[Illustration: "'Don't!' says Vee. 'You'll spill the coffee. '"]

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THE HOUSE OF TORCHY

BYSEWELL FORD

AUTHOR OFTORCHY, TRYING OUT TORCHY, SHORTY MCCABE, Etc. 

ILLUSTRATIONS BYARTHUR WILLIAM BROWN

GROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS--NEW YORK

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Copyright, 1917, 1918, bySEWELL FORD

Copyright 1918, byEDWARD J. CLODE

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I Torchy and Vee on the Way 1

II Vee with Variations 12

III A Qualifying Turn for Torchy 25

IV Switching Arts on Leon 44

V A Recruit for the Eight-three 60

VI Torchy in the Gazinkus Class 79

VII Back with Clara Belle 96

VIII When Torchy got the Call 114

IX A Carry-on for Clara 134

X All the Way with Anna 152

XI At the Turn with Wilfred 172

XII Vee Goes Over the Top 193

XIII Late Returns on Rupert 214

XIV Forsythe at the Finish 232

XV The House of Torchy 250

XVI Torchy gets the Thumb Grip 272

XVII A Low Tackle by Torchy 288

XVIII Tag Day at Torchy's 307

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THE HOUSE OF TORCHY

CHAPTER I

TORCHY AND VEE ON THE WAY

Say, I thought I'd taken a sportin' chance now and then before; but Iwas only kiddin' myself. Believe me, this gettin' married act is the bigplunge. Uh-huh! Specially when it's done offhand and casual, the way wewent at it. 

My first jolt is handed me early in the mornin' as we piles off themountain express at this little flag stop up in Vermont, and a roly-polygent in a horse-blanket ulster and a coonskin cap with a badge on itsteps up and greets me cheerful. 

"Ottasumpsit Inn?" says he. 

"Why, I expect so, " says I, "if that's the way you call it. Otto--Otta--Yep, that listens something like it. "

You see, Mr. Robert had said it only once, when he handed me thetickets, and I hadn't paid much attention. 

"Aye gorry!" says the chirky gent, gatherin' up our hand luggage. "Guessyou're the ones we're lookin' for. Got yer trunk-checks handy?"

With that I starts fishin' through my pockets panicky. I finds arailroad folder, our marriage certificate, the keys to the studioapartment I'd hired, the box the ring came in, and----

"Gosh!" says I, sighin' relieved. "Sure I got it. "

The driver grins good-natured and stows us into a two-seated sleigh, andoff we're whirled, bells jinglin', for half a mile or so through thestinging mornin' air. Next thing I know, I'm bein' towed up to a deskand a hotel register is shoved at me. Just like an old-timer, I dashesoff my name--Richard T. Ballard. 

The mild-eyed gent with the close-cropped Vandyke and the gold-rimmedglasses glances over at Vee. 

"Ah--er--I thought Mrs. Ballard was with you!" says he. 

"That's so; she is, " says I, grabbin' the pen again and tackin' "Mr. AndMrs. " in front of my autograph. 

That's why, while we're fixin' up a bit before goin' down to breakfast, I has this little confidential confab with Vee. 

"It's no use, Vee, " says I. "I'm a rank amateur. We might just as wellhave rice and confetti all over us. I've made two breaks already, andI'm liable to make more. We can't bluff 'em. "

"Who wants to?" says Vee. "I'm not ashamed of being on my honeymoon; areyou?"

"Good girl!" says I. "You bet I ain't. I thought the usual line, though, was to pretend you'd----"

"I know, " says Vee. "And I always thought that was perfectly silly. Besides, I don't believe we could fool anyone if we tried. It's muchsimpler not to bother. Let them guess. "

"And grin too, eh?" says I. "We'll grin back. "

Say, that's the happy hunch. Leaves you with nothing to worry about. Allyou got to do is go ahead and enjoy yourself, free and frolicsome. Sowhen this imposin' head waitress with the forty-eight bust and the grandduchess air bears down on us majestic, and inquires dignified, "Two, sir?" I don't let it stagger me. 

"Two'll be enough, " says I. "But whisper. Seein' as we're only startin'in on the twosome breakfast game, maybe you could find something niceand cheerful by a window. Eh?"

It's some breakfast. M-m-m-m! Cute little country sausages, buckwheatcakes that would melt in your mouth, with strained honey to go on 'em. 

"Have a fourth buckwheat, " says I. 

"No fair, keeping count!" says Vee. "I looked the other way when youtook your fifth. "

Honest, I can't see where we acted much different than we did before. Somehow, we always could find things to giggle over. We sure had a goodtime takin' our first after-breakfast stroll together down Main Street, Vee in her silver-fox furs and me in my new mink-lined overcoat that Mr. Robert had wished on me casual just before we left. 

"Cunnin' little town, eh?" says I. "Looks like a birthday cake. "

"Or a Christmas card, " says Vee. "Look at this old door with the brassknocker and the green fan-light above. Isn't that Colonial, though?"

"It's an old-timer, all right, " says I. "Hello! Here's a place worthrememberin'--the Woman's Exchange. Now I'll know where to go in case Ishould want to swap you off. "

For which crack I gets shoved into a snowdrift. 

It ain't until afternoon that I'm struck with the fact that neither ofus knows a soul up here. Course, the landlord nods pleasant to me, andI'd talked to the young room clerk a bit, and the bell-hops had allsmiled friendly, specially them I'd fed quarters to. But by then I wasfeelin' sort of folksy, so I begun takin' notice of the other guests andplannin' who I should get chummy with first. 

I drifts over by the fireplace, where two substantial old boys aretoastin' their toes and smokin' their cigars. 

"Snappy brand of weather they pass out up here, eh?" I throws off, pullin' up a rocker. 

They turn, sort of surprised, and give me the once-over deliberate, after which one of them, a gent with juttin' eyebrows, clears his throatand remarks, "Quite bracing, indeed. "

Then he hitches around until I'm well out of view, and says to theother:

"As I was observing, an immediate readjustment of international tradebalances is inevitable. European bankers are preparing for it. We arenot. Only last month one of the Barings cabled----"

I'll admit my next stab at bein' sociable was kind of feeble. In frontof the desk is a group of three gents, one of 'em not over fifty or so;but when I edges up close enough to hear what the debate is about, Ifinds it has something to do with a scheme for revivin' Italian opera inBoston, and I backs off so sudden I almost bumps into a hook-beaked olddame who is waddlin' up to the letter-box. 

"Sorry, " says I. "I should have honked. "

She just glares at me, and if I hadn't side-stepped prompt she mighthave sunk that parrot bill into my shoulder. 

After that I sidles into a corner where I couldn't be hit from behind, and tries to dope out the cause of all this hostility. Did they take mefor a German spy or what? Or was this really an old folks' homemasqueradin' as a hotel, with Vee and me breakin' in under falsepretenses?

So far as I could see, the inmates was friendly enough with each other. The old girls sat around in the office and parlors, chattin' over theirknittin' and crochet. The old boys paired off mostly, though some ofthem only read or played solitaire. A few people went out wrapped up inexpensive furs and was loaded into sleighs. The others waved good-by to'em. But I might have been built out of window-glass. They didn't actas though I was visible. 

"Huh!" thinks I. "I'll bet they take notice of Vee when she comes down. "

If I'd put anything up on that proposition I'd owed myself money. Theycouldn't see her any more'n they could me. When we went out for anotherwalk nobody even looked after us. I didn't say anything then, but I keptthinkin'. And all that evenin' we sat around amongst 'em without bein'disturbed. 

About eight o'clock an orchestra shows up and cuts loose with music inthe ball-room, mostly classic stuff like the "Spring Song" and handfulsplucked from "Aïda. " We slips in and listens. Then the leader gets hiseye on us and turns on a fox-trot. 

"Looks like they was waitin' for us to start something, " says I. "Let's. "

We'd gone around three or four times when Vee balks. About twenty-fiveold ladies, with a sprinklin' of white-whiskered old codgers, had filedin and was watchin' us solemn and critical from the side-lines. Some wassquintin' disapprovin' through their lorgnettes, and I noticed a fewwhisperin' to each other. Vee quits right in the middle of a reverse. 

"Do they think we are giving an exhibition?" she pouts. 

"Maybe we're breakin' some of the rules and by-laws, " says I. "Anyway, Ithink we ought to beat it before they call in the high sheriff. "

Next day it was just the same. We was out part of the time, indulgin' inwalks and sleigh rides; but nobody seemed to see us, goin' or comin'. And I begun to get good and sore. 

"Nice place, this, " says I to Vee, as we trails in to dinner thatevenin'. "Almost as sociable as the Grand Central station. "

Vee tries to explain that it's always like this in these exclusivelittle all-the-year-round joints where about the same crowd of peoplecome every season. 

"Then you have to be born in the house to be a reg'lar person, Isuppose?" says I. 

Well, it's about then I notices this classy young couple who are makin'their way across the dinin'-room, bein' hailed right and left. And nextthing I know, the young lady gets her eye on Vee, stops to take anotherlook, then rushes over and gives her the fond clinch from behind. 

"Why you dear old Verona!" says she. 

"Judith!" gasps Vee, kind of smothery. 

"Whatever are you doing up----" And then Judith gets wise to me sittin'opposite. "Oh!" says she. 

Vee blushes and exhibits her left hand. 

"It only happened the other night, " says she. "This is Mr. Ballard, Judith. And you?"

"Oh, ages ago--last spring, " says Judith. "Bert, come here. "

It's a case of old boardin'-school friends who'd lost track of eachother. Quite a stunner, young Mrs. Nixon is, too, and Bert is a goodmatch for her. The two girls hold quite a reunion, with us men standin'around lookin' foolish. 

"We're living in Springfield, you know, " goes on Judith, "where Bert ishelping to build another munition plant. Just ran up to spend theweek-end with Auntie. You've met her, of course?"

"We--we haven't met anyone, " says Vee. 

"Why, how funny!" exclaims Mrs. Nixon. "Please come over right now. "

"My dear, " says Auntie, pattin' Vee chummy on the hand, "we have allbeen wondering who you two young people were. I knew you must be nice, but--er---- Come, won't you join us at this table? We'll make just asplendid little family party. Now do!"

Oh, yes, we did. And after dinner I'll be hanged if we ain't introducedto almost everybody in the hotel. It's a reg'lar reception, with folksstandin' in line to shake hands with us. The old boy with the eyeawnin's turns out to be an ex-Secretary of the Treasury; an antique witha patent ear-'phone has been justice of some State Supreme Court; and soon. Oh, lots of class to 'em. But after I'd been vouched for by someonethey knew they all gives me the hearty grip, offers me cigars, and hopesI'm enjoyin' my stay. 

"And so you are a niece of dear Mrs. Hemmingway?" says old Parrot-Face, when her turn comes. "Think of that! And this is your husband!" And thenshe says how nice it is that some other young people will be up in themornin'. 

That evenin' Judith gets busy plannin' things to do next day. 

"You haven't tried the toboggan chute?" says she. "Why, how absurd!"

Yep, it was a big day, Saturday was. Half a dozen more young folksdrifted in, includin' a couple of Harvard men that Vee knew, a girlshe'd met abroad, and another she'd seen at a house-party. They was alllive wires, too, ready for any sort of fun. And we had all kinds. Maybewe didn't keep that toboggan slide warm. Say, it's some sport, ain't it?

Anyway, our honeymoon was turnin' out a great success. The Nixonsconcluded to stay over a few days, and three or four of the othersfound they could too, so we just went on whooping things up. 

Next I knew we'd been there a week, and was due to make a jump toWashington for a few days of sight-seein'. 

"I'm afraid that will not be half as nice as this has been, " says Vee. 

"It couldn't, " says I. "It's the reg'lar thing to do, though. "

"I hate doing the regular thing, " says Vee. "Besides, I'm dying to seeour little studio apartment and get settled in it. Why not--well, justgo home?"

"Vee, " says I, "you got more good sense than I have red hair. Let's!"

CHAPTER II

VEE WITH VARIATIONS

"But--but look here, Vee, " says I, after I'd got my breath back, "youcan't do a thing like that, you know. "

"But I have, Torchy, " says she; "and, what is more, I mean to keep ondoing it. "

She don't say it messy, understand--just states it quiet and pleasant. 

And there we are, hardly at the end of our first month, with the rocksloomin' ahead. 

Say, where did I collect all this bunk about gettin' married, anyway? Ihad an idea that after the honeymoon was over, you just settled down andlived happy, or otherwise, ever after. But, believe me, there's nothingto it. It ain't all over, not by a long shot. As a matter of fact, you've just begun to live, and you got to learn how. 

Here I am, discoverin' a new Vee every day or so, and almost dizzytryin' to get acquainted with all of 'em. Do I show up that way to her?I doubt it. Now and then, though, I catch her watchin' me sort ofpuzzled. 

So there's nothing steady goin' or settled about us yet, thanks be. Homeain't a place to yawn in. Not ours. We don't get all our excitement outof changin' the furniture round, either. Oh, sure, we do that, too. Youknow, we're startin' in with a ready-made home--a studio apartment thatMr. Robert picked up for me at a bargain, all furnished. 

He was a near-artist, if you remember, this Waddy Crane party, who'd hada bale of coupon-bearin' certificates willed to him, and what was avan-load of furniture more or less to him? Course, I'm no judge of suchjunk, but Vee seems to think we've got something swell. 

"Just look at this noble old davenport, will you!" says she. "Isn't it abeauty? And that highboy! Real old San Domingo mahogany that is, withperfectly lovely crotch veneer in the panels. See?"

"Uh-huh, " says I. 

"And this four-poster with the pineapple tops and the canopy, " she goeson. "Pure Colonial, a hundred years old. "

"Eh?" says I, gazin' at it doubtful. "Course, I was lookin' forsecond-hand stuff, but I don't think he ought to work off anything thatancient on me, do you?"

"Silly!" says Vee. "It's a gem, and the older the better. "

"We'll need some new rugs, won't we, " says I, "in place of some of thesefaded things?"

"Faded!" says Vee. "Why, those are Bokharas. I will say for Mr. Cranethat he has good taste. This is furnished so much better than moststudios--nothing useless, no mixing of periods. "

"Oh, when I go out after a home, " says I, "I'm some grand littleshopper. "

"Pooh!" says Vee. "Who couldn't do it the way you did? Why, the placelooks as if he'd just taken his hat and walked out. There are evencigars in the humidor. And his easel and paints and brushes! Do you knowwhat I'm going to do, Torchy?"

"Put pink and green stripes around the cigars, I expect, " says I. 

"Smarty!" says she. "I'm going to paint pictures. "

"Why not?" says I. "There's no law against it, and here you got all thetools. "

"You know I used to try it a little, " says she. "I took quite a lot oflessons. "

"Then go to it, " says I. "I'll get a yearly rate from a pressing clubto keep the spots off me. I'll bet you could do swell pictures. "

"I know!" says Vee, clappin' her hands. "I'll begin with a portrait ofyou. Let me try sketching in your head now. "

That's the way Vee generally goes at things--with a rush. Say, she hadme sittin' with my chin up and my arms draped in one position until Ihad a neck-ache that ran clear to my heels. 

"Hal-lup!" says I, when both feet was sound asleep and my spine feltossified. "Couldn't I put on a sub while I drew a long breath?"

At that she lets me off, and after a fifth-innin' stretch I'm calledround to pass on the result. 

"Hm-m-m!" says I, starin' at what she's done to a perfectly good pieceof stretched canvas. 

"Well, what does it look like?" demands Vee. 

"Why, " says I, "I should call it sort of a cross between the Kaiser andBilly Sunday. "

"Torchy!" says Vee. "I--I think you're just horrid!"

For a whole week she sticks to it industrious, jottin' down studies ofvarious parts of my map while I'm eatin' breakfast, and workin' over 'emuntil I come back from the office in the afternoon. Did I throw out anymore comic cracks? Never a one--not even when the picture showed thatmy eyes toed in. All I did was pat her on the back and say she was awonder. But say, I got so I dreaded to look at the thing. 

"You know your hair isn't really red, " says Vee; "it--it's such an oddshade. "

"Sort of triple pink, eh?" says I. 

She squeezes out some more paints, stirs 'em vigorous, and makes anotherstab. This time she gets a bilious lavender with streaks of fire-box redin it. 

"Bother!" says she, chuckin' away the brushes. "What's the usepretending I'm an artist when I'm not? Look at that hideous mess! It'stoo awful for words. Take away that fire-screen, will you, Torchy?"

And, with the help of a few matches and a sportin' extra, we made quitea cheerful little blaze in the coal grate. 

"There!" says Vee, as we watches the bonfire. "So that's over. And it'srather a relief to find out that I haven't got to be a lady artist, after all. What is more, I am positive I couldn't write a book. I'mafraid, Torchy, that I am a most every-day sort of person. "

"Maybe, " says I, "you're one of the scarce ones that believes in homeand hubby. "

"We-e-e-ell, " says Vee, lockin' her fingers and restin' her chin on 'emthoughtful, "not precisely that type, either. My mind may not beparticularly advanced, but the modified harem existence for womendoesn't appeal to me. And I must confess that, with kitchenettebreakfasts, dinners out, and one maid, I can't get wildly excited over awholly domestic career. Torchy, I simply must have something to do. "

Me, I just sits there gawpin' at her. 

"Why, " says I, "I thought that when a girl got married she--she----"

"I know, " says she. "You think you thought. So did I. But you reallydidn't think about it at all, and I'm only beginning to. Of course, youhave your work. I suppose it's interesting, too. Isn't it?"

"It's a great game, " says I. "Specially these days, when doin' any kindof business is about as substantial as jugglin' six china plates whileyou're balanced on top of two chairs and a kitchen table. Honest, we gotdeals enough in the air to make you dizzy followin' 'em. If they all gothrough we'll stand to cut a melon that would pay off the national debt. If they should all go wrong--well, it would be some smash, believe me. "

Vee's gray eyes light up sudden. 

"Why couldn't you tell me all about some of these deals, " she says, "sothat I could be in it too? Why couldn't I help?"

"Maybe you could, " says I, "if you understood all the fine points. "

"Couldn't I learn?" demands Vee. 

"Well, " says I, "I've been right in the thick of it for quite someyears. If you could pick up in a week or so what it's taken me yearsto----"

"I see, " cuts in Vee. "I suppose you're right, too. But I'm sure that Ishould like to be in business. It must be fascinating, all that planningand scheming. It must make life so interesting. "

I nods. "It does, " says I. 

"Then why shouldn't I try something of the kind, all my very own?" sheasks. "Oh, in a small way, at first?"

More gasps from me. This was gettin' serious. 

"You don't mean margin dabblin' at one of them parlor bucket-shops, doyou?" I demands. 

"No fear, " says Vee. "I think gambling is just plain stupid. I mean somesort of legitimate business--buying and selling things. "

"Oh!" says I. "Like real estate, or imported hats, or somebody'shome-made candy? Or maybe you mean startin' one of them Blue Goosenovelty shops down in Greenwich Village. I'll tell you. Why notmanufacture left-handed collar buttons for the south-paw trade? There'sa field. "

Vee don't say any more. In fact, three or four days goes by without hermentionin' anything about havin' nothing to do, and I'd 'most forgotthis batty talk of ours. 

And then, one afternoon when I comes home after a busy day at doin'nothing much and tryin' to look important over it, she greets me with aflyin' tackle and drags me over to a big wingchair by the window. 

"What do you think, Torchy?" says she. "I've found something!"

"That trunk key you've been lookin' for?" says I. 

"No, " says she. "A business opening. "

"A slot-machine to sell fudge?" says I. 

"You'd never guess, " says she. 

"Then shoot it, " says I. 

"I'm going to open a shoe-shinery, " she announces. 

"Wha-a-a-at!" says I. 

"Only I'm not going to call it that, " she goes on. "It isn't to be a'parlor, ' either, nor a 'shine shop. ' It's to be just a 'Boots. ' Righthere in the building. I've leased part of the basement. See?" And shewaves a paper at me. 

"Quit your kiddin', " says I. 

But she insists that it's so. Sure enough, that's the way the leasereads. 

And that's when, as I was tellin' you, I rises up majestic and announcesflat that she simply can't do a thing like that. Also she comes back atme just as prompt by sayin' that she can and will. It's the first timewe've met head-on goin' different ways, and I had just sense enough tothrow in my emergency before the crash came. 

"Now let's get this straight, " says I. "I don't suppose you're plannin'to do shoe-shinin' yourself?"

Vee smiles and shakes her head. 

"Or 'tend the cash register and sell shoelaces and gum to gentlemencustomers?"

"Oh, it's not to be that sort of place, " says she. "It's to be anEnglish 'boots, ' on a large scale. You know what I mean. "

"No, " says I. 

So she sketches out the enterprise for me. Instead of a reg'lar Tonyjoint with a row of chairs and a squad of blue-shirted Greeks jabberin'about the war, this is to be a chairless, spittoonless shine factory, where the customer only steps in to sign a monthly contract or registera kick. All the work is to be collected and delivered, same as laundry. 

"I would never have thought of it, " explains Vee, "if it hadn't been forTarkins. He's that pasty-faced, sharp-nosed young fellow who's beenhelping the janitor recently. A cousin, I believe. He's a war wreck, too. Just think, Torchy: he was in the trenches for more than a year, and has only been out of a base hospital two months. They wouldn't lethim enlist again; so he came over here to his relatives. 

"It was while he was up trying to stop that radiator leak the other daythat I asked him if he would take out a pair of my boots and find someplace where they could be cleaned. He brought them back inside of halfan hour, beautifully done. And when I insisted on being told where he'dtaken them, so that I might send them to the same place again, headmitted that he had done the work himself. 'My old job, ma'am, ' sayshe. 'I was boots at the Argyle Club, ma'am, before I went out to strafethe 'Uns. Seven years, ma'am. But they got a girl doin' it now, aflapper. Wouldn't take me back. ' Just fancy! And Tarkins a trench hero!So I got to thinking. "

"I see, " says I. "You're going to set Tarkins up, eh?"

"I'm going to make him my manager, " says Vee. "He will have charge ofthe shop and solicit orders. We are going to start with only twopolishers; one for day work, the other for the night shift. And Tarkinswill always be on the job. They're installing a 'phone now, and he willsleep on a cot in the back office. We will work this block first, something like four hundred apartments. Later on--well, we'll see. "

"I don't want to croak, " says I, "but do you think folks will send outtheir footwear that way? You know, New Yorkers ain't used to gettin'their shines except on the hoof. "

"I mean to educate them to my 'boots' system, " says Vee. "I'm getting upa circular now. I shall show them how much time they can save, how manytips they can avoid. You see, each customer will have a delivery box, with his name and address on it. No chance for mistakes. The boxes canbe set outside the apartment doors. We will have four collections, perhaps; two in the daytime, two at night. And when they see the kind ofwork we do---- Well, you wait. "

"I'll admit it don't listen so worse, " says I. "The scheme has its goodpoints. But when you come to teachin' New York people new tricks, likesendin' out their shoes, you're goin' to be up against it. "

"Then you think I can't make 'boots' pay a profit?" asks Vee. 

"That would be my guess, " says I. "If it was a question of underwritin'a stock issue for the scheme I'd have to turn it down. "

"Good!" says Vee. "Now I shall work all the harder. Tarkins will bearound early in the morning to get you as our first customer. "

Say, for the next few days she certainly was a busy party--plannin' outher block campaign, lookin' over supply bills, and checkin' up Tarkins'sreports. 

I don't know when I'd ever seen her so interested in anything, or sochirky. Her cheeks were pink all the time and her eyes dancin'. Andsomehow we had such a lot to talk about. 

Course, though, I didn't expect it to last. You wouldn't look for a girllike Vee, who'd never had any trainin' for that sort of thing, to starta new line and make a go of it right off the bat. But, so long as shewasn't investin' very heavy, it didn't matter. 

And then, here last night, after she'd been workin' over heraccount-books for an hour or so, she comes at me with a whoop, and wavesa sheet of paper under my nose excited. 

"Now, Mister Business Man, " says she, "what do you think of that?"

"Eh?" says I, starin' at the figures. 

"One hundred and seventeen regular customers the first week, " says she, "and a net profit of $23. 45. Now how about underwriting that stockissue?"

Well, it was a case of backin' up. She had it all figured out plain. She'd made good from the start. And, just to prove that it's real moneythat she's made all by herself, she insists on invitin' me out to acelebration dinner. It's a swell one, too, take it from me. 

And afterwards we sits up until long past midnight while Vee plans achain of "boots" all over the city. 

"Gee!" says I. "Maybe you'll be gettin' yourself written up as 'TheShine Queen of New York' or something like that. Lucky Auntie's inJamaica. Think what a jolt it would give her. "

"I don't care, " says Vee. "I've found a job. "

"Guess you have, " says I. "And, as I've remarked once or twice before, you're some girl. "

CHAPTER III

A QUALIFYING TURN FOR TORCHY

And here all along I'd been kiddin' myself that I was a perfectly goodprivate sec. Also I had an idea the Corrugated Trust was one of the mainpiers that kept New York from slumpin' into the North River, and thatthe boss, Old Hickory Ellins, was sort of a human skyscraper who loomedup as imposin' in the financial foreground as the Metropolitan Towerdoes on the picture post-cards that ten-day trippers mail to the folksback home. 

Not that I'd been workin' up any extra chest measure since I've had aninside desk and had connected with a few shares of our preferred stock;I always did feel more or less that way about our concern. And thecloser I got to things, seein' how wide our investments was scatteredand how many big deals we stood behind, the surer I was that we wasimportant people. 

And then, in trickles this smooth-haired young gent with the broad _a_'sand the full set of _thé dansant_ manners, to show me where I'm wrongon all counts. He'd succeeded in convincin' Vincent-on-the-gate thatnobody around the shop would do but Mr. Ellins himself, so here was OldHickory standin' in the door of his private office with the card in hishand and starin' puzzled at this immaculate symphony in browns. 

"Eh?" says he. "You're from Runyon, are you? Well, I wired him to stopoff on his way through and have luncheon with me at the Union League. Know anything about that, do you?"

"Mr. Runyon regrets very much, " says the young gent, "that he will beunable to accept your kind invitation. He is on his way to Newport, youknow, and----"

"Yes, I understand all that, " breaks in Old Hickory. "Daughter'swedding. But that isn't until next week, and while he was in town Ithought we might have a little chat and settle a few things. "

"Quite so, " says the symphony. "Precisely why he sent me up, sir--totalk over anything you might care to discuss. "

"With you!" snorts Old Hickory. "Who the brocaded buckboards are you?"

"Mr. Runyon's secretary, sir, " says the young gent. "Bixby's the name, sir, as you will see by the card, and----"

"Ha!" growls old Hickory. "So that's Marc Runyon's answer to me, is it?Sends his secretary! Very well; you may talk with _my_ secretary. Torchy!"

"Right here!" says I, slidin' to the front. 

"Take this person somewhere, " says Mr. Ellins, jerkin' his thumb atBixby; "instruct him what to tell his master about how we regard thatterminal hold-up; then dust him off carefully and lead him to theelevator. "

"Got you!" says I, salutin'. 

You might think that would have jolted Mr. Bixby. But no. He gets thedoor shut in his face without even blinkin' or gettin' pink under theeyes. Don't even indulge in any shoulder shrugs or other signs ofmuffled emotion. He just turns to me calm and remarks businesslike:

"At your service, sir. "

Now, say, this lubricated diplomacy act ain't my long suit as a generalthing, but I couldn't figure a percentage in puttin' over any more roughstuff on Bixby. It rolled off him too easy. Course, it might be allright for Mr. Ellins to get messy or blow a gasket if he wanted to; butI couldn't see that it was gettin' us anywhere. He hadn't planned thisluncheon affair just for the sake of being sociable--I knew that much. The big idea was to get next to Marcus T. Runyon and thresh out acertain proposition on a face-to-face basis. And if he chucked thatoverboard because of a whim, we stood to lose. 

It was up to me now, though. Maybe I couldn't be as smooth as this Bixbyparty, but I could make a stab along that line. It would be goodpractice, anyhow. So I tows him over to my corner, and arranges him easyin an armchair. 

"As between private secs, now, " says I, "what's puttin' up the bars onthis get-together motion, eh?"

Well, considerin' that Bixby is English and don't understand theAmerican language very well, we got along fine. Once or twice, there, Ithought I should have to call in an interpreter; but by bein' careful tostate things simple, and by goin' over some of the points two or threetimes slow, we managed to make out what each other meant. 

It seems that Marcus T. Is more or less of a frail and tender party. Dashin' out for a Union League luncheon, fillin' himself up on _pouleten casserole_ and such truck, not to mention Martinis and demi-tassesand brunette perfectos, was clean out of the question. 

"My word!" says Bixby, rollin' his eyes. "His physician would neverallow it, you know. "

"Suppose he took a chance and didn't tell the doc?" I suggests. 

"Impossible, " says Bixby. "He is with him constantly--travels with him, you understand. "

I didn't get it all at first, but I sopped it up gradual. Marcus T. Wasn't takin' any casual flit from his Palm Beach winter home to hisNewport summer place. No jumpin' into a common Pullman for him, joinin'the smokin'-room bunch, and scrabblin' for his meals in the diner. Hardly. 

He was travelin' in his private car, with his private secretary, hisprivate physician, his trained nurse, his private chef, and most likely, his private bootblack. And he was strictly under his doctor's orders. Hewasn't even goin' to have a peek at Broadway or Fifth Avenue; for, although a suite had been engaged for him at the Plutoria, the Doc hadruled against it only that mornin'. No; he had to stay in the privatecar, that had been run on a special sidin' over in the Pennsylvaniayards. 

"So you see, " says Bixby, spreadin' out his varnished finger-nailshelpless. "And yet, I am sure he would very much like to have a chatwith his old friend Mr. Ellins. "

I had all I could do to choke back a haw-haw. His old friend, eh? Oh, Iexpect they might be called friends, in a way. They hadn't actuallystuck any knives into each other. And 'way back, when they was bothoperatin' in Chicago, I understand they was together a good deal. Butsince---- Well, maybe at a circus you've seen a couple of old tigerspacin' back and forth in nearby cages and catchin' sight of one anothernow and then? Something like that. 

"Friend" wasn't the way Marcus T. Was indexed on our books. If wespotted any suspicious moves in the market, or found one of oursubsidiary companies being led astray by unseen hands, or a big contractslippin' away mysterious, the word was always passed to "watch theRunyon interests. " And I'll admit that when the Corrugated saw anopenin' to put a crimp in a Runyon deal, or overbid 'em on a franchise, or crack a ripe egg on one of their bond issues, we only waited longenough for it to get dark before gettin' busy. Oh, yes, we was realchummy that way. 

And then again, with the Runyon system touchin' ours in so many spots, we had a lot of open daylight dealin's. We interlocked here and there;we had joint leases, trackage agreements, and so on, where we was justas trustin' of each other as a couple of gentlemen crooks dividin' thesouvenirs after an early mornin' call at a country-house. 

This terminal business Old Hickory had mentioned was a sample. Course, Ionly knew about it in a vague sort of way: something about ore docks upon the Lakes. Anyway, it was a case where the Runyon people had hoggedthe waterfront and was friskin' us for tonnage charges on every steamerwe loaded. 

I know it was something that had to be renewed annual, for I'd heard Mr. Ellins beefin' about it more'n once. Last year, I remember, he was worsethan usual, which was accounted for later by the fact that the ton ratehad been jumped a couple of cents. And now it had been almost doubled. No wonder he wanted a confab with Marcus T. On the subject. And, fromwhere I stood, it looked like he ought to have it, grouch or no grouch. 

"Bixby, " says I, "Mr. Ellins would just grieve himself sick if thisreunion he's planned don't come off. Now, what's the best you can do?"

"If Mr. Ellins could come to the private car----" begins Bixby. 

"Say, " I breaks in, "you wouldn't ask him to climb over freight-cars anddodge switch-engines just for old times' sake, would you?"

Bixby holds up both hands and registers painful protest. 

"By no means, " says he. "We would send the limousine for Mr. Ellins, have it wait his convenience, and drive him directly to the car steps. Ithink I can arrange the interview for any time between two-thirty andfour o'clock this afternoon. "

"Now, that's talkin'!" says I. "I'll see what I can do with the boss. Wait, will you?"

Oh, boy, though! That was about as tough a job as I ever tackled. OldHickory still has his neck feathers ruffled, and he's chewin' savage ona black cigar when I go in to slip him the soothin' syrup. First off Iexplains elaborate what a sick man Mr. Runyon is, and all about thetrained nurse and the private physician. 

"Bah!" says Old Hickory. "I'll bet he's no more an invalid than I am. Just coddling himself, that's all. Got the private car habit, too! Why, I knew Marc Runyon when he thought an upper berth was the very lap ofluxury; knew him when he'd grind his teeth over payin' a ten-dollar feeto a doctor. And now he's trying to buy back his digestion by hiring aprivate physician, is he? The simple-minded old sinner!"

"I expect you ain't seen much of him lately, Mr. Ellins?" I suggests. 

Old Hickory hunches his shoulders careless. 

"No, " says he. 

Then he gazes reminiscent at the ceilin'. I could tell by watchin' hislower jaw sort of loosen up that he was thinkin' of the old days, orsomething like that. It struck me as a good time to let things simmer. Idrops back a step and waits. All of a sudden he turns to me and demands:

"Well, son?"

"If you could get away about three, " says I, "Mr. Runyon's limousinewill be waiting. "

"Huh!" says he. "Well, I'll see. Perhaps. "

"Yes, sir, " says I. "Then you'll be wanting the dope on that terminallease. Shall I dig it up?"

"Oh, you might as well, " says Old Hickory. "There isn't much, but bringalong anything you may find. You will have to serve as my entireretinue, Torchy. I expect you to behave like a regular high-tonedsecretary. "

"Gee!" says I. "That's some order. Mr. Bixby'll have me lookin' like anoutside porter. But I'll go wind myself up. "

All I could think of, though, was to post myself on that terminal stuff. And, believe me, I waded into that strong. Inside of ten minutes afterI'd sent Bixby on his way I had Piddie clawin' through the record safe, two stenographers searchin' the letter-files, and Vincent out buyin'maps of Lake Superior. I had about four hours to use in gettin' wise tothe fine points of a deal that had been runnin' on for ten years; but Ican absorb a lot of information in a short time when I really get mymind pores open. 

At that, though, I expect my head would have been just a junk-heap ofback-number facts if I hadn't run across the name of this guy McClave insome of the correspondence. Seems he'd been assistant traffic agent forone of the Runyon lines, but had been dropped durin' a consolidationshake-up. And now he happens to be holdin' down a desk out in ourgeneral offices. Just on a chance, I pushes the button for him. 

Well, say, talk about tappin' the main feedpipe! Why, that quiet littleScotchman in the shiny black cutaway coat and the baggy plaid trousers, he knew more about how iron ore gets from the mines to the smelters thanI do about puttin' on my own clothes. And as for the inside hist'ry ofhow we got that tonnage charge wished onto us, why, McClave had beencalled in when the merry little scheme was first plotted out. 

I made him start at the beginning and explain every item, while wemunched fried-egg sandwiches as we went over reports, sorted out oldletters, and marked up a perfectly good map of Minnesota. But by threeP. M. I had a leather document case stuffed with papers and a cross-indexof 'em in my so-called brain. 

"When you're ready, Mr. Ellins, " says I, standin' by with my hat in myhand. 

"Oh, yes, " says he, heavin' himself up reluctant from his desk chair. 

And, sure enough, there's a silk-lined limousine and a French chauffeurwaitin' in front of the arcade. In no time at all, too, we're rolledacross Seventh Avenue, down through a tunnel, and out alongside a shinyprivate car with a brass-bound bay-window on one end and flower-boxeshung on the side. They even had a carpet laid on the steps. It's a happylittle home on wheels. 

Also there is Bixby the Busy, with his ear out for us. 

Talk about private seccing as a fine art! Why, say, I fairly held mybreath watchin' him operate. Every move is as smooth and silent as asteel lathe runnin' in an oil bath. He don't exactly whisper, or give usthe hush-up sign, but somehow he gets me steppin' soft and talkin'under my breath from the minute I hits the front vestibule. 

"So good of you, Mr. Ellins, " he coos soothin'. "Will you come right in?Mr. Runyon will be with you in a moment. Just finishing a treatment, youknow. This way, gentlemen. "

Say, it was like bein' ushered into church durin' the prayer. Onceinside, you'd never guess it was just a car. More like the corner of aperfectly good drawin'-room--easy chairs, Turkish rugs, silver vasesfull of roses, double hangin's at the windows. 

"Will you sit here, Mr. Ellins?" murmurs Bixby. "And you here, sir. Pardon me a moment. "

Then he glides about, pullin' down a shade, movin' a vase, studyin' howthe light is goin' to strike in, pattin' a cushion, shovin' out afoot-rest--like he was settin' the stage for the big scene. And right inthe midst of it I near spilled the beans by pullin' an afternoon editionout of my pocket. Bixby swoops down on me panicky. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" says he, pluckin' the paper out of my fingers. "Butmay I put this outside? Mr. Runyon cannot stand the rustling ofnewspapers. Please don't mind. There! Now I think we are ready. "

I wanted to warn him that I hadn't quite stopped breathin' yet, but he'soff to the other end of the room, where a nurse in a white cap ispeekin' through the draperies. 

Bixby nods to her and stands one side. Then we waits a minute--twominutes. And finally the procession appears. 

First, a nurse carryin' a steamer rug; next, another nurse with a tray;and after them a valet and the private physician with the great MarcusT. Walkin' slow between. 

He ain't so imposin' when you get that close, though. Kind of a short, poddy party, who looks like he'd been upholstered generous once but hadshrunk a lot. There are heavy bags under his eyes, dewlaps at hismouth-corners, and deep seams across his clean-shaved face. He has sortof a cigar-ash complexion. And yet, under them shaggy brows is a keenpair of eyes that seem to take in everything. 

Old Hickory gets up right off, with his hand out. But it's a socialerror. Bixby blocks him off graceful. He's in full command, Bixby is. With a one-finger gesture he signals the nurse to drape her rug over thechair. Then he nods to the doctor and the valet to go ahead. They easeRunyon into his seat. Bixby motions 'em to wrap up his knees. By aneyelid flutter he shows the other nurse where to set her tray. 

It's almost as complicated a process as dockin' an ocean liner. Whenit's finished, Bixby waves one hand gentle, and they all fade backthrough the draperies. 

"Hello, Ellins, " says Runyon. "Mighty good of you to hunt up a wrecklike me. "

I almost gasped out loud. Somehow, after seem' him handled like a mummythat way, you didn't expect to hear him speak. It's a shock. Even OldHickory must have felt something as I did. 

"I--I didn't know, " says he. "When did it happen, Runyon?"

"Oh, it's nothing, " says Marcus T. "I am merely paying up for fifty-oddyears of hard living by--by this. Ever try to exist on artificial sourmilk and medicated hay, Ellins? Hope you never come to it. Don't look asthough you would. But you were always tougher than I, even back in theState Street days, eh?"

First thing I knew, they were chattin' away free and easy. Course, therewas Bixby all the time, standin' behind watchful. And right in themiddle of a sentence he didn't hesitate to butt in and hand Mr. Runyon aglass of what looked like thin whitewash. Marcus T. Would take a sipobedient and then go on with his talk. At last he asks if there'sanything special he can do for Mr. Ellins. 

"Why, yes, " says Old Hickory, settin' his jaw. "You might call off yourhighwaymen on that Manitou terminal lease, Runyon. That is, unless youmean to take all of our mining profits. "

Marcus T. 's eyes brighten up. They almost twinkle. 

"Bixby, " says he, "what about that? Has there been an increase in thetonnage rate to the Corrugated?"

"I think so, sir, " says Bixby. "I can look it up, sir. "

"Ah!" says Runyon. "Bixby will look it up. "

"He needn't, " says Old Hickory. "It's been doubled, that's all. We hadthe notice last week. Torchy, did you----"

"Yep!" says I, shootin' the letter at him. 

"Well, well!" says Runyon, after he's gazed at it. "There must have beensome well founded cause for such an advance. Bixby, you must----"

"It's because you think you've got us in a hole, " breaks in Old Hickory. "We've got to load our boats and you control the docks. "

"Oh, yes!" chuckles Marcus T. "An unfortunate situation--for you. But Ipresume there are other dockage facilities available. "

"If there were, " says Mr. Ellins sarcastic, "do you think we would bepaying you from three to five millions a year?"

