysterical over nothin' at all, and the next she's poutin' sulky. Anyway, she managed to queer the best part of the evenin', and I'd just settled down with Vee in a corner when the big hall clock starts to chime ten, and in through the draperies marches Aunty. It ain't any accidental droppin' in, either. She glances at me stern and suggestive and nods towards the door. So it was all over! \"Say,\" I whispers to Vee as I does a draggy exit, \"if Doris is to be with us again, would you mind my bringin' a clothesline and ropin' her to the piano?\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 42, "title": "Getting a Jolt from Westy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Maybe it wa'n't some discouragin' a week later to find the same pair still on the job, with Doris as much of a peace disturber as ever. I got a little more of her history sketched out by Vee that night. Seems that Doris didn't really belong, for all her airs. Her folks had only lived up in the West 70's for four or five years, and before that---- \"Well, you know,\" says Vee, archin' her eyebrows expressive, \"on the East Side somewhere.\" You see, Father had been comin' strong in business of late,--antiques and house decoratin'. I remember havin' seen the name over the door of his big Fifth-ave. shop,--Leo Ull. You know there's about five hundred per cent, profit in that game when you get it goin', and while Pa Ull might have started small, in an East 14th Street basement, with livin' rooms in the rear, he kept branchin' out,--gettin' to Fourth-ave., and fin'lly to Fifth, jumpin' from a flat to an apartment, and from that to a reg'lar house. So the two boys went to college, and later on little Doris, with long braids down her back and weeps in her eyes, is sent off to a girls' boardin' school. By the time her turn came too, the annual income was runnin' into six figures. Besides, Doris was the pet. And when Pa and Ma Ull sat down to pick out a young ladies' culture fact'ry for her the process was simple. They discarded all but three of the catalogues, savin' them that was printed on the thickest paper and havin' the most halftone pictures, and then put the tag on the one where the rates was highest. Near Washington, I think it was; anyway, somewhere South,--board and tuition, two thousand dollars and up; everything extra, from lead pencils to lessons in court etiquette; and the young ladies limited to ten new evenin' dresses a term.", "words": 320}, {"story": 42, "title": "Getting a Jolt from Westy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Maybe you've seen products of such exclusive establishments? And if you have perhaps you can frame up a faint picture of what Doris was like after four years at Hetherington Hall and a five months' trip abroad chaperoned by the Baroness Parcheezi. No wonder she didn't find home a happy spot after that! \"Her brothers are quite nice, I believe,\" says Vee. \"They're both married, though. Mr. Ull is not so bad, either,--a little crude perhaps; but he has learned to wear a frock coat in the shop and not to talk to lady customers when he has a cigar between his teeth. But Mrs. Ull--well, she hasn't kept up, that's all.\" \"Still on East 14th Street, eh?\" says I. Vee admits that nearly states the case. \"And of course,\" she goes on, \"she doesn't understand Doris. They don't get on at all well. So when Doris told me how lonely and unhappy she was at home and begged me to visit her for a week in return--well, what could I do? I'm going back with her Monday.\" \"Then,\" says I, \"I see where I cut next Friday off the calendar.\" \"Unless,\" suggests Vee, droppin' her long eyelashes coy, \"you were not too stupid to think of----\" \"Say,\" I breaks in, \"gimme that number again, will you? Suppose I could duck meetin' Westy if I came the first evenin'?\" \"If you're at all afraid of him, you shouldn't run the risk,\" comes back Vee. \"Chance is my middle name,\" says I. \"Only him stickin' around does make a room so crowded. I didn't know but he might miss a night occasionally.\" Vee sticks the tip of her tongue out. \"Just two during the last ten days, if you want to know,\" says she. \"Huh!\" says I. \"Must think he holds a season ticket.\"", "words": 303}, {"story": 42, "title": "Getting a Jolt from Westy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I couldn't make out, either, what it was that Vee seems so amused over; for as near as I can judge she was never very strong for Sappy herself. Maybe it was just a string she was handin' me. Havin' decided on that, I waits patient until eight-fifteen Monday evenin', and then breezes cheery and hopeful through the Ulls' front door and into the front room. No Westy in sight, or anybody else. The maid says the young ladies are in somewhere, and she'll tell 'em I've come. So I wanders about amongst the furniture, that's set around almost as thick as in a showroom,--heavy, fancy pieces, most likely ones that had been sent up from the store as stickers. The samples of art on the walls struck me as a bit gaudy too, and I was tryin' to guess how it would seem if you had to live in that sort of clutter continual, when out through the slidin' doors from the lib'ry appears Sappy the Constant. \"The poor prune!\" thinks I. \"I wonder if I've got time to work up some scheme of puttin' the skids under him?\" But instead of givin' me the haughty stare as usual he rushes towards me smilin' and excited. \"Oh, I say!\" he breaks out. \"Torchy, isn't it? Well, I--I've got a big piece of news.\" \"I know,\" says I. \"Someone's told you that the Panama Canal's full of water.\" \"No, no!\" says he. \"It--it's about me. Just happened, you know. And really I must tell someone.\" I had a choky sensation in my throat about then, and my breath came a little short; but I managed to get out husky, \"Well, toss it over.\" Westy beams grateful. \"Isn't it wonderful?\" says he. \"I--I've got her!\" \"Eh?\" I gasps, grippin' a chair back. \"She just told me,\" says he, \"in there. She's--she's wearing my ring now.\"", "words": 314}, {"story": 42, "title": "Getting a Jolt from Westy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Got me right under the belt buckle, that did. I felt wabbly and dizzy for a second, and I expect I gawps at him open faced. Then I takes a brace. Had to. I don't know how well I did it either, or how convincin' it sounded, but I found myself shakin' him by the mitt and sayin': \"Congratulations, Westlake. You--you've got a girl worth gettin', believe me!\" \"Thanks awfully, old man,\" says he, still pumpin' my arm up and down. \"I can hardly realize it myself. Awfully bad case I had, you know. And now, while I have the courage, I suppose I'd best see her mother.\" \"Wha-a-at?\" says I, starin' at him. \"I know,\" says he, \"it isn't being done much nowadays, but somehow I think I ought. You know I haven't even met Mrs. Ull as yet.\" I hope he was so fussed he didn't notice that sigh of relief I let out; for I'll admit it was some able-bodied affair,--a good deal like shuttin' off the air in a brake connection, or rippin' a sheet. Anyway, I made up for it the next minute. \"You and Doris, eh?\" says I, poundin' him on the back hearty. \"Ain't you the foxy pair, though? Well, well! Here, let's have another shake on that. But why not see Father and tell him about it? Know the old gent, don't you?\" \"Ye-e-es,\" says Westy, flushin' a bit. \"But he--well, he's her father, of course. She can't help that. And it makes no difference at all to me if he isn't really refined--not a bit. But--but I'd rather not talk to him just now. I--I prefer to see Mrs. Ull.\" I can't say just what I felt so friendly and fraternal to him about then; but I did. \"Westy,\" says I, \"take my advice about this hunch of yours to see Mother. Don't!\"", "words": 312}, {"story": 42, "title": "Getting a Jolt from Westy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"But really,\" he insists, \"I must tell one or the other, don't you see. And unless I do it right away I know I never can at all. Besides I've made up my mind that Mrs. Ull ought to be the first to know. I--I'm going to ring for the maid and ask to see her.\" \"Good nerve!\" says I, slappin' him on the shoulder. \"In that case I'll just slip into the back room there and shut the door.\" \"Oh, I say!\" says he, glancin' around panicky. \"I--I wish you'd stay. I--I don't fancy facing her alone. Please stay!\" \"It ain't reg'lar,\" says I. \"I don't care,\" says Westy, pleadin'. \"You could sort of introduce me, you know, and--and help me out if I got stuck. You would, wouldn't you?\" And it was amazin' how diff'rent I felt towards Westy from five minutes before. His best friend couldn't have looked on him fonder, or promised to stand by him closer. I calls the maid myself, discovers that Mrs. Ull is in the upstairs sittin' room, and sends the message that Mr. Westlake would like to see her right off about something important. \"But you got to buck up, my boy,\" says I; \"for from all the dope I've had you've got a jolt comin' to you.\" That wa'n't any idle rumor, either. He'd hardly begun pacin' restless in and out among the chairs and tables before we hears a heavy pad-pad on the stairs, and the next thing we know the lady is standin' in the door.", "words": 258}, {"story": 42, "title": "Getting a Jolt from Westy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Not such an awful stout old party as I'd looked for, nor she didn't have such a bad face; but with the funny way she has her hair bobbed up, and the weird way her dress fits her, like it had been cut out left-handed in a blind asylum--well, she's a mess, that's all. It's an expensive lookin' outfit too, and the jew'lry display around her lumpy neck and on her pudgy fingers was enough to make you blink; but somehow it all looked out of place. For a second she stands there fingerin' her rings fidgety, and then remarks unexpected: \"It's about Doris, ain't it? Well, young feller, what is it you got on your mind?\" And all of a sudden I tumbles to the fact that she's lookin' straight at me. Then it was my turn to go panicky. \"Excuse me, Ma'am,\" says I hasty, \"but that's the guilty party, the one over by the fireplace. Mr. Westlake, Ma'am.\" \"Oh!\" says she. \"That one, eh? Well, let's have it!\" and with that she paddles over to a high-backed, carved mahogany chair and settles herself sort of grim and defiant. I almost had to push Westy to the front too. \"I expect you've talked this all over with her father, eh?\" she goes on. \"I'm always the last to get wise to anything that goes on in this house, specially if it's about Doris. Come, let's have it!\" \"But I haven't seen Mr. Ull at all,\" protests Westy. \"It--it's just happened. And I thought you ought to know first. I want to ask you, Mrs. Ull, if I may marry Doris?\"", "words": 272}, {"story": 42, "title": "Getting a Jolt from Westy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "We wa'n't lookin' for what come next, either of us; her big red face had such a hard, sullen look on it, like she knew we was sizin' her up and meant to show us she didn't give a hoot what we thought. But as Westy finishes and bows real respectful, holdin' out his hand friendly, the change come. The hard lines around her mouth softens, the narrowed eyes widen and light up, and her stiff under jaw gets trembly. A tear or so trickles foolish down the side of her nose; but she don't pay any attention. She's just starin' at Westy. \"You--you wanted me to know first, did you?\" says she, with a break in her shrill, cackly voice. \"Me?\" \"I thought it only right,\" says Westy. \"You're Doris's mother, you know, and----\" \"Good boy!\" says she, reachin' out after one of his hands and pattin' it. \"I'm glad you did too. Doris, she's got too fine for her old mother. That ain't so much her fault as it is mine, I expect. I'm kind of rough, and a good deal behind the times. I ain't kept up, not even the way Leo has. But then, I ain't had the chance. I've been at home, lookin' after the boys and--and Doris. I saw she was gettin' spoiled; but I didn't have the heart to bring her home and stop it. She's young, though. She'll get over it. You'll help her. Oh, I know about you. Quite a young swell, you are; but I guess you're all right. And I'm glad for Doris. Maybe too, she'll find out some day that her rough old mother, who got left so far behind, thinks a lot of her still. You--you'll tell her as much some time perhaps. Won't you?\"", "words": 298}, {"story": 42, "title": "Getting a Jolt from Westy", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Say, take it from me, I was so misty in the eyes about then, and so choky under my collar, that I couldn't have done it myself. But Westy did. There's a heap more to him than shows on the outside. \"Mrs. Ull,\" says he, \"I shall tell Doris all of that, and much more. And I'm sure that both of us are going to be very fond of you. And if you don't mind, I'm going to begin now to call you Mother.\" Yes, I was gettin' a little uneasy at that stage. I hadn't counted on bein' let in for quite such a close fam'ly scene. And when the two girls showed up with their arms locked about each other, and Vee leads Doris up to Mother Ull, and they goes to a three-cornered clinch, sobbin' on one another's shoulder--well, I faded. On the way home I was struck by a sudden thought that trickled all the way down my spine like a splinter of ice. \"If I ever had the luck to get that far,\" thinks I, \"would I have to go through any such an act with Aunty? Hel-lup, Hubert! Hel-lup!\"", "words": 195}, {"story": 43, "title": "Some Guesses on Ruby", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Well, I'm shocked at Ruby, that's all. Also I'm beginnin' to suspicion I ain't such a human-nature dope artist as I thought, for I've made at least three fruity forecasts on Ruby, and the returns are still comin' in. My first frame-up was natural enough. When this goose-necked young female with the far-away look in her eyes appeared as No. 7 in our batt'ry of lady typists, and I heard Mr. Robert havin' a seance tryin' to dictate some of the mornin' correspondence to her, I swung round with a grin on my face and took a second look. She was fussed and scared. No wonder; for Mr. Robert has a shorthand system of his own that he uses in dictatin' letters. He'll reel off the name and address all right, and then simply sketch in what he wants said, without takin' pains to throw in such details as \"Replying to yours of even date,\" or \"We are in receipt of yours of the 20th inst.\" And the connectin' links he always leaves to the stenog. Course that don't take much bean after they get used to his ways; but this fairy in the puckered black velvet waist and the white linen cuffs hadn't been on the Corrugated staff more 'n three days, and this was her first tryout on private officework. She'd been told to read over the last letter fired at her, and she was doin' it like this: BAILY, BANKS & BAKER, Something-or-other Chestnut, Philadelphia. Look up the number, will you? Gentlemen--and so on. Ah--er--what's that note of theirs? Oh, yes! Shipments of ore will be resumed-- Which was where Mr. Robert stops her. \"Pardon me,\" says he, \"but before we go any further just how much of that rubbish do you mean to transcribe?\" \"Why,\" says Ruby, starin' at him vacant, \"I--I took down just what you said.\"", "words": 312}, {"story": 43, "title": "Some Guesses on Ruby", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Mm-m-m!\" says he sarcastic. \"My error. And--er--that will be all.\" Then, when she's gone, he growls savage: \"Delightful, eh? You noticed her, didn't you, Torchy?\" \"The mouth breather?\" says I. \"Sure! That's Ruby. Nobody home, and the front door left open. One of Piddie's finds, I expect.\" \"Ring for him, will you?\" says Mr. Robert. Poor Piddie! He was almost as fussed as Ruby had been. He admits takin' her on, but insists that she brought a good letter from some Western mill concern and was a wonder at takin' figures. \"Keep her on them and out of here, then,\" says Mr. Robert. \"And if you love peace, Mr. Piddie, avoid sending her to the governor.\" Which was a good hunch too. What Old Hickory would have remarked if them letters had got to him it ain't best to imagine. Besides, that stare of Ruby's would have got on his nerves from the start; for it's the weirdest, emptiest, why-am-I-here look I ever saw outside a nut fact'ry. Kind of a hauntin' look too. I couldn't help watchin' for it every time I passes through the front office, just to see if it had changed any. And it didn't--always the same! Then here one day when I has to cook up some tabulated stuff for the Semiannual me and Ruby had a three-hour session together, me readin' off long strings of numbers, and her thumpin' 'em out on the keys. We got along fine too, and when I says as much at the finish she jars me almost speechless by shootin' over a shy, grateful look and smilin' coy.", "words": 269}, {"story": 43, "title": "Some Guesses on Ruby", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "From then on it was almost a case of friendly relations between me and Ruby, conducted on the basis of about two smiles a day. Poor thing! I expect them was about the only friendly motions she went through durin' business hours; for she didn't seem to mix at all with the other lady typists, and as for the young sports around the shop--well, to them Ruby was a standin' joke. And you could hardly blame 'em. Them back-number costumes of hers looked odd enough mixed in with all the harem effects and wired-neck ruffs that the others wore down to work. But when it come to doin' her hair Ruby was in a class by herself. No spit curls or French rolls for her! She sticks to the plain double braid, wound around her head smooth and slick, like the stuff they wrap Chianti bottles in, and with her long soup-viaduct it gives her sort of a top-heavy look. Sort of dull, ginger-colored hair it is too. Besides that she's a tall, shingle-chested female, well along in the twenties, I should judge, and with all the earmarks of bein' an old maid. So shock No. 2 is handed me when I discovers how the high-shouldered young husk with the wide-set blue eyes, that I'd seen hangin' round the Arcade on and off, was really waitin' for Ruby. Uh-huh! I stood and watched 'em sidle up to each other and go driftin' out into Broadway hand in hand. A swell pair they'd make for a Rube vaudeville act! Honest, with a few make-up touches, they could have walked right on and had the gallery with 'em! Believe me, I couldn't miss a chance to josh Ruby some on that. I shoves it at her next day when I comes back early from lunch and finds her brushin' her sandwich crumbs into the waste basket.", "words": 314}, {"story": 43, "title": "Some Guesses on Ruby", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Now don't spring any musty first-cousin gag on me,\" says I; \"for it don't go with the fond, palm-pressin' act. Steady comp'ny, ain't he?\" Which was where you'd expect her to turn pink in the ears and let loose a giggle. But not Ruby. She's a solemn, serious-minded party, Ruby is. \"Do you mean Mr. Lindholm?\" says she. \"Heavings!\" says I. \"Do you have relays of 'em? I'm referrin' to the stocky-built young Romeo that picked you up at the door last night.\" \"Oh, yes,\" says she placid, \"Nelson Lindholm. We had Sanskrit together.\" \"Eh?\" says I. \"Sans-which? What kind of a disease is that?\" \"It's a language,\" explains Ruby. \"We were in the same class. I thought it might help me in my foreign mission work. I'm sure I don't know why Nelson took it, though. He was studying electrical engineering.\" \"Maybe it was catchin', at that,\" says I. \"Where was all this?\" \"At the Co-ed,\" says Ruby. \"But then I'd known Nelson before. He's from Naukeesha too.\" \"Come again,\" says I. \"From what?\" \"Naukeesha,\" repeats Ruby, just as if it was some common name like Patchogue or Hoboken. \"Is that an island somewhere,\" says I, \"or just a mixed drink?\" \"Why,\" says she, \"it's a town; in Wisconsin, you know.\" \"Think of that!\" says I. \"How they do mess up the map! What's it like, this Naukeesha?\" And for the first time Ruby shows some traces of life. \"It's nice,\" says she, \"real nice. Not at all like New York.\" \"Ah come, not so rough!\" says I. \"What you got special against our burg here?\"", "words": 267}, {"story": 43, "title": "Some Guesses on Ruby", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Ruby lapses back into her vacant stare and sort of shivers. \"It's so big and--and whirly!\" says she. \"I don't like things to be whirly. Then the people are so strange, and their faces so hard. If--if I should fall down in one of those crowds, I'm sure they would walk right over me, trample on me, without caring.\" \"Pooh!\" says I. \"You'll work up a rush-hour nerve in a month or so. Of course, havin' always lived in a place like Naukeesha----\" \"But I haven't,\" corrects Ruby. \"I was born in Kansas.\" \"As bad as that!\" says I. \"And your folks moved up there later, eh?\" \"No,\" says she. \"They--they--I lost them there. A cyclone, you know.\" \"You don't mean,\" says I, \"that--that----\" \"Yes,\" says she, \"Mother, Father, and my two brothers. We were all together when it struck; that is, I was just coming in from the kitchen. I'd been shutting the windows. I saw them all go--whirled off, just like that. The chimney fell, big beams came down, then it was all smoky and dark. I must have been blown through a window. My face was cut a little. I never knew. Neighbors found me in a field by a stump. They found the others too--laid them side by side in the wagon shed. Nothing else was left standing. It's dreadful, being in a cyclone--the roar, you know, and things coming at you in the dark, and that feeling of being lifted and whirled. I was only twelve; but I--I can't forget. And when I'm in big, noisy places it all comes back. I suppose I'm silly.\" Was she? Say, what's your guess about that? And, take it from me, I didn't wonder any more at that stary look of hers. She'd seen 'em all go--four of 'em. Good-night! I talked easy and soothin' to Ruby after that.", "words": 311}, {"story": 43, "title": "Some Guesses on Ruby", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Then I went up to live with Uncle Edward at Naukeesha,\" she trails along. \"He's a minister there. It was he who suggested my going into foreign mission work. I had to do something, you know, and I'd always been such a good scholar. I love books. So I studied hard, and was sent to the Co-ed. But the languages took so much time. Then I had to skip several terms and work to help pay my expenses. I worked during vacations too, at anything. Now I'm waiting for a field. They send you out when there's a vacancy.\" \"How about Nelson?\" says I. \"He's goin' to be a missionary too?\" \"He doesn't want me to go,\" says Ruby, shakin' her head. \"That is why he came on. He had charge of the electric light plant too, a good place. And here he gets only odd jobs. I tell him he's silly to stay. I can't see why he does.\" \"Asked him, have you?\" says I. \"Why, no,\" says Ruby. \"Shoot it at him to-night,\" says I. But she shakes her head, opens her notebook, and feeds in a copyin' sheet as the clock points to 1. I looks up just in time to catch a couple of them cheap bondroom sports nudgin' each other as they passes by. Thought I'd been joshin' the Standin' Joke, I expect. Well, that's the way I started in, I'll admit. It's only a day or so later I has the luck to run across Oakley Mills. Something had come up that needed to be passed on by Mr. Robert, and as he was still out lunchin' I scouts over to his club, and finds him stowed away at a corner table with this chatty playwright party.", "words": 293}, {"story": 43, "title": "Some Guesses on Ruby", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "He's quite a swell, Oakley is, you know; and I guess with one Broadway hit in its second year, and a lot of road comp'nies out, he can afford to flit around under the white lights. Him and Mr. Robert has always been more or less chummy, and every now and then they get together like this for a talkfest. As Mr. Mills seems to be right in the middle of something as I drifts in, Mr. Robert waves me to a chair and signals him to keep on, which he does. \"It's a curious mess, that's all,\" says Oakley, spreadin' out his manicured fingers and shruggin' his shoulders under his Donegal Norfolk. \"I'm not sure if the new piece will ever go on.\" \"Another procrastinating producer?\" asks Mr. Robert careless. \"No, a finicky author this time,\" says Oakley. \"You see, there is one part, a character part, which I'm insisting must be cast right. It seemed easy at first. But these women of our American stage! No training, no facility, no understanding! Not one of them can fill it, and we've tried nearly a dozen. If I could only find the original!\" \"Eh?\" says Mr. Robert, who's been payin' more attention to manipulatin' the soda siphon than to Oakley's beefin'. \"What original?\" \"The dumbest, woodenest, most conscientious young female person it has ever been my lot to meet,\" goes on Mr. Mills. \"Talk about your rare types! You should have known Faithful Fannie (my name for her, you know). It was out in the Middle West last summer. I had two or three weeks' work to do on the new piece, revising it to fit Amy Dean. All stars of that magnitude demand it, you understand.", "words": 287}, {"story": 43, "title": "Some Guesses on Ruby", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Well, I should have stayed right here until it was done, but some Chicago friends wanted me to go with them up into the lake region, promised me an ideal place to work in--all that. So I went. I might have had better sense. You know these bungalow colonies in the woods--where they live in fourteen-room log cabins, fitted with electric lights and English butlers? Bah! It was bridge and tennis and dancing day and night, with a new mob every week-end. Work? As well try it in the middle of the Newport Casino. \"So I hunted up a little third-rate summer hotel a mile or so off, where the guests were few and the food wretched, and camped down with my mangled script and my typewriter. There I met Fannie the Unforgetful. She was the waitress I happened to draw out of a job lot. I suppose it was her debut at that sort of thing. For the sake of hungry humanity I hope it was. What she did not know about serving was simply amazing; but her capacity for absorbing suggestions and obeying orders was profound. 'Could I have a warm plate?' I asked at the first meal. 'Oh, certainly, Sir,' says Fannie, and from then on every dish she brought me was piping hot, even to the cold-meat platter and the ice cream saucer. It was that way with every wish I was rash enough to express. Fannie never forgot, and she kept to the letter of the law.", "words": 252}, {"story": 43, "title": "Some Guesses on Ruby", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Also she would stand patiently and watch me eat. That is, she would fix her eyes on me intently, never moving, and keep them there for a quarter of an hour at a time. A little embarrassing, you know, to be so constantly observed. She had such big, stary eyes too, absolutely without any expression in them. To break the spell I would order things I didn't want, just to get her out of the way for a moment or so while I snatched a few unwatched bites. You know how it is? There's green corn. Now I like to tackle that with both hands; but I don't care to be closely inspected while I'm at it. I used to fancy that her gaze was somewhat critical. 'Good heavens, Girl!' I said one day. 'Can't you look somewhere else--at the ceiling, or out of the window?' She chose the ceiling. It was a bit weird to have her stationed opposite me, her eyes rolled heavenward. Uncanny! It attracted the attention of the other guests. But it was something of a relief. I could watch her then. \"There was something fascinating about Faithful Fannie, though, as there is about all unusually plain persons. Not that she was positively homely. Her features were regular enough, I suppose. But she was such a tall, slim, colorless, neutral creature! And awkward! You've seen a young turkey, all legs and neck, with its silly head bobbing above the tall grass? Well, something like that. And as I never read at my meals I had nothing else to do but study that sallow, unmoving face of hers with its steady, emotionless, upward gaze. Was she thinking? And what about! Who was she? Where had she come from?", "words": 291}, {"story": 43, "title": "Some Guesses on Ruby", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"A haunting face, Fannie's was; at least, for me. It became almost an obsession. I could see it as I sat down to my work. And the first thing I knew I was writing Fannie into my play. There was a maid's part in it,--the conventional, table-dusting, note-carrying, tea-serving maid, with not half a dozen words to speak. But before I knew it this insignificant part had become so elaborated, I had sketched in Fannie's personality so vividly, that the whole action and theme of the piece were revolving about her--hinged on her. I couldn't seem to stop, either. I wrote on and on and--well, by Jove! it ended in my turning out something entirely different from that which I had begun. The original skeleton is still there, the characters are the same; but the values have exchanged places. This is a Fannie play through and through. And it's good, the biggest thing I've done; but----\" Once more Oakley shrugs his shoulders and ends with a deep sigh. \"Rubbish!\" says Mr. Robert. \"You and your artistic temperament! What's the real trouble, anyway?\" \"As I've tried to make clear to your limited and wholly commercialized intelligence,\" comes back Mr. Mills, \"I have created a character which is too deep and too subtle for any available American actress to handle. If I could only find the original now, with her tractable genius for doing exactly what she was told----\" \"Why not send out for her, then?\" asks Mr. Robert. \"As though I hadn't!\" says Oakley. \"Two weeks ago I located the hotel manager in Florida and wired him a full description of the girl. All I got from him was that he'd heard she was somewhere in New York.\" \"How simple!\" says Mr. Robert. \"Here is my young friend Torchy, with wits even more brilliant than his hair. Ask him to find Fannie for you.\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 43, "title": "Some Guesses on Ruby", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"A girl whose name I don't even know!\" protests Oakley. \"How in blazes could anyone trace a----\" \"I'll bet you the dinners,\" cuts in Mr. Robert, \"that Torchy can do it.\" \"Taken,\" says Mr. Mills, and turns to me brisk. \"Now, young man, what further details would you like?\" \"Don't happen to have a lock of her hair with you?\" says I, grinnin'. \"Alas, no!\" says he. \"She favored me with no such mark of her esteem.\" \"Was it kind of ginger-colored,\" says I, \"and done in a braid round her head?\" \"Why--er--I believe it was,\" says he. \"And didn't she have sort of droopy shoulders,\" I goes on, \"and a trick of starin' vague, with her mouth part way open?\" \"Yes, yes!\" says he eager. \"But--but whom are you describing?\" \"Ruby Everschott,\" says I. \"Come down to the Corrugated and take a look.\" Course it seemed like a 100 to 1 chance, but when I got the Wisconsin part of his yarn, and tacked it onto the rest, it didn't seem likely one State could produce two such specimens. Inside of fifteen minutes the three of us was strollin' casual through the front offices. \"Glance down the line of lady typists,\" I whispers to Oakley. \"By George!\" says he gaspy. \"The one at the far end?\" \"You win,\" says I. \"And you also, my young wizard,\" says Oakley. \"I'll have her sent into my private office,\" suggests Mr. Robert. And once more I was lookin' for some startled motions from Ruby when she discovers Mr. Mills. But in she comes, as woodeny and stiff as ever, goes to her little table, and spreads out her notebook, without glancin' at any of us. \"Pardon me, Miss Everschott,\" says Mr. Robert, \"but--er--my friend Mills here fancies that he--er--ah--oh, hang it all! you say it, Oakley.\"", "words": 304}, {"story": 43, "title": "Some Guesses on Ruby", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "At which Mr. Mills steps up smilin'. I should judge he was a fairly smooth, high-polished gent as a rule; but after Ruby has turned that stupid, stary look on him, without battin' an eyelash or liftin' an eyebrow, the smile fades out. She don't say a word or make a move: just continues to stare. As for Oakley, he shifts uneasy on his feet and flushes up under the eyes. \"Well?\" says he. \"I trust you remember me?\" Ruby shakes her head slow. \"No, Sir,\" says she. \"Eh?\" says Oakley. \"Weren't you a waitress at the Lakeside Hotel last summer?\" \"Certainly, Sir,\" says Ruby. \"And didn't you bring me my meals three times a day for four mortal weeks?\" he insists. \"Did I?\" says Ruby, starin' stupider than ever. \"Great Scott, young woman!\" breaks out Oakley. \"Didn't you look at me long enough and steadily enough to remember? Don't you recall I was disagreeable enough to ask you not to watch me eat?\" \"Oh!\" says Ruby, a flicker of almost human intelligence in her big eyes. \"The one who wanted hot plates!\" \"At last,\" says Oakley, \"I am properly identified. Yes, I am the hot-plate person.\" \"You had tea for breakfast too, didn't you?\" asks Ruby. \"Always,\" says he. \"An eccentricity of mine.\" \"And you put salt on your muskmelon, and wanted your eggs opened, and didn't like tomato soup,\" adds Ruby, like she was repeatin' a lesson. \"Guilty on all three counts,\" says Mr. Mills. \"I tried to remember,\" says Ruby, sort of meek. \"Tried!\" gasps Oakley. \"Why, you made an art of it. You never so much as---- But tell me, was it those foolish little whims of mine you were thinking so hard about while you stood there gazing so intently at me?\" Ruby nods; a shy, bashful little nod.", "words": 304}, {"story": 43, "title": "Some Guesses on Ruby", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Mr. Mills makes a low bow. \"A thousand pardons, my dear young lady!\" says he. \"I stand convicted of utter selfishness. But perhaps I can atone.\" And with that he proceeds to put his proposition up to her. He tells her about the play, the trouble he's had tryin' to fit one special part, and how he's sure she could do it to a T. He asks her to give it a try. \"Go on the stage!\" says Ruby, her big eyes starin' at him like he'd asked her to jump off the Metropolitan Tower. \"No, I don't think I could. I'm going to be a foreign missionary, you know.\" \"A--a what?\" gasps Oakley. \"Missionary! But see here--that can wait. And in one season on the stage you could make----\" Well, I must say Oakley argued it well and put it strong; but he'd have produced just as good results if he'd been out in the square askin' the bronze statue of Lafayette to hand him down a match. Ruby drops back into her vague gazin' act and shakes her head. So at last he ends by askin' her to think it over for a day, and Ruby goes back to her desk. \"How absurd!