Torchy

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"What!" says Whitey. "Trying to make folks forget the nerviest
quarterback that ever pranced down the turf with eleven men after him?
Don't you do it. Besides, you can't. Why, that run of yours through the
Reds has been immortalized in a whole library of kid story books, and
they're still grinding 'em out!"

Mallory turns the color of the candleshades and shakes his head. "You
print any such rot as that about me," says he, "and I'll come down and
wreck the office. I'm out of all that now, and into something that has
opened my eyes to what sort of useless individual I am. Behold, Whitey,
one of the unfit!"

Then Whitey wants to know all about it.

"It's nothing much," says Mallory, "only I've been sent out to do
business with a Russian Baron, and I'm such a chump I can't even get
within speaking distance of him."

"What Baron?" says Whitey. "Not Kazedky?"

"That's the identical one," says Mallory. "Don't happen to know him, do
you?"

"I sure do," says Whitey. "Didn't he and I have a heart to heart session
when that sporty Russian Prince was over here and got himself pinched at
a prizefight? Kazedky was secretary of the legation then, and it was
through me he got the story muffled."

"Wish you could find out where he is now," says Mallory.

"Don't have to," says Whitey; "I know. He's up in private dining-room
No. 9. Been captured by a gang of Chamber of Commerce men, who are
feeding him ruddy duck and terrapin and ten-dollar champagne. He's got a
lot of steel contracts up his sleeve, you know, and----"

"Yes, I know," says Mallory; "but how can I get to see him?"

"Who are you with?" says Whitey.

"Corrugated Trust," says Mallory.

"Wow!" says Whitey, them skim-milk eyes of his gettin' big. "They
wouldn't let you within a mile of him if they knew. But say, suppose I
could lug him outside, would I get that football story?"

"You would," says Mallory.

"By to-morrow noon?" says he.

"Before morning, if you'll stay at the office until I get through here,"
says Mallory.

"Good!" says Whitey. "Come on! I'll snake him out of there if I have to
drag him by the collar. But he's a fussy old freak, and I don't
guarantee he'll stay more than a minute."

"That's enough," says Mallory. "He can talk French, I suppose?"

"What's the matter with English?" says Whitey. "Now let's see what kind
of hot air I'll give him."

Whitey didn't say what it was he thinks up; but he was grinnin' all
over his face when he leaves us outside of No. 9 and goes in where the
corks was poppin'. It must have been a happy thought, though; for it
wa'n't long before he comes out, towin' a dried-up little old runt with
a full set of face lambrequins and a gold dog license hung round his
neck from a red ribbon. He had his napkin in one hand and half a dinner
roll in the other; so it didn't look like he meant to make any long
stop. He was actin' kind of dazed, too, like he hadn't got somethin'
clear in his mind, and he hung back as if he was expectin' some one to
hand out a bomb. But Whitey rushes him right up to Mallory.

"Here's the chap, Baron!" says he. "I couldn't let you go back to Russia
without shaking hands with the greatest quarterback America ever
produced. Mr. Mallory, Baron Kazedky," and then he winks at Mallory,
much as to say, "Now jump in!"

And say, Mallory was Johnny on the spot. He grabs Kazedky's flipper like
it was a life preserver.

"I--I--really, gentlemen, there's some mistake," says the Baron. "A
quarter what, did you say?"

"Oh," says Mallory, "that's some of Mr. Buck's tomfoolery--football
term, you know."

"But I am not interested in football," says the Baron, tryin' to back
towards the door, "not in the least."

"Me either," says Mallory, gettin' a new grip on him. "What I want to
talk to you about is steel. Now, I represent the Corrugated Trust, and
we----"

Well say, the old man himself couldn't have reeled it off better'n
Mallory. Why, he had it as letter perfect as a panhandler does his tale
about bein' in the hospital six weeks and havin' four hungry kids at
home. I only hears the start of it; for as soon as he got well under way
Mallory starts for the other end of the corridor, skatin' the little old
Baron along with him like he was a Third-ave. clothing store dummy that
was bein' hauled in at closin'-up time.

