CHAPTER XIAT THE TURN WITH WILFRED
I expect Mr. Robert overstated the case a bit. He was more or less hectic back of the ears about then, havin' just broken away after a half-hour session with Mrs. Stanton Bliss.
"That woman," says he, slumpin' into a chair and moppin' his brow, "has the mental equipment of a pet rabbit and the disposition of a setting hen. Good Lord! "
I looks over at Vee and grins. Had to. It ain't often you see Mr. Robert like that. And him bein' all dolled up in his nifty navy uniform made it seem just that much funnier. But Vee don't grin back. She'd sympathize with 'most anybody. At that exact minute, I'll bet she was bein' sorry for both of 'em all in the same breath, as you might say.
"But can't something be done—somehow?" she asks.
"Not by me," says Mr. Robert, decided. "Great marlinspikes! I'm not the war department, am I? I'm only a first-grade lieutenantin command of a blessed, smelly old menhaden trawler that's posing as a mine-sweeper. I am supposed to be enjoying a twenty-four hour shore leave in the peace and quiet of my home, and I get—this."
He waves his hand toward the other room, where the afore-mentioned Mrs. Stanton Bliss is sobbin, sniffin', and otherwise registerin' deep emotion by clawin' Mrs. Robert about the shoulders and wavin' away the smellin' salts.
"If it was the first time," growls Mr. Robert. "But it isn't."
That was true, too. You see, we'd heard somethin' about the other spasms. They'd begun along in July, when the awful news came out that Wilfred's red ink number had been plucked from the jar. Now you get it, don't you? Nothing unique. The same little old tragedy that was bein' staged in a million homes, includin' four-room flats, double-decker tenements, and boardin'-houses.
Only this happened to hit the forty-room country house of the Stanton Blisses. Course, it was different. Look who was bein' stirred up by it.
So mother had begun throwin' cat-fits. She'd tackled everyone she knew, demandin' to know what was to be done to keep Wilfredout of it. Among others, of course, she'd held up Mr. Robert. Wasn't he their nearest neighbor, and hadn't the Blisses entertained the Ellinses a lot? Not that she put it that way, exactly. But when she came with this hunch about gettin' sonny a snap job on some sort of naval construction work, why, of course, Mr. Robert couldn't duck. Yes, he thought he could place Wilfred. And he did—time-keeper, six-hour shift, and near enough so he could run back and forth every day in his machine.
That might have been good enough for some folks. It meant dodgin' the draft for Wilfred, dead sure. But mother didn't stay satisfied long. She went investigatin' around the plant. She found the office stuffy, Wilfred's desk had no electric fan on it, she wasn't sure of the drinkin' water, and the foreman was quite an impossible sort of person who always sneered when he had anything to say to Wilfred. Couldn't Mr. Robert attend to some of these things? Mr. Robert said he'd try—if he had time. He didn't get the time. More visits from mother.
Then this latest catastrophe. The Stanton Blisses had been away from home for three weeks or more, house-partyin' and motorin' through the mountains. Poor Wilfred had hadto stay behind. What a stupidly distressin' thing war was, wasn't it? But he had been asked to spend his nights and Sundays with a college chum whose home was several miles nearer the works.
And then they had come back to find this scribbled note. Things had been gettin' worse and worse, Wilfred wrote. Some young hoodlums around the plant had shouted after him as he drove off in his car. Even young girls. The men had been surly to him, and that beastly foreman—— Well, he wasn't goin' to stand for it, that was all. He didn't know just what he was goin' to do, but he was clearin' out. They'd hear from him later.
They had. This six-word message from Philadelphia, dated nearly two weeks ago, was also waitin'. It said that he'd enlisted, was all right, and for them not to worry. Nothin' more.
You couldn't blame mother for bein' stirred up. Her Wilfred had gone. Somewhere in some army camp or other, or at some naval trainin' station, the son and heir of the house of Bliss was minglin' with the coarse sons of the common people, was eatin' common food, was wearin' common clothes, was goin' up against the common thing generally. And thatwasn't the worst of it. Where? Why didn't Mr. Robert tell her where? And couldn't he get him away at once? Mr. Robert had almost gone hoarse tryin' to explain why he couldn't. But after every try she'd come back with this wail:
"Oh, but you don't understand what it is to be a mother!"
"Thank the stars I don't!" says he, as he marches out of the room.
I was for clearin' out so he'd be free to shoo her in any style he wanted to. We'd been havin' dinner with the Ellinses, Vee and I, and it was time to go home anyway. But there's no budgin' Vee.
"Don't you think Torchy might find out where he is?" she suggests. "Bein' in the army himself, you know, and so clever at that sort of thing, I should think—— "
"Why, to be sure," breaks in Mr. Robert, perkin' up all of a sudden and starin' at me. "Lieutenant Torchy to the rescue, of course. He's the very one."
