CHAPTER VWHERE MILDRED GOT NEXT
There's nothin' wins out surer in this town of New York than puttin' up a good front. If you've got the fur coat and the goggles on your cap, you can walk or ride on a transfer, and folks'll take it as a cinch that your bubble's back in the garage bein' fitted with a new set of hundred-dollar tires. Why, just the smell of benzin on a suit you've had out to the cleaners will give 'em the dream, if you throw your chest out right.
Look at the way Mildred has us goin'. Maybe you don't know about Mildred. Say, I'll bet if you met up with her on Fift'-ave. you'd hold your breath till she got by and wonder whether she was a Vanderbilt or one of the Goulds! But she floats into the Corrugated Trust offices more or less reg'lar every day, just the same, and does her little stunt on the typewriter at so much per. Honest, when I sees her sailin' in mornin's, with all her swell drygoods on, I'm just as liable as not to half break my neck openin' the door for her. That's whatI did the first time I saw her, when I was new on the gate.
"This way, lady," says I, and when she pikes right by and heads for the cloakroom I almost has a fit.
Maybe there's some hot ones down around Broad-st. that drives to business in cabs and pounds the keys durin' office hours; but for a genuine, mercerized near silk we stand ready to back Mildred against the field. She'd have an expert guessin', Mildred would. "Miss Morgan" is the way she figures on the payroll; but that never sounded rich enough for me.
It was the first week I was there that I begun to get a line on Mildred. One day the old man calls me in and hands me a letter that's been put on his desk for him to sign. He was plum color, Old Hickory was, so mad he could have chewed a file.
"Boy," says he, "take this into the main office, find out who M. M. is, and bring her in here. Anybody that can spell in that fashion I want to take a good look at."
Think of the shock I gets when Piddie tells me them letters stand for Mildred Morgan.
"Lady," says I, "I hates to say it, but the boss is waitin' to hand out a call-down to you. Don't you go to gettin' scared stiff, though; for the first cussword he lets go of I'll chuck a chair at him."
The smile I gets for that would have been worth half a dozen jobs. I was lookin' for her to go white and begin bitin' her upper lip, like they usually does; but she ain't that kind—not on your nameplate! She just peels off the sleeve protectors, sets her side combs in firm, gives her face a dab or so with the rabbit's foot, and starts along after me, with that new antelope walk of hers, as easy and pleased as if she'd been asked to come to the front and pour tea.
And she's got the costume the part calls for, mind you! They're the only clothes of the kind I ever see wore into this buildin'. I couldn't say what they was made of; but I know they're the button-up-the-back style, and that they stick to her as if they'd been put on by a paper-hanger. I guess you'd call Mildred a 1911 model. Anyway, she seems to bulge in the right places; though how anyone so long-waisted as that can get themselves into such a rig without callin' for help is somethin' I passes up.
Well, I tows her into the boss's office, feelin' as mean as a welsher. The old man has settled back in his chair, a cigar pointin' out of one corner of his mouth, and a letter in one fist. While I'm gone he's run across another, worse than the first, by the marks he's made on it, and he's got to the point where a thermometerslipped down the back of his neck would go off like a cap pistol.
"See here!" says he, growlin' it out grouchy, without lookin' up. "I'd like to have you run your eye over that, and then tell me where in thunder you learned to spell such s-u-t-c-h!"
"Why," says she, "I always spell it that way; don't you?"
"Don't I!" roars the old man. "Do you take me for a——"
Then he looks up. Well, say, you talk about your fadin' sunsets! Nothin' I ever see beat the way the boss lost his crushed raspb'rry face tint and bleached out salmon pink. "Why—why—er—are you sure this is some of your work, young woman?"
"Oh yes, indeed," says she, kind of gurgly and aristocratic and as sweet as pie, "that's mine. But you've made so many horrid marks on it that I shall have to do it all over again."
"Yes," says he, "I'm afraid that's so. But we have a way here, you know, of spelling explicit with a C instead of an S."
"Ruhlly?" says she. "How odd!"
"It's one of our fads, too," goes on the old man, "not to spell Corrugated g-a-i-t-e-d. We've simplified it by leaving out the I. Of course, we don't expect you to learn all these things at once; but pick 'em up as fast as youcan. That—that's all. Thank you very much, Miss—er——What's the name?"
"Morgan," says she, "Mildred Morgan."
"Ah," says the boss, "very much obliged, Mil—er—Miss Morgan," and before I could get to the door he has hopped up and opened it for her.
