Torchy As A Pa

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So Monday was crossed off, Tuesday slipped past into eternity with
nothing much done, and half of Wednesday had gone the same way. Mr.
Robert was gettin' anxious. He reports that Stella has set Saturday as
her last day with them and that she's begun packin' her trunk. What was
I doing about it?

"If you need more time off," says he, "take it."

"I always need some time off," says I, grabbin my hat.

Anyway, it was too fine an afternoon to miss a walk up Fifth Avenue.
Besides, I can often think clearer when my rubber heels are busy. Did
you ever try walkin' down an idea? It's a good hunch. The one I was
tryin' to surround was how I could sub in for this Al Nekkir party
myself without gettin' Stella suspicious. If I had to say the lines
would she spot me by my voice? If she did it would be all up with the
game.

Honest, I wasn't thinkin' of whiskers at all. In fact, I hadn't
considered the proposition, but was workin' on an entirely different
line, when all of a sudden, just as I'm passin' the stone lions in front
of the public library, this freak looms up out of the crowd. Course you
can see 'most anything on Fifth Avenue, if you trail up and down often
enough--about anything or anybody you can see anywhere in the world,
they say. And this sure was an odd specimen.

He was all of six feet high and most of him was draped in a brown
raincoat effect that buttoned from his ankles to his chin. Besides that,
he wore a green leather cap such as I've never seen the mate to, and he
had a long, solemn face that was mostly obscured by the richest and
rankest growth of bright chestnut whiskers ever in captivity.

I expect I must have grinned. I'm apt to. Probably it was a friendly
grin. With hair as red as mine I can't be too critical. Besides, he was
gazin' sort of folksy at people as he passed. Still, I didn't think he
noticed me among so many and I hadn't thought of stoppin' him. I'd gone
on, wonderin' where he had blown in from, and chucklin' over that fancy
tinted beard, when the first thing I knew here he was at my elbow
lookin' down on me.

"Forgive, sahib, but you have the face of a kindly one," says he.

"Well, I'm no consistent grouch, if that's what you mean," says I.
"What'll it be?"

"Could you tell to a stranger in a strange land what one does who has
great hunger and no rupees left in his purse?" says he.

"Just what you've done," says I. "He picks out an easy mark. I don't
pass out the coin reckless, though. Generally I tow 'em to a hash house
and watch 'em eat. Are you hungry enough for that?"

"Truly, I have great hunger," says he.

So, five minutes later I've led him into a side street and parked him
opposite me at a chop house table. "How about a slice of roast beef
rare, with mashed potatoes and turnips and a cup of coffee?" says I.

"Pardon," says he, "but it is forbidden me to eat the flesh of animals."

So we compromised on a double order of boiled rice and milk with a hunk
of pumpkin pie on the side. And in spite of the beard he went to it
business-like and graceful.

"Excuse my askin'," says I, "but are you going or coming?"

He looks a bit blank at that. "I am Burmese gentleman," says he. "I am
named Sarrou Mollik kuhn Balla Ben."

"That's enough, such as it is," says I. "Suppose I use only the last of
it, the Balla Ben part?"

"No," says he, "that is only my title, as you say Honorable Sir."

"Oh, very well," says I, "Sour Milk it is. And maybe you're willin' to
tell how you get this way--great hunger and no rupees?"

He was willin'. It seems he'd first gone wanderin' from home a year or
so back with a sporty young Englishman who'd hired him as guide and
interpreter on a trip into the middle of Burmah. Then they'd gone on
into India and the Hon. Sour Milk had qualified so well as all round
valet that the young Englishman signed him up for a two-year jaunt
around the world. His boss was some hot sport, though, I take it, and
after a big spree coming over on a Pacific steamer from Japan he'd been
taken sick with some kind of fever, typhoid probably, and was makin' a
mad dash for home when he had to quit in New York and be carted to some
hospital. Just what hospital Sour Milk didn't know, and as the Hon.
Sahib was too sick to think about payin' his board in advance his valet
had been turned loose by an unsympathizing hotel manager. And here he
was.

