CHAPTER VTHE VAMP IN THE WINDOW
It was a case of Vee's being in town on a shoppin' orgie and my being invited to hunt her up about lunch time.
"Let's see," she 'phoned, "suppose you meet me about 12:30 at the Maison Noir. You know, West Fifty-sixth. And if I'm having a dress fitted on the second floor just wait downstairs for me, will you, Torchy?"
"In among all them young lady models?" says I. "Not a chance. You'll find me hangin' up outside. And don't make it more'n half an hour behind schedule, Vee, for this is one of my busy days."
"Oh, very well," says she careless.
So that's how I came to be backed up in the lee of the doorway at 12:45 when this stranger with the mild blue eyes and the chin dimple eases in with the friendly hail.
"Excuse me," says he, "but haven't we met somewhere before?"
Which is where my fatal gift for rememberin' faces and forgettin' names comes into play. After giving him the quick up and down I had him placed but not tagged.
"Not quite," says I. "But we lived in the same apartment buildin' a couple of years back. Third floor west, wasn't you?"
"That's it," says he. "And I believe I heard you'd just been married."
"Yes, we did have a chatty janitor," says I. "You were there with your mother, from somewhere out on the Coast. We almost got to the noddin' point when we met in the elevator, didn't we?"
"If we did," says he, "that was the nearest I came to getting acquainted with anyone in New York. It's the lonesomest hole I was ever in. Say——"
And inside of three minutes he's told me all about it; how he'd brought Mother on from Seattle to have a heart specialist give her a three months' treatment that hadn't been any use, and how he'd come East alone this time to tie up a big spruce lumber contract with the airplane department. Also he reminds me that he is Crosby Rhodes and writes the name of the hotel where he's stopping on his card. It's almost like a reunion with an old college chum.
"But how do you happen to be sizin' up a show window like this?" says I, indicatin' the Maison Noir's display of classy gowns. "Got somebody back home that you might take a few samples to?"
His big, square-cut face sort of pinks up and his mild blue eyes take on kind of a guiltylook as he glances over his shoulder at the window. "Not a soul," says he. "The fact is, I'm not much of a ladies' man. Been in the woods too much, I suppose. All the same, though, I've always thought that if ever I ran across just the right girl——" Here he scrapes his foot and works up that fussed expression again.
"I see," says I, grinnin'. "You have the plans and specifications all framed up and think you'd know her on sight, eh?"
Crosby nods and smiles sheepish. "It's gone further than that," says he. "I—I've seen her."
"Well, well!" says I. "Where?"
He looks around cautious and then whispers confidential. "In that show window."
"Eh" says I, gawpin'. "Oh! You mean you got the idea from one of the dummies? Well, that's playin' it safe even if it is a little unique."
Crosby seems to hesitate a minute, as if debatin' whether to let it ride at that or not, and then he goes on:
"Say," he asks, "do—do they ever put live ones in there?"
"Never heard of it's being done," says I. "Why?"
"Because," says he, "there's one in this window right now."
"You don't say?" says I. "Are you sure?"
"Step around front and I'll point her out," says he. "Now, right over in that far—Why—why, say! She's gone!"
"Oh, come!" says I. "You've been seein' things, ain't you? Or maybe it was only one of the salesladies in rearrangin' the display."
"No, no," says Crosby emphatic. "I tell you I had been watching her for several minutes before I saw you, and she never moved except for a flutter of the eyelids. She was standing back to, facing that mirror, so I could see her face quite plainly. More than that, she could see me. Of course, I wasn't quite sure, with all those others around. That's why I spoke to you. I wanted to see what you'd say about her. And now she's disappeared."
"Uh-huh!" says I. "Most likely, too, she was hauled head first through that door in the back and if you stick around long enough maybe you'll see her shoved in again, with a different dress on. Say, Mr. Rhodes, no wonder you're skirt-shy if you never looked 'em over close enough not to know the dummies from the live ones. Believe me, there's a lot of difference."
But the josh don't seem to get him at all. He's still gawpin' puzzled through the plate glass. Finally he goes on: "If this was the first time, I might think you were right. But it isn't. I—I've seen her before; several times, in fact."
"As bad as that, eh?" says I. "Then if I was you I'd look up a doctor."
"Now listen," says he. "I don't want you to think I'm foolish in the head. I'm giving you this straight. Only you haven't heard it all yet. You see, I've been walking past here nearly every day since I've been in town—almost three weeks—and at about this time, between twelve-thirty and one, getting up a luncheon appetite. And about ten days ago I got a glimpse of this face in the mirror. Somehow I was sure it was a face I'd seen before, a face I'd been kind of day dreaming about for a year or more. Yes, I know that may sound kind of batty, but it's a fact. Out in the big woods you have time for such things. Anyway, when I saw that reflection it seemed very familiar to me. So the next day I stopped and took a good look. She was there. And I was certain she was no dummy. I could see her breathe. She was watching me in the glass, too. It's been the same every time I've been past."