Then he turns around and sees me standin' there grinnin'. "Torchy," says he, "are there any more like that around the shop?"
"None that I ever saw," says I.
"Thank Heaven!" says he. "Send in one of the other kind."
"Want a real ripe one?" says I.
He does. And say, we got plenty of them. I picks out one with washed-out eyes, front teeth that sticks out, and no shape to speak of. She could make the typewriter do a double shuffle, though, and there couldn't anybody around the place sling out words faster'n she could take 'em down on her pad, or any she couldn't spell right the first crack. The old man fixes it that she's to go over Mildred's work with an ink eraser before it comes to him.
If Mildred knew about it, she never let on. Nothin' much bothered her. She'd come sailin' in any old time durin' the forenoon, lookin' as han'some as a florist's window and actin' as if she never heard of such a thing as a time clock. Piddie tackles her only once.
"Miss Morgan," says he, "business begins here at nine o'clock promptly."
"How absurd!" says Mildred, and Piddie don't get over the shock for an hour.
About the second week all hands took a vote that Mildred wa'n't much of a success as a typewriter artist and that she ought to be fired. The old man put it up to Mr. Robert, and Mr. Robert shoves it back at him. Then they both loaded it onto Piddie and cleared out. When they come back they asks him if he's done it.
"Well," says he, colorin' up, "not exactly."
Come to make him own up, he'd gone at the job so easy and had been so polite about it that Miss Morgan has time to head him off with a strike for more pay, and before he can back out he's promised to see what can be done.
"Couldn't you talk to her, Mr. Ellins?" says he.
"Great Scott, no!" says the boss. "Tell her she's raised, and let it go at that."
For awhile, though, Mildred cost the firm a lot more money than her salary, if you reckon up as worth anything the time a lot of two-by-four ink-slingers spent makin' goo-goo eyes at her. It was a losin' game all around. Mildred didn't seem to be pinin' for any such honors, and after they got well acquainted with the fact that she wouldn't stand for lunch invites, or bids to the theater, and didn't want tobe walked home with by a perfect gent, they let up on that foolishness. It leaves 'em dizzy, though. There's pinheads on our gen'ral office staff who believes they never missed breakin' a heart before, and they can't figure out just what's the matter with the combination.
There was others, too, that couldn't place Mildred, until some one hints that maybe she's a sure enough swell whose folks had gone broke, and that she's picked out a typewriter job as a sort of trapdoor that would let her down out of sight and keep the meal ticket renewed.
After that Mildred is as much of a myst'ry as why folks live in Brooklyn. We was all wise to the main proposition, though, and it was funny to hear 'em all sayin' that they'd known it right along. Kind of set us up some, too, havin' a real ex-ice cutter like her right on the floor with us. All the other key pounders, that had been givin' her the stary eye at first, flops around and uses the sugar shaker. There wasn't anything they wouldn't do for her, and they takes turns holdin' her jacket, so's to get a peek at the trademark on the inside of the collar.
But Piddie is the most pleased of any. He thinks he's right to home among carriage folks, and every time she comes near he bows and scrapes and begins to shoot off the "Aw, I'm suah's" and the "Don'tcher know's," untilyou'd think he was talkin' through a mouthful of hot breakfast food.
"Chee!" says I to him. "You act like you thought this was a five o'clock tea."
"I trust," says he, "I know a lady when I see one, and that I know how to treat her too."
"That's so," says I. "Too bad you wa'n't on the stage, Piddie, in one of them 'Me lu'd, the carriage waits' parts."
That gives me a cue, and the next time she sends me for supplies I says to him, "Mr. Piddie," says I, "the Lady Mildred presents her compliments and says she wants a new paste brush."
Gets him wild, that does; so I sticks to it. The others hears it and picks it up too, and she wa'n't called anything but Lady Mildred from that on. First thing I knew I'd said it to her face; but she never so much as looks surprised. You'd thought she'd been called Lady Mildred all her life.
"Who knows?" says Piddie. "Perhaps she has."
Honest, we was makin' up all kinds of pipe dreams about her, and believin' 'em as we went along. There was no findin' out from her what was so and what she wa'n't. She never gets real chummy with anyone; but keeps us jollied along about so much. It was dead easy. All she had to do was to throw a smile our way, andwe was tickled for a week. Wasn't anyone around the place needed so much waitin' on as her; but no one ever minds. Gen'rally there was two or three on the jump for her, and others willin' to be.
