Torchy

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And say, w'atcher think! Benny comes around here the other day wearin' a
broad grin, lugs me out to his tailor's to have me taped for a whole
outfit of glad rags, and says I've got to be one of the ushers at the
weddin'. Wouldn't that sting you?

CHAPTER VI

SHUNTING BROTHER BILL

Don't talk to me about weddin's! Sure, I've been mixed up in one. Maybe
there was orange blossoms and so on; but all that's handed me is a bunch
of lemon buds. Not that I'm carryin' any grouch. I might have known
better'n to butt into any such doin's. Long as I stick to bein' head
office boy, I knows who's what, and what's which, and anyone that thinks
they can give me the double cross is welcome to a try; but when it comes
to sittin' in at a wilt-thou fest I'm a reg'lar Cousin Zeke from the
red-mitten belt.

Maybe I wouldn't have done so bad, though, if it hadn't been for Aunt
Laura. And say, mark it up on the bulletin right here, she ain't my
aunt! She's Benny's. I was tellin' you how I loaded Mildred, our lady
typewriter that was, into Mr. Robert's car alongside of Bashful Benny,
and what came of it, wa'n't I! And how Benny's so grateful that he says
I've got to be one of the ushers?

Well, it was all goin' lovely, and the gen'ral office force has chipped
in and bought 'em a swell weddin' present, and Benny's tailor has built
me a pair of striped pants and a John Drew coat, and Mr. Mallory's been
coachin' me how to act when I chase the folks into their seats, and
Piddie's been loadin' me up with polite conversation to fire off
whenever I gets a show, and everything's as gay around the shop as
though the directors had voted an extra dividend--when I'm stacked up
against Aunt Laura and it begins to cloud in the west.

Aunt Laura is all Benny can show up for a fam'ly, and after you got to
know her you couldn't blame him for wantin' to start in on a new deal.
She's one of them narrow-eyed old girls that can look through a keyhole
without turnin' her head, and can dig up more suspicions in a minute
than most folks would in a month. I'll bet if the angel Gabriel should
show up and send in his card she'd make him prove who he was by playin'
the horn.

It was a cinch she didn't mistake me for no angel, when Mr. Robert sends
me up there to do an errand for Benny. I wa'n't callin' for no aunts,
anyway, but just leavin' a note for Wilson--that's Benny's man--when
this sharp-nosed old party comes rubberin' into the front hall.

"Marie," says she to the girl, "what boy is this? Where did he come
from? Who does he want to see? Don't you dare leave him alone for a
minute!"

That last touch gets me in the short ribs. "Ah, say," says I, "do I look
like a hallrack artist?"

"That'll do, young man!" says she. "You may not be as bad as you look;
but I have my doubts."

"Same to you, ma'am, and many of 'em," says I.

"Mercy!" says she. "What impertinence!"

"Please, ma'am," says the girl, "Mr. Ellins sent him up, and I----"

"Oh!" says the old one. Then she gives me another look. "Boy," says she,
"what's your name!"

"Torehy," says I. "Ain't it a snug fit?"

"Oh!" says she again, and with the soft pedal on. "You're Torchy, are
you?"

"There ain't any gettin' away from a name like that," says I.

"Why," says she, doin' her best to call up a smile, "what a bright young
man you are!"

"Specially on top," says I, throwin' a wink at Marie.

"Ye-es," says Aunt Laura, "I always did think that copper-red shade of
hair was real pretty. Come right in, Torchy, while Marie gets you some
cake and a cup of tea."

"I ain't turnin' the shoulder to any cake," says I; "but you can cut out
the tea."

Well, say, inside of three minutes from the start I'm planted comf'table
in one of the libr'y chairs, eatin' frosted cake with both hands, while
Marie's off hustlin' up lemonade and fancy crackers.

