Torchy

  CHAPTER XVII

  TOUCHING ON TINK TUTTLE

  "On your way, now, on your way!" says I; gazin' haughty over the brassgate. "No window cleanin' done here durin' office hours!"

  "But," says the specimen on the other side, "I--I didn't come to cleanthe windows."

  "Eh?" says I, sizin' up the blue flannel shirt, the old leather belt,and other marks of them pail and sponge artists. "Well, we don't wantany sash cords put in, or wirin' fixed, or any kind of jobbin' doneuntil after five. That's General Order No. 1. See?"

  He nods in kind of a lifeless, unexcited way; but he don't make anymotions towards beatin' it. "I--I--the fact is," he begins, "I wish tosee some one connected with the Corrugated Trust Company."

  "You've had your wish," says I. "I'm Exhibit A. For a profile view of mestep around to the left. Anything more?"

  He don't get peeved at this, nor he don't grin. He just keeps on bein'serious and calm. "If you don't mind," says he, "I should like to seeone of the higher officials."

  "Say, that's almost neat enough to win out," says I. "One of the higherofficials, eh? How would the president suit you?"

  "If I might see him, I'd like it," says he.

  "Wha-a-a-at!" says I.

  Honest, the nerve that's wasted on some folks is a shame. I had to situp and give him the Old Sleuth stare at that. He's between twenty-fiveand thirty, for a guess; and, say, whatever he might have been once,he's a wreck now,--long, thin face, with the cheekbones almost stickin'through, slumped in shoulders, bony hands, and a three months' crop ofmud colored hair stringin' damp over his ears and brushin' his coatcollar. Why, he looked more like he ought to be sittin' around thewaitin' room of some charity hospital, than tryin' to butt in on thetime of one of the busiest men in New York.

  "It's a matter that ought to go before the president," says he, "and ifhe isn't busy I'd like very much to----"

  "Say, old scout," says I, "you got about as much chance of bein' let into see Mr. Ellins as I have of passin' for a brunette! So let's comedown to cases. Now what's it all about?"

  He ain't makin' any secret of it. He wants the concern to make him a bidon an option he holds on some coal and iron lands. Almost comes to lifetellin' me about that option, and for the first time I notice what big,bright, deep sunk eyes he's got.

  "Oh, a thing of that kind would have to go through reg'lar," says I."Wait; I'll call Mr. Piddie. He'll fix you up."

  Does he? Well, that's what Piddie's supposed to be there for; but hedon't any more'n glance at the flannel shirt before he begins to swellup and frown and look disgusted. "No, no, go away!" says he. "I've notime to talk to you, none at all."

  "But," says the object, "I haven't had a chance to tell you----"

  "Get out--you!" snaps Piddie, turnin' on his heel and struttin' off.

  It ain't the way he talks to parties wearin' imported Panamas andsportin' walkin' sticks; but, then, most of us has our little fads thatway. What stirred me up, though, was the rough way he did it, and thehopeless sag to the wreck's chin after he's heard the decision.

  "Sweet disposition he's got, eh?" says I. "But don't take him tooserious. He ain't the final word in this shop, and there's nobody getsnext to the big wheeze oftener durin' the day than yours truly. Maybe Icould get that option of yours passed on. Got the document with you?"

  He had and hands it over. With that he drops onto the reception roomsettee and says he'll wait.

  "Better not," says I; "for it might be quite a spell before I gets theright chance. We'll do this reg'lar, by mail. Now what's the name?"

  "Tuttle," says he, "Tinkham J. Tuttle."

  "They call you Tink for short, don't they?" says I, and he admits thatthey do. "All right," I goes on. "Now the address, Tink. Jersey, eh?Well, it's likely you'll hear from Mr. Ellins before the week's out. Butdon't get your hopes up; for he turns down enough propositions to fill awaste basket every day. Express elevator at No. 5. So long," and Ichokes off Mr. Tuttle's vote of thanks by wavin' him out the door.

  It's well along in the afternoon before I sees an openin' to drop thisoption in front of Old Hickory, grabbin' a minute when his desk isfairly clear, and slammin' it down just as though it had been sent inthrough Piddie.

  "Delivered on," says I. "Wants rush answer by mail."

  "Huh!" grunts Old Hickory, lightin' up a fresh Cassadora.

  That's all I expected to hear of the transaction; so about an hourlater, when Piddie comes out lookin' solemn and says I'm to report toMr. Ellins, I don't know what's up.

  "Is it a first degree charge, Piddie," says I, "or only formanslaughter?"

  "I presume Mr. Ellins will discover what you have done," says he.

  "Well, hope for the worst, Piddie," says I. "Here goes!"

  And the minute I sees what Old Hickory has in front of him, I'm wise.