"Ah, say, how'd you get that way?" says I. "Back up!"
He's off, though, callin' Mrs. Stanton Bliss. And before I can escape he's sickin' her on real enthusiastic. Also there's Vee urgin' meto see if I can't do something to locate Wilfred. So I had to make the stab.
"Got that wire with you?" I asks.
Yes, Mrs. Bliss had all the documents right handy. I takes the yellow sheet over under the readin' lamp and squints at it sleuthy, partly to kill time, and partly because I couldn't think of anything else to do. And of course they all have to gather round and watch me close, as if I was about to pull some miracle. Foolish! It was a great deal worse than that.
"H-m-m-m-m!" says I. "Philadelphia. I suppose there's some sort of naval trainin' station there, eh?"
Mr. Robert says there is.
"But if Wilfred was at it," I goes on, "and didn't want you to find him, he wouldn't have sent this from there, would he?"
Mrs. Stanton Bliss sighs. "I'm sure I don't know," says she. "I—I suppose not."
"Must be somewhere within strikin' distance of Philadelphia, though," says I. "Now, what camp is near?"
"Couldn't we wire someone in Washington and find out?" asks Mrs. Bliss.
"Sure," says I. "And we'd get an official answer from the Secretary of War about 11A.M.next spring. It'll be a lot quicker to call up Whitey Weeks."
They don't know everything in newspaper offices, but there are mighty few things they can't find out. Whitey, though, didn't even have to consult the copy desk or the clippin' bureau.
"About the nearest big one," says he, "is the Ambulance Corps Camp at Allentown. Somewhere up on the Lehigh. S'long."
Here was another jolt for Mrs. Stanton Bliss. The Ambulance Corps! She near keeled over again, just hearin' me say it. Oh, oh! Did I really believe Wilfred could have been as rash as that?
"Why," says she, "they drive right up to the trenches, don't they? Isn't that fearfully dangerous?"
"War isn't a parlor pastime," puts in Mr. Robert. "And the ambulance drivers take their chances with the rest of the men. But there's no fightin' going on at Allentown. If Wilfred is there——"
"If he is," cuts in Mrs. Bliss, "I must go to him this very moment."
Some way that statement seemed to cheer Mr. Robert up a lot.
"Naturally," says he. "I'll look up a trainfor you. Just a second. In the A's. Allentown—Allen. Ah, page 156. M-m-m. Here you are. First one starts at 2A.M.and gets you in at 5.15. Will that do?"
Mrs. Bliss turns on him sort of dazed, and blinks them round eyes of hers. She's a fairly well put up old girl, you know, built sort of on the pouter-pigeon type, but with good lines below the waist, and a complexion that she's taken lots of pains with. Dresses real classy, and, back to, she's often mistaken for daughter Marion. Travels in quite a gay bunch, I understand, with Mr. Stanton Bliss kind of trailin' along behind. Usually, when she ain't indulgin' in hysterics, she has very fetchin' kittenish ways. You know the kind. Their specialty's makin' the surroundin' males jump through the hoop for 'em. But when it comes to arrivin' anywhere at 5.15A.M.—well, not for her.
"I should be a sight," says she.
"You'd still be a mother, wouldn't you?" asks Mr. Robert.
It was rough of him, as he was given to understand by the looks of all three ladies present, includin' Mrs. Robert; so he tries to square himself by lookin' up a ten o'clock train, all Pullman, with diner and observation.
"I would gladly take you up myself," sayshe, lyin' fluent, "if I didn't have to go back to my boat. But here is Torchy. He'll go, I suppose."
"Of course," says Vee.
And that's how I came to be occupyin' drawin'-room A, along with mother and sister Marion, as we breezes up into the Pennsylvania hills on this Wilfred hunt. A gushy, giggly young party Marion is, but she turns out to be quite a help. It was her who spots the two young soldiers driftin' through towards the smokin' compartment, and suggests that maybe they're goin' to the same camp.
"And they would know if Wilfred was there, wouldn't they?" she adds.
"Maybe," says I. "I'll go ask."
Nice, clean-cut young chaps they was. They'd stretched out comfortable on the leather seats, and was enjoyin' a perfectly good smoke, until I shows up. The minute I appears, though, they chucks their cigars and jumps up, heels together, right hand to the hat-brim. That's what I get by havin' this dinky bar on my shoulders.
"Can it, boys," says I. "This is unofficial."
"At ease, sir?" suggests one.
"As easy as you know how," says I.
Yes, they says they're ambulancers; on theirway back to Allentown, too. But they didn't happen to know of any Wilfred Stanton Bliss there.
"You see, sir," says one, "there are about five thousand of us, so he might—— "
"Sure!" says I. "But mother'll want an affidavit. Would you mind droppin' in and bein' cross-examined? There's sister Marion, too."
