The Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of Torchy, by Sewell Ford This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The House of Torchy Author: Sewell Ford Illustrator: Arthur William Brown Release Date: June 21, 2007 [EBook #21882] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF TORCHY *** Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net "'Don't!' says Vee. 'You'll spill the coffee.'" THE HOUSE OF TORCHY BY SEWELL FORD AUTHOR OF TORCHY, TRYING OUT TORCHY, SHORTY MCCABE, Etc. ILLUSTRATIONS BY ARTHUR WILLIAM BROWN GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK Copyright, 1917, 1918, by SEWELL FORD Copyright 1918, by EDWARD J. CLODE PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Contents CHAPTER PAGE I TORCHY AND VEE ON THE WAY 1 II VEE WITH VARIATIONS 12 III A QUALIFYING TURN FOR TORCHY 25 IV SWITCHING ARTS ON LEON 44 V A RECRUIT FOR THE EIGHT-THREE 60 VI TORCHY IN THE GAZINKUS CLASS 79 VII BACK WITH CLARA BELLE 96 VIII WHEN TORCHY GOT THE CALL 114 IX A CARRY-ON FOR CLARA 134 X ALL THE WAY WITH ANNA 152 XI AT THE TURN WITH WILFRED 172 XII VEE GOES OVER THE TOP 193 XIII LATE RETURNS ON RUPERT 214 XIV FORSYTHE AT THE FINISH 232 XV THE HOUSE OF TORCHY 250 XVI TORCHY GETS THE THUMB GRIP 272 XVII A LOW TACKLE BY TORCHY 288 XVIII TAG DAY AT TORCHY'S 307 THE HOUSE OF TORCHY CHAPTER I TORCHY AND VEE ON THE WAY Say, I thought I'd taken a sportin' chance now and then before; but I was only kiddin' myself. Believe me, this gettin' married act is the big plunge. Uh-huh! Specially when it's done offhand and casual, the way we went at it. My first jolt is handed me early in the mornin' as we piles off the mountain express at this little flag stop up in Vermont, and a roly-poly gent in a horse-blanket ulster and a coonskin cap with a badge on it steps up and greets me cheerful. "Ottasumpsit Inn?" says he. "Why, I expect so," says I, "if that's the way you call it. Otto—Otta—Yep, that listens something like it." You see, Mr. Robert had said it only once, when he handed me the tickets, and I hadn't paid much attention. "Aye gorry!" says the chirky gent, gatherin' up our hand luggage. "Guess you're the ones we're lookin' for. Got yer trunk- checks handy?" With that I starts fishin' through my pockets panicky. I finds a railroad folder, our marriage certificate, the keys to the studio apartment I'd hired, the box the ring came in, and—— "Gosh!" says I, sighin' relieved. "Sure I got it." The driver grins good-natured and stows us into a two-seated sleigh, and off we're whirled, bells jinglin', for half a mile or so through the stinging mornin' air. Next thing I know, I'm bein' towed up to a desk and a hotel register is shoved at me. 1 2 Just like an old-timer, I dashes off my name—Richard T. Ballard. The mild-eyed gent with the close-cropped Vandyke and the gold-rimmed glasses glances over at Vee. "Ah—er—I thought Mrs. Ballard was with you!" says he. "That's so; she is," says I, grabbin' the pen again and tackin' "Mr. and Mrs." in front of my autograph. That's why, while we're fixin' up a bit before goin' down to breakfast, I has this little confidential confab with Vee. "It's no use, Vee," says I. "I'm a rank amateur. We might just as well have rice and confetti all over us. I've made two breaks already, and I'm liable to make more. We can't bluff 'em." "Who wants to?" says Vee. "I'm not ashamed of being on my honeymoon; are you?" "Good girl!" says I. "You bet I ain't. I thought the usual line, though, was to pretend you'd——" "I know," says Vee. "And I always thought that was perfectly silly. Besides, I don't believe we could fool anyone if we tried. It's much simpler not to bother. Let them guess." "And grin too, eh?" says I. "We'll grin back." Say, that's the happy hunch. Leaves you with nothing to worry about. All you got to do is go ahead and enjoy yourself, free and frolicsome. So when this imposin' head waitress with the forty-eight bust and the grand duchess air bears down on us majestic, and inquires dignified, "Two, sir?" I don't let it stagger me. "Two'll be enough," says I. "But whisper. Seein' as we're only startin' in on the twosome breakfast game, maybe you could find something nice and cheerful by a window. Eh?" It's some breakfast. M-m-m-m! Cute little country sausages, buckwheat cakes that would melt in your mouth, with strained honey to go on 'em. "Have a fourth buckwheat," says I. "No fair, keeping count!" says Vee. "I looked the other way when you took your fifth." Honest, I can't see where we acted much different than we did before. Somehow, we always could find things to giggle over. We sure had a good time takin' our first after-breakfast stroll together down Main Street, Vee in her silver-fox furs and me in my new mink-lined overcoat that Mr. Robert had wished on me casual just before we left. "Cunnin' little town, eh?" says I. "Looks like a birthday cake." "Or a Christmas card," says Vee. "Look at this old door with the brass knocker and the green fan-light above. Isn't that Colonial, though?" "It's an old-timer, all right," says I. "Hello! Here's a place worth rememberin'—the Woman's Exchange. Now I'll know where to go in case I should want to swap you off." For which crack I gets shoved into a snowdrift. It ain't until afternoon that I'm struck with the fact that neither of us knows a soul up here. Course, the landlord nods pleasant to me, and I'd talked to the young room clerk a bit, and the bell-hops had all smiled friendly, specially them I'd fed quarters to. But by then I was feelin' sort of folksy, so I begun takin' notice of the other guests and plannin' who I should get chummy with first. I drifts over by the fireplace, where two substantial old boys are toastin' their toes and smokin' their cigars. "Snappy brand of weather they pass out up here, eh?" I throws off, pullin' up a rocker. They turn, sort of surprised, and give me the once-over deliberate, after which one of them, a gent with juttin' eyebrows, clears his throat and remarks, "Quite bracing, indeed." Then he hitches around until I'm well out of view, and says to the other: "As I was observing, an immediate readjustment of international