We was right in the midst of practisin' the sidewise dip, when who should show up but the happy bridegroom!][Illustration: We was right in the midst of practisin' the sidewise dip,when who should show up but the happy bridegroom!]
We was right in the midst of practisin' the sidewise dip, when who should show up but the happy bridegroom!][Illustration: We was right in the midst of practisin' the sidewise dip,when who should show up but the happy bridegroom!]
"Oh, that you, old Grumpy?" says young Mrs. Talbot, stoppin' for a minute. "You remember Torchy, from Uncle Robert's office, don't you? He came up with some orchids. We're having such fun too."
"Looks so," says Nick. "Can't I cut in?"
"Oh, bother!" says Robbie. "No, I'm tired now."
"Just one dance!" pleads Nick.
"Oh, afterward, perhaps," says she. "There! Just look at those silly orchids! Aren't they sights?" With that she snakes 'em out and tosses the wilted bunch careless over the veranda rail. "And now," she adds, "I must dress for dinner."
"You've nearly two hours, Pet," protests Nick. "Come to the outlook with me and watch the sunset."
"It's too lonesome," says Robbie, and off she goes.
It should have happened then, if ever. I was standin' by, waitin' for him to cut loose with the cruel words, and maybe introduce a little hair-draggin' scene. But Nick Talbot just stands there gazin' after her kind of sad and mushy, not even grindin' his teeth. Next he sighs, drops his chin, and slumps into a chair. Honest, that got me; for it was real woe showin' on his face, and he seems to be strugglin' with it man fashion. Somehow it seemed up to me to come across with a few soothin' remarks.
"Sorry I butted in," says I; "but Mr. Robert sent me up with the flowers."
"Oh, that's all right," says he. "Glad you came. I—I suppose she needed someone else to—to talk to."
"But you wouldn't stand for invite the leftovers on your honeymoon, eh?" I suggests.
"No, hang it all!" says he. "That was too much. She—she mentioned it, did she?"
"Just casual," says I. "I take it things ain't been goin' smooth gen'rally?"
He nods gloomy. "You were bound to notice it," says he. "Anyone would. I haven't been able to humor all her whims. Of course, she's been used to having so much going on around her that this must seem rather tame; but I thought, you know, that when we were married—well, she doesn't seem to realize. And I've offered to take her anywhere,—to Newport, to Lenox, to the White Mountains, or touring. Three times this week we've packed to go to different places, and then she's changed her mind. But I can't take her back to Long Island, to her mother's, so soon, or ask a lot of her friends up here. It would be absurd. But things can't go on this way, either. It—it's awful!"
I leaves him with his chin propped up in his hands, starin' gloomy at the floor, while I wanders out and pipes off the sun dodgin' behind the hills.
Later on Robbie insists on draggin' me in for dinner with 'em. She's some dream too, the way she's got herself up, and lighted up by the pink candleshades, with them big pansy eyes sparkling and the color comin' and goin' in her cheeks—say, it most made me dizzy to look. Then to hear her rattle on in her cute, kittenish way was better'n a cabaret show. Mostly, though, it's aimed at me; while Nick Talbot is left to play a thinkin' part. He sits watchin' her with sort of a dumb, hungry look, like a big dog.
And it was a punk dinner in other ways. The soup was scorched somethin' fierce; but Robbie don't seem to notice it. The roast lamb hadn't had the red cooked out of it; but Robbie only asks what kind of meat it is and remarks that it tastes queer. She has a reg'lar fit, though, because the dessert is peach ice-cream with fresh fruit flavorin'.
"And Cook ought to know that I like strawberry better," says she.
"But it's too late for strawberries," explains Nick.
"I don't care!" pouts Robbie. "I don't like this, and I'm going to send it all back to the kitchen." She does it too, and the maid grins impudent as she lugs it out.
That was a sample of the way Robbie behaved for the rest of the evenin',—chatterin' and laughin' one minute, almost weepin' the next; until fin'lly she slams down the piano cover and flounces off to her room. Nick Talbot sits bitin' his lips and lookin' desp'rate.
"I'm sure I don't know what to do," says he half to himself.
At that I can't hold it any longer. "Say, Talbot," says I, "before we get any further I got to own up that I'm a ringer."
"A—a what!" says he, starin' puzzled.
"I'm supposed to be here just as a special messenger," says I; "but, on the level, I was sent up here to sleuth for brutal acts. Uh-huh! That's what the folks at home think, from the letters she's been writin'. Mr. Robert was dead sure of it. But I see now they had the wrong dope. I guess I've got the idea. What you're up against is simply a spoiled kid proposition, and if you don't mind my mixin' in I'd like to state what I think I'd do if it was me."
"Well, what?" says he.
"I'd whittle a handle on a good thick shingle," says I, "and use it."
He stiffens a little at that first off, and then looks at me curious. Next he chuckles. "By Jove, though!" says he after awhile.
Yes, we had a long talk, chummy and confidential, and before we turns in Nick has plotted out a substitute for the shingle programme that he promises to try on first thing next morning I didn't expect to be in on it; but we happens to be sittin' on the veranda waitin' for breakfast, when out comes Robbie in a pink mornin' gown with a cute boudoir cap on her head.
"Why haven't they sent up my coffee and rolls?" she demands.
"Did you order them, Robbie?" says Nick.
"Why no," says she. "Didn't you?"
"No," says Nick. "I'm not going to, either. You're mistress of the house, you know, Robbie, and from now on you are in full charge."
"But—but I thought Mrs. Parkins, the housekeeper, was to manage all those things," says she.
"You said yesterday you couldn't bear Mrs. Parkins," says Nick; "so I'm sending her back to town. She's packing her things now. There are four servants left, though, which is enough. But they need straightening out. They are squabbling over their work, and neglecting it. You will have to settle all that."
"But—but, Nick," protests Robbie, "I'm sure I know nothing at all about it."
