Torchy As A Pa

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And blamed if he don't unscrew the thick walkin' stick and pull out a
dozen imitation leather bindings which he piles on Mr. Dowd's knee.

"Here we have," says he, "the famous Broissard binding, made for the
library of Louis XIV. Note the fleur de lis and the bee, and the
exquisite hand-tooling on the doublures. Here is one that was done by
the Rivieres of London for the collection of the late Czar Nicholas, and
so on. There are to be thirty-six volumes in all and to new members of
the Historical Committee we are offering these at practically the cost
of production, which is $28 the volume. In return for this sacrifice all
we ask of you, my dear sir, is that we may use your indorsement in our
advertising matter, which will soon appear in all the leading daily
papers of this country. We ask you to pay no money down. All you need to
do, sir, to become a member of the International Historical Committee
and receive this magnificent addition to your library, is to sign your
name here and----"

"Is--is that all?" breaks in Dowd, openin' his mouth for the first time.

"Absolutely," says Schott, unlimberin' his ready fountain pen.

"Then perhaps you would be interested to hear of a little experience of
mine," says Dowd, "on the golf course."

"Charmed," says Schott.

He didn't know what was comin'. As a book agent he had quite a flow of
language, but I doubt if he ever ran up against a real golf nut before.
Inside of half a minute Dowd was off in high gear, tellin' him about
that wonderful game he played with Old Hickory when he was under the
control of the spirit of the great Sandy McQuade. At first Schott looks
kind of dazed, like a kid who's been foolin' with a fire hydrant wrench
and suddenly finds he's turned on the high pressure and can't turn it
off. Three or four times he makes a stab at breakin' in and urgin' the
fountain pen on Dowd, but he don't have any success. Dowd is in full
swing, describin' his new theory of how all the great golfers who have
passed on come back and reincarnate themselves once more; sometimes
pickin' out a promisin' caddie, as in the case of Ouimet, or now and
again a hopeless duffer, same as he was himself. Schott can't get a word
in edgewise, and is squirmin' in his chair while Old Hickory leans back
and chuckles.

Finally, after about half an hour of this, Schott gets desperate. "Yes,
sir," says he, shoutin' above Dowd's monologue, "but what about this
magnificent set of----"

"Bah!" says Dowd. "Books! Never buy 'em."

"But--but are you sure, sir," Schott goes on, "that you understand what
an opportunity you are offered for----"

"Wouldn't have the junk about the house," says Dowd. "But later on,
young man, if you are interested in the development of my psychic golf,
I shall be glad to tell you----"

"Not if I see you first," growls Schott, gatherin' up his pile of
samples and backin out hasty.

He's in such a hurry to get away that he bumps into Mr. Robert, who's
just strollin' toward the private office, and the famous bindings, art
masterpieces, contents pages and so on are scattered all over the floor.

"Who was our young friend with all the literature?" asks Mr. Robert.

"That's Mr. Schott," says I, "your wizard of the dotted line, who was
due to break in on Mr. Ellins and get him to sign up."

"Eh?" says Old Hickory, starin'. "And you played him off against Matt.
Dowd? You impertinent young rascal! But I say, Robert, you should have
seen and heard 'em. It was rich. They nearly talked each other to a
standstill."

"Then I gather, Torchy," says Mr. Robert, grinnin', "that the king of
book agents now sits on a tottering throne. In other words, the wizard
met a master mind, eh?"

"I dunno," says I. "Guess I gave him the shunt, all right. Just by luck,
though. He had a clever act, I'll say, even if he didn't get it
across."

CHAPTER XV

STANLEY TAKES THE JAZZ CURE

I remember how thrilled Vee gets when she first discovers that these new
people in Honeysuckle Lodge are old friends of hers. I expect some
poetical real estater wished that name on it. Anyway, it's the proper
thing out here in Harbor Hills to call your place after some sort of
shrubbery or tree. And maybe this little stone cottage effect with the
green tiled roof and the fieldstone gate posts did have some honeysuckle
growin' around somewhere. It's a nice enough shack, what there is of it,
though if I'd been layin' out the floor plan I'd have had less cut-under
front porch and more elbow room inside. However, as there are only two
of the Rawsons it looked like it would do. That is, it did at first.

"Just think, Torchy," says Vee. "I haven't seen Marge since we were at
boarding school together. Why, I didn't even know she was married,
although I suppose she must be by this time."

"Well, she seems to have found a male of the species without your help,"
says I. "Looks like a perfectly good man, too."