"Well," says I, "what then?"
"Why," says he, "whether it's someone I've known or not, I want to find out who she is and how I can meet her for—for—Well, she's the girl."
"Gee!" says I, "you're a reg'lar Mr. Zipp-Zipp when it comes to romantic notions, ain't you?" And I looks him over curious. As I've always held, though, that's what you can expectfrom these boys with chin dimples. It's the Romeo trade-mark, all right, and Crosby had a deep one. "But see here," I goes on, "suppose it should turn out that you're wrong; that this shop window siren of yours was only one of the kind with a composition head, a figure that they blow up with a bicycle pump, and wooden feet? Where does that leave you?"
He shrugs his shoulders. "I wish you could have seen her," says he.
"What sort of a looker?" I asks. "Blonde or brunette?"
"I don't know," says he. "She has a wonderful complexion—like old ivory. Her hair is wonderful, too, sort of a pale gold. But her eyebrows are quite dark, and her eyes—Ah, they're the kind you couldn't forget—sort of a deep violet, I think; maybe you'd call 'em plum colored."
"Listens too fancy to be true," says I. "But they do get 'em up that way for the trade."
There's no jarrin' Crosby loose from his idea, though, and he's just proposin' that I meet him there at twelve-thirty next day when Vee drifts out and I has to break away. "I'll let you know if I can," says I as I walks off.
Course, Vee wants to know who my friend is and all about it, and when I've sketched out the plot of the piece she's quite thrilled. "How interesting!" says she. "I do hope he finds out it's a real girl Some of those models are simplystunning, you know. And there is such a thing as a face haunting you. Oh, by the way! Do you remember the Stribbles?"
"Should I?" I asks.
"The janitor's family in that apartment building where we used to live," explains Vee.
"Stribble?" says I. "Oh, yes, the poddy old party who did all the hard sitting around while his wife did the work. What reminded you of them?"
"I'm sure I don't know," says Vee. "But a month or so ago I saw the name printed in an army list of returned casualty cases—there was a boy, you know, and a girl—and I thought then that we ought to look them up and find out. Then I forgot all about it until just a few moments ago. Let's go there, Torchy, before we go out home tonight?"
I must say I couldn't get very much excited over the Stribbles, but on the chance that Vee would forget again I promised, and let her tow me into one of those cute little tea rooms where we had a perfectly punk lunch at a dollar ten per each. But even after a three hour session among the white goods sales Vee still remembered the Stribbles, so about five o'clock we finds ourselves divin' into a basement that's none too clean and are being received by a tall, skinny female with a tously mop of sandy hair bobbed up on her head.
It seems Ma Stribble was still shovelin' mostof the ashes and scrubbin' the halls as well; while Pa Stribble, fatter than ever and in the same greasy old togs, continues to camp in a rickety arm chair by the front window, with a pail of suds at his right elbow. Yes, the one mentioned in the casualty list was their Jimmy. Only he hadn't come back a trench hero, exactly. He'd collected his blighty ticket without being at the front at all—by gettin' mixed up with a steel girder in some construction work. A mashed foot was the total damage, and he was having a real good time at the base hospital; would be as good as new in a week or so.
"Isn't that fortunate?" says Vee. "And your daughter, where is she?"
"Mame?" says Ma Stribble, scowlin' up quick. "Gawd knows where she is. I don't."
"Why, what do you mean?" asks Vee. "She—she hasn't left home, has she?"
"Oh, she sleeps here," goes on Ma Stribble, "and comes home for some of her meals, but the rest of the time——" Here she hunches her shoulders.
"Huh!" grunts Pa Stribble. "If you could see the way she togs herself out—like some chorus girl. I don't know where she gets all them flossy things and she won't tell. Paint on her face, too. It's bringin' shame on us, I tell her."
Mrs. Stribble sighs heavy. "And we was tryin' to bring her up decent," says she. "Igot her a job, waitin' in a lunch room up on' the Circle. But she was too good for that. Oh, my, yes! Chucked it after the first week. And then she began bloomin' out in fine feathers. Won't say where she gets 'em, either. And her always throwin' up to her father about not workin', when he's got the rheumatism so bad he can hardly walk at times! Gettin' to be too much of a lady to live in a basement, she is. Humph!"
It looked like Vee had started something, for the Stribbles were knockin' Mame something fierce, when all of a sudden they quits and we hears the street door open. A minute later and in walks a tall, willowy young party wearin' a near-leopard throw-scarf, one of these snappy French tams, and a neat black suit that fits her like it had been run on hot.
