Torchy As A Pa

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Why, just by the way the old boy pads in at 9:15, plantin' his hoofs
heavy and glarin' straight ahead from under them bushy eye dormers of
his, I could guess that someone was goin' to get a call on the carpet
before very long. And sure enough he'd hardly got settled in his big
leather swing chair before he starts barkin' for Mr. Piddie.

I expect when it comes to keepin' track of the overhead, and gettin' a
full day's work out of a bunch of lady typists, and knowin' where to buy
his supplies at cut-rates, Piddie is as good an office manager as you'll
find anywhere along Broadway from the Woolworth tower to the Circle; but
when it comes to soothin' down a 65-year-old boss who's been awake most
of the night with sciatica, he's a flivver. He goes in with his brow
wrinkled up and his knees shakin', and a few minutes later he comes out
pale in the gills and with a wild look in his eyes.

"What's the scandal, Piddie?" says I. "Been sent to summon the firin'
squad, or what?"

He don't stop to explain then, but pikes right on into the bond room and
holds a half-hour session with that collection of giddy young
near-sports who hold down the high stools. Finally, though, he tip-toes
back to me, wipes the worry drops from his forehead, and gives me some
of the awful details.

"Such incompetency!" says he husky. "You remember that yesterday Mr.
Ellins called for a special report on outside holdings? And when it is
submitted it is merely a jumble of figures. Why, the young man who
prepared it couldn't have known the difference between a debenture 5 and
a refunding 6!"

"Don't make me shudder, Piddie," says I. "Who was the brainless wretch?"

"Young Hollis, of course," whispers Piddie. "And it's not the first
occasion, Torchy, on which he has been found failing. I am sending some
of his books in for inspection."

"Oh, well," says I, "better Brink than some of the others. He won't take
it serious. He's like a duck in a shower--sheds it easy."

At which Piddie goes off shakin' his head ominous. But then, Piddie has
been waitin' for the word to fire Brink Hollis ever since this cheerful
eyed young hick was wished on the Corrugated through a director's pull
nearly a year ago, when he was fresh from college. You see, Piddie can't
understand how anybody can draw down the princely salary of twenty-five
a week without puttin' his whole soul into his work, or be able to look
his boss in the face if there's any part of the business that he's vague
about.

As for Brink, his idea of the game is to get through an eight-hour day
somehow or other so he can have the other sixteen to enjoy himself in,
and I expect he takes about as much interest in what he has to do as if
he was countin' pennies in a mint. Besides that he's sort of a
happy-go-lucky, rattle-brained youth who has been chucked into this high
finance thing because his fam'ly thought he ought to be doing something
that looks respectable; you know the type?

Nice, pleasant young chap. Keeps the bond room force chirked up on rainy
days and always has a smile for everybody. It was him organized the
Corrugated Baseball Nine that cleaned up with every other team in the
building last summer. They say he was a star first baseman at Yale or
Princeton or wherever it was he was turned loose from. Also he's some
pool shark, I understand, and is runnin' off a progressive tournament
that he got Mr. Robert to put up some cups for.

So I'm kind of sorry, when I answers the private office buzzer a little
later, and finds Old Hickory purple in the face and starin' at something
he's discovered between the pages of Brink's bond book.

"Young man," says he as he hands it over, "perhaps you can fell me
something about this?"

"Looks lite a program," says I, glancin' it over casual. "Oh, yes. For
the first annual dinner of the Corrugated Crabs. That was last Saturday
night."

"And who, may I ask," goes on Old Hickory, "are the Corrugated Crabs?"

"Why," says I, "I expect they're some of the young sports on the general
office staff."

"Huh!" he grunts. "Why Crabs?"

I hunches my shoulders and lets it go at that.

"I notice," says Old Hickory, taking back the sheet, "that one feature
of the entertainment was an impersonation by Mr. Brinkerhoff Hollis, of
'the Old He-Crab Himself unloading a morning grouch'. Now, just what
does that mean?"

