Torchy and Vee
coach through whole rafts of soldiers who'd have been made rich for
life if they'd shot you on sight? You!"
"That--that was a long time ago," says Jonesey.
And if you will believe me, that's about all he would say. Wasn't even
much excited over the fact that a hundred thousand dollar sugar
plantation was about to be wished on him. Oh, yes, he'd go down with Don
Pedro and take possession. Was the grave of Donna Mario there? Then he
would go, surely.
"I--I would rather like to," says Old Jonesey.
"Huh," says I. "You better stick around until tomorrow noon. I want you
to hear what I've got to feed to that bond-room bunch."
Jonesey shakes his head. No, he'd rather not. And as he shuffles back to
his old files I hears him mumblin', sort of soft and easy: "Donna Mario.
Ah, yes! Donna Mario!"
Which proves, don't it, that you can't always tell. Even when the party
has such a common name as Jones.
CHAPTER XI
AS LUCY LEE PASSED BY
Someone put on that Tales of Hoffman record, please, with a soft needle.
Thanks. Now if you'll turn out all but one bulb in the old rose-shaded
electrolier and pass the chocolate marshmallows maybe I'll try to sketch
out for you this Lucy Lee-Peyton Pratt version of the sweetest story
ever told.
We got Lucy Lee on the bounce, as it were. She really hadn't come all
the way up from Atlanta to visit Vee even if they were old
boardin'-school chums. No, she was on her way to a house party up in
Lenox and was fillin' in the time before that happened by making a duty
stay with an old maid aunt who lived on Madison Avenue. But when it
develops that Auntie is taking the buttermilk cure for dyspepsia, has
grown too deaf to enjoy the theater, and is bugs over manipulatin' the
Ouija board, Lucy Lee gets out her address book and begins callin' up
old friends.
I don't know how far down Vee was on the list but she seems to be the
first one to fall easy. When she hears how bored Lucy Lee is on Madison
Avenue she insists on her coming right out with us. So I get my orders
to round up Lucy Lee when I'm through at the office and tow her out
home. Hence this openin' scene in the taxi where I finds myself being
sized up coy and curious.
There's only one way of describin' Lucy Lee. She's a sweet young thing.
Nothing big or bouncy about her. No. One of these half-portions. But
cute and kittenish from the tip of her double A pumps to the floppy hat
brim which only half hides a dangerous pair of eyes.
"So good of you, Mr. Ballard," says she, shootin' over a shy look, "to
take all this trouble for poor little me."
"It's a gift," says I. "Comes natural. What about baggage?"
"I've sent a few things by express," says she. "Thank you so much,
Mr.--er--Do you know, I've heard such a lot about you from dear Vee that
I simply must call you Torchy."
"If it's a case of must," says I, "then go to it."
I'll admit it was a bit sudden, but Lucy Lee is such a chummy young
party, and so easy to get acquainted with, that it don't seem odd after
the first few times. First off she wants to know all about the baby, and
when I've shown her the latest snapshot, and quoted a couple of his
bright remarks, translated free, she announces right off that he must be
wonderful.
"Simp-ly wonderful!" is Lucy Lee's way of puttin' it, as she gazes
admirin' at me.
Course, I don't deny it. Then she wants to know how long we've been
living out on Long Island, and what the house is like, and about my work
with the Corrugated Trust, and as I give her the details she listens
with them big eyes gettin' wider and wider.
"Simp-ly wonderful!" says Lucy Lee.
And somehow, just by workin' that system, she begins to register. First
off I was only kind of amused by it. But before we'd driven a dozen
blocks I was being rapidly convinced that here, at last, was somebody
who really understood. You know how it is. You feel that you're a great
strong noble man, so wise in the head that there's no use tryin' to
conceal it from eyes like that; and yet so kind and generous that you
don't mind talking to any simple young person who might be helped by it.
Oh, yes. A half hour with Lucy Lee and you're apt to need an elastic hat
band. You never knew you could reel off such entertainin' chat. Why,
without half tryin' I could start that ripply laugh of hers going and
get the dimples playin' tag with her blushes. By the time we gets home I
feels like a reg'lar guy.
"Cute little thing, ain't she?" I remarks to Vee durin' the forty minute
wait while Lucy Lee dresses for dinner.
"Oh, yes," says Vee, with a knowin' smile. "That is her specialty, I
believe. She's a dear though, even if she doesn't mean quite all of it."
"Ah, why wake me up!" says I, grinnin'.
It was next mornin' though that I got my big jolt, when an express truck
backs up with about a ton of baggage. There was only two wardrobe
trunks, a hat trunk, and a steamer trunk, and the men unloads 'em all.
"Hal-lup!" says I, when they staggers in with the last one. "Who's
movin' in?"
Seems it's the few little things that Lucy Lee needs for the week-end.
"I've told her to send for her maid," says Vee. "It was stupid of me not
to think of that before, knowing Lucy Lee."
And later, when I've been called in to help undo the straps, I gets a
glimpse of the exhibit. Morning and afternoon frocks in one, evening
gowns in another, the steamer trunk full of shoes, besides all the hats.
"Huh!" says I, on the side to Vee. "Carries all her own scenery, don't
she? Say, there's enough to outfit a Ziegfeld song revue."
What got the biggest gasp out of me though, was when Lucy Lee unpacks
her collection of framed photos and ranges 'em on the mantel and
dressin'-table. More'n a dozen, all men.
