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.
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?"
"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?"
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."
"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.
"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 François-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, François," 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 café 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'?"
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!"
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."
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.
"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.
"By gorry!" explodes Ira, as he gets his first glimpse.[Illustration: "By gorry!" explodes Ira, as he gets his first glimpse.]
"By gorry!" explodes Ira, as he gets his first glimpse.[Illustration: "By gorry!" explodes Ira, as he gets his first glimpse.]
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."
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.
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.
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."
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!"
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——"
"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."
"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."
"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."
"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?"
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.
"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?"
"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."
"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.
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."
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.
"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."
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."