Torchy, Private Sec.
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Sewell Ford >> Torchy, Private Sec.
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"Thanks, Heiney," says I. "That helps a little."
So Larkin was chuckin' something on the table, was he! But this other
dope, "Teg morf rednu?" Say, I'd come back to that after every bite. I
wrote it out on an envelope, tried runnin' it together and splittin' it
up diff'rent, and turned it upside down. Then in a flash I got it.
When Mr. Robert sails in from the club I was waitin' for him. He'd heard
a rumor that Grebel was to retire soon. Also he'd met young Larkin in
the billiard room, and found that the fam'ly was goin' abroad for the
summer.
"But all that may mean nothing at all, you know," says Mr. Robert.
"And then again," says I. "Study that out and see if it don't tally with
your dope," and I produces a copy of Izzy's wireless.
Mr. Robert wrinkles his forehead over it without any result. "What is
it?" says he.
"An inside tip on Tractions," says I, and sketches out how I'd got it.
"Oh, I see now," says he. "That about Grebel? But what is melding? And
this last--'Teg morf rednu'? I can make no sense of that."
"Try it backwards," says I.
"Why--er--by Jove!" says he. "Get from under, eh? Then--then there is a
slump coming. And with all that new stock issue, I'm not surprised. But
that hits Miss Vee's aunt rather heavily, doesn't it? That is, if the
deal has gone through."
"Who's her lawyers?" says I. "They ought to know."
"Of course," says Mr. Robert, reachin' for the 'phone. "Winkler, Burt &
Winkler. Look up the number, will you? Eh? Broad, did you say?"
And inside of three minutes he has explained the case and got the
verdict. "They don't know," says he. "The transfer receipts were sent
for her to sign last night. If she's signed them, there's nothing to be
done."
"But if she hasn't?" says I.
"Then she mustn't," says Mr. Robert. "It would mean letting that crowd
get a foothold in Corrugated, and a loss of thousands to her. See if
the tape shows any recent fluctuations."
"Bluey-ooey!" says I, runnin' over the mornin' sales hasty. "Opened at
seven-eighths, then 500 at three-quarters, another block at a half, 300
at a quarter--why, it's on the toboggan!"
"She must be found and warned at once," says Mr. Robert.
"Am I the guy?" says I.
"You are," says he. "And minutes may count. I'll get the address for
you. It's in that----"
"Say," I throws over my shoulder on my way to the door, "whose aunt is
this, anyway?"
Looked like a simple matter for me to locate Aunty. And if she was out
takin' her drive or anything--why, I could be explainin' to Vee while I
waited. That would be tough luck, of course; but I could stand it for
once.
At their apartment hotel I finds nobody home but Celeste, the maid, all
dolled up like Thursday afternoon. She hands it to me cold and haughty
that Madame and Ma'mselle are out.
"I could almost guess that from the lid you're wearin'," says I. "One of
Miss Vee's, ain't it?"
She pinks up and goes gaspy at that. "Please," she begins pleadin', "if
you would not mention----"
"I might forget to," I breaks in, "if you'll tell me where I can find
'em quickest."
And Celeste gets the information out rapid. They're house-partyin' at
the Morley Beckhams, over at Quehassett, Long Island. "Rosemere" is the
name of the joint.
"Me for Quehassett!" says I, dashin' for the elevator.
But, say, I needn't have lost my breath. Parts of Long Island you can
get to every half-hour or so; but Quehassett ain't one of 'em. Huntin'
it up on the railroad map, I discovers that it's 'way out to the deuce
and gone on the north shore, and the earliest start I can get is the
four o'clock local.
Ever cruise around much on them Long Island branch lines? Say, it must
be int'restin' sport, providin' you don't care whether you get there
this week or next. I missed one connection by waitin' for the brakeman
to call out the change. And when I'd caught another train back to the
right junction I got the pleasin' bulletin that the next for Quehassett
is the theater train, that comes along somewhere about midnight.
