Torchy, Private Sec.

S >> Sewell Ford >> Torchy, Private Sec.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

"About as much as Z is like M," says I. "She's a live one, Aunt Zenobia
is, if that's what you're gettin' at."

"Thank you," says he. "That is it exactly. And I am glad to hear it. She
used to be, as you put it, rather a live one; but I didn't quite know
how----"

"Kyrle Ballard, is that you?" comes floatin' out from the front door.
"If it is, and you wish to know anything more about Zenobia Hadley, I
should advise you to come to headquarters. Torchy, bring in those
sandwiches--and Mr. Ballard, if he cares to follow."

"There!" says I to Ballard. "You've got a sample. That's Zenobia. Are
you comin' or goin'?"

Foolish question! He's leadin' the way up the steps.

"Zenobia," says he, holdin' out both hands, "I humbly apologize for
following you in this impulsive fashion. I saw you at the theater,
and----"

"If you hadn't done something of the kind," says she, "I shouldn't have
been at all sure it was really you. You've changed so much!"

"I admit it," says he. "One does, you know, in forty years."

"There, there, Kyrle Ballard!" warns Zenobia. "Throw the calendar at me
again, and out you go! I simply won't have it! Besides, I'm hungry.
Torchy is to blame. He suggested hot dog sandwiches. Take a sniff. Do
they appeal to you, or have you cultivated epicurean tastes to such an
extent that----"

"Ah-h-h-h!" says Ballard, bendin' over the paper bag I'm holdin'. "My
favorite delicacy. And if I might be permitted to add a bottle or two of
cold St. Louis----"

"Do you think I keep house without an icebox?" demands Zenobia. "Stop
your silly speeches, and let's get into the dining-room."

Some hustler, Zenobia is, too. Inside of two minutes she's shed her
wraps, passed out plates and glasses, and we're tacklin' a Coney Island
collation.

"I had been wondering if it could be you," says Ballard. "I'd been
watching you through the glasses."

"Yes, I know," says Zenobia. "And we had quite settled it that you were
a strange admirer. I'm frightfully disappointed!"

"Then you didn't know me?" says he. "But just now----"

"Voices don't turn gray or change color," says Zenobia. "Yours sounds
just as it did--well, the last time I heard it."

"That August night, eh?" suggests Mr. Ballard, suspendin' operations on
the sandwich and leanin' eager across the table.

He's a chirky, chipper old scout, with a lot of twinkles left in his
blue eyes. Must have been some gay boy in his day too; for even now he
shows up more or less ornamental in his evenin' clothes. And Zenobia
ain't such a bad looker either, you know; especially just now, with her
ears pinked up and her eyes sparklin' mischievous. I don't know whether
it's from takin' massage treatments reg'lar, or if it just comes
natural, but she don't need to cover up her collar bone or wear things
around her neck.

"Yes, that night," says she, liftin' her glass. "Shall we drink just
once to the memory of it?"

Which they did.

"And now," goes on Zenobia, "we will forget it, if you please."

"Not I," says Ballard. "Another thing: I've never forgiven your sister
Martha for what she did then. I never will."

Zenobia indulges in a trilly little laugh. "No more has she forgiven
you," says she. "How absurd of you both, just as though--but we'll not
talk about it. I've no time for yesterdays. To-day is too full. Tell me,
why are you back here?"

"Because seven armies have chased me out of Europe," says he, "and my
charming Vienna is too full of typhus to be quite healthy. If I'd
dreamed of finding you like this, I should have come long ago."

"Very pretty," says Zenobia. "I'd love to believe it, just for the sake
of repeating it to Martha in the morning. She is still with me, you
know."

"As saintly as ever?" asks Ballard.

"At thirty Martha was quite as good as she could be," says Zenobia.
"There she seems to have stopped. So naturally her opinion of you hasn't
altered in the least."

"And yours?" says he.