Course, that don't include Mr. Robert. He seems to think Lady Mildred was some kind of a joke; but, then, I expect he sees so many stunners like her every night, knockin' around at dinner parties and such, that he gets tired lookin' at 'em. I'd been carryin' it against him, though, and maybe that's what put it into my nut to get so gay with Louie.
Louie's the gent in the leather leggin's and north-pole outfit that comes around after Mr. Robert every night with the machine. Say, it's a reg'lar rollin' bay window, that car of Mr. Robert's! I wouldn't mind havin' one of that kind taggin' around after me. But if I was pickin' a shover I'd pass Louie by. He wears his nose too high in the air and is too friendly with himself to suit me. There's a lot of them honk-honk boys just like him; but he's the only one I ever has a chance to get real confidential with. It's like this:
Mr. Robert says to me, "Torchy, if I'm not back by five o'clock, you may tell Louie when he comes that he needn't wait."
"Sure thing," says I.
Then, when Mr. Robert don't show up atclosin' time, I chases down to the curb and sings out, "Hey, Frenchy, you tip huntin' ex-waiter! It's back to the garage for yours! And say! After you've run your old coal cart into the shed you can go let yourself out as a sign for a fur store. Ah, that's right. Nothin' doin' here. Skidoo!"
Always makes me feel better after I've handed Louie one like that—his ears turns such a lovely pink, specially when there's a crowd around. When I has time to chew it over I can think up some beauts. But this night I was goin' to tell you about I didn't have any warnin' at all. Mr. Robert was right in the middle of a heart-to-heart talk with a Pittsburg man, when five o'clock comes and the word is sent up that Louie has came.
"Tell him to come back in about half an hour," says Mr. Robert to me.
"Repeat at five-thirt'," says I, sliding out for the elevator.
It was an elegant afternoon,—for pneumonia,—slush and rain and ice-box zephyrs gallopin' up and down the street. Louie didn't look as though he was enjoyin' it any too much, for all his furs. I was just turnin' up my collar for a dash across the sidewalk and back, when out comes Lady Mildred in a raincoat that was a dream and carryin' a silver-handled umbrella such as you don't find on the bargaincounters. And then I gets my funny thought.
"Carriage for you, miss," says I, grabbin' the rain tent and hoistin' it. "Right this way, miss."
Say, she's a dead game sport, Mildred is. Never stopped to ask any fool questions; but prances right out to the car, just as though she'd expected it to be there.
"Take the lady home, and be back after Mr. Robert in half an hour, Louie," says I, jerkin' open the door and handin' her in.
It was about then that I almost had heart failure. Stowed away in the further corner, as comf'table as if he was at the club, was Benny. I forget what the rest of his name is; Mr. Robert never calls him anything but Benny. They're chums from way back,—travel in the same push, live on the same block, and has the same ideas about killin' time. But that's as far as the twin description goes. Benny looks and acts about as much like Mr. Robert as a cream puff looks like a ham sandwich. All Benny ever does is put on more fat and grow more cushions on the back of his neck. He's about five foot three, both ways, one of these rolypoly boys, with dimples all over him, pink and white cheeks, and baby-blue eyes. Oh, he's cute, Benny is; but the bashfullest forty-four fat that ever carried a cane, a reg'lar Mr. Shy Ann kind of a duck. Hehas a lisp when he talks too, and that makes him seem cuter'n ever.
About twice a week he drifts up to the brass gate and says to me, "Thay, thonny, whereth Bob?" Makes my mouth pucker up like I'd been suckin' a lemon, just to hear him. And if he sees one of the girls lookin' sideways at him he'll dodge behind a post.
There he was, though, and there was Mildred pilin' in alongside of him. She didn't give any sign of backin' out, and it was too late for me to hedge; so I ups and does the honors.
"Mr. Benny," says I, "Miss Morgan."
"Oh, I—I thay," splutters Benny, makin' a move to bolt, "perhapth I'd better——"
"Forget it!" says I, slammin' the door. "Ding, ding, Louie! Get a move on! If you don't fetch back here by five-thirt' you lose your job. See?"
Frenchy didn't need any urgin', though, and he has the wheels goin' round in no time at all. I watched the car for a couple of blocks and didn't see anything of Benny jumpin' out of the window; so I reckons that he's too scared to make the break. I had a picture of him, squeezin' himself up against the side of the tonneau, lookin' at his thumbs, and turnin' all kinds of colors.
