CHAPTER XITEAMWORK WITH AUNTY
As Mr. Robert hangs up the desk 'phone and turns to me I catches him smotherin' a smile. "Torchy," says he, "are you a patron of the plastic art?"
"Corns, or backache?" says I.
"Not plasters," says he; "plastic; in short, sculpture."
"Never sculped a sculpin," says I. "What's the joke?"
"On the contrary," says he, "it's quite serious,—a sculptor in distress; a noble young Belgian at that, one Djickyns, in whose cause, it seems, I was rash enough to enlist at a recent dinner party. And now——" Mr. Robert waves towards his piled-up desk.
"I'd be a hot substitute along that line, wouldn't I?" says I.
"As I understand the situation," goes on Mr. Robert, "it is not a matter of giving artistic advice, but of—er—financing the said Djickyns."
"Oh!" says I. "Slippin' him a check?"
Mr. Robert shakes his head. "Nothing so simple," says he. "One doesn't slip checks to noble young sculptors. In this instance I am supposed to assist in outlining a plan whereby certain alleged objects of art may be—er——"
"Wished onto suckers in exchange for real money, eh?" says I. "Ain't that it?"
Mr. Robert nods.
"With so many dividends bein' passed," says I, "that's goin' to take some strategy."
"Hence this appeal to us," says he. "And I might add, Torchy, that one of those most interested is a near relative of a certain young lady who——"
"Aunty?" says I.
It was. So I grins and grabs my hat.
"That bein' the case, Mr. Robert," says I, "we'll finance this Djickyns party if we have to bull the sculpture market till it hits the rafters."
With that I takes the address of the scene of trouble and breezes uptown to a third-rate studio buildin'; where I finds Aunty and Vee and Sister Marjorie all grouped around a stepladder on top of which is balanced a pallid youth with long black hair and a fair white brow projectin' out like a double dormer on a cement bungalow. He seems to be tryin' to drape a fish net across the top of an alcove accordin' tothree diff'rent sets of directions; but leaves off abrupt when I blows in.
You'd hardly guess I'd been sent for, either. "Humph!" remarks Aunty, after I've announced how sorry Mr. Robert was he couldn't come himself and that he's detailed me instead. "How perfectly absurd!"
"But, Aunty," protests Vee, "you know Torchy is a private secretary now and understands all about such things. Besides, he knows such heaps of important business men who——"
"If he can bring them here Wednesday afternoon, very well," says Aunty; "but I have my doubts that he can."
"What's the game?" says I.
"It is not a game at all, young man," says Aunty. "Our project, if that is what you mean, is to have a studio tea for Mr. Djickyns and to secure the attendance of as many purchasers for his works as possible. Have you any suggestions?"
"Why," says I, "not right off the bat. Maybe if I could chew over the proposition awhile, I might——"
"Oh, I say," breaks in the noble young gent on the stepladder, "I—I'm getting dizzy up here, you know. I—I'm feeling rather——"
"Mercy!" squeals Marjorie. "He's fainting!"
"I GATHERS HIM IN ON THE FLY.""I GATHERS HIM IN ON THE FLY."
"Steady there!" I sings out to Djickyns, makin' a jump. "Don't wabble until I get you. Easy!"
I ain't a second too soon, either; for as I reaches up he topples toward me, as limp as a sack of flour. I was fieldin' my position well for an amateur; for I gathers him in on the fly, slides him down head first with only a bump or two, and stretches him out on the rug. It's only a near-faint, though, and after a drink of water and a sniff at Aunty's smellin' salts he's able to be helped onto a couch and propped up with cushions.
"Awfully sorry," says he, smilin' mushy, "but I fear I can't go on with the decorating to-day."
"Never mind," says Aunty, comfortin'. "This young man will help us."
"Please do, Torchy," adds Marjorie.
"You will, won't you?" says Vee, shootin' over a glance from them gray eyes that makes me feel all rosy and tingly.
"That's my job in life," says I, pickin' up the fish net. "Now how does this go?"
And for the next hour or so, when I wa'n't clingin' to the ceilin' with my eyelids, tackin' things up, I was down on all-fours arrangin' rugs, or executin' other merry little stunts. Aunty had collected a whole truckload of fancy junk,—wall tapestries, old armor, Russian tea machines, and such,—with the idea of transformin'this half-bare loft of Djickyns's into a swell studio. And, believe me, we came mighty near turnin' the trick!
"There!" says she. "With a few flowers I believe it will do. Now, young man, have you thought how we can get the right people here? Of course we shall advertise in all the papers."
