CHAPTER IVSWITCHING ARTS ON LEON
Oh, sure! We're coming along grand. Did you think we'd be heavin' the blue willow-ware at each other by this time? No. We've hardly displayed any before-breakfast dispositions yet.
Not that we confine ourselves to the coo vocabulary, or advertise any continuous turtle-dove act. Gettin' married ain't jellied our brains, I hope. Besides, we're busy. I've got a new gilt-edged job to fill, you know; and Vee, she has one of her own, too.
Well, I can't say that her scheme of runnin' a Boots, Limited, has mesmerized all New York into havin' its shoe-shinin' done out. There's something about this cloth top and white gaiter craze that's puttin' a crimp in her perfectly good plans. But she's doin' fairly well, and she don't have to think up ways of killin' time.
Course, we have a few other things to think about, too. Just learnin' how to live in New York is a merry little game all by itself. That'sone of my big surprises. I'd thought all along it was so simple.
But say, we've been gettin' wise to a few facts this last month or so, for we've been tryin' to dope out which one of the forty-nine varieties of New York's home-sweet-home repertoire was the kind for us. I don't mean we've been changin' our street number, or testin' out different four-room-and-bath combinations. The studio apartment I got at a bargain suits first rate. It's the meal proposition.
First off, we decides gay and reckless that we'll breakfast and lunch in and take our dinners out. That listened well and seemed easy enough—until Vee got to huntin' up a two-handed, light-footed female party who could boil eggs without scorchin' the shells, dish up such things as canned salmon with cream sauce, and put a few potatoes through the French fry process, doublin' in bed-makin' and dust-chasin' durin' her spare time. That shouldn't call for any prize-winnin' graduate from a cookin' college, should it?
But say, the specimens that go in for general housework in this burg are a sad lot. I ain't goin' all through the list. I'll just touch lightly on Bertha.
She was a cheerful soul, even when she wasservin' soggy potatoes or rappin' me in the ear with her elbow as she reached across to fill my water glass.
"He-he! Haw-haw! Oxcuse, Mister," was Bertha's repartee for such little breaks.
Course, I could plead with her for the umpteenth time to try pourin' from the button hand side, but it would have been simpler to have worn a head guard durin' meals.
And who would have the heart to put the ban on a yodel that begins in our kitchenette at 7A.M., even on cloudy mornin's?
If Bertha had been No. 1, or even No. 2, she'd have had her passports handed her about the second mornin'; but, as she was the last of a punk half dozen, we tried not to mind her musical interludes. So at the end of three weeks her friendly relations with us were still unbroken, though most of the dishes were otherwise.
So you might have thought we'd been glad, when 6.30P.M.came, to put on our things and join about a million or so other New Yorkers in findin' a dinner joint where the cooks and waiters made no claim to havin' an amateur standin'.
But, believe me, while my domestic instincts may be sproutin' late, they're comin' strong. I'm beginnin' to yearn for nourishment that Idon't have to learn the French for or pick off'm a menu. I'd like to eat without bein' surrounded by three-chinned female parties with high blood pressure, or bein' stared at by pop-eyed old sports who're givin' some kittenish cloak model a bright evenin'. And Vee feels more or less the same way.
"Besides," says she, "I wish we could entertain some of our friends."
"Just what I was wishin'," says I. "Say, couldn't we find a few simple things in the cook-book that Bertha couldn't queer?"
"Such as canned baked beans and celery?" asks Vee, chucklin'. "And yet, if I stood by and read the directions to her—who knows?"
"Let's try her on the Piddies," I suggests.
Well, we did. And if the potatoes had been cooked a little more and the roast a little less, it wouldn't have been so bad. The olives were all right, even if Bertha did forget to serve 'em until she brought in the ice cream. But then, the Piddies are used to little slips like that, havin' lived so long out in Jersey.
"You see," explains Vee to me afterwards, "Bertha was a bit flurried over her first dinner-party. She isn't much used to a gas oven, either. Don't you think we might try another?"
"Sure!" says I. "What are friends for, anyway? Howabout askin' Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ellins?"
"Oh, dear!" sighs Vee, lookin' scared. Then she is struck with a bright idea. "I'll tell you: we will rehearse the next one the night before."
"Atta girl!" says I. "Swell thought."