\" growls Oakley. \"But I simply must have her. Why, we would pay her three hundred dollars a week.\" I catches my breath at that. \"Excuse me if I seem to crash in,\" says I, \"but was that a gust of superheated air, or did you mean it?\" \"I should be glad to submit a contract to Miss Everschott on those terms,\" says he. \"Then leave it to me,\" says I; \"that is, to me and Nelson.\"", "words": 281}, {"story": 43, "title": "Some Guesses on Ruby", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Did we win Ruby? Say, with our descriptions of what three hundred a week might mean in the way of Christmas presents to Uncle Ed, and donations to the poor box, and a few personal frills on the side, we shot that foreign missionary scheme so full of holes it looked like a last year mosquito bar at the attic window. \"But I'm sure I sha'n't like it at all,\" says Ruby as she signs her name. I didn't deny that. I knew she was in for a three weeks' drillin' by the roughest stage manager in the business. You know who. But he can deliver the goods, can't he? He makes the green ones act. Look at what he did with Ruby! Only it don't seem like actin' at all. She's just Ruby, in the same puckered waist, her hair mopped around her head in the same silly braid, and that same stary look in her big eyes. But it gets 'em strong. Packed every night! I meets Nelson here only yesterday, and he was tellin' me. Comin' along some himself, Nelson is. He's opened an office and is biddin' for big jobs. \"I've just landed my first contract,\" says he. \"Good!\" says I. \"What's it for?\" \"A fifty-foot, twenty-thousand-candle-power sign over the theater,\" says he, \"with Ruby's name in it. She's signed up for another year, you know.\" \"Well, well!\" says I. \"Then it's all off with the heathen, eh?\" And Nelson he drifts up the street wearin' a grin.", "words": 252}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "There was two commuters, one loaded down with a patent runner sled, the other chewin' a cigar impatient and consultin' his watch; a fat woman with a six-year-old who was teasin' to go see Santa Claus in the window again; a sporty-lookin' old boy with a red tie who was blinkin' googoos out of his puffy eyes; and then there was me, draped in my new near-English top coat and watchin' the swing doors expectant. So you see they ain't particular who hangs out in these department store vestibules. But I'll bet I had the best excuse! I was waitin' for Vee! She'd gone in at five-twenty-one, sayin' she'd be only a couple of minutes; so she wa'n't really due for half an hour yet. The commuter with the sled had just been picked up by Wifey, loaded down with more bundles, and rushed off for the five-forty-something for Somewhere, and a new recruit in the shape of a fish-eyed gink with a double-chin dimple had drifted in, when I has the feelin' that someone has sidled up to me from the far door at the left and is standin' there. Then comes the timid hail: \"I beg pardon, Sir.\" You'd naturally look for somebody special after that, wouldn't you? But what I finds close to my elbow is a wispy little girl with a pinched, high-strung look on her thin face, an amazin' collection of freckles, and a pleadin' look in her big, blue-gray eyes. She's costumed mainly in a shaggy tam-o'-shanter that comes down over her ears, and an old plaid cape that must have been some vivid in its color scheme when it was new. \"Eh, Sister?\" says I, gawpin' at her. \"Is it true about the work papers, Sir?\" says she.", "words": 295}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"The which?\" says I, not gettin' her for a second. \"Oh! Work papers? Sure! They can't take you on unless you're over fourteen and have been to school so many weeks.\" \"Not anywhere? Wouldn't they?\" she insists. I shakes my head. \"Wouldn't dare,\" says I. \"They'd be fined if they did.\" \"Th-thank you, Sir,\" says she. \"That's what the man said.\" She was winkin' both eyes hard to hold the brine back, and her under lip was trembly; but she was keepin' her chin up brave and steady. She'd turned to go when she swings around. \"Please, Sir,\" says she, \"where does one go when one is tired?\" \"Why, Sis,\" says I sort of quizzin', \"what's the matter with home?\" \"But if one has no home?\" she comes back at me solemn. \"The case being that of a little girl,\" says I, \"she wanders around until she's collected by a cop, turned over to the Children's Society, and committed to some home.\" \"But I mustn't go there,\" says she, glancin' around scary. \"No, not to a home. Daddums said not to.\" \"Did, eh?\" says I. \"Then why don't he---- By the way, just where is Daddums?\" \"Taken up,\" says she. \"You mean pinched?\" says I. \"I think so,\" says she. \"Cook says the bobbies came for him. He left word with her that I wasn't to worry, as he'd be let out soon, and I was to stay where I was. Three weeks ago that was, and--and I haven't heard from Daddums since.\" \"Huh!\" says I. \"Listens like a case of circumstances over which---- But where did you pick up that trick of speakin' of coppers as bobbies?\" \"I beg pardon, Sir?\" says she. \"That tells it,\" says I. \"English, ain't you?\" \"London, Sir, Brompton Road,\" says she. \"Been over long?\" says I. \"A matter of three months, Sir,\" says she. \"And what's the name?\" says I.", "words": 317}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Mine?\" says she. \"Helma Allston. And yours, please, Sir?\" I wa'n't lookin' for her to send it back so prompt. She ain't at all fresh about it, you know: just easy and natural. I don't know when I've run across a youngster with such nice manners. \"Why,\" says I, \"I guess you can call me Torchy.\" \"Thank you, Mr. Torchy,\" says she, doin' a little dancin'-school duck. \"And if you don't mind, I'd like to--to stay here for a minute or two while I think what I 'd best---- O-o-o-oh!\" She sort of moans out this last panicky and shrinks against the wall. \"Well, what's the trouble now?\" says I. \"That's the one!\" she whispers husky. \"The--the man in the blue cap--the one who told me about the work papers. He said I was to clear out too.\" And by followin' her scared glances I discovers this low-brow store sleuth scowlin' ugly at her. \"Pooh!\" says I. \"Only one of them cheap flat-foots. Don't mind him. You're waitin' with me, you know. Here!\" And I reaches down a hand to her. Maybe it wa'n't some grateful look Helma flashes up as she slips her slim, cold little fingers into mine and snuggles up like a lost kitten. The store sleuth he stares puzzled for a second; but the near-English top coat must have impressed him, for he goes sneakin' back down the main aisle. So here I am, with this freaky little stray under my wing, when Vee comes sailin' out, all trim and classy in her silver fox furs, with a cute little hat to match, and takes in the picture. Maybe you can guess too, how the average young queen in her set would have curled her lip at sight of that faded cape and oversized cap. But not Vee! She just indulges in a flickery smile, then straightens her face out and remarks:", "words": 316}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Well, Torchy, I haven't had the pleasure, have I?\" Say, she's a real sport, Vee is, take it from me! \"Guess not,\" says I. \"This is Helma, late of London, just now at large. It's a case of one's havin' mislaid one's home.\" \"Oh!\" says Vee, a little doubtful. \"And one's parents too?\" \"Painful subject,\" says I, shakin' my head warnin'. But Helma ain't the kind to gloss things over. She speaks right out. \"If you please, Miss,\" says she, \"I've no mother, and Daddums has been taken up--the bobbies, you know. And I fancy the money he left for my board must have been all used; for I heard the landlady say I'd have to go to a home. So before daylight this morning I slipped out the front door. I'm not going back, either. I--I'm looking for work.\" \"For work!\" says Vee, starin' first at me and then at Helma. \"You absurd little thing! Why, how old are you?\" \"I was twelve last month, Miss,\" says Helma, bobbin' polite. \"And you've been out since daylight?\" demands Vee. \"Where did you have breakfast and luncheon?\" \"I--I didn't have them at all, Miss,\" admits Helma. Vee presses her lips together sudden and then shoots a knowin' look at me. \"There!\" says she. \"That reminds me. I haven't had tea, either. Well, Torchy?\" \"My blow,\" says I. \"I was just goin' to mention it. There's a joint somewhere near, ain't there?\" \"Top floor,\" says Vee. \"Come, Helma, you'll go with us, won't you?\"", "words": 252}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "And you should have seen the admirin' look Vee got back in exchange for the smile she gives Helma! The look never fades, either, all the while Helma is puttin' away a pot of chocolate, a club sandwich, and an order of toasted muffins and marmalade. She just lets them big eyes of hers travel up and down, from Vee's smooth-fittin' gloves to the little wisp of straw-colored hair that curls up over the side of her fur hat. You couldn't blame Helma. I took a peek now and then myself. Meanwhile we has a good chance to inspect this waif that's been sort of wished on us. Such a sharp, peaked little face she has, and such bright, active eyes, that it gives her a wide-awake, live-wire look, like a fox terrier. Then the freckles--just spattered with 'em, clear across the bridge of her nose and up to where the carroty hair begins. Like rust specks on a knife blade, they were. \"You didn't get all those livin' in London, did you?\" says I. \"Oh, no, Sir,\" says she. \"Egypt mostly, and then down in Devon. You see, Sir Alfred used to let Daddums take me along. Head butler, you know, Daddums was--until the war. Then Sir Alfred went off with his regiment, and Haldeane House was shut up, like so many others. Daddums was too old to enlist, and besides there was no one to leave me with. So he had to try for a place over here. I--I wish he hadn't. It was awful of the bobbies, wasn't it?\" \"Looks so from here,\" says I. \"Was it jew'lry that was missin', or what?\" \"Money, Cook said,\" says Helma. \"Oh, a lot! Fancy! Why, everyone knows Daddums wouldn't do a thing like that. They could ask Sir Alfred. Daddums was with him ever so long--since I was a little, little girl.\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I glances across at Vee, and she glances back. That's all; but them big eyes of Helma's don't miss it. \"You--you don't believe he took the money, do you?\" says she, wistful and pleadin'. At which Vee reaches over and pats her soothin' on the hand. \"I don't believe a word of it,\" says she. \"He's a good Daddums,\" goes on Helma, spreadin' the last of the marmalade on a buttered muffin. \"He was going to take me to Australia, where Uncle Verne has a big sheep ranch. And he'd promised to buy me a sheep pony, all for my very own. I love riding, don't you? In Egypt I had a donkey with a white face; but only hired from Hassan, you know. And in Devon there was a cunning little Shetland that Hobbs would sometimes let me take out. But here! I stay in a dark little room alone for hours. I--I don't like it at all. But it costs such a lot to get to Australia, and Daddums hasn't been well,--he's had a cold on his chest,--and he's been afraid he would lose his place and have to go to a hospital. Just before he was taken up, though, he told me we were to sail for Melbourne soon. Daddums had found a way.\" This time I took care that Helma wa'n't lookin' before I glances at Vee. I shakes my head dubious, indicatin' I wa'n't so sure about Daddums. But Vee only tosses up her chin and turns to Helma. \"Of course he would!\" says she. \"What have you in your lap, Child?\" The kid pinks up and produces a battered old doll,--one of these cloth-topped, everlastin' affairs, that looks like it had come from the Christmas tree quite some seasons back.", "words": 296}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"This is my dear Arabella,\" says Helma in her old-maid way. \"I suppose I'm too old to play with dolls now; but I--I can't give her up. Only the night before Daddums went off I missed her for a while and thought she was lost. I cried myself to sleep. But what do you think? In the morning I found her again, right beside me on the pillow. I haven't gone a step without her since.\" \"You dear little goose!\" says Vee, reachin' out impetuous and givin' her a hug. \"And where do you think you're going, you and your Arabella?\" \"I don't know,\" says Helma. \"Only I mustn't let them put me in a home; for then I couldn't go with Daddums when he came out--you see?\" Sure, we saw--that and a lot more. I could tell that Vee was puzzlin' over the situation by the way she was starin' at the youngster and grippin' her muff. Course you might say we wa'n't any Rescue Mission, or anything like that; but somehow this was diff'rent. Here was Helma, right in front of us! And I'm free to admit the proposition was too much for me. \"Gee!\" says I. \"Handed out rough sometimes, ain't it? What's the answer, Vee?\" \"There's only one,\" says she. \"I'm going to take Helma home with me.\" \"What about Aunty?\" says I. At which Vee's lips come together and her shoulders straighten. \"I know,\" says she, \"there'll be a row. Aunty's always saying that such affairs should be handled by institutions. But this time--well, we'll see. Come, Helma.\" \"Oh, is it true?\" gasps the youngster. \"May I go with you? May I?\" And as I tucked 'em into a taxi, Arabella and all, Vee whispers: \"Torchy, if you're any good at all, you'll go straight and find out all about Daddums and just make them let him out!\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Eh?\" says I. \"Make 'em--say, ain't that some life-sized order?\" \"Perhaps,\" says she. \"But you needn't come to see us until you've found him. Good-by!\" Just like that I got it! And, say, there wa'n't any use tryin' to kid myself into thinkin' maybe she don't mean it. I'd seen how strong this story of little Helma's had got to her; and, believe me, when Vee gets real stirred up over anything she's some earnest party--no four-flushin' about her! And it don't seem to make much diff'rence who blocks the path. Look at her then, sailin' off to go up against a stiff-necked, cold-eyed Aunty, who's a believer in checkbook charity, and mighty little of that! And just so I won't feel out of it she tosses me a job that would keep a detective bureau and a board of pardons busy for a month. \"Whiffo!\" says I, gawpin' up the avenue after the cab. \"And I pulled this down just by bein' halfway human! Oh, very well, very well! Here's where I strain something!\" Course, if I hadn't knocked around a newspaper office more or less, I wouldn't have known where to begin any more than--well, than the average private sec would. But them two years I spent outside the Sunday editor's door wa'n't all wasted. For instance, that's where I got to know Whitey Weeks. And now my first move is to pike down to old Newspaper Row and locate him. Inside of half an hour we'd done a lot too. We'd called up their headquarters' man on the 'phone and had him sketch off the case against one Allston, a butler. \"Yep, grand larceny,\" says Whitey, his ear to the receiver. \"We know that. How much? Eh? Twenty thousand!\" \"Ah, tell him to turn over: he's on his back!\" says I. \"Not twenty thousand cash?\"", "words": 308}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"That's what he says,\" insists Whitey, \"all in hundreds. Lifted out of a secret wall safe.\" \"Ask him where this guy was buttling,--in a bank,\" says I, \"or at the Subtreasury?\" And Whitey reports that Allston was workin' for a Mrs. Murtha, West 76th Street; \"Mrs. Connie Murtha, you know,\" he goes on, \"the big poolroom backer, and one of the flossiest, foxiest widows in New York.\" \"Then that accounts for the husky wad,\" says I. \"Twenty thousand! No piker, was he? Ask your man who's on the case?\" \"Rusitelli & Donahue,\" says Whitey. \"Mike's a friend of mine too; but he never talks much.\" \"Let's have a try, anyway,\" says I. So we runs this partic'lar detective sergeant down, drags him away from a penuchle game, and Whitey begins by suggestin' that we hear how he's done some clever work on the Allston case. \"I got him right, that's all,\" says Mike. \"And he'd faked up a nice little stall too.\" \"Anything on him when you rounded him up?\" asks Whitey. Donahue shakes his head disgusted. \"Stowed it,\" says he. \"Some cute, eh?\" says Whitey. \"Bah!\" says Mike. \"Who was it sprung that tale about his being a big English crook? The Yard never heard of him. I doped him out from the first, though. Plain nut! The Chief wouldn't believe it until I showed him.\" \"Showed him what?\" says Whitey, innocent like. \"This,\" says the sleuth, haulin' out of his pocket a bulgy envelope. \"I found that in his room. Take a look,\" and he lifts the flap at the end. \"What the deuce!\" says Whitey. \"Sawdust,\" says Mike, \"just plain, everyday sawdust. I had it analyzed,--no dope, no nothing. Now tell me, would anyone but a nut do a thing like that?\"", "words": 295}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "We both agreed nobody but a nut would; also we remarks in chorus that Mr. Donahue is some classy sleuth, which he don't object to at all. In fact, after I've explained how a relation of Allston's had asked me to look him up he fixes it so I can get a pass into the Tombs. Followin' which I blows Whitey to one of Farroni's seventy-five-cent spaghetti banquets and then goes home to think a few chunks of thought. As the case stood it looked bad for Daddums. A party like Mrs. Connie Murtha, with all the police drag she must have, wa'n't goin' to be separated from her reserve roll without makin' somebody squirm good and plenty. He might have known that, if it was him turned the trick. Or was he nutty, like Donahue had said? Before I went any further I had to settle that point, and while I ain't strong for payin' visits through the iron bars I was up early next mornin' and down presentin' my pass. \"You cub lawyers give me shootin' pains in the neck!\" grumbles the turnkey that tows me in. \"How'd you guess I wa'n't the new District Attorney?\" says I. \"Here, have a perfecto for that pain.\" And that soothes him so much he loafs against the tier rail while I knocks on the door of Cell 69. \"I beg pardon?\" says a deep, smooth voice, and up to the bars steps a tall, round-shouldered gent, with hair a little thin on top and a pair of reddish-gray butler sideboards in front of his ears. Not a bad face either, only the pointed chin is a little weak. \"I'm from Helma,\" says I.", "words": 283}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "That jolts him at the start. His hands go trembly, and twice he makes a stab at speakin' before he can get the words out. \"Is--isn't she all right?\" says he. \"I left her in lodgings, you know. I--I trust she----\" \"She quit,\" says I. \"They was goin' to put her in a home. Picked me up on the street, you might say. But she's safe enough now.\" \"Safe?\" says he, dartin' over a suspicious look. \"Where?\" \"Take my word for it,\" says I. \"Maybe we can swap a little information later on. Now what about this grand larceny charge?\" \"All rubbish!\" says he. \"Why, I hadn't been out of the house! They admit that. If I'd taken the money, wouldn't it have been found on me?\" \"Then they pinched you on the premises?\" says I. \"I rather thought from what Helma said you'd been to see her that night?\" \"Not since the night before,\" says he. \"Helma was down in the kitchen with Cook when they came.\" \"Huh!\" says I, rubbin' my chin as a help to deep thought. \"The night before?\" I don't know why, either, but somehow that makes me think of sawdust, and from sawdust--say, I had it in a flash. \"Sorry, Allston,\" says I, \"but on account of Helma I was kind of in hopes they was just makin' a goat of you. She's a cute youngster--Helma.\" \"She is all I have to live for, Sir,\" says he, bowin' his head. \"Then why take such chances as this?\" says I. \"Twenty thousand! Say, you know this ain't any jay burg. You can't expect to get away with a wad like that.\" \"I know nothing about the money,\" says he, stiffenin' up. \"They'll have to find it to prove I took it.\"", "words": 296}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Big mistake No. 2,\" says I. \"They got to convict somebody, and the arrow points to you. About fifteen years would be my guess. Now come, Allston, what good would you be after fifteen years' hard?\" He shivers, but shrugs his shoulders dogged. \"Poor little Helma!\" says he. \"Where is she?\" \"Excuse me, Mr. Allston,\" says I, \"but that ain't the order of events. It's like this: First off you tell me where the wad is; then I tell you about Helma.\" Makes him groan a bit, that does, and he scowls at me stubborn. \"They tried all that on at Headquarters,\" says he. \"It's no use.\" \"You'd get off lighter if you told,\" says I. \"I've nothing to tell,\" he insists. \"How about swappin' what you know for two tickets to Australia?\" I suggests. \"Hah!\" says he. \"Helma's been talkin'!\" \"She's a chatty youngster,\" says I, \"and she thinks a heap of her Daddums. I ain't sure, though, whether you come first--or Arabella.\" If I hadn't been watchin' for it, I might not have noticed, but the quiver that begins in the fingers grippin' the bars runs clear up to the sagged shoulders. His mouth twitches nervous, and then he gets hold of himself. \"Oh, yes,\" says he, forcin' a smile. \"Her doll. She--she still has that, has she?\" \"Uh-huh!\" says I, watchin' him keen. \"I'm keepin' close track of both.\" That little touch did the business. He begins pacin' up and down his cell, wringin' his hands. About the fourth lap he stops. \"If I only could take her to Australia,\" says he, \"and get her out of--of all this, I would be willing to--to----\" \"That's enough,\" says I. \"All I want is your O. K. on any terms I can make with Mrs. Murtha.\" \"She's a hard woman,\" says he. \"And she doesn't come by her money straight.\"", "words": 311}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Nor lose it easy,\" says I. \"She wants it back. Might talk business, though, if I could show her how----\" \"Anything!\" says Allston. \"Anything to get me out!\" \"Now you're usin' your bean,\" says I. \"I'm off. Maybe you'll hear from me later.\" Course I didn't know what could be done, but I 'phones Piddie at the office to tell 'em I won't be in before lunch, and then I boards an uptown subway express. Easy enough findin' Mrs. Connie Murtha too. She's just finished a ten o'clock breakfast. A big, well-built, dashin' sort of party she is, with an enameled complexion and drugged hair. She's brisk and businesslike. \"If you've come to beg me to let up on that sneaking English butler,\" says she, \"you needn't waste any more breath. He's going to do time for this job.\" \"But suppose he could be coaxed into tellin' where the loot was?\" says I. \"He's had the third degree good and strong,\" says she. \"The boys told me so. He won't squeal. Donahue says he ain't right in his head. Anyway, he goes up.\" \"He's leavin' a little girl,\" I puts in, \"without anyone to look after her.\" \"Most crooks do,\" says she, sniffin'. \"But if you could get the wad back?\" says I. \"All of it?\" says she quick. \"Every bean,\" says I. She leans forward, starin' at me hard and eager. \"He'll tell, then?\" says she. \"Said he would,\" says I, \"providin' him and the little girl could be shipped to Australia.\" She chews that over a minute. \"That's cheap enough,\" says she. \"I could claim I'd remembered putting the money somewhere and forgotten. Young man, it's a bargain. I'll have my lawyer go down and----\" \"Say,\" I breaks in, \"why fat up a lawyer? Let's settle this between you and me.\" \"But how?\" says she.", "words": 307}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Just a minute,\" says I, lookin' her full in the eyes. \"I'm playin' you to give Allston a square deal, you know.\" \"You can bank on that,\" says she. \"Connie Murtha's word was always as good as government bonds. And if you can wish back that twenty thousand, I'll put a quick crimp in this prosecution.\" \"What could be fairer than that?\" says I. \"I'll be back in an hour.\" It was only forty-five minutes, in fact; but Mrs. Connie was watchin' for me. \"Let's have a pair of scissors,\" says I, as I sheds my overcoat and produced from under one arm, where it had been buttoned up snug and tight, about the worst-lookin' doll you ever saw. I hadn't figured on Mrs. Murtha goin' huffy so sudden, either. \"You fresh young shrimp you!\" she blazes out. \"What's that?\" \"This is Arabella,\" says I. \"She's sufferin' from a bad case of undigested securities, and I got to amputate.\" She stands by watchin' the operation suspicious and ready to lam me one on the ear, I expect. But on the way down I'd sounded Arabella's chest, and I was backin' my guess. When I found the coarse stitchin' done with heavy black thread I chuckles. \"More or less the worse for wear, Arabella, eh?\" says I. \"But how that youngster did hang onto her! Little Helma Allston, you know. And me offerin' to swap a brand-new two-dollar one that could open and shut its eyes! 'It's for Daddums,' I says at last, and she gives up. There! Now we're gettin' to it. No wonder Arabella was some plump!\" \"Well, of all places!\" gasps out Mrs. Murtha, and, believe me, it don't take her long to leave Arabella flat as a pancake. \"But how did he manage to----\"", "words": 297}, {"story": 44, "title": "Torchy Gets an Inside Tip", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"It was the night before,\" says I. \"You didn't miss the roll until the next afternoon. And he ain't a reg'lar crook, you know. It was a case of bein' up against it,--sickness, and wantin' to get away somewhere with the kid. Honest, he don't strike me as such a bad lot: only a little limber in the backbone. Better count it.\" \"All there,\" she announces after runnin' through the bunch. \"And maybe I'm not tickled to get it back! Catch me forgetting to lock that safe again! But I thought no one knew. Allston must have seen me moving the picture and guessed. Well, I'm not sore. Poor devil! I'll call up the District Attorney's office right away. He gets those tickets to Australia, too. Leave that to me.\" Yep! Mrs. Connie wa'n't chuckin' any bluff. She went down herself and had the indictment ditched. I didn't mean to stage any heart-throb piece, either; but it just happens that yesterday, when we pulls off the final act, Vee tells me that Helma is in the libr'y, playin' nurse and hairdresser to Aunty's chief pet, a big orange Persian that she calls Prince Hal. That's how Helma had won out with Aunty, you know, by makin' friends with the cat. \"You tell her,\" says Vee. So I steps in quiet where the youngster is busy with the comb and brush. \"Someone special to see Miss Helma,\" says I. \"To see me?\" says she, droppin' pussy and gazin' at the door. \"Why, who can---- O-o-o-o-o! Daddums! Daddums!\" And as they rush to a fond clinch in one room something happens to me in the other. Uh-huh! I'm caught around the neck quick, and something soft and sweet hits me on the right cheek, and the next minute I'm bein' pushed away just as sudden.", "words": 303}, {"story": 45, "title": "Then Along Came Sukey", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "It looked like it was Kick-in Day, or something like that; for here was Nutt Hamilton, a sporty young plute friend of Mr. Robert's, that I'm tryin' to entertain, camped in the private office, when fair-haired Vincent comes in off the brass gate to report respectful this new arrival. \"A gentleman to see Mr. Robert, Sir,\" says he. \"Well, he's still out,\" says I. \"So I told him, Sir,\" says Vincent; \"but then he asks if Mr. Ferdinand isn't here. I didn't know, Sir. Is there a----\" \"Sure, Vincent, sure!\" says I. \"Brother-in-law Ferdie, you know. What's the gentleman's real name?\" \"Mr. Blair Hiscock,\" says Vincent, readin' the card. \"Ever hear that one?\" I asks Hamilton, and he says he ain't. \"Must be some fam'ly friend, though,\" I goes on. \"We'll take a chance, Vincent. Tell Blair to breeze in.\" I might have had bean enough to have looked for another pair of shell-rimmed glasses too. That's what shows up. Only this party, instead of beamin' mild and foolish through 'em, same as Ferdie does, stares through his sort of peevish. He's a pale-haired, sharp-faced, undersized young gent too, and dressed sort of finicky in one of them Ballyhooly cape coats, an artist necktie, and a two-story soft hat with a striped scarf wound around it. \"Well?\" says I, leanin' back in the swing chair and doin' my best to spring the genial smile. \"Isn't Ferdinand here, then?\" he demands, glancin' about impatient. \"Good guess,\" says I. \"He ain't. Drifts in about once a month, though, as a rule, and as it's been three weeks or so since he was here last, maybe you'd like to----\" \"How absurd!\" snaps Blair. \"But he was to meet me here to-day at this time.\" \"Was, eh?\" says I. \"Well, if you know Ferdie, you can gamble that he'll be an hour or two behind, if he gets here at all.\"", "words": 317}, {"story": 45, "title": "Then Along Came Sukey", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Thanks,\" says Blair, real crisp. \"You needn't bother. I fancy I know Ferdie quite as well as you do.\" \"Oh, I wa'n't boastin',\" says I, \"and you don't bother me a bit. If you think Ferdie's liable to remember, you're welcome to stick around as long as----\" \"I'll wait half an hour, anyway,\" he breaks in. \"Then you might as well meet Mr. Hamilton,\" says I. \"Friend of Mr. Robert's--Marjorie's too, I expect.\" The two of 'em nods casual, and then I notices Nutt take a closer look. A second later a humorous quirk flickers across his wide face. \"Well, well!\" says he. \"It's Sukey, isn't it?\" At which Mr. Hiscock winces like he'd been jabbed with a pin. He flushes up too, and his thin-lipped, narrow mouth takes on a pout. \"I don't care to be called that,\" he snaps back. \"Eh?\" says Nutt. \"Sorry, old man; but you know, up at the camp summer before last--why, everyone called you Sukey.\" \"A lot of bounders they were too!\" flares out Blair. \"I--I'd asked them not to. And I'll not stand it! So there!\" \"Oh!\" says Hamilton, grinnin' tantalizin'. \"My error. I take back the Sukey, _Mr._ Hiscock.\" There's some contrast between the pair as they faces each other,--young Hiscock all bristled up bantam like and glarin' through his student panes; while Nutt Hamilton, who'd make three of him, tilts back easy in the heavy office armchair until he makes it creak, and just chuckles.", "words": 245}, {"story": 45, "title": "Then Along Came Sukey", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "He's a chronic josher, Nutt is,--always puttin' up some deep and elaborate game on Mr. Robert, or relatin' by the hour the horse-play stunts he's pulled on others. A bit heavy, his sense of humor is, I judge. His idea of a perfectly good joke is to call up a bald-headed waiter at the club and crack a soft-boiled egg on his White Way, or balance a water cooler on top of a door so that the first party to walk under gets soaked by it,--playful little stunts like that. And between times, when he ain't makin' merry around town, he's off on huntin' trips, killin' things with portable siege guns. You know the kind, maybe. So we ain't the chummiest trio that could be got together. Blair makes it plain that he has mighty little use for me, and still less for Hamilton. But Nutt seems to get a lot of satisfaction in keepin' him stirred up, winkin' now and then at me when he gets a rise out of Blair; though I must say, so far as repartee went, the little chap had all the best of it. \"Let's see,\" says Nutt, \"what is your specialty? You do something or other, don't you?\" \"Yes,\" says Blair. \"Do you?\" \"Oh, come!\" says Nutt. \"You play the violin, don't you?\" \"How clever of you to remember!\" says Blair. \"Sorry I can't reciprocate.\" And he turns his back. But you can't squelch Hamilton that way. \"Me?\" says he. \"Oh, potting big game is my fad. I got three caribou last fall, you know, and this spring I'm--say, Sukey,--I beg your pardon, Hiscock,--but you ought to come along with us. Do you good. Put some meat on your bones. We're going 'way up into Montana after black bear and silver-tips. I'd like to see you facing a nine-hundred-pound she bear with----\"", "words": 309}, {"story": 45, "title": "Then Along Came Sukey", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Would you?\" cuts in Blair. \"You know very well I'd be frightened half to death.\" \"Oh, well,\" says Nutt, \"we'd stack you up against a cinnamon cub.\" \"Any kind of bear I should be afraid of,\" says Sukey. \"Not really!\" says Hamilton. \"Why, say----\" \"Please!\" protests Blair. \"I don't care to talk about such creatures. I'm afraid of them even when I see them caged. I've an instinctive dread of all big beasts. Smile, if you like. But all truly civilized persons feel the same. I'm not a cave man, you know. Besides, I prefer telling the truth about such things to making believe I'm not afraid, as a lot of would-be mighty hunters do.\" \"Not meaning me, I hope?\" asks Nutt. \"If you're innocent, don't dodge,\" says Blair. \"And I--I think I'll not wait for Ferdinand any longer. Tell him I was here, will you?\" And with a nod to me he does a snappy exit. \"A constant joy, Sukey is,\" remarks Hamilton. \"Why, when we were up in the Adirondacks that summer, we used to----\" What they used to do to Sukey I'll never know; for just then Mr. Robert sails in, and Nutt breaks off the account. He'd spieled along for half an hour in his usual vein when Mr. Robert flags him long enough to call me over. \"By the way, Torchy,\" says Mr. Robert, \"before I forget it----\" and he hands me one of Marjorie's cards with a date and \"Music\" written in the southwest corner. I gazes at it puzzled. \"I strongly suspect,\" he goes on, \"that a certain young lady may be among those present.\" \"Oh!\" says I, pinkin' up some, I expect. \"Much obliged. In that case I'm strong for music. Some swell piano performer, eh?\" \"A young violinist,\" says Mr. Robert, \"a friend of Ferdie's, I believe, who----\" \"Bet a million it's Sukey!\" breaks in Nutt. \"Blair Hiscock, isn't it!\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 45, "title": "Then Along Came Sukey", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"That is his name,\" admits Mr. Robert. \"But this is to be nothing formal, you know: only Marjorie is bringing him down to the house, and has asked in a few people.\" \"By George!\" says Nutt, slappin' his knee enthusiastic. \"Couldn't you get me in on that affair, Bob?\" \"Why--er--I might,\" says Mr. Robert. \"I didn't know, though, that you were passionately fond of violin music. It's to be rather a classical programme, and----\" \"Classic be blowed!