"Couldn't say exactly," says I. "I wasn't there."

"Oh, you were not, eh?" says he. "Didn't suppose you were. But you
understand, Torchy, I am asking this information of you as my private
secretary. I--er--it will be treated as confidential."

"Sorry, Mr. Ellins," says I, "but you know about as much of it as I do."

"Which is quite enough," says he, "for me to decide that the Corrugated
can dispense with the services of this Hollis person at once. You will
notify Mr. Piddie to that effect."

"Ye-e-es, sir," says I, sort of draggy.

He glances up at me quick. "You're not enthusiastic about it, eh?" says
he.

"No," says I.

"Then for your satisfaction, and somewhat for my own," he goes on, "we
will review the case against this young man. He was one of three who won
a D minus rating in the report made by that efficiency expert called in
by Mr. Piddie last fall."

"Yes, I know," says I. "That squint-eyed bird who sprung his brain tests
on the force and let on he could card index the way your gray matter
worked by askin' a lot of nutty questions. I remember. Brink Hollis was
guyin' him all the while and he never caught on. Had the whole bunch
chucklin'over it. One of Piddie's fads, he was."

Old Hickory waves one hand impatient. "Perhaps," says he. "I don't mean
to say I value that book psychology rigamarole very highly myself. Cost
us five hundred, too. But I've had an eye on that young man's work ever
since, and it hasn't been brilliant. This bond summary is a sample. It's
a mess."

"I don't doubt it!" says I. "But if I'd been Piddie I think I'd have
hung the assignment for that on some other hook than Hollis's. He didn't
know what a bond looked like until a year ago and that piece of work
called for an old hand."

"Possibly, possibly," agrees Old Hickory. "It seems he is clever enough
at this sort of thing, however," and he waves the program.

I couldn't help smotherin' a chuckle.

"Am I to infer," says Mr. Ellins, "that this He-Crab act of his was
humorous?"

"That's what they tell me," says I. "You see, right after dinner Brink
was missin' and everybody was wonderin' what had become of him, when all
of a sudden he bobs up through a tin-foil lake in the middle of the
table and proceeds to do this crab impersonation in costume. They say it
was a scream."

"It was, eh?" grunts Old Hickory. "And the Old He-Crab referred to--who
was that?"

"Who do you guess, Mr. Ellins?" says I, grinnin'.

"H-m-m-m," says he, rubbin' his chin. "I can't say I'm flattered. Thinks
I'm an old crab, does he?"

"I expect he does," I admits.

"Do you?" demands Old Hickory, whirlin' on me sudden.

"I used to," says I, "until I got to know you better."

"Oh!" says he. "Well, I suppose the young man has a right to his own
opinion. And my estimate of him makes us even. But perhaps you don't
know with what utter contempt I regard such a worthless----"

"I got a general idea," says I. "And maybe that's because you don't know
him very well."

For a second the old boy stares at me like he was goin' to blow a
gasket. But he don't. "I will admit," says he, "that I may have failed
to cultivate a close acquaintance with all the harum-scarum cut-ups in
my employ. One doesn't always find the time. May I ask what course you
would recommend?"

"Sure!" says I. "If it was me I wouldn't give him the chuck without a
hearin'."

That sets him chewin' his cigar. "Very well," says he. "Bring him in."

I hadn't figured on gettin' so close to the affair as this, but as I had
I couldn't do anything else but see it through. I finds Brink drummin' a
jazz tune on his desk with his fingers and otherwise makin' the best of
it.

"Well," says he, as I taps him on the shoulder, "is it all over?"

"Not yet," says I. "But the big boss is about to give you the third
degree. So buck up."

"Wants to see me squirm, does he?" says Brink. "All right. But I don't
see the use. What'll I feed him, Torchy?"

"Straight talk, nothing else," says I. "Come along."

And I expect when Brink Hollis found himself lined up in front of them
chilled steel eyes he decided that this was a cold and cruel world.