"As an open show?" says I. "Say, that's nutty! Don't you do it. You'd only get in a bunch of suburban shoppers and cheap-skate art students. My tip is, make it exclusive,—admission by card only. Then if it's done right you can graft a lot of free press agent stuff by playin' up the Belgian part of it strong. See? Lets you ring in on this fund for Belgian sufferers. I take it you want to unload as much of this plaster junk as you can? Well, all you got to do is mark it up twenty per cent. and announce that you'll chip in that much towards the fund. Get me?"
She never bats an eye, Aunty don't. "To be sure," says she. "I think that is precisely what we had in mind all the time; only we—er——"
"I know," says I. "You hadn't been playin' the relief act strong enough. But that's what'll get you into the headlines. 'Social Leader to the Rescue,'—all that dope. I'll send some of the boys up to see you to-night. Don't let your butler frost 'em, though. Give 'em a cleartrack to the lib'ry, and if you're servin' after-dinner coffee and frosted green cordials, so much the better. Reporters are almost human, you know. It would help too if you'd happen to be just startin' for the op'ra, with all your pearl ropes on. And whisper,—soft pedal on Djickyns here, but heavy on his suff'rin' countrymen! That's the line."
Aunty shudders a couple of times, and once she starts to crash in with the sharp reproof; but she swallows it. Some little old diplomat, Aunty is! She was gettin' the picture. Havin' planned that part of the campaign, she switches the debate as to who should go on the list of invited guests.
"Leave it to me," says I. "You just pick out about a dozen patronesses. Pick 'em from the top, the ones that are featured oftenest in the society notes. And me, I'll sift out a couple of hundred sound propositions from the corporation lists,—parties that have stayed on the right side of the market and still have cash to spend."
Aunty nods approvin'. She even hands over some names she'd jotted down herself and asks me to put 'em in if they're all right.
"Most of 'em are fine," says I, glancin' over the slip; "but who's this W. T. Wiggins with no address?"
"I particularly want to reach him," says she."He is a wealthy merchant who is apt to be rather generous, I am told, if properly approached."
"I'll look him up," says I, "and see that he gets an invite—registered."
"Of course," goes on Aunty, "he doesn't belong socially, you understand; but in this instance——"
"Uh-huh!" says I. "You'll be pleased to meet his checkbook. And, by the way, what schedule are you runnin' this on,—doors open at when?"
"The cards will read, 'From half after four until seven,'" says Aunty.
"I see," says I. "Then if I drift in before six a frock coat will pass me."
And for the first time durin' the session she inspects me insultin' through her lorgnette. "Really," says she, "I had not considered that it would be necessary——"
"Eh?" I gasps. "Ah, have a heart! Think how handy I'd be if someone did another flop, or if Miss Vee wanted——"
"Verona will be fully occupied in serving tea," breaks in Aunty. "Besides, we shall try to give this affair the appearance, at least, of a genuine social function. I imagine that the presence of such persons as Mr. Wiggins will make the task sufficiently difficult. Don't you see?"
"I ought to," says I. "You ain't left much to the imagination. Sort of a blot on the landscape I'd be, would I?"
Aunty shrugs her shoulders. "Please remember," says she, "that I am not making social distinctions. I merely recognize those which exist. You must not hold me responsible for——"
"Oh, Aunty," breaks in Vee, trippin' into our corner impulsive, "we've forgotten the tea things. I must go out and find a store and get them at once. Mayn't Torchy come to carry the bundles?"
"Yes," says Aunty; "but I think I will go also, to be sure you order the right things."
Think of carryin' round a disposition like that! She trails right along with us too, and just to make the trip int'restin' for her I strikes for Eighth-ave. through one of them messy cross streets where last week's snow piles and garbage cans was mixed careless along the curb.
"What a wretched district!" complains Aunty.
"I thought you wanted to get to the nearest grocery," says I. "Hello! Here's one of the Wiggins chain. How about patronizin' this?"
It's one of them cheap, cut-rate joints, you know, with the windows plastered all over with daily bargain hints,—"Three pounds of Wiggins'sbest creamery butter for 97 cents—to-day only," "Canned corn, 6 cents—our big Monday special," and so on. Aunty sniffs a bit, but fin'lly decides to take a chance and sails in in all her grandeur. The one visible clerk was busy waitin' on lady customers, one with a shawl over her head and the other luggin' a baby on her hip. So Aunty raps impatient on the counter.
At that out from behind a stack of Wiggins's breakfast food boxes appears a middle-aged gent strugglin' into a blue jumper three sizes too small for him. He's kind of heavy built and slow movin' for an average grocery clerk, and he's wearin' gold-rimmed specs; but when Aunty proceeds to cross-examine him about his stock of tea he sure showed he was onto his job. He seems to know about every kind of tea ever grown, and produces samples of the best he has in the shop.
