Torchy, Private Sec.

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He knows a roll-top when he sees one, Piddie does, and he ain't omittin'
any deference due. You know the type? He's one of the kind that was born
to be "our Mr. Piddie"; the sort that takes off his hat to a
vice-president, and holds his breath in the presence of the big wheeze.
But, say, I don't want any joss-sticks burned for me.

"Ditch it, Piddie," says I, "ditch it!"

"I--er--I beg pardon?" says he.

"The Sir stuff," says I. "Just because I'm behind the ground glass
instead of the brass rail don't make me a sacred being, or you a
lobbygow, does it? I guess we've known each other too long for that,
eh?" And I holds out the friendly mitt.

Honest, he's got a human streak in him, Piddie has, if you know where
to strike it. The cast-iron effect comes out of his shoulders, the
wooden look from his face. He almost smiles.

"Thank you, Torchy," says he. "I--er--my congratulations on your
new----"

"We'll spread 'em on the minutes," says I, "and proceed to show the
Corrugated some teamwork that mere salaries can't buy. Are you on?"

He was. Inside of three minutes he'd chucked that stiff-necked, flunky
pose and was coachin' me like a big brother, and by the time he'd beat
into my head all he knew about the Fundin' Comp'ny we was as chummy as
two survivors of the same steamer wreck. Simple, I know; but this little
experience made me feel like I'd signed a gen'ral peace treaty with the
world at large.

I hadn't, though. An hour later I runs up against Willis G. Briscoe.
He's kind of an outside development manager, who makes preliminary
reports on new deals. One of these cold-eyed, chesty parties, Willis G.
is; tall and thin, and with a big, bowwow voice that has a rasp to it.

"Huh!" says he, as he discovers me busy at the desk. "I heard of this
out in Chicago three days ago; but I thought it must be a joke."

"Them reporters do get things straight now and then, don't they?" says
I.

"Reporters!" he snorts. "Philip wrote me about it."

"Oh!" says I. "Cousin Philip, eh?"

And that gave me the whole plot of the piece. Cousin Phil was a
cigarette-consumin' college discard that Willis G. had been nursin'
along in the bondroom, waitin' for a better openin'; and this jump of
mine had filled a snap job that he'd had his eyes on for Cousin.

"I suppose you're only temporary, though," says he.

"That's all," says I. "Mr. Ellins will be resignin' in eight or ten
years, I expect, and then they'll want me in his chair. Nice mornin',
ain't it?"

"Bah!" says he, registerin' deep disgust, as they say in the movie
scripts. "You'll do well if you last eight or ten days."

"How cheerin'!" says I, and as he swings off with a final glare I tips
him the humorous wink.

Why not? No young-man-afraid-of-his-job part for me! Briscoe might get
it away from me, or he might not; but I wa'n't goin' to get panicky over
it. Let him do his worst!

He didn't need any urgin'. With a little scoutin' around he discovers
that about the only assignment on my hook so far is this Rowley matter:
you know, the old inventor guy with the mill-tailings scheme. And the
first hint I had that he was wise to that was when Mr. Robert calls me
over after lunch and explains how this Rowley business sort of comes in
Mr. Briscoe's department.

"So I suppose you'd better turn it over to him," says he.

"Just as you say," says I. "The old gent is due at two-fifteen, and I'll
shunt him onto Briscoe."

Which I did. And at two-thirty-five Briscoe breezes in with his report.

"Nothing to it," says he. "This Rowley person has a lot of half-baked
ideas about briquets and retort recoveries, and talks vaguely of big
profits; but he's got nothing practical. I shipped him off."

"But," says Mr. Robert, "I think he was promised that his schemes should
have a consideration by the board."

"Very well," says Willis G. jaunty. "I'll give 'em a report next
meeting. Wednesday, isn't it? Hardly worth wasting their time over,
though."