"Let's see," opens Old Hickory, "you've been with us about a year,
haven't you?"

Hollis nods.

"And how do you think you are getting on as a business man?" asks Mr.
Ellins.

"Fairly rotten, thank you," says he.

"I must say that I agree with you," says Old Hickory. "How did you
happen to honor us by making your start here?"

"Because the governor didn't want me in his office," says Hollis, "and
could get me into the Corrugated."

"Hah!" snorts Old Hickory. "Think we're running a retreat for younger
sons, do you!"

"If I started in with that idea," says Brink, "I'm rapidly getting over
it. And if you want to know, Mr. Ellins, I'm just as sick of working in
the bond room as you are of having me there."

"Then why in the name of the seven sins do you stick?" demands Old
Hickory.

Brink shrugs his shoulders. "Dad thinks it's best for me," says he. "He
imagines I'm making good. I suppose I've rather helped along the notion,
and he's due to get some jolt when he finds I've nose-dived to a crash."

"Unfortunately," says Old Hickory, "we cannot provide shock absorbers
for fond fathers. Any other reasons why you wished to remain on our pay
roll?"

"One," says Brink, "but it will interest you less than the first. If I
got a raise next month I was planning to be married."

Old Hickory sniffs. "That's optimism for you!" says he. "You expect us
to put a premium on the sort of work you've been doing? Bah!"

"Oh, why drag out the agony?" says Brink. "I knew I'd put a crimp in my
career when I remembered leaving that crab banquet program in the book.
Let's get to that."

"As you like," says Old Hickory. "Not that I attach any great importance
to such monkey shines, but we might as well take it up. So you think I'm
an old crab, do you?"

"I had gathered that impression," says Brink. "Seemed to be rather
general around the shop."

Old Hickory indulges in one of them grins that are just as humorous as a
crack in the pavement. "I've no doubt," says he. "And you conceived the
happy idea of dramatizing me as the leading comic feature for this
dinner party of my employees? It was a success, I trust."

"Appeared to take fairly well," says Brink.

"Pardon me if I seem curious," goes on Old Hickory, "but just how did
you--er--create the illusion?"

"Oh, I padded myself out in front," says Brink, "and stuck on a lot of
cotton for eyebrows, and used the make-up box liberal, and gave them
some red-hot patter on the line that--well, you know how you work off a
grouch, sir. I may have caught some of your pet phrases. Anyway, they
seemed to know who I meant."

"You're rather clever at that sort of thing, are you?" asks Old Hickory.

"Oh, that's no test," says Brink. "You can always get a hand with local
gags. And then, I did quite a lot of that stuff at college; put on a
couple of frat plays and managed the Mask Club two seasons."

"Too bad the Corrugated Trust offers such a limited field for your
talents," says Old Hickory. "Only one annual dinner of the Crab Society.
You organized that, I suppose?"

"Guilty," says Brink.

"And I understand you were responsible for the Corrugated baseball team,
and are now conducting a pool tournament?" goes on Old Hickory.

"Oh, yes," says Brink, sort of weary. "I'm not denying a thing. I was
even planning a little noonday dancing club for the stenographers. You
may put that in the indictment if you like."

"H-m-m-m!" says Old Hickory, scratchin' his ear. "I think that will be
all, young man."

Brink starts for the door but comes back. "Not that I mind being fired,
Mr. Ellins," says he. "I don't blame you a bit for that, for I suppose
I'm about the worst bond clerk in the business. I did try at first to
get into the work, but it was no good. Guess I wasn't cut out for that
particular line. So we'll both be better off. But about that He-Crab act
of mine. Sounds a bit raw, doesn't it? I expect it was, too. I'd like to
say, though, that all I meant by it was to make a little fun for the
boys. No personal animosity behind it, sir, even if----"

Old Hickory waves his hand careless. "I'm beginning to get your point of
view, Hollis," says he. "The boss is always fair game, eh?"