Aunty was watchin' him casual as he weighs out a couple of pounds, when all of a sudden she unlimbers her long-handled glasses and takes a closer look. "My good man," says she, "haven't I seen you somewhere before?"
"Oh, yes," says he, scoopin' a pinch off the scales so they'd register exactly to the quarter ounce.
"In some other store, perhaps?" says she.
"I think not," says he.
"Then where?" asks Aunty.
"Cooperstown," says he, reachin' for a paper bag and shootin' the tea in skillful. "Anything more, Madam?"
"Cooperstown!" echoes Aunty. "Why, I haven't been there since I was a girl."
"Yes, I know," says he. "You didn't even finish at high school. Cut sugar, did you say, Madam?"
"A box," says Aunty, starin' puzzled. "Perhaps you attended the same school?"
He nods.
"Oh, I seem to remember now," says she. "Aren't you the one they called—er—— What was it you were called?"
"Woodie," says he. "Will you have lemons too? Fresh Floridas."
"Two dozen," says Aunty. "Well, well! You used to ask me to skate with you on the lake, didn't you?"
"When my courage was running high," says he. "Sometimes you would; but more often you wouldn't. I lived at the wrong end of town, you know."
"In the Hollow, wasn't it?" says she. "And there was something queer about—about your family, wasn't there?"
He looks her straight in the eye at that, Woodie does. "Yes," says he. "Mother went out sewing. She was a widow."
"Oh!" says Aunty. "I recall your skates—those funny old wooden-topped ones, weren't they?"
"I was lucky to have those," says he.
"Hm-m-m!" muses Aunty. "But you could skate very well. You taught me the Dutch roll. I remember now. Then there was the night we had the big bonfire on the ice."
Woodie lets on not to hear this last, but grabs a sales slip and gets busy jottin' down items.
I nudges Vee, and she smothers a snicker. We was enjoyin' this little peek into their past. Could you have guessed it? Aunty! She orders six loaves of sandwich bread and asks to see the canned caviar.
"You've never found anything better to do," she goes on, "than—than this?"
"No," says Woodie, on his way down from the top shelf.
Once more Aunty levels her lorgnette and gives him the cold, curious look over. "Hm-m-mff!" says she through her aristocratic nose. "I must say that as a boy you were presuming enough."
"I got over that," says he.
"So I should hope," says she. "You manage to make a living at this sort of thing, I suppose?"
"In a way," says he.
"You've no family, I trust?" says Aunty.
"There are six of us all told," admits Woodie humble.
"Good heavens!" she gasps. "But I presume some of them are able to help you?"
"A little," says Woodie.
"Think of it!" says Aunty. "Six! And on such wages! Are any of them girls?"
"Two," says he.
"I must send you some of my niece's discarded gowns," says Aunty impulsive. "You are not a drinking man, are you?"
"Not to excess, Madam," says Woodie.
"How you can afford to drink at all is beyond me," says she. "Or even eat! Yet you are rather stout. I've no doubt, though, that plain food is best. But you show your age."
"I know," says he, smoothin' one hand over his bald spot. "Anything else to-day?"
There's just a hint of an amused flicker behind the glasses that makes Aunty glare at him suspicious for a second. "No," says she. "Put all those things in two stout bags and tie them carefully."
"Yes, Madam," says Woodie.
He was doin' it too, when the other clerk steps up, salutes him polite, and says: "You're wanted at the telephone, Sir."
"Tell them to hold the wire," says Woodie.
We was still tryin' to dope that out when abig limousine rolls up in front of the store, out hops a footman in livery, walks in to Woodie with his cap in his hand, and holds out a bunch of telegrams.
"From the office, Sir," says he.
"Wait," says Woodie, wavin' him one side.
Now was them any proper motions for a grocery clerk to be goin' through? I leave it to you. Vee is watchin' with her nose wrinkled up, like she always does when anything stumps her; and me, I was just starin' open-faced and foolish. I couldn't get the connection at all. But Aunty ain't one to stand gaspin' over a mystery while her tongue's still workin'.
"Whose car is that?" she demands.
Woodie slips the string from between his front teeth, puts a double knot scientific on the end of the package, and peers over his glasses out through the door. "That?" says he. "Oh, that's mine."
"Yours!" comes back Aunty. "And—and this store too?"
"Oh, yes," says he.
"Then—then your name is Wiggins?" she goes on.
"Yes," says he. "Don't you remember,—Woodie Wiggins?"
"I'd forgotten," says Aunty. "And all the other stores like this—how many of them have you?"
"Something less than a hundred," says he. "Ninety-six or seven, I think."
