"Uh-huh," says I. "One was me, in disguise."

"Torchy!" says she, gaspin'. And somehow she snuggles up a little closer after that. "I didn't think when I wrote," she goes on, "that you would be so absurd."

"Maybe I was," says I. "But I took it straight, that part about it bein' stupid up here. I was figurin' on liftin' the gloom. I hadn't counted on Payne."

"Well, what then?" says she, tossin' her chin up.

"Nothin'," says I. "Guess you were right, too."

"He only came the other day," says Vee; "but he's nice."

"Aunty thinks so too, don't she?" says I.

"Why, yes," admits Vee.

"Another chosen one, is he?" says I.

Vee flushes. "I don't care!" says she. "He is rather nice."

"Correct," says I. "I found him that way too; but ain't he—well, just a little stiff in the neck?"

That brings out a giggle. "Poor Payne!" says Vee. "He is something of a stick, you know."

"We'll forgive him for that," says I. "We'll forgive Mabel. We'll forgive the fog. Eh?" Then my arm must have slipped.

"Why, Torchy!" says she.

"Oh!" says I. "Thought you were too near the edge." And the side clinch wa'n't disturbed.



Some chat too! I don't know when we've had a chance for any such a good long talk as that, and we both seemed to have a lot of conversation stored up. Then we chucked pebbles into the water, and Vee pulls some seaweed and decorates my round hat. You know? It's easy killin' time when you're paired off right. And the first thing we knows the fog begins to lighten and the sun almost breaks through. We hurries back to where Mabel's just rousin' from a doze.

"Well?" says she.

"It's a tiny little island we're on," says Vee.

"Nice little island, though," says I.

"Hey!" sings out Payne, pokin' his head up over the rocks. "I've been calling and calling."

"We've been explorin'," says I. "Got her fixed yet?"

"Hang it, no!" growls Payne, scrubbin' cotton waste over his forehead. "And the fog's beginning to lift. Why, there's the shore, and—and—well, what do you think of that? We're on Grampus Ledges, not a mile from home!"

Sure enough, there was Roarin' Rocks just showin' up.

"Now if I could only start this confounded engine!" says he, starin' down at it puzzled.

By this time Vee and Mabel appears, and of course Mabel wants to know what's the matter.

"I'm sure I can't tell," says Payne, sighin' hopeless.

"Wirin' all right, is it?" says I, climbin' in and lookin' scientific. And—would you believe it?—I only paws around a minute or so before I finds a loose magneto connection, hooks it up proper, and remarks casual, "Now let's try her."

Pur-r-r-r-r! Off she goes. "There!" exclaims Mabel. "I shall never go out again unless William is along. He's so handy!"

Say, she stuck to it. Four days I was chief engineer of the Vixen—and, take it from me, they was perfectly good days. No more fog. No rain. Just shoolin' around in fair weather, makin' excursions here and there, with Vee trippin' down to the dock every day in a fresher and newer yachtin' costume, and lookin' pinker and sweeter every trip.

Course, as regards a certain other party, it was a case of artistic dodgin' for me between times. You got to admit, though, that it wa'n't a fair test for Aunty. I had her off her guard. Might have been diff'rent too, if she'd cared for motorboatin'. So maybe I got careless. I remember once passin' Aunty right in the path, as I'm luggin' some things up to the house, and all I does is to hoist the basket up on my shoulder between me and her and push right along.

Then here the last morning just as we got under way for a run to Damariscotta, she and Mrs. Hollister was up on the cliff seein' us off. All the rest was wavin'; so just for sport I takes off my hat and waves too, grinnin' humorous at Vee as I makes the play. But, say, next time I looks back she's up on the veranda with the fieldglasses trained on us. I keeps my hat on after that. My kind of red hair is prominent enough to the naked eye at almost any distance—but with fieldglasses! Good night!

It was a day for forgettin' things, though. Ever sailed up the Scotty River on a perfect August day, with the sun on the green hills, a sea breeze tryin' to follow the tide in, and the white gulls swingin' lazy overhead? It's worth doin'. Then back again, roundin' Ocean Point about sunset, with the White Islands all tinted up pink off there, and the old Atlantic as smooth as a skatin' rink as far out as you can see, and streaked with more colors than a crazy cubist can sling,—some peaceful picture.

But what a jar to find Aunty, grim and forbidding waitin' on the dock. She never says a word until we'd landed and everyone but me had started for the house. Then I got mine.

"Boy," says she icy, "take off that hat!"

I does it reluctant.

"Humph!" says she. "William! I thought so." That's all; but she says it mighty expressive.

The programme for the followin' day included a ten o'clock start, and I'd been down to the boat ever since breakfast, tidyin' things up and sort of wonderin'. About nine-fifteen, though, young Hollister comes wanderin' down by his lonesome.

"It's all off," says he. "Miss Verona and her aunt have gone."

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'. "Gone?"

"Early this morning," says he. "I don't quite understand why; something about Verona's being out on the water so much, I believe. Gone to the mountains. And—er—by the way, Tucker is around again. Here he comes now."

"He gets the jumper, then," says I, peelin' it off. "I guess I'm due back on Broadway."

"It's mighty good of you to help out," says Payne, "and I—I want to do the right thing in the way of——"

"You have," says I. "You've helped me have the time of my life. Put up the kale, Hollister. If you'll land me at the Harbor, I'll call it square."

He don't want to let it stand that way; but I insists. As I climbs out on the Yacht Club float, where he'd picked me up, he puts out his hand friendly.

"And, say," says I, "how about Miss Vee?"

"Why," says he, "I'm very sorry she couldn't stay longer."

"Me too," says I. "Some girl, eh?"

Payne nods hearty, and we swaps a final grip.

Well, it was great! My one miscue was not wearin' a wig.



CHAPTER XIV

CUTTING IN ON THE BLISS

We thought it was all over too. That's the way it is in plays and books, where they don't gen'rally take 'em beyond the final clinch, leavin' you to fill in the bliss ad lib. But here we'd seen 'em clear through the let-no-man-put-asunder stage, even watched 'em dodge the rice and confetti in their dash to the limousine.

"Thank goodness that's through with!" remarks Mother, without makin' any bones of it.

Course, her reg'lar cue was to fall on Father's neck and weep; but, then, I expect Mrs. Cheyne Ballard's one of the kind you can't write any form sheet for. She's a lively, bunchy little party, all jump and go and jingle, who looks like she might have been married herself only day before yesterday.

"I hope Robbie knows where she put those trunk checks," says Father, at the same time sighin' sort of relieved.

From where I stood, though, the guy who was pushin' overboard the biggest chunk of worry was this I-wilt boy, Mr. Nicholas Talbot. He'd got her at last! But, z-z-z-zingo! it had been some lively gettin'. Not that I was all through the campaign with him; but I'd had glimpses here and there.

You see, Robbie's almost one of the fam'ly; for Mr. Robert's an old friend of the Ballards, and was bottle holder or something at the christenin'. As a matter of fact, she was named Roberta after him. Then he'd watched her grow up, and always remembered her birthdays, and kept her latest picture on his desk. So why shouldn't he figure more or less when so many others was tryin' to straighten out her love affairs? They was some tangled there for awhile too.

Robbie's one of the kind, you know, that would have Cupid cross-eyed in one season. A queen? Well, take it from me! Say, the way her cheeks was tinted up natural would have a gold medal rose lookin' like it come off a twenty-nine-cent roll of wall paper. Then them pansy-colored eyes! Yes, Miss Roberta Ballard was more or less ornamental. That wa'n't all, of course. She could say more cute things, and cut loose with more unexpected pranks, than a roomful of Billie Burkes. As cunnin' as a kitten, she was.

No wonder Nick Talbot fell for her the first time he was exposed! Course, he was half engaged to that stunnin' Miss Marian Marlowe at the time; but wa'n't Robbie waverin' between three young chaps that all seemed to be in the runnin' before Nick showed up?

Anyway, Miss Marlowe should have known better than to lug in her steady when she was visitin'. She'd been chummy with Robbie at boardin' school, and should have known how dangerous she was. But young Mr. Talbot had only two looks before he's as strong for Robbie as though it had been comin' on for years back. Impetuous young gent that way he was too; and, bein' handicapped by no job, and long on time and money, he does some spirited rushin'.

Seems Robbie Ballard didn't mind. Excitement was her middle name, novelty was her strong suit, and among Nick's other attractions he was brand new. Besides, wa'n't he a swell one-stepper, a shark at tennis, and couldn't he sing any ragtime song that she could drum out? The ninety-horse striped racin' car that he came callin' in helped along some; for one of Robbie's fads was for travelin' fast. Course, she'd been brought up in limousines; but the mile in fifty seconds gave her a genuine thrill.

When it come to holdin' out her finger for the big solitaire that Nick flashed on her about the third week, though, she hung back. The others carried about the same line of jew'lry around in their vest pockets, waitin' for a chance to decorate her third finger. One had the loveliest gray eyes too. Then there was another entry, with the dearest little mustache, who was a bear at doin' the fish-walk tango with her; not to mention the young civil engineer she'd met last winter at Palm Beach. But he didn't actually count, not bein' on the scene.

Anyway, three was enough to keep guessin' at once. Robbie was real modest that way. But she sure did have 'em all busy. If it was a sixty-mile drive with Nick before luncheon, it was apt to be an afternoon romp in the surf with the gray-eyed one, and a toss up as to which of the trio took her to the Casino dance in the evenin'. Mother used to laugh over it all with Mr. Robert, who remarked that those kids were absurd. Nobody seemed to take it serious; for Robbie was only a few months over nineteen.

But young Mr. Talbot had it bad. Besides, he'd always got about what he wanted before, and this time he was in dead earnest. So the first thing Mother and Father knew they were bein' interviewed. Robbie had half said she might if there was no kick from her dear parents, and he wanted to know how about it. Mr. Cheyne Ballard supplied the information prompt. He called Nick an impudent young puppy, at which Mother wept and took the young gent's part. Robbie blew in just then and giggled through the rest of the act, until Father quit disgusted and put it square up to her. Then she pouted and locked herself in her room. That's when Mr. Robert was sent for; but she wouldn't give him any decision, either.

So for a week there things was in a mess, with Robbie balkin', Mother havin' a case of nerves, Father nursin' a grouch, and Nick Talbot mopin' around doleful. Then some girl friend suggested to Robbie that if she did take Nick they could have a moonlight lawn weddin', with the flower gardens all lit up by electric bulbs, which would be too dear for anything. Robbie perked up and asked for details. Inside of an hour she was plannin' what she would wear. Late in the afternoon Nick heard the glad news himself, through a third party.

