CHAPTER XBACKING OUT OF A FLUFF RIOT
They will turn up, won't they? Here I was only yesterday noontime loafin' through the arcade, when who should I get the hail from but Hunch Leary, with a bookful of rush messages and his cap down over his ears.
Now I ain't sayin' he's the toughest lookin' A. D. T. that ever sat on a call bench, for maybe I've seen worse; but with his bent-in nose, and his pop eyes, and that undershot jaw—well, he ain't one you'd send in to quiet a cryin' baby. Hunch didn't pose for that picture of the sweet youth on the blue signs outside the district offices. They don't pick him out for these theater-escort snaps, either.
Which shows how far you can go on looks, anyway; for, if I was going to trust my safety-vault key with anyone, it would be Hunch. Not that they'll ever use him to decorate any stained-glass window; but I never look for him to land on the rock pile.
Course, I don't see much of Hunch and the rest these days; but it ain't a case of dodgin'old friends on my part, so me and him hangs up against a radiator in the main corridor and talks it over. I wants to know if Stiff Miller is still manager down at No. 11 branch, and who's wearin' the red stripe yet; while Hunch he puts over a few polite quizzes as to how I'm gettin' on with the Corrugated people.
We hadn't been gassin' but five minutes or so, and there's ten more due on the clock before lunch hour is over, when I looks up to see our Mr. Piddie going by and givin' me the frown. I knew what that meant. It's another call-down. He has plenty of time to work up his case; for I takes the limit and don't hang up my hat until the life-insurance chimes has done their one-o'clock stunt. And I'm hardly settled behind the brass gate before Piddie is down on me with the old mushy-mouthed reproof.
"One is known," says he, "by the company one keeps."
"I'm no New Theater manager," says I. "What's the answer?"
"I observed you loitering in the lower corridor," says he. "That is all."
"Oh!" says I. "You seen me conversin' with Mr. Leary, eh?"
"Mr. Leary!" says Piddie, raisin' his eyebrows.
"Well, Hunch, then," says I. "Tryin' toget up a grouch because you wa'n't introduced? Don't take it hard. He's kind of exclusive, Mr. Leary is."
Piddie swallows that throat pippin of his two or three times before he can get a grip on his feelings enough to go on with the lesson of the day. "I merely wish to remark," says he, "that evil communications corrupt good manners."
"How about court Judges, then," says I, "and these slum missionaries'? G'wan, Piddie! Back to the copybook with your mottoes! I'm a mixer, I am! Would I be chinnin' here with you if I wa'n't?"
He sighs, Piddie does, and struts away to freeze the soul of some new lady typist by looking over her shoulder. As an act of charity, they ought to let Piddie fire me about once a month. He'll die of grief if he don't get the chance sometime.
And blamed if he don't come near gettin' his heart's desire before the day was over!
It all begins about three o'clock, when Piddie comes turkeyin' out of the telephone booth all swelled up with importance and signals me to come on the carpet.
"Torchy," says he, "I presume you know where the Metropolitan Building is?"
"They ain't moved it since lunchtime, have they?" says I.
"That will do!" says he. "Now listen very carefully."
You'd thought from his preamble that I was going to be sent up to regulate the clock, or see if the tower was still plumb; but all it simmers down to is that I'm to take a leather document case, hunt up Mr. Ellins, who's attendin' a directors' meetin' over there, and deliver some papers that he's forgot to have his private secretary lug along.
"And kindly refrain," he tacks on at the last, "from stopping to talk with any suspicious characters on the way."
"Say, Piddie," says I, "if I was you I'd have that printed on a card. Some day you're going to forget to rub that in."
Well, I hustles across the square, locates Old Hickory, and delivers the goods without droppin' 'em down a manhole or doin' any of the other awful things that Piddie would have warned me against if he'd had more time. I tucks the empty case under my arm and was for makin' a record trip back, just to surprise Piddie; but while I'm waitin' for that flossy lever juggler on the express elevator to answer my red-light signal I hears this riot break loose on the floor below.
And say, I wa'n't missin' any lively disturbance like that; for it listens like a mob scene from one of them French guillotine plays.Mostly it's female voices that floats up, and they was all tuned to the saw-filin' pitch. A pasty-faced young gent wearin' a green eye-shade and an office coat comes beatin' it up the marble steps, and I fires a question at him on the fly.
"Is it a gen'ral rough-house number," says I, "or have the suffragettes broke loose again?"
"You're welcome to find out for yourself," he pants, dashin' up another flight.
"Thanks for the invite," says I. "Guess I will."
And, say, talk about your mass plays around a shirtwaist bargain counter! Why, the corridor was full of 'em, all tryin' to rush the door of 1,323 at once. For a guess I should say that half the manicure artists, lady demonstrators, and cloak models between 14th and 34th was on the spot. Oh, they was a swell bunch, with more fur turbans and Marie Antoinette ringlets on view than you could see collected anywhere outside of Murray's!
They was sayin' things, too! I couldn't catch anything but odd words here and there; but the gen'ral drift of their remarks seems to be that someone has welshed on 'em. First off I thought it must be one of these skirt bucket-shops that has been closed out by the renting agent; but then I gets a look at the sign onthe door and sees that it's the Peruvian Investment Company, which sounds like one of them common twenty per cent. a month games.
And it's a case of lockout, with the lady customers ragin' on the outside, and nobody knows what's takin' place behind the ground glass. That wa'n't excitin' enough to lure me from a steady job for long, though, unless some one was goin' to do more'n look desp'rate and talk spiteful.
"Ah, why not smash something?" I sings out. "Didn't any lady think to bring a brick in her vanity bag?"
A couple turns around and glares at me; but it encourages one to begin hammerin' on the glass with her near-gold purse, and just as I'm about to leave this turns the trick. The door swings open all of a sudden, and there stands a tall, well-built gent, with a green felt hat pushed back on his head, a five-inch cigar juttin' out of one corner of his mouth, and his thumbs stuck in the pockets of a sporty striped vest. On account of the curly brown Vandyke, he's kind of a foreign-lookin' party; but someway them smilin', wide-open eyes of his has a sort of familiar look.