"That sure is a hard luck tale," says I. "But it ought to be easy for a
man of your size to land some kind of a job these days. What did you
work at back in Burmah?"

"I was one of the attendants at the Temple," says he.

"Huh!" says I. "That does make it complicated. I'm afraid there ain't
much call for temple hands in this burg. Now if you could run a
button-holin' machine, or was a paper hanger, or could handle a delivery
truck, or could make good as a floor walker in the men's furnishin'
department, or had ever done any barberin'--Say! I've got it!" and I
gazes fascinated at that crop of facial herbage.

"I ask pardon?" says he, starin' puzzled.

"They're genuine, ain't they?" I goes on. "Don't hook over the ears with
a wire? The whiskers, I mean."

He assures me they grow on him.

"And you're game to tackle any light work with good pay?" I asks.

"I must not cause the death of dumb animals," says he, "or touch their
dead bodies. And I may not serve at the altars of your people. But
beyond that----"

"You're on, then," says I. "Come along while I stack you up against
Madame Zenobia, the Mystic Queen."

We finds the old girl sittin' at a little table, her chin propped up in
one hand and a cigarette danglin' despondent from her rouged lips. She's
a picture of gloomy days.

"Look what I picked up on Fifth Ave.," says I.

And the minute she spots him and takes in the chestnut whiskers, them
weary old eyes of hers lights up. "By the kind stars and the jack of
spades!" says she. "A wise one from the East! Who is he?"

"Allow me, Madame Zenobia, to present the Hon. Sour Milk," says I.

"Pardon, Memsahib," he corrects. "I am Sarrou Mellik kuhn Balla Ben,
from the Temple of Aj Wadda, in Burmah. I am far from home and without
rupees."

"Allah be praised!" says Madame Zenobia.

"Ah!" echoes Sour Milk, in a deep boomin' voice that sounds like it came
from the sub-cellar. "Allah il Allah!"

"Enough!" says Madame Zenobia. "The Sage of India is my favorite control
and this one has the speech and bearing of him to the life. You may
leave us, child of the sun, knowing that your wish shall come true. That
is, provided the cook person appears."

"Oh, she'll be here, all right," says I. "They never miss a date like
that. There'll be two of 'em, understand. The thin one will be Maggie,
that I ain't got any dope on. You can stall her off with anything. The
fat, waddly one with the two gold front teeth will be Stella. She's the
party with the wilful disposition and the late case of wanderlust.
You'll know her by the snapshot, and be sure and throw it into her
strong if you want to collect that other ten."

"Trust Zenobia," says she, wavin' me away.

Say, I'd like to have been behind the curtains that Thursday afternoon
when Stella Flynn squandered four dollars to get a message from the
spirit world direct. I'd like to know just how it was done. Oh, she got
it, all right. And it must have been mighty convincin', for when Vee and
I drives up to the Ellinses that night after dinner to see if they'd
noticed any difference in the cook, or if she'd dropped any encouragin'
hints, I nearly got hugged by Mrs. Robert.

"Oh, you wonderful young person!" says she. "You did manage it, didn't
you?"

"Eh?" says I.

"Stella is going to stay with us," says Mrs. Robert. "She is unpacking
her trunk! However did you do it? What is this marvelous recipe of
yours?"

"Why," says I, "I took Madame Zenobia and added Sour Milk."

Yes, I had more or less fun kiddin' 'em along all the evenin'. But I
couldn't tell 'em the whole story because I didn't have the details
myself. As for Mr. Robert, he's just as pleased as anybody, only he lets
on how he was dead sure all along that I'd put it over. And before I
left he tows me one side and tucks a check into my pocket.

"Geraldine paid up," says he, "and I rather think the stakes belong to
you. But sometime, Torchy, I'd like to have you outline your process to
me. It should be worth copyrighting."