"If it don't give him apoplexy, maybe it'll do him good," thinks I.
It was funny while it lasted; but when I thinks of what Mr. Robert'll say when the tale is doped out to him. I has a chill. First off I thought I'd go up and write out my resignation; but then I remembers how long it is since I've had the sport of bein' fired, and I makes up my mind to see the thing through.
I was lookin' to be called up on the carpet first thing next mornin', but it don't come. Mr. Robert never says a word all day long, nor the next, and by that time the thing was gettin' on my nerves. Then Benny bobs up, as usual. I has my eye peeled from the minute he opens the door. He don't look warlike or anything; but you never can tell about these fat men, so when he hits the gate I dodges behind the water cooler.
"Wha—w'ath the matter, thonny?" says he.
"G'wan!" says I.
"Ithn't Bob in?" says he.
"Go on in and tell Mr. Robert, if you want to," says I; "but don't look for any openin' to sit on me. No pancake act for mine!"
He just grins at that; but goes on into the office without makin' a single pass at me. Course, I was sure the riot act was due inside of an hour. But never a word. Nor Mildred don't have anything to say, either. It was like waitin' for a blast that don't go off.
Things went on that way for a couple ofweeks, and I was forgettin' about it, when Piddie tells me one mornin' that Mildred's up and quit and nobody knows why. About an hour after that Mr. Robert sends for me.
"Torchy," says he, "I'm tracing out a mystery, and as you seem to know about everything that's going on, I'm going to ask you to help me out."
"Ah, say," says I, "w'at's the use stringin' out the agony? Benny's squealed, ain't he?"
"No," says Mr. Robert. "That's the point. Benny hasn't. All I've been able to get out of him is that a short time ago he met a very charming young woman—in my car."
"That's right," says I. "It was me put her in."
"Ah!" says Mr. Robert. "Now we're getting somewhere."
"Oh, you've hit the trail," says I.
"Well," says he, "who was she?"
"Why," says I, "the Lady Mildred."
"Whe-e-e-ew!" says Mr. Robert, through his front teeth. "Not the one that spells such with a T?"
"Ah, chee!" says I. "What's the odds how she spells, so long as she's got Lillian Russell in the back row? I didn't know your fat friend was in the car, anyway, and I thinks Frenchy might as well be cartin' her home in the rain as blockin' traffic on some side street. So Ijust loads her in and gives Louie the word. She never knew but what you had sense enough to do it yourself. Course, it was a fresh play for me to make; but I'll stand for it, and if Benny's feelin's was hurt, or yours was, you got an elegant show to take it out on me. Come on! Get out the can and the string!"
But you can't hustle Mr. Robert along that way. When he gets his programme laid out there ain't any use to try any broad jumps. He wants to know all about Mildred, who she is, where she comes from, and what's her class.
"You can take it from me," says I, "that she's a star. She's been up in the top bunch too, I guess; anyone can see that. But so long as she's jumped the job, where's the sense in lookin' up her pedigree now?"
"Well," says Mr. Robert, "I am still more or less interested. You see, she and Benny are to be married next month."
"Honest?" says I.
"I have it from Benny himself," says he.
"Did Benny tell you how he worked up the nerve to make such a swift job of it?" says I.
He hadn't. Near as I could make out, Benny hadn't told much of anything.
"Well," says I, "he's picked a winner, ain't he?"
"That," says Mr. Robert, "is something I mean to find out."
And say, if you ever see that jaw of Mr. Robert's, you'll know he did. And she wa'n't an Astor or a Gould in disguise. She was just plain Miss Morgan, that had come on with her mother from Kansas City, or Omaha, or somewhere out there; put in six or eight months in a swell dressmaker's shop; learned how to make herself the kind of clothes that look like ready money; shuffled off her corn-belt accent; and then broke into the typewritin' game while she waited for somethin' better to turn up.
"And Benny was it, wa'n't he?" says I to Mr. Robert.
"With your help, Torchy," says he, "it appears that he was."
"Well," says I, "he needed the push, all right, didn't he!"
Fired? Me? Ah, quit your kiddin'! Why, they're tickled to death now, all of 'em. They're beginnin' to find out that Mildred's quite a girl, even if she ain't got a lot of fat-wad folks back of her.
And say, w'atcher think! Benny comes around here the other day wearin' a broad grin, lugs me out to his tailor's to have me taped for a whole outfit of glad rags, and says I've got to be one of the ushers at the weddin'. Wouldn't that sting you?
