Torchy and Vee
perfectly good meals, well cooked, well seasoned and pipin' hot, set
down at their back doors prompt every day, with no fractious fryin'-pan
pirates growlin' around the kitchens, and no local food profiteers
soakin' 'em with big weekly bills.
This has been goin' on a month, when one day as I comes home Vee greets
me with a flyin' tackle.
"Oh, Torchy!" she squeals, "what do you think has happened?"
"I know," says I. "Baby's cut a tooth."
"No," says she. "It's--it's about Marion."
"Oh!" says I. "She ain't bumped somebody with the truck, has she?"
"How absurd!" says Vee. "But, listen, Captain Ellery Prescott has come
back."
"What! The old favorite?" says I. "But I thought he was over with
Pershing?"
"Not yet," says Vee. "He has been out at some Western camp training
recruits all this time. But now he has his orders. He is to sail very
soon. And he's seen Marion."
"Has he?" said I. "Did it give him a jolt, or what?"
Vee giggles and pulls my head down so she can whisper in my ear. "He
thought her perfectly stunning, as she is, of course. And they're to be
married day after tomorrow."
"Z-z-z-zing!" says I. "That puts a crimp in the ready-made dinner
business, I expect."
"Not at all," says Vee. "Until he comes back, after the war, Marion is
going to carry on."
"Anyway," says I, "it ends 'Puffy' Biggies as an impendin' tragedy,
don't it? And I expect that's worth while, too."
CHAPTER II
OLD HICKORY BATS UP ONE
Anybody would most think I'd been with the Corrugated Trust long enough
to know that Old Hickory Ellins generally gets what he wants, whether
it's quick action from an office boy or a two-thirds majority vote from
the board of directors. But once in a while I seem to forget, and
shortly after that I'm wonderin' if it was a tank I went up against so
solid, or if someone threw the bond safe at me.
What let me in wrong this last time was a snappy little remark I got
shot my way right here in the general offices. I was just back from a
three-days' chase after a delayed shipment of bridge girders and steel
wheelbarrows that was billed for France in a rush, and I'd got myself
disliked by most of the traffic managers between here and Altoona, to
say nothing of freight conductors, yard bosses and so on. But I'd
untangled those nine cars and got 'em movin' toward the North River, and
now I was steamin' through a lot of office detail that had piled up
while I was gone. I'd lunched luxurious on an egg sandwich and a war
doughnut that Vincent had brought up to me from the arcade automat, and
I'd 'phoned Vee that I might not be out home until the 11:13, when in
blows this potty party with the poison ivy leaves on his shoulder straps
and demands to see Mr. Ellins at once. Course, it's me with my heels
together doin' the zippy salute.
"Sorry, major," says I, "but Mr. Ellins won't be in until 10:30."
"Hah!" says he, like bitin' off a piece of glass. "And who are you,
lieutenant!"
"Special detail from the Ordnance Department, sir," says I.
"Oh, you are, eh?" he snorts. "Another bomb-proofer! Well, tell Mr.
Ellins I shall be back at 11:15--if this sector hasn't been captured in
the meantime," and as he double-quicks out he near runs down Mr. Piddie,
our rubber-stamp office manager, who has towed him in.
As for me, I stands there swallowin' air bubbles until my red-haired
disposition got below the boiling point once more. Then I turns to
Piddie.
"You heard, didn't you?" says I.
Piddie nods. "But I don't quite understand," says he. "What did he mean
by--er--bomb-proofer?"
"Just rank flattery, Piddie," says I. "The rankest kind. It's his way of
indicatin' that I'm a yellow dog hidin' under a roll-top desk for fear
someone'll kick me out where a parlor Pomeranian will look cross at me.
Excuse me if I don't seem to work up a blush. Fact is, though, I'm
gettin' kind of used to it."
"Oh, I say, though!" protests Piddie. "Why, everyone knows that you----"
"That's where you're dead wrong, Piddie," I breaks in. "What everybody
really knows is that while most of the young hicks who've been
Plattsburged into uniforms are already across Periscope Pond helpin'
swat the Hun, I'm still floatin' around here with nothing worse than car
dust on my tailor-built khaki. Why, even them bold Liberty bond patriots
who commute on the 8:03 are tired of asking me when I'm going to be sent
over to tell Pershing how it ought to be done. But when it comes to an
old crab of a swivel chair major chuckin' 'bomb-proofer' in my
teeth--well, I guess that'll be about all. Here's where I get a revise
or quit. Right here."
And it was sentiments like that, only maybe worded not quite so brash,
that I passed out to Old Hickory a little later on. He listens about as
sympathetic as a traffic cop hearin' why you tried to rush the stop
signal.
"I think we have discussed all that before, young man," says he. "The
War Department has recognized that, as the head of an essential
industry, I am entitled to a private secretary; also that you might
prove more useful with a commission than without one. And I rather
think you have. So there you are."
"Excuse me, Mr. Ellins," says I, "but I can't see it that way. I don't
know whether I'm private seccing or getting ready for a masquerade ball.
Any one-legged man could do what I'm doing. I'm ready to chuck the
commission and enlist."
"Really!" says he. "Well, in the first place, my son, a war-time
commission is something one doesn't chuck back at the United States
government because of any personal whim. It isn't being done. And then
again, you tried enlisting once, didn't you, and were turned down?"
"But that was early in the game," says I, "when the recruiting officers
weren't passing any but young Sandows. I could get by now. Have a heart,
Mr. Ellins. Lemme make a try."