"Bixby, I fear you must explain our position more fully, " goes on Mr. Runyon. 

"Oh, certainly, " says Bixby. "I will have a full report preparedand----"

"Suppose you tell it to my secretary now, " insists Old Hickory, glarin'menacin' at him. 

"Do so, Bixby, " says Marcus T. 

"Why--er--you see, " says Bixby, turnin' to me, "as I understand thecase, the only outlet you have to deep water is over our tracks to----"

"What about them docks at Three Harbors?" I cuts in. 

"Three Harbors?" repeats Bixby, starin' vague. 

"Precisely, " says Marcus T. "As the young man suggests, there is plentyof unemployed dockage at that point. But your ore tracks do not connectwith that port. "

"They would if we laid forty miles of rails, branchin' off at TamarackJunction, " says I. "That spur has all been surveyed and the right of waycleared. "

"Ah!" exclaims Bixby, comin' to life again. "I remember now. TamarackJunction. We hold a charter for a railroad from there to Three Harbors. "

"You mean you did hold it, " says I. 

"I beg pardon?" says Bixby, gawpin'. 

"It lapsed, " says I, "eighteen months ago. Here's a copy, O. K. 'd by aMinnesota notary public. See the date?"

"Allow me, " says Mr. Runyon, reachin' for it. 

Old Hickory gets up and rubbers over his shoulder. "By George!" says he. "It has lapsed, Runyon. Torchy, where's a map of----"

"Here you are, " says I. "You'll see the branch line sketched in there. That would cut our haul about fifteen miles. "

"And leave you with a lot of vacant ore docks on your hands, eh, Runyon?" puts in Old Hickory. "We could have those rails laid by thetime the ice was out of the Soo. Well, well! Throws rather a new lighton the situation, doesn't it?"

Marcus T. Turns slow and fixes them keen eyes of his on Bixby the Busy. 

"Hm-m-m!" says he. "It seems that we have overlooked a point, Bixby. Perhaps, though, you can offer----"

He can. Some shifty private sec, Bixby is. 

"Your milk, sir, " says he, grabbin' the tray and shovin' it in front ofRunyon. 

For a second or so the great Marcus T. Eyes it indignant. Then hisshoulders sag, the fire dies out of his eyes, and he takes the glass. 

He's about the best trained plute I ever saw in captivity. 

"And I think the doctor should take your temperature now, " adds Bixby. "I will call him. "

As he slips off toward the back end of the car Mr. Runyon lets out asigh. 

"It's no use, Ellins, " says he. "One can't pamper a ruined digestion andstill enjoy these friendly little business bouts. One simply can't. Nameyour own terms for continuing that terminal lease. "

Old Hickory does prompt, for we don't want to buy rails at the pricethey're bringin' now. 

"And by the way, Runyon, " says he, "may I ask what you pay your youngman? I'm just curious. "

"Bixby?" says Runyon. "Oh, twenty-five hundred. "

"Huh!" says Mr. Ellins. "My secretary forgets my milk now and then, buthe remembers such trifles as lapsed charters. He is drawing threethousand. "

I hope Marcus T. Didn't hear the gasp I lets out--I tried to smother it. And the first thing I does when we gets back into the limousine is togrin at the boss. 

"Whaddye mean, three thousand?" says I. 

"Dollars, " says he. "Beginning to-day. "

"Z-z-z-zing!" says I. "Going up, up! And there I was plannin' to take aspecial course in trained nursin', so I could hold my job. "

CHAPTER IV

SWITCHING ARTS ON LEON

Oh, sure! We're coming along grand. Did you think we'd be heavin' theblue willow-ware at each other by this time? No. We've hardly displayedany before-breakfast dispositions yet. 

Not that we confine ourselves to the coo vocabulary, or advertise anycontinuous turtle-dove act. Gettin' married ain't jellied our brains, Ihope. Besides, we're busy. I've got a new gilt-edged job to fill, youknow; and Vee, she has one of her own, too. 

Well, I can't say that her scheme of runnin' a Boots, Limited, hasmesmerized all New York into havin' its shoe-shinin' done out. There'ssomething about this cloth top and white gaiter craze that's puttin' acrimp in her perfectly good plans. But she's doin' fairly well, and shedon't have to think up ways of killin' time. 

Course, we have a few other things to think about, too. Just learnin'how to live in New York is a merry little game all by itself. That'sone of my big surprises. I'd thought all along it was so simple. 

But say, we've been gettin' wise to a few facts this last month or so, for we've been tryin' to dope out which one of the forty-nine varietiesof New York's home-sweet-home repertoire was the kind for us. I don'tmean we've been changin' our street number, or testin' out differentfour-room-and-bath combinations. The studio apartment I got at a bargainsuits first rate. It's the meal proposition. 

First off, we decides gay and reckless that we'll breakfast and lunch inand take our dinners out. That listened well and seemed easyenough--until Vee got to huntin' up a two-handed, light-footed femaleparty who could boil eggs without scorchin' the shells, dish up suchthings as canned salmon with cream sauce, and put a few potatoes throughthe French fry process, doublin' in bed-makin' and dust-chasin' durin'her spare time. That shouldn't call for any prize-winnin' graduate froma cookin' college, should it?

But say, the specimens that go in for general housework in this burg area sad lot. I ain't goin' all through the list. I'll just touch lightlyon Bertha. 

She was a cheerful soul, even when she was servin' soggy potatoes orrappin' me in the ear with her elbow as she reached across to fill mywater glass. 

"He-he! Haw-haw! Oxcuse, Mister, " was Bertha's repartee for such littlebreaks. 

Course, I could plead with her for the umpteenth time to try pourin'from the button hand side, but it would have been simpler to have worn ahead guard durin' meals. 

And who would have the heart to put the ban on a yodel that begins inour kitchenette at 7 A. M. , even on cloudy mornin's?

If Bertha had been No. 1, or even No. 2, she'd have had her passportshanded her about the second mornin'; but, as she was the last of a punkhalf dozen, we tried not to mind her musical interludes. So at the endof three weeks her friendly relations with us were still unbroken, though most of the dishes were otherwise. 

So you might have thought we'd been glad, when 6. 30 P. M. Came, to put onour things and join about a million or so other New Yorkers in findin' adinner joint where the cooks and waiters made no claim to havin' anamateur standin'. 

But, believe me, while my domestic instincts may be sproutin' late, they're comin' strong. I'm beginnin' to yearn for nourishment that Idon't have to learn the French for or pick off'm a menu. I'd like to eatwithout bein' surrounded by three-chinned female parties with high bloodpressure, or bein' stared at by pop-eyed old sports who're givin' somekittenish cloak model a bright evenin'. And Vee feels more or less thesame way. 

"Besides, " says she, "I wish we could entertain some of our friends. "

"Just what I was wishin', " says I. "Say, couldn't we find a few simplethings in the cook-book that Bertha couldn't queer?"

"Such as canned baked beans and celery?" asks Vee, chucklin'. "And yet, if I stood by and read the directions to her--who knows?"

"Let's try her on the Piddies, " I suggests. 

Well, we did. And if the potatoes had been cooked a little more and theroast a little less, it wouldn't have been so bad. The olives were allright, even if Bertha did forget to serve 'em until she brought in theice cream. But then, the Piddies are used to little slips like that, havin' lived so long out in Jersey. 

"You see, " explains Vee to me afterwards, "Bertha was a bit flurriedover her first dinner-party. She isn't much used to a gas oven, either. Don't you think we might try another?"

"Sure!" says I. "What are friends for, anyway? How about askin' Mr. AndMrs. Robert Ellins?"

"Oh, dear!" sighs Vee, lookin' scared. Then she is struck with a brightidea. "I'll tell you: we will rehearse the next one the night before. "

"Atta girl!" says I. "Swell thought. "

It was while she and Bertha was strugglin' over the cook-book, andgettin' advice from various sources, from housekeepin' magazines to thejanitor's wife, that this Leon Battou party shows up with his sobhist'ry. 

"Oh, Torchy!" Vee hails me with, as I come home from the office here theother evenin'. "What becomes of people when they're dispossessed--whenthey're put out on the street with their things, you know?"

"Why, " says I, "they generally stay out until they can find a placewhere they can move in. Has anybody been threatenin' to chuck us out fornot----"

"Silly!" says she. "It's the Battous. "

"Don't know 'em, " says I. 

"But surely, " goes on Vee, "you've seen him. He's that funny little oldFrenchman who's always dodging in and out of the elevator withodd-looking parcels under his arm. "

"Oh, yes!" says I. "The one with the twinklin' eyes and the curlyiron-gray hair, who always bows so polite and shoots that bon-shurestuff at you. Him?"

It was. 

It seems the agent had served notice on 'em that mornin'. They'd beenhavin' a grand pow-wow over it in the lower vestibule, when Vee had comealong and got mixed up in the debate. She'd seen Mrs. Battou doin' theweep act on hubby's shoulder while he was tryin' to explain and makin'all sorts of promises. I expect the agent had heard such tales before. Anyway, he was kind of rough with 'em--at which Vee had sailed in andtold him just what she thought. 

"I'm sure you would have done the same, Torchy, " says she. 

"I might, " says I, "if he hadn't been too husky. But what now?"

"I told them not to worry a bit, " says Vee, "and that when you came homeyou would tell them what to do. You will, won't you, Torchy?"

Course, there was only one real sensible answer to that. Who was I, tostep in casual and ditch a court order? But say, when the only girl inthe universe tackles you with the clingin' clinch, hints that you're abig, brainy hero who can handle any proposition that's batted up toyou--well, that's no time to be sensible. 

"I'll do any foolish little thing you name, " says I. 

"Goody!" says Vee. "I just knew you would. We'll go right up and----"

"Just a sec, " says I. "Maybe I'd better have a private talk with thisMr. Battou first off. Suppose you run up and jolly the old lady while hecomes down here. "

She agrees to that, and three minutes later I've struck a pose which issort of a cross between that of a justice of the supreme court and abush league umpire, while M. Leon Battou is sittin' on the edge of achair opposite, conversin' rapid with both hands and a pair of eloquenteyebrows. 

"But consider, monsieur, " he's sayin'. "Only because of owing so little!Can they not wait until I have found some good customers for mypaintings?"

"Oh! Then you're an artist, are you?"

"I have the honor, " says he. "I should be pleased to have you inspectsome of my----"

"It wouldn't help a bit, " says I. "All I know about art is that as arule it don't pay. Don't you do anything else?"

He hunches his shoulders and spreads out both hands. 

"It is true, what you say of art, " he goes on. "And so then I must dothe decorating of walls--the wreaths of roses on the ceiling. That wasmy profession when we lived at Péronne. But here--there is trouble aboutthe union. The greasy plumber will not work where I am, it seems. _Ehbien!_ I am forced out. So I return to my landscapes. Are there not manyrich Americans who pay well for such things?"

I waves him back into his chair. 

"How'd you come to wander so far from this Péronne place?" says I. 

"It was because of our son, Henri, " says he. "You see, he preferred tobe as my father was, a chef. I began that way, too. The Battous alwaysdo--a family of cooks. But I broke away. Henri would not. He became thepastry chef at the Hotel Gaspard in Péronne. And who shall say, too, that he was not an artist in his way? Yes, with a certain fame. Atleast, they heard here, in New York. You would not believe what theyoffered if he would leave Péronne. And after months of saying no he saidyes. It was true. They paid as they promised--more. So Henri sends forus to come also. We found him living like a prince. Truly! For more thanthree years we enjoyed his good fortune. 

"And then--_la guerre_! Henri must go to join his regiment. True, hemight have stayed. But we talked not of that. It was for France. So hewent, not to return. Ah, yes! At Ypres, after only three months in thetrenches. Then I say to the little mother, 'Courage! I, Leon Battou, amstill a painter. The art which has been as a pastime shall be made toyield us bread. You shall see. ' Ah, I believed--then. "

"Nothing doing, eh?" says I. 

Battou shakes his head. 

"Well, " says I, "the surest bet just now would be to locate somewall-frescoin'. I'll see what can be done along that line. "

"Ah, that is noble of you, young man, " exclaims Battou. "It is wonderfulto find such a friend. A thousand thanks! I will tell the little motherthat we are saved. "

With that he shakes me by both hands, gives me a bear hug, and rushesoff. 

Pretty soon Vee comes down with smiles in her eyes. 

"I just knew you would find a way, Torchy, " says she. "You don't knowhow happy you've made them. Now tell me all about it. "

And say, I couldn't convince her I hadn't done a blamed thing but shoota little hot air, not after I'd nearly gone hoarse explainin'. 

"Oh, but you will, " says she. "You'll do something. "

Who could help tryin', after that? I tackles the agent with aproposition that Battou should work out the back rent, but he's afish-eyed gink. 

"Say, " he growls out past his cigar, "if we tried to lug along everypanhandling artist that wanted to graft rent off us, we'd be in fineshape by the end of the year, wouldn't we? Forget it. "

"How about his art stuff?" I asks Vee, when I got back. 

"Oh, utterly hopeless, " says she. "But one can't tell him so. He doesn'tknow how bad it is. I suppose he is all right as a wall decorator. Doyou know, Torchy, they must be in serious straits. Those two littlerooms of theirs are almost bare, and I'm sure they've been living oncheese and crackers for days. What do you think I've done?"

"Sent 'em an anonymous ham by parcels post?" says I. 

"No, " says Vee. "I'm going to have them down to-night for the rehearsaldinner. "

"Fine dope!" says I. "And if they survive bein' practiced on----"

But Vee has skipped off to the kitchenette without waitin' to hear therest. 

"Is this to be a reg'lar dress rehearsal?" I asks, when I comes homeagain. "Should I doll up regardless?"

Yes, she says I must. I was just strugglin' into my dinner coat, too, when the bell rings. I expect Vee had forgot to tell 'em thatsix-forty-five was our reg'lar hour. And say, M. Leon was right therewith the boulevard costume--peg-top trousers, fancy vest, flowin' tie, and a silk tile. As for Madame Battou, she's all in gray and white. 

I'd towed 'em into the studio, and was havin' 'em shed their things, when Vee bounces in out of the kitchenette and announces impetuous:

"Oh, Torchy! We've made a mess of everything. That horrid leg of lambwon't do anything but sozzle away in the pan; the string-beans have beenscorched; and--oh, goodness!"

She'd caught sight of our guests. 

"Please don't mind, " says Vee. "We're not very good cooks, Bertha and I. We--we've spoiled everything, I guess. "

She's tryin' to be cheerful over it. And she sure is a picture, standin'there with a big apron coverin' up most of her evenin' dress, and herupper lip a bit trembly. 

"Buck up, Vee, " says I. "Better luck next time. Chuck the whole shootin'match into the discards, and we'll all chase around to Roverti'sand----"

"Bother Roverti's!" breaks in Vee. "Can't we ever have a decent dinnerin our own home? Am I too stupid for that? And there's that perfectlygug-good l-l-l-leg of--of----"

"Pardon, " says M. Battou, steppin' to the front; "but perhaps, if youwould permit, I might assist with--with the lamb. "

It's a novel idea, I admit. No wonder Vee gasps a little. 

"Why not?" says I. "Course it ain't reg'lar, but if Mr. Battou wants todo some expert coachin', I expect you and Bertha could use it. "

"Do, Leon, " urges Madame Battou. "Lamb, is it? Oh, he is wonderful withlamb. "

She hadn't overstated the case, either. Inside of two minutes he has hiscoat off, a bath towel draped over his fancy vest, and has sent Berthaskirmishin' down the avenue for garlic, cloves, parsley, carrots, and afew other things that had been overlooked, it seems. 

Well, we stands grouped around the kitchenette door for a while, watchin' him resuscitate that pale-lookin' leg of lamb, jab things intoit, pour stuff over it, and mesmerize the gas oven into doin' its fullduty. 

Once he gets started, he ain't satisfied with simply turnin' out theroast. He takes some string-beans and cuts 'em into shoelaces; hecarves rosettes out of beets and carrots; he produces a swell salad outof nothing at all; and with a little flour and whipped cream he throwstogether some kind of puffy dessert that looked like it would melt inyour mouth. 

And by seven-thirty we was sittin' down to a meal such as you don't meetup with outside of some of them Fifth Avenue joints where you have toown a head waiter before they let you in. 

"Whisper, Professor, " says I, "did you work a spell on it, or what?"

"Ah-h-h!" says Battou, chucklin' and rubbin' his hands together. "It iscooked _à la Paysan_, after the manner of Péronne, and with it is thesauce château. "

"That isn't mere cookery, " says Vee; "that's art. "

It was quite a cheery evenin'. And after the Battous had gone, Vee and Iasked each other, almost in chorus: "Do you suppose he'd do it again?"

"He will if I'm any persuader, " says I. "Wouldn't it be great to springsomething like that on Mr. Robert?"

And while I'm shavin' next mornin' I connect with the big idea. Do youever get 'em that way? It cost me a nick under the ear, but I didn'tcare. While I'm usin' the alum stick I sketches out the scheme for Vee. 

"But, Torchy!" says she. "Do you think he would--really?"

Before I can answer there's a ring at the door, and here is M. LeonBattou. 

"The agent once more!" says he, producin' a paper. "In three days, itsays. But you have found me the wall-painting, yes?"

"Professor, " says I, "I hate to say it, but there's nothin' doing in thefree-hand fresco line--absolutely. "

He slumps into a chair, and that pitiful, hunted look settles in hiseyes. 

"Then--then we must go, " says he. 

"Listen, Professor, " says I, pattin' him soothin' on the shoulder. "Whynot can this art stuff, that nobody wants, and switch to somethin'you're a wizard at?"

"You--you mean, " says he, "that I should--should turn chef? I--LeonBattou--in a big noisy hotel kitchen? Oh, but I could not. No, I couldnot!"

"Professor, " says I, "the only person in this town that I know of who'snutty enough to want to hire a wall decorator reg'lar is me!"

"You!" gasps Battou, starin' around at our twelve by eighteenlivin'-room. 

I nods. 

"What would you take it on for as a steady job?"

"Oh, anything that would provide for us, " says he, eager. "But how----"

"That's just the point, " says I. "When you wasn't paintin' could youcook a little on the side? Officially you'd be a decorator, but betweentimes---- Eh?"

He's a keen one, Mr. Battou. 

"For so charming young people, " says he, bowin' low, "it would be agreat pleasure. And the little mother--ah, you should see what a managershe is! She can make a franc go farther. Could she assist also?"

"Could she!" exclaims Vee. "If she only would!"

Well, say, inside of half an hour we'd fixed up the whole deal, I'darmed Battou with a check to shove under the nose of that agent, and Veehad given Bertha her permanent release. And believe me, compared to whatwas put before Mr. And Mrs. Robert Ellins that evenin', the dressrehearsal dinner looked like Monday night at an actors' boardin'-house. 

"I say, " whispers Mr. Robert, "your cook must be a real artist. "

"That's how he's carried on the family payroll, " says I. 

"Of course, " says Vee afterwards, "while we can afford it, I suppose, itdoes seem scandalously extravagant for us to have cooking like thatevery day. "

"Rather than have you worried with any more Bunglin' Berthas, " says I, "I'd subsidize the whole of Péronne to come over. And just think of allI'll save by not havin' to buy my hat back from the coat-room boys everynight. "

CHAPTER V

A RECRUIT FOR THE EIGHT-THREE

Have you a shiny little set of garden tools in your home? Have we? Well, I should seed catalogue. Honest to goodness! Here! I can show you alocal time-table and my commuter's ticket. How about that, eh, for me?

And I don't know now just what it was worked the sudden shift forus--the Battous, or our visit to the Robert Ellinses', or meetin' upwith MacGregor Shinn, the consistent grouch. 

It begun with window-boxes. Professor Leon Battou, our official walldecorator and actin' cook, springs 'em on me timid one day after lunch. It had been some snack, too--onion soup sprinkled with croutons andsprayed with grated cheese; calf's brains _au buerre noir_; a mixedsalad; and a couple of gooseberry tarts with the demi-tasse. Say, I'mgettin' so I can eat in French, even if I can't talk it. 

And while all that may listen expensive, I have Vee's word for it thatsince Madame Battou has been doin' the marketin' the high cost oflivin' has been jarred off the roost. I don't know how accurateProfessor Leon is at countin' up the calories in every meal, but I'mhere to announce that he always produces something tasty, with nopost-prandial regrets concealed in the bottom of the casserole. 

"Professor, " says I, "I've been a stranger to this burry brains style ofnourishment a long time, but you can ring an encore on that whenever youlike. "

He smiles grateful, but shakes his head. 

"Ah, Monsieur, " says he, --oh, yes, just like that, --"but if I had thefresh chives, the--the _fin herbes_--ah, then you should see!"

"Well, can't Madame get what you need at the stores?" says I. 

"But at such a price!" says Leon. "And of so discouraging a quality. While, if we had but a few handfuls of good soil in some small boxes bythe windows---- Come, I will show you. Here, and here, where the suncomes in the morning. I could secure them myself if you would not thinkthem unlovely to have in view. "

"How about it, Vee?" I asks. "Are we too proud to grow our soup greenson the premises?"

She says we ain't, so I tells Leon to breeze ahead with his hangin'garden. Course, I ain't lookin' for anything more'n a box on the ledge. But he's an ingenious old boy, Leon. With a hammer and saw and a fewboxes from the grocery, he builds a rack that fits into one of the frontwindows; and the first thing I know, he has the space chuckful ofshallow trays, and seeds planted in every one. A few days later, and theother window is blocked off similar. Also I get a bill from the floristfor two bushels of dirt. 

Well, our front windows did look kind of odd, and our view out waspretty well barred off; but he had painted the things up neat, and hedid all his waterin' and fussin' around early in the mornin', so we letit ride. When he starts in to use our bedroom windows the same way, though, I has to call him off. 

"See here, Professor, " says I, "you ain't mistakin' this studioapartment for a New Jersey truck-farm, are you! Besides, we have to keepthem windows open at night, and your green stuff is apt to get nipped. "

"Oh, but the night air is bad to breathe, Monsieur, " says he. 

"Not for us, " says I. "Anyway, we're used to it, so I guess you'll haveto lay off this bedroom garden business. "

He takes away the boxes, but it's plain he's disappointed. I believe ifI'd let him gone on he'd had cabbages growin' on the mantelpiece, alettuce bed on the readin'-table, and maybe a potato patch on thefire-escape. I never knew gardenin' could be made such an indoor sport. 

"Poor chap!" says Vee. "He has been telling me what wonderful things heused to raise when he lived in Péronne. Isn't there some way, Torchy, that we could give him more room?"

"We might rent the roof and glass it in for him, " I suggests, "or get apermit to bridge over the street. "

"Silly!" says she, rumplin' my red hair reckless. 

That was about the time we was havin' some of that delayed winterweather, and it was touchin' to see Professor Battou nurse along thempale green shoots that he'd coaxed up in his window-boxes. Then it runsoff warm and sunny again, just as we gets this week-end invite from Mr. Robert. 

Course, I'd been out to his Long Island place before, but somehow Ihadn't got excited over it. This time it's different. Vee was goin'along, for one thing. And I expect the fact that spring had comebouncin' in on us after a hard winter had something to do with ourenthusiasm for gettin' out of town. You know how it is. For elevenmonths you're absolutely sure the city's the only place to live in, andyou feel sorry for them near-Rubes who have to catch trains to get home. And then, all of a sudden, about this time of year, you get thatrestless feelin', and wonder what it is ails you. I think it struck Veeharder than it did me. 

"Goody!" says she, when I tell her we're expected to go out Saturdaynoon and stay over until Monday mornin'. "It is real country out there, too, isn't it?"

"Blamed near an hour away, " says I. "Ought to be, hadn't it?"

"I hope they have lilac bushes in bloom, " says Vee. "Do you know, Torchy, if I lived in the country, I'd have those if nothing else. Wouldn't you?"

"I expect so, " says I, "though I ain't doped out just what I would do ina case like that. It ain't seemed worth while. But if lilacs are theproper stunt for a swell country place, I'll bet Mr. Robert's got 'em. "

By the time we'd been shot out to Harbor Hills station, though, I'dforgot whether it was lilacs or lilies-of-the-valley that Vee wasparticular about; for Mr. Robert goes along with us, and he's joshin'us about our livin' in a four-and-bath and sportin' a French chef. 

"Really, " says he, "to live up to him you ought to move into a brewer'spalace on Riverside Drive, at least. "

"Oh, Battou would be satisfied if I'd lease Madison Square park for him, so he could raise onions, " says I. 

Which reminds Mr. Robert of something. 

"Oh, I say!" he goes on. "You must see my garden. I'm rather proud ofit, you know. "

"Your garden!" says I, grinnin'. "You don't mean you've been gettin' thehoe and rake habit, Mr. Robert?"

Honest, that's the last thing you'd look for from him, for until he gotmarried about the only times he ever strayed from the pavements was whenhe went yachtin'. But by the way he talks now you'd think farmer was hismiddle name. 

"Now, over there, " says he, after we've been picked up at the station byhis machine and rolled off three or four miles, "over there I am raisinga crop of Italian clover to plow in. That's a new hedge I'm setting out, too--hydrangeas, I think. It takes time to get things in shape, yousee. "

"Looks all right to me, as it is, " says I. "You got a front yard bigenough to get lost in. "

Also the house ain't any small shack, with all its dormers and stripedawnin's and deep verandas. 

But it's too nice an afternoon to spend much time inside, and afterwe've found Mrs. Robert, Vee asks to be shown the garden. 

"Certainly, " says Mr. Robert. "I will exhibit it myself. That is--er--bythe way, Gertrude, where the deuce is that garden of ours?"

Come to find out, it was Mrs. Robert who was the pie-plant and radishexpert. She could tell you which rows was beets and which was cornwithout lookin' it up on her chart. 

She'd been takin' a course in landscape-gardenin', too; and as shepilots us around the grounds, namin' the different bushes and things, she listens like a nursery pamphlet. And Vee falls for it hard. 

"How perfectly splendid, " says she, "to be able to plan things likethat, and to know so many shrubs by their long names. But haven't youanything as common as lilacs!"

Mrs. Robert laughs and shakes her head. 

"They were never mentioned in my course, you see, " says she. "But ournearest neighbor has some wonderful lilac bushes. Robert, don't youthink we might walk down the east drive and ask your dear friend Mr. MacGregor Shinn if he'd mind----"

"Decidedly no, " cuts in Mr. Robert. "I'd much prefer not to trouble Mr. Shinn at all. "

"Oh, very well, " says Mrs. Robert. And then, turnin' to us: "We haven'tbeen particularly fortunate in our relations with Mr. Shinn; our fault, no doubt. "

But you know Vee. Half an hour later, when we've been left to ourselves, she announces:

"Come along, Torchy. I am going to find that east drive. "

"It's a case of lilacs or bust, eh?" says I. "All right; I'm rightbehind you. But let's make it a sleuthy getaway, so they won't know. "

We let on it was a risky stunt, slippin' out a side terrace door, dodgin' past the garage, and finally strikin' a driveway different fromthe one we'd come in by. We follows along until we fetches up by somebig stone gateposts. 

"There they are!" exclaims Vee. "Loads of them. And aren't theyfragrant? Smell, Torchy. "

"I am, " says I, sniffin' deep. "Don't you hear me?"

"Yes; and that Mr. Shinn will too, if you're as noisy as that over it, "says she. "I suppose that is where he lives. Isn't it the cutest littlecottage?"

"It needs paint here and there, " says I. 

"I know, " says Vee. "But look at that old Dutch roof with the wideeaves, and the recessed doorway, and the trellises on either side, andthat big clump of purple lilacs nestling against the gable end. Oh, andthere's a cunning little pond in the rear, just where it ought to be! Ido wish we might go in and walk around a bit. "

"Why not?" says I. "What would it hurt?"

"But that Shinn person, " protests Vee, "might--might not----"

"Well, he couldn't any more'n shoo us off, " says I, "and if he's nuttyenough to do that after a good look at you, then he's hopeless. "

"You absurd boy!" says Vee, squeezin' my hand. "Well, anyway, we mightventure in a step or two. "

As a matter of fact, there don't seem to be anyone in sight. You mightalmost think nobody lived there; for the new grass ain't been cut, theflower beds are full of dry weeds left over from last fall, and most ofthe green shutters are closed. 

There's smoke comin' from the kitchen chimney, though, so we wandersaround front, bringin' up under the big lilac bush. It's just coveredwith blossoms--a truck-load, I should say; and it did seem a shame, Veebein' so strong for 'em, that she couldn't have one little spray. 

"About a quarter a bunch, them would be on Broadway, " says I, diggin' upsome change. "Well, here's where Neighbor Shinn makes a sale. "

And, before Vee can object, I've snapped off the end of a twig. 

I'd just dropped the quarter in an envelop and was stickin' it on theend of the broken branch, when the front door opens, and out dashes thistall gink with the rusty Vandyke and the hectic face. Yep, it's a luridmap, all right. Some of it might have been from goin' without a hat inthe wind and weather, for his forehead and bald spot are just ashigh-colored as the rest; but there's a lot of temper tint, too, lightin' up the tan, and the deep furrows between the eyes shows itain't an uncommon state for him to be in. Quite a husk he is, costumedin a plaid golf suit, and he bores down on us just as gentle as atornado. 

"I say, you!" he calls out. "Stop where you are. "

"Don't hurry, " says I. "We'll wait for you. "

"Ye will, wull ye!" he snarls, as he comes stampin' up in front of us. "Ye'd best. And what have ye there, Miss? Hah! Pickin' me posies, eh?And trespassin', too. "

"That's right, " says I. "Petty larceny and breakin' and enterin'. I'mthe guilty party. "

"I'm sure there's nothing to make such a fuss about, " says Vee, eyin'him scornful. 

"Oh, ho!" says he. "It's a light matter, I suppose, prowling aroundprivate grounds and pilfering? I ought to be taking it as a joke, eh?Don't ye know, you two, I could have you taken in charge for this?"

"Breeze ahead, then, " says I. "Call the high sheriff. Only let's not getall foamed up over it, Mr. MacGregor Shinn. "

"Ha!" says he. "Then ye know who I am? Maybe you're stopping up at thebig house?"

"We are guests of Mr. Ellins, your neighbor, " puts in Vee. 

"He's no neighbor of mine, " snaps Shinn. "Not him. His bulldog worriesme cat, his roosters wake me up in the morning, and his Dago workmenchatter about all day long. No, I'll not own such a man as neighbor. Norwill I have his guests stealing my posies. "

"Then take it, " says Vee, throwing the lilac spray on the ground. 

"You'll find a quarter stuck on the bush, " says I. "Sorry, MacGregor, wecouldn't make a trade. The young lady is mighty fond of lilacs. "

"Is she, now?" says Shinn, still scowlin' at us. 

"And she thinks your place here is pretty cute, " I adds. 

"It's a rotten hole, " says he. 

"Maybe you're a poor judge, " says I. "If it was fixed up a bit I shouldthink it might be quite spiffy. "

"What call has an old bachelor to be fixing things up?" he demands. "What do I care how the place looks? And what business is it of yours, anyway?"

"Say, you're a consistent grouch, ain't you?" says I, givin' him thegrin. "What's the particular trouble--was you toppin' your driveto-day?"

"Slicin', mon, " says he. "Hardly a tee shot found the fairway the wholeround. And then you two come breaking me bushes. "

"My error, " says I. "But you should have hung out a sign that you wasinside chewin' nails. "

"I was doing nothing of the kind, " says he. "I was waiting for thatgrinning idiot, Len Hung, to give me me tea. "

"Well, don't choke over it when you do get it, " says I. "And if youain't ready to sic the police on us we'll be trotting along back. "

"Ye wull not, " says MacGregor; "ye'll have tea with me. "

It sounds like a threat, and I can see Vee gettin' ready to objectstrenuous. So I gives her the nudge. 

I expect it's because I'm so used to Old Hickory's blowin' out a fusethat I don't duck quicker when a gas-bomb disposition begins to sputteraround. They don't mean half of it, these furious fizzers. 

Sometimes it's sciatica, more often a punk digestion, and seldom purecussedness. If you don't humor 'em by comin' back messy yourself, butjust jolly 'em along, they're apt to work out of it. And I'd seen sortof a human flicker in them blue-gray eyes of MacGregor Shinn's. 

"Vee, " says I, "our peevish friend is invitin' us to take tea with him. Shall we chance it?"

And you know what a good sport Vee is. She lets the curve come into hermouth corners again, both of her cheek dimples show, and she shoots aquizzin' smile at Mr. Shinn. 

"Does he say it real polite?" she asks. 

"Na, " says MacGregor. "But there'll be hot scones and marmalade. "

"M-m-m-m!" says Vee. "Let's, Torchy. "

It's an odd finish to an affair that started so scrappy. Not that Shinnreverses himself entirely, or turns from a whiskered golf grump into astage fairy in spangled skirts. He goes right on with his growlin' andgrumblin'--about the way his Chink cook serves the tea, about havin' tolive in a rotten hole like Harbor Hills, about everything in general. But a great deal of it is just to hear himself talk, I judge. 

We had a perfectly good high tea, and them buttered scones withmarmalade couldn't be beat. Also he shows us all over the house, and Veeraves about it. 

"Look, Torchy!" says she. "That glimpse of water from the living-roomwindows. Isn't that dear? And one could have such a wonderful gardenbeyond. Such a splendid big fireplace, too. And what huge beams in theceiling! It's a very old house, isn't it, Mr. Shinn?"

"The rascally agent who sold it to me said it was, " says MacGregor, "butI wouldn't believe a word of his on any subject. 'Did I ask you for anold house, at all?' I tells him. For what I wanted was just a placewhere I could live quiet, and maybe have me game of golf when I wantedit. But here I've gone off me game; and, besides, the country's no placeto live quiet in. I should be in town, so I should, like any decentwhite man. I've a mind to look up a place at once. Try another scone, young lady. "

So it was long after six before we got away, and the last thingMacGregor does is to load Vee down with a whole armful of lilacblossoms. 

I suppose Mr. And Mrs. Robert thought we'd been makin' a wholesale raidwhen they saw us comin' in with the plunder. Mrs. Robert almost turnspale. 

"Mercy!" says she. "You don't mean to say you got all those from ourneighbor's bushes, do you?"

"Uh-huh, " says I. "We've been mesmerizin' MacGregor. He's as tame aScot now as you'd want to see. "

They could hardly believe it, and when they heard about our havin' teawith him they gasped. 

"Of all persons!" says Mrs. Robert. "Why, he has been glaring at us fora year, and sending us the most bristling messages. I don't understand. "

Mr. Robert, though, winks knowin'. 

"Some of Torchy's red-headed diplomacy, I suspect, " says he. "I mustengage you to make our peace with MacGregor. "

That's all we saw of him, though, durin' our stay. For one thing, we waskept fairly busy. I never knew you could have so much fun in thecountry. Ever watch a bunch of young ducks waddlin' about? Say, ain'tthey a circus! And them fluffy little chicks squabblin' over worms. Honest, I near laughed myself sick. Vee was for luggin' some of 'em hometo the apartment. But she was thrilled over 'most everything out there, from the fat robins on the lawn to the new leaves on the trees. 

And, believe me, when we gets back to town again, our studio apartmentseems cramped and stuffy. We talked over everything we'd seen and doneat the Ellinses'. 

"That's really living, isn't it?" says Vee. 

"Why not, " says I, "with a twenty-room house, and grounds half as big asCentral Park?"

"I know, " says Vee. "But a little place like Mr. Shinn's would be largeenough for us. "

"I expect it would, " says I. "You don't really think you'd like to liveout there, do you, though?"

"Wouldn't I!" says Vee, her eyes sparklin'. "I'd love it. "

"What would you do all day alone?" I suggests. 

"I'd raise ducks and chickens and flowers, " says Vee. "And Leon couldhave a garden. Just think!"

Yep--I thought. I must have kept awake hours that night, tryin' not to. And the more I mulled it over---- Well, in the mornin' I had a talk withMr. Robert, after which I got busy with the long-distance 'phone. Ididn't say anything much at lunch about what I'd done, but around threeo'clock I calls up the apartment. 

"I'm luggin' home someone to dinner, " says I. "Guess who?"

Vee couldn't. 

"MacGregor the grouch, " says I. 

"Really!" says Vee. "How funny!"

"It's part of the plot, " says I. "Tell the Professor to spread himselfon the eatings, and have the rooms all fixed up slick. "

Vee says she will. And she does. MacGregor falls for it, too. You shouldhave seen him after dinner, leanin' back comfortable in our biggestchair, sippin' his coffee, and puffin' one of Old Hickory's specialperfectos that I'd begged for the occasion. 

And still I didn't let on. What I'm after is to have him spring theproposition on me. Just before he's ready to go, too, he does. 

"I say, " says he casual, "this isn't such a bad hole you have here. "

"Perfectly rotten, " says I. 

"Then we might make a trade, " says he. "What?"

"There's no tellin', " says I. "You mean a swap, as things stand?"

"That's it, " says he. "I'm no hand for moving rubbish about. "

"Me either, " says I. "But if you mean business, suppose you drop into-morrow at the office, about ten-thirty, and talk it over. "

"Very well, " says MacGregor. "I'll stop in town to-night. "

"Oh, Torchy!" says Vee, after he's gone. "Do--do you suppose hewill--really?"

"You're still for it, eh?" says I. "Sure, now?"

"Oh, it would be almost too good to be true, " says she. "That could bemade just the dearest place!"

"Yes, " says I; "but my job is to talk MacGregor into lettin' it gocheap, or else we can't afford to touch it. "

Well, I can't claim it was all my smooth work that did the trick, forMacGregor had bought the place at a bargain first off, and now he wasanxious to unload. Still, he hadn't been born north of Glasgow fornothing. But the figures Mr. Robert said would be about right I managedto shade by twenty per cent. , and my lump invoice of that old mahoganyof ours maybe was a bit generous. Anyway, when I goes home that night Itosses Vee a long envelop. 

"What's this?" says she. 

"That's your chicken permit, " says I. "All aboard for Lilac Lodge! Gee!I wonder should I grow whiskers, livin' out there?"

CHAPTER VI

TORCHY IN THE GAZINKUS CLASS

I expect I'll get used to it all in time. This rural stuff, I mean. Butit ain't goin' to come easy. When you've been brought up to think ofhome as some place where you've got a right to leave your trunk as longas you pay the rent prompt, --a joint where you have so many square feetof space on a certain floor, and maybe eight or ten inches of brick andplaster between you and a lot of strangers, --and then all of a suddenyou switch to a whole house that's all yours, with gobs of land allaround it, and trees and bushes and things that you can do what you likewith--well, it's sort of staggerin' at first. 

Why, the day Vee and I moved into this Harbor Hills place that I'd madethe swift trade for with MacGregor Shinn, we just had our baggage dumpedin the middle of the livin'-room, chucked our wraps on some chairs, andwent scoutin' around from one room to another for over an hour, kind ofnutty and excited. 

"Oh, look, Torchy!" Vee would exclaim about twice a minute when shediscovered something new. 

You know, we'd been in the house only once before, and then we'd lookedaround just casual. And if you want to find out how little you reallysee when you think you're lookin', you want to make a deal like thatonce--buy a joint just as it stands, and then, a few days after, campdown in it and tot up what you've really got. Why, say, you'd 'mostthought we'd been blindfolded that first time. 

Course, this was different. Now we was takin' stock, you might say, ofthe things we was goin' to live with. And, believe me, I never had anyidea I'd ever own such a collection, or so big a slice of the U. S. A. 

"Only think, Torchy, " says Vee, after we've made the rounds inside. "Tenrooms, just for us!"

"Twelve, countin' the cellar and attic, " says I. "But there's moreoutside, ain't there?"

Yep, there was. There was an old stable that had been turned into agarage, with a couple of rooms finished off upstairs. Then there was acarriage shed, with more rooms over that, also a chicken house beyond. And stowed away in odd corners was all kinds of junk that might be moreor less useful to have: a couple of lawn-mowers, an old sleigh hoistedup on the rafters of the carriage house, a weird old buggy, a plow, agrindstone, a collection of old chairs and sofas that had seen betterdays, a birch-bark canoe--things like that. 

Then there was our lily pond. We had to walk all round that, poke inwith a pole to see how deep it might be, and wonder if there was anyfish in it. On beyond was some trees--apple and pear and cherry, accordin' to Vee, and 'way at the back a tall cedar hedge. 

"Why, it's almost an estate, " says Vee. "Nearly five acres, you know. How does it seem, Torchy, to think that all this is ours?"