First off the date was set for early next spring, when she'd be twenty. That was Father's dope; although Mother was willin' it should be pulled off around Christmas time. Nick, he stuck out for the first of October; but Robbie says:

"Oh, pshaw! There won't be any flowers then, and we'll be back in town. Why not week after next?"

So that's the compromise fin'lly agreed on. The moonlight stunt had to be scratched; but the outdoor part was stuck to—and believe me it was some classy hitchin' bee!

They'd been gone about two weeks, I guess, with everybody contented except maybe the three losers, and all hands countin' the incident closed; when one forenoon Mother shows up at the general offices, has a long talk with Mr. Robert, and goes away moppin' her eyes. Then there's a call for Mr. Cheyne Ballard's downtown number, and Mr. Robert has a confab with him over the 'phone. Next comes three lively rings for me on the buzzer, and I chases into the private office. Mr. Robert is sittin' scowlin', makin' savage' jabs with a paper knife at the blotter pad.

"Torchy," says he, "I find myself in a deucedly awkward fix."

"Another lobbyist been squealin'?" says I.

"No, no!" says he. "This is a personal affair, and—well, it's embarrassing, to say the least."

"Another lobbyist been squealin'?" says I.

"It's about Roberta," says he.

"What—again?" says I. "But I thought they was travelin' abroad?"

"I wish they were," says he; "but they're not. At the last moment, it seems, Robbie decided she didn't care for a foreign trip,—too late in the season, and she didn't want to be going over just when everyone was coming back, you know. So they went up to Thundercaps instead."

"Sounds stormy," says I.

"You're quite right," says he. "But it's a little gem of a place that young Talbot's father built up in the Adirondacks. I was there once. It's right on top of a mountain. And that's where they are now, miles from anywhere or anybody."

"And spoony as two mush ladles, I expect," says I.

"Humph!" says he, tossin' the brass paper knife reckless onto the polished mahogany desk top. "They ought to be, I will admit; but—oh, hang it all, if you're to be of any use in this beastly affair, I suppose you must be told the humiliating, ugly truth! They are not spooning. Robbie is very unhappy. She—she's being abused."

"Well, what do you know!" says I. "You don't mean he's begun draggin' her around by the hair, or——"

"Don't!" says Mr. Robert, bunchin' his fists nervous. "I can't tell. Robbie hasn't gone into that. But she has written her mother that she is utterly wretched, and that this precious Nick Talbot of hers is unbearable. The young whelp! If I could only get my hands on him for five minutes! But, blast it all! that's just what I mustn't do until—until I'm sure. I can't trust myself to go. That is why I must send you, young man."

"Eh?" says I, starin'. "Me? Ah, say, Mr. Robert, I wouldn't stand any show at all mixin' it with a young husk like him. Why, after the first poke I'd be——"

"You misunderstand," says he. "That poke part I can attend to very well myself. But I want to know the worst before I start in, and if I should go up there now, feeling as I do, I—well, I might not be a very patient investigator. You see, don't you?"

"Might blow a gasket, eh?" says I. "And you want me to go up and scout around. But what if I'm caught at it—am I peddlin' soap, or what?"

"A plausible errand is just what I've been trying to invent," says he. "Can you suggest anything?"

"Why," says I, "I might go disguised as a lone bandit who'd robbed a train and was——"

"Too theatrical," objects Mr. Robert.

"Or a guy come to test the gas meter," I goes on.

"Nonsense!" says he. "No gas meters up there. Forget the disguise. They both know you, remember."

"Oh, well," says I, "if I can't wear a wig, then I expect I'll have to go as special messenger sent up with some nutty present or other,—a five-pound box of candy, or flowers, or——"

"That's it—orchids!" breaks in Mr. Robert. "Robbie expects a bunch from me about every so often. The very thing!"

So less'n an hour later I'm on my way, with fifty dollars' worth of freak posies in a box, and instructions to stick around Thundercaps as long as I can, with my eyes wide open and my ears stretched. Mr. Robert figures I'll land there too late for the night train back, anyway, and after that I'm to use my bean. If I finds the case desp'rate, I'm to beat it for the nearest telegraph office and wire in.

"Poor little girl!" is Mr. Robert's closin' remark. "Poor little Robbie!"

Cheerful sort of an errand, wa'n't it, bein' sent to butt in on a Keno curtain raiser? Easy enough workin' up sympathy for the abused bride. Why, she wa'n't much more'n a kid, and one who'd been coddled and petted all her life, at that! And here she ups and marries offhand this two-fisted young hick who turns out to be bad inside. You wouldn't have guessed it, either; for, barrin' a kind of heavy jaw and deep-set eyes, he had all the points of a perfectly nice young gent. Good fam'ly too. Mr. Robert knew two of his brothers well, and durin' the coo campaign he'd rooted for Nick. Then he had to show a streak like this!

"But wait!" thinks I. "If I can get anything on him, he sure will have it handed to him hot when Mr. Robert arrives. I want to see it done too."

You don't get to places like Thundercaps in a minute, though. It's the middle of the afternoon before I jumps the way train at a little mountain station, and then I has to hunt up a jay with a buckboard and take a ten-mile drive over a course like a roller coaster. They ought to smooth that Adirondack scenery down some. Crude stuff, I call it.

But, say, the minute we got inside Thundercaps' gates it's diff'rent—smooth green lawns, lots of flowerbeds, a goldfish pool,—almost like a chunk of Central Park. In the middle is a white-sided, red-tiled shack, with pink and white awnings, and odd windows, and wide, cozy verandas,—just the spot where you'd think a perfectly good honeymoon might be pulled off.

I'm just unloadin' my bag and the flowerbox when around a corner of the cottage trips a cerise-tinted vision in an all lace dress and a butterfly wrap. Course, it's Robbie. She's heard the sound of wheels, and has come a runnin'.

"Oh!" says she, stoppin' sudden and puckerin' her baby mouth into a pout. "I thought someone was arriving, you know." Which was a sad jolt to give a rescuer, wa'n't it?

"Sorry," says I; "but I'm all there is."

"You're the boy from Uncle Robert's office—Torchy, isn't it?" says she.

"It is," says I. "Fired up with flowers and Mr. Robert's compliments."

"The old dear!" says she, grabbin' the box, slippin' off the string and divin' into the tissue paper. "Orchids, too! Oh, goody! But they don't go with my coat. Pooh! I don't need it, anyway." With that she, sheds the butterfly arrangement, chuckin' it casual on the steps, and jams the whole of that fifty dollars' worth under her sash. "There, how does that look, Mr. Torchy?" says she, takin' a few fancy steps back and forth.

"All right, I guess," says I.

"Stupid!" says she, stampin' her double A-1 pump peevish. "Is that the prettiest you can say it? Come, now—aren't they nice on me?"

"Nice don't cover it," says I. "I was only wonderin' whether orchids was invented for you, or you for orchids."

This brings out a frilly little laugh, like jinglin' a string of silver bells, and she shows both dimples. "That's better," says she. "Almost as good as some of the things Bud Chandler can say. Dear old Bud! He's such fun!"

"He was the gray-eyed one, wa'n't he?" says I.

"Why, yes," says she. "He was a dear. So was Oggie Holcomb. I wish Nick would ask them both up."

"Eh?" says I. "The also rans? Here?"

"Pooh!" says she. "Why not? It's frightfully dull, being all alone. But Nick won't do it, the old bear!"

Which reminds me that I ought to be scoutin' for black eyes, or wrist bruises, or finger marks on her neck. Nothin' of the kind shows up, though.

"Been kind of rough about it, has he?" says I.

"He's been perfectly awful!" says she. "Sulking around as though I'd done something terrible! But I'll pay him up. Come, you're not going back tonight, are you?"

"Can't," says I. "No train."

"Then you must play with me," says she, grabbin' my hand kittenish and startin' to run me across the yard.

"But, see here," says I, followin' her on the jump. "Where's Hubby?"

"Oh, I don't know," says she. "Off tramping through the woods with his dog, I suppose. He's sulking, as usual. And all because I insisted on writing to Oggie! Then there was something about the servants. I don't know, only things went wrong at breakfast, and some of them have threatened to leave. Who cares? Yesterday it was about the tennis court. What if he did telegraph to have it laid out? I couldn't play when I found I hadn't brought any tennis shoes, could I? Besides, there's no fun playing against Nick, he's such a shark. He didn't like it, either, because I wouldn't use the baby golf course. But I will with you. Come on."

"I never did much putting," says I.

"Nor I," says she; "but we can try."

Three or four holes was enough for her, though, and then she has a new idea. "You rag, don't you?" says she.

"Only a few tango steps," says I. "My feet stutter."

"Then I'll show you how," says she. "We have some dandy records, and the veranda's just right."

So what does she do but tow me back to the house, ring up a couple of maids to clear away all the rugs and chairs, and push the music machine up to the open window.

"Put on that 'Too Much Mustard,' Annette," says she, "and keep it going."

Must have surprised Annette some, as I hadn't been accounted for; but a little thing like that don't bother Robbie. She gives me the proper grip for the onestep,—which is some close clinch, believe me!—cuddles her fluffy head down on my necktie, and off we goes.

"No, don't try to trot," says she. "Just balance and keep time, and swing two or three times at the turn. Keep your feet apart, you know. Now back me. Swing! There, you're getting it. Keep on!"

Some spieler, Robbie; and whether or not that was just a josh about orchids bein' invented for her, there's no doubt but what ragtime was. Yes, yes, that's where she lives. And me? Well, I can't say I hated it. With her coachin' me, and that snappy music goin', I caught the idea quick enough, and first I knew we was workin' in new variations that she'd suggest, doin' the slow toe pivot, the kitchen sink, and a lot more.

We stopped long enough to have tea and cakes served, and then Robbie insists on tryin' some new stunts. There's a sidewise dip, where you twist your partner around like you was tryin' to break her back over a chair, and we was right in the midst of practisin' that when who should show up but the happy bridegroom. And someway I've seen 'em look more pleased.



"Oh, that you, old Grumpy?" says young Mrs. Talbot, stoppin' for a minute. "You remember Torchy, from Uncle Robert's office, don't you? He came up with some orchids. We're having such fun too."

"Looks so," says Nick. "Can't I cut in?"

"Oh, bother!" says Robbie. "No, I'm tired now."

"Just one dance!" pleads Nick.

"Oh, afterward, perhaps," says she. "There! Just look at those silly orchids! Aren't they sights?" With that she snakes 'em out and tosses the wilted bunch careless over the veranda rail. "And now," she adds, "I must dress for dinner."

