Torchy As A Pa

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I wasn't lookin' to get his verdict at all, but later on, as I'm makin'
myself useful at the reception, I runs across him just as he's slippin'
away.

"I say, young man," says he, grabbin' me by the elbow. "Wasn't I right
about Louise?"

"You had the dope," says I. "Some queen, even if she is near the forty
mark."

"And only imagine," he adds, "within a year or so she may be a
grandmother!"

"That don't count these days," says I. "It's gettin' so you can hardly
tell the grandmothers from the vamps."

And when I said that I expect I unloaded my whole stock of wisdom about
women.

CHAPTER XII

WHEN THE CURB GOT GYPPED

It was what you might call a session of the big four. Anyway, that's the
way I'd put it; for besides Old Hickory, planted solid in his mahogany
swing chair with his face lookin' more'n ever like a two-tone cut of the
Rock of Gibraltar, there was Mr. Robert, and Piddie and me. Some
aggregation, I'll say. And it didn't need any jiggly message from the
ouija board to tell that something important in the affairs of the
Corrugated Trust might happen within the next few minutes. You could
almost feel it in the air. Piddie did. You could see that by the nervous
way he was twitchin' his lips.

Course it was natural the big boss should turn first to me. "Torchy," he
growls, "shut that door."

And as I steps around to close the only exit from the private office I
could watch Piddie's face turn the color of a piece of cheese. Mr.
Robert looks kind of serious, too.

"Gentlemen," goes on Old Hickory, tossin' the last three inches of a
double Corona reckless into a copper bowl, "there's a leak somewhere in
this office."

That gets a muffled gasp out of Piddie which puts him under the
spotlight at once, and when he finds we're all lookin' at him he goes
through all the motions of a cabaret patron tryin' to sneak past one of
Mr. Palmer's agents with something on the hip. If he'd been caught in
the act of borin' into the bond safe he couldn't have looked any
guiltier.

"I--er--I assure you, Mr. Ellins," he begins spluttery, "that
I--ah--I----"

"Bah!" snorts Old Hickory impatient. "Who is implying that you do? If
you were under suspicion in the least you wouldn't have been called in
here, Mr. Piddie. So your panic is quite unnecessary."

"Of course," puts in Mr. Robert. "Don't be absurd, Piddie. Anything new
this morning, Governor?"

"Rather," says Old Hickory, pointin' to a Wall Street daily that has
broke loose on its front page with a three-column headline. "See what
the Curb crowd did to G. L. T. common yesterday? Traded nearly one
hundred thousand shares and hammered the opening quotations for a
twenty-point loss. All on a rumor of a passed dividend. Well, you know
that at three o'clock the day before we tabled a motion to pass that
dividend and that an hour later, with a full board present, we decided
to pay the regular four per cent semi-annual. But the announcement was
not to be made until next Monday. Yet during that hour someone from
this office must have carried out news of that first motion. True, it
was a false tip; but I propose, gentlemen, to find out where that leak
came from."

There's only one bet I'd be willin' to make on a proposition of that
kind. If Old Hickory had set himself to trail down anything he'd do it.
And we'd have to help.

Course, this Great Lakes Transportation is only one of our side lines
that we carry on a separate set of books just to please the Attorney
General. And compared to other submerged subsidiaries, as Mr. Robert
calls 'em, it don't amount to much. But why its outstanding stock should
be booted around Broad Street was an interestin' question. Also who the
party was that was handin' out advance dope on such confidential details
as board meetin' motions--Well, that was more so. Next time it might be
a tip on something important. Mr. Robert suggests this.

"There is to be no next time," says Old Hickory, settin' his jaw.

So we starts the drag-net. First we went over the directors who had been
present. Only five, includin' Old Hickory and Mr. Robert. And of the
other three there was two that it would have been foolish to ask.
Close-mouthed as sea clams after being shipped to Kansas City. The third
was Oggie Kendall, a club friend of Mr. Robert's, who'd been dragged
down from luncheon to make up a quorum.