"As my wife you are supposed to," says Nick. "You must learn. Anyway, I've told them they needn't do another stroke until they get orders from you. And I wish you'd begin. I'd rather like breakfast."
He's real calm and pleasant about it; but there's somethin' solid about the way his jaw is set. Robbie eyes him a minute hesitatin' and doubtful, like a schoolgirl that's bein' scolded. Then all of a sudden there's a change. The pout comes off her lips, her chin stops trembling and she squares her shoulders.
"I'm—I'm sorry, Nicholas," says she. "I—I'll do my best." And off she marches to the kitchen.
And, say, half an hour later we were all sittin' down to as good a ham omelet as I ever tasted. When I left with Nick to catch the forenoon express, young Mrs. Talbot was chewin' the end of a lead pencil, with them pansy eyes of hers glued on a pad where she was dopin' out her first dinner order. She would break away from it only long enough to give Hubby a little bird peck on the cheek; but he seems tickled to death with that.
So it wa'n't any long report I has to hand in to Mr. Robert that night.
"All bunk!" says I. "Just a case of a honeymoon that rose a little late. It's shinin' steady now, though. But, say, I hope I'm never batty enough to fall for one of the butterfly kind. If I do—good night!"
Maybe it ain't figured in the headlines, or been noised around enough for the common stockholders to get panicky over it, but, believe me, it was some battle! Uh-huh! What else could you expect with Old Hickory Ellins on one side and George Wesley Jones on the other? And me? Say, as it happens, I was right on the firin' line. Talk about your drummer boys of '61—I guess the office boy of this A. M. ain't such a dead one!
Course I knew when Piddie begins tiptoein' around important, and Mr. Robert cuts his lunchtime down to an hour, that there's something in the air besides humidity.
"Boy," says Old Hickory, shootin' his words out past the stub of a thick black cigar, "I'm expecting a Mr. Jones sometime this afternoon."
"Yes, Sir," says I. "Any particular Jones, Sir?"
"That," says he, "is a detail with which you need not burden your mind. I am not anticipating a convention of Joneses."
"Oh!" says I. "I was only thinkin' that in case some other guy by the same names should——"
"Yes, I understand," he breaks in; "but in that remote contingency I will do my best to handle the situation alone. And when Mr. Jones comes show him in at once. After that I am engaged for the remainder of the day. Is that quite clear?"
"I'm next," says I. "Pass a Jones, and then set the block."
If he thought he could mesmerize me by any such simple motions as that he had another guess. Why, even if it had been my first day on the job, I'd have been hep that it wa'n't any common weekday Jones he was expectin' to stray in accidental. Besides, the minute I spots that long, thin nose, the close-cropped, grizzly mustache, and the tired gray eyes with the heavy bags underneath, I knew it was George Wesley himself. Ain't his pictures been printed often enough lately?
He looks the part too, and no wonder! If I'd been hammered the way he has, with seventeen varieties of Rube Legislatures shootin' my past career as full of holes as a Swiss cheese, grand juries handin' down new indictments every week end, four thousand grouchy share-holders howlin' about pared dividends, and twice as many editorial pens proddin' 'em along——well, take it from me, I'd be on my way towards the tall trees with my tongue hangin' out!
Here he is, though, with his shoulders back and a sketchy, sarcastic smile flickerin' in his mouth corners as he shows up for a hand-to-hand set-to with Old Hickory Ellins. Course it's news to me that the Corrugated interests and the P., B. & R. road are mixed up anywhere along the line; but it ain't surprisin'.
Besides mines and rollin' mills, we do a wholesale grocery business, run a few banks, own a lot of steam freighters, and have all kinds of queer ginks on our payroll, from welfare workers to would-be statesmen. We're always ready to slip one of our directors onto a railroad board too; so I takes it that the way P., B. & R. has been juggled lately was a game that touches us somewhere on the raw. Must be some kind of a war on the slate, or Old Hickory'd never called for a topliner like George Wesley Jones to come on the carpet. If it had been a case of passin' the peace pipe, Mr. Ellins would be goin' out to Chicago to see him.
"Mr. Jones, Sir," says I, throwin' the private office door wide open so it would take me longer to shut it.
But Old Hickory don't intend to give me any chance to pipe off the greetin'. He just glances casual at Mr. Jones, then fixes them rock-drill eyes of his on me, jerks his thumb impatient over his shoulder, and waits until there's three inches of fireproof material between me and the scene of the conflict.
So I strolls back to my chair behind the brass rail and winks mysterious at the lady typists. Two of 'em giggles nervous. Say, they got more curiosity, them flossy key pounders! Not one of the bunch but what knew things was doin'; but what it was all about would have taken me a week to explain to 'em, even if I'd known myself.
And I expect I wouldn't have had more'n a vague glimmer, either, if it hadn't been for Piddie. You might know he'd play the boob somehow if anything important was on. Say, if he'd trotted in there once durin' the forenoon he'd been in a dozen times; seein' that the inkwells was filled, puttin' on new desk blotters, and such fool things as that. Yet about three-fifteen, right in the middle of the bout, he has to answer a ring, and it turns out he's forgotten some important papers.
"Here, Boy," says he, comin' out peevish, "this must go to Mr. Ellins at once."
"Huh!" says I, glancin' at the file title. "Copy of charter of the Palisades Electric! At once is good. Ought to have been on Mr. Ellins's desk hours ago."
"Boy!" he explodes threatenin'.
"Ah, ditch the hysterics, Peddie!" says I. "It's all right now I'm on the job," and with a grin to comfort him I slips through Mr. Robert's room and taps on the door of the boss's private office before blowin' in.
And, say, it looks like I've arrived almost in time for the final clinch. Old Hickory is leanin' forward earnest, his jaw shoved out, his eyes narrowed to slits, and he's poundin' the chair arm with his big ham fist.
"What I want to know, Jones," he's sayin', "is simply this: Are your folks going to drop that Palisades road scheme, or aren't you?"