Obligin' chaps, they were; let me tow 'em into the drawin'-room, listened patient while Mrs. Bliss described just how Wilfred looked, and tried their best to remember havin' seen such a party. Also they gave her their expert opinion on how long the war was goin' to last, when Wilfred would be sent over, and what chances he stood of comin' back without a scratch.
Once more it was Marion who threw the switch.
"Tell me," says she, "will he be wearing a uniform just like yours?"
They said he would.
"Oh!" gurgles Marion, "I think it is perfectly spiffy. Don't you, mother? I'm just crazy to see Wilfred in one."
Mother catches the enthusiasm. "My noble boy!" says she, rollin' her eyes up.
From then on she's quite chipper. The idea of findin' sonny made over into a smart, dashin' soldier seemed to crowd out all the panicky thoughts she'd been havin'. From little hints she let drop, I judged that she was already picturin' him as a gallant hero, struttin' around haughty and givin' off stern commands. Maybe he'd been made a captain or something. Surely they would soon see that her Wilfred ought to be an officer of some kind.
"And we must have his portrait painted," she remarks, claspin' her hands excited as the happy thought strikes her.
The boys looked steady out of the window and managed to smother the smiles. I imagine they'd seen all sorts of mothers come to camp.
It's a lively little burg, Allentown, even if I didn't know it was on the map before. At the station you take a trolley that runs straight through the town and out to the fair grounds, where the camp is located. Goin' up the hill, you pass through the square and by the Soldiers' Monument. Say, it's some monument, too. Then out a long street lined with nice, comfortable-lookin' homes, until you get a glimpse of blue hills rollin' away as far as you can see, and there you are.
The boys piloted us past the guard at the gates, through a grove of trees, and left us at the information bureau, where a soldier wearin' shell-rimmed glasses listened patient while mother and sister both talked at once.
"Bliss? Just a moment," says he, reachin' for a card-index box. "Yes, ma'am. Wilfred Stanton. He's here."
"But where?" demands Mrs. Bliss.
"Why," says the soldier, "he's listed with the casuals just now. Quartered in the cow-barn."
"The—the cow-barn!" gasps Mrs. Bliss.
The soldier grins.
"It's over that way," says he, wavin' his hand. "Anyone will tell you."
They did. We wandered on and on, past the parade ground that used to be the trottin' track, past new barracks that was being knocked together hasty, until we comes to this dingy white buildin' with all the underwear hung up to dry around it. I took one glance inside, where the cots was stacked in thick and soldiers was loafin' around in various stages of dress and undress, and then I shooed mother and sister off a ways while I went scoutin' in alone. At a desk made out of a packin'-boxI found a chap hammerin' away at a typewriter. He salutes and goes to attention.
"Yes, sir," says he, when I've told him who I'm lookin' for. "Squeaky Bliss. But he's on duty just now, sir."
I suggests that his mother and sister are here and would like to have a glimpse of him right away.
"They'd better wait until after five, sir," says he.
"I wouldn't like to try holdin' 'em in that long," says I.
"Very well, sir," says he. "Squeaky's on fatigue. Somewhere down at the further end of the grand stand you might catch him. But if it's his mother—well, I'd wait."
I passes this advice on to Mrs. Bliss.
"The idea!" says she. "I wish to see my noble soldier boy at once. Come."
So we went. There was no scarcity of young fellows in olive drab. The place was thick with 'em. Squads were drillin' every way you looked, and out in the center of the field, where two or three hundred new ambulances were lined up, more squads were studyin' the insides of the motor, or practicin' loadin' in stretchers. Hundreds and hundreds of young fellows in uniform, all lookin' justalike. I didn't wonder that mother couldn't pick out sonny boy.
"What was it that man said?" she asks. "Wilfred on fatigue. Does that mean he is resting?"
"Not exactly," says I.
About then sister Marion begins to exhibit jumpy emotions.
"Mother! Mother!" says she, starin' straight ahead. "Look!"
All I could see was a greasy old truck backed up in front of some low windows under the grand stand, with half a dozen young toughs in smeary blue overalls jugglin' a load of galvanized iron cans. Looked like garbage cans; smelled that way too. And the gang that was handlin' 'em—well, most of 'em had had their heads shaved, and in that rig they certainly did look like a bunch from Sing Sing.
I was just nudgin' sister to move along, when Mrs. Bliss lets out this choky cry:
"Wilfred!" says she.
She hadn't made any mistake, either. It was sonny, all right. And you should have seen his face as he swings around and finds who's watchin' him. If it hadn't been for the bunkie who was helpin' him lift that can ofsloppy stuff on to the tail of the truck, there'd been a fine spill, too.
"My boy! Wilfred!" calls Mrs. Stanton Bliss, holdin' out her arms invitin' and dramatic.
Now, in the first place, Wilfred was in no shape to be the party of the second part in a motherly clinch act. It's messy work, loadin' garbage cans, and he's peeled down for it. He was costumed in a pair of overalls that would have stood in the corner all by themselves, and an army undershirt with one sleeve half ripped off.
