"Why, Torchy!" says she, sort of purry and confidential. "You!" And blamed if she wa'n't holdin' out both hands.

Well, say, you can't imagine what a diff'rence that makes to me. It was like fallin' off a roof and landin' in a hammock. What did I care for that push of young lady fluffs then?

"Sure thing, it's me," says I, grabbin' the hands before she could change her mind. "Say, have a seat, won't you, Miss Vee?"

"Oh, then you haven't forgotten?" says she.

"Me? Forget?" says I. "Say, Miss Vee, I'll keep right on rememberin' that spiel we had together until breathin' goes out of fashion—and then some! Gee! but I'm glad you happened along!"

"But how is it," says she, "that you——"

"Special commission," says I. "I'm waitin' here for Mr. Robert Ellins."

"Oh!" says she. "And have you had some salad and sandwiches?"

"No; but I'm ready for 'em now," says I. "That is, if——Say, you don't mind doin' this, do you?"

"Why should I?" says she.

"Oh, well," says I, "you see I ain't—well, I'm kind of outclassed here, and I didn't know but some of the other girls might——"

"Let them dare!" says Miss Vee, straightenin' up and glancin' around haughty. My! but she's a thoroughbred! There was one group standin' a little way off watchin' us; but that look of Miss Vee's scattered 'em as though she'd turned the hose on them. Next minute she was smilin' again. "You see," she goes on, sittin' close, "I'm not much afraid."

"You're a hummer, you are!" says I, lookin' her over approvin'.

"There, there!" says she. "I see that you must have something to eat right away. Here, Hortense! There! Now you'll have a cup of tea, won't you?"

"Anything you pass out goes with me," says I, "even to tea."

It was my first offense in the oolong line, and, honest, I couldn't tell now how it tasted; but I knew all about how Vee handles a cup and saucer, though, and the way she has of lookin' at you over the rim. Say, she's the only girl I ever knew who could talk more'n a minute to a feller without the aid of giggles. There's some sense to what she has to say, too, and all the way you can tell whether she's joshin' or not is by watchin' her eyes. And me, I wa'n't losin' any tricks.

She tells me all about how she's been to school here ever since she was a little girl. Seems she's as shy on parents as I am; but she has an aunt that she lives with between school terms. This is her finishin' year, and as soon as the final doin's are over she and Aunty are due to sail for Europe.

"Coming back in September?" says I.

"Oh, no indeed!" says she. "Perhaps not for two years."

"Gee!" says I.

"Well?" says she, and I finds myself lookin' square into them big gray eyes of hers.

"Oh, nothing," says I; "only—only it sounds a long ways off. And, say, you don't happen to have a spare photo, do you, maybe one taken in that dress you wore the night of the ball?"

"Silly!" says she. "But suppose I have?"

"Why," says I,—"why, I thought—well, say, it wouldn't do any harm to leave my new address, would it! That's the number, care of Mrs. Zenobia Preble."

"Zenobia!" says she. "Why, I know who she is. Do you live with——"

"I'm half adopted already," says I. "Bully old girl, ain't she? And say, Miss Vee——"

It was just about then I had the feelin' that some one was tryin' to butt in on this two-part dialogue of ours, and as I looks up, sure enough there's Mr. Robert, with his eyes wide and his mouth half open, watchin' us.

"Well, it's all over," says I. "Mr. Robert's waitin' for me. Good luck and—and——Oh, what's the use? Give my regards to Europe, will you? Good-by!" And with that we shakes hands and I breaks away.

"I don't wish to seem curious," says Mr. Robert, as we walks out to his cab, "but—er—is this something recent?"

"Not very," says I. "We've met before."

"Then allow me," says he, "to congratulate you on your good taste."

"Thanks!" says I. "Same to you; and I ain't got so much on you at that, eh?"

We drops the subject there; but Mr. Robert seems so pleased over something or other that we'd gone twenty blocks before he remembers what brought me up.

"Oh, by the way," says he, "I suppose there'll be no end of row about my forgetting to send down those contracts. The Governor was wild, wasn't he?"

"He was wild, all right," says I, "without knowin' whether you'd forgot 'em or not."

"But when you 'phoned him," says Mr. Robert, "of course he——"

"Ah, say!" says I. "Do I look like a trouble hunter? I 'phoned Piddie—told him to sneak 'em out, send 'em down, and keep his mouth shut. All you got to do is act innocent."

Never mind the hot air Mr. Robert passes out after that. What tickles me most is the package that came for me yesterday by messenger. I finds it on my plate at dinner time; so both the old ladies was on hand when I opens it.

"Why, Torchy!" says Aunt Martha, lookin' at me shocked and scandalized. "A young lady's picture!"

"Yep," says I. "Ain't she a dream, though?"

And, say, Martha'd been lecturin' me yet if it hadn't been for Zenobia breakin' in.

"Do remember, Martha," says she, "that you were not always sixty-three years old, and that once——Why, bless me! This must be Alicia Vernon's child. Is there a name on the back? There is! Verona Ashton Hemmingway, heiress to all that is left of poor Dick's fortune. She's a beauty, just like her mother."

"She's all of that," says I.

It didn't make any diff'rence to Aunt Martha who she was, though. She didn't think it right for young ladies to give away their pictures to young men. She was for askin' me how long I'd known Miss Vee, and——

"There, now, Martha," said Zenobia, "suppose we don't."

That's how it is I can guess who it was blew themselves for a corkin' big silver frame, and put Vee's picture in it, and stood it on my bureau. Course, Vee's on her way to foreign parts now, and there's no tellin' when she's comin' back. Besides, there ain't anything in it, anyway. But somehow that picture in the silver frame seems to help some.



CHAPTER XV

BATTING IT UP TO TORCHY

Nobody had to point him out to me. I hadn't been holdin' down the chair behind the brass gate more'n two days before I knew who was the living joke on the Corrugated Trust Company's force. It's Uncle Dudley, of course.

And, say, my coppin' that out don't go to prove I'm a Mr. Cute. Any mush-head could have picked him after one glimpse of the old vintage Prince Albert, the back number silk lid, and the white Chaunceys he wears on each side of his face. That get-up would be good for a quiet smile even over in Canarsie; but when you come to plant it in the midst of such a sporty aggregation as the Corrugated carries on the payroll—why, you've got the comic chuckles comin' over fast.

"Say, Piddie," says I the second morning, after watchin' it blow in, "who's the seed, eh?"

"That?" says Piddie. "Oh, that's old Dudley."

"Does he wear the uniform reg'lar," says I, "or is he celebratin' some anniversary?"

And Piddie almost allows himself to grin as he explains how that's the same costume Dudley has come down to work in every day for the last fifteen years.

"Well, it's a flossy outfit, all right," says I. "What is he, one of the directors?"

No, he wa'n't. He's some sort of subassistant auditor with a salary of eighteen per. You know the kind—one of these deadwood specimens that stand a show of gettin' the prunin' hook every time there's a shake-up. Most every office has a few of 'em, hangin on like last year's oak leaves in the park; but it ain't often they can qualify as comic supplements.

Not that Uncle Dudley tries to be humorous. He's the quietest, meekest old relic you ever saw, slidin' in soft and easy with his hat off, and walkin' almost as though he had his shoes in his hand. But the faded umbrella under one arm and the big buttonhole bouquet he always wears puts him in the joke book class without takin' the face lambrequins into account at all.

Can I let all that get by me without passin' out some josh? You can see me, can't you? Never mind all the bright and cunnin' remarks I sprung on Uncle Dudley now; but for awhile there I made a point of puttin' over something fresh every day. Why, it was a cinch!

All the comeback I ever got out of him, though, was that batty old smile of his, kind of sad and gentle, as if I was remindin' him of times gone by. And there ain't a lot of satisfaction in that, you know. Now, I can chuck the giddy persiflage at Piddie day in and day out, and enjoy doin' it, because it always gets him so wild. Also there's more or less thrill to slippin' the gay retort across to Old Hickory Ellins now and then, because there's a giddy chance of gettin' fired for it. But to rub it into a non-resister like Uncle Dudley—well, what's the use?

So after awhile I cut it out altogether, leavin' him for such amateur cut-ups as Izzy Budheimer and Flannel Haggerty to practice on. Then little by little me and old Dudley got more or less chummy, what with me steerin' him around to my fav'rite dairy lunch joint and all that. And, say, we must have been a great pair, sittin' side by side in the armchairs, puttin' away sweitzer sandwiches and mugs of chickory blend; him in his tall lid, and with his quiet, old timy manners, and me—well, I guess you get the tableau.

I used to like hearin' him talk, he uses such a soothin', genteel brand of conversation; nothing fancy, you know, but plain, straightaway goods. Mostly he tells me about his son, who's livin' out in California somewhere and is just branchin' out in the cement block buildin' business. Son is messin' in politics more or less too; mixin' it up with the machine, and gettin' the short end of the returns every trip. But it's on account of this reform stunt of his that the old gent seems to be so proud of him, not appearin' to care whether he ever got elected to anything or not.

He don't say so much about the married daughter that he lives with over in Jersey; but I don't think much about that until after I've let him tow me over to dinner once and met Son in Law Bennett. He's a flashy proposition, this young Mr. Bennett is, havin' an interest in a curb brokerage firm that rents window space on Broad-st. and has desk room down on William. Let him tell it, though, and, providin' some of his deals go through, he's goin' to have Morgan squealin' for help before the year is out.

And I find that at home Uncle Dudley is rated somewhere between the fam'ly cat and the front doormat. Mr. Bennett don't exactly gag the old man and lock him in the cellar. He ignores him when he can, and when he has to notice him he makes it plain that he's standin' the disgrace as well as he can.

