Torchy and Vee
couldn't last out. And it's a wonder she didn't wind up at a nerve
sanitarium."
"Honest!" says Babe, beamin' on me and grabbin' my hand. "Is--is that
all?"
"Ain't that enough?" says I.
"But that's so easy fixed," says he. "Why, I am bored stiff at these
resort places myself. I thought, though, that Lucy was having the time
of her young life. What a chump I was not to see! Say, we'll take a
fresh start. And next time, believe me, she's going to have just what
she wants. That is, if I can persuade her to give me another trial."
It seems he did, for later on he tells me he's bought that cute little
stucco cottage over near the country club and that him and Lucy are
going to settle down like regular people.
"With a nursery and all?" I asks.
"There's no telling," says Babe.
And with that we swaps grins.
CHAPTER IX
HARTLEY AND THE G. O. G.'S
"Oh, I say, Torchy," calls out Mr. Robert, as I'm reachin' for my hat
here the other noon, "you don't happen to be going up near the club on
your way to luncheon, do you?"
"Not today," says I. "I'm lunchin' with the general staff."
"Oh!" says he, grinnin'. "In that case never mind."
And for fear you shouldn't be wise to this little office joke of ours
maybe I'd better explain that who I meant was Hartley Grue, assistant
chief of our bond room force.
Just goes to show how hard up we are for comic stuff in the Corrugated
Trust these days when we can squeeze a laugh out of such a
serious-minded party as Hartley. But you know how it is. I expect some
of them green-eyed clerks on the tall stools started callin' him that
when the War Department first turned him loose and he reports back to
tackle the old job wearin' the custom tailored uniform with the gold bar
on his shoulders. And I admit the rest of us might have found something
better to do than listen to them Class B-4 patriots who would have
helped save the world for democracy if the war had lasted a couple years
more.
Still, that general staff tag for Mr. Grue tickled us a bit. As a matter
of fact he did come back--from the Hoboken piers--about as military as
they made 'em. And to hear him talk about the Aisne drive and the St.
Mihiel campaign and so on you'd think he must have been right at
Pershing's elbow durin' the whole muss, instead of at Camp Mills and
later on at the docks on a transport detail. But he gets away with it,
even among us who have watched all the details of his martial career.
For the big war gave Hartley his chance, and he grabbed it as eager as a
park squirrel nabbin' a peanut. He'd been hangin' on here in the bond
room for five or six years, edgin' up step by step until he got to be
assistant chief, but at that he wasn't much more'n an office drudge.
Everybody ordered him around, from Old Hickory down to Mr. Piddie. He
was one of the kind that you naturally would, being sort of meek and
spineless. He'd been brought up that way, I understand, for his old man
was a chronic grouch--thirty years at a railroad ticket office
window--and I expect he lugged his ticket sellin' disposition home with
him.
Anyway, Hartley had that cheap, hang-dog look, like he was always
listenin' for somebody to hand him something rough and would be
disappointed if they didn't. And yet he was quick enough to resent
anything if he thought it was safe. You'd see him scowlin' over his
books and he carried a constant flush under his eyes, as if he'd been
slapped recent across the face, or expected to be. Not what you'd call a
happy disposition, Hartley; nor was he just the type you'd pick out to
handle a bunch of men.
All he had to start with was a couple of years' trainin' as a private in
one of the National Guard regiments. I suppose he knew "guide right"
from "left oblique" and how to ground arms without mashin' somebody's
pet corn. But I don't think anybody suspected he had any wild military
ambitions concealed under that 2x4 dome of his. Yet while most of us was
still pattin' Wilson on the back for keepin' us out of war Hartley had
already severed diplomatic relations and was wearin' a flag in his
buttonhole.
When the first Plattsburg camp was organized Hartley was among the first
to get a month's leave of absence and report. He didn't make it, being a
little shy on the book stuff, besides lacking ten pounds or more for his
height. But that didn't discourage him. He begun taking correspondence
courses, eating corn meal mush twice a day, and cutting out the smokes.
And after a four weeks' whirl at the second officers' training camp he
squeezed through, coming out as a near lieutenant. Old Hickory Ellins
gasped some when Hartley showed up with the bar on his shoulders, but he
gave him the husky grip and notified him that his leave was extended for
the duration of the war with half pay.
And the next we heard from Hartley he was located at Camp Mills drillin'
recruit companies. Two or three times he dropped in to say he expected
to be sent over, but each time something or other happened to keep him
within a trolley ride of Broadway. Once he was caught in a mumps
quarantine just as his division got sailing orders, and again he
developed some trouble with one of his knees. Finally Hartley threw out
that someone at headquarters was blockin' him from gettin' to the front,
and at last he got stuck with this dock detail, which he never got loose
from until he was turned out for good. Way up to the end, though,
Hartley still talked about getting over to help smash the Huns. I guess
he was in earnest about it, too.