In the second place, all the rest of the bunch was wearin' broad grins, and he knew it. So he don't rush over at once. Instead he steps around to the front of the truck and salutes a husky, freckled-necked young sergeant who's sittin' behind the steerin' wheel.
"Family, sir," says Wilfred. "What—what'll I do?"
The sergeant takes one look over his shoulder.
"Oh, well," says he, "drop out until next load."
Not until Wilfred had led us around the corner does he express his feelin's.
"For the love of Mike, mother!" says he. "Wasn't it bad enough without your springin'that 'muh boy!' stuff? Right before all the fellows, too. Good-night!"
"But, Wilfred," insists mother, "what does this mean? Why do I find you—well, like this? Oh, it's too dreadful for words. Who has done this to you—and why?"
Jerky, little by little, Wilfred sketches out the answer. Army life wasn't what he'd expected. Not at all. He was sore on the whole business. He'd been let in for it, that was all. It wasn't so bad for some of the fellows, but they'd been lucky. As for him—well, he'd come here to learn to be an ambulance driver, and he had spent his first week in the kitchen, peelin' potatoes. Then, when they'd let him off that, and given him his first pass to go to town, just because he'd been a little late comin' back they'd jumped on him somethin' fierce. They'd shoved him on this garbage detail. He'd been on it ever since.
"It's that mucker of a top sergeant, Quigley," says Wilfred. "He's got it in for me."
Mrs. Stanton Bliss straightens out her chin dimple as she glares after the garbage truck, which is rollin' away in the distance.
"Has he, indeed!" says she. "We will see about that, then."
"But you must handle him easy, mother," warns Wilfred.
"That person!" snorts mother. "I shall have nothing to do with him whatever. I mean to get you out of this, Wilfred. I am going straight to the general."
"Now, mother!" protests Wilfred. "Don't make a scene."
When she was properly stirred up, though, that was mother's long suit. And she starts right in. Course, I tried to head her off, but it's no use. As there wasn't a general handy, she had to be satisfied with a major. Seemed like a mighty busy major, too; but when he heard his orderly tryin' to shunt the ladies, he gives the signal to let 'em in. You can bet I didn't follow. Didn't have to, for Mrs. Bliss wasn't doin' any whisperin' about then.
And she sure made it plain to the major how little she thought of the U. S. Army, and specially that part of it located at Allentown, Pa. Havin' got that off her chest, and been listened to patient, she demands that Wilfred be excused from all his disgustin' duties, and be allowed to go home with her at once and for good.
The major shakes his head. "Impossible!" says he.
"Then," says Mrs. Stanton Bliss, tossin' her head, "I shall appeal to the Secretary of War; to the President, if necessary."
The major smiles weary. "You'd best talk to his sergeant," says he. "If he recommends your son's discharge it may go through."
"That person!" exclaims Mrs. Bliss. "Never! I—I might talk to his captain. "
"Useless, madam," says the major. "See his sergeant; he's the one."
And he signifies polite that the interview is over.
When mother tells sonny the result of this visit to headquarters, he shrugs his shoulders.
"I knew it would be that way," says he. "They've got me, and I've got to stand for it. No use askin' Quigley. You might as well go home."
"But at least you can get away long enough to have dinner with us," says mother.
"Nothing doin'," says Wilfred. "Can't get out unless Quigley signs a pass, and he won't."
"Oh, come!" says I. "He don't look so bad as all that. Let me see what I can do with him."
Well, after I'd chased the ladies back to the hotel with instructions to wait hopeful, I huntsup Top Sergeant Quigley. Had quite a revealin' chat with him, too. Come to look at him close after he'd washed up, he's rather decent appearin'. Face seems sort of familiar, too.
"Didn't you play first base for the Fordhams?" I asks.
"Oh, that was back in '14," says he.
"As I remember," says I, "you was some star on the bag, though. Now, about young Bliss. Case of mommer's pet, you know."
"He had that tag all over him," says Quigley. "But we're knockin' a lot of that out of him. He's comin' on."
"Good!" says I. "Would it stop the process to let him off for an evenin' with the folks—dinner and so on?"
"Why, no; I guess not," says Quigley. "Might do him good. But he must apply himself. Send him along."
So a half hour later I sat on a cot in the cow-barn and watched Wilfred, fresh from the shower bath, get into his army uniform.
"Say," he remarks, strugglin' through his khaki shirt, "I didn't think old Quig would do it."
"Seemed glad to," says I. "Said you was comin' on fine."
"He did?" gasps Wilfred. "Quigley? Well, what do you know!"
Not such a bad imitation of a soldier, Wilfred, when he'd laced up the leggins and got the snappy-cut coat buttoned tight. He's some different from what he was when sister first discovered him. And we had quite a gay dinner together.
