Torchy and Vee
asks Auntie. "Do I put in steam heat for 'em?"
It takes Auntie a few minutes to recover, but when she does she's right
there with the bright little scheme. "We must make jackets for them,"
says she.
"Eh?" says I.
"Certainly," she goes on. "They'll freeze if we don't. And it's
perfectly practical. Of course, I've never seen it done, but I'm sure
they'll get along just as well if their feathers were replaced by
something that will keep them warm."
"Couldn't get the Red Cross ladies to knit sweaters for 'em, could we?"
I suggests.
Auntie pays no attention to this, but asks Vee if she hasn't some old
flannel shirts, or something of the kind.
Well, while they're plannin' out the new winter styles of turkey
costumes, Joe and Leon rigs up a wood stove in their coop, shoos the
flock in, and proceeds to warm 'em up. They took turns that night
keeping the fire going, I understand.
And when I comes home Monday afternoon from the office I ain't even
allowed to say howdy to the youngster until I've been dragged out and
introduced triumphant to the only flock of custom-tailored turkeys in
the country. Auntie and Vee and Madame Battou sure had done a neat job
of costumin', considerin' the fact that they'd had no paper patterns to
go by. But somehow they'd doped out a one-piece union suit cut high in
the neck with sort of a knickerbocker effect to the lower end. Mostly
they seemed to have used an old near-silk quilted bathrobe of mine, but
I also recognized a khaki army shirt that I had no notion of throwin' in
the discard yet awhile. And if you'll believe it them gobblers was
struttin' around as chesty as if they hadn't lost a feather.
"Aren't they just too cute for anything?" demands Vee.
"Worse than that," says I, "they look almost as human as so many
floor-walkers. I hope they ain't going to be hard on clothes, for my
wardrobe wouldn't stand many such raids."
"Oh, don't worry about that," says Vee. "We shall be eating one every
week or so."
"Then don't let me know when the executions take place," says I. "As for
me, I shouldn't feel like tellin' Joe to kill one without an order from
the High Sheriff of the county."
And say, if I'm ever buffaloed into buyin' any more live turkeys, I'm
going to demand a written guarantee that they're Prohibitionists.
CHAPTER VII
ERNIE AND HIS BIG NIGHT
I'm kind of glad I was with Ernie when he had his big night. If I hadn't
been I never would have believed it of him. Not if he'd produced
affidavits. No! It would have been too much of a strain on the
imagination.
For somehow it's hard to connect Ernie with anything like that, even
when I've seen what I have. You could almost tell that, just by his
name--Ernest Sudders. And when I add that he's assistant auditor in the
Corrugated offices you ought to have the picture complete. You know what
assistant auditors are like.
Ernie ran true to type. And then some. I expect there was one or two
other things he might have been; such as manager of a gift shop, or
window dresser for the misses' department, or music teacher in a girls'
boarding school. But I doubt if he'd ever been such a success as he was
at the high desk. Seemed like he was born to be an assistant auditor. He
was holding the job when I first came to the Corrugated as sub office
boy; he still has it, and I can think of only one party that could pry
him loose from it--the old boy with the long scythe.
For one thing, Ernie gives all his time to being assistant auditor. Not
just office hours. I'll bet he's one even in his sleep. He looks the
part, dresses the part, thinks the part. He don't work at it, he lives
it. Talk about this four dimension stuff. Ernie gets along with two--up
the column from the bottom, and both ways from the decimal point.
Not such a bad-lookin' chap, Ernie, only a bit stiff from the waist up.
You know, like he had his spine in a cast. Then there's the neck-apple.
Ernie fits his into a high white wing collar and sets it off with a
black ascot tie and a pearl stickpin. Also he sports the only black
cutaway that's worn reg'lar into the General Offices. Oh, yes, Ernie
could go on at a minute's notice as best man or pall-bearer. I don't
mean he's often called on to be either. He only wears that costume
because that's his idea of how an assistant auditor should be arrayed.
One of these super-system birds, Ernie is. He could turn out an annual
report every Saturday if the directors asked for it. Never has to hunt
for a bunch of stray figures. He has everything cross-indexed neat and
accurate. He's that way about everything, always a spare umbrella and an
extra pair of rubbers in his locker, and he carries a pearl-handle
penknife in a chamois case.
But in spite of all that I'm sorry to state that around the Corrugated
Ernie is rated as a walking joke. We all josh him, even up to Old
Hickory Ellins. The only ones he ever seems to mind much though are the
lady typists. The hardest thing he does during the day is when he has to
walk past that battery of near-vamps, for they never fail to lay down a
rolling eye barrage that gets him pink in the ears.
Course, having noticed that, I generally use it as my cue for passing
pleasant words to Ernie. "Honest now," I'll ask him, "which one of them
Lizzie Mauds are you playin' as favorite these days, Ernie?"
And Ernie, he'll color up like a fire hydrant and protest: "Now, say,
Torchy! You know very well I've never spoken to one of them."
"Yes, you tell it well," I'll say, "but I'm onto you, old sport."
I don't know how long I've been shooting stuff like that at Ernie, and
it always gets him going. I have a hunch, though, that he kind of likes
it. These skirt-shy boys usually do. And as a matter of fact I expect
the only female he ever looked square in the eye is that old maid sister
of his that he lives with somewhere over in Jersey.