"Did I have opinions at twenty-two?" says she. "How ridiculous! I had
emotions, moods, mad impulses; anyway, something that led me to give you
seven dances in a row and stay until after one A.M. when I had promised
someone to leave at eleven. You don't think I've kept up that sort of
thing, do you?"

"I don't know," says Ballard. "I wouldn't be sure. One never could be
sure of Zenobia Hadley. I suppose that was why I took my chance when I
did, why I----"

"Kyrle Ballard, you've finished your sandwich, haven't you?" breaks in
Zenobia. "There! It's striking twelve, and I make it a rule never to be
sentimental after midnight. You and Martha wouldn't enjoy meeting each
other; so you'll not be coming again. Besides, I've a busy week ahead of
me. When you get settled abroad again, though, you might let me know.
Good-night. Happy dreams."

And before Ballard can protest he's bein' shooed out.

"You'll take luncheon with me to-morrow," he calls back from his cab.

"Probably not," says Zenobia.

"Oh yes, you will, Zenobia," says he. "I'm a desperate character still.
Remember that!"

She laughs and shuts the door. "There, Torchy!" says she. "See what
complications come from combining hot dogs with Bernard Shaw. And if
Martha should happen to get down before those bottles are removed--well,
I should have to tell her all."

Trust Martha. She did. And when I finished breakfast she was still
waitin' for Zenobia to come down and be quizzed. I don't know how far
back into fam'ly hist'ry that little chat took 'em, or what Martha had
to say. All I know is that when I shows up for dinner and comes
downstairs about six-thirty there sits Martha in the lib'ry, rocking
back and forth with that patient, resigned look on her face, as if she
was next in line at the dentist's.

"Zenobia isn't in yet," says she. "We will wait dinner awhile for her."

Then chunks of silence from Martha, which ain't usual. At seven o'clock
we gives it up and sits down alone. We hadn't finished our soup when
this telegram comes. First off I thought Martha was goin' to choke or
blow a cylinder head, I didn't know which. Then she takes to sobbin'
into the consomme, and fin'lly she shoves the message over to me.

"Wh-a-at?" I gasps. "Eloped, have they?"

"I--I knew they would," says Martha, "just as soon as I heard he'd been
here. He--he always wanted her to do it."

"Always?" says I. "Why, I thought he hadn't seen her for forty years or
so. How could that be?"

"We-we-well," sobs Martha, "I--I stopped them once. And she engaged to
the Rev. Mr. Preble at the time! It was scandalous! Such a wild,
reckless fellow Kyrle Ballard was too."

"Wh-e-ew!" I whistles. "That was goin' some for Zenobia, wasn't it? How
near did they come to doin' the slope?"

"She--she was actually stealing out to meet him, her things all on,"
says Martha, "when--when I woke up and found her. I made her come back
by threatening to call Mother. Engaged for two years, she and Mr. Preble
had been, and the wedding day all set. He'd just got a nice church too,
his first. I saved her that time; but now----" Martha relapses into the
sob act.

"The giddy young things!" says I. "Gone off on a honeymoon trip too!
Say, that ain't such slow work, is it? Gettin' there a little late,
maybe; but if there ever was a pair of silver sixties meant to be mated
up, I guess it's them. Well, well! I stand to lose a near-aunt by the
deal; but they get my blessin', anyway."

As for Aunt Martha, she keeps right on thinnin' out the soup.

CHAPTER XIII

SIFTING OUT UNCLE BILL

Things happen to you quick, don't they, when the happenin' is good? Take
this affair of Zenobia's. One day I'm settled down all comfy and solid
with two old near-aunts who'd been livin' in the same place and doin'
the same things for the last thirty years or so, and the next--well, off
one of 'em goes, elopes with an old-time beau of hers that happens to
show up here just because Europe is bein' shot up.

And then, before I've recovered from that jolt, comes this human
surprise package labeled Dorsett, who blows breezy into the Corrugated.
Fair-haired Vincent, who still holds my old place on the brass gate,
brings in his card.

"William H. Dorsett?" says I. "Never heard of the party. Did he ask for
Mutual Funding?"