If it hadn't been for the odd shade of hair and the eyes I wouldn't have remembered her at all for the stringy, sloppy dressed flapper I used to see going in and out with the growler or helping with the sweepin'. Mame Stribble had bloomed out, for a fact. Also she'd learned how to use a lip-stick and an eyebrow pencil. I couldn't say whether she'd touched up her complexion or not. If she had it was an artistic job—just a faint rose-leaf tint under the eyes. And I had to admit that the whole effect was some stunnin'. Course, she's more or less surprised to see all the comp'ny, but Vee soonexplains how we've come to hear about Brother Jim and she shakes hands real friendly.
"I suppose you are working somewhere?" suggests Vee.
Mame nods.
"Where?" asks Vee, going to the point, as usual.
Miss Stribble glances accusin' at paw and maw. "Oh, they've been roastin' me, have they?" she demands. "Well, I can't help it. What they want to know is how much I'm gettin' so I'll have to give up more. But it don't work. See! I pay my board—good board, at that—and I'm not goin' to have paw snoopin' around my place tryin' to queer me. Let him get out and rustle for himself."
With that Mame sheds the throw-scarf and tosses her velvet tam on the table.
"I'm so sorry," says Vee. "I didn't mean to interfere at all. And I've no doubt you have a perfectly good situation."
"It's good enough," says Mame, "until I strike something better."
"What a cunning little hat!" says Vee, pickin' up the tam. "Such a lot of style to it, too."
"Think so?" says Mame. "Well, I built it myself."
"Really!" says Vee. "Why, you must be very clever. I wish I could do things like that."
Trust Vee for smoothin' down rumpledfeathers when she wants to. Inside of two minutes she had Mame smilin' grateful and holdin' her hand as she says good-by.
"Poor girl!" says Vee, as we gets to the street. "I don't blame her for being dissatisfied with such a father as that. And it's just awful the way they talk about her. I'm going to see if I can't do something for her at the shop."
"Eh?" says I. "She didn't tell you where she was working."
"She didn't need to," says Vee. "The name was in the hat lining—the Maison Noir."
"Say, you're some grand little sleuth yourself, ain't you?" says I.
"And that explains," Vee goes on, "why I happened to remember the Stribbles today. I must have seen her there. Yes, I'm sure I did—that pale gold hair and the old ivory complexion are too rare to——"
"Why!" I breaks in, "that's the description Crosby Rhodes gave me of this show window charmer of his."
"Was it?" says Vee. "Then perhaps——"
"But what could she have been doing, posin' in the window?" I asks. "That's what gets me."
It got Vee, too. "Anyway," says she, "you must meet that Mr. Rhodes tomorrow and tell him what you've discovered. He's rather a nice chap, isn't he?"
"Oh, he's all right, I guess," says I. "A bit soft above the ears, maybe, but out in the tall timber I expect he passes for a solid citizen. I don't just see how I'm going to help him out much, though."
"I'll tell you," says Vee. "In the morning I will 'phone to Madame Maurice that I want you to see the frock I've picked out, and you can take Mr. Rhodes in with you."
So that's the way we worked it. I calls up Crosby, makes the date, and we meets on the corner at twelve-thirty. He's more or less excited.
"Then you think you know who she is?" he asks.
"If you're a good describer," says I, "there's a chance that I do. But listen: suppose she's kind of out of your class—a girl who's been brought up in a basement, say, with a janitor for a father?"
"What do I care who her father is?" says Crosby. "I was brought up in a lumber camp myself. All I ask is a chance to meet her."
"You sure know what you want," says I. "Come on."
"See!" he whispers as we get to the Maison Noir's show window. "She's there!"
And sure enough, standin' back to, over in the corner facin' the mirror, is this classy figure in the zippy street dress, with Mame Stribble's hair and eyes. She's doin' the dummy act well,too. I couldn't see either breath or eye flutter.
"Huh!" says I. "It's by me. Let's go in and interview Madame Maurice."
We had to waste four or five minutes while I inspects the dress Vee has bought, and I sure felt foolish standin' there watchin' this young lady model glide back and forth.
"I trust Monsieur approves?" asks Madame Maurice.
"Oh, sure!" says I. "Quite spiffy. But say, I noticed one in the window that sort of took my eye—that street dress, in the corner."
"Street dress?" says the Madame, lookin' puzzled. "Is M'sieur certain?"
"Maybe I'd better point it out."
But by the time I'd towed her to the front door there was nothing of the kind in sight.
"As I thought," says Madame. "A slight mistake."