"You've nearly two hours, Pet," protests Nick. "Come to the outlook with me and watch the sunset."

"It's too lonesome," says Robbie, and off she goes.

It should have happened then, if ever. I was standin' by, waitin' for him to cut loose with the cruel words, and maybe introduce a little hair-draggin' scene. But Nick Talbot just stands there gazin' after her kind of sad and mushy, not even grindin' his teeth. Next he sighs, drops his chin, and slumps into a chair. Honest, that got me; for it was real woe showin' on his face, and he seems to be strugglin' with it man fashion. Somehow it seemed up to me to come across with a few soothin' remarks.

"Sorry I butted in," says I; "but Mr. Robert sent me up with the flowers."

"Oh, that's all right," says he. "Glad you came. I—I suppose she needed someone else to—to talk to."

"But you wouldn't stand for invite the leftovers on your honeymoon, eh?" I suggests.

"No, hang it all!" says he. "That was too much. She—she mentioned it, did she?"

"Just casual," says I. "I take it things ain't been goin' smooth gen'rally?"

He nods gloomy. "You were bound to notice it," says he. "Anyone would. I haven't been able to humor all her whims. Of course, she's been used to having so much going on around her that this must seem rather tame; but I thought, you know, that when we were married—well, she doesn't seem to realize. And I've offered to take her anywhere,—to Newport, to Lenox, to the White Mountains, or touring. Three times this week we've packed to go to different places, and then she's changed her mind. But I can't take her back to Long Island, to her mother's, so soon, or ask a lot of her friends up here. It would be absurd. But things can't go on this way, either. It—it's awful!"

I leaves him with his chin propped up in his hands, starin' gloomy at the floor, while I wanders out and pipes off the sun dodgin' behind the hills.

Later on Robbie insists on draggin' me in for dinner with 'em. She's some dream too, the way she's got herself up, and lighted up by the pink candleshades, with them big pansy eyes sparkling and the color comin' and goin' in her cheeks—say, it most made me dizzy to look. Then to hear her rattle on in her cute, kittenish way was better'n a cabaret show. Mostly, though, it's aimed at me; while Nick Talbot is left to play a thinkin' part. He sits watchin' her with sort of a dumb, hungry look, like a big dog.

And it was a punk dinner in other ways. The soup was scorched somethin' fierce; but Robbie don't seem to notice it. The roast lamb hadn't had the red cooked out of it; but Robbie only asks what kind of meat it is and remarks that it tastes queer. She has a reg'lar fit, though, because the dessert is peach ice-cream with fresh fruit flavorin'.

"And Cook ought to know that I like strawberry better," says she.

"But it's too late for strawberries," explains Nick.

"I don't care!" pouts Robbie. "I don't like this, and I'm going to send it all back to the kitchen." She does it too, and the maid grins impudent as she lugs it out.

That was a sample of the way Robbie behaved for the rest of the evenin',—chatterin' and laughin' one minute, almost weepin' the next; until fin'lly she slams down the piano cover and flounces off to her room. Nick Talbot sits bitin' his lips and lookin' desp'rate.

"I'm sure I don't know what to do," says he half to himself.

At that I can't hold it any longer. "Say, Talbot," says I, "before we get any further I got to own up that I'm a ringer."

"A—a what!" says he, starin' puzzled.

"I'm supposed to be here just as a special messenger," says I; "but, on the level, I was sent up here to sleuth for brutal acts. Uh-huh! That's what the folks at home think, from the letters she's been writin'. Mr. Robert was dead sure of it. But I see now they had the wrong dope. I guess I've got the idea. What you're up against is simply a spoiled kid proposition, and if you don't mind my mixin' in I'd like to state what I think I'd do if it was me."

"Well, what?" says he.

"I'd whittle a handle on a good thick shingle," says I, "and use it."

He stiffens a little at that first off, and then looks at me curious. Next he chuckles. "By Jove, though!" says he after awhile.

Yes, we had a long talk, chummy and confidential, and before we turns in Nick has plotted out a substitute for the shingle programme that he promises to try on first thing next morning I didn't expect to be in on it; but we happens to be sittin' on the veranda waitin' for breakfast, when out comes Robbie in a pink mornin' gown with a cute boudoir cap on her head.

"Why haven't they sent up my coffee and rolls?" she demands.

"Did you order them, Robbie?" says Nick.

"Why no," says she. "Didn't you?"

"No," says Nick. "I'm not going to, either. You're mistress of the house, you know, Robbie, and from now on you are in full charge."

"But—but I thought Mrs. Parkins, the housekeeper, was to manage all those things," says she.

"You said yesterday you couldn't bear Mrs. Parkins," says Nick; "so I'm sending her back to town. She's packing her things now. There are four servants left, though, which is enough. But they need straightening out. They are squabbling over their work, and neglecting it. You will have to settle all that."

"But—but, Nick," protests Robbie, "I'm sure I know nothing at all about it."

"As my wife you are supposed to," says Nick. "You must learn. Anyway, I've told them they needn't do another stroke until they get orders from you. And I wish you'd begin. I'd rather like breakfast."

He's real calm and pleasant about it; but there's somethin' solid about the way his jaw is set. Robbie eyes him a minute hesitatin' and doubtful, like a schoolgirl that's bein' scolded. Then all of a sudden there's a change. The pout comes off her lips, her chin stops trembling and she squares her shoulders.

"I'm—I'm sorry, Nicholas," says she. "I—I'll do my best." And off she marches to the kitchen.

And, say, half an hour later we were all sittin' down to as good a ham omelet as I ever tasted. When I left with Nick to catch the forenoon express, young Mrs. Talbot was chewin' the end of a lead pencil, with them pansy eyes of hers glued on a pad where she was dopin' out her first dinner order. She would break away from it only long enough to give Hubby a little bird peck on the cheek; but he seems tickled to death with that.

So it wa'n't any long report I has to hand in to Mr. Robert that night.

"All bunk!" says I. "Just a case of a honeymoon that rose a little late. It's shinin' steady now, though. But, say, I hope I'm never batty enough to fall for one of the butterfly kind. If I do—good night!"



CHAPTER XV

BEING SICCED ON PERCEY

Maybe it ain't figured in the headlines, or been noised around enough for the common stockholders to get panicky over it, but, believe me, it was some battle! Uh-huh! What else could you expect with Old Hickory Ellins on one side and George Wesley Jones on the other? And me? Say, as it happens, I was right on the firin' line. Talk about your drummer boys of '61—I guess the office boy of this A. M. ain't such a dead one!

Course I knew when Piddie begins tiptoein' around important, and Mr. Robert cuts his lunchtime down to an hour, that there's something in the air besides humidity.

"Boy," says Old Hickory, shootin' his words out past the stub of a thick black cigar, "I'm expecting a Mr. Jones sometime this afternoon."

"Yes, Sir," says I. "Any particular Jones, Sir?"

"That," says he, "is a detail with which you need not burden your mind. I am not anticipating a convention of Joneses."

"Oh!" says I. "I was only thinkin' that in case some other guy by the same names should——"

"Yes, I understand," he breaks in; "but in that remote contingency I will do my best to handle the situation alone. And when Mr. Jones comes show him in at once. After that I am engaged for the remainder of the day. Is that quite clear?"

"I'm next," says I. "Pass a Jones, and then set the block."

If he thought he could mesmerize me by any such simple motions as that he had another guess. Why, even if it had been my first day on the job, I'd have been hep that it wa'n't any common weekday Jones he was expectin' to stray in accidental. Besides, the minute I spots that long, thin nose, the close-cropped, grizzly mustache, and the tired gray eyes with the heavy bags underneath, I knew it was George Wesley himself. Ain't his pictures been printed often enough lately?

He looks the part too, and no wonder! If I'd been hammered the way he has, with seventeen varieties of Rube Legislatures shootin' my past career as full of holes as a Swiss cheese, grand juries handin' down new indictments every week end, four thousand grouchy share-holders howlin' about pared dividends, and twice as many editorial pens proddin' 'em along——well, take it from me, I'd be on my way towards the tall trees with my tongue hangin' out!

Here he is, though, with his shoulders back and a sketchy, sarcastic smile flickerin' in his mouth corners as he shows up for a hand-to-hand set-to with Old Hickory Ellins. Course it's news to me that the Corrugated interests and the P., B. & R. road are mixed up anywhere along the line; but it ain't surprisin'.

Besides mines and rollin' mills, we do a wholesale grocery business, run a few banks, own a lot of steam freighters, and have all kinds of queer ginks on our payroll, from welfare workers to would-be statesmen. We're always ready to slip one of our directors onto a railroad board too; so I takes it that the way P., B. & R. has been juggled lately was a game that touches us somewhere on the raw. Must be some kind of a war on the slate, or Old Hickory'd never called for a topliner like George Wesley Jones to come on the carpet. If it had been a case of passin' the peace pipe, Mr. Ellins would be goin' out to Chicago to see him.

"Mr. Jones, Sir," says I, throwin' the private office door wide open so it would take me longer to shut it.

But Old Hickory don't intend to give me any chance to pipe off the greetin'. He just glances casual at Mr. Jones, then fixes them rock-drill eyes of his on me, jerks his thumb impatient over his shoulder, and waits until there's three inches of fireproof material between me and the scene of the conflict.

So I strolls back to my chair behind the brass rail and winks mysterious at the lady typists. Two of 'em giggles nervous. Say, they got more curiosity, them flossy key pounders! Not one of the bunch but what knew things was doin'; but what it was all about would have taken me a week to explain to 'em, even if I'd known myself.

And I expect I wouldn't have had more'n a vague glimmer, either, if it hadn't been for Piddie. You might know he'd play the boob somehow if anything important was on. Say, if he'd trotted in there once durin' the forenoon he'd been in a dozen times; seein' that the inkwells was filled, puttin' on new desk blotters, and such fool things as that. Yet about three-fifteen, right in the middle of the bout, he has to answer a ring, and it turns out he's forgotten some important papers.

"Here, Boy," says he, comin' out peevish, "this must go to Mr. Ellins at once."

"Huh!" says I, glancin' at the file title. "Copy of charter of the Palisades Electric! At once is good. Ought to have been on Mr. Ellins's desk hours ago."

"Boy!" he explodes threatenin'.

"Ah, ditch the hysterics, Peddie!" says I. "It's all right now I'm on the job," and with a grin to comfort him I slips through Mr. Robert's room and taps on the door of the boss's private office before blowin' in.

