Torchy As A Pa

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"Just like they was members of One Big Union, eh?" says I. "But say,
Hartley's right up to date in his methods of handlin' a wrathy parent,
ain't he? Call a strike on 'em. That's the modern style. I wonder if
he's got it patented?"

CHAPTER XIX

TORCHY GETS A HUNCH

Course, I only got my suspicions, and I ain't in position to call for
the real facts in the case, but I'll bet if it came to a show down I
could name the master mind that wished this backache and the palm
blisters on me. Uh-huh! Auntie. I wouldn't put it past her, for when it
comes to evenin' up a score she's generally right there with the goods.
Deep stuff, as a rule, too.

I ain't denyin' either, but what Auntie had grounds for complaint. Maybe
you remember how she came out to spend a quiet week-end with us after a
nerve shatterin' night in town and near got chewed up by Buddy, the
super-watch dog, and then was almost flooded out of bed because the
attic storage tank ran over? Not that I didn't have a perfect alibi on
both counts. I did. But neither registered with Auntie.

Still, this before-breakfast sod-turnin' idea comes straight from Vee.
Ever try that for an appetizer? Go on, give it a whirl. Ought to be
willin' to try anything once, you know. Some wise old guy said that, I
understand. I'd like to find the spot where he's laid away. I think I'd
go plant a cabbage on his grave. Anyway, he's got some little tribute
like that comin' from me.

Just turnin' up sod with a spade in the dewy morn. Listens kind of
romantic, don't it! And you might like it first rate. Might agree with
you. As for me, I've discovered that my system don't demand anything
like that. Posi-tive-ly. I gave it a good try-out and the reactions
wasn't satisfactory.

You see, it was this way: there's a narrow strip down by the road where
our four-acre estate sort of pinches out, and Vee had planned to do some
fancy landscape gardenin' on it--a bed of cannas down the middle, I
believe, and then rows of salvia, and geraniums and other things. She
had it all mapped out on paper. Also the bulbs and potted plants had
arrived and were ready to be put in.

But it happens that Dominick, our official gardener, had all he could
jump to just then, plantin' beans and peas and corn, and the helper he
depended on to break up this roadside strip had gone back on him.

"How provoking!" says Vee. "I am so anxious to get those things in. If
the ground was ready I would do the planting myself. I just wish"--and
then she stops.

"Well, let's have it," says I. "What's your wish?"

"Oh, nothing much Torchy," says she. "But if I were strong enough to
dig up that sod I wouldn't have to wait for any pokey Italian."

"Why couldn't I do it?" I suggests reckless.

"You!" says Vee, and then snickers.

Say, if she'd come poutin' around, or said right out that she didn't see
why I couldn't make myself useful now and then, I'd have announced flat
that gardenin' was way out of my line. But when she snickers--well, you
know how it is.

"Yessum! Me," says I. "It ain't any art, is it, just stirrin' up the
ground with a spade? And how do you know, Vee, but what I'm the grandest
little digger ever was? Maybe it's a talent I've been concealin' from
you all along."

"But it's rather hard work, turning old sod, and getting out all the
grass roots and rocks," says she. "It takes a lot of strength."

"Huh!" says I. "Feel of that right arm."

"Yes," says she, "I believe you are strong, Torchy. But when could you
find the time?"

"I'd make it," says I. "All I got to do is to roll out of the cot an
hour or so earlier in the morning. Wouldn't six hours do the job? Well,
two hours a day for three days, and there you are. Efficiency stuff.
That's me. Lead me to it."

Vee gazes at me admirin'. "Aren't you splendid, Torchy!" says she. "And
I'm sure the exercise will do you a lot of good."

"Sure!" says I. "Most likely I'll get the habit and by the end of the
summer I'll be a reg'lar Sandow. Now where's that kitchen alarm clock?
Let's see. M-m-m-m! About 5:30 will do for a starter, eh?"

