CHAPTER XVII
A LOW TACKLE BY TORCHY
What I like about livin' out in the forty-minute-if-you're-lucky sectoris that, once you get here, it's so nice and quiet. You don't have toworry, when you turn in at night, about manhole covers bein' blownthrough your front windows, or whether the basement floor will drop intothe subway, or if some gun gang is going to use your street for ashootin' gallery. All you do is douse the lights and feel sure nothin'sgoing to happen until breakfast.
We were talkin' something along this line the other evenin', Vee and me,sayin' how restful and soothin' these spring nights in the countrywas--you know, sort of handin' it to ourselves. And it couldn't havebeen more'n two hours later that I'm routed rude out of the downy by the'phone bell. It's buzzin' away frantic. I scrambles out and fits thereceiver to my ear just in time to get the full benefit of the last halfof a long ring.
"Ah, take your thumb off," I sings out to the night operator. "Who youthink you're callin'--the fire house or some doctor?"
"Here's your party," I hears her remark cheerful, and then this othervoice comes in.
Well, it's Norton Plummer, that fussy little lawyer neighbor of ours wholives about half a mile the other side of the railroad. Since he's beenmade chairman of the local Council of Defense and put me on as head ofone of his committees, he's rung me up frequent, generally atdinner-time, to ask if I have anything to report. Seems to think, justbecause I'm a reserve lieutenant on special detail, that I ought to bediscoverin' spies and diggin' out plots every few minutes.
"Yes, yes," says I. "This is me. What then?"
"Did you read about that German naval officer who escaped from aninternment camp last week?" he asks.
"But that was 'way down in North Carolina or somewhere, wasn't it?" saysI.
"Perhaps," says Plummer. "But he isn't there now. He's here."
"Eh?" says I. "Where?"
"Prowling around my house," says Plummer. "That is, he was a few momentsago. My chauffeur saw him. So did I. He's on his way down towards thetrolley line now."
"Why didn't you nab him?" I asks.
"Me?" says Plummer. "Why, he's a huge fellow, and no doubt a desperateman. I presume he was after me: I don't know."
"But how'd you come to spot him as a Hun officer?" says I.
"By the description I read," says he. "It fits perfectly. There's notelling what he's up to around here. And listen: I have telephoned tothe Secret Service headquarters in town for them to send some men out ina machine. But they'll be nearly an hour on the road, at best.Meanwhile, what we must do is to prevent him from catching that lasttrolley car, which goes in about twelve-fifteen. We must stop him, yousee."
"Oh, must we?" says I. "Listens to me like some he-sized job."
"That's why I called you up," says Plummer. "You know where the linecrosses the railroad? Well, he'll probably try to get on there. Hurrydown and prevent him."
"Is that all I have to do?" says I. "What's the scheme--do I trip him upand sit on his head?"
"No, no!" says Plummer. "Don't attempt violence. He's a powerful man.Why, my chauffeur saw him break the chain on our back gate as if it hadbeen nothing but twine. Just gave it a push--and snap it went. Oh, he'sstrong as a bull. Ill-tempered, too."
"Huh!" says I. "And I'm to go down and---- Say, where do you come in onthis?"
"I'll be there with John just as soon as we can quiet Mrs. Plummer andthe maids," says he. "They're almost in hysterics. In the meantime,though, if you could get there and---- Well, use strategy of some kind.Anything to keep him from catching that car. You understand?"
"I get you," says I. "And it don't sound enticin' at all. But I'll seewhat I can do. If you find me smeared all over the road, though, you'llknow I didn't pull it off. Also, I'd suggest that you make that soothin'act of yours speedy."
Course this wakes Vee up, and she wants to know what it's all about.
"Oh, a little private panic that Norton Plummer is indulgin' in," saysI. "Nothin' to get fidgety over. I'll be back soon."
"But--but you won't be reckless, will you, Torchy?" she asks.
"Who, me?" says I. "How foolish. Why, I invented that 'Safety First'motto, and side-steppin' trouble is the easiest thing I do. Trust me."
I expect she was some nervous, at that. But she's a good sport, Vee.
"If you're needed," says she, "of course I want you to go. But do becareful."
I didn't need any coaxin'. Somehow, I never could get used to roamin'around in the country after dark. Always seemed sort of spooky. Bein'brought up in the city, I expect, where the scenery is illuminatedconstant, accounts for that. So, as I slips out the front gate and downtowards the station, I keeps in the middle of the road and glancessuspicious at the tree shadows.
Not that I was takin' Plummer's Hun scare real serious. He'd had a badcase of spy fever recent. Why, only last week he got all stirred up overwhat he announced was a private wireless outfit that he'd discoveredsomewhere in the outskirts of Flushing; and when they came to trail itdown it turns out to be some new wire clothes-line strung up back of aflat buildin'.