It was while she and Bertha was strugglin' over the cook-book, and gettin' advice from various sources, from housekeepin' magazines to the janitor's wife, that this Leon Battou party shows up with his sob hist'ry.
"Oh, Torchy!" Vee hails me with, as I come home from the office here the other evenin'. "What becomes of people when they're dispossessed—when they're put out on the street with their things, you know?"
"Why," says I, "they generally stay out until they can find a place where they can move in. Has anybody been threatenin' to chuck us out for not——"
"Silly!" says she. "It's the Battous."
"Don't know 'em," says I.
"But surely," goes on Vee, "you've seen him. He's that funny little old Frenchman who's always dodging in and out of the elevator with odd-looking parcels under his arm."
"Oh, yes!" says I. "The one with the twinklin' eyes and the curly iron-gray hair, whoalways bows so polite and shoots that bon-shure stuff at you. Him?"
It was.
It seems the agent had served notice on 'em that mornin'. They'd been havin' a grand pow-wow over it in the lower vestibule, when Vee had come along and got mixed up in the debate. She'd seen Mrs. Battou doin' the weep act on hubby's shoulder while he was tryin' to explain and makin' all sorts of promises. I expect the agent had heard such tales before. Anyway, he was kind of rough with 'em—at which Vee had sailed in and told him just what she thought.
"I'm sure you would have done the same, Torchy," says she.
"I might," says I, "if he hadn't been too husky. But what now?"
"I told them not to worry a bit," says Vee, "and that when you came home you would tell them what to do. You will, won't you, Torchy?"
Course, there was only one real sensible answer to that. Who was I, to step in casual and ditch a court order? But say, when the only girl in the universe tackles you with the clingin' clinch, hints that you're a big, brainy hero who can handle any proposition that's batted up to you—well, that's no time to be sensible.
"I'll do any foolish little thing you name," says I.
"Goody!" says Vee. "I just knew you would. We'll go right up and——"
"Just a sec," says I. "Maybe I'd better have a private talk with this Mr. Battou first off. Suppose you run up and jolly the old lady while he comes down here."
She agrees to that, and three minutes later I've struck a pose which is sort of a cross between that of a justice of the supreme court and a bush league umpire, while M. Leon Battou is sittin' on the edge of a chair opposite, conversin' rapid with both hands and a pair of eloquent eyebrows.
"But consider, monsieur," he's sayin'. "Only because of owing so little! Can they not wait until I have found some good customers for my paintings?"
"Oh! Then you're an artist, are you?"
"I have the honor," says he. "I should be pleased to have you inspect some of my—— "
"It wouldn't help a bit," says I. "All I know about art is that as a rule it don't pay. Don't you do anything else?"
He hunches his shoulders and spreads out both hands.
"It is true, what you say of art," he goeson. "And so then I must do the decorating of walls—the wreaths of roses on the ceiling. That was my profession when we lived at Péronne. But here—there is trouble about the union. The greasy plumber will not work where I am, it seems.Eh bien!I am forced out. So I return to my landscapes. Are there not many rich Americans who pay well for such things?"
I waves him back into his chair.
"How'd you come to wander so far from this Péronne place?" says I.
"It was because of our son, Henri," says he. "You see, he preferred to be as my father was, a chef. I began that way, too. The Battous always do—a family of cooks. But I broke away. Henri would not. He became the pastry chef at the Hotel Gaspard in Péronne. And who shall say, too, that he was not an artist in his way? Yes, with a certain fame. At least, they heard here, in New York. You would not believe what they offered if he would leave Péronne. And after months of saying no he said yes. It was true. They paid as they promised—more. So Henri sends for us to come also. We found him living like a prince. Truly! For more than three years we enjoyed his good fortune.
"And then—la guerre! Henri must go tojoin his regiment. True, he might have stayed. But we talked not of that. It was for France. So he went, not to return. Ah, yes! At Ypres, after only three months in the trenches. Then I say to the little mother, 'Courage! I, Leon Battou, am still a painter. The art which has been as a pastime shall be made to yield us bread. You shall see.' Ah, I believed—then."
"Nothing doing, eh?" says I.
Battou shakes his head.
"Well," says I, "the surest bet just now would be to locate some wall-frescoin'. I'll see what can be done along that line."
"Ah, that is noble of you, young man," exclaims Battou. "It is wonderful to find such a friend. A thousand thanks! I will tell the little mother that we are saved."