"No, Sir," says Vincent. "He asked for you, Sir."

"How?" says I.

At which Vincent tints up embarrassed. "He said he wished to talk to a
young fellow known as Torchy, Sir," says he.

"Almost a description of me, ain't it?" says I. "Well, tow him in,
Vincent, until I see if his map's any more familiar than his name."

It wa'n't. He's a middle-aged gent, kind of tall and stoop-shouldered,
with curly hair that's started to frost up above the ears. The raincoat
he's wearin' is a little seedy, specially about the collar and cuffs;
but he's sportin' a silver-mounted walkin'-stick, and has a new pair of
yellow gloves stickin' from his breast pocket.

With a free and easy stride he follows Vincent's directions, sails over
to my corner of the private office, pulls up a chair, and camps down by
the desk without any urgin'. Also he favors me with a friendly smile
that he produces from one corner of his mouth. Sort of a catchy smile it
is too, and before we've swapped a word I finds myself smilin' back.

"Well!" says I. "You're introducin' what?"

"Just William H. Dorsett," says he.

"You do it well," says I.

He allows the off corner of his mouth to loosen up again, and for a
second his deep-set brown eyes steady down as he gives me the once-over.
Kind of an amused, quizzin' look it is, but more or less foxy. He
crosses his legs and hitches up his chair confidential.

"I imagine you're rather used to handling big propositions here," says
he, takin' in the office mahogany, the expensive floor rugs, and
everything else in a quick glance: "so I hope you won't mind if I
present a small one."

"In funding?" says I.

"It might very well come under that head," says he. "Ever do much with
municipal franchises,--trolleys, lighting, that sort of thing?"

"Nope," says I; "nor racin' tips, church fair chances, or Danish lottery
tickets. We don't even back new movie concerns."

That gets a twinkle out of his restless eyes. "I don't blame you in the
least," says he. "I suppose there are more worthless franchises hawked
around New York than you could stuff into a moving van. That's what
makes it so difficult to get action on any real, gilt-edged
propositions."

"Such as you've got in your inside pocket eh?" says I.

"Precisely," says he. "Mine are the worthwhile kind. Of course
franchises are common enough. It's no trick at all to go into the
average Rube village, 'steen miles from a railroad, and get 'em thrilled
with the notion of being connected by trolley with Jaytown, umpteen
miles south. Why, they'll hand you anything in sight! A deaf-mute could
go out and get that sort of franchise. But to prospect through the whole
cotton belt, locate opportunities where the dividends will follow the
rails, pick out the cream of them all, get in right with the board of
trade, fix things up with a suspicious town council, stall off the local
capitalist who would like to hog all the profits himself, and set the
real estate operators working for you tooth and nail--well, that is
legitimate promoting; my brand, if you will permit me."

"Maybe," says I. "But the Corrugated don't----"

"I understand," breaks in Mr. Dorsett. "Quite right too. But here I
produce the personal equation. For five weary weeks I've skittered about
this city, carrying around with me half a dozen of the ripest, richest
franchise propositions ever matured. Bona-fide prospects, mind you,
communities just yearning for transportation facilities, with tentative
stock subscriptions running as high as two hundred thousand in some
cases. They're schemes I've nursed from the seed up, as you might say.
I've laid all the underground wires, seen all the officials that need
seeing, planned for every right of way. Six splendid opportunities that
may be coined into cash simply by pressing the button! And the nearest I
can get to any man with real money to invest is a two-minute interview
in a reception room with some clerk. All because I lack someone to take
me into a private office and remark casually: 'Mr. So-and-So, here's my
friend Dorsett, who's bringing us something good from the South.' That's
all. Why, only last week I actually offered to deliver a
fifty-thousand-dollar franchise on a ten per cent. commission basis,
provided I was given a beggarly two hundred advance for expenses--and
had it turned down!"

"Ye-e-es," says I. "The way some of them Wall Street plutes shrink from
bein' made richer is painful, ain't it? But I don't see where I fit in."