"You don't mean, Lucy Lee," says Vee, "that these are all--er--on the
active list?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," says Lucy Lee, springin' the baby
stare. "They are simply some of my men friends. For instance, this is
dear old Major Knight, who's chairman of some board or other that Daddy
is a director on. He is so jolly and is always saying--Well, never mind
that. This one is Victor Norris, who tried so hard to get into aviation
and was just about to fly when the war had to go and end it. He's a
perfectly heavenly dancer. Then there's poor Arthur Kirby, only a
secretary to some senator, but such a nice boy. And the one in the naval
uniform is Dick--er--Well, I met him at a dinner in Washington just
before he got his discharge and he told me so many thrilling things
about chasing submarines in the North Sea or--or the Mediterranean or
somewhere. Hasn't he nice eyes, though? And this next one----"
Well, I forget the rest for about then I got busy wonderin' how she
could keep the run of 'em all without the aid of a card index. But she
could. To Lucy Lee life must seem like a parade, she being the given
point. Which was where I begun to agree with Vee that there ought to be
a fourth plate put on the table, for over Sunday, at least.
"But who'll I get?" I asks.
"Silly!" says Vee. "A man, of course. Any man."
"All right," says I. "I'll try to collect somebody, even if I have to
draft Piddie."
Saturday afternoon is apt to be more or less of a busy time at the
Corrugated though, so it's near noon before I remembers my promise and
begins to look around panicky. No, Mr. Piddie couldn't oblige. He'd
planned to take the fam'ly to the Bronx. Sudders, our assistant auditor,
was booked for an all day golf orgie. I'd almost decided to kidnap
Vincent, our fair-haired office boy with the parlor manners, when I
happened to pass through the bond room and gets a glimpse of this Peyton
Pratt person lingerin' at his desk. He's diggin' a time-table out of a
suitcase.
"Whither away, Peyton?" says I.
"Oh!" says he, sighin' discontented. "I suppose I must run up and spend
the day with my married sister in New Haven."
"Why act so tickled over it?" says I.
"But I'm not, really," says Peyton. "It isn't that I am not fond of
Ethel, and all that sort of thing. Walter--that's her husband--is a good
sort, too, and the children are nice enough. But it's quite a trip to
take for such a short visit--and rather expensive, you know. I've just
been figuring up."
So he had. There on an office pad he's jotted down every item, including
the cost of a ten-word day message and the price of a box of candy for
the youngsters. He hadn't sent the wire yet, or bought the candy.
"Got your dinner coat in there?" I asks, noddin' to the suitcase.
He says he has.
"Then listen," says I. "Cross New Haven off the map for this time and
lemme put you next to a week-end that won't set you back a nickel.
Haven't seen my place out on Long Island yet, have you; or met the new
heir to the house of Torchy?"
"Why--why, no, I haven't," hesitates Peyton.
"High time, then," says I. "It'll all be on me, even to lettin' you
punch in on my trip ticket. Eh? What say?"
Havin' known Peyton Pratt for some years I could pretty near call the
turn. That free round trip ought to be big casino for him. And it was.
Course, he protests polite how he couldn't allow me to put up for his
fare, and adds that he's heard so much about my charmin' little fam'ly
that he can't really afford to miss such a chance.
"Sure you can't!" says I, smotherin' a grin.
Not that Peyton is one of your common cheap skates. That ain't the idea
at all. He's a buddin' financier, Peyton is; one of these
little-red-notebook heroes, who wear John D. mottoes pasted in their
hats and can tell you just how Carnegie or Armour or Shonts or any of
them sainted souls laid up their first ten thousand.
He's got all that thrift dope down fine, Peyton has. Why, he don't lick
a postage stamp of his own but it gets entered in the little old
expense account along with the extra doughnut he plunged on at the
dairy lunch. He knows that's the way to win out for he's read it in
magazine articles and I'll bet every time he passes the Sub-Treasury he
lifts his lid reverent.
I expect it's something Peyton was born to, for his old man was a bank
cashier and his two older brothers already have their names up on window
grills, he tells me, while an uncle of his is vice-president of an
insurance company. So it's no wonder Peyton is a reg'lar coupon hound.
His idea of light readin' is to sit down with "Talks to Investors" on
one knee and the market report on the other. Give him a forenoon off and
he'd spend it down at the Clearing House watchin' 'em strike the daily
balance. Uh-huh. The only way he can write U. S. is in a monogram--like
this--$$
Not such a bad-lookin' chap though; tall, slim and dark, with a long
straight nose and a well-developed chin. Course he's got kind of a
bilious indoor complexion, and them thick glasses don't add to his
beauty. You can imagine too, that his temperament ain't exactly
frivolous. Hardly! Yet he thinks he's a great jollier when he wants to
be. Also he likes to have me kid him about bein' such a finicky dresser,
for while he never splurges on anything sporty, he's always neat and
well dressed.
"Who's the little queen that all this is done for?" I asks him once.
"When I have picked her out I'll let you know, Torchy," says he,
blinkin' foxy.
Later on though he tells me all about it confidential. He admits likin'
well enough to run around with nice girls when it can be done without
danger of being worked for orchestra seats or taxi fares. But there was
no sense gettin' in deep with any particular one until a feller was sure
of a five figure income, at least.
"Huh!" says I. "Then you got time enough to train one up from the
cradle."
"Oh, I don't know," says he. "Anyway, I shall wait until I find one with
tastes as simple as my own."