He's a great old scout, Mr. Ellins. But he always knows where he wants to get off, all right. He don't whisper his ideas on the subject, either.
"Boy," says he the other mornin' as I answers the buzzer, "I am expecting two young persons to call this forenoon, two young wards of mine. Huh! Wards! As though I wasn't busy enough with my own affairs without—— But never mind. Chandler is the name."
"Yes, Sir," says I. "Chandler. Rush 'em right in, shall I?"
"No!" snorts Old Hickory. "What I want you to do is to use a little sense, if you have any. Now, here! I have a committee meeting at ten; those K. & T. people will be here at ten-forty-five; and after that I can't say whether I'll be free or not. Of course I must see the young nuisances; but meantime I want to forget 'em. I am trusting to you to work 'em in when they'll be the least bother."
"Got you," says I. "Chink in with Chandlers. Yes, Sir. Anything more?"
"No. Get out!" he snaps.
Fair imitation of a grouch, eh? But you got to get used to Old Hickory. Besides, there was some excuse for his bein' peeved, havin' a pair of kids camp down on him this way. Course I was wise to the other details. Didn't I take their 'phone message to Mr. Robert only the day before, and send back the answer for 'em to come on?
Seems this was a case of a second cousin, or something like that, a nutty college professor, who'd gone and left a will makin' Mr. Ellins a guardian without so much as askin' by your leave. There was a Mrs. Chandler; but she don't figure in the guardianship. The youngsters had been in school somewhere near Boston; but, this bein' the holidays, what do they do but turn up in New York and express a wild desire to see dear old Guardy.
"Gee!" thinks I. "They don't know when they're well off."
For Old Hickory ain't got a lot of use for the average young person. I've heard him express his sentiments on that point. "Impudent, ill-mannered, selfish, spoiled young barbarians, the boys," says he, "and the girls aren't much better,—silly, giggling young chatterboxes!"
And the way I has it framed up, this was rather a foxy move of the young Chandlers, discoverin' their swell New York relations just as the holiday season was openin'. So I don't figure that the situation calls for any open-arm motions on my part. No, nothin' like that. I'm here to give 'em their first touch of frost.
So about eleven-fifteen, as I glances across the brass rail and sees this pair advancin' sort of uncertain, I'm all prepared to cause a drop in the mercury. They wa'n't exactly the type I had in mind, though. What I'd expected was a brace of high school cutups. But these two are older than that.
The young fellow was one of these big-boned, wide-shouldered chaps, with a heavy, serious look to his face, almost dull. I couldn't tell at first look whether he was a live wire or not. No such suspicions about the girl. She ain't what you'd call a queen, exactly. She's too tall and her face is too long for that. Kind of a cute sort of face, though, with rather a wide mouth that she can twist into a weird, one-sided smile. But after one look at them lively blue eyes you knew she wasn't walkin' in her sleep. It's my cue, though, to let 'em guess what nuisances they were.
"May I see Mr. Ellins?" says the young chap.
"Cards," says I.
He produces the pasteboards.
"Oh, yes!" I goes on. "The wards, eh? Marjorie Chandler, Dudley Winthrop Chandler. Well, you've picked out a busy day, you know."
"Oh, have we?" says Marjorie. "There, Dud! I was afraid we might. Perhaps we'd better not call, after all."
"Good!" says Dudley. "I didn't want to, anyway. We can just send in our cards and leave word that we——"
"Ah, can it!" says I. "Mr. Ellins is expectin' you; only he ain't a man you can walk in on casual."
"But really," puts in Marjorie, "it's just as well if we don't see him."
"Yes, and get me fired for not carryin' out instructions," says I. "My orders are to work you in when there's a chance."
"Oh, in that case," says Marjorie, "perhaps we had better wait. We don't wish to cause trouble for anyone, especially such a bright, charming young——"
"Nix on the josh," says I. "And have a seat while I skirmish."
"Very well, then," says she, screwin' her face up cunnin' and handin' me one of them crooked smiles.
Say, she pretty near had me goin' right from the start. And as I tiptoes into the boss's room I sees he ain't doin' anything more important than signin' letters.
"They're here," says I, "the wards. Is it all right to run 'em in now?"
He grunts, nods his head, and keeps on writin'. So I strolls back to the reception room.
"All right," says I. "I've fixed it up for you."
"Now, wasn't that sweet in you?" gurgles Marjorie, glancin' sideways at Brother. I couldn't swear it was a wink, either; but it's one of them knowin' fam'ly looks, and she follows it up with a ripply sort of a giggle.
"That's right!" says I. "Have all the fun you want with me; but I'd warn you to ditch the mirth stuff while you're on the carpet. Mr. Ellins don't like it."
"How interesting!" says Marjorie. "Dudley, I hope you understand. We must ditch the mirth stuff."