Course, I can't break into a dialogue at a point like that; so I closes the door gentle behind me and backs against the knob, watchin' George Wesley, who's sittin' there with his chin down and his eyes on the rug.
"Really, Ellins," says he, "I can't give you an answer to that. I—er—I must refer you to our Mr. Sturgis."
"Eh?" snaps old Hickory. "Sturgis! Who the syncopated sculping is Sturgis?"
"Why," says Mr. Jones, "Percey J. Sturgis. He is my personal agent in all such matters, and this—well, this happens to be his pet enterprise."
"But it would parallel our proposed West Point line," says Mr. Ellins.
"I know," says G. Wesley, sighin' weary. "But he secured his charter for this two years ago, and I promised to back him. He insists on pushing it through too. I can't very well call him off, you see."
"Can't, eh?" raps out Old Hickory. "Then let me try. Send for him."
"No use," says Mr. Jones. "He understands your attitude. He wouldn't come. I should advise, if you have any proposal to make, that you send a representative to him."
"I go to him," snorts Mr. Ellins, "to this understrapper of yours, this Mr. Percey—er——"
"Sturgis," puts in George Wesley. "He has offices in our building. And, really, it's the only way."
Old Hickory glares and puffs like he was goin' to blow a cylinder head. But that's just what Hickory Ellins don't do at a time like this. When you think he's nearest to goin' up with a bang, that's the time when he's apt to calm down sudden and shift tactics. He does now. Motionin' me to come to the front, he takes the envelope I hands over, glances at it thoughtful a second, and then remarks casual:
"Very well, Jones. I'll send a representative to your Mr. Sturgis. I'll send Torchy, here."
I don't know which of us gasped louder, me or George Wesley. Got him in the short ribs, that proposition did. But, say, he's a game old sport, even if the papers are callin' him everything from highway robber to yellow dog. He shrugs his shoulders and bows polite.
"As you choose, Ellins," says he.
Maybe he thinks it's a bluff; but it's nothing like that.
"Boy," says Old Hickory, handin' back the envelope, "go find Mr. Percey J. Sturgis, explain to him that the president of the P., B. & R. is bound under a personal agreement not to parallel any lines in which the Corrugated holds a one-third interest. Tell him I demand that he quit on this Palisades route. If he won't, offer to buy his blasted charter. Bid up to one hundred thousand, then 'phone me. Got all that?"
"I could say it backwards," says I. "Shake the club first; then wave the kale at him. Do I take a flyin' start?"
"Go now," says Old Hickory. "We will wait here until five. If he wants to know who you are, tell him you're my office boy."
Wa'n't that rubbin' in the salt, though? But it ain't safe to stir up Hickory Ellins unless you got him tied to a post, and even then you want to use a long stick. As I sails out and grabs my new fall derby off the peg Piddie asks breathless:
"What's the matter now, and where are you off to?"
"Outside business for the boss," says I. "Buyin' up a railroad for him, that's all."
I left him purple in the face, dashes across to the Subway, and inside of fifteen minutes I'm listenin' fidgety while a private secretary explains how Mr. Sturgis is just leavin' town on important business and can't possibly see me today.
"Deah-uh me!" says I. "How distressin'! Say, you watch me flag him on the jump."
"But I've just told you," insists the secretary, "that Mr. Sturgis cannot——"
"Ah, mooshwaw!" says I. "This is a case of must—see? If you put me out I'll lay for him on the way to the elevator."
Course with some parties that might be a risky tackle; but anyone with a front name like Percey I'm takin' a chance on. Percey! Listens like one of the silky-haired kind that wears heliotrope silk socks, don't it? But, say, what finally shows up is a wide, heavy built gent with a big, homespun sort of face, crispy brown hair a little long over the ears, and the steadiest pair of bright brown eyes I ever saw. Nothing fancy or frail about Percey J. Sturgis. He's solid and substantial, from his wide-soled No. 10's up to the crown of his seven three-quarter hat. He has a raincoat thrown careless over one arm, and he's smokin' a cigar as big and black as any of Old Hickory's.
"Well, what is it, Son?" says he in one of them deep barytones that you feel all the way through to your backbone.
And this is what I've been sent out either to scare off or buy up! Still, you can't die but once.
"I'm from Mr. Ellins of the Corrugated Trust," says I.
"Ah!" says he, smilin' easy.
Well, considerin' how my knees was wabblin', I expect I put the proposition over fairly strong.
"You may tell Mr. Ellins for me," says he, "that I don't intend to quit."
"Then it's a case of buy," says I. "What's the charter worth, spot cash?"
"Sorry," says he, "but I'm too busy to talk about that just now. I'm just starting for North Jersey."
"Suppose I trail along a ways then?" says I. "Mr. Ellins is waitin' for an answer."
"Is he?" says Percey J. "Then come, if you wish." And what does he do but tow me down to a big tourin' car and wave me into one of the back seats with him. Listens quiet to all I've got to say too, while we're tearin' uptown, noddin' his head now and then, with them wide-set brown eyes of his watchin' me amused and curious. But the scare I'm tryin' to throw into him don't seem to take effect at all.
"Let's see," says he, as we rolls onto the Fort Lee ferry, "just what is your official position with the Corrugated?"
I'd planned to shoot it at him bold and crushin'. But somehow it don't happen that way.
"Head office boy," says I, blushin' apologizin'; "but Mr. Ellins sent me out himself."
"Indeed?" says he. "Another of his original ideas. A brilliant man, Mr. Ellins."
"He's some stayer in a scrap, believe me!" says I. "And he's got the harpoon out for this Palisades road."
"So have a good many others," says Mr. Sturgis, chucklin'. "In fact, I don't mind admitting that I am as near to being beaten on this enterprise as I've ever been on anything in any life. But if I am beaten, it will not be by Mr. Ellins. It will be by a hard-headed old Scotch farmer who owns sixty acres of scrubby land which I must cross in order to complete my right of way. He won't sell a foot. I've been trying for six months to get in touch with him; but he's as stubborn as a cedar stump. And if I don't run a car over rails before next June my charter lapses. So I'm going up now to try a personal interview. If I fail, my charter isn't worth a postage stamp. But, win or lose, it isn't for sale to Hickory Ellins."
