Torchy, Private Sec.

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"Some stupid person taking a short cut across the grounds, I suppose,"
says she.

Didn't sound very convincin' to me; but Pulsifer had got started on
another boyhood anecdote, and he let it pass. I had a hunch, though,
that Mrs. Pulsifer hadn't told all. I caught a glance between her and
Edna, and some flashes between Edna and Vee, and I didn't need any sixth
sense to feel that something was in the air.

No move was made, though, until after coffee had been served in the
lib'ry and Pa Pulsifer was fittin' his fav'rite Harry Lauder record on
the music machine.

First Mrs. Pulsifer slips out easy. Next Edna follows her, and after
them Marjorie and Vee, havin' exchanged some whispered remarks,
disappears too. Maybe it was my play to stick it out with Ferdie and the
old boy, but I couldn't see any percentage in that, with Vee gone; so I
wanders casual into the hall, butts around through the music room,
follows a bright light at the rear, and am almost run down by Marjorie
hurrying the other way sleuthy.

"Oh!" she squeals. "It's you, is it, Torchy? S-s-s-sh!"

"What you shushin' about?" says I.

"Oh, it's dreadful!" puffs Marjorie. "He--he's come!"

"That Gilkey guy?" says I.

"Ye-e-es," says she. "But--but how did you know?"

"I'm a seventh son, born with a cowlick," says I. "Was it Gilkey made
his entrance through the cucumber frame?"

It was. Also he'd managed to cut himself in the ankles and right wrist.
They had him in the kitchen, patchin' him up now, and they was all
scared stiff for fear Pa Pulsifer would discover it before they could
send him away.

"He'll be a nut if he don't," says I, "with all you women out here. Your
game is to chase back and keep Pulsifer interested."

"I suppose you're right," says Marjorie. "Let's tell them."

So I follows into the big kitchen, where I finds the disabled Romeo
propped up in a chair, with the whole push of 'em, includin' the fat
cook, a couple of maids, and the butler, all tryin' to bandage him in
diff'rent spots. He's a big, gawky-lookin' young gent, with a thick crop
of pale hair and a solemn, serious look on his face, like he was one of
the kind that took everything hard. As soon as Marjorie gives 'em my
hint about goin' back to Father there's a gen'ral protest.

"Oh, I can't do it!" says Edna.

"He would notice at once how nervous I am," groans Mrs. Pulsifer.

"But you don't want him walking out here, do you?" demands Marjorie.

That settled 'em. They bunched together panicky and started back for the
lib'ry.

"I'll stay and attend to the getaway," says I. "Nobody'll miss me."

"Thank you," says Gilkey; "but I'm not sure I wish to go away. I came to
see Edna, you know."

"So I hear," says I. "Unique idea of yours too, rollin' in the hotbeds
first."

"I--I was only trying to avoid meeting Mr. Pulsifer," says he;
"exploring a bit, you see. I could hear voices in the dining-room; but I
couldn't quite look in. There was a little shed out there, though, and
by climbing on that I could get a view. That was how I lost my balance."

"Before you go callin' again," says I, "you ought to practice roostin'
in the dark. Say, the old man must have thrown quite a scare into you
last time."

"I am not afraid of Mr. Pulsifer, not a bit," says he.

"Well, well!" says I. "Think of that!"

"Anyway," says he, "I just wasn't goin' to be driven off that way.
It--it isn't fair to either of us."

"Then it's a clear case with both of you, is it?" says I.

"We are engaged," says Gilkey, "and I don't care who knows it! It's not
her money I'm after, either. We don't want a dollar from Mr. Pulsifer.
We--we just want each other."

"Now you're talkin'!" says I; for, honest, the simple, slushy way he
puts it across sort of wins me. And if that was how the case stood, with
Edna longin' for him, and him yearnin' for Edna, why shouldn't they? If
I'm any judge, Edna wouldn't find another right away who'd be so crazy
about her, and anyone who could discover charms about Gilkey ought to be
rewarded.