And, say, it looks like I've arrived almost in time for the final clinch. Old Hickory is leanin' forward earnest, his jaw shoved out, his eyes narrowed to slits, and he's poundin' the chair arm with his big ham fist.

"What I want to know, Jones," he's sayin', "is simply this: Are your folks going to drop that Palisades road scheme, or aren't you?"

Course, I can't break into a dialogue at a point like that; so I closes the door gentle behind me and backs against the knob, watchin' George Wesley, who's sittin' there with his chin down and his eyes on the rug.

"Really, Ellins," says he, "I can't give you an answer to that. I—er—I must refer you to our Mr. Sturgis."

"Eh?" snaps old Hickory. "Sturgis! Who the syncopated sculping is Sturgis?"

"Why," says Mr. Jones, "Percey J. Sturgis. He is my personal agent in all such matters, and this—well, this happens to be his pet enterprise."

"But it would parallel our proposed West Point line," says Mr. Ellins.

"I know," says G. Wesley, sighin' weary. "But he secured his charter for this two years ago, and I promised to back him. He insists on pushing it through too. I can't very well call him off, you see."

"Can't, eh?" raps out Old Hickory. "Then let me try. Send for him."

"No use," says Mr. Jones. "He understands your attitude. He wouldn't come. I should advise, if you have any proposal to make, that you send a representative to him."

"I go to him," snorts Mr. Ellins, "to this understrapper of yours, this Mr. Percey—er——"

"Sturgis," puts in George Wesley. "He has offices in our building. And, really, it's the only way."

Old Hickory glares and puffs like he was goin' to blow a cylinder head. But that's just what Hickory Ellins don't do at a time like this. When you think he's nearest to goin' up with a bang, that's the time when he's apt to calm down sudden and shift tactics. He does now. Motionin' me to come to the front, he takes the envelope I hands over, glances at it thoughtful a second, and then remarks casual:

"Very well, Jones. I'll send a representative to your Mr. Sturgis. I'll send Torchy, here."

I don't know which of us gasped louder, me or George Wesley. Got him in the short ribs, that proposition did. But, say, he's a game old sport, even if the papers are callin' him everything from highway robber to yellow dog. He shrugs his shoulders and bows polite.

"As you choose, Ellins," says he.

Maybe he thinks it's a bluff; but it's nothing like that.

"Boy," says Old Hickory, handin' back the envelope, "go find Mr. Percey J. Sturgis, explain to him that the president of the P., B. & R. is bound under a personal agreement not to parallel any lines in which the Corrugated holds a one-third interest. Tell him I demand that he quit on this Palisades route. If he won't, offer to buy his blasted charter. Bid up to one hundred thousand, then 'phone me. Got all that?"

"I could say it backwards," says I. "Shake the club first; then wave the kale at him. Do I take a flyin' start?"

"Go now," says Old Hickory. "We will wait here until five. If he wants to know who you are, tell him you're my office boy."

Wa'n't that rubbin' in the salt, though? But it ain't safe to stir up Hickory Ellins unless you got him tied to a post, and even then you want to use a long stick. As I sails out and grabs my new fall derby off the peg Piddie asks breathless:

"What's the matter now, and where are you off to?"

"Outside business for the boss," says I. "Buyin' up a railroad for him, that's all."

I left him purple in the face, dashes across to the Subway, and inside of fifteen minutes I'm listenin' fidgety while a private secretary explains how Mr. Sturgis is just leavin' town on important business and can't possibly see me today.

"Deah-uh me!" says I. "How distressin'! Say, you watch me flag him on the jump."

"But I've just told you," insists the secretary, "that Mr. Sturgis cannot——"

"Ah, mooshwaw!" says I. "This is a case of must—see? If you put me out I'll lay for him on the way to the elevator."

Course with some parties that might be a risky tackle; but anyone with a front name like Percey I'm takin' a chance on. Percey! Listens like one of the silky-haired kind that wears heliotrope silk socks, don't it? But, say, what finally shows up is a wide, heavy built gent with a big, homespun sort of face, crispy brown hair a little long over the ears, and the steadiest pair of bright brown eyes I ever saw. Nothing fancy or frail about Percey J. Sturgis. He's solid and substantial, from his wide-soled No. 10's up to the crown of his seven three-quarter hat. He has a raincoat thrown careless over one arm, and he's smokin' a cigar as big and black as any of Old Hickory's.

"Well, what is it, Son?" says he in one of them deep barytones that you feel all the way through to your backbone.

And this is what I've been sent out either to scare off or buy up! Still, you can't die but once.

"I'm from Mr. Ellins of the Corrugated Trust," says I.

"Ah!" says he, smilin' easy.

Well, considerin' how my knees was wabblin', I expect I put the proposition over fairly strong.

"You may tell Mr. Ellins for me," says he, "that I don't intend to quit."

"Then it's a case of buy," says I. "What's the charter worth, spot cash?"

"Sorry," says he, "but I'm too busy to talk about that just now. I'm just starting for North Jersey."

"Suppose I trail along a ways then?" says I. "Mr. Ellins is waitin' for an answer."

"Is he?" says Percey J. "Then come, if you wish." And what does he do but tow me down to a big tourin' car and wave me into one of the back seats with him. Listens quiet to all I've got to say too, while we're tearin' uptown, noddin' his head now and then, with them wide-set brown eyes of his watchin' me amused and curious. But the scare I'm tryin' to throw into him don't seem to take effect at all.

"Let's see," says he, as we rolls onto the Fort Lee ferry, "just what is your official position with the Corrugated?"

I'd planned to shoot it at him bold and crushin'. But somehow it don't happen that way.

"Head office boy," says I, blushin' apologizin'; "but Mr. Ellins sent me out himself."

"Indeed?" says he. "Another of his original ideas. A brilliant man, Mr. Ellins."

"He's some stayer in a scrap, believe me!" says I. "And he's got the harpoon out for this Palisades road."

"So have a good many others," says Mr. Sturgis, chucklin'. "In fact, I don't mind admitting that I am as near to being beaten on this enterprise as I've ever been on anything in any life. But if I am beaten, it will not be by Mr. Ellins. It will be by a hard-headed old Scotch farmer who owns sixty acres of scrubby land which I must cross in order to complete my right of way. He won't sell a foot. I've been trying for six months to get in touch with him; but he's as stubborn as a cedar stump. And if I don't run a car over rails before next June my charter lapses. So I'm going up now to try a personal interview. If I fail, my charter isn't worth a postage stamp. But, win or lose, it isn't for sale to Hickory Ellins."

He wa'n't ugly about it. He just states the case calm and conversational; but somehow you was dead sure he meant it.

"All right," says I. "Then maybe when I see how you come out I'll have something definite to report."

"You should," says he.

That's where we dropped the subject. It's some swell ride we had up along the top of the Palisades, and on and on until we're well across the State line into New York. Along about four-thirty he says we're most there. We was rollin' through a jay four corners, where the postoffice occupies one window of the gen'ral store, with the Masonic Lodge overhead, when alongside the road we comes across a little tow-headed girl, maybe eight or nine, pawin' around in the grass and sobbin' doleful.

"Hold up, Martin," sings out Mr. Sturgis to the chauffeur, and Martin jams on his emergency so the brake drums squeal.

What do you guess? Why Percey J. climbs out, asks the kid gentle what all the woe is about, and discovers that she's lost a whole nickel that Daddy has given her to buy lolly-pops with on account of its bein' her birthday.

"Now that's too bad, isn't it, little one?" says Mr. Sturgis. "But I guess we can fix that. Come on. Martin, take us back to the store."

Took out his handkerchief, Percey did, and swabbed off the tear stains, all the while talkin' low and soothin' to the kid, until he got her calmed down. And when they came out of the store she was carryin' a pound box of choc'late creams tied up flossy with a pink ribbon. With her eyes bugged and so tickled she can't say a word, she lets go of his hand and dashes back up the road, most likely bent on showin' the folks at home the results of the miracle that's happened to her.

That's the kind of a guy Percey J. Sturgis is, even when he has worries of his own. You'd most thought he was due for a run of luck after a kind act like that. But someone must have had their fingers crossed; for as Martin backs up to turn around he connects a rear tire with a broken ginger ale bottle and—s-s-s-sh! out goes eighty-five pounds' pressure to the square inch. No remark from Mr. Sturgis. He lights a fresh cigar and for twenty-five minutes by the dash clock Martin is busy shiftin' that husky shoe.

So we're some behind schedule when we pulls up under the horse chestnut trees a quarter of a mile beyond in front of a barny, weather-beaten old farmhouse where there's a sour-faced, square-jawed old pirate sittin' in a home made barrel chair smokin' his pipe and scowlin' gloomy at the world in gen'ral. It's Ross himself. Percey J. don't waste any hot air tryin' to melt him. He tells the old guy plain and simple who he is and what he's after.

"Dinna talk to me, Mon," says Ross. "I'm no sellin' the farm."

"May I ask your reasons?" says Mr. Sturgis.

Ross frowns at him a minute without sayin' a word. Then he pries the stubby pipe out from the bristly whiskers and points a crooked finger toward a little bunch of old apple trees on a low knoll.

"Yon's my reason, Mon," says he solemn. "Yon wee white stone. Three bairns and the good wife lay under it. I'm no sae youthful mysel'. And when it's time for me to go I'd be sleepin' peaceful, with none o' your rattlin' trolley cars comin' near. That's why, Mon."

"Thank you, Mr. Ross," says Percey J. "I can appreciate your sentiments. However, our line would run through the opposite side of your farm, away over there. All we ask is a fifty-foot strip across your——"

"You canna have it," says Ross decided, insertin' the pipe once more.

Which is where most of us would have weakened, I expect. Not Mr. Sturgis.

"Just a moment, Friend Ross," says he. "I suppose you know I have the P., B. & R. back of me, and it's more than likely that your neighbors have said things about us. There is some ground for prejudice too. Our recent stock deals look rather bad from the outside. There have been other circumstances that are not in our favor. But I want to assure you that this enterprise is a genuine, honest attempt to benefit you and your community. It is my own. It is part of the general policy of the road for which I am quite willing to be held largely responsible. Why, I've had this project for a Palisades trolley road in mind ever since I came on here a poor boy, twenty-odd years ago, and took my first trip down the Hudson. This ought to be a rich, prosperous country here. It isn't. A good electric line, such as I propose to build, equipped with heavy passenger cars and running a cheap freight service, would develop this section. It would open to the public a hundred-mile trip that for scenic grandeur could be equaled nowhere in this country. Are you going to stand in the way, Mr. Ross, of an enterprise such as that?"