"Looks so, don't it?" says I, as we trails back in. "But you have a Miss Mamie Stribble working here, haven't you; a young lady with kind of goldy hair, dark eyebrows and a sort of old ivory complexion?"
"Ah!" says the Madame. "Perhaps you mean Marie St. Ribble?"
"That's near enough," says I. "Could I have a few words with her?"
"But yes," says Madame Maurice. "It is her hour for luncheon. I will see." With that she calls up an assistant, shoos me into a back parlorand asks me to wait a moment, leavin' Crosby out front with his mouth open.
And two minutes later in breezes the Madame leadin' Mame Stribble by the arm. The lady boss seems somewhat peeved, too. "Tell me," she demands, "is this the street dress which you observed in the window?"
"That's the very one," says I.
"Hah!" says she. "Then perhaps Marie will explain to me later. For the present, M'sieur, I leave you."
"Sorry if I've put you in bad, Miss Stribble," says I, as the Madame sweeps out.
"Oh, that's all right," says Mame, tossin' her chin. "She'll get over it. And, anyway, I was takin' a chance."
"So I noticed," says I. "What was the big idea, though?"
"Just sizin' up the people who pass by," says Mame. "It's grand sport havin' 'em stretch their necks at you and thinkin' you're just a dummy. I got onto it one day while I was changin' a model. Course, it cuts into my lunch time, and I have to sneak a dress out of stock, but it's kind of fun."
"'Specially when you've got one particular young gent coming to watch regular, eh?" I suggests.
That seems to give her sort of a jolt and for a second she stares at me, bitin' her upper lip. "Who do you mean, now?" she asks.
"He has a chin dimple and his name's Crosby Rhodes," says I. "You've put the spell on him for fair, too. He's out front, waiting to meet you."
"Oh, is he?" says Mame, lettin' on not to care. "And yet when he was livin' in one of our apartments he passed me every day without seein' me at all."
"Oh, ho!" says I. "You took notice of him, though, did you?"
Miss Stribble pinks up at that. "Yes, I did," says she. "He struck me as a reg'lar feller, one of the kind you could tie to. And when he'd almost step over me without noticin'—well, I'll admit that sort of hurt. I expect that's why I made up my mind to shake the mop and pail outfit and break in some place where I could pick up a few tricks. After a few stabs I landed here at the Maison. I remember I had on a saggy skirt and a shirtwaist that must have looked like it had been improvised out of a coffee sack. It's a wonder they let me past the door. But they did. For the first six weeks, though, they kept me in the work rooms. Then I got one of the girls to help me evenings on a black taffeta; I saved up enough for two pairs of silk stockin's, blew myself to some pumps with four inch heels, and begun carryin' a vanity box. It worked. Next thing I knew they had me down on the main floor carryin' stock to the models and now andthen displayin' misses' styles to customers. I had a hunch I was gettin' easier to look at, but you never can tell by the way women size you up. All they see is the dress. And in the window there I had a chance to see whether I was registerin' with the men. That's the whole tragic tale."
"Leaving out Crosby Rhodes."
"That's so," admits Mame. "And it was some satisfaction, bringin' him to life."
"You've done more'n that," says I. "He's one of these guys that wants what he wants, and goes after it strong. Just now it seems to be you."
"How inter-estin'!" says Mame. "Tell me, what's his line?"
"Airplane timber," says I. "He's from out on the Coast."
"Oh!" says she. "From one of these little straight-through-on-Main-street burgs, I suppose?"
"Headquarters in Seattle, I understand," says I. "That's hardly on the Tom show circuit."
"Yes, I guess I've heard of the place," says Mame. "But what's his proposition!"
"First off," says I, "Crosby wants to get acquainted. If he has any hymen stuff up his sleeve, I expect you'd better hear that from him personally. The question now is, do you want to meet him?"
"Oh, I dunno," says Mame careless. "I guess I'll take a chance."
"Then forget that vanishing act of yours," says I, "and I'll run him in."
And, honest, as I slips out of the Maison Noir and beats it for my lunch, I felt like I'd done a day's work. What it would come to was by me. They was off my hands, anyway.
That couldn't have been over a week ago. And here only yesterday Crosby comes crashin' into the Corrugated general offices, pounds me enthusiastic on the back, and announces that I'm the best friend he's got in the world.
"Meanin', I expect," says I, "that Miss Stribble and you have been gettin' on?"
"Old man," says Crosby, his mild blue eyes sparklin', "she's a wonderful girl—wonderful! And within a week she's going to be Mrs. Crosby Rhodes. We start for home just as soon as the Maison Noir can turn out her trousseau; which is going to be some outfit, take it from me."
I hope I said something appropriate. If I didn't I expect Crosby was too excited to notice. Also that night I carried home the bulletin to Vee.
