Torchy As A Pa

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And then I begun to find scratches on my hands. The little rascal was
gettin' a full set of puppy teeth. Sharp as needles, too. I noticed a
few threads pulled out of my sleeve. And once when he got a good grip on
Vee's skirt he made a rip three inches long. But he was so cunnin' about
it we only laughed.

"You young rough houser!" I'd say, and push him over. He'd come right
back for more, though, until he was tuckered and then he'd stretch out
on something soft and sleep with one paw over his nose while we watched
admirin'.

We had quite a time findin' a name for him. I got Joe to give his
pedigree all written out and we was tryin' to dope out from that
something that would sound real Scotch. Vee got some kennel catalogues,
too, and read over some of those old Ian MacLaren stories for names, but
we couldn't hit on one that just suited. Meanwhile I begins callin' him
Buddy, as the boys did everybody in the army, and finally Vee insists
that it's exactly the name for him.

"He's so rough and ready," says she.

"He's rough, all right," says I, examinin' a new tooth mark on the back
of my hand.

And he kept on gettin' rougher. What he really needed, I expect, was a
couple of cub bears to exercise his teeth and paws on; good, husky,
tough-skinned ones, at that. Not havin' 'em he took it out on us. Oh,
yes. Not that he was to blame, exactly. We'd started him that way, and
he seemed to like the taste of me 'specially.

"They're one-man dogs, you know," says Vee.

"Meanin'," says I, "that they like to chew one man at a time. See my
right wrist. Looks like I'd shoved it through a pane of glass. Hey, you
tarrier! Lay off me for a minute, will you? For the love of soup eat
something else. Here's a slipper. Now go to it."

And you should see him shake and worry that around the room. Almost as
good as a vaudeville act--until I discovers that he's gnawed a hole
clear through the toe. "Gosh!" says I. "My favorite slipper, too."

At four months he was no longer a handful. He was a lapful, and then
some. Somewhere near twenty-five pounds, as near as we could judge by
holding him on the bathroom scales for the fraction of a second. And
much too lively for any lap. Being cuddled wasn't his strong point.
Hardly. He'd be all over you in a minute, clawin' you in the face with
his big paws and nippin' your ear or grabbin' a mouthful of hair; all
playful enough, but just as gentle as being tackled by a quarterback on
an end run.

And he was gettin' wise, all right. He knew to the minute when mealtime
came around, and if he wasn't let out on the kitchen porch where his
chow was served he thought nothing of scratchin' the paint off a door or
tryin' to chew the knob. Took only two tries to teach him to stand up on
his hind legs and walk for his meals, as straight as a drum major. Also
he'd shake hands for a bit of candy, and retrieve a rubber ball. But
chiefly he delighted to get a stick of soft wood and go prancin' through
the house with it, rappin' the furniture or your shins as he went, and
end up by chewin' it to bits on the fireplace hearth rug. Or it might be
a smelly old bone that he'd smuggled in from outside. You could guess
that would get Vee registerin' a protest and I'd have to talk to Buddy.

"Hey!" I'd remark, grabbin' him by the collar. "Whaddye think this is, a
soap fact'ry? Leggo that shin-bone."

"Gr-r-r-r!" he'd remark back, real hostile, and roll his eyes menacin'.

At which Vee would snicker and observe: "Now isn't he the dearest thing
to do that, Torchy? Do let him have his booful bone there. I'll spread a
newspaper under it."

Her theory was good, only Buddy didn't care to gnaw his bone on an
evening edition. He liked eatin' it on the Turkish rug better. And
that's where he did eat it. That was about the way his trainin' worked
out in other things. We had some perfectly good ideas about what he
should do; he'd have others, quite different; and we'd compromise. That
is, we'd agree that Buddy was right. Seemed to me about the only thing
to do, unless you had all day or all night to argue with him and show
him where he was wrong. I could keep it up for an hour or two. Then I
either got hoarse or lost my disposition.

You remember there was some talk of keepin' him in the garage at first.
Anyway, it was mentioned. And he was kept there the first night, until
somewhere around 2 A. M. Then I trailed out in a bathrobe and slippers
and lugged him in. He'd howled for three hours on a stretch and seemed
to be out for the long-distance championship. Not havin' looked up the
past performances in non-stop howlin' I couldn't say whether he'd hung
up a new record or not. I was willin' to concede the point. Besides, I
wanted a little sleep, even if he didn't. I expect we was lucky that he
picks out a berth behind the kitchen stove as the proper place for him
to snooze. He might have fancied the middle of our bed. If he had, we'd
camped on the floor, I suppose.