For a high pressure storm center he seems mighty placid. As he throws open the door he steps back into the middle of the room, rests one elbow against the rail of a wired-incashier's coop, and removes the cheroot so he can spring a comfortin' smile on the crowd. It's a brainy play. The rush line stops like it has gone up against a bridge pier, and then spreads out in a half-circle.
"Well, ladies," says he, "what can we do for you to-day?"
Do I know who it is then? Well, do I! Maybe it has been months since I've heard the voice, and maybe he does wear a set of face herbage that I'd never seen before; but I ain't one to forget the only real A-1 classy boss I ever had; not that soon, anyway. It's Mr. Belmont Pepper, as sure as I've got a Titian thatch on my skull!
Do I linger? That's what! Why, I've been waitin' for him to show up again like a hired girl waits for Thursday afternoon. It's Mr. Pepper, all right; but it looks like he's been let in bad, for after one or two gasps in chorus that bunch of lady grouches gets their second wind and closes in on him with a whoop.
"Where's my dividends? I want to draw out my money! Say, you give me back my eighteen dollars, or I'll——You'll try your bunko game on me, will you? Hey! I've been waiting since noon to catch you, you——"
My! but they did have their hammers out! They called him everything that a lady could, and a few names that wa'n't so ladylike asthey might have been. They shook things at him, and promised to do him all sorts of damage, from bringin' lawsuits to scratchin' his eyes out.
Mr. Pepper, though, he goes on smokin' and smilin', now and then throwin' in a shoulder shrug just to hint that there wa'n't any use in his tryin' to get in a word until they was all through. He almost acts like he enjoyed being mobbed; but of course he knew better'n to choke off a lot of women before they'd had their say out. He just let 'em jaw along and get it out of their systems. Fin'lly he raises his hand, takes off the green lid, and bows graceful.
"Ladies," says he, "I fully sympathize with your impatience—fully."
"You look it, I don't think!" sings out a big blonde, shakin' her willow plumes energetic.
Mr. Pepper throws her a smile and spiels ahead. "You will be pleased to hear, however," says he, "that the board of directors, on the strength of cabled advices from our general manager in Peru, has just voted an extra dividend of ten per cent."
"When do we get it? Show us some money!" howls the kickers.
"I have been requested to announce," goes on Mr. Pepper, "that payments from this officewill be resumed promptly at noon—on the first day of next month."
Does that satisfy 'em? Not so you'd notice it. A bigger squawk than ever goes up, and the jam around Mr. Pepper begins to look like rush hour at the Hudson Terminal. They starts clawin' at his elbows, and grabbin' his coat, and when I notices one wild-eyed brunette reachin' for a hatpin I knew it was a case of me to the rescue or sendin' in an ambulance call.
Not that I had any notion what ought to be done in a case like this. I couldn't throw him a rope or shove out a plank; I ain't any expert woman trainer, either; but can I stand there with my mouth open and see an old friend get the hooks thrown into him by a class in hysterics? Not when the hookee happens to be one that once set me up as a stockholder in a gold mine. So I lets flicker with the first fool idea that comes into my head.
"Gangway!" I shouts out, wedgin' my way in among 'em and usin' my elbows. "Gangway for the bank messenger! Ah, don't shove, girls; he ain't the only man left in New York. One side for the real money bringer! One side now!" And by holdin' the leather case high up where they could all see it, and hittin' the line like Coy does when it's three downs with ten yards to go, I manages to get through without losin' many coat buttons.
"Here you are, sir," says I, shovin' the case out to Mr. Pepper and givin' him the knowin' look. "City National. Cashier wants a receipt."
Does he need a diagram and a card of instructions? Trust Belmont Pepper! "Ah, this way," says he. "Pardon me a moment, ladies, only a moment. This way, young man." And almost before they know what has happened him and me are behind the partition with the gate locked.
"Let's see," says he, lookin' me over kind of puzzled, "it's—er—Torchy, isn't it?"
"There's the proof," says I, liftin' the cover off my danger signal.
"I might have known," says he, "that no one else could have put up so good a bluff on the spur of the——"
"Now that's all right, Mr. Pepper," says I; "but the bluff won't hold 'em long. What you want to do is get busy and make a noise like hundred-dollar bills. I don't know what the trouble is; but it looks like the genuine goods to me."
"Diagnosis correct," says he. "I'm boxed. Now if they were only men, I could——"
"Oh, sure!" says I. "But a bunch of nutty fluffs is diff'rent. They never know what they want or why they want it. Say, ain't you got another exit?"
Mr. Pepper shakes his head. "No, son," says he; "but don't you worry about me. Your strategy thus far has been excellent; but I don't want you to get mixed up in this mess. Skip, Torchy, while the skipping is easy."
"Mr. Pepper," says I, "do I look like a quitter? I ain't forgot what you did about givin' me them Glory Be stocks, either, and I'm goin' to hang around here until this little private cyclone of yours blows over."
Mr. Pepper he looks at me a minute in that calm way of his, and then he shrugs his shoulders. "All right," says he.
Then we listens to the buzz outside. Some was explainin' to others how a bushel of money had just come in from the City National Bank, and some was insistin' that it was just a north-pole fake. It's a free-for-all debate with all rules in the discard. Then we hears one voice that's louder than the others calling out for a committee.
"We must organize!" she says. "Let's organize for action!"
"Ah!" observes Mr. Pepper. "Now for feminine tactics! That looks better."
A couple of minutes more and they've concluded to adjourn to the corridor. When they're all out and I can hear 'em down at the further end, I gives him the tip.
"Now's your chance!" says I. "Up oneflight and you can get an express elevator. I'll show you."
Mr. Pepper don't like the idea, though, of doin' the gumshoe sneak. He hates to run away from any kind of a fight, specially a lot of women. He don't run, either; but after awhile he consents to walk out, and we strolls towards the steps dignified and easy.