He wa'n't ugly about it. He just states the case calm and conversational; but somehow you was dead sure he meant it.
"All right," says I. "Then maybe when I see how you come out I'll have something definite to report."
"You should," says he.
That's where we dropped the subject. It's some swell ride we had up along the top of the Palisades, and on and on until we're well across the State line into New York. Along about four-thirty he says we're most there. We was rollin' through a jay four corners, where the postoffice occupies one window of the gen'ral store, with the Masonic Lodge overhead, when alongside the road we comes across a little tow-headed girl, maybe eight or nine, pawin' around in the grass and sobbin' doleful.
"Hold up, Martin," sings out Mr. Sturgis to the chauffeur, and Martin jams on his emergency so the brake drums squeal.
What do you guess? Why Percey J. climbs out, asks the kid gentle what all the woe is about, and discovers that she's lost a whole nickel that Daddy has given her to buy lolly-pops with on account of its bein' her birthday.
"Now that's too bad, isn't it, little one?" says Mr. Sturgis. "But I guess we can fix that. Come on. Martin, take us back to the store."
Took out his handkerchief, Percey did, and swabbed off the tear stains, all the while talkin' low and soothin' to the kid, until he got her calmed down. And when they came out of the store she was carryin' a pound box of choc'late creams tied up flossy with a pink ribbon. With her eyes bugged and so tickled she can't say a word, she lets go of his hand and dashes back up the road, most likely bent on showin' the folks at home the results of the miracle that's happened to her.
That's the kind of a guy Percey J. Sturgis is, even when he has worries of his own. You'd most thought he was due for a run of luck after a kind act like that. But someone must have had their fingers crossed; for as Martin backs up to turn around he connects a rear tire with a broken ginger ale bottle and—s-s-s-sh! out goes eighty-five pounds' pressure to the square inch. No remark from Mr. Sturgis. He lights a fresh cigar and for twenty-five minutes by the dash clock Martin is busy shiftin' that husky shoe.
So we're some behind schedule when we pulls up under the horse chestnut trees a quarter of a mile beyond in front of a barny, weather-beaten old farmhouse where there's a sour-faced, square-jawed old pirate sittin' in a home made barrel chair smokin' his pipe and scowlin' gloomy at the world in gen'ral. It's Ross himself. Percey J. don't waste any hot air tryin' to melt him. He tells the old guy plain and simple who he is and what he's after.
"Dinna talk to me, Mon," says Ross. "I'm no sellin' the farm."
"May I ask your reasons?" says Mr. Sturgis.
Ross frowns at him a minute without sayin' a word. Then he pries the stubby pipe out from the bristly whiskers and points a crooked finger toward a little bunch of old apple trees on a low knoll.
"Yon's my reason, Mon," says he solemn. "Yon wee white stone. Three bairns and the good wife lay under it. I'm no sae youthful mysel'. And when it's time for me to go I'd be sleepin' peaceful, with none o' your rattlin' trolley cars comin' near. That's why, Mon."
"Thank you, Mr. Ross," says Percey J. "I can appreciate your sentiments. However, our line would run through the opposite side of your farm, away over there. All we ask is a fifty-foot strip across your——"
"You canna have it," says Ross decided, insertin' the pipe once more.
Which is where most of us would have weakened, I expect. Not Mr. Sturgis.
"Just a moment, Friend Ross," says he. "I suppose you know I have the P., B. & R. back of me, and it's more than likely that your neighbors have said things about us. There is some ground for prejudice too. Our recent stock deals look rather bad from the outside. There have been other circumstances that are not in our favor. But I want to assure you that this enterprise is a genuine, honest attempt to benefit you and your community. It is my own. It is part of the general policy of the road for which I am quite willing to be held largely responsible. Why, I've had this project for a Palisades trolley road in mind ever since I came on here a poor boy, twenty-odd years ago, and took my first trip down the Hudson. This ought to be a rich, prosperous country here. It isn't. A good electric line, such as I propose to build, equipped with heavy passenger cars and running a cheap freight service, would develop this section. It would open to the public a hundred-mile trip that for scenic grandeur could be equaled nowhere in this country. Are you going to stand in the way, Mr. Ross, of an enterprise such as that?"
Yep, he was. He puffs away just as mulish as ever.
"Of course," goes on Percey, "it's nothing to you; but the one ambition of my life has been to build this road. I want to do for this district what some of our great railroad builders did for the big West. I'm not a city-bred theorist, nor a Wall Street stock manipulator. I was born in a one-story log house on a Minnesota farm, and when I was a boy we hauled our corn and potatoes thirty miles to a river steamboat. Then the railroad came through. Now my brothers sack their crops almost within sight of a grain elevator. They live in comfortable houses, send their children to good schools. So do their neighbors. The railroad has turned a wilderness into a civilized community. On a smaller scale here is a like opportunity. If you will let us have that fifty-foot strip——"
"Na, Mon, not an inch!" breaks in Ross.
How he could stick to it against that smooth line of talk I couldn't see. Why, say, it was the most convincin', heart-throbby stuff I'd ever listened to, and if it had been me I'd made Percey J. a present of the whole shootin' match.
"But see here, Mr. Ross," goes on Sturgis, "I would like to show you just what we——"
"Daddy! Daddy!" comes a pipin' hail from somewhere inside, and out dances a barefooted youngster in a faded blue and white dress. It's the little heroine of the lost nickel. For a second she gawps at us sort of scared, and almost decides to scuttle back into the house. Then she gets another look at Percey J., smiles shy, and sticks one finger in her mouth. Percey he smiles back encouragin' and holds out a big, friendly hand. That wins her.
