"If we did," says he, "that was the nearest I came to getting acquainted with anyone in New York. It's the lonesomest hole I was ever in. Say——"

And inside of three minutes he's told me all about it; how he'd brought Mother on from Seattle to have a heart specialist give her a three months' treatment that hadn't been any use, and how he'd come East alone this time to tie up a big spruce lumber contract with the airplane department. Also he reminds me that he is Crosby Rhodes and writes the name of the hotel where he's stopping on his card. It's almost like a reunion with an old college chum.

"But how do you happen to be sizin' up a show window like this?" says I, indicatin' the Maison Noir's display of classy gowns. "Got somebody back home that you might take a few samples to?"

His big, square-cut face sort of pinks up and his mild blue eyes take on kind of a guilty look as he glances over his shoulder at the window. "Not a soul," says he. "The fact is, I'm not much of a ladies' man. Been in the woods too much, I suppose. All the same, though, I've always thought that if ever I ran across just the right girl——" Here he scrapes his foot and works up that fussed expression again.

"I see," says I, grinnin'. "You have the plans and specifications all framed up and think you'd know her on sight, eh?"

Crosby nods and smiles sheepish. "It's gone further than that," says he. "I—I've seen her."

"Well, well!" says I. "Where?"

He looks around cautious and then whispers confidential. "In that show window."

"Eh" says I, gawpin'. "Oh! You mean you got the idea from one of the dummies? Well, that's playin' it safe even if it is a little unique."

Crosby seems to hesitate a minute, as if debatin' whether to let it ride at that or not, and then he goes on:

"Say," he asks, "do—do they ever put live ones in there?"

"Never heard of it's being done," says I. "Why?"

"Because," says he, "there's one in this window right now."

"You don't say?" says I. "Are you sure?"

"Step around front and I'll point her out," says he. "Now, right over in that far—Why—why, say! She's gone!"

"Oh, come!" says I. "You've been seein' things, ain't you? Or maybe it was only one of the salesladies in rearrangin' the display."

"No, no," says Crosby emphatic. "I tell you I had been watching her for several minutes before I saw you, and she never moved except for a flutter of the eyelids. She was standing back to, facing that mirror, so I could see her face quite plainly. More than that, she could see me. Of course, I wasn't quite sure, with all those others around. That's why I spoke to you. I wanted to see what you'd say about her. And now she's disappeared."

"Uh-huh!" says I. "Most likely, too, she was hauled head first through that door in the back and if you stick around long enough maybe you'll see her shoved in again, with a different dress on. Say, Mr. Rhodes, no wonder you're skirt-shy if you never looked 'em over close enough not to know the dummies from the live ones. Believe me, there's a lot of difference."

But the josh don't seem to get him at all. He's still gawpin' puzzled through the plate glass. Finally he goes on: "If this was the first time, I might think you were right. But it isn't. I—I've seen her before; several times, in fact."

"As bad as that, eh?" says I. "Then if I was you I'd look up a doctor."

"Now listen," says he. "I don't want you to think I'm foolish in the head. I'm giving you this straight. Only you haven't heard it all yet. You see, I've been walking past here nearly every day since I've been in town—almost three weeks—and at about this time, between twelve-thirty and one, getting up a luncheon appetite. And about ten days ago I got a glimpse of this face in the mirror. Somehow I was sure it was a face I'd seen before, a face I'd been kind of day dreaming about for a year or more. Yes, I know that may sound kind of batty, but it's a fact. Out in the big woods you have time for such things. Anyway, when I saw that reflection it seemed very familiar to me. So the next day I stopped and took a good look. She was there. And I was certain she was no dummy. I could see her breathe. She was watching me in the glass, too. It's been the same every time I've been past."

"Well," says I, "what then?"

"Why," says he, "whether it's someone I've known or not, I want to find out who she is and how I can meet her for—for—Well, she's the girl."

"Gee!" says I, "you're a reg'lar Mr. Zipp-Zipp when it comes to romantic notions, ain't you?" And I looks him over curious. As I've always held, though, that's what you can expect from these boys with chin dimples. It's the Romeo trade-mark, all right, and Crosby had a deep one. "But see here," I goes on, "suppose it should turn out that you're wrong; that this shop window siren of yours was only one of the kind with a composition head, a figure that they blow up with a bicycle pump, and wooden feet? Where does that leave you?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "I wish you could have seen her," says he.

"What sort of a looker?" I asks. "Blonde or brunette?"

"I don't know," says he. "She has a wonderful complexion—like old ivory. Her hair is wonderful, too, sort of a pale gold. But her eyebrows are quite dark, and her eyes—Ah, they're the kind you couldn't forget—sort of a deep violet, I think; maybe you'd call 'em plum colored."

"Listens too fancy to be true," says I. "But they do get 'em up that way for the trade."

There's no jarrin' Crosby loose from his idea, though, and he's just proposin' that I meet him there at twelve-thirty next day when Vee drifts out and I has to break away. "I'll let you know if I can," says I as I walks off.

Course, Vee wants to know who my friend is and all about it, and when I've sketched out the plot of the piece she's quite thrilled. "How interesting!" says she. "I do hope he finds out it's a real girl Some of those models are simply stunning, you know. And there is such a thing as a face haunting you. Oh, by the way! Do you remember the Stribbles?"

"Should I?" I asks.

"The janitor's family in that apartment building where we used to live," explains Vee.

"Stribble?" says I. "Oh, yes, the poddy old party who did all the hard sitting around while his wife did the work. What reminded you of them?"

"I'm sure I don't know," says Vee. "But a month or so ago I saw the name printed in an army list of returned casualty cases—there was a boy, you know, and a girl—and I thought then that we ought to look them up and find out. Then I forgot all about it until just a few moments ago. Let's go there, Torchy, before we go out home tonight?"

I must say I couldn't get very much excited over the Stribbles, but on the chance that Vee would forget again I promised, and let her tow me into one of those cute little tea rooms where we had a perfectly punk lunch at a dollar ten per each. But even after a three hour session among the white goods sales Vee still remembered the Stribbles, so about five o'clock we finds ourselves divin' into a basement that's none too clean and are being received by a tall, skinny female with a tously mop of sandy hair bobbed up on her head.

It seems Ma Stribble was still shovelin' most of the ashes and scrubbin' the halls as well; while Pa Stribble, fatter than ever and in the same greasy old togs, continues to camp in a rickety arm chair by the front window, with a pail of suds at his right elbow. Yes, the one mentioned in the casualty list was their Jimmy. Only he hadn't come back a trench hero, exactly. He'd collected his blighty ticket without being at the front at all—by gettin' mixed up with a steel girder in some construction work. A mashed foot was the total damage, and he was having a real good time at the base hospital; would be as good as new in a week or so.

"Isn't that fortunate?" says Vee. "And your daughter, where is she?"

"Mame?" says Ma Stribble, scowlin' up quick. "Gawd knows where she is. I don't."

"Why, what do you mean?" asks Vee. "She—she hasn't left home, has she?"

"Oh, she sleeps here," goes on Ma Stribble, "and comes home for some of her meals, but the rest of the time——" Here she hunches her shoulders.

"Huh!" grunts Pa Stribble. "If you could see the way she togs herself out—like some chorus girl. I don't know where she gets all them flossy things and she won't tell. Paint on her face, too. It's bringin' shame on us, I tell her."

Mrs. Stribble sighs heavy. "And we was tryin' to bring her up decent," says she. "I got her a job, waitin' in a lunch room up on' the Circle. But she was too good for that. Oh, my, yes! Chucked it after the first week. And then she began bloomin' out in fine feathers. Won't say where she gets 'em, either. And her always throwin' up to her father about not workin', when he's got the rheumatism so bad he can hardly walk at times! Gettin' to be too much of a lady to live in a basement, she is. Humph!"

It looked like Vee had started something, for the Stribbles were knockin' Mame something fierce, when all of a sudden they quits and we hears the street door open. A minute later and in walks a tall, willowy young party wearin' a near-leopard throw-scarf, one of these snappy French tams, and a neat black suit that fits her like it had been run on hot.

If it hadn't been for the odd shade of hair and the eyes I wouldn't have remembered her at all for the stringy, sloppy dressed flapper I used to see going in and out with the growler or helping with the sweepin'. Mame Stribble had bloomed out, for a fact. Also she'd learned how to use a lip-stick and an eyebrow pencil. I couldn't say whether she'd touched up her complexion or not. If she had it was an artistic job—just a faint rose-leaf tint under the eyes. And I had to admit that the whole effect was some stunnin'. Course, she's more or less surprised to see all the comp'ny, but Vee soon explains how we've come to hear about Brother Jim and she shakes hands real friendly.

"I suppose you are working somewhere?" suggests Vee.

Mame nods.

"Where?" asks Vee, going to the point, as usual.

Miss Stribble glances accusin' at paw and maw. "Oh, they've been roastin' me, have they?" she demands. "Well, I can't help it. What they want to know is how much I'm gettin' so I'll have to give up more. But it don't work. See! I pay my board—good board, at that—and I'm not goin' to have paw snoopin' around my place tryin' to queer me. Let him get out and rustle for himself."

With that Mame sheds the throw-scarf and tosses her velvet tam on the table.

"I'm so sorry," says Vee. "I didn't mean to interfere at all. And I've no doubt you have a perfectly good situation."

"It's good enough," says Mame, "until I strike something better."

"What a cunning little hat!" says Vee, pickin' up the tam. "Such a lot of style to it, too."

"Think so?" says Mame. "Well, I built it myself."

"Really!" says Vee. "Why, you must be very clever. I wish I could do things like that."

Trust Vee for smoothin' down rumpled feathers when she wants to. Inside of two minutes she had Mame smilin' grateful and holdin' her hand as she says good-by.

"Poor girl!" says Vee, as we gets to the street. "I don't blame her for being dissatisfied with such a father as that. And it's just awful the way they talk about her. I'm going to see if I can't do something for her at the shop."

"Eh?" says I. "She didn't tell you where she was working."

"She didn't need to," says Vee. "The name was in the hat lining—the Maison Noir."

"Say, you're some grand little sleuth yourself, ain't you?" says I.

