Torchy and Vee
"Not--not exactly," says Vincent, his cheeks pinkin' up and his right
hand slidin' toward his coat pocket.
"Oh, ho!" says I, grabbin' the wrist and exposin' the little square
package. "A ring or I'm a poor guesser. And it's for the sweetest girl
in the world, ain't it?"
"It is," says Vincent, just a bit defiant.
"Congratulations, old man," says I, poundin' him friendly on the
shoulder. "I don't suppose I could guess who, could I?"
"I--I don't think you could," says Vincent.
"Then it's my blow to luncheon--reg'lar chop-house feed in honor of the
big event," says I. "Come along, Vincent, while I order a bottle of one
and a half per cent. to drink to your luck."
Course, he can't very well get away from that, me being one of his
bosses, as you might say. But he acts a little uneasy.
"You see, sir," says he, "it--it isn't quite settled."
"I get you," says I. "Going to spring it on her tonight, eh?"
He admits that is the plan.
"Durin' the course of a little dinner, eh?" I goes on.
Vincent nods.
"That's taking the high dive, all right," says I. "Lets you in deep, you
know, when you go shovin' solitaires at 'em. But I expect you've thought
it over careful and picked out the right girl."
"She is perfectly splendid," says Vincent.
"Well, that helps some," says I. "One that Mother approves of, I'll
bet."
"Why," says Vincent, his chin droppin', "I am sure she will like her
when--when she sees her."
"Let's see, Vincent," says I, "you're all of nineteen, ain't you?"
"Nearly twenty," says he.
"How we do come along!" says I. "Why, when you took my old place on the
gate you was still wearin' knickers, wasn't you? And now--I suppose
it'll be a case of your bringin' home a new daughter to help Mother,
eh?"
"Ye-e-es," says Vincent draggy.
"Lucky she's the right kind, then," I suggests.
"She's a wonderful girl, Torchy. Wonderful," says he.
"Well, I expect you're a judge," says I.
"I've never known anyone just like her," he goes on, "and if she'll have
me----" He wags his head determined.
I was hardly lookin' for such a stubborn streak in Vincent. He's always
seemed so mild and modest. But you never can tell. There's no doubt
about his having his mind all made up about Mirabelle, and while her
name ain't mentioned once he consents to tell me what a perfectly sweet
and lovely person she is. If I hadn't had a hunch who he was talking
about I'm afraid I never would have guessed from the description. She'd
put the spell on him for fair. That being the way things stood what was
the use of my coming in with an argument? The most I could do was to
hint that Vincent's salary as head office boy might be a bit strained
when it came to providin' for two.
He has the answer to that, though. He's got the promise of a filing
clerk's job the first of the year, with a raise every six months if he
makes good.
"Besides," he adds, "I may pick up a little something extra very soon."
"Eh?" says I. "You ain't been plungin' on a curb tip, have you?"
He nods. "It came to me very straight, sir," says he. "Oil stocks."
"Good-night!" I groans. "Say, Vincent, you're off in high gear, all
right. Matrimony and gushers, all at one clip! Lemme get my breath. Have
you put up for the margins?"
"Oh, yes," says Vincent.
"Then have another piece of pie and a second cup of coffee," says I.
"You're going to need bracin' up."
Not that I proceeds to deal out the wise stuff about oil stocks along
the Talk to Investors line. It's too late for that. Besides, Vincent was
due to get a lesson in the folly of piker speculatin' that would last
him a long time. Maybe it was best for him to get it early in his young
career.
But it was going to be rough on the little mother when she hears how her
darling boy has sneaked out the nest egg and tossed it reckless into the
middle of Broad Street. That would be some bump. And then on top of that
if Mirabelle is introduced as her future daughter-in-law--Well, you can
frame up the picture for yourself. And right there I organizes myself
into a relief expedition to rescue the Lost Battalion.
I got to admit that my plan of campaign was a trifle vague. About as far
as I could get was decidin' that somebody ought to have speech with
Mirabelle on the subject. And when we hurries back through the arcade
again, ten minutes behind schedule, and I catches the little exchange of
fond looks between the two, I knows that whatever is done needs to be
started right away. So I mumbles something about having forgotten an
errand, makes a round trip in the elevator, and am back at the candy
counter almost as soon as Vincent has hung up his hat.
"Yes-s-s, sir?" says Mirabelle inquirin', with her best
dollar-fifty-quality smile playin' around where the lip-stick has given
nature a boost.
"Hard gum drops," says I, "or chocolate marshmallows, or most anything
in half-pound size. The main idea is a little chat with you."
"Naughty, naughty!" says Mirabelle, shaking her head until the jet ear
danglers are doing a one-step. "But you men are all alike, aren't you?"
"Is that why you've taken to cradle snatchin'?" says I.
Mirabelle executes the wide shutter movement with her eyes and finishes
with what she thinks is a Mary Pickford pout. "Really, I don't think I
get you," says she. "In other words, meaning what?"
"Referring to the boy, Vincent," says I.
"Oh!" says she, eying me curious. "Dear little fellow, isn't he?"
"Of course," I goes on, "if it's only a case of adoption----"
"Say," she breaks in, her eyelids gettin' narrow, "some of you cerise
blondes ought to be confined to the comic strips. Who do you think
you're kidding, anyway?"
"Sorry, Mirabelle," says I, "but you're all wrong. This is straight
heart-to-heart stuff. You know you've been stringin' Vincent along."
"Suppose I have?" demands Mirabelle. "Where do you get a license to
crash in?"