Course, it was somethin' of a shock, such a quick shift as that. I ain't
got a glimmer as to what Aunt Laura's end of the game was; but so long
as the home-made pastry holds out I was as good as nailed to the spot.
She seems to get a heap of satisfaction watchin' me eat, almost as much
as though she was feedin' ground glass to her best enemy. You've seen
that kind, that you can stand well enough until they begin to grin at
you. Aunt Laura's bluff at smilin' was enough to make a cat get its back
up, and you could tell she didn't really mean it, as well as if she'd
said, "Now I'm goin' to give you an imitation of somebody that's
pleased."

And all the time she was dealin' out a line of talk that was as smooth
as wet asphalt. Most of it was hot air that she said Benny'd been givin'
to her about me, and how sweet Mildred thought I was.

That should have been my cue; but I was too busy with the cake.

"Miss Morgan is such a dear girl, isn't she?" says Aunt Laura.

"Uh-huh," says I, pokin' in some frostin' that had lodged on the
outside.

"You are quite well acquainted with her, aren't you?" says she.

"Um-m-m-m," says I.

"Let's see," goes on Aunt Laura, "what is it she did at the office!"

"Chickety-click, ding-g-g!" says I, makin' motions with my fingers.

"Oh, typewriting!" says she. "But I suppose she was very skillful at
it?"

"Oh, she was a bird!" says I.

See what was happenin'? I was bein' pumped. It was more'n that too.
Everything I knew about Mildred, and a lot I guessed at, was emptied out
of me like she was usin' one of these vacuum cleaners on my head. When I
gets to telling about the place out West where Mildred lived before she
and her maw hit New York, Aunt Laura jumps up.

"Oh, I know some people who lived there once," says she. "I wonder if
any of them knew Miss Morgan?"

With that she picks up the desk 'phone and gives a call. Did they know
any Miss Morgans out there? Yes, Mildred Morgan. Really! A brother too?
How interesting! Who was he, and what was he doing last? What! In the
State penitentiary! That was enough for Aunt Laura. She hangs up the
receiver and says to me:

"Boy, when you get back to the office tell Mr. Robert I want to see him.
Come, you'd better be going now."

It was a case of "Here's your hat--what's your hurry!"

"Say," says I, "don't you go to swallowin' any tale about the Lady
Mildred havin' a brother that's a crook. There's lots of Morgans besides
her and J. P."

But all Aunt Laura does is hold the door open for me; so I beats it,
feelin' about as chipper as though I'd been turnin' State's evidence.
The more I thinks of it, the cheaper I feels. Here I'd been playin'
myself for Mr. Foxy Cute, and had let an old lemon squeezer like Aunt
Laura wring me dry!

Just what she's got up her sleeve about the penitentiary business, I
didn't know; but I wa'n't long in findin' out. Next day there was all
kinds of a row. Aunt Laura has looked up the invitation list for the
weddin', and, sure enough, among the also rans was a Mr. William Morgan,
with a State penitentiary address. With that, and what she'd heard over
the 'phone, Aunt Laura makes out a strong case. Was she goin' to stand
by and see her only nephew marry into a family of jailbirds? Not if she
could help it! So she calls in Mr. Robert and puts the layout before
him.

It looks like a bad mess, with Mildred on the toboggan; for Mr. Robert
has said he'd see what could be done. He don't promise anything; but
Benny's always been such a willin' performer that he guesses maybe he
can talk him out of wantin' to get married. He didn't know Benny,
though. These short, fat, dimpled boys are just the ones to fool you,
and when it came to tellin' Benny about Brother Bill, that was doin'
time, Benny works his lips at high speed sayin' that he don't believe
it.

"Anyway," says Benny, "it ithn't Bill I'm marrying. I don't give a cuth
for him. I'd juth ath thoon marry Mildred if her whole doothed family
wath in jail."

"That settles it, Benny," says Mr. Robert. "If that's the way you feel.
I'll stand by you."

Maybe Aunt Laura wa'n't wild, though, when she finds she can't block the
game. I was handlin' the office switchboard the afternoon she calls Mr.
Robert up to give him the rake-over, and the old girl warms up the wires
until she near has the lightnin' arresters out of business. It comes out
too that she's sore on Benny's bein' married because she sees the finish
of her steady job as boss of the house on the avenue. She can't queer
Mr. Robert though.