"And that explains," Vee goes on, "why I happened to remember the Stribbles today. I must have seen her there. Yes, I'm sure I did—that pale gold hair and the old ivory complexion are too rare to——"

"Why!" I breaks in, "that's the description Crosby Rhodes gave me of this show window charmer of his."

"Was it?" says Vee. "Then perhaps——"

"But what could she have been doing, posin' in the window?" I asks. "That's what gets me."

It got Vee, too. "Anyway," says she, "you must meet that Mr. Rhodes tomorrow and tell him what you've discovered. He's rather a nice chap, isn't he?"

"Oh, he's all right, I guess," says I. "A bit soft above the ears, maybe, but out in the tall timber I expect he passes for a solid citizen. I don't just see how I'm going to help him out much, though."

"I'll tell you," says Vee. "In the morning I will 'phone to Madame Maurice that I want you to see the frock I've picked out, and you can take Mr. Rhodes in with you."

So that's the way we worked it. I calls up Crosby, makes the date, and we meets on the corner at twelve-thirty. He's more or less excited.

"Then you think you know who she is?" he asks.

"If you're a good describer," says I, "there's a chance that I do. But listen: suppose she's kind of out of your class—a girl who's been brought up in a basement, say, with a janitor for a father?"

"What do I care who her father is?" says Crosby. "I was brought up in a lumber camp myself. All I ask is a chance to meet her."

"You sure know what you want," says I. "Come on."

"See!" he whispers as we get to the Maison Noir's show window. "She's there!"

And sure enough, standin' back to, over in the corner facin' the mirror, is this classy figure in the zippy street dress, with Mame Stribble's hair and eyes. She's doin' the dummy act well, too. I couldn't see either breath or eye flutter.

"Huh!" says I. "It's by me. Let's go in and interview Madame Maurice."

We had to waste four or five minutes while I inspects the dress Vee has bought, and I sure felt foolish standin' there watchin' this young lady model glide back and forth.

"I trust Monsieur approves?" asks Madame Maurice.

"Oh, sure!" says I. "Quite spiffy. But say, I noticed one in the window that sort of took my eye—that street dress, in the corner."

"Street dress?" says the Madame, lookin' puzzled. "Is M'sieur certain?"

"Maybe I'd better point it out."

But by the time I'd towed her to the front door there was nothing of the kind in sight.

"As I thought," says Madame. "A slight mistake."

"Looks so, don't it?" says I, as we trails back in. "But you have a Miss Mamie Stribble working here, haven't you; a young lady with kind of goldy hair, dark eyebrows and a sort of old ivory complexion?"

"Ah!" says the Madame. "Perhaps you mean Marie St. Ribble?"

"That's near enough," says I. "Could I have a few words with her?"

"But yes," says Madame Maurice. "It is her hour for luncheon. I will see." With that she calls up an assistant, shoos me into a back parlor and asks me to wait a moment, leavin' Crosby out front with his mouth open.

And two minutes later in breezes the Madame leadin' Mame Stribble by the arm. The lady boss seems somewhat peeved, too. "Tell me," she demands, "is this the street dress which you observed in the window?"

"That's the very one," says I.

"Hah!" says she. "Then perhaps Marie will explain to me later. For the present, M'sieur, I leave you."

"Sorry if I've put you in bad, Miss Stribble," says I, as the Madame sweeps out.

"Oh, that's all right," says Mame, tossin' her chin. "She'll get over it. And, anyway, I was takin' a chance."

"So I noticed," says I. "What was the big idea, though?"

"Just sizin' up the people who pass by," says Mame. "It's grand sport havin' 'em stretch their necks at you and thinkin' you're just a dummy. I got onto it one day while I was changin' a model. Course, it cuts into my lunch time, and I have to sneak a dress out of stock, but it's kind of fun."

"'Specially when you've got one particular young gent coming to watch regular, eh?" I suggests.

That seems to give her sort of a jolt and for a second she stares at me, bitin' her upper lip. "Who do you mean, now?" she asks.

"He has a chin dimple and his name's Crosby Rhodes," says I. "You've put the spell on him for fair, too. He's out front, waiting to meet you."

"Oh, is he?" says Mame, lettin' on not to care. "And yet when he was livin' in one of our apartments he passed me every day without seein' me at all."

"Oh, ho!" says I. "You took notice of him, though, did you?"

Miss Stribble pinks up at that. "Yes, I did," says she. "He struck me as a reg'lar feller, one of the kind you could tie to. And when he'd almost step over me without noticin'—well, I'll admit that sort of hurt. I expect that's why I made up my mind to shake the mop and pail outfit and break in some place where I could pick up a few tricks. After a few stabs I landed here at the Maison. I remember I had on a saggy skirt and a shirtwaist that must have looked like it had been improvised out of a coffee sack. It's a wonder they let me past the door. But they did. For the first six weeks, though, they kept me in the work rooms. Then I got one of the girls to help me evenings on a black taffeta; I saved up enough for two pairs of silk stockin's, blew myself to some pumps with four inch heels, and begun carryin' a vanity box. It worked. Next thing I knew they had me down on the main floor carryin' stock to the models and now and then displayin' misses' styles to customers. I had a hunch I was gettin' easier to look at, but you never can tell by the way women size you up. All they see is the dress. And in the window there I had a chance to see whether I was registerin' with the men. That's the whole tragic tale."

"Leaving out Crosby Rhodes."

"That's so," admits Mame. "And it was some satisfaction, bringin' him to life."

"You've done more'n that," says I. "He's one of these guys that wants what he wants, and goes after it strong. Just now it seems to be you."

"How inter-estin'!" says Mame. "Tell me, what's his line?"

"Airplane timber," says I. "He's from out on the Coast."

"Oh!" says she. "From one of these little straight-through-on-Main-street burgs, I suppose?"

"Headquarters in Seattle, I understand," says I. "That's hardly on the Tom show circuit."

"Yes, I guess I've heard of the place," says Mame. "But what's his proposition!"

"First off," says I, "Crosby wants to get acquainted. If he has any hymen stuff up his sleeve, I expect you'd better hear that from him personally. The question now is, do you want to meet him?"

"Oh, I dunno," says Mame careless. "I guess I'll take a chance."

"Then forget that vanishing act of yours," says I, "and I'll run him in."

And, honest, as I slips out of the Maison Noir and beats it for my lunch, I felt like I'd done a day's work. What it would come to was by me. They was off my hands, anyway.

That couldn't have been over a week ago. And here only yesterday Crosby comes crashin' into the Corrugated general offices, pounds me enthusiastic on the back, and announces that I'm the best friend he's got in the world.

"Meanin', I expect," says I, "that Miss Stribble and you have been gettin' on?"

"Old man," says Crosby, his mild blue eyes sparklin', "she's a wonderful girl—wonderful! And within a week she's going to be Mrs. Crosby Rhodes. We start for home just as soon as the Maison Noir can turn out her trousseau; which is going to be some outfit, take it from me."

I hope I said something appropriate. If I didn't I expect Crosby was too excited to notice. Also that night I carried home the bulletin to Vee.

"There!" says Vee. "I just knew, the moment I saw her, that she wasn't at all as that horrid old man tried to make us believe."

"No," says I, "Mame's vamping was just practice stuff. A lot of it is like that, I expect."

"But wasn't it odd," goes on Vee, "about her meeting the very man she'd liked from the first?"

"Well, not so very," says I. "With that show window act she had the net spread kind of wide. The only chance Crosby had of escape was by staying out of New York, and nobody does that for very long at a time."



CHAPTER VI

TURKEYS ON THE SIDE

Say, I hope this Mr. Hoover of ours gets through trying to feed the world before another fall. It's a cute little idea all right and ought to get us in strong with a whole lot of people, but if he don't quit I know of one party whose reputation as a gentleman farmer is going to be wrecked beyond repair. And that's me.

I don't know whether it was Vee's auntie that started me out reckless on this food producin' career, or old Leon Battou, or Mr. G. Basil Pyne. Maybe they all helped, in their own peculiar way. Auntie's method, of course, is by throwin' out the scornful sniff. It was while she was payin' us a month's visit one week way last summer, out at our four-acre estate on Long Island, that she pulls this sarcastic stuff. Havin' inspected the baby critical without findin' anything special to kick about, she suggests that she'd like to look over the grounds.

"Oh, yes, Torchy," chimes in Vee, "do show Auntie your garden."

Maybe you don't get that "your garden." It's only Vee's way of playin' me as a useful and industrious citizen. Course, I did buy the seeds and all the shiny hoes and rakes and things, and I studied up the catalogues until I could tell the carrots from the cucumbers; but I must admit that beyond givin' the different beds the once-over every now and then, and pullin' up a few tomato plants that I thought was weeds, I didn't do much more than underwrite the enterprise.

As a matter of fact, it was mostly Leon Battou, the old Frenchy who does our cookin', that really ran the garden. Say, that old boy would have something green growin' if he lived in the subway and had to bring down his real estate in paper bags. It was partly on his account, you know, that we left our studio apartment and moved out in the forty-five minutes commutin' zone. Then, too, there was Joe Cirollo, who comes in by the day to cut the grass and keep the flower beds slicked up, and do the heavy spadin'. And with Vee keepin' books on what was spent and what we got you can guess I wasn't overworked. Also it's a cinch that garden plot just had to hump itself and make good.

Auntie ain't wise to all this, though. So she raises her eyebrows and remarks: "A garden? Really! I should like to see it. A few radishes and spindly lettuce, I suppose?"

"Say, come have a look!" says I.

And when I'd pointed out the half acre of potatoes, and the long rows of corn and string beans and peas—and I hope I called 'em all by their right names—I sure had the old girl hedgin' some. But trust her!

"With so much land, though," she goes on, "it seems to me you ought to be raising your eggs and chickens as well."

"Oh, we've planned for all that," says I, "ducks and hens and geese and turkeys; maybe pheasants and quail."

"Quail!" says Auntie. "Why, I didn't know one could raise quail. I thought they——"

"When I get started raisin' things," says I, "I'm apt to go the limit."

"I shall be interested to see what success you have," says she.

"Sure!" says I. "Drop around again—next fall."

