Читать книгу On With Torchy - Ford Sewell - Страница 7

Table of Contents

Say, what's next to knowin' when you're well off? Why, thinkin' you are.

Which is a little nugget of wisdom I panned out durin' a chat I had not long ago with Mr. Quinn, that I used to work under when I was on the door of the Sunday sheet, three or four years back.

"Hail, Torchy!" says he, as we meets accidental on Broadway. "Still carrying the burning bush under your hat, aren't you?"

I grins good-natured at his old josh, just as I used to about twice a week regular, and admits that I am.

"You wa'n't lookin' for me to fade to an ash blond, was you?" says I.

"Ah!" says he. "I see the brilliance is not all on the outside. Well, what use are you putting it to? Who are you with now?"

"Same concern," says I. "Corrugated Trust."

"As First, or Second Vice President?" says he, cockin' his head on one side humorous.

"Add 'em together and multiply by three," says I, "then you'll be warm."

"I don't quite get the result," says he.

"Ever hear of an office-boy-de-luxe?" says I. "They don't print it on the letter-heads yet, or paint it on the ground-glass, but that's my real label. I'm the only one in New York, too."

Mr. Quinn chuckles and goes off shakin' his head. I expect he's disappointed that I've stuck so long in one shop without climbin' further up the ladder. That's what he was always preachin' at me, this ladder-climbin' advice. But say, hod carriers do that. Me for an express elevator when the time comes.

But meanwhile, with a couple of bosses like Old Hickory Ellins and Mr. Robert, it ain't so worse sittin' behind the brass rail. That's one reason I ain't changed. Also there's that little mine enterprise me and Mr. Robert's mixed up in, which ain't come to a head yet.

Then—well, then, there's Vee. Go on—hand me the jolly! And if you push me to it I'll admit I ain't any speedy performer at this "Oh, you!" game. Mr. Robert he thinks it's comic, when he has the kiddin' fit on, to remark chuckly, "Oh, I say, Torchy, have you seen Miss Vee lately?"

There's others too, that seems to get a lot of satisfaction shootin' the same thing at me, and they sort of snicker when I get pink in the ears. But, say, there's a heap of difference between pickin' peaches from an easy chair under the tree, and when you have to shin the garden wall and reach through the barbed wire ornament on top.

Course, I ain't comparin' anything—but there's Aunty. Dear old girl! Square as a brick, and about as yieldin'; good as gold too, but worth more per ounce than any coined at the mint; and as foxy in the mind as a corporation lawyer arguin' before the Rapid Transit Commission. Also I'm as welcome to Aunty's eyesight as Eugene V. Debs would be at the Union League Club—just about. That ain't any idle rumor, either, nor something that was hinted to me casual. It's first-hand information, hot off the bat.

"Boy," says she, glarin' at me through her gold lorgnette like I was some kind of insect specimen, "do I understand that you come here to see my niece?"

"Well," says I, "there's you and her—guess!"

"Humph!" she snorts indignant. "Then I wish you to know that your visits are most unwelcome. Is that quite clear?"

"I get the outline," says I. "But, you see——"

"No qualifications, absolutely none!" says she. "Good afternoon, young man. I shall not expect you to return."

"Oh, well, in that case," says I, sidlin' off, "why—I—I think I'll be goin'."

It was a smear, that's all. I felt about as thick through as a Saratoga chip, and not half so crisp. Encouragin' finish for an afternoon call that I'd been bracin' myself up to for weeks, wa'n't it? And from all I can gather from a couple of sketchy notes Vee gets about the same line of advice handed her. So there was a debate between her and Aunty. For I expect nobody can lay the law down flat to Vee without strikin' a few sparks from them big gray eyes.

But of course Aunty wins out in the end. It's a cinch, with everything on her side. Anyway, the next thing I knows about their plans is when I finds their names in the sailin' list, bound for the Big Ditch, with most everyone else that could get away. And I makes my discovery about three hours after the boat has left.

But that was in January. And I expect it was a fine thing for Vee, seein' the canal before it revised the geography, and dodgin' all kinds of grip weather, and meetin' a lot of new people. And if it's worth all that bother to Aunty just so anybody can forget a party no more important than me—why, I expect that's all right too.