Most got Aunty's breath, that did; but in a jiffy she's recovered. "Perhaps," says she, "you don't mind telling me the reason for this masquerade?"
"It's not quite that," says Wiggins. "I try to keep in touch with all my places. In making my rounds to-day I found my local manager here too ill to be at work. Bad case of grip. So I sent him home, telephoned for a substitute, and while waiting took off my coat and filled in. Fortunate coincidence, wasn't it?—for it gave me the pleasure of serving you."
"You mean," cuts in Aunty, "that it gave you the opportunity of making me appear absurd. Those gowns I promised to send!"
Wiggins grins good natured. "Is this the niece you mentioned?" says he.
Aunty admits that it is, and introduces Vee.
Then Wiggins looks inquirin' at me. "Your son?" he asks.
And you should have seen Aunty's face pink up at that. "Certainly not!" says she.
"Oh!" says Woodie, screwin' up one corner of his mouth and tippin' me the wink.
I knew if I got a look at Vee I'd have to haw-haw; so I backs around with one hand behind me and we swaps a finger squeeze.
Then Aunty jumps in with the quick shift.She asks him patronizin' if he finds the grocery business int'restin'. He admits that he does.
"How odd!" says Aunty. "But I presume that you hope to retire very soon?"
"Eh?" says he. "Quit the one thing I can do best? Why?"
"But surely," she goes on, "you can hardly find such a business congenial. It is so—so—well, so petty and sordid?"
"Is it, though?" says Wiggins. "With more than five thousand employees on my payroll and a daily expense bill running well over thirty thousand, I find it far from petty. Anyway, it keeps me hustling. I used to think I was a hard worker too, when I had my one little general store at Smiths Corners."
"And now you've nearly a hundred stores!" says Aunty. "How did you do it?"
"I was kicked into doing it, I guess," says Wiggins, smilin' grim. "The manufacturers and jobbers, you know. They weren't willing to allow me a fair profit. So I had to go under or spread out. Well, I've spread,—flour mills in Minnesota, canning factories from Portland, Oregon, to Bridgeton, Maine, potato farms in Michigan and the Aroostook, cracker and bread bakeries, creameries, raisin and prune plantations,—all that sort of thing,—until gradually I've weeded out most of the greedy middlemen who stood between me and my customers.They're poor folks, most of 'em, and when they trade with me their slim wages go further than in most stores. My ambition is to give them honest goods at a five per cent. profit.
"If they all knew what was best for them, the Wiggins stores would soon become a national institution, and I could hand it over to the federal government; but they don't. If they did, I suppose they wouldn't be working for wages. So my chain grows slowly, at the rate of two or three stores a year. But every Wiggins store is a center for economic and scientific distribution of pure food products. That's my job, and I find it neither petty nor sordid. I can even get a certain satisfaction and pride from it. Incidentally there is my five per cent. profit to be made, which makes the game fascinating. Retire? Not until I've found something better to do, and up to date I haven't."
Havin' got this off his mind and the parcels done up, Mr. Wiggins walks back to answer the 'phone.
When he comes out again, in a minute or so, he's shucked the jumper and is buttonin' himself into a mink-lined overcoat.
"As a rule," says he, "we do not deliver goods; but in this instance I beg leave to make an exception. Permit me," and he waves toward the limousine.
It's the first time too that I ever saw Aunty stunned for more than a second or two at a stretch. She acts sort of dazed as he leads her out to the car and helps stow Vee and me and the bundles before gettin' in himself. Only when we pulls up in front of the studio buildin' does she come to. She revives enough to tell Wiggins all about this noble young Belgian sculptor and his wonderful work.
"Sculpture!" says Wiggins. "I'd like to see it."
And inside of three minutes Woodruff T. Wiggins, the chain grocery magnate, is right where we'd been schemin' to get him. He inspects the various groups of plaster stuff ranged around the studio, squintin' at 'em critical like he was a judge of such junk, and now and then he makes notes on the back of an envelope.
Meanwhile Aunty explains all about the tea, namin' over some of the swell dowagers that was goin' to act as patronesses, and invites him cordial to drop around on the big day.
"Thanks," says he; "but I guess I'd better not. I'm still from the wrong end of the town, you know. But here's a memorandum of four pieces I should like done in bronze for my country house. And suppose I leave Mr. Djickyns a check for five thousand on account. Will that do?"
Would it? Say, Aunty almost pats him fond on the cheek as she follows him to the door.
Must have been something romantic about that bonfire episode back in Cooperstown too; for she mellows up a lot durin' the next few minutes, and when I fin'lly calls a taxi and tucks 'em all in she comes near beamin' on me.
"Remember, young man," says she, "promptly at five on Wednesday."
"Wha-a-at?" says I.