First off mother was for campin' right down there indefinitely, where she could see her darlin' boy every day; but between Wilfred and me we persuaded her different. I expect the hotel quarters had something to do with it, too. Anyway, after Wilfred had promised to try for a couple of days off soon, for a visit home, she consents to start back in the mornin'.
"What I dread most, Wilfred," says she, "is leaving you at the mercy of that horrid sergeant."
"Oh, I'll get along with him somehow," says Wilfred. "I'm goin' to try, anyway."
And right there, as I understand it, Wilfred Stanton Bliss started to be a man and a soldier. He had a long way to go, though, it seemed to me.
So here the other day, only a couple of weeks since we made our trip, I'm some surprised to see who it is givin' me the zippy salute on thestation platform out home. Yes, it's Wilfred. And say, he's got his shoulders squared, he's carryin' his chin up, and he's wearin' his uniform like it grew on him.
"Well, well!" says I. "Got your furlough, eh?"
"Yes, sir," says he. "Seventy-two hours. Had a whale of a time, too. You can't guess who I brought home with me, I'll bet."
I couldn't.
"Our top sergeant—Quigley," says he. "Say, he's all right. He's had us transferred to the best barracks in camp. Guess we deserve it, too, for we're on the way to bein' the crackerjack section of them all. You ought to see us drill. Some class! And it's all due to Quigley. Do you know what he thinks? That we're slated among the next lot to go over. How about that, sir? Won't that be great?"
"Huh!" says I. "How long ago was it you signed up, Wilfred?"
"Just six weeks, sir," says he.
"Whiffo!" says I, gawpin' at him. "If we had about a hundred thousand Quigleys!"
CHAPTER XIIVEE GOES OVER THE TOP
"But listen, Vee," says I. "If Hoover can't pull it off, with all the backin' he's got, what's the use of a few of you women mixin' in?"
"At least we can try," says Vee. "The prices this Belcher person is charging are something outrageous. Eggs ninety cents!"
"We should worry," says I. "Ain't we got nearly a hundred hens on the job?"
"But others haven't," says Vee. "Those people in that row of little cottages down by the station. The Walters, for instance. He can't get more than twenty-five or thirty dollars a week, can he?"
"There's so many cases you can't figure out," says I. "Maybe he scrubs along on small steaks or fried chicken."
"It's no joking matter," protests Vee. "Of course there are plenty of people worse off then the Walters. That Mrs. Burke, whose two boys are in the Sixty-ninth. She must do hermarketing at Belcher's, too. Think of her having to pay those awful prices!"
"I would," says I, "if workin'up a case of glooms was any use; but I can't see—— "
"We can see enough," breaks in Vee. "The new Belcher limousine, the additions to their hideous big house. All made, too, out of food profiteering right here. It's got to stop, that's all."
Which is where I should have shouted "Kamerad" and come runnin' out with my hands up, but I tried to show her that Belcher was only playin' the game like everyone else was playin' it.
"He ain't springin' anything new," says I. "He's just followin' the mob. They're all doin' it, from the Steel Trust down to the push-cart men. And when you come to interferin' with business—well, that's serious."
"Humph!" says Vee. "When it comes to taking advantage of poor people and depriving them of enough to eat, I call it plain piracy. And you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Torchy, standing up for such things."
So you see I was about as convincin' as a jazz band tryin' to imitate the Metropolitan orchestra doin' the overture to "Lucia." If I hadn't finally had sense enough to switch thesubject a little, there might have been a poutin' scene and maybe a double case of sulks. But when I got to askin' where she'd collected all this grouch against our local meat and provision octopus, she cheers up again.
Seems she'd been to a Red Cross meetin' that afternoon, where a lot of the ladies was swappin' tales of woe about their kitchen expense accounts. Some of 'em had been keepin' track of prices in the city markets and was able to shoot the deadly parallel at Belcher. Anyway, they ditched the sweater-knittin' and bandage-rollin' for the time bein', and proceeded to organize the Woman's Economic League on the spot.
"Sounds impressive," says I. "And what then? Did you try Belcher for treason, find him guilty, and sentence him to be shot at sunrise?"
Vee proves that she's good-natured again by runnin' her tongue out at me.
"We did not, Smarty," says she. "But we passed a resolution condemning such extortion severely."
"How rough of you!" says I. "Anything else?"
"Yes," says Vee. "We appointed a committee to tell him he'd better stop."
"Fine!" says I. "I expect he'll have everything marked down about forty per cent. by to-morrow night."
Somehow, it didn't work out just that way. Next report I got from Vee was that the committee had interviewed Belcher, but there was nothing doin'. He'd been awfully nice to 'em, even if he had talked through his cigar part of the time.