Besides, what would an escaped German naval officer be doin' up thisway? He'd be more apt to strike for Mexico, wouldn't he? Still, long asI'd let Plummer put me on the committee, it was up to me to answer anycalls. Might be entertainin' to see who he'd mistaken for an enemy alienthis time. And if all I was expected to do was spill a little impromptustrategy--well, maybe I could, and then again maybe I couldn't. I'd takea look, anyway.
It was seein' a light in Danny Shea's little cottage, back on a sidelane, that gave me my original hunch. Danny is one of the importantofficials of the Long Island Railroad, if you let him tell it. He's theflagman down where the highway and trolley line cross the tracks atgrade, and when his rheumatism ain't makin' him grouchy he's more orless amusin' to chin with.
Danny had pestered the section boss until he'd got him to build a littlesquare coop for him, there by the crossin'--a place where he could crawlin between trains, smoke his pipe, and toast himself over a sheet-ironstove about as big as a picnic coffee-pot.
And that sentry-box effect was the pride of Danny's heart. Most of hisspare time and all the money he could bone out of the commuters he spentin improvin' and decoratin' it. He'd cut a couple of round windows,like port-holes, and fitted 'em with swingin' sashes. Then he'd tackedon some flower-boxes underneath and filled 'em with geraniums.
When he wasn't waterin' his flowers or coaxin' along his littlegrass-plot or addin' another shelf inside, he was paintin' the outside.Danny's idea of a swell color scheme seemed to be to get on as manydifferent shades as possible. The roof was red, the sides a bright blue.But where he spread himself was on the trim. All you had to do to get onthe right side of Danny was to lug him out a half-pound can of paintdifferent from any he'd applied so far. He'd use it somehow.
So the window-sashes was picked out in yellow, the side battens loomedup prominent as black lines, and the door-panels was a pale pink. Nearlyall the commuters had been touched by Danny for something or other thatcould be added to the shack. Only a week or so before, I'd got in strongwith him by contributin' a new padlock for the door--a vivid red one,like they have on the village jail in vaudeville plays.
And it struck me now that if I had the key to that little box of Danny'sit would make a perfectly good listenin'-post for any midnightsleuthin' I had to do. Most likely he was up dosin' himself or bathin'his joints.
Well, he was. He didn't seem any too enthusiastic about lettin' me havethe key, though.
"I dunno," says he. "'Tis railroad property, y' understand, and I'd beafther riskin' me job if any thin' should----"
"I know, Danny," says I. "But you tell 'em it was commandeered by the U.S. Army, which is me; and if that don't square you I'll have Mr. Bakercome on and tell the section boss where he gets off."
"Verra well," says Danny. And in less than five minutes more I'm downthere at the crossin', all snug and cozy, peekin' out of them roundwindows into No Man'
s Land.
For a while it was kind of excitin'; but after that it got sort ofmonotonous. There was about half of an old moon in the sky, and only afew clouds, so you could see fairly well--if there'd been anything tosee. But nothing seemed to be stirrin', up or down the road.
What a nut that Norton Plummer was, anyway, feedin' me up with his wildtales in the middle of the night! And why didn't he show up? Finally Igot restless, and walked out where I could rubber up the trolley track.No sign or sound of a car. Then I looks at my watch again, and figuresout it ain't due for twenty minutes or so. Next I strolls across therailroad to look for Plummer. And, just as I'm passin' a big maple tree,out steps this huge party with the whiskers. I nearly jumped out of myputtees.
"Eh?" says I gaspy.
"Gotta match?" says he.
"I--I guess so," says I.
I reached as far as I could when I hands him the box, too. He's a whaleof a man, tall and bulky. And his whiskers are the bristlykind--straw-colored, I should say. He's wearin' a double-breasted bluecoat and a sort of yachtin' cap. Uh-huh! Plummer must have been right.If this gink wasn't a Hun naval officer, then what was he? The ayes hadit.
He produces a pipe and starts to light up. One match broke, the secondhad no strikin' head on it, the third just fizzed.
"Gr-r-r-r!" says he.
Then he starts for the crossin', me trailin' along. I saw he had his eyeon Danny's sentry-box, meanin' to get in the lee of it. Even then Ididn't have any bright little idea.
"Waitin' for the trolley?" I throws out.
"What of it?" he growls.
"Oh, no offense," says I hasty. "Maybe there are others."
He just lets out another grunt, and tries one more match with his faceup against the side of the shanty. And then, all in a jump, my bean gotinto gear.
"You might have better luck inside," says I, swingin' open the doorinvitin'.
He don't even say thank you. He ain't one of that kind. For a second orso I thought he wasn't goin' to take any notice; but after one morefailure he steps around, inspects the inside of the shanty, and thensqueezes himself through the door. At that, he wasn't all the way in,but by the time he had a match goin' I'd got my nerve back.
"Ah, take the limit, Cap'n," says I.
With that I plants one foot impulsive right where he was widest, gives aquick shove, slams the door shut behind him, and snaps the big padlockthrough the hasp.
"Hey!" he sings out startled. "What the----"
"Now, don't get messy, Cap'n," says I. "You're in, ain't you? Smoke upand be happy."