trade balances is inevitable. European bankers are preparing for it. We are not. Only last month one of the Barings cabled——" I'll admit my next stab at bein' sociable was kind of feeble. In front of the desk is a group of three gents, one of 'em not over fifty or so; but when I edges up close enough to hear what the debate is about, I finds it has something to do with a scheme for revivin' Italian opera in Boston, and I backs off so sudden I almost bumps into a hook-beaked old dame who is waddlin' up to the letter-box. "Sorry," says I. "I should have honked." She just glares at me, and if I hadn't side-stepped prompt she might have sunk that parrot bill into my shoulder. After that I sidles into a corner where I couldn't be hit from behind, and tries to dope out the cause of all this hostility. Did they take me for a German spy or what? Or was this really an old folks' home masqueradin' as a hotel, with Vee and me breakin' in under false pretenses? 3 4 5 6 So far as I could see, the inmates was friendly enough with each other. The old girls sat around in the office and parlors, chattin' over their knittin' and crochet. The old boys paired off mostly, though some of them only read or played solitaire. A few people went out wrapped up in expensive furs and was loaded into sleighs. The others waved good-by to 'em. But I might have been built out of window-glass. They didn't act as though I was visible. "Huh!" thinks I. "I'll bet they take notice of Vee when she comes down." If I'd put anything up on that proposition I'd owed myself money. They couldn't see her any more'n they could me. When we went out for another walk nobody even looked after us. I didn't say anything then, but I kept thinkin'. And all that evenin' we sat around amongst 'em without bein' disturbed. About eight o'clock an orchestra shows up and cuts loose with music in the ball-room, mostly classic stuff like the "Spring Song" and handfuls plucked from "Aïda. " We slips in and listens. Then the leader gets his eye on us and turns on a fox-trot. "Looks like they was waitin' for us to start something," says I. "Let's." We'd gone around three or four times when Vee balks. About twenty-five old ladies, with a sprinklin' of white-whiskered old codgers, had filed in and was watchin' us solemn and critical from the side-lines. Some was squintin' disapprovin' through their lorgnettes, and I noticed a few whisperin' to each other. Vee quits right in the middle of a reverse. "Do they think we are giving an exhibition?" she pouts. "Maybe we're breakin' some of the rules and by-laws," says I. "Anyway, I think we ought to beat it before they call in the high sheriff." Next day it was just the same. We was out part of the time, indulgin' in walks and sleigh rides; but nobody seemed to see us, goin' or comin'. And I begun to get good and sore. "Nice place, this," says I to Vee, as we trails in to dinner that evenin'. "Almost as sociable as the Grand Central station." Vee tries to explain that it's always like this in these exclusive little all-the-year-round joints where about the same crowd of people come every season. "Then you have to be born in the house to be a reg'lar person, I suppose?" says I. Well, it's about then I notices this classy young couple who are makin' their way across the dinin'-room, bein' hailed right and left. And next thing I know, the young lady gets her eye on Vee, stops to take another look, then rushes over and gives her the fond clinch from behind. "Why you dear old Verona!" says she. "Judith!" gasps Vee, kind of smothery. "Whatever are you doing up——" And then Judith gets wise to me sittin' opposite. "Oh!" says she. Vee blushes and exhibits her left hand. "It only happened the other night," says she. "This is Mr. Ballard, Judith. And you?" "Oh, ages ago—last spring," says Judith. "Bert, come here." It's a case of old boardin'-school friends who'd lost track of each other. Quite a stunner, young Mrs. Nixon is, too, and Bert is a good match for her. The two girls hold quite a reunion, with us men standin' around lookin' foolish. "We're living in Springfield, you know," goes on Judith, "where Bert is helping to build another munition plant. Just ran up to spend the week-end with Auntie. You've met her, of course?" "We—we haven't met anyone," says Vee. "Why, how funny!" exclaims Mrs. Nixon. "Please come over right now." "My dear," says Auntie, pattin' Vee chummy on the hand, "we have all been wondering who you two young people were. I knew you must be nice, but—er—— Come, won't you join us at this table? We'll make just a splendid little family party. Now do!" Oh, yes, we did. And after dinner I'll be hanged if we ain't introduced to almost everybody in the hotel. It's a reg'lar reception, with folks standin' in line to shake hands with us. The old boy with the eye awnin's turns out to be an ex- Secretary of the Treasury; an antique with a patent ear-'phone has been justice of some State Supreme Court; and so on. Oh, lots of class to 'em. But after I'd been vouched for by someone they knew they all gives me the hearty grip, offers me cigars, and hopes I'm enjoyin' my stay. "And so you are a niece of dear Mrs. Hemmingway?" says old Parrot-Face, when her turn comes. "Think of that! And this is your husband!" And then she says how nice it is that some other young people will be up in the mornin'. That evenin' Judith gets busy plannin' things to do next day. "You haven't tried the toboggan chute?" says she. "Why, how absurd!" Yep, it was a big day, Saturday was. Half a dozen more young folks drifted in, includin' a couple of Harvard men that Vee 7 8 9 10 knew, a girl she'd met abroad, and another she'd seen at a house-party. They was all live wires, too, ready for any sort of fun. And we had all kinds. Maybe we didn't keep that toboggan slide warm. Say, it's some sport, ain't it? Anyway, our honeymoon was turnin' out a great success. The Nixons concluded to stay over a few days, and three or four of the others found they could too, so we just went on whooping things up. Next I knew we'd been there a week, and was due to make a jump to Washington for a few days of sight-seein'. "I'm