Torchy

S >> Sewell Ford >> Torchy

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

What did I do with 'em? Ah, say, it was a cinch! I runs 'em down seven
flights of stairs, marches 'em three blocks up town, and then rushes up
to a big stiff in a green and gold uniform that's hired to stand outside
a flower shop and open carriage doors. He and me had some words a couple
of months ago, because I butted him in the belt when I was in a hurry
once.

"Here," says I, rushin' up and jammin' the cane into his hand, "hold
that till I come back!" and before he has time to pipe off the bunch of
Polackers that's come to a parade rest around us, I makes a dive in
amongst the cars and beats it down Broadway.

Nah, I don't know what becomes of him, or the Zinskis either. All I know
is that I'm twenty to the good, and that Cousin Clifford's been shipped
back to Bubble Creek, glad to get out of New York alive. But, as I says
to Mr. Robert, "What do you look for from a guy that buttons his ears up
in flannel?"

CHAPTER X

BACKING OUT OF A FLUFF RIOT

They will turn up, won't they? Here I was only yesterday noontime
loafin' through the arcade, when who should I get the hail from but
Hunch Leary, with a bookful of rush messages and his cap down over his
ears.

Now I ain't sayin' he's the toughest lookin' A. D. T. that ever sat on a
call bench, for maybe I've seen worse; but with his bent-in nose, and
his pop eyes, and that undershot jaw--well, he ain't one you'd send in
to quiet a cryin' baby. Hunch didn't pose for that picture of the sweet
youth on the blue signs outside the district offices. They don't pick
him out for these theater-escort snaps, either.

Which shows how far you can go on looks, anyway; for, if I was going to
trust my safety-vault key with anyone, it would be Hunch. Not that
they'll ever use him to decorate any stained-glass window; but I never
look for him to land on the rock pile.

Course, I don't see much of Hunch and the rest these days; but it ain't
a case of dodgin' old friends on my part, so me and him hangs up
against a radiator in the main corridor and talks it over. I wants to
know if Stiff Miller is still manager down at No. 11 branch, and who's
wearin' the red stripe yet; while Hunch he puts over a few polite
quizzes as to how I'm gettin' on with the Corrugated people.

We hadn't been gassin' but five minutes or so, and there's ten more due
on the clock before lunch hour is over, when I looks up to see our Mr.
Piddie going by and givin' me the frown. I knew what that meant. It's
another call-down. He has plenty of time to work up his case; for I takes
the limit and don't hang up my hat until the life-insurance chimes has
done their one-o'clock stunt. And I'm hardly settled behind the brass
gate before Piddie is down on me with the old mushy-mouthed reproof.

"One is known," says he, "by the company one keeps."

"I'm no New Theater manager," says I. "What's the answer?"

"I observed you loitering in the lower corridor," says he. "That is
all."

"Oh!" says I. "You seen me conversin' with Mr. Leary, eh?"

"Mr. Leary!" says Piddie, raisin' his eyebrows.

"Well, Hunch, then," says I. "Tryin' to get up a grouch because you
wa'n't introduced? Don't take it hard. He's kind of exclusive, Mr. Leary
is."

Piddie swallows that throat pippin of his two or three times before he
can get a grip on his feelings enough to go on with the lesson of the
day. "I merely wish to remark," says he, "that evil communications
corrupt good manners."

"How about court Judges, then," says I, "and these slum missionaries'?
G'wan, Piddie! Back to the copybook with your mottoes! I'm a mixer, I
am! Would I be chinnin' here with you if I wa'n't?"

He sighs, Piddie does, and struts away to freeze the soul of some new
lady typist by looking over her shoulder. As an act of charity, they
ought to let Piddie fire me about once a month. He'll die of grief if he
don't get the chance sometime.

And blamed if he don't come near gettin' his heart's desire before the
day was over!

It all begins about three o'clock, when Piddie comes turkeyin' out of
the telephone booth all swelled up with importance and signals me to
come on the carpet.