And here I'd been boostin' the Rowley proposition to Mr. Robert good and
hard, almost gettin' him enthusiastic over it! I was smeared, that's
all! My first stab at makin' myself useful in my new swing-chair job has
been brushed aside as a beginner's bungle; and there sits Mr. Robert,
prob'ly wonderin' if he hadn't made a mistake in takin' me off the gate!

I stares at a row of empty pigeonholes for a solid hour after that, not
doin' a blamed thing but race my thinkin' gears tryin' to find out where
I was at. This dummy act that I'd been let in for might be all right for
some; but it didn't suit me. I've got to have action in mine.

So, long before quittin' time, I slams the desk cover down and pikes out
on Rowley's trail. He might be a dead duck; but I wanted to know how and
why. I had his address all right, and it didn't take me long to locate
him in a fifth-story loft down on lower Sixth-ave. It's an odd joint
too, with a cot bed in one corner, a work bench along the avenue side, a
cook-stove in the middle, and a kitchen table where the coffeepot was
crowded on each side by a rack of test tubes. Old Rowley himself, with
his sleeves rolled up, is sittin' in a rickety arm chair peelin'
potatoes. He's grouchy too.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" says he. "Well, you might just as well trot right
back to the Corrugated Trust and tell 'em that Old Hen Rowley don't give
two hoots for their whole outfit."

"I take it you didn't get on so well with Mr. Briscoe?" says I.

"Briscoe!" he grunts savage. "Who could talk business to a smart Alec
like that! He knew it all before I'd begun. You'd think I was trying to
sell him a gold brick. All right! We'll see what the Bethlehem people
have to say."

"What?" says I. "Before you get the final word from us?"

"I've had it," says he. "Briscoe is final enough for me."

"You're easy satisfied," says I, "or else you're easy beat. I didn't
take you for a quitter, either."

Say, that got to him. "Quitter, eh!" says he. "See here, Son, how long
do you think I've been plugging at this thing? Nine years. And for the
last four I've been giving it all my time, day in and day out, and many
a night as well. I've been living with it, in this loft here, like a
blessed hermit; testing and perfecting, trying out my processes, and
fighting the Patent Office sharks between times. Nine years--the best of
my life! Call that quitting, do you?"

"Well, that is sticking around some," says I. "Think you've got your
schemes so they'll work?"

"I don't think," says he; "I know."

"But what's the good," I goes on, "if you can't make other folks see
you've got a good thing?"

"I can, though," he says. "Why, any person with even ordinary
intelligence can----"

"That's me," says I. "My nut is just about a stock pattern size, six
and seven-eighths, or maybe seven. Come, try it on me, if it's so
simple. Now what about this retort business?"

That got him goin'. Rowley drops the potatoes, and in another minute
we're neck-deep in the science of makin' an ore puddin', doin' stunts
with the steam, skimmin' dividends off the pot, and coinin' the slag
into dollars.

I ain't lettin' him slip over any gen'ral propositions on me, either.
I'm right there with the Missouri stuff. He has to go clear back to
first principles every time he makes a statement, and work up to it
gradual. Course, I was keepin' him jollied along too, and while it must
have been sort of hopeless at the start, inoculatin' a cauliflower like
mine with higher chemistry, I fin'lly showed one or two gleams that
encouraged him to keep on. Anyway, we hammered away at the subject, only
stoppin' to make coffee and sandwiches, until near two o'clock in the
mornin'.

"Help!" says I, glancin' at the nickel alarm clock. "My head feels like
a stuffed sausage. A little more, and I won't know whether I'm a nitrous
sulphide or a ferrous oxide of bromo seltzer. Let's take the rest in
another dose."

Rowley chuckles and agrees to call it a day, I didn't let on anything at
the office next morning; but by eight A.M. I was planted at the
roll-top with my elbows squared, tryin' to write out as much of that
chemistry dope as I could remember. And it's surprising ain't it, what a
lot of information you can sop up when you do the sponge act in earnest?
I found there was a lot of points, though, that I was foggy on; so I
makes an early getaway and puts in another long session with Rowley.