"There!" says Vee. "I just knew, the moment I saw her, that she wasn't at all as that horrid old man tried to make us believe."
"No," says I, "Mame's vamping was just practice stuff. A lot of it is like that, I expect."
"But wasn't it odd," goes on Vee, "about her meeting the very man she'd liked from the first?"
"Well, not so very," says I. "With that show window act she had the net spread kind of wide. The only chance Crosby had of escape was by staying out of New York, and nobody does that for very long at a time."
CHAPTER VITURKEYS ON THE SIDE
Say, I hope this Mr. Hoover of ours gets through trying to feed the world before another fall. It's a cute little idea all right and ought to get us in strong with a whole lot of people, but if he don't quit I know of one party whose reputation as a gentleman farmer is going to be wrecked beyond repair. And that's me.
I don't know whether it was Vee's auntie that started me out reckless on this food producin' career, or old Leon Battou, or Mr. G. Basil Pyne. Maybe they all helped, in their own peculiar way. Auntie's method, of course, is by throwin' out the scornful sniff. It was while she was payin' us a month's visit one week way last summer, out at our four-acre estate on Long Island, that she pulls this sarcastic stuff. Havin' inspected the baby critical without findin' anything special to kick about, she suggests that she'd like to look over the grounds.
"Oh, yes, Torchy," chimes in Vee, "do show Auntie your garden."
Maybe you don't get that "your garden."It's only Vee's way of playin' me as a useful and industrious citizen. Course, I did buy the seeds and all the shiny hoes and rakes and things, and I studied up the catalogues until I could tell the carrots from the cucumbers; but I must admit that beyond givin' the different beds the once-over every now and then, and pullin' up a few tomato plants that I thought was weeds, I didn't do much more than underwrite the enterprise.
As a matter of fact, it was mostly Leon Battou, the old Frenchy who does our cookin', that really ran the garden. Say, that old boy would have something green growin' if he lived in the subway and had to bring down his real estate in paper bags. It was partly on his account, you know, that we left our studio apartment and moved out in the forty-five minutes commutin' zone. Then, too, there was Joe Cirollo, who comes in by the day to cut the grass and keep the flower beds slicked up, and do the heavy spadin'. And with Vee keepin' books on what was spent and what we got you can guess I wasn't overworked. Also it's a cinch that garden plot just had to hump itself and make good.
Auntie ain't wise to all this, though. So she raises her eyebrows and remarks: "A garden? Really! I should like to see it. A few radishes and spindly lettuce, I suppose?"
"Say, come have a look!" says I.
And when I'd pointed out the half acre of potatoes, and the long rows of corn and string beans and peas—and I hope I called 'em all by their right names—I sure had the old girl hedgin' some. But trust her!
"With so much land, though," she goes on, "it seems to me you ought to be raising your eggs and chickens as well."
"Oh, we've planned for all that," says I, "ducks and hens and geese and turkeys; maybe pheasants and quail."
"Quail!" says Auntie. "Why, I didn't know one could raise quail. I thought they——"
"When I get started raisin' things," says I, "I'm apt to go the limit."
"I shall be interested to see what success you have," says she.
"Sure!" says I. "Drop around again—next fall."
You wouldn't have thought she'd been disagreeable enough to go and rehearse all this innocent little bluff of mine to Vee, would you? But she does, it seems. And of course Vee has to back me up.
"But, Torchy!" she protests, after Auntie's gone. "How could you tell her such whoppers?"
"Easiest thing I do," says I. "But who knows what we'll do next in the nourishment producin' line? Hasn't old Leon been beggin'to go into the duck and chicken business for months? With eggs near a dollar a dozen maybe it would be a good scheme. And if we go in for poultry, why not have all kinds, turkeys as well?"
So a few days later I put it up to him. Leon shakes his head. "The chickens and the ducks, yes; but the turkey——" Here he shrugs his shoulders desperate. "Je ne connais pas."
"You jennie what?" says I. "Ah, come, Leon, don't be a quitter."
He explains that the ways of our national bird are a complete mystery to him. He'd as soon think of tryin' to hatch out ostriches or canaries. So for the time being we pass up the turkeys and splurge heavy on cacklers and quackers. Between him and Joe they fixed up part of the old carriage shed as a poultry barracks and with a mile or so of nettin' they fenced off a run down to the little pond. And by the middle of August we had all sorts of music to wake us up for an early breakfast. I nearly laughed a rib loose watchin' them baby ducks waddle around solemn, every one with that cut-up look in his eye. Say, they're born comedians, ducks are. I'll bet if you could translate that quack-quack patter of theirs you'd get lines that would be a reg'lar scream on the big time circuit.