"How?" says I. "Why, I feel like I was the Grand Gazinkus of Gazook. "

But, at that, my feelin's wa'n't a marker to the emotions Professor LeonBattou, our artist-chef, manages to work up. He's so tickled at gettin'back to the country and away from the city, where him and Madame Battoucome so near starvin' on the street, that he goes skippin' around like asunshine kid, pattin' the trees, droppin' down on his hands and knees inthe grass to dig up dandelions, and keepin' up a steady stream ofexplosive French and rapid-fire English. 

"Ah, but it is all so good!" says he. "_Le bleu ciel, les fleurs, lesoiseaux! C'est bonne, tres bonne. Ne c'est pas?_"

"I expect it is, Leon, " says I. "Although I might not state it just thatway myself. Picked out a spot yet for your garden?"

Foolish question! That was his first move, after taking a glance at theparticular brand of cook-stove he'd got to wrestle with. Just to theleft of the kitchen wing is a little plot shut in by privet bushes and atrellis, which is where he says the _fine herbes_ are meant to grow. Hetows us around there and exhibits it chesty. Mostly it's full of lastyear's weeds; but he explains how he will soon have it in shape. And forthe next week the only way we ever got any meals cooked was becauseMadame Battou used to go drag him in by the arm and make him quitdiggin' long enough to hash up some of them tasty dishes for us. 

If all amateur gardeners are apt to go so dippy over it, I hope I don'tcatch the disease. No danger, I guess. I made my stab at it about thethird day, when Vee wanted some ground spaded up for a pansy bed. Andsay, in half an hour, there, I'd worked up enough palm blisters andbackache to last me a month. It may seem sport to some people, but to meit has all the ear-marks of plain, hard work, such as you can indulgein reg'lar by carryin' a foldin' dinner-pail and lettin' yourself out toa padrone. 

Leon, though, just couldn't seem to let it alone. He almost made a viceof it, to my mind. Why, say, he's out there at first crack of day, whenever that is; and in the evenin', as soon as he has served dinner, he sneaks out to put in a few more licks, and stays until it's so darkhe can hardly find his way back. 

You know all them window-boxes he had clutterin' up the studioapartment. Well, he insists on cratin' every last one of 'em andexpressin' 'em along; and now he has all that alleged lettuce andparsley and carrots and so on set out in neat little rows; and when heain't sprinklin' 'em with the hose or dosin' 'em with fertilizer, he'sout there ticklin' 'em with a rake. 

"Gee!" says I. "I thought all you had to do to a garden was just tochuck in the seeds and let 'em grow. But accordin' to your method itwould be less trouble bringin' up a pair of twins. "

"Ah-h-h-h!" says he. "But monsieur has not the passion for growing greenthings. "

"Thanks be, then, " says I. "It would land me in the liniment ward if Ihad. "

I must say, though, that Vee's 'most as bad with her flowers. Honest, when she shows me where she's planned to have this and that, and hintsthat I can get busy durin' my spare time with the spade, I almost wishedwe was back in town. 

"What?" I gasps. "Want me to excavate all that? Hal-lup!"

"Pooh!" says Vee. "It will do you good. "

Maybe she thought so. But I knew it wouldn't. So I chases up the hill tothe Ellins place, and broke in on Mr. Robert just as he's finishin'breakfast. 

"Say, " says I, "you ain't got a baby-grand steam-shovel or anything likethat around the place, have you?"

He says he's sorry, but he ain't. When he hears what I'm up against, though, he comes to the rescue noble by lendin' me one of his expertDago soil-disturbers, at $1. 75 per--and with Vee bossin' him she got thewhole job done in half a day. After that I begun to enjoy gardenin' abit more. I'm gettin' to be a real shark at it, too. And ambitious! Youought to hear me. 

"How about havin' a couple more lanes of string-beans laid out?" Isuggests. "And maybe a few hundred mounds of green corn, eh?"

And then I can watch Joe start the enterprise with a plow and an oldwhite horse, and I can go to the office feelin' that, no matter how muchI seem to be soldierin', as a matter of fact I'm puttin' in a full day'swork. When I get back in the afternoon, the first thing I want to see ishow much I've got done. 

Not that I'm able to duck all kinds of labor that way. Believe me, acountry place is no loafin' spot, especially when it's new, or you'renew to it. Vee tends to that. Say, that girl can think up more odd formsof givin' me exercise than a bunch of football coaches--movin' bureaus, hangin' pictures, puttin' up curtain-rods, fixin' door-catches, andlittle things like that. 

Up to a few weeks ago all I knew about saws and screw-drivers and so onwas that they were shiny things displayed in the hardware store windows. But if I keep on tacklin' all the odd jobs she sics me on to, I'll beable to qualify pretty soon as a boss carpenter, a master plumber, andan expert electrician. 

Course, I gouge myself now and then. My knuckles look like I'd beenmixin' in a food riot, and I've spoiled two perfectly good suits ofclothes. But I can point with pride to at least three doors that I'vecoaxed into shuttin', I've solved the mystery of what happens to awindow-weight when the sash-cord breaks, and I've rigged up twodrop-lights without gettin' myself electrocuted or askin' any advicefrom Mr. Edison. 

Which reminds me that what I can't seem to get used to about the countryis the poor way it's lighted up at night. You know, our place is out acouple of miles from the village and the railroad station; and, while wegot electric bulbs enough in the house, outside there ain't a lamp-postin sight. Dark! Say, after 8 P. M. You might as well be livin' in asub-cellar with the sidewalk gratin' closed. Honest, the only glim wecan see from our front porch is a flicker from the porte cochère at theEllinses' up on the hill, and most of that is cut off by trees and lilacbushes. 

Vee don't seem to mind, though. These mild evenin's recent, she'sdragged me out after dinner for a spell and made me sit with herwatchin' for the moon to come up. I do it, but it ain't anything I'mstrong for. I can't see the percentage in starin' out at nothing at allbut black space and guessin' where the driveway is or what them darkstreaks are. Then, there's so many weird sounds I can't account for. 

"What's all that jinglin' going on?" I asks the other evenin'. "Soundslike a squad of junkmen comin' up the pike. "

"Silly!" says Vee. "Frogs, of course. "

"Oh!" says I. 

Then I listens some more, until something else breaks loose. It's sortof a cross between the dyin' moan of a gyastacutus and the whine of asubway express roundin' a sharp curve. 

"For the love of Pete, " I breaks out, "what do you call that?"

Vee chuckles. "Didn't you see the calf up at Mr. Robert's?" she asks. "Well, that's the old cow calling to him. "

"If she feels as bad as that, " says I, "I wish she'd wait until mornin'to express herself. That's the most doleful sound I ever heard. Come on;let's go in while you tinkle out something lively and cheerin' on thepiano. "

I never thought I was one of the timid kind, either. Course, I'm noCarnegie hero, or anything like that; but I've always managed to getalong in the city without developin' a case of nerves. Out here, though, it's different. Two or three evenin's now I've felt almost jumpy, justover nothing at all, it seems. 

Maybe that's why I didn't show up any better, here the other night, whenVee rings in this silent alarm on me. I was certainly poundin' my earindustrious when gradually I gets the idea that someone is shakin' me bythe shoulders. It's Vee. 

"Torchy, " she whispers husky. "Get up. "

"Eh?" says I, pryin' my eyes open reluctant. "Get up? Wha-wha' for?"

"Oh, don't be stupid about it, " says she. "I've been trying to rouse youfor five minutes. Please get up and come to the window. "

"Nothing doing, " says I snugglin' into the pillow again. "I--I'm busy. "

"But you must, " says she. "Listen. I think someone is prowling aroundthe house. "

"Let 'em ramble, then, " says I. "What do we care?"

"But suppose it's a--a burglar?" she whispers. 

I'll admit that gives me a goose-fleshy feelin' down the spine. It'ssuch a disturbin' word to have sprung on you in the middle of the night. 

"Let's not suppose anything of the sort, " says I. 

"But I'm sure I saw someone just now, when I got up to fix the shade, "insists Vee. "Someone who stepped out into the moonlight right there, between the shadows of those two trees. Then he disappeared out thatway. Come and look. "

Well, I was up by then, and half awake, so I tries to peer out into theback yard. I'm all for grantin' a general alibi, though. 

"Maybe you was only dreamin', Vee, " says I. "Anyway, let's wait untilmornin', and then----"

"There!" she breaks in excited. "Just beyond the garden trellis. See?"

Yep. There's no denyin' that someone is sneakin' around out there. Firstoff I thought it might be a female in a white skirt and a raincoat; butwhen we gets the head showin' plain above some bushes we can make out amustache. 

"It's a man!" gasps Vee, clutchin' me by the sleeve. 

"Uh-huh, " says I. "So it is. "

"Well?" says Vee. 

I expect that was my cue to come across with the bold and noble acts. But, somehow, I didn't yearn to dash out into the moonlight in mypajamas and mix in rough with a total stranger. But I didn't mean togive it away if I could help it. 

"Got a nerve, ain't he?" says I. "Let's wait; maybe he'll fall into thepond. "

"How absurd!" says Vee. "No; we must do something right away. "

"Of course, " says I. "I'll shout and ask him what the blazes he thinkshe's doin'. "

"Don't, " says Vee. "There may be others--in the house. And before youlet him know you see him, you ought to be armed. Get your revolver. "

At that I just gawped at Vee, for she knows well enough I don't ownanything more deadly than a safety razor, and that all the gun-play Iever indulged in was once or twice at a Coney Island shootin' gallerywhere I slaughtered a clay pipe by aimin' at a glass ball. 

"Whaddye mean, revolver?" I asks. 

"S-s-s-sh!" says she. "There's that Turkish pistol, you know, that Mr. Shinn left hanging over the mantel in the living-room. "

"Think it's loaded?" I whispers. 

"It might be, " says Vee. "Anyway, it's better than nothing. Let's getit. "

"All right, " says I. "Soon as I get something on. Just a sec. "

So I jumps into a pair of trousers and a coat and some bath slippers, while Vee throws on a dressin'-sack. We feels our way sleuthydownstairs, and after rappin' my shins on a couple of rockers I getsdown the old pistol. It's a curious, wicked-lookin' antique about twofeet long, with a lot of carvin' and silver inlay on the barrel. I'dnever examined the thing to see how it worked, but it feels sort ofcomfortin' just to grip it in my hand. We unlocks the back door easy. 

"Now you stay inside, Vee, " says I, "while I go scoutin' and----"

"No indeed, " says Vee. "I am going too. "

"But you mustn't, " I insists. 

"Hush!" says she. "I shall. "

And she did. So we begins our first burglar hunt as a twosome, and Imust say there's other sports I enjoy more. Out across the lawn wesneaks, steppin' as easy as we can, and keepin' in the shadow most ofthe time. 

"Guess he must have skipped, " says I. 

"But he was here only a moment ago, " says Vee. "Don't you know, we sawhim---- Oh, oh!"

I don't blame her for gaspin'. Not twenty feet ahead of us, crouchin'down in the cabbage patch, is the villain. Just why he should be tryin'to hide among a lot of cabbage plants not over three inches high, Idon't stop to think. All I knew was that here was someone prowlin'around at night on my premises, and all in a flash I begins to see red. Swingin' Vee behind me, I unlimbers the old pistol and cocks it. Ididn't care whether this was the open season for burglars or not. Iwanted to get this one, and get him hard. 

Must have been a minute or more that I had him covered, tryin' to steadymy arm so I could keep the muzzle pointed straight at his back, when allof a sudden he lifts his right hand and begins scratchin' his ear. Somehow, that breaks the spell. Why should a burglar hump himself on hishands and knees in a truck patch and stop to scratch his ear?

"Hey, you!" I sings out real crisp. 

Maybe that ain't quite the way to open a line of chat with a midnightmarauder. I've been kidded about it some since; but at the time itsounded all right. And it had the proper effect. He comes up on his toeswith his hands in the air, like he was worked by springs. 

"That's right; keep your paws up, " says I. "And, remember, if you go tomakin' any funny moves----"

"Why, Torchy!" exclaims Vee, grabbin' my shootin' arm. "It's Leon!"

"Wha-a-a-at!" says I, starin' at this wabbly party among the coldslaw. 

But it's Professor Battou, all right. He's costumed in a night-shirt, anold overcoat, and a pair of rubbers; and he certainly does look odd, standin' there in the moonlight with his elbows up and his kneesknockin' one another. 

"Well, well, Leon!" says I, sighin' relieved. "So it's you, is it? Andwe had you all spotted as a second-story worker. All right; you don'tneed to hold the pose any longer. But maybe you'll tell us what you'recrawlin' around out here in the garden for at this time of night. "

He tried to, but he's had such a scare thrown into him that hisconversation works are all gummed up. After we've led him into thehouse, though, and he's had a drink of spring water, he does a littlebetter. 

"It was to protect the cabbages, monsieur, " says he. 

"Eh?" says I. "Protect 'em from what?"

"There is a wicked worm, " says Leon, "which does his evil work in thenight. Ah, such a sly beast! And so destructive! Just at the top of theyoung root he eats--snip, snip! And in the morning I find that two, four, sometimes six tender plants he has cut off. I am enrage. 'Ha!' Isay. 'I will discover you yet at your mischief. ' So I cannot sleep forthinking. But I had found him; yes, two. And I was searching for morewhen monsieur----"

"Yes, I know, " says I. He's glancin' worried at the old pistol I'm stillholdin' in my hand. "My error, Leon. I might have guessed. And as theclock's just strikin' three, I think we'd all better hit the hay again. Come on, Vee; it's all over. "

And, in spite of that half hour or so of time out, I was up earlier thanusual in the mornin'. I had a little job to do that I'd planned outbefore I went to sleep again. As soon as I'm dressed I slips downstairs, takes that Turkish pistol, and chucks it into the middle of the pond. I'll never know whether it was loaded or not. I don't want to know. Forif it had been---- Well, what's the use?

Comin' back in through the kitchen, I finds Leon busy dishin' up toastand eggs. He glances at me nervous, and then hangs his head. But he getsout what he has to say man fashion. 

"I trust monsieur is not displeased, " says he. "It was not wise for meto walk about at night. But those wicked worms! Still, if monsieurdesires, it shall not occur again. I ask pardon. "

"Now, that's all right, Leon, " says I soothin'. "Don't worry. When itcomes to playin' the boob act, I guess we split about fifty-fifty. I'd alittle rather you didn't, but if you must hunt the wicked worm at night, why, go to it. You won't run any more risk of being shot up by me. ForI've disarmed. "

CHAPTER VII

BACK WITH CLARA BELLE

And me kiddin' myself I was fairly well parlor-broke. It seems not. You'd 'most think, though, I'd had enough front-room trainin' to standme through in a place like Harbor Hills. I had a wild idea, too, thatwhen we moved into the country we'd tagged the reg'lar social stuffgood-by. 

That was a poor hunch. I'm just discoverin' that there's more tea fightsand dinner dances and such goin's on out here in the commuter zone thanin any five blocks of Fifth Avenue you can name. And it seems thatanywhere within ten miles of this Piping Rock Club brings you into themost active sector. So here we are, right in the thick of things. 

At that, I expect it might have been quite some time before we wasbothered any if it hadn't been for our bein' sort of backed by theRobert Ellinses. As their friends we're counted in right off the reel. I've been joshed into lettin' my name go on the waitin' list at theCountry Club; I'm allowed to subscribe to this and that; some of theneighbors have begun payin' first calls on Vee. 

So I might have had sense enough to watch my step. Yet, here the otherafternoon, when I makes an early getaway from the Corrugated and hopsoff the 5:17, I dashes across the back lots and comes into our place bythe rear instead of the front drive. You see, I'd been watchin' a row ofstring-beans we had comin' along, and I wanted to spring the first oneson Vee. Sure enough, I finds three or four pods 'most big enough to eat;so I picks 'em and goes breezin' into the house, wavin' em gleeful. 

"Oh, Vee!" I sings out, openin' the terrace door. "Come have a look. "

And, as she don't appear on the jump, I keeps on into the livin'-roomand calls:

"Hey! What do you know about these? Beans! Perfectly good----"

Well, that's as far as I gets, for there's Vee, sittin' behind thesilver tea-urn, all dolled up; and Leon, in his black coat, holdin' aplate of dinky little cakes; and a couple of strange ladies starin' atme button-eyed. I'd crashed right into the midst of tea and callers. 

Do I pull some easy johndrew lines and exit graceful? Not me. My feetwas glued to the rug. 

"Beans!" says I, grinnin' simple and danglin' the specimens. "Perfectlygood string----"

Then I catches the eye of the stiff-necked dame with the straight noseand the gun-metal hair. No, both eyes, it was; and a cold, suspicious, stabby look is what they shoots my way. No wonder I chokes off thefeeble-minded remarks and turns sort of panicky to Vee, half expectin'to find her blushin' painful or signalin' me to clear out. Nothing likethat from Vee, though. 

"Not ours, Torchy?" says she, slidin' out from behind the tea-table andrushin' over. "Not our very own?"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "Just picked 'em. "

At which the other caller joins in unexpected. 

"From your own garden?" says she. "How interesting! Oh, do show them tome. "

"Why, sure, " says I. "Guess we're doin' our bit, ain't we?"

She's a wide, dumpy-built old girl, and dressed sort of freaky. Also herline of talk is a kind of purry, throaty gush that's almost too soothin'to be true. But anybody who makes only half a bluff at being interestedin our garden wins us. And not until she's inspected our firststring-beans through her gold lorgnette, and remarked twice more howwonderful it was for us to raise anything like that, does it occur toVee to introduce me proper to both ladies. 

The tall, stiff-necked dame turns out to be Mrs. Pemberton Foote. Honest! Could you blame her for bein' jarred when I come bouncin' inwith garden truck?

Think of it! Why, she's one of the super-tax brigade and moves among thesmartest of the smart-setters. And Pemmy, he's on the polo team, youknow. 

Oh, reg'lar people, the Pembroke Footes are. And the very fact that Mrs. Foote is here callin' on Vee ought to have me thrilled to the bone. 

Yet all I got sense enough to do is wave half-grown string-beans at her, and then sit by gawpy, balancin' a cup of tea on my knee, and watch herapply the refrigeratin' process to the dumpy old girl whose name Ididn't quite catch. Say, but she does it thorough and artistic. Only twoor three times did the dumpy one try to kick in on the chat, and whenshe does, Mrs. Pemmy rolls them glittery eyes towards her slow, givin'her the up-and-down like she was some kind of fat worm that had strayedin from the cucumber bed. 

Can't these women throw the harpoon into each other ruthless, though?Why, you could see that old girl fairly squirm when she got one of themassault-and-battery glances. Her under lip would quiver a bit, she'dwink hard three or four times, and then she'd sort of collapse, smotherin' a sigh and not finishin' what she'd started out to say. Shedid want to be so folksy, too. 

Course, she's an odd-lookin' party, with that bucket-shaped liddecorated with pale green satin fruit, and the piles of thick blondinehair that was turnin' gray, and her foolish big eyes with the puffyrolls underneath and the crows'-feet in the corners. And of courseanybody with ankles suggestin' piano legs really shouldn't go in forhigh-tide skirts and white silk stockin's with black butterflies workedon 'em. Should they?

Still, she'd raved over our string-beans, so when she makes a lastfluttery try at jimmyin' her way into the conversation, and Mrs. Footesquelches her prompt again, and she gives up for good, it's me jumpin'snappy to tow her out and tuck her in the limousine. Havin' made myescape, I stays outside until after Mrs. Pemmy has gone too, whichdon't happen for near half an hour later. But when I hears the frontdoor shut on her, I sidles in at the back. 

"Zowie!" says I. "You must have made more of a hit with our swellneighbor than I did, Vee. "

Vee smiles quizzin' and shrugs her shoulders. 

"I'm not so sure, " says she. "I almost feel as though we had beenvisited by the Probation Officer, or someone like that. "

"How do you mean?" says I. 

"Of course, " she goes on, "Mrs. Foote did not actually say that we wereon trial socially, but she hinted as much. And she made it quite plainthat unless we got started in the right set our case would be utterlyhopeless. "

"Just think of that!" says I. "Real sweet of her, eh? Sort of inspectorgeneral, is she? You should have asked her to show her badge, though. "

"Oh, there's no doubt that she speaks with authority, " says Vee. "Shewasn't snippy about it, either. And chiefly she was trying to warn meagainst Mrs. Ben Tupper. "

"The old girl with the pelican chin and the rovin' eyes?" I asks. "What's the matter with her besides her looks?"

Well, accordin' to Mrs. Pemmy Foote, there was a lot. She had a past, for one thing. She was a pushing, presumptuous person, for another. And, besides, this Benjamin Tupper party--the male of the species--was whollyimpossible. 

"You know who he is, " adds Vee. "The tablet man. "

"What?" says I. "'Tupper's Tablets for Indigestion--on Everybody'sTongue. ' Him?"

Vee nods. "And they live in that barny stucco house just as you turn offSagamore Boulevard--the one with the hideous red-tiled roof and theconcrete lions in front. "

"Goodness Agnes!" says I. "Folks have been indicted for less than that. I've seen Tupper, too; someone pointed him out goin' in on the expressonly the other mornin'. Looks like a returned Nihilist who'd beennominated in one of the back wards of Petrograd to run for the Duma on afree-vodka platform. He's got wiry whiskers that he must trim with apair of tin-shears, tufts in his ears, and the general build of aperformin' chimpanzee. Oh, he's a rare one, Tupper. "

"Then, " says Vee, sort of draggy, "I--I suppose Mrs. Foote is right. It's too bad, for that Mrs. Tupper did seem such a friendly old soul. And I shall feel so snobbish if I don't return her call. "

"Huh!" says I. "I don't see why Mrs. Pemmy couldn't let you find outabout her for yourself. Even if the old girl don't belong, what's theuse bein' so rough with her?"

"Do you know, Torchy, " says Vee, "I felt that way about it when Mrs. Foote was snubbing her. And yet--well, I wish I knew just what to do. "

"Clean out of my line, " says I. 

I expect it was the roses that set me mullin' the case over again. Theywas sent over for Vee a couple of days later--half a dozen greatbusters, like young cabbages, with stems a yard long. They come with thecompliments of Mrs. Ben Tupper. 

"I simply couldn't send them back, " says Vee; "and yet----"

"I get you, " says I. "But don't worry. Let the thing ride a while. I gotan idea. "

It wasn't anything staggerin'. It had just struck me that if Vee had tohand out any social smears she ought to do it on her own dope, and notaccordin' to Mrs. Pemmy Foote's say-so. Which is why I begins pumpin'information out of anybody that came handy. Goin' into town nextmornin', I tackled three or four on the 8:03 in an offhand way. 

Oh, yes, the Ben Tuppers! Business of hunchin' the shoulders. No, theydidn't belong to the Country Club, nor the Hunt Association, nor figureon the Library or Hospital boards, or anything else. In fact, they don'tmingle much. Hadn't made the grade. Barred? We-e-ell, in a way, perhaps. Why? Oh, there was Mrs. Ben. Wasn't she enough? An ex-actress with twoor three hubbys in the discard! Could she expect people to swallow that?

Only one gent, though, had anything definite to offer. He's amiddle-aged sport that seems to make a specialty of wearin' checkedsuits and yellow gloves. He chuckles when I mentions Mrs. Tupper. 

"Grand old girl, Clara Belle, " says he. 

"Eh?" says I. "Shoot the rest. "

"Couldn't think of it, son, " says he. "You're too young. But in my dayClara Belle Kinney was some queen. "

And that's all I can get out of him except more chuckles. I files awaythe name, though; and that afternoon, while we was waitin' for a quorumof directors to straggle into the General Offices, I springs it on OldHickory. 

"Mr. Ellins, " says I, "did you ever know of a Clara Belle Kinney?"

"Wha-a-at?" he gasps, almost swallowin' his cigar. "Listen to that, Mason. Here's a young innocent asking if we ever knew Clara BelleKinney. Did we?"

And old K. W. Mason, what does he do but throw back his shiny dome, openhis mouth, and roar out:

 "Yure right fut is crazy, Yure left fut is lazy, But if ye'll be aisy I'll teach ye to waltz!"

After which them two old cut-ups wink at each other rakish and slaptheir knees. All of which ain't so illuminatin'. But they keep on, mentionin' Koster Bial's and the Cork Room, until I can patch togetherquite a sketch of Mrs. Tupper's early career. 

Seems she'd made her first hit in this old-time concert-hall when shewas a sweet young thing in her teens. One of her naughty stunts waskickin' her slipper into an upper box, and gettin' it tossed back with amash note in it, or maybe a twenty-dollar bill. Then she'd graduatedinto comic opera. 

"Was there ever a Katishaw like her?" demands Old Hickory of K. W. , whoresponds by hummin' husky:

 "I dote upon a tiger From the Congo or the Niger, Especially when lashing of his tail. "

And, while they don't go into details, I gathered that they'd been ClaraBelle fans--had sent her orchids on openin' nights, and maybe had set upwine suppers for her and her friends. They knew about a couple of hermatrimonial splurges. One was with her manager, of course; the next wasa young broker whose fam'ly got him to break it off. After that they'dlost track of her. 

"It seems to me, " says Old Hickory, "that I heard she had marriedsomeone in Buffalo, or Rochester, and had quit the stage. A patentmedicine chap, I think he was, who'd made a lot of money out ofsomething or other. I wonder what has become of her?"

That was my cue, all right, but I passes it up. I wasn't talkin' justthen; I was listenin'. 

"Ah-h-h!" goes on Mr. Mason, foldin' his hands over his forward sponsonand rollin' his eyes sentimental. "Dear Clara Belle! I say, Ellins, wouldn't you like to hear her sing that MacFadden song once more?"

"I'd give fifty dollars, " says Old Hickory. 

"I'd make it a hundred if she'd follow it with 'O Promise Me, '" says K. W. "What was her record--six hundred nights on Broadway, wasn't it?"

Say, they went on reminiscin' so long, it's a wonder the monthly meetin'ever got started at all. I might have forgot them hot-air bids oftheirs, too, if it hadn't been for something Vee announces that nightacross the dinner-table. 

Seems that Mrs. Robert Ellins had been rung into managin' one of thesewar benefit stunts, and she's decided to use their new east terrace foran outdoor stage and the big drawin'-room it opens off from as anauditorium. You know, Mrs. Robert used to give violin recitals and doconcert work herself, so she ain't satisfied with amateur talent. Besides, she knows so many professional people. 

"And who do you think she is to have on the program?" demands Vee. "Farrar!"

"Aw, come!" says I. 

"And perhaps Mischa Elman, " adds Vee. "Isn't that thrilling?"

I admits that it is. 

"But say, " I goes on, "with them big names on the bill, what does sheexpect to tax people for the best seats?"

Vee says how they'd figured they might ask ten dollars for a few choicechairs. 

"Huh!" says I. "That won't get you far. Why don't you soak 'em proper?"

"But how?" asks Vee. 

"You put in a bald-headed row, " says I, "and I'll find you a partywho'll fill it at a hundred a throw. "

Vee stares at me like she thought I'd been touched with the heat, andwants to know who. 

"Clara Belle Kinney, " says I. 

"Why, I never heard of any such person, " says she. 

"Oh, yes, you have, " says I. "Alias Mrs. Ben Tupper. "

Course, I had some job convincin' her I wasn't joshin'; and even afterI'd sketched out the whole story, and showed her that Clara Belle's pastwasn't anything to really shudder over, Vee is still doubtful. 

"But can she sing now?" she asks. 

"What's the odds, " says I, "if a lot of them old-timers are willin' topay to hear her try?"

Vee shakes her head and suggests that we go up and talk it over with Mr. And Mrs. Robert. Which we does. 

"But if she has been off the stage for twenty years, " suggests Mrs. Robert, "perhaps she wouldn't attempt it. "

"I'll bet she would for Vee, " says I. "Any way, she wouldn't feel soreat being asked And if you could sting a bunch of twenty or thirty for ahundred apiece----"

"Just fancy!" says Mrs. Robert, drawin' in a long breath and doin'rapid-fire mental arithmetic. "Verona, let's drive right over and seeher at once. "

They're some hustlers, that pair. All I have to do is map out thescheme, and they goes after it with a rush. 

And say, I want to tell you that was a perfectly good charity concert, judged by the box-office receipts or any way you want to size it up. Bein' the official press-agent, who's got a better right to admit it?

True, Elman didn't show up, but his alibi was sound. And not until thelast minute was we sure whether the fair Geraldine would get there ornot. But my contribution to the headliners was there from the first tapof the bell. 

Vee says she actually wept on her shoulder when the proposition wassprung on her. Seems she'd been livin' in Harbor Hills for nearly threeyears without havin' been let in on a thing--with nobody callin' on her, or even noddin' as she drove by. Most of her neighbors was a lotyounger, folks who barely remembered that there had been such a party asClara Belle Kinney, and who couldn't have told whether she'd been asinger or a bareback rider. They only knew her as a dumpy freakishdressed old girl whose drugged hair was turnin' gray. 

"Of course, " she says, sort of timid and trembly, "I have kept up mysinging as well as I could. Mr. Tupper likes to have me. But I know myvoice isn't what it was once. It's dear of you to ask me, though, and--and I'll do my best. "

I don't take any credit for fillin' that double row of wicker chairs weput down front and had the nerve to ask that hold-up price for. When theword was passed around that Clara Belle Kinney was to be among theperformers, they almost mobbed me for tickets. Why, I collected fromtwo-thirds of the Corrugated directors without turnin' a hand, and fortwo days there about all I did was answer 'phone calls from Broad Streetand the clubs--brokers, bank presidents, and so on, who wanted to knowif there was any left. 

A fine bunch of silver-tops they was, too, when we got 'em all lined up. You wouldn't have suspected it of some of them dignified old scouts, either. Back of 'em, fillin' every corner of the long room and spillin'out into the big hall, was the top crust of our local smart set, come tohear Farrar at close range. 

Yep, Geraldine made quite a hit. Nothing strange about that. And thatpiece from "Madame Butterfly" she gave just brought 'em right up ontheir toes. But say, you should hear what breaks loose when it'sannounced that the third number will be an old favorite revival by ClaraBelle Kinney. That's all the name we gave. What if most of the audiencewas simply starin' puzzled and stretchin' their necks to see who wascomin'? Them old boys down front seemed to know what they was howlin'about. 

Yes, Clara Belle does show up a bit husky in evenin' dress. Talk aboutelbow dimples! And I was wishin' she'd forgot to do her hair thatantique way, all piled up on her head, with a few coy ringlets over oneear. But she'd landscaped her facial scenery artistic, and she sure doesknow how to roll them big eyes of hers. 

I didn't much enjoy listenin' through them first few bars, though. Therewasn't merely a crack here and there. Her voice went to a complete smashat times, besides bein' weak and wabbly. It's like listenin' to theghost of a voice. I heard a few titters from the back rows. 

But them old boys don't seem to mind. It was a voice comin' to them from'way back in the '90's. And when she struggles through the first verseof "O Promise Me, " and pauses to get her second wind, maybe they don'tgive her a hand. That seemed to pep her up a lot. She gets a better gripon the high notes, the tremolo effect wears off, and she goes to it likea winner. Begins to get the crowd with her, too. Why, say, even Farrarstands up and leads in the call for an encore. She ain't alone. 

"MacFadden! MacFadden!" K. W. Mason is shoutin'. 

So in a minute more Clara Belle, her eyes shinin', has swung into thatraggy old tune, and when she gets to the chorus she beckons to the frontrows and says: "Now, all together, boys!

 "Wan--two--three! Balance like me----"

Did they come in on it? Say, they roared it out like so many youngcollege hicks riotin' around the campus after a session at arathskeller. You should have seen Old Hickory standin' out front withhis arms wavin' and his face red. 

Then they demands some of the Katishaw stuff, and "Comrades, " and"Little Annie Rooney. " And with every encore Clara Belle seems to shakeoff five or ten years, until you could almost see what a footlightcharmer she must have been. 

In the midst of it all Vee gives me the nudge. 

"Do look at Mr. Tupper, will you!"

Yes, he's sittin' over in a corner, with his white shirt-front bulgin', his neck stretched forward eager, and his big hairy paws grippin' thechair-back in front. And hanged if a drop of brine ain't tricklin' downone side of his nose. 

"Gosh!" says I. "His emotions are leakin' into his whiskers. Maybe theold boy is human, after all. "

A minute later, as I slides easy out of my end seat, Vee asks:

"Where are you going, Torchy?"

"I want a glimpse of Mrs. Pemmy Foote's face, that's all, " says I. 

CHAPTER VIII

WHEN TORCHY GOT THE CALL

No, I ain't said much about it before. There are some things you're aptto keep to yourself, specially the ones that root deep. And I'll admitthat at first there I don't quite know where I was at. But as affairsgot messier and messier, and the U-boats got busier, and I heard somefirst-hand details of what had happened to the Belgians--well, I gotmighty restless. I expect I indulged in more serious thought stuff thanI'd ever been guilty of. 

You see, it was along back when we were gettin' our first close-ups ofthe big scrap--some of our boats sunk, slinkers reported off Sandy Hook, bomb plots shown up, and Papa Joffre over here soundin' the S. O. S. Earnest. 

Then there was Mr. Robert joinin' the Naval Reserves, and two younghicks from the bond room who'd volunteered. We'd had postals from 'em atthe trainin' camp. Even Vee was busy with a first-aid class, learnin'how to tie bandages and put on splints. 

So private seccing seemed sort of tame and useless--like keepin' onsprinklin' the lawn after your chimney was bein' struck by lightnin'. Ifelt like I ought to be gettin' in the game somehow. Anyway, it seemedas if it was my ante. 

Not that I'd been rushed off my feet by all this buntin'-wavin' orkhaki-wearin'. I'm no panicky Old Glory trail-hitter. Nor I didn't lugaround the idea I was the missin' hero who was to romp through thebarbed wire, stamp Hindenburg's whiskers in the mud, and lead the Alliesacross the Rhine. I didn't even kid myself I could swim out and kick ahole in a submarine, or do the darin' aviator act after a half-hourlesson at Mineola. 

In fact, I suspected that sheddin' the enemy's gore wasn't much in myline. I knew I should dislike quittin' the hay at dawn to sneak out andget mixed up with half a bushel of impetuous scrap-iron. Still, if ithad to be done, why not me as well as the next party?

I'd been meanin' to talk it over with Vee--sort of hint around, anyway, and see how she'd take it. But as a matter of fact I never could seem tofind just the right openin' until, there one night after dinner, as shefinishes a new piece she's tryin' over on the piano, I wanders upbeside her and starts absent-minded tearin' little bits off a corner ofthe music. 

"Torchy!" she protests. "What an absurd thing to do. "

"Eh?" says I, twistin' it into a cornucopia. "But you know I can't go onwarmin' the bench like this. "

She stares at me puzzled for a second. 

"Meaning what, for instance?" she asks. 

"I got to go help swat the Hun, " says I. 

The flickery look in them gray eyes of hers steadies down, and shereaches out for one of my hands. That's all. No jumpy emotions--not evena lip quiver. 

"Must you?" says she, quiet. 

"I can't take it out in wearin' a button or hirin' someone to hoepotatoes in the back lot, " says I. 

"No, " says she. 

"Auntie would come, I suppose?" says I. 

Vee nods. 

"And with Leon here, " I goes on, "and Mrs. Battou, you could----"

"Yes, I could get along, " she breaks in. "But--but when?"

"Right away, " says I. "As soon as they can use me. "

"You'll start training for a commission, then?" she asks. 

"Not me, " says I. "I'd be poor enough as a private, but maybe I'd helpfill in one of the back rows. I don't know much about it. I'll look itup to-morrow. "

"To-morrow? Oh!" says Vee, with just the suspicion of a break in hervoice. 

And that's all we had to say about it. Every word. You'd thought we'dexhausted the subject, or got the tongue cramp. But I expect we each hada lot of thoughts that didn't get registered. I know I did. And nextmornin' the breakaway came sort of hard. 

"I--I know just how you feel about it, " says Vee. 

"I'm glad somebody does, then, " says I. 

Puttin' the proposition up to Old Hickory was different. He shoots aquick glance at me from under them shaggy eyebrows, bites into his cigarsavage, and grunts discontented. 

"You are exempt, you know, " says he. 

"I know, " says I. "If tags came with marriage licenses I might wear oneon my watch-fob to show, I expect. "

"Huh!" says he. "It seems to me that rapid-fire brain of yours might bebetter utilized than by hiding it under a trench helmet. "

"Speedy thinkers seem to be a drug on the market just now, " says I. "Anyway, I feel like it was up to me to deliver something--I can't sayjust what. But campin' behind a roll-top here on the nineteenth floorain't going to help much, is it?"

"Oh, well, if you have the fever!" says he. 

And half an hour later I've pushed in past the flag and am answerin'questions while the sergeant fills out the blank. 

Maybe you can guess I ain't in any frivolous mood. I don't believe Ithought I was about to push back the invader, or turn the tide forcivilization. Neither was I lookin' on this as a sportin' flier or alarky excursion that I was goin' to indulge in at public expense. Myidea was that there'd been a general call for such as me, and that I wascomin' across. I was more or less sober about it. 

They didn't seem much impressed at the recruitin' station. Course, youcouldn't expect the sergeant to get thrilled over every party thatdrifted in. He'd been there for weeks, I suppose, answerin' the samefool questions over and over, knowin' all the time that half of themthat came in was bluffin' and that a big per cent. Of the otherswouldn't do. 

But this other party with the zippy waistline, the swellin' chest, andthe nifty shoulder-straps--why should he glare at me in that cold, suspicious way? I wasn't tryin' to break into the army with feloniousintent. How could he be sure, just from a casual glance, that I was suchvicious scum?

Oh, yes; I've figured out since that he didn't mean more'n half of it, or couldn't help lookin' at civilians that way after four years at WestPoint, or thought he had to. But that's what I get handed to me whenI've dropped all the little things that seemed important to me and walksin to chuck what I had to offer Uncle Sam on the recruitin' table. 

Some kind of inspectin' officer, I've found out he was, makin' therounds to see that the sergeants didn't loaf on the job. And, just toshow that no young patriot in a last year's Panama and a sport-cut suitcould slip anything over on him, he shoots in a few crisp questions onhis own account. 

"Married, you say?" says he. "Since when?"

"Oh, this century, " says I. "Last February, to get it nearer. "

He sniffs disagreeable without sayin' why. Also he takes a hand when itcomes to testin' me to see whether I'm club-footed or spavined. Course, I'm no perfect male like you see in the knit underwear ads, but I've gotthe usual number of toes and teeth, my wind is fairly good, and I don'texpect my arteries have begun to harden yet. He listens to my heartaction and measures my chest expansion. Then I had to name the differentcolors and squint through a tube at some black dots on a card. 

And the further we went the more he scowled. Finally he shakes his headat the sergeant. 

"Rejected, " says he. 

"Eh?" says I. "You--you don't mean I'm--turned down?"

He nods. "Underweight, and your eyes don't focus, " says he snappy. "Here's your card. That's all. "

Yes, it was a jolt. I expect I stood there blinkin' stupid at him for aminute or so before I had sense enough to drift out on the sidewalk. AndI might as well admit I was feelin' mighty low. I didn't know whether tohunt up the nearest hospital, or sit down on the curb and wait untilthey came after me with the stretcher-cart. Anyway, I knew I must be aphysical wreck. And to think I hadn't suspected it before!

Somehow I dragged back to the office, and a while later Mr. Ellinsdiscovers me slumped in my chair with my chin down. 

"Mars and Mercury!" says he. "You haven't been through a battle so soon, have you?"

At that, I tries to brace up a bit and pass it off light. 

"Why didn't someone tell me I was a chronic invalid?" says I, aftersketchin' out how my entry had been scratched by the chesty one. "Iwonder where I could get a pair of crutches and a light-runnin' wheelchair?"

"Bah!" says he. "Some of those army officers have red-tape brains and nomore common sense than he guinea-pigs. What in the name of the SevenShahs did he think was the matter with you?"

"My eyes don't track and I weigh under the scale, " says I. "I expectthere's other things, too. Maybe my floatin' ribs are water-logged andmy memory muscle-bound. But I'm a wreck, all right. "

"We'll see about that, " says Old Hickory, pushin' a buzzer. 

And inside of an hour I felt a lot better. I'd been gone over by a lifeinsurance expert, who said I hadn't a soft spot on me, and an eyespecialist had reported that my sight was up to the average. Oh, theright lamp did range a little further, but he claims that's often thecase. 