Oh, I'm a determined cuss when I get going. Next mornin' the sun and me
punched in at exactly the same time, and I don't know which was most
surprised. But there I was, associatin' with the twitterin' little birds
and the early worms, and to show I was just as happy as they were I hums
a merry song as I swings out through the dewy grass with the spade over
my shoulder.

Say, there's no fake about the grass being dewy at that hour, either. I
hadn't gone more 'n a dozen steps through it before my feet were as
soggy as if I'd been wadin' in a brook. I don't do any stallin' around,
same as these low brow labor gangs. I pitches right in earnest and
impetuous, makin' the dirt fly. Why, I had the busy little bee lookin'
like he was loafin' on a government contract.

I was just about gettin' my second wind and was puttin' in some heavy
licks when I hears somebody tootin' a motor horn out in the road. I
looks up to find that it's that sporty neighbor of mine, Nick Barrett,
who now and then indulges a fad for an early spin in his stripped
roadster. He has collected his particular chum, Norris Bagby, and I
expect they're out to burn up the macadam before the traffic cops go on
duty.

"What's the big idea, Torchy?" sings out Nick. "Going to bury a cat, or
something?"

"Nothing tragic like that," says I. "Just subbin' in for the gardener.
Pulling a little honest toil, such as maybe you've read about but
haven't met."

"Doing it on a bet, I suppose?" suggests Norris.

"Ah, run along and don't get comic," says I.

And with that I tears into the sod again, puttin' both shoulders and my
back into the swing. I don't let up, either, until I think it must be
after 7 o'clock, and then I stops long enough to look at my watch. It's
just 6:20. Well, I expect I slowed up some from then on. No use tryin'
to dig all over that ground in one morning. And at 6:35 I discovers that
I'd raised a water blister on both palms. Ten minutes later I noticed
this ache in my back and arms.

"Oh, well!" says I, "gotta take time to change and wash up."

At that I didn't feel so bad. After a shower and a fresh outfit from the
socks up I was ready to tackle three fried eggs and two cups of coffee.
On the way to the station I glanced proud at what I'd accomplished. But
somehow it didn't look so much. Just a little place in one corner.

Course, goin' in on the 8:03 I had to stand for a lot of kiddin'.
They're a great bunch of humorists, them commuters. Nick and Norrie has
spread the news around industrious about my sunrise spadin' stunt, and
everybody has to pull his little wheeze.

"How's the old back feel about now; eh, Torchy?" asks one.

"Great stuff!" says another. "Everybody does it--once."

"The boy's clever with the spade, I'll say," adds Nick. "Let's all turn
out tomorrow morning and watch him. He does it regular, they tell me."

I grinned back at 'em as convincin' as I could. For somehow I wasn't
just in the mood for grinnin'. My head was achin' more or less, and my
back hurt, and my palms were sore. By noon I was a wreck. Absolutely.
And when I thought of puttin' in two or three more sessions like that I
had to groan. Could I do it? On the other hand, could I renig on the job
after all that brash line of talk I'd given Vee?

Say, it was all I could do to limp out to luncheon. I didn't want much,
but I thought maybe some tea and toast would make me feel better. And it
was in a restaurant that I ran across this grouchy Scotchman, MacGregor
Shinn, who sold me the place here a while back.

"Maybe you don't know it, Mac," says I, "but you're a wise guy."

"Am I, though?" says he. "I hadn't noticed it myself. Just how, now?"

"Unloadin' that country property on me," says I. "I used to wonder why
you let go of it. I don't any more. I've got the right hunch at last.
You got up bright and early one morning and tried digging around with a
spade. Eh?"

Mac stares at me sort of puzzled. "Not me," says he. "Whatever put that
in your mind, me lad?"

"Ah, come!" says I. "With all that land lyin' around you was bound to
get reckless with a spade some time or other. Might not have been flower
beds you was excavatin' for, same as me. Maybe you was specializin' on
spuds, or cabbages. But I'll bet you had your foolish spell."