CHAPTER VISHUNTING BROTHER BILL
Don't talk to me about weddin's! Sure, I've been mixed up in one. Maybe there was orange blossoms and so on; but all that's handed me is a bunch of lemon buds. Not that I'm carryin' any grouch. I might have known better'n to butt into any such doin's. Long as I stick to bein' head office boy, I knows who's what, and what's which, and anyone that thinks they can give me the double cross is welcome to a try; but when it comes to sittin' in at a wilt-thou fest I'm a reg'lar Cousin Zeke from the red-mitten belt.
Maybe I wouldn't have done so bad, though, if it hadn't been for Aunt Laura. And say, mark it up on the bulletin right here, she ain't my aunt! She's Benny's. I was tellin' you how I loaded Mildred, our lady typewriter that was, into Mr. Robert's car alongside of Bashful Benny, and what came of it, wa'n't I! And how Benny's so grateful that he says I've got to be one of the ushers?
Well, it was all goin' lovely, and the gen'raloffice force has chipped in and bought 'em a swell weddin' present, and Benny's tailor has built me a pair of striped pants and a John Drew coat, and Mr. Mallory's been coachin' me how to act when I chase the folks into their seats, and Piddie's been loadin' me up with polite conversation to fire off whenever I gets a show, and everything's as gay around the shop as though the directors had voted an extra dividend—when I'm stacked up against Aunt Laura and it begins to cloud in the west.
Aunt Laura is all Benny can show up for a fam'ly, and after you got to know her you couldn't blame him for wantin' to start in on a new deal. She's one of them narrow-eyed old girls that can look through a keyhole without turnin' her head, and can dig up more suspicions in a minute than most folks would in a month. I'll bet if the angel Gabriel should show up and send in his card she'd make him prove who he was by playin' the horn.
It was a cinch she didn't mistake me for no angel, when Mr. Robert sends me up there to do an errand for Benny. I wa'n't callin' for no aunts, anyway, but just leavin' a note for Wilson—that's Benny's man—when this sharp-nosed old party comes rubberin' into the front hall.
"Marie," says she to the girl, "what boy is this? Where did he come from? Who doeshe want to see? Don't you dare leave him alone for a minute!"
That last touch gets me in the short ribs. "Ah, say," says I, "do I look like a hallrack artist?"
"That'll do, young man!" says she. "You may not be as bad as you look; but I have my doubts."
"Same to you, ma'am, and many of 'em," says I.
"Mercy!" says she. "What impertinence!"
"Please, ma'am," says the girl, "Mr. Ellins sent him up, and I——"
"Oh!" says the old one. Then she gives me another look. "Boy," says she, "what's your name!"
"Torehy," says I. "Ain't it a snug fit?"
"Oh!" says she again, and with the soft pedal on. "You're Torchy, are you?"
"There ain't any gettin' away from a name like that," says I.
"Why," says she, doin' her best to call up a smile, "what a bright young man you are!"
"Specially on top," says I, throwin' a wink at Marie.
"Ye-es," says Aunt Laura, "I always did think that copper-red shade of hair was real pretty. Come right in, Torchy, while Marie gets you some cake and a cup of tea."
"I ain't turnin' the shoulder to any cake," says I; "but you can cut out the tea."
Well, say, inside of three minutes from the start I'm planted comf'table in one of the libr'y chairs, eatin' frosted cake with both hands, while Marie's off hustlin' up lemonade and fancy crackers.
Course, it was somethin' of a shock, such a quick shift as that. I ain't got a glimmer as to what Aunt Laura's end of the game was; but so long as the home-made pastry holds out I was as good as nailed to the spot. She seems to get a heap of satisfaction watchin' me eat, almost as much as though she was feedin' ground glass to her best enemy. You've seen that kind, that you can stand well enough until they begin to grin at you. Aunt Laura's bluff at smilin' was enough to make a cat get its back up, and you could tell she didn't really mean it, as well as if she'd said, "Now I'm goin' to give you an imitation of somebody that's pleased."
And all the time she was dealin' out a line of talk that was as smooth as wet asphalt. Most of it was hot air that she said Benny'd been givin' to her about me, and how sweet Mildred thought I was.
That should have been my cue; but I was too busy with the cake.
"Miss Morgan is such a dear girl, isn't she?" says Aunt Laura.
"Uh-huh," says I, pokin' in some frostin' that had lodged on the outside.
