CHAPTER XVBATTING IT UP TO TORCHY
Nobody had to point him out to me. I hadn't been holdin' down the chair behind the brass gate more'n two days before I knew who was the living joke on the Corrugated Trust Company's force. It's Uncle Dudley, of course.
And, say, my coppin' that out don't go to prove I'm a Mr. Cute. Any mush-head could have picked him after one glimpse of the old vintage Prince Albert, the back number silk lid, and the white Chaunceys he wears on each side of his face. That get-up would be good for a quiet smile even over in Canarsie; but when you come to plant it in the midst of such a sporty aggregation as the Corrugated carries on the payroll—why, you've got the comic chuckles comin' over fast.
"Say, Piddie," says I the second morning, after watchin' it blow in, "who's the seed, eh?"
"That?" says Piddie. "Oh, that's old Dudley."
"Does he wear the uniform reg'lar," says I, "or is he celebratin' some anniversary?"
And Piddie almost allows himself to grin as he explains how that's the same costume Dudley has come down to work in every day for the last fifteen years.
"Well, it's a flossy outfit, all right," says I. "What is he, one of the directors?"
No, he wa'n't. He's some sort of subassistant auditor with a salary of eighteen per. You know the kind—one of these deadwood specimens that stand a show of gettin' the prunin' hook every time there's a shake-up. Most every office has a few of 'em, hangin on like last year's oak leaves in the park; but it ain't often they can qualify as comic supplements.
Not that Uncle Dudley tries to be humorous. He's the quietest, meekest old relic you ever saw, slidin' in soft and easy with his hat off, and walkin' almost as though he had his shoes in his hand. But the faded umbrella under one arm and the big buttonhole bouquet he always wears puts him in the joke book class without takin' the face lambrequins into account at all.
Can I let all that get by me without passin' out some josh? You can see me, can't you? Never mind all the bright and cunnin' remarks I sprung on Uncle Dudley now; but for awhile there I made a point of puttin' over something fresh every day. Why, it was a cinch!
All the comeback I ever got out of him,though, was that batty old smile of his, kind of sad and gentle, as if I was remindin' him of times gone by. And there ain't a lot of satisfaction in that, you know. Now, I can chuck the giddy persiflage at Piddie day in and day out, and enjoy doin' it, because it always gets him so wild. Also there's more or less thrill to slippin' the gay retort across to Old Hickory Ellins now and then, because there's a giddy chance of gettin' fired for it. But to rub it into a non-resister like Uncle Dudley—well, what's the use?
So after awhile I cut it out altogether, leavin' him for such amateur cut-ups as Izzy Budheimer and Flannel Haggerty to practice on. Then little by little me and old Dudley got more or less chummy, what with me steerin' him around to my fav'rite dairy lunch joint and all that. And, say, we must have been a great pair, sittin' side by side in the armchairs, puttin' away sweitzer sandwiches and mugs of chickory blend; him in his tall lid, and with his quiet, old timy manners, and me—well, I guess you get the tableau.
I used to like hearin' him talk, he uses such a soothin', genteel brand of conversation; nothing fancy, you know, but plain, straightaway goods. Mostly he tells me about his son, who's livin' out in California somewhere and is just branchin' out in the cement block buildin' business.Son is messin' in politics more or less too; mixin' it up with the machine, and gettin' the short end of the returns every trip. But it's on account of this reform stunt of his that the old gent seems to be so proud of him, not appearin' to care whether he ever got elected to anything or not.
He don't say so much about the married daughter that he lives with over in Jersey; but I don't think much about that until after I've let him tow me over to dinner once and met Son in Law Bennett. He's a flashy proposition, this young Mr. Bennett is, havin' an interest in a curb brokerage firm that rents window space on Broad-st. and has desk room down on William. Let him tell it, though, and, providin' some of his deals go through, he's goin' to have Morgan squealin' for help before the year is out.
And I find that at home Uncle Dudley is rated somewhere between the fam'ly cat and the front doormat. Mr. Bennett don't exactly gag the old man and lock him in the cellar. He ignores him when he can, and when he has to notice him he makes it plain that he's standin' the disgrace as well as he can.
"So you came over with the old sport, did you?" says Bennett to me. "Batty old duffer, eh? That comes of being a dead one for so long. Manages to hang on with the Corrugated,though, don't he? He'd better, too! I'm not running any old folks' home here."
But it wa'n't to show off how he stood with his son in law that Uncle Dudley had lugged me along. He'd got so used to bein' dealt out for a twospot that he didn't seem to mind. He didn't claim to be anything more even at the office.
It's his flower garden, out back of the house, that Uncle Dudley had got me 'way out there to see; and, while I ain't any expert on that line of displays, I should say this posy patch of his had some class to it. Anyway, seein' it, and findin' out how he rolls off the mattress at sunrise every mornin' to tend it, lets me in for a new view of him. It's this little garden patch and the son out West that makes life worth livin' for him, in spite of Son in Law Bennett.
"Say, Dudley," says I, "why don't you work a combination of the two; go out where you can raise roses all winter, if the dope these railroad ads. sling out is straight, and be with your son too?"
"I—I can't do that, just yet," says he, sort of hesitatin'. "You see, he hasn't seen me for twelve years, and since then I have—er—well, I've been slipping backward. He doesn't know what a failure I've made of life, and if I gave up here and went on to him—why——"
"I'm on," says I. "He'd spot you for oneof the down-and-outers. But you do get it rubbed in here good and plenty, don't you?"