"Oh, I'm sure he must be," says Vee, "or Marge wouldn't have had him. In
fact, I know he is, for I used to hear more or less about Stanley
Rawson, even when we were juniors. I believe they were half engaged
then. Such a jolly, lively fellow, and so full of fun. Won't it be nice
having them so near?"

"Uh-huh!" says I.

Not that we've been lonesome since we moved out on our four-acre Long
Island estate, but I will say that young married couples of about our
own age haven't been so plenty. Not the real folksy kind. Course, there
are the Cecil Rands, but they don't do much but run a day and night
nursery for those twins of theirs. They're reg'lar Class A twins, too,
and I expect some day they'll be more or less interestin'; but after
they've been officially exhibited to you four or five times, and you've
heard all about the system they're being brought up on, and how many
ounces of Pasteurized cow extract they sop up a day, and at what
temperature they get it, and how often they take their naps and so
on---- Well, sometimes I'm thankful the Rands didn't have triplets. When
I've worked up enthusiasm for twins about four times, and remarked how
cunnin' of them to look so much alike, and confessed that I couldn't
tell which was Cecillia and which Cecil, Jr., I feel that I've sort of
exhausted the subject.

So whenever Vee suggests that we really ought to go over and see the
Rands again I can generally think up an alibi. Honest, I aint jealous
of their twins. I'm glad they've got 'em. Considerin' Cecil, Sr., and
all I'll say it was real noble of 'em. But until I can think up
something new to shoot about twins I'm strong for keepin' away.

Then there are Mr. and Mrs. Jerry Kipp, but they're ouija board addicts
and count it a dull evening when they can't gather a few serious
thinkers around the dinin' room table under a dim light and spell out a
message from Little Bright Wings, who checked out from croup at the age
of six and still wants her Uncle Jerry to know that she thinks of him
out there in the great beyond. I wouldn't mind hearin' from the spirit
land now and then if the folks there had anything worth sayin', but when
they confine their chat to fam'ly gossip it seems to me like a waste of
time. Besides, I always come home from the Kipps feelin' creepy down the
back.

So you could hardly blame Vee for welcomin' some new arrivals in the
neighborhood, or for bein' so chummy right from the start. She asks the
Rawsons over for dinner, tips Mrs. Rawson off where she can get a
wash-lady who'll come in by the day and otherwise extends the glad hand.

Seems to be a nice enough party, young Mrs. Rawson. Kind of easy to look
at and with an eye twinkle that suggests a disposition to cut up
occasionally. Stanley is a good runnin' mate, so far as looks go. He
could almost pose for a collar ad, with that straight nose and clean cut
chin of his. But he's a bit stiff and stand-offish, at first.

"Oh, he'll get over that," says Vee. "You see, he comes from some little
place down in Georgia where the social set is limited to three families
and he isn't quite sure whether we know who our grandfathers were."

"It'll be all off then if he asks about mine," says I.

But he don't. He wants to know what I think of the recent slump in July
cotton deliveries and if I believe the foreign credits situation looks
any better.

"Why, I hadn't thought much about either," says I, "but I've had a good
hunch handed me that the Yanks are goin' to show strong for the pennant
this season."

Stanley just stares at me and after that confines his remarks to statin'
that he don't care for mint sauce on roast lamb and that he never takes
coffee at night.

"Huh!" says I to Vee afterward. "When does he spring that jolly stuff?
Or was that conundrum about July cotton a vaudeville gag that got past
me?"

No, I hadn't missed any cues. Vee explains that young Mr. Rawson has
been sent up to New York as assistant manager of a Savannah firm of
cotton brokers and is taking his job serious.

"That's good," says I, "but he don't need to lug it to the dinner table,
does he?"

We gave the Rawsons a week to get settled before droppin' in on 'em for
an evenin' call, and I'd prepared for it by readin' up on the cotton
market. Lucky I did, too, for we discovers Stanley at his desk with a
green eye-shade draped over his classic brow and a lot of crop reports
spread out before him. Durin' the next hour, while the girls were
chattin' merry in the other corner of the livin' room, Stanley gave me
the straight dope on boll weevils, the labor conditions in Manchester,
and the poor prospects for long staple. I finished, as you might say,
with both ears full of cotton.

"Stanley's going to be a great help--I don't think," says I to Vee.
"Why, he's got cotton on the brain."

"Now let's not be critical, Torchy," says Vee. "Marge told me all about
it, how Stanley is a good deal worried over his business and so on. He's
really doing very well, you know, but he can't seem to leave his office
troubles behind, the way you do. He wants to make a big success, but
he's so afraid something will go wrong----"

"There's no surer way of pullin' down trouble," says I. "Next thing he
knows he'll be tryin' to sell cotton in his sleep, and from that stage
to a nerve sanitarium is only a hop."