It looked like a clean get-away for a minute, too; but I hadn't counted on their leavin' a picket to watch the elevator. She sees us and gives the alarm; so by the time we're up to the next floor the whole mob is after us, lettin' out the war cries as if it was a case of kidnappin'.
They struck the upper corridor just as I've got my finger on the button, and in the front ranks they're pushin' along the gray uniformed special cop that they've rung up from the first floor. Also who should step out into the midst of the riot but Old Hickory Ellins, just leavin' the directors' meeting. He goes purple-faced and bug-eyed, but before I can dodge out of sight of course he spots me. And that's the very minute when a couple of lady avengers points me and Mr. Pepper out to the cop and the pinch business is about to begin.
"Why, what's all the row about, Torchy?" says he. "And who is that with you?" He gets answers from the anvil chorus.
"That's the swindler!" they shouts. "That's Prentice Owens! He's the one that took our money, and the boy is one of the gang! Nab 'em, Mr. Officer, please nab 'em!"
"G'wan, you're a lot of flossy kikes!" I throws back at 'em.
"Torchy," says Mr. Ellins, "have you been up to any swindling game?"
"Honest, I ain't, Mr. Ellins," says I.
"I am inclined to believe that," says he; "but what about the other person? Is he a friend of yours?"
"Sure," says I. "And he's on the level too."
"He's Prentice Owens, is he?" says he.
"Nah," says I. "He's Mr. Belmont Pepper, he is, president of the Glory Be Mining Company. Why, I used to work for him! That aggregation of female dopes is full of prunes. Mr. Pepper's no crook."
"Hum!" says Old Hickory, rubbin' his chin. "A case of mistaken identity, eh? Officer, you know me, I suppose?"
"Yes, Mr. Ellins," says the special, jerkin' off his cap, "oh, yes, sir."
"Then drive these deluded women downstairs and tell them their mistake," says Old Hickory. "Come, Mr. Pepper. Come, Torchy. In with you!"
And inside of two shakes we're shootin'down a one hundred and fifty foot shaft with no stops until the ground floor. Not until we gets outside and Mr. Ellins jumps into his cab does Mr. Pepper say a word.
"Torchy," says he, "you're the real thing in the friendship line. I will admit that appearances are somewhat against me, but——"
"Ah, say!" I breaks in. "Don't I know you, Mr. Pepper? Do I have to see any books to know that you're playin' a straight game? It was a matter of needin' a little time, wa'n't it, and bein' rushed off your feet when you didn't expect the move? I could guess that much from the start. All I want to ask is, how's the mine gettin' on, the Glory Be, you know?"
He looks at his feet for a second or so and kind of flushes. Then he straightens up, looks me level between the eyes, and reaches out a hand to give me the brotherhood grip.
"Torchy," says he, "there is a mine, and the last I heard it was still there. Anyway, I'm dropping the investment business right here, and I'm going out to see what our property looks like. I'll let you know." With that he whirls and dashes off across the avenue.
"How is it," says Piddie when I gets back, "that it takes you an hour and a quarter to go four blocks?"
"Hookworms, Piddie," says I, "hookworms. I had a sudden attack."
CHAPTER XIRUNG IN WITH THE GOLD SPOONERS
On the level now, what's a he Cinderella? And if your boss called you a name like that, would you resign, or throw out your chest and strike for a raise? But, then, maybe it was only some of Mr. Robert's fancy joshin'. Anyway, I'd stand in line waitin' for a thing like that to happen again.
The way it begun was when I runs across this new girl in the filin' room and finds her snifflin' over one of the index cases. She's bitin' her lips to keep from doing it and she's red way up behind her ears; so I knows she's more mad than sorry. I could guess what's happened; for I'd just seen Piddie come out of there looking satisfied and important.
"Hello, sis!" says I. "Weepin' over your job so soon?"
"Shut up!" says she.
"Why, how pettish!" says I. "What was Piddie callin' you down for?"
"What's that to you?" says she. "Who are you, anyway?"
"Me?" says I. "Why, I'm the Corrugated's gen'ral grouch dispeller. I'm the official little ray of sunshine. See?" and I bobs my head so she can get a good view of my red thatch.
"Huh!" says she; but she can't help lettin' out a grin, so I sees the cure has begun.
"Don't you mind Piddie," says I. "He don't dare tie the can to you without reportin' higher up. He likes to make a noise like a watchdog, that's all. Next time you give him the merry chuckle."
And, honest, I'd done the same if she'd been wall-eyed and toggle-jointed, just for the sake of blockin' off his little game.
It wa'n't until a couple of days later, when she shoots over a casual flashlight look as I'm strollin' past, that I takes any partic'lar notice of what a Daisy Maizie she is. There's more or less class to her lines, all right, not to mention a pair of rollin' brown eyes. Course, I sends back the roguish wink, and by the end of the week we was callin' each other by our pet names.
Not that I'm entered reg'lar as a Percy boy, or that I takes this so serious as to miss any meals; but you know how it is. And what if she was a few years older? She seems to like it when I sing out, "Oh, you Theresa!" at her, and once she mussed up my hair whenthere wa'n't anybody lookin'. In fact, I was almost to the point of thinkin' that I'd been picked as somebody's honey boy when this Izzy Budheimer shows up as a late entry.
Izzy, he's a third assistant in the stock department, and on twelve a week he sports one of those striped green overcoats and a plush hat with the bow behind. Maybe he wouldn't be listed as a home destroyer; but he has a flossy way with him and he goes around a lot. About the second week I sees him and the new girl gettin' chummier and chummier, and, while she still has a jolly for me now and then, I knows I'm only a side issue. That's what hurt most. So what fool play must I make but go and plunge on a sixty-cent box of mixed choc'lates for her!
As luck would have it, Mr. Robert spots me comin' out of the 23d-st. candy shop with the package under my arm. You wouldn't think he'd notice a little clew like that, or pick me up on it; but he does.
"How now, Torchy?" says he. "Sweets to the sweet, eh?"
"Uh-huh," says I, and I guess I colors up some.
