Torchy

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"Huh!" growls Old Hickory. "Who cares a blinkety blanked blank what they
say we did? Let 'em prove it!"

Then the next day them checks was sprung on the investigatin' committee,
and it looked as though they'd made out their case against the
Corrugated. Perhaps there wa'n't doin's on the seventeenth floor that
mornin'! Clear out where I sat I could hear the boss callin' for first
one man and then another, and Piddie is turkeyin' in and out so excited
he don't know whether he's on duty or runnin' bases. Once, when he stops
to lean against the spring-water bottle and wipe his dewy brow, I slips
up behind and taps him quick on the shoulder.

"Ye-e-e-es, sir!" says he, before he sees who it is.

"Never mind, Piddie," says I. "I was goin' to ask you 'Guilty or not
guilty?' But what's the use? Anyone can see it was you that did it."

"You--you impudent young sauce box!" he begins. "How dare you----"

"Ah, save that for the subpoena server," says I. "He'll be in here
after you in a minute. And, say, my guess is that you'll get about ten
years on the rockpile."

When the special directors' meetin' gets under way, though, and the big
guns of the Corrugated law force got on the job, there was less noise
and more electricity in the air. Honest, with all that tiptoein' and
whisperin' and serious looks bein' passed around, I didn't even have the
gall to guy one of the new typewriter girls. Kind of gets on your
nerves, a thing of that kind does, and if a squad of reserves had
marched in and pinched the whole outfit, I shouldn't have been so much
surprised.

Right in the midst of it too there comes my three rings on the buzzer,
and in I sneaks where they're holdin' the inquest. Say, they're all
sittin' around the big mahogany directors' table, with the old man at
the head, lookin' black and ugly, and grippin' a half smoked cigar butt
between his teeth. I could see at a glance they hadn't thrown any scare
into him yet. He was just beginning to fight, that's all.

"Boy," says he, "bring in Dudley."

"Yes, sir," says I.

But, say, my heels dragged some as I went out. Course I didn't know what
they wanted of the old boy; but it didn't look to be such a wild guess
that they'd picked him to play the goat part. I finds him perched up on
his stool, calm and serene, workin' away on the ledgers as industrious
as if nothin' special was goin' on.

"Dudley," says I, "are you feelin' strong?"

"Why, Torchy," says he, "I am feeling about as usual, thank you."

"Well, brace yourself then," says I; "for there's rough goin' ahead.
You're wanted in on the carpet."

"Me?" says he. "Mr. Ellins wants me?"

"Uh-huh," says I, "him and the rest of 'em. But don't let 'em put any
spell on you. It's your cue now to forget the meek and lowly business. I
know you ain't strong for bluffin' through a game; but for the love of
soup put up a front to-day!"

Dudley, he only smiles and shakes his head. Then off he toddles, wearin'
his old ink-stained office coat and even keepin' on the green eye-shade.

Well, I don't know how long they had him on the grill; but it couldn't
have been more'n half an hour, for along about three o'clock I strolls
into the audit department, and there's old Dudley back on his perch
writin' away again.

"Say, are you it?" says I.

[Illustration: WE MUST HAVE BEEN A GREAT PAIR.]

"Why, how is that?" says he.

"Did they tie anything to you?" says I. "You know--con you into takin'
the blame, or anything like that?"

"Blame for what?" says he. "I don't believe I understand. But nothing of
the sort was mentioned. I was merely given some instructions about my
work."

"Oh!" says I. "That's all, eh? And you've gone right at it, have you?"

"No," says he. "The fact is, Torchy, I am writing out my resignation."

"What! Quittin'?" says I. "Say, don't you see what a hole that puts you
in? Why, it makes you the goat for fair! If you do that you'll need bail
inside of forty-eight hours--and you won't get it. Look here, Dudley,
take my advice and tear that up."

"But I can't, Torchy," says he, "really, I can't."

"Why not?" says I. "You've got a couple of hands, ain't you? And what'll
you do for another job if you chuck this one? Say, why in blazes are you
so anxious to take your chances between Sing Sing and the bread line?"

He's there with the explanation, all right, and here's the way it
stands: Uncle Dudley has been called on because his partic'lar
double-entry trick is to keep the run of the private accounts. All they
want him to do is to take descriptions of a couple of checks, dig up
the stubs, and juggle his books so the record will fit in with a nice
new set of transactions that's just been invented for the purpose.

"But what checks?" says I. "The five thousand plunkers to Mutt & Mudd?"

"Why, yes," says he. "How did you know?"

"Ah, how did I----Say, Dudley, ain't you been readin' the papers
lately?" says I.