"So you came over with the old sport, did you?" says Bennett to me. "Batty old duffer, eh? That comes of being a dead one for so long. Manages to hang on with the Corrugated, though, don't he? He'd better, too! I'm not running any old folks' home here."

But it wa'n't to show off how he stood with his son in law that Uncle Dudley had lugged me along. He'd got so used to bein' dealt out for a twospot that he didn't seem to mind. He didn't claim to be anything more even at the office.

It's his flower garden, out back of the house, that Uncle Dudley had got me 'way out there to see; and, while I ain't any expert on that line of displays, I should say this posy patch of his had some class to it. Anyway, seein' it, and findin' out how he rolls off the mattress at sunrise every mornin' to tend it, lets me in for a new view of him. It's this little garden patch and the son out West that makes life worth livin' for him, in spite of Son in Law Bennett.

"Say, Dudley," says I, "why don't you work a combination of the two; go out where you can raise roses all winter, if the dope these railroad ads. sling out is straight, and be with your son too?"

"I—I can't do that, just yet," says he, sort of hesitatin'. "You see, he hasn't seen me for twelve years, and since then I have—er—well, I've been slipping backward. He doesn't know what a failure I've made of life, and if I gave up here and went on to him—why——"

"I'm on," says I. "He'd spot you for one of the down-and-outers. But you do get it rubbed in here good and plenty, don't you?"

"From Bennett?" says he. "Oh, he is right, I suppose. He knows how useless I am. But we cannot all succeed, can we? Some of us must stay at the bottom and prop the ladder."

One thing about Uncle Dudley, he had no whine comin'. He takes it all meek and cheerful, and so far as I could make out he's most as useful around the office as a lot of others that gets chesty whenever they think what would happen to the concern if they should be sick for a week. Anyway, there's frequent calls for old Dudley to straighten out this or that; but somehow he never seems to get credit for bein' much more than a sort of a walkin' copybook that remembers what other people don't want to lumber up their valuable brains with. Maybe it's the white mud guards, or his habit of lettin' anyone boss him around, that keeps him down.

And I expect things would have gone on that way, until he either dropped out or got the blue envelope some payday, if it hadn't been for this lid liftin' business up at Albany. Course, you've read how they uncovered first one lot of grafters and then another, and fin'lly, with that last swipe of the muck rake, got the Corrugated rung into the mess? And, say, anyone would think, from some of the papers, that we was all a bunch of crooks down here, spendin' our time feedin' wads of hundred-dollar bills to the yellow dog. Maybe it don't stir up Mr. Robert some thorough, though!

"Why," I heard him say to the old man, "it's a beastly outrage, that's what it is! All the fellows at the club are chaffing me about it, you know. And besides it's disturbing business frightfully. Look at the tumble our shares took yesterday! I say, Governor, we must send out a denial."

"Huh!" growls Old Hickory. "Who cares a blinkety blanked blank what they say we did? Let 'em prove it!"

Then the next day them checks was sprung on the investigatin' committee, and it looked as though they'd made out their case against the Corrugated. Perhaps there wa'n't doin's on the seventeenth floor that mornin'! Clear out where I sat I could hear the boss callin' for first one man and then another, and Piddie is turkeyin' in and out so excited he don't know whether he's on duty or runnin' bases. Once, when he stops to lean against the spring-water bottle and wipe his dewy brow, I slips up behind and taps him quick on the shoulder.

"Ye-e-e-es, sir!" says he, before he sees who it is.

"Never mind, Piddie," says I. "I was goin' to ask you 'Guilty or not guilty?' But what's the use? Anyone can see it was you that did it."

"You—you impudent young sauce box!" he begins. "How dare you——"

"Ah, save that for the subpoena server," says I. "He'll be in here after you in a minute. And, say, my guess is that you'll get about ten years on the rockpile."

When the special directors' meetin' gets under way, though, and the big guns of the Corrugated law force got on the job, there was less noise and more electricity in the air. Honest, with all that tiptoein' and whisperin' and serious looks bein' passed around, I didn't even have the gall to guy one of the new typewriter girls. Kind of gets on your nerves, a thing of that kind does, and if a squad of reserves had marched in and pinched the whole outfit, I shouldn't have been so much surprised.

Right in the midst of it too there comes my three rings on the buzzer, and in I sneaks where they're holdin' the inquest. Say, they're all sittin' around the big mahogany directors' table, with the old man at the head, lookin' black and ugly, and grippin' a half smoked cigar butt between his teeth. I could see at a glance they hadn't thrown any scare into him yet. He was just beginning to fight, that's all.

"Boy," says he, "bring in Dudley."

"Yes, sir," says I.

But, say, my heels dragged some as I went out. Course I didn't know what they wanted of the old boy; but it didn't look to be such a wild guess that they'd picked him to play the goat part. I finds him perched up on his stool, calm and serene, workin' away on the ledgers as industrious as if nothin' special was goin' on.

"Dudley," says I, "are you feelin' strong?"

"Why, Torchy," says he, "I am feeling about as usual, thank you."

"Well, brace yourself then," says I; "for there's rough goin' ahead. You're wanted in on the carpet."

"Me?" says he. "Mr. Ellins wants me?"

"Uh-huh," says I, "him and the rest of 'em. But don't let 'em put any spell on you. It's your cue now to forget the meek and lowly business. I know you ain't strong for bluffin' through a game; but for the love of soup put up a front to-day!"

Dudley, he only smiles and shakes his head. Then off he toddles, wearin' his old ink-stained office coat and even keepin' on the green eye-shade.

Well, I don't know how long they had him on the grill; but it couldn't have been more'n half an hour, for along about three o'clock I strolls into the audit department, and there's old Dudley back on his perch writin' away again.

"Say, are you it?" says I.



"Why, how is that?" says he.

"Did they tie anything to you?" says I. "You know—con you into takin' the blame, or anything like that?"

"Blame for what?" says he. "I don't believe I understand. But nothing of the sort was mentioned. I was merely given some instructions about my work."

"Oh!" says I. "That's all, eh? And you've gone right at it, have you?"

"No," says he. "The fact is, Torchy, I am writing out my resignation."

"What! Quittin'?" says I. "Say, don't you see what a hole that puts you in? Why, it makes you the goat for fair! If you do that you'll need bail inside of forty-eight hours—and you won't get it. Look here, Dudley, take my advice and tear that up."

"But I can't, Torchy," says he, "really, I can't."

"Why not?" says I. "You've got a couple of hands, ain't you? And what'll you do for another job if you chuck this one? Say, why in blazes are you so anxious to take your chances between Sing Sing and the bread line?"

He's there with the explanation, all right, and here's the way it stands: Uncle Dudley has been called on because his partic'lar double-entry trick is to keep the run of the private accounts. All they want him to do is to take descriptions of a couple of checks, dig up the stubs, and juggle his books so the record will fit in with a nice new set of transactions that's just been invented for the purpose.

"But what checks?" says I. "The five thousand plunkers to Mutt & Mudd?"

"Why, yes," says he. "How did you know?"

"Ah, how did I——Say, Dudley, ain't you been readin' the papers lately?" says I.

Would you believe it? He don't know any more about what's in the air than a museum mummy knows of Lobster Square. This little private cyclone that's been turnin' the office upside down ain't so much as ruffled his whiskers. Checks are checks to him, and these special trouble makers don't give him any chills up the back at all. He's been told, though, to use the acid bottle on his books and write in a new version.

"Well, why not do it?" says I. "What's that to you?"

"Why, don't you see," says he, "it would be making a false entry, and—I—I——Well, I've never done such a thing in my life, Torchy, and I can't begin now."

And, say, what do you know about that, eh? Just a piece of phony bookkeepin' that he don't even have to put his name to, his job gone if he don't follow orders, and him almost to the age limit anyway, with Son in Law Bennett ready to shove him on the street the minute he gets the sack!

"Do you mean it?" says I.

He puts his signature to the resignation and hands it over for me to read.

"Say, Dudley," says I, lookin' him up and down, "this listens to me like a bughouse play of yours; but I got to admit that you do it sporty. There's no ocher streak in you."

"I hoped you would understand," says he. "In the circumstances, it was all I could do, you see."

"What I see plainer'n anything else," says I, "is that if this goes through your career is bugged to the limit. When do you want this handed in?"

"As soon as possible," says he. "I suppose I ought to resign at once."

"Resign!" says I. "You'll be lucky if the old man don't have you chucked through the window. Better be waitin' down in the lower corridor when I spring this on Mr. Ellins."

Nothin' of that kind for Uncle Dudley, though. He starts straightenin' up his desk as I goes out, as calm as though he was house cleanin' for a vacation.

And while I'm tryin' to make up my mind how to deliver this document to the main stem and duck an ambulance ride afterwards, the directors' meetin' breaks up. So I finds Old Hickory alone in his private office and slips it casual on the pad in front of him.

"Here, what's this?" he snorts, callin' me back as he opens up the sheet. "Eh? Dudley! Resigns, does he! What, that dried up, goat faced, custard brained, old——Say, boy; ask him what the grizzly grindstones he means by——"

"I did," says I, "and, if you want to know, he's quittin' because he's too straight to cook up the books the way you told him."

"Cook up the books!" gasps Old Hickory, gettin' raspb'ry tinted in the face and displayin' neck veins like a truck horse. "He's been welshing, has he? Perhaps he'd like to turn State's witness? Well, by the great sizzling skyrockets, if that's his trick, I'll give him enough of——"

"Excuse me, Mr. Ellins," I breaks in, "but you're slippin' your clutch. Tricks! Why, he ain't even wise to what you want him to do it for. All he knows is that it's crooked, and he renigs on a general proposition. And, say, when a man's as straight as that, with the workhouse starin' him in the face, he's too valuable to lose, ain't he?"