"Maybe my hair was too vivid for trench work, " says I, "or else thatcaptain was luggin' a grouch. Makes me feel like a wooden nickel at thebottom of the till, just the same; for I did hope I might be usefulsomehow. I'll look swell joinin' the home guards, won't I?"

"Don't overlook the fact, young man, " puts in Old Hickory, "that theCorrugated Trust is not altogether out of this affair, and that we arerunning short-handed as it is. "

I was too sore in my mind to be soothed much by that thought just then, though I did buckle into the work harder than ever. 

As for Vee, she don't have much to say, but she gives me the closetackle when she hears the news. 

"I don't care!" says she. "It was splendid of you to want to go. And Ishall be just as proud of you as though you had been accepted. "

"Oh, sure!" says I. "Likely I'll be mentioned in despatches for thenoble way I handled the correspondence all through a hot spell. "

That state of mind I didn't shake loose in a hurry, either. For three orfour weeks, there, I was about the meekest commuter carried on theeight-three. I didn't do any gloatin' over the war news. I didn't joinany of the volunteer boards of strategy that met every mornin' to telleach other how the subs ought to be suppressed, or what Haig should bedoin' on the West front. I even stopped wearin' an enameled flag in mybuttonhole. If that was all I could do, I wouldn't fourflush. 

The Corrugated was handlin' a lot of war contracts, too. Course, we wasonly gettin' our ten per cent. , and from some we'd subbed out not eventhat. It didn't strike me there was any openin' for me until I'd heardMr. Ellins, for about the fourth time that week, start beefin' about thekind of work we was gettin' done. 

"But ain't it all O. K. 'd by government inspectors?" I asks. 

"Precisely why I am suspicious, " says he. "Not three per cent. Turnedback! And on rush work that's too good to be true. Looks to me likecareless inspecting--or worse. Yet every man I've sent out has broughtin a clean bill; even for the Wonder Motors people, who have thatsub-contract for five hundred tanks. And I wouldn't trust that crowd topass the hat for an orphans' home. I wish I knew of a man whocould--could---- By the Great Isosceles! Torchy!"

I knew I was elected when he first begun squintin' at me that way. But Icouldn't see where I'd be such a wonderful find. 

"A hot lot I know about buildin' armored motor-trucks, Mr. Ellins, " saysI. "They could feed me anything. "

"You let 'em, " says he; "and meanwhile you unlimber that high-tensionintellect of yours and see what you can pick up. Remember, I shallexpect results from you, young man. When can you start for Cleveland?To-night, eh? Good! And just note this: It isn't merely the CorrugatedTrust you are representing: it's Uncle Sam and the Allies generally. Andif anything shoddy is being passed, you hunt it out. Understand?"

Yep. I did. And I'll admit I was some thrilled with the idea. But I feltlike a Boy Scout being sent to round up a gang of gunfighters. I skipshome, though, packs my bag, and climbs aboard the night express. 

When I'd finally located the Wonder works, and had my credentials readby everyone, from the rookie sentry at the gate to the Assistant GeneralManager, and they was convinced I'd come direct from Old Hickory Ellins, they starts passin' out the smooth stuff. Oh, yes! Certainly! Anythingspecial I wished to see?

"Thanks, " says I. "I'll go right through. "

"But we have four acres of shops, you know, " suggests the A. G. M. , smilin' indulgent. 

"Maybe I can do an acre a day, " says I. "I got lots of time. "

"That's the spirit, " says he, clappin' me friendly on the shoulder. "Walter, call in Mr. Marvin. "

He was some grand little demonstrator, Mr. Marvin--one of theseround-faced, pink-cheeked, chunky built young gents, who was as chummyand as entertainin' from the first handshake as if we'd been room-matesat college. I can't say how well posted he was on what was goin' on inthe different departments he hustled me through, but he knew enough tosmother me with machinery details. 

"Now, here we have a battery of six hogging machines, " he'd say. "Theycut the gears, you know. "

"Oh, yes, " I'd say, tryin' to look wise. 

It was that way all through the trip. I saw two or three thousand sweatymen in smeared overalls and sleeveless undershirts putterin' aroundlathes and things that whittled shavings off shiny steel bars, orhammered red-hot chunks of it into different shapes, or bit holes ingreat sheets of steel. I watched electric cranes the size of trolleycars juggle chunks of metal that weighed tons. I listened to the roarand rattle and crash and bang, and at the end of two hours my head waswhirlin' as fast as some of them big belt wheels; and I knew almost asmuch about what I'd seen as a two-year-old does about the tick-tockdaddy holds up to her ear. 

Young Mr. Marvin don't seem discouraged, though. He suggests that wedrive into town for lunch. We did, in a canary-colored roadster thatpurred along at about fifty most of the way. We fed at a swell club, along with a bunch of cheerful young lieutenants of industry who didn'tseem worried about the high cost of anything. I gathered that most of'em was in the same line as Mr. Marvin--supplies or munitions. From thegeneral talk, and the casual way they ordered pink cocktails andexpensive cigars, I judged it wasn't exactly a losin' game. 

Nor they didn't seem anxious about gettin' back to punch in on thetime-clocks. About two-thirty we adjourns to the Country Club, and ifI'd been a mashie fiend I might have finished a hard day's work with agame of golf. I thought I ought to do some more shops, though. Why, tobe sure! But at five we knocked off again, and I was towed to anotherclub, where we had a plunge in a marble pool so as to be in shape for alittle dinner Mr. Marvin was gettin' up for me. Quite some dinner! Therewas a jolly trip out to an amusement park later on. Oh, the Wonder folkswere no tightwads when it came to showin' special agents of theCorrugated around. 

I tried another day of it before givin' up. It was no use. They had mebuffaloed. So I thanked all hands and hinted that maybe I'd better begoin' back. I hope I didn't deceive anyone, for I did go back--to thehotel. But by night I'd invested $11. 45 in a second-handoutfit--warranted steam-cleaned--and I had put up $6. More for a week'sboard with a Swede lady whose front porch faced the ten-foot fenceguardin' the Wondor Motors' main plant. Also, Mrs. Petersen had said itwas a cinch I could get a job. Her old man would show me where in themornin'. 

And say, mornin' happens early out in places like that. By 5:30 A. M. Icould smell bacon grease, and by six-fifteen breakfast was all over andPetersen had lit his corn-cob pipe. 

"Coom!" says he in pure Scandinavian. 

This trip, I didn't make my entrance in over the Turkish rugs of theprivate office. I was lined up with a couple of dozen others against afence about tenth from a window where there was a "Men Wanted" sign out. Being about as much of a mechanic as I am a brunette, I made no wildbluffs. I just said I wanted a job. And I got it--riveter's helper, whatever that might be. By eight-thirty my name and number was on thepayroll, and the foreman of shop No. 19 was introducin' me to my newboss. 

"Here, Mike, " says he. "Give this one a try-out. "

His name wasn't Mike. It was something like Sneezowski. He was a Polewho'd come over three years ago to work for John D. At Bayonne, NewJersey, but had got into some kind of trouble there. I didn't wonder. Hehad wicked little eyes, one lopped ear, and a ragged mustache that stoodout like tushes. But he sure could handle a pneumatic riveter rapid, andwhen it came to reprovin' me for not keepin' the pace he expressedhimself fluent. 

In the course of a couple of hours, though, I got the hang of how towork them rivet tongs without droppin' 'em more 'n once every fiveminutes. But I think it was the grin I slipped Mike now and then thatgot him to overlookin' my awkward motions. Believe me, too, by sixo'clock I felt less like grinnin' than any time I could remember. Inever knew you could ache in so many places at once. From the anklesdown I felt fine. And yet, before the week was out I was helpin' Mikespeed up. 

It didn't look promisin' for sleuth work at first. Half a dozen times Iwas on the point of chuckin' the job. But the thoughts of havin' to faceOld Hickory with a blank report kept me pluggin' away. I begun to get mybearin's a bit to see things, to put this and that together. 

We was workin' on shaped steel plates, armor for the tanks. Now and thenone would come through with some of the holes only quarter or halfpunched. Course, you couldn't put rivets in them places. 

"How about these?" I asks. 

"Aw, wottell!" says Mike. "Forget it. "

"But what if the inspector sees?" I insists. 

Mike gurgles in his throat, indicatin' mirth. 

"Th' inspec'!" he chuckles. "Him wink by his eye, him. Ya! You see! Himcoom Sat'day. "

And I swaps chuckles with Mike. Also, by settin' up the schooners atCarlouva's that evenin', I got Mike to let out more professionalsecrets along the same line. There was others who joined in. Theybragged of chipped gears that was shipped through with the bad cogscovered with grease, of flawy drivin' shafts, of cheesy armor-plate thatyou could puncture with a tack-hammer. 

While it was all fresh that night I jotted down pages of such gossip ina little red note-book. I had names and dates. That bunch ofpiece-workers must have thought I was a bear for details, or else nuttyin the head; but they was too polite to mention it so long as I insistedeach time that it was my buy. 

Anyway, I got quite a lot of first-hand evidence as to the kind ofinspectin' done by the army officer assigned to this particular plant. Ihad to smile, too, when I saw Mr. Marvin towin' him through our shopSaturday forenoon. Maybe they was three minutes breezin' through. And Ididn't need the extra smear of smut on my face. Marvin never glanced myway. This was the same officer who'd been in on our dinner party, too. 

Yes, I found chattin' with Mike and his friends a lot more illuminatin'than listenin' to Mr. Marvin. So, when I drew down my second payenvelop, I told the clerk I was quittin'. I don't mind sayin', either, that it seemed good to splash around in a reg'lar bath-tub once more andto look a sirloin steak in the face again. A stiff collar did seem odd, though. 

Me and Mr. Ellins had some session. We went through that red note-bookthorough. He was breathin' a bit heavy at times, and he chewed hard onhis cigar all the way; but he never blew a fuse until forty-eight hourslater. The General Manager of Wonder Motors, four department heads, andthe army officer detailed as inspector was part of the audience. They'dbeen called on the carpet by wire, and was grouped around one end of ourdirectors' table. At the other end was Old Hickory, Mr. Robert, Piddie, and me. 

Item by item, Mr. Ellins had sketched out to the Wonder crowd the bunkstuff they'd been slippin' over. First they tried protestin' indignant;then they made a stab at actin' hurt; but in the end they just lookedplain foolish. 

"My dear Mr. Ellins, " put in the General Manager, "one cannot watchevery workman in a plant of that magnitude. Besides, " here he huncheshis shoulders, "if the government is satisfied----"

"Hah!" snorts Old Hickory. "But it isn't. For I'm the government in thisinstance. I'm standing for Uncle Sam. That's what I meant when I tookthose ten per cent. Contracts. I'm too old to go out and fight hisenemies abroad, but I can stay behind and watch for yellow-liveredbuzzards such as you. Call that business, do you? Fattening yourdividends by sending our boys up against the Prussian guns in junkymotor-tanks covered with tin armor! Bah! Your ethics need chloride oflime on them. And you come here whining that you can't watch your men!By the great sizzling sisters, we'll see if you can't! You will put inevery missing rivet, replace every flawy plate, and make every machineperfect, or I'll smash your little two-by-four concern so flat thebankruptcy courts won't find enough to tack a libel notice on. Now goback and get busy. "

They seemed in a hurry to start, too. 

An hour or so later, when Old Hickory had stopped steaming, he passesout a different set of remarks to me. Oh, the usual grateful boss stuff. Even says he's going to make the War Department give me a commission, with a special detail. 

"Wouldn't that be wonderful!" says Vee, clappin' her hands. "Do youreally think he will? A lieutenant, perhaps?"

"That's what he mentioned, " says I. 

"Really!" says Vee, makin' a rush at me. 

"Wait up!" says I. "Halt, I mean. Now, as you were! Sal-ute!"

"Pooh!" says Vee, continuin' her rush. 

But say, she knows how to salute, all right. Her way would break up anarmy, though. All the same, I guess I've earned it, for by Monday nightI'll be up in a Syracuse shovel works, wearin' a one-piece business suitof the Never-rip brand, and I'll likely have enough grease on me tolubricate a switch-engine. 

"It's lucky you don't see me, Vee, " says I, "when I'm out savin' thecountry. You'd wonder how you ever come to do it. "

CHAPTER IX

A CARRY-ON FOR CLARA

"Now turn around, " says Vee. "Oh, Torchy! Why, you look perfectly----"

"Do I?" I cuts in. "Well, you don't think I'm goin' to the office likethis, do you?"

She does. Insists that Mr. Ellins will expect it. 

"Besides, " says she, "it is in the army regulations that you must. Ifyou don't--well, I'm not sure whether it is treason or mutiny. "

"Hal-lup!" says I. "I surrender. "

So I starts for town lookin' as warlike as if I'd just come from a fronttrench, and feelin' like a masquerader who'd lost his way to theball-room. 

In the office, Old Hickory gives me the thorough up-and-down. It's agenial, fatherly sort of inspection, and he ends it with a satisfiedgrunt. 

"Good-morning, Lieutenant, " says he. "I see you have--er--got 'em on. And, allow me to mention, rather a good fit, sir. "

I gasps. Sirred by Old Hickory! Do you wonder I got fussed? But he onlychuckles easy, waves me to take a chair, and goes on with:

"What's the word from the Syracuse sector?"

At that, I gets my breath back. 

"Fairly good deal up there, sir, " says I. "They're workin' in a carloador so of wormy ash for the shovel handles, and some of the steel runsbelow test; but most of their stuff grades well. I'll have my notestyped off right away. "

After I've filed my report I should have ducked. But this habit ofstickin' around the shop is hard to break. And that's how I happen to beon hand when the lady in gray drifts in for her chatty confab with Mr. Ellins. 

Seems she held quite a block of our preferred, for when Vincent lugs inher card Old Hickory spots the name right away as being on ourwidow-and-orphan list that we wave at investigatin' committees. 

"Ah, yes!" says he. "Mrs. Parker Smith. Show her in, boy. "

Such a quiet, gentle, dignified party she is, her costume tonin' in withher gray hair, and an easy way of speakin' and all, that my first guessis she might be the head of an old ladies' home. 

"Mr. Ellins, " says she, "I am looking for my niece. "

"Are you?" says Mr. Ellins, "Humph! Hardly think we could be of servicein such a case. "

"Oh!" says she. "I--I am so sorry. "

"Lost, is she?" suggests Mr. Ellins, weakenin'. 

"She is somewhere in New York, " goes on Mrs. Parker Smith. "Of course, Iknow it is an imposition to trouble you with such a matter. But Ithought you might have someone in your office who--who----"

"We have, " says he. "Torchy, --er--I mean, Lieutenant, --Mrs. ParkerSmith. Here, madam, is a young man who will find your niece for you atonce. In private life he is my secretary; and as it happens that justnow he is on special detail, his services are entirely at yourdisposal. "

She looks a little doubtful about bein' shunted like that, but shefollows me into the next room, where I produces a pencil and pad andcalls for details businesslike. 

"Let's see, " says I. "What's the full description? Age?"

"Why, " says she, hesitatin', "Claire is about twenty-two. "

"Oh!" says I. "Got beyond the flapper stage, then. Height--tall orshort?"

Mrs. Parker Smith shakes her head. 

"I'm sure I don't know, " says she. "You see, Claire is not an own niece. She--well, she is a daughter of my first husband's second wife'sstep-sister. "

"Wha-a-at?" says I, gawpin' at her. "Daughter of your---- Oh, say, let'snot go into it as deep as that. I'm dizzy already. Suppose we call heran in-law once removed and let it go at that?"

"Thank you, " says Mrs. Parker Smith, givin' me a quizzin' smile. "Perhaps it is enough to say that I have never seen her. "

She does go on to explain, though, that when Claire's step-uncle, orwhatever he was, found his heart trouble gettin' worse, he wrote to Mrs. Parker Smith, askin' her to forget the past and look after the orphangirl that he's been tryin' to bring up. It's just as clear to me as theaverage movie plot, but I nods my head. 

"So for three years, " says she, "while Claire was in boarding-school, Iacted as her guardian; but since she has come of age I have been merelythe executor of her small estate. "

"Oh, yes!" says I. "And now she's come to New York, and forgot to sendyou her address?"

It was something like that. Claire had gone in for art. Looked likeshe'd splurged heavy on it, too; for the drain on her income had beensomething fierce. Meanwhile, Mrs. Parker Smith had doped out an entirelydifferent future for Claire. The funds that had been tied up in aVermont barrel-stave fact'ry, that was makin' less and less barrelstaves every year, Auntie had pulled out and invested in a model dairyfarm out near Rockford, Illinois. She'd made the capital turn over fromfifteen to twenty per cent. , too, by livin' right on the job and cashin'in the cream tickets herself. 

"You have!" says I. "Not a reg'lar cow farm?"

She nods. 

"It did seem rather odd, at first, " says she. "But I wanted to get awayfrom--from everything. But now---- Well, I want Claire. I suppose I am alittle lonesome. Besides, I want her to try taking charge. Recently, when she had drawn her income for half a year in advance and stillasked for more, I was obliged to refuse. "

"And then?" says I. 

Mrs. Parker Smith shrugs her shoulders. 

"The foolish girl chose to quarrel with me, " says she. "About ten daysago she sent me a curt note. I could keep her money; she was tired ofbeing dictated to. I needn't write any more, for she had moved toanother address, had changed her name. "

"Huh!" says I. "That does make it complicated. You don't know what shelooks like, or what name she flags under, and I'm to find her in littleNew York?"

But I finds myself tacklin this hopeless puzzle from every angle I couldthink of. I tried 'phonin' to Claire's old street number. Nothin' doin'. They didn't know anything about Miss Hunt. 

"What brand of art was she monkeyin' with?" I asks. 

Mrs. Parker Smith couldn't say. Claire hadn't been very chatty in herletters. Chiefly she had demanded checks. 

"But in one she did mention, " says the lady in gray, "that---- Now, whatwas it! Oh, yes! Something about 'landing a cover. ' What could thatmean?"

"Cover?" says I. "Why, for a magazine, maybe. That's it. And if we onlyknew what name she'd sign, we might---- Would she stick to the Clairepart? I'll bet she would. Wait. I'll get a bunch of back numbers fromthe arcade news-stand and we'll go through 'em. "

We'd hunted through an armful, though, before we runs across this freakysketch of a purple nymph, with bright yellow hair, bouncin' across astretch of dark blue lawn. 

"Claire Lamar!" says I. "Would that be---- Eh? What's wrong?"

Mrs. Parker Smith seems to be gettin' a jolt of some kind, but shesteadies herself and almost gets back her smile. 

"I--I am sure it would, " says she. "It's very odd, though. "

"Oh, I don't know, " says I. "Listens kind of arty--Claire Lamar. Lemmesee. This snappy fifteen-center has editorial offices on Fourth Avenueand---- Well, well! Barry Frost, ad. Manager! Say, if I can get him onthe wire----"

Just by luck, I did. Would he pry some facts for me out of the arteditor, facts about a certain party? Sure he would. And inside of tenminutes, without leavin' the Corrugated General Offices, I had a fulldescription of Claire, includin' where she hung out. 

"Huh!" says I. "Greenwich Village, eh? You might know. "

"My dear Lieutenant, " says Mrs. Parker Smith, "I think you are perfectlywonderful. "

"Swell thought!" says I. "But you needn't let on to Mr. Ellins howsimple it was. And now, all you got to do is----"

"I know, " she cuts in. "And I really ought not to trouble you anothermoment. But, since Mr. Ellins has been so kind--well, I am going to askyou to help me just a trifle more. "

"Shoot, " says I, unsuspicious. 

It ain't much, she says. But she's afraid, if she trails Claire to herrooms, the young lady might send down word she was out, or make a quickexit. 

"But if you would go, " she suggests, "with a note from me asking her tojoin us somewhere at dinner----"

I holds up both hands. 

"Sorry, " says I, "but I got to duck. That's taking too many chances. "

Then I explains how, although I may look like a singleton, I'm reallythe other half of a very interestin' domestic sketch, and that Vee'sexpectin' me home to dinner. 

"Why, all the better!" says Mrs. Parker Smith. "Have her come in andjoin us. I'll tell you: we will have our little party down at the oldNapoleon, where they have such delicious French cooking. Now, please. "

As I've hinted before, she is some persuader. I ain't mesmerized sostrong, though, but what I got sense enough to play it safe by callin'up Vee first. I don't think she was strong for joinin' the reunion untilI points out that I might be some shy at wanderin' down into theart-student colony and collectin' a strange young lady illustrator allby myself. 

"Course, I could do it alone if I had to, " I throws in. 

"H-m-m-m!" says Vee. "If that bashfulness of yours is likely to be asbad as all that, perhaps I'd better come. "

So by six o 'clock Vee and I are in the dinky reception-room of one ofthem Belasco boardin'-houses, tryin' to convince a young female in apaint-splashed smock and a floppy boudoir cap that we ain't tryin' tokidnap or otherwise annoy her. 

"What's the big idea?" says she. "I don't get you at all. "

"Maybe if you'd read the note it would help, " I suggests. 

"Oh!" says she, and takes it over by the window. 

She's a long-waisted, rangy young party, who walks with a Theda Baraslouch and tries to talk out of one side of her mouth. "Hello!" she goeson. "The Parker Smith person. That's enough. It's all off. "

"Just as you say, " says I. "But, if you ask me, I wouldn't pass up anaunt like her without takin' a look. "

"Aunt!" says Claire Lamar, _alias_ Hunt. "Listen: she's about as much anaunt to me as I am to either of you. And I've never shed any tears overthe fact, either. The only aunt that I'd ever own was one that my familywould never tell me much about. I had to find out about her for myself. Take it from me, though, she was some aunt. "

"Tastes in aunts differ, I expect, " says I. "And Mrs. Parker Smith don'tclaim to be a reg'lar aunt, anyway. She seems harmless, too. All shewants is a chance to give you a rosy prospectus of life on a cow farmand blow you to a dinner at the Napoleon. "

"Think of that!" says Claire. "And I've been living for weeks onwindow-sill meals, with now and then a ptomaine-defying gorge at thePink Poodle's sixty-cent table d'hôte. Oh, I'll come, I'll come! But Iwarn you: the Parker Smith person will understand before the evening isover that I was born to no cow farm in Illinois. "

With that she glides off to do a dinner change. 

"I believe it is going to be quite an interesting party, don't you?"says Vee. 

"The signs point that way, " says I. "But the old girl really ought towear shock-absorbers if she wants to last through the evenin'. S-s-s-sh!Claire is comin' back. "

This time she's draped herself in a pale yellow kimono with bluetriangles stenciled all over it. 

"Speaking of perfectly good aunts, " says she, "there!" And she displaysa silver-framed photo. It's an old-timer done in faded brown, and showsa dashin' young party wearin' funny sleeves, a ringlet cascade on oneside of her head, and a saucy little pancake lid over one ear. 

"That, " explains Claire, "was my aunt Clara Lamar; not my real aunt, youknow, but near enough for me to claim her. This was taken in '82, Ibelieve. "

"Really!" says Vee. "She must have been quite pretty. "

"That doesn't half tell it, " says Claire. "She was a charmer, simplyfascinating. Not beautiful, you know, but she had a way with her. Shewas brilliant, daring, one of the kind that men raved over. At twentyshe married a Congressman, fat and forty. She hadn't lived in Washingtonsix months before her receptions were crushes. She flirtedindustriously. A young French aide and an army officer fought a duelover her. And, while the capital was buzzing with that, she eloped withanother diplomat, a Russian. For a year or two they lived in Paris. Shehad her salon. Then the Russian got himself killed in some way, and shesoon married again--another American, quite wealthy. He brought her backto New York, and they lived in one of those old brown-stone mansions onlower Fifth Avenue. Her dinner parties were the talk of thetown--champagne with the fish, vodka with the coffee, cigarettes for thewomen, cut-up stunts afterwards. I forget just who No. 3 was, but hesuccumbed. Couldn't stand the pace, I suppose. And then---- Well, AuntClara disappeared. But, say, she was a regular person. I wish I couldfind out what ever became of her. "

"Maybe Mrs. Parker Smith could give you a line, " I suggests. 

"Her!" says Claire. "Fat chance! But I must finish dressing. Sorry tokeep you waiting. "

We did get a bit restless durin' the next half hour, but the wait wasworth while. For, believe me, when Claire comes down again she's somedolled. 

I don't mean she was any home-destroyer. That face of hers is too longand heavy for the front row of a song review. But she has plenty of zipto her get-up. After one glance I calls a taxi. 

The way I'd left it with Mrs. Parker Smith, we was to land Claire at thehotel first; then call her up, and proceed to order dinner. So we hadanother little stage wait, with only the three of us at the table. 

"I hope you don't mind if I have a puff or two, " says Claire. "It goeshere, you know. "

"Anything to make the evenin' a success, " says I, signalin' a garçon. "My khaki lets me out of followin' you. "

So, when the head waiter finally tows in Mrs. Parker Smith, costumed inthe same gray dress and lookin' meeker and gentler than ever, she isgreeted with a sporty tableau. But she don't faint or anything. She justsprings that twisty smile of hers and comes right on. 

"The missing one!" says I, wavin' at Claire. 

"Ah!" says Mrs. Parker Smith, beamin' on her. "So good of you to come!"

"Wasn't it?" says Claire, removin' the cork tip languid. 

Well, as a get-together I must admit that the outlook was kind offrosty. Claire showed plenty of enthusiasm for the hors d'oeuvresand the low-tide soup and so on, but mighty little for this volunteerauntie, who starts to describe the subtle joys of the butter business. 

"Perhaps you have never seen a herd of registered Guernseys, " says Mrs. Parker Smith, "when they are munching contentedly at milking time, withtheir big, dreamy eyes----"

"Excuse me!" says Claire. "I don't have to. I spent a whole month'svacation on a Vermont farm. "

Mrs. Parker Smith only smiles indulgent. 

"We use electric milkers, you know, " says she, "and most of our youngmen come from the agricultural colleges. "

"That listens alluring--some, " admits Claire. "But I can't see myselfplanted ten miles out on an R. F. D. Route, even with college-bred help. Pardon me if I light another dope-stick. "

I could get her idea easy enough, by then. Claire wasn't half so sportyas she hoped she was. It was just her way of doing the carry-on for AuntClara Lamar. But, at the same time, we couldn't help feelin' kind ofsorry for Mrs. Parker Smith. She was tryin' to be so nice and friendly, and she wasn't gettin' anywhere. 

It was by way of switchin' the line of table chat, I expect, that Veebreaks in with that remark about the only piece of jewelry the old girlis wearin'. 

"What a duck of a bracelet!" says Vee. "An heirloom, is it?"

"Almost, " says Mrs. Parker Smith. "It was given to me on mytwenty-second birthday, in Florence. "

She slips it off and passes it over for inspection. The part that goesaround the wrist is all of fine chain-work, silver and gold, wovenalmost like cloth, and on top is a cameo, 'most as big as a clam. 

"How stunning! Look, Torchy. O-o-oh!" says Vee, gaspin' a little. 

In handling the thing she must have pressed a catch somewhere, for thecameo springs back, revealin' a locket effect underneath with a picturein it. Course, we couldn't help seein'. 

"Why--why----" says Vee, gazin' from the picture to Mrs. Parker Smith. "Isn't this a portrait of--of----"

"Of a very silly young woman, " cuts in Auntie. "We waited in Florence aweek to have that finished. "

"Then--then it is you!" asks Vee. 

The lady in gray nods. Vee asks if she may show it to Claire. 

"Why not?" says Mrs. Parker Smith, smilin'. 

We didn't stop to explain. I passes it on to Claire, and then we bothwatches her face. For the dinky little picture under the cameo is a deadringer for the one Claire had shown us in the silver frame. So it wasClaire's turn to catch a short breath. 

"Don't tell me, " says she, "that--that you are Clara Lamar?"

Which was when Auntie got her big jolt. For a second the pink fades outof her cheeks, and the salad fork she'd been holdin' rattles into herplate. She makes a quick recovery, though. 

"I was--once, " says she. "I had hoped, though, that the name had beenforgotten. Tell me, how--how do you happen to----"

"Why, " says Claire, "uncle had the scrapbook habit. Anyway, I found thisone in an old desk, and it was all about you. Your picture was in it, too. And say, Auntie, you were the real thing, weren't you?"

After that it was a reg'lar reunion. For Claire had dug up her heroine. And, no matter how strong Auntie protests that she ain't that sort of aparty now, and hasn't been for years and years, Claire keeps right on. She's a consistent admirer, even if she is a little late. 

"If I had only known it was you!" says she. 

"Then--then you'll come to Meadowbrae with me?" asks Mrs. Parker Smith. 

"You bet!" says Claire. "Between you and me, this art career of mine hasrather fizzled out. Besides, keeping it up has got to be rather a bore. Honest, a spaghetti and cigarette life is a lot more romantic to readabout than it is to follow. Whether I could learn to run a dairy farm ornot, I don't know; but, with an aunt like you to coach me along, I'mblessed if I don't give it a try. When do we start?"

"But, " says Vee to me, later, "I can't imagine her on a farm. "

"Oh, I don't know, " says I. "Didn't you notice she couldn't smokewithout gettin' it up her nose?"

CHAPTER X

ALL THE WAY WITH ANNA

Believe me, Belinda, this havin' a boss who's apt to stack you up casualagainst stuff that would worry a secret service corps recruited fromseventh sons is a grand little cure for monotonous moments. Just becauseI happen to get a few easy breaks on my first special details seems togive Old Hickory the merry idea that when he wants someone to do thewizard act, all he has to do is press the button for me. I don't knowwhether my wearin' the khaki uniform helps out the notion or not. Ishouldn't wonder. 

Now, here a week or ten days ago, when I leaves Vee and my peacefullittle home after a week-end swing, I expects to be shot up to Amesbury, Mass. , to inspect a gun-limber factory. Am I? Not at all. By 3 P. M. I'min Bridgeport, Conn. , wanderin' about sort of aimless, and tryin' tosize up a proposition that I'm about as well qualified to handle as aplumber's helper called in to tune a pipe organ. 

Why was it that some three thousand hands in one of our sub-contractin'plants was bent on gettin' stirred up and messy about every so often, inspite of all that had been done to soothe 'em?

Does that listen simple, or excitin', or even interestin'? It didn't tome. Specially after I'd given the once-over to this giddy mob of Wopsand Hunkies and Sneezowskis. 

The office people didn't know how many brands of Czechs or Magyars orPolacks they had in the shops. What they was real sure of was that athird of the bunch had walked out twice within the last month, and ifthey quit again, as there was signs of their doin', we stood to dropabout $200, 000 in bonuses on shell contracts. 

It wasn't a matter of wage scales, either. Honest, some of them ginkswith three z's in their names was runnin' up, with over-time and all, pay envelops that averaged as much as twelve a day. Why, some of thewomen and girls were pullin' down twenty-five a week. And they couldn'tkick on the workin' conditions, either. Here was a brand-new concreteplant, clean as a new dish-pan, with half the sides swingin' glasssashes, and flower beds outside. 

"And still they threaten another strike, " says the general manager. "Ifit comes, we might as well scrap this whole plant and transfer theequipment to Pennsylvania or somewhere else. Unless"--here he grinssarcastic--"you can find out what ails 'em, Lieutenant. But you are onlythe third bright young man the Corrugated has sent out to tell us what'swhat, you know. "

"Oh, well, " says I. "There's luck in odd numbers. Cheer up. "

It was after this little chat that I sheds the army costume and wandersout disguised as a horny-handed workingman. 

Not that I'd decided to get a job right away. After my last stab I ain'tso strong for this ten-hour cold-lunch trick as I was when I was new tothe patriotic sleuthin' act. Besides, bein' no linguist, I couldn't seehow workin' with such a mixed lot was goin' to get me anywhere. If Icould only run across a good ambidextrous interpreter, now, one whocould listen in ten languages and talk in six, it might help. And whowas it I once knew that had moved to Bridgeport?

I'd been mullin' on that mystery ever since I struck the town. Just aglimmer, somewhere in the back of my nut, that there had been such aparty some time or other. I'll admit that wasn't much of a clue to startout trailin' in a place of this size, but it's all I had. 

I must have walked miles, readin' the signs on the stores, pushin' myway through the crowds, and finally droppin' into a fairly clean-lookin'restaurant for dinner. Half way through the goulash and noodles, I hadthis bright thought about consultin' the 'phone book. The cashier thatlet me have it eyed me suspicious as I props it up against the sugarbowl and starts in with the A's. 

Ever try readin' a telephone directory straight through? By the time I'dgot through the M's I'd had to order another cup of coffee and a secondpiece of lemon pie. At that, the waitress was gettin' uneasy. She'd justshoved my check at me for the third time, and was addin' a glass ofwooden tooth-picks, when I lets out this excited stage whisper. 

"Sobowski!" says I, grabbin' the book. 

The young lady in the frilled apron rests her thumbs on her hipsdignified and shoots me a haughty glance. "Ring off, young feller, " saysshe. "You got the wrong number. "

"Not so, Clarice, " says I. "His first name is Anton, and he used to runa shine parlor in the arcade of the Corrugated buildin', New York, N. Y. "

"It's a small world, ain't it?" says she. "You can pay me or at thedesk, just as you like. "

Clarice got her tip all right, and loaned me her pencil to write downAnton's street number. 

A stocky, bow-legged son of Kosciuszko, built close to the ground, andwith a neck on him like a truck-horse, as I remembered Anton. But thehottest kind of a sport. Used to run a pool on the ball-games, and madea book on the ponies now and then. Always had a roll with him. He'd takea nickel tip from me and then bet a guy in the next chair fifty tothirty-five the Giants would score more'n three runs against the Cubs'new pitcher in to-morrow's game. That kind. 

Must have been two or three years back that Anton had told me about someopenin' he had to go in with a brother-in-law up in Bridgeport. Likely Ididn't pay much attention at the time. Anyway, he was missin' soonafter; and if I hadn't been in the habit of callin' him Old Sobstuff I'dhave forgotten that name of his entirely. But seein' it there in thebook brought back the whole thing. 

"Anton Sobowski, saloon, " was the way it was listed. So he was runnin' asuds parlor, eh? Well, it wasn't likely he'd know much about labortroubles, but it wouldn't do any harm to look him up. When I came totrail down the street number, though, blamed if it ain't within half ablock of our branch works. 

And, sure enough, in a little office beyond the bar, leanin' backluxurious in a swivel-chair, and displayin' a pair of baby-blue armletsover his shirt sleeves, I discovers Mr. Sobowski himself. It ain't anybrewery-staked hole-in-the-wall he's boss of, either. It's the WarsawCafé, bar and restaurant, all glittery and gorgeous, with lace curtainsin the front windows, red, white, and blue mosquito nettin' drapedartistic over the frosted mirrors, and three busy mixers behind themahogany bar. 

Anton has fleshed up considerable since he quit jugglin' the brushes, and he's lost a little of the good-natured twinkle from his wide-seteyes. He glances up at me sort of surly when I first steps into theoffice; but the minute I takes off the straw lid and ducks my head athim, he lets loose a rumbly chuckle. 

"It is that Torchy, hey?" says he. "Well, well! It don't fade any, doesit?"

"Not that kind of dye, " says I. "How's the boy?"

"Me, " says Anton. "Oh, fine like silk. How you like the place, hey?"

I enthused over the Warsaw Café; and when he found I was still with theCorrugated, and didn't want to touch him for any coin, but had justhappened to be in town and thought I'd look him up for old times'sake--well, Anton opened up considerable. 

"What!" says he. "They send you out? You must be comin' up?"

"Only private sec. To Mr. Ellins, " says I, "but he chases me around agood deal. We're busy people these days, you know. "

"The Corrugated Trust! I should say so, " agrees Anton, waggin' his headearnest. "Big people, big money. I like to have my brother-in-law meetyou. Wait. "

Seemed a good deal like wastin' time, but I spent the whole evenin' withAnton. I met not only the brother-in-law, but also Mrs. Sobowski, hiswife; and another Mrs. Sobowski, an aunt or something; and Miss AnnaSobowski, his niece. Also I saw the three-story Sobowski boardin'-housethat Anton conducted on the side; and the Alcazar movie joint, anotherSobowski enterprise. 

That's where this Anna party was sellin' tickets--a peachy-cheeked, high-chested young lady with big, rollin' eyes, and her mud-colored hairwaved something wonderful. I was introduced reg'lar and impressive. 

"Anna, " says Anton, "take a good look at this young man. He's a friendof mine. Any time he comes by, pass him in free--any time at all. See?"

And Anna, she flashes them high-powered eyes of hers at me kittenish. "Aw ri', " says she. "I'm on, Mr. Torchy. "

"That girl, " confides Anton to me afterwards, "was eating black breadand cabbage soup in Poland less than three years ago. Now she buys highkid boots, two kinds of leather, at fourteen dollars. And makes goo-gooeyes at all the men. Yes, but never no mistakes with the change. NotAnna. "

All of which was interestin' enough, but it didn't seem to help any. Younever can tell, though, can you? You see, it was kind of hard, breakin'away from Anton once he'd started to get folksy and show me what animportant party he'd come to be. He wanted me to see the Warsaw when itwas really doin' business, about ten o'clock, after the earlypicture-show crowds had let out and the meetin' in the hall overhead wasin full swing. 

"What sort of meetin'?" I asks, just as a filler. 

"Oh, some kind of labor meetin', " says he. "I d'know. They chin a lot. That's thirsty work. Good for business, hey?"

"Is it a labor union?" I insists. 

Anton shrugs his shoulders. 

"You wait, " says he. "Mr. Stukey, he'll tell you all about it. Yes, anear-full. He's a good spender, Stukey. Hires the hall, too. "

Somehow, that listened like it might be a lead. But an hour later, whenI'd had a chance to look him over, I was for passin' Stukey up. For hesure was disappointin' to view. One of these thin, sallow, dyspepticparties, with deep lines down either side of his mouth, a bristly, juttylittle mustache, and ratty little eyes. 

I expect Anton meant well when he brings out strong, in introducin' me, how I'm connected with the Corrugated Trust. In fact, you might almostgather I _was_ the Corrugated. But it don't make any hit with Stukey. 

"Hah!" says he, glarin' at me hostile. "A minion. "

"Solid agate yourself, " says I. "Wha'd'ye mean--minion?"

"Aren't you a hireling of the capitalistic class?" demands Stukey. 

"Maybe, " says I, "but I ain't above mixin' with lower-case minds now andthen. "

"Case?" says he. "I don't understand. "

"Perhaps that's your trouble, " says I. 

"Bah!" says he, real peevish. 

"Come, come, boys!" says Anton, clappin' us jovial on the shoulders. "What's this all about, hey? We are all friends here. Yes? Is it thatthe meetin' goes wrong, Mr. Stukey? Tell us, now. "

Stukey shakes his head at him warnin'. "What meetin'?" says he. "Don'tbe foolish. What time is it? Ten-twenty! I have an engagement. "

And with that he struts off important. 

Anton hunches his shoulders and lets out a grunt. 

"He has it bad--Stukey, " says he. "It is that Anna. Every night he mustwalk home with her. "

"She ain't particular, is she?" I suggests. 

"Oh, I don't know, " says Anton. "Yes, he is older, and not a stronghearty man, like some of these young fellows. But he is educated; oh, like the devil. You should hear him talk once. "

But Stukey had stirred up a stubborn streak in me. 

"Is he, though, " says I, "or do you kid yourself?"

I thought that would get a come-back out of Anton. And it does. 

"If I am so foolish, " says he, "would I be here, with my name in goldabove the door, or back shining shoes in the Corrugated arcade yet? Hey?I will tell you this. Nobodies don't come and hire my hall from me, fifty a week, in advance. "

"Cash or checks?" I puts in. 

"If the bank takes the checks, why should I worry?" asks Anton. 

"Oh, the first one might be all right, " says I, "and the second;but--well, you know your own business, I expect. "

Anton gazes at me stupid for a minute, then turns to his desk and fishesout a bunch of returned checks. He goes through 'em rapid until he hasrun across the one he's lookin' for. 

"Maybe I do, " says he, wavin' it under my nose triumphant. 

Which gives me the glimpse I'd been jockeyin' for. The name of thatbank was enough. From then on I was mighty interested in this MortimerJ. Stukey; and while I didn't exactly use the pressure pump on Anton, Imay have asked a few leadin' questions. Who was Stukey, where did hecome from, and what was his idea--hirin' halls and so on? While Antoncould recognize a dollar a long way off, he wasn't such a keen observerof folks. 