"Oggie might have chattered something through sheer carelessness," says
Mr. Robert. "I'll see if I can get him on the 'phone."

He could. But it takes Mr. Robert nearly five minutes to explain to
Oggie what he's being queried about. Finally he gives it up.

"Oh, never mind," says he, hangin' up. Then, turnin' to us, he shrugs
his shoulders. "It wasn't Oggie. Why, he doesn't even know which board
he was acting on, and says he doesn't remember what we were talking
about. Thought it was some sort of committee meeting."

"Then that eliminates all but some member of the office staff," says Old
Hickory. "Torchy, you acted as secretary. Do you remember that anyone
came into the directors' room during our session?"

"Not a soul," says I.

"Except the boy Vincent," suggests Piddie.

"Ah, he wasn't in," says I. "Only came to the door with some telegrams;
I took 'em myself."

"But was not a letter sent to our Western manager," Piddie goes on,
"hinting that the G. L. T. dividend might be passed, and doesn't the boy
have access to the private letter book?"

"Carried it from my desk to the safe, that's all," says I.

"Still," insists Piddie, "that would give him time enough to look."

"Oh, sure!" says I. "And since he's been here he's had a chance to
snitch, off a barrel full of securities, or drop bombs down the elevator
well; but somehow he hasn't."

"Well, we might as well have him in," says Old Hickory, pushin' the
buzzer.

Seemed kind of silly to me, givin' fair-haired Vincent the third degree
on sketchy hunch like that. Vincent! Why, he's been with the Corrugated
four or five years, ever since they took me off the gate. And when he
went on the job he was about the most innocent-eyed office boy, I
expect, that you could find along Broadway. Reg'lar mommer's boy. Was
just that, in fact. Used to tell me how worried his mother was for fear
he'd get to smokin' cigarettes, or shootin' craps, or indulgin' in other
big-town vices. Havin' seen mother, I could well believe it. Nice,
refined old girl, still wearin' a widow's bonnet. Shows up occasionally
on a half-holiday and lets Vincent take her to the Metropolitan Museum,
or to a concert.

Course, Vincent hadn't stayed as green as when he first came. Couldn't.
For it's more or less of a liberal education, being on the gate in the
Corrugated General Offices, as I used to tell him. You simply gotta get
wise to things or you don't last. And Vincent has wised up. Oh, yes.

Why, here only this last week, for instance, he makes a few plays that I
couldn't have done any better myself. One was when I turns over to him
the job of gettin' Pullman reservations on the Florida Limited for
Freddie, the chump brother-in-law of Mr. Robert. Marjorie--that's the
sister--had complained how all she could get was uppers, although they'd
had an application in for six weeks. And as she and Freddie was taking
both youngsters and two maids along they were on the point of givin' up
the trip.

"Bah!" says Mr. Robert. "Freddie doesn't know how to do it, that's all.
We'll get your reservations for you."

So he passes it on to me, and as I'm too busy just then to monkey with
Pullman agents I shoots it on to Vincent. And inside of an hour he's
back with a drawin' room and a section.

"Have to buy somebody; eh, Vincent?" I asks.

"Oh, yes, sir," says he cheerful.

"Just how did you work it?" says I.

"Well," says Vincent, "there was the usual line, of course. And the
agent told three people ahead of me the same thing. 'Only uppers on the
Limited.' So when it came my turn I simply shoved a five through the
grill work and remarked casual: 'I believe you are holding a
drawing-room and a section for me, aren't you?' 'Why, yes,' says he.
'You're just in time, too.' And a couple of years ago he would have done
it for a dollar. Not now, though. It takes a five to pull a drawing-room
these days."

"A swell bunch of grafters Uncle Sam turned back when he let go of the
roads, eh?" says I.

"It's the same in the freight department," says Vincent. "You know that
carload of mill machinery that had been missing for so long? Well, last
week Mr. Robert sent me to the terminal offices for a report on their
tracer. I told him to let me try a ten on some assistant general freight
agent. It worked. He went right out with a switch engine and cut that
car out of the middle of a half-mile long train on a siding, and before
midnight it was being loaded on the steamer."