"Torchy," says he, "I presume you know where the Metropolitan Building
is?"

"They ain't moved it since lunchtime, have they?" says I.

"That will do!" says he. "Now listen very carefully."

You'd thought from his preamble that I was going to be sent up to
regulate the clock, or see if the tower was still plumb; but all it
simmers down to is that I'm to take a leather document case, hunt up Mr.
Ellins, who's attendin' a directors' meetin' over there, and deliver
some papers that he's forgot to have his private secretary lug along.

"And kindly refrain," he tacks on at the last, "from stopping to talk
with any suspicious characters on the way."

"Say, Piddie," says I, "if I was you I'd have that printed on a card.
Some day you're going to forget to rub that in."

Well, I hustles across the square, locates Old Hickory, and delivers the
goods without droppin' 'em down a manhole or doin' any of the other
awful things that Piddie would have warned me against if he'd had more
time. I tucks the empty case under my arm and was for makin' a record
trip back, just to surprise Piddie; but while I'm waitin' for that
flossy lever juggler on the express elevator to answer my red-light
signal I hears this riot break loose on the floor below.

And say, I wa'n't missin' any lively disturbance like that; for it
listens like a mob scene from one of them French guillotine plays.
Mostly it's female voices that floats up, and they was all tuned to the
saw-filin' pitch. A pasty-faced young gent wearin' a green eye-shade and
an office coat comes beatin' it up the marble steps, and I fires a
question at him on the fly.

"Is it a gen'ral rough-house number," says I, "or have the suffragettes
broke loose again?"

"You're welcome to find out for yourself," he pants, dashin' up another
flight.

"Thanks for the invite," says I. "Guess I will."

And, say, talk about your mass plays around a shirtwaist bargain
counter! Why, the corridor was full of 'em, all tryin' to rush the door
of 1,323 at once. For a guess I should say that half the manicure
artists, lady demonstrators, and cloak models between 14th and 34th was
on the spot. Oh, they was a swell bunch, with more fur turbans and Marie
Antoinette ringlets on view than you could see collected anywhere
outside of Murray's!

They was sayin' things, too! I couldn't catch anything but odd words
here and there; but the gen'ral drift of their remarks seems to be that
someone has welshed on 'em. First off I thought it must be one of these
skirt bucket-shops that has been closed out by the renting agent; but
then I gets a look at the sign on the door and sees that it's the
Peruvian Investment Company, which sounds like one of them common twenty
per cent. a month games.

And it's a case of lockout, with the lady customers ragin' on the
outside, and nobody knows what's takin' place behind the ground glass.
That wa'n't excitin' enough to lure me from a steady job for long,
though, unless some one was goin' to do more'n look desp'rate and talk
spiteful.

"Ah, why not smash something?" I sings out. "Didn't any lady think to
bring a brick in her vanity bag?"

A couple turns around and glares at me; but it encourages one to begin
hammerin' on the glass with her near-gold purse, and just as I'm about
to leave this turns the trick. The door swings open all of a sudden, and
there stands a tall, well-built gent, with a green felt hat pushed back
on his head, a five-inch cigar juttin' out of one corner of his mouth,
and his thumbs stuck in the pockets of a sporty striped vest. On account
of the curly brown Vandyke, he's kind of a foreign-lookin' party; but
someway them smilin', wide-open eyes of his has a sort of familiar look.

For a high pressure storm center he seems mighty placid. As he throws
open the door he steps back into the middle of the room, rests one elbow
against the rail of a wired-in cashier's coop, and removes the cheroot
so he can spring a comfortin' smile on the crowd. It's a brainy play.
The rush line stops like it has gone up against a bridge pier, and then
spreads out in a half-circle.

"Well, ladies," says he, "what can we do for you to-day?"

Do I know who it is then? Well, do I! Maybe it has been months since
I've heard the voice, and maybe he does wear a set of face herbage that
I'd never seen before; but I ain't one to forget the only real A-1
classy boss I ever had; not that soon, anyway. It's Mr. Belmont Pepper,
as sure as I've got a Titian thatch on my skull!