So there I was hung up in a rummy little commuter town where the chief
industry is sellin' bungalow sites on the salt marsh. Then I tackles the
'phone, which results in three snappy conversations with a grouchy
butler at sixty cents a throw, but no real dope on the Beckhams or
their guests.
Well, it's near two A.M. when I fin'lly lands in Quehassett, which is no
proper time to call on anybody's aunt. Everything is shut tight too; so
I spreads out an evenin' edition on a baggage truck and turns in weary.
I'd overlooked pullin' down the front shades to the station, though, and
the next thing I knew the sun was hittin' me square in the face.
I wanders around Quehassett until a Dago opens up a little fruitstand.
He sold me some bananas and a couple of muskmelons for breakfast, and
points out which road leads to Rosemere. It's down on the shore about a
mile and a half, and I strolls along, eatin' fruit and enjoyin' the
early mornin' air.
Some joint Rosemere turns out to be,--acres of lawn, and rows of striped
awnin's at the windows. The big iron gates was locked, with nobody in
sight; so I has plenty of time to write a note to Vee, beggin' her for
the love of soup, if Aunty hasn't signed the transfer papers, not to let
her do it until she hears from me. My scheme was to get one of the help
to take the message to Vee before she got up.
Must have been near seven o'clock when I gets hold of one of the
gardeners, tips him a dollar, and drags out of him the fact that cook
says how all the folks are off on the yacht, which is gen'rally
anchored off the dock. He don't know if it's there now or not. It was
last night. I can tell by goin' down. The road follows that little
creek.
So I gallops down to the shore. No yacht in sight. There's a point of
land juts out to the left. Maybe she's anchored behind that. Comin' down
along the creek too, I'd seen an old tub of a boat tied up. Back I
chases for it.
Looked simple for me to keep on; but when I get started on a trail I
never know when to stop. I was paddlin' down the creek, bound for
nowhere special, when along comes a sporty-dressed young gent, wearin'
puttee leggin's and a leather cap with goggles attached. He's luggin' a
five-gallon can of gasoline, and strikes me for a lift down the shore a
bit.
"Keepin' your car in the Sound, are you?" says I, shovin' in towards the
bank.
"It's an aerohydro," says he.
"Eh?" says I. "A--a which?"
"An air boat, you know," says he. "I'm going to try her out. Bully
morning for a flight, isn't it?"
"Maybe," says I. "Get aboard. Always have to cart your gas down this
way?"
At that he grows real chatty. Seems this is a brand-new machine, just
delivered the night before, and he's keepin' it a dead secret from the
fam'ly, so Mother won't worry. He says that's all nonsense, though; for
he's been takin' lessons on the quiet for more than a year, has earned
his pilot's license, and can handle any kind of a plane.
"Just straight driving, of course," he goes on. "I don't attempt spiral
dips, or exhibition work. I've never been up more than five hundred
feet. And this is such a safe type. Oh, the folks will come around to it
after they've seen me up once or twice. I want to surprise 'em. There
she is, up the shore. See!"
Hanged if I hadn't missed it before, when I was lookin' for the yacht!
Spidery lookin' affairs, ain't they, when you get close to, with all
them slim wire guys? And the boat part is about as substantial as a
pasteboard battleship. While he's pourin' in the gasoline I paddles
around and inspects the thing.
"Five hundred feet up?" says I. "Excuse me!"
He grins good natured. "Think you wouldn't like it, eh?" says he. "Why?"
"Too cobwebby," says I. "Why, them wings are nothin' but cloth."
"Best quality duck, two layers," says he. "And the frame has a tensile
strength of three hundred and fifty pounds to the square foot. Isn't
that motor a beauty? Ninety-horse."
"Guess I'll take my joy ridin' closer to the turf, though," says I.
"Course, I've always had a batty notion I'd like to fly some time;
but----"
"Hello!" he breaks in. "There goes the Katrina!" and he points out a big
white yacht that's slippin' along through the water about half a mile
off. "It's the Beckhams'," he goes on. "They're our neighbors here at
Rosemere, you know. They have guests from town, and my folks are aboard.