Another good break for us was the fact that he was willin' to be
tethered out daytimes on a wire traveler that Dominick fixed up for him.
Course, he did dig up a lot of Vee's favorite dahlia bulbs, and he
almost undermined a corner of the kitchen wing when he set out to put a
choice bone in cold storage, but he was so comical when he tamped the
bone down with his nose that Vee didn't complain.

"We can have the hole filled in and sodded over next spring," says Vee.

"Huh!" I says. "By next spring he'll be big enough to tunnel clear under
the house."

Looked like he would. At five months Buddy weighed 34 pounds and to
judge by his actions most of him was watchspring steel geared in high
speed. He was as hard as nails all over and as quick-motioned as a cat.
I'd got into the habit of turnin' him loose when I came home and
indulgin' in a half hour's rough house play with him. Buddy liked that.
He seemed to need it in his business of growin' up. If I happened to
forget, he wasn't backward in remindin' me of the oversight. He'd
developed a bark that was sort of a cross between an automobile shrieker
and throwin' a brick through a plate glass window, and when he put his
whole soul into expressin' his feelin's that way everybody within a mile
needed cotton in their ears. So I'd drape myself in an old raincoat, put
on a pair of heavy drivin' gauntlets, and frisk around with him.

No doubt about Buddy's being glad to see me on them occasions. His
affection was deep and violent. He'd let out a few joy yelps, take a
turn around the yard, and then come leapin' at me with his mouth open
and his eyes rollin' wild. My part of the game was to grab him by the
back of the neck and throw him before he could sink his teeth into any
part of me. Sometimes I missed. That was a point for Buddy. Then I'd pry
his jaws loose and he'd dash off for another circle. I couldn't say how
the score averaged. I was too busy to keep count. About fifty-fifty
would be my guess. Anyway, it did Buddy a lot of good and must have been
fine practice. If he ever has to stop an offensive on the part of an
invadin' bull-dog he'll be in good trim. He'd tackle one, all right. The
book we bought says that an Airedale will go up a tree after a mountain
lion. I can believe it. I've never seen Buddy tuck his tail down for
anything on four legs. Yet he ain't the messy kind. He don't seem
anxious to start anything. But I'll bet he'd be a hard finisher.

And he sure is a folksy dog with the people he knows around the house.
Most of 'em he treats gentler than he does me, which shows that he's got
some sense. And when it comes to the baby; why, say, he'll gaze as
admirin' at young Master Richard toddlin' around as if he was some blood
relation; followin' him everywhere, with that black nose nuzzled under
one of the youngster's arms, or with a sleeve held tender in his teeth.
Any kid at all Buddy is strong for. He'll leave a bone or his play any
time he catches sight of one, and go prancin' around 'em, waggin' his
stubby tail friendly and inviting 'em to come have a romp.

Maybe you wouldn't accuse Buddy of being handsome. I used to think
Airedales was about the homeliest dogs on the list. Mostly, you know,
they're long on nose. It starts between their ears and extends straight
out for about a foot. Gives 'em kind of a simple expression. But you get
a good look into them brown eyes of Buddy's, 'specially when he's
listenin' to you with his head cocked on one side and an ear turned
wrong side out, and you'll decide he must have some gray matter
concealed somewhere. Then there's that black astrakan coat-effect on his
back, and the clean-cut lines of his deep chest and slim brown legs,
which are more or less decorative. Anyway he got so he looked kind of
good to me.

Like people, though, Buddy had his bad days. Every once in a while his
fondness for chewin' things would get him in wrong. Then he'd have to
be scolded. And you can't tell me he don't know the meanin' of the words
when you call him a "bad, bad dog." No, sir. Why, he'd drop his head and
tail and sneak into a corner as if he'd been struck with a whip. And
half an hour later he'd be up to the same sort of mischief. I asked Joe
Sarello about it.

"Ah!" says Joe, shruggin' his shoulders. "Hees puppy yet. Wanna do w'at
he lak, all tam. He know better, but he strong in the head. You gotta
beat him up good. No can hurt. Tough lak iron. Beat him up."

But Vee won't have it. I didn't insist. I didn't care much for the job.
So Buddy gets off by being informed stern that he'd a bad, bad dog.

And then here the other day I comes home to find Buddy locked in the
garage and howlin' indignant. Vee says he mustn't be let out, either.

"What's the idea?" I asks.

Then I gets the whole bill of complaint. It seems Buddy has started the
day by breakin' loose from his wire and chasin' the chickens all over
the place. He'd cornered our pet Rhode Island Red rooster and nipped out
a mouthful of tail feathers. It took the whole household and some of the
neighbors to get him to quit that little game.

