Torchy As A Pa

  CHAPTER XI

  LOUISE REVERSES THE CLOCK

  It was one of Mr. Robert's cute little ideas, you might know. He's aneasy boss in a good many ways and I have still to run across a job thatI'd swap mine for, the pay envelopes being fifty-fifty. But say, when itcomes to usin' a private sec. free and careless he sure is an ace ofaces.

  Maybe you don't remember, but I almost picked out his wife for him, andwhen she'd set the date he turns over all the rest of the details to me,even to providin' a minister and arrangin' his bridal tour. Honest Iexpect when the time comes for him to step up and be measured for a setof wings and a halo he'll look around for me to hold his place in theline until his turn comes. And he won't be quite satisfied with thearrangements unless I'm on hand.

  So I ought to be prepared for 'most any old assignment to be hung on thehook. I must say, though, that in the case of this domestic mix-up ofMrs. Bruce Mackey's I was caught gawpin' on and unsuspectin'. In fact, Iwas smotherin' a mild snicker at the situation, not dreamin' that I'dever get any nearer to it than you would to some fool movie plot youmight be watchin' worked out on the screen.

  We happens to crash right into the middle of it, Vee and me, when wedrops in for our usual Sunday afternoon call on the Ellinses and findsthese week-end guests of theirs puttin' it up to Mr. and Mrs. Robert totell 'em what they ought to do. Course, this Mrs. Mackey is an oldfriend of Mrs. Robert's and we'd seen 'em both out there before; infact, we'd met 'em when she was Mrs. Richard Harrington and Bruce wasjust a sympathetic bachelor sort of danglin' around and makin' himselfuseful. So it wasn't quite as if they'd sprung the thing on totalstrangers.

  And, anyway, it don't rate very rank as a scandal. Not as scandals run.This No. 1 hubby, Harrington, had simply got what was coming to him,only a little late. Never was cut out to play the lead in a quietdomestic sketch. Not with his temperament and habits. Hardly. Besides,he was well along in his sporty career when he discovered this19-year-old pippin with the trustin' blue eyes and the fascinatin' cheekdimples. But you can't tell a bad egg just by glancin' at the shell, andshe didn't stop to hold him in front of a candle. Lucky for thesuspender wearin' sex there ain't any such pre-nuptial test as that, eh?She simply tucked her head down just above the top pearl stud, Isuppose, and said she would be his'n without inquirin' if that cocktailbreath of his was a regular thing or just an accident.

  But she wasn't long in findin' out that it was chronic. Oh yes. Hewasn't known along Broadway as Dick Harry for nothing. He might be moreor less of a success as a corporation lawyer between 10:30 and 5 p. m.in the daytime, but after the shades of night was well tied down and thecabarets begun takin' the lid off he was apt to be missin' from thefam'ly fireside. Wine, women and the deuces wild was his specialties,and when little wifie tried to read the riot act to him at 3 a. m. hejust naturally told her where she got off. And on occasions, when thedeuces hadn't been runnin' his way, or the night had been wilder thanusual, he was quite rough about it.

  Yet she'd stood for that sort of thing nine long years before applyin'for a decree. She got it, of course, with the custody of the little girland a moderate alimony allowance. He didn't even file an answer, so itwas all done quiet with no stories in the newspapers. And then for eightor ten years she'd lived by herself, just devotin' all her time tolittle Polly, sendin' her to school, chummin' with her durin' vacations,and tryin' to make her forget that she had a daddy in the discards.

  Must have been several tender-hearted male parties who was sorry for alonely grass widow who was a perfect 36 and showed dimples when shelaughed, but none of 'em seemed to have the stayin' qualities of BruceMackey. He had a little the edge on the others, too, because he was anold fam'ly friend, havin' known Dick Harry both before and after he gotthe domestic dump. At that, though, he didn't win out until he'd almostbroken the long distance record as a patient waiter, and I understand itwas only when little Miss Polly got old enough to hint to Mommer thatUncle Bruce would suit her first rate as a stepdaddy that the match wasfinally pulled off.

  And now Polly, who's barely finished at boardin' school, has announcedthat she intends to get married herself. Mommer has begged her weepy notto take the high dive so young, and pointed out where she made her ownbig mistake in that line. But Polly comes back at her by declarin' thather Billy is a nice boy. There's no denyin' that. Young Mr. Curtis seemsto be as good as they come. He'd missed out on his last year at college,but he'd spent it in an aviation camp and he was just workin' up quite arep. as pilot of a bombin' plane when the closed season on Hun towns wasdeclared one eleventh of November. Then he'd come back modest to helphis father run the zinc and tinplate trust, or something like that, andwas payin' strict attention to business until he met Polly at a footballgame. After that he had only one aim in life, which was leadin' Polly upthe middle aisle with the organ playin' that breath of Eden piece.

