On With Torchy Part 8

"Well," says I, as we steps back, "returns all in, ain't they?"

"Not by a long shot!" says Ira. "Dinged if I don't know someone that'll be glad to take a ring from me, and that's Maggie!"

"Whew!" says I. "Well, that's some quick s.h.i.+ft. Then you ain't goin'

to linger round with a busted heart?"

"Not much!" says Ira. "Guess I've played fool about long enough. I'm goin' home."

"That's gen'rally a safe bet too," says I. "But how about buildin'

that boat for Mr. Robert?"

"I'll build it," says he; "that is, soon as I can fix it up with Maggie."

"Then it's a cinch," says I; "for you look to me, Ira, like one of the kind that can come back strong."

So, you see, I had somethin' definite to report next mornin'.

"He will, eh? Bully!" says Mr. Robert. "But why couldn't he have said as much to me yesterday? What was the trouble?"

"Case of moth chasin'," says I, "from the kerosene circuit to the white lights. But, say, I didn't know before that Broadway had so many recruitin' stations. They ought to put Boothbay Harbor on the map for this."

CHAPTER IV

TORCHY BUGS THE SYSTEM

Guess I ain't mentioned Mortimer before. Didn't seem hardly worth while. You know--there are parties like that, too triflin' to do any beefin' about. But, honest, for awhile there first off this young shrimp that was just makin' his debut as one of Miller's subslaves in the bondroom did get on my nerves more or less. He's a slim, fine-haired, fair-lookin' young gent, with quick, nervous ways and a habit of holdin' his chin well up. No b.o.o.b, you understand. He was a live one, all right.

And it wa'n't his havin' his monogram embroidered on his s.h.i.+rt sleeves or his wearin' a walkin' stick down to work that got me sore. But you don't look for the raw rebuff from one of these twelve-dollar file jugglers. That's what he slips me, though, and me only tryin' to put across the cheery greetin'!

"Well, Percy," says I, seein' him wanderin' around lonesome durin'

lunch hour, "is it you for the Folies today, or are you takin' a chance on one of them new automatic grub factories with me?"

"Beg pardon?" says he, givin' me that frigid, distant look.

"Ah, can the hauteur!" says I. "We're on the same payroll. Maybe you didn't notice me before, though. Well, I'm the guardian of the gate, and I'm offerin' to tow you to a new sandwich works that's quite popular with the staff."

"Thanks," says he. "I am lunching at my club." And with that he does a careless heel-spin, leavin' me stunned and gawpin'.

"Slap!" thinks I. "You will go doin' the little ray of suns.h.i.+ne act, will you? Lunchin' at his club! Now there's a cla.s.sy comeback for you! Guess I'll spring that myself sometime. Score up for Percy!"

But I wa'n't closin' the incident at that, and, while in my position it wouldn't have been hardly the thing for me to get out the war club and camp on his trail,--him only a four-flus.h.i.+n' bond clerk,--I was holdin'

myself ready for the next openin'. It comes only a few mornin's later when he strolls in casual about nine-thirty and starts to pike by into the cloakroom. But I had my toe against the bra.s.s gate.

"What name?" says I.

"Why," says he, flus.h.i.+n' up, "I--er--I work here."

"Excuse," says I, drawin' back the foot. "Mistook you for Alfy Vanderbilt come to buy us out."

"Puppy!" says he explosive through his front teeth.

"Meanin' me?" says I. "Why, Algernon! How rough of you!"

He just glares hack over his shoulder and pa.s.ses on for his session with Miller. I'll bet he got it too; for here in the Corrugated we don't stand for any of that nine-thirty dope except from Mr. Robert.

It's only the next week, though, that Mortimer pulls a couple more delayed entrances in succession, and I sure was lookin' to see him come out with a fresh-air pa.s.s in his hand. But it didn't happen. Instead, as I'm in Old Hickory's office a few days later, allowin' him to give me a few fool directions about an errand, in breaks Miller all glowin'

under the collar.

"Mr. Ellins," says he, "I can't stand that young Upton. He's got to go!"

"That's too bad," says Old Hickory, s.h.i.+ftin' his cigar to port. "I'd promised his father to give the boy a three months' trial at least.

One of our big stockholders, Colonel Upton is, you know. But if you say you can't----"

"Oh, I suppose I can, Sir, in that case," says Miller; "but he's worse than useless in the department, and if there's no way of getting him to observe office hours it's going to be bad for discipline."

"Try docking him, Miller," suggests Mr. Ellins. "Dock him heavy. And pile on the work. Keep him on the jump."

"Yes, Sir," says Miller, grinnin' at me' as he goes out.

And of course this throws a brighter light on Mortimer's case,--pampered son takin' his first whirl at honest toil, and all that. Then later in the day I gets a little private illumination.

Mother arrives. Rather a gushy, talky party she is, with big, snappy eyes like Mortimer's, and the same haughty airs. Just now, though, she's a little puffy from excitement and deep emotion.

Seems Mother and Sister Janice are on their way to the steamer, billed to spend the winter abroad. Also it develops that stern Father, standin' grim and bored in the background, has ruled that Son mustn't quit business for any farewell lallygaggin' at the pier. Hence the fam'ly call. As the touchin' scene all takes place in the reception room, just across the bra.s.s rail from my desk, I'm almost one of the party.

"Oh, my darling boy!" wails Ma, pus.h.i.+n' back her veils and wrappin' him in the fond clinch.

"Aw, Mother!" protests Mortimer.

"But we are to be so far apart," she goes on, "and with your father in California you are to be all alone! And I just know you'll be forlorn and lonesome in that dreadful boarding house! Oh, it is perfectly awful!"

"Oh, quit it, Mother. I'll be all right," says Mortimer.

"But the work here," comes back Mother. "Does it come so hard? How are you to stand it? Oh, if you had only kept on at college, then all this wouldn't have been necessary."

"Well, I didn't, that's all," says Mortimer; "so what's the use?"

"I shall worry about you all the time," insists Mother. "And you are so careless about writing! How am I to know that you are not ill, or in trouble? Now promise me, if you should break down under the strain, that you will cable me at once."

"Oh, sure!" says Mortimer. "But time's up, Mother. I must be getting back. Good-by."

I had to turn my shoulder on the final break-away, and I thought the whole push had cleared out, when I hears a rustle at the gate, and here's Mother once more, with her eyes fixed investigatin' on me.

"Boy," says she, "are you employed here regularly?"

"I'm one of the fixtures, Ma'am," says I.