Maybe they thought when they had mustered Hartley out that they'd
returned another citizen to civilian life. But they hadn't more'n half
finished the job. Hartley wouldn't have it that way. He'd stored up a
lot of military enthusiasm that he hadn't been able to work off on
draftees and departin' heroes. In fact, he was just bustin' with it. You
could see that by the way he walked, even when he wasn't sportin' the
old O. D. once more on some excuse or other. He'd come swingin' into the
general offices snappy, like he had important messages for the colonel;
chin up, his narrow shoulders well back, and eyes front. He'd trained
Vincent, the office boy, to give him the zippy salute, and if any of the
rest of us had humored him he'd had us pullin' the same stuff. But those
of us that had been in the service was glad enough to give the right arm
motion a long vacation.
"Nothing doing, Hartley," I'd say to him. "We've canned the Kaiser,
ain't we? Let's forget that shut-eye business."
And how he did hate to part with that uniform. Simply couldn't seem to
do it all at once, but had to taper off gradual. First off he was only
going to sport it two days a week, but whenever he could invent a
special occasion, out it came. He even got him a Sam Browne belt, which
was contrary to orders, and once I caught him gazin' longin' in a show
window at some overseas service chevrons and wound stripes. Course, he
wore the allied colors ribbon, which passes with a lot of folks for
foreign decorations; but then, a whole heap of limited service guys have
put that over.
When it came to provin' that it was us Yanks who really cleaned up the
Huns and finished the war, Hartley was right there. That was his strong
suit. He carried maps around, all marked up with the positions of our
different divisions, and if he could get you to listen to him long
enough he'd make you believe that after we got on the job the French and
English merely hung around the back areas with their mouths open and
watched us wind things up.
"You see," he'd explain, "it was our superior discipline and our
wonderful morale that did it. Look at our marines. Just average material
to start with. But what training! Same way with a lot of our infantry
regiments. They'd been taught that orders were orders. It had been
hammered into 'em. They knew that when they were told to do a thing it
just had to be done, and that was all there was to it. We didn't wait
until we got over there to win the war. We won it here, on our
cantonment drill grounds. And I rather think, if you'll pardon my saying
so, that I did my share."
"I'm glad you admit it, Hartley," says I. "I was afraid you wouldn't."
His latest bug though was this Veteran Reserve Army scheme of his. His
idea was that instead of scrappin' this big army organization that it
had cost so much to build up we ought to save it so it would be ready in
case another country--Japan maybe--started anything. He thought every
man should keep his uniform and equipment and be put on call. They ought
to keep up their training, too. Might need some revisin' of regiments
and so on, but by having the privates report, say once a week, at the
nearest place where officers could meet them, it could be done. Course,
some of the officers might be too busy to bother with it. Well, they
could resign. That would give a chance for promotions. And the gaps in
the enlisted ranks could be kept filled from the new classes which
universal service would account for.
See Hartley's little plan? He could go on wearin' his shoulder straps
and shiny leggins and maybe in time he'd have a gold or silver poison
ivy leaf instead of the bar.
It was the details of this scheme that he'd been tryin' to work off on
me for weeks, but I'd kept duckin', until finally I'd agreed to let him
spill it across the luncheon table.
"It's got to be a swell feed, though, Hartley," I insists as I joins him
out at the express elevator.
"Will the Cafe l'Europe do?" he asks.
"Gee!" says I. "So that's why you 're dolled up in the Sunday uniform,
eh? Got the belt on too. All right. But I mean to wade right through
from hors-d'oeuvres to parfait. Hope you've cashed in your delayed pay
vouchers."
I notice, too, that Hartley don't hunt out any secluded nook down in the
grill, but leads the way to a table right in the middle of the big room
on the main floor, where most of the ladies are. And believe me,
paradin' through a mob like that is something he don't shrink from at
all. Did I mention that Hartley used to be kind of meek actin'? Well,
that was before I heard him talk severe to a Greek waiter.
Also I got a new line on the way Hartley looks at the enlisted man. I'd
suggested that a lot of these returned buddies might have had about all
the drill stuff they cared for and that this idea of reportin' once a
week at some armory possibly wouldn't appeal to 'em.
"They'll have to, that's all," says Hartley. "The new service act will
provide for that. Besides, it will do 'em good, keep 'em in line.
Anyway, that's what they're for."
"Oh," says I. "Are they? Say, with sentiments like that you must have
been about as popular with your company, Hartley, as an ex-grand duke at
a Bolshevik picnic."
"What I was after," says he, "was discipline, no popularity. It's what
the average young fellow needs most. As for me, I had it clubbed into me
from the start. If I didn't mind what I was told at home I got a bat on
the ear. Same way here in the Corrugated, you might say. I've always had
to take orders or get kicked. That's what I passed on to my men. At
least I tried to."
And as Hartley stiffens up and glares across the table at an imaginary
line of doughboys I could guess that he succeeded.
It was while I was followin' his gaze that I noticed this bunch of five
young heroes at a corner table. Their overseas caps was stacked on a hat
tree nearby and one of 'em was wearin' some sort of medal. And from the
reckless way they were tacklin' big platters of expensive food, such as
broiled live lobster and planked steaks, I judged they'd been mustered
out more or less recent.
Just now, though, they seemed a good deal interested in something over
our way. First off I didn't know but some of 'em might be old friends of