They swaps another grin at that, and I have a suspicion I'm bein' kidded. Just for that too I decides to stick around while they're gettin' theirs from Old Hickory.
"This way," says I cold and haughty, as I tows 'em into the private office.
Mr. Ellins lets 'em stand there a minute or so without sayin' a word, and then he turns and looks 'em over deliberate. "Humph!" he grunts. "Thought you were younger."
"Yes, Sir," says Marjorie, "we—er—we were at one time."
Old Hickory shoots a quizzin' glance at her; but there ain't the ghost of a smile on her face.
"Huh!" says he. "I've no doubt. And I presume that in due course you'll be older. Having agreed on that, perhaps you will tell me what you're doing in New York?"
Marjorie starts in to give him the answer to that; but Dudley shakes his head at her and takes the floor himself. "You see, Sir," says he real respectful, "Mother's abroad this winter, and when we were asked to visit friends on Long Island we thought——"
"Amy abroad, is she?" breaks in Mr. Ellins. "How does that happen?"
"The Adamses took her with them to Egypt," says Dudley. "They are old friends of ours."
"Humph!" says Old Hickory. "Your mother must be rather popular?"
"Oh, everyone likes Mama," put in Marjorie. "She's asked around everywhere."
"Yes, yes, I've no doubt," says he. "As I remember her, she was rather a—but we won't go into that. Did you come to consult me about anything in particular?"
"No indeed," says Marjorie. "But you've been so good to bother about our affairs, and you've done such wonders with the little property poor Dad left, that we thought, as we were so near, we ought to——"
"We wanted," breaks in Dudley, "to call and thank you personally for your kindness. You have been awfully kind, Sir."
"Think so, do you?" says Mr. Ellins. "Well, is that all?"
"Yes," says Marjorie; "only—only—oh, Dud, I'm going to do it!" And with that she makes a rush, lets out a giggle or two, grabs Old Hickory in a perfectly good hug, and kisses him twice on his bald spot.
He don't even have a chance to struggle, and before he can get out a word it's all over and she has backed off, givin' him the full benefit of one of them twisty smiles. I was lookin' for him to blow up for fair at that. He don't though.
"There, there!" says he. "Not in the least necessary, you know. But if it was something you had to get out of your system, all right. So you've been visiting, eh? Now, what?"
"Why, Marjorie's going back to her school, Sir," says Dudley, "and I to college."
"Before the holidays are over?" says Mr. Ellins.
"Oh, we don't mind," says Marjorie. "We don't want to go home and open up the house; for we should miss Mother so much."
"Suppose you finish out your vacation with us, then?" suggests Old Hickory.
"Oh, thank you, Sir," says Dudley; "but we——"
"Mother wrote us, you see," breaks in Marjorie, "that we mustn't think of bothering you another bit."
"Who says you're a bother?" he demands. "At this time of year I like to have young folks around—if they're the right kind."
"But I'm not sure we are the right kind," says Marjorie. "I—I'm not very serious, you know; and Dud's apt to be noisy. He thinks he can sing."
At which Dudley gets fussed and Old Hickory chuckles.
"I'll take a chance," says Mr. Ellins. "If I'm to be your guardian, I ought to know you better. So you two trot right up to the house and prepare to stay the week out. Here, Torchy! 'Phone for the limousine. No, not a word, young woman! I haven't time to discuss it. Clear out, both of you! See you at dinner."
"There!" says Marjorie as a partin' shot. "I just knew you were an old dear!"
"Stuff!" protests Mr. Ellins. "'Old bear,' is more like it."
And me, I picks up a new cue. I escorts 'em out to the gen'ral office with all the honors. "I'll have that car down in a jiffy, Miss," says I.
"Oh, thank you," says Marjorie. "And if you think of anything we ought to ditch in the meantime—"
"Ah, what's the use rubbin' it in on me," says I, "after the way you put it over Mr. Ellins? I don't count. Besides, anybody that fields their position like you do has got me wearin' their button for keeps."
"Really?" says she. "I shall remember that, you know; and there's no telling what dreadful thing I may do before I go. Is there, Dud?"
"Oh, quit it, Peggy!" says he. "Behave, can't you?"
"Certainly, Brother dear," says she, runnin' her tongue out at him. Ever see anyone who could make a cute play of that? Well, Marjorie could, believe me!
Funny, though, the sudden hit them two seemed to make with Old Hickory. Honest, the few days they was around the house his disposition clears up like coffee does when you stir in the egg. I heard him talkin' to Mr. Robert about 'em, how well brought up and mannerly they was. He even unloads some of it on me, by way of suggestin' 'em as models. You'd most think he'd trained 'em himself.