"You--you loafer!" he gurgles throaty. "What do you mean?"
"Just a playful little prank, Cap," says I. "Don't get excited. You'reperfectly safe."
Maybe he was. But some folks don't appreciate little attentions likethat. The Cap'n starts in bumpin' and thrashin' violent in there, like apup that's crawled into a drainpipe and got himself stuck. He hammers onthe walls with his fists, throws his weight against the door, and triesto kick his way out.
But the section boss must have used rail spikes and reinforced thestuddin' with fishplates when he built that coop for Danny, or else thebig Hun was too tight a fit to get full play for his strength. Anyway,all he did was make the little house rock until you'd thought LongIsland was enjoyin' a young earthquake. Meanwhile I stands by, ready todo a sprint if he should break loose, and offers more or less cheerin'advice.
"Easy with your elbows in there, Cap," says I. "You're assaultin'railroad property, you know, and if you do any damage you can be pinchedfor malicious mischief."
"You--you better let me out of here quick!" he roars. "I gotta getback."
"Oh, you'll get to town all right," says I. "I'll promise you that."
"Loafer!" he snorts.
"Say, how do you know I ain't sensitive on that point?" says I. "Youmight hurt my feelin's."
"Gr-r-r!" says he. "I would wring your neck."
"Such a disposition!" says I.
Oh, yes, we swapped quite a little repartee, me and the Cap'n, orwhatever he was. But, instead of his bein' soothed by it he gets morestrenuous every minute. He had that shack rockin' like a boat.
Next thing I saw was one of his big feet stickin' out under the bottomsill. Then I remembers that the sentry-box has only a dirt floor--onaccount of the stove, I expect. Course Danny has banked the outside upwith sod for five or six inches, but that ain't enough to hold it downwith a human tornado cuttin' loose inside. A minute more and anotherfoot appears on the other side, and the next I knew the whole shootin'match begins to rise, wabbly but sure, until he's lifted it almost tohis knees.
Looked like the Cap'n was goin' to shed the coop over his head, as you'dshuck a shirt, and I was edgin' away prepared to make a run for it. Butright there the elevatin' process stops, and after some violent squirmsthere comes an outburst of language that would only get the delete signif I should give it. I could dope out what had happened. That plank seatacross one side had caught the Cap'n about where he buckles his belt,and he couldn't budge it any further.
"Want a shoe-horn, Cap'n?" I asks. "Say, next time you try wearin' akiosk as a slip-on sweater you'd better train down for the act."
"Gr-r-r-r!" says he. "I--I will teach you to play your jokes on me,young whipper-snap."
He does some more writhin', and pretty soon manages to swing open one ofthe port-holes. With his face up to that, like a deep-sea diver peekin'out o' his copper bonnet, he starts for me, kickin' over the littlestove as he gets under way, and tearin' the whole thing loose from thefoundation.
Course he's some handicapped by the hobble-skirt effect around hisknees, and the weight above his shoulders makes him a bit topheavy; but,at that, he can get over the ground as fast as I can walk backwards.
Must have been kind of a weird sight, there in the moonlight--me bein'pursued up the road by this shack with legs under it, the little tinsmoke-pipe wavin' jaunty about nine feet in the air, and the geraniumsin the flower-boxes noddin' jerky.
"Say, what do you think you are?" I calls out. "A wooden tank goin' overthe top?"
I was sort of wonderin' how long he could keep this up, and what wouldbe the finish, when from behind me I hears this spluttery line ofexclamations indicatin' rage. It's Danny, who's got anxious aboutlettin' me have the use of his coop and has come down to see what'shappenin' to it. Well, he saw.
"Hey! Stop him, stop him!" he yells.
"Stop him yourself, Danny," says I.
"But he's runnin' away with me little flag-house, thief of the worruld!"howls Danny. "It's breakin' and enterin' and carryin' away th' propertyof the Long Island Railroad that he's guilty of."
"Yes; I've explained all that to him," says I.
"Go back and come'out of that, ye thievin' Dutchman!" orders Danny,rushin' up and bangin' on the door with his fists.
"Just let me out, you Irish shrimp!" snarls the Cap'n.
"Can't be done--not yet, Danny," says I.
"But--but he's destroyin' me flowers and runnin' off with me littlehouse," protested Danny. "I'll have the law on him, so I will."
"Get out, Irisher, or I'll fall on you," warns the Cap'n.
And right in the midst of this debate I sees Norton Plummer and hischauffeur hurryin' up from across the tracks. I skips back to meet 'em.
"Well," says Plummer, "have you seen anything of the escaped prisoner?"
"That's him," says I, pointin' to the wabblin' shack.
"Whaddye mean?" says Plummer, starin' puzzled.
"He's inside," says I. "You said use strategy, didn't you? Well, that'sthe best I had in stock. I got him boxed, all right, but he won't stayput. He insists on playin' the human turtle. What'll we do with him now?Come see."
"My word!" says Plummer, as he gets a view of the Cap'n's legs and thebig whiskered face at the little window. "So there you are, eh, yourunaway Hun?"