And, take it from me, by Tuesday I was well loaded. Also I had my plan
of campaign all mapped out; for you mustn't get the idea I was packin'
my bean full of all this science dope just to see if it would stand the
strain. Not so, Clarice! I'd woke up to the fact that I was bein'
carried along by the Corrugated as a sort of misfit inner tube stowed in
the bottom of the tool-box, and that it was up to me to make good.

So the first openin' I has I tackles Mr. Robert on the side.

"About that Rowley proposition?" says I.

"Oh, yes," says he. "I fear Mr. Briscoe thinks unfavorably of it."

"Then he's fruity in the pan," says I.

"We have been in the habit of accepting his judgment in such matters,"
says Mr. Robert.

"Maybe," says I; "but here's once when he's handin' you a stall. And
you're missin' out on something good too."

Mr. Robert smiles skeptical. "Really?" says he. "Perhaps you would like
to present a minority report?"

"Nothin' less," says I. "Oh, it may listen like a joke, but that's just
what I got in mind."

"H-m-m-m!" says Mr. Robert. "You realize that Briscoe is one of the
leading mining authorities in the country, I suppose, and that we pay
him a large salary as consulting engineer?"

I nods. "I know," says I. "And the nearest I ever got to seein' a mine
was watchin' 'em excavate for the subway. I'm admittin' all that."

"I may add too," goes on Mr. Robert, "that he has a way of stating his
opinions quite convincingly."

"Yep," says I, "I should judge that. But if I think he's bilkin' you on
this, is it my play to sit behind and chew my tongue?"

"By Jove!" says Mr. Robert, his sportin' instincts comin' to the top.
"You shall have your chance, Torchy. The directors shall hear your
views; to-morrow, at two-thirty. You will follow Briscoe."

"Let's not bill it ahead, then," says I, "if it'll be fair to spring it
on him."

"Quite," says Mr. Robert; "and rather more amusing, I fancy. I will
arrange it."

"I'd like to have old Rowley on the side lines, in case I get stuck,"
says I.

"Oh, certainly," says he. "Bring Mr. Rowley if you wish. And if there
are any preparations you would like to make----"

"I got one or two," says I, startin' for the door; "so mark me off until
about to-morrow noon."

Busy? Well, say, a kitten with four feet stuck in the flypaper didn't
have anything on me. I streaks it for Sixth-ave. and lands in Rowley's
loft all out of breath.

"What's up?" says he.

"The case of Briscoe _et al. vs._ Rowley," says I. "It's to be threshed
out before the full Corrugated board to-morrow at two-thirty. I'm the
counsel for the defense."

"Well, what of it?" says he.

"I want to use you as Exhibit A," says I, "in case of an emergency."

"All right," says he. "I'll go along if you say so."

"Good!" says I. And then came the hard part. "Rowley," I goes on, "what
size collar do you wear?"

"But what has that to do with it?" says he.

"Now don't get peeved," says I; "but you know the kind our directors
are,--flossy, silk-lined old sports, most of 'em; and they're apt to
size up strangers a good deal by their haberdashery. So I was wonderin'
if I couldn't blow you to a neat, pleated bosom effect with attached
cuffs."

"Oh, I see," says Rowley, glancin' at his gray flannel workin' shirt.
"Anything else?"

"I don't expect you'd want to part with that face shrubbery, or have it
landscaped into a Vandyke, eh?" says I. "You know they ain't wearin' the
bushy kind now in supertax circles."

"Would you insist on my being manicured too?" says he, chucklin' easy.

"It would help," says I. "And this would be my buy all round."

"That's a generous offer, Son," says he, "and I don't know how long it's
been since anyone has taken so much personal interest in Old Hen Rowley.
Seems nice too. I suppose I am rather a shabby old duffer to be visiting
the offices of great and good corporations. Yes, I'll spruce up a bit;
and if I find it costs more than I can afford--now let's see how my cash
stands."

With that he digs into a hip pocket and unlimbers a roll of corn-tinted
kale the size of your wrist. Maybe they wa'n't all hundreds clear to the
core, but that's what was on the outside.