  Well, what was a fond mommer to do in a case like that? Polly admitsbeing a young person, but she insists that she knows what she wants. Andone really couldn't find any fault with Billy. She had had Bruce look uphis record and, barrin' a few little 9 a. m. police court dates made forhim by grouchy traffic cops, it was as clean as a new shirt front. True,he had been born in Brooklyn, but his family had moved to Madison Avenuebefore he was old enough to feel the effects.

  So at last Mrs. Mackey had given in. Things had gone so far as settlin'the date for the weddin'. It was to be some whale of an affair, too, forboth the young folks had a lot of friends and on the Curtis sideespecially there was a big callin' list to get invitations. Nothing buta good-sized church would hold 'em all.

  Which was where Bruce Mackey, usually a mild sort of party and kind ofretirin', had come forward with the balky behavior.

  "What do you think?" says Mrs. Bruce. "He says he won't go near thechurch."

  "Eh?" demands Mr. Robert, turnin' to him. "What do you mean by that,Bruce?"

  Mr. Mackey shakes his head stubborn. "Think I can stand up there beforea thousand or more people and give Polly away?" says he. "No. I--Isimply can't do it."

  "But why not?" insists Mrs. Robert.

  "Well, she isn't my daughter," says he, "and it isn't my place to bethere. Dick should do it."

  "But don't you see, Bruce," protests Mrs. Mackey, "that if he did I--Ishould have to--to meet him again?"

  "What of it?" says Bruce. "It isn't likely he'd beat you in church. Andas he is Polly's father he ought to be the one to give her away. That'sonly right and proper, as I see it."

  And there was no arguin' him out of that notion. He came from an oldScotch Presbyterian family. Bruce Mackey did, and while he was easygoin' about most things now and then he'd bob up with some hard-shellideas like this. Principles, he called 'em. Couldn't get away from 'em.

  "But just think, Bruce," goes on Mrs. Mackey, "we haven't seen eachother for ever so many years. I--I wouldn't like it at all."

  "Hope you wouldn't," says Bruce. "But I see no other way. You ought togo to the church with him, and he ought to bring you home afterwards. Heneedn't stay for the reception unless he wants to. But as Polly'sfather----"

  "Oh, don't go over all that again," she breaks in. "I suppose I must doit. That is, if he's willing. I'll write him and ask if he is."

  "No," says Bruce. "I don't think you ought to write. This is such apersonal matter and a letter might seem--well, too formal."

  "What shall I do, then?" demands Mrs. Mackey. "Telephone?"

  "I hardly think one should telephone a message of that sort," saysBruce. "Someone ought to see him, explain the situation, and get hisreply directly."

  "Then you go, Bruce, dear," suggests Mrs. Mackey.

  No, he shies at that. "Dick would resent my coming on such an errand,"says Bruce. "Besides, I should feel obliged to urge him that it was hisduty to go, and if he feels inclined to refuse---- Well, of course, wehave done our part."

  "Then you rather hope he'll refuse to come?" she asks.

  "I don't allow myself to think any such thing," says Bruce. "It woul
dn'tbe right. But if he should decide not to it would be rather a relief,wouldn't it? In that ease I suppose I should be obliged to act in hisstead. He ought to be asked, though."

  Mr. Robert chuckles. "I wish I had an acrobatic conscience such asyours, Bruce," says he. "I could amuse myself for hours watching it turnflip-flops."

  "Too bad yours died so young," Bruce raps back at him.

  "Oh, I don't know," says Mr. Robert. "There are compensations. I don'tgrow dizzy trying to follow it when it gets frisky. To get back to themain argument, however; just how do you think the news should be brokento Dick Harrington?"

  "Someone ought to go to see him," says Bruce; "a--a person who couldstate the circumstances fairly and sound him out to see how he feltabout it. You know? Someone who would--er----"

  "Do the job like a Turkish diplomat inviting an Armenian revolutionistto come and dine with him in some secluded mosque at daybreak, eh?" asksMr. Robert. "Polite, but not insistent, I suppose?"

  "Oh, something like that," says Bruce.

  "He's right here," says Mr. Robert.

  "I beg pardon?" says Bruce, starin'.