"See here!" says I. "Why not sail right in there, look Father between
the eyes, and hand that line of dope out to him as straight as you gave
it to me?"

He gawps at me a second, like I'd advised him to jump off the roof.
"Do--do you think I ought?" says he.

I has to choke back a chuckle. Wanted my advice, did he? Well, say, I
could give him a truckload of that!

"It depends," says I, "on how deep the yellow runs in you. Course it's
all right for you to register this leader about not bein' scared of him.
You may think you ain't, but you are all the same; and as long as you're
in that state you're licked. That's the big trouble with most of
us,--bein' limp in the spine. We're afraid of our jobs, afraid of what
the neighbors will say, afraid of our stomachs, afraid of to-morrow. And
here you are, prowlin' around on the outside, gettin' yourself messed
up, and standin' to lose the one and only girl, all because an old stuff
like Pulsifer says 'Boo!' at you and tells you to 'Scat!' Come on now,
better let me lead you out and see you safe through the gate."

Course that was proddin' him a little rough, but I wanted to bring this
thing to a head somehow. Made Gilkey squirm in his chair too. He begins
rollin' his trousers down over the bandages and struggles into his coat.

"I suppose you're right," says he. "I--I think I will go in and see Mr.
Pulsifer."

"Wha-a-at?" says I. "Now?"

"Why not?" says he, pushin' through the swing door.

"Hey!" I calls out, jumpin' after him. "Better let me break it to 'em in
there."

"As you please," says Gilkey; "only let's have no delay."

So I skips across the hall and into the lib'ry, where they're all makin'
a stab at bein' chatty and gay, with Pa Pulsifer in the center.

"Excuse me," says I, "but there's a young gent wants a few words with
Mr. Pulsifer."

"What's that?" growls Adam K., glarin' about suspicious at the gaspy
circle. "What young man?"

"Why," says I, "it's----" But then in he stalks.

"Oh, Herbert!" sobs Edna, makin' a wild grab at Marjorie for support.

As for Pa Pulsifer, his eyes get stary, the big vein in the middle of
his forehead swells threatenin', and his bushy white eyebrows seem to
bristle up.

"You!" he snorts. "How did you get in here, Sir?"

"Through the kitchen," says Gilkey. "I came to tell you that----"

"Stop!" roars Pulsifer, stampin' his foot and bunchin' his fists
menacin'. "You can't tell me anything, not a word, you--you
good-for-nothing young scoundrel! Haven't I warned you never to step
foot in my house again? Didn't I tell you----"

Well, it's the usual irate parent stuff, only a little more wild and
ranty than anything Belasco would put over. He abuses Gilkey up and
down, threatens him with all kinds of things, from arrest to sudden
death, and gets purple in the face doin' it. While Gilkey, he just
stands there, takin' it calm and patient. Then, when there comes a lull,
he remarks casual:

"If that is all, Sir, I wish to say to you that Edna and I are engaged,
and that I intend to marry her early next week."

Wow! That's the cue for another explosion. It starts in just as fierce
as the first; but it don't last so long, and towards the end Pa Pulsifer
is talkin' husky and puffing hard.

"Go!" he winds up. "Get out of my house before I--I----"

"Oh, I say," breaks in Gilkey, "before you do what?"

"Throw you out!" bellows Pulsifer.

"Don't be absurd," says Gilkey, statin' it quiet and matter of fact.
"You couldn't, you know. Besides, it isn't being done."

And it takes Pa Pulsifer a full minute before he can choke down his
temper and get his wind again. Then he advances a step or so, points
dramatic to the door, and gurgles throaty:

"Will--you--get--out?"

"No," says Gilkey. "I came to see Edna. I've had no dinner either, and
I'd like a bite to eat."

Pulsifer stood there, not two feet from him, glarin' and puffin', and
tryin' to decide what to do next; but it's no use. He'd made his grand
roarin' lion play, which had always scared the tar out of his folks, and
he'd responded to an encore. Yet here was this mild-eyed young gent
with the pale hair and the square jaw not even wabbly in the knees from
it.