Bein' chased up to the house on so many errands, I had a chance to get the benefit of some of this improvin' influence. And it was kind of good, I admit, to watch how prompt Dudley hops up every time any older party comes into the room; and how sweet Marjorie is to everybody, even the butler. They was just as nice to each other too,—Brother helpin' Sister on with her wraps, and gettin' down on his knees to put on her rubbers; while Marjorie never forgets to thank him proper, and pat him chummy on the cheek.
"Gee!" thinks I. "A sister like that wouldn't be so bad to have around."
Course, I knew this was comp'ny manners, exhibition stuff; but all the same it was kind of inspirin' to see. It's catchin' too. I even finds myself speakin' gentle to Piddie, and offerin' to help Mr. Ellins with his overcoat.
All of which lasts until here one afternoon, as I'm waitin' in the Ellins' lib'ry for some presents I'm to deliver, when the spell is shattered. I'd heard 'em out in the hall, talkin' low and earnest, and next thing I know they've drifted in where I am and have opened up a lively debate.
"Pooh!" says Marjorie. "You can't stop me."
"See here, Peggy!" comes back Dudley. "Didn't Mother say I was to look after you?"
"She didn't tell you to be so everlasting bossy," says Sister.
"I'm not bossy," comes back Dudley.
"You are so!" says she. "Old fuss budget! Stewcat!"
"Rattlehead!" says Dudley.
"Don't mind me," I breaks in. "I'm havin' my manners improved."
All that brings out, though, is a glance and a shoulder shrug, and they proceed with the squabble.
"Dud Chandler," says Marjorie determined, "I am going to drive the car today! You did yesterday for an hour."
"That's entirely different," says Dudley. "I'm used to it, and Henry said I might."
"And Henry says I may too—so there!" says Marjorie. "And you know I'm just crazy to try it on Fifth Avenue."
"You'd look nice, wouldn't you?" says Brother scornful. "A limousine!"
"But Bud Adams let me drive theirs; in Boston too," protests Marjorie.
"Bud Adams is a bonehead, then," says Dudley.
"Dudley Chandler," snaps Sister, her eyes throwin' off sparks, "don't you dare talk that way about my friends!"
"Huh!" says Brother. "If there ever was a boob, that Bud Adams is——"
Say, there's only a flash and a squeal before Sister has landed a smack on his jaw and has both hands in his hair. Looked like a real rough-house session, right there in the lib'ry, when there comes a call for me down the stairs from Mrs. Ellins. She wants to know if I'm ready.
Sister has landed a smack on his jaw.[Illustration: Sister has landed a smack on his jaw.]
Sister has landed a smack on his jaw.[Illustration: Sister has landed a smack on his jaw.]
"Waitin' here, Ma'am," says I, steppin' out into the hall.
"And Marjorie and Dudley?" says she. "Are the dear young folks ready too?"
"I'll ask 'em," says I. And with that I dodges hack where they're standin' glarin' at each other. "Well," says I, "is it to be a go to a finish, or——"
"Come, Marjorie," says Dudley, "be decent."
"I—am going to do it!" announces Marjorie.
"Mule!" hisses Dudley.
And that's the status quo between these two models when we starts for the car. Marjorie makes a quick break and plants herself in front by the chauffeur, leavin' Brother to climb inside with me and the bundles. He grits his teeth and murmurs a few remarks under his breath.
"Some pep to that sister of yours, eh?" says I.
"She's an obstinate little fool!" says Dudley. "Look at that, now! I knew she would!"
Yep, she had. We're no sooner under way than the obligin' Henry slides out of his seat and lets Miss Marjorie slip in behind the wheel. She can drive a car all right too. You ought to see her throw in the high and go beatin' it down the avenue, takin' signals from the traffic cops at crossing, skinnin' around motor busses, and crowdin' out a fresh taxi driver that tried to hog a corner on her. Nothin' timid or amateurish either about the way she handled that ten-thousand-dollar gas wagon of Old Hickory's. Where I'd be jammin' on both brakes and callin' for help, she just breezes along like she had the street all to herself.
Meantime Brother is sittin' with both feet braced and one hand on the door, now and then sighin' relieved as we scrape through a tight place. But we'd been down quite a ways and was part way back, headed for Riverside Drive, and was rollin' along merry too, when all of a sudden a fruit faker's wagon looms up out of a side street unexpected, there's a bump and a crash, and there we are, with a spokeless wooden wheel draped jaunty over one mud guard, the asphalt strewed with oranges, and int'rested spectators gatherin' gleeful from all quarters.
Looks like a bad mess too. The old plug of a horse is down, kickin' the stuffin' out of the harness, and a few feet off is the huckster, huddled up in a heap like a bag of meal. Course, there's a cop on the spot. He pushes in where Dudley is tryin' to help the wagon driver up, takes one look at the wreck, and then flashes his little notebook. He puts down our license number, calls for the owner's name, prods the wagon man without result, tells us we're all pinched, and steps over to a convenient signal box to ring up an ambulance. Inside of three minutes we're the storm center of a small mob, and there's two other cops lookin' us over disapprovin'.