"I don't worry whether he's a Wilson man or not, " says Anton, "or whichmovie star he likes best after Mary Pickford. If I did I should askAnna. "

"Eh?" says I, sort of eager. 

"He tells her a lot he don't tell me, " says Anton. 

"That's reasonable, too, " says I. "Ask Anna. Say, that ain't a badhunch. Much obliged. "

It wasn't so easy, though, with Stukey on the job, to get near enough toask Anna anything. When they came in, and Anton invites me to join thefam'ly group in the boardin'-house dinin'-room while the cheesesandwiches and pickles was bein' passed around, I finds Stukey blockin'me off scientific. 

As Anton had said, he had it bad. Never took his eyes off Anna for asecond. I suppose he thought he was registerin' tender emotions, but itstruck me as more of a hungry look than anything else. Miss Sobowskiseemed to like it, though. 

I expect a real lady's man wouldn't have had much trouble cuttin' in onStukey and towin' Anna off into a corner. But that ain't my strong suit. The best I could do was to wait until the next day, when there was noopposition. Meantime I'd been usin' the long-distance reckless; so bythe time Anna shows up at the Alcazar to open the window for the evenin'sale, I was primed with a good many more facts about a certain partythan I had been the night before. Stukey wasn't quite such a man ofmystery as he had been. 

Course, I might have gone straight to Anton; but, somehow, I wanted totry out a few hints on Anna. I couldn't say just why, either. The lineof josh I opens with ain't a bit subtle. It don't have to be. Anna wastickled to pieces to be kidded about her feller. She invites me into thebox-office, offers me chewin' gum, and proceeds to get quite frisky. 

"Ah, who was tellin' you that?" says she. "Can't a girl have a gentlemanfrien' without everybody's askin' is she engaged? Wotcher think?"

"Tut-tut!" says I. "I suppose, when you two had your heads together soclose, he was rehearsin' one of his speeches to you--the kind he makesup in the hall, eh?"

"Mr. Stukey don't make no speeches there, " says Anna. "He just tells theothers what to say. You ought to hear him talk, though. My, sometimeshe's just grand!"

"Urgin' 'em not to quit work, I suppose?" says I. 

"Him?" says Anna. "Not much. He wants 'em to strike, all the timestrike, until they own the shops. He's got no use for rich people. Calls'em blood-suckers and things like that. Oh, he's sump'n fierce when hetalks about the rich. "

"Is he?" says I. "I wonder why?"

"All the workers get like that, " says Anna. "Mr. Stukey says that prettysoon everybody will join--all but the rich blood-suckers, and they'll bein jail. He was poor himself once. So was I, you know, in Poland. But wegot along until the Germans came, and then---- Ugh! I don't like toremember. "

"Anton was tellin' me, " says I. "You lost some of your folks. "

"Lost!" says Anna, a panicky look comin' into her big eyes. "You call itthat? I saw my father shot, my two brothers dragged off to work in thetrenches, and my sister--oh, I can't! I can't say it!"

"Then don't tell Stukey, " says I, "if you want to keep stringin' himalong. "

"But why?" demands Anna. 

"Because, " says I, "the money he's spendin' so free around here comesfrom them--the Germans. "

"No, no!" says Anna, whisperin' husky. "That--that's a lie!"

"Sorry, " says I; "but I got his number straight. He was workin' for aGerman insurance company up to 1915, bookkeepin' at ninety a month. Thenhe got the chuck. He came near starvin'. It was when he was almost inthat he went crawlin' back to 'em, and they gave him this job. If youdon't believe it's German money he's spendin' ask Anton to show you someof Stukey's canceled checks. "

"But--but he's English, " protests Anna. "Anyway, his father was. "

"The Huns don't mind who they buy up, " says I. 

She's still starin' at me, sort of stunned. 

"German money!" she repeats. "Him!"

"Anton will show you the checks, " says I. "He don't care where theycome from, so long as he can cash 'em. But you might hint to him that ifanother big strike is pulled it's apt to be a long one, and in that casethe movie business will get a crimp put in it. The Warsaw receipts, too. I take it that Stukey's tryin' to work the hands up to a point wherethey'll vote for----"

"To-night they vote, " breaks in Anna. "In two hours. "

I lets out a whistle. "Zowie!" says I. "Guess I'm a little late. Say, you got a 'phone here. Would it do any good if you called Anton upand----"

"No, " snaps Anna. "He thinks too slow. I must do this myself. "

"You?" says I. "What could you do?"

"I don't know, " says Anna. "But I must try. And quick. Hey, Marson!You--at the door. Come here and sell the tickets. Put an usher in yourplace. "

With that she bounces down off the tall chair, shoves the substituteinto her place, and goes streamin' out bare-headed. I decides to follow. But she leaves me behind as though I'd been standin' still. 

At the Warsaw I finds Anton smokin' placid in his little office. 

"Seen Anna?" I asks. 

"Anna!" says he. "She should be selling tickets at the----"

"She was, " says I; "but just now she's upstairs in the hall. "

"At the meetin'?" gasps Anton. "Anna? Oh, no!"

"Come, take a look, " says I. 

And, for once in his life, Anton got a quick move on. He don't ask me tofollow, but I trails along; and just as we strikes the top stair wehears a rousin' cheer go up. I suppose any other time we'd been barredout, but there's nobody to hold us up as we pushes through, for everyonehas their eyes glued on the little stage at the far end of the hall. 

No wonder. For there, standin' up before more than three hundred yellin'men, is this high-colored young woman. 

Course, I couldn't get a word of it, my Polish education havin' beensadly neglected when I was young. But Anna seems to be tellin' some sortof story. My guess was that it's the one she'd hinted at to me--abouther father and brothers and sister. But this time she seems to bethrowin' in all the details. 

[Illustration: "Quick as a flash, Anna turns and points to Stukey. Icaught his name as she hisses it out. Stukey, turnin' a sickly yellow, slumps in his chair. "]

There was nothin' frivolous about Anna's eyes now. It almost gave me acreepy feelin' to watch 'em--as if she was seein' things again thatshe'd like to forget--awful things. And she was makin' those threehundred men see the same things. 

All of a sudden she breaks off, covers her face with her hands, andshivers. Then, quick as a flash, she turns and points to Stukey. Icaught his name as she hisses it out. Stukey, turnin' a sickly yellow, slumps in his chair. Another second, and she's turned back to the menout front. She is puttin' something up to them--a question, straightfrom the shoulder. 

The first to make a move is a squatty, thick-necked gent with one eyewalled out. He jumps on a chair, shouts a few excited words, waves hislong arms, and starts for the stage businesslike. The next thing I knewthe riot was on, with Mortimer J. Stukey playin' the heavy lead andbein' tossed around like a rat. 

It must have been Anton that switched off the lights and sent for thepolice. I didn't stop to ask. Bein' near the door, I felt my waydownstairs and made a quick exit. Course, the ceremonies promised tocontinue interestin', but somehow this struck me as a swell time for meto quit. So I strolls back to the hotel and goes to bed. 

Yes, I was some curious to know how the muss ended, but I didn't hurryaround next mornin'. As a matter of fact, I'd enjoyed the society of theSobowskis quite a lot durin' the past two days, and I thought I'd betterstay away for a while. They're a strenuous bunch when they're stirredup--even a kittenish young thing like Anna. 

About noon I 'phoned the works, and found that all was serene there, with no signs of a strike yet. 

"No, and I got a hunch there won't be any, either, " says I. 

I was plannin' to linger in Bridgeport another day or so; but when theafternoon paper came out I changed my mind. Accordin' to thepolice-court reporter's account, there'd been some little disturbance inWarsaw Hall the night before. Seems a stranger by the name of Stukey hadbutted into a meetin' of the Pulaski Social Club, and had proceeded toget so messy that it had been found necessary to throw him out. Half adozen witnesses told how rude he'd been, includin' the well-knowncitizen, Mr. Anton Sobowski, who owned the premises. The said Stukey hadbeen a bit damaged; but after he'd been patched up at the City Hospitalhe'd been promised a nice long rest--thirty days, to be exact. 

So I jumps the next train back to Broadway. 

"Ah, Lieutenant!" says Mr. Ellins, glancin' up from his desk. "Findanything up there?"

"Uh-huh, " says I. "His name was Stukey. Another case of drawin' his payfrom Berlin. "

"Hah!" grunts Old Hickory, bitin' into his cigar. "The long arm again. But can't you recommend something?"

"Sure!" says I. "If we could find a pair of gold boots about eighteenbuttons high, we ought to send 'em to Anna Sobowski. "

CHAPTER XI

AT THE TURN WITH WILFRED

I expect Mr. Robert overstated the case a bit. He was more or lesshectic back of the ears about then, havin' just broken away after ahalf-hour session with Mrs. Stanton Bliss. 

"That woman, " says he, slumpin' into a chair and moppin' his brow, "hasthe mental equipment of a pet rabbit and the disposition of a settinghen. Good Lord!"

I looks over at Vee and grins. Had to. It ain't often you see Mr. Robertlike that. And him bein' all dolled up in his nifty navy uniform made itseem just that much funnier. But Vee don't grin back. She'd sympathizewith 'most anybody. At that exact minute, I'll bet she was bein' sorryfor both of 'em all in the same breath, as you might say. 

"But can't something be done--somehow?" she asks. 

"Not by me, " says Mr. Robert, decided. "Great marlinspikes! I'm not thewar department, am I? I'm only a first-grade lieutenant in command of ablessed, smelly old menhaden trawler that's posing as a mine-sweeper. Iam supposed to be enjoying a twenty-four hour shore leave in the peaceand quiet of my home, and I get--this. "

He waves his hand toward the other room, where the afore-mentioned Mrs. Stanton Bliss is sobbin, sniffin', and otherwise registerin' deepemotion by clawin' Mrs. Robert about the shoulders and wavin' away thesmellin' salts. 

"If it was the first time, " growls Mr. Robert. "But it isn't. "

That was true, too. You see, we'd heard somethin' about the otherspasms. They'd begun along in July, when the awful news came out thatWilfred's red ink number had been plucked from the jar. Now you get it, don't you? Nothing unique. The same little old tragedy that was bein'staged in a million homes, includin' four-room flats, double-deckertenements, and boardin'-houses. 

Only this happened to hit the forty-room country house of the StantonBlisses. Course, it was different. Look who was bein' stirred up by it. 

So mother had begun throwin' cat-fits. She'd tackled everyone she knew, demandin' to know what was to be done to keep Wilfred out of it. Amongothers, of course, she'd held up Mr. Robert. Wasn't he their nearestneighbor, and hadn't the Blisses entertained the Ellinses a lot? Notthat she put it that way, exactly. But when she came with this hunchabout gettin' sonny a snap job on some sort of naval construction work, why, of course, Mr. Robert couldn't duck. Yes, he thought he could placeWilfred. And he did--time-keeper, six-hour shift, and near enough so hecould run back and forth every day in his machine. 

That might have been good enough for some folks. It meant dodgin' thedraft for Wilfred, dead sure. But mother didn't stay satisfied long. Shewent investigatin' around the plant. She found the office stuffy, Wilfred's desk had no electric fan on it, she wasn't sure of thedrinkin' water, and the foreman was quite an impossible sort of personwho always sneered when he had anything to say to Wilfred. Couldn't Mr. Robert attend to some of these things? Mr. Robert said he'd try--if hehad time. He didn't get the time. More visits from mother. 

Then this latest catastrophe. The Stanton Blisses had been away fromhome for three weeks or more, house-partyin' and motorin' through themountains. Poor Wilfred had had to stay behind. What a stupidlydistressin' thing war was, wasn't it? But he had been asked to spend hisnights and Sundays with a college chum whose home was several milesnearer the works. 

And then they had come back to find this scribbled note. Things had beengettin' worse and worse, Wilfred wrote. Some young hoodlums around theplant had shouted after him as he drove off in his car. Even younggirls. The men had been surly to him, and that beastly foreman---- Well, he wasn't goin' to stand for it, that was all. He didn't know just whathe was goin' to do, but he was clearin' out. They'd hear from him later. 

They had. This six-word message from Philadelphia, dated nearly twoweeks ago, was also waitin'. It said that he'd enlisted, was all right, and for them not to worry. Nothin' more. 

You couldn't blame mother for bein' stirred up. Her Wilfred had gone. Somewhere in some army camp or other, or at some naval trainin' station, the son and heir of the house of Bliss was minglin' with the coarse sonsof the common people, was eatin' common food, was wearin' commonclothes, was goin' up against the common thing generally. And thatwasn't the worst of it. Where? Why didn't Mr. Robert tell her where? Andcouldn't he get him away at once? Mr. Robert had almost gone hoarsetryin' to explain why he couldn't. But after every try she'd come backwith this wail:

"Oh, but you don't understand what it is to be a mother!"

"Thank the stars I don't!" says he, as he marches out of the room. 

I was for clearin' out so he'd be free to shoo her in any style hewanted to. We'd been havin' dinner with the Ellinses, Vee and I, and itwas time to go home anyway. But there's no budgin' Vee. 

"Don't you think Torchy might find out where he is?" she suggests. "Bein' in the army himself, you know, and so clever at that sort ofthing, I should think----"

"Why, to be sure, " breaks in Mr. Robert, perkin' up all of a sudden andstarin' at me. "Lieutenant Torchy to the rescue, of course. He's thevery one. "

"Ah, say, how'd you get that way?" says I. "Back up!"

He's off, though, callin' Mrs. Stanton Bliss. And before I can escapehe's sickin' her on real enthusiastic. Also there's Vee urgin' me tosee if I can't do something to locate Wilfred. So I had to make thestab. 

"Got that wire with you?" I asks. 

Yes, Mrs. Bliss had all the documents right handy. I takes the yellowsheet over under the readin' lamp and squints at it sleuthy, partly tokill time, and partly because I couldn't think of anything else to do. And of course they all have to gather round and watch me close, as if Iwas about to pull some miracle. Foolish! It was a great deal worse thanthat. 

"H-m-m-m-m!" says I. "Philadelphia. I suppose there's some sort of navaltrainin' station there, eh?"

Mr. Robert says there is. 

"But if Wilfred was at it, " I goes on, "and didn't want you to find him, he wouldn't have sent this from there, would he?"

Mrs. Stanton Bliss sighs. "I'm sure I don't know, " says she. "I--Isuppose not. "

"Must be somewhere within strikin' distance of Philadelphia, though, "says I. "Now, what camp is near?"

"Couldn't we wire someone in Washington and find out?" asks Mrs. Bliss. 

"Sure, " says I. "And we'd get an official answer from the Secretary ofWar about 11 A. M. Next spring. It'll be a lot quicker to call up WhiteyWeeks. "

They don't know everything in newspaper offices, but there are mightyfew things they can't find out. Whitey, though, didn't even have toconsult the copy desk or the clippin' bureau. 

"About the nearest big one, " says he, "is the Ambulance Corps Camp atAllentown. Somewhere up on the Lehigh. S'long. "

Here was another jolt for Mrs. Stanton Bliss. The Ambulance Corps! Shenear keeled over again, just hearin' me say it. Oh, oh! Did I reallybelieve Wilfred could have been as rash as that?

"Why, " says she, "they drive right up to the trenches, don't they? Isn'tthat fearfully dangerous?"

"War isn't a parlor pastime, " puts in Mr. Robert. "And the ambulancedrivers take their chances with the rest of the men. But there's nofightin' going on at Allentown. If Wilfred is there----"

"If he is, " cuts in Mrs. Bliss, "I must go to him this very moment. "

Some way that statement seemed to cheer Mr. Robert up a lot. 

"Naturally, " says he. "I'll look up a train for you. Just a second. Inthe A's. Allentown--Allen. Ah, page 156. M-m-m. Here you are. First onestarts at 2 A. M. And gets you in at 5. 15. Will that do?"

Mrs. Bliss turns on him sort of dazed, and blinks them round eyes ofhers. She's a fairly well put up old girl, you know, built sort of onthe pouter-pigeon type, but with good lines below the waist, and acomplexion that she's taken lots of pains with. Dresses real classy, and, back to, she's often mistaken for daughter Marion. Travels in quitea gay bunch, I understand, with Mr. Stanton Bliss kind of trailin' alongbehind. Usually, when she ain't indulgin' in hysterics, she has veryfetchin' kittenish ways. You know the kind. Their specialty's makin' thesurroundin' males jump through the hoop for 'em. But when it comes toarrivin' anywhere at 5. 15 A. M. --well, not for her. 

"I should be a sight, " says she. 

"You'd still be a mother, wouldn't you?" asks Mr. Robert. 

It was rough of him, as he was given to understand by the looks of allthree ladies present, includin' Mrs. Robert; so he tries to squarehimself by lookin' up a ten o'clock train, all Pullman, with diner andobservation. 

"I would gladly take you up myself, " says he, lyin' fluent, "if Ididn't have to go back to my boat. But here is Torchy. He'll go, Isuppose. "

"Of course, " says Vee. 

And that's how I came to be occupyin' drawin'-room A, along with motherand sister Marion, as we breezes up into the Pennsylvania hills on thisWilfred hunt. A gushy, giggly young party Marion is, but she turns outto be quite a help. It was her who spots the two young soldiers driftin'through towards the smokin' compartment, and suggests that maybe they'regoin' to the same camp. 

"And they would know if Wilfred was there, wouldn't they?" she adds. 

"Maybe, " says I. "I'll go ask. "

Nice, clean-cut young chaps they was. They'd stretched out comfortableon the leather seats, and was enjoyin' a perfectly good smoke, until Ishows up. The minute I appears, though, they chucks their cigars andjumps up, heels together, right hand to the hat-brim. That's what I getby havin' this dinky bar on my shoulders. 

"Can it, boys, " says I. "This is unofficial. "

"At ease, sir?" suggests one. 

"As easy as you know how, " says I. 

Yes, they says they're ambulancers; on their way back to Allentown, too. But they didn't happen to know of any Wilfred Stanton Bliss there. 

"You see, sir, " says one, "there are about five thousand of us, so hemight----"

"Sure!" says I. "But mother'll want an affidavit. Would you minddroppin' in and bein' cross-examined? There's sister Marion, too. "

Obligin' chaps, they were; let me tow 'em into the drawin'-room, listened patient while Mrs. Bliss described just how Wilfred looked, andtried their best to remember havin' seen such a party. Also they gaveher their expert opinion on how long the war was goin' to last, whenWilfred would be sent over, and what chances he stood of comin' backwithout a scratch. 

Once more it was Marion who threw the switch. 

"Tell me, " says she, "will he be wearing a uniform just like yours?"

They said he would. 

"Oh!" gurgles Marion, "I think it is perfectly spiffy. Don't you, mother? I'm just crazy to see Wilfred in one. "

Mother catches the enthusiasm. "My noble boy!" says she, rollin' hereyes up. 

From then on she's quite chipper. The idea of findin' sonny made overinto a smart, dashin' soldier seemed to crowd out all the panickythoughts she'd been havin'. From little hints she let drop, I judgedthat she was already picturin' him as a gallant hero, struttin' aroundhaughty and givin' off stern commands. Maybe he'd been made a captain orsomething. Surely they would soon see that her Wilfred ought to be anofficer of some kind. 

"And we must have his portrait painted, " she remarks, claspin' her handsexcited as the happy thought strikes her. 

The boys looked steady out of the window and managed to smother thesmiles. I imagine they'd seen all sorts of mothers come to camp. 

It's a lively little burg, Allentown, even if I didn't know it was onthe map before. At the station you take a trolley that runs straightthrough the town and out to the fair grounds, where the camp is located. Goin' up the hill, you pass through the square and by the Soldiers'Monument. Say, it's some monument, too. Then out a long street linedwith nice, comfortable-lookin' homes, until you get a glimpse of bluehills rollin' away as far as you can see, and there you are. 

The boys piloted us past the guard at the gates, through a grove oftrees, and left us at the information bureau, where a soldier wearin'shell-rimmed glasses listened patient while mother and sister bothtalked at once. 

"Bliss? Just a moment, " says he, reachin' for a card-index box. "Yes, ma'am. Wilfred Stanton. He's here. "

"But where?" demands Mrs. Bliss. 

"Why, " says the soldier, "he's listed with the casuals just now. Quartered in the cow-barn. "

"The--the cow-barn!" gasps Mrs. Bliss. 

The soldier grins. 

"It's over that way, " says he, wavin' his hand. "Anyone will tell you. "

They did. We wandered on and on, past the parade ground that used to bethe trottin' track, past new barracks that was being knocked togetherhasty, until we comes to this dingy white buildin' with all theunderwear hung up to dry around it. I took one glance inside, where thecots was stacked in thick and soldiers was loafin' around in variousstages of dress and undress, and then I shooed mother and sister off aways while I went scoutin' in alone. At a desk made out of apackin'-box I found a chap hammerin' away at a typewriter. He salutesand goes to attention. 

"Yes, sir, " says he, when I've told him who I'm lookin' for. "SqueakyBliss. But he's on duty just now, sir. "

I suggests that his mother and sister are here and would like to have aglimpse of him right away. 

"They'd better wait until after five, sir, " says he. 

"I wouldn't like to try holdin' 'em in that long, " says I. 

"Very well, sir, " says he. "Squeaky's on fatigue. Somewhere down at thefurther end of the grand stand you might catch him. But if it's hismother--well, I'd wait. "

I passes this advice on to Mrs. Bliss. 

"The idea!" says she. "I wish to see my noble soldier boy at once. Come. "

So we went. There was no scarcity of young fellows in olive drab. Theplace was thick with 'em. Squads were drillin' every way you looked, andout in the center of the field, where two or three hundred newambulances were lined up, more squads were studyin' the insides of themotor, or practicin' loadin' in stretchers. Hundreds and hundreds ofyoung fellows in uniform, all lookin' just alike. I didn't wonder thatmother couldn't pick out sonny boy. 

"What was it that man said?" she asks. "Wilfred on fatigue. Does thatmean he is resting?"

"Not exactly, " says I. 

About then sister Marion begins to exhibit jumpy emotions. 

"Mother! Mother!" says she, starin' straight ahead. "Look!"

All I could see was a greasy old truck backed up in front of some lowwindows under the grand stand, with half a dozen young toughs in smearyblue overalls jugglin' a load of galvanized iron cans. Looked likegarbage cans; smelled that way too. And the gang that was handlin''em--well, most of 'em had had their heads shaved, and in that rig theycertainly did look like a bunch from Sing Sing. 

I was just nudgin' sister to move along, when Mrs. Bliss lets out thischoky cry:

"Wilfred!" says she. 

She hadn't made any mistake, either. It was sonny, all right. And youshould have seen his face as he swings around and finds who's watchin'him. If it hadn't been for the bunkie who was helpin' him lift that canof sloppy stuff on to the tail of the truck, there'd been a fine spill, too. 

"My boy! Wilfred!" calls Mrs. Stanton Bliss, holdin' out her armsinvitin' and dramatic. 

Now, in the first place, Wilfred was in no shape to be the party of thesecond part in a motherly clinch act. It's messy work, loadin' garbagecans, and he's peeled down for it. He was costumed in a pair of overallsthat would have stood in the corner all by themselves, and an armyundershirt with one sleeve half ripped off. 

In the second place, all the rest of the bunch was wearin' broad grins, and he knew it. So he don't rush over at once. Instead he steps aroundto the front of the truck and salutes a husky, freckled-necked youngsergeant who's sittin' behind the steerin' wheel. 

"Family, sir, " says Wilfred. "What--what'll I do?"

The sergeant takes one look over his shoulder. 

"Oh, well, " says he, "drop out until next load. "

Not until Wilfred had led us around the corner does he express hisfeelin's. 

"For the love of Mike, mother!" says he. "Wasn't it bad enough withoutyour springin' that 'muh boy!' stuff? Right before all the fellows, too. Good-night!"

"But, Wilfred, " insists mother, "what does this mean? Why do I findyou--well, like this? Oh, it's too dreadful for words. Who has done thisto you--and why?"

Jerky, little by little, Wilfred sketches out the answer. Army lifewasn't what he'd expected. Not at all. He was sore on the wholebusiness. He'd been let in for it, that was all. It wasn't so bad forsome of the fellows, but they'd been lucky. As for him--well, he'd comehere to learn to be an ambulance driver, and he had spent his first weekin the kitchen, peelin' potatoes. Then, when they'd let him off that, and given him his first pass to go to town, just because he'd been alittle late comin' back they'd jumped on him somethin' fierce. They'dshoved him on this garbage detail. He'd been on it ever since. 

"It's that mucker of a top sergeant, Quigley, " says Wilfred. "He's gotit in for me. "

Mrs. Stanton Bliss straightens out her chin dimple as she glares afterthe garbage truck, which is rollin' away in the distance. 

"Has he, indeed!" says she. "We will see about that, then. "

"But you must handle him easy, mother, " warns Wilfred. 

"That person!" snorts mother. "I shall have nothing to do with himwhatever. I mean to get you out of this, Wilfred. I am going straight tothe general. "

"Now, mother!" protests Wilfred. "Don't make a scene. "

When she was properly stirred up, though, that was mother's long suit. And she starts right in. Course, I tried to head her off, but it's nouse. As there wasn't a general handy, she had to be satisfied with amajor. Seemed like a mighty busy major, too; but when he heard hisorderly tryin' to shunt the ladies, he gives the signal to let 'em in. You can bet I didn't follow. Didn't have to, for Mrs. Bliss wasn't doin'any whisperin' about then. 

And she sure made it plain to the major how little she thought of the U. S. Army, and specially that part of it located at Allentown, Pa. Havin'got that off her chest, and been listened to patient, she demands thatWilfred be excused from all his disgustin' duties, and be allowed to gohome with her at once and for good. 

The major shakes his head. "Impossible!" says he. 

"Then, " says Mrs. Stanton Bliss, tossin' her head, "I shall appeal tothe Secretary of War; to the President, if necessary. "

The major smiles weary. "You'd best talk to his sergeant, " says he. "Ifhe recommends your son's discharge it may go through. "

"That person!" exclaims Mrs. Bliss. "Never! I--I might talk to hiscaptain. "

"Useless, madam, " says the major. "See his sergeant; he's the one. "

And he signifies polite that the interview is over. 

When mother tells sonny the result of this visit to headquarters, heshrugs his shoulders. 

"I knew it would be that way, " says he. "They've got me, and I've got tostand for it. No use askin' Quigley. You might as well go home. "

"But at least you can get away long enough to have dinner with us, " saysmother. 

"Nothing doin', " says Wilfred. "Can't get out unless Quigley signs apass, and he won't. "

"Oh, come!" says I. "He don't look so bad as all that. Let me see what Ican do with him. "

Well, after I'd chased the ladies back to the hotel with instructions towait hopeful, I hunts up Top Sergeant Quigley. Had quite a revealin'chat with him, too. Come to look at him close after he'd washed up, he'srather decent appearin'. Face seems sort of familiar, too. 

"Didn't you play first base for the Fordhams?" I asks. 

"Oh, that was back in '14, " says he. 

"As I remember, " says I, "you was some star on the bag, though. Now, about young Bliss. Case of mommer's pet, you know. "

"He had that tag all over him, " says Quigley. "But we're knockin' a lotof that out of him. He's comin' on. "

"Good!" says I. "Would it stop the process to let him off for an evenin'with the folks--dinner and so on?"

"Why, no; I guess not, " says Quigley. "Might do him good. But he mustapply himself. Send him along. "

So a half hour later I sat on a cot in the cow-barn and watched Wilfred, fresh from the shower bath, get into his army uniform. 

"Say, " he remarks, strugglin' through his khaki shirt, "I didn't thinkold Quig would do it. "

"Seemed glad to, " says I. "Said you was comin' on fine. "

"He did?" gasps Wilfred. "Quigley? Well, what do you know!"

Not such a bad imitation of a soldier, Wilfred, when he'd laced up theleggins and got the snappy-cut coat buttoned tight. He's some differentfrom what he was when sister first discovered him. And we had quite agay dinner together. 

First off mother was for campin' right down there indefinitely, whereshe could see her darlin' boy every day; but between Wilfred and me wepersuaded her different. I expect the hotel quarters had something to dowith it, too. Anyway, after Wilfred had promised to try for a couple ofdays off soon, for a visit home, she consents to start back in themornin'. 

"What I dread most, Wilfred, " says she, "is leaving you at the mercy ofthat horrid sergeant. "

"Oh, I'll get along with him somehow, " says Wilfred. "I'm goin' to try, anyway. "

And right there, as I understand it, Wilfred Stanton Bliss started to bea man and a soldier. He had a long way to go, though, it seemed to me. 

So here the other day, only a couple of weeks since we made our trip, I'm some surprised to see who it is givin' me the zippy salute on thestation platform out home. Yes, it's Wilfred. And say, he's got hisshoulders squared, he's carryin' his chin up, and he's wearin' hisuniform like it grew on him. 

"Well, well!" says I. "Got your furlough, eh?"

"Yes, sir, " says he. "Seventy-two hours. Had a whale of a time, too. Youcan't guess who I brought home with me, I'll bet. "

I couldn't. 

"Our top sergeant--Quigley, " says he. "Say, he's all right. He's had ustransferred to the best barracks in camp. Guess we deserve it, too, forwe're on the way to bein' the crackerjack section of them all. You oughtto see us drill. Some class! And it's all due to Quigley. Do you knowwhat he thinks? That we're slated among the next lot to go over. Howabout that, sir? Won't that be great?"

"Huh!" says I. "How long ago was it you signed up, Wilfred?"

"Just six weeks, sir, " says he. 

"Whiffo!" says I, gawpin' at him. "If we had about a hundred thousandQuigleys!"

CHAPTER XII

VEE GOES OVER THE TOP

"But listen, Vee, " says I. "If Hoover can't pull it off, with all thebackin' he's got, what's the use of a few of you women mixin' in?"

"At least we can try, " says Vee. "The prices this Belcher person ischarging are something outrageous. Eggs ninety cents!"

"We should worry, " says I. "Ain't we got nearly a hundred hens on thejob?"

"But others haven't, " says Vee. "Those people in that row of littlecottages down by the station. The Walters, for instance. He can't getmore than twenty-five or thirty dollars a week, can he?"

"There's so many cases you can't figure out, " says I. "Maybe he scrubsalong on small steaks or fried chicken. "

"It's no joking matter, " protests Vee. "Of course there are plenty ofpeople worse off then the Walters. That Mrs. Burke, whose two boys arein the Sixty-ninth. She must do her marketing at Belcher's, too. Thinkof her having to pay those awful prices!"

"I would, " says I, "if workin'up a case of glooms was any use; but Ican't see----"

"We can see enough, " breaks in Vee. "The new Belcher limousine, theadditions to their hideous big house. All made, too, out of foodprofiteering right here. It's got to stop, that's all. "

Which is where I should have shouted "Kamerad" and come runnin' out withmy hands up, but I tried to show her that Belcher was only playin' thegame like everyone else was playin' it. 

"He ain't springin' anything new, " says I. "He's just followin' the mob. They're all doin' it, from the Steel Trust down to the push-cart men. And when you come to interferin' with business--well, that's serious. "

"Humph!" says Vee. "When it comes to taking advantage of poor people anddepriving them of enough to eat, I call it plain piracy. And you oughtto be ashamed of yourself, Torchy, standing up for such things. "

So you see I was about as convincin' as a jazz band tryin' to imitatethe Metropolitan orchestra doin' the overture to "Lucia. " If I hadn'tfinally had sense enough to switch the subject a little, there mighthave been a poutin' scene and maybe a double case of sulks. But when Igot to askin' where she'd collected all this grouch against our localmeat and provision octopus, she cheers up again. 

Seems she'd been to a Red Cross meetin' that afternoon, where a lot ofthe ladies was swappin' tales of woe about their kitchen expenseaccounts. Some of 'em had been keepin' track of prices in the citymarkets and was able to shoot the deadly parallel at Belcher. Anyway, they ditched the sweater-knittin' and bandage-rollin' for the timebein', and proceeded to organize the Woman's Economic League on thespot. 

"Sounds impressive, " says I. "And what then? Did you try Belcher fortreason, find him guilty, and sentence him to be shot at sunrise?"

Vee proves that she's good-natured again by runnin' her tongue out atme. 

"We did not, Smarty, " says she. "But we passed a resolution condemningsuch extortion severely. "

"How rough of you!" says I. "Anything else?"

"Yes, " says Vee. "We appointed a committee to tell him he'd betterstop. "

"Fine!" says I. "I expect he'll have everything marked down about fortyper cent. By to-morrow night. "

Somehow, it didn't work out just that way. Next report I got from Veewas that the committee had interviewed Belcher, but there was nothingdoin'. He'd been awfully nice to 'em, even if he had talked through hiscigar part of the time. 

Belcher says he feels just as bad as they about havin' to soak on suchstiff prices. But how can he help it? The cold-storage people areboostin' their schedules every day. They ain't to blame, either. They'rebein' held up by the farmers out West who are havin' their hair cut toooften. Besides, all the hens in the country have quit layin' and joinedthe I. W. W. , and every kind of meat is scarce on account of Pershing'smen developin' such big appetites. He's sorry, but he's doin' his best, considerin' the war and everything. If people would only get the habitof usin' corn meal for their pie crusts, everything would be lovely oncemore. 

"An alibi on every count, " says I. "I expect the committee apologized. "

"Very nearly that, " says Vee. "The sillies! I just wish I'd been there. I don't believe half of what he said is true. "

"That's one thing, " says I, "but provin' it on him would be another. Andthere's where Belcher's got you. "

Course, I like to watch Vee in action, for she sure is a humdinger whenshe gets started. As a rule, too, I don't believe in tryin' to block heroff in any of her little enterprises. 

But here was once where it seemed to me she was up against a hopelessproposition. So I goes on to point out, sort of gentle and soothin', howwar prices couldn't be helped, any more'n you could stop the tide fromcomin' in. 

Oh, I'm some smooth suggester, I am, when you get into firesidediplomacy. Anyway, the price of eggs wasn't mentioned again thatevenin'. As a matter of fact, Vee ain't troubled much with marketin'details, for Madame Battou, wife of the little old Frenchman who doesthe cheffing for us so artistic, attends to layin' in the supplies. And, believe me, when she sails forth with her market basket you can be sureshe's goin' to get sixteen ounces to the pound and the rock bottom priceon everything. No 'phone orders for her. I don't believe Vee knew whatthe inside of Belcher's store looks like. I'm sure I didn't. 

So I thought the big drive on the roast beef and canned goods sector hadbeen called off. About that time, too, I got another inspection detailhanded me, --and I didn't see my happy home until another week-end. 

I lands back on Broadway at 9 A. M. Havin' reported at the Corrugatedgeneral offices and found Old Hickory out of town, I declares a specialholiday and beats it out to the part of Long Island I'm beginnin' toknow best. Struck me Professor Battou held his face kind of funny whenhe saw me blow in; and as I asks for Vee, him and the madam swapsglances. He say she's out. 

"Oh, " says I. "Mornin' call up at the Ellinses', eh? I'll stroll up thatway, myself, then. "

Leon hesitates a minute, like he was chokin' over something, and thenremarks: "But no, M'sieur. Madame, I think, is in the village. "

"Why, " says I, "I just came from the station. I didn't see the cararound. How long has she been gone?"

Another exchange of looks, and then Battou answers:

"She goes at seven. "

"Whaddye mean goes?" says I. "It ain't a habit of hers, is it?"

Leon nods. 

"All this week, " says he. "She goes to the meat and groceryestablishment, I understand. "

"Belcher's?" says I. "But what--what's the idea?"

"I think it would be best if M'sieur asked Madame, " says he. 

"That's right, too, " says I. 

You can guess I was some puzzled. Was Vee doin' the spy act on Belcher, watchin' him open the store and spendin' the forenoon concealed in acrockery crate or something? No, that didn't sound reasonable. But whatthe---- Meanwhile I was leggin' it down towards the village. 

It's a busy place, Belcher's, specially on Saturday forenoon. Out frontthree or four delivery trucks was bein' loaded up, and inside a lot ofclerks was jumpin' round. Among the customers was two Jap butlers, threeor four Swedish maids, and some of the women from the village. But noVee anywhere in sight. 

Loomin' prominent in the midst of all this active tradin' is Belcherhimself, a thick-necked, ruddy-cheeked party, with bristly black haircut shoe-brush style and growing down to a point in front. His big, bulgy eyes are cold and fishy, but they seem to take in everythingthat's goin' on. I hadn't been standin' around more'n half a minutebefore he snaps his finger, and a clerk comes hustlin' over to ask whatI'll have. 

"Box of ginger-snaps, " says I offhand; and a minute later I'm bein'shunted towards a wire-cage with a cash slip in my hand. 

I'd dug up a quarter, and was waitin' for the change to be passed outthrough the little window, when I hears a familiar snicker. Then Iglances in to see who's presidin' at the cash register. And say, of allthe sudden jolts I ever got! It's Vee. 

"Well, for the love of soup!" I gasps. 

"Twelve out--thirteen. That's right, isn't it? Thank you so much, sir, "says she, her gray eyes twinklin'. 

"Quit the kiddin', " says I, "and sketch out the plot of the piece. "

"Can't now, " says Vee. "So run along. Please!"

"But how long does this act of yours last?" I insists. 

"Until about noon, I think, " says she. "It's such fun. You can'timagine. "

"What's it for, though?" says I. "Are you pullin' a sleuth stunt on----"

"S-s-s-sh!" warns Vee. "He's coming. Pretend to be getting a billchanged or something. "

It's while I'm fishin' out a ten that this little dialogue at the meatcounter begins to get conspicuous: A thin, stoop-shouldered female withgray streaks in her hair is puttin' up a howl at the price of cornedbeef. She'd asked for the cheapest piece they had, and it had beenweighed for her, but still she wasn't satisfied. 

"It wasn't as high last Saturday, " she objects. 

"No, ma'am, " says the clerk. "It's gone up since. "

"Worse luck, " says she, pokin' the piece with her finger. "And this isnearly all bone and fat. Now couldn't you----"

"I'll ask the boss, ma'am, " says the clerk. "Here he is. "

Belcher has come over and is listenin', glarin' hostile at the woman. 

"It's Mrs. Burke, the one whose sons are in the army, " whispers Vee. 

"Well?" demands Belcher. 

"It's so much to pay for meat like that, " says Mrs. Burke. "If youcould----"

"Take it or leave it, " snaps Belcher. 

"Sure now, " says she, "you know I can't afford to give----"

"Then get out!" orders Belcher. 

At which Vee swings open the door of the cage, brushes past me, andfaces him with her eyes snappin'. 

"Pig!" says she explosive. 

"Wha-a-a-at!" gasps Belcher, gawpin' at her. 

"I--I beg pardon, " says Vee. "I shouldn't have said that, even if it wasso. "

"You--you're discharged, you!" roars Belcher. 

"Isn't that nice?" says Vee, reachin' for her hat and coat. "Then I cango home with my husband, I suppose. And if I have earned any of thatprincely salary--five dollars a week, it was to be, wasn't it?--well, you may credit it to my account: Mrs. Richard Tabor Ballard, you know. Come, Torchy. "

Say, I always did suspect there was mighty few things Vee was afraid of, but I never thought she had so much clear grit stowed away in hersystem. For to sail past Belcher the way he looked then took a heap ofnerve, believe me. But before he can get that thick tongue of hislimbered up we're outside, with Vee snuggled up mufflin' the gigglesagainst my coat sleeve. 

"Oh, it's been such a lark, Torchy!" says she. "I've passed as MissHemmingway for six days, and I don't believe more than three or fourpersons have suspected. Thank goodness, Belcher wasn't one of them. ForI've learned--oh, such a lot!"

"Let's start at the beginning, " says I. "Why did you do it at all?"

"Because the committee was so ready to believe the whoppers he told, "says Vee. "And they wanted to disband the League, especially that Mrs. Norton Plummer, whose husband is a lawyer. She was almost disagreeableabout it. Truly. 'But, my dear, ' she said to me, 'one can't act merelyon rumor and prejudice. If we had a few facts or figures it might bedifferent. ' And you know that sour smile of hers. Well! That's why I didit. I asked them to give me ten days. And now----"

Vee finishes by squeezin' my arm. 

"But how'd you come to break in so prompt?" I asks. "Did you mesmerizeBelcher?"