And then along in the fall we begun gettin' acquainted with our new neighbors that hadtaken that cute little stucco cottage halfway down to the station from us. The Basil Pynes, a young English couple, we found out they were. Course, Vee started it by callin' and followin' that up by a donation of some of our garden truck. Pretty soon we were swappin' visits reg'lar.
I can't say I was crazy over 'em. She's a little mouse of a woman, big eyed and quiet, but Vee seems to like her. Pyne, he's a tall, slim gink with stooped shoulders and so short sighted that he has to wear extra thick eyeglasses. He'd come over to work for some book publishin' house but it seems he wrote things himself. He'd landed one book and was pluggin' away on another; not a novel, I understands, but something different.
"Huh!" says I to Vee. "No wonder he had to go into the lit'ry game, with that monicker hung on him. Basil Pyne! The worst of it is, he looks it, too."
"Now, Torchy!" protests Vee. "I'm sure you'll find him real interesting when you know him better."
As usual, she's right. Anyway, it turns out that Basil has his good points. For one thing he's the most entertaining listener I ever talked to. Maybe you know the kind. Never has anything to say about himself but whatever you start, that's what he wants to know about. And from the friendly look in the mild gray eyesbehind the thick panes, and the earnest way he has of stretchin' his ear you'd think that what you was tellin' him was the very thing he'd been livin' all these years to hear. Then he has that trick of throwin' in "My word!" and "Just fancy that!" sort of admirin' and enthusiastic, until you almost believe that you're a lot cleverer and smarter than you'd suspected.
So when I gets on the subject of how we ducked payin' war prices for vegetables to the local profiteers by raisin' our own he wants to know all about it. With the help of Vee's set of books and a little promptin' from her I gives him an earful. I even tows him down cellar and points out the various bins and barrels full of stuff we've got stowed away for winter. And next I has to drag him out and exhibit the poultry side line.
"Oh, I say!" exclaims Basil. "Isn't that perfectly rippin'! You have fresh eggs right along?"
"All we can use," says I. "And we're eatin' the he—hens whenever we want 'em. Ducks, too."
"How clever!" says Basil. "But you Americans are always so good at whatever you take up. And you such a hard drivin' business man, too! I don't see how you manage it."
"Oh, it comes easy enough once you get the hang of it," says I. "As a matter of fact, I'm only just startin' in. Next thing I mean tohave is a lot of turkeys. Might as well live high."
"Turkeys!" says Basil. "And I've heard they were so difficult to raise. But I've no doubt you will make a huge success with them."
"Guess I'll just have to show you," says I, waggin' my head.
I was for gettin' some turkey eggs right away and rushin' along a flock so they'd be ready by Christmas, but both Vee and Leon insists that it can't be done. Seems it's too late in the season or something. They want to wait until next spring.
"Not me," says I. "I've promised your Auntie I'd raise turkeys and I gotta deliver the goods. If we can't start 'em from the seed what's the matter with gettin' some sprouts? Ain't anybody got any young turkeys that need bringin' up scientific?"
Well, I set Joe Cirollo to scoutin' around and inside of a week he has connected with half a dozen. They comes in a crate as big as a piano box and we turns 'em loose in the chicken yard. When I paid the bill I was sure Joe had been stuck about two prices, but after I've discovered what they're askin' for turkeys in the city markets I has to take it back.
"Oh, well," says I, "if we can fatten 'em up maybe we'll come out winners, after all."
"Sure!" says Joe. "We maka dem biga fat."
After I'd bought a few bags of feed though, I quit figurin'. I knew that no matter how they was cooked they'd taste of money. All I was doubtful of now was whether they was the right breed of turkeys.
"What's all that red flannel stuff on their necks?" I asks Joe. "Ain't got sore throats, have they!"
"Heem?" says Joe. "No, no. Dey gooda turk. All time data way."
"All right," says I, "if it's the fashion. I don't eat the neck, anyway."
I couldn't get Leon at all excited over my gobblers, though. All he'll do is shake his head dubious. "They walk with such pride and still they behave so foolish," says he.
"It ain't their manners I'm fond of," says I, "so much as it is their white meat. Even at that, when it comes to foolish notions, they've got nothing on your ducks."
"Mais non," says Leon, meaning nothing sensible, "you do not understand the duck perhaps. Me, I raised them as a boy in Perronne. But the turkey! Pouff! He is what you call silly in the head. One cannot say what they will do next. Anything may happen to such birds."
He makes such a fuss over the way they hog the grain at feedin' time that I have to have a separate run built for 'em. You'd almost think he was jealous. But Joe, on the other hand,treats 'em like pets. I don't know how many times a day he feeds 'em, and he's always luggin' one up to me to show how heavy they're gettin'. I was waitin' until they got into top notch condition before springin' 'em on Basil Pyne. I meant to get a gasp out of him when I did.