afraid that will not be half as nice as this has been," says Vee. "It couldn't," says I. "It's the reg'lar thing to do, though." "I hate doing the regular thing," says Vee. "Besides, I'm dying to see our little studio apartment and get settled in it. Why not —well, just go home? " "Vee," says I, "you got more good sense than I have red hair. Let's!" CHAPTER II VEE WITH VARIATIONS "But—but look here, Vee," says I, after I'd got my breath back, "you can't do a thing like that, you know." "But I have, Torchy," says she; "and, what is more, I mean to keep on doing it." She don't say it messy, understand—just states it quiet and pleasant. And there we are, hardly at the end of our first month, with the rocks loomin' ahead. Say, where did I collect all this bunk about gettin' married, anyway? I had an idea that after the honeymoon was over, you just settled down and lived happy, or otherwise, ever after. But, believe me, there's nothing to it. It ain't all over, not by a long shot. As a matter of fact, you've just begun to live, and you got to learn how. Here I am, discoverin' a new Vee every day or so, and almost dizzy tryin' to get acquainted with all of 'em. Do I show up that way to her? I doubt it. Now and then, though, I catch her watchin' me sort of puzzled. So there's nothing steady goin' or settled about us yet, thanks be. Home ain't a place to yawn in. Not ours. We don't get all our excitement out of changin' the furniture round, either. Oh, sure, we do that, too. You know, we're startin' in with a ready-made home—a studio apartment that Mr. Robert picked up for me at a bargain, all furnished. He was a near-artist, if you remember, this Waddy Crane party, who'd had a bale of coupon-bearin' certificates willed to him, and what was a van-load of furniture more or less to him? Course, I'm no judge of such junk, but Vee seems to think we've got something swell. "Just look at this noble old davenport, will you!" says she. "Isn't it a beauty? And that highboy! Real old San Domingo mahogany that is, with perfectly lovely crotch veneer in the panels. See?" "Uh-huh," says I. "And this four-poster with the pineapple tops and the canopy," she goes on. "Pure Colonial, a hundred years old." "Eh?" says I, gazin' at it doubtful. "Course, I was lookin' for second-hand stuff, but I don't think he ought to work off anything that ancient on me, do you?" "Silly!" says Vee. "It's a gem, and the older the better." "We'll need some new rugs, won't we," says I, "in place of some of these faded things?" "Faded!" says Vee. "Why, those are Bokharas. I will say for Mr. Crane that he has good taste. This is furnished so much better than most studios—nothing useless, no mixing of periods." "Oh, when I go out after a home," says I, "I'm some grand little shopper." "Pooh!" says Vee. "Who couldn't do it the way you did? Why, the place looks as if he'd just taken his hat and walked out. There are even cigars in the humidor. And his easel and paints and brushes! Do you know what I'm going to do, Torchy?" "Put pink and green stripes around the cigars, I expect," says I. "Smarty!" says she. "I'm going to paint pictures." "Why not?" says I. "There's no law against it, and here you got all the tools." "You know I used to try it a little," says she. "I took quite a lot of lessons." 11 12 13 14 15 "Then go to it," says I. "I'll get a yearly rate from a pressing club to keep the spots off me. I'll bet you could do swell pictures." "I know!" says Vee, clappin' her hands. "I'll begin with a portrait of you. Let me try sketching in your head now." That's the way Vee generally goes at things—with a rush. Say, she had me sittin' with my chin up and my arms draped in one position until I had a neck-ache that ran clear to my heels. "Hal-lup!" says I, when both feet was sound asleep and my spine felt ossified. "Couldn't I put on a sub while I drew a long breath?" At that she lets me off, and after a fifth-innin' stretch I'm called round to pass on the result. "Hm-m-m!" says I, starin' at what she's done to a perfectly good piece of stretched canvas. "Well, what does it look like?" demands Vee. "Why," says I, "I should call it sort of a cross between the Kaiser and Billy Sunday." "Torchy!" says Vee. "I—I think you're just horrid!" For a whole week she sticks to it industrious, jottin' down studies of various parts of my map while I'm eatin' breakfast, and workin' over 'em until I come back from the office in the afternoon. Did I throw out any more comic cracks? Never a one —not even when the picture showed that my eyes toed in. All I did was pat her on the back and say she was a wonder. But say, I got so I dreaded to look at the thing. "You know your hair isn't really red," says Vee; "it—it's such an odd shade." "Sort of triple pink, eh?" says I. She squeezes out some more paints, stirs 'em vigorous, and makes another stab. This time she gets a bilious lavender with streaks of fire-box red in it. "Bother!" says she, chuckin' away the brushes. "What's the use pretending I'm an artist when I'm not? Look at that hideous mess! It's too awful for words. Take away that fire-screen, will you, Torchy?" And, with the help of a few matches and a sportin' extra, we made quite a cheerful little blaze in the coal grate. "There!" says Vee, as we watches the bonfire. "So that's over. And it's rather a relief to find out that I haven't got to be a lady artist, after all. What is more, I am positive I couldn't write a book. I'm afraid, Torchy, that I am a most every-day sort of person." "Maybe," says I, "you're one of the scarce ones that believes in home and hubby. " "We-e-e-ell," says Vee, lockin' her fingers and restin' her chin on 'em thoughtful, "not precisely that type, either. My mind may not be particularly advanced, but the modified harem existence for women doesn't appeal to me. And I must confess that, with kitchenette breakfasts, dinners out, and one maid, I can't get wildly excited over a wholly domestic career. Torchy, I simply must have something to do." Me, I just sits there gawpin' at her. "Why," says I, "I thought that when a girl got married she—she—— " "I know," says she. "You think you