That bright little idea seemed to have hit Madame Zenobia, too, for when
I drops around there next day to hand her the final instalment, she and
the Hon. Sour Milk are just finishing a he-sized meal that had been sent
in on a tray from a nearby restaurant. She's actin' gay and mirthful.

"Ah, I've always known there was luck in red hair," says she. "And when
it comes don't think Zenobia doesn't know it by sight. Look!" and she
hands me a mornin' paper unfolded to the "Help Wanted" page. The marked
ad reads:

The domestic problem solved. If you would keep your servants consult
Madame Zenobia, the Mystic Queen. Try her and your cook will never
leave.

"Uh-huh!" says I. "That ought to bring in business these times. I expect
that inside of a week you'll have the street lined with limousines and
customers waitin' in line all up and down the stairs here."

"True words," says Madame Zenobia. "Already I have made four
appointments for this afternoon and I've raised my fee to $50."

"If you can cinch 'em all the way you did Stella," says I, "it'll be as
good as ownin' a Texas gusher. But, by the way, just how did you feed it
to her?"

"She wasn't a bit interested," says Madame Zenobia, "until I
materialized Sarrou Mellik as the wise man of India. Give us that patter
I worked up for you, Sarrou."

And in that boomin' voice of his the Hon. Sour Milk remarks: "Beware of
change. Remain, woman, where thou art, for there and there only will
some great good fortune come to you. The spirit of Ahmed the Wise hath
spoken."

"Great stuff!" says I. "I don't blame Stella for changin' her mind.
That's enough to make anybody a fixture anywhere. She may be the only
one in the country, but I'll say she's a permanent cook."

And I sure did get a chuckle out of Mr. Robert when I sketches out how
we anchored Stella to his happy home.

"Then that's why she looks at me in that peculiarly expectant way every
time I see her," says he. "Some great good fortune, eh? Evidently she
has decided that it will come through me."

"Well," says I, "unless she enters a prize beauty contest or something
like that, you should worry. Even if she does get the idea that you're
holdin' out on her, she won't dare quit. And you couldn't do better than
that with an Act of Congress. Could you, now?"

At which Mr. Robert folds his hands over his vest and indulges in a
cat-and-canary grin. I expect he was thinkin' of them mince pies.

CHAPTER VII

HOW THE GARVEYS BROKE IN

Course, Vee gives me all the credit. Perfectly right, too. That's the
way we have 'em trained. But, as a matter of fact, stated confidential
and on the side, it was the little lady herself who pushed the starter
button in this affair with the Garveys. If she hadn't I don't see where
it would ever have got going.

Let's see, it must have been early in November. Anyway, it was some
messy afternoon, with a young snow flurry that had finally concluded to
turn to rain, and as I drops off the 5:18 I was glad enough to see the
little roadster backed up with the other cars and Vee waitin' inside
behind the side curtains.

"Good work!" says I, dashin' out and preparin' to climb in. "I might
have got good and damp paddlin' home through this. Bright little thought
of yours."

"Pooh!" says Vee. "Besides, there was an express package the driver
forgot to deliver. It must be that new floor lamp. Bring it out, will
you, Torchy?"

And by the time I'd retrieved this bulky package from the express agent
and stowed it inside, all the other commuters had boarded their various
limousines and flivver taxis and cleared out.

"Hello!" says I, glancin' down the platform where a large and elegant
lady is pacin' up and down lonesome. "Looks like somebody has got left."

At which Vee takes a peek. "I believe it's that Mrs. Garvey," says she.

"Oh!" says I, slidin' behind the wheel and thrown' in the gear.

I was just shiftin' to second when Vee grabs my arm. "How utterly
snobbish of us!" says she. "Let's ask if we can't take her home?"

"On the runnin' board?" says I.

"We can leave the lamp until tomorrow," says Vee. "Come on."

So I cuts a short circle and pulls up opposite this imposin' party in
the big hat and the ruffled mink coat. She lets on not to notice until
Vee leans out and asks:

"Mrs. Garvey, isn't it?"