"Come, Edna," says Gilkey, holdin' out a hand to her. "Let's go into the
dining-room."

"But--but see here!" gasps Pa Pulsifer, makin' a final effort.
"I--I----"

"Oh, hush up!" says Gilkey, turnin' away weary. "Come, Edna."

And Edna, she went; also Mrs. Pulsifer; likewise Vee and Marjorie. Trust
women for knowin' when a bluff has been called. I expect they was wise,
two or three minutes before either me or Gilkey, that Pa Pulsifer was
beat. I stayed long enough to see him slump into an easy-chair, his
under lip limp and a puzzled look in his eyes, like he was tryin' to
figure out just what had hit him. And over by the fireplace is Ferdie,
gawpin' at him foolish, and exercisin' his gears, I expect, on the same
problem. Neither of them had said a word up to the time I left.

It took the women half an hour or more to feed Herbert up proper with
all the nice things they could drag from the icebox. Then Mother
Pulsifer patted him on the shoulder and shooed Edna and him through the
French doors out on the veranda.

And what do you guess is Mrs. Pulsifer's openin' as we drifts back
towards the scene of the late conflict?

"Why, Deary!" says she. "You haven't your cigars, have you? Here they
are--and the matches. There! Now for the surprise. Our young people have
decided--that is, Edna has--not to be married until two weeks from next
Wednesday."

Does Pa Pulsifer rant any more rants? No. He gets his perfecto goin'
nicely, blows a couple of smoke rings up towards the ceilin', and then
remarks in sort of a weak growl:

"Hanged if I'll walk down a church aisle, Maria--hanged if I do!"

"I told them you wouldn't," says Ma Pulsifer, smoothin' the hair back
over his ears soothin'; "so they've agreed on a simple home wedding,
with only four bridesmaids."

"Huh!" says he. "It's lucky they did."

But, say, take it from me, his days of crackin' the whip around that
joint are over. I'm beginnin' to believe too how some of that dope I fed
to Herbert must have been straight goods. Vee insists on talkin' it over
later, as we are camped in one of them swing seats out on the veranda.

"Wasn't he just splendid," says she: "standing up to Mr. Pulsifer that
way, you know?"

"Some hero!" says I. "I wonder would he give me a few lessons, in case I
should run across your Aunty some day?"

"Pooh!" says Vee. "Just as though I didn't go back to see if he'd gone
and hear you putting him up to all that yourself! It was fine of you to
do it too, Torchy."

"Right here, then!" says I. "Place the laurel wreath right here."

"Silly!" says she, givin' me a reprovin' pat. "Besides, that porch light
is on."

Which was one of the reasons why I turned it off, and maybe accounts for
our sudden break when Marjorie comes out to tell us it's near twelve
o'clock.

Yes, indeed, though he may not look it, Ferdie is more or less of a
help.

[Illustration: "Which was one of the reasons I turned the porch light
off."]

CHAPTER VI

WHEN SKEET HAD HIS DAY

There's one thing about bein' a private sec,--you stand somewhere on the
social list. It may be down towards the foot among the discards; but
you're in the running.

Not that I'm thinkin' of havin' a fam'ly crest worked on my shirt
sleeves, or that I'm beginnin' to sympathize with the lower clawsses.
Nothing like that! Only it does help, when Marjorie, the boss's married
daughter, has planned some social doin's, to get an invite like a
reg'lar guy.

What do you know too? It's dance! Not out at their country place,
either. She'd dragged Ferdie into town for a couple of weeks, and they'd
been stayin' at the Ellins's Fifth-ave. house, just visitin' and havin'
a good time. That is, Marjorie had. Ferdie, he spends his days mopin'
about the club and taggin' Mr. Robert.

"Better sneak off up to the Maison Maxixe with me," says I, "and brush
up on your hesitation."

A look of deep disgust from Ferdie. "I'm not a dancing man, you know,"
says he.

"Both feet Methodists, eh?" says I.

Ferdie stares puzzled. "It's only that I'm sure I'd look absurd," says
he.