"Wha-a-at?" gurgles Old Hickory.

"Besides," says I, hurryin' the words to get 'em all out before any violent scene breaks loose, "knowin' all he does about them Mutt & Mudd checks, and with what he don't know about the case, it wouldn't be hardly safe to have him roamin' the streets, would it? Now I leave it to you."

Say, I was lookin' Old Hickory right in the eye, ready to dodge the inkstand or anything else, while I was puttin' that over, and for a minute I thought it was comin' sure. But while he can get as hot under the collar as anyone I ever saw, and twice as quick, he don't go clear off his nut any of the time.

"Young man," says he, calmin' down and motionin' me to a chair, "as usual, you seem to be more or less well informed on this matter yourself. Now let's have the rest of it."

And just like that, all of a sudden, it's batted up to me. So I lets it come, with all the details about Uncle Dudley's frosty home life, and the reformer son out West that still thinks father is makin' good. He sits there and listens to every word too. Not that he comes in with the sympathetic sigh, or shows signs of being troubled by mist in the eye corners. He just throws in an occasional grunt now and then and drums his fat finger-tips on the chair arm.

"Huh!" says he. "Babes and sucklings! But I've had worse advice that has cost me a lot more. Well, I suppose an old fool like that is dangerous to have drifting around. But I don't want him here just now, either. Um-m-m! Where did you say this son of his lived?"

"Just out of Los Angeles," says I.

"All right," says Old Hickory. "Tell him he goes west Tuesday as traveling auditor to our second vice president. He'll bring up at Los Angeles about the middle of the month—and about that time it may happen that he'll be retired on full pay. But I'll keep this resignation, as a curiosity."

Now don't ask me to describe how old Dudley takes it; for when he gets the full partic'lars of the decision it near keels him over. And what part of it do you say tickles him most? That the books don't have to be juggled!

"It wasn't like Mr. Ellins to countenance an act of that sort, not in the least," says he, "and I am very glad that he has changed his mind."

"Say, Dudley," says I, "you're a wonder, you are."

And it was all I could do to keep from askin' him if he thought he owned the only bottle of ink eradicator there was in New York.

Do I know who did fix up them entries? Well, by the nervous motions of a certain party next mornin', I could give a guess.

"Piddie," says I, "if they ever get you on the stand, you want to wear interferin' pads between your knees, so they won't hear the bones rattle."



CHAPTER XVI

THROWING THE LINE TO SKID

Say, this is twice I've been let in wrong on Skid Mallory. Remember him, don't you? Well, he's our young college hick that I helped steer up against Baron Kazedky when he landed that big armor plate order. Did they make Skid a junior partner for that, or paint his name on a private office door? Not so you'd notice it. Maybe they was afraid a sudden boost like that would make him dizzy. But they promotes him to the sales department and adds ten to his pay envelope. I was most as tickled over it as Mallory was, too.

"Didn't I tell you?" says I. "You're a comer, you are! Why, I expect in ten or a dozen years more you'll be sharin' in the semi-annuals and ridin' down to the office in a taxi."

"Perhaps I may, Torchy—in ten or a dozen years," says he, kind of slow and sober.

I could guess what he was thinking of then. It was the girl, that sweet young thing that Brother Dick towed in here along last winter, some Senator's daughter that Skid had got chummy with when he was doin' his great quarterback act and havin' his picture printed in the sportin' extras.

"How's that affair comin' on?" says I; for I ain't heard him mention her in quite some time.

"It's all off," says he, shruggin' them wide shoulders of his. "That is, there never was anything in it, you know, to begin with."

"Oh, there wa'n't, eh?" says I. "Forgot all about that picture you used to carry around in the little leather case, have you?"

Skid, he flushes up a bit at that, and one hand goes up to his left inside pocket. Then he laughs foolish. "It isn't I who have forgotten," says he.

"Oh-ho!" says I. "Well, I wouldn't have thought her the kind to shift sudden, when she seemed so——"

But Mallory gives me the choke off sign, and as we walks up Broadway he gradually opens up more and more on the subject until I've got a fair map of the situation. Seems that Sis ain't exactly set him adrift without warnin'. He'd sort of helped cut the cable himself. She'd begun by writin' to him every week, tellin' him all about the lively season she was havin' in Washington, and how much fun she was gettin' out of life. She even put in descriptions of her new dresses, and some of her dance orders, and now and then a bridge score, or a hand painted place card from some dinner she'd been to.

And Skid, thinkin' it all over in the luxury of his nine by ten boudoir, got to wonderin' what attractions along that line he could hold out to a young lady that was used to blowin' in more for one new spring lid than he could earn in a couple of weeks.

"And orchids are her favorite flowers!" says he. "Ever buy any orchids, Torchy?"

"Not guilty," says I; "but they ain't so high, are they, that you couldn't splurge on a bunch now and then? What's the tariff on 'em, anyway?"

"At times you can get real nice ones for a dollar apiece," says he.

"Phe-e-e-ew!" says I. "She has got swell tastes."

"It isn't her fault," says he. "She's never known anything different."

So what does Skid do but slow up on the correspondence, skippin' an answer here and there, and coverin' only two pages when he did write. For one thing, he didn't have so much to tell as she did. I knew that; for I'd seen more or less of Mallory durin' the last few months, and I knew he was playin' his cards close to his vest.

Not that he was givin' any real lifelike miser imitation; but he didn't indulge in high priced cafe luncheons on Saturdays, like most of the bunch; he'd scratched his entry at the college club; and he was soakin' away his little surplus as fast as he got his fingers on it.

Course, that programme meant sendin' regrets to most of the invites he got, and spendin' his evenin's where it didn't cost much to get in or out. One frivolous way he had of killin' time was by teachin' 'rithmetic to a class of new landed Zinskis at a settlement house over on the East Side.

"Ah, what's the use?" I used to tell him. "They'd learn to do compound interest on their fingers in a month, anyway, and the first thing you know you'll be payin' rent to some of 'em."

But he was pretty level headed about most things, I will say that for Mallory, specially the way he sized up this girl business. Seems at last she got the idea he was grouchy at her about something; and when he didn't deny, or come to the front with any reason—why, she just quit sendin' the billy ducks.

"So you're never going to see her any more, eh?" says I.

"Well," says he, "I supposed until within an hour or so ago that I never should. And then——Well, she's here, Torchy; came yesterday, and I presume she expects to see me to-night."

"That's encouragin', anyway," says I.

But Mallory don't seem so much cheered up. It turns out that Sis is spendin' a few days with friends here, waitin' for the rest of the fam'ly to come on and sail for Europe. They're givin' a farewell dinner dance for her, and Skid is on the list.

The trouble is he can't make up his mind whether to go or stay away. One minute he's dead sure he won't, and the next minute he admits he don't see what harm there would be in takin' one last look.

"But, then," says Mallory, "what good would that do?"

"I know," says I. "There's a young lady friend of mine on the other side too. Say, Mallory, I guess we belong in the lobster class."

And when we splits up on the corner Skid has decided against the party proposition, and goes off towards his boardin' house with his chin down on his collar and his heels draggin'.

So I wa'n't prepared for the joyous smile and the frock coat regalia that Mallory wears when he blows into the office about ten-forty-five next forenoon. He's sportin' a spray of lilies of the valley in his lapel, and swingin' his silver topped stick, and by the look on his face you'd think he was hearin' the birdies sing in the treetops.

"Tra-la-la, tra-la-lee!" says I, throwin' open the brass gate for him. "Is it a special holiday, or what?"

"It's a very special one," says he, thumpin' me on the back and whisperin' husky in my ear. "Torchy, I'm married!"

"Wha-a-at!" I splutters. "Who to? When?"

"To Sis," says he, "half an hour ago."

"Eh?" says I. "Mean to say you've been and eloped with the Senator's daughter?"

"Eloped!" says he, as though he'd never heard the word before. "Why, no—er—that is, we just went out and—and——"

Oh, no, they hadn't eloped! They'd merely slid out of the ballroom about three A.M., after dancin' seventeen waltzes together, snuggled into a hansom cab, and rode around the park until daylight talkin' it over. Then she'd slipped back into the house, got into her travelin' dress while he was off changin' his clothes, met again at eight o'clock, chased down to City Hall after a license, and then dragged a young rector away from his boiled eggs and toast to splice 'em.

But Skid didn't call that elopin'. Why, Sis had left word with the butler to tell her friends all about it, and the first thing they did after it was over was to send a forty-word collect telegram to papa. And Mallory, he'd just dropped around to arrange with Old Hickory for a little vacation before they beat it for Atlantic City.

"So that ain't elopin', eh?" says I. "I expect you'd call that a sixty-yard run on a forward pass, or something like that? Well, the old man's inside. Luck to you."

Mallory wa'n't on the carpet long, and when he comes out I asks how he made back.

"Oh, bully!" says he. "I'm to have ten days."

"With or without?" says I.

"Oh, I forgot to ask," says he.

Little things like bein' on the payroll or not wa'n't botherin' him then. He gives me a bone crushin' grip and swings out to the elevator in a rush; for he's been away from Sis nearly half an hour now.

Exceptin' a picture postcard or two, showin' the iron pier and a bathin' scene, I didn't hear from Mr. and Mrs. Mallory for more'n a week. And then one afternoon I gets a 'phone message from Skid, saying that they're all settled in a little flat up on Washington Heights and they'll be pleased to have me come up to dinner.