Yep, he was. He puffs away just as mulish as ever.

"Of course," goes on Percey, "it's nothing to you; but the one ambition of my life has been to build this road. I want to do for this district what some of our great railroad builders did for the big West. I'm not a city-bred theorist, nor a Wall Street stock manipulator. I was born in a one-story log house on a Minnesota farm, and when I was a boy we hauled our corn and potatoes thirty miles to a river steamboat. Then the railroad came through. Now my brothers sack their crops almost within sight of a grain elevator. They live in comfortable houses, send their children to good schools. So do their neighbors. The railroad has turned a wilderness into a civilized community. On a smaller scale here is a like opportunity. If you will let us have that fifty-foot strip——"

"Na, Mon, not an inch!" breaks in Ross.

How he could stick to it against that smooth line of talk I couldn't see. Why, say, it was the most convincin', heart-throbby stuff I'd ever listened to, and if it had been me I'd made Percey J. a present of the whole shootin' match.

"But see here, Mr. Ross," goes on Sturgis, "I would like to show you just what we——"

"Daddy! Daddy!" comes a pipin' hail from somewhere inside, and out dances a barefooted youngster in a faded blue and white dress. It's the little heroine of the lost nickel. For a second she gawps at us sort of scared, and almost decides to scuttle back into the house. Then she gets another look at Percey J., smiles shy, and sticks one finger in her mouth. Percey he smiles back encouragin' and holds out a big, friendly hand. That wins her.

"Oh, Daddy!" says she, puttin' her little fist in Percey's confidential. "It's the mans what gimme the candy in the pitty box!"

As for Daddy Ross, he stares like he couldn't believe his eyes. But there's the youngster cuddled up against Percey J.'s knee and glancin' up at him admirin'.

"Is ut so, Mon?" demands Ross husky, "Was it you give the lass the sweeties?"

"Why, yes," admitted Sturgis.

"Then you shall be knowin'," goes on Ross, "that yon lassie is all I have left in the world that I care a bawbee for. You've done it, Mon. Tak' as much of the farm as you like at your own price."

Well, that's the way Percey J. Sturgis won out. A lucky stroke, eh? Take it from me, there was more'n that in it. Hardly a word he says durin' the run back; for he's as quiet and easy when he's on top as when he's the under dog. We shakes hands friendly as he drops me uptown long after dark.

I had all night to think it over; but when I starts for Old Hickory's office next mornin' I hadn't doped out how I was goin' to put it.

"Well, what about Percey?" says he.

"He's the goods," says I.

"Couldn't scare him, eh?" says Old Hickory.

"Not if I'd been a mile high," says I. "He won't sell, either. And say, Mr. Ellins, you want to get next to Percey J. The way I look at it, this George Wesley Jones stiff ain't the man behind him; Percey is the man behind Jones."

"H-m-m-m-m!" says Old Hickory. "I knew there was someone; but I couldn't trace him. So it's Sturgis, eh? That being so, we need him with us."

"But ain't he tied up with Jones?" says I.

"Jones is a dead dog," says Old Hickory. "At least, he will be inside of a week."

That was some prophecy, eh? Read in the papers, didn't you, how G. Wesley cables over his resignation from Baden Two Times? Couldn't stand the strain. The directors are still squabblin' over who to put in as head of the P., B. & R.; but if you want to play a straight inside tip put your money on Percey J. Uh-huh! Him and Old Hickory have been confabbin' in there over an hour now, and if he hadn't flopped to our side would Mr. Ellins be tellin' him funny stories? Anyway, we're backin' that Palisades line now, and it's goin' through with a whoop.

Which is earnin' some int'rest on a pound of choc'lates and a smile. What?



CHAPTER XVI

HOW WHITY GUNKED THE PLOT

I knew something or other outside of business was puttin' hectic spots in Old Hickory's disposition these last few days; but not until late yesterday did I guess it was Cousin Inez.

I expect the Ellins family wasn't any too proud of Cousin Inez, to start with; for among other things she's got a matrimonial record. Three hubbies so far, I understand, two safe in a neat kept plot out in Los Angeles; one in the discards—and she's just been celebratin' the decree by travelin' abroad. They hadn't seen much of her for years; but durin' this New York stopover visit she seemed to be makin' up for lost time.

About four foot eight Cousin Inez was in her French heels, and fairly thick through. Maybe it was the way she dressed, but from just below her double chin she looked the same size all the way down. Tie a Bulgarian sash on a sack of bran, and you've got the model. Inez was a bear for sashes too. Another thing she was strong on was hair. Course, the store blond part didn't quite match the sandy gray that grew underneath, and the near-auburn frontispiece was another tint still; but all that added variety and quantity—and what more could you ask?

Her bein' some pop-eyed helped you to remember Inez the second time. About the size of hard-boiled eggs, peeled, them eyes of hers was, and most the same color. They say she's a wise old girl though,—carries on three diff'rent business propositions left by her late string of husbands, goes in deep for classical music, and is some kind of a high priestess in the theosophy game. A bit faddy, I judged, with maybe a few bats in her belfry.

But when it comes to investin' some of her surplus funds in Corrugated preferred she has to have a good look at the books first, and makes Cousin Hickory Ellins explain some items in the annual report. Three or four times she was down to the gen'ral offices before the deal went through.

This last visit of hers was something diff'rent, though.

I took the message down to Martin, the chauffeur myself. It was a straight call on the carpet. "Tell Cousin Inez the boss wants to see her before she goes out this afternoon," says I, "and wait with the limousine until she comes."

Old Hickory was pacin' his private office, scowlin' and grouchy, as he sends the word, and it didn't take any second sight to guess he was peeved about something. I has to snicker too when Cousin Inez floats in, smilin' mushy as usual.

She wa'n't smilin' any when she drifts out half an hour later. She's some flushed behind the ears, and her complexion was a little streaked under the eyes. She holds her chin up defiant, though, and slams the brass gate behind her. She'd hardly caught the elevator before there comes a snappy call for me on the buzzer.

"Boy," says Old Hickory, glarin' at me savage, "who is this T. Virgil Bunn?"

Almost had me tongue-tied for a minute, he shoots it at me so sudden. "Eh?" says I. "T. Virgil? Why, he's the sculptor poet."

"So I gather from this thing," says he, wavin' a thin book bound in baby blue and gold. "But what in the name of Sardanapalus and Xenophon is a sculptor poet, anyway?"

"Why, it's—it's—well, that's the way the papers always give it," says I. "Beyond that I pass."

"Humph!" grunts Old Hickory. "Then perhaps you'll tell me if this is poetry. Listen!

"'Like necklaces of diamonds hung About my lady sweet, So do we string our votive area All up and down each street. They shine upon the young and old, The fair, the sad, the grim, the gay; Who gather here from far and near To worship in our Great White Way.'

"Now what's your honest opinion of that, Son? Is it poetry?

"Listens something like it," says I; "but I wouldn't want to say for sure."

"Nor I," says Mr. Ellins. "All I'm certain of is that it isn't sculpture, and that if I should read any more of it I'd be seasick. But in T. Virgil Bunn himself I have an active and personal interest. Anything to offer?"

"Not a glimmer," says I.

"And I suppose you could find nothing out?" he goes on.

"I could make a stab," says I.

"Make a deep one, then," says he, slippin' over a couple of tens for an expense fund.

And, say, I knew when Old Hickory begins by unbeltin' so reckless that he don't mean any casual skimmin' through club annuals for a report.

"What's the idea?" says I. "Is it for a financial rating or a regular dragnet of past performances?"

"Everything you can discover without taking him apart," says Old Hickory. "In short, I want to know the kind of person who can cause a fifty-five-year-old widow with grown sons to make a blinkety blinked fool of herself."

"He's a charmer, eh?" says I.

"Evidently," says Mr. Ellins. "Behold this inscription here, 'To dear Inez, My Lady of the Unfettered Soul—from Virgie.' Get the point, Son? 'To dear Inez'! Bah! Is he color blind, or what ails him? Of course it's her money he's after, and for the sake of her boys I'm going to block him. There! You see what I want?"

"Sure!" says I. "You got to have details about Virgie before you can ditch him. Well, I'll see what I can dig up."

Maybe it strikes you as a chesty bluff for a juvenile party like me to start with no more clew than that to round up in a few hours what a high-priced sleuth agency would take a week for. But, say, I didn't stand guard on the Sunday editor's door two years with my eyes and ears shut. Course, there's always the city and 'phone directories to start with. Next you turn to the Who book if you suspect he's ever done any public stunt. But, say, swallow that Who dope cautious. They let 'em write their own tickets in that, you know, and you got to make allowances for the size of the hat-band.

I'd got that far, discovered that Virgie owned up to bein' thirty-five and a bachelor, that he was born in Schoharie, son of Telemachus J. and Matilda Smith Bunn, and that he'd once been president of the village literary club, when I remembers the clippin' files we used to have back on Newspaper Row. So down I hikes—and who should I stack up against, driftin' gloomy through the lower lobby, but Whity Meeks, that used to be the star man on the Sunday sheet. Course, it wa'n't any miracle; for Whity's almost as much of a fixture there as Old Gluefoot, the librarian, or the finger marks on the iron pillars in the press-room.

A sad example of blighted ambitions, Whity is. When I first knew him he had a fresh one every Monday mornin', and they ranged all the way from him plannin' to be a second Dicky Davis to a scheme he had for hookin' up with Tammany and bein' sent to Congress. Clever boy too. He could dash off ponies that was almost good enough to print, dope out the first two acts of a play that was bound to make his fortune if he could ever finish it, and fake speeches that he'd never heard a word of.

When he got to doin' Wall Street news, though, and absorbed the idea that he could stack his little thirty per against the system and break the bucketshops—well, that was his finish. Two killings that he made by chance, and he was as good as chained to the ticker for life. No more new rosy dreams for him: always the same one,—of the day when he was goin' to show Sully how a cotton corner really ought to be pulled off, a day when the closin' gong would find him with the City Bank in one fist and the Subtreasury in the other. You've met that kind, maybe. Only Whity always tried to dress the part, in a sporty shepherd plaid, with a checked hat and checked silk socks to match. He has the same regalia on now, with a carnation in his buttonhole.

"Well, mounting margins!" says he, as I swings him round by the arm. "Torchy! Whither away? Come down to buy publicity space for the Corrugated, have you?"

"Not in a rag like yours, Whity," says I, "when we own stock in two real papers. I'm out on a little private gumshoe work for the boss."