With that he shakes me by both hands, gives me a bear hug, and rushes off.
Pretty soon Vee comes down with smiles in her eyes.
"I just knew you would find a way, Torchy," says she. "You don't know how happy you've made them. Now tell me all about it."
And say, I couldn't convince her I hadn't done a blamed thing but shoot a little hot air, not after I'd nearly gone hoarse explainin'.
"Oh, but you will," says she. "You'll do something."
Who could help tryin', after that? I tackles the agent with a proposition that Battou should work out the back rent, but he's a fish-eyed gink.
"Say," he growls out past his cigar, "if we tried to lug along every panhandling artist that wanted to graft rent off us, we'd be in fine shape by the end of the year, wouldn't we? Forget it."
"How about his art stuff?" I asks Vee, when I got back.
"Oh, utterly hopeless," says she. "But one can't tell him so. He doesn't know how bad it is. I suppose he is all right as a wall decorator. Do you know, Torchy, they must be in serious straits. Those two little rooms of theirs are almost bare, and I'm sure they've been living on cheese and crackers for days. What do you think I've done?"
"Sent 'em an anonymous ham by parcels post?" says I.
"No," says Vee. "I'm going to have them down to-night for the rehearsal dinner."
"Fine dope!" says I. "And if they survive bein' practiced on——"
But Vee has skipped off to the kitchenette without waitin' to hear the rest.
"Is this to be a reg'lar dress rehearsal?" I asks, when I comes home again. "Should I doll up regardless?"
Yes, she says I must. I was just strugglin' into my dinner coat, too, when the bell rings. I expect Vee had forgot to tell 'em that six-forty-five was our reg'lar hour. And say, M. Leon was right there with the boulevard costume—peg-top trousers, fancy vest, flowin' tie, and a silk tile. As for Madame Battou, she's all in gray and white.
I'd towed 'em into the studio, and was havin' 'em shed their things, when Vee bounces in out of the kitchenette and announces impetuous:
"Oh, Torchy! We've made a mess of everything. That horrid leg of lamb won't do anything but sozzle away in the pan; the string-beans have been scorched; and—oh, goodness!"
She'd caught sight of our guests.
"Please don't mind," says Vee. "We're not very good cooks, Bertha and I. We—we've spoiled everything, I guess."
She's tryin' to be cheerful over it. And she sure is a picture, standin' there with a big apron coverin' up most of her evenin' dress, and her upper lip a bit trembly.
"Buck up, Vee," says I. "Better luck next time. Chuck the whole shootin' match into thediscards, and we'll all chase around to Roverti's and——"
"Bother Roverti's!" breaks in Vee. "Can't we ever have a decent dinner in our own home? Am I too stupid for that? And there's that perfectly gug-good l-l-l-leg of—of——"
"Pardon," says M. Battou, steppin' to the front; "but perhaps, if you would permit, I might assist with—with the lamb."
It's a novel idea, I admit. No wonder Vee gasps a little.
"Why not?" says I. "Course it ain't reg'lar, but if Mr. Battou wants to do some expert coachin', I expect you and Bertha could use it."
"Do, Leon," urges Madame Battou. "Lamb, is it? Oh, he is wonderful with lamb."
She hadn't overstated the case, either. Inside of two minutes he has his coat off, a bath towel draped over his fancy vest, and has sent Bertha skirmishin' down the avenue for garlic, cloves, parsley, carrots, and a few other things that had been overlooked, it seems.
Well, we stands grouped around the kitchenette door for a while, watchin' him resuscitate that pale-lookin' leg of lamb, jab things into it, pour stuff over it, and mesmerize the gas oven into doin' its full duty.
Once he gets started, he ain't satisfied withsimply turnin' out the roast. He takes some string-beans and cuts 'em into shoelaces; he carves rosettes out of beets and carrots; he produces a swell salad out of nothing at all; and with a little flour and whipped cream he throws together some kind of puffy dessert that looked like it would melt in your mouth.
And by seven-thirty we was sittin' down to a meal such as you don't meet up with outside of some of them Fifth Avenue joints where you have to own a head waiter before they let you in.
"Whisper, Professor," says I, "did you work a spell on it, or what?"
"Ah-h-h!" says Battou, chucklin' and rubbin' his hands together. "It is cookedà la Paysan, after the manner of Péronne, and with it is the sauce château. "
"That isn't mere cookery," says Vee; "that's art."