"Bah!" says the Cap'n. "Why do you call me Hun?"
"Because I've identified you as an escaped German naval officer," saysPlummer.
"Do you deny it?"
"Me?" says the Cap'n. "Bah!"
"Who do you claim to be, then?" says I. "A tourist Eskimo or anout-of-town buyer from Patagonia?"
"I'm Nels Petersen, that's who I am," says he, "and I'm chief engineerof a ferry-boat that's due to make her first run at five-thirty-three."
"What!" says Plummer. "Are you the Swede engineer who has been writinglove letters to---- Say, what is the name of Mrs. Plummer's maid?"
"Selma," says the Cap'n.
"By George!" says Plummer. "I believe the man's right. But see here:what were you doing prowling around my back yard to-night! Why didn'tyou go to the servants' entrance and ask the cook for Selma, if you'reas much in love with her as you've written that you are?"
"What do you know about it?" demands Petersen.
"Good Lord!" gasps Plummer. "Haven't I had to puzzle out all thosewretched scrawls of yours and read 'em to her? Such mushy letters, too!Come, if you're the man, why didn't you call Selma out and tell her allthat to her face?"
Nothing but heavy breathing from inside the shack.
"You don't mean to say you were too bashful!" goes on Plummer. "A greatbig fellow like you!"
If it hadn't been for the whiskers I believe we could have seen himblush.
"Look here," says Plummer. "You may be what you say you are, and thenagain you may not. Perhaps you just guessed at the girl's name. We can'tafford to take any chances. The only way to settle it is to send forSelma."
"No, no!" pleads the big gink. "Please! Not like this."
"Yes, just like that," insists Plummer. "Only, if you'd rather, you cancarry your house back where it belongs and sit down. John, run home andbring Selma here."
Well, we had our man nicely tamed now. With Selma liable to show up, hewas ready to do as he was told. Just why, we couldn't make out. Anyway,he hobbles back to the crossin' and eases the shack down where he foundit. Also, he slumps inside on the bench and waits, durin' whichproceedin' the last trolley goes boomin' past.
Inside of ten minutes John is back with the maid. Kind of a slim,classy-lookin' girl she is, too. And when Selma sees that big face atthe round window there's no doubt about his being the chosen one.
"Oh, Nels, Nels!" she wails out. "Vy you don'd coom by the house yet?"
"I was scart, Selma," says Nels, "for fear you'd tell me to go away."
"But--but I don'd, Nels," says Selma.
"Shall I let him out for the fade-away scene?" says I.
Plummer nods. And we had to turn our backs as they go to the fondclinch.
Accordin' to Plummer, Selma had been waitin' for Nels to say the wordfor more'n a year, and for the last two months she'd been soabsent-minded and moody that she hadn't been of much use around thehouse. But him gettin' himself boxed up as an escaped Hun had sort ofbroken the ice.
"There, now!" says Plummer. "You two go back to the house and talk itover. You may have until three-fifteen to settle all details, and thenI'll have John drive Petersen down to his ferry-boat. Be sure and fixthe day, though. I don't want to go through another night like this."
"But what about me little lawn," demands Danny, "that's tore upentirely? And who's to mend me stove-pipe and all?"
"Oh, here's something that will cover all that, Danny," says Plummer,slippin' him a ten-spot. "And I've no doubt Petersen will contributesomething, too."
"Sure!" says Nels, fishin' in his pockets.
"Two bits!" says Danny, pickin' up the quarter scornful. "Thim Swedesare the tightwads! And if ever I find this wan kidnappin' me littlehouse again----"
At which Danny breaks off and shakes his fist menacin'.
When I gets back home I tiptoes upstairs; but Vee is only dozin', andwakes up with a jump.
"Is that you, Torchy?" says she. "Has--has anything dreadful happened?"
"Yes," says I. "I had to pull a low tackle, and Danny Shea's declaredwar on Sweden."
CHAPTER XVIII
TAG DAY AT TORCHY'S
Course, in a way, it was our fault, I expect. We never should have leton that there was any hitch about what we was goin' to name the baby.Blessed if I know now just how it got around. I remember Vee and Ihavin' one or two little talks on the subject, but I don't think we'dtackled the proposition real serious.
You see, at first we were too busy sort of gettin' used to havin' himaround and framin' up a line on this parent act we was supposed to putover. Anyway, I was. And for three or four weeks, there, I called himanything that came handy, from Young Sport to Old Snoodlekins. Vee shesticks to Baby. Uh-huh--just plain Baby. But the way she says it,breathin' it out kind of soft and gentle, sounded perfectly all right tome.
And the youngster didn't seem to have any kick comin'. He was gettin' sohe'd look up and coo real intelligent when she speaks to him in thatfashion. You couldn't blame him, for it was easy to listen to.
As for the different things I called him--well, he didn't mind them,either. No matter what it was,--Old Pink Toes or Wiggle-heels,--he'dgenerally pass it off with a smile, providin' he wasn't too busy withhis bottle or tryin' to get hold of his foot with both of his hands.