"Oh, Daddy!" says she, puttin' her little fist in Percey's confidential. "It's the mans what gimme the candy in the pitty box!"
As for Daddy Ross, he stares like he couldn't believe his eyes. But there's the youngster cuddled up against Percey J.'s knee and glancin' up at him admirin'.
"Is ut so, Mon?" demands Ross husky, "Was it you give the lass the sweeties?"
"Why, yes," admitted Sturgis.
"Then you shall be knowin'," goes on Ross, "that yon lassie is all I have left in the world that I care a bawbee for. You've done it, Mon. Tak' as much of the farm as you like at your own price."
Well, that's the way Percey J. Sturgis won out. A lucky stroke, eh? Take it from me, there was more'n that in it. Hardly a word he says durin' the run back; for he's as quiet and easy when he's on top as when he's the under dog. We shakes hands friendly as he drops me uptown long after dark.
I had all night to think it over; but when I starts for Old Hickory's office next mornin' I hadn't doped out how I was goin' to put it.
"Well, what about Percey?" says he.
"He's the goods," says I.
"Couldn't scare him, eh?" says Old Hickory.
"Not if I'd been a mile high," says I. "He won't sell, either. And say, Mr. Ellins, you want to get next to Percey J. The way I look at it, this George Wesley Jones stiff ain't the man behind him; Percey is the man behind Jones."
"H-m-m-m-m!" says Old Hickory. "I knew there was someone; but I couldn't trace him. So it's Sturgis, eh? That being so, we need him with us."
"But ain't he tied up with Jones?" says I.
"Jones is a dead dog," says Old Hickory. "At least, he will be inside of a week."
That was some prophecy, eh? Read in the papers, didn't you, how G. Wesley cables over his resignation from Baden Two Times? Couldn't stand the strain. The directors are still squabblin' over who to put in as head of the P., B. & R.; but if you want to play a straight inside tip put your money on Percey J. Uh-huh! Him and Old Hickory have been confabbin' in there over an hour now, and if he hadn't flopped to our side would Mr. Ellins be tellin' him funny stories? Anyway, we're backin' that Palisades line now, and it's goin' through with a whoop.
Which is earnin' some int'rest on a pound of choc'lates and a smile. What?
I knew something or other outside of business was puttin' hectic spots in Old Hickory's disposition these last few days; but not until late yesterday did I guess it was Cousin Inez.
I expect the Ellins family wasn't any too proud of Cousin Inez, to start with; for among other things she's got a matrimonial record. Three hubbies so far, I understand, two safe in a neat kept plot out in Los Angeles; one in the discards—and she's just been celebratin' the decree by travelin' abroad. They hadn't seen much of her for years; but durin' this New York stopover visit she seemed to be makin' up for lost time.
About four foot eight Cousin Inez was in her French heels, and fairly thick through. Maybe it was the way she dressed, but from just below her double chin she looked the same size all the way down. Tie a Bulgarian sash on a sack of bran, and you've got the model. Inez was a bear for sashes too. Another thing she was strong on was hair. Course, the store blond part didn't quite match the sandy gray that grew underneath, and the near-auburn frontispiece was another tint still; but all that added variety and quantity—and what more could you ask?
Her bein' some pop-eyed helped you to remember Inez the second time. About the size of hard-boiled eggs, peeled, them eyes of hers was, and most the same color. They say she's a wise old girl though,—carries on three diff'rent business propositions left by her late string of husbands, goes in deep for classical music, and is some kind of a high priestess in the theosophy game. A bit faddy, I judged, with maybe a few bats in her belfry.
But when it comes to investin' some of her surplus funds in Corrugated preferred she has to have a good look at the books first, and makes Cousin Hickory Ellins explain some items in the annual report. Three or four times she was down to the gen'ral offices before the deal went through.
This last visit of hers was something diff'rent, though.
I took the message down to Martin, the chauffeur myself. It was a straight call on the carpet. "Tell Cousin Inez the boss wants to see her before she goes out this afternoon," says I, "and wait with the limousine until she comes."
Old Hickory was pacin' his private office, scowlin' and grouchy, as he sends the word, and it didn't take any second sight to guess he was peeved about something. I has to snicker too when Cousin Inez floats in, smilin' mushy as usual.
She wa'n't smilin' any when she drifts out half an hour later. She's some flushed behind the ears, and her complexion was a little streaked under the eyes. She holds her chin up defiant, though, and slams the brass gate behind her. She'd hardly caught the elevator before there comes a snappy call for me on the buzzer.
"Boy," says Old Hickory, glarin' at me savage, "who is this T. Virgil Bunn?"
Almost had me tongue-tied for a minute, he shoots it at me so sudden. "Eh?" says I. "T. Virgil? Why, he's the sculptor poet."
"So I gather from this thing," says he, wavin' a thin book bound in baby blue and gold. "But what in the name of Sardanapalus and Xenophon is a sculptor poet, anyway?"
"Why, it's—it's—well, that's the way the papers always give it," says I. "Beyond that I pass."
"Humph!" grunts Old Hickory. "Then perhaps you'll tell me if this is poetry. Listen!
"'Like necklaces of diamonds hungAbout my lady sweet,So do we string our votive areaAll up and down each street.They shine upon the young and old,The fair, the sad, the grim, the gay;Who gather here from far and nearTo worship in our Great White Way.'
"Now what's your honest opinion of that, Son? Is it poetry?
"Listens something like it," says I; "but I wouldn't want to say for sure."
"Nor I," says Mr. Ellins. "All I'm certain of is that it isn't sculpture, and that if I should read any more of it I'd be seasick. But in T. Virgil Bunn himself I have an active and personal interest. Anything to offer?"
"Not a glimmer," says I.
"And I suppose you could find nothing out?" he goes on.
"I could make a stab," says I.
"Make a deep one, then," says he, slippin' over a couple of tens for an expense fund.
And, say, I knew when Old Hickory begins by unbeltin' so reckless that he don't mean any casual skimmin' through club annuals for a report.