\" says Nutt. \"What I want is a fair whack at Sukey. Seen him, haven't you?\" Mr. Robert shakes his head. \"Well, wait until you do,\" says Hamilton. \"Say, he's a rare treat, Sukey. About as big as a fox terrier, and just as snappy. Oh, you'll love Sukey! If he doesn't hand you something peppery before you've known him ten minutes, then I'm mistaken. Know what he used to call your sister Marjorie, summer before last? Baby Dimple! After a golf ball, you know. That's a sample of Sukey's tongue.\" Mr. Robert shrugs his shoulders. \"Quite her own affair, I suppose,\" says he. \"Oh, she didn't mind,\" says Nutt. \"Everyone stands for Sukey--on account of his music. Only he is such a conceited, snobbish little whelp that it makes you ache to cuff him. Couldn't, of course. Why, he'll begin sniveling if you look cross at him! But it would be great sport to---- Say, Bob, who's going to be there--anyone special?\" \"Only the family,\" says Mr. Robert, \"and a few of Marjorie's friends, such as Verona Hemmingway and--er--Torchy here, and Josephine Billings, who's just come for the week-end.\"", "words": 266}, {"story": 45, "title": "Then Along Came Sukey", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"What!\" says Hamilton. \"Joey Billings? Say, she's a good sort, Joey; bully fun, and always in for anything. You ought to see her shoot! Yes, Sir! Bring down quail with a choke-bore, or knock over a buck deer with a rifle. Plays billiards like a wizard, Joey does, and can swat a golf ball off the tee for two hundred yards. She's a star. Staying at Ferdie's, eh? Must be a great combination, she and Sukey. I'd like to see 'em together. Say, old man, let me in on this musicfest if you can, will you?\" Course there wa'n't much left for Mr. Robert to do but promise, and while he don't do it with any great enthusiasm, Mr. Hamilton don't seem a bit discouraged. In fact, just before he goes he has a chucklin' fit like he'd been struck by some amazin' comic thought. \"I have it, Bob!\" says he, poundin' Mr. Robert on the back. \"I have it!\" \"Anything you're likely to recover from?\" remarks Mr. Robert. \"Never mind,\" says Nutt. \"You wait and see! And the first chance you get ask Sukey if he's afraid of bears.\" Just to finish off the afternoon too, and make the Corrugated gen'ral offices seem more like a fam'ly meetin' place, about four o'clock in blows Sister Marjorie from the shoppin' district, trailin' a friend with her; a stranger too. First off, from a hasty glimpse at the hard-boiled lid and the man's collar and the loose-fittin' top coat, I thought it was some chappy. So it's more or less of a shock when I discovers the short skirt and the high walkin' boots below. Then I tumbled. It's Joey, the real sport!", "words": 282}, {"story": 45, "title": "Then Along Came Sukey", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Believe me, she looked the part! One of these female good fellows, you know, ready to roll her own dope sticks, or sit in with the boys and draw three to a pair. Built substantial and heavy, Joey was, but not lumpy, like Marjorie. She swings in swaggery, gives Mr. Robert the college hick greetin', and when I'm introduced to her treats me to a grip that I felt the tingle of for half an hour. \"Hello, Kid!\" says she. \"I've heard of you. Torchy, eh? Well, the name's a fine fit.\" \"Yes,\" says I, \"I was baptized with my hat off.\" \"Ripping!\" says she. \"I like that. Torchy! Couldn't be better.\" \"Not so poetic as Crimson Rambler,\" says I, \"but easier to remember.\" Hearty chuckles from Joey. \"You're all right, Torchy,\" says she, rumplin' my hair playful. Not at all hard to get acquainted with, Joey. One of the free and easy kind that gets to call men by their front names durin' the first half-hour. But somehow them's the ones that always seem to hang longest on the branch. You've noticed? Take Joey now,--well along towards thirty, so I finds out later, but still untagged and unchosen. Maybe she likes it better that way. Who knows? And, as Nutt Hamilton has suggested, it would be int'restin' to see her and Sukey lined up together. That ain't exactly why I'm so early showin' up at the Ellins' house the night of the musical--not altogether. But what Vee and I has to say to one another durin' the half-hour we managed to slip over on Aunty don't matter. Vee was supposed to be arrangin' some flowers in the drawin' room, and I--well, I was helpin'. My long suit, arrangin' flowers; that is, when the planets are right.", "words": 297}, {"story": 45, "title": "Then Along Came Sukey", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "But it goes quick. Pretty soon others begun buttin' in, and by eight-thirty there was a roomful, includin' Vee's Aunty, who watches me as severe as if I was a New Haven director. Joey Billings floats in too. And I got to admit that in an evenin' gown she ain't such a worse looker. Course her jaw outline is a trifle strong, and she has quite a swing to her hips; but she's so good-natured and cheerful lookin' that you 'most forget them trifles. And Blair Hiscock, in his John Drew regalia, looks even thinner and whiter than ever; but he struts around as perky and important as if he was Big Bill Edwards. First off he has to have the piano turned the other way. Then, when he goes to unlimber his music rack, it develops that a big vase of American Beauties is too near his elbow. He glares at 'em pettish. \"Can't those things be taken out?\" says he. \"I detest heavy odors while I'm playin'!\" So the flowers are carted off. Then some draperies just back of him must be pulled together, so he won't feel a draught. After that he has the usual battle with his violin strings, while the audience waits patient, only exchangin' a smile now and then when Blair shows his disposition strongest.", "words": 221}, {"story": 45, "title": "Then Along Came Sukey", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "At last, though, after makin' the accompanist take two fresh starts, he's off. Some goulash rhapsody, I believe it was, by a guy whose name sounds like a sneezin' fit. But, take it from me, that sharp-faced little wisp could do things to a violin! Zowie! He could just naturally make it sing, with weeps and laughs, and moans and giggles, and groans and cusswords, all strung along a jumpy, jerky little air that sort of played hide and seek with itself. Music? I should quiver! He had us all sittin' up with our ears stretched, and when he finishes and the applause starts in like a sudden shower on a tin roof what does he do but turn away with a bored look and shoot some spicy remark at the young lady pianist! Next he gives a lullaby kind of thing, that's as sweet and touchin' as anything Farrar or Gluck could put over. He's just windin' that up and we're gettin' ready with more handclaps, when---- \"Woof! Woof-woof!\" Some of the ladies gasps panicky. I got a little start myself, before I tumbled to what it was; for in through the draperies behind Sukey has shuffled about as good an imitation of a black bear as you'd want to see; a big, bulky bear, all complete, even to the dishpan paws and the wicked little eyes. It's scuffin' along on all-fours, waddlin' lifelike from side to side and lettin' out that deep, grumbly \"Woof! Woof!\" remark. Blair is so deep in his music that he don't hear it for a minute. Then he must have caught on from the folks in front that something was up. He stops, glarin' indignant through his big glasses. Then he turns.", "words": 289}, {"story": 45, "title": "Then Along Came Sukey", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "It wa'n't exactly a scream he lets out, nor a moan. It's the sort of a weird, muffled noise you'll sometimes make in your sleep, after a late welsh rabbit. I didn't think he could turn any whiter; but he does. His face has about as much color left in it as a marshmallow. Then the thing on the floor rears up on its hind legs until it tops Blair by two feet, and there comes another of them deep \"Woofs!\" I was lookin' for him to pass away complete; but he don't. He sets his jaw, tosses his violin on a chair, grabs the music rack, and swings it over his shoulder defiant. \"Come on, you brute!\" he breathes husky. \"I don't know what you are; but----\" Just what happens next, though, is a cry of \"Shame, shame!\" Someone dashes from the back row of chairs, and we sees Joey Billings makin' a clutch at the bear's head. It came off too, with a rip of snap hooks, and reveals Nutt Hamilton's big moon face with a wide grin on it. \"You, eh?\" says Joey. \"I thought as much. Your old masquerade trick! And anyone else would have had better sense. Don't you think you're beast enough without----\" \"Stop!\" breaks in Blair, his lips blue and trembly and the tears beginnin' to trickle down his nose. \"You--you've no right to interfere. I--I was going to smash him. I'll kill the big brute! I--I'll----\" Once more Joey does the right thing; for Blair is blubberin' hysterical and the scene is gettin' worse. So she just tucks him under one arm, claps a hand over his mouth, and lugs him kickin' and strugglin' into the lib'ry, givin' Nutt a shove to one side as she brushes by.", "words": 296}, {"story": 45, "title": "Then Along Came Sukey", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "You can guess too there was some panicky doin's in the Ellins's drawin' room for the next few minutes; Mr. Robert and Marjorie and others tryin' to tell Hamilton what they thought of him, all at the same time. And Nutt was takin' it sheepish. \"Oh, I say!\" he protests. \"I was only trying to have a bit of fun with the little runt, you know. I only meant to----\" \"Fun!\" breaks in Mr. Robert savage. \"This is neither a backwoods barroom nor a hunting camp, and I want to assure you right now, Hamilton, that----\" But in comes young Blair again. He's had the tear stains swabbed off, and he's got some of his color back; but he's still wabbly in the knees. He pushes right to the front, though.", "words": 131}, {"story": 45, "title": "Then Along Came Sukey", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"I suppose you all think me a great baby,\" says he, \"to get so frightened and to cry over such a silly trick. Perhaps I am a baby. At least I haven't control of my nerves. Would you, though, if you had been an invalid for fifteen years? Well, I have. And a good part of that time, you know, I spent in hospitals and sanatoriums, and traveling around with trained nurses and three or four relatives to wait on me and humor my whims. Even when I was studying music abroad it was that way. And I suppose I'm not really strong now. So I couldn't help being afraid. But I don't want your sympathy. You need not scold Hamilton any more, either. He can't help being a big bully any more than I can help acting like a baby. He doesn't know any better--never will. All beef and no brains! And at that I don't care to change places with him. Some day I shall be well and fairly strong. He'll never have any better sense or manners than he has now. And I prefer to fight my own battles. So let it drop, please.\" Well, they did. But for the first time, I expect, a few cuttin' remarks got through Nutt Hamilton's thick hide. He shuffles out of his bear skin and sneaks off with his head down. He'd hardly gone when Vee slips up beside me and touches me on the arm. \"We can't do anything with her,\" she whispers mysterious. \"Don't say a word, but come.\" \"Can't do anything with who?\" says I. \"Joey,\" says she. \"She's in the library, and we can't find out what is the matter.\" \"Wha-a-at! Joey?\" says I. It's a fact, though. I finds Joey slumped on a couch with her shoulders heavin'. She's doin' the sob act genuine and earnest. \"Well, well!\" says I. \"Why the big weeps?\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 45, "title": "Then Along Came Sukey", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "She looks up and sees who it is. \"Torchy!\" says she between sobs. \"Dud-don't tell him. Please!\" \"Tell who?\" says I. \"B-b-b-blair,\" says she. \"I--wouldn't have him know for--for anything. But he--he--what he said hurt. He--he called me a meddlesome old maid. It was something I had to do too. I--I thought he'd understand. I--I thought he knew I--I liked him!\" \"Eh?\" says I gaspy. \"I've never cared so much before--about what the others thought,\" she goes on. \"I'm just Joey to them, out for a good time. I'll always be Joey, I suppose, to most of them. But I--I thought Blair was different, you know. I--I----\" And the sobs get the best of the argument. I glances over at Vee puzzled, and Vee shrugs her shoulders. We drifts back as far as the door. \"Poor Joey!\" says Vee. \"Is it straight,\" says I, \"about her and Blair?\" Vee nods. \"Only he doesn't know,\" says she. \"Then it's time he did,\" says I. \"There!\" says Vee, givin' me a grateful look that tingles clear down to my toes. \"I just knew you could help. But how can----\" \"Watch!\" says I. I finds him packin' his precious violin and preparin' to beat it. \"See here, Hiscock,\" says I. \"Maybe you think you're the only one whose feelin's have been hurt this evenin'.\" He stares at me grouchy. \"Ah, ditch the assault and battery!\" says I. \"It ain't me. But there's someone in the lib'ry you could soothe with a word or two maybe. Why not go in and see her?\" \"Her?\" says he, starin' pop-eyed. \"You--you don't mean Miss Billings?\" \"Sure!\" says I. \"Joey, it's you she wants, and if I was you I'd----\" But he's off on the run, with a queer, eager look on his face. I don't expect there's been so many who've wanted Sukey.", "words": 307}, {"story": 45, "title": "Then Along Came Sukey", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "But the worst of it was I had to go without hearin' how it all come out. Mr. Robert didn't have much to report next mornin', either. \"Oh, we left them in the library, still talking,\" says he. It's near a week later too that I gets anything more definite. Then I was up to the Ellins's on an errand when I discovers Blair waitin' in the front room. He greets me real cordial and friendly, which is quite a jar. A minute later down the stairs floats Marjorie and her friend Miss Billings. \"Oh, there you are, Joey!\" says Blair, rushin' out and grabbin' her by the arm impetuous. \"Come along. I'm going to take you both to dinner and then to the opera. Come!\" \"Isn't he brutal?\" laughs Joey, pattin' him folksy on the cheek. So I take it there's been something doin' in the solitaire and wilt-thou line. Some cross-mated pair they'll make; but I ain't so sure it won't be a good match. Anyway, when he gets her as a side partner, Sukey needn't do any more worryin' about bears.", "words": 184}, {"story": 46, "title": "Teamwork with Aunty", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "As Mr. Robert hangs up the desk 'phone and turns to me I catches him smotherin' a smile. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"are you a patron of the plastic art?\" \"Corns, or backache?\" says I. \"Not plasters,\" says he; \"plastic; in short, sculpture.\" \"Never sculped a sculpin,\" says I. \"What's the joke?\" \"On the contrary,\" says he, \"it's quite serious,--a sculptor in distress; a noble young Belgian at that, one Djickyns, in whose cause, it seems, I was rash enough to enlist at a recent dinner party. And now----\" Mr. Robert waves towards his piled-up desk. \"I'd be a hot substitute along that line, wouldn't I?\" says I. \"As I understand the situation,\" goes on Mr. Robert, \"it is not a matter of giving artistic advice, but of--er--financing the said Djickyns.\" \"Oh!\" says I. \"Slippin' him a check?\" Mr. Robert shakes his head. \"Nothing so simple,\" says he. \"One doesn't slip checks to noble young sculptors. In this instance I am supposed to assist in outlining a plan whereby certain alleged objects of art may be--er----\" \"Wished onto suckers in exchange for real money, eh?\" says I. \"Ain't that it?\" Mr. Robert nods. \"With so many dividends bein' passed,\" says I, \"that's goin' to take some strategy.\" \"Hence this appeal to us,\" says he. \"And I might add, Torchy, that one of those most interested is a near relative of a certain young lady who----\" \"Aunty?\" says I. It was. So I grins and grabs my hat. \"That bein' the case, Mr. Robert,\" says I, \"we'll finance this Djickyns party if we have to bull the sculpture market till it hits the rafters.\"", "words": 272}, {"story": 46, "title": "Teamwork with Aunty", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "With that I takes the address of the scene of trouble and breezes uptown to a third-rate studio buildin'; where I finds Aunty and Vee and Sister Marjorie all grouped around a stepladder on top of which is balanced a pallid youth with long black hair and a fair white brow projectin' out like a double dormer on a cement bungalow. He seems to be tryin' to drape a fish net across the top of an alcove accordin' to three diff'rent sets of directions; but leaves off abrupt when I blows in. You'd hardly guess I'd been sent for, either. \"Humph!\" remarks Aunty, after I've announced how sorry Mr. Robert was he couldn't come himself and that he's detailed me instead. \"How perfectly absurd!\" \"But, Aunty,\" protests Vee, \"you know Torchy is a private secretary now and understands all about such things. Besides, he knows such heaps of important business men who----\" \"If he can bring them here Wednesday afternoon, very well,\" says Aunty; \"but I have my doubts that he can.\" \"What's the game?\" says I. \"It is not a game at all, young man,\" says Aunty. \"Our project, if that is what you mean, is to have a studio tea for Mr. Djickyns and to secure the attendance of as many purchasers for his works as possible. Have you any suggestions?\" \"Why,\" says I, \"not right off the bat. Maybe if I could chew over the proposition awhile, I might----\" \"Oh, I say,\" breaks in the noble young gent on the stepladder, \"I--I'm getting dizzy up here, you know. I--I'm feeling rather----\" \"Mercy!\" squeals Marjorie. \"He's fainting!\" \"Steady there!\" I sings out to Djickyns, makin' a jump. \"Don't wabble until I get you. Easy!\"", "words": 286}, {"story": 46, "title": "Teamwork with Aunty", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I ain't a second too soon, either; for as I reaches up he topples toward me, as limp as a sack of flour. I was fieldin' my position well for an amateur; for I gathers him in on the fly, slides him down head first with only a bump or two, and stretches him out on the rug. It's only a near-faint, though, and after a drink of water and a sniff at Aunty's smellin' salts he's able to be helped onto a couch and propped up with cushions. \"Awfully sorry,\" says he, smilin' mushy, \"but I fear I can't go on with the decorating to-day.\" \"Never mind,\" says Aunty, comfortin'. \"This young man will help us.\" \"Please do, Torchy,\" adds Marjorie. \"You will, won't you?\" says Vee, shootin' over a glance from them gray eyes that makes me feel all rosy and tingly. \"That's my job in life,\" says I, pickin' up the fish net. \"Now how does this go?\" And for the next hour or so, when I wa'n't clingin' to the ceilin' with my eyelids, tackin' things up, I was down on all-fours arrangin' rugs, or executin' other merry little stunts. Aunty had collected a whole truckload of fancy junk,--wall tapestries, old armor, Russian tea machines, and such,--with the idea of transformin' this half-bare loft of Djickyns's into a swell studio. And, believe me, we came mighty near turnin' the trick! \"There!\" says she. \"With a few flowers I believe it will do. Now, young man, have you thought how we can get the right people here? Of course we shall advertise in all the papers.\"", "words": 269}, {"story": 46, "title": "Teamwork with Aunty", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"As an open show?\" says I. \"Say, that's nutty! Don't you do it. You'd only get in a bunch of suburban shoppers and cheap-skate art students. My tip is, make it exclusive,--admission by card only. Then if it's done right you can graft a lot of free press agent stuff by playin' up the Belgian part of it strong. See? Lets you ring in on this fund for Belgian sufferers. I take it you want to unload as much of this plaster junk as you can? Well, all you got to do is mark it up twenty per cent. and announce that you'll chip in that much towards the fund. Get me?\" She never bats an eye, Aunty don't. \"To be sure,\" says she. \"I think that is precisely what we had in mind all the time; only we--er----\" \"I know,\" says I. \"You hadn't been playin' the relief act strong enough. But that's what'll get you into the headlines. 'Social Leader to the Rescue,'--all that dope. I'll send some of the boys up to see you to-night. Don't let your butler frost 'em, though. Give 'em a clear track to the lib'ry, and if you're servin' after-dinner coffee and frosted green cordials, so much the better. Reporters are almost human, you know. It would help too if you'd happen to be just startin' for the op'ra, with all your pearl ropes on. And whisper,--soft pedal on Djickyns here, but heavy on his suff'rin' countrymen! That's the line.\" Aunty shudders a couple of times, and once she starts to crash in with the sharp reproof; but she swallows it. Some little old diplomat, Aunty is! She was gettin' the picture. Havin' planned that part of the campaign, she switches the debate as to who should go on the list of invited guests.", "words": 302}, {"story": 46, "title": "Teamwork with Aunty", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Leave it to me,\" says I. \"You just pick out about a dozen patronesses. Pick 'em from the top, the ones that are featured oftenest in the society notes. And me, I'll sift out a couple of hundred sound propositions from the corporation lists,--parties that have stayed on the right side of the market and still have cash to spend.\" Aunty nods approvin'. She even hands over some names she'd jotted down herself and asks me to put 'em in if they're all right. \"Most of 'em are fine,\" says I, glancin' over the slip; \"but who's this W. T. Wiggins with no address?\" \"I particularly want to reach him,\" says she. \"He is a wealthy merchant who is apt to be rather generous, I am told, if properly approached.\" \"I'll look him up,\" says I, \"and see that he gets an invite--registered.\" \"Of course,\" goes on Aunty, \"he doesn't belong socially, you understand; but in this instance----\" \"Uh-huh!\" says I. \"You'll be pleased to meet his checkbook. And, by the way, what schedule are you runnin' this on,--doors open at when?\" \"The cards will read, 'From half after four until seven,'\" says Aunty. \"I see,\" says I. \"Then if I drift in before six a frock coat will pass me.\" And for the first time durin' the session she inspects me insultin' through her lorgnette. \"Really,\" says she, \"I had not considered that it would be necessary----\" \"Eh?\" I gasps. \"Ah, have a heart! Think how handy I'd be if someone did another flop, or if Miss Vee wanted----\" \"Verona will be fully occupied in serving tea,\" breaks in Aunty. \"Besides, we shall try to give this affair the appearance, at least, of a genuine social function. I imagine that the presence of such persons as Mr. Wiggins will make the task sufficiently difficult. Don't you see?\"", "words": 308}, {"story": 46, "title": "Teamwork with Aunty", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"I ought to,\" says I. \"You ain't left much to the imagination. Sort of a blot on the landscape I'd be, would I?\" Aunty shrugs her shoulders. \"Please remember,\" says she, \"that I am not making social distinctions. I merely recognize those which exist. You must not hold me responsible for----\" \"Oh, Aunty,\" breaks in Vee, trippin' into our corner impulsive, \"we've forgotten the tea things. I must go out and find a store and get them at once. Mayn't Torchy come to carry the bundles?\" \"Yes,\" says Aunty; \"but I think I will go also, to be sure you order the right things.\" Think of carryin' round a disposition like that! She trails right along with us too, and just to make the trip int'restin' for her I strikes for Eighth-ave. through one of them messy cross streets where last week's snow piles and garbage cans was mixed careless along the curb. \"What a wretched district!\" complains Aunty. \"I thought you wanted to get to the nearest grocery,\" says I. \"Hello! Here's one of the Wiggins chain. How about patronizin' this?\" It's one of them cheap, cut-rate joints, you know, with the windows plastered all over with daily bargain hints,--\"Three pounds of Wiggins's best creamery butter for 97 cents--to-day only,\" \"Canned corn, 6 cents--our big Monday special,\" and so on. Aunty sniffs a bit, but fin'lly decides to take a chance and sails in in all her grandeur. The one visible clerk was busy waitin' on lady customers, one with a shawl over her head and the other luggin' a baby on her hip. So Aunty raps impatient on the counter.", "words": 272}, {"story": 46, "title": "Teamwork with Aunty", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "At that out from behind a stack of Wiggins's breakfast food boxes appears a middle-aged gent strugglin' into a blue jumper three sizes too small for him. He's kind of heavy built and slow movin' for an average grocery clerk, and he's wearin' gold-rimmed specs; but when Aunty proceeds to cross-examine him about his stock of tea he sure showed he was onto his job. He seems to know about every kind of tea ever grown, and produces samples of the best he has in the shop. Aunty was watchin' him casual as he weighs out a couple of pounds, when all of a sudden she unlimbers her long-handled glasses and takes a closer look. \"My good man,\" says she, \"haven't I seen you somewhere before?\" \"Oh, yes,\" says he, scoopin' a pinch off the scales so they'd register exactly to the quarter ounce. \"In some other store, perhaps?\" says she. \"I think not,\" says he. \"Then where?\" asks Aunty. \"Cooperstown,\" says he, reachin' for a paper bag and shootin' the tea in skillful. \"Anything more, Madam?\" \"Cooperstown!\" echoes Aunty. \"Why, I haven't been there since I was a girl.\" \"Yes, I know,\" says he. \"You didn't even finish at high school. Cut sugar, did you say, Madam?\" \"A box,\" says Aunty, starin' puzzled. \"Perhaps you attended the same school?\" He nods. \"Oh, I seem to remember now,\" says she. \"Aren't you the one they called--er---- What was it you were called?\" \"Woodie,\" says he. \"Will you have lemons too? Fresh Floridas.\" \"Two dozen,\" says Aunty. \"Well, well! You used to ask me to skate with you on the lake, didn't you?\" \"When my courage was running high,\" says he. \"Sometimes you would; but more often you wouldn't. I lived at the wrong end of town, you know.\" \"In the Hollow, wasn't it?\" says she. \"And there was something queer about--about your family, wasn't there?\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 46, "title": "Teamwork with Aunty", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "He looks her straight in the eye at that, Woodie does. \"Yes,\" says he. \"Mother went out sewing. She was a widow.\" \"Oh!\" says Aunty. \"I recall your skates--those funny old wooden-topped ones, weren't they?\" \"I was lucky to have those,\" says he. \"Hm-m-m!\" muses Aunty. \"But you could skate very well. You taught me the Dutch roll. I remember now. Then there was the night we had the big bonfire on the ice.\" Woodie lets on not to hear this last, but grabs a sales slip and gets busy jottin' down items. I nudges Vee, and she smothers a snicker. We was enjoyin' this little peek into their past. Could you have guessed it? Aunty! She orders six loaves of sandwich bread and asks to see the canned caviar. \"You've never found anything better to do,\" she goes on, \"than--than this?\" \"No,\" says Woodie, on his way down from the top shelf. Once more Aunty levels her lorgnette and gives him the cold, curious look over. \"Hm-m-mff!\" says she through her aristocratic nose. \"I must say that as a boy you were presuming enough.\" \"I got over that,\" says he. \"So I should hope,\" says she. \"You manage to make a living at this sort of thing, I suppose?\" \"In a way,\" says he. \"You've no family, I trust?\" says Aunty. \"There are six of us all told,\" admits Woodie humble. \"Good heavens!\" she gasps. \"But I presume some of them are able to help you?\" \"A little,\" says Woodie. \"Think of it!\" says Aunty. \"Six! And on such wages! Are any of them girls?\" \"Two,\" says he. \"I must send you some of my niece's discarded gowns,\" says Aunty impulsive. \"You are not a drinking man, are you?\" \"Not to excess, Madam,\" says Woodie.", "words": 296}, {"story": 46, "title": "Teamwork with Aunty", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"How you can afford to drink at all is beyond me,\" says she. \"Or even eat! Yet you are rather stout. I've no doubt, though, that plain food is best. But you show your age.\" \"I know,\" says he, smoothin' one hand over his bald spot. \"Anything else to-day?\" There's just a hint of an amused flicker behind the glasses that makes Aunty glare at him suspicious for a second. \"No,\" says she. \"Put all those things in two stout bags and tie them carefully.\" \"Yes, Madam,\" says Woodie. He was doin' it too, when the other clerk steps up, salutes him polite, and says: \"You're wanted at the telephone, Sir.\" \"Tell them to hold the wire,\" says Woodie. We was still tryin' to dope that out when a big limousine rolls up in front of the store, out hops a footman in livery, walks in to Woodie with his cap in his hand, and holds out a bunch of telegrams. \"From the office, Sir,\" says he. \"Wait,\" says Woodie, wavin' him one side. Now was them any proper motions for a grocery clerk to be goin' through? I leave it to you. Vee is watchin' with her nose wrinkled up, like she always does when anything stumps her; and me, I was just starin' open-faced and foolish. I couldn't get the connection at all. But Aunty ain't one to stand gaspin' over a mystery while her tongue's still workin'. \"Whose car is that?\" she demands. Woodie slips the string from between his front teeth, puts a double knot scientific on the end of the package, and peers over his glasses out through the door. \"That?\" says he. \"Oh, that's mine.\" \"Yours!\" comes back Aunty. \"And--and this store too?\" \"Oh, yes,\" says he. \"Then--then your name is Wiggins?\" she goes on. \"Yes,\" says he. \"Don't you remember,--Woodie Wiggins?\"", "words": 308}, {"story": 46, "title": "Teamwork with Aunty", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"I'd forgotten,\" says Aunty. \"And all the other stores like this--how many of them have you?\" \"Something less than a hundred,\" says he. \"Ninety-six or seven, I think.\" Most got Aunty's breath, that did; but in a jiffy she's recovered. \"Perhaps,\" says she, \"you don't mind telling me the reason for this masquerade?\" \"It's not quite that,\" says Wiggins. \"I try to keep in touch with all my places. In making my rounds to-day I found my local manager here too ill to be at work. Bad case of grip. So I sent him home, telephoned for a substitute, and while waiting took off my coat and filled in. Fortunate coincidence, wasn't it?--for it gave me the pleasure of serving you.\" \"You mean,\" cuts in Aunty, \"that it gave you the opportunity of making me appear absurd. Those gowns I promised to send!\" Wiggins grins good natured. \"Is this the niece you mentioned?\" says he. Aunty admits that it is, and introduces Vee. Then Wiggins looks inquirin' at me. \"Your son?\" he asks. And you should have seen Aunty's face pink up at that. \"Certainly not!\" says she. \"Oh!\" says Woodie, screwin' up one corner of his mouth and tippin' me the wink. I knew if I got a look at Vee I'd have to haw-haw; so I backs around with one hand behind me and we swaps a finger squeeze. Then Aunty jumps in with the quick shift. She asks him patronizin' if he finds the grocery business int'restin'. He admits that he does. \"How odd!\" says Aunty. \"But I presume that you hope to retire very soon?\" \"Eh?\" says he. \"Quit the one thing I can do best? Why?\" \"But surely,\" she goes on, \"you can hardly find such a business congenial. It is so--so--well, so petty and sordid?\"", "words": 301}, {"story": 46, "title": "Teamwork with Aunty", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Is it, though?\" says Wiggins. \"With more than five thousand employees on my payroll and a daily expense bill running well over thirty thousand, I find it far from petty. Anyway, it keeps me hustling. I used to think I was a hard worker too, when I had my one little general store at Smiths Corners.\" \"And now you've nearly a hundred stores!\" says Aunty. \"How did you do it?\" \"I was kicked into doing it, I guess,\" says Wiggins, smilin' grim. \"The manufacturers and jobbers, you know. They weren't willing to allow me a fair profit. So I had to go under or spread out. Well, I've spread,--flour mills in Minnesota, canning factories from Portland, Oregon, to Bridgeton, Maine, potato farms in Michigan and the Aroostook, cracker and bread bakeries, creameries, raisin and prune plantations,--all that sort of thing,--until gradually I've weeded out most of the greedy middlemen who stood between me and my customers. They're poor folks, most of 'em, and when they trade with me their slim wages go further than in most stores. My ambition is to give them honest goods at a five per cent. profit. \"If they all knew what was best for them, the Wiggins stores would soon become a national institution, and I could hand it over to the federal government; but they don't. If they did, I suppose they wouldn't be working for wages. So my chain grows slowly, at the rate of two or three stores a year. But every Wiggins store is a center for economic and scientific distribution of pure food products. That's my job, and I find it neither petty nor sordid. I can even get a certain satisfaction and pride from it. Incidentally there is my five per cent. profit to be made, which makes the game fascinating. Retire? Not until I've found something better to do, and up to date I haven't.\"", "words": 317}, {"story": 46, "title": "Teamwork with Aunty", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Havin' got this off his mind and the parcels done up, Mr. Wiggins walks back to answer the 'phone. When he comes out again, in a minute or so, he's shucked the jumper and is buttonin' himself into a mink-lined overcoat. \"As a rule,\" says he, \"we do not deliver goods; but in this instance I beg leave to make an exception. Permit me,\" and he waves toward the limousine. It's the first time too that I ever saw Aunty stunned for more than a second or two at a stretch. She acts sort of dazed as he leads her out to the car and helps stow Vee and me and the bundles before gettin' in himself. Only when we pulls up in front of the studio buildin' does she come to. She revives enough to tell Wiggins all about this noble young Belgian sculptor and his wonderful work. \"Sculpture!\" says Wiggins. \"I'd like to see it.