thought. So did I. But you really didn't think about it at all, and I'm only beginning to. Of course, you have your work. I suppose it's interesting, too. Isn't it?" "It's a great game," says I. "Specially these days, when doin' any kind of business is about as substantial as jugglin' six china plates while you're balanced on top of two chairs and a kitchen table. Honest, we got deals enough in the air to make you dizzy followin' 'em. If they all go through we'll stand to cut a melon that would pay off the national debt. If they should all go wrong—well, it would be some smash, believe me." Vee's gray eyes light up sudden. "Why couldn't you tell me all about some of these deals," she says, "so that I could be in it too? Why couldn't I help?" "Maybe you could," says I, "if you understood all the fine points." "Couldn't I learn?" demands Vee. "Well," says I, "I've been right in the thick of it for quite some years. If you could pick up in a week or so what it's taken me years to——" "I see," cuts in Vee. "I suppose you're right, too. But I'm sure that I should like to be in business. It must be fascinating, all that planning and scheming. It must make life so interesting." I nods. "It does," says I. "Then why shouldn't I try something of the kind, all my very own?" she asks. "Oh, in a small way, at first?" More gasps from me. This was gettin' serious. 15 16 17 18 "You don't mean margin dabblin' at one of them parlor bucket-shops, do you?" I demands. "No fear," says Vee. "I think gambling is just plain stupid. I mean some sort of legitimate business—buying and selling things." "Oh!" says I. "Like real estate, or imported hats, or somebody's home-made candy? Or maybe you mean startin' one of them Blue Goose novelty shops down in Greenwich Village. I'll tell you. Why not manufacture left-handed collar buttons for the south-paw trade? There's a field. " Vee don't say any more. In fact, three or four days goes by without her mentionin' anything about havin' nothing to do, and I'd 'most forgot this batty talk of ours. And then, one afternoon when I comes home after a busy day at doin' nothing much and tryin' to look important over it, she greets me with a flyin' tackle and drags me over to a big wingchair by the window. "What do you think, Torchy?" says she. "I've found something!" "That trunk key you've been lookin' for?" says I. "No," says she. "A business opening." "A slot-machine to sell fudge?" says I. "You'd never guess," says she. "Then shoot it," says I. "I'm going to open a shoe-shinery," she announces. "Wha-a-a-at!" says I. "Only I'm not going to call it that," she goes on. "It isn't to be a 'parlor,' either, nor a 'shine shop.' It's to be just a 'Boots.' Right here in the building. I've leased part of the basement. See?" And she waves a paper at me. "Quit your kiddin'," says I. But she insists that it's so. Sure enough, that's the way the lease reads. And that's when, as I was tellin' you, I rises up majestic and announces flat that she simply can't do a thing like that. Also she comes back at me just as prompt by sayin' that she can and will. It's the first time we've met head-on goin' different ways, and I had just sense enough to throw in my emergency before the crash came. "Now let's get this straight," says I. "I don't suppose you're plannin' to do shoe-shinin' yourself?" Vee smiles and shakes her head. "Or 'tend the cash register and sell shoelaces and gum to gentlemen customers?" "Oh, it's not to be that sort of place," says she. "It's to be an English 'boots,' on a large scale. You know what I mean." "No," says I. So she sketches out the enterprise for me. Instead of a reg'lar Tony joint with a row of chairs and a squad of blue-shirted Greeks jabberin' about the war, this is to be a chairless, spittoonless shine factory, where the customer only steps in to sign a monthly contract or register a kick. All the work is to be collected and delivered, same as laundry. "I would never have thought of it," explains Vee, "if it hadn't been for Tarkins. He's that pasty-faced, sharp-nosed young fellow who's been helping the janitor recently. A cousin, I believe. He's a war wreck, too. Just think, Torchy: he was in the trenches for more than a year, and has only been out of a base hospital two months. They wouldn't let him enlist again; so he came over here to his relatives. "It was while he was up trying to stop that radiator leak the other day that I asked him if he would take out a pair of my boots and find some place where they could be cleaned. He brought them back inside of half an hour, beautifully done. And when I insisted on being told where he'd taken them, so that I might send them to the same place again, he admitted that he had done the work himself. 'My old job, ma'am,' says he. 'I was boots at the Argyle Club, ma'am, before I went out to strafe the 'Uns. Seven years, ma'am. But they got a girl doin' it now, a flapper. Wouldn't take me back.' Just fancy! And Tarkins a trench hero! So I got to thinking." "I see," says I. "You're going to set Tarkins up, eh?" "I'm going to make him my manager," says Vee. "He will have charge of the shop and solicit orders. We are going to start with only two polishers; one for day work, the other for the night shift. And Tarkins will always be on the job. They're installing a 'phone now, and he will sleep on a cot in the back office. We will work this block first, something like four hundred apartments. Later on—well, we'll see." "I don't want to croak," says I, "but do you think folks will send out their footwear that way? You know, New Yorkers ain't used to gettin' their shines except on the hoof." "I mean to educate them to my 'boots' system," says Vee. "I'm getting up a circular now. I shall show them how much time 19 20 21 22 they can save, how many tips they can avoid. You see, each customer will have a delivery box, with his name and address on it. No chance for mistakes. The boxes can be set outside the apartment doors. We will have four collections, perhaps; two in the daytime, two at night. And when they see the kind of work we do—— Well, you wait. " "I'll admit it don't listen so worse," says I. "The scheme