All the reply she gives is a stiff nod and I notice her face is pinked
up like she was peeved at something.

"If your car isn't here can't we take you home?" asks Vee.

She acts sort of stunned for a second, and then, after another look up
the road through the sheets of rain, she steps up hesitatin'. "I suppose
my stupid chauffeur forgot I'd gone to town," says she. "And as all the
taxis have been taken I--I---- But you haven't room."

"Oh, lots!" says Vee. "We will leave this ridiculous package in the
express office and squeeze up a bit. You simply can't walk, you know."

"Well----" says she.

So I lugs the lamp back and the three of us wedges ourselves into the
roadster seat. Believe me, with a party the size of Mrs. Garvey as the
party of the third part, it was a tight fit. From the way Vee chatters
on, though, you'd think it was some merry lark we was indulgin' in.

"This is what I call our piggy car," says she, "for we can never ask but
one other person at a time. But it's heaps better than having no car at
all. And it's so fortunate we happened to see you, wasn't it?"

Being more or less busy tryin' to shift gears without barkin' Mrs.
Garvey's knees, and turn corners without skiddin' into the gutter, I
didn't notice for a while that Vee was conductin' a perfectly good
monologue. That's what it was, though. Hardly a word out of our stately
passenger. She sits there as stiff as if she was crated, starin' cold
and stony straight ahead, and that peevish flush still showin' on her
cheekbones. Why, you'd most think we had her under arrest instead of
doin' her a favor. And when I finally swings into the Garvey driveway
and pulls up under the porte cochere she untangles herself from the
brake lever and crawls out.

"Thank you," says she crisp, adjustin' her picture hat. "It isn't often
that I am obliged to depend on--on strangers." And while Vee still has
her mouth open, sort of gaspin' from the slam, the lady has marched up
the steps and disappeared.

"Now I guess you know where you get off, eh, Vee?" says I chuckly. "You
_will_ pass up your new neighbors."

"How absurd of her!" says Vee. "Why, I never dreamed that I had offended
her by not calling."

"Well, you've got the straight dope at last," says I. "She's as fond of
us as a cat is of swimmin' with the ducks. Say, my right arm is numb
from being so close to that cold shoulder she was givin' me. Catch me
doin' the rescue act for her again."

"Still," says Vee, "they have been livin out here nearly a year, haven't
they? But then----"

At which she proceeds to state an alibi which sounds reasonable enough.
She'd rather understood that the Garveys didn't expect to be called on.
Maybe you know how it is in one of these near-swell suburbs! Not that
there's any reg'lar committee to pass on newcomers. Some are taken in
right off, some after a while, and some are just left out. Anyway,
that's how it seems to work out here in Harbor Hills.

I don't know who it was first passed around the word, or where we got it
from, but we'd been tipped off somehow that the Garveys didn't belong. I
don't expect either of us asked for details. Whether or not they did
wasn't up to us. But everybody seems to take it that they don't, and act
accordin'. Plenty of others had met the same deal. Some quit after the
first six months, others stuck it out.

As for the Garveys, they'd appeared from nowhere in particular, bought
this big square stucco house on the Shore road, rolled around in their
showy limousine, subscribed liberal to all the local drives and charity
funds, and made several stabs at bein' folksy. But there's no response.
None of the bridge-playing set drop in of an afternoon to ask Mrs.
Garvey if she won't fill in on Tuesday next, she ain't invited to join
the Ladies' Improvement Society, or even the Garden Club; and when
Garvey's application for membership gets to the Country Club committee
he's notified that his name has been put on the waitin' list. I expect
it's still there.

But it's kind of a jolt to find that Mrs. Garvey is sore on us for all
this. "Where does she get that stuff?" I asks Vee, after we get home.
"Who's been telling her we handle the social blacklist for the Roaring
Rock district of Long Island?"

"I suppose she thinks we have done our share, or failed to do it," says
Vee. "And perhaps we have. I'm rather sorry for the Garveys. I'm sure I
don't know what's the matter with them."