\" And inside of three minutes Woodruff T. Wiggins, the chain grocery magnate, is right where we'd been schemin' to get him. He inspects the various groups of plaster stuff ranged around the studio, squintin' at 'em critical like he was a judge of such junk, and now and then he makes notes on the back of an envelope. Meanwhile Aunty explains all about the tea, namin' over some of the swell dowagers that was goin' to act as patronesses, and invites him cordial to drop around on the big day. \"Thanks,\" says he; \"but I guess I'd better not. I'm still from the wrong end of the town, you know. But here's a memorandum of four pieces I should like done in bronze for my country house. And suppose I leave Mr. Djickyns a check for five thousand on account. Will that do?\" Would it? Say, Aunty almost pats him fond on the cheek as she follows him to the door.", "words": 318}, {"story": 46, "title": "Teamwork with Aunty", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Must have been something romantic about that bonfire episode back in Cooperstown too; for she mellows up a lot durin' the next few minutes, and when I fin'lly calls a taxi and tucks 'em all in she comes near beamin' on me. \"Remember, young man,\" says she, \"promptly at five on Wednesday.\" \"Wha-a-at?\" says I. \"And be sure to wear your best frock coat,\" she adds as a partin' shot. Do you wonder I stands gaspin' on the curb until after they've turned the corner? Think of that from Aunty! \"Well?\" says Mr. Robert, as I blows in about quittin' time. \"Any new quotations in sculpture?\" \"If you think that's a merry jest,\" says I, \"call up Aunty. Why, say, before we get through with this tea stunt of hers that Djickyns party will be runnin' his studio works day and night shifts and rebuildin' Belgium! We're a great team, me and dear old Aunty. We've just found it out.\"", "words": 160}, {"story": 47, "title": "Zenobia Digs Up a Late One", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "And first off I had him listed in the joke column. Think of that! But when I caught my first glimpse of him, there in the Corrugated gen'ral offices that mornin', there was more or less comedy idea to his get-up; the high-sided, flat-topped derby, for instance. Once in a while you run across an old sport who still sticks to that type of hard-boiled lid. Gen'rally they're short-stemmed old ginks who seem to think the high crown makes 'em loom up taller. Maybe so; but where they find back-number hats like that is beyond me. Then there was the buff-cochin spats and the wide ribbon to his eyeglasses. Beyond that I don't know as there was anything real freaky about him. A rich-colored old gent he is, the pink in his cheeks shadin' off into a deep mahogany tint back of his ears, makin' his frosted hair and mustache stand out some prominent. He'd been shown into the private office on a call for Mr. Robert; but as I was well heeled with work of my own I didn't even glance up from the desk until I hears this scrappy openin' of his. \"Bob Ellins, you young scoundrel, what the blighted beatitudes does this mean!\" he demands. Naturally that gets me stretchin' my neck, and I turns just in time to watch the gaspy expression on Mr. Robert's face fade out and turn into a chuckle. \"Why, Mr. Ballard!\" says he, extendin' the cordial palm. \"I had no idea you were on this side. Really! I understood, you know, that you were settled over there for good, and that----\" \"So you take advantage of the fact, do you, to make me president of one of your fool companies?\" says Ballard. \"My imbecile attorney just let it leak out. What do you mean, eh?\"", "words": 304}, {"story": 47, "title": "Zenobia Digs Up a Late One", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Mr. Robert pushes him into a chair and shrugs his shoulders. \"It was rather a liberty, I admit,\" says he; \"one of the exigencies of business, however. When a meddlesome administration insists on dissolving into its component parts such an extensive organization as ours--well, we had to have a lot of presidents in a hurry. Really, we didn't think you'd mind, Mr. Ballard, and we had no intention of bothering you with the details.\" \"Huh!\" snorts Mr. Ballard. \"And what is this precious corporation of which I'm supposed to be the head?\" \"Why, Mutual Funding,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Funding, eh?\" comes back Ballard snappy. \"What tommyrot! Bob Ellins, you ought to know that I haven't the vaguest notion as to what funding is,--never did,--and at my time of life, Sir, I don't propose to learn!\" \"Of course, of course,\" says Mr. Robert, soothin'. \"Quite unnecessary too. You are adequately and efficiently represented, Mr. Ballard, by a private secretary who has mastered the art of funding, mutual and otherwise, until he can do it backward with one hand tied behind him. Torchy, will you step here a moment?\" I was comin' too; but Mr. Ballard waves me off.", "words": 197}, {"story": 47, "title": "Zenobia Digs Up a Late One", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Stop!\" says he. \"I'll not listen to a word of it. I'd have you know, Bob Ellins, that I have worried along for sixty-two years without having been criminally implicated in business affairs. The worst I've done has been to pose as a dummy director on your rascally board and to see that my letter of credit was renewed every three months. Use my name if you must; but allow me to keep a clear conscience. I'm going in now for a chat with your father, Bob, and if he mentions funding I shall stuff my fingers in my ears and run. He won't, though. Old Hickory knows me better. This his door? All right. Thanks. Hah, you old freebooter! In your den, are you? Well, well!\" At which he stalks into the other office and leaves Mr. Robert and me grinnin' at each other. \"Listened like you was in Dutch for a minute or so there,\" says I. \"Case of the cat comin' back, eh?\" \"From Kyrle Ballard,\" says he, \"one expects the unexpected. Only we need not worry about his wanting to become the acting head of your department. To-morrow or next week he is quite likely to be off again, bound for some remote corner of the earth, to hobnob with the native rulers thereof, participate in their games of chance, and invent a new punch especially suitable for that particular climate.\" \"Gee!\" says I. \"That's my idea of a perfectly good boss,--one that gives his job absent treatment.\"", "words": 252}, {"story": 47, "title": "Zenobia Digs Up a Late One", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I thought too that Mr. Robert had doped out his motions correct; for a week goes by and no Mr. Ballard shows up to take the rubber stamp away from me, or even ask fool questions. I was hopin' too that Ballard had gone a long ways from here, accordin' to custom. Then one night--well, it was at the theater, one of them highbrow Shaw plays that I was chucklin' through with Aunt Zenobia. Eh? Remember her, don't you? Why, she's one of the pair of aunts that I got half adopted by, 'way back when I first started in with the Corrugated. Yep, I've been stayin' on with 'em. Why not? Course our little side street is 'way down in an old-fashioned part of the town; the upper edge of old Greenwich village, in fact, if you know where that is. The house is one of a row that sports about the only survivin' specimens of the cast-iron grapevine school of architecture. Honest, we got a double-decked veranda built of foundry work that was meant to look like leaves and vines, I expect. Cute idea, eh? Bein' all painted brick red, though, it ain't so convincing but stragglin' over ours is a wistaria that has a few sickly-lookin' blossoms on it every spring and manages to carry a sprinklin' of dusty leaves through the summer. Also there's a nine-by-twelve lawn, that costs a dollar a square foot to keep in shape, I'll bet.", "words": 244}, {"story": 47, "title": "Zenobia Digs Up a Late One", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "From that description maybe you'd judge that the place where I hang out is a little antique. It is. But inside it's mighty comf'table, and it's the best imitation of a home I've ever carried a latch-key to. As for the near-aunts, Zenobia and Martha, take it from me they're the real things in that line, even if they did let me in off the street without askin' who or what! The best of it is they never have asked, which makes it convenient. I couldn't tell 'em much, if they did. There's Martha--well, she's the pious one. It ain't any case of sudden spasms with her. It's a settled habit. She's just as pious Monday mornin' as she is Sunday afternoon, and it lasts her all through the week. You know how she started in by readin' them Delilah and Jona yarns to me. She's kept it up. About twice a week she corners me and pumps in a slice of Scripture readin', until I guess we must be more 'n half through the Book. Course there's a lot of it I don't see any percentage in at all; but I've got so I don't mind it, and it seems to give Aunt Martha a lot of satisfaction. She's a lumpy, heavy-set old girl, Martha, and a little slow; but the only thing that ain't genuine about her is the yellowish white frontispiece she pins on over her own hair when she dolls up for dinner. But Zenobia--say, she's a diff'rent party! A few years younger than Martha, Zenobia is,--in the early sixties, I should say,--and she's just as active and up to date and foxy as Martha is logy and antique and dull. While Martha is sayin' grace Zenobia is gen'rally pourin' herself out a glass of port.", "words": 300}, {"story": 47, "title": "Zenobia Digs Up a Late One", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "About once a week Martha loads herself into an old horse cab and goes off to a meetin' of the foreign mission society, or something like that; but almost every afternoon Zenobia goes whizzin' off in a taxi, maybe to hear some long-haired violinist, maybe to sit on the platform with Emma Goldman and Bouck White and applaud enthusiastic when the established order gets another jolt. Just as likely as not too, she'll bring some of 'em home to dinner with her. Zenobia never shoves any advice on me, good or otherwise, and never asks nosey questions; but she's the one who sees that my socks are kept mended and has my suits sent to the presser. She don't read things to me, or expound any of her fads. She just talks to me like she does to anyone else--minor poets or social reformers--about anything she happens to be int'rested in at the time,--music, plays, Mother Jones, the war, or how suffrage is comin' on,--and never seems to notice when I make breaks or get over my head. A good sport Zenobia is, and so busy sizin' up to-day that she ain't got time for reminiscin' about the days before Brooklyn Bridge was built. And the most chronic kidder you ever saw. Say, what we don't do to Aunt Martha when both of us gets her on a string is a caution! That's what makes so many of our meals such cheerful events.", "words": 243}, {"story": 47, "title": "Zenobia Digs Up a Late One", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "You might think, from a casual glance at Zenobia, with her gray hair and the lines around her eyes, that she'd be kind of slow comp'ny for me, especially to chase around to plays with and so on. But, believe me, there's nothin' dull about her, and when she suggests that she's got an extra ticket to anything I don't stop to ask what it is, but just gets into the proper evenin' uniform and trots along willin'! So that's how I happens to be with her at this Shaw play, and discussin' between the acts what Barney was really tryin' to put over on us. The first intermission was most over too before I discovers this ruddy-faced old party in the back of Box A with his opera glasses trained steady in our direction. I glances along the row to see if anyone's gazin' back; but I can't spot a soul lookin' his way. After he's kept it up a minute or two I nudges Aunt Zenobia. \"Looks like we was bein' inspected from the box seats,\" says I. \"How flatterin'!\" says she. \"Where?\" I points him out. \"Must be you,\" says I, grinnin'. \"I hope so,\" says Zenobia. \"If I'm really being flirted with, I shall boast of it to Sister Martha.\" But just then the lights go out and the second act begins. We got so busy followin' the nutty scheme of this conversation expert who plots to pass off a flower-girl for a Duchess that the next wait is well under way before I remembers the gent in the box. \"Say, he's at it again,\" says I. \"You must be makin' a hit for fair.\" \"Precisely what I've always hoped might happen,--to be stared at in public,\" says Zenobia. \"I'm greatly obliged to him, I'm sure. You are quite certain, though, that it isn't someone just behind me?\"", "words": 312}, {"story": 47, "title": "Zenobia Digs Up a Late One", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I whispers that there's no one behind her but a fat woman munchin' chocolates and rubberin' back to see if Hubby ain't through gettin' his drink. \"There! He's takin' his glasses down,\" says I. \"Know the party, do you?\" \"Not at this distance,\" says Zenobia. \"No, I shall insist that he is an unknown admirer.\" By that time, though, I'd got a better view myself. And--say, hadn't I seen them ruddy cheeks and that gray hair and them droopy eyes before? Why, sure! It's what's-his-name, the old guy who blew into the Corrugated awhile ago, my absentee boss--Ballard! Maybe I'd have told Zenobia all about him if there'd been time; but there wa'n't. Another flash of the lights, and we was watchin' the last act, where this gutter-bred Pygmalion sprouts a soul. And when it's all over of course we're swept out with the ebb tide, make a scramble for our taxi, and are off for home. Then as we gets to the door I has the sudden hunch about eats. \"There's a joint around on Sixth-ave.,\" says I, lettin' Aunt Zenobia in, \"where they sell hot dog sandwiches with sauerkraut trimmin's. I believe I could just do with one about now.\" \"What an atrocious suggestion at this hour of the night!\" says she. \"Torchy, don't you dare bring one of those abominations into the house--unless you have enough to divide with me. About four, I should say.\" \"With mustard?\" says I. \"Heaps!\" says she. Three minutes later I'm hurryin' back with both hands full, when I notices another taxi standin' out front. Then who should step out but this Ballard party, in a silk hat and a swell fur-lined overcoat. \"Young man,\" says he, \"haven't I seen you somewhere before?\" \"Uh-huh,\" says I. \"I'm your private sec.\" \"Wha-a-at?\" says he. \"My--oh, yes! I remember. I saw you at the Corrugated.\" \"And then again at the show to-night,\" says I.", "words": 320}, {"story": 47, "title": "Zenobia Digs Up a Late One", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"To be sure,\" says he. \"With a lady, eh?\" I nods. \"Lives here, doesn't she?\" asks Ballard. \"Right again,\" says I. \"Goin' to call?\" \"Why,\" says he, \"the fact is, young man, I--er--see here, it's Zenobia Hadley, isn't it?\" \"Preble,\" says I. \"Mrs. Zenobia Preble.\" \"Hang the Preble part!\" says he. \"He's dead years ago. What I want to know is, who else lives here?\" \"Only her and Sister Martha and me,\" says I. \"Martha, eh?\" says he. \"Still alive, is she? Well, well! And Zenobia now, is she--er--a good deal like her sister?\" \"About as much as Z is like M,\" says I. \"She's a live one, Aunt Zenobia is, if that's what you're gettin' at.\" \"Thank you,\" says he. \"That is it exactly. And I am glad to hear it. She used to be, as you put it, rather a live one; but I didn't quite know how----\" \"Kyrle Ballard, is that you?\" comes floatin' out from the front door. \"If it is, and you wish to know anything more about Zenobia Hadley, I should advise you to come to headquarters. Torchy, bring in those sandwiches--and Mr. Ballard, if he cares to follow.\" \"There!\" says I to Ballard. \"You've got a sample. That's Zenobia. Are you comin' or goin'?\" Foolish question! He's leadin' the way up the steps. \"Zenobia,\" says he, holdin' out both hands, \"I humbly apologize for following you in this impulsive fashion. I saw you at the theater, and----\" \"If you hadn't done something of the kind,\" says she, \"I shouldn't have been at all sure it was really you. You've changed so much!\" \"I admit it,\" says he. \"One does, you know, in forty years.\"", "words": 281}, {"story": 47, "title": "Zenobia Digs Up a Late One", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"There, there, Kyrle Ballard!\" warns Zenobia. \"Throw the calendar at me again, and out you go! I simply won't have it! Besides, I'm hungry. Torchy is to blame. He suggested hot dog sandwiches. Take a sniff. Do they appeal to you, or have you cultivated epicurean tastes to such an extent that----\" \"Ah-h-h-h!\" says Ballard, bendin' over the paper bag I'm holdin'. \"My favorite delicacy. And if I might be permitted to add a bottle or two of cold St. Louis----\" \"Do you think I keep house without an icebox?\" demands Zenobia. \"Stop your silly speeches, and let's get into the dining-room.\" Some hustler, Zenobia is, too. Inside of two minutes she's shed her wraps, passed out plates and glasses, and we're tacklin' a Coney Island collation. \"I had been wondering if it could be you,\" says Ballard. \"I'd been watching you through the glasses.\" \"Yes, I know,\" says Zenobia. \"And we had quite settled it that you were a strange admirer. I'm frightfully disappointed!\" \"Then you didn't know me?\" says he. \"But just now----\" \"Voices don't turn gray or change color,\" says Zenobia. \"Yours sounds just as it did--well, the last time I heard it.\" \"That August night, eh?\" suggests Mr. Ballard, suspendin' operations on the sandwich and leanin' eager across the table. He's a chirky, chipper old scout, with a lot of twinkles left in his blue eyes. Must have been some gay boy in his day too; for even now he shows up more or less ornamental in his evenin' clothes. And Zenobia ain't such a bad looker either, you know; especially just now, with her ears pinked up and her eyes sparklin' mischievous. I don't know whether it's from takin' massage treatments reg'lar, or if it just comes natural, but she don't need to cover up her collar bone or wear things around her neck.", "words": 309}, {"story": 47, "title": "Zenobia Digs Up a Late One", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Yes, that night,\" says she, liftin' her glass. \"Shall we drink just once to the memory of it?\" Which they did. \"And now,\" goes on Zenobia, \"we will forget it, if you please.\" \"Not I,\" says Ballard. \"Another thing: I've never forgiven your sister Martha for what she did then. I never will.\" Zenobia indulges in a trilly little laugh. \"No more has she forgiven you,\" says she. \"How absurd of you both, just as though--but we'll not talk about it. I've no time for yesterdays. To-day is too full. Tell me, why are you back here?\" \"Because seven armies have chased me out of Europe,\" says he, \"and my charming Vienna is too full of typhus to be quite healthy. If I'd dreamed of finding you like this, I should have come long ago.\" \"Very pretty,\" says Zenobia. \"I'd love to believe it, just for the sake of repeating it to Martha in the morning. She is still with me, you know.\" \"As saintly as ever?\" asks Ballard. \"At thirty Martha was quite as good as she could be,\" says Zenobia. \"There she seems to have stopped. So naturally her opinion of you hasn't altered in the least.\" \"And yours?\" says he. \"Did I have opinions at twenty-two?\" says she. \"How ridiculous! I had emotions, moods, mad impulses; anyway, something that led me to give you seven dances in a row and stay until after one A.M. when I had promised someone to leave at eleven. You don't think I've kept up that sort of thing, do you?\" \"I don't know,\" says Ballard. \"I wouldn't be sure. One never could be sure of Zenobia Hadley. I suppose that was why I took my chance when I did, why I----\"", "words": 290}, {"story": 47, "title": "Zenobia Digs Up a Late One", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Kyrle Ballard, you've finished your sandwich, haven't you?\" breaks in Zenobia. \"There! It's striking twelve, and I make it a rule never to be sentimental after midnight. You and Martha wouldn't enjoy meeting each other; so you'll not be coming again. Besides, I've a busy week ahead of me. When you get settled abroad again, though, you might let me know. Good-night. Happy dreams.\" And before Ballard can protest he's bein' shooed out. \"You'll take luncheon with me to-morrow,\" he calls back from his cab. \"Probably not,\" says Zenobia. \"Oh yes, you will, Zenobia,\" says he. \"I'm a desperate character still. Remember that!\" She laughs and shuts the door. \"There, Torchy!\" says she. \"See what complications come from combining hot dogs with Bernard Shaw. And if Martha should happen to get down before those bottles are removed--well, I should have to tell her all.\" Trust Martha. She did. And when I finished breakfast she was still waitin' for Zenobia to come down and be quizzed. I don't know how far back into fam'ly hist'ry that little chat took 'em, or what Martha had to say. All I know is that when I shows up for dinner and comes downstairs about six-thirty there sits Martha in the lib'ry, rocking back and forth with that patient, resigned look on her face, as if she was next in line at the dentist's. \"Zenobia isn't in yet,\" says she. \"We will wait dinner awhile for her.\" Then chunks of silence from Martha, which ain't usual. At seven o'clock we gives it up and sits down alone. We hadn't finished our soup when this telegram comes. First off I thought Martha was goin' to choke or blow a cylinder head, I didn't know which. Then she takes to sobbin' into the consomme, and fin'lly she shoves the message over to me. \"Wh-a-at?\" I gasps. \"Eloped, have they?\"", "words": 312}, {"story": 47, "title": "Zenobia Digs Up a Late One", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"I--I knew they would,\" says Martha, \"just as soon as I heard he'd been here. He--he always wanted her to do it.\" \"Always?\" says I. \"Why, I thought he hadn't seen her for forty years or so. How could that be?\" \"We-we-well,\" sobs Martha, \"I--I stopped them once. And she engaged to the Rev. Mr. Preble at the time! It was scandalous! Such a wild, reckless fellow Kyrle Ballard was too.\" \"Wh-e-ew!\" I whistles. \"That was goin' some for Zenobia, wasn't it? How near did they come to doin' the slope?\" \"She--she was actually stealing out to meet him, her things all on,\" says Martha, \"when--when I woke up and found her. I made her come back by threatening to call Mother. Engaged for two years, she and Mr. Preble had been, and the wedding day all set. He'd just got a nice church too, his first. I saved her that time; but now----\" Martha relapses into the sob act. \"The giddy young things!\" says I. \"Gone off on a honeymoon trip too! Say, that ain't such slow work, is it? Gettin' there a little late, maybe; but if there ever was a pair of silver sixties meant to be mated up, I guess it's them. Well, well! I stand to lose a near-aunt by the deal; but they get my blessin', anyway.\" As for Aunt Martha, she keeps right on thinnin' out the soup.", "words": 235}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Things happen to you quick, don't they, when the happenin' is good? Take this affair of Zenobia's. One day I'm settled down all comfy and solid with two old near-aunts who'd been livin' in the same place and doin' the same things for the last thirty years or so, and the next--well, off one of 'em goes, elopes with an old-time beau of hers that happens to show up here just because Europe is bein' shot up. And then, before I've recovered from that jolt, comes this human surprise package labeled Dorsett, who blows breezy into the Corrugated. Fair-haired Vincent, who still holds my old place on the brass gate, brings in his card. \"William H. Dorsett?\" says I. \"Never heard of the party. Did he ask for Mutual Funding?\" \"No, Sir,\" says Vincent. \"He asked for you, Sir.\" \"How?\" says I. At which Vincent tints up embarrassed. \"He said he wished to talk to a young fellow known as Torchy, Sir,\" says he. \"Almost a description of me, ain't it?\" says I. \"Well, tow him in, Vincent, until I see if his map's any more familiar than his name.\" It wa'n't. He's a middle-aged gent, kind of tall and stoop-shouldered, with curly hair that's started to frost up above the ears. The raincoat he's wearin' is a little seedy, specially about the collar and cuffs; but he's sportin' a silver-mounted walkin'-stick, and has a new pair of yellow gloves stickin' from his breast pocket. With a free and easy stride he follows Vincent's directions, sails over to my corner of the private office, pulls up a chair, and camps down by the desk without any urgin'. Also he favors me with a friendly smile that he produces from one corner of his mouth. Sort of a catchy smile it is too, and before we've swapped a word I finds myself smilin' back. \"Well!\" says I. \"You're introducin' what?\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Just William H. Dorsett,\" says he. \"You do it well,\" says I. He allows the off corner of his mouth to loosen up again, and for a second his deep-set brown eyes steady down as he gives me the once-over. Kind of an amused, quizzin' look it is, but more or less foxy. He crosses his legs and hitches up his chair confidential. \"I imagine you're rather used to handling big propositions here,\" says he, takin' in the office mahogany, the expensive floor rugs, and everything else in a quick glance: \"so I hope you won't mind if I present a small one.\" \"In funding?\" says I. \"It might very well come under that head,\" says he. \"Ever do much with municipal franchises,--trolleys, lighting, that sort of thing?\" \"Nope,\" says I; \"nor racin' tips, church fair chances, or Danish lottery tickets. We don't even back new movie concerns.\" That gets a twinkle out of his restless eyes. \"I don't blame you in the least,\" says he. \"I suppose there are more worthless franchises hawked around New York than you could stuff into a moving van. That's what makes it so difficult to get action on any real, gilt-edged propositions.\" \"Such as you've got in your inside pocket eh?\" says I.", "words": 210}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Precisely,\" says he. \"Mine are the worthwhile kind. Of course franchises are common enough. It's no trick at all to go into the average Rube village, 'steen miles from a railroad, and get 'em thrilled with the notion of being connected by trolley with Jaytown, umpteen miles south. Why, they'll hand you anything in sight! A deaf-mute could go out and get that sort of franchise. But to prospect through the whole cotton belt, locate opportunities where the dividends will follow the rails, pick out the cream of them all, get in right with the board of trade, fix things up with a suspicious town council, stall off the local capitalist who would like to hog all the profits himself, and set the real estate operators working for you tooth and nail--well, that is legitimate promoting; my brand, if you will permit me.\" \"Maybe,\" says I. \"But the Corrugated don't----\"", "words": 150}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"I understand,\" breaks in Mr. Dorsett. \"Quite right too. But here I produce the personal equation. For five weary weeks I've skittered about this city, carrying around with me half a dozen of the ripest, richest franchise propositions ever matured. Bona-fide prospects, mind you, communities just yearning for transportation facilities, with tentative stock subscriptions running as high as two hundred thousand in some cases. They're schemes I've nursed from the seed up, as you might say. I've laid all the underground wires, seen all the officials that need seeing, planned for every right of way. Six splendid opportunities that may be coined into cash simply by pressing the button! And the nearest I can get to any man with real money to invest is a two-minute interview in a reception room with some clerk. All because I lack someone to take me into a private office and remark casually: 'Mr. So-and-So, here's my friend Dorsett, who's bringing us something good from the South.' That's all. Why, only last week I actually offered to deliver a fifty-thousand-dollar franchise on a ten per cent. commission basis, provided I was given a beggarly two hundred advance for expenses--and had it turned down!\" \"Ye-e-es,\" says I. \"The way some of them Wall Street plutes shrink from bein' made richer is painful, ain't it? But I don't see where I fit in.\" Mr. Dorsett pats me chummy on the shoulder and proceeds to show me exactly where. \"You know the right people,\" says he. \"You're in with them. Very well. All I ask of you is the 'Here's Mr. Dorsett' part. I'll do the rest.\" \"How simple!\" says I. \"And us old friends of about five minutes' standin'! Say, throw in your reverse or you'll be off the bridge. Who's been tellin' you I was such a simp?\"", "words": 303}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Mr. Dorsett smiles indulgent. \"My error,\" says he. \"But I was hoping that perhaps you might---- Come, Torchy, hasn't it occurred to you that I would hardly come as an utter stranger? Who do you suppose now gave me your address?\" \"The chairman of the Stock Exchange?\" says I. \"Mother Leary,\" says he. \"Eh?\" says I, gawpin'. \"A flip of fate,\" says he. \"At my hotel I got to talking with the room clerk, and discovered that his name was Leary. It turned out that he was Aloysius, the eldest boy. Remember him, don't you?\" Seein' how I'd almost been brought up in the fam'ly when I was a kid, I couldn't deny it. Course I'd run more with Hunch than any of the other boys. We'd sold papers together, and gone into the A. D. T. at the same time. But there wasn't a Leary I didn't know all about. \"You must have boarded there too,\" says I. \"But if I ever heard your name, it didn't stick.\" \"It may have been,\" says he, \"that I was not using the Dorsett part of it just at that time. Business reasons, you understand. But the H in my name stands for Hines. What about William Hines, now?\" \"Hm-m-m!\" says I, starin' at him. Sure enough, that did have a familiar sound to it. \"Let's try it this way,\" says he: \"Uncle Bill Hines.\" And, say, that got me! I expect I made some gaspy motions before I managed to get out my next remark. \"You--you ain't the one that left me with Mother Leary, are you?\" I asks.", "words": 268}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Dorsett nods. \"I'm a trifle late in explaining that carelessness,\" says he, \"and I can only plead guilty to all your reproaches. But consider the circumstances. There I was, a free lance of fortune, down to my last dollar, and rich only in the companionship of a bright-eyed, four-year-old youngster who had been trusted to my care. You remember very little of that period, I suppose; but it is all vivid enough to me, even now,--how we tramped up and down Broadway, you chattering away, excited and happy, while I was wondering what I should do when that last dollar was gone. \"Then, just when things seem blackest, arrived opportunity,--the Birmingham boom. I ran across one of the boomers, who was struck with the brilliant idea that he could make use of my peculiar talents in making known the coming glories of the new South. But I must join him at once, that very day. And he waved yellow-backed bills at me. I simply had to drop you and go. Mother Leary promised to take care of you for three months, or until your--well, until someone else claimed you. I sent word to them both, at least I tried to, and rushed gayly down into Dixie. Perhaps you never heard of the bursting of that first Birmingham boom? It was an abrupt but very-complete smash. I came out of it owning two gorgeous suits of clothes, one silk hat, and an opulent-looking pocketbook, bulging with thirty-day options on corner lots. One of the clerks in our office staked me with carfare to Atlanta, where I got a job collecting tenement house rents.", "words": 272}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Since then I've been up and down. Half a dozen times I've almost had my fingers on the tail feathers of fortune: only to stumble into some hidden pit of poverty. And in time--well, time mends all things. Besides, I hardly relished facing Mother Leary. There was the chance too that you no longer needed rescuing. I'm not trying to excuse my breach of faith: I am merely telling you how it came about. You realize that, I trust?\" Did I? I don't know. I expect I was just sittin' there gazing stary at him. Only one thing was shapin' itself clear in my head, and fin'lly I states it flat. \"Say,\" says I, \"you--you ain't my reg'lar uncle, are you?\" Maybe I wa'n't as enthusiastic as the case called for. He springs that smile of his. \"Hardly a flattering way to put it,\" says he. \"Would you be disappointed if I was?\" \"Well,\" says I, eyin' him up and down, \"you don't strike me as such a swell uncle, you know.\" Don't faze him a bit, either. \"Our near relatives are seldom quite satisfactory,\" says he. \"Of course, though, if I fail to suit----\" He hunches his shoulders and reaches for his hat. So he had it on me, you see. Suppose you was as shy on relations as I am, would you turn down the only one that ever showed up? \"Excuse me if I don't get the cues right,\" says I; \"but--but this has been put over a little sudden. Course I'll take Mrs. Leary's word. If she says you're my Uncle Bill, that goes. Anyway, you can give me a line on--on my folks, I suppose?\"", "words": 280}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Yes, he admits that he can; but he don't. And I will say for him that he states his case smooth enough, smilin' that catchy smile of his, and tappin' me friendly on the knee. But when he's all through it amounts to this: He needs the loan of a couple of hundred cash the worst way, and he wants to be put next to a few plutes that are in the market for new trolley franchises. If I can boost him along that way, it'll relieve his mind so much that he'll be in just the right mood to go into my personal hist'ry as deep as I care to dip. \"Gee!\" says I. \"But this raisin' a fam'ly tree comes high, don't it? Besides, I'd have to get Mother Leary's O. K. on you first, you know.\" \"Naturally,\" says he. \"And any time within the next day or so will answer. Suppose I drop around again, or look you up at your quarters?\" \"Better make it at the house,\" says I. \"Here's the street number. Some evenin' after seven-thirty. I--I'll be thinkin' things over.\" And as I watches him swing jaunty through the door I remarks under my breath to nobody in partic'lar: \"Uncle Bill, eh? My Uncle Bill! Well, well!