has its good points. But when you come to teachin' New York people new tricks, like sendin' out their shoes, you're goin' to be up against it." "Then you think I can't make 'boots' pay a profit?" asks Vee. "That would be my guess," says I. "If it was a question of underwritin' a stock issue for the scheme I'd have to turn it down." "Good!" says Vee. "Now I shall work all the harder. Tarkins will be around early in the morning to get you as our first customer." Say, for the next few days she certainly was a busy party—plannin' out her block campaign, lookin' over supply bills, and checkin' up Tarkins's reports. I don't know when I'd ever seen her so interested in anything, or so chirky. Her cheeks were pink all the time and her eyes dancin'. And somehow we had such a lot to talk about. Course, though, I didn't expect it to last. You wouldn't look for a girl like Vee, who'd never had any trainin' for that sort of thing, to start a new line and make a go of it right off the bat. But, so long as she wasn't investin' very heavy, it didn't matter. And then, here last night, after she'd been workin' over her account-books for an hour or so, she comes at me with a whoop, and waves a sheet of paper under my nose excited. "Now, Mister Business Man," says she, "what do you think of that?" "Eh?" says I, starin' at the figures. "One hundred and seventeen regular customers the first week," says she, "and a net profit of $23.45. Now how about underwriting that stock issue?" Well, it was a case of backin' up. She had it all figured out plain. She'd made good from the start. And, just to prove that it's real money that she's made all by herself, she insists on invitin' me out to a celebration dinner. It's a swell one, too, take it from me. And afterwards we sits up until long past midnight while Vee plans a chain of "boots " all over the city. "Gee!" says I. "Maybe you'll be gettin' yourself written up as 'The Shine Queen of New York' or something like that. Lucky Auntie's in Jamaica. Think what a jolt it would give her." "I don't care," says Vee. "I've found a job." "Guess you have," says I. "And, as I've remarked once or twice before, you're some girl." CHAPTER III A QUALIFYING TURN FOR TORCHY And here all along I'd been kiddin' myself that I was a perfectly good private sec. Also I had an idea the Corrugated Trust was one of the main piers that kept New York from slumpin' into the North River, and that the boss, Old Hickory Ellins, was sort of a human skyscraper who loomed up as imposin' in the financial foreground as the Metropolitan Tower does on the picture post-cards that ten-day trippers mail to the folks back home. Not that I'd been workin' up any extra chest measure since I've had an inside desk and had connected with a few shares of our preferred stock; I always did feel more or less that way about our concern. And the closer I got to things, seein' how wide our investments was scattered and how many big deals we stood behind, the surer I was that we was important people. And then, in trickles this smooth-haired young gent with the broad a's and the full set of thé dansant manners, to show me where I'm wrong on all counts. He'd succeeded in convincin' Vincent-on-the-gate that nobody around the shop would do but Mr. Ellins himself, so here was Old Hickory standin' in the door of his private office with the card in his hand and starin' puzzled at this immaculate symphony in browns. "Eh?" says he. "You're from Runyon, are you? Well, I wired him to stop off on his way through and have luncheon with me at the Union League. Know anything about that, do you?" "Mr. Runyon regrets very much," says the young gent, "that he will be unable to accept your kind invitation. He is on his way to Newport, you know, and—— " 23 24 25 26 "Yes, I understand all that," breaks in Old Hickory. "Daughter's wedding. But that isn't until next week, and while he was in town I thought we might have a little chat and settle a few things." "Quite so," says the symphony. "Precisely why he sent me up, sir—to talk over anything you might care to discuss." "With you!" snorts Old Hickory. "Who the brocaded buckboards are you?" "Mr. Runyon's secretary, sir," says the young gent. "Bixby's the name, sir, as you will see by the card, and——" "Ha!" growls old Hickory. "So that's Marc Runyon's answer to me, is it? Sends his secretary! Very well; you may talk with my secretary. Torchy!" "Right here!" says I, slidin' to the front. "Take this person somewhere," says Mr. Ellins, jerkin' his thumb at Bixby; "instruct him what to tell his master about how we regard that terminal hold-up; then dust him off carefully and lead him to the elevator." "Got you!" says I, salutin'. You might think that would have jolted Mr. Bixby. But no. He gets the door shut in his face without even blinkin' or gettin' pink under the eyes. Don't even indulge in any shoulder shrugs or other signs of muffled emotion. He just turns to me calm and remarks businesslike: "At your service, sir." Now, say, this lubricated diplomacy act ain't my long suit as a general thing, but I couldn't figure a percentage in puttin' over any more rough stuff on Bixby. It rolled off him too easy. Course, it might be all right for Mr. Ellins to get messy or blow a gasket if he wanted to; but I couldn't see that it was gettin' us anywhere. He hadn't planned this luncheon affair just for the sake of being sociable—I knew that much. The big idea was to get next to Marcus T. Runyon and thresh out a certain proposition on a face-to-face basis. And if he chucked that overboard because of a whim, we stood to lose. It was up to me now, though. Maybe I couldn't be as smooth as this Bixby party, but I could make a stab along that line. It would be good practice, anyhow. So I tows him over to my corner, and arranges him easy in an armchair. "As between private secs, now," says I, "what's puttin' up the bars on this get-together motion, eh?" Well, considerin' that Bixby is English and don't understand the American language very well, we got along fine. Once or twice, there, I thought I should have to call in an interpreter; but by bein' careful to state things simple, and