Belcher says he feels just as bad as they about havin' to soak on such stiff prices. But how can he help it? The cold-storage people are boostin' their schedules every day. They ain't to blame, either. They're bein' held up by the farmers out West who are havin' their hair cut too often. Besides, all the hens in the country have quit layin' and joined the I. W. W., and every kind of meat is scarce on account of Pershing's men developin' such big appetites. He's sorry, but he's doin' his best, considerin' the war and everything. If people would only get the habit of usin' corn meal for their pie crusts, everything would be lovely once more.
"An alibi on every count," says I. "I expect the committee apologized."
"Very nearly that," says Vee. "The sillies!I just wish I'd been there. I don't believe half of what he said is true."
"That's one thing," says I, "but provin' it on him would be another. And there's where Belcher's got you."
Course, I like to watch Vee in action, for she sure is a humdinger when she gets started. As a rule, too, I don't believe in tryin' to block her off in any of her little enterprises.
But here was once where it seemed to me she was up against a hopeless proposition. So I goes on to point out, sort of gentle and soothin', how war prices couldn't be helped, any more'n you could stop the tide from comin' in.
Oh, I'm some smooth suggester, I am, when you get into fireside diplomacy. Anyway, the price of eggs wasn't mentioned again that evenin'. As a matter of fact, Vee ain't troubled much with marketin' details, for Madame Battou, wife of the little old Frenchman who does the cheffing for us so artistic, attends to layin' in the supplies. And, believe me, when she sails forth with her market basket you can be sure she's goin' to get sixteen ounces to the pound and the rock bottom price on everything. No 'phone orders for her. I don't believe Vee knew what the inside of Belcher's store looks like. I'm sure I didn't.
So I thought the big drive on the roast beef and canned goods sector had been called off. About that time, too, I got another inspection detail handed me,—and I didn't see my happy home until another week-end.
I lands back on Broadway at 9a.m. Havin' reported at the Corrugated general offices and found Old Hickory out of town, I declares a special holiday and beats it out to the part of Long Island I'm beginnin' to know best. Struck me Professor Battou held his face kind of funny when he saw me blow in; and as I asks for Vee, him and the madam swaps glances. He say she's out.
"Oh," says I. "Mornin' call up at the Ellinses', eh? I'll stroll up that way, myself, then."
Leon hesitates a minute, like he was chokin' over something, and then remarks: "But no, M'sieur. Madame, I think, is in the village."
"Why," says I, "I just came from the station. I didn't see the car around. How long has she been gone?"
Another exchange of looks, and then Battou answers:
"She goes at seven."
"Whaddye mean goes?" says I. "It ain't a habit of hers, is it?"
Leon nods.
"All this week," says he. "She goes to the meat and grocery establishment, I understand."
"Belcher's?" says I. "But what—what's the idea?"
"I think it would be best if M'sieur asked Madame," says he.
"That's right, too," says I.
You can guess I was some puzzled. Was Vee doin' the spy act on Belcher, watchin' him open the store and spendin' the forenoon concealed in a crockery crate or something? No, that didn't sound reasonable. But what the—— Meanwhile I was leggin' it down towards the village.
It's a busy place, Belcher's, specially on Saturday forenoon. Out front three or four delivery trucks was bein' loaded up, and inside a lot of clerks was jumpin' round. Among the customers was two Jap butlers, three or four Swedish maids, and some of the women from the village. But no Vee anywhere in sight.
Loomin' prominent in the midst of all this active tradin' is Belcher himself, a thick-necked, ruddy-cheeked party, with bristly black hair cut shoe-brush style and growing downto a point in front. His big, bulgy eyes are cold and fishy, but they seem to take in everything that's goin' on. I hadn't been standin' around more'n half a minute before he snaps his finger, and a clerk comes hustlin' over to ask what I'll have.
"Box of ginger-snaps," says I offhand; and a minute later I'm bein' shunted towards a wire-cage with a cash slip in my hand.
I'd dug up a quarter, and was waitin' for the change to be passed out through the little window, when I hears a familiar snicker. Then I glances in to see who's presidin' at the cash register. And say, of all the sudden jolts I ever got! It's Vee.
"Well, for the love of soup!" I gasps.
"Twelve out—thirteen. That's right, isn't it? Thank you so much, sir," says she, her gray eyes twinklin'.
"Quit the kiddin'," says I, "and sketch out the plot of the piece."
"Can't now," says Vee. "So run along. Please!"
"But how long does this act of yours last?" I insists.
"Until about noon, I think," says she. "It's such fun. You can't imagine."
"What's it for, though?" says I. "Are you pullin' a sleuth stunt on—— "
"S-s-s-sh!" warns Vee. "He's coming. Pretend to be getting a bill changed or something."
It's while I'm fishin' out a ten that this little dialogue at the meat counter begins to get conspicuous: A thin, stoop-shouldered female with gray streaks in her hair is puttin' up a howl at the price of corned beef. She'd asked for the cheapest piece they had, and it had been weighed for her, but still she wasn't satisfied.