But it's just like some folks to remember what they're ordered to forget. Anyway, I got bulletins now and then, and I was fairly well posted as to when Aunty landed back in New York, and where she unpacked her trunks. That helped some; but it didn't cut the barbed wire exactly.

And, say, I was gettin' some anxious to see Vee once more. Nearly two weeks she'd been home, and not so much as a glimpse of her! I'd doped out all kinds of brilliant schemes; but somehow they didn't work. No lucky breaks seemed to be comin' my way, either.

And then, here last Sunday after dinner, I just hauls out that church weddin' costume I'd collected once, brushes most of the kinks out of my red hair, sets my jaw solid, and starts to take a sportin' chance. On the way up I sketches out a scenario, which runs something like this:

A maid answers the ring. I ask if Miss Vee is in. The maid goes to see, when the voice of Aunty is heard in the distance, "What! A young gentleman asking for Verona? No card? Then get his name, Hortense." Me to the maid, "Messenger from Mr. Westlake, and would Miss Vee care to take a short motor spin. Waiting below." Then more confab with Aunty, and five minutes later out comes Vee. Finale: Me and Vee climbin' to the top of one of them Riverside Drive busses, while Aunty dreams that she's out with Sappy Westlake, the chosen one.

Some strategy to that—what? And, sure enough, the piece opens a good deal as I'd planned; only instead of me bein' alone when I pushes the button, hanged if two young chappies that had come up in the elevator with me don't drift along to the same apartment door. We swap sort of foolish grins, and when Hortense fin'ly shows up everyone of us does a bashful sidestep to let the others go first. So Hortense opens on what looks like a revolvin' wedge. But that don't trouble her at all.

"Oh, yes," says she, swingin' the door wide and askin' no questions. "This way, please."

Looked like we was expected; so there's no ducking and while we're drapin' our hats on the hall rack I'm busy picturin' the look on Aunty's face when she singles me out of the trio. They was panicky thoughts, them.

But a minute later the plot is still further mixed by the sudden swishy, swirly entrance of an entire stranger—a tall, thin female with vivid pink cheeks, a chemical auburn tint to her raven tresses, and long jet danglers in her ears. She's draped in what looks like a black silk umbrella cover with rows of fringe and a train tacked to it, and she wears a red, red rose coquettish over one ear. As she swoops down on us from the drawin' room she cuts loose with the vivacious chatter.

"Ah, there you are, you dear, darling boys!" says she. "And the Princess Charming is holding court to-day. Ah, Reggy, you scamp! But you did come, didn't you? And dear Theodore too! Brave, Sir Knights! That's what you all shall be—Knights come to woo the Princess!"

Honest, for awhile there, as this bughouse monologue was bein' put over, I figured I've made a mistake in the floor, and had been let into a private ward. But as soon as I gets next to the Georgia accent I suspects that it ain't any case of squirrels in the attic; but just a sample of sweet Southern gush.

Next I gets a peek through the draperies at some straw-colored hair with a shell-pink ear peepin' from underneath, and I know that whatever else is wrong don't matter; for over there on the windowseat, surrounded by half a dozen young gents, is somebody very particular and special. Followin' this I does a hasty piece of scout work and draws a deep breath. No Aunty looms on the horizon—not yet, anyway.

With the arrival of the new delegates the admirin' semicircle has to break up, and the three of us are towed to the bay window by Vivacious Vivian.

"Princess," says she, makin' a low duck, "three other Knights who would do homage. Allow me first to present Mr. Reginald St. Claire Smith. Here Reggy. Also Mr. Theodore Braden. And next Mr.—Mr.—er——"

She's got to me. I expect her first guess was that I'd been dragged in by one of the other two; but as neither of 'em makes any sign she turns them black, dark-ringed lamps inquirin' on me and asks, "Oh, I'm sure I beg pardon, but—but you are——"

Now who the blazes was I, anyway? It all depended on how well posted she was, whether I should admit I was Torchy the Banished, or invent an alias on the spot.