It was quite a cheery evenin'. And after the Battous had gone, Vee and I asked each other, almost in chorus: "Do you suppose he'd do it again?"
"He will if I'm any persuader," says I. "Wouldn't it be great to spring something like that on Mr. Robert?"
And while I'm shavin' next mornin' I connectwith the big idea. Do you ever get 'em that way? It cost me a nick under the ear, but I didn't care. While I'm usin' the alum stick I sketches out the scheme for Vee.
"But, Torchy!" says she. "Do you think he would—really?"
Before I can answer there's a ring at the door, and here is M. Leon Battou.
"The agent once more!" says he, producin' a paper. "In three days, it says. But you have found me the wall-painting, yes?"
"Professor," says I, "I hate to say it, but there's nothin' doing in the free-hand fresco line—absolutely."
He slumps into a chair, and that pitiful, hunted look settles in his eyes.
"Then—then we must go," says he.
"Listen, Professor," says I, pattin' him soothin' on the shoulder. "Why not can this art stuff, that nobody wants, and switch to somethin' you're a wizard at?"
"You—you mean," says he, "that I should—should turn chef? I—Leon Battou—in a big noisy hotel kitchen? Oh, but I could not. No, I could not! "
"Professor," says I, "the only person in this town that I know of who's nutty enough to want to hire a wall decorator reg'lar is me!"
"You!" gasps Battou, starin' around at our twelve by eighteen livin'-room.
I nods.
"What would you take it on for as a steady job?"
"Oh, anything that would provide for us," says he, eager. "But how—— "
"That's just the point," says I. "When you wasn't paintin' could you cook a little on the side? Officially you'd be a decorator, but between times—— Eh?"
He's a keen one, Mr. Battou.
"For so charming young people," says he, bowin' low, "it would be a great pleasure. And the little mother—ah, you should see what a manager she is! She can make a franc go farther. Could she assist also?"
"Could she!" exclaims Vee. "If she only would!"
Well, say, inside of half an hour we'd fixed up the whole deal, I'd armed Battou with a check to shove under the nose of that agent, and Vee had given Bertha her permanent release. And believe me, compared to what was put before Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ellins that evenin', the dress rehearsal dinner looked like Monday night at an actors' boardin'-house.
"I say," whispers Mr. Robert, "your cook must be a real artist."
"That's how he's carried on the family payroll," says I.
"Of course," says Vee afterwards, "while we can afford it, I suppose, it does seem scandalously extravagant for us to have cooking like that every day."
"Rather than have you worried with any more Bunglin' Berthas," says I, "I'd subsidize the whole of Péronne to come over. And just think of all I'll save by not havin' to buy my hat back from the coat-room boys every night."
CHAPTER VA RECRUIT FOR THE EIGHT-THREE
Have you a shiny little set of garden tools in your home? Have we? Well, I should seed catalogue. Honest to goodness! Here! I can show you a local time-table and my commuter's ticket. How about that, eh, for me?
And I don't know now just what it was worked the sudden shift for us—the Battous, or our visit to the Robert Ellinses', or meetin' up with MacGregor Shinn, the consistent grouch.
It begun with window-boxes. Professor Leon Battou, our official wall decorator and actin' cook, springs 'em on me timid one day after lunch. It had been some snack, too—onion soup sprinkled with croutons and sprayed with grated cheese; calf's brainsau buerre noir; a mixed salad; and a couple of gooseberry tarts with the demi-tasse. Say, I'm gettin' so I can eat in French, even if I can't talk it.
And while all that may listen expensive, I have Vee's word for it that since Madame Battouhas been doin' the marketin' the high cost of livin' has been jarred off the roost. I don't know how accurate Professor Leon is at countin' up the calories in every meal, but I'm here to announce that he always produces something tasty, with no post-prandial regrets concealed in the bottom of the casserole.
"Professor," says I, "I've been a stranger to this burry brains style of nourishment a long time, but you can ring an encore on that whenever you like."
He smiles grateful, but shakes his head.
"Ah, Monsieur," says he,—oh, yes, just like that,—"but if I had the fresh chives, the—thefin herbes—ah, then you should see!"
"Well, can't Madame get what you need at the stores?" says I.