by goin' over some of the points two or three times slow, we managed to make out what each other meant. It seems that Marcus T. is more or less of a frail and tender party. Dashin' out for a Union League luncheon, fillin' himself up on poulet en casserole and such truck, not to mention Martinis and demi-tasses and brunette perfectos, was clean out of the question. "My word!" says Bixby, rollin' his eyes. "His physician would never allow it, you know." "Suppose he took a chance and didn't tell the doc?" I suggests. "Impossible," says Bixby. "He is with him constantly—travels with him, you understand." I didn't get it all at first, but I sopped it up gradual. Marcus T. wasn't takin' any casual flit from his Palm Beach winter home to his Newport summer place. No jumpin' into a common Pullman for him, joinin' the smokin'-room bunch, and scrabblin' for his meals in the diner. Hardly. He was travelin' in his private car, with his private secretary, his private physician, his trained nurse, his private chef, and most likely, his private bootblack. And he was strictly under his doctor's orders. He wasn't even goin' to have a peek at Broadway or Fifth Avenue; for, although a suite had been engaged for him at the Plutoria, the Doc had ruled against it only that mornin'. No; he had to stay in the private car, that had been run on a special sidin' over in the Pennsylvania yards. "So you see," says Bixby, spreadin' out his varnished finger-nails helpless. "And yet, I am sure he would very much like to have a chat with his old friend Mr. Ellins." I had all I could do to choke back a haw-haw. His old friend, eh? Oh, I expect they might be called friends, in a way. They hadn't actually stuck any knives into each other. And 'way back, when they was both operatin' in Chicago, I understand they was together a good deal. But since—— Well, maybe at a circus you've seen a couple of old tigers pacin' back and forth in nearby cages and catchin' sight of one another now and then? Something like that. "Friend" wasn't the way Marcus T. was indexed on our books. If we spotted any suspicious moves in the market, or found one of our subsidiary companies being led astray by unseen hands, or a big contract slippin' away mysterious, the word was always passed to "watch the Runyon interests." And I'll admit that when the Corrugated saw an openin' to put a crimp in a Runyon deal, or overbid 'em on a franchise, or crack a ripe egg on one of their bond issues, we only waited long enough for it to get dark before gettin' busy. Oh, yes, we was real chummy that way. And then again, with the Runyon system touchin' ours in so many spots, we had a lot of open daylight dealin's. We interlocked here and there; we had joint leases, trackage agreements, and so on, where we was just as trustin' of each other as a couple of gentlemen crooks dividin' the souvenirs after an early mornin' call at a country-house. This terminal business Old Hickory had mentioned was a sample. Course, I only knew about it in a vague sort of way: 27 28 29 30 31 something about ore docks up on the Lakes. Anyway, it was a case where the Runyon people had hogged the waterfront and was friskin' us for tonnage charges on every steamer we loaded. I know it was something that had to be renewed annual, for I'd heard Mr. Ellins beefin' about it more'n once. Last year, I remember, he was worse than usual, which was accounted for later by the fact that the ton rate had been jumped a couple of cents. And now it had been almost doubled. No wonder he wanted a confab with Marcus T. on the subject. And, from where I stood, it looked like he ought to have it, grouch or no grouch. "Bixby," says I, "Mr. Ellins would just grieve himself sick if this reunion he's planned don't come off. Now, what's the best you can do?" "If Mr. Ellins could come to the private car——" begins Bixby. "Say," I breaks in, "you wouldn't ask him to climb over freight-cars and dodge switch-engines just for old times' sake, would you?" Bixby holds up both hands and registers painful protest. "By no means," says he. "We would send the limousine for Mr. Ellins, have it wait his convenience, and drive him directly to the car steps. I think I can arrange the interview for any time between two-thirty and four o'clock this afternoon." "Now, that's talkin'!" says I. "I'll see what I can do with the boss. Wait, will you?" Oh, boy, though! That was about as tough a job as I ever tackled. Old Hickory still has his neck feathers ruffled, and he's chewin' savage on a black cigar when I go in to slip him the soothin' syrup. First off I explains elaborate what a sick man Mr. Runyon is, and all about the trained nurse and the private physician. "Bah!" says Old Hickory. "I'll bet he's no more an invalid than I am. Just coddling himself, that's all. Got the private car habit, too! Why, I knew Marc Runyon when he thought an upper berth was the very lap of luxury; knew him when he'd grind his teeth over payin' a ten-dollar fee to a doctor. And now he's trying to buy back his digestion by hiring a private physician, is he? The simple-minded old sinner!" "I expect you ain't seen much of him lately, Mr. Ellins?" I suggests. Old Hickory hunches his shoulders careless. "No," says he. Then he gazes reminiscent at the ceilin'. I could tell by watchin' his lower jaw sort of loosen up that he was thinkin' of the old days, or something like that. It struck me as a good time to let things simmer. I drops back a step and waits. All of a sudden he turns to me and demands: "Well, son?" "If you could get away about three," says I, "Mr. Runyon's limousine will be waiting." "Huh!" says he. "Well, I'll see. Perhaps." "Yes, sir," says I. "Then you'll be wanting the dope on that terminal lease. Shall I dig it up?" "Oh, you might as well," says Old Hickory. "There isn't much, but bring along anything you may find. You will have to serve as my entire retinue, Torchy. I expect you to behave like a regular high-toned secretary." "Gee!" says I. "That's some order. Mr. Bixby'll have me lookin' like an outside porter. But I'll go wind myself up." All I could think of, though, was to post myself on that terminal