Would you believe it? He don't know any more about what's in the air
than a museum mummy knows of Lobster Square. This little private cyclone
that's been turnin' the office upside down ain't so much as ruffled his
whiskers. Checks are checks to him, and these special trouble makers
don't give him any chills up the back at all. He's been told, though, to
use the acid bottle on his books and write in a new version.

"Well, why not do it?" says I. "What's that to you?"

"Why, don't you see," says he, "it would be making a false entry,
and--I--I----Well, I've never done such a thing in my life, Torchy, and
I can't begin now."

And, say, what do you know about that, eh? Just a piece of phony
bookkeepin' that he don't even have to put his name to, his job gone if
he don't follow orders, and him almost to the age limit anyway, with
Son in Law Bennett ready to shove him on the street the minute he gets
the sack!

"Do you mean it?" says I.

He puts his signature to the resignation and hands it over for me to
read.

"Say, Dudley," says I, lookin' him up and down, "this listens to me like
a bughouse play of yours; but I got to admit that you do it sporty.
There's no ocher streak in you."

"I hoped you would understand," says he. "In the circumstances, it was
all I could do, you see."

"What I see plainer'n anything else," says I, "is that if this goes
through your career is bugged to the limit. When do you want this handed
in?"

"As soon as possible," says he. "I suppose I ought to resign at once."

"Resign!" says I. "You'll be lucky if the old man don't have you chucked
through the window. Better be waitin' down in the lower corridor when I
spring this on Mr. Ellins."

Nothin' of that kind for Uncle Dudley, though. He starts straightenin'
up his desk as I goes out, as calm as though he was house cleanin' for a
vacation.

And while I'm tryin' to make up my mind how to deliver this document to
the main stem and duck an ambulance ride afterwards, the directors'
meetin' breaks up. So I finds Old Hickory alone in his private office
and slips it casual on the pad in front of him.

"Here, what's this?" he snorts, callin' me back as he opens up the
sheet. "Eh? Dudley! Resigns, does he! What, that dried up, goat faced,
custard brained, old----Say, boy; ask him what the grizzly grindstones
he means by----"

"I did," says I, "and, if you want to know, he's quittin' because he's
too straight to cook up the books the way you told him."

"Cook up the books!" gasps Old Hickory, gettin' raspb'ry tinted in the
face and displayin' neck veins like a truck horse. "He's been welshing,
has he? Perhaps he'd like to turn State's witness? Well, by the great
sizzling skyrockets, if that's his trick, I'll give him enough of----"

"Excuse me, Mr. Ellins," I breaks in, "but you're slippin' your clutch.
Tricks! Why, he ain't even wise to what you want him to do it for. All
he knows is that it's crooked, and he renigs on a general proposition.
And, say, when a man's as straight as that, with the workhouse starin'
him in the face, he's too valuable to lose, ain't he?"

"Wha-a-at?" gurgles Old Hickory.

"Besides," says I, hurryin' the words to get 'em all out before any
violent scene breaks loose, "knowin' all he does about them Mutt & Mudd
checks, and with what he don't know about the case, it wouldn't be
hardly safe to have him roamin' the streets, would it? Now I leave it to
you."

Say, I was lookin' Old Hickory right in the eye, ready to dodge the
inkstand or anything else, while I was puttin' that over, and for a
minute I thought it was comin' sure. But while he can get as hot under
the collar as anyone I ever saw, and twice as quick, he don't go clear
off his nut any of the time.

"Young man," says he, calmin' down and motionin' me to a chair, "as
usual, you seem to be more or less well informed on this matter
yourself. Now let's have the rest of it."

And just like that, all of a sudden, it's batted up to me. So I lets it
come, with all the details about Uncle Dudley's frosty home life, and
the reformer son out West that still thinks father is makin' good. He
sits there and listens to every word too. Not that he comes in with the
sympathetic sigh, or shows signs of being troubled by mist in the eye
corners. He just throws in an occasional grunt now and then and drums
his fat finger-tips on the chair arm.

"Huh!" says he. "Babes and sucklings! But I've had worse advice that has
cost me a lot more. Well, I suppose an old fool like that is dangerous
to have drifting around. But I don't want him here just now, either.
Um-m-m! Where did you say this son of his lived?"

"Just out of Los Angeles," says I.

"All right," says Old Hickory. "Tell him he goes west Tuesday as
traveling auditor to our second vice president. He'll bring up at Los
Angeles about the middle of the month--and about that time it may happen
that he'll be retired on full pay. But I'll keep this resignation, as a
curiosity."

Now don't ask me to describe how old Dudley takes it; for when he gets
the full partic'lars of the decision it near keels him over. And what
part of it do you say tickles him most? That the books don't have to be
juggled!