"What is the fair one's name?" says he.
"Tessie," says I.
"Ah!" says he. "Thus were they ever named: Tessie, Juliet, and Helen of Troy.They're all one. My envious sympathy, Torchy, and may the gods be kind!"
Which is only the brand of hot air Mr. Robert blows off whenever he has a good lunch under his vest and nothin' heavy on his mind. It don't mean anything at all.
"Troy!" says I. "Can it! This ain't for no up-State laundry hand. She comes from Eighth-ave."
Well, I stows the box away until closin' time, and then waits around the upper corridor for Tessie to show up. Izzy, he spots me and proceeds to improve the time by givin' me an earache about what an important party he is, how he expects to be jumped a notch soon, and about how much he makes nights on the outside, followin' up some checkroom snap or other.
"That's fine!" says I. "But won't you be late gettin' over to Grand-st.?"
Izzy was still explainin' how long it was since his folks moved to the West Side, and what swell things they had in the parlor, when Tessie floats out with her new spring lid and princess walkin' suit on. I'm just shovin' out the peace offerin' and gettin' ready to hand over my smoothest josh, when she brushes past like I was part of the wall decoration, squeals, "Oh, Mr. Budheimer!" and begins showin' Izzy some tickets for the grand annual benefit ball of the Shirtwaist Makers' Union, and tellin'him how she was sellin' 'em for her sister, and what a grand time it was goin' to be.
"How much?" says Izzy, tryin' hard to choke it back, but losin' the struggle.
"Seventy-five for a double ticket," says Tessie. "That's the kind you want."
"Maybe I would yet, if I could get a partner," says he.
"Ain't that an awful sad case?" says Tessie. "Nobody's teased me very hard, either."
"You'll go with me, yes?" says Izzy.
"It's awful sudden," says she; "but a chance is a chance. Don't send a cab; the folks in the block might think I was putting on."
And me? Why, I don't show on the chart at all! Right under my nose she does it, and don't even give me a sideways glance.
"Pooh!" says I. "Pooh, pooh!"
"What a cute little fellah!" says Tessie to him as they crowds into the elevator with the rest of the push.
"Say," says I, making a jump for the grating, "you don't need to——"
"Next car!" sings out the Johnny Flip, slammin' the door. Now wa'n't that rubbin' it in?
"Coises!" says I. "Deep coises!" and walks down eleven flights with a temperature that would have got me condemned by anyboiler inspector in the business. The candy? That goes to one of the pie-faced maids where I lives.
The nerve of that Izzy, though! In the mornin' he comes around just like nothin' had happened and wants to know if I'll sub. for him on his evenin' job the night he goes to the ball. To show I don't carry any grouch, I says I will; but he offers only half-pay and makes me agree to split the tips with him.
"I couldn't afford it, at that," says he, "only this is a kid session and the graft will be light."
It's this checkroom work of his, you know, at one of them swell Fifth-ave. joints where they have an extra night force on call for coming-out parties and dinner dances and the like. So, while him and Tessie is enjoyin' themselves with the lady shirtwaist makers, I'm standin' behind the counter wearin' a braided jacket, givin' out check coupons, and stowin' away hats and top-coats for Master Reginald and other buddin' sports of the younger set. Seems this is the final blowout of Miss Somebody's afternoon dancin' class, and no one was allowed inside unless Father had his name printed in bright red ink in the social register.
A hot lot of young gold spooners they was too; some of 'em not as old as me by a couple of years, and swellin' around in dinky Tuxesand white kids. One of 'em even hands me in a silver-headed cane.
"Careful of that stick, my man," says he.
"Oh, sure!" says I. "Puppah'd be wild if anything happened to it, wouldn't he?"
And you should have heard the talk they had as they loafs around the cloakroom between the numbers,—all about the awful things they did at prep school, how they bunked the masters, and smuggled brandied peaches up to their rooms, and rough-housed durin' mornin' prayers. Almost made your blood run cold—not.
When they got to discussin' the girls, though, and sayin' how such a one was a "jolly sort," and others was "bloomin' rotters," it made me seasick and it was a relief when they took to whisperin' things I couldn't hear about the chaperons. After intermission they come sneakin' in by twos and threes to hit up their cigarettes.
It was about eleven-thirty and there was four or five of 'em in the cloakroom, puffin' away languid like real clubmen, when in drifts a young lady all in pink silk and gold net and hails one of the wicked bunch.
"Bobby," says she, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
"Run on now, Vee," says he. "Told you when I asked you to come that I wasn't a dancing man, y'know."
"Fudge!" says she, stampin' her foot. "You think it's smart to take that pose, don't you? Well, you wait!"
And, say, you talk about your haughty beauts! Why, she was a little the silkiest young queen I ever had a real close view of,—the slimmest feet and ankles, reg'lar cameo-cut face all tinted up natural like a bunch of sweet peas, and a lot of straw-colored hair as fine as cobwebs. She was a thoroughbred stunner, this Miss Vee was, and mad all over.
"I haven't been on the floor for four numbers," she goes on. "You just wait!"
"You wouldn't be cad enough to peach on us for smokin', would you?" says Bobby.
"Wouldn't I, though!" says she.
That starts a stampede. All but Bobby chucks away their cigarettes and beats it back to the ballroom. He turns sulky, though.
"Tell ahead," says he. "Who cares? And let's see you get any more dances!"
He's a pasty-faced, weak-jawed youth with a chronic scowl and a sullen look in his eyes. I should say he was sixteen maybe, and the young lady a year older. She grips her fan hard and stands there starin' at him. I'm so much int'rested in the case that the first thing I know I've butted in with advice.
"Ah, be nice, Claude!" says I. "Dance with the young lady. I would if I was you."
And you can't guess how fussy a little remark like that gets Bobby boy. He almost swallows his cigarette from the jar he gets, being spoken to by a common cloakroom checker. First off he jumps up and stalks over to me real majestic and threatenin'.
"You—you——How dare you?" he splutters out.
