Torchy, Private Sec.

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So we ain't the chummiest trio that could be got together. Blair makes
it plain that he has mighty little use for me, and still less for
Hamilton. But Nutt seems to get a lot of satisfaction in keepin' him
stirred up, winkin' now and then at me when he gets a rise out of Blair;
though I must say, so far as repartee went, the little chap had all the
best of it.

"Let's see," says Nutt, "what is your specialty? You do something or
other, don't you?"

"Yes," says Blair. "Do you?"

"Oh, come!" says Nutt. "You play the violin, don't you?"

"How clever of you to remember!" says Blair. "Sorry I can't
reciprocate." And he turns his back.

But you can't squelch Hamilton that way. "Me?" says he. "Oh, potting big
game is my fad. I got three caribou last fall, you know, and this spring
I'm--say, Sukey,--I beg your pardon, Hiscock,--but you ought to come
along with us. Do you good. Put some meat on your bones. We're going
'way up into Montana after black bear and silver-tips. I'd like to see
you facing a nine-hundred-pound she bear with----"

"Would you?" cuts in Blair. "You know very well I'd be frightened half
to death."

"Oh, well," says Nutt, "we'd stack you up against a cinnamon cub."

"Any kind of bear I should be afraid of," says Sukey.

"Not really!" says Hamilton. "Why, say----"

"Please!" protests Blair. "I don't care to talk about such creatures.
I'm afraid of them even when I see them caged. I've an instinctive dread
of all big beasts. Smile, if you like. But all truly civilized persons
feel the same. I'm not a cave man, you know. Besides, I prefer telling
the truth about such things to making believe I'm not afraid, as a lot
of would-be mighty hunters do."

"Not meaning me, I hope?" asks Nutt.

"If you're innocent, don't dodge," says Blair. "And I--I think I'll not
wait for Ferdinand any longer. Tell him I was here, will you?" And with
a nod to me he does a snappy exit.

"A constant joy, Sukey is," remarks Hamilton. "Why, when we were up in
the Adirondacks that summer, we used to----"

What they used to do to Sukey I'll never know; for just then Mr. Robert
sails in, and Nutt breaks off the account. He'd spieled along for half
an hour in his usual vein when Mr. Robert flags him long enough to call
me over.

"By the way, Torchy," says Mr. Robert, "before I forget it----" and he
hands me one of Marjorie's cards with a date and "Music" written in the
southwest corner. I gazes at it puzzled.

"I strongly suspect," he goes on, "that a certain young lady may be
among those present."

"Oh!" says I, pinkin' up some, I expect. "Much obliged. In that case I'm
strong for music. Some swell piano performer, eh?"

"A young violinist," says Mr. Robert, "a friend of Ferdie's, I believe,
who----"

"Bet a million it's Sukey!" breaks in Nutt. "Blair Hiscock, isn't it!"

"That is his name," admits Mr. Robert. "But this is to be nothing
formal, you know: only Marjorie is bringing him down to the house, and
has asked in a few people."

"By George!" says Nutt, slappin' his knee enthusiastic. "Couldn't you
get me in on that affair, Bob?"

"Why--er--I might," says Mr. Robert. "I didn't know, though, that you
were passionately fond of violin music. It's to be rather a classical
programme, and----"

"Classic be blowed!" says Nutt. "What I want is a fair whack at Sukey.
Seen him, haven't you?"

Mr. Robert shakes his head.

"Well, wait until you do," says Hamilton. "Say, he's a rare treat,
Sukey. About as big as a fox terrier, and just as snappy. Oh, you'll
love Sukey! If he doesn't hand you something peppery before you've known
him ten minutes, then I'm mistaken. Know what he used to call your
sister Marjorie, summer before last? Baby Dimple! After a golf ball, you
know. That's a sample of Sukey's tongue."

Mr. Robert shrugs his shoulders. "Quite her own affair, I suppose," says
he.