Also it was Vincent who did the rescue act when we was entertainin' that
bunch of government inspectors who come around once a year to see that
we ain't carryin' any wildcat stocks on our securities list, or haven't
scuttled our sinking fund, or anything like that. Course, our books are
always in such shape that they're welcome to paw 'em over all they like.
That's easy enough. But, still, there's no sense in lettin' 'em nose
around too free. Might dig up something they could ask awkward questions
about. So Old Hickory sees to it that them inspectors has a good time,
which means a suite of rooms at the Plutoria for a week, with dinners
and theatre parties every night. And now with this Volstead act being
pushed so hard it's kind of inconvenient gettin' a crowd of men into the
right frame of mind. Has to be done though, no matter what may have
happened to the constitution.

But this time it seems someone tip at the Ellins home had forgot to
transfer part of the private cellar stock down to the hotel and when Old
Hickory calls up here we has to chase Vincent out there and have him
load two heavy suitcases into a taxi and see that the same are delivered
without being touched by any bellhops or porters. Knew what he was
carryin', Vincent did, and the chance he was taking; but he put over the
act off hand, as if he was cartin' in a case of malted milk to a
foundling hospital. They do say it was some party Old Hickory gave 'em.

I expect if a lot of folks out in the church sociable belt knew of that
they'd put up a big howl. But what do they think? As I was tellin'
Vincent: "You can't run big business on grape juice." That is, not our
end of it. Oh, it's all right to keep the men in the plants down to one
and a half per cent stuff. Good for 'em. We got the statistics to prove
it. But when it comes to workin' up friendly relations with federal
agents you gotta uncork something with a kick to it. Uh-huh. What would
them Rubes have us do--say it with flowers? Or pass around silk socks,
or scented toilet soap?

And Vincent, for all his innocent big eyes and parlor manners, has come
to know the Corrugated way of doing things. Like a book. Yet when he
walks in there on the carpet in front of Old Hickory and the
cross-questionin' starts he answers up as straight and free as if he
was being asked to name the subway stations between Wall Street and the
Grand Central. You wouldn't think he'd ever gypped anybody in all his
young career.

Oh, yes, he'd known about the G. L. T. board meetin'. Surely. He'd been
sent up to Mr. Robert's club with the message for Oggie Kendall to come
down and do his director stunt. The private letter book? Yes, he
remembered putting that away in the safe. Had he taken a look at it? Why
should he? Vincent seems kind of hurt that anyone should suggest such a
thing. He stares at Old Hickory surprised and pained. Well, then, did he
happen to have any outside friends connected with the Curb; anybody that
he'd be apt to let slip little things about Corrugated affairs to?

"I should hope, sir, that if I did have such friends I would know enough
to keep business secrets to myself," says Vincent, his lips quiverin'
indignant.

"Yes, yes, to be sure," says Old Hickory, "but----"

Honest, he was almost on the point of apologizin' to Vincent when there
comes this knock on the private office door and I'm signalled to see who
it is. I finds one of the youths from the filin' room who's subbin' in
on the gate for Vincent. He grins and whispers the message and I
tells-him to stay there a minute.

"It's a lady to see you, Mr. Ellins," says I. "Mrs. Jerome St Claire."

"Eh?" grunts Old Hickory. "Mrs. St. Claire? Who the syncopated Sissyphus
is she?"

"Vincent's mother, sir," says I.

This time he lets out a snort like a freight startin' up a grade. "Well,
what does she want with----?" Here he breaks off and fixes them chilled
steel eyes of his on Vincent.

No wonder. The pink flush has faded out of Vincent's fair young cheeks,
his big blue eyes are rolled anxious at the door, and he seems to be
tryin' to swallow something like a hard-boiled egg.

"Your mother, eh?" says Old Hickory. "Perhaps we'd better have her in."

"Oh, no, sir! Please. I--I'd rather see her first," says Vincent choky.