You wouldn't have thought she'd been disagreeable enough to go and rehearse all this innocent little bluff of mine to Vee, would you? But she does, it seems. And of course Vee has to back me up.

"But, Torchy!" she protests, after Auntie's gone. "How could you tell her such whoppers?"

"Easiest thing I do," says I. "But who knows what we'll do next in the nourishment producin' line? Hasn't old Leon been beggin' to go into the duck and chicken business for months? With eggs near a dollar a dozen maybe it would be a good scheme. And if we go in for poultry, why not have all kinds, turkeys as well?"

So a few days later I put it up to him. Leon shakes his head. "The chickens and the ducks, yes; but the turkey——" Here he shrugs his shoulders desperate. "Je ne connais pas."

"You jennie what?" says I. "Ah, come, Leon, don't be a quitter."

He explains that the ways of our national bird are a complete mystery to him. He'd as soon think of tryin' to hatch out ostriches or canaries. So for the time being we pass up the turkeys and splurge heavy on cacklers and quackers. Between him and Joe they fixed up part of the old carriage shed as a poultry barracks and with a mile or so of nettin' they fenced off a run down to the little pond. And by the middle of August we had all sorts of music to wake us up for an early breakfast. I nearly laughed a rib loose watchin' them baby ducks waddle around solemn, every one with that cut-up look in his eye. Say, they're born comedians, ducks are. I'll bet if you could translate that quack-quack patter of theirs you'd get lines that would be a reg'lar scream on the big time circuit.

And then along in the fall we begun gettin' acquainted with our new neighbors that had taken that cute little stucco cottage halfway down to the station from us. The Basil Pynes, a young English couple, we found out they were. Course, Vee started it by callin' and followin' that up by a donation of some of our garden truck. Pretty soon we were swappin' visits reg'lar.

I can't say I was crazy over 'em. She's a little mouse of a woman, big eyed and quiet, but Vee seems to like her. Pyne, he's a tall, slim gink with stooped shoulders and so short sighted that he has to wear extra thick eyeglasses. He'd come over to work for some book publishin' house but it seems he wrote things himself. He'd landed one book and was pluggin' away on another; not a novel, I understands, but something different.

"Huh!" says I to Vee. "No wonder he had to go into the lit'ry game, with that monicker hung on him. Basil Pyne! The worst of it is, he looks it, too."

"Now, Torchy!" protests Vee. "I'm sure you'll find him real interesting when you know him better."

As usual, she's right. Anyway, it turns out that Basil has his good points. For one thing he's the most entertaining listener I ever talked to. Maybe you know the kind. Never has anything to say about himself but whatever you start, that's what he wants to know about. And from the friendly look in the mild gray eyes behind the thick panes, and the earnest way he has of stretchin' his ear you'd think that what you was tellin' him was the very thing he'd been livin' all these years to hear. Then he has that trick of throwin' in "My word!" and "Just fancy that!" sort of admirin' and enthusiastic, until you almost believe that you're a lot cleverer and smarter than you'd suspected.

So when I gets on the subject of how we ducked payin' war prices for vegetables to the local profiteers by raisin' our own he wants to know all about it. With the help of Vee's set of books and a little promptin' from her I gives him an earful. I even tows him down cellar and points out the various bins and barrels full of stuff we've got stowed away for winter. And next I has to drag him out and exhibit the poultry side line.

"Oh, I say!" exclaims Basil. "Isn't that perfectly rippin'! You have fresh eggs right along?"

"All we can use," says I. "And we're eatin' the he—hens whenever we want 'em. Ducks, too."

"How clever!" says Basil. "But you Americans are always so good at whatever you take up. And you such a hard drivin' business man, too! I don't see how you manage it."

"Oh, it comes easy enough once you get the hang of it," says I. "As a matter of fact, I'm only just startin' in. Next thing I mean to have is a lot of turkeys. Might as well live high."

"Turkeys!" says Basil. "And I've heard they were so difficult to raise. But I've no doubt you will make a huge success with them."

"Guess I'll just have to show you," says I, waggin' my head.

I was for gettin' some turkey eggs right away and rushin' along a flock so they'd be ready by Christmas, but both Vee and Leon insists that it can't be done. Seems it's too late in the season or something. They want to wait until next spring.

"Not me," says I. "I've promised your Auntie I'd raise turkeys and I gotta deliver the goods. If we can't start 'em from the seed what's the matter with gettin' some sprouts? Ain't anybody got any young turkeys that need bringin' up scientific?"

Well, I set Joe Cirollo to scoutin' around and inside of a week he has connected with half a dozen. They comes in a crate as big as a piano box and we turns 'em loose in the chicken yard. When I paid the bill I was sure Joe had been stuck about two prices, but after I've discovered what they're askin' for turkeys in the city markets I has to take it back.

"Oh, well," says I, "if we can fatten 'em up maybe we'll come out winners, after all."

"Sure!" says Joe. "We maka dem biga fat."

After I'd bought a few bags of feed though, I quit figurin'. I knew that no matter how they was cooked they'd taste of money. All I was doubtful of now was whether they was the right breed of turkeys.

"What's all that red flannel stuff on their necks?" I asks Joe. "Ain't got sore throats, have they!"

"Heem?" says Joe. "No, no. Dey gooda turk. All time data way."

"All right," says I, "if it's the fashion. I don't eat the neck, anyway."

I couldn't get Leon at all excited over my gobblers, though. All he'll do is shake his head dubious. "They walk with such pride and still they behave so foolish," says he.

"It ain't their manners I'm fond of," says I, "so much as it is their white meat. Even at that, when it comes to foolish notions, they've got nothing on your ducks."

"Mais non," says Leon, meaning nothing sensible, "you do not understand the duck perhaps. Me, I raised them as a boy in Perronne. But the turkey! Pouff! He is what you call silly in the head. One cannot say what they will do next. Anything may happen to such birds."

He makes such a fuss over the way they hog the grain at feedin' time that I have to have a separate run built for 'em. You'd almost think he was jealous. But Joe, on the other hand, treats 'em like pets. I don't know how many times a day he feeds 'em, and he's always luggin' one up to me to show how heavy they're gettin'. I was waitin' until they got into top notch condition before springin' 'em on Basil Pyne. I meant to get a gasp out of him when I did.

Finally I set a day for the private view and asked the Pynes to come over special. Basil, he's all prepared to be thrilled as I tows him out. "But you don't mean to say this is your first venture at turkey raising?" he demands.

"Ab-so-lutely," says I.

"Strordinary!" says Basil.

At the end of the turkey run though I finds Joe starin' through the wire with a panicky look on his face. "Well, Joe," says I, "anything wrong with the flock?"

"I dunno," says he. "Maybe da go bughouse, maybe da got jag on. See!"

Blamed if it don't look like he'd made two close guesses. Honest, every one of them gobblers was staggerin' 'round, bumpin' against each other and runnin' into the fence, with their tails spread and their long necks wavin' absurd. A 3 a.m. bunch of New Year's Eve booze punishers couldn't have given a more scandalous exhibition.

"My word!" says Basil.

Course, it's up to me to produce an explanation. Which I does prompt. "Oh, that's nothing!" says I. "They're just tryin' the duck waddle, imitatin' their neighbors in the next run. Turkeys always do that sooner or later if you have ducks near 'em. They keep at it until they're dizzy."

"Really, now?" says Basil. "I never heard that before."

"Not many people have," says I. "But they'll get over it in an hour or so. Look in tomorrow and you'll see."

Basil says he will. And after he's gone I opens the court martial.

"Joe," I demands, "what you been feedin' them turks?"

It took five minutes of cross examination before I got him to remember that just before breakfast he'd sneaked out and swiped a pail of stuff that he thought Leon was savin' for his ducks. And what do you guess? Well, him and Leon had gone into the home-made wine business last fall, utilizin' all them grapes we grew out in the back lot, and only the day before they'd gone through the process of rackin' it from one barrel into another. It was the stuff that was left in the bottom that Joe had swiped for his pets.

"Huh!" says I. "And now you've not only disgraced those turkeys for life but you've made me hand Mr. Pyne some raw nature-fakin' stuff that nobody but a fool author would swallow."

"I mucha sorry," says Joe, hangin' his head.

"All right," says I. "I expect you meant well. But it was a bum hunch. Now see they have plenty of water to drink and by mornin' maybe they'll sober up."

I meant to keep an eye on 'em myself for the rest of the day, but right after luncheon Auntie blows in again, to pay a farewell visit before startin' South, and the turkeys slipped my mind. Not until she asks how I'm gettin' on with my flock of quail did I remember.

"Oh, quail!" says I. "No, I had to ditch that. Couldn't get the right sort of eggs."

Auntie smiles sarcastic. "What a pity!" says she. "But the various kinds of poultry you were going in for? Did you——"

"Did I?" says I. "Say, you just come out and—— Well, Leon, anything you want special?"

"Pardon, m'sieu," says old Leon, scrapin' his foot, "but—but the turkeys."

"Yes, I know," says I. "They're doing that new trot Joe's been teaching 'em."

"But no, m'sieu," says Leon. "They have become deceased—utterly."

"Wha-a-a-at?" says I. "Oh, oh, I guess it ain't as bad as that."

"Pardon," says Leon, "but I discover them steef, les pieds dans le ciel. Thus!" And he illustrates by holdin' both hands above his head.

"Perhaps it would be best to investigate," suggests Auntie. "I have no doubt Leon is right. Turkeys require expert care and handling, and when you were so sure of raising them I quite expected something like this."

"Yes, I know you did," says I. "Anyway, let's take a look."

And there they were, all six of 'em, with their feet in the air, and as stiff as if they'd just come from cold storage.

"Like somebody had thrown in a gas attack on 'em," says I. "Good night, turks! You sure did make it unanimous, didn't you?"

I expect my smile was kind of a sickly performance, for the last person I'd have wanted to be in on the obsequies was Auntie. I will say, though, that she don't try to rub it in. No, she tells of similar cases she's known of when she was a girl, about whole flocks bein' poisoned by something they'd found to eat.

"The only thing to do now," says she, "is to save the feathers."

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'.

"The long tail and wing feathers can be used for making fans and trimming hats," says Auntie, "while the smaller ones are excellent for stuffing pillows. They must be picked at once."

