Torchy and Vee
she'd scuff her toe in the rug, and how some of us escaped a soup or a
gravy bath I can't figure out. Maybe we were in luck.
Also, she don't mind reachin' in front of you and sidewipin' your ear
with her elbow. Accidents like that were merry little jokes to her.
"Ox-cuse me, Mister!" she'd pipe out shrill and childish, and then
indulged in a maniac giggle that would get Mrs. Robert grippin' the
chair arms.
She liked to be chatty and folksy while she was servin', too. Her motto
seemed to be, "Eat hearty and give the house a good name." If you
didn't, she tried to coax you into it, or it into you.
"Oh, do have some more of th' meat, Miss," she says to Vee. "And another
potato, now. Just one more, Miss."
And all Mrs. Robert can do is pink up, and when she's out of hearin'
apologize for her. "As you see," says Mrs. Robert, "she is hardly a
trained waitress."
"She'd make a swell auctioneer, though," I suggests.
"No doubt," says Mrs. Robert. "And I suppose I am fortunate enough to
have anyone in the kitchen at all, even to do the cooking--such as it
is."
"You ain't lonesome in feelin' that way," says I. "It seems to be a
general complaint."
Which brings out harrowin' tales of war-wrecked homes, where no buttling
had been done for months, where chauffeurs and gardeners were only
represented by stars on the service flag, and from which even personal
maids had gone to be stenographers and nurses. But chiefly it was the
missin' cook who was mourned. Some had quit to follow their men to
trainin' camps, a lot had copped out better payin' jobs, and others had
been lured to town, where they could get the fake war extras hot off the
press and earn higher wages as well.
Course, there were some substitute cooks--reformed laundresses, raw
amateurs and back numbers that should have reached the age limit long
before. And pretty awful cookin' they were gettin' away with. Vee had
heard of one who boiled the lettuce and sent in dog biscuit one mornin'
for breakfast cereal. Miss Gray told what happened at the Pemberton
Brookses when their kitchen queen had left for Bridgeport, where she had
a hubby makin' seventy-five dollars a week. The Brookses had lived for
three days on cream toast and sardines, which was all the upstairs girl
had in her culinary repertoire.
"And look at me," added Marion, "with our old family cook, who can make
the best things in the world, and I can hardly afford to keep her! But I
couldn't drive her away if I tried."
Course, with our havin' Professor and Madame Battou, the old French
couple we'd annexed over a year ago in town, we had no kick comin'. Not
even the sugar and flour shortage seemed to trouble them, and our fancy
meals continued regular as clock work. But on the way home Vee and I got
to talkin' about what hard times the neighbors was havin'.
"I guess what they need out here," says I, "is one of them army
kitchens, that would roll around two or three times a day deliverin' hot
nourishment from door to door."
And I'd hardly finished what I'd meant for a playful little remark
before Vee stops sudden, right in the middle of the road, and lets out
an excited squeal.
"Torchy!" says she. "Why on earth didn't you suggest that before!"
"Because this foolish streak has just hit me," says I.
"But it's the very thing," says she, clappin' her hands.
"Eh?" says I, gawpin'.
"For Marion," says she. "Don't you see?"
"But she's no perambulatin' rotisserie, is she?" says I.
"She might be," says Vee. "And she shall."
"Oh, very well," says I. "If you've decided it that way, I expect she
will. But I don't quite get you."
When Vee first connects with one of her bright ideas, though, she's apt
to be a little puzzlin' in her remarks about it. As a matter of fact,
her scheme is a bit hazy, but she's sure it's a winner.
"Listen, Torchy," says she. "Here are all these Harbor Hills
people--perhaps a hundred families--many of them with poor cooks, some
with none at all. And there is Marion with that perfectly splendid old
Martha of hers, who could cook for all of them."
"Oh, I see," says I. "Marion hangs out a table-board sign?"
"Stupid!" says Vee. "She does nothing of the sort. People don't want to
go out for their meals; they want to eat at home. Well, Marion brings
them their meals, all deliciously cooked, all hot, and ready to serve."
"With the kitchen range loaded on a truck and Martha passin' out soup
and roasts over the tailboard, eh?" says I.
But once more I've missed. No, the plan is to get a lot of them army
containers, such as they send hot chow up to the front trenches in; have
'em filled by Martha at home, and delivered by Marion to her customers.
"It might work," says I. "It would need some capital, though. She'd have
to invest in a lot of containers, and she'd need a motor truck."
"I will buy those," says Vee. "I'm going in with her."
"Oh, come!" says I. "You'd look nice, wouldn't you!"
"You mean that people would talk?" comes back Vee. "What do I care? It's
quite as patriotic and quite as necessary as Red Cross work, or anything
else. It would be scientific food conservation, man-power saving, all
that sort of thing. And think what a wonderful thing it would be for the
neighborhood."
"Maybe Marion wouldn't see it that way," I suggests. "Drivin' a dinner
truck around might not appeal to her. You got to remember she's more or
less of an old maid. She might have notions."
"Trust her," says Vee. "But I mean to have my plan all worked out before
I tell her a word. When you go to town tomorrow, Torchy, I want you to
find out all about those containers--how much the various compartments
will hold, and how much they cost. Also about a light motor truck. There
will be other details, too, which I will be thinking about."