Then one day Auntie, who's been listenin' disapprovin' all the while,just can't hold in any longer.
"Isn't it high time," says she, "that you addressed the child properlyby his right name?"
"Eh?" says I, gawpin'. "Which one?"
"You don't mean to say," she goes on, "that you have not yet decided onhis baptismal name?"
"I didn't know he was a Baptist," says I feeble.
"We hadn't quite settled what to call him," says Vee.
"Besides," I adds, "I don't see the use bein' in a rush about it. Maybewere're savin' that up."
"Saving!" says Auntie. "For what reason?"
"Oh, general conservation," says I. "Got the habit. We've had heatlessMondays and wheatless Wednesdays and fryless Fridays and sunlessSundays, so why not nameless babies?"
Auntie sniffs and goes off with her nose in the air, as she always doeswhenever I spring any of my punk persiflage on her.
But then Vee takes it up, and says Auntie is right and that we reallyought to decide on a name and begin using it.
"Oh, very well," says I. "I'll be thinking one up."
Seemed simple enough. Course, I'd never named any babies before, but Ihad an idea I could dig out half a dozen good, serviceable monickersbetween then and dinner-time.
Somehow, though, I couldn't seem to hit on anything that I was willingto wish on to the youngster offhand. When I got right up against theproblem, it seemed kind of serious.
Why, here was something he'd have to live with all his life; us, too.We'd have to say it over maybe a hundred times a day. And if he grew upand amounted to anything, as we was sure he would, it would mean thatthis front name of his that I had to pick out might be displayed more orless prominent. It would be on his office door, on his letterheads, onhis cards. He'd sign it to checks.
Maybe it would be printed in the newspapers, used in headlines, orpainted on campaign banners. Might be displayed on billboards. Who couldtell?
And the deeper I got into the thing the more I wabbled about from onename to another, until I wondered how people had the nerve to give theirchildren some of the tags you hear--Percy, Isadore, Lulu, Reginald, andso on. And do it so casual, too. Why, I knew of a couple who named theirthree girls after parlor-cars; and a gink in Brooklyn who called one ofhis boys Prospect, after the park. Think of loadin' a helpless youngsterwith anything freaky like that!
Besides, how were you going to know that even the best name you couldpick wouldn't turn out to be a misfit? About the only Percy I ever knewin real life was a great two-fisted husk who was foreman of astereotypin' room; and here in the Corrugated Buildin', if you'll comein some night after five, I can show you a wide built scrub lady, withhair redder'n mine and a voice like a huckster--her front name isViolet. Yet I expect, when them two was babies, both those names soundedkind of cute. I could see where it would be easy enough for me to makea mistake that
it would take a court order to straighten out.
So, when Vee asks if I've made any choice yet I had to admit that I'mworse muddled up on the subject than when I started in. All I can do ishand over a list I've copied down on the back of an envelop with everyone of 'em checked off as no good.
"Let's see," says Vee, glancin' 'em over curious. "Lester. Why, I'm surethat is rather a nice name for a boy."
"Yes," says I; "but after I put it down I remembered a Lester I knewonce. He was a simp that wore pink neckties and used to writelove-letters to Mary Pickford."
"What about Earl?" she asks.
"Too flossy," says I. "Sounds like you was tryin' to let on he belongedto the aristocracy."
"Well, Donald, then," says she. "That's a good, sensible name."
"But we ain't Scotch," I objects.
"What's the matter with Philip?" says Vee.
"I can never remember whether it has one _l_ and two _p_'s or the otherway round."
"But you haven't considered any of the common ones," goes on Vee, "suchas John or William or Thomas or James or Arthur."
"Because that would mean he'd be called Bill or Tom or Art," says I."Besides, I kind of thought he ought to have something out of the usualrun--one you wouldn't forget as soon as you heard it."
"If I may suggest," breaks in Auntie, "the custom of giving the eldestson the family name of his mother is rather a good one. Had youconsidered Hemmingway?"
I just gasps and glances at Vee. What if she should fall for anythinglike that! Think of smotherin' a baby under most of the alphabet all atone swoop! And imagine a boy strugglin' through schooldays and vacationswith all that tied to him.
Hemmingway! Why, he'd grow up round-shouldered and knock-kneed, and mostlikely turn out to be a floor-walker in the white goods department, orthe manager of a gift-shop tearoom. Hemmingway!
Just the thought of it made me dizzy; and I begun breathin' easier whenI saw Vee shake her head.
"He's such a little fellow, Auntie," says she. "Wouldn't that be--well,rather topheavy?"
Which disposes of Auntie. She admits maybe it would. But from then on,as the news seems to spread that we was havin' a kind of deadlock withthe namin' process, the volunteers got busy. Old Leon Battou, ourbutler-cook, hinted that his choice would be Emil.
"For six generations," says he, "Emil has been the name of thefirst-born son in our family."