"Whiffo!" says I. "Excuse me for classin' you so near the bread line;
but by your campin' in a loft, and the longshoreman's shirt, and so
on----"

"Very natural, Son," he breaks in. "And I see your point all the
clearer. I've no business going about so. The whiskers shall be trimmed.
But your people up at the Corrugated have evidently made up their minds
to turn us down."

"Maybe," says I; "but if they do, it won't be on any snap decision of
Briscoe's. And unless I get tongue tied at the last minute we're goin'
to have a run for our money."

That was what worried me most,--could I come across with the standin'
spiel? But, believe me, I wa'n't trustin' to any offhand stuff! I'd got
to know in advance what I meant to feed 'em, line for line and word for
word. By ten o'clock that night I had it all down on paper too--and
perhaps I didn't chew the penholder and leak some from the brow while I
was doin' it!

Then came the rehearsin'. Say, you should have seen me risin' dignified
behind the washstand in my room, strikin' a Bill Bryan pose, and smilin'
calm at the bedposts as I launched out on my speech. Not that I was
tryin' to chuck any flowers of oratory. What I aimed to do was to tell
'em about Rowley's schemes as simple and straight away as I could,
usin' one-syllable words for the most part, cannin' the slang, and
soundin' as many final G's as my tongue would let me. Before I turned in
too, I had it almost pat; but I hardly dared to go to sleep for fear it
would get away from me.

Say, but it ain't any cinch, this breakin' into public life, is it? The
obscure guy with the dinner pail and the calloused palms thinks he has
hard lines; but when the whistle blows he can wipe his trowel on his
overalls and forget it all until next day. But here I tosses around
restless in the feathers, and am up at daybreak goin' over my piece
again, trembly in the knees, with a vivid mental picture of how cheap
I'd feel if I should go to pieces when the time came.

A good breakfast pepped me up a lot, though, and by noon I had them few
remarks of mine so I could say 'em backwards or forwards. How they was
goin' to sound outside of my room was another matter. I had my doubts
along that line; but I was goin' to give 'em the best I had in stock.

It was most time for the session to begin when Vincent boy trots in with
a card announcin' Mr. Henry Clay Rowley. And, say, when this
smooth-faced party in the sporty Scotch tweed suit and the new model
pearl gray lid shows up, I has to gasp! He's had himself tailored and
barbered until he looks like an English investor come over huntin' six
per cent. dividends for a Bank of England surplus.

"Zowie!" says I. "Some speed to you, Mr. Rowley. And class? Say, you
look like you was about to dump a trunkful of Steel preferred on the
market, instead of a few patents."

"I'm giving your advice a thorough trial, you see," says he.

"That's the stuff!" says I. "It's the dolled up gets the dollars these
days. Be sure and sit where they'll get a good view."

Then we went into the directors' room and heard Willis G. Briscoe
deliver his knock. He does it snappy and vigorous, and when he's through
it didn't listen like anything more could be said. He humps his eyebrows
humorous when Mr. Robert announces that perhaps the board might like to
hear another view of the subject.

"Torchy," goes on Mr. Robert, "you have the floor."

For a second or so, though, I felt like spreadin' out so I wouldn't slip
through a crack. All of a sudden too, my mouth had gone dry and I had a
panicky notion that my brain had ossified. Then I got a glimpse of them
shrewd blue eyes of Rowley's smilin' encouragin' at me, the first few
sentences of my speech filtered back through the bone, I got my tongue
movin', and I was off.

Funny how you can work out of a scare that way, ain't it? Why, say, the
first thing I knew I'd picked out old D. K. Rutgers, the worst fish-face
in the bunch, and was throwin' the facts into him like I was shovelin'
coal into a cellar chute. Beginnin' with Rowley's plan for condensin'
commercial acids from the blast fumes, explainin' the chemical process
that produced 'em, and how they could be caught on the fly and canned in
carboys for the trade, I galloped through the whole proposition, backin'
up every item with figures and formulas; until I showed 'em how the slag
that now cost 'em so much to get rid of could be sold for road
ballastin' and pressed into buildin' blocks at a profit of twenty
dollars a ton. I didn't let anything go just by statin' it bald. I took
Briscoe's objections one by one, shot 'em full of holes with the
come-backs Rowley had coached me on, and then proceeded to clinch the
argument until I had old Rutgers noddin' his head.