Mr. Shinn shakes his head. "All the digging I ever did out there," says
he, "was with a niblick in the bunkers of the Roaring Rock golf course.
No, I'm wrong."

"Ha, ha!" says I. "I thought so."

"Yes," he goes on, rubbin' his chin reminiscent, "I mind me of one
little job of digging I did. I had a cook once who had a fondness for
gin that was scandalous. Locking it up was no good, except in my bureau
drawers, so one time when I had an extra case of Gordon come in I
sneaked out at night and buried it. That was just before I sold the
place to you and--By George, me lad!"

Here he has stopped and is gazin' at me with his mouth open.

"Well?" says I.

"I canna mind digging it up again," says he.

"That doesn't sound much like a Scotchman," says I, "being so careless
with good liquor. But you were in such a rush to get back to town maybe
you did forget. Where did you plant it?"

Mac scratches his head. "I canna seem to think," says he.

And about then I begins to get a glimmer of this brilliant thought of
mine. "Would it have been in that three-cornered strip that runs along
by the road?" I asks.

"It might," says he.

I didn't press him for any more details. I'd heard enough. I finished my
invalid's lunch and slid out. But say, when I caught the 5:13 out to
Harbor Hills that afternoon I had something all doped out to slip to
that bunch of comic commuters. I laid for 'em in the smokin' car, and
when Nick Barrett discovers me inspectin' my palm blisters he starts in
with his kidding again.

"Oh, you'll be able to get out and dig again in a week or so," says he.

"I hope so," says I.

"Still strong for it, eh?" says he.

"Maybe if you knew what I was diggin' for," says I, "you'd--well,
there's no tellin'."

"Eh?" says he. "Whaddye mean?"

I shakes my head and looks mysterious.

"Isn't it green corn, or string beans that you're aimin' at, Torchy?" he
asks.

"Not exactly," says I. "Vegetable raisin' ain't in my line. I leave
that to Dominick. But this--oh, well!"

"You don't mean," insists Nick, eyein' me close, "buried treasure!"

"I expect some would call it that--in these days," says I.

Uh-huh! I had him sittin' up by then, with his ear stretched. And I must
say that from then on Nick does some scientific pumpin'. Not that I let
out anything in so many words, but I'm afraid he got the idea that what
I was after was something money couldn't buy. That is, not unless
somebody violated a sacred amendment to the grand old constitution. In
fact, I may have mentioned casually that a whole case of Gordon was
worth riskin' a blister here and there.

As for Nick, he simply listens and gasps. You know how desperate some of
them sporty ginks are, who started out so gay only a year or so ago with
a private stock in the cellar that they figured would last 'em until the
country rose in wrath and undid Mr. Volstead's famous act? Most of 'em
are discoverin' what poor guessers they were. About 90 per cent are
bluffin' along on home brew hooch that has all the delicate bouquet of
embalmin' fluid and produced about the same effect as a slug of liquid
T. N. T., or else they're samplin' various kinds of patent medicines and
perfumes. Why, I know of one thirsty soul who tries to work up a dinner
appetite by rattlin' a handful of shingle nails in the old shaker. And
if Nick Barrett has more 'n half a bottle of Martini mixture left in the
house he sleeps with it under his pillow. So you can judge how far his
tongue hangs out when he gets me to hint that maybe a whole case of
Gordon is buried somewhere on my premises.

"Torchy," says he, shakin' me solemn by the hand, "I wish you the best
of luck. If you'll take my advice, though, you won't mention this to
anyone else."

Oh, no, I didn't. That is, only to Norrie Bagby and one or two others
that I managed to get a word with on the ride home.

Vee was mighty sympathetic about the blisters and the way my back felt.
I was dosed and plastered and put to bed at 8:30 to make up for all the
sleep I'd lost at the other end of the day.

"And we'll not bother any more about the silly old flowers," says she.
"If Dominick can't find time to do the spading we'll just let it go."

"No," says I, firm and heroic. "I'm no quitter, Vee. I said I'd get it
done within three days and I stick to it."