"Benny seems to have a clear idea as to just whom he wants to marry,"
says he, "and that's enough for me. If Miss Morgan has a brother in the
penitentiary, and Benny doesn't mind, I'm sure I don't. I've known lots
of fellows who wished their brothers-in-law were in the same place.
Anyway, he'll not trouble us by showing up at the wedding, even if she
did send him an invitation."

That's the kind of a sport Mr. Robert is. He's dead game, and when
you've got him for a friend you'll know who to send for if you should
ever get run in. So we goes along gettin' ready for the weddin' same's
if nothin's happened. It's billed for a church hitch; but there ain't
been any advertisin' done, so they don't expect any crowd. Look when
they has it too--right at lunch time!

"Chee!" says I to Mr. Robert, who's running the thing, "you must be
playin' for a frost. Now if you'd hire one of them Third-ave. halls and
band, you might give 'em somethin' of a send-off; but it'll be hard to
tell this racket from one of these noonday prayin' bees they has down in
the wholesale crock'ry district."

Mr. Robert says that Benny bein' so bashful, and Mildred not knowin'
many folks on East, they wanted to make it as quiet as they could.

"It'll have a pantomime show beat to death on quiet," says I. "Put me on
the door, will you, so's I can keep awake joshin' the sidewalk cop?"

Mr. Robert says he thinks that'll be a good place for me, as they ain't
goin' to let anyone in without a ticket and I'm used to shuntin' cranks.
But say, I'm so rattled when I get inside of that suit they sent around
for me to wear that I don't know whether I'm goin' up or comin' down.
Honest, that coat made me feel like I was wearin' a dress. I didn't mind
the striped pants,--they was all to the good,--but them skirts flappin'
around my knees was the limit.

Think I had the face to spring that outfit on the folks at the boardin'
house? Never in a year! Why, some of them Lizzie girls rangin' the block
would have guyed me out of the borough. I just folds the thing inside
out over my arm, like it was some one's overcoat I was takin' around to
have a button shifted, and when I gets to the church I slides up into
the gallery and makes a quick change. Mr. Robert looks me over and says
no one would guess it was me.

"I'm hopin' they don't," says I.

But as soon as the carriages begun comin' and I gets busy callin' for
the seat checks, I forgets how I looks and stops huntin' for some place
to stow my hands. It was a cinch job. There was only a few lady butt-ins
that had strayed over from the shoppin' district and smelled out a free
show.

"We're intimate friends of the bride," says a pair of 'em; "but we've
forgotten our tickets."

"That's good, but musty. Butt out, please," says I.

Chee! but I ain't used up so much politeness since I can remember! It
was wearin' them clothes did it, I guess.

Well, I was gettin' to feel real gay, for most everyone that was due was
inside, and I hadn't made any breaks to speak of, and it was near time
for the Lady Mildred to be floatin' in, when I pipes off a tall,
husky-lookin' gent, with a funny black lid and an umbrella tucked under
one arm, gawpin' up at the sign on the church.

"Tourist from Punk Hollow lookin' for the Flatiron Buildin'," says I to
myself; but the next minute he comes meanderin' up the steps, fishin' a
card out of his pocket. You can bet I plants myself in the door and
calls for credentials!

But, say, he had the goods. There was the ticket, all right, with the
name wrote on it, and it didn't need but one squint at the pasteboard
for me to break into a cold sweat. It wa'n't anybody else but Mr.
William Morgan!

"Say," says I, as hoarse as a huckster, "are you Brother Bill?"

"Why," says he, kind of surprised, but not half so stunned as I thought
he'd be,--"why, I suppose I am."