"From Bennett?" says he. "Oh, he is right, I suppose. He knows how useless I am. But we cannot all succeed, can we? Some of us must stay at the bottom and prop the ladder."
One thing about Uncle Dudley, he had no whine comin'. He takes it all meek and cheerful, and so far as I could make out he's most as useful around the office as a lot of others that gets chesty whenever they think what would happen to the concern if they should be sick for a week. Anyway, there's frequent calls for old Dudley to straighten out this or that; but somehow he never seems to get credit for bein' much more than a sort of a walkin' copybook that remembers what other people don't want to lumber up their valuable brains with. Maybe it's the white mud guards, or his habit of lettin' anyone boss him around, that keeps him down.
And I expect things would have gone on that way, until he either dropped out or got the blue envelope some payday, if it hadn't been for this lid liftin' business up at Albany. Course, you've read how they uncovered first one lot of grafters and then another, and fin'lly, with that last swipe of the muck rake, got the Corrugated rung into the mess? And, say, anyone would think, from some of the papers, that wewas all a bunch of crooks down here, spendin' our time feedin' wads of hundred-dollar bills to the yellow dog. Maybe it don't stir up Mr. Robert some thorough, though!
"Why," I heard him say to the old man, "it's a beastly outrage, that's what it is! All the fellows at the club are chaffing me about it, you know. And besides it's disturbing business frightfully. Look at the tumble our shares took yesterday! I say, Governor, we must send out a denial."
"Huh!" growls Old Hickory. "Who cares a blinkety blanked blank what they say we did? Let 'em prove it!"
Then the next day them checks was sprung on the investigatin' committee, and it looked as though they'd made out their case against the Corrugated. Perhaps there wa'n't doin's on the seventeenth floor that mornin'! Clear out where I sat I could hear the boss callin' for first one man and then another, and Piddie is turkeyin' in and out so excited he don't know whether he's on duty or runnin' bases. Once, when he stops to lean against the spring-water bottle and wipe his dewy brow, I slips up behind and taps him quick on the shoulder.
"Ye-e-e-es, sir!" says he, before he sees who it is.
"Never mind, Piddie," says I. "I was goin' to ask you 'Guilty or not guilty?' Butwhat's the use? Anyone can see it was you that did it."
"You—you impudent young sauce box!" he begins. "How dare you——"
"Ah, save that for the subpœna server," says I. "He'll be in here after you in a minute. And, say, my guess is that you'll get about ten years on the rockpile."
When the special directors' meetin' gets under way, though, and the big guns of the Corrugated law force got on the job, there was less noise and more electricity in the air. Honest, with all that tiptoein' and whisperin' and serious looks bein' passed around, I didn't even have the gall to guy one of the new typewriter girls. Kind of gets on your nerves, a thing of that kind does, and if a squad of reserves had marched in and pinched the whole outfit, I shouldn't have been so much surprised.
Right in the midst of it too there comes my three rings on the buzzer, and in I sneaks where they're holdin' the inquest. Say, they're all sittin' around the big mahogany directors' table, with the old man at the head, lookin' black and ugly, and grippin' a half smoked cigar butt between his teeth. I could see at a glance they hadn't thrown any scare into him yet. He was just beginning to fight, that's all.
"Boy," says he, "bring in Dudley."
"Yes, sir," says I.
But, say, my heels dragged some as I went out. Course I didn't know what they wanted of the old boy; but it didn't look to be such a wild guess that they'd picked him to play the goat part. I finds him perched up on his stool, calm and serene, workin' away on the ledgers as industrious as if nothin' special was goin' on.
"Dudley," says I, "are you feelin' strong?"
"Why, Torchy," says he, "I am feeling about as usual, thank you."
"Well, brace yourself then," says I; "for there's rough goin' ahead. You're wanted in on the carpet."
"Me?" says he. "Mr. Ellins wants me?"
"Uh-huh," says I, "him and the rest of 'em. But don't let 'em put any spell on you. It's your cue now to forget the meek and lowly business. I know you ain't strong for bluffin' through a game; but for the love of soup put up a front to-day!"
Dudley, he only smiles and shakes his head. Then off he toddles, wearin' his old ink-stained office coat and even keepin' on the green eye-shade.
Well, I don't know how long they had him on the grill; but it couldn't have been more'n half an hour, for along about three o'clock I strolls into the audit department, and there's old Dudley back on his perch writin' away again.
"Say, are you it?" says I.
WE MUST HAVE BEEN A GREAT PAIR.WE MUST HAVE BEEN A GREAT PAIR.
"Why, how is that?" says he.
"Did they tie anything to you?" says I. "You know—con you into takin' the blame, or anything like that?"
"Blame for what?" says he. "I don't believe I understand. But nothing of the sort was mentioned. I was merely given some instructions about my work."
"Oh!" says I. "That's all, eh? And you've gone right at it, have you?"
"No," says he. "The fact is, Torchy, I am writing out my resignation."
"What! Quittin'?" says I. "Say, don't you see what a hole that puts you in? Why, it makes you the goat for fair! If you do that you'll need bail inside of forty-eight hours—and you won't get it. Look here, Dudley, take my advice and tear that up."
"But I can't, Torchy," says he, "really, I can't."
"Why not?" says I. "You've got a couple of hands, ain't you? And what'll you do for another job if you chuck this one? Say, why in blazes are you so anxious to take your chances between Sing Sing and the bread line?"