By Jove! Here's my chance to surprise 'em. I say, would you mind
paddling around and giving me a shove off?"
But I stands gawpin' out at the yacht. "The Morley Beckhams?" says I.
"Yes, yes!" says he. "But hurry, please. I want to catch them."
"You--you----?" But I was thinkin' too rapid to talk much. Vee and Aunty
was out on that boat, and maybe at the next landin' Aunty would mail
them transfers. If it was goin' to hit her alone, I might have stood it
calmer; but there was Vee.
"Say," I sputters out, "ain't there room for two?"
"Why, ye-e-e-es," says he sort of draggy. "I've never taken up a
passenger, though; but I've thought that----"
"Then why not now?" says I. "I want to go the worst way."
"But a moment ago," he protests, "you----"
"It's different now," says I. "There's a party on that yacht I want to
get word to,--Miss Hemmingway. I got to, that's all! And what's a neck
more or less? I'll take the chance if you will."
"By Jove!" says he. "I'll do it. Shove off. Here, stick your oar into
the mud and push. That's it! Now climb in and give that old tub of yours
a shove so she'll clear that left plane. Good work! Here's your seat,
beside me. Don't get your knees in the way of that lever, please, or put
your feet on that cross bar. That's my rudder control. Now! Are you
ready? Then I'll start her."
Say, I didn't have time to work up any spine chills, or even say a
"Now-I-lay-me." He reaches up behind him, gives the crank a whirl, and
the next thing I know we're shootin' over the water like an express
train, with the spray flyin', the wind whistlin' in my ears, and eight
cylinders exhaustin' direct within two feet of the back of my neck. Talk
about speedin'! When you're travelin' through the water at a
forty-mile-an-hour gait, and so close you can trail your fingers, you
know all about it. Although it's a calm mornin', with hardly a ripple,
the motion was a little bumpy. No wonder!
Then all of a sudden I has a sinkin' sensation somewhere under my vest,
the bumpin' stops, and I feels like I'd shuffled off somethin' heavy. I
had--a billion tons or more! Glancin' over the side, I sees the water
ten or a dozen feet below us. We were in the air. And, believe me, I
reaches out for something solid to hold onto! All I could find was a
two-inch upright, and I takes a fond grip on that. If it had been a
telephone pole, I'd felt better.
My sporty-dressed friend smiles encouragin' over his shoulder. I hope I
smiled back; but I wouldn't swear to it. Not that I'm scared. Hush,
hush! But I wa'n't used to bein' shot through the air so impetuous. I
takes another glance overboard. Hel-lup! Someone's pullin' Long Island
Sound from under us. The water must have been fifty or sixty feet down,
and gettin' more so. For a while after that I looks straight ahead.
What's the use keepin' track of how high you are, anyway? You'll only
bore just so big a hole in the water if you fall.
But it's funny how soon you can get over feelin's like that. Inside of
three minutes I'd quit grippin' the stanchion and was sittin' there
peaceful, enjoyin' the ride. We seemed to be sailin' along on a level
now, about housetop high, and so far as I could see we was as steady as
if we'd been on a front veranda. There's no sway or rock to the machine
at all. I'd been holdin' myself as rigid as if I'd been in a tippy
canoe; but now I took a chance on shiftin' my position a little. I even
leaned over the side. Nothing happened. That was comfortin'. How easy
and smooth it was, glidin' along up there!
Meanwhile we'd taken a wide sweep and was leavin' the yacht far behind.
"Say," I shouts to my aviatin' friend, "how do we get to her?"
But it's no use tryin' to converse with that roar in your ears. I points
back to the boat. He nods and smiles.
"Wait!" he yells at me.
With that he pulls his plane lever and we begins to climb some more. You
hardly know you're doin' it, though. Up or down don't mean anything in
the air, where the goin' is all the same. Only as we gets higher the
Sound narrows and Long Island stretches further and further. And, take
it from me, that's the way to view scenery! Up and up we slid, just
soarin' free and careless. He turns to me with another grin, to see how
I'm takin' it. And this time I grins back.