Not that I tries to reform Stanley. Nay, nay, Natalia. I may go through
some foolish motions now and then, but regulatin' the neighbors ain't
one of my secret vices. We allows the Rawsons to map out their own
program, which seems to consist in stickin' close to their own fireside,
with Marge on one side readin' letters about the gay doin's of her old
friends at home, and Stanley on the other workin' up furrows in his brow
over what might not happen to spot cotton day after tomorrow. They'd
passed up a chance to join the Country Club, had declined with thanks
when Vee asked 'em to go in on a series of dinner dances with some of
the young married set, and had even shied at taking an evening off for
one of Mrs. Robert Ellins' musical affairs.

"Thanks awfully," says Stanley, "but I have no time for social
frivolities."

"Gosh!" says I. "I hope you don't call two hours of Greig frivolous."

That seems to be his idea, though. Anything that ain't connected with
quotations on carload lots or domestic demands for middlings he looks at
scornful. He tells me he's on the trail of a big foreign contract, but
is afraid its going to get away from him.

"Maybe you'd linger on for a year or so if it did," I suggests.

"Perhaps," says he, "but I intend to let nothing distract me from my
work."

And then here a few days later I runs across him making for the 5:03
with two giggly young sub-debs in tow. After he's planted 'em in a seat
and stowed their hand luggage and wraps on the rack I slips into the
vacant space with him behind the pair.

"Where'd you collect the sweet young things, Stanley?" says I.

He shakes his head and groans. "Think of it!" says he. "Marge's folks
had to chase off to Bermuda for the Easter holidays and so they wish
Polly, the kid sister, onto us for two whole weeks. Not only that, but
Polly has the nerve to bring along this Dot person, her roommate at
boarding school. What on earth we're ever going to do with them I'm sure
I don't know."

"Is Polly the one with the pointed chin and the I-dare-you pout?" I
asks.

"No, that's Dot," says he. "Polly's the one with the cheek dimples and
the disturbing eyes. She's a case, too."

"They both look like they might be live wires," says I. "I see they've
brought their mandolins, also. And what's so precious in the bundle you
have on your knees?"

"Jazz records," says Stanley. "I've a mind to shove them under the seat
and forget they're there."

He don't though, for that's the only bundle Polly asks about when we
unload at our home station. I left Stanley negotiatin' with the
expressman to deliver two wardrobe trunks and went along chucklin' to
myself.

"My guess is that Dot and Polly are in for kind of a pokey vacation," I
tells Vee. "Unless they can get as excited over the cotton market as
Stanley does."

"The poor youngsters!" says Vee. "They might as well be visiting on a
desert island, for Marge knows hardly anyone in the place but us."

She's a great one for spillin' sympathy, and for followin' it up when
she can with the helpin' hand. So a couple of nights later I'm dragged
out on a little missionary expedition over to Honeysuckle Lodge, the
object being to bring a little cheer into the dull gray lives of the
Rawsons' young visitors. Vee makes me doll up in an open face vest and
dinner coat, too.

"The girls will like it, I'm sure," says she.

"Very well," says I. "If the sight of me in a back number Tuck will lift
the gloom from any young hearts, here goes. I hope the excitement don't
prove too much for 'em, though."

I'd kind of doped it out that we'd find the girls sittin' around awed
and hushed; while Stanley indulged in his usual silent struggle with
some great business problem; or maybe they'd be over in a far corner
yawnin' through a game of Lotto. But you never can tell. From two blocks
away we could see that the house was all lit up, from cellar to sleepin'
porch.

"Huh!" says I. "Stanley must be huntin' a burglar, or something."

"No," says Vee. "Hear the music. If I didn't know I should think they
were giving a party."

"Who would they give it to?" I asks.

And yet when the maid lets us in hanged if the place ain't full of
people, mostly young hicks in evenin' clothes, but with a fair sprinklin'
of girls in flossy party dresses. All the livin' room furniture had been
shoved into the dinin' room, the rugs rolled into the corners, and the
music machine is grindin' out the Blitzen Blues, accompanied by the two
mandolins.

In the midst of all this merry scene I finds Stanley wanderin' about
sort of dazed and unhappy.

"Excuse us for crashin' in on a party," says I. "We came over with the
idea that maybe Polly and Dot would be kind of lonesome."

"Lonesome!" says Stanley. "Say, I ask you, do they look it?"

"Not at the present writing," says I.

That was statin' the case mild, too. Over by the music machine Dot and a
youth who's sportin' his first aviation mustache--one of them clipped
eyebrow affairs--are tinklin' away on the mandolins with their heads
close together, while in the middle of the floor Polly and a blond young
gent who seems to be fairly well contented with himslf are practicin'
some new foxtrot steps, with two other youngsters waitin' to cut in.

