"The chairman of the Stock Exchange?" says I.

"Mother Leary," says he.

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'.

"A flip of fate," says he. "At my hotel I got to talking with the room clerk, and discovered that his name was Leary. It turned out that he was Aloysius, the eldest boy. Remember him, don't you?"

Seein' how I'd almost been brought up in the fam'ly when I was a kid, I couldn't deny it. Course I'd run more with Hunch than any of the other boys. We'd sold papers together, and gone into the A. D. T. at the same time. But there wasn't a Leary I didn't know all about.

"You must have boarded there too," says I. "But if I ever heard your name, it didn't stick."

"It may have been," says he, "that I was not using the Dorsett part of it just at that time. Business reasons, you understand. But the H in my name stands for Hines. What about William Hines, now?"

"Hm-m-m!" says I, starin' at him. Sure enough, that did have a familiar sound to it.

"Let's try it this way," says he: "Uncle Bill Hines."

And, say, that got me! I expect I made some gaspy motions before I managed to get out my next remark. "You—you ain't the one that left me with Mother Leary, are you?" I asks.

Dorsett nods. "I'm a trifle late in explaining that carelessness," says he, "and I can only plead guilty to all your reproaches. But consider the circumstances. There I was, a free lance of fortune, down to my last dollar, and rich only in the companionship of a bright-eyed, four-year-old youngster who had been trusted to my care. You remember very little of that period, I suppose; but it is all vivid enough to me, even now,—how we tramped up and down Broadway, you chattering away, excited and happy, while I was wondering what I should do when that last dollar was gone.

"Then, just when things seem blackest, arrived opportunity,—the Birmingham boom. I ran across one of the boomers, who was struck with the brilliant idea that he could make use of my peculiar talents in making known the coming glories of the new South. But I must join him at once, that very day. And he waved yellow-backed bills at me. I simply had to drop you and go. Mother Leary promised to take care of you for three months, or until your—well, until someone else claimed you. I sent word to them both, at least I tried to, and rushed gayly down into Dixie. Perhaps you never heard of the bursting of that first Birmingham boom? It was an abrupt but very-complete smash. I came out of it owning two gorgeous suits of clothes, one silk hat, and an opulent-looking pocketbook, bulging with thirty-day options on corner lots. One of the clerks in our office staked me with carfare to Atlanta, where I got a job collecting tenement house rents.

"Since then I've been up and down. Half a dozen times I've almost had my fingers on the tail feathers of fortune: only to stumble into some hidden pit of poverty. And in time—well, time mends all things. Besides, I hardly relished facing Mother Leary. There was the chance too that you no longer needed rescuing. I'm not trying to excuse my breach of faith: I am merely telling you how it came about. You realize that, I trust?"

Did I? I don't know. I expect I was just sittin' there gazing stary at him. Only one thing was shapin' itself clear in my head, and fin'lly I states it flat.

"Say," says I, "you—you ain't my reg'lar uncle, are you?"

Maybe I wa'n't as enthusiastic as the case called for. He springs that smile of his. "Hardly a flattering way to put it," says he. "Would you be disappointed if I was?"

"Well," says I, eyin' him up and down, "you don't strike me as such a swell uncle, you know."

Don't faze him a bit, either. "Our near relatives are seldom quite satisfactory," says he. "Of course, though, if I fail to suit——" He hunches his shoulders and reaches for his hat.

So he had it on me, you see. Suppose you was as shy on relations as I am, would you turn down the only one that ever showed up?

"Excuse me if I don't get the cues right," says I; "but—but this has been put over a little sudden. Course I'll take Mrs. Leary's word. If she says you're my Uncle Bill, that goes. Anyway, you can give me a line on—on my folks, I suppose?"

Yes, he admits that he can; but he don't. And I will say for him that he states his case smooth enough, smilin' that catchy smile of his, and tappin' me friendly on the knee. But when he's all through it amounts to this: He needs the loan of a couple of hundred cash the worst way, and he wants to be put next to a few plutes that are in the market for new trolley franchises. If I can boost him along that way, it'll relieve his mind so much that he'll be in just the right mood to go into my personal hist'ry as deep as I care to dip.

"Gee!" says I. "But this raisin' a fam'ly tree comes high, don't it? Besides, I'd have to get Mother Leary's O. K. on you first, you know."

"Naturally," says he. "And any time within the next day or so will answer. Suppose I drop around again, or look you up at your quarters?"

"Better make it at the house," says I. "Here's the street number. Some evenin' after seven-thirty. I—I'll be thinkin' things over."

And as I watches him swing jaunty through the door I remarks under my breath to nobody in partic'lar: "Uncle Bill, eh? My Uncle Bill! Well, well!"

You can be sure too that my first move is to sound Mother Leary. She says he's the one, all right, and I gathers that she gave him the tongue-lashin' she'd been savin' up all these years. But I don't stop for details. If I've really had an uncle wished on me, it's up to me to make the best of it, or find out the worst. But somehow I ain't so chesty about havin' dug up a relation. I don't brag about it to Martha when I go home. In fact, Martha has fam'ly troubles of her own about now, you remember. I finds her weepy-eyed and solemn.

"They've been gone more than a week," says she, "Zenobia and that reckless Kyrle Ballard. Pretty soon they will be coming back, and then——"

"Well, what then?" says I.

"I've been packing up to-day," says she, swabbin' off a stray tear from the side of her nose. "I have engaged rooms at the Lady Louise. I suppose you will be leaving too."

"Me?" says I.

It hadn't struck me that Aunt Zenobia's getting married was goin' to throw us all out on the street. But Aunt Martha had it doped diff'rent.

"Stay in the same house with that man?" says she. "Not I! And I am quite sure he will not want either of us around when he comes back here as Zenobia's husband."

"If that's the case," says I, "it won't take me long to clear out; but I guess I'll wait until I get the hint direct. You'd better wait too."

Martha'd made up her mind, though. She says she'd go right then if it wa'n't for leavin' the servants alone in the house; but the very minute Sister Zenobia arrives she means to beat it. And sure enough next day she has her trunk brought down into the front hall and begins wearin' her bonnet around the house. It's a little weird to see her pokin' about dressed that way, and her wraps and rubbers laid out handy, as if she belonged to a volunteer hose comp'ny.

It was after the second day of this watchful waitin', and we're sittin' down to a six-forty-five dinner, when a big racket breaks loose out front. The bell rings four times rapid, Lizzie the maid almost breaks her neck gettin' to the door, and in breezes the runaway pair with all their baggage, chucklin' and chatterin' like a couple of kids. Some stunnin' Aunt Zenobia looks, for all her gray hair; and Mr. Ballard, in his Scotch tweed suit and with his ruddy cheeks, don't look a day over fifty. They're giggling merry over some remark of Lizzie's, and Zenobia calls in through the draperies.

"Hello, Martha—Torchy—everybody!" she sings out. "Well, here we are, back from that absurd boardwalk resort, back to—well, for the love of ladies! Martha Hadley, why in the name of nonsense are you eating dinner with your hat on?"

"Because," says Martha, beginnin' to sniffle, "I—I'm going away."

"But where? Why?" demands Zenobia.

And between sobs Martha explains. She includes me in it too.

"Then why aren't you wearing your hat also, Torchy?" asks Zenobia.

"Well," says I, "I ain't so sure about quittin' as she is. I thought I'd stick around until I got the word to move."

"Which you're not at all likely to get, young man," says Zenobia. "And as for you, Martha, you should have better sense. Trapsing off to a hotel, at your time of life! Rubbish! And why, please?"

Aunt Martha nods towards Ballard.

"Well, you're just going to get over that nonsense," says Zenobia. "Kyrle, you know what you promised when you told me you'd make up with Martha? Now is the appointed time. Do it!"

And Mr. Ballard, chuckin' his hat and overcoat on a chair, sails right in. I expect it was the last thing in the world Martha was lookin' for; for she sits there gazin' at him sort of stupid until he's done the trick. Uh-huh! No halfway business about it, either. He just naturally takes her chubby old face between his two hands, tilts up her chin, and plants a reg'lar final curtain smack where I'll bet it's been forty years since the lips of man had trod before.

First off Martha flops her arms and squeals. Then, when she finds it's all over and ain't goin' to be any continuous performance, she quiets down and stares at the two of 'em, who are chucklin' away merry.

"Please, Sister Martha," says Ballard, "try to overlook that old affair of mine when I tried to cut out the Rev. Preble. I was rather irresponsible then, I'll own; but I have steadied down a lot, although for the last week or so—well, you know how giddy Zenobia is. But you will help us. We can't either of us spare you, you see."

Maybe it was the jollyin' speech, or maybe it was the unexpected smack, but inside of five minutes Martha has shed her bonnet and we're all sittin' around the table as friendly and jolly as you please.

I suppose it was by way of makin' Martha feel comf'table and as if she was really part of the game that they got to reminiscin' about old times and the folks they used to know. I wa'n't followin' it very close until Martha gets to askin' Ballard about some of his people, and he starts in on this story about his nephew.

"Poor Dick!" says he, pushin' back his demitasse and lightin' up a big perfecto. "Now if he'd been my boy, things might have turned out differently. But my respected brother—well, you knew Richard, Martha. Not at all like me,—eminently respectable, a bit solemn, and tremendously stiff-necked on occasion. The way he took on about that red-headed Irish girl, for instance. Irene, you know. Why, you might have thought, to have heard him storm around, that she was a veritable sorceress, or something of the kind; when, as a matter of fact, she was just a nice, wholesome, keen-witted young woman. Pretty as a picture, she was, and as true as gold too,—a lot too good for young Dick Ballard, even if she was merely a girl in his father's office. You couldn't blame her for liking Dick, though. Everyone did—the scatter-brained scamp! And when my brother went through all that melodramatic folly of cutting him off with a thousand a year—well, we had our big row over that. That was when I took my money out of the firm. Lucky I did too. When the panic came I was safe."

"Let's see," says Zenobia, "Dick and the girl ran off and were married, weren't they?"

