On With Torchy Part 21

But, say, she's some wise for her years, little Gladys is, or else she's a good bluffer! She had me holdin' my breath more'n once, as she opens up various lines of chatter. She'd seen all the ripe problem plays, was posted on the doin's of the Reno colony, and read the Robert Chambers stuff as fast as it came out.

And all the time she talks she's goin' through target practice with her eyes, usin' me as the mark. A lively pair of lamps Gladys has too, the big, innocent, baby-blue kind that sort of opens up wide and kind of invites you to gaze into the depths until you get dizzy. Them and the little, openin' rosebud mouth makes a strong combination, and if it hadn't been for the mural decorations I might have fallen hard for Gladys; but ever since I leaned up against a shiny letterbox once I've been shy of fresh paint. So I proceeds to hand out the defensive josh.

"Roll 'em away, Sis," says I, "roll 'em the other way!"

"Pooh!" says she. "Can't a person even look at you?"

"You're only wastin' ammunition," says I. "You can't put any spell on me, you know."

"Oh, really!" says she, rakin' me with a quick broadside. "Do you mean that you don't like me at all?"

"Since you've called for it," says I, "I'll admit I ain't strong for these spotlight color schemes, specially on kids."

"Kids!" she sputters. "I think you're perfectly horrid, so there!"

"Stick to it," says I. "Makes me feel better satisfied with myself."

"Redhead!" says she, runnin' her tongue out.

"Yes, clear to the roots," says I, "and the tint didn't come out of a bottle, either."

"I don't care," says she. "All the girls do it."

"Your bunch, maybe," says I; "but there's a few that don't."

"Old sticks, yes," says she. "I'm glad you like that kind. You're as bad as Mummah."

"Is that the worst you can say of me?" says I. "How that would please Mother!"

Oh, sure, quite a homelike little spat we had, pa.s.sin' the left handers back and forth--and inside of five minutes she has made it all up again and is holdin' out her hand for the last gumdrop.

"You're silly; but you're rather nice, after all," says she, poutin'

her lips at me.

"Now quit that," says I. "I got my fingers crossed."

"'Fraid cat!" says she. "But here's the house, and we're frightfully early. Now don't act as though you thought I might bite you. I'm going to take your arm."

She does too, and cuddles up kittenish as we lands at the porte cochere. I gets the idea of this move. She's caught a glimpse of a little group over by the front door, and she wants to make a showy entrance.

And who do you guess it is we finds arrangin' the flower vases? Oh, only Marjorie and Miss Vee. Here I am too, with giddy Gladys, the imitation front row girl, clingin' tight to my right wing. You should have seen Vee's eyebrows go up, also Marjorie's stare. It's a minute or so before she recognizes our little friend, and stands there lookin'

puzzled at us. Talk about your embarra.s.sin' stage waits! I could feel my face pinkin' up and my ears tinglin'.

"Ah, say," I breaks out, "don't tell me I've gone and collected the wrong one!"

At that there comes a giggle from under the zippy lid.

"Why, it's Gladys!" says Marjorie. "Well, I never!"

"Of course, you dear old goose!" says Gladys, and rushes to a clinch.

"But--but, Gladys!" says Marjorie, holdin' her off for another inspection. "How you have--er--grown up! Why, your mother never told me a word!"

"Oh, Mummah!" says she, indicatin' deep scorn. "Besides, she hasn't seen me for nearly two days, and--well, I suppose she will fuss, as usual, about the way I'm dressed. But I've had a perfectly glorious visit, and coming up in the car with dear Torchy was such sport.

Wasn't it, now?" With which she turns to me.

"Was it?" says I, and I notices both Vee and Marjorie gazin' at me int'rested.

"Of course," says Gladys, prattlin' on, "we quarreled all the way up; but it was all his fault, and he--oh, phsaw! Here come my dear parents."

Takin' Gladys as a sample, you'd never guessed it; for Mother is a quiet, modest appearin' little party, with her wavy brown hair parted in the middle and brushed back low. She's wearin' her own complexion too, and, while she's dressed more or less neat and stylish, she don't sport ear danglers, or anything like that. With Father in the background she comes sailin' up smilin', and it ain't until she gets a peek under the mush-bowl lid that her expression changes.

"Why, Gladys!" she gasps.

"Now, Mummah!" protests Gladys peevish. "For goodness sake don't begin--anyway, not here!"

"But--but, my dear!" goes on Mother, starin' at her shocked.

"That--that hat! And your hair! And--and your face!"

"Oh, bother!" says Gladys, stampin' her high-heeled pump. "You'd like to have me dress like Cousin Tilly, I suppose?"

"But you know I asked you not to--to have that done to your hair again," says Mother.

"And I said I would, so there!" says Gladys emphatic.

Mother sighs and turns to Father, who is makin' his inspection with a weary look on his face. He's just an average, stout-built, good-natured lookin' duck, Father is, a little bald in front, and just now he's rubbin' the bald spot sort of aimless.

"You see, Arthur," says Mother. "Can't you do something?"

First Father scowls, and then he flushes up. "Why--er--ah--oh, blast it all, Sallie, don't put it up to me!" says he. Then he pulls out a long black cigar, bites the end off savage, and beats it around the corner.

That was a brilliant move of his; for Mother turns out to be one of the weepy kind, and in a minute more she's slumped into a chair and is sobbin' away. She's sure she don't know why Gladys should do such things. Hadn't she forbid her to use so much rouge and powder? Hadn't she asked her not to wear those hideous ear jewels? And so on and so on, with Gladys standin' back poutin' defiant. But, say, when they get too big to spank, what else can Father and Mother do?

Fin'lly Vee seems to have an idea. She whispers it into Marjorie's ear, slips into the house, and comes back with a hand mirror and a damp washcloth, which she proceeds to offer to Gladys, suggestin' that she use it.

"Indeed I sha'n't!" says Gladys, her big eyes flashin' sc.r.a.ppy. "I shall stay just as I am, and if Mother wants to be foolish she can get over it, that's all!" And Gladys switches over to a porch chair and slams herself into it.

Vee looks at her a minute, and then bites her upper lip like she was keepin' back some remarks. Next she whispers again to Marjorie, who pa.s.ses it on to Mother, and then the three of 'em disappears in the house, leavin' Gladys poutin' on one side of the front door, and me in a porch swing on the other waitin' for the next act.

Must have been ten minutes or more before the two plotters appears again, chattin' away merry with Mother, who's between 'em. And, say, you should have seen Mother! Talk about your startlin' changes!

They'd been busy with the make-up box, them two had, and now Mother's got on just as much war paint as Daughter--maybe a little more. Also they've dug up a blond transformation somewhere, which covers up all the brown hair, and they've fitted her out with long jet earrings, and touched up her eyebrows--and, believe me, with all that yellow hair down over her eyes, and the rouged lips, she looks just like she'd strayed in from the White Light district!

You wouldn't think just a little store hair and face calcimine could make such a change in anybody. Honest, when I tumbles to the fact that this sporty lookin' female is only Mother fixed up I almost falls out of the swing! That's nothin' to the jolt that gets to Gladys.

"Mother!" she gasps. "Wha--what have you been doing?"

"Why, I've been getting ready for the tea, Gladys," says she.