"Oh, I'm satisfied to call 'em a total loss," says I.

Auntie wouldn't have it, though. She sends Leon for a big apron and a couple of baskets and has me round up Joe to help. When I left they were all three busy and the turkey feathers were coming off fast. All there was left for me to do was to go in and break the sad news to Vee.

"As a turkey raiser, I'm a flivver," says I.

"But I can't see that it's your fault at all," says Vee.

"Can't you?" says I. "Ask Auntie."

If the next day hadn't been Sunday, I could have sneaked off to town and dodged the little talk Auntie insists on givin' about the folly of amateurs tacklin' jobs they know nothing about. As it is I has to stick around and take the gaff. Then about ten o'clock Basil Pyne has to show up and reopen the subject.

"Oh, by the way," says he, "how are the turkeys this morning? Are they still practicing that wonderful duck walk you were telling me about?"

Auntie has just fixed an accusin' eye on me, and I was wonderin' if it would be any sin to take Basil out back somewhere and choke him, when in rushes old Leon with a wild look on his face. He's so excited that he's almost speechless and all he can get out is a throaty gurgle.

"For the love of soup, let's have it," says I. "What's gone wrong now?"

"O-o-o la la!" says Leon. "O-o-o la la!"

"That's right, sing it if you can't say it," says I.

"Parbleu! Nom de Dieu! Les dindons!" he gasps.

"Ah, can the ding-dong stuff, Leon," says I, "and let's hear the English of it."

"The—the turkeys!" he pants out.

And that did get a groan out of me. "Once more!" says I. "Say, have a heart! Can't anybody think of a more cheerful line? Turkeys! Well, shoot it. They're still dead, I suppose?"

"But no," says Leon. "They—they have return to life."

"Oh come, Leon!" says I. "You must have been sampling some of them wine dregs yourself. Do you mean to say——"

"If M'sieu would but go and observe," puts in Leon. "Me, I have seen them with my eye. Truly they are as in life."

"Why, after we picked them last night I saw you throw them over the fence," says I.

"Even so," says Leon. "But come."

Well, this time we had a full committee—Vee, Auntie, Basil, Madame Battou, old Leon and myself—and we all trails out to the back lot. And say, once again Leon is right. There they are, all huddled together on the lowest branch of a bent-over apple tree and every last one of 'em as shy of feathers as the back of your hand. It's the most indecent poultry exhibit I ever saw.

"My word!" says Basil, starin' through his thick glasses.

"That don't half express it, Basil," says I.

"But—but what happened to them?" he insists.

"I hate to admit it," says I, "but they had a party yesterday. Uh-huh. Wine dregs. And they got soused to the limit—paralyzed. Then, on the advice of a turkey expert"—here I glances at Auntie—"we decided that they were dead, and we picked 'em to conserve their feathers. Swell idea, eh? Just a little mistake about their being utterly deceased, as Leon put it. They were down, but not out. Look at the poor things now, though."

And then Vee has to snicker. "Aren't they just too absurd!" says she. "See them shiver."

"I should think they'd be blushin'," says I. "What's the next move?" I asks Auntie. "Do I put in steam heat for 'em?"

It takes Auntie a few minutes to recover, but when she does she's right there with the bright little scheme. "We must make jackets for them," says she.

"Eh?" says I.

"Certainly," she goes on. "They'll freeze if we don't. And it's perfectly practical. Of course, I've never seen it done, but I'm sure they'll get along just as well if their feathers were replaced by something that will keep them warm."

"Couldn't get the Red Cross ladies to knit sweaters for 'em, could we?" I suggests.

Auntie pays no attention to this, but asks Vee if she hasn't some old flannel shirts, or something of the kind.

Well, while they're plannin' out the new winter styles of turkey costumes, Joe and Leon rigs up a wood stove in their coop, shoos the flock in, and proceeds to warm 'em up. They took turns that night keeping the fire going, I understand.

And when I comes home Monday afternoon from the office I ain't even allowed to say howdy to the youngster until I've been dragged out and introduced triumphant to the only flock of custom-tailored turkeys in the country. Auntie and Vee and Madame Battou sure had done a neat job of costumin', considerin' the fact that they'd had no paper patterns to go by. But somehow they'd doped out a one-piece union suit cut high in the neck with sort of a knickerbocker effect to the lower end. Mostly they seemed to have used an old near-silk quilted bathrobe of mine, but I also recognized a khaki army shirt that I had no notion of throwin' in the discard yet awhile. And if you'll believe it them gobblers was struttin' around as chesty as if they hadn't lost a feather.

"Aren't they just too cute for anything?" demands Vee.

"Worse than that," says I, "they look almost as human as so many floor-walkers. I hope they ain't going to be hard on clothes, for my wardrobe wouldn't stand many such raids."

"Oh, don't worry about that," says Vee. "We shall be eating one every week or so."

"Then don't let me know when the executions take place," says I. "As for me, I shouldn't feel like tellin' Joe to kill one without an order from the High Sheriff of the county."

And say, if I'm ever buffaloed into buyin' any more live turkeys, I'm going to demand a written guarantee that they're Prohibitionists.



CHAPTER VII

ERNIE AND HIS BIG NIGHT

I'm kind of glad I was with Ernie when he had his big night. If I hadn't been I never would have believed it of him. Not if he'd produced affidavits. No! It would have been too much of a strain on the imagination.

For somehow it's hard to connect Ernie with anything like that, even when I've seen what I have. You could almost tell that, just by his name—Ernest Sudders. And when I add that he's assistant auditor in the Corrugated offices you ought to have the picture complete. You know what assistant auditors are like.

Ernie ran true to type. And then some. I expect there was one or two other things he might have been; such as manager of a gift shop, or window dresser for the misses' department, or music teacher in a girls' boarding school. But I doubt if he'd ever been such a success as he was at the high desk. Seemed like he was born to be an assistant auditor. He was holding the job when I first came to the Corrugated as sub office boy; he still has it, and I can think of only one party that could pry him loose from it—the old boy with the long scythe.

For one thing, Ernie gives all his time to being assistant auditor. Not just office hours. I'll bet he's one even in his sleep. He looks the part, dresses the part, thinks the part. He don't work at it, he lives it. Talk about this four dimension stuff. Ernie gets along with two—up the column from the bottom, and both ways from the decimal point.

Not such a bad-lookin' chap, Ernie, only a bit stiff from the waist up. You know, like he had his spine in a cast. Then there's the neck-apple. Ernie fits his into a high white wing collar and sets it off with a black ascot tie and a pearl stickpin. Also he sports the only black cutaway that's worn reg'lar into the General Offices. Oh, yes, Ernie could go on at a minute's notice as best man or pall-bearer. I don't mean he's often called on to be either. He only wears that costume because that's his idea of how an assistant auditor should be arrayed.

One of these super-system birds, Ernie is. He could turn out an annual report every Saturday if the directors asked for it. Never has to hunt for a bunch of stray figures. He has everything cross-indexed neat and accurate. He's that way about everything, always a spare umbrella and an extra pair of rubbers in his locker, and he carries a pearl-handle penknife in a chamois case.

But in spite of all that I'm sorry to state that around the Corrugated Ernie is rated as a walking joke. We all josh him, even up to Old Hickory Ellins. The only ones he ever seems to mind much though are the lady typists. The hardest thing he does during the day is when he has to walk past that battery of near-vamps, for they never fail to lay down a rolling eye barrage that gets him pink in the ears.

Course, having noticed that, I generally use it as my cue for passing pleasant words to Ernie. "Honest now," I'll ask him, "which one of them Lizzie Mauds are you playin' as favorite these days, Ernie?"

And Ernie, he'll color up like a fire hydrant and protest: "Now, say, Torchy! You know very well I've never spoken to one of them."

"Yes, you tell it well," I'll say, "but I'm onto you, old sport."

I don't know how long I've been shooting stuff like that at Ernie, and it always gets him going. I have a hunch, though, that he kind of likes it. These skirt-shy boys usually do. And as a matter of fact I expect the only female he ever looked square in the eye is that old maid sister of his that he lives with somewhere over in Jersey.

So this night when we were doing overtime together at the office and it was a case of going out for dinner I'd planned to slip a little something on Ernie by towin' him to a joint where the lights were bright and they were apt to have silver buckets on the floor. I was hoping he might see some perfect lady light up a cigarette, or maybe give him a cut-up glance over the top of her fizz goblet. It would be cheerin' to watch Ernie tryin' to let on he didn't notice.

He'd already called Sister on the long distance telephone and told her not to wait up for him, explainin' just what it was we was workin' on and how we might not be through until quite late. And Sister had advised him to be sure to wear his silk muffler and not to sleep past his station if he had to take the 11:48 out.

"Gosh, Ernie!" says I. "If you 're that way now what'll you be when you're married?"

"But I hadn't thought of getting married," says he. "Really!"

"Yes," says I, "and you silent, thoughtless boys are the very ones who jump into matrimony unexpected. Some evenin' you'll meet just the right babidoll and the next thing we know you'll be sendin' us at home cards. You act innocent enough in public, but I'll bet you're a bear when it comes to workin' up to a quick clinch behind the palms."

Ernie almost gasps with horror at the thought.

"Oh, I wouldn't put it past you," says I. "I expect, though, you'd like to have me class you among the great unkissed?"

"As a matter of fact," says Ernie solemn, "I have never—Well, not since I was a mere boy, at least. It—it's just happened so."

"And you past thirty!" says I. "What a long spell to be out of luck!"

So I suggests that we work through until about 7:45 and then hit the Regal roof for a $2 feed and a view of some of this fancy skatin' they're pullin' off there. But that ain't Ernie's plan at all. He has his mouth all set for an oyster stew and a plate of crullers down in the Arcade beanerie.

"Ah, forget your old automatic habits for once," says I. "This dinner is on the house, you know, so why not make it a reg'lar one? Come along."

And for a wonder I persuades him to do it. I expect this idea of chargin' it on the expense account hadn't occurred to him.

Anyway, that's how it come we were piking through West Forty-fifth Street with the first of the theater crowds, Ernie still protestin' that he really didn't care for this sort of thing—cabaret stunts and all that—and me kiddin' him along as usual, sayin' I'll bet the head waiter would call him by his first name, when the net is cast sudden over Ernie's head.