"And be sure to wear your best frock coat," she adds as a partin' shot.
Do you wonder I stands gaspin' on the curb until after they've turned the corner? Think of that from Aunty!
"Well?" says Mr. Robert, as I blows in about quittin' time. "Any new quotations in sculpture?"
"If you think that's a merry jest," says I, "call up Aunty. Why, say, before we get through with this tea stunt of hers that Djickyns party will be runnin' his studio works day and night shifts and rebuildin' Belgium! We're a great team, me and dear old Aunty. We've just found it out."
CHAPTER XIIZENOBIA DIGS UP A LATE ONE
And first off I had him listed in the joke column. Think of that! But when I caught my first glimpse of him, there in the Corrugated gen'ral offices that mornin', there was more or less comedy idea to his get-up; the high-sided, flat-topped derby, for instance. Once in a while you run across an old sport who still sticks to that type of hard-boiled lid. Gen'rally they're short-stemmed old ginks who seem to think the high crown makes 'em loom up taller. Maybe so; but where they find back-number hats like that is beyond me.
Then there was the buff-cochin spats and the wide ribbon to his eyeglasses. Beyond that I don't know as there was anything real freaky about him. A rich-colored old gent he is, the pink in his cheeks shadin' off into a deep mahogany tint back of his ears, makin' his frosted hair and mustache stand out some prominent.
He'd been shown into the private office on a call for Mr. Robert; but as I was well heeled with work of my own I didn't even glance upfrom the desk until I hears this scrappy openin' of his.
"Bob Ellins, you young scoundrel, what the blighted beatitudes does this mean!" he demands.
Naturally that gets me stretchin' my neck, and I turns just in time to watch the gaspy expression on Mr. Robert's face fade out and turn into a chuckle.
"Why, Mr. Ballard!" says he, extendin' the cordial palm. "I had no idea you were on this side. Really! I understood, you know, that you were settled over there for good, and that——"
"So you take advantage of the fact, do you, to make me president of one of your fool companies?" says Ballard. "My imbecile attorney just let it leak out. What do you mean, eh?"
Mr. Robert pushes him into a chair and shrugs his shoulders. "It was rather a liberty, I admit," says he; "one of the exigencies of business, however. When a meddlesome administration insists on dissolving into its component parts such an extensive organization as ours—well, we had to have a lot of presidents in a hurry. Really, we didn't think you'd mind, Mr. Ballard, and we had no intention of bothering you with the details."
"Huh!" snorts Mr. Ballard. "And what isthis precious corporation of which I'm supposed to be the head?"
"Why, Mutual Funding," says Mr. Robert.
"Funding, eh?" comes back Ballard snappy. "What tommyrot! Bob Ellins, you ought to know that I haven't the vaguest notion as to what funding is,—never did,—and at my time of life, Sir, I don't propose to learn!"
"Of course, of course," says Mr. Robert, soothin'. "Quite unnecessary too. You are adequately and efficiently represented, Mr. Ballard, by a private secretary who has mastered the art of funding, mutual and otherwise, until he can do it backward with one hand tied behind him. Torchy, will you step here a moment?"
I was comin' too; but Mr. Ballard waves me off.
"Stop!" says he. "I'll not listen to a word of it. I'd have you know, Bob Ellins, that I have worried along for sixty-two years without having been criminally implicated in business affairs. The worst I've done has been to pose as a dummy director on your rascally board and to see that my letter of credit was renewed every three months. Use my name if you must; but allow me to keep a clear conscience. I'm going in now for a chat with your father, Bob, and if he mentions funding I shall stuff my fingers in my ears and run. He won't, though. Old Hickoryknows me better. This his door? All right. Thanks. Hah, you old freebooter! In your den, are you? Well, well!"
At which he stalks into the other office and leaves Mr. Robert and me grinnin' at each other.
"Listened like you was in Dutch for a minute or so there," says I. "Case of the cat comin' back, eh?"
"From Kyrle Ballard," says he, "one expects the unexpected. Only we need not worry about his wanting to become the acting head of your department. To-morrow or next week he is quite likely to be off again, bound for some remote corner of the earth, to hobnob with the native rulers thereof, participate in their games of chance, and invent a new punch especially suitable for that particular climate."
"Gee!" says I. "That's my idea of a perfectly good boss,—one that gives his job absent treatment."
I thought too that Mr. Robert had doped out his motions correct; for a week goes by and no Mr. Ballard shows up to take the rubber stamp away from me, or even ask fool questions. I was hopin' too that Ballard had gone a long ways from here, accordin' to custom. Then one night—well, it was at the theater, one of them highbrow Shaw plays that I was chucklin' through with Aunt Zenobia.