I didn't, either. Hadn't given it a thought, in fact. But I sort of got
to chewin' it over. Maybe it was the flashy way Mrs. Garvey dressed, and
the noisy laugh I'd occasionally heard her spring on the station
platform when she was talking to Garvey. Not that all the lady members
of the Country Club set are shrinkin' violets who go around costumed in
Quaker gray and whisper their remarks modest. Some are about as spiffy
dressers as you'll see anywhere and a few are what I'd call speedy
performers. But somehow you know who they are and where they came from,
and make allowances. They're in the swim, anyway.

The trouble might be with Garvey. He's about the same type as the other
half of the sketch--a big, two-fisted ruddy-faced husk, attired sporty
in black and white checks, with gray gaiters and a soft hat to match the
suit. Wore a diamond-set Shriners' watch fob, and an Elks' emblem in his
buttonhole. Course, you wouldn't expect him to have any gentle, ladylike
voice, and he don't. I heard he'd been sent on as an eastern agent of
some big Kansas City packin' house. Must have been a good payin' line,
for he certainly looks like ready money. But somehow he don't seem to be
popular with our bunch of commuters, although at first I understand he
tried to mix in free and easy.

Anyway, the verdict appears to be against lettin' the Garveys in, and we
had about as much to do with it as we did about fixin' the price of
coal, or endin' the sugar shortage. Yet here when we try to do one of
'em a good turn we get the cold eye.

"Next time," says I, "we'll remember we are strangers, and not give her
an openin' to throw it at us."

So I'm a little surprised the followin' Sunday afternoon to see the
Garvey limousine stoppin' out front. As I happens to be wanderin' around
outside I steps up to the gate just as Garvey is gettin' out.

"Ah, Ballard!" he says, cordial. "I want to thank you and Mrs. Ballard
for picking Mrs. Garvey up the other day when our fool chauffeur went to
sleep at the switch. It--it was mighty decent of you."

"Not at all," says I "Couldn't do much less for a neighbor, could we?"

"Some could," says he. "A whole lot less. And if you don't mind my
saying so, it's about the first sign we've had that we were counted as
neighbors."

"Oh, well," says I, "maybe nobody's had a chance to show it before. Will
you come in a minute and thaw out in front of the wood fire?"

"Why--er--I suppose it ain't reg'lar," says he, "but blamed if I
don't."

And after I've towed him into the livin' room, planted him in a wing
chair, and poked up the hickory logs, he springs this conundrum on me:

"Ballard," says he, "I'd like to ask you something and have you give me
an answer straight from the shoulder."

"That's my specialty," says I. "Shoot."

"Just what's the matter with us--Mrs. Garvey and me?" he demands.

"Why--why--Who says there's anything the matter with either of you?" I
asks, draggy.

"They don't have to say it," says he. "They act it. Everybody in this
blessed town; that is, all except the storekeepers, the plumbers, the
milkman, and so on. My money seems to be good enough for them. But as
for the others--well, you know how we've been frozen out. As though we
had something catching, or would blight the landscape. Now what's the
big idea? What are some of the charges in the indictment?"

And I'll leave it to you if that wasn't enough to get me scrapin' my
front hoof. How you goin' to break it to a gent sittin' by your own
fireside that maybe he's a bit rough in the neck, or too much of a yawp
to fit into the refined and exclusive circle that patronizes the 8:03
bankers' express? As I see it, the thing can't be done.

"Excuse me, Mr. Garvey," says I, "but if there's been any true bill
handed in by a pink tea grand jury it's been done without consultin'
me. I ain't much on this codfish stuff myself."

"Shake, young man," says he grateful. "I thought you looked like the
right sort. But without gettin' right down to brass tacks, or namin' any
names, couldn't you slip me a few useful hints? There's no use denyin'
we're in wrong here. I don't suppose it matters much just how; not now,
anyway. But Tim Garvey is no quitter; at least, I've never had that
name. And I've made up my mind to stay with this proposition until I'm
dead sure I'm licked."