This affair had almost been forgiven and he was havin' his lunch on the
back porch when Vee's Auntie blows in unexpected for a little visit.
Before anybody has time to stop him Buddy is greetin' her in his usual
impetuous manner. He does it by plantin' his muddy forepaws in three
places on the front of her dress and then grabbin' her gold lorgnette
playful, breakin' the chain, and runnin' off with the loot.

I expect that was only Buddy's idea of letting her know that he welcomed
her as a member of the fam'ly in good standin'. But Auntie takes it
different. She asks Vee why we allow a "horrible beast like that to run
at large." She's a vivid describer, Auntie. She don't mind droppin' a
word of good advice now and then either. While she's being sponged off
and brushed down she recommends that we get rid of such a dangerous
animal as that at once.

So Buddy is tied up again outside. But it appears to be his day for
doing the wrong thing. Someone has hung Vee's best evenin' wrap out on a
line to air after having a spot cleaned. It's the one with the silver
fox fur on the collar. And it's hung where Buddy can just reach it.
Well, you can guess the rest. Any kind of a fox, deceased or otherwise,
is fair game for Buddy. It's right in his line. And when they discovered
what he was up to there wasn't a piece of that fur collar big enough to
make an ear muff. Parts of the wrap might still be used for polishin'
the silver. Buddy seemed kind of proud of the thorough job he'd made.

Well, Vee had been 'specially fond of that wrap. She'd sort of blown
herself when she got it, and you know how high furs have gone to these
days. I expect she didn't actually weep, but she must have been near it.
And there was Auntie with more stern advice. She points out how a brute
dog with such destructive instincts would go on and on, chewin' up first
one valuable thing and then another, until we'd have nothing left but
what we had on.

Buddy had been tried and found guilty in the first degree. Sentence had
been passed. He must go.

"Perhaps your barber friend will take him back," says Vee. "Or the
Ellinses might want him. Anyway, he's impossible. You must get rid of
him tonight. Only I don't wish to know how, or what becomes of him."

"Very well," says I, "if that's the verdict."

I loads Buddy ostentatious into the little roadster and starts off, with
him wantin' to sit all over me as usual, or else drapin' himself on the
door half-way out of the car. Maybe I stopped at Joe Sarello's, maybe I
only called at the butcher's and collected a big, juicy shin-bone.
Anyway, it was' after dark when I got back and when I came in to dinner
I was alone.

The table chat that evenin' wasn't quite as lively as it generally is.
And after we'd been sitting around in the livin' room an hour or so with
everything quiet, Vee suddenly lets loose with a sigh, which is a new
stunt for her. She ain't the sighin' kind. But there's no mistake about
this one.

"Eh?" says I, lookin' up.

"I--I hope you found him a good home," says she.

"Oh!" says I. "The impossible beast? Probably as good as he deserves."

Then we sat a while longer.

"Little Richard was getting very fond of him," Vee breaks out again.

"Uh-huh," says I.

We went upstairs earlier than usual. There wasn't so much to do about
gettin' ready--no givin' Buddy a last run outside, or makin' him shake a
good night with his paw, or seein' that he had water in his dish.
Nothing but turnin' out the lights. Once, long after Vee should have
been asleep. I thought I heard her snifflin', but I dozed off again
without makin' any remark.

I must have been sawin' wood good and hard, too, when I wakes up to find
her shakin' me by the shoulder.

"Listen, Torchy," she's sayin'. "Isn't that Buddy's bark?"

"Eh? Buddy?" says I. "How could it be?"

"But it is!" she insists. "It's coming from the garage, too."

"Well, that's odd," says I. "Maybe I'd better go out and see."

I was puzzled all right, in spite of the fact that I'd left him there
with his bone and had made Dominick promise to stick around and quiet
him if he began yelpin'. But this wasn't the way Buddy generally barked
when he was indignant. He was lettin' 'em out short and crisp. They
sounded different somehow, more like business. And the light was turned
on in the garage!

First off I thought Dominick must be there. Maybe I wouldn't have dashed
out so bold if I'd doped it out any other way. I hadn't thought of car
thieves. Course, there had been some cases around, mostly young hicks
from the village stealin' joy-rides. But I hadn't worried about their
wantin' to take my little bus. So I arrives on the jump.

And there in a corner of the garage are two young toughs, jumpin' and
dodgin' at a lively rate, with Buddy sailin' into 'em for all he's worth
and givin' out them quick short battle cries. One of the two has just
managed to get hold of a three-foot length of galvanized water pipe and
is swingin' vicious at Buddy when I crashes in.