"There, there!" says I. "Don't get bristle-spined over it. I wa'n't offerin' any deadly insult, and if it makes you feel as bad as all that I'll take it back."
"I—I'll have you dismissed!" he growls.
"Can't do it, Bobby," says I. "I'm no reg'lar tip-chaser. I'm here incog.—doing it for a lark, y'know. Back to your corner, now! There's a lady present."
He glares at me for a minute or so, and then turns on the queen in pink. "I hope you're satisfied, Vee," says he. "You would come in here, though! I can't help it if the attendants are insolent to you."
"Pooh!" says Miss Vee. "The young man was only taking my part."
"So?" sneers Bobbie. "I congratulate you on your new champion."
"He acts more like a gentleman than you do, at any rate!" she fires back at him.
"Does he?" says Bobby. "Then why don't you get him for a partner?"
"G'WAN!" SAYS I, "IT'S A FAIR SWAP.""G'WAN!" SAYS I, "IT'S A FAIR SWAP."
"If you don't ask me for this next waltz, I will," says she, tossin' up her chin.
"What a bluff!" says Bobby. "Well, Miss Vee, I'm not going to ask you. Now!"
Say, it was gettin' more or less personal by that time, and I was wonderin' just how the young lady was goin' to back out of the proposition that had been put up to her, when the first thing I know she's marchin' straight over to where I was.
"Will you give me this next waltz?" says she.
"Say," I gasps, "do you mean it?"
"Certainly I do," says she. "You can dance, can't you?"
"I don't know," says I; "but I can do an East Side spiel."
"Good!" says she. "I know how to do that too. Come on."
"In a minute," says I. "Just hold on until I borrow the young gentleman's evenin' coat."
"Wha—what's that?" snorts Bobby.
"You can be usin' mine for a smokin' jacket," says I. "Peel it off now, and let the fancy vest come along too!"
"I—I won't do it!" says Bobbie.
"Oh, yes, you will," says I, "or else you and me will be mixed up in a rumpus that'll bring the chaperons and special cops in hereon the run," and with that I proceeds to shed the braided coat and my black vest.
"You're insulting!" says Bobby, gettin' wild-eyed.
"G'wan!" says I. "It's a fair swap. I'll leave it to the young lady."
And when I'd sized her up for a thoroughbred I hadn't made any wild guess. There's a twinkle under them long eyelashes that's as good as a go-ahead signal.
"Of course," says she. "It was you who suggested him as a partner, anyway. And hurry, Bobby, there goes the waltz!"
"I—I——" he begins.
"Ah, shuck 'em!" says I, startin' for him hasty.
I expects it was the prospects of gettin' rung into a rough and tumble, and having to explain to mother, that changed Bobby's mind so sudden. At any rate, inside of a minute more I'm wearin' the pearl-gray waistcoat and the silk-faced tuxedo, and out I sails onto the shiny floor of the green and gold ballroom with somebody's pink-costumed heiress hangin' to my left arm.
"One-two-three; one-two-three——Now!" says she, countin' out the time so I shouldn't make any false start.
But, say, I didn't need that. Course, I'm no cotillion leader, and about all the dancin' I everdone was at chowder parties or in the Coney Island halls; but who couldn't keep step to a tune like "Yip-I-Addy" played by a twelve-piece goulash orchestra, specially with such a crackerjack partner as Miss Vee was?
Could we spiel together? Why, say, we just floats along over the waxed maple boards like a pair of summer butterflies, pivotin' first one way and then the other, dodgin' in and out among the couples, and givin' an exhibition that had any other performance on the floor lookin' like a cripples' parade.
First it got into my heels, and then it goes to my head. I didn't know whether I was waltzin', or havin' a joy ride with some biplane shuffer. I wa'n't sayin' a word in the way of language; but Miss Vee keeps up a string of chatter and giggles that's enough for both. You'd thought to see us, I expect, that we was carryin' on a real, rapid-fire, smart-set dialogue, when all the while it was only her tellin' me how the diff'rent parties was actin' when they first spotted her on the floor with a ringer, and how the chaperons were squintin' at us through their lorgnettes, tryin' to make out who I was. And the greatest shock I ever had was when the music stopped and I fell about a mile down through rosy clouds.
"Wait!" says Miss Vee, squeezin' my arm. "There'll be an encore. My aunt's over there,and she's just wild; but it doesn't matter."
"You're a good sport," says I, joinin' in the hand-clappin' to jog the orchestra into givin' us a repeat.
And just as they starts up the tune again I happens to glance up into the little visitors' balcony at the end of the ballroom. Who do you guess I sees watchin' us bug-eyed and open-mouthed? Why, Izzy Budheimer and Miss Tessie! See? They've broke away from the lady shirtwaisters durin' the supper hour so Izzy can give his new girl a glimpse of what a real swell dance is like. Maybe he planned on stoppin' in at the cloakroom too, and seein' if I was holdin' down the job proper.
Anyway, I can't blame him for doin' the open-face act when he discovers me out on the floor with the belle of the ball. But all I has time to do is send him up the chilly stare, and away we go again into another one-two-three dream—me and Miss Vee.
"I don't care what becomes of me," she hums over my shoulder.
"Me either," says I.
"Silly boy!" says she. "What's your name?"
"Just Torchy," says I, "after my hair."
"I think curly red hair is cute," says she.
"I could go hoarse sayin' things like that about you," says I.
Maybe it was lucky, too, that this second installment was short, or I might have gone clean mushy; for the way she could look at me out of them big gray eyes of hers was—well, it was the real thing in thrills. The wind-up came just as we gets around near the cloakroom door and we stops.
"It was awfully good of you," says she.
"Gee!" says I. "Why, I could wear out all my old shoes doin' that, and if ever you need——"
"S-s-sh!" says she. "Here comes my aunt!"
Not waitin' for any further diagram of the situation, I makes a dash into the cloakroom, where I finds Izzy Budheimer gazin' puzzled at Bobby, who's sittin' tilted back in his shirt sleeves with the braided coat slung on the floor.