"What's the idea?" says I. "Is it for a financial rating or a regular dragnet of past performances?"
"Everything you can discover without taking him apart," says Old Hickory. "In short, I want to know the kind of person who can cause a fifty-five-year-old widow with grown sons to make a blinkety blinked fool of herself."
"He's a charmer, eh?" says I.
"Evidently," says Mr. Ellins. "Behold this inscription here, 'To dear Inez, My Lady of the Unfettered Soul—from Virgie.' Get the point, Son? 'To dear Inez'! Bah! Is he color blind, or what ails him? Of course it's her money he's after, and for the sake of her boys I'm going to block him. There! You see what I want?"
"Sure!" says I. "You got to have details about Virgie before you can ditch him. Well, I'll see what I can dig up."
Maybe it strikes you as a chesty bluff for a juvenile party like me to start with no more clew than that to round up in a few hours what a high-priced sleuth agency would take a week for. But, say, I didn't stand guard on the Sunday editor's door two years with my eyes and ears shut. Course, there's always the city and 'phone directories to start with. Next you turn to the Who book if you suspect he's ever done any public stunt. But, say, swallow that Who dope cautious. They let 'em write their own tickets in that, you know, and you got to make allowances for the size of the hat-band.
I'd got that far, discovered that Virgie owned up to bein' thirty-five and a bachelor, that he was born in Schoharie, son of Telemachus J. and Matilda Smith Bunn, and that he'd once been president of the village literary club, when I remembers the clippin' files we used to have back on Newspaper Row. So down I hikes—and who should I stack up against, driftin' gloomy through the lower lobby, but Whity Meeks, that used to be the star man on the Sunday sheet. Course, it wa'n't any miracle; for Whity's almost as much of a fixture there as Old Gluefoot, the librarian, or the finger marks on the iron pillars in the press-room.
A sad example of blighted ambitions, Whity is. When I first knew him he had a fresh one every Monday mornin', and they ranged all the way from him plannin' to be a second Dicky Davis to a scheme he had for hookin' up with Tammany and bein' sent to Congress. Clever boy too. He could dash off ponies that was almost good enough to print, dope out the first two acts of a play that was bound to make his fortune if he could ever finish it, and fake speeches that he'd never heard a word of.
When he got to doin' Wall Street news, though, and absorbed the idea that he could stack his little thirty per against the system and break the bucketshops—well, that was his finish. Two killings that he made by chance, and he was as good as chained to the ticker for life. No more new rosy dreams for him: always the same one,—of the day when he was goin' to show Sully how a cotton corner really ought to be pulled off, a day when the closin' gong would find him with the City Bank in one fist and the Subtreasury in the other. You've met that kind, maybe. Only Whity always tried to dress the part, in a sporty shepherd plaid, with a checked hat and checked silk socks to match. He has the same regalia on now, with a carnation in his buttonhole.
"Well, mounting margins!" says he, as I swings him round by the arm. "Torchy! Whither away? Come down to buy publicity space for the Corrugated, have you?"
"Not in a rag like yours, Whity," says I, "when we own stock in two real papers. I'm out on a little private gumshoe work for the boss."
"Sounds thrilling," says he. "Any copy in it?"
"I'd be chatterin' it to you, wouldn't I?" says I. "Nix! Just plain fam'ly scrap over whether Cousin Inez shall marry again or not. My job is to get something on the guy. Don't happen to have any special dope on T. Virgil Bunn, the sculptor poet, do you?"
Whity stares at me. "Do I?" says he.
"Say!" Then he leads me over between the 'phone booth and the cigar stand, flashes an assignment pad, and remarks, "Gaze on that second item, my boy."
"Woof! That's him, all right," says I. "But what's a bouillabaisse tea?"
"Heaven and Virgil Bunn only know," says Whity. "But that doesn't matter. Think of the subtle irony of Fate that sends me up to make a column story out of Virgie Bunn! Me, of all persons!"
"Well, why not you?" says I.
"Why?" says Whity. "Because I made the fellow. He—why, he is my joke, the biggest scream I ever put over—my joke, understand? And now this adumbrated ass of a Quigley, who's been sent on here from St. Louis to take the city desk, he falls for Virgie as a genuine personage. Not only that, but picks me out to cover this phony tea of his. And the stinging part is, if I don't I get canned, that's all."
"Ain't he the goods, then?" says I. "What about this sculptor poet business?"
"Bunk," says Whity, "nothing but bunk. Of course, he does putter around with modeling clay a bit, and writes the sort of club-footed verse they put in high school monthlies."
"Gets it printed in a book, though," says I. "I've seen one."
"Why not?" says Whity. "Anyone can who has the three hundred to pay for plates and binding. 'Sonnets of the City,' wasn't it? Didn't I get my commission from the Easy Mark Press for steering him in? Why, I even scratched off some of those things to help him pad out the book with. But, say, Torchy, you ought to remember him. You were on the door then,—tall, wide-shouldered freak, with aureole hair, and a close cropped Vandyke?"
"Not the one who wore the Wild West lid and talked like he had a mouthful of hot oatmeal?" says I.
"Your description of Virgie's English accent is perfect," says Whity.
"Well, well!" says I. "The mushbag, we used to call him."
"Charmingly accurate again!" says Whity. "Verily beside him the quivering jellyfish of the salt sea was as the armored armadillo of the desert. Soft? You could poke a finger through him anywhere."
"But what was his game?" says I.
"It wasn't a game, my son," says Whity. "It was a mission in life,—to get things printed about himself. Had no more modesty about it, you know, than a circus press agent. Perfectly frank and ingenuous, Virgie was. He'd just come and ask you to put it in that he was a great man—just like that! The chief used to froth at the mouth on sight of him. But Virgie looked funny to me in those days. I used to jolly him along, smoke his Coronas, let him take me out to swell feeds. Then when they gave Merrow charge of the Sunday side, just for a josh I did a half-page special about Virgie, called him the sculptor poet, threw in some views of him in his studio, and quoted some of his verse that I'd fixed up. It got by. Virgie was so pleased he wanted to give a banquet for me; but I got him to go in on a little winter wheat flier instead. He didn't drop much. After that I'd slip in a paragraph about him now and then, always calling him the sculptor poet. The tag stuck. Other papers began to use it; until, first thing I knew, Virgie was getting away with it. Honest, I just invented him. And now he passes for the real thing!"