"Yes," says Ballard. "It's in the blood, you see. They went to Paris, to carry out one of Dick's great schemes. He had persuaded some of his friends, big real estate dealers, to make him their foreign agent. His idea was, I believe, to catch Western millionaires abroad and sell 'em Fifth-ave. mansions. Actually did land one or two customers, I think. But it was his wife's notion that turned out to be really practical,—leasing French and Italian villas to rich Americans. Something in that, you know, and if Dick had only stuck to it—but Dick never could. He got in with some mine promoters, and after that nothing would answer but that he must rush right back to Goldfield and look over some properties that were for sale dirt cheap. As though Dick would have been any wiser after he'd seen 'em! But his biggest piece of folly was in taking the little boy along with him."

"What! Away from his mother?" says Martha.

"Just like Dick," says Ballard. "They couldn't both leave the leasing business, and as she knew more about it than he did—well, that's the way they settled it. He persuaded her it would be a fine thing for the youngster. Huh! I came over on the same boat with them, and I want to tell you that little chap simply owned the steamer! Bright? Why, he was the cutest kid you ever saw,—red-headed, like his mother, and with his father's laugh. Spent most of his time on the bridge with the first officer, or down in the engine room with the chief. Dick never knew where he was half the time.

"He was for taking the boy out into the mining country with him too. I supposed he had until I got this frantic cable from Irene. They'd sent her word about Dick's sudden end,—he always did have a weak heart, you know,—and something about the high altitude got him. Went off like that. But Irene was demanding of me to tell her where the boy was. Of course I didn't know. I did my best to find him, hunted high and low. I traced Dick to Goldfield. No use. The boy was not with him when he went West. Where he had left him was a mystery that——"

Buz-z-z-z! goes the front doorbell, right in the middle of Mr. Ballard's story, and in comes Lizzie sayin' it's someone to see me. For a second I couldn't think who'd be huntin' me up here at this time of the evenin'. And then I remembered,—Dorsett.

"It—it's an uncle of mine," says I to Zenobia, "a reg'lar uncle."

"Why," says she, "I didn't know you had one."

"Me either," says I, "until the other day. He just turned up. Could I take him into the libr'y?"

"Of course," says Zenobia.

I was kind of sorry he'd come. I hadn't been so chesty over Uncle Bill at the office; but here, where things are sort of quiet and classy—well, I could see where he wouldn't show up so strong. Besides, I hadn't made up my mind just how I was goin' to turn down his proposition.

I towed him in, though. He was glancin' around the room approvin', and makin' a few openin' remarks, when the folks come strollin' out from the dinin'-room. I glances up, and sees Mr. Ballard just as he's about to pass the door. So does Dorsett. And, say, the minute them two spots each other things sort of hung fire and stopped. Dorsett he breaks short off what he's sayin', and Mr. Ballard comes to a halt and stands starin' in the room. Next I know he's pushed in, and they're facin' each other.

"Pardon me, Sir," says Ballard, "but didn't you cross with me on the Lucania once? And weren't you thick with Dick Ballard?"

Course I could see something coming right then; but I didn't know what it was. Mr. Dorsett's shifty eyes take another look at Ballard, and then he hitches uneasy in his chair.

"Rather an odd coincidence, isn't it?" says he. "Yes, I was on board that trip."

"Then you're one of the men I've been looking for a good many years," says Ballard. "You knew Dick very well, didn't you? Then perhaps you can tell me who he left that boy of his with when he went West?"

"Why, yes," says Dorsett, smilin' fidgety. "He—er—the fact is, he left him with me."

"With you, eh?" says Ballard. "I might have guessed as much. Well, Sir, where's the boy now?"

"Wha-a-at?" gasps Dorsett, lookin' from me to Mr. Ballard. "Where, did you say?"

"Yes, Sir," comes back Ballard snappy. "Where?"

More gasps from Dorsett. But he's good at duckin' trouble. With a wink at me and a chuckle he remarks: "Torchy, suppose you tell the gentleman where you are?"

Well, say, it was some complicated unravelin' we did durin' the next few minutes, believe me; but after Zenobia and Martha had been called in, and Dorsett has done some more of his smooth explainin', we all begun to see where we were at.

"Torchy," says Zenobia at last, "bring down from your room that little gold locket you've always had."

And when Mr. Ballard has opened it and held the picture under the readin' light, he winds up the whole debate as to who's who.

"It's Irene, of course," says he. "Poor girl! But she had her day, after all. Married a French army officer, you know, and for a while they were happy together. Then the war. He was dropped somewhere around Rheims, I believe. Then I heard of her doing volunteer work at a field hospital. She lasted a month or so at that—typhus, or a German shell, I don't know which. But she's gone too."

And me, I stands there, listenin' gawpy, with my eyes beginnin' to blur. It's Zenobia, you might know, who notices first. She steps over and gathers me in motherly. Not that I needs it, as I know of, but—well, it was kind of good to feel her arm around me just then.

"We'll find out all about it later; won't we, Torchy?" she whispers.

Meanwhile Mr. Ballard has swung on Dorsett. "So you were trying to pose as Uncle Bill, were you?" he demands. "Well, Sir, you're just about the caliber of man Dick would choose to put his trust in! But I'll bet a thousand you were not finding it so easy to fool his boy here! Going, are you? This way, Sir."

"At that, though," says I, as the door shuts after Dorsett, "he had me guessin'."

"Yes," says Mr. Ballard, "he would, any of us."

"And I don't see," I goes on, "as I got any fam'ly left, after all."

"You—you don't, eh, you young scamp?" says Mr. Ballard. "Well, as there's no doubt about your being my nephew's boy, I'd like to know why I don't qualify as a perfectly good great-uncle to you!"

"Why, that's so!" says I, grinnin' at him. "I—I guess you do. And, say, if you don't mind my sayin' so, you'll do fine!"

So what if Uncle Bill did turn out a ringer! He was more or less useful, even if he did gum up the plot there for a while. Uh-huh! Mighty useful! For there's nothin' phony about my new Uncle Kyrle, take it from me!



CHAPTER XIV

HOW AUNTY GOT THE NEWS

Say, I expect it ain't good form to get chesty over your relations, specially when they're so new as mine; but I've got to hand it to Mr. Kyrle Ballard. After three weeks' tryout he shapes up as some grand little great-uncle, take it from me!

First off, you know, I had him card indexed as havin' more or less tabasco in his temper'ment, with a wide grumpy streak runnin' through his ego. And he is kind of crisp and snappy in his talk, I'll admit. Strangers might think he was a grouch toter. But that's just his way. It's all on the outside. Back of that gruff, offhand talk and behind them bushy, gray eyebrows there's a lot of fun and good nature. One of the kind that's never seemed to grow up, Uncle Kyrle is, sixty-odd and still a kid; always springin' some josh or other, and disguisin' the good turns he does with foolish remarks. And to hear him string Aunt Martha along from one thing to another is sure a circus.

"Good morning, Sister Martha," says he, blowin' in to a late Sunday breakfast, all pinked up in the cheeks from a cold tub and a clean shave. "I trust that you begin the day with a deep conviction of sin?"

"Why, I—I suppose I do, Kyrle," says she, gettin' fussed. "That is, I try to."

"Good!" says Uncle Kyrle. "It is important that some one in this family should recognize that this is a sad and wicked world, with Virtue below par and Honest Worth going baggy at the knees. Zenobia here has no conviction of sin whatever. Mine is rather weak at times. So you, Martha, must do the piety for all of us. And please ring for the griddle cakes and sausage."

Then he winks at Zenobia, gives his grapefruit a sherry bath, and proceeds to tackle a hearty breakfast.

A few days after him and Zenobia got back from their runaway honeymoon trip he calls her to the front door. "There's a person out here who says he has a car for you," says he.

"Nonsense!" says Zenobia. "Why, I haven't ordered a car."

"The impudent rascal!" says Uncle Kyrle. "I'll send him off, then. The idea!"

"Oh, but isn't it a beauty?" says Zenobia, peekin' out. "Let's see what he says about it first."

So they go out to the curb, while Uncle Kyrle demands violent of the young chap in charge what he means by such an outrage. At which the party grins and shows the tag on the steerin' wheel.

"Why!" says Zenobia. "It has my name on it. Oh, Kyrle, you dear man! I've a notion to hug you."

"Tut, tut!" says he. "Such a bad example to set the neighbors! Besides, this young man may object. He has a Y. M. C. A. certificate as a first-class chauffeur."

That's the way he springs on Aunt Zenobia an imported landaulet, this year's model, all complete even to monogrammed laprobes and a morocco vanity case in the tonneau. It's one of these low-hung French cars, with an eight-cylinder motor that runs as sweet as the purr of a kitten.

Then here Sunday noon he takes me one side confidential. "Torchy," says he, "could you assist a poor but deserving citizen to retain the respect of his chauffeur!"

"Go on, shoot it," says I.

"Don't be rash, young man," says he, "for the situation is desperate. You see, Herman seems to think we ought to use the machine more than we do. Just to please him we have been whirled through thousands of miles of adjacent suburbs during the last week. Still Herman is unsatisfied. Would it be asking too much if I requested you to let him take you out for the afternoon?"

I gives him the grin. "Maybe I could stand it for this once," says I.

"Noble youth!" says he. "You deserve the iron cross. And should there be perchance anyone who could be induced to share your self-sacrifice——"

The grin plays tag with my ears. "How'd you guess?" says I.

Uncle Kyrle winks and pikes off.

So about two-thirty P.M. I'm landed at a certain number on Madison-ave. and runs jaunty up the front steps. I was hopin' Aunty would either be out or takin' her after-dinner nap. But when it comes to forecastin' her moves you got to figure on reverse English nine cases out of ten. And if ever you want a picture of bad luck to hang up anywhere, get a portrait of Aunty. Out? She's right on hand, as stiff and sour as a frozen dill pickle. Her way of greetin' me cordial as I'm shown into the drawin' room is by humping her eyebrows and passin' me the marble stare.

"Well, young man?" says she.

"Why," says I, "not so well as I was a couple of minutes—er—that it's a fine, spiffy afternoon, ain't it?"

"Spiffy!" says she, drawin' in her breath menacin'.

"Vassarese for lovely," says I. "But I don't insist on the word. By the way, is Miss Vee in?"

"She is," says Aunty. "This is not Friday evening, however."

"Ah, say!" says I. "Can't we suspend the rules and regulations for once? You see, I got a machine outside that's a reg'lar—well, it's some car, believe me!—and seein' how there couldn't be a slicker day for a spin, I didn't know but what you'd let Vee off for an hour or so."

"Just you and Verona?" demands Aunty, stiffenin'.