"But at such a price!" says Leon. "And of so discouraging a quality. While, if we had but a few handfuls of good soil in some small boxes by the windows—— Come, I will show you. Here, and here, where the sun comes in the morning. I could secure them myself if you would not think them unlovely to have in view."
"How about it, Vee?" I asks. "Are we too proud to grow our soup greens on the premises?"
She says we ain't, so I tells Leon to breezeahead with his hangin' garden. Course, I ain't lookin' for anything more'n a box on the ledge. But he's an ingenious old boy, Leon. With a hammer and saw and a few boxes from the grocery, he builds a rack that fits into one of the front windows; and the first thing I know, he has the space chuckful of shallow trays, and seeds planted in every one. A few days later, and the other window is blocked off similar. Also I get a bill from the florist for two bushels of dirt.
Well, our front windows did look kind of odd, and our view out was pretty well barred off; but he had painted the things up neat, and he did all his waterin' and fussin' around early in the mornin', so we let it ride. When he starts in to use our bedroom windows the same way, though, I has to call him off.
"See here, Professor," says I, "you ain't mistakin' this studio apartment for a New Jersey truck-farm, are you! Besides, we have to keep them windows open at night, and your green stuff is apt to get nipped."
"Oh, but the night air is bad to breathe, Monsieur," says he.
"Not for us," says I. "Anyway, we're used to it, so I guess you'll have to lay off this bedroom garden business."
He takes away the boxes, but it's plain he's disappointed. I believe if I'd let him gone on he'd had cabbages growin' on the mantelpiece, a lettuce bed on the readin'-table, and maybe a potato patch on the fire-escape. I never knew gardenin' could be made such an indoor sport.
"Poor chap!" says Vee. "He has been telling me what wonderful things he used to raise when he lived in Péronne. Isn't there some way, Torchy, that we could give him more room?"
"We might rent the roof and glass it in for him," I suggests, "or get a permit to bridge over the street."
"Silly!" says she, rumplin' my red hair reckless.
That was about the time we was havin' some of that delayed winter weather, and it was touchin' to see Professor Battou nurse along them pale green shoots that he'd coaxed up in his window-boxes. Then it runs off warm and sunny again, just as we gets this week-end invite from Mr. Robert.
Course, I'd been out to his Long Island place before, but somehow I hadn't got excited over it. This time it's different. Vee was goin' along, for one thing. And I expect the fact that spring had come bouncin' in on us after ahard winter had something to do with our enthusiasm for gettin' out of town. You know how it is. For eleven months you're absolutely sure the city's the only place to live in, and you feel sorry for them near-Rubes who have to catch trains to get home. And then, all of a sudden, about this time of year, you get that restless feelin', and wonder what it is ails you. I think it struck Vee harder than it did me.
"Goody!" says she, when I tell her we're expected to go out Saturday noon and stay over until Monday mornin'. "It is real country out there, too, isn't it?"
"Blamed near an hour away," says I. "Ought to be, hadn't it?"
"I hope they have lilac bushes in bloom," says Vee. "Do you know, Torchy, if I lived in the country, I'd have those if nothing else. Wouldn't you?"
"I expect so," says I, "though I ain't doped out just what I would do in a case like that. It ain't seemed worth while. But if lilacs are the proper stunt for a swell country place, I'll bet Mr. Robert's got 'em."
By the time we'd been shot out to Harbor Hills station, though, I'd forgot whether it was lilacs or lilies-of-the-valley that Vee was particular about; for Mr. Robert goes alongwith us, and he's joshin' us about our livin' in a four-and-bath and sportin' a French chef.
"Really," says he, "to live up to him you ought to move into a brewer's palace on Riverside Drive, at least."
"Oh, Battou would be satisfied if I'd lease Madison Square park for him, so he could raise onions," says I.
Which reminds Mr. Robert of something.
"Oh, I say!" he goes on. "You must see my garden. I'm rather proud of it, you know."
"Your garden!" says I, grinnin'. "You don't mean you've been gettin' the hoe and rake habit, Mr. Robert?"
Honest, that's the last thing you'd look for from him, for until he got married about the only times he ever strayed from the pavements was when he went yachtin'. But by the way he talks now you'd think farmer was his middle name.
"Now, over there," says he, after we've been picked up at the station by his machine and rolled off three or four miles, "over there I am raising a crop of Italian clover to plow in. That's a new hedge I'm setting out, too—hydrangeas, I think. It takes time to get things in shape, you see."