"Take 'em all to the station house," says one, who happens to be a roundsman.
That didn't listen good to me; so I kind of sidles off from our group. It just struck me that it might be handy to have someone on the outside lookin' in. But at that I got to the station house almost as soon as they did. The trio was lined up before the desk Sergeant. Miss Marjorie's kind of white, but keepin' a stiff lip over it; while Dudley is holdin' one hand and pattin' it comfortin'.
"Well, who was driving?" is the first thing the Sergeant wants to know.
"If you please, Sir," speaks up Dudley, "I was."
"Why, Dudley!" says Peggy, openin' her eyes wide. "You know——"
"Hush up!" whispers Brother.
"Sha'nt!" says Marjorie. "I was driving, Mr. Officer."
"Rot!" says Dudley. "Pay no attention to her, Sergeant."
"Suit yourself," says the Sergeant. "I'd just as soon lock up two as one. Then we'll be sure."
"There! You see!" says Brother. "You aren't helping any. Now keep out, will you?"
"But, Dudley——" protests Marjorie.
"That'll do," says the Sergeant. "You'll have plenty of time to talk it over afterwards. Hospital case, eh? Then we can't take bail. Names, now!"
And it's while their names are bein' put on the blotter that I slides out, hunts up a pay station, and gets Mr. Robert on the 'phone. "Better lug along a good-sized roll," says I, after I've explained the case, "and start a lawyer or two this way. You'll need 'em."
"I will," says Mr. Robert. "And you'll meet me at the station, will you?"
"Later on," says I. "I want to try a little sleuthin' first."
You see, I'd spotted the faker's name on the wagon license, and it occurs to me that before any of them damage-suit shysters get to him it would be a good scheme to discover just how bad he was bunged up. So my bluff is that it's an uncle of mine that's been hurt. By pushin' it good and hard too, and insistin' that I'd got to see him, I gets clear into the cot without bein' held up. And there's the victim, snoozin' peaceful.
"Gee!" says I to the nurse, sniffin' the atmosphere. "Had to brace him up with a drink, did you?"
She smiles at that. "Hardly," says she. "He had attended to that, or he wouldn't be in here. This is the alcoholic ward, you know."
"Huh!" says I. "Pickled, was he? But is he hurt bad?"
"Not at all," says she. "He will be all right as soon as he's sober."
Did I smoke it back to the station house? Well, some! And Mr. Robert was there, talkin' to two volunteer witnesses who was ready to swear the faker was drivin' on the wrong side of the street and not lookin' where he was goin'.
"How could he," says I, "when he was soused to the ears?"
Course, it took some time to convince the Sergeant; but after he'd had word from the hospital he concludes to accept a hundred cash, let Dudley go until mornin', and scratch Marjorie's name off the book. Goin' back to the house we four rides inside, with Henry at the wheel.
"I'm awfully sorry, Dud," says Marjorie, snugglin' up to Brother, "but—but it was almost worth it. I didn't know you could be so—so splendid!"
"Stow it, Peggy," says Dudley. "You're a regular brick!"
"No, I'm not," says she. "And think what Mr. Ellins will say!
"There, there!" says Mr. Robert soothin'. "You were not to blame. I will have someone see the fellow in the morning and settle the damage, however. There's no need to trouble Father about it, none in the least."
"Besides, Peggy," adds Dudley, "I'm the one the charge is made against. So butt out."
Looked like it was all settled that way too, and that Old Hickory's faith in his model wards wa'n't to be disturbed. But when we pulls up at the house there he is, just goin' up the front steps.
"Ah!" says he, beamin'. "There you are, eh? And how has my little Peggy been enjoying herself today?"
"Mr. Ellins," says she, lookin' him square in the eye, "you mustn't call me your Peggy any more. I've just hit a man. He's in the hospital."
"You—you hit someone!" gasps Old Hickory, starin' puzzled at her. "What with?"
"Why, with the car," says she. "I was driving. Dudley tried to stop me; but I was horrid about it. We had a regular fight over it. Then I coaxed Henry to let me, and—and this happened. Don't listen to Dudley. It was all my fault."
"Wow!" I whispers to Mr. Robert. "Now she's spilled the beans!"
Did she? Say, I wa'n't in on the fam'ly conference that follows, but I gets the result from Mr. Robert next day, after he's been to court and seen Dudley's case dismissed.
"No, the young folks haven't been sent away," says he. "In fact, Father thinks more of them than ever. He's going to take 'em both abroad with him next summer."
Wouldn't that smear you, though? Say, I wish someone would turn me loose with a limousine!