Whitey didn't even wait for the overture. The minute he hands Kazedky
over he fades towards the elevator. There's nothin' for me to do but
wait; so I picks out a red velvet chair and camps down on it to watch
the promenade. That's what it was, too; for Mallory acts like he'd
forgot everything he ever knew except that he's got to talk steel into
the Baron. I guess it was steel he was talkin'! Every time he passes me
I hear him ringin' in Corrugated, and drop forged, and a lot of things
like that.

Mallory has a right-arm hook on Kazedky and is makin' motions with his
left hand. Bein' so tall, he has to lean over to pump his speech into
the old fellow's ear; but every now and then he gets excited and, 'stead
of bendin' himself, he lifts the Baron clear off his feet.

About the third lap some of the gents from the private dinin'-room pokes
their heads out to see what's happened to the guest of the evenin'. They
saw, all right! They must have been suspicious, too; for they were
lookin' anxious, and begun signaling him to break away.

The Baron didn't have no time for watchin' signals just then. He was
busy tryin' to keep his feet on the floor. First I knew there was a
whole gang at the door watchin' 'em, and they was talkin' over makin' a
rush for the Baron and rescuin' him, I guess, when Mallory leans him up
against the wall, hauls out a pad and a fountain pen, and hands the
things to Kazedky. The Baron drapes bis napkin over one arm, stuffs the
piece of roll into his mouth, and scribbles off somethin'.

When he's done that Mallory pockets the pad, leads the Baron back to his
friends, shakes hands with him, motions to me, and pikes for the
elevator. The last glimpse I has of Kazedky, he's bein' pulled into the
private dinin'-room, with that half a roll stickin' out of his face like
a bung in a beer keg.

"Well, Torchy," says Mallory to me, as the car starts down, "I got it!"

"Got what!" says I.

"Why, the contract," says he.

"Chee!" says I. "Is that all? I thought you was pullin' one of his back
teeth."

CHAPTER IX

DOWN THE BUMPS WITH CLIFFY

Say, if you read in the papers to-morrow about how the Chicago Limited
was run on a siding and a riot call wired back to the nearest Chief of
Police, you needn't do any guessin' as to what's happened. It'll be a
cinch that Clifford's gettin' in his fine work; for the last I saw of
him he was headed West, and where he is there's trouble.

But you mustn't tear off the notion that Clifford's a Mr. Lush, that
goes and gets himself all lit up like a birthday cake and then begins to
mix it. That ain't his line. He's one of the camel brand. The nearest he
ever gets to red liquor is when he takes bottled grape juice for a
spring tonic; but for all that he can keep the cops busier'n any thirsty
man I ever saw.

First glimpse I gets of him was when I looks up from the desk and sees
him tryin' to find a break in the brass rail. And say, there wa'n't any
doubt about his havin' come in from beyond where they make up the milk
trains. Not that he wears any R. Glue costume. From the nose pinchers,
white tie, and black cutaway I might have sized him up as a cross
between a travelin' corn doctor and a returned missionary; but the ear
muffs and the umbrella and the black felt lid with the four-inch brim
put him in the tourist class. He was one of your skimpy, loose-jointed
parties, with a turkey neck that had a lump in front and wa'n't on good
terms with the back of his coat collar. Two of his front teeth was set
on a bias, givin' him one of these squirrel mouths that keeps you
thinkin' he's just goin' to bite into an apple.

I watched him a minute or so without sayin' anything, while he was
pawin' around for the gate sort of absent minded, and when I thinks it's
about time to wake him up I sings out:

"Say, Profess, you're on the right side of the fence now; let it go at
that."

"Ah--er--I beg pardon," says he.

"Well," says I, "that's a good start."

"I--er--I beg----" says he.

"You've covered that ground," says I. "Take a new lead."