"For once," says I, "you ain't so far from wrong. I expect you would."

Even that don't seem to please him, and he refuses peevish to trail
along and watch me blow myself to a pair of dancin' pumps. Gee! but this
society life runs into coin, don't it? I'd dropped into one of them
swell booterers and was beefin' away at the clerk about havin' to pay
six-fifty just for a pair of tango moccasins, when I hears someone on
the bench back of me remark casual:

"Nine dollars? Very well. Send them up to my hotel. Here's my card."

And as there's somethin' familiar about the voice I takes a peek over my
shoulder. But neither the braid-bound cutaway fittin' so snug at the
waist, nor the snappy fall derby snuggled down over the lop ears,
suggested any old friends. Not until he swings around and I gets a view
of that nosy profile do I gasp any gasps.

"Sizzlin' Stepsisters!" says I. "If it ain't Skeet Keyser!"

"I--ah--I beg pardon?" says he, doin' it cold and haughty. Blamed if I
don't think he meant to hand me the mistaken identity dope first off;
but after another glance he thinks better of it. "Oh, yes," says he,
sort of languid, "Torchy, isn't it?"

"Good guess, Skeet," says I, "seein' it's been all of two years since
you used to shove me my coffee reg'lar at the----"

"Yes, yes," he breaks in hasty; "but--I--ah--I have an appointment. Glad
to have seen you again."

"You act it," says I. And then, grabbin' him by the sleeve as he's
backin' off, I whispers, "What's the disguise, Skeet?"

"Really, now!" he protests indignant.

"Oh, very well, very well!" says I. "But how should I know if someone
has wished a life income on you? Congrats."

"Ah--er--thanks," says he. "I--I'll see you again--perhaps."

I loved the way he puts that last touch on too, and you could almost
hear the sigh of relief as he fades down the aisle, leavin' me in one
stockin' foot gawpin' after him.

No wonder I'm left open faced! Skeet Keyser in a tail coat, orderin'
nine-dollar pumps sent to his hotel! Why, say, more'n once I've staked
him to the price of a twenty-cent lodgin', and the only way I ever got
any of it back was by tippin' him off to this vacancy on the coffee urn
at the dairy lunch. Used to be copy boy on the Sunday, Skeet did; but
that was 'way back. It didn't last long either; for he was just as punk
a performer at that as he ever was at any of the other things he's
tackled.

Gettin' the can tied to him was always Skeet's specialty. No mystery
about that, either; for of all the useless specimens that ever grafted
cigarettes he was about the limit. All he lacks is pep and bean and a
few other trifles. You wouldn't exactly call him ornamental, either. No,
him and that Apolloniris guy was quite diff'rent in their front and side
elevation. Mostly arms and legs, Skeet is, and sort of swivel-jointed
all over, with a back slope to his forehead and an under-cut chin.
Nothin' reticent about his beak, though. It juts out from the middle of
his face like the handle of a lovin' cup, and with his habit of
stretchin' his neck forward he always seems to be followin' a scent,
like one of these wienerwurst retrievers.

Brought up somewhere back of Jefferson Market, down in old Greenwich
Village--if you know where that is. He's the only boy in a fam'ly of
five, and I understand all the Keyser girls have done first rate; one
bein' forelady in a big hair-dressin' joint, another married to the
lieutenant of a hook and ladder company, and two well placed in service.

It was through bein' in on a little mix-up Skeet had with one of his
sisters that I got so well posted on the fam'ly hist'ry. Must have been
more'n a year ago, while Old Hickory was laid up at home there for a
spell, and I was chasin' back and forth from the Corrugated to the
Ellins house most every day. This time I hears a debate goin' on down at
the area door, and the next thing I knows out comes Skeet, assisted
active by the butler.

Seems that one of the new maids is his sister Maggie, and he'd just been
callin' friendly in the hopes of sep'ratin' her from a dollar or so. It
wa'n't Maggie's day for contributin' to the prodigal son fund, though,
and Skeet was statin' his opinion of her reckless when the butler
interfered. Come near losin' Maggie her job, that little scene did; but
she promises faithful it sha'n't happen again, and was kept on.