  "Torchy," says he, givin' me the steely glitter out of them cold storageeyes of his, "Mr. Piddie seems to know nothing about this Michiganoption."

  "If he admits that much," says I, "it must be so. It's a record,though."

  "What I want to know," goes on Mr. Ellins, "is how in blue belted blazesit got here. You brought it in, didn't you?"

  "Yep," says I. "It was this way, Mr. Ellins: Piddie had it put up to himand wouldn't even hang it on the hook; but the guy that brings it lookedso mournful that I butts in and takes a chance on passin' it along toyou on my own hook."

  "Oh, you did, eh?" he snorts.

  "Sure," says I. "I got to do the fresh act once in a while, ain't I?Course, if you want a dead one on the gate, I can hand in my portfolio;but I thought all you had to do with punk options like this was to toss'em in the basket and then have 'em fired back at----"

  "Fire nothing back!" says Mr. Ellins. "Why, you lucky young rascal,we've been trying to get hold of this very property for eight months!And Piddie! Bah! Of all the pin-headed, jelly brained----"

  "Second the motion," says I, springin' the joyous grin.

  "That will do," says Old Hickory, catchin' himself up. "Just you forgetMr. Piddie and listen to me. Know this Tuttle person by sight, don'tyou?"

  "Couldn't forget him," says I. "Want him on the carpet?"

  "I do," says he. "Have him here at ten-thirty to-morrow morning. Butfind him to-night, and see that you don't open your head about thisbusiness to anyone else."

  "I get you," says I, doin' the West Point salute. "It's me to trail andshut up Tuttle. He'll be here, if I have to bring him in an ambulance."

  That's why I jumps out before closin' time and mingles with the Jerseycommuters in a lovely hot ride across the meadows. It's a scrubbystation where I gets off, too; one of these fact'ry settlements wherethe whole population answers the seven o'clock whistle every mornin'.There's a brick barracks half a mile long, where they make sewin'machines or something, and snuggled close up around it is hundreds ofthese four-fam'ly wooden tenements, gettin' the full benefit of the softcoal smoke and makin' it easy for the hands to pike home for a noondinner. Say, you talk about the East Side double deckers; but they'rebrownstone fronts compared to some of these corporation shacks acrossthe meadows!

  Seventeen dirty kids led me to the number Tuttle gave me, and in theright hand first floor kitchen I finds a red faced woman in a faded bluewrapper fryin' salt pork and cabbage.

  "Mrs. Tinkham Tuttle?" says I, holdin' my breath.

  "No," says she, glancin' suspicious over her shoulder. "I'm his sister."

  "Oh!" says I. "Is Tink around?"

  "I don't know whether he is or not, and don't care!" says she.

  "Much obliged," says I; "but I ain't come to collect for anything.Couldn't you give a guess?"

  "If I did," says she, "I'd say he was over to the factory yard. That'swhere he stays most of the time."

  It's half-past five; but the fact'ry's runnin' full blast, and I has tojolly a timekeeper and the yard boss before I locates my man. Fin'lly,though, they point out a big storage shed in one corner of the coalcinder desert they has fenced in so careful. The wi
de double doors tothe shed are shut; but after I've hammered for a while one of 'em isslid back a few inches and Tuttle peeks out.

  "Oh!" he gasps. "You! Say, are they going to take it? Are they?"

  "Them's the indications," says I, "providin' it's all O. K. and yourprice is right."

  "Oh, I'll make the price low enough," says he. "I'll sell out for twothousand, and it ought to be worth twice that. But two is all I need."

  "Eh?" says I. "What kind of finance do you call that? Say, Tuttle, youknow you can't work any 'phony deal on the Corrugated. Better give methe straight goods and save trouble."

  "I will," says he. "Come in, won't you!"

  With that he leads the way through the dark shed to a sort of workshopat the back, where there's a window. There's a tool bench, a little handforge with an old coffee pot and a fryin' pan on it, and a cot bed notten feet away.

  "Campin' out here?" says I.

  "I'm not supposed to," says he; "but the yard superintendent lets me.This is where I've lived and worked for nearly two years, and until youcame a minute ago it was where I expected to end. But now it'sdifferent."

  "It is?" says I. "How's that?"

  Which is Tink Tuttle's cue to open up on the story of his life. It's asoggy, unexcitin' yarn, most of it. As I'd kind of guessed by the way hetalked, he wa'n't just an ordinary fact'ry hand. He'd been through somehigh class scientific school up in Massachusetts, where he'd livedbefore his father lost his grip. Seems the old man was a crackerjackboss machinist; but he got to monkeyin' with fool inventions, driftedfrom place to place, got to be a lunger, and finally passed in. The lastfour years in the fact'ry here had finished him. Tink had worked there,too, and his sister had married one of the hands.