That seems to rattle him more'n ever. He hangs his umbrella over one
arm, peels off a brown woolen mitt, and fishes a card out of his inside
pocket. "This is the--ah--Corrugated Trust Building, is it not?" says
he.

"It is, yes," says I; "but the place where you cash in your scalper's
book ticket is down on the third floor."

"Oh!" says he. "Thank you very much," and he starts to trot out. He has
his hand on the knob, when a new thought comes to him. He tiptoes back
to the gate, pries off one of the ear muffs, and leans over real
confidential. "I didn't quite understand," says he. "Did you say Cousin
Robert's was the third door?"

"Chee!" says I. "Willie, take off the other one, so you can get a good
healthy circulation through the belfry."

The words seemed to daze him some; but he tumbled to my motions and
unstoppered his south ear.

"Now," says I, "what's this about your Cousin Bob? Where'd you lose
him?"

Watcher think, though? I gets it out of him that he's come all the way
from Bubble Creek, Michigan, and is lookin' for Mr. Robert Ellins. With
that I lets him through, plants him in a chair, and goes in to the boss.

"Say," says I to Mr. Robert, "there's a guy, outside that's just floated
in from the breakfast food belt and is callin' for Cousin Robert. Here's
his card."

"Why, that must be Clifford!" says he.

"Then it's true, is it, the cousin business?" says I.

"Certainly it is, Torchy," says he. "Why not?"

"Oh, nothin'," says I. "I wouldn't have thought it, though."

"It isn't at all necessary," says Mr. Robert. "Bring him in at once."

"I guess I can spare him," says I. Then I goes back and taps Cousin
Clifford on the shoulder. "Cliffy," says I, "you're subpoened. Push
through two doors and then make yourself right to home."

Course anyone's liable to have a freak cousin or so knockin' round in
the background, and I s'pose it was a star play of Mr. Robert's, givin'
the glad hand to this one; but if I'd found Clifford hangin' on my
fam'ly tree I'd have felt like gettin' out the prunin' saw.

Maybe Mr. Robert was a little miffy because I hadn't been a mind reader
and played Clifford for a favorite from the start. Anyway, he jumps
right in to feature him, lugs him off to the club for lunch, and does
the honors joyous, just as though this was something he'd been lookin'
forward to for months.

I was beginnin' to think I'd made a wrong guess on Clifford, and the
awful thought that maybe for once I'd talked too gay was just tricklin'
through my thatch, when we gets our first bulletin. Cliffy was due back
to the office about four-thirty, havin' gone off by his lonesome after
lunch; but at a quarter of five he don't show up. It was near closin'
time when Mr. Robert gets a 'phone call, and by the worried look I knew
something was up.

"Yes," says he, "this is Robert Ellins. Yes, I know such a person.
That's right--Clifford. He's my cousin. No, is that so? Why, there must
be some mistake. Oh, there must be! I'll come up and explain. Yes, I'll
sign the bail bond."

He didn't have a word to say when he turns around and catches me
grinnin'; but grabs his hat and coat and pikes for the green lights.

There wa'n't any call for me to do any rubberin' next day, or ask any
questions. It was all in the mornin' papers: how a batty gent who looked
like a disguised second story worker had collected a crowd and blocked
traffic on Fifth Avenue by standin' on the curb in front of one of the
Vanderbilt houses and drawin' plans of it on a pad.

Course, he got run in as a suspect, and I guess Mr. Robert had his
troubles showin' the desk sergeant that Clifford wa'n't a Western crook
who was layin' pipes for a little jimmy work. Cliffy's architect tale
wouldn't have got him off in a month, and if it hadn't been that Mr.
Robert taps the front of his head they'd had Clifford down to
Mulberry-st. and put his thumb print in the collection.

He was givin' it to 'em straight, though. Architectin' was what Cliffy
was aimin' at. He'd been studying that sort of thing out in Michigan,
and now he was makin' a tour to see how it was done in other places,
meanin' to polish off with a few months abroad. Then, after he'd got
himself well soaked in ideas, maybe he'd go back to Bubble Creek, rent
an office over the bank, and begin drawin' front elevations of iron
foundries and double tenements.