"You are quite well acquainted with her, aren't you?" says she.
"Um-m-m-m," says I.
"Let's see," goes on Aunt Laura, "what is it she did at the office!"
"Chickety-click, ding-g-g!" says I, makin' motions with my fingers.
"Oh, typewriting!" says she. "But I suppose she was very skillful at it?"
"Oh, she was a bird!" says I.
See what was happenin'? I was bein' pumped. It was more'n that too. Everything I knew about Mildred, and a lot I guessed at, was emptied out of me like she was usin' one of these vacuum cleaners on my head. When I gets to telling about the place out West where Mildred lived before she and her maw hit New York, Aunt Laura jumps up.
"Oh, I know some people who lived there once," says she. "I wonder if any of them knew Miss Morgan?"
With that she picks up the desk 'phone and gives a call. Did they know any Miss Morgans out there? Yes, Mildred Morgan. Really! A brother too? How interesting! Who was he, and what was he doing last? What! In theState penitentiary! That was enough for Aunt Laura. She hangs up the receiver and says to me:
"Boy, when you get back to the office tell Mr. Robert I want to see him. Come, you'd better be going now."
It was a case of "Here's your hat—what's your hurry!"
"Say," says I, "don't you go to swallowin' any tale about the Lady Mildred havin' a brother that's a crook. There's lots of Morgans besides her and J. P."
But all Aunt Laura does is hold the door open for me; so I beats it, feelin' about as chipper as though I'd been turnin' State's evidence. The more I thinks of it, the cheaper I feels. Here I'd been playin' myself for Mr. Foxy Cute, and had let an old lemon squeezer like Aunt Laura wring me dry!
Just what she's got up her sleeve about the penitentiary business, I didn't know; but I wa'n't long in findin' out. Next day there was all kinds of a row. Aunt Laura has looked up the invitation list for the weddin', and, sure enough, among the also rans was a Mr. William Morgan, with a State penitentiary address. With that, and what she'd heard over the 'phone, Aunt Laura makes out a strong case. Was she goin' to stand by and see her only nephew marry into a family of jailbirds? Notif she could help it! So she calls in Mr. Robert and puts the layout before him.
It looks like a bad mess, with Mildred on the toboggan; for Mr. Robert has said he'd see what could be done. He don't promise anything; but Benny's always been such a willin' performer that he guesses maybe he can talk him out of wantin' to get married. He didn't know Benny, though. These short, fat, dimpled boys are just the ones to fool you, and when it came to tellin' Benny about Brother Bill, that was doin' time, Benny works his lips at high speed sayin' that he don't believe it.
"Anyway," says Benny, "it ithn't Bill I'm marrying. I don't give a cuth for him. I'd juth ath thoon marry Mildred if her whole doothed family wath in jail."
"That settles it, Benny," says Mr. Robert. "If that's the way you feel. I'll stand by you."
Maybe Aunt Laura wa'n't wild, though, when she finds she can't block the game. I was handlin' the office switchboard the afternoon she calls Mr. Robert up to give him the rake-over, and the old girl warms up the wires until she near has the lightnin' arresters out of business. It comes out too that she's sore on Benny's bein' married because she sees the finish of her steady job as boss of the house on the avenue. She can't queer Mr. Robert though.
"Benny seems to have a clear idea as to just whom he wants to marry," says he, "and that's enough for me. If Miss Morgan has a brother in the penitentiary, and Benny doesn't mind, I'm sure I don't. I've known lots of fellows who wished their brothers-in-law were in the same place. Anyway, he'll not trouble us by showing up at the wedding, even if she did send him an invitation."
That's the kind of a sport Mr. Robert is. He's dead game, and when you've got him for a friend you'll know who to send for if you should ever get run in. So we goes along gettin' ready for the weddin' same's if nothin's happened. It's billed for a church hitch; but there ain't been any advertisin' done, so they don't expect any crowd. Look when they has it too—right at lunch time!
"Chee!" says I to Mr. Robert, who's running the thing, "you must be playin' for a frost. Now if you'd hire one of them Third-ave. halls and band, you might give 'em somethin' of a send-off; but it'll be hard to tell this racket from one of these noonday prayin' bees they has down in the wholesale crock'ry district."
Mr. Robert says that Benny bein' so bashful, and Mildred not knowin' many folks on East, they wanted to make it as quiet as they could.
"It'll have a pantomime show beat to death on quiet," says I. "Put me on the door, will you, so's I can keep awake joshin' the sidewalk cop?"
