Torchy, Private Sec. Part 30

"Oh, yes," says he.

"Then--then your name is Wiggins?" she goes on.

"Yes," says he. "Don't you remember,--Woodie Wiggins?"

"I'd forgotten," says Aunty. "And all the other stores like this--how many of them have you?"

"Something less than a hundred," says he. "Ninety-six or seven, I think."

Most got Aunty's breath, that did; but in a jiffy she's recovered.

"Perhaps," says she, "you don't mind telling me the reason for this masquerade?"

"It's not quite that," says Wiggins. "I try to keep in touch with all my places. In making my rounds to-day I found my local manager here too ill to be at work. Bad case of grip. So I sent him home, telephoned for a subst.i.tute, and while waiting took off my coat and filled in. Fortunate coincidence, wasn't it?--for it gave me the pleasure of serving you."

"You mean," cuts in Aunty, "that it gave you the opportunity of making me appear absurd. Those gowns I promised to send!"

Wiggins grins good natured. "Is this the niece you mentioned?" says he.

Aunty admits that it is, and introduces Vee.

Then Wiggins looks inquirin' at me. "Your son?" he asks.

And you should have seen Aunty's face pink up at that. "Certainly not!"

says she.

"Oh!" says Woodie, screwin' up one corner of his mouth and tippin' me the wink.

I knew if I got a look at Vee I'd have to haw-haw; so I backs around with one hand behind me and we swaps a finger squeeze.

Then Aunty jumps in with the quick s.h.i.+ft. She asks him patronizin' if he finds the grocery business int'restin'. He admits that he does.

"How odd!" says Aunty. "But I presume that you hope to retire very soon?"

"Eh?" says he. "Quit the one thing I can do best? Why?"

"But surely," she goes on, "you can hardly find such a business congenial. It is so--so--well, so petty and sordid?"

"Is it, though?" says Wiggins. "With more than five thousand employees on my payroll and a daily expense bill running well over thirty thousand, I find it far from petty. Anyway, it keeps me hustling. I used to think I was a hard worker too, when I had my one little general store at Smiths Corners."

"And now you've nearly a hundred stores!" says Aunty. "How did you do it?"

"I was kicked into doing it, I guess," says Wiggins, smilin' grim. "The manufacturers and jobbers, you know. They weren't willing to allow me a fair profit. So I had to go under or spread out. Well, I've spread,--flour mills in Minnesota, canning factories from Portland, Oregon, to Bridgeton, Maine, potato farms in Michigan and the Aroostook, cracker and bread bakeries, creameries, raisin and prune plantations,--all that sort of thing,--until gradually I've weeded out most of the greedy middlemen who stood between me and my customers.

They're poor folks, most of 'em, and when they trade with me their slim wages go further than in most stores. My ambition is to give them honest goods at a five per cent. profit.

"If they all knew what was best for them, the Wiggins stores would soon become a national inst.i.tution, and I could hand it over to the federal government; but they don't. If they did, I suppose they wouldn't be working for wages. So my chain grows slowly, at the rate of two or three stores a year. But every Wiggins store is a center for economic and scientific distribution of pure food products. That's my job, and I find it neither petty nor sordid. I can even get a certain satisfaction and pride from it. Incidentally there is my five per cent. profit to be made, which makes the game fascinating. Retire? Not until I've found something better to do, and up to date I haven't."

Havin' got this off his mind and the parcels done up, Mr. Wiggins walks back to answer the 'phone.

When he comes out again, in a minute or so, he's shucked the jumper and is b.u.t.tonin' himself into a mink-lined overcoat.

"As a rule," says he, "we do not deliver goods; but in this instance I beg leave to make an exception. Permit me," and he waves toward the limousine.

It's the first time too that I ever saw Aunty stunned for more than a second or two at a stretch. She acts sort of dazed as he leads her out to the car and helps stow Vee and me and the bundles before gettin' in himself. Only when we pulls up in front of the studio buildin' does she come to. She revives enough to tell Wiggins all about this n.o.ble young Belgian sculptor and his wonderful work.

"Sculpture!" says Wiggins. "I'd like to see it."

And inside of three minutes Woodruff T. Wiggins, the chain grocery magnate, is right where we'd been schemin' to get him. He inspects the various groups of plaster stuff ranged around the studio, squintin' at 'em critical like he was a judge of such junk, and now and then he makes notes on the back of an envelope.

Meanwhile Aunty explains all about the tea, namin' over some of the swell dowagers that was goin' to act as patronesses, and invites him cordial to drop around on the big day.

"Thanks," says he; "but I guess I'd better not. I'm still from the wrong end of the town, you know. But here's a memorandum of four pieces I should like done in bronze for my country house. And suppose I leave Mr.

Djickyns a check for five thousand on account. Will that do?"

Would it? Say, Aunty almost pats him fond on the cheek as she follows him to the door.

Must have been something romantic about that bonfire episode back in Cooperstown too; for she mellows up a lot durin' the next few minutes, and when I fin'lly calls a taxi and tucks 'em all in she comes near beamin' on me.

"Remember, young man," says she, "promptly at five on Wednesday."

"Wha-a-at?" says I.

"And be sure to wear your best frock coat," she adds as a partin' shot.

Do you wonder I stands gaspin' on the curb until after they've turned the corner? Think of that from Aunty!

"Well?" says Mr. Robert, as I blows in about quittin' time. "Any new quotations in sculpture?"

"If you think that's a merry jest," says I, "call up Aunty. Why, say, before we get through with this tea stunt of hers that Djickyns party will be runnin' his studio works day and night s.h.i.+fts and rebuildin'

Belgium! We're a great team, me and dear old Aunty. We've just found it out."

CHAPTER XII

ZEn.o.bIA DIGS UP A LATE ONE

And first off I had him listed in the joke column. Think of that! But when I caught my first glimpse of him, there in the Corrugated gen'ral offices that mornin', there was more or less comedy idea to his get-up; the high-sided, flat-topped derby, for instance. Once in a while you run across an old sport who still sticks to that type of hard-boiled lid.

Gen'rally they're short-stemmed old ginks who seem to think the high crown makes 'em loom up taller. Maybe so; but where they find back-number hats like that is beyond me.

Then there was the buff-cochin spats and the wide ribbon to his eyegla.s.ses. Beyond that I don't know as there was anything real freaky about him. A rich-colored old gent he is, the pink in his cheeks shadin'

off into a deep mahogany tint back of his ears, makin' his frosted hair and mustache stand out some prominent.

He'd been shown into the private office on a call for Mr. Robert; but as I was well heeled with work of my own I didn't even glance up from the desk until I hears this sc.r.a.ppy openin' of his.

"Bob Ellins, you young scoundrel, what the blighted beat.i.tudes does this mean!" he demands.

Naturally that gets me stretchin' my neck, and I turns just in time to watch the gaspy expression on Mr. Robert's face fade out and turn into a chuckle.