Finally I set a day for the private view and asked the Pynes to come over special. Basil, he's all prepared to be thrilled as I tows him out. "But you don't mean to say this is your first venture at turkey raising?" he demands.
"Ab-so-lutely," says I.
"Strordinary!" says Basil.
At the end of the turkey run though I finds Joe starin' through the wire with a panicky look on his face. "Well, Joe," says I, "anything wrong with the flock?"
"I dunno," says he. "Maybe da go bughouse, maybe da got jag on. See!"
Blamed if it don't look like he'd made two close guesses. Honest, every one of them gobblers was staggerin' 'round, bumpin' against each other and runnin' into the fence, with their tails spread and their long necks wavin' absurd. A 3 a.m. bunch of New Year's Eve booze punishers couldn't have given a more scandalous exhibition.
"My word!" says Basil.
Course, it's up to me to produce an explanation. Which I does prompt. "Oh, that's nothing!"says I. "They're just tryin' the duck waddle, imitatin' their neighbors in the next run. Turkeys always do that sooner or later if you have ducks near 'em. They keep at it until they're dizzy."
"Really, now?" says Basil. "I never heard that before."
"Not many people have," says I. "But they'll get over it in an hour or so. Look in tomorrow and you'll see."
Basil says he will. And after he's gone I opens the court martial.
"Joe," I demands, "what you been feedin' them turks?"
It took five minutes of cross examination before I got him to remember that just before breakfast he'd sneaked out and swiped a pail of stuff that he thought Leon was savin' for his ducks. And what do you guess? Well, him and Leon had gone into the home-made wine business last fall, utilizin' all them grapes we grew out in the back lot, and only the day before they'd gone through the process of rackin' it from one barrel into another. It was the stuff that was left in the bottom that Joe had swiped for his pets.
"Huh!" says I. "And now you've not only disgraced those turkeys for life but you've made me hand Mr. Pyne some raw nature-fakin' stuff that nobody but a fool author would swallow."
"I mucha sorry," says Joe, hangin' his head.
"All right," says I. "I expect you meant well. But it was a bum hunch. Now see they have plenty of water to drink and by mornin' maybe they'll sober up."
I meant to keep an eye on 'em myself for the rest of the day, but right after luncheon Auntie blows in again, to pay a farewell visit before startin' South, and the turkeys slipped my mind. Not until she asks how I'm gettin' on with my flock of quail did I remember.
"Oh, quail!" says I. "No, I had to ditch that. Couldn't get the right sort of eggs."
Auntie smiles sarcastic. "What a pity!" says she. "But the various kinds of poultry you were going in for? Did you——"
"Did I?" says I. "Say, you just come out and—— Well, Leon, anything you want special?"
"Pardon, m'sieu," says old Leon, scrapin' his foot, "but—but the turkeys."
"Yes, I know," says I. "They're doing that new trot Joe's been teaching 'em."
"But no, m'sieu," says Leon. "They have become deceased—utterly."
"Wha-a-a-at?" says I. "Oh, oh, I guess it ain't as bad as that."
"Pardon," says Leon, "but I discover them steef, les pieds dans le ciel. Thus!" And he illustrates by holdin' both hands above his head.
"Perhaps it would be best to investigate,"suggests Auntie. "I have no doubt Leon is right. Turkeys require expert care and handling, and when you were so sure of raising them I quite expected something like this."
"Yes, I know you did," says I. "Anyway, let's take a look."
And there they were, all six of 'em, with their feet in the air, and as stiff as if they'd just come from cold storage.
"Like somebody had thrown in a gas attack on 'em," says I. "Good night, turks! You sure did make it unanimous, didn't you?"
I expect my smile was kind of a sickly performance, for the last person I'd have wanted to be in on the obsequies was Auntie. I will say, though, that she don't try to rub it in. No, she tells of similar cases she's known of when she was a girl, about whole flocks bein' poisoned by something they'd found to eat.
"The only thing to do now," says she, "is to save the feathers."
"Eh?" says I, gawpin'.
"The long tail and wing feathers can be used for making fans and trimming hats," says Auntie, "while the smaller ones are excellent for stuffing pillows. They must be picked at once."
"Oh, I'm satisfied to call 'em a total loss," says I.
Auntie wouldn't have it, though. She sends Leon for a big apron and a couple of basketsand has me round up Joe to help. When I left they were all three busy and the turkey feathers were coming off fast. All there was left for me to do was to go in and break the sad news to Vee.
"As a turkey raiser, I'm a flivver," says I.
"But I can't see that it's your fault at all," says Vee.
"Can't you?" says I. "Ask Auntie."
