Torchy As A Pa

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"Oh, Auntie!" begins Vee. "It was all my----"

"Not a word, Verona," snaps Auntie. "I know perfectly well who is
responsible for this--this outrage." With that she glares at me.

Course, we both tells her just how the mistake was made, over and over,
but it don't register.

"Humph!" says she at last. "If I didn't remember a warning I had at
dinner perhaps I might think as you do, Verona. But I trust that nothing
else has been--er--arranged for my benefit."

"That's generous, anyway," says I, indulgin' in a sarcastic smile.

It's an hour before Auntie's nerves are soothed down enough for her to
make another stab at enjoyin' a peaceful night. Even then she demands to
know what that throbbin' noise is that she hears.

"Oh, that?" says I. "Only the cistern pump fillin' up the rain water
tank in the attic. That'll quit soon. Automatic shut-off, you know."

"Verona," she goes on, ignorin' me, "you are certain it is quite all
right, are you?"

"Oh, yes," says Vee. "It's one we had put in only last week. Runs by
electricity, or some thing. Anyway, the plumber explained to Torchy just
how it works. He knows all about it, don't you, Torchy?"

"Uh-huh," says I, careless.

I did, too. The plumber had sketched out the workin's of the thing
elaborate to me, but I didn't see the need of spendin' the rest of the
night passin' an examination in the subject. Besides, a few of the
details I was a little vague about.

"Very well, then," says Auntie. And she consents to make one more stab
at retirin'.

I couldn't help sighin' relieved when we heard her door shut. "Now if
the roosters don't start crowin'," says I, "or a tornado don't hit us,
or an earthquake break loose, all will be well. But if any of them
things do happen, I'll be blamed."

"Nonsense," says Vee. "Auntie is going to have a nice, quiet, restful
night and in the morning she will be herself again."

"Here's hoping," says I.

And if it's good evidence I'd like to submit the fact that within' five
minutes after I'd rolled into my humble little white iron cot out on the
sleepin' porch I was dead to the world. Could I have done that if I'd
had on my mind a fiendish plot against the peace and safety of the only
real aunt we have in the fam'ly? I ask you.

Seemed like I'd been asleep for hours and hours, and I believe I was
dreamin' that I was being serenaded by a drum corps and that the bass
drummer was mistakin' me for the drum and thumpin' me on the ribs, when
I woke up and found Vee proddin' me from the next cot.

"Torchy!" she's sayin'. "Is that rain?"

"Eh?" says I. "No, that's the drum corps."

"What?" says she. "Don't be silly. It sounds like rain."

"Rain nothing," says I, rubbin' my eyes open. "Why, the moon's shining
and--but, it does sound like water drippin'."

"Drippin!" says Vee. "It's just pouring down somewhere. But where,
Torchy?"

"Give it up," says I. "That is, unless it could be that blessed
tank----"

"That's it!" says Vee. "The tank! But--but just where is it?"

"Why," says I, "it's in the attic over--over--Oh, goodnight!" I groans.

"Well?" demands Vee. "Over what?"

"Over the south bedroom," says I. "Quick! Rescue expedition No. 2.
Auntie again!"

It was Auntie. Although she was clear at the other end of the house from
us we heard her moanin' and takin' on even before we got the hall door
open. And, of course, we made another mad dash. Once more I pushes the
switch button and reveals Auntie in a new plight. Some situation, I'll
say, too. Uh-huh!

You see, there's an unfinished space over the kitchen well and the
plumber had located this hundred-gallon tank in the middle of it. As it
so happens the tank is right over the bed. Well, naturally when the fool
automatic shut-off fails to work and the overflow pipe is taxed beyond
its capacity, the surplus water has to go somewhere. It leaks through
the floorin', trickles down between the laths and through the plaster,
and some of it finds its way along the beams and under the eaves until
it splashes down on the roof of the pantry extension. That's what we'd
heard. But the rest had poured straight down on Auntie.