  "Torchy," says Mr. Robert. "He'll do it with finesse and finish, and ifthere's any way of getting Dick to hang back by pretending to push himahead our young friend who cerebrates in high speed will discover thesame."

  "Ah, come, Mr. Robert!" says I.

  "Oh, we shall demand no miracles," says he. "But you understand thesituation. Mr. Mackey's conscience is on the rampage and he's makingthis sacrifice as a peace offering. If the altar fires consume it,that's his look out. You get me, I presume?"

  "Oh, sure!" says I. "Sayin' a piece, wasn't you?"

  Just the same, I'm started out at 2:30 Monday afternoon to interview Mr.Dick Harrington on something intimate and personal. Mr. Robert has been'phonin' his law offices and found that Mr. Harrington can probably belocated best up in the Empire Theatre building, where they're havin' arehearsal of a new musical show that he's interested in financially.

  "With a sentimental interest, no doubt, in some sweet young thing whodances or sings, or thinks she does," comments Mr. Robert. "Anyway, lookhim up."

  And by pushin' through a lot of doors that had "Keep Out" signs on 'em,and givin' the quick back up to a few fresh office boys, I trails Mr.Dick Harrington into the dark front of a theatre where he's sittin' withthe producer and four of the seven authors of the piece watchin' a stagefull of more or less young ladies in street clothes who are listenin'sort of bored while a bald-headed party in his shirt sleeves asks 'emfor the love of Mike can't they move a little less like they was allspavined.

  Don't strike me as just the place to ask a man will he stand up inchurch and help his daughter get married, but I had my orders. I slipsinto a seat back of him, taps him on the shoulder, and whispers how Ihave a message for him from his wife as was.

  "From Louise?" says he. "The devil you say!"

  "I could put it better," I suggests, "if we could find a place wherethere wasn't quite so much competition."

  "Very well," says he. "Let's go back to the office. And by the way,Marston, when you get to that song of Mabel's hold it until I'm throughwith this young man."

  And when he's towed me to the manager's sanctum he demands: "Well,what's gone wrong with Louise?"

  "Nothing much," says I, "except that Miss Polly is plannin' to bemarried soon."

  "Married!" he gasps. "Polly? Why, she's only a child!"

  "Not at half past nineteen," says I. "I should call her considerableyoung lady."

  "Well, I'll be blanked!" says he. "Little Polly grown up and wanting tobe married! She ought to be spanked instead. What are they after; myconsent, eh?"

  "Oh, no," says I. "It's all settled. Twenty-fifth of next month at St.Luke's. You're cast for the giving away act."

  "Wh-a-at?" says he, his heavy under jaw saggin' astonished. "Me?"

  "Fathers usually do," says I, "when they're handy."

  "And in good standing," he adds. "You--er--know the circumstances, Ipresume?"

  "Uh-huh," says I. "Don't seem to make any difference to them, though.They've got you down for the part. Church weddin', you know; big mob,swell affair. I expect that's why they think everything ought to beaccordin' to Hoyle."

  "Just a moment, young man," says he, breathin' a bit heavy. "I--Iconfess this is all rather disturbing."

  It was easy to see that. He's fumblin' nervous with a gold cigarettecase and his hand trembles so he can hardly hold a match. Maybe some ofthat was due to his long record as a whiteway rounder. The puffy bagsunder the eyes and the deep face lines couldn't have been worked upsudden, though.

  "Can you guess how long it has been since I have appeared in a church?"he goes on. "Not since Louise and I were married. And I imagine I wasn'ta particularly appropriate figure to be there even then. I fear I'vechanged some, too. Frankly now, young man, how do you think I would lookbefore the altar?"

  "Oh, I'm no judge," says I. "And I expect that with a clean shave and ina frock coat----"

  "No," he breaks in, "I can't see myself doing it. Not before all thatmob. How many guests did you say?"

  "Only a thousand or so," says I.

  He shudders. "How nice!" says he. "I can hear 'em whispering to eachother: 'Yes that's her father--Dick Harry, you know. She divorced him,and they say----' No, no, I--I couldn't do it. You tell Louise that----Oh, by the way! What about her? She must have changed, too. Rather stoutby this time, I suppose?"

  "I shouldn't say so," says I. "Course I don't know what she used to be,but I'd call her more or less classy."

  "But she is--let me see--almost forty," he insists.

  "You don't mean it?" says I, openin' my mouth to register surprise. Thislooked like a good line to me and I thought I'd push it. "Course," Igoes on, "with a daughter old enough to wear orange blossoms, I mighthave figured that for myself. But I'll be hanged if she looks it. Why,lots of folks take her and Polly for sisters."