"Sounds thrilling," says he. "Any copy in it?"

"I'd be chatterin' it to you, wouldn't I?" says I. "Nix! Just plain fam'ly scrap over whether Cousin Inez shall marry again or not. My job is to get something on the guy. Don't happen to have any special dope on T. Virgil Bunn, the sculptor poet, do you?"

Whity stares at me. "Do I?" says he.

"Say!" Then he leads me over between the 'phone booth and the cigar stand, flashes an assignment pad, and remarks, "Gaze on that second item, my boy."

"Woof! That's him, all right," says I. "But what's a bouillabaisse tea?"

"Heaven and Virgil Bunn only know," says Whity. "But that doesn't matter. Think of the subtle irony of Fate that sends me up to make a column story out of Virgie Bunn! Me, of all persons!"

"Well, why not you?" says I.

"Why?" says Whity. "Because I made the fellow. He—why, he is my joke, the biggest scream I ever put over—my joke, understand? And now this adumbrated ass of a Quigley, who's been sent on here from St. Louis to take the city desk, he falls for Virgie as a genuine personage. Not only that, but picks me out to cover this phony tea of his. And the stinging part is, if I don't I get canned, that's all."

"Ain't he the goods, then?" says I. "What about this sculptor poet business?"

"Bunk," says Whity, "nothing but bunk. Of course, he does putter around with modeling clay a bit, and writes the sort of club-footed verse they put in high school monthlies."

"Gets it printed in a book, though," says I. "I've seen one."

"Why not?" says Whity. "Anyone can who has the three hundred to pay for plates and binding. 'Sonnets of the City,' wasn't it? Didn't I get my commission from the Easy Mark Press for steering him in? Why, I even scratched off some of those things to help him pad out the book with. But, say, Torchy, you ought to remember him. You were on the door then,—tall, wide-shouldered freak, with aureole hair, and a close cropped Vandyke?"

"Not the one who wore the Wild West lid and talked like he had a mouthful of hot oatmeal?" says I.

"Your description of Virgie's English accent is perfect," says Whity.

"Well, well!" says I. "The mushbag, we used to call him."

"Charmingly accurate again!" says Whity. "Verily beside him the quivering jellyfish of the salt sea was as the armored armadillo of the desert. Soft? You could poke a finger through him anywhere."

"But what was his game?" says I.

"It wasn't a game, my son," says Whity. "It was a mission in life,—to get things printed about himself. Had no more modesty about it, you know, than a circus press agent. Perfectly frank and ingenuous, Virgie was. He'd just come and ask you to put it in that he was a great man—just like that! The chief used to froth at the mouth on sight of him. But Virgie looked funny to me in those days. I used to jolly him along, smoke his Coronas, let him take me out to swell feeds. Then when they gave Merrow charge of the Sunday side, just for a josh I did a half-page special about Virgie, called him the sculptor poet, threw in some views of him in his studio, and quoted some of his verse that I'd fixed up. It got by. Virgie was so pleased he wanted to give a banquet for me; but I got him to go in on a little winter wheat flier instead. He didn't drop much. After that I'd slip in a paragraph about him now and then, always calling him the sculptor poet. The tag stuck. Other papers began to use it; until, first thing I knew, Virgie was getting away with it. Honest, I just invented him. And now he passes for the real thing!"

"Where you boobed, then, was in not filin' copyright papers," says I. "But how does he make it pay?"

"He doesn't," says Whity. "Listen, Son, and I will divulge the hidden mystery in the life of T. Virgil Bunn. Cheese factories! Half a dozen or more of 'em, up Schoharie way. Left to him, you know, by Pa Bunn; a coarse, rough person, I am told, who drank whey out of a five-gallon can, but was cute enough to import Camembert labels and make his own boxes. He passed on a dozen years ago; but left the cheese factories working night shifts. Virgie draws his share quarterly. He tried a year or two at some Rube college, and then went abroad to loiter. While there he exposed himself to the sculptor's art; but it didn't take very hard. However, Virgie came back and acquired the studio habit. And you can't live for long in a studio, you know, without getting the itch to see yourself in print. That's what brought Virgie to me. And now! Well, now I have to go to Virgie."

"Ain't as chummy with him as you was, I take it?" says I.

Whity shrugs his shoulders disgusted. "The saphead!" says he. "Just because we slipped up on a few stock deals he got cold feet. I haven't seen him for a year. I wonder how he'll take it? But you mentioned a Cousin Inez, didn't you?"

I gives Whity a hasty sketch of the piece, mentionin' no more names, but suggestin' that Virgie stood to connect with an overgrown widow's mite if there wa'n't any sudden interference.

"Ha!" says Whity, speakin' tragic through his teeth. "An idea! He's put the spell on a rich widow, has he? Now if I could only manage to queer this autumn leaf romance it would even up for the laceration of pride that I see coming my way tonight. Describe the fair one."

"I could point her out if you could smuggle me in," I suggests.

"A cinch!" says he. "You're Barry of the City Press. Here, stick some copy paper in your pocket. Take a few notes, that's all."

"It's a fierce disguise to put on," says I; "but I guess I can stand it for an evenin'."

So about eight-thirty we meets again, and' proceeds to hunt up this studio buildin' over in the East 30's. It ain't any bum Bohemian ranch, either, but a ten-story elevator joint, with clipped bay trees on each side of the front door. Virgie's is a top floor suite, with a boy in buttons outside and a French maid to take your things.

"Gee!" I whispers to Whity as we pushes in. "There's some swell mob collectin', eh?"

Whity is speechless, though, and when he gets his breath again all he can do is mumble husky, "Teddy Van Alstyne! Mrs. Cromer Paige! The Bertie Gardiners!"

They acted like a mixed crowd, though, gazin' around at each other curious, groupin' into little knots, and chattin' under their breath. Bein' gents of the press, we edges into a corner behind a palm and waits to see what happens.

"There comes Cousin Inez!" says I, nudgin' Whity. "See? The squatty dame with the pearl ropes over her hair."

"Sainted Billikens, what a make-up!" says Whity.

And, believe me, Cousin Inez was dolled for fair. She'd peeled for the fray, as you might say. And if the dinky shoulder straps held it was all right; but if one of 'em broke there'd sure be some hurry call for four yards of burlap to do her up in. She seems smilin' and happy, though, and keeps glancin' expectant at the red velvet draperies in the back of the room.

Sure enough, exactly on the tick of nine, the curtains part, and in steps the hero of the evenin'. Dress suit? Say, you don't know Virgie. He's wearin' a reg'lar monk's outfit, of some coarse brown stuff belted in with a thick rope and open wide at the neck.

"For the love of beans, look at his feet!" I whispers.

"Sandals," says Whity, "and no socks! Blessed if Virgie isn't going the limit!"

There's a chorus of "Ah-h-h-h's!" as he steps out, and then comes a buzz of whispers which might have been compliments, and might not. But it don't faze Virgie. He goes bowin' and handshakin' through the mob, smilin' mushy on all and several, and actin' as pleased with himself as if he'd taken the prize at a fancy dress ball. You should have seen Cousin Inez when he gets to her!

"Oh, you utterly clever man!" she gushes. "What a genuine genius you are!"

"Dear, sweet lady!" says he. "It is indeed gracious of you to say so."

"Help!" groans Whity, like he had a pain.

"Ah, buck up!" says I. "It'll be your turn soon."

I was wonderin' how Virgie was goin' to simmer down enough to pass Whity the chilly greetin'; for he's just bubblin' over with kind words and comic little quips. But, say, he don't even try to shade it.

"Ah, Whity, my boy!" says he, extendin' the cordial paw. "Charming of you to look me up once more, perfectly charming!"

"Rot!" growls Whity. "You know I was sent up here to do this blooming spread of yours. What sort of fake is it, anyway?"

"Ha, ha! Same old Whity!" says Virgil, poundin' him hearty on the shoulder. "But you're always welcome, my boy. As for the tea—well, one of my little affairs, you know,—just a few friends dropping in—feast of reason, flow of wit, all that sort of thing. You know how to put it. Don't forget my costume—picked it up at a Trappist monastery in the Pyrenees. I must give you some photos I've had taken in it. Ah, another knight of the pencil?" and he glances inquirin' at me.

"City Press," says Whity.

"Fine!" says Virgie, beamin'. "Well, you boys make yourselves quite at home. I'll send Marie over with cigars and cigarettes. She'll help you to describe any of the ladies' costumes you may care to mention. Here's a list of the invited guests too. Now I must be stirring about. Au revoir."

"Ass!" snarls Whity under his breath. "If I don't give him a roast, though,—one of the veiled sarcastic kind that will get past! And we must find some way of queering him with that rich widow."

"Goin' to be some contract, Whity, believe me!" says I. "Look how she's taggin' him around!"

And, say, Cousin Inez sure had the scoopnet out for him! Every move he makes she's right on his heels, gigglin' and simperin' at all his sappy speeches and hangin' onto his arm part of the time. Folks was nudgin' each other and pointin' her out gleeful, and I could easy frame up the sort of reports that had set Old Hickory's teeth on edge.

T. Virgil, though, seems to be havin' the time of his life. He exhibits some clay models, either dancin' girls or a squad of mounted cops, I couldn't make out which, and he lets himself be persuaded to read two or three chunks out of his sonnets, very dramatic. Cousin Inez leads the applause. Then, strikin' a pose, he claps his hands, the velvet curtains are slid one side, and in comes a French chef luggin' a tray with a whackin' big casserole on it.

"Voila!" sings out Virgie. "The bouillabaisse!"

Marie gets busy passin' around bowls and spoons, and the programme seems to be for the guests to line up while Virgie gives each a helpin' out of a long-handled silver ladle. It smells mighty good; so I pushes in with my bowl. What do you guess I drew? A portion of the tastiest fish soup you ever met, with a lobster claw and a couple of clams in it. M-m-m-m!

"He may be a punk poet," says I to Whity; "but he's a good provider."

"Huh!" growls Whity, who seems to be sore on account of the hit Virgie's makin'.

Next thing I knew along drifts Cousin Inez, who has sort of been crowded away from her hero, and camps down on the other side of Whity.

"Isn't this just too unique for words?" she gushes. "And is not dear Virgil perfectly charming tonight?"

"Oh, he's a bear at this sort of thing, all right," says Whity, "this and making cheese."

"Cheese!" echoes Cousin Inez.

"Sure!" says Whity. "Hasn't he told you about his cheese factories? Ask him."

"But—but I understood that—that he was a poet," says she, "a sculptor poet."

"Bah!" says Whity. "He couldn't make his salt at either. All just a pose!"