"Torchy," says she, "don't you dare try getting up again at daylight and
working with your poor blistered hands. I--I shall feel dreadfully about
it, if you do."

"Well, maybe I will skip tomorrow mornin'," says I, "but somehow or
other that diggin' has got to be done."

"I only wish Auntie could hear you say that," says Vee, pattin' me
gently on the cheek.

"Why Auntie?" I asks.

"Oh, just because," says Vee.

With that she fixes me up all comfy on the sleepin' porch and tells me
to call her if I want anything.

"I won't," says I. "I'm all set for slumber. It's goin' to be a fine
large night, ain't it!"

"Perfect," says Vee.

"Moon shinin' and everything?" says I.

"Yes," says she.

"Then here's hoping," says I.

"There, there!" says Vee. "I'm afraid you're a little feverish."

Maybe I was, but I didn't hear another thing until more 'n ten hours
later when I woke up to find the sun winkin' in at me through the
shutters.

"Did you have a good night's rest?" asks Vee.

"As good as they come," says I. "How about you!"

"Oh, I slept fairly well," says she. "I was awake once or twice. I
suppose I was worrying a little about you. And then I thought I hear
strange noises."

"What sort of noises?" I asks.

"Oh, like a lot of men walking by," says she. "That must have been
nearly midnight. They were talking low as they passed, and it almost
sounded as if they were carrying tools of some sort. Then along towards
morning I thought I heard them pass again. I'm sure some of them were
swearing."

"Huh!" says I. "I wonder what they could have been peeved about on such
a fine night?"

"Or I might have been simply dreaming," she adds.

"Yes, and then again," says I, smotherin' a chuckle.

I could hardly wait to dress and shave before rushin' out to inspect the
spot where I'd almost ruined myself only the mornin' before. And it was
something worth inspectin'. I'll say. Must be nearly half an acre in
that strip and I expect that sod has been growin' for years untouched by
the hand of man. At 6 P. M. last night it was just a mass of thick grass
and dandelions, but now--say, a tractor plough and a gang of prairie
tamers couldn't have done a more thorough job. If there was a square
foot that hadn't been torn up I couldn't see it with the naked eye.

Course, it aint all smooth and even. There was holes here and there,
some of 'em three feet deep, but about all the land needed now was a
little rakin' and fillin' in, such as Dominick could do in his spare
time. The cheerin' fact remains that the hard part of the work has been
done, silent and miraculous, and without price.

I shouts for Vee to come out and see. It ain't often, either, that I can
spring anything on her that leaves her stunned and bug-eyed.

"Why, Torchy!" says she, gaspy. "How in the world did you ever manage
it? I--I don't understand."

"Oh, very simple!" says I. "It's all in havin' the right kind of
neighbors."

"But you don't mean," says she, "that you persuaded some of our--oh, I'm
sure you never could. Besides, you're grinning. Torchy, I want you to
tell me all about it. Come, now! Exactly what happened last night?"

"Well," says I, "not being present myself I could hardly tell that. But
I've got a good hunch."

"What is it!" she insists.

"From your report of what you heard," says I, "and from the looks of the
ground 'n everything, I should judge that the Harbor Hills Exploring and
Excavating Co. had been making a night raid on our property."

"Pooh!" says Vee. "I never heard of such a company. But if there is one,
why should they come here?"

"Oh, just prospectin', I expect," says I.

"For what?" demands Vee.

"For stuff that the 18th amendment says they can't have," says I.
"Gettin' down to brass tacks, for a case of dry gin."

Even that don't satisfy Vee. She demands why they should dig for any
such thing on our land.

"They might have heard some rumor," says I, "that MacGregor Shinn went
off and left it buried there. As though a Scotchman could ever get as
careless as that. I don't believe he did. Anyway, some of them smart
Alec commuters who were kiddin' me so free yesterday must have worked up
blisters of their own. My guess is that they lost some sleep, too."