"Why," says I, draggin' it out to gain time, "you see I'm a—that is, I'm a—a——"

"Oh, hello!" breaks in Vee, jumpin' up and holdin' out both hands just in the nick of time. "Why, of course, Cousin Eulalia! This is a friend of mine, an old friend."

"Really!" says Cousin Eulalia. "And I may call him——"

"Claude," I puts in, winkin' at Vee. "Call me just Claude."

"Perfectly lovely!" gushes Eulalia. "An unknown knight. 'Deed and you shall be called Claude—Sir Claude of the Golden Crest. Gentlemen, I present him to you."

We looks at each other sort of sheepish, and most of us grins. All but one, in fact. The blond string bean over in the corner, with the buttermilk blue eyes and the white eyebrows, he don't seem amused. For it's Sappy Westlake, the one I run on a siding once at a dance. Think of keepin' a peeve on ice all that time!

It's quite a likely lookin' assortment on the whole, though, all costumed elegant and showin' signs of bein' fairly well parlor broke.

"What's the occasion?" says I on the side to Miss Vee. "Reunion of somebody's Sunday school class?"

She gives me a punch and smothers a snicker, "Don't let Cousin Eulalia hear you say such a thing," says she.

We only had a minute; but from what she manages to whisper durin' the general chatter I makes out that this is a little scheme Eulalia'd planned to sort of launch Vee into the younger set. She's from Atlanta, Cousin Eulalia is, one of the best fam'lies, and kind of a perennial society belle that's tinkled through quite some seasons, but refuses to quit. Just now she's spendin' a month with Fifth-ave. friends, and has just discovered that Vee and her are close connected through a step-uncle marryin' a half-sister of Eulalia's brother-in-law, or something like that. Anyhow, she insists on the cousin racket, and has started right in to rush Vee to the front.

She's some rasher, Eulalia is, too. No twenty-minutes-to-or-after silences while she's conductin' affairs. Course, it's kind of frothy stuff to pass for conversation; but it bubbles out constant, and she blows it around impartial. Her idea of giving Cousin Vee a perfectly good time seems to be to have us all grouped around that windowseat and take turns shootin' over puffs of hot air; sort of a taffy-throwin' competition, you know, with Vee as the mark.

But Vee don't seem tickled to death over it. She ain't fussed exactly, as Eulalia rounds us up in a half-circle; but she colors up a little and acts kind of bored. She's some picture, though. M-m-m-m! And it was worth while bein' one of a mob, just to stand there watchin' her.

I expect the young college hicks felt a good deal the same about it as me, even if they was havin' hard work diggin' up appropriate remarks when Eulalia swings the arrow so it points to them. Anyway, they does their best to come up with the polite jolly, and nobody makes a break to quit.

It's durin' the tea and sandwich scramble, though, that Cousin Eulalia gets her happy hunch. Seems that Sappy Westlake has come forward with an invite to a box party just as Vee is tryin' to make up her mind whether she'll go with Teddy Braden to some cotillion capers, or accept a dinner dance bid from one of the other young gents.

"And all for Wednesday night!" says she. "How stupid of you, with the week so long!"

"But I'd planned this box party especially for you," protests Sappy.

"Oh, give someone else a chance, Westlake," cuts in Reggy. "That's the night of our frat dance, and I want to ask Miss Vee if——"

"What's this all about?" demands Eulalia, dancin' kittenish into the limelight. "Rivalry among our gallant knights? Then the Princess Charming must decide."

"Oh, don't, Cousin Eulalia," says Vee, wrinklin' her nose the least bit. "Please!"

"Don't what?" says Eulalia, raisin' her long arms flutterin'. "My dear, I don't understand."

"Ah, she's hintin' for you to ditch the Princess stuff," I puts in. "Ain't that it?" and Vee nods emphatic.

Eulalia lets on that she don't know. "Ditch the—why, what can he mean by that?" says she. "And you are a Princess Charming; isn't she, boys?"

Course the bunch admits that she is.

"There, you see?" goes on Eulalia. "Your faithful knights acclaim you. Who says that the age of chivalry has passed? Why, here they are, everyone of them ready to do your lightest bidding. Now, aren't you, Sir Knights?"