You wouldn't have guessed it. Not that he didn't look the brother part;
for he did. He went Mildred two or three inches better in height, and he
had snappy black eyes and black hair like hers. The points that goes
with a striped suit and the lock step was missin', though. But how you
goin' to tell, in these times when our toniest fatwads is sittin' around
the mahogany votin' to raise the price of chewin' gum to-day, and
gettin' a free haircut to-morrow? There wa'n't any time for me to stand
there guessin' whether he'd been pardoned, or had slid down the rain
pipe. Somethin' had to be done, and done quick.

"Dodge in here and wait a minute," says I. "There's some word been left
for you."

With that I sneaks down the side aisle and into the little cloakroom,
where Mr. Robert was keepin' Benny's mind off'n what was comin' to him
by makin' him count the geranium leaves in the carpet.

"Mr. Robert," says I, luggin' him off to one side, "you want to give up
predictin' the future. Bill's come!"

"What Bill?" says he.

"The one from the rock pile, Brother Bill," says I.

"That's lovely!" says he.

"It's all of that," says I.

"I hope he's not wearing his uniform still," says Mr. Robert.

"Not on the outside," says I. "He looks like he'd pinched a minister's
Monday suit somewhere. But it ain't the way he looks that's worryin' me;
it's what he's liable to do any minute to put the show on the blink."

"That's so, Torchy," says he. "Can't we get him out of the way somehow?"

"It's a tough proposition," says I; "but if you'll put on a sub for me
at the door, and give me leave to make any play that I happens to think
of, I'll tackle it."

"Good!" says Mr. Robert. "And I'll make it worth a hundred to you to
keep him away from here until it's all over."

"I'm on the job," says I.

As I skips back I grabs my hat out from under a rear seat and makes
straight for Brother Bill. "Come on," says I. "She's waitin' for you
now. We've got just half an hour to do it in."

Bill, he looks sort of jarred and reluctant; but I has him by the arm
and is chasin' him down the steps before he can ask any dippy questions.
First off I thought of runnin' him up the avenue until he's clean
winded; but I see by the way he strikes out that it would take more
lungs than I've got to do that.

There was a lot of weddin' cabs and such waitin' round the corner,
though; so I steers him into the first one that has the apron up, jumps
in after him, shoves up the door in the roof, and sings out:

"Beat it! This ain't any dream carnival you're hired for!"

"What number?" says the bone thumper.

For about two shakes I was up against it, and then the only place I
could think of was Benny's house; so I give him that, and off we goes.

"But I say, young man," says Brother Bill, "I came on to go to the
wedding."

"Sure," says I; "that'll be all right too. Didn't I tell you there was
some word left for you?"

"Yes," says he, "I believe you did. Also you said something about her
waiting----"

"Right again," says I. "She'll be tickled to death to see you too."

"Yes; but the wedding?" says he.

"That'll be there when we get back--maybe," says I. "You came on kind
of unexpected, eh?"

"Yes," says he. "I didn't think I could get away at first; but I managed
it."

"How'd you get out?" says I. "Was it a clean quit, or a little
vacation?"

"Why--er--why," says he,--"yes, it was a--er--little vacation, as you
say."

"Chee!" thinks I. "The nerve of him! Wonder if he sawed the bars, or
sneaked out in a packin' case?" But, say, I couldn't put it to him
straight. When I gets these bashful fits on I ain't any use.

"How long you been in?" says I.

"In?" says he. "Oh, I see! About five years."

"Honest?" says I.

Then I had another modest spell that won't let me ask him whether he'd
been put away for givin' rebates, or grabbin' for graft. I knew it must
have been somethin' respectable like that. Anyone could see he wa'n't
one of your strong arms or till friskers.

I was just wishin' I knew how to work the force pump like Aunt Laura,
when we pulls up at the horse block, and it was up to me to think of
some new move.

"She's here, is she?" says Mr. William.

"You bet!" says I, wondering who he thought I meant. And then I gets
that funny feelin' I gen'rally has when I takes the high jump. "Come
on," says I. "We'll give her a surprise."

It wa'n't anything else. I knew she'd be to home, 'cause I'd heard she
was too grouchy to go to the weddin' or have anything to do with it; so
when Marie let us in I throws a tall bluff and says for her to tell Aunt
Laura I've brought some one she wants to see very partic'lar.