"Something like that," says Brink. "Still, I hate to leave with you
thinking----"

"You haven't been asked to leave--as yet," says Old Hickory. "I did have
you slated for dismissal a half hour ago, and I may stick to it. Only my
private secretary seemed to think I didn't know what I was doing.
Perhaps he was right. I'm going to let your case simmer for a day or so.
Now clear out, both of you."

We slid through the door. "Much obliged for making the try, Torchy,"
says Brink. "You had your nerve with you, I'll say."

"Easiest thing I do, old son," says I. "Besides, his ain't a case of
ingrowin' grouch, you know."

"I was just getting that hunch myself," says Brink. "Shouldn't wonder
but he was quite a decent old boy when you got under the crust. If I was
only of some use around the place I'll bet we'd get along fine. As it
is----" He spreads out his hands.

"Trust Old Hickory Ellins to find out whether you're any use or not,"
says I. "He don't miss many tricks. If you do get canned, though, you
can make up your mind that finance is your short suit."

Nearly a week goes by without another word from Mr. Ellins. And every
night as Brink streamed out with the advance guard at 5 o'clock he'd
stop long enough at my desk to swap a grin with me and whisper: "Well, I
won't have to break the news to Dad tonight, anyway."

"Nor to the young lady, either," says I.

"Oh, I had to spill it to Marjorie, first crack," says he. "She's
helping me hold my breath."

And then here yesterday mornin', as I'm helping Old Hickory sort the
mail, he picks out a letter from our Western manager and slits it open.

"Hah!" says he, through his cigar. "I think this solves our problem,
Torchy."

"Yes, sir?" says I, gawpin'.

"Call in that young humorist of yours from the bond room," says he.

And I yanks Brink Hollis off the high stool impetuous.

"Know anything about industrial welfare work, young man?" demands Old
Hickory of him.

"I've seen it mentioned in magazine articles," says Brink, "but that's
about all. Don't think I ever read one."

"So much the better," says Mr. Ellins. "You'll have a chance to start in
fresh, with your own ideas."

"I--I beg pardon?" says Brink, starin' puzzled.

"You're good at play organizing, aren't you," goes on Old Hickory.
"Well, here's an opportunity to spread yourself. One of the
manufacturing units we control out in Ohio. Three thousand men, in a
little one-horse town where there's nothing better to do in their spare
time than go to cheap movies and listen to cheaper walking delegates. I
guess they need you more than we do in the bond room. Organize 'em as
much as you like. Show 'em how to play. Give that He-Crab act if you
wish. We'll start you in at a dollar a man. That satisfactory?"

I believe Brink tried to say it was, only what he got out was so choky
you could hardly tell. But he goes out beamin'.

"Well!" says Old Hickory, turnin' to me. "I suppose he'll call that
coming safely out of a nose dive, eh?"

"Or side-slippin' into success," says I. "I think you've picked another
winner, Mr. Ellins."

"Huh!" he grunts. "You mean you think you helped me do it. But I want
you to understand, young man, that I learned to be tolerant of other
people's failings long before you were born. Toleration. It's the
keystone of every big career. I've practiced it, too, except--well,
except after a bad night."

And then, seein' that rare flicker in Old Hickory's eyes, I gives him
the grin. Oh, sure you can. It's all in knowin' when.

CHAPTER X

'IKKY-BOY COMES ALONG

Being a parent grows on you, don't it? Course, at first, when it's
sprung on you so kind of sudden, you hardly know how to act. That is, if
you're makin' your debut in the part. And I expect for a few months
there, after young Richard Hemmingway Ballard came and settled down with
Vee and me, I put up kind of a ragged amateur performance as a fond
father. All I can say about it now is I hope I didn't look as foolish as
I felt.