Mr. Robert says he thinks that'll be a good place for me, as they ain't goin' to let anyone in without a ticket and I'm used to shuntin' cranks. But say, I'm so rattled when I get inside of that suit they sent around for me to wear that I don't know whether I'm goin' up or comin' down. Honest, that coat made me feel like I was wearin' a dress. I didn't mind the striped pants,—they was all to the good,—but them skirts flappin' around my knees was the limit.
Think I had the face to spring that outfit on the folks at the boardin' house? Never in a year! Why, some of them Lizzie girls rangin' the block would have guyed me out of the borough. I just folds the thing inside out over my arm, like it was some one's overcoat I was takin' around to have a button shifted, and when I gets to the church I slides up into the gallery and makes a quick change. Mr. Robert looks me over and says no one would guess it was me.
"I'm hopin' they don't," says I.
But as soon as the carriages begun comin' and I gets busy callin' for the seat checks, I forgets how I looks and stops huntin' for someplace to stow my hands. It was a cinch job. There was only a few lady butt-ins that had strayed over from the shoppin' district and smelled out a free show.
"We're intimate friends of the bride," says a pair of 'em; "but we've forgotten our tickets."
"That's good, but musty. Butt out, please," says I.
Chee! but I ain't used up so much politeness since I can remember! It was wearin' them clothes did it, I guess.
Well, I was gettin' to feel real gay, for most everyone that was due was inside, and I hadn't made any breaks to speak of, and it was near time for the Lady Mildred to be floatin' in, when I pipes off a tall, husky-lookin' gent, with a funny black lid and an umbrella tucked under one arm, gawpin' up at the sign on the church.
"Tourist from Punk Hollow lookin' for the Flatiron Buildin'," says I to myself; but the next minute he comes meanderin' up the steps, fishin' a card out of his pocket. You can bet I plants myself in the door and calls for credentials!
But, say, he had the goods. There was the ticket, all right, with the name wrote on it, and it didn't need but one squint at the pasteboard for me to break into a coldsweat. It wa'n't anybody else but Mr. William Morgan!
"Say," says I, as hoarse as a huckster, "are you Brother Bill?"
"Why," says he, kind of surprised, but not half so stunned as I thought he'd be,—"why, I suppose I am."
You wouldn't have guessed it. Not that he didn't look the brother part; for he did. He went Mildred two or three inches better in height, and he had snappy black eyes and black hair like hers. The points that goes with a striped suit and the lock step was missin', though. But how you goin' to tell, in these times when our toniest fatwads is sittin' around the mahogany votin' to raise the price of chewin' gum to-day, and gettin' a free haircut to-morrow? There wa'n't any time for me to stand there guessin' whether he'd been pardoned, or had slid down the rain pipe. Somethin' had to be done, and done quick.
"Dodge in here and wait a minute," says I. "There's some word been left for you."
With that I sneaks down the side aisle and into the little cloakroom, where Mr. Robert was keepin' Benny's mind off'n what was comin' to him by makin' him count the geranium leaves in the carpet.
"Mr. Robert," says I, luggin' him off toone side, "you want to give up predictin' the future. Bill's come!"
"What Bill?" says he.
"The one from the rock pile, Brother Bill," says I.
"That's lovely!" says he.
"It's all of that," says I.
"I hope he's not wearing his uniform still," says Mr. Robert.
"Not on the outside," says I. "He looks like he'd pinched a minister's Monday suit somewhere. But it ain't the way he looks that's worryin' me; it's what he's liable to do any minute to put the show on the blink."
"That's so, Torchy," says he. "Can't we get him out of the way somehow?"
"It's a tough proposition," says I; "but if you'll put on a sub for me at the door, and give me leave to make any play that I happens to think of, I'll tackle it."
"Good!" says Mr. Robert. "And I'll make it worth a hundred to you to keep him away from here until it's all over."
"I'm on the job," says I.
As I skips back I grabs my hat out from under a rear seat and makes straight for Brother Bill. "Come on," says I. "She's waitin' for you now. We've got just half an hour to do it in."
Bill, he looks sort of jarred and reluctant;but I has him by the arm and is chasin' him down the steps before he can ask any dippy questions. First off I thought of runnin' him up the avenue until he's clean winded; but I see by the way he strikes out that it would take more lungs than I've got to do that.