It was some pill to swallow, but after a few uneasy throat wiggles I got it down. "Unless," says I, "you—you'd like to go along too. You wouldn't, would you?"

Aunty indulges in one of them tight-lipped smiles of hers that's about as merry as a crack in a vinegar cruet. "How thoughtful of you!" says she. "However, I am not fond of motoring."

I don't know whether someone punctured an air cushion just then, or whether it was me heavin' a sigh of relief. "Ain't you?" says I. "But Vee's strong for it, and if you don't mind——"

"My niece is writing letters," says Aunty, "and asked not to be disturbed until after five o'clock."

"But in this case," I goes on, "maybe she'd sidetrack the letters if you'd send up word how——"

"Young man," says Aunty, settin' her chin firm, "I think you are quite aware of my attitude. Your persistent attentions to my niece are wholly unwelcome. True, you are no longer a mere office boy; but—well, just who are you?"

"Private sec. of Mutual Funding," says I.

"And a youth known as Torchy?" she adds sarcastic.

"Yes; but see here!" says I. "I've just dug up a——"

"That will do," she breaks in. "We have discussed all this before. And I've no doubt you think me simply a disagreeable, crotchety old person. Has it ever occurred to you, however, that you may have failed to get my point of view? Can you not conceive then that it might be somewhat humiliating to me to know that my maids suppress a smile as they announce—Mr. Torchy? Understand, I am not censuring you for being a nameless waif. No, do not interrupt. I realize that this is something for which you should not be held responsible. But can't you see, young man——"

"If I can't," I cuts in, "I need an eye doctor bad. I'll tell you what I'll do about this name business, though. I'm going to issue a white paper on the subject."

"A—a what?" says Aunty.

"Seein' you ain't much of a listener," says I, "I'll submit the case in writin'. You win the round, though. And if it don't hurt you too much, you might tell Vee I was here. You can use a bichloride of mercury mouth wash afterwards, you know."

Saying which, I does the young hero act, swings proudly on muh heel, and exits left center, leavin' Aunty speechless in her chair.

So Herman and me starts off all by our lonesome, swings into the Grand Boulevard and out through Pelham Parkway to the Boston Post Road. Deep glooms for me! Even the way we breezed by speedy roadsters don't bring me any thrills.

I was still chewin' over that zippy roast Aunty had handed me. Nameless waif, eh? Say, that's the rawest she'd ever stated it. Course I was fixed now to show her where she'd overdone the part; but somehow I couldn't seem to frame up any way of gettin' my fam'ly tree on record without seemin' to do it boastful. Besides, Aunty wouldn't take my word for Uncle Kyrle and all the rest. She'd want an affidavit, at least.

But I had made up my mind to have a talk with Vee. I hadn't had more'n a glimpse of her for weeks now, and while I might not feel like givin' her complete details of all that had happened to me recent, I thought I might drop an illuminatin' hint or so. Was I goin' to let a gimlet-eyed old dame with an acetic acid disposition block me off as easy as that?

"Herman," says I, "you can just drop me on Madison-ave. as we go down. And you better report at the house before you put up the machine. They may want to be goin' somewhere."

I'd heard Uncle Kyrle speak of promisin' to make a call on someone he'd met lately that he'd known abroad. As for me, I just strolls up and down two or three blocks, takin' a chance that Vee might drift out. But I sticks around near an hour without any luck.

"Huh!" says I to myself at last. "Might as well risk it again, and if I can't run the gate—well, swappin' a few more plain words with Aunty'll relieve my feelin's some, anyway."

With that I marches up bold and presses the button. "Say," says I to the maid, "don't tell me Aunty's gone out since I left!"

Selma shakes her head solemn as her mighty Swedish intellect struggles to surround the situation. "Meesis she dress by supper in den room yet," says she.

"Such sadness!" says I. "Maybe there's nobody but Miss Vee downstairs?"

"Ja," says Selma, starin' stupid. "Not nobody else but Miss Verona, no."

"You're a bright girl—from the feet down," says I, pushin' in past her. "Shut the door easy so as not to disturb Aunty, and I'll try to cheer up Miss Verona until she comes down. She's in the lib'ry, eh?"

Yep, I was doin' my best. We'd exchanged the greetin's of the season and was camped cozy in a corner davenport just big enough for two, while I was explainin' how tough it was not havin' her along for the drive, and I'd collected one of her hands casual, pattin' it sort of absent-minded, when—say, no trained bloodhound has anything on Aunty! There she is, standin' rigid between the double doors glarin' at us accusin'.

"So you returned after all that, did you?" she demands.

"I didn't know but you might want to tack on a postscript," says I.

"Young man," says she, just as friendly as a Special Sessions Judge callin' the prisoner to the bar, "you are quite right. And I wish to say to you now, in the presence of my niece, that——"

"Now, Aunty! Please!" breaks in Verona, shruggin' her shoulders expressive.

"Verona, kindly be silent," goes on Aunty. "This young person known as Torchy has——"

When in drifts Selma and sticks out the silver card plate like she was presentin' arms.

"What is it?" asks Aunty. "Oh!" Then she inspects the names.

For half a minute she stands there, glancin' from me to the cards undecided, and I expect if she could have electrocuted me with a look I'd have sizzled once or twice and then disappeared in a puff of smoke. But her voltage wa'n't quite high enough for that. Instead she turns to Selma and gives some quick orders.

"Draw these draperies," says she; "then show in the guests. As for you, young man, wait!"

"Gee!" I whispers, as we're shut in. "I wish I knew how to draw up a will."

Vee snickers. "Silly!" says she. "Whatever have you been saying to Aunty now?"

"Me?" says I. "Why, not much. Just a little chat about fam'ly trees and so on, durin' which she——"

Then the arrival chatter in the next room breaks loose, and I stops sudden, starin' at the closed portieres with my mouth open.

"Hello!" says I. "Listen who's here!"

"Who?" says Vee.

"That's so," says I. "You don't know 'em, do you? Well, this adds thickenin' to the plot for fair. Remember hearin' me tell of Aunt Zenobia and her new hubby? Well, that's 'em."

"How odd!" says Vee. "But—why, I've heard his voice before! It was at—oh, I know! The nice old gentleman who had the villa next to ours at Mentone."

"Ballard?" I suggests.

"That's it!" says Vee. "And you say he is——"

"My Uncle Kyrle," says I. "My reg'lar uncle, you know."

"Why, Torchy!" gasps Vee, grabbin' me by the arm. "Then—then you——"

"Listen!" says I. "Hear your Aunty usin' her comp'ny voice. My! ain't she the gentle, cooin' dove, though? Now they're gettin' acquainted. So this was where Uncle Kyrle spoke of callin'! Hot time he picked out for it, didn't he, with me here in the condemned cell? Say, what do you know about that, eh?"

Vee smothers another giggle, and slips one of her hands into mine. "Don't you care!" says she, whisperin'. "And isn't it thrilling? But what shall we do?"

"It's by me," says I. "Aunty told me to wait, didn't she? Well, let's."

Which we done, sittin' there sociable, and every now and then swappin' smiles as the conversation in the next room took a new turn.

Fin'lly Uncle Kyrle remarks: "You had your little niece with you then, didn't you?"

"Little Verona? Oh, yes," says Aunty. "She is still with me. Rather grown up now, though. I must send for her. Pardon me." And she rings for Selma.

Well, that queers the game entirely. Two minutes more, and Vee has been towed in for inspection and I'm left alone in banishment.

"Well, well!" I can hear Uncle Kyrle sing out. "Why, young lady, what right had you to change from a tow-headed schoolgirl into such a—Zenobia, please face the other way and don't listen, while I try to tell this radiant young person how utterly charming she has become. No, I can't begin to do the subject justice. Twenty or thirty years ago I might have had some success. Ah, me! Those gray eyes of yours, my dear, hold mischief enough to wreck a convention of saints. Ah, blushing, are you? Forgive me. I ought to know better. Let me tell you, though, I've a young nephew with a pair of blue eyes that might be a match for your gray ones. You must allow me to bring him up some day."

And I'd like to have had a glimpse of Vee's face just then. About there, though, Aunty breaks in.

"A nephew, Mr. Ballard?" says she.

"Poor Dick's boy," says he. "The one we hunted all over the States for after Dick took him on that wild goose chase from which he never came back. Let's see, you must have known the youngster's mother,—Irene Ballard."

"That stunning young woman with the copper-red hair whom you introduced at Palermo?" asks Aunty. "Is—is she——"

"No," says Uncle Kyrle. "Poor Irene! She was always doing something for someone, you know, and when this big war got under way—well, she went to the front at the first call from the Red Cross. I might have known she would. I suppose she simply couldn't bear to keep out of it—all that suffering, and so much help needed. No more skillful or efficient hands than hers, I'll wager, Madam, were ever volunteered, nor any braver soul. She was pure gold, Irene."

"And," puts in Aunty, "she was—er——"

Uncle Kyrle nods. "In a field hospital, under fire," says he, "late last September. That's all we know. Where do you think, though, I ran across that boy of hers? Found him at Zenobia's; found them both rather, at a theater. Sheer luck. For if you'll pardon my saying it, that youth is a nephew I'm going to be proud of some of these days unless I am——"

Say, this was gettin' a little too personal for me. I'd been shiftin' around uneasy for a minute or two, and about then I decided it wouldn't be polite to listen any longer. So I make a dash out the side door into the hall, not knowin' just what to do or where to go. And I bumps into Selma wheelin' in the tea wagon. That gives me a hunch.

"Say, Bright Eyes," says I, pushin' a dollar at her, "take this and ditch that tea stuff for a minute, can't you? Harken! There's goin' to be a new arrival at the front door in about a minute, and you must answer the bell. No, don't indulge in that open-face movement. Just watch me close!"

With that I clips past the drawin'-room entrance, opens the front door gentle, and gives the button a good long push. Then I slides back and digs up a card case that Aunt Zenobia has presented me with only a couple of days ago.

"Here!" says I. "Get out your plate and pass one of these to the Missus. That's it. Push it right on her conspicuous. Now! On your way!"

She's real quick at startin', Selma is, when she's shoved brisk from behind. And as she goes through the doorway I stretches my ear to hear what Aunty will say to the new arrival. And, believe me, if I'd given her the lines myself, she couldn't have done it better!