He's there with the explanation, all right, and here's the way it stands: Uncle Dudley has been called on because his partic'lar double-entry trick is to keep the run of the private accounts. All they want him to do is to takedescriptions of a couple of checks, dig up the stubs, and juggle his books so the record will fit in with a nice new set of transactions that's just been invented for the purpose.
"But what checks?" says I. "The five thousand plunkers to Mutt & Mudd?"
"Why, yes," says he. "How did you know?"
"Ah, how did I——Say, Dudley, ain't you been readin' the papers lately?" says I.
Would you believe it? He don't know any more about what's in the air than a museum mummy knows of Lobster Square. This little private cyclone that's been turnin' the office upside down ain't so much as ruffled his whiskers. Checks are checks to him, and these special trouble makers don't give him any chills up the back at all. He's been told, though, to use the acid bottle on his books and write in a new version.
"Well, why not do it?" says I. "What's that to you?"
"Why, don't you see," says he, "it would be making a false entry, and—I—I——Well, I've never done such a thing in my life, Torchy, and I can't begin now."
And, say, what do you know about that, eh? Just a piece of phony bookkeepin' that he don't even have to put his name to, his job gone if he don't follow orders, and him almost tothe age limit anyway, with Son in Law Bennett ready to shove him on the street the minute he gets the sack!
"Do you mean it?" says I.
He puts his signature to the resignation and hands it over for me to read.
"Say, Dudley," says I, lookin' him up and down, "this listens to me like a bughouse play of yours; but I got to admit that you do it sporty. There's no ocher streak in you."
"I hoped you would understand," says he. "In the circumstances, it was all I could do, you see."
"What I see plainer'n anything else," says I, "is that if this goes through your career is bugged to the limit. When do you want this handed in?"
"As soon as possible," says he. "I suppose I ought to resign at once."
"Resign!" says I. "You'll be lucky if the old man don't have you chucked through the window. Better be waitin' down in the lower corridor when I spring this on Mr. Ellins."
Nothin' of that kind for Uncle Dudley, though. He starts straightenin' up his desk as I goes out, as calm as though he was house cleanin' for a vacation.
And while I'm tryin' to make up my mind how to deliver this document to the main stem and duck an ambulance ride afterwards, thedirectors' meetin' breaks up. So I finds Old Hickory alone in his private office and slips it casual on the pad in front of him.
"Here, what's this?" he snorts, callin' me back as he opens up the sheet. "Eh? Dudley! Resigns, does he! What, that dried up, goat faced, custard brained, old——Say, boy; ask him what the grizzly grindstones he means by——"
"I did," says I, "and, if you want to know, he's quittin' because he's too straight to cook up the books the way you told him."
"Cook up the books!" gasps Old Hickory, gettin' raspb'ry tinted in the face and displayin' neck veins like a truck horse. "He's been welshing, has he? Perhaps he'd like to turn State's witness? Well, by the great sizzling skyrockets, if that's his trick, I'll give him enough of——"
"Excuse me, Mr. Ellins," I breaks in, "but you're slippin' your clutch. Tricks! Why, he ain't even wise to what you want him to do it for. All he knows is that it's crooked, and he renigs on a general proposition. And, say, when a man's as straight as that, with the workhouse starin' him in the face, he's too valuable to lose, ain't he?"
"Wha-a-at?" gurgles Old Hickory.
"Besides," says I, hurryin' the words to get 'em all out before any violent scene breaksloose, "knowin' all he does about them Mutt & Mudd checks, and with what he don't know about the case, it wouldn't be hardly safe to have him roamin' the streets, would it? Now I leave it to you."
Say, I was lookin' Old Hickory right in the eye, ready to dodge the inkstand or anything else, while I was puttin' that over, and for a minute I thought it was comin' sure. But while he can get as hot under the collar as anyone I ever saw, and twice as quick, he don't go clear off his nut any of the time.
"Young man," says he, calmin' down and motionin' me to a chair, "as usual, you seem to be more or less well informed on this matter yourself. Now let's have the rest of it."
And just like that, all of a sudden, it's batted up to me. So I lets it come, with all the details about Uncle Dudley's frosty home life, and the reformer son out West that still thinks father is makin' good. He sits there and listens to every word too. Not that he comes in with the sympathetic sigh, or shows signs of being troubled by mist in the eye corners. He just throws in an occasional grunt now and then and drums his fat finger-tips on the chair arm.
"Huh!" says he. "Babes and sucklings! But I've had worse advice that has cost me a lot more. Well, I suppose an old fool like that is dangerous to have drifting around. ButI don't want him here just now, either. Um-m-m! Where did you say this son of his lived?"
"Just out of Los Angeles," says I.
"All right," says Old Hickory. "Tell him he goes west Tuesday as traveling auditor to our second vice president. He'll bring up at Los Angeles about the middle of the month—and about that time it may happen that he'll be retired on full pay. But I'll keep this resignation, as a curiosity."
Now don't ask me to describe how old Dudley takes it; for when he gets the full partic'lars of the decision it near keels him over. And what part of it do you say tickles him most? That the books don't have to be juggled!
"It wasn't like Mr. Ellins to countenance an act of that sort, not in the least," says he, "and I am very glad that he has changed his mind."
"Say, Dudley," says I, "you're a wonder, you are."
And it was all I could do to keep from askin' him if he thought he owned the only bottle of ink eradicator there was in New York.