"That's stickin' to tradition," says I. "It sounds perfectly swell, too,when you know how to pronounce it. But, you see, we're foundin' a newdynasty."
Mr. Robert don't say so outright, but he suggests that Ellins Ballardwouldn't be such a bad combination.
"True," he adds, "the governor and I deserve no such distinction; butI'm sure we would both be immensely flattered. And there's no tellinghow reckless we might be when it come to presenting christening cups andthat sort of thing."
"That's worth rememberin'," says I. "And I expect you wouldn't mind, incase you had a boy to name later on, callin' him Torchy, eh!"
Mr. Robert grins. "Entry withdrawn," says he.
How this Amelia Gaston Leroy got the call to crash in on our littlefamily affair, though, I couldn't quite dope out. We never suspectedbefore that she was such an intimate friend of ours. Course, since we'dbeen livin' out in the Piping Rock section we had seen more or less ofher--more, as a rule. She was built that way.
Oh, yes. Amelia was one of the kind that could bounce in among three orfour people in a thirty by forty-five living-room and make the placeseem crowded. Mr. Robert's favorite description of her was that one halfof Amelia didn't know how the other half lived. To state it plain,Amelia was some whale of a girl. One look at her, and you did no moreguessin' as to what caused the food shortage.
I got the shock of my life, too, when they told me she was the one thatwrote so much of this mushy magazine poetry you see printed. For all thelady poetesses I'd ever seen had been thin, shingled-chested partieswith mud-colored hair and soulful eyes.
There was nothing thin about Amelia. Her eyes might have been soulfulenough at times, but mostly I'd seen 'em fixed on a tray of sandwichesor a plate of layer cake.
They'd had her up at the Ellinses' once or twice when they were givin'one of their musical evenin's, and she'd spouted some of her stuff.
Her first call on us, though, was when she blew in last Sunday afternoonand announced that she'd come to see "that dear, darling man child" ofours. And for a girl of her size Amelia is some breeze, take it from me.Honest, for the first ten minutes or so there I felt like our happylittle home had been hit by a young tornado.
"Where is he?" she demands. "Please take me at once into the regalpresence of his youthful majesty."
I noticed Vee sizin' her up panicky, and I knew she was thinkin' of whatmight happen to them spindle-legged white chairs in the nursery.
"How nice of you to want to see him!" says Vee. "But let me have Babybrought down here. Just a moment."
And she steers her towards a solid built davenport that we'd beenmeanin' to have reupholstered anyway. Then we was treated to a line ofhigh-brow gush as Amelia inspects the youngster through her shelllorgnette and tries to tell us in impromptu blank verse how wonderful heis.
"Ah, he is one of the sun children, loved of the high gods," says she,rollin' her eyes. "He comes to you wearing the tints of dawn andtrailing clouds of glory. You remember how Wordsworth puts it?"
As she fires this straight at me, I has to say something.
"Does he?" I asks.
"I am always impressed," she gurgles on, "by the calm serenity in theeyes of these little ones. It is as if they----"
But just then Snoodlekins begins screwin' up his face. He's never beenmauled around by a lady poetess before, or maybe it was just becausethere was so much of her. Anyway, he tears loose with a fine large howland the serenity stuff is all off. It takes Vee four or five minutes tosoothe him.
Meanwhile Miss Leroy gets around to statin' the real reason why we'rebein' honored.
"I understand," says she, "that you have not as yet chosen a name forhim. So I am going to help you. I adore it. I have always wanted to namea baby, and I've never been allowed. Think of that! My brother has fivechildren, too; but he would not listen to any of my suggestions.
"So I am aunt to a Walter who should have been called Clifford, and aMargaret whom I wanted to name Beryl, and so on. Even my laundresspreferred to select names for her twins from some she had seen on acircus poster rather than let me do it for her.
"But I am sure you are rational young people, and recognize that I havesome natural talent in that direction. Names! Why, I have made a studyof them. I must, you see, in my writing. And this dear little fellowdeserves something fitting. Now let me see. Ah, I have it! He shall beCedric--after Cedric the Red, you know."
Accordin' to her, it was all settled. She heaves herself up off thedavenport, straightens her hat, and prepares to leave, smilin'satisfied, like an expert who's been called in and has finished the job.
"We--we will consider Cedric," says Vee. "Thank you so much."
"Oh, not at all," says Amelia. "Of course, if I should happen to thinkof anything better within the next few days I will let you know atonce." And out she floats.
Vee gazes after her and sighs.
"I suppose Cedric is rather a good name," says she, "but somehow I don'tfeel like using one that a stranger has picked out for us. Do you,Torchy?"
"You've said it," says I. "I'd sooner let her buy my neckties, or tellme how I should have my eggs cooked for breakfast."
"And yet," says Vee, "unless we can think of something better----"
"We will," says I. "I'm goin' through them pages in the back of the bigdictionary."
In less'n half an hour there's a knock at the door, and here's achauffeur come with a note from Amelia. On the way home she's hadanother hunch.