"Would you?" says Old Hickory. "Sorry, son, but as I understand it she
has called to see me. Torchy, show the lady in."

I hated to do it, but there was no duckin'. Such a nice, modest little
old girl, too. She has the same innocent blue eyes as Vincent, traces of
the same pink flush in her cheeks, and her hair is frosted up genteel
and artistic.

She don't make any false motions, either. After one glance around the
group she picks out Old Hickory, makes straight for him, and grabs one
of his big paws in both hands.

"Mr. Ellins, is it not?" says she. "Please forgive my coming in like
this, but I did want to tell you how grateful I am for all that you
have done for dear Vincent and me. It was so generous and kind of you?"

"Ye-e-es?" says Old Hickory, sort of draggy and encouragin'.

"You see," she goes on, "I had been so worried over that dreadful
mortgage on our little home, and when Vincent came home last night with
that wonderful check and told me how you had helped him invest his
savings so wisely it seemed perfectly miraculous. Just think! Twelve
hundred dollars! Exactly what we needed to free our home from debt. I
know Vincent has told you how happy you have made us both, but I simply
could not resist adding my own poor words of gratitude."

She sure was a weak describer. Poor words! If she hadn't said a whole
mouthful then my ears are no good. Less'n a minute and a half by the
clock she'd been in there, but she certainly had decanted the beans. She
had me tinted up like a display of Soviet neckwear, Piddie gawpin' at
her with his face ajar, and Vincent diggin' his toes into the rug. Lucky
she had her eyes fixed on Old Hickory, whose hand-hewn face reveals just
as much emotion as if he was bettin' the limit on a four-card flush.

"It is always a great pleasure, madam, to be able to do things so
opportunely," says he; "and, I may add, unconsciously."

"But you cannot know," she rushes on, "how proud you have made me of my
dear boy." With that she turns to Vincent and kisses him impetuous. "He
does give promise of being a brilliant business man, doesn't he?" she
demands.

"Yes, madam," says Old Hickory, indulgin' in one of them grim smiles of
his, "I rather think he does."

"Ah-h-h!" says she. Another quick hug for Vincent, a happy smile tossed
at Old Hickory, and she has tripped out.

For a minute or so all you could hear in the private office was Piddie's
heart beatin' on his ribs, or maybe it was his knees knockin' together.
He hasn't the temperament to sit in on deep emotional scenes, Piddie. As
for Old Hickory, he clips the end off a six-inch brunette cigar, lights
up careful, and then turns slow to Vincent.

"Well, young man," says he, "so you did know about that motion to pass
the dividend, after all, eh!"

Vincent nods, his head still down.

"Took a look at the letter book, did you!" asks Old Hickory.

Another weak nod.

"And 'phoned a code message to someone in Broad Street, I suppose?"
suggests Old Hickory.

"No, sir," says Vincent. "He--he was waiting in the Arcade. I slipped
out and handed him a copy of the motion--as carried. But not until after
the full board had reversed it."

"Oh!" says Old Hickory. "Gave your friend the double cross, as I believe
you would state it?"

"He wasn't a friend," protests Vincent. "It was Izzy Goldheimer, who
used to work in the bond room before I came. He's with a Curb firm now
and has been trying for months to work me for tips on Corrugated
holdings. Promised me a percentage. But he was a welcher, and I knew it.
So when I did give him a tip it--it was that kind."

"Hm-m-m!" says Old Hickory, wrinklin' his bushy eyebrows. "Still, I fail
to see just where you would have time to take advantage of such
conditions."

"I had put up my margins on G. L. T. the day before," explains Vincent.
"Taking the short end, sir. If the dividend had gone through at first I
would have 'phoned in to change my trade to a buying order before Izzy
could get down with the news. As it didn't, I let it stand. Of course, I
knew the market would break next morning and I closed out the deal for a
15-point gain."

"Fairly clever manipulation," comments Old Hickory. "Then you cleared
about----"

"Fifteen hundred," says Vincent. "I could have made more by pyramiding,
but I thought it best to pull out while I was sure."