"I bought up his cashier--paid her to report that she was ill, " saysVee. "Then I smoothed back my hair, put on this old black dress, andwent begging for the job. That's when I began to know Mr. Belcher. He'squite a different person when he is hiring a cashier from the one yousee talking to customers. Really, I've never been looked at that waybefore--as if I were some sort of insect. But when he found I would workcheap, and could get Mrs. Robert Ellins to go on my bond if I shouldturn out a thief, he took me on. 

"Getting up so early was a bit hard, and eating a cold luncheon harderstill; but worst of all was having to hear him growl and snap at theclerks. Oh, he's perfectly horrid. I don't see how they stand it. Ofcourse, I had my share. 'Miss Blockhead' was his pet name for me. "

"Huh!" says I, grittin' my teeth. 

"Meaning that you'd like to tell Belcher a few things yourself?" asksVee. "Well, you needn't. I'd no right to be there, for one thing. And, for another, this is my own particular affair. I know what I am going todo to Mr. Belcher; at least, what I'm going to try to do. Anyway, Ishall have some figures to put before our committee Monday. Then weshall see. "

Yep, she had the goods on him. I helped her straighten out the evidence:copies of commission-house bills showin' what he had paid for stuff, andduplicates of sales-slips givin' the retail prices he got. And say, allhe was stickin' on was from thirty to sixty per cent. Profit. 

He didn't always wait for the wholesaler to start the boostin', either. Vee points out where he has jacked up the price three times on the sameshipment--just as the spell took him. He'd be readin' away in his_Morgen Blatherskite_, and all of a sudden he'd jump out of his chair. I'm no expert on provision prices, but some of them items had mebug-eyed. 

"Why, " says I, "it looks like this Belcher party meant to discourageeatin' altogether. Couldn't do better if he was runnin' a dinin'-car. "

"It's robbery, that's what it is, " says Vee. "And when you think thathis chief victims are such helpless people as the Burkes and theWalters--well, it's little less than criminal. "

"It's a rough deal, " I admits, "but one that's bein' pulled in the bestcircles. War profits are what everybody seems to be out after thesedays, and I don't see how you're going to stop it. "

"I mean to try to stop Belcher, anyway, " says Vee, tossin' her chin up. 

"You ain't got much show, " says I; "but go to it. "

Just how much fight there was in Vee, though, I didn't have any idea ofuntil I saw her Monday evenin' after another meetin' of the League. Itseems she'd met this Mrs. Norton Plummer on her own ground and hadsmeared her all over the map. 

"What do you suppose she wanted to do?" demands Vee. "Pass moreresolutions! Well, I told her just what I thought of that. As well pin a'Please-keep-out' notice on your door to scare away burglars as to sendresolutions to Belcher. And when I showed her what profits he wasmaking, item by item, she hadn't another word to say. Then I proposed myplan. "

"Eh?" says I. "What's it like?"

"We are going to start a store of our own, " says Vee--just like that, offhand and casual. 

"You are!" says I. "But--but who's goin' to run it?"

"They made me chairman of the sub-committee, " says Vee. "And then I madethem subscribe to a campaign fund. Five thousand. We raised it in asmany minutes. And now--well, I suppose I'm in for it. "

"Listens that way to me, " says I. 

"Then I may as well begin, " says she. 

And say, there's nothin' draggy about Vee when she really goes over thetop. While I'm dressin' for dinner she calls up a real estate dealer andleases a vacant store in the other end of the block from Belcher's. Between the roast and salad she uses the 'phone some more and draftshalf a dozen young ladies from the Country Club set to act as relayclerks. Later on in the evenin' she rounds up Major Percy Thomson, who'sbeen invalided home from the Quartermaster's Department on account of agame knee, and gets him to serve as buyin' agent for a week or so. Hernext move is to charter a couple of three-ton motor-trucks to haulsupplies out from town; and when I went to sleep she was still jottin'things down on a pad to be attended to in the mornin'. 

For two or three days nothin' much seemed to happen. The windows of thatvacant store was whitened mysterious, carpenters were hammerin' awayinside, and now and then a truck backed up and was unloaded. But noword was given out as to what was goin' to be sprung. Not until Fridaymornin'. Then the commuters on the 8. 03 was hit bang in the eye by awhalin' big red, white, and blue sign announcin' that the W. E. L. Supply Company was open for business. 

Course, it was kind of crude compared to Belcher's. No fancy counters orshowcases or window displays of cracker-boxes. And the stock was limitedto staples that could be handled easy. But the price bulletins posted upoutside was what made some of them gents who'd been doin' the fam'lymarketin' stop and stare. A few of 'em turned halfway to the station anddashed back to leave their orders. Goin' into town they spread the newsthrough the train. The story of that latest bag of U-boats, which themornin' papers all carried screamers about, was almost thrown into thediscard. If I hadn't been due for a ten o'clock committee meetin' at theCorrugated, I'd have stayed out and watched the openin'. Havin' told OldHickory about it, though, I was on hand next mornin' with a whole day'sfurlough. 

"It ought to be our big day, " says Vee. 

It was. For one thing, everybody was stockin' up for over Sunday, andwith the backin' of the League the Supply Company could count on aboutfifty good customers as a starter. Most of the ladies came themselves, rollin' up in limousines or tourin' cars and cartin' home their ownstuff. Also the cottage people, who'd got wind of the big mark-downbargains, begun to come in bunches, every woman with a basket. 

But they didn't swamp Vee. She'd already added to her force of younglady clerks a squad of hand-picked Boy Scouts, and it was my job tomanage the youngsters. 

I'd worked out the system the night before. Each one had typed pricelists in his pocket, and besides that I'd put 'em through an hour'sdrill on weights and measures before the show started. 

I don't know when it was Belcher begun to get wise and start hiscounter-attack; but the first time I had a chance to slip out and take asquint his way, I saw this whackin' big sign in front of his place:"Potatoes, 40 cents per peck. " Which I promptly reports to Vee. 

"Very well, " says she; "we'll make ours thirty-five. "

Inside of ten minutes we had a bulletin out twice as big as his. 

"Now I guess he'll be good, " says I. 

But he had a scrap or two left in him, it seems. Pretty soon he cuts theprice to thirty. 

"We'll make it twenty-five, " says Vee. 

And by eleven o'clock Belcher has countered with potatoes at twentycents. 

"Why, " gasps Vee, "that's far less than they cost at wholesale. But wecan't let him beat us. Make ours twenty, too. "

"Excuse me, ma'am, " puts in one of the Scouts, salutin', "but we've runout of potatoes. "

"Oh, boy!" says I. "Where do we go from here!"

Vee hesitates only long enough to draw a deep breath. 

"Torchy, " says she, "I have it. Form your boys into a basket brigade, and buy out Belcher below the market. "

Talk about your frenzied finance! Wasn't that puttin' it over on him!For two hours, there, we went long on Belcher's potatoes at twenty, until his supply ran out too. Then he switched to sugar and butter. Quotations went off as fast as when the bottom drops out of a bullmarket. All we had to do to hammer down the prices of anything in thefood line, whether we had it or not, was to stick out a cut-ratesign--Belcher was sure to go it one better; and when Vee got it farenough below cost, she started her buyin' corps, workin' in customers, clerks, and anybody that was handy. And by night if every fam'ly withinfive miles hadn't stocked up on bargain provisions it was their ownfault; for if they didn't have cash of their own Vee was right therewith the long-distance credit. 

[Illustration: "Belcher has come over and is listenin', glarin' hostileat the woman. 'It's Mrs. Burke, the one whose sons are in the army, 'whispers Vee. "]

"I'll bet you've got old Belcher frothin' through his ears, " says I. 

"I hope so, " says Vee. 

The followin' Monday, though, he comes back at her with his big push. Hehad the whole front of his store plastered with below-cost bulletins. 

"Pooh!" says Vee. "I can have signs like that painted, too. "

And she did. It didn't bother her a bit if her stock ran out. She keptup on the cut-rate game, and when people asked for things she didn'thave she just sent 'em to Belcher's. 

Maybe you saw what some of the papers printed. Course, they joshed theladies more or less, but also they played up a peppery interview withBelcher which got him in bad with everybody. Vee wasn't so pleased atthe publicity stuff, but she didn't squeal. 

What was worryin' me some was how soon the grand smash was comin'. Iknew that the campaign fund had been whittled into considerable, and nowthat prices had been slashed there was no chance for profits. 

It was botherin' Vee some, too, for she'd promised not to assess theLeague members again unless she could show 'em where they were comin'out. By the middle of the week things looked squally. Belcher had givenout word that he meant to bust up this fool woman's opposition, if ittook his last cent. 

Then, here the other night, I comes home to find Vee wearin' a satisfiedgrin. As I comes in she jumps up from her desk and waves a check at me. 

"Look!" says she. "Five thousand! I've got it back, Torchy, everydollar. "

"Eh?" says I. "You ain't sold out to Belcher?"

"I should say not, " says she. "To the Noonan chain. Mr. Noonan camehimself. He'd read about our fight in the newspapers, and said he'd beglad to take it off our hands. He's been wanting to establish a branchin this district. Five thousand for stock and good will. What do youthink of that?"

"I ain't thinkin', " says I. "I'm just gaspin' for breath. Noonan, eh?Then I see where Belcher gets off. And if you don't mind my whisperin'in your ear, Vee, you're some whizz. "

CHAPTER XIII

LATE RETURNS ON RUPERT

Vee and I were goin' over some old snapshots the other night. It's donenow and then, you know. Not deliberate. I'll admit that's a pastime youwouldn't get all worked up over plannin' ahead for. Tuesday mornin', say, you don't remark breathless: "I'll tell you: Saturday night atnine-thirty let's get out them last year's prints and give 'em thecomp'ny front. "

It don't happen that way--not with our sketch. What I was grapplin' forin the bottom of the window-seat locker was something different--maybe amarshmallow fork, or a corn-popper, or a catalogue of bath-roomfixtures. Anyway, it was something we thought we wanted a lot, when Idigs up this album of views that Vee took durin' that treasure-huntin'cruise of ours last winter on the old _Agnes_, with Auntie and OldHickory and Captain Rupert Killam and the rest of the bunch. I was justtossin' the book one side when a picture slips out, and of course I hasto take a squint. Then I chuckles. 

"Look!" says I, luggin' it over to where Vee is curled up on thedavenport in front of the fireplace. "Remember that?"

A giggle from Vee. 

"'Auntie enjoying a half-hour eulogy of the dear departed, by Mrs. Mumford, ' should be the title, " says she. "She'd been sound asleep fortwenty minutes. "

"Which is what you might call good defensive, " says I. "But who's thisgazin' over the rail beyond--J. Dudley Simms, or is that a ventilator?"

"Let's see, " says Vee, reachin' for the readin' glass. "Why, you silly!That's Captain Killam. "

"Oh!" says I. "Reckless Rupert, the great mind-play hero. "

"I wonder what has become of him?" puts in Vee, restin' her chin on theknuckle of her forefinger and starin' into the fire. 

"Him?" says I. "Most likely he's back in St. Petersburg, Florida, alldolled in white flannels, givin' the tin-can tourists a treat. Thatwould be Rupert's game. "

I don't know as you remember; but, in spite of Killam's havin' gotballed up on the location of this pirate island, and Vee and me havin'to find it for him, he came in for his share of the loot. Must have beenquite a nice little pot for Rupert, too--enough to keep him costumed forhis mysterious hero act for a long time, providin' he don't overdressthe part. 

Weird combination--Rupert: about 60 per cent. Camouflage and the restsolemn boob. An ex-school-teacher from some little flag station inmiddle Illinois, who'd drifted down to the West Coast, and got to be acaptain by ownin' an old cruiser that he took fishin' parties out to thegrouper banks on. Them was the real facts in the life story of Rupert. 

But the picture he threw on the screen of himself must have beensomething else again--seasoned sailor, hardy adventurer, daredevilexplorer, and who knows what else? Catch him in one of his silent, starey moods, with them buttermilk blue eyes of his opened wide andvacant, and you had the outline. But that's as far as you'd get. Ialways thought Rupert himself was a little vague about it, but he wouldinsist on takin' himself so serious. That's why we never got along well, I expect. To me Rupert was a walkin' joke, except when he got tosleuthin' around Vee and me and made a nuisance of himself. 

"How completely people like that drop out of sight sometimes, " says Vee, shuttin' up the album. 

"Yes, " says I. "Contrary to old ladies who meet at summer resorts and indepartment-stores, it's a sizable world we live in. Thanks be for that, too. "

But you never can tell. It ain't more'n three days later, as I'm breezinthrough a cross street down in the cloak-and-suit and publishin' housedistrict, when a taxi rolls up to the curb just ahead, and out piles awide-shouldered gent with freckles on the back of his neck. Course, Idon't let on I can spot anybody I've ever known just by a sectionalglimpse like that. But this was no common case of freckles. This was asplotchy, spattery system of rust marks, like a bird's-eye view of theenemy's trenches after a week of drum fire. Besides, there was the palecarroty hair. 

Even then, the braid-bound cutaway and the biscuit-colored spats had mebuffaloed. So I slows up until I can get a front view of the party who'salmost tripped himself with the horn-handled walkin'-stick and is havin'a few last words with someone in the cab. Then I sees the washed outblue eyes, and I know there can't be any mistake. About then, too, heturns and recognizes me. 

"Well, for the love of beans!" says I. "Rupert!"

The funny part of it is that I gets it off as cordial as if I wasdiscoverin' an old trench mate. You know how you will. And, while Ican't say Captain Killam registered any wild joy in his greetin', stillhe seemed pleased enough. He gives me a real hearty shake. 

"And here is someone else you know, " says he, wavin' to the cab: "Mrs. Mumford. "

Blamed if it ain't the cooin' widow. She's right there with the oldfamiliar purry gush, too, squeezin' my fingers kittenish and askin' mehow "dear, sweet Verona" is. I was just noticin' that she'd ditched thehalf mournin' for some real zippy raiment when she leans back so as toexhibit a third party in the taxi--a young gent with one of thesedead-white faces and a cute little black mustache--reg'lar lounge-lizardtype. 

"Oh, and you must meet my dear friend, Mr. Vinton Bartley, " she purrs. "Vinton, this is the Torchy I've spoken about so often. "

"Ah, ya-a-as, " drawls Vinton, blowin' out a whiff of scented cigarettesmoke lazy. "Quite so. But--er--hadn't we best be getting on, Lorina?"

"Yes, yes, " coos Mrs. Mumford. "By-by, Captain. Good-by, Torchy. "

And off they whirls, leavin' me with my mouth open and Rupert starin'after 'em gloomy. 

"Lorina, eh?" says I. "How touchin'!"

Killam only grunts, but it struck me he has tinted up a bit under theeyes. 

"Say, Rupert, " I goes on, "who's your languid friend with thecream-of-cabbage complexion?"

"Bartley?" says he. "Oh, he's a friend of Mrs. Mumford; a drama-tist--sohe says. "

Now, I might have let it ride at that and gone along about my ownaffairs, which ain't so pressin' just then. Yes, I might. But I don't. Maybe it was hornin' in where there was no welcome sign on the mat, andthen again perhaps it was only a natural folksy feelin' for an oldfriend I hadn't seen for a long time. Anyway, I'm prompted sudden totake Rupert by the arm and insist that he must come and have lunch withme. 

"Why--er--thanks, " says the Captain; "but I have a little business toattend to in here. " And he nods to an office buildin'. 

"That'll be all right, too, " says I. "I'll wait. "

"Will you?" says Rupert, beamin'. "I shall be pleased. "

So in less'n half an hour I have Rupert planted cozy at a corner tablewith a mixed grill in front of him, and I'm givin' him the cue foropenin' any confidential chat he may have on hand. He's a good deal of aclam, though, Rupert. And suspicious! He must have been born lookin'over his shoulder. But in my own crude way I can sometimes josh 'emalong. 

"Excuse me for mentionin' it, Rupert, " says I, "but there's lots ofclass to you these days. "

"Eh?" says he. "You mean----"

"The whole effect, " says I, "from the gaiters to the new-model lid. Justlike you'd strolled out from some Fifth Avenue club and was goin' to'phone your brokers to buy another block of Bethlehem at the market. Honest!"

He pinks up and shakes his head, but I can see I've got the range. 

"And here Vee and I had it doped out, " I goes on, "how you'd be down onthe West Coast by this time, investin' your pile in orange groves andcorner lots. "

"No, " says Rupert; "I've been here all the while. You see, I--I've grownrather fond of New York. "

"You needn't apologize, " says I. "There's a few million others with thesame weakness, not countin' the ones that sleep in New Jersey but alwaysregister from here. Gone into some kind of business, have you?"

Rupert does some fancy side-steppin' about then; but all of a sudden hechanges his mind, and, after glancin' around to see that no one has anear out, he starts his confession. 

"The fact is, " says he, "I've been doing a little literary work. "

"Writin' ads, " says I, "or solicitin' magazine subscriptions?"

"I am getting out a book of poems, " says Rupert, dignified. 

"Wh-a-a-at?" I gasps. "Not--not reg'lar limerick stuff?"

I can see now that was a bad break. But Rupert was patient with me. Heexplains that these are all poems about sailors and ships and so on;real salt, tarry stuff. Also, he points out how it's built the new styleway, with no foolish rhymes at the end, and with long lines or short, just as they happen to come. To make it clear, he digs up a roll ofgalley proofs he's just collected from the publishers. And say, he hadthe goods. There it was, yards of it, all printed neat in big fat type. "Sea Songs" is what he calls 'em, and each one has a separate tag of itsown, such as "Kittywakes, " "Close Hauled, " and "Scuppers Under. "

"Looks like the real stuff, " says I. "Let's hear how it listens. Ah, come on! Some of that last one, about scuppers, now. "

With a little more urgin', Rupert reads it to me. I should call him agood reader, too. Anyway, he can untie one of them deep, boomin' voices, and with that long, serious face of his helpin' out the generaleffect--well, it's kind of impressive. He spiels off two or threestickfuls and then stops. 

"Which way was you readin' that, backwards or forwards?" says I. 

Rupert begins to stiffen up, and I hurries on with the apology. "Mymistake, " says I. "I thought maybe you might have got mixed at thestart. No offense. But say, Cap'n, what's the big idea? What does it allmean?"

In some ways Rupert is good-natured. He was then. He explains how inthis brand of verse you don't try to tell a story or anything like that. "I am merely giving my impressions, " says he. "That is all. Interpreting my own feelings, as it were. "

"Oh!" says I. "Then there's no goin' behind the returns. Who's to sayyou don't feel that way? I get you now. But that ain't the kind of stuffyou can wish onto the magazines, is it?"

Which shows just how far behind the bass-drum I am. Rupert tells me thedifferent places where he's unloaded his pieces, most of 'em for realmoney. Also, I pumps out of him how he came to get into the game. Seemshe'd been roomin' down in old Greenwich Village; just happened to driftin among them long-haired men and short-haired girls. It turns out thatthe book was a little enterprise that was being backed by Mrs. Mumford. Yes, it's that kind of a book--so much down in advance to the GrafterPress. You know, Mrs. Mumford always did fall for Rupert, and aftershe's read one of his sea spasms in a magazine she don't lose any timehuntin' him out and renewin' their cruise acquaintance. A real poet!Say, I can just see her playin' that up among her friends. And when shefinds he's mixin' in with all those dear, delightful Bohemians, sheinsists that Rupert tow her along too. 

From then on it was a common thing for her and Rupert to go browsin'around among them garlic and red-ink joints, defyin' ptomaines andlearnin' to braid spaghetti on a fork. That was her idea of life. Shehires an apartment right off Washington Square and moves in fromMontclair for the winter. She begun to have what she called her "salonevenings, " when she collected any kind of near-celebrity she could get. 

Mr. Vinton Bartley was generally one of the favored guests. I didn'tneed any second sight, either, to suspect that Vinton was sort ofcrowdin' in on this little romance of Rupert's. And by eggin' Rupertalong judicious I got the whole tale. 

Seems it had been one of Mrs. Mumford's ambitions to spring Rupert on anunsuspectin' public. Her idea is to have Rupert called on, some night atthe Purple Pup, to step up to the head of the long table and give one ofhis sea songs. She'd picked Vinton to do the callin'. And Vinton hadbalked. 

"But say, " says I, "is this Vinton gent the only one of her friendsthat's got a voice? Why not pick another announcer?"

"I'm sure I don't know, " says Rupert. "She--she hasn't mentioned thesubject recently. "

"Oh!" says I. "Too busy listenin' to the voice of the viper, eh?"

Rupert nods and stares sad into his empty demi-tasse. And, say, whenRupert gets that way he's an appealin' cuss. 

"See here, Rupert, " says I; "if you got a call of that kind, would youcome to the front and make a noise like a real poet?"

"Why, " says he, "I suppose I ought to. It would help the sale of thebook, and perhaps----"

"One alibi is enough, " I breaks in. "Now, another thing: How'd you liketo have me stage-manage this début of yours?"

"Oh, would you?" says he, beamin'. 

"Providin' you'll follow directions, " says I. 

"Why, certainly, " says Rupert. "Any suggestions that you may make----"

"Then we'll begin right now, " says I. "You are to ditch that flossyfloor-walker outfit of yours from this on. "

"You mean, " says Rupert, "that I am not to wear these clothes?"

"Just that, " says I. "When you get to givin' mornin' readin's at thePlaza for the benefit of the Red Cross, you can dig 'em out again; butfor the Purple Pup you got to be costumed different. Who ever heard of agoulash poet in a braid-bound cutaway and spats? Say, it's a wonder theylet you live south of the Arch. "

"But--but what ought I to wear?" asks Rupert. 

"Foolish question!" says I. "Who are you, anyway? Answer: the SailorPoet. There you are! Sea captain's togs for you--double-breasted bluecoat, baggy-kneed blue trousers, and a yachtin' cap. "

"Very well, " says Rupert. "But about my being asked to read. Justhow----"

"Leave it to me, Rupert, " says I. "Leave everything to me. "

Which was a lot simpler than tellin' him I didn't know. 

You should have seen Vee's face when I tells her about Rupert's newline. 

"Captain Killam a poet!" says she. "Oh, really now, Torchy!"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "He's done enough for a book. Read me some of it, too. "

"But--but what is it like?" asks Vee. "How does it sound?"

"Why, " says I, "it sounds batty to me--like a record made by a sailorwho was simple in the head and talked a lot in his sleep. Course, I'mno judge. What's the difference, though? Rupert wants to spout it inpublic. "

"But the people in the restaurant, " protests Vee. "Suppose they shouldlaugh, or do something worse?"

"That's where Rupert is takin' a chance, " says I. "Personally, I thinkhe'll be lucky if they don't throw plates at him. But we ain'tunderwritin' any accident policy; we're just bookin' him for a part heclaims he can play. Are you on?"

Vee gets that eye twinkle of hers workin'. "I think it will be perfectlylovely. "

I got to admit, too, that she's quite a help. 

"We must be sure Mrs. Mumford and that Bartley person are both there, "says she. "And we ought to have as many of Captain Killam's friends aspossible. I'll tell you. Let's give a dinner-party. "

"Must we?" says I. "You know we ain't introducin' any London success. This is Rupert's first stab, remember. "

We set the date for the day the book was to be out, which gives Rupertan excuse for celebratin'. He'd invited Mrs. Mumford and Vinton to behis guests, and they'd promised to be on hand. As for us, we'd roundedup Mr. And Mrs. Robert Ellins and J. Dudley Simms. 

Well, everybody showed up. And as it happens, it's one of the big nightsat the Purple Pup. The long center table is surrounded by a gay bunch ofassorted artists who are bein' financed by an out-of-town buyer whoseems to be openin' Chianti reckless. We were over in one corner, as faraway from the ukulele torturers as we could get, while at the other endof the room is Rupert with his two. I thought he looked kind of pallid, but it might have been only on account of the cigarette smoke. 

"Is it time yet, Torchy?" asks Mr. Robert, when we gets through to thestriped ice cream and chicory essence. 

"Let's hold off, " says I, "and see if someone else don't pull acurtain-raiser. "

Sure enough, they did. A bald-headed, red-faced old boy with a LibertyBond button in his coat-lapel insists on everybody's drinkin' to ourboys at the front. Followin' that, someone leads a slim, big-eyed youngfemale to the piano and announces that she will do a couple of Serbianfolk-songs. Maybe she did. I hope the Serbs forgive her. 

"If they can take that without squirmin', " says I, "I guess they canstand for Rupert. Go on, Mr. Robert. Shoot. "

Course, he's no spellbinder, but he can say what he wants to in a fewwords and make himself heard. And then, bein' in naval uniform helped. 

"I think we have with us to-night, " says he, "Captain Rupert Killam, thesailor poet. I should like, if it pleases the company, to ask CaptainKillam to read for us some of his popular verses. Does anyone second themotion?"

"Killam! Killam!" roars out the sporty wine-opener. 

Others took up the chorus, and in the midst of it I dashes over to dragRupert from his chair if necessary. 

But I wasn't needed. As a matter of fact, he beat me to it. Before Icould get half way to him, he is standin' at the end of the long table, his eyes dropped modest, and a brand-new volume of "Sea Songs" heldconspicuous over his chest. 

"This is indeed an unexpected honor, " says Rupert, lyin' fluent. "I am aplain sailor-man, as you know, but if you insist----"

And, before they could hedge, he has squared his shoulders, thrown hishead well back, and has cut loose with that boomin' voice of his. Doeshe put it over? Say, honest, I finds myself listenin' with my mouthopen, just as though I understood every word. And the first thing I knowhe's carryin' the house with him. Even some of the Hungarian waitersstopped to see what it's all about. 

 Tides! Little, rushing, hurrying tides Along the sloping deck. And the bobstay smashing the big blue deep, While under my hand The kicking tiller groans Its oaken soul out in a gray despair. 

That's part of it I copied down afterward. Yet that crowd just lapped itup. 

"Wow!" "Brava! Brava!" "What's the matter with Killam?" they yells. "More!"

Rupert was flushin' clear up the back of his neck now. Also he wasfumblin' with the book, hesitatin' what to give 'em next, when I pushesin and begins pumpin' his hand. 

"Shall--shall I----" he starts to ask. 

"No, you boob, " I whispers. "Quit while the quittin's good. You got 'embuffaloed, all right. Let it ride. "

And I fairly shoves him over to his table, where Sister Mumford hasalready split out a new pair of gloves and is beamin' joyous, whileVinton is sittin' there with his chin on his necktie, lookin' likesomeone had beaned him with a bung-starter. 

But we wasn't wise just how strong Rupert had scored until we saw thehalf page Whitey Weeks had gotten out of it for the Sunday paper. "NewPoet Captures Greenwich Village" is the top headline, and there's athree-column cut showin' Rupert spoutin' his "Sea Songs" through thecigarette smoke. Also, I gather from a casual remark Rupert let dropyesterday that the prospects of him and Mrs. Mumford enterin' the mixeddoubles class soon are good. And, with her ownin' a big retail coalbusiness over in Jersey, I expect Rupert can go on writin' his pomes asfree as he likes. 

CHAPTER XIV

FORSYTHE AT THE FINISH

I expect I wouldn't have noticed Forsythe particular if it hadn't beenfor Mrs. Robert. It takes all kinds, you know, to make up a week-endhouse-party bunch; and in these days, when specimens of the razor-usin'sex are so scarce--well, that's when half portions like this T. ForsytheHurd get by as full orders. 

Besides, Mrs. Robert had meant well. Her idea was to make the Captain's48-hour shore leave as gay and lively as possible. She'd had a hard timeroundin' up any of his friends, too. Hence Forsythe. One of these slim, fine-haired, well manicured parlor Pomeranians, Forsythe is--the kindwho raves over the sandwiches and whispers perfectly killin' things tothe ladies as he flits about at afternoon teas. 

We were up at the Ellinses', Vee and me, fillin' out at Saturdayluncheon, when Mr. Robert drifts in, about an hour behind schedule. Youknow, he's commandin' one of these coast patrol boats. Some of 'em areconverted steam yachts, some are sea-goin' tugs, and then again someare just old menhaden fish-boats painted gray with a few three-inch gunsstuck around on 'em casual. And this last is the sort of craft Mr. Robert had wished on him. 

Seems there'd been some weather off the Hook for the last few days, and, with a fresh U-boat scare on, him and his reformed glue barge had beenhavin' anything but a merry time. I don't know how the old fish-boatstood it, but Mr. Robert showed that he'd been on more or less activeservice. He had a three days' growth of stubble on his face, his navyuniform was wrinkled and brine-stained, and the knuckles on one handwere all barked up. 

"Why, Robert!" says young Mrs. Ellins, as she wriggles out of the clinchand gives him the once-over. "You're a sight. "

"Sorry, my dear, " says Mr. Robert; "but the beauty parlor on the_Narcissus_ wasn't working when I left. But if you can give me half anhour to----"

He got it. And when he shows up again in dry togs and with his facemowed he's almost fit to mingle with the guests. It was about then thatT. Forsythe was pullin' his star act at the salad bowl. Course, when youhave only ordinary people around, you let the kitchen help do suchthings. But when Forsythe is present he's asked to mix the saladdressin'. 

So there is Forsythe, wearin' a jade-green tie to match the color of thesalad bowl, surrounded by cruets and pepper grinders and paprikabottles, and manipulatin' his own special olivewood spoon and fork asdainty and graceful as if he was conductin' an orchestra. 

"Oh, I say, Jevons, " says he, signalin' the Ellinses' butler, "havesomeone conduct a clove of garlic to the back veranda, slice it, andgently rub it on a crust of fresh bread. Then bring me the bread. And doyou mind very much, Mrs. Ellins, if I have those Papa Gontier rosesremoved? They clash with an otherwise perfect color scheme, and you'veno idea how sensitive I am to such jarring notes. Besides, their perfumeis so beastly obtrusive. At times I've been made quite ill by them. Really. "

"Take them away, Jevons, " says Mr. Robert, smotherin' a sarcastic smile. 

"Huh!" grumbles Mr. Robert. "What a rotter you are, Forsythe. If I couldonly get you aboard the _Narcissus_ for a ten-day cruise! I'd introduceyou to perfumes, the sort you could lean up against. You know, when aboat has carried mature fish for----"

"Please, Bob!" protests Forsythe. "We admit you're a hero, and thatyou've been saving the country, but don't let's have the disgustingdetails; at least, not when the salad dressing is at its most criticalstage. "

Havin' said which, Forsythe proceeds to finish what was for him a hardday's work. 

Discussin' his likes and dislikes was Forsythe's strong hold, and, ifyou could believe him, he had more finicky notions than a sanatoriumfull of nervous wrecks. He positively couldn't bear the sight of this, the touch of that, and the sound of the other thing. The rustle of anewspaper made him so fidgety he could hardly sit still. The smell ofboiled cabbage made him faint. Someone had sent him a plaid necktie forChristmas. He had ordered his man to pick it up with the fire-tongs andthrow it in the ash-can. Things like that. 

All through luncheon we listened while Forsythe described the awfulagonies he'd gone through. We had to listen. You can guess what a joy itwas. And, all the time, I could watch Mr. Robert gettin' sorer andsorer. 

"Entertainin' party, eh?" I remarks on the side, as we escapes from thedinin'-room. 

"Forsythe, " says Mr. Robert, "is one of those persons you're alwayswanting to kick and never do. I could generally avoid him at the club, but here----"

Mr. Robert shrugs his shoulders. Then he adds:

"I say, Torchy, you have clever ideas now and then. "

"Who, me?" says I. "Someone's been kiddin' you. "

"Perhaps, " says he; "but if anything should occur to you that might helptoward putting Forsythe in a position where real work and genuinediscomfort couldn't be dodged--well, I should be deeply grateful. "

"What a cruel thought!" says I. "Still, if a miracle like that could bepulled, it would be entertainin' to watch. Eh?"

"Especially if it had to do with handling cold, slippery things, "chuckles Mr. Robert, "like iced eels or pickles. "

Then we both grins. I was tryin' to picture Forsythe servin' a sentenceas helper in a fish market or assistant stirrer in a soap fact'ry. Notthat anything like that could happen through me. Who was I to interferewith a brilliant drawin'-room performer like him? Honest, with Forsythescintillatin' around, I felt like a Bolsheviki of the third class. Andyet, the longer I watched him, the more I mulled over that hint Mr. Robert had thrown out. 

I was still wonderin' if I was all hollow above the eyes, when ourplacid afternoon gatherin' is busted complete by a big cream-coloredlimousine rollin' through the porte-cochère and a new arrival breezin'in. From the way Jevons swells his chest out as he helps her shed themink-lined motor coat, I guessed she must be somebody important. 

"Why, it's Miss Gorman!" whispers Vee. 

"Not _the_ Miss Gorman--Miss Jane?" I says. 

Vee nods, and I stretches my neck out another kink. Who wouldn't? Notjust because she's a society head-liner, or the richest old maid in thecountry, but because she's such a wonder at gettin' things done. Youknow, I expect--Red Cross work, suffrage campaignin', Polish relief. Say, I'll bet if she could be turned loose in Mexico or Russia for acouple of months, she'd have things runnin' as smooth as a directors'meetin' of the Standard Oil. 

Look at the things she's put through, since the war started, just bycrashin' right in and stayin' on the job. They say she keeps foursecretaries with their suitcases packed, ready to jump into theirtravelin' clothes and slide down the pole when she pushes the buzzerbutton. 

And now she's makin' straight for Mr. Robert. 

"What luck!" says she. "I wasn't at all sure of finding you. How muchleave have you? Only until Monday morning? Oh, you overworked navalofficers! But you must find some men for me, Robert; two, at least. Ineed them at once. "

"Might I ask, Miss Jane, " says he, "if any particular qualificationsare----"

"What I would like, " breaks in Miss Gorman, "would be two active, intelligent young men with some initiative and executive ability. Yousee, I am giving a going away dinner for some soldiers of the RainbowDivision who are about to be sent to the transports. It's an officialsecret, of course. No one is supposed to know that they are going tosail soon, but everyone does know. None of their friends or relativesare to be allowed to be there to wish them God-speed or anything likethat, and they need cheering up just now. So I arrange one of thesedinners when I can. My plans for this one, however, have been terriblyrushed. "

"I see, " says Mr. Robert. "And it's perfectly bully of you, Miss Jane. Splendid! I suppose there'll be a hundred or so. "

"Six eighty, " says she, never battin' an eye. "We are not including theofficers--only privates. And we don't want one of them to lift a fingerfor it. They've had enough fatigue duty. This time they're to beguests--honored guests. I have permission from the Brigadier in command. We are to have one of the mess halls for a whole day. The chef andwaiters have been engaged, too. And an orchestra. But there'll be somany to manage--the telling of who to go where, and seeing that theentertainers don't get lost, and that the little dinner favors are putaround, and all those details. So I must have help. "

I could see Mr. Robert rollin' his eyes around for me, so I steps up. Just from hearin' her talk a couple of minutes I'd caught the fever. That's a way she has, I understand. So the next thing I knew I'd beenpatted on the shoulder and taken on as a volunteer. 

"Precisely the sort of assistant I was hoping for, " says Miss Gorman. "Ican tell by his hair. I know just what I shall ask him to do. Butthere'll be so much more; decorating the tables, and----"

Here I nudges Mr. Robert. "How about Forsythe?" I suggests. 

"Eh?" says he. "Why--why---- By Jove, though! Why not? Oh, I say, Forsythe! Just a moment. "

Maybe the same thought struck him as had come to me, which is thathelpin' Miss Jane give a blowout to near seven hundred soldiers wouldn'tbe any rest-cure stunt. She's rated at about ninety horse-power herself, when she's speeded up, and anybody that happens to be on her staff hasgot to keep movin' in high. They'd have to be ready to tackle anythingthat turned up, too. 

But, to hear Mr. Robert explain it to Forsythe, you'd think it was justthat his fame as an arranger of floral center-pieces had spread untilMiss Gorman has decided nobody else would do. 

"Although, heaven knows, I never suspected you could be really useful, Forsythe, " says Mr. Robert. "But if Miss Jane thinks you'd be ahelp----"

"Oh, I am sure Mr. Hurd would be the very one, " puts in Miss Gorman. 

"At last!" says Forsythe, strikin' a pose. "My virtues are about to bediscovered. I shall be delighted to assist you, Miss Gorman, in anyway. "

"Tut, tut, Forsythe!" says Mr. Robert. "Don't be too reckless. Miss Janemight take you at your word. "

"Go on. Slander me, " says Forsythe. "Say that, when enlisted in a noblecause, I am a miserable shirker. "

"Indeed, I shouldn't believe a word of it, even if I had time to listento him, " declares Miss Jane. "And I must be at the camp within an hour. I shall need one of you young men now. Let me see. Suppose I take thisone--Torchy, isn't it? Get your coat. I'll not promise to have you backfor dinner, but I'll try. Thank you so much, Robert. "

And then it was a case of goin' on from there. Whew! I've sort of hadthe notion now and then, when I've been operatin' with Old HickoryEllins at the Corrugated Trust on busy days, that I was some rapidprivate sec. But say, havin' followed Miss Jane Gorman through themdinner preliminaries, I know better. 

While that French chauffeur of hers is rollin' us down Long Island atfrom forty to fifty miles per hour, she has her note-book out and ispumpin' me full of things I'm expected to remember--what train thechef's gang is comin' on, how the supplies are to be carted over, who tosee about knockin' up a stage for the cabaret talent, and where thebuntin' has been ordered. I borrows a pad and pencil, and wishes I knewshorthand. 

By the time we lands at the camp, though, I have a fair idea of the jobshe's tackled; and while she's havin' an interview with the C. O. Istarts explorin' the scene of the banquet. First off I finds that themess-hall seats less than five hundred, the way they got the tablesfixed; that there's no room for a stage without breakin' through one endand tackin' it on; and that the camp cooks will have the range ovensfull of bread and the tops covered with oatmeal in double boilers asusual. Outside of that and a few other things, the arrangements waslovely. 

Miss Jane ain't a bit disturbed when I makes my report. 

"There!" says she. "Didn't I say you were just the assistant I needed?Now, please tell all those things to the Brigadier. He will know exactlywhat to do. Then you'd best be out here early Monday morning to see thatthey're done properly. And I think, Torchy, I shall make you my generalmanager for this occasion. Yes, I'll do it. Everyone will report firstto you, and you will tell them exactly where to go and what to do. "

"You--you mean, " says I, gaspin' a bit, "all the hired help?"

"And the volunteers too, " says Miss Jane. "Everyone. "

Maybe I grinned. I didn't know just how it was goin' to work out, but Icould feel something comin'. Forsythe was goin' to get his. He stood toget it good, too. Not all on account of what I owed Mr. Robert for thefriendly turns he'd done me. Some of it would be on my own hook, to payup for the yawny half hours I'd had to sit through listenin' whileForsythe discoursed about himself. You should have seen the satisfiedlook on Mr. Robert's face when I hinted how Forsythe might be in linefor new sensations. 

"If I could only be there to watch!" says he. "You must tell me allabout it afterwards. They'll enjoy hearing of it at the club. "

But, at that, Forsythe wasn't the one to walk right into trouble. He's ashifty party, and he ain't been duckin' work all these years withoutgettin' expert at it. Accordin' to schedule he was to show up at thecamp about nine-thirty Monday morning; but it's nearer noon when herolls up in his car. And I don't hesitate a bit about givin' him thecall. 

"You know it's this week, not next, " says I, "that this dinner is comin'off. And there's four bolts of buntin' waitin' to be hung up. "

"Quite so, " says Forsythe. "We must get to work right away. "

I had to chase down to the station again then, to see that the chef'soutfit was bein' loaded on the trucks; but I was cheered up by thethought of Forsythe balanced on top of a tall step-ladder with his mouthfull of tacks and his collar gettin' wilty. 

It's near an hour before I gets back, though. Do I find Forsythe in hisshirt-sleeves climbin' around on the rafters? I do not. He's sittin'comfortable in a camp-chair on a fur motor robe, smokin' a cigarettecalm, and surrounded by half a dozen classy young ladies that he'srounded up by 'phone from the nearest country club. The girls and threeor four chauffeurs are doin' the work, while Forsythe is doin' the heavydirectin'. 

He'd sketched out his decoratin' scheme on the back of an envelop, andnow he was tellin' 'em how to carry it out. The worst of it is, too, that he's gettin' some stunnin' effects and is bein' congratulatedenthusiastic by the girls. 

It's the same way with fixin' up the tables with ferns and flowers. Forsythe plans it out with a pencil, and his crew do the hustlin'around. 