"It's our very first dinner, you know," says he, "and Sis is going to get it all by herself. I suggested that we try the first one on you."

"That don't scare me any," says I. "I've lived on sinkers and pie too long to duck amateur cookin'. I'll be there."

I was on the grin all the afternoon too, thinkin' of the joshes I was goin' to hand him. At three minutes of closing time I was all ready to sneak out, with one eye on the clock and the other on Piddie, when in blows a ruby faced, thick waisted gent with partly gray hair, a heavyweight jaw, and a keen pair of twinklin' gray eyes. He looks prosperous and important, and he proceeds to act right to home.

"Boy," says he, pushin' through the gate, "is this the general office of the Corrugated Trust Company?"

"Yep," says I. "That's what it says on the door."

"There is employed here, I understand," he goes on, "a young man by the name of Mallory."

Say, I was wide awake at that. "Mallory?" says I. "I can find out. Did you want to see him on business?"

"It is a personal matter," says he. "Is he here?"

"Now, let's not rush this," says I. "My orders is to find out——"

"Very well," says the gent, "there is my card. And perhaps I should mention that I have the honor—er—I suppose, to be his father in law."

Say, and here I was, up against the Senator himself. Course it was my cue to shrivel up and do the low salaam; but all I can think of at the minute is to look him over and grin.

"Gee!" says I. "Then you're on his trail, eh?"

Maybe it was the grin fetched him; for them square mouth corners flickers a little and he don't throw any fit. "Evidently you are somewhat familiar with the circumstances," says he. "May I ask if you are sufficiently favored with the confidence of my new son in law to know where he and my—er—his wife happen, to be just now?"

"I admit it," says I; "but if you're thinkin' of springin' any hammer music on Skid, you can look for another party, for you won't get it out of me in a thousand years!"

"Ah!" says he. "I see Young Lochinvar has at least one champion. Allow me to state that my intentions are pacific. My wife and I merely wish, before sailing, to pay a formal call on our daughter and her new husband. Now if you could give me their address——"

"Why, say, Senator," says I, "if you ain't lookin' to start anything, I can do better. I'm going right up there myself this minute, and if Mrs.——"

"She is waiting downstairs in the cab," says he. "Nothing would suit us better."

And, say, maybe it wa'n't just what I should have done, but blamed if I could see how to dodge it when it's up to me that way. So it's me climbin' up on the front seat with the driver of a fancy hotel taxi, papa and mamma behind, and off rolls the surprise party.

Well, you know them cut rate apartment houses, with a flossy reception room, all marble slabs and burlap panels and no elevator. The West Indian at the telephone exchange says we'll find the Mallorys on the top floor back to the left. That meant four flights to climb, which might account for the lack of conversation on the way up. Mallory, with his coat off, his cuffs rolled back, and his face steamed up, answers the ring himself.

"Ah, that you, Torchy?" says he. "We were just wondering if you would——Why—er—ah——" and as he gets sight of the old couple out in the dark hall he breaks off sudden.

"It's all right," says I. "He's promised to give the peace sign. You know the Senator, don't you, Skid?"

"The Senator!" he gasps out.

"I believe I once had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Mallory," says the old boy, comin' to the front graceful. "Hope you will pardon the intrusion; but——"

Just then, though, Sis appears from the kitchen, her face all pink and white, and her sleeves pushed up past the dimples in her elbows. Under a thirty-nine-cent blue and white checked apron she's wearin' a lace party dress that was a dream. It's an odd combination; but most anything would look well on a little queen like her. She takes one look at Skid, another at the Senator, and then behind the old man she spies Mother.

Well, it's just a squeal from one, and a sigh from the other, and then they've made a rush to the center that wedges us all into that little three-foot hall like it was the platform of a subway car, and before anything more can be said they've gone to a fond clinch, each pattin' the other on the back and passin' appropriate remarks.

Somehow, I guess the Senator hadn't quite figured on this part of the programme. I expect his plan was to be real polite and formal, stay only long enough to let the young people know he could stand it if they could, and then back out dignified.

Whatever Mother might have meant to do when she started, it was all off from the minute Sis let out that squeal. And no sooner had we got ourselves untangled and edged sideways into the cute little parlor, than Mother announces how she means to stay right here until it's time to start for the steamer. Did some one say dinner! Good! She'll stay to dinner, then.

At that Sis looks at Skid and Skid he looks at Sis. There was some real worry exchanged in them looks too; but young Mrs. Mallory ain't one to be stumped as easy as that.

"Oh, goody!" says she, clappin' her hands. "But, Mother, what is it you do to make dumplings puff out after you've dropped them in the lamb stew?"

"Dumplings! Lamb stew!" says Mother. "Gracious! Don't ask me, child. I haven't made any for years. Doesn't your cook know?"

"She doesn't," says Sis. "I am the cook, Mother."

Well, that was only the beginning of the revelations; for while Sis and Mother was strugglin' with the receipt book, the Senator was makin' a tour of inspection around the apartment. It didn't take him so long, either.

"Ahem!" says he to Mallory. "Very cozy, indeed; but—er—not exactly spacious."

"Four rooms and bath," says Mallory.

"Was—er—that the bathtub in there?" says the Senator, jerkin' his thumb at the bathroot door. "I fancied it might be—er—a pudding dish. Might I inquire what rent you pay for—er—all this?"

"Forty a month, sir," says Mallory.

"Ah! Economy, I see. Good way to begin," says he. "And if it is not too personal a question, your present salary is——"

"I'm getting twenty-five a week," says Skid, lookin' him straight between the eyes.

"Then you have a private income, I presume?" says the Senator.

"Well," says Mallory, "my aunt in Boston sends me fifty dollars every Christmas and advises me to invest my savings in Government bonds."

At that the Senator drops into a chair and whistles. "But—but how do you expect," he goes on, "to—to——Pardon me, but I am getting interested. I should like to know what was your exact financial standing when you had the imp—er—when you married my daughter?"

He gets it, down to the last nickel. Skid begins with what he had in the bank when they starts for Atlantic City, shows the hole that trip made in his funds, produces the receipts for furniture, and announces that, after punglin' up a month's rent, there's something over seven dollars left in the treasury.

"Huh!" grunts the Senator. "Hence the lamb stew, eh? I don't wonder! So you and Sis have undertaken to live in a forty-dollar apartment on a twenty-five-dollar salary, have you?"

"That's what it looks like, sir," says Mallory.

"And who is the financial genius that is to manage this enterprise?" says he.

"Why," says Skid, "Mrs. Mallory, I suppose. We have agreed that she should."

"Sis, eh?" says the Senator, smilin' kind of grim. "Well, you have my best wishes for your success."

Skid he flushes some behind the ears; but he only bows and says he's much obliged. You couldn't blame him for feelin' cut up, either; for it's all clear how the Senator has doped out an appeal for help within thirty days, and is willin' to wait for the call. I'm no shark on the cost of livin' myself; but even I could figure out a deficit. There's a call to dinner just then, though, and we all gathers round the stew.

Anyway, it was meant for a lamb stew. The potatoes was some hard, the gravy was so thin you'd thought it had been put in from the tea kettle as an afterthought, and the dumplin's hadn't the puffin' out charm worked on 'em for a cent. But the sliced carrots was kind of tasty and went all right with the baker's bread if you left off the bargain butter. Sis she tried to laugh at it all; but her eyes got kind of dewy at the corners.

"Never mind, dear," says Mother. "I'll telegraph for our old Martha to come on and cook for you."

"Why, certainly," says the Senator. "She could sleep on the fire escape, you know."

And say, that last comic jab of his, and the effect it had on Mr. and Mrs. Mallory, kind of got under my skin. I got to thinkin' hard and fast, and inside of five minutes I stumbles onto an idea.

"Excuse me," says I to Skid; "but I guess I'll be on my way. I just thought of a date I ought to keep."

And where do you expect I brings up? At the Ellins' mansion, down on the avenue. First time I'd ever been there out of office hours; but the maid says Mr. Ellins is takin' his coffee in the lib'ry and she'd see if he'd let me in. Ah, sure he did, and we gets right down to cases.

"Remember how that assistant general manager stiff of yours fell down on that public lands deal when you sent him to Washington last month?" says I.

Old Hickory chokes some on a swallow of black coffee he's just hoisted in; but he recovers enough to nod.

"Does he get the run?" says I.

"I neglected consulting you about it, Torchy," says he; "but his resignation has been called for."

"Filled the job yet?" says I.

"Fortunately, no," says he, and I knew by the way he squints that he thought he was bein' mighty humorous. "Possibly you could recommend his successor?"

"Yep, I could," says I. "Would it help any to have some one who was son in law to a Senator?"

"That," says Old Hickory, "would depend somewhat on which Senator was his father in law."

"Well," says I, "there's his card."

"Eh?" says he, readin' the name. "Why—who——"

"Mallory," says I. "You know—hitched last week. He's got the old boy up there to dinner now. Maybe he'll be taken on as the Senator's secretary if you don't jump in quick. He's a hustler, Mallory is. Remember how he skinned that big order out of Kazedky? And as an A. G. M. he'd be a winner. Well, does he get it?"

"Young man," says Old Hickory, catchin' his breath, "if my mental machinery worked at the high pressure speed yours does, I could——But I am not noted for being slow. I've done things in a hurry before. I can yet. Torchy, he does get it."

"When?" says I.

"To-morrow morning," says he. "I'll start him at five thousand."

"Whoop!" says I. "Say, you're a sport! I'll go up and deliver the glad news. Guess he needs it now as much as he ever will."

And, say, you should have seen the change of heart that comes over the Senator when he heard the bulletin. "Mallory, my boy," says he, "congratulations. And by the way, just remove that—er—imitation lamb stew. Then we'll all go down to some good hotel and have a real dinner."