"About three hundred!" he shouts, puttin' his mouth close. "Eighty an
hour too!"
"Zippy stuff!" says I.
Then he gives me a nudge, juggles his deflectors, and down we shoots. I
never had any part of the map come at me so fast. Seemed like the Sound
was just rushin' at us, and I was tryin' to guess how far into the
bottom we'd go, when he pulls the lever again and we skims along just
above the surface. Shootin' the chutes--say, that Coney stunt seems tame
compared to this!
In no time at all we've made a circle around the yacht and are comin' up
behind her once more. We could see the people pilin' out on deck to
rubber at us. In a minute more we'd be even with 'em. And how was I
goin' to deliver that message to Vee? Just then I looks in my lap, where
I was grippin' my straw lid between my knees, and discovers that I've
lugged along one of them muskmelons in a paper bag. That gives me my
hunch.
Fishin' out the note I'd written, I slits the melon with my knife and
jabs it in. Then I shows the breakfast bomb to my friend and points to
the yacht. He nods. Some bean, that guy had!
"I'll sail over her," he howls in my ear. "You can drop it on the deck."
There was no time for gettin' ready or takin' practice shots. Up we
glides into the air right over the white wake she was leavin'. The folks
on her was wavin' to us. First I made out Vee, standin' on the little
bridge amidships, lookin' cute and classy in white serge. Then I spots
Aunty, who's tumbled out in her boudoir cap and kimono. I leans over and
waves enthusiastic.
"Hey, Vee!" I shouts. "Watch this!"
I'd picked out the widest part of the deck forward, where there's no
awnin' up, and when it was exactly underneath I lets the melon go, hard
as I could shoot it. Some shot that was too! I saw it smash on the deck,
watched one of the sailors stare at it stupid, and then caught a glimpse
of Vee rushin' towards the spot. Course I wa'n't sure she knew me at
that distance, or had heard what I said; but trust her for doin' the
right thing at the right time!
"There's Mother!" I hears my sporty friend roar out. "I say! Mother!
It's Billy, you know."
No doubt about Mother's catchin' on. Maybe she'd suspicioned, anyway;
but the last I saw of her she was slumpin' into the arms of a
white-haired old gent behind her.
Another minute and we'd left the Katrina behind like she had seven
anchors out. On we went and up once more, turnin' with a dizzy swoop and
skimmin' past her, back towards where we started from. And just as I was
wishin' he'd go faster and higher we settles down on the water, dashes
in behind the dock, the motor slows up, the plane floats drag in the
mud, and it's all over.
Took the yacht near an hour to get back to us. Mother had insisted, and
when she found Billy all safe and sound she fell on his neck and forgave
him.
As for me? Well, maybe I didn't have some swell report to turn in to Mr.
Robert! I had him listenin' with his mouth open before I got through
too.
"Aunty was mighty suspicious first off," says I; "but after she'd used
the long distance and got a line on how Tractions was waverin', she
warms up quite a lot, for her. Uh-huh! Gives me a vote of thanks, and
says she'll call off the deal."
"Torchy," says Mr. Robert, "I am speechless with admiration. Your
business methods are certainly advanced. I had not thought of flying as
a modern requisite for a commercial career."
"The real thing in high finance, eh?" says I. "And, say, me for the air
after this! I've swallowed the bug. I know how a bloomin' seagull feels
when he's on the wing; and, believe me, it's got everything else in the
sport line lookin' like playin' tag with your feet tied!"
CHAPTER IV
BREAKING IT TO THE BOSS
I don't admit it went to my head,--not so bad as that,--only maybe my
chest measure had swelled an inch or so, and I wouldn't say my heels
wa'n't hittin' a bit hard as I strolls dignified up and down the private
office.