"After all," she writes, "Cedric seems rather too harsh, too rough-shod.So I have decided on Lucian."
"Huh!" says I. "She's decided,
has she? Say, whose tag day is this,anyway--ours or hers?"
Vee shrugs her shoulders.
"I'm not sure that we should like calling him Lucian; it's so--so----"
"I know," says I, "so perfectly sweet. Say, can't we block Amelia offsomehow? Suppose I send back word that a rich step-uncle has promised toleave him a ton of coal if we call the baby Ebenezer after him?"
Vee chuckles.
"Oh, no doubt she'll forget all about it by morning," says she.
Seems we'd just begun hearin' from the outside districts, though, orelse they'd been savin' up their ideas for this particular afternoon andevenin'; for between then and nine o'clock no less'n half a dozendifferent parties dropped in, every last one of 'em with a name toregister. And their contributions ranged all the way from Aaron to Xury.There were two rooters for Woodrow and one for Pershing.
Some of the neighbors were real serious about it. They told us what atime they'd had namin' some of their children, brought up cases wherefamilies had been busted up over such discussions, and showed us wheretheir choice couldn't be beat. One merry bunch from the Country Clubthought they was pullin' something mighty humorous when they stopped into tell us how they'd held a votin' contest on the subject, and that thewinnin' combination was, Paul Roger.
"After something you read on a cork, eh?" says I. "Much obliged. And Ihope nobody strained his intellect."
"The idea!" says Vee, after they've rolled off. "Voting on such a thingat a club! Just as if Baby was a battleship, or a--a new moving-pictureplace. I think that's perfectly horrid of them."
"It was fresh, all right," says I. "But I expect we got to stand forsuch guff until we can give out that we've found a name that suits us.Lemme tackle that list again. Now, how would Russell do? RussellBallard? No; too many _l_'s and _r_'s. Here's Chester. And I expect theboys would call him Chesty. Then there's Clyde. But there's steamshipline by that name. What about Stanley? Oh, yes; he was an explorer."
I admit I was gettin' desperate about then. I was flounderin' around ina whole ocean of names, long ones and short ones, fancy and plain, yet Icouldn't quite make up my mind. I'd mussed my hair, shed my collar, andscribbled over sheets and sheets of paper, without gettin' anywhere atall. And when I gave up and turned in about eleven-thirty, my head wasso muddled I wouldn't have had the nerve to have named a pet kitten.
I must have just dozed off to sleep when I hears this bell ringin'somewhere. I couldn't quite make out whether it was a fire alarm, or the_z_'s in the back of the dictionary goin' off, when Vee calls out thatit's the 'phone.
I tumbles out and paws around for the extension.
"Wha-what?" says I. "What the blazes! Ye-uh. This is me. Wha-wha'smatter?"
And then comes this gurgly voice at the other end of the wire. It's ourold friend Amelia.
"Do you know," says she, "I have just thought of the loveliest name foryour dear baby."
"Oh, have you?" says I, sort of crisp.
"Yes," says she, "and I simply couldn't wait until morning to tell you.Now listen--it's Ethelbert."
"Ethel-Bert!" says I, gaspy. "Say, you know he's no mixed foursome."
"No, no," says she. Ethelbert--one name, after the old Saxon king.Ethelbert Ballard. "Isn't that just perfect? And I am so glad it came tome."
I couldn't agree with her real enthusiastic, so it's lucky she hung upjust as she did.
"Huh!" I remarks to Vee. "Why not Maryjim or Daisybill? Say, I think ourfriend Amelia must have gone off her hinge."
But Vee only yawns and advises me to go to sleep and forget it. Well, Itried. You know how it is, though, when you've been jolted out of thefeathers just as you're halfway through the first reel of the slumberstuff. I couldn't get back, to save me.
I counted sheep jumpin' over a wall, I tried lookin' down a railroadtrack until I could seen the rails meet, and I spelled Constantinoplebackwards. Nothing doing in the Morpheus act.
I was wider awake then than a new taxi driver makin' his first trip upBroadway. I could think of swell names for seashore cottages, for newsurburban additions, and for other people's babies. I invented anexplosive pretzel that would win the war. I thought of bills I ought topay next week sure, and of what I meant to tell the laundryman if hekept on making hash of my pet shirts.
Then I got to wonderin' about this old-maid poetess. Was she through forthe night, or did she work double shifts? If she wasn't any nearer sleepthan I was she might think up half a dozen substitutes for Ethelbertbefore mornin'. Would she insist on springin' each one on me as they hither?
Maybe she was gettin' ready to call me again now. Should I pretend notto hear and let her ring, or would it be better to answer and let onthat this was Police Headquarters?
Honest, I got so fidgety waitin' for that buzzer to go off that I couldalmost hear the night operator pluggin' in on our wire.
And then a thought struck me that wouldn't let go. So, slippin' out easyand throwin' on a bath-robe, I sneaked downstairs to the back hall'phone, turned on the light, and hunted up Miss Leroy's number in thebook.
