On With Torchy Part 40

"As my wife you are supposed to," says Nick. "You must learn. Anyway, I've told them they needn't do another stroke until they get orders from you. And I wish you'd begin. I'd rather like breakfast."

He's real calm and pleasant about it; but there's somethin' solid about the way his jaw is set. Robbie eyes him a minute hesitatin' and doubtful, like a schoolgirl that's bein' scolded. Then all of a sudden there's a change. The pout comes off her lips, her chin stops trembling and she squares her shoulders.

"I'm--I'm sorry, Nicholas," says she. "I--I'll do my best." And off she marches to the kitchen.

And, say, half an hour later we were all sittin' down to as good a ham omelet as I ever tasted. When I left with Nick to catch the forenoon express, young Mrs. Talbot was chewin' the end of a lead pencil, with them pansy eyes of hers glued on a pad where she was dopin' out her first dinner order. She would break away from it only long enough to give Hubby a little bird peck on the cheek; but he seems tickled to death with that.

So it wa'n't any long report I has to hand in to Mr. Robert that night.

"All bunk!" says I. "Just a case of a honeymoon that rose a little late. It's s.h.i.+nin' steady now, though. But, say, I hope I'm never batty enough to fall for one of the b.u.t.terfly kind. If I do--good night!"

CHAPTER XV

BEING SICCED ON PERCEY

Maybe it ain't figured in the headlines, or been noised around enough for the common stockholders to get panicky over it, but, believe me, it was some battle! Uh-huh! What else could you expect with Old Hickory Ellins on one side and George Wesley Jones on the other? And me? Say, as it happens, I was right on the firin' line. Talk about your drummer boys of '61--I guess the office boy of this A. M. ain't such a dead one!

Course I knew when Piddie begins tiptoein' around important, and Mr.

Robert cuts his lunchtime down to an hour, that there's something in the air besides humidity.

"Boy," says Old Hickory, shootin' his words out past the stub of a thick black cigar, "I'm expecting a Mr. Jones sometime this afternoon."

"Yes, Sir," says I. "Any particular Jones, Sir?"

"That," says he, "is a detail with which you need not burden your mind.

I am not antic.i.p.ating a convention of Joneses."

"Oh!" says I. "I was only thinkin' that in case some other guy by the same names should----"

"Yes, I understand," he breaks in; "but in that remote contingency I will do my best to handle the situation alone. And when Mr. Jones comes show him in at once. After that I am engaged for the remainder of the day. Is that quite clear?"

"I'm next," says I. "Pa.s.s a Jones, and then set the block."

If he thought he could mesmerize me by any such simple motions as that he had another guess. Why, even if it had been my first day on the job, I'd have been hep that it wa'n't any common weekday Jones he was expectin' to stray in accidental. Besides, the minute I spots that long, thin nose, the close-cropped, grizzly mustache, and the tired gray eyes with the heavy bags underneath, I knew it was George Wesley himself. Ain't his pictures been printed often enough lately?

He looks the part too, and no wonder! If I'd been hammered the way he has, with seventeen varieties of Rube Legislatures shootin' my past career as full of holes as a Swiss cheese, grand juries handin' down new indictments every week end, four thousand grouchy share-holders howlin' about pared dividends, and twice as many editorial pens proddin' 'em along----well, take it from me, I'd be on my way towards the tall trees with my tongue hangin' out!

Here he is, though, with his shoulders back and a sketchy, sarcastic smile flickerin' in his mouth corners as he shows up for a hand-to-hand set-to with Old Hickory Ellins. Course it's news to me that the Corrugated interests and the P., B. & R. road are mixed up anywhere along the line; but it ain't surprisin'.

Besides mines and rollin' mills, we do a wholesale grocery business, run a few banks, own a lot of steam freighters, and have all kinds of queer ginks on our payroll, from welfare workers to would-be statesmen.