  "It's the graveyard of the Tuttle family, this place is, I suppose,"says Tink. "It got father, and it has almost got me. Some folks canbreathe brass filings and carbon dioxide and thrive on it; but we can't.So I gave up and hid myself away in here to work out one of my sillydreams. Last spring I caught a bad cold, and Sister sent me West. Therewe have an uncle. She thought the change of climate might help my cough.It didn't do a bit of good; but it was out there that I picked up thisoption. That was when I saw a chance of making my dream come true. Yousaw what I've been building, didn't you, as we came through?"

  "I didn't notice," says I. "What is it, anyway?"

  "TUT, TUT," SAYS THE BOSS OF THE RESTORIUM.]

  "Wait until I light the lantern," says Tuttle. "Now come. This way.Don't hit your head on those wings. There!"

  And, say, it's a wonder I could walk right by a thing of that kindwithout gettin' next, even if it was kind of dark. But all I needs nowis one glimpse of the outlines.

  "Oho!" says I. "A flyer! Say, every bughouse in the country is at workon one of them."

  "I suppose so," says he. "I may be as big a fool as any of them, too;but I think I know what I'm doing. At any rate, I've put my last dollarinto it. That's why my sister is so----Well, she thinks I am----"

  "Yes, I suspicioned she was some sore on you," says I. "But what sort ofa flyer is this, double or single winger?"

  "It's a biplane," says Tuttle, "on the Farnham type, only an improvedmodel."

  "Of course it's improved," says I. "Tried her out yet!"

  "Hardly," says he. "I couldn't buy an engine, you see. That's what I'vebeen waiting for. Say, you really think the Corrugated will take thatoption, do you? If they only would!"

  "You must be in a hurry to break your neck," says I.

  Before I left, though, he'd shown me all over the thing, explained howit was goin' to work, and did his best to get me as excited as he was.Also I makes him give me the full details of how he come to get thisoption, and I advises him if he does manage to cash it in for twothousand, to take an ax to his flying machine and hike out for some lungpreservin' climate where he'll have a chance to shake that cough.

  "Thanks," says he, grippin' my hand and chokin' up. "You--you've beenmighty good to me. I'll remember it."

  Course, I gives Mr. Ellins the whole tale in the mornin', about Tuttleand his bum air pumps, and his batty scheme of buildin' the flyer; butall that interests Old Hickory is the option and the price.

  "Good work, Torchy," says he. "I've wired our Western agents toinvestigate, and if they report an O. K., Tuttle shall have his twothousand to do what he likes with."

  It must have been two weeks later, and I'd almost forgot the case, whenone mornin' I gets a note from Tinkham J., askin' me to come over to theshed as quick as I could. Well, I didn't know whether he was havin' afinal spasm or not; but it seemed like I ought to go, so that night Idoes. I finds him waitin' for me at the yard gate. He don't look anyworse than usual, either.

  "Well," says I, "didn't the deal go through?"

  "It did," says he, pattin' me on the back. "Thanks to you, it did. Thecheck came two days later, and I've spent it all."

  "What!" says I. "You don't mean to say you blew all that in on an enginefor that blamed----"

  "All but a few dollars that I put into oil and gasoline," says he. "Butthe machine is all hooked up, Torchy, and it works. Do you hear that? Itworks! I've been up!"

  "Up?" says I.

  "Not far," says he; "but enough to know what I can do. Started righthere from the yard, just at daylight, and landed here again. I've toldno one else, you know. Come in and see how smooth the engine works."

  And it was just while he was gettin' ready to start the wheels thatthese two strangers butts in on us. One is a husky, red faced, swelldressed young sport, and the other is a tall, swivel eyed, middle agedgent dressed in khaki. They walks around the machine without payin' anyattention to me or Tuttle.

  "Well, what do you think of it, Captain?" says the young sport after awhile.

  The Captain, he shakes his head. "I can't tell positively," says he;"but these planes seem to me to be set entirely wrong. I never sawdeflectors worked on that principle before, either. The theory may begood; but in a practical test----"

  "They say he's made flight, though," breaks in the young sport. "Thenight watchman saw him. Hey! You're the chap that built this aeroplane,aren't you?"

  "Yes, sir," says Tuttle.

  "And didn't you make a flight?" he wants to know.

  "A short one," says Tuttle.

  "That's enough for me," says the sport. "Say, you know who I am, don'tyou?"

  "Oh, yes," says Tuttle. "At least, I ought to. You're Bradish Jones,Jr., one of the owner's sons."

  "That's right," says young Mr. Jones. "And I know you. You're the son ofold Tuttle, who used to be foreman of the machine shop when I was doingmy apprentice work. Thought this little trick of yours was a secret,didn't you? But I heard about it. Lucky for you I did, too. I'm in themarket. I don't care a hoot what the Captain says, either. I want aflyer, and I'm ready to take a chance on yours. What do you want forit?"