Trouble? Say, it was comin' seven diff'rent ways there for awhile,—our stocks on the slump, a quarterly bein' passed, Congress actin' up, a lot of gloom rumors floatin' around about what was goin' to happen to the tariff on steel, and the I Won't Workers pullin' off a big strike at one of our busiest plants. But all these things was side issues compared to this scrap that develops between Old Hickory and Peter K. Groff.
Maybe you don't know about Peter K.? Well, he's the Mesaba agent of Corrugated affairs, the big noise at the dirt end of the dividends. It's Groff handles the ore proposition, you understand, and it's his company that does the inter-locking act between the ore mines and us and the railroads.
Course, I can't give you all the details without pullin' down a subpoena from the Attorney-General's office, and I ain't anxious to crowd Willie Rockefeller, or anybody like that, out of the witness chair. But I can go as far as to state that, as near as I could dope it out, Peter K. was only standin' on his rights, and if only him and Mr. Ellins could have got together for half an hour peaceable-like things could have been squared all around. We needed Groff every tick of the clock, and just because he ain't always polite in statin' his views over the wire wa'n't any first-class reason for us extendin' him an official invitation to go sew his head in a bag.
Uh-huh, them was Old Hickory's very words. I stood by while he writes the message. Then I takes it out and shows it to Piddie and grins. You should have seen Piddie's face. He turns the color of green pea soup and gasps. He's got all the fightin' qualities of a pet rabbit in him, Piddie has.
"But—but that is a flat insult," says he, "and Mr. Groff is a very irascible person!"
"A which?" says I. "Never mind, though. If he's got anything on Old Hickory when it comes to pep in the disposition, he's the real Tabasco Tommy."
"But I still contend," says Piddie, "that this reply should not be sent."
"Course it shouldn't," says I. "But who's goin' to point that out to the boss? You?"
Piddie shudders. I'll bet he went home that night and told Wifey to prepare for the end of the world. Course, I knew it meant a muss. But when Old Hickory's been limpin' around with a gouty toe for two weeks, and his digestion's gone on the fritz, and things in gen'ral has been breakin' bad—well, it's a case of low barometer in our shop, and waitin' to see where the lightnin' strikes first. Might's well be pointed at Peter K., thinks I, as at some Wall Street magnate or me. Course, Groff goes up in the air a mile, threatens to resign from the board, and starts stirrin' up a minority move that's liable to end most anywhere.
Then, right in the midst of it, Old Hickory accumulates his annual case of grip, runs up a temperature that ain't got anything to do with his disposition, and his doctor gives orders for him not to move out of the house for a week.
So that throws the whole thing onto me and Mr. Robert. I was takin' it calm enough too; but with Mr. Robert it's different. He has his coat off that mornin', and his hair mussed up, and he's smokin' long brunette cigars instead of his usual cigarettes. He was pawin' over things panicky.
"Hang it all!" he explodes. "Some of these papers must go up to the Governor for his indorsement. Perhaps you'd better take them, Torchy. But you're not likely to find him in a very agreeable mood, you know."
"Oh, I can dodge," says I, gatherin' up the stuff. "And what's the dope? Do I dump these on the bed and make a slide for life, or so I take out accident insurance and then stick around for orders?"
"You may—er—stick around," says Mr. Robert. "In fact, my chief reason for sending you up to the house is the fact that at times you are apt to have a cheering effect on the Governor. So stay as long as you find any excuse.
"Gee!" says I. "I don't know whether this is a special holiday, or a sentence to sudden death. But I'll take a chance, and if the worst happens, Mr. Robert, see that Piddie wears a black armband for me."
He indulges in the first grin he's had on for a week, and I makes my exit on that. The science of bein' fresh is to know where to quit.
But, say, that wa'n't all guff we was exchangin' about Old Hickory. I don't find him tucked away under the down comf'tables, like he ought to be. Marston, the butler, whispers the boss is in the lib'ry, and sort of shunts me in without appearin' himself. A wise guy, Marston.
For here's Mr. Ellins, wearin' a padded silk dressin' gown and old slippers, pacin' back and forth limpy and lettin' out grunts and growls at every turn. Talk about your double-distilled grouches! He looks like he'd been on a diet of mixed pickles and scrap iron for a month, and hated the whole human race.
"Well?" he snaps as he sees me edgin' in cautious.
"Papers for your O. K," says I, holdin' the bunch out at arm's length.
"My O. K.?" he snarls. "Bah! Now what the zebra-striped Zacharias do they send those things to me for? What good am I, anyway, except as a common carrier for all the blinkety blinked aches and pains that ever existed? A shivery, shaky old lump of clay streaked with cussedness, that's all I am!"
"Yes, Sir," says I, from force of habit.
"Eh?" says he, whirlin' and snappin' his jaws.
