On With Torchy Part 1

On With Torchy.

by Sewell Ford.

CHAPTER I

CHANGING IT FOR VEE

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, c.o.c.kin' 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-gla.s.s, 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 bra.s.s 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 s.h.i.+n 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 n.o.body 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 ca.n.a.l 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 b.u.t.ton, 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 sh.e.l.l-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----"