Mr. Dorsett pats me chummy on the shoulder and proceeds to show me
exactly where. "You know the right people," says he. "You're in with
them. Very well. All I ask of you is the 'Here's Mr. Dorsett' part. I'll
do the rest."

"How simple!" says I. "And us old friends of about five minutes'
standin'! Say, throw in your reverse or you'll be off the bridge. Who's
been tellin' you I was such a simp?"

Mr. Dorsett smiles indulgent. "My error," says he. "But I was hoping
that perhaps you might---- Come, Torchy, hasn't it occurred to you that
I would hardly come as an utter stranger? Who do you suppose now gave me
your address?"

"The chairman of the Stock Exchange?" says I.

"Mother Leary," says he.

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'.

"A flip of fate," says he. "At my hotel I got to talking with the room
clerk, and discovered that his name was Leary. It turned out that he
was Aloysius, the eldest boy. Remember him, don't you?"

Seein' how I'd almost been brought up in the fam'ly when I was a kid, I
couldn't deny it. Course I'd run more with Hunch than any of the other
boys. We'd sold papers together, and gone into the A. D. T. at the same
time. But there wasn't a Leary I didn't know all about.

"You must have boarded there too," says I. "But if I ever heard your
name, it didn't stick."

"It may have been," says he, "that I was not using the Dorsett part of
it just at that time. Business reasons, you understand. But the H in my
name stands for Hines. What about William Hines, now?"

"Hm-m-m!" says I, starin' at him. Sure enough, that did have a familiar
sound to it.

"Let's try it this way," says he: "Uncle Bill Hines."

And, say, that got me! I expect I made some gaspy motions before I
managed to get out my next remark. "You--you ain't the one that left me
with Mother Leary, are you?" I asks.

Dorsett nods. "I'm a trifle late in explaining that carelessness," says
he, "and I can only plead guilty to all your reproaches. But consider
the circumstances. There I was, a free lance of fortune, down to my last
dollar, and rich only in the companionship of a bright-eyed,
four-year-old youngster who had been trusted to my care. You remember
very little of that period, I suppose; but it is all vivid enough to me,
even now,--how we tramped up and down Broadway, you chattering away,
excited and happy, while I was wondering what I should do when that last
dollar was gone.

"Then, just when things seem blackest, arrived opportunity,--the
Birmingham boom. I ran across one of the boomers, who was struck with
the brilliant idea that he could make use of my peculiar talents in
making known the coming glories of the new South. But I must join him at
once, that very day. And he waved yellow-backed bills at me. I simply
had to drop you and go. Mother Leary promised to take care of you for
three months, or until your--well, until someone else claimed you. I
sent word to them both, at least I tried to, and rushed gayly down into
Dixie. Perhaps you never heard of the bursting of that first Birmingham
boom? It was an abrupt but very-complete smash. I came out of it owning
two gorgeous suits of clothes, one silk hat, and an opulent-looking
pocketbook, bulging with thirty-day options on corner lots. One of the
clerks in our office staked me with carfare to Atlanta, where I got a
job collecting tenement house rents.

"Since then I've been up and down. Half a dozen times I've almost had
my fingers on the tail feathers of fortune: only to stumble into some
hidden pit of poverty. And in time--well, time mends all things.
Besides, I hardly relished facing Mother Leary. There was the chance too
that you no longer needed rescuing. I'm not trying to excuse my breach
of faith: I am merely telling you how it came about. You realize that, I
trust?"

Did I? I don't know. I expect I was just sittin' there gazing stary at
him. Only one thing was shapin' itself clear in my head, and fin'lly I
states it flat.

"Say," says I, "you--you ain't my reg'lar uncle, are you?"

Maybe I wa'n't as enthusiastic as the case called for. He springs that
smile of his. "Hardly a flattering way to put it," says he. "Would you
be disappointed if I was?"

"Well," says I, eyin' him up and down, "you don't strike me as such a
swell uncle, you know."