"Where you boobed, then, was in not filin' copyright papers," says I. "But how does he make it pay?"
"He doesn't," says Whity. "Listen, Son, and I will divulge the hidden mystery in the life of T. Virgil Bunn. Cheese factories! Half a dozen or more of 'em, up Schoharie way. Left to him, you know, by Pa Bunn; a coarse, rough person, I am told, who drank whey out of a five-gallon can, but was cute enough to import Camembert labels and make his own boxes. He passed on a dozen years ago; but left the cheese factories working night shifts. Virgie draws his share quarterly. He tried a year or two at some Rube college, and then went abroad to loiter. While there he exposed himself to the sculptor's art; but it didn't take very hard. However, Virgie came back and acquired the studio habit. And you can't live for long in a studio, you know, without getting the itch to see yourself in print. That's what brought Virgie to me. And now! Well, now I have to go to Virgie."
"Ain't as chummy with him as you was, I take it?" says I.
Whity shrugs his shoulders disgusted. "The saphead!" says he. "Just because we slipped up on a few stock deals he got cold feet. I haven't seen him for a year. I wonder how he'll take it? But you mentioned a Cousin Inez, didn't you?"
I gives Whity a hasty sketch of the piece, mentionin' no more names, but suggestin' that Virgie stood to connect with an overgrown widow's mite if there wa'n't any sudden interference.
"Ha!" says Whity, speakin' tragic through his teeth. "An idea! He's put the spell on a rich widow, has he? Now if I could only manage to queer this autumn leaf romance it would even up for the laceration of pride that I see coming my way tonight. Describe the fair one."
"I could point her out if you could smuggle me in," I suggests.
"A cinch!" says he. "You're Barry of the City Press. Here, stick some copy paper in your pocket. Take a few notes, that's all."
"It's a fierce disguise to put on," says I; "but I guess I can stand it for an evenin'."
So about eight-thirty we meets again, and' proceeds to hunt up this studio buildin' over in the East 30's. It ain't any bum Bohemian ranch, either, but a ten-story elevator joint, with clipped bay trees on each side of the front door. Virgie's is a top floor suite, with a boy in buttons outside and a French maid to take your things.
"Gee!" I whispers to Whity as we pushes in. "There's some swell mob collectin', eh?"
Whity is speechless, though, and when he gets his breath again all he can do is mumble husky, "Teddy Van Alstyne! Mrs. Cromer Paige! The Bertie Gardiners!"
They acted like a mixed crowd, though, gazin' around at each other curious, groupin' into little knots, and chattin' under their breath. Bein' gents of the press, we edges into a corner behind a palm and waits to see what happens.
"There comes Cousin Inez!" says I, nudgin' Whity. "See? The squatty dame with the pearl ropes over her hair."
"Sainted Billikens, what a make-up!" says Whity.
And, believe me, Cousin Inez was dolled for fair. She'd peeled for the fray, as you might say. And if the dinky shoulder straps held it was all right; but if one of 'em broke there'd sure be some hurry call for four yards of burlap to do her up in. She seems smilin' and happy, though, and keeps glancin' expectant at the red velvet draperies in the back of the room.
Sure enough, exactly on the tick of nine, the curtains part, and in steps the hero of the evenin'. Dress suit? Say, you don't know Virgie. He's wearin' a reg'lar monk's outfit, of some coarse brown stuff belted in with a thick rope and open wide at the neck.
"For the love of beans, look at his feet!" I whispers.
"Sandals," says Whity, "and no socks! Blessed if Virgie isn't going the limit!"
There's a chorus of "Ah-h-h-h's!" as he steps out, and then comes a buzz of whispers which might have been compliments, and might not. But it don't faze Virgie. He goes bowin' and handshakin' through the mob, smilin' mushy on all and several, and actin' as pleased with himself as if he'd taken the prize at a fancy dress ball. You should have seen Cousin Inez when he gets to her!
"Oh, you utterly clever man!" she gushes. "What a genuine genius you are!"
"Dear, sweet lady!" says he. "It is indeed gracious of you to say so."
"Help!" groans Whity, like he had a pain.
"Ah, buck up!" says I. "It'll be your turn soon."
I was wonderin' how Virgie was goin' to simmer down enough to pass Whity the chilly greetin'; for he's just bubblin' over with kind words and comic little quips. But, say, he don't even try to shade it.
"Ah, Whity, my boy!" says he, extendin' the cordial paw. "Charming of you to look me up once more, perfectly charming!"
"Rot!" growls Whity. "You know I was sent up here to do this blooming spread of yours. What sort of fake is it, anyway?"
"Ha, ha! Same old Whity!" says Virgil, poundin' him hearty on the shoulder. "But you're always welcome, my boy. As for the tea—well, one of my little affairs, you know,—just a few friends dropping in—feast of reason, flow of wit, all that sort of thing. You know how to put it. Don't forget my costume—picked it up at a Trappist monastery in the Pyrenees. I must give you some photos I've had taken in it. Ah, another knight of the pencil?" and he glances inquirin' at me.
"City Press," says Whity.
"Fine!" says Virgie, beamin'. "Well, you boys make yourselves quite at home. I'll send Marie over with cigars and cigarettes. She'll help you to describe any of the ladies' costumes you may care to mention. Here's a list of the invited guests too. Now I must be stirring about.Au revoir."
"Ass!" snarls Whity under his breath. "If I don't give him a roast, though,—one of the veiled sarcastic kind that will get past! And we must find some way of queering him with that rich widow."