Course, I had to let it ride. Besides, there was a dozen other thingsfor me to look after. But I'm good at a waitin' game. I kept my eye onForsythe, to see that he didn't slip away. He was still there attwo-thirty, havin' organized a picnic luncheon with the young ladies, when Miss Jane blew in. And blamed if she don't fall for Forsythe'sstuff, too. 

"Why, you've done wonders, Mr. Hurd, " says she. "What a versatile geniusyou are?"

"Oh, that!" says he, wavin' a sandwich careless. "But it's aninspiration to be doing anything at all for you, Miss Gorman. "

And here he hasn't so much as shed his overcoat. 

It must have been half an hour later when Sig. Zaretti, the head chef, comes huntin' me out with a desperate look in his eyes. I was consultin'Miss Jane about borrowin' a piano from the Y. M. C. A. Tent, but hekicks right in. 

"Ah, I am distract, " says he, puffin' out his cheeks. "Eet--eet ees toomooch!"

"Go on, " says I. "Shoot the tragedy. What's too much?"

"That Pedro and that Salvatore, " says he. "They have become lost, theworthless ones. They disappear on me. And in three hours I am to serve, in this crude place, a dinner of six courses to seven hundred men. Theyabandon me at such a time, with so much to be done. "

"Well, that's up to you, " says I. "Can't some of your crowd double inbrass? What about workin' in some of your waiters?"

"But they are all employed, " says Zaretti. "Besides, the union does notpermit. If you could assist me with two men, even one. I implore. "

"There ain't a cook in sight, " says I. "Sorry, but----"

"Eet ees not for cook, " he protests. "No; only to help make the peelfrom those so many potatoes. One who could make the peel. Please!"

"Oh!" says I. "Peelin' potatoes! Why, 'most anybody could help out atthat, I guess. I would myself if----"

"No, " breaks in Miss Jane. "You cannot be spared. And I'm sure I don'tknow who could. "

"Unless, " I puts in, "Mr. Hurd is all through with his decoratin'. "

"Why, to be sure, " says she. "Just tell him, will you?"

"Suppose I send him over to you, Miss Gorman, " says I, "while I hustlealong that piano?"

She nods, and I lose no time trailin' down Forsythe. 

"Emergency call for you from Miss Jane, " says I, edgin' in among hisadmirers and tappin' him on the shoulder. "She's waitin' over byheadquarters. "

"Oh, certainly, " says Forsythe, startin' off brisk. 

"And say, " I calls after him, "I hope it won't be anything that'll makeyou faint. "

"Please don't worry about me, " says he. 

Well, I tried not to. In fact, I tried so hard that some folks mighthave thought I'd heard good news from home. But I'd had a peek or twointo the camp kitchen since Zaretti's food construction squad had movedin, and, believe me, it was no place for an artistic temperament, subject to creeps up the back. There was about a ton of cold-storageturkeys bein' unpacked, bushels of onions goin' through the shuckin'process, buckets of soup stock standin' around, and half a dozenmurderous-lookin' assistant chefs was sharpenin' long knives andjabberin' excited in four languages. 

Oh, yes; Forsythe was goin' to need all the inspiration he'd collected, if he lasted through. 

I kind of wanted to stick around and cheer him up with friendly wordswhile he was fishin' potatoes out of the cold water and learnin' to usea peelin'-knife, but my job wouldn't let me. After I'd seen the pianolanded on the new stage, there were chairs to be placed for theorchestra, and then other things. So it was some little time before Igot around to the kitchen wing again, pretendin' to be lookin' forZaretti. But nowhere in that steamin', hustlin', garlic-smellin' bunchcould I see Forsythe. 

"Hey, chef!" I sings out. "Where's that expert potato-peeler I sentyou?"

"Ah!" says he, rubbin' his hands enthusiastic. "The signor with theyellow gloves? In the tent there you will find heem. "

So I steps over to the door of a sort of canvas annex and peers in. Andsay, it was a rude shock. Forsythe is there, all right. He's snuggled upcozy next to an oil heater, holdin' a watch in one hand and a cigarettein the other, while around him is grouped his faithful fluffbody-guard, each with a pan in her lap and the potato-peelin's comin'off rapid. Forsythe? Oh, he seems to be speedin' 'em up and keepin'tally. 

I'd just let out my second gasp when I feels somebody at my elbow, andglances round to find it's Miss Jane. 

"Look!" says I, indicatin' Forsythe and his busy bees. 

"What a picture!" says Miss Jane. 

"Yes, " says I, "illustratin' the manly art of lettin' the women do it. "

Miss Jane laughs easy. 

"It has been that way for ages, " says she. "Mr. Hurd is only runningtrue to type. But see! The potatoes are nearly all peeled and our dinneris going to be served on time. What splendid assistants you've bothbeen!"

At that, though, if there'd been a medal to be passed out, I guess itwould have been pinned on Forsythe. 

CHAPTER XV

THE HOUSE OF TORCHY

This trip it was a matter of tanks. No, not the ice-water variety, orthe kind that absorbs high-balls. Army tanks--the sort that wallows outat daybreak and gives the Hun that chilly feelin' down his spine. 

Accordin' to my credentials, I was supposed to be inspectin' 'em forweak spots in the armor or punk work on the gears. And I can tell younow, on the side, that it was 90 per cent. Bluff. What the OrdnanceDepartment really wanted to know was whether the work was bein' speededup proper, how many men on the shifts, and was the steel comin' throughfrom the rollin' mills all right. Get me? Sleuth stuff. 

I'd been knockin' around there for four days, bein' towed about by thereserve major, who had a face on him like a stuffed owl, a nut full ofdecimal fractions, and a rubber-stamp mind. Oh, he was on the job, allright. So was everybody else in sight. I could see that after the firstday. In fact, I coded in my O. K. The second noon and was plannin' toslip back home. 

But when I hinted as much to the Major he nearly threw a cat-fit. Why, he'd arranged a demonstration at 10 A. M. Thursday, for my specialbenefit. And there were the tests--horse-power, gun-ranges, resistance, and I don't know what all; technical junk that I savvied about as muchas if he'd been tryin' to show me how to play the Chinese alphabet on apiccolo. 

Course, I couldn't tell him that, nor I didn't want to break his heartby refusin'. So I agrees to stick around a while longer. But say, Inever enjoyed such a poor time doin' it. For there was just one spot onthe map where I was anxious to be for the next few days. That was athome. It was one of the times when I ought to be there too, for----Well, I'll get to that later. 

Besides, this fact'ry joint where they were buildin' the tanks wasn'tany allurin' spot. I can't advertise just where it was, either; thegovernment wouldn't like it. But if there's any part of Connecticutthat's less interestin' to loaf around in, I never got stranded there. You run a spur track out into the bare hills for fifteen miles fromnowhere, slap up a row of cement barracks, and a few acres of machineshops, string a ten-foot barbed-wire fence around the plant, drape thewhole outfit in soft-coal smoke, and you ain't got any Garden of Edenwinter resort. Specially when it's full of low-brow mechanics who speakin seven different lingos and subsist mainly on cut plug and garlic. 

After I'd checked up all the dope I'd come for, and durin' the timeswhen the Major was out plannin' more inspection stunts for me, I wasleft to drill around by myself. Hours and hours. And all there was toread in the Major's office was engineerin' magazines and the hist'ry ofEssex County, Mass. Havin' been fed up on mechanics, I tackled thehist'ry. One chapter had a corkin' good Indian scalpin' story in it, about a Mrs. Hannah Dustin; and say, as a short-order hair remover shewas a lady champ, all right. But the rest of the book wasn't sothrillin'. 

So I tried chattin' with the Major's secretary, a Lieutenant Barnes. TheMajor must have picked him out on account of that serious face of his. First off, I had an idea Barnes was sad just because he was detailed atthis soggy place instead of bein' sent to France. I asks him sort ofsympathizin' how long he's been here. He says three months. 

"In this hole?" says I. "How do you keep from goin' bug-house?"

"I don't mind it, " says he. "I find the work quite interesting. "

"But evenin's?" I suggests. 

"I write to my wife, " says he. 

I wanted to ask him what about, but I choked it back. "Oh, yes, " says I. "Of course. Any youngsters at home!"

"No, " says he prompt. "Life is complicated enough without children. "

"Oh, I don't know, " says I. "They'd sort of help, I should think. "

He shakes his head and glares gloomy out of the window. "I cannot agreewith you, " says he. "Perhaps you have never seriously considered justwhat it means to be a parent. "

"Maybe not, " says I, "but----"

"Few seem to do so, " he breaks in. "Just think: one begins by puttingtwo lives in jeopardy. "

"Let's pass over that, " I says hasty. 

He sighs. "If we only could, " says he. "And then---- Well, there youare--saddled with the task of caring for another human being, of keepinghim in good health, of molding his character, of planning and directinghis whole career, from boyhood on. "

"Some are girls, though, " I suggests. 

He shudders. "So much the worse, " says he. "Girl babies are suchdelicate creatures; all babies are, in fact. Do you know the averagerate of infant mortality in this country? Just think of the hundreds ofthousands who do not survive the teething period. Imagine the anxieties, the sleepless nights, the sad little tragedies which come to so manyhomes. Then the epidemic diseases--measles, scarlet fever, meningitis. Let them survive all those, and what has the parent to face but thebattle with other plagues, mental and moral? Think of the number ofweak-minded children there are in the world; of perverts, criminallyinclined. It is staggering. But if you escape all that, if your childrenare well and normal, as some are, then you must consider this: Supposeanything should happen to either or both of the parents? What of thelittle boy or girl? You have seen orphan asylums, I suppose. Have youever stopped to----"

And then, just as he had me feelin' like I ought to be led out and shotat sunrise, the old Major comes bustlin' in fussy. I could have fallenon his neck. 

"All ready!" says he. "Now I'll show you a fighting machine, young man, that is the last word in mechanical genius. "

"You can show me anything, Major, " says I, "so long as it ain't a morgueor a State's prison. "

And he sure had some boiler-plate bus out there champin' at the bit. Itlooked just as frisky as the Flatiron Buildin', squattin' in the middleof the field, this young Fort Slocum with the caterpillar wheels sunk inthe mud. 

"Stuck, ain't she?" I asked the Major. 

"We shall see, " says he, noddin' to one of his staff, who proceeds to doa semaphore act with his arms. 

An answerin' snort comes from inside the thing, a purry sort of rumblethat grows bigger and bigger, and next I knew, it starts wallowin' rightat us. It keeps comin' and comin', gettin' up speed all the while, andif there hadn't been a four-foot stone wall between us I'd been lookin'for a tall tree. I thought it would turn when it came to the wall. Butit don't. It gives a lurch, like a cow playin' leap-frog, and over shecomes, still pointed our way. 

"Hey, Major!" I calls out above the roar. "Can they see where they'regoin' in there? Hadn't we better give 'em room?"

"Don't move, please, " says he. 

"Just as you say, " says I; "only I ain't strong for bein' rolled intopie-crust. "

"There's no danger, " says he. "I merely wish you to see how---- There!Look!"

And say, within twenty feet of us the blamed thing rears up on itshaunches, its ugly nose high as a house above us, and, while I'm stillholdin' my breath, it pivots on its tail and lumbers back, leavin' apath that looks like it had been paved with Belgian blocks. 

Course, that's only part of the performance. We watched it wallow intodeep ditches and out, splash through a brook, and mow down trees more'na foot thick. And all the time the crew were pokin' out wicked-lookin'guns, big and little, that swung round and hunted us out like so manymurderous eyes. 

"Cute little beast, ain't it?" says I. "You got it trained so it'llalmost do a waltz. If I was to pick my position, though, I think I'drather be on the inside lookin' out. "

"Very well, " says the Major. "You shall have a ride in it. "

"Excuse me, " says I. "I was only foolin'. Honest, Major, I ain'tyearnin'. "

"Telegram for you, " breaks in Barnes, the secretary. 

"Oh!" says I, a bit gaspy, as I rips open the envelop. 

It's the one I'd been espectin'. All it says is: "Come at once. VEE. "But I knew what that meant. 

"Sorry, Major, " says I, "but I'll have to pass up the rest of the show. I--I'm called back. "

"Ah! To headquarters?" says he. 

"No, " says I. "Home. "

He shakes his head and frowns. "That is a word which no officer issupposed to have in his vocabulary, " says he. 

"It's in mine, all right, " says I. "But then, I'm not much of an armyofficer, anyway. I'm mostly a camouflaged private sec. Besides, thisain't any ordinary call. It's a domestic S. O. S. That I've been sort oflookin' for. "

"I understand, " says he. "The--the first?"

I nods. Then I asks: "What's the quickest way across to Long Island?"

"There isn't any quick way, " says he, "unless you have wings. You can'teven catch the branch line local that connects with the New Yorkexpress now. There'll be one down at 8:36 to-morrow morning, though. "

"Wha-a-at!" says I, gawpin' at him. "How about gettin' a machine andshootin' down to the junction?"

"My car is the only one here, " says he, "and that is out of commissionto-day--valves being ground. "

"But look, " says I; "you got three or four of those motor-cycles with abath-tub tacked on the side. Couldn't you let one of your sergeants----"

"Strictly against orders, " says he, "except for military purposes. "

"Ah, stretch it, Major, " I goes on. "Have a heart. Just think! I want toget there to-night. Got to!"

"Impossible, " says he. 

"But listen----" I keeps on. 

Well, it's no use rehearsin' the swell arguments I put up. I said he hada rubber-stamp mind, didn't I? And I made about as much headway talkin'to him as I would if I'd been assaultin' that tank with a tack-hammer. He couldn't see any difference between havin' charge of a string ofmachine shops in Connecticut and commandin' a regiment in the front-linetrenches. Besides, he didn't approve of junior officers bein' married. Not durin' war-time, anyway. 

And the worst of it was, I couldn't tell him just the particular kind ofossified old pinhead I thought he was. All I could do was grind myteeth, say "Yes, sir, " and salute respectful. 

Also there was that undertaker-faced secretary standin' by with his earout. The prospect of sittin' around watchin' him for the rest of the daywasn't fascinatin'. No; I'd had about all of Barnes I could stand. A fewmore of his cheerin' observations, and I'd want to jam his head into histypewriter and then tread on the keys. Nor I wasn't goin' to be fed onany more cog-wheel statistics by the Major, either. 

All I could keep on my mind then was this one thing: How could I gethome? Looked like I was up against it, too. The nearest town was twelvemiles off, and the main-line junction was some thirty-odd miles beyondthat. Too far for an afternoon hike. But I couldn't just sit around andwait, or pace up and down inside the barbed-wire fence like an enemyalien that had been pastured out. So I wanders through the gate and downa road. I didn't know where it led, or care. Maybe I had a vague idea acar would come along. But none did. 

I must have been trampin' near an hour, with my chin down and my fistsjammed into my overcoat pockets, when I catches a glimpse, out of thetail of my eye, of something yellow dodgin' behind a clump of cedars atone side of the road. First off I thought it might be a cow, as therewas a farm-house a little ways ahead. Then it struck me no cow wouldmove as quick as that, or have such a bright yellow hide. So I turns andmakes straight for the cedars. 

It was a thick, bushy clump. I climbed the stone wall and walked all theway round. Nothin' in sight. Seemed as if I could see branches movin' inthere, though, and hear a sound like heavy breathin'. Course, it mightbe a deer, or a fox. Then I remembered I had half a bag of peanutssomewhere about me. Maybe I could toll the thing out with 'em. I wasjust fishin' in my pockets when from the middle of the cedars comes thisdisgusted protest. 

"Oh, I say, old man, " says a voice. "No shooting, please. "

And with that out steps a clean-cut, cheerful-faced young gent in aleather coat, goggled helmet, and spiral puttees. No wonder I stoodstarin'. Not that I hadn't seen plenty like him before, but I didn'tknow the woods was so full of 'em. 

"You were out looking for me, I suppose?" he goes on. 

"Depends on who you are, " says I. 

"Oh, we might as well come down to cases, " says he. "I'm the enemy. "

"You don't look it, " says I, grinnin'. 

He shrugs his shoulders. 

"Fact, old man, " says he. "I'm the one you were sent to watchfor--Lieutenant Donald Allen, 26th Flying Corps Division, Squadron B. "

"Pleased to meet you, " says I. 

"No doubt, " says he. "Have a cigarette?" We lights up from the samematch. "But say, " he adds, "it was just a piece of tough luck, yourcatching me in this fix. "

"Oh, I ain't so sure, " says I. 

"Of course, " he says, "it won't go with the C. O. But really, now, whatare you going to do when your observer insists that he's dying? Icouldn't tell. Perhaps he was. Right in the middle of a perfect flight, too, the chump! Motor working sweet, air as smooth as silk, and no crosscurrents to speak of. But, with him howling about this awful pain inhis tummy, what else could I do? Had to come down and---- Well, here weare. I'm behind the lines, I suppose, and you'll report my surrender. "

"Then what?" I asks. 

"Oh, " says Allen, "as soon as I persuade this trolley-car aviator, Martin, that he isn't dead, I shall load him into the old bus and carthim back to Mineola. "

"Wha-a-t!" says I. "You--you're goin' back to Mineola--to-night?"

"If Martin can forget his tummy, " says he. "How I'll be guyed! Go to thefoot of the eligible list too, and probably miss out on being sent overwith my division. Oh, well!"

I was beginning to dope out the mystery. More'n that, I had my fingerson the tail feathers of a hunch. 

"Why not leave Martin here?" I suggests. "Couldn't you show up in time?"

"It wouldn't count, " says the Lieutenant. "You must have an observer allthe way. "

"How about me subbin' in?" says I. 

"You?" says he. "Why, you're on the other side. "

"That's where you're mixed, " says I. "I'm on the wrong side of LongIsland Sound, that's all. "

"Why, " says he, "weren't you sent out to----"

"No, " I breaks in; "I'm no spotter. I'm on special detail from theOrdnance Department. And a mighty punk detail at that, if you ask me. The party who's sleuthin' for you, I expect, is the one I saw back atthe plant, moonin' around with a pair of field glasses strapped to him. You ain't captured yet; not by me, anyway. "

"Honest?" says he. "Why, then--then----"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "And if you can make it back to Mineola with aperfectly good passenger in the extra seat you'll qualify for scout workand most likely be over pluggin' Huns within a month or so. That won'ttickle you a bit more'n it will me to get to Long Island to-night, for----"

Well, then I tells him about Vee, and everything. 

"By George!" says he. "You're all right, Lieutenant--er----"

"Ah, between friends, Donald, " says I, "it's Torchy. "

At which we links arms chummy and goes marchin' close order down to thefarm-house to see how this Martin party was gettin' on. We finds himrolled up in quilts on an old sofa that the folks had shoved up in frontof the stove--a slim, nervous-lookin' young gink with sandy hair and apeaked nose. 

"Well, how about you?" asks Allen. 

Martin he only moans and reaches for a warm flat-iron that he'd beenholdin' against his stomach. 

"Still dying, eh?" says Allen. "Why didn't you report sick this morning, instead of letting them send you up with me?"

"I--I was all right then, " whines Martin. "It--it must have been thealtitude got me. I--I'd never been that high before, you know. "

"Bah!" says the Lieutenant. "Not over thirty-five hundred at any time. How do you expect me to take you back--on the hundred-foot level? You'llmake a fine observer, you will!"

"I've had enough observing, " says Martin. "I--I'm going to gettransferred to the mechanical department. "

"Oh, are you?" says Allen. "Then you'll be just as satisfied to make thetrip back by rail. "

Martin nods. 

"And you won't be needing your helmet and things, eh?" goes on theLieutenant. "I'll take those along, then, " and he winks at me. 

All of a sudden, though, the sparkles fade out of his eyes. "Jinxedagain!" says he. "There'd be no blessed map to hand in. "

"Eh?" says I. "Map of what!"

He explains jerky. This scoutin' stunt of his was to locate the tankworks and get close enough for an observer to draw a plan of it--all ofwhich he'd done, only by then Martin had got past the drawin' stage. 

"So it's no use going back to-night. "

"Ain't it?" says I. "Say, if a map of that smoky hole is all you need, Iguess I can produce that easy enough. "

"Can you?" he asks. 

"Why not?" says I. "Ain't I been cooped up there for nearly a week? Ican put in a bird's-eye view of the Major in command; one of hissecretary, too, if you like. Gimme some paper. "

And inside of five minutes I'd sketched out a diagram of the buildin'sand the whole outfit. Then we poked Martin up long enough for him tosign it. 

"Fine work!" says Donald. "That earns you a hop, all right. Now buckleyourself into that cloud costume and I'll show you how a 110-horse-powercrow would go from here to the middle of Long Island if he was in ahurry. "

"You can't make it any too speedy for me, " says I, slippin' into thesheepskin jacket. 

"Ever been up before?" he asks. 

"Only once--in a hydro, " says I; "but I ain't missed any chances. "

"That's the spirit!" says he. "Come along. The old bus is anchored downthe field a ways. "

I couldn't hardly believe I was actually goin' to pull it off until he'dgot the motor started and we went skimmin' along the ground. But as soonas we shook off the State of Connecticut and began climbin' up over astrip of woods, I settles back in the little cockpit, buttons thewind-shield over my mouth, and sighs contented. 

Allen and I didn't exchange much chat. You don't with an engine of thatsize roarin' a few feet in front of you and your ears buttoned down bythree or four layers of wool and leather. Once he points out ahead andtries to shout something, I don't know what. But I nods and wavesencouragin'. Later he points down and grins. I grins back. 

Next thing I knew, he's shut off the motor, and I gets a glimpse of thewhole of Long Island behavin' odd. Seems as if it's swellin' andwidenin' out, like one of these freaky toy balloons you blow up. Itdidn't seem as if we was divin' down--more like the map was rushin' upto meet us. Pretty soon I could make out a big open space with a lot ofsquatty buildin's at one end, and in a couple of minutes more themachine was rollin' along on its wheels and we taxied graceful uptowards the hangars. 

It was just gettin' dusk as we piles out, and the first few yards Iwalked I felt like I was dressed in a divin' suit with a pair of leadboots on my feet. I saw Allen salute an officer, hand over the map, andheard him say something about Observer Martin wantin' to report sick. Then he steers me off toward the barracks, circles past' em, and leadsme through a back gate. 

"I think we've put it over, old man, " says he, givin' me the cordialgrip. "I can't tell you what a good turn you've done me. "

"It's fifty-fifty, " says I. "Where do I hit a station?"

"You take this trolley that's coming, " says he. "That junk you have onyou can send back to-morrow, in my care. And I--I trust you'll findthings all right at home. "

"Thanks, " says I. "Hope you'll have the same luck yourself some day. "

"Oh, perhaps, " says he, shakin' his head doubtful. "If I ever get back. But not until I'm past thirty, anyway. "

"Why so late?" asks I. 

"What would get my goat, " says he, "would be the risk of breakin' intothe grandfather class before I got ready. "

"Gee!" I gasps. "I hadn't thought of that. "

So, with this new idea, and the cheerin' views Barnes had pumped intome, I has plenty to chew over durin' the next hour or so that I'mspeedin' towards home. I expect that accounts some for the long face Imust have been wearin' when I finally dashes through the front gate ofthe Lilacs and am let into the house by Leon Battou, the little oldFrenchman who cooks and buttles for us. 

"Ah, _mon Dieu!_" says Leon, throwin' up his hands and starin' at mebug-eyed. "Monsieur!"

"Go on, " says I. "Tell me the worst. What is it?"

"But no, M'sieur, " says he. "It is only that M'sieur appears in sostrange attire. "

"Oh! These?" says I. "Never mind my costume, Leon. What about Vee?"

"Ah!" says he, his eyes beamin' once more and his hands washin' eachother. "Madame is excellent. She herself will tell you. Come!"

Upstairs I went, two steps at a time. 

"S-s-sh!" says the nurse, meetin' me at the door. 

But I brushes past her, and the next minute I'm over by the bed and Veeis smilin' up at me. It's only the ghost of a smile, but it means a lotto me. She slips one of her hands into mine. 

"Torchy, " she whispers, "did you drop down out of--of the air?"

"That was about it, " says I. "I got here, though. Are you all right, girlie?"

She nods and gives me another of them sketchy, happy smiles. 

"And how about the--the----" I starts to ask. 

She glances towards the corner where the nurse is bendin' over a pinkand white basket. "He's splendid, " she whispers. 

"He?" says I. "Then--then it's a boy?"

She gives my hand a little squeeze. 

And ten minutes later, when I'm shooed out, I'm feelin' so chesty andhappy that I'm tingly all over. 

Down in the livin'-room Leon is waitin' for me, wearin' a broad grin. Hegreets me with his hand out. And then, somehow, because he's sodifferent, I expect, I remembers Barnes. I was wonderin' if Leon wasjust puttin' on. 

"Well, " says I, "how about it?"

"Ah, Monsieur!" says he, givin' me the hearty grip. "I make to you mybest congratulations. "

"Then you don't feel, " says I, "that bein' a parent is kind of a sad andsolemn business?"

"Sad!" says he. "_Non, non!_ It is the grand joy of life. It is when youhave the best right to be proud and glad, for to you has come _la bonnechance_. Yes, _la bonne chance!_"

And say, there's no mistakin' that Leon means every word of it, Frenchand all. 

"Thanks, Leon, " says I. "You ought to know. You've been through ityourself. I'll bet you wouldn't even feel bad at being a grandfather. No? Well, I guess I'll follow through on that line. Maybe I don'tdeserve so much luck, but I'm takin' it just as though I did. And say, Leon, let's us go out in the back yard and give three cheers for the sonand heir of the house of Torchy. "

CHAPTER XVI

TORCHY GETS THE THUMB GRIP

I expect a lot of people thought it about me; but the one who reallyregistered the idea was Auntie. Trust her. For of course, with an eventof this kind staged in the house we couldn't expect to dodge a visitfrom the old girl. She came clear up from Miami--although, with so muchtrouble about through sleepers and everything, I kept tellin' Vee I wasafraid she wouldn't think it worth while makin' the trip. 

"How absurd, Torchy!" says Vee. "Not want to see baby? To be sure, shewill. "

You see, Vee had the right hunch from the very first--about theimportance of this new member of the fam'ly, I mean. She took it as amatter of course that everybody who'd ever known or heard of us would beanxious to rush in and gaze awe-struck and reverent at this remarkableaddition we'd made to the population of Long Island. Something likethat. She don't have to work up to it. Seems to come natural. Why, say, she'd sit by and listen without crackin' a smile to these regulargushers who laid it on so thick you'd 'most thought the youngsterhimself would have turned over and run his tongue out at 'em. 

"Oh, the dear, darling 'ittle cherub!" they'd squeal. "Isn't he simp-lythe most won-der-ful baby you ev-er saw?"

And Vee would never blink an eye. In fact, she'd beam on 'em grateful, and repeat to me afterwards what they'd said, like it was just a case ofthe vote bein' made unanimous, as she knew it was bound to be all along. 

Which wasn't a bit like any of the forty-seven varieties of Vee Ithought I was so well acquainted with. No. I'll admit she'd shown whimsand queer streaks now and then, and maybe a fault or so; but nothingthat had anything to do with any tendency of the ego to stick its elbowsout. Yet, when it comes to listenin' to flatterin' remarks about our sonand heir--well, no Broadway star readin' over what his press-agent hadsmuggled into the dramatic notes had anything on her. She couldn't haveit handed to her too strong. 

As for me, I guess I was in sort of a daze there for a week or so. Gettin' to be a parent had been sprung on me so sudden that it was sortof confusin'. I couldn't let on to be a judge of babies myself. I don'tknow as I'd ever examined one real near to before, anyway--not such anew one as this. 

And, between me and you, when I did get a chance to size him up realclose once, --they'd all gone out of the room and left me standin' by thecrib, --I was kind of disappointed. Uh-huh. No use kiddin' yourself. Icouldn't see a thing wonderful about him, or where he was much differentfrom others I'd glanced at casual. Such a small party to have so muchfuss made over! Why, one of his hands wasn't much bigger'n a cat's paw. And his face was so red and little and the nose so sketchy that itdidn't seem likely he'd ever amount to much. Here he'd had more'n a weekto grow in, and I couldn't notice any change at all. 

Not that I was nutty enough to report any such thoughts. Hardly. I feltkind of guilty at just havin' 'em in my head. How was it, I askedmyself, that I couldn't stand around with my hands clasped and my eyesdimmed up, as a perfectly good parent should when he gazes at his firstand only chee-ild! Wasn't I human?

All the alibi I can put up is that I wasn't used to bein' a father. Ain't there something in that? Just think, now. Why, I'd hardly gotused to bein' married. Here, only a little over a year ago, I wasfloatin' around free and careless. And then, first thing I know, withoutany special coachin' in the act, I finds myself pushed out into thecenter of the stage with the spot-light on me, and I'm introduced as adaddy. 

The only thing I could do was try to make a noise like one. I didn'tfeel it, any more'n I felt like a stained-glass saint in a churchwindow. And I didn't know the lines very well. But there was everybodywatching, --Vee, and the nurse, and Madame Battou, and occasionalcallers, --so I proceeds to bluff it through the best I could. 

My merry little idea was to be familiar with the youngster, treat him asif he'd been a member of the fam'ly for a long time, and hide anyembarrassin' feelin's I might have by addressin' him loud and joshin'. Iexpect it was kind of a poor performance, at that. But I seemed to begettin' away with it, so I stuck to that line. Vee appears to take itall right, and, as nobody else gave me the call, I almost got to believeit was the real thing myself. 

So this particular afternoon, when I came breezin' in from town, Ichases right up to the nursery, where I knew I'd find Vee, gives herthe usual hail just behind the ear, and then turns hasty to the crib toshow I haven't forgot who's there. 

"Hello, old sport!" says I, ticklin' him in the ribs. "How you hittin''em, hey? Well, well! Look at the fistses doubled up! Who you goin' tohand a wallop to now? Oh, tryin' to punch yourself in the eye, are you?Come there, you young rough-houser, lay off that grouchy stuff and speaksome kind words to your daddy. You won't, eh? Goin' to kick a littlewith the footsies. That's it. Mix in with all fours, you young----"

And just then I hears a suppressed snort that sounds sort of familiar. Iglances around panicky, and gets the full benefit of a disgusted glarefrom a set of chilled steel eyes, and discovers that there's someonebesides Vee and the nurse present. Yep. It's Auntie. 

"May I ask, " says she, "if this is your usual manner of greeting youroffspring?"

"Why, " says I, "I--I expect it is. "

"Humph!" says she. "I might have known. "

"Now, Auntie, " protests Vee, "you know very well that Torchy means----"

"Whatever he means or doesn't mean, " breaks in Auntie, "I am sure hehas an astonishing way of showing parental affection. Calling the childan 'old scout, ' a 'young rough-houser'! It's shocking. "

"Sorry, " says I; "but I ain't taken any lessons in polite baby talk yet. Maybe in time I could learn this ittums-tweetums stuff, but I doubt it. Always made me sick, that did; and one of the things Vee and I agreed onwas that----"

"Oh, very well, " says Auntie. "I do not intend to interfere in any way. "

As if she could help it! Why, say, she'd give St. Peter advice ongate-keepin'. But for the time bein', each of us havin' had our say, wecalls it a draw and gets back to what looks like a peace footin'. Butfrom then on I knew she had her eyes out at me. Every move I made wasliable to get her breathin' short or set her squirmin' in her chair. Andyou know how it's apt to be in a case like that. I made more breaks thanever. I'd forget about the youngster bein' asleep and cut loose withsomething noisy at the wrong time. Or I'd jolt her some other way. 

But she held in until, one night after dinner, when the baby hadindulged in too much day sleepin' and was carryin' on a bit, I takes anotion to soothe him with a few humorous antics while Auntie is safedownstairs. You see, I'd never been able to get him to take any noticeof me before; but this time, after I'd done a swell imitation of a FredStone dance, I had him cooin' approvin', the nurse smotherin' a smile, and Vee snickerin'. 

Naturally, I has to follow it up with something else. I was down on myhands and knees doin' a buckin' bronco act across the floor, when therecomes this gasp from the doorway. It seems Auntie was passin' by, andpeeked in. Her eyebrows go up, her mouth corners come down, and shestiffens like she'd grabbed a high-voltage feed wire. I saw it comin', but the best I can do is steady myself on my fingers and toes and wish Ihad cotton in my ears. 

"Really!" says she. "Are you never to realize, young man, that you arenow supposed to be a husband and a father?"

And, before I can shoot back a word, she's sailed on, her chin in theair and her mouth about as smilin' as a crack in a vinegar bottle. Butshe'd said it. She'd pushed it home, too. And the worst of it was, Icouldn't deny that she had the goods on me. I might pass as a husband, if you didn't expect too much. But as for the rest--well, I knew Iwasn't meetin' the specifications. 

The only model I could think of was them fond parent groups you see inthe movie close-ups--mother on the right, father at the left, and LittleBright Eyes squeezed in between and bein' mauled affectionate. Had weever indulged in any such family clinch? Not up to date. Why? Was itbecause I was a failure as a daddy? Looked so. And here was Auntietaxin' me with it. Would other folks find out, too?

I begun thinkin' over the way different ones had taken the news. OldHickory, for instance. I was wearin' a wide grin and still feelin' sortof chesty when I broke into his private office and handed him thebulletin. 

"Eh?" he grunts, squintin' at me from under them bushy eyebrows. "Afather! You? Good Lord!"

"Why not?" says I. "It's still being done, ain't it?"

"Oh, I suppose so. Yes, yes, " he goes on, starin' at me. "But somehow, young man, I can hardly think of you as--as---- Well, congratulations, Torchy. You have frequently surprised me by rising to the occasion. Perhaps you will in this also. "

"Thanks, Mr. Ellins, " says I. "It's nice of you to cheer me up thatway. "

Piddie, of course, said the right and elegant thing, just as if he'dlearned it out of a book. He always does, you know. Makes a reg'larlittle speech, and finishes by givin' me the fraternal handclasp and apat on the shoulder. 

But a minute after I caught him gazin' at me wonderin', and he goes offshakin' his head. 

Then I runs across my newspaper friend Whitey Weeks, who used to know mewhen I was a cub office-boy on the Sunday editor's door. 

"Well, Torchy, " says he, "what you got on your mind?"

"Nothing you could make copy out of, " says I, "but it's a whale of anevent for me. "

"You don't say, " says he. "Somebody died and left you the business?"

"Just the opposite, " says I. 

"I don't get you, " says he. 

"Ah, what's usually in the next column?" says I. "It's a case ofsomebody bein' born. "

"Why--why, " says he, openin' his mouth, "you don't mean that----"

"Uh-huh, " says I, tryin' to look modest. 

[Illustration: "I was down on my knees doin' a buckin' bronco act, whenthere comes a gasp from the doorway. "]

"Haw-haw!" roars Whitey, usin' the steam siren effect. And, as it'sright on the corner of Forty-second and Broadway, he comes nearcollectin' a crowd. Four or five people turn around to see what themerriment is all about, and a couple of 'em stops short in their tracks. One guy I spotted for a vaudeville artist lookin' for stuff that mightfat up his act. 

"Say, " Whitey goes on, poundin' me on the back jovial, "that's rich, that is!"

"Glad it amuses you, " says I, startin' to move off. 

"Oh, come, old chap!" says he, followin' along. "Don't get crabby. What--what is it, anyway?"

"It's a baby, " says I. "Quite a young one. Now go laugh your fat headoff, you human hyena. "

With that shot I dashes through the traffic and catches a downtown car, leavin' him there with his silly face unhinged. And I did no moreannouncin' to anybody. I was through advertisin'. When some of thecommuters on the eight-three heard the news and started springin' theircomic tricks on me, I pretended I didn't understand. 

I don't know what they thought. I didn't give a whoop, either. I wasn'tdemandin' that anybody should pass solemn resolutions thankin' me forwhat I'd done for my country, or stand with their hats off as I went by. But I was overstocked on this joke-book junk. 

Maybe I didn't look like a father, or act like one; but I was doin' mybest on the short notice I'd had. 

I will say for Vee that she stood by me noble. She seemed to thinkwhatever I did was all right, even when I shied at holdin' the youngsterfor the first time. 

"I'm afraid I'll bend him in the wrong place, " I protests. 

"Goose!" says she. "Of course you won't. "

"Suppose I should drop him?" says I. 

"You can't if you take him just as I show you, " she goes on patient. "Now, sit down in that chair. Crook your left arm like this. Now holdyour knees together, and we'll just put the little precious right inyour---- There! Why, you're doing it splendidly. "

"Am I?" says I. 

I might have believed her if I hadn't caught a glimpse of myself in theglass. Say, I was sittin' there as easy and graceful as if I'd been madeof structural iron and reinforced concrete. Stiff! Them stone lions infront of the Public Lib'ry was frolicsome lambs compared to me. And Iwas wearin' the same happy look on my face as if I was havin' a toothplugged. 

Course that had to be just the time when Mr. Robert Ellins happened infor his first private view. Mrs. Robert had towed him down special. He'sa reg'lar friend, though, Mr. Robert is. I can't say how much of astruggle he had to keep his face straight, but after the first spasm hasworn off he don't show any more signs of wantin' to cackle. And he don'tpull any end-man stuff. 

"Well, well, Torchy!" says he. "A son and heir, eh? I salute you. "

"Same to you and many of 'em, " says I, grinnin' simple. 

It was the first thing that came into my head, but I guess I'd betternot have let it out. Mrs. Robert pinks up, Vee snickers, and they bothhurries into the next room. 

"Thank you, Torchy, " says Mr. Robert. "Within certain limitations, Itrust your wish comes true. But I say--how does it feel, being afather?"

"Just plain foolish, " says I. 

"Eh?" says he. 

"Honest, Mr. Robert, " says I, "I never felt so much like a ham sandwichat a Chamber of Commerce banquet as I do right now. I'm beginnin' tosuspect I've been miscast for the part. "

"Nonsense!" says he soothin'. "You appear to be getting alongswimmingly. I'm sure I wouldn't know how to hold a baby at all. "

"You couldn't know less'n I do about it at present writing, " says I. "Idon't dare move, and both my legs are asleep from the knees down. Do mea favor and call for help, won't you?"

"Oh, I say!" he calls out. "The starboard watch wants to be relieved. "

So Vee comes back and pries the baby out of my grip. 

"Isn't he absurd!" says she. "But he will soon learn. All men are likethat at first, I suppose. "

"Hear that, Mr. Robert?" says I. "That's what I call a sun-cureddisposition. "

She'd make a good animal-trainer, Vee; she's so persistent and patient. After dinner she jollies me into tryin' it again. 

"You needn't sit so rigid, you know, " she coaches me. "Just relaxnaturally and let his little head rest easy in the hollow of your arm. No, you don't have to grab him with the other hand. Let him kick hislegs if he wants to. See, he is looking up at you! Yes, I believe heis. Do you see Daddy? Do you, precious?"

"Must be some sight, " I murmurs. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Oh, you may rock him gently, if you like, " says Vee. "And I don'tsuppose he'd mind if you sang a bit. "

"Wouldn't that be takin' a mean advantage?" says I. 

Vee laughs and goes off so I can practice alone, which was thoughtful ofher. 

I didn't find it so bad this time. I discovers I can wiggle my toesoccasionally without lettin' him crash on to the floor. And I begun toget used to lookin' at him at close range, too. His nose don't seemquite so hopeless as it did. I shouldn't wonder but what he'd grow areg'lar nose there in time. And their little ears are cute, ain't they?But say, it was them big blue eyes that got me interested. First offthey sort of wandered around the room aimless; but after a while theysteadies down into gazin' at me sort of curious and admirin'. I ratherliked that. 

"How about it, Snookums?" says I. "What do you think of your amateurdaddy? Or are you wonderin' if your hair'll be as red as mine? Don't youcare. There's worse things in life than bein' bright on top. Eh? Thinkyou'd like to get your fingers in it? Might burny-burn. Well, try itonce, if you like. " And I ducks my head so he can reach that wavin'forelock of mine. 

"Googly-goo!" remarks Sonny, indicatin' 'most anything you're a mind tocall it. 

Anyway, he seems to be entertained. We was gettin' acquainted fast. Pretty soon he pulls a smile on me. Say, it's the real thing in thesmile line, too--confidential and chummy. I has to smile back. 

"That's the trick, Buster!" says I. "Friendly face motions is what wins. "

"Goo-oogly-goo!" says he. 

"True words!" says I. "I believe you. "

We must have kept that up for near half an hour, until he shows signs ofgettin' sleepy. Just before he drops off, though, he was wavin' one ofhis hands around, and the first thing I know them soft little pinkfingers has circled about my thumb. 