"Oh, she didn't mind," says Nutt. "Everyone stands for Sukey--on account
of his music. Only he is such a conceited, snobbish little whelp that
it makes you ache to cuff him. Couldn't, of course. Why, he'll begin
sniveling if you look cross at him! But it would be great sport to----
Say, Bob, who's going to be there--anyone special?"

"Only the family," says Mr. Robert, "and a few of Marjorie's friends,
such as Verona Hemmingway and--er--Torchy here, and Josephine Billings,
who's just come for the week-end."

"What!" says Hamilton. "Joey Billings? Say, she's a good sort, Joey;
bully fun, and always in for anything. You ought to see her shoot! Yes,
Sir! Bring down quail with a choke-bore, or knock over a buck deer with
a rifle. Plays billiards like a wizard, Joey does, and can swat a golf
ball off the tee for two hundred yards. She's a star. Staying at
Ferdie's, eh? Must be a great combination, she and Sukey. I'd like to
see 'em together. Say, old man, let me in on this musicfest if you can,
will you?"

Course there wa'n't much left for Mr. Robert to do but promise, and
while he don't do it with any great enthusiasm, Mr. Hamilton don't seem
a bit discouraged. In fact, just before he goes he has a chucklin' fit
like he'd been struck by some amazin' comic thought.

"I have it, Bob!" says he, poundin' Mr. Robert on the back. "I have
it!"

"Anything you're likely to recover from?" remarks Mr. Robert.

"Never mind," says Nutt. "You wait and see! And the first chance you get
ask Sukey if he's afraid of bears."

Just to finish off the afternoon too, and make the Corrugated gen'ral
offices seem more like a fam'ly meetin' place, about four o'clock in
blows Sister Marjorie from the shoppin' district, trailin' a friend with
her; a stranger too. First off, from a hasty glimpse at the hard-boiled
lid and the man's collar and the loose-fittin' top coat, I thought it
was some chappy. So it's more or less of a shock when I discovers the
short skirt and the high walkin' boots below. Then I tumbled. It's Joey,
the real sport!

Believe me, she looked the part! One of these female good fellows, you
know, ready to roll her own dope sticks, or sit in with the boys and
draw three to a pair. Built substantial and heavy, Joey was, but not
lumpy, like Marjorie. She swings in swaggery, gives Mr. Robert the
college hick greetin', and when I'm introduced to her treats me to a
grip that I felt the tingle of for half an hour.

"Hello, Kid!" says she. "I've heard of you. Torchy, eh? Well, the name's
a fine fit."

"Yes," says I, "I was baptized with my hat off."

"Ripping!" says she. "I like that. Torchy! Couldn't be better."

"Not so poetic as Crimson Rambler," says I, "but easier to remember."

Hearty chuckles from Joey. "You're all right, Torchy," says she,
rumplin' my hair playful.

Not at all hard to get acquainted with, Joey. One of the free and easy
kind that gets to call men by their front names durin' the first
half-hour. But somehow them's the ones that always seem to hang longest
on the branch. You've noticed? Take Joey now,--well along towards
thirty, so I finds out later, but still untagged and unchosen. Maybe she
likes it better that way. Who knows? And, as Nutt Hamilton has
suggested, it would be int'restin' to see her and Sukey lined up
together.

That ain't exactly why I'm so early showin' up at the Ellins' house the
night of the musical--not altogether. But what Vee and I has to say to
one another durin' the half-hour we managed to slip over on Aunty don't
matter. Vee was supposed to be arrangin' some flowers in the drawin'
room, and I--well, I was helpin'. My long suit, arrangin' flowers; that
is, when the planets are right.

But it goes quick. Pretty soon others begun buttin' in, and by
eight-thirty there was a roomful, includin' Vee's Aunty, who watches me
as severe as if I was a New Haven director. Joey Billings floats in too.
And I got to admit that in an evenin' gown she ain't such a worse
looker. Course her jaw outline is a trifle strong, and she has quite a
swing to her hips; but she's so good-natured and cheerful lookin' that
you 'most forget them trifles.