"Why, I can hardly believe it," says Cousin Inez. "I don't believe it, either."

"Then read his poetry and look at his so called groups," goes on Whity.

"But he's such a talented, interesting man," insists Inez.

"With such an interesting family too," says Whity, winkin'.

"Family!" gasps Cousin Inez.

"Wife and six children," says Whity, lyin' easy.

"Oh—oh!" squeals Inez in that shrill, raspy voice of hers.

"They say he beats his wife, though," adds Whity.

"Oh!—oh!" squeals Inez, again, higher and shriller than ever. I expect she'd been more or less keyed up before; but this adds the finishin' touch. And she lets 'em out reckless.

Course, everyone stops chatterin' and looks her way. No wonder! You'd thought she was havin' a fit. Over rushes Virgil, ladle in hand.

"My dear Inez!" says he. "What is it? A fishbone?"

"Monster!" she bowls. "Deceiver! Leave me, never let me see your face again! Oh—oh! Cheese! Six children! Oh—oh!" With that she tumbles over on Whity and turns purple in the face.

Say, it was some sensation we had there for a few minutes; but after they'd sprinkled her face, and rubbed her wrists, and poured a couple of fingers of brandy into her, she revives. And the first thing she catches sight of is Virgie, standin' there lookin' puzzled, still holdin' the soup ladle.

"Monster!" she hisses at him. "I know all—all! And I quit you forever!"

With that she dashes for the cloakroom, grabs her opera wrap, and beats it for the elevator. Course, that busts up the show, and inside of half an hour everybody but us has left, and most of 'em went out snickerin'.

"I—I don't understand it at all," says Virgie, rubbin' his eyes dazed. "She was talking with you, wasn't she, Friend Whity? Was it something you said about me?"

"Possibly," says Whity, "I may have mentioned your cheese factories; and I'm not sure but what I didn't invent a family for you. Just as a joke, of course. You don't mind, I hope?"

And at that I was dead sure someone was goin' to be slapped on the wrist. But, say, all Virgie does is swallow hard a couple of times; and then, as the full scheme of the plot seems to sink in, he beams mushy.

"Mind? Why, my dear boy," says he, "you are my deliverer! I owe you more than I can ever express. Really, you know, that ridiculous old person has been the bane of my existence for the last three weeks. She has fairly haunted me, spoiled all my receptions, and—disturbed me greatly. Ever since I met her in Rome last winter she has been at it. Of course I have tried to be nice to her, as I am to everyone who—er—who might help. But I almost fancy she had the idea that I would—ah—marry her. Really, I believe she did. Thank you a thousand times, Whity, for your joke! If she comes back, tell her I have two wives, a dozen. And have some cigars—oh, fill your pockets, my boy. And here—the photos showing me in my monk's costume. Be sure to drop in at my next tea. I'll send you word. Good night, and bless you!"

He didn't push us out. He just held the door open and patted us on the back as we went through. And the next thing we knew we was down on the sidewalk.

"Double crossed!" groans Whity. "Smothered in mush!"

"As a plotter, Whity," says I, "you're a dub. But if you gunked it one way, you drew a consolation the other. At this stage of the game I guess I'm commissioned by a certain party to hand over to you a small token of his esteem."

"Eh?" says Whity. "Twenty? What for?"

"Ah, go bull the market with it, and don't ask fool questions!" says I.

Say, it was a perfectly swell story about Virgie's bouillabaisse function on today's society page, double-column half-tone cut and all. I had to grin when I shows it to Mr. Ellins.

"Were you there, young man?" says he, eyin' me suspicious.

"Yep!" says I.

"I thought so," says he, "when Cousin Inez came home and began packing her trunks. I take it that affair of hers with the sculptor poet is all off??'

"Blew up with a bang about ten-thirty P. M.," says I. "Your two tenspots went with it."

"Huh!" he snorts. "That's as far as I care to inquire. Some day I'm going to send you out with a thousand and let you wreck the administration."



CHAPTER XVII

TORCHY GETS A THROUGH WIRE

First off, when I pipes the party in the pale green lid and the fuzzy English topcoat, I thought it was some stray from the House of Lords; but as it drifts nearer to the brass rail and I gets a glimpse of the mild blue eyes behind the thick, shell-rimmed glasses, I discovers that it's only Son-in-law Ferdy; you know, hubby to Marjorie Ellins that was.

"Wat ho!" says I. "Just in from Lunnon?"

"Why, no," says Ferdy, gawpin' foolish. "Whatever made you think that?"

"Then it's a disguise, is it?" says I, eyin' the costume critical.

"Oh, bother!" says Ferdy peevish. "I told Marjorie I should be stared at. And I just despise being conspicuous, you know! Where's Robert?"

"Mr. Robert ain't due back for an hour yet," says I. "You could catch him at the club, I expect."

"No, no," protests Ferdy hasty. "I—I wouldn't go to the club looking like this. I—I couldn't stand the chaff I'd get from the fellows. I'll wait."

"Suit yourself," says I, towin' him into Mr. Robert's private office. "You can shed the heather wrap in here, if you like."

"I—I wish I could," says he.

"Wha-a-at!" says I. "She ain't sewed you into it, has she? Anyhow, you don't have to keep it buttoned tight under your chin with all this steam heat on."

"I know," says Ferdy, sighin'. "I nearly roasted, coming down in the train. But, you see, it—it hides the tie."

"Eh?" says I. "Something else Marjorie picked out? Let's have a peek."

Ferdy blushes painful. "It's awful," he groans, "perfectly awful!"

"Not one of these nutty Futurist designs, like a scrambled rainbow shot full of pink polliwogs?" says I.

"Worse than that," says Ferdy, unbuttonin' the overcoat reluctant. "Look!"

"Zowie! A plush one!" says I.

Course, they ain't so new. I'd seen 'em in the zippy haberdashers' windows early in the fall; but I don't remember havin' met one out of captivity before. And this is about the plushiest affair you could imagine; bright orange and black, and half an inch thick.

"Whiffo!" says I. "That is something to have wished onto you! Looks like a caterpillar in a dream."

"That's right," says Ferdy. "It's been a perfect nightmare to me ever since Marjorie bought it. But I can't hurt her feelings by refusing to wear it. And this silly hat too—a scarf instead of a band!"

It's almost pathetic the way Ferdy holds the lid off at arm's length and gazes indignant at it.

"Draped real sweet, ain't it?" says I. "But most of the smart chappies are wearin' 'em that way, you know."

"Not this sickly green shade, though," says Ferdy plaintive. "I wish Marjorie wouldn't get such things for me. I—I've always been rather particular about my hats and ties. I like them quiet, you understand."

"You would get married, though," says I. "But, say, can't you do a duck by changing after you leave home?"

Seems the idea hadn't occurred to Ferdy. "But how? Where?" says he, brightenin' up.

"In the limousine as you're drivin' down to the station," says I. "You could keep an extra outfit in the car."

"By Jove!" says Ferdy. "Then I could change again on the way home, couldn't I? And if Marjorie didn't know, she wouldn't——"

"You've surrounded the plot of the piece," says I. "Now go to it. There's a gents' furnisher down in the arcade."

He's halfway out to the elevator before it occurs to him that he ain't responded with any grateful remarks; so back he comes to tell how much obliged he is.

"And, Torchy," he adds, "you know you haven't been out to see baby yet. Why, you must see little Ferdinand!"

"Ye-e-es, I been meanin' to," says I, maybe not wildly enthusiastic. "I expect he's quite a kid by this time."

"Eleven months lacking four days," says Ferdy, his face beamin'. "Wait! I want to show you his latest picture. Really wonderful youngster, I tell you."

So I has to inspect a snapshot that Ferdy produces from his pocketbook; and, while it looks about as insignificant as most of 'em, I pumps up some gushy remarks which seem to make a hit with Ferdy.

"Couldn't you come out Sunday?" says he.

"'Fraid not," says I. "In fact, I'm booked up for quite a spell."

"Too bad," says Ferdy, "for we're almost alone now,—only Peggy and Jane—my little nieces, you know—and Miss Hemmingway, who——"

"Vee?" says I, comin' straight up on my toes. "Say, Ferdy, I think I can break away Sunday, after all. Ought to see that youngster of yours, hadn't I? Must be mighty cute by now."

"Oh, he is," says Ferdy; "but if you can't come this week——"

"Got to," says I. "'Leven months, and me never so much as chucked him under the chin once! Gee! how careless of me!"

"All right, Sunday next," says Ferdy. "We shall look for you."

That was throwin' in reverse a little sudden, I admit; but my chances of gettin' within hailin' distance of Vee ain't so many that I can afford to overlook any bets. Besides, up at Marjorie's is about the only place where I don't have to run the gauntlet goin' in, or do a slide for life comin' out. She'll shinny on my side every trip, Marjorie will—and believe me I need it all!

Looked like a special dispensation too, this bid of Ferdy's; for I wanted half an hour's private chat with Vee the worst way just then, to clear up a few things. For instance, my last two letters had come back with "Refused" scratched across the face, and I didn't know whether it was some of Aunty's fine work, or what. Anyway, it's been a couple of months now that the wires have been down between us, and I was more or less anxious to trace the break.

So Sunday afternoon don't find me missin' any suburban local. Course, Ferdy's mighty intellect ain't suggested to him anything about askin' me out for a meal; so I has to take a chance on what time to land there. But I strikes the mat about two-thirty P. M., and the first one to show up is Marjorie, lookin' as plump and bloomin' a corn-fed Venus as ever.

"Why, Torchy!" says she, with business of surprise.

"Uh-huh," says I. "Special invite of Ferdy's to come see the heir apparent. Didn't he mention it?"

"Humph! Ferdy!" says Marjorie. "Did you ever know of him remembering anything worth while?"

"Oh, ho!" says I. "In disgrace, is he?"

"He is," says Marjorie, sniffin' scornful. "But it's nice of you to want to see baby. The dear little fellow is just taking his afternoon nap. He wakes up about four, though."

"Oh, I don't mind waitin' a bit," says I. "You know, I'm crazy to see that kid."

"Really!" says Marjorie, beamin' delighted. "Then you shall go right up now, while he is——"

"No," says I, holdin' up one hand. "I might sneeze, or something. I'll just stick around until he wakes up."

"It's too bad," says Marjorie; "but Verona is dressing and——"

"What!" says I. "Vee here?"

"Just going," says Marjorie. "Her aunty is to call for her in about an hour."

