Torchy and Vee
loose front tooth. And all I got to do is pull 'em up by the roots, one
at a time. Ha, ha! Likewise, tee-hee!"
It sized up like a bad case of bee bite with me at the wrong end of the
stinger. Still, I was just mulish enough to stick around. I had nearly
three hours left before I'd have to listen to the major's mirthsome
cackle, and I might as well spend part of it thinkin' up fool schemes.
So I walks around that cluster of cement-set spools some more. I even
climbs on top of one and gazes up and down the block.
They were still doing things to make it look less like a city street and
more like the ruins of Louvain. Down near the Fifth Avenue gates was the
fenced-in mouth of a shaft that led somewhere into the bowels of
Manhattan. And while I was lookin' out climbs a dago, unrolls a dirty
red flag, and holds up the traffic until a dull "boom" announces that
the offensive is all over for half an hour or so. Up towards Columbus
Circle more industry was goin' on. A steam roller was smoothin' out a
strip of pavement that had just been relaid, and nearer by a gang was
tearin' up more of the asphalt. I got kind of interested in the way they
was doin' it, too. You know, they used to do this street wreckin' with
picks and crowbars, but this crowd seemed to have more modern methods.
They was usin' three of these pneumatic drills and they sure were
ripping it up slick and speedy. About then I noticed that their
compressor was chugging away nearly opposite me and that the lines of
hose stretched out fifty feet or more.
"Say!" says I jerky and breathless, but to nobody in particular. I was
just registerin' the fact that I'd had a sudden thought.
A few minutes before, too, I'd seen a squad of rookies wander past and
into the park. I remembered noticin' what a husky, tanned lot they were,
and from their hat cords that they belonged to the artillery branch.
Well, that was enough. In a flash I'd shinned over the stone wall and
was headin' 'em off.
You know how these cantonment delegations wander around town aimless
when they're dumped down here on leave waiting to be shunted off quiet
onto some transport? No friends, mighty little money, and nothing to do
but tramp the streets or hang around the Y. They actually looked kind of
grateful when I stops 'em and returns their salute. As luck would have
it there's a top sergeant in the bunch, so I don't have to make a
reg'lar speech.
"It's this way, sergeant," says I. "I'm looking for a few volunteers."
"There's ten of us, sir," says he, "with not a thing on our hands but
time."
"Then perhaps you'll help me put over something on a boss ditch digger,"
says I. "It's nothing official, but it may help General Pershing a whole
lot."
"We sure will," says the sergeant. "Now then, men. 'Shun! And forget
those dope sticks for a minute. How'll you have 'em, lieutenant--twos or
fours?"
"Twos will look more impressive, I guess," says I. "And just follow me."
"Fall in!" says the sergeant. "By twos! Right about! March!"
So when I rounds into the street again and bears down on this gang
foreman I has him bug-eyed from the start. He don't seem to know whether
he's being pinched or not.
"What's your name, my man?" says I, wavin' the Q. M.'s order
threatenin'.
It's Mike something or other, as I could have guessed without him near
chokin' to get it out.
"Very well, Mike," I goes on, as important as I knew how. "See those
spools over there that you people have done your best to bury? Well,
those have been requisitioned from the Telephone Company by the U. S.
army. Here's the order. Now I want you to get busy with your drill gang
and cut 'em loose."
"But--but see here, boss," sputters Mike, "'tis a private contract
they're workin' on and I couldn't be after----"
"Couldn't, eh?" says I. "Lemme tell you something. That wire has to go
on a transport that's due to sail the first thing in the morning. It's
for the Signal Corps and they need it to stretch a headquarters' line
into Berlin."
"Sorry, boss," said Mike, "but I wouldn't dast to----"
"Sergeant," says I, "do your duty."
Uh-huh! That got Mike all right. And when we'd yanked him up off his
knees and convinced him that he wouldn't be shot for an hour or so yet
he's so thankful that he gets those drills to work in record time.
It was a first-class hunch, if I do have to admit it myself. You should
have seen how neat them rapid fire machines begun unbuttonin' those big
wooden spools, specially after a couple of our doughboy squad, who'd
worked pneumatic riveters back home, took hold of the drills. Others
fished some hand sledges and crowbars out of a tool shed and helped the
work along, while Mike encourages his gang with a fluent line of foreman
repartee.
Course, I didn't have the whole thing doped out at the start, but
gettin' away with this first stab only showed me how easy it was if you
wasn't bashful about callin' for help. From then on I didn't let much
assistance get away from me, either. Yankin' the spools out to the
street level by hookin' on the steam roller was my next play, but
commandeerin' a sand blast outfit that was at work halfway down the
block was all Mike's idea.
"They need smoothin' up a bit, boss," says he.
And inside of half an hour we had all five of them spools lookin' new
and bright, like they'd just come from the mill.
"What next, sir?" asks the sergeant.
"Why," says I, "the fussy old major who's so hot for getting these
things is waiting at the Plutoria, about ten blocks down. Maybe he wants
'em there. I wonder if we could----"
"Sure!" says the sergeant. "This heavy gun bunch can move anything.
Here! I'll show 'em how."
With that he runs a crowbar through the center of one of the spools,
puts a man on either side to push, and rolls it along as easy as
wheelin' a baby carriage.
"Swell tactics, sergeant," says I. "And just for that I'm goin' to
provide your squad with a little music. Might as well do this in style,
eh? Wait a minute."