Being in a strange room and so confused to wake up and find herself
treated to a shower bath that she hadn't ordered, Auntie couldn't locate
the light button. All she could remember was that in unpackin' she'd
stood an umbrella near the head of the bed. So with great presence of
mind she's reached out and grabbed that, unfurled it, and is sittin'
there damp and wailin' in a nice little pool of water that's risin'
every minute. She's just as cosy as a settin' hen caught in a flood and
is wearin' about the same contented expression, I judge.

"Why, Auntie, how absurd!" says Vee.

It wasn't just the right thing to say. Natural enough, I'll admit, but
hardly the remark to spill at that precise moment. I could see the
explosion coming, so after one more look I smothers a chuckle on my own
account and beats it towards the cellar where that blamed pump is still
chuggin' away merry and industrious. By turnin' off all the switches and
handles in sight I manages to induce the fool thing to quit. Then I
sneaks back upstairs, puts on a bathrobe and knocks timid on the door of
the reg'lar guest room from which I hears sounds of earnest voices.

"Can I help any?" says I.

"No, no!" calls out Vee. "You--you'd best go away, Torchy."

She's generally right, Vee is. I went. I took a casual look at the
flooded kitchen with an inch or more of water on the linoleum, and
concluded to leave that problem to the help when they showed up in the
mornin'. And I don't know how long Vee spent in tryin' to convince
Auntie that I hadn't personally climbed into the attic, bugged the pump,
and bored holes through the ceilin'. As I couldn't go on the stand in my
own defense I did the next best thing. I finished out my sleep.

In the mornin' I got the verdict. "Auntie's going back to town," says
Vee. "She thinks, after all, that it will be more restful there."

"It will be for me, anyway," says I.

I don't know how Vee and Master Richard still stand with Auntie. They
may be in the will yet, or they may not. As for Buddy and me, I'll bet
we're out. Absolutely. But we can grin, even at that.

CHAPTER XVIII

HARTLEY PULLS A NEW ONE

Looked like kind of a simple guy, this Hartley Tyler. I expect it was
the wide-set, sort of starey eyes, or maybe the stiff way he had of
holdin' his neck. If you'd asked me I'd said he might have qualified as
a rubber-stamp secretary in some insurance office, or as a tea-taster,
or as a subway ticket-chopper.

Anyway, he wasn't one you'd look for any direct action from. Too mild
spoken and slow moving. And yet when he did cut loose with an original
motion he shoots the whole works on one roll of the bones. He'd come out
of the bond room one Saturday about closin' time and tip-toed hesitatin'
up to where Piddie and I was havin' a little confab on some important
business matter--such as whether the Corrugated ought to stand for the
new demands of the window cleaners, or cut the contract to twice a month
instead of once a week. Mr. Piddie would like to take things like that
straight to Old Hickory himself, but he don't quite dare, so he holds me
up and asks what I think Mr. Ellins would rule in such a case. I was
just giving him some josh or other when he notices Hartley standin'
there patient.

"Well?" says Piddie, in his snappiest office-manager style.

"Pardon me, sir," says Hartley, "but several weeks ago I put in a
request for an increase in salary, to take effect this month."

"Oh, did you?" says Piddie, springin' that sarcastic smile of his. "Do I
understand that it was an ultimatum?"

"Why--er--I hadn't thought of putting it in that form, sir," says
Hartley, blinkin' something like an owl that's been poked off his nest.

"Then I may as well tell you, young man," says Piddie, "that it seems
inadvisable for us to grant your request at this time."

Hartley indulges in a couple more blinks and then adds: "I trust that I
made it clear, Mr. Piddie, how important such an increase was to me?"

"No doubt you did," says Piddie, "but you don't get it."

"That is--er--final, is it?" asks Hartley.

"Quite," says Piddie. "For the present you will continue at the same
salary."

"I'll see you eternally cursed if I do," observes Hartley, without
changin' his tone a note.