Do I know who did fix up them entries? Well, by the nervous motions of a certain party next mornin', I could give a guess.
"Piddie," says I, "if they ever get you on the stand, you want to wear interferin' pads between your knees, so they won't hear the bones rattle."
CHAPTER XVITHROWING THE LINE TO SKID
Say, this is twice I've been let in wrong on Skid Mallory. Remember him, don't you? Well, he's our young college hick that I helped steer up against Baron Kazedky when he landed that big armor plate order. Did they make Skid a junior partner for that, or paint his name on a private office door? Not so you'd notice it. Maybe they was afraid a sudden boost like that would make him dizzy. But they promotes him to the sales department and adds ten to his pay envelope. I was most as tickled over it as Mallory was, too.
"Didn't I tell you?" says I. "You're a comer, you are! Why, I expect in ten or a dozen years more you'll be sharin' in the semi-annuals and ridin' down to the office in a taxi."
"Perhaps I may, Torchy—in ten or a dozen years," says he, kind of slow and sober.
I could guess what he was thinking of then. It was the girl, that sweet young thing that Brother Dick towed in here along last winter,some Senator's daughter that Skid had got chummy with when he was doin' his great quarterback act and havin' his picture printed in the sportin' extras.
"How's that affair comin' on?" says I; for I ain't heard him mention her in quite some time.
"It's all off," says he, shruggin' them wide shoulders of his. "That is, there never was anything in it, you know, to begin with."
"Oh, there wa'n't, eh?" says I. "Forgot all about that picture you used to carry around in the little leather case, have you?"
Skid, he flushes up a bit at that, and one hand goes up to his left inside pocket. Then he laughs foolish. "It isn't I who have forgotten," says he.
"Oh-ho!" says I. "Well, I wouldn't have thought her the kind to shift sudden, when she seemed so——"
But Mallory gives me the choke off sign, and as we walks up Broadway he gradually opens up more and more on the subject until I've got a fair map of the situation. Seems that Sis ain't exactly set him adrift without warnin'. He'd sort of helped cut the cable himself. She'd begun by writin' to him every week, tellin' him all about the lively season she was havin' in Washington, and how much fun she was gettin' out of life. She even put in descriptions of hernew dresses, and some of her dance orders, and now and then a bridge score, or a hand painted place card from some dinner she'd been to.
And Skid, thinkin' it all over in the luxury of his nine by ten boudoir, got to wonderin' what attractions along that line he could hold out to a young lady that was used to blowin' in more for one new spring lid than he could earn in a couple of weeks.
"And orchids are her favorite flowers!" says he. "Ever buy any orchids, Torchy?"
"Not guilty," says I; "but they ain't so high, are they, that you couldn't splurge on a bunch now and then? What's the tariff on 'em, anyway?"
"At times you can get real nice ones for a dollar apiece," says he.
"Phe-e-e-ew!" says I. "She has got swell tastes."
"It isn't her fault," says he. "She's never known anything different."
So what does Skid do but slow up on the correspondence, skippin' an answer here and there, and coverin' only two pages when he did write. For one thing, he didn't have so much to tell as she did. I knew that; for I'd seen more or less of Mallory durin' the last few months, and I knew he was playin' his cards close to his vest.
Not that he was givin' any real lifelike miser imitation; but he didn't indulge in high priced café luncheons on Saturdays, like most of the bunch; he'd scratched his entry at the college club; and he was soakin' away his little surplus as fast as he got his fingers on it.
Course, that programme meant sendin' regrets to most of the invites he got, and spendin' his evenin's where it didn't cost much to get in or out. One frivolous way he had of killin' time was by teachin' 'rithmetic to a class of new landed Zinskis at a settlement house over on the East Side.
"Ah, what's the use?" I used to tell him. "They'd learn to do compound interest on their fingers in a month, anyway, and the first thing you know you'll be payin' rent to some of 'em."
But he was pretty level headed about most things, I will say that for Mallory, specially the way he sized up this girl business. Seems at last she got the idea he was grouchy at her about something; and when he didn't deny, or come to the front with any reason—why, she just quit sendin' the billy ducks.
"So you're never going to see her any more, eh?" says I.
"Well," says he, "I supposed until within an hour or so ago that I never should. And then——Well, she's here, Torchy; came yesterday,and I presume she expects to see me to-night."
"That's encouragin', anyway," says I.
But Mallory don't seem so much cheered up. It turns out that Sis is spendin' a few days with friends here, waitin' for the rest of the fam'ly to come on and sail for Europe. They're givin' a farewell dinner dance for her, and Skid is on the list.
The trouble is he can't make up his mind whether to go or stay away. One minute he's dead sure he won't, and the next minute he admits he don't see what harm there would be in takin' one last look.
"But, then," says Mallory, "what good would that do?"
"I know," says I. "There's a young lady friend of mine on the other side too. Say, Mallory, I guess we belong in the lobster class."
And when we splits up on the corner Skid has decided against the party proposition, and goes off towards his boardin' house with his chin down on his collar and his heels draggin'.
So I wa'n't prepared for the joyous smile and the frock coat regalia that Mallory wears when he blows into the office about ten-forty-five next forenoon. He's sportin' a spray of lilies of the valley in his lapel, and swingin' his silver topped stick, and by the look on hisface you'd think he was hearin' the birdies sing in the treetops.
