The House of Torchy Part 38

"It wouldn't count," says the Lieutenant. "You must have an observer all the way."

"How about me subbin' in?" says I.

"You?" says he. "Why, you're on the other side."

"That's where you're mixed," says I. "I'm on the wrong side of Long Island Sound, that's all."

"Why," says he, "weren't you sent out to----"

"No," I breaks in; "I'm no spotter. I'm on special detail from the Ordnance Department. And a mighty punk detail at that, if you ask me.

The party who's sleuthin' for you, I expect, is the one I saw back at the plant, moonin' around with a pair of field gla.s.ses strapped to him.

You ain't captured yet; not by me, anyway."

"Honest?" says he. "Why, then--then----"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "And if you can make it back to Mineola with a perfectly good pa.s.senger in the extra seat you'll qualify for scout work and most likely be over pluggin' Huns within a month or so. That won't tickle you a bit more'n it will me to get to Long Island to-night, for----"

Well, then I tells him about Vee, and everything.

"By George!" says he. "You're all right, Lieutenant--er----"

"Ah, between friends, Donald," says I, "it's Torchy."

At which we links arms chummy and goes marchin' close order down to the farm-house to see how this Martin party was gettin' on. We finds him rolled up in quilts on an old sofa that the folks had shoved up in front of the stove--a slim, nervous-lookin' young gink with sandy hair and a peaked nose.

"Well, how about you?" asks Allen.

Martin he only moans and reaches for a warm flat-iron that he'd been holdin' against his stomach.

"Still dying, eh?" says Allen. "Why didn't you report sick this morning, instead of letting them send you up with me?"

"I--I was all right then," whines Martin. "It--it must have been the alt.i.tude got me. I--I'd never been that high before, you know."

"Bah!" says the Lieutenant. "Not over thirty-five hundred at any time.

How do you expect me to take you back--on the hundred-foot level? You'll make a fine observer, you will!"

"I've had enough observing," says Martin. "I--I'm going to get transferred to the mechanical department."

"Oh, are you?" says Allen. "Then you'll be just as satisfied to make the trip back by rail."

Martin nods.

"And you won't be needing your helmet and things, eh?" goes on the Lieutenant. "I'll take those along, then," and he winks at me.

All of a sudden, though, the sparkles fade out of his eyes. "Jinxed again!" says he. "There'd be no blessed map to hand in."

"Eh?" says I. "Map of what!"

He explains jerky. This scoutin' stunt of his was to locate the tank works and get close enough for an observer to draw a plan of it--all of which he'd done, only by then Martin had got past the drawin' stage.

"So it's no use going back to-night."

"Ain't it?" says I. "Say, if a map of that smoky hole is all you need, I guess I can produce that easy enough."

"Can you?" he asks.

"Why not?" says I. "Ain't I been cooped up there for nearly a week? I can put in a bird's-eye view of the Major in command; one of his secretary, too, if you like. Gimme some paper."

And inside of five minutes I'd sketched out a diagram of the buildin's and the whole outfit. Then we poked Martin up long enough for him to sign it.

"Fine work!" says Donald. "That earns you a hop, all right. Now buckle yourself into that cloud costume and I'll show you how a 110-horse-power crow would go from here to the middle of Long Island if he was in a hurry."

"You can't make it any too speedy for me," says I, slippin' into the sheepskin jacket.

"Ever been up before?" he asks.

"Only once--in a hydro," says I; "but I ain't missed any chances."

"That's the spirit!" says he. "Come along. The old bus is anch.o.r.ed down the field a ways."

I couldn't hardly believe I was actually goin' to pull it off until he'd got the motor started and we went skimmin' along the ground. But as soon as we shook off the State of Connecticut and began climbin' up over a strip of woods, I settles back in the little c.o.c.kpit, b.u.t.tons the wind-s.h.i.+eld over my mouth, and sighs contented.

Allen and I didn't exchange much chat. You don't with an engine of that size roarin' a few feet in front of you and your ears b.u.t.toned down by three or four layers of wool and leather. Once he points out ahead and tries to shout something, I don't know what. But I nods and waves encouragin'. Later he points down and grins. I grins back.

Next thing I knew, he's shut off the motor, and I gets a glimpse of the whole of Long Island behavin' odd. Seems as if it's swellin' and widenin' out, like one of these freaky toy balloons you blow up. It didn't seem as if we was divin' down--more like the map was rus.h.i.+n' up to meet us. Pretty soon I could make out a big open s.p.a.ce with a lot of squatty buildin's at one end, and in a couple of minutes more the machine was rollin' along on its wheels and we taxied graceful up towards the hangars.

It was just gettin' dusk as we piles out, and the first few yards I walked I felt like I was dressed in a divin' suit with a pair of lead boots on my feet. I saw Allen salute an officer, hand over the map, and heard him say something about Observer Martin wantin' to report sick.

Then he steers me off toward the barracks, circles past' em, and leads me through a back gate.

"I think we've put it over, old man," says he, givin' me the cordial grip. "I can't tell you what a good turn you've done me."

"It's fifty-fifty," says I. "Where do I hit a station?"

"You take this trolley that's coming," says he. "That junk you have on you can send back to-morrow, in my care. And I--I trust you'll find things all right at home."

"Thanks," says I. "Hope you'll have the same luck yourself some day."

"Oh, perhaps," says he, shakin' his head doubtful. "If I ever get back.

But not until I'm past thirty, anyway."

"Why so late?" asks I.

"What would get my goat," says he, "would be the risk of breakin' into the grandfather cla.s.s before I got ready."

"Gee!" I gasps. "I hadn't thought of that."

So, with this new idea, and the cheerin' views Barnes had pumped into me, I has plenty to chew over durin' the next hour or so that I'm speedin' towards home. I expect that accounts some for the long face I must have been wearin' when I finally dashes through the front gate of the Lilacs and am let into the house by Leon Battou, the little old Frenchman who cooks and b.u.t.tles for us.

"Ah, _mon Dieu!_" says Leon, throwin' up his hands and starin' at me bug-eyed. "Monsieur!"