"And these, Gentlemen," I winds up with, "are what Mr. Briscoe calls the
vague, half-baked ideas of an unpractical inventor. He's an expert, Mr.
Briscoe is! I'm not. I wouldn't know a supersaturated solution of
methylcalcites from a stein of Hoboken beer; but I'm willin' to believe
there's big money in handling either, providing you don't spill too much
on the inside. Mr. Rowley claims you're throwing away millions a year.
He says he can save it for you. He wants to show you how you can juggle
ore so you can save everything but the smell. He's here on the spot, and
if you want to quiz him about details, go as deep as you like."

Did they? Say, that seance didn't break up until six-fifteen, and before
the board adjourns Rowley had a whackin' big option check in his fist,
and a resolution had gone through to install an experiment plan as soon
as it could be put up. An hour before that Willis G. Briscoe had done
the silent sneak, wearin' his mouth droopy.

Mr. Robert meets me outside with the fraternal grip and says he's proud
of me.

"Thanks, Mr. Robert," says I. "It was a case of framin' up a job for
myself, or else four-flushin' along until you tied the can to me. And I
need the Corrugated just now."

"No more, I'm beginning to suspect," says he, "than the Corrugated needs
you."

Which was some happy josh for an amateur private sec to get from the
boss! Eh?

CHAPTER III

TORCHY TAKES A CHANCE

Say, I expected that after I got to be a salaried man, with a
swing-chair in Mr. Robert's private office, I'd be called on only to
pull the brainy stuff, calm and dignified, without any outside chasin'
around. I had a soothin' idea it would be a case of puttin' in my
mornin's dictatin' letters to gen'ral managers, and my afternoons to
holdin' interviews with the Secretary of the Treasury, and so on. I was
lookin' for plenty of high-speed domework, but nothin' more wearin' on
the arms than pushin' a call button or usin' a rubber stamp.

But somehow I can't seem to do finance, or anything else, without
throwin' in a lot of extra pep. No matter how I start, first thing I
know I'm mixed up with quick action, and as likely as not gettin' my
clothes mussed. This last stunt, though--believe me I couldn't have got
more thrills if I'd joined a circus!

It opens innocent enough too. I was moochin' around the bondroom when I
happens to glance over the transfer book and notices that a big block of
our debenture 6's are listed as goin' to the Federated Tractions. And
the name of the party who's about to swap the 6's for Tractions
preferred is a familiar one. It's Aunty's. Uh-huh--Vee's!

Maybe you remember how Aunty played up her skittish symptoms about them
same bonds a few weeks back, the time she planned to exhibit me to Vee
in my office boy job and got so badly jolted when she finds me posin' as
a private sec instead? Went away real peeved, Aunty did that time. And
now it looks like she was takin' it out by unloadin' her bond holdin's.
It's to be some swap too, runnin' up into six figures.

"Chee!" thinks I. "That's an income, all right, with Tractions payin'
between 7 and 9, besides cuttin' a melon now and then."

They have their gen'ral offices three floors below us, you know. Not
that I wouldn't have had a line on 'em anyway; for whatever that bunch
of Philadelphia live wires gets hold of is worth watchin'. Say, they'd
consolidate city breathin' air if they could, and make it pay dividends.
It's important to note too, that they're buyin' into Corrugated so deep.
I mentions the fact casual to Mr. Robert.

"Really," says he, liftin' his eyebrows surprised. "Federated Tractions!
Are you certain?"

"Unless our registry clerk has had a funny dream," says I. "The notice
was listed yesterday. And you know how grouchy the old girl was on us."

"H-m-m-m!" says he, drummin' his fingers nervous. "Thanks, Torchy. I
must look into this."