"Where did you round up all the perfectly good men?" I asks.

"I didn't," says Stanley. "That's what amazes me. Where did they all
come from? Why, I supposed the girls didn't know a soul in the place.
Said they didn't on the way out. Yet before we'd left the station two
youths appeared who claimed they'd met Polly somewhere and asked if they
couldn't come up that evening. The next morning they brought around two
others, and some girls, for a motor trip. By afternoon the crowd had
increased to a dozen, and they were all calling each other by their
first names and speaking of the aggregation as 'the bunch.' I came home
tonight to find a dinner party of six and this dance scheduled. Now tell
me, how do they do it?"

"It's by me," says I. "But maybe this kid sister-in-law of yours and her
chum are the kind who don't have to send out S. O. S. signals. And if
this keeps up I judge you're let in for a merry two weeks."

"Merry!" says Stanley. "I should hardly call it that. How am I going to
think in a bedlam like this?"

"Must you think?" says I.

"Of course," says he. "But if this keeps up we shall go crazy."

"Oh, I don't know," says I. "You may, but I judge that Mrs. Rawson will
survive. She seems to be endurin' it all right," and I glances over
where Marge is allowin' a youngster of 19 or so to lead her out for the
next dance.

"Oh, Marge!" says Stanley. "She's always game for anything. But she
hasn't the business worries and responsibilities that I have. Do you
know, Torchy, the cotton situation is about to reach a crisis and if I
cannot put through a----"

"Come on, Torchy," breaks in Vee. "Let's try this one."

"Sure!" says I. "Although I'm missin' some mighty thrillin' information
about what's going to happen to cotton."

"Oh, bother cotton!" says Vee. "It would do Stanley good to forget about
his silly old business for a little while. Look at him! Why, you would
thing he was a funeral."

"Or that he was just reportin' as chairman of the grand jury," says I.

"And little Polly is having such a good time, isn't she?" goes on Vee.

"I expect she is," says I. "She's goin' through the motions, anyway."

Couldn't have been more than 16 or so, Polly. But she has a face like a
flower, the disposition of a butterfly, and a pair of eyes that
shouldn't be used away from home without dimmers on. I expect she don't
know how high voltage they are or she wouldn't roll 'em around so
reckless. It's entertainin' just to sit on the side lines and watch her
pull this baby-vamp act of hers and then see the victims squirm. Say, at
the end of a dance some of them youths didn't know whether they was
leadin' Polly to a corner or walkin' over a pink cloud with snowshoes
on. And friend Dot ain't such a poor performer herself. Her strong line
seems to be to listen to 'em patient while they tells her all they know,
and remark enthusiastic at intervals: "Oh, I think that's simp-ly
won-n-n-nderful!" After they'd hear her say it about five times most of
'em seemed to agree with her that they were wonderful, and I heard one
young hick confide to another: "She's a good pal, Dot. Understands a
fellow, y'know."

Honest, I was havin' so much fun minglin' with the younger set that way,
and gettin' my dancin' toes limbered up once more, that it's quite a
shock to glance at the livin' room clock and find it pointin' to 1:30.
As we were leavin', though, friend Dot has just persuaded Stanley to try
a one-step with her and I had to snicker when he goes whirlin' off. I
expect either she or Polly had figured out that the only way to keep him
from turnin' off the lights was to get him into the game.

From all the reports we had Polly and Dot got through their vacation
without being very lonesome. Somehow or other Honeysuckle Lodge seems to
have been established as the permanent headquarters of "the bunch," and
most any time of day or night you could hear jazz tunes comin' from
there, or see two or three cars parked outside. And, although the cotton
market was doing flip-flops about that time I don't see any signs of
nervous breakdown about Stanley. In fact, he seems to have bucked up a
lot.

"Well, how about that foreign contract?" I asks reckless one mornin' as
we meets on the train.

"Oh, I have that all sewed up," says Stanley. "One of those young chaps
who came to see Polly so much gave me a straight tip on who to
see--someone who had visited at his home. Odd way to get it, eh? But I
got a lot out of those boys. Rather miss them, you know."

"Eh?" says I, gawpin' at him.

"Been brushing up on my dancing, too," goes on Stanley. "And say, if
there's still a vacancy in that dinner dance club I think Marge and I
would like to go in."

"But I thought you said you didn't dance any more?" says I.

"I didn't think I could," says Stanley, "until Dot got me at it again
the other night. Why, do you know, she quite encouraged me. She
said----"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "I know. She said, 'Oh, I think you're a wonderful
dancer, simp-ly won-n-n-n-derful!' Didn't she now?"