"What every plunger knows--but forgets," says Old Hickory. "And you
still have a capital of three hundred for future operations, eh?"

"I'm through, sir," says Vincent. '"I--I don't like lying to mother.
Besides after next Monday I don't think Izzy will bother me for any more
tips. I--I suppose I'm fired, sir?"

"Eh?" says Old Hickory, scowlin' at him fierce. "Fired? No. Boys who
have a dislike for lying to mother are too scarce. Besides, anyone who
can beat a curb broker at his own game ought to be valuable to the
Corrugated some day. Mr. Piddie, see that this young man is promoted as
soon as there's an opening. And--er--I believe that is all, gentlemen."

As me and Piddie trickle out into the general offices Piddie whispers
awed: "Wonderful man, Mr. Ellins! Wonderful!"

"How clever of you to find it out, Piddie," says I. "Did you get the
hunch from Vincent's mother?"

CHAPTER XIII

THE MANTLE OF SANDY THE GREAT

"Vincent," says I, as I blows in through the brass gate from lunch,
"who's the poddy old party you got parked on the bench out in the
anteroom?"

"He's waiting to see Mr. Ellins," says Vincent. "This is his third try.
Looks to me like some up-state stockholder who wants to know when
Corrugated common will strike 110."

"Well, that wouldn't be my guess exactly," says I. "What's the name?"

"Dowd," says Vincent, reachin' for a card. "Matthew K"

"Eh," says I. "Mesaba Matt. Dowd? Say, son, your guesser is way out of
gear. You ought to get better posted on the Order of Who-Who's."

"I'm sorry," says Vincent, pinkin' up in the ears. "Is--is he somebody
in particular?"

"Only one of the biggest iron ore men in the game," says I. "That is, he
was until he unloaded that Pittsburgh syndicate a few years ago. Also he
must be a special crony of Old Hickory's. Anyway, he was playin' around
with him down South last month. And here we let him warm a seat out in
the book-agent pen! Social error, Vincent."

"Stupid of me," admits Vincent. "I will--"

"Better let me soothe him down now," says I. "Then I'll get Old Hickory
on the 'phone and tell him who's here."

I will say that I did it in my best private sec. style, too, urgin' him
into the private office while I explains how the boy on the gate
couldn't have read the name right and assurin' him I'd get word to Mr.
Ellins at once.

"He's only having a conference with his attorneys," says I. "I think
he'll be up very, soon. Just a moment while I get him on the wire, Mr.
Dowd."

"Thank you, young man," says Matthew K. "I--I rather would like to see
Ellins today, if I could."

"Why, sure!" says I, easin' him into Old Hickory's swing chair.

But somehow when I'd slipped out to the 'phone booth and got in touch
with the boss he don't seem so anxious to rush up and meet his old side
kick. No. He's more or less calm about it.

"Eh?" says he. "Dowd? Oh, yes! Well, you just tell him, Torchy, that I'm
tied up here and can't say when I'll be through. He'd better not wait."

"Excuse me, Mr. Ellins," says I, "but he's been here twice before. Seems
to have something on his mind that--well, might be important, you
know."

"Yes, it might be," says Old Hickory, and I couldn't tell whether he
threw in a snort or a chuckle right there. "And since you think it is,
Torchy, perhaps you'd better get him to sketch it out to you."

"All right," says I. "That is, if he'll loosen up."

"Oh, I rather think he will," says Old Hickory.

It was a good guess. For when I tells Dowd how sorry Mr. Ellins is that
he can't come just then, and suggests that I've got power of attorney to
take care of anything confidential he might spill into my nigh ear, he
opens right up.

Course, what I'm lookin' for is some big business stuff; maybe a
straight tip on how this new shift in Europe is going to affect foreign
exchange, or a hunch as to what the administration means to put over in
regard to the railroad muddle. He's a solemn-faced, owl-eyed old party,
this Mesaba Matt. Looks like he was thinkin' wise and deep about weighty
matters. You know. One of these slow-movin', heavy-lidded,
double-chinned old pelicans who never mention any sum less than seven
figures. So I'm putting up a serious secretarial front myself when he
starts clearin' his throat.