If the next day hadn't been Sunday, I could have sneaked off to town and dodged the little talk Auntie insists on givin' about the folly of amateurs tacklin' jobs they know nothing about. As it is I has to stick around and take the gaff. Then about ten o'clock Basil Pyne has to show up and reopen the subject.
"Oh, by the way," says he, "how are the turkeys this morning? Are they still practicing that wonderful duck walk you were telling me about?"
Auntie has just fixed an accusin' eye on me, and I was wonderin' if it would be any sin to take Basil out back somewhere and choke him, when in rushes old Leon with a wild look on his face. He's so excited that he's almost speechless and all he can get out is a throaty gurgle.
"For the love of soup, let's have it," says I. "What's gone wrong now?"
"O-o-o la la!" says Leon. "O-o-o la la!"
"That's right, sing it if you can't say it," says I.
"Parbleu! Nom de Dieu! Les dindons!" he gasps.
"Ah, can the ding-dong stuff, Leon," says I, "and let's hear the English of it."
"The—the turkeys!" he pants out.
And that did get a groan out of me. "Once more!" says I. "Say, have a heart! Can't anybody think of a more cheerful line? Turkeys! Well, shoot it. They're still dead, I suppose?"
"But no," says Leon. "They—they have return to life."
"Oh come, Leon!" says I. "You must have been sampling some of them wine dregs yourself. Do you mean to say——"
"If M'sieu would but go and observe," puts in Leon. "Me, I have seen them with my eye. Truly they are as in life."
"Why, after we picked them last night I saw you throw them over the fence," says I.
"Even so," says Leon. "But come."
Well, this time we had a full committee—Vee, Auntie, Basil, Madame Battou, old Leon and myself—and we all trails out to the back lot. And say, once again Leon is right. There they are, all huddled together on the lowest branch of a bent-over apple tree and every last one of 'em as shy of feathers as the back of your hand. It's the most indecent poultry exhibit I ever saw.
"My word!" says Basil, starin' through his thick glasses.
"That don't half express it, Basil," says I.
"But—but what happened to them?" he insists.
"I hate to admit it," says I, "but they had a party yesterday. Uh-huh. Wine dregs. And they got soused to the limit—paralyzed. Then, on the advice of a turkey expert"—here I glances at Auntie—"we decided that they were dead, and we picked 'em to conserve their feathers. Swell idea, eh? Just a little mistake about their being utterly deceased, as Leon put it. They were down, but not out. Look at the poor things now, though."
And then Vee has to snicker. "Aren't they just too absurd!" says she. "See them shiver."
"I should think they'd be blushin'," says I. "What's the next move?" I asks Auntie. "Do I put in steam heat for 'em?"
It takes Auntie a few minutes to recover, but when she does she's right there with the bright little scheme. "We must make jackets for them," says she.
"Eh?" says I.
"Certainly," she goes on. "They'll freeze if we don't. And it's perfectly practical. Of course, I've never seen it done, but I'm sure they'll get along just as well if their feathers were replaced by something that will keep them warm."
"Couldn't get the Red Cross ladies to knit sweaters for 'em, could we?" I suggests.
Auntie pays no attention to this, but asks Vee if she hasn't some old flannel shirts, or something of the kind.
Well, while they're plannin' out the new winter styles of turkey costumes, Joe and Leon rigs up a wood stove in their coop, shoos the flock in, and proceeds to warm 'em up. They took turns that night keeping the fire going, I understand.
And when I comes home Monday afternoon from the office I ain't even allowed to say howdy to the youngster until I've been dragged out and introduced triumphant to the only flock of custom-tailored turkeys in the country. Auntie and Vee and Madame Battou sure had done a neat job of costumin', considerin' the fact that they'd had no paper patterns to go by. But somehow they'd doped out a one-piece union suit cut high in the neck with sort of a knickerbocker effect to the lower end. Mostly they seemed to have used an old near-silk quilted bathrobe of mine, but I also recognized a khaki army shirt that I had no notion of throwin' in the discard yet awhile. And if you'll believe it them gobblers was struttin' around as chesty as if they hadn't lost a feather.
"Aren't they just too cute for anything?" demands Vee.
"Worse than that," says I, "they look almostas human as so many floor-walkers. I hope they ain't going to be hard on clothes, for my wardrobe wouldn't stand many such raids."
"Oh, don't worry about that," says Vee. "We shall be eating one every week or so."
"Then don't let me know when the executions take place," says I. "As for me, I shouldn't feel like tellin' Joe to kill one without an order from the High Sheriff of the county."
And say, if I'm ever buffaloed into buyin' any more live turkeys, I'm going to demand a written guarantee that they're Prohibitionists.