I don't know which one of us saw her first. All I'm sure of is that we both sort of slowed up and did the gawp act. You could hardly blame us, for here in a taxi by the curb is—Well, it would take Robert Chambers a page and a half at twenty cents a word to do her full justice, so I'll just say she was a lovely lady.

No, I ain't gettin' her mixed with any of Mr. Ziegfeld's stars, nor she ain't any broker's bride plucked from the switch-board. She's the real thing in the lady line, though how I knew it's hard to tell. Also she's a home-grown siren that works without the aid of a lip-stick, permanent wave, or an eyebrow pencil. Anyway, here she is leaning through the taxi door and shootin' over the alluring smile.

I couldn't quite believe it was meant for either of us until I'd scouted around to see if there wasn't someone else in line. No, there wasn't. And as Ernie is nearest, course I knows it's for him.

"Ah, ha!" says I. "Who's your friend with the golden tresses?"

That's what they were, all right. You don't see hair like that every day, and it ain't the shade which can be produced at a beauty parlor. It's the 18-karat kind, done up sort of loose and careless, but all the more dangerous for that. And with that snowy white complexion, except for the pink flush on the cheeks, and the big, starry blue eyes, she sure is a stunner.

"Do—do you think she means me?" whispers Ernie husky, as we stop in our tracks.

"Ah come!" says I. "This is no time to stall. If she hadn't spotted you direct you might have let on you didn't see her, and strolled back after you'd given me the slip. As it is, Ernie, I've got the goods on you for once and you might as well——"

"But I—I don't know her at all," insists Ernie.

Just then, though, she reaches out a pair of bare arms and remarks real folksy: "At last you've come, haven't you?"

"Seems to be fairly well acquainted with you, though, Ernie boy," says I.

As for Ernie, he just stands there starin' bug-eyed and gaspy, as if he didn't know what to do. Course, I couldn't tell why. I knew he always had acted like a poor prune when he was kidded by the flossy key pounders in the office, but almost any nut could see this was an entirely different case. Here was a regular person, all dolled up in a classy evening gown, with a fur-trimmed opera cape slippin' off her shoulders. And she was givin' him the straight call.

"But—but there must be some mistake," protests Ernie.

"If there is," says I, "it's up to you to put the lady wise. You can't walk off and leave her with her hands in the air, can you? Ah, don't be a fish! Step up."

With that I gives him a push and Ernie staggers over to the curb.

"It's been so long," I hears the lady murmur, "but I knew you would remember. Come."

What Ernie said then I didn't quite catch, but the next thing I knew he'd been dragged in, the chauffeur had got the signal, and as the taxi started off toward Fifth Avenue I had a glimpse of what looked very much like a fond clinch, with Ernie as the clinchee.

And there I am left with my mouth open. I expect I hung up there fully ten minutes, tryin' to dope out what had happened. Had Ernie just been stallin' me off tryin' to establish an alibi? Or was it a case of poor memory? No, that didn't seem likely. She wasn't the kind of a female party a man could forget easy, if he'd ever really known her. Specially a gink like Ernie who'd had such a limited experience. Nor she wasn't the type that would go out cruisin' in a cab after perfect strangers. Not her. Besides, hadn't she recognized Ernie on sight? Then there was the quick clinch. No discountin' that. Whoever it was it's somebody who don't hesitate to hug Ernie right in public. And yet he sticks to it, right up to the last, that he don't know her. Well, I gave it up.

"Either he's a foxier sport than we've been givin' him credit for," thinks I, "or else the lady has made the mistake of her life. If she has she'll soon find it out and Ernie will be trailing back on the hunt for me."

But after walkin' up and down the block three times without seeing anything that looked like Ernie I dodges into a chop-house and has a bite all by my lonesome. Then I wanders back to the general offices and tries to wind up what we'd been workin' on. But I couldn't help wondering about Ernie. Had he just plain buffaloed me, or what? If he had, who was his swell lady friend? And how did she come to be waitin' there in the taxi? By the way she was costumed she might have been on her way to some dinner dance on Fifth Avenue. That was a perfectly spiffy evening dress she had on, what there was of it. And I could remember jewels sparklin' here and there. Course, she was no chicken; somewhere under thirty would have been my guess, but she sure was easy to look at. Such eyes, too! Yes, a little starry maybe, but big and sparkly. No wonder Ernie didn't care to look at any of our lady typists if he had that in the background.

So I wasn't gettin' ahead very fast untanglin' them dockage contracts, and before 11 o'clock I was yawning. I'd just decided to quit and loaf around the station until the theater train was ready when I hears an unsteady step in the outer office and the next minute in blows Ernie.

That is, it's somebody who looks a little as Ernie did three hours before. But his derby is busted in on one side, one end of his wing collar has been carried away and is ridin' up towards his left ear, his coat is all dusty, and his face is flushed up like a new fire truck.

"For the love of soup!" says I, gaspy. "Must have been some party?"

Ernie, he braces himself by grippin' a chair-back and makes a stab at recoverin' his usual stiff-neck pose. But it's a flat failure. So he gives up, waves one hand around vague, and indulges in a foolish smile.

"Wha'—wha' makes you think sho—party?" he demands.

"I got second sight, Ernie," says I, "and it tells me you've been spilled off the wagon."

"You—you think I—I've been drinkin'?" asks Ernie indignant.

"Oh, no," says I. "I should say you'd been using a funnel."

"Tha's—tha's because you have 'spischus nashur'," protests Ernie. "Merely few glasshes. You know—bubblesh in stem."

"Champagne, eh?" says I. "Then it was a reg'lar party? Ernie, I am surprised at you."

"You—you ain't half so shurprised as—as I am myshelf," says he, chucklin'. "Tha's what I told Louishe."

"Oh, you mentioned it to Louise, did you?" says I. "I expect that was the lovely lady who carted you off in the taxi?"

He nods and springs another one of them silly smiles. "Tha's ri'," says he. "The lovely Louishe."

"Tell me, Ernie," says I, "how long has this been going on?"

And what do you suppose this fathead has the front to spring on me? That this was the first time he'd ever seen her. Uh-huh! He sticks to that tale. Even claims he don't know what the rest of her name is.

"Louishe, tha's all," says he. "Th' lovely Louishe."

"Oh, very well," says I. "We'll let it ride at that. And I expect she picked you out all on account of your compelling beauty? Must have been a sudden case, from the fond clinch I saw you gettin' as the cab started."

Ernie closed his eyes slow, like he was goin' over the scene again, and then remarks: "Thash when I begun to be surprished. Louishe has most affec-shanate nashur."

"So it would seem," says I. "But where did the party take place?"

That little detail appears to have escaped Ernie. He remembered that there were pink candles on the table, and music playing, and a lot of nice people around. Also that the waiter's head was shiny, like an egg. He thought it must have been at some hotel on Fifth Avenue. Yes, they went in through a sidewalk canopy. It was a very nice dinner, too—'specially the pheasant and the parfait in the silver cup. And it was so funny to watch the bubbles keep coming up through the glass stem.

"Yes," says I, "that's one of New York's favorite winter sports. But who was all this on—Louise?"

"She insists I'm her guesh," says Ernie.

"That made it very nice, then, didn't it?" says I. "But none of this accounts for the dent in your hat and the other rough-house signs. Somebody must have got real messy with you at some stage in the game. Remember anything about that?"

"Oh!" says Ernie, stiffenin' up and tryin' to scowl. "Most—most disagreeable persons. Actually rude."

"Who and where?" I insists.

"Louishe's family," says Ernie. "I—I don't care for her family. No. Sorry, but——"

"Mean to say Louise took you home after dinner?" says I.

Ernie nods. "Wanted me to meet family," says he. "Dear old daddy, darling mother, sho on. 'Charmed,' says I. I was willing to meet anyone then. Right in the mood. 'Certainly,' says I. Feeling friendly. Patted waiter on back, waved to orchestra leader, shook handsh with perfect stranger going out. Went to lovely house, uptown somewhere. Fine ol' butler, fine ol' rugsh in hall, tapeshtries on wall. And then—then——"

Ernie slumps into a chair, pushes the loose collar end away from his chin fretful, and indulges in a deep sigh. I expect he thinks he's told the whole story.

"I take it," says I, "that you did meet dear old daddy?"

"Washn't so very old, at thash," says Ernie. "No. Nor such a dear. Looksh like—like Teddy Roosh'velt. Behavesh like Teddy, too. Im—impeshuous. Very firsh thing he says is, 'And who the devil are you?' 'Guesh?' I tells him. 'Give you three guesshes.' He—he's no good as guessher, daddy. Grabsh me by the collar. 'You, you loafer!' says he. Then the lovely Louishe comes to rescue. 'Can't you see, daddy?' she tells him. 'It's Ernie. Found him at lash.' 'Ernie who?' demandsh daddy. 'I—I forget,' says Louishe. 'Bah!' saysh daddy. 'Lash time it was Harold, wasn't it?' 'Naughty, naughty!' saysh I. 'Mustn't tell talesh. Bad form, daddy. Lessh all be calm now and—and we'll tell you about dinner—bubblesh in the glass, 'n'everything. Louishe and I. Lovely girl, Louishe. Affecshonate nashur.' And thash as far as I got. Different nashur, daddy."

"I gather that he didn't insist on your staying?" says I.

No, he hadn't. As near as I could make out dear old daddy took a firm grip on Ernie in two places, and while the fine old butler held the front door open he got more impetuous than ever. As Ernie tells me about it he rubs himself reminiscent and gazes sorrowful at his dented derby.

"Mosh annoying," says he. "Couldn't even shay good night to lovely Louishe."

"Oh, well," says I. "You can make up for that when you pay your dinner call. By the way, where was this home of the lovely Louise?"

Ernie doesn't know. When he'd arrived he was too busy to notice the street and number, and when he came out he was too much annoyed. Also he didn't remember having heard Louise's last name.

"Huh!" says I. "Except for that everything is all clear, eh? It strikes me, Ernie, as if you'd worked up a perfectly good mystery. You've been kidnapped by a lovely lady, had a swell dinner, with plenty of fizz on the side, been introduced to a strong-arm father, and finished on the sidewalk with your lid caved in. And for an assistant auditor who blushes as easy as you do that's what I call kind of a large evening."