"Look here, Torchy!" begins Izzy. "What the——"
"On the job, Izzy, if you want to save it!" says I, wigglin' out of Master Bobby's expensive clothes and chuckin' 'em at him.
"But why—what——" says Izzy, tryin' again.
"Don't stop to ask fool questions of a busy society man," says I; "but jump into your uniform, get in your coop there, and prepare to put the timelock on your conversation works. In about a minute there'll be a delegation ofold hens in here lookin' for a mysterious young gent with incendiary hair who has disappeared. Your cue is to look innocent and not know anything about it. See? If there's any explainin' to be done, let Bobby do it."
"Oh, I say!" groans Bobby, jumpin' up, and by the time I've struck the bottom stair on my way out he's grabbed his overcoat and is beatin' it down to find his carriage.
How Miss Vee squared it with Aunty is a puzzle I never expect to find out the answer to; but I'll risk her. She's a pink queen, she is, and after that one waltz with her I can look cold-eyed at a row of Tessie girls stretchin' from here to the Battery!
CHAPTER XIILANDING ON A SIDE STREET
It was a little matter between me and Mother Sykes that starts me off to hunt a new boardin' place. Lovely old girl, Mother Sykes is, one of the kind that calls everybody "Deary" and collects in advance every Saturday night. She's got one of them inquisitive landlady noses that looks like it was made for pryin' up trunk covers and pokin' into bureau drawers.
That don't bother me any, though. It's only when I misses my swell outfit, the one Benny had built for me to wear at his weddin', that I gets sore. Course, she'd only borrowed it for Pa Sykes to wear on a Sunday afternoon call, him bein' a little runt of a gent, with watery eyes and a red nose, that never does anything on his own hook. And if he hadn't denied it so brassy I shouldn't have called him down so hard, right in the front hall with half the roomers listenin'.
"Dreamed it, eh, did I?" says I. "Well, listen here, Sykesy! Next time I has an optical illusion of you paradin' out in any of myuniform, there'll be doin's before the Sergeant!"
Then Mother Sykes rushes up from the kitchen and saves the fam'ly honor by throwin' an indignation fit. I don't know how long it lasted; but she was gettin' purple clear up under her false front when I slid out the door and left her at it. Next day I noticed the sign hung up; but I didn't know which sky parlor was vacant until I strolls in at five-fifteen Friday night and finds my things out in the hall and a new lodger in my room.
"Oh, well," says I, "what's a sudden move now and then to a free lance like me?"
And as there ain't anybody in sight to register my fond farewells with, I gathers up my suitcase and laundry bag, chucks the latchkey on the stand in the front hall, and beats it. Not until I'm three blocks away does I remember that all the cash I've got in my clothes is three quarters and a dime, which comes of my listenin' to Mallory's advice about soakin' my roll away in a bloomin' savings bank.
"Looks like I'd spend the night in a Mills hotel," says I, "unless I find Mallory and make a touch."
It was chasin' him up that fetches me over on the West Side and through one of them nice, respectable, private-house blocks just below 14th-st. You know the kind, that beginat Fifth-ave. with a double-breasted old brownstone, and end at Sixth with a delicatessen shop.
Well, I was moseyin' along quiet and peaceful, wonderin' how long since anything ever really happened in that partic'lar section, when all of a sudden I feels about a cupful of cold water strike me in the back of the neck.
"Wow!" says I. "Who's playin' me for a goat now?"
With that I turns and inspects the windows of the house I'd just passed, knowin' it must be some kid gettin' gay with the passersby. There's no signs of any cut-up concealed behind the lace curtains, though, and none of the sashes was raised. If it hadn't been for the way things had been comin' criss-cross at me, I suppose I'd wiped off my collar and gone along, lettin' it pass as a joke; but I wa'n't feelin' very mirthful just then. I'm ready to follow up anything in the trouble line; so I steps into the area, drops my baggage, shins up over the side of the front steps, and flattens myself against the off side of the vestibule door. Then I waits.
It ain't more'n a minute before I hears the door openin' cautious, and all I has to do is shove my foot out and throw my weight against the knob. Somebody lets out a howl of surprise, and in another minute I'm inside, facin'a twelve-year-old kid armed with a green tin squirt gun. He's one of these aristocratic-lookin' youngsters, with silky light hair, big dark eyes, and a sulky mouth. Also he's had somethin' of a scare thrown into him by being caught so unexpected; but some of his nerve is still left.
"You—you get out of here!" he snarls.
"Not until you've had a dose of what you handed me, sonny," says I. "Give it up now, Reggie boy!"
"I won't!" says he. "I—I'll have you thrown out!"
"You will, eh?" says I, makin' a rush for him.
"O-o-o-oh, Aunty, Aunty!" he squeals, dashin' down the hall.
Now, say, the way I was feelin' then, I'd have gone up against a whole fam'ly, big brothers included; so a little thing like a call for Aunty don't stop me at all. As he turns into the room on the left I'm only a jump behind, and all that fetches me up is when he does a dive behind an old lady in a big leather chair. She's a wide, heavy old party, with a dinky white cap on her white hair, and kind of a resigned, patient look on her face. Someway, she acts like she was more or less used to surprises like this; for she don't seem much excited.
"Why, Hadley!" she remarks. "Whatever is the matter now?"
"He—he chased me into the house!" whines Master Hadley from behind the chair.
"Did you?" says the old girl.
"Sure," says I. "He's too blamed fresh!"
"There, there!" says she. "You mustn't speak that way of Hadley. He is only a little boy, you know."
"Yes'm," says I.
"And he was only indulging in innocent play," she goes on. "Come, Hadley, untie me now. Please, Hadley!"
Say, I hadn't noticed it before, but the old girl is roped solid, feet and arms, to the chair legs, and it's clear that when nobody was goin' by for little Hadley to shoot at he'd been usin' Aunty for a target. The damp spots on the wall behind the chair and one or two on her dress showed that.
"I won't, unless you'll call Maggie and have her throw him out!" growls Hadley.
"Oh, come, Hadley, be a good boy!" coaxes Aunty.
