Torchy As A Pa

  CHAPTER XIV

  TORCHY SHUNTS A WIZARD

  I'd hardly noticed when Mr. Robert blew in late from lunch until I hearshim chuckle. Then I glances over my shoulder and sees that he's lookin'my way. Course, that gets me curious, for Mr. Robert ain't the kind ofboss that goes around chucklin' casual, 'specially at a busy privatesec.

  "Yes, sir?" says I, shoving back a tray full of correspondence I'msortin'.

  "I heard something rather good, at luncheon, Torchy," says he.

  "On red hair, I expect," says I.

  "It wasn't quite so personal as that," says he. "Still, I think you'llbe interested."

  "It's part of my job to look so, anyway," says I, givin' him the grin.

  "And another item on which you specialize, I believe," he goes on, "isthe detection of book agents. At least, you used to do so when you werehead office boy. Held a record, didn't you?"

  "Oh, I don't know," says I tryin' to register modesty. "One got past thegate; one in five years. That was durin' my first month."

  "Almost an unblemished career," says Mr. Robert. "What about yoursuccessor, Vincent?"

  "Oh, he's doing fairly well," says I. "Gets stung now and then. Likelast week when that flossy blonde with the Southern accent had himbuffaloed with a tale about having met dear Mr. Ellins at French Lickand wantin' to show him something she knew he'd be just crazy about. Shedid, too. 'Lordly Homes of England,' four volumes, full morocco, atfifty a volume. And I must say she was nearly right. He wasn't far frombeing crazy for the next hour or so. Vincent got it, and then I got it,although I was downtown at the time it happened. But I'm coachin'Vincent, and I don't think another one of 'em will get by very soon."

  "You don't eh?" says Mr. Robert, indulgin' in another chuckle.

  Then he spills what he overheard at lunch. Seems he was out with afriend who took him to the Papyrus Club, which is where a lot of theseyoung hicks from the different book publishin' houses get togethernoon-times; not Mr. Harper, or Mr. Scribner, or Mr. Dutton, but theheads of departments, assistant editors, floor salesmen and so on.

  And at the next table to Mr. Robert the guest of honor was a loudtalkin' young gent who'd just come in from a tour of the Middle Westwith a bunch of orders big enough, if you let him tell it, to keep hisfirm's presses on night shifts for a year. He was some hero, I take it,and for the benefit of the rest of the bunch he was sketchin' out hismethods.

  "As I understood the young man," says Mr. Robert, "his plan was to goafter the big ones; the difficult proposition, men of wealth andprominence whom other agents had either failed to reach or had not daredto approach. 'The bigger the better,' was his motto, and he referred tohimself, I think, as 'the wizard of the dotted line.'"

  "Not what you'd exactly call a shrinkin' violet, eh?" I suggests.

  "Rather a shrieking sunflower," says Mr. Robert. "And he concluded byannouncing that nothing would suit him better than to be told the nameof the most difficult subject in the metropolitan district--'the hardestnut' was his phrase, I believe. He guaranteed to land the said personwithin a week. In fact, he was willing to bet $100 that he could."

  "Huh," says I.

  "Precisely the remark of one of his hearers," says Mr. Robert. "Thewager was promptly made. And who do you suppose, Torchy, was named asthe most aloof and difficult man in New York for a book agent to--"

  "Mr. Ellins," says I.

  Mr. Robert nods. "My respected governor, none other," says he. "I fancyhe would be rather amused to know that he had achieved such areputation, although he would undoubtedly give you most of the credit."

  "Or the blame," says I.

  "Yes," admits Mr. Robert, "if he happened to be in the blaming mood.Anyway, young man, there you have a direct challenge. Within the nextweek the inner sanctum of the Corrugated Trust is to be assailed by onewho claims that he can penetrate the impenetrable, know the unknowable,and unscrew the inscrutable."

  "Well, that's cute of him," says I. "I'm bettin', though, he never getsto his man."

  "That's the spirit!" says Mr. Robert. "As the French said at Verdun,'Ils ne passeront pas.' Eh?"

  "Meaning 'No Gangway', I expect!" says I.

  "That's the idea," says he.

  "But say, Mr. Robert, what's he look like, this king of the dottedline!" says I.

  Mr. Robert shakes his head. "I was sitting back to him," says he."Besides, to give you his description would be taking rather an unfairadvantage. That would tend to spoil what now stands as quite a neatsporting proposition. Of course, if you insist--"

  "No," says I. "He don't know me and I don't know him. It's fifty-fifty.Let him come."