"It wasn't like Mr. Ellins to countenance an act of that sort, not in
the least," says he, "and I am very glad that he has changed his mind."

"Say, Dudley," says I, "you're a wonder, you are."

And it was all I could do to keep from askin' him if he thought he owned
the only bottle of ink eradicator there was in New York.

Do I know who did fix up them entries? Well, by the nervous motions of a
certain party next mornin', I could give a guess.

"Piddie," says I, "if they ever get you on the stand, you want to wear
interferin' pads between your knees, so they won't hear the bones
rattle."

CHAPTER XVI

THROWING THE LINE TO SKID

Say, this is twice I've been let in wrong on Skid Mallory. Remember him,
don't you? Well, he's our young college hick that I helped steer up
against Baron Kazedky when he landed that big armor plate order. Did
they make Skid a junior partner for that, or paint his name on a private
office door? Not so you'd notice it. Maybe they was afraid a sudden
boost like that would make him dizzy. But they promotes him to the sales
department and adds ten to his pay envelope. I was most as tickled over
it as Mallory was, too.

"Didn't I tell you?" says I. "You're a comer, you are! Why, I expect in
ten or a dozen years more you'll be sharin' in the semi-annuals and
ridin' down to the office in a taxi."

"Perhaps I may, Torchy--in ten or a dozen years," says he, kind of slow
and sober.

I could guess what he was thinking of then. It was the girl, that sweet
young thing that Brother Dick towed in here along last winter, some
Senator's daughter that Skid had got chummy with when he was doin' his
great quarterback act and havin' his picture printed in the sportin'
extras.

"How's that affair comin' on?" says I; for I ain't heard him mention her
in quite some time.

"It's all off," says he, shruggin' them wide shoulders of his. "That is,
there never was anything in it, you know, to begin with."

"Oh, there wa'n't, eh?" says I. "Forgot all about that picture you used
to carry around in the little leather case, have you?"

Skid, he flushes up a bit at that, and one hand goes up to his left
inside pocket. Then he laughs foolish. "It isn't I who have forgotten,"
says he.

"Oh-ho!" says I. "Well, I wouldn't have thought her the kind to shift
sudden, when she seemed so----"

But Mallory gives me the choke off sign, and as we walks up Broadway he
gradually opens up more and more on the subject until I've got a fair
map of the situation. Seems that Sis ain't exactly set him adrift
without warnin'. He'd sort of helped cut the cable himself. She'd begun
by writin' to him every week, tellin' him all about the lively season
she was havin' in Washington, and how much fun she was gettin' out of
life. She even put in descriptions of her new dresses, and some of her
dance orders, and now and then a bridge score, or a hand painted place
card from some dinner she'd been to.

And Skid, thinkin' it all over in the luxury of his nine by ten boudoir,
got to wonderin' what attractions along that line he could hold out to a
young lady that was used to blowin' in more for one new spring lid than
he could earn in a couple of weeks.

"And orchids are her favorite flowers!" says he. "Ever buy any orchids,
Torchy?"

"Not guilty," says I; "but they ain't so high, are they, that you
couldn't splurge on a bunch now and then? What's the tariff on 'em,
anyway?"

"At times you can get real nice ones for a dollar apiece," says he.

"Phe-e-e-ew!" says I. "She has got swell tastes."

"It isn't her fault," says he. "She's never known anything different."

So what does Skid do but slow up on the correspondence, skippin' an
answer here and there, and coverin' only two pages when he did write.
For one thing, he didn't have so much to tell as she did. I knew that;
for I'd seen more or less of Mallory durin' the last few months, and I
knew he was playin' his cards close to his vest.

Not that he was givin' any real lifelike miser imitation; but he didn't
indulge in high priced cafe luncheons on Saturdays, like most of the
bunch; he'd scratched his entry at the college club; and he was soakin'
away his little surplus as fast as he got his fingers on it.

Course, that programme meant sendin' regrets to most of the invites he
got, and spendin' his evenin's where it didn't cost much to get in or
out. One frivolous way he had of killin' time was by teachin' 'rithmetic
to a class of new landed Zinskis at a settlement house over on the East
Side.

"Ah, what's the use?" I used to tell him. "They'd learn to do compound
interest on their fingers in a month, anyway, and the first thing you
know you'll be payin' rent to some of 'em."

But he was pretty level headed about most things, I will say that for
Mallory, specially the way he sized up this girl business. Seems at last
she got the idea he was grouchy at her about something; and when he
didn't deny, or come to the front with any reason--why, she just quit
sendin' the billy ducks.