Eh? Remember her, don't you? Why, she's one of the pair of aunts that I got half adopted by, 'way back when I first started in with the Corrugated. Yep, I've been stayin' on with 'em. Why not? Course our little side street is 'way down in an old-fashioned part of the town; the upper edge of old Greenwich village, in fact, if you know where that is.
The house is one of a row that sports about the only survivin' specimens of the cast-iron grapevine school of architecture. Honest, we got a double-decked veranda built of foundry work that was meant to look like leaves and vines, I expect. Cute idea, eh? Bein' all painted brick red, though, it ain't so convincing but stragglin' over ours is a wistaria that has a few sickly-lookin' blossoms on it every spring and manages to carry a sprinklin' of dusty leaves through the summer. Also there's a nine-by-twelve lawn, that costs a dollar a square foot to keep in shape, I'll bet.
From that description maybe you'd judge that the place where I hang out is a little antique. It is. But inside it's mighty comf'table, and it's the best imitation of a home I've ever carried a latch-key to. As for the near-aunts, Zenobia and Martha, take it from me they're the real things in that line, even if they did let me in off the street without askin' who or what! The best of it is they never have asked, whichmakes it convenient. I couldn't tell 'em much, if they did.
There's Martha—well, she's the pious one. It ain't any case of sudden spasms with her. It's a settled habit. She's just as pious Monday mornin' as she is Sunday afternoon, and it lasts her all through the week. You know how she started in by readin' them Delilah and Jona yarns to me. She's kept it up. About twice a week she corners me and pumps in a slice of Scripture readin', until I guess we must be more 'n half through the Book. Course there's a lot of it I don't see any percentage in at all; but I've got so I don't mind it, and it seems to give Aunt Martha a lot of satisfaction. She's a lumpy, heavy-set old girl, Martha, and a little slow; but the only thing that ain't genuine about her is the yellowish white frontispiece she pins on over her own hair when she dolls up for dinner.
But Zenobia—say, she's a diff'rent party! A few years younger than Martha, Zenobia is,—in the early sixties, I should say,—and she's just as active and up to date and foxy as Martha is logy and antique and dull. While Martha is sayin' grace Zenobia is gen'rally pourin' herself out a glass of port.
About once a week Martha loads herself into an old horse cab and goes off to a meetin' of the foreign mission society, or somethinglike that; but almost every afternoon Zenobia goes whizzin' off in a taxi, maybe to hear some long-haired violinist, maybe to sit on the platform with Emma Goldman and Bouck White and applaud enthusiastic when the established order gets another jolt. Just as likely as not too, she'll bring some of 'em home to dinner with her.
Zenobia never shoves any advice on me, good or otherwise, and never asks nosey questions; but she's the one who sees that my socks are kept mended and has my suits sent to the presser. She don't read things to me, or expound any of her fads. She just talks to me like she does to anyone else—minor poets or social reformers—about anything she happens to be int'rested in at the time,—music, plays, Mother Jones, the war, or how suffrage is comin' on,—and never seems to notice when I make breaks or get over my head.
A good sport Zenobia is, and so busy sizin' up to-day that she ain't got time for reminiscin' about the days before Brooklyn Bridge was built. And the most chronic kidder you ever saw. Say, what we don't do to Aunt Martha when both of us gets her on a string is a caution! That's what makes so many of our meals such cheerful events.
You might think, from a casual glance at Zenobia, with her gray hair and the lines aroundher eyes, that she'd be kind of slow comp'ny for me, especially to chase around to plays with and so on. But, believe me, there's nothin' dull about her, and when she suggests that she's got an extra ticket to anything I don't stop to ask what it is, but just gets into the proper evenin' uniform and trots along willin'!
So that's how I happens to be with her at this Shaw play, and discussin' between the acts what Barney was really tryin' to put over on us. The first intermission was most over too before I discovers this ruddy-faced old party in the back of Box A with his opera glasses trained steady in our direction. I glances along the row to see if anyone's gazin' back; but I can't spot a soul lookin' his way. After he's kept it up a minute or two I nudges Aunt Zenobia.
"Looks like we was bein' inspected from the box seats," says I.
"How flatterin'!" says she. "Where?"
I points him out. "Must be you," says I, grinnin'.
"I hope so," says Zenobia. "If I'm really being flirted with, I shall boast of it to Sister Martha."
But just then the lights go out and the second act begins. We got so busy followin' the nutty scheme of this conversation expert who plots to pass off a flower-girl for a Duchessthat the next wait is well under way before I remembers the gent in the box.
"Say, he's at it again," says I. "You must be makin' a hit for fair."