stuff. And, believe me, I waded into that strong. Inside of ten minutes after I'd sent Bixby on his way I had Piddie clawin' through the record safe, two stenographers searchin' the letter-files, and Vincent out buyin' maps of Lake Superior. I had about four hours to use in gettin' wise to the fine points of a deal that had been runnin' on for ten years; but I can absorb a lot of information in a short time when I really get my mind pores open. At that, though, I expect my head would have been just a junk-heap of back-number facts if I hadn't run across the name of this guy McClave in some of the correspondence. Seems he'd been assistant traffic agent for one of the Runyon lines, but had been dropped durin' a consolidation shake-up. And now he happens to be holdin' down a desk out in our general offices. Just on a chance, I pushes the button for him. Well, say, talk about tappin' the main feedpipe! Why, that quiet little Scotchman in the shiny black cutaway coat and the baggy plaid trousers, he knew more about how iron ore gets from the mines to the smelters than I do about puttin' on my own clothes. And as for the inside hist'ry of how we got that tonnage charge wished onto us, why, McClave had been called in when the merry little scheme was first plotted out. I made him start at the beginning and explain every item, while we munched fried-egg sandwiches as we went over reports, sorted out old letters, and marked up a perfectly good map of Minnesota. But by three p.m . I had a leather document case stuffed with papers and a cross-index of 'em in my so-called brain. "When you're ready, Mr. Ellins," says I, standin' by with my hat in my hand. "Oh, yes," says he, heavin' himself up reluctant from his desk chair. 32 33 34 35 And, sure enough, there's a silk-lined limousine and a French chauffeur waitin' in front of the arcade. In no time at all, too, we're rolled across Seventh Avenue, down through a tunnel, and out alongside a shiny private car with a brass-bound bay- window on one end and flower-boxes hung on the side. They even had a carpet laid on the steps. It's a happy little home on wheels. Also there is Bixby the Busy, with his ear out for us. Talk about private seccing as a fine art! Why, say, I fairly held my breath watchin' him operate. Every move is as smooth and silent as a steel lathe runnin' in an oil bath. He don't exactly whisper, or give us the hush-up sign, but somehow he gets me steppin' soft and talkin' under my breath from the minute I hits the front vestibule. "So good of you, Mr. Ellins," he coos soothin'. "Will you come right in? Mr. Runyon will be with you in a moment. Just finishing a treatment, you know. This way, gentlemen." Say, it was like bein' ushered into church durin' the prayer. Once inside, you'd never guess it was just a car. More like the corner of a perfectly good drawin'-room—easy chairs, Turkish rugs, silver vases full of roses, double hangin's at the windows. "Will you sit here, Mr. Ellins?" murmurs Bixby. "And you here, sir. Pardon me a moment." Then he glides about, pullin' down a shade, movin' a vase, studyin' how the light is goin' to strike in, pattin' a cushion, shovin' out a foot-rest—like he was settin' the stage for the big scene. And right in the midst of it I near spilled the beans by pullin' an afternoon edition out of my pocket. Bixby swoops down on me panicky. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" says he, pluckin' the paper out of my fingers. "But may I put this outside? Mr. Runyon cannot stand the rustling of newspapers. Please don't mind. There! Now I think we are ready." I wanted to warn him that I hadn't quite stopped breathin' yet, but he's off to the other end of the room, where a nurse in a white cap is peekin' through the draperies. Bixby nods to her and stands one side. Then we waits a minute—two minutes. And finally the procession appears. First, a nurse carryin' a steamer rug; next, another nurse with a tray; and after them a valet and the private physician with the great Marcus T. walkin' slow between. He ain't so imposin' when you get that close, though. Kind of a short, poddy party, who looks like he'd been upholstered generous once but had shrunk a lot. There are heavy bags under his eyes, dewlaps at his mouth-corners, and deep seams across his clean-shaved face. He has sort of a cigar-ash complexion. And yet, under them shaggy brows is a keen pair of eyes that seem to take in everything. Old Hickory gets up right off, with his hand out. But it's a social error. Bixby blocks him off graceful. He's in full command, Bixby is. With a one-finger gesture he signals the nurse to drape her rug over the chair. Then he nods to the doctor and the valet to go ahead. They ease Runyon into his seat. Bixby motions 'em to wrap up his knees. By an eyelid flutter he shows the other nurse where to set her tray. It's almost as complicated a process as dockin' an ocean liner. When it's finished, Bixby waves one hand gentle, and they all fade back through the draperies. "Hello, Ellins," says Runyon. "Mighty good of you to hunt up a wreck like me." I almost gasped out loud. Somehow, after seem' him handled like a mummy that way, you didn't expect to hear him speak. It's a shock. Even Old Hickory must have felt something as I did. "I—I didn't know," says he. "When did it happen, Runyon?" "Oh, it's nothing," says Marcus T. "I am merely paying up for fifty-odd years of hard living by—by this. Ever try to exist on artificial sour milk and medicated hay, Ellins? Hope you never come to it. Don't look as though you would. But you were always tougher than I, even back in the State Street days, eh?" First thing I knew, they were chattin' away free and easy. Course, there was Bixby all the time, standin' behind watchful. And right in the middle of a sentence he didn't hesitate to butt in and hand Mr. Runyon a glass of what looked like thin whitewash. Marcus T. would take a sip obedient and then go on with his talk. At last he asks if there's anything special he can do for Mr. Ellins. "Why, yes," says Old Hickory, settin' his jaw. "You might call off your highwaymen on that Manitou terminal lease, Runyon. That