CHAPTER XVII

TOUCHING ON TINK TUTTLE

"On your way, now, on your way!" says I; gazin' haughty over the brass gate. "No window cleanin' done here durin' office hours!"

"But," says the specimen on the other side, "I—I didn't come to clean the windows."

"Eh?" says I, sizin' up the blue flannel shirt, the old leather belt, and other marks of them pail and sponge artists. "Well, we don't want any sash cords put in, or wirin' fixed, or any kind of jobbin' done until after five. That's General Order No. 1. See?"

He nods in kind of a lifeless, unexcited way; but he don't make any motions towards beatin' it. "I—I—the fact is," he begins, "I wish to see some one connected with the Corrugated Trust Company."

"You've had your wish," says I. "I'm Exhibit A. For a profile view of me step around to the left. Anything more?"

He don't get peeved at this, nor he don't grin. He just keeps on bein' serious and calm. "If you don't mind," says he, "I should like to see one of the higher officials."

"Say, that's almost neat enough to win out," says I. "One of the higher officials, eh? How would the president suit you?"

"If I might see him, I'd like it," says he.

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

Honest, the nerve that's wasted on some folks is a shame. I had to sit up and give him the Old Sleuth stare at that. He's between twenty-five and thirty, for a guess; and, say, whatever he might have been once, he's a wreck now,—long, thin face, with the cheekbones almost stickin' through, slumped in shoulders, bony hands, and a three months' crop of mud colored hair stringin' damp over his ears and brushin' his coat collar. Why, he looked more like he ought to be sittin' around the waitin' room of some charity hospital, than tryin' to butt in on the time of one of the busiest men in New York.

"It's a matter that ought to go before the president," says he, "and if he isn't busy I'd like very much to——"

"Say, old scout," says I, "you got about as much chance of bein' let in to see Mr. Ellins as I have of passin' for a brunette! So let's come down to cases. Now what's it all about?"

He ain't makin' any secret of it. He wants the concern to make him a bid on an option he holds on some coal and iron lands. Almost comes to life tellin' me about that option, and for the first time I notice what big, bright, deep sunk eyes he's got.

"Oh, a thing of that kind would have to go through reg'lar," says I. "Wait; I'll call Mr. Piddie. He'll fix you up."

Does he? Well, that's what Piddie's supposed to be there for; but he don't any more'n glance at the flannel shirt before he begins to swell up and frown and look disgusted. "No, no, go away!" says he. "I've no time to talk to you, none at all."

"But," says the object, "I haven't had a chance to tell you——"

"Get out—you!" snaps Piddie, turnin' on his heel and struttin' off.

It ain't the way he talks to parties wearin' imported Panamas and sportin' walkin' sticks; but, then, most of us has our little fads that way. What stirred me up, though, was the rough way he did it, and the hopeless sag to the wreck's chin after he's heard the decision.

"Sweet disposition he's got, eh?" says I. "But don't take him too serious. He ain't the final word in this shop, and there's nobody gets next to the big wheeze oftener durin' the day than yours truly. Maybe I could get that option of yours passed on. Got the document with you?"

He had and hands it over. With that he drops onto the reception room settee and says he'll wait.

"Better not," says I; "for it might be quite a spell before I gets the right chance. We'll do this reg'lar, by mail. Now what's the name?"

"Tuttle," says he, "Tinkham J. Tuttle."

"They call you Tink for short, don't they?" says I, and he admits that they do. "All right," I goes on. "Now the address, Tink. Jersey, eh? Well, it's likely you'll hear from Mr. Ellins before the week's out. But don't get your hopes up; for he turns down enough propositions to fill a waste basket every day. Express elevator at No. 5. So long," and I chokes off Mr. Tuttle's vote of thanks by wavin' him out the door.

It's well along in the afternoon before I sees an openin' to drop this option in front of Old Hickory, grabbin' a minute when his desk is fairly clear, and slammin' it down just as though it had been sent in through Piddie.

"Delivered on," says I. "Wants rush answer by mail."

"Huh!" grunts Old Hickory, lightin' up a fresh Cassadora.

That's all I expected to hear of the transaction; so about an hour later, when Piddie comes out lookin' solemn and says I'm to report to Mr. Ellins, I don't know what's up.

"Is it a first degree charge, Piddie," says I, "or only for manslaughter?"

"I presume Mr. Ellins will discover what you have done," says he.

"Well, hope for the worst, Piddie," says I. "Here goes!"

And the minute I sees what Old Hickory has in front of him, I'm wise.

"Torchy," says he, givin' me the steely glitter out of them cold storage eyes of his, "Mr. Piddie seems to know nothing about this Michigan option."

"If he admits that much," says I, "it must be so. It's a record, though."

"What I want to know," goes on Mr. Ellins, "is how in blue belted blazes it got here. You brought it in, didn't you?"

"Yep," says I. "It was this way, Mr. Ellins: Piddie had it put up to him and wouldn't even hang it on the hook; but the guy that brings it looked so mournful that I butts in and takes a chance on passin' it along to you on my own hook."

"Oh, you did, eh?" he snorts.

"Sure," says I. "I got to do the fresh act once in a while, ain't I? Course, if you want a dead one on the gate, I can hand in my portfolio; but I thought all you had to do with punk options like this was to toss 'em in the basket and then have 'em fired back at——"

"Fire nothing back!" says Mr. Ellins. "Why, you lucky young rascal, we've been trying to get hold of this very property for eight months! And Piddie! Bah! Of all the pin-headed, jelly brained——"

"Second the motion," says I, springin' the joyous grin.

"That will do," says Old Hickory, catchin' himself up. "Just you forget Mr. Piddie and listen to me. Know this Tuttle person by sight, don't you?"

"Couldn't forget him," says I. "Want him on the carpet?"

"I do," says he. "Have him here at ten-thirty to-morrow morning. But find him to-night, and see that you don't open your head about this business to anyone else."

"I get you," says I, doin' the West Point salute. "It's me to trail and shut up Tuttle. He'll be here, if I have to bring him in an ambulance."

That's why I jumps out before closin' time and mingles with the Jersey commuters in a lovely hot ride across the meadows. It's a scrubby station where I gets off, too; one of these fact'ry settlements where the whole population answers the seven o'clock whistle every mornin'. There's a brick barracks half a mile long, where they make sewin' machines or something, and snuggled close up around it is hundreds of these four-fam'ly wooden tenements, gettin' the full benefit of the soft coal smoke and makin' it easy for the hands to pike home for a noon dinner. Say, you talk about the East Side double deckers; but they're brownstone fronts compared to some of these corporation shacks across the meadows!

Seventeen dirty kids led me to the number Tuttle gave me, and in the right hand first floor kitchen I finds a red faced woman in a faded blue wrapper fryin' salt pork and cabbage.

"Mrs. Tinkham Tuttle?" says I, holdin' my breath.

"No," says she, glancin' suspicious over her shoulder. "I'm his sister."

"Oh!" says I. "Is Tink around?"

"I don't know whether he is or not, and don't care!" says she.

"Much obliged," says I; "but I ain't come to collect for anything. Couldn't you give a guess?"

"If I did," says she, "I'd say he was over to the factory yard. That's where he stays most of the time."

It's half-past five; but the fact'ry's runnin' full blast, and I has to jolly a timekeeper and the yard boss before I locates my man. Fin'lly, though, they point out a big storage shed in one corner of the coal cinder desert they has fenced in so careful. The wide double doors to the shed are shut; but after I've hammered for a while one of 'em is slid back a few inches and Tuttle peeks out.

"Oh!" he gasps. "You! Say, are they going to take it? Are they?"

"Them's the indications," says I, "providin' it's all O. K. and your price is right."

"Oh, I'll make the price low enough," says he. "I'll sell out for two thousand, and it ought to be worth twice that. But two is all I need."

"Eh?" says I. "What kind of finance do you call that? Say, Tuttle, you know you can't work any 'phony deal on the Corrugated. Better give me the straight goods and save trouble."

"I will," says he. "Come in, won't you!"

With that he leads the way through the dark shed to a sort of workshop at the back, where there's a window. There's a tool bench, a little hand forge with an old coffee pot and a fryin' pan on it, and a cot bed not ten feet away.

"Campin' out here?" says I.

"I'm not supposed to," says he; "but the yard superintendent lets me. This is where I've lived and worked for nearly two years, and until you came a minute ago it was where I expected to end. But now it's different."

"It is?" says I. "How's that?"

Which is Tink Tuttle's cue to open up on the story of his life. It's a soggy, unexcitin' yarn, most of it. As I'd kind of guessed by the way he talked, he wa'n't just an ordinary fact'ry hand. He'd been through some high class scientific school up in Massachusetts, where he'd lived before his father lost his grip. Seems the old man was a crackerjack boss machinist; but he got to monkeyin' with fool inventions, drifted from place to place, got to be a lunger, and finally passed in. The last four years in the fact'ry here had finished him. Tink had worked there, too, and his sister had married one of the hands.

"It's the graveyard of the Tuttle family, this place is, I suppose," says Tink. "It got father, and it has almost got me. Some folks can breathe brass filings and carbon dioxide and thrive on it; but we can't. So I gave up and hid myself away in here to work out one of my silly dreams. Last spring I caught a bad cold, and Sister sent me West. There we have an uncle. She thought the change of climate might help my cough. It didn't do a bit of good; but it was out there that I picked up this option. That was when I saw a chance of making my dream come true. You saw what I've been building, didn't you, as we came through?"

"I didn't notice," says I. "What is it, anyway?"