Do I linger? That's what! Why, I've been waitin' for him to show up
again like a hired girl waits for Thursday afternoon. It's Mr. Pepper,
all right; but it looks like he's been let in bad, for after one or two
gasps in chorus that bunch of lady grouches gets their second wind and
closes in on him with a whoop.

"Where's my dividends? I want to draw out my money! Say, you give me
back my eighteen dollars, or I'll----You'll try your bunko game on me,
will you? Hey! I've been waiting since noon to catch you, you----"

My! but they did have their hammers out! They called him everything that
a lady could, and a few names that wa'n't so ladylike as they might
have been. They shook things at him, and promised to do him all sorts of
damage, from bringin' lawsuits to scratchin' his eyes out.

Mr. Pepper, though, he goes on smokin' and smilin', now and then
throwin' in a shoulder shrug just to hint that there wa'n't any use in
his tryin' to get in a word until they was all through. He almost acts
like he enjoyed being mobbed; but of course he knew better'n to choke
off a lot of women before they'd had their say out. He just let 'em jaw
along and get it out of their systems. Fin'lly he raises his hand, takes
off the green lid, and bows graceful.

"Ladies," says he, "I fully sympathize with your impatience--fully."

"You look it, I don't think!" sings out a big blonde, shakin' her willow
plumes energetic.

Mr. Pepper throws her a smile and spiels ahead. "You will be pleased to
hear, however," says he, "that the board of directors, on the strength
of cabled advices from our general manager in Peru, has just voted an
extra dividend of ten per cent."

"When do we get it? Show us some money!" howls the kickers.

"I have been requested to announce," goes on Mr. Pepper, "that payments
from this office will be resumed promptly at noon--on the first day of
next month."

Does that satisfy 'em? Not so you'd notice it. A bigger squawk than ever
goes up, and the jam around Mr. Pepper begins to look like rush hour at
the Hudson Terminal. They starts clawin' at his elbows, and grabbin' his
coat, and when I notices one wild-eyed brunette reachin' for a hatpin I
knew it was a case of me to the rescue or sendin' in an ambulance call.

Not that I had any notion what ought to be done in a case like this. I
couldn't throw him a rope or shove out a plank; I ain't any expert woman
trainer, either; but can I stand there with my mouth open and see an old
friend get the hooks thrown into him by a class in hysterics? Not when
the hookee happens to be one that once set me up as a stockholder in a
gold mine. So I lets flicker with the first fool idea that comes into my
head.

"Gangway!" I shouts out, wedgin' my way in among 'em and usin' my
elbows. "Gangway for the bank messenger! Ah, don't shove, girls; he
ain't the only man left in New York. One side for the real money
bringer! One side now!" And by holdin' the leather case high up where
they could all see it, and hittin' the line like Coy does when it's
three downs with ten yards to go, I manages to get through without
losin' many coat buttons.

"Here you are, sir," says I, shovin' the case out to Mr. Pepper and
givin' him the knowin' look. "City National. Cashier wants a receipt."

Does he need a diagram and a card of instructions? Trust Belmont Pepper!
"Ah, this way," says he. "Pardon me a moment, ladies, only a moment.
This way, young man." And almost before they know what has happened him
and me are behind the partition with the gate locked.

"Let's see," says he, lookin' me over kind of puzzled,
"it's--er--Torchy, isn't it?"

"There's the proof," says I, liftin' the cover off my danger signal.

"I might have known," says he, "that no one else could have put up so
good a bluff on the spur of the----"

"Now that's all right, Mr. Pepper," says I; "but the bluff won't hold
'em long. What you want to do is get busy and make a noise like
hundred-dollar bills. I don't know what the trouble is; but it looks
like the genuine goods to me."