"Tra-la-la, tra-la-lee!" says I, throwin' open the brass gate for him. "Is it a special holiday, or what?"
"It's a very special one," says he, thumpin' me on the back and whisperin' husky in my ear. "Torchy, I'm married!"
"Wha-a-at!" I splutters. "Who to? When?"
"To Sis," says he, "half an hour ago."
"Eh?" says I. "Mean to say you've been and eloped with the Senator's daughter?"
"Eloped!" says he, as though he'd never heard the word before. "Why, no—er—that is, we just went out and—and——"
Oh, no, they hadn't eloped! They'd merely slid out of the ballroom about three A.M., after dancin' seventeen waltzes together, snuggled into a hansom cab, and rode around the park until daylight talkin' it over. Then she'd slipped back into the house, got into her travelin' dress while he was off changin' his clothes, met again at eight o'clock, chased down to City Hall after a license, and then dragged a young rector away from his boiled eggs and toast to splice 'em.
But Skid didn't call that elopin'. Why, Sis had left word with the butler to tell her friends all about it, and the first thing they did afterit was over was to send a forty-word collect telegram to papa. And Mallory, he'd just dropped around to arrange with Old Hickory for a little vacation before they beat it for Atlantic City.
"So that ain't elopin', eh?" says I. "I expect you'd call that a sixty-yard run on a forward pass, or something like that? Well, the old man's inside. Luck to you."
Mallory wa'n't on the carpet long, and when he comes out I asks how he made back.
"Oh, bully!" says he. "I'm to have ten days."
"With or without?" says I.
"Oh, I forgot to ask," says he.
Little things like bein' on the payroll or not wa'n't botherin' him then. He gives me a bone crushin' grip and swings out to the elevator in a rush; for he's been away from Sis nearly half an hour now.
Exceptin' a picture postcard or two, showin' the iron pier and a bathin' scene, I didn't hear from Mr. and Mrs. Mallory for more'n a week. And then one afternoon I gets a 'phone message from Skid, saying that they're all settled in a little flat up on Washington Heights and they'll be pleased to have me come up to dinner.
"It's our very first dinner, you know," sayshe, "and Sis is going to get it all by herself. I suggested that we try the first one on you."
"That don't scare me any," says I. "I've lived on sinkers and pie too long to duck amateur cookin'. I'll be there."
I was on the grin all the afternoon too, thinkin' of the joshes I was goin' to hand him. At three minutes of closing time I was all ready to sneak out, with one eye on the clock and the other on Piddie, when in blows a ruby faced, thick waisted gent with partly gray hair, a heavyweight jaw, and a keen pair of twinklin' gray eyes. He looks prosperous and important, and he proceeds to act right to home.
"Boy," says he, pushin' through the gate, "is this the general office of the Corrugated Trust Company?"
"Yep," says I. "That's what it says on the door."
"There is employed here, I understand," he goes on, "a young man by the name of Mallory."
Say, I was wide awake at that. "Mallory?" says I. "I can find out. Did you want to see him on business?"
"It is a personal matter," says he. "Is he here?"
"Now, let's not rush this," says I. "My orders is to find out——"
"Very well," says the gent, "there is mycard. And perhaps I should mention that I have the honor—er—I suppose, to be his father in law."
Say, and here I was, up against the Senator himself. Course it was my cue to shrivel up and do the low salaam; but all I can think of at the minute is to look him over and grin.
"Gee!" says I. "Then you're on his trail, eh?"
Maybe it was the grin fetched him; for them square mouth corners flickers a little and he don't throw any fit. "Evidently you are somewhat familiar with the circumstances," says he. "May I ask if you are sufficiently favored with the confidence of my new son in law to know where he and my—er—his wife happen, to be just now?"
"I admit it," says I; "but if you're thinkin' of springin' any hammer music on Skid, you can look for another party, for you won't get it out of me in a thousand years!"
"Ah!" says he. "I see Young Lochinvar has at least one champion. Allow me to state that my intentions are pacific. My wife and I merely wish, before sailing, to pay a formal call on our daughter and her new husband. Now if you could give me their address——"
"Why, say, Senator," says I, "if you ain't lookin' to start anything, I can do better. I'mgoing right up there myself this minute, and if Mrs.——"
"She is waiting downstairs in the cab," says he. "Nothing would suit us better."
And, say, maybe it wa'n't just what I should have done, but blamed if I could see how to dodge it when it's up to me that way. So it's me climbin' up on the front seat with the driver of a fancy hotel taxi, papa and mamma behind, and off rolls the surprise party.
Well, you know them cut rate apartment houses, with a flossy reception room, all marble slabs and burlap panels and no elevator. The West Indian at the telephone exchange says we'll find the Mallorys on the top floor back to the left. That meant four flights to climb, which might account for the lack of conversation on the way up. Mallory, with his coat off, his cuffs rolled back, and his face steamed up, answers the ring himself.
"Ah, that you, Torchy?" says he. "We were just wondering if you would——Why—er—ah——" and as he gets sight of the old couple out in the dark hall he breaks off sudden.
"It's all right," says I. "He's promised to give the peace sign. You know the Senator, don't you, Skid?"
"The Senator!" he gasps out.
"I believe I once had the pleasure of seeingMr. Mallory," says the old boy, comin' to the front graceful. "Hope you will pardon the intrusion; but——"
Just then, though, Sis appears from the kitchen, her face all pink and white, and her sleeves pushed up past the dimples in her elbows. Under a thirty-nine-cent blue and white checked apron she's wearin' a lace party dress that was a dream. It's an odd combination; but most anything would look well on a little queen like her. She takes one look at Skid, another at the Senator, and then behind the old man she spies Mother.