"Wait until I light the lantern," says Tuttle. "Now come. This way. Don't hit your head on those wings. There!"

And, say, it's a wonder I could walk right by a thing of that kind without gettin' next, even if it was kind of dark. But all I needs now is one glimpse of the outlines.

"Oho!" says I. "A flyer! Say, every bughouse in the country is at work on one of them."

"I suppose so," says he. "I may be as big a fool as any of them, too; but I think I know what I'm doing. At any rate, I've put my last dollar into it. That's why my sister is so——Well, she thinks I am——"

"Yes, I suspicioned she was some sore on you," says I. "But what sort of a flyer is this, double or single winger?"

"It's a biplane," says Tuttle, "on the Farnham type, only an improved model."

"Of course it's improved," says I. "Tried her out yet!"

"Hardly," says he. "I couldn't buy an engine, you see. That's what I've been waiting for. Say, you really think the Corrugated will take that option, do you? If they only would!"

"You must be in a hurry to break your neck," says I.

Before I left, though, he'd shown me all over the thing, explained how it was goin' to work, and did his best to get me as excited as he was. Also I makes him give me the full details of how he come to get this option, and I advises him if he does manage to cash it in for two thousand, to take an ax to his flying machine and hike out for some lung preservin' climate where he'll have a chance to shake that cough.

"Thanks," says he, grippin' my hand and chokin' up. "You—you've been mighty good to me. I'll remember it."

Course, I gives Mr. Ellins the whole tale in the mornin', about Tuttle and his bum air pumps, and his batty scheme of buildin' the flyer; but all that interests Old Hickory is the option and the price.

"Good work, Torchy," says he. "I've wired our Western agents to investigate, and if they report an O. K., Tuttle shall have his two thousand to do what he likes with."

It must have been two weeks later, and I'd almost forgot the case, when one mornin' I gets a note from Tinkham J., askin' me to come over to the shed as quick as I could. Well, I didn't know whether he was havin' a final spasm or not; but it seemed like I ought to go, so that night I does. I finds him waitin' for me at the yard gate. He don't look any worse than usual, either.

"Well," says I, "didn't the deal go through?"

"It did," says he, pattin' me on the back. "Thanks to you, it did. The check came two days later, and I've spent it all."

"What!" says I. "You don't mean to say you blew all that in on an engine for that blamed——"

"All but a few dollars that I put into oil and gasoline," says he. "But the machine is all hooked up, Torchy, and it works. Do you hear that? It works! I've been up!"

"Up?" says I.

"Not far," says he; "but enough to know what I can do. Started right here from the yard, just at daylight, and landed here again. I've told no one else, you know. Come in and see how smooth the engine works."

And it was just while he was gettin' ready to start the wheels that these two strangers butts in on us. One is a husky, red faced, swell dressed young sport, and the other is a tall, swivel eyed, middle aged gent dressed in khaki. They walks around the machine without payin' any attention to me or Tuttle.

"Well, what do you think of it, Captain?" says the young sport after a while.

The Captain, he shakes his head. "I can't tell positively," says he; "but these planes seem to me to be set entirely wrong. I never saw deflectors worked on that principle before, either. The theory may be good; but in a practical test——"

"They say he's made flight, though," breaks in the young sport. "The night watchman saw him. Hey! You're the chap that built this aeroplane, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," says Tuttle.

"And didn't you make a flight?" he wants to know.

"A short one," says Tuttle.

"That's enough for me," says the sport. "Say, you know who I am, don't you?"

"Oh, yes," says Tuttle. "At least, I ought to. You're Bradish Jones, Jr., one of the owner's sons."

"That's right," says young Mr. Jones. "And I know you. You're the son of old Tuttle, who used to be foreman of the machine shop when I was doing my apprentice work. Thought this little trick of yours was a secret, didn't you? But I heard about it. Lucky for you I did, too. I'm in the market. I don't care a hoot what the Captain says, either. I want a flyer, and I'm ready to take a chance on yours. What do you want for it?"

"Why," says Tuttle, "I don't believe I want to sell."

"What's that?" snaps Bradish. "Come, now! Don't try to bluff me! I'll admit I'm in a hurry. These Curtiss people have been holding me off for a month, and I want to begin flying right away. So name your price. How much?"

But Tuttle, he only shakes his head.

"Oh, yes, you will," says Bradish. "Why, you've hardly a dollar to your name. You can't afford to own a flyer, even if you did build it. You know you can't. Now show me what it cost you, and I'll give you a thousand for your work and a hundred a week until I learn to manage the thing. Is it a go?"

"No!" says Tuttle, sharp and quick, them big eyes of his fairly blazin'. "This is my machine, and I'm going to fly it. I don't care how much money you've got. You've taken a sudden whim that you'd like to fly. It's been the one dream of my life. You've had your yachts and your racing cars. I've never had anything but hard work. My father wore himself out in your stinking old factory. I nearly did the same. But you can't rob me of this. You sha'n't, that's all!"

And for a minute them two stood there givin' each other the assault and batt'ry stare, without sayin' a word. A queer lookin' pair they made, too; this Bradish gent, big and beefy and prosperous, and Tink Tuttle, his greasy old coat hangin' loose on his skinny shoulders, and lookin' like he was on his way from the accident ward to the coroner's office.

"Five thousand cash, then," growls Mr. Jones.

"Not if you said fifty!" Tink comes back at him.

"Bah!" says Bradish. "Why, I could have you and your machine thrown out in the road this minute. But I'll give you twenty-four hours to think it over. Remember, to-morrow night at six I'll be here with the money. Then it will be either sell or go. Come, Captain," and with that they pikes out.

"Say, Tink," says I, "you got him comin', all right, and if you don't get that five thousand you're no good."

"I know I'm no good," says Tuttle. "That's why I don't want his money."

"But see here, Tink," says I. "You ain't goin' to turn down an offer like that, are you?"

"I am," says he, "and I'll tell you why. It's because I know I'm no good and never would be any good, even if I could live, which I can't. Oh, I don't need any doctor to tell me how much longer I've got. They gave me only three months over a year ago. I knew better. I knew I should hold out until I finished my flyer. Father didn't have anything like that to keep on for; so he went quicker. He didn't want to go, either. And it was awful to watch him, Torchy, just awful! But I'm not going to finish that way. No, not now," and he walks up to the machine and runs his hand loving along one of the smooth planes.

"How's that?" says I. "What are you drivin' at, Tink?"

"I can't tell you how I shall do it exactly," says he; "for I'm not sure. But I mean to go up once; way, way up, out over the ocean just at sunrise. Won't that be fine, eh? Just think! Sailing off up there into the blue; up, and up, and up; higher than anyone has ever dared to go before, higher and higher, until your gasoline gives out and you can't go any more!"

"Yes; but what then?" says I, beginnin' to feel some chilly along the spine.

"Why, that's enough, isn't it?" says he. "Anyway, it's all I ask. I'll call it all quits then."

"Ah, say, cut out the tragedy!" says I. "You give me the creeps, talkin' that rot! What you want to do is to go up for a short sail if you can, forget to try any Hamilton stunts, and then beat it back to collect that five thousand while the collectin's good. Say, when do you try her again?"

"At daylight to-morrow morning," says he.

"Gee!" says I. "I've got a notion to stick around and watch how you come out."

"No, don't," says he. "I—I'll let you know. Yes, honest I will. Goodnight and—good-by." He kept his word as well as he could, too. The postmark on the card was six A.M.; but I guess it must have been dropped in the box earlier than that. All it says is:

Twenty gallons in the tank, and I'm off at four o'clock. I shall go straight out to sea and then up, up. I've never been much good; but I mean to finish in style. T. T.

Now, what would you say to a batty proposition like that? I couldn't tell whether it was a bluff, or what. And I waits four days before I had the nerve to go and see.

Sister says she ain't seen him since last Monday. And there was no flyer in the shed. Nobody around the place knew what had become of it, either.

Well, it's been two weeks since I got that postal. What do I think? Say, honest, I don't dare. But at night, when I'm tryin' to get to sleep, I can see Tink, sittin' in between all them wires and things, with the wheel in his hand, and them big eyes of his gazin' down calm and satisfied, down, down, down, and him ready to take that one last dip to the finish. And, say, about then I pull the sheets up over my eyes and shiver.

"Piddie," says I, "you got more sense than you look to have. Anyway, you know when to sidestep the nutty ones, don't you?"



CHAPTER XVIII

GETTING HERMES ON THE BOUNCE

Anybody might of thought, to see me sittin' there in the Ellins lib'ry, leanin' back luxurious in a big red leather chair lookin' over the latest magazines, that I'd been promoted from head office boy to heir apparent or something like that. I expect some kids would have stood on one leg in the front hall and held their breath; but why not make yourself to home when you get the chance? I knew the boss was takin' his time goin' through all them papers I'd brought up, and that when he finished he'd send down word if there was any instructions to go back.

That's how I come to get the benefit of all this mushy conversation that begins to drift out from the next room. First off I couldn't make out whether it was some one havin' a tooth plugged, or if it was a case of a mouse bein' loose at a tea party. Course, the squeals and giggles I could place as comin' from Miss Marjorie Ellins. Maybe you remember about Mr. Robert's heavyweight young sister that wanted to play Juliet once?

But who the other party was I didn't have an idea, except that from the "you-alls" she was usin' I knew she must hail from somewhere south of Baltimore.

Anyway, they seemed to be too much excited to sit down while they talked, and the first thing I knew they'd drifted into the lib'ry, their arms twined around each other in a reg'lar schoolgirl clinch, and the conversation just bubblin' out of 'em free.