"Diagnosis correct," says he. "I'm boxed. Now if they were only men, I
could----"

"Oh, sure!" says I. "But a bunch of nutty fluffs is diff'rent. They
never know what they want or why they want it. Say, ain't you got
another exit?"

Mr. Pepper shakes his head. "No, son," says he; "but don't you worry
about me. Your strategy thus far has been excellent; but I don't want
you to get mixed up in this mess. Skip, Torchy, while the skipping is
easy."

"Mr. Pepper," says I, "do I look like a quitter? I ain't forgot what you
did about givin' me them Glory Be stocks, either, and I'm goin' to hang
around here until this little private cyclone of yours blows over."

Mr. Pepper he looks at me a minute in that calm way of his, and then he
shrugs his shoulders. "All right," says he.

Then we listens to the buzz outside. Some was explainin' to others how a
bushel of money had just come in from the City National Bank, and some
was insistin' that it was just a north-pole fake. It's a free-for-all
debate with all rules in the discard. Then we hears one voice that's
louder than the others calling out for a committee.

"We must organize!" she says. "Let's organize for action!"

"Ah!" observes Mr. Pepper. "Now for feminine tactics! That looks
better."

A couple of minutes more and they've concluded to adjourn to the
corridor. When they're all out and I can hear 'em down at the further
end, I gives him the tip.

"Now's your chance!" says I. "Up one flight and you can get an express
elevator. I'll show you."

Mr. Pepper don't like the idea, though, of doin' the gumshoe sneak. He
hates to run away from any kind of a fight, specially a lot of women. He
don't run, either; but after awhile he consents to walk out, and we
strolls towards the steps dignified and easy.

It looked like a clean get-away for a minute, too; but I hadn't counted
on their leavin' a picket to watch the elevator. She sees us and gives
the alarm; so by the time we're up to the next floor the whole mob is
after us, lettin' out the war cries as if it was a case of kidnappin'.

They struck the upper corridor just as I've got my finger on the button,
and in the front ranks they're pushin' along the gray uniformed special
cop that they've rung up from the first floor. Also who should step out
into the midst of the riot but Old Hickory Ellins, just leavin' the
directors' meeting. He goes purple-faced and bug-eyed, but before I can
dodge out of sight of course he spots me. And that's the very minute
when a couple of lady avengers points me and Mr. Pepper out to the cop
and the pinch business is about to begin.

"Why, what's all the row about, Torchy?" says he. "And who is that with
you?" He gets answers from the anvil chorus.

"That's the swindler!" they shouts. "That's Prentice Owens! He's the one
that took our money, and the boy is one of the gang! Nab 'em, Mr.
Officer, please nab 'em!"

"G'wan, you're a lot of flossy kikes!" I throws back at 'em.

"Torchy," says Mr. Ellins, "have you been up to any swindling game?"

"Honest, I ain't, Mr. Ellins," says I.

"I am inclined to believe that," says he; "but what about the other
person? Is he a friend of yours?"

"Sure," says I. "And he's on the level too."

"He's Prentice Owens, is he?" says he.

"Nah," says I. "He's Mr. Belmont Pepper, he is, president of the Glory
Be Mining Company. Why, I used to work for him! That aggregation of
female dopes is full of prunes. Mr. Pepper's no crook."

"Hum!" says Old Hickory, rubbin' his chin. "A case of mistaken identity,
eh? Officer, you know me, I suppose?"

"Yes, Mr. Ellins," says the special, jerkin' off his cap, "oh, yes,
sir."

"Then drive these deluded women downstairs and tell them their mistake,"
says Old Hickory. "Come, Mr. Pepper. Come, Torchy. In with you!"

And inside of two shakes we're shootin' down a one hundred and fifty
foot shaft with no stops until the ground floor. Not until we gets
outside and Mr. Ellins jumps into his cab does Mr. Pepper say a word.