"Sha'n't!" says Hadley. "And next time I'll shoot ink at you."
"Now, Hadley!" protests Aunty.
"Excuse me, lady," says I, "but it looks to me like there was something comin' to Hadley that I ought to tend to. This ain't on myaccount, either, but yours. Now watch. Hi, freshy!" and I makes another dash for him.
Well, he knows the lay of the land better'n I do, and he's quick on the dodge, so we has a lively time of it for a couple of minutes, him throwin' chairs in my way and hurdlin' sofas, Aunty beggin' us to quit and callin' for Maggie, and me keepin' right on the job. But at last I got him cornered. He makes a desp'rate duck and tries to butt me; but I catches his head under my arm and down he goes on the rug. I'd just yanked the squirt gun out of his hand and was emptyin' it down the back of his neck, with him hollerin' blue murder, and Aunty strugglin' to get loose, when the front door opens and in walks a couple of ladies, one old and the other young.
And, say, you talk about your excitin' tableaux! In about two shakes there's all kinds of excitement; for it seems one of the new arrivals is Hadley's mommer, and she proceeds to join the riot.
"Oh, my darling boy! My darling!" she sings out. "What is happening! He is being killed! Oh, he is being killed!"
"G'wan!" says I, gettin' up and exhibitin' the squirt gun. "I was only handin' him some of the same sport he's been dealin' out to others. It'll do him good."
"You—you young scoundrel!" says mommer.Then, turnin' to the old lady who came in with her, she gasps out, "Zenobia, telephone for the police!"
It's the real thing, too, and no flossy bluff about the lady's grouch. She's a swell, haughty-lookin' party, and she acts like she was used to havin' her own way about things. So the prospects begin to look squally. Not that I'm one to curl up and shiver at sight of a cop. Give me plenty of room to do the hotfoot act, and I don't mind guyin' any of them pavement-pounders; but with me shut up in a house where I hadn't been invited in, and a bunch of excited females as witnesses against me, it's a diff'rent proposition. This was no time to weaken, though.
"Go ahead," says I. "Double six-O-four-two Gramercy; that's the green light number for this district. And Uncle Patrick'll be glad to see you. Tell him you got charges to make on his nephew. That'll tickle him to death. Maybe I'll have something to say when we all get there, too."
"What do you mean?" says Hadley's mother.
"Counter complaint, that's all," says I. "Your little darling soaked me first."
"It—it isn't true!" says she. "I don't believe it!"
And here Zenobia comes in with the soothin'advice. She's another whitehaired old lady, lookin' something like the one in the chair, only not so bulky and with more ginger about her. "Now, Sally," says she, "let's not talk of calling in the police over a trifle. Hadley doesn't appear to be hurt, and possibly he was somewhat at fault."
"The idea!" says Sally. "Why, I saw this young ruffian pommeling him. And look! Martha is bound in her chair. He's a burglar!"
Oh, they had a great debate amongst 'em, Aunt Martha fin'lly admittin' it was just a little prank of Hadley's, her being roped down; but she was sure I had tried to murder him, just for nothing at all. Hadley says so too. In fact, he tells seven diff'rent yarns in as many minutes, each one makin' me out worse than the last.
"There!" says his mother. "Now, Zenobia, will you send for an officer?"
Nope, Zenobia wouldn't; anyway, not until she had more facts to go on. She don't deny that maybe I'm kind of a suspicious-lookin' character, and says it ain't been explained what I was doin' in there holdin' little Hadley on the rug; but she don't want to ring up the cops unless it's a clear case.
"You know, my dear," she winds up with, "Hadley is quite apt to get into trouble."
"Zenobia Preble!" snorts Sally, her eyes blazin'. "And he your own flesh and blood! Come, precious, mother will take you home, and you shall never, never come to this house again!"
"There, Sally," begins Zenobia, "don't fly into a——"
"When my husband's mother chooses to insult me in her own home," says Sally, "I hope I have spirit enough to resent it!"
Say, she had that and some left over. Inside of two minutes she's hustled little Hadley into his things, and out they sails to her carriage, leavin' the makin's of a first-class fam'ly row all prepared.
In the meantime Zenobia is tyin' Aunt Martha loose, and I'm standin' around waitin' to see what's goin' to happen to me next. Course, I expects the third degree; but she begins with Martha.
"Now what mischief was Hadley up to this time?" she asks.
And Martha sticks to it that it was nothing at all. He merely found that old plant-sprayer and discovered that by unscrewing the nozzle it made a fine squirt gun. To be sure, she had asked him not to use the water from the goldfish globe; but he just would. Also he'd insisted on locking all the servants downstairs,and when she tried to amuse him in other ways he'd tied her to the chair.
But it was just Hadley's innocent fun. He hadn't harmed anyone, even if he did squirt a little water on the postman and a delivery boy. She had not minded it herself, and no one had been rude to him until I'd come chasing in and handled him so rough. That was an outrage, and Martha thought I ought to get a life sentence for it.
"Humph!" says Zenobia, turnin' to me. "Now, young man, what have you got to say?"
"Ah, what's the use?" says I. "You've got the whole story now. I'd do the same again."
"Relying on the fact that your uncle is a police captain?" says she.
"Nah," says I. "That was hot air."
"There, Zenobia!" says Martha. "I told you he was a bad boy."
"Are you?" says Zenobia.
"Well," says I, "that all depends on how you size me up. I ain't in the crook class, nor I don't wear any Sunday-school medals, either."
"Who are you?" says she.
"Why, just Torchy," says I. "See—torch, Torchy," and I points to my sunset coiffure.
"But who are your parents?" she goes on.
"Don't own any," says I. "I'm a double orphan and rustlin' for myself."
"Where do you live?" says she.
"Why," says I, "I don't live anywhere just now. I'm movin'; but I don't know where to."
"I suppose that is either impudence or epigram," says she; "but never mind. Perhaps you will tell me where you work?"
"I don't work at all," says I. "I'm head office boy for the Corrugated Trust, and it's a cinch job."