First off Stanley stiffens up like he was goin' to be peeved. But then
he remembers and lets out chuckle. "Yes," says he, "I believe those were
her exact words. Perhaps she was right, too. And if I have such an
unsuspected talent as that shouldn't I exercise it occasionally? I leave
it to you."

"You've said it, Stanley," says I. "And after all, I guess you're goin'
to be a help. You had a narrow call, though."

"From what?" asks Stanley.

"Premature old age," says I, givin' him the friendly grin.

CHAPTER XVI

THE MYSTERY OF THE THIRTY-ONE

If I knew how, you ought to be worked up to the proper pitch for this
scene. You know--lights dimmed, throbby music from the bull fiddle and
kettle drums, and the ushers seatin' nobody durin' the act. Belasco
stuff. The stage showin' the private office of the Corrugated Trust.
It's a case of the big four in solemn conclave.

Maybe you can guess the other three. Uh-huh! Old Hickory Ellins, Mr.
Robert, and Piddie. I forget just what important problem we was
settlin'. But it must have been something weighty and serious. Millions
at stake, most likely. Thousands anyway. Or it might have been when we
should start the Saturday half-holidays.

All I remember is that we was grouped around the big mahogany desk; Old
Hickory in the middle chewin' away at the last three inches of a
Cassadora; Mr. Robert at right center, studyin' the documents in the
case; Piddie standin' respectful at his side weavin' his fingers in and
out nervous; and me balanced on the edge of the desk at the left, one
shoe toe on the floor, the other foot wavin' easy and graceful. Cool
and calm, that's me. But not sayin' a word. Nobody was. We'd had our
turn. It was up to Old Hickory to give the final decision. We was
waitin', almost breathless. He'd let out a grunt or two, cleared his
throat, and was about to open in his usual style when--

Cr-r-rash! Bumpety-bump!

Not that this describes it adequate. If I had a mouth that could imitate
the smashin' of a 4x6 foot plate glass window I'd be on my way out to
stampede the national convention for some favorite son. For that's
exactly what happens. One of them big panes through which Old Hickory
can view the whole southern half of Manhattan Island, not to mention
part of New Jersey, has been shattered as neat as if someone had thrown
a hammer through it. And havin' that occur not more'n ten feet from your
right ear is some test of nerves, I'll say. I didn't even fall off the
desk. All Old Hickory does is set his teeth into the cigar a little
firmer and roll his eyes over one shoulder. Piddie's the only one who
shows signs of shell shock. When he finally lets out a breath it's like
openin' a bottle of home brew to see if the yeast cake is gettin' in its
work.

The bumpety-bump noise comes from something white that follows the crash
and rolls along the floor toward the desk. Naturally I makes a grab for
it.

"Don't!" gasps Piddie. "It--it might be a bomb."

"Yes," says I, "it might. But it looks to me more like a golf ball."

"What?" says Old Hickory. "Golf ball! How could it be?"

"I don't know, sir," says I, modest as usual.

"Let's see," says he. I hands it over. He takes a glance at it and
snorts out: "Impossible, but quite true. It is a golf ball. A Spalldop
31."

"You're right, Governor," says Mr. Robert. "That's just what it is."

Piddie takes a cautious squint and nods his head. So we made it
unanimous.

"But I don't quite see, sir," goes on Piddie, "how a----"

"Don't you?" breaks in Old Hickory. "Well, that's strange. Neither do
I."

"Might it not, sir," adds Piddie, "have been dropped from an airplane?"

"Dropped how?" demands Old Hickory. "Sideways? The law of gravity
doesn't work that way. At least, it didn't when I met it last."

"Certainly!" says Piddie. "I had not thought of that. It couldn't have
been dropped. Then it must have been driven by some careless golfer."

He's some grand little suggester, Piddie is. Old Hickory glares at him
and snorts. "An amazingly careless golfer," he adds, "considering that
the nearest course is in Englewood, N. J., fully six miles away. No, Mr.
Piddie, I fear that even Jim Barnes at his best, relayed by Gil Nichols
and Walter Hagen, couldn't have made that drive."

"They--they never use a--a rifle for such purposes, do they?" asks
Piddie.

"Not in the best sporting circles," says Old Hickory.

"I suppose," puts in Mr. Robert, "that some golf enthusiast might have
taken it into his head to practice a shot from somewhere in the
neighborhood."

"That's logical," admits Old Hickory, "but from where did he shoot? We
are nineteen stories above the sidewalk, remember. I never saw a player
who could loft a ball to that height."

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