  "Why," says Tuttle, "I don't believe I want to sell."

  "What's that?" snaps Bradish. "Come, now! Don't try to bluff me! I'lladmit I'm in a hurry. These Curtiss people have been holding me off fora month, and I want to begin flying right away. So name your price. Howmuch?"

  But Tuttle, he only shakes his head.

  "Oh, yes, you will," says Bradish. "Why, you've hardly a dollar to yourname. You can't afford to own a flyer, even if you did build it. Youknow you can't. Now show me what it cost you, and I'll give you athousand for your work and a hundred a week until I learn to manage thething. Is it a go?"

  "No!" says Tuttle, sharp and quick, them big eyes of his fairly blazin'."This is my machine, and I'm going to fly it. I don't care how muchmoney you've got. You've taken a sudden whim that you'd like to fly.It's been the one dream of my life. You've had your yachts and yourracing cars. I've never had anything but hard work. My father worehimself out in your stinking old factory. I nearly did the same. Butyou can't rob me of this. You sha'n't, that's all!"

  And for a minute them two stood there givin' each other the assault andbatt'ry stare, without sayin' a word. A queer l
ookin' pair they made,too; this Bradish gent, big and beefy and prosperous, and Tink Tuttle,his greasy old coat hangin' loose on his skinny shoulders, and lookin'like he was on his way from the accident ward to the coroner's office.

  "Five thousand cash, then," growls Mr. Jones.

  "Not if you said fifty!" Tink comes back at him.

  "Bah!" says Bradish. "Why, I could have you and your machine thrown outin the road this minute. But I'll give you twenty-four hours to think itover. Remember, to-morrow night at six I'll be here with the money. Thenit will be either sell or go. Come, Captain," and with that they pikesout.

  "Say, Tink," says I, "you got him comin', all right, and if you don'tget that five thousand you're no good."

  "I know I'm no good," says Tuttle. "That's why I don't want his money."

  "But see here, Tink," says I. "You ain't goin' to turn down an offerlike that, are you?"

  "I am," says he, "and I'll tell you why. It's because I know I'm no goodand never would be any good, even if I could live, which I can't. Oh, Idon't need any doctor to tell me how much longer I've got. They gave meonly three months over a year ago. I knew better. I knew I should holdout until I finished my flyer. Father didn't have anything like that tokeep on for; so he went quicker. He didn't want to go, either. And itwas awful to watch him, Torchy, just awful! But I'm not going to finishthat way. No, not now," and he walks up to the machine and runs hishand loving along one of the smooth planes.

  "How's that?" says I. "What are you drivin' at, Tink?"

  "I can't tell you how I shall do it exactly," says he; "for I'm notsure. But I mean to go up once; way, way up, out over the ocean just atsunrise. Won't that be fine, eh? Just think! Sailing off up there intothe blue; up, and up, and up; higher than anyone has ever dared to gobefore, higher and higher, until your gasoline gives out and you can'tgo any more!"

  "Yes; but what then?" says I, beginnin' to feel some chilly along thespine.

  "Why, that's enough, isn't it?" says he. "Anyway, it's all I ask. I'llcall it all quits then."

  "Ah, say, cut out the tragedy!" says I. "You give me the creeps, talkin'that rot! What you want to do is to go up for a short sail if you can,forget to try any Hamilton stunts, and then beat it back to collect thatfive thousand while the collectin's good. Say, when do you try heragain?"

  "At daylight to-morrow morning," says he.

  "Gee!" says I. "I've got a notion to stick around and watch how you comeout."

  "No, don't," says he. "I--I'll let you know. Yes, honest I will.Goodnight and--good-by." He kept his word as well as he could, too. Thepostmark on the card was six A.M.; but I guess it must have been droppedin the box earlier than that. All it says is:

  Twenty gallons in the tank, and I'm off at four o'clock. I shall go straight out to sea and then up, up. I've never been much good; but I mean to finish in style. T. T.

  Now, what would you say to a batty proposition like that? I couldn'ttell whether it was a bluff, or what. And I waits four days before I hadthe nerve to go and see.

  Sister says she ain't seen him since last Monday. And there was no flyerin the shed. Nobody around the place knew what had become of it, either.

  Well, it's been two weeks since I got that postal. What do I think? Say,honest, I don't dare. But at night, when I'm tryin' to get to sleep, Ican see Tink, sittin' in between all them wires and things, with thewheel in his hand, and them big eyes of his gazin' down calm andsatisfied, down, down, down, and him ready to take that one last dip tothe finish. And, say, about then I pull the sheets up over my eyes andshiver.

  "Piddie," says I, "you got more sense than you look to have. Anyway, youknow when to sidestep the nutty ones, don't you?"