"Why," says Mr. Morgan, "there's been some mistake, hasn't there! I know
no such person. Why should she wish to see me?"

"Sh-h-h-h!" says I. "Maybe she'll feed you frosted cake. It's one of her
tricks."

She didn't, though. She looked about as smilin' as a dill pickle when
she showed up, and she opened the ball by askin' what I meant, bringin'
strangers there.

"Well," says I, "you've been askin' a lot about him lately; so I thought
I'd lug him around. This is Brother Bill."

"What!" says she, squealin' it out like I'd said the house was afire.
"Not the brother of that--that Morgan girl?"

"Ask him," says I. "You're a star at that."

Then I takes a peek at Bill. And say, I was almost sorry I'd done it.
For a party that'd just broke jail, he could stand the least I ever
saw. He looks as mixed up and helpless as a lady that's took a seat in
the smokin' car by mistake. I'd have helped him out then if I could have
thought how. It was too late, though, and Aunt Laura was no quitter.

"How long is it," says she, jerkin' her head back and throwin' a look
out of her narrow eyes that must have gone clear through him, "since you
got out of the State penitentiary?"

"Why--why--er--er----" begins Brother Bill.

Then he has the biggest stroke of luck that ever came his way; for Marie
pushes in with the silver plate and a card on it.

"Thank goodness!" says Aunt Laura, lookin' at the card. "The very person
I need! Ask Dr. Wackhorn to step in here."

I thought he must be a germ chaser; but it was just a minister, a solid,
prosperous lookin' old gent, with white billboards and a meat safe on
him like a ten-dollar Teddy bear. He looks at Brother Bill, and Bill
looks at him.

"Why, my dear William!" sings out the Doc, rushin' over with the glad
hand out.

In two minutes it's all over. Dr. Wackhorn has introduced Bill as his
ex-assistant, who's gone West and got himself a job as chaplain in a
State prison, and Aunt Laura loses her breath tryin' to apologize to
both of 'em at once. Think of that! We'd been playin' him for all kinds
of a crook, and here he was a sure enough minister!

Well, I gets him back to the church just in time for the last curtain,
so he can see what a stunner Mildred was in her canopy-top outfit. He's
all right, Brother Bill is. Never gives me any call-down for shuntin'
him off the way I did and makin' him miss most of the show. As I says to
him afterward:

"Bill," says I, "that was one on me. But we did throw the hook into Aunt
Laura some! What?"

CHAPTER VII

KEEPING TABS ON PIDDIE

Say, I thought I knew Piddie. If anybody'd asked me to pick a party for
the Honest John act from among the crowd we got around the Corrugated
Trust here, I'd made J. Hemmingway Piddie my one best bet. He's been
with the concern ever since Old Hickory Ellins flim-flammed his partners
out of their share of the business and took out a New Jersey chartered
permit that allowed him to practice grand larceny.

If Piddie hadn't been a pinhead, he'd had his name on the board of
directors years ago. But there ain't no use tryin' to make parlor
comp'ny out of kitchen help; so Piddie's just trailed along, bein' as
useful as he knew how, and workin' up from ten a week to one fifty a
month, just as satisfied as if he was gettin' his per cent. of the
profits.

What he does around the shop wouldn't turn anyone gray-headed; but he
makes the most of it. He swells up more over orderin' a few office
supplies than Mr. Robert would about signin' a million-dollar contract,
and the way he keeps watch of the towels and soap and spring water you'd
think our stock was fallin' below par, 'stead of payin' nine per cent,
on common. Gen'rally Piddie don't handle anything but petty cash; but
once in awhile, when no one else is handy, they chuck something big his
way, and he never lets up until everyone knows all about it. You can
tell how chesty he feels, just by his strut.

Well, there'd been a big rush on, and they was usin' Piddie more or less
frequent, so I was gettin' used to his makin' a noise like a balloon,
when one mornin' he come turkeyin' out to the brass gate and says to me:

"Torchy, call up 0079 Broad and get the opening on Blitzen."