As for Vee, she seemed to get her lines and business perfect from the
start. Somehow young mothers do. She knew how to handle the youngster
right off; how to hold him and what to say to him when he screwed up his
face and made remarks to her that meant nothing at all to me. And she
wasn't fussed or anything when company came in and caught her at it.
Also young Master Richard seemed to be right at home from the very
first. Didn't seem surprised or strange or nervous in the presence of
a pair of parents that he found wished on him without much warnin'. Just
gazed at us as calm and matter-of-fact as if he'd known us a long time.
While me, well it must have been weeks before I got over feelin' kind of
panicky whenever I was left alone with him.

But are we acquainted now? I'll say we are. In fact, as Harry Lander
used to put it, vurra well acquainted. Chummy, I might say. Why not,
after we've stood two years of each other without any serious dispute?
Not that I'm claimin' any long-distance record as a model parent. No. I
expect I do most of the things I shouldn't and only a few of them that I
should. But 'Ikky-boy ain't a critical youngster. That's his own way of
sayin' his name and mostly we call him that. Course, he answers to
others, too; such as Old Scout, and Snoodlekins, and young Rough-houser.
I mean, he does when he ain't too busy with important enterprises; such
as haulin' Buddy, the Airedale pup, around by the ears; or spoonin' in
milk and cereal, with Buddy watchin' hopeful for sideslips; or pullin'
out the spool drawer of Vee's work table.

It's been hinted to us by thoughtful friends who have all the scientific
dope on bringin' up children, although most of 'em never had any of
their own, that this is all wrong. Accordin' to them we ought to start
right in makin' him drop whatever he's doin' and come to us the minute
we call. Maybe we should, too. But that ain't the way it works out, for
generally, we don't want anything special, and he seems so wrapped up in
his private little affairs that it don't seem worth while breakin' in
on his program. Course, maulin' Buddy around may seem to us like a
frivolous pastime, but how can you tell if it ain't the serious business
in life to 'Ikky-boy just then? Besides, Buddy seems to like it. So as a
rule we let 'em finish the game.

But there is one time each day when he's always ready to quit any kind
of fun and come toddlin' with his hands stretched out and a wide grin on
his chubby little face. That's along about 6:15 when I blow in from
town. Then he's right there with the merry greetin' and the friendly
motions. Also his way of addressin' his male parent would give another
jolt to a lot of people, I suppose.

"Hi, Torchy!" That's his favorite hail.

"Reddy yourself, you young freshy," I'm apt to come back at him.

Followin' which I scooch to meet his flyin' tackle and we roll on the
rug in a clinch, with Buddy yappin' delighted and mixin' in
promiscuously. Finally we end up on the big davenport in front of the
fireplace and indulge in a few minutes of lively chat.

"Well, 'Ikky-boy, how you and Buddy been behavin' yourselves, eh?" I'll
ask. "Which has been the worst cut-up today, eh?"

"Buddy bad dog," he'll say, battin' him over the head with a pink fist.
"See?" And he'll exhibit a tear in his rompers or a chewed sleeve.

"Huh! I'll bet it's been fifty-fifty, you young rough-houser," I'll
say. "Who do you like best around this joint, anyway?"

"Buddy," is always the answer.

"And next?" I'll demand.

"Mamma," he'll say.

"Hey, where do I come in?" I'll ask, shakin' him.

Then he'll screw up his mouth mischievous and say: "Torchy come in door.
Torchy, Torchy!"

I'll admit Vee ain't so strong for all this. His callin' me Torchy, I
mean. She does her best, too, to get him to change it to Daddy. But that
word don't seem to be on 'Ikky-boy's list at all. He picked up the
Torchy all by himself and he seems to want to stick to it. I don't mind.
Maybe it ain't just the thing for a son and heir to spring on a
perfectly good father, chucklin' over it besides, but it sounds quite
all right to me. Don't hurt my sense of dignity a bit.