Ernie nods. Then he chuckles to himself, sort of satisfied, and remarks mushy: "Lovely girl, Louishe."

"Yes, we've admitted all that," says I. "But who the blazes is she?"

Ernie rumples his hair thoughtful and then shakes his head.

"But during all that time didn't she say anything about herself, or give you any hint?" I goes on.

Ernie can't remember that she did.

"What was all the chat about?" I demands.

"Oh, everything," says Ernie. "She—she said she'd been looking for me long timesh. Knew me by—by my eyesh."

"How touching!" says I. "That must have been during the clinch."

"Yes," says Ernie. "But nexsh time——"

"Say," I breaks in, "if you don't know what her name is, or where she lives, how do you figure on a next time?"

"Thash so," says Ernie. "Too bad."

"Still," says I, "the kiss stringency in your young career has been lifted, hasn't it? And now it's about time I fixed you up and towed you out to a hotel where you can hit the feathers for about ten hours. My hunch is that a pitcher of ice water is going to look mighty good to you in the morning. And maybe by tomorrow noon you can remember more details about Louise than you can seem to dig up now."

You can't always tell about these birds who surprise you that way. I was only an hour late in getting to the office myself next day, but I finds Ernie at his desk looking hardly any the worse for wear, and grinding away as usual. He looks a little sheepish when I ask him if Louise has 'phoned him yet.

"S-s-sh!" says he, glancin' around cautious. "Please!"

"Oh, sure!" says I. "Trust me. I'm no sieve. But I'm wondering if you'll ever run across her again."

"I—I don't know," says Ernie. "It all seems so vague and queer. I can't recall much of anything except that Louise—— Well, she did show rather a fondness for me, you know; and perhaps, some time or other——"

"Yes," says I, "lightnin' does occasionally strike twice in the same place. But not often, Ernie."

He's a wonder, Ernie is. Seems satisfied to let it go as it stands, without trying to dope anything out. But me, I can't let anybody bat a mystery like that up to me without going through a few Sherlock Holmes motions. So that evening finds me wandering through Forty-fifth Street again at about the same hour. Not that I expected to find the same lovely lady ambushed in a cab. I don't know just what I was looking for.

And then, all of a sudden, I gets my eye on this yellow taxi. It's an odd shade of yellow, something like a pale squash pie; a big, lumbering old bus that had been repainted by some amateur. And I was willing to bet there wasn't another in town just like it. Also it's the one Ernie had stepped into the night before, for there's the same driver wearing the identical square-topped brown derby. Only there's no Louise waiting inside.

They're a shifty bunch, these independents. Some you can hire for a bank robbing job or a little act with gun play in it, and some you can't. This mutt looked like he'd be up to anything. But when I asks him if he remembers the lady in the evening dress he had aboard last night he just looks stupid and shakes his head.

"Oh, it's all right," says I. "No come-back to it."

"Mebby so," says he, "but my big line, son, is forgettin' things."

"Would this help your memory any?" says I, slippin' him a couple of dollars.

He grins and stows it away the kale. "Aw, you mean the party with the wild eyes, eh?" he asks.

"Uh-huh!" says I. "I was just curious to know where you picked her up."

"That's easy," says he. "She came out of there, third door above. I get most of my fares from there."

"Oh," says I, steppin' out for a squint. "Looks like a private house."

"It's private, all right," says he, "but it's a home for dippy ones. You know," and he taps his head. "She's a sample. I've had her before. They slip out now and then. Last night she made her getaway through the basement door. I expect she's back by now."

"Yes," says I, "I expect she is."

And I don't need to ask any more. The mystery of the lovely Louise has been cleared up complete.

First off I was going to tell Ernie all about it, but when I saw him sitting there at his high desk, gazin' sort of blank at nothing at all and kind of smilin' reminiscent, I didn't have the heart. Instead, I asks confidential, as usual:

"Any word yet from Louise?"

"Not yet," says Ernie, "but then——"

"I get you," says I. "And I got to hand it to you, Ernie; you're a cagey old sport, even if you don't look it."

He don't deny. Hadn't I seen him start on his big night? And say, he's gettin' so he can walk past that line of lady typists and give 'em the once over without changin' color in the ears. He's almost skirt broken, Ernie is.



CHAPTER VIII

HOW BABE MISSED HIS STEP

What Babe Cutler was plannin' certainly listened like a swell party—the kind you read about. He was going to round up three other sports like himself, charter a nice comfortable yacht, and spend the winter knockin' about in the West Indies, with a bunch of bananas always hangin' under the deck awning aft and a cabin steward forward mixing planter's punch every time the sun got over the yard arm.

"The lucky stiff!" thinks I, as I heard him runnin' over some of the details to Mr. Robert, who he thinks can maybe be induced to join.

"Oh, come along, Bob!" says he. "We'll stop off for a look at Palm Beach on the way down, hang up a few days at Knight's Key for shark fishing, then run over to Havana for a week of golf, drop around to Santiago and cheer up Billy Pickens out on his blooming sugar plantation, cross over to Jamaica and have some polo with the military bunch up at Newcastle—little things like that. Besides, we can always have a game of deuces wild going evenings and——"

"No use, Babe," breaks in Mr. Robert. "It can't be done. That sort of thing is all well enough for a foot-loose old bach such as you, but with me it's quite different."

"The little lady at home, eh?" says Babe. "I'll bet she'd be glad to get rid of you for a couple of months."

"Flatterer!" says Mr. Robert. "And I suppose you think I wouldn't be missed from the Corrugated Trust, either?"

"I'll bet a hundred you could hand your job over to Torchy here and the concern would never know the difference," says Babe, winkin' friendly at me. "Anyway, don't turn me down flat. Take a day or so to think it over."

And with that Mr. Cutler climbs into his mink-lined overcoat, slips me a ten spot confidential as he passes my desk, and goes breezin' out towards Broadway. The ten, I take it, is a retainer for me to boost the yachtin' enterprise. I shows it to Mr. Robert and grins.

"There's only one Babe," says he. "He'd offer a tip to St. Peter, or suggest matching quarters to see whether he was let in or barred out."

"He's what I'd call a perfect sample of the gay and careless sport," says I. "How does it happen that he's escaped the hymeneal noose so long?"

"Because marriage has never been put up to him as a game, a sporting proposition in which you can either win or lose out," says Mr. Robert. "He thinks it's merely a life sentence that you get for not watching your step. Just as well, perhaps, for Babe isn't what you would call domestic in his tastes. Give him a 'Home, Sweet Home' motto and he'd tack it inside his wardrobe trunk."

I expect that's a more or less accurate description, for Mr. Robert has known him a long time. And yet, you can't help liking Babe. He ain't one of these noisy tin-horns. He dresses as quiet as he talks, and among strangers he'd almost pass for a shy bank clerk having a day off. He's the real thing though when it comes to pleasant ways of spending time and money; from sailing a 90-footer in a cup race, to qualifying in the second flight at Pinehurst. No shark at anything particular, I understand, but good enough to kick in at most any old game you can propose.

Also he's an original I. W. W. Uh-huh. Income Without Work. That was fixed almost before he was born, when his old man horned in on a big mill combine and grabbed off enough preferred stock to fill a packing case. Maybe you think you have no interest in financin' Babe Cutler's career. But you have. Can't duck it. Every time you eat a piece of bread, or a slice of toast or a bit of pie crust you're contributin' to Babe's dividends. And he knows about as much how flour is made as he does about gettin' up in the night to warm a bottle for little Tootsums. Which isn't Babe's fault any more than it's yours. As he'd tell you himself, if the case was put up to him, it's all in the shuffle.

He must have had some difficulty organizin' his expedition, for that same afternoon, when I eases myself off the 4:03 at Piping Rock—having quit early, as a private sec-de-luxe should now and then—who should show up at the station but Mr. Cutler in his robin's-egg blue sport phaeton with the white wire wheels.

"I say," he says, "didn't Bob come out, too?"

"No," says I. "I think he and Mrs. Ellins have a dinner party on in town."

"Bother!" says Babe. "I was counting on him for an hour or so of billiards and another go at talking up the cruise. We'll land him yet, eh, Torchy? Hop in and I'll run you out home."

So I climbs aboard, Babe opens the cut-out, and we make a skyrocket start.

"How about swinging around the country club and back through the middle road? No hurry, are you?" he asks.

"Not a bit," says I, glancin' at the speedometer, which was touchin' fifty.

"Nor I," says Babe. "I'm spending my annual week-end with Sister Mabel, you know. Good old scout, Mabel, but I can't say I enjoy visiting there. Runs her house too much for the children. Only three of 'em, but they're all over the place—climbing on you, mauling you, tripping you up. Nurses around, too. Regular kindergarten effect. And the youngsters are always being bathed, or fed, or put to sleep. So I try to keep out of the way until dinner."

"I see," says I. "You ain't strong for kids?"

"Oh, I don't mind 'em when they're kept in their place," says Babe. "But when they insist on giving you oatmealy kisses, or paw you with sticky fingers—no, thanks. Can't tell Mabel that, though. She seems to think they are all little wonders. And Dick is just as bad—rushes home early every afternoon so he can have half an hour with 'em. Huh!"

"Maybe you'll feel different," says I, "if you ever collect a family of your own."

"Me?" says Babe. "Fat chance!"

I couldn't help agreein' with him. I could see now why he'd shied matrimony so consistent. With sentiments like that he'd looked on Sister Mabel as a horrible example. Besides, followin' sports the way he did, a wife and kids wouldn't fit in at all.

We'd made half the circle and was tearing along the middle road on the back stretch at a Vanderbilt cup gait when all of a sudden Babe jams on the emergency and we skids along until we brings up a few yards beyond where this young lady is flaggin' us frantic with a pink-lined throw-scarf.

"What the deuce!" asks Babe, starin' back.

"Looks like a help wanted hail," says I. "She's got a bunch of youngsters with her and—yep, one of 'em is all gory. See!"

"O Lord!" groans Babe. "Well, I suppose I must."

