On With Torchy Part 22

"But--but, Mother," says Gladys, "you're never going to let people see you like that, are you?"

"Why not, my dear?" says Mother.

"But your face--ugh!" says Gladys.

"Oh, bother!" says Mother. "I suppose you'd like to have me look like Aunt Martha?"

Gladys stares at her for awhile with her eyes wide and set, like she was watchin' somethin' horrible that she couldn't turn away from, and then she goes to pieces in a weepin' fit of her own. n.o.body interferes, and right in the midst of it she breaks off, marches over to a wicker porch table where the mirror and washcloth had been left, props the gla.s.s up against a vase, and goes to work. First off she sheds the pearl earrings.

At that Mother sits down opposite and follows suit with her jet danglers.

Next Gladys mops off the scenic effect.

Marjorie produces another washcloth, and Mother makes a clean sweep too.

Gladys s.n.a.t.c.hes out a handful of gold hairpins, destroys the turban twist that Marie had spent so much time buildin' up, and knots 'er hair simple in the back.

Mother caps this by liftin' off the blond transformation.

And as I left for a stroll around the grounds they'd both got back to lookin' more or less nice and natural. They had gone to a close clinch and was sobbin' affectionate on each other's shoulders.

Later the tea got under way and went on as such things generally do, with folks comin' and goin', and a buzz of chin music that you could hear clear out to the gate, where I was waitin' with Martin until we should get the signal to start back.

I didn't know just how it would be, but I suspected I might be invited to ride in front on the home trip. I'd made up my mind to start there, anyway. But, say, when the time comes and Vee trips out to the limousine, where I'm holdin' the door open and lookin' sheepish, I takes a chance on a glance into them gray eyes of hers. I got a chill too. It's only for a second, though. She was doing her best to look cold and distant; but behind that I could spot a smile. So I changes the programme.

"Say," says I, followin' her in and shuttin' the door, "wa'n't that kid Gladys the limit, though?"

"Why," says she, givin' me the quizzin' stare, "I thought you had just loads of fun coming up."

"Hearing which cruel words," says I, "our hero strode moodily into his castle."

Vee snickers at that. "And locked the haughty maiden out in the cold, I suppose?" says she.

"If it was you," says I, "I'd take the gate off the hinges."

"Silly!" says she. "Do you know, Gladys looked real sweet afterward."

"I'll bet the reform don't last, though," says I. "But that was a great scheme of yours for persuadin' her to scrub off the stencil work.

There's so many of that kind nowadays, maybe the idea would be worth copyrightin'. What do you think, Vee?"

Never mind the rest, though. We had a perfectly good ride back, and up to date Aunty ain't wise to it.

Of course by next mornin' too Mr. Robert has forgot all about the afternoon before, and he seems surprised when I puts in an expense bill of twenty-five cents.

"What's this for?" says he.

"Gumdrops for little Gladys," says I, and as he forks over a quarter I never cracks a smile.

Wait until he hears the returns from Marjorie, though! I'll give him some string to pay up for that kindergarten steer of his. Watch me!

CHAPTER IX

LATE RETURNS ON POPOVER

"Well?" says I, keepin' my feet up on the desk and glancin' casual over the bra.s.s rail. "What's your complaint, Spaghetti?"

It's a wrong guess, to begin with; but I wa'n't even takin' the trouble to place him accurate. He's some kind of a foreigner, and that's enough. Besides, from the fidgety way he's grippin' his hat in both hands, and the hesitating sidlin' style he has of makin' his approach, I figured he must be a stray that had got the wrong number.

"If--if you please, Sir," says he, bowin' elaborate and humble, "Mr.

Robert Ellins."

"Gwan!" says I. "You read that on the floor directory. You don't know Mr. Robert."

"But--but if you please, Sir," he goes on, "I wish to speak with him."

"You do, eh?" says I. "Now, ain't that cute of you? Think you can pick out any name on the board and drift in for a chat, do you? Come now, what you peddlin'--dollar safety-razors, bullpups, or what?"

He ain't a real live wire, this heavy-faced, wide-shouldered, squatty-built party with the b.u.mper crop of curly black hair. He blinks his big, full eyes kind of solemn, starin' at me puzzled, and about as intelligent as a cow gazin' over a fence. An odd lookin' gink he was, sort of a cross between a dressed up bartender on his day off and a longsh.o.r.eman havin' his picture taken.

"Excuse," says he, rousin' a little, "but--but it is not to peddle. I would wish to speak with Mr. Robert Ellins."

"Well, then, you can't," says I, wavin' towards the door; "so beat it!"

This don't make any more impression than as if I'd tried to push him over with one finger. "I would wish," he begins again, "to speak with----"

"Say, that's all on the record," says I, "and the motion's been denied."

"But I----" he starts in once more, "I have----"

Just then Piddie comes turkeyin' over pompous and demands to know what all the debate is about.

"Look what wants to see Mr. Robert!" says I.

"Impossible!" says Piddie, takin' one look. "Send him away at once!"

"Hear that?" says I to Curlylocks. "Not a chance! Fade, Spaghetti, fade!"

The full force of that decision seems to penetrate his nut; for he gulps hard once or twice, the muscles on his thick throat swells up rigid, and next a big round tear leaks out of his off eye and trickles down over his cheek. Maybe it don't look some absurd too, seein' signs of such deep emotion on a face like that.

"Now, none of that, my man!" puts in Piddie, who's as chicken hearted as he is peevish. "Torchy, you--you attend to him."

"What'll I do," says I, "call in a plumber to stop the leak?"

"Find out who he is and what he wants," says he, "and then pack him off. I am very busy."

"Well," says I, turnin' to the thick guy, "what's the name?"