There was a lot of weddin' cabs and such waitin' round the corner, though; so I steers him into the first one that has the apron up, jumps in after him, shoves up the door in the roof, and sings out:
"Beat it! This ain't any dream carnival you're hired for!"
"What number?" says the bone thumper.
For about two shakes I was up against it, and then the only place I could think of was Benny's house; so I give him that, and off we goes.
"But I say, young man," says Brother Bill, "I came on to go to the wedding."
"Sure," says I; "that'll be all right too. Didn't I tell you there was some word left for you?"
"Yes," says he, "I believe you did. Also you said something about her waiting——"
"Right again," says I. "She'll be tickled to death to see you too."
"Yes; but the wedding?" says he.
"That'll be there when we getback—maybe," says I. "You came on kind of unexpected, eh?"
"Yes," says he. "I didn't think I could get away at first; but I managed it."
"How'd you get out?" says I. "Was it a clean quit, or a little vacation?"
"Why—er—why," says he,—"yes, it was a—er—little vacation, as you say."
"Chee!" thinks I. "The nerve of him! Wonder if he sawed the bars, or sneaked out in a packin' case?" But, say, I couldn't put it to him straight. When I gets these bashful fits on I ain't any use.
"How long you been in?" says I.
"In?" says he. "Oh, I see! About five years."
"Honest?" says I.
Then I had another modest spell that won't let me ask him whether he'd been put away for givin' rebates, or grabbin' for graft. I knew it must have been somethin' respectable like that. Anyone could see he wa'n't one of your strong arms or till friskers.
I was just wishin' I knew how to work the force pump like Aunt Laura, when we pulls up at the horse block, and it was up to me to think of some new move.
"She's here, is she?" says Mr. William.
"You bet!" says I, wondering who he thought I meant. And then I gets that funnyfeelin' I gen'rally has when I takes the high jump. "Come on," says I. "We'll give her a surprise."
It wa'n't anything else. I knew she'd be to home, 'cause I'd heard she was too grouchy to go to the weddin' or have anything to do with it; so when Marie let us in I throws a tall bluff and says for her to tell Aunt Laura I've brought some one she wants to see very partic'lar.
"Why," says Mr. Morgan, "there's been some mistake, hasn't there! I know no such person. Why should she wish to see me?"
"Sh-h-h-h!" says I. "Maybe she'll feed you frosted cake. It's one of her tricks."
She didn't, though. She looked about as smilin' as a dill pickle when she showed up, and she opened the ball by askin' what I meant, bringin' strangers there.
"Well," says I, "you've been askin' a lot about him lately; so I thought I'd lug him around. This is Brother Bill."
"What!" says she, squealin' it out like I'd said the house was afire. "Not the brother of that—that Morgan girl?"
"Ask him," says I. "You're a star at that."
Then I takes a peek at Bill. And say, I was almost sorry I'd done it. For a party that'd just broke jail, he could stand the least I eversaw. He looks as mixed up and helpless as a lady that's took a seat in the smokin' car by mistake. I'd have helped him out then if I could have thought how. It was too late, though, and Aunt Laura was no quitter.
"How long is it," says she, jerkin' her head back and throwin' a look out of her narrow eyes that must have gone clear through him, "since you got out of the State penitentiary?"
"Why—why—er—er——" begins Brother Bill.
Then he has the biggest stroke of luck that ever came his way; for Marie pushes in with the silver plate and a card on it.
"Thank goodness!" says Aunt Laura, lookin' at the card. "The very person I need! Ask Dr. Wackhorn to step in here."
I thought he must be a germ chaser; but it was just a minister, a solid, prosperous lookin' old gent, with white billboards and a meat safe on him like a ten-dollar Teddy bear. He looks at Brother Bill, and Bill looks at him.
"Why, my dear William!" sings out the Doc, rushin' over with the glad hand out.
In two minutes it's all over. Dr. Wackhorn has introduced Bill as his ex-assistant, who's gone West and got himself a job as chaplain in a State prison, and Aunt Laura loses her breath tryin' to apologize to both of 'em at once. Think of that! We'd been playin' himfor all kinds of a crook, and here he was a sure enough minister!
Well, I gets him back to the church just in time for the last curtain, so he can see what a stunner Mildred was in her canopy-top outfit. He's all right, Brother Bill is. Never gives me any call-down for shuntin' him off the way I did and makin' him miss most of the show. As I says to him afterward:
"Bill," says I, "that was one on me. But we did throw the hook into Aunt Laura some! What?"