"Torchy," says he, "you're the real thing in the friendship line. I will
admit that appearances are somewhat against me, but----"

"Ah, say!" I breaks in. "Don't I know you, Mr. Pepper? Do I have to see
any books to know that you're playin' a straight game? It was a matter
of needin' a little time, wa'n't it, and bein' rushed off your feet when
you didn't expect the move? I could guess that much from the start. All
I want to ask is, how's the mine gettin' on, the Glory Be, you know?"

He looks at his feet for a second or so and kind of flushes. Then he
straightens up, looks me level between the eyes, and reaches out a hand
to give me the brotherhood grip.

"Torchy," says he, "there is a mine, and the last I heard it was still
there. Anyway, I'm dropping the investment business right here, and I'm
going out to see what our property looks like. I'll let you know." With
that he whirls and dashes off across the avenue.

"How is it," says Piddie when I gets back, "that it takes you an hour
and a quarter to go four blocks?"

"Hookworms, Piddie," says I, "hookworms. I had a sudden attack."

CHAPTER XI

RUNG IN WITH THE GOLD SPOONERS

On the level now, what's a he Cinderella? And if your boss called you a
name like that, would you resign, or throw out your chest and strike for
a raise? But, then, maybe it was only some of Mr. Robert's fancy
joshin'. Anyway, I'd stand in line waitin' for a thing like that to
happen again.

The way it begun was when I runs across this new girl in the filin' room
and finds her snifflin' over one of the index cases. She's bitin' her
lips to keep from doing it and she's red way up behind her ears; so I
knows she's more mad than sorry. I could guess what's happened; for I'd
just seen Piddie come out of there looking satisfied and important.

"Hello, sis!" says I. "Weepin' over your job so soon?"

"Shut up!" says she.

"Why, how pettish!" says I. "What was Piddie callin' you down for?"

"What's that to you?" says she. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Me?" says I. "Why, I'm the Corrugated's gen'ral grouch dispeller. I'm
the official little ray of sunshine. See?" and I bobs my head so she can
get a good view of my red thatch.

"Huh!" says she; but she can't help lettin' out a grin, so I sees the
cure has begun.

"Don't you mind Piddie," says I. "He don't dare tie the can to you
without reportin' higher up. He likes to make a noise like a watchdog,
that's all. Next time you give him the merry chuckle."

And, honest, I'd done the same if she'd been wall-eyed and
toggle-jointed, just for the sake of blockin' off his little game.

It wa'n't until a couple of days later, when she shoots over a casual
flashlight look as I'm strollin' past, that I takes any partic'lar
notice of what a Daisy Maizie she is. There's more or less class to her
lines, all right, not to mention a pair of rollin' brown eyes. Course, I
sends back the roguish wink, and by the end of the week we was callin'
each other by our pet names.

Not that I'm entered reg'lar as a Percy boy, or that I takes this so
serious as to miss any meals; but you know how it is. And what if she
was a few years older? She seems to like it when I sing out, "Oh, you
Theresa!" at her, and once she mussed up my hair when there wa'n't
anybody lookin'. In fact, I was almost to the point of thinkin' that I'd
been picked as somebody's honey boy when this Izzy Budheimer shows up as
a late entry.

Izzy, he's a third assistant in the stock department, and on twelve a
week he sports one of those striped green overcoats and a plush hat with
the bow behind. Maybe he wouldn't be listed as a home destroyer; but he
has a flossy way with him and he goes around a lot. About the second
week I sees him and the new girl gettin' chummier and chummier, and,
while she still has a jolly for me now and then, I knows I'm only a side
issue. That's what hurt most. So what fool play must I make but go and
plunge on a sixty-cent box of mixed choc'lates for her!

As luck would have it, Mr. Robert spots me comin' out of the 23d-st.
candy shop with the package under my arm. You wouldn't think he'd notice
a little clew like that, or pick me up on it; but he does.

"How now, Torchy?" says he. "Sweets to the sweet, eh?"

"Uh-huh," says I, and I guess I colors up some.

"What is the fair one's name?" says he.

"Tessie," says I.