Well, we had it hectic for a minute or so there, but it turns out a draw
with no blood shed, although I think Buddy and I could have made 'em
sorry they came if they hadn't made a break and got past us. And when we
gets back to where Vee is waitin' with the fire-poker in her hand Buddy
still waves in his teeth a five-inch strip of brown mixture trousering.

"You blessed, blessed Buddy!!" says Vee, after she's heard the tale.

Oh, yes, Buddy finished the night behind the stove in the kitchen. I
guess he's kind of earned his right to that bunk. Course, he ain't
sprouted any wings yet, but he's gettin' so the sight of a switch waved
at him works wonders. Some day, perhaps, he'll learn to be less careless
what he exercises them sharp teeth of his on. Last night it was the
leather covering on the library couch--chewed a hole half as big as your
hand.

"Never mind," says Vee. "We can keep a cushion over it."

CHAPTER V

IN DEEP FOR WADDY

And all the time I had Wadley Fiske slated as a dead one! Course, he was
one of Mr. Robert's clubby friends. But that don't always count. He may
be choosey enough picking live wires for his office staff, Mr. Robert,
as you might guess by my bein' his private sec; but when it came to
gettin' a job lot of friends wished on him early in his career, I must
say he couldn't have been very finicky.

Not that Waddy's a reg'lar washout, or carries a perfect vacuum between
the ears, or practices any of the seven deadly sins. He's a cheerful,
good-natured party, even if he is built like a 2x4 and about as broad in
the shoulders as a cough drop is thick. I understand he qualifies in the
scheme of things by playin' a fair game of billiards, is always willing
to sit in at bridge, and can make himself useful at any function where
the ladies are present. Besides, he always wears the right kind of
clothes, can say bright little things at a dinner party, and can
generally be located by calling up any one of his three clubs.

Chiefly, though, Waddy is a ladies' man. With him being in and out of
the Corrugated General Offices so much I couldn't help gettin' more or
less of a line on him that way, for he's always consultin' Mr. Robert
about sendin' flowers to this one, or maneuverin' to get introduced to
the other, or gushin' away about some sweet young thing that he's met
the night before.

"How does he get away with all that Romeo stuff," I asks Mr. Robert
once, "without being tagged permanent? Is it just his good luck?"

"Waddy calls it his hard luck," says Mr. Robert. "It seems as if they
just use him to practice on. He will find a new queen of his heart,
appear to be getting on swimmingly up to a certain point--and then she
will marry someone else. Invariably. I've known of at least a half dozen
of his affairs to turn out like that."

"Kind of a matrimonial runner-up, eh?" says I.

Oh, yes, I expect we got off a lot of comic lines about Waddy. Anyway we
passed 'em as such. But of course there come days when we have other
things to do here at the Corrugated besides shoot the gay and frivolous
chatter back and forth. Now and then. Such as here last Wednesday when
Mr. Robert had two committee meetin's on for the afternoon and was goin'
over with me some tabulated stuff I'd doped out for the annual report.
Right in the midst of that Wadley Fiske blows in and proceeds to hammer
Mr. Robert on the back.

"I say, Bob," says he, "you remember my telling you about the lovely
Marcelle Jedain? I'm sure I told you."

"If you didn't it must have been an oversight," says Mr. Robert.
"Suppose we admit that you did."

"Well, what do you think?" goes on Waddy, "She is here!"

"Eh?" says Mr. Robert, glancin' around nervous. "Why the deuce do you
bring her here?"

"No, no, my dear chap!" protests Waddy. "In this country, I mean."

"Oh!" and Mr. Robert sighs relieved. "Well, give the young lady my best
regards and--er--I wish you luck. Thanks for dropping in to tell me."

"Not at all," says Waddy, drapin' himself easy on a chair. "But that's
just the beginning."

"Sorry, Waddy," says Mr. Robert, "but I fear I am too busy just now
to----"

"Bah!" snorts Waddy. "You can attend to business any time--tomorrow,
next week, next month. But the lovely Marcelle may be sailing within
forty-eight hours."

"Well, what do you expect me to do?" demands Mr. Robert. "Want me to
scuttle the steamer?"

"I want you to help me find Joe Bruzinski," says Waddy.

Mr. Robert throws up both hands and groans. "Here, Torchy," says, he,
"take him away. Listen to his ravings, and if you can discover any
sense----"

"But I tell you," insists Waddy, "that I must find Bruzinski at once."

"Very well," says Mr. Robert, pushin' him towards the door. "Torchy will
help you find him. Understand, Torchy? Bruzinski. Stay with him until he
does."

"Yes, sir," says I, grinnin' as I locks an arm through one of Waddy's
and tows him into the outer office. "Bruzinski or bust."