You don't have to furnish Vee with a diagram of a joke, you know, before
she sees it. At that she squints her eyes and lets out a snicker.

"I wonder, Torchy," says she, "who could have started such a rumor?"

"Yes, that's the main mystery, ain't it?" says I. "But your flower bed
is about ready, ain't it?"

CHAPTER XX

GIVING 'CHITA A LOOK

I got to admit that there's some drawbacks to being a 100 per cent
perfect private see. Not that I mind making myself useful around the
general offices. I'm always willin' to roll up my sleeves any time and
save the grand old Corrugated Trust from going on the rocks. I'll take a
stab at anything, from meetin' a strike committee of the Amalgamated
Window Washers' Union to subbin' in as president for Old Hickory at the
annual meetin'. And between times I don't object to makin' myself as
handy as a socket wrench. That is, so long as it's something that has to
do with finance, high or low.

But say, when they get to usin' me in strictly fam'ly affairs, I almost
work up a grouch. Notice the almost. Course, with this fair-and-warmer
disposition of mine I can't quite register. Not with Mr. Robert, anyway.
He has such a matey, I-say-old-chap way with him. Like here the other
day when he comes strollin' out from the private office rubbin' his chin
puzzled, stares around for a minute, and then makes straight for my
desk.

"Well," says he, "I presume you noted the arrival of the prodigal son;
eh, Torchy?"

"Meaning Ambrose the Ambler?" says I.

"The same," says he.

"They will come back even from South America," says I. "And you was
figurin', I expect, how that would be a long, wet walk. But then,
nothing was ever too wet for Amby, and the only fear he had of water was
that he might get careless some time and swallow a little."

"Quite so," says Mr. Robert, grinnin'.

You see, this Ambrose Wood party is only an in-law once removed. Maybe
you remember Ferdy, who had the nerve to marry Marjorie Ellins, the
heavyweight sister of Mr. Robert's, here a few years back? Well, that
was when the Ellinses acquired a brunette member of the flock. Ambrose
is a full brother of Ferdy's. In every sense. That is, he was in the
good old days when Mr. Volstead was only a name towards the end of roll
call.

I ought to know more or less about Amby for we had him here in the
general offices for quite some time, tryin' to discover if there wasn't
some sphere of usefulness that would excuse us handin' him a pay
envelope once a week. There wasn't. Course, we didn't try him as a paper
weight or a door stop. But he had a whirl at almost everything else. And
the result was a total loss.

For one thing, time clocks meant no more to Amby than an excursion ad.
would to a Sing Sing lifer. Amby wasn't interested in 'em. He'd drift
in among the file room or bond clerks, or whatever bunch he happened to
be inflicted on that particular month, at any old hour, from 10 A. M. up
to 2:30 P. M. Always chirky and chipper about it, too. And his little
tales about the parties he'd been to on the night before was usually
interestin'. Which was bad for the general morale, as you can guess.
Also his light and frivolous way of chuckin' zippy lady stenogs under
the chin and callin' 'em "Dearie" didn't help his standin' any. Yeauh!
He was some boy, Amby, while he lasted. Three different times Brother
Ferdie was called from his happy home at night to rush down with enough
cash bail to rescue Ambrose from a cold-hearted desk sergeant, and once
he figured quite prominent on the front page of the morning papers when
he insisted on confidin' to the judge that him and the young lady in the
taxi was really the king and queen of Staten Island come over to visit
upper Broadway. I don't doubt that Amby thought he was something of the
kind at the time, too, but you know how the reporters are apt to play up
an item of that kind. And of course they had to lug in the fact that
Ambrose was a near-son-in-law of the president of the Corrugated Trust.

That was where Old Hickory pushed the button for me. "Young man," says
he, chewin' his cigar savage, "what should you say was the longest
steamer trip that one could buy a ticket for direct from New York?"

"Why," says I, "my guess would be Buenos Ayres."

"Very well," says he, "engage a one way passage on the next boat and see
that Mr. Ambrose Wood stays aboard until the steamer sails."