  He's eatin' that up, you can see. "Hm-m-m!" says he, rubbin' his chin."I suppose I would be expected to--er--meet her there?"

  "I believe the program is for you to take her to the church and bringher back for the reception," says I. "Yes, you'd have a chance for quitea reunion."

  "I wonder how it would seem, talking to Louise again," says he.

  "Might be a little awkward at first," says I, "but----"

  "Do you know," he breaks in, "I believe I should like it. If you thinkshe's good looking now, young man, you should have seen her at 19, at22, or at 25. What an ass I was! And now I suppose she's like a fullblown rose, perfect, exquisite?"

  "Oh, I don't mean she's any ravin' beauty," says I, hedgin'.

  "You don't, eh?" says he. "Well, I'd just like to see. You may tell herthat I will----No, I'll 'phone her myself. Where is she?"

  And all the stallin' around I could do didn't jar him away from thatidea. He seems to have forgotten all about this Mabel person who wasgoing to sing. He wanted to call up Louise right away. And he did.

  So I don't have any chesty bulletin to hand Mr. Robert when I gets back.

  "Well?" says he. "Did you induce him to give the right answer?"

  "Almost," says I. "Had him panicky inside of three minutes."

  "And then?" asks Mr. Robert.

  "I overdid the act," says I. "Talked too much. He's coming."

  Mr. Robert shrugs his shoulders. "Serves Bruce right," says he. "Iwonder, though, how Louise will take it."

  For a couple of days she took it hard. Just talking over the 'phone withDick Harrington left her weak and nervous. Said she couldn't sleep allthat night for thinking what it would be like to meet an ex-hubby thatshe hadn't seen for so long. She tried to picture how he would look, andhow she would look to him. Then she braced up.

  "If I must go through it," she confides to Mrs. Robert, "I mean to lookmy best."

  Isn't that the female instinct for you?

  As a matter of fact I'd kind of thrown it into him a bit strong aboutwhat a stunner she was. Oh
, kind of nice lookin', fair figure, andtraces of a peaches and cream complexion. There was still quite a highvoltage sparkle in the trustin' blue eyes and the cheek dimples wasstill doin' business. But she was carryin' more or less excess weightfor her height and there was the beginnings of a double chin. Besides,she always dressed quiet and sort of matronly.

  From the remarks I heard Vee make, though, just before the weddin', Ijudge that Louise intended to go the limit. While she was outfittin'Polly with the snappiest stuff to be found in the Fifth Avenue shops shepicked some for herself. I understand, too, that she was makin' reg'lartrips to a beauty parlor, and all that.

  "How foolish!" I says to Vee. "I hope when you get to be forty you won'ttry to buy your way back to 25. It simply can't be done."

  "Really?" says Vee, givin' me one of them quizzin' looks.

  And, say, that's my last stab at givin' off the wise stuff about thenose powderin' sex. Pos-itively. For I've seen Louise turn the clockback. Uh-huh! I can't tell how it was done, or go into details of theresults, but when she sails into that front pew on the big day, withDick Harrington trailin' behind, I takes one glance at her and goesbug-eyed. Was she a stunner? I'll gurgle so. What had become of thatextra 20 pounds I wouldn't even try to guess. But she's right there withthe svelte figure, the school girly flush, and the sparklin' eyes.Maybe it was the way the gown was built. Fits like the peel on a banana.Or the pert way she holds her head, or the general excitement of theoccasion. Anyway, mighty few 20-year-old screen favorites would have hadanything on her.

  As for Dick Harry--Well, he's spruced up quite a bit himself, but you'dnever mistake him for anything but an old rounder who's had a cleanshave and a face massage. And he just can't seem to see anything butLouise. Even when he has to leave and join the bridal procession hiseyes wander back to that front pew where she was waitin'. And after it'sall over I sees him watchin' her fascinated while she chatters alonglively.

  I wasn't lookin' to get his verdict at all, but later on, as I'm makin'myself useful at the reception, I runs across him just as he's slippin'away.

  "I say, young man," says he, grabbin' me by the elbow. "Wasn't I rightabout Louise?"

  "You had the dope," says I. "Some queen, even if she is near the fortymark."

  "And only imagine," he adds, "within a year or so she may be agrandmother!"

  "That don't count these days," says I. "It's gettin' so you can hardlytell the grandmothers from the vamps."

  And when I said that I expect I unloaded my whole stock of wisdom aboutwomen.