Well, it's just a squeal from one, and a sigh from the other, and then they've made a rush to the center that wedges us all into that little three-foot hall like it was the platform of a subway car, and before anything more can be said they've gone to a fond clinch, each pattin' the other on the back and passin' appropriate remarks.
Somehow, I guess the Senator hadn't quite figured on this part of the programme. I expect his plan was to be real polite and formal, stay only long enough to let the young people know he could stand it if they could, and then back out dignified.
Whatever Mother might have meant to do when she started, it was all off from the minute Sis let out that squeal. And no sooner had wegot ourselves untangled and edged sideways into the cute little parlor, than Mother announces how she means to stay right here until it's time to start for the steamer. Did some one say dinner! Good! She'll stay to dinner, then.
At that Sis looks at Skid and Skid he looks at Sis. There was some real worry exchanged in them looks too; but young Mrs. Mallory ain't one to be stumped as easy as that.
"Oh, goody!" says she, clappin' her hands. "But, Mother, what is it you do to make dumplings puff out after you've dropped them in the lamb stew?"
"Dumplings! Lamb stew!" says Mother. "Gracious! Don't ask me, child. I haven't made any for years. Doesn't your cook know?"
"She doesn't," says Sis. "I am the cook, Mother."
Well, that was only the beginning of the revelations; for while Sis and Mother was strugglin' with the receipt book, the Senator was makin' a tour of inspection around the apartment. It didn't take him so long, either.
"Ahem!" says he to Mallory. "Very cozy, indeed; but—er—not exactly spacious."
"Four rooms and bath," says Mallory.
"Was—er—that the bathtub in there?" says the Senator, jerkin' his thumb at the bathrootdoor. "I fancied it might be—er—a pudding dish. Might I inquire what rent you pay for—er—all this?"
"Forty a month, sir," says Mallory.
"Ah! Economy, I see. Good way to begin," says he. "And if it is not too personal a question, your present salary is——"
"I'm getting twenty-five a week," says Skid, lookin' him straight between the eyes.
"Then you have a private income, I presume?" says the Senator.
"Well," says Mallory, "my aunt in Boston sends me fifty dollars every Christmas and advises me to invest my savings in Government bonds."
At that the Senator drops into a chair and whistles. "But—but how do you expect," he goes on, "to—to——Pardon me, but I am getting interested. I should like to know what was your exact financial standing when you had the imp—er—when you married my daughter?"
He gets it, down to the last nickel. Skid begins with what he had in the bank when they starts for Atlantic City, shows the hole that trip made in his funds, produces the receipts for furniture, and announces that, after punglin' up a month's rent, there's something over seven dollars left in the treasury.
"Huh!" grunts the Senator. "Hence thelamb stew, eh? I don't wonder! So you and Sis have undertaken to live in a forty-dollar apartment on a twenty-five-dollar salary, have you?"
"That's what it looks like, sir," says Mallory.
"And who is the financial genius that is to manage this enterprise?" says he.
"Why," says Skid, "Mrs. Mallory, I suppose. We have agreed that she should."
"Sis, eh?" says the Senator, smilin' kind of grim. "Well, you have my best wishes for your success."
Skid he flushes some behind the ears; but he only bows and says he's much obliged. You couldn't blame him for feelin' cut up, either; for it's all clear how the Senator has doped out an appeal for help within thirty days, and is willin' to wait for the call. I'm no shark on the cost of livin' myself; but even I could figure out a deficit. There's a call to dinner just then, though, and we all gathers round the stew.
Anyway, it was meant for a lamb stew. The potatoes was some hard, the gravy was so thin you'd thought it had been put in from the tea kettle as an afterthought, and the dumplin's hadn't the puffin' out charm worked on 'em for a cent. But the sliced carrots was kind of tasty and went all right with the baker's bread if you left off the bargain butter. Sis she triedto laugh at it all; but her eyes got kind of dewy at the corners.
"Never mind, dear," says Mother. "I'll telegraph for our old Martha to come on and cook for you."
"Why, certainly," says the Senator. "She could sleep on the fire escape, you know."
And say, that last comic jab of his, and the effect it had on Mr. and Mrs. Mallory, kind of got under my skin. I got to thinkin' hard and fast, and inside of five minutes I stumbles onto an idea.
"Excuse me," says I to Skid; "but I guess I'll be on my way. I just thought of a date I ought to keep."
And where do you expect I brings up? At the Ellins' mansion, down on the avenue. First time I'd ever been there out of office hours; but the maid says Mr. Ellins is takin' his coffee in the lib'ry and she'd see if he'd let me in. Ah, sure he did, and we gets right down to cases.
"Remember how that assistant general manager stiff of yours fell down on that public lands deal when you sent him to Washington last month?" says I.
Old Hickory chokes some on a swallow of black coffee he's just hoisted in; but he recovers enough to nod.
"Does he get the run?" says I.
"I neglected consulting you about it,Torchy," says he; "but his resignation has been called for."
"Filled the job yet?" says I.
"Fortunately, no," says he, and I knew by the way he squints that he thought he was bein' mighty humorous. "Possibly you could recommend his successor?"
"Yep, I could," says I. "Would it help any to have some one who was son in law to a Senator?"