Say, that turned the trick--just that. Ever had a baby grip you thatway? Your own, I mean? If you have, I expect you'll know what I'mdrivin' at. And if you ain't--well, you got something comin' to you. It's a thing I couldn't tell you about. It's a gentle sort of thrill, that spreads and spreads until it gets 'way inside of you--under yourvest, on the left side. 

When Vee finally comes in to see how we're gettin' along, he's snoozin'calm and peaceful, with a sketchy smile kind of flickerin' on and offthat rosebud mouth of his, like he was indulgin' in pleasant dreams. Also, them little pink fingers was still wrapped around my thumb. 

"Well, if you aren't a picture, you two!" says Vee, bendin' over andwhisperin' in my ear. 

"This ain't a pose, " says I. "It's the real thing. "

"You mean----" begins Vee. 

"I mean I've qualified, " says I. "Maybe I didn't show up so strongdurin' the initiation, but I squeaked through. I'm a reg'lar daddy now. See! He's givin' me the inside brother grip--on my thumb. You can callAuntie in, if you like. "

CHAPTER XVII

A LOW TACKLE BY TORCHY

What I like about livin' out in the forty-minute-if-you're-lucky sectoris that, once you get here, it's so nice and quiet. You don't have toworry, when you turn in at night, about manhole covers bein' blownthrough your front windows, or whether the basement floor will drop intothe subway, or if some gun gang is going to use your street for ashootin' gallery. All you do is douse the lights and feel sure nothin'sgoing to happen until breakfast. 

We were talkin' something along this line the other evenin', Vee and me, sayin' how restful and soothin' these spring nights in the countrywas--you know, sort of handin' it to ourselves. And it couldn't havebeen more'n two hours later that I'm routed rude out of the downy by the'phone bell. It's buzzin' away frantic. I scrambles out and fits thereceiver to my ear just in time to get the full benefit of the last halfof a long ring. 

"Ah, take your thumb off, " I sings out to the night operator. "Who youthink you're callin'--the fire house or some doctor?"

"Here's your party, " I hears her remark cheerful, and then this othervoice comes in. 

Well, it's Norton Plummer, that fussy little lawyer neighbor of ours wholives about half a mile the other side of the railroad. Since he's beenmade chairman of the local Council of Defense and put me on as head ofone of his committees, he's rung me up frequent, generally atdinner-time, to ask if I have anything to report. Seems to think, justbecause I'm a reserve lieutenant on special detail, that I ought to bediscoverin' spies and diggin' out plots every few minutes. 

"Yes, yes, " says I. "This is me. What then?"

"Did you read about that German naval officer who escaped from aninternment camp last week?" he asks. 

"But that was 'way down in North Carolina or somewhere, wasn't it?" saysI. 

"Perhaps, " says Plummer. "But he isn't there now. He's here. "

"Eh?" says I. "Where?"

"Prowling around my house, " says Plummer. "That is, he was a few momentsago. My chauffeur saw him. So did I. He's on his way down towards thetrolley line now. "

"Why didn't you nab him?" I asks. 

"Me?" says Plummer. "Why, he's a huge fellow, and no doubt a desperateman. I presume he was after me: I don't know. "

"But how'd you come to spot him as a Hun officer?" says I. 

"By the description I read, " says he. "It fits perfectly. There's notelling what he's up to around here. And listen: I have telephoned tothe Secret Service headquarters in town for them to send some men out ina machine. But they'll be nearly an hour on the road, at best. Meanwhile, what we must do is to prevent him from catching that lasttrolley car, which goes in about twelve-fifteen. We must stop him, yousee. "

"Oh, must we?" says I. "Listens to me like some he-sized job. "

"That's why I called you up, " says Plummer. "You know where the linecrosses the railroad? Well, he'll probably try to get on there. Hurrydown and prevent him. "

"Is that all I have to do?" says I. "What's the scheme--do I trip him upand sit on his head?"

"No, no!" says Plummer. "Don't attempt violence. He's a powerful man. Why, my chauffeur saw him break the chain on our back gate as if it hadbeen nothing but twine. Just gave it a push--and snap it went. Oh, he'sstrong as a bull. Ill-tempered, too. "

"Huh!" says I. "And I'm to go down and---- Say, where do you come in onthis?"

"I'll be there with John just as soon as we can quiet Mrs. Plummer andthe maids, " says he. "They're almost in hysterics. In the meantime, though, if you could get there and---- Well, use strategy of some kind. Anything to keep him from catching that car. You understand?"

"I get you, " says I. "And it don't sound enticin' at all. But I'll seewhat I can do. If you find me smeared all over the road, though, you'llknow I didn't pull it off. Also, I'd suggest that you make that soothin'act of yours speedy. "

Course this wakes Vee up, and she wants to know what it's all about. 

"Oh, a little private panic that Norton Plummer is indulgin' in, " saysI. "Nothin' to get fidgety over. I'll be back soon. "

"But--but you won't be reckless, will you, Torchy?" she asks. 

"Who, me?" says I. "How foolish. Why, I invented that 'Safety First'motto, and side-steppin' trouble is the easiest thing I do. Trust me. "

I expect she was some nervous, at that. But she's a good sport, Vee. 

"If you're needed, " says she, "of course I want you to go. But do becareful. "

I didn't need any coaxin'. Somehow, I never could get used to roamin'around in the country after dark. Always seemed sort of spooky. Bein'brought up in the city, I expect, where the scenery is illuminatedconstant, accounts for that. So, as I slips out the front gate and downtowards the station, I keeps in the middle of the road and glancessuspicious at the tree shadows. 

Not that I was takin' Plummer's Hun scare real serious. He'd had a badcase of spy fever recent. Why, only last week he got all stirred up overwhat he announced was a private wireless outfit that he'd discoveredsomewhere in the outskirts of Flushing; and when they came to trail itdown it turns out to be some new wire clothes-line strung up back of aflat buildin'. 

Besides, what would an escaped German naval officer be doin' up thisway? He'd be more apt to strike for Mexico, wouldn't he? Still, long asI'd let Plummer put me on the committee, it was up to me to answer anycalls. Might be entertainin' to see who he'd mistaken for an enemy alienthis time. And if all I was expected to do was spill a little impromptustrategy--well, maybe I could, and then again maybe I couldn't. I'd takea look, anyway. 

It was seein' a light in Danny Shea's little cottage, back on a sidelane, that gave me my original hunch. Danny is one of the importantofficials of the Long Island Railroad, if you let him tell it. He's theflagman down where the highway and trolley line cross the tracks atgrade, and when his rheumatism ain't makin' him grouchy he's more orless amusin' to chin with. 

Danny had pestered the section boss until he'd got him to build a littlesquare coop for him, there by the crossin'--a place where he could crawlin between trains, smoke his pipe, and toast himself over a sheet-ironstove about as big as a picnic coffee-pot. 

And that sentry-box effect was the pride of Danny's heart. Most of hisspare time and all the money he could bone out of the commuters he spentin improvin' and decoratin' it. He'd cut a couple of round windows, like port-holes, and fitted 'em with swingin' sashes. Then he'd tackedon some flower-boxes underneath and filled 'em with geraniums. 

When he wasn't waterin' his flowers or coaxin' along his littlegrass-plot or addin' another shelf inside, he was paintin' the outside. Danny's idea of a swell color scheme seemed to be to get on as manydifferent shades as possible. The roof was red, the sides a bright blue. But where he spread himself was on the trim. All you had to do to get onthe right side of Danny was to lug him out a half-pound can of paintdifferent from any he'd applied so far. He'd use it somehow. 

So the window-sashes was picked out in yellow, the side battens loomedup prominent as black lines, and the door-panels was a pale pink. Nearlyall the commuters had been touched by Danny for something or other thatcould be added to the shack. Only a week or so before, I'd got in strongwith him by contributin' a new padlock for the door--a vivid red one, like they have on the village jail in vaudeville plays. 

And it struck me now that if I had the key to that little box of Danny'sit would make a perfectly good listenin'-post for any midnightsleuthin' I had to do. Most likely he was up dosin' himself or bathin'his joints. 

Well, he was. He didn't seem any too enthusiastic about lettin' me havethe key, though. 

"I dunno, " says he. "'Tis railroad property, y' understand, and I'd beafther riskin' me job if any thin' should----"

"I know, Danny, " says I. "But you tell 'em it was commandeered by the U. S. Army, which is me; and if that don't square you I'll have Mr. Bakercome on and tell the section boss where he gets off. "

"Verra well, " says Danny. And in less than five minutes more I'm downthere at the crossin', all snug and cozy, peekin' out of them roundwindows into No Man's Land. 

For a while it was kind of excitin'; but after that it got sort ofmonotonous. There was about half of an old moon in the sky, and only afew clouds, so you could see fairly well--if there'd been anything tosee. But nothing seemed to be stirrin', up or down the road. 

What a nut that Norton Plummer was, anyway, feedin' me up with his wildtales in the middle of the night! And why didn't he show up? Finally Igot restless, and walked out where I could rubber up the trolley track. No sign or sound of a car. Then I looks at my watch again, and figuresout it ain't due for twenty minutes or so. Next I strolls across therailroad to look for Plummer. And, just as I'm passin' a big maple tree, out steps this huge party with the whiskers. I nearly jumped out of myputtees. 

"Eh?" says I gaspy. 

"Gotta match?" says he. 

"I--I guess so, " says I. 

I reached as far as I could when I hands him the box, too. He's a whaleof a man, tall and bulky. And his whiskers are the bristlykind--straw-colored, I should say. He's wearin' a double-breasted bluecoat and a sort of yachtin' cap. Uh-huh! Plummer must have been right. If this gink wasn't a Hun naval officer, then what was he? The ayes hadit. 

He produces a pipe and starts to light up. One match broke, the secondhad no strikin' head on it, the third just fizzed. 

"Gr-r-r-r!" says he. 

Then he starts for the crossin', me trailin' along. I saw he had his eyeon Danny's sentry-box, meanin' to get in the lee of it. Even then Ididn't have any bright little idea. 

"Waitin' for the trolley?" I throws out. 

"What of it?" he growls. 

"Oh, no offense, " says I hasty. "Maybe there are others. "

He just lets out another grunt, and tries one more match with his faceup against the side of the shanty. And then, all in a jump, my bean gotinto gear. 

"You might have better luck inside, " says I, swingin' open the doorinvitin'. 

He don't even say thank you. He ain't one of that kind. For a second orso I thought he wasn't goin' to take any notice; but after one morefailure he steps around, inspects the inside of the shanty, and thensqueezes himself through the door. At that, he wasn't all the way in, but by the time he had a match goin' I'd got my nerve back. 

"Ah, take the limit, Cap'n, " says I. 

With that I plants one foot impulsive right where he was widest, gives aquick shove, slams the door shut behind him, and snaps the big padlockthrough the hasp. 

"Hey!" he sings out startled. "What the----"

"Now, don't get messy, Cap'n, " says I. "You're in, ain't you? Smoke upand be happy. "

"You--you loafer!" he gurgles throaty. "What do you mean?"

"Just a playful little prank, Cap, " says I. "Don't get excited. You'reperfectly safe. "

Maybe he was. But some folks don't appreciate little attentions likethat. The Cap'n starts in bumpin' and thrashin' violent in there, like apup that's crawled into a drainpipe and got himself stuck. He hammers onthe walls with his fists, throws his weight against the door, and triesto kick his way out. 

But the section boss must have used rail spikes and reinforced thestuddin' with fishplates when he built that coop for Danny, or else thebig Hun was too tight a fit to get full play for his strength. Anyway, all he did was make the little house rock until you'd thought LongIsland was enjoyin' a young earthquake. Meanwhile I stands by, ready todo a sprint if he should break loose, and offers more or less cheerin'advice. 

"Easy with your elbows in there, Cap, " says I. "You're assaultin'railroad property, you know, and if you do any damage you can be pinchedfor malicious mischief. "

"You--you better let me out of here quick!" he roars. "I gotta getback. "

"Oh, you'll get to town all right, " says I. "I'll promise you that. "

"Loafer!" he snorts. 

"Say, how do you know I ain't sensitive on that point?" says I. "Youmight hurt my feelin's. "

"Gr-r-r!" says he. "I would wring your neck. "

"Such a disposition!" says I. 

Oh, yes, we swapped quite a little repartee, me and the Cap'n, orwhatever he was. But, instead of his bein' soothed by it he gets morestrenuous every minute. He had that shack rockin' like a boat. 

Next thing I saw was one of his big feet stickin' out under the bottomsill. Then I remembers that the sentry-box has only a dirt floor--onaccount of the stove, I expect. Course Danny has banked the outside upwith sod for five or six inches, but that ain't enough to hold it downwith a human tornado cuttin' loose inside. A minute more and anotherfoot appears on the other side, and the next I knew the whole shootin'match begins to rise, wabbly but sure, until he's lifted it almost tohis knees. 

Looked like the Cap'n was goin' to shed the coop over his head, as you'dshuck a shirt, and I was edgin' away prepared to make a run for it. Butright there the elevatin' process stops, and after some violent squirmsthere comes an outburst of language that would only get the delete signif I should give it. I could dope out what had happened. That plank seatacross one side had caught the Cap'n about where he buckles his belt, and he couldn't budge it any further. 

"Want a shoe-horn, Cap'n?" I asks. "Say, next time you try wearin' akiosk as a slip-on sweater you'd better train down for the act. "

"Gr-r-r-r!" says he. "I--I will teach you to play your jokes on me, young whipper-snap. "

He does some more writhin', and pretty soon manages to swing open one ofthe port-holes. With his face up to that, like a deep-sea diver peekin'out o' his copper bonnet, he starts for me, kickin' over the littlestove as he gets under way, and tearin' the whole thing loose from thefoundation. 

Course he's some handicapped by the hobble-skirt effect around hisknees, and the weight above his shoulders makes him a bit topheavy; but, at that, he can get over the ground as fast as I can walk backwards. 

Must have been kind of a weird sight, there in the moonlight--me bein'pursued up the road by this shack with legs under it, the little tinsmoke-pipe wavin' jaunty about nine feet in the air, and the geraniumsin the flower-boxes noddin' jerky. 

"Say, what do you think you are?" I calls out. "A wooden tank goin' overthe top?"

I was sort of wonderin' how long he could keep this up, and what wouldbe the finish, when from behind me I hears this spluttery line ofexclamations indicatin' rage. It's Danny, who's got anxious aboutlettin' me have the use of his coop and has come down to see what'shappenin' to it. Well, he saw. 

"Hey! Stop him, stop him!" he yells. 

"Stop him yourself, Danny, " says I. 

"But he's runnin' away with me little flag-house, thief of the worruld!"howls Danny. "It's breakin' and enterin' and carryin' away th' propertyof the Long Island Railroad that he's guilty of. "

"Yes; I've explained all that to him, " says I. 

"Go back and come'out of that, ye thievin' Dutchman!" orders Danny, rushin' up and bangin' on the door with his fists. 

"Just let me out, you Irish shrimp!" snarls the Cap'n. 

"Can't be done--not yet, Danny, " says I. 

"But--but he's destroyin' me flowers and runnin' off with me littlehouse, " protested Danny. "I'll have the law on him, so I will. "

"Get out, Irisher, or I'll fall on you, " warns the Cap'n. 

And right in the midst of this debate I sees Norton Plummer and hischauffeur hurryin' up from across the tracks. I skips back to meet 'em. 

"Well, " says Plummer, "have you seen anything of the escaped prisoner?"

"That's him, " says I, pointin' to the wabblin' shack. 

"Whaddye mean?" says Plummer, starin' puzzled. 

"He's inside, " says I. "You said use strategy, didn't you? Well, that'sthe best I had in stock. I got him boxed, all right, but he won't stayput. He insists on playin' the human turtle. What'll we do with him now?Come see. "

"My word!" says Plummer, as he gets a view of the Cap'n's legs and thebig whiskered face at the little window. "So there you are, eh, yourunaway Hun?"

"Bah!" says the Cap'n. "Why do you call me Hun?"

"Because I've identified you as an escaped German naval officer, " saysPlummer. "Do you deny it?"

"Me?" says the Cap'n. "Bah!"

"Who do you claim to be, then?" says I. "A tourist Eskimo or anout-of-town buyer from Patagonia?"

"I'm Nels Petersen, that's who I am, " says he, "and I'm chief engineerof a ferry-boat that's due to make her first run at five-thirty-three. "

"What!" says Plummer. "Are you the Swede engineer who has been writinglove letters to---- Say, what is the name of Mrs. Plummer's maid?"

"Selma, " says the Cap'n. 

"By George!" says Plummer. "I believe the man's right. But see here:what were you doing prowling around my back yard to-night! Why didn'tyou go to the servants' entrance and ask the cook for Selma, if you'reas much in love with her as you've written that you are?"

"What do you know about it?" demands Petersen. 

"Good Lord!" gasps Plummer. "Haven't I had to puzzle out all thosewretched scrawls of yours and read 'em to her? Such mushy letters, too!Come, if you're the man, why didn't you call Selma out and tell her allthat to her face?"

Nothing but heavy breathing from inside the shack. 

"You don't mean to say you were too bashful!" goes on Plummer. "A greatbig fellow like you!"

If it hadn't been for the whiskers I believe we could have seen himblush. 

"Look here, " says Plummer. "You may be what you say you are, and thenagain you may not. Perhaps you just guessed at the girl's name. We can'tafford to take any chances. The only way to settle it is to send forSelma. "

"No, no!" pleads the big gink. "Please! Not like this. "

"Yes, just like that, " insists Plummer. "Only, if you'd rather, you cancarry your house back where it belongs and sit down. John, run home andbring Selma here. "

Well, we had our man nicely tamed now. With Selma liable to show up, hewas ready to do as he was told. Just why, we couldn't make out. Anyway, he hobbles back to the crossin' and eases the shack down where he foundit. Also, he slumps inside on the bench and waits, durin' whichproceedin' the last trolley goes boomin' past. 

Inside of ten minutes John is back with the maid. Kind of a slim, classy-lookin' girl she is, too. And when Selma sees that big face atthe round window there's no doubt about his being the chosen one. 

"Oh, Nels, Nels!" she wails out. "Vy you don'd coom by the house yet?"

"I was scart, Selma, " says Nels, "for fear you'd tell me to go away. "

"But--but I don'd, Nels, " says Selma. 

"Shall I let him out for the fade-away scene?" says I. 

Plummer nods. And we had to turn our backs as they go to the fondclinch. 

Accordin' to Plummer, Selma had been waitin' for Nels to say the wordfor more'n a year, and for the last two months she'd been soabsent-minded and moody that she hadn't been of much use around thehouse. But him gettin' himself boxed up as an escaped Hun had sort ofbroken the ice. 

"There, now!" says Plummer. "You two go back to the house and talk itover. You may have until three-fifteen to settle all details, and thenI'll have John drive Petersen down to his ferry-boat. Be sure and fixthe day, though. I don't want to go through another night like this. "

"But what about me little lawn, " demands Danny, "that's tore upentirely? And who's to mend me stove-pipe and all?"

"Oh, here's something that will cover all that, Danny, " says Plummer, slippin' him a ten-spot. "And I've no doubt Petersen will contributesomething, too. "

"Sure!" says Nels, fishin' in his pockets. 

"Two bits!" says Danny, pickin' up the quarter scornful. "Thim Swedesare the tightwads! And if ever I find this wan kidnappin' me littlehouse again----"

At which Danny breaks off and shakes his fist menacin'. 

When I gets back home I tiptoes upstairs; but Vee is only dozin', andwakes up with a jump. 

"Is that you, Torchy?" says she. "Has--has anything dreadful happened?"

"Yes, " says I. "I had to pull a low tackle, and Danny Shea's declaredwar on Sweden. "

CHAPTER XVIII

TAG DAY AT TORCHY'S

Course, in a way, it was our fault, I expect. We never should have leton that there was any hitch about what we was goin' to name the baby. Blessed if I know now just how it got around. I remember Vee and Ihavin' one or two little talks on the subject, but I don't think we'dtackled the proposition real serious. 

You see, at first we were too busy sort of gettin' used to havin' himaround and framin' up a line on this parent act we was supposed to putover. Anyway, I was. And for three or four weeks, there, I called himanything that came handy, from Young Sport to Old Snoodlekins. Vee shesticks to Baby. Uh-huh--just plain Baby. But the way she says it, breathin' it out kind of soft and gentle, sounded perfectly all right tome. 

And the youngster didn't seem to have any kick comin'. He was gettin' sohe'd look up and coo real intelligent when she speaks to him in thatfashion. You couldn't blame him, for it was easy to listen to. 

As for the different things I called him--well, he didn't mind them, either. No matter what it was, --Old Pink Toes or Wiggle-heels, --he'dgenerally pass it off with a smile, providin' he wasn't too busy withhis bottle or tryin' to get hold of his foot with both of his hands. 

Then one day Auntie, who's been listenin' disapprovin' all the while, just can't hold in any longer. 

"Isn't it high time, " says she, "that you addressed the child properlyby his right name?"

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'. "Which one?"

"You don't mean to say, " she goes on, "that you have not yet decided onhis baptismal name?"

"I didn't know he was a Baptist, " says I feeble. 

"We hadn't quite settled what to call him, " says Vee. 

"Besides, " I adds, "I don't see the use bein' in a rush about it. Maybewere're savin' that up. "

"Saving!" says Auntie. "For what reason?"

"Oh, general conservation, " says I. "Got the habit. We've had heatlessMondays and wheatless Wednesdays and fryless Fridays and sunlessSundays, so why not nameless babies?"

Auntie sniffs and goes off with her nose in the air, as she always doeswhenever I spring any of my punk persiflage on her. 

But then Vee takes it up, and says Auntie is right and that we reallyought to decide on a name and begin using it. 

"Oh, very well, " says I. "I'll be thinking one up. "

Seemed simple enough. Course, I'd never named any babies before, but Ihad an idea I could dig out half a dozen good, serviceable monickersbetween then and dinner-time. 

Somehow, though, I couldn't seem to hit on anything that I was willingto wish on to the youngster offhand. When I got right up against theproblem, it seemed kind of serious. 

Why, here was something he'd have to live with all his life; us, too. We'd have to say it over maybe a hundred times a day. And if he grew upand amounted to anything, as we was sure he would, it would mean thatthis front name of his that I had to pick out might be displayed more orless prominent. It would be on his office door, on his letterheads, onhis cards. He'd sign it to checks. 

Maybe it would be printed in the newspapers, used in headlines, orpainted on campaign banners. Might be displayed on billboards. Who couldtell?

And the deeper I got into the thing the more I wabbled about from onename to another, until I wondered how people had the nerve to give theirchildren some of the tags you hear--Percy, Isadore, Lulu, Reginald, andso on. And do it so casual, too. Why, I knew of a couple who named theirthree girls after parlor-cars; and a gink in Brooklyn who called one ofhis boys Prospect, after the park. Think of loadin' a helpless youngsterwith anything freaky like that!

Besides, how were you going to know that even the best name you couldpick wouldn't turn out to be a misfit? About the only Percy I ever knewin real life was a great two-fisted husk who was foreman of astereotypin' room; and here in the Corrugated Buildin', if you'll comein some night after five, I can show you a wide built scrub lady, withhair redder'n mine and a voice like a huckster--her front name isViolet. Yet I expect, when them two was babies, both those names soundedkind of cute. I could see where it would be easy enough for me to makea mistake that it would take a court order to straighten out. 

So, when Vee asks if I've made any choice yet I had to admit that I'mworse muddled up on the subject than when I started in. All I can do ishand over a list I've copied down on the back of an envelop with everyone of 'em checked off as no good. 

"Let's see, " says Vee, glancin' 'em over curious. "Lester. Why, I'm surethat is rather a nice name for a boy. "

"Yes, " says I; "but after I put it down I remembered a Lester I knewonce. He was a simp that wore pink neckties and used to writelove-letters to Mary Pickford. "

"What about Earl?" she asks. 

"Too flossy, " says I. "Sounds like you was tryin' to let on he belongedto the aristocracy. "

"Well, Donald, then, " says she. "That's a good, sensible name. "

"But we ain't Scotch, " I objects. 

"What's the matter with Philip?" says Vee. 

"I can never remember whether it has one _l_ and two _p_'s or the otherway round. "

"But you haven't considered any of the common ones, " goes on Vee, "suchas John or William or Thomas or James or Arthur. "

"Because that would mean he'd be called Bill or Tom or Art, " says I. "Besides, I kind of thought he ought to have something out of the usualrun--one you wouldn't forget as soon as you heard it. "

"If I may suggest, " breaks in Auntie, "the custom of giving the eldestson the family name of his mother is rather a good one. Had youconsidered Hemmingway?"

I just gasps and glances at Vee. What if she should fall for anythinglike that! Think of smotherin' a baby under most of the alphabet all atone swoop! And imagine a boy strugglin' through schooldays and vacationswith all that tied to him. 

Hemmingway! Why, he'd grow up round-shouldered and knock-kneed, and mostlikely turn out to be a floor-walker in the white goods department, orthe manager of a gift-shop tearoom. Hemmingway!

Just the thought of it made me dizzy; and I begun breathin' easier whenI saw Vee shake her head. 

"He's such a little fellow, Auntie, " says she. "Wouldn't that be--well, rather topheavy?"

Which disposes of Auntie. She admits maybe it would. But from then on, as the news seems to spread that we was havin' a kind of deadlock withthe namin' process, the volunteers got busy. Old Leon Battou, ourbutler-cook, hinted that his choice would be Emil. 

"For six generations, " says he, "Emil has been the name of thefirst-born son in our family. "

"That's stickin' to tradition, " says I. "It sounds perfectly swell, too, when you know how to pronounce it. But, you see, we're foundin' a newdynasty. "

Mr. Robert don't say so outright, but he suggests that Ellins Ballardwouldn't be such a bad combination. 

"True, " he adds, "the governor and I deserve no such distinction; butI'm sure we would both be immensely flattered. And there's no tellinghow reckless we might be when it come to presenting christening cups andthat sort of thing. "

"That's worth rememberin', " says I. "And I expect you wouldn't mind, incase you had a boy to name later on, callin' him Torchy, eh!"

Mr. Robert grins. "Entry withdrawn, " says he. 

How this Amelia Gaston Leroy got the call to crash in on our littlefamily affair, though, I couldn't quite dope out. We never suspectedbefore that she was such an intimate friend of ours. Course, since we'dbeen livin' out in the Piping Rock section we had seen more or less ofher--more, as a rule. She was built that way. 

Oh, yes. Amelia was one of the kind that could bounce in among three orfour people in a thirty by forty-five living-room and make the placeseem crowded. Mr. Robert's favorite description of her was that one halfof Amelia didn't know how the other half lived. To state it plain, Amelia was some whale of a girl. One look at her, and you did no moreguessin' as to what caused the food shortage. 

I got the shock of my life, too, when they told me she was the one thatwrote so much of this mushy magazine poetry you see printed. For all thelady poetesses I'd ever seen had been thin, shingled-chested partieswith mud-colored hair and soulful eyes. 

There was nothing thin about Amelia. Her eyes might have been soulfulenough at times, but mostly I'd seen 'em fixed on a tray of sandwichesor a plate of layer cake. 

They'd had her up at the Ellinses' once or twice when they were givin'one of their musical evenin's, and she'd spouted some of her stuff. 

Her first call on us, though, was when she blew in last Sunday afternoonand announced that she'd come to see "that dear, darling man child" ofours. And for a girl of her size Amelia is some breeze, take it from me. Honest, for the first ten minutes or so there I felt like our happylittle home had been hit by a young tornado. 

"Where is he?" she demands. "Please take me at once into the regalpresence of his youthful majesty. "

I noticed Vee sizin' her up panicky, and I knew she was thinkin' of whatmight happen to them spindle-legged white chairs in the nursery. 

"How nice of you to want to see him!" says Vee. "But let me have Babybrought down here. Just a moment. "

And she steers her towards a solid built davenport that we'd beenmeanin' to have reupholstered anyway. Then we was treated to a line ofhigh-brow gush as Amelia inspects the youngster through her shelllorgnette and tries to tell us in impromptu blank verse how wonderful heis. 

"Ah, he is one of the sun children, loved of the high gods, " says she, rollin' her eyes. "He comes to you wearing the tints of dawn andtrailing clouds of glory. You remember how Wordsworth puts it?"

As she fires this straight at me, I has to say something. 

"Does he?" I asks. 

"I am always impressed, " she gurgles on, "by the calm serenity in theeyes of these little ones. It is as if they----"

But just then Snoodlekins begins screwin' up his face. He's never beenmauled around by a lady poetess before, or maybe it was just becausethere was so much of her. Anyway, he tears loose with a fine large howland the serenity stuff is all off. It takes Vee four or five minutes tosoothe him. 

Meanwhile Miss Leroy gets around to statin' the real reason why we'rebein' honored. 

"I understand, " says she, "that you have not as yet chosen a name forhim. So I am going to help you. I adore it. I have always wanted to namea baby, and I've never been allowed. Think of that! My brother has fivechildren, too; but he would not listen to any of my suggestions. 

"So I am aunt to a Walter who should have been called Clifford, and aMargaret whom I wanted to name Beryl, and so on. Even my laundresspreferred to select names for her twins from some she had seen on acircus poster rather than let me do it for her. 

"But I am sure you are rational young people, and recognize that I havesome natural talent in that direction. Names! Why, I have made a studyof them. I must, you see, in my writing. And this dear little fellowdeserves something fitting. Now let me see. Ah, I have it! He shall beCedric--after Cedric the Red, you know. "

Accordin' to her, it was all settled. She heaves herself up off thedavenport, straightens her hat, and prepares to leave, smilin'satisfied, like an expert who's been called in and has finished the job. 

"We--we will consider Cedric, " says Vee. "Thank you so much. "

"Oh, not at all, " says Amelia. "Of course, if I should happen to thinkof anything better within the next few days I will let you know atonce. " And out she floats. 

Vee gazes after her and sighs. 

"I suppose Cedric is rather a good name, " says she, "but somehow I don'tfeel like using one that a stranger has picked out for us. Do you, Torchy?"

"You've said it, " says I. "I'd sooner let her buy my neckties, or tellme how I should have my eggs cooked for breakfast. "

"And yet, " says Vee, "unless we can think of something better----"

"We will, " says I. "I'm goin' through them pages in the back of the bigdictionary. "

In less'n half an hour there's a knock at the door, and here's achauffeur come with a note from Amelia. On the way home she's hadanother hunch. 

"After all, " she writes, "Cedric seems rather too harsh, too rough-shod. So I have decided on Lucian. "

"Huh!" says I. "She's decided, has she? Say, whose tag day is this, anyway--ours or hers?"

Vee shrugs her shoulders. 

"I'm not sure that we should like calling him Lucian; it's so--so----"

"I know, " says I, "so perfectly sweet. Say, can't we block Amelia offsomehow? Suppose I send back word that a rich step-uncle has promised toleave him a ton of coal if we call the baby Ebenezer after him?"

Vee chuckles. 

"Oh, no doubt she'll forget all about it by morning, " says she. 

Seems we'd just begun hearin' from the outside districts, though, orelse they'd been savin' up their ideas for this particular afternoon andevenin'; for between then and nine o'clock no less'n half a dozendifferent parties dropped in, every last one of 'em with a name toregister. And their contributions ranged all the way from Aaron to Xury. There were two rooters for Woodrow and one for Pershing. 

Some of the neighbors were real serious about it. They told us what atime they'd had namin' some of their children, brought up cases wherefamilies had been busted up over such discussions, and showed us wheretheir choice couldn't be beat. One merry bunch from the Country Clubthought they was pullin' something mighty humorous when they stopped into tell us how they'd held a votin' contest on the subject, and that thewinnin' combination was, Paul Roger. 

"After something you read on a cork, eh?" says I. "Much obliged. And Ihope nobody strained his intellect. "

"The idea!" says Vee, after they've rolled off. "Voting on such a thingat a club! Just as if Baby was a battleship, or a--a new moving-pictureplace. I think that's perfectly horrid of them. "

"It was fresh, all right, " says I. "But I expect we got to stand forsuch guff until we can give out that we've found a name that suits us. Lemme tackle that list again. Now, how would Russell do? RussellBallard? No; too many _l_'s and _r_'s. Here's Chester. And I expect theboys would call him Chesty. Then there's Clyde. But there's steamshipline by that name. What about Stanley? Oh, yes; he was an explorer. "

I admit I was gettin' desperate about then. I was flounderin' around ina whole ocean of names, long ones and short ones, fancy and plain, yet Icouldn't quite make up my mind. I'd mussed my hair, shed my collar, andscribbled over sheets and sheets of paper, without gettin' anywhere atall. And when I gave up and turned in about eleven-thirty, my head wasso muddled I wouldn't have had the nerve to have named a pet kitten. 

I must have just dozed off to sleep when I hears this bell ringin'somewhere. I couldn't quite make out whether it was a fire alarm, or the_z_'s in the back of the dictionary goin' off, when Vee calls out thatit's the 'phone. 

I tumbles out and paws around for the extension. 

"Wha-what?" says I. "What the blazes! Ye-uh. This is me. Wha-wha'smatter?"

And then comes this gurgly voice at the other end of the wire. It's ourold friend Amelia. 

"Do you know, " says she, "I have just thought of the loveliest name foryour dear baby. "

"Oh, have you?" says I, sort of crisp. 

"Yes, " says she, "and I simply couldn't wait until morning to tell you. Now listen--it's Ethelbert. "

"Ethel-Bert!" says I, gaspy. "Say, you know he's no mixed foursome. "

"No, no, " says she. Ethelbert--one name, after the old Saxon king. Ethelbert Ballard. "Isn't that just perfect? And I am so glad it came tome. "

I couldn't agree with her real enthusiastic, so it's lucky she hung upjust as she did. 

"Huh!" I remarks to Vee. "Why not Maryjim or Daisybill? Say, I think ourfriend Amelia must have gone off her hinge. "

But Vee only yawns and advises me to go to sleep and forget it. Well, Itried. You know how it is, though, when you've been jolted out of thefeathers just as you're halfway through the first reel of the slumberstuff. I couldn't get back, to save me. 

I counted sheep jumpin' over a wall, I tried lookin' down a railroadtrack until I could seen the rails meet, and I spelled Constantinoplebackwards. Nothing doing in the Morpheus act. 

I was wider awake then than a new taxi driver makin' his first trip upBroadway. I could think of swell names for seashore cottages, for newsurburban additions, and for other people's babies. I invented anexplosive pretzel that would win the war. I thought of bills I ought topay next week sure, and of what I meant to tell the laundryman if hekept on making hash of my pet shirts. 

Then I got to wonderin' about this old-maid poetess. Was she through forthe night, or did she work double shifts? If she wasn't any nearer sleepthan I was she might think up half a dozen substitutes for Ethelbertbefore mornin'. Would she insist on springin' each one on me as they hither?

Maybe she was gettin' ready to call me again now. Should I pretend notto hear and let her ring, or would it be better to answer and let onthat this was Police Headquarters?

Honest, I got so fidgety waitin' for that buzzer to go off that I couldalmost hear the night operator pluggin' in on our wire. 

And then a thought struck me that wouldn't let go. So, slippin' out easyand throwin' on a bath-robe, I sneaked downstairs to the back hall'phone, turned on the light, and hunted up Miss Leroy's number in thebook. 

"Give her a good strong ring, please, " says I to Exchange, "and keep itup until you rouse somebody. "

"Leave it to me, " says the operator. And in a minute or so I gets thisthroaty "Hello!"

"Miss Leroy?" says I. 

"Yes, " says she. "Who is calling?"

"Ballard, " says I. "I'm the fond parent of the nameless baby. And say, do you still stick to Ethelbert?"

"Why, " says she, "I--er----"

"I just wanted to tell you, " I goes on, "that this guessin' contestcloses at 3 A. M. , and if you want to make any more entries you got onlyforty minutes to get 'em in. Nighty-night. "

And I rings off just as she begins sputterin' indignant. 

That seems to help a lot, and inside of five minutes I'm snoozin'peaceful. 

It was next mornin' at breakfast that Vee observes offhand, as thoughthe subject hadn't been mentioned before:

"About naming the baby, now. "

"Ye-e-es?" says I, smotherin' a groan. 

"Why couldn't we call him after you?" she asks. 

"Not--not Richard Junior?" says I. 

"Well, after both of us, then, " says she. "Richard Hemmingway. It--it iswhat I've wanted to name him all along. "

"You have?" says I. "Well, for the love of----"

"You didn't ask me, that's why, " says she. 

"Why--why, so I didn't, " says I. "And say, Vee, I don't know who's got abetter right. As for my part of the name, I've used it so little it'salmost as good as new. Richard Hemmingway Ballard it shall be. "

"Oh, I'm so glad, " says she. "Of course, I did want you to be the one topick it out; but if you're satisfied with----"

"Satisfied!" says I. "Why, I'm tickled to pieces. And here you had thatup your sleeve all the while!"

Vee smiles and nods. 

"We must have the christening very soon, " says she, "so everyone willknow. "

"You bet!" says I. "And I've a good notion to put it on the trainbulletin down at the station, too. First off, though, we'd better tellyoung Richard himself and see how he likes it. I expect, though, unlesshis next crop of hair comes out a different tint from this one, thathe'll have to answer to 'Young Torchy' for a good many years. "

"Oh, yes, " says Vee; "but I'm sure he won't mind that in the least. "

"Good girl!" says I, movin' round where I can express my feelin'sbetter. 

"Don't!" says Vee. "You'll spill the coffee. "

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SEWELL FORD'S STORIES

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

SHORTY McCABE. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker, sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way. 

SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with humannature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for"side-stepping with Shorty. "

SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up tothe minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund, "and gives joy to all concerned. 

SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NUMBERS. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio forphysical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and atswell yachting parties. 

TORCHY. Illus, by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg. 

A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to theyouths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of hisexperiences. 

TRYING OUT TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. 

Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in theprevious book. 

ON WITH TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. 

Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was, " butthat young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart, which brings about many hilariously funny situations. 

TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. 

Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary forthe Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectiousAmerican slang. 

WILT THOU TORCHY. Illus. By F. Snapp and A. W. Brown. 

Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast, in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with hisfriend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to placean engagement ring on Vee's finger. 

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

MOTHER. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

This book has a fairy-story touch, counterbalanced by the sturdy realityof struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace and power of a mother'sexperiences. 

SATURDAY'S CHILD. Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes. 

Out on the Pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, makes aquest for happiness. She passes through three stages--poverty, wealthand service--and works out a creditable salvation. 

THE RICH MRS. BURGOYNE. Illustrated by Lucius H. Hitchcock. 

The story of a sensible woman who keeps within her means, refuses to beswamped by social engagements, lives a normal human life of variedinterests, and has her own romance. 

THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. Frontispiece by Allan Gilbert. 

How Julia Page, reared in rather unpromising surroundings, liftedherself through sheer determination to a higher plane of life. 

THE HEART OF RACHAEL. Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers. 

Rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and in working out these, there is shown the beauty and strength of soul of one of fiction's mostappealing characters. 

Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

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BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 

SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown. 

No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal youngpeople of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of thetime when the reader was Seventeen. 

PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant. 

This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is afinished, exquisite work. 

PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm. 

Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen, " this book contains some remarkable phasesof real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishnessthat have ever been written. 

THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers. 

Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against hisfather's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of afine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success. 

THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece. 

A story of love and politics, --more especially a picture of a countryeditor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the loveinterest. 

THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood. 

The "Flirt, " the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads anotherto lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromisingsuitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister. 

Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction

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NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE

HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED. 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. 

MAVERICKS. 

A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler, " whose depredationsare so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. Oneof the sweetest love stories ever told. 

A TEXAS RANGER. 

How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law intothe mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series ofthrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passedthrough deadly peril to ultimate happiness. 

WYOMING. 

In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured thebreezy charm of "cattleland, " and brings out the turbid life of thefrontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. 

RIDGWAY OF MONTANA. 

The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics andmining industries are the religion of the country. The politicalcontest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this storygreat strength and charm. 

BUCKY O'CONNOR. 

Every chapter teems with "wholesome, stirring adventures, replete withthe dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbingfascination of style and plot. 

CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT. 

A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitterfeud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusualwoman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittinglycharacteristic of the great free West. 

BRAND BLOTTERS. 

A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid life ofthe frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming loveinterest running through its 320 pages. 

GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK