"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——"
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.
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.
"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?"
"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.
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.
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.
"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.
"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."
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."
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!"
"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."
"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."
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.
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."
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!"
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.
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.
"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.
"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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
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?"
"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."
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."
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."