is, unless you mean to take all of our mining profits." Marcus T.'s eyes brighten up. They almost twinkle. "Bixby," says he, "what about that? Has there been an increase in the tonnage rate to the Corrugated?" "I think so, sir," says Bixby. "I can look it up, sir." "Ah!" says Runyon. "Bixby will look it up." "He needn't," says Old Hickory. "It's been doubled, that's all. We had the notice last week. Torchy, did you——" "Yep!" says I, shootin' the letter at him. 36 37 38 39 "Well, well!" says Runyon, after he's gazed at it. "There must have been some well founded cause for such an advance. Bixby, you must——" "It's because you think you've got us in a hole," breaks in Old Hickory. "We've got to load our boats and you control the docks." "Oh, yes!" chuckles Marcus T. "An unfortunate situation—for you. But I presume there are other dockage facilities available." "If there were," says Mr. Ellins sarcastic, "do you think we would be paying you from three to five millions a year?" "Bixby, I fear you must explain our position more fully," goes on Mr. Runyon. "Oh, certainly," says Bixby. "I will have a full report prepared and—— " "Suppose you tell it to my secretary now," insists Old Hickory, glarin' menacin' at him. "Do so, Bixby," says Marcus T. "Why—er—you see," says Bixby, turnin' to me, "as I understand the case, the only outlet you have to deep water is over our tracks to—— " "What about them docks at Three Harbors?" I cuts in. "Three Harbors?" repeats Bixby, starin' vague. "Precisely," says Marcus T. "As the young man suggests, there is plenty of unemployed dockage at that point. But your ore tracks do not connect with that port." "They would if we laid forty miles of rails, branchin' off at Tamarack Junction, " says I. "That spur has all been surveyed and the right of way cleared." "Ah!" exclaims Bixby, comin' to life again. "I remember now. Tamarack Junction. We hold a charter for a railroad from there to Three Harbors." "You mean you did hold it," says I. "I beg pardon?" says Bixby, gawpin'. "It lapsed," says I, "eighteen months ago. Here's a copy, O. K.'d by a Minnesota notary public. See the date?" "Allow me," says Mr. Runyon, reachin' for it. Old Hickory gets up and rubbers over his shoulder. "By George!" says he. "It has lapsed, Runyon. Torchy, where's a map of——" "Here you are," says I. "You'll see the branch line sketched in there. That would cut our haul about fifteen miles." "And leave you with a lot of vacant ore docks on your hands, eh, Runyon?" puts in Old Hickory. "We could have those rails laid by the time the ice was out of the Soo. Well, well! Throws rather a new light on the situation, doesn't it?" Marcus T. turns slow and fixes them keen eyes of his on Bixby the Busy. "Hm-m-m!" says he. "It seems that we have overlooked a point, Bixby. Perhaps, though, you can offer——" He can. Some shifty private sec, Bixby is. "Your milk, sir," says he, grabbin' the tray and shovin' it in front of Runyon. For a second or so the great Marcus T. eyes it indignant. Then his shoulders sag, the fire dies out of his eyes, and he takes the glass. He's about the best trained plute I ever saw in captivity. "And I think the doctor should take your temperature now," adds Bixby. "I will call him." As he slips off toward the back end of the car Mr. Runyon lets out a sigh. "It's no use, Ellins," says he. "One can't pamper a ruined digestion and still enjoy these friendly little business bouts. One simply can't. Name your own terms for continuing that terminal lease." Old Hickory does prompt, for we don't want to buy rails at the price they're bringin' now. "And by the way, Runyon," says he, "may I ask what you pay your young man? I'm just curious." "Bixby?" says Runyon. "Oh, twenty-five hundred." "Huh!" says Mr. Ellins. "My secretary forgets my milk now and then, but he remembers such trifles as lapsed charters. He is drawing three thousand." I hope Marcus T. didn't hear the gasp I lets out—I tried to smother it. And the first thing I does when we gets back into the limousine is to grin at the boss. 40 41 42 43 "Whaddye mean, three thousand?" says I. "Dollars," says he. "Beginning to-day." "Z-z-z-zing!" says I. "Going up, up! And there I was plannin' to take a special course in trained nursin', so I could hold my job." CHAPTER IV SWITCHING ARTS ON LEON Oh, sure! We're coming along grand. Did you think we'd be heavin' the blue willow-ware at each other by this time? No. We've hardly displayed any before-breakfast dispositions yet. Not that we confine ourselves to the coo vocabulary, or advertise any continuous turtle-dove act. Gettin' married ain't jellied our brains, I hope. Besides, we're busy. I've got a new gilt-edged job to fill, you know; and Vee, she has one of her own, too. Well, I can't say that her scheme of runnin' a Boots, Limited, has mesmerized all New York into havin' its shoe-shinin' done out. There's something about this cloth top and white gaiter craze that's puttin' a crimp in her perfectly good plans. But she's doin' fairly well, and she don't have to think up ways of killin' time. Course, we have a few other things to think about, too. Just learnin' how to live in New York is a merry little game all by itself. That's one of my big surprises. I'd thought all along it was so simple. But say, we've been gettin' wise to a few facts this last month or so, for we've been tryin' to dope out which one of the forty-nine varieties of New York's home-sweet-home repertoire was the kind for us. I don't mean we've been changin' our street number, or testin' out different four-room-and-bath combinations. The studio apartment I got at a bargain suits first rate. It's the meal proposition. First off, we decides gay and reckless that we'll breakfast and lunch in and take our dinners out. That listened well and seemed easy enough—until Vee got to huntin' up a two-handed, light-footed female party who could boil eggs without scorchin' the shells, dish up such things as canned salmon with cream sauce, and put a few potatoes through the French fry process, doublin' in bed-makin' and dust-chasin' durin' her spare time. That shouldn't call for any prize-winnin'...