\"", "words": 213}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "You can be sure too that my first move is to sound Mother Leary. She says he's the one, all right, and I gathers that she gave him the tongue-lashin' she'd been savin' up all these years. But I don't stop for details. If I've really had an uncle wished on me, it's up to me to make the best of it, or find out the worst. But somehow I ain't so chesty about havin' dug up a relation. I don't brag about it to Martha when I go home. In fact, Martha has fam'ly troubles of her own about now, you remember. I finds her weepy-eyed and solemn. \"They've been gone more than a week,\" says she, \"Zenobia and that reckless Kyrle Ballard. Pretty soon they will be coming back, and then----\" \"Well, what then?\" says I. \"I've been packing up to-day,\" says she, swabbin' off a stray tear from the side of her nose. \"I have engaged rooms at the Lady Louise. I suppose you will be leaving too.\" \"Me?\" says I. It hadn't struck me that Aunt Zenobia's getting married was goin' to throw us all out on the street. But Aunt Martha had it doped diff'rent. \"Stay in the same house with that man?\" says she. \"Not I! And I am quite sure he will not want either of us around when he comes back here as Zenobia's husband.\" \"If that's the case,\" says I, \"it won't take me long to clear out; but I guess I'll wait until I get the hint direct. You'd better wait too.\"", "words": 262}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Martha'd made up her mind, though. She says she'd go right then if it wa'n't for leavin' the servants alone in the house; but the very minute Sister Zenobia arrives she means to beat it. And sure enough next day she has her trunk brought down into the front hall and begins wearin' her bonnet around the house. It's a little weird to see her pokin' about dressed that way, and her wraps and rubbers laid out handy, as if she belonged to a volunteer hose comp'ny. It was after the second day of this watchful waitin', and we're sittin' down to a six-forty-five dinner, when a big racket breaks loose out front. The bell rings four times rapid, Lizzie the maid almost breaks her neck gettin' to the door, and in breezes the runaway pair with all their baggage, chucklin' and chatterin' like a couple of kids. Some stunnin' Aunt Zenobia looks, for all her gray hair; and Mr. Ballard, in his Scotch tweed suit and with his ruddy cheeks, don't look a day over fifty. They're giggling merry over some remark of Lizzie's, and Zenobia calls in through the draperies. \"Hello, Martha--Torchy--everybody!\" she sings out. \"Well, here we are, back from that absurd boardwalk resort, back to--well, for the love of ladies! Martha Hadley, why in the name of nonsense are you eating dinner with your hat on?\" \"Because,\" says Martha, beginnin' to sniffle, \"I--I'm going away.\" \"But where? Why?\" demands Zenobia. And between sobs Martha explains. She includes me in it too. \"Then why aren't you wearing your hat also, Torchy?\" asks Zenobia. \"Well,\" says I, \"I ain't so sure about quittin' as she is. I thought I'd stick around until I got the word to move.\"", "words": 290}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Which you're not at all likely to get, young man,\" says Zenobia. \"And as for you, Martha, you should have better sense. Trapsing off to a hotel, at your time of life! Rubbish! And why, please?\" Aunt Martha nods towards Ballard. \"Well, you're just going to get over that nonsense,\" says Zenobia. \"Kyrle, you know what you promised when you told me you'd make up with Martha? Now is the appointed time. Do it!\" And Mr. Ballard, chuckin' his hat and overcoat on a chair, sails right in. I expect it was the last thing in the world Martha was lookin' for; for she sits there gazin' at him sort of stupid until he's done the trick. Uh-huh! No halfway business about it, either. He just naturally takes her chubby old face between his two hands, tilts up her chin, and plants a reg'lar final curtain smack where I'll bet it's been forty years since the lips of man had trod before. First off Martha flops her arms and squeals. Then, when she finds it's all over and ain't goin' to be any continuous performance, she quiets down and stares at the two of 'em, who are chucklin' away merry. \"Please, Sister Martha,\" says Ballard, \"try to overlook that old affair of mine when I tried to cut out the Rev. Preble. I was rather irresponsible then, I'll own; but I have steadied down a lot, although for the last week or so--well, you know how giddy Zenobia is. But you will help us. We can't either of us spare you, you see.\" Maybe it was the jollyin' speech, or maybe it was the unexpected smack, but inside of five minutes Martha has shed her bonnet and we're all sittin' around the table as friendly and jolly as you please.", "words": 300}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I suppose it was by way of makin' Martha feel comf'table and as if she was really part of the game that they got to reminiscin' about old times and the folks they used to know. I wa'n't followin' it very close until Martha gets to askin' Ballard about some of his people, and he starts in on this story about his nephew. \"Poor Dick!\" says he, pushin' back his demitasse and lightin' up a big perfecto. \"Now if he'd been my boy, things might have turned out differently. But my respected brother--well, you knew Richard, Martha. Not at all like me,--eminently respectable, a bit solemn, and tremendously stiff-necked on occasion. The way he took on about that red-headed Irish girl, for instance. Irene, you know. Why, you might have thought, to have heard him storm around, that she was a veritable sorceress, or something of the kind; when, as a matter of fact, she was just a nice, wholesome, keen-witted young woman. Pretty as a picture, she was, and as true as gold too,--a lot too good for young Dick Ballard, even if she was merely a girl in his father's office. You couldn't blame her for liking Dick, though. Everyone did--the scatter-brained scamp! And when my brother went through all that melodramatic folly of cutting him off with a thousand a year--well, we had our big row over that. That was when I took my money out of the firm. Lucky I did too. When the panic came I was safe.\" \"Let's see,\" says Zenobia, \"Dick and the girl ran off and were married, weren't they?\"", "words": 268}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Yes,\" says Ballard. \"It's in the blood, you see. They went to Paris, to carry out one of Dick's great schemes. He had persuaded some of his friends, big real estate dealers, to make him their foreign agent. His idea was, I believe, to catch Western millionaires abroad and sell 'em Fifth-ave. mansions. Actually did land one or two customers, I think. But it was his wife's notion that turned out to be really practical,--leasing French and Italian villas to rich Americans. Something in that, you know, and if Dick had only stuck to it--but Dick never could. He got in with some mine promoters, and after that nothing would answer but that he must rush right back to Goldfield and look over some properties that were for sale dirt cheap. As though Dick would have been any wiser after he'd seen 'em! But his biggest piece of folly was in taking the little boy along with him.\" \"What! Away from his mother?\" says Martha. \"Just like Dick,\" says Ballard. \"They couldn't both leave the leasing business, and as she knew more about it than he did--well, that's the way they settled it. He persuaded her it would be a fine thing for the youngster. Huh! I came over on the same boat with them, and I want to tell you that little chap simply owned the steamer! Bright? Why, he was the cutest kid you ever saw,--red-headed, like his mother, and with his father's laugh. Spent most of his time on the bridge with the first officer, or down in the engine room with the chief. Dick never knew where he was half the time.", "words": 276}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"He was for taking the boy out into the mining country with him too. I supposed he had until I got this frantic cable from Irene. They'd sent her word about Dick's sudden end,--he always did have a weak heart, you know,--and something about the high altitude got him. Went off like that. But Irene was demanding of me to tell her where the boy was. Of course I didn't know. I did my best to find him, hunted high and low. I traced Dick to Goldfield. No use. The boy was not with him when he went West. Where he had left him was a mystery that----\" Buz-z-z-z! goes the front doorbell, right in the middle of Mr. Ballard's story, and in comes Lizzie sayin' it's someone to see me. For a second I couldn't think who'd be huntin' me up here at this time of the evenin'. And then I remembered,--Dorsett. \"It--it's an uncle of mine,\" says I to Zenobia, \"a reg'lar uncle.\" \"Why,\" says she, \"I didn't know you had one.\" \"Me either,\" says I, \"until the other day. He just turned up. Could I take him into the libr'y?\" \"Of course,\" says Zenobia. I was kind of sorry he'd come. I hadn't been so chesty over Uncle Bill at the office; but here, where things are sort of quiet and classy--well, I could see where he wouldn't show up so strong. Besides, I hadn't made up my mind just how I was goin' to turn down his proposition.", "words": 252}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I towed him in, though. He was glancin' around the room approvin', and makin' a few openin' remarks, when the folks come strollin' out from the dinin'-room. I glances up, and sees Mr. Ballard just as he's about to pass the door. So does Dorsett. And, say, the minute them two spots each other things sort of hung fire and stopped. Dorsett he breaks short off what he's sayin', and Mr. Ballard comes to a halt and stands starin' in the room. Next I know he's pushed in, and they're facin' each other. \"Pardon me, Sir,\" says Ballard, \"but didn't you cross with me on the _Lucania_ once? And weren't you thick with Dick Ballard?\" Course I could see something coming right then; but I didn't know what it was. Mr. Dorsett's shifty eyes take another look at Ballard, and then he hitches uneasy in his chair. \"Rather an odd coincidence, isn't it?\" says he. \"Yes, I was on board that trip.\" \"Then you're one of the men I've been looking for a good many years,\" says Ballard. \"You knew Dick very well, didn't you? Then perhaps you can tell me who he left that boy of his with when he went West?\" \"Why, yes,\" says Dorsett, smilin' fidgety. \"He--er--the fact is, he left him with me.\" \"With you, eh?\" says Ballard. \"I might have guessed as much. Well, Sir, where's the boy now?\" \"Wha-a-at?\" gasps Dorsett, lookin' from me to Mr. Ballard. \"Where, did you say?\" \"Yes, Sir,\" comes back Ballard snappy. \"Where?\" More gasps from Dorsett. But he's good at duckin' trouble. With a wink at me and a chuckle he remarks: \"Torchy, suppose you tell the gentleman where you are?\"", "words": 283}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Well, say, it was some complicated unravelin' we did durin' the next few minutes, believe me; but after Zenobia and Martha had been called in, and Dorsett has done some more of his smooth explainin', we all begun to see where we were at. \"Torchy,\" says Zenobia at last, \"bring down from your room that little gold locket you've always had.\" And when Mr. Ballard has opened it and held the picture under the readin' light, he winds up the whole debate as to who's who. \"It's Irene, of course,\" says he. \"Poor girl! But she had her day, after all. Married a French army officer, you know, and for a while they were happy together. Then the war. He was dropped somewhere around Rheims, I believe. Then I heard of her doing volunteer work at a field hospital. She lasted a month or so at that--typhus, or a German shell, I don't know which. But she's gone too.\" And me, I stands there, listenin' gawpy, with my eyes beginnin' to blur. It's Zenobia, you might know, who notices first. She steps over and gathers me in motherly. Not that I needs it, as I know of, but--well, it was kind of good to feel her arm around me just then. \"We'll find out all about it later; won't we, Torchy?\" she whispers. Meanwhile Mr. Ballard has swung on Dorsett. \"So you were trying to pose as Uncle Bill, were you?\" he demands. \"Well, Sir, you're just about the caliber of man Dick would choose to put his trust in! But I'll bet a thousand you were not finding it so easy to fool his boy here! Going, are you? This way, Sir.\" \"At that, though,\" says I, as the door shuts after Dorsett, \"he had me guessin'.\" \"Yes,\" says Mr. Ballard, \"he would, any of us.\"", "words": 307}, {"story": 48, "title": "Sifting Out Uncle Bill", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"And I don't see,\" I goes on, \"as I got any fam'ly left, after all.\" \"You--you don't, eh, you young scamp?\" says Mr. Ballard. \"Well, as there's no doubt about your being my nephew's boy, I'd like to know why I don't qualify as a perfectly good great-uncle to you!\" \"Why, that's so!\" says I, grinnin' at him. \"I--I guess you do. And, say, if you don't mind my sayin' so, you'll do fine!\" So what if Uncle Bill did turn out a ringer! He was more or less useful, even if he did gum up the plot there for a while. Uh-huh! Mighty useful! For there's nothin' phony about my new Uncle Kyrle, take it from me!", "words": 118}, {"story": 49, "title": "How Aunty Got the News", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Say, I expect it ain't good form to get chesty over your relations, specially when they're so new as mine; but I've got to hand it to Mr. Kyrle Ballard. After three weeks' tryout he shapes up as some grand little great-uncle, take it from me! First off, you know, I had him card indexed as havin' more or less tabasco in his temper'ment, with a wide grumpy streak runnin' through his ego. And he is kind of crisp and snappy in his talk, I'll admit. Strangers might think he was a grouch toter. But that's just his way. It's all on the outside. Back of that gruff, offhand talk and behind them bushy, gray eyebrows there's a lot of fun and good nature. One of the kind that's never seemed to grow up, Uncle Kyrle is, sixty-odd and still a kid; always springin' some josh or other, and disguisin' the good turns he does with foolish remarks. And to hear him string Aunt Martha along from one thing to another is sure a circus. \"Good morning, Sister Martha,\" says he, blowin' in to a late Sunday breakfast, all pinked up in the cheeks from a cold tub and a clean shave. \"I trust that you begin the day with a deep conviction of sin?\" \"Why, I--I suppose I do, Kyrle,\" says she, gettin' fussed. \"That is, I try to.\" \"Good!\" says Uncle Kyrle. \"It is important that some one in this family should recognize that this is a sad and wicked world, with Virtue below par and Honest Worth going baggy at the knees. Zenobia here has no conviction of sin whatever. Mine is rather weak at times. So you, Martha, must do the piety for all of us. And please ring for the griddle cakes and sausage.\" Then he winks at Zenobia, gives his grapefruit a sherry bath, and proceeds to tackle a hearty breakfast.", "words": 317}, {"story": 49, "title": "How Aunty Got the News", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "A few days after him and Zenobia got back from their runaway honeymoon trip he calls her to the front door. \"There's a person out here who says he has a car for you,\" says he. \"Nonsense!\" says Zenobia. \"Why, I haven't ordered a car.\" \"The impudent rascal!\" says Uncle Kyrle. \"I'll send him off, then. The idea!\" \"Oh, but isn't it a beauty?\" says Zenobia, peekin' out. \"Let's see what he says about it first.\" So they go out to the curb, while Uncle Kyrle demands violent of the young chap in charge what he means by such an outrage. At which the party grins and shows the tag on the steerin' wheel. \"Why!\" says Zenobia. \"It has my name on it. Oh, Kyrle, you dear man! I've a notion to hug you.\" \"Tut, tut!\" says he. \"Such a bad example to set the neighbors! Besides, this young man may object. He has a Y. M. C. A. certificate as a first-class chauffeur.\" That's the way he springs on Aunt Zenobia an imported landaulet, this year's model, all complete even to monogrammed laprobes and a morocco vanity case in the tonneau. It's one of these low-hung French cars, with an eight-cylinder motor that runs as sweet as the purr of a kitten. Then here Sunday noon he takes me one side confidential. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"could you assist a poor but deserving citizen to retain the respect of his chauffeur!\" \"Go on, shoot it,\" says I. \"Don't be rash, young man,\" says he, \"for the situation is desperate. You see, Herman seems to think we ought to use the machine more than we do. Just to please him we have been whirled through thousands of miles of adjacent suburbs during the last week. Still Herman is unsatisfied. Would it be asking too much if I requested you to let him take you out for the afternoon?\"", "words": 317}, {"story": 49, "title": "How Aunty Got the News", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I gives him the grin. \"Maybe I could stand it for this once,\" says I. \"Noble youth!\" says he. \"You deserve the iron cross. And should there be perchance anyone who could be induced to share your self-sacrifice----\" The grin plays tag with my ears. \"How'd you guess?\" says I. Uncle Kyrle winks and pikes off. So about two-thirty P.M. I'm landed at a certain number on Madison-ave. and runs jaunty up the front steps. I was hopin' Aunty would either be out or takin' her after-dinner nap. But when it comes to forecastin' her moves you got to figure on reverse English nine cases out of ten. And if ever you want a picture of bad luck to hang up anywhere, get a portrait of Aunty. Out? She's right on hand, as stiff and sour as a frozen dill pickle. Her way of greetin' me cordial as I'm shown into the drawin' room is by humping her eyebrows and passin' me the marble stare. \"Well, young man?\" says she. \"Why,\" says I, \"not so well as I was a couple of minutes--er--that it's a fine, spiffy afternoon, ain't it?\" \"Spiffy!\" says she, drawin' in her breath menacin'. \"Vassarese for lovely,\" says I. \"But I don't insist on the word. By the way, is Miss Vee in?\" \"She is,\" says Aunty. \"This is not Friday evening, however.\" \"Ah, say!\" says I. \"Can't we suspend the rules and regulations for once? You see, I got a machine outside that's a reg'lar--well, it's some car, believe me!--and seein' how there couldn't be a slicker day for a spin, I didn't know but what you'd let Vee off for an hour or so.\" \"Just you and Verona?\" demands Aunty, stiffenin'. It was some pill to swallow, but after a few uneasy throat wiggles I got it down. \"Unless,\" says I, \"you--you'd like to go along too. You wouldn't, would you?\"", "words": 317}, {"story": 49, "title": "How Aunty Got the News", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Aunty indulges in one of them tight-lipped smiles of hers that's about as merry as a crack in a vinegar cruet. \"How thoughtful of you!\" says she. \"However, I am not fond of motoring.\" I don't know whether someone punctured an air cushion just then, or whether it was me heavin' a sigh of relief. \"Ain't you?\" says I. \"But Vee's strong for it, and if you don't mind----\" \"My niece is writing letters,\" says Aunty, \"and asked not to be disturbed until after five o'clock.\" \"But in this case,\" I goes on, \"maybe she'd sidetrack the letters if you'd send up word how----\" \"Young man,\" says Aunty, settin' her chin firm, \"I think you are quite aware of my attitude. Your persistent attentions to my niece are wholly unwelcome. True, you are no longer a mere office boy; but--well, just who are you?\" \"Private sec. of Mutual Funding,\" says I. \"And a youth known as Torchy?\" she adds sarcastic. \"Yes; but see here!\" says I. \"I've just dug up a----\" \"That will do,\" she breaks in. \"We have discussed all this before. And I've no doubt you think me simply a disagreeable, crotchety old person. Has it ever occurred to you, however, that you may have failed to get my point of view? Can you not conceive then that it might be somewhat humiliating to me to know that my maids suppress a smile as they announce--Mr. Torchy? Understand, I am not censuring you for being a nameless waif. No, do not interrupt. I realize that this is something for which you should not be held responsible. But can't you see, young man----\" \"If I can't,\" I cuts in, \"I need an eye doctor bad. I'll tell you what I'll do about this name business, though. I'm going to issue a white paper on the subject.\" \"A--a what?\" says Aunty.", "words": 311}, {"story": 49, "title": "How Aunty Got the News", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Seein' you ain't much of a listener,\" says I, \"I'll submit the case in writin'. You win the round, though. And if it don't hurt you too much, you might tell Vee I was here. You can use a bichloride of mercury mouth wash afterwards, you know.\" Saying which, I does the young hero act, swings proudly on muh heel, and exits left center, leavin' Aunty speechless in her chair. So Herman and me starts off all by our lonesome, swings into the Grand Boulevard and out through Pelham Parkway to the Boston Post Road. Deep glooms for me! Even the way we breezed by speedy roadsters don't bring me any thrills. I was still chewin' over that zippy roast Aunty had handed me. Nameless waif, eh? Say, that's the rawest she'd ever stated it. Course I was fixed now to show her where she'd overdone the part; but somehow I couldn't seem to frame up any way of gettin' my fam'ly tree on record without seemin' to do it boastful. Besides, Aunty wouldn't take my word for Uncle Kyrle and all the rest. She'd want an affidavit, at least. But I had made up my mind to have a talk with Vee. I hadn't had more'n a glimpse of her for weeks now, and while I might not feel like givin' her complete details of all that had happened to me recent, I thought I might drop an illuminatin' hint or so. Was I goin' to let a gimlet-eyed old dame with an acetic acid disposition block me off as easy as that? \"Herman,\" says I, \"you can just drop me on Madison-ave. as we go down. And you better report at the house before you put up the machine. They may want to be goin' somewhere.\"", "words": 298}, {"story": 49, "title": "How Aunty Got the News", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I'd heard Uncle Kyrle speak of promisin' to make a call on someone he'd met lately that he'd known abroad. As for me, I just strolls up and down two or three blocks, takin' a chance that Vee might drift out. But I sticks around near an hour without any luck. \"Huh!\" says I to myself at last. \"Might as well risk it again, and if I can't run the gate--well, swappin' a few more plain words with Aunty'll relieve my feelin's some, anyway.\" With that I marches up bold and presses the button. \"Say,\" says I to the maid, \"don't tell me Aunty's gone out since I left!\" Selma shakes her head solemn as her mighty Swedish intellect struggles to surround the situation. \"Meesis she dress by supper in den room yet,\" says she. \"Such sadness!\" says I. \"Maybe there's nobody but Miss Vee downstairs?\" \"_Ja_,\" says Selma, starin' stupid. \"Not nobody else but Miss Verona, no.\" \"You're a bright girl--from the feet down,\" says I, pushin' in past her. \"Shut the door easy so as not to disturb Aunty, and I'll try to cheer up Miss Verona until she comes down. She's in the lib'ry, eh?\" Yep, I was doin' my best. We'd exchanged the greetin's of the season and was camped cozy in a corner davenport just big enough for two, while I was explainin' how tough it was not havin' her along for the drive, and I'd collected one of her hands casual, pattin' it sort of absent-minded, when--say, no trained bloodhound has anything on Aunty! There she is, standin' rigid between the double doors glarin' at us accusin'. \"So you returned after all that, did you?\" she demands. \"I didn't know but you might want to tack on a postscript,\" says I.", "words": 297}, {"story": 49, "title": "How Aunty Got the News", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Young man,\" says she, just as friendly as a Special Sessions Judge callin' the prisoner to the bar, \"you are quite right. And I wish to say to you now, in the presence of my niece, that----\" \"Now, Aunty! Please!\" breaks in Verona, shruggin' her shoulders expressive. \"Verona, kindly be silent,\" goes on Aunty. \"This young person known as Torchy has----\" When in drifts Selma and sticks out the silver card plate like she was presentin' arms. \"What is it?\" asks Aunty. \"Oh!\" Then she inspects the names. For half a minute she stands there, glancin' from me to the cards undecided, and I expect if she could have electrocuted me with a look I'd have sizzled once or twice and then disappeared in a puff of smoke. But her voltage wa'n't quite high enough for that. Instead she turns to Selma and gives some quick orders. \"Draw these draperies,\" says she; \"then show in the guests. As for you, young man, wait!\" \"Gee!\" I whispers, as we're shut in. \"I wish I knew how to draw up a will.\" Vee snickers. \"Silly!\" says she. \"Whatever have you been saying to Aunty now?\" \"Me?\" says I. \"Why, not much. Just a little chat about fam'ly trees and so on, durin' which she----\" Then the arrival chatter in the next room breaks loose, and I stops sudden, starin' at the closed portieres with my mouth open. \"Hello!\" says I. \"Listen who's here!\" \"Who?\" says Vee. \"That's so,\" says I. \"You don't know 'em, do you? Well, this adds thickenin' to the plot for fair. Remember hearin' me tell of Aunt Zenobia and her new hubby? Well, that's 'em.\" \"How odd!\" says Vee. \"But--why, I've heard his voice before! It was at--oh, I know! The nice old gentleman who had the villa next to ours at Mentone.\" \"Ballard?\" I suggests. \"That's it!\" says Vee. \"And you say he is----\"", "words": 317}, {"story": 49, "title": "How Aunty Got the News", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"My Uncle Kyrle,\" says I. \"My reg'lar uncle, you know.\" \"Why, Torchy!\" gasps Vee, grabbin' me by the arm. \"Then--then you----\" \"Listen!\" says I. \"Hear your Aunty usin' her comp'ny voice. My! ain't she the gentle, cooin' dove, though? Now they're gettin' acquainted. So this was where Uncle Kyrle spoke of callin'! Hot time he picked out for it, didn't he, with me here in the condemned cell? Say, what do you know about that, eh?\" Vee smothers another giggle, and slips one of her hands into mine. \"Don't you care!\" says she, whisperin'. \"And isn't it thrilling? But what shall we do?\" \"It's by me,\" says I. \"Aunty told me to wait, didn't she? Well, let's.\" Which we done, sittin' there sociable, and every now and then swappin' smiles as the conversation in the next room took a new turn. Fin'lly Uncle Kyrle remarks: \"You had your little niece with you then, didn't you?\" \"Little Verona? Oh, yes,\" says Aunty. \"She is still with me. Rather grown up now, though. I must send for her. Pardon me.\" And she rings for Selma. Well, that queers the game entirely. Two minutes more, and Vee has been towed in for inspection and I'm left alone in banishment.", "words": 206}, {"story": 49, "title": "How Aunty Got the News", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Well, well!\" I can hear Uncle Kyrle sing out. \"Why, young lady, what right had you to change from a tow-headed schoolgirl into such a--Zenobia, please face the other way and don't listen, while I try to tell this radiant young person how utterly charming she has become. No, I can't begin to do the subject justice. Twenty or thirty years ago I might have had some success. Ah, me! Those gray eyes of yours, my dear, hold mischief enough to wreck a convention of saints. Ah, blushing, are you? Forgive me. I ought to know better. Let me tell you, though, I've a young nephew with a pair of blue eyes that might be a match for your gray ones. You must allow me to bring him up some day.\" And I'd like to have had a glimpse of Vee's face just then. About there, though, Aunty breaks in. \"A nephew, Mr. Ballard?\" says she. \"Poor Dick's boy,\" says he. \"The one we hunted all over the States for after Dick took him on that wild goose chase from which he never came back. Let's see, you must have known the youngster's mother,--Irene Ballard.\" \"That stunning young woman with the copper-red hair whom you introduced at Palermo?\" asks Aunty. \"Is--is she----\" \"No,\" says Uncle Kyrle. \"Poor Irene! She was always doing something for someone, you know, and when this big war got under way--well, she went to the front at the first call from the Red Cross. I might have known she would. I suppose she simply couldn't bear to keep out of it--all that suffering, and so much help needed. No more skillful or efficient hands than hers, I'll wager, Madam, were ever volunteered, nor any braver soul. She was pure gold, Irene.\" \"And,\" puts in Aunty, \"she was--er----\"", "words": 301}, {"story": 49, "title": "How Aunty Got the News", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Uncle Kyrle nods. \"In a field hospital, under fire,\" says he, \"late last September. That's all we know. Where do you think, though, I ran across that boy of hers? Found him at Zenobia's; found them both rather, at a theater. Sheer luck. For if you'll pardon my saying it, that youth is a nephew I'm going to be proud of some of these days unless I am----\" Say, this was gettin' a little too personal for me. I'd been shiftin' around uneasy for a minute or two, and about then I decided it wouldn't be polite to listen any longer. So I make a dash out the side door into the hall, not knowin' just what to do or where to go. And I bumps into Selma wheelin' in the tea wagon. That gives me a hunch. \"Say, Bright Eyes,\" says I, pushin' a dollar at her, \"take this and ditch that tea stuff for a minute, can't you? Harken! There's goin' to be a new arrival at the front door in about a minute, and you must answer the bell. No, don't indulge in that open-face movement. Just watch me close!\" With that I clips past the drawin'-room entrance, opens the front door gentle, and gives the button a good long push. Then I slides back and digs up a card case that Aunt Zenobia has presented me with only a couple of days ago. \"Here!\" says I. \"Get out your plate and pass one of these to the Missus. That's it. Push it right on her conspicuous. Now! On your way!\" She's real quick at startin', Selma is, when she's shoved brisk from behind. And as she goes through the doorway I stretches my ear to hear what Aunty will say to the new arrival. And, believe me, if I'd given her the lines myself, she couldn't have done it better!", "words": 314}, {"story": 49, "title": "How Aunty Got the News", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Mr. Richard Taber Ballard?\" says she, readin' the card. Then she turns to Uncle Kyrle. \"Why, this must be some----\" \"Eh?\" says he. \"Did you hear that, Zenobia? Torchy, you young rascal, come in here and explain yourself!\" \"Torchy!\" gasps Aunty. \"Did--did you say--Torchy?\" \"Anybody callin' for me?\" says I, steppin' into the room with a grin on. And to watch that stary look settle in Aunty's eyes, and see the purple tint spread back to her ears, was worth standin' for all the rough deals I'd ever had from her. At last I had her bumpin' the bumps! Sort of dazed she inspects the card once more, and then glances at me. Do you wonder? Richard Taber Ballard! I ain't got used to it myself. \"Here he is,\" says Uncle Kyrle jovial, draggin' me to the front, \"that scamp nephew I was telling you about. The Richard is for his father, you know; the Taber he gets from his mother--also his red hair. Eh, Torchy? And this, young man, is Miss Verona.\" He swings me around facin' her, and I expect I must have acted some sheepish. But trust Vee! What does she do but let loose one of them ripply laughs of hers. Then she steps up, pulls my head down playful with both hands, and looks me square in the eyes. \"Why didn't you tell me before, Torchy,\" says she, \"that you had such a perfectly grand name as all that?\" \"Huh!\" says I. \"A swell chance I've had to tell you anything, ain't I? But if the folks will excuse us for half an hour, I'll tell you all I know about a lot of things.\"", "words": 280}, {"story": 49, "title": "How Aunty Got the News", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "And, say, Aunty don't even glare after us as we slips through the draperies into the lib'ry, leavin' 'em to explain to each other how I come to be on hand so accidental. The only disturbance comes when Selma butts in pushin' the tea cart, and, just from force of habit, I makes a panicky breakaway. After she's insisted on loadin' us up with sandwiches and so forth, though, I slips my arm back where it fits the snuggest. \"Now, Sir,\" says Vee, \"how are you going to hold your cup?\" \"I'd be willin' to miss out on tea forever,\" says I, \"for a chance like this.\"", "words": 107}, {"story": 50, "title": "Mr. Robert and a Certain Party", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "We was havin' a directors' meetin'. Get that, do you? _We_, you know! For nowadays, as private sec. and actin' head of Mutual Funding, I crashes into all sorts of confidential pow-wows. Uh-huh! Right in where they put a crimp in the surplus and make plots to slip things over on the Commerce Board! Oh my, yes! I'm gettin' almost respectable enough to be indicted. Well, we'd just pared the dividend on common and was about breakin' up the session when Mr. Robert misses some figures on export clearances he'd had made up and was pawin' about on the table aimless. \"Didn't I see you stowin' that away in one of your desk pigeonholes yesterday?\" I suggests. \"By George!\" says he. \"Think you could find it for me, Torchy? And, by the way, bring along my cigarettes too. You will find them in a leather case somewhere about.\" I locates the export notes first stab; but the dope sticks ain't in sight. I claws through the whole top of the desk before I fin'lly discovers, shoved clear into a corner, a thin old blue morocco affair with a gold catch. By the time I gets back he's smokin' a borrowed brand and tosses the case one side. Half an hour later the meetin' is over. Mr. Robert sighs relieved, bunches up a lot of papers in front of him, and begins feelin' absent-minded in his pockets. Seein' which I pushes the leather case at him. \"Ah, yes, thanks,\" says he, and snaps it open careless. But no neat little row of paper pipes shows up. Inside is nothing but a picture, one of these dinky portraits on ivory--mini'tures, ain't they? It shows a young lady with a perky chin and kind of a quizzin' look in her eyes: not a reg'lar front row pippin', you know, but a fairly good looker of the highbrow type.", "words": 315}, {"story": 50, "title": "Mr. Robert and a Certain Party", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "For a second Mr. Robert stares at the portrait foolish, and then he glances up quick to see if I'm watchin'. As it happens, I am, and blamed if he don't tint up over it! \"Excuse,\" says I. \"Only leather case I could find. Besides, I didn't know you had any such souvenirs as this on your desk.\" He chuckles throaty. \"Nor I,\" says he. \"That is, I'd almost forgotten. You see----\" \"I see,\" says I. \"She's one of the discards, eh?