"It wasn't as high last Saturday," she objects.
"No, ma'am," says the clerk. "It's gone up since."
"Worse luck," says she, pokin' the piece with her finger. "And this is nearly all bone and fat. Now couldn't you——"
"I'll ask the boss, ma'am," says the clerk. "Here he is."
Belcher has come over and is listenin', glarin' hostile at the woman.
"It's Mrs. Burke, the one whose sons are in the army," whispers Vee.
"Well?" demands Belcher.
"It's so much to pay for meat like that," says Mrs. Burke. "If you could—— "
"Take it or leave it," snaps Belcher.
"Sure now," says she, "you know I can't afford to give——"
"Then get out!" orders Belcher.
At which Vee swings open the door of the cage, brushes past me, and faces him with her eyes snappin'.
"Pig!" says she explosive.
"Wha-a-a-at!" gasps Belcher, gawpin' at her.
"I—I beg pardon," says Vee. "I shouldn't have said that, even if it was so. "
"You—you're discharged, you!" roars Belcher.
"Isn't that nice?" says Vee, reachin' for her hat and coat. "Then I can go home with my husband, I suppose. And if I have earned any of that princely salary—five dollars a week, it was to be, wasn't it?—well, you may credit it to my account: Mrs. Richard Tabor Ballard, you know. Come, Torchy."
Say, I always did suspect there was mighty few things Vee was afraid of, but I never thought she had so much clear grit stowed away in her system. For to sail past Belcher the way he looked then took a heap of nerve,believe me. But before he can get that thick tongue of his limbered up we're outside, with Vee snuggled up mufflin' the giggles against my coat sleeve.
"Oh, it's been such a lark, Torchy!" says she. "I've passed as Miss Hemmingway for six days, and I don't believe more than three or four persons have suspected. Thank goodness, Belcher wasn't one of them. For I've learned—oh, such a lot!"
"Let's start at the beginning," says I. "Why did you do it at all?"
"Because the committee was so ready to believe the whoppers he told," says Vee. "And they wanted to disband the League, especially that Mrs. Norton Plummer, whose husband is a lawyer. She was almost disagreeable about it. Truly. 'But, my dear,' she said to me, 'one can't act merely on rumor and prejudice. If we had a few facts or figures it might be different.' And you know that sour smile of hers. Well! That's why I did it. I asked them to give me ten days. And now—— "
Vee finishes by squeezin' my arm.
"But how'd you come to break in so prompt?" I asks. "Did you mesmerize Belcher?"
"I bought up his cashier—paid her to report that she was ill," says Vee. "Then I smoothed back my hair, put on this old black dress, and went begging for the job. That's when I began to know Mr. Belcher. He's quite a different person when he is hiring a cashier from the one you see talking to customers. Really, I've never been looked at that way before—as if I were some sort of insect. But when he found I would work cheap, and could get Mrs. Robert Ellins to go on my bond if I should turn out a thief, he took me on.
"Getting up so early was a bit hard, and eating a cold luncheon harder still; but worst of all was having to hear him growl and snap at the clerks. Oh, he's perfectly horrid. I don't see how they stand it. Of course, I had my share. 'Miss Blockhead' was his pet name for me."
"Huh!" says I, grittin' my teeth.
"Meaning that you'd like to tell Belcher a few things yourself?" asks Vee. "Well, you needn't. I'd no right to be there, for one thing. And, for another, this is my own particular affair. I know what I am going to do to Mr. Belcher; at least, what I'm going to try to do. Anyway, I shall have some figuresto put before our committee Monday. Then we shall see."
Yep, she had the goods on him. I helped her straighten out the evidence: copies of commission-house bills showin' what he had paid for stuff, and duplicates of sales-slips givin' the retail prices he got. And say, all he was stickin' on was from thirty to sixty per cent. profit.
He didn't always wait for the wholesaler to start the boostin', either. Vee points out where he has jacked up the price three times on the same shipment—just as the spell took him. He'd be readin' away in hisMorgen Blatherskite, and all of a sudden he'd jump out of his chair. I'm no expert on provision prices, but some of them items had me bug-eyed.
"Why," says I, "it looks like this Belcher party meant to discourage eatin' altogether. Couldn't do better if he was runnin' a dinin'-car."
"It's robbery, that's what it is," says Vee. "And when you think that his chief victims are such helpless people as the Burkes and the Walters—well, it's little less than criminal."
"It's a rough deal," I admits, "but one that's bein' pulled in the best circles. War profits are what everybody seems to be outafter these days, and I don't see how you're going to stop it. "
"I mean to try to stop Belcher, anyway," says Vee, tossin' her chin up.
"You ain't got much show," says I; "but go to it."
Just how much fight there was in Vee, though, I didn't have any idea of until I saw her Monday evenin' after another meetin' of the League. It seems she'd met this Mrs. Norton Plummer on her own ground and had smeared her all over the map.