And Blair Hiscock, in his John Drew regalia, looks even thinner and
whiter than ever; but he struts around as perky and important as if he
was Big Bill Edwards. First off he has to have the piano turned the
other way. Then, when he goes to unlimber his music rack, it develops
that a big vase of American Beauties is too near his elbow. He glares at
'em pettish.

"Can't those things be taken out?" says he. "I detest heavy odors while
I'm playin'!"

So the flowers are carted off. Then some draperies just back of him must
be pulled together, so he won't feel a draught. After that he has the
usual battle with his violin strings, while the audience waits patient,
only exchangin' a smile now and then when Blair shows his disposition
strongest.

At last, though, after makin' the accompanist take two fresh starts,
he's off. Some goulash rhapsody, I believe it was, by a guy whose name
sounds like a sneezin' fit. But, take it from me, that sharp-faced
little wisp could do things to a violin! Zowie! He could just naturally
make it sing, with weeps and laughs, and moans and giggles, and groans
and cusswords, all strung along a jumpy, jerky little air that sort of
played hide and seek with itself. Music? I should quiver! He had us all
sittin' up with our ears stretched, and when he finishes and the
applause starts in like a sudden shower on a tin roof what does he do
but turn away with a bored look and shoot some spicy remark at the young
lady pianist!

Next he gives a lullaby kind of thing, that's as sweet and touchin' as
anything Farrar or Gluck could put over. He's just windin' that up and
we're gettin' ready with more handclaps, when----

"Woof! Woof-woof!"

Some of the ladies gasps panicky. I got a little start myself, before I
tumbled to what it was; for in through the draperies behind Sukey has
shuffled about as good an imitation of a black bear as you'd want to
see; a big, bulky bear, all complete, even to the dishpan paws and the
wicked little eyes. It's scuffin' along on all-fours, waddlin' lifelike
from side to side and lettin' out that deep, grumbly "Woof! Woof!"
remark.

Blair is so deep in his music that he don't hear it for a minute. Then
he must have caught on from the folks in front that something was up.
He stops, glarin' indignant through his big glasses. Then he turns.

It wa'n't exactly a scream he lets out, nor a moan. It's the sort of a
weird, muffled noise you'll sometimes make in your sleep, after a late
welsh rabbit. I didn't think he could turn any whiter; but he does. His
face has about as much color left in it as a marshmallow.

Then the thing on the floor rears up on its hind legs until it tops
Blair by two feet, and there comes another of them deep "Woofs!"

I was lookin' for him to pass away complete; but he don't. He sets his
jaw, tosses his violin on a chair, grabs the music rack, and swings it
over his shoulder defiant.

"Come on, you brute!" he breathes husky. "I don't know what you are;
but----"

Just what happens next, though, is a cry of "Shame, shame!" Someone
dashes from the back row of chairs, and we sees Joey Billings makin' a
clutch at the bear's head. It came off too, with a rip of snap hooks,
and reveals Nutt Hamilton's big moon face with a wide grin on it.

"You, eh?" says Joey. "I thought as much. Your old masquerade trick! And
anyone else would have had better sense. Don't you think you're beast
enough without----"

"Stop!" breaks in Blair, his lips blue and trembly and the tears
beginnin' to trickle down his nose. "You--you've no right to interfere.
I--I was going to smash him. I'll kill the big brute! I--I'll----"

Once more Joey does the right thing; for Blair is blubberin' hysterical
and the scene is gettin' worse. So she just tucks him under one arm,
claps a hand over his mouth, and lugs him kickin' and strugglin' into
the lib'ry, givin' Nutt a shove to one side as she brushes by.

You can guess too there was some panicky doin's in the Ellins's drawin'
room for the next few minutes; Mr. Robert and Marjorie and others tryin'
to tell Hamilton what they thought of him, all at the same time. And
Nutt was takin' it sheepish.

"Oh, I say!" he protests. "I was only trying to have a bit of fun with
the little runt, you know. I only meant to----"

"Fun!" breaks in Mr. Robert savage. "This is neither a backwoods barroom
nor a hunting camp, and I want to assure you right now, Hamilton,
that----"

But in comes young Blair again. He's had the tear stains swabbed off,
and he's got some of his color back; but he's still wabbly in the knees.
He pushes right to the front, though.