Which I did. Ambrose didn't show any hard feelin's over it. In fact, as
I remember, he was quite cheerful. "Tell the old hard boiled egg not to
worry about me," says he. "He may be able to lose me this way for a
while, but I'm not clear off the map yet. I'll be back some day."

Must have been more 'n three years ago, and as I hadn't heard Amby's
name mentioned in all that time I joined in the general surprise when I
saw him trailin' in dressed so neat and lookin' so fit.

"On his way to hand Ferdy the glad jolt, eh?" I asks.

"No," says Mr. Robert. "Ambrose seems quite willing to postpone meeting
his brother for a day or so. He has just landed, you see, and doesn't
care to dash madly out into the suburbs. What he wishes most, as I
understand, is to take a long, long look at New York."

"Well, after three years' exile," says I, "you can hardly blame him for
that."

Mr. Robert hunches his shoulders. "I suppose one can't," says he. "Only
it leaves him on my hands, as it were. Someone must do the family
honors--dinner, theatre, all that sort of thing. And if I were not tied
up by an important committee meeting out at the country club I should be
very glad to--er--"

"Ye-e-es?" says I, glancin' at him suspicious.

"You've guessed it, Torchy," says he. "I must leave them to you."

"Whaddye mean, them?" says I. "I thought we was talking about Ambrose."

"Oh, certainly," says Mr. Robert. "But Mrs. Wood is with him, he says.
In fact they came up together. Same boat. They would, you know. Charming
young woman. At least, so I inferred from what Ambrose said. One of
those dark Spanish beauties such as--"

"Check!" says I. "That lets me out. All the Spanish I know is 'Multum in
parvo' and I forget just what that means now. I couldn't talk to the
lady a-tall."

But Mr. Robert insists I don't have to be conversational with her, or
with Ambrose, either. All he wants me to do is steer 'em to some nice,
refined place regardless of expense, give 'em a welcome-home feed that
will make 'em forget that the Ellins family is only represented by
proxy, tow 'em to some high-class entertainment, like "The Boudoir
Girls," and sort of see that Ambrose lands back at his hotel without
having got mixed up with any of his old set.

"Oh!" says I. "Kind of a he-chaperone act, eh?"

That seems to be the general idea, and as he promises to stop in at the
house and fix things up for me at home, and pushes a roll of twenties at
me to spray around with as I see fit, of course, I has to take the job.
I trails in with Mr. Robert while he apologizes elaborate to Ambrose and
explains how he's had to ask me to fill in.

"Perfectly all right, old man," says Ambrose. "In fact--well, you get
the idea, eh? The little wife hasn't quite got her bearings yet. Might
feel better about meeting her new relatives after she's been around a
bit. And Torchy will do fine."

He tips me the wink as Mr. Robert hurries off.

"Same old cut-up, eh, Amby?" says I.

"Who me?" says he. "No, no! Nothing like that. Old married man, steady
as a church. Uh-huh! Two years and a half in the harness. You ought to
see the happy hacienda we call home down there. Say, it's forty-eight
long miles out of Buenos Ayres. Can you picture that! El Placida's the
name of the cute little burg. It looks it. They don't make 'em any more
placid anywhere."

"I wonder you picked it then," says I.

"I didn't exactly," says Ambrose. "El Placida rather picked me. Funny
how things work out sometimes. Got chummy with an old boy going down on
the boat, Senor Alvarado. Showed him how to play Canfield and Russian
bank and gave him the prescription for mixing a Hartford stinger. Before
we crossed the line he thought I was an ace. Wanted to know what I was
going to do down in his great country. 'Oh, anything that will keep me
in cigarettes,' says I. 'You come with me and learn the wool business,'
says he. 'It's a bet,' says I. So instead of being stranded in a strange
land and nibbling the shrubbery for lunch, as my dear brother and the
Ellinses had doped out, I lands easy on my feet with a salary that
starts when I walks down the gank plank. Only I have to be in El Placida
to draw my pay."

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