Torchy, Private Sec. Part 28

It was. So I grins and grabs my hat.

"That bein' the case, Mr. Robert," says I, "we'll finance this Djickyns party if we have to bull the sculpture market till it hits the rafters."

With that I takes the address of the scene of trouble and breezes uptown to a third-rate studio buildin'; where I finds Aunty and Vee and Sister Marjorie all grouped around a stepladder on top of which is balanced a pallid youth with long black hair and a fair white brow projectin' out like a double dormer on a cement bungalow. He seems to be tryin' to drape a fish net across the top of an alcove accordin' to three diff'rent sets of directions; but leaves off abrupt when I blows in.

You'd hardly guess I'd been sent for, either. "Humph!" remarks Aunty, after I've announced how sorry Mr. Robert was he couldn't come himself and that he's detailed me instead. "How perfectly absurd!"

"But, Aunty," protests Vee, "you know Torchy is a private secretary now and understands all about such things. Besides, he knows such heaps of important business men who----"

"If he can bring them here Wednesday afternoon, very well," says Aunty; "but I have my doubts that he can."

"What's the game?" says I.

"It is not a game at all, young man," says Aunty. "Our project, if that is what you mean, is to have a studio tea for Mr. Djickyns and to secure the attendance of as many purchasers for his works as possible. Have you any suggestions?"

"Why," says I, "not right off the bat. Maybe if I could chew over the proposition awhile, I might----"

"Oh, I say," breaks in the n.o.ble young gent on the stepladder, "I--I'm getting dizzy up here, you know. I--I'm feeling rather----"

"Mercy!" squeals Marjorie. "He's fainting!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I gathers him in on the fly."]

"Steady there!" I sings out to Djickyns, makin' a jump. "Don't wabble until I get you. Easy!"

I ain't a second too soon, either; for as I reaches up he topples toward me, as limp as a sack of flour. I was fieldin' my position well for an amateur; for I gathers him in on the fly, slides him down head first with only a b.u.mp or two, and stretches him out on the rug. It's only a near-faint, though, and after a drink of water and a sniff at Aunty's smellin' salts he's able to be helped onto a couch and propped up with cus.h.i.+ons.

"Awfully sorry," says he, smilin' mushy, "but I fear I can't go on with the decorating to-day."

"Never mind," says Aunty, comfortin'. "This young man will help us."

"Please do, Torchy," adds Marjorie.

"You will, won't you?" says Vee, shootin' over a glance from them gray eyes that makes me feel all rosy and tingly.

"That's my job in life," says I, pickin' up the fish net. "Now how does this go?"

And for the next hour or so, when I wa'n't clingin' to the ceilin' with my eyelids, tackin' things up, I was down on all-fours arrangin' rugs, or executin' other merry little stunts. Aunty had collected a whole truckload of fancy junk,--wall tapestries, old armor, Russian tea machines, and such,--with the idea of transformin' this half-bare loft of Djickyns's into a swell studio. And, believe me, we came mighty near turnin' the trick!

"There!" says she. "With a few flowers I believe it will do. Now, young man, have you thought how we can get the right people here? Of course we shall advertise in all the papers."

"As an open show?" says I. "Say, that's nutty! Don't you do it. You'd only get in a bunch of suburban shoppers and cheap-skate art students.

My tip is, make it exclusive,--admission by card only. Then if it's done right you can graft a lot of free press agent stuff by playin' up the Belgian part of it strong. See? Lets you ring in on this fund for Belgian sufferers. I take it you want to unload as much of this plaster junk as you can? Well, all you got to do is mark it up twenty per cent.

and announce that you'll chip in that much towards the fund. Get me?"

She never bats an eye, Aunty don't. "To be sure," says she. "I think that is precisely what we had in mind all the time; only we--er----"

"I know," says I. "You hadn't been playin' the relief act strong enough.