"Eh?" gasps Piddie.

"Oh, go to thunder, you pin-head!" says Hartley, startin' back for the
bond room to collect his eye-shade, cuff protectors and other tools of
his trade.

"You--you're discharged, young man!" Piddie gurgles out throaty.

"Very well," Hartley throws over his shoulder. "Have it that way if you
like."

Which is where I gets Piddie's goat still further on the rampage by
lettin' out a chuckle.

"The young whipper-snapper!" growls Piddie.

"Oh, all of that!" says I. "What you going to do besides fire him?
Couldn't have him indicted under the Lever act, could you?"

Piddie just glares and stalks off. Having been called a pin-head by a
bond room cub he's in no mood to be kidded. So I follows in for a few
words with Hartley. You see, I could appreciate the situation even
better than Piddie, for I knew more of the facts in the case than he
did. For instance, I had happened to be in Old Hickory's private office
when old man Tyler, who's one of our directors, you know, had wished his
only son onto our bond room staff.

He's kind of a rough old boy, Z. K. Tyler, one of the bottom-rungers who
likes to tell how he made his start as fry cook on an owl lunch wagon.
Course, now he has his Broad Street offices and is one of the big noises
on the Curb market. Operatin' in motor stocks is his specialty, and when
you hear of two or three concerns being merged and the minority holders
howlin' about being gypped, or any little deal like that, you can make a
safe bet that somewhere in the background is old Z. K. jugglin' the
wires and rakin' in the loose shekels. How he gets away with that stuff
without makin' the rock pile is by me, but he seems to do it reg'lar.

And wouldn't you guess he'd be just the one to have finicky ideas as to
how his son and heir should conduct himself. Sure thing! I heard him
sketchin' some of 'em out to Old Hickory.

"The trouble with most young fellows," says he, "is that they're brought
up too soft. Kick 'em out and let 'em rustle for themselves. That's what
I had to do. Made a man of me. Now take Hartley. He's twenty-five and
has had it easy all his life--city and country home, college, cars to
drive, servants to wait on him, and all that. What's it done for him?
Why, he has no more idea of how to make a dollar for himself than a
chicken has of stirring up an omelette.

"Of course, I could take him in with me and show him the ropes, but he
couldn't learn anything worth while that way. He'd simply be a copy-cat.
He'd develop no originality. Besides, I'd rather see him in some other
line. You understand, Ellins? Something a little more substantial. Got
to find it for himself, though. He's got to make good on his own hook
before I'll help him any more. So out he goes.

"Ought to have a year or so to pick up the elements of business, though.
So let's find a place for him here in the Corrugated. No snap job. I
want him to earn every dollar he gets, and to live off what he earns. Do
him good. Maybe it'll knock some of the fool notions out of his head.
Oh, he's got 'em. Say, you couldn't guess what fool idea he came back
from college with. Thought he wanted to be a painter. Uh-huh! An artist!
Asked me to set him up in a studio. All because him and a room mate had
been daubin' some brushes with oil paints at a summer school they went
to during a couple of vacations. Seems a long-haired instructor had been
telling Hartley what great talent he had. Huh! I soon cured him of that.
'Go right to it, son,' says I. 'Paint something you can sell for five
hundred and I'll cover it with a thousand. Until then, not a red cent.'
And inside of twenty-four hours he concluded he wasn't any budding
Whistler or Sargent, and came asking what I thought he should tackle
first. Eh? Think you could place him somewhere?"

So Old Hickory merely shrugs his shoulders and presses the button for
Piddie. I expect he hears a similar tale about once a month and as a
rule he comes across with a job for sonny boy. 'Specially when it's a
director that does the askin'. Now and then, too, one of 'em turns out
to be quite a help, and if they're utterly useless he can always depend
on Piddie to find it out and give 'em the quick chuck.