And by degrees I got the tale. First off, this lovely Marcelle person
was somebody he'd met while he was helpin' wind up the great war. No,
not on the Potomac sector. Waddy actually got across. You might not
think it to look at him, but he did. Second lieutenant, too. Infantry,
at that. But they handed out eommissions to odder specimens than him at
Plattsburg, you know. And while Waddy got over kind of late he had the
luck to be in a replacement unit that made the whoop-la advance into
Belgium after the Hun line had cracked.

Seems it was up in some dinky Belgian town where the Fritzies had been
runnin' things for four years that Waddy meets this fair lady with the
impulsive manners. His regiment had wandered in only a few hours after
the Germans left and to say that the survivin' natives was glad to see
'em is drawin' it mild. This Miss Jedain was the gladdest of the glad,
and when Waddy shows up at her front door with a billet ticket callin'
for the best front room she just naturally falls on his neck. I take it
he got kissed about four times in quick concussion. Also that the flavor
lasted.

"To be received in that manner by a high born, charming young woman,"
says Waddy. "It--it was delightful. Perhaps you can imagine."

"No," says I. "I ain't got that kind of a mind. But go on. What's the
rest?"

Well, him and the lovely Marcelle had three days of it. Not going to a
fond clinch every time he came down to breakfast or drifted in for
luncheon. She simmered down a bit, I under stand, after her first wild
splurge. But she was very folksy all through his stay, insisted that
Waddy was her heroic deliverer, and all that sort of thing.

"Of course," says Waddy, "I tried to tell her that I'd had very little
to do personally with smashing the Hindenburg line. But she wouldn't
listen to a word. Besides, my French was rather lame. So we--we--Well,
we became very dear to each other. She was charming, utterly. And so
full of gratitude to all America. She could not do enough for our boys.
All day she was going among them, distributing little dainties she had
cooked, giving them little keepsakes, smiling at them, singing to them.
And every night she had half a dozen officers in to dinner. But to
me--ah, I can't tell you how sweet she was."

"Don't try," says I. "I think I get a glimmer. All this lasted three
days, eh! Then you moved on."

Waddy sighs deep. "I didn't know until then how dreadful war could be,"
says he. "I promised to come back to her just as soon as the awful mess
was over. She declared that she would come to America if I didn't. She
gave me one of her rings. 'It shall be as a token,' she told me, 'that I
am yours.'"

"Sort of a trunk check, eh?" says I.

"Ah, that ring!" says Waddy. "You see, it was too large for my little
finger too small for any of the others. And I was afraid of losing it if
I kept it in my pocket. I was always losing things--shaving mirrors,
socks, wrist watch. Going about like that one does. At least, I did. All
over France I scattered my belongings. That's what you get by having had
a valet for so long.

"So I called up Joe Bruzinski, my top sergeant. Best top in the army,
Joe; systematic, methodical. I depended upon him for nearly everything;
couldn't have gotten along without him, in fact. Not an educated fellow,
you know. Rather crude. An Americanized Pole, I believe. But efficient,
careful about little things. I gave him the ring to keep for me. Less
than a week after that I was laid up with a beastly siege of influenza
which came near finishing me. I was shipped back to a base hospital and
it was more than a month before I was on my feet again. Meanwhile I'd
gotten out of touch with my division, applied for a transfer to another
branch, got stuck with an S. O. S. job, and landed home at the tail-end
of everything after all the shouting was over."

"I see," says I. "Bruzinski lost in the shuffle."

"Precisely," says Waddy. "Mustered out months before I was. When I did
get loose they wouldn't let me go back to Belgium. And then----"

"I remember," says I. "You side-tracked the lovely Marcelle for that
little blonde from. Richmond, didn't you?"

"A mere passing fancy," says Waddy, flushin' up. "Nothing serious. She
was really engaged all the time to Bent Hawley. They're to be married
next month, I hear. But Marcelle! She has come. Just think, she has been
in this country for weeks, came over with the King and Queen of Belgium
and stayed on. Looking for me. I suppose. And I knew nothing at all
about it until yesterday. She's in Washington. Jimmy Carson saw her
driving down Pennsylvania avenue. He was captain of my company, you
know. Rattle-brained chap, Jimmy. Hadn't kept track of Bruzinski at all.
Knew he came back, but no more. So you see? In order to get that ring I
must find Joe."

"I don't quite get you," says I. "Why not find the lovely Marcelle first
and explain about the ring afterwards?"

Waddy shakes his head. "I was in uniform when she knew me," says he.
"I--I looked rather well in it, I'm told. Anyway, different. But in
civies, even a frock coat, I've an idea she wouldn't recognize me as a
noble hero. Eh?"

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