Don't faze him a bit, either. "Our near relatives are seldom quite
satisfactory," says he. "Of course, though, if I fail to suit----" He
hunches his shoulders and reaches for his hat.

So he had it on me, you see. Suppose you was as shy on relations as I
am, would you turn down the only one that ever showed up?

"Excuse me if I don't get the cues right," says I; "but--but this has
been put over a little sudden. Course I'll take Mrs. Leary's word. If
she says you're my Uncle Bill, that goes. Anyway, you can give me a line
on--on my folks, I suppose?"

Yes, he admits that he can; but he don't. And I will say for him that he
states his case smooth enough, smilin' that catchy smile of his, and
tappin' me friendly on the knee. But when he's all through it amounts to
this: He needs the loan of a couple of hundred cash the worst way, and
he wants to be put next to a few plutes that are in the market for new
trolley franchises. If I can boost him along that way, it'll relieve his
mind so much that he'll be in just the right mood to go into my personal
hist'ry as deep as I care to dip.

"Gee!" says I. "But this raisin' a fam'ly tree comes high, don't it?
Besides, I'd have to get Mother Leary's O. K. on you first, you know."

"Naturally," says he. "And any time within the next day or so will
answer. Suppose I drop around again, or look you up at your quarters?"

"Better make it at the house," says I. "Here's the street number. Some
evenin' after seven-thirty. I--I'll be thinkin' things over."

And as I watches him swing jaunty through the door I remarks under my
breath to nobody in partic'lar: "Uncle Bill, eh? My Uncle Bill! Well,
well!"

You can be sure too that my first move is to sound Mother Leary. She
says he's the one, all right, and I gathers that she gave him the
tongue-lashin' she'd been savin' up all these years. But I don't stop
for details. If I've really had an uncle wished on me, it's up to me to
make the best of it, or find out the worst. But somehow I ain't so
chesty about havin' dug up a relation. I don't brag about it to Martha
when I go home. In fact, Martha has fam'ly troubles of her own about
now, you remember. I finds her weepy-eyed and solemn.

"They've been gone more than a week," says she, "Zenobia and that
reckless Kyrle Ballard. Pretty soon they will be coming back, and
then----"

"Well, what then?" says I.

"I've been packing up to-day," says she, swabbin' off a stray tear from
the side of her nose. "I have engaged rooms at the Lady Louise. I
suppose you will be leaving too."

"Me?" says I.

It hadn't struck me that Aunt Zenobia's getting married was goin' to
throw us all out on the street. But Aunt Martha had it doped diff'rent.

"Stay in the same house with that man?" says she. "Not I! And I am quite
sure he will not want either of us around when he comes back here as
Zenobia's husband."

"If that's the case," says I, "it won't take me long to clear out; but I
guess I'll wait until I get the hint direct. You'd better wait too."

Martha'd made up her mind, though. She says she'd go right then if it
wa'n't for leavin' the servants alone in the house; but the very minute
Sister Zenobia arrives she means to beat it. And sure enough next day
she has her trunk brought down into the front hall and begins wearin'
her bonnet around the house. It's a little weird to see her pokin' about
dressed that way, and her wraps and rubbers laid out handy, as if she
belonged to a volunteer hose comp'ny.

It was after the second day of this watchful waitin', and we're sittin'
down to a six-forty-five dinner, when a big racket breaks loose out
front. The bell rings four times rapid, Lizzie the maid almost breaks
her neck gettin' to the door, and in breezes the runaway pair with all
their baggage, chucklin' and chatterin' like a couple of kids. Some
stunnin' Aunt Zenobia looks, for all her gray hair; and Mr. Ballard, in
his Scotch tweed suit and with his ruddy cheeks, don't look a day over
fifty. They're giggling merry over some remark of Lizzie's, and Zenobia
calls in through the draperies.

"Hello, Martha--Torchy--everybody!" she sings out. "Well, here we are,
back from that absurd boardwalk resort, back to--well, for the love of
ladies! Martha Hadley, why in the name of nonsense are you eating dinner
with your hat on?"