\" Sort of jolts him, that does. \"Eh?\" says he. \"A discard? No, no! I--er--I suppose, if I must confess, Torchy, that I am one of hers.\" \"Gwan!\" says I. \"You? Look like a discard, don't you? Tush, tush!\" The idea of him tryin' to feed that to me! Why, say, I expect there ain't half a dozen bachelors in town that's rated any higher on the eligible list than Mr. Bob Ellins. It's no dark secret, either. I've heard of whole summer campaigns bein' planned just to land Mr. Robert, of house parties made up special to give some fair young queen a chance at him, and of one enterprisin' young widow that chased him up for two seasons before she quit. How he's been able to dodge the net so long has puzzled more than me, and up to date I'd never had a hint that there was such a thing for him as a certain party. So I expect I was gawpin' some curious at the picture. \"Huh!\" says I, but more or less to myself. \"Not intending any adverse criticism of the young lady, I trust?\" remarks Mr. Robert. \"Far be it from me!\" says I. \"Only--well, maybe the paintin' don't do her justice.\"", "words": 289}, {"story": 50, "title": "Mr. Robert and a Certain Party", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Rather discreetly phrased, that,\" says he, chucklin' quiet. \"Thank you, Torchy. And you are quite right. No mere painter ever could do her full justice. While the likeness is excellent, the flesh tones much as I remember them, yet I fancy a great deal has escaped the brush,--the queer, quirky little smile, for instance, that used to come at times in the mouth corners, a quick tilting of the chin as she talked, and that trick of widening the eyes as she looked at you. China blue, I think her eyes would be called; rather unusual eyes, in fact.\" He seems to be enjoyin' the monologue; so I don't break in, but just stands there while he gazes at the picture and holds forth enthusiastic. Even after he's finished he still sits there starin'. \"Gee!\" says I. \"It ain't a hopeless case, is it, Mr. Robert?\" Which brings him out of his spell. He shrugs his shoulders, indulges in an unconvincin' little laugh, snaps the case shut, and then tosses it careless down onto the table. \"Perhaps you failed to notice the dust,\" says he. \"The back part of the bottom drawer is where that belongs, Torchy--or in the waste basket. It's quite hopeless, you see.\" \"Huh!\" says I as I turns to go. And this time I meant to get it across to him. Honest, I couldn't figure why a headliner like Mr. Robert, with all his good bank ratin', good fam'ly, and good looks to back him, should get the gate on any kind of a matrimonial proposition, unless it was a case of coppin' a Princess of royal blood, and even then I'd back him to show in the runnin'. Who was this finicky party with the willow-ware eyes, anyway? Queen of what? Or was it wings she was demandin'?", "words": 303}, {"story": 50, "title": "Mr. Robert and a Certain Party", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Say, I most got peeved with this unknown that had ditched Mr. Robert so hard. All that evenin' I mulls over it, wonderin' how long ago it had happened and if that accounted for him bein' so cagy in makin' social dates. Not that he's what you'd call skirt-shy exactly; but I've noticed that he's always cautious about bein' backed into a corner or paired off with any special one. Course, not knowin' the details of the tragedy, it wa'n't much use speculatin'. And somehow I didn't feel like askin' for the whole story right out. You know--there's times when you just can't. I ain't any more curious than usual over this special case, either; but, seein' how many good turns Mr. Robert's done for me along the only-girl line, I got to wishin' there was some way I could sort of balance the account. So when I stumbles across this concert folder it almost looks like a special act, with the arrow pointin' my way. I was payin' my reg'lar official Friday evenin' call. No, nothin' romantic. Just because Aunty's mellowed up a bit since I'm announced proper by the front door help as Mr. Ballard, don't get tangled up with the idea that she stands for any dark corner twosin'. Nothin' like that! All the lights are on full blast, Aunty's right there prominent with her crochet, and on the other side of the table is me and Vee. And I couldn't be behavin' more innocent if I'd been roped to the chair. All I was holdin' was a skein of yarn. Uh-huh! You see, Vee got the knittin' habit last winter, turnin' out stuff for the Belgians, and now she keeps right on; though who she's goin' to wish a pink and white shawl onto in this weather is a myst'ry. \"It's for a sufferer--isn't that enough?\" says she. \"From what--chilblains on the ears?\" says I.", "words": 319}, {"story": 50, "title": "Mr. Robert and a Certain Party", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Silly!\" says she. \"There! Didn't I tell you to bend your thumbs? How awkward!\" \"Who, me?\" says I. \"Why, for a first attempt I thought I was puttin' up a real classy performance. Say, lemme wind awhile, and let's see you try this yarn-jugglin' act.\" She won't, though; so it's me sittin' there playin' dummy, with my arms held out stiff and my eyes roamin' around restless. Which is how I happen to spot this folder with the halftone cut on it. It's been tossed casual on the table, and the picture is wrong side to from where I am; but even then there's something mighty familiar about it. I wiggles around to get a better view, and lets half a dozen loops of yarn slip off at a time. \"Stupid!\" says Vee, runnin' her tongue out at me. \"Didn't I tell you you'd do better by drapin' it over a chair back?\" says I. \"But say, time out while I snoop into something. Who's the girl with the press notice stuff?\" and I points an elbow at the halftone. \"That?\" says she. \"Oh, some concert singer, I think. Let's see. Yes--Miss Elsa Hampton. She's to give a benefit song recital in the Plutoria pink room for the Belgian war orphans, tickets two dollars. Want to go?\" And Vee flips the folder into my lap. Gettin' the picture right side to, I lets out a whistle. No mistakin' that. \"Sure I want to go,\" says I. \"Why?\" says Vee. \"Well, for one thing,\" says I, \"she has china blue eyes that widen out when they look at you, and a queer, quirky little smile that----\" \"How thrilling!\" says Vee. \"You must know her very well.\" \"Almost that,\" says I. \"Anyway, I know someone that did know her very well--once.\"", "words": 299}, {"story": 50, "title": "Mr. Robert and a Certain Party", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Oh!\" says Vee, forgettin' all about the yarn windin' and hitchin' her chair up close. \"That does sound interesting. I hope it isn't a deep secret.\" \"If it wa'n't,\" says I, \"what would be the fun in tellin' it to you?\" \"Goody!\" says Vee. \"Who is the poor man who knew her once but doesn't any more?\" \"Whisper!\" says I. \"It's Mr. Bob Ellins!\" \"Wha-a-at!\" gasps Vee. \"Do you really mean it?\" I'd pulled a sensation, all right, and for the next half-hour she keeps me busy tryin' to explain the details of a situation I hadn't more'n half sketched out myself. \"Kept a miniature of her on his desk!\" Vee rattles on. \"And it hadn't been opened for ever so long, you say? What makes you think it hadn't?\" \"Dusty,\" says I. \"Oh!\" says Vee. \"Just fancy! And she must have given it to him herself--an ivory miniature, you know. Was--was there another man, do you think, or just some silly misunderstanding? I wonder?\" \"I hadn't got in that deep,\" says I. \"But suppose it was,\" says Vee, \"only a misunderstanding, wouldn't it be lovely if we could find some way of--of--well, why don't you suggest something?\" Did I? Say, we was plottin' so lively there for a spell, with our heads close together, that I can't tell for a fact which it was did get the idea first. But, anyway, when I'm busy at the Corrugated next mornin', openin' the first batch of mail and sortin' the junk from the important letters, I laid the mine. All I had to do was pick out an envelope postmarked Madison Square, ditch the art dealers' card that came in it, and substitute this song recital folder, opened so the picture couldn't be missed. And when I stacks the letters on Mr. Robert's desk I tucks that one in second from the top. Some grand little strategy that, eh?", "words": 318}, {"story": 50, "title": "Mr. Robert and a Certain Party", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Then I keeps my ear stretched for any remarks Mr. Robert may unload when he makes the great discovery. But, say, when you try dopin' out such a complicated party as Mr. Bob Ellins you've tackled some deep proposition. Nothin' emotional about him, and although I'm sittin' only a dozen feet off, half facin' his way too, I don't get even the hint of a smothered gasp. Couldn't even tell whether he'd seen the picture or not, and by the time I works up an excuse to drift over by his elbow he's halfway through the pile. \"Nothin' startlin' in the mornin' run, eh?\" I throws out. \"Oh, yes,\" says he. \"Mallory reports that those St. Louis people have applied for another injunction. Ring up Bates, will you, and have him call a general council of our legal staff for two-thirty?\" \"Right,\" says I. \"Er--anything else, Mr. Robert?\" He simply shakes his head and dives into another letter. At that, though, I was lookin' for him to sound me out sooner or later on the picture business; but the forenoon breezes by without a word. By lunchtime I'm more twisted than ever. Had he glanced at the halftone without recognizin' her? Or was he just keepin' mum? Not until I gets a chance to explore the waste basket did I get any line. The folder wa'n't there. Neither was it on his desk. And all the hints I threw out durin' the day he don't seem to notice at all. So I didn't have much to tell Vee over the 'phone that night. \"Couldn't get a rise out of him at all,\" says I. \"But you're certain Miss Hampton is the one, are you?\" says she. \"If she wa'n't,\" says I, \"why should he keep the folder?\" \"That's so,\" says Vee. \"Then--then shall we do it?\" \"I'm game if you are,\" says I.", "words": 313}, {"story": 50, "title": "Mr. Robert and a Certain Party", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"All right,\" says she, and I hears one of them ripplin' laughs of hers comin' over the wire. \"It's to-morrow at half after three, you know.\" \"I'll be on hand,\" says I. And, believe me, when I gets there and sees the swell mob collectin' in the pink ballroom, I'm some pleased with myself for gettin' that hunch to doll up in my frock coat and lavender tie. It's mostly a fluff audience; but there's enough of a sprinklin' of Johnnies and old sports so I don't feel too conspicuous. Course I wa'n't lookin' forward to any treat. I ain't so strong for this recital stuff as a rule; but I was anxious to size up the young lady who'd thrown the harpoon into Mr. Robert so hard. Same way with Vee. So we edges through to a front seat and waits expectant. And, say, what fin'lly glides out on the stage and bows offhand to the soft patter of kid gloves is only an average looker. She's simple dressed and simple actin'. No frills about Miss Hampton at all. Why, you might easy mistake her for one of the girl ushers! \"Pooh!\" says Vee. \"Also pooh for me,\" says I. More or less easy and graceful in her motions Miss Hampton is, though, I got to admit, as she stands there chattin' with the accompanist and lettin' them big blue eyes of hers rove careless over the crowd in front. They ain't the stary, baby blue sort, you know. China blue describes 'em best, I guess; and they're the calm, steady kind that it's sort of restful and fascinatin' to watch. Almost before we know it she's stepped to the front and started in on the programme. Italian folk songs is what is down on the card, and she leads off with that swingin' rollickin' piece, \"Santa Lucia.\" You've heard it, eh? That's some song, ain't it?", "words": 318}, {"story": 50, "title": "Mr. Robert and a Certain Party", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "But, say, I never knew how much snap and go there was to it until I heard Miss Hampton trill it out. Why, she just tosses up that perky chin of hers and turns loose the catchy melody until you felt the warm waves splashin' and saw the moonlight dancin' across the bay! I don't know where or what this Santa Lucia thing is, but she most made me homesick to go back there. Honest! And if you think a set of odd-shaded blue eyes can't light up and sparkle with diff'rent expressions, you should have seen hers. When she finishes and springs that folksy, chummy sort of smile--well, take it from me, the hand she gets ain't any polite, halfway, for-charity's-sake applause. They just went to it strong, gloves or no gloves. \"Isn't she bully?\" whispers Vee. \"Uh-huh!\" says I. \"We take back the pooh-poohs, eh?\" The next number was diff'rent, but just as good. At the finish of the fourth a wide old dame in the middle row unpins a cluster of orchids from her belt and aims 'em enthusiastic at the stage. Course they swats a dignified old boy three seats beyond me back of the ear; but that starts the floral offerings. I gets a quick nudge from Vee. \"Go on, Torchy,\" she whispers. \"Do it now!\" We hadn't been sure first off that we'd have the nerve to carry the thing that far; but we'd come all primed. So I yanks the tissue paper off a dozen long-stemmed American beauts that I'd smuggled in under my coat, Vee ties on the card, and I tosses the bunch so accurate it lands almost on Miss Hampton's toes.", "words": 281}, {"story": 50, "title": "Mr. Robert and a Certain Party", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Course any paid performer would have been tickled to death to have a crowd break loose like that; but Miss Hampton acts a bit dazed by it all. For a second or so she stands there gazin' sort of puzzled, bitin' her upper lip. Then she springs that quirky, good-natured smile of hers, bows a couple of times, and proceeds to help the accompanist gather up the flowers and stack 'em on the piano. When she comes to our big bunch she swoops it up graceful, and is about to pile it with the rest when her eyes must have caught the card. Just as easy and natural as if she'd been at home, she turns it over and reads the name. And, say, for a minute there I thought we had bust up the show. Talk about goin' pink! Why, you could see the strawb'rry tint spread over her cheeks and up into her ears! Blamed if her eyes don't moisten up too, and she sweeps over the audience with a quick nervous glance, like she was tryin' to single someone out! She don't seem to know what to do next. Once she turns as if she meant to beat it into the wings; but as the applause simmers down the pianist strikes up the beginning of an encore. So she had to stick it out. Her voice is more or less shaky at the start; but pretty soon she strikes her gait again and sings the last verse better than she had before. Then comes an intermission, and when Miss Hampton appears again she's wearin' that whole dozen roses pinned over her heart. Vee nudges me excited when she spots it. \"See, Torchy?\" says she. \"Guess we've started something, eh?\" says I.", "words": 294}, {"story": 50, "title": "Mr. Robert and a Certain Party", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Just what it was, though, we didn't know. I didn't get cold feet either, until the concert is all over and the folks begun swarmin' around the stage to pass over the hot-air congratulations. But Miss Hampton wa'n't content to stand there quiet and take 'em. She seems to have something on her mind, and the next thing I knew she was pikin' down the steps right towards the middle aisle. \"Gee!\" says I, grabbin' Vee by the arm. \"Maybe she saw who passed 'em up. Let's do the quick exit.\" We was gettin' away as fast as we could too, squirmin' through the push, when I looks over my shoulder and discovers that Miss Hampton is almost on our heels. \"Good-night!\" says I. Believe me, I was doin' some high-tension thinkin' about then, tryin' to frame up an alibi, when she reaches over my shoulder and holds out her hand to someone leanin' against a pillar. It's Mr. Robert. \"How absurd of you, Robert!\" says she. \"Eh! I--I beg pardon?\" I hears him gasp out. And, say, I expect that's the first and only time I've ever seen him good and fussed. Why, he's flyin' the scarlatina signal clear to the back of his neck! \"The roses, you know,\" she goes on. \"So nice of you to remember me. I--I thought you'd forgotten. Thank you for them.\" \"Roses?\" says he husky, starin' stupid at the bunch. Then he turns his head a bit, and his eyes light on me, strugglin' to slip behind a tall female party who's bein' helped into her silk wrap. I must have looked guilty or something; for he shoots me a crisp, knowin' glance. \"Oh, yes--the--the roses,\" I hears him go on. \"It was silly of me, wasn't it? I--I'll explain some time, if I may.\" \"Oh!\" says she. \"Of course you may, if they really need explaining.\"", "words": 314}, {"story": 50, "title": "Mr. Robert and a Certain Party", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Which was the last we heard, as Vee had found an openin' into the corridor and was dashin' out panicky. You can bet I follows! \"Did--did you ever?\" pants Vee as we gets out to the carriage entrance. \"Now we have done it, haven't we?\" \"And I'm caught with the goods on, I guess,\" says I. \"Just fancy!\" says she. \"Mr. Robert was there all the time. I wonder what he will----\" \"Pardon me, you pair of mischief makers,\" says a voice behind, \"but I haven't quite decided.\" It's Mr. Robert! \"Hel-lup!\" says I gaspy. \"Do I understand,\" he goes on, \"that one of my cards went with those roses?\" \"Yep,\" says I prompt. \"Little idea of mine. I--I wanted to see what would happen.\" \"Really!\" says he sarcastic. \"Well, I trust that my part of the performance was quite satisfactory to you.\" And with that he wheels and marches off. \"Whiffo!\" says I, drawin' in a long breath. \"But he is grouched for fair, ain't he!\" All the sympathy I gets from Vee, though, is a chuckle. \"Don't you believe a word of it,\" says she. \"Just wait!\"", "words": 189}, {"story": 51, "title": "Torchy Tackles a Short Circuit", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "There was no use discountin' the fact, or tryin' to smooth it over. I was in Dutch with Mr. Robert--all because Vee and I tried to pull a little Cupid stunt for his benefit. I'd invested six whole dollars in that bunch of roses we'd passed up to Miss Hampton, too! And just because we thought it would be a happy hunch to tie in his card with 'em, he goes and gets peevish. Not that he comes right out and roasts me for gettin' gay. Say, that would have been a relief; but he don't. He just lugs around a dignified, injured air and gives me the cold eye. Say, that's the limit, that is! Makes me feel as mean and little as a green strawb'rry on top of a bakery shortcake. Three days I'd had of it, mind you, with never a show to put in any defense, or plead guilty but sorry, or anything like that. And me all the time hoping it would wear off. I expect it would too, if someone could have throttled Billy Bounce. Course nobody could, or it would have happened long ago. Havin' no more neck than an ice-water pitcher has been Billy's salvation all through his career. Maybe you don't remember my mentionin' him before; but he's the roly-poly club friend of Mr. Robert's who went with us on that alligator shootin' trip up the Wiggywash two winters ago. Hadn't shown up at the Corrugated General Offices for months before; but here the other afternoon he breezed in, dumps his 220 excess into a chair by the roll-top, mops the heavy dew from various parts of his full-moon face, and proceeds to get real folksy.", "words": 285}, {"story": 51, "title": "Torchy Tackles a Short Circuit", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "At the time I was waitin' on the far side of the desk for Mr. Robert to O. K. a fundin' report, and there was other signs of a busy day in plain sight; but Billy Bounce ain't a bit disturbed by that. He'd come in loaded with chat. \"Oh, I say, Bob,\" he breaks out, after a few preliminary joshes, \"who do you suppose I ran across up in the Fitz-William palm room the other night?\" \"A head waiter,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Oh, come!\" says Billy. \"Give a guess.\" \"One of your front-row friends from the Winter Garden?\" asks Mr. Robert. \"No, a friend of yours,\" says Billy. \"That blue-eyed warbler you used to be so nutty over--Miss Hampton. Eh, Bob? How about it?\" With which he reaches over playful and pokes Mr. Robert in the ribs. I expect he'd have put it across just as raw if there'd been a dozen around instead of only me. That's Billy Bounce. About as much delicate reserve, Billy has, as a traffic cop clearin' up a street tangle. \"Indeed!\" says Mr. Robert, flushin' a bit. \"Clever of you to remember her. I--er--I trust she was charmed to meet you again?\" \"The deuce you do!\" comes back Billy. \"Anyway, she wasn't as grouchy about it as you are. Say, she's all right, Miss Hampton is; a heap too nice for a big ham like you, as I always said.\" \"Yes, I believe I recall your hinting as much,\" says Mr. Robert; \"but if you don't mind I'd rather not discuss----\" \"You'd better, though,\" says Billy. \"You see, I thought I had to drag you into the conversation. Asked her if she'd seen you lately. And say, old man, she's expecting you to call or something. Lord knows why; but she is, you know. Said you'd probably be up to-night. As much as asked me to pass on the word. Eh, Bob?", "words": 319}, {"story": 51, "title": "Torchy Tackles a Short Circuit", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Well, I've done it. S'long. See you at the club afterwards, and you can tell me all about it.\" He winks roguish over his shoulder as he waddles out, leavin' Mr. Robert starin' puzzled over the top of the desk, and me with my mouth open. And the next thing I know I'm gettin' the inventory look-over from them keen eyes of Mr. Robert's. \"You heard, I suppose?\" says he. \"Uh-huh,\" says I, sort of husky. \"And I presume you understand just what that means?\" he goes on. \"I am expected to call and explain about those roses.\" \"Well?\" says I. \"Why not stand pat? Sendin' flowers to a young lady ain't any penal offense, is it?\" \"As a simple statement of an abstract proposition,\" says Mr. Robert, \"that is quite correct; but in this instance the situation is somewhat more complicated. As a matter of fact, I find myself in a deucedly awkward position.\" \"That's easy,\" says I. \"Lay it to me, then.\" Mr. Robert shakes his head. \"I've considered that,\" says he; \"but sometimes the bald truth sounds singularly unconvincing. I'm sure it would in this case. If the young lady was familiar with all the buoyant audacity of your irrepressible nature, perhaps it would be different. No, young man, I fear I must ask you to do your own explaining.\" \"Me?\" says I, gawpin'. \"We will call on Miss Hampton about four-thirty,\" says he. And say, Mr. Robert has stacked me up against some batty excursions before now; but this billin' me for orator of the day when he goes to look up an old girl of his is about the fruitiest performance he'd ever sprung.", "words": 279}, {"story": 51, "title": "Torchy Tackles a Short Circuit", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I don't know when I've ever seen him with a worse case of the fidgets, either. Why, you'd 'most think he was due to answer a charge of breakin' and enterin', or something like that! And you know he's some nervy sport, Mr. Robert--all except when it's a matter of skirts. Then he's more or less of a skittish party, believe me! But at four-thirty we went. It wa'n't any joy ride we had, either. All the way up Mr. Robert sits there fillin' the limousine with gloom thick enough to slice. I tried chirkin' him up with a few frivolous side remarks; but they don't take, and I sighs relieved when we're landed at the apartment hotel where Miss Hampton lives. \"Say,\" I suggests, \"you ain't goin' to lead me in by the ear, are you?\" \"I'm not sure but that would be an appropriate entrance,\" says he. \"However, it might appear a trifle theatrical.\" \"What's the programme, anyway?\" says I, as we boards the elevator. \"Do you open for the defense, or do I?\" \"Hanged if I know!\" he almost groans out. \"I wish I did.\" \"Then let's stick around outside in the corridor here,\" says I, \"until we frame up something. Now how would it do if----\" \"You're to explain, that's all!\" says he, steppin' up and pushin' the button. It's a wonder too, from the panicky way he's actin', he don't shove me ahead of him for a buffer as we goes in. But he has just enough courage left to let me trail along behind. So it's him gets the cordial greetin' from the vision in blue net that floats out easy and graceful from the window nook.", "words": 283}, {"story": 51, "title": "Torchy Tackles a Short Circuit", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I couldn't see why it wa'n't goin' to be just as awkward for her, meetin' him again so long after their grand smash, or whatever it was; but, take it from me, there ain't any fussed motions about Miss Hampton at all. Them big china blue eyes of hers is steady and calm, her perky chin is carried well up, and in one corner of her mouth she's displayin' that quirky smile he'd described to me. \"Ah, Robert!\" says she. \"So good of you to----\" Then she discovers me and breaks off sudden. I'm introduced reg'lar and formal, and Mr. Robert adds: \"A young friend of mine from the office.\" \"Oh!\" says Miss Hampton, liftin' her eyebrows a little. \"I brought him along,\" blurts out Mr. Robert, \"to tell you about how you happened to get the roses.\" \"Really!\" says she. \"How considerate of you!\" And if Mr. Robert hadn't been actin' so much like a poor prune he'd have quit that line right there. But on he blunders. \"You see,\" says he, \"I've asked Torchy to explain for me.\" \"Ye-e-es?\" says she, bitin' her upper lip thoughtful and glancin' from one to the other of us. \"Then--then you needn't have bothered to come yourself, need you?\" Say, that was something to lean against, wa'n't it? You could almost hear the dull thud as it reached him. \"Oh, I say, Elsa!\" he gets out gaspy. \"Of course I--I wished to come, too.\" \"Thank you,\" says she. \"I wasn't sure. And now that you've brought him, may I hear what your young friend has to say, all by myself?\"", "words": 268}, {"story": 51, "title": "Torchy Tackles a Short Circuit", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "She even springs another one of them twisty smiles; but her head nods suggestive at the door. I expects I starts a grin; but one glimpse of Mr. Robert's face and it fades out. He wa'n't happy a bit. For a minute he stands there lookin' sort of dazed, as if he'd been hit with a lead pipe, and with his neck and ears tinted up like a raspb'rry sundae. \"Very well,\" says he, and does a slow exit, leavin' me gawpin' after him sympathetic. Not for long, though. My turn came as soon as the latch was clicked. \"Now, Torchy,\" says she, chummy and encouragin', as she slips into an old-rose armchair and waves me towards another. I'm still gazin' at the door, wonderin' if Mr. Robert has jumped down the elevator shaft or is takin' it out on the lever juggler. \"Ah, say, Miss Hampton!\" says I. \"Why throw the harpoon so hasty when he was doin' his best?\" \"Was he?\" says she. \"Then his best isn't very wonderful, is it?\" \"But you didn't give him a show,\" says I. \"Course it was a dippy play of his, luggin' me along, as I warned him. Believe me, though, he meant all right. There ain't any more yellow in Mr. Robert than there is in my tie. Honest! Maybe he don't show up brilliant when he's talkin' to ladies; but I want to tell you he's about as good as they come.\" \"Indeed!\" says she, widenin' her eyes and chucklin' easy. \"That is what I should call an unreserved indorsement. But about the roses, now?\" Well, I sketched the plot of the piece all out for her, from findin' her miniature accidental in Mr. Robert's desk, to the day of the concert, when she got the bunch with his card tied to it.", "words": 304}, {"story": 51, "title": "Torchy Tackles a Short Circuit", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"I'll admit it was takin' a chance,\" says I; \"but you see, Miss Hampton, when I was joshin' him as to whose picture it was he got so enthusiastic in describin' you----\" \"Did he, truly?\" she cuts in. \"Unless I don't know a Romeo gaze when I see one,\" says I. \"And then, when I figures out that if you'd given him the chuck it might have been through some mistaken notion, why--well, come to talk it over with Vee, we thought----\" \"Pardon me,\" says Miss Hampton, \"but just who is Vee?\" \"Eh?\" says I, pinkin' up. \"Why, in my case, she's the only girl.\" \"Ah-ha!\" says she. \"So you--er----\" \"Uh-huh!\" says I. \"I've come near bein' ditched myself. And Mr. Robert he's helped out more'n once. So this looked like my cue to hand back something. We thought maybe the roses would kind of patch things up. Say, how about it, Miss Hampton? Suppose he hadn't boobed it this way, wouldn't there be a show of----\" \"You absurd youth!\" says she, liftin' both hands protestin', but failin' to smother that smile. And say, when it's aimed straight at you so you get the full benefit, that's some winnin' smile of hers--sort of genuine and folksy, you know! It got me. Why, I felt like I'd been put on her list of old friends. And I grins back. \"It wa'n't a case of another party, was it?\" says I. She laughs and shakes her head. \"Or an old watch-dog aunt, eh?\" I goes on. \"Whatever made you think of that?\" says she. \"You ought to see the one that stands guard over Vee,\" says I. \"But how was it, anyway, that Mr. Robert got himself in wrong with you?\"", "words": 289}, {"story": 51, "title": "Torchy Tackles a Short Circuit", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"How?\" says Miss Hampton, restin' her perky chin on one knuckle and studyin' the rug pattern. \"Why, I think it must have been--well, perhaps it was my fault, after all. You see, when I left for Italy we were very good friends. And over there it was all so new to me,--Italian life, our villa hung on a mountainside overlooking that wonderful blue sea, the people I met, everything,--I wrote to him, oh, pages and pages, about all I did or saw. He must have been horribly bored reading them. I didn't realize until--but there! We'll not go into that. I stopped, that's all.\" \"Huh!\" says I. \"So it's all over,\" says she. \"Only, when I thought he had sent the roses, of course I was pleased. But now that he has taken such pains to prove that he didn't----\" She ends with a shoulder shrug. \"Say, Miss Hampton,\" I breaks in, \"you leave it to me.\" \"But there isn't anything to leave,\" says she, \"not a shred! Sometime, though, I hope I may meet your Miss Vee. May I?\" \"I should guess!\" says I. \"Why, she thinks you're a star! We both do.\" \"Thank you, Torchy,\" says she. \"I'm glad someone approves of me. Good-by.\" And we shakes hands friendly at the door. It was long after five by that time; but I made a break back to the office. Had to get the floor janitor to let me in. I was glad, though, to have the place to myself. What I was after was a peek at some back letter files. Course I wa'n't sure he could be such a chump; but, knowin' somethin' about his habits along the correspondence line, I meant to settle the point. And, fishin' out Mr. Robert's personal book, I begun the hunt. I had the right dope, too. \"The lobster!\" says I.", "words": 310}, {"story": 51, "title": "Torchy Tackles a Short Circuit", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "There it was, all typed out neat, \"My Dear Miss Hampton.\" And dictated! Much as ten lines, too! It starts real chatty and familiar with, \"Yours of the 16th inst. at hand,\" just like he always does, whether he's closin' a million-dollar deal or payin' a tailor's bill. He goes on to confide to her how the weather's beastly, business on the fritz, and how he's just ordered a new sixty-footer that he hopes will be in commission for the July regattas. A hot billy-doo to a young lady he's supposed to be clean nutty over, one that had been sittin' up nights writin' on both sides of half a dozen sheets to him! I found four or five more just like it, the last one bein' varied a little by startin', \"Yours of the 5th inst. still at hand.\" Do you wonder she quit? If this had been a letter-writin' competition, I'd have thrown up both hands; but it wa'n't. I'd seen Mr. Robert gazin' mushy at that picture of her, and I'd watched Miss Hampton when she was tellin' me about him. Only they was short-circuited somewhere. And it seemed like a blamed shame. Half an hour more and I'd located Mr. Robert at his club. He ain't very enthusiastic, either, when one of the doormen tows me into the corner of the loungin' room where he's sittin' behind a tall glass gazin' moody at nothin' in particular. \"I suppose you told her all about it!\" says he. \"And then a few,\" says I. \"Well?\" says he sort of hopeless. \"Verdict for the defense,\" says I. \"I didn't even have to produce the florist's receipt.\" \"Then that's settled,\" says he, sighin'.", "words": 283}, {"story": 51, "title": "Torchy Tackles a Short Circuit", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"You couldn't have made the job more complete if you'd submitted affidavits,\" says I. \"And if you don't mind my sayin' so, Mr. Robert, when it comes to the Romeo stuff, you're ten points off, with no bids.\" Course that gets a squirm out of him, like I hoped it would. But he don't blow out a fuse or anything. \"Naturally,\" says he, \"I am charmed to hear such a frank estimate of myself. But suppose I am simply trying to avoid the--the Romeo stuff, as you put it?\" \"Gwan!\" says I. \"You're only kiddin' yourself. Come now, ain't you as strong for Miss Hampton as ever?\" He stiffens up for a second; but then his shoulders sag. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"your perceptions are altogether too acute. I admit it. But what's the use? As you have so clearly pointed out, this little affair of mine seems to be quite thoroughly ended.\" \"It is if you let things slide as they stand,\" says I. \"Eh?\" says he, sort of eager. \"You mean that she--that if----\" \"Say,\" I breaks in, \"do you want it straight from a rank amateur? Then here goes. You don't gen'rally wait to have things handed to you on a tray, do you? You ain't that kind. You go after 'em. And the harder you want 'em the quicker you are on the grab. You don't stop to ask whether you deserve 'em or not, either. You just stretch your fingers and sing out, 'Hey, that's mine!' And if somebody or something's in the way, you give 'em the shoulder. Well, that's my dope in this case. You ain't goin' to get a young lady like Miss Hampton by doin' the long-distance mope. You got to buck up. Rush her off her feet!