"Ah!" says he. "Thus were they ever named: Tessie, Juliet, and Helen of
Troy. They're all one. My envious sympathy, Torchy, and may the gods be
kind!"

Which is only the brand of hot air Mr. Robert blows off whenever he has
a good lunch under his vest and nothin' heavy on his mind. It don't mean
anything at all.

"Troy!" says I. "Can it! This ain't for no up-State laundry hand. She
comes from Eighth-ave."

Well, I stows the box away until closin' time, and then waits around the
upper corridor for Tessie to show up. Izzy, he spots me and proceeds to
improve the time by givin' me an earache about what an important party
he is, how he expects to be jumped a notch soon, and about how much he
makes nights on the outside, followin' up some checkroom snap or other.

"That's fine!" says I. "But won't you be late gettin' over to
Grand-st.?"

Izzy was still explainin' how long it was since his folks moved to the
West Side, and what swell things they had in the parlor, when Tessie
floats out with her new spring lid and princess walkin' suit on. I'm
just shovin' out the peace offerin' and gettin' ready to hand over my
smoothest josh, when she brushes past like I was part of the wall
decoration, squeals, "Oh, Mr. Budheimer!" and begins showin' Izzy some
tickets for the grand annual benefit ball of the Shirtwaist Makers'
Union, and tellin' him how she was sellin' 'em for her sister, and what
a grand time it was goin' to be.

"How much?" says Izzy, tryin' hard to choke it back, but losin' the
struggle.

"Seventy-five for a double ticket," says Tessie. "That's the kind you
want."

"Maybe I would yet, if I could get a partner," says he.

"Ain't that an awful sad case?" says Tessie. "Nobody's teased me very
hard, either."

"You'll go with me, yes?" says Izzy.

"It's awful sudden," says she; "but a chance is a chance. Don't send a
cab; the folks in the block might think I was putting on."

And me? Why, I don't show on the chart at all! Right under my nose she
does it, and don't even give me a sideways glance.

"Pooh!" says I. "Pooh, pooh!"

"What a cute little fellah!" says Tessie to him as they crowds into the
elevator with the rest of the push.

"Say," says I, making a jump for the grating, "you don't need to----"

"Next car!" sings out the Johnny Flip, slammin' the door. Now wa'n't
that rubbin' it in?

"Coises!" says I. "Deep coises!" and walks down eleven flights with a
temperature that would have got me condemned by any boiler inspector in
the business. The candy? That goes to one of the pie-faced maids where I
lives.

The nerve of that Izzy, though! In the mornin' he comes around just like
nothin' had happened and wants to know if I'll sub. for him on his
evenin' job the night he goes to the ball. To show I don't carry any
grouch, I says I will; but he offers only half-pay and makes me agree to
split the tips with him.

"I couldn't afford it, at that," says he, "only this is a kid session
and the graft will be light."

It's this checkroom work of his, you know, at one of them swell
Fifth-ave. joints where they have an extra night force on call for
coming-out parties and dinner dances and the like. So, while him and
Tessie is enjoyin' themselves with the lady shirtwaist makers, I'm
standin' behind the counter wearin' a braided jacket, givin' out check
coupons, and stowin' away hats and top-coats for Master Reginald and
other buddin' sports of the younger set. Seems this is the final blowout
of Miss Somebody's afternoon dancin' class, and no one was allowed
inside unless Father had his name printed in bright red ink in the
social register.

A hot lot of young gold spooners they was too; some of 'em not as old as
me by a couple of years, and swellin' around in dinky Tuxes and white
kids. One of 'em even hands me in a silver-headed cane.

"Careful of that stick, my man," says he.

"Oh, sure!" says I. "Puppah'd be wild if anything happened to it,
wouldn't he?"

And you should have heard the talk they had as they loafs around the
cloakroom between the numbers,--all about the awful things they did at
prep school, how they bunked the masters, and smuggled brandied peaches
up to their rooms, and rough-housed durin' mornin' prayers. Almost made
your blood run cold--not.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15