"Mr. Richard Taber Ballard?" says she, readin' the card. Then she turns to Uncle Kyrle. "Why, this must be some——"

"Eh?" says he. "Did you hear that, Zenobia? Torchy, you young rascal, come in here and explain yourself!"

"Torchy!" gasps Aunty. "Did—did you say—Torchy?"

"Anybody callin' for me?" says I, steppin' into the room with a grin on.

And to watch that stary look settle in Aunty's eyes, and see the purple tint spread back to her ears, was worth standin' for all the rough deals I'd ever had from her. At last I had her bumpin' the bumps! Sort of dazed she inspects the card once more, and then glances at me. Do you wonder? Richard Taber Ballard! I ain't got used to it myself.

"Here he is," says Uncle Kyrle jovial, draggin' me to the front, "that scamp nephew I was telling you about. The Richard is for his father, you know; the Taber he gets from his mother—also his red hair. Eh, Torchy? And this, young man, is Miss Verona."

He swings me around facin' her, and I expect I must have acted some sheepish. But trust Vee! What does she do but let loose one of them ripply laughs of hers. Then she steps up, pulls my head down playful with both hands, and looks me square in the eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me before, Torchy," says she, "that you had such a perfectly grand name as all that?"

"Huh!" says I. "A swell chance I've had to tell you anything, ain't I? But if the folks will excuse us for half an hour, I'll tell you all I know about a lot of things."

And, say, Aunty don't even glare after us as we slips through the draperies into the lib'ry, leavin' 'em to explain to each other how I come to be on hand so accidental. The only disturbance comes when Selma butts in pushin' the tea cart, and, just from force of habit, I makes a panicky breakaway. After she's insisted on loadin' us up with sandwiches and so forth, though, I slips my arm back where it fits the snuggest.

"Now, Sir," says Vee, "how are you going to hold your cup?"

"I'd be willin' to miss out on tea forever," says I, "for a chance like this."



CHAPTER XV

MR. ROBERT AND A CERTAIN PARTY

We was havin' a directors' meetin'. Get that, do you? We, you know! For nowadays, as private sec. and actin' head of Mutual Funding, I crashes into all sorts of confidential pow-wows. Uh-huh! Right in where they put a crimp in the surplus and make plots to slip things over on the Commerce Board! Oh my, yes! I'm gettin' almost respectable enough to be indicted.

Well, we'd just pared the dividend on common and was about breakin' up the session when Mr. Robert misses some figures on export clearances he'd had made up and was pawin' about on the table aimless.

"Didn't I see you stowin' that away in one of your desk pigeonholes yesterday?" I suggests.

"By George!" says he. "Think you could find it for me, Torchy? And, by the way, bring along my cigarettes too. You will find them in a leather case somewhere about."

I locates the export notes first stab; but the dope sticks ain't in sight. I claws through the whole top of the desk before I fin'lly discovers, shoved clear into a corner, a thin old blue morocco affair with a gold catch. By the time I gets back he's smokin' a borrowed brand and tosses the case one side.

Half an hour later the meetin' is over. Mr. Robert sighs relieved, bunches up a lot of papers in front of him, and begins feelin' absent-minded in his pockets. Seein' which I pushes the leather case at him.

"Ah, yes, thanks," says he, and snaps it open careless.

But no neat little row of paper pipes shows up. Inside is nothing but a picture, one of these dinky portraits on ivory—mini'tures, ain't they? It shows a young lady with a perky chin and kind of a quizzin' look in her eyes: not a reg'lar front row pippin', you know, but a fairly good looker of the highbrow type.

For a second Mr. Robert stares at the portrait foolish, and then he glances up quick to see if I'm watchin'. As it happens, I am, and blamed if he don't tint up over it!

"Excuse," says I. "Only leather case I could find. Besides, I didn't know you had any such souvenirs as this on your desk."

He chuckles throaty. "Nor I," says he. "That is, I'd almost forgotten. You see——"

"I see," says I. "She's one of the discards, eh?"

Sort of jolts him, that does. "Eh?" says he. "A discard? No, no! I—er—I suppose, if I must confess, Torchy, that I am one of hers."

"Gwan!" says I. "You? Look like a discard, don't you? Tush, tush!"

The idea of him tryin' to feed that to me! Why, say, I expect there ain't half a dozen bachelors in town that's rated any higher on the eligible list than Mr. Bob Ellins. It's no dark secret, either. I've heard of whole summer campaigns bein' planned just to land Mr. Robert, of house parties made up special to give some fair young queen a chance at him, and of one enterprisin' young widow that chased him up for two seasons before she quit.

How he's been able to dodge the net so long has puzzled more than me, and up to date I'd never had a hint that there was such a thing for him as a certain party. So I expect I was gawpin' some curious at the picture.

"Huh!" says I, but more or less to myself.

"Not intending any adverse criticism of the young lady, I trust?" remarks Mr. Robert.

"Far be it from me!" says I. "Only—well, maybe the paintin' don't do her justice."

"Rather discreetly phrased, that," says he, chucklin' quiet. "Thank you, Torchy. And you are quite right. No mere painter ever could do her full justice. While the likeness is excellent, the flesh tones much as I remember them, yet I fancy a great deal has escaped the brush,—the queer, quirky little smile, for instance, that used to come at times in the mouth corners, a quick tilting of the chin as she talked, and that trick of widening the eyes as she looked at you. China blue, I think her eyes would be called; rather unusual eyes, in fact."

He seems to be enjoyin' the monologue; so I don't break in, but just stands there while he gazes at the picture and holds forth enthusiastic. Even after he's finished he still sits there starin'.

"Gee!" says I. "It ain't a hopeless case, is it, Mr. Robert?"

Which brings him out of his spell. He shrugs his shoulders, indulges in an unconvincin' little laugh, snaps the case shut, and then tosses it careless down onto the table.

"Perhaps you failed to notice the dust," says he. "The back part of the bottom drawer is where that belongs, Torchy—or in the waste basket. It's quite hopeless, you see."

"Huh!" says I as I turns to go. And this time I meant to get it across to him.

Honest, I couldn't figure why a headliner like Mr. Robert, with all his good bank ratin', good fam'ly, and good looks to back him, should get the gate on any kind of a matrimonial proposition, unless it was a case of coppin' a Princess of royal blood, and even then I'd back him to show in the runnin'. Who was this finicky party with the willow-ware eyes, anyway? Queen of what? Or was it wings she was demandin'?



Say, I most got peeved with this unknown that had ditched Mr. Robert so hard. All that evenin' I mulls over it, wonderin' how long ago it had happened and if that accounted for him bein' so cagy in makin' social dates. Not that he's what you'd call skirt-shy exactly; but I've noticed that he's always cautious about bein' backed into a corner or paired off with any special one.

Course, not knowin' the details of the tragedy, it wa'n't much use speculatin'. And somehow I didn't feel like askin' for the whole story right out. You know—there's times when you just can't. I ain't any more curious than usual over this special case, either; but, seein' how many good turns Mr. Robert's done for me along the only-girl line, I got to wishin' there was some way I could sort of balance the account.

So when I stumbles across this concert folder it almost looks like a special act, with the arrow pointin' my way. I was payin' my reg'lar official Friday evenin' call. No, nothin' romantic. Just because Aunty's mellowed up a bit since I'm announced proper by the front door help as Mr. Ballard, don't get tangled up with the idea that she stands for any dark corner twosin'. Nothin' like that! All the lights are on full blast, Aunty's right there prominent with her crochet, and on the other side of the table is me and Vee. And I couldn't be behavin' more innocent if I'd been roped to the chair. All I was holdin' was a skein of yarn. Uh-huh! You see, Vee got the knittin' habit last winter, turnin' out stuff for the Belgians, and now she keeps right on; though who she's goin' to wish a pink and white shawl onto in this weather is a myst'ry.

"It's for a sufferer—isn't that enough?" says she.

"From what—chilblains on the ears?" says I.

"Silly!" says she. "There! Didn't I tell you to bend your thumbs? How awkward!"

"Who, me?" says I. "Why, for a first attempt I thought I was puttin' up a real classy performance. Say, lemme wind awhile, and let's see you try this yarn-jugglin' act."

She won't, though; so it's me sittin' there playin' dummy, with my arms held out stiff and my eyes roamin' around restless.

Which is how I happen to spot this folder with the halftone cut on it. It's been tossed casual on the table, and the picture is wrong side to from where I am; but even then there's something mighty familiar about it. I wiggles around to get a better view, and lets half a dozen loops of yarn slip off at a time.

"Stupid!" says Vee, runnin' her tongue out at me.

"Didn't I tell you you'd do better by drapin' it over a chair back?" says I. "But say, time out while I snoop into something. Who's the girl with the press notice stuff?" and I points an elbow at the halftone.

"That?" says she. "Oh, some concert singer, I think. Let's see. Yes—Miss Elsa Hampton. She's to give a benefit song recital in the Plutoria pink room for the Belgian war orphans, tickets two dollars. Want to go?" And Vee flips the folder into my lap.

Gettin' the picture right side to, I lets out a whistle. No mistakin' that. "Sure I want to go," says I.

"Why?" says Vee.

"Well, for one thing," says I, "she has china blue eyes that widen out when they look at you, and a queer, quirky little smile that——"

"How thrilling!" says Vee. "You must know her very well."

"Almost that," says I. "Anyway, I know someone that did know her very well—once."

"Oh!" says Vee, forgettin' all about the yarn windin' and hitchin' her chair up close. "That does sound interesting. I hope it isn't a deep secret."

"If it wa'n't," says I, "what would be the fun in tellin' it to you?"

"Goody!" says Vee. "Who is the poor man who knew her once but doesn't any more?"

"Whisper!" says I. "It's Mr. Bob Ellins!"

"Wha-a-at!" gasps Vee. "Do you really mean it?"

I'd pulled a sensation, all right, and for the next half-hour she keeps me busy tryin' to explain the details of a situation I hadn't more'n half sketched out myself.

"Kept a miniature of her on his desk!" Vee rattles on. "And it hadn't been opened for ever so long, you say? What makes you think it hadn't?"

"Dusty," says I.

"Oh!" says Vee. "Just fancy! And she must have given it to him herself—an ivory miniature, you know. Was—was there another man, do you think, or just some silly misunderstanding? I wonder?"