"Blast her!" says Skeet to me later. "She's just as bad as the rest of
'em. They're all tightwads. Why, even the old lady runs me out now when
I happen to be carryin' the banner and can't come across with my little
old five of a Saturday night! I might starve in the streets for all they
care. But I'll show 'em some day. You'll see!"

Hanged if it don't look like he'd turned the trick too; for, as I've
hinted, Skeet is costumed like a lily of the field. But how he'd managed
to do it is what gets me. And for two days after that I wasted valuable
time tryin' to frame up just where in the gen'ral scheme of things a
party like Skeet Keyser could connect with real money. After that I gave
up the myst'ry and spent my spare minutes wonderin' if I could do this
"One-two-three--hold!" business as successful in public as I could while
them dancin' school fairies was drillin' it into my nut at one-fifty per
throw.

That's right, grin! But if you're billed to mingle in the merry throng
at a dance fest, you ain't goin' to trot out on the floor with any such
antique act as last season's Boston dip, are you? Might as well spring
the minuet. And specially when I'd had word that among others was to be
a certain party. Uh-huh! You can play it both ways too that Vee would be
up on the very latest, and if it was in me I meant to be right behind
her.

Was I? Say, maybe if I wa'n't so blamed modest I could give you an idea
of how Vee and I just naturally--but I can't do it. Besides, there's
other matters; the grand jolt that come early in the evenin', for
instance. It was after the second number, and I'd made a dash into the
gents' dressin' room to see if my white tie showed any symptoms of
ridin' up in the back, and I'd just strolled out into the entrance hall
again, watchin' the push straggle in, when who should show up through
the double doors but a tall, lanky young chap with lop ears and a nose
one was bound to remember.

It's Skeet Keyser; Skeet in shiny, thin-soled pumps, a pleated dress
shirt, black silk vest, and a top hat! He's bein' bowed in dignified by
the same butler, and is passed on to--well, it's a funny world, ain't
it? The maid on duty just inside the door happens to be Sister Maggie.
She has the respectful bow all ready when she gets a full-face view.

"Aloysius!" says she, scared and husky.

I got to hand it to Skeet, though, that he bears up noble. All he does
is to try to swallow his throat apple a couple of times, and then he
stares at her stern and distant. Also Maggie makes a quick recovery.

"Gentlemen this way, Sir," says she, and waves Skeet into the dressin'
room.

I wanted to follow him up and tip him off that there's one or two other
reasons why this was the wrong house to put over any sporty bluff in;
but as it was I'm overdue in another quarter. You see, Marjorie has been
sittin' out on the side lines, as usual, and Vee has hinted how it would
be nice and charitable of me to brace her for a spiel. I'd sort of been
workin' myself up to the sacrifice, for you know Marjorie's some hefty
partner for anybody not in trainin' to steer around a ballroom floor;
but I'd figured out that the longer I put it off the worse it would be.
So off I trails with my heels draggin' a little heavy.

"Why, thanks ever so much, Torchy," says she, "but I think I have a
partner for the first four or five. After that, though----"

"Don't mention it," says I. "I mean, much obliged," and I backs off
hasty before she can change her mind.

I had to kill time while Vee was dividin' a couple dances between two
young shrimps; so I sidles into a corner where Ferdie sits behind his
shell-rimmed glasses, lookin' bored and lonesome.

"Now don't you wish you'd gone and had your feet educated?" says I.

Ferdie yawns. "I think it quite sufficient," says he, "that one of us
intends making an exhibition. Marjorie has been taking lessons, you
know."

"So I hear," says I. "And it's all right if she don't tackle the maxixe.
Hello! There it goes. Now you will see some stunts!"

Yep, we did! And among the first couples to sail out on the floor, if
you'll believe it, was none other than Marjorie and our lop-eared young
hero, Skeet Keyser.

"Oh, Gosh!" I groans. "Don't look, Ferdie!"