Miss Marjorie was all got up classy in pink and white, and she sure does look like a wide, corn fed Venus. The other is a slim, willowy young lady with a lot of home grown blond hair, a cute chin dimple, and a pair of big dark eyes with a natural rovin' disposition. And she's hobble skirted to the point where her feet was about as much use as if they'd been tied in a bag.

It was some kind of a long winded story she was tellin' very confidential, with Marjorie supplyin' the exclamation points.

"Really, now, was he, Mildred?" says Marjorie.

"'Deed and 'deedy, he was!" says Mildred. "Positively the handsomest man I ever saw! I thought I could forget him; but I couldn't, Madge, I couldn't! And only think, he is coming this very night, and not a soul knows but just us two!"

"Excuse me," says I; "but I'm Number Three."

"Oh, oh!" they both squeals at once.

"Who—who's that?" whispers Mildred.

"Why it's only Torchy, from Papa's office," says Marjorie. "And oh, Mildred! He is the very one to help us! You will now, won't you, Torchy? Come, that's a dear!"

"Please do, Torchy!" says Mildred, snugglin' up on the other side and pattin' my red hair soothin'.

"Ah, say, reverse English on the tootsy business!" says I. "This ain't any heart-throb matinee. G'wan!"

"Why, Torchy!" says Marjorie, real coaxin' "I thought we were such good friends!"

"Well, I'm willin' to let it go that far," says I; "but don't try to ring in any folksy strangers. I'm here on business for the firm."

Just then too down comes the maid sayin' there wa'n't anything to go back; so I starts to beat it.

I didn't get far, though, with a hundred and ninety pound young lady blockin' the doorway.

"Torchy, you must help us!" says Marjorie. "There isn't anyone else we can ask. And you're always doing such clever things for Papa and Brother Bob!"

Say, it was a puffy lot of hot air she hands out; but I admit that after two or three more speeches like that, and with her promisin' to square anything Piddie might have to say about not comin' back, she had me goin'.

"Well, what's the proposition?" says I.

"Let's tell him all, so he will understand just what he's to do," suggests Marjorie.

And, say, you should have heard them two, with me pinned in between 'em on the couch, givin' me the tale in a sort of chorus, both talkin' to once and beginnin' at diff'rent ends.

"It's such a romance!" squeals Marjorie.

"You see, he's coming to-night," says Mildred, "and nobody knows."

"Yes, I got that all down," says I; "but what's the first part? Who is he and where's he from?"

Well, it's some yarn, all right! Seems that Mildred was a boardin' school chum of Marjorie's who'd come up from Atlanta to spend the summer with friends in Newport. As a wind-up to the season they'd taken her on a yachtin' trip up the coast. Such a poky old trip, too! Nobody aboard but old married folks that played bridge all the time, and one bald headed bachelor who couldn't sit out in the moonlight with her unless he was wrapped up in a steamer rug.

So what was a girl with eyes like Mildred's to do, anyway? She was bein' bored to death, when, as luck would have it, something went wrong with the propeller shaft. The yacht was 'way up off the coast of Maine at the time, and the nearest place where it was safe to anchor was in the lee of a barren, dinky little island. And they stays there three whole days, while the crew tinkers things up below and the folks yawn their heads off.

All but Millie. She got so desp'rate she rowed ashore all by herself. Accordin' to her description, that must have been a perfectly punk little island. It was all rock, except in a few spots where there was some scrub bushes and mangy grass. Plunk in the middle was an old shack of a house surrounded by lobster pots and racks of codfish spread out to dry, and she says it was the smelliest scenery she'd ever got real close to.

But Mildred was sore on the yacht and all the stupid folks on it; so she wanders out to windward of the worst smells, plants herself on the flattest rock she can find, and prepares to read. That's her pose when she looks up and discovers this male party with the sun kissed locks and the dreamy eyes standin' there gazin' at her curious.

"It wasn't Adonis that I called him," says Mildred. "Who was that stunning old Greek that we had the bust of in the school library, Madge?"

"Hermes?" says Marjorie.

"That's it!" says Mildred. "He was a perfect Hermes; only his curly hair was all sun bleached, and his face was tanned a lovely brown, and he had big, broad shoulders, and—and he was smoking a pipe."

"And about his eyes!" prompts Marjorie.

"Oh, they were perfectly stunning," says she, "real sea blue."

Well, anybody that ever read a midsummer fiction number could have supplied the next chapters. Here's the lovely city girl, the noble browed but unsuspectin' native, golden summer days, and no competition. Why, with a catchy title and a few mushy pictures it would make a lovely contribution to one of the leadin' thirty-five-centers, just as it stood. And Mildred knew her cue, all right. She trains them front row eyes of hers on him, opens up with a few lines of lively chatter, and inside of half an hour she has him sittin' picturesque at her feet, callin' him Hermes of the Lobster Pots, and otherwise workin' the siren spell.

"You must have flirted horribly with him," says Marjorie, sighin' deep and admirin'.

"What else could one do?" asks Mildred. "And it was such fun! I could get him to say hardly anything about himself; but he was a charming listener. He would sit and gaze at me in the most soulful, appreciative way. Poor chap!"

He must have had her guessin' some at that; for she wa'n't dead sure whether he was a real native or not until the boss of the island shows up. He's a hump shouldered, leather faced, bushy browed old barnacle, with a Down East dialect that it was a dream to listen to, and it was only when Mildred heard Hermes call him Uncle Jerry that she could believe the two was any relation. Uncle Jerry didn't interfere, though He let 'em moon around on the rocks without disturbin' the game, and I judge from Millie's report that she wa'n't missin' any tricks.

Yet she's right there with the heartless behavior when the time comes, sailin' away with a gay laugh and leavin' her blue eyed young lobster man to yearn and mourn there on his smelly little island. Anyway, that's how she had it doped out.

And it wa'n't until weeks later, when she'd had her snapshots of him developed and printed, and got to summin' up the details in this case of Victim B-23, that she discovers how a few of her own heartstrings has been strained. Somehow she couldn't seem to tear them three August days completely off the calendar; and when the other chappies come buzzin' around, and she had a chance to frame 'em up alongside of this fish island hero, there wa'n't but one answer. It was Hermes for hers, every day in the week!

There he was, though, out on that mussy rock; and here she was, visitin' in New York, leadin' the giddy life, and gettin' her gowns ready for the Horse Show. If Millie had passed out the heartaches casual along her former trails, here was where she gets at least one of 'em back on the rebound.

You can guess how bad an attack she had when she crosses all the new Reggie boys off her string and cooks up this scheme of sendin' for Hermes to come to her. Her excuse is that she wants Uncle Jerry to have the trip of his life by coming to the great city; but incident'lly she urges him to bring his blue eyed nephew along, and the check she sends is big enough to cover expenses for both. Bein' one of the impulsive kind, she does it the minute the notion strikes her; and two days later comes this postal from Uncle Jerry, sayin' how he was much obliged, and him and his nevvy was takin' the boat for Bosting and expected to fetch up in New York sometime next afternoon by train.

"Which is now," says Mildred. "But of course I can't go to the Grand Central to meet him."

"Why not?" says I. "Why balk at a little thing like that when you've been doin' so well?"

"Oh, but, Torchy," chimes in Marjorie, "you know you could do it so much better!"

And what with both of them coaxin', and stuffin' expense money into my pockets, the next thing I know I'm on my way down to where the Boston trains come in, and am campin' outside the gate. I nearly wore my eyes out, too, sizin' up the first trainload, and after an hour's wait I was gettin' dizzy keepin' track of the second lot, when all of a sudden I spots this old chap with the thick underbrush over his eyes and the sole leather complexion.

"Oh, you Uncle Jerry!" I sings out, takin' a chance and pushin' through the crowd with my hand out.

"Wall, how be ye?" says he, real hearty. "Don't remember seein' you afore; but I s'pose it's all right."

"Sure it is, old scout," says I. "If you're Uncle Jerry, I'm Miss Mildred's reception committee; but where's the nephew?"

"That's him," says he, jerkin' his thumb at a big, overgrown, tow haired yawp that's trailin' along in the rear luggin' a canvas valise.

"You don't mean to tell me that's Hermes?" says I.

"I dun'no 'bout any Hermes," says he; "but this is my sister's boy Jake, the only nephew I got, and, bein' as how Miss Mildred asked so special, I brought him along."

Course, there's no accountin' for tastes, specially in a romantic young lady like her; but, if this was her idea of livin' Greek statuary, she sure was easy pleased. Why, of all the rough necked Rubes! He's one of these loose jawed, open mouthed, lop sided youths that walks like he was afraid of steppin' on his own feet, and looks about as much alive as a tin rabbit that can wiggle its ears when you pull a string. His hair and complexion was accordin' to specifications, I admit, and his eyes were as blue as a new set of lunch counter crockery; and if he was all Uncle Jerry could show in the nephew line, then he must be it.

"All right," says I. "It ain't me that's pickin' him. Now fall in line right behind me, and we'll work out where he won't get run down by baggage trucks or be mistaken by excursionists for a spray of autumn leaves."

"Young lady didn't come down to the train, hey?" says Uncle Jerry.

"No, it makes her kind of nervous to see the cars come in," says I. "You're due to meet her this evenin', Uncle, you and Hermes."

You see, accordin' to the plan, I was to stow the pair to some hotel, see that they was fed, keep 'em busy durin' the early part of the evenin', and round 'em up at a big society crush where Marjorie knew the folks well enough so she could ask favors. If Mildred had 'em come where she was visitin', there'd be no end of questions asked; but if she sort of ran across 'em by accident at a place where there was a crowd, and could have a few words with Hermes in some quiet corner, nobody would be the wiser.