"I hadn't got in that deep," says I.

"But suppose it was," says Vee, "only a misunderstanding, wouldn't it be lovely if we could find some way of—of—well, why don't you suggest something?"

Did I? Say, we was plottin' so lively there for a spell, with our heads close together, that I can't tell for a fact which it was did get the idea first.

But, anyway, when I'm busy at the Corrugated next mornin', openin' the first batch of mail and sortin' the junk from the important letters, I laid the mine. All I had to do was pick out an envelope postmarked Madison Square, ditch the art dealers' card that came in it, and substitute this song recital folder, opened so the picture couldn't be missed. And when I stacks the letters on Mr. Robert's desk I tucks that one in second from the top. Some grand little strategy that, eh?

Then I keeps my ear stretched for any remarks Mr. Robert may unload when he makes the great discovery. But, say, when you try dopin' out such a complicated party as Mr. Bob Ellins you've tackled some deep proposition. Nothin' emotional about him, and although I'm sittin' only a dozen feet off, half facin' his way too, I don't get even the hint of a smothered gasp. Couldn't even tell whether he'd seen the picture or not, and by the time I works up an excuse to drift over by his elbow he's halfway through the pile.

"Nothin' startlin' in the mornin' run, eh?" I throws out.

"Oh, yes," says he. "Mallory reports that those St. Louis people have applied for another injunction. Ring up Bates, will you, and have him call a general council of our legal staff for two-thirty?"

"Right," says I. "Er—anything else, Mr. Robert?"

He simply shakes his head and dives into another letter. At that, though, I was lookin' for him to sound me out sooner or later on the picture business; but the forenoon breezes by without a word. By lunchtime I'm more twisted than ever. Had he glanced at the halftone without recognizin' her? Or was he just keepin' mum? Not until I gets a chance to explore the waste basket did I get any line. The folder wa'n't there. Neither was it on his desk. And all the hints I threw out durin' the day he don't seem to notice at all. So I didn't have much to tell Vee over the 'phone that night.

"Couldn't get a rise out of him at all," says I.

"But you're certain Miss Hampton is the one, are you?" says she.

"If she wa'n't," says I, "why should he keep the folder?"

"That's so," says Vee. "Then—then shall we do it?"

"I'm game if you are," says I.

"All right," says she, and I hears one of them ripplin' laughs of hers comin' over the wire. "It's to-morrow at half after three, you know."

"I'll be on hand," says I.

And, believe me, when I gets there and sees the swell mob collectin' in the pink ballroom, I'm some pleased with myself for gettin' that hunch to doll up in my frock coat and lavender tie. It's mostly a fluff audience; but there's enough of a sprinklin' of Johnnies and old sports so I don't feel too conspicuous.

Course I wa'n't lookin' forward to any treat. I ain't so strong for this recital stuff as a rule; but I was anxious to size up the young lady who'd thrown the harpoon into Mr. Robert so hard. Same way with Vee. So we edges through to a front seat and waits expectant.

And, say, what fin'lly glides out on the stage and bows offhand to the soft patter of kid gloves is only an average looker. She's simple dressed and simple actin'. No frills about Miss Hampton at all. Why, you might easy mistake her for one of the girl ushers!

"Pooh!" says Vee.

"Also pooh for me," says I.

More or less easy and graceful in her motions Miss Hampton is, though, I got to admit, as she stands there chattin' with the accompanist and lettin' them big blue eyes of hers rove careless over the crowd in front. They ain't the stary, baby blue sort, you know. China blue describes 'em best, I guess; and they're the calm, steady kind that it's sort of restful and fascinatin' to watch.

Almost before we know it she's stepped to the front and started in on the programme. Italian folk songs is what is down on the card, and she leads off with that swingin' rollickin' piece, "Santa Lucia." You've heard it, eh? That's some song, ain't it?

But, say, I never knew how much snap and go there was to it until I heard Miss Hampton trill it out. Why, she just tosses up that perky chin of hers and turns loose the catchy melody until you felt the warm waves splashin' and saw the moonlight dancin' across the bay! I don't know where or what this Santa Lucia thing is, but she most made me homesick to go back there. Honest! And if you think a set of odd-shaded blue eyes can't light up and sparkle with diff'rent expressions, you should have seen hers. When she finishes and springs that folksy, chummy sort of smile—well, take it from me, the hand she gets ain't any polite, halfway, for-charity's-sake applause. They just went to it strong, gloves or no gloves.

"Isn't she bully?" whispers Vee.

"Uh-huh!" says I. "We take back the pooh-poohs, eh?"

The next number was diff'rent, but just as good. At the finish of the fourth a wide old dame in the middle row unpins a cluster of orchids from her belt and aims 'em enthusiastic at the stage. Course they swats a dignified old boy three seats beyond me back of the ear; but that starts the floral offerings. I gets a quick nudge from Vee.

"Go on, Torchy," she whispers. "Do it now!"

We hadn't been sure first off that we'd have the nerve to carry the thing that far; but we'd come all primed. So I yanks the tissue paper off a dozen long-stemmed American beauts that I'd smuggled in under my coat, Vee ties on the card, and I tosses the bunch so accurate it lands almost on Miss Hampton's toes.

Course any paid performer would have been tickled to death to have a crowd break loose like that; but Miss Hampton acts a bit dazed by it all. For a second or so she stands there gazin' sort of puzzled, bitin' her upper lip. Then she springs that quirky, good-natured smile of hers, bows a couple of times, and proceeds to help the accompanist gather up the flowers and stack 'em on the piano.

When she comes to our big bunch she swoops it up graceful, and is about to pile it with the rest when her eyes must have caught the card. Just as easy and natural as if she'd been at home, she turns it over and reads the name.

And, say, for a minute there I thought we had bust up the show. Talk about goin' pink! Why, you could see the strawb'rry tint spread over her cheeks and up into her ears! Blamed if her eyes don't moisten up too, and she sweeps over the audience with a quick nervous glance, like she was tryin' to single someone out! She don't seem to know what to do next. Once she turns as if she meant to beat it into the wings; but as the applause simmers down the pianist strikes up the beginning of an encore. So she had to stick it out.

Her voice is more or less shaky at the start; but pretty soon she strikes her gait again and sings the last verse better than she had before. Then comes an intermission, and when Miss Hampton appears again she's wearin' that whole dozen roses pinned over her heart. Vee nudges me excited when she spots it.

"See, Torchy?" says she.

"Guess we've started something, eh?" says I.

Just what it was, though, we didn't know. I didn't get cold feet either, until the concert is all over and the folks begun swarmin' around the stage to pass over the hot-air congratulations.

But Miss Hampton wa'n't content to stand there quiet and take 'em. She seems to have something on her mind, and the next thing I knew she was pikin' down the steps right towards the middle aisle.

"Gee!" says I, grabbin' Vee by the arm. "Maybe she saw who passed 'em up. Let's do the quick exit."

We was gettin' away as fast as we could too, squirmin' through the push, when I looks over my shoulder and discovers that Miss Hampton is almost on our heels.

"Good-night!" says I.

Believe me, I was doin' some high-tension thinkin' about then, tryin' to frame up an alibi, when she reaches over my shoulder and holds out her hand to someone leanin' against a pillar. It's Mr. Robert.

"How absurd of you, Robert!" says she.

"Eh! I—I beg pardon?" I hears him gasp out.

And, say, I expect that's the first and only time I've ever seen him good and fussed. Why, he's flyin' the scarlatina signal clear to the back of his neck!

"The roses, you know," she goes on. "So nice of you to remember me. I—I thought you'd forgotten. Thank you for them."

"Roses?" says he husky, starin' stupid at the bunch.

Then he turns his head a bit, and his eyes light on me, strugglin' to slip behind a tall female party who's bein' helped into her silk wrap. I must have looked guilty or something; for he shoots me a crisp, knowin' glance.

"Oh, yes—the—the roses," I hears him go on. "It was silly of me, wasn't it? I—I'll explain some time, if I may."

"Oh!" says she. "Of course you may, if they really need explaining."

Which was the last we heard, as Vee had found an openin' into the corridor and was dashin' out panicky. You can bet I follows!

"Did—did you ever?" pants Vee as we gets out to the carriage entrance. "Now we have done it, haven't we?"

"And I'm caught with the goods on, I guess," says I.

"Just fancy!" says she. "Mr. Robert was there all the time. I wonder what he will——"

"Pardon me, you pair of mischief makers," says a voice behind, "but I haven't quite decided."

It's Mr. Robert!

"Hel-lup!" says I gaspy.

"Do I understand," he goes on, "that one of my cards went with those roses?"

"Yep," says I prompt. "Little idea of mine. I—I wanted to see what would happen."

"Really!" says he sarcastic. "Well, I trust that my part of the performance was quite satisfactory to you." And with that he wheels and marches off.

"Whiffo!" says I, drawin' in a long breath. "But he is grouched for fair, ain't he!"

All the sympathy I gets from Vee, though, is a chuckle. "Don't you believe a word of it," says she. "Just wait!"



CHAPTER XVI

TORCHY TACKLES A SHORT CIRCUIT

There was no use discountin' the fact, or tryin' to smooth it over. I was in Dutch with Mr. Robert—all because Vee and I tried to pull a little Cupid stunt for his benefit. I'd invested six whole dollars in that bunch of roses we'd passed up to Miss Hampton, too! And just because we thought it would be a happy hunch to tie in his card with 'em, he goes and gets peevish.

Not that he comes right out and roasts me for gettin' gay. Say, that would have been a relief; but he don't. He just lugs around a dignified, injured air and gives me the cold eye. Say, that's the limit, that is! Makes me feel as mean and little as a green strawb'rry on top of a bakery shortcake.

Three days I'd had of it, mind you, with never a show to put in any defense, or plead guilty but sorry, or anything like that. And me all the time hoping it would wear off. I expect it would too, if someone could have throttled Billy Bounce. Course nobody could, or it would have happened long ago. Havin' no more neck than an ice-water pitcher has been Billy's salvation all through his career.

Maybe you don't remember my mentionin' him before; but he's the roly-poly club friend of Mr. Robert's who went with us on that alligator shootin' trip up the Wiggywash two winters ago. Hadn't shown up at the Corrugated General Offices for months before; but here the other afternoon he breezed in, dumps his 220 excess into a chair by the roll-top, mops the heavy dew from various parts of his full-moon face, and proceeds to get real folksy.