As a rule this swift release don't mean much to the Harolds and Perceys
except a welcome vacation while the old man pries open another side
entrance in the house of Opportunity, Ltd., which fact Piddie is wise
to. But in this ease it's a different proposition.

"Did you mean it, Tyler, handin' yourself the fresh air that way!" I
asks him.

"Absolutely," says he, snappin' some rubber bands around, a neat little
bundle.

"Who'd have thought you was a self starter!" says I. "What you going to
do now?"

He hunches his shoulders. "Don't know," says he. "I must find something
mighty quick, though."

"Oh, it can't be as desperate a case as that, can if?" I asks. "You know
you'll get two weeks' pay and with that any single-footed young hick
like you ought to----"

"But it happens I'm not single-footed," breaks in Hartley.

"Eh?" says I. "You don't mean you've gone and----"

"Nearly a month ago," says Hartley. "Nicest little girl in the world,
too. You must have noticed her. She was on the candy counter in the
arcade for a month or so."

"What!" says I. "The one with the honey-colored hair and the bashful
behavin' eyes?"

Hartley nods and blushes.

"Say, you are a fast worker when you get going, ain't you?" says I.
"Picked a Cutie-Sweet right away from all that opposition. But I judge
she's no heiress."

"Edith is just as poor as I am," admits Hartley.

"How about your old man?" I goes on. "What did Z. K. have to say when he
heard!"

"Suppose'we don't go into that," says Hartley. "As a matter of fact, I
hung up the 'phone just as he was getting his second wind."

"Then he didn't pull the 'bless you, my children,' stuff, eh?" I
suggests.

"No," says Hartley, grinnin'. "Quite the contrary. Anyway, I knew what
to expect from him. But say, Torchy, I did have a pretty vague notion of
what it costs to run a family these days."

"Don't you read the newspapers?" says I.

"Oh, I suppose I had glanced at the headlines," says Hartley. "And of
course I knew that restaurant prices had gone up, and laundry charges,
and cigarettes and so. But I hadn't shopped for ladies' silk hose, or
for shoes, or--er--robes de nuit, or that sort of thing. And I hadn't
tried to hire a three-room furnished apartment. Honest, it's something
awful."

"Yes, I've heard something like that for quite a spell now," says I.
"Found that your little hundred and fifty a month wouldn't go very far,
did you?"

"Far!" says Hartley. "Why, it was like taking a one-gallon freezer of
ice cream to a Sunday school picnic. Really, it seemed as if there were
a thousand hands reaching out for my pay envelope the moment I got it.
I don't understand how young married couples get along at all."

"If you did," says I, "you'd have a steady job explainin' the miracle to
about 'steen different Congressional committees. How about Edith? Is she
a help--or otherwise?"

"She's a good sport, Edith is," says Hartley. "She keeps me bucked up a
lot. It was her decision that I just passed on to Mr. Piddie. We talked
it all out last night; how impossible it was to live on my present
salary, and what I should say if it wasn't raised. That is, all but the
crude way I put it, and the pin-head part. We agreed, though, that I had
to make a break, and that it might as well be now as later on."

"Well, you've made it," says I. "What now?"

"We've got to think that out," says Hartley.

"The best of luck to you," says I, as he starts toward the elevator.

And with that Hartley drops out. You know how it is here in New York. If
you don't come in on the same train with people you know, or they work
in different buildin's, or patronize some other lunch room, the chances
of your seein' 'em more 'n once in six months are about as good as
though they'd moved to St. Louis or Santa Fe.

I expect I was curious about what was goin' to happen to Hartley and his
candy counter bride, maybe for two or three days. But it must have been
as many weeks before I even heard his name mentioned. That was when old
Z. K. blew into the private office one day and, after a half hour of
business chat, remarks to Old Hickory; "By the way, Ellins, how is that
son of mine getting on?"

"Eh?" says Old Hickory, starin' at him blank. "Son of yours with us? I'd
forgotten. Let's see. Torchy, in what department is young Tyler now?"