As he backs up the machine I stretches my neck around and takes a look at this wayside group. Three little girls are huddled panicky around this young party who wears a brown velvet tam at such a rakish angle on top of her wavy brown hair. And cuddled up in her left arm she's holdin' a chubby youngster whose face is smeared with blood something startlin'.

"You don't happen to be a doctor, do you?" she demands of Babe.

"Heavens, no!" says he.

"But perhaps you know what to do to stop nose bleeding?" she goes on.

"Why, let's see," says Babe. "Oh, yes! Put a cold door key on the back of his neck."

"Or a piece of brown paper on his tongue," I adds.

The young lady shrugs her shoulders disappointed. "I've tried all that," says she, "and an ice pack, too. But it's no use. I must get him to a doctor right away. There's one about a mile down this road. Couldn't you take us?"

"Sure thing!" says Babe. "Torchy, you can hang on the back, can't you?"

"Oh, I can walk home," says I.

"No, no," says Babe, hasty. "You—you'd best come along."

So I helps load in the young lady and the claret drippin' youngster, drapes myself on the spare tires, and we're off.

"Is it little brother?" asks Babe, glancin' at the kid.

"Mine?" says the young lady. "Of course not. I'm Lucy Snell—one of the teachers at the public school back there at the cross-roads. Some of the children always insist on walking part way home with me, especially little Billy here. Usually he behaves very nicely, but today he seems to be out of luck. His nose started leaking fully half an hour ago. He must have leaked quarts and quarts, all over himself and me. You wouldn't think he could have a drop left in him. I was just about crazy when I saw you coming. There's Dr. Baker's house on the right around that next curve. And say, there's some speed to this bus of yours, Mr.—er——"

"Cutler," says Babe. "Here we are. Anything more I can do?"

"Why," says Miss Snell, as I'm unbuttonin' the door for her, "you might stick around a few minutes to see if he wants little Billy taken to the hospital or anything. I'll let you know." And with that she trips in.

"Lively young party, eh?" I remarks to Babe. "Don't mind askin' for what she wants."

"Perfectly all right, too," says he, "in a case like this. She isn't one of the helpless kind. Some pep to her, I'll bet. Lucy, eh? I always did like that name."

I had to chuckle. "What about the Snell part?" says I. "That one of your favorite names, too?"

"N—n—no," says Babe. "But she'll probably change that some of these days. She's the sort that does, you know."

"I expect you are right, at that," I agrees.

Pretty soon out she comes again, calm and smilin'. It's some smile she has, by the way. Wide and generous and real folksy. And now that the scare has faded out of her eyes they have more or less snap to 'em. They're the bright brown kind, that match her hair, and the freckles across the bridge of her nose.

"It's all right," says she. "Dr. Baker says the ice pack did the trick. And he'll take Billy home as soon as he's cleaned him up a bit. Thanks, Mr. Cutler."

"Oh, I might as well drive you home, too, and finish the job," says Babe.

"Well, I'm not missing anything like that, I can tell you," says Miss Snell. "I'm simply soaked with that youngster's gore. But I live way back on the other road. My! Billy dripped some on your seat cushions, didn't he?"

"Oh, that will wash out," says Babe careless. "You're fond of youngsters, I suppose?"

"Well, in a way I am," says she. "I'm used to 'em anyway, being one of six myself. That's why I'm out teaching—makes one less for Dad to have to rustle for. He keeps the little plumber's shop down opposite the station. You've seen the sign—T. Snell."

"I've no doubt I have," says Babe. "And you—you like teaching, do you?"

"Why, I can't say I'm dead in love with it," says Miss Snell. "Not this second grade stuff, anyway. It's all I could qualify for, though. This is my second year at it. I don't suppose you ever taught second grade yourself, did you?"

Babe almost gasps, but admits that he never has.

"Then take my advice and don't tackle it," says Miss Snell. "Not that you would, of course, but that's what I tell all the girls who think I have such a soft snap with my Saturdays off and a two months' summer vacation. Believe me, you need it after you've drilled forty youngsters all through a term. D-o-g, dog; c-a-t, cat. Why will the little imps sing it through their noses? It's the same with the two-times table. And they can be so stupid! I don't believe I was meant for a teacher, anyway, for it all seems so useless to me, making them go through all that, and keeping still for hours and hours, when they want so much to be outdoors playing around. I'd like to be out myself."

"But after school hours," suggests Babe, "you surely have time to go in for sports of some kind."

"What do you mean, sports?" asks Miss Snell.

"Oh, tennis, or horseback riding, or golf," says Babe.

She turns around quick and stares at him. "Are you kidding?" she demands. "Or do you want to get me biting my upper lip? Say, on five hundred a year, with board to pay and clothes to buy, you can't go in very heavy for sports. I did blow myself to a tennis racquet and rubber-soled shoes last summer and my financial standing has been below par ever since. As for spare time, there's no such thing. When I've finished helping Ma do the supper dishes there's always a pile of lesson papers to go over, and reports to make out. And Saturdays I can do my washing and mending, maybe shampoo my hair or make over a hat or something. Can you figure in any chance for golf or horseback riding? I can't, even if club dues were free to schoolma'ams and the board should send around a lot of spotted ponies for our use. Not that I wouldn't like to give those things a whirl once. I'm just foolish enough to think I could do the sport stuff with the best of 'em."

"I'll bet you could, too," says Babe, enthusiastic. "You—you're just the type."

"Yes," says Miss Snell, "and a fat lot of good that's going to do me. So what's the use talking? In a year or so I suppose I'll be swinging a broom around my own little flat, coaxing a kitchen range to hump itself at 6:30 a.m., and hanging out a Monday wash for two."

"Oh!" says Babe. "Then you've picked out the lucky chap?"

"I don't know whether he's lucky or not," says she. "It isn't really settled, anyway. Pete Snyder has been hanging around for some time, and I expect I'll give in if he keeps it up. He's Dad's helper, you know, and he isn't more'n half as dumb as he looks. Gosh! Here we are. I hope none of the kids see you bringing me home and tell Pete about it. He'd be green in the eye for a week. Good-by, Mr. Cutler, and much obliged."

As she skips out and up the path toward the little ramshackle cottage she turns and flashes one of them wide smiles on Babe and gives him a friendly wave.

"Well," says I. "Pete might do worse."

"I believe you," says Babe, kind of solemn.

Course, I didn't keep any close track of Mr. Cutler for the next few days. There was no special reason why I should. I supposed he was busy makin' up his quartette for that Southern cruise. So about a week later I'm mildly surprised to hear that he's still stayin' on over at Sister Mabel's. I didn't really suspicion anything until one afternoon, along in the middle of January, when as I steps off the 5:10 I gets a glimpse of Babe's blue racer waitin' at the crossing gates. And snuggled down under the fur robe beside him, with her cheeks pinked up by the crisp air and her brown eyes sparklin', is Miss Lucy Snell.

"Huh!" thinks I. "Still goin' on, eh? Or has Billy's little beak had another leaky spell?"

Couldn't have been many days after that before I comes home to find Vee all excited over some news she'd heard from Mrs. Robert Ellins.

"What do you think, Torchy!" says she. "That bachelor friend of Mr. Robert, a Mr. Cutler, was married last night."

"Eh!" says I. "Babe?"

"Yes," says Vee. "And to a village girl, daughter of T. Snell, the plumber. And his married sister is perfectly wild about it. Isn't it dreadful?"

"Oh, I don't know," says I. "Might turn out all right."

"But—but she's a poor little school-teacher," protests Vee, "and Mr. Cutler is—is——"

"A rich sport," I puts in, "who's always had what he wanted. And I expect he thought he wanted Miss Snell. Looks so, don't it?"

I understand that Sister Mabel threw seven kinds of fits, and that the country club set was all worked up over the affair, specially one of the young ladies that had played in mixed foursomes with Babe and probably had the net out for him. But he didn't come back to apologize or anything like that. And the next we heard was that the happy pair had started for Florida on their honeymoon.

Well, that seemed to finish the incident. Mr. Robert hunches his shoulders and allows that Babe is old enough to manage his own affairs. Sister Mabel calmed down, and the disappointed young ladies crossed Babe off the last-hope list. Besides, a perfectly good scandal broke out in the bridge playing and dancing set, and Babe Cutler's rapid little romance was forgotten. Five or six Sundays came and went, with Mondays following regular.

And then here the other afternoon, as I'm camped down next to the car window on my way home, who should tap me on the shoulder but the same old Babe. That is, unless you looked close. For there's a worried, puzzled look in his wide set eyes and he don't spring the usual hail.

"Hello!" says I. "Ain't lost your baggage checks, have you?"

"It's worse than that," says he. "I—I've lost—Lucy."

"Wha-a-t!" says I, gaspy. "You don't mean she—she's——"

"No," says Babe. "She's just quit me and gone home."

"But—but why?" I blurted out.

"Lord knows," groans Babe. "That's what I want to find out."

Honest, it listens like a first-class mystery. According to him they'd been staying at one of the swellest joints he could find in the whole state of Florida. Also he'd bought Lucy all the kinds of clothes she would let him buy, from sport suits to evening gowns. She'd taken up a lot of different things, too—golf, riding, swimming, dancing. Seemed to be having a bully time when—bang! She breaks out into a weepy spell and announces that she is going home. Does it, too, all by her lonesome, leaving Babe to trail along by the next train.

"And for the life of me, Torchy," he declares, "I can't imagine why."

"Well, let's try to piece it out," says I. "First off, how have you been spending your honeymoon?"

"Oh, golf mostly," says he. "I was runner up in the big tournament."

"I see," says I. "Thirty-six holes a day, eh?"

He nods.

"And a jack-pot session with the old crowd every evening?" I asks.

"Oh, only now and then," says he.

"With a few late parties down in the grill?" I goes on.

"Not a party," says Babe. "State's dry, you know. No, generally we went into the ballroom evenings and I helped Lucy try out the new steps she was learning."

"You did!" says I. "Then I give it up."

"Me too," says Babe. "But I'm not going to give up Lucy. Say, she's a regular person, she is. She was making good, too, and having a whale of a time when all of a sudden—Say, Torchy, if it was some break I made I want to know it, so I can square myself. She wouldn't tell me; wouldn't have a word to say. But listen, perhaps if you asked her——"

"Hey, back up!" says I.