You see, Mr. Robert was snitchin' a couple of days off for the Newport
regatta, and he'd sort of left me on the lid, as you might say. So far
as there bein' any real actin' head of the Corrugated Trust for the time
being--well, I was it. Anyway, I'd passed along some confidential dope
to our Western sales manager, stood by to take a report from the special
audit committee, and had an interview with the president of a big bond
house, all in one forenoon. That was speedin' up some for a private sec,
wa'n't it?
And now I was just markin' time, waitin' for what might turn up, and
feelin' equal to pullin' off any sort of a deal, from matchin' Piddie
for the lunches to orderin' a new stock issue. What if the asphalt over
on Fifth-ave. was softenin' up, with the mercury hittin' the nineties,
and half the force off on vacations? I had a real job to attend to. I
was doin' things!
And as I stops by the roll-top to lean up against it casual I had that
comf'table, easy feelin' of bein' the right man in the right place. You
know, I guess? You're there with the goods. You ain't the whole works
maybe; but you're a special, particular party, one that can push buttons
and have 'em answered, paw over the mail, or put your initials under a
signature.
And right in the midst of them rosy reflections the door to the private
office swings open abrupt and in pads a stout old party wearin' a
generous-built pongee suit and a high-crowned Panama. Also there's
something familiar about the bushy eyebrows and the lima bean ears. It's
Old Hickory himself. I chokes down a gasp and straightens up.
"Gee, Mr. Ellins!" says I. "I thought you was down at the Springs?"
"Didn't think I'd been banished for life, did you?" says he.
"But Mr. Robert," I goes on, "didn't look for you until----"
"No doubt," he breaks in. "Robert and those fool doctors would have kept
me soaking in those infernal mud baths until I turned into a crocodile.
I know. I'm a gouty, rheumatic old wreck, I suppose; but I'll be dad
blistered if I'm going to end my days wallowing in medicated mud! I've
had enough. Where is everybody?"
So I has to account for Mr. Robert, tell how Mrs. Ellins and Marjorie
and Son-in-Law Ferdie are up to Bar Harbor, and hint that they're
expectin' him to come up as soon as he lands.
"That's their programme, is it?" he growls. "Think I'm going to spend
the rest of the season sitting on a veranda taking pills, do they? Well,
they're mistaken!"
And off he goes into his own room. I don't know what he thought he was
goin' to do there. Just habit, I expect. For we've been gettin' along
without Old Hickory for quite some time now, while he's been away. First
off he tried to keep in touch with things by night letters, then he had
a weekly report sent him; but gradually he lost the run of the new
deals, and for the last month or so he'd quit firin' over any orders at
all.
Through the open door I could see him sittin' at his big, flat-topped
mahogany desk, starin' around sort of aimless. Then he pulls out a
drawer and shuffles over some old papers that had been there ever since
he left. Next he picks up a pen and starts to make some notes.
"Boy!" he sings out. "Ink!"
Course I could have pushed the buzzer and had Vincent do it; but seein'
how nobody had put him wise to the change, I didn't feel like
announcin' it myself. So I fills the inkwell, chases up a waste basket
for him, and turns on the electric fan.
"Now bring the mail!" says he snappy.
He was back to; so it was safe to smile. You see, I'd attended to all
the mornin' deliveries, sorted out what I knew had to be held over for
Mr. Robert, opened what was doubtful, and sent off a few answers
accordin' to orders. But, after all, he was the big boss. He had a right
to go through the motions if he wanted to. So I lugs in the mail, dumps
it in the tray, and leaves him with it.
Must have been half an hour later, and I was back at my own desk doping
out a schedule I'd promised to fix up for Mr. Robert, when I glances up
to find Old Hickory wanderin' around the room absent-minded. He's
starin' hard at a letter he holds in one paw. All of a sudden he
discovers me at the roll-top. For a second he scowls at me from under
the bushy eyebrows, and then comes the explosion.
"Boy!" he sings out. "What the hyphenated maledictions are you doing
there?"
Well, I broke it to him as gentle as I could.