And it looks like he'll soon come to be called young Torchy himself.
Uh-huh. For a while there Vee was sure his first crop of hair, which was
wheat colored like hers, was goin' to be the color scheme of his
permanent thatch. But when the second growth begun to show up red she
had to revise her forecast. Now there's no doubt of his achievin' a
pink-plus set of wavy locks that'll make a fresh-painted fire hydrant
look faded. They're gettin' brighter and brighter and I expect in time
they'll show the same new copper kettle tints that mine do.

"I don't care," says Vee "I rather like it."

"That's the brave talk, Vee!" says I. "It may be all he'll inherit from
me, but it ain't so worse at that. With that hair in evidence there
won't be much danger of his being lost in a crowd. Folks will remember
him after one good look. Besides, it's always sort of cheerin' on a
rainy day. He'll be able to brighten up the corner where he is without
any dope from Billy Sunday. Course, he'll be joshed a lot about it, but
that'll mean he'll either have to be a good scrapper or develop an
easy-grin disposition, so he wins both ways."

The only really disappointed member of the fam'ly is Vee's Auntie. Last
time she was out here she notices the change in 'Ikky-boy's curls and
sighs over it.

"I had hoped," says she, "that the little fellow's hair would be--well,
of a different shade."

"Sort of a limousine body-black, eh?" says I. "Funny it ain't, too."

"But he will be so--so conspicuous," she goes on.

"There are advantages," says I, "in carryin' your own spotlight with
you. Now take me."

But Auntie only sniffs and changes the subject.

She's a grand old girl, though. A little hard to please, I'll admit.
I've been at it quite some time, but it's only now and then I can do
anything that seems to strike her just right. Mostly she disapproves of
me, and she's the kind that ain't a bit backward about lettin' you know.
Her remarks here the other day when she arrives to help celebrate Master
Richard's second birthday will give you an idea.

You see, she happens to be in the living room when me and 'Ikky-boy has
our reg'lar afternoon reunion. Might be we went at it a little stronger
and rougher than usual, on account of the youngster's havin' been held
quiet in her lap for a half hour or so.

"Hi, hi, ol' Torchy, Torchy!" he shouts, grippin' both hands into my
hair gleeful.

"Burny burn!" says I makin' a hissin' noise.

"Yah, yah! 'Ikky-boy wanna ride hossy," says he.

"And me with my trousers just pressed!" says I. "Say, where do you get
that stuff?"

"I must say," comes in Auntie, "that I don't consider that the proper
way to talk to a child."

"Oh, he don't mind," says I.

"But he is so apt to learn such expressions and use them himself," says
she.

"Yes, he picks up a lot," says I. "He's clever that way. Aren't you, you
young tarrier?"

"Whe-e-e!" says 'Ikky-boy, slidin' off my knee to make a dive at Buddy
and roll him on the floor.

"One should speak gently to a child," says Auntie, "and use only the
best English."

"I might be polite to him," says I, "if he'd be polite to me, but that
don't seem to be his line."

Auntie shrugs her shoulders and gives us up as hopeless. We're in bad
with her, both of us, and I expect if there'd been a lawyer handy she'd
revised her will on the spot. Honest, it's lucky the times she's decided
to cross me off as one of her heirs don't show on me anywhere or I'd be
notched up like a yardstick, and if I'd done any worryin' over these
spells of hers I'd be an albino from the ears up. But when she starts
castin' the cold eye at Richard Hemmingway I almost works up that guilty
feelin' and wonders if maybe I ain't some to blame.

"You ain't overlookin, the fact, are you, Auntie," I suggests, "that
he's about 100 per cent. boy? He's full of pep and jump and go, same as
Buddy, and he's just naturally got to let it out."

"I fail to see," says Auntie, "how teaching him to use slang is at all
necessary. As you know, that is something of which I distinctly
disapprove."

"Now that you remind me," says I, "seems I have heard you say something
of the kind before. And take it from me I'm going to make a stab at
trainin' him different. Right now. Richard, approach your father."

'Ikky-boy lets loose of Buddy's collar and stares at me impish.

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