I meant well too; It was goin' to be bad enough to see a corn-fed young
matron the size of Marjorie, who can spin the arrow well up to the
hundred and eighty mark, monkey with them twisty evolutions; but to have
her get let in for it with a roughneck ringer like Skeet--well, that was
goin' to be a real tragedy. How he'd worked it, or what his excuse was
for bein' here at all, was useless questions to ask then. What was
comin' next was the thing to watch for.

As for Ferdie, he just sits there and blinks, followin' 'em through his
spare panes. Course I could guess he wa'n't hep to any facts about
Skeet. He was just a strange young gent to him, and it wa'n't up to me
to add any details. So I settles back and watches 'em too.

And, say, you know how surprised you'd be to see any fat friend of yours
buckle on a pair of ice skates and do the double grapevine up and down
the rink? Well, that's the identical kind of jar I got when Marjorie
begins that willowy bendy figure. It ain't any waddly caricature of it,
either. It's the real thing. Honest, she's as light on her feet as if
her middle name was Pavlowa!

At the same time it's lucky Skeet has arms, long enough to reach 'way
round when he's steerin' her. If they'd been an inch or so shorter, he'd
have had to break his clinch in some of them whirls, and then there'd
been a big dent in the floor. He seems just built for the job, though.
In and out, round and round, through the Parisienne, the flirtation, and
all the other frills, he pilots her safe, bendin' and swayin' to the
music, his number ten feet glidin' easy, and kind of a smirky, satisfied
look on that sappy mug of his; while Marjorie, she simply lets herself
go for all she's worth, her eyes sparklin', and the pink and white in
her cheeks showin' clear and fresh.

Take it from me too, it's some swell exhibit! There was four or five
other couples on at the same time, the girls all slender, wispy young
things, that never split out a waist seam in their lives; but Marjorie
and her partner had the gallery right with 'em. Two or three times
durin' the dance they got scatterin' applause, and when the music
fin'lly stops, leavin' 'em alone in the middle of the floor, they got a
reg'lar big hand.

"I take it all back," says I to Ferdie. "That was real classy spielin'.
Now wa'n't it?."

"No doubt," he grunts. "And I suppose I should be thankful that Marjorie
didn't try to jump through a paper hoop. I trust, however, that this
concludes the performance."

It did not! Next on the card was a onestep, with Marjorie and her
unknown goin' to it like professionals; and if they omitted any fancy
waves, you couldn't prove it by me. By this time too, Ferdie was sittin'
up and takin' notice. "Oh, I say," says he, "isn't that the same fellow
she danced with before?"

"You don't think a bunch of works like that could be twins, do you?"
says I.

"But--but I'm sure I don't remember having met him, you know," says
Ferdie, rubbin' his chin thoughtful.

"Then maybe you ain't," says I.

When they comes on for a third time, though, and prances through about
as flossy a half-and-half as I've ever seen pulled at a private dance,
Ferdie is some agitated in the mind. He ain't exactly green-eyed, but
he's some disturbed. Yes, all of that!

"I--I think I'd best speak to Marjorie," says he.

"You'll have plenty of competition," says I. "Look!"

For the young chappies are crowdin' around her two deep, makin' dates
for the next numbers. "Ferdie stares at the spectacle puzzled. He's a
persistent messer, though.

"But really," he goes on, "I think I ought to meet that young fellow and
find out who he is."

"Ah, bottle it up until afterwards!" says I. "Don't rock the skiff."

But there's a streak of mule in Ferdie a foot wide. "People will be
asking me who he is!" he insists, "and if I don't know, what will they
think? See, isn't that he, standing just over there?"

And then Mr. Robert has to drift along and complicate matters by joshin'
brother-in-law a little. "Congratulations on your substitute, Ferdie,"
says he. "Where did he come from?"

Which brings a ruddy tint into Ferdie's ears. "Ask Marjorie," says he.
"I'm sure he's an utter stranger to me."

"Wha-a-at?" says Mr. Robert, and when he's had the full situation mapped
out for him blamed if he don't begin to take it serious too.

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