At the time I was waitin' on the far side of the desk for Mr. Robert to O. K. a fundin' report, and there was other signs of a busy day in plain sight; but Billy Bounce ain't a bit disturbed by that. He'd come in loaded with chat.

"Oh, I say, Bob," he breaks out, after a few preliminary joshes, "who do you suppose I ran across up in the Fitz-William palm room the other night?"

"A head waiter," says Mr. Robert.

"Oh, come!" says Billy. "Give a guess."

"One of your front-row friends from the Winter Garden?" asks Mr. Robert.

"No, a friend of yours," says Billy. "That blue-eyed warbler you used to be so nutty over—Miss Hampton. Eh, Bob? How about it?" With which he reaches over playful and pokes Mr. Robert in the ribs.

I expect he'd have put it across just as raw if there'd been a dozen around instead of only me. That's Billy Bounce. About as much delicate reserve, Billy has, as a traffic cop clearin' up a street tangle.

"Indeed!" says Mr. Robert, flushin' a bit. "Clever of you to remember her. I—er—I trust she was charmed to meet you again?"

"The deuce you do!" comes back Billy. "Anyway, she wasn't as grouchy about it as you are. Say, she's all right, Miss Hampton is; a heap too nice for a big ham like you, as I always said."

"Yes, I believe I recall your hinting as much," says Mr. Robert; "but if you don't mind I'd rather not discuss——"

"You'd better, though," says Billy. "You see, I thought I had to drag you into the conversation. Asked her if she'd seen you lately. And say, old man, she's expecting you to call or something. Lord knows why; but she is, you know. Said you'd probably be up to-night. As much as asked me to pass on the word. Eh, Bob?

"Well, I've done it. S'long. See you at the club afterwards, and you can tell me all about it."

He winks roguish over his shoulder as he waddles out, leavin' Mr. Robert starin' puzzled over the top of the desk, and me with my mouth open.

And the next thing I know I'm gettin' the inventory look-over from them keen eyes of Mr. Robert's. "You heard, I suppose?" says he.

"Uh-huh," says I, sort of husky.

"And I presume you understand just what that means?" he goes on. "I am expected to call and explain about those roses."

"Well?" says I. "Why not stand pat? Sendin' flowers to a young lady ain't any penal offense, is it?"

"As a simple statement of an abstract proposition," says Mr. Robert, "that is quite correct; but in this instance the situation is somewhat more complicated. As a matter of fact, I find myself in a deucedly awkward position."

"That's easy," says I. "Lay it to me, then."

Mr. Robert shakes his head. "I've considered that," says he; "but sometimes the bald truth sounds singularly unconvincing. I'm sure it would in this case. If the young lady was familiar with all the buoyant audacity of your irrepressible nature, perhaps it would be different. No, young man, I fear I must ask you to do your own explaining."

"Me?" says I, gawpin'.

"We will call on Miss Hampton about four-thirty," says he.

And say, Mr. Robert has stacked me up against some batty excursions before now; but this billin' me for orator of the day when he goes to look up an old girl of his is about the fruitiest performance he'd ever sprung.

I don't know when I've ever seen him with a worse case of the fidgets, either. Why, you'd 'most think he was due to answer a charge of breakin' and enterin', or something like that! And you know he's some nervy sport, Mr. Robert—all except when it's a matter of skirts. Then he's more or less of a skittish party, believe me!

But at four-thirty we went. It wa'n't any joy ride we had, either. All the way up Mr. Robert sits there fillin' the limousine with gloom thick enough to slice. I tried chirkin' him up with a few frivolous side remarks; but they don't take, and I sighs relieved when we're landed at the apartment hotel where Miss Hampton lives.

"Say," I suggests, "you ain't goin' to lead me in by the ear, are you?"

"I'm not sure but that would be an appropriate entrance," says he. "However, it might appear a trifle theatrical."

"What's the programme, anyway?" says I, as we boards the elevator. "Do you open for the defense, or do I?"

"Hanged if I know!" he almost groans out. "I wish I did."

"Then let's stick around outside in the corridor here," says I, "until we frame up something. Now how would it do if——"

"You're to explain, that's all!" says he, steppin' up and pushin' the button.

It's a wonder too, from the panicky way he's actin', he don't shove me ahead of him for a buffer as we goes in. But he has just enough courage left to let me trail along behind.

So it's him gets the cordial greetin' from the vision in blue net that floats out easy and graceful from the window nook.

I couldn't see why it wa'n't goin' to be just as awkward for her, meetin' him again so long after their grand smash, or whatever it was; but, take it from me, there ain't any fussed motions about Miss Hampton at all. Them big china blue eyes of hers is steady and calm, her perky chin is carried well up, and in one corner of her mouth she's displayin' that quirky smile he'd described to me.

"Ah, Robert!" says she. "So good of you to——"

Then she discovers me and breaks off sudden.

I'm introduced reg'lar and formal, and Mr. Robert adds: "A young friend of mine from the office."

"Oh!" says Miss Hampton, liftin' her eyebrows a little.

"I brought him along," blurts out Mr. Robert, "to tell you about how you happened to get the roses."

"Really!" says she. "How considerate of you!"

And if Mr. Robert hadn't been actin' so much like a poor prune he'd have quit that line right there. But on he blunders.

"You see," says he, "I've asked Torchy to explain for me."

"Ye-e-es?" says she, bitin' her upper lip thoughtful and glancin' from one to the other of us. "Then—then you needn't have bothered to come yourself, need you?"

Say, that was something to lean against, wa'n't it? You could almost hear the dull thud as it reached him.

"Oh, I say, Elsa!" he gets out gaspy. "Of course I—I wished to come, too."

"Thank you," says she. "I wasn't sure. And now that you've brought him, may I hear what your young friend has to say, all by myself?"

She even springs another one of them twisty smiles; but her head nods suggestive at the door. I expects I starts a grin; but one glimpse of Mr. Robert's face and it fades out. He wa'n't happy a bit. For a minute he stands there lookin' sort of dazed, as if he'd been hit with a lead pipe, and with his neck and ears tinted up like a raspb'rry sundae.

"Very well," says he, and does a slow exit, leavin' me gawpin' after him sympathetic.

Not for long, though. My turn came as soon as the latch was clicked.

"Now, Torchy," says she, chummy and encouragin', as she slips into an old-rose armchair and waves me towards another.

I'm still gazin' at the door, wonderin' if Mr. Robert has jumped down the elevator shaft or is takin' it out on the lever juggler.

"Ah, say, Miss Hampton!" says I. "Why throw the harpoon so hasty when he was doin' his best?"

"Was he?" says she. "Then his best isn't very wonderful, is it?"

"But you didn't give him a show," says I. "Course it was a dippy play of his, luggin' me along, as I warned him. Believe me, though, he meant all right. There ain't any more yellow in Mr. Robert than there is in my tie. Honest! Maybe he don't show up brilliant when he's talkin' to ladies; but I want to tell you he's about as good as they come."

"Indeed!" says she, widenin' her eyes and chucklin' easy. "That is what I should call an unreserved indorsement. But about the roses, now?"

Well, I sketched the plot of the piece all out for her, from findin' her miniature accidental in Mr. Robert's desk, to the day of the concert, when she got the bunch with his card tied to it.

"I'll admit it was takin' a chance," says I; "but you see, Miss Hampton, when I was joshin' him as to whose picture it was he got so enthusiastic in describin' you——"

"Did he, truly?" she cuts in.

"Unless I don't know a Romeo gaze when I see one," says I. "And then, when I figures out that if you'd given him the chuck it might have been through some mistaken notion, why—well, come to talk it over with Vee, we thought——"

"Pardon me," says Miss Hampton, "but just who is Vee?"

"Eh?" says I, pinkin' up. "Why, in my case, she's the only girl."

"Ah-ha!" says she. "So you—er——"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "I've come near bein' ditched myself. And Mr. Robert he's helped out more'n once. So this looked like my cue to hand back something. We thought maybe the roses would kind of patch things up. Say, how about it, Miss Hampton? Suppose he hadn't boobed it this way, wouldn't there be a show of——"

"You absurd youth!" says she, liftin' both hands protestin', but failin' to smother that smile.

And say, when it's aimed straight at you so you get the full benefit, that's some winnin' smile of hers—sort of genuine and folksy, you know! It got me. Why, I felt like I'd been put on her list of old friends. And I grins back.

"It wa'n't a case of another party, was it?" says I.

She laughs and shakes her head.

"Or an old watch-dog aunt, eh?" I goes on.

"Whatever made you think of that?" says she.

"You ought to see the one that stands guard over Vee," says I. "But how was it, anyway, that Mr. Robert got himself in wrong with you?"

"How?" says Miss Hampton, restin' her perky chin on one knuckle and studyin' the rug pattern. "Why, I think it must have been—well, perhaps it was my fault, after all. You see, when I left for Italy we were very good friends. And over there it was all so new to me,—Italian life, our villa hung on a mountainside overlooking that wonderful blue sea, the people I met, everything,—I wrote to him, oh, pages and pages, about all I did or saw. He must have been horribly bored reading them. I didn't realize until—but there! We'll not go into that. I stopped, that's all."

"Huh!" says I.

"So it's all over," says she. "Only, when I thought he had sent the roses, of course I was pleased. But now that he has taken such pains to prove that he didn't——"

She ends with a shoulder shrug.

"Say, Miss Hampton," I breaks in, "you leave it to me."

"But there isn't anything to leave," says she, "not a shred! Sometime, though, I hope I may meet your Miss Vee. May I?"

"I should guess!" says I. "Why, she thinks you're a star! We both do."

"Thank you, Torchy," says she. "I'm glad someone approves of me. Good-by." And we shakes hands friendly at the door.

It was long after five by that time; but I made a break back to the office. Had to get the floor janitor to let me in. I was glad, though, to have the place to myself.

What I was after was a peek at some back letter files. Course I wa'n't sure he could be such a chump; but, knowin' somethin' about his habits along the correspondence line, I meant to settle the point. And, fishin' out Mr. Robert's personal book, I begun the hunt. I had the right dope, too.

"The lobster!" says I.