"Promoted, eh?" he snorts. "To what?"
And I explains how I'm private secretary to the president of the Mutual
Funding Company.
"Never heard of such an organization," says he. "What is it, anyway?"
"Dummy concern mostly," says I, "faked up to stall off the I. C. C."
"Eh?" he gawps.
"Interstate Commerce Commission," says I. "We beat 'em to it, you know,
by dissolvin'--on paper. Had to have somebody to use the rubber stamp;
so they picked me off the gate."
"Humph!" he grunts. "So you're no longer an office boy, eh? But I had
you hopping around like one. How was that?"
"Guess I got a hop or two left in me," says I, "specially for you, Mr.
Ellins."
"Hah!" says he. "Also more or less blarney left on the tongue. Well,
young man, we'll see. As office boy you had your good points, I
remember; but as----" Then he breaks off and repeats, "We'll see, Son."
And he goes to studyin' the letter once more.
Fin'lly he sends for Piddie. They confabbed for a while, and as Piddie
comes out he's still explainin' how he's sure he don't know, but most
likely Mr. Robert understands all about it.
"Hang what Robert understands!" snaps Old Hickory. "He isn't here, is
he? And I want to know now. Torchy, come in here!"
"Yes, Sir," says I, scentin' trouble and salutin' respectful.
"What about these Universal people refusing to renew that Manistee
terminal lease?" he demands.
And if he'd asked how many feathers in a rooster's tail I'd been just as
full of information. But from what Piddie's drawn by declarin' an alibi,
it didn't look like that was my cue.
"Suppose I get you the correspondence on that?" says I, and rushes out
after the copybook.
But the results wa'n't enlightenin'. We'd applied for renewal on the old
terms, the Universal folks had sent back word that in due course the
matter would be taken up, and that's all until this notice comes in that
there's nothin' doin'. "Inexpedient under present conditions," was the
way they put it.
"I expect Mr. Robert will be back Monday," I suggests cautious.
"Oh, do you?" raps out Old Hickory. "And meanwhile this lease expires
to-morrow noon, leaving us without a foot of ore wharf anywhere on the
Great Lakes. What does Mr. Robert intend to do then--transport by
aeroplane? Just asked pleasant and polite for a renewal, did he? And
before I could make 'em grant the original I all but had their directors
strung up by the thumbs! Hah!"
He settles back heavy in his chair and sets them cut granite jaws of his
solid. He don't look so much like an invalid, after all. There's good
color in his cheeks, and behind the droopy lids you could see the
fighting light in his eyes. He glances once more at the letter.
"Hello!" says he. "I thought their main offices were in Chicago. This is
from Broadway, International Utilities Building. Perhaps you can tell me
what they're doing down there?"
"Subsidiary of I. U.," says I. "Been listed that way all summer."
"Then," says Old Hickory, smilin' grim, "we have to do once more with no
less a personage than Gedney Nash. Well, so be it. He and I have fought
out other differences. We'll try again. And if I'm a back number, I'll
soon know it. Now get me a list of our outside security holdings."
That was his first order; but, say, inside of half an hour he had
everybody in the shop, from little Vincent up to the head of the bond
department, doin' flipflops and pinwheels. Didn't take 'em long to find
out that he was back on the job, either.
"Breezy with that now!" I'd tell 'em. "This is a rush order for the old
man. Sure he's in there. Can't you smell the sulphur?"
In the midst of it comes a hundred-word code message from Dalton, our
traffic superintendent, sayin' how he'd been notified to remove his
wharf spurs within twenty-four hours and askin' panicky what he should
do about it.
"Tell him to hold his tracks with loaded ore trains, and keep his shirt
on," growls Old Hickory over his shoulder. "And 'phone Peabody, Frost &
Co. to send up their railroad securities expert on the double quick."
That's the way it went from eleven A.M. until two-thirty, and all the
lunch I indulged in was two bites of a cheese sandwich that Vincent
split with me. At two-thirty-five Old Hickory jams on his hat and
signals for me.
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