Yes, there were other details. Nobody seemed to know much about such a
business. It had been tried in places. Vee heard of something of the
sort that was being tested up on the East Side. So it was three or four
days before she was ready to spring this new career on Marion. But one
night, after dinner, she announces that she's all set and drags me down
there with her. Outside of the old Gray house we finds a limousine, with
the driver dozin' inside.
"It's the Biggles car!" whispers Vee. "Oh, what if he should be----
Come, Torchy! Quick!"
"You wouldn't break in on a fond clinch, would you?" I asks.
"If it came to that, certainly," says Vee, pushin' the front-door button
determined.
I expect she would have, too. But Biggles hadn't got that far--not
quite. He's on the mat all right, though, with his fat face sort of
flushed and his eyes popped more'n usual. And Marion Gray seems to be
sort of fussed, too. She is some tinted up under the eyes, and when she
sees who it is she glances at Vee sort of appealin'.
"Oh, I'm so sorry to interrupt," says Vee, marchin' right in and takin'
Marion by the arm. "You'll pardon me, I hope, Mr. Biggles, but I must
speak to Miss Gray at once about--about something very important."
And almost before "Puffy" Biggles knows what's happened he's left
staring at an empty armchair.
In the cozy little library Vee pushes Marion down on a window seat and
camps beside her. Trust Vee for jabbin,' the probe right in, too.
"Tell me," she demands whispery, "was--was he at it again?"
Marion pinks up more'n ever. And, say, with them shy brown eyes of hers,
and all the curves, she ain't so hard to look at. "Yes," admits Marion.
"You see, I had promised to give him a final answer tonight."
"But surely, Marion," says Vee, "you'd never in the world tell him that
you----"
"I don't know," breaks in Marion, her voice trembly. "There seems to be
nothing else."
"Isn't there, though!" says Vee. "Just you wait until you hear."
And with that she plunges into a rapid outline sketch of this dinner
dispensary stunt, quotin' facts and figures and givin' a profit estimate
that sounded more or less generous to me.
"So you see," she goes on enthusiastic, "you could keep your home, and
you could keep Martha, and you would be doing something perfectly
splendid for the whole community. Besides, you would be entirely
independent of--of everyone."
"But do you think I could do it?" asks Marion.
"I know you could," says Vee. "Anyway, we could between us. I will
furnish the capital, and keep the accounts and help you plan the daily
menus. You will do the marketing and delivering. Martha will do the
cooking. And there you are! We may have to start with only a few family
orders at first, but others will come in fast. You'll see."
By that time Marion was catching the fever. Her eyes brighten and her
chin comes up.
"I believe we could do it," says she.
"And you're willing to try?" asks Vee.
Marion nods.
"Then," says Vee, "Mr. Biggles ought to be told that he needn't wait
around any longer."
"Oh, I don't see how I can," wails Marion. "He--he's such a----"
"A sticker, eh? I know," says Vee. "And it's a shame that he should have
another chance to bother you. Torchy, don't you suppose you could do it
for her?"
"What?" says I. "Break it to Biggles? Why, I could do it swell. Leave it
to me. I'll shunt him on the siding so quick he won't know he's ever
been on the main track."
I don't waste any diplomatic language doin' it, either. On my way in
where he's waiting I passes through the hall and gathers up his new
derby and yellow gloves, holdin' 'em behind me as I breaks in on him.
"Excuse me, Mr. Biggles," says I, "but it's all off."
"I--I beg pardon?" says he, gazin' at me fish-eyed and stupid.
"Ah, let's not run around in circles," says I. "Miss Gray presents her
compliments, and all that sort of stuff, but she's goin' into another
line. If you must know, she's going to bust up the cook combine, and
from now on she'll be mighty busy. Get me?"
Biggles stiffens and stares at me haughty. "I don't in the least
understand anything of all this," says he. "I had an appointment with
Marion for this evening; something quite important to--to us both. I may
as well tell you that I had asked Marion a momentous question. I am
waiting for her answer."
"Well, here it is," says I, holdin' out the hat.
Biggles, he gurgles something indignant and turns purple in the gills,
but he ends by snatchin' away the derby and marchin' stiff to the door.
"Understand," says he, with his hand on the knob, "I do not accept your
impertinence as a reply. I--I shall see Marion again."
"Sure you will," says I. "She'll be around to get your dinner order
early next week."
"Bah!" says Biggles, bangin' the door behind him.
But, say, inside of five minutes he'd been wiped off the slate, and them
two girls was plannin' their hot-food campaign as busy and excited as if
it was Marion's church weddin' they were doping out. It's after midnight
before they breaks away, too.
You know Vee, though. She ain't one to start things and then quit. She's
a stayer. And some grand little hustler, too. By Monday mornin' the
Harbor Hills Community Kitchen Co. was a going concern. And before the
week was out they had more'n forty families on the standin' order list,
with new squads of soup scorchers bein' fired every day.
What got a gasp out of me was the first time I gets sight of Marion Gray
in her working rig. Nothing old-maidish about that costume. Not so you'd
notice. She's gone the limit--khaki riding pants, leather leggins and a
zippy cloth cap cut on the overseas pattern. None of them Women's Motor
Corps girls had anything on her. And maybe she ain't some picture, too,
as she jumps in behind the wheel of the truck and steps on the gas
pedal!
Also, I was some jarred to learn that the enterprise was a payin' one
almost from the start. Folks was just tickled to death with havin'