So this night when we were doing overtime together at the office and it
was a case of going out for dinner I'd planned to slip a little
something on Ernie by towin' him to a joint where the lights were
bright and they were apt to have silver buckets on the floor. I was
hoping he might see some perfect lady light up a cigarette, or maybe
give him a cut-up glance over the top of her fizz goblet. It would be
cheerin' to watch Ernie tryin' to let on he didn't notice.
He'd already called Sister on the long distance telephone and told her
not to wait up for him, explainin' just what it was we was workin' on
and how we might not be through until quite late. And Sister had advised
him to be sure to wear his silk muffler and not to sleep past his
station if he had to take the 11:48 out.
"Gosh, Ernie!" says I. "If you 're that way now what'll you be when
you're married?"
"But I hadn't thought of getting married," says he. "Really!"
"Yes," says I, "and you silent, thoughtless boys are the very ones who
jump into matrimony unexpected. Some evenin' you'll meet just the right
babidoll and the next thing we know you'll be sendin' us at home cards.
You act innocent enough in public, but I'll bet you're a bear when it
comes to workin' up to a quick clinch behind the palms."
Ernie almost gasps with horror at the thought.
"Oh, I wouldn't put it past you," says I. "I expect, though, you'd like
to have me class you among the great unkissed?"
"As a matter of fact," says Ernie solemn, "I have never--Well, not
since I was a mere boy, at least. It--it's just happened so."
"And you past thirty!" says I. "What a long spell to be out of luck!"
So I suggests that we work through until about 7:45 and then hit the
Regal roof for a $2 feed and a view of some of this fancy skatin'
they're pullin' off there. But that ain't Ernie's plan at all. He has
his mouth all set for an oyster stew and a plate of crullers down in the
Arcade beanerie.
"Ah, forget your old automatic habits for once," says I. "This dinner is
on the house, you know, so why not make it a reg'lar one? Come along."
And for a wonder I persuades him to do it. I expect this idea of
chargin' it on the expense account hadn't occurred to him.
Anyway, that's how it come we were piking through West Forty-fifth
Street with the first of the theater crowds, Ernie still protestin' that
he really didn't care for this sort of thing--cabaret stunts and all
that--and me kiddin' him along as usual, sayin' I'll bet the head waiter
would call him by his first name, when the net is cast sudden over
Ernie's head.
I don't know which one of us saw her first. All I'm sure of is that we
both sort of slowed up and did the gawp act. You could hardly blame us,
for here in a taxi by the curb is--Well, it would take Robert Chambers a
page and a half at twenty cents a word to do her full justice, so I'll
just say she was a lovely lady.
No, I ain't gettin' her mixed with any of Mr. Ziegfeld's stars, nor she
ain't any broker's bride plucked from the switch-board. She's the real
thing in the lady line, though how I knew it's hard to tell. Also she's
a home-grown siren that works without the aid of a lip-stick, permanent
wave, or an eyebrow pencil. Anyway, here she is leaning through the taxi
door and shootin' over the alluring smile.
I couldn't quite believe it was meant for either of us until I'd scouted
around to see if there wasn't someone else in line. No, there wasn't.
And as Ernie is nearest, course I knows it's for him.
"Ah, ha!" says I. "Who's your friend with the golden tresses?"
That's what they were, all right. You don't see hair like that every
day, and it ain't the shade which can be produced at a beauty parlor.
It's the 18-karat kind, done up sort of loose and careless, but all the
more dangerous for that. And with that snowy white complexion, except
for the pink flush on the cheeks, and the big, starry blue eyes, she
sure is a stunner.
"Do--do you think she means me?" whispers Ernie husky, as we stop in our
tracks.
"Ah come!" says I. "This is no time to stall. If she hadn't spotted you
direct you might have let on you didn't see her, and strolled back
after you'd given me the slip. As it is, Ernie, I've got the goods on
you for once and you might as well----"
"But I--I don't know her at all," insists Ernie.
Just then, though, she reaches out a pair of bare arms and remarks real
folksy: "At last you've come, haven't you?"
"Seems to be fairly well acquainted with you, though, Ernie boy," says
I.
As for Ernie, he just stands there starin' bug-eyed and gaspy, as if he
didn't know what to do. Course, I couldn't tell why. I knew he always
had acted like a poor prune when he was kidded by the flossy key
pounders in the office, but almost any nut could see this was an
entirely different case. Here was a regular person, all dolled up in a
classy evening gown, with a fur-trimmed opera cape slippin' off her
shoulders. And she was givin' him the straight call.
"But--but there must be some mistake," protests Ernie.
"If there is," says I, "it's up to you to put the lady wise. You can't
walk off and leave her with her hands in the air, can you? Ah, don't be
a fish! Step up."
With that I gives him a push and Ernie staggers over to the curb.
"It's been so long," I hears the lady murmur, "but I knew you would
remember. Come."
What Ernie said then I didn't quite catch, but the next thing I knew
he'd been dragged in, the chauffeur had got the signal, and as the taxi
started off toward Fifth Avenue I had a glimpse of what looked very much
like a fond clinch, with Ernie as the clinchee.
And there I am left with my mouth open. I expect I hung up there fully
ten minutes, tryin' to dope out what had happened. Had Ernie just been
stallin' me off tryin' to establish an alibi? Or was it a case of poor
memory? No, that didn't seem likely. She wasn't the kind of a female