"So you're never going to see her any more, eh?" says I.

"Well," says he, "I supposed until within an hour or so ago that I never
should. And then----Well, she's here, Torchy; came yesterday, and I
presume she expects to see me to-night."

"That's encouragin', anyway," says I.

But Mallory don't seem so much cheered up. It turns out that Sis is
spendin' a few days with friends here, waitin' for the rest of the
fam'ly to come on and sail for Europe. They're givin' a farewell dinner
dance for her, and Skid is on the list.

The trouble is he can't make up his mind whether to go or stay away. One
minute he's dead sure he won't, and the next minute he admits he don't
see what harm there would be in takin' one last look.

"But, then," says Mallory, "what good would that do?"

"I know," says I. "There's a young lady friend of mine on the other side
too. Say, Mallory, I guess we belong in the lobster class."

And when we splits up on the corner Skid has decided against the party
proposition, and goes off towards his boardin' house with his chin down
on his collar and his heels draggin'.

So I wa'n't prepared for the joyous smile and the frock coat regalia
that Mallory wears when he blows into the office about ten-forty-five
next forenoon. He's sportin' a spray of lilies of the valley in his
lapel, and swingin' his silver topped stick, and by the look on his
face you'd think he was hearin' the birdies sing in the treetops.

"Tra-la-la, tra-la-lee!" says I, throwin' open the brass gate for him.
"Is it a special holiday, or what?"

"It's a very special one," says he, thumpin' me on the back and
whisperin' husky in my ear. "Torchy, I'm married!"

"Wha-a-at!" I splutters. "Who to? When?"

"To Sis," says he, "half an hour ago."

"Eh?" says I. "Mean to say you've been and eloped with the Senator's
daughter?"

"Eloped!" says he, as though he'd never heard the word before. "Why,
no--er--that is, we just went out and--and----"

Oh, no, they hadn't eloped! They'd merely slid out of the ballroom about
three A.M., after dancin' seventeen waltzes together, snuggled into a
hansom cab, and rode around the park until daylight talkin' it over.
Then she'd slipped back into the house, got into her travelin' dress
while he was off changin' his clothes, met again at eight o'clock,
chased down to City Hall after a license, and then dragged a young
rector away from his boiled eggs and toast to splice 'em.

But Skid didn't call that elopin'. Why, Sis had left word with the
butler to tell her friends all about it, and the first thing they did
after it was over was to send a forty-word collect telegram to papa.
And Mallory, he'd just dropped around to arrange with Old Hickory for a
little vacation before they beat it for Atlantic City.

"So that ain't elopin', eh?" says I. "I expect you'd call that a
sixty-yard run on a forward pass, or something like that? Well, the old
man's inside. Luck to you."

Mallory wa'n't on the carpet long, and when he comes out I asks how he
made back.

"Oh, bully!" says he. "I'm to have ten days."

"With or without?" says I.

"Oh, I forgot to ask," says he.

Little things like bein' on the payroll or not wa'n't botherin' him
then. He gives me a bone crushin' grip and swings out to the elevator in
a rush; for he's been away from Sis nearly half an hour now.

Exceptin' a picture postcard or two, showin' the iron pier and a bathin'
scene, I didn't hear from Mr. and Mrs. Mallory for more'n a week. And
then one afternoon I gets a 'phone message from Skid, saying that
they're all settled in a little flat up on Washington Heights and
they'll be pleased to have me come up to dinner.

"It's our very first dinner, you know," says he, "and Sis is going to
get it all by herself. I suggested that we try the first one on you."

"That don't scare me any," says I. "I've lived on sinkers and pie too
long to duck amateur cookin'. I'll be there."

I was on the grin all the afternoon too, thinkin' of the joshes I was
goin' to hand him. At three minutes of closing time I was all ready to
sneak out, with one eye on the clock and the other on Piddie, when in
blows a ruby faced, thick waisted gent with partly gray hair, a
heavyweight jaw, and a keen pair of twinklin' gray eyes. He looks
prosperous and important, and he proceeds to act right to home.

"Boy," says he, pushin' through the gate, "is this the general office of
the Corrugated Trust Company?"

"Yep," says I. "That's what it says on the door."

"There is employed here, I understand," he goes on, "a young man by the
name of Mallory."

Say, I was wide awake at that. "Mallory?" says I. "I can find out. Did
you want to see him on business?"

"It is a personal matter," says he. "Is he here?"

"Now, let's not rush this," says I. "My orders is to find out----"

"Very well," says the gent, "there is my card. And perhaps I should
mention that I have the honor--er--I suppose, to be his father in law."