"Looks all right to me, as it is," says I."You got a front yard big enough to get lost in."
Also the house ain't any small shack, with all its dormers and striped awnin's and deep verandas.
But it's too nice an afternoon to spend much time inside, and after we've found Mrs. Robert, Vee asks to be shown the garden.
"Certainly," says Mr. Robert. "I will exhibit it myself. That is—er—by the way, Gertrude, where the deuce is that garden of ours?"
Come to find out, it was Mrs. Robert who was the pie-plant and radish expert. She could tell you which rows was beets and which was corn without lookin' it up on her chart.
She'd been takin' a course in landscape-gardenin', too; and as she pilots us around the grounds, namin' the different bushes and things, she listens like a nursery pamphlet. And Vee falls for it hard.
"How perfectly splendid," says she, "to be able to plan things like that, and to know so many shrubs by their long names. But haven't you anything as common as lilacs!"
Mrs. Robert laughs and shakes her head.
"They were never mentioned in my course, you see," says she. "But our nearest neighbor has some wonderful lilac bushes. Robert, don'tyou think we might walk down the east drive and ask your dear friend Mr. MacGregor Shinn if he'd mind——"
"Decidedly no," cuts in Mr. Robert. "I'd much prefer not to trouble Mr. Shinn at all."
"Oh, very well," says Mrs. Robert. And then, turnin' to us: "We haven't been particularly fortunate in our relations with Mr. Shinn; our fault, no doubt."
But you know Vee. Half an hour later, when we've been left to ourselves, she announces:
"Come along, Torchy. I am going to find that east drive."
"It's a case of lilacs or bust, eh?" says I. "All right; I'm right behind you. But let's make it a sleuthy getaway, so they won't know."
We let on it was a risky stunt, slippin' out a side terrace door, dodgin' past the garage, and finally strikin' a driveway different from the one we'd come in by. We follows along until we fetches up by some big stone gateposts.
"There they are!" exclaims Vee. "Loads of them. And aren't they fragrant? Smell, Torchy."
"I am," says I, sniffin' deep. "Don't you hear me?"
"Yes; and that Mr. Shinn will too, if you're as noisy as that over it," says she. "I suppose that is where he lives. Isn't it the cutest little cottage?"
"It needs paint here and there," says I.
"I know," says Vee. "But look at that old Dutch roof with the wide eaves, and the recessed doorway, and the trellises on either side, and that big clump of purple lilacs nestling against the gable end. Oh, and there's a cunning little pond in the rear, just where it ought to be! I do wish we might go in and walk around a bit."
"Why not?" says I. "What would it hurt?"
"But that Shinn person," protests Vee, "might—might not——"
"Well, he couldn't any more'n shoo us off," says I, "and if he's nutty enough to do that after a good look at you, then he's hopeless."
"You absurd boy!" says Vee, squeezin' my hand. "Well, anyway, we might venture in a step or two."
As a matter of fact, there don't seem to be anyone in sight. You might almost think nobody lived there; for the new grass ain't beencut, the flower beds are full of dry weeds left over from last fall, and most of the green shutters are closed.
There's smoke comin' from the kitchen chimney, though, so we wanders around front, bringin' up under the big lilac bush. It's just covered with blossoms—a truck-load, I should say; and it did seem a shame, Vee bein' so strong for 'em, that she couldn't have one little spray.
"About a quarter a bunch, them would be on Broadway," says I, diggin' up some change. "Well, here's where Neighbor Shinn makes a sale."
And, before Vee can object, I've snapped off the end of a twig.
I'd just dropped the quarter in an envelop and was stickin' it on the end of the broken branch, when the front door opens, and out dashes this tall gink with the rusty Vandyke and the hectic face. Yep, it's a lurid map, all right. Some of it might have been from goin' without a hat in the wind and weather, for his forehead and bald spot are just as high-colored as the rest; but there's a lot of temper tint, too, lightin' up the tan, and the deep furrows between the eyes shows it ain't an uncommon state for him to be in. Quite a husk he is, costumedin a plaid golf suit, and he bores down on us just as gentle as a tornado.
"I say, you!" he calls out. "Stop where you are."
"Don't hurry," says I. "We'll wait for you."