Seemed to worry Mr. Robert a bit; so maybe that's why I had my ears
stretched wider'n usual. It wa'n't an hour later that I runs across Izzy
Budheimer down in the Arcade. He's on the Curb now, Izzy is, and by the
size of the diamond horseshoe decoratin' the front of his silk shirt he
must be tradin' some in wildcats. Hails me like a friend and brother,
Izzy does, tries to wish a tinfoil Fumadora on me, and gives me the
happy josh about bein' boosted off the gate.

"You'll be gettin' wise to all the inside deals now, eh?" says he,
winkin' foxy. "And maybe we might work off something together. Yes?"

"Sure!" says I. "I'll come down every noon with the office secrets and
let you peddle 'em around Broad street from a pushcart. Gwan, you
parrot-beaked near-broker! Why, I wouldn't trust tellin' you the time of
day!"

Izzy grins like I'd paid him a compliment. "Such a joker!" says he. "But
listen! Which side do the Tractions people come down on?"

"Federated?" says I. "North corridor, just around the corner. Sleuthin'
around that bunch, are you? What's doing in Tractions?"

"How should I know?" protests Izzy, openin' his eyes innocent. "Maybe I
got a customer on the general staff, ain't it?"

"You'd be scoutin' up here at this time of day after a ten-dollar
commission, wouldn't you?" says I. "And with that slump in Connecticut
Gas in full blast! Can it, Izzy! I know a thing or two about Tractions
myself."

"Yes?" he whispers persuasive, almost holdin' his breath. "What do you
hear, now?"

"Don't say I told you," says I, "but they're thinkin' of puttin' in
left-handed straps for south-paw passengers."

Izzy looks pained and disgusted. He's got a serious mind, Izzy has, and
if you could take a thumbprint of his brain, it would be all fractions
and dollar signs.

"I have to meet my cousin Abie Moss," says he, edgin' away. "He has a
bookkeeper's job with Tractions for a month now, and I promised his aunt
I would ask how he's comin'."

"How touchin'!" says I as he moves off.

I gazes after him curious a minute, and then follows a sudden hunch. Why
not see just how much of a bluff this was about Cousin Abie? So I slips
around by the cigar stand, steps behind a pillar, and keeps him in
range. Three or four minutes I watched Izzy waitin' at the elevator
exit, without seein' him give anyone the fraternal grip. Then he seems
to quit. He drifts back towards the Arcade with the lunch crowd, and I
was about to turn away when I lamps him bein' slipped a piece of paper
by a short, squatty-built guy who brushes by him casual. Izzy gathers it
in with never a word and strolls over to the 'phone booths, where he
lets on to be huntin' a number in the directory. All he does there,
though, is spread out that paper, read it through hasty, and then tear
it up and chuck it in the waste basket.

"Huh!" says I, seein' Izzy scuttle off towards Broadway. "Looks like
there was a plot to the piece. I wonder?"

And just for the fun of the thing I collected them twenty-eight pieces
of yellow paper, carried 'em over to my lunch place, and spent the best
part of my noon-hour piecin' 'em together. What I got was this,
scribbled in lead pencil:

Grebel out. Larkin melding. Teg morf rednu.

"Whiffo!" thinks I. "What kind of a Peruvian dialect is this?"

Course the names was plain enough. Everybody knows Grebel and Larkin,
and that they're the big wheezes in that Philly crowd. But what then?
Had Grebel gone out to lunch? And was Larkin playin' penuchle?
Thrillin', if true. Then comes this "Teg morf rednu" stuff. Was that
Russian, or Chinese?

"Heiney," says I, callin' the dough-faced food juggler. "Heiney," I
repeats solemn, "Teg morf rednu."

Not a smile from Heiney. He grabs the bill of fare and begins to hunt
through the cheese list panicky.

"Never mind," says I, "you won't find it there. But here's another: What
do you do when you meld a hundred aces, say?"

A look of almost human intelligence flickers into Heiney's face.
"_Ach!_" says he. "By the table you pud 'em--so!"

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