"That," says Old Hickory, "would depend somewhat on which Senator was his father in law."
"Well," says I, "there's his card."
"Eh?" says he, readin' the name. "Why—who——"
"Mallory," says I. "You know—hitched last week. He's got the old boy up there to dinner now. Maybe he'll be taken on as the Senator's secretary if you don't jump in quick. He's a hustler, Mallory is. Remember how he skinned that big order out of Kazedky? And as an A. G. M. he'd be a winner. Well, does he get it?"
"Young man," says Old Hickory, catchin' his breath, "if my mental machinery worked at the high pressure speed yours does, I could——But I am not noted for being slow. I've done things in a hurry before. I can yet. Torchy, he does get it."
"When?" says I.
"To-morrow morning," says he. "I'll start him at five thousand."
"Whoop!" says I. "Say, you're a sport! I'll go up and deliver the glad news. Guess he needs it now as much as he ever will."
And, say, you should have seen the change of heart that comes over the Senator when he heard the bulletin. "Mallory, my boy," says he, "congratulations. And by the way, just remove that—er—imitation lamb stew. Then we'll all go down to some good hotel and have a real dinner."
CHAPTER XVIITOUCHING ON TINK TUTTLE
"On your way, now, on your way!" says I; gazin' haughty over the brass gate. "No window cleanin' done here durin' office hours!"
"But," says the specimen on the other side, "I—I didn't come to clean the windows."
"Eh?" says I, sizin' up the blue flannel shirt, the old leather belt, and other marks of them pail and sponge artists. "Well, we don't want any sash cords put in, or wirin' fixed, or any kind of jobbin' done until after five. That's General Order No. 1. See?"
He nods in kind of a lifeless, unexcited way; but he don't make any motions towards beatin' it. "I—I—the fact is," he begins, "I wish to see some one connected with the Corrugated Trust Company."
"You've had your wish," says I. "I'm Exhibit A. For a profile view of me step around to the left. Anything more?"
He don't get peeved at this, nor he don't grin. He just keeps on bein' serious and calm. "Ifyou don't mind," says he, "I should like to see one of the higher officials."
"Say, that's almost neat enough to win out," says I. "One of the higher officials, eh? How would the president suit you?"
"If I might see him, I'd like it," says he.
"Wha-a-a-at!" says I.
Honest, the nerve that's wasted on some folks is a shame. I had to sit up and give him the Old Sleuth stare at that. He's between twenty-five and thirty, for a guess; and, say, whatever he might have been once, he's a wreck now,—long, thin face, with the cheekbones almost stickin' through, slumped in shoulders, bony hands, and a three months' crop of mud colored hair stringin' damp over his ears and brushin' his coat collar. Why, he looked more like he ought to be sittin' around the waitin' room of some charity hospital, than tryin' to butt in on the time of one of the busiest men in New York.
"It's a matter that ought to go before the president," says he, "and if he isn't busy I'd like very much to——"
"Say, old scout," says I, "you got about as much chance of bein' let in to see Mr. Ellins as I have of passin' for a brunette! So let's come down to cases. Now what's it all about?"
He ain't makin' any secret of it. He wants the concern to make him a bid on an option he holds on some coal and iron lands. Almostcomes to life tellin' me about that option, and for the first time I notice what big, bright, deep sunk eyes he's got.
"Oh, a thing of that kind would have to go through reg'lar," says I. "Wait; I'll call Mr. Piddie. He'll fix you up."
Does he? Well, that's what Piddie's supposed to be there for; but he don't any more'n glance at the flannel shirt before he begins to swell up and frown and look disgusted. "No, no, go away!" says he. "I've no time to talk to you, none at all."
"But," says the object, "I haven't had a chance to tell you——"
"Get out—you!" snaps Piddie, turnin' on his heel and struttin' off.
It ain't the way he talks to parties wearin' imported Panamas and sportin' walkin' sticks; but, then, most of us has our little fads that way. What stirred me up, though, was the rough way he did it, and the hopeless sag to the wreck's chin after he's heard the decision.
"Sweet disposition he's got, eh?" says I. "But don't take him too serious. He ain't the final word in this shop, and there's nobody gets next to the big wheeze oftener durin' the day than yours truly. Maybe I could get that option of yours passed on. Got the document with you?"
He had and hands it over. With that hedrops onto the reception room settee and says he'll wait.
"Better not," says I; "for it might be quite a spell before I gets the right chance. We'll do this reg'lar, by mail. Now what's the name?"
"Tuttle," says he, "Tinkham J. Tuttle."
"They call you Tink for short, don't they?" says I, and he admits that they do. "All right," I goes on. "Now the address, Tink. Jersey, eh? Well, it's likely you'll hear from Mr. Ellins before the week's out. But don't get your hopes up; for he turns down enough propositions to fill a waste basket every day. Express elevator at No. 5. So long," and I chokes off Mr. Tuttle's vote of thanks by wavin' him out the door.
It's well along in the afternoon before I sees an openin' to drop this option in front of Old Hickory, grabbin' a minute when his desk is fairly clear, and slammin' it down just as though it had been sent in through Piddie.
"Delivered on," says I. "Wants rush answer by mail."
"Huh!" grunts Old Hickory, lightin' up a fresh Cassadora.
That's all I expected to hear of the transaction; so about an hour later, when Piddie comes out lookin' solemn and says I'm to report to Mr. Ellins, I don't know what's up.