"Because," says Martha, beginnin' to sniffle, "I--I'm going away."

"But where? Why?" demands Zenobia.

And between sobs Martha explains. She includes me in it too.

"Then why aren't you wearing your hat also, Torchy?" asks Zenobia.

"Well," says I, "I ain't so sure about quittin' as she is. I thought I'd
stick around until I got the word to move."

"Which you're not at all likely to get, young man," says Zenobia. "And
as for you, Martha, you should have better sense. Trapsing off to a
hotel, at your time of life! Rubbish! And why, please?"

Aunt Martha nods towards Ballard.

"Well, you're just going to get over that nonsense," says Zenobia.
"Kyrle, you know what you promised when you told me you'd make up with
Martha? Now is the appointed time. Do it!"

And Mr. Ballard, chuckin' his hat and overcoat on a chair, sails right
in. I expect it was the last thing in the world Martha was lookin' for;
for she sits there gazin' at him sort of stupid until he's done the
trick. Uh-huh! No halfway business about it, either. He just naturally
takes her chubby old face between his two hands, tilts up her chin, and
plants a reg'lar final curtain smack where I'll bet it's been forty
years since the lips of man had trod before.

First off Martha flops her arms and squeals. Then, when she finds it's
all over and ain't goin' to be any continuous performance, she quiets
down and stares at the two of 'em, who are chucklin' away merry.

"Please, Sister Martha," says Ballard, "try to overlook that old affair
of mine when I tried to cut out the Rev. Preble. I was rather
irresponsible then, I'll own; but I have steadied down a lot, although
for the last week or so--well, you know how giddy Zenobia is. But you
will help us. We can't either of us spare you, you see."

Maybe it was the jollyin' speech, or maybe it was the unexpected smack,
but inside of five minutes Martha has shed her bonnet and we're all
sittin' around the table as friendly and jolly as you please.

I suppose it was by way of makin' Martha feel comf'table and as if she
was really part of the game that they got to reminiscin' about old times
and the folks they used to know. I wa'n't followin' it very close until
Martha gets to askin' Ballard about some of his people, and he starts in
on this story about his nephew.

"Poor Dick!" says he, pushin' back his demitasse and lightin' up a big
perfecto. "Now if he'd been my boy, things might have turned out
differently. But my respected brother--well, you knew Richard, Martha.
Not at all like me,--eminently respectable, a bit solemn, and
tremendously stiff-necked on occasion. The way he took on about that
red-headed Irish girl, for instance. Irene, you know. Why, you might
have thought, to have heard him storm around, that she was a veritable
sorceress, or something of the kind; when, as a matter of fact, she was
just a nice, wholesome, keen-witted young woman. Pretty as a picture,
she was, and as true as gold too,--a lot too good for young Dick
Ballard, even if she was merely a girl in his father's office. You
couldn't blame her for liking Dick, though. Everyone did--the
scatter-brained scamp! And when my brother went through all that
melodramatic folly of cutting him off with a thousand a year--well, we
had our big row over that. That was when I took my money out of the
firm. Lucky I did too. When the panic came I was safe."

"Let's see," says Zenobia, "Dick and the girl ran off and were married,
weren't they?"

"Yes," says Ballard. "It's in the blood, you see. They went to Paris, to
carry out one of Dick's great schemes. He had persuaded some of his
friends, big real estate dealers, to make him their foreign agent. His
idea was, I believe, to catch Western millionaires abroad and sell 'em
Fifth-ave. mansions. Actually did land one or two customers, I think.
But it was his wife's notion that turned out to be really
practical,--leasing French and Italian villas to rich Americans.
Something in that, you know, and if Dick had only stuck to it--but Dick
never could. He got in with some mine promoters, and after that nothing
would answer but that he must rush right back to Goldfield and look over
some properties that were for sale dirt cheap. As though Dick would have
been any wiser after he'd seen 'em! But his biggest piece of folly was
in taking the little boy along with him."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17