"Indeed!" says she. "The Corrugated Trust? Let me see, who is at the head of that concern?"
"Say," says I, "you don't mean you never heard of Old Hickory Ellins or Mr. Robert, do you?"
She kind of smiles at that; but dodges makin' any answer.
"Well," says I, "do I get pinched, or just given the run? Either way, I've got some baggage down by the area door that ought to be looked after."
"Why, certainly, I will have it——" then she stops and looks me over sort of shrewd. "Suppose," she starts in again, "you go and get it yourself?"
"Sure!" says I, and it ain't until I'm outside that I sees this is just her way of tryin'me out; for I has a fine chance to beat it. "Nix!" thinks I. "I might as well see this thing through and get a decision." So back I goes with the suitcase and laundry bag. She hadn't even followed me to the door.
"Ah!" says she, lookin' up. "You weren't afraid to come back, then. Why?"
"Oh, I guess it was because I banked on your givin' me a square deal," says I.
That gets a grin out of her. "Thank you very much for the compliment," says she. "I may say that the inquisition is over. However, I should like to have you remain a little longer, if you care to. Won't you leave your things in the hall there? Your hat and overcoat too."
"Zenobia," says Martha, wakin' up, "surely you are not going to——"
"Precisely," says Zenobia. "I am going to ask him to stay for dinner with us. Will you?"
"Yep!" says I. "I never let any free eats get by me."
"But," gasps Martha, "you don't know who he is?"
"Neither does he know us," says Zenobia. "Torchy, I am Mrs. Zenobia Preble. This is my sister, Miss Martha Hadley. She is very good, I am very wicked, and we are both women of mature years. You will probably find our society rather dull; but the dinner islikely to be fairly good. Besides, I am feeling somewhat indebted to you."
"It's a go," says I, "if I can have a chance to wash up first."
"Of course," says she. Then she gives me a key and directions how to find a certain door on the third floor. "My son's quarters," she goes on, "that I have kept just as he left them twenty years ago. I shall expect you to make yourself quite at home there."
Do I? Why, say, it's a bach joint such as you might dream about: two rooms and bath across the front of the house, guns and swords and such knickknacks on the walls, a desk, a lot of books, and even a bathrobe and slippers laid out. Say, while I was scrubbin' off some of the inkstains and smoothin' down my hair with the silver-backed brushes I felt like a young blood gettin' ready for a party.
Then after awhile I strolls down to the lib'ry and makes myself to home some more. It's a comf'table place, with lots of big easy-chairs, nice pictures on the wall, and no end of bookshelves. The old ladies has cleared out, not even lockin' up any of the curios or sendin' a maid to watch me.
And when it comes to the feed—why, say, it's a reg'lar course dinner, such as you'd put up a dollar for at any of these high-class table dotty ranches. Funny old china they had too,and a big silver coffeepot right on the table. The only bad break I makes is just at the start, when I dives into the soup without noticin' that Aunt Martha has her head down and is mumblin' something about bein' thankful.
"Never mind," says Mrs. Preble. "We aren't included in this, anyway."
That begins the talk. I ain't put through the wringer, you understand, but just follows Zenobia while she goes from one thing to another, givin' her opinions of 'em and now and then callin' for mine. We got real chatty too, and once in awhile she stops to laugh real hearty, though I couldn't see where I'd got off any crack at all.
Near as I can make out, Zenobia is a lively old girl for her age. She's seen all the best Broadway shows, knows what's goin' on in town, and reads the papers reg'lar. Also it comes out that she don't follow the kind of programme you generally look for antiques to stick to. She ain't got any use for churches, charity institutions, society, or the suffragettes. All of which seems to shock Sister Martha, who don't say much, but only shudders now and then.
"You see, Torchy," says Zenobia, droppin' two lumps into her demitasse, "I am an unbeliever. I don't even believe in growing old. When I hear of other persons who have cometo disbelieve in established things, no matter what, I send for them and find out all about it across the dinner table. We discuss art, religion, politics, goodness knows what. We denounce things, from the existing social order, to the tariff on stockings. My sister, who believes in everything as it is, usually takes a nap and snores."
"Zenobia!" says Martha.
"Oh, not in a disturbing way," says Zenobia. "And I'm sure I almost do the same whenever your friend the rector is here. Torchy, have you ever been talked to about your soul?"
"Once when I drifted into a mission a guy sprung that on me," says I.
"Yes?" says Zenobia. "What then?"
"I told him to go chase himself," says I.
Hearty chuckles from Zenobia, while Sister Martha turns pale and gasps.
Next thing I know I'm tellin' Mrs. Preble about my fallin' out with Mother Sykes, and how I guess I'd better be pikin' up to engage a thirty-cent room until I can draw on my reserve and locate a new boardin' place.
And, say, what do you guess that conversation leads up to? Well, it struck me all in a heap at the time, though I didn't let on; but I couldn't figure out the answer until I'd had a talk with Mr. Robert next day.
"Say, Mr. Robert," says I. "You don't happen to know an old party by the name of Zenobia Preble, do you?"
"I do," says he. "It isn't exactly an accident, either. She is a cousin of my father."
"Gee!" says I. "Cousin to the old—to the boss! Wh-e-ew!"
"Rather an original old lady, Zenobia," says Mr. Robert. "And I understand, from a talk I had with her over the 'phone early last evening, that she was arbitrating the case of a young man who was in some danger of arrest in her home. How did it come out, Torchy?"
"Ah, say, you're on, ain't you?" says I. "Well, it was a verdict for the defense, because I promised to do it again if I ever got the chance."
Mr. Robert grins. "That grandson of hers is certainly a holy terror," says he. "You and Zenobia parted friends, then?"
"Not yet," says I. "We ain't parted at all. I'm stayin' as a trial boarder."
"What!" says he, sittin' up. "Oh, I see. An experiment in practical sociology, eh?"
"Maybe that's it," says I. "Anyway, it depends on whether or not I can stand Aunt Martha."
And when I leaves Mr. Robert he still has his mouth open.