\"", "words": 296}, {"story": 51, "title": "Torchy Tackles a Short Circuit", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"By Jove, though, Torchy,\" says he, bangin' his fist down on the table, \"I believe you're right! And I do want her. I've been afraid to say it, that's all. But now----\" He squares his shoulders and sets his jaw solid. \"That's the slant!\" says I. \"And the sooner the quicker, you know.\" \"Yes, yes!\" says he, jumpin' up. \"Tonight! I--I'll write to her at once.\" \"Ah, squiffle!\" says I, indicatin' deep disgust. Mr. Robert gazes at me astonished. \"I beg pardon!\" says he. \"Don't be a nut!\" says I. \"Excuse me if I seem to throw out any hints, but maybe letter writin' ain't your long suit. Is it?\" \"Why,\" says he, \"I'm not sure, but I had an idea I could----\" \"Maybe you can,\" says I; \"but from the samples I've seen I should have my doubts. You know this 'Yours of the steenth just received' and so on may do for vice-presidents and gen'ral managers; but it's raw style to spring on your best girl. Take it from me, sizzlin' sentiments that's strained through a typewriter are apt to get delivered cold.\" \"But I'm not good at making fine speeches, either,\" he protests. \"You ain't exactly tongue-tied, though,\" says I. \"And you ain't startin' out on this expedition with both arms roped behind you, are you?\" For a minute he stares at me gaspy, while that simmers through the oatmeal. Then he chuckles. \"Torchy,\" says he, givin' me the inside-brother grip, \"there's no telling how this will turn out, but I--I'm going up!\" I stayed long enough to see him start, too. Then I goes home, not sure whether I'd set the scene for an ear cuffin', or had plugged him in on a through wire.", "words": 289}, {"story": 52, "title": "Mr. Robert Gets a Slant", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "It's all wrong, Percy, all wrong. Somebody's been and rung in a revise on this Romeo dope, and here we find ourselves tryin' to make the Cupid Express on a canceled time-card. What do I mean--we? Why, me and Mr. Robert. Ah, there you go! No, not Miss Vee. She's all right--don't worry. We're gettin' along fine, Vee and me; that is, so far as we've gone. Course there's 'steen diff'rent varieties of Vee; but I'm strong for all of 'em. So there's no room for tragedy there. But when it comes to this case of Mr. Robert and a certain party! You see, after I've sent him back to Miss Hampton loaded up with all them wise hints about rushin' her off her feet, and added that hunch as to rememberin' that he has a pair of arms--well, I leave it to you. Ain't that all reg'lar? Don't they pass it out that way in plays and magazines? Sure! It's the hero with the quick-action strong-arm stuff that wins out in the big scene. So why shouldn't it work for him? I could tell, though, by the rugged set of his jaw as he marches into the private office next mornin', that it hadn't. I expect maybe he'd just as soon not have gone into the subject then, with me or anyone else; but so long as he'd sort of dragged me into this fractured romance of his I felt like I had a right to be let in on the results. So I pivots round and springs a sympathetic grin. \"Did you pull it?\" says I. He shrugs his shoulders kind of weary. \"Oh, yes,\" says he. \"I--er--I pulled it.\" \"Well?\" says I, steppin' over and leanin' confidential on the roll-top. \"Torchy,\" says he, \"please understand that I am in no way censuring you. You--you meant well.\"", "words": 309}, {"story": 52, "title": "Mr. Robert Gets a Slant", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Ah, say, Mr. Robert!\" says I. \"Not so rough. I only gave you the usual get-busy line, and if you went and----\" \"Wasn't there some advice,\" he breaks in, \"about using my arms?\" \"Eh?\" says I, gawpin' at him. \"You--you didn't open the act by goin' to a clinch, did you?\" He lets his chin drop and sort of shivers. \"I'm afraid I did,\" says he. \"Z-z-z-zingo!\" I gasps. \"You see, the part of your suggestions which impressed me most was something to that effect, as I recall it. And then--oh, the deuce take it, I lost my head! Anyway, the next I knew she was in my arms, and I--I was----\" He ends with a shoulder shrug and spreads out his hands. \"I thought you ought to know,\" he goes on, \"that it isn't being done.\" \"But what then?\" says I. \"Did she hand you one?\" \"No,\" says he. \"She merely slipped away and--and stood laughing at me. She hardly seemed indignant: just amused.\" \"Huh!\" says I, starin' puzzled. \"Then she ain't like any I ever heard of before. Now accordin' to dope she'd either----\" \"Miss Hampton is not a conventional young woman,\" says he. \"She made that quite plain. It seems, Torchy, that your--er--that my method was somewhat crude and primitive. In fact, I believe she pointed out that the customs of the Stone Age were obsolete. I was given to understand that she was not to be won in any such manner. Perhaps you can imagine that I was not thoroughly at ease after that.\" And, honest, I'd never seen Mr. Robert when he was feelin' so low. \"Gee!\" says I. \"You didn't quit at that, did you?\" \"Unfortunately no,\" says he. \"Our caveman tactics having failed, I tried the modern style--at least, I thought I was being modern. The usual thing, you know.\"", "words": 307}, {"story": 52, "title": "Mr. Robert Gets a Slant", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Eh?\" says I. \"Both knees on the rug and the reg'lar conservatory nook wilt-thou-be-mine lines?\" \"I spoke my piece standing,\" says he, \"making it as impassioned and eloquent as I knew how. Miss Hampton continued to be amused.\" \"Did you get any hint as to what was so funny about all that?\" says I. \"It appears,\" says Mr. Robert, \"that impassioned declarations are equally out of date--early-Victorian, to quote Elsa exactly. Anyway, she gave me to understand that while my love-making was somewhat entertaining, it was hopelessly medieval. She very kindly explained that undying affection, tender devotion, and the protection of manly arms were all tommyrot; that she really didn't care to be enshrined queen of anyone's heart or home. She wishes to avoid any step that may hinder the development of her own personality. You--er--get that, I trust, Torchy?\" \"Clear as mush,\" says I. \"Was it just her way of handin' you the blue ticket?\" \"Not quite,\" says Mr. Robert. \"That is, I'm a little vague as to my exact status myself. I assume, however, that I've been put on probation, as it were, until we become better acquainted.\" \"And you're standin' for that, Mr. Robert!\" says I. He hunches his shoulders. \"Miss Hampton has taught me to be humble,\" says he. \"I don't pretend to understand her, or to explain her. She is a brilliant and superior young person. She has, too, certain advanced ideas which are a bit startling to me. And yet, even when she's hurling Bernard Shaw or H. G. Wells at me she--she's fascinating. That quirky smile of hers, the quick changes of expression that flash into those big, china-blue eyes, the sudden lift of her fine chin,--how thoroughly alive she is, how well poised! So I--well, I want her, that's all. I--I want her!\" \"Huh!\" says I. \"Suppose you happened to get her? What would you----\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 52, "title": "Mr. Robert Gets a Slant", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Heaven only knows!\" says he. \"The question seems rather, what would she do with me? Hence the probation.\" \"Is this going to be a long-distance tryout,\" says I, \"with you reportin' for inspection every other Tuesday?\" He says it ain't. Miss Hampton's idea is to shelve the matrimony proposition and begin by seein' if they can qualify as friends. She shows him how they'd never really seen enough of each other to know if they had any common tastes. \"So I am to go with her to a few concerts, art exhibits, lectures, and so on,\" says he, \"while she has consented to try a week-end yachting cruise with me. We start Saturday; that is, if I can make up a little party. But I don't just know whom to ask.\" \"Pardon me if I seem to hint,\" says I, \"but what's the matter with brother-in-law Ferdie and Marjorie, with Vee and me thrown in for luck?\" \"By Jove!\" says he, brightenin' up. \"Would you? And would Miss Vee?\" \"Maybe we could stand it,\" says I. \"Done, then!\" says he. \"I'll 'phone Marjorie at once.\" And you should have watched Mr. Robert for the next few days. Talk about consistent trainin'! Why, he quits goin' to the club, cuts out his lunch-hour, and reports at the office at eight-thirty. Not for business, though: Bernard Shaw. Seems he's decided to specialize in Shaw. Honest, I finds him one noon with a whole tray of lunch gettin' cold, and him sittin' there with his brow furrowed up over one of them batty plays. \"Must be some thrillin',\" says I. \"It's clever,\" says he; \"but hanged if I know what it's all about! I must find out though--I must!\" He didn't need to state why. I could see him preparin' to swap highbrow chat with Miss Hampton.", "words": 304}, {"story": 52, "title": "Mr. Robert Gets a Slant", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Meanwhile he barely takes time to 'phone a few orders about gettin' the cruisin' yawl ready for the trip. I hear him ring up the Captain, tell him casual to hire a cook and a couple of extra hands, provision for three or four days, and be ready to sail Saturday noon. Which ain't the way he usually does it, believe me! Why, I've known him to hold up a directors' meetin' for an hour while he debated with a yacht tailor whether a mainsail should be thirty-two foot on the hoist, or thirty-one foot six. And instead of shippin' up cases of mineral water and crates of fancy fruit, he has them blamed Shaw books packed careful and expressed to Travers Island, where the boat is. We was to meet there about noon; but it's after eleven before Mr. Robert shuts his desk and sings out to me to come along. We piles into his roadster and breezes up through town and out towards the Sound. Found the whole party waitin' for us at the club-house: Vee and Marjorie and Miss Hampton, all lookin' more or less yachty. \"Hello!\" says Mr. Robert. \"Haven't gone aboard yet?\" \"Go aboard what, I'd like to know?\" speaks up Marjorie. \"Why, the _Pyxie_,\" says he. \"See, there she is anchored off--well, what the deuce! Pardon me for a moment.\" With that he steps over to a six-foot megaphone swung from the club veranda and proceeds to boom out a few remarks. \"_Pyxie_ ahoy! Hey, there! On board the _Pyxie_!\" he roars.", "words": 258}, {"story": 52, "title": "Mr. Robert Gets a Slant", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "No response from the _Pyxie_, and just as he's startin' to repeat the performance up strolls one of the float tenders and hands him a note which soon has him gaspy and pink in the ears. It's from his fool captain, explainin' how that rich uncle of his in Providence had been taken very bad again and how he had to go on at once. The message is dated last Wednesday. Course, there's nothing for Mr. Robert to do but tell the crowd just how the case stands. \"How absurd--just an uncle!\" pouts Marjorie. \"Now we can't go cruising at all, and--and I have three pairs of perfectly dear deck shoes that I wanted to wear!\" \"Really!\" says Mr. Robert. \"Then we'll go anyway; that is, if you'll all agree to ship as a Corinthian crew. What do you say?\" And he glances doubtful at Miss Hampton. \"I'm sure I don't know what that means,\" says she; \"but I am quite ready to try.\" \"Oh, let's!\" says Vee, clappin' her hands. \"I can help.\" \"And Ferdie is a splendid sailor,\" chimes in. Marjorie. \"He's crossed a dozen times.\" \"Then we're off,\" says Mr. Robert. And inside of ten minutes the club launch has landed us, bag and baggage, on the _Pyxie_. She's a roomy, comf'table sort of craft, with a kicker engine stowed under the cockpit. There's a couple of staterooms, plenty of bunks, and a good big cabin. We leaves the ladies to settle themselves below while Mr. Robert inspects things on deck. \"Plenty of gasoline, thank goodness!\" says he. \"And the water butts are full. We can touch at Greenwich for supplies. Now let's get sail on her, boys.\"", "words": 281}, {"story": 52, "title": "Mr. Robert Gets a Slant", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "And it was rich to see Ferdie, all gussied up in yellow gloves, throwin' his whole one hundred and twenty-three pounds onto a rope. Say, about all the yachtin' Ferdie and me had ever done before was to stand around and look picturesque. But this was the real thing, and it comes mighty near bein' reg'lar work, take it from me. But by the time the girls appeared we had yanked up all the sails that was handy, and the _Pyxie_ was slanted over, just scootin' through the choppy water gay and careless, like she was glad to be tied loose. \"Isn't this glorious?\" exclaims Miss Hampton, steadying herself on the high side and glancin' admirin' up at the white sails stretched tight as drumheads. I expect that should have been Mr. Robert's cue to shoot off something snappy from Bernard Shaw; but just about then he's busy cuttin' across in front of a big coastin' schooner, and all he remarks is: \"Hey, Torchy! Trim in on that main sheet. Trim in, you duffer! Pull! That's it. Now make fast.\" Nothin' fancy about Mr. Robert's yachtin' outfit. He's costumed in an old pair of wide-bottomed white ducks some splashed with paint, and with his sleeves rolled up and a faded old cap pulled down over his eyes he sure looks like business. I could see Miss Hampton glancin' at him sort of curious. But he don't have time to glance back; for we was zigzaggin' up the Sound, dodgin' steamers and motor-boats and other yachts, and he was keepin' both eyes peeled. Every now and then too something had to be done in a hurry. \"Ready about!\" he'd call. \"Now! Hard alee! Leggo that jib sheet--you, Ferdie. Slack it off. Now trim in on the other side. Flatter. Oh, haul it home!\" And I expect Ferdie and me wa'n't any too much help.", "words": 313}, {"story": 52, "title": "Mr. Robert Gets a Slant", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Why, I never knew that yachting could be so exciting,\" says Miss Hampton. \"It's really quite a game, isn't it?\" \"Especially with a green crew,\" says Mr. Robert. \"But what a splendid breeze!\" \"It'll be fresh enough by the time we open up Captain's Island,\" says he. \"Just wait!\" Sure enough, as we gets further up the Sound the harder it blows. The waves got bigger too, and begun sloppin' over the bow, up where Ferdie was managin' the jib. \"Oh, I say!\" he sings out. \"I'm getting all splashed, you know.\" \"Couldn't he have an umbrella?\" asks Marjorie. \"Please,\" puts in Vee, \"let me handle the jib sheets. I've sailed a half-rater, and I don't mind getting wet, not a bit.\" \"Then for the love of soup go forward and send Ferdie aft!\" says Mr. Robert. \"Quick now! I'm coming about again. Hard alee!\" \"How wonderful!\" says Miss Hampton as she watches Vee juggle the ropes skillful. \"I wish I could do that!\" \"Do you?\" says Mr. Robert eager. \"Perhaps you'll let me teach you how to sail. Would you like to try the wheel? Here! Now this way puts her off, and the other brings her up. See?\" \"N-n-not exactly,\" says Miss Hampton, grippin' the spokes gingerly. It wa'n't any day, though, for a steerin' lesson. Most of the time the deck was on quite a slant, which seems to amuse Miss Hampton a lot. \"How odd!\" says she. \"We're sailing almost on edge, aren't we? Isn't it glorious!\" Mr. Robert don't seem to be so enthusiastic. He keeps watching the sails and the water and rollin' the wheel constant. \"I suppose we really ought to get some of this canvas off her,\" says he. \"Ferdie, could you help tie in a reef?\" \"I--I don't know, I'm sure,\" says Ferdie. \"I think perhaps----\"", "words": 305}, {"story": 52, "title": "Mr. Robert Gets a Slant", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"This wouldn't be a thinking job,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Of course I might douse the mainsail altogether and run under jib and jigger; but--no, I guess she'll carry it. Ease off on that main sheet a trifle, Torchy.\" We was makin' a straight run for it now, slap up the Sound--and believe me we was breezin' along some swift! Vee had come back with the rest of us, her hair all sparkled up with salt spray and her eyes shinin', and shows me how to coil up the slack of the sheet like a doormat. On and on we booms, with the land miles away on either side. \"But see here!\" protests Ferdie. \"I thought we were to stop at Greenwich for provisions.\" \"Make in there against this head wind?\" says Mr. Robert. \"Not to-day.\" It's comin' in heavy puffs now, and the sky is cloudin' up some. Two or three times Mr. Robert heads the _Pyxie_ up into it and debates about takin' in the mainsail. Then he decides it would be better to square off and make for some cove he knows of on the north shore of Long Island. So we let out the sheet a bit more and go plungin' along. Must have been about four o'clock when it got to blowin' hardest. A puff would hit us and souse the bow under, with the spray flyin' clear over us. We'd heel until the water was runnin' white along the lee deck from bow to stern. Then it would let up a bit, and the yacht would straighten and sort of shake herself before another came. \"I think we'll have to slack away on our peak and spill some of this over the gaff,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Torchy, stand by that halyard, and when I give the word----\"", "words": 302}, {"story": 52, "title": "Mr. Robert Gets a Slant", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Cr-r-r-rack! It come mighty abrupt. For a minute I can't make out what has happened; but when I sees the mast stagger and go lurchin' overboard, sail and all, I thought it was a case of women and children first. \"Oh, dear! How dreadful of you, Robert!\" wails Ferdie. \"We're wrecked! Help! Help!\" \"Oh, dry up, Ferdie!\" says Mr. Robert. \"No hysterics, please. Can't we lose a mast or so without gettin' panicky? Just a weak turn-buckle on the weather stay, that's all. Here, Vee, take the wheel, will you, and see if you can keep her headed into it while we chop away this wreckage. Torchy, you'll find a couple of axes over the forward lockers. Get 'em up. Lively, now!\" We hacked away reckless, choppin' through wire stays and ropes, until we has it all clear. Then we trims in the jigger and gets away from it. Two minutes later and we've got the engine started and are wallowin' along towards land. It was near six before we made the cove and anchored in smooth water behind a little point. Meanwhile the girls had gone below to explore the galley, and when we fin'lly makes everything snug, and trails on down into the cabin to see how they're comin' on, what do we find but the table all set and Marjorie fillin' the water glasses. Also there's a welcome smell of food driftin' about. \"Well, well!\" says Mr. Robert. \"Found something to eat, did you? What's the menu?\" \"Smothered potatoes with salt pork, baked beans, hard-tack, and coffee,\" says Marjorie. \"Here it comes.\" And, say, maybe that don't sound so thrillin' to you, but to me it listens luscious. \"By Jove!\" says Mr. Robert, after he's sampled the layout. \"Who's the cook!\" Vee says it was Miss Hampton. \"Wha-a-at?\" says he, starin'. \"Not really?\"", "words": 306}, {"story": 52, "title": "Mr. Robert Gets a Slant", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Miss Hampton comes back at him with that quirky smile of hers. \"Why the intense surprise?\" says she. \"But I didn't dream,\" says Mr. Robert, \"that you ever did anything so--er----\" \"Commonplace?\" \"Early-Victorian,\" he corrects. \"Cook?\" says she. \"Oh, dear, yes! I can wash dishes, too.\" \"Can you?\" says he. \"I'm fine at wiping 'em.\" \"Such conceit!\" says she. \"Then I'll prove it,\" says he, \"right after dinner.\" \"I'll help you, Robert,\" says Marjorie. \"My dear sister,\" says he, \"please consider the size of the _Pyxie's_ galley.\" So, as there didn't seem to be any more competition, after we'd finished everything in sight we left the two of 'em joshin' away merry, doin' the dishes. Later on, while Ferdie's pokin' around, he makes a discovery. \"Oh, I say, Bob,\" he calls down, \"there's a box up here that hasn't been opened. Groceries, I think. Come have a look at it.\" Mr. Robert he takes one glance and turns away disgusted. \"No,\" says he. \"I know what's in there. No use at all on this trip.\" Then, as he passes me he whispers: \"I say, when you get a chance, chuck that box overboard, will you?\" I nods, grinnin', and explains confidential to Vee. And half an hour or so afterwards, ten perfectly good volumes of Bernard Shaw splashed overboard. Next we sends Ferdie to take a peek down the companionway and report. \"They're looking at a chart,\" says he. \"Same side of the table,\" says I, \"or opposite?\" \"Why, they're both on one side.\" \"Huh!\" says I, nudgin' Vee. \"That highbrow line might work out in time, but for a quick get-together proposition I'm backin' the dishpan.\"", "words": 277}, {"story": 53, "title": "When Ella May Came By", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Believe me, this job of bein' private sec. all day and doublin' as assistant Cupid after hours may be entertainin' and all that, but it ain't any drowsy detail. Don't leave you much time for restin' your heels high or framin' up peace programmes. Course, the fact that Vee is in with me on this affair between Mr. Robert and Miss Hampton is a help. I ain't overlookin' that. And after our mix-up yachtin' cruise, when we lost a mast and Bernard Shaw overboard the same day, it looked like we'd got everything all straightened out. Why not? Mr. Robert seems to have decided that his lady-love wa'n't such a confirmed highbrow as he'd suspected, and he was doin' the steady comp'ny act constant and enthusiastic, just the way he does everything he tackles, from yacht racin' to puttin' a crimp in an independent. In fact, he wa'n't doin' much else. \"Where's Robert?\" demands Old Hickory, marchin' out of his private office and glarin' at the closed roll-top. \"I expect he's takin' the afternoon off,\" says I, maybe grinnin' a bit. \"Huh!\" says the boss. \"The second this week! I thought that fool regatta was over.\" \"Yes, sir, it is,\" says I. \"Besides, he didn't enter.\" \"Oh!\" says Mr. Ellins. \"Then it isn't a case of a sixty-footer!\" \"The one he's tryin' to manage now is about five-foot six,\" says I. \"Eh?\" says Old Hickory, workin' his eyebrows. \"That Miss Hampton again?\" I nods. \"Torchy,\" he goes on, \"of course I've no particular right to be informed, being only his father, but--er--about how much longer should you say that affair would run before it comes to some sort of climax? In other words, how is he getting on?\" \"The last I knew,\" says I, \"he was comin' strong. Course, he made a couple of false starts there at the send-off, but now he seems to have struck his gait.\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 53, "title": "When Ella May Came By", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Really!\" says Old Hickory. \"And now, solely in the interest of the Corrugated Trust, could you go so far as to predict a date when he might reasonably be expected to resume business activities?\" I chews that over a minute, and runs my fingers thoughtful through my red thatch. \"Nope,\" says I. \"If I was any such prize guesser as that, I'd be down in Wall Street buckin' the market. Maybe after Sunday, though, I might make a report one way or the other.\" \"Ah! You scent a crisis, do you?\" says he. \"It's this way,\" says I. \"Marjorie's givin' a little week-end house party for 'em out at her place, and--well, you know how that's apt to work out at this stage of the game.\" \"You think it may end the agony?\" says he. \"There'll be a swell chance for twosin',\" says I. \"Marjorie's plannin' for that.\" \"I see,\" says Mr. Ellins. \"Undisturbed propinquity--a love charm that was old when the world was young. And if Marjorie is managing the campaign, it's all over with Robert.\" That was my dope on the subject too, after I'd seen the layout of her first skirmish. There was just half a dozen of us mobilized at this flossy suburban joint Saturday afternoon, but from the start it was plain that four of us was on hand only to keep each other out of the way of this pair. Course, Vee and I hardly needs to have the cue passed. We were satisfied to hunt up a veranda corner of our own and stick to it.", "words": 263}, {"story": 53, "title": "When Ella May Came By", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "But Brother-in-law Ferdie, with that doubleply slate roof of his, needs watchin' close. He has a nutty idea that he ought to be sociable, and he no sooner spots Mr. Robert and Miss Elsa Hampton, chattin' cozy in a garden nook, than he's prompted to kick in and explain to 'em all about the Latin names of the surroundin' vines and shrubbery. Which brings out business of distress from Marjorie. So one of us has to go shoo him away. \"Why--er--what's the matter?\" says he, blinkin' puzzled, after he's been led off. \"You was makin' a noise like a seed catalogue, that's all,\" says I. \"Chop it, can't you?\" Ferdie only stares at me through his thick window-panes and puts on an injured air. Half an hour later, though, he's at it again. \"You tell him, Torchy,\" sighs Marjorie. \"Try to make him understand.\" So I makes a strong stab. \"Look,\" says I, towin' him off on a thin excuse. \"That ain't any convention they're holdin' out there. So far as they know, it's just a happy chance. If they're let alone the meetin' may develop tender moments. Anyway, you might give 'em a show, and if they want you bad they can run up a flag. See? There's times, you know, when two is bliss, but a third is a blister. Get me?\" I expect he did, in a way. The idea filters through sort of slow, but he finally decides that, for some reason too deep for him to dig up, he ain't wanted mixin' around folksy.", "words": 259}, {"story": 53, "title": "When Ella May Came By", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "So from then on until dinnertime our couple had all the chance in the world. Looked like they was doin' noble, too; for every once in a while we could hear that ripply laugh of hers, or Mr. Robert's hearty chuckle--which should have been good signs that they was enjoyin' each other's comp'ny. We even had to send out word it was time to doll up for dinner. But an affair like that is like a feather balanced on your nose. Any boob is liable to open a door on you. In this case, all was lovely and serene until Marjorie gets this 'phone call. I hears her summonin' Vee panicky and sketchin' out the details. \"It's Ella May Buell!\" says she. \"She's down at the station.\" Seems that Miss Buell was a boardin'-school friend who was about to cash in one of them casual blanket invitations that girls give out so reckless--you know, the Do-come-and-see-me-any-time kind. And, with her livin' down in Alabama or Georgia somewhere, maybe it looked safe at the time. But now she was on her way to the White Mountains for a summer flit, and she'd just remembered Marjorie for the first time in three years. \"Goodness!\" says Marjorie, whisperin' husky across the hall. \"Someone ought to go right down to meet her. I can't, of course; and Ferdie's only begun to dress.\" \"Ask Torchy,\" suggests Vee. And, as I'm all ready except another half hitch to my white tie, I'm elected. Three minutes more and I'm whizzin' down in the limousine to receive the Southern delegate. And say, when I pipes the fairy in the half-masted skirt and the zippy Balkan bonnet, I begins bracin' myself for what I could see comin'.", "words": 288}, {"story": 53, "title": "When Ella May Came By", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "One of these pouty-lipped, rich-tinted fairies, Ella May is, wearin' a baby stare and chorus-girl ear-danglers. Does she wait to be hunted up and rescued? Not her! The minute I drops out of the machine, she trips right over and gives me the hail. \"Are you looking for me?\" says she. \"I hope you are, for I've been waiting at this wretched station for ages.\" \"If it's Miss Buell, I am,\" says I. \"Of course I'm Miss Buell,\" says she. \"Help me in. Now get my bags. They're inside, Honey.\" \"Inside what?\" I gasps. \"Why, the station,\" says she. \"And give the man a quarter for me--there's a dear.\" Talk about speed! Leave it to the Dixie girls of this special type. I used to think our Broadway matinee fluffs was about the swiftest fascinators using the goo-goo tactics. But say, when it comes right down to quick action, some of these cotton-belt belles can throw in a high gear that makes our Gwendolyns look like they was only hittin' on odd cylinders. Ella May was a sample. We was havin' our first glimpse of each other, but in less 'n forty-five seconds by the watch she'd called me honey, dearied me twice, and patted me chummy on the arm. And we hadn't driven two blocks before she had me snuggled up in the corner like we was old friends. \"Tell me, Honey,\" says she, \"what is dear old Marjorie's hubby like?\" \"Ferdie!\" says I. \"Why, he's all right when you get to know him.\" \"Oh!\" says she. \"That kind! But aren't there any other men around?\" \"Only Mr. Robert Ellins,\" says I. \"Really!\" says she, her eyes widenin'! \"Bob Ellins! That's nice. I met him once when he came to see Marjorie at boarding school. I was such an infant then, though. But now----\"", "words": 305}, {"story": 53, "title": "When Ella May Came By", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "She dives into her vanity bag and proceeds to retouch the scenic effects on her face. \"Don't waste it,\" says I. \"He's sewed up--a Miss Hampton. She's there, too.\" \"Pooh!\" pouts Miss Buell. \"Who cares? She doesn't keep him in a cage, does she?\" \"It ain't that,\" says I; \"but his eyesight for anyone else is mighty poor.\" \"Oh, is it?\" says she, sarcastic and doubtful. \"We'll see about that. But, anyway, I'm beginning to be glad I came. Can you guess why?\" \"I'm a wild guesser,\" says I. \"Shoot it.\" \"Because,\" says she, \"I think I'm going to like you rather well.\" More business of cuddlin', and a hand dropped careless on my shoulder. We were still more 'n a mile from the house, and if I was to do any blockin'-off stunt, it was high time I begun. I twists my head around and gazes at the careless hand. \"Excuse me, sister,\" says I, \"but before this goes any further I got to ask a question. Are your intentions serious?\" \"Why, the idea!\" says she. \"What on earth do you mean?\" \"I only want to be sure,\" says I, \"that you ain't tryin' to trifle with my young affections.\" She stiffens at that and goes a little gaspy. Also she grabs away the hand. \"Of all the conceit!\" says she. \"Anyone might think that--that----\" \"So they might,\" says I. \"Of course, it's sweet to be picked out this way; but it's a little sudden, ain't it? You know, I'm kind of young and----\" \"I've a great mind to box your ears!\" breaks in Ella May. \"In that case,\" says I, \"I couldn't even promise to be a brother to you.\" \"Wretch!\" says she, her eyes snappin'. \"Sorry,\" says I, \"but you'll get over it. It may be a little hard at first, but in time you'll meet another who will make you forget.\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 53, "title": "When Ella May Came By", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "That last jab had her speechless, and all she could do was run her tongue out at me. But it worked. After that she snuggled in her own corner, and when we lands at the house she's treatin' me with cold disdain, almost as if I'd been a reg'lar brother. There's no knowin', either, what report Marjorie got. Must have been something interestin', for when she finally comes down after steerin' Miss Buell to her room, she gives me the knowin' wink. Ella May gets even, though. She holds up dinner forty-five minutes while she sheds her travelin' costume for an evenin' gown. And it's some startlin' creation she springs on us about the time we're ready to bite the glass knobs off the dinin'-room doors. She's a stunner, all right, and she sails down with that baby stare turned on full voltage. You'd most thought, though, with all the hints me and Marjorie had dropped, and her seein' Mr. Robert and Miss Hampton chattin' so busy together, that she'd have hung up the net and waited until she struck better huntin' grounds. But not Ella May. Here was a perfectly good man; and as long as nobody had handcuffs on him, or hadn't guarded him with barbed wire, she was ready to take a chance. Just how she managed it I couldn't say, even if it was done right under my eyes; but when we starts in for dinner she's clingin' sort of playful to one side of Mr. Robert, chatterin' a steady stream, while Miss Hampton is left to drift along on the other, almost as if she was an \"also-ran.\"", "words": 273}, {"story": 53, "title": "When Ella May Came By", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Mr. Robert wa'n't havin' such a swell time that meal, either. About once in three or four minutes he'd get a chance to say a few words to Miss Hampton, but most of the time he was busy listenin' to Ella May. So was the rest of us, in fact. Not that she was sayin' anything important or specially interestin'. Mainly it's snappy personal anecdotes--about Ella May, or her brother Glenn, or Uncle Wash Lee, the Buell fam'ly butler. Or else she's teasin' Mr. Robert about not rememberin' her better, darin' him to look her square in the eyes, and such little tricks. Say, she was some whirlwind performer, take it from me. I discovers that everybody was \"Honey\" to her, even Ferdie. And you should have seen him tint up and glance panicky at Marjorie the first time she put it over on him. As for Miss Hampton, she appears to be enjoyin' the whole thing. She watches Miss Buell sparkle and roll her eyes, and only smiles sort of amused. For what Ella May is unlimberin' is an attack in force, as a war correspondent would put it--an assault with cavalry, heavy guns, and infantry. And, for all his society experience, Mr. Robert don't seem to know how to meet it. He acts sort of dazed and helpless, now and then glancin' appealin' across to Sister Marjorie, or around at Miss Hampton. All that evenin' the attack goes on, Ella May workin' the spell overtime, gettin' Mr. Robert to let her read his palm, pinnin' flowers in his buttonhole, and keepin' him cornered; while the rest of us sits around like cheap deadheads that had been let in on passes. And next mornin', when Mr. Robert makes a desperate stab to duck right after breakfast, only to be captured again and led into the garden, Marjorie finally gets her mad up.", "words": 313}, {"story": 53, "title": "When Ella May Came By", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Really,\" says she, \"this is too absurd! Of course, she always was an outrageous flirt. You should have seen her at boarding school--with the music professor, the principal's brother, the school doctor. Twice they threatened to send her home. But after I've told her that Robert was practically engaged to Miss Hampton--well, it must be stopped, that's all. Ferdie, can't you think of some way?