"Just what I was working up to," says I. "For one thing, he's the only
perfect office boy in captivity. The Corrugated can't spare him. Then
again, there's Mother. Honest, Mirabelle, you ought to see
Mother--reg'lar stage widow, with the sad sweet smile, the soft gray
hair, 'n'everything. If you could, you'd lay off this Theda Bara act the
next minute."
It was a poor hunch, pullin' out that sympathy stop for Mirabelle. I
knew that when I saw them black eyes of hers begin to give off sparks.
"Listen, son," says she, "if you feel as bad as all that run down in the
sub-cellar and sob in the coal bins. I'll be getting nervous, next thing
I know, listening to ravings like that."
"My error," says I. "Course, you didn't know how a few kind words and a
little off-hand target practice with the eyes would affect Vincent. How
should you? But he's taking it all serious. Uh-huh! Been buying the
ring."
"What!" says Mirabelle, startled.
"A real blue-white, set in platinum," says I. "On the instalments, of
course. And he's plungin' with all his war savings on wild cat stocks to
make good. Oh, he's in a reg'lar trance, Vincent. So you see?"
Mirabelle seems to see a good deal more than I was expectin' her to.
Just now she's glancin' approvin' into one of the display mirrors and is
pattin' down the hair puffs over her ears.
"He _is_ a dear boy," she remarks, more to the mirror than to me.
"But look here," says I, "you--you wouldn't let him go on with this,
would you?"
"I beg pardon?" says Mirabelle. "Still chattering, are you? Well,
stretch your ear once, young feller. When I want your help in this I'll
send out a call. If you don't get one you'll know you ain't needed.
Here's your package, sir. Sixty cents, please."
And I'm given the quick shunt, just like that. Whatever it was I thought
I was doing, I'd bugged it. The rescue expedition had gone on the rocks.
Absolutely. I might have known better, too; spillin' all that dope about
the solitaire. As if that would throw a scare into Mirabelle! Of all the
bush-league plays! Instead of untanglin' Vincent any from the net I'd
only got him twisted up tighter. With that ring on him he was just as
safe as an exposed pocket flask at an Elks' picnic.
I was retreatin' draggy with my chin down when I happens to get a grin
from this wise guy Marcus, in charge of the cigar booth opposite.
"You don't have no luck with Mirabelle, eh?" says he winkin'. "That's
too bad, ain't it? But there's lots of others. She keeps 'em all
guessin'. Hard in the heart, Mirabelle has been, ever since she got
thrown overboard herself."
"Eh?" says I. "When was that? Who did it?"
"Oh, near a year now," says Marcus. "You know the feller who was in with
me here--Chuck Dempsey?"
"The big husk with the bushy black eyebrows?" says I.
Marcus nods. "He had Mirabelle goin' all right," says he. "She was crazy
over him. And Chuck, he was pretty strong for her, too. They had it all
fixed up, the flat picked out and all, when something or other bust it
up. I dunno what. Chuck, he quits the next day. Lucky thing, too, for if
he'd stuck here he wouldn't have met up with them automobile sundries
people and landed his new job. I hear he's manager of their Harlem
branch now, seventy-five a week. Wouldn't Mirabelle be sore if she knew
about that, eh?"
"She'd have cause for grindin' her teeth," says I. "Bully for Chuck,
though. I must call him up and give him the hail. What's his number?"
I will admit too, that once I got started, I worked fast. It took me
less'n three minutes to pump out of Vincent the time and place of this
fatal little dinner party he was about to pull off, and shortly after
that I had Mr. Dempsey on the wire. Yes, he says he remembers me well
enough, on account of my hair. Most of 'em do.
"It's a shame you've forgot someone else so quick, though," I adds.
"Who's that?" says he.
"Mirabelle," says I.
"Oh, I don't know," says Chuck. "Maybe it's just as well."
"She don't think so," says I.
"Who was feedin' you that?" asks Dempsey.
"A certain party," says I. "But you know how easy a queen like her can
pick up an understudy. Some have been mighty busy lately, too; one in
particular. And I don't mind sayin' I'd hate to see him win out."
"Yes, she's some girl, all right," says Chuck, "even if I did get a
little sore on her one night. I might be droppin' around again some of
these days."
"If I was you," says I, "I'd make it snappy. In fact, not later than
6:30 this evening. That is, unless you're content to figure as an also
ran."
He's an enterprisin' young gent, Mr. Dempsey. And it seems he ain't
closed the book on Mirabelle for good. He's rather interested in hearin'
where she'll be waitin' at that hour and makes a note of it.
"Much obliged for the tip, Torchy," says he. "I'll think it over."
I hoped he would. It was the best I could do for Vincent, except hang
around and 'phone out to Vee that probably I'd be late home for dinner.
Seeing as how I was drillin' around at 6:30 in a doorway up opposite the
Cafe Caroni it looked like I would. But I'd seen Chuck Dempsey drift in
all dolled up sporty, and then Mirabelle. As for Vincent, he was right
on the dot, as usual. He wasn't tickled to death to find me waitin' for
him, either.
"Oh, I say, Torchy!" he protests.
"You wouldn't want to make it a threesome, eh?" I suggests.
"I'd much rather not," says he.
"Then we'll remember that," says I. "No harm in my edgin' in long enough
to drop a word to Joe, the head waiter, to give you a nice quiet corner
table and take care of you well, is there?"
"I'm sorry," says Vincent. "I didn't know but what you----"
"Not me," says I. "I'll stay long enough to get you started right. Come
along. Ah, there's Joe, down at the end, and when he--Eh? Did you choke
or anything? Well, of all things!"
Course, he'd spotted 'em right away--Mirabelle and Chuck Dempsey.