"Is it a first degree charge, Piddie," says I, "or only for manslaughter?"
"I presume Mr. Ellins will discover what you have done," says he.
"Well, hope for the worst, Piddie," says I. "Here goes!"
And the minute I sees what Old Hickory has in front of him, I'm wise.
"Torchy," says he, givin' me the steely glitter out of them cold storage eyes of his, "Mr. Piddie seems to know nothing about this Michigan option."
"If he admits that much," says I, "it must be so. It's a record, though."
"What I want to know," goes on Mr. Ellins, "is how in blue belted blazes it got here. You brought it in, didn't you?"
"Yep," says I. "It was this way, Mr. Ellins: Piddie had it put up to him and wouldn't even hang it on the hook; but the guy that brings it looked so mournful that I butts in and takes a chance on passin' it along to you on my own hook."
"Oh, you did, eh?" he snorts.
"Sure," says I. "I got to do the fresh act once in a while, ain't I? Course, if you want a dead one on the gate, I can hand in my portfolio; but I thought all you had to do with punk options like this was to toss 'em in the basket and then have 'em fired back at——"
"Fire nothing back!" says Mr. Ellins. "Why, you lucky young rascal, we've been trying to get hold of this very property for eight months! And Piddie! Bah! Of all the pin-headed, jelly brained——"
"Second the motion," says I, springin' the joyous grin.
"That will do," says Old Hickory, catchin' himself up. "Just you forget Mr. Piddie and listen to me. Know this Tuttle person by sight, don't you?"
"Couldn't forget him," says I. "Want him on the carpet?"
"I do," says he. "Have him here at ten-thirty to-morrow morning. But find him to-night, and see that you don't open your head about this business to anyone else."
"I get you," says I, doin' the West Point salute. "It's me to trail and shut up Tuttle. He'll be here, if I have to bring him in an ambulance."
That's why I jumps out before closin' time and mingles with the Jersey commuters in a lovely hot ride across the meadows. It's a scrubby station where I gets off, too; one of these fact'ry settlements where the whole population answers the seven o'clock whistle every mornin'. There's a brick barracks half a mile long, where they make sewin' machines or something, and snuggled close up around it is hundredsof these four-fam'ly wooden tenements, gettin' the full benefit of the soft coal smoke and makin' it easy for the hands to pike home for a noon dinner. Say, you talk about the East Side double deckers; but they're brownstone fronts compared to some of these corporation shacks across the meadows!
Seventeen dirty kids led me to the number Tuttle gave me, and in the right hand first floor kitchen I finds a red faced woman in a faded blue wrapper fryin' salt pork and cabbage.
"Mrs. Tinkham Tuttle?" says I, holdin' my breath.
"No," says she, glancin' suspicious over her shoulder. "I'm his sister."
"Oh!" says I. "Is Tink around?"
"I don't know whether he is or not, and don't care!" says she.
"Much obliged," says I; "but I ain't come to collect for anything. Couldn't you give a guess?"
"If I did," says she, "I'd say he was over to the factory yard. That's where he stays most of the time."
It's half-past five; but the fact'ry's runnin' full blast, and I has to jolly a timekeeper and the yard boss before I locates my man. Fin'lly, though, they point out a big storage shed in one corner of the coal cinder desert they has fenced in so careful. The wide double doors to theshed are shut; but after I've hammered for a while one of 'em is slid back a few inches and Tuttle peeks out.
"Oh!" he gasps. "You! Say, are they going to take it? Are they?"
"Them's the indications," says I, "providin' it's all O. K. and your price is right."
"Oh, I'll make the price low enough," says he. "I'll sell out for two thousand, and it ought to be worth twice that. But two is all I need."
"Eh?" says I. "What kind of finance do you call that? Say, Tuttle, you know you can't work any 'phony deal on the Corrugated. Better give me the straight goods and save trouble."
"I will," says he. "Come in, won't you!"
With that he leads the way through the dark shed to a sort of workshop at the back, where there's a window. There's a tool bench, a little hand forge with an old coffee pot and a fryin' pan on it, and a cot bed not ten feet away.
"Campin' out here?" says I.
"I'm not supposed to," says he; "but the yard superintendent lets me. This is where I've lived and worked for nearly two years, and until you came a minute ago it was where I expected to end. But now it's different."
"It is?" says I. "How's that?"
Which is Tink Tuttle's cue to open up on thestory of his life. It's a soggy, unexcitin' yarn, most of it. As I'd kind of guessed by the way he talked, he wa'n't just an ordinary fact'ry hand. He'd been through some high class scientific school up in Massachusetts, where he'd lived before his father lost his grip. Seems the old man was a crackerjack boss machinist; but he got to monkeyin' with fool inventions, drifted from place to place, got to be a lunger, and finally passed in. The last four years in the fact'ry here had finished him. Tink had worked there, too, and his sister had married one of the hands.
"It's the graveyard of the Tuttle family, this place is, I suppose," says Tink. "It got father, and it has almost got me. Some folks can breathe brass filings and carbon dioxid and thrive on it; but we can't. So I gave up and hid myself away in here to work out one of my silly dreams. Last spring I caught a bad cold, and Sister sent me West. There we have an uncle. She thought the change of climate might help my cough. It didn't do a bit of good; but it was out there that I picked up this option. That was when I saw a chance of making my dream come true. You saw what I've been building, didn't you, as we came through?"
"I didn't notice," says I. "What is it, anyway?"