"N-n-no, Sir," says I, sidesteppin' behind a chair.
"That's right," says he. "Dodge and squirm as if I was a wild animal. That's what they all do. What are you afraid of, Boy?"
"Me?" says I. "Why, I'm havin' the time of my life. I don't mind. It only sounds natural and homelike. And it's mostly bluff, ain't it, Mr. Ellins?"
"Discovered!" says he. "Ah, the merciless perspicacity of youth! But don't tell the others. And put those papers on my desk."
"Yes, Sir," says I, and after I've spread 'em out I backs into the bay window and sits down.
"Well, what are you doing there?" says he.
"Waiting orders," says I. "Any errands, Mr. Ellins?"
"Errands?" says he. Then, after thinkin' a second, he raps out, "Yes. Do you see that collection of bottles and pills and glasses on the table? Enough to stock a young drugstore! And I've been pouring that truck into my system by wholesale,—the pink tablets on the half-hour, the white ones on the quarter, a spoonful of that purple liquid on the even hour, two of the greenish mixtures on the odd, and getting worse every day. Bah! I haven't the courage to do it myself, but by the blue-belted blazes if—— See here, Boy! You're waiting orders, you say?"
"Uh-huh!" says I.
"Then open that window and throw the whole lot into the areaway," says he.
"Do you mean it, Mr. Ellins?" says I.
"Do I—yah, don't I speak plain English?" he growls. "Can't you understand a simple——"
"I got you," I breaks in. "Out it goes!" I don't drop any of it gentle, either. I slams bottles and glasses down on the flaggin' and chucks the pills into the next yard. I makes a clean sweep.
"Thanks, Torchy," says he. "The doctor will be here soon. I'll tell him you did it."
"Go as far as you like," says I. "Anything else, Sir?"
"Yes," says he. "Provide me with a temporary occupation."
"Come again," says I.
"I want something to do," says he. "Here I've been shut up in this confounded house for four mortal days! I can't read, can't eat, can't sleep. I just prowl around like a bear with a sore ear. I want something that will make me forget what a wretched, futile old fool I am. Do you know of anything that will fill the bill?"
"No, sir," says I.
"Then think," says he. "Come, where is that quick-firing, automatic intellect of yours? Think, Boy! What would you do if you were shut up like this?"
"Why," says I, "I—I might dig up some kind of games, I guess."
"Games!" says he. "That's worth considering. Well, here's some money. Go get 'em."
"But what kind, Sir?" says I.
"How the slithering Sisyphus should I know what kind?" he snaps. "Whose idea is this, anyway? You suggested games. Go get 'em, I tell you! I'll give you half an hour, while I'm looking over this stuff from the office. Just half an hour. Get out!"
It's a perfectly cute proposition, ain't it? Games for a heavy-podded old sinner like him, who's about as frivolous in his habits as one of them stone lions in front of the new city lib'ry! But here I was on my way with a yellow-backed twenty in one hand; so it's up to me to produce. I pikes straight down the avenue to a joint where they've got three floors filled with nothin' but juvenile joy junk, blows in there on the jump, nails a clerk that looks like he had more or less bean, waves the twenty at him, and remarks casual:
"Gimme the worth of that in things that'll amuse a fifty-eight-year-old kid who's sick abed and walkin' around the house."
Did I say clerk? I take it back. He was a salesman, that young gent was. Never raised an eyebrow, but proceeded to haul out samples, pass 'em up to me for inspection, and pile in a heap what I gives him the nod on. If I established a record for reckless buyin', he never mentions it. Inside of twenty minutes I'm on my way back, followed by a porter with both arms full.
"The doctor has come," says Marston. "He's in with Mr. Ellins now, Sir."
"Ob, is he?" says I. "Makes it very nice, don't it?" And, bein' as how I was Old Hickory's alibi, as you might say, I pikes right to the front.
"Here he is now," says Mr. Ellins.
And the Doc, who's a chesty, short-legged gent with a dome half under glass,—you know, sort of a skinned diamond with turf outfield effect,—he whirls on me accusin'. "Young man," says he, "do I understand that you had the impudence to——"
"Well, well!" breaks in Old Hickory, gettin' a glimpse of what the porter's unloading "What have we here? Look, Hirshway,—Torchy's drug substitute!"
"Eh?" says the Doc, starin' puzzled.
"Games," says Mr. Ellins, startin' to paw over the bundles. "Toys for a weary toiler. Let's inspect his selection. Now what's this in the box, Torchy?"
"Cut-up picture puzzle," says I. "Two hundred pieces. You fit 'em together."
"Fine!" says Old Hickory. "And this?"
"Ring toss," says I. "You try to throw them rope rings over the peg."
"I see," says he. "Excellent! That will be very amusing and instructive. Here's an airgun too."