That's what comes of havin' rich aunts and uncles in the fam'ly, and
duckin' real work while you wait for notice from the Surrogate to come
on and take your share. It wa'n't a case of hustle with Clifford. I
suspicioned that his bein' an architect was more or less of a fad; but
he was makin' the most of it, there was no discountin' that. He'd laid
out a week to put in seein' how New York was built, high spots and low,
and he went at it like he was workin' by the piece.

Now, say, there ain't no special harm in goin' around town gawpin' at
lib'ries and office buildin's and churches. 'Most anyone could have done
it without bumpin' into trouble; but not Cliffy. It was wonderful how he
dug up ructions--and him the mildest lookin' four-eyed gent ever let
loose. And green! Say, what sort of a flag station is Bubble Creek,
anyway?

Askin' fool questions was Cliffy's specialty. You see, he'd made out a
list of buildin's he thought he wanted to take a look at; but he hadn't
stopped to put down the street numbers or anything. And when he wants
information does he hunt up a directory or a cop? Oh, no! He holds up
anyone that's handy, from a white wings dodgin' trucks in the middle of
Madison Square, to a Wall Street broker rushin' from 'Change out to a
directors' meetin'. He seems to think anybody he meets knows all about
New York, and has time to take him by the hand and lead him right where
he wants to go, whether it's the new Custom House down town, or Grant's
Tomb up on the drive. Throw downs don't discourage him any, either. Two
minutes after he's been told to go chase himself he'll butt right in
somewhere else and call for directions.

The worst of it was that he couldn't remember what he was told for
more'n three minutes on a stretch. We found out these little tricks of
Clifford's after he'd been makin' the office his headquarters for a
couple of days.

First mornin' we started him out early for the Battery, to size up the
Bowling Green Buildin' and the Aquarium. About noon he limps in with his
hat all dirt and ashes up and down his back. From the description he
gives we figure out that he's been somewhere up on Washington Heights
and has got into an argument with a janitor that didn't like being rung
up from the basement and asked how far it was to Whitehall-st.

Well, we fixes him up, writes out all the partic'lars of his route on a
card, and gives him a fresh send-off. It wa'n't more'n half an hour
afterwards that I was out on an errand, and as I cut through 22d-st.
back of the Flatiron I sees a crowd. Course, I pushes in to find out
what was holdin' up all the carriages and bubbles that has to switch
through there goin' north. Somehow I had a feelin' that it might be
Clifford. And it was!

He was in the middle of the ring, hoppin' around lively and wavin' that
umbrella of his like a sword. The other party was the pilot of a hansom
cab that had climbed down off his perch and was layin' on with his whip.

I hated to disturb that muss; for I had an idea Cliffy was gettin' about
what was comin' to him, and the crowd was enjoyin' it to the limit. But
I see a couple of traffic cops comin' over from Broadway; so I breaks
through, grabs Clifford by the arm, and chases him down the avenue,
breathin' some hard but not much hurt.

"Chee!" says I, "but you're a wonder! Was you tryin' to buy an
eight-mile cab ride for a quarter?"

"Why, no," says he. "I merely stopped the man to ask him where the
nearest subway station was, and before I knew it he became angry. I'm
sure I didn't know----"

"That's the trouble with you, Cliffy," says I, "and if you don't get
over it you'll be hurt bad. Where's that card we made out for you?"

"I--I must have lost that," says he.

"What you need is a guide and an accident policy," says I. "Better let
me tow you back to the office, and you can talk it over with Mr.
Robert."

He was willin'. He'd had enough for one day, anyhow.

By mornin' Mr. Robert has lost some of his joy over Cousin Clifford's
visit. Come to find out, he'd never seen him before, and hadn't heard
much about him, either. "Torchy," says he, "I shall be rather busy
to-day; so I am going to put Cousin Clifford in your care."