"Goin' to be some contract, Whity, believe me!" says I. "Look how she's taggin' him around!"
And, say, Cousin Inez sure had the scoopnet out for him! Every move he makes she's right on his heels, gigglin' and simperin' at all his sappy speeches and hangin' onto his arm part of the time. Folks was nudgin' each other and pointin' her out gleeful, and I could easy frame up the sort of reports that had set Old Hickory's teeth on edge.
T. Virgil, though, seems to be havin' the time of his life. He exhibits some clay models, either dancin' girls or a squad of mounted cops, I couldn't make out which, and he lets himself be persuaded to read two or three chunks out of his sonnets, very dramatic. Cousin Inez leads the applause. Then, strikin' a pose, he claps his hands, the velvet curtains are slid one side, and in comes a French chef luggin' a tray with a whackin' big casserole on it.
"Voilà!" sings out Virgie. "The bouillabaisse!"
Marie gets busy passin' around bowls and spoons, and the programme seems to be for the guests to line up while Virgie gives each a helpin' out of a long-handled silver ladle. It smells mighty good; so I pushes in with my bowl. What do you guess I drew? A portion of the tastiest fish soup you ever met, with a lobster claw and a couple of clams in it. M-m-m-m!
"He may be a punk poet," says I to Whity; "but he's a good provider."
"Huh!" growls Whity, who seems to be sore on account of the hit Virgie's makin'.
Next thing I knew along drifts Cousin Inez, who has sort of been crowded away from her hero, and camps down on the other side of Whity.
"Isn't this just too unique for words?" she gushes. "And is not dear Virgil perfectly charming tonight?"
"Oh, he's a bear at this sort of thing, all right," says Whity, "this and making cheese."
"Cheese!" echoes Cousin Inez.
"Sure!" says Whity. "Hasn't he told you about his cheese factories? Ask him."
"But—but I understood that—that he was a poet," says she, "a sculptor poet."
"Bah!" says Whity. "He couldn't make his salt at either. All just a pose!"
"Why, I can hardly believe it," says Cousin Inez. "I don't believe it, either."
"Then read his poetry and look at his so called groups," goes on Whity.
"But he's such a talented, interesting man," insists Inez.
"With such an interesting family too," says Whity, winkin'.
"Family!" gasps Cousin Inez.
"Wife and six children," says Whity, lyin' easy.
"Oh—oh!" squeals Inez in that shrill, raspy voice of hers.
"They say he beats his wife, though," adds Whity.
"Oh!—oh!" squeals Inez, again, higher and shriller than ever. I expect she'd been more or less keyed up before; but this adds the finishin' touch. And she lets 'em out reckless.
Course, everyone stops chatterin' and looks her way. No wonder! You'd thought she was havin' a fit. Over rushes Virgil, ladle in hand.
"My dear Inez!" says he. "What is it? A fishbone?"
"Monster!" she bowls. "Deceiver! Leave me, never let me see your face again! Oh—oh! Cheese! Six children! Oh—oh!" With that she tumbles over on Whity and turns purple in the face.
Say, it was some sensation we had there for a few minutes; but after they'd sprinkled her face, and rubbed her wrists, and poured a couple of fingers of brandy into her, she revives. And the first thing she catches sight of is Virgie, standin' there lookin' puzzled, still holdin' the soup ladle.
"Monster!" she hisses at him. "I know all—all! And I quit you forever!"
With that she dashes for the cloakroom, grabs her opera wrap, and beats it for the elevator. Course, that busts up the show, and inside of half an hour everybody but us has left, and most of 'em went out snickerin'.
"I—I don't understand it at all," says Virgie, rubbin' his eyes dazed. "She was talking with you, wasn't she, Friend Whity? Was it something you said about me?"
"Possibly," says Whity, "I may have mentioned your cheese factories; and I'm not sure but what I didn't invent a family for you. Just as a joke, of course. You don't mind, I hope?"
And at that I was dead sure someone was goin' to be slapped on the wrist. But, say, all Virgie does is swallow hard a couple of times; and then, as the full scheme of the plot seems to sink in, he beams mushy.
"Mind? Why, my dear boy," says he, "you are my deliverer! I owe you more than I can ever express. Really, you know, that ridiculous old person has been the bane of my existence for the last three weeks. She has fairly haunted me, spoiled all my receptions, and—disturbed me greatly. Ever since I met her in Rome last winter she has been at it. Of course I have tried to be nice to her, as I am to everyone who—er—who might help. But I almost fancy she had the idea that I would—ah—marry her. Really, I believe she did. Thank you a thousand times, Whity, for your joke! If she comes back, tell her I have two wives, a dozen. And have some cigars—oh, fill your pockets, my boy. And here—the photos showing me in my monk's costume. Be sure to drop in at my next tea. I'll send you word. Good night, and bless you!"
He didn't push us out. He just held the door open and patted us on the back as we went through. And the next thing we knew we was down on the sidewalk.
"Double crossed!" groans Whity. "Smothered in mush!"
"As a plotter, Whity," says I, "you're a dub. But if you gunked it one way, you drew a consolation the other. At this stage of the game I guess I'm commissioned by a certain party to hand over to you a small token of his esteem."
"Eh?" says Whity. "Twenty? What for?"
"Ah, go bull the market with it, and don't ask fool questions!" says I.
Say, it was a perfectly swell story about Virgie's bouillabaisse function on today's society page, double-column half-tone cut and all. I had to grin when I shows it to Mr. Ellins.
"Were you there, young man?" says he, eyin' me suspicious.
"Yep!" says I.
"I thought so," says he, "when Cousin Inez came home and began packing her trunks. I take it that affair of hers with the sculptor poet is all off??'
"Blew up with a bang about ten-thirty P. M.," says I. "Your two tenspots went with it."
"Huh!" he snorts. "That's as far as I care to inquire. Some day I'm going to send you out with a thousand and let you wreck the administration."