  I never have asked any odds of book agents, so why begin now? But, youcan bet I didn't lose any time havin' a heart to heart talk withVincent.

  "Listen, son," says I, "from this on you want to watch this gate likeyou was a terrier standin' over a rat hole. It's up to you to see thatno stranger gets through, no matter who he says he is; and that goes foranybody, from first cousins of the boss to the Angel Gabriel himself.Also, it includes stray window cleaners, buildin' inspectors and partieswho come to test the burglar alarm system. They might be in disguise. Iftheir faces ain't as familiar to you as the back of your hand give 'emthe sudden snub and tell 'em 'Boom boom, outside!' In case of doubt keep'em there until you can send for me. Do you get it?"

  Vincent says he does. "I shouldn't care to let in another book agent,"says he.

  "You might just as well resign your portfolio if you do," says I."Remember the callin' down, you got from Old Hickory last week."

  Vincent shudders. "I'll do my best, sir," says he.

  And he's a thorough goin', conscientious youth. Within the next fewhours I had to rescue one of our directors, our first assistant Westernmanager, and a personal friend of Mr. Robert's, all of whom Vincent hadparked on the bench in the anteroom and was eyein' cold, and suspicious.He even holds up the Greek who came luggin' in the fresh towels, andTony the spring water boy.

  "I feel like old Horatius," says Vincent.

  "Never met him," says I, "but whoever he was I'll bet you got himlookin' like one of the seven sleepers. That's the stuff, though. Keepit up."

  I expect I was some wakeful myself, too. I worked with my eyes ready toroll over my shoulder and my right ear stretched. I was playin' the partof right worthy inside guard, and nobody came within ten feet of theprivate office door but what I'd sized 'em up before they could reachthe knob. Still, two whole days passed without any attack on the firstline trenches. The third day Vincent and I had a little skirmish with amild-eyed young gent who claimed he wanted to see Mr. Ellins urgent, buthe turns out to be only a law clerk from the office of our generalsolicitors bringin' up some private papers to be signed.

  Then here Friday--and it was Friday the 13th, too--Vincent comessleuthin' in to my desk and shows me a card.

  "Well," says I, "who does this H. Munson Schott party say he is?"

  "That's just it," says Vincent. "He doesn't say. But he has a letter ofintroduction to Mr. Ellins from the Belgian Consul General. Rather animportant looking person, too."

  "H-m-m-m!" says I, runnin' my fingers through my red hair thoughtful.

  You see, we'd been figurin' on some big reconstruction contracts withthe Belgian government, and while I hadn't heard how far the deal hadgone, there was a chance that this might be an agent from the royalcommission.

  "If it is," says I, "we can't afford to treat him rough. Let's see, theHon. Matt. Dowd, the golf addict, is still in the private office givin'Old Hickory another earful about the Scotch plague, ain't he?"

  "No, sir," says Vincent. "Mr. Ellins asked him to wait half an hour orso. He's in the director's room."

  "Maybe I'd better take a look at your Mr. Schott first then," says I.

  But after I'd gone out and given him the north and south careful I wasright where I started. I didn't quite agree with Vincent that he lookedimportant, but he acted it. He's pacin' up and down outside the brassrail kind of impatient, and as I
appears he's just consultin' his watch.A nifty tailored young gent with slick putty-colored hair andMaeterlinck blue eyes. Nothing suspicious in the way of packages abouthim. Not even a pigskin document case or an overcoat with bulgy pockets.He's grippin' a French line steamship pamphlet in one hand, a letter inthe other, and from the crook of his right elbow hangs a heavysilver-mounted walkin' stick. Also he's wearin' gray spats. Nothing bookagenty about any of them signs.

  "Mr. Schott?" says I, springin' my official smile. "To see Mr. Ellins, Iunderstand. I'm his private secretary. Could I--"

  "I wish to see Mr. Ellins personally," breaks in Mr. Schott, wavin' meoff with a yellow-gloved hand.

  "Of course," says I. "One moment, please. I'll find out if he's in. Andif you have any letters, or anything like that--"

  "I prefer to present my credentials in person," says he.

  "Sorry," says I. "Rules of the office. Saves time, you know. If youdon't mind--" and I holds out my hand for the letter.

  He gives it up reluctant and I backs out. Another minute and I've shovedin where Old Hickory is chewin' a cigar butt savage while he pencils ajoker clause into a million-dollar contract.

  "Excuse me, sir," says I, "but you were expectin' a party from theBelgian Commission, were you?"