"Precisely what I've always hoped might happen,—to be stared at in public," says Zenobia. "I'm greatly obliged to him, I'm sure. You are quite certain, though, that it isn't someone just behind me?"
I whispers that there's no one behind her but a fat woman munchin' chocolates and rubberin' back to see if Hubby ain't through gettin' his drink.
"There! He's takin' his glasses down," says I. "Know the party, do you?"
"Not at this distance," says Zenobia. "No, I shall insist that he is an unknown admirer."
By that time, though, I'd got a better view myself. And—say, hadn't I seen them ruddy cheeks and that gray hair and them droopy eyes before? Why, sure! It's what's-his-name, the old guy who blew into the Corrugated awhile ago, my absentee boss—Ballard!
Maybe I'd have told Zenobia all about him if there'd been time; but there wa'n't. Another flash of the lights, and we was watchin' the last act, where this gutter-bred Pygmalion sprouts a soul. And when it's all over of course we're swept out with the ebb tide, make a scramble for our taxi, and are off for home. Then aswe gets to the door I has the sudden hunch about eats.
"There's a joint around on Sixth-ave.," says I, lettin' Aunt Zenobia in, "where they sell hot dog sandwiches with sauerkraut trimmin's. I believe I could just do with one about now."
"What an atrocious suggestion at this hour of the night!" says she. "Torchy, don't you dare bring one of those abominations into the house—unless you have enough to divide with me. About four, I should say."
"With mustard?" says I.
"Heaps!" says she.
Three minutes later I'm hurryin' back with both hands full, when I notices another taxi standin' out front. Then who should step out but this Ballard party, in a silk hat and a swell fur-lined overcoat.
"Young man," says he, "haven't I seen you somewhere before?"
"Uh-huh," says I. "I'm your private sec."
"Wha-a-at?" says he. "My—oh, yes! I remember. I saw you at the Corrugated."
"And then again at the show to-night," says I.
"To be sure," says he. "With a lady, eh?"
I nods.
"Lives here, doesn't she?" asks Ballard.
"Right again," says I. "Goin' to call?"
"Why," says he, "the fact is, young man, I—er—see here, it's Zenobia Hadley, isn't it?"
"Preble," says I. "Mrs. Zenobia Preble."
"Hang the Preble part!" says he. "He's dead years ago. What I want to know is, who else lives here?"
"Only her and Sister Martha and me," says I.
"Martha, eh?" says he. "Still alive, is she? Well, well! And Zenobia now, is she—er—a good deal like her sister?"
"About as much as Z is like M," says I. "She's a live one, Aunt Zenobia is, if that's what you're gettin' at."
"Thank you," says he. "That is it exactly. And I am glad to hear it. She used to be, as you put it, rather a live one; but I didn't quite know how——"
"Kyrle Ballard, is that you?" comes floatin' out from the front door. "If it is, and you wish to know anything more about Zenobia Hadley, I should advise you to come to headquarters. Torchy, bring in those sandwiches—and Mr. Ballard, if he cares to follow."
"There!" says I to Ballard. "You've got a sample. That's Zenobia. Are you comin' or goin'?"
Foolish question! He's leadin' the way up the steps.
"Zenobia," says he, holdin' out both hands, "I humbly apologize for following you in thisimpulsive fashion. I saw you at the theater, and——"
"If you hadn't done something of the kind," says she, "I shouldn't have been at all sure it was really you. You've changed so much!"
"I admit it," says he. "One does, you know, in forty years."
"There, there, Kyrle Ballard!" warns Zenobia. "Throw the calendar at me again, and out you go! I simply won't have it! Besides, I'm hungry. Torchy is to blame. He suggested hot dog sandwiches. Take a sniff. Do they appeal to you, or have you cultivated epicurean tastes to such an extent that——"
"Ah-h-h-h!" says Ballard, bendin' over the paper bag I'm holdin'. "My favorite delicacy. And if I might be permitted to add a bottle or two of cold St. Louis——"
"Do you think I keep house without an icebox?" demands Zenobia. "Stop your silly speeches, and let's get into the dining-room."
Some hustler, Zenobia is, too. Inside of two minutes she's shed her wraps, passed out plates and glasses, and we're tacklin' a Coney Island collation.
"I had been wondering if it could be you," says Ballard. "I'd been watching you through the glasses."
"Yes, I know," says Zenobia. "And we hadquite settled it that you were a strange admirer. I'm frightfully disappointed!"
"Then you didn't know me?" says he. "But just now——"
"Voices don't turn gray or change color," says Zenobia. "Yours sounds just as it did—well, the last time I heard it."
"That August night, eh?" suggests Mr. Ballard, suspendin' operations on the sandwich and leanin' eager across the table.