"Ellins," says Doc Hirshway, "do you mean to say that at your age you are going to play with such childish things?"
"Why not?" says Old Hickory. "You forbid business. I must employ myself in some way, and Torchy recommends these."
"Bah!" says the Doc disgusted. "If I didn't know you so well, I should think your mind was affected."
"Think what you blamed please, you bald-headed old pill peddler!" raps back the boss, pokin' him playful in the ribs. "I'll bet you a fiver I can put more of these rings over than you can."
"Humph!" says the Doc. "I've no time to waste on silly games." And he stands by watchin' disapprovin' while Old Hickory makes an awkward stab at the peg. The nearest he comes to it is when he chucks one through the glass door of a curio cabinet, with a smash that brings the butler tiptoein' in.
"Did you ring, Sir?" says Marston.
"Not a blamed one!" says Mr. Ellins.
"Take it away, Marston. And then unwrap that large package. There! Now what the tessellated teacups is that!"
It's something I didn't know anything about myself; but the young gent at the store had been strong for puttin' it in, so I'd let it slide. It's a tin affair, painted bright green, with half a dozen little brass cups sunk in it. Some rubber balls and a kind of croquet mallet goes with it.
"Indoor golf!" says Old Hickory, readin' the instruction pamphlet. "Oh, I see! A putting green. Set it there on the rug, Marston. Now, let's see if I've forgotten how to putt."
We all gathers around while he tries to roll the balls into the cups. Out of six tries he lands just one. Next time he don't get any at all.
"Pooh!" says the Doc edgin' up int'rested. "Wretched putting form, Ellins, wretched! Don't tap it that way: sweep it along—-follow through, with your right elbow out. Here, let me show you!"
But Hirshway don't do much better. He manages to get two in; but one was a rank scratch.
"Ho-ho!" cackles Old Hickory. "Isn't so easy as it looks, eh, Hirshway? Now it's my turn again, and I'm betting ten I beat you."
"I take you," says the Doc.
And blamed if Old Hickory don't pull down the money!
Well, that's what started things. Next I knew they'd laid out a regular golf course, drivin' off from the rug in front of the desk, through the double doors into the drawin' room, then across the hall into the music room, around the grand piano to the left, through the back hall, into the lib'ry once more, and onto the tin green.
Marston is sent to dig out a couple sets of old golf clubs from the attic, and he is put to caddyin' for the Doc, while I carries the bag for the boss. Course they was usin' putters mostly, except for fancy loftin' strokes over bunkers that they'd built out of books and sofa pillows. And as the balls was softer than the regulation golf kind, with more bounce to 'em, all sorts of carom strokes was ruled in.
"No moving the chairs," announces Old Hickory. "All pieces of furniture are natural hazards."
"Agreed," says the Doc. "Playing stimies too, I suppose?"
"Stimies go," says the boss.
Say, maybe that wa'n't some batty performance, with them two old duffers golfin' all over the first floor of a Fifth-ave. house, disputin' about strokes, pokin' balls out from under tables and sofas, and me and Marston followin' along with the bags. They got as excited over it as if they'd been playin' for the International Championship, and when Old Hickory loses four strokes by gettin' his ball wedged in a corner he cuts loose with the real golfy language.
We was just finishin' the first round, with the score standin' fourteen to seventeen in favor of the Doc, when the front doorbell rings and a maid comes towin' in Piddie. Maybe his eyes don't stick out some too, as he takes in the scene, But Mr. Ellins is preparin' to make a shot for position in front of the green and he don't pay any attention.
"It's Mr. Piddie, Sir," says I.
"Hang Mr. Piddie!" says Old Hickory. "I can't see him now."
"But it's very important," says Piddie. "There's someone at the office who——"
"No, no, not now!" snaps the boss impatient.
And I gives Piddie the back-out signal. But you know how much sense he's got.
"I assure you, Mr. Ellins," he goes on, "that this is——"
"S-s-s-st!" says I. "Boom-boom! Outside!" and I jerks my thumb towards the door.
That settles Piddie. He fades.
A minute later Old Hickory gets a lucky carom off a chair leg and holes out in nineteen, with the Doc playin' twenty-one.
"Ha, ha!" chuckled the boss. "What's the matter with my form now, Hirshway? I'll go you another hole for the same stake."
The Doc was sore and eager to get back. They wa'n't much more'n fairly started, though, before there's other arrivals, that turns out to be no less than two of our directors, lookin' serious and worried.
"Mr. Rawson and Mr. Dunham," announces the maid.
"Here, Boy!" says the boss, catchin' me by the elbow. "What was that you said to Mr. Piddie,—that 'Boom-boom!' greeting?"
I gives it to him and the Doc in a stage whisper.