"Hartley?" says I. "Oh, he quit weeks ago."

"Quit?" says Z. K. "Do you mean he was fired?"

"A little of both," says I. "Him and Mr. Piddie split about fifty-fifty
on that. They had a debate about him gettin' a raise. No, he didn't
leave any forwardin' address and he hasn't been back since."

"Huh!" says Z. K., scratchin' his left ear. "He'd had the impudence to
go and get himself married, too. Think of that Ellins! A youngster who
never did a stroke of real work in his life loads himself up with a
family in these times. Well, I suppose he's finding out what a fool he
is, and when they both get good and hungry he'll come crawling back. Oh
yes, I'll give him a job this time, a real one. You know I've been
rebuilding my country home down near Great Neck. Been having a deuce of
a time doing it, too--materials held up, workmen going out on strikes
every few days. I'll set Hartley to running a concrete mixer, or
wheeling bricks when he shows up."

But somehow Hartley don't do the homeward crawl quite on schedule. At
any rate, old Z. K. was in the office three or four times after that
without mentionin' it, and you bet he would have cackled some if Hartley
had come back. All he reports is that the house rebuildin' is draggin'
along to a finish and he hopes to be able to move in shortly.

"Want you to drive over and see what you think of it," he remarks to Mr.
Robert, once when Old Hickory happens to be out. "Only a few plasterers
and plumbers and painters still hanging on. How about next Saturday?
I've got to be there about 2 o'clock. What say?"

"I shall be very glad to," says Mr. Robert, who's always plannin' out
ways of revisin' his own place.

If it hadn't been for some Western correspondence that needed code
replies by wire I expect I should have missed out on this tour of
inspection to the double-breasted new Tyler mansion. As it was Mr.
Robert tells me to take the code book and my hat and come along with him
in the limousine. So by the time we struck Jamaica I was ready to file
the messages and enjoy the rest of the drive.

We finds old Z. K. already on the ground, unloadin' a morning grouch on
a landscape architect.

"Be with you in a minute, Robert," says he. "Just wander in and look
around."

That wasn't so easy as it sounded, for all through the big rooms was
scaffolds and ladders and a dozen or more original members of the
Overalls Club splashin' mortar and paint around. I was glancin' at these
horny-handed sons of toil sort of casual when all of a sudden I spots
one guy in a well-daubed suit of near-white ducks who looks strangely
familiar. Walkin' up to the step-ladder for a closer view I has to stop
and let out a chuckle. It's Hartley.

"Well, well!" says I. "So you did have to crawl back, eh?"

"Eh?" says he, almost droppin' a pail of white paint. "Why, hello,
Torchy!"

"I see you're workin' for a real boss now," says I.

"Who do you mean?" says he.

"The old man," says I, grinnin'.

"Not much!" says Hartley. "He's only the owner, and precious little
bossing he can do on this job. I'm working for McNibbs, the contractor."

"You--you mean you're a reg'lar painter?" says I, gawpin'.

"Got to be, or I couldn't handle a brush here," says Hartley. "This is a
union job."

"But--but how long has this been goin' on, Hartley?" I asks.

"I've held my card for nearly three months now," says he. "No, I
haven't been painting here all that time. In fact, I came here only this
morning. The president of our local shifted me down here for--for
reasons. I'm a real painter, though."

"You look it, I must say," says I. "Like it better than being in the
bond room?"

"Oh, I'm not crazy about it," says he. "Rather smelly work. But it pays
well. Dollar an hour, you know, and time and a half for overtime. I
manage to knock out sixty or so a week. Then I get something for being
secretary of the Union."

"Huh!" says I. "Secretary, are you? How'd you work up to that so quick?"

"Oh, they found I could write fairly good English and was quick at
figures," says he. "Besides, I'm always foreman of the gang. Do all the
color mixing, you know. That's where my art school experience comes in
handy."