  "No," snaps Old Hickory. "Nor from the Persian Shah, or the Sultan ofSulu, or the Ahkoond of Swat. All I'm expecting, young man, is a halfhour of comparative peace, and I don't get it. There's Matt. Dowd in thenext room waiting like the Ancient Mariner to grip me by the sleeve andpour out a long tale about what he calls his discovery of psychic golf.Say, son, couldn't you----"

  "I've heard it, you know, sir," says I.

  Old Hickory groans. "That's so," says he. "Well then, why don't you findme a substitute? Suffering Cicero, has that inventive brain of yoursgone into a coma!"

  "Not quite, sir," says I. "You don't happen to know a Mr. Schott, doyou?"

  "Gr-r-r!" says Old Hickory, as gentle as a grizzly with a sore ear. "Getout!"

  I took the hint and trickled through the door. I was just framin' upsomething polite to feed Mr. Schott when it strikes me I might take apeek at this little note from the Belgian consul. It wasn't much, merelysuggests that he hopes Mr. Ellins will be interested in what Mr. Schotthas to say. There's the consul general's signature at the bottom, too.Yes. And I was foldin' it up to tuck it back into the envelopewhen--well, that's what comes of my early trainin' on the Sunday editionwhen the proof readers used to work me in now and then to hold copy.It's a funny thing, but I notice that the Consul General doesn't spellhis name when he writes it the way he has it printed at the top of hisletterhead.

  "Might be a slip by the fool engraver," thinks I. "I'll look it up inthe directory."

  And the directory agreed with the letterhead.

  "Oh, ho!" says I. "Pullin' the old stuff, eh? Easy enough to drop intothe Consul's office and dash off a note to anybody. Say, lemme at thisSchott person."

  No, I didn't call in Pat, the porter, and have him give Mr. Schott aflyin' start down the stairs. No finesse about that. Besides, I needed aparty about his size just then. I steps back into the directors' roomand rouses Mr. Dowd from his trance by tappin' him on the shoulder.

  "Maybe you'd be willin', Mr. Dowd," says I, "to sketch out some of thatpsychic golf experience of yours to a young gent who claims to besomething of a wizard himself."

  Would he? Say, I had to push him back in the chair to keep him fromfollowin' me right out.

  "Just a minute," says I, "and I'll bring him in. There's only one thing.He's quite a talker himself. Might want to unload a line of his ownfirst, but after that--"

  "Yes, yes," says Dowd. "I shall be delighted to meet him."

  "It's goin' to be mutual," says I.

  Why, I kind of enjoyed my little part, which consists in hurryin' out tothe gate with my right forefinger up and a confidential smirk wreathin'my more or less classic features.

  "Right this way, Mr. Schott," says I.

  He shrugs his shoulders, shoots over a glance of scornful contempt, likea room clerk in a tourist hotel would give to a guest who's payin' only$20 or $30 a day, and shoves past Vincent with his chin up. Judgin' bythe name and complexion and all there must have been a lot of noblePrussian blood in this Schott person, for the Clown Prince himselfcouldn't have done the triumphal entry any better. And I expect I putconsiderable flourish into the business when I announces him to Dowd,omittin' careful to call the Hon. Matt, by name.

  Schott aint wastin' any precious minutes. Before Dowd can say a wordhe's started in on his spiel. As I'm makin' a slow exit I manages to getthe openin' lines. They was good, too.

  "As you may know," begins Schott, "I represent the InternationalHistorical Committee. Owing to the recent death of prominent members wehave decided to fill those vacancies by appointment and your name hasbeen mentioned as----"

  Well, you know how it goes. Only this was smooth stuff. It was a shameto have it all spilled for the benefit of Matthew Dowd, who can onlythink of one thing these days--250-yard tee shots and marvelous mid-ironpokes that always sail toward the pin. Besides, I kind of wanted to seehow a super-book agent would work.

  Openin' the private office door easy I finds Old Hickory has settledback in his swing chair and is lightin' a fresh Fumadora satisfied. So Islips in, salutes respectful and jerks my thumb toward the directors'room.

  "I've put a sub. on the job, sir," says I.

  "Eh?" says he. "Oh, yes. Who did you find?"

  "A suspicious young stranger," says I. "I sicced him and Mr. Dowd oneach other. They're at it now. It's likely to be entertainin'."

  Old Hickory nods approvin' and a humorous flicker flashes under thembushy eyebrows of his. "Let's hear how they're getting along," says he.