It's kind of a weak chorus; but the ayes seem to have it. What other answer could there be, with Vee gazin' flushed and pouty at 'em over the tea urn?

"Really, Eulalia, I wish you wouldn't be so absurd," says Vee.

"My dear Cousin Verona," coos Eulalia, glidin' up and huggin' her impetuous, "how could anyone keep their heads straight before such absolutely distracting beauty? See, you have inspired them all with the spirit of chivalry. And now you must put them to the test. Name some heroic deed for each to perform. Begin with Reggy. Now what shall it be?"

"Fudge!" says Vee, tossin' her head. "I'll do nothing so perfectly mushy."

But Cousin Eulalia wa'n't to be squelched, nor have her grand scheme sidetracked. "Then I declare myself Mistress of the Lists," says she, "and I shall open the tournament for you. Ho, Trumpeter, summon the challengers! And—oh, I have it. Each of you Sir Knights must choose his own task, whatever he deems will best please our Princess Charming. What say you to that?"

There's a murmur of "Good business!" "Bully dope!" and the young gents begin to prick up their ears.

"Then this is how it stands," goes on Eulalia, beamin' delighted. "Between now and eight o'clock this evening each knight must do his valorous best to win the approval of our Princess. Hers it shall be to decide, the prize her gracious company for next Wednesday night. Come now, who enters the lists?"

There's some snickerin' and hangin' back; but fin'ly they're all in.

"All save the Unknown Knight," pipes up Eulalia, spottin' me in the rear. "How now, you of the Crimson Crest? Not showing the white feather, are you?"

"Me?" says I. "Well, I don't quite get the drift of the game; but if it'll make you feel any better, you can count me in."

"Good!" says she, clappin' her hands. "And while you are afield I must leave too—another tea, you know. But we all meet here again at eight sharp, with proof or plunder. Teddy, have you decided what to attempt?"

"Sure," says he. "Me to find the biggest box of candy that can be bought in New York Sunday evening."

"Oh, splendid!" gurgles Eulalia. "And you, Mr. Westlake?"

"Orchids," says Sappy. "Grandmother has dandy ones at her place up in Westchester, and I can make there and back in my roadster if I'm not pinched for speeding. I'm going to have a try, and maybe I'll have to steal the flowers too."

"There!" says Eulalia, pattin' him on the back. "That's a knightly spirit. But what of Crimson Crest? What will you do?"

"The game is to spring something on Miss Vee better'n what the others put over, is it?" says I.

"Precisely," says Eulalia, allowin' two of the young gents to help her on with her wraps. "Have you thought what your offering is to be?"

"Not yet," says I. "I may take a chance on something fresh."

They was all pilin' out eager by that time, each one anxious to get started on his own special fool stunt, so, while I was mixed up in the gen'ral push, with my hat in my hand and my coat over my arm, it didn't strike me how I could bolt the programme until I'm half crowded behind the open hall door. Then I gets a swift thought. Seein' I wouldn't be missed, and that Vee has her back to me, I simply squeezes in out of sight and waits while she says by-by to the last one; so, when she fin'ly shuts the door, there I am.

"Why, Torchy!" says she. "I thought you had gone."

"But it wa'n't a wish, was it?" says I.

"Humph!" says she, flashin' a teasin' glance. "Suppose I don't tell that?"

"My nerve is strong today," says I, chuckin' my hat back on the rack; "so I'll take the benefit of the doubt."

"But all the others have gone to—to do things that will please me," she adds.

"That's why I'm takin' a chance," says I, "that if I stick around I might—well, I'm shy of grandmothers to steal orchids from, anyway."

Vee chuckles at that. "Isn't Cousin Eulalia too absurd?" says she. "And since you're still here—why—well, let's not stand in the hall. Come in."

"One minute," says I. "Where's Aunty?"

"Out," says she.

"What a pity!" says I, takin' Vee by the arm. "Tell her how much I missed her."

"But how did you happen to come up today?" asks Vee.

"There wa'n't any happenin' to it," says I. "I'd got to my limit, that's all. Honest, Vee, I just had to come. I'd have come if there'd been forty Aunties, each armed with a spiked club. It's been months, you know, since I've had a look at you."