"Ah, say!" says I. "Hand me an easier one. I couldn't keep him straight
less'n I had him on a rope and led him around."

"Well, do that, then," says he, "anyway you choose. You may take the day
off, show him the buildings he wants to see, keep him out of trouble,
and don't leave him until you have him safe inside my house to-night.
I'll make it right with you."

"Seein' it's you," says I, "I'll give it a whirl. But if Clifford wants
to travel around town with me he's got to shake the ear pads."

Mr. Robert says he'll give him his instructions, and all that; but when
it came to springin' the programme on Clifford he runs on a snag.
Somewhere back of them squirrel teeth and under the soft hat there was a
streak of mule. Cliffy balks at the whole business. He's a whole lot
obliged, but he really don't care for comp'ny. Goin' around alone and
not havin' his thoughts sidetracked by some one taggin' along is what he
likes better'n anything else. He's always done it in Bubble Creek and
never got into any trouble before--that is, none to speak of. But he'll
promise to cut out janitors and cab drivers.

As for the ear muffs, he couldn't think of partin' with them. For years
he's been puttin' them on the first of December and wearin' 'em until
the last of March, and he'd feel lost without 'em, just the same as he
would without the umbrella. Yes, he knew it wa'n't common; but that
didn't bother him at all.

Right there I gets a new line on Clifford. He's one of these guys that
throws a bluff at bein' modest; but when you scratch him deep you gets
next to the fact that he's dead sure he's a genius and is anxious to
prove it by the way he wears his clothes. There's a lot of that kind
that shows themselves off every night at the fifty-cent table d'hote
places; but I never knew any of 'em ever came in from so far west as
Bubble Creek.

Mr. Robert wa'n't on, though. He still freezes to the notion that
Cousin Clifford's just a well-meanin', corn-fed innocent; so before he
turns him loose again he gives him a lot of good advice about not
gettin' tangled up with strangers. Cliffy smiles kind of condescendin'
and tells Mr. Robert he needn't worry a bit.

With that off he goes; but every time the telephone rings that forenoon
me and Mr. Robert gets nervous. We don't hear a word from him, though,
and by three o'clock we're hopin' for the best.

Then Aunt Julie shows up. She's a large, elegant old girl, all got up in
Persian lamb and a fur hat with seven kinds of sealin' wax fruit on it.
She's just in from Palm Beach, and she's heard that Brother Henry's boy
is here on a visit.

"He was such a cute little dear when he was a baby!" says she.

"He's changed," says Mr. Robert.

"Of course," says Aunt Julie. "I do want to see if he's grown up to look
like Henry, as I said he would, or like his mother. Where is he now,
Robert?"

"Heaven only knows!" says he. "It would suit me best if he was on his
way back to Michigan."

"Why, Robert!" says Aunt Julie. "And Clifford the only cousin you have
in the world!"

"One is quite enough," says he.

That gives her another jolt, and she starts to lay out Mr. Robert good,
for givin' the frosty paw to a relation that had come so far to see him.
"I shall stay right here," says she, "until that poor, neglected young
man returns, and then I shall try to make up for your heartless
treatment."

Aunt Julie didn't have a long wait. She hadn't more'n got herself
settled, when the elevator stops at our floor and there breaks loose all
kinds of a riot in the hall. There was a great jabberin' and foot
scufflin', and I could hear Dennis, that juggles the lever, forkin' out
the assault 'n' batt'ry language in a brogue that sounded like rippin' a
sheet.

"What's up now?" says Mr. Robert, pokin' his head out.

"Two to one that's Clifford!" says I.

There wa'n't any time to get a bet down, though; for just then the door
slams open and we gets a view of things. Oh, it was Cliffy, all right!
He was comin' in backwards, tryin' to wave off the gang that was
follerin' him.

"Go away!" says he, pushin' at the nearest of 'em. "Please go away!"