Say, and here I was, up against the Senator himself. Course it was my
cue to shrivel up and do the low salaam; but all I can think of at the
minute is to look him over and grin.

"Gee!" says I. "Then you're on his trail, eh?"

Maybe it was the grin fetched him; for them square mouth corners
flickers a little and he don't throw any fit. "Evidently you are
somewhat familiar with the circumstances," says he. "May I ask if you
are sufficiently favored with the confidence of my new son in law to
know where he and my--er--his wife happen, to be just now?"

"I admit it," says I; "but if you're thinkin' of springin' any hammer
music on Skid, you can look for another party, for you won't get it out
of me in a thousand years!"

"Ah!" says he. "I see Young Lochinvar has at least one champion. Allow
me to state that my intentions are pacific. My wife and I merely wish,
before sailing, to pay a formal call on our daughter and her new
husband. Now if you could give me their address----"

"Why, say, Senator," says I, "if you ain't lookin' to start anything, I
can do better. I'm going right up there myself this minute, and if
Mrs.----"

"She is waiting downstairs in the cab," says he. "Nothing would suit us
better."

And, say, maybe it wa'n't just what I should have done, but blamed if I
could see how to dodge it when it's up to me that way. So it's me
climbin' up on the front seat with the driver of a fancy hotel taxi,
papa and mamma behind, and off rolls the surprise party.

Well, you know them cut rate apartment houses, with a flossy reception
room, all marble slabs and burlap panels and no elevator. The West
Indian at the telephone exchange says we'll find the Mallorys on the top
floor back to the left. That meant four flights to climb, which might
account for the lack of conversation on the way up. Mallory, with his
coat off, his cuffs rolled back, and his face steamed up, answers the
ring himself.

"Ah, that you, Torchy?" says he. "We were just wondering if you
would----Why--er--ah----" and as he gets sight of the old couple out in
the dark hall he breaks off sudden.

"It's all right," says I. "He's promised to give the peace sign. You
know the Senator, don't you, Skid?"

"The Senator!" he gasps out.

"I believe I once had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Mallory," says the old
boy, comin' to the front graceful. "Hope you will pardon the intrusion;
but----"

Just then, though, Sis appears from the kitchen, her face all pink and
white, and her sleeves pushed up past the dimples in her elbows. Under a
thirty-nine-cent blue and white checked apron she's wearin' a lace party
dress that was a dream. It's an odd combination; but most anything would
look well on a little queen like her. She takes one look at Skid,
another at the Senator, and then behind the old man she spies Mother.

Well, it's just a squeal from one, and a sigh from the other, and then
they've made a rush to the center that wedges us all into that little
three-foot hall like it was the platform of a subway car, and before
anything more can be said they've gone to a fond clinch, each pattin'
the other on the back and passin' appropriate remarks.

Somehow, I guess the Senator hadn't quite figured on this part of the
programme. I expect his plan was to be real polite and formal, stay only
long enough to let the young people know he could stand it if they
could, and then back out dignified.

Whatever Mother might have meant to do when she started, it was all off
from the minute Sis let out that squeal. And no sooner had we got
ourselves untangled and edged sideways into the cute little parlor, than
Mother announces how she means to stay right here until it's time to
start for the steamer. Did some one say dinner! Good! She'll stay to
dinner, then.

At that Sis looks at Skid and Skid he looks at Sis. There was some real
worry exchanged in them looks too; but young Mrs. Mallory ain't one to
be stumped as easy as that.

"Oh, goody!" says she, clappin' her hands. "But, Mother, what is it you
do to make dumplings puff out after you've dropped them in the lamb
stew?"

"Dumplings! Lamb stew!" says Mother. "Gracious! Don't ask me, child. I
haven't made any for years. Doesn't your cook know?"

"She doesn't," says Sis. "I am the cook, Mother."

Well, that was only the beginning of the revelations; for while Sis and
Mother was strugglin' with the receipt book, the Senator was makin' a
tour of inspection around the apartment. It didn't take him so long,
either.

"Ahem!" says he to Mallory. "Very cozy, indeed; but--er--not exactly
spacious."

"Four rooms and bath," says Mallory.

"Was--er--that the bathtub in there?" says the Senator, jerkin' his
thumb at the bathroot door. "I fancied it might be--er--a pudding dish.
Might I inquire what rent you pay for--er--all this?"

"Forty a month, sir," says Mallory.

"Ah! Economy, I see. Good way to begin," says he. "And if it is not too
personal a question, your present salary is----"

"I'm getting twenty-five a week," says Skid, lookin' him straight
between the eyes.

"Then you have a private income, I presume?" says the Senator.

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