"Ye will, wull ye!" he snarls, as he comes stampin' up in front of us. "Ye'd best. And what have ye there, Miss? Hah! Pickin' me posies, eh? And trespassin', too."
"That's right," says I. "Petty larceny and breakin' and enterin'. I'm the guilty party."
"I'm sure there's nothing to make such a fuss about," says Vee, eyin' him scornful.
"Oh, ho!" says he. "It's a light matter, I suppose, prowling around private grounds and pilfering? I ought to be taking it as a joke, eh? Don't ye know, you two, I could have you taken in charge for this?"
"Breeze ahead, then," says I. "Call the high sheriff. Only let's not get all foamed up over it, Mr. MacGregor Shinn."
"Ha!" says he. "Then ye know who I am? Maybe you're stopping up at the big house? "
"We are guests of Mr. Ellins, your neighbor," puts in Vee.
"He's no neighbor of mine," snaps Shinn."Not him. His bulldog worries me cat, his roosters wake me up in the morning, and his Dago workmen chatter about all day long. No, I'll not own such a man as neighbor. Nor will I have his guests stealing my posies."
"Then take it," says Vee, throwing the lilac spray on the ground.
"You'll find a quarter stuck on the bush," says I. "Sorry, MacGregor, we couldn't make a trade. The young lady is mighty fond of lilacs."
"Is she, now?" says Shinn, still scowlin' at us.
"And she thinks your place here is pretty cute," I adds.
"It's a rotten hole," says he.
"Maybe you're a poor judge," says I. "If it was fixed up a bit I should think it might be quite spiffy."
"What call has an old bachelor to be fixing things up?" he demands. "What do I care how the place looks? And what business is it of yours, anyway?"
"Say, you're a consistent grouch, ain't you?" says I, givin' him the grin. "What's the particular trouble—was you toppin' your drive to-day?"
"Slicin', mon," says he. "Hardly a tee shotfound the fairway the whole round. And then you two come breaking me bushes."
"My error," says I. "But you should have hung out a sign that you was inside chewin' nails."
"I was doing nothing of the kind," says he. "I was waiting for that grinning idiot, Len Hung, to give me me tea."
"Well, don't choke over it when you do get it," says I. "And if you ain't ready to sic the police on us we'll be trotting along back."
"Ye wull not," says MacGregor; "ye'll have tea with me."
It sounds like a threat, and I can see Vee gettin' ready to object strenuous. So I gives her the nudge.
I expect it's because I'm so used to Old Hickory's blowin' out a fuse that I don't duck quicker when a gas-bomb disposition begins to sputter around. They don't mean half of it, these furious fizzers.
Sometimes it's sciatica, more often a punk digestion, and seldom pure cussedness. If you don't humor 'em by comin' back messy yourself, but just jolly 'em along, they're apt to work out of it. And I'd seen sort of a human flicker in them blue-gray eyes of MacGregor Shinn's.
"Vee," says I, "our peevish friend is invitin' us to take tea with him. Shall we chance it?"
And you know what a good sport Vee is. She lets the curve come into her mouth corners again, both of her cheek dimples show, and she shoots a quizzin' smile at Mr. Shinn.
"Does he say it real polite?" she asks.
"Na," says MacGregor. "But there'll be hot scones and marmalade."
"M-m-m-m!" says Vee. "Let's, Torchy."
It's an odd finish to an affair that started so scrappy. Not that Shinn reverses himself entirely, or turns from a whiskered golf grump into a stage fairy in spangled skirts. He goes right on with his growlin' and grumblin'—about the way his Chink cook serves the tea, about havin' to live in a rotten hole like Harbor Hills, about everything in general. But a great deal of it is just to hear himself talk, I judge.
We had a perfectly good high tea, and them buttered scones with marmalade couldn't be beat. Also he shows us all over the house, and Vee raves about it.
"Look, Torchy!" says she. "That glimpse of water from the living-room windows. Isn't that dear? And one could have such a wonderfulgarden beyond. Such a splendid big fireplace, too. And what huge beams in the ceiling! It's a very old house, isn't it, Mr. Shinn?"
"The rascally agent who sold it to me said it was," says MacGregor, "but I wouldn't believe a word of his on any subject. 'Did I ask you for an old house, at all?' I tells him. For what I wanted was just a place where I could live quiet, and maybe have me game of golf when I wanted it. But here I've gone off me game; and, besides, the country's no place to live quiet in. I should be in town, so I should, like any decent white man. I've a mind to look up a place at once. Try another scone, young lady."