"What do you suppose she wanted to do?" demands Vee. "Pass more resolutions! Well, I told her just what I thought of that. As well pin a 'Please-keep-out' notice on your door to scare away burglars as to send resolutions to Belcher. And when I showed her what profits he was making, item by item, she hadn't another word to say. Then I proposed my plan."
"Eh?" says I. "What's it like?"
"We are going to start a store of our own," says Vee—just like that, offhand and casual.
"You are!" says I. "But—but who's goin' to run it?"
"They made me chairman of the sub-committee," says Vee. "And then I made themsubscribe to a campaign fund. Five thousand. We raised it in as many minutes. And now—well, I suppose I'm in for it."
"Listens that way to me," says I.
"Then I may as well begin," says she.
And say, there's nothin' draggy about Vee when she really goes over the top. While I'm dressin' for dinner she calls up a real estate dealer and leases a vacant store in the other end of the block from Belcher's. Between the roast and salad she uses the 'phone some more and drafts half a dozen young ladies from the Country Club set to act as relay clerks. Later on in the evenin' she rounds up Major Percy Thomson, who's been invalided home from the Quartermaster's Department on account of a game knee, and gets him to serve as buyin' agent for a week or so. Her next move is to charter a couple of three-ton motor-trucks to haul supplies out from town; and when I went to sleep she was still jottin' things down on a pad to be attended to in the mornin'.
For two or three days nothin' much seemed to happen. The windows of that vacant store was whitened mysterious, carpenters were hammerin' away inside, and now and then a truck backed up and was unloaded. But noword was given out as to what was goin' to be sprung. Not until Friday mornin'. Then the commuters on the 8.03 was hit bang in the eye by a whalin' big red, white, and blue sign announcin' that the W. E. L. Supply Company was open for business.
Course, it was kind of crude compared to Belcher's. No fancy counters or showcases or window displays of cracker-boxes. And the stock was limited to staples that could be handled easy. But the price bulletins posted up outside was what made some of them gents who'd been doin' the fam'ly marketin' stop and stare. A few of 'em turned halfway to the station and dashed back to leave their orders. Goin' into town they spread the news through the train. The story of that latest bag of U-boats, which the mornin' papers all carried screamers about, was almost thrown into the discard. If I hadn't been due for a ten o'clock committee meetin' at the Corrugated, I'd have stayed out and watched the openin'. Havin' told Old Hickory about it, though, I was on hand next mornin' with a whole day's furlough.
"It ought to be our big day," says Vee.
It was. For one thing, everybody was stockin' up for over Sunday, and with the backin'of the League the Supply Company could count on about fifty good customers as a starter. Most of the ladies came themselves, rollin' up in limousines or tourin' cars and cartin' home their own stuff. Also the cottage people, who'd got wind of the big mark-down bargains, begun to come in bunches, every woman with a basket.
But they didn't swamp Vee. She'd already added to her force of young lady clerks a squad of hand-picked Boy Scouts, and it was my job to manage the youngsters.
I'd worked out the system the night before. Each one had typed price lists in his pocket, and besides that I'd put 'em through an hour's drill on weights and measures before the show started.
I don't know when it was Belcher begun to get wise and start his counter-attack; but the first time I had a chance to slip out and take a squint his way, I saw this whackin' big sign in front of his place: "Potatoes, 40 cents per peck." Which I promptly reports to Vee.
"Very well," says she; "we'll make ours thirty-five."
Inside of ten minutes we had a bulletin out twice as big as his.
"Now I guess he'll be good," says I.
But he had a scrap or two left in him, it seems. Pretty soon he cuts the price to thirty.
"We'll make it twenty-five," says Vee.
And by eleven o'clock Belcher has countered with potatoes at twenty cents.
"Why," gasps Vee, "that's far less than they cost at wholesale. But we can't let him beat us. Make ours twenty, too."
"Excuse me, ma'am," puts in one of the Scouts, salutin', "but we've run out of potatoes."
"Oh, boy!" says I. "Where do we go from here!"
Vee hesitates only long enough to draw a deep breath.
"Torchy," says she, "I have it. Form your boys into a basket brigade, and buy out Belcher below the market."
Talk about your frenzied finance! Wasn't that puttin' it over on him! For two hours, there, we went long on Belcher's potatoes at twenty, until his supply ran out too. Then he switched to sugar and butter. Quotations went off as fast as when the bottom drops out of a bull market. All we had to do to hammer down the prices of anything in the food line, whether we had it or not, was to stick out a cut-rate sign—Belcher was sure to go it one better; and when Vee got it far enough below cost, she started her buyin' corps, workin' in customers, clerks, and anybody that was handy. And by night if every fam'ly within five miles hadn't stocked up on bargain provisions it was their own fault; for if they didn't have cash of their own Vee was right there with the long-distance credit.