"I suppose you all think me a great baby," says he, "to get so
frightened and to cry over such a silly trick. Perhaps I am a baby. At
least I haven't control of my nerves. Would you, though, if you had
been an invalid for fifteen years? Well, I have. And a good part of that
time, you know, I spent in hospitals and sanatoriums, and traveling
around with trained nurses and three or four relatives to wait on me and
humor my whims. Even when I was studying music abroad it was that way.
And I suppose I'm not really strong now. So I couldn't help being
afraid. But I don't want your sympathy. You need not scold Hamilton any
more, either. He can't help being a big bully any more than I can help
acting like a baby. He doesn't know any better--never will. All beef and
no brains! And at that I don't care to change places with him. Some day
I shall be well and fairly strong. He'll never have any better sense or
manners than he has now. And I prefer to fight my own battles. So let it
drop, please."

Well, they did. But for the first time, I expect, a few cuttin' remarks
got through Nutt Hamilton's thick hide. He shuffles out of his bear skin
and sneaks off with his head down.

He'd hardly gone when Vee slips up beside me and touches me on the arm.
"We can't do anything with her," she whispers mysterious. "Don't say a
word, but come."

"Can't do anything with who?" says I.

"Joey," says she. "She's in the library, and we can't find out what is
the matter."

"Wha-a-at! Joey?" says I.

It's a fact, though. I finds Joey slumped on a couch with her shoulders
heavin'. She's doin' the sob act genuine and earnest.

"Well, well!" says I. "Why the big weeps?"

She looks up and sees who it is. "Torchy!" says she between sobs.
"Dud-don't tell him. Please!"

"Tell who?" says I.

"B-b-b-blair," says she. "I--wouldn't have him know for--for anything.
But he--he--what he said hurt. He--he called me a meddlesome old maid.
It was something I had to do too. I--I thought he'd understand. I--I
thought he knew I--I liked him!"

"Eh?" says I gaspy.

"I've never cared so much before--about what the others thought," she
goes on. "I'm just Joey to them, out for a good time. I'll always be
Joey, I suppose, to most of them. But I--I thought Blair was different,
you know. I--I----"

And the sobs get the best of the argument. I glances over at Vee
puzzled, and Vee shrugs her shoulders. We drifts back as far as the
door.

"Poor Joey!" says Vee.

"Is it straight," says I, "about her and Blair?"

Vee nods. "Only he doesn't know," says she.

"Then it's time he did," says I.

"There!" says Vee, givin' me a grateful look that tingles clear down to
my toes. "I just knew you could help. But how can----"

"Watch!" says I.

I finds him packin' his precious violin and preparin' to beat it.

"See here, Hiscock," says I. "Maybe you think you're the only one whose
feelin's have been hurt this evenin'."

He stares at me grouchy.

"Ah, ditch the assault and battery!" says I. "It ain't me. But there's
someone in the lib'ry you could soothe with a word or two maybe. Why not
go in and see her?"

"Her?" says he, starin' pop-eyed. "You--you don't mean Miss Billings?"

"Sure!" says I. "Joey, it's you she wants, and if I was you I'd----" But
he's off on the run, with a queer, eager look on his face. I don't
expect there's been so many who've wanted Sukey.

But the worst of it was I had to go without hearin' how it all come out.
Mr. Robert didn't have much to report next mornin', either. "Oh, we left
them in the library, still talking," says he.

It's near a week later too that I gets anything more definite. Then I
was up to the Ellins's on an errand when I discovers Blair waitin' in
the front room. He greets me real cordial and friendly, which is quite
a jar. A minute later down the stairs floats Marjorie and her friend
Miss Billings.

"Oh, there you are, Joey!" says Blair, rushin' out and grabbin' her by
the arm impetuous. "Come along. I'm going to take you both to dinner and
then to the opera. Come!"

"Isn't he brutal?" laughs Joey, pattin' him folksy on the cheek.