Say, then was no time for wastin' fleetin' moments on any bluff. "Say, Marjorie," says I, "couldn't you get her to speed up the toilet motions a bit and shoo her downstairs? Don't say who; but just hint that someone wants to see her mighty special for a few moments. There's a good girl!"

Marjorie giggles and shows her dimples. "I might try," says she. "Suppose you wait in the library, where there's a nice log fire."

So it's me for an easy chair in the corner, where I can watch for the entrance. Five minutes by the clock on the mantel, and nothing happens. Ten minutes, and no Vee. Then I hears a smothered snicker off to the left. I'd got my face all set for the cheerful greetin' too, when I discovers two pairs of brown eyes inspectin' me roguish, through the parted portieres. And neither pair was any I'd ever seen before.

"Huh!" thinks I. "Nice way to treat guests!" and I pretends not to notice. I've picked up a magazine and am readin' the pictures industrious, when there's more snickers. I scowls, fidgets around some, and fin'lly takes another glance. The brown eyes are twinklin' mischievous, all four of 'em.

"Well," says I, "what's the joke? Shoot it!"

At that into the room bounces a couple of girls, somewhere around ten and twelve, I should judge; tall, long-legged kids, but cute lookin', and genuine live wires, from their toes up. They're fairly wigglin' with some kind of excitement.

"We know who you are!" singsongs one, pointin' the accusin' finger.

"You're Torchy!" says the other.

"Then I'm discovered," says I. "How'd you dope it out?"

"By your hair!" comes in chorus, and then they goes to a panicky clinch and giggles down each other's necks.

"Hey, cut out the comic relief," says I, "and give me a turn. Which one of you is Peggy?"

"Why, who told you that?" demands the one with the red ribbon.

"Oh, I'm some guesser myself," says I. "It's you."

"Pooh! I bet it was Uncle Ferdinand," says she.

"Good sleuth work!" says I. "He's the guy. But I didn't know he had such a cunnin' set of nieces. Most as tall as he is, ain't you, Peggy?"

But that don't happen to be the line of dialogue they're burnin' to follow out. Exchangin' a look, they advance mysterious until there's one on each side of me, and then Peggy whispers dramatic:

"You came to see Miss Vee, didn't you?"

"Vee?" says I, lookin' puzzled. "Vee which?"

"Oh, you know, now!" protests Jane, tappin' me playful.

"Sorry," says I, "but this is a baby visit I'm payin'. Ask Uncle Ferdinand if it ain't."

"Humph!" says Peggy. "Anyone can fool Uncle Ferdy."

"Besides," says Jane, "we saw a picture on Vee's dressing table, and when we asked who it was she hid it. So there!"

"Not a picture of me, though," says I. "Couldn't be."

"Yes, it was," insists Jane.

"A snapshot of you," says Peggy, "taken in a boat."

I won't deny that was some cheerful bulletin; but somehow I had a hunch it might be best not to let on too much. Course, I could locate the time and place. I must have got on the film durin' my stay up at Roarin' Rocks last summer.

"In a boat!" says I. "Of all things!"

"And Vee doesn't want anyone to know about it," adds Jane, "specially her aunty."

"Why not?" comes in Peggy, lookin' me straight in the eye.

"Very curious!" says I, shakin' my head. "What else did Vee have to say about me?"

"M-m-m-m!" says Peggy. "We can't tell."

"We promised not to," says Jane.

"You're a fine pair of promisers!" says I. "I expect you hold secrets like a wire basket holds water."

"We never said a word, did we, Peggy?" demands Jane.

"Nope!" says Peggy. "Maybe he's the one Vee's aunty doesn't like."

"Are you?" says Jane, clawin' my shoulder excited.

"How utterly thrillin'!" says I. "Say, you're gettin' me all tittered up. Think it's me Aunty has the war club out for, do you?"

"It's someone with hair just like yours, anyway," says Peggy.

"Think of that!" says I. "Does red hair throw Aunty into convulsions, or what?"

"Aunt Marjorie says it's because you—that is, because the one she meant isn't anybody," says Jane. "He's poor, and all that. Are you poor?"

"Me?" says I. "Why—say, what is this you're tryin' to pull off on me, impeachment proceedings? Come now, don't you guess your Aunt Marjorie'll be wantin' you?"

"No," says Peggy. "She told us for goodness sake to run off and be quiet."

"What about this Miss Vee party, then?" says I. "Don't she need you to help her hook up?"

"We just came from her room," says Peggy.

"She pushed us out and locked the door," adds Jane.

"Great strategy!" says I. "Show me a door with a key in it."

"Pooh!" says Peggy. "You couldn't put us both out at once."

"Couldn't I?" says I. "Let's see."

With that I grabs one under each arm, and with the pair of 'em strugglin' and squealin' and rough housin' me for all they was worth, I starts towards the livin' room. We was right in the midst of the scrimmage when in walks Vee, with her hat and furs all on, lookin' some classy, take it from me. But the encouragin' part of it is that she smiles friendly, and I smiles back.



"Well, you found someone, didn't you, girls?" says she.

"Oh, Vee, Vee!" sings out Peggy gleeful. "Isn't this Torchy?"

"Your Torchy?" demands Jane.

I tips Vee the signal for general denial and winks knowin'. But, say, you can't get by with anything crude on a pair of open-eyed kids like that.

"Oh, I saw!" announces Jane. "And you do know him, don't you, Vee?"

"Why, I suppose we have met before?" says she, laughin' ripply. "Haven't we, Torchy?"

"Now that you mention it," says I, "I remember." And we shakes hands formal.

"Came to see the baby, I hear," says Vee.

"Oh, sure!" says I. "Maybe you could tell me about him first, though, if we could find a quiet corner."

"Oh, we'll tell you," chimes in Peggy. "We know all about Baby. He has a tooth!"

"Say," says I, wigglin' away from the pair, "couldn't you go load up someone else with information, just for ten minutes or so?"

"What for?" says Jane, eyin' me suspicious.

"We'd rather stay here," says Peggy decided.

I catches a humorous twinkle in Vee's gray eyes as she holds out her hands to the girls. "Listen," says she confidential. "You know those hermit cookies you're so fond of? Well, Cook made a whole jarful yesterday. They're in the pantry."

"I know," says Jane. "We found 'em last night."

"The Glue Sisters!" says I. "Now see here, Kids, I've just thought of a message I ought to give to Miss Vee."

"Who from?" demands Peggy.

"From a young chap I know who thinks a lot of her," says I. "It's strictly private too."

"What's it about?" says Jane.

Which was when my tactics gave out. "Say, you two human question marks," says I, "beat it, won't you?"

No, they just wouldn't. The best they would do for me was to back off to the other side of the room, eyes and ears wide open, and there they stood.

"Go on!" whispers Vee. "What was it he wanted to say?"

"It was about a couple of notes he wrote," says I.

"Yes?" says Vee. "What happened?"

"They came back," says I, "without being opened."

"Oh," says Vee, "those must have been the ones that——"

"Vee, Vee!" breaks in Peggy from over near the window. "Here comes your aunty."

"Good night, nurse!" says I.

"Tell him it's all right," says Vee hasty. "He might send the next ones in care of Marjorie; then I'll be sure of getting them. By-by, Peggy. Don't squeeze so hard, Jane. No, please don't come out, Torchy. Goodby."

And in another minute I'm left to the mercy of the near-twins once more. I camps down in the easy chair again, with one on each side, and the cross examination proceeds. Say, they're a great pair too.

"Didn't Vee want you to go out 'cause her aunty would see you?" asks Peggy.

"There!" says I. "I wonder?"

"I'm glad she isn't my aunty," says Jane. "She looks too cross."

"If I was Vee's aunty," puts in Peggy, "I wouldn't be mad if she did have your picture in a silver frame."

"Honest?" says I. "How's that?"

"'Cause I don't think you're so awful horrid, even if you aren't anybody," says Peggy. "Do you, Jane?"

"I like him," says Jane. "I think his hair's nice too."

"Well, well!" says I. "Guess I got some gallery with me, anyway. And how does Vee stand with you?"

"Oh, she's just a dear!" says Peggy, clappin' her hands.

"M-m-m-m!" echoes Jane. "She's going to take us to see Maude Adams next Wednesday too."

"Huh!" says I, indicatin' deep thought. "So you'll see her again soon?"

"I wish it was tomorrow," says Jane.

"Mr. Torchy," says Peggy, grabbin' me impulsive by one ear and swingin' my face around, "truly now, aren't you awfully in love with Vee?"

Say, where do they pick it up, youngsters of that age? Her big brown eyes are as round and serious as if she knew all about it; and on the other side is Jane, fairly holdin' her breath.

"Whisper!" says I. "Could you two keep a secret?"

"Oh, yes!" comes in chorus.

"Well, then," says I, "I'm going to hand you one. I think Vee is the best that ever happened."

"Oh, goody!" exclaims Peggy. "Then you do love her awfully! But why don't you——"

"Wait!" says I. "When I get to be a little older, and some bigger, and after I've made heaps and heaps of money, and have a big, black automobile——"

"And a big, black mustache," adds Peggy.

"No," says I. "Cut out the miracles. Call it when I'm in business for myself. Then, if somebody'll only choke off Aunty long enough, I may—well, some fine moonlight night I may tell her all about it."

"Oh!" gasps Jane. "Mayn't we be there to hear you do it?"

"Not if I can bar you out," says I.

"Please!" says Peggy. "We would sit just as still and not—— Oh, here's Aunt Marjorie. Aunty, what do you think? Mr. Torchy's been telling us a secret."

"There, there, Peggy," says Marjorie, "don't be silly. Torchy is waiting to see Baby. Come! He's awake now."

Yep, I had to do the inspection act, after all. And I must say that most of these infant wonders look a good deal alike; only Ferdinand, Jr., has a cute way of tryin' out his new tooth on your thumb.

Goin' back towards the station I meets Ferdy, himself, trampin' in lonesome from a long walk, and lookin' mighty glum.

"Of all the gloom carriers!" says I. "What was it let you in bad this time?"

"You ought to know," says he.

"For why?" says I.

"Oh, fudge!" says he. "I suppose you didn't put me up to that silly business of changing neckties!"

"Chinked it, did you?" says I. "But how?"

"If you must know," says he, "I forgot to change back on my way home, and Marjorie's still furious. She simply won't let me explain, refuses to listen to a word. So what can I do?"

"A cinch!" says I. "You got a pair of livin' dictaphones in the house, ain't you? Work it off on Peggy and Jane as a secret, and you'll have your defense on record inside of half an hour. Cheer up, Ferdy. Ishkabibble!"

THE END