"Give her a good strong ring, please," says I to Exchange, "and keep itup until you rouse somebody."
"Leave it to me," says the operator. And in a minute or so I gets thisthroaty "Hello!"
"Miss Leroy?" says I.
"Yes," says she. "Who is calling?"
"Ballard," says I. "I'm the fond parent of the nameless baby. And say,do you still stick to Ethelbert?"
"Why," says she, "I--er----"
"I just wanted to tell you," I goes on, "that this guessin' contestcloses at 3 A.M., and if you want to make any more entries you got onlyforty minutes to get 'em in. Nighty-night."
And I rings off just as she begins sputterin' indignant.
That seems to help a lot, and inside of five minutes I'm snoozin'peaceful.
It was next mornin' at breakfast that Vee observes offhand, as thoughthe subject hadn't been mentioned before:
"About naming the baby, now."
"Ye-e-es?" says I, smotherin' a groan.
"Why couldn't we call him after you?" she asks.
"Not--not Richard Junior?" says I.
"Well, after both of us, then," says she. "Richard Hemmingway. It--it iswhat I've wanted to name him all along."
"You have?" says I. "Well, for the love of----"
"You didn't ask me, that's why," says she.
"Why--why, so I didn't," says I. "And say, Vee, I don't know who's got abetter right. As for my part of the name, I've used it so little it'salmost as good as new. Richard Hemmingway Ballard it shall be."
"Oh, I'm so glad," says she. "Of course, I did want you to be the one topick it out; but if you're satisfied with----"
"Satisfied!" says I. "Why, I'm tickled to pieces. And here you had thatup your sleeve all the while!"
Vee smiles and nods.
"We must have the christening very soon," says she, "so everyone willknow."
"You bet!" says I. "And I've a good notion to put it on the trainbulletin down at the station, too. First off, though, we'd better tellyoung Richard himself and see how he likes it. I expect, though, unlesshis next crop of hair comes out a different tint from this one, thathe'll have to answer to 'Young Torchy' for a good many years."
"Oh, yes," says Vee; "but I'm sure he won't mind that in the least."
"Good girl!" says I, movin' round where I can express my feelin'sbetter.
"Don't!" says Vee. "You'll spill the coffee."
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SEWELL FORD'S STORIES
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
SHORTY McCABE. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker,sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way.
SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with humannature and a
n abounding sense of humor are the requisites for"side-stepping with Shorty."
SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up tothe minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund,"and gives joy to all concerned.
SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NUMBERS. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.
These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio forphysical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and atswell yachting parties.
TORCHY. Illus, by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg.
A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to theyouths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of hisexperiences.
TRYING OUT TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.
Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in theprevious book.
ON WITH TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.
Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," butthat young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart,which brings about many hilariously funny situations.
TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.
Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary forthe Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectiousAmerican slang.
WILT THOU TORCHY. Illus. by F. Snapp and A. W. Brown.
Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast,in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with hisfriend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to placean engagement ring on Vee's finger.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
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KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
MOTHER. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.
This book has a fairy-story touch, counterbalanced by the sturdy realityof struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace and power of a mother'sexperiences.
SATURDAY'S CHILD. Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes.
Out on the Pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, makes aquest for happiness. She passes through three stages--poverty, wealthand service--and works out a creditable salvation.
THE RICH MRS. BURGOYNE. Illustrated by Lucius H. Hitchcock.
The story of a sensible woman who keeps within her means, refuses to beswamped by social engagements, lives a normal human life of variedinterests, and has her own romance.
THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. Frontispiece by Allan Gilbert.
How Julia Page, reared in rather unpromising surroundings, liftedherself through sheer determination to a higher plane of life.
THE HEART OF RACHAEL. Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers.
Rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and in working out these,there is shown the beauty and strength of soul of one of fiction's mostappealing characters.
Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
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BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.
No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal youngpeople of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of thetime when the reader was Seventeen.
PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant.
This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous,tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is afinished, exquisite work.
PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm.
Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phasesof real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishnessthat have ever been written.
THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.
Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against hisfather's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of afine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success.
THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece.
A story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a countryeditor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the loveinterest.
THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.
The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement,drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads anotherto lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromisingsuitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister.
Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
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NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE
HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED.
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.
MAVERICKS.
A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredationsare so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. Oneof the sweetest love stories ever told.
A TEXAS RANGER.
How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law intothe mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series ofthrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passedthrough deadly peril to ultimate happiness.
WYOMING.
In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured thebreezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of thefrontier with all its engaging dash and vigor.
RIDGWAY OF MONTANA.
The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics andmining industries are the religion of the country. The politicalcontest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this storygreat strength and charm.
BUCKY O'CONNOR.
Every chapter teems with "wholesome, stirring adventures, replete withthe dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbingfascination of style and plot.
CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT.
A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitterfeud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusualwoman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittinglycharacteristic of the great free West.
BRAND BLOTTERS.
A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid life ofthe frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming loveinterest running through its 320 pages.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
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