He's a chirky, chipper old scout, with a lot of twinkles left in his blue eyes. Must have been some gay boy in his day too; for even now he shows up more or less ornamental in his evenin' clothes. And Zenobia ain't such a bad looker either, you know; especially just now, with her ears pinked up and her eyes sparklin' mischievous. I don't know whether it's from takin' massage treatments reg'lar, or if it just comes natural, but she don't need to cover up her collar bone or wear things around her neck.
"Yes, that night," says she, liftin' her glass. "Shall we drink just once to the memory of it?"
Which they did.
"And now," goes on Zenobia, "we will forget it, if you please."
"Not I," says Ballard. "Another thing: I've never forgiven your sister Martha for what she did then. I never will."
Zenobia indulges in a trilly little laugh. "No more has she forgiven you," says she. "How absurd of you both, just as though—but we'll not talk about it. I've no time for yesterdays. To-day is too full. Tell me, why are you back here?"
"Because seven armies have chased me out of Europe," says he, "and my charming Vienna is too full of typhus to be quite healthy. If I'd dreamed of finding you like this, I should have come long ago."
"Very pretty," says Zenobia. "I'd love to believe it, just for the sake of repeating it to Martha in the morning. She is still with me, you know."
"As saintly as ever?" asks Ballard.
"At thirty Martha was quite as good as she could be," says Zenobia. "There she seems to have stopped. So naturally her opinion of you hasn't altered in the least."
"And yours?" says he.
"Did I have opinions at twenty-two?" says she. "How ridiculous! I had emotions, moods, mad impulses; anyway, something that led me to give you seven dances in a row and stay until after onea.m.when I had promised someone to leave at eleven. You don't think I've kept up that sort of thing, do you?"
"I don't know," says Ballard. "I wouldn't be sure. One never could be sure of ZenobiaHadley. I suppose that was why I took my chance when I did, why I——"
"Kyrle Ballard, you've finished your sandwich, haven't you?" breaks in Zenobia. "There! It's striking twelve, and I make it a rule never to be sentimental after midnight. You and Martha wouldn't enjoy meeting each other; so you'll not be coming again. Besides, I've a busy week ahead of me. When you get settled abroad again, though, you might let me know. Good-night. Happy dreams."
And before Ballard can protest he's bein' shooed out.
"You'll take luncheon with me to-morrow," he calls back from his cab.
"Probably not," says Zenobia.
"Oh yes, you will, Zenobia," says he. "I'm a desperate character still. Remember that!"
She laughs and shuts the door. "There, Torchy!" says she. "See what complications come from combining hot dogs with Bernard Shaw. And if Martha should happen to get down before those bottles are removed—well, I should have to tell her all."
Trust Martha. She did. And when I finished breakfast she was still waitin' for Zenobia to come down and be quizzed. I don't know how far back into fam'ly hist'ry that little chat took 'em, or what Martha had to say. All I know is that when I shows up for dinner andcomes downstairs about six-thirty there sits Martha in the lib'ry, rocking back and forth with that patient, resigned look on her face, as if she was next in line at the dentist's.
"Zenobia isn't in yet," says she. "We will wait dinner awhile for her."
Then chunks of silence from Martha, which ain't usual. At seven o'clock we gives it up and sits down alone. We hadn't finished our soup when this telegram comes. First off I thought Martha was goin' to choke or blow a cylinder head, I didn't know which. Then she takes to sobbin' into the consommé, and fin'lly she shoves the message over to me.
"Wh-a-at?" I gasps. "Eloped, have they?"
"I—I knew they would," says Martha, "just as soon as I heard he'd been here. He—he always wanted her to do it."
"Always?" says I. "Why, I thought he hadn't seen her for forty years or so. How could that be?"
"We-we-well," sobs Martha, "I—I stopped them once. And she engaged to the Rev. Mr. Preble at the time! It was scandalous! Such a wild, reckless fellow Kyrle Ballard was too."
"Wh-e-ew!" I whistles. "That was goin' some for Zenobia, wasn't it? How near did they come to doin' the slope?"
"She—she was actually stealing out to meet him, her things all on," says Martha, "when—whenI woke up and found her. I made her come back by threatening to call Mother. Engaged for two years, she and Mr. Preble had been, and the wedding day all set. He'd just got a nice church too, his first. I saved her that time; but now——" Martha relapses into the sob act.
"The giddy young things!" says I. "Gone off on a honeymoon trip too! Say, that ain't such slow work, is it? Gettin' there a little late, maybe; but if there ever was a pair of silver sixties meant to be mated up, I guess it's them. Well, well! I stand to lose a near-aunt by the deal; but they get my blessin', anyway."
As for Aunt Martha, she keeps right on thinnin' out the soup.