"Yes, I know," says she, gazin' at the rug. "You—you've grown, haven't you?"

"Think so?" says I. "Maybe it's the cut-away coat."

"No," says she; "although that helps. But as we walked in I thought you seemed taller than I. Let's measure, here by the pier glass. Now, back to back. Well, if I ever! Look where your shoulders come!"

"No more than an inch or so," says I, gazin' sideways at the mirror; and then I lets slip, half under my breath, a sort of gaspy "Gee!"

"Why the 'Gee'?" says she, glancin' over her shoulder into the glass.

"Oh, I don't know," says I; "only I don't mind bein' grouped like this, not a bit."

"Pooh!" says she, but still holdin' the pose.

"Seems to me," says I, "that Cousin Eulalia is a slick describer. That Princess Charming business ain't so wide."

"Silly!" says she. "Come and sit down."

She was steerin' for the windowseat; but I picks out a cozy little high-backed davenport and, reachin' for one of her hands, swings her into that. "Just room for two here," says I.

"But you needn't keep my hand," says she.

"No trouble," says I. "Besides, I thought I'd inspect what kind of a manicure you take of. M-m-m-m! Pretty fair, no hangnails, all the half-moons showin' proper, an——" I broke off sudden at that and sat starin' blank.

"Well, anything else?" says she.

"I—I guess not," says I, lettin' her hand slip. "You've chucked it, eh?"

"Chucked what?" says she.

"Nothing much," says I. "But for awhile there, you know, just for fun you was wearin' something of mine."

"Oh!" she flashes back. "Then at last you've missed it, have you?"

"With so much else worth lookin' at," says I, "is it a wonder?"

"Blarney!" says she, stickin' out her tongue.

"Did Aunty capture it?" says I.

Vee shakes her head.

"Maybe you lost it?" I goes on. "It wa'n't much."

"Then you wouldn't care if I had?" says she.

"I wanted you to keep it," says I; "but of course, after all the row Aunty raised over it, I knew you couldn't."

"Couldn't I, though?" says she, and with that she fishes up the end of a little gold neck chain from under some lace—and hanged if there ain't the ring!

"Vee!" says I, sort of tingly all over as I gazes at her. "Say, you're a corker, though! Why, I thought sure you'd——"

"Silly boy!" says she. "I'll just have to pay you for that. You will think horrid things of me, will you? There!"

She does things in a flash when she cuts loose too. Next I knew she has her fingers in what Eulalia calls my crimson crest and is rumplin' up all them curls I'd been so careful to slick back. I grabbed her wrists, and it was more or less of a rough-house scene we was indulgin' in, when all of a sudden the draperies are brushed back, and in stalks Aunty, with Cousin Eulalia trailin' behind.

"Ver-ona!" Talk about havin' a pitcher of cracked ice slipped down your back! Say, there was more chills in that one word than ever blew down from Medicine Hat. "What," goes on Aunty, "does this mean?"

"It—it's a new game," says I, grinnin' foolish.

"As old as Satan, I should say!" raps out Aunty.

"Why," squeals Cousin Eulalia gushy, "here is our Unknown Knight, the first to come back with his tribute! Let's see, what was it you said you were going to do? Oh, I know—take a chance on something fresh, wasn't it? Well?"

"Ye-e-es," says I. "And I guess I did."

"Trust him for that!" snorts Aunty. "Young man, at our last interview I thought I made it quite clear that I should not expect you to return?"

"That's right," says I, edgin' around her towards the door. "And you wa'n't, was you?"

Some glance she shot over; but it didn't prove fatal. And as I rides down I couldn't help swappin' a wink with the elevator boy.

"Feelin' frisky, eh?" says he. "So was them other young guys. One of 'em tipped me a half."

"That kind would," says I. "They're comin' back. I'm escapin'."

But, say, who do you guess wins out for Wednesday night? Ah, rattle 'em again! Eulalia fixed it up. Said it was Vee's decision, and she was bound to stick by the rules of the game, even if they did have to throw a bluff to Aunty. Uh-huh! I've got three orchestra seats right in my pocket, and a table engaged for supper afterwards. Oh, I don't know. Eulalia ain't so batty, after all.