There it was, all typed out neat, "My Dear Miss Hampton." And dictated! Much as ten lines, too! It starts real chatty and familiar with, "Yours of the 16th inst. at hand," just like he always does, whether he's closin' a million-dollar deal or payin' a tailor's bill. He goes on to confide to her how the weather's beastly, business on the fritz, and how he's just ordered a new sixty-footer that he hopes will be in commission for the July regattas.

A hot billy-doo to a young lady he's supposed to be clean nutty over, one that had been sittin' up nights writin' on both sides of half a dozen sheets to him! I found four or five more just like it, the last one bein' varied a little by startin', "Yours of the 5th inst. still at hand." Do you wonder she quit?

If this had been a letter-writin' competition, I'd have thrown up both hands; but it wa'n't.

I'd seen Mr. Robert gazin' mushy at that picture of her, and I'd watched Miss Hampton when she was tellin' me about him. Only they was short-circuited somewhere. And it seemed like a blamed shame.

Half an hour more and I'd located Mr. Robert at his club.

He ain't very enthusiastic, either, when one of the doormen tows me into the corner of the loungin' room where he's sittin' behind a tall glass gazin' moody at nothin' in particular.

"I suppose you told her all about it!" says he.

"And then a few," says I.

"Well?" says he sort of hopeless.

"Verdict for the defense," says I. "I didn't even have to produce the florist's receipt."

"Then that's settled," says he, sighin'.

"You couldn't have made the job more complete if you'd submitted affidavits," says I. "And if you don't mind my sayin' so, Mr. Robert, when it comes to the Romeo stuff, you're ten points off, with no bids."

Course that gets a squirm out of him, like I hoped it would. But he don't blow out a fuse or anything. "Naturally," says he, "I am charmed to hear such a frank estimate of myself. But suppose I am simply trying to avoid the—the Romeo stuff, as you put it?"

"Gwan!" says I. "You're only kiddin' yourself. Come now, ain't you as strong for Miss Hampton as ever?"

He stiffens up for a second; but then his shoulders sag. "Torchy," says he, "your perceptions are altogether too acute. I admit it. But what's the use? As you have so clearly pointed out, this little affair of mine seems to be quite thoroughly ended."

"It is if you let things slide as they stand," says I.

"Eh?" says he, sort of eager. "You mean that she—that if——"

"Say," I breaks in, "do you want it straight from a rank amateur? Then here goes. You don't gen'rally wait to have things handed to you on a tray, do you? You ain't that kind. You go after 'em. And the harder you want 'em the quicker you are on the grab. You don't stop to ask whether you deserve 'em or not, either. You just stretch your fingers and sing out, 'Hey, that's mine!' And if somebody or something's in the way, you give 'em the shoulder. Well, that's my dope in this case. You ain't goin' to get a young lady like Miss Hampton by doin' the long-distance mope. You got to buck up. Rush her off her feet!"

"By Jove, though, Torchy," says he, bangin' his fist down on the table, "I believe you're right! And I do want her. I've been afraid to say it, that's all. But now——"

He squares his shoulders and sets his jaw solid.

"That's the slant!" says I. "And the sooner the quicker, you know."

"Yes, yes!" says he, jumpin' up. "Tonight! I—I'll write to her at once."

"Ah, squiffle!" says I, indicatin' deep disgust.

Mr. Robert gazes at me astonished. "I beg pardon!" says he.

"Don't be a nut!" says I. "Excuse me if I seem to throw out any hints, but maybe letter writin' ain't your long suit. Is it?"

"Why," says he, "I'm not sure, but I had an idea I could——"

"Maybe you can," says I; "but from the samples I've seen I should have my doubts. You know this 'Yours of the steenth just received' and so on may do for vice-presidents and gen'ral managers; but it's raw style to spring on your best girl. Take it from me, sizzlin' sentiments that's strained through a typewriter are apt to get delivered cold."

"But I'm not good at making fine speeches, either," he protests.

"You ain't exactly tongue-tied, though," says I. "And you ain't startin' out on this expedition with both arms roped behind you, are you?"

For a minute he stares at me gaspy, while that simmers through the oatmeal.

Then he chuckles. "Torchy," says he, givin' me the inside-brother grip, "there's no telling how this will turn out, but I—I'm going up!"

I stayed long enough to see him start, too.

Then I goes home, not sure whether I'd set the scene for an ear cuffin', or had plugged him in on a through wire.



CHAPTER XVII

MR. ROBERT GETS A SLANT

It's all wrong, Percy, all wrong. Somebody's been and rung in a revise on this Romeo dope, and here we find ourselves tryin' to make the Cupid Express on a canceled time-card. What do I mean—we? Why, me and Mr. Robert. Ah, there you go! No, not Miss Vee. She's all right—don't worry. We're gettin' along fine, Vee and me; that is, so far as we've gone. Course there's 'steen diff'rent varieties of Vee; but I'm strong for all of 'em. So there's no room for tragedy there.

But when it comes to this case of Mr. Robert and a certain party!

You see, after I've sent him back to Miss Hampton loaded up with all them wise hints about rushin' her off her feet, and added that hunch as to rememberin' that he has a pair of arms—well, I leave it to you. Ain't that all reg'lar? Don't they pass it out that way in plays and magazines? Sure! It's the hero with the quick-action strong-arm stuff that wins out in the big scene. So why shouldn't it work for him?

I could tell, though, by the rugged set of his jaw as he marches into the private office next mornin', that it hadn't. I expect maybe he'd just as soon not have gone into the subject then, with me or anyone else; but so long as he'd sort of dragged me into this fractured romance of his I felt like I had a right to be let in on the results. So I pivots round and springs a sympathetic grin.

"Did you pull it?" says I.

He shrugs his shoulders kind of weary. "Oh, yes," says he. "I—er—I pulled it."

"Well?" says I, steppin' over and leanin' confidential on the roll-top.

"Torchy," says he, "please understand that I am in no way censuring you. You—you meant well."

"Ah, say, Mr. Robert!" says I. "Not so rough. I only gave you the usual get-busy line, and if you went and——"

"Wasn't there some advice," he breaks in, "about using my arms?"

"Eh?" says I, gawpin' at him. "You—you didn't open the act by goin' to a clinch, did you?"

He lets his chin drop and sort of shivers. "I'm afraid I did," says he.

"Z-z-z-zingo!" I gasps.

"You see, the part of your suggestions which impressed me most was something to that effect, as I recall it. And then—oh, the deuce take it, I lost my head! Anyway, the next I knew she was in my arms, and I—I was——" He ends with a shoulder shrug and spreads out his hands. "I thought you ought to know," he goes on, "that it isn't being done."

"But what then?" says I. "Did she hand you one?"

"No," says he. "She merely slipped away and—and stood laughing at me. She hardly seemed indignant: just amused."

"Huh!" says I, starin' puzzled. "Then she ain't like any I ever heard of before. Now accordin' to dope she'd either——"

"Miss Hampton is not a conventional young woman," says he. "She made that quite plain. It seems, Torchy, that your—er—that my method was somewhat crude and primitive. In fact, I believe she pointed out that the customs of the Stone Age were obsolete. I was given to understand that she was not to be won in any such manner. Perhaps you can imagine that I was not thoroughly at ease after that."

And, honest, I'd never seen Mr. Robert when he was feelin' so low.

"Gee!" says I. "You didn't quit at that, did you?"

"Unfortunately no," says he. "Our caveman tactics having failed, I tried the modern style—at least, I thought I was being modern. The usual thing, you know."

"Eh?" says I. "Both knees on the rug and the reg'lar conservatory nook wilt-thou-be-mine lines?"

"I spoke my piece standing," says he, "making it as impassioned and eloquent as I knew how. Miss Hampton continued to be amused."

"Did you get any hint as to what was so funny about all that?" says I.

"It appears," says Mr. Robert, "that impassioned declarations are equally out of date—early-Victorian, to quote Elsa exactly. Anyway, she gave me to understand that while my love-making was somewhat entertaining, it was hopelessly medieval. She very kindly explained that undying affection, tender devotion, and the protection of manly arms were all tommyrot; that she really didn't care to be enshrined queen of anyone's heart or home. She wishes to avoid any step that may hinder the development of her own personality. You—er—get that, I trust, Torchy?"

"Clear as mush," says I. "Was it just her way of handin' you the blue ticket?"

"Not quite," says Mr. Robert. "That is, I'm a little vague as to my exact status myself. I assume, however, that I've been put on probation, as it were, until we become better acquainted."

"And you're standin' for that, Mr. Robert!" says I.

He hunches his shoulders. "Miss Hampton has taught me to be humble," says he. "I don't pretend to understand her, or to explain her. She is a brilliant and superior young person. She has, too, certain advanced ideas which are a bit startling to me. And yet, even when she's hurling Bernard Shaw or H. G. Wells at me she—she's fascinating. That quirky smile of hers, the quick changes of expression that flash into those big, china-blue eyes, the sudden lift of her fine chin,—how thoroughly alive she is, how well poised! So I—well, I want her, that's all. I—I want her!"

"Huh!" says I. "Suppose you happened to get her? What would you——"

"Heaven only knows!" says he. "The question seems rather, what would she do with me? Hence the probation."

"Is this going to be a long-distance tryout," says I, "with you reportin' for inspection every other Tuesday?"

He says it ain't. Miss Hampton's idea is to shelve the matrimony proposition and begin by seein' if they can qualify as friends. She shows him how they'd never really seen enough of each other to know if they had any common tastes.

"So I am to go with her to a few concerts, art exhibits, lectures, and so on," says he, "while she has consented to try a week-end yachting cruise with me. We start Saturday; that is, if I can make up a little party. But I don't just know whom to ask."

"Pardon me if I seem to hint," says I, "but what's the matter with brother-in-law Ferdie and Marjorie, with Vee and me thrown in for luck?"

"By Jove!" says he, brightenin' up. "Would you? And would Miss Vee?"

"Maybe we could stand it," says I.

"Done, then!" says he. "I'll 'phone Marjorie at once."

And you should have watched Mr. Robert for the next few days. Talk about consistent trainin'! Why, he quits goin' to the club, cuts out his lunch-hour, and reports at the office at eight-thirty. Not for business, though: Bernard Shaw. Seems he's decided to specialize in Shaw.

Honest, I finds him one noon with a whole tray of lunch gettin' cold, and him sittin' there with his brow furrowed up over one of them batty plays.

"Must be some thrillin'," says I.