"That ought to tickle the old man," says I. "Seen him yet?"

"No," says Hartley, "but I want to. Is he here?"

"Sure," says I. "He's just outside. He'll be in soon."

"Fine!" says Hartley. "Say, Torchy, stick around if you want to be
entertained. I have a message for him."

"I'll be on hand," says I. "Here he comes now."

As old Z. K. stalks in, still red in the ears from his debate outside,
Hartley climbs down off the step ladder. For a minute or so the old man
don't seem to see him any more'n he does any of the other workmen that
he's had to dodge around. Not until Hartley steps right up to him and
remarks: "Mr. Tyler, I believe?" does Z. K. stop and let out a gasp.

"Hah!" he snorts. "Hartley, eh? Well, what does this mean--a
masquerade?"

"Not at all," says Hartley. "This is my regular work."

"Oh, it is, eh?" says he. "Well, keep at it then. Why do you knock off
to talk to me?"

"Because I have something to say to you, sir," says Hartley. "You sent a
couple of non-union plumbers down here the other day, didn't you?"

"What if I did?" demands Z. K. "Got to get the work finished somehow,
haven't I?"

"You'll never get it finished with scab labor, Mr. Tyler," says Hartley.
"You have tried that before, haven't you? Well, this is final. Send
those plumbers off at once or I will call out every other man on the
job."

"Wh-a-a-at!" gasps Z. K. "You will! What in thunder have you got to do
with it?"

"I've been authorized by the president of our local to strike the job,
that's all," says Hartley. "I am the secretary. Here are my credentials
and my union card."

"Bah!" snorts Z. K. "You impudent young shrimp. I don't believe a word
of it. And let me tell you, young man, that I'll send whoever I please
to do the work here, unions or no unions."

"Very well," says Hartley. With that he turns and calls out: "Lay off,
men. Pass the word on."

And say, inside of two minutes there isn't a lick of work being done
anywhere about the place. Plasterers drop their trowels and smoothing
boards, painters come down off the ladders, and all hands begin sheddin'
their work clothes. And while Z. K. is still sputterin' and fumin' the
men begin to file out with their tools under their arms. Meanwhile
Hartley has stepped over into a corner and is leisurely peelin' off his
paint-spattered ducks.

"See here, you young hound!" shouts Z. K. "You know I want to get into
this house early next month. I--I've simply got to."

"The prospects aren't good," says Hartley.

Well, they had it back and forth like that for maybe five minutes before
Z. K. starts to calm down a bit. He's a foxy old pirate, and he hates to
quit, but he's wise enough to know when he's beaten.

"Rather smooth of you, son, getting back at me this way," he observes
smilin' sort of grim. "Learned a few things, haven't you, since you've
been knocking around?"

"Oh, I was bound to," says Hartley.

"Got to be quite a man, too--among painters, eh?" adds Z. K.

Hartley shrugs his shoulders.

"Could you call all those fellows back as easily as you sent them off?"
demands Tyler.

"Quite," says Hartley. "I wouldn't, though, until you had fired those
scab plumbers."

"I see," says Z. K. "And if I did fire 'em, do you think you have
influence enough to get a full crew of union men to finish this job by
next Saturday?"

"Oh, yes," says Hartley. "I could put fifty men at work here Monday
morning--if I wanted to."

"H-m-m-m!" says Z. K., caressin' his left ear. "It's rather a big house
for just your mother and me to live in. Plenty of room for another
family. And I suppose a good studio could be fixed up on the third
floor. Well, son, want to call it a trade?"

"I'll have to talk to Edith first," says Hartley. "I think she'll like
it, and I'll bet you'll like her, too."

Uh-huh! From late reports I hear that Hartley was right both ways. A few
days later Mr. Robert tells me that the Tylers are all preparin' to move
out together. He had seen the whole four of 'em havin' a reunion dinner
at the Plutoria, and says they all seemed very chummy.

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