"That's the sportin' spirit," says I.

"What I want is a line on how to get in right," says he.

At which I scratches my head and stalls around.

"For instance," he goes on, "what is it these fine Harbor Hills folks do
that I can't learn? Is it parlor etiquette? Then me for that. I'll take
lessons. I'm willin' to be as refined and genteel as anybody if that's
what I lack."

"That's fair enough," says I, still stallin'.

"You see," says Garvey, "this kind of a deal is a new one on us. I don't
want to throw any bull, but out in Kansas City we thought we had just as
good a bunch as you could find anywhere; and we were the ringleaders, as
you might say. Mixed with the best people. All live wires, too. We had a
new country club that would make this one of yours look like a freight
shed. I helped organize it, was one of the directors. And the Madam took
her part, too; first vice-president of the Woman's Club, charter member
of the Holy Twelve bridge crowd, as some called it, and always a
patroness at the big social affairs. A new doormat wouldn't, last us a
lifetime out there. But here--say, how do you break into this bunch,
anyway?"

"Why ask me, who was smuggled in the back door?" says I, grinnin'.

"But you know a lot of these high-brows and aristocrats," he insists. "I
don't. I don't get 'em at all. What brainy stunts or polite acts are
they strongest for? How do they behave when they're among themselves?"

"Why, sort of natural, I guess," says I.

"Whaddye mean, natural?" demands Garvey. "For instance?"

"Well, let's see," says I. "There's Major Brooks Keating, the imposin'
old boy with the gray goatee, who was minister to Greece or Turkey once.
Married some plute's widow abroad and retired from the diplomatic game.
Lives in that near-chateau affair just this side of the Country Club.
His fad is paintin'."

"Pictures?" asks Garvey.

"No. Cow barns, fences, chicken houses," says I. "Anything around the
place that will stand another coat."

"You don't mean he does it himself?" says Garvey.

"Sure he does," says I. "Gets on an old pair of overalls and jumper and
goes to it like he belonged to the union. Last time I was up there he
had all the blinds off one side of the house and was touchin' 'em up.
Mrs. Keating was givin' a tea that afternoon and he crashes right in
amongst 'em askin' his wife what she did with that can of turpentine.
Nobody seems to mind, and they say he has a whale of a time doin' it. So
that's his high-brow stunt."

Garvey shakes his head puzzled. "House painting, eh?" says he. "Some
fad, I'll say."

"He ain't got anything on J. Kearney Rockwell, the potty-built old sport
with the pink complexion and the grand duchess wife," I goes on. "You
know?"

Garvey nods. "Of Rockwell, Griggs & Bland, the big brokerage house,"
says he. "What's his pet side line?"

"Cucumbers," says I. "Has a whole hothouse full of 'em. Don't allow the
gardener to step inside the door, but does it all himself. Even lugs 'em
down to the store in a suitcase and sells as high as $20 worth a week,
they say. I hear he did start peddlin' 'em around the neighborhood once,
but the grand duchess raised such a howl he had to quit. You're liable
to see him wheelin' in a barrowful of manure any time, though."

"Ought to be some sight," says Garvey. "Cucumbers! Any more like him?"

"Oh, each one seems to have his own specialty," says I. "Take Austin
Gordon, one of the Standard Oil crowd, who only shows up at 26 Broadway
for the annual meetings now. You'd never guess what his hobby is. Puppet
shows."

"Eh?" says Garvey, gawpin'.

"Sort of Punch and Judy stuff," says I. "Whittles little dummies out of
wood, paints their faces, dresses 'em up, and makes 'em act by pullin' a
lot of strings. Writes reg'lar plays for 'em. He's got a complete little
theatre fitted up over his garage; stage, scenery, footlights, folding
chairs and everything. Gives a show every now and then. Swell affairs.
Everybody turns out. Course they snicker some in private, but he gets
away with it."

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