"You know, if it hadn't been for you I might never have seen her," he goes on. "You were there when it began, and if there's to be a finish you might as well be in on that, too. I've got to know what it was I did, though. Honest, I can't remember anything particularly raw. Been chewing over it for two nights. If you could just——"

Well, at the end of ten minutes I agrees to go up to the plumber's house, and if the new Mrs. Cutler will see me I says I'll put it up to her.

"But you got to come along and hang around outside while I'm doing it," I insists.

"I'll do anything that either you or Lucy asks," says he. "I'll go the limit."

"That listens fair enough," says I.

So that's how it happens I'm waitin' in the plumber's parlor for Babe Cutler's runaway bride. And say, when she shows up in that zippy sport suit, just in from a long tramp across country, she looks some classy. First off she's inclined to be nervous and jumpy and don't want to talk about Babe at all.

"Oh, he's all right," says she. "I have nothing against him. He—he meant well."

"As bad as that, was he?" says I. "I shall hate to tell him."

"But it wasn't Babe, at all," she insists. "Don't you dare say it was, either. If you must know, it was that awful hotel life. I—I just couldn't stand it."

"Eh?" says I, and I expect I must have been gawpin' some. "Why, I understand you were at one of the swellest——"

"We were," says she. "That was the trouble. And I suppose if I'd known how, I might have had a swell time. But I didn't. I'd had no practice. And say, if you think you can learn to be a regular winter resort person in a few weeks just try it once. I did. I went at it wholesale. All of the things I'd wanted to do and thought I could do, I tackled. It looks like a lot of fun to see those girls start off with their golf clubs. Seems easy to swing a driver and crack out the little white ball. Take it from me, though, it's nothing of the kind. Why, I spent hours and hours out on the practice tee with a grouchy Scotch professional trying my best to hit it right. And I couldn't. At the end of three weeks I was still a duffer. All I'd accumulated were palm callouses and a backache. Yet I knew just how it should be done. I can repeat it now. One—you take your 'stance. Two—you start the head of the club back in a straight line with the left wrist. Three—you come up on your left toe and bend the right knee. And so on. Yet I'd dub the ball only a few yards.

"Then, when that was over, I'd go in and change for my dancing lessons. More one—two—three stuff. And say, some of these new jazz steps are queer, aren't they? I'd about got three or four all mixed up in my head when I'd have to run and jump into my riding habit and go through a different lot of one—two—three motions. And just as I'd lamed myself in a lot of new places there would come the swimming lesson. I thought I could swim some, too. I learned one summer down at Far Rockaway. But it seems that was old stuff. They aren't doing that now. No, it's the double side stroke, the Australian crawl, and a lot more. One, two, three, four, five, six. Legs straight, chin down, and roll on the three. And if you dream it's a pleasure to have a big husk of an instructor pump your arms back and forth for an hour, and say sarcastic things to you when you get mixed, with a whole gallery of fat old women and grinning old sports looking on—Well, I'm tellin' you it's fierce. Ab-so-lutely. It was the swimming lesson that finished me. Especially the counting. 'Why, Lucy Snell, you poor prune,' says I to myself, 'you're not having a good time. You're back in school, second grade, and the dunce of the class.' That's what I was, too. A flat failure. And when I got to thinking of how Babe would take it when he found out—Well, it got on my nerves so that I simply made a run for home. There! You can tell him all about it, and I suppose he'll never want to see or hear of me again."

"Maybe," says I, "but I have my doubts. Anyway, it won't take long to make a test."

And when I'd left her and strolled out to the gate where Babe is pacin' up and down anxious, he demands at once: "Well, did you find out?"

"Uh-huh," says I.

"Was—was it something I did?" he asks trembly.

"Sure it was," says I. "You let her in for an intensive training act that would make the Paris Island marine school grind look like a wand drill. You should have had better sense, too. Why, what she was trying to sop up in six weeks most young ladies give as many years to. Near as I can judge she was making a game play of it, too. But of course she couldn't last out. And it's a wonder she didn't wind up at a nerve sanitarium."

"Honest!" says Babe, beamin' on me and grabbin' my hand. "Is—is that all?"

"Ain't that enough?" says I.

"But that's so easy fixed," says he. "Why, I am bored stiff at these resort places myself. I thought, though, that Lucy was having the time of her young life. What a chump I was not to see! Say, we'll take a fresh start. And next time, believe me, she's going to have just what she wants. That is, if I can persuade her to give me another trial."

It seems he did, for later on he tells me he's bought that cute little stucco cottage over near the country club and that him and Lucy are going to settle down like regular people.

"With a nursery and all?" I asks.

"There's no telling," says Babe.

And with that we swaps grins.



CHAPTER IX

HARTLEY AND THE G. O. G.'S

"Oh, I say, Torchy," calls out Mr. Robert, as I'm reachin' for my hat here the other noon, "you don't happen to be going up near the club on your way to luncheon, do you?"

"Not today," says I. "I'm lunchin' with the general staff."

"Oh!" says he, grinnin'. "In that case never mind."

And for fear you shouldn't be wise to this little office joke of ours maybe I'd better explain that who I meant was Hartley Grue, assistant chief of our bond room force.

Just goes to show how hard up we are for comic stuff in the Corrugated Trust these days when we can squeeze a laugh out of such a serious-minded party as Hartley. But you know how it is. I expect some of them green-eyed clerks on the tall stools started callin' him that when the War Department first turned him loose and he reports back to tackle the old job wearin' the custom tailored uniform with the gold bar on his shoulders. And I admit the rest of us might have found something better to do than listen to them Class B-4 patriots who would have helped save the world for democracy if the war had lasted a couple years more.

Still, that general staff tag for Mr. Grue tickled us a bit. As a matter of fact he did come back—from the Hoboken piers—about as military as they made 'em. And to hear him talk about the Aisne drive and the St. Mihiel campaign and so on you'd think he must have been right at Pershing's elbow durin' the whole muss, instead of at Camp Mills and later on at the docks on a transport detail. But he gets away with it, even among us who have watched all the details of his martial career.

For the big war gave Hartley his chance, and he grabbed it as eager as a park squirrel nabbin' a peanut. He'd been hangin' on here in the bond room for five or six years, edgin' up step by step until he got to be assistant chief, but at that he wasn't much more'n an office drudge. Everybody ordered him around, from Old Hickory down to Mr. Piddie. He was one of the kind that you naturally would, being sort of meek and spineless. He'd been brought up that way, I understand, for his old man was a chronic grouch—thirty years at a railroad ticket office window—and I expect he lugged his ticket sellin' disposition home with him.

Anyway, Hartley had that cheap, hang-dog look, like he was always listenin' for somebody to hand him something rough and would be disappointed if they didn't. And yet he was quick enough to resent anything if he thought it was safe. You'd see him scowlin' over his books and he carried a constant flush under his eyes, as if he'd been slapped recent across the face, or expected to be. Not what you'd call a happy disposition, Hartley; nor was he just the type you'd pick out to handle a bunch of men.

All he had to start with was a couple of years' trainin' as a private in one of the National Guard regiments. I suppose he knew "guide right" from "left oblique" and how to ground arms without mashin' somebody's pet corn. But I don't think anybody suspected he had any wild military ambitions concealed under that 2x4 dome of his. Yet while most of us was still pattin' Wilson on the back for keepin' us out of war Hartley had already severed diplomatic relations and was wearin' a flag in his buttonhole.

When the first Plattsburg camp was organized Hartley was among the first to get a month's leave of absence and report. He didn't make it, being a little shy on the book stuff, besides lacking ten pounds or more for his height. But that didn't discourage him. He begun taking correspondence courses, eating corn meal mush twice a day, and cutting out the smokes. And after a four weeks' whirl at the second officers' training camp he squeezed through, coming out as a near lieutenant. Old Hickory Ellins gasped some when Hartley showed up with the bar on his shoulders, but he gave him the husky grip and notified him that his leave was extended for the duration of the war with half pay.

And the next we heard from Hartley he was located at Camp Mills drillin' recruit companies. Two or three times he dropped in to say he expected to be sent over, but each time something or other happened to keep him within a trolley ride of Broadway. Once he was caught in a mumps quarantine just as his division got sailing orders, and again he developed some trouble with one of his knees. Finally Hartley threw out that someone at headquarters was blockin' him from gettin' to the front, and at last he got stuck with this dock detail, which he never got loose from until he was turned out for good. Way up to the end, though, Hartley still talked about getting over to help smash the Huns. I guess he was in earnest about it, too.

Maybe they thought when they had mustered Hartley out that they'd returned another citizen to civilian life. But they hadn't more'n half finished the job. Hartley wouldn't have it that way. He'd stored up a lot of military enthusiasm that he hadn't been able to work off on draftees and departin' heroes. In fact, he was just bustin' with it. You could see that by the way he walked, even when he wasn't sportin' the old O. D. once more on some excuse or other. He'd come swingin' into the general offices snappy, like he had important messages for the colonel; chin up, his narrow shoulders well back, and eyes front. He'd trained Vincent, the office boy, to give him the zippy salute, and if any of the rest of us had humored him he'd had us pullin' the same stuff. But those of us that had been in the service was glad enough to give the right arm motion a long vacation.

"Nothing doing, Hartley," I'd say to him. "We've canned the Kaiser, ain't we? Let's forget that shut-eye business."

And how he did hate to part with that uniform. Simply couldn't seem to do it all at once, but had to taper off gradual. First off he was only going to sport it two days a week, but whenever he could invent a special occasion, out it came. He even got him a Sam Browne belt, which was contrary to orders, and once I caught him gazin' longin' in a show window at some overseas service chevrons and wound stripes. Course, he wore the allied colors ribbon, which passes with a lot of folks for foreign decorations; but then, a whole heap of limited service guys have put that over.

When it came to provin' that it was us Yanks who really cleaned up the Huns and finished the war, Hartley was right there. That was his strong suit. He carried maps around, all marked up with the positions of our different divisions, and if he could get you to listen to him long enough he'd make you believe that after we got on the job the French and English merely hung around the back areas with their mouths open and watched us wind things up.