"It's clever," says he; "but hanged if I know what it's all about! I must find out though—I must!"

He didn't need to state why. I could see him preparin' to swap highbrow chat with Miss Hampton.

Meanwhile he barely takes time to 'phone a few orders about gettin' the cruisin' yawl ready for the trip. I hear him ring up the Captain, tell him casual to hire a cook and a couple of extra hands, provision for three or four days, and be ready to sail Saturday noon. Which ain't the way he usually does it, believe me! Why, I've known him to hold up a directors' meetin' for an hour while he debated with a yacht tailor whether a mainsail should be thirty-two foot on the hoist, or thirty-one foot six. And instead of shippin' up cases of mineral water and crates of fancy fruit, he has them blamed Shaw books packed careful and expressed to Travers Island, where the boat is.

We was to meet there about noon; but it's after eleven before Mr. Robert shuts his desk and sings out to me to come along. We piles into his roadster and breezes up through town and out towards the Sound. Found the whole party waitin' for us at the club-house: Vee and Marjorie and Miss Hampton, all lookin' more or less yachty.

"Hello!" says Mr. Robert. "Haven't gone aboard yet?"

"Go aboard what, I'd like to know?" speaks up Marjorie.

"Why, the Pyxie," says he. "See, there she is anchored off—well, what the deuce! Pardon me for a moment."

With that he steps over to a six-foot megaphone swung from the club veranda and proceeds to boom out a few remarks.

"Pyxie ahoy! Hey, there! On board the Pyxie!" he roars.

No response from the Pyxie, and just as he's startin' to repeat the performance up strolls one of the float tenders and hands him a note which soon has him gaspy and pink in the ears. It's from his fool captain, explainin' how that rich uncle of his in Providence had been taken very bad again and how he had to go on at once. The message is dated last Wednesday. Course, there's nothing for Mr. Robert to do but tell the crowd just how the case stands.

"How absurd—just an uncle!" pouts Marjorie. "Now we can't go cruising at all, and—and I have three pairs of perfectly dear deck shoes that I wanted to wear!"

"Really!" says Mr. Robert. "Then we'll go anyway; that is, if you'll all agree to ship as a Corinthian crew. What do you say?" And he glances doubtful at Miss Hampton.

"I'm sure I don't know what that means," says she; "but I am quite ready to try."

"Oh, let's!" says Vee, clappin' her hands. "I can help."

"And Ferdie is a splendid sailor," chimes in. Marjorie. "He's crossed a dozen times."

"Then we're off," says Mr. Robert.

And inside of ten minutes the club launch has landed us, bag and baggage, on the Pyxie.

She's a roomy, comf'table sort of craft, with a kicker engine stowed under the cockpit. There's a couple of staterooms, plenty of bunks, and a good big cabin. We leaves the ladies to settle themselves below while Mr. Robert inspects things on deck.

"Plenty of gasoline, thank goodness!" says he. "And the water butts are full. We can touch at Greenwich for supplies. Now let's get sail on her, boys."

And it was rich to see Ferdie, all gussied up in yellow gloves, throwin' his whole one hundred and twenty-three pounds onto a rope. Say, about all the yachtin' Ferdie and me had ever done before was to stand around and look picturesque. But this was the real thing, and it comes mighty near bein' reg'lar work, take it from me.

But by the time the girls appeared we had yanked up all the sails that was handy, and the Pyxie was slanted over, just scootin' through the choppy water gay and careless, like she was glad to be tied loose.

"Isn't this glorious?" exclaims Miss Hampton, steadying herself on the high side and glancin' admirin' up at the white sails stretched tight as drumheads.

I expect that should have been Mr. Robert's cue to shoot off something snappy from Bernard Shaw; but just about then he's busy cuttin' across in front of a big coastin' schooner, and all he remarks is:

"Hey, Torchy! Trim in on that main sheet. Trim in, you duffer! Pull! That's it. Now make fast."

Nothin' fancy about Mr. Robert's yachtin' outfit. He's costumed in an old pair of wide-bottomed white ducks some splashed with paint, and with his sleeves rolled up and a faded old cap pulled down over his eyes he sure looks like business. I could see Miss Hampton glancin' at him sort of curious.

But he don't have time to glance back; for we was zigzaggin' up the Sound, dodgin' steamers and motor-boats and other yachts, and he was keepin' both eyes peeled. Every now and then too something had to be done in a hurry.

"Ready about!" he'd call. "Now! Hard alee! Leggo that jib sheet—you, Ferdie. Slack it off. Now trim in on the other side. Flatter. Oh, haul it home!"

And I expect Ferdie and me wa'n't any too much help.

"Why, I never knew that yachting could be so exciting," says Miss Hampton. "It's really quite a game, isn't it?"

"Especially with a green crew," says Mr. Robert.

"But what a splendid breeze!"

"It'll be fresh enough by the time we open up Captain's Island," says he. "Just wait!"

Sure enough, as we gets further up the Sound the harder it blows. The waves got bigger too, and begun sloppin' over the bow, up where Ferdie was managin' the jib.

"Oh, I say!" he sings out. "I'm getting all splashed, you know."

"Couldn't he have an umbrella?" asks Marjorie.

"Please," puts in Vee, "let me handle the jib sheets. I've sailed a half-rater, and I don't mind getting wet, not a bit."

"Then for the love of soup go forward and send Ferdie aft!" says Mr. Robert. "Quick now! I'm coming about again. Hard alee!"

"How wonderful!" says Miss Hampton as she watches Vee juggle the ropes skillful. "I wish I could do that!"

"Do you?" says Mr. Robert eager. "Perhaps you'll let me teach you how to sail. Would you like to try the wheel? Here! Now this way puts her off, and the other brings her up. See?"

"N-n-not exactly," says Miss Hampton, grippin' the spokes gingerly.

It wa'n't any day, though, for a steerin' lesson. Most of the time the deck was on quite a slant, which seems to amuse Miss Hampton a lot.

"How odd!" says she. "We're sailing almost on edge, aren't we? Isn't it glorious!"

Mr. Robert don't seem to be so enthusiastic. He keeps watching the sails and the water and rollin' the wheel constant.

"I suppose we really ought to get some of this canvas off her," says he. "Ferdie, could you help tie in a reef?"

"I—I don't know, I'm sure," says Ferdie. "I think perhaps——"

"This wouldn't be a thinking job," says Mr. Robert. "Of course I might douse the mainsail altogether and run under jib and jigger; but—no, I guess she'll carry it. Ease off on that main sheet a trifle, Torchy."

We was makin' a straight run for it now, slap up the Sound—and believe me we was breezin' along some swift! Vee had come back with the rest of us, her hair all sparkled up with salt spray and her eyes shinin', and shows me how to coil up the slack of the sheet like a doormat. On and on we booms, with the land miles away on either side.

"But see here!" protests Ferdie. "I thought we were to stop at Greenwich for provisions."

"Make in there against this head wind?" says Mr. Robert. "Not to-day."

It's comin' in heavy puffs now, and the sky is cloudin' up some. Two or three times Mr. Robert heads the Pyxie up into it and debates about takin' in the mainsail. Then he decides it would be better to square off and make for some cove he knows of on the north shore of Long Island. So we let out the sheet a bit more and go plungin' along.

Must have been about four o'clock when it got to blowin' hardest. A puff would hit us and souse the bow under, with the spray flyin' clear over us. We'd heel until the water was runnin' white along the lee deck from bow to stern. Then it would let up a bit, and the yacht would straighten and sort of shake herself before another came.

"I think we'll have to slack away on our peak and spill some of this over the gaff," says Mr. Robert. "Torchy, stand by that halyard, and when I give the word——"

Cr-r-r-rack! It come mighty abrupt. For a minute I can't make out what has happened; but when I sees the mast stagger and go lurchin' overboard, sail and all, I thought it was a case of women and children first.

"Oh, dear! How dreadful of you, Robert!" wails Ferdie. "We're wrecked! Help! Help!"

"Oh, dry up, Ferdie!" says Mr. Robert. "No hysterics, please. Can't we lose a mast or so without gettin' panicky? Just a weak turn-buckle on the weather stay, that's all. Here, Vee, take the wheel, will you, and see if you can keep her headed into it while we chop away this wreckage. Torchy, you'll find a couple of axes over the forward lockers. Get 'em up. Lively, now!"

We hacked away reckless, choppin' through wire stays and ropes, until we has it all clear. Then we trims in the jigger and gets away from it. Two minutes later and we've got the engine started and are wallowin' along towards land. It was near six before we made the cove and anchored in smooth water behind a little point.

Meanwhile the girls had gone below to explore the galley, and when we fin'lly makes everything snug, and trails on down into the cabin to see how they're comin' on, what do we find but the table all set and Marjorie fillin' the water glasses. Also there's a welcome smell of food driftin' about.

"Well, well!" says Mr. Robert. "Found something to eat, did you? What's the menu?"

"Smothered potatoes with salt pork, baked beans, hard-tack, and coffee," says Marjorie. "Here it comes."

And, say, maybe that don't sound so thrillin' to you, but to me it listens luscious.

"By Jove!" says Mr. Robert, after he's sampled the layout. "Who's the cook!"

Vee says it was Miss Hampton.

"Wha-a-at?" says he, starin'. "Not really?"

Miss Hampton comes back at him with that quirky smile of hers. "Why the intense surprise?" says she.

"But I didn't dream," says Mr. Robert, "that you ever did anything so—er——"

"Commonplace?"

"Early-Victorian," he corrects.

"Cook?" says she. "Oh, dear, yes! I can wash dishes, too."

"Can you?" says he. "I'm fine at wiping 'em."

"Such conceit!" says she.

"Then I'll prove it," says he, "right after dinner."

"I'll help you, Robert," says Marjorie.

"My dear sister," says he, "please consider the size of the Pyxie's galley."

So, as there didn't seem to be any more competition, after we'd finished everything in sight we left the two of 'em joshin' away merry, doin' the dishes. Later on, while Ferdie's pokin' around, he makes a discovery.

"Oh, I say, Bob," he calls down, "there's a box up here that hasn't been opened. Groceries, I think. Come have a look at it."

Mr. Robert he takes one glance and turns away disgusted. "No," says he. "I know what's in there. No use at all on this trip." Then, as he passes me he whispers: "I say, when you get a chance, chuck that box overboard, will you?"