He chews his cigar a minute, drums thoughtful on the mahogany desk, and
then seems to have a bright little idea.
"Very well, Torchy," says he, "we'll see what my friend, Major Wellby,
can do for you when he comes in."
"Him!" says I. "Why, he'd do anything for me that the law didn't stop
him from."
And sure enough, when the major drifts in again them two was shut in the
private office for more'n half an hour before I'm called in. I could
guess just by the way the major glares fond at me that if he could work
it he'd get me a nice, easy job mowin' the grass in No Man's Land, or
some snap like that.
"Huh!" says he, givin' me the night court up and down. "Wants an active
command, does he? And his training has been what? Four years as office
boy, three as private secretary! It's no use, Ellins. We're not fighting
this war with waste baskets or typewriters, you know."
"Oh, come, major!" puts in Old Hickory. "Why be unreasonable about this?
I will admit that you may be right, so far as it's being folly to send
this young man to the front. But I do insist that as a lieutenant he is
rather useful just where he is."
"Bah!" snorts the major. "So is the farmer who's raising hogs and corn.
He's useful. But we don't put shoulder straps on him, or send him to
France in command of a company. For jobs like that we try to find
youngsters who've been trained to handle men; who know how to get things
done. What we don't want is--eh? Someone calling me on the 'phone? All
right. Yes, this is Major Wellby. What? Oh, it can't be done today! Yes,
yes! I understand all that. But see here, captain, that transport is due
to sail at--hey, central! I say, central! Oh, what's the use?"
And as the major bangs up the receiver his face looks like a strawb'ry
shortcake just ready to serve. Somehow Mr. Ellins seems to be enjoyin'
the major's rush of temperament to the ears. Anyhow, there's a familiar
flicker under them bushy eyebrows of his and I ain't at all surprised
when he remarks soothin': "I gather, major, that someone can't seem to
get something done."
"Precisely," says the major, moppin' a few pearly beads off his shiny
dome. "And when a regular army captain makes up his mind that a thing
can't be done--well, it's hopeless, that's all. In this instance,
however, I fear he's right, worse luck!"
"Anyway," suggests Mr. Ellins, "he has made you think that the thing is
impossible, eh?"
"Think!" growls the major, glancin' suspicious at Old Hickory. "I say,
Ellins, what are you getting at? Still harping on that red tape notion,
are you? Perhaps you imagine this to be a case where, if you could only
turn loose your wonderful organization, you could work a miracle?"
"No, major," says Old Hickory. "We don't claim to work in miracles; but
when we decide that a thing ought to be done at a certain time--well,
generally it gets done."
"Just like that, eh?" grins the major sarcastic. "Really, Ellins, you
big business men are too good to be true. But see here; why not tap your
amazing efficiency for my benefit. This little job, for instance, which
one of our poor misguided captains reports as impossible within the time
limit. I suppose you would merely press a button and----"
"Not even that," breaks in Mr. Ellins. "I would simply turn it over to
Torchy here--and he'd do it."
The major glances at me careless and shrugs his shoulders. "My dear
Ellins," says he, "you probably don't realize it, but that's the sort of
stuff which adds to the horrors of war. Here you haven't the vaguest
idea as to what----"
"Perhaps," cuts in Old Hickory, "but I'll bet you a hundred to
twenty-five."
"Taken," says the major. Then he turns to me. "When can you start,
lieutenant?"
"As soon as I know where I'm starting for, sir," says I.
"How convenient," says he. "Well, then, here is an order on the New York
Telephone Co. for five spools of wire which you'll find stored somewhere
on Central Park South. See if you can get 'em."
"Yes, sir," says I. "And suppose I can?"
"Report to me at the Plutoria before 5:30 this afternoon," says he. "I
shall be having tea there. Ellins, you'd better be on hand, too, so that
I can collect that hundred."
And that's all there was to it. I'm handed a slip of paper carrying the
Quartermaster General's O. K., and while these two old sports are still
chucklin' at each other I've grabbed my uniform cap off the roll-top and
have caught an express elevator.
Course, I expected a frame-up. All them army officers are hard boiled
eggs when it comes to risking real money, and I knew the major must
think his twenty-five was as safe as if he'd invested it in thrift
stamps. As for Old Hickory Ellins, he'd toss away a hundred any time on
the chance of pulling a good bluff. So I indulges in a shadowy little
grin myself and beats it up town.
Simple enough to locate them spools of wire. Oh, yes. They're right in
the middle of the block between Sixth and Broadway, tucked away
inconspicuous among as choice a collection of contractor's junk as you
can find anywhere in town, and that's sayin' a good deal. But maybe
you've noticed what's been happenin' along there where Fifty-ninth
street gets high-toned? Looks like an earthquake had wandered by, but
it's only that down below they're connectin' the new subway with another
East river tunnel. And if there's anything in the way of old derricks,
or scrap iron, or wooden beams, or construction sheds that ain't been
left lying around on top it's because they didn't have it on hand to
leave.
Cute little things, them spools are, too; about six feet high, three
wide, and weighin' a ton or so each, I should judge. And to make the
job of movin' 'em all the merrier an old cement mixer has been at work
right next to 'em and the surplus concrete has been thrown out until
they've been bedded in as solid as so many bridge piers. I climbs around
and takes a look.
"How cunnin'!" says I. "Why, they'd make the Rock of Ages look like a