"Ah, it's you should be goin' away, ye shark-faced baboon, ye!" says
Dennis, hoppin' up and down in the door of the car. "You an' yer Polack
friends may walk down, or jump out the winder; but divvle a ride do yez
get in this illyvator again. Do ye mind that, now?"

You couldn't blame him; for the bunch wa'n't fit for the ash hoist. They
were Zinskis, about twenty of 'em, countin' women and kids. You didn't
have to look at the tin trunks and roped bundles to know that they'd
just finished ten days in the steerage. You could tell that by the
bouquet. They didn't carry their perfume with 'em. It went on ahead, and
they follered, backin' Cliffy clear in until he fetched up against the
gate, and then jammin' in around him close. Chee! but they was a punky
lot! They had jack lantern faces and garlic breaths, and they looked to
know about as much as so many cigar store Injuns.

"Did you have your pick, Cliffy," says I, "or was this a job lot you got
cheap?"

"Clifford," says Mr. Robert, "what in thunder is the meaning of this
performance of yours?"

But Clifford just keeps on tryin' to work his elbows clear and looks
dazed. "I don't know," says Cliffy, "truly I don't, Cousin Robert.
They've been following me for an hour, and I've had an awful time."

"Maybe you've been makin' a noise like a wienerwurst," says I.

About that time Aunt Julie comes paddin' out. "Did I hear some one say
Clifford?" says she.

"You did," says Mr. Robert. "There he is, the one with the ear muffs. I
haven't found out who the others are yet."

"Phe-e-e-ew!" says she, takin' one sniff, and with that she grabs out
her scent bottle and runs back, slammin' the door behind her.

"Cliffy," says I, "you don't seem to be makin' much of a hit with your
Ellis Island bunch."

"What I want to know," says Mr. Robert, "is what this is all about!"

But Clifford didn't have the key. All he knew was that when he started
to leave the subway train they had tagged after, and that since then he
hadn't been able to shake 'em. Once he'd jumped on a Broadway car; but
they'd all piled in too, and the conductor had made him shell out a
nickel for every last one. Another time he'd dodged through one of them
revolvin' doors into a hotel, and four of 'em had got wedged in so tight
it took half a dozen porters to get 'em out; but the house detective had
spotted Clifford for the head of the procession and held him by the
collar until he could chuck him out to join his friends.

"It was simply awful!" says he, throwin' up his hands.

And then I notices the rattan cane. After that it was all clear.
"Where'd you cop the stick, Cliffy?" says I.

"Stick!" says he. "Why, bless me! I must have taken this instead of my
umbrella. It belongs to that gentleman who sat next to me in the subway
train. You see he was leaning back taking a nap in the corner, and I was
trying to talk to him, and when I left I suppose I took his cane by
mistake."

"Well," says I, "the Zinskis goes with the cane."

It's a fact, too. Most all them immigrant runners carries rattans when
they're herdin' gangs of imported pick artists around to the railroad
stations. It's kind of a badge and helps the bunch to keep track of
their leader. Most likely them Zinskis had had their eyes glued to that
cane for hours, knowin' that it was leadin' 'em to a job somewheres, and
they wa'n't goin' to let it get away.

"Gimme it," says I; "I'll show you how it works."

Sure enough, soon's I took it and started for the door the whole push
quits eatin' cheese and bread out of their pockets and falls in right
after me.

"Fine!" says Mr. Robert, grabbin' my hat and chuckin' it after me. "Go
on, Torchy! Keep going!"

"Ah, say!" says I. "I ain't subbin' for Cliffy. This is his gang."

But Mr. Robert only grins and motions me to be on my way. "If you come
back here before to-morrow morning," says he, "I'll discharge you on
the spot."

Now wouldn't that bump you?

"All right," says I: "but this'll cost Cliffy just twenty."

"I'll pay it," says Mr. Robert.

"It's a whizz," says I, wavin' the cane. "Come on, you Sneezowskis! I'll
show you where the one fifty per grows on bushes."

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