So I take it there's been something doin' in the solitaire and wilt-thou
line. Some cross-mated pair they'll make; but I ain't so sure it won't
be a good match.

Anyway, when he gets her as a side partner, Sukey needn't do any more
worryin' about bears.

CHAPTER XI

TEAMWORK WITH AUNTY

As Mr. Robert hangs up the desk 'phone and turns to me I catches him
smotherin' a smile. "Torchy," says he, "are you a patron of the plastic
art?"

"Corns, or backache?" says I.

"Not plasters," says he; "plastic; in short, sculpture."

"Never sculped a sculpin," says I. "What's the joke?"

"On the contrary," says he, "it's quite serious,--a sculptor in
distress; a noble young Belgian at that, one Djickyns, in whose cause,
it seems, I was rash enough to enlist at a recent dinner party. And
now----" Mr. Robert waves towards his piled-up desk.

"I'd be a hot substitute along that line, wouldn't I?" says I.

"As I understand the situation," goes on Mr. Robert, "it is not a matter
of giving artistic advice, but of--er--financing the said Djickyns."

"Oh!" says I. "Slippin' him a check?"

Mr. Robert shakes his head. "Nothing so simple," says he. "One doesn't
slip checks to noble young sculptors. In this instance I am supposed to
assist in outlining a plan whereby certain alleged objects of art may
be--er----"

"Wished onto suckers in exchange for real money, eh?" says I. "Ain't
that it?"

Mr. Robert nods.

"With so many dividends bein' passed," says I, "that's goin' to take
some strategy."

"Hence this appeal to us," says he. "And I might add, Torchy, that one
of those most interested is a near relative of a certain young lady
who----"

"Aunty?" says I.

It was. So I grins and grabs my hat.

"That bein' the case, Mr. Robert," says I, "we'll finance this Djickyns
party if we have to bull the sculpture market till it hits the rafters."

With that I takes the address of the scene of trouble and breezes uptown
to a third-rate studio buildin'; where I finds Aunty and Vee and Sister
Marjorie all grouped around a stepladder on top of which is balanced a
pallid youth with long black hair and a fair white brow projectin' out
like a double dormer on a cement bungalow. He seems to be tryin' to
drape a fish net across the top of an alcove accordin' to three
diff'rent sets of directions; but leaves off abrupt when I blows in.

You'd hardly guess I'd been sent for, either. "Humph!" remarks Aunty,
after I've announced how sorry Mr. Robert was he couldn't come himself
and that he's detailed me instead. "How perfectly absurd!"

"But, Aunty," protests Vee, "you know Torchy is a private secretary now
and understands all about such things. Besides, he knows such heaps of
important business men who----"

"If he can bring them here Wednesday afternoon, very well," says Aunty;
"but I have my doubts that he can."

"What's the game?" says I.

"It is not a game at all, young man," says Aunty. "Our project, if that
is what you mean, is to have a studio tea for Mr. Djickyns and to secure
the attendance of as many purchasers for his works as possible. Have you
any suggestions?"

"Why," says I, "not right off the bat. Maybe if I could chew over the
proposition awhile, I might----"

"Oh, I say," breaks in the noble young gent on the stepladder, "I--I'm
getting dizzy up here, you know. I--I'm feeling rather----"

"Mercy!" squeals Marjorie. "He's fainting!"

[Illustration: "I gathers him in on the fly."]

"Steady there!" I sings out to Djickyns, makin' a jump. "Don't wabble
until I get you. Easy!"

I ain't a second too soon, either; for as I reaches up he topples toward
me, as limp as a sack of flour. I was fieldin' my position well for an
amateur; for I gathers him in on the fly, slides him down head first
with only a bump or two, and stretches him out on the rug. It's only a
near-faint, though, and after a drink of water and a sniff at Aunty's
smellin' salts he's able to be helped onto a couch and propped up with
cushions.

"Awfully sorry," says he, smilin' mushy, "but I fear I can't go on with
the decorating to-day."

"Never mind," says Aunty, comfortin'. "This young man will help us."