"Sure," says I. "And if it touches seven-eighths don't you want to
unload a couple of thousand shares?"

"When I have any further orders," says he, puffin' out his face, "you
will get them!"

"Oh, slush!" says I. "Don't play so rough, Piddie."

I was onto him, all right. I've seen these hot-air plungers before. They
follow up a stock for weeks, and buy and sell in six figures, and reckon
up how they've hit the market for great chunks--but it's all under their
lids. You can't spend pipe dreams, if you win; and if you lose, it
don't shrink the size of your really truly roll. It's almost as
satisfyin' as walkin by the back door of a bakery when you're hungry.
That kind of game is about Piddie's size, too. All it calls for is
plenty of imagination, and he's got that by the bale. I was kind of glad
to see him enjoyin' himself so innocent, and now and then I'd help along
the excitement.

"Heard about how Morgan's tryin' to get hold of Blitzen?" I'd say, and
Piddie would prick up his ears like a fox-terrier sightin' a rat.

"Who told you?" Piddie'd ask.

"Why," I'd say, "I got it straight from a delicatessen man that lives on
the same block with a man that runs a hot dog cart in John-st. Don't
want anything closer'n that, do you!"

Then Piddie'd look kind of foolish, and go off and call down some one
good and hard, just to relieve his feelin's.

First thing I knew, though, Piddie was havin' star-chamber sessions with
a seedy-lookin' piker that wore an actor's overcoat and a brunette
collar that looked like it had been wished onto his neck about last
Thanksgivin'. They'd get together in a corner of the reception room and
whisper away for half an hour on a stretch. If it hadn't been Piddie,
I'd put it down for a hard-luck tale with a swift touch for a curtain;
but no one that ever took a second look at Piddie would ever waste
their time tryin' a touch on him. So I guessed the gent was a bucketshop
tout who was tryin' to interest Piddie in some kind of a deal.

Still, I couldn't get any picture of Piddie takin' a chance with real
money. It wa'n't until I seen him walkin' around stary-eyed one day, and
gettin' nervous by the minute, that I could believe he's really been
rung in. He was goin' through all the motions, though, of a man that's
shoved everything, win or lose, on the red, and it was a circus to keep
tabs on him. He makes a bluff at bein' awful busy with the billbook; but
he couldn't stay at the desk more'n three minutes at a spell. Inside of
an hour I counted four times that he washed his hands and six drinks of
water that he had.

"You'll be damp enough to need wringin' out, if you keep that up," says
I.

"Keep what up?" says he. Honest, he was so rattled he didn't know
whether he was usin' the roller towel or runnin' over the ticker tape.
Half an hour before lunchtime he skips out and leaves word with me that
maybe he'll be back late.

"All right," says I. "If the boss calls for you I'll tell him he'll have
to shut down the shop until you blow in again."

Maybe you've seen symptoms like that in a hired man. It gen'rally means
that there's somethin' doin' in ponies or margins, and that next payday
is goin' to seem a long ways off. If I'd been asked to give a guess, I
should have put it as about two hundred bucks that Piddie had thrown
into the market. Anyway, it wa'n't enough to knock the props out of
call-money quotations; so I was lettin' Piddie do all the worryin'.

He didn't show back at twelve-thirty, nor at twelve-forty-five. Some one
else did, though. She was a nice little lady, one of the smooth-haired,
big-eyed kind, as soft talkin' and as gentle actin' as the heroine in
"No Weddin' Cake for Her'n," just before she gets to the weepy scenes.
You could see by the punky mill'nery and the last season's drygoods that
she'd just drifted in from Mortgagehurst, New Jersey. The little snoozer
she has by the hand was a cute one, though. When he gets a glimpse of my
sunset top piece he sings out:

"O-o-o-o, mama! Burny, burn!"

"Why, Hemmingway!" says she. "I am surprised. Naughty, naughty!"

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