But that's what'll get you into the headlines. 'Social Leader to the Rescue,'--all that dope. I'll send some of the boys up to see you to-night. Don't let your butler frost 'em, though. Give 'em a clear track to the lib'ry, and if you're servin' after-dinner coffee and frosted green cordials, so much the better. Reporters are almost human, you know. It would help too if you'd happen to be just startin' for the op'ra, with all your pearl ropes on. And whisper,--soft pedal on Djickyns here, but heavy on his suff'rin' countrymen! That's the line."

Aunty shudders a couple of times, and once she starts to crash in with the sharp reproof; but she swallows it. Some little old diplomat, Aunty is! She was gettin' the picture. Havin' planned that part of the campaign, she switches the debate as to who should go on the list of invited guests.

"Leave it to me," says I. "You just pick out about a dozen patronesses.

Pick 'em from the top, the ones that are featured oftenest in the society notes. And me, I'll sift out a couple of hundred sound propositions from the corporation lists,--parties that have stayed on the right side of the market and still have cash to spend."

Aunty nods approvin'. She even hands over some names she'd jotted down herself and asks me to put 'em in if they're all right.

"Most of 'em are fine," says I, glancin' over the slip; "but who's this W. T. Wiggins with no address?"

"I particularly want to reach him," says she. "He is a wealthy merchant who is apt to be rather generous, I am told, if properly approached."

"I'll look him up," says I, "and see that he gets an invite--registered."

"Of course," goes on Aunty, "he doesn't belong socially, you understand; but in this instance----"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "You'll be pleased to meet his checkbook. And, by the way, what schedule are you runnin' this on,--doors open at when?"

"The cards will read, 'From half after four until seven,'" says Aunty.

"I see," says I. "Then if I drift in before six a frock coat will pa.s.s me."

And for the first time durin' the session she inspects me insultin'

through her lorgnette. "Really," says she, "I had not considered that it would be necessary----"

"Eh?" I gasps. "Ah, have a heart! Think how handy I'd be if someone did another flop, or if Miss Vee wanted----"

"Verona will be fully occupied in serving tea," breaks in Aunty.

"Besides, we shall try to give this affair the appearance, at least, of a genuine social function. I imagine that the presence of such persons as Mr. Wiggins will make the task sufficiently difficult. Don't you see?"

"I ought to," says I. "You ain't left much to the imagination. Sort of a blot on the landscape I'd be, would I?"

Aunty shrugs her shoulders. "Please remember," says she, "that I am not making social distinctions. I merely recognize those which exist. You must not hold me responsible for----"

"Oh, Aunty," breaks in Vee, trippin' into our corner impulsive, "we've forgotten the tea things. I must go out and find a store and get them at once. Mayn't Torchy come to carry the bundles?"

"Yes," says Aunty; "but I think I will go also, to be sure you order the right things."

Think of carryin' round a disposition like that! She trails right along with us too, and just to make the trip int'restin' for her I strikes for Eighth-ave. through one of them messy cross streets where last week's snow piles and garbage cans was mixed careless along the curb.

"What a wretched district!" complains Aunty.

"I thought you wanted to get to the nearest grocery," says I. "h.e.l.lo!

Here's one of the Wiggins chain. How about patronizin' this?"

It's one of them cheap, cut-rate joints, you know, with the windows plastered all over with daily bargain hints,--"Three pounds of Wiggins's best creamery b.u.t.ter for 97 cents--to-day only," "Canned corn, 6 cents--our big Monday special," and so on. Aunty sniffs a bit, but fin'lly decides to take a chance and sails in in all her grandeur.

The one visible clerk was busy waitin' on lady customers, one with a shawl over her head and the other luggin' a baby on her hip. So Aunty raps impatient on the counter.

At that out from behind a stack of Wiggins's breakfast food boxes appears a middle-aged gent strugglin' into a blue jumper three sizes too small for him. He's kind of heavy built and slow movin' for an average grocery clerk, and he's wearin' gold-rimmed specs; but when Aunty proceeds to cross-examine him about his stock of tea he sure showed he was onto his job. He seems to know about every kind of tea ever grown, and produces samples of the best he has in the shop.