"Young man," says he, "I suppose you know something about golf!"

"Eh?" says I. "Golf? Oh, yes. That is. I've seen it played some. I was
on a trip with Mr. Ellins down at Pinehurst, five or six years back,
when he broke into the game, and I read Grant Rice's dope on it more or
less reg'lar."

"But you haven't played golf yourself, have you?" he goes on.

"No," says I, "I've never indulged in the Scottish rite to any extent.
Just a few swipes with a club."

"Then I'm afraid," he begins, "that you will hardly----"

"Oh, I'm a great little understander," says I, "unless you mean to go
into the fine points, or ask me to settle which is the best course. I've
heard some of them golf addicts talk about Shawnee or Apawamis or
Ekwanok like--well, like Billy Sunday would talk about heaven. But I've
stretched a willing ear for Mr. Ellins often enough so I can----"

"I see," breaks in Dowd. "Possibly you will do. At any rate, I must tell
this to someone."

"I know," says I. "I've seen 'em like that. Shoot."

"As you are probably aware," says he, "Ellins was in Florida with me
last month. In fact, we played the same course together, day in and day
out, for four weeks. He was my partner in our foursome. Rather a helpful
partner at times, I must admit, although he hasn't been at the game long
enough to be a really experienced golfer. Fairly long off the tee, but
erratic with the brassie, and not all dependable when it came to short
iron work. However, as a rule we held them. Our opponents, I mean."

I nods like I'd taken it all in.

"A quartette of bogey hounds, I expect," says I.

Dowd shakes his head modest. No, he confesses that wasn't an exact
description of their ratin'. "We usually qualified, when we got in at
all," says he, "in the fourth flight for the Seniors' tournament. But as
a rule we did not attempt the general competitions. We stuck to our
daily foursome. Staples and Rutter were the other two. Rutter's in
steel, you know; Staples in copper. Seasoned golfers, both of them.
Especially Rutter. Claims to have turned in a card of 89 once at Short
Hills. That was years ago, of course, but he has never forgotten it.
Rather an irritating opponent, Rutter. Patronizing. Fond of telling you
what you did when you've dubbed a shot. And if he happens to win--" Dowd
shrugs his shoulders expressive.

"Chesty, eh?" says I.

"Extremely so," says Dowd. "Even though his own medal score wasn't
better than 115. Mine was a little worse, particularly when I chanced to
be off my drive. Yes, might as well be honest. I was the lame duck of
the foursome. They usually gave my ball about four strokes. Thought they
could do it, anyway. And I accepted."

"Uh-huh," says I, grinnin' intelligent--I hope. I sure was gettin' an
earful of this golf stuff, but I was still awake.

Dowd goes on to tell how reg'lar the old foursome got under way every
afternoon at 2:30. That is, every day but Sunday.

"Oh, yes," says I. "Church?"

"No," says Dowd. "Sandy the Great."

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'.

"Meaning," says Dowd, "Alexander McQuade, to my mind the best all around
golf professional who ever came out of Scotland. He was at our
Agapoosett course in summer, you know, and down there in the winter. And
Sunday afternoons he always played an exhibition match with visiting
pro's, or some of the crack amateurs. I never missed joining the gallery
for those matches. I was following the day he broke the course record
with a 69. Just one perfect shot after another. It was an inspiration.
Always was to watch Sandy the Great play. Such a genial, democratic
fellow, too. Why, he has actually talked to me on the tee just before
taking his stand for one of those 275-yard drives of his. 'Watch this
one, me laddie buck,' he'd say, or 'Weel, mon, stand a bit back while I
gie th' gutty a fair cr-r-rack.' He was always like that with me. Do you
wonder that I bought all my clubs of him, had a collection of his best
scores, and kept a large 'photo of him in my room? I've never been much
of a hero worshiper, but when it came to Sandy the Great--well, that
was different. You've heard of him, of course?"

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