"Good!" says he. "Get that, Hirshway? Now let's spring it on 'em. All together now—S-s-s-st! Boom-boom! Outside!"
Say, it makes a hit with the directors, all right. First off they didn't seem to know whether they'd strayed into a bughouse, or were just bein' cheered; but when they sees Old Hickory's mouth corners they concludes to take it as a josh. It turns out that both of 'em are golf cranks too, and inside of three minutes they've forgot whatever it was they'd come for, they've shed their coats, and have been rung into a foursome.
Honest, of all the nutty performances! For there was no tellin' where them balls would roll to, and wherever they went the giddy old boys had to follow. I remember one of 'em was stretched out full length on his tummy in the front hall, tryin' to make a billiard shot from under a low hall seat, when there's another ring at the bell, and Marston, with a golf bag still slung over his shoulder, lets in a square-jawed, heavy-set old gent who glares around like he was lookin' for trouble and would be disappointed if he didn't find it.
"Mr. Peter K. Groff," announces Marston.
"Good night!" says I to myself. "The enemy is in our midst."
But Old Hickory never turns a hair. He stands there in his shirt sleeves gazin' calm at this grizzly old minin' plute, and then I sees a kind of cut-up twinkle flash in them deep-set eyes of his as he summons his foursome to gather around. I didn't know what was coming either, until they cuts loose with it. And for havin' had no practice they rips it out strong.
"S-s-s-st! Boom-boom! Outside!" comes the chorus.
It gets Peter K.'s goat too. His jaw comes open and his eyes pop. Next he swallows bard and flushes red behind the ears. "Ellins," says he, "I've come fifteen hundred miles to ask what you mean by telling me——"
"Oh, that you, Groff?" breaks in the boss. "Well, don't interrupt our game. Fore! You, I mean. Fore, there! Now go ahead, Rawson. Playing eleven, aren't you?"
And Rawson's just poked his ball out, makin' a neat carom into the music room, when the hall clock strikes five.
"By Jove, gentlemen!" exclaims Doc Hirshway. "Sorry, but I must quit. Should have been in my office an hour ago. I really must go."
"Quitter!" says Mr. Ellins. "But all right. Trot along. Here, Groff, you're a golfer, aren't you?"
"Why—er—yes," says Peter K., actin' sort of dazed; "but I——"
"That's enough," says Old Hickory. "You take Hirshway's place. Dunham's your partner. We're playing Nassau, ten a corner. But I'll tell you,—just to make it interesting, I'll play you on the side to see whether or not we accept that proposition of yours. Is it a go?"
"But see here, Ellins," conies back Peter K. "I want you to understand that you or any other man can't tell me to sew my head in a bag without——"
"Oh, drop that!" says Old Hickory. "I withdraw it—mostly gout, anyway. You ought to know that. And if you can beat me at this game I'll agree to let you have your own way out there. Are you on, or are you too much of a dub to try it?"
"Maybe I am a dub, Hickory Ellins," says Peter K., peelin' off his coat, "but any game that you can play—er—— Which is my ball?"
Well, it was some warm contest, believe me, with them two joshin' back and forth, and at the game time usin' as much foxy strategy as if they was stealin' railroads away from each other! They must have been at it for near half an hour when a maid slips in and whispers how Mr. Robert is callin' for me on the wire. So I puts her on to sub for me with the bag while I slides into the 'phone booth.
"Sure, Mr. Robert," says I, "I'm still on the job."
"But what is happening?" says he. "Didn't Groff come up?"
"Yep," says I. "He's here yet."
"You don't say!" says Mr. Robert. "Whe-e-ew! He and the governor having it hot and heavy, I suppose?"
"And then some," says I. "Peter K. took first round 12-17, he tied the second, and now he's trapped in the fireplace on a bad ten."
"Wha-a-at?" gasps Mr. Robert.
"Uh-huh," says I. "Mr. Ellins is layin' under the piano,—only seven, but stimied for an approach."
"In Heaven's name, Torchy," says Mr. Robert, "what do you mean? Mr. Groff trapped in the fireplace, father lying under the piano—why——"
"Ah, didn't Piddie tell you? The boob!" says I. "It's just golf, that's all—indoor kind—a batty variation that they made up themselves. But don't fret. Everything's all lovely, and I guess the Corrugated is saved. Come up and look 'em over."
Yep! Peter K. got the decision by slipping over a smear in the fourth, after which him and Old Hickory leans up against each other and laughs until their eyes leak. Then Marston wheels in the tea wagon full of decanters and club soda, and when I left they was clinkin' glasses real chummy.
"Son," says Old Hickory, as he pads into the office about noon next day, "I believe I forgot the usual caddie fee. There you are."
"Z-z-z-zing!" says I, starin' after him. Cute little strips of Treasury kale, them with the C's in the corners, aren't they? Well, I should worry!