We're always ready to slip one of our directors onto a railroad board too; so I takes it that the way P., B. & R. has been juggled lately was a game that touches us somewhere on the raw. Must be some kind of a war on the slate, or Old Hickory'd never called for a topliner like George Wesley Jones to come on the carpet. If it had been a case of pa.s.sin' the peace pipe, Mr. Ellins would be goin' out to Chicago to see him.

"Mr. Jones, Sir," says I, throwin' the private office door wide open so it would take me longer to shut it.

But Old Hickory don't intend to give me any chance to pipe off the greetin'. He just glances casual at Mr. Jones, then fixes them rock-drill eyes of his on me, jerks his thumb impatient over his shoulder, and waits until there's three inches of fireproof material between me and the scene of the conflict.

So I strolls back to my chair behind the bra.s.s rail and winks mysterious at the lady typists. Two of 'em giggles nervous. Say, they got more curiosity, them flossy key pounders! Not one of the bunch but what knew things was doin'; but what it was all about would have taken me a week to explain to 'em, even if I'd known myself.

And I expect I wouldn't have had more'n a vague glimmer, either, if it hadn't been for Piddie. You might know he'd play the b.o.o.b somehow if anything important was on. Say, if he'd trotted in there once durin'

the forenoon he'd been in a dozen times; seein' that the inkwells was filled, puttin' on new desk blotters, and such fool things as that.

Yet about three-fifteen, right in the middle of the bout, he has to answer a ring, and it turns out he's forgotten some important papers.

"Here, Boy," says he, comin' out peevish, "this must go to Mr. Ellins at once."

"Huh!" says I, glancin' at the file t.i.tle. "Copy of charter of the Palisades Electric! At once is good. Ought to have been on Mr.

Ellins's desk hours ago."

"Boy!" he explodes threatenin'.

"Ah, ditch the hysterics, Peddie!" says I. "It's all right now I'm on the job," and with a grin to comfort him I slips through Mr. Robert's room and taps on the door of the boss's private office before blowin'

in.

And, say, it looks like I've arrived almost in time for the final clinch. Old Hickory is leanin' forward earnest, his jaw shoved out, his eyes narrowed to slits, and he's poundin' the chair arm with his big ham fist.

"What I want to know, Jones," he's sayin', "is simply this: Are your folks going to drop that Palisades road scheme, or aren't you?"

Course, I can't break into a dialogue at a point like that; so I closes the door gentle behind me and backs against the k.n.o.b, watchin' George Wesley, who's sittin' there with his chin down and his eyes on the rug.

"Really, Ellins," says he, "I can't give you an answer to that.

I--er--I must refer you to our Mr. Sturgis."

"Eh?" snaps old Hickory. "Sturgis! Who the syncopated sculping is Sturgis?"

"Why," says Mr. Jones, "Percey J. Sturgis. He is my personal agent in all such matters, and this--well, this happens to be his pet enterprise."

"But it would parallel our proposed West Point line," says Mr. Ellins.

"I know," says G. Wesley, sighin' weary. "But he secured his charter for this two years ago, and I promised to back him. He insists on pus.h.i.+ng it through too. I can't very well call him off, you see."

"Can't, eh?" raps out Old Hickory. "Then let me try. Send for him."

"No use," says Mr. Jones. "He understands your att.i.tude. He wouldn't come. I should advise, if you have any proposal to make, that you send a representative to him."

"I go to him," snorts Mr. Ellins, "to this understrapper of yours, this Mr. Percey--er----"

"Sturgis," puts in George Wesley. "He has offices in our building.

And, really, it's the only way."

Old Hickory glares and puffs like he was goin' to blow a cylinder head.

But that's just what Hickory Ellins don't do at a time like this. When you think he's nearest to goin' up with a bang, that's the time when he's apt to calm down sudden and s.h.i.+ft tactics. He does now.

Motionin' me to come to the front, he takes the envelope I hands over, glances at it thoughtful a second, and then remarks casual:

"Very well, Jones. I'll send a representative to your Mr. Sturgis.

I'll send Torchy, here."