And it wasn't long before I was back from another dash into the park
towin' half a drum corps that I'd borrowed from some Junior Naval
Reserves that was drillin' over on the ballfield.
So it was some nifty little parade that I finally lines up to lead down
Fifth Avenue. First there's me, then the drum corps, then the sergeant
and his men rollin' them spools of wire. We strings out for more'n a
block.
You'd think New Yorkers were so used to parades by this time that you
couldn't get 'em stretchin' their necks for anything less'n a regiment
of hand-picked heroes. They've seen the French Blue Devils at close
range, gawped at the Belgians, and chummed with the Anzacs. But, say,
this spool-pushin' stunt was a new one on 'em. Folks just lined the curb
and stared. Then some bird starts to cheer and it's taken up all down
the line, just on faith.
"Hey, pipe the new rollin' tanks!" shouts someone.
"Gwan!" sings out another wise guy. "Them's wooden bombs they're goin'
to drop on Willie."
It's the first time I've been counted in on any of this hooray stuff,
and I can't say I hated it. At the same time I tried not to look too
chesty. But when I wheeled the procession into the side street and got
'em bunched two deep in front of the Plutoria's carriage entrance I
ain't sure but what I was wearin' kind of a satisfied grin.
Not for long, though. The six-foot taxi starter in the rear admiral's
uniform jumps right in with the prompt protest. He wants to know what
the blinkety-blink I think I'm doin', blockin' up his right of way in
that fashion.
"You can't do it! Take 'em away!" says he.
"Ah, keep the lid on, old Goulash," says I. "Sergeant, if he gets messy,
roll one of those spools on him. I'll be back shortly."
With that I blows into the Plutoria and hunts up the tea room. The
major's there, all right, and Mr. Ellins, also a couple of ladies.
They're just bein' served with Oolong and caviar sandwiches.
"Ah!" says the major, as he spots me. "Our gallant young office
lieutenant, eh? Well, sir, anything to report?"
"The spools are outside, sir," says I.
"Wh--a--at!" he gasps.
"Where'll you have 'em put, sir?" says I.
About then, though, in trails the taxi starter, the manager and a brace
of house detectives.
"That's him!" says the starter, pointin' me out. "He's the one that's
blockin' traffic."
I will say this for the major, though, he's a good sport. He comes right
to the front and takes all the blame.
"I'm responsible," he tells the manager. "It's perfectly all right, too.
Military necessity, sir. Well, perhaps you don't like it, but I'll have
you understand, sir, I could block off your whole street if I wished. So
clear out, all of you."
"Why, Horace!" puts in one of the ladies, grabbin' him by the arm.
"Yes, yes, my dear," says the major. "I know. No scene. Certainly not.
Only these hotel persons must be put in their place. And if you will
excuse me for a moment I'll see what can be done. Come, lieutenant. I
want to get a look at those spools myself."
Well, he did. "But--but I understood," says he, "that they were stuck in
concrete or something of the kind."
"Yes, sir," says I. "We had to unstick 'em. Pneumatic drills and a steam
roller. Very simple."
"Great Scott!" says he. "Why didn't that fool captain think of---- But,
see here, I don't want 'em here. Now, if we could only get them to Pier
14----"
"That would be a long way to roll 'em, sir," says I, "but it could be
done. Loadin' 'em on a couple of army trucks would be easier, though.
There's a Quartermaster's depot at the foot of Fifty-seventh Street, you
know."
"So there is," says he. "I'll call them up. Come in, will you,
lieutenant and--and join us at tea? You've earned it, I think."
Three minutes more and the major announces that the trucks are on the
way.
"Which means, Ellins," he adds, "that you win your twenty-five. Here you
are."
"If you don't mind," says Old Hickory, "I'll keep this and pass on my
hundred to Torchy here. He might like to entertain his volunteer squad
with it."
Did I? Say, when I got through showin' that bunch of far West artillery
husks how to put in a real pleasant evening along Broadway there wasn't
enough change left to buy a sportin' extra. But they'd had chow in the
giddiest lobster palace under the white lights, they'd occupied two
boxes at the zippiest girl show in town and they was loaded down with
cigarettes and chocolate enough to last 'em clear to France.
The next mornin', when Old Hickory comes paddin' into the general
offices, he stops to pat me friendly on the shoulder.
"I think we have succeeded in revising the major's opinion," he remarks,
"as to the general utility of bomb-proofers in certain instances."
I grins up at him. "Then," says I, "do I get a recommend for active duty
within jabbin' distance of the Huns?"
"We did consider that," says Old Hickory, "but the decision was just as
I suspected from the first. The major says it would be a shame to waste
you on anything less than a divisional command, and there aren't enough
of those to go around. Chiefly, though, he thinks that anyone who is
able to get things done in New York in the wizard-like way that you can
should be kept within call of Governor's Island. So I fear, Torchy,
that you and I will have to go on serving our country right here."
"All right, Mr. Ellins," says I. "I expect you win--as per usual."
CHAPTER III
TORCHY PULLS THE DEEP STUFF
Course, I didn't know what Old Hickory was stackin' me up against when
he calls me into the private office and tells me to shake hands with
this Mr. McCrea. Kind of a short, stubby party he is, with a grayish
mustache and sort of sleepy gray eyes. He's one of these slow motioned,