So it was long after six before we got away, and the last thing MacGregor does is to load Vee down with a whole armful of lilac blossoms.
I suppose Mr. and Mrs. Robert thought we'd been makin' a wholesale raid when they saw us comin' in with the plunder. Mrs. Robert almost turns pale.
"Mercy!" says she. "You don't mean to say you got all those from our neighbor's bushes, do you?"
"Uh-huh," says I. "We've been mesmerizin'MacGregor. He's as tame a Scot now as you'd want to see."
They could hardly believe it, and when they heard about our havin' tea with him they gasped.
"Of all persons!" says Mrs. Robert. "Why, he has been glaring at us for a year, and sending us the most bristling messages. I don't understand."
Mr. Robert, though, winks knowin'.
"Some of Torchy's red-headed diplomacy, I suspect," says he. "I must engage you to make our peace with MacGregor."
That's all we saw of him, though, durin' our stay. For one thing, we was kept fairly busy. I never knew you could have so much fun in the country. Ever watch a bunch of young ducks waddlin' about? Say, ain't they a circus! And them fluffy little chicks squabblin' over worms. Honest, I near laughed myself sick. Vee was for luggin' some of 'em home to the apartment. But she was thrilled over 'most everything out there, from the fat robins on the lawn to the new leaves on the trees.
And, believe me, when we gets back to town again, our studio apartment seems cramped and stuffy. We talked over everything we'd seen and done at the Ellinses'.
"That's really living, isn't it?" says Vee.
"Why not," says I, "with a twenty-room house, and grounds half as big as Central Park?"
"I know," says Vee. "But a little place like Mr. Shinn's would be large enough for us."
"I expect it would," says I. "You don't really think you'd like to live out there, do you, though?"
"Wouldn't I!" says Vee, her eyes sparklin'. "I'd love it."
"What would you do all day alone?" I suggests.
"I'd raise ducks and chickens and flowers," says Vee. "And Leon could have a garden. Just think!"
Yep—I thought. I must have kept awake hours that night, tryin' not to. And the more I mulled it over—— Well, in the mornin' I had a talk with Mr. Robert, after which I got busy with the long-distance 'phone. I didn't say anything much at lunch about what I'd done, but around three o'clock I calls up the apartment.
"I'm luggin' home someone to dinner," says I. "Guess who?"
Vee couldn't.
"MacGregor the grouch," says I.
"Really!" says Vee. "How funny!"
"It's part of the plot," says I. "Tell the Professor to spread himself on the eatings, and have the rooms all fixed up slick."
Vee says she will. And she does. MacGregor falls for it, too. You should have seen him after dinner, leanin' back comfortable in our biggest chair, sippin' his coffee, and puffin' one of Old Hickory's special perfectos that I'd begged for the occasion.
And still I didn't let on. What I'm after is to have him spring the proposition on me. Just before he's ready to go, too, he does.
"I say," says he casual, "this isn't such a bad hole you have here."
"Perfectly rotten," says I.
"Then we might make a trade," says he. "What?"
"There's no tellin'," says I. "You mean a swap, as things stand?"
"That's it," says he. "I'm no hand for moving rubbish about."
"Me either," says I. "But if you mean business, suppose you drop in to-morrow at the office, about ten-thirty, and talk it over."
"Very well," says MacGregor. "I'll stop in town to-night."
"Oh, Torchy!" says Vee, after he's gone. "Do—do you suppose he will—really? "
"You're still for it, eh?" says I. "Sure, now?"
"Oh, it would be almost too good to be true," says she. "That could be made just the dearest place!"
"Yes," says I; "but my job is to talk MacGregor into lettin' it go cheap, or else we can't afford to touch it."
Well, I can't claim it was all my smooth work that did the trick, for MacGregor had bought the place at a bargain first off, and now he was anxious to unload. Still, he hadn't been born north of Glasgow for nothing. But the figures Mr. Robert said would be about right I managed to shade by twenty per cent., and my lump invoice of that old mahogany of ours maybe was a bit generous. Anyway, when I goes home that night I tosses Vee a long envelop.
"What's this?" says she.
"That's your chicken permit," says I. "All aboard for Lilac Lodge! Gee! I wonder should I grow whiskers, livin' out there?"