\" \"Eh?\" says Ferdie. \"What? How?\" That's the sort of help he contributes to this council of war Marjorie's called on the side terrace. And all Vee will do is to chuckle. \"It's such, a joke!\" says she. \"But it isn't,\" says Marjorie. \"Do you know where Elsa Hampton is at this minute? In the library, reading a magazine--alone! And she and Robert were getting on so nicely, too. Torchy, can't you suggest something?\" \"Might slip out there with a rope and tie her to a tree while Mr. Robert makes his escape,\" says I. A snicker from Vee. \"Please!\" says Marjorie. \"This is really serious. I can't explain to Elsa. But what must she think of Robert? I've simply got to get rid of that girl somehow. She's one of the kind, you know, who would stay and stay until----\" \"Hello!\" says I, glancin' out towards the entrance-gates. \"What sort of a delegation is this?\" A tall, loppy young female in a sagged skirt and a faded pink shirtwaist is driftin' up the driveway, towin' a bow-legged three-year-old boy by one hand and luggin' a speckle-faced baby on her hip. \"Oh!\" says Marjorie. \"That scamp of a Bob Flynn's Katie again.\"", "words": 266}, {"story": 53, "title": "When Ella May Came By", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Seems Flynn had been one of Mr. Robert's chauffeurs that he'd wished onto Ferdie a year or so back on account of Flynn's bein' married and complainin' he couldn't support his fam'ly in the city. If he could get a place in the country, where the rents wa'n't so high and his old chowder-party friends wa'n't so thick, Flynn thought he might do better. He had steadied down for a while, too, until he took a sudden notion to slope and leave his interestin' fam'ly behind. \"She's coming to ask if we've heard anything of him,\" goes on Marjorie. \"I've a good notion to send her straight to Robert.\" \"Say,\" says I, havin' one of my thought-flashes, \"wait a minute. We might--do I understand that the flitting hubby's name was Robert?\" Marjorie nods. \"And will you stand for anything I can pull off that might jar Ella May's strangle-hold over there!\" \"Anything,\" says Marjorie. \"Then lend me this deserted fam'ly for a few minutes,\" says I. \"I ain't had time to sketch out the plot of the piece exactly, but if you say so I'll breeze ahead.\" It was going to be a bit raw, I'll admit; but Marjorie has insisted that it's a desperate case. So, after a short confab with Mrs. Flynn and the kids, they're turned over to me. \"I ain't sure, ma'am,\" says I, \"that young Mr. Ellins can spare the time. He's pretty busy just now. But maybe I can break in long enough to ask him, and if he's heard anything--well, you can be handy. Suppose you wait here at the garden gate. No, leave it open, that way.\" I had 'em grouped conspicuous and dramatic; and, with Mrs. Flynn's straw lid tilted on one side, and the youngster whimperin' to be let loose among the flowers, and the baby sound asleep with its mouth open, the picture was more or less pathetic.", "words": 319}, {"story": 53, "title": "When Ella May Came By", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "At the far end of the garden path was a different sort of scene. Ella May was making Mr. Robert hold one end of a daisy chain she was weavin', and she's prattlin' away kittenish when I edges up, scufflin' my feet warnin' on the gravel. She greets me with a pout. Mr. Robert hangs his head sort of sheepish, but asks hopeful: \"Well, Torchy?\" \"She--she's here again, sir,\" says I. \"Eh?\" says he, starin' puzzled. \"Who is here?\" \"S-s-s-sh!\" says I, shakin' my head mysterious. All of which don't escape Miss Buell. Her ears are up and her eyes wide open. \"What is it?\" she asks. \"If I could have a few words in private with you, Mr. Robert,\" says I, \"maybe it would be----\" \"Nonsense!\" says he. \"Out with it.\" \"Just as you like,\" says I. \"Only, she's brought the kids with her this time. She says how she wants her Robert back.\" \"Wha-a-at!\" he gasps. \"Couldn't keep her out,\" says I. \"You know how she is. There they are, at the gate.\" I don't know which was quicker to turn and look, him or Ella May. And just then Mrs. Flynn happens to be gazin' our way, pleadin' and expectant. \"Oh!\" says Mr. Robert, laughin' careless. \"Katie, eh?\" Miss Buell has jumped and is starin' at the group. Then, at that laugh of Mr. Robert's, she whirls on him. \"Brute!\" says she. \"I'm glad she's found you.\" With which she dashes towards the house and disappears, leavin' Mr. Robert gawpin' after her. \"Why,\" says he, \"you--you don't suppose she could have imagined that--that----\" \"Maybe she did,\" says I. \"My fault, I expect. I could find her, though, and explain how it was. I'll bet that inside of five minutes she'd be back here finishin' the floral wreath. Shall I?\" \"Back here?\" he echoes, kind of vague. Then he comes to.", "words": 313}, {"story": 53, "title": "When Ella May Came By", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"No, no!\" says he. \"I--I'd rather not. I want first to---- Where is Miss Hampton, Torchy?\" Well, I gives him full directions for findin' her, slips Mrs. Ryan the twenty he sends her instead of news from hubby, and then goes in, to find that Ella May is demandin' to be taken to the next train. We saw that she caught it, too, before she changed her mind. \"By George!\" Mr. Robert whispers confidential to me, as the limousine rolls off with her in it, \"if I could insure against such risks as that, I would take out a policy.\" \"You can,\" says I. \"Any justice of the peace or minister will fix you up for life.\" Does that sink in? I wouldn't wonder. Anyway, from the hasty glimpse I caught of him and Miss Hampton strollin' out in the moonlight that night, it looked that way. So I did have a bulletin for Old Hickory Monday mornin'. \"It's all over but the shoutin',\" says I.", "words": 166}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I must say it wa'n't such a swell time for Mr. Robert to be indulgin' in any complicated love affair. You know how business has been, specially our line. And our directors was about as calm as a bunch of high school girls havin' hysterics. Jumpy? Say, some of them double-chinned old plutes couldn't reach for a glass of ice water without goin' through motions like they was shakin' dice. It's this sporty market that had got on their nerves. You know, all these combine rumors--this bunk about Germany buyin' up plants wholesale, and the grand scrabble to fill all them whackin' big foreign orders, with steamer charters about as numerous as twin baby carriages along Riverside Drive. Why, say, at one time there you could have sold us ferryboats or garbage-scows, we was so hungry for anything that would carry ocean freights. And, of course, with Old Hickory Ellins at the helm, the Corrugated Trust was right in the thick of it. About twice a week some fool yarn was floated about us. We'd sold out to Krupps and was goin' to close; we'd tied up with Bethlehem; we'd underbid on a flock of submarines and was due for a receivership--oh, a choice lot of piffle! But a few of them nervous old boys, who was placid enough at annual meetin's watchin' a melon bein' cut, just couldn't stand the strain. Every time they got fed up on some new dope from the Wall Street panic peddlers, they'd come around howlin' for a safe and sane policy. I stood it until here the other mornin' when a bunch of soreheads showed up before nine o'clock and proceeds to hold an indignation meetin' in front of my desk. \"Gwan!\" says I. \"Nobody's rockin' the boat but you. Go sit on your checkbooks.\" They just glares at me. \"Where is Old Hickory?\" one of 'em wants to know.", "words": 317}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"About now,\" says I, \"Mr. Ellins would be finishin' the last of three soft-boiled eggs. He'll show up here at nine-forty-five.\" \"Mr. Robert Ellins, then?\" demands another. \"Say, I'm no puzzle editor,\" says I. \"Maybe he'll be here to-day and maybe he won't.\" \"But we couldn't find him yesterday, either,\" comes back an old goat with tufts in his ears. \"That's a way he has these days,\" says I. No use tryin' to smooth things over. It's Mr. Robert they'd been sore on all along, suspectin' him of startin' all the wild schemes just because he's young. I'd heard 'em, after they'd moved into the directors' room, insistin' that he ought to be asked to resign. And what they was beefin' specially about to-day was because of a tale that a Chicago syndicate had jumped in and bought the _Balboa_, a 10,000-ton Norwegian freighter that we was supposed to have an option on. It was the final blow. That satisfied 'em they was being sold out, and their best guess was that Mr. Robert was turnin' the trick. I was standin' by, listenin' to the general grouch develop, and wonderin' how long before they'd organize a lynchin' committee, when I hears the brass gate slam, and into the private office breezes Mr. Robert himself, lookin' fresh and chirky, his hat tilted well back, and swingin' a bamboo walkin'-stick. When he sees me, he springs a wide grin and grabs me by the shoulders. \"Torchy, you sunny-haired emblem of good luck!\" he sings out. \"What do you think! I've--got--her!\" \"Eh!\" says I. \"The _Balboa_?\" \"The _Balboa_ be hanged!\" says he. \"No, no! Elsa--Miss Hampton, you know! She's mine, Torchy; she's mine!\" \"S-s-s-sh!\" says I, noddin' towards the other room. \"Forget her a minute and brace yourself for a run-in with that gang of rag-chewers in there.\"", "words": 305}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Does he? Say, without even stoppin' to size 'em up, he prances right in amongst 'em, free and careless. \"Why, hello, Ryder!\" says he, handin' out a brisk shoulder-pat. \"Ah, Mr. Larkin! Mr. Busbee! Well, well! You too, Hyde? Hail, all of you, and the top of the morning! Gentlemen,\" he goes on, shakin' hands right and left without noticin' how reluctant some of the palms came out, \"I--er--I have a little announcement to make.\" \"Humph!\" snorts old Busbee. \"Have you?\" \"Yes,\" says Mr. Robert, smilin' mushy. \"I--er--the fact is, I am going to be married.\" \"The bonehead!\" I whispers husky. Old Lawson T. Ryder, the one with the bushy white eyebrows and the heavy dewlaps, he puffs out his cheeks and works that under jaw of his menacin'. \"Really!\" says he. \"But what about the _Balboa_? Eh?\" \"Oh!\" says Mr. Robert casual. \"The _Balboa_? Yes, yes! Didn't I tell someone to attend to that? A charter, wasn't it? Torchy, were you----\" I shakes my head. \"Perhaps it was Mr. Piddie, then,\" says he. \"Anyway, I thought I asked----\" \"Here's Piddie now, sir,\" says I. \"Looks like he'd been after something.\" He's a wreck, that's all. His derby is caved in, his black cutaway all smooched with lime or something, and one eye is tinted up lovely. In his right fist, though, he has a long yellow envelope. \"The charter!\" he gasps out dramatic. \"_Balboa!_\"", "words": 235}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "And, by piecin' out more jerky bulletins, it's clear that Piddie has pulled off the prize stunt of his whole career. He'd gone out after that charter at lunchtime the day before, been stalled off by office clerks probably subsidized by the opposition, spent the night hangin' around the water-front, and got mixed up with a dock gang; but, by bein' on hand early, he'd caught one of the shippin' firm and closed the option barely two hours before it lapsed. And as he sinks limp into a chair he glances appealin' at Mr. Robert, no doubt expectin' to be decorated on the spot. \"By George!\" says Mr. Robert. \"Good work! But you haven't heard of my great luck meantime. Listen, Piddie. I am to be married!\" I thought Piddie would croak. \"Think of that, gentlemen,\" cuts in old Busbee sarcastic. \"He is to be married!\" But it needs more 'n a little jab like that to bring Mr. Robert out of his Romeo trance. Honest, the way he carries on is amazin'. You might have thought this was the first case on record where a girl who'd said she wouldn't had changed her mind. And, so far as any other happenin's was concerned, he might have been deaf, dumb, and blind. The entire news of the world that mornin' he could boil down into one official statement: Elsa had said she'd have him! Hip, hip! Banzai! Elsa forever! He flashed that miniature of her and passed it around. He nudges Lawson T. Ryder playful in the short ribs, hammers Deacon Larkin on the back, and then groups himself, beamin' foolish, with one arm around old Busbee and the other around Mr. Hyde.", "words": 283}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Maybe you know how catchin' that sort of thing is? It's got the measles or barber's itch beat seven ways. That bunch of grouches just couldn't resist. Inside of five minutes they was grinnin' with him, and when I finally shoos 'em out they was formin' a committee to shake each other down for two hundred per towards a weddin' present. I finds it about as much use tryin' to get Mr. Robert to settle down to business as it would be teachin' a hummin'-bird to sit for his photograph. So I gives up, and asks for details of the big event. \"When does it come off?\" says I. \"Oh, right away,\" says he. \"I don't know just when; but soon--very soon.\" \"Home or church?\" says I. \"Oh, either,\" says he. \"It doesn't matter in the least.\" \"Maybe it don't,\" says I, \"but it's a point someone has to settle, you know.\" \"Yes, yes,\" says he, wavin' careless. \"I've no doubt someone will.\" He was right. Up to then I hadn't heard much about Miss Hampton's fam'ly except that she was an orphan, and I expect Mr. Robert had an idea there wa'n't any nosey relations to butt in. But it ain't three days after the engagement got noised around that a cousin of Elsa's shows up, a Mrs. Montgomery Pulsifer--a swell party with a big place in the Berkshires. Seems she'd been kind of cold and distant to Miss Hampton on account of her bein' a concert singer; but, now that Elsa has drawn down a prize like Robert Ellins, here comes Mrs. Pulsifer flutterin' to town, all smiles and greatly excited. Where was the wedding to be? And the reception? Not in this stuffy little hotel suite, she hopes! Why not at Crag Oaks, her place near Lenox? There was the dearest little ivy-covered church! And a perfectly charming rector!", "words": 312}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "Then Sister Marjorie is called in. Sure, she was strong for the frilly stuff. If Brother Robert had finally decided to be married, it must be done properly. And Mrs. Pulsifer's country house would be just the place. Only, she had an idea that their old fam'ly friend, the Bishop, ought to be asked to officiate. The perfectly charming rector might assist. \"Why, to be sure!\" says Mrs. Pulsifer. \"The Bishop, by all means.\" Anyway, it went something like that; and the first thing Mr. Robert knows, they've doped out for him a regulation three-ring splicefest with all the trimmin's, from a gold-braided carriage caller to a special train for the Newport guests. And, bein' still busy with his rosy dreams, Mr. Robert don't get wise to what's been framed up for him until here Saturday afternoon out at Marjorie's, when they start to spring the programme on him. \"Why, see here, sis,\" says he, \"you've put this three weeks off!\" \"The bridesmaids' gowns can't be finished a day sooner,\" says Marjorie. \"Besides, the invitations must be engraved; you can't get a caterer like Marselli at a moment's notice; and there is the organ to be installed, you know.\" \"Organ!\" protests Mr. Robert. \"Oh, I say!\" \"You don't expect the Lohengrin March to be played on drums, I hope,\" said Marjorie. \"Do be sensible! You've been best man times enough to know that----\" \"Great Scott, yes,\" says Mr. Robert. \"But really, sis, I don't want to go through all that dreary business--dragging in to the wedding-march, with everyone looking solemn and holding their breath while they stare at you! Why, it's deadly! Gloomy, you know; a relic of barbarism worthy of some savage tribe.\" \"Why, Robert!\" protests Marjorie.", "words": 288}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"But it is,\" he goes on. \"Haven't I pitied the poor victims who had to go through with it? Think of having to run that gauntlet--morbidly curious old women, silly girls, bored men--and trying to keep step to that confounded dirge. Wedding march, indeed! They make it sound more like the march of the condemned. _Tum-tum-te-dum!_ Ugh! I tell you, Marjorie, I'm not going to have it. Nor any of this stodgy, grewsome fuss. I mean to have a cheerful wedding.\" \"Humph!\" says Marjorie. \"I suppose you would like to hop-skip-and-jump down to the altar?\" \"Why not?\" asks Mr. Robert. \"Don't be absurd, Robert,\" says she. \"You'll be married quite respectably and sanely, as other people are. Anyway, you'll just have to. Mrs. Pulsifer and I are managing the affair, remember.\" \"Are you?\" says Mr. Robert, lettin' out the first growl I'd heard from him in over a week. I nudges Vee and we exchanges grins. \"The groom always takes on that way,\" she whispers. \"It's the usual thing.\" I was sorry for the Boss, too. He'd been havin' such a good time before. But now he goes off with his chin down and his brow all wrinkled up. Course we knew he'd go straight to Elsa and tell her his troubles. But I couldn't see where that was goin' to do him any good. You know how women are about such things. They may be willin' to take a chance along some lines, but when it comes to weddin's and funerals they're stand-patters. So Sunday afternoon, when I gets a 'phone call from Mr. Robert askin' me to meet him at Miss Hampton's apartment, and he adds that he's decided to duck the whole Crag Oaks proposition and do it his own way, I demands suspicious: \"But how about Miss Elsa?\" \"She feels just as I do about it,\" says he. \"Come up. She will tell you so herself.\"", "words": 320}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "And she does. \"I think it's the silly veil to which I object most,\" says she. \"As if anyone ever did see a blushing bride! Why, the ordeal has them half scared to death, poor things! And no wonder. Yes, I quite agree with Robert. Weddings should be actually happy affairs--not stiff, gloomy ceremonies cumbered with outworn conventions. I've seen women weep at weddings. If I should catch one doing that at mine, I should be tempted to box her ears. Really! So we have decided that our wedding must be a merry one. That is why, Torchy, we have sent for you.\" \"Eh?\" says I, gawpin'. \"You are to be best man,\" says Mr. Robert, clappin' me on the back. \"Me?\" I gasps. \"Ah, say!\" \"Your Miss Verona,\" adds Elsa, \"is to be my only bridesmaid.\" \"Well, that helps,\" says I. \"But how--where----\" \"It doesn't matter,\" says Mr. Robert. \"Anywhere in the State--or I can get a Connecticut or New Jersey license. It shall be wherever you decide.\" \"Wha-a-at?\" says I. Mr. Robert chuckles. \"As best man,\" he goes on, \"we appoint you general manager of the whole affair; don't we, Elsa?\" She nods, smilin'. \"With full powers,\" says she. \"We'll motor out somewhere,\" adds Mr. Robert. \"You and Miss Vee take the limousine; we will go in the roadster. If Marjorie and Ferdie wish to come along, they can join us in their car.\" \"How about a dominie?\" says I. \"Do I pick up one casual along the road?\" \"Oh, I forgot the Reverend Percy,\" says Mr. Robert. \"He's consented to quit that East Side settlement work of his for a day. You'll have to take him along. Now, how soon may we start? To-morrow morning, say?\" \"Hel-lup!\" says I. \"I'm gettin' dizzy.\" \"Then Tuesday,\" says he, \"at nine-thirty sharp.\" \"But say, Mr. Robert,\" says I, \"just what----\"", "words": 310}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Only make it as merry as you know how,\" he breaks in. \"That's the main idea; isn't it, Elsa?\" Another nod from Elsa. \"Robert has great faith in you as a promoter of cheerful affairs,\" says she. \"I think I have, too.\" \"That being the case,\" says I, \"I got to live up to my rep. or strip a gear. So here goes.\" With which I breezes out and pikes uptown to consult Vee. \"Did you ever hear anything so batty?\" says I. \"Why, I think it's perfectly splendid fun,\" says Vee. \"Just think, Torchy, you can do anything you choose!\" \"It's the choosin' that's goin' to bother me,\" says I. \"I'm no matrimonial stage manager. I don't even know where to pull the thing off.\" \"I've thought of just the place,\" says she. \"Harbor Hill, the Vernon Markleys' place out on Long Island. They're in the mountains now, you know, and the house is closed; but----\" \"You ain't thinkin' of borrowin' their garage for this, are you?\" says I. \"Silly!\" says she. \"Mrs. Markley's open-air Greek theater! You must have seen pictures of it. It's a dream--white cement pergolas covered with woodbine and pink ramblers, and a wonderful stretch of lawn in front. It would be an ideal setting. She's a great friend of Aunty's. We'll just wire for her permission; shall we?\" \"Listens good,\" says I. \"But we got to get busy. Tuesday, you know. What about eats, though?\" \"There's a country club only half a mile away,\" says she. \"You're some grand little planner,\" says I. \"Now let me go plot out how to put the tra-la-la business into the proceedin's.\"", "words": 274}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I had a hunch that part would come easy, too; but after a couple of hours' steady thinkin' I decided that as a joy producer I'd been overrated. The best I could dig out was to hunt up some music, and by Monday noon that was my total contribution. I'd hired a band. It's some band, though--one of these fifteen-piece dance-hall combinations that had just closed a Coney Island engagement and was guaranteed to tear off this affair in zippy style. I left word what station they was to get off at, and 'phoned for a couple of jitneys to meet 'em. For the rest, I was bankin' on my luck. And right on schedule we makes a nine-thirty getaway--three machines in all; for, while Marjorie had thrown seventeen cat fits when she first heard that Brother Robert had renigged, she shows up with Ferdie at the last minute. Catch her missin' out on any kind of a weddin'! \"But just where, Robert,\" she demands, \"is this absurd affair to take place?\" \"Haven't the least idea,\" says he. \"Ask Torchy.\" So I names the spot, gives the chauffeurs their route directions, and off we booms across the College Point ferry and out towards the far end of the north shore. The Reverend Percy turns out to be kind of a solemn, serious-minded gink. Seems he'd been in college with Mr. Robert, had rooms just across the hall, and accordin' to his tell them must have been lively days. \"Although I can't say,\" he adds, \"that at all times I enjoyed being pulled out of bed at 2 A.M. to act as judge of an ethical debate between a fuddled cab-driver and a star halfback who had been celebrating a football victory. I fear I considered Bob's sense of humor somewhat overdeveloped. Just like him, running off like this. I trust the affair is not going to be made too unconventional.\"", "words": 320}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "I winks at Vee. \"Only an open-air performance,\" says I, \"with maybe a little cheerin' music to liven things up. His instructions are to have it merry.\" \"Ah, yes!\" says the Reverend Percy. \"Quite so. I understand.\" If he did he was a better guesser than me. For I was more or less at sea. We hadn't more than whirled in through the stone gate-posts of Harbor Hill, too, than I begun to scent complications. For there, lined up in front of the house, are four other machines, with a whole mob of people around 'em. \"Why!\" says Vee. \"Who can they be?\" \"Looks like someone had beaten us to it,\" says I. \"I'll go do some scoutin'.\" Course, one close-up look is all that's needed. It's a movie outfit. I'm just gettin' hot under the collar, too, when I discovers that the gent in charge is none other than my old newspaper friend, Whitey Weeks. I'd heard how he'd gone into the film game as stage director, but I hadn't seen him at it yet. And here he is, big as life, wearin' a suit of noisy plaids as usual, and bossin' this assorted bunch of screen favorites like he'd done it all his life. \"A little lively with those grease-paints now, ladies,\" he's callin' out. \"This isn't for a next spring release, you know.\" \"Huh!\" says I, strollin' up. \"Got the same old nerve with you, eh, Whitey?\" \"Well, well!\" says he. \"The illustrious and illuminating Torchy! Don't tell me you've just bought the estate?\" \"Would it matter to you who owned it,\" says I, \"if you wanted to use it bad?\" \"Such cruel suspicions!\" says he. \"Sir, my permit!\" He's got it, straight enough--a note to the lodge-keeper, signed by Mrs. Vernon Markley, and statin' that the Unexcelled Film Company was to have the courtesy of the grounds any afternoon between the 15th and 25th.", "words": 318}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"You see,\" explains Whitey, \"we're staging an old English costume piece, and this Greek theater of Mrs. Markley's just fits in. Our president worked the deal for us. And we've got to do a thousand feet between now and five o'clock. Not in the same line, are you?\" And he glances towards our crowd, that's pilin' out of the cars and gazin' puzzled towards us. \"Do we look it?\" says I. \"No, what we was plannin' to pull off here was a weddin'. That's the groom there--my boss, Mr. Robert Ellins.\" \"Bob Ellins!\" says Whitey. \"Whe-e-ew!\" \"Mrs. Markley must have forgot,\" says I. \"Makes it kind of awkward for us, though.\" \"But see here,\" says Whitey. \"A real wedding, you say? Why, that's odd! That's our stunt, with merry villagers and all that stuff. Now, say, why couldn't we---- Let's see! Do you suppose Mr. Ellins would mind if----\" I got the idea in a flash. \"He won't mind anything,\" says I, \"so long as he can be married merry. He's leavin' that to me--the whole act.\" \"By Jove!\" says Whitey. \"The very thing, then. We'll---- But who else is this arriving? Look, coming in, two motor-buses full!\" \"That's our band,\" says I. \"Great!\" says Whitey. \"Rovelli's, too! Say, this is going to be a bit of all right! Have him form 'em on between those cedars, out of range. Now we'll just get your folks into costume, let our company trail along as part of the wedding procession, and shoot the dear public the real thing, for once. What do you say?\" Course, considerin' how Mr. Robert had shied at a hundred or so spectators, this lettin' him in on a film exchange circuit might seem a little raw; but it was too good a chance to miss. Another minute, and I'm strollin' over, lookin' bland and innocent.", "words": 309}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "\"Any hitch?\" says Mr. Robert. \"Have we got to the wrong place?\" \"Not much,\" says I. \"This is the right place at the right time. Didn't you tell me to go as far as I liked, so long as I made it merry?\" \"So I did, Torchy,\" he admits. \"Then prepare to cut loose,\" says I. \"This way, everybody, and get on your weddin' clothes!\" For a second or so Mr. Robert hangs back. He glances doubtful at Miss Hampton. But say, she's a good sport, she is. \"Come along, Robert,\" says she. \"I'm sure Torchy has planned something unique.\" I didn't dispute her. It was all of that. First we groups the ladies on the south veranda behind a lot of screens, and herds the men around the corner. Then we unpacks them suitcases of Whitey's and distributes the things. Such regalias, too! What Mr. Robert draws is mostly two colored tights, spangled trunks, a gorgeous cape, peak-toed shoes of red leather, and a sword. Maybe he didn't look some spiffy in it! You should have seen Ferdie, though, with a tow-colored wig clapped down over his ears and his spindle shanks revealed to a cold and cruel world in a pair of faded pink ballet trousers. For the Reverend Percy they dug out a fuzzy brown bathrobe with a hood, and tied a rope around his waist. Me, I'm dolled up in green tights and a leather coat, and get a bugle to carry.", "words": 246}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "How frisky a few freak clothes make you feel, don't they? Mr. Robert begins cuttin' up at once, and even Ferdie shows signs of wantin' to indulge in frivolous motions, if he only knew how. The reg'lar movie people gets the idea this is goin' to be some kind of a lark, and they joins in, too. When the ladies appeared they sure looked stunnin'. Miss Hampton has on a fancy flarin' collar two feet high, and a skirt like a balloon; but she's a star in it just the same. Sister Marjorie, who's a bit husky anyway, looks like a human hay-stack in that rig. And Vee--well, say, she'd be a winner in any date costume you could name. Meanwhile Whitey has posted his camera men in the shrubbery, where they can get the focus without bein' seen, and has rounded us up for a little preliminary coachin'. \"Remember,\" says he, \"what we're supposed to be doing is a wedding, back in the days of Robin Hood, with all the merry villagers given a day off. So make it snappy. We want action, lots of it. Let yourselves go. Laugh, kick up your heels, let out the hi-yi-yips! Now, then! Are you ready?\" \"Wait until I start the band,\" says I. \"Hey, there, Mr. Rovelli! Music cue! Something zippy and raggy. Shoot it!\" Say, I don't know how them early English parties used to put it over when they got together for a mad, gladsome romp on the greensward, but if they had anything on us they must have been double-jointed. For, with Mr. Robert and Miss Hampton skippin' along hand in hand, Vee and me keepin' step behind, a couple of movie ladies rushin' the Reverend Percy over the grass rapid, and the other couples with arms linked, doin' fancy steps to a jingly fox-trot--well, take it from me, it was gay doin's.", "words": 315}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "And when we'd galloped around over the lawn until we'd bunched for the weddin' picture in front of this Greek theater effect, the Reverend Percy had barely breath enough left to go through his lines. He does, though, with Mr. Robert addin' joshin' remarks; and we winds up by givin' the bride and groom three rousin' cheers and peltin' 'em with roses as they makes a run through the double line we forms. Yep, that was some weddin', if I do say it. And the sit-down luncheon I'd ordered at the Country Club in Mr. Robert's name wa'n't any skimpy affair, even though we did spring an extra number on 'em offhand. For the boss insists on goin' just as we are, in our costumes, and luggin' along all the movie people. The reckless way he buys fizz for 'em, too! And, by the time the party breaks up, Whitey Weeks is so full of gratitude and enthusiasm and other things that he near bubbles over. \"Torchy,\" says he, wringin' my hand fraternal, \"you have given my company the time of their lives. They're all strong for you. And, say, I've got a thousand feet of film that's simply going to knock 'em cold at the first-run houses. Any time I can----\" \"Don't mention it,\" says I. \"Specially about that film. The boss don't know yet that you had the camera goin'. Thought it was only rehearsin', I guess. All he's sure of now is that he's been married merry. And if he ever forgets just how merry, for a dime he can go take a look and refresh his mem'ry, can't he? But I'm bettin' he never forgets.\" ----------------------------------------------------------------------- JOHN FOX, JR'S. STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.", "words": 312}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "The \"lonesome pine\" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pine lured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the _foot-prints of a girl_. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder chase than \"the trail of the lonesome pine.\" THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as \"Kingdom Come.\" It is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization. \"Chad,\" the \"little shepherd\" did not know who he was nor whence he came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the mountains. A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened \"The Blight.\" Two impetuous young Southerners' fall under the spell of \"The Blight's\" charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the mountaineers. Included in this volume is \"Hell fer-Sartain\" and other stories, some of Mr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives. Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26TH ST., NEW YORK ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ZANE GREY'S NOVELS May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list", "words": 318}, {"story": 54, "title": "Some Hoop-la for the Boss", "volume": "Torchy, Private Sec. (Sewell Ford, 1917)", "text": "THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS Colored frontispiece by W. Herbert Dunton. Most of the action of this story takes place near the turbulent Mexican border of the present day. A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. Her loyal cowboys defend her property from bandits, and her superintendent rescues her when she is captured by them. A surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close. DESERT GOLD Illustrated by Douglas Duer. Another fascinating story of the Mexican border. Two men, lost in the desert, discover gold when, overcome by weakness, they can go no farther. The rest of the story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding of the gold which the two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story's heroine. RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE Illustrated by Douglas Duer. A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon authority ruled. In the persecution of Jane Withersteen, a rich ranch owner, we are permitted to see the methods employed by the invisible hand of the Mormon Church to break her will. THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN Illustrated with photograph reproductions. This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert and of a hunt in \"that wonderful country of yellow crags, deep canons and giant pines.\" It is a fascinating story. THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT Jacket in color. Frontispiece. This big human drama is played in the Painted Desert. A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young New Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second wife of one of the Mormons---- Well, that's the problem of this sensational, big selling story. BETTY ZANE Illustrated by Louis F. Grant.", "words": 316}]