"Please do, Torchy," adds Marjorie.

"You will, won't you?" says Vee, shootin' over a glance from them gray
eyes that makes me feel all rosy and tingly.

"That's my job in life," says I, pickin' up the fish net. "Now how does
this go?"

And for the next hour or so, when I wa'n't clingin' to the ceilin' with
my eyelids, tackin' things up, I was down on all-fours arrangin' rugs,
or executin' other merry little stunts. Aunty had collected a whole
truckload of fancy junk,--wall tapestries, old armor, Russian tea
machines, and such,--with the idea of transformin' this half-bare loft
of Djickyns's into a swell studio. And, believe me, we came mighty near
turnin' the trick!

"There!" says she. "With a few flowers I believe it will do. Now, young
man, have you thought how we can get the right people here? Of course we
shall advertise in all the papers."

"As an open show?" says I. "Say, that's nutty! Don't you do it. You'd
only get in a bunch of suburban shoppers and cheap-skate art students.
My tip is, make it exclusive,--admission by card only. Then if it's done
right you can graft a lot of free press agent stuff by playin' up the
Belgian part of it strong. See? Lets you ring in on this fund for
Belgian sufferers. I take it you want to unload as much of this plaster
junk as you can? Well, all you got to do is mark it up twenty per cent.
and announce that you'll chip in that much towards the fund. Get me?"

She never bats an eye, Aunty don't. "To be sure," says she. "I think
that is precisely what we had in mind all the time; only we--er----"

"I know," says I. "You hadn't been playin' the relief act strong enough.
But that's what'll get you into the headlines. 'Social Leader to the
Rescue,'--all that dope. I'll send some of the boys up to see you
to-night. Don't let your butler frost 'em, though. Give 'em a clear
track to the lib'ry, and if you're servin' after-dinner coffee and
frosted green cordials, so much the better. Reporters are almost human,
you know. It would help too if you'd happen to be just startin' for the
op'ra, with all your pearl ropes on. And whisper,--soft pedal on
Djickyns here, but heavy on his suff'rin' countrymen! That's the line."

Aunty shudders a couple of times, and once she starts to crash in with
the sharp reproof; but she swallows it. Some little old diplomat, Aunty
is! She was gettin' the picture. Havin' planned that part of the
campaign, she switches the debate as to who should go on the list of
invited guests.

"Leave it to me," says I. "You just pick out about a dozen patronesses.
Pick 'em from the top, the ones that are featured oftenest in the
society notes. And me, I'll sift out a couple of hundred sound
propositions from the corporation lists,--parties that have stayed on
the right side of the market and still have cash to spend."

Aunty nods approvin'. She even hands over some names she'd jotted down
herself and asks me to put 'em in if they're all right.

"Most of 'em are fine," says I, glancin' over the slip; "but who's this
W. T. Wiggins with no address?"

"I particularly want to reach him," says she. "He is a wealthy merchant
who is apt to be rather generous, I am told, if properly approached."

"I'll look him up," says I, "and see that he gets an
invite--registered."

"Of course," goes on Aunty, "he doesn't belong socially, you understand;
but in this instance----"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "You'll be pleased to meet his checkbook. And, by the
way, what schedule are you runnin' this on,--doors open at when?"

"The cards will read, 'From half after four until seven,'" says Aunty.

"I see," says I. "Then if I drift in before six a frock coat will pass
me."

And for the first time durin' the session she inspects me insultin'
through her lorgnette. "Really," says she, "I had not considered that it
would be necessary----"

"Eh?" I gasps. "Ah, have a heart! Think how handy I'd be if someone did
another flop, or if Miss Vee wanted----"

"Verona will be fully occupied in serving tea," breaks in Aunty.
"Besides, we shall try to give this affair the appearance, at least, of
a genuine social function. I imagine that the presence of such persons
as Mr. Wiggins will make the task sufficiently difficult. Don't you
see?"

"I ought to," says I. "You ain't left much to the imagination. Sort of a
blot on the landscape I'd be, would I?"

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