It was this last part of the programme I had in mind as I was sizin' up Jake's travelin' costume. And, say, how is it up there in the opodeldoc zone that they can get these high-water pant legs to fit so much like lengths of stovepipe? They was kind of a bilious brown and cut gen'rous in the seat; but, as far as real comic relief went, they wa'n't in it with the cute little short tailed cutaway that he sported above 'em. Honest, that coat was enough to make an eccentric song and dance artist green in the eyes! And you can believe me when I say I didn't lose any time in scootin' 'em down Fourth-ave. to a dollar a day house patronized by some of our swellest Texas buyers. My next move is to make a report over the 'phone.

"Yep, I got 'em both under lock and key," says I to Marjorie. "Trouble to pick em out? Ah, it was a pipe! Specimens like that ain't so common anyone could get mixed if they knew what day to look for 'em. Yes, the nephew's along, all right. His real name is Jake. Well, Hermes if you insist. But, say, ask Miss Mildred if she wants him delivered in the original package, or should I hire some open face clothes for him."

The decision is that Hermes must come in a dress suit, and if he ain't got any with him Marjorie will send down one of Mr. Robert's old ones.

"Oh, I'm just dying to see him in evening clothes!" gushes Mildred over the wire. "I know he'll be perfectly splendid!"

"Maybe," says I. "Only don't forget the collar buttons and studs for the dress shirt."

Say, I won't dwell on the gay time I had tryin' to keep that pair out of sight until after dinner. Honest, if I'd been drivin' the monkey cage in a circus parade I'd felt a lot better; for every fresh gink that pipes off that vaudeville costume of Jake's has to have his say about it. At the hash house where I steers 'em up against a twenty-five-cent course dinner all the girl waiters got to gigglin' like they'd never seen a freak before.

It wouldn't have been so bad with just Uncle Jerry, for he's wearin' an old black whipcord that would pass in the dark, and, outside the rubber collar and the plated watch chain looped across his vest, he didn't have the crossroads tag on him very plain; but Jake might as well have had cowbells tied to him. Maybe I wa'n't some relieved too when we got back to the hotel and found this outfit that the girls had scraped together and sent down.

"Now we'll fix you up for the theater and high society, Jake," says I. "By rights you ought to have some of that neck hemp sheared off; but I don't dare let a barber loose at you, for fear Mildred wouldn't know you after he got through. She raved a lot about that hair of yours, Jake."

"You go on now, Smarty!" says Jaky boy, grinnin' expansive. "Think I'm goin' to wear duds like them?"

"You do if you appear out again with me," says I. "So peel the butternut regalia and lemme see if I can harness you up in these."

"Hee-haw!" remarks Uncle Jerry. "Let him fix you up real harnsome, Jake."

Maybe that's what I did; but I wouldn't want to swear to it. Anyway, I got him into the dress shirt by main strength. That was the first struggle. Then, while Uncle Jerry held him gaspin' and groanin' on the floor, I buttoned the high collar on and fastened the white tie. Next we ended him up on his feet and pulled on the display vest and the long tailed coat.

"Ug-g-gh! It chokes somethin' awful!" says Jake, gettin' purple faced and panicky.

"Ah, close that pie gangway of yours and breathe natural for a minute!" says I. "There, you're feelin' better already. Come, pull them knobby wrists back up into your sleeves. This ain't no swimmin' lesson, you know. Say, you wear a dress suit like it was so much tin armor. What's the matter with you, anyway!"

"I—I don't know," says Jake, tryin' to stretch his head up like a turkey. "I don't like this."

"You look it," says I. "But think who's goin' to see you in it later! First off, though, you're goin' to a show with me. Come on, now; maybe you'll get used to bein' dressed up by eleven o'clock."

"'Leven o'clock!" says Uncle Jerry. "Look here, Son, I ain't in the habit of stayin' up all night, remember. I'll be droppin' off to sleep for sartin'."

He don't, though. All through the play, which has been a two years' scream for Broadway, he sat as solemn as if he was on a coroner's jury in the presence of the remains. Play actin' was new to Uncle Jerry; but he wa'n't going to give himself away, and he was just as wide awake as anybody in the house.

With Jake it was diff'rent. I expect them washed out blue eyes of his had taken in so many new scenes since mornin' that they couldn't absorb any more. Anyway, he gets drowsy before the curtain goes up, and after he's twisted his neck until he's got it collar broken he settles back for a comf'table snooze. He looks so calm and peaceful I didn't have the heart to disturb him, and I only jabbed my elbows in his ribs when he got to tunin' up the nose music too loud. Besides, I was hopin' a little nap of two or three hours might leave him some refreshed and in better shape for exhibitin' to Miss Mildred. For the more I saw of Jake, the less I could understand how a real live one like Millie could stand for three days of him, even if she did, discover him on a desert island. And as for ravin' about him afterwards—well, you never can tell, can you?

After the play it took Uncle Jerry shakin' on one side and me on the other to bring Jake back to life from his woodsawin' act.

"Ah, quit it and give the orchestra a chance!" says I. "And keep them elbows down! Don't try to stretch here; wait until you get back to the open fields for that. Yes, it's all over, and you're about to butt into society; so for Heaven's sake come out of the trance!"

Not havin' a stretcher handy, we drags him out to the curb, and I blows some more of my expense account against a taxi, which lands us safe and sound at this Fifth-ave. number up in the 70's. "Guests of Miss Marjorie Ellins," was to be the password, and the flunky in satin pants at the door seems to have been well posted.

"Yes, sir; right this way, sir," says he, wavin' us down the hall and shootin' us into a little conservatory nook. "The gentlemen from Maine are to wait here, and you are to meet Miss Ellins at the foot of the grand staircase. She will be down in a moment, sir."

"I get you," says I, and, after cautionin' Jake to keep on his feet until I came back, I slips out and posts myself behind a potted palm where I could watch the early arrivals comin' down from the cloakrooms.

It wa'n't a long wait; for pretty soon down floats Mildred and Marjorie, all got up in flossy party dresses and fairly quiverin' with excitement.

"Oh, you dear boy!" gushes Millie. "And he is really here, is he? My splendid Hermes! Tell me, what did he have to say about it all?"

"Who, Jake?" says I. "Mostly he was beefin' about the way his neck ached from the collar."

"Isn't that just like a man!" says Marjorie.

"I don't care," says Mildred. "I am just crazy to see him once more. I want to look into his eyes and——"

"Then step lively," says I, "before they get glued up for good. Down this way. Here you are, in there among the palms! See, there's Uncle Jerry rubberin' around!"

"Oh, yes!" squeals Millie, clappin' her hands. "Dear old Uncle Jerry! But—but, Torchy, where is—er—his nephew?"

"Eh?" says I. "Why, there on the bench, doin' the yawn act!"

"Wha-a-a-at!" gasps Millie, steppin' in for a closer look.

"Straight goods," says I. "That's Hermes the lobster picker."

"That!" says Mildred, shrinkin' back. "Never!"

"Huh!" says I. "I told him you wouldn't know him if he didn't keep that face cavity of his closed. He's been doin' that since eight o'clock. But he's the real article, serial number guaranteed by Uncle Jerry."

"No, no!" squeals Mildred, covering her face with her hands and backin' away. "There's been some dreadful mistake! That isn't my Hermes. He wasn't at all like that, I tell you, not at all!"

Well, we was grouped there in the hall holdin' our foolish debate, when this strange gent strolls by huntin' for some place to light up his cigarette. And just as one of us mentions Hermes again I notices him turn and prick up his ears. Next thing I knew, he's stepped over and is lookin' kind of smilin' and expectant at Mildred.

"I beg pardon if I'm wrong," says he; "but isn't this the—er—ah—the young lady whom I had the pleasure of——"

But that's enough for Millie, just hearin' his voice. Down comes her hands off her face. "Oh, I knew it! I knew it!" she squeals. "Hermes!"

And, say, I don't know how that old Greek looked; but if he had the build and lines of this chap he sure was some ornamental. Anyway, the one we had with us would have been a medal winner in any kind of clothes. Also he had the light wavy hair and the dark blue eyes of Millie's description, with some of the vacation tan left on his cheeks.

Marjorie's the next to be heard from.

"Why, Mr. Brooke Hartley!" says she, stickin' out her hand.

"By Jove!" says he. "Bob Ellins' little sister, eh? Hello, Marjorie!"

"Then—then——" gasps Mildred, lookin' from one to the other kind of dazed, "then you aren't a lobster man, after all?"

"Nothing so useful as that, I'm afraid," says Hartley.

"But why were you there on that island?" she insists.

"Well," says he, "hay fever was my chief excuse. I pretend to paint marines, you know, and that's another; but really I suppose I was just being lazy and enjoying the society of Uncle Jerry."

"But he isn't your uncle, truly?" says Mildred.

"Well," says Hartley, "it's a relationship I share with most of the summer people on that section of the Maine coast."

Then a light seemed to break on Mildred. She blushes to her eartips and hides her face in her hands once more. "Oh, oh!" she groans. "And I called you Hermes!"

"You did," says he. "And nothing ever tickled my vanity half so much. I've lived on that for the last two months. Please don't take it back!"

"I—I won't," says Millie, lettin' loose one of them rovin' glances at him sort of shy and fetchin'.

And, say, all tinted up that way, you could hardly blame him for grabbin' both her hands. Not knowin' what might happen next, I proceeds to break in.

"In the meantime," says I, "what'll you have done with this perfectly good nephew we've got on our hands back there on the bench?"

"That one!" says Millie. "Oh, I never want to see him again! Tell him to go away and—and go to bed."