  So I steps over sleuthy and swings the connectin' door half way open,which not only gives us a good view but brings within hearin' range thisthroaty conversation which Mr. Schott is unreelin' at high speed.

  "You see, sir," he's sayin', "this monumental work covers all the greatcrises of history, from the tragedy on Calvary to the signing of thepeace treaty at Versailles. Each epoch is handled by an acknowledgedmaster of that period, as you may see by this table of contents."

  Here Mr. Schott produces from somewhere inside his coat a half pound orso of printed pages and shoves them on Dowd.

  "The illustrations," he goes on, "are all reproduced in colors by ournew process, and are copies of famous paintings by the world's greatestartists. There are to be more than three hundred, but I have here a fewprints of these priceless works of art which will give you an idea."

  At that he reaches into the port side of his coat, unbuttons the lining,and hauls out another sheaf of leaves.

  "Then we are able to offer you," says Schott, "a choice of bindingswhich includes samples of work from the most skilful artisans in thatline. At tremendous expense we have reproduced twelve celebratedbindings. I have them here."

  And blamed if he don't unscrew the thick walkin' stick and pull out adozen imitation leather bindings which he piles on Mr. Dowd's knee.

  "Here we have," says he, "the famous Broissard binding, made for thelibrary of Louis XIV. Note the fleur de lis and the bee, and theexquisite hand-tooling on the doublures. Here is one that was done bythe Rivieres of London for the collection of the late Czar Nicholas, andso on. There are to be thirty-six volumes in all and to new members ofthe Historical Committee we are offering these at practically the costof production, which is $28 the volume. In return for this sacrifice allwe ask of you, my dear sir, is that we may use your indorsement in ouradvertising matter, which will soon appear in all the leading dailypapers of this country. We ask you to pay no money down. All you need todo, sir, to become a member of the International Historical Committeeand receive this magnificent addition to your library, is to sign yourname here and----"

  "Is--is that all?" breaks in Dowd, openin' his mouth for the first time.

  "Absolutely," says Schott, unlimberin' his ready fountain pe
n.

  "Then perhaps you would be interested to hear of a little experience ofmine," says Dowd, "on the golf course."

  "Charmed," says Schott.

  He didn't know what was comin'. As a book agent he had quite a flow oflanguage, but I doubt if he ever ran up against a real golf nut before.Inside of half a minute Dowd was off in high gear, tellin' him aboutthat wonderful game he played with Old Hickory when he was under thecontrol of the spirit of the great Sandy McQuade. At first Schott lookskind of dazed, like a kid who's been foolin' with a fire hydrant wrenchand suddenly finds he's turned on the high pressure and can't turn itoff. Three or four times he makes a stab at breakin' in and urgin' thefountain pen on Dowd, but he don't have any success. Dowd is in fullswing, describin' his new theory of how all the great golfers who havepassed on come back and reincarnate themselves once more; sometimespickin' out a promisin' caddie, as in the case of Ouimet, or now andagain a hopeless duffer, same as he was himself. Schott can't get a wordin edgewise, and is squirmin' in his chair while Old Hickory leans backand chuckles.

  Finally, after about half an hour of this, Schott gets desperate. "Yes,sir," says he, shoutin' above Dowd's monologue, "but what about thismagnificent set of----"

  "Bah!" says Dowd. "Books! Never buy 'em."

  "But--but are you sure, sir," Schott goes on, "that you understand whatan opportunity you are offered for----"

  "Wouldn't have the junk about the house," says Dowd. "But later on,young man, if you are interested in the development of my psychic golf,I shall be glad to tell you----"

  "Not if I see you first," growls Schott, gatherin' up his pile ofsamples and backin out hasty.

  He's in such a hurry to get away that he bumps into Mr. Robert, who'sjust strollin' toward the private office, and the famous bindings, artmasterpieces, contents pages and so on are scattered all over the floor.

  "Who was our young friend with all the literature?" asks Mr. Robert.

  "That's Mr. Schott," says I, "your wizard of the dotted line, who wasdue to break in on Mr. Ellins and get him to sign up."

  "Eh?" says Old Hickory, starin'. "And you played him off against Matt.Dowd? You impertinent young rascal! But I say, Robert, you should haveseen and heard 'em. It was rich. They nearly talked each other to astandstill."

  "Then I gather, Torchy," says Mr. Robert, grinnin', "that the king ofbook agents now sits on a tottering throne. In other words, the wizardmet a master mind, eh